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yoongiimarryme · 1 month ago

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» come on, don't leave me

part 1 of my LOVE AND ALL event

synopsis. you were working at a corner store when one of your ex boyfriend's old friends finds you and tells you that he needs your help. pairing. hyyh!min yoongi x reader genre. hyyh au, hurt/comfort, exes to lovers warnings. mentions of suicide, mentions of drug use, flashbacks in italics wc. 4k

a/n. cried while writing this frfr. hyyh era makes me so nostalgic bc that's the era i started listening to kpop, so this was pretty cathartic for me

“Thank you. Have a nice night!”

The customer gave you a tight-lipped smile as you sat behind the counter in the dingy little corner store you’d worked at since you graduated high school. All those “we’ll make it out of this town” speeches that you and your high school boyfriend shared ended up amounting to nothing. You lived in a little 2-bedroom apartment that you shared with three other people just to be able to afford it, and you still went to your parents house every weekend to do your laundry for free.

You glanced at the clock on the far wall, seeing that you were only 2 hours into your six hour shift, you let out a huff and rested your head on the counter. You decided to start taking the graveyard shift after you kept seeing your old friends from high school drop by during the day- the corner store being right next to the local university, yet for some reason, you hadn’t thought about seeing those old familiar faces.

You were caught off guard by the door of the convenience store slamming open, the bell at the top ringing loudly as a familiar young man ran up to the counter.

“I need you to come with me.” You nearly jumped off your stool as he practically slammed into the counter.

“Wait…Seokjin?”

Kim Seokjin, one of your ex-boyfriend's best friends, a man you hadn’t seen since high school, was here in your corner store, leaning on the counter, clearly out of breath. He looked up at you with round, pleading eyes. “You need to come with me. Please. Like, right now.”

“Wait, wait, wait. What’s wrong?” Seokjin ignored your question as he walked around the counter to grab your elbow and practically drag you off your stool. You wrenched your arm from his grip. “Seokjin, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“I’ve done this like, ten times. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought to come find you until now.” He was practically mumbling under his breath. The idea that he might be on drugs crossed your mind- it wouldn’t exactly surprise you if any of those boys ended up like that. But Seokjin wasn’t the type.

“Seokjin…what are you talking about?” His head snapped up to meet yours, and he grabbed your hand, attempting to drag you out of the store again. “Jin, you’re scaring me.”

He turned back to you again, his eyes softening as they met yours, and he loosened his grip on your hand. “It’s too much to explain. We don’t have time. You just need to come with me…Please.”

“Just tell me where you’re taking me at least.”

“It’s Yoongi.”

Those two words alone were enough to make you nod your head and let Seokjin lead you out of the store and into his car. What the hell had he done now?

“I’m so done with this.” Yoongi sighed as he threw another rock into the sea in front of you as you sat with your legs dangling over the water. The two of you were on the old pier you often found yourselves hanging out on. Smoking cigarettes and daydreaming about becoming something more than you were.

“So you failed Bio. So what? Not like you’re actually gonna use what you learn in that class for anything.” You took a deep inhale of your cigarette, feeling the smoke burn the back of your throat as Yoongi picked up another rock to throw into the abyss.

“Yeah well, I kind of need that credit to graduate.” Yoongi muttered as he ran his fingers over the smooth rock in his hands.

“You could always drop out.” You joked, putting the cigarette back up to your lips. Yoongi sighed as he took a seat next to you, lightly tossing the rock into the water, watching as it splashed beneath his feet. As you breathed in the smoke, Yoongi gently took your hand, guiding it to his mouth and taking a drag for himself.

“I can’t just drop out. I don’t know what I’d do with myself.”

“Thought you wanted to do the music thing? Isn’t that like, your dream?” Yoongi shrugged his shoulders and blew the smoke from his lungs, watching as it faded with the cold air.

“Yeah, it is. I just think it’d be a good idea to finish high school, y’know? That way if the music thing falls through, I’ll have a plan.”

“Just don’t forget me when you’re rich and famous, yeah? You can’t just leave me.” Yoongi rolled his eyes and gave you a playful shove, taking the cigarette from your fingers before you could take another puff and flicking it into the ocean.

“Come on, you know I wouldn’t leave you. You’re stuck with me. For good.”

You smiled and rested your head on your boyfriend’s shoulder. Feeling his arm wrap around you, you know he meant what he said.

“So, you’re telling me you’re stuck in a time loop?”

You were in the passenger seat of Seokjin’s car as he sped through the city streets, paying little mind to traffic laws as you gripped your seatbelt like a lifeline.

“Yeah, pretty much. Also, have you been in contact with any of the other guys?”

“...No, I haven’t talked to any of you guys since I graduated.” Seokjin’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, and you were worried that the two of you were going to end the night with a trip to the hospital. “Oh wait- actually, I see Hoseok around sometimes. He works at a burger joint a couple streets down from my apartment. Don’t say much to him other than a ‘hey, how you doin?’, though.”

Seokjin continued mumbling to himself as he drove on. You hadn’t seen him in years, not since he went to LA. Him and Namjoon were always the responsible ones of the group, so seeing him in the midst of an apparent psychotic breakdown was one of the most jarring things you’d seen in your life.

“Seokjin…I’m not going to lie to you, you’re scaring me a little bit.” Seokjin glanced your way, breathing deeply as he swerved between the other cars that littered the road. “Like, you come into my work- I don’t even know how you know where I work, I literally haven’t talked to you in like, years. And then you drag me out to your car talking about how you’ve been stuck in a time loop and that everyone’s gonna die, and-”

“Not everyone’s gonna die. Just Jungkook and Yoongi.”

“Well that’s…Not exactly comforting…My ex setting himself on fire, Jungkook jumping off a building, Taehyung and Namjoon going to jail…It’s scary, Jin. And now I’m just wondering why the hell you went to come find me when I haven’t seen any of you in years.”

“You’re the last person he talked about. Every time.” Seokjin kept his eyes on the road as you looked over at him, puzzled.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Like I said, I’ve done this a few times. I’ve pulled him out of the fire, taken him to the hospital, I can never save him. And every single time I’ve tried, the last thing he ever says is your name.”

“You got fucking expelled?”

“Why are you saying that like it was my choice? A teacher was hitting Jungkook and I intervened. What the hell else was I supposed to do?”

You and Yoongi were at the pier again. Summer was fast approaching and the sun was out in full. You let out a frustrated groan and ran your hands through your hair. You couldn’t believe he’d done this to himself.

“I don’t know, Yoongi! Maybe you could have found another teacher, or just like, not have hit a teacher in the face?” Yoongi scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“So you’re telling me that if you saw Jungkook getting beat on by a teacher, you would’ve just walked away and found someone else to deal with it?”

“I don’t know! But I sure as hell wouldn’t have punched a teacher.”

“Right, ‘cus you’re so fucking perfect.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re so comfortable telling other people what to do with their lives- encouraging Seokjin to go to LA, telling me to just leave everything behind and pursue music. But what the hell have you done with your life? Nothing! You’re just as fucked as the rest of us.”

You stuttered over your words for a moment, this was the first real argument that the two of you had ever had in your three years of dating. You never would have guessed he thought that way. “Yoongi, you’re acting like I’m some kind of puppet master. Jin said he thought going to LA might be good for him, and I agreed. And I thought you wanted to pursue music! I thought you wanted to leave it all behind and live your dream.”

“Well, I’m not leaving. I can’t.”

“What? Yoongi, what do you mean?”

Yoongi stared at you almost guiltily for a moment before looking away, as if he was scared to look you in the eye. “I’m not leaving the city. I’m giving up on music.”

You sighed and walked to the edge of the pier, taking a seat on the ledge as you had countless times before. “What the fuck is happening, Yoongi?”

He sighed from behind you as you stared out into the ocean. He watched as you buried your face in your hands, and he knew he had a decision to make. He didn’t want to drag you down with him. You deserved better than that. You were better than that.

“I think we should break up.”

“Yoongi, what the fuck…” You sighed into your hands as Yoongi took a seat next to you, his head hanging low as you held back your tears. “Just like that? Come on…”

“I just think…Maybe we shouldn’t be together anymore.”

“Yeah, that clears everything up.” Yoongi watched as you took a pack of cigarettes out of your pocket, placing one between your lips and lighting it. He couldn’t tell whether the tears welling in your eyes were from the fresh smoke or from his sudden confession. The two of you sat in silence, occasionally passing the cigarette until just the filter was left.

“I’m sorry.” Yoongi whispered, he was so quiet you barely caught it.

“It’s fine. Just didn’t think you’d leave me like that.” You turned to face him, but his head still hung low. “It can’t be that easy, can it?” He stayed silent.

“Well…If you don’t have anything else to say…” You stood up from your spot, Yoongi immediately following your lead. “...I guess I’ll see you around.”

Yoongi kept his silence as he watched you walk off, casting the cigarette into the sea as you departed, not turning back even once.

That was the last time you saw Yoongi. He’d been expelled and was off doing god knows what, and you kept pushing through high school. After you and Yoongi broke up, you’d started drifting away from his friends, giving them a little wave whenever you saw them, but not much else. You’d eat lunch with Jungkook sometimes, though. Just so he didn’t feel alone. You knew he missed Yoongi.

“He’ll be in there. Fifth floor.” Seokjin had pulled up to a sketchy motel and parked the car, pointing to a window near the top floor.

“Okay…What do you want me to do?”

“Go get him. And if you smell smoke, call me, and find him as fast as you can.”

“Jesus…” You sighed as you exited the car, tentatively walking into the dingy building, you felt as though you were being watched. You took the elevator to the fifth floor as Seokjin instructed, putting your ear to each door you passed. You weren’t sure what you were listening for, but you had a gut feeling that you’d know once you heard it. You lost count of how many rooms you’d listened in on, but you were starting to feel like giving up and telling Seokjin that he wasn’t there.

Until you smelled it. Just like Seokjin said you would. Smoke.

“Stop playing with that lighter, you’re gonna set my sheets on fire.” You reprimanded from your seat at your desk as Yoongi lay sprawled across your bed, absently lighting and extinguishing the little lighter in his hand.

“I’m bored.” Your boyfriend groaned, tossing the lighter to the other side of the bed and sitting up from his spot, turning to look at you as you studied diligently. “Look at you being a good little student.”

“Yeah, well, school is important.”

Yoongi scoffed and stood up, coming to stand behind you and wrap his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Says the one who told me to drop out.”

“I just want you to be happy, and I think music would make you more happy than having to retake Biology.” Yoongi smiled and pressed his face into your neck, giving you a soft kiss before pulling away and ruffling your hair.

“You’re good to me.”

“You deserve it.”

Yoongi flopped back onto the bed, grabbing the lighter and lighting it once more, immediately extinguishing it once he saw you glaring at him from the corner of your eye. He gave you a grin, making you fondly roll your eyes and focus your attention back on your studies.

“Yoongi open up!” You pounded on the door that you could tell was his, the door handle hot to the touch, and smoke beginning to spill out from the crack below the door. You had Seokjin on the phone, having immediately called him the second the smoke hit your nose. How the hell did he know? You continue relentlessly pounding on the door as hard as you could, calling Yoongi’s name. But he didn’t answer.

“Out of the way!” You turned to see Seokjin running towards the motel door with a fire axe in hand, you yelped and jumped out of the way as Seokjin swung the axe at the door, the wood cracking loudly as he struck it. He kept swinging until the door practically fell off his hinges. He immediately ran inside, you right on his heels.

You saw him as soon as you walked in, Yoongi lay seemingly lifeless on the bed, his clothes soaked from the sweat that coated his body from the heat. Flames practically engulfing the room, the smoke stinging your eyes and you and Seokjin each grabbed one of Yoongi’s arms, carrying him out into the hallway.

“I’ll carry him. You call the fire department.” You nodded quickly as Seokjin hoisted Yoongi over his shoulders, you hot on his tail as the two of you ran down the stairs. You did the best you could to efficiently relay your location to the fire department as you and Seokjin made it outside. Yoongi remained in his smoke-induced comatose state as the fire trucks pulled up to the motel. The fire had started to spread to other parts of the building, the heat reaching you even outside.

The EMT’s took Yoongi into the back of an ambulance, and before you could protest, Seokjin ran back to his car, saying something about Taehyung before he sped off. One of the EMT’s urged you into the back of the ambulance with them. You took a seat next to Yoongi, who now had all sorts of tubes attached to him. The EMT was asking you questions, but they were going in one ear and out the other as you stared down at your ex-boyfriend, praying silently that he would be alright.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you but…You know those things cause cancer, right?” The voice of Min Yoongi mused as he sidled up to you, his hands in his pockets as you choked on the smoke that you’d just inhaled. Yoongi held back his laugh as you coughed, leaning on the wall next to you.

“Obviously, I know that.” It wasn’t the first time Yoongi had caught you smoking on the rooftop of your school, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. It had become a little ritual for the two of you ever since you started school; he would sneak up behind you, wait until you inhaled and then he’d say some quippy remark, and you would choke on the smoke while he tried and failed to not laugh at you. You’d then offer the cigarette to him, and he’d take it, and then the two of you would pass it back and forth until it was nothing more than a nub, then you’d go about your day as if it never happened.

“You know, I love these little moments between us.” Yoongi grinned as you passed the cigarette to him with a roll of your eyes.

“Whatever. You just like seeing me choke.”

“That is a nice bonus.” You rolled your eyes at him and took the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a puff, not even noticing Yoongi’s eyes on you as you breathed the smoke out, watching as it took shape in the air in front of you. He immediately looked away as you passed it back to him, cooly taking it between his fingers. You saw right past his nonchalant act and rolled your eyes, wondering what the hell his problem was.

“You’re acting a little weird today.” This time, it was Yoongi’s turn to choke, and you didn’t even make an attempt to hide the cruel laugh that left your mouth.

“No I’m not.” His voice cracked as he attempted to speak through the smoke that remained in his throat.

“Yeahhh, you are.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever.” You sighed as you held the cigarette in your mouth, taking your phone out of your pocket to check your messages.

“I just think it’d be cool if we hung out more. Outside of our rooftop hangouts.” You looked up at him in shock, the cigarette threatening to fall out of your mouth. Yoongi smirked and took the cigarette from between your lips, taking one more drag before tossing it to the ground. “So? Wanna hang out more?”

“Uhh…” His eyes stayed trained on yours as you fumbled over your words, a grin starting to form on his face once again. “I mean…Sure. Yeah. Whatever.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.” Yoongi chuckled as he ran a hand through his hair, you tried your best to look nonchalant, glancing back down at your phone, doing your best to not meet his eyes again. “Soo, you wanna try that new burger joint down the road after school?”

“Yeah, sure.” You mumbled, shoving your hands in your pockets and rocking on the balls of your feet as Yoongi held back a chuckle at your sudden ‘cool’ demeanor.

“Cool.” Yoongi paused for a second before leaning in and pressing a sudden quick kiss to your cheek, turning away immediately, opening the door that led back downstairs and calling over his shoulder, “see you after school!” Leaving you with flushed cheeks and a stunned expression.

You thought back to that day during your first year of high school, the day that Yoongi had first asked you out. You were innocent kids, with no knowledge of the horrors that the world held in store for you. You sat in a distinctly uncomfortable chair next to an unconscious Yoongi’s bed, all kinds of machines and tubes attached to him, an oxygen mask fixed over his face. You still hadn’t heard back from Seokjin, but it was easy to not think about that as the steady beeping of the heart monitor kept your attention fixed on your ex.

“What the fuck, Yoongi?” You sighed, leaning forward, resting your head on the bed, turning to look at Yoongi’s pale face. It was even paler than usual now. You couldn’t imagine what he’d been through the past few years for him to get to this point. You’d always liked to imagine that he’d changed his mind and ended up as a piano teacher or something far away from here. You’d always hoped he was happy.

Your eyes drifted shut as your head lay on the bed next to his thigh, your dreams filled with old memories of the two of you, some happy, some sad, all nostalgic.

You felt something on your head, it felt like something slightly tugging on your hair, causing you to wake from your restless sleep. You raised your hand to your head to feel for whatever was tugging on it. You immediately shot up when your hand met another hand, you raised your head to look at Yoongi, who was smiling up at you with tired eyes.

“It’s you.”

“Oh my god, Yoongi.” You crashed into him, wrapping your arms around whatever part of him you could.

Yoongi let out a weak chuckle as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders, his hand coming up to the back of your head. “Am I dreaming, dead, or are you really here?”

“I’m here, Yoongi. I’m really here.” Your voice cracked as tears spilled from your eyes. Yoongi’s grip on you tightened, despite the uncomfortable position that the two of you were in, his grip didn’t loosen even for a second. “Don’t leave me again.” You whispered into his neck, the smell of smoke that lingered on him filling your nostrils.

Yoongi’s grip on you eased up, prompting you to pull away slightly, your eyes meeting his for the first time in years. He reached up to gently grab your face in his hands, your body immediately melting into his familiar touch. “I think about you every single day. I promise. Promise. That I will never leave.” He ripped the oxygen mask from his face, then returned his hand to your face, his thumb wiping away the tears that had spilled down your face. “I love you too much to ever even think about leaving you again.”

“Fuck you, Yoongi.” You sobbed, your hands coming up to curl around his own, “I love you-” Yoongi cut your sentence off by pulling you down and pressing his lips to your own. Your lips immediately moved against his as they had countless times before. As if your bodies never knew that you’d been apart for so long, you molded into each other like he’d never left.

The two of you could have stayed like that for days, months, even years before the door flew open, and six young men burst through, a nurse hot on their tail reprimanding them. You and Yoongi immediately pulled away from each other, cheeks hot in embarrassment as the six men stared with their jaws hanging open.

The silence was broken by a brash “The fuck are you guys doing here?” from Yoongi. At that question, Jungkook immediately rushed forward to hug his friend, Yoongi groaning as the younger man squeezed him tightly.

“How long have you two been back together?” Hoseok piped up from the doorway, his brightly colored hair illuminating like a halo in the light from the hallway.

“About thirty seconds” Yoongi answered, his voice coming out strained from Jungkook’s tight grip around his ribcage.

You smiled fondly at the two friends before looking back to the rest of the group, your eyes meeting Seokjin’s who gave you a hesitant smile. Whatever that smile meant, you didn’t much care as you felt Yoongi’s fingers curl around your own, and all your old friends filed into the room, taking seats wherever they could, rejoicing in the fact that they were all together again. Just as they should be.

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yoongiimarryme · 1 month ago

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best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

✧ SUMMARY: You meet Min Yoongi at a GS25 on a nothing Tuesday. You don't expect him to change your life. You certainly don't expect to change his.

✧ TAGS: strangers to lovers, angst (with a happy—but hopefully realistic—ending), smut, fluff, this is a heavy one so please heed the warnings!

✧ WARNINGS: mental health issues, depression, depressive episodes, suicidal ideation throughout, suicide mentions throughout, implied suicide attempt (sort of?), panic attacks, specifically panic attacks after (consensual!) sex, smoking, recreational marijuana use, vaginal fingering, oral (m. receiving), oral (f. receiving), vaginal sex, mentions of unprotected sex (but no real unprotected sex), MINORS DNI, please do not read this fic if any of these warnings are triggering to you!

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: okay. so... i said i wasn't going to post any more fics until june. and i won't post any more until then after this! i'm still on semi-hiatus! but something happened in my personal life last week, and i couldn't... not get it all out, somehow. so... here's this almost 14k monster. thank you claret @yoonmetogether for beta reading and giving me so much love and support while i was in the process of writing this! i love you! and thank you yoongi, for writing/releasing so far away (and the last) in 2016 and teaching teenage aqua how to stay, even when i didn't want to. and teaching adult aqua the same thing every year since. i hope this fic helps someone. that's why i'm posting it.

P.S. i recognize that i haven't edited my taglist since my hiatus. if you want to be removed, let me know.

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

It’s a Tuesday night, which means nothing. Just like Monday meant nothing. Just like Wednesday won’t either.

The buzzing fluorescent lights in the 24-hour convenience store stutter overhead. You’ve been zoned out in the ramen aisle for at least five minutes now, doing the same song and dance you always do. Pretending you’re going to try something different this time, be a little spontaneous. Because you must break the pattern today or the loop will repeat tomorrow, right?

Still, though, your hand hovers over the same one you always get—the spicy one in the black package that scorches your mouth and makes your nose run. But at least it makes you feel something. So, you grab it.

Into the basket it goes, landing beside a bottle of Milkis and a crumpled bag of gummy worms. You sigh, turn around—

—and nearly walk straight into some guy you didn’t even know was in the store.

You both do that awkward side-step thing, freeze, then side-step the same way again.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” the guy mutters, voice low and scratchy, like it hasn’t been used yet today.

He’s wearing an oversized hoodie, the drawstrings uneven. His hair, bleach blonde, is tucked messily under a beanie, and there’s a faint line on his cheek from what was clearly a very intense nap. He’s holding a can of cold coffee and a pre-packaged egg sandwich in one hand, clutched between long fingers.

His eyes flick up to yours, and you realize, belatedly, that you’re staring. You should probably move, or say something.

“No, I—sorry,” you say, taking a step back. Your basket clinks against your knee. “Didn’t see you.”

Both of you are still kind of in each other’s way. There’s that weird, hesitant pause where you’re not quite sure who’s supposed to move next.

You clear your throat, nodding at his sandwich. “Midnight craving?”

“Something like that,” he says, eyes flicking down to the ramen in your basket. “You going for pain, huh?”

You blink, then smile a little. You didn’t expect him to be game. “Only the kind I can control.”

That makes him huff a short laugh through his nose. “Hey, no judgment. I’m out here buying coffee at midnight, so.”

You nod toward the sandwich again. “And that. Bold choice.”

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

It feels dangerously like flirting, just for a second. Awkward, clumsy flirting, sure, but flirting nonetheless. But the moment ends just as quickly as it came, like you’ve both run out of things to say at the exact same time.

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

You return to your mission. First, hot water from the machine by the coffee counter. Plastic fork from the stack that’s always slightly sticky. You sit on one of the cracked stools by the window while the noodles steep and sip from your Milkis while staring out at the empty street.

By the time you make it to the register, the guy is gone. You kind of expected that.

He was cute, you think. A year ago, when you were a different girl and sort of had your shit together, you probably would’ve asked for his number. Batted your eyelashes or something stupid like that.

But now? You barely have the energy to brush your teeth most days. You’re certainly not in a place for romance. Not when your big life plan has boiled down to ‘survive one more month.’

So no, you’re not mourning the possible missed connection with the kind-of-cute stranger in the GS25. Just acknowledging it.

But then, when you’ve paid and make a move to shuffle out, the automatic doors slide open—and there he is.

Again. Leaning against the low brick wall, trying to light a cigarette with the wind working against him. The flame sputters out twice before catching.

You could leave. You should. But you linger, and since the street is pretty much desolate, he notices.

“Didn’t mean to loiter behind you,” he says, glancing up.

You shrug. “Didn’t mean to run into you. Twice.”

He waves his free hand dismissively, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips, plastic bag dangling precariously. “No harm done.”

That should be it, probably. End of conversation, end of interaction. Two strangers walk in opposite directions to wherever it is they call home.

But something about the slump in his shoulders, so similar to your own, makes you momentarily brave.

“You got somewhere to be?” you ask, gnawing at your bottom lip.

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

“Wanna sit?” you offer, gesturing towards the curb. “I’m just gonna eat before it gets cold.”

His eyes widen, like that’s the last thing in the world he expected you to say.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

You sit. He settles a little awkwardly beside you, pulling the sandwich out of its crinkled plastic. It’s predictably silent between you, but you don’t hate it.

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

Okay. He is cute. Decidedly. Maybe even hot, if you caught him on a better day. In a bleary, worn out way. The kind of good looks that sneak up on you, delicate and masculine all at once. Pale skin. Sharp jaw. Soft mouth. You’re not going to do anything about it. Obviously. But… still.

“What’s your name?” you ask around a mouthful of noodles.

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

Yoongi takes another bite of his sandwich. Swallows. “You here often?” he asks, immediately grimacing. “God. That sounded—"

“Like a line?” You laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Small talk comes easy after that. You find out he used to live on the other side of the river and only recently moved to this part of the city because of a roommate situation that imploded. You tell him that you only planned to live in your current apartment for a year, until you could afford something better. It’s been three now.

He tells you he’s currently between jobs. You admit you’re technically not sure if you still have your night gig, because your boss hasn’t texted you in three days and you don’t want to ask.

He gives you the remaining half of his sandwich. You pass over your ramen wordlessly, letting him steal a few bites. It’s still awkward, eating so closely with a stranger like this. Sharing your dinner with someone who doesn’t even know your name. But it’s weirdly nice.

When the food is mostly gone, he holds out his cigarette pack. You take one and he lights it for you. You both pass it back and forth in silence for a minute.

“I used to think I’d be famous by now,” he says eventually, exhaling toward the gutter. “Like, not stupid-famous. Just… enough that I wouldn’t be here. You know?”

You nod. You do know.

“I wanted to be a writer,” you offer in return. “But I hate writing. And I hate people who are good at it. And I hate that I still kind of want to do it anyway.”

“I don’t even know what I do anymore,” he says. “I was making music for a while. Then I got tired. Now I sleep too much. Avoid my friends. Pick up shifts at my cousin’s record store when he gets desperate enough to ask.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

You tip your head back, look up at the sky, which is a washed-out navy and completely starless. Seoul smog. “I work part-time at a bookstore that almost exclusively sells erotica. And I cry like, three times a week, minimum. Usually in the bathroom. Sometimes in front of customers.”

Yoongi flicks ash onto the ground. “You win.”

You both sit with it. The warm, awful food. The too-sweet soda and the gummy worms melting in the bag between your knees. The companionship of a stranger willing to share a cigarette and half of his shitty sandwich, whose life isn’t all that different from yours.

You turn your heads at the same time. Your eyes flick down to his lips where they’re sealed around the cigarette. Inhale, exhale. To his long fingers, thumbnail bitten to shit.

He’s really pretty, even like this, in the unflattering light of the streetlamp you’re sitting under. Long lashes and dark eyes that pierce through you. You wonder if his mouth really is as soft as it looks.

He’s looking at your lips, too, you realize. When you catch him, he looks away fast, ears pink.

“This is nice,” he says, staring at the concrete beneath his shoes.

You blink. Then, just as quietly, “Yeah. It is.”

He offers the cigarette again. You take it. Neither of you says anything else for a long time.

✧

The bookstore has been blissfully, predictably dead since you opened this morning. That’s really the only upside of the job—nobody shows up. You could count the regulars on one hand, and half of them only come in to use the bathroom, despite the clearly posted sign that says they can’t.

You’ve developed a theory about it, about the shame that still lingers around buying erotica in person. As if reading about sex is fine, but purchasing it in the flesh is something to feel embarrassed about. You could write a dissertation on it, probably. But you won’t. You don’t write anymore. You just clock in, count the till, and reorganize displays no one looks at.

You’ve already done your morning routine. Opened up. Counted money. Packed a frankly alarming number of online orders (apparently people really love vampire erotica). Now, you’re posted up behind the counter, flipping through a paperback about sexy cowboys with a bright red cover and a title that would make your mother blush.

You’re in the middle of counting how many times the author uses the word member on one page (six, and one was throbbing) when the bell above the door gives its half-hearted ding.

You glance up from the counter, fully prepared to give your standard ‘we don’t have a public bathroom’ spiel, when you see him. Hoodie. Messy, bleached hair. Soft mouth.

Yoongi.

Your mouth actually falls open a little. You eventually gave him your name that night, but you hadn’t exchanged numbers. You didn’t even follow each other on social media. And yet, here he is, bearing witness to you in all of your smut-peddling glory.

“I guessed,” he says, by way of explanation. He sounds a little breathless. “You said bookstore, and there’s like, two in the area. The other one didn’t have nearly enough erotica.”

“So you just… showed up?”

He shrugs, sheepish. “You didn’t give me your number.”

If he wasn’t cute, you might be a little creeped out. He’s lucky he’s got such a nice face. It makes things feel romantic.

“You want something?” you ask, gesturing to the wide variety of bodice-rippers your manager has displayed so proudly at the register.

“Yeah,” he says. “A cigarette. And maybe to talk to you again.”

You exhale through your nose, amused despite yourself. “Come on.”

You lead him through the back, past the haphazard ‘Employees Only’ sign that no one respects. Outside, the alley smells like stale piss. Very romantic, indeed.

Just like Tuesday, he lights a cigarette for you to share. You take it, and he leans against the brick wall, watching you.

“I kept thinking about you all week,” he says suddenly, no preamble. His eyes are fixed on the smoke curling off the end of the cigarette.

You take a drag, the smoke clinging to your teeth. “I thought about it too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look down at your shoes. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up, though.”

He gives a quiet little laugh, almost self-deprecating. “Honestly, I almost didn’t.”

“So why did you?”

“I don’t know. Stubbornness? Hope? Boredom?” He shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t want to go another week without feeling like something mattered. Even if it’s just a conversation in a piss alley.”

That earns a smile from you. A real one. You pass the cigarette back.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says eventually. “I don’t even know if I’m in a place to have a thing. But I liked talking to you. And I’m tired of not liking anything.”

You look at him. He’s not exactly looking back, more at the space near your shoes. But his profile is soft, a little hopeful.

“I feel the same way,” you say, cheeks hot and heartrate climbing. Something you haven’t felt in a long time—not for good reasons, at least.

He smiles. It’s small, but it feels real.

“You’re gonna give me your number this time, right?”

You dig your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him.

He types in his number one-handed, cigarette dangling from the other, then calls himself so he has yours too. When it buzzes in his hoodie pocket, he hums like that settles something. Like now, technically, you belong to each other in some tiny way.

You take the cigarette back from him. Your fingers brush, knuckles stay touching longer than they should.

“You’re not gonna ghost me now that you’ve won the chase, right?” you murmur.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You think that was a chase?”

You shrug. “It was something.”

For a moment, you just stand there in the alley. The world keeps moving, traffic hums in the distance. Your shitty boss is probably inside wondering why you’ve been gone more than the regulation five minutes.

But you don’t move.

You look at him. His mouth. The cigarette between your fingers. And your body makes a decision your brain is too tired to argue with.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s clumsy at first. Your lips a little dry, the angle off, but it doesn’t matter. He makes a sound like a surprised exhale against your mouth and then he’s kissing you back, slow and warm and honest.

He tastes like smoke and canned coffee. You drop the cigarette and his hand finds your jaw. Your fingers reach for the edge of his hoodie, twisting in the fabric like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t hold on.

You kiss him again. And again.

You’re not trying to make it romantic, really. You’re not trying to make it anything. It’s just—fuck, it’s been so long since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted to.

And Yoongi kisses like he wants to be anywhere but alone. Like he gets it.

When you finally pull back, both of you a little dazed, he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “So… this is happening.”

You nod, heart hammering. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“I won’t.”

And he kisses you again, one more time for the road, hands on your hips like maybe he needs the grounding just as badly as you do.

Yoongi leaves around the back and you go back inside like nothing happened.

But he leaves with your number, and you can still taste him on your lips.

✧

Weeks pass, but you both take full advantage of having each other’s numbers.

You text mostly during lulls, when you’re hiding behind the register pretending to alphabetize the books, or when Yoongi’s stuck in the back room of the record store sorting the new arrivals.

You never say good morning or good night. It’s not like that. But he sends you photos of weird album art, and you respond with blurry selfies surrounded by piles of books with egregious titles.

There’s comfort in the ease of it. No pressure. Just a quiet thread tying your days together.

You: someone asked if we have a bathroom and when i said no they said “then what do you do?” like they wanted me to shit in front of them for proof

Yoongi: People are the worst. Come work here. The pay is shit but at least no one talks to me

Sometimes you send voice notes instead of typing because you’re too tired, and he never comments on how drained you sound. He just sends one back where his voice is raspy and low and he’s clearly half-asleep but trying anyway.

It’s not dating, but it’s not not dating. You’re not friends, not exactly, but you care, at least a little, about whether he eats. Whether he sleeps. Whether he means it when he says he’s fine.

It’s just whatever the two of you are capable of giving right now. Somehow, that’s enough.

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

Yoongi: Don’t say anything about how that sounds btw

You stare at it for a second. Then you type:

You: i am. what’s up?

You: and yes i’m going to make fun of you anyway

You: is this a booty call

Three dots bubble up and disappear. Once, twice, three times.

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

You sit up, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.

You could say no. You could ask why. You could point out the hour, claim you have work in the morning. But you haven’t seen him since the day you exchanged numbers (and saliva), so instead, you say:

You: yeah

You: come over

You send him your address. Twenty minutes later, he shows up, in the same hoodie as last time. Holding a plastic bag with canned coffee for him, Milkis for you, and a package of cookies you once mentioned liking in a text two weeks ago.

You don’t say anything at first. He holds up the bag like it’s proof that he should be allowed inside, and you take it with a soft, bemused snort. Then you step aside so he can come in.

He enters like someone trying not to wake a sleeping house—careful and quiet and unsure of what to do with his hands.

You close the door behind him. You both fidget for a second.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says finally, standing just inside the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your heart tips, like it’s leaning closer to him whether you let it or not.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you admit softly.

And then, because it’s late and you’re lonely and he’s warm and real and here, you kiss him. Again.

It’s immediate this time. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just mouths pressing together like they’re picking up where you left off in the alley behind the bookstore. His hands find your waist. Yours cup his face, thumbs brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones. You kiss him slow, then faster. Harder.

You don’t think about what it means. You don’t try to label it. You just let yourself feel it—the weight of his body, the sound of your breaths, the sudden, startling relief of being touched.

His mouth trails to your jaw. Your neck. His hoodie bunches in your fists.

When you finally pull back, both of you flushed and breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I like you,” he says quietly.

You swallow around the knot in your throat and nod. “Kiss me again.”

There's a sharpness to the way your mouths move now. You tug at his hoodie, fingers slipping under the hem to touch skin, and he makes a sound against your lips, small and desperate.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, sliding up your back, curling in your shirt like he can’t bear to let go. He presses you up against the door, urgent, and you gasp when his teeth graze the underside of your jaw.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard. “I’m sorry—I didn’t come here for this, I just—”

“Don’t stop,” you say, voice barely there. “I want this.”

That undoes him a little. You feel it in the way his mouth crashes back to yours, the way he exhales sharply through his nose like he’s already drunk on it. He kisses you hard, lips and teeth and tongue with no finesse.

His thigh slips between yours and you move against it, just enough to chase friction, just enough to let him feel how badly you want this too.

“Jesus,” he whispers, low and raw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head back and let him mouth at your throat, lips wet, sucking a bruise into the skin. Your hips roll down again, slow and deliberate, and Yoongi’s breath stutters.

“I missed this,” you admit, half-ashamed. “I missed being touched. I missed wanting someone.”

Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, expression unreadable.

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

And then he kisses you again, deep and dizzying, and slips a hand beneath your waistband. His fingers are warm against your skin. Tentative at first, like he's giving you a chance to stop him, even now. Like some small, rational part of him is still waiting for you to say, ‘don’t.’ But you don’t. You tilt your hips forward instead, breath catching, and he exhales like that’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes his hand into your underwear and groans when he feels how wet you are.

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

It’s been a long time since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted you like this. Desperate but gentle, afraid of messing it up. His fingers slide through your slick heat and you let out a sharp breath, clinging to his shoulders, your forehead pressed to his.

“I’m not gonna last long,” you whisper, already dizzy. “This is—fuck—this is embarrassing.”

Yoongi huffs a soft, broken laugh. “Don’t care. Come for me. Come fast. I want to feel you lose it.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow, then fast, then slow again. Just enough pressure to make you tremble, to make you cry out softly into his hoodie. His thumb finds your clit, and you nearly sob from the shock of it.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, hands scrambling for purchase. “I—fuck—”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Let me have it. I got you.”

You come fast. Hard. Pathetically hard. Your body locks up and then shudders violently, mouth open against his collarbone, heart pounding like it’s trying to claw out of your chest. Yoongi holds you through it. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets you ride it out with his mouth pressed to your temple, breathing you in.

When it’s over, you’re shaking. Barely upright. He eases his hand out of your underwear and presses a kiss to your hairline, tender in a way that makes your eyes sting.

You bury your face in his neck.

“I can’t believe I let you finger me against my front door,” you mumble, mortified as you catch your breath.

“Can’t believe you invited me to,” he replies, grinning against your skin.

You both laugh. Quiet and shaky and a little shellshocked. You’re still leaning into him, your breath evening out, your body boneless. The high is fading, but the warmth he left behind is stubborn.

You lift your head, eyes still a little glazed, and give him a suspicious squint.

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

“How the fuck are you not getting laid constantly?”

His eyebrows shoot up. Then he laughs, quiet but full-bodied, like he’s genuinely caught off guard.

“I mean,” you continue, gesturing vaguely to your crotch, “that was—God. And I didn't even know if you’d be good at it! Like, I kind of assumed it would be decent, because you have a mouth and hands and a pulse—but that was fucking criminally good. Who taught you that? Why is this not a more widely available service?”

Yoongi presses his face into your shoulder and groans, laughing harder now. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying, someone out there is missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”

He finally lifts his head again, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Yeah, well. Most people don’t really stick around long enough to find out.”

That sobers you a little.

You study him—his messy hair, his blown pupils, the way he tries to play it off with a little shrug. But there’s something underneath it all. Not sadness, exactly. Loneliness, maybe.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his bangs, almost absently. “They’re idiots.”

Yoongi watches you for a moment. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just leans into your touch.

And then the quiet gets to you, makes you want to crawl out of your skin, so you say:

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

Yoongi freezes. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

He laughs. “Are you always like this?” he asks, amused, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You ignore him and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants instead, fingers slipping under, deliberate and slow. “So?”

Yoongi exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I want you to.”

His head tips back when you start kissing down his neck. His breath goes shallow. The way he touches you, light on the back of your neck, like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—it makes you want to give him everything all of a sudden.

So you drop to your knees in your entryway, hitting the floor with a quiet thud that echoes in the quiet. Yoongi looks down at you in amazement, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

You tug his sweats down and he helps, fingers twitching against the fabric, thick cock already hard and leaking at the tip.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice thin. Disbelieving.

You glance up at him, smirking. “That a problem?”

“Not even a little.”

You spit into your palm, spread it over the head, and he twitches in your grip. When you lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, Yoongi lets out a quiet, broken sound.

You’re a little rusty, but you don’t tease. You don’t take your time. You just sink your mouth down around him, spit-slick and sloppy.

“Fuck—”

Yoongi’s head knocks lightly against the wall. One hand finds the back of your head, loose and shaking like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold you still.

You bob your head faster, messier. Let your saliva drip down over your fingers, curled around the base of his cock while you work the rest with your mouth. He groans again, choked and startled, and you feel him twitch in your palm.

“Jesus, you’re gonna—fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”

You hum around him. That does it.

He gasps. Buckles a little. Then pulls back. Not all the way, just enough to jerk himself through the last few strokes, breathing ragged.

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

You look up at him, mouth open, lips shiny and wet, tongue out just barely.

He spills across your mouth, your cheek, your chin. Hot and messy and so, so much. You blink through it, a little stunned, a lot turned on.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, staring at the mess he made of you. “You’re—god. You’re insane.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still grinning. “You’re welcome.”

Yoongi laughs breathlessly. “I think I just fell in love with you a little.”

You feel the shift, then. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but suddenly the air feels different. Too quiet. A little too still.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you huff, just to fill the space.

Yoongi leans down and helps you up with careful hands. Your legs are a little wobbly. His hoodie is rumpled. His hair’s a mess. His sweatpants hang loose on his hips and his lips are kiss-bitten and red.

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

You’ve crossed some invisible threshold. You both know it. And now you’re just... here.

“I’m gonna, um.” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Wash my face.”

Yoongi nods, but doesn’t say anything. You don’t look back as you walk away.

In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror, palms braced on either side of the sink. You wash your hands. Splash your face. Pat dry and breathe.

Or try to.

Fuck, are you having a fucking panic attack? Over that? Your chest is tight, every cell of your skin foreign to you. Like you’re wearing someone else’s body and she just did something you weren’t supposed to.

What the fuck was that?

Not the act itself. That part was great. The enthusiasm, the sheer filth of it—you don’t think you regret it. Maybe. It felt good, in the moment. You wanted it.

It’s what came after.

The shift. The quiet. The moment you felt like he saw too much of you. The part of you that glows when it’s being wanted, and dims just as quickly when it’s alone again.

And—Jesus, ’I think I just fell in love with you a little’? Who the fuck says that?

It takes you longer than you’d like to calm down. You do the breathing exercises you were taught, back in college when counseling was free and they handed out pamphlets on every corner of your campus. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. You smooth down your shirt. Brush your fingers through your hair.

Then return to the living room like you didn’t just spiral for fifteen straight minutes.

When you return, breathing still a little labored, Yoongi’s sitting on the arm of your couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s afraid of what comes next. Like you’ve left him with his thoughts for too long.

He sits up when you approach, brow furrowed at the state of you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down.

“Yeah. I just…” You stare straight ahead. “That was good. Really good. But it’s been a while. And I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of this.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “You don’t have to know,” he says. “I don’t either.”

You turn to look at him, and the thing in his eyes, the softness, it’s too much. So you keep going.

“Not just the sex. Not just… you. This,” you say, gesturing at yourself, then your apartment. The mess that’s accumulated over the past month. “Letting someone see me when I don’t have it together. When I’m not even trying to pretend I do.”

You rest your head on the back of the couch, stare up at the ceiling like maybe it’ll swallow you whole if you keep talking.

“I don’t know why the fuck now of all times is when I’m letting myself feel anything,” you say. “It’s not like my life is better. It’s not like I’ve earned it.”

Silence.

Then Yoongi shifts. Leans forward, elbows on his knees again, like he’s working up to something.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” he says. “There’s no quota for being okay. Or being wanted. You can be a mess and still deserve good things. You can be at your worst and still… feel.”

You laugh. Bitter and small. “So what, we’re just two disasters trying to convince each other it’s fine?”

He shrugs. “Pretty much.” And then, so gentle it nearly breaks you, he adds, “I don’t think I’m here to fix you. I just want to be here.”

How can he be so sure?

You don’t know a damn thing about him. Not really.

You know he works the stock room in a record store part-time and hates most of his coworkers. You know he smokes too much. That he eats terrible sandwiches and drinks canned coffee. That he texts like he’s trying to make you laugh even when he’s probably in the middle of some breakdown of his own.

You know he’s good with his hands.

You know he looked at you, in all of your mess, like you were still human. You know that he says dumb, grossly honest shit way too easily.

But you don’t know where he grew up. You don’t know what keeps him up at night. You don’t know what kind of heartbreaks he’s carrying, or who let him down hard enough that he walks around like he does.

And still, there’s something in your chest that won’t calm down. Something desperate. Clawing. A tightness you don’t want to name.

Why?

Why the fuck are you feeling so much for someone who’s barely more than a stranger?

Is it just the attention? The intimacy? The fact that, for once, someone touched you without asking you to be okay first? Is this what happens when you’re starving? When your skin has been untouched for too long and someone comes along with warm hands and tired eyes and lets you fall apart without flinching?

Maybe.

But it doesn’t feel shallow. It doesn’t feel fake. Instead, it just feels too easy. Like being with him turns the volume down in your head. Like you don’t have to explain yourself to be understood.

It scares the shit out of you.

Yoongi slips down from the armrest, sinks into the cushion next to you instead. Your knee brushes his. His arm rests behind you on the back of the couch, not quite around you, but near enough that if you leaned even slightly, he’d catch you.

Neither of you moves for a while. You just breathe.

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

But it’s the first deliberate touch since everything happened in the entryway. And it’s soft. Hesitant.

“We don’t have to do… that,” he says, quiet but firm. You know he means the sex. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Maybe you don’t need to define it yet. Maybe it’s not about love or fate or healing. Maybe it’s just about want.

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t push. He doesn’t label anything. He just keeps showing up.

Sometimes at your place, sometimes at his. Sometimes at the bookstore, when he has a day off.

There’s a pattern now.

Late-night convenience store runs. Shared ramen on cracked stools by the window, making fun of people’s bad haircuts as they pass on the street outside. Socks borrowed and never returned. His hoodie living permanently on the back of your chair. Your phone lighting up with ‘Proof of life?’ on days he knows you’re at a low.

Sometimes you kiss. Sometimes you just sit in the same room and don’t say anything. Sometimes he talks and you don’t respond. And that’s okay, too.

It’s not about what it is. It’s about the fact that it keeps happening.

When you disappear, he still shows up. Like today.

It’s not a dramatic breakdown. Not this time.

Instead, it’s the kind of bad week that sinks its teeth in slow. No single catalyst, no big meltdown. Just one exhausting day stacked on top of another, until your body forgets how to move without dragging. Your sink is full of dishes you can’t look at. Your hair’s unwashed. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in days.

You didn’t text Yoongi to come over. You didn’t say much of anything at all this week.

But you must’ve sounded off, or maybe he just knows how to read silence better than most, because around three in the afternoon, you hear the soft knock at your door.

You don’t answer at first. You don’t mean to ignore him, you just can’t make your legs move.

A minute passes, and your phone buzzes from somewhere near your pillow.

Yoongi: Not trying to crowd you. Just wanted to drop off some food Yoongi: Leaving it by the door. No pressure

You muster the energy to roll out of bed and crack the door open. A plastic bag sits at your feet and Yoongi is already halfway down the hallway, hands in his pockets.

“Yoongi,” you call, your voice raspier than you expect.

He turns around.

“Hey,” he says, probably surprised that you’re upright.

You open the door wider. “You can come in. If you want.”

Yoongi hesitates just for a second, checking that you’re sure. Then he nods. He picks the bag up and slips inside without a word, setting it on your kitchen counter.

He doesn’t try to hug you or touch you or ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t judge your apartment, the clothes strewn about, the closed curtains, the dishes piling up in the sink. He barely even looks.

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna make something anyway. Just in case.”

He moves around your kitchen like it’s his. Not because he’s overly familiar, but because he’s not afraid of your mess. He pulls out eggs, rice, a few green onions from the bag he brought.

You retreat back to your couch. You didn’t mean to lie down again, but the second you sit, your body droops until you’re horizontal. So you stay curled on your side, facing the wall. Listening.

The clink of metal. The whoosh of your gas burner catching. The soft sizzle of garlic hitting oil.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up, Yoongi is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, cross-legged, a steaming bowl in his lap and another on your coffee table.

You push yourself up slowly. Your head aches, your throat’s dry, but you can’t lie. It smells good.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I know,” he says, soft. “I wanted to.”

You eat in silence. The rice is soft, buttery, a little salty from the soy sauce and the eggs scrambled through it. You’re hungrier than you thought, but you pace yourself.

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

Yoongi takes your bowl when you’re done, rinses both of them without comment. When he comes back, he takes a seat next to you. He scrolls through streaming apps on your TV until he lands on something you like.

The opening credits roll.

He doesn’t try to hold you. Doesn’t try to tell you it’s going to be okay. He just sits beside you, shoulders barely brushing. When your body droops again, he lets you lean into his side.

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, he mutters, “You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

You don’t look at him. Your throat tightens like you’re going to cry. Which is something, at least, after the numbness of the week.

“This could be me next week,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Or tomorrow. So. I get it. That’s all.”

And then the movie continues. One ridiculous scene after another. The light from the screen flickers across his face.

You don’t say thank you yet, but you know you don’t have to.

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

Neither of you has tried. There was one moment, maybe, a few days ago. Yoongi was over for no particular reason. He’d looked at you from your kitchen floor, head propped against the cabinets, lips red from kissing, and opened his mouth like he might ask.

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

You text like friends. ‘Want anything from the store?’ ‘This customer just asked if we sell records on vinyl. I hate it here.’ ‘What are you doing tonight?’ ‘Absolutely nothing.’ ‘Come do nothing with me.’

You hang out like you’re in a relationship. Eat cross-legged on his bed. Steal fries from each other’s plates without asking. Sometimes fall asleep shoulder to shoulder watching terrible TV.

You make out. A lot.

Against walls. On couches. Outside each other’s doors at night when neither of you feels like saying goodnight just yet. It never quite escalates to the point it did that night—maybe once or twice it almost does, but one of you always pumps the brakes.

You don’t meet each other’s friends. You don’t ask about exes. You don’t introduce him to your sister or take photos together or exchange socials. Because that doesn’t feel like what this is.

You like the bubble you’ve built. The little world where nothing outside matters. Where it doesn’t have to matter yet.

Because outside the bubble, your life is still a mess. Rent’s overdue. Work is torture. You haven’t written anything in over a year and you haven’t figured out how to be proud of yourself again, not really.

But inside it—when Yoongi’s mouth is on yours, when he texts you ‘Made extra ramen if you’re hungry btw’ like that’s not the most romantic shit anyone’s ever said to you, you feel steady.

But, like anything else, it comes with its own set of issues.

The thing about not fucking is that it used to be about not wanting. A lack of drive. A lack of spark. A lack of time or energy or libido or options.

But now? Now, it’s something else. Because you have the option.

Now, it’s starting to feel like a crack in the glass. Like every time you grind against his thigh with your hips twitching and your breath shaky, or every time he pulls your shirt off and buries his face between your tits but doesn’t go lower, the crack gets a little deeper. And you’re both pretending not to see it.

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

You think about it constantly. The way his fingers curled inside you that first night, the soft, filthy way he talked to you, the way he looked down at your face when you sucked him off like he was watching a goddamn miracle unfold.

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

But you don’t bring it up. Because once you do, once you have sex, it’s not a bubble anymore. It’s real, something with expectations.

And you know yourself, you know how you get. You’ll start needing more. Wanting more. And Yoongi, sweet and quiet and lost in his own way, will become another thing you don’t know how to manage. Another thing you don’t know how to keep.

You’re scared of that. Of ruining it. Of letting your body talk you into something your heart might not be strong enough to carry.

So you kiss him like you’re dying, but when his hands drift to your waistband, you laugh, too high-pitched, and pull away. Pretend you’re tired. Or hungry. Or something, anything. Any excuse not to cross that final threshold. Yoongi never pushes. He just nods, catches his breath, and helps you back into your shirt like a gentleman.

But you feel the tension growing. Between your thighs. In your chest. In the way you wake up soaked and aching after every sleepover, body clenching at nothing. In the way your kisses are starting to come with more teeth. With soft little growls in your throat you didn’t mean to let out.

Tonight, he’s at your place again. It’s late. You both know he should’ve left hours ago, and the crack is splintering even further, faster than you realize.

You’re straddling Yoongi on the couch, your knees bracketing his hips, your mouth fused to his. Your hips are rocking down, slow and aimless at first, but building. You can feel him getting hard beneath you, feel the press of him through his sweats as you drag your clothed pussy over him like your body is starving.

Yoongi groans into your kiss. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips twitching. But, like always, he doesn’t push. He just lets you move, lets you grind down on him with that ragged little gasp in your throat, lets you take what you need without crossing the line you’ve both carefully danced around for weeks.

Except tonight, something’s different. You’re different.

Because when he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, hot and slow, and mutters, “you’re gonna make me come in my fucking pants,” you snap.

Completely.

You pull back just enough to look at him, breathing hard, eyes wild. “I want to fuck you.”

He blinks. Catches up slowly, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“I want you to fuck me,” you amend, a little louder. Desperate.

Yoongi just stares at you for a moment, mouth parted, chest heaving. His hands tighten on your thighs.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your hips, your waist, sliding up your back to tug your shirt over your head. He peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind you, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your bra’s off next, fast, and he curses the second your tits are bare, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s been thinking about it for weeks too, and now that it’s real, he doesn’t know where to start.

So he starts with his mouth.

He palms your breasts and groans low in his throat, then leans forward and takes one into his mouth like he needs it—hot tongue flicking over your nipple, lips sucking gently before he bites, just enough to make you gasp. His fingers find the other, circling and pinching lightly.

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into him. “Yoongi—”

You grind down on his cock again, still half-dressed from the waist down, the friction sharp and unbearable. You’re soaked. You can feel it. Your panties are useless at this point, clinging wetly to your folds, and you’re half a second away from tearing them off yourself if he doesn’t move faster.

“Condom,” you breathe. “Please. Where—?”

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

You scramble off his lap at the same time he stumbles off the couch, both of you half-laughing and swearing under your breath. He digs through his bag on your floor, frantic, muttering, “I swear I had one—fuck, wait—yes.”

He holds it up like a prize, and you don’t even give him the chance to rip it open before you’re tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, stepping out of them and crawling back onto the couch.

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

Hair messy. Chest heaving. Legs spread. Eyes hungry.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, tearing the foil open and shoving his sweats halfway down his thighs with shaking hands. His cock bobs free, hard and flushed and so ready, and your mouth actually waters.

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease and climbs back over you, settling between your legs like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams and is finally allowed to touch.

He presses inside you slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch knocks the breath from your lungs. You’re soaked, but it’s still so much, been too long, and you cling to his shoulders with a gasp.

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he rasps. “Fucking wet.”

You whimper, hips already rolling up to meet him. “Been wanting this,” you whisper. “Needing this—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice shaking. “You gonna let me give it to you?”

“Yes, please—”

And then he starts to move. Just the brutal press of his hips to yours, every thrust deep and deliberate and filthy, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere he won’t be able to crawl back from.

Your head tips back against the couch, eyes rolling up, mouth falling open on a gasp that barely sounds like a real word. He’s got one hand gripping the arm of the couch behind your head for leverage, the other wrapped tight around your thigh, keeping you pinned wide open beneath him as he fucks into you.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls.

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your hands scrambling up under his hoodie to claw at his back, his sides, anywhere you can touch.

Your skin’s on fire. Your thoughts are gone. All you know is the sharp, perfect drag of his cock, the sound of your soaked cunt every time he slams into you, the guttural noises he makes when your walls flutter around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. “Tight little pussy just gripping me—shit, baby, I can’t—”

His pace stutters for half a second, like your body is pulling the soul out of him.

You cry out when he hits deep—too deep—and he groans, pulling your legs higher around his waist to get the angle just right.

“There,” he growls when you shatter under him, thighs shaking, cunt clenching so hard he nearly loses it. “Fucking cum.”

You come like you’ve lost control of your body. Loud, legs locked, nails in his back. It hits hard and fast and doesn’t stop, rolling through you in hot, humiliating waves. Yoongi hisses, desperate now, chasing his own end, rhythm starting to break.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, even though the condom’s there, even though it’s just a filthy fantasy, and you sob at the idea of it. “Fuck, I wish—wish I could come inside you—fuck—you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me ruin you for anyone else—”

“Yes,” you gasp, not even sure you mean it, but it sounds right. Feels true.

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi groans like it’s been punched out of him, hips jerking as he comes hard, cock twitching inside you, face buried in your neck as he spills into the condom.

You both stay there, gasping against sticky skin through the aftershocks. He kisses your neck once. Then again. And again.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, dazed. “I think you just rearranged my internal organs.”

Yoongi laughs. “Cool. I was aiming for your soul.”

The couch cushions are half off the frame, your legs still trembling where they’re spread open around his waist. Yoongi pulls out slowly, careful, and your body aches from it, clenches down involuntarily, already missing the stretch.

He ties off the condom, looks around for somewhere to put it before settling on the empty takeout bag from earlier. Pulls his sweats back up.

You sit up with limbs like jelly, not bothering to put your underwear back on just yet, and run a hand through your hair. Your thighs are sticky. Your lips are swollen. You feel fucked out and raw and wrung clean.

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

You glance over at Yoongi. He’s slouched against the other end of the couch, head back, eyes closed. His hair is damp at the temples, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet.

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

That tight, itchy feeling—the one you’ve been avoiding since you first let him touch you—comes roaring back. You just crossed the line. You fucked the one good thing in your life that wasn’t tangled in expectations. That didn’t ask anything from you.

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Shrug. “That was intense.”

Yoongi huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. You think?”

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

“I’m gonna, uh… go pee,” you say, already heading toward the bathroom. “Before I die.”

He doesn’t stop you. Just nods, eyes following you for a second before he looks away.

You close the door and sit on the edge of the tub. Breathe.

You want to feel good. You do feel good. But also… you feel like maybe you’ve fucked up. Or you’re about to. Or like this is going to change something that shouldn’t be changed.

You think about what you’ll say when you go back out there.

You think about whether he’s getting dressed. Whether he’ll leave. Whether he should.

You think, I don’t want this to become another thing I have to recover from.

✧

When you finally open the bathroom door, the light feels harsher than it should, and your skin’s still warm from the shower you didn’t really want but took anyway. Just to delay, to think, to scrub away the sweat and the way his hands felt on your hips and the way your body sang for him.

You step into the living room wearing clean underwear and a fresh shirt. Your face is bare. Your hair is damp. Your expression, despite your best effort, is a little too tight.

Yoongi looks up from the couch, where he’s still sitting, this time in his sweats and hoodie again, elbows on his knees, fingers idly twisting the hem of his sleeve.

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens. Immediately.

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

He watches you for a second, then leans back, patting the space next to him.

You hesitate, but you lower yourself onto the couch anyway. Not quite touching, not quite distant. A safe middle.

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, disbelieving. “Then why do you look like you’re trying to figure out how to ghost me while I’m still in your apartment?”

You wince, staring at your knees. “I just—I didn’t mean for this to turn into, like… a thing.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

You look at him now, really look. Your heart’s racing. Your stomach’s twisting. You’re not sure what kind of answer you want.

Yoongi looks back at you for a long moment. Then he leans back again, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what we are,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to make it anything.”

You swallow hard, because part of you thinks that should make you feel better. Instead, it just makes your chest ache. You were the one who let him in, even when you swore you wouldn’t. You’re not trying to make him feel like he’s the one at fault here. It’s you. It’s always you.

“But,” he adds, eyes flicking to yours again, “I like you. I care about you. And if we’re fucking now, yeah, that’s gonna mean something to me. Even if we never put a label on it.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?” you ask, voice thin. “If it means something?”

Yoongi doesn’t speak for a long while. You sink into him without meaning to, thigh to thigh, arm to arm. You don’t really know why.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, and says, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod against his shoulder.

“I wasn’t supposed to be at that convenience store,” he starts, voice shaky in a way that makes you sit up, just slightly. “I mean, I didn’t have a reason to be anywhere. But that night… I think I was sort of… walking around to see if I’d change my mind.”

You still. Your heart trips over itself, because that could mean a lot of things. Because you know, just by the tone of his voice, that he means the worst.

He keeps going.

“I’d been thinking about it for a while. Not in a loud way. Not even like a plan. Just… wondering. If things would be better. Easier. If I just stopped. Just disappeared.”

You don’t interrupt. You don’t breathe too loud. You just listen.

“And that night, it felt close. Like maybe I was ready. Like maybe no one would notice.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hadn’t talked to anyone in a couple days. I didn’t even brush my teeth before I left the house. I just started walking.”

Your eyes sting. You try not to let it show.

“I stopped at the store because I thought—fuck it. One last shitty sandwich. One last can of cold coffee.” He huffs. “Really poetic, right?”

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad. Or because I think you saved me. You didn’t. You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You’re crying now, because god, you didn’t know, but you know. You know how it feels to always have that in the back of your mind, to convince yourself that there would be relief in giving up. Letting go.

He turns his head toward you now, not quite meeting your eyes, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to say all this out loud.

“I still think about it. Sometimes. Not all the time. But… it comes back. When it’s quiet. When I’m alone too long. But since that night, it’s been easier knowing that someone gets it. That I don’t have to pretend I’m fine all the time.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s not a dramatic, sweeping kind of moment. There’s no soft lighting or music swelling. Just his tired eyes, and your tired heart, and the shared weight of knowing what it feels like to want to give up—and choosing, for whatever reason, not to.

“Maybe that’s all this has to be,” he says. “Not a love story. Not some perfect, clean thing. Just… two people who don’t always want to be here, making it a little easier for each other to stay.”

You can’t speak. You nod, and your eyes blur, and Yoongi presses his forehead to yours like it’s the only way he knows how to say thank you for seeing me.

✧

Days later, things aren’t better—not in the way people usually mean. Your life is still a mess. His is too.

But something’s changed. Settled.

He lets himself in now. Doesn’t knock. Kicks his shoes off like he lives there, shrugs his hoodie off and drops it somewhere near the couch, grabs two cups and fills them with whatever’s in your fridge.

And you let him.

You sit next to each other, thigh to thigh, flipping through shows you won’t finish. You kiss during the commercials. You fall asleep with his hand on your waist.

You still haven’t said you’re together. You still haven’t said what you mean to each other. But when you’re quiet for too long, he looks up from his phone and asks, “Okay?”

And when he’s too quiet, you ask, “Wanna stay the night?”

And when you both lie awake in the dark, not talking, not moving, you think: I’m still here.

And so is he.

✧

It starts with scraps. Half-sentences in your notes app. A phrase here, a sentence there. Something you jotted down after Yoongi left one night, when your chest felt like it was holding more than usual and your bed still smelled like his shampoo.

Then it becomes a little routine. You open your laptop without the usual dread. You stare at the cursor blinking in a half-finished document and think: maybe I can.

It’s not for meant to be published. It’s not for anyone but you. But it’s something.

One night, Yoongi finds you sitting on the floor with your laptop on your thighs. You’re so focused, you don’t even hear him come in.

He just watches for a second, quiet.

“Writing?” he asks eventually, and you jump.

“Jesus—” You slam the laptop shut on instinct, and he raises both hands in surrender, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says, setting down the drinks he brought. “But… that’s new.”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just… stuff.”

Yoongi sinks to the floor beside you. “You haven’t written since we met.”

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

He doesn’t ask why not. He already knows.

Instead, he leans his head on your shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re starting to again.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t ask to read it. He just sits with you, there on the floor, eyes closed. Like your writing means something just by existing.

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on your bed while you type, cradling a cup of tea you made him because he clearly needed something to do with his hands.

You can tell he’s nervous. He’s got that look on his face like he’s about to say something serious but is trying not to scare the shit out of you. It isn’t working.

“So,” he says, after a long stretch of silence, “I have a friend.”

You glance up from your laptop, blinking. “Amazing.”

Yoongi huffs. “Kim Namjoon. He’s an old friend. College. We used to mess around with production stuff, back when I thought I was gonna be a genius producer with a Grammy by 25.”

You smile a little at that, set your laptop aside. “What’d he say?”

Yoongi hesitates, fingers drumming softly against the side of his mug. “He got some seed money. Not much. Just enough to rent a space, get a couple of half-decent mics, some gear. Says he wants to start a small label.”

Your stomach does a little flip. Not because you’re worried. Not yet. But because of the way he’s saying it. Like he’s trying not to want it too much.

“He wants me in on it,” Yoongi continues, staring down into his tea. “It’d be three of us, working in a basement, surviving off cup ramen. Maybe getting a local artist to sign on eventually.”

You exhale. “That sounds… really fucking cool.”

Yoongi finally looks at you. He’s smiling now, just a little, but it’s tight at the edges. “Yeah. It does.”

“And?”

He shrugs, but it’s not a real shrug. It’s that shoulder-lift people do when something matters too much. “And I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to give a shit again. I don’t know if I’ll fuck it up. I don’t even know if I still have anything to say.”

“You do,” you say, instantly.

His jaw flexes. “Yeah, well. Maybe. He’s starting soon. Wants me to come by next week. Just to mess around with some demos, get a feel for it again.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let the ‘what if’s start swirling. What if it pulls him away? What if he leaves? What if this tiny, fragile thing you’re building—whatever it is—gets buried under a dream he's only just remembered how to want again?

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

Yoongi searches your face for a long time, hesitant, like he’s trying to catch you in a lie.

“Yeah?”

You reach over and take his mug, set it on the nightstand. You curl into his side, your face pressed to the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think maybe… we’re both starting to remember how to want things again.”

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t stop texting. He still sends you memes, voice notes, the occasional photo of his workspace—a cramped basement room with exposed pipes and cords spilling out over his desk, coffee-stained notebooks piled next to a MIDI keyboard.

But he’s not around as much.

The nights you used to spend together—half-draped over one another on the couch, kissing during reruns, sleeping side-by-side without labels—are fewer now. Sometimes he falls asleep at the studio. Sometimes he doesn’t respond until 2 a.m., when you’re already asleep.

It’s hard. You won’t lie to yourself about that. You feel the absence like a low-grade fever. Always there, dull but insistent.

And there’s still no word for what you are. No boyfriend, no girlfriend. Just… you, and Yoongi. And this thing you’ve built together, quiet and warm and undefined.

But when you do see him—when he walks through your door smelling like coffee and sweat and work—you can see it on him. The spark. The momentum. The low, buzzing joy of trying again. Of wanting something bad enough to bleed for it.

He’s tired. But he’s tired for a good reason, now.

And that makes you want to try, too.

So you keep opening your laptop. Not just to scribble down half-formed ideas, but to finish. You sit with the mess of it, the aching in your fingers, the voice in your head that says ‘why bother’—and you write anyway. You dig up old stories, rework scenes that used to make you cringe. You find your voice again, piece by shaky piece.

Sometimes, late at night, you send him snippets. Just to say, look. I’m doing it, too.

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

Yoongi: Also the studio toilet flooded again. I’m going to kill Joon

You laugh. You keep writing.

It still hurts sometimes. Missing him, wondering what all this means. But now the hurt is paired with movement. With hope.

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

It’s not perfect. Not even close. There are typos and sentences that feel like strangers to themselves, and places where the ending is still a little jagged and wrong. But it’s done.

A full manuscript. Your name at the top. Your words, your voice, your pain and hunger and stupid hope wrapped into a whopping 112 pages.

You think of Yoongi when you submit it with an application to a graduate school program. A program you’ve read and re-read the description for more times than you care to admit. You don't know if it’s good enough. If you’re good enough. But for the first time in a long time, you do it anyway.

And then you don’t tell anyone.

Maybe it’s selfish, but you want the hope for yourself. Just for a little while. You want to keep it quiet and sacred, untainted by expectations or well-meaning encouragement or the crushing weight of what if it doesn’t happen. You just want it to be yours.

You keep seeing Yoongi, of course. When he can. When he’s not tangled up in late-night meetings and studio sessions. You see each other in stolen hours, sleep-heavy kisses, lazy dinners eaten on the floor.

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

He shows up ten minutes later, breathless, hoodie damp from trying to dodge light rain, cheeks flushed with joy. Real joy. The kind that lights his whole face from the inside out.

“I had to tell someone,” he says the second you open the door. “I had to tell you.”

You let him in, confused but smiling all the same. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “What happened?”

He doesn’t even sit. He paces back and forth, rakes a hand through his hair, practically vibrating.

“We signed someone,” he finally says. “Tentatively, but, this artist from Busan, she’s insane, she’s so weird and good and her voice is like—fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. But Namjoon loved her. We all did. And she said yes. She said yes, to us.”

You blink, stunned. “You—Yoongi, that’s—holy shit!”

He grins, wide and unguarded, and you’ve never seen him like this before and it just makes you so fucking happy. You’re up on your feet before your brain catches up.

You hug him tight, breath caught in your throat. Because he’s shaking a little, and he smells so good, and this is what he looks like when he’s proud of himself. When he’s living.

You pull back to look at him, hands on his jaw.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

And Yoongi’s expression shifts. Softens. Deepens. He takes a breath.

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s not sudden. Like it’s been sitting on his tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to fall out.

“I just—I do. And I didn’t want to say it while things were still messy, or early, or whatever. But this is what I wanted. That night, at the convenience store. This. You. Someone who gets it. Someone who doesn’t fix me but lets me stay. And I love you.”

Fuck. There it is.

You don’t speak right away. You reach for him instead. Pull him back in. Rest your forehead against his and let yourself feel it. All of it.

And then, soft and steady, you say it back.

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time.

Not messy or rushed or born of need. It’s slow, reverent, deep. Yoongi’s hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile, something he’s terrified of breaking now that he knows what you mean to him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. His breath catches when you tilt your head and kiss him harder but just as slow, open-mouthed and aching.

You walk him backwards toward the bed. He lets you. He goes willingly, grinning against your mouth like he can’t believe this is happening again, that you’re his, and that this time, it’s not just comfort or heat or distraction. It’s love.

He sinks onto the mattress, and you climb over him, straddling his lap, kissing him again and again, hands tangled in his hair, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

But then he pulls back. Barely. His hands settle on your thighs. His eyes are dark and shining and hungry.

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

Yoongi licks his lips. “You don’t get it,” he says, too far gone to filter it. “I’ve been wanting to. Since the night I fingered you against your fucking door, I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

Then you exhale, soft and wrecked, and whisper, “Okay.”

Yoongi repositions you onto your back, gentle, lips back on yours. His hands slide down your body like he’s mapping out every inch. He tugs your shirt off, unhooks your bra, kisses down your neck, your chest, your ribs, like he has all the time in the world.

And then he pulls your shorts down. Your panties too.

He groans when he sees you. Like, actually groans.

“God, baby. Look at you.” He kisses your inner thigh, drags his nose along the crease, eyes flicking up to yours. “So fucking pretty.”

And then he licks into you.

You cry out, sharp and sudden, because it’s so much. He’s warm and wet and greedy, tongue flat against your clit, then pointed and precise, then everywhere, like he can’t choose, like he doesn’t want to.

He moans against your pussy like he’s the one being touched. Like he could cum just watching you feel good, because of him.

“Yoongi—shit—” Your hands fly to his hair, thighs trembling, already shaking, already close.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you open, keeping you grounded, mouth working you over like he’s worshipping you. He sucks on your clit, gentle but firm, and you arch off the bed.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn, voice breaking. “Fuck, Yoongi—”

He groans, messy and eager, never once letting up. And then you do.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, hands in his hair, eyes rolled back. It’s hot and overwhelming, your body jolting and twitching, his name a broken whimper on your tongue.

He keeps going until you push him away, overstimulated and trembling.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He grins, climbs back up your body, presses his mouth to yours without hesitation. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“You love me,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing he’s ever been told.

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

“You’re gonna let me do that every day, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “If you keep doing it like that, yeah. I might not survive, but yeah.”

You let Yoongi kiss you for a while, slow and soft and full of so much love, but eventually, you push at his shoulder. He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

Yoongi blinks, lips swollen and wet. But he lets you push. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working so fucking hard,” you say, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs. “Let me ride you. Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Whatever protest he might’ve had dies in his throat the second you reach down and palm him through his sweats. He’s hard—has been since he had your pussy on his tongue—and he groans, low and helpless, as you slide your hand beneath the waistband.

You stroke him slow, loving, watching the tension bleed out of him with every pass of your fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching into your touch. “Feels good.”

You smile. Kiss his chest as he fumbles for the condom in his wallet.

When you finally sink down onto him, Yoongi lets out a groan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his neck when he leans his head back.

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

“I know,” you breathe, grinding your hips in slow, careful circles. “I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.”

You ride him slow, deep, dragging his cock through your tight, wet heat over and over. Every inch of him feels like it was made for you, thick and perfect and pulsing inside you, your cunt already fluttering from how good he made you feel earlier.

Yoongi can’t keep still. His fingers squeeze your thighs, your hips, then your waist, like he can’t decide where to hold on. Like he’s barely holding on at all.

He opens his eyes to look at you and whines, higher than he probably meant to. Because you’re riding him like you love him. Because your tits are bouncing with every slow roll of your hips, and your face is flushed, and your eyes are locked on his like there’s nowhere else you want to be in the entire fucking world.

It springs him into action.

He sits up, wraps his arms around you, mouths at your tits like he’s starving. He sucks at one nipple, then the other, licking and kissing and biting softly like he can’t stop, like he needs to touch you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moans into your chest. Hands moving down to your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock in that same slow, dirty rhythm, like he wants to make this last forever.

“Can’t even think,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good—too good—fuck, I love you—”

You ride him harder, faster, your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body shakes with how good it feels to be full of him, to see him like this—wrecked, undone, yours.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, hips stuttering. “Yoongi—”

“Come for me,” he begs. “Please, baby, come on my cock, wanna feel it.”

You do.

You fall apart in his arms, gasping his name, pussy clenching around him so tight it nearly rips the orgasm out of him too. You’re shaking, sweating, still grinding through it as he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name, fucking up into you just a little, just enough—

He comes with a low, broken ‘fuck,’ arms locking around your waist, cock pulsing inside the condom. He’s so loud, so needy, and god, you’ve never loved anyone like this.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, still joined, still trembling.

And Yoongi holds you like he never wants to let go.

✧

You stay like that for a while, pressed to his chest, his arms strong around your back, the rhythm of his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. The room smells like sweat and sex. Yoongi’s hand is stroking slow lines up and down your spine.

He hasn’t said much since you both came down, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

Yoongi hums, not missing a beat in the way his fingers trace over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nod against his chest, then force yourself to sit up, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but sharp with attention the second he realizes you’re serious.

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

You nod again, heart hammering. “Yeah. An MFA. I submitted a portfolio. Finished something for the first time in forever. I would’ve told you sooner, I just—” You shrug. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like he’s still processing.

And then he grins. Slow. Genuine. Gums showing and eyes shining.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sitting up and grabbing your face in both hands.

Your eyes sting. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. It’s probably stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, firm and quiet. “It’s not stupid. It’s huge.”

You try to look away, but he keeps your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched you try so hard to find something again, and you did it. Whether or not you get in doesn’t matter. You tried. That’s fucking everything.”

You bite your lip, blinking fast. Yoongi kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And you know he will.

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

You’re not expecting it. You’ve nearly forgotten the timeline, pushed it into the back of your mind like a daydream you didn’t want to get too close to. You’ve been telling yourself not to hope too much. Not to want it, even though you do. Badly.

It hits your inbox around 11:42 a.m., and you stare at the subject line for a full minute before you open it. And then—

You’re in.

You read it twice, then two more times. It still doesn’t feel real. You read the phrase We’re pleased to inform you like it’s in another language. Like it’s not something anyone was ever supposed to say to you.

Then you laugh. A startled, breathless sound that turns into something half-sobbing.

You call Yoongi.

He doesn’t pick up on the first try—he’s a busy man these days—but he calls back two minutes later.

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

You swallow hard. You’re pacing your kitchen now, barefoot and trembling. “I got in. Grad school.”

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

“You got in,” he says. “You fucking got in.”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Like he’s trying not to cry. You’re trying, too.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “So fucking proud of you. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Come to the studio,” he says instantly. “No one’s here today except me. I’ll order food. I’ll roll a joint. I’ll kiss you a lot. Do some very dirty, celebratory things to you on the desk, if you want.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Meet me out back.”

When you get to the studio, he’s outside. Leaning against the back of the building, waiting. The joint is already rolled, tucked neatly behind his ear, and he’s got that look on his face—that slow, lazy grin.

“You,” he says, pushing off the wall the second he sees you. “Fucking you.”

You don’t say anything. Just drop your bag on the cracked concrete and launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, wraps you up in him—hoodie and warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes and detergent and Yoongi. His arms curl tight around your waist, and he lifts you slightly off the ground as you bury your face in his neck.

“You got in,” he murmurs again. “You really—baby, you did it.”

You nod against him, laughing and sniffling all at once. “I did.”

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Just pulls back enough to kiss you. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—buzzing and breathless and so fucking proud of yourself.

When he finally pulls away, he grins and taps the joint behind his ear.

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

He lights it. Takes a drag, passes it to you, and you both sit on the loading dock out back, knees bumping, fingers laced, smoke around your heads. The sun’s low in the sky. It’s chilly, but you don’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours.

And everything’s… okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But better.

Because loving Yoongi didn’t save you, and you didn’t save him. You still have bad days. Panic attacks. Guilt. Long, unbearable silences you have to claw your way out of. He does, too. Life is still life.

But he holds your hand through it.

And when things are good—like now, like this—you feel it in your bones: you love him. You fucking love him.

You lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and you think:

I can do this. I can live this life.

Especially if he’s in it.

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yoongiimarryme · 2 months ago

Text

say you remember | 02

idol!minyoongi x writer!reader

SUMMARY: You don’t expect much when your eyes meet his across the café-bar—just a fleeting glance, a moment that should mean nothing. But then there’s another look. And another. Before you know it, you’re tangled up in something that isn’t love, isn’t commitment—just an escape wrapped in late-night encounters and whispered goodbyes.

It’s fine. Until it isn’t.

When feelings start creeping in, you both decide to walk away before things get too complicated. It should have ended there. But fate has other plans. When your friend starts dating Jungkook—his best friend, his bandmate—you find yourself face to face with Yoongi once again.

The past lingers between you, heavy and unresolved. The question is—was it ever really over?

strangers-to-fwb-to-strangers-to-lovers

TRIGGER WARNINGS: jealousy, unresolved past relationships, awkward social interactions, emotional tension, flirtation, suppressed feelings, anxiety, unspoken love, betrayal, unrequited feelings, uncomfortable confrontation, smoking, drinking

comment here for to Say You Remember taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 7k // date: 15th of April 2025

CHAPTER TWO — Drowning in the Silence Between Us; happy reading my gummies...

AN: hii guys. im so excited for this chapter, i LOVE it. it's so funny. like, i'm over here cackling like a mad person. it's honestly kinda self projecting but oh well, i'm embracing it. who needs boundaries when you're writing, right?

also, just to clear things up, y/n's book dear me is in no way connected with my jungkook fic dear me (imagine the drama if it was). it's just that i couldn’t think of a name for her book, so i just borrowed the name from one of my own fics. i promise i'm not secretly inserting my own universe into this. but yeah, dear me in this fic is y/n's book and it's all original with her own characters. okay, enjoy the chaos.

also, goal for this chapter is 250 notes. i am not lowering it this time. i fed you well with this one, 7k words after all, so if you want a new meal, y'all will have to work for it. get those notes in!

"Remind me again why we still don't know his name?" Chul asks, flatly, as he sets down three steaming mugs with the precision of a tired barista.

"Because it's still new," Aecha says, wrapping her hands around her cup. "And I want it to stay good before I jinx it by saying too much. You know how it goes—tell people, suddenly the whole thing collapses like a cheap tent."

You narrow your eyes, flicking ash off your cigarette with a pointed look. "People? Are we people to you now? Damn. And here I thought we made it past that stage."

Aecha just shrugs, a mischievous smile playing at the corner of her lips.

"It’s not just that, though," you go on, leaning forward. "It’s like you're actively enjoying this whole mystery-man act. Like you want us to suffer trying to figure out who he is."

"Maybe I do," she says, taking another sip. "You two make great detectives when you're desperate."

Chul groans, flopping onto the couch. "Great. So now we’re just part of your little game."

"You’ve always been part of my little game," she says with a wink.

"You see how little she thinks of us?" you say, shooting Chul a look of betrayal.

Chul nods with theatrical disappointment, letting out a long, dramatic sigh as he leans back in his chair. "Our own goddamn roommate. Best friend, even. And we’re apparently not worthy of a name."

"Ugh, it’s not like that," Aecha groans, setting her mug down with a soft clink. "It’s just… complicated, okay? You’ll understand when you meet him."

You raise an eyebrow. "Yeah? If we ever get to meet him. At this rate, you’ll be married with two kids before we even know his star sign."

"It would be nice to know who we’re meeting at least," Chul adds, more gently now. "Y’know, in case he’s a serial killer or a tax evader or something."

Aecha snorts. "He’s not a serial killer. Or a tax evader."

"That’s exactly what someone dating a serial killer would say," you deadpan, taking a slow drag of your cigarette.

"Oh, oh—wait. I have a theory," you say, tapping your fingers against the edge of the small wooden table. It’s sticky. "Ugh. Chul, seriously? Did you skip cleaning duty again?"

"Creative minds don't clean," Chul mumbles, unbothered.

You roll your eyes. "Anyway. Theory time. What if he's, like, a dealer? Or—wait—a vampire baby? Be honest, Aecha. Is your man an immortal bloodsucker with a side hustle in illegal substances? Because if so, I support you, I just need to emotionally prepare."

Aecha snorts into her coffee. "He is not a dealer. Or a vampire. God, what even is a vampire baby?"

"You know… baby-faced. Pale. Broody. Hangs out in corners. Likes antique furniture." You gesture vaguely, like you're describing a wine.

"Still no," Aecha says, but her smile slips just a little. "But I will say... he’s not exactly someone I can just go around telling people I’m dating."

You and Chul exchange glances.

"Jesus, who is he then?" Chul says, leaning forward with his chin on his hand. "C’mon, babe. All this secrecy is exhausting. You’re wearing us down like some kind of psychological warfare expert."

Aecha just shrugs again, lips curving into that maddening, knowing smile. "Good things come to those who wait.”

"Aaand, c’mon, guys," Aecha sighs, blowing on her coffee before taking a small sip. "It’s not like I’m keeping you waiting forever. For fuck’s sake, you’ll be meeting him—and his closest friends—tonight."

Chul’s eyes narrow, a slow, wicked grin forming. Then, in a low, ominous whisper, he leans in toward you. "Imagine they’re a group of human traffickers... and Aecha’s just their charming recruiter."

You snort. "Okay, that’s a little too specific, Chul."

"I’m just saying," he continues, eyes wide with mock horror, "if I end up stuffed in a trunk or smuggled across borders, I want it on record that she brought me to this dinner."

"No, but seriously?" you add, more dramatic than necessary. "I’m telling my mother where I’m going. If I disappear, she will avenge me."

"God, you’re both insane," Aecha mutters, laughing into her cup.

"Insane but prepared," Chul says. "That’s how survivors think.”

The fact that Aecha won’t even tell you her boyfriend’s name is… mildly weird. Actually, scratch that—it’s very weird. She’s never been the secretive type. If anything, she’s the kind of person who gives you the full name, zodiac sign, and three red flags of any guy she’s crushing on—whether it's someone she matched with for five minutes or actually dated for five weeks.

So the silence now? The mystery? It’s not just out of character—it’s loud.

Whoever this guy is, he must matter. Like, really matter. Either that, or something about him makes things complicated. And that? That makes you uneasy.

The idea of Aecha dating an idol has crossed your mind more than once. And honestly, that would be a solid reason to keep things secret. It makes sense. It fits.

But you try not to go there. Because you know. You know how messy it gets when people get tangled up in that world—the kind of dynamic that drains you, strips your privacy, and leaves you more alone than you were to begin with. The pressure, the lies, the heartbreak that's practically guaranteed.

So you don’t think about it. Or at least you try not to. It's easier to joke about vampire boyfriends or underground crime syndicates than to face a possibility that actually makes sense. A possibility that could genuinely hurt her.

Especially with her job—working in the digital marketing team at SM Entertainment—she’s in it. Right there, in the orbit of fame and its gravitational mess. And the odds of her meeting someone who lives in that spotlight? High. Too high.

And that’s what makes it worse.

"Aight, I gotta bounce. My shift starts in 45 minutes and I actually wanna keep this job," Chul groans, tossing back the last sip of lukewarm coffee like it’s tequila.

He gets up, drags himself to the sink, and starts washing his cup with the enthusiasm of a man being held at gunpoint.

"Wow," you say, raising an eyebrow. "Look who finally discovered the kitchen sink."

"I’m only doing this so you don’t go full FBI on me about it later," he mutters.

"That’s called growth, baby."

"Okay, don’t forget dinner!" Aecha calls out as he wrestles with his shoelaces like they personally offended him. "8PM sharp. LaRoy’s. If you're late, I’m telling them you died."

"Relax," he grunts, halfway into his hoodie. "I’ll be there. But just so we’re clear—if this turns out to be some cult initiation dinner, I’m eating first, then running."

"That’s fair," you nod. "Die with a full stomach. Iconic."

"Also, if I get kidnapped, I’m haunting you both. And I’m not gonna be a chill ghost. I’ll whisper embarrassing shit during your Zoom calls."

"Joke’s on you, I already embarrass myself daily," you shrug. "You’d be background noise."

"Love the support, really. Bye, losers."

And with that, he’s gone—probably already mentally composing his resignation letter.

When Chul leaves, it’s just you and Aecha again.

She’s immediately back on her phone, nails tapping out soft clicks against the screen—the kind of ASMR sound that weirdly soothes your brain. She’s smiling. Small, but there. The kind of smile reserved for someone. Mystery Man.

You don’t poke at her this time. Instead, you open your laptop, skimming through the last chapter you wrote, wincing at some of your word choices like they personally betrayed you.

"What are you doing today?" Aecha asks without looking up, but you can tell she’s peeled her eyes away from the screen just enough to look at you.

You sigh. "Writing. Or dying. Depends how dramatic I feel in an hour. I have to finish at least one chapter today or else both my editor and publisher are going to show up at my funeral just to make sure I’m really dead."

"Damn," she laughs, "at least you're being emotionally tortured by something you love."

"Yeah, yeah," you mutter. "I do love it. I just hate the part where I have to prove I'm not a lazy roach every three days. But don’t worry, I’ll be there for dinner. There’s no way I’m missing the grand reveal of Mr. No-Name."

"Good," Aecha says, biting back a grin. "I’ll be with him today. He’s got the day off—those are basically unicorn sightings. I’ll get ready at his place."

You gape. "Wait, so I’m stuck getting ready with Chul? Girl, you know he’s gonna stand in the doorway and trash all my outfit options like he’s a one-man 'Project Runway' judge panel."

"Oh absolutely," Aecha says, nodding. "You should prepare a backup outfit he picks. Just for the chaos."

"He’d probably put me in Crocs and a poncho just to see me suffer."

"And you’d still serve."

You glance up from your laptop. "I would, wouldn’t I?”

"Of course you would," Aecha grins, all smug and mysterious.

And then? Silence. The kind where you’re both in your little bubbles—her giggling at her phone like it’s whispering sweet nothings, and you glaring at your laptop like it just slapped your mom.

You’re trying to write. You really are. But this one scene is being stubborn. No matter how many times you rewrite it, it still reads like garbage written by a sleep-deprived raccoon with WiFi.

Your eye twitches.

Then—RING RING.

"Shit, he’s here?!" Aecha yelps, launching off the couch like she just sat on a ghost. She’s grabbing her purse, her wallet, a random sock, possibly someone’s toothbrush—you’re not even sure anymore.

"Wait, where is here?" you ask, blinking through the chaos.

"Here-here! Like, downstairs-here! Picking-me-up-here!" she hisses, as she smacks on lipstick with the grace of someone who's clearly done this in moving vehicles before.

"Damn, thank god you’re chill about it," you say, watching the storm unfold.

"Shut up," she breathes, checking herself in the mirror like she’s about to accept an Oscar.

She turns to you, one shoe on, purse hanging half open, still looking criminally good. "Okay, I’m leaving. See you tonight, babe!"

"Byeeeeee," you sing, and wait exactly 2.4 seconds after the door shuts before sprinting to the window like you’re in a Netflix thriller.

Full. Detective. Mode.

If she won’t tell you who this guy is, you’re gonna Nancy Drew your way into the answer.

You peek through the blinds—subtle, of course. Very stealth. But all you see is a car.

A very nice car.

A sexy, blacked-out, borderline Batman-looking Mercedes G 63 S.

You whistle under your breath. “Sir, what do you do for a living? And can I do it too?”

The windows are tinted darker than your search history. There’s no way to see inside. Just Aecha getting in, flipping her hair like this is her life now and the rest of you peasants can stay pressed.

The car glides away like it’s floating on money.

You stand there, blinking, brain already spiraling. Rich? Idol? CEO? Cult leader with good branding?

You sigh and flop back down on the couch.

“Good for her,” you mumble. “Eat the rich. Or at least… ride in their cars and moisturize with their money.”

You spend the rest of your day in the most unproductive, soul-crushing spiral imaginable. The kind of spiral where you stare at your laptop for so long, the blinking cursor starts to feel like it’s mocking you. Blink. Blink. You suck. Blink.

You write half a sentence. Delete it. Write a new one. Delete that too. Open Instagram. Hate everyone. Go back to the doc. Stare at the same three words for twenty minutes.

Your brain is soup. Not even good soup. Like watery instant ramen you forgot to flavor.

At one point, you dramatically flop face-down onto the couch and heavily consider committing one of two crimes:

One: Emailing your editor a resignation letter that just says "goodbye forever."

Two: Getting blackout drunk and letting the creative spirits possess you.

Option two is dangerously tempting. Tequila does make you poetic. But… you’re going to a dinner tonight. With Aecha’s mystery man and his friends. The man who drives a car that probably costs more than your organs combined.

You want to be sober. Observant. Ready to judge.

Because listen—if the man owns a Mercedes G 63 S, you know he’s dropping at least a couple hundred on wine tonight. You refuse to let his overpriced bottle taste like grape vinegar just because you had a solo pity party before dinner.

So you wait. Like a sad wife staring out the window for her husband at war. Except the war is Chul’s corporate shift and the husband is your emotional stability.

“Where the hell is he…” you mutter, tapping your pen against your notebook.

You have no idea what you’re wearing tonight. You have no mental energy to figure it out. You need Chul. You need his critiques, his sighs of disappointment, his dramatic gasp when you suggest wearing sneakers.

God help you if he comes home late. Or worse—if he says he’s too tired to help.

You might genuinely cry.

When the door finally creaks open, you let out a sigh of dramatic relief, like a damsel rescued from a burning building.

“I’m baaack!” Chul calls, dragging out the vowels. You hear the familiar thud of shoes being kicked off and keys clattering into the bowl by the door before he saunters into the living room like he owns the place—which, okay, partially, he does.

He takes one look at you, curled up on the couch like a cryptid, laptop half-slid down your lap, face twisted in literary despair.

“You writing?” he asks, already suspicious.

“Trying to,” you mumble, eyes still glued to the cursed blinking cursor.

He squints at you. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“Not at all.”

He flops down beside you with a grunt, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it like it personally owes him money.

“Is it like… ‘I can’t write because I’m empty inside’ trying? Or ‘I can’t write because I accidentally stalked Aecha’s mystery man via car model and now my brain is fried’ trying?”

You blink at him.

“Both.”

“Knew it. You’re a menace.”

You groan, sinking deeper into the couch. “He drives a G 63 S, Chul. What kind of man does that? What kind of bank account does that?”

Chul gasps. “A dangerous one. Probably moisturizes with La Mer and screams at assistants named Greg.”

You both sit in silence for a moment, processing the sheer luxury of the situation.

“…We have to look hot tonight.” you mutter.

Chul tosses the pillow aside like it’s a grenade. “I’ll get the steamer.”

The next two hours turn into a full-blown getting ready montage, complete with outfit changes, near-death experiences with the eyelash curler, and Chul nearly setting the apartment on fire trying to steam his shirt.

By the time you’re done, you look like a Pinterest board brought to life. Your makeup is peak clean girl aesthetic—dewy skin, fluffy brows, and just the right amount of highlighter to make it look like you're always basking in golden hour. Your hair is curled to soft, effortless perfection (even though it took 45 minutes and one minor burn), and your white, off-shoulder dress hugs your body like it was custom-made for night.

Chul, on the other hand, looks like he walked straight out of a K-drama. He’s wearing these dangerously good khaki dress pants that somehow make his legs look ten feet long, and a white button-up that he very intentionally left two buttons undone. It’s giving “CEO with a tragic past”, and honestly? If he wasn’t so aggressively gay, you'd have jumped him in the hallway by now.

“Do I look hot?” he asks, spinning slowly.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Tragic,” he sighs, spritzing himself with cologne like he’s about to go on a date with destiny.

The ride to the restaurant is weirdly silent. You and Chul keep exchanging glances like you’re in a horror movie where the monster is definitely hiding in plain sight. Both of you are too nervous to say anything out loud, like the car itself might snitch to Aecha.

When you finally step inside LaRoy’s, the first thing that hits you is how insanely gorgeous the place is. It’s giving Michelin star meets royalty on vacation. Golden chandeliers, velvet chairs, waiters with actual white gloves. You’re about to comment on it when—

“Wait... where is everyone?” Chul whispers.

And yeah. That’s when it hits you. The place is completely empty. Not a single other customer in sight. Just you, Chul, and an unsettling level of ambiance.

Chul and you exchange the we’re-definitely-about-to-die look.

Then, a pristine-looking hostess materializes out of nowhere like she was programmed to show up at maximum tension.

“Chul and Y/N?”

You both answer in unison, way too synchronized for comfort:

“Yes.”

“Right this way.”

You follow her through the overly quiet restaurant like you’re walking toward your own funeral. You glance at Chul, who is now casually patting down his hair and silently mouthing, ‘We’re so screwed’.

And then—you see her.

Aecha. Sitting at a massive round table like she owns the damn place. She’s already mid-laugh when she spots you two, and her smile somehow manages to get bigger. Like she's been waiting for this exact moment of dramatic entrance.

You don’t know if you should wave or run. Probably both.

And then you see the hand.

That hand—casually draped over Aecha’s shoulder, a silent claim.

You already know where this is going, but it doesn’t stop the twist in your stomach when you finally see who’s sitting next to her.

Jeon Jungkook.

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you freeze. You don’t even care about the fact that he’s ridiculously good-looking, or how the room feels like it’s just a bit too bright. No. What hits you like a freight train is that if he’s here...

Yoongi is, too.

Fuck.

You don’t even need to look around the table to know. The feeling crawls up your spine like a warning signal, one that you’ve tried to ignore for years, but here it is, loud and unavoidable. The tightness in your chest. The pulse of nausea that makes you want to choke on your own breath.

You can’t look at Jungkook. You can’t.

Because if you do, the truth slaps you right across the face, and it’s one you’ve been running from. Jungkook is just a mess of questions you don’t care to have answered. But Yoongi? Yoongi’s the reason your heart beats too fast, why you’re still tangled in memories you should have let go of.

And then you see him.

Jesus.

The way his eyes land on you is like it’s been years since you last saw each other—and honestly, that's the truth. Two years. Two years passed. The ache that pulls at your ribs, the rawness that floods you, is something you thought had faded into oblivion. You thought you were over it.

But it’s never that easy, is it?

Chul notices immediately, the shift in your expression, the way your posture changes, rigid as though you’ve been frozen by some invisible force. His hand rests on your arm gently, a silent question. But what can you say? What can you explain without laying it all bare in front of people who have no idea about your history with him?

And you know it’s not just the fact that Yoongi is here—it’s that feeling. That damn ache that never really goes away. The past flooding back to suffocate you in this room full of people who have no clue what’s going on in your head.

You can’t breathe.

You’re not ready for this. You weren’t ready to see him again. Not like this. Not with Chul looking at you like he’s wondering if you’re okay.

But Yoongi? Yoongi’s eyes stay locked on yours. No words. No movement. Just that look. The one that says everything, even though it says nothing at all.

It’s like he’s still inside you. Like nothing has changed. You’re right back there, a thousand moments too many.

And it hits you—the final realization that this dinner isn’t just awkward. It’s a damn reminder of all the unfinished business you wish you could bury.

You’ve never felt so out of control.

“Oh my God, hi guys,” Aecha stands up with that familiar sparkle in her eye, wrapping you in a hug that feels tighter than usual. You hug her back, but your hands are clammy, your heart heavy in your chest. The warmth in her smile is real—but you can’t match it right now. Not with everything pressing down on you.

You force a breath as your gaze flickers over the table. You skip him. You skip Yoongi. On purpose.

Your hand finds the hem of your dress, discreetly wiping off the sweat as you steel yourself to be polite. Presentable. Normal.

Jungkook stands to greet you, that signature sweetness etched into every corner of his face. “Hey, I’m Jungkook,” he says, extending his hand. He doesn’t know. You see it immediately. There’s no recognition of your history—only curiosity, maybe a spark of interest, but nothing more.

You shake his hand, offering a small smile. “Nice to meet you.” Chul introduces himself too, and Jungkook lights up, immediately vibing with him, which helps, a little. The rest of the guys are friendly, laid-back. They smile, say their names, nod politely. It should feel normal.

But then.

He stands.

And everything slows.

“Min Yoongi,” he says evenly, his tone smooth and familiar in the worst way. He extends his hand, and for a moment you freeze. You think about ignoring it. About pretending. But that would draw too much attention—especially with Aecha watching so closely.

So you take it.

Your name slips from your mouth like it doesn’t belong to you. Like it’s a line from a script you’ve forgotten how to feel.

His skin is warm. You wish it wasn’t.

It lasts no more than a second. But when you sit down, your whole body feels altered.

Chul’s next, his handshake with Yoongi stiffer, his eyes avoiding yours. You don’t need to ask to know—he’s silently panicking. He knows everything. And you’re both trying to act like nothing happened, like Yoongi and you didn’t ruin each other once and then vanish from each other's worlds.

Namjoon watches. Quietly. Sharp eyes missing nothing.

You wonder if Yoongi gave him the full truth. Or just enough to keep him quiet.

Either way—this dinner is going to suck.

You settle into your chairs, side by side like you're bracing for impact. On your right sits Kim Taehyung, draped in luxury like it's a second skin, sipping water like it's champagne. On Chul’s left, Yoongi is already sprawled in his chair, legs stretched out like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

Honestly? Mood.

You flick your eyes at Chul. He looks like he’s debating whether to throw up or chug the complimentary sparkling water. No in-between.

“Sooo,” Chul finally speaks, voice artificially light. “Give us the story of how you two met. Like okay, you’re dating him,” he points a thumb at Jungkook, “but you work for SM, not HYBE.”

Aecha beams, clearly ready for this part. “It was during a promotional event the guys were at. I was there handling digital strategy for EXO, and Jungkook was invited as a guest and—”

“She was holding an iPad like it was a weapon,” Jungkook cuts in with a laugh, eyes crinkling. “I was just trying to ask where the restrooms were, and she looked at me like I was trying to hack the mainframe.”

“I did,” Aecha says dramatically. “He walked up all shy like, ‘Excuse me—’ and I was like, ‘Do not distract me, I’m in the middle of an algorithmic miracle.’”

“Which turned out to be a TikTok schedule,” Jungkook deadpans.

“Hey. That TikTok trended for three days. I saved Baekhyun’s brand.”

They’re laughing. Everyone at the table joins in. Except you.

And Yoongi.

Taehyung leans a little closer, eyes twinkling. “So what about you two?” he asks innocently, gesturing between you and Chul.

“We’re not together,” you and Chul say in perfect sync, too quickly, like soldiers trained for battle.

“Oh,” Taehyung blinks. “I mean—okay.”

“Yeah,” Chul coughs, “I’m very gay and she’s very… emotionally unavailable.”

“Thanks for that,” you mutter, shooting him a glare.

“What? You are.”

“Okay but you once cried because the guy you liked didn’t like The 1975.”

“Because he had no taste,” Chul hisses back.

Namjoon snorts into his glass. Yoongi remains silent. You can feel him, though—his presence heavier than anything on the menu. He hasn’t looked at you once. Not since the handshake. But you know he’s listening. You know.

Aecha smiles brightly. “Isn’t this nice? Everyone vibing already!”

You glance at her, then at Yoongi’s shoulder half a meter away from yours. You're practically inhaling the same air and pretending he’s a stranger.

Yeah.

Nice.

Totally vibing.

“So,” Aecha starts, swirling her wine like she didn’t just drop a social grenade, “What’s everyone getting? The truffle risotto is apparently divine.”

You reach for the menu like it might shield you from the tension building beside you. Yoongi still hasn’t spoken. Still hasn’t looked at you. It’s like sitting next to a ghost you used to let touch you.

Chul nudges your knee under the table. You don’t look at him, but you know he’s silently asking if you’re okay. You’re not. But you nod anyway.

“I’ll probably get the steak,” Jungkook says. “Haven’t eaten properly all day.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Taehyung mutters. “You only drink iced americanos and chew gum like it’s a food group.”

“I’m a busy man.”

“You’re chronically late.”

“Still busy.”

Yoongi finally speaks. “Get the steak rare,” he mutters without looking up, “They overcook everything past medium.”

His voice. It slashes through the air like a knife dipped in nostalgia and regret. You freeze for half a second. Just half. But Chul notices.

“Ohhh, steak boy speaks,” Taehyung says dramatically.

Yoongi doesn’t respond. Just drinks his water.

“So, Yoongi,” Aecha smiles, “still working on that solo album?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

“How’s it going?” she asks sweetly.

“Like a root canal. But with synths.”

The table laughs. You don’t. You remember what he sounds like at 3am talking about chord progressions and bridges like they’re living things. You remember that look in his eyes when he finished a song and asked you to listen first. You remember a version of him that smiled at you across a messy bed, not across a dinner table full of other people.

You sip your wine. You need something stronger.

Namjoon clears his throat. “So, Y/N,” he says, forcing a new topic, “Aecha said you’re a writer?”

You blink. “Uh, yeah. I write romance.”

“Like… smut?”

Taehyung leans in, curious. Too curious.

Chul coughs loudly. “Not just smut.”

“I mean… a little smut,” you admit, shrugging, because what else are you gonna do? Lie?

“That’s dope,” Jungkook grins, nodding. “That takes guts.”

Yoongi still doesn’t say anything.

“I read one of her books once,” Chul announces, like he’s proud. “Couldn’t look her in the eye for a week.”

“Because you read the scene,” you mutter.

“Oh, you know I read the scene.”

“Wait,” Taehyung interrupts, eyes wide. “Do you base your characters on real people?”

You open your mouth to answer, but before anything leaves your lips, Yoongi suddenly stands.

“I’m gonna smoke,” he mutters, already walking away before anyone can respond.

Silence follows in his wake. Chul clears his throat.

“I’d say he’s always like that but… he’s not.” Jimin sighs into his wine.

You stab at your salad like it insulted your lineage.

And Aecha, bless her clueless soul, just smiles and says, “Maybe I will get that risotto.”

When Yoongi comes back, the conversation is already flowing. The wine’s been poured (maybe a little too generously), the bread basket is on its second refill, and you’re three laughs deep into a story with Jin and Taehyung.

You didn’t dare follow him outside. Nope. Not a chance. You weren’t about to chase a ghost into the night like it’s some 2014 Tumblr breakup playlist.

So you stayed, committed to the bit, committed to pretending your past isn’t three chairs away and brooding in black. Well he was smoking outside. But you get the point.

And now? You’re vibing.

“Wait, you’re telling me you were the one who wrote Dear Me?” Taehyung says, eyes wide like you just told him you invented bread.

You nod, sipping your wine like it’s a mic drop.

“That would be me.”

“NO.” His jaw is dropped. “No no no. That book ruined my entire week. I didn't leave my room. I didn't eat.”

Jin leans forward dramatically. “I read that one. I didn’t come out of my room for three days after that. Why is it so fucking sad?”

You grin. “It’s called talent. Look it up.”

Jin places a hand over his heart like you stabbed him. “Do you thrive on making your readers cry?”

“I mean…” You shrug. “A little. It’s character development. For you, not the characters.”

“Twisted,” Taehyung mumbles. “You need therapy.”

“And yet here you are, emotionally wrecked and asking for more.”

“You’re dangerous,” Jin points at you. “You’re like one of those hot witches in fantasy novels who curse people with heartbreak and then look hot doing it.”

You raise your glass. “Cheers.”

That’s when you feel it—him.

Yoongi slides back into his chair, and even though you don’t look at him, you know. You know from the slight shift in the table. The way the energy dips by ten degrees. The way Chul subtly straightens up like he might have to go full bodyguard in two seconds.

“So,” Namjoon says, like he’s stepping between a lit fuse and a barrel of gunpowder, “Yoongi, did you smoke the entire pack or just half?”

“Depends,” Yoongi replies flatly. “Did the conversation get better while I was gone?”

“Oh,” Jin grins, “way better. She wrote Dear Me.”

Yoongi stills. You don’t look at him. But you hear it in the pause. The inhale. The weight of a book title that he knows isn’t fiction.

“That book,” Jin continues, oblivious, “is basically emotional waterboarding.”

Yoongi takes a slow sip of his drink. “Sounds familiar.”

Your hand tightens around your glass. So we’re doing this. We’re being subtle.

“It’s fiction,” you say brightly. “Totally made up. Not a single shred of truth in it.”

Yoongi finally glances at you, eyes sharp. “Right. Fiction.”

Taehyung, bless his heart, frowns. “Wait. Is this about that scene with the voicemail? ‘Cause that—”

Chul loudly coughs and drops his fork.

“Anyway,” he says, “Jungkook, how’s your dog?”

Jungkook blinks. “Uhh… he’s good?”

“Great. Cool. Let’s talk more about that.”

The table dissolves into messy conversation again, everyone just a little too loud, a little too animated. You finally risk a glance at Yoongi. He’s looking at you, of course.

And beneath the casual disinterest, his eyes say it loud and clear:

You really thought I wouldn’t recognize myself in your pages?

You take another sip of wine and look away.

You were the one who told me to write what I know.

“Sooo,” Taehyung sings, one eyebrow cocked and eyes glittering as they dart to you. His voice alone is dangerous—smooth and teasing, the kind that could talk you into trouble without breaking a sweat. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

You pause mid-sip, arching a brow. “Umm, I’m pretty sure Chul already mentioned my emotional unavailability.”

Across the table, Chul snorts. “That’s an understatement.”

“Maybe,” Taehyung leans in a little, resting his elbow on the table and his chin in his palm, “we can work on that one.”

You blink. “What, my issues?”

“No,” he grins, wolfish and playful. “Your availability.”

Hoseok doesn’t look up from cutting his steak, but his fork slows. “Taehyung.”

“What?” Taehyung says innocently, eyes still trained on you. “We’re just talking. I’m curious. I like to connect with people.”

“Yeah, well maybe let her breathe before you start undressing her with your eyes,” Jimin mutters, sipping his wine.

“Oh please,” you roll your eyes, “let him. I put effort into this dress.”

“Exactly,” Taehyung points at you. “You wore it for a reason, don’t lie.”

You lean back, smirking. “I wore it for the free wine, actually.”

Yoongi mutters under his breath, “Still desperate for the buzz, huh?”

You don’t even look at him. “Still pretending like you’re too good for anything fun, huh?”

There’s a pause. A weird pause.

And then Jungkook narrows his eyes between the two of you. “Wait. Hold on. You two know each other?”

Namjoon’s knife slips and scrapes against his plate with a loud screech. Chul straight up drops his fork.

You blink slowly, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Define know.”

“I knew it,” Taehyung leans forward, eyes wide with delight.

“No, no, no, it’s not like that,” Chul jumps in, hands raised like he’s waving off a scandal. “They… uh, they were in a workshop together.”

You shoot him a look. A “really?” kind of look.

Namjoon nods way too fast. “Yeah. Yeah! Like two years ago. They had a, uh… poetry workshop?”

“Poetry?” Jin asks, clearly unconvinced. “Yoongi?”

Yoongi just stares blankly at the table like he’s counting down the seconds till he can leave.

“Yep,” Namjoon barrels forward. “Modern poetry. Tuesdays and Thursdays, 8 a.m. Real intense syllabus.”

“Exactly,” Chul laughs awkwardly. “Like, Emily Dickinson, Rupi Kaur… very deep.”

“I dropped out after three weeks,” Yoongi says flatly.

“Oh,” Jungkook says, squinting at him, then at you. “And you stayed in?”

You nod, cheeks warm. “Loved every second of it.”

Taehyung’s trying not to laugh. “Okay, sure. What was your favorite poem?”

You deadpan, “The one about heartbreak and regret.”

Yoongi mutters under his breath, “Original.”

You snap back, “At least I read something.”

Chul loudly clears his throat. “So, um, wine! Should we order another bottle?”

Namjoon nearly slams his glass down. “Yes. Definitely. Someone flag a waiter.”

Taehyung hums, still eyeing you like he’s crafting a sonnet in his head. “Tell you what—if we survive this night, I’m taking you out. No emotional unavailability allowed.”

You raise a brow. “And what if I ghost you after?”

He smirks. “Then I’ll write a sad poem and hope it gets published. Sound familiar?”

Jimin jumps in, glancing at Chul. “So what is going on with you two, huh?”

“We’re roommates,” Chul replies, deadpan.

“Roommates who get ready together for dinner like it’s prom night?” Yoongi mutters, not even looking up from his glass.

“Dude. I already said—I’m into men. I like penises. Hope this helps.”

The entire table erupts.

Taehyung nearly falls out of his chair laughing. Jin bangs the table. Namjoon mutters, “I needed that level of honesty today.”

Jungkook wheezes, “I’m framing that quote.”

Meanwhile, you're crying from laughter and embarrassment, hiding your face in your hands. “God, Chul, you’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic, I’m just tired of being confused for your boyfriend when I’m actively fantasizing about Park Seojoon,” Chul fires back.

Jimin, without even looking up from his plate, goes, “Honestly, mood.”

Jin wipes a tear from his eye. “Okay, fair. Penises. Got it.”

Taehyung raises his glass toward Chul. “To penises.”

Everyone clinks their glasses—except you, still dying inside.

“So,” Namjoon says, pointing his chopsticks at you like they’re a lie detector, “are you working on something new?”

You freeze mid-sip of your wine. “Uhh… kinda yeah.”

“Okay, so that’s a yes, but it’s going terribly,” Jin interprets, nodding sagely.

You sigh, dramatically collapsing back in your chair. “It’s like… my brain is a hamster wheel. Except the hamster died. And now the wheel is just creaking ominously in the wind.”

Taehyung gasps. “That’s so dark. I love it. Can I be the dead hamster?”

“Please,” you deadpan, “be my guest.”

Namjoon chuckles. “So it’s writer’s block?”

“Big time. Like, I’ve stared at a blank document for so long, I think it’s starting to stare back.”

Chul chimes in, “I found her today whispering ‘just one sentence’ to her laptop like it owed her money.”

“It does owe me money,” you say, poking at your food. “And dignity.”

Aecha grins. “Have you tried turning it off and crying?”

Yoongi mutters, “That’s my approach to life, honestly.”

“Oh my god, same,” you say, raising your glass toward him.

Taehyung, ever the opportunist, leans in with a flirty glint in his eye. “Maybe you just need some fresh inspiration.”

You raise a brow. “Are you volunteering?”

“I mean…” he shrugs, smirking. “I do look good in tragic love stories.”

“Tragic is right,” Yoongi mumbles under his breath.

Namjoon laughs. “Okay, okay—can we please get a live reading if she ever finishes it?”

You scoff. “Only if you promise not to cry.”

“I make no such promises,” Namjoon says, holding up his hands. “According to Tae and Jin, you write pain too well.”

Taehyung leans in again, this time resting his chin on his hand, eyes twinkling. “I’m serious. Write something hopeful. Like a tortured writer meets a charming stranger in a too-fancy restaurant. Sparks fly. Banter ensues. Maybe a little—” he pauses, eyes flickering to your lips, “—tension.”

You chuckle, but you feel the heat creep up your neck. “What are you trying to do, cast yourself as the love interest?”

Jin jumps in, laughing. “Please, the man’s been auditioning since the appetizers.”

“Can you blame me?” Taehyung says dramatically. “She’s hot, she’s funny, and she writes angst that emotionally ruins people. I’m practically in love already.”

Yoongi’s fork clinks a little too hard against his plate.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow, sensing the shift. “You okay, hyung?”

Yoongi shrugs, not looking up. “Just didn’t realize we were casting for a romcom tonight.”

“You wanna audition too?” Jin grins. “Could be a love triangle.”

“I don’t do love triangles,” Yoongi mutters, swirling his drink. “Too messy.”

Chul snorts. “Says the guy who practically invented emotional mess but ‘make it music’.”

You glance at him, curious, but Yoongi doesn’t take the bait. Instead, his eyes flicker up and lock with yours for a split second—just long enough for your breath to catch.

Taehyung doesn’t miss it, and he grins wider, leaning closer to you. “Well, if it were a love triangle, I’d fight dirty.”

“Oh my god,” Chul groans. “This is officially a Wattpad fic now.”

“Shut up,” you say, biting your lip to hold back a smile.

Taehyung winks. “I’ll be waiting for my cameo in chapter five.”

Aecha leans forward, swirling her wine lazily. “Yoongi, didn’t you say you’ve been dealing with a block too?”

Yoongi gives a slow nod, jaw ticking slightly. “Yeah. It’s been rough. But, you know… it comes with the territory. It’s part of the process, unfortunately.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raising slightly as he continues.

“I’m not really in a rush, though. The next album isn’t coming out until next year anyway. D-Day’s still pretty fresh. Still got some breathing room.”

Aecha perks up instantly. “Oh my God, D-Day! We were obsessed. The three of us actually had a whole listening party when it dropped. Like, wine, snacks, full breakdowns of lyrics... tears.”

“Mostly Chul’s tears,” you chime in, smirking.

“I stand by them,” Chul says dramatically. “'Amygdala' had me pacing the hallway like a divorced man in a drama.”

Yoongi chuckles, soft and genuine. “Happy to hear D-Day landed.”

“And by ‘landed,’ he means it sucker-punched us in the gut and left us on the floor,” you mutter.

“Good,” Yoongi says, a tiny smirk playing at his lips. “That’s the goal.”

For a second, his eyes flick to yours. And something lingers there—quiet, unspoken, and just slightly bruised.

You don’t look away. Not yet.

“We actually went to the concert too,” Aecha says, casually lifting her wine glass.

Jungkook gasps, clutching his chest like she just betrayed him. “You didn’t tell me about this? You attended my hyung’s concert without me?”

“You didn’t even know me back then, Kook,” Aecha laughs, nudging his shoulder. “It was, like, peak fangirl era.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “You were there?” he asks, looking at all three of you—but his gaze lands and lingers on you.

Your stomach flips. “Yeah, we were,” you say, carefully meeting his eyes. “It was… incredible.”

His expression softens, just a little. “Huh. Didn’t expect that.”

“We cried,” Chul announces dramatically, raising a hand. “Like, real tears. Especially her.” He jerks his thumb toward you.

You shoot him a look. “Chul, please.”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, grinning. “Some of us may or may not have said ‘he’s a genius’ in the middle of the second chorus.”

Yoongi’s lips twitch, that almost-smile threatening to show itself again. “Good to know I had such a poetic impact.”

You smile faintly, and something about the way he looks at you—like he's trying to read a secret you never meant to share—makes your throat tighten just a little.

Yoongi takes a slow sip of his drink, eyes still on you, like he’s trying to decide if he should say something or let the silence speak instead. He goes with the second option—until Taehyung interrupts.

“So, Y/N,” Taehyung leans in, smirking, “did you fall in love with him before or after People Pt.2?”

You snort. “Definitely after. Before that, he was still hiding behind metaphors.”

Yoongi’s mouth quirks. “You think I hide behind metaphors?”

You glance at him, heartbeat hitching just slightly. “You live behind metaphors.”

A beat of silence passes. His eyes don’t leave yours. “And yet you still showed up.”

You want to roll your eyes, but it’s too sincere to dismiss. “Yeah, well… good lyrics deserve to be heard. Doesn’t mean I know the man behind them.”

Yoongi leans back in his chair, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Maybe you did.”

taglist: @park-littlecrane @gyozajoon @knjs95s @jajabro @peacenpigeons @supertopsecretleebit @glossyfanfic @mar-lo-pap @kittyyyminnn @jennierubyjem @ot72025 @yohoosoju @diame93 @ryryvna @taekritimin123 @baechugff @enfppuff @amarawayne @134340-kr @mikrokookiex @futuristicenemychaos @shesscorpio7 @kam9404 @teaaaaaan @blubird592 @rpwprpwprpwprw @ktownshizzle @tea4sykes @jennierubyjem @butterfly-lover @jellihueni @xtracy-xd7 @annyeongbitch7 @rkivved-girl @mygtangerine @busanbby-jk @jennierubyjem @kiki-zb @marissariveraaaa

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yoongiimarryme · 2 months ago

Text

Melody of Obsession | MYG

➝ Request by anon. I tried my best (⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)

(Yandere! Yoongi x Female Reader)

Warnings: Yandere behavior, possessiveness, jealousy, emotional manipulation, obsessive love, mild violence (firm grip, intense confrontations), and unhealthy relationship dynamics.

Summary: Trapped between love and obsession, you fall for Yoongi—a gifted pianist whose quiet devotion hides a dangerous possessiveness, making escape impossible… even if you never truly wanted one.

Soft melodies drifted through the dimly lit apartment, the gentle hum of piano keys filling the space with an eerie kind of comfort. Min Yoongi sat at his grand piano, fingers dancing effortlessly over the keys, eyes half-lidded in deep concentration. But his focus wasn’t entirely on the music. It was on you.

You, curled up on the couch, unaware of the way his gaze flickered toward you between every few notes. You, blissfully lost in your phone, completely unaware that he had been watching you for minutes now.

It started small—his obsession.

At first, it was just a fascination. The way your laughter filled the silence when you listened to his compositions. The way your fingers brushed against his whenever you handed him a cup of coffee. The way your voice sounded when you said his name—like a song only meant for him.

And then, it became something more.

Something darker.

Yoongi pressed down on a deep, low note, letting it linger in the air before turning to face you. "Who are you texting?"

You blinked, looking up from your phone. "Just a friend. Why?"

His expression didn’t change. Yoongi was always hard to read, but you noticed the way his jaw tensed, the way his fingers flexed against his thighs. "A guy?"

You sighed, not liking where this was going. "Yoongi—"

"Answer me."

There was no sharpness in his voice, no anger, and yet something about the way he spoke made your stomach tighten with unease.

You hesitated. "Yeah. But it's just—"

The music stopped.

Yoongi stood up slowly, his movements unhurried, deliberate. The room suddenly felt smaller as he approached, the scent of his cologne—woody and warm—clouding your senses. He took the phone from your hands with ease, his touch surprisingly gentle as he scrolled through your messages.

"Yoongi, don’t—"

His grip on the device tightened. Then, he looked at you. And that’s when you saw it.

Possession.

"You don’t need him," he murmured, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered against your skin, cold and firm. "You have me."

Your heartbeat quickened. "I—Yoongi, I have friends. I can’t just—"

"Yes, you can." His thumb brushed over your lips, silencing you. "I’m all you need, baby."

You swallowed hard, the intensity of his gaze making it difficult to breathe. This wasn’t the Yoongi you had first fallen for—the quiet, sarcastic, charming musician who made you feel safe. No, this was something else. Something dangerous.

You tried to take your phone back, but he pulled it out of reach, slipping it into his pocket effortlessly. "You spend too much time on this anyway. You should be spending it with me."

You stared at him, disbelief creeping into your voice. "You can’t just take my phone, Yoongi."

He hummed, tilting his head. "I think I just did."

A small, mocking smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes—his dark, unreadable eyes—held something much more sinister.

You took a step back, your heart pounding. "I think I should go home."

Yoongi sighed, almost disappointed. "Home?" He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Baby, this is your home. You belong with me."

Your stomach dropped.

"Yoongi—"

His fingers gripped your wrist before you could move further away, his touch still deceptively gentle, but firm enough that you knew you wouldn’t be able to pull away.

"Shh," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Don’t fight it. You know I love you, right?"

The words sent a chill down your spine.

Love.

This wasn’t love. This was something far more twisted.

"Yoongi, this isn’t normal," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. "You’re scaring me."

His smile remained, but something in his gaze flickered—an emotion too deep, too dark to name. "Good," he murmured, pulling you closer. His lips brushed against your temple, his breath warm against your skin. "Then you’ll finally understand that you can’t leave me. Ever."

Your pulse hammered against your ribs.

The realization sank in.

You were trapped.

And Yoongi?

He had never been planning to let you go in the first place.

The first time you met Min Yoongi, it was in a quiet, dimly lit jazz café tucked away in a less crowded part of the city. You hadn’t planned to be there that night—your friends had bailed on your dinner plans, leaving you wandering alone until the soothing hum of a piano lured you inside.

Yoongi was at the grand piano near the corner, his head slightly bowed, fingers gliding effortlessly over the keys. His expression was unreadable, yet there was something intoxicating about the way he played, as if he was pouring his entire soul into each note.

You found yourself drawn to him, sliding into a seat at the bar and watching in quiet fascination. He didn’t glance up, didn’t acknowledge the audience. He was lost in his world, his music whispering secrets only he could understand. And yet, you felt them too—each note sinking into your skin, wrapping around your heart.

When the song ended, the small crowd murmured their quiet appreciation, but he barely reacted. He simply exhaled and reached for his drink. It was only when he turned his head slightly that your eyes met.

A spark.

Yoongi held your gaze for a second too long before setting his drink down and rising from the bench. You had expected him to leave, but instead, he walked straight to you.

“You keep staring.” His voice was deep, smooth, carrying an edge of amusement.

You blinked, embarrassed. “Sorry. You’re… really good.”

Something flickered in his dark eyes. He tilted his head, studying you in a way that made your stomach twist—not in fear, but in something close to intrigue.

“I know,” he said simply, and for some reason, that made you smile.

That was how it began.

Yoongi was not an easy man to know. He was reserved, quiet, often lost in his music. But when he wanted something, he pursued it relentlessly. And he had decided he wanted you.

At first, it was subtle.

A text at midnight: What are you doing?

An unexpected visit to your workplace with your favorite coffee, despite never asking what you liked.

The way he would disappear from conversations the moment another man showed too much interest in you.

You should have noticed the possessiveness from the start, but you had been too blinded by the way he made you feel.

Yoongi made you feel wanted.

One night, a few months into knowing him, you were walking home alone after a late shift. The streets were empty, the city quiet, but there was a strange sensation prickling at the back of your neck—as if someone was watching.

You hurried your steps, clutching your bag tightly, only to hear the low, familiar voice behind you.

“You shouldn’t be walking home this late.”

You gasped, spinning around, only to find Yoongi leaning casually against a lamppost a few feet away. He looked unbothered, hands tucked into his pockets, as if he had been waiting for you.

“Yoongi?” You exhaled in relief. “You scared me.”

His lips curled into a small smirk, but there was no amusement in his eyes. “I told you to text me when you get off work. I would’ve picked you up.”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted, still trying to calm your racing heart.

He pushed off the lamppost, closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps. “You’re never a bother.” His voice softened, but there was something almost dangerous in the way he said it. “But you are reckless.”

You frowned. “Yoongi, I can take care of myself.”

He hummed, but his gaze darkened. “No. That’s my job now.”

His fingers brushed against yours, cool against your skin. You shivered—not from the cold, but from the way his presence consumed you entirely.

That night, he walked you home, silent yet watchful, as if daring anyone to come close. And when you reached your apartment, he didn’t leave.

Not right away.

He lingered at your doorstep, eyes locked onto yours, as if debating something. Then, in a move so gentle it contradicted the intensity in his gaze, he cupped your cheek.

“Next time,” he murmured, “call me. Don’t make me come find you.”

You should have questioned it.

Should have wondered why he had been waiting.

But instead, you found yourself nodding, your breath hitching as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

And just like that, Min Yoongi had you wrapped around his finger.

Yoongi wasn’t the typical romantic. He didn’t shower you with extravagant gifts or sweet words laced with honey. Instead, his love was quiet but suffocating, like a song played on repeat—haunting, possessive, and inescapable.

He learned your schedule by heart before you even told him. He knew what foods you liked, what scents calmed you, what words made you melt. He wasn’t a man of many words, but his actions screamed of devotion.

"Eat," he would command when you forgot meals, setting a plate in front of you without room for argument.

"Sleep," he would murmur when you stayed up too late, dragging you into bed, wrapping himself around you so tight it was impossible to move away.

"Where were you?" he would ask, his voice deceptively soft, his fingers tracing circles on your wrist, holding just tight enough to make you uneasy.

Yoongi was obsessive in a way that should have scared you more. But it didn’t.

Because when the world felt too much, when the weight of life crushed you, he was always there—waiting, watching, protecting. And despite everything, you found yourself sinking into him like he was the only thing that made sense.

---•••------•••------•••------•••------

It had started with something small—a harmless conversation with a colleague at a café. The man had been friendly, nothing more. But when you turned your head, Yoongi was already there, watching from a few tables away.

His gaze was unreadable, but his fingers were drumming against his coffee cup in slow, controlled taps. You knew that look. It was the calm before the storm.

That night, when you returned home, he was already waiting inside.

"Why were you talking to him?" His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the edge beneath it.

You sighed, tossing your bag on the couch. "Yoongi, I work with him. It was just coffee."

"You were laughing."

"So?"

He exhaled slowly, setting his glass down with a clink. Then, in a movement too fast for you to react, he was in front of you, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

"That’s mine," he murmured. "That smile. Your attention. Your time." His fingers curled around your wrist, not painful, but firm. "I don’t like sharing."

Something in you snapped. "Yoongi, this isn’t normal! You can’t control every single person I talk to!"

His expression darkened, his grip tightening. "Why not?"

"Because I’m a person, not something you own!"

For the first time in months, you saw something flicker across his face—hurt. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by something colder.

"You don’t get it," he murmured.

"Then help me understand!" You shoved at his chest, and for once, he let you. "Because right now, all I see is a man who doesn’t trust me!"

Silence stretched between you.

Then, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it, he whispered, "I don’t trust them."

Your breath hitched.

Yoongi wasn’t jealous because he thought you’d leave. He was jealous because he thought the world would take you from him.

His fingers loosened, and for a moment, you saw the cracks in his walls. The fear. The obsession.

You should have run. You should have told him that love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

But instead, you took his face in your hands.

"Yoongi," you whispered, your anger ebbing away, replaced by something deeper. "I’m not going anywhere."

His shoulders slumped, as if those words were the only thing keeping him alive. And when you leaned up and kissed him, he crushed you against him, his hands gripping you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

By the end of the night, you weren’t sure if you had won the fight or if you had lost completely.

Yoongi had never been one for grand gestures, and his proposal was no different. It wasn’t in a fancy restaurant, nor with a big speech. It was in the quiet, in the space between moments, where his love had always existed.

It was a stormy night, rain pattering against the windows as you sat curled up on the couch, his head resting in your lap while you played with his hair.

"Marry me," he murmured, barely above a whisper.

Your fingers froze. "What?"

He tilted his head slightly to look up at you. His eyes were unreadable, dark pools that you had long since fallen into.

"Be mine," he said simply.

Your heart clenched. "I already am."

He sat up then, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, unassuming black box. He didn’t open it right away. Instead, he took your hand, his thumb tracing the delicate lines of your palm.

"You don’t have to say yes," he murmured. "But if you do… you’ll be mine completely."

There was something in the way he said it that sent a shiver down your spine. Not a warning, not a plea—just a fact.

You stared at the box, at the man before you, at the invisible chains he had wrapped around your soul.

And you realized something.

You had already chosen him long ago.

Yoongi wasn’t just a man you loved. He was the air you breathed, the storm you had willingly walked into. He terrified you. He consumed you.

But deep down, you wanted to be consumed.

So, you took the box, opened it, and slid the ring onto your finger.

Yoongi exhaled slowly, as if he had been holding his breath for years. Then, he pulled you onto his lap, burying his face into your neck.

"Mine," he whispered, pressing a kiss against your skin.

And you knew then—there was no escape.

But maybe, just maybe, you never really wanted one.

235 notes · View notes

yoongiimarryme · 2 months ago

Text

A Gentle Kind of Forever

pairing: yoongi x reader

genre: ceo au, strangers to lovers, soft yandere

summary: there was always something different about the way he loved you. gentle, patient, like he was studying a language only he could understand. even when you’d parted, he carried you quietly in the soft folds of memory, never once questioning whether you’d return. and when you finally do… he knows. this time, he won’t let you go.

he touches you like you’re made of glass, speaks to you like every word has been rehearsed for years. there’s comfort in his arms, safety in his silence. but behind the calm is a devotion that doesn’t waver, doesn’t yield. It waits, it watches, it binds. you think you’ve come back to something familiar. but you’re stepping into a love that never left. one that’s willing to reshape the world just to keep you close.

warnings: yandere yoongi, obsessive love, possessive behavior, gentle dom, emotional manipulation, surprise pregnancy, breeding kink, voyeurism (hidden cams), soft horror, unsettling intimacy, dubious consent, power imbalance, bittersweet ending, psychological tension, it’s romantic until it isn’t, mind games disguised as devotion, love that holds you too tight..woo 😮‍💨 that was a lot. i like to think i’m getting better at my warnings

word count: 4,336

Like It Was Always Meant to Be

The first time you see him, he’s alone.

Sitting in a faded green armchair by the window in the hotel lobby, legs crossed, cup of espresso cradled in his hands like it’s something holy. His gaze is cast toward the rain slick street outside, but his mind is clearly elsewhere—lost, maybe, or just tired. You notice the scuff marks on his boots before you notice anything else.

He doesn’t look up when you sit a few seats away. Doesn’t move when you unzip your coat or sigh from the ache in your legs after walking all morning through Florence. He’s still, like a painting. One that hums quietly with emotion but asks for nothing in return.

You steal glances, not because he’s beautiful, though he is, but because there’s a softness in him that feels out of place in a city made of marble and gold.

Then, as if sensing your attention, he turns.

His voice is low, rough from disuse. “Rain like this makes the city quieter, doesn’t it?”

You nod, caught off guard. “It’s like everything slows down.”

He smiles—just a twitch of the lips, but it changes his whole face. “Sometimes slow is good.”

******

You exchange names at a corner café two hours later.

Yoongi.

He stirs his coffee three times clockwise, once counter. You try not to assign meaning to it, but your brain’s already making poetry from his hands, the way he brushes his thumb over the cup’s rim like he’s coaxing a memory to the surface.

He tells you he’s here for the quiet. You tell him you’re here to feel something again.

You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t ask.

There’s comfort in that.

******

You run into him again two days later—accidentally, you think, until he confesses he’s been visiting the same bookstore every morning, hoping to spot you.

You laugh behind your scarf, flushed from the cold and the attention. He looks sheepish, but not sorry.

“You’re easy to be around,” he says with a shrug, “and I’m not easy around many people.”

You believe him.

You let him walk with you that day. He holds your umbrella when the rain returns. When you slip on the wet cobblestones, he catches your elbow, his grip firm and careful.

You start calling him your ghost. He calls you trouble.

You like how it sounds in his voice.

******

That night, in your hotel room, you kiss.

It happens slow. He looks at you like he’s giving you time to back out. You don’t.

His lips are warm and unhurried, coaxing yours to part. When his tongue slides against yours, something in your chest caves in. The kiss deepens. You tug him closer by his coat.

He doesn’t rush to undress you. He lays you down on the bed and maps your skin with his mouth—your collarbone, the curve of your hip, the inside of your knee. He peels off your clothes like he’s opening a gift he’s waited too long to touch.

“Okay?” he murmurs against your ribs.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, Yoongi.”

His name tastes good when you say it like that.

When he sinks inside you, you gasp—not just from the stretch, but from the way he looks at you, as if you’re both terrifying and necessary. His movements are slow, controlled, like he’s memorizing the shape of your body around him.

You come with your fingers tangled in his hair, gasping his name into the shell of his ear. He follows with a quiet groan, forehead pressed to yours, breath catching in his throat.

After, he holds you in the quiet.

No music. No TV. Just breath and skin and the sound of rain against the window.

******

Days melt together.

He sketches you while you sleep. You catch him once, and he pretends he wasn’t. But later, you find the paper tucked into your coat pocket, your face rendered in graphite with stunning accuracy. You stare at it longer than you mean to.

He watches you like he’s unsure what’s happening to him.

“I was alone for a long time before this,” he tells you, one night while your legs are tangled together under the duvet. “By choice, mostly. Then you showed up with your terrible Italian and your rain boots and I… forgot how quiet I used to be.”

You kiss him then, not because you know what to say, but because you don’t.

He moans into your mouth. Pulls you beneath him again.

******

The last night, you argue.

You’ve been dancing around it for days—the inevitable parting. Your return ticket. His extended stay.

“You’re leaving,” he says, like it’s a betrayal.

You sit on the edge of the bed, half dressed, hair still damp from the shower. “You knew I had a flight.”

“But it doesn’t have to end here.”

You hate the crack in his voice. Hate the way it mirrors the one in your chest.

“I don’t live here, Yoongi.”

“Then let me come with you.”

You laugh—a wet, sharp sound. “What are we, a story? We fucked and shared a few pastries and now you want to uproot your life?”

He doesn’t flinch. “You think this was just that?”

You bite your lip. His silence wounds more than his words.

“I think,” you whisper, “I was trying to find something here. And I did. But that doesn’t mean I get to keep it.”

His shoulders fall. His jaw tightens. He crosses the room, cups your face in his hands, and kisses you like a man clinging to the edge of a dream.

You kiss back like you’re already mourning him.

******

You don’t say goodbye at the airport.

You just turn one last time, hoping he followed you, hoping the ghost stayed true.

He doesn’t.

And maybe that hurts more than anything.

******

You return to the noise of your life.

Emails. Fluorescent lighting. A bed that’s too cold and dreams that echo with his hands. You find yourself cooking things you only learned how to make because of him. You walk into record stores, hoping to hear the soft rasp of his voice beside you.

You never do.

Until—

Six months later, you open your mailbox and find a small, thick envelope. Inside: a sketch. You, laughing in the hotel lobby. Wearing his jacket.

No return address. Just a note in familiar handwriting.

Still not easy around most people.

Still hoping.

– Y

~*~

Yoongi came to Florence to be alone.

Not in a bitter way—not at first—but in the quiet, intentional kind of solitude that only people who’ve lived too long with noise can crave. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going. He booked the ticket after his third bottle of red wine and didn’t bother learning Italian beyond the essentials. He packed light. Brought only one notebook.

He didn’t expect to stay long.

He certainly didn’t expect you.

******

He noticed you before you noticed him.

That first day, when the rain made the city shine like something out of a postcard, he was already settled in the hotel’s lobby, watching water drip from the wrought iron railing outside the window. You walked in, cheeks flushed, nose red from the cold. You dropped your umbrella by the door, shook out your coat, and sighed in that tired, human way that made something in his chest ache unexpectedly.

You didn’t look at him.

He didn’t stop looking at you.

It was stupid, he thought, to feel anything at all. You were just someone passing through. Like he was. Like everyone here.

But then you sat two chairs down, close enough for him to smell the hint of vanilla on your scarf, and all his quiet suddenly felt full of tension.

He told himself not to speak.

Then you looked over at him—just once—and he broke.

“Rain like this makes the city quieter, doesn’t it?”

You smiled at him like it was the first thing anyone had said to you all day. And when you answered—“It’s like everything slows down”—he felt it, too.

The slowing. The shift.

Like something starting.

******

He tried not to get attached.

The coffee shop wasn’t a coincidence, not really. He’d seen you head that way after leaving the lobby and waited twenty minutes before trailing behind, pretending to stumble upon you like fate.

He told you his name. You told him yours.

He felt it land heavy in his chest.

He watched the way your fingers curled around your mug. The way your lips moved when you laughed. The way you avoided talking about where you came from, or where you were going. You were drifting, just like him, and that made him feel less alone.

When you left, you smiled again. That same soft, surprised thing.

He went back to his room and wrote your name at the top of a blank page.

******

He didn’t expect you to show up again.

But when he saw you in the bookstore—hair damp from the drizzle, eyes scanning the poetry section—he knew it was over for him.

He’d spent years building walls no one could see. People thought he was shy, but that wasn’t it. He was tired. Of pretending. Of performing. Of being something for everyone else.

And then there you were, talking to the old man at the counter in broken Italian, your accent a disaster, your smile bright with apology.

He watched you butcher a thank you and laughed out loud before he could stop himself.

You turned. Caught him watching. Raised a brow.

He offered to walk with you.

You said yes.

He didn’t go a day without seeing you after that.

******

He fell in love slowly.

With the way you tilted your face up to the sky when the rain hit. The way you danced around puddles like a kid. The way you made space for him, even when he didn’t ask for it.

You never pressured him to share more than he wanted.

He told you anyway.

He let you in inch by inch—quiet confessions at night, soft touches under blankets, shared silences that meant more than words. You never looked at him like he was too much or not enough. You looked at him like he was there.

Present.

Real.

You made him laugh again.

Made him want to stay.

******

The first time he kissed you, you tasted like lemon and sugar.

He remembered the shape of your lips under his. The way you sighed when he deepened it. The way your hands gripped his shoulders like you’d been waiting.

When he touched you, it was slow. Like prayer. He wanted to give you something that didn’t feel temporary. He wanted to memorize the weight of your body, the heat of your skin, the sound of your voice when you begged him not to stop.

He made you cum with his fingers first. Then his mouth. Then, finally, with his body inside you, moving deep and steady until you cried out his name like it was something fragile.

He whispered yours against your throat. Held you through the shivers.

Stayed until morning.

Then stayed again.

******

He was supposed to leave Florence after a week.

He extended his stay after the bookstore.

He extended it again after the first time you slept together.

And again.

He sketched you while you were sleeping. Drew the curve of your mouth, the line of your back, the way your fingers curled loosely toward him even when unconscious.

He didn’t show you the drawings. He wasn’t ready to admit what they meant.

But you caught him once. Smiled, even. He wanted to say, I’m keeping you in every way I can, but he only kissed you instead.

******

He knew you were leaving. You’d said so, gently. Mentioned your return flight like it wasn’t going to shatter him.

He tried to play it cool. Tried to pretend it was okay.

But then you started packing.

And he lost it.

“You’re leaving.”

You looked at him like he was being unreasonable. Like the ache in his chest wasn’t valid. “You knew I had a flight.”

He knew.

It didn’t make it easier.

“Then let me come with you.”

You laughed like he was ridiculous.

Like this wasn’t the most real thing either of you had felt in months, maybe years.

“We fucked and shared a few pastries and now you want to uproot your life?”

He didn’t even blink. “You think this was just that?”

He watched the fight drain out of you.

Watched the hurt settle in.

“I think… I was trying to find something here. And I did. But that doesn’t mean I get to keep it.”

He crossed the room.

Kissed you like it was the last time.

Because it was.

******

He didn’t go to the airport.

He couldn’t watch you leave.

Not when he still had your scent on his clothes and the shape of your mouth etched into his memory.

He stayed in Florence another week. Tried to sketch. Failed. Walked aimlessly through alleys that smelled like you.

He finally flew home. Buried himself in projects. Got used to the silence again.

But it didn’t feel like peace anymore.

It felt like a bruise he couldn’t stop touching.

******

He sent the sketch because he had to.

You, laughing in the hotel lobby. Wearing his trench coat.

He didn’t sign his full name. Didn’t include a return address. Just a few lines of honesty scrawled under the drawing:

Still not easy around most people.

Still hoping.

– Y

He didn’t expect a reply.

But part of him still waits for one.

******

He hadn’t been back to the temple in months.

Not since before Florence.

Not since you.

The stone stairs still creaked in the same places. The pines still whispered above the slope, tall and watchful like they remembered every soul that passed. He came for the stillness. For the absence of everything else.

Instead, he found you.

At first, you were just a shape.

A coat too light for the weather. Hair he thought he might’ve dreamed. But then you turned—just enough—and it was you. Blinking up at the shrine, camera forgotten in your hand, lips slightly parted like you were about to say something to the sky.

It hit him all at once. The weeks of silence. The bruising ache of missing you. The months he’d spent trying to forget the exact sound your laughter made.

He nearly stopped breathing.

But he didn’t call out.

Didn’t move.

Just… watched you.

Because some part of him had always known this would happen.

******

You didn’t see him until he was only a few steps away.

Your breath caught—loud in the quiet, like it startled you to realize he was real.

“Yoongi,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, searching for proof you hadn’t been stitched together by grief and fantasy.

“I didn’t know if I’d find you,” you said.

His voice was low when it finally broke free. “You came looking.”

You hesitated. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

And just like that, he knew.

You’d run away. Like you always did, he’d learned. But not far enough.

And this time, you came back to him.

******

He brought you to his apartment—a quiet, high rise unit on the edge of the Han River. It wasn’t large, but it was spotless, uncluttered. Like nothing had been touched since the day he left for Florence. Since the day you walked out of his life without turning around.

You stood in the middle of his living room like you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

“Are you okay?” you asked after a while.

Yoongi tilted his head. “You came all this way to ask me that?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Why now?”

You swallowed, eyes flicking toward the window.

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” you admitted.

And he believed you.

But that didn’t mean he trusted you not to leave again.

******

That night, he didn’t touch you.

Not at first.

He made you tea instead. Sat across from you on the floor with the lights low and your knees nearly brushing his.

You talked. Or rather, you did.

About what happened after Florence. About your job, the apartment you hated, the city that didn’t feel like home anymore.

You kept your voice soft, like a confession. Like you were afraid he might turn away if you said too much.

He didn’t.

He listened to every word, heart pounding like a war drum beneath his skin.

Because even if you didn’t know it yet, he did.

You belonged to him.

******

It happened in pieces.

Your fingertips brushing his wrist when you passed him the tea.

Your gaze lingering too long when he stepped out of the shower in only a towel.

The way your shoulders dropped in relief the first time he pulled you into bed beside him—even though neither of you slept.

By the third night, you were curled against his chest, your breath steady against his collarbone, and he knew.

You weren’t just visiting.

You were settling.

******

When he finally touched you again, it was with all the hunger he’d buried.

He kissed you like an addict who’d been promised one final hit. Like he had to memorize you with his mouth before you vanished again.

You melted.

Of course you did.

He knew your body better than he knew his own name.

Every kiss turned into something deeper. Every sigh pulled a little more of your self control away.

When he sank into you, there were no words.

Only you, clinging to him like you’d finally stopped running.

Only him, gripping your hips and staying deep—deep—until you moaned and wrapped your legs around his waist like you wanted to keep him there forever.

He didn’t stop to ask about protection.

Didn’t even pause.

He fucked you slow. Steady. Possessive.

And when he came, he buried himself inside you with a groan—low and shuddering, forehead pressed to yours.

You gasped.

But you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t say no.

You just held him tighter.

******

Later, when your lashes fluttered and sleep dragged you under, Yoongi stayed awake and ran his palm over your stomach.

You had no idea.

None at all.

You didn’t know the things he’d done since you left.

Didn’t know he’d searched your name on every platform that existed. Hired someone to check your last known address. That he’d nearly flown to your city three separate times, just to watch you through a window.

You didn’t know he’d waited for you at this temple three times a month since returning to Seoul.

And yet here you were.

You came back to him.

Willing.

Warm.

Already full of him.

He kissed your shoulder.

“You’re never leaving again,” he whispered.

You didn’t stir.

And that was fine.

He didn’t need your permission.

******

In the mornings, he cooked for you.

Made your favorite drinks. Bought you books you mentioned in passing.

He took time off work. Canceled meetings. Declined invitations. He needed to be home. Needed to watch you.

There was always the possibility that you’d change your mind.

That some other version of you would wake up, remember the life you’d left behind, and walk out again.

But Yoongi was prepared this time.

Your passport was in a drawer only he could open. Your phone mysteriously stopped connecting to international numbers. He told you it was your service provider.

You believed him.

You trusted him.

And every day, he loved you harder.

Made you laugh until you forgot to feel uneasy.

Fucked you until you forgot you ever belonged to anyone else.

******

Weeks passed.

And when the nausea started—soft and slow at first, then unmistakable—Yoongi simply held you in the bathroom while you vomited into the sink.

“I think it’s food poisoning,” you whispered, shivering.

He kissed the crown of your head.

“Maybe.”

But he already knew.

He’d known since the first time.

It had to happen. The universe wouldn’t have brought you back to him if it wasn’t meant to be.

He tucked you into bed, brought you crackers, brushed your hair behind your ear with a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

You curled into him.

Safe.

Unaware.

Exactly where you were supposed to be.

******

The test sat on the edge of the sink like a verdict.

Positive.

Two pink lines, faint but unshakable.

You stared at it in silence. For minutes. Maybe hours. The world around you had stopped making noise, and your own reflection in the mirror felt like someone else’s. Pale. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

Behind you, Yoongi leaned against the doorframe. Watching.

He’d known.

Before you did.

Before your body caught up to the truth.

Now that it was real—now that you knew—it was time.

He stepped forward quietly, like you were a skittish thing that might bolt, and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind. You flinched at first, but didn’t pull away. Just leaned back into him like gravity had finally found you again.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whispered.

Yoongi kissed your temple. “You don’t have to do anything.”

You turned your head slightly, eyes meeting his in the mirror. “You’re not… upset?”

His gaze darkened, but not with anger.

“I’ve never been happier in my life.”

******

He became impossibly gentler after that.

Touching your lower back when you stood too long. Waking up early to make you breakfast, even when your appetite was unpredictable. Googling symptoms, ordering prenatal vitamins, whispering to your belly when he thought you were asleep.

You caught him once—half laughing, half serious—telling your stomach, “Grow strong. I want her to feel you.”

You didn’t understand the weight of it then.

But he did.

He felt it every time he looked at you.

Your changing shape became his obsession. The curve of your belly. The softness of your steps. The way your body bloomed with a life that he had planted.

You were proof.

Of desire.

Of fate.

Of the fact that you belonged to him and no one else.

And now the world would know.

******

There were days you panicked. You’d sit on the edge of the bed and cry, asking if this was a mistake, if your life was over, if you were even ready.

Yoongi never faltered.

He’d kneel in front of you and lay his head gently against your stomach, as if it soothed him to feel how warm and alive you were.

“It’s not a mistake,” he said once, voice thick. “This was always going to happen.”

“Even if I hadn’t come back?”

“You would’ve. You were always going to come back.”

His conviction should have scared you.

But it didn’t.

Maybe it was the hormones. Maybe it was how safe he made everything feel. But somehow, his certainty steadied you.

Like he’d already seen the future, and all you had to do was follow him into it.

******

As you grew, he withdrew from the world completely.

Stopped returning calls. Let meetings pile up unread. His company functioned without him, but it didn’t matter. You were his purpose now.

He didn’t need anything else.

You were glowing—he told you that often—and when you rolled your eyes, embarrassed by the weight gain, the swelling, the unpredictability of your moods, he’d just kneel at your feet and kiss your thighs like they were scripture.

“I wish I could keep you like this forever,” he murmured once, tongue brushing slow against the underside of your belly.

You laughed, breathless. “Pregnant?”

He looked up at you with something fierce in his eyes.

“Yes.”

You thought it was a joke.

He knew it wasn’t.

******

The birth came early.

A summer storm had rolled over Seoul in the hours before your contractions started—heat lightning splitting the sky, thunder rolling low like some ancient call awakening the earth.

Yoongi never left your side.

Not for the screaming.

Not for the blood.

Not when your nails dug into his hand or when your tears soaked his shoulder.

He was there.

Even when the doctors pulled the baby from you and you collapsed into sleep, too exhausted to process what had just happened—he was there.

Holding her.

Your daughter.

His.

******

You woke hours later to the sound of lullabies in a soft loop.

Your body ached in places you didn’t know could ache. But when you blinked and adjusted to the dim light of the hospital suite, you saw him—

Yoongi—cradling your daughter against his chest, rocking her slowly in the chair by the window.

She was so tiny.

Wrapped in pale pink and sleeping against his heartbeat like it was the only one she’d ever need.

You said his name.

He looked up.

And he smiled.

Not the small smirk you remembered from Florence. Not the quiet, tight-lipped curve he used when he was trying not to feel too much.

This smile was full.

Free.

Undeniable.

He crossed to you in seconds and gently laid her in your arms.

“You did so well,” he whispered, brushing a curl from your forehead. “You’re incredible.”

Your throat tightened.

You looked down at her face and felt everything shift inside you.

“Her name?” you asked softly.

He kissed your forehead. “Anything you want. As long as it’s ours.”

******

He didn’t tell you about the cameras installed in your apartment back when you’d first moved in with him.

Didn’t mention the second nursery he had built in his private countryside estate—just in case.

Didn’t say he’d already filed the paperwork for sole guardianship under the table, with a judge who owed him favors.

None of it mattered anymore.

You wouldn’t leave.

Not now.

Not when your child looked like him.

Not when she cried and only settled when he held her.

Not when you were still sore and tired and soft, and he was there to carry you through it all.

You were his.

Entirely.

And if you ever forgot that—if some wild, traitorous thought of leaving flickered across your mind again—he’d just point to her.

To the proof.

To the gentle kind of forever he planted inside you.

And you’d stay.

Because where else could you go?

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