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hobi-side · 19 days ago

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Stars We Never Caught 4.0 | jhs

— summary: At eleven, you met Hoseok. He was your older brother’s best friend, and for years, he was a constant in your world. Growing up alongside him, with Yoongi, your brother, and the rest of your crew, you never imagined that anything would ever change. Hoseok felt like family—always there but never quite a brother. It was a strange kind of closeness, one that never quite fit into the lines of what you understood.

But as you grew older, things started to shift. You got caught up in your own life, distracted by the swirl of adulthood. Now, back in Seoul, you find yourself drawn back to him. Whether it’s fate or coincidence, Hoseok is still there, and you can’t shake the pull that you’ve buried for so long. But perhaps some things are never meant to be—some stars are never meant to be caught, no matter how brightly they shine or are they?

— playlist: what was that - lorde, ribs - lorde, panic - beomgyu, wildest dreams - taylor swift, i need u (urban mix) - bts, run (ballad mix) - bts, cigarette daydreams - cage the elephant, the less i know the better - tame impala, 0x1 love song - txt, writer in the dark - lorde, somebody else - the 1975, your dog - soccer mommy + every mitski album.

— word count: 5k for this part—this is a long one shot like around 60k for the full thing, this is finally the last part.

— warnings: angst, longing, yearning, deep Yearn (I meant this), pinning (sorry), slow really slow burn (I meant this), brother's best friend, coming of age, yoongi being a big bro (we love you yoongles), overthinking, lots of inner monologue, growing pains in your 20s, adulthood being a pain in the ass, lots of deep talks, tension... so much tension (shit goes wrong or not....) OKAY, now onto other warnings: sweet love making—then horny people being horny people because they're deep in feelings but freaky as hell: big dick! hobi, f! m! masturbation, sex with feelings™, strenght kink, hickeys, HICKEYS, biting, deep throathing, choking, missionary, manhandling?

please, read the note !!!

part one | part two | part three

He stared at you for a long second, his hand still resting on your thigh.

The room felt heavy — not just with lust, but something else. Something close. Real.

And then, without a word—

He dropped to his knees.

Not to tease.

Not to rush.

Just to look up at you from below, hands dragging softly down your thighs as he settled between them.

His breath was warm against your skin when he spoke.

“Have you ever been loved right?”

Your lips parted—no sound.

He tilted his head, eyes burning, soft and sharp all at once.

“I’m not talking about fucked.”

His hand moved higher.

“I mean touched. Worshipped. Felt.”

You whimpered, already dizzy from the heat in his voice alone.

“Please,” you whispered. Desperate. Wrecked.

But he didn’t move yet.

Just leaned in, lips close enough that his breath hit your skin with every word.

“I’m asking you, baby.”

“Have they touched you here?”

His fingers brushed over you—barely.

You gasped.

“I’m sure they have,” he continued, “but the one you remember after this?”

His mouth curled into a grin—slow and devastating.

“It’ll be me.”

And then—

He put his mouth on you.

No more teasing.

Just heat.

Soft at first—testing, tasting—

And when your head dropped back and your thighs tightened around his shoulders, he moaned into you.

You cried out—sharp, sweet—

Your body already tipping forward, your hands grasping at the sheets, his name breaking from your lips without shape.

Your eyes rolled back.

And he didn’t stop.

He devoured you.

His mouth was everywhere.

Hot. Wet. Knowing.

And you were unraveling — not just under the pressure of his hands, not just from the slick slide of his tongue,

but from the way he said your name.

Or—what he used to call you.

“My precious star.”

The words dropped from his mouth like sin.

Low. Velvet. Drenched in heat.

So unlike the way he used to say it — bright, teasing, with a lopsided grin and a juice box in hand.

No.

This was different.

This time, he said it like it meant something.

Like he was tasting not just your body, but the years between you.

All the soft edges of your childhood.

All the versions of you he used to know.

And the one he was learning now — mouth open, thighs shaking, fingers twisted in the sheets.

“So sweet,” he murmured, licking slow, deliberate, his voice crumbling at the edges.

Like he was remembering and forgetting you at the same time.

Your breath hitched.

You should’ve blushed.

But you didn’t.

Because it wasn’t just a name anymore.

It was a confession.

A claim.

A way to say you’ve changed without ever having to say it.

He kissed you again, deeper.

And then—

“Sweet, tasty star.”

You gasped.

Not because of the pressure.

But because that name, once so innocent, now felt like the only thing anchoring you to your skin.

Like you were being rewritten in his mouth.

Grown.

Opened.

Made new.

This was the moment it shifted.

You weren’t the girl with a quiet crush anymore.

You were a woman, shaking in his hands,

and he wanted you — not in spite of the history,

but because of it.

You didn’t even know what you were saying.

“Please—”

It fell from your mouth over and over.

A sound more than a word.

A sob soaked in heat.

You weren’t begging for anything specific—

Just more.

Just now.

Just him.

Your thighs were shaking, hips chasing every flick of his tongue like your body was hunting something your brain couldn’t even name.

“Please,” you choked again, one hand gripping the sheets, the other lost in his hair.

You were too far gone.

Too high.

Too blind from lust, from want, from the sharp edge of release curling deep in your gut and pulling tight, tighter—

“I’m gonna—”

But you couldn’t finish.

You couldn’t say it.

Because your body did it for you.

You shattered.

Loud.

Shaking.

Your voice catching in your throat as everything in you let go.

Your vision blurred.

Your chest stuttered with a breath you couldn’t catch.

And through all of it, his mouth didn’t stop.

His hands held you in place.

And his voice—low, dark, proud—was the only thing that tethered you back.

“That’s it,” he murmured, dragging his mouth up your thigh.

“Let me feel you break.”

You were still shaking.

Still catching your breath, mouth open, chest rising in uneven bursts.

Your thighs twitched every time the air hit you—slick, sensitive.

He looked up at you from where he hovered—lips wet, jaw tense, hands loose at your hips like he didn’t know whether to hold you or kneel again.

His eyes were dark, unreadable.

“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth like he could wipe you off of him. “You’re—fuck, baby, that was—”

You didn’t wait.

You moved before the thought even finished forming.

Your knees hit the floor with a thud.

He barely had time to react before your fingers were at his waistband, your breath still uneven from your own undoing, but your eyes locked on him like a dare.

His hand came to your jaw, cupping it gently, thumb brushing the corner of your lips like he needed to slow you down.

“My sweet star,” he said, voice barely there. “Baby, you don’t have to—”

Your eyes flicked up.

“But I want to.”

He sucked in a breath, jaw tightening.

Still—he hesitated.

“I’m not gonna be gentle,” he warned, already half-choked on the image of you like this. “Not if you do this. Not with the way you’re looking at me.”

You smiled.

Sharp. Wrecked.

And deadly honest.

“Did I ask you to be?”

His control snapped just like that.

He was standing over you, shirtless, wrecked, still recovering from what he just pulled from your body.

And yet—he smirked.

Slow. Crooked.

Like he still had a little bit of control to burn through.

He leaned down, cupped your face in his hand, his thumb brushing across your lip like he was thinking about everything you could do to him.

Everything you would.

“Tsk tsk.”

His voice was low, playful. But edged.

“So you told me rough,” he said, eyes heavy as he looked down at you.

“That’s how you like it too, right?”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

You just looked at him—wide-eyed, mouth parted, body still humming from the high he’d given you moments ago.

He tilted his head.

“Mmm. Okay, Star.”

The name hit different now.

Weighted. Filthy.

“Red was your word, right?” he asked, more serious now. Still steady, still with care anchoring every bit of the burn.

You nodded.

His thumb dipped under your jaw, made your mouth fall open just a little.

“Good. Then come on.”

He leaned in, voice velvet-dark.

“Do your thing.”

You were still on your knees.

Your hand around him, slow and slick, watching the tension in his jaw sharpen every time you twisted your wrist just right.

But that smugness in your smile?

That didn’t last long.

Because Hoseok was done watching.

He grabbed a fistful of your hair—not harsh, not painful, but firm, possessive—and tilted your face up.

“Open,” he said.

Voice like a command wrapped in velvet.

Low. Steady. No room for teasing now.

You obeyed.

And the second your mouth parted, he guided himself between your lips—slow, deep, with a groan that sounded like it had been waiting years to come out.

His grip in your hair tightened as your lips closed around him, heat blooming on your tongue.

“Just like that,” he muttered, already breathless.

“Fuck, you look so good like this.”

You tried to take control again—hands moving, setting your rhythm—

But he stopped you.

“Uh-uh,” he growled, pulling your hands away and pinning them to your lap.

“You wanted rough, remember?”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide, mouth full.

He grinned—sharp, dangerous, hot.

“Then keep your hands to yourself, baby.”

And then he moved.

Not too fast.

But deliberate.

Rhythmic.

In control.

He rolled his hips just enough for you to feel the weight of it, the pace of it—his hand still fisted in your hair, guiding you up, down, slow and deep.

You moaned around him, the sound strangled and thick.

He cursed, low.

“God—look at you.”

Another thrust.

“You were made for this, weren’t you?”

Your eyes watered. Your jaw ached. But you never stopped.

And neither did he.

“If it’s too much,” he muttered, voice ragged, “say it. Otherwise…”

He pulled your hair tighter.

“Take it. All of it.”

His hips moved again—steady now, purposeful—each slow thrust brushing the back of your throat just enough to make your eyes flutter.

You moaned around him, soft and thick, and that—

That broke him a little.

He looked down, sweat on his brow, hand tangled in your hair, chest rising fast.

“So you’re a masochist, sweetheart.”

A breathless chuckle followed, dark and wrecked.

“That it?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Not with him filling your mouth like this, owning the rhythm, guiding your every movement.

And he loved it.

“Mouth full of cock,” he rasped, hips twitching slightly, voice strained.

“So fuckin’ pretty.”

Your throat tightened at his words, heat surging lower.

He pulled your head back just enough for you to blink up at him—spit-slick, flushed, ruined.

“Can’t even talk, can you?”

You gave him what he wanted.

You nodded, slowly, shamelessly.

And then you made it worse—

You let your tongue drag over him deliberately as he held you, made a fucking show of it.

His grip tightened in your hair.

“Jesus, Star—”

You took him deeper again, gaze locked on his.

“You like it like this?” he asked, voice cracking.

You nodded again, eyes glinting, filthy and perfect.

He swore, hand clenching harder, his body tensing—his thighs shaking now, muscles straining with the effort not to lose it right there.

“Fuck—baby, you’re gonna make me—”

You had him.

You knew it.

The way his body was shaking under your hands—

The way his voice cracked, chest heaving, knuckles white where he gripped your hair—

He was close.

So you didn’t stop.

You dragged your mouth over him again, slow and filthy, tongue teasing just enough to push him right to the edge.

You looked up—eyes glassy, mouth wet, lips stretched around him—

And Hoseok let out a sound you’d never heard before.

A groan, broken in half.

Raw.

Wrecked.

“Fuck—Star, I’m gonna—”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t pull away.

You just gripped his hips, braced yourself, and took it.

His hand tightened, pulling your head down just enough for his breath to catch, spine arching—

And then—

He came.

Hard.

With a gasp and a curse and your name strangled somewhere in the middle.

You felt every pulse of it.

Every tremor in his thighs.

Every breath he couldn’t catch.

You stayed there until he finished—until his body started to slacken, his hand falling from your hair, his whole frame wrecked above you.

And then you pulled back—slow, careful, a little smug.

Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, cheeks flushed, heart racing.

He stared at you.

Like you weren’t real.

Like he never expected this.

“Holy—fuck.”

He dropped onto the bed behind him, still catching his breath.

One arm flung over his face, the other blindly reaching for you.

He peeked at you from under his arm—eyes soft now, a little stunned.

“I didn’t know you were gonna try to end my life.”

You laughed. Breathless.

And he pulled you into his chest.

Tucked your head beneath his jaw.

Still panting, still dazed.

His hand slid into your hair—gentle now. Reassuring. Familiar.

“You okay?”

You nodded.

“You?”

“We aren't done, babe”

You looked up — and he was already smirking.

Already shifting onto his side, one arm sliding around your waist.

“What else do you like,” he asked, voice soft, teasing, mean.

“Hmm? My sweet, nasty star.”

He was still above you, eyes dark, chest rising slowly.

Watching.

His hands didn’t move fast.

But when they did move—

They moved you.

Like it was easy.

Like it was nothing.

One hand around your thigh, one bracing your waist—

He adjusted you underneath him, hips tilted, legs spread, just so.

You whined.

And he smiled.

“Ohhh,” he murmured, like he was learning something delicious.

“You like that.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

He shifted you again, deliberately, dragging your hips a little higher with one hand. The ease of it, the control, the effortless way he could place you—

Your breath stuttered.

His smirk deepened.

“You like how easy this is for me?”

He kissed the side of your jaw.

“How I can just—”

He flipped you again.

Not all the way. Just enough to force a gasp out of you.

“—move you however I want?”

Your whole body arched, instinctive, needy.

“Fuck,” he breathed, more to himself now. “You’re so into this.”

You whined, pressing your thighs together, only for him to spread them apart again with a single knee.

“You like being handled like you weight nothing?” he asked, mouth at your ear.

“Knowing I could flip you over, drag you down, fuck you through the bed—”

You moaned—open, honest, wrecked.

“Jesus, baby.”

He kissed down your spine, hands firm on your hips now, and you could feel it—

The shift.

His control breaking just a little.

His restraint cracking.

“Please,” you gasped— More breath than word.

A whine pulled from somewhere raw.

And that—That broke him.

His body shuddered.

His restraint snapped.

He looked down at you—ruined, flushed, eyes glassy—and his voice came low, tight, like it hurt to speak.

“Tsk, tsk…”

His thumb brushed your lip.

“My beautiful star making such pretty sounds.”

He shifted, just slightly—just enough for the tip of him to slide through the wetness between your legs, teasing, lazy, maddening.

“Sounds I never thought I’d get to hear.”

You whimpered again, hips chasing him.

And he moaned at the sight of it.

“So wet,” he murmured, dragging his length along your folds, slow and torturous. “So fucking ready.”

You clawed at the sheets.

He leaned in, mouth to your ear.

“Tell me,” he whispered. “Has anyone ever loved this pussy right?”

You shook your head, breathless.

He pulled back, just enough to look you in the eyes.

“Let me.”

A kiss to your cheek.

“Let me show you how much I fucking love you.”

Another kiss—hot, shaking—along your jaw.

“Let me show you how fucking regretful I am of the years we missed because I was a fucking idiot.”

He thrust in—deep, slow, wrecking.

You cried out—no shame, no filter, just need.

“Let me show you how a man loves a woman—”

His hips snapped forward again, harder.

“—hard.”

You arched into him, open-mouthed, completely unguarded.

And that was it.

That was when you both started to unravel—together.

The rhythm was relentless.

Consuming.

Each thrust harder, deeper—every inch of him claiming space you didn’t even know you could give.

“Oh my god—”

That’s all you could say.

Barely a whisper, your voice cracking with every movement, your nails digging into the sheets like they were the only things anchoring you.

He was everywhere.

Above you, in you, all around you—

Breathing hard, burning, skin against skin like friction was the only language he knew now.

“Oh my—fuck—”

You couldn’t finish.

Your eyes rolled back, mouth open, breath shattered.

He was destroying you in the most perfect way.

And he knew it.

“Take it, baby,” he growled, his voice thick and broken.

“You wanted rough, right?”

His hips snapped again, slamming into you with precision, with purpose.

You sobbed something incoherent, body arching up to meet him.

“You can take it.”

His hand slid under your thigh, lifting, opening you more.

“So fucking deep, right?”

You couldn’t breathe.

You nodded, head tipping back as he filled you again—slower now, but harder—dragging it out until your whole body trembled.

“You’re perfect like this,” he rasped.

“Fucking made for this.”

You whimpered—again.

High. Breathless. Embarrassingly loud.

And he loved it.

“Gosh,” he chuckled darkly, breath ragged but voice smug,

“you love being noisy, don’t you?”

You couldn’t answer.

Not with the way he was pounding into you—hard and fast, the rhythm so good it felt illegal.

But that didn’t stop him.

“Mmm... should I give you something to really scream about?”

His mouth was suddenly everywhere—

Teeth scraping down your neck, tongue sliding hot against your throat, breath warm as he pressed kisses into your skin between thrusts.

“Should I bite you?”

He licked slowly up the side of your neck, deliberately drawing it out.

“You like it rough, right, Star?”

A sharp snap of his hips followed, making you yelp.

He moaned into your ear.

“Should I mark you?”

His voice dropped to a whisper, sinful and reverent.

He kissed just beneath your jaw, then slowly dragged his tongue to the curve of your shoulder—right before sinking his teeth in.

Not hard.

Not painful.

Just enough to make you feel it.

You gasped—head thrown back, vision blinking white.

“Fuck—”

He groaned, his grip tightening on your waist.

“Oh, you like that.”

Then he pulled back—barely—and his eyes dropped lower, trailing down your body.

He brought a finger to trace between your breasts, slow and teasing.

“Mmm,” he said, gaze dark. “Can I bite you here next?”

His hand flattened between them, palm pressing against your sternum.

“Right in the middle... between these perfect tits?”

Your breath hitched.

And then he did it.

He bent low, kissed between them—once.

Then sucked. Slow, hot, deep.

Not hard enough to bruise.

But hard enough to claim.

And still—he didn’t break rhythm.

His hips drove into you with perfect pressure, relentless, leaving you crying out with each thrust as his mouth worked its own magic lower.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Not the sounds.

Not the need.

Not the truth that had been clawing its way up your throat for years.

He was everywhere.

Inside you, above you, hands gripping your waist like he’d never let go.

His mouth was still pressed between your breasts, lips swollen, breath hot as he bit down again—harder this time, and you cried out.

“Say it,” he growled, voice wrecked, rhythm punishing.

“Say you're mine.”

And you did.

“I’m yours—”

Your voice cracked, hips lifting to meet his thrusts.

“I’m yours, please—fuck, I’ve been yours—”

Your head fell back.

“I don’t even know how long.”

He swore, loud, raw, his rhythm faltering for the first time.

Your hands clawed at his back, your legs tightening around him.

“Please—fuck—”

You were sobbing the words now.

“Please don’t stop, I’m so close—”

And that was it.

His control shattered.

He grabbed your wrists, pinned them above your head, and fucked into you like he was trying to bury the years between you inside every thrust.

“You’re mine,” he gritted, sweat dripping down his temple.

“You’ve always been mine.”

Your bodies moved like they were chasing the same end—

And when it hit—

It wrecked you.

You came with a cry, legs shaking, mouth open, back arching into him like your body was breaking apart around his name.

And he followed—cursing, groaning, collapsing into you as he came, hard, pulsing deep, hips still grinding slow as he rode it out.

For a moment—

There was nothing.

No sound but your breaths.

No thought but him.

No feeling but the burned-out, beautiful aftermath of everything you'd held in finally being set free.

You didn’t remember when he stopped moving.

Only that at some point, his forehead was pressed to yours, both of you gasping into the tiny space between your mouths.

Your skin was slick—his was too—

And every part of your body felt used, loved, shaken.

Your hands were still tangled in his hair, your legs still around his waist.

Neither of you had moved.

Not yet.

Just breathing.

Hard.

Fast.

Trying to catch up to the fact that your bodies had just told the truth before your mouths ever could.

Hoseok's lips ghosted over your jaw, your cheek, your mouth—

Not hungry. Not teasing. Just… there.

And then he kissed you.

Soft.

Slower than anything he’d done to you all night.

Like he was still apologizing for the years he wasted.

Like he needed to taste the moment before it slipped away.

You kissed him back, eyes closed, breath still shaky.

Your hand slid down his spine—damp with sweat, warm and familiar—and you curled into him like you never wanted to leave.

He rested his weight on top of you, careful not to crush, but refusing to let go.

No words yet.

Just the thump of his heart against yours.

Just his hand brushing the side of your thigh.

Just his lips pressed to your shoulder now.

And your fingers brushing his jaw as if to say I’m still here.

After a while—

He whispered it. Quiet. Barely a breath.

“Still with me?”

You nodded.

Tightening your legs around him just a little.

Breathing him in.

“Yeah.”

Another pause.

His hand slid to your cheek.

Lifted your face just enough.

His eyes were warm.

Wrecked.

Honest.

“You okay?”

You smiled.

Small. True.

“I think I’ve never been more okay.”

He kissed you again.

Deeper this time.

You didn’t realize you’d been drifting—

Not fully asleep, not fully awake—

Until you felt his fingers.

Gentle.

Tracing soft shapes into your hip.

You blinked, slowly, still wrapped around him, still sticky and spent and so full of everything he just gave you.

He didn’t speak at first.

Just moved.

One hand brushing sweat-matted strands from your forehead.

The other lifting your leg slightly, shifting you with ease, like your body was something he knew now. Something he could read.

“Hurting?” he whispered, voice thick and low.

You blinked at him, eyes half-lidded.

“No,” you said softly. “Just… sore.”

He smiled.

Pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Good sore or bad sore?”

You gave a sleepy smirk.

“You’re asking like you don’t know the answer.”

He chuckled—quiet, low in his throat—and slipped out of bed only long enough to grab a warm towel and a bottle of water from the side table.

You didn’t have to ask.

He just cleaned you gently, whispering nothing into your skin. Words like:

“So pretty.”

“Still can’t believe.”

“Mine.”

Then he pulled you back into him, wrapping the covers over both of you like a second skin.

You pressed your face to his neck.

He smelled like sex and warmth and something safe.

“Sleep,” he whispered into your hair.

And you did.

The first thing you felt was light.

Sunlight spilling through his curtain-less window, soft and golden against your bare back.

The second thing you felt—

Him.

His arm was still around you, his hand resting just beneath your chest.

One leg tangled over yours.

His breath warm against the curve of your neck.

You smiled into the pillow.

Your body ached.

Not in a bad way.

In the kind of way that reminded you exactly what had happened—

And how much it mattered.

Slowly, you turned.

He was already awake.

Eyes open. Barely.

That lazy, morning kind of smile tugging at his mouth.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“Hey,” he murmured back, voice rough.

Then, after a pause—

“So, uh… that wasn’t a dream, right?”

You laughed—quiet and warm.

“No. You definitely weren’t dreaming.”

He grinned, then leaned in, kissed your shoulder.

“Good.”

Another kiss, closer to your collarbone this time.

“Because I’d really hate to wake up from this.”

You stretched with a wince—limbs sore in the best way, muscles tired, your whole body buzzing from everything that happened hours ago.

He was still beside you, propped up on one elbow, watching you like you were some dream he didn’t want to blink away.

You rolled toward him, dragging your fingertips lightly down his chest, smirking.

“You know I’m sore,” you said playfully, voice low and sleep-soft.

“But I just realized…”

You trailed off, tracing a slow path over his ribs.

“I didn’t mark your back like I wanted to.”

He blinked, and then — smirked.

Slow and devilish, like he’d just won something.

“So you wanna mark my back, pretty?”

His voice came out hoarse, still raspy from sleep, and full of teasing pride.

You shrugged—innocent, dangerous.

“Would be a shame to waste the moment.”

“Oh?” He leaned in, lips brushing your shoulder.

“That why you’re straddling me now?”

You hadn’t realized you’d done it—but you were.

Knees planted on either side of his hips, hands on his chest, your hair a mess and your grin feral.

“Maybe,” you said, hips grinding down just a little.

He hissed, hands already finding your thighs.

“God, you’re shameless.”

You leaned down to kiss him, slow and hot.

“I’ve never been like this,” you whispered against his lips.

“Not even with huh.. Daniel.”

His grip on your hips tightened.

“Good.”

A breath.

“I don’t want your past.”

He looked up at you—dead serious now.

“I just want you.”

You kissed him harder.

You didn’t realize how slow you were moving until he touched you.

His hands—warm, steady—slid up your thighs, anchoring you on top of him.

You were already straddling his hips, your body flushed from teasing, sore in all the best ways, but still buzzing with want.

The kind of want that didn’t burn like fire anymore—

It hummed like music.

Low. Steady. Deep.

Hoseok’s eyes were soft, but his grip wasn’t.

He guided your hips down just enough for your bodies to brush—his length hard against your entrance, your breath catching in a sharp gasp.

He didn’t move.

Just held you there.

“Still sure?” he asked, voice hoarse from sleep and moaning your name all night.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“I want you slow,” you whispered. “But I want all of you.”

His head tipped back.

“Fuck.”

And then—

He guided you down.

Inch by inch.

Slow enough that you felt every part of him.

Every twitch. Every pulse.

You gasped—quiet but breathless—your nails dragging over his chest.

“Shit,” you breathed. “Still so full—”

“You’re perfect like this,” he murmured, voice breaking, “So soft. So fucking warm.”

He held your hips and didn’t thrust—

He just let you settle.

Let you feel him.

Your eyes fluttered closed.

Then—

The first roll of your hips.

A grind, not a thrust.

Drawn out, deliberate, slow enough to make your entire body light up.

Hoseok moaned beneath you, hands trailing to your waist, your ass, your spine.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Ride me, baby. Just like that.”

You moved again, a little faster.

Still slow, still deep—

But now his breath was catching.

Now his hands were trembling.

And every time you dropped your hips, he lifted his—just barely—meeting you, feeding the rhythm like it was the only thing left keeping him sane.

“You feel so good,” he groaned. “Like you were made for me.”

Your forehead pressed to his.

Your fingers tangled in his hair.

And as you rode him—slow and soaked in heat—

He kissed you like he was trying to say everything without words.

It wasn’t last night.

It wasn’t urgent.

It wasn’t messy.

It was yours.

And when you came—

He did too.

Silent.

Breathless.

Clinging to each other in the morning light.

You were still lying on his chest.

Both of you were a mess—sweaty, sore, skin sticking slightly where your legs tangled together under the covers.

Neither of you had said much after.

There wasn’t much to say.

Just breath.

Just the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

Just the feel of his fingers brushing lazily up and down your back.

Until—

“So…”

His voice was hoarse, still ruined from the sounds he made hours ago.

“How’s your back?”

You snorted.

“Sore. You?”

He turned his head, eyes crinkling.

“I think I saw God at one point.”

You laughed—really laughed this time—and lifted your face off his chest just long enough to kiss the underside of his jaw.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

He yawned, stretching dramatically beneath you.

“And I think you broke my spine with that last move.”

You grinned.

“Which one? The slow grind or the bite?”

He fake-wheezed. “Both. I was a goner by then.”

You sat up, still draped in the sheet, hair wild and lips swollen.

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m right,” he mumbled, then added under his breath,

“My soul left my body and you were still grinding.”

You blushed, but didn’t deny it.

Instead, you leaned down, lips brushing his ear.

“You loved it.”

He groaned, arms flopping over his face.

“Don’t start. I’m gonna die if you get on top of me again right now.”

“So no round three?”

“Babe—”

You cackled, falling beside him again.

And that’s how you stayed.

Naked. Sweaty. Wrecked.

But smiling.

Together.

And in love, whether either of you said it or not. But he did though, it was so much better

You didn’t expect anyone to be there.

You were fresh out of the shower, hoodie zipped halfway up, skin still damp, hair wrapped in a towel. Hoseok had practically shoved you out of bed with a lazy smirk and a “I’ll come by later, babe, go act normal before your brother disowns me.”

You rolled your eyes and kissed him goodbye anyway.

You hadn’t even thought to check your phone.

So when you unlocked the apartment and stepped in—yawning, hoodie barely covering the tops of your thighs—

You froze.

Because sitting around the coffee table?

Yeji. Jungkook. Yoongi.

Three heads turned.

Three pairs of eyes locked on you.

And the silence that followed was deafening.

Yeji blinked once—then grinned so wide her face could’ve cracked.

Jungkook looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh, his lip already tucked between his teeth.

And Yoongi?

Yoongi just stared.

Arms crossed.

You were still standing there, damp hair in a towel, oversized hoodie swallowing your thighs—

And all three of them were staring like you’d just strolled in wearing a wedding dress and a hickey.

Yoongi rubbed his temple. “Did you at least talk to him?”

You blinked.

Swallowed.

“Yeah,” you said carefully. “We… talked a lot.”

Silence.

Then—

“Yeah,” Jungkook added helpfully, not looking up from his phone,

“You also seemed to have fucked a lot.”

“JUNGKOOK—”

Yeji screamed laughing.

You choked on air.

Yoongi stood up like his soul was leaving his body.

“Oh my god,” you hissed. “Kook—shut up—”

He shrugged, grinning.

“I mean, I’m just saying! She’s glowing. She walked in like she levitated home. Hoseok’s hoodie looks slept in. We all know what happened.”

Yeji clapped her hands. “This is the best day of my life.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands.

And right then—

Your phone buzzed.

[Hoseok 💛]:

outside. do I come in or is yoongi still armed?

[You]:

come in. jungkook already set the building on fire it’s fine.

Everything was going to be fine.

You didn’t know how you knew —

Only that it felt true.

In your body. In the softness of your smile.

In the way the quiet didn’t feel heavy anymore.

You felt lighter.

Gosh, even… hopeful.

Life wasn’t perfect.

You were still figuring it out — fumbling through Monday mornings, trying to make peace with emails and deadlines and who you were supposed to become.

You didn’t have all the answers.

Hell, you barely had a plan.

But you had this:

A moment.

A stillness.

A stretch of peace that didn’t feel like waiting — it felt like living.

Because your people were here.

Your stars — the ones you caught without even realizing it.

Yeji, wild and luminous.

Jungkook, loyal and soft beneath the mischief.

Yoongi, steady as a lighthouse, even when he swore too much and cared too quietly.

And Hoseok.

God, Hoseok.

A man who loved you with hands that knew where to hold and when to let go.

A man who looked at you like the sky wasn’t quite enough.

A man who laughed with you, cried with you, burned with you — and stayed.

That kind of love?

It made everything else easier.

Even Monday.

Even growing up.

Even the not-knowing.

Because maybe adulthood wasn’t about having it all figured out.

Maybe it was just about choosing people who made the journey worth it.

And letting them choose you, too.

You looked out the window, blinking up at the darkening sky.

There were stars tonight.

Real ones.

But the brightest?

Were already here.

And you had never felt more at home.

— note: I’ve spent over two hours fighting with Tumblr to get this post up — so first of all, I’m sorry for the delay. This story means everything to me. It was the reason I created this blog in the first place. It was supposed to be the first thing I ever shared.

A one-shot that grew roots and refused to let go.

Coming-of-age has always been my favorite genre — there’s something about nostalgia that sinks into your skin.

It aches, longs, yearns. You ache for old memories, for the people you once knew, for the feelings you used to feel. Even for the feelings you haven’t had yet — the ones that still wait for you.

I wanted to write something that felt like that. Something dreamy and soft, but grounded — something that caught fire with reality, because the truth is: happiness alone has never been enough to carry us.

This wasn’t as angsty as I first imagined it would be. Somewhere along the way, the story took a different shape — and I let it. It’s been sitting in my drafts for 2–3 years, slowly becoming something else.

There’s a part of me that feels like I failed to capture exactly what I wanted. That I got lost in the middle.

But I’m learning to be gentle with myself — because there’s still so much more to explore.

And I really, really wanted to post this.

So if you read it — thank you.

If any part of it reflects your own thoughts, your insecurities, the weird ache of figuring life out — I hope you feel seen.

Growing pains aren’t a flaw.

They’re just the moments when we brush up against the truth that growing up is hard — strange, messy, beautiful and confusing. Sometimes, that's enough.

PD: Tumblr hates me, this post is up, yeah, technically. I hate that is up without the actual edition like I was pasting from my Word document includic italics / bold, but for some reason it doesn't look like I did. This app hates me I'll manage to change it later.

#hoseok smut #hoseok x reader #bts smut #bts #jhope fanfic #hoseok ff #jhope smut #jhope #hoseok #hobi #bts jhope #bts hobi #jung hoseok #jung hoseok smut #namjoon smut #yoongi smut #jin smut #jungkook smut #taehyung smut

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hobi-side · 19 days ago

Text

Stars We Never Caught 3.0 | jhs

— word count: 9.6k for this part—this is a long one shot like around 60k for the full thing and the tumblr editor hates me so we'll have like 4 parts of this

part one | part two | part four

You hadn’t meant to rile him up.

Honestly. You weren’t trying to do anything on purpose.

You just… wanted to know. If you were imagining it. If this fire simmering in your chest had any real fuel behind it. If maybe—just maybe—you weren’t alone in the burn.

So you wore the tank top. The hoodie. The shorts. You curled up on his couch. Said just enough. And watched him spiral, slow and silent and beautiful.

Oh. Oh, it worked.

You texted Yeji the second you stepped outside his apartment.

emergency girl talk I’m spiraling and I need to scream into a safe person pls tell me you’re in the city

Yeji replied in under two minutes.

café on donggyo? 30 mins. bring your chaos. i’ll bring judgment.

You got there early. Sat with your iced latte, hands curled tight around the plastic, brain still trying to make sense of what had just happened. What it meant. How it felt.

Yeji slid into the booth across from you like she’d just returned from war. Hair in a clip, sunglasses on top of her head, big hoodie, bigger energy.

“Okay,” she said. “Don’t even say hi. Start talking.”

You blinked at her. “You don’t want to know how I’m doing?”

“I assume you’re unwell. Start from the beginning.”

You exhaled. "I wore his hoodie. And his shorts."

She raised an eyebrow. “A power move.”

“And I didn’t mean to, but also I kind of did? Like not to seduce him. Just to…” You paused. “Just to see.”

"To test the tension."

“Yeah.”

"And?"

You looked her dead in the eye. “It’s not in my head.”

Yeji gasped. “OH?”

You nodded, frantic. “He looked at me like I was a walking problem.”

Yeji leaned forward, already grinning. “So the long-time crush—Hoseok, the human sunbeam—you’re telling me he looked at you like he wanted to risk it all?”

You stared down into your drink. “I don’t know if it was that dramatic…”

“Babe. You’ve liked him since high school. You don’t get to play it cool now.”

You gave a helpless little shrug. “It’s just… weird. And kind of terrifying. And also—he’s so attractive it’s physically unfair.”

“And?”

“And now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Yeji narrowed her eyes. “Do you want this to happen?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“I think I’ve always wanted it to happen,” you admitted. “But wanting it now—now—makes it feel more dangerous.”

“Why?”

“Because it doesn’t feel one-sided anymore.”

Yeji blinked. Her expression shifted—calm, quiet, a little softer now.

“That scares you?”

You looked up. “Yeah.”

She nodded slowly. “You’re not used to being seen like that.”

You swallowed.

“Is that what this is?” you asked. “Him seeing me now?”

Yeji smiled, the teasing gone from her face. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s him finally catching up to the way you’ve always seen him.”

You went quiet.

Yeji leaned back. “You’ve got the biggest heart I know. You’ve loved this guy quietly for years. Of course this is messing you up.”

You laughed under your breath. “I hate how well you know me.”

“And I know that you love feeling alive like this. You pretend you don’t, but you do. You love the chaos, the potential. And yeah, maybe a little bit, you love the way he makes you feel wanted.”

You blinked fast. “I didn’t think he ever would.”

“But he does now,” she said. “And that doesn’t have to be scary. It can just be real.”

You nodded slowly. Swirled your straw around the ice.

“And also,” she added brightly, “you’re a certified horny romantic, and this whole thing is making you feral, don’t lie to me.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “God.”

She giggled. “I’m just saying, next time you borrow his clothes, maybe don’t do the full runway walk around his apartment unless you’re ready for consequences.”

You peeked at her through your fingers. “I wasn’t ready.”

“You never are. That’s what makes you dangerous.”

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your drink.

And for the first time that day, you felt a little more like yourself.

You didn’t mean to be alone with him again.

Yoongi had been there — somewhere in the apartment, probably still in his room, post-night shift coma. Yeji had left an hour ago. Jungkook was supposed to come by and never did. The guy was extremely busy lately. And now... it was just you and Hoseok.

Again.

You were curled on the far end of the couch, pretending to scroll, pretending not to feel the weight of his gaze every time you shifted, pretending not to want him to look.

He sat on the other end, one arm draped across the back of the couch, fingers lazily tapping his phone. Legs spread, one foot bare, the other propped on the coffee table like he owned the world.

And maybe he did. At least the one you were stuck inside.

“You always get quiet when you’re flustered,” he said suddenly.

Your eyes snapped up.

“What?”

He didn’t look at you — not fully. Just smirked. “It’s cute. The silence. Like you’re trying to hide the fire behind your eyes.”

“I’m not flustered,” you lied.

He hummed, noncommittal. “Sure.”

“You’re full of yourself.”

He finally turned his head — slow, deliberate — and looked at you like he knew every secret you hadn’t spoken yet.

“I’m just paying attention.”

You hated the way your breath caught. Hated the way his voice dropped like a dare.

He leaned closer, his arm stretching along the back of the couch — not touching you, but close enough to make your skin itch with awareness.

“I like this version of you,” he said, softer now. “The one that doesn’t know what to do when I’m this close.”

You tried to glare, but your heart was pounding.

“I could literally push you off this couch.”

“Yeah?” he grinned, gaze dipping to your lips. “You gonna touch me first, or should I help you out?”

Your face went hot. “Hoseok.”

He laughed — low and quiet — like he had just won something you didn’t know you were betting.

Then he sat back again, easy, like he hadn’t just sent your pulse into orbit.

“You’re fun to mess with.”

“You’re evil.”

“Not evil,” he said. “Just... motivated.”

You blinked. “Motivated?”

He stretched, shirt riding up slightly over his stomach. You pretended not to look. You failed.

“Mm.” He looked at you again. “You’re not the only one playing.”

And just like that — your chest was full of heat and silence and the kind of ache that had nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the way he made you feel like you were constantly two seconds away from combustion.

You were burning.

The door creaked open.

You blinked, dazed, still tangled in your blanket, breath shallow from dreams you couldn’t quite remember.

Yoongi poked his head in, face barely visible in the dark. “Hey. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

You squinted at him. “What time is it?”

“Four. Maybe a little past.”

You groaned.

He stepped in, scratching his head. “Your phone was on do not disturb. Mom called last night. Said they want to make sure you’re still coming for Chuseok.”

You blinked again, slowly processing. “Yeah. I’m going.”

“You gonna call them?”

“Later,” you mumbled. “I’ll call later.”

He nodded. “Also, I need you to pick something up for me in the afternoon. I have a shift and—whatever, I’ll text you. Just... please.”

“Okay.”

Yoongi backed out the door. “Cool. Sorry again. Go back to sleep.”

The door shut gently behind Yoongi. Soft click. Darkness again.

But sleep didn’t come back.

You stayed still for a while, staring at the ceiling, tangled in blankets and the sticky heat of your own skin.

Because the second the quiet returned, so did the thoughts.

And all of them wore the same name.

Hoseok.

God.

Fuck him.

Fuck him and the way he looked at you yesterday like he was thinking things he had no business thinking. Fuck how he smirked like he knew what he was doing. Fuck his stupid tank tops and stupid arms and stupid gym routine that was definitely working because—Jesus.

And that voice.

That fucking voice.

Low and slow and teasing. Like he was dragging every word through honey just to watch it drip into your chest.

You turned over, shoved the pillow under your head, groaned into the mattress.

This was Yoongi’s fault. Logically, yes, he had an early shift and needed to tell you things. But spiritually? This was Yoongi’s fault.

You were fine before. You were asleep. Now?

Now, you were awake. Wide awake. Hot. Restless.

Okay. Think. What helps you sleep?

Jasmine tea.

Right.

Oh. Right. You were out.

You stared at the ceiling again. Brain skipping. Heart racing. Skin buzzing.

What else?

A walk? Music? Distraction?

...No. No, not that. Definitely not that.

But— Your body was tight. Wound. Desperate for something. You pressed your thighs together without thinking, and cursed under your breath.

No.

Don’t.

God.

It had been a while. That was the problem, right? No one to hold you. No one to kiss you. No one to press their hands against your hips and whisper your name like it meant something.

No one—

No. Not no one.

Him.

That was the worst part.

It was him.

The person you weren’t supposed to think about like this. The person who had always been just a friend.

Until suddenly he wasn’t.

Until he looked at you like he could break you open and leave you smiling.

Until he leaned in close and spoke like sin.

And now?

Now your body knew it.

Now you were awake in the dark, aching, flushed, and helplessly aware of everything he made you want.

Fuck it.

You couldn’t pretend anymore.

You lay there in Yoongi’s guest room — your room now, technically — but nothing about it felt calm or safe or quiet. Because you weren’t. Because your skin was burning. Because your chest was too tight and your thoughts too loud and he wouldn’t get out of your head.

Hoseok.

You said his name in your mind like it was a curse and a prayer all at once.

You kicked the blanket off, body overheated, heartbeat stumbling. Checked the apartment — Yoongi gone, of course. No one else. No one to see you like this.

And still you hesitated.

But the ache had settled too deep now. This low, steady pull under your skin, tightening your breath, your muscles, your thoughts. Not just about the way he looked.

But the way he looked at you.

Like he could see everything. Like maybe he finally felt it too.

You climbed back into bed, barely bothered with the shorts, dragging the hoodie down to your thighs. Your hands shook a little as they moved — slow, unsure, like even your fingers knew what you were doing was dangerous.

You didn’t mean to get loud.

But the tension had been building for days—no, years. And now it was sitting just under your skin, boiling over.

His voice echoed in your head like a trigger.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

The memory of it made your fingers move faster, your breath sharp and shallow as your body chased something deeper.

His mouth. His hands. The way he looked at you like he wanted to ruin you, slowly, reverently.

You bit down on your bottom lip—hard—but the noise broke out anyway.

A whimper. A gasp. A sound you didn’t recognize as your own, raw and wrecked and real.

And then— you moaned. Loud. Unfiltered. Back arched, mouth open, Hoseok’s name stifled into your pillow like it might keep the world from hearing it.

But the room heard. The silence knew. Your blush knew too, hot and immediate as you came apart in his hoodie, fists clenching the sheets like they were the only thing keeping you tethered.

It was messy. It was shameless. And it was so much more than you expected.

Because when it was over… You didn’t feel better.

You felt worse.

Because it was his name on your lips. His voice in your head. His weight in your chest like a stone.

You blinked up at the ceiling, skin flushed, heart pounding.

Fuck.

Hoseok didn’t know what the fuck woke him up.

One second he was deep in the kind of sleep where your body forgets time exists — warm sheets, Yoongi’s stupid memory foam mattress, his face buried in someone else’s pillow.

The next?

A sound.

Sharp. Sudden. A cry.

High. Familiar.

He blinked, groggy, rubbing at his eyes.

What the hell?

Right. He was in Yoongi’s bed. Yoongi had left like a one-night stand at 4 a.m. — some emergency shift that required exactly zero finesse. Just grabbed his hoodie, whispered “Later,” and vanished out the door like a ghost.

Hoseok had mumbled something like “Have a good day at work, babe” in response before rolling over and passing back out.

Which… Weirdly domestic. Disturbingly couple-like.

Was he Yoongi’s wife?

That was the last thought he remembered before falling asleep.

Until now.

Until that sound.

Because it wasn’t from the hallway. Or outside. Or the neighbors.

No.

It was from your room.

Too close. Too real.

Another sound now — a moan. Thicker. Clearer. Needier.

His eyes snapped open.

What the fuck.

He sat up slowly, every nerve in his body suddenly awake, his heart stuttering like it missed a beat.

He stared at the closed door across the apartment.

Your door.

He swallowed, hard.

No, no, no. It couldn’t be. Maybe you were— Maybe you were hurt. Maybe it was a nightmare. Maybe—

A third sound.

Low. Breathless. Followed by the shift of sheets and a soft, broken “fuck.”

Oh.

Hoseok’s skin lit up like fire under his hoodie.

His mouth went dry.

His brain stopped working entirely.

You were—

Jesus.

You were.

And suddenly, he was wide awake and absolutely losing his fucking mind.

His hands dragged down his face.

Barefoot, hoodie clinging to his too-warm skin, heart beating like he’d just sprinted.

He moved. He didn’t know why he moved. Didn’t mean to. But suddenly he was in the hallway, maybe ten steps from your door, frozen.

Your voice.

Soft. Wrecked. Close. Too close.

He shouldn’t be here.

But he stood there anyway — back against the wall just outside your room, eyes wide, blood rushing straight to his hips, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Because you weren’t hurt. You weren’t having a nightmare.

You were—

You were moaning. Loud. Honest. Open.

He could hear the sheets shift. The whimper in your breath. The fucking rhythm of it.

And Hoseok had never wanted something so badly and so shamefully in his life.

His hand braced against the wall like it might ground him.

It didn’t.

He could picture it. You. In his hoodie. Just skin beneath. Fingers moving fast. Head tossed back.

He exhaled, harsh through his nose, trying not to groan.

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself.

Because he was hard. Because he was losing his mind. Because he didn’t know if you were thinking of someone—or if it was him.

God, if it was him—

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there in the stillness, listening to the sounds you didn’t know he could hear. The sounds that would haunt him.

And then—

A cry. Louder. A name.

He swore it was his.

He dropped his head back against the wall with a thud, eyes squeezing shut.

He had to go. He had to move. But his legs wouldn’t listen.

Your breath was still uneven. Your body still moving.

He bit the inside of his cheek.

He should leave. He should walk away.

Instead, he whispered your name under his breath like a confession.

And stayed.

For a moment, it was perfect. Everything was perfect.

Still. Sated. Just... release.

You could sleep now.

You let your head fall back, eyes fluttering shut, sweat clinging to the inside of your thighs. His name had left your lips — soft, shameful, reverent.

You breathed.

In. Out.

You were okay.

You were fine.

You had a few minutes to come back to earth.

And then—

Knock.

You shot up like you’d been electrocuted.

What the fuck.

Your breath caught mid-throat.

No one else was home.

Yoongi left. Your friends hadn't stay.

And Hoseok— Shit. Hoseok.

No way. No fucking way.

Your heart stopped.

"Is that—" your voice cracked. "A ghost?"

Another knock. This time more cautious. Too real.

Oh god.

No.

No, no, no.

"What the fuck," you whispered under your breath, panic spiking. You yanked the blanket up to your chin like that would fix any of this.

And then—

The door opened.

He opened it.

Hoseok stood there.

Hair messy. Hoodie loose on his body. Eyes—wide, unreadable. His hand still on the doorknob, frozen like even he couldn’t believe he did it.

Your heart slammed into your ribs.

“What—” you croaked. “What are you—did you just—?”

His eyes flicked over you once.

You could feel the heat still clinging to your skin. Your cheeks were burning. Your legs were still trembling under the blanket. And the worst part?

He knew.

He fucking knew.

“I heard—” he started, then stopped.

You stared at him. “You heard what, Hoseok?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because the silence said it all.

Because your ruined breath, flushed cheeks, and pillow-gripped panic said it louder.

He just stood there.

Looking at you.

Like you were a goddamn storm.

And maybe—maybe—he wanted to step into it.

He was losing his fucking mind.

He hadn’t even meant to open the door.

He knocked—soft, stupidly soft—and you said something. Something ridiculous like "a ghost?" And before he could stop himself, before his brain could scream NO, his hand was twisting the knob and pushing the door open—

And then there you were.

And fuck.

Your hair was a mess. Your cheeks were burning. You were pulled tight into the blanket like you were hiding from something—but not well enough.

Your breath was uneven. Your legs were curled up. And your eyes—

Wrecked.

You looked at him like he’d walked in on your soul.

And maybe he had.

He didn’t mean to stay in the doorway. He didn’t mean to look. But God help him, he couldn’t move.

Because it was you.

Because your skin still glowed like the heat hadn’t left your body. Because your thighs were clenched under that blanket like they remembered every second. Because he could still hear you — the sounds you made, the way his name had slipped out like a secret you didn’t mean to confess.

He was hard. Painfully, obviously, shamelessly hard.

And this?

This was fucking ridiculous.

He wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or walk straight into the street and get hit by a truck.

Instead, he stood there. Silent. Useless. Burning from the inside out.

He swallowed. Tried to remember how to speak. Failed.

You blinked at him like you weren’t sure if this was real.

“What are you doing?” you asked, voice thin, almost scolding.

He wanted to say "Checking on you." He wanted to say "I heard you." He wanted to say "Fuck, you’re beautiful."

Instead?

He said nothing.

Just stared. At your flushed face. At the shape of your bare shoulders peeking out from the neckline of his hoodie. At the way you were obviously trying to hide behind the blanket, but failing so sweetly it hurt.

He shifted, crossed his arms like that might help hide how wrecked he was.

“I—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “You said ghost. I thought maybe… I don’t know. Just wanted you to know it was me.”

Silence.

You stared.

His pulse thundered.

And for one insane second, all he wanted was to cross the room, drag that blanket away, and press his mouth to every inch of your ruined expression.

Instead, he said:

“You okay?”

You nodded slowly.

He nodded back. “Okay.”

And then he shut the door before he could do something irreversible.

And walked down the hall.

Hard.

He didn’t even try to pretend he didn’t need the cold shower.

He needed it.

Desperately.

Painfully.

Immediately.

He slammed the bathroom door and leaned his forehead against the cool tile like that alone might save his life.

It didn’t.

His heart was still pounding. His skin still burned. His dick — fuck his dick — was still so fucking hard it felt like a punishment.

Never — never — in his life had he been this hard over nothing.

Except it wasn’t nothing.

It was you.

You, wrecked in bed, flushed and hiding in his hoodie like the world didn’t just tilt on its axis. You, breathless and blinking like a dream he wasn’t supposed to touch.

He’d opened the door like an idiot — half-asleep, running on instinct, just trying to tell you it wasn’t a ghost — and walked straight into a sin.

And now he was fucked.

He turned on the cold water.

It hit like ice.

He gasped — but his body didn’t back down. Didn’t care. Because every single cell was replaying the sound of your moan like a track stuck on loop.

He groaned.

This was so fucking stupid.

And it all started because he’d crashed at Yoongi’s like a drunken puppy the night before.

He’d been tipsy — okay, drunk. Just two beers and a shot of something that tasted like candy-coated death. He wasn’t built for alcohol. He never had been. A total lightweight.

He’d stumbled into Yoongi’s apartment at 11 p.m., warm and giggly, and gone straight for the only bed that made sense: Yoongi’s.

Yoongi was already half-asleep, and when Hoseok dropped down beside him and muttered, “You’re warm,” Yoongi just grunted and let it happen.

He always did.

Hoseok had curled up under the blanket like the clingy drunk idiot he was, and passed out.

He hadn’t meant to wake up to the fucking end of his sanity.

Now you were all he could feel.

He let his hand move lower — slow, certain — wrapping around the ache that had been burning through him since your first gasp broke the silence of the apartment.

There was no shame in it.

No guilt.

Only the truth: He wanted you.

God, he wanted you.

Not just like this.

But like always.

Your laugh. Your stubbornness. The way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. The way you wore your heart out in the open like it was invincible. The way you made every room feel warmer — even Yoongi’s cold-ass apartment.

His hand moved faster now, breath catching, hips stuttering forward.

He wasn’t thinking about your body, not really. He was thinking about the way you smiled after teasing him. The way you said his name, quiet, annoyed, but still soft.

The way you looked when you weren’t pretending not to want him.

His jaw clenched.

He thought about pushing the blanket off you.

He thought about your thighs under his hands. Your voice in his ear. The way you might say his name again — louder, needier, ruined.

And that was it.

He came hard, chest jerking forward, a broken sound falling from his lips before he could stop it.

His hand hit the tile. His breath crashed out of him.

It didn’t fix anything.

It didn’t ease anything.

But it made everything clear.

He wasn’t just fucked.

He was falling.

And that?

That terrified him more than anything.

You should’ve been glowing.

You got what you wanted — or at least, the edge of it.

Your body was still buzzing, nerves singing in that soft, golden way. Your skin damp. Your hands trembling. That warm, molten quiet just starting to settle behind your ribs.

And then—

Knock.

And then his voice. And then — God — the door opened.

You still hadn’t fully processed it.

Because you hadn’t had time.

You’d scrambled under the blanket like it could hide what you’d just done. Like it could erase the way your legs were still weak, your breath still uneven, your heart still pounding.

But you saw it.

The look in his eyes.

Wide. Shaken. Sharp like he’d just walked through fire and didn’t know how to come back from it.

And now?

Now he was gone.

Door shut. Hallway silent.

And you were still lying in bed like a wreck, staring at the ceiling, wondering if your heart was ever going to stop trying to escape your chest.

“Fuck,” you whispered, dragging a hand over your face.

You got what you wanted, right?

You wanted to know if the tension was real. You wanted to burn. You wanted to play.

And you did.

You came thinking about him. Hard. Fast. Louder than you meant to be.

It wasn’t supposed to matter.

It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

But it did now. Because he’d been on the other side of the door. Because his eyes had landed on you like you were something sacred and dangerous at once. Because he saw.

Your cheeks burned hotter.

You were still wet. Still flushed. Still aware in every part of your body that this wasn’t over. That maybe it never had been.

You curled into the pillow, groaning into the fabric like it could muffle the chaos inside your head.

You should’ve felt ashamed. But mostly?

You just felt alive.

You didn’t sleep.

He didn’t either.

You both knew it, but neither of you said a word.

So you went through the motions. Breakfast. Coffee. Something with eggs. Yoongi’s apartment felt too bright. Too quiet. Every brush of his arm made your skin twitch. Every look lingered just a second too long.

Still— You smiled. He laughed. You pretended.

Until lunch.

After that?

It fell apart.

The air got thicker. He stopped looking at you directly. You couldn’t breathe when he sat too close.

And when he reached over you to grab something off the counter — When his hand grazed your waist, When his voice dipped low to ask “Can you pass me the soy sauce?” It was over.

Your fingers trembled. Your knees almost gave out.

And then— He backed away.

Said your name like it hurt. Stared at the floor like it held answers.

And then he—

He dropped to his knees.

Right there.

In the middle of Yoongi’s kitchen.

You froze. “Hoseok—?”

His hands were on his thighs, fingers digging in, jaw locked like he was holding back a storm.

“I was gonna take you on a date,” he said, voice cracking like it was pulled from somewhere deep. “I was. I was gonna—do it right. Say something. Ask.”

You blinked. “What are you talking about?”

He looked up at you then.

And God, he looked wrecked. Eyes wide. Cheeks flushed. Like everything he’d been holding in just ripped through his chest.

“I was gonna take you to that little rooftop place you said you liked. The one with the fairy lights. I was gonna make it a thing. Not a joke. Not a game.”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

He laughed — broken. “And then I heard you.”

Your heart stopped.

“I heard you,” he said again. “This morning. I was outside your room, and—fuck—I should’ve walked away, but I didn’t. And it broke me. And all I’ve been thinking about since is how I can’t keep pretending this is nothing.”

You took a step toward him.

He didn’t move.

“What are you doing?” you whispered.

He exhaled. Stared at you like a confession. And said—

“What I should’ve done this morning.”

The silence that followed didn’t breathe.

You did.

Barely.

He was still on his knees.

Still looking up at you like he was trying to memorize your every breath.

You didn’t know what to say.

Not when he’d just unraveled himself in front of you. Not when your whole body was still aching from everything that came before— and everything you wanted next.

And then—

He leaned in.

Not far. Just enough to bring his face closer to your leg.

And he asked, voice low, hoarse—

"Is this okay?"

Your breath caught.

“What is?”

He didn’t answer with words.

He just leaned in further and— kissed your ankle.

A soft, careful press of lips against skin. Like a whisper. Like a prayer.

You froze.

His hands rested gently on your calves now, thumbs brushing your skin.

He looked up, blinking slowly.

"Is this okay?"

You couldn’t speak.

Your body answered before your mouth could — A small shift forward. A gasp. A heat that shot straight through your spine.

He exhaled like your silence told him everything.

Another kiss.

Higher this time.

The curve just above your ankle bone.

Then again, just below your shin.

He was slow. Devotional.

Each kiss asking, each kiss offering.

“Still okay?” he murmured, eyes not leaving yours.

You nodded.

It barely felt like enough.

He pressed another kiss to the inside of your calf, his breath hot on your skin. Every inch of you was fire.

This wasn’t teasing.

This wasn’t a game.

This was him giving in.

And you letting him.

His lips brushed higher.

Just beneath your knee.

Warm. Slow. Like he was learning the language of your skin by heart.

You weren’t breathing right. You weren’t thinking. You could only feel.

And he—

He was calm.

Devoted. Not rushed, not rough— Just sure.

Sure of his hands. Sure of his want. Sure of you.

His thumbs traced slow circles against your calves.

“Still okay?” he asked again, voice low, gentle.

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for this.

Your fingers found his hair—light, unsure at first, then firmer as you touched him for real.

He looked up at you like it mattered. Like everything you gave him was sacred.

Your voice barely made it out.

“Yeah. Okay. It’s��okay.”

His hands moved higher.

Palms gliding along the backs of your knees. Fingers pressing just enough to ground you.

Then—another kiss.

This one at the crease where your thigh met the rest of you.

You shuddered.

He stilled.

Watched your face for any flicker of doubt.

There wasn’t one.

You were melting. You were burning. And he was the one who set the match down and said, “I’ll wait.”

He leaned in again. Not just with his mouth now—but all of him.

Weightless pressure.

One hand curled around the back of your thigh. One thumb brushing your hipbone over your clothes.

He kissed the inside of your other knee, slowly, like he could taste your yes in the skin there.

Your head fell back slightly. Breathless. Open.

Still clothed. Still untouched where it counted. But already unraveling.

Your breath was shaky when you whispered it.

“So you’ve kissed my legs before you’ve kissed me?”

He froze.

His hands were still cradling your thighs. His mouth still hovering just above your skin. Your chest still rising and falling like it couldn’t decide if this was real.

Then he looked up.

And the look in his eyes— God.

Not lust. Not even just love. Something deeper. Something aching.

And when he said—

“I’m fucking worshipping you before I get to kiss you,”

—it didn’t feel like a line. It didn’t feel like a tease.

It felt like a confession.

Like years of knowing you had come to this—

—Hands trembling with reverence. —Knees on the floor in front of you. —Mouth pressed to skin like a vow.

Your throat tightened.

You’d known Hoseok since you were young.

You knew his laugh, his sarcasm, his way of lighting up every room.

But you’d never known this.

The version of him that said I see you, with nothing but his eyes and a kiss behind your knee.

The version of him that made your whole body feel wanted in a way that didn’t just burn—it healed.

And maybe it was insane, but all you could think—

as he slowly rose from the floor, lips ghosting up your thigh, over your hip, over your ribs—was:

Finally.

He rose slowly.

Not with urgency— But with intention. Like every inch closer to your face was a prayer he’d waited years to speak.

His hands slid up your sides, careful, steady, anchoring you to him. His breath was warm against your cheek.

And when he was finally there— face inches from yours, eyes dark and wide and impossibly soft— he didn’t lean in right away.

He just looked at you.

Really looked.

Like he was trying to map every new line of the person he already knew.

“Still okay?” he whispered.

You nodded. Swallowed. “Yeah. Still okay.”

And then—finally—he kissed you.

Not a brush. Not a test. A real kiss.

Full. Deep. Slow.

Like he wanted to make sure you felt every second of it. Like he was making up for every moment he hadn’t been allowed to before.

You gasped softly, and he caught it. Turned it into a sigh against your lips.

Your hands slid up his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer like your body had already decided this was it.

He tilted his head. Kissed you deeper.

Mouth open, tongue soft at first, then firmer, tasting the want on your lips like it was something sacred.

And it was.

Because it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was yes.

It was finally.

It was I want you, and I’ve wanted you, and I’m not going to hide it anymore.

He pulled back only slightly—just enough to catch his breath.

“You don’t know,” he murmured, forehead resting against yours, “How much I like you”

You smiled, dazed, breathless.

“Maybe I do.”

And then you kissed him again.

You didn’t remember how you ended up pressed against the kitchen wall.

You just remembered his mouth— The way it moved against yours like it was relearning something lost.

His hands— Firm on your waist, sliding under the hem of your shirt like he already knew the map of your body.

And you?

You were burning.

You were melting into him, gasping when his thumb grazed bare skin, letting your head fall back when he kissed your neck like it was holy ground.

“Fuck,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re—so warm.”

Your fingers curled in his shirt. Tugged.

“Hoseok—”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

“I’ve got you,” he said, breath ragged. “Tell me what you want.”

You swallowed. “You.”

It was barely a whisper.

But it was everything.

He nodded, like he already knew. Like he’d been waiting.

Then—gently—he pulled your hoodie off.

His. The same one you wore that morning.

And when it hit the floor, when his eyes landed on you—just your shirt and underwear, breathless, open—

He actually paused.

Like you’d knocked the air out of him.

“God,” he said softly. “You’re… so fucking beautiful.”

You reached for his shirt in return. He let you take it. His skin was warm. His muscles tense, like he was holding back from crushing you in his arms.

You weren’t rushing.

But you were aching.

Each layer of clothing peeled away like a secret finally shared. His jeans. Your shorts. The last thin things that kept you from nothing.

And then you were bare. In Yoongi’s apartment, in the middle of the afternoon, skin flushed and knees shaking.

He stepped in close.

His hands on your face.

His mouth found yours again. Slower this time. More sure.

This was real.

This was now.

You felt him—hard against your thigh. His breath hitching when your hand skimmed down his stomach.

He looked at you like he was asking again. For permission. For trust. For you.

You nodded once. “Yes.”

He exhaled—relieved. Wrecked.

And then, finally—

He touched you.

He touched you like he didn’t know where to start.

Fingers slow, tracing the slope of your waist, brushing just beneath your ribs.

His lips kissed a path back up your chest — mouth open, reverent, careful.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he murmured against your skin. “You’re not too much,” you whispered back.

He laughed softly. That nervous, wrecked kind of laugh. Then kissed your collarbone, one hand sliding lower — palm wide, fingers splayed like he wanted to hold all of you.

His thumb skimmed the inside of your thigh.

And then he stopped.

Breath caught. Forehead pressed to your shoulder.

“I should’ve taken you on a date first,” he said, voice rough. “Like—like a real one. You deserve that.”

You blinked. “Hoseok—”

“I mean it.” He kissed your shoulder. “I don’t want this to be—just heat. I want—”

You cupped his jaw. Pulled his face up to yours.

And you said it, clear, low, hungry:

“Shut up.”

His eyes widened. You smiled.

“I want this. Now. Not after dinner. Not after you hold my hand in some overpriced restaurant. I want you. Here.”

He didn’t need more.

He didn’t ask again.

He just kissed you — hard this time. Deep. And let his hand slide down between your thighs.

You gasped, back arching.

He touched you like you were something fragile, but his fingers were sure, steady.

“You’re wet,” he whispered. Like it surprised him. Like it ruined him.

“For you,” you said, barely breathing.

He exhaled sharply, then knelt again.

And then his mouth— God, his mouth— pressed to your inner thigh, moving up, slow, until—

You moaned, hand fisting in his hair.

His tongue was gentle at first. Testing. Tasting.

Then firmer.

And when your hips rolled forward, desperate for more, he groaned against you like he’d never wanted anything more in his life.

“Fuck,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’ve dreamed of this.”

You were already shaking.

And when he added fingers to the heat of his mouth — curling slow, deep — you cried out, nearly folding.

He rose again when you were close, mouth slick, eyes dark with something that looked like worship.

“I want to be inside you when you come.”

You nodded, breathless.

He paused — even then — hand cradling your cheek.

“You sure?”

You answered by reaching down and guiding him in, gasping when he filled you.

And it wasn’t just good.

It was home.

He buried his face in your neck. You wrapped your legs around his waist.

The thrusts started slow.

Measured.

He held your hips, grounding himself in the rhythm of your body.

You held his back, grounding yourself in him.

It was sweet. It was fire. It was finally.

He whispered your name like it hurt.

You said his like it healed.

And when you came — shaking, crying, burning — he kissed you through it, holding you close like you were the only thing that had ever made sense.

He came moments later, breath punched out of him, forehead pressed to yours.

And when it was over, when the room was quiet again, when both of you were shaking with the weight of it—

He kissed your hand.

And said:

“I’m still taking you on that date.”

You laughed.

And kissed him back.

The silence after wasn’t awkward.

It was warm.

Heavy.

Your body hummed. Your legs trembled just a little. But your chest— Your chest felt like it was finally letting go of something it had clutched too long.

You lay there, tangled together on the makeshift bed you’d made out of Yoongi’s couch cushions and your own limbs.

Hoseok’s breath was still brushing your collarbone, slow and steady. One arm wrapped around your waist, hand splayed wide, like he didn’t quite believe you were real yet.

“Okay?” he whispered eventually.

You turned your head, looked at him.

His hair was a mess. His lips were swollen. His eyes were so soft it nearly broke you.

“I’m better than okay.”

He smiled. Not his usual grin—smaller. Quieter. Like it was just for you.

“Good. Because if you said anything less, I’d start panicking and dramatically apologize for ruining your life.”

You laughed, sore and full of something too close to joy.

“Give it a day,” you teased. “Maybe I’ll change my mind.”

He groaned, burying his face in your neck. “Don’t do this to me.”

You felt the heat rise again under your skin, but not from lust this time.

From knowing.

That this was him. The boy who used to steal your snacks and sleep on your brother’s floor. The man who touched you like the ground might disappear if he let go.

You let your fingers trace slow circles on his back.

“Still taking me on that date?” you asked, half-murmured.

He looked up. Eyes steady.

“Absolutely.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Even after I jumped you on your knees in your best friend’s kitchen?”

“Especially after that,” he said, grinning now.

Then his expression softened again, deep in the quiet.

“I meant it, you know. I don’t want this to be just once.”

You nodded. “Me neither.”

Silence again.

But it wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

He shifted closer, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“I’ll help you put the couch back together,” he muttered sleepily.

“You better,” you whispered.

But neither of you moved.

Because right now?

This was enough.

Just him. Just you. Just the long exhale of something finally beginning.

He walked into the apartment with one thing on his mind: food and sleep.

The night shift had dragged. Every hallway too bright, every patient too loud. He hadn’t eaten since 1 a.m. and even that had been instant coffee and a sad excuse for a granola bar.

All he wanted was to collapse on the couch—

Except—

They were laughing.

He paused just inside the door, brow furrowed.

You and Hoseok. In the living room. Cushions slightly out of place. Your hair a little messy. Hoseok in one of his hoodies.

And the way you were sitting?

Too close.

The kind of close that people only sit after they’ve done some very not-platonic things together.

He narrowed his eyes.

“Please,” Yoongi said, dropping his keys on the counter, “tell me you didn’t fuck on my couch.”

Silence.

You looked up at him. Hoseok froze mid-chew, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth.

You opened your mouth to lie—he could see it forming already.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t even try.”

You closed your mouth.

Hoseok muttered something like “We… didn’t,” which sounded suspiciously like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

Yoongi groaned and grabbed the milk carton out of the fridge like it could cleanse his memory.

“Jesus. I was gone for one shift.”

You and Hoseok looked at each other. Grinned.

“Your couch is fine,” you said.

“That’s what you think,” Yoongi muttered.

They were building the couch back properly now—well, he was building it. You’d been banished to your room because Yoongi couldn’t “handle your smug post-sex glow.”

Hoseok laughed, stacking the cushions, awkwardly quiet.

And then Yoongi spoke without looking up:

“I love you, man.”

Hoseok blinked. “Uh. Okay.”

“I do,” Yoongi said casually, slipping the blanket over the backrest. “You’re one of my oldest friends. You’ve seen me cry. I’ve helped you move. We’ve shared food, fought people together, almost died in a river that one time.”

“Yeah…?”

Yoongi finally turned, expression flat.

“If you hurt my sister, I will end your fucking life.”

Hoseok went still.

Yoongi smiled. Almost sweet.

“No talk. No warning. Just one day—you disappear.”

Hoseok opened his mouth.

Yoongi raised a hand. “Don’t even joke.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Hoseok said quickly. “I wouldn’t. I’m not—this isn’t a fling.”

Yoongi watched him. Sharp. Silent. Then he nodded once.

“Good.”

Beat.

“Still hate that it was my couch, though.”

Hoseok took you on a date.

You didn’t know what you were expecting.

Maybe something chaotic. Maybe something undone.

But Hoseok?

He showed up right on time.

Pressed, clean, and holding flowers like it was 1999 and nerves still meant something.

And you?

You were in that dress Yeji once called your “this could be love” dress.

So it made sense, in some ridiculous, perfect way, that when he saw you, he stopped.

“Wow,” he said.

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks were already warm. “You too.”

The restaurant wasn’t loud. It was tucked away, soft lighting, the smell of garlic and rosemary drifting through the air. You’d mentioned it once—months ago—something about the fairy lights and the strange lavender soda you loved.

And he’d remembered.

He pulled your chair out like a gentleman and smiled when you noticed.

“Trying to impress me?” you teased.

“Trying to do it right.”

And he was.

The food was good—rich pastas, red wine, that soda you thought they discontinued but somehow was still there.

But the best part?

The quiet.

The way conversation slipped easy between you. The way he let you ramble about your project at work, and actually asked follow-up questions. The way he talked about burnout, and time, and how dance wasn’t always joy, sometimes it was just discipline and pain, but he still needed it like air.

There were pauses—but never awkward.

You talked about your family. He told you about his mom’s obsession with expensive apples. You laughed so hard at one point you snorted wine, and he looked at you like you’d just solved gravity.

It was safe.

It was simple.

It was everything it needed to be.

By the time you stepped outside again, the fairy lights were on. The night was warm, the breeze light. You didn’t rush.

He walked beside you, one hand at your back like he couldn’t help it.

“I really liked this,” you said softly.

He looked at you, that quiet little smile on his lips.

“I did too.”

Then, a beat later, almost like he couldn’t stop himself:

“I think I’m in trouble with you.”

You looked up. “Why?”

“Because I keep wanting more.”

Your heart tugged.

And all you could say was:

“Then take more.”

He didn’t kiss you right away.

He just took your hand.

The restaurant was behind you now—nothing but warm glows and the trace of lavender soda on your tongue.

You were holding his hand.

You weren’t thinking too hard about it.

It felt... natural. Easy. Like you’d been doing this all along, and just hadn’t noticed until now.

The city buzzed quietly around you—late-night shops, streetlights blinking into their final hours.

He glanced at you every few steps. Not like he was nervous. Just like he liked seeing you there. Next to him.

“Is this okay?” he asked at one point, voice low.

You squeezed his fingers. “It’s perfect.”

His building wasn’t far.

And when you reached the front doors, he unlocked them with a soft sigh, like maybe he’d been holding something in the whole walk back.

The elevator was quiet. Your hands still linked. The air between you thick with something soft and unspoken.

When you stepped into his apartment, it smelled like cedar and soap. Simple. Warm. Him.

He dropped his keys, turned to look at you. You kicked your shoes off, tucked your hair behind your ear.

Neither of you said anything for a second.

It wasn’t awkward.

It was just...

New.

“Do you want water? Tea?” he asked finally.

You shook your head. Smiled. “Just you.”

He didn’t kiss you right away.

He just stepped forward—hands on your waist, breath steady, eyes searching yours like he didn’t want to miss this version of you.

The you that had just told him he could have more.

The you that wanted to give it.

And then, slow—tender like a promise—he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not wild.

Just real.

And when he pulled back, you stayed in his space. Rested your forehead to his. Breathed in the comfort of his skin.

“I like it here,” you whispered.

“In my apartment?”

“In you.”

He exhaled a laugh—quiet, wrecked, happy.

“Stay,” he said. “Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever.”

And you knew he didn’t mean just the night.

You nodded. “Okay.”

And just like that— With one soft kiss and a quiet room— You belonged.

It was cute, really.

He took you to three different dates and each of them were amazing Sweet. Real. Thoughtful.

But that wasn’t exactly what you wanted for the end of the night. At least not tonight.

So, naturally, you did what any woman with access to Wi-Fi and no shame would do:

You asked your friends how to absolutely ruin him.

Yeji responded in .02 seconds:

"That dress. The wine-colored one. Short, silky, low back. Wear that. He’s going to malfunction."

"Also — cute lingerie. Not slutty. Cute. Flirty. Like, 'oops you weren't supposed to see this but you definitely were' cute."

"That makes Namjoon—"

“STOP,” Jungkook interrupted, voice horrified on the call. “Do NOT finish that sentence.”

“Jungkook,” you said sweetly, “what would you like if you were a man who liked a woman?”

“I am a man who dates women,” he replied, offended. “This is harassment.”

“You’re like my brother.”

“Exactly. This is emotional incest.”

“Just help me out!”

He groaned. “Lingerie can help, sure. But honestly? If he wants you, he wants you. That’s it. Nothing you wear changes that.”

Yeji chimed back in with zero mercy:

“But a black lace set and a slip dress doesn’t hurt. 😏”

You smiled.

You might’ve blushed.

And you absolutely bought the lingerie for later.

The moment Hoseok opened the door and saw you in that dress— He paused.

Not like a guy who was surprised.

But like someone who just got hit in the face with a dream he didn’t know he was allowed to have.

His hand found your waist before a word left his mouth.

You tilted your head. “Hi. Welcome home”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

And then— Low. Wrecked. Close to breaking:

“Fuck me.”

You smiled.

Mission: Begin.

You weren’t rushing it.

That was the best part.

You didn’t need to.

Because the second the door closed behind you, Hoseok had already kissed you like he forgot how the world worked.

And the dress— The wine-colored silk that Yeji swore would ruin a man?

It worked.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just looked at you.

Hands on your waist. Eyes impossibly dark. Like you’d stepped out of some fever dream he’d had at sixteen and never fully recovered from.

“You’re so—” he started. Then stopped. Swallowed.

Then he said, reverent:

“I don’t think I can be chill tonight.”

You smirked. “Then don’t.”

You wanted this.

You’d planned for this.

The dress. The lace. The innocent little look in your eyes when you stepped into his space like you weren’t a walking, breathing trap.

You knew what you were doing.

But you also knew this:

He wasn’t sweet. Not when he really wanted something.

And right now?

He wanted you.

You kissed him like you were starving.

Pulled at his shirt like it had offended you personally.

He walked the two of you backward, heading for the bedroom—hands tight on your hips, mouth wrecking yours.

“You look so pretty,” he muttered between kisses.

“So fucking pretty I’d feel bad…”

Then he stopped. Smirked against your lips.

“If I didn’t know—”

You pulled back, breathless. “Didn’t know what?”

His eyes dropped to the lace at your chest.

Then— He tore it.

One swift, brutal movement.

Straps snapped. Fabric shredded.

You gasped. “Hoseok—!”

“Oh, baby,” he growled, gripping your jaw just rough enough to make your stomach drop. “You wanna play?”

His voice was right at your ear.

Low. Dangerous. A growl soaked in want.

“So how do you like it, babe?”

You couldn’t answer.

You were too distracted— His hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open like he had every right. His mouth hungrily dragging up your neck, biting just shy of bruising. His fingers slipping between your legs with maddening pressure.

“Mmm,” he chuckled when you gasped. “Big girl without words?”

His hand moved faster.

Not rough—yet— But enough to make your spine arch and your breath stutter.

“Like it messy?” he murmured, kissing below your ear.

You whimpered.

“Yeah,” he said darkly, “you like it messy. We already did sweet, right?”

His other hand gripped your chin, tilted your head back so you had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Maybe you like it rough. Hard. Fast.”

His lips brushed yours, but he didn’t kiss you. Just let the threat of it burn.

You swallowed hard.

He smiled. Wrecked. Wolfish.

“Say it,” he whispered. “Tell me what you want.”

You couldn’t breathe right.

His fingers were still moving, relentless between your thighs— Too good. Too much. Your body was heat and ache and need, and his voice? His voice was killing you.

“Say it,” he murmured again. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

Your lips parted.

But your voice— God, your voice didn’t feel like yours.

It came out wrecked, hoarse, pulled from the center of you:

“Rough.”

His breath hitched.

You saw it. Felt it.

And you didn’t stop.

“Messy,” you whispered, trembling. “I want it messy.”

His hand gripped tighter. His jaw clenched. And when he finally met your eyes again, there was nothing gentle left.

Only hunger.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You like it rough?”

You nodded, helpless.

“I like—” You swallowed. “I like you to make me feel it. When it’s—fast, hard, god—”

He kissed you.

No warning. No softness.

Just teeth, tongue, claiming.

And then he flipped you—face down, ass up, breath knocked from your lungs—his hand sliding under your stomach to arch your back just right.

“You want messy?” he said, breath ragged, cock pressed to your thigh.

“You’re gonna get messy.”

“Don’t play innocent,” he murmured, voice pressed right against your skin.

Your back arched instinctively.

He had you on your knees, bent just enough for your palms to sink into the bed. The air in the room was too warm now, heavy with breath, with heat, with the burn of everything that had been simmering for far too long.

You shivered when his hands ran down your back.

Slow. Possessive. Learning the shape of you all over again.

His voice dropped lower, just above your ear.

“You want it fully, babe?” “Messy? Rough?”

His palm smoothed over your hip, thumb dragging across the dip of your spine.

“I’ll give you both.”

Your breath caught.

And then his fingers— Light. Barely touching—slid between your legs again. Slow. Measured. Like he was tasting the want.

“You love being worshipped,” he said, not asking. Just… knowing. “Sweet little thing like you…”

You whimpered—barely.

But he heard it. Smirked into your neck.

“Tell me,” he whispered. “Has anyone ever made you feel like this?”

His hand moved again—teasing, circling, cruel in its restraint.

“Has anyone ever made you feel like your body’s the only thing in the world that matters?”

You were shaking.

He kissed your shoulder. Bit your skin, gentle and then not.

“Ever felt it like you’re about to with me?”

Then—his hand tightened in your hair. Not enough to hurt, just enough to own it.

He pulled. Just slightly. Made you tilt your head back so he could look down at your face.

“You don’t have to answer,” he said, voice low and velvet-rich. “I already know.”

You didn’t realize how still you were—until he wasn’t.

Until that hand in your hair tilted your face higher— Until his fingers slid inside you with purpose, not gentle anymore, not cruel, but full. Intentional. Like he’d been patient long enough.

Your moan wasn’t quiet.

And that only made him smirk, low and proud and wrecked.

He pressed his mouth to the corner of your jaw.

“You’re so wet,” he breathed, the words almost reverent.

“You’ve been like this since dinner, haven’t you?”

You nodded, dizzy.

He clicked his tongue softly.

“Mmm. Poor thing.”

His fingers didn’t stop. Each movement was firm, slow, curling just right—like he was learning you with every pulse of his hand.

“Sweet thing,” he murmured, voice thick with heat, lips grazing your ear. “You said messy and rough, didn’t you?”

You couldn’t speak. Your breath was shallow, brain cotton-soft and hazy.

You nodded—barely.

But he stopped. His fingers stilled.

And he waited.

“Mmm... no, baby,” he whispered, tone dark, sweet. “I need words.”

You swallowed hard.

“Yes,” you breathed. “I said it.”

His smile curved slow, low. Almost tender.

“Smart girl,” he praised. “Then let’s do it right.”

He pressed a soft kiss behind your ear. “Should we have a safe word?”

You blinked, dazed, touched by the question.

You whispered, “Red.”

He hummed. Approved. “Smart girl,” he said again, and this time it made your spine curve.

“Okay.” His fingers curled into your hair, tugging gently until your head tipped back. A makeshift ponytail, firm but not harsh—just enough to make you feel it.

“Let’s play, then.”

He kissed you once, hot and deep.

Then pulled back—voice a murmur against your mouth.

“Spread your legs.”

You did, trembling.

He sat back for a second, just to look at you. Eyes slow. Hungry.

“Mmm,” he sighed. “That’s it. I knew you could, sweet girl. I knew you could.”

He leaned down again, hand between your thighs, warmth pooling where his palm hovered.

“Were you teased enough?” Another brush, maddening, not quite enough.

You whined. Shook your head.

“You feel that ache?” he asked, voice thick. “You feel it?”

You nodded, breathless.

“Good,” he said softly, pressing his lips to your throat.

#hoseok smut #hoseok x reader #bts smut #jhope #hoseok #hobi #bts jhope #bts hobi #jung hoseok #bts #jung hoseok smut #namjoon smut #yoongi smut #jin smut #jungkook smut #taehyung smut

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hobi-side · 19 days ago

Text

Stars We Never Caught 2.0 | jhs

— word count: 13.6k for this part—this is a long one shot like around 60k for the full thing and the tumblr editor hates me so we'll have like 4 parts of this

part one | part three | part four

You sat across from him at Yoongi’s small kitchen table, a takeout box of cooling rice and stir-fried vegetables between you, the scent of cheap coffee still lingering faintly in the air.

Yeji had muttered something about a headache and dragged herself back to the living room, leaving you and Hoseok alone — an awkward, stretching silence growing roots in her absence.

Of course she did.

The early afternoon sun slanted through the windows, cutting sharp gold lines across the floor. It was almost two. Almost the time Yoongi said he’d be home. Almost the time you could stop pretending this wasn’t tearing you up inside.

You pushed your rice around with your chopsticks, not really eating. Hoseok leaned back in his chair, one arm slung carelessly over the backrest, fingers tapping out a slow, thoughtless rhythm against the wood.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

It wasn't angry silence. It wasn't even cold. Just... worn out. Thin around the edges, like a conversation that had been stretched too far and might tear if either of you tugged too hard.

"You cut your hair," he said finally, voice low and almost startled, like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

You glanced up, fingers twitching toward the blunt, choppy ends you'd gotten months ago — a choice you barely remembered making in the rush of goodbyes and endings.

"Yeah," you said. "Needed a change."

Hoseok nodded slightly, tapping his fingers twice more before going still.

"You look different," he added after a second. "Good different."

You smiled tightly, throat closing around the words you wanted to say.

He still didn’t know, did he? Still didn’t see the way your heart had once spun on its axis for him.

Still didn’t realize that you weren't just different — you were someone else entirely now.

You swallowed, looking down at your food again.

"You’ve been busy," you said, meaning it as an offering, a bridge.

He gave a small, tired laugh.

"Yeah. Work. Travel. Life." A shrug. Like it didn’t matter.

But it did. You could see it in the shadows under his eyes. In the way his shoulders tensed slightly when he thought you weren’t looking.

You wanted to ask him — How are you? Happy?

But you didn't.

Because you weren’t sure you wanted him to ask you the same.

You picked at a piece of beef in your rice box, heart hammering stupidly hard.

"It’s weird," you said instead, voice quieter now. "Being back."

Hoseok looked at you then — really looked — and for a moment, you saw something flicker there.

Something old. Something broken. Something that recognized the same aching places inside you.

"Yeah," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "It is."

The words sat heavy between you, like the third person in the room no one wanted to acknowledge.

You forced yourself to look up again, cheeks burning. You found him already watching you —gaze steady, unreadable.

You wondered if he was remembering, too. All those summers. All those almosts.

But he didn’t say anything else.

Neither did you.

You just sat there —two people who used to fit so easily into each other's spaces— now separated by polite conversation and the brutal, inevitable passage of time.

Outside, a horn honked distantly. The city moved on without you.

Inside, you stayed very still.

And for the first time in a long time, you wondered if maybe some things —some people— were never meant to find their way back to each other.

Not the way they were before.

Maybe not at all.

The front door clicked open around 2:15 PM, the familiar thud of Yoongi’s boots against the threshold cutting through the thick silence.

You flinched without meaning to.

Across the table, Hoseok straightened instinctively, shoulders pulling tight, his hand abandoning the lazy rhythm it had been tapping against the chair.

Yoongi’s voice carried through the apartment —tired but warm, familiar in the way home was supposed to be:

"I’m back."

You sat up a little too quickly, your chopsticks clattering awkwardly against your plate. Hoseok cleared his throat, scrubbing a hand through his hair like he was trying to shake something off.

By the time Yoongi wandered into the kitchen, shrugging off his coat, you and Hoseok were perfect strangers again — two polite friends sharing a casual lunch.

Yoongi paused in the doorway, sharp eyes flickering between you for half a second too long.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed. He always did.

But he said nothing, just tossed his keys into the little ceramic bowl by the counter and reached for the takeout bag.

"You brought lunch?" he asked Hoseok, voice light.

Hoseok smiled, quick and easy — the same smile he used when he was fourteen and trying to cover up bruises nobody was supposed to ask about.

"Yeah," he said. "Figured you’d be starving."

Yoongi grunted in appreciation, pulling out a container and shaking it absently like he was testing its weight.

You forced yourself to move, to breathe, to offer Yoongi a plate you weren’t sure you could hold steady.

They fell into conversation easily —hospital stories, mutual friends, a basketball game you hadn’t watched.

You sat there, smiling when you were supposed to, nodding when required, feeling like you were floating somewhere just outside your own body.

Hoseok laughed at something Yoongi said, head thrown back slightly, and for a second —just a second— he looked like the boy you used to know.

The boy who called you Star. The boy you loved without ever telling him.

But when he caught your gaze, something shuttered in his eyes.

You dropped your head quickly, staring hard at your rice.

Yoongi didn’t miss it.

He didn’t say anything, but you caught the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his hand stilled briefly on his fork.

It didn’t matter.

The world moved on. The conversation spun without you.

You let it.

Because some distances weren’t meant to be closed with words. Some things you just carried.

Lunch ended the way quiet storms did —with the heavy, lingering stillness of something that never fully broke but left the air changed anyway.

Yoongi stood at the sink, rinsing dishes absently, sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Hoseok helped without being asked, wiping down the table with slow, methodical movements that made your chest ache.

You hovered uselessly near the counter, pretending to scroll through your phone, pretending you weren’t counting down the seconds until Hoseok left.

The conversation had dried up —small talk thinning out, words running out.

It was time. You could feel it.

Hoseok dried his hands on a paper towel and gave Yoongi a lazy little shoulder bump on his way toward the door.

"Tell me when you’re free," he said, tossing the towel into the trash. "We’ll grab a drink or something."

Yoongi nodded, smiling —real and tired— the way he only did for the few people he actually let in.

"Yeah," he said. "Soon."

Hoseok bent down, grabbing his bag off the floor. The movement pulled his hoodie up slightly at the back, revealing the lean stretch of muscle under his shirt —and you hated yourself for noticing.

He straightened, slinging the strap over his shoulder, and turned toward you.

For a second, he just stood there. Silent. Like he was trying to find something to say and realizing, too late, that the words didn’t exist.

You smiled.

Small. Careful. The kind of smile you used when you were too close to crying and couldn’t afford to fall apart.

"Thanks for the food," you said, voice soft.

He smiled back —that stupid, beautiful smile that once could've unraveled you in a heartbeat.

"No problem, Star," he said, voice low, almost a whisper.

And it broke something in you, the way he said it like a memory, like a ghost, like something already lost.

You shifted your weight, arms crossing tightly over your chest.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you dared.

Yoongi, still rinsing a plate at the sink, glanced over —brows furrowing slightly, like he could feel the weight in the room, the things humming painfully under the surface.

"You good?" he asked Hoseok casually, but there was something sharper under the words.

Hoseok blinked, like waking from a dream, and laughed —short, hollow.

"Yeah," he said. "All good."

He wasn’t.

You weren’t.

Everyone knew it.

No one said it.

Hoseok gave a small, half-wave —then turned, pulling open the front door, the afternoon light spilling harshly into the room.

He didn’t look back.

You stood there, hand tightening painfully around your phone, breathing through the hole he left behind.

The door clicked shut.

The silence swallowed you whole.

Yoongi finished rinsing the plate, set it carefully in the rack, wiped his hands on a dish towel.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment —just watched you from across the kitchen.

"You okay?" he asked eventually, voice rough with exhaustion but gentler now.

You smiled again —the same fake smile you had given Hoseok.

"Yeah," you lied. "All good."

Yoongi didn’t press.

He just nodded, once, slow —and turned back to the sink.

You stood there, still wrapped up in the heavy quiet Hoseok left behind, wondering how it was possible for a goodbye that simple to hurt so much.

The door clicked shut behind him with a soft, final sound.

Hoseok shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie and started walking, head bowed slightly against the afternoon sun.

The streets buzzed around him —traffic, conversation, life moving in every direction, but he barely registered any of it.

There was a weird hollowness in his chest. Not exactly sadness. Not exactly regret. Just... off.

He kept walking, sneakers scuffing the pavement, moving just to move.

He couldn't shake it — the tight feeling sitting behind his ribs, the restless hum under his skin.

Seeing you again had been... strange.

Good, in a way. Relieving, maybe. You were still you. Still sharp-eyed and stubborn, still hiding a whole world behind your quiet smiles.

But it wasn’t the same.

Not really.

There was distance now, not just the kind measured in years, but the kind that filled a room even when you were only a few feet apart.

You’d smiled at him today —but it hadn’t reached your eyes.

You’d laughed, a little. But it sounded like it was for survival, not for him.

And he hated it. More than he wanted to admit.

Hoseok crossed the street without really thinking about it, shoving past a group of teenagers in matching uniforms, ignoring the way they laughed and bumped into each other with easy, reckless joy.

It used to be like that with you.

Back when everything was simpler —before life started building walls between you two without either of you noticing.

Back when your smiles came easily, and he didn’t feel like he needed a fucking map just to find his way back to you.

He kicked a pebble down the sidewalk, watching it skip ahead and roll into the gutter.

Maybe this was normal. Maybe this was just what happened when people grew up — when lives moved in different directions too many times to line up again cleanly.

But still.

Still.

There was something gnawing at him. A weight that hadn’t been there before.

He didn’t know what it was —couldn’t name it, couldn’t drag it out into the light, but it sat heavy in his stomach all the same.

A memory floated up uninvited —you at eleven, cross-legged on your living room floor, nose buried in some book, stubbornly ignoring him while he tried and failed to distract you.

Your voice bubbling up, excited, trying to explain the story to him, stumbling over words in your hurry to share something you loved.

That stupid, beautiful smile.

Star.

He jammed his hands deeper into his pockets, scowling at the sidewalk.

It didn’t mean anything. It was just nostalgia. It was just... memories.

People changed. People drifted.

It was normal.

He told himself that, over and over, until the words started to sound thin in his head.

But even as he turned down a familiar street, even as he slipped into the shadows between buildings, he couldn’t shake it —

the feeling that somewhere along the way, he had lost something important, and hadn’t even realized it was missing until now.

Hoseok was oblivious.

But not that oblivious.

There were things he hadn't let himself see before — things tucked in the small spaces between your smiles, your glances, your stubborn, too-big-for-your-body heart.

He remembered.

He remembered the way your face used to light up when you spotted him coming down the street with Yoongi, the way your whole body would lean in without you even realizing it.

He remembered how you used to listen to him— really listen like the stupid things he said mattered more than they ever should have.

He remembered.

He just hadn't known what to do with it.

He didn’t feel the same. Not then.

Not in the way that counted. Not in the way that could have saved you from the quiet ache that lived in your eyes sometimes when you looked at him.

He noticed. He just... didn’t touch it.

He was sixteen. He was busy chasing everything and nothing, filling every silence with noise so he didn’t have to think too hard about why he felt so restless all the time.

You were his comfort. His constant.

And he, selfishly, hadn't realized how much more you were willing to give him if he'd only asked.

He hadn't asked.

And now —standing here years later, older, heavier with life; he didn’t know how to ask anymore.

You weren’t the same girl he remembered. And he wasn’t the same boy you used to look at like he hung the stars himself.

There was a gap now. A hollow stretch of time and growing pains between you.

And it scared him —how unfamiliar you felt. How familiar the ache still was.

He didn't know you anymore. Not really.

Not this version of you —with your tired smiles and careful glances, your sadness tucked away like folded paper cranes he wasn’t allowed to touch.

And you didn’t know him either. Not this version of him —the one who had learned how to move through life by letting go of things before they could hurt him.

There was too much space between who you were and who you had become. Between who he was and who he was afraid to admit he had turned into.

He felt it, humming under his skin —this restless, aching, nameless thing.

But he didn’t know what it meant yet. Didn’t know if it was nostalgia. Didn’t know if it was guilt. Didn’t know if it was the beginning of something he wasn't ready to name.

Maybe it was all of it.

Maybe it was nothing at all.

All he knew was this:

You weren’t the girl he left behind. And he wasn’t the boy you remembered.

When Hoseok finally got home, he barely remembered how he made it there.

The key turned in the lock, the door swung open, and he dragged his suitcase behind him —a battered thing, wheels squeaking against the hardwood; the weight of it unfamiliar in his hand, forgotten somewhere in the space between the airport and the hollow ache in his chest.

He dropped it by the door with a dull thud. Kicked off his shoes without caring where they landed.

Everything felt... heavy.

Too heavy for how small today had been.

The weeks he'd spent in Singapore floated behind him like smoke; good weeks, objectively. Meetings, projects, new faces, neon-lit nights where he could pretend he wasn’t stuck, wasn’t lost.

He had relaxed there, somehow —even while working. Found little moments of peace tucked between tight schedules and hotel rooms that smelled like nothing.

But now, standing here in the familiar quiet of his apartment, Hoseok realized something he didn’t want to name:

He hadn’t brought peace back with him. Only the weight.

It sat in his chest, heavy and stupid and aching, and he didn't have the energy to fight it.

He moved on autopilot —unzipping the suitcase, pulling out clothes he barely remembered packing. Folding them. Stacking them.

Small, mindless tasks to fill the silence.

He tried to blame it on the long flight. Tried to blame it on jet lag. Tried to blame it on anything but the truth:

His heart hurt.

And he didn’t know why.

It was a small hurt. A quiet one. The kind that didn’t bleed, didn’t scream —just sat there, stubborn and dull, right beneath his ribs.

He changed into loose pajamas, soft and worn with age. Turned on the TV just for the noise. Let some random music station fill the space around him.

He stood in the middle of the living room for a second —barefoot, empty-handed, empty-hearted.

The music thrummed low from the speakers, a beat curling through the air.

Without thinking, without planning it, Hoseok let his body move.

A step. A sway. A slow, easy turn on bare feet.

The world tilted. Blurred.

He danced.

Not big movements. Not the sharp, practiced choreography.

Just small, broken things —the kind of dancing that lived in the marrow of him, the kind that had nothing to prove and nowhere to be.

He moved because it was the only thing that ever made sense. Moved because when he did, the noise in his head, the endless pressure to do more, be more, fix more quieted for a little while.

He moved until the heaviness in his chest felt manageable. Until the ache blurred at the edges.

He moved until it didn’t matter that he didn't understand why seeing you had unsettled him so badly. Until it didn’t matter that you had looked like a stranger wearing a memory.

Until it didn’t matter that part of him —the small, stupid part he usually ignored, wanted to go back.

Back to something he wasn’t even sure he ever really had.

The music shifted to another song; something slower, heavier and Hoseok let it pull him under, let it drown out the aching silence inside him.

For now.

You were doing better. Finally.

After weeks of sending resumes into what felt like a black hole, after countless polite rejections and agonizing waits, the email arrived.

You got an interview.

Not just any interview — a big one. A company that made your heart skip just reading the name. A company you used to dream about while scribbling half-distracted notes during late college nights.

It felt like breathing again. Like remembering who you were.

Yoongi had been thrilled when you told him, maybe even more than you were, and had tossed his car keys at you without hesitation.

"Take it," he said gruffly. "I'm not arguing about it. Drive."

But you, stubborn and stupidly optimistic —decided you didn’t need it. Google Maps said it was only a forty-minute walk from his apartment. You woke up early, dressed carefully —smart slacks, a soft blouse, a simple blazer, low heels. Professional. Sharp. Capable.

You looked good. You felt good.

Until, of course, the universe decided to laugh in your face.

Halfway into your walk, the sky cracked open —a sharp, violent spring rain —and you, without an umbrella, without even a jacket, stood there blinking in the downpour like a complete idiot.

The water soaked you almost immediately —your blouse clinging to your skin, your hair flattening messily against your scalp.

You called Yoongi first, heart pounding.

Straight to voicemail.

You cursed, spun in a frantic circle —realizing you were already too far from the apartment to turn back, and way too late to go hunting for his car keys now.

You tried Yeji next —hands trembling a little from cold.

No answer.

Conference. You remembered too late. She had an important one this morning. No chance.

You stood there in the middle of the sidewalk, rain plastering your clothes to your body, heart hammering against your ribs.

Who else?

Jungkook was still abroad — wouldn’t be back for weeks. Your other friends had left the country.

There was no one else.

Except—

You hesitated.

You didn’t even know if Hoseok still had the same number. You hadn’t texted him. You hadn’t needed to.

But now, standing here soaked to the bone, mascara stinging your eyes, pride crumbling with every freezing drop sliding down your spine.

You swallowed hard and dialed.

The phone rang. Once. Twice.

Maybe he wouldn’t answer.

Maybe he shouldn’t.

Then —

"Hello?" His voice, low and rough with sleep, cut through the static and rain in your ears.

You almost cried in relief.

"Uh—Hoseok," you stammered, breathless. "I— I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call, but I— I need help."

A pause.

Then, sharper: "Where are you?"

You rattled off the cross streets, clenching your teeth to keep them from chattering.

"Stay there," he said immediately. "I'm coming."

The line went dead before you could even say thank you.

You stood there shivering, hugging yourself uselessly, watching the street blur under the rain.

Fifteen minutes later, a black car pulled up to the curb, headlights slicing through the downpour.

The passenger door flew open and there he was, Hoseok —looking wide awake now, hair still messy but face tight with worry.

You scrambled inside without thinking, slamming the door behind you, water dripping into the car with you.

He gawked at you for a second — taking in the drowned-cat state of you — and for a heartbeat, neither of you said anything.

Then he burst out laughing.

Real, sharp, helpless laughter —and you did too, choking out an embarrassed, half-sobbing noise as you wiped rain from your face.

"God, star," he said, shaking his head, still grinning. "You’re a disaster."

You laughed harder, feeling your face burn.

"I know," you gasped. "Please don’t remind me."

The tension that had built between you two since you first saw each other again — that heavy, sticky awkwardness — cracked wide open in that stupid moment.

For a second — just a second — it felt like it used to. Easy. Careless. Home.

But then — as you both settled into the car, as the laughter faded into a quieter, softer silence — you became painfully, sharply aware:

You weren’t kids anymore.

You were soaked, dripping onto his passenger seat, shivering and messy — but Hoseok was still looking at you, and you were still looking at him.

And both of you, for the first time in years— noticed.

The way his jaw tightened as he flicked his eyes over you, lingering just a second too long at the curve of your waist, the line of your throat exposed by the ruined blouse. The way your pulse jumped at how good he looked — clean lines, warm skin, strong hands wrapped around the steering wheel like he could anchor the whole damn world.

The air crackled, electric and fragile.

Hoseok cleared his throat, turning the heat on higher.

"Let’s get you home," he said, voice quieter, rougher.

You nodded, swallowing the ache rising in your throat.

The second the door shut behind you, you bolted into the living room.

Your shoes squelched miserably against the floor, your clothes clinging cold and heavy to your skin, your hair dripping rainwater onto Yoongi’s couch.

You had no time.

You were going to be late. You had to change, had to dry off, had to move.

Panic made your hands clumsy as you tugged at the buttons of your blouse — wet fabric sticking to your skin, refusing to cooperate.

You cursed under your breath, teeth chattering, shoving at the fabric, and then, without thinking, without hesitating:

You yanked the blouse off over your head. Right there. In the middle of the living room.

It wasn't graceful. It wasn't pretty.

It was desperate, frantic, just trying to get out of the wetness, trying to breathe again.

You stood there for a second, chest heaving, arms tangled awkwardly with the ruined blouse —bare skin gleaming under the thin straps of your soaked bra— heart hammering against your ribs.

And then —you realized.

You weren’t alone.

Hoseok froze by the door —completely, utterly still— his keys dangling forgotten from his hand.

His mouth parted slightly —his eyes darkening, burning a path across your bare skin faster than either of you could stop.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t careful.

It was a gut-punch.

The heat between you snapped tight; so sudden, so heavy it made the air shudder.

You stared at him, your body still trembling, soaked to the bone, half-stripped, and Hoseok:

God, Hoseok looked like he wanted to look away. But couldn't

A beat. A breath.

The world tilted dangerously sideways.

And then —Reality crashed back in.

The clock on the wall ticked louder than it should have. The urgency slammed back into your brain.

Interview.

You yanked your blouse back down in a blind panic, face burning, hands fumbling to cover yourself again.

"I— I'm sorry," you gasped, nearly tripping over yourself as you backed toward the hallway. "I— I wasn't thinking— shit—"

Hoseok finally jerked back into motion, clearing his throat sharply, shoving his hands deep into his pockets like he didn’t trust himself not to reach for you.

"No," he said, voice rough and too fast. "It’s fine. It’s— You’re fine. We just—" He cut himself off, shaking his head like he could clear it.

"You need to go," he said, steadier now, like he was anchoring both of you by sheer force of will. "I’ll drive. Grab what you need."

You nodded; too fast, too hard— and bolted down the hall toward your room, your heart pounding in your ears, your skin still tingling where his gaze had touched you.

Behind you, Hoseok stood in the living room, fists clenched at his sides, staring at the place where you had stood. Where you had practically burned him alive without even trying.

The drive was quiet.

You sat stiffly in the passenger seat, newly changed, hair still damp at the ends, fingers fiddling nervously with the strap of your bag. Hoseok gripped the wheel like it was the only thing keeping him steady, jaw clenched, gaze fixed on the road ahead.

Neither of you spoke.

You swallowed, throat tight, focusing on your breathing.

Interview. Focus. Interview.

Not on the way his forearms flexed when he turned the wheel. Not on the way his profile looked devastatingly good in the soft light bleeding through the windshield.

You risked a glance at him from the corner of your eye — just a quick one — and found him already doing the same.

Your eyes met. A jolt, a spark.

You both looked away instantly, cheeks burning.

The tension buzzed harder, crackling in the quiet.

But then, just when you thought you couldn’t take another second of it:

Hoseok broke it.

He exhaled, low and slow, and a small, wry smile curved at the corner of his mouth.

"You’re gonna kill it, you know," he said, voice rough but warmer now— steady in a way that made your chest ache.

You blinked, thrown off.

He flicked his eyes toward you again, softer this time. No teasing. No smirking. Just real.

"You’re gonna go in there," he said, a little more sure now, "and they won’t even know what hit ‘em."

You laughed — surprised and shaky and real — feeling the nerves in your chest loosen, just a little.

Hoseok smiled wider at the sound; the real kind, the kind that made the tightness between your ribs ease.

"Get 'em, Star," he added, quieter, almost like a secret.

Something stupid and warm cracked open inside you.

You hadn’t realized how much you missed this. Being seen like that. Believed in like that.

Not because you asked for it. Not because you earned it.

Just because.

You swallowed hard, biting back the sudden sting behind your eyes.

"Thanks, Hobi," you said, voice small but sure.

He chuckled softly —that soft, low laugh you remembered from a lifetime ago.

"No need to thank me," he said. "You’ve always had it in you."

The light turned green.

The car rolled forward.

The interview went better than you could have dreamed.

You answered every question without stumbling, your voice steady even when your palms were sweating. The panel smiled — real, impressed smiles — and when they shook your hand at the end, you caught a glimpse of something in their eyes that looked suspiciously like approval.

You weren’t arrogant enough to say you had it in the bag. But for the first time in a long time, you believed in yourself enough to say:

You did good. Really good.

You walked out of the building feeling lighter than you had in months—the sun warm against your skin, the world spinning just a little slower, a little kinder.

And your first thought —stupidly, instinctively— was that you needed to tell someone.

Not just anyone.

Hoseok.

You pulled out your phone before you could overthink it —thumb hovering for a second over his name in your contacts. It felt weird. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

It had been so long since you last texted him like this —casual, natural, like no time had passed at all.

Your heart thudded unsteadily as you typed:

Hey, it finished. I think I did well...

You stared at it for a second, chewing your lip.

Too formal? Too awkward?

You added quickly:

Huh, wanna grab dinner later maybe? it's on me... I owe you. Big time.

You hit send before you could chicken out.

The second the message left, your stomach twisted —a familiar, stupid nervousness you hadn’t felt in years.

The little typing dots appeared almost immediately.

Your breath caught.

And for a second —standing there with your phone warm in your hand, the city bustling around you— it felt like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t standing so far apart anymore.

You shoved your phone deep into your bag after sending the text. Out of sight, out of mind.

You had enough adrenaline still buzzing through you from the interview to keep you moving —enough hope cautiously flickering in your chest to make the wait bearable.

At least for the first five minutes.

But then five minutes turned into six. Into eight.

You found yourself checking your phone more than you wanted to admit —biting the inside of your cheek, pretending you weren’t holding your breath.

Maybe he was busy. Maybe he forgot.

Maybe you were reading too much into everything.

Again.

But just as the doubts started coiling sharp and anxious under your skin—your screen lit up.

Hoseok.

Your heart jumped.

You unlocked your phone so fast you almost dropped it.

His text was simple. Easy.

Sounds good, Star. Tell me where. ;)

You stared at it for a second, at the little winking emoji he threw in without thinking.

He said yes.

Not out of obligation. Not out of guilt.

Because he wanted to.

You smiled —small, real— and quickly typed back:

7PM? I’ll pick somewhere close.

The dots popped up again almost immediately.

Sure, star.

Short. Simple. But it hit harder than it should have.

You locked your phone again, tucking it into your pocket like it was something precious.

Monday was supposed to be busy.

Originally, Hoseok had been scheduled for an early department meeting— one of those endless briefings that could have been an email, but everyone was required to sit through anyway.

But sometime late Sunday night, his boss had texted: Meeting postponed. Come in after lunch instead.

It wasn’t a big deal. It happened sometimes.

Still, it left him drifting —a whole extra morning dropped unexpectedly into his hands.

And that’s why, when you called —wet, breathless, panicked— he had been home. Available. Able to grab his keys and find you before the rain could wash you away completely.

At the time, it didn’t even feel like a choice. It was instinct.

You called. He came.

But now —sitting behind the wheel, heart hammering too hard, skin still hot under his clothes— he almost wished he hadn’t.

Because now he couldn’t get the image out of his head.

You —shivering, frantic, dragging soaked fabric off your skin without even thinking about it— standing there, bare and breathless in the soft light of Yoongi’s living room.

It wasn’t meant for him.

It wasn’t anything but practicality —a girl rushing against time, not a woman trying to drive him insane.

And yet.

His body reacted anyway.

He shifted uncomfortably in the seat, feeling the stiffness of his jeans biting into his thighs, the uncomfortable tightness coiling lower in his gut.

His whole body was lit up with it — the memory, the flash of skin, the sheer physicality of the moment.

He hated how sharp it made him feel. How helpless.

It wasn’t just the sight of you.

It was the feeling that hit after —the bone-deep awareness that you weren’t the same anymore. That you had become someone capable of wrecking him with a single, unintentional glance.

He gritted his teeth, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel until the leather creaked.

He was supposed to be your friend. A familiar face. Someone steady you could lean on.

Not this —this wreckage of a man, breathing too hard, blinking too much, feeling the echo of your body pressed behind his eyelids.

He slammed a lid down on it fast, dragging in a slow, punishing breath.

It didn’t matter.

It couldn’t matter.

You weren’t his. You... not like that You never had been.

Still, he couldn’t deny it now.

Something had shifted inside him. Tilted the floor under his feet.

And no matter how tightly he wrapped himself in professionalism, no matter how carefully he steeled himself for the rest of the day — it wasn’t going away.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

You sat near the window in a quiet booth, arms resting loosely on the edge of the table. The restaurant was calm in that late-evening way —low voices murmuring over half-finished plates, soft jazz slipping through the speakers like it belonged there.

You wore a soft blue skirt, the hem brushing gently against your ankles, paired with a fitted white knit top —simple and clean, the kind of thing you reached for when you wanted to feel quietly steady. Your cardigan hung loosely around your shoulders, sleeves pulled over your palms out of habit.

It wasn’t a statement. It was comfort. It was... you.

You checked your phone again, where Hoseok’s last message blinked softly on the screen.

Running a little late. Sorry! Be there soon.

You weren’t mad.

You just felt… aware.

That he was coming. That you would see him again —not in passing, not in a rush— but really see him. Sit across from him, talk like there was time, like it wasn’t too late to still matter to one another.

Part of you had missed him in a way you hadn’t let yourself say out loud. Not just the sound of his laugh or the way he used to tease you when he noticed your bad habits. Not just the past.

You missed the version of yourself that came out when he was around. The one who felt understood without having to explain. The one who didn’t have to pretend to have everything figured out.

Lately, that version felt far away.

You didn’t say it often —not to anyone— but turning twenty-five wasn’t as clean and triumphant as you’d expected. It felt… strange. Like you should’ve arrived somewhere by now, but instead, you were stuck in some in-between. Too grown to be lost, but too unsure to feel settled.

You wondered if Hoseok felt the same. If maybe —just maybe— that was what tonight could be about.

Not catching up on jobs and cities and years. But sitting down in the mess with someone who didn’t need the polished version of you to care.

The thought made your chest tighten a little.

Outside the window, you caught the shape of someone crossing the street —tall, broad-shouldered, familiar in a way that made your breath catch.

He was here.

You tugged your sleeves once, grounding yourself.

Whatever tonight ended up being —you knew one thing already:

You were glad it was with him.

He jogged across the street, tugging his coat tighter around himself as the wind picked up, the city air biting a little sharper than it had earlier.

He was late.

Not by much; ten minutes, maybe twelve —but still. It nagged at him.

His meeting at the office had run over, and then someone had stopped him in the hallway with a question he couldn’t dodge. Just one thing after another. And now here he was, rushing across the street, shoes damp from a shallow puddle he didn’t see coming.

His phone buzzed in his pocket —probably a “no worries” text from you—but he didn’t stop to check it.

He was already there. Already searching the restaurant window for your face.

And then — he saw you.

Tucked into the corner booth, cardigan draped over your shoulders, hair pulled back loosely, skirt gathered in gentle folds around your seat. You weren’t on your phone. You were just… waiting. Still. Present.

And it did something to him —knocked the breath out of his lungs without ceremony.

You looked... like yourself. Like someone he didn’t realize he’d missed until now. Like something familiar in a life that had started to feel increasingly distant from itself.

Not flashy. Just you.

The version that had always made sense to him.

He stood there a second longer than he should have. Caught in the stillness of it.

Then he shook it off, exhaled quietly, and pushed the door open.

The bell above the restaurant door chimed softly.

You looked up.

Your eyes met his.

And something unspoken passed between you, not dramatic, not overwhelming. Just solid. Steady.

Like you still mattered to each other.

He walked to the table and slid into the seat across from you, his body finally beginning to catch up with his heartbeat.

"Hey," he said, breath catching just slightly at the end. "Sorry. Work ran a little late. One of those days."

Your smile —soft, familiar, a little crooked— met him halfway.

"It's okay," you said. "I figured."

And just like that — the day eased.

The menus stayed on the table, but neither of you had touched them in a while. The food had come, and you both picked at it between sentences, but really— this wasn’t about eating.

You sat across from each other, bodies relaxed in a way that didn’t match the last few weeks. There was something about the stillness of the restaurant, the soft murmur of conversations around you, the flicker of warm light reflecting off the glass between you— that made the moment feel suspended. Like the world had pressed pause for a second.

"So," Hoseok said, picking up his glass and letting the condensation roll between his fingers, “how’s being a responsible adult treating you?”

You let out a quiet laugh. "It’s not."

His smile bloomed, eyes crinkling in a way that made your chest loosen. But he didn’t say anything. He waited.

You took a breath. "It’s just been weird. I thought I’d graduate and everything would… fall into place, I guess. That I'd suddenly feel like I’d arrived. But instead, I feel like I’m just floating. Like I missed a step somewhere."

Hoseok nodded, eyes on the table, thumb slowly circling the rim of his glass.

"Yeah," he said. "I get that."

There was something in his voice that made you pause. Not heavy, just real.

"I have this job, right? And I’m supposed to be grateful. Stable income, decent hours, coworkers who are fine. But it feels like I’m acting half the time." He looked up at you. “Like I’m playing the role of someone who’s got it together. I go home and I’m just… empty.”

Your chest tightened. Because yes. Yes.

"Same," you said softly. "Like I’m trying so hard to do the things I’m supposed to want. And most days, I don’t even know if I want them for me, or just because I don’t want to fall behind."

Hoseok huffed a quiet laugh. “Exactly.”

The silence that settled between you wasn’t awkward. It was safe. Like you were both letting the weight of your unspoken exhaustion rest on the table for a second.

You tilted your head slightly. “Do you still dance?”

His smile returned, faint but real. “Yeah,” he said immediately. “Always.”

And there was something comforting in that. That some things hadn't changed.

“But,” he added, running a hand through his hair, “I haven’t had much time for it lately. Work’s been nonstop. Meetings, people, pressure. I still go to the studio sometimes—late, when no one’s around. But it’s not the same.”

You nodded slowly. “It’s hard when the thing that makes you feel like you becomes the first thing you cut to survive the rest.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, soft and a little surprised. “Yeah,” he said. “Exactly.”

No one said anything for a few seconds.

You each took a bite. The food was decent, but neither of you were really paying attention to it.

“I keep thinking I should feel more proud,” you said. “Of finishing school. Of coming back. Of even landing that interview. But it’s like… I’m always two steps behind the version of myself I thought I’d be by now.”

Hoseok leaned back in his seat slightly, eyes still on you. “I feel that every day,” he said.

That was it. No lectures. No sugarcoating.

Just the truth.

And maybe that’s what made you exhale— the simple, steady reminder that you weren’t imagining it. That being young and tired and unsure wasn’t a failure. It was just where you were. Where he was, too.

When the conversation drifted into easier territory— old memories, Yoongi’s increasingly dramatic text messages, that time Jungkook tried to make instant noodles and almost started a fire— you both laughed in that full-body way that made your ribs ache a little.

It was like muscle memory.

Like your bodies remembered how to laugh together, even if your lives had taken the long way back to this table.

By the time the plates were cleared and the night began to stretch long and soft around you, you felt… better.

Not fixed. Not resolved. But steadier.

More like yourself.

And as Hoseok pulled his coat back on and walked beside you toward the door, something in the quiet felt like home.

The city air was cooler now. The sidewalk glistened faintly from earlier drizzle, reflecting streetlights in soft yellow streaks.

Hoseok walked beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, not speaking much—but you didn’t need him to.

It was the kind of silence that didn’t feel like space between you. More like something shared.

He stayed close, your arms brushing once, then again. And neither of you pulled away.

You kept your gaze ahead, watching the lights flicker behind the café windows you passed, the shops closing for the night, the quiet lull of Seoul settling into itself.

"I forgot how good it feels to just talk," you said, voice low.

He glanced at you, and his smile was soft. "Yeah," he murmured. "Me too."

Yoongi's building wasn’t far now—just around the corner— and you found yourself wishing it were ten blocks further.

There was something about the rhythm of walking next to him that made you feel… settled. Safe.

But there was something else too.

Every now and then, you caught the edge of his cologne in the breeze—subtle, familiar, a little too comforting. Every now and then, you felt the shift of his gaze—quick and quiet—like he was checking on you. Or maybe… just looking.

You felt it. The awareness.

Not loud. Not disruptive.

Just real.

You weren’t pretending not to notice the way his voice dropped when he got serious. Or the way he held his shoulders straighter now, like he’d lived a thousand lives since you last stood this close to him. Or the way your own heartbeat stuttered slightly when his arm brushed yours again—and again, still, neither of you moved.

The tension wasn’t something either of you created. It just… existed.

Like the city lights. Like the chill in the air. Like the way time changed people when you weren’t looking.

When you reached your building, you stopped, turning slightly to face him.

"Thanks for tonight," you said, meaning more than just the dinner. "Really."

His eyes softened, and for a moment, he just looked at you.

Like he was remembering something. Or maybe memorizing something new.

"Anytime, Star," he said. Quiet. Sure.

You smiled, but your chest pulled a little tight.

He didn’t lean in. Didn’t touch you. Didn’t cross any lines.

But the pause that stretched between goodbye and turning away… it said everything.

You opened the door, stepped inside.

And even as it closed behind you, you could feel it:

He was still standing there.

And neither of you were pretending not to feel it anymore.

He waited a few seconds after the door shut behind you. Longer than necessary.

Your building buzzed faintly in the quiet, humming against the night like it had something to say. He stood there, hands still in his coat pockets, blinking at the sidewalk like the answers might be spelled out in the cracks.

And then he let out a breath and turned, starting the walk back.

It wasn’t a long way—eighteen minutes at most—but his head wouldn’t shut up.

The dinner had gone well. Better than he expected. You laughed like you used to. You listened like you always did. And for a second in the middle of it all, he’d remembered what it felt like to be known.

And that was the problem.

He hadn’t expected to feel that again. Especially not with you. Not like this.

The easy familiarity of your voice. The way you looked at him when he talked about work, about dance, about nothing at all. The way your arm kept brushing his. The way neither of you moved.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. The moment at your door—the pause that lasted just a beat too long.

There’d been something in it. Or maybe not. He didn’t know.

He felt... off. Like something inside him had shifted without asking permission.

He fished out his phone, fingers tapping before he could talk himself out of it.

hoseok

you up?

Three dots. Then a reply.

yoongi

why what happened

Hoseok snorted softly, thumbs already moving.

hoseok

calm down everything’s fine just got back from dinner with her

yoongi

her??

hoseok

you know who your sister, ______ she texted me earlier after her interview

A longer pause this time. Yoongi was typing. Then not. Then typing again.

yoongi

…okay and?

hoseok

and nothing it was just it was really good actually like we didn’t skip time kinda threw me off

yoongi

you’re being weirdly sentimental

hoseok

i know it’s annoying i’m annoying myself

Another pause. Then Yoongi sent two texts back to back.

yoongi

what happened like actually

Hoseok stared at the screen for a moment, jaw tightening. He wasn’t even sure what to say.

hoseok

nothing happened just it felt really easy like… safer than it should’ve? but also kind of fucked me up a little

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. When he finally did, it was classic Yoongi.

yoongi

you’ve always been soft about her don’t act like this is new. everyone knew.

Hoseok’s stomach dropped a little. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or recognition.

hoseok

it’s not like that it’s not. what you mean by everyone knew?

He paused. Stared at the blinking cursor.

Then deleted the last message.

hoseok

nvm just needed to get out of my own head

yoongi

yeah well good luck with that

He pocketed the phone, heart still thudding low and quiet in his chest.

He wasn’t looking for answers yet. But the questions were already starting to form.

He pocketed the phone again, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

But as he turned onto the quiet street leading to his place, his chest still felt too full. Like something had cracked open during dinner. Something that didn’t want to be ignored anymore.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

Not yet.

It was strange how quickly everything began to make sense once the job came through.

You had barely caught your breath after the final interview when the offer hit your inbox, and suddenly—your degree felt real. Useful. Worth it.

You started working within two weeks. It wasn’t perfect, and you were definitely faking confidence half the time, but it was something solid. Something yours.

The rhythm of your days changed, but they didn’t overwhelm you.

You thought, briefly, about finding your own place—making some adult, definitive move—but Yoongi, ever practical and slightly gruff, shut it down fast.

“You just started working,” he said. “Stay. Contribute a little. Save your money. Don’t be stupid.”

So you stayed. Paid your part. Did your dishes. Kept the fridge full.

And somewhere in all that normalcy, life unfolded again.

Jungkook finally landed back in Seoul, full of chaotic energy and stories from abroad. You, he, and Yeji slipped into an old rhythm like no time had passed—laughing too loud in cafés, arguing over which tteokbokki stall was still the best, sharing fries like you were seventeen again.

You didn’t realize how much you missed them until you had them back.

Yeji couldn’t shut up about a guy she’d been seeing—Namjoon, apparently, and from the way she said his name with that smile, you knew it was real. She was glowing, and you were happy for her. Like really, truly happy. She deserved someone soft and grounded, someone who looked at her the way she deserved.

And then, Hoseok...

Hoseok… well, he was just there.

Not every day. But often enough that it started to feel like routine.

He’d come over on Fridays, sometimes with takeout, sometimes empty-handed, but always with that same tired grin and that quiet ease that slipped right into your living room like it belonged there.

And then he’d stay.

Sometimes until Saturday night. More often than not — until Sunday afternoon, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, coffee in hand, half asleep at Yoongi’s kitchen counter.

He still had work, of course, but when he had time to breathe, he came here. To Yoongi’s apartment. To you.

Sometimes he called ahead. More often, he just showed up. Yoongi would open the door to find you and Hoseok already mid-laugh, curled on the couch watching some late-night broadcast that made absolutely no sense but kept you both entertained for hours.

You’d put on albums and rate every track. He’d light up over synth runs, lose his mind over chord progressions, defend trashy pop hooks like they were sacred texts. You'd argue about lyrics. About metaphors. About vibes.

And somewhere between the noise and the static — it all started to feel quietly domestic.

You hadn’t missed the looks Yoongi gave you. The way he watched Hoseok set his phone down face-up on the table without hesitation. The way he raised an eyebrow when your knees brushed under the blanket and neither of you moved.

You ignored it.

Because it was easier to lean into the comfort. Because nothing had happened. Not technically.

And because nights like last Saturday made it hard to believe you didn’t need him here.

It was after 1AM, the apartment silent except for the hum of the TV, both of you curled up on the couch like some long-running tradition you never meant to start.

You were arguing over childhood snacks.

"No, seriously," Hoseok was saying, his voice hoarse with sleep, "choco pies are good, but they’re not that good. They’re like... nostalgia sugar."

"They’re iconic," you shot back. "Your opinion is wrong."

"You’re wrong," he murmured, yawning. "But go off, queen."

You smacked his knee. He grinned.

Then it went quiet for a minute. Not awkward—just still.

You shifted slightly, head tilted against the back cushion, voice softer now. "Do you ever think you’ve already peaked?"

His response came slower this time. "Sometimes," he said. "Yeah. Like I’m chasing this version of myself I already was. And maybe that version was enough, and now I’m just... tired of trying to match it."

You blinked, surprised.

Then— "I feel that too."

He turned his head slightly toward you. "You don’t talk like you feel that."

You shrugged. "Neither do you."

Another silence. But now the air felt heavier, more real.

"I think I’m scared I missed it," you said quietly. "The moment when I could’ve been everything I wanted to be."

He didn’t say anything for a while. Then: "You didn’t."

Your heart tugged. "How would you know?"

"Because I’ve known you a long time," he said. And then, even softer— "And I don’t think your best has shown up yet. But when it does? It’ll be terrifying in the best way."

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

The silence that followed wasn’t something you wanted to break.

You weren’t sure how it happened exactly. It was like six months after you landed that job. One moment, you were texting Hoseok about the weather like idiots—“is it hot or is it just me roasting from capitalism??”—and the next, he was waiting outside your office building, iced coffee in hand and sunglasses perched cockily on his nose.

“Emergency grocery run?” he said like it was a mission. You blinked at him, tired and amused. “What, like you’re my chauffeur now?”

“I’m multi-talented,” he said, offering the coffee like a bribe.

You took it.

Now you were two aisles deep in the supermarket, arguing over rice brands like you were 45 years old and living together.

“You don’t even eat this kind of rice,” you pointed out.

“I might,” he said. “Maybe I’m evolving.”

“You’ve eaten ramyeon for dinner three nights this week.”

“That’s slander,” he said. “It was two nights. And lunch.”

You snorted, tossing a bag of rice into your basket and moving on. He followed, pushing the cart like he owned the place, offering loud, incorrect opinions about produce just to hear you groan.

By the time you made it to checkout, the two of you had made a pact to try cooking something this weekend (“from scratch—none of that packet seasoning crap”) and Hoseok had somehow added a completely unnecessary six-pack of soda to your cart.

“You’re going to explode your stomach,” you muttered, swiping your card.

“I like living dangerously,” he grinned.

Outside, the sun was starting to set. You both walked slow, groceries swinging between you, and for a second… it just felt easy. Familiar. Like the best parts of the past had quietly grown up with you.

He glanced sideways at you, eyes squinting against the light. “You seem good,” he said.

You looked over. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “Like… lighter. I don’t know. You’re still annoying, but less tightly wound.”

You elbowed him. “Touching. Truly.”

But you were smiling.

Because it meant something—coming from him. Because he’d seen you when you weren’t. Because this was someone who knew you, and still came back.

“Hey,” he said suddenly. You looked up.

“I’m glad we’re doing this again,” he said. “Not just hanging out. But… like. This. Us.”

You blinked. Then nodded, voice a little soft. “Yeah. Me too.”

He nudged your shoulder with his.

Just once. Just enough.

And for the rest of the walk home, you didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to.

You were friends again. You have been friends for all these months too.

And this time, it wasn’t just something from before. It was real now. It was yours.

You’d been thinking about it for a while—quietly, in your own head, like a grown-up secret.

Moving out.

Not because Yoongi was a bad roommate (he was mostly never home) or because you weren’t grateful (you were, deeply). But because you were starting to crave space that was only yours. A door that opened to silence, to mismatched dishes you picked out, to walls you could hang anything on without asking.

So when you brought it up, it was casual. Very chill. Totally adult.

“I’ve been thinking about moving,” you said, setting your tea down on the counter like it was no big deal.

Yoongi looked up from his phone, blinked once. “You have, huh.”

“I mean not right now, but maybe soon. Maybe in like... two or three months. Just a small place. Studio. Close to work.”

He nodded slowly. “You got enough saved?”

“Almost,” you said. “It’s close. I’ve been planning.”

Across the room, Hoseok, who was half-listening while peeling an orange like it owed him money, chimed in: “Woah. Big moves. Look at you, Miss Independent.”

You shot him a look. He grinned with juice on his fingers.

“Anyway,” you said, brushing past it, “I’ll show you the places I’ve bookmarked later.”

And that should’ve been the end of it.

But then— ten minutes later, you went to take a quick shower.

And promptly destroyed the entire fixture.

You weren’t even doing anything weird. Just adjusting the pressure knob. Except apparently the pressure knob had decided to betray you, because it snapped off in your hand with a loud CLANG, followed by a dramatic burst of water that hit you square in the face.

“WHAT THE—”

“Everything okay in there?” Yoongi called from the kitchen.

“No!” you yelled back, soaked and blinking. “I’m in a goddamn k-drama flood scene!”

By the time you got the water turned off (with the help of a mop handle and divine intervention), the floor was half flooded, your hair was plastered to your face, and you were wrapped in a towel like a cursed hotel ghost.

You opened the bathroom door slowly— and found both Yoongi and Hoseok standing there like two judgmental uncles on laundry duty.

Hoseok’s eyes widened at the sight of your damp chaos.

“...Did the bathroom lose a fight?”

You pointed at the broken knob in your hand. “This. This traitor. I’m suing.”

Yoongi sighed deeply. “How bad is it?”

“Shower’s done for. Possibly haunted now. Also, maybe mold.”

Hoseok tried—tried—not to laugh. He failed.

“That’s it,” you muttered. “I’m never growing up again.”

Yoongi ran a hand over his face. “You better not move until you pay for this plumbing mess.”

You blinked.

Then groaned.

Because he was right. You had savings... but not enough to fix this and move.

You sighed, towel still dripping. “So what I’m hearing is: I live here forever.”

“Yep,” Yoongi said, already walking away. “You’re basically married to the pipes now.”

You turned to Hoseok, who was still trying not to choke on his orange.

“Stop laughing.”

“I’m not!” he wheezed. “I’m just emotionally overwhelmed by your journey.”

You flipped him off with the hand holding the broken knob. He took a photo.

Later, when the floor was dry and your pride was wrung out and folded in the laundry bin, you sat on the couch with them like nothing had happened.

You were still here. And somehow, it didn’t feel like a setback.

You were still mourning your shower when the second wave of karma hit.

It came in the form of a very damp, very grumpy Hoseok standing in the doorway holding a tote bag and looking like a man whose life had just been personally ruined by God.

“I swear I didn’t do anything,” he said.

You blinked. “Okay...?”

“There was a pipe burst,” he explained, dragging the words out like they physically hurt. “Second floor. Whole damn line’s shut off. I can’t use my shower.”

You stared at him. Then slowly—so slowly—started to grin.

“Oh,” you said, hand on your chest. “Oh no. That’s terrible.”

“I came here for comfort,” he said.

“You came here to suffer,” you corrected. “This is called consequences, Hoseok.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t act like I caused your plumbing tragedy.”

“You absolutely did. With your rice opinions and your six-pack of orange soda. The universe heard your disrespect.”

He looked skyward. “This is bullying.”

“Shower’s in Yoongi’s room,” you said sweetly. “Right through the door. Same place I’m using. Hope you like booking timeslots.”

You walked off with that smug little bounce in your step.

But of course—of course—fate wasn’t done.

It wasn’t until later that evening, when you wrapped your towel around yourself post-shower and stepped into the hallway—fresh out, hair dripping, skin warm and soft and maybe glowing a little from your expensive body wash—that you realized the door hadn’t clicked shut properly behind you.

And who else would be standing there? In Yoongi’s hallway? With his stupid hoodie pulled halfway off and a towel slung over his shoulder?

Hoseok blinked.

You blinked.

“…Your timing,” you said slowly, “is truly supernatural.”

He tried to look away. He really did. But his eyes snagged on your collarbone before they darted back up. “I swear I thought you were done.”

“I was done, but apparently so was the lock on that bathroom door.”

“Do we need to install a traffic light system for this shower?”

You held up your hand like a crossing guard. “Red. Immediate red.”

He grinned. You glared.

And then —because the universe lives for drama —the bathroom door creaked open further behind you, letting out a curl of steam that wrapped around you both like a goddamn romance movie.

Neither of you moved.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you muttered.

“You look fine,” he said before he could stop himself.

You turned slowly. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said too quickly. “Just—uh, you’re glowing. From the steam. Like a… sauna angel. I’m gonna go die now.”

You snorted so hard you nearly dropped your towel. “You’re a mess.”

“You broke your entire shower,” he shot back. “Don’t talk to me about mess.”

And yet, there was something in the air now. Something warm and sharp and too much.

You were both standing too close. Both freshly showered. Both way too aware of how bare the moment felt.

But then Yoongi’s voice rang from the kitchen—

“If either of you steam up the hallway again I’m moving out.”

You jumped. Hoseok laughed. The spell broke.

He ducked into the bathroom with a low whistle, brushing past you with the faintest graze of shoulder.

“Enjoy the angel glow,” he called behind him.

You rolled your eyes.

The hallway incident hadn’t been mentioned again.

Not by you. Not by Hoseok. Not even when you accidentally brushed knees later that evening while reaching for the remote.

It was buried under layers of forced normalcy and casually exaggerated sighs like, “Ugh, what a long day,” when what you really meant was: I can still feel his breath on my collarbone.

So when Yoongi got home from his night shift, dumped his bag on the floor, and walked straight to the fridge for leftover kimbap, you thought maybe—just maybe—you were safe.

You were on the couch, pretending to be absorbed in some pointless variety show. Hoseok was next to you, pretending to scroll through his phone and not glance at you every other minute.

Everything was normal.

Except Yoongi stood there in the kitchen for way too long. Silent. Staring.

You felt it before he spoke. That ominous, all-knowing pause.

Then, with a bite of kimbap half hanging out of his mouth, he finally said—

"If either of you are gonna start hooking up, just say so. I’ll clear out for a night."

You choked on absolutely nothing.

Hoseok fumbled his phone and nearly dropped it in his lap.

“What the hell?” you sputtered.

Yoongi raised an eyebrow without even looking at you. “What? Just planning ahead.”

“There’s nothing to plan!” you snapped, voice climbing two octaves.

Hoseok cleared his throat, suddenly Very Interested in a dent on the coffee table.

Yoongi sighed like he was the only sane person in a house full of bad actors. “You guys walk around here like you’re starring in a slow-burn webdrama with a ten-episode contract. It’s exhausting.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“Nothing’s happening,” you managed.

Yoongi shrugged. “Didn’t say it was. Just said if it does, give me warning so I don’t walk in on some steamy-ass KBS hallway scene again.”

You made an unholy noise of embarrassment.

Hoseok was now doing that thing where he looked like he wanted to vanish into a pixel.

Yoongi, unfazed, walked into his room and closed the door behind him like a judge declaring the court adjourned.

And you?

You stared straight ahead.

Hoseok exhaled beside you.

"...I hate him," you whispered.

“Me too,” Hoseok muttered.

But neither of you moved. And neither of you laughed.

Because the silence left behind was warm. Buzzing. And way too loud.

The apartment was still, quiet in that slow post-morning haze. Hoseok leaned against the counter, coffee warm in his hands, but his thoughts louder than the silence around him.

Yoongi moved methodically, buttering toast with the same tired precision he applied to most things before 9 a.m.

Hoseok cleared his throat. “About what you said last night…”

Yoongi didn’t look up. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

“The part where you said if we were gonna hook up, to warn you first?”

Yoongi blinked once. “Yeah. What about it?”

“You were serious.”

“Mostly,” Yoongi said. “But not wrong.”

Hoseok gave him a sharp look. “It’s not like that.”

Yoongi shrugged. “Then what’s it like?”

“She’s…” Hoseok hesitated. “She’s just important to me.”

“She always has been.”

Hoseok looked down into his coffee. “I knew, back then. That she liked me. I didn’t feel the same, not at the time. But I didn’t exactly step back either. I was always around.”

Yoongi finally looked at him, something steadier behind his eyes now.

“She’s got the biggest heart I know,” he said softly. “Always has.”

Hoseok stilled.

“She was all feelings, even when she was little,” Yoongi went on. “She cared about everything. Everyone. Couldn’t shut it off. She was stubborn, and dramatic, and she cried over things I didn’t understand… but she never hid how much she felt. Never held back from loving people, even when they didn’t deserve it.”

There was a pause, like Yoongi was letting that truth sit between them.

“I’m not like that,” he added, voice quieter. “I’ve always kept things to myself. But she—she walks into rooms with her whole heart showing.”

Hoseok blinked hard. “She still does.”

“I know,” Yoongi said. “And that’s why I’ve always had a soft spot for her. Not just because she’s my sister. But because she’s her. She’s rare.”

Hoseok nodded, throat tightening.

Yoongi studied him. “You didn’t mean to hurt her. I know that. You were just a kid trying to be careful.”

“But I still stayed,” Hoseok said. “I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, but I didn’t want to leave either.”

“Because part of you already knew,” Yoongi said. “Even if it wasn’t romantic. Even if it wasn’t love. She mattered. She always did.”

Hoseok’s grip tightened on the mug. “And now I think… I think I feel it. All of it. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

Yoongi sighed and set his toast down.

“She’s not fifteen anymore,” he said. “She’s not sitting around hoping you’ll notice her. She’s figuring herself out, and she’s doing it without needing you.”

Hoseok looked up. That hit.

“But if you’re going to show up now,” Yoongi said, voice firm but not unkind, “then really show up. She deserves someone who won’t run when it’s inconvenient. Someone who sees her for who she is now—not just who she used to be.”

Hoseok swallowed. “You think it’s too late?”

Yoongi shook his head. “I think if you’re honest, she’ll hear you. But don’t half-ass this. Not with her. She’s been through too much for that.”

Then, softer:

“And I want her happy. That’s it. That’s the whole thing.”

Hoseok let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi echoed. Then smirked faintly. “Now finish your coffee. You’re being weird, asshole.”

It started with dish soap.

Just a normal night — leftovers packed, Jungkook long gone, Yoongi face-down on the couch with one sock off and a blanket halfway over his head.

You were rinsing plates at the sink, humming softly, sleeves pushed up, when you heard Hoseok behind you.

Close.

Too close.

"You're really domestic these days," he said, leaning against the counter like he belonged there.

You didn’t look at him. "One of us has to be."

"Mm," he mused. "Something about you washing dishes is kinda dangerous, though."

You glanced back. "Dangerous?"

"Yeah." His voice dropped, just a little. "Distracting."

Your heart stuttered.

You turned fully, plate in hand, water still running. "Distracting?"

Hoseok leaned in, arms crossed, one brow raised. "Is there an echo in here?"

You rolled your eyes, but it didn’t land — not when he was looking at you like that. Like he was seeing you. Like he was enjoying what he saw.

You tried for steady. "You’re being weird."

"Am I?" he asked, tilting his head. "Or are you just not used to me paying attention?"

You froze.

Because the way he said it — calm, warm, like it was nothing — was exactly why it felt like everything.

"I'm used to you being annoying," you said, voice thinner than you meant.

His mouth quirked. "Then why do you always smile when I am?"

You didn’t answer.

Mostly because he was suddenly closer. Standing beside you now, hand brushing yours as he reached for the towel. His fingers lingered, just slightly. Just long enough to feel like an accident.

You inhaled. He noticed.

You could feel it — the pull.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" you asked quietly.

"Like what?"

"Like you’re thinking something you shouldn’t say."

His smile curved, slow and dangerous. "I'm not saying it."

You raised an eyebrow. "But you’re thinking it?"

"Oh," he said, voice low. "Absolutely."

The air between you buzzed, tight and hot.

And then he stepped back, like he hadn’t just cracked the floor beneath you.

"Goodnight, star," he said, all sweet and smug, tossing the towel over his shoulder like a casual sin.

You stood there, heart pounding, hands wet, thoughts on fire.

Oh.

You’d had a terrible day.

Too many reports, too many meetings, too many goddamn requests from marketing — which, by the way, was supposed to be a creative field, not a place where people flung last-minute deck edits at you like dodgeballs.

You were frayed. Done. Running on coffee and fumes and a migraine blooming just behind your eyes.

And it was a Friday, which felt cruel. Like the universe had saved its worst for the final lap.

You didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want the quiet of Yoongi’s apartment, the mess of takeout containers you didn’t have the energy to clean, or the creeping dread of another night spent overthinking everything.

You thought about calling Yeji — but she’d texted earlier. Something about a family emergency, rushing back to Gwangju. You didn’t want to pile on.

Jungkook? No chance. The guy was finally on a date and, for once, not texting the group chat in real-time commentary. You’d let him have it.

Yoongi was probably elbow-deep in some trauma case at the hospital.

So that left… Hoseok. And that was the problem.

Because the second his name popped into your head, it stuck. Loud and neon. Comforting in a way that made your chest ache.

You didn’t think twice — you just went.

The doorman at his building recognized you and let you in with a smile. “Back again, huh?” he said. You managed a tight-lipped grin and kept walking, suddenly very aware of the fact that you didn’t have a key.

You stood in front of his door, heartbeat loud for reasons that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

You called him. Once.

No answer. You waited. Called again.

This time, the door opened mid-ring — Hoseok standing there in sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt, barefoot, hair pushed back like he’d just run a hand through it.

Your breath caught.

He looked… soft. Warm. Familiar. And stupidly attractive.

“Hey,” he said, voice scratchy from what was probably a nap. “You good?”

You tried to play it off. “Yeah. I just… had a day.”

He stepped aside instantly, letting you in without asking.

“I was sleeping,” he added, closing the door behind you, “but it’s fine. You want tea? Something stronger?”

You dropped your bag on the floor with a tired grunt. “Both?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Coming up.”

You stood there for a second, awkward, unsure of what to say — unsure of why your throat suddenly felt tight.

He disappeared into the kitchen. You followed a moment later, watching him pull mugs from the shelf like it was the easiest thing in the world, like this was your Friday ritual.

“Long day?” he asked gently, back still to you.

You exhaled. “I wanted to cry in the bathroom at least three times.”

He poured something warm into your cup and passed it to you, fingers brushing. You held it like it could save you.

And then — his voice, lower now.

“I was gonna call you later.”

You glanced up, surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “Don’t know why. Just felt like I should.”

You took a sip of tea, tried to ignore how warm you suddenly felt — and it had nothing to do with the mug.

“I almost didn’t come,” you admitted.

“But you did.”

Your eyes met.

You shrugged. “Yeah.”

Something passed between you — the air sharpening, thickening, like the seconds had started stretching longer than they should.

And then he stepped a little closer. Just one step. Barefoot on tile.

“You can stay as long as you want,” he said quietly. “You know that, right?”

You nodded, slowly.

But you didn’t look away.

Neither did he.

And for one burning second, it felt like the only thing between you was breath.

You hadn’t planned on staying.

But you also hadn’t planned on the way the tea settled into your chest like a sigh. Or the way Hoseok handed you a hoodie from his closet — worn, soft, black with cracked lettering — and said, “This one’s good. It smells like me.” Then blinked and added, “In a clean way, I mean.”

You laughed, the first real one of the day. He smiled like that had been the goal.

You changed in the bathroom, peeled off your jeans with a groan, pulled the hoodie over your head, and let yourself fold into the fabric like it might keep the rest of the world out.

When you stepped out, he was already making up the couch.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, hugging your arms to your chest.

He looked over at you — ruffled hair, sleep-heavy eyes, t-shirt clinging to the curve of his shoulders — and smiled soft.

“I’m not letting you sleep on a couch after a day like that.”

“You’re gonna have back pain.”

“I already do,” he said with a wink. “Part of aging gracefully.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart squeezed.

He pointed toward the bedroom with a little nod. “Go. It’s clean. Sheets and everything. I even fluffed the pillow like a gentleman.”

You stared at him. “This feels illegal.”

“What does?”

“This. You. Being nice to me.”

He gave you a crooked grin. “Shh. Don’t ruin it.”

You padded into his bedroom without another word — heart racing a little faster than it should — and curled up in sheets that smelled faintly like him and something citrusy.

And when you closed your eyes, the tension didn’t go away. It just softened — low and steady in your chest.

You drifted off wondering what it would feel like if he hadn’t stayed on the couch.

You woke to sunlight creeping through unfamiliar blinds.

For a second, you forgot where you were. Then the hoodie. The sheets. The faint sound of music playing softly from somewhere down the hall.

You sat up slowly, blinking, hair a mess.

Outside the room, you found Hoseok standing at the stove in grey sweatpants and a loose tank top, flipping pancakes like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He glanced over his shoulder when he heard you.

“Morning, star.”

God.

You made some kind of sound — halfway between a groan and a sigh — and dragged yourself to the counter.

“You cook now?”

“I do all sorts of impressive things,” he said. “Like letting sleep-deprived marketing girls take over my bed.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re too chipper for someone who slept on a couch.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had worse. College floors. Airport benches. Yoongi’s recliner.”

You blinked. “You slept in Yoongi’s recliner?”

“Regretfully, yes.”

You laughed. He beamed.

And then he placed a plate in front of you. Golden pancakes. Sliced fruit. A drizzle of honey.

You looked at it. Then at him.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, not teasing this time.

You hesitated.

Then nodded. “Better now.”

He held your gaze for a second longer than necessary.

And then — like nothing — he turned back to the stove.

“Good,” he said.

But your chest was buzzing.

The pancakes were gone. Your plate was pushed aside. The music had shifted into something softer, lazily looping through Hoseok’s Bluetooth speaker like it didn’t know what time it was.

You were still in his hoodie — sleeves pushed up, hem hitting just below mid-thigh — and the morning sun had started to press in through the windows, golden and warm.

You stretched your legs out from under the table, bare feet against the cool tile.

“Hey,” you said, blinking sleepily. “Do you have… like, shorts or something I can borrow?”

Hoseok, halfway through cleaning a pan, stilled.

You didn’t notice at first. You were stretching your arms now, spine cracking, the hoodie riding up just a little higher on your thighs.

He cleared his throat. “Shorts?”

“Yeah. It’s warm,” you said simply. “I’m kinda sweating in this thing.”

He turned —slowly— and took one look at you standing there in his hoodie, sunlight on your legs, your hair still messy from sleep, mouth soft from syrup, and felt his entire nervous system short out.

“Oh,” he said, voice a little tight. “Yeah. Uh. Gimme a sec.”

He disappeared down the hall.

You wandered over to the sink, rinsed your plate, humming softly, totally unaware that Hoseok was in his room gripping a dresser drawer like it personally offended him.

Because yes, he had shorts. And yes, he could technically hand them to you. But no, he was not prepared to watch you put them on. Not when you were already walking around like some slow-motion fever dream in his oldest hoodie — the one that clung in places it shouldn’t.

He returned a minute later, tossing a folded pair onto the couch.

You looked up, bright-eyed. “Lifesaver.”

And then — because you are the villain in this situation apparently — you peeled the hoodie off right there in the open space, still facing away from him.

He turned around so fast he almost pulled something.

You laughed. “Oh my god, are you serious?”

“I’m being respectful!” he shouted from the kitchen.

“You’ve seen me in a swimsuit!”

“Swimsuit is planned!” he yelled back. “This is—this is AMBUSH!”

You snorted, tugging the shorts on and adjusting the waistband.

He peeked over his shoulder cautiously, like he was checking for incoming artillery. And then he saw you — his hoodie bunched in your hands, tank top clinging to your waist, his shorts hanging a little too loose on your hips — and all of the air left his lungs.

You looked up. “Better?”

He swallowed. “Debatable.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, too quickly, spinning back toward the sink.

But his neck was red. His ears were worse.

The silence after was thick—not awkward, not heavy. Just…

Charged.

You sank into the couch, legs folding under you, acting casual.

He stayed by the counter like it was a shield.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren’t you?"

His voice came from behind you, flat but tight, the kind of quiet that gave away just how not-casual he actually felt.

You turned your head from the couch cushion, blinked slowly.

"Huh?"

He was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“You’re doing it on purpose.”

You tilted your head. “Doing what?”

He stared at you like you were evil incarnate.

“You’re in my hoodie,” he said, voice strained, “and now my shorts — and you’re just walking around like it’s nothing.”

You blinked. Looked down at yourself. “Oh… I mean, I was hot.”

“You were hot,” he repeated.

You smiled, soft and harmless. “Mmhm.”

He exhaled sharply, like he needed to physically push the tension out of his chest. “And the tank top? Just a bonus, huh?”

You frowned, like you genuinely didn’t know what he meant. “It’s the one I was wearing when I came. You saw me in it last night?”

“You didn’t think maybe putting both on together would… drive me insane?”

You let your expression drop into something small, almost guilty.

“Wait… do you think I’m trying to tease you?”

He blinked. “Aren’t you?”

You shrugged, all wide eyes and deadly softness. “I was just trying to be comfortable, Hoseok.”

And God help him, he almost believed you.

Except he didn’t.

#hoseok x reader #bts smut #namjoon smut #jungkook smut #hoseok smut #bts #taehyung smut #jimin smut #bts fanfic #jin smut #yoongi smut

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hobi-side · 19 days ago

Text

Stars We Never Caught | jhs

— word count: 24.4k for this part—this is a long one shot like around 60k for the full thing and the tumblr editor hates me so we'll have like 4 parts of this

please, check the end notes in part four

part 2 | part 3 | part 4

When you met Hoseok, it wasn’t fate or magic—it was more like a random glitch in the universe. Ironic, really. He’d somehow managed to get lost in your tiny house, wandering around like it was a maze instead of a modest three-bedroom.

“Hey, kiddo, where’s the bathroom?” he asked, peeking into the living room with that same bright-eyed grin that would someday undo you.

You were nine, stubborn, and already suspicious of anyone who called you kiddo. You stared up at him, unimpressed, then pointed to the door literally right beside him.

“Right there,” you said flatly. “Congrats, big guy. You survived the great labyrinth.”

He blinked, looked at the door, then at you again. “Guess I needed a guide.”

“You need glasses,” you muttered under your breath, but he just laughed like you’d told the funniest joke in the world.

“I’m guessing you’re Yoongi’s sister,” he said, squinting at you like you were a puzzle missing the picture on the box.

You didn’t bother to smile. Just crossed your arms and gave him the most unimpressed look an eleven-year-old could possibly summon. “Touché,” you replied, dry as ever.

He blinked, clearly not expecting sass from someone half his height. Maybe he thought you’d be shy or starstruck. Instead, you stared him down like he owed you rent.

“Wow,” he said, a chuckle slipping out. “You really are Yoongi’s sister.”

You tilted your head, slow and judgmental. “And you really got lost in a house with three rooms. That takes talent.”

He laughed—full-on, like you were the best thing that had happened to him all day. “Okay, okay. You got me. Note to self: don’t underestimate the small ones.”

“Good. Because I bite,” you said, deadpan.

He looked mildly alarmed for half a second before grinning even wider. “Duly noted.”

Just as Hoseok opened his mouth to say something else—probably another attempt at recovering from your verbal jab—Yoongi’s voice echoed from down the hall.

“Hobi, did you fall into the toilet or what?”

You smirked.

Hoseok turned toward the hallway. “I got a little… turned around.”

Yoongi appeared a second later, already wearing that look of brotherly exasperation. “How the hell did you get lost? The bathroom’s literally right there.”

“I told him,” you chimed in, hands on your hips like you’d just saved the day. “But apparently, he needs a map. Or a chaperone.”

Yoongi shot you a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “Don’t encourage her,” he told Hoseok, but you could see the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Hoseok held his hands up. “Hey, I’m just trying to survive here. She’s got your attitude, but, like—weaponized.”

You looked up at Yoongi. “You bring home lost puppies now?”

Yoongi groaned. “He’s not a puppy, he’s a person. Unfortunately.”

But Hoseok just laughed, shoulders shaking. “Nah, she’s cool. Sharp tongue, too. She’s gonna be dangerous when she grows up.”

You didn’t know it then, but that was the first compliment from him you’d ever remember. And years later, you’d still feel the echo of it every time he looked at you like you were the only one in the room.

You were twelve when you realized Jung Hoseok had become a permanent fixture in your family—not out of necessity, but because he simply belonged.

He had parents. A home. A life separate from yours. But he was the kind of person who attached himself to the people he cared about like it was the most natural thing in the world. Loud and vibrant, always quick to laugh, Hoseok moved into your everyday like sunlight slipping through the blinds—quiet, warm, and impossible to ignore.

No one questioned it. He had a seat at your dinner table, his shoes in the entryway, his jokes echoing through your house more days than not. He and Yoongi were inseparable. And somehow, without you noticing, you’d become part of that orbit too.

It didn’t feel strange anymore.

You were twelve too when you started to understand something you couldn’t name yet. And it happened, like most things in your life lately, by accident.

It was a weekend night, the kind where Hoseok and Yoongi holed up in your brother’s room with snacks and open windows and music low enough not to wake your mom. You were passing by the door—okay, lingering near it—when Hoseok’s voice floated out.

“She kissed me first, but… I kept thinking about it afterward.”

You stopped. Not for the first time that week, Hoseok sounded different. Not in a bad way. Just—older.

“I mean,” he continued, “I didn’t feel weird about it. Just… curious. Like, is it supposed to feel like that? Or is that just me being a guy?”

Yoongi let out a quiet snort. “It is you being a guy. But it’s not a bad thing.”

There was a beat.

“It’s not about sex or whatever,” Hoseok said. “I just—I like her. I think I do. But I don’t know what I’m doing. Like, where’s the line between just liking someone and wanting more?”

Yoongi’s voice was softer now. “That’s what growing up is, Hobi. Figuring out what your more is. You’re allowed to want things. You just gotta want them with respect. With clarity.”

“I don’t want to mess it up,” Hoseok murmured. “She’s not just someone I kissed. It’s more like… I want to hold her hand and not let go until she wants me to. That sounds dumb, right?”

“No,” Yoongi said. “That sounds honest.”

You didn’t mean to stay and listen. But you also couldn’t walk away. Because that Hoseok—the one whose voice cracked a little when he talked about someone he liked, who sounded half-nervous and half-hopeful, who admitted to wanting and not knowing—that Hoseok wasn’t just the boy who made up dances in your living room and teased you about your choice in cereal.

He was a guy. A real, living, breathing boy, standing on the edge of something big. Not perfect. Not polished. But real in a way that made your chest feel strange.

Later, you found him in the hallway, stretching his arms over his head. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he asked with a smile.

You shrugged. “Shouldn’t you?”

“Touche,” he said, then tapped your head gently with his knuckles. “Your brain never turns off, huh?” You gave him a look. “Takes one to know one.”

He grinned at that, all bright teeth and dimpled cheekbones. For a second, it was just Hoseok again—the one you’d always known.

But something had shifted. Just a little.

"Keep being brilliant, star."

You didn’t know why your face got hot, or why your chest tightened just a little. Maybe it was the way he said it so casually, like he hadn’t just branded a memory into your mind that you wouldn’t be able to shake. You mumbled something back, pretending it was no big deal. Pretending you didn’t already know, deep down, that you’d remember it forever.

It was one of those nights at your house, the kind where everyone was sprawled out in mismatched pajamas, the dim light from the TV flickering softly as a random movie played in the background. The air was heavy with laughter, chatter, and the scent of snacks, but it felt like time was stretching out—suspended, almost.

You had all crammed into Yoongi’s room — yes, you too, despite his half-hearted protests that Hoseok always overruled with a grin and an arm slung around your shoulders, claiming you were “officially part of the crew.” (Yoongi never really meant it anyway. If he had, he would’ve locked the door.)

The night blurred into snapshots — pillows flying through the air, laughter loud and untamed, the stupid kind of jokes that only made sense when you were too young to care about looking cool. The music was ridiculous, some weird mix Yoongi had found online, but Hoseok and Yoongi still danced to it anyway, competing over who could come up with the worst moves.

You sat cross-legged by the dresser, half-watching, half-sinking into the warmth of the room, your cheek pressed against your knee. Hoseok was at the foot of the bed, laughing so hard he nearly tipped over, and you swore you could feel his laugh vibrate through the floor, through the air, through you. It filled the space in a way that made you feel safe. Seen. Like maybe you belonged here too, if only because he made it feel that way.

It was strange, how natural it all felt. How Hoseok fit. Not just in Yoongi’s room. In your life.

At twelve, you didn’t know why your chest squeezed tight when Hoseok caught your eye across the room, or why your stomach flipped when he grinned like you were in on some private joke no one else could hear. You didn’t know why you wanted to memorize the way his hair stuck up in messy tufts, the way his laugh curled around the syllables of your name.

You just knew it mattered. Even if you couldn’t explain why.

“Hey, kid,” Hoseok said, nudging you with his elbow, his voice low and soft, like he didn’t want anyone else to hear. "You good?"

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts, pulling your knees closer like you could hide behind them. "Yeah," you said, too quickly, the word barely a breath.

He looked at you for a beat longer than necessary, head tilted slightly, a small crease between his brows like he didn’t quite believe you.

“You sure?” he asked, quieter now, the teasing edge slipping away. “You’ve been kinda quiet tonight.”

You wanted to tell him it was nothing. That you were just tired, like you always said when you didn’t have the words for the heavy, shapeless thing sitting in your chest. You shrugged instead. "Yeah. Just tired."

Hoseok smiled, easy and warm, and something in you unraveled a little.

“You know, Yoongi always says you’re an old soul,” he said, bumping your shoulder with his, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “I think you’re just trying to act cool.”

You huffed, the barest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m not acting cool. I just… don’t talk when I’m stuck with two idiots.”

Yoongi, catching only the tail end of the insult, scoffed from across the room. “Please. You’re the dramatic one. I deserve a medal for surviving you.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at his head without thinking. Yoongi retaliated instantly, and just like that, the room filled with the sound of laughter and flying pillows once again.

But even as you shouted and ducked for cover, even as you pretended to be annoyed at Yoongi, you could hear Hoseok’s laugh, steady and golden, threading through the noise like music only you could hear. It wrapped around you, soft and aching. It made you want things you didn’t have the language for yet.

Later, when the chaos burned itself out and the room sank into a heavy, comfortable silence, you caught him again — Hoseok, leaning against the wall, head tipped back, eyes tracing invisible patterns on the ceiling. Gone was the teasing, the bright-eyed energy. There was something almost fragile in him now, like he carried a thousand thoughts he didn’t know how to say out loud.

You watched him through half-lidded eyes, pretending you were too tired to notice. Pretending you weren’t memorizing him all over again. The soft rise and fall of his chest. The way his hand twitched restlessly against his knee, like his body couldn’t quite sit still even when his mind drifted somewhere far away.

It hurt. In a small, stupid way, it hurt — wanting to reach out, wanting to stay frozen in this exact moment forever, wanting something you didn’t even have a name for yet.

And somewhere deep inside, you understood: Some part of you would spend the rest of your life chasing this feeling. This night. This boy.

You closed your eyes and let the moment etch itself into you, down to the bone. Knowing even then that you would never really forget.

You sat there, in your pajamas, suddenly aware of how much his presence filled the space around you, how his easy grin and loud laughter had always been there, woven into the fabric of your life.

“Are you awake?” he asked, voice soft, like he wasn’t sure if he should disturb the quiet. You weren’t sure if he was talking to you or just to the room in general, but you answered anyway.

“I’m awake,” you whispered, unsure why your voice felt so small.

Hoseok looked over at you, his smile softening into something... different. Something you couldn’t quite place. "Good."

He didn’t say anything else, and you didn’t either. You could feel the space between you stretch and stretch, an invisible line that you didn’t know how to cross. You just stayed there, side by side, the weight of all the unspoken things hanging in the air.

When he stood to go, he ruffled your hair one last time, and it stung more than it usually did. “Goodnight, star.”

You didn’t reply right away. You just watched him walk out of the room, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the hallway, and suddenly, everything felt too quiet. Too still.

It was the first time you realized that you weren’t just waiting for him to notice you. You were waiting for something else. Something you didn’t know how to name.

And years later, when you looked back at that night, at the way Hoseok’s smile lingered a little longer than it had to, you’d ache for it. For the way you had no idea what you were feeling then, how you hadn’t known that it was already too late to go back to the way things were before.

The room had quieted even more now, the world outside feeling a million miles away. Yoongi was already half-asleep, his head tipped against the headboard, mumbling nonsense under his breath.

You stayed curled up by the dresser, feeling the heaviness of your own body sinking deeper into the carpet. You could hear your own breathing, soft and even, but more than that — you could hear Hoseok shifting, the quiet shuffle of him moving closer.

You didn’t dare open your eyes, too afraid the moment would break.

A hand brushed lightly through your hair, feather-light, so careful you almost thought you dreamed it. Then Hoseok’s voice, rough with sleep, low and barely-there:

"Get some rest, star. You’re gonna outshine us all someday."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep the sudden, stinging heat from spilling out. You didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Just let yourself pretend — for one night — that he saw you the way you saw him.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, his hand lingered against your hair just a second too long before slipping away. The last thing you heard before sleep pulled you under was the faintest sound of his breath — a sigh, almost a wish — drifting into the quiet.

You were turning thirteen when things got somewhat serious — and not. Deep conversations were starting to be your thing. Funny.

You found Yoongi out on the back steps, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, a hoodie pulled over his head even though it wasn’t cold. The kind of night that smelled like rain and damp earth, thick with the kind of silence that made your chest feel tight.

You hesitated for a second, your bare toes curling against the cool floor. Then you padded over and dropped down beside him, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

Yoongi didn’t look at you. Didn’t have to.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked, voice low and rough, like he'd been sitting there a while.

You shook your head, picking at the frayed edge of your pajama sleeve. "You either?"

He gave a humorless laugh, soft and tired. "Yeah. Guess not."

You sat in the quiet together for a long time. The kind of quiet that didn’t need to be filled.

It wasn’t weird. It never was with him. He was always just... there. Solid. Even when the rest of the world felt like it was shifting under your feet.

Maybe that was why you were so restless lately. It felt like everyone was expecting something from you — parents with their questions about school, teachers who suddenly wanted you to plan your future, even your friends who already seemed to know who they wanted to be. You didn’t know. You weren’t sure you even knew yourself yet. And somehow, it already felt like you were falling behind.

"You ever feel like..." you started, then trailed off, cheeks burning. Stupid. He probably thought you were being dramatic again.

But Yoongi just waited, like he had all the time in the world.

"...Like you’re supposed to be someone," you mumbled finally. "But you don't even know who yet. And it’s like — it’s like you’re already failing at it."

The words fell out, heavy and clumsy, but real.

Yoongi finally turned to look at you, his eyes shadowed under the hood. And then, without saying anything, he reached out and flicked your forehead, gentle but firm.

"You're thirteen," he said, voice a little rough. "You don’t have to have it figured out."

You scowled, rubbing the spot he flicked. "Yeah, well. It feels like I do."

Yoongi smiled — small, crooked, the kind of smile he only gave you when no one else was around.

"Listen," he said, bumping his knee against yours. "You don't have to be anything yet. You’re allowed to just... be a mess for a while. You hear me, kid?"

You made a face at him, and he ruffled your hair so hard you nearly toppled over.

But then he pulled you into a headlock — gentle, loose — and you realized he was hugging you. Sort of.

The way Yoongi did when he didn’t have the words either.

"You’re already my favorite person," he said, so soft you almost didn’t catch it. "Even if you’re a mess."

Your throat closed up. You buried your face against his arm and didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to. He already knew.

Maybe that was why you missed it at first — the way his arm stayed around you just a second longer than it needed to. The way his shoulders, usually so loose and careless, felt a little too tense under your cheek.

Maybe you would only realize it later. How Yoongi, seventeen and already carrying more than he let you see, had needed to hear those same words just as much as you had.

But that night, you were just a kid, safe in the only place that didn’t expect you to be anything more.

And Yoongi? Yoongi just sat there, holding you tighter, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go either.

Later, you'd wonder if Yoongi had been talking to himself just as much as to you.

It was the night before Hoseok's sixteenth birthday, and somehow you found yourselves sprawled out on the living room floor — you, Hoseok, and Yoongi — passing a half-eaten bag of chips back and forth while a terrible movie played on TV.

The kind of night that felt like it could stretch on forever if you just didn't move. If you just stayed.

You didn’t even realize you were watching Hoseok more than the movie until you caught the way he was fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, like he had something he wanted to say.

"Hey," Hoseok said suddenly, glancing over at Yoongi. "Can I ask you something?"

Yoongi grunted, not looking up from his phone. "When have you ever waited for permission?"

Hoseok grinned, but there was a nervous edge to it. He glanced once at you — quick, like he wasn’t sure if he should say it — then back at Yoongi.

"It's just... I dunno. Kinda dumb."

Yoongi set his phone down with an exaggerated sigh. "Out with it, idiot."

You hugged your knees to your chest, pretending you weren’t hanging onto every word.

Hoseok shifted, running a hand through his hair.

"Have you ever kissed someone?"

The question hung there, heavy, making your heart thump a little too hard against your ribs.

Yoongi barked out a laugh. "Seriously? That’s what you’re asking?"

"Shut up," Hoseok muttered, shoving his shoulder. "I mean — like — what’s it supposed to feel like? The first time."

You stared hard at the TV, pretending you weren’t listening.

Yoongi leaned back against the couch, smirking a little. "Depends. Was it good or did you both just bump noses and freak out?"

Hoseok groaned. "Not helpful."

"First ones are usually bad," Yoongi said, sounding too casual. "You figure it out."

You could feel Hoseok squirming beside you, the way his leg kept jiggling against the carpet.

"I kissed someone," Hoseok blurted. "Last weekend. Kinda."

Your chest squeezed so tight it hurt.

"Oh?" Yoongi raised a brow. "Kinda?"

"It was just a stupid dare thing," Hoseok rushed to say, looking vaguely embarrassed. "Doesn't count, right?"

Yoongi snorted. "Still a kiss, dumbass."

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t trust yourself to. The words stuck somewhere behind your teeth, thick and aching.

You wished you could laugh it off too. Wished it didn’t feel like you’d swallowed something sharp and bitter.

Hoseok glanced at you again, sheepish. "Not a big deal, Star," he said, nudging your shoulder with his. Like he could sense you withdrawing without even realizing why.

You managed a weak smile. "Yeah. Not a big deal."

But it was. It was.

You were thirteen, and you didn’t have the words for it yet. Didn’t know how to say that you already felt the world tilting — already felt him slipping just a little out of reach.

And Hoseok, still laughing, still right there beside you, didn’t realize he was breaking your heart.

Not yet.

After the conversation about kisses — the one that made your chest feel tight and your breath shaky — the night carried on like nothing had changed. You could still hear Hoseok’s easy laugh. Could still feel his presence next to you, warm and constant.

But somehow, it felt a little quieter. A little farther away.

You weren’t sure if it was just in your head or if something was really shifting. But when Hoseok threw an arm around you later, like he always did when he was feeling too goofy to sit still, it didn’t feel the same.

His arm was heavy around your shoulders, but the touch wasn’t familiar anymore. It didn’t make you feel safe or right in the way it had before. It just felt... wrong. Like you had outgrown it, even if you weren’t ready to let it go.

You let him pull you closer, resting your head against his shoulder, even though your heart wasn’t in it.

"Relax, Star," Hoseok teased, his voice light and playful. "I know you want me to steal the show with all my charm."

You should’ve laughed. You should’ve made a joke back, like you always did.

But you couldn’t. Not tonight.

Instead, you stayed quiet, letting your eyes drift to the dark window, wishing it was easier to ignore the way your heart was pulling in the wrong direction.

When you shifted, trying to get comfortable under his arm, Hoseok didn’t notice. He was already talking to Yoongi about something else, something that made him laugh again — bright, carefree. The kind of laugh that didn’t reach you anymore.

And when he looked down at you, his eyes full of playful energy, you wondered if he had ever really seen you at all. If he ever would again.

"Come on, kid," Hoseok said, giving your shoulder a little shake, pulling you out of your thoughts. "You gotta have more fun on my birthday eve. Got it?"

You looked up at him, forcing a smile. "Yeah, sure," you mumbled, voice hollow.

He didn’t seem to notice. He never did.

But the ache was there, deep in your chest, each beat of your heart a reminder of how everything was already starting to change.

And Hoseok, so lost in the excitement of his almost-birthday, didn’t see it. Didn’t see that even now, you were already slipping further away from him — and he didn’t even know.

At fourteen, you decided you had enough. You had always been the kind of person who, when something really clicked, when you truly wanted it, could put your entire heart into it. And now, as you started becoming aware of the things you didn’t want, the parts of yourself that felt like they were suffocating — that’s when you finally took it seriously.

You’d spent so many years in Yoongi and Hoseok’s orbit. It was almost like you didn’t need anyone else. They were your world — they were your friends, your brothers. It was easier to just be with them. Their laughter, their chaos, their endless antics filled up the spaces where you might’ve needed something else.

But as you turned fourteen, you started noticing the cracks. It wasn’t that you were falling apart from their crew, not exactly. You weren’t leaving them behind or anything, but something inside you was shifting. You weren’t just the girl who hung out with her older brother and his best friend anymore. You were growing into something else — someone else.

You started hanging out with your own friends, something you never really had the chance to do before. Not because you didn't want to, but because Hoseok and Yoongi were around all the time, always the first ones to grab your attention, to fill up your time. But now, with a new sense of self, you realized that you didn’t have to always be the younger one, the one trailing behind, laughing at jokes that only Yoongi and Hoseok found funny.

Jungkook, for instance — he wasn’t the first person you’d met, but somehow, he was the one who stayed. You had something with him that didn’t require much explanation. It wasn’t intense, not like the kind of connection you felt with Yoongi or Hoseok, but there was something comforting about it. Jungkook was just... there. And that mattered.

Then there was Yeji. Slowly, over time, she became a part of your circle, and she had this effortless way of making you feel seen, like you didn’t have to always be the side character in someone else’s story. She made you laugh in ways you didn’t know you needed, and more than that, she made you feel like you could stand on your own.

At fourteen, your world started to look different.

You had Yeji.

It was funny, because you never realized how much you needed a girl like her in your life until she was right there. You had always been with the boys, never really having a close girlfriend. Sure, you’d gotten along with other girls in school, but it was different. Yeji was different.

It wasn’t just that she understood the girl things you never had anyone to talk about before. It was more than that. It was the way she would pull you into her world, the way she could turn a casual conversation into an hour-long talk about everything. She was the kind of girl who would share her deepest thoughts and her biggest secrets, and for the first time, you could do the same. You found yourself talking about things you never thought you’d share with anyone: crushes, the weird shifts in your body you didn’t quite understand yet, or the moments of pure frustration with everything around you that made you feel like you didn’t fit.

Yeji didn’t judge. She just listened, and that made her someone you could trust. A girl who would get it.

You weren’t sure if it was because she was the first girl who really saw you — understood you, without needing to ask the typical “girl” questions, but there was a comfort in her presence that you hadn’t realized was missing. She wasn’t just a friend; she was becoming a part of your inner circle, a person who could share those moments with you that only a girl would understand. The girl things. The little giggles, the late-night secrets, the makeup tutorials, and even the way you both could laugh at something that no one else understood.

And then there was Jungkook. He was... different.

A boy, but so effortlessly part of your world. It wasn’t because he tried to be — it was because he was. He wasn’t the kind of guy who would try to outshine everyone or act like he was too cool for the girls. Jungkook was soft, respectful, and the kind of person who understood when to step back and when to step in. There was something so honorable about him, the way he treated you, Yeji, and everyone around him like equals. Not like the girls were some kind of afterthought, but the kind of respect that made him an important part of the crew, without needing to prove anything.

He was the boy who listened. The one who would just show up, no questions asked. The one who would hand you a hoodie without a second thought when it got chilly, or quietly offer to carry your books without making it a big deal. It wasn’t anything special on the surface, but it was. He was a gentleman in the truest sense, without even trying.

With Jungkook, you never felt like you had to second-guess his intentions. He wasn’t trying to fit into a mold; he was just being himself. And that made it easy to talk to him. Easy to be around him. Easy to let him be a part of the little group that was starting to feel like it was growing into something more.

Your world had expanded beyond Yoongi and Hoseok. You still shared everything with them, of course, but now it was different. You weren’t just the girl hanging around their world anymore. You had your own people, your own circle, your own way of being.

Yeji and Jungkook made sure you never felt alone in this transition. They were there when you needed them, and without even realizing it, they filled spaces you didn’t even know existed.

The three of you, together, were something else. You had your own rhythm. You didn’t need to worry about fitting into the mold anymore because with them, you were finally becoming yourself.

You were growing, yes. And you were growing with them.

Not away from Yoongi and Hoseok, but into something more.

At fifteen, the three of you had an unspoken ritual — after school, you’d all meet up at the small café near your school. It was a cozy little place, tucked away on a quiet street, away from the bustling crowds. The soft hum of conversations, the gentle clinking of coffee cups, and the comforting smell of freshly baked pastries always made it feel like a small haven — a space where you could just be yourselves, without anyone expecting anything more.

It was the kind of place that felt like home, even if it wasn’t. You’d sit for hours, talking about everything and nothing at all. It was where you laughed the loudest, where your hearts felt the lightest, and where things between you, Yeji, and Jungkook just… made sense.

Today, however, the usual comfort of the café felt different. Yeji, usually the life of the group, was quieter than usual. Her eyes, usually bright with laughter, were clouded with something you couldn’t place. You, on the other hand, sat there, trying to make sense of the shift in the air, and Jungkook, the ever-soft and caring presence, seemed to sense it too.

The silence between you felt like a weight, one that only seemed to get heavier as the minutes ticked by. Yeji wasn’t talking, wasn’t joking, wasn’t even smiling. And it bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

Finally, you couldn’t take it any longer. “Yeji,” you asked softly, your voice cutting through the stillness, “What’s going on?”

She looked at you, her eyes wide, as if she hadn’t expected you to ask. And then, after a long pause, she let out a shaky breath and spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t think I can keep pretending,” she admitted, her words fragile and heavy. “Like everything’s fine. Like I’m fine.”

The words landed with a weight in your chest. Yeji had always been the strong one, the one who laughed through the tough moments, who pulled everyone else up when things got hard. To hear her say those words, to see her vulnerability like that — it hit you in a way that made your heart ache.

“What’s going on?” you asked, your voice quieter now, the concern creeping in as you reached for her hand, gently brushing your fingers over her trembling skin.

She swallowed hard, her eyes cast downward. “It’s my parents,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “They’re always fighting. Yelling at each other all the time. I don’t know how to deal with it anymore. I feel like… like I’m falling apart. And I don’t even know how to talk to anyone about it.”

You felt your heart twist, an ache forming deep in your chest. It was the kind of pain that hurt but made you want to do something about it, to ease the weight that was pressing on her. Yeji had always been the bright one, the one who made you laugh even when you didn’t want to. To see her like this was jarring, unsettling.

You squeezed her hand gently, trying to offer the kind of comfort she’d given you so many times before. “You don’t have to carry it all alone,” you whispered, your voice firm with quiet determination. “We’re here. You can talk to us. You don’t have to hide it from us. Not anymore.”

She looked at you, her expression softening just a little, but the rawness of her pain was still there, lingering beneath the surface. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — it was filled with understanding. Jungkook, who had been watching from across the table, finally spoke, his voice calm but filled with warmth. “We’ve got your back. Always.”

Yeji’s lips trembled as she tried to smile, though it was small, fragile. “I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”

And in that moment, as you sat there with your friends, it felt like time slowed down. Everything else in the world faded away, and the three of you were the only ones that mattered. The love between you wasn’t perfect — it wasn’t even always easy — but it was real, and that was enough. No matter what came next, you would face it together.

It was the kind of evening that made the house feel warmer than it actually was. The laughter from the living room carried through the walls, but you found yourself alone in the kitchen. Your parents were hosting their usual get-together with friends, their voices filling the air like background noise to your thoughts.

You were fifteen, not quite ready to step into the world, but also not quite ready to stay in the same place. Everything was in that limbo, like you were floating somewhere between childhood and something else, something that felt exciting and terrifying. The taste of adulthood, or at least the idea of it, was closer than ever, and tonight, something was off. You felt restless.

The kitchen was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge. Your eyes wandered to a glass on the counter, its pink hue promising something sweet, something light. It didn’t smell strong, just sugary, like it was meant for someone your age. Maybe a cocktail, but not something too serious, not something you couldn’t handle. Or so you thought.

You grabbed the glass without a second thought, sipping it slowly, then quickly, as it spread warmth through you, making the edge of your thoughts blur a little. There was a lightness in your chest, but a nagging sensation too—something you couldn’t explain, like you were caught in between.

And then there was Hoseok. He appeared in the doorway, his presence warm like always, but there was a tension in the air that you couldn’t quite place.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice a little lower than usual, like he was concerned, but still playful. His eyes settled on the glass in your hand, then back to your face.

You blinked at him, your mind fuzzy, but still clear enough to notice how his gaze softened. “I’m fine,” you mumbled, though it felt like everything was spinning in slow motion. “Just a little... fun. You know?”

His eyebrows furrowed as he stepped closer, his smile not reaching his eyes. “You sure about that? You’ve had a lot to drink, Star.”

You only half-heard him. You didn’t care. The world felt too far away, and all you could focus on was him—Hoseok, the one person who had always been there. The one person who never made you feel small, who always made you feel... important. You didn’t know why that mattered so much at this moment, but it did.

You took a step forward, unsteady on your feet, but you didn’t notice the way Hoseok’s face tightened with concern. “Hoseok,” you said, your voice soft, slurring just a little, but he could hear the longing in it. “You’ve always been there. Always.”

He hesitated for a second, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady you as you swayed slightly, and his touch lingered on your arm for just a moment too long. “Hey, hey, you’re not thinking straight, alright?” His voice was soft but firm. “You’ve had too much to drink. Let’s get you to sit down, okay?”

You shook your head, but your feet didn’t seem to listen to you. You were too close to him now, the air between you charged with something—something you couldn’t understand, but you felt it in your chest, a sharp, aching desire. You looked up at him, eyes wide, searching for something in his gaze, anything to make sense of the confusing feelings inside of you.

“I just...” You paused, and your heart raced as you took another step forward, reaching for his hand. “I just want to be close to you.”

His face softened, but there was a quiet sadness in his eyes. He gently pulled his hand back, just enough to put some space between you. “You don’t want that, not like this.” His voice was gentle, the words not sharp, but carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. “You’re drunk. You need to sleep this off, alright?”

You didn’t understand what he meant, but your vision blurred again, the world fading in and out, until all you could focus on was him. You wanted him closer, needed to feel his warmth, but he stepped back, his presence still strong, but now filled with something that felt almost like regret.

“I can’t, Star,” Hoseok murmured, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder, his touch warm but careful. “You’re not ready for this.”

And then, as if sensing how lost you were, he gently guided you to sit down on the kitchen counter. His hands were steady, but there was an unease in him, something he wasn’t showing outwardly. He didn’t want you to remember this moment, not like this.

The last thing you remembered was his voice, soft and calm, saying, “You’re not yourself right now. But you will be again.”

You couldn’t remember what happened after that. Everything slipped away like sand through your fingers. The alcohol fogged your memory, and the next morning, when you woke up with a dull headache and no recollection of the night, something in your chest tightened—a dull ache that lingered but couldn’t be explained.

And Hoseok? He never mentioned it. Never brought it up. As if it had never happened. Maybe, in some part of you, you’d been relieved that he hadn’t.

But for him? Maybe it was just another moment he’d quietly tucked away, hoping you’d never remember.

And you never did.

At fifteen, everything felt like it was happening all at once. Your body was changing in ways you didn't understand, and your emotions were even more confusing. One moment, you felt like you could take on the world. The next, you were staring at the mirror, wondering who the stranger was that was starting to appear.

You hated how your body was betraying you, slowly and relentlessly. It wasn’t just your growing boobs that made you self-conscious. It was the little things. The way your clothes fit differently, the tightness in your jeans that made you uncomfortable, the extra curve in places you didn’t know you could have curves. And then there was the damn pimple that appeared out of nowhere—right on the tip of your nose. You’d never felt so aware of your face.

You spent most of the day trying to cover it up with makeup, but nothing worked. All you could think about was how it made you look like a teenager who still didn’t know how to take care of herself. What if Jiwon noticed? What if he thought you were ugly?

The thought of it gnawed at you as you walked to the café after school, where you met Yeji, Jungkook, and Jiwon. It was a weird dynamic. Yeji had been your best friend for so long, but there was something different now. You and Yeji were becoming closer in ways that felt almost… feminine. The kind of friendship that had secrets and whispered conversations about boys, about growing up. It was a side of yourself you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

Jungkook, on the other hand, had become a bit like a brother to you. He was always respectful, kind, and effortlessly sweet, but he’d also become part of your growing crew, someone who always made you feel safe and valued.

Then there was Jiwon.

He’d started as just another face in the group, but somewhere along the way, he’d become something more. It wasn’t intentional, but every time he looked at you, it felt like he was seeing you in a way no one else did. It was a weird mix of excitement and fear. You were growing, but you didn’t know what to do with the feelings you had for him. He made you nervous in a way no one else did, and it was all so new.

After the café, the group started walking home, the usual chatter filling the air. But as you neared your house, there was this weird tension between you and Jiwon. He had been close all afternoon, his elbow brushing yours more times than you could count. His smile was easy, but there was something different about how he looked at you. It made your heart race.

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you turned the corner to your street. You hadn’t planned for this—this awkwardness, the sudden shift between friends and something else.

“So,” Jiwon said, his voice a little quieter than usual. “You live around here?”

You nodded, suddenly aware of how close you were to your front door. “Yeah. Just up there.”

He grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief. “That’s cool. I’ve been meaning to ask you… want to hang out sometime? Just the two of us?”

Before you could even process the question, he was already stepping closer, his hand lightly brushing your arm. You looked up at him, and for a moment, it felt like everything stopped. You felt it—the fluttering in your stomach, the heat of your cheeks, the nervousness that made your hands clammy. And then, just like that, he leaned in.

It was quick, sudden, and so soft that you barely had time to react. His lips brushed yours in a gentle, hesitant kiss, and for a split second, everything in your world felt like it was both spinning out of control and perfectly still. Your heart was racing, your thoughts scattering, and the only thing you could focus on was the warmth of his lips against yours.

And then, just as quickly as it had happened, he pulled back, a shy smile on his face. "Sorry," he said, his voice almost apologetic. "I didn’t want to make it weird. But, uh… I liked that."

You were speechless, your heart still thudding in your chest. You didn’t know what to say, how to process the flood of emotions rushing through you.

But just then, you heard a voice—a familiar, distant voice—calling out from the porch.

“Oh?”

It was Yoongi. He had been standing there, watching the whole thing unfold. Your heart dropped. You hadn’t even realized he was home, let alone that he’d seen everything. You turned to him, wide-eyed, suddenly feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.

Yoongi didn’t say anything at first, just stared at the two of you with a look you couldn’t quite read. His eyes flickered between you and Jiwon, and for a moment, there was an uncomfortable silence.

“Uh, hey, Yoongi,” you said, trying to sound casual, but your voice was high-pitched, like you were a deer caught in headlights.

Yoongi shrugged, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t know you were hanging out with this guy.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice, but you knew he was trying to hide it.

Jiwon, being the brave soul he was, chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I think we’re getting to know each other better.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything more. He turned and disappeared into the house without another word. You felt a wave of relief wash over you, but the awkwardness lingered. You looked back at Jiwon, your heart still racing, and for a moment, neither of you knew what to say.

“Well,” Jiwon said, his grin returning, “I guess I’ll see you around, huh?”

You nodded, still a little dazed, but your lips curved into a small smile. “Yeah. I’ll see you.”

As he walked away, you stood there for a moment, still trying to process what had just happened. Everything was changing—your body, your feelings, your relationships—and it was all moving so fast that you didn’t know how to catch up. But one thing was for sure: you were no longer the same person you’d been just a few months ago.

And that kiss? It was the first taste of a world you didn’t yet understand, a world that was both exciting and terrifying in equal measure.

It had been a few minutes after that kiss—the kiss with Jiwon—and you were figuring out what the hell it even meant. Honestly, it was nice in a way, but you couldn’t help feeling a bit... awkward about it. That kiss was just one small thing in a much bigger world of changes you didn’t know how to handle.

The thing that made it a hundred times worse? Yoongi.

You should’ve known since Yoongi saw both of you. You should’ve know. You could almost hear his smirk as you walked into the living room, his eyes lighting up when he saw you.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the girl who’s been kissed.” Yoongi’s voice was casual, but you could hear the amusement dancing in his words.

You froze, feeling your heart drop into your stomach. “I’m not dealing with this right now,” you muttered, trying to walk past him.

Yoongi blocked your path with ease, his arms folded. “Oh no, you’re dealing with this. So, how was it?” His grin was mischievous, the kind that made you want to disappear into the floor.

You sighed, exasperated. “Yoongi, stop.”

He didn’t stop. He never stopped.

“Oh come on,” he teased, his voice light but edged with that playful brotherly tone you knew all too well. “You’re turning into a real heartbreaker, huh? First kiss and all, with Jiwon of all people.” He laughed, clearly enjoying the moment way too much.

You bit your lip, trying to hide your embarrassment. “It was just a kiss, Yoongi. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Oh, really?” Yoongi raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Then why do you look like you’re about to burst into flames when I mention his name?” He took a step closer, his teasing growing more intense. “It’s obvious. You’ve got a crush. No need to be shy about it.”

You could feel your face burning. “I don’t!” you protested, but it came out weaker than you intended.

He smirked. “You don’t, huh? Then why did you hide the whole thing for so long? You didn’t want to tell me? You were trying to keep it a secret?”

Before you could reply, Yoongi took it a step further, and you heard the worst possible thing.

“Hey, Hoseok,” Yoongi called out to the other room. He was there too, shit. “Guess what? Our little girl got her first kiss. From Jiwon! Can you believe it?” He gave you a sly wink, as if this was all just a funny game.

Hoseok’s voice echoed from the room. “Wait, what? Friend Jiwon? She did?” He appeared in the doorway, his eyes lighting up with amusement. “You kissed him, huh? Nice one!” Hoseok’s grin was like the cherry on top of your misery.

“No, I didn’t—” you started, but it was no use. Yoongi was already on a roll, and Hoseok had joined in, both of them feeding off each other’s energy like they had no mercy.

You couldn’t even get a word in edgewise. It was like Yoongi and Hoseok had become one unstoppable force of teasing. You buried your face in your hands, wishing for the ground to swallow you up.

You couldn’t even look at Yoongi the same after that. He was the worst kind of older brother—the one who knew all your embarrassing moments and made sure everyone else knew too. He’d throw a random “Hey, don’t forget about Jiwon!” at you while you were in the middle of trying have dinner alone. And Hoseok? Hoseok joined in like it was his new favorite hobby, throwing in his own playful jabs.

But, deep down, you knew they didn’t mean any harm. They were just teasing, and in their own way, they were showing that they noticed—that you were growing up, and that they saw you in a different light.

It had been a couple of days since the kiss with Jiwon. You hadn’t really talked about it with anyone—not with Yoongi, who had been unbearable with his teasing, and certainly not with Hoseok, who had an uncanny way of making everything feel like a joke. But now, as you sat across from Yeji at your usual spot in the park, the weight of it all seemed harder to ignore.

Yeji was always easy to talk to. She had this calm, steady way about her that made everything feel less complicated. You had known her long enough to know that she didn’t judge, and she wasn’t afraid to call you out if she thought you were being ridiculous. And right now, you were feeling ridiculous.

"So, how was it? With Jiwon?" Yeji asked, casually nibbling on a snack, though you could see the curiosity in her eyes. You could never hide anything from her for long.

You shifted uncomfortably, staring at the ground. “It was... nice. But also weird,” you admitted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I don’t even know what I’m doing, Yeji. It’s just... everything’s changing so fast.”

Yeji nodded, her expression softening with understanding. “You’re not alone in that, you know. I remember feeling all over the place when things started shifting for me. Our bodies change, we start liking people differently, and sometimes we feel like we don’t even recognize ourselves. It’s okay to feel confused.”

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “It’s like... one minute I’m fine, and the next, my heart’s racing and I can’t even think straight. And then Jiwon kisses me, and it’s all I can think about for days. But then it’s like... am I even ready for all this?”

Yeji leaned forward, her gaze steady and reassuring. “No one’s ever really ready for it, you know? Love, or whatever this is. But it doesn’t mean you’re not worth it or that you can’t figure it out as you go along. If Jiwon makes you feel good about yourself, that’s all that matters for now.”

You smiled, grateful for her words. It was simple, but it made you feel less alone in all the confusion. “Thanks, Yeji,” you said softly.

A few days later, you found yourself sitting next to Jungkook during lunch. He had this way of making you feel like everything was less serious, even when your mind was racing with a thousand questions. He was always so laid-back, but you knew he was thoughtful in his own way.

“So, Jiwon, huh?” Jungkook asked, nudging your shoulder with his. “You two still going strong?”

You laughed nervously, looking away for a moment. “I don’t know, Kook. It’s all just... confusing. I mean, I like him, but I don’t even know if I know what I’m doing.” You paused, feeling a little embarrassed by how unsure you sounded. “Is that weird?”

Jungkook shrugged, his smile small but comforting. “Nah, not weird at all. You’re still figuring things out. You’re not supposed to have it all figured out. I don’t think anyone does.” He leaned back, glancing at you with those warm, soft eyes that made everything feel more okay. “And if you like him, then you like him. That’s enough, right?”

You couldn’t help but feel lighter after hearing that from him. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” you said with a sigh. “It’s just... I never thought it would be like this, you know? It’s hard to just... go with the flow when everything’s changing.”

“I get it,” Jungkook said, his voice sincere. “But you’re not alone in it. I mean, I’m here, Yeji’s here... we all are. And no matter what happens with Jiwon, you’ve got us.”

His words felt like a quiet reassurance, like a promise that things would be okay, no matter how messy they felt right now. You looked over at him, feeling grateful for how much he cared, and for the way he never made you feel like you had to be anything other than yourself around him.

“I’m glad you’re here, Kook,” you said softly.

He smiled at you, a little shy but warm. “Always. That’s what friends are for.”

As you laid on your bed later, reflecting on everything—Jiwon, Yeji’s advice, Jungkook’s words—you realized something important. It wasn’t that you needed to have everything figured out, or that you needed to rush through your feelings. You just needed to be honest with yourself, and to trust that whatever was happening with Jiwon was part of your journey. You didn’t need to have all the answers, just the courage to keep going.

And maybe that was the first step toward learning what real love and friendship meant.

Yoongi’s graduation ceremony was a quiet celebration of change. You watched him—your older brother, the one who had always been there in ways only he could—standing in his cap and gown, the weight of it all settling in your chest. He wasn’t just growing up; he was stepping into a future that was further and further from you, and that realization was a strange kind of ache.

He was leaving for Seoul next month to attend SNU, and with each passing day, it felt more real. He wasn’t just your brother anymore. He was someone on his own path, and soon enough, that path would take him places that you wouldn’t always be able to follow.

For the first time, you could feel that distance creeping in—not in the obvious ways, but in the subtle, unspoken shifts. You both understood that things were changing.

“You okay?” Yoongi asked, his voice soft but teasing, as if he already knew what was going through your head. He nudged you lightly with his elbow, the same small, familiar gesture he had always done.

You nodded, but there was a lingering ache in your chest. "Yeah, just... thinking. It’s just weird, you know? You’re going to SNU. Things are really changing, aren’t they?”

Yoongi's gaze softened, the teasing edge to his smile replaced with something quieter, something that seemed to settle between the two of you. “Yeah, they are,” he agreed, pausing for a moment, as though searching for the right words. “But I’m still gonna be around. I’m not going anywhere.”

The way he said it wasn’t just reassurance. It was an understanding. He was making a promise, but you both knew it wasn’t about physical presence—it was about knowing that no matter where life took him, you were still part of the same story. Always.

You swallowed, trying to push past the emotions rising in your chest. “It’s just... you’ve always been my favorite person,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “You’ve always been the one I could count on.”

For a moment, Yoongi was silent, the air between you two thick with everything unsaid. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice soft but full of that quiet certainty you’d always loved.

“And so you are to me, kiddo,” he said, his voice breaking through the ache in your heart. It was simple, but there was so much meaning behind it.

It wasn’t just a throwaway line. It was Yoongi, admitting, in the quietest way possible, how much you meant to him. He didn’t need grand gestures or words to express it; it was in the weight of those few words, the sincerity behind them.

You couldn’t hold back anymore. Your eyes welled up just slightly, not from sadness, but from the realization that even though things were changing, this—this bond between you two—wasn’t going anywhere. It would stretch, it would bend, but it would never break.

“I’m proud of you,” you said, your voice unsteady. “So proud of you. You’ve always known exactly what you wanted, and now you’re doing it.”

Yoongi looked at you, and for the first time, there was a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. He reached out, his hand ruffling your hair in that familiar way that felt like home.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me, alright?” he teased, his usual smirk returning, but it was softer now. “You’re a big girl now. You can’t cry over a stupid graduation.”

But there was no hiding the pride in his voice, the pride he felt in you, too. It was the unspoken connection that tied you both together. Even as he took this next step in his life, he knew you were always going to be there, just as you knew he would be.

“Yeah, I know,” you said, forcing a laugh, but it was laced with the emotions you couldn’t quite explain. “But you’re still my favorite person, Yoongi. Even if you’re going to Seoul. Even if things change.”

Before he could respond, Hoseok, ever the interrupter, popped up behind you, his grin wide and mischievous. “I swear, if you two keep this up, I’m going to need a tissue,” he said, laughing. “Come on, man, don’t get all sappy on us. You’re supposed to be the cool one, Yoongi.”

Yoongi shot Hoseok a look, rolling his eyes but with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Shut up, Hoseok. I’m allowed to be sentimental every once in a while, right?”

Hoseok laughed, shaking his head. “Only because it’s your graduation day. After that, you’re back to being the stoic, mysterious guy we all know and love.”

You smiled at the two of them, the warmth between you all unmistakable. Hoseok had always been the one to break the tension, and right now, his presence reminded you of the little crew you had—Yoongi, Hoseok, and you. Even as things were shifting, that bond was unshakable.

Yoongi took a deep breath, his gaze briefly softening before he spoke again. “I’m gonna miss you, kid,” he said, his voice quieter now, the teasing edge gone. “But I’ll be back. And when I am, we’ll make up for all this sappy stuff.”

You nodded, smiling as you fought back the small knot of emotions in your throat. “I know. Just... make sure you come back and visit, okay?”

“I’ll be back,” Yoongi assured, his tone full of quiet certainty. “And when I do, we’ll do this whole thing all over again.”

You both stood there, in that shared moment of understanding, as Hoseok cracked another joke, but the feeling between you all was deep and lasting. The future was starting to pull them away, but the bond you all shared wasn’t something that would fade with time. You really hoped for that though.

At sixteen, or more accurately, soon to turn sixteen—your birthday just two weeks away—you broke up with Jiwon. It was the kind of breakup that didn’t feel dramatic or full of shouting, but it left an emptiness in its wake, a quiet ache you couldn’t quite place.

You started this whole relationship—or whatever it was—with excitement. You imagined butterflies in your stomach, the thrill of late-night texts, the kind of sweet, innocent things you had read about in books or seen in movies. But, as time passed, it all started to feel... cold. Not in a harsh way, but in a way that made you realize it wasn’t what you had thought it would be.

Jiwon, he was sweet, funny, and yes—he made your heart race in a way that was new, in a way you hadn’t experienced before. But for some reason, that racing heart wasn’t enough to keep you going.

It wasn’t that he had done anything wrong. Jiwon was a good guy. But when you looked at him, you didn’t feel the same pull that you thought you would. The butterflies had faded, and all you could hear was the quiet thrum of uncertainty growing louder inside you.

Part of it was the distance. He was moving to Seoul soon, only a couple of hours away by train, but that felt like the distance of an entire world. And you weren’t sure if you were willing to hold onto something that wasn’t fully there.

Your heart wasn’t in it—not the way it should be, at least. It was a confusing, uncomfortable feeling—like you were floating just outside the lines of what you were supposed to feel. You were supposed to be devastated, right? To have that gut-wrenching pain that everyone talks about after a breakup. But instead, all you felt was a strange kind of relief, mixed with guilt, like you had let something slip through your fingers before you could truly understand it.

“You’re making the right choice,” Yeji had told you, her voice gentle, almost knowing. She was always good at reading you, especially when you didn’t know what to say yourself. “It’s not about him, you know. It’s about where you’re at. You’ve changed. You’re not the same girl you were when you started this.”

And she was right. You had changed, slowly but surely. You didn’t need Jiwon to make you feel complete anymore. You were starting to realize that you needed more than just the idea of a relationship. You needed something real, something that stirred you at a deeper level—something that felt like it would last longer than a few fleeting months of puppy love.

Jiwon wasn’t the one who did it for you. And that was okay. It wasn’t his fault. You just weren’t the same person you had been when you first started the relationship. You weren’t the same person you were at the beginning of the year, at fifteen, with all your emotions so easily tangled up in the idea of romance.

As you sat there in your room, phone in hand, the message you sent him still lingering in the drafts—I think we should take a break—you couldn’t help but wonder if you were making a mistake. But then again, you couldn’t keep pretending either.

There was a subtle ache in your chest, but it was the kind of ache you knew would fade. Maybe not now, but eventually. It was a lesson you had to learn, one that had come a little too soon, but one you were glad you were starting to figure out.

At sixteen, you didn’t fully understand what heartache was until the day you got heartbroken, and even then, you pretended like you didn’t know why it hurt. But you did. You always knew, deep down, but you had never admitted it to yourself. That was the day it all came rushing back—the feelings you had tucked away for so long, buried under layers of denial and distraction. They had always been there, quietly creeping inside your heart, only now did you finally recognize them for what they were.

It was a nice day, the kind of summery warmth that hung in the air before school started again, full of the easy, laid-back vibe of the final days of summer. You were out shopping with Jungkook, a typical day in the life of your friendship. He was excited, nervous even, about buying Eunbi a present. Jungkook, your sweet, loyal friend, had the biggest crush on her, and you couldn’t help but smile as you watched him overthink the smallest details. The way he talked about her, the shy look in his eyes, it was the cutest thing, honestly. Puppy love, you called it with a teasing laugh, but deep down, you couldn’t deny the twinge of something else.

You, being the good best friend, were helping him choose something perfect. Yeji wasn’t with you today—she had to go to a wedding in Seoul, a family relative’s, and she had given Jungkook some advice before leaving. So, there you were, navigating the jewelry stores with him, pointing out earrings, necklaces, and bracelets, trying to find the one that screamed “perfect” for Eunbi.

It was supposed to be a fun day, but then, it happened. Right after Jungkook paid for the gift, his face lighting up with that pleased, nervous smile, you turned and saw something—no, someone.

You saw him.

You saw Hoseok.

See, the thing was, you had seen Hoseok kiss someone before—just once by accident, then again because, well, you were curious. There was that one time when you caught him with a girl at the park, their lips locked in a moment that was more heated than you expected. You remembered feeling something then, something that made your chest ache in a way you didn’t understand. It wasn’t the kiss that bothered you. It was how he was with her, how natural it looked, how right it felt in a way you hadn’t felt about him in a long time.

But that wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was when you realized what you had been denying all along.

Hoseok had grown up. He wasn’t the same playful older brother you used to cling to, the one who made you laugh with his dumb jokes or wrapped you in his warm hugs. That version of him had faded, and you hadn’t even noticed it until now. He was taller, more defined, his features sharper. And it wasn’t just his body that had changed—it was how he carried himself. He was different, and in a way that made him... hot. You hated that word. You had never used it to describe him, but now, it was the only word that fit.

His hair, that messy, wild style he used to wear had evolved into something effortlessly cool. He looked older. He looked... like a man, and suddenly, you were curious. You wanted to know what it would be like to see him as someone who was more than just Yoongi’s best friend, more than just that guy who always teased you. You wanted to know what it would be like to feel that about him.

But standing there, frozen in the doorway of the store, you realized you didn’t just want to know. You already did.

And then, you saw it.

Hoseok was standing there, near his car—his car now, because he was nineteen, he was grown up. The girl beside him was someone you recognized, but you hadn’t paid much attention to her before. She was older, confident, and the way she leaned into him was enough to send a wave of unease through your chest.

You weren’t sure what made you step closer, what made you want to see this so badly, but your feet moved before your brain could catch up. And then, it happened.

Hoseok’s hand slipped under the girl’s skirt, his fingers barely brushing the fabric, sliding upward with a confidence that made your stomach flip in ways you didn’t know were possible. You didn’t want to look, but you couldn’t look away.

They weren’t kissing now, not in the way you had seen before. This was... different. More private. More intimate. More inappropriate. His hand, so sure of itself, was moving against her, and the girl’s breath hitched, a soft sound that shouldn’t have been heard by someone standing across the parking lot. You didn’t know how long you stood there, watching, feeling like the world had suddenly gone silent around you. It wasn’t just that you didn’t want to see it—it was that you didn’t want to feel this, didn’t want to feel the ache in your chest, the twisting of your heart as if someone had squeezed it in a vise.

You had known, deep down, that Hoseok wasn’t yours. You had known it in your mind, but your heart... it had been clinging to that hope, to that quiet, secret wish that maybe, just maybe, one day you could be the one who stood next to him like that girl did.

But here you were, watching him with someone else, and everything inside you felt like it was collapsing.

As they pulled away, laughing, Hoseok’s eyes scanned the lot—and for a second, they met yours. His smile faltered just slightly, like he recognized you, but the moment was fleeting.

You quickly turned away, retreating into the store with Jungkook, who was oblivious, still holding his little bag of jewelry for Eunbi. You were glad he didn’t notice the way your hands shook, the way your heart was still racing for reasons you didn’t want to admit.

And as you walked out into the warm summer air, your mind was full of confusion. You had thought you’d moved on from Hoseok. You had told yourself you didn’t feel that way about him anymore. But now, everything felt different. You weren’t sure if it was the kiss, the girl, or something else entirely, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had just seen something that would change everything.

The ache in your chest wasn’t going away, not anytime soon.

Hoseok and you acted like nothing had happened. Like the image of him, his hand slipping under another girl’s skirt, hadn’t been burned into your mind. Like you hadn’t seen it, like you hadn’t felt every inch of that uncomfortable, aching feeling in your chest. You went on, pretending nothing was wrong. You saw him, of course, passing by your house just like he always did, his presence familiar, his smile as easy as it had ever been.

But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t.

Sometimes, he’d stop by to chat with your parents, always charming them with his usual warmth, always the one who knew how to make everyone feel comfortable. And sometimes, he’d linger just a little longer, waiting for you to walk through the door or step out into the yard, as if you were still the girl who had his attention without question, as if you were still the one he came to see.

"Star who shines the brightest," he’d call out, that playful nickname he used to tease you with, his voice light, but underneath, there was an unspoken layer of familiarity. You hadn’t heard it in so long, hadn’t felt it in the way it used to make you smile. You would freeze at the sound of it, that little pang of nostalgia hitting you before you could brush it off.

“Hey, Hoseok,” you’d reply, trying to sound casual, trying to pretend like the knot in your stomach wasn’t there. “I’m sure whatever it is, I can help you with it.” You said it like you meant it, like it was all just another normal day, but the words felt hollow in your mouth. It wasn’t the same. Nothing was the same.

He’d smile that easy, wide smile, the one that always made you feel like everything was going to be okay, the one that used to fill the spaces between your heartbeats. "I’m sure you can," he’d say, but there was something in his eyes that you couldn’t quite read. Something that lingered in the air between you two—an unspoken tension, a shift, a feeling that neither of you were willing to acknowledge, but that was there nonetheless.

You couldn’t look at him the same way anymore. Not after that day. Not after seeing him with her. Not after you had realized that all these years, you’d been in love with him without even knowing it. How could you face him and pretend everything was fine when you were carrying this heavy ache inside? How could you laugh at his stupid jokes and pretend you weren’t desperately trying to keep your distance, to stop the feelings that you had hidden for so long from bubbling to the surface?

But you didn’t know how to stop pretending. How to stop being the girl who had always been by his side, the one who had grown up with him, who had been his little sister in every sense of the word. You didn’t know how to say what you were really feeling because it was messy, and it hurt too much. And maybe, just maybe, you were still afraid of what would happen if you said it out loud.

So, you went on like nothing had changed, like it didn’t eat you up inside every time he said your name. Every time he smiled at you, so casually, so easily. You pretended, because you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him, even if the person you were pretending to be wasn’t the real you anymore.

And Hoseok? He acted like nothing had happened, too. Maybe he didn’t know what to do either. Or maybe he knew and just didn’t want to face it. He’d still show up, still ask for your help with the dumbest things—little things, like helping him with some paperwork or giving him advice on something small. But it always felt like it was more than that. It felt like he was searching for an excuse to be near you, to hold on to that familiarity. Maybe he wasn’t ready to admit that something had shifted between you, either.

But you were the one who felt it. The weight of it. The aching, quiet realization that you couldn’t stay the same. That things had changed, but you couldn’t stop pretending that they hadn’t.

You had to live with it. Live with the feeling of wanting him so much it hurt, and the knowledge that he was with someone else, that he was out there, living his life without even realizing how deeply you were still affected by him. You had to live with the silence that followed him every time he left, that feeling of emptiness that lingered long after he was gone. The feeling that no matter how many times he smiled at you, you’d never be able to go back to the way things used to be.

You couldn’t go back to being the girl who didn’t know how much you needed him, how much you loved him, until it was too late.

Later that year, after playing this endless tug-of-war with Hoseok, pretending that nothing had changed—pretending that you hadn’t seen him with that girl, pretending that the weight in your chest wasn’t there—you finally felt a little bit of freedom. Freedom in the most unexpected of places.

It was the night of Hoseok’s graduation, and the air felt magical, like something out of a dream. The stars hung low in the sky, not too cold, not too warm—just the perfect night. Perfect for him. Perfect for the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. He was leaving Gwangju, heading to Seoul, and you knew this time, it wasn’t just about the transition from high school to university. This was a bigger shift, one that meant he was starting to move away from everything familiar, from everyone who had always known him as the guy who could light up any room.

You tried not to think about how you couldn’t remember the last time you had looked at him without feeling that quiet ache. How it used to be so easy, how everything about your relationship had been so comfortable until suddenly, it wasn’t. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? This ache had always been there, creeping in the shadows, just waiting for the right moment to show itself. You had tried to ignore it, tried to pretend it wasn’t real, but tonight—it was too much to hide anymore.

“Never thought you’d be good at math,” you joked, trying to sound light, to ease the tension that had settled between you.

“Neither did I,” he murmured, his eyes momentarily drifting away from you. He was always so good at pretending nothing was wrong, so good at hiding what was really going on behind his smile. And yet, you could see it in the way his shoulders had squared, in the little lines that formed between his brows. It wasn’t all just about the graduation for him, either.

“Shouldn’t you be happy?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost hesitant. It wasn’t the question you had meant to ask. But it was the one that slipped out. Because you couldn’t ignore it anymore—the way his eyes never quite met yours, the way his smile seemed forced tonight.

“I am,” he said, but his words were laced with something you couldn’t quite name. “I’m happy. I wanted something practical, something I can do for the long term. I’ll be teaching dance on the weekends, but I’ve got my degree to fall back on.”

You laughed, a small sound that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You’ve always had a plan, haven’t you?”

He smiled that crooked, easy smile. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

You nodded, but inside, it all felt so much heavier than you expected. You had been expecting this—his quiet confidence, his carefully constructed path, the way he could make everything sound so easy. But you couldn’t help feeling like he was already slipping away. And in a way, you had been preparing yourself for this moment, even if you didn’t know how to let go.

The thing is, you had loved him long before this night. Long before any of this became complicated. You realized that now. The feeling that had been there for so long, the one you had buried deep down—only now, it wasn’t something you could deny. It wasn’t something you could push away anymore. You had loved him for so long that it had become a part of you, woven into the very fabric of who you were. And when you finally accepted that, it was like a heavy curtain had been pulled back, and you saw him clearly for the first time. And that scared you. Because it wasn’t just the boy you had grown up with anymore.

This was Hoseok, the one who had always been there, and now, the one who was leaving.

And yet, tonight—tonight was a new beginning, wasn’t it? He had invited you. Specifically. He had wanted you there. Even now, as he was on the cusp of leaving everything behind to start something new, he had reached out to you. It felt like the perfect chance to close the gap between you two, to break down the walls that had been building over the past months.

He wasn’t just someone you had known for years anymore. He was someone you cared about deeply, someone you had wanted to be close to for so long, even when it hurt. And now, you weren’t sure where this moment would lead.

“Star,” he said suddenly, and your heart skipped at the familiar nickname. “I’m glad you came. I don’t think I would’ve enjoyed tonight as much without you here.”

The ache in your chest deepened. The old, familiar feeling of being the one who belonged to him—the one who had always been his “Star”—seemed to echo in his voice. But there was something more, something heavier in it now. And you didn’t know if it was because he was leaving or because you were finally facing the truth.

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” you said softly, your voice trembling just slightly, even though you tried to hide it. “You know I’ll always be here for you, right?”

He smiled, his eyes softening for a moment, just the smallest crack in his facade. “I know, Star. You’ve always been here for me.”

And for a moment, you just stood there, the silence between you heavy, but warm. You were both standing on the edge of something, not quite sure what was next. But you knew that even though he was leaving, there was no way you could forget how much you had cared for him. No matter how hard you tried to push it down, no matter how hard you tried to pretend, he had always been there. Always.

And maybe, just maybe, tonight—this night, the perfect night with the stars shining down on you both—was a way for you to let go of the past and finally take that first step toward whatever was coming next.

At seventeen, life felt like it was finally yours. For the first time, you were truly free, unencumbered by the shadow of your older brother or the weight of expectations. Yoongi wasn’t around already, neither was Hoseok, no more pretending that everything was fine when it wasn't. The world suddenly seemed vast, and you were ready to chase it on your own terms.

Yeji and Jungkook were still your crew, always your foundation, but along the way, you had adopted Jimin and Taehyung into your world. It felt natural, like they’d always been a part of the group, like they just fit. And they were the ones who pulled you into a world you hadn’t quite been ready for but somehow felt like you were meant to step into. The world of parties, the world of carefree fun, the world of no boundaries, of dancing until your legs ached and laughing until you forgot how to stop.

Jimin and Taehyung were the life of every party, always at the center of things, pulling everyone into their orbit. And that night, they had invited you. Your first real party. You had never felt so alive—so free.

It was a Friday, and you had already asked your parents for permission. It wasn’t even about convincing them; they knew you were growing up. They trusted you. Your mom reminded you to call at 1 a.m. if you needed a ride, but that was it. They gave you a little money for a cab, just in case. And then, they let you go. It wasn’t the first time you’d gone out, but it felt different—like you were finally stepping into a new chapter of your life, a life that wasn’t so tightly monitored, a life where you were free to make your own decisions.

The party was in full swing by the time you arrived. Music thumped through the walls, and the warm summer night air wrapped around you like a blanket. The smell of alcohol, sweat, and perfume filled the air, but you didn’t mind. You were here. You were finally here, in this world that felt so different, but so right. Yeji was already there, her laughter carrying across the room as she caught sight of you. And then Jungkook, who always seemed to know just what you needed—an easy smile, a warm greeting, a constant source of comfort.

And then, of course, Jimin and Taehyung. They were already in the middle of things, as always, pulling you into their circle, making you feel like you were exactly where you were supposed to be. But the night had barely started when the shots began. Taehyung had the mischievous glint in his eyes that told you this was about to get out of hand. “Come on, it’s one shot,” he had said, grinning. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

You had laughed it off. Just one shot, you told yourself. But somehow, it never stopped at one.

By the time you had lost track of how many shots you’d had, the world felt like it was spinning in the most wonderful way. The music was louder, the people around you felt closer, and your laughter was genuine, unburdened. You felt light, like you could float away.

That was when the words spilled out, uninvited, like a confession you had been keeping for far too long. You didn’t even think about it. You were just there, surrounded by your closest friends, and somehow, it all just came out.

“I think... I think I’m still looking for someone else,” you said, your voice slurring just a little, but there was truth in it that couldn’t be ignored. “I keep meeting people, and they’re nice, and they’re... good. But it’s just not enough. I keep looking for him.”

They all stopped, eyes on you for a moment. You didn’t even need to say his name. They all knew. They had always known. Everyone had always known who him was. Who Hoseok was.

Jimin raised an eyebrow, his usual playful smirk fading for just a moment, replaced with something softer. “You’ve always been obsessed with him, haven’t you?” he asked, his voice teasing but warm.

You looked at them—Jimin, Taehyung, Yeji, Jungkook—and realized how much they understood. How much they cared for you, how they could read you without you even saying a word. They had all seen it: the way you carried Hoseok’s memory with you, the way you tried to ignore it, push it away, but always came back to it. Always came back to him.

“Yeah,” you said quietly, almost ashamed of how much you had let it affect you. “I didn’t mean to. But I think I always have.”

The group went silent for a moment, each of them processing your confession in their own way. But then Taehyung, ever the one to bring the mood back to light, clapped his hands and grinned. “Well, now we know,” he said, raising his cup in a mock toast. “The mystery is solved. You’re still in love with Hoseok. And you’re not fooling anyone.”

You laughed, but it was bittersweet. Because the truth of it settled in your chest. It had always been Hoseok. All those feelings you tried to bury, all that distance you had created between yourself and the truth—it was never going to go away. No matter how many parties you went to, no matter how many people you met, you were always looking for him.

The night continued, but it felt like it had changed. You were still with your friends, still laughing, still part of the group. But in the quiet moments, you couldn’t shake the truth that had just spilled from your lips. Hoseok had always been there, lurking in the background, and now—now that you had confessed it out loud—you weren’t sure what to do with it.

You needed to move on, to let go, to forget—but you couldn’t. Not when he was still the one you kept looking for in everyone else.

And as the night went on, you realized something: You couldn’t hide from your feelings anymore. You couldn’t bury them deep enough that they wouldn’t come back up. He wasn’t coming back either. And at seventeen he wasn’t going to take you seriously. At seventeen, him being twenty, nothing was going to happen. It ached, but it was okay too. He had no fault in this.

At nineteen, you were finally graduating. It was a mix of excitement and relief. The years leading up to this moment had blurred together—endless laughs with your group: Yeji, Jungkook, Jimin, and Taehyung. They’d always been there, constant in their own ways. Yoongi still dropped by whenever he could, despite his busy schedule at med school, but he wasn’t home much these days. Hoseok? You saw him only when Yoongi was around. He and Yoongi were at the same university in Seoul, but despite both being on the same campus, their paths didn’t cross too often.

It was exactly one week before graduation.

And today? Hoseok had come over on his own. Yoongi had left with Sunhee—his first girlfriend to officially meet your family—and it was just you at home with Yeji.

You were in the middle of an easy conversation with Yeji when Hoseok arrived. The door creaked open, and there he was, standing in the doorway, a bottle of soju in hand, a sheepish smile on his face. He was tipsy but not out of control. —just enough to give him that carefree energy, a hint of something else in his eyes. Still weird though. What was he doing here anyway?

“Hey, Star,” Hoseok greeted you, his voice warm but quiet. You hadn't heard him call you that in a while. It hit you more than you expected.

“Hey, what’s up?” you replied, trying to keep your tone casual, though a part of you couldn’t help but feel that old familiarity and something else—a pull that felt like comfort mixed with something a little more complicated.

“I need your help with something,” he said, grinning like he was trying to hide his real reason for coming over. His eyes flicked to Yeji, who was standing near the couch, clearly trying to figure out what to make of his presence.

“Oh?” you raised an eyebrow, teasing him. “I’m sure it’s something more than just that.”

Before Hoseok could answer, Yeji, sensing the shift, stood up. “I’m gonna head out for a bit, y’know, errands and stuff,” she said, clearly making her exit. You could tell she was giving you and Hoseok some space—she always did, when it felt like it was time. “Don’t stay up too late, alright?” she added with a smile, disappearing out the door.

And just like that, you and Hoseok were alone.

The silence between you two hung in the air, thick and palpable. Hoseok took a few steps closer, and for a moment, you thought he was going to say something. But instead, he just stood there, holding the bottle loosely in his hand.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” you said, almost as a way to break the silence, but the words felt hollow the moment they left your mouth. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him before, but right now, things felt different—off. Maybe it was because you hadn’t spent time with him alone in so long. Maybe it was just the way everything was changing, slowly, but undeniably.

Hoseok’s gaze softened for a moment, a flash of something you couldn’t quite place. He shrugged and took a step closer to the couch. “Yeah, I know. I don’t know why I came, really... just felt like I needed to be around something... familiar. I guess,” he said, his voice trailing off like he was still trying to make sense of his own words.

Familiar. You. The word settled in the pit of your stomach.

“I get it,” you said quietly, your heart a little heavier than you expected. There was a quiet ache, but you weren’t sure where it came from. Hoseok had always been there. In your life, in your space, your family. And yet, something had shifted. Not just with him, but with you, too.

He let out a small laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I mean... I guess things have been weird lately. I don’t know how to explain it.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I guess, I don’t want to feel like everything’s changing. I don’t know... does that make sense?”

You nodded, even though it kind of didn’t. “It does,” you said, but your voice sounded distant, even to your own ears.

Hoseok looked at you for a long moment, his gaze lingering, almost searching, but also filled with a kind of exhaustion you hadn’t noticed before. It was the same exhaustion you saw in Yoongi sometimes when he came back from school, looking like he was carrying more than he could handle.

You didn’t know what else to say.

But the air between you two felt thick, not with the ease of how it used to be, but with the strange tension of something—maybe old memories, maybe feelings that didn’t have names yet. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was familiar, and you both clung to that. Even though you didn’t know where this feeling was coming from, you both knew it was there, hanging in the room, unspoken and heavy.

Finally, Hoseok took a deep breath, like he was ready to change the subject, but before he could speak, you heard the soft sound of Yeji’s car pulling out of the driveway, her engine fading in the distance.

Hoseok stood up, walking to the window as if he didn’t want to break the silence too quickly. “I should probably go,” he said, his voice softer now, more like he was saying it to himself than to you.

You didn’t want him to go, not really. But you didn’t know how to stop him, or if you should.

“Yeah, maybe,” you said, standing up and walking over to where he stood by the window. Your heart was pounding, but you couldn’t tell if it was from the ache or from the weirdness of being so close yet so distant. “I’ll see you later, alright?”

He turned to look at you, his expression still unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something that made you want to reach out, but you didn’t. He nodded slowly, giving you a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Later, Star.”

And with that, he left, leaving you standing by the window, still feeling that strange mix of comfort, hope, and confusion, unsure of what was happening or what would come next.

Graduation day arrived in a burst of light, and you had never felt more alive. The air was crisp, carrying the buzz of excitement, and everything seemed perfect. Yeji was by your side, her fingers expertly applying makeup as you both laughed at the absurdity of trying to look perfect for a day that would soon be over. You helped her with her makeup, too, and despite the nerves, there was warmth in the moment. It felt like all the years of hard work were finally culminating in this one day, and you were here—alive, surrounded by your closest friends and family.

Yoongi made sure to make a scene when they called your name. His proud grin was unmistakable, and your dad, smiling broadly, stood next to your mom, both of them cheering you on like they always had. It was the kind of moment that felt timeless, as if you could hold onto the warmth of their pride forever.

But then... there was Hoseok.

Hoseok, standing on the other side of the ceremony hall, his voice almost booming as he yelled, "I knew my Star would make it big!" The words were loud, filled with genuine joy, and for a moment, everything felt perfect. His happiness was infectious, and you couldn’t help but smile, even though the warmth of his voice didn’t quite reach your chest in the same way it used to.

The moment passed quickly, but that smile stayed on your face as you took the family picture, standing between Yoongi and your parents. They all stood so close, like a unit, and as Yoongi whispered in your ear, his voice quiet but full of emotion, “I’m proud of you,” you felt the lump in your throat. This was it—the moment you had been working towards.

But when you looked around, something felt off.

The crowd began to disperse, the noise around you dying down, and you caught sight of Hoseok lingering near the side. His smile had softened, but there was a strange distance in his eyes, something you hadn’t noticed before. It was subtle—just a flicker, but you could see it. His usual brightness was muted, replaced with something heavier. His gaze wasn’t focused on anyone in particular, but on something in the distance, like he was lost in thought.

You excused yourself from your family and made your way toward him. The moment felt inevitable. You had to speak to him—had to acknowledge the strange tension between you two that had been growing ever since the night of your graduation. It wasn’t anything overt, but it lingered.

“Hey,” you said, your voice tentative as you approached him. “I didn’t know you’d be this quiet today. You’re always so loud.”

Hoseok glanced at you, his lips pulling into a small, tight smile. “Yeah, well, things are different now, aren’t they?” His voice was light, but there was something in his eyes that didn’t match the tone.

“Different how?” You pressed, your curiosity edging out the cautious distance you felt between you.

He shifted his weight, hands stuffed in his pockets as he looked away again, almost like he was searching for something in the crowd. “I don’t know.” There was a hesitation in his voice, a hint of something that didn’t belong. “Just... feels like the end of one thing, you know?”

You frowned slightly, your chest tightening. “Yeah... I get that,” you said quietly, suddenly unsure of where the conversation was going. “But it’s not really the end, right? We’ll see each other more.”

His eyes flickered back to you, but they weren’t as bright as they used to be. There was a sadness in them, subtle yet unmistakable. “Yeah, but...” His voice trailed off, and for a moment, it seemed like he didn’t know how to finish the thought. “You know, I’ve always been here. But I feel like we’re all heading in different directions now, and I guess it’s just... hard to tell what’s next.”

Your stomach twisted as you processed his words. There was an ache in his voice, a rawness that you hadn’t expected. Hoseok was always the one who seemed certain of everything—the one who could brighten any room with his presence. And yet now, he sounded uncertain, hesitant, like he wasn’t quite sure where he fit anymore.

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the growing distance between the two of you. “I thought things would feel... different,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “But now I’m not so sure.”

He finally looked at you, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like he was seeing you in a way he hadn’t in a long time—like he wanted to say something, but the words were stuck. The sadness in his eyes deepened, but he masked it with a quick flash of a smile. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I get that. I think we’re all figuring things out, in our own way.”

There was something unsaid between you, something that neither of you wanted to face, but the silence spoke louder than anything else. Hoseok wasn’t just any friend anymore—he wasn’t the boy who used to be part of your world in such a seamless way. And somehow, that truth hurt more than anything.

“I’ll always be here, you know that, right?” Hoseok said after a long pause, his voice sincere, but with an edge of something unspoken. “But maybe... maybe things are just changing, and we have to let them.”

You nodded, though the ache in your chest was heavier than ever. “Yeah. I think I’m starting to understand that.”

Hoseok gave you one last lingering look, his eyes softening as he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “I’m proud of you, Star. You’ve got a bright future ahead.”

And with that, he turned, slipping back into the crowd, leaving you standing there, with a heart full of confusion and a lingering sense of longing that you couldn’t explain. You had always known Hoseok, but suddenly, it felt like you didn’t know him at all.

You shocked your parents—and honestly, everyone—when you told them you wouldn’t be going to university in Seoul. Yonsei University had accepted you, and that should have been the dream. It was everything you’d worked for, everything you thought you wanted. But somehow, something didn’t feel right. The more you thought about it, the more the doubt started creeping in. Something about it felt... wrong.

You had always been the person who sought out logic, who found comfort in planning, in structure. Marketing made sense. It was creative but stable, a perfect balance of ambition and practicality. You could see yourself working in that field, building a career, maybe even making something of it. But every time you imagined yourself walking through Yonsei’s gates, something deep inside you twisted. It wasn’t fear, exactly—just a sense of being trapped. A nagging feeling that if you stayed in Seoul, you’d be stuck.

Was it fear of being tied down to a place that wasn’t really yours? Or was it fear of growing into a life you hadn’t chosen for yourself?

You had always done what was expected of you. Your family’s pride was always there, lingering, and you couldn’t shake the idea of disappointing them. But in the quiet of your thoughts, a voice kept telling you it wasn’t enough—this life wasn’t enough. You weren’t meant to be confined to one place, to live the same life your parents had lived. You wanted more.

It wasn’t an easy decision. It wasn’t something you made lightly. You felt a pull toward something different, something far away from the expectations that had been sewn into you from a young age. So you did what you had always done when faced with uncertainty: you pushed forward, took the leap. You applied for scholarships, even though you knew it was a last-minute decision. The kind of decision that could either change everything or fall apart completely.

When the letter from New York University arrived, everything felt surreal. You’d made it. But in the quiet after the excitement, there was this strange mix of relief and confusion. Why didn’t this feel like the victory you thought it would?

Marketing. The major was still there, and it made sense. But now, tucked in the margins of your future was something no one knew about—something for you. A minor in creative writing. It was a part of you that no one expected, not even you at first. You had always been a quiet dreamer, someone who got lost in words but never really let anyone see that part of you.

As you sat there, staring at the acceptance letter, the weight of it all settled in. You could finally take control of your future. But it didn’t come without a price. You’d be far from home, far from the people who had always been there—Yoongi, your family, your old friends.

Was it selfish to choose yourself now? Was it selfish to want something more than what was expected?

But in the end, you didn’t care. You knew this was the right path for you. It didn’t matter that it was scary or uncertain—it felt like freedom. A chance to break away from the life everyone thought you should have and create one that was all your own. But it also felt like a goodbye, like you were walking away from a part of yourself you weren’t sure you were ready to leave behind.

It was bittersweet. It felt like stepping into the unknown, like taking a leap off the edge of a cliff and hoping there was something—anything—to catch you. You didn’t know what your future would look like, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like you were going to be the one to define it. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Yoongi was still your rock, even if things felt different now. The distance between you two, now that you were in another country, had stretched the connection in ways you didn’t quite expect. Sure, you had more conversations than when you lived under the same roof, but they were always brief and less meaningful. Med school had swallowed Yoongi whole, his residency demanding so much of his time and energy. Still, he always found a moment to check in. It was like a habit now—quick messages, updates on his day, sometimes more about his exhaustion than anything else.

“Residency’s kicking my ass, but I’m surviving,” he’d text. You could tell he was tired, not just from the demands of his profession but from the weight of the years he’d put into his studies. Yet, amidst the chaos, there was something that still kept him grounded. He’d mention how music, in the form of an old music set up he found in a second-hand store had become his salvation. It had become an unexpected escape for him.

As for Hoseok, things had changed too. It wasn’t that you and Hoseok didn’t care about each other—it was just that the busy lives you both led had naturally created more distance. Hoseok, now in business school, was submerged in the grind of classes, networking, and all the pressures of pursuing a future that had little to do with dance these days. You were glad he didn’t abandon dance completely though. The spontaneous texts, the late-night talks—all of that had faded away. It wasn’t intentional, just life pulling you both in different directions.

Yoongi would bring him up from time to time “Hoseok’s still in business school, right? He doesn’t have much time to hang out anymore.” It wasn’t a judgment, just a statement of fact. But then Yoongi would chuckle, and you could hear the amusement in his voice when he’d mention Hoseok’s latest endeavor. “He actually joined a street dance crew recently. I think he needed something to balance out the stress. You know how he is.”

But even with all of this change, you knew Yoongi and Hoseok still made time for each other. It wasn’t often, but sometimes, after a long week of med school or business school, they’d find a moment to grab coffee or hang out. It was rare—sometimes it was just a few hours, sometimes it was a quiet evening catching up. But you could feel, even from afar, that those moments meant something. They were still holding on to what they had, even if it was different now. Even when with you it was different. It was bound to happen you guess.

It was sometime during your second semester of Marketing when you met Daniel. Daniel—your first everything, really. Well, everything except for a kiss. You weren't quite sure what you had expected love to feel like when it finally arrived, but with Daniel, it wasn’t the way the movies had promised. There were no fireworks exploding in your chest, no immediate breathlessness. Instead, it felt... right. For the first time in a long time, your heart didn’t ache for someone you couldn't have. It didn’t hurt at all. It just settled, quietly, almost shyly, into something that felt warm and safe.

You remember how desperate you were to tell someone about him. Yeji and Jungkook were the first to hear, of course—dragged into a half-asleep conversation at three in the morning because you couldn't keep it to yourself. You whispered about him through your phone, clutching your pillow, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Jimin and Taehyung hadn’t been there for the call, but they heard about Daniel soon after, when you couldn’t resist gushing in your group chat. There’s someone, you had typed with trembling fingers. And I think he’s...different.

Your friends were supportive, naturally. They urged you to give it a shot, to open your heart a little. So you did. Hesitantly at first, like stepping into a pool and letting the water slowly rise up around your ankles.

Daniel was sweet—almost painfully so. He held doors open without thinking about it. He remembered the little things, like how you preferred hot chocolate over coffee, or how you always carried a book in your bag even if you knew you wouldn’t have time to read it. He listened—really listened—to your dreams, your fears, your stupid little stories from when you were a kid. He made you laugh, made you feel seen.

Your first date was cute in the way first dates should be. Nervous smiles, accidental brushes of hands, endless conversations about everything and nothing. You wore your favorite sweater, the one you always wore when you needed a little extra courage. You didn’t kiss him that night. You both wanted to, you could feel it, but somehow it felt more important to savor it, to not rush. To let it mean something.

The second date felt like an extension of the first—effortless, bright. He took you to a bookstore downtown and then for ice cream, and you thought, Maybe this is what it’s supposed to be like. You liked the way he looked at you, like you were some sort of wonder he couldn't believe was real.

And by the time three months had passed—after countless late-night texts, studying together until you fell asleep on FaceTime, clumsy jokes and shy confessions—you were officially dating.

You didn’t know it then, but this was your coming-of-age in motion. You were living it, one soft, uncertain step at a time. You were discovering how thrilling and terrifying it was to be vulnerable with someone, how it meant giving them all the parts of you you usually kept tucked away. There were nights when insecurity gnawed at you, when you wondered if you were saying the right things, doing the right things, being enough. But there were also nights when you felt braver than you ever had—when you realized that maybe growing up wasn't about erasing the fear, but learning to move through it anyway.

Daniel didn’t erase your insecurities. But he stayed. He held your hand through them. He was gentle with you, and in turn, you learned to be gentle with yourself.

It was imperfect. It was real. It was yours.

He was your first.

It was strange, in a way you hadn’t expected. Not bad—just unfamiliar, like stepping into a space you had only seen through windows your whole life. You tried to prepare yourself. You asked your friends at university about it, half-whispered questions between classes or after late-night study sessions, trying to piece together what it was supposed to feel like. You texted Yeji one night, fingers hovering over your phone before finally hitting send: "Is it normal to feel nervous even if you really like someone?" She replied almost immediately. "Of course. Just make sure you’re doing it because you want to, not because you feel like you have to. Trust yourself."

You trusted yourself. You were sure. You liked Daniel—you really liked him. He was sweet, patient, and never once made you feel rushed. He always waited for you to meet him halfway. If anything, you felt lucky to be figuring it out with someone like him.

Still, when the moment finally came, everything felt...awkward. Not wrong, just clumsy, new. You fumbled with your own nerves, overthinking every little thing—the way your hand should move, whether you were supposed to say something, how you were supposed to breathe. Daniel noticed, of course. He noticed everything. But instead of making it worse, he laughed softly and kissed your forehead, whispering something like, "It's just me. No pressure." And somehow, that made you exhale. That made you brave enough to keep going.

The experience wasn’t perfect. It was a little bit messy and a little bit shy, full of quiet giggles and whispered apologies when you bumped into each other awkwardly. But that was part of it, wasn't it? It was supposed to be a little messy. It was your first time learning someone else's body, learning how to be open and vulnerable in a way you had only ever imagined before.

Later that night, lying next to him with your heart still pounding from both adrenaline and tenderness, you texted Yeji again: "It felt weird but...good. Like...like it mattered." And she sent back a long line of hearts and a simple, "It should matter."

You realized then that growing up didn’t mean shedding the nerves or the awkwardness—it meant embracing them, allowing yourself to be imperfect and afraid and still moving forward anyway.

Daniel made it easier. He kissed the top of your head when you overthought. He held your hand when your mind raced ahead of your body. He was gentle with you in every way a person could be gentle, and you knew—even with the doubts, the clumsy moments—you were safe here. You were seen.

It wasn’t a grand, cinematic first. It didn’t look like the movies. It looked like two people trying. Two people caring. And maybe that was even better.

Your friends came to the US, and for a little while, everything felt perfect again.

It was supposed to be a vacation, a treat for surviving your first exhausting semesters abroad—but in so many ways, it felt like reality hitting, too. You were all growing up, you realized. No longer just kids hanging around the same streets, no longer seeing each other every day without trying. You were still tied together, still orbiting around each other's lives, but now there were new paths carving distances between you.

Jimin was specializing in dance at Korea University, pouring every bit of passion into perfecting his craft. Taehyung had decided he wanted to build something of his own, diving headfirst into Business at Yonsei University with a confidence only he could carry. Yeji—steady, kind, wise Yeji—had always known how to listen, how to see people, so it made perfect sense that she found her way into Psychology, also at Yonsei. And then there was Jungkook. Dreamy, sweet, endlessly respectful Jungkook who had once seemed like he could be anything and still somehow managed to surprise you by choosing the uncertain path: photography. He wanted to create things that made people feel, and for the first time, he was serious about it. Really serious.

They all had their own lives now. Their own dreams, their own schedules. And yet—they still chose to come see you. They saved up. They planned it months in advance. Because you weren’t going back home that winter.

The storm had ruined everything. Flights canceled, alarms going crazy, streets flooded and closed. You got your money back, sure, but it didn’t fix the hollow ache that came with realizing you wouldn’t be home for the holidays. You missed your parents. You missed your brother. You missed the warmth of Seoul, the comfort of streets you knew by heart. You missed your friends. You missed Hoseok.

You hadn’t even realized how much until you saw them at the airport, standing there with wide grins and sleepy eyes, dragging their suitcases behind them like lost kids finally found again. You ran to them without thinking, laughter bubbling out of you so fast it almost hurt. They pulled you into a messy, loud group hug, everyone talking at once, the smell of airport coffee and the sound of Yeji’s familiar giggle making your chest squeeze in the most beautiful, painful way.

It felt like nothing had changed. It felt like everything had changed.

The week they stayed was a blur of late-night talks, messy takeout dinners, walking around the city pretending you weren't all a little bit lost. You caught up on everything—Jimin’s dance competitions, Taehyung’s wild business ideas, Yeji’s long, quiet talks about the things people carry inside without ever saying them out loud. Jungkook showed you photos he hadn't shared with anyone else, images that looked a little like homesickness and a little like hope.

Somewhere in between the laughter and the stories, you introduced them to Daniel. It felt big, in a way. Daniel—sweet, kind Daniel who had quietly carved a space in your life over the past few months. The first person who made your heart feel less like an open wound and more like something steady and alive again.

They were curious, naturally. Protective, in the way old friends always are when they meet someone new in your world. But Daniel was... well, Daniel. Gentle, funny, endlessly patient with your friends’ teasing and Jungkook’s wide, curious eyes.

It was surreal to watch your old world meet your new one, to see them laugh together, to realize that somehow, you were weaving all these separate pieces of yourself into something that still made sense. Something that still felt like home.

When they left, you cried. Quietly, after they boarded the plane, tucked away in a corner of the airport where no one could see you. Not because you were sad, exactly. But because you had been reminded—so vividly, so achingly—that even across oceans and time zones, even as life pulled you all in different directions, some things were too deeply rooted to ever really be lost.

You had people worth missing.

Time moved faster than you ever thought it would. One minute you were adjusting to your first year in a foreign country, clinging to calls from home and late-night talks with your friends, and the next—you were standing on the edge of something new, about to graduate.

Somewhere between the lectures and late submissions, you’d found an internship at a mid-sized IT company. It wasn’t exactly where you pictured yourself when you first applied to University, but it taught you things you didn’t know you needed: how to hold your own in meetings, how to send a proper follow-up email, how to find small corners of pride in the work you did, even if no one else noticed it. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was yours. And for a while, that was enough.

Your parents had visited you throughout the four years you spent abroad—sometimes once a year, sometimes less if things at home got too busy. You made it back to Korea too, but only for the holidays. Sometimes for Chuseok, sometimes for Christmas. Always a week at most, a blink and you were gone again. There were years you saw Yoongi in those short trips, catching him between his packed shifts at the hospital, and there were years you missed him entirely, your schedules never quite aligning the way they used to. As for Hoseok—you hadn’t seen him properly in a long time. You heard about him through Yoongi mostly: how he got a corporate job, how he’d somewhat still found time to dance, chasing that old part of himself he couldn’t bear to leave behind. It was strange, the way time stretched between you and the people you once thought you'd never drift from. But you supposed that was just another part of growing up too.

Things with Daniel changed, as things sometimes do. You spent nearly two years together—growing, learning, falling in and out of rhythm. He met your parents during one of their visits to the U.S., and later, you introduced him to Yoongi too, when you finally managed a trip back home that lasted more than a handful of rushed days. Even Hoseok had been there that time, crashing a casual dinner you hadn’t planned on becoming so emotional. It had been... sweet, in a way. A small blending of past and present. You could still remember the way Daniel smiled nervously, how Hoseok had clapped him on the shoulder and said something that made your mother laugh until she was wiping tears from her eyes. For a little while, it felt like everything fit.

But life, as it tends to do, kept moving. Slowly at first, then faster. You both knew it was ending before either of you could say it out loud. He had plans that would take him across the country; you had dreams that hadn’t fully found their shape yet. The breakup wasn’t dramatic or messy—it was mutual, full of quiet sadness and lingering kindness. The kind of ending that didn’t leave you bitter, only a little older, a little wiser, a little more aware that love, no matter how good, sometimes simply isn’t enough to anchor two people in the same place.

By the time your graduation day arrived, it felt like everything had come full circle. Your parents flew in, proud and beaming, holding signs that embarrassed you more than you'd ever admit. You stood there in your cap and gown, diploma in hand, watching the last four years stretch out behind you like a film reel. There were so many things you still didn’t know. But standing there, blinking against the sun and the weight of it all, you realized maybe that was okay.

You had made it.

You hadn’t planned on coming back to Seoul right after graduation.

The original idea — the one you clung to through endless library nights and lonely winters — was to stay in the U.S. a little longer. Find a job. Maybe move to New York or Boston, chase the skyline, lose yourself in the noise. You had dreamed of it for so long it almost felt real. A life crackling with endless, towering possibilities.

But sometimes, life quietly rearranged your plans without asking first.

It was Yoongi who made the choice easier — or maybe just a little less terrifying. He was already a doctor by then, deep into the grind of hospital shifts that stretched until morning, his voice always a little rough around the edges when he called. But he still called. Somehow, despite the impossible hours and the exhaustion you could hear even through the static, he made time.

"You can figure things out here," he said simply. "You don’t have to do it alone."

And somehow, those few words — casual, tossed out like no big deal — cracked something open inside you.

Your parents had been supportive, too. Telling you there was always a place for you back home, a kitchen table with your seat still waiting. A life you could step back into if you wanted.

You thought about it. Really thought about it. About coming back to your childhood home, about building something steady and safe. About giving up the version of yourself you had fought so hard to create on your own.

But the truth was — you didn’t fit there anymore. Not in that version of yourself. Not in that house where the walls still remembered who you used to be.

And Seoul — restless, ruthless, electric Seoul — felt closer to who you were now. Or who you wanted to be, even if you didn’t quite know her yet.

So you said yes.

Landing back home was surreal. The airport smelled like coffee and humidity, like childhood and heartbreak all at once.

Your parents were there, waiting with open arms and bright, shining smiles that made your chest ache. Yoongi too — a little thinner, a little sharper, his white coat slung carelessly over his shoulder. He had carved two whole hours out of a packed schedule to have lunch with you all.

The food was delicious. The conversation was easy. For a little while, it felt like slipping on a favorite hoodie — familiar, broken-in, safe. Your brother teased you over side dishes. Your mother asked if you were eating enough vegetables. Your father told bad jokes that still somehow made you laugh.

It was perfect. Maybe too perfect.

Because later — after the plates were cleared and the hugs exchanged — you found yourself alone in Yoongi’s apartment. The afternoon light slipped in through the windows in muted gold streaks. Your suitcase sat half-unpacked by the door. Your phone buzzed weakly with half-hearted texts from your U.S. friends.

And you sat there, cross-legged on a couch that wasn’t yours, in a city that should have felt like home, with a degree tucked safely into your bag — proof that you had done it. You had finished what you set out to do.

You should have felt proud. You should have felt invincible.

Instead, you just felt... small. Small, and out of place, and a little bit scared.

Because no one told you how hollow it would feel to come back a different person — to find the same streets, the same shops, the same skyline — and realize you didn’t know how to fit yourself into it anymore.

No one told you that success could taste so much like loneliness.

You curled your arms around your knees, your forehead resting against them, feeling the old, familiar ache building quietly behind your ribs.

What if you weren’t enough here? What if you had changed too much — or not enough? What if all the growth you fought for overseas wasn't visible to anyone but yourself?

You stared at the muted blue of the carpet, your chest tight, your breath shallow.

Everyone kept telling you you were doing great. Everyone kept smiling like you had already won.

But they didn’t see the way your hands trembled sometimes when you opened a job application. They didn’t see the doubt gnawing at the back of your mind, whispering that maybe you weren’t as capable, as brilliant, as brave as you had tried so hard to seem.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push the noise away.

You were home. You were supposed to be happy.

But sitting there, in the golden hush of Yoongi’s living room, you couldn’t help but wonder if maybe — deep down — you were more lost than you had ever been.

Yoongi had warned you before you even sat down at lunch. "I'm on call tonight," he said, raking a hand through his hair, the circles under his eyes deeper than you remembered. "Might have to leave early if the hospital needs me."

You nodded, smiled — understanding the way you always had with him. Yoongi didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. But he also belonged to the world now, not just to you.

Still, when his phone buzzed halfway through the meal and he stood with a sigh heavy enough to pull the air out of the room, it hit you harder than you expected.

"Sorry, kid," he said, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head. "We’ll catch up properly soon, okay? I swear."

And just like that, you were alone.

You thought, maybe, you could call Yeji. But she wasn’t in Seoul.

She had left for a volunteer project months ago — tucked away somewhere in the countryside, helping rebuild after the floods that summer. She sent photos sometimes: muddy boots, cracked hands, wide fields stretching past the horizon. She was doing something good, something real. But it meant that for now, she was a hundred miles away and unreachable.

You thought about Jungkook too. But he was gone, too.

A last-minute opportunity had whisked him across the world — a creative residency in London, something about music and exhibitions and a chance he couldn’t afford to miss. You had seen the announcement two weeks ago, his excited face lit up under the headline. You had smiled, proud of him, even as a little piece of you folded up inside.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Everyone was growing, reaching, becoming more than the little lives you used to share.

You were proud. You really were.

But it didn’t stop the quiet from pressing against your ribs now, in the backseat of the taxi, as the city blurred past — neon-bright, indifferent.

Yoongi’s apartment greeted you with nothing but stillness.

The keys scraped awkwardly in the lock. The door swung open onto spotless wood floors, pale walls, a couch too neat to be truly lived in. A few framed photos leaned on the shelves — crooked smiles, memories that didn’t include you anymore. A half-wilted plant sagged in the corner, stubborn and tired.

You dropped your suitcase by the door. Your sneakers thudded against the floor, the noise too loud, too sharp.

You stood there for a moment, your backpack still slung over one shoulder, your jacket still clutched in your hands — waiting, stupidly, for something to happen.

Nothing did.

You wandered to the kitchen, opened a cabinet, closed it again. The fridge buzzed, empty except for some yogurt cups and two lonely bottles of water.

You weren’t hungry. You weren’t tired either.

You were just... dislodged. Suspended between the life you had built so far away, and the life you were supposed to rebuild here.

You curled up on the worn couch, dragging an old blanket over your shoulders. Your phone sat face-down beside you, buzzing occasionally with messages you didn’t have the energy to answer.

The city pulsed just outside the windows — relentless, glittering, alive.

You stayed very still.

You thought about the degree tucked away carefully in your suitcase — proof that you had finished something, proof that you were supposed to be somebody now.

You thought about the friends who were oceans away, chasing their futures.

You thought about Hoseok, for a brief, aching second — but shoved the thought away before it could bloom into something dangerous.

And you realized, for the first time in months — maybe years — that you were really, truly on your own.

You buried your face into the scratchy fabric of the couch cushion, breathing in the faint scent of detergent and city dust.

You had made it home. You had done everything right.

So why did it feel like you had never been farther away?

Two weeks back in Seoul, and you were going crazy.

At first, it hadn’t seemed so bad. You told yourself you deserved a few days off — a few mornings sleeping in, a few afternoons wandering old streets like a ghost trying to recognize the bones of her old life.

But the days stretched, and the silence thickened, and the applications piled up.

You sat at Yoongi’s kitchen table every morning with your laptop open, wearing the same pair of sweatpants, staring blankly at cover letters you didn’t know how to finish.

Every listing sounded the same: dynamic self-starter. fast-paced environment. salary based on experience.

Experience you didn’t have. Confidence you were quickly losing.

You clicked "submit" on half-hearted applications and tried not to feel like you were throwing little pieces of yourself into a void.

You refreshed your inbox obsessively. Nothing. Or worse — polite rejections that started to feel like tiny fractures spider-webbing through your chest.

By the tenth day, even Yoongi noticed.

"You gotta get out of the house, kid," he said one night between bites of cold takeout, not even looking up from his medical journals. "You’re driving yourself insane."

You had flipped him off half-heartedly, too tired to argue.

He wasn’t wrong.

The walls of his apartment felt closer every day, pressing in. Your own brain felt like it was buzzing, restless and too loud.

You weren’t even sure who you were anymore. A college graduate? A jobless daughter? A drifting stranger in her own hometown?

You scrolled through your phone late at night, seeing snapshots of your old friends — the ones who had stayed in the U.S., the ones who had gotten promotions, internships, shiny new apartments.

Meanwhile, you were stuck here, pressing "apply" over and over into the abyss.

The only thing tethering you to sanity was the news that Yeji was coming back soon. Finally.

She texted you late one night, her photo blurry and grainy from bad countryside signal — muddy boots, windblown hair, wide grin. coming back next weekend, babe🌟 get ready for me 💥

You stared at the text for a long time, heart pinching.

Yeji — your Yeji — the one person who had always known how to pull you back when you drifted too far. Maybe once she got back, things would start to make sense again.

Maybe you wouldn’t feel so lost anymore.

Maybe.

You set your phone down on the nightstand, rolled onto your side, and stared at the pale ceiling above Yoongi’s borrowed bed.

You had thought coming back to Seoul would make you feel whole again. Instead, you felt like a puzzle with pieces missing — scattered and unfinished.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, breathing out slowly into the empty room.

Two weeks back, and you still didn’t know who you were supposed to be now.

It was a strange thing, feeling out of place in a city you had once dreamed about.

When you were a kid growing up in Gwangju, Seoul had always felt like the answer to everything — a glittering world just out of reach, buzzing with possibility. You were supposed to come here for university, supposed to start your life under these neon skies.

But life had shifted — the U.S. happened — and now, somehow, you were here years later, a little older, a little more worn down, and nothing felt the way you thought it would.

You told yourself this disorientation was new. Something about coming back after so long.

But if you were honest — if you stripped everything else away — maybe it had always been there, waiting underneath.

You had done what you were supposed to do. You had graduated. You had succeeded. You had come back to Korea because it felt safe. Familiar. Because a part of you still believed Seoul was the dream.

But sitting here, drowning in unanswered job applications, scrolling endlessly through postings you couldn't care less about, you were starting to realize: You hadn't just missed your family. You hadn't just missed the comfort of home.

You had missed yourself.

The version of you who moved through life with want instead of fear. The version who chased things for the thrill of it, not to prove a point. The version who said yes to a creative writing minor just because it set her chest on fire — not because it would ever fit neatly on a resume.

The internship at the mid-sized company? You had done that for the validation. For the polished bullet point you could show people back home, proof that you weren't wasting your time.

You sat back in Yoongi’s too-quiet apartment, your chest aching with the weight of all the things you hadn’t admitted until now.

Maybe the scariest part wasn’t that you didn’t know where you belonged. Maybe it was realizing you had built a life chasing a version of yourself you didn’t even recognize anymore.

The front door buzzed, sharp and sudden.

You blinked. You weren’t expecting anyone.

Another buzz, louder this time.

You stumbled up, crossing the room barefoot, and pressed the intercom.

"Star, open the damn door! I’m freezing!" a familiar voice crackled through — blurry but unmistakably Yeji.

Your heart nearly leapt out of your chest.

You flung the door open without even checking, and there she was — Yeji, standing in the hallway, messy ponytail, cheeks pink from the cold, dragging a battered duffel bag that looked about three times her size.

"You look like crap," she announced gleefully, before you could even say hi.

You laughed — this wild, cracked sound that burst out of your chest — and launched yourself at her.

Yeji caught you in a bone-crushing hug, the kind that squeezed the breath right out of you, and you held on like the ground might give out if you let go.

"I missed you, idiot," she muttered into your hair.

"I missed you too," you said, your voice splintering.

Later, you ended up sprawled on Yoongi’s worn-out couch, two mugs of cheap instant coffee between you, legs tangled together like you were sixteen again.

Yeji talked first — about the countryside, about building homes with her bare hands, about the long nights and longer bus rides. You listened, soaking up every word like sunlight after a long winter.

Then it was your turn.

You told her about the job applications, about the quiet panic that crept into your chest when you opened your laptop every morning. You told her how weird it felt to finally be living in Seoul — the Seoul you had dreamed about — and still feel like you didn’t fit.

Yeji didn’t interrupt. She didn’t laugh. She just listened, her face serious, her hand steady on the coffee mug between her palms.

"You don't have to figure it all out right now, you know," she said eventually, her voice soft but certain. "You’re allowed to just... be lost for a bit."

You looked down at your hands — at the invisible tremor you felt deep in your bones.

"But what if I forgot who I’m supposed to be?" you whispered.

Yeji smiled — the kind of smile that was a little sad, a little proud.

"Then maybe it’s time to figure out who you actually are," she said. "And not who you thought you had to be."

You swallowed hard.

Maybe she was right. Maybe it wasn’t about going back to who you were before. Maybe it was about giving yourself permission to start over — here, in this messy, uncertain, imperfect Seoul that didn’t look like your childhood dreams anymore.

Insecurities aside, you and Yeji had a sleepover — and it was pure, chaotic magic.

You dragged every pillow and blanket you could find into a giant mess on the living room floor, ordered enough fried chicken for a small army, and let yourselves be twenty again — loud, messy, unfiltered.

"Babe," Yeji said dramatically, waving a chicken drumstick like a magic wand. "You have missed so much, it’s actually criminal."

You snorted, reaching for a soda. "I was getting a whole-ass degree across the world, Yeji."

She rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. "Babe, that’s not an excuse. Life was happening here!"

And then — casually, like she wasn’t about to emotionally assassinate you — she dropped it:

"Anyway, Jungkook set me up on a blind date."

You choked so hard on your drink you actually saw stars.

"WAIT. WHAT?!"

Yeji grinned like the evil little gremlin she was. "Yup. Your sweet little golden boy decided I was 'emotionally constipated' — his words, babe — and said I needed to get laid or I’d wither into a husk."

You howled with laughter, slapping the couch cushions.

"That sounds like Jungkook," you gasped. "I leave for five minutes and you’re getting pimped out like a drama character?!"

Yeji cackled. "AND GUESS WHAT. The guy? Actually hot. Actually amazing."

You sat up, alert. "Okay, DETAILS, BABE. I need the whole menu."

She leaned in like she was telling you state secrets.

"His name’s Namjoon. Works in publishing or editing or something sexy like that. He’s tall — like skyscraper tall — and he has dimples, babe. DIM. PLES." She clutched her chest like she was actually in physical pain.

You shrieked into a pillow.

"And he’s smart — like scary smart. He was talking about some book project and I swear, half the words he used aren’t even in the dictionary. I just sat there nodding like an idiot while falling in love."

You were CRYING laughing at this point. Yeji was full-body storytelling, waving her arms, reenacting every single moment.

"And THEN," she said, grabbing your wrist dramatically, "he took off his jacket, right? And — babe — the forearms. I was actually fighting for my life."

You wheezed. "Yeji, please, I’m BEGGING you."

"I’m not even joking, babe," she said solemnly. "The veins? The watch? I almost proposed."

You were half-sobbing, half-wheezing, sprawled backwards on the floor.

"And he listens, babe. Like actually listens when I talk. No pretending, no glazed-over look. Just... full attention. Like I’m saying something important."

Yeji’s voice softened a little then, and you caught the shine in her eyes.

You sat up properly, resting your chin on your knees. "You deserve that," you said, meaning it with your whole heart. "You deserve someone who looks at you like that."

Yeji smiled — that crumpled, overwhelmed smile she only got when she was trying really hard not to cry.

"And so do you, babe," she said fiercely, pointing a chicken bone at you for emphasis. "You deserve someone who doesn’t make you feel like you have to earn being loved."

Your throat closed up a little.

You grabbed a pillow and chucked it at her head instead of answering.

Yeji caught it, laughing, and for a little while, you just stayed like that — two girls in a blanket fort, talking about hot boys and scary feelings, trying to stitch yourselves back together with bad jokes and too much fried chicken.

The future could wait. Tonight, you had each other.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

The door swung closed behind him with a soft thud.

You stood frozen, blanket slipping off your shoulders, heart crawling painfully up your throat.

It wasn’t Yoongi.

It was Hoseok.

You stared — half-awake, half-shocked — as he stepped inside, keys dangling from his fingers, a bag of takeout clutched in one hand.

It had been a long time.

Too long.

He looked different.

Not drastically, not in a way most people would notice. But you noticed.

The set of his jaw was a little sharper. The shadows under his eyes, a little deeper. The way he carried himself now — less bounce, more quiet gravity — it was all there, woven into the lines of his body like threads only you could see.

Still, he smiled when he saw you — easy, warm, familiar.

Like he always did.

"Long time no see, Star," he said, voice low, a little rough around the edges from sleep and travel.

And you —

You, who had loved him quietly, hopelessly, across countless summers and half-shared glances — you felt the name hit you square in the chest.

You forced a smile back, your fingers tightening unconsciously in the sleeves of Yoongi’s hoodie.

"Yeah," you managed, your voice thinner than you wanted it to be. "It’s been a while."

The words hung awkwardly between you, like wet clothes refusing to dry.

Hoseok shifted, scratching the back of his neck, glancing around the apartment without really seeing it.

He didn’t seem uncomfortable, exactly. Just... unsure.

Like he felt the weight of the years too — heavy and clumsy on his shoulders — but didn’t know what to do with it.

You watched him set the bag of food down carefully on the counter, his movements slower, more measured than you remembered.

You wondered if he noticed it too — the space between you, cracked and uneven now.

Life had pulled you apart. Not in a dramatic, explosive way. No fights, no betrayals.

Just... time.

The slow, inevitable erosion of closeness when neither side tries quite hard enough to hold on.

And it hurt, in a way you hadn’t been prepared for.

Because you remembered — God, you remembered — every stupid little moment from when he was a permanent fixture in your life.

The late nights talking about nothing. The way he used to steal your fries and pretend it was a fair trade. The way he used to laugh — head thrown back, completely unguarded — like nothing in the world could touch him.

You remembered all of it. And looking at him now — older, quieter, somehow lonelier — you realized with a slow, sick twist of your heart:

He probably didn’t.

Or if he did, it wasn’t etched into his bones the way it was for you.

He was just here. Dropping off food. Smiling at you like you were an old photo he forgot he ever loved.

And yet — in the way his eyes softened when they landed on you, in the small crease that appeared between his brows when you hugged your arms tighter around yourself —

you saw something.

A flicker.

A question he didn’t know how to ask.

He felt something too. He just didn’t know what it was yet.

Yeji stirred on the couch behind you, groaning loudly and kicking off a blanket.

You both startled, breaking the heavy, fragile eye contact like it hurt.

Yeji cracked one eye open and grinned sleepily.

"Morning," she mumbled. "Hope I’m not interrupting a moment."

You flushed, ducking your head, while Hoseok huffed a laugh — easy, thoughtless — and turned toward the kitchen.

"No moment," he said lightly.

And it was true.

There was no moment.

Not really.

Just a hundred thousand memories humming between you — all the things you never said, and all the versions of yourselves you could never go back to.

You watched his back as he unpacked the food, your heart heavier than you wanted to admit.

You were older now. You were supposed to know better.

But you still wanted — in quiet, stupid, impossible ways — for him to turn around and see you.

Really see you.

For the first time.

The second his plane touched down in Seoul, Hoseok called Yoongi.

It was instinct, not thought — muscle memory after all these years.

He leaned back in the taxi seat, exhaustion creeping deep into his bones, phone pressed loosely against his ear. The scent of rain on hot pavement bled in through the half-open window.

Three weeks away — three weeks of conferences and endless business dinners in Singapore. It had been good, objectively. A success, by anyone’s standards.

But Hoseok couldn’t shake the hollow feeling that clung to him — something he didn’t want to name.

It wasn’t that he hated what he was doing. It was secure. It was safe.

It just... wasn't the same.

Not the way dancing had been. Not the way it set his veins alight and made him feel like he was alive instead of just existing.

He pushed the thought away, listening as the call rang through.

It went to voicemail.

Typical.

Yoongi was busier these days — a head doctor now, constantly sprinting from one emergency to the next. Hoseok didn’t take it personally. He just shot a lazy text instead: yo you home? just landed.

Yoongi’s reply came a few minutes later: not till lunch. you can wait there if you want. key still works.

No details. No explanations. Just Yoongi.

Hoseok smiled faintly, the way you do when you miss someone without even realizing it.

He checked the time — almost noon.

He figured he had enough time to swing by the old place — their favorite little restaurant tucked behind a pharmacy on the corner — grab some takeout, and settle in at Yoongi’s apartment to wait.

No big deal.

He wasn’t expecting anything.

Definitely not... you.

When he unlocked the door with his copy of the key (because yes, they were those friends — the kind who shared everything without ever needing to ask), he thought he’d find an empty apartment, cold and still.

He did not expect the first thing he saw to be you.

Blankets everywhere. Messy hair. Oversized hoodie swallowing your frame.

And you — standing there barefoot, half-blinking at him like you were still halfway inside a dream.

For a second — a full, frozen second — Hoseok's entire brain short-circuited.

Star.

The name crashed into him like a freight train.

He hadn’t thought about you in months — or maybe he had, in small, quiet ways he hadn’t dared to admit.

You looked... different.

Not in the way that was easy to name. Not just the longer hair or the softer shape of your face.

It was deeper than that.

You held yourself differently now — a little heavier, a little slower, like life had settled into your skin instead of sitting lightly on your shoulders like it used to.

Your body, too — he noticed it before he could stop himself.

The curve of your waist, softer and fuller than he remembered. The slight dip where your hips met the hem of the hoodie, barely hidden, barely decent. The way your legs — longer, stronger — braced you instinctively like you were ready to run, or maybe stay.

You were a woman now.

Not the messy little girl who used to chase after him and Yoongi, trying to keep up. Not the bright-eyed teenager he used to laugh with in the summers.

A woman.

And fuck, it hit him so hard he actually forgot how to breathe for a second.

You were still you — still that soft, stubborn, reckless light he remembered — but everything about you was heavier now, richer. Alive in ways that made something deep inside him ache and burn all at once.

You stared at him like you couldn’t quite believe he was real either.

He managed to pull himself together — just barely — and smiled.

It wasn’t the easy, boyish grin he used to throw at you years ago. It was something smaller. Older. Sadder, maybe.

"Long time no see, Star," he said, voice low and a little rougher than he meant.

You flinched — not in fear, but in recognition.

Like hearing that name had broken something open between you, something you had both tried so hard to bury.

He watched as you fumbled for words, clutching the hem of your hoodie, cheeks coloring even as you tried to act casual.

He could see everything — the nervous twitch of your hands, the way your breath caught at the back of your throat, the way your gaze flickered over him like you didn’t know where to land.

It mirrored the way he felt: unsteady, too full, too much.

You said something — something about Yoongi not being there — but Hoseok barely heard it.

He was too busy memorizing you all over again.

The small things. The new things. The old things you still carried, tucked carefully inside yourself.

Something twisted in his chest — something dangerous and familiar.

He hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected you.

And standing there, with your bare feet on the hardwood, hair tangled, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blinking at him like he was a ghost — he realized, dimly, terrifyingly:

He was completely fucked.

Hoseok had always been a happy teenager. Full of energy, full of noise, full of this impossible need to fill every room he entered.

But there had always been a sadness, too — quiet, stubborn, tucked deep in the marrow of his bones.

Something about him made people notice. Maybe it was his laughter — loud and reckless, daring the world to keep up. Maybe it was the way he carried his heart in his hands without apology.

But there were moments —moments even then where all that light would slip through the cracks, where he felt older than he had any right to be.

He was sixteen when he first realized it — that feeling of being too much and not enough all at once.

He hid it well. With teasing, mostly. With jokes and grins and a devil-may-care attitude that made it easy for everyone else to believe he was fine.

And he was. Mostly.

Especially around you.

You, who he loved to tease more than anyone.

You, his Star — though you didn’t know it then.

You never really knew why he called you that. You never asked. And he never told you.

But it was a memory he kept tucked carefully inside him — something small and sharp he would trace with his fingers when the world got too loud.

It had been a bad day. Not catastrophic. Just... bad in the quiet, ordinary ways that left bruises you couldn’t see.

His parents arguing again like they did sometimes — voices rising, anger curling under the doors. He was fourteen. Reckless, restless, angry at everything and nothing.

So he ran. Not far — just far enough.

He ran to the one place that still felt safe. Your house.

His second home.

And there you were — not waiting for him, not expecting anything—just there.

Sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, a book propped open in your lap, your tongue poking out slightly in concentration.

You were eleven. Far too young to understand the heaviness he carried in his chest.

Far too young to realize you saved him that day without even trying.

He remembered pausing in the doorway, breathless from running, heart pounding against his ribs — and for once, not from movement.

He watched you for a second. Just breathing.

You, who were calm where he was chaos. You, who were stubborn and sweet — to everyone except him. (He liked it that way. He liked that he had to work for your smiles.)

You noticed him eventually — glanced up, wide-eyed and bright.

And without hesitation, you started talking — telling him about whatever story you were reading, voice eager, stumbling over the words in your excitement.

He didn’t hear a single thing you said. Not really.

He just watched.

Listened.

Let the sound of your voice — full of something he had almost forgotten how to feel — wrap around the cracks inside him.

He didn't understand why it mattered so much. Not then.

All he knew was that, for a few stolen minutes, the sadness in him quieted.

And when you smiled God, when you smiled

It was like a whole new universe cracked open right in front of him.

You were so full of life it made his chest ache. So bright it hurt a little to look at you.

So he called you Star.

Because you were.

Because you were light when he needed it most. Because you reminded him — in that stupid, reckless, perfect moment — that not everything in his world was broken.

And even years later — even now, older and quieter and heavier — he remembered.

That day. That smile. That moment of peace he hadn’t known how to ask for but found anyway.

His Star.

Always his Star.

Even if he never told you.

Even if you never knew.

#hoseok smut #hoseok x reader #bts smut #jhope #hoseok #hobi #bts jhope #bts hobi #jung hoseok #bts #jung hoseok smut #namjoon smut #yoongi smut #jin smut #jungkook smut #taehyung smut

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hobi-side · 24 days ago

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just started crying, i miss my fucking babies :( they're gonna come back soon I'm soooo thankful

love myself ⟡ love yourself in new york for @cordiallyfuturedwight

cr. namuspromised

#jinnie #taehyung #my babies #gonna cry #im crashing the fuck out

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hobi-side · 27 days ago

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I love these pictures I love these pictures I can't stress this enough I Love These Pictures. These are my favorites from his concept pictures and ngl this has inspired me to.... write something.

250423 - bts on twitter: ‘Echo’ Concept Photo Ⅱ

#hubby #jin #i love him guys

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hobi-side · 1 month ago

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ngl i was writing last night in a freaking rush for NO REASONNN but i'm glad the horny poetry i wrote is at least getting some love <333 hellaurrr guys, hope you enjoyed what i wrote and maybe i finally Finally post all the drafts i've been holding back for over 2-3 years since this blog was created (i have way too many namseok fanfictions over there.... some yoongi too... rapline self indulgent horny shit.... yup🤓‼️)

#hello #hey #me

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hobi-side · 1 month ago

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might just blow it

— pairing: jung hoseok x f!reader

— playlist: danger - txt, smoke sprite - rm, fuxxin' love - OoOo, 24 hours - jimmy brown, steel - 365 feat dana kim

— summary: Revenge is a dish best served hot, and Hoseok might have pushed your buttons, but he’ll soon learn just what happens when the tables turn. Spoiler: You might be the one getting a lesson but it's fun to play with fire.

— word count: 8.1k (like 5k of this is probably filth y’all)

— warnings: pwp, established relationship, unprotected sex, hobi is kinda a possesive man, f! masturbation, degradation, bratty reader, little breath play, hoseok has a filthy mouth and idk what else, they were possesed by a sex demon in this piece

— note: this is entirely inspired by the craze of what the hope on the stage tour has been giving us for the past months and more specifically THIS whatever the hell was going on with this man that night i have been thinking about it for over a month and this piece of extremely self indulgent horny craze was born. this is my first ever post here, hope you enjoy it! english isn't my first language! please let me know what you think

The second he steps on stage, he wrecks you.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve seen him perform—he always leaves you breathless. Ruthless. A storm in human form. The second the lights hit him, the crowd erupts, and suddenly, you're nothing but need in a sea of screams.

You’re not backstage tonight. You’re in the VIP section—closer to him, somehow further from him. The Hope on Tour shirt clings to your body, damp with sweat, your ARMY bomb held in a death grip. No one around you knows the truth. No one knows that the man they’re screaming for—aching for—is yours. You think of those TikToks, smug and stupid: They don’t know I’m his girlfriend. But you do. You know it in the way your body thrums just watching him. You know it in the ache pooling low in your belly. You know it in the fact that you’ve kept him a secret, selfishly, fiercely. Because he’s not a fantasy. He’s real. And he’s yours.

And tonight, he’s out for blood.

You can’t take your eyes off him. Every move is designed to destroy. He dances like he’s fucking the beat into the floor. He raps like he wants to bite. And every time he gets near your section, it’s like he’s looking straight through the noise—straight at you.

Then he smiles.

Not just any smile. That one. The one that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. The one that makes your knees buckle.

And then—forty minutes in—it happens.

Hangsang.

Your pulse spikes. You love this song. At least, you did. Right up until he decides to ruin your life with it.

He makes his way to your section. Slow. Measured. A predator in perfect control.

And then?

He fucking does it.

A casual gesture, at first. One he could get away with. Until he doesn’t. Until his gaze locks on yours like a sniper scope, until he bites his lip and drags his fingers across it like he's testing your patience on purpose.

And then—God help you—he slips those fingers into his mouth. Slow. Deep. Tongue flicking against the tips like he’s tasting you instead.

Your stomach drops. Your thighs clench. You swear you see a thread of spit glisten in the lights.

And then—

Oh, no.

His hand lifts. Fingers curl into the air, sin made physical. A motion you know intimately, one he’s used on you in the dark, against the wall, under the sheets. One that never fails to make you unravel.

Two seconds. That’s all it takes.

The crowd loses its mind—screams, gasps, cries of disbelief. You can already see the fancams being clipped, slowed down, dissected frame by frame.

And he’s still watching you.

Smirking.

Like he knows you’re already soaked through your panties. Like he knows exactly how you’ll fall apart the second he gets you alone. And fuck—he does.

Because Hoseok isn’t just a performer. He’s a menace. A devil in glitter and sweat.

And you know—know—what’s coming later. The teasing. The cocky little tilt of his head. The filthy whisper, hot against your skin:

Couldn’t handle that, baby? You looked so pretty about to cry.

You hate him for it.

But not nearly as much as you love him for it.

When the show ends, and he gives his closing speech, the switch flips. Suddenly he’s not the sin-dripping demon who just mimed fucking the air with his fingers.

He’s just Hoseok.

Hair damp with sweat, eyes glassy with emotion. His voice cracks as he thanks the crowd, thanks the fans, thanks you—without saying it. You see it in the way he clutches his chest, the way he breathes like every second is a gift.

You look at him and feel your heart stretch to bursting.

Your boyfriend is a paradox. Pure chaos. Pure light. He destroys and he heals. And somehow, impossibly, he’s yours.

Backstage is a blur of movement and sound, but your senses are locked on him. Jung Hoseok, still glistening with sweat, flushed from the high of performing, is leaning against a table, chugging water like he didn't just ruin lives for two hours straight. The towel draped around his shoulders does little to distract from the sharp cut of his jaw, the soaked-through shirt clinging to his chest, the glint in his eyes when he spots you.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just watches you approach with that look—the one he saves for private moments. The one that says he knows. Knows exactly what he did out there.

You stop in front of him, arms crossed. “You’re so full of yourself.”

Hoseok raises a brow. “Me? What did I do?”

You scoff. “Don’t play innocent. That thing during ‘Hangsang’? You really went with that move?”

He shrugs, a smug tilt to his mouth. “Felt right in the moment.”

“In the moment?” You glare. “You looked me dead in the eye while doing it.”

“Ah,” he says, tapping his fingers against the bottle, voice lowering, “so you admit you were watching me.”

You roll your eyes. “You were practically fucking the air.”

His smile sharpens. “Was I?”

He pushes off the table, stepping in close. Too close. Heat radiates from him like a furnace, and his voice drops to a murmur just for you. “You didn’t like it?”

“I liked it too much, and you know it.”

He hums. “Then what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” you hiss, pulse spiking, “is that now I can’t think straight and you’re standing here like you didn’t just mouthfuck your own fingers and ruin my entire nervous system.”

He lets out a soft laugh, biting down on his lip like he’s trying not to lose it. His eyes flick down, catching the way your chest rises with each breath. When they return to yours, they’re darker. Hungrier.

“I was just giving a little performance,” he says. “You looked like you needed the reminder.”

You narrow your eyes. “Of what?”

He leans in, lips nearly grazing your ear. “What happens when I actually put my mouth on you.”

Your breath catches—right as a voice cuts through the hallway.

“Hyung! You’ve got five minutes ‘til the send-off!”

You both freeze. Hoseok pulls back with a tight breath, jaw clenching as he throws a nod over his shoulder. “Got it!”

Then his eyes settle back on you. “We’re not done.”

“Oh, I know.”

The energy between you crackles. Neither of you moves as a stylist swoops in to blot the sweat on his forehead, mumbling something about lighting. You barely hear it. Hoseok’s hand brushes your waist as he steps around you, not-so-accidentally dragging fingertips along your side before pulling away completely.

The send-off is a blur, fan signs and waves and cameras flashing. You follow at a distance, trying to keep yourself together, but it’s impossible. Every time he glances back, every time he smiles too wide or bites down on that lip, you feel it unraveling again.

And then you’re in the car.

The doors shut.

Silence.

He’s beside you, legs spread wide, chest still rising and falling too fast. The windows are tinted, the divider up. Just the two of you now.

You glance at him. He’s staring out the window like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just press you to the edge of combustion and walk away.

But his knee bumps yours.

Once.

Twice.

Then stays there.

He turns slowly, lips twitching. “I’m going live in ten.”

You nod, voice tight. “Mm. You better hurry. You look like someone who needs a little help calming down.”

He chuckles, deep and wrecked. “Baby, you’re the reason I’m like this.”

And you sit there, burning, limbs aching, the space between you electric and unbearable.

Neither of you touches.

Not yet.

But god—you both want to.

The hotel room is quiet when you walk in. Clean, modern, luxurious—but it barely registers.

Hoseok heads straight for the desk setup by the window, pulling out his phone and propping it up on a mini tripod. His makeup is barely touched up, hair still messy in that post-show, too-good-to-be-legal way. He mutters something about checking the Wi-Fi, tapping through settings with a frown.

You trail in slower, pretending to be unaffected, but you’re boiling.

And you want payback.

“You starting the live now?” you ask, voice light.

He glances back at you. “In a minute. Why?”

You shrug, toeing off your shoes. “Just wondering how long I have to behave.”

That gets his attention. His head tilts, a knowing smile twitching at his lips. “Don't start something you can't finish, baby.”

“Who says I won’t?”

He shakes his head, amused, and turns back to his phone, hitting the “go live” button before you can say more. The app lights up, comments immediately flooding in as the view count climbs.

“Hey guys,” he says, voice warm, tired but happy. “Just got back from the show. You guys were crazy tonight…”

You sit on the edge of the bed, watching him talk. He’s glowing—soaked in adrenaline and affection, eyes scanning the screen like he’s genuinely soaking up every word. You almost feel bad.

Almost.

You stand, slow and quiet, padding over to where he sits.

He notices. Barely. A flick of his eyes toward you, then back to the camera.

And then you straddle his lap.

He freezes.

It’s subtle—no one on the live can see—but you feel it. The sharp inhale. The tension in his thighs. The way his hands hover, unsure whether to push you off or pull you closer.

You drape your arms loosely around his shoulders, mouth close, almost right beside his ear. “Smile for the fans, Hobi.”

He shifts in the chair, clearly trying to look casual, but you’re sitting right on him—weight pressing into his hips. He clears his throat, waves at the screen.

“Yeah, so I’ll talk about the setlist in a sec,” he says, voice a pitch higher than before. “I just, uh…”

You roll your hips.

Slow. Torturous.

His breath catches audibly.

You suppress a grin.

His eyes dart to the screen, then to you. “Baby,” he warns, lips barely moving.

“Hmm?” You bat your lashes, kissing the shell of his ear.

“Stop.”

“Make me.”

His jaw clenches. The comments keep flying—fans asking why he’s blushing, if the room’s too warm, why he’s suddenly looking down every few seconds.

He tries to power through. Tries to focus. He starts talking about his favorite moment during “Just Dance,” but his voice keeps stuttering. His hands grip the edge of the chair so hard his knuckles go white.

You grind down again. Barely.

He mutters something in Korean under his breath.

Then he’s done.

“I—I’ll talk to you guys later,” he says, too fast. “I need to—rest. Yeah.”

He ends the live with a stiff wave, slamming his phone down the second the stream cuts.

Silence.

You lean in, innocent. “Everything okay, Hobi?”

He looks at you. And he snaps.

In one motion, he lifts you, flips you onto the bed, and crawls on top of you with a growl in his throat and murder in his eyes—sweet, delicious murder.

“You think that was funny?”

You grin, breathless already. “A little.”

He leans in, mouth brushing yours. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“I don't think so.”

He hovers over you, hands planted on either side of your head, breathing hard.

His eyes are wild—half disbelief, half dark amusement—and all of it aimed directly at you.

“You think this is a game?” he murmurs, low and dangerous.

You blink up at him, face the picture of innocence. “Didn’t you start it, Mr. ‘Let Me Finger the Air Like a Pornstar in Front of Thousands’?”

His nostrils flare. “That was performance. This—” he gestures between your bodies, hips brushing yours with almost-zero restraint, “—this is personal.”

“And?” you whisper, one hand sliding up the back of his neck, threading into his hair. “You gonna punish me or talk me to death?”

That does it.

He jerks back like your touch burns. Stands. Paces.

You watch from the bed, smug, legs still slightly spread from where he left you.

He’s trying to get it together. Chest rising and falling, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt, jaw flexing like he’s biting back a thousand curses. He drags both hands down his face, then breathes out a laugh that sounds half-wrecked.

“You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You sit up slowly. Swing your legs over the side of the bed, take your sweet time walking up behind him. You press your chest against his back, let your fingers drift just under the waistband of his pants. Just a taste.

“Tell me to stop,” you murmur.

He doesn’t.

“Tell me you didn’t love every second of it.”

Still nothing.

You pull back just enough to tease, but he catches your wrist before you can fully retreat. Spins around, pulling you against him in a hard, unyielding grip.

“You want to play games?” he growls. “Fine. We’ll play.”

His hands drop to your hips, fingers digging in. He leans down, lips brushing yours—so close, but not touching.

“But you don’t get to win.”

Then—again—he lets go.

Backs away. Grabs a water bottle from the table and drinks like it’ll douse the fire in him. It won’t.

“You’re not gonna touch me?” you ask, head tilted just enough to be a challenge. Your pulse is thrumming in your neck, fast and furious, and he can see it—feels it.

Hoseok takes a slow sip from his water bottle, his eyes never leaving yours. Then, licking the last drop from his bottom lip, he smirks. “You’re not ready.”

Your brows lift, mocking. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he murmurs, voice low, cocky. “You’re not ready for what I’d do to you if I actually started touching you.”

You scoff, but the heat that coils in your belly betrays you instantly. Your thighs press together on instinct. God, you hate how right he might be.

But now—it’s about pride. About holding your ground. About not letting him win just because he knows exactly what buttons to press.

You cross your arms, eyes gleaming. “Coward.”

He tilts his head, tongue poking into his cheek as he smiles. Dangerous. Ferocious. “Keep talking, baby,” he warns, rising from the edge of the bed. “You’ll be flat on your back before you can blink.”

You raise a brow. “Big words for someone who rage-quit a livestream because he got hard on camera.”

He lunges.

You shriek, laughing, twisting, but he’s too quick. In a second, he’s got you pinned under him again, his hands bracketing your shoulders, his knee sliding between your legs like he owns the space there.

The smile on his face is feral—unchained. “You think you're funny, huh?” he growls, breath ghosting over your lips. “You think I won’t wreck you right now for that little stunt?”

You grin, wicked and bright. “Mmm, you like it nasty, babe?” you purr, fingers dancing up the line of his jaw. “Should’ve thought better before acting up on stage. That little finger trick?” You click your tongue. “You started it.”

He growls again—deep, from his chest, like you’ve touched something raw.

You lean up, give him a light kiss on the cheek. A tease. Nothing more. Then you start to wriggle out from under him. “I’m gonna go clean up. Make myself comfortable.”

You say it like a threat. And it is.

But the second you try to move, his arms tighten, locking you in place.

“Oh, hell no,” he says, voice rough. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and walk away all smug, acting like you didn’t just hijack my entire f—” he swallows hard, eyes dragging over your body like he’s trying to rein it all back in. “You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”

You laugh again, but it’s breathless this time—your own composure slipping. His body is hot, solid, and there, and every move he makes only pushes you deeper into the mattress.

Still, you raise your chin. “You can’t keep me here forever, Hobi.”

He dips down, lips brushing your jaw, your neck, that spot behind your ear that makes your knees go weak—even when you’re lying down.

“Baby,” he whispers, voice like velvet over a razor’s edge. “You think I’m the one losing control right now?”

Your stomach flips.

“Go on,” he adds, letting up just enough for you to slide out from under him. “Run off. Get comfortable. But when I’m done being nice—” his gaze drops, slow and hot—“you’ll be the one begging to stay in bed.”

And he flops back on the mattress, watching you walk away with hooded eyes and a smirk that promises vengeance.

You shut the bathroom door behind you, but not all the way.

Just enough for him to hear everything. Just enough for him to wonder if you left it ajar on purpose.

You flick on the light and catch your reflection in the mirror—cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten, pupils blown wide. You look wrecked already and he hasn’t even touched you properly. It’s power. It’s delicious.

And you’re going to make him feel every second of it.

You peel off your shirt with slow, deliberate movements, knowing he can hear the whisper of fabric, the creak of the floorboards, the soft clink of your necklace hitting the counter. You don’t say a word. Let his mind fill in the gaps.

You hear him shift in the bed. Restless.

Then the tap runs. You rinse your face, run your hands through your hair. Still quiet. Still calculated.

Then, when the silence gets too loud, you hum.

Soft and lazy. Just loud enough for it to carry.

“Hmmm,” you sigh to yourself, like you're very pleased with how things are going. Then: “This lingerie might be too much.”

You hear him curse.

You smile. God, you’re having so much fun.

And you keep going. “Or not enough.”

“Baby,” his voice comes through the door, already strained. “Don’t fuck with me right now.”

“Who’s fucking with you?” you chirp sweetly. “I’m just getting comfortable”

You pause. Let it sit. Let him stew in it.

Then, in a voice soaked in sugar: “You good out there?”

The bed creaks again. Louder this time. You imagine him pacing, or palming himself over those sweatpants he threw on in a rush, maybe thinking about how it felt when you sat in his lap before, shifting just so, how your scent’s probably still on his fingers. Still on his skin.

You press your thighs together and try to stay composed.

This is revenge. Sweet, slow-burning revenge. And you’re winning.

“If you want,” you murmur, voice light and laced with mischief, “I could show you what I picked out…”

Silence.

Then—bang.

A sharp thud against the wall. You can’t tell if it’s his fist or the dresser or his skull, but whatever it is, it sounds violent.

You bite back a smile, high on the power. Teasing him like this is too easy.

“Get out here,” he snarls. “Now.”

You scoff, amused. “You didn’t even say please.”

There’s no pause this time.

“I don’t fucking care. I’m tired.” His voice is raw—loud, dark, and fraying at the edges. You open the door fully and find him in the doorway already, like he couldn’t wait. His pupils are blown, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, one arm extended just far enough to touch the inside of your wrist.

His fingers curl around it.

Not rough, but firm. Insistent.

“You are coming with me,” he says, like it’s law. Like it’s a fact already written.

You stand there in his shirt and the smallest pair of shorts you packed—fabric clinging to your skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. He sees everything. The curve of your ass, the hint of lace at your hips, the smooth slope of your thighs still flushed from the game you started.

He swallows, jaw ticking.

“I was just making myself comfortable,” you say sweetly, and his grip tightens, thumb brushing the pulse at your wrist like it drives him mad.

“You’ve got five seconds,” he says, voice low and shaking. “Before I stop playing nice.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think this is nice?”

He steps closer.

You don’t move.

Now he’s right there—barely an inch between you. The heat off his skin is blistering. His other hand rises to cup your jaw, not quite touching, just hovering, like even that would be giving in too soon.

His eyes flick to your lips, your legs, the way your shirt rides up when you breathe.

“You look like a fucking dream,” he mutters. “A dream that’s trying to kill me.”

You smile, saccharine and smug. “Then maybe you should’ve thought twice before acting up on stage.”

You lean in—just a whisper of your lips against his cheek—and give him a kiss. Barely there. Just enough to ignite.

Then you turn like you’re about to leave again, heading back toward the bed or the bathroom or anywhere that isn’t him.

But his grip doesn’t let go.

He tugs. Not hard—but with purpose.

You stumble right into him, chest against his, thigh brushing the outline of his cock straining against the sweats he rushed to put on after the livestream.

He breathes hard through his nose, like he’s fighting for control.

You whisper against his neck, “You don’t look that tired to me.”

That’s it.

That’s the spark.

He doesn’t lunge, not yet—but his whole body tightens, like a predator held back by a thread. You can feel his fingers flexing against your waist, twitching like they’re seconds from dragging you down onto the floor.

But he won’t. Not until you beg.

God, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t love this. What you had. What you were.

He was always all over you, and so were you—two magnets locked in a pull too strong to fight, too wild to tame. Every breath, every look, every fucking brush of skin felt like it was dipped in gasoline. And now?

Now it’s fire.

He walks you backward with slow, deliberate steps until the back of your knees hit the bed. You fall onto it with a soft gasp, and he’s right there, standing between your legs, looking down at you like he’s starving and you’re the feast he’s been denied for way too long.

“Still wanna play?” he asks, voice like gravel, hands clenched at his sides like it’s taking every ounce of self-control not to touch you.

You drag your gaze down his body—his flexing forearms, the twitch in his jaw, the tent in his sweats that looks painful. You smirk. “Are you gonna make me beg, Hoseok?”

His name on your lips does something to him. His eyes darken, and this time when he leans in, it’s not careful. It’s reckless.

He grabs your thighs and yanks you to the edge of the bed so fast you yelp, hands catching on his shoulders. Then his mouth is on your neck—hot and open and claiming—and your whole body arches off the mattress.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he growls against your skin. “With that mouth. With that attitude. With those fucking shorts—”

“You like the shorts?” you pant, tugging on his hair until he groans.

“I hate the shorts,” he snarls, licking down to your collarbone, tongue filthy. “I hate that you wore them when you knew I’d see. I hate that you knew exactly what you were doing.”

You gasp as he nips at your chest through the fabric of your shirt, his hands sliding up under it, rough and eager, palms mapping your ribs like he’s trying to remember what you feel like under pressure.

“I always know what I’m doing,” you whisper.

“Then you knew I wouldn’t last.” He pulls back just long enough to strip the shirt off your body, fast and clumsy, like it offended him just by existing. His eyes rake over you—half-naked, flushed, breathing heavy, legs spread for him—and he snaps.

In a heartbeat, he’s crawling over you, hips grinding into yours, his mouth everywhere—your jaw, your throat, your chest—until you’re gasping his name, your hands clawing at his back, your thighs locking around his waist like he’s the only thing tethering you to earth.

“You wanna beg now, baby?” he huffs against your lips, breathless.

You roll your hips against him and watch his whole body jolt.

“You’re gonna beg first,” you whisper. “For making me wait.”

And just like that, you flip him—straddle him. His back hits the mattress with a thud, and he looks up at you like he’s already ruined.

You settle your weight on his lap and smile down at him, wicked and wild.

“Let’s see who really breaks first.”

He doesn’t answer with words.

His hands shoot up to grip your waist, knuckles white, muscles flexing like restraint is no longer an option—and maybe it never was. Not when it comes to you. Not when you’re sitting on top of him like this, all flushed and smug and soaked in sweat and attitude.

You grind down once—slow and hard—and he chokes.

“Oh, fuck—” His hips buck up into yours, involuntary, brutal, and you ride it, gasping as your core drags against the thick length straining beneath those damn sweatpants.

That’s it. That’s the snap.

One second, the air between you is strung tight with tension, and the next, he’s moving—sitting up fast, eyes wild, grabbing you like he’s been holding back for hours and just broke. One arm hooks around your back, the other fists in your hair, yanking you into him, crashing his mouth against yours again like he’s starving for it.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision.

Tongues clash, teeth graze, breaths tangle. It's messy and urgent, raw with need. He groans deep in his chest like the taste of you is dragging him under, like he's unraveling at the seams just from this, just from you, and you moan right back, clutching at him like he’s your last tether to the world.

“You feel what you do to me?” he growls, voice thick with hunger, biting down on your bottom lip before dragging it into his mouth and sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “You’ve been fucking dripping all night.”

“So touch me,” you pant, grinding against him without shame, chasing friction, chasing anything. “Make me feel it.”

And he does. God, does he.

You’re flipped without warning again, like you weigh nothing in his hands. The room blurs for a heartbeat and then your back hits the bed, his weight caging you in, devouring every inch of you with his eyes. He rips your shorts down like they personally offended him, tossing them aside without a glance.

Then he sees the soaked spot on your panties and something snaps behind his eyes.

A low, guttural growl vibrates through his chest. “Fuck.”

He runs a finger right over it—barely there, just a tease—and you gasp, hips bucking up into the touch. He smirks, dark and dangerous, before shoving the fabric aside and diving in like a man possessed.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Two fingers slam into you, deep and fast, and your back arches off the bed as a cry tears from your throat.

“Already so fucking tight,” he mutters, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his eyes fixed on the way your body clenches around him. He curls his fingers just right and thrusts again, harder this time, deeper, and your legs start to shake.

“You were waiting for this, weren’t you?”

You can’t speak. You can barely breathe. All you can do is nod helplessly, whimpering, your nails digging into his arm as your other hand twists in the sheets like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

He doesn’t stop. He won’t stop.

Each thrust is punishing, each curl devastating, each drag of his fingers designed to destroy you. Your whole body is shaking, every muscle drawn tight, the edge so close it feels like you could fall over it with a single breath.

“Hoseok—fuck, I—”

“Not yet.”

He rips his fingers away, and you scream in frustration, hips bucking into nothing, walls fluttering around the absence like you’ve been ripped open and left begging.

“I said—”

But the words vanish from your mouth because suddenly—God—his mouth is right there.

No warning. No buildup. Just heat and tongue and wicked, wicked lips wrapping around your clit like a death sentence.

He moans into you, arms locking around your thighs to hold you in place while he ruins you with his mouth.

“You—fuck, I—”

He glances up, lips glistening, eyes gleaming with sin. He smirks like he knows. Like he planned this.

And then he says, low and lethal, “Don’t come until I say so.”

Like it’s a challenge. Like he wants to see you fall apart trying not to.

And oh, you will.

Oh, you unleash.

It’s not graceful. It’s not sweet. It’s carnal.

You shatter—loud, writhing, wrecked. A cry bursts from your throat, raw and ragged, echoing off the walls like a confession. Your voice breaks into a hoarse moan, half his name, half a curse, and entirely surrender.

And he watches—fuck, he watches like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

That wicked smile curves across his lips, dark and triumphant. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let up. His mouth is right there, relentless, greedy, like he’s trying to consume every last tremor from your body. His tongue flicks, circles, presses, and it’s too much—too much heat, too much pleasure, too much him.

Then his hand slides up—slow, smooth, terrifying in how in control he still is—and wraps lightly around your throat.

Not tight. Just enough.

Just enough to make your breath hitch. Just enough to make you feel it—that loss of air, that vulnerability, that heady spike of something deeper.

His lips drag down, kissing the inside of your thigh with reverence, then right back up, mouth sealing over your clit like he’s praying with his tongue.

“Look at you,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough, reverent. “So fucking perfect when you come.”

Your body jerks beneath him, aftershocks ripping through you, legs trembling like you’ve run miles. You can barely keep your eyes open, but you see the way he’s looking at you—like you’re something holy and ruined all at once.

“Could watch you fall apart like that forever,” he growls, licking a long, slow stripe through your slick. “Could live between your thighs and never need another damn thing.”

You whimper, mind fogged and limbs useless, but he’s not done.

He shifts up, kissing your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone, while his hand keeps its gentle pressure at your throat. Not to hurt. Just to hold. Just to remind you: he’s the one doing this.

“You think that was it?” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours as he grinds his hips down, the hard line of him pressing against you. “I haven’t even started.”

Even in the haze—numb, trembling, boneless from the high—you move.

You fight for it.

Still shaking, still gasping, you claw your way onto him like instinct, like something primal and desperate has taken hold. There's no grace, no finesse—just raw need, coursing through you like lightning. You straddle him, hips grinding down, rutting shamelessly against the thick heat straining beneath his clothes.

You’re a mess. A beautiful, wrecked mess.

Mouth parted, chest heaving, hair clinging to your sweat-slicked skin. You can barely breathe, barely think, but all your body knows is him.

“Please…” you gasp, voice breaking on a moan as you roll your hips again. “Please, baby… fuck… want ya—want ya so bad.”

The words come out slurred with lust, almost incomprehensible, like you're drunk on him. And maybe you are.

He watches you like he’s in a trance, hands gripping your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His jaw is tight, his eyes dark—burning. Like he’s holding on to every last shred of control and losing.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked with arousal. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” you whimper, grinding down harder, chasing friction, chasing everything. “Want your cock, baby—need it. Need you in me.”

That’s what shatters him.

He flips you again—ruthless, fast. Your back hits the bed and he’s already there, caging you in with his body, pulling his pants down just enough to free himself.

You both moan when he ruts against your core, right there, the heat of him dragging over the slick fabric.

“God, you’re filthy,” he groans “You’re gonna take every inch. Gonna feel me for days.”

You spread your legs wider, shameless and soaked, begging with your body.

“So take me,” you cry, voice breaking as your nails drag down his back, leaving red lines in their wake. “Fuck me.”

God, you love this man.

Love how filthy you both are—how raw, how real. How there’s nothing between you but heat and skin and the kind of need that burns straight through the bones.

He groans at your words, at the way your body arches into his, shameless and pleading. His cock is right there, so close, the head dragging through your slick, teasing your entrance with maddening slowness.

You whine, desperate, hips lifting to chase him, to take him, but he holds steady—just to watch you fall apart a little more. Just to feel your hunger for him.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent, dangerous. “Can’t even wait a second, can you?”

You shake your head, lips parted, breath catching. “I need you,” you gasp. “Please, just—just fuck me already.”

And then—blissful mercy—he gives in.

He pushes in slow, the thick head of his cock breaching you, stretching you open inch by inch. Your mouth falls open, a broken moan spilling out as your eyes flutter shut.

Then he bottoms out in one smooth, deep thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt.

Your world ends.

Your eyes roll back, your entire body going limp beneath him, mouth slack, breath stolen. You feel everything—the stretch, the pressure, the way he fits like he was made for you.

“Fuuuck,” he groans, forehead pressing against yours, barely holding himself back. “You feel unreal. So tight, so fucking wet for me.”

You can’t even respond. Just whimper, legs wrapping around his waist like instinct, like you never want him to leave.

He pulls out slow, just enough to feel the drag, then thrusts back in with a snap of his hips that knocks the air from your lungs.

You gasp, moan, claw at his back again. “Yes, yes—just like that—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t.

He pounds into you with a rhythm that’s all hunger and devotion, head buried in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

And all you can think—through the pleasure, the gasps, the sting of nails and the slap of skin—is how much you fucking love this.

How much you fucking love him.

The thing about Hoseok is… he’s an artist, yeah. But first? He’s a dancer.

And those goddamn hips know exactly what they’re doing.

You know better than anyone.

You’ve felt it—in the way he moves against you, inside you, like his body was choreographed to yours. Every roll of his hips is a masterstroke, every thrust precise, powerful, devastating. He hits that spot again and again, like he mapped it out, like he studied it, like he's spent hours—years—perfecting the rhythm that makes you scream his name.

And you do.

You chant it, breathless and wrecked, nails digging into his back like he’s the only thing tethering you to this earth.

“Hoseok—fuck, right there, baby, right there—”

He groans into your neck, hips grinding deeper, slower for a second, just to make you feel the drag of him inside you. Just to show you who’s in control.

“You feel me?” he growls, teeth dragging over the curve of your throat, his voice a rasp in your ear. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Take all of me.”

And you do.

You take everything. Every inch, every thrust, every filthy word he feeds into your skin like sin-soaked poetry. Your body matches his like instinct, like choreography written in lust and obsession. This is more than sex—it’s a rhythm, a performance, a fucking ritual.

“You’re my filthy princess,” he pants, hips snapping against yours, the sound obscene, slick, perfect. “You know why I did that shit on stage, babe?”

You blink through the haze, barely able to speak, to breathe.

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear, thrusts never faltering, never softening. “I did it ‘cause I was thinking of you.”

Your heart stutters. Your pussy clenches around him.

His voice darkens, sweet with venom. “Thought about you the night before that concert… pressed up against the wall, legs shaking, those pretty little moans spilling out while I had my fingers inside you. Remember that?”

You nod frantically, mind flashing with the memory—his hand, your helplessness, the way you came with your mouth against his shoulder to muffle the scream.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about the way you begged,” he grins, feral, breath hitching as your walls flutter around him. “‘Oh baby,’” he mocks you in a breathy whimper, falsetto, sinful. “‘I’m your filthy fucking bitch…’”

Your whole body seizes. Shame and heat twist together like a fuse sparking to life.

He laughs—low and wicked, full of pride. “And all I could think was: that’s mine. That girl up front, lookin’ all sweet, all put-together?”

His hips drive harder, deeper—he’s pounding into you now, chasing the sound of your cries, the clench of your cunt.

“She’s the same one who gets on her knees like a whore for me.”

You whimper, head thrown back, nails clawing at his shoulders.

“That’s you, baby,” he says, voice all gravel and affection, eyes blazing. “My pretty girl, my nasty little thing. The one who smiles for the cameras, then bends over the second I lock the door.”

Your entire body is trembling. You don’t know if it’s the pace or the filth or the way he’s looking at you like he’s obsessed—but you're close, again, helpless to stop it.

“You gonna come for me again?” he asks, cocky and tender all at once. “Let me feel that tight little pussy squeeze the fuck out of me?”

“Y-Yeah—fuck, Hoseok—”

“Come,” he growls, voice raw, deep, commanding. “Come for me, my beautiful princess—my filthy fucking whore.”

That’s it. That’s the snap.

You shatter.

Your entire body goes taut, every muscle pulling tight before releasing in one violent, uncontrollable wave. Your legs shake around him, trembling so hard it’s like your bones have melted. Your mouth opens on a scream, but it barely makes it out—just a broken, choked moan that dies in your throat as your vision whites out.

You cling to him, hands clawing at his back like you need something—anything—to anchor you. But he’s not slowing down. If anything, he’s driving it deeper, dragging your orgasm out until it borders on unbearable.

And then—your body gives.

A gush of wetness spills between you, soaking his cock, the sheets, your thighs. You gasp, humiliated and feral all at once, trying to pull away—but he growls low, hands gripping your hips, holding you there.

“Oh fuck,” he hisses, staring down where your bodies are joined. “That’s it, baby. Look at that. Look at the mess you just made for me.”

You’re still twitching, body jerking with aftershocks, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity. But Hoseok—he looks like a man possessed.

“Goddamn, you’re perfect,” he breathes, dragging his cock out just enough to watch more of your release drip out, then sliding right back in with a groan. “So wet, so ruined, so fucking mine.”

You whimper beneath him, wrecked and pliant, your voice barely a whisper. “I can’t… I—I already…”

“You can,” he growls, eyes blazing as he locks gazes with you. “And you will. I’m not done with you yet.”

He kisses you then—deep and claiming, like he’s sealing something between you with tongue and teeth and breath.

And all you can do is moan into it, broken and breathless, because despite everything— You want it. You want him.

You’re still trembling, your body a live wire of oversensitivity and bliss, when he starts moving again—slow at first, but no less intense. Like he’s savoring the afterglow, dragging it out, making you feel every inch of him, every pulse and push and stretch.

“You’re unreal,” Hoseok mutters against your mouth, voice thick with awe and hunger. “You came so hard for me. Fuck, baby… you squirted for me.”

Your cheeks burn, your lips part to apologize, but he cuts you off with another deep thrust that makes your back arch, a whimper catching in your throat.

“Don’t even try,” he growls, pinning your hips down. “That was the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

He’s drunk on you now—high on the mess, the heat, the way your body is still fluttering around him. He dips his head to kiss down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone, dragging his tongue along your skin as if trying to taste the orgasm still clinging to you.

And you… you’re floating.

You can’t even form words. Just sounds. Moans and gasps and breathy little pleas as he rocks into you, deeper now, slower, rolling his hips with maddening precision.

“Still so tight,” he whispers, voice ragged. “You feel that? The way your pussy’s still trying to milk me?”

You nod weakly, eyes glassy, mouth open on a silent gasp when he hits that spot again, perfectly, like he knows.

“Fuck, I love you like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “All soft. Fucked-out. Shaking. You’re so fucking pretty when you come.”

His hand slips down between you, fingers rubbing lazy circles on your clit, and your whole body jolts.

“N-No—too much—”

“I know, baby,” he coos, still fucking you through it. “I know. Just one more. One more for me, yeah?”

You sob his name, overwhelmed, but you don’t tell him no. Because you don’t want it to stop. Not yet. Not when it feels like this. Not when his body is still moving against yours like a symphony only you get to hear.

You lock your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, holding him there. And he groans—low, guttural, broken.

“Oh fuck—fuck, baby—”

He’s close. You can feel it.

The rhythm starts to slip, his thrusts getting rougher, faster. The weight of him, the sound of your soaked skin meeting his, the filthy praise falling from his lips—it’s all building again, dizzying, consuming.

And right before the fall, right when everything goes blinding and hot—he looks at you. Really looks at you.

And he says it.

“Come with me.”

And you do.

Together.

Hard, loud, beautiful.

The high fades like smoke—slow, warm, lingering—but the after? The after is where it all settles. Where the heat gives way to something softer, deeper, realer.

You’re both breathless, tangled together in a mess of limbs and sweat and slick, bodies still twitching from the aftershocks. Hoseok collapses gently onto you, careful not to crush you, just enough to feel your heartbeat slam against his.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Just the sound of your breathing, still uneven and shaky. The way his hand finds yours, fingers lacing like it’s instinct.

Then, a laugh. Small, hoarse. Yours.

He lifts his head slightly, his forehead still resting on yours, brows furrowed in amused concern. “What?”

You grin, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen. “I can’t feel my legs.”

He laughs too, deep and wrecked, kissing your forehead like he’s proud of that. “You weren’t supposed to. That was kinda the point.”

You try to nudge him with your knee, but it twitches uselessly and flops against the mattress. That just makes him laugh harder.

“I broke you,” he teases, clearly delighted with himself. “My poor baby.”

He kisses you again, this time slower, sweeter. Like a thank-you. Like a promise. Like he means it.

Then he starts pulling away to grab something—a towel, maybe—but you clutch at him with a tiny, panicked sound. “No—don’t go.”

He freezes. Looks down at you. And something in his face melts.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says gently, crawling right back over you, arms wrapping around your waist to roll you both onto your sides. “Not now. Not ever.”

You bury your face in his neck, letting your body relax completely into him. His scent, his warmth, the thrum of his pulse under your fingertips—it’s all enough to lull you into the sweetest kind of daze.

His thumb strokes your hip lazily. “You really are my filthy little princess, huh?”

You mumble something incoherent against his throat.

He chuckles. “What was that?”

“I said,” you sigh, half-asleep already, “your filthy queen, actually.”

He grins like you’ve just given him the world. “Damn right.”

Then he kisses your shoulder, one hand trailing up your spine, the other pulling the sheets around both of you.

"I love you, babe"

And just like that—you’re safe. Wrecked. Loved. Held.

The morning comes slow, gentle, a hazy stretch of sunlight spilling through half-closed blinds, casting soft lines across tangled sheets and bare limbs.

You wake first—barely. Just enough to feel the stiffness in your muscles, the warm ache between your thighs, and the delicious weight of an arm slung over your waist. Hoseok’s chest is pressed to your back, his breath soft and warm against your shoulder, one leg tucked between yours like he couldn’t bear to be any farther away, even in sleep.

You hum quietly, nuzzling into the pillow with a sleepy smile. Everything smells like him—sweat, skin, sex, and that faint hint of his cologne that somehow survived the chaos of last night.

You don't want to move. Ever.

But a groggy groan rumbles behind you.

“Fuck.”

You shift slightly. “What time is it?”

There’s a pause. Then another groan, this one full of regret. “Eight-thirty.”

You blink. “…AM?”

He flops onto his back dramatically, arm flung over his eyes like he’s auditioning for a tragedy. “I have to be at soundcheck in three hours. My body feels like it got run over by a truck.”

You snort, rolling onto your side to face him. His hair’s a mess, lips puffy, eyes still half-closed and pouting like a grumpy cat.

“Wonder why that is,” you tease, trailing your fingers over the fresh nail marks on his chest.

He squints at you from under his arm. “You did this. You and your pretty little ‘Please, baby, fuck me so good’ voice.”

You fake a gasp. “I never—”

He mimics you, pitch high and breathy, “‘Oh Hobi, I’m your filthy fuckin’ bitch—’”

You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it with one hand and groans again, flopping back down.

“…I deserve that,” he mumbles. Then, with sudden, dramatic anguish: “God, I’m so tired. My legs are jello. I have choreo in nine hours.”

You try not to laugh, but it bubbles out anyway. “You broke me last night. This is just karma.”

“I’m never going that hard the night before a show again,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes.

You kiss his cheek gently. “Liar.”

He sighs, lips curling into a crooked little smile. “Yeah. I’m totally gonna do it again.”

You both lie there for another few moments, the calm creeping back in, the kind that only comes with mornings like this. The silence is soft. Easy. Safe.

Then he cracks one eye open again, already plotting. “Okay. Hear me out. If I nap in the car and stretch in the dressing room, I might survive tonight.”

You grin. “I’ll be in the front row. Screaming my head off. Still limping.”

He smirks, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Bet.”

note: girl, i wrote this in like 3 hours instead of my actual thesis hshshs hope you guys liked it <3

#hoseok smut #hoseok x reader #bts smut #bts #jhope fanfic #hoseok ff #jhope smut

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