sashiimee

[sashiimee]

𓆩♡𓆪 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 4 𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙡𝙚 Your Love Settled Into Me Too Well

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: namjoon x reader | 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔: 7.4k

𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒓𝒆: college au · angst · exes to lovers · slow burn

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: jealousy, heartbreak, public embarrassment, sohee antics, past kiss mention, soft flirtation, emotionally messy

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚:

Picnic vibes turn sour when Sohee spills lemonade—maybe on purpose.

Namjoon still looks at you like nothing changed.

Charlie shows up when you least expect.

And you don’t cry this time. But you still leave.

♡ ⤷ [Chapter Three]

♡ ⤷ [Next Chapter]

♡ ⤷ [Masterlist]

A/N : ok listen 😭 i’m still learning how to make my page cute, so if the formatting is a little chaotic or the links act funky… let’s just agree to look away ❤️‍🩹 i don’t know how to do banners yet but one day i will be unstoppable. anyway thank you for being here, thank you for reading, and pls know i’m crying (in a good way) every time someone reblogs or leaves a comment ♡

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𓆩♡𓆪 ─── ˚ʚ picnic breakdown ɞ˚ ─── 𓆩♡𓆪

Scene: Campus Picnic – Late Afternoon

One of those university-sponsored “community building” events. All flyers and free snacks and people pretending they’re not just here for the extra credit.

You’re sitting with Jimin and Hoseok, ankles crossed, legs tucked under you on the blanket. Your lemonade’s watery and your sunglasses keep sliding down your nose, but all of it fades when you hear his voice.

“Is this spot taken?”

Your head turns so fast you surprise even yourself. Namjoon’s standing there like a problem you forgot how to solve — sunlight cutting across his jaw like it’s trying to make him harder to ignore. He’s in a white button-down—sleeves rolled, collar open, forearms casually ruined your whole day.

He’s holding a second drink. Someone is with him.

Sohee.

Sohee—ribbon-tied sundress, fake laugh too loud, already leaning into a joke he didn’t even finish. Her hand rests on his arm for just a beat too long. Like she belongs there.

“We can sit here, right?” she asks, like it’s already been decided.

Jimin smiles tightly. Hoseok shifts.You don’t say anything. Not yet.

You’re too busy studying Namjoon—because damn him.

Why is he hotter now?

Why does he look so relaxed, like his whole body forgot the way he used to come undone for you?

He sits across from you, stretching his legs out casually, the hem of his jeans riding high enough to flash a sliver of ankle. His watch catches the light. His eyes catch yours.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says.

You shrug, sip your watered-down drink.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

He smirks. One corner of his mouth only.

Sohee interrupts. “I told him he should.”

Namjoon doesn’t reply. His gaze hasn’t moved from you.

And just like that, it hurts to look at him again

You force your gaze away.

Your lemonade cup is suddenly fascinating. You swirl the melting ice like it might drown out the heat in your cheeks.

Across the blanket, Namjoon just… watches.

There’s movement beside him—Sohee adjusting her dress, scooting a little closer like she’s angling for a picture-perfect moment. Her thigh presses against his. He doesn’t move. But he doesn’t move away, either.

It makes you want to throw up.

“I’m gonna grab another drink,” you mutter, standing up fast enough to unbalance your cup. Jimin moves to help, but you’re already walking—too quickly, like you’re being chased.

You’re not sure if you’re more embarrassed by the way your chest is rising and falling or the fact that you care this much. That his one comment—his one look—has you spiraling all over again.

You don’t look back.

Not at Sohee’s thigh pressed against his.

Not at the way she tilts her head toward him like they’re starring in some midday romance.

You just walk—fast—toward the drink table, gripping your cup like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the grass.

By the lemonade table, you pretend to fix your cup. Stir ice. Wipe the rim. Anything.

You don’t realize he followed you until his voice lands soft and sharp at your back.

“Didn’t mean to piss you off.”

You blink hard, jaw clenching. “You didn’t.”

He steps beside you.

Too close.

That damn white shirt. That rolled sleeve. That familiar scent, crisp and clean and his.

“You sure?” he says, voice low. “You left like you were gonna start swinging.”

You finally look at him.

“Sohee dragged you here?”

He lifts a brow. “Dragged?”

You don’t answer.

Because that’s not really what you want to ask.

You close your eyes.

His voice comes in way too calm for someone who just brought his whatever-she-is to sit across from his ex-girlfriend.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say, voice clipped.

He hums. “Didn’t mean to start something.”

“No,” you mutter, “you just meant to show up with her and act like that’s not weird.”

Namjoon steps beside you, hands in his pockets. His shirt’s too white. His smile’s too faint. His wristwatch flashes like it’s mocking you.

“She invited me. Figured it wasn’t that deep.”

“Oh, right,” you snort, voice sugar-coated and sharp. “Because Sohee always does things for completely innocent reasons.”

You don’t look at him. You don’t need to.

You can feel the shift in his energy.

“She’s not as calculated as you think.”

That stings more than it should.

“Oh, okay,” you say, turning to face him fully now, your expression flat but your tone biting. “So we’re defending her now?”

He shrugs. “Just saying you don’t know everything.”

“No,” you snap. “But I know enough.”

The air stretches tight between you. You can see him fighting to stay even, to not rise to it.

But his jaw twitches.

“You know, not everything’s a competition,” he says, gaze hardening. “You don’t have to tear people down to feel better.”

That lands.

It hits the spot he doesn’t even know is bleeding.

You blink, stunned. Then shake your head with a dry laugh. “Right. Of course. God forbid I have any reaction to seeing my ex playing picnic boyfriend with his new girl.”

Namjoon looks away first.

Just for a second.

You speak again, sharper now. “It’s like you didn’t even pause. Didn’t even stop to think—”

But you cut yourself off, afraid of what might come next.

What’s worse than a jealous ex?

A delusional, jealous ex.

Then he sighs. “You’ve got no idea what I think.”

And just like that, Sohee calls his name.

Again.

He doesn’t even glance back at you as he walks toward her.

You swallow hard.

You don’t chase after him.

But under your breath—so quiet he’d never hear it anyway—you whisper:

“-consider me”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Back at the blanket, the mood is deceptively light.

A half-empty bowl of watermelon sits nestled in the middle, catching glints of sun like jewels. Someone’s speaker hums out soft indie-pop, the kind that makes everything feel a little more romantic than it really is. Nearby, students toss frisbees and kick balls across the open field. Someone’s trying to get a kite off the ground.

It feels like summer—even if it’s not.

Jimin is stretched out beside you again, sunglasses perched too low on his nose. He’s half-asleep but still engaged, chiming in just enough to tease Hoseok about the way he eats his strawberries—methodical, always starting from the pointy end.

“Do you also dissect your sandwiches, or is that just a seasonal thing?” Jimin asks, smirking.

Hoseok huffs, chewing deliberately. “It’s called savoring. You might wanna try it sometime, speed demon.”

Jimin flips him off lazily without opening his eyes.

You smile. It’s easy, natural. And for a second—just a second—it almost feels like things are okay again. Like the weight in your chest is just the sun, pressing warm against your skin.

Sohee’s laugh cuts through the air a little too brightly. She’s showing Namjoon something on her phone—an article, maybe, or a meme—and she tilts the screen toward him like she wants him to lean closer. He obliges, barely. His knee shifts toward her.

You look away.

There’s a breeze that carries the scent of grilled food from another blanket over. The kind of breeze that tangles hair and rustles napkins and makes you feel like you’re living inside a college brochure. Dana would’ve loved this weather. Today her schedule didn’t aline with the picnic, a make up exam. You make a mental note to text her later, maybe suggest getting ice cream on the walk back.

Jungkook arrives late, panting and pink-cheeked, holding an open bag of pretzels like it’s a peace offering.

“What did I miss?”

“Only Hoseok confessing his deep romantic commitment to triangle-cut sandwiches,” Jimin replies dryly.

“Shame,” Jungkook says, flopping down beside him. “I would’ve cried.”

Laughter bubbles up. A real one this time. Even from you.

Namjoon doesn’t laugh. But he smiles at the sound of it.

The watermelon’s gone. The strawberries are mostly stems now. Someone’s speaker is still playing, but lower — the kind of dreamy background noise that wraps itself around laughter like ribbon.

You’re reclined on the blanket again, ankles crossed, back propped up by your tote. The sun is low enough to gild everything it touches: the edges of cups, Hoseok’s collarbone, the glossy corners of the deck of Uno cards Jungkook fans out like he’s dealing high-stakes poker.

“You bitches are about to lose,” Jungkook says sweetly.

“No swearing,” Jimin counters, shoving a Cheeto into his mouth. “We’re at a university event.”

“Right. Sorry,” Jungkook corrects, batting his lashes. “You beloved hoes are about to lose.”

“Better,” Hoseok grins, drawing a card.

Even Namjoon joins in, shifting closer from his place on the edge of the blanket. You don’t know what surprises you more — that Sohee lets him, or that he looks like he wants to.

He sits directly across from you.

Not too close. But close enough that you can see the smudge of lemon on the rim of his cup. His cards are crumpled in one hand — a telltale sign he’s already annoyed.

“You’re gonna have to explain the rules again,” he says, voice low. “I feel like they’ve changed since middle school.”

“They haven’t,” Jimin sighs. “You’ve just gotten older and slower.”

You stifle a laugh. Namjoon looks mildly betrayed.

“I write essays,” he says, holding up his hands. “I don’t play party games.”

“You’re playing now,” Sohee chimes, nudging his elbow. “Might as well try.”

Namjoon doesn’t respond. Just shrugs, his gaze flicking toward you.

The game begins. Sloppily, at first.

Hoseok skips Jungkook immediately, which earns him a dramatic gasp.

“You come for me first?” Jungkook clutches his chest. “Your own future husband?”

Jimin laughs so hard he spills his drink on the grass. “He has his priorities.”

“Clearly,” Jungkook mutters, drawing two cards.

You let the rhythm of the game carry you. Draw, discard, reverse. A sea of colors between fingers and taunts. Cards pile in the center. Sohee’s winning — you can tell by her smug little smirk — but you’re not far behind.

Namjoon, predictably, is terrible.

“Wait—what color are we on?” he mutters, holding up a red card with zero shame.

“You just changed it, dumbass,” Jungkook groans.

“I thought you said no swearing,” Namjoon fires back, deadpan.

Laughter crackles again, full and unguarded.

Even yours.

And for a moment—it’s like everything else is paused.

Like you’re back six months, before the mess, before the misunderstanding that shattered the softest parts of you. Before Sohee. Before Charlie. Before all of it.

Just him. And you. And the group.

Namjoon catches your eye after he draws yet another penalty card.

You lift a brow, just slightly. “You suck at this.”

“Do not,” he says, trying and failing to hold a straight face. “This deck is cursed.”

“You’re just bad.”

He smiles. Really smiles.

And god, you hate how warm it makes you feel.

“UNO!” Sohee shouts suddenly, slapping her final card down.

You all groan in unison.

“No way.”

“Rigged.”

“She’s too good,” Hoseok sighs. “I don’t trust it.”

Sohee giggles, holding up her empty hands. “Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

You don’t say anything.

But Namjoon doesn’t look at her.

Not once.

He’s still looking at you.

Like he didn’t notice she won at all.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

The group’s laughter is still echoing from the last round of Uno. Someone’s accusing someone else of cheating—probably Jungkook, definitely Hoseok. It’s warm, loud, alive.

You’re halfway smiling when Sohee stands, smoothing her dress with a deliberate sweep of her hand.

“I’m grabbing more lemonade,” she says. Her voice is breezy, high. Maybe too loud.

You ignore her.

But when she returns, everything goes still.

It happens in one second and three heartbeats.

Splash.

It’s not dramatic.

But cold lemonade hits your leg, sticky and unexpected. Ice skitters across your shin, and a slice of lemon lands pathetically near your ankle.

The group falls silent. Even the breeze pauses, like it’s waiting for your reaction.

You inhale sharply, not from the temperature, but from the shock of it.

Your dress is soaked through. Clinging. Sticky against your thighs.

A hush falls, like the moment before thunder.

Sohee gasps. “Oh my god—oh no—I didn’t—shit, I didn’t mean to—”

Namjoon reacts before you can. He’s already reaching for napkins, the way he always used to—practical, quiet, steady. Like muscle memory.

Your hands stay frozen in your lap.

You look up slowly.

Sohee’s standing there, wide-eyed, She wrings the napkin between her hands, glancing around the group like she wants someone—anyone—to vouch for her. Her mouth is still moving, some frantic stream of apology, but it doesn’t reach you.

It doesn’t matter.

Because even if it was an accident, it wasn’t. Not to you. Not in your chest.

You stand up slowly, your expression unreadable.

Sohee keeps talking. “It was an accident, I swear, I didn’t see you—oh my god, are you okay?”

You’re not. Not even close.

You glance down at your soaked dress. “Yeah. Perfect. This is actually exactly what I needed today.”

She steps forward, napkin outstretched. “Here—let me—”

You take one step back. “Don’t.”

Namjoon says your name softly. Like a warning. Like he knows what’s about to happen.

you don’t look at him.

You look at her.

You look straight at Sohee and smile, tight and full of venom. “It’s fine. You’ve done enough.”

Sohee goes still, hand still hovering.

Everyone is watching. Even some groups two picnic blankets down.

“Of course you didn’t see me,” you murmur to her. Just loud enough. Just like how you didn’t see our relationship, just like you didn’t see that he was taken, in a committed relationship -you think to yourself.

Sohee’s mouth opens slightly, but no sound comes out.

You stand.

Namjoon moves—like he might stand, like he might follow—but you beat him to it.

You brush your skirt down, force your chin up, and turn away.

It’s only after the words leave your mouth that you realize how it’ll look.

How they’ll remember it.

It did look like an accident.

And now you’ve just painted yourself in a shade of bitterness no one’s going to forget.

It clings louder than the lemonade stain.

You blink once. Twice.

And then you breathe. “Excuse me. I’ve had enough fresh air for today.”

Your limbs move before your heart does, walking away before your face betrays you. You don’t look back. Not at Sohee’s shock, not at Jimin’s concern, not at the way Namjoon’s eyes might still be following you.

You don’t look back. Because if you do—you’ll shatter..

You walk off, not too fast but just enough for a shred of your dignity to remain, not trusting yourself to stay. Not trusting your hands, because you might actually slap her.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You don’t go home right away.

Not really.

You walk slower once you’re off the field—down past the music building, around the edges of the parking lot, into the side streets that barely get sunlight this time of day. It gives your heart time to quiet down. Gives your throat time to stop burning.

When you finally reach your dorm, you don’t even turn on the lights. Just kick off your shoes, strip out of the lemonade-soaked dress, the memories still clinging to the fabric like lemon juice, and pull on a pair of soft, loose-fitting pants and an old sweater that still smells faintly like last winter. You tug the sleeves over your wrists, and twist your hair into a clip that doesn’t hold perfectly but gets the job done.

You could text Dana, maybe. She’d probably offer to come meet you.

But you don’t want that. Not right now.

You just need to be somewhere still.

Somewhere your heart won’t have to perform.

So you head to the library.

The quiet hits different tonight—like you’ve stepped underwater.

A few students are tucked into corners, half-asleep over textbooks, laptops humming. It smells like overripe highlighters and coffee grounds, and it should be comforting. It should be enough.

You settle into a table near the back, flip open your laptop, and stare at the blinking cursor on a blank document.

You blink long and hard. Like if you stare at the PDF long enough, the answers will write themselves.

You’re here to study.

You have to care again. About school. About your future. About something that isn’t him.

Because lately, it’s all been slipping.

But before you can even attempt at the assignment, you see him.

Charlie.

Seated two tables down. Laughing softly with a small group—maybe three or four students, all with notebooks and snacks spread out like they’ve been camped there for hours. His hair’s a little longer than you remember. He’s in a hoodie that reads some science department you forgot he switched into. Something with biochemistry and astro-physics and maybe space medicine. You don’t remember the details.

You didn’t mean to look too long.

But then he notices you.

And everything tilts.

He smiles. Wide. Warm. A little surprised. He says your name and stands—calls out a quiet “Hey!” with enough joy that someone in his group makes a low whistle under their breath.

You pretend you don’t hear it.

You step a little closer. Out of habit.

“Didn’t think I’d see you,” he says, gently nudging your arm with the back of his hand. “You’ve been kind of MIA.” He looks relaxed. Happy, even.

And for some reason, your stomach flips.

You nod, brushing some hair behind your ear. “Yeah. Just—been a lot lately.”

“Yeah. Yeah, no, I get it,” he says quickly. “I’ve been swamped too. Changed my major, remember? Whole new schedule. Haven’t seen the sun since week four.” And it’s true, he’d been light on campus. Floaty. Harder to find.

Not that you’d been looking. Exactly.

But still.

You laugh—light, less nervous. “You chose that life.”

“I did,” he grins. “And I regret it every day.” He smiles wider. “Come say hi?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to. Just because everything feels a little fragile right now.

Still, you nod.

He places a gentle hand on your elbow as you approach, guiding you just slightly to the edge of the table. Someone makes a low whistle—some joke you don’t catch—and Charlie shoots them a look.

“She’s a friend, a good friend” he says, a little too firmly.

You want to pretend you didn’t hear it.

You smile tightly, trying to pretend but your cheeks go hot, your fingers curling around the strap of your bag.

You murmur a polite hi to the group, then shift your body just enough to make it clear this isn’t a social call. Charlie notices, of course. He always did have a weird way of reading you.

“Wanna step over there?” he asks, gesturing toward the window near the study carrels.

You follow.

He leans against the ledge while you stand, arms folded, eyes darting to the sky outside.

There’s a pause.

Just long enough for the truth to float between you.

The last time you saw him was after the party. After things got heated. After that kiss you still pretend didn’t happen. After you hated yourself a little for it.

Charlie watches you for a beat longer. Then says, soft and low:

“I miss talking to you.”

And you—

You don’t really have an answer for that.

So you just nod, eyes dipping to the floor, pretending like maybe your backpack zipper is suddenly very interesting.

Charlie shifts again. “I know things got weird. After… everything.”

You nod once. “It’s okay.”

His eyes skim your face. “You look good.”

You blink.

That shouldn’t matter. Not right now. But it does.

Your lips twitch into a smile you don’t mean to wear. “Thanks. You too.”

A beat passes. Then another.

He lets the silence stretch before speaking again. “I wasn’t trying to complicate anything, by the way. Back then. That night.”

You nod slowly. “I know.”

And you do.

Charlie never really stood a chance—not against a ghost like Namjoon.

Still, for a moment, it’s easy to remember what you liked about him. The way he listens. The easy warmth of his smile. The quiet steadiness he offers without needing to say much at all.

He could’ve been something. If your heart had been free.

“I should get back,” you say softly, gesturing toward your laptop.

He nods, pushing off the ledge. “Yeah. Same.”

You don’t hug. You don’t linger. You just look at each other for a second longer than necessary.

“We should catch up sometime,” he adds. “If you want.”

You smile. Polite. Noncommittal. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t push.

You part ways at the end of the row—his friends still watching. Your laptop still untouched.

You leave the library ten minutes later.

You don’t study.

Not after that.

Not when your heart’s still stuck somewhere between what’s past, what almost was, and what refuses to let go. But for the first time all day, you don’t feel like crying.

[sashiimee]

🩶 Your Love Settled Into Me Too Well | Part 3

💬 ask | ✨ masterlist | Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Drabble

pairing: namjoon x reader | oc

genre: angst, past established relationship, jealousy, unresolved tension, second chance vibes

word count: ~1.5k

warnings: tension, jealousy, subtle possessiveness, emotional spiraling, slow burn

summary: It’s messy—and he knows it. But love always is, isn’t it? Enjoy

⸻

A/N:

I forgot to mention last time, but this is my first fic + first post, so please be gentle and kind 🫶.

Comments are super appreciated—good or bad, I’ll take it lol.

Don’t ask why my links might not be working, I literally have no idea 😭.

Oh, and yeah… I changed the title (again). Oops.

✧˚. 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 — 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧’𝐬 𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰 ✧˚.

Namjoon sees it before he hears it.

The way Charlie leans in, elbows brushing yours.

The way you swat his shoulder and laugh, “You’re stupid,” in that voice—the one Namjoon usually gets all to himself.

He was just walking by. That’s what he tells himself.

Until he isn’t walking anymore.

Until he’s staring.

Your head tilts back when you laugh. Charlie watches your mouth. His fingers ghost over your wrist when he hands you your phone like it’s something delicate.

Namjoon’s jaw tightens.

Charlie says something else. You laugh again.

Softer this time. Like it was meant to be private.

Namjoon’s done.

He walks up—cool, collected, unreadable. That practiced calm that only makes people more nervous. The kind of calm that feels like a lit fuse right before the blow.

“Hey.”

You turn, blinking up at him like you forgot he existed.

That stings more than he’ll ever admit.

“Namjoon? Didn’t think you had class today.”

“I didn’t.”

You guys studying or…?

His gaze flicks to Charlie.

“Just hanging,” Charlie says with a shrug.

“Yeah?” Namjoon’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Looks fun.”

You feel it now—the shift.

The way he stands a little taller.

The way his hand accidentally grazes your back when he leans to grab your water bottle.

The way his voice drops an octave when he turns to Charlie again.

“Didn’t know you two were this close.”

Not a question.

A warning.

Charlie raises an eyebrow but stays quiet.

You clear your throat.

“We were just talking.”

“Right.”

Namjoon nods slowly. “That’s what I thought.”

But his eyes never leave Charlie.

And when he walks away—slow, smooth, like he’s not rattled—it’s only after brushing his fingers along the back of your neck.

Just once.

Just enough.

So Charlie sees it.

So you feel it.

And when you turn to look at him again—

Namjoon’s already gone.

But your pulse is still racing.

⸻

✧˚. 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 — 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐬 𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐧𝐢𝐜 ✧˚.

It’s one of those university-organized “community building” events.

Too many flyers. Free snacks. People pretending they’re not just here for extra credit.

You’re sitting with Jimin and Hoseok, ankles crossed on a faded blanket.

Your lemonade’s watery, and your sunglasses keep sliding down your nose—but none of that matters when you hear—

“Is this spot taken?”

Your head whips around.

Namjoon stands there, haloed in sunlight.

White button-down, sleeves rolled, collar open.

Forearms out. Day ruined.

He’s holding two drinks.

And beside him—Sohee.

Sohee, in a ribbon-tied sundress. Fake-laughing too loud at something he didn’t finish saying. Her hand rests on his arm like she owns the lease.

“We can sit here, right?” she chirps, like it’s already decided.

Jimin offers a tight-lipped smile. Hoseok shifts.

You don’t say anything. Not yet.

You’re too busy staring—because why does he look hotter now?

Why does he look well-rested? Relaxed?

Like he’s not still lodged in the back of your throat?

Namjoon drops to the blanket across from you.

Stretches his legs. Jeans ride up just enough to flash a sliver of ankle. His watch catches the light. His eyes catch you.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You shrug. Sip your sad little drink.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

He smirks. Just one corner of his mouth.

“I told him he should,” Sohee says brightly.

Namjoon doesn’t respond.

His gaze doesn’t leave you.

⸻

The picnic carries on.

Voices blur. Laughter floats. Sohee giggles beside him.

You tell yourself you’re fine.

You’re so not fine.

You notice everything:

—The way his fingers tap against his cup when he’s thinking.

—The way he listens to Jimin talk, even while Sohee whispers in his ear.

—The way he glances at you. Fast, but often.

And then—

“You look good,” he says.

It’s quiet. Not meant for the group.

Your head snaps up.

“Excuse me?”

His voice is low. Unbothered. Casual. Dangerous.

“Didn’t say it to start anything.”

He leans back on his hands. “Just figured you should know.”

You blink.

Sohee is still talking. But Namjoon?

Namjoon is looking at you like he never really stopped.

Like he never will.

Your heart hammers in your chest.

You look away.

You hate how much you want to kiss him right there.

You hate that he knows.

[sashiimee]

Emotional Support Granola Bar

A/N: um yea,

psa: this is the timeline before everything.

Drabble: “The Picnic Where Nothing Gets Eaten”

(~1,050 words)

It was supposed to be aesthetic.

That’s what Dana said when she dragged a scratchy blanket out into the quad with a tote full of Trader Joe’s snacks and the lofty dream of “healing in the sunshine.”

Except now the blanket is half-wrinkled, the chips are being inhaled like oxygen, and Jimin’s trying to lay across everyone’s legs like he’s the main character in a Renaissance painting.

“I’m creating balance,” he says, already kicking Hoseok in the ribs.

“You’re creating scoliosis,” Hoseok wheezes, shoving him off.

“You’re just mad your aura isn’t strong enough to support me.”

“My what?”

“Your aura. Your inner self. Your—OW, why are you biting me?!”

“Because you called me spiritually weak!” Hoseok shouts, throwing a grape at him.

You’re crying laughing. Actual tears.

Namjoon is sitting beside you, silently peeling an orange like a disappointed teacher on a field trip.

Taehyung has decided this is the moment to practice his harmonica.

And Jungkook is doing pushups. For no reason. On grass. In jeans.

“Are you okay?” you ask, watching him like he’s a live documentary.

“I’m trying to stay hot and humble,” he pants.

“You’re wearing Vans.”

“I contain multitudes.”

⸻

Yoongi, who you thought was asleep under the only patch of shade, opens one eye and says, “Someone pass me the seaweed snacks or I’m eating the next person who says ‘vibes’.”

Dana, sipping sparkling water like a suburban mom on vacation, adds, “We should start a shared Notes app for Yoongi threats.”

Jin is off to the side with a sun hat and a bottle of sunscreen, muttering something about premature aging and “how dare you all disrespect the miracle of SPF.”

“I want that hat,” Taehyung says, inching closer.

“You will pry it from my cold, moisturized hands.”

⸻

You lean back on your palms, letting the sun warm your shoulders, and almost forget this was supposed to be an organized hang.

Someone brought cheese but no knife.

Someone else brought a bluetooth speaker but it only plays 2012 dubstep remixes.

The grapes are mostly gone and Jimin’s currently wearing your sunglasses, Dana’s cardigan, and Jungkook’s left shoe like it’s Coachella cosplay.

“I feel like we’re one spilled La Croix away from a full breakdown,” you say.

“Speak for yourself,” Namjoon mutters. “I’m thriving.”

You side-eye his neatly packed Tupperware container. “You brought quinoa.”

“It’s good for digestion.”

“So is peace, Joon.”

⸻

A bee flies too close and suddenly everyone’s moving like it’s an apocalyptic event.

Dana hurls a granola bar.

Jimin shrieks and uses Yoongi as a human shield.

Taehyung pretends to befriend it: “His name is Bartholomew. He’s here for emotional support.”

Bartholomew does not appreciate this.

Bartholomew makes a beeline (pun intended) for Jin’s exposed ankle.

“BETRAYAL,” Jin screams, swatting the air.

You haven’t laughed this hard in weeks.

⸻

Eventually, the group devolves into a discussion about if squirrels have unionized, whether grass has feelings, and who in the group is most likely to survive a zombie apocalypse.

Spoiler: it’s Dana.

“You’d sell us out to the undead, wouldn’t you?” Jungkook asks, grinning.

“No,” Dana says. “I’d organize them.”

Yoongi, not even surprised: “You’d unionize the zombies.”

“They deserve a better deal.”

You lean over, whispering to Namjoon, “I think I’m a little in love with her.”

He hums, eyes still on his orange slices. “Get in line.”

⸻

There’s no music anymore, just the rustle of wind and dumb jokes and the occasional crinkle of a chip bag.

You lay back on the blanket, arm grazing Namjoon’s, your curls spread like a halo in the sun. You can hear Hoseok laughing at something Taehyung said about starting a fake student org called The Clown Council.

It doesn’t matter what it was supposed to be.

This is what it is.

Loud, annoying, off-topic, and perfect.

The kind of day you file away in your chest like a polaroid. Fuzzy edges. Smudged color. Warm in all the right places.

[sashiimee]

Your Love Settled Into Me Too Well | Part 2

you leave the party without making a sound.

you cry before you realize you’re crying.

Dana holds you.

the past holds you tighter.

and for a few quiet hours — sunlight doesn’t feel like a lie.

♡ second chance romance | namjoon x oc

♡ college au | slow burn | angst + healing | found family

♡ includes: soft girl breakdowns, stupid hot dreams, a yellow dress, and hoseok being hoseok.

♡ ~4.5k words

♡ part 1 [linked] / part 2 below 💌

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You try.

You really, really try.

You sip your drink even though it’s warm now. Let the corner of your mouth curl when Jungkook does something ridiculous near the kitchen — something with a lime wedge and his shirt off. You manage to smile when a girl from your sociology class asks where you got your boots. You even manage to laugh when Jimin sways over and slings an arm around your shoulders, mumbling something about tequila and destiny.

You try to stay rooted in the room, in the noise, in your body.

But Namjoon hasn’t looked at you.

Not once.

Not a flicker of recognition. Not even the kind of quick, instinctual glance you give when you feel someone looking. It’s like he hasn’t noticed you’re here — or worse, like he has and just… doesn’t care.

And Sohee —

God, Sohee just keeps glowing.

She laughs like she’s never been unsure of herself. Tosses her hair back like it doesn’t cost her anything. She’s magnetic. Centered. Effortlessly bright in a way that makes you feel like static again.

She thrives in it.

She belongs in it.

And you?

You’re just a ghost trying to remember what it felt like to be alive in a room like this.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in a window — gloss faded, shoulders tight, eyes rimmed in something that isn’t quite tears but isn’t far off either.

And that’s when you know you’re done.

There’s no dramatic exit. No storming off. You just… leave.

You slip through the hallway like you were never really there.

You don’t even think about what to say. Don’t bother circling back to Jimin or Yoongi or anyone else. You pull out your phone with trembling fingers and type:

> cheese and grapes and scripted reality tv?

You don’t expect an answer right away. Dana isn’t a party girl — she was probably reading, curled up in that blanket that smells like lavender detergent and peppermint tea. You picture her socked feet. The slow, rhythmic turning of a paperback page.

Your phone buzzes.

> i’m here. blanket’s warm. i got you.

You stop walking.

Not because of the message. But because somewhere between the party and the sidewalk and the shift in your breathing —

You’ve started crying.

And you didn’t even notice.

It’s not a sob. It’s not loud. It’s just… happening.

Tears sliding down your cheeks like they’ve been waiting. The kind of crying that sneaks up on you — not from panic, not even from heartbreak. From exhaustion. From holding it in too long.

The night air bites at your skin. You don’t put your jacket on. You don’t look back.

You just walk.

Through cracked sidewalks and flickering streetlamps. Through foggy breaths and the echo of your own boots on pavement. The stars are blurred and uncaring overhead. Your phone feels too heavy in your pocket. The party, the music, the lights — it all feels far away now. Like it happened to someone else.

You reach the dorms without remembering how you got there.

Your hand shakes when you push open the side door. You walk the hallway in silence, steps soft, tears sticky against your skin. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly. You pass a couple making out in the stairwell and barely register their presence.

By the time you reach the dorm you share with Dana, your vision is swimming. Your hands are cold. Your chest feels hollow.

You raise your fist to tug on the handle but don’t need to.

She opens the door like she was already standing there.

Her eyes take you in — the smudged gloss, the wet cheeks, the look of someone unraveling at the seams. She says nothing. Doesn’t ask.

She just pulls you in.

No questions. No judgment. No “what happened?”

Just arms. Warm and steady and there.

She guides you inside. The lights are low — only the glow of the TV, muted and flickering, showing a couple arguing over a fake proposal on screen. The room smells like vanilla and something softly citrusy.

You sink into her — into the safety of her.

You collapse in the way you’ve been dying to for hours. For weeks. For longer than you can admit.

Dana holds you like she means it. Like she knew this was coming. Like she’d left space for this moment all along.

Her hand finds your hair, fingers slow and grounding. She twists a few strands absently, the way she does when she’s soothing a restless cat. She doesn’t shush you. She doesn’t try to make it stop. She just… stays.

You feel her shift behind you, something gentle brushing the back of your neck — and then a soft click as she fastens her own claw clip into your hair, sweeping it away from your damp cheeks. She smooths the baby hairs back with careful hands.

You’re too tired to thank her.

Too tired to pretend.

So you don’t.

You just stay there — curled into her side like something breakable, still quietly falling apart, but for once not doing it alone.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You don’t remember falling asleep.

You must’ve cried yourself into it — curled against Dana, wrapped in her steady warmth, your hair held in place by her claw clip, your ribs finally loosening with every deep breath she didn’t rush you into.

The sound of the TV fades. The world dims.

And then—

You’re in his apartment.

You recognize the scent before the space — clean linen and sage and a hint of that expensive cologne he pretends not to wear. The light is warm, golden, coming from a floor lamp in the corner. His records are stacked half-neatly. A hoodie is slung over the back of his desk chair. His apartment always looked half-lived-in, like he never planned to stay long — but you knew better.

He’s barefoot, leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. And you’re in the doorway, dragging your massive blanket behind you like a pet.

He glances up, one brow lifted.

“You brought that big-ass blanket again?”

You shrug, unbothered. “Sorry, your five-dollar throw blanket from Ikea doesn’t do it for me, rich boy.”

He smirks. Sets the phone down. “It’s not from Ikea.”

You gasp, mock-offended. “Oh, I’m so sorry — did you import it from a Norwegian monastery? Did the monks stitch it with artisanal silk and the lost tears of your ancestors?”

He’s already laughing, that quiet, breathy sound that starts in his chest and ends with his lip caught between his teeth.

You toss the blanket over his couch, victorious, arms spread wide like a gremlin claiming her nest.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you. Eyes slow, dark, fond.

And then—

He walks over.

You don’t move.

He slips his arms around your waist and pulls you in like you belong there, like you always have, like your sarcasm is a love language and your blanket is the dowry.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs.

“You’re obsessed,” you counter.

“Yeah,” he says, and kisses you.

It starts soft. Just the press of mouths, his fingers skating up your spine under your sweatshirt. But it deepens fast — fast like it always did, like spark meeting fuse.

You tilt your chin. He groans against your lips. His hand fists the edge of your blanket like he’s planning to anchor you there.

It’s hot, breathless. All open mouths and clutching hands. His tongue traces the inside of your bottom lip and you whimper — shameless, needy, young.

You loved like this. Wild and stupid and too much.

⸻

Scene: Back in Dana’s Room — Moments Before Dawn

You wake up with a jolt.

Breathless. Burning.

Your thighs press together under the blanket and your hand grips the edge of the pillow like it might float away.

The room is dark, quiet — the TV finally asleep too. Dana’s breathing is slow beside you, one arm slung loosely around your shoulder.

Your skin is warm everywhere.

You don’t dare move. Not yet.

The dream lingers like steam.

You blink up at the ceiling and feel the tears again — soft this time, from a different kind of ache.

Not the sharp sting of jealousy or invisibility.

Just… missing him.

The him from before. The him who used to kiss you like you were the whole goddamn room.

You wipe at your face and let yourself lie still.

No more spirals. Not tonight.

Just the weight of what was.

And the heat it left behind.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Scene: The Next Morning — Dana’s Dorm Room

You wake up to light.

Real, warm, unbothered sunlight, streaking through the slats in the blinds and cutting soft patterns across Dana’s comforter. There’s no weight in your chest today. No phantom ache behind your ribs. Just… stillness.

And maybe a little clarity.

You lie there for a few minutes, tracing a sunbeam across the wall with your eyes. Your limbs feel heavy, but your heart doesn’t. Not in the way it did last night.

You want to do something normal.

You want to look cute.

You want coffee and outside air and something that isn’t sadness. Something that isn’t static.

You sit up suddenly and whisper like you’re announcing a heist:

“ I need a shower and an oat milk latte immediately or I’ll spiral and buy another claw clip I don’t need.”

From across the room, Dana doesn’t even look up from her phone. She’s already halfway into a hoodie, jeans slung low on her hips, hair pulled up in a loose bun that somehow still looks editorial.

“Get up. I was just about to drag your ass out anyway.”

You blink. “You… were?”

“You think I washed my face for my health?”

⸻

Scene: Getting Ready — Shared Dorm Bathroom

Your shower is fast and scalding — the kind that burns off yesterday’s skin and leaves room for something new. You let your conditioner sit a little longer than usual. You hum. You even shave your legs, even though it’s not that kind of day. You just want to feel like you care again.

Back in the dorm room, you rifle through Dana’s little wire basket of makeup with zero shame.

“Can I borrow your Glossier balm?”

“You say that like I don’t already know you’re using it. Again.”

You apply a little blush to your cheeks. Just enough to look alive. You swipe gloss, fluff your curls, dig out a slightly oversized sweater and your favorite jeans. The ones that say I’m okay, but also please validate me.

Dana eyes you as you finish tying your sneakers.

“You look like a Pinterest board.”

“Good. I want to look like I go on hikes I have no intention of finishing.”

“and did.”

⸻

Scene: Walk to the Coffee Shop

The air is brisk but forgiving. Your sweater keeps you just warm enough, and your phone buzzes with memes you and Dana keep sending back and forth even though you’re literally walking beside each other.

She shows you one — a screenshot of a tweet with a blurry photo of a raccoon in bed:

“Me after crying for six hours then drinking water like I’m a Victorian orphan.”

You wheeze-laugh.

“Stop. That raccoon is literally me.”

“No, you’re the raccoon’s emotional support animal.”

“I hate that that made sense.”

The sidewalk is wet from last night’s rain, and you hop over a puddle while Dana skips it entirely, still scrolling. You almost feel normal again.

Scene: At the Coffee Shop — Enter Hoseok

You spot him through the window before you even step inside.

Jung Hoseok, sitting in a sun-drenched corner, laughing at something on his phone, a foam heart melting into the top of his latte. His hair is fluffy today. Gold chain visible just above his collar. One earring glints in the light.

When he laughs, it’s like the whole room joins in. Loud, easy, real.

You glance at Dana, whose pace slows just slightly.

“Don’t look now,” you whisper. “Your crush is sunlit and thriving.”

Dana rolls her eyes. “I don’t have a crush.”

You raise a brow.

“You blushed when he said hi that one time.”

“He was looking at both of us.”

“Dana. He said your name like it was a prayer.”

She opens the door before she can respond. The bell jingles overhead. Hoseok looks up.

“Well, well, well,” he grins, already getting up. “Sunlight looks good on you.”

You blink. “Me?”

“Yeah. You. Out in the wild. Didn’t think I’d see the day.”

You fake a dramatic bow. “I decided to postpone my hibernation.”

“Good choice. You had the whole friend group thinking you died.”

Dana snorts.

“She hangs out with Jimin all the time,” she says, claiming the table beside Hoseok’s like it’s no big deal.

“Doesn’t count,” Hoseok replies, sliding his coffee toward the center. “Jimin’s basically a mirror with lip gloss. We need you.”

You laugh — real, light, from the gut.

“I feel so insulted on his behalf.”

“Jimin knows what he is,” Dana shrugs. “A sparkly menace.”

Hoseok grins at her, warm and lingering. You don’t miss the way Dana looks away like she’s not affected. But her hand fidgets with her straw.

You sip your drink.

You’re starting to feel like yourself again.

After returning from the bathroom Hoseok pulls a chair out with a dramatic flourish, like he’s seating royalty, and drops into it with a loud exhale.

“I swear, this coffee shop is singlehandedly keeping me from flunking out and losing the will to live.”

“You’re not even taking classes this semester,” Dana says, stirring her iced coffee like she’s not fully smiling.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not spiritually flunking.”

He shoots her a look over the rim of his cup, teasing, curious. Dana doesn’t look away — not really — but her fingers tap the condensation on her glass a little faster.

You don’t say anything. You just watch the two of them circle each other like it’s a casual dance, not a slow orbit of something new and shiny.

You like it.

You like seeing Dana this way — a little caught off guard, a little pink-cheeked. She’s always been the grounded one. The steady one. Seeing her be the one tugged into the moment makes you feel like the world isn’t entirely upside down anymore.

“So what have you been up to?” Hoseok asks you, eyes flicking back to yours. “Besides hiding like a cryptid.”

“Recovering from emotional whiplash,” you say, sipping your latte. “Also rediscovering the luxury of crying in the shower.”

He lets out a laugh that fills the whole corner of the coffee shop.

“Finally! A woman with priorities!”

“Told you she was funny,” Dana murmurs, nudging your knee under the table.

You glance between them. There’s an ease here. A real, sunlit kind of peace that’s been missing from your life for too long. It doesn’t fix anything. But it softens the sharp edges.

You end up staying longer than you meant to. Talking about TikToks that emotionally wrecked you at 2 a.m., complaining about Dana’s impossible seat mate in her bio class, arguing over the ethical implications of pineapple on pizza.

The coffee goes cold.

None of you notice.

It’s like for an hour, the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

“Okay,” Hoseok says eventually, leaning back with a groan, “I’m officially declaring this the best use of a morning in weeks.”

You nod. “Agreed.”

He pauses. Looks between the two of you. Then — with that charming glint in his eye:

“Let me take you both to dinner tonight.”

“What?” you blink. “Like, actual dinner?”

“Yes. With menus and cutlery and not in a plastic tray.”

Dana raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to bribe us?”

“No. I’m trying to save you from cafeteria mashed potatoes and trauma.”

You and Dana glance at each other. No words — just a shared blink of Why not?

“We’re in,” Dana says.

“Perfect.” Hoseok claps once. “I’ll pick you both up around seven. We’ll go somewhere with linen napkins and pretentious candlelight.”

“We wear black and pretend we’re mysterious?” you ask.

“Obviously. I’ll be the one with the Bluetooth speaker and the fake Rolex.”

You all laugh again — loud and messy and unfiltered.

For a second, you think: This is what sunlight feels like.

Scene: Outside the Coffee Shop — Midday Split

The breeze has picked up a little, lifting the corners of your sweater as you all walk toward the parking lot.

“I’ve got to hit the library before class,” you say reluctantly. “The tragedy of trying to pass statistics.”

“That’s fake,” Dana says. “Numbers are fake.”

“Thank you. I’ve been saying that for weeks.”

“I’ll drive you tonight,” Hoseok says, pulling out his keys. “Text me when you’re done pretending to study.”

You smile. “Deal.”

Dana gives your arm a squeeze as you part ways.

“Proud of you,” she murmurs.

“I didn’t even do anything.”

“Exactly. We’re clapping for bare minimum mental stability today. Take the win.”

You pretend not to tear up a little at that.

Scene: That Evening — A Little Restaurant in Town

You hadn’t meant to go all out. Really.

Not like this.

But the yellow dress was calling your name from the closet, and you’re too tired of feeling invisible to ignore it. The sleeves are soft and a little puffy, the neckline dips just enough to feel like a low-stakes risk, and the fabric clings in all the right places without asking for too much attention.

You add a cozy cardigan over it — soft, off-white, with sleeves that cover your hands. It’s the kind of outfit that makes you feel like a walking Pinterest board.

Yellow always looks good on you. Always has. Something about the way it hits your skin, your dark undertones ties the look together — all warmth and glow and something golden that doesn’t even try.

Dana whistles low when you step out.

“Okay, buttercup. Who hurt you and made you decide to win?”

She turns back to the mirror, fluffing her red curls. They’re down tonight — thick, soft waves that brush her collarbone and bounce when she moves. The red’s faded a bit since she dyed it, but it suits her more now. A little wild. A little lived-in. Beautiful without trying.

“You nervous?” she asks, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

“About dinner?”

“About letting people see you smile again.”

You shrug. “A little.”

“Then we’re right on schedule.”

“You look like you’re about to be someone’s favorite mistake,” you toss back.

She smirks. “Not unless he tries really hard.”

⸻

Scene: Hoseok’s Car — En Route

Hoseok pulls up right on time. Somehow he looks less like a student and more like someone who might own the restaurant you’re about to walk into. Black jeans, sharp boots, crisp jacket — a vibe that says intentional without trying too hard.

Hoseok’s car pulls up like a music video — windows down, low hum of bass in the background, one arm hanging casually out the driver’s side.

“Holy shit,” he says, the moment he sees you two. “This what happens when you drag introverts into sunlight?”

Dana’s already rolling her eyes as she slides in the passenger seat. “Shut up and drive, Fast & Curious.”

“Damn. You wore your roast outfit today, huh?”

“It’s my birthright.”

You climb in, smoothing your dress, a small smile lingers.

⸻

Scene: Dinner — Table for Three

The restaurant is small but stylish, soft lights flickering over tables like everyone’s got a secret. Your table’s tucked near a window. You watch the streetlights flicker on while Dana scrolls through the drink menu and Hoseok pretends to be offended by the concept of a $7 soda.

“What’s it laced with? Nostalgia?”

Dana: “You can just order water, peasant.”

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

He ends up ordering for all three of you — not because he’s pushy, but because the waiter asked, and you and Dana panicked under pressure.

“Y’all were one more second away from asking what a charcuterie board is,” he says.

“I know what it is,” you protest. “It’s like… meat Jenga.”

“Sorry, we blacked out. The moment the menu said ‘infused,’ my soul left my body.” Dana adds

“Don’t help your case.”

You laugh, shoulders relaxing into the seat. The food arrives in waves — small plates, warm bread, grilled vegetables and sauces you don’t know how to pronounce. You eat, sip, talk, and let your body remember what it feels like to exist without bracing for something.

There’s a moment — just a tiny one — where Hoseok says something dumb and Dana snorts-laughs into her wine. Her curls bounce when she throws her head back, and Hoseok looks at her like he’s seeing the whole goddamn solar system.

You notice.

You’re not even mad about it.

⸻

Scene: Later — Dessert & Soft Confessions

You’re swirling the last of your drink when Hoseok leans back, watching you across the table.

“It’s good seeing you out like this.”

You blink. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. We’ve missed you. I mean—Jimin’s cool, but he’s literally one man. He can’t carry the emotional weight of an entire friend group.”

You smile. “He tries.”

“He also keeps stealing my hoodies. Which feels like emotional warfare.”

Dana adds, “He said they smell like ‘sunshine and debt.’”

You all lose it. Loud, unfiltered laughter that pulls stares from other tables. For a second, you’re not the girl who cried herself sick a week ago. You’re just here.

Alive. In sunlight.

⸻

Scene: Walk Back to Campus — Under a Clear Sky

The air is cooler now. Autumn clings to your ankles, slips into the night with each step on the sidewalk. You walk in a loose triangle — Dana in the middle, you slightly behind, Hoseok carrying the bag of leftovers with one hand and gesturing dramatically with the other.

“—and I swear the squirrel actually charged at me.”

“Probably smelled the iced coffee in your veins,” Dana says.

“Probably smelled your shampoo and decided to risk it all.”

She laughs. It’s soft and real.

You walk slower. Let them drift ahead just a step or two.

You’re not trying to eavesdrop. You’re just… watching. The way Hoseok glances sideways when she tucks her curls behind her ear. The way Dana doesn’t flinch when his hand brushes hers mid-gesture.

Something easy is happening here. Something new.

You want it to last.

So you hang back. And reach into your purse, absently unlocking your phone.

The screen lights up.

A tagged story. Just someone you vaguely know from a lecture — a grainy boomerang of a group at a party, red lighting, dumb filter. It’s nothing, until—

There.

In the background.

Namjoon.

Laughing.

Half turned, mouth open mid-smile. His eyes are crinkled. His dimples show.

He looks good. Happy

You freeze for just a second too long.

Your stomach flips.

You thought you felt better. You thought tonight proved something.

And it did. You do feel better.

But you’re not healed. Not yet.

You take a breath.

Hold it.

Let it out slow.

Then shove your phone back into your little flower-print purse and tighten your cardigan around your shoulders.

Your cardigan’s warm. Your hair still smells like Dana’s lavender detergent. The claw clip is still tucked somewhere in your curls — proof that someone held you last night. Proof that you let them.

You don’t say anything.

You just keep walking.

[sashiimee]

Your Love Settled Into Me Too Well |Part 1

💬 ask | ✨ masterlist | Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Pairing: Jealous Wreck!Namjoon x Not-As-Healed-As-She-Pretends OC

Summary: You see him before he sees you. It’s not cinematic. It’s worse. A party, a silver chain, and the girl who didn’t have to ask. You’re unraveling quietly — again.

Themes: heartbreak, jealousy, second chances, spiraling, emotional tension, slow burn

Word Count: 1.4k

A/N: this was supposed to be 2k words of angst but apparently my fingers had other plans 🧍‍♀️ buckle up. I promise the angst won’t be too much but have so much saved up

….

Scene: Present Day, College Year three — House Party

Are you even listening?”

Jimin’s voice yanks you back to the present. He’s sprawled on your bed, head dangling off the edge, a hoodie bunched under his neck for support. He’s halfway through a rant about his psych professor, but you’ve heard maybe ten percent of it.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I spaced.”

He squints at you. “Spaced or spiraled?”

“Bit of both.”

He flips upright in one fluid motion, crossing his legs like a Disney princess with a grudge. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

You look up from your notes. “What is?”

“The Namjoon Spiral. Capital N, capital S.”

You say nothing.

Jimin sighs. “We need a distraction.”

“I have class.”

“We need a better distraction. Party tonight. Jungkook’s throwing it. Tae’s bringing half the dance department. It’ll be hell.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea.”

He grins. “So, we’ll pregame at my place?”

You should’ve said no.

You should’ve stayed in.

Instead, you let Jimin curl your lashes and steal one of Dana’s black crop tops. You let him smear lip gloss over your bottom lip and hum something soft under his breath while doing it.

“Trust me,” he’d said. “You’ll feel better.”

You don’t.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

It’s laughable, really, how someone can be gone and still manage to haunt a space like they own it.

Namjoon isn’t here. Not physically. You’d know if he was—you always know.

And yet… his presence is thick in the air. Lingering like cologne on an old hoodie you can’t bring yourself to throw away.

The party is loud, humid, and packed with too many people you almost recognize. People brush past, loud and alive, but you can’t seem to sink into it. Not really. Not like you used to.

You cling to a red Solo cup and pretend it’s a shield. Jimin has already disappeared into a crowd of flirty smiles and loud laughter. You spot Yoongi on a couch, half-listening to Hoseok while quietly peeling the label off a beer bottle. Taehyung is in the kitchen—laughing too hard, eyes flicking away from you every time you glance his way.

Bass from a portable speaker thuds beneath your feet, floorboards humming with every beat. Someone yells something about shots, and a blender whines from the kitchen. You try to pretend this is fine. That you didn’t spend half an hour sitting on Jimin’s bed, debating whether to come at all.

But now you’re here—and it’s like the air’s made of static.

Jimin pulls you through the doorway, glitter on his cheekbone and a drink in hand. His energy buzzes loud enough for both of you. “Let’s make some mistakes,” he says, grinning, and you nod like you’re ready.

You’re not.

You haven’t been ready for anything since him.

Jimin disappears for a bit, like a party host at an event that isn’t his. It’s not out of character—if anything, it’s perfectly on-brand.

You feel it again. That crack in the group. The split no one talks about.

It started around the time you left.

No one says it was your fault.

But no one says it wasn’t either.

You settle into the rhythm, a back and forth in your mind, just you and deep loneliness. Just in time for Jimin’s return, you stick to him like a shadow—your buffer, your anchor, your soft place to fall.

Jungkook appears not long after, shirt half-buttoned, neck glittering with a gold chain. He throws Jimin a smile that’s too sweet, too intentional.

You try not to feel like a third wheel.

You sip your drink. Laugh when you’re supposed to. Float through conversations like a ghost.

Across the room, Yoongi shifts on the couch.

He’s still half-listening to Hoseok, still peeling the label off that beer bottle like it owes him something. But his eyes flick toward you — just once, just long enough to notice the tight line of your mouth, the way your grip on your cup hasn’t relaxed all night.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just holds your gaze for a breath too long.

Then looks away.

That’s the thing about Yoongi. He never says much. But he always sees it first.

It’s only when you let your guard down—when you’ve just started to forget—that it happens.

You see him before he sees you.

It’s not dramatic—no movie moment with slow motion and a broken wine glass.

No, it’s worse.

It’s casual.

Namjoon walks in like he hasn’t been avoiding this party for weeks.

Like he didn’t turn down every invitation from Hoseok, Yoongi, even Jungkook.

Like he decided to come on his own.

He walks in like he owns the floor beneath him. Like the air adjusts for him.

And god help you—

he looks just like he did the first time you met.

Tall, effortless, dangerous in that quiet way that sneaks up on you. His black slacks sit low on his hips, casual but precise, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled to his elbows, forearms carved and golden under the lights.

A thin silver chain glints against his throat, delicate where he isn’t.

And somehow, that’s worse.

It’s worse because you remember the first time you noticed that chain.

Worse because he wore it the night he first kissed you.

Worse because he still wears it like it means nothing—

while you’re over here remembering everything.

His hair’s a little longer now, and he’s let the curl show. You hate how much that matters.

How much you miss touching it.

How your fingers ache with memory.

He walks in like it was his idea.

But you know better.

Because Sohee is right there.

Tiny skirt. Perfect hair. That smug, effortless air she carries like perfume.

The kind of girl who doesn’t have to try. Doesn’t have to chase. Doesn’t even have to ask.

She just… receives.

She looks good. Of course she does. Girls like her always do.

It’s not even the outfit — it’s the way she wears attention like it was made for her. Like it belonged to her before anyone else noticed.

You hate yourself for looking too long.

But you do.

Because you don’t remember what it’s like to be looked at like that without earning it first.

You’ve always had to explain your softness. Justify your want.

Sohee just exists, and people follow.

And Namjoon—

He came.

For her.

She’s the reason he’s here, not Yoongi, not Jungkook, not you.

Sohee didn’t need to beg. Didn’t have to text. Didn’t even have to ask.

She just showed up — and he followed.

And in that moment, it doesn’t matter how much he once loved you.

It only matters that he doesn’t now.

Your drink tips, just slightly, just enough to chill your wrist — and still, you don’t blink.

It was never a competition you think.

The music doesn’t stop. The crowd doesn’t part.

But your breath catches.

You want to look away. You try.

Instead, you plant yourself beside Jimin, fingers curling tighter around your drink, and pray that no one sees your chest cave in.

Jimin doesn’t notice at first. He’s too busy pretending not to flirt with Jungkook.

Their banter hums beside you, soft laughter and shoulder nudges, and you try to blend in—smile when they smile, sip when they sip.

But your eyes drift.

Back to him.

Namjoon is nodding at someone across the room. Saying hi to Hoseok. Smiling—but only a little.

You used to know the difference between all his smiles.

This one? You don’t recognize it.

Sohee presses close to whisper something in his ear, and your stomach lurches.

You’re not even jealous, not exactly. You’re just—

Displaced.

It’s like walking into your old bedroom only to find it redecorated. Nothing violent. Just unfamiliar.

Like you were erased.

⸻

You try to breathe.

The lights flicker pink and gold across the ceiling. Someone passes you with a tray of jello shots. A girl in rhinestone boots laughs too loudly behind you.

And still—your eyes won’t leave him.

He’s nodding at someone across the room

Sohee knew exactly what she was doing, didn’t she?

She’s the reason he’s here.

Because no one else could get him to come—not Yoongi’s birthday, not Jungkook’s art showcase, not even that stupid “Low Key Friday” night Hoseok threw two weeks ago.

But her?

Of course she could bring him.

And he came.

For her.