Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You sit perfectly still, hands resting on your thighs, your senses sharpened by the absence of sight. The blindfold is silk, soft against your lashes, but the knot at the back of your head reminds you that this is real. This is happening. Somewhere in the suite, a door opens. Footsteps glide across carpet, confident and unhurried.

You straighten.

The air shifts as he enters your space. You feel the heat of his body near yours. No words—just the soft rustle of fabric as he slowly begins to undress you. Fingers at your buttons, the slide of your blouse off your shoulders. He doesn’t grope. He doesn’t rush. Each touch is precise. Measured. Like he’s studied you.

You flinch as his mouth nears yours. Reflex. You turn your face away.

“No kissing,” you whisper.

He pauses. A beat.

“Okay,” he says, voice low and smooth. “No kissing.”

He resumes, easing your skirt down your hips. He unclasps your bra like he’s done it a thousand times, then lets it fall from your arms. When you’re fully bare, standing in nothing but the blindfold, he speaks again.

“Since I can’t see you,” he murmurs, “can I touch you?”

You swallow, heart thudding. Then you nod, remembering you have to speak.

“Yes.”

His lips meet the soft underside of your breast. His hands follow, gliding up your waist, along your ribs, up your spine. He touches you like you’re made of something rare. Kisses your collarbones, your shoulders, your thighs. His mouth maps you out—everywhere but your lips. He learns what makes you sigh, what makes your knees tremble, what makes you ache. By the time he takes your hand and leads you to the bed, you’re already wet.

He guides you onto him, positions you carefully. The man underneath you is hard as stone—washboard abs, sculpted pecs, thick thighs beneath your knees. His cock slides deep inside you, and you moan as your body adjusts, stretched around his length. He groans softly, gripping your hips like he’s holding back a goddamn earthquake. You ride him slow at first, grounding yourself with your hands on his chest—heat, skin, power—then faster, the rhythm building as his hands slide up your waist, caress your breasts, thumb your nipples until you’re gasping. He fucks you with his cock until your orgasm rips through you, your body jerking forward into his chest. He takes your weight, flips you quickly, and thrusts into you from behind, finishing with a growl low in his throat. You feel the heat of him filling you, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, breath ragged.

You collapse beside him, your legs still shaking. He pulls you into his chest, his arms a cradle of quiet strength. He kisses your neck—just once—and speaks softly into your hair.

“I promise I’ll see you again.”

And somehow, even though you planned to leave, even though you swore this was just one night—you surprise yourself by falling asleep in his arms.

You wake up alone.

The sheets are warm but empty. Your blindfold is still on, askew now. You sit up, naked and confused in the hush of a luxury suite that smells faintly like him—cedarwood and skin and sex. On the pillow beside you is a note:

“I plan to see you later.”

Your pulse spikes.

How?

He doesn’t know your name. You were anonymous. You were blindfolded.

But was he?

There was no hesitation or fumbling as if in the dark. He touched you and directed you with precision as if he knew, as if he saw.
The worry slides in uninvited—what if he saw you the whole time? What if he already knows who you are?

You shake the thought off. You weren’t famous or a well known figure. How could he know you from just your face? Besides, you don’t want to ruin the memory. You gather your clothes, dress slowly, and leave the suite with trembling legs and a reluctant smile.

One perfect, sexy night.

At least… that’s what you think or at least, tell yourself.

You try to go back to your old life.

Blouses buttoned to the neck. Heels that ache. A smile you paste on during morning meetings and wear like armor through overpriced cocktails at your coworkers’ favorite bar. It works—for a little while. Until the loneliness hits, and the heat in your body reminds you that you were awakened.

You text Rowoon.

He’s your usual—hot, dumb enough to be fun, and aggressive in bed in a way that used to scratch the itch. You meet up. Drinks. Small talk. He takes you back to his apartment like always.

But this time… it doesn’t work.

His kisses are too wet. His hands too grabby. When he pushes you onto the bed, you stiffen.

You miss the other man’s quiet patience. His way of asking. His reverence. Rowoon grunts something, reaches for your bra, but your hand closes around his wrist.

“Wait,” you say, breath caught.

He freezes, then laughs.

“What, you’re gonna make me beg now? Why? What changed? Who the fuck did you meet?”

You try to sit up. He shoves you back down.

Your blood goes cold.

You shove back, hard. He stumbles. You attack! The slap surprises you both, but it works. You grab your coat, your heels, and get the hell out of there.

You don’t cry. You don’t rage.

You just… decide. No men. No touching. No reminders of the man who kissed your neck while not showing his face. No wondering if he really meant what he said, I plan to see you again.

A promise that was impossible to meet. Anonymous nights were planned by a bunch of brains in suits.

You tell yourself it was just sex. Beautiful, strange, anonymous sex. You don’t need more of that.

Then your phone rings.

An unknown number.

You answer without an ounce of suspicion.

“You left something behind,” the voice says.

That voice.

Deep. Measured. Familiar in your bones.

He’s smiling. You can hear it in the space between syllables.

“Can I return it to you… tonight?”

Your mouth is dry. You can’t even speak at first.

“You—how did you get my number?”

A soft chuckle.

“You think I let you walk into my bed without knowing how to find you?”

Your stomach flips. Your legs go weak.

You should say no.

You say:

“What do you need to return?”

“It’s better in person,trust me,” he insists.

“Trust you? I don’t know your name or face,” you say.

“And I hope you never do,” he tells you. “Anonymous is fun. Knowledge comes with trouble. Come on meet me, again, blindfolded.”

“It’s not anonymous for you,” you remind him.

“No, it is. I have no idea who you are. Just that you passed several security checks and just got your number,” he tells you.

“I could be dangerous,” you tell him. “You could be dangerous!”

“I know,” he says. “And doesn’t that make it hotter?”

Dammmmmmnnnnn!

In that moment you knew that you would meet him because nothing could keep you away.

The car arrives just past midnight.

It’s black, sleek, and silent. The driver never asks your name—just nods and opens the door. Inside, a single envelope sits on the seat beside you. Your fingers tremble slightly as you slide it open.

Inside: a keycard and a folded note.

“Suite 4712. I left you something to help with the nerves.”

You smirk. He knows you already.

In the backseat console is a chilled flute of champagne—vintage, golden, and crisp. You sip it slowly, savoring how the bubbles settle your racing pulse. You’re not impressed because it’s expensive. You’ve tasted more expensive. You’ve bought more expensive.

No, what impresses you is the thoughtfulness. That he thought of what you might need in this crazy but erotic situation.

The car pulls up to the hotel. The same one.

You don’t need directions this time. You know the way—through the glowing marble lobby, into the private elevator, past the unmarked hallway, and down to the final door at the end. Suite 4712.

Waiting outside the door is a blindfold and a command stuck neatly beside it, in what you’re sure is his handwriting:

“Strip.”

Your body responds before your brain catches up. Heat pools low in your belly. You take one last breath of clean air and slip the blindfold over your eyes, tying it tight. The world disappears again.

You swipe the keycard. The door clicks. You step inside.

Your heels echo on hardwood for two paces before you start undressing—coat, dress, bra, panties, everything gone in seconds. You let them fall where they may. You want him to see you.

From right in front of you his voice speaks.

“Good girl.”

You freeze.

“I’m not a dog,” you say coolly.

He laughs—deep, warm, appreciative.

“No. You’re not. You’re a fairy. Filled with magic. You’ve caught me in your spell. I can see that. I can see you.”

The words wrap around you like a silk ribbon, soft but binding. You reach for your blindfold on instinct, but his voice stops you again.

“Please. Don’t.”

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t command. He just… asks.

So you stop.

You lower your hand.

And for reasons you don’t want to name, you leave the blindfold on. Snd walk toward him, your mystery lover.

He meets you in the middle of the suite. His hands are already on your hips, pulling you close, skin to skin. His lips trail down your shoulder, across your collarbone. He’s taller than you remember. Still solid. Still familiar.

He doesn’t kiss your mouth. He keeps that promise.

He takes his time tonight—hands tracing you like a map he’s already memorized, mouth worshiping every inch of your skin, until you’re gasping and arching and whispering his name—

Except you don’t know his name.

You only know the way he touches you.

You spend the night not with a man, but with a sensation—being seen, being wanted, being his. Not owned. Not possessed.

Just… his.

When he finally fucks you, it’s deeper than before. Slower. Rough in the places you crave, but gentle when your body needs. He holds your throat without pressure, just presence. His breath at your ear. Your legs over his shoulders. His cock buried deep.

You cum with his hand between your thighs and his voice praising you.

You don’t know what you said aloud. You don’t remember what you begged for. But after, he holds you again—like before—and you realize he doesn’t just want your body.

He wants your time.

Your trust.

Your attention.

You fall asleep on his chest again.

And when you wake up, blindfold still on, he’s still there.

You lie across his chest, legs tangled in expensive sheets, heart still pulsing from the slow rhythm he pulled from you moments ago.

He brushes your hair from your forehead, fingers soft behind your ear.

“What if we met by accident,” he murmurs. “No blindfold. No room. Just you and me at a bookstore. You’d be in something simple, distracted. I’d say something charming but stupid just to make you look at me.”

You don’t answer at first.

“Would you smile at me?” he asks.

“That’s not how we met,” you say, shifting against him. “This is how we meet.”

He hums, thoughtful. “I wonder if I’d recognize you. If you’d recognize me.”

You roll away from his chest, spine cold without him against it.

“I don’t want to know you like that,” you say quietly. “This works because I don’t know.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t chase you.
He just presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder.

And somehow, that’s worse.

When the next invitation comes, there are instructions.

“No sex tonight. Come hungry. Wear black. Blindfold goes on before the elevator.”

You follow them.

When the doors open to his suite, the air is warm and spiced—wine, roasted garlic, butter, woodsmoke. You’re guided gently to a chair. A napkin is placed in your lap. And then you hear the scrape of another chair across from you.

He’s sitting with you now, not just watching.

You open your mouth to speak, but he brings a glass to your lips instead. Deep red wine. Earthy and bold. Then a fork—a bite of seared meat, rich and perfect. You eat in silence, letting him guide your senses.

“What makes you feel safe?” he asks between courses.

You frown.

“I didn’t come here for therapy.”

“Still. I’m asking.”

You shrug.

“Control. Predictability.”

“Sounds… boring.”

“Says the man hiding behind silk.”

He laughs softly.

Later, after dessert, he feeds you a strawberry and asks,

“What made you cry last?”

You pause. The answer is too close.

“Nothing,” you say.

You hear the subtle lie in your own voice. So does he.
But he doesn’t press. He just thanks you for the evening.

You go home untouched.

But it’s the most intimate you’ve ever felt with him.

.

Your next visit is short. Intense. Quick sex against the glass of his windows while the city blurs beneath your blindfold. He finishes with his hand tight on your throat, your orgasm curling into his.

When you collapse onto the bed afterward, he wraps you in the comforter but doesn’t hold you like before. He murmurs something you don’t understand, brushes your cheek, and leaves you to sleep.

When you wake, you’re alone again.

This time, there’s a box on the nightstand.

Inside: a deep burgundy silk scarf—the kind chaebol wives wear to board meetings or hide their tension under smiles. Expensive. Thoughtful.

But inside the folds of silk is a photo.

You.

Not from the suite. Not from recent days.

It’s a year-old picture of you at a fundraiser in Gangnam, wearing that silver dress that barely stayed on your shoulders. You’re on a balcony, drink in hand, looking out at the city—alone.

“You looked sad,” the note reads. “I didn’t like seeing you that way.”

Your blood goes still. He knows who you are! Worse, he seems to run in the same circles.

You don’t remember anyone near you that night. You didn’t feel watched.

He’s either someone who was invited there—one of your world. Or someone who went out of his way to find you.

You fold the scarf, press it to your face, and breathe him in.
Then you tuck the photo away.

You tell yourself it’s only curiosity.

But your pulse says otherwise.

Friday. No text.

Saturday. No call.

Sunday. Nothing.

You don’t notice it at first. You’re in meetings. Reviewing trade risk portfolios. Smiling at old men who want to tell you how impressed they are that a woman your age has so much “potential.” You nod. You close billion-won deals. You smile for photos. You sip wine you could’ve imported yourself.

But you feel it.
The ache.

You don’t even know his name, but your body knows his absence.

You try not to look at your phone.
You try not to scroll your call logs.
You even consider texting him—but you don’t.

You don’t chase men. Especially not ones who hide their faces.

Then Sunday night, just as you’re pulling down your duvet, your phone buzzes.

His number.

You answer, breath caught.

“Do you miss me?” he says.

His voice is velvet, smug and warm, like he already knows the answer.

“No,” you lie.

He laughs, low and delighted.

“You’re good at money, but bad at pretending.”

You pause.

“How do you know I’m good at money?”

“Because only someone used to power hides it so well.”

Your voice falters. “I work in high finance. That’s all.”

“Mm. I’m sure.”

You hear him exhale, like he’s leaning back against something soft.

“I miss you,” he says.

Your knees go weak.

You don’t tell him you canceled a flight to Busan just in case he called. You don’t tell him about Rowoon. Or the photo. Or the scarf tucked into your pillow.

“I miss you too,” you admit.

You arrive like always—blindfolded, quiet, and ready.

But the moment you step into the suite, you know something’s different. The air hums heavier. There’s movement—more than one person. You pause just inside the door.

Then you hear his voice.

“He’s someone I trust. Only in if you want it.”

You nod.

You don’t ask questions. You don’t need to. He’s taught you to listen with your body.

They touch you like you’re art.

Your wrists are held gently above your head as your dress slides away. One of them mouths your neck. The other kneels between your thighs. There’s no rush—only a careful, devastating rhythm of pleasure traded between them. You are surrounded, stretched, lifted.

At some point, you’re straddling one man, riding his cock while the other teases your nipples, whispering praise into your ear. You moan louder than you mean to. Hands keep you steady. A mouth marks your shoulder. You come and they don’t stop—they take turns, until you can’t tell whose breath is hotter or whose body you crave more.

After, you’re boneless between them, their skin slick against yours. One lies behind you, arm across your waist. The other breathes against your collarbone, abs still taut beneath your fingers.

You press your palm to one of their stomachs—solid. Carved. Unreal.

“You’re not normal,” you murmur. “Neither of you.”

One chuckles.

“No one in this bed is normal.”

“You’re athletes,” you whisper. “Or dancers. Or idols.”

No one corrects you.

That’s confirmation enough.

You fall asleep between two mystery men with abs that belong on magazine covers—and the growing suspicion that you’ve been shared by men millions already fantasize about.

You just get to live it

You’ve stopped counting the nights.

But you’ve started counting them.

You can tell them apart now—not by name, but by rhythm. By touch. By devotion.

The one with calloused hands who always grips your thighs when he goes down on you. The one with the long fingers who presses them into you while whispering filth in a honeyed accent.< The one with the sharp jaw who kisses the inside of your wrist before he fucks you from behind.
The one who holds your face like you’re something precious.
And the one—the one you know best—who always finds your mouth last and your heartbeat first.

Five men.

Not always at once. But enough for your body to memorize them.

You don’t ask their names.

You don’t search online for proof.

But some nights, you wonder: If I saw them, would I know? Would your skin recognize their hands before your eyes did?

Tonight is different.

Tonight, your lover brings him again—the one who knows your body so well, your breath catches before he even touches you.

He moves like he’s already undressed you. Like he’s been here before.
And when he slides inside you, your body confirms it: you know him. You’ve been with him. Not once.

They take you together—your lover behind you, this familiar stranger in front. They touch you like you belong to both of them. They kiss your throat, your thighs, your stomach—but never your mouth. That rule still stands.

You climax once, then again, their names still a mystery on your tongue. And when they both cum, you feel their weight press into you, breath tangled between your breasts.

You lie there—sweaty, dazed, bare—between them. No one speaks.

Then a whisper, sharp and urgent.

“Tell her!”

A pause. A breath.

“She deserves to know.”

Another silence, heavier this time.

Then:

“Do you want to know who I am?”

You don’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

A warm hand slides up your cheek. Familiar. Careful.

He unties the blindfold.

Light pierces your eyes—too bright at first. You blink.

And then… you see him.

Kim Taehyung.

V of BTS. Hair messy. Chest rising slowly. Sweat clinging to his skin.

Naked.

You spin to your left.

Jeon Jungkook.

Also naked. Also flushed. Also watching you with something dangerously close to awe.

You gasp. Sit up. Clutch the sheet—but it’s useless. They’ve already seen everything.

They’ve touched everything.

Your heart pounds like it might break open. This is insane. This is INSANE.

You were just fucked by two of the most recognizable men in the world.

And they’re looking at you like they’ve been waiting for you to catch up.

Taehyung sits forward. His hands cradle your cheeks. His eyes, deep and endless, hold yours.

“We need to talk,” he says gently.

Then, with a small smile:

“About you… me… and BTS.”

Chapter Text

Taehyung

He didn’t wear a blindfold.

He never did.

It wasn’t arrogance or lack of trust—it was survival. For someone like him, someone the entire world recognized by silhouette alone, vulnerability had to be carefully curated. Even here, at this luxury hotel built on discretion and silence, he couldn’t afford to be unseen. He could afford almost anything—except that.

She was already in the suite when he stepped inside.

Blindfolded, barefoot, standing beneath the golden lighting with her hands loosely at her sides. Calm. Still. Not timid—centered. Like she wasn’t waiting for anyone to tell her what to do. Like she already knew why she was here.

His gaze traced the length of her, from the soft arch of her shoulders to the dip of her waist. And when he reached her hips, her thighs, her chest rising slowly with each breath—

She wasn’t a snack.

She was a fucking meal.

He felt his body react before his brain caught up. The weight of his interest pressed down on him all at once, sharp and physical. It had been so long since that had happened—since he’d wanted something before touching it.

He stripped quietly, shoes first, then his jacket, watch, shirt. She didn’t flinch at the sound. She didn’t ask questions. She just waited, serene, blindfolded, open.

He stepped in close and touched her hips. She inhaled softly—just once—but didn’t shy away. Her skin was warm under his palms, soft but firm, the body of a woman who knew it, claimed it, enjoyed it.

He reached for her face, tilting it gently, leaning in on instinct. But just as his lips brushed hers, she turned away.

“No kissing,” she whispered. Not harsh. Just a rule.

He smiled.

That was new.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

He pulled the straps from her shoulders. Her dress slipped down her spine, slow and whispering, pooling at her feet like it missed her already. He stepped back to look at her.

God.

If he’d been wearing a blindfold, he’d have missed this. The way she stood naked, unselfconscious. Not showing off—existing. His chest tightened.

She was stunning, yes—but she was free. And that was rare.

He leaned in again, just enough for his mouth to brush her jaw.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, voice low.

“Yes,” she said.

He dropped to his knees.

She gasped when he spread her thighs and licked slowly up the center of her, hips jerking, one hand flying to his hair. But she didn’t push him away. She pulled him closer. Her grip tightened with every stroke of his tongue, every curl of his fingers.

Then she moaned.

It wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t cute. It was raw—a sound ripped from somewhere deep inside her, startled and aching and real.

He froze, then kept going.

She grunted when he sucked harder. She swore under her breath when he changed the angle. She said his name—well, not his, not Taehyung, not V, just “fuck yes” and “please—don’t stop” and “just like that”—and it lit him up from the inside.

“Good girl,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

She whimpered. Visibly shivered.

“Say it again,” she gasped, surprising him. Earlier she’d angrily told him she’s not a dog but now the words made her want more.

He did it again telling her that she’s a good girl and that she’s so sexy it turns him on.

She came so hard around his mouth it made him dizzy.

And that was when he knew: this wasn’t going to be a one-night arrangement.

He brought her to the bed, climbed in first, and pulled her into his lap. She straddled him with no hesitation, her hands on his chest, her breath quick and open-mouthed. He guided himself inside her and nearly lost it then and there.

She was hot, tight, and so goddamn present. Every moan felt earned, not gifted. Every time he praised her—“you feel so good,” “take it all,” “just like that”—she trembled and begged for more.

She rode him like she couldn’t get enough of him. Like she wasn’t trying to impress, only trying to feel.

It was the hottest sex of his life.

And she didn’t even know who he was.

No cameras. No fans. No expectation. She wasn’t trying to say she’d slept with V. She didn’t want access. Didn’t even care. She was just a woman fucking a man she wanted—and that man just happened to be him.

After she came again—this time dragging her nails across his chest—he flipped her, slow and steady, and finished inside her while she whispered “yes, please, yes” over and over again like it meant something.

He pulled her into his arms afterward. She didn’t talk. Didn’t even remove the blindfold. Just let him hold her, her breathing slowing in his arms until—against all logic—she fell asleep.

Asleep.

In his bed. In his arms. With no idea who he was.

He looked down at her, brushing a hand down her back, careful not to wake her.

And then he whispered, just once, into the darkness:

“I know exactly who you are.”

And he meant every word.

”And I’m not letting you go.”

He tried to forget her.

He really did.

But he kept hearing her voice. That cracked, desperate moan she let out just before she came the first time. The gasp she made when he pulled her hair harder than he meant to—and instead of recoiling, she whispered “again.”

He heard her in the shower. In rehearsals. At the gym. In the middle of meetings, while staff explained schedules he wasn’t listening to. He woke up hard and aching four mornings in a row, her voice still echoing in his head.

She was wrecked for him, and she didn’t even know who he was. That was what haunted him the most.

She didn’t want V of BTS. She wanted the man in the room. The body. The hands. The mouth.

She wanted Him.

Which was good because he wanted her too, desperately.

He waited four days.

Then he called the club.

He shouldn’t have. He knew that. Anonymity was rule number one—unbreakable, sacred. No names, no photos, no lingering.

But he was V. And the owner, a sharp, soft-spoken woman named Ahra, was one of the few people who could keep a secret and still wear ARMY on her sleeve like a badge of honor.

“Do you have her number?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

Ahra paused. A beat too long.

“You know that’s not how this works,” she said, but she didn’t hang up.

“I know.”

Another pause.

Then, quietly: “She left a five-star review.”

He smiled. “Did she leave a name?”

“No,” she said, then sighed. “But I know which suite she booked. And I remember which client was assigned to her.”

Taehyung said nothing. He didn’t have to.

Ahra made a small, amused sound. “You were different after that night.”

“Was I?”

“You never book the same suite twice. You did this time.”

He ran a hand through his hair.

“Taehyung,” she said, softer now, “you’re not supposed to know each other.”

“I know,” he murmured. “But I can’t stop hearing her voice.”

Another silence.

Then a click.

A message popped up on his private phone with a single number.

“I’ll trust you not to make me regret this,” said the sex club owner.

“Embarrassing you would mean embarrassing me,” Taehyung tells her. “You can trust me.”

He hasn’t called her. Not yet.

He wanted to, but for four days he just stared at the number. He imagined what he’d say. He imagined her reaction. What if she hated him for reaching out? What if he shattered whatever made their night feel like magic?

But on the fifth day, while he was lying in bed in his recording studio with his guitar untouched beside him, he called her.,

“Hello?” Her voice. Real. Awake.

“It’s me,” he said, hoping that she would know his voice.

Silence. Then the faintest inhale.

“…You.”

Yup. She knew him. Just by his voice.

“I shouldn’t have asked for your number,” he said, honest from the start.

“No,” she agreed, “you shouldn’t have.”

Another beat of silence.

“But I’m glad you did.”

His head dropped back against the pillow. Something in his chest unlocked.

“Go to the same suite,” he said. “I left you something there.”

“What is it?”

A keycard. Champagne. And a blindfold. But after a pause he said a mysterious, “it’s a surprise.” She groans in annoyance. He smiles.A pause. Then he added, “I want to be with you again.”

Stillness on the line.

Then: “Okay.”

Six months. That’s how long he’d been keeping her to himself.

It started as a monthly indulgence. One night of anonymous pleasure, a small reprieve from the chaos of idol life. But after the second night—when she told him “again,” when she pulled him deeper with nails in his back and a mouth full of truth—it became impossible to wait that long.

Then it was every two weeks. Then weekly. Now?

He wanted her daily.

The problem was, she still didn’t know him. Not his name. Not his face. Not the weight of who he really was.

But she trusted him. Blindfolded, obedient in only the ways that mattered, and defiant in all the ways that turned him on. She let him take her how he wanted. Let him hear her pleasure. Bell

And now… he wanted more.

He wanted her filled with it. Surrounded. Worshipped by more than just him.
So he asked.

“Have you ever had two men before?”

There was silence, then her wicked little laugh.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

He clarified quickly. “Two men. Not a man and another woman.”

“I’m not good at sharing,” she said. “But being shared? That I’m excellent at.”

He could’ve cum on the spot.

He invited Jimin.

Of all the members, Jimin would understand the assignment—intensity with softness, sweetness with stamina. He would indulge but respect the line. He wouldn’t touch her lips. He wouldn’t say her name. But he’d make her feel like the center of the goddamn universe.

When he told Jimin, the response was immediate:

You’re really inviting me into your secret sin? Who is she?

He texted her that afternoon.

Tonight. It won’t just be me. Same suite. Your blindfold will be waiting.

She only replied with a purple heart emoji.

She was already in the suite when they arrived.

Blindfolded. Wearing a silk robe and nothing beneath it—just like he told her. She heard the door and turned her head toward the sound, lips parted, heartbeat visible in the rise and fall of her chest.

Taehyung went to her first, as always, placing a hand on her hip and another on her cheek. She sighed, leaning into his palm.

“You brought a friend,” she whispered.

“I did,” he murmured.

A few feet away, Jimin’s voice rang out, teasing and smooth.

“She’s stunning.”

That was the moment. Taehyung saw it.

She froze.

Only for a second—but her body went still, like a memory had grabbed her by the spine. Then she rolled her shoulders and shook it off. She didn’t speak. She didn’t remove the blindfold. But her hands tightened into fists where they rested on the robe’s belt.

Does she know? Taehyung wondered. Does she recognize him?

He filed it away. Later. For now—this was hers.

He untied her robe, and it fell to the floor like a secret. Jimin’s breath caught beside him.

“Fuck,” Jimin whispered.

Taehyung stepped back to watch.

Jimin approached her slowly, hands feather-light as he touched her arms, her sides, her thighs. She leaned into it. Let him explore. When he sucked her nipple into his mouth, she gasped and reached for Taehyung blindly, needing him close.

Taehyung stepped behind her, pressing his body to hers, grinding just enough for her to feel how hard he already was. He kissed down her neck, not her mouth, his favorite place to mark.

She moaned—a deep, broken sound that sent a chill up Jimin’s spine.

“She always sounds like that?” Jimin asked softly.

“She always sounds like herself,” Taehyung said.

He bent her over the bed, Jimin kneeling in front of her as Taehyung stayed behind. He guided her mouth to Jimin’s cock while he stroked his own, watching the way she took without hesitation. She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t pretending. She wanted.

Taehyung watched her body carefully, every twitch and tremor. She moaned as Jimin thrust gently into her mouth, then again when Taehyung slid two fingers inside her from behind.

“She’s perfect,” Jimin whispered.

“I know,” Taehyung said, and he meant it.

They moved her to the bed, positioning her between them, worshipping her with their hands and mouths. Jimin sucked bruises into her hips. Taehyung bit down on her neck. She clawed at the sheets, blindfold still perfectly in place, and screamed for more.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Please—both of you—just take me—”

And they did.

Jimin entered her first while Taehyung kissed her from behind, stroking her clit and whispering filth in her ear. Then they switched, Taehyung pressing into her while Jimin fed her praise like sugar.

“You’re so good like this. So fucking sweet. Letting us wreck you.”

Her orgasm was thunderous. Her whole body shuddered. Taehyung held her as she came, watching her fall apart with Jimin’s arms around her shoulders. It was chaos. It was perfect.

Afterward, the three of them collapsed on the bed, limbs tangled, skin slick.

She rolled onto her side, still blindfolded, and reached for someone’s chest.

She found Taehyung.

And laid her head on him without a second thought.

His eyes met Jimin’s. Jimin smiled, lazy and satisfied, already half-asleep.

But Taehyung lay there wide awake, heart pounding.

She didn’t know who he was.

But she still chose him.

And now he wasn’t just addicted.

He was afraid.

He couldn’t lose her. Taehyung simply could not and would not lose her.

Two years.

That’s how long he’d kept her in the dark.
Blindfolded. Naked. Trusting.
And he was in love with her.

Not just in the way he fucked her—though God, the way she moved for him made it hard not to fall. But in the way she laughed with her head tilted back, not knowing that he watched her. In the way she asked about his day, her blindfold still on, like she knew him beyond anything he’d ever admitted. In the way she never asked for more, but always showed up—every time.

She had never kissed him.

That was one of her rules. And now he wondered if it was just self-protection. Maybe some part of her knew. Maybe if she kissed him—really kissed him—it would ruin everything.

He had fed her by hand.
Held her while she slept.
Worshipped her with his mouth and his body, night after night.

And she still didn’t know his name.

“I have to tell her,” he said one night, sitting across from Jungkook at a private table in their studio.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask who he meant. He just exhaled through his nose.

“Then tell her.”

Taehyung stared at the untouched beer in front of him.

“She’s going to hate me.”

“Maybe,” Jungkook said. “But maybe she’ll be relieved.”

Taehyung blinked.

“She’s smart,” Jungkook continued. “Smarter than you think. Maybe she already knows. Maybe she’s been waiting for you to stop hiding.”

Taehyung looked at him. “You think?”

“I know,” Jungkook said. Then he added, “She’s not a game piece, hyung. She’s a person.”

“I know that,” Taehyung snapped, but it came out too harsh.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

Taehyung rubbed his face with both hands.

“I want her to know me. All of me.”

“Then give her that. She already gave you everything else.”

They planned it together.

One last blindfolded night—exactly how it started. One more time, one final surrender to the fantasy before shattering it for something real.

He reserved the same suite. Laid the same blindfold outside the door. Chose the same champagne.

She came. Of course she did. She always did.

She let herself in, stripped, blindfolded herself, and stepped into the room like she belonged there.

Because by now… she did.

They touched her the way they always did—gentle, slow, reverent. She moaned at their hands. She arched into their mouths. When they filled her, she didn’t hesitate. She was wet and open and so fucking trusting it made Taehyung’s throat burn.

And afterward, when she was breathless between them, Jungkook shifted.

“She needs to know,” he whispered above her head.

Taehyung froze.

“Tell her,” Jungkook said again, louder this time.

She stirred, confused, but didn’t sit up.

Taehyung’s hands found her face. She flinched—then softened at his voice.

“It’s me.”

He slipped off the blindfold, gently, slowly.

The light hit her eyes and she blinked.

And then she saw him.

Her mouth parted. Her eyes widened. She turned her head—and saw Jungkook, just as naked beside her.

Her whole body tensed.

Taehyung cupped her cheek.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “About you, me… and BTS.”

You

You’re staring into the eyes of the world’s most beautiful man.

No. You’re actually looking into them.

Kim Taehyung.

V of BTS.

He’s not just in front of you—he’s holding your face in his hands. Naked. In bed. With you.

Your breath catches like it’s snagged on your ribs. You turn, unable to stop yourself, needing proof that you’ve truly lost your mind—

And he’s actually there!

Jeon Jungkook.

Also naked.

Also watching you.

You scramble upright, hands gripping the sheets to cover yourself, brain screaming in static. Your eyes dart between them, between their faces, their bodies and the memories flood in like lightning:

That voice. That mouth. Those hands.

You’d been with them.

Not just tonight.

Over and over again. For years.

You don’t speak. You can’t.

Taehyung is talking to you—he’s trying, saying your name like a promise, like an apology. But you can’t hear anything beyond your own heartbeat. It’s crashing in your ears. It’s louder than his voice, louder than all your fears.

You need to get out.

You slide backwards, crawling between their bodies because it’s the only clear path. They part slightly but don’t stop you. Your knees sink into the mattress, and your hand grazes a crumple of twisted sheets, a wet spot still warm beneath your palm, and it hits you—

Holy shit.
This is the bed.
That’s the spot.
You’ve just had sex with two of the most famous men alive.

You launch off the edge like it’s on fire.

“Wait—!” Taehyung starts, but Jungkook grabs his wrist.

“Give her 24 hours,” he says, firm. “You have to.”

Then, to you, his voice gentle but clear: “Don’t tell anyone. Please. Not yet.”

You’re already grabbing your clothes, shoving your legs into a pair of jeans without underwear, bra dangling from your fingers and your shoes in hand, your socks sloppily stuffed inside one shoe. You stuff your bra into your jacket pocket, snatch your purse, and sprint.

The elevator takes too long.

You’re breathless when the doors open, tugging your bra over your arms as you hit the lobby button with too much force. The ride down feels like a freefall. You don’t even have your shirt on properly—just your coat zipped high enough to hide the fact that you’re braless underneath.

The lobby is a blur.

You duck behind a decorative wall near a fountain, chest heaving. You crouch, hoping no one looks too closely. Seconds later—

The front doors slide open.

They run out.

Taehyung and Jungkook.

You press yourself back against the cold marble. Your heart stutters in your chest.

“She was barefoot!” Taehyung growls. “She didn’t have time to—fuck, where is she?”

They split—looking left, then right. Scanning the streets like men possessed.

You blink. You’re too stunned to move.

“She’s mine,” Taehyung says, pacing in front of the glass. “I’m not letting her disappear.”

Your mouth falls open.
His?

“She’ll be back,” Jungkook says. “But you can’t chase her.”

Taehyung looks like he might combust.

You curl smaller behind the wall. You can’t process this. You don’t know what this is.

Eventually, they go back inside.

And when they’re gone, you slump against the stone, legs useless, arms trembling.

You whisper the only words that make sense:

“Holy shit.”

Chapter Text

You haven’t slept.

Your body still ached from the night before, but not in the usual, delicious way. This ache was heavy and strange — a slow, creeping paralysis that started in your chest and worked its way into your bones.

You weren’t hungover.
You were panicking.

You were in bed, wearing the same oversized shirt you’d thrown on after your sprint out of that hotel suite. Your bra was still tucked half out of your bag like a piece of evidence, as if anyone who saw it might guess what you’d done. And who you’d done it with.

Your hands trembled as you held your phone.

The night played in your head again — the reveal. Taehyung’s face. Jungkook’s body. Both of them naked beside you.

And not just any two men. Not just two absurdly hot strangers.

Two of the most famous people in the world.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

You didn’t want to be that girl. The cliché. The delusional fan who imagined love from a fantasy.

But this wasn’t a fantasy.

This was real.

You’d felt Taehyung’s fingers inside you. Heard Jungkook groan above you. You’d laughed with them, breathed with them, curled between them like something known. Trusted.

And you had no fucking idea.

Your stomach flipped.

You’d seen idols before. Passed them at airports, glimpsed them in the occasional exclusive party. But they were always part of a separate world — the untouchables. Surrounded by staff, controlled by contracts, above consequence.

And now you had fucked two of them.
Blindfolded. Multiple times.

And you had no idea how many others had been there too.

You dropped your phone face down on your bed.

Did I consent to their fame?
To this threat of exposure?

Your heart thundered. You couldn’t breathe.

Idols don’t date. Everyone knew that. When they did, it was always secretive, shameful, dangerous. Death threats and scandals. Fans destroying people just for being near them.

What if someone found out?

Your family would implode. And the fans… the fans would make sure your name disappeared from the earth.

You curled onto your side and pulled the blanket over your head like it could save you from the truth.

He never told me who he was. Was it just a game?

The thought hit like a slap.

Idols were known for their double lives. Buttoned up in front of the camera, unhinged behind closed doors. You’d heard stories — models who were used, influencers who were ghosted. Every woman convinced she was special until she saw him next to someone new.

Was that me? Was I just a kink in Taehyung’s life?

And Jungkook—Jesus Christ—what the hell had he been thinking?

Just when your brain started spinning fast enough to make you dizzy…

Your phone lit up.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz-buzz-buzz.

You flipped it over with shaking hands.

Call from: Taehyung.
Followed by a missed call. Then another.

Then came the texts.

I know you’re overwhelmed. Please let me explain.

You can yell at me. Just don’t disappear.

Please don’t think it was a game. Not for me.

You scrolled further and your pulse skipped.

Jungkook.

I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay?

I know this is fucked up but it was real. You were real.

He’s losing it without you.

Then the voice notes started.

Taehyung’s voice — low, rough, full of something desperate.

You listened to the first one with your eyes squeezed shut.

“You trusted me before you knew me. You let me touch you when I was a stranger, and now you’re running because I have a name. Admittedly a famous name. But I was always me. I’m still me.”

You tossed the phone onto your pillow and covered your face.

This wasn’t a fever dream.
This wasn’t something you could brush off. It was real.

You turned on your TV, opened YouTube, and typed “BTS interviews.”

Then you pressed play… with your eyes closed.

And there it was.
His voice.
Taehyung’s laugh. Jungkook’s tone.

You’d heard those voices in bed.

Over your moans.
Under your breath.
Against your skin.

Your mouth went dry.

There was no denying it now. No pretending it was all a vivid fantasy or a mistake.

You had slept with two members of BTS.
And if their voices were right…

Maybe more.

You weren’t expecting anyone.
And definitely not him.

It was almost midnight when the knock came.

You froze, staring at your front door like it had spoken. Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. Again.

The caller ID flashed the name you'd refused to save. You just couldn’t bring yourself to label it: Taehyung.

Not yet. Not after everything.

But your feet moved before your head caught up, and suddenly, you were at the door. Your hand hovered over the knob. Then you opened it.

He was standing there. Kim Taehyung. V of BTS.

Wearing a beanie pulled low over his curls, sunglasses at night, and a plain black hoodie. His mask was tugged under his chin, like he’d forgotten to cover his face after parking. He looked like a man too famous to be standing on your stoop — but there he was.

"Hi," he said softly.

The word dropped into the silence between you like a stone in deep water.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

“I had to see you,” he continued. “I’ve called. Texted. Left messages. But I know—” he broke off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know I fucked up. I should’ve told you everything from the beginning.”

You folded your arms, trying not to shake. “You lied.”

“I didn’t lie.” He took a step forward. “I just… didn’t tell you who I was. I thought I could be just a man with you.”

You laughed, bitter and small. “You’re not just a man. You’re a global phenomenon.”

“I know,” he said, voice breaking a little. “But when I was with you, I wasn’t. You didn’t care about fame or money. You let me be someone, not something.”

That ache bloomed in your chest again. Anger, confusion, longing — all twisted together.

“I didn’t consent to dating someone famous,” you whispered. “I didn’t agree to be a secret, or a scandal. You brought me into this blindfolded.”

“I know,” he repeated. “And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I’m not here for damage control.”

He looked at you, eyes wide and aching behind those stupid sunglasses.

“I’m here because I miss you.”

Your breath caught.

“I miss the way you say my name. The way you trust me, even when I don’t deserve it. I miss the sound you make when you’re about to come. I miss your laugh.”

He smiled, just a little. “I miss you.”

Silence again. The air between you was thick and fragile.

Then, softly: “Can I come in?”

You hesitated. Then opened the door a little wider.

He slipped inside quietly, like a man who knew what he could lose.

You didn’t turn on the lights. Neither of you spoke as you walked to the couch. He sat beside you, close but not touching. His thigh was warm against yours.

“I want to know you,” he said. “Not just your body. I want your real name. Your job. Your favorite takeout place. Everything.”

You looked at him, at the man you’d only known in shadows and sheets. Now, in your living room, he was terrifyingly real.

“I need time,” you said.

He nodded.

“I get it. I’ll wait. But I’m not going to disappear. I want you, with or without the blindfold.”

You looked away, heart beating like a warning. “Okay.”

Taehyung smiled then — that slow, devastating smile you’d seen in a hundred music videos and a thousand dreams.

But now it was just for you.

The restaurant wasn’t busy. Private, discreet, and expensive enough that no one looked twice at the man seated across from you. Still, he wore a cap pulled low, black hoodie zipped to his throat, and sunglasses he didn’t take off until you were alone in the private room.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Taehyung said, sliding his sunglasses onto the table. His eyes looked tired, but hopeful.

You sipped your water, nerves still scraping against your ribs. “You said you wanted to talk.”

He nodded. “I want to tell you everything.”

You waited. He looked at you like he was bracing for impact.

“You’ve been with six members of BTS,” he said softly. “All but one.”

Your stomach dropped.

Six.

You felt the number hit you in the chest. You knew it, deep down. You’d recognized touches. Voices. Laughter above your head in a bed too warm with too many hands.

You couldn’t breathe. “Who—” You swallowed hard. “Who didn’t?”

Taehyung hesitated. “Namjoon.”

The answer hit harder than expected. You blinked at him, startled by your own reaction.

He frowned. “Are you—mad?”

“No, I just—” You laughed awkwardly. “I don’t know why that feels like rejection.”

“It wasn’t.” He looked down at his hands. “I didn’t invite him.”

You stilled. “Why?”

Taehyung hesitated, then looked up. “Because I was afraid he’d take you from me.”

Silence.

Your breath caught. “You’re not even supposed to want me.”

“I do,” he said, simply. “More than I’ve wanted anyone. I don’t want to share you anymore. I want to date you. Be with you. For real this time.”

“And the others?” you asked, unsure why you needed to.

“This isn’t about them. It’s about us.” His voice dropped, warm and certain. “I want you to know me. I want to know you.”

“Because you want me to be yours?”

He tilted his head, gaze steady. “Aren’t you already mine?”

Your mouth parted, no words ready.

“Don’t lie,” he said gently. “You’re mine. Just like I’m yours.”

Your heart skipped.

You looked down at the table. “I need time. This is… a lot.”

Taehyung nodded. “Okay. Take your time.”

But even as he said it, you could feel the shift in the air — the undeniable pull between what you had and what it could become.

Your heels echoed in the marble lobby of your office building, the kind of expensive silence that felt like punishment after a fourteen-hour day.

It was late — too late — and your skin still crawled from hours of handholding a client who blew six figures at a private Macau table, then sobbed about it in your office. There wasn’t a thank you, just a wire transfer for “discretion.”

You clutched your phone in one hand, coat in the other, eyes on the exit. Home was just a car ride away.

Then you heard it—

Your name.”

Spoken low, warm, familiar. Not from a phone screen. Not from behind a a fan cam. Here. Real.

You turned, heart in your throat.

He stood by the security desk, tall and calm, as if he belonged there. Kim Namjoon. In the flesh. Hands in the pockets of a long coat, a baseball cap tugged low, and no mask.

Your breath caught. “Namjoon?”

He walked forward slowly, then stopped just in front of you. His hand extended in greeting.

Like this was normal.

“I thought,” he said with that quiet, devastating voice, “it was time we met.”

You stared at his hand. Then looked up at his eyes.

Kind. Knowing. Dangerous.

Your mouth went dry. The world tilted just slightly, and you suddenly realized that whatever came next wasn’t something you could prepare for.

Chapter Text

The rooftop bar was quiet. Elevated above the city’s haze, it felt like its own little world—just wind, warm lights, and the low hum of jazz floating through the dusk air.

Namjoon sat across from you, not with the intimidating presence of a global idol, but with the quiet gravity of someone who listened before he spoke. He'd already finished his espresso, but his fingers lingered around the warm cup. You hadn’t touched yours. Not really.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, voice a little lower than you remembered from interviews. “But this is better than what I imagined.”

That made your breath hitch, but you hid it behind a small smile and a sip of your drink.

“I didn’t know you’d be so…” you hesitated, searching, “relaxed.”

He laughed softly. “You expected a philosopher with stage fright?”

“Honestly? I didn’t know what to expect. I didn’t even expect to meet you.”

The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving streaks of lavender and ink across the sky. The rooftop lights had warmed to a soft amber, flickering like candlelight as the breeze tugged gently at your sleeves. You and Namjoon had talked for over an hour without realizing — your coffee long cold, your cheeks still warm from the things he said.

“I didn’t expect this,” you said quietly, watching him lean back in his chair, arms folded with the casual comfort of someone who was content just to be here.

He smiled, not the charming grin you’d seen in photos, but something softer. Private.

“Neither did I,” he said. “But I’m not ready for this to end.”

Your heart gave a little skip.

Namjoon tilted his head slightly. “Tae said he was afraid I’d steal you.” p>

Your gaze flickered to his. “He actually told you that?”

“He did.” Namjoon leaned in just a bit, elbows on the table, voice gentle but deliberate. “So tell me… if I’m trying to steal you—am I being successful?”

You stared at him. The city blinked below, but your focus stayed locked on the curve of his mouth, the flicker of amusement in his eyes. There was no pressure. No performance. Just him. Just you. And something unspoken in the air between.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached for your wine and took a slow sip. Then, pressing the glass to your bottom lip, you whispered, “I’ll never tell.”

He grinned. “Fair.”

He glanced toward the quiet restaurant tucked beside the rooftop bar, where only a few tables were lit and waiters moved without rush. “Would you have dinner with me?” he asked, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

You looked at him — at the easy curve of his mouth, the steady warmth in his eyes. The answer came before you even realized it had formed on your tongue.

“I’d love to.”

He stood and held out his hand to help you up, fingertips brushing yours in a way that felt far too gentle for someone who once led the biggest band in the world. As he led you to a corner table bathed in golden light, it didn’t feel like meeting a global superstar.

It felt like meeting someone you’d been waiting to meet for a long time.

Sitting at a tucked-away table for dinner. There was laughter between courses, a strange familiarity that didn’t make sense but felt so easy. Time passed without warning, and before you knew it, the table had been cleared and a new bottle of wine opened just for the two of you.

The conversation never dipped. He asked you about your work, your family, your passions—not as a way to test you, but because he seemed to actually want to know.

And you told him things you hadn’t told anyone in years.

When the wind turned colder, he wrapped his jacket around your shoulders and walked with you to the edge of the terrace. The city stretched far below, glittering like a thousand tiny secrets neither of you had the words to name.

“Come back with me,” he said, quiet again.

You nodded.

Namjoon lived in a high-rise that shimmered above the Han River, tucked behind tinted glass and guarded elevators. The kind of place where anonymity was preserved not by secrecy, but by design.

He didn’t touch you once inside the car. Not your hand, not your knee, not your waist. But the air was charged with the warmth of could. Like you were one breath, one glance, one late-night confession away from something irreversible.

When the elevator doors opened, you followed him in silence, footsteps echoing softly against marble floors. His apartment was minimalist, but not cold — books everywhere, soft lighting, a record player glowing amber in the corner. A guitar leaned casually against the sofa. The air smelled faintly like cedarwood and chamomile.

“Would you like tea?”

You nodded. Words were harder now. Too many things had shifted during the hours you'd spent together, and your body was starting to realize just how much tension it had held in the days before.

He poured you a cup and handed it over with both hands, as though you were something sacred. You sipped and sat, and he joined you — close, but not close enough to touch.

“I know this is... strange,” he said eventually. “The others got to know you in ways I didn’t. But I heard about you. Tae talked about you.”

“What did he say?”

Namjoon chuckled, setting his tea down. “That you were a fantasy. A problem. That you might be a risk. But mostly... that you were unlike anyone he'd ever met.”

You looked down at your tea, unsure of what to say. The truth was you had been different with Taehyung. But this—

This was real.

Eventually, he stood. “You can stay, if you want. I have a guest room. It’s nicer than a couch, I promise.”

“You’re not... expecting anything?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Just sleep. You’ve had a long week.”

And that was it. No games. No chase. Just an open door and a guest room with warm lights and fresh linens. You changed into the T-shirt he offered — it smelled like him — and stood in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside.

“Goodnight,” he said, voice soft, body leaned against the wall like he was afraid to step closer.

“Goodnight.”

He turned to leave, but paused. “I’m glad we met properly.”

You smiled. “Me too.”

Then he disappeared down the hall, and for the first time in a long time, you fell asleep without fear, without secrets... without the blindfold.

The morning was lazy in the best possible way. When you woke, the sun was already warming the guest room window, and you could smell coffee, strong and earthy, the kind that didn’t come from pods.

You padded out into the living space to find Namjoon at the kitchen island, hair slightly tousled, shirt half tucked, flipping through a worn poetry book while the kettle hissed behind him.

“You sleep okay?” he asked without looking up.

“Better than I have in weeks.”

He smiled at that, then handed you a mug like it was something sacred. You sat at the table, sipping in comfortable silence until he offered a plan for the day: bookstores, a walk by the river, something good for lunch. No pressure. No expectations. Just time.

And that’s what it became — time. Measured in steps and laughs and conversations that went deeper than you'd expected. He listened the way most people don’t. And he asked questions no one had ever cared enough to ask.

By sunset, you found yourselves sitting beneath a heat lamp at a little rooftop restaurant in Itaewon, the kind with string lights and mismatched furniture. He ordered wine and dessert, and you told him the story about the worst date you’d ever had. He told you the most chaotic place BTS had ever hidden during sasaeng chaos (a hotel laundry room).

“I haven’t been bowling in years,” you said, looking down the slick wooden lanes. The place was empty, quiet for a Saturday afternoon, tucked away in a private facility neither of you would have found without connections.

Namjoon grinned as he picked a ball from the rack. “Then I’ll take it easy on you. First round, at least.”

You threw your first ball straight into the gutter. Twice.

He laughed — not in mockery, but in delight. “Okay, come here.”

Before you could protest, his hands slid gently to your hips. He moved behind you, warm and steady, chest brushing your back. Your breath caught in your throat as he adjusted your stance.

“Keep your wrist straight,” he murmured close to your ear. “And relax this arm.” One of his hands skimmed down your forearm. “Use your hips a little more on the swing.”

He didn't step away. Not right away.

You turned your head slightly, your noses almost brushing. The air between you shimmered — thick with possibilities neither of you were brave enough to name yet.

His eyes flicked to your lips.

You stepped forward, gripping the ball tighter. “Your turn.”

Namjoon let out a quiet chuckle, more breath than sound. “Right. My turn.”

But you both knew that wasn’t the game either of you were really playing.

And when it was finally time to go, when the stars were overhead and your cheeks hurt from smiling, Namjoon offered to walk you home.

You stood outside your building together, the moment stretching longer than it needed to. He reached up, tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and let his hand linger at your cheek.

“I’m glad I waited,” he said.

You didn’t need to ask what he meant.

Then he leaned in. You met him halfway.

The kiss was gentle. Slow. A confirmation of something that had been building all day — not lust, but interest. A pull. Something real and unfolding.

Namjoon pulls back and meets your eyes and study’s your face to ensure you want it and you do. So, Namjoon smiled and then kissed you again. This time he was more sure, his lips claiming yours as if you were his.

He pulled away again, placing his forehead on your forehead.

But just as you were about to lean in again—

“Namjoon, what the fuck are you doing?”

The voice cut through the night like a slap.

You turned. So did he.

Taehyung stood half-shadowed under a streetlamp, jaw tight, hands balled at his sides. His hair was messy, his chest rising with too many words he hadn’t said yet.

Namjoon’s hand dropped from your face, but he didn’t step away.

You froze between them, heart hammering so loud you couldn’t hear the city anymore.

“Tae—” Namjoon started, but the younger man walked right up to his Hyung and punched Namjoon square in the face.

Chapter Text

It happened fast.

One moment, Namjoon’s lips were on yours—warm, deliberate, careful like he was still asking for permission even while kissing you. The next, a blur of movement behind you, the sharp intake of breath, and—

Crack.

Namjoon stumbled back, hand flying to his mouth, a thin line of blood already forming where his bottom lip split. You froze, heart thundering in your chest as the reality of what just happened registered in pieces—

Taehyung.

Fist clenched. Chest heaving. Eyes wild.

“Get the fuck away from her,” he spat, grabbing the front of Namjoon’s jacket and shoving him backward.

Namjoon caught himself against the wall, eyes narrowing—not in surprise, but disappointment. “You done throwing tantrums?”

“She’s mine!” Taehyung roared, like it cost him something to say it. His voice cracked at the edges. “You had no right.”

Your voice finally broke free. “Taehyung, stop!”

He barely heard you, gaze locked on Namjoon like a predator. “You kissed her.”

Namjoon wiped his lip with the back of his hand and looked at the blood. “Yeah. I did.”

“Why? You—You weren’t even supposed to—”

“You opened the door,” Namjoon said, voice low and sharp. “You invited us in.”

There was a pause—

Then two voices, layered but opposing in tone:

“Us?”

Yours: startled, breathless.

Taehyung’s: venomous.

Namjoon didn’t flinch. “You think the others just showed up because they felt like it? They wanted to know who she was. I wanted to know. You kept her to yourself, Tae, but not really. You made her a fantasy. We all remembered her.”

Taehyung’s fists trembled at his sides. “You weren’t supposed to fall for her.”

“Maybe we didn’t.” Namjoon tilted his head. “But you sure as hell did.”

Namjoon’s head jerked sideways, a sharp grunt escaping as his lip split open under Taehyung’s fist.

You barely had time to react before Taehyung was in front of you, grabbing Namjoon by the collar and shoving him hard against the brick wall. His body vibrated with fury, his voice shredded by something primal and broken.

“Get away from her.”

“Tae—!” you gasped, stepping between them just as Namjoon regained his balance, dabbing the corner of his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

“You’re insane,” Namjoon muttered. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You kissed her,” Taehyung growled, eyes blazing. “You weren’t supposed to—”

“I wasn’t supposed to what?” Namjoon snapped. “Want her? Care about her? You’re the one who opened the door. You invited the rest of us in.”

“Us?”

You and Taehyung said it at the same time—your voice shocked, his seething.

Namjoon looked between you both, the bleeding slowing. “Yeah. The other members wanted to know who she was. I came to see for myself.”

“And decided to steal her?” Taehyung snarled.

“She’s not yours to steal, Tae.” Namjoon’s voice was calm now, razor-sharp. “But you’re pissed because you know I could.”

“Because she is mine!” Taehyung shouted, voice cracking. “You don’t know her like I do—”

“Then maybe you should have told her your damn name!” Namjoon’s voice rose for the first time. “Maybe if you hadn’t spent two years hiding behind a blindfold, this wouldn’t be happening now!”

“Stop!” you shouted, stepping between them, hands raised. “This isn’t helping. None of this is helping!”

You turned to Namjoon. His lip was already bruising. “You’re bleeding. Come inside. Let me get you ice.”

Namjoon hesitated, glancing at Taehyung, whose entire body was drawn tight like a bowstring. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea—”

“I said come inside,” you repeated firmly.

Namjoon nodded once. He followed you up the stairs slowly, one hand still pressed to his mouth.

Behind you, Taehyung didn’t move—at first. Then his footsteps sounded on the concrete, slower, heavier. He followed, silent and brooding, eyes fixed on your back like you might disappear if he blinked.

Inside, the air was heavier than the summer night you left behind. You flicked on a lamp and gestured for Namjoon to sit at the kitchen table.

Taehyung stood in the doorway, jaw clenched, fists in his pockets, trying not to look at the two of you. Failing.

Something is going to break.

Namjoon winced as you dabbed at his lip with a damp cloth, your movements gentle but focused. He didn’t flinch. Not from the pain, and not from the way Taehyung paced behind you like a caged animal, the tension vibrating off him in waves.

The freezer clicked shut behind you as you wrapped a few ice cubes in a towel. “Hold this to the swelling. Ten minutes.”

Namjoon took it with a nod and a quiet, “Thanks.”

Taehyung made a sound behind you—a bitter exhale, sharp with resentment. You didn’t turn around.

“You shouldn’t have kissed me,” you said, softly, without accusation.

Namjoon met your eyes. “Maybe. But I don’t regret it.”

Taehyung stopped pacing. “You think that helps?”

“You think this is all about you?” Namjoon shot back, eyes narrowing as he stood, ice still pressed to his lip. “You don’t get to hide her in the dark and then throw punches when someone finally looks.”

“Get out,” you said, gently but firmly. Not to Taehyung.

Namjoon’s expression flickered, caught between concern and resignation. “Are you sure you want to be alone with him right now?”

“I’m sure,” you said. “I need to talk to him. Alone.”

Namjoon’s jaw flexed. “Alright.” He looked at Taehyung one last time. “Fix this. Or don’t. But don’t pretend this is all someone else’s fault.”

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him like a full stop.

The silence that followed was enormous.

Taehyung didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at the spot where Namjoon had been, breathing too hard, fists still clenched like he hadn’t decided whether the fight was over yet.

“You didn’t see me all those times,” he said suddenly, voice low. “But I saw you.”

Your throat tightened. “Tae—”

“You think I wasn’t watching?” he said, stepping closer, his voice shaking now—not with rage, but with something more dangerous. Vulnerability. “Every time you laughed. Every time you touched someone else. I saw all of it. And I pretended it didn’t matter because it was supposed to be temporary. A game. Something fun.”

His eyes burned into yours, unblinking. “But it wasn’t. Not to me.”

You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. His pain was suddenly bigger than yours, and you didn’t know where to put it.

“Seeing you kiss him felt like I was drowning. Like I waited too long and now I’ve lost you.”

“You haven’t lost me,” you whispered. “But I don’t understand. I thought you wanted…”

“What?” he snapped. “A fantasy? A poly fairytale? I know what it looked like, but I didn’t ask for this—them. I brought people into our bed because I thought it was helping. Because you weren’t mine yet. But Namjoon—he was never supposed to be part of it.”

“Why?”

He shook his head, almost laughing. “Because if anyone could take you from me, it was him. That’s why I never invited him. That’s why it wrecked me to see you with him.”

He stepped even closer, crowding your space but not touching you. “I don’t want to share you. I can’t. You’re not just another secret or another fantasy. You’re mine.”

“Yours?” You ask, emotionless.

“Yea,” says Kim Taehyung. “And I’m yours. This isn’t ownership. I don’t want to own you. But I want to own your heart. Because you own mine.”

Your heart pounded in your chest. “What do you want, Tae?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I want you. Just you. In the daylight. No blindfolds. No masks. No more outsiders unless we choose it, together.”

“What are you asking?” You asked him.

“I want to be your boyfriend,” she said, simply, honestly.

You swallowed hard. “So you’re asking to be my boyfriend?”

He smiled—small and broken and so full of longing it made your chest ache. “Aren’t I already?”

You laugh. “I guess you are…”

“I love you,” he says staring into your eyes.

You want to look away but you can’t not from him. Not now. He is saying what you have waited to hear.

“You want to know what I want?” he said again, voice softer now. “I want mornings with you. I want to know what kind of tea you drink when you’re anxious, and if you need silence or music when you work. I want to memorize every version of your laugh.”

He stepped forward and gently brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I want to be the one you come home to. Not because I’m V from BTS. But because I’m the man who knows you literally spit out watermelon but will fight for the last piece of pineapple. That you can’t sleep with socks on. That you hum my songs under your breath when you’re concentrating. That you have three alarms set but always wake up on the final one.”

“I know that the blindfold was supposed to make us anonymous. But you’re not anonymous to me, baby,” he said, voice soft. Eyes even softer as he smiled at you. “I know that you cry during sad commercials but lie about it. That your favorite scent is vanilla and fresh laundry, but you wear something floral when you want to feel powerful. That you hate loud chewing and love cheesy dramas. That you kiss your dog like a child and talk to yourself when you’re cooking.”

He laughed once — breathless, reverent. “I know all these things because I watched. And I listened. Because I loved you before I even understood what this was.”

His finger points between you and him. This? Means the two of you.

Your throat closed, eyes suddenly burning.

You stared at him, every word a thread pulled from your chest.

He knew you. He really knew you.

And that should’ve made this easier.

But your voice trembled anyway. “Tae…”

His name tasted like longing. Like love. Like every moment you thought was fleeting, now stitched together into something unshakable.

“This isn’t just about pineapple,” you whispered. “Or my alarms. Or how I kiss my dog.”

He blinked, but didn’t interrupt.

You stepped closer, your thumb brushing the space between his brows. “This is about the fact that you saw me. And I didn’t see you — not really. Not until now.”

Your voice cracked. “And I’m scared, Tae. I’m scared because I think I love you too. But I don’t know what that means in your world. I don’t know if I can survive being yours.”

He opened his mouth, but you shook your head gently. “Let me finish.”

You took a breath, grounding yourself. “You say you want the boring stuff. The real stuff. And I want that too. But you can’t shut out the others and still ask me to live in your world. You can’t punch someone for showing me kindness and then ask for my heart.”

Taehyung's jaw tensed, but his eyes never left yours.

You squeezed his hand. “So if we’re doing this… it has to be together. As equals. As partners. No secrets. No blindfolds. And no control.”

Silence stretched between you — not uncomfortable, but seismic. Like the shift of something huge.

Then you whispered, “If that’s what you want… then I’m yours too.”

He inhaled sharply, eyes closing for just a second like the words struck bone. And when he looked at you again, something in him had softened — unraveled, even.

“Okay,” he said, breathless. “Okay.” Taehyung’s gaze didn’t falter. “Others might know your body. But I know your soul. And I don’t want to share that. Not with them. Not with the world. Not with anyone! Just you. Only you. With me..”

He reached for your hand, threading your fingers together. “So yeah, I want to be your boyfriend. Not some secret in the dark. I want the fights and the laundry and the late-night phone calls and the morning breath. I want the boring stuff. The real stuff.”

His voice dropped even lower, raw now. “Because I love you. All of you. And if you love me even half as much—”

He faltered, eyes shining. “—Then that’s enough.”

“With you?” You said. “Half is not nearly enough.”

Taehyung smiles. It’s everything you want, because you put that smile on his face. Two years of sex and messing around led to this.

Led to you and Kim Taehyung.

You leaned in slowly, searching his eyes. You want to be closer to him. But just as your lips nearly met—

He pulled back. “No. Not yet. Not like this. Too much has already happened to overshadow our first kiss. I wanted it to be perfect and it still can be.”

You let your forehead rest against his chest, and he finally wrapped his arms around you. Holding you like he’d waited years to do it right.

And maybe he had.

The sun spilled across your sheets like honey, slow and golden, brushing against skin that still buzzed from everything said and unsaid the night before.

You stirred with a sigh, blinking into the warmth. Before you could roll over, you felt it—eyes on you. Watching, but not heavy. Not possessive. Just there.

Taehyung.

He lay beside you on his side, hair a sleepy mess, eyes soft like morning rain. “You drool when you sleep,” he said, voice low and raspy from dreams he hadn’t shared yet.

You buried your face in the pillow. “You’re going to open with that?”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating between you. “It’s cute. I like it.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t tense or angry. He wasn’t performing jealousy or spitting out possessiveness like it was gospel. He was just… still. Calm. Here.

“You’re really here,” he murmured, fingers brushing down your arm in a line that tingled. “And you chose me.”

You turned to him then, matching his gaze. “I did.”

Not lightly. Not impulsively. It had taken time, questions, chaos, and a kiss that hadn’t belonged to him—but the decision was yours.

Getting out of bed felt like the start of something new. He tugged on sweatpants and left his hair a mess. You wore his shirt, warm and too big, brushing your thighs like a promise. In the kitchen, he made coffee like he did this every morning—barefoot, humming something half-familiar under his breath, back turned and easy.

“You like yours a little sweet, right?” he asked, reaching for the sugar.

You blinked, startled. “You remember that?”

He grinned without looking up. “Of course I do. I also remember that you hate watermelon but eat it anyway around other people because you’re polite. You spit it into napkins when no one’s watching.”

Your laugh burst out, bright and unguarded. “That’s disturbingly accurate.”

He walked over, setting a mug in front of you with both hands. “So are my feelings for you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was expectant. Heavy with the weight of what had already been broken and what still needed to be rebuilt.

You took a sip and watched him. “What now?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand. “Now we try. No more blindfolds. No more shared nights unless we both want it. No one in our bed unless we invite them together. And even then—they don’t get to stay.”

Your breath hitched. “You don’t want to share me.”

“I can’t,” he said quietly. “I tried. But I can’t.”

Your fingers wrapped around your mug tighter. “But the others—”

His jaw twitched. “They’ll deal with it.”

The tension threatened to creep back in. You felt it, like the storm that had passed might be circling again. Then your phone buzzed on the counter.

You glanced down.

Jimin: “So… you and Tae now? 😏 Just know the rest of us aren’t backing down yet.”

o No

Taehyung saw it. Of course he did.

He didn’t say anything. Just turned away and poured more coffee. The silence stretched, no longer soft, but taut with knowledge.

You moved beside him. “Tae…”

He finally looked at you, eyes full of too much emotion for the early morning. “They can try,” he said. “But I believe in us. I do.”

Your breath caught.

“When you look at me, you see someone who scared you last night. Someone who might’ve messed this up beyond repair. I’m so sorry that I lost my temper,” He stepped closer. “But I need you to know something else.”

You waited.

“I love you.” The words were a whisper. A vow. “And if you still want me… I’ll do whatever it takes to be worthy of you. Not just someone who saw you first, but someone who keeps choosing you, every damn day.”

Your throat tightened. You looked down, blinking hard.

“So,” he said after a moment, voice gentler now. “What do you want?”

Your answer was simple. “Just you. In public. In private. No more blindfolds. I want to be your girlfriend. If we ever invite someone in, it’ll be our choice. But you… you’re mine.”

He smiled, eyes glassy. “And you’re mine.”

You leaned up to kiss him—finally—but he pulled back with a faint shake of his head.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “So much has already happened. When I kiss you, I want it to be right. Clean. Ours.”

You nodded, heart thundering. Because somehow, the wait only made you want him more.

And this time, it wasn’t about control, or fantasy, or secrecy.

This time? It was real. Simple. Normal. You want to kiss your boyfriend.

You’re curled up on the couch, m wearing Taehyung’s hoodie, a cup of tea cooling between your hands. The day has barely started, but it already feels full. His confession still echoes in your chest.

Taehyung is in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, trying to convince the electric kettle to boil faster with a dramatic stare-down. It makes you smile.

Your phone buzzes. Once. Then again. Then again.

Group Chat: 🐻 You + Me + Chaos

[Jiminie 💋]
soooooooo 😏

[JK 🐰]
YOU AND HER OFFICIALLY??!

[Yoongi 🐱]
I told you this would get messy.

[Jin 🍲]
Wait wait WAIT—are we NOT doing the sharing thing anymore??

[Hobi 🌞]
congrats but uh… do we get a heads-up next time before tae throws a punch??

You blink. Then scroll up.

[RM 📚]
I’m fine. Thanks for the concern.

[Jiminie 💋]
you KISSED HER THOUGH 😭

[JK 🐰]
I should’ve kissed her first. Dammit.

[Jin 🍲]
So it’s war now??

You stare at the screen. War?

[Yoongi 🐱]
If he makes her cry again, we riot.

[Jiminie 💋]
✊ riot

[JK 🐰]
✊ riot

[RM 📚]
I’m not sorry.

[Taehyung 🐻]
Get out of this chat.

[JK 🐰]
bruh

[Yoongi 🐱]
He’s serious.

You look up as Taehyung returns with your tea and a frown. He clearly saw it too.

“Is it bad?” you ask.

“They were always going to say something.” His jaw tenses. “But I thought they’d wait a day.”

“They think it’s war?”

He scoffs. “It’s not war. It’s just—” He stops. His throat bobs. “I didn’t want them in our space anymore. But I didn’t know Namjoon would move that fast.”

You sip your tea. “Did you tell them we’re… together?”

“I told them I love you,” he says quietly. “I didn’t tell them what you said back. That’s only mine.”

Your cheeks burn. Your phone buzzes again.

[Jiminie 💋]
she can still answer my texts, right?? or is she yours forever now 😭

You laugh softly. Taehyung glares at the screen, snatches your phone, and dramatically sets it face down.

“Just us today,” he says. “Let the world wait.”

It was just coffee.

That’s what you told yourself as you walked beside Taehyung, the morning sun casting golden stripes across the pavement. But nothing about this felt just anything.

He wore a cap low and a mask high, but he still walked like a man used to attention. Every step was composed. Confident. And somehow, all of it aimed at you.

Your fingers brushed, once, then again.

“You can hold my hand,” he said under his breath. “If you want.”

You glanced around. There were no cameras in sight, no fans with phones out—at least not that you could see. Still, your stomach flipped.

“I want to,” you admitted. “But I’m scared.”

He tilted his head. “Of what?”

“The world. Your world.”

Taehyung didn’t respond immediately. He just reached over, gently took your hand, and threaded your fingers through his.

“We’re not running,” he murmured. “We’re walking. Just like anyone else.”

The coffee shop wasn’t even busy. A tucked-away rooftop lounge above a flower market, reserved for “special clients.” You’d never been here before—of course you hadn’t. It didn’t exist for people like you.

He pulled off his cap and glasses once you were inside, once the door locked behind you. The barista nodded politely and disappeared like a ghost.

You sat by the window, watching the city below.

“I feel like I’m cheating,” you whispered.

“On who?”

“On reality.”

He reached across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “This is reality. I’m not an idol right now. I’m just me. And you’re just mine.”

You looked away—because when he said things like that, it was too easy to believe it could be simple.

After coffee, you wandered the hidden rooftop garden. He pointed out plants he knew, took your photo next to a wall of ivy, and made you laugh so hard you had to lean on him to breathe.

He kissed your temple, so soft you almost missed it.

“Do you think the others are watching us?” you asked.

“Always.” He smirked. “Especially now.”

“Should I be worried?”

He stopped walking. Turned toward you.

“No,” he said. “Because you chose me. And I’m going to fight for you. Even if it’s against them.”

Taehyung

The apartment is too quiet when he walks in.

He expected at least some noise. The TV playing something dumb and comforting. Jimin’s laugh echoing from the kitchen. Jungkook singing in the shower. Jin yelling about spilled rice. Hoseok humming. Yoongi pretending not to listen. Namjoon reading on the couch.

Instead, they’re all there. Waiting.

Seven bodies in the living room, in different postures of avoidance and expectation.

Taehyung doesn’t take off his shoes.

He stands in the doorway, jaw tight, heart still burning with everything that happened.

Her kiss with Namjoon.

Her softness with Namjoon.

His hyung—his leader—stepping into a space Taehyung had kept sacred. That he had built, carefully, with trembling hands and blindfolds and trust and time. And they all knew. They’d all helped him build it.

He clenches his jaw.

“I thought we were family.”

Jungkook is the first to speak. Quiet. Defensive. “We are.”

“Then why did you go behind my back?” Taehyung’s voice cracks in the middle, anger splintering into something rawer.

Namjoon sighs, straightening from his seat. “Tae, I didn’t mean to hurt you. But this wasn’t just about you anymore.”

“You kissed her.”

“She kissed me back.”

Silence.

Jin tries to interject. “Look, none of us planned it like this—”

“Don’t,” Taehyung snaps. “Don’t pretend you weren’t all in on it. You sent him. All of you did. Behind my back.”

“You said it was casual,” Jimin murmurs.

“No,” Taehyung growls. “I said it was mine.”

“People aren’t possessions,” Namjoon says softly.

“She’s not a possession,” Taehyung breathes. “She’s the only thing I didn’t want to share. I’ve shared everything with you—my career, my time, my soul. Every single moment. I wanted this one thing just for me.”

“She chose you,” Yoongi says, voice calm.

“Then why did you all act like you had a chance?” Taehyung’s eyes shine. “Why couldn’t you let me have this without testing the edges of it? Without seeing if you could take it, too?”

Jungkook swallows. “Because we didn’t know you felt this way. You never said—”

“I was scared!” Taehyung snaps. “Scared that if I said it out loud, it would fall apart. Scared that if I claimed her too loudly, I’d lose all of you. Or worse… I’d lose her.”

Hoseok looks up. “Then what do you want now?”

Taehyung looks at them—each of them. Faces he’s loved like brothers. Friends. Partners. Family.

“I want her,” he says. “And I don’t want to share. Not her. Not anymore. Not even with you.”

Namjoon takes that like a hit. But he nods.

“Then you better be good to her,” he says. “Because if she cries again, you won’t have to deal with me. You’ll have to deal with all of us.”

There’s no threat in the words. Only truth.

Taehyung exhales slowly.

“Deal.”

He turns. Leaves the dorm behind.

And for the first time in a long time, he’s walking toward something he knows he wants—with no more blindfolds, no more games.

Just her.

Just them.

Only.

And deep in his heart, Taehyung knew that it was a lie.

Chapter Text

Jungkook

The studio lights hummed low overhead, casting long shadows on the scuffed floor. Jungkook sat on the edge of the couch, hoodie up, phone in one hand, the other absently tapping the beat of a song that hadn’t left his head in days.

He wasn’t dancing. He wasn’t singing. He was scrolling.

[JK 🐰]

I should’ve kissed her first. Dammit.

The group chat hadn’t seen action in a few hours. A miracle. The silence was almost as loud as the punch Taehyung had thrown.

Jungkook bit the inside of his cheek, thumb hovering over the send button, not because he didn’t know what to say—but because he knew exactly what he wanted to say. And that was the problem.

He tossed the phone aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

It was supposed to be simple. Taehyung had made it simple. She was the experiment. The escape. The secret no one talked about in daylight.

Except now it wasn’t simple.

Now he was sitting here, replaying the sound of her laugh, the soft arch of her neck when she tilted her head to listen, the way she looked at him—just him—that night when Taehyung left the room for water.

He remembered thinking: You see me, don’t you?

Not “us.” Not the group. Him.

He hadn’t brought it up since. Because it felt stupid. Because maybe she looked at everyone like that. Or maybe he was just another fantasy, another echo of the dream Taehyung had handed her with a blindfold and an open door.

Except now Namjoon had stepped into the fantasy. And kissed her. And Taehyung had lost it.

Jungkook exhaled, rubbing his palms together until the friction grounded him.

The others had all seen it coming—Jimin especially. Yoongi had warned them it would get messy. But what no one had said out loud, what none of them really wanted to admit was:

They’d all felt something.

And Jungkook… he wasn’t so good at pretending.

He looked up at the mirror across the room. His reflection stared back—tattoos, piercings, grown-out hair, shadows under his eyes.

Not a kid.

Not just their maknae.

Not anymore.

He didn’t want to hurt Taehyung. That wasn’t what this was about.

But she’d touched him too. Not just with her hands, but with her attention. Her softness.

Jungkook stood slowly, grabbed his phone again.

[JK 🐰]

You never asked what I want.

He didn’t hit send. Not yet.

But soon.

Because if this was a war—
He wasn’t afraid to fight.

It wasn’t supposed to be just the two of them.

The others had gone for food—Jin dragging Yoongi out for something spicy, Taehyung and Hobi arguing over whether sushi counted as “romantic.” Namjoon had claimed exhaustion, which Jungkook now understood as avoidance.

The suite was big, the room dim, the air silent except for a K-drama playing on mute in the background.

She was curled in the corner of the oversized couch, blanket wrapped around her legs. The silk blindfold stuck in place, but they weren’t strangers in the dark anymore.

“You’re quieter than I expected,” she said softly.

Jungkook laughed from the floor, legs stretched out in front of him. “People think I’m loud because I perform loud.”

“Taehyung’s loud. You’re…” She paused. “Still.”

Still. The word hit him in the chest.

She looked at him then, really looked, with those eyes that didn’t flinch or flatter. They just saw.

“I’m still because it’s safer,” he admitted, voice barely a whisper. “Sometimes I think if I move too fast, I’ll break something.”

Her brow creased, the kind of frown you gave someone when they’d said something you weren’t supposed to hear.

Jungkook laughed awkwardly. “Sorry. That was weird.”

“It wasn’t.”

She unfolded from the couch and sat next to him. Not too close. Not too far. Just enough.

“You don’t break things,” she said. “I bet you hold them together.”

Jungkook turned his head, and for one long moment, they just sat together.

He’d thought about kissing her. Right then. Right there. She wouldn’t have pulled away. She might’ve leaned in.

But he didn’t.

Because Taehyung.

Because the rules.

Because he didn’t know if he was allowed to want something for himself.

Instead, he said, “You’re warm.”

She blinked. “That’s the blanket.”

“No.” He gave her a soft, crooked smile that she couldn’t see. “It’s you.”

She looked down, her lips pressing together. But she didn’t move away.

And for the first time, he thought, I might be in trouble.

Because he didn’t want to end this.

He wanted more.

The kitchen was half-lit by the refrigerator’s glow, humming quietly as if it knew secrets it couldn’t share.

Jungkook stood barefoot, sipping water from a glass too cold for the way his hands were shaking. He hadn’t meant to be awake. He hadn’t meant to feel this much.

The tile creaked behind him.

“You okay?” Jimin’s voice was softer than the overhead light switch, which he didn’t reach for.

Jungkook didn’t turn. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Jimin padded in, hoodie falling off one shoulder, eyes tired but too alert. “You and half the group.”

There was silence again, but this kind was familiar. Comforting. The kind they shared on tour buses and backstage and after shows that drained everything but their bones.

Jimin opened the cabinet, grabbed a mug, and leaned against the counter. “So. You want to talk about it?”

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair. “What is there to say?”

Jimin’s gaze didn’t flinch. “You tell me.”

He hesitated. Then:

“It was supposed to be Taehyung’s thing,” Jungkook said. “The blindfold, the anonymity. We were just… helping.”

Jimin stayed quiet.

“But she—she wasn’t supposed to feel like this.” Jungkook’s knuckles whitened around his glass. “I see her. And she sees me.”

Jimin gave a slow nod. “I know.”

“I think I fell for her that night she called me soft.”

“You are soft.”

“I’m not.” His voice cracked. “Not when I’m onstage. Not when I’m alone. But with her, I wanted to be.”

Jimin placed his mug down gently. “And Tae?”

Jungkook finally turned to face him. “He doesn’t know what to do with it. With any of this. He thought she’d be a fantasy he could control. But she’s not.”

“She’s real.”

“She’s everything.” The words came out like a confession. “And I can’t unfeel it.”

They were quiet again.

Then Jimin asked, “If it came down to it… would you fight him for her?”

Jungkook looked at him—really looked—and saw a flicker of something unspoken in Jimin’s eyes too.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But I think I’m done pretending she wasn’t real to all of us.”

Jimin stepped forward and clinked his mug against Jungkook’s glass.

“To being honest,” he said.

“To whatever comes next,” Jungkook answered.

And in that moment, neither of them said it out loud, but they both knew:

Things were about to change.

It was late. Too late.

You hadn’t expected anyone, especially not him.

The knock was soft but insistent. When you opened the door, Jungkook stood there, hoodie up, face in shadow, hands in his pockets like he wasn’t sure if he should’ve come.

You blinked. “Jungkook?”

“I… walked here,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“Do you want to come in?”

He nodded.

You stepped aside.

Inside, it was quiet. You didn’t turn on more lights than necessary. The space felt intimate by accident — the kind of quiet that’s hard to carry when someone’s heart is heavy.

He stood in the center of your living room like he didn’t know where to sit. You watched him for a moment.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

You offered the couch, and he took it. He didn’t look at you right away, only glanced around like he was looking for answers in the corners of your apartment.

Finally, he broke the silence.

“I thought I could be quiet,” Jungkook said, his voice low. “I thought I could let Tae have this. That it wouldn’t hurt.”

You swallowed. Your fingers curled against your palm.

“But it did?” you asked.

He looked at you then — fully, truly.

“It does.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and bare.

“I wasn’t supposed to fall,” he admitted. “But you smiled at me that night. You whispered my name. And for a second, I thought… you saw me.”

“I did.”

He inhaled sharply.

“Then why didn’t you ever say anything?” he asked, leaning forward. “Why didn’t you reach out? Why him, why all of this — and not me?”

You shook your head, a lump forming in your throat. “Jungkook, I didn’t know. It wasn’t supposed to be real. You were all strangers… and then you weren’t.”

He laughed, short and pained. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

You sat down across from him.

“I don’t know what to say,” you whispered.

He looked at you with those endless, searching eyes.

“Just answer one thing.”

You nodded.

“Did you ever want me too?”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

You stared at him. At the soft curve of his mouth, the quiet ache in his voice, the tremble in his fingers that he tried so hard to hide.

And you said, truthfully—

“Yes.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

But before either of you could speak again, your phone buzzed loudly against the table.

You glanced down: a message from Taehyung.

He’s looking for you.

You looked back up. Jungkook had seen it. The name on the screen.

Something in him flinched.

But he nodded like he’d expected it.

“I just wanted to hear it once,” he said.

Then he stood and left you with treacherous thoughts.

The practice room was empty, but the air was thick with sweat and tension. Jungkook stood in front of the mirror, shirt clinging to his back, fists clenched at his sides.

He heard the door slam before he saw him.

Taehyung.

“You went to her,” Tae said, voice low, controlled in the way a storm might look calm from far away.

Jungkook didn’t turn.

“She needed someone.”

“So you decided it would be you?”

Jungkook finally faced him. “She wanted me there.”

Taehyung scoffed. “She was vulnerable. You took advantage.”

“You weren’t there!” Jungkook snapped. “You don’t get to act like the victim now.”

“I trusted you.”

That stopped Jungkook cold.

“I trusted you, Jungkook.”

The younger man’s jaw clenched. “You don’t trust me. You never have. You’ve always told me what to do. When to talk to her. When to stay quiet. When to back off.”

“You’re my friend—!”

“Friend?” Jungkook repeated, something sharp slicing through the word.

Taehyung faltered.

But Jungkook didn’t.

“After everything we’ve been through—after everything we’ve felt… and you still call me that?”

“What else would I call you?”

Jungkook stepped forward. “I don’t know. Something more honest.”

“I love her,” Taehyung hissed. “I’m trying to protect what we have.”

“You’re trying to own it.”

Taehyung’s fists curled. “I was the first to even knoe her.”

Jungkook’s voice dropped. “Maybe. But you weren’t the only one to love being with her.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other. Breathing hard. Hearts louder than their words.

“You don’t get to control this, Tae. Not her. Not me.”

Taehyung’s voice broke. “So what the hell do you want?”

Jungkook surged forward.

And kissed him.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was raw, desperate, years of confusion and closeness and unsaid things crashing into a single moment.

Taehyung stiffened—then kissed him back.

It was messy. Unstable. A grenade without a pin.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathing hard, Jungkook whispered:

“I was never just your friend.”

Taehyung’s eyes were wild. Confused. Wanting.

And something unspoken passed between them.

Because whatever this was—it had always been more.

Chapter Text

Jungkook

Jungkook doesn’t sleep.

He sits on the floor of his apartment, knees pulled up to his chest, phone untouched beside him. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t text. The message he sent Taehyung the night before—the only message—still sits unread. Delivered. Not seen.

There’s no way he can stay still.

He leaves before the sun rises.

[Stop 1: Jin’s Apartment]

The door opens after the third knock. Jin is wrapped in a robe, half-asleep and fully annoyed.

“Do you know where Taehyung is?”
Jungkook asks without preamble.

Jin rubs his eyes. “How would I know? I haven’t even had coffee.”

“He’s not answering me.”

Jin blinks. “Maybe he just needs space.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens. “Did he say anything to you before he left?”

“No. He didn’t say anything to anyone, Jungkook.” Jin pauses. “Did something happen?”

Jungkook’s silence answers that. He turns before Jin can ask more.

[Stop 2: Hoseok’s Studio]

The sound of muffled music leaks through the studio door.

Jungkook knocks once, then twice louder.

Hoseok opens up, face flushed from dancing, bottle of water in hand. “You okay?”

“Have you seen him?”

Hoseok doesn’t even need to ask who. “No. I thought he was with you.”

“He was. Then he wasn’t.”

Hoseok frowns. “He’ll turn up.”

“I’m not so sure,” Jungkook mutters. “He left.”

“You mean he walked out or—?”

“I mean… he’s gone, hyung. I checked his apartment. Clothes missing. Passport’s gone.”

That gets Hoseok’s attention. “He took his passport?”

Jungkook nods once.

Hoseok goes quiet.

[Stop 3: Yoongi’s Place]

Yoongi meets him at the door with a raised brow and a silent gesture to come inside.

“No. I’m not here for coffee. I just need to know if you’ve heard from him.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “Nothing since the punch.”

Jungkook flinches.

Yoongi adds, “I’ve been giving him space.”

“Too much space,” Jungkook says. “He’s not just laying low. He’s gone. He left.”

“You sure?”

“He packed. He ran. And he didn’t tell me why.”

Yoongi eyes him closely. “Did you give him a reason to run?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer.

[Stop 4: Jimin’s Apartment]

Jungkook stares at the closed door. He knocks. And waits.

The door opens. Jimin is already fully dressed. He looks like he hasn’t slept either.

Jungkook doesn’t ask the question this time.

Jimin steps aside. “He’s not here.”

“You sure?”

Jimin nods once. His expression is unreadable.

“Do you know anything?” Jungkook pushes.

Jimin hesitates. A beat too long. “I don’t.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes. “You’re lying.”

Jimin’s voice is quiet. “Even if I knew something, if Tae didn’t want me to say—”

“Why wouldn’t he want you to say?” Jungkook snaps. “Why would he tell you anything and not me?”

Jimin just looks at him. Then: “What happened, Jungkook?”

Jungkook opens his mouth—then closes it. He doesn’t explain. He doesn’t confess.

He leaves.

[Final Stop: Namjoon’s Apartment]

Namjoon doesn’t ask what Jungkook is doing there. He already knows.

“Nothing,” he says. “I haven’t heard from him either.”

Jungkook nods.

“I’m guessing you’ve been everywhere else?”

“Except her.”

Namjoon watches him. “Why not her?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “Because if he is with her, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

Namjoon doesn’t respond.

Jungkook turns to leave.

But Namjoon calls after him.

“Hey,” he says. “If you find him—tell him I’m not mad.”

Jungkook pauses, breath catching in his throat. “But I am.”

Jungkook walks through the city alone, the morning stretching long and painful. It wasn’t just that no one knew where Taehyung was. It was that no one seemed as broken about it as Jungkook

Eventually, with no other options left, he goes to you.

And finds out—you didn’t even know Taehyung was gone.

You

You’re humming when you open the door, still in pajamas, face bare, hair pulled up. You blink at Jungkook on your front step—hood up, cap low, dark circles shadowing his eyes.

“Hey,” you say, surprised. “You okay?”

He just looks at you.

“Come in?” you offer, stepping aside.

Jungkook walks in like the hallway weighs a thousand pounds. He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t look around.

You cross your arms. “What’s going on?”

He still doesn’t speak. Just stands there, fists tight at his sides.

“Jungkook.”

“I can’t find him.”

Your breath catches. “Who?”

“Taehyung,” he says, and his voice cracks. “He’s gone.”

You shake your head. “No. That’s—he has plans. With me. Tomorrow night.”

“He’s not going to make it.”

“Did you fight?” you ask, too fast, too sharp. “What happened?”

Jungkook flinches, and that’s your answer.

You walk over to the kitchen counter and pick up your phone.

You call. Voicemail.

Again. Voicemail.

Your third try is a text.

Where are you? Please call me. Are you okay?

You stare at the phone in your hand like it betrayed you.

Then, quietly: “I thought he was happy.”

“I think he was,” Jungkook whispers.

Your throat tightens. “Then why would he leave?”

“I don’t know,” he says, barely audible. “But I’ve looked everywhere. Jin. Yoongi. Hobi. RM. Jimin…”

“Jimin?” you ask. “What did he say?”

Jungkook hesitates. “Not much.”

You don’t miss that. But right now, it’s not important.

You sink onto the couch, numb.

Jungkook finally sits across from you, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Minutes pass. Quiet minutes full of things neither of you knows how to say.

Then softly: “I don’t know how to do this,” you whisper.

He looks up.

“I don’t know how to be someone he could leave.”

Jungkook’s eyes shine, but he doesn’t cry. “You weren’t the only one he left.”

You stare at him. He stares at the floor.

And for the first time, you realize: it wasn’t just you Taehyung walked away from.

He walked away from all of you.

Jimin

Jimin found Namjoon in the studio, hood up, headphones snug over his ears. He hovered outside the glass door for a long moment before mustering the courage to knock. When Namjoon didn’t react, he opened the door quietly and stepped inside.

Namjoon glanced up once, barely a flicker of acknowledgment, then turned back to his screen.

“Hey,” Jimin said softly.

No answer.

Jimin walked in further, heart pounding. “I just wanted to check in. You’ve been… avoiding everyone.”

Namjoon didn’t look at him. “Been working.”

“Is that all this is?” Jimin asked, voice thin. “Work?”

Namjoon’s fingers paused on the keyboard. “What do you want, Jimin?”

The words hit like ice.

“I just…” Jimin hesitated, unsure how to say I miss you without sounding desperate. “I didn’t want us to fall apart. After everything with Taehyung.”

At the mention of the name, Namjoon stood. His chair scraped sharply against the floor. “Don’t.”

“Namjoon—”

“Don’t come in here pretending everything’s fine.” His voice was low, tight. “You all made your choices.”

Jimin swallowed hard. “You kissed her.”

Namjoon’s jaw clenched. “Yeah. And Taehyung punched me for it.”

“It wasn’t just about the kiss,” Jimin said, trying to keep calm. “It was everything. All of us… we let it get messy.”

“You mean you let it get messy,” Namjoon snapped. “You all jumped into bed with his girl like it wouldn’t mean anything. But it did. It always did.”

Jimin looked down. “I know.”

Silence stretched between them. Thick. Stubborn.

Namjoon sat again, pulling his headphones back on.

Jimin hovered, helpless. “We’re still family. I don’t want this to break us.”

Namjoon didn’t look up.

Jimin opened his mouth, then closed it. Finally, he turned to leave.

Just before the door closed behind him, Namjoon spoke, barely audible:

“Too late.”

You

You’re glad that Taehyung’s ID still works as you enter HYBE like you belong there.

You find Yoongi exactly where you expect him: in the corner of Big Hits quietest lounge, laptop open, headphones on, a cup of half-drunk coffee going cold beside him.

You hover for a second. He glances up.

“Hey,” you say.

He pulls the headphones off one ear. “You okay?”

You sit across from him without answering.

“I haven’t heard from him either,” Yoongi says quietly, reading your face like a headline. “I’d tell you if I had.”

You nod, swallowing the knot in your throat. “I figured. I just—needed to ask. Out loud.”

Yoongi leans back, sighs. “He’ll come back.”

“I hope you’re right.”

Silence stretches between you for a beat too long.

Then you look up. “Can I ask you something else?”

His brow lifts.

“Are you free tonight?”

Yoongi tilts his head. “Depends. Why?”

“I want to take you somewhere,” you say. “It’s… something I planned a while ago. For Tae.”

A flicker of emotion crosses his face. Not pity. Something softer.

“Is it dinner?”

“No.”

“Do I need to wear black?”

“Just look nice.”

Yoongi snorts. “You want me to wear a suit?”

“I want you to say yes.”

He studies you. Then closes his laptop.

“Pick me up at seven.”

You smile. “Thank you.”

He nods, but before you leave, his voice follows you:

“Hey. For what it’s worth… he really does love you.”

Your heart aches.

You don’t answer, because you don’t know of you still believe in Kim Taehyung’s love.

Yoongi steps out of the car, eyes scanning the venue. It’s elegant—arched entrances, glowing lights, the soft hush of an evening crowd dressed in their best.

He straightens his jacket and looks at you with mild suspicion. “This isn’t dinner.”

“Nope,” you say, hiding your grin. “Come on.”

Inside, Yoongi seems quietly intrigued. He doesn’t ask questions, just watches you, watches the crowd, notes the way you keep steering him away from posted programs and signs.

“Do I get to know what this is?” he finally asks as the lights dim.

“In a minute,” you whisper, tugging him into your box seats.

The orchestra files in. Yoongi leans forward slightly, curious.

Then the conductor lifts his baton.

And the first few notes play—notes Yoongi knows. Chords he wrote. Melodies once built in a tiny studio, now swelling through a velvet-draped concert hall.

His breath catches.

You glance at him.

He’s frozen.

The orchestra launches into a sweeping instrumental version of “Spring Day,” re-arranged for strings and wind. It’s breathtaking—gentle and aching and vast.

Yoongi turns to you, eyes wide. “What is this?”

Your voice is soft. “A symphony of BTS. Arranged for orchestra. You’ve inspired more than just fans, Yoongi. This… this is what I wanted to show Taehyung. But he’s not here. So I brought you.”

He stares at you like you’ve cracked something open inside him. Then back at the stage. His hand is clenched against his thigh.

When “Interlude: Shadow” begins with a haunting cello line, Yoongi’s eyes go glossy. You pretend not to notice.

You don’t touch him. You just sit beside him in the dark as his own music washes over him in a way he’s never heard before—honored, elevated, eternal.

Halfway through “Magic Shop,” he leans toward you and murmurs:

“Thank you.”

You smile. “You deserve it.”

Yoongi doesn’t speak again until the lights come up. When they do, he just stands, hands in his pockets, and exhales like he hasn’t breathed in years.

You’re back at your place with Yoongi. Takeout containers are spread across your coffee table—kimchi pancakes, japchae, mandu. You sit side by side on the floor, backs against the couch, a blanket tucked over both of your legs.

The room glows soft from the TV. Revenged Love plays on screen, dramatic violins swelling as the main couple argues for the fifteenth time this episode.

Yoongi finishes chewing a bite of dumpling. “Why do they keep yelling but never actually leave each other?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Because it’s true love, Yoongi. And chaos.”

He huffs out a laugh.

You settle back against the couch, quiet for a beat.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

You hesitate. “Do you think Taehyung was… happy?”

Yoongi turns toward you, something flickering across his face. “You mean… before he left?”

You nod slowly. “I keep thinking maybe I missed something. Maybe I was so happy, I didn’t see how not-okay he was.”

Yoongi is quiet for a long time.

“I don’t think he left because of you,” he says carefully. “I think he left because of everything.”

You rest your head on your hand. “What is everything, Yoongi?! He used to say that I was everything. Then why didn’t he say goodbye to me? Or to Jungkook?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer.

You pause the show. The screen freezes mid-tearful stare-down. “Something is off with Jungkook. He was weird when he came to see me. He was searching for Taehyung before I even knee that my boyfriend was missing.”

That catches Yoongi’s attention. “What do you mean?”

“Jungkook searched for Taehyung like he was the boyfriend and I was just a friend.”

You look at Yoongi. “Can we go see him?”

“Him?”

“Jungkook,” you explain. “I need to talk to Jungkook.”

Jungkook opens the door slowly. His eyes are swollen, rimmed red. He’s wearing an oversized shirt, sleeves pulled over his hands.

You don’t even greet him—you just walk inside, Yoongi right behind you.

He stands in the living room, looking like he’s been awake for days.

“I knew he’d leave,” Jungkook says softly. “I didn’t know it would be like this.”

You sit. “What happened?”

He doesn’t look at you. “The night he left, I kissed him.”

Silence.

Yoongi stands, moving toward the door. “I’ll give you two some time.”

He pauses on his way out, gives you a look that’s half sympathy, half permission.

And then he’s gone, leaving you with chaotic emotions, the main being anger.

You look at Jungkook with a frown, “you kissed my boyfriend?!”

Jungkook clenches his fists. “I kissed him. And he kissed me back. And then he was gone.”

Your breath catches. “Wait… Taehyung kissed you back?”

Jungkook nods, eyes full of guilt and confusion. “He kissed me like it meant something. Then he ran.”

You can’t speak.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” Jungkook says, voice cracking. “I just… I couldn’t take it anymore. Watching him with you. Wondering if it was just me. I’ve loved him for a long time.”

You stare, stunned. “Why didn’t he say anything?”

“Because he’s scared,” Jungkook whispers. “He’s scared of what it means if he loves both of us.”

You loudly inhale in shock. What does Jungkook mean by “he loves us both?” Who the hell is us?

You sit there, heart aching, realizing for the first time just how complicated this has all become.

“Jungkook… are you in love with Taehyung?” You ask a clear question.

“Yes,” is Jungkook’s clear answer.

Your heart breaks in two.

You close the door behind you, Jungkook’s voice still echoing in your chest. The night air is cool against your skin as you step onto the quiet porch. Yoongi is waiting—arms crossed, leaning against the railing, eyes on the street like he’s trying to solve a puzzle he can’t quite see.

He glances back when he hears the door.

“What did Jungkook tell you?” he asks softly.

You nod. “He loves him.”

Yoongi doesn’t look surprised. Just tired. Sad. “Taehyung ran because he feels too much.”
“He ran because he cheated on me!” You tell Yoongi. “After everything, after the punch, Taehyung’s love is not just for me.”

You walk up beside him, folding your arms to mirror his stance. “It wasn’t just me he left.”

“No,” he agrees. “But it still feels like it.”

“It feels worse,” you tell him..

You turn your head, studying Yoongi’s profile. The streetlight washes him in soft amber. His jaw is tense, but his shoulders have lowered from where they’d been all evening—like finally, he isn’t carrying someone else’s silence.

“I’m angry at him,” you admit. “And scared. And hurt.”

Yoongi finally looks at you. “Me too.”

You let out a breath. “Everything’s changed.”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You reach out, your fingers brushing the hem of his sleeve. “But you didn’t run.”

That startles something in his eyes. He looks at your hand, then your face, and when he speaks, his voice is lower than before. “Neither did you.”

And then—you lean in.

And Yoongi meets you halfway.

The kiss is soft. Steady. The kind of kiss that’s not about forgetting someone else, but remembering who’s still here.

He pulls back only slightly, enough to press his forehead to yours.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“No,” you whisper. “But I want this moment. Just this.”

Yoongi lets out a breath. It’s not quite a yes—but he doesn’t move away.

And for now, neither do you.

Namjoon

The studio is nearly silent, save for the low hum of machines and the occasional creak of his chair. Namjoon stares at the waveform on his screen, but he hasn’t touched the keyboard in minutes.

His thoughts are too loud.

It wasn’t until Jungkook’s voice cracked tonight—until he looked at him, confused and betrayed—that the memory started clawing back.

A sliver of a sound.

A voice he knew like his own heartbeat.

Taehyung.

Namjoon exhales and rolls back in his chair, pulling his hood off. He rubs his face, trying to shake it loose. But it’s there now, vivid.

He’d been coming back from the restroom that night—just after midnight, if he remembers right. He’d paused outside Jimin’s room because he heard something muffled, playing quietly through speakers or a phone.

Taehyung’s voice.

“This message is for all of you… and for my girlfriend. Please don’t stop until it’s over.”

Namjoon had stopped in his tracks.

He’d only caught a few seconds. But the tone… the finality in his voice…

And then Jimin’s door clicked shut. Locked.

Namjoon hadn’t asked. Not that night. Not the next.

And now? Now he knows.

Jimin has a voicemail where Taehyung explains himself.

RM’s fists tighten on the arms of his chair. Not from rage—yet. But the weight of secrecy settles deep in his chest, acidic and heavy.

He thought Taehyung had vanished. That he’d said nothing.

But he did say something. Jimin just didn’t share it. It was as if Park Jimin was burying the truth.

What else have they buried for each other?

Namjoon closes his eyes, jaw tight.

Jimin wants Namjoon to keep his mouth shut but the younger man doesn’t seem guilty or shamed for keeping Taehyung’s final message to himself.

Jimin seemed sure that he was in the right. Jimin acted like he was protecting Taehyung , but from what?

How long had Jimin been protecting Taehyung from us? Namjoon asks himself with a shake of his head.

This changes everything.

Chapter Text

You wake up with Yoongi’s arm draped over your waist.

You’re fully dressed — the same clothes you wore last night, rumpled now, but untouched beneath. The blanket’s tangled at your feet, a quiet witness to how late the conversation stretched. You don’t know when you fell asleep. Just that Yoongi was there, close. And still is.

He stirs beside you.

You don’t speak for a long while.

Finally:

“You sleep okay?” he asks, voice husky.

You nod. “You?”

“I dreamed about that cello solo.”

You smile faintly. “Good dream?”

He looks over at you. “Better than most.”

You shift to face him. It’s still quiet. Intimate. But something’s changed. The comfort is no longer laced with fear or guilt. Just clarity.

“I don’t want to pretend this doesn’t matter,” you say softly.

Yoongi watches you, unreadable. “I know it matters. That’s the problem.”

Your chest tightens. “Are you scared?”

“Only of hurting you.”

You nod, understanding. “I’m scared too.”

And then, because there’s nothing else to say — because you said so much last night — you lean in and kiss him.

Just once. Steady. Warm.

When you part, you whisper: “Go. Before anyone sees you.”

Yoongi chuckles dryly. “Who is anyone?”

You sigh and roll your eyes. Yoongi just laughs.

Yoongi is tugging on his jacket when the knock comes.

Three sharp taps — impatient.

You glance at each other, frozen. Yoongi steps toward the door and opens it halfway.

Hoseok stands there, holding a paper bag and two coffee cups.

He sees Yoongi.

Then his eyes flick past him to you, still sitting on the couch.

A beat.

Yoongi clears his throat. “She’s awake.”

Hoseok doesn’t respond. He just stares, the silence saying everything.

Yoongi nods — half apology, half warning — and steps past him without another word.

You walk slowly to the door, heartbeat kicking harder.

Hoseok is still standing there, arm extended with the bag. You take it carefully.

“I brought you breakfast,” he says, too evenly.

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to come in?”

“Do I want to?” Hoseok asks, finally stepping inside. “Or do I want to know what’s going on?”

You freeze. His voice is calm. But his eyes burn.

And this is only the beginning.

The door clicks shut behind him.

You set the bag of food on the counter, trying to stall. “You didn’t have to bring breakfast.”

“I know,” Hoseok says, eyes still fixed on you. “But I did.”

You nod. The silence stretches.

He walks in slowly, gaze sweeping the room like it might explain something. “Was this always for him?”

“What?”

“The symphony,” he says. “The tickets. The surprise. The whole damn night.”

You blink. “I—”

“You took Yoongi,” he says, voice tighter now. “You didn’t even ask me.”

You stare at him, stunned. “Hoseok, I didn’t know you wanted—”

“I wrote some of BTS’ music too,” he says, stepping closer. “So why didn’t you think of me?”

You don’t answer right away. You didn’t know. You never knew it mattered to him.

He’s right in front of you now. Close enough that you can feel how tense he is.

“I’ve always been the bright one,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “The one who dances, who jokes, who stays smiling even when it’s hard. No one ever sees what I don’t say.”

“Hoseok…”

“But Yoongi—he broods and people ask what’s wrong. He disappears for weeks and gets chased.”

You reach out, lightly touching his wrist. “You’re not a second choice.”

He looks down at your hand.

Then grabs your face and kisses you.

It’s sudden. Hot. Desperate.

You gasp, hands pressing against his chest — not quite pushing him away, not quite pulling him closer.

But then—movement.

You both turn.

Jungkook is standing in the doorway.

His mouth opens—then shuts.

He stares for a moment too long.

And then walks away without a word.

The door doesn’t slam.

It closes softly.

And somehow, that hurts more.

Your fingers linger at your lips, stunned by the heat of Hoseok’s kiss — and even more so by the sight of Jungkook turning away, silent, broken-eyed.

You take a shaky breath. “Hoseok…”

He doesn’t move at first. Just stares at the door Jungkook left through like it might swing back open and undo everything.

Then—he steps back. Runs both hands through his hair.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Shit, I didn’t mean—”

“You kissed me.”

He turns to you, face pained. “I’m sorry. I was angry. And jealous. But not at you.”

You hold his gaze. “Then who?”

He doesn’t say it.

He doesn’t need to.

You already know.

Hoseok’s breathing stutters. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, softer now, like the words are barely holding him together. “This isn’t fair to you.”

You nod once. Still stunned. Still trying to find your voice.

“I have to go,” he says suddenly, backing toward the door. “I have to fix this.”

Hoseok’s out before you can stop him — chasing after Jungkook with nothing but guilt and hope and a heart full of regrets.

And you?

You’re left standing in the quiet.

Alone again.

Wondering how long until the next man walks away.

Jungkook

Jungkook doesn’t go far.

He’s leaning against the back wall of the building, hoodie up, arms crossed over his chest like he’s holding himself together by force. The moment he hears the door swing open behind him, he knows who it is.

He doesn’t turn around.

“Jungkook,” Hoseok calls, breathless.

No answer.

“I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean to kiss her?” Jungkook says without looking at him. “Or you didn’t mean for me to see?”

Hoseok flinches at the bite in his voice. “I was mad. About the symphony. About Yoongi. About everything.”

“You were mad so you kissed her?” Jungkook laughs bitterly. “Real mature.”

Hoseok walks closer. “I wasn’t thinking. You know me, Kook. I act when I feel too much.”

“I know,” Jungkook snaps, finally facing him. “I know exactly how you are. That’s the problem.”

Hoseok’s face falls.

“Hoseok,” says Jungkook. “I am not your boyfriend. We have never had any sort of conversation about us in that way.”

“When I saw you my heart dropped. I felt guilty like I was caught with my hand in the cookie jar.”

“A gorgeous cookie jar,” says Jungkook, unwilling to deny that they were dealing with a woman they all thought was gorgeous.

“Would you have told me?” Jungkook asks. “Or were you just going to keep letting me think it was me and you against all this—against the chaos?”

“It isme and you.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “You kissed her.”

“I know.” Hoseok steps forward again, voice desperate. “But I chose you.”

“Chose me over her?” Jungkook asks. “There’s no choice. No competition between me and Taehyung’s girlfriend. If there was one, she would obviously win.”

“I made a mistake!” Hobi’s voice cracks. “I let jealousy get the best of me. But I love you, Jungkook. That hasn’t changed.”

Jungkook looks at him, really looks at him, and his own anger fades just slightly—enough for the sadness to rise.

“Do you hear yourself? You were jealous? Jealous of her! That’s why you kissed her.”

Hoseok has no argument. They both knew that Jungkook is right.

The silence between them stretches.

Jungkook doesn’t move.

Finally—he says quietly, “It hurts.”

“I know,” Hobi whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Hoseok takes another step forward, closer now, not touching, but near enough that Jungkook can feel the heat of him.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Hoseok murmurs. “To fix this. To fix us.”

Jungkook’s eyes drop to the ground. His hands are fists in his pockets.

“Is there an us?”

“You know there is,” says Hoseok. “We’ve been running but something about her really opened our eyes. You kissed Taehyung and I kissed her.”

“You, Namjoon and Suga,” recounts Jungkook.

“What can I do?” Hoseok asks.

Hoseok spoke, barely above a whisper: “Start by not kissing others, man or woman, when you’re angry.”

A pause.

“Deal,” Hobi says, and this time, he doesn’t try to close the distance. He just stands there. Waiting.

Jungkook doesn’t forgive him—not yet. But he doesn’t walk away either.

And maybe that’s a beginning.

Jimin

Jimin barely has time to set his phone down before the door swings open.

Namjoon walks in like he owns the room—like he’s held this confrontation in his chest for so long, it’s finally cracked through.

Jimin stands, caught off guard. “Hyung?”

Namjoon doesn’t waste time. “Play it.”

Jimin’s spine stiffens. “What?”

“The voicemail,” Namjoon says, voice hard. “The one Taehyung left. The one you’ve been hiding.”

Jimin opens his mouth, then closes it again. “Who told you?”

“No one. I heard it,” Namjoon says, stepping further inside. “Or part of it. That night. You locked your door so fast I didn’t even know what I’d heard—but I do now.”

“Namjoon—”

“You’ve been sitting on the one piece of truth we might’ve gotten from him. And you didn’t share it.”

“I was trying to protect everyone.”

“No, Jimin,” Namjoon snaps. “You were protecting Taehyung.”

The silence in the room goes taut.

Jimin lowers his head. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me,” Namjoon says, quieter now. “Help me understand why the hell we’ve all been tearing ourselves apart over what happened—and you’ve had the answers this whole time.”

“I didn’t have answers,” Jimin says, finally raising his voice. “I had his goodbye. And I couldn’t bear to let go of it. Because if I shared it, it wouldn’t be mine anymore.”

Namjoon’s eyes soften, just barely. “You still should’ve told us.”

Jimin exhales shakily. “You don’t get it. He said goodbye to everyone. But not to me. Not really. He gave me the message to hold.”

“That message belongs to all of us,” Namjoon says. “Even her. Especially her.”

Jimin closes his eyes.

Namjoon steps forward. “You owe it to him. You owe it to us. To stop grieving him in silence and let us grieve him together.”

Jimin nods slowly. “Okay.”

He picks up his phone. Hands trembling.

“I’ll play it.”

Namjoon doesn’t say thank you. He just sits down beside Jimin and waits.

And this time—everyone will hear it.

The living room is too full for comfort.

Jungkook is pacing. Jin leans against the wall, arms crossed. Hoseok and Yoongi sit on opposite ends of the couch, tension stretching like thread between them. You sit on the floor, knees pulled up, waiting.

Namjoon stands in the center, voice low but firm.

“Jimin has something to play for all of us.”

Everyone turns.

Jimin, already pale, looks like he’s being led to execution. He doesn’t meet anyone’s gaze as he pulls out his phone.

“I didn’t mean to hide it forever,” he says. “I just… I couldn’t let go.”

“Let go of what?” Jin snaps. “The truth?”

Jimin winces. “He left it with me.”

“He left all of us,” Jungkook says coldly. “You were just the one who helped him do it.”

“Enough,” Namjoon says, cutting across the rising noise.

The room stills.

Jimin’s thumb hovers over the play button. His voice is soft:

“This was recorded the night he left.”

He presses play.

Taehyung’s voice crackles into the room. Tired, sad, but steady.

“Hey, Jimin… I’m sorry to do this to you, but I’m leaving.
This message is for all of you… and for my girlfriend.
I need you to listen. Please don’t stop until it’s over.”

A breath. A long pause.

“I don’t know how to be everything to everyone anymore.
I tried. God, I tried.
But I’ve been splitting myself into pieces, and I’m starting to disappear.”

Silence grips the room.

“Jin—stop trying to be the dad. You deserve to be selfish sometimes.
Hobi—you don’t have to be happy for the rest of us.
Yoongi… you’re allowed to love people, not just protect them.
Namjoon—stop carrying the weight alone.
Jimin—thank you. For always being the one who noticed when I couldn’t breathe.

The silence that follows is deafening.

He doesn’t say anything.

Then:

“…And to you, my girlfriend. I never planned to fall in love with you.
But you gave me peace in a way nothing else ever did.
You made me feel like I could stay. But I can’t. Not right now.
I love you. Please wait for me.”

Click.

The audio ends.

The room stays silent for a beat too long.

Then:

“He didn’t say anything to me,” Jungkook whispers.

Everyone turns.

Jungkook’s fists are clenched, his chest heaving. “He left me out. He told everyone something. But not me.”

You stare down at your hands, Taehyung’s words still ringing in your ears.

“I can’t believe he said nothing,” Jin mutters.

“I can’t believe he left,” Yoongi adds.

Hoseok stands abruptly. “How long have you had that, Jimin?”

Jimin doesn’t answer.

“How long?” Hoseok barks.

“A month,” Jimin says, barely audible.

Yoongi’s eyes narrow. “You kept that from all of us for a month?”

“I was trying to protect what little of him I had left!”

“Bullshit,” Jungkook explodes. “You were protecting yourself. You wanted to be the one he trusted. The one he left something with.”

“That’s not fair—”

“You think any of this is fair?!”

Namjoon steps between them, palms raised. “Enough. We’re not going to break just because he did.”

“We already have,” Jungkook mutters, storming out the door.

The room falls quiet again.

Jimin’s phone is still in his hand.

And the weight of Taehyung’s voice lingers in every corner.

The second the door clicks behind you, Yoongi’s hands are on you.

“You,” he growls, voice low and edged with something feral. “You shouldn’t have looked at me like that.”

You hadn’t expected it to go this far. It was just a visit, a check-in while Taehyung, your boyfriend, is out of town...Or whatever he was. Just the two of you, sitting too close, knees brushing like they didn’t mean to. You should’ve walked away when Yoongi’s eyes lingered too long, when your laugh tilted too low in your throat.

But you didn’t.

Now you’re pressed against the wall of your apartment, your keys still in your hand, his mouth crashing into yours like he’s trying to erase every line of decency you’ve drawn.

It’s not supposed to feel like this. You’re not supposed to want this.

But after Taehyung’s goodbye note where you were listed along with his members. He said goodbye as if you weren’t special. As if calling you his girlfriend meant absolutely nothing.

Yoongi’s hands find your waist and slide under your shirt. His mouth moves down your jaw, hot and open. Your back arches off the wall, chasing him, your fingers digging into his shoulders like they don’t belong anywhere else.

“Living room,” he murmurs against your skin, and you stumble backward, tugging him with you.

You don’t make it to the couch. Halfway there, Yoongi grips your thighs and lifts you like you weigh nothing. You crash into the cushions, breathless and wanting, legs tangled, heart pounding. He strips his jacket off, eyes locked to yours like a dare. You respond by grabbing the hem of your own shirt and pulling it over your head.

Yoongi stares. Like he’s seeing you for the first time. Like he can’t believe you’re letting this happen.

“You tell me to stop,” he says, voice raw. “And I will.”

But you don’t. You climb off him and slide to your knees before him. His eyes go intense as you put his cock in your mouth.

“There you go,” Yoongi whispers to you, his voice rough. “Suck it slow and easy. Just like I’m going to fuck you.”

You suck on Yoongi’s flesh, a soft moan breaking from your throat as his fingers tighten in your hair.

“Beautiful,” he growls and yoj shudder as he speaks to you, he notices. “Do you like my words, baby?”

You tremble again, so the answer must be yes.

“You’re so pretty, baby, your mouth wrapped around my cock, sucking me.” Yoongi says and you moan. Yoongi’s hands go to your breasts, his fingers pluck at your nipples. And Yoongi keeps on talking, his voice driving you crazy. His words turning you on.

“What are you going to do when I come in your mouth, baby?” he asks me. “Do you think it’s going to be over? Do you think you’ll just walk away like it didn’t happen? Of course not, Jagiya. I’m going to fuck you.”

You moan at his words. You caress the bulging head of his cock with your tongue. You torture him as his words spur you on. Your lips stretch around him, your eyes close, your expression’s dazed as you give Yoongi the world’s best blowjob.

“Suck it harder, baby,” Yoongi whispers and your do just that as he fucks your mouth. Your hands grip Yoongi’s cock as you moan around his flesh. I lick Yoongi, sucking as he gently fucks your mouth. His cock throbs and tightens

“I’m going to come, baby.”

Yoongi’s hips arch, his cock presses to your throat as his release washes over him.

“Take it all,” Yoongi whispers breathlessly as you swallow, your tongue dancing over the exploding tip as he shoots into your mouth.

“Bad girl,” he accuses you, softly, when we’re done. You wipe my mouth as Yoongi pulls your to your feet, throwing you over his lap, he pulls my your up and says, “my turn.”

And then Min Yoongi fucks you on your couch and your heart won’t ever be the same again. It will never be yours, because it’s all his.

The kiss on the couch is all teeth and tongue. The second is slower, more dangerous. He groans into your mouth, and you feel it all the way through you.

By the time you’re both down to bare skin, the air feels thick with something you can’t name—lust, betrayal, desperation, maybe all of it. You don’t stop to think. You only feel—his hands, his breath, his mouth at your throat, the stretch of your spine as he pushes inside your world like he’s been waiting forever to do it.

He mounts you, pushing his cock deep inside. You want to scream but you hold it in as he flips you over and watches you ride him for all he’s worth. Your nails dig into the couch cushions. You gasp his name and you know he loves it.

Pulling you to your feet, Yoongi pulls you into your bedroom and drops you on to your bed. You reach for him again.

The kiss deepens quickly. Weeks of hesitation and unsaid things folding into every movement. It’s not rushed, but it’s not slow either. It’s urgent, full of grief and need and permission. You’ve both been orbiting this moment for far too long.

You’re tangled in each other on the bed, fully clothed one minute, and then not. Every brush of skin is grounding, every sound shared like a secret. Yoongi holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish—like this might be the first and last real thing he gets to keep.

And then—

The front door opens.

You don’t hear it at first. You’re too wrapped in each other, the sound of your breathing louder than the world outside.

But Yoongi hears the sharp inhale. The faltering step.

His body stills instantly.

Your eyes snap open. And you see him.

Taehyung.

Standing in the doorway of your bedroom.

A duffel bag slung over one shoulder. His clothes rumpled. His face unreadable.

You sit up, blanket tugged around you.

Yoongi shifts beside you, jaw clenched.

Taehyung says nothing.

His eyes lock with yours.

And then—he turns around.

And walks away.

Chapter Text

Taehyung

I didn’t disappear because of her.

I disappeared because of him.

It started the night Jungkook kissed me. Or maybe it started long before that—the slow drip of something unspoken building between us, impossible to name without ruining everything. He looked at me like I was his answer. And I didn’t know how to say I was still full of questions.

So I ran.

No message. No confrontation. Just a plane ticket and a silence long enough to drown in.

I didn’t throw my phone into a river. I turned it off and shoved the SIM card between the floorboards of a creaky guesthouse on Jeju Island. A place where no one called me “idol” or “hyung” or anything that required me to be more than a man trying to breathe.

At first, the quiet hurt.

Then it felt like a balm.

I read poetry I used to love before the fame. I played guitar until my fingers ached. I watched the tide roll in and out like it knew something I didn’t.

And when I finally stopped dreaming in noise, I started dreaming of her.

Of her laugh, low and real. Her apartment, dim and warm. Her arms—quiet places I hadn’t earned.

I didn’t text. I didn’t call.

I just came back.

The train into Seoul was loud in a way I’d forgotten—people pressed too close, lights too bright. I should’ve been overwhelmed. But I felt calm. Purposeful. Like I’d finally decided where I wanted to be.

When I got to her door, my heart stuttered. But there it was—the spare key, tucked behind the planter, exactly where she told me it would be. That one day, months ago, she whispered, “If you ever need to come in and I’m not home…”

I slid the key into the lock.

And stepped inside.

Her apartment smelled like the same vanilla candle she always forgot to blow out. The lights were low. Familiar. Lived in.
I smiled.

Home.

But then—I saw them.

A pair of sneakers at the door.

Not hers.

Not mine.

Men’s, black and worn.

My chest went tight.

No. Not him.

I stepped further inside, slower now. Cautious.

And that’s when I heard it.

A sound I know too well.
Not a voice—yours.
Not a groan—his.

But both.

The unmistakable rhythm of bodies moving in sync. The kind of intimacy I wanted for myself.
The kind of passion I never let myself imagine too clearly because it felt too dangerous.
Because it was always too soon.

But now—too late.

I stood in the hallway, frozen. Listening.
Every second confirming what I couldn’t bear to see.

You.
And Yoongi.
Together.

The bed creaked. Someone moaned. Your voice.

I wanted to move. Wanted to storm out, to say something, to collapse.
But I couldn’t do anything but stand there.

In the space that used to be ours.

Watching you give someone else what I was too afraid to ask for.

And hating that you sounded so happy.

So safe.

Like you hadn’t waited for me.

Like you shouldn’t have.

I left before the walls could echo my breath. Before your voice could ruin me further.

The door closed softly behind me.

And I walked back into the night, carrying a heartbreak I’d earned.

I push open the glass door to the studio lounge, unsure if I’m early or late, but immediately met with laughter. It’s quiet, soft—like the kind that lives in memory. I round the corner and see them.

Jimin and Hoseok.

Curled up on the couch, an open container of tteokbokki between them, chopsticks clinking gently as they eat and talk like the world outside has finally slowed.

Jimin looks up first.

His face lights up. “Oh—hey!”

I smile, the tension in my shoulders loosening. “Hey.”

He’s already standing, bounding toward me with arms out. “You’re here.”

I let myself be pulled into the hug. Jimin always hugs like he means it—warm, lingering, grounding.

“I missed you,” he murmurs against my shoulder. “It’s been chaos.”

“Tell me about it,” I say softly.

Over Jimin’s shoulder, my eyes find Hoseok.

He’s still seated. Still chewing. Still watching.

The joy on his face doesn’t match Jimin’s.

I pull back and offer him a tentative smile. “Hi, Hobi.”

He nods once. “Hey.”

His voice is neutral. Not cold—but careful. Like he’s weighing what to say. What not to.

Jimin glances between us, reading the shift in the air, and steps in like a bridge. “We were just talking about maybe going up to the mountains next weekend. Getting away from Seoul for a bit.”

“That sounds nice,” I say, gently.

“It’s been a lot lately,” Jimin adds, catching Hoseok’s hand again as he sits. “We needed the quiet.”

Hoseok doesn’t let go of Jimin’s hand, but he still won’t meet my eyes. “Some things are louder than others.”

My breath catches, but I nod. I deserve that.

“I didn’t come to fight,” I say carefully. “I came to see Jimin. To see both of you, actually.”

“Why?” Hoseok asks suddenly. “Guilt? Or closure?”

“Hobi,” Jimin says gently.

I meet Hoseok’s gaze now, not flinching. “Because I still care about both of you. Even if things are different.”

Silence.

Jimin breaks it with a soft smile. “We’re figuring things out,” he says, lacing his fingers tighter with Hoseok’s. “It’s not perfect. But it’s real.”

“And worth it,” Hoseok adds, softer now. “Even the hard parts.”

I nod, meaning it. “I’m glad. Truly.”

Hoseok finally lets the edge fall from his voice. Still cautious—but no longer combative. “Thanks.”

And for the first time in weeks, something in the air eases.

Jimin gestures toward the empty seat. “Stay a while? Just for a bit?”

I hesitate. Then nod. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

I sit. The space between us still holds history—but it’s not as sharp. Not today.

Maybe, in this new chapter, there’s room for something else.

Not what it was.

But maybe something softer.

Chapter Text

You don’t expect him.

Not tonight. Not when everything already feels like too much.

But Namjoon walks into your apartment like it’s his right — like he’s already held this moment in his chest for weeks, maybe longer.

You’re sitting on the couch, curled up in a blanket that still smells like Yoongi.

Namjoon’s eyes fall to it.

Then rise to meet yours.

“I have a question,” he says, voice quiet but unwavering. “And I need you to answer it.”

You sit up slowly. “Okay…”

His jaw tightens. “Why not me?”

The room stills. So does your breath.

“Why not…” you trail off.

“Me,” he says again, louder now. “I stepped back. I gave you space. I gave him space. And then I watched every other person in this mess get a piece of you — except me.”

You blink. “Namjoon—”

“I was there,” he says, stepping closer. “Don’t act like I wasn’t. Every time you cried. Every time Tae ghosted you. Every time someone else kissed you. I saw it. I watched it all, and I waited.”

“I didn’t know you were waiting.”

“I didn’t want to make it harder!” he explodes. “Taehyung was your boyfriend. I respected that. Even when he didn’t.”

You look away.

Namjoon’s voice softens, but the ache in it sharpens.

“You never once asked me to wait. But I did. I waited anyway.”

You can’t answer. You don’t even know what to say.

“And then Yoongi?” Namjoon continues. “He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t even ask. He just takes. And suddenly it’s okay.”

“He didn’t take anything I didn’t offer.”

“Exactly,” Namjoon snaps. “So why didn’t you ever offer me?”

Silence.

His shoulders rise, then fall. “Do you even see me that way?”

You look up at him.

“Yes.”

That single word stills everything.

Namjoon’s eyes soften. Then harden. Then soften again. “Then why the hell didn’t I matter?”

Your throat burns.

“I didn’t know I had anything left to give.”

“I would’ve taken nothing, if it meant being near you,” he says. “But you didn’t even let me try.”

Something in your chest breaks.

Namjoon sees it. He takes a step forward. Then another. And then he’s in front of you, close enough to feel the heat of him, the pain radiating off his skin.

“I should’ve kissed you the night Tae left,” he says. “When I watched you stand there, crying, and still didn’t touch you.”

You’re shaking now.

“Let me kiss you now,” he whispers. “Even if it’s too late.”

You don’t stop him.

His mouth finds yours — warm, fierce, trembling. It’s not desperate, not like Yoongi’s. It’s reverent. Like Namjoon wants to kiss you into a world where none of this ever happened.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt.

And then—

The door creaks open.

You both freeze.

You turn.

Taehyung stands there, in the hallway.

His expression unreadable.

He sees the kiss. He sees your hand on Namjoon’s chest. Sees the pieces of you that weren’t his anymore, maybe never were.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t shout.

He just blinks. And then nods. Once.

And walks away.

Again.

Namjoon watches the door shut.

Then looks back at you.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” he says softly.

Tears fill your eyes. “It was never going to be clean.”

Namjoon reaches up and brushes your cheek with his thumb. “You deserve someone who doesn’t make you choose between fire and ruin.”

You laugh — broken, bitter. “And which one are you?”

He smiles, small and sad. “Maybe both.”

And then he kisses your forehead.

And leaves too.

And you?

You stay where you are.

Wondering when love stopped feeling like coming home… and started feeling like closing the door.

Taehyung

Taehyung doesn’t go home.

He runs to the studio instead — where he hopes Jimin will still be. Where maybe, maybe, something still makes sense.

His knuckles are scraped from slamming the elevator button. His breath is uneven. His chest burns — not from the sprint but from what he saw.

Yoongi.

Her.

Together, together.

Taehyung stumbles into the lounge, heart clawing its way out of his throat.

Jimin is there.

He’s on the couch beside Hoseok, their fingers loosely linked, a bowl of half-eaten mandu between them. It’s the softest sight Tae’s seen in days — until they look up.

Jimin blinks, startled. “Tae?”

Taehyung takes a breath, tries to smile — but it wavers.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Jimin stands slowly, but Hoseok doesn’t move.

His jaw tightens.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Taehyung’s eyes flick to him. “This doesn’t concern you, Hobi.”

Hoseok stands now, slowly. Deliberately.

“It does when you come here pretending you didn’t blow up every life around you.”

“Tae,” Jimin says quietly. A warning. A plea.

But Taehyung’s too wound up. His voice rises, sharp: “I came to talk to Jimin. Not you.”

Hoseok laughs — cold and bitter. “Oh, now you want to talk? After ghosting everyone for weeks? After treating us like collateral damage in your identity crisis?”

“I wasn’t trying to hurt anyone—”

“You weren’t trying not to,” Hoseok snaps. “You left a voicemail like you were some tragic martyr. Then came home and walked into her bed like nothing happened.”

“I walked in to find her with Yoongi.”

“Right,” Hobi says, stepping closer. “And that’s why you ran here. Not to apologize. Not to explain. But because you were jealous.”

Taehyung’s lips part. “I—”

“You weren’t ever going to have just one girlfriend or one boyfriend, Tae,” Hobi says. “And you never needed to. You could’ve had everything if you were honest.”

“I was honest—”

“No,” Hobi snarls, “you were selfish.”

Jimin tries again. “Guys—please—”

But Hobi doesn’t stop.

“You love her. You love Jungkook. You probably love Jimin too. And instead of saying that, you tried to cram all of us into some fantasy monogamous box so you wouldn’t feel bad about wanting too much.”

Taehyung’s fists clench. “You don’t know what I wanted.”

“Then why,” Hoseok demands, “did you punch Namjoon when he kissed her and not you?”

Taehyung goes still.

Dead quiet.

Jimin’s breath hitches.

Hoseok shakes his head, like he’s tired of every part of this. “You’re not mad she kissed someone else. You’re mad he didn’t kiss you first.”

“I never said—”

“You didn’t have to,” Hoseok cuts in. “You’re poly, Tae. That’s fine. Beautiful even. But you’re also a coward. You want love, devotion, freedom, chaos — and no consequences.”

Taehyung’s eyes flash. “Don’t talk to me like you’re better than me.”

“I’m not better,” Hoseok says. “I’m just not lying to myself.”

And then—crack.

Taehyung shoves him.

Hard.

Hoseok stumbles back — and swings.

Fists fly.

Chairs crash.

Jimin’s scream slices through the air. “STOP!”

But they don’t.

They’re on the floor, tangled in fury — not even pain, just fury. Weeks of resentment. Months of secrets. All spilling.

Finally, Jimin lunges between them.

“STOP IT!” he shouts, pushing them apart, voice shaking. “What are you doing?!”

Hoseok stands first, chest heaving. A cut blooming across his cheek.

“You don’t get to see him,” he pants, glaring at Taehyung. “Not until you get your shit together.”

Taehyung, crouched and bloody-lipped, looks up. “Jimin—?”

But Jimin doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t argue.

He just walks to Hoseok’s side.

And stays there.

Silent.

Hoseok grabs Jimin’s hand again, more gently now, and looks back at Taehyung with finality.

“Get out.”

Taehyung doesn’t move.

“Now.”

So he does.

He stands.

Walks to the door.

No one stops him.

The slam echoes after he’s gone.

And this time?

No one chases him.

The invitation surprised you.

A quiet dinner, Namjoon had said. Just the three of you. No pressure. No expectations.

Still, you dressed like it mattered.

When you and Yoongi arrive, Namjoon’s apartment is dimly lit—warm, neat, the kind of place that’s been thought about. A bottle of wine already opened on the table. Plates set with intention. Jazz humming low in the background, soft enough to excuse silences.

Namjoon greets you with a small smile. “Come in.”

You do.

Yoongi offers a low “Hey,” and Namjoon nods back, but his eyes linger just a second too long. On Yoongi. Then you.

You sit between them.

The conversation is stilted at first—safe. Music, tour rumors, the voicemail. No one brings up Taehyung. No one mentions Hoseok. And yet… every word has weight.

Namjoon pours your wine last. His hand brushes yours as he passes the glass. It’s brief—but you feel it.

You all eat slowly, quietly.

Then, midway through the second glass of wine, Namjoon leans back and asks, “When was the last time we saw each other?”

You and Yoongi exchange glances.

Yoongi shrugs. “Five days ago?”

Namjoon’s gaze sharpens.

“Six,” he says evenly. “It’s been a full six days.”

You freeze for a beat.

Yoongi looks up, eyes narrowing. “Okay…”

“Not okay,” Namjoon replies, and now the air changes—subtle but sure. “I count.”

A pause.

“Is that a problem?” Yoongi asks, not defensive, but careful.

Namjoon’s lips twitch. “Only if I’m the only one who notices.”

The silence that follows is thick. Not angry. Not sad. Just charged.

You set your fork down.

Namjoon stands.

Not in a hurry. Not towering. Just… moves.

He walks behind Yoongi’s chair. Places a hand on the backrest. Then his other hand grazes your shoulder as he comes to stand between you.

You turn to look up at him.

“You two keep pretending like I wasn’t ever in this,” Namjoon says softly. “Like I stepped back because I didn’t care.”

Yoongi’s voice is low. “We never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Namjoon crouches slightly now, gaze locked with yours.

“I stepped back because Taehyung couldn’t handle me kissing you. Because you weren’t ready. Because Yoongi was quieter than me, and no one noticed that he was getting there first.”

He turns to Yoongi. “But I noticed.”

Yoongi doesn’t look away.

“And I want it too,” Namjoon says, voice like velvet now. “I want both of you.”

The wineglass in your hand trembles slightly.

Yoongi stands slowly, chair scraping the floor. He steps closer, eyes never leaving Namjoon’s.

“I thought you’d never say it.”

Namjoon smiles faintly. “I was waiting for the moment to matter.”

And it does.

Because when Namjoon leans in—he kisses Yoongi first.

It’s slow. Confident. Familiar.

Yoongi breathes out, almost a groan.

Namjoon turns to you next.

You don’t hesitate.

His lips meet yours with a quiet hunger, the kind that feels like history. Like memory. Like he’s been imagining it for too long and is finally letting himself touch the real thing.

Yoongi joins.

His hand slips around your waist, his mouth brushing your neck, your jaw, while Namjoon kisses your lips.

It’s seamless.

Heat coils low in your belly.

Three mouths. Two hands on your hips. One beat—shared.

It doesn’t go further.

Not tonight.

But when you all finally pull apart, your lips swollen, breath unsteady, hearts pounding in sync—

You know.

This isn’t the end of something.

It’s the beginning.

Taehyung

The city is humming like it’s alive. Taehyung stands outside Namjoon’s door, heart pounding, unsure why he even came—but knowing he needed to.

He doesn’t knock right away.

He hears laughter through the door, muffled but familiar. One voice is unmistakably Namjoon’s—low and warm, the kind of laugh he only uses when he’s relaxed. The other? Taehyung’s jaw tightens.

He knocks.

A pause, then footsteps. The door cracks open, and there’s Namjoon in a soft grey t-shirt, his hair a little messy like someone’s fingers had been in it.

“Tae?” Namjoon sounds surprised, not unhappy, but surprised. “Hey. What’s going on?”

Taehyung swallows. He wasn’t going to say anything big. Not really. Just talk. Maybe ask about earlier. Maybe—

“Can I come in?” he asks.

Namjoon hesitates. He doesn’t open the door wider. Behind him, a voice calls out something—faint, teasing. Taehyung knows that voice too.

He straightens.

“You’ve got company,” he says.

Namjoon shifts, looking guilty. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s just—bad timing.”

Taehyung’s smile is tight. “Is it my girlfriend?”

He says it like a challenge. Like betrayal.

Namjoon meets his gaze. Doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”

A beat. Then Namjoon adds, “Yoongi’s here too.”

Taehyung stares, stomach sinking. “So they come as a package deal now?” His voice is sharp.

Namjoon just nods. “Yeah. They do.”

Silence.

Tae laughs once—short, bitter. “Right.”

Namjoon’s hand twitches on the door. “I’ll come find you in the morning, okay?”

Taehyung shrugs, stepping back. “Sure. Bring your whole damn package.”

He turns before Namjoon can respond. The door shuts softly behind him. But to Taehyung, it might as well be a wall.

Namjoon’s bedroom is as warm as the rest of his apartment—clean lines, soft sheets, a bookshelf that stretches too tall to reach without help. You’d been in here before, but never like this. Never with your heart still racing from a kiss that changed everything.

Yoongi’s already pulled his hoodie off. He sinks into the bed first, sighing like it’s relief.

Namjoon turns to you quietly. “Do you want a shirt to sleep in?”

You nod.

He disappears into the closet and returns with a worn cotton tee. You slide it on, still wearing your shorts. Yoongi lifts the blanket without a word, letting you crawl in beside him.

Namjoon takes the other side.

No one says anything for a moment.

The sheets rustle. A breath catches. Your foot brushes Namjoon’s calf.

Then—Yoongi reaches over you, fingers brushing Namjoon’s wrist. Namjoon doesn’t pull away. Instead, his hand shifts until his fingers twine with Yoongi’s loosely, like it’s something they’ve done a hundred times before. You feel it between them. The ease. The understanding.

Then Namjoon’s hand finds your waist.

Yoongi’s breath warms the back of your neck.

“I’ve never done this before,” you whisper.

“Done what?” Namjoon asks softly.

“Slept between two people I care about this much.”

Yoongi hums. “Feels a little dangerous.”

“Feels like the safest place I’ve been in weeks,” you say, and mean it.

There’s no more talking after that.

Yoongi’s heartbeat steadies against your back. Namjoon’s chest rises slow and even beside you. The warmth of the bed wraps around all three of you—no expectations, no fear. Just breath and trust and silence.

For the first time in a long time, you fall asleep knowing no one’s about to leave.

And that, for now,is enough.

Chapter Text

The knock comes just after sunrise.

Three soft raps. Then silence.

You’re still in pajamas, hair half up, coffee only half poured. For a second, you don’t move. Because no one knocks like that. Not anyone you expect.

You open the door slowly.

And there he is.

Taehyung.

Hair tousled, hoodie thrown over what looks like the same shirt from last night. No luggage. No warning. Just him.

His eyes meet yours, and you know.

He hasn’t slept.

“Hi,” he says, voice low, like it’s a secret between you.

You blink, heart catching. “Tae…”

He doesn’t wait. Just steps forward, not into the apartment, but closer to you—like the doorway is sacred, and he’s not ready to cross it.

“I know I should’ve called,” he says, swallowing hard. “But I didn’t want to give you time to say no.”

“No to what?”

“To a day with me,” he says simply. “Just me. No band. No guilt. No future talk. Just one day.”

You hesitate.

“I already booked the flight,” he adds, softer now. “Paris. Private. Wheels up in two hours.”

Your breath catches.

“I know it’s a lot,” he says, eyes searching yours. “But I can’t keep talking through closed doors or locked screens. I need you to see me.”

A silence stretches.

You glance at him—at the boy who left, at the man who returned without knowing what he’d find.

Then: “I need ten minutes.”

His face breaks open.

Relief. Hope. That old, impossible softness.

“I’ll wait,” he says, backing away. “Take all the time you need.”

But you don’t.

You close the door just long enough to grab a bag.

When you return, Taehyung’s still there—standing on your doorstep like it’s always been his.

You don’t speak again until the car pulls away.

And the city disappears behind you.

The plane is quiet. Too quiet for how much is between you.

You’re wrapped in a cream blanket, legs tucked beneath you on one of the plush leather seats. Taehyung sits across from you, fingers cradling a glass of water like it’s the only thing keeping his hands still.

Outside the window, clouds stretch endless and soft.

Inside, the silence stretches too.

You finally say, “You disappeared.”

His eyes lift. “I know.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I wanted to be,” he admits, voice low, almost ashamed. “For a few days, I did. I wanted the world to think I was gone.”

You flinch.

He sets down the glass. “I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t know where to put the grief. You left a voicemail, Tae. A goodbye. That wasn’t a break. That was an ending.”

He nods, jaw working. “I know. And I knew it wasn’t fair. But I didn’t know how to do anything else.”

You look at him, searching his face. “Why didn’t you just talk to me?”

“Because you loved me,” he says simply. “And I was afraid that if I looked in your eyes, I’d stay. Even though I didn’t know who I was anymore.”

Your breath hitches.

“I didn’t cheat,” you say.

He looks up, startled.

“I didn’t cheat on you while you were gone. Not at first. I kissed Yoongi after the voicemail. After I thought you’d left me on purpose.”

Taehyung swallows. “And then?”

You hesitate. “And then… I needed comfort. I was in pain. And he was there.”

Taehyung leans back, eyes on the ceiling for a long moment. “I kissed Jungkook.”

You blink.

“After the fight with Namjoon. After I saw you with Yoongi.” He turns to you. “I didn’t plan it. But it felt honest. I wasn’t pretending not to love him for once.”

You nod slowly. “So we both reached for other people.”

“Yeah,” he says. “We both broke the rules.”

Silence again.

Then: “Do you regret it?” you ask.

Taehyung meets your eyes. “Leaving you? Yes. Everything else… I think it showed me how badly I need to stop lying. To myself. To everyone.”

You sit quietly for a while. Letting the hum of the engines carry the moment forward.

Taehyung leans forward. “I thought about deleting that voicemail.”

“You didn’t?”

“I smashed the phone instead,” he says. “I knew if I had to hear it again, I’d never come back.”

You glance at him. “What made you come back?”

He holds your gaze. “You. I kept seeing you in every city. Every song. Every fucking silence. I didn’t want to die without fixing what I broke.”

You blink back a sting of tears. “Tae…”

He reaches across the aisle, takes your hand.

“I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But I’m not asking for one.”

You look down at your hands, fingers curled together. “Then what are you asking for?”

“Just today,” he says. “Let me love you right. Just once.”

You nod.

Not because it’s easy.

But because it still matters.

The car waiting at the airport is sleek, black, and quiet.

It glides through Paris like it belongs there—like you do. The windows are tinted, but the light still slips in, catching the gold in Taehyung’s hair, the curve of his lashes, the shape of his jaw when he turns to look at you.

You try not to stare.

You fail.

“I had them clear the penthouse,” he says casually, as if this isn’t the first time he’s swept you across a continent. “It’s one of my favorites.”

You smile faintly. “Of course it is.”

But when the doors open in front of Hôtel Lutetia and the doorman greets him with quiet reverence, you realize he wasn’t exaggerating.

It’s not just beautiful. It’s absurd.

Champagne in the room. A bouquet of wildflowers. A rooftop terrace that overlooks the Eiffel Tower like a secret.

“This is too much,” you say, spinning slowly in the open space. “Tae…”

But he’s behind you now, arms slipping around your waist, mouth warm against your shoulder.

“Not for you,” he murmurs. “Nothing is ever too nuch for you.”

You rest back against his chest.

And for a moment, the world is suspended.

You walk the city like no one’s watching.

Lunch on a private balcony in Saint-Germain.

Macarons you share from a silver box as you wander the Jardin du Luxembourg, fingers brushing again and again, like the first time you ever touched.

He buys you a scarf from a vendor without asking your favorite color—and somehow picks exactly right.

You watch him get mobbed for photos on a quiet street, charming even the old woman who didn’t recognize him. He says “merci, madame” with a bow that makes her blush.

You laugh and tug him into a side alley when no one’s looking.

He kisses your forehead.

No urgency. No apology.

Just Paris. Just this.

The restaurant is candlelit and quiet, nestled in a tucked-away corner of the Marais.

There’s no menu—just a knowing chef, a curated wine pairing, and Taehyung watching you like you’re the only thing that tastes right.

He sits across from you in a velvet booth, legs brushing yours beneath the table. The lighting turns his skin to honey. His voice is low, soft, filled with stories he’s never told anyone—not even the boys.

He tells you about art galleries he’s visited alone. How he once spent four hours looking at a single painting and still didn’t know why he couldn’t walk away.

You listen, eyes on him, wine untouched.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says, smirking gently.

“What thing?”

“Memorizing me like you’re afraid I’ll disappear.”

You set your glass down, heart skipping. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

His smile fades.

For a moment, the silence settles like a weight.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Not dramatic. Not defensive. Just true.

You nod slowly. “I know.”

After the sun sets, you find yourselves on a private river cruise down the Seine, glass of wine in hand, the lights of the city flickering on one by one like fireflies.

“I forgot how much you love the water,” you say, watching the reflections dance.

“I forgot what it feels like to be happy,” he replies.

You turn to him—and he’s already looking.

His hand slips into yours.

And when the Eiffel Tower sparks to life, glittering in the dusk—

He kisses you like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Like Paris was built for this moment.

Like all the pain was worth it just to feel your mouth against his this one time.

It’s soft, then hungry.

Slow, then breathless.

And when it ends, you’re both trembling.

He whispers your name.

And you whisper his back.

Still holding hands.

Still believing, just for tonight, that this love could rewrite everything.

Upstairs, everything is warm.

The lights are dim. The air smells like your perfume and whatever cologne he put on hours ago that still clings to his shirt collar.

You sit on the edge of the bed, slipping off your shoes.

He kneels in front of you, fingers unbuckling the last strap carefully, reverently.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

Because there’s nothing left to say.

He leans in and kisses your ankle.

Then your knee.

Then your hip.

Each kiss slow. Anchored.

By the time he reaches your mouth, you’re breathless with how gentle he’s being.

Like he’s afraid to touch you and afraid not to.

When he lays you back on the sheets, it’s not frantic.

It’s not possessive.

It’s quiet.

A worship, not a claim.

His hands are everywhere, but never greedy.

You pull him closer and whisper, “This feels like a dream.”

He smiles against your throat. “Then don’t wake up.”

And you don’t.

Not even when he makes you cry out beneath him, not even when he whispers that he loves you—again, again, again.

Not even when he finally sleeps.

Because you’ve never felt so awake.

The sheets are still warm.

Your bodies are still tangled, breath slow, the silence between you gentle. Paris hums faintly outside the window, the glow of streetlamps soft against the curtains.

Taehyung lies beside you, one hand resting on your stomach like he never wants to let go.

You turn slightly toward him, your voice low.

“What are we going to do about my boyfriends?”

He stills.

No breath. No blink. Just the slow pull of tension across his shoulders.

Then he sits up—too fast, too sharp.

“You’re seriously going back to them after today?”

Chapter Text

You lie tangled in the sheets, the Paris sky just starting to turn gold at the edges. Taehyung’s arm is draped over your waist, fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip like he can’t bear to stop touching you. You should feel full. You should feel content. But instead, you’re staring at the ceiling with one thought spinning like a slow, cruel clock:

What are you going to do about your boyfriends?

You don’t say it right away. You let the moment breathe. Let it settle. But the longer you wait, the louder it echoes in your chest.

Taehyung shifts beside you, humming softly. “You’re quiet,” he murmurs. “Still sleepy?”

You shake your head.

And then, before you can stop yourself, the words slip out.

“What are we going to do about my boyfriends?”

Silence.

You feel it hit him like a wave—crashing, impossible to ignore. His hand stills. His entire body goes tense beside you. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.

His eyes search yours, but not gently.

“Are you seriously going back to them?”

His voice is low, but not soft. Not anymore.

You sit up, the sheets falling around your waist. “They didn’t stop being mine just because you came back.”

Taehyung blinks, stunned. “You slept with me,” he says, voice tightening. “You slept with me, and you’re still thinking about them?”

“I never stopped thinking about them,” you answer quietly. “Just like you never stopped thinking about Jungkook and Jimin.”

That lands. You see it. His expression falters—then hardens. He throws the blanket off like it offends him.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t pretend this is the same.”

“It is the same, Tae.”

“No,” he snaps. “Because I came back. I gave you everything. And you’re still standing at the edge, deciding if I’m worth stepping toward.”

“You left me.” Your voice is quieter now. “You left all of us.”

He scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I didn’t run because I didn’t love you. I ran because it was too much—because I couldn’t breathe.”

“And now?”

His mouth opens—then closes. He stares at you like he’s seeing someone he doesn’t recognize.

“You were supposed to be different,” he says. “You were supposed to be mine.”

“I was never a prize, Taehyung,” you whisper. “I was just someone who loved you. Who still does.”

He shakes his head, like he’s trying to shake off the truth. “No. You were the one thing that made sense. The one person I thought could save me from this.”

You meet his eyes. “Nothing can save you from your feelings for Jungkook and Jimin.”

Stillness.

You watch it hit him like a blow. Like a truth too loud to ignore.

“I can’t do this,” he mutters, swinging his legs off the bed.

“Taehyung—”

He stands, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I can’t be one of them.”

“You’re not,” you say, reaching for him. “You’re you. That’s what I wanted.”

He looks at you then—devastated, furious, heartbreakingly human.

“Then why isn’t it enough?”

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

So he walks out.

And you’re left in Paris, in a silk-sheeted bed, with a fractured heart and no way home.

The door doesn’t slam.

It clicks shut.

Soft. Final.

You stare at it like it might open again. Like Taehyung might realize he was just scared and come back to you.

He doesn’t.

You sit in that Paris hotel room for ten long minutes before finally picking up your phone.

Four missed calls from Namjoon.

One message from Yoongi.

Nothing from Taehyung.

Your fingers tremble as you scroll to the one number you never wanted to use like this—your brother’s.

It only rings once.

“Wow,” he answers dryly. “Calling me from Paris. What’s next, rehab?”

You exhale. “Can you send the jet?”

There’s a pause. Then his voice softens. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I just… need to come home.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, with quiet finality: “I’ll have it ready within the hour. Wheels up in two. Pack light.”

You hang up without another word.

By the time you arrive at the airfield, the sky is bruised pink. The jet is waiting, engines humming like something between a lullaby and a warning.

The crew greets you like nothing’s wrong. Like you’re not the girl who just got emotionally marooned in Paris by the man she once would’ve done anything for.

You don’t sleep.

Not over Zurich. Not over Berlin. Not even when Seoul glimmers in the distance like a mirage of who you used to be.

When you land, you’re so tired you can’t feel your face.

But you hear them—before you see them.

“Finally!” your younger sister calls, waving her phone like she’s been documenting your tragedy. “We thought you eloped with a techno DJ.”

“You look like you eloped with bad decisions,” your younger brother adds, squinting. “Is that mascara or just regret?”

Despite everything, you almost smile.

Your older brother—stoic, unreadable, and always two steps ahead of your bullshit—pulls you into a hug.

“Who was he?” he mutters. “Give me a name.”

You don’t look at him when you whisper, “An idol.”

All three siblings groan.

Your sister throws her head back. “Oh my god, again?”

Your younger brother sighs. “At this point, I feel like the warning label should just be tattooed to your neck.”

You let them talk.

You sit shotgun in the car while they argue in the back like the world hasn’t just shifted under your feet. Like they still see you as you, and not the person who just had her heart cracked open in a hotel bed.

They don’t ask again.

Not yet.

And you’re glad.

Because you’re not ready to tell them the truth.

That it’s not just one idol.

It’s seven.

The studio smells like citrus and sawdust.

Someone’s been stress-cleaning.

You barely step through the door before you hear voices — low, clipped, already mid-argument.

“She just left with him,” said Namjoon.

“She didn’t owe us an explanation,” said Yoongi.

“Not even a text?” said fJimin.

You freeze in the entryway, suitcase still in hand, unsure if you should interrupt or run.

Then the silence comes.

They’ve seen you.

Yoongi is the first to move. He doesn’t rush you. Just walks over and takes your bag without a word. His eyes sweep over your face like he’s checking for bruises.

You nod once, subtle: I’m okay.

Jimin hovers by the couch, uncertain. You see the flicker of relief in his eyes, but also the trace of hurt.

Namjoon doesn’t move. He leans against the counter, arms folded, jaw tight. Watching.

“You’re back,” he says at last.

“I’m back.”

“That’s all we get?”

You meet his gaze. “What would you like? An apology? A press release?”

He bristles. “I’d settle for the truth.”

You exhale. “The truth is… I needed to know.”

Jimin speaks softly. “Know what?”

“If I was still his.”
You pause.
“If he was still mine.”

“And?” Yoongi asks gently.

You shake your head. “He’s not. Not the way I need him to be.”

Namjoon looks away. “And now what? You come back and pick up where we left off?”

“No,” you say. “I don’t want to pick up anything.”

They all stare.

“I want to start again,” you say. “But only if you still want me.”

Yoongi’s voice is the first to answer: “Of course we want you.”

Jimin nods, but quieter. “It hurt. But… I get it.”

You turn to Namjoon last.

He’s the hardest to read. Always has been. But when he walks toward you — slowly, deliberately — you feel the weight lift.

“We want you,” he says. “But not pieces of you. Not what’s left when someone else is done.”

You meet his eyes. “Then take all of me.”

Namjoon steps closer.

Yoongi’s hand finds yours.

And Jimin — sweet, bruised Jimin — wraps his arms around all three of you.

And in that moment, nothing else matters.

Not Paris.
Not Taehyung.
Not the past.

Just this.

Just them.

Just now.

Taehyung

Taehyung stares at the hotel room ceiling, sleepless.

The bed beside him is still unmade, sheets kicked to the floor like the echo of something lost. Paris is beautiful in the morning — golden and slow — but today, it feels like a city built for someone else.

He checks his phone again.

Nothing.

No missed calls.
No messages.
No “I landed safely” or “I’m sorry.”

He knows she’s gone. Knew the second she asked about them — her boyfriends — while still naked in his arms. But the finality of her silence still hits like a blade.

He replays the fight for the hundredth time.

“You’re seriously thinking about them?”

“Aren’t you still thinking about Jimin? About Jungkook?”

He hadn’t meant to yell. He hadn’t meant to leave her in Paris, not really. But it was too much. Too messy. Too real. Loving her meant sharing her, and Taehyung doesn’t know how to be a fraction of someone’s heart.

Not when his own feels ripped in half.

A knock rattles the door.

He doesn’t move at first. Just groans, burying his face in the pillow. But it comes again. Louder.

He drags himself up, shirtless and groggy, and opens the door.

It’s Jungkook.

Hair pulled into a tiny ponytail. Hoodie oversized. Eyes bloodshot.

Taehyung stares.

“How did you—?”

“Hyung,” Jungkook interrupts. “You left her. Again.”

The words land hard.

Taehyung leans against the frame. “I know.”

“She’s back in Seoul.”

He nods slowly.

“With Yoongi and Namjoon.”

That, too, he knows.

Jungkook’s voice softens, but it still cuts. “You lost her. Because you couldn’t let her love anyone else.”

Taehyung’s throat tightens. “Because I wanted to believe I was enough.”

“She wanted all of us,” Jungkook says. “You made her choose. She did.”

Silence.

Taehyung’s eyes fall to the floor.

“I loved her,” he says.

“I know,” Jungkook replies. “But love wasn’t the problem.”

Taehyung looks up. “Then what was?”

Jungkook tilts his head, gaze heavy. “Fear.”

Taehyung swallows.

He says nothing when Jungkook steps away, turning back down the hotel hall.

Only watches.

Only aches.

Only wonders if maybe he loved her too much to share her…
…but not enough to understand her.

And maybe that’s why he lost her.

“Maybe she—“ Taehyung started, turning to look at Jungkook, but he’s not there!

Taehyung looks around the room but no he was still alone. Jungkook didn’t come to Paris.

Taehyung was seeing things. And feeling things that weren’t real.

You arrive home just in time to change before dinner.

Your mother greets you with a double air kiss and a sharp-eyed once-over. “You’ve lost weight.”

“I was in Paris,” you say, slipping off your shoes. “Stress diet.”

Your father lowers his newspaper but doesn’t look up from it. “Jet lag?”

“Jet abandonment,” your older brother mutters beside you. You jab him with your elbow before your mother can ask anything further.

The table is already set when you walk in: lacquered chopsticks, matching ceramic bowls, side dishes perfectly arranged. Your family never sits down to eat so much as performs dinner.

“Everyone, sit,” your mother says, clapping once.

You slide into your usual seat. Your sister sits across from you and mouths, Idol? with one raised brow.

You ignore her and sip your water.

Your father speaks while spooning out soup. “I assume the Paris trip was personal.”

Your brother snorts. “Oh, it was very personal.”

“Do I need to remind you that discretion is key?” your mother says, spearing you with a glance. “Especially when the press is always circling our family like vultures.”

“There was no press,” you assure them.

“Yet,” your father replies, dryly.

Your sister twirls her spoon. “She’s not denying it was an idol, though.”

“I’m denying nothing until I’ve eaten,” you reply, lifting your rice bowl.

There’s a pause. Then your mother sighs. “Just tell us he isn’t married.”

You blink. “He’s not married.”

“Gay?” your brother asks casually.

“Complicated,” you answer without thinking.

They all freeze.

Your sister leans in. “Like… a scandal?”

“Like… I might be dating three of them.”

Your mother drops her spoon.

Your father lowers his soup. “Three?”

Your brother laughs so hard he nearly chokes.

Your sister claps a hand over her mouth, eyes shining. “Oh my God, you’re in a K-drama!”

“I’m in hell,” you mutter.

But your mother recovers quickly. “Are they famous? As in… ‘can’t-leave-the-house’ famous?”

“That and ‘billboard-in-Tokyo’ famous.”

Your father wipes his mouth. “Then I suggest you figure out who you’re actually serious about before this turns into a disaster.”

Your sister grins. “Too late.”

“But also,” she adds, sliding her kimchi toward you, “I hope you pick the hot one.”

You stare at her. “They’re all hot.”

She beams. “Then I’m proud of you.”

And despite the chaos of your love life—and the way your parents now stare at you like you’re a diplomatic incident waiting to happen—there’s a strange comfort in the laughter that follows.

This family may not understand what you’re doing…

But at least they’re not running away from it.

You hear them before you see them.

“I’m just saying,” Yoongi’s voice floats through the hallway, sharp and dry. “It’s convenient he runs off for a month and comes back the minute she’s happy.”

“And takes her to Paris,” Namjoon adds. “Of course. Classic.”

Yoongi scoffs. “Romantic trip, my ass. You know what he’s allergic to? Emotional stability.”

You unlock the door with a small smile.

The second it swings open, both men turn.

The tension in their bodies drops instantly.

“Hi,” you say softly.

Yoongi’s already moving—crossing the room, pulling you into a hug that’s tight and fierce, his face pressed to your shoulder like he doesn’t trust that you’re real until he’s holding you.

Namjoon comes next, arms winding around your waist from behind as you’re still cradled in Yoongi’s chest.

You tilt your head and kiss them both—Yoongi first, then Namjoon. A soft, familiar welcome. A promise.

“I missed you,” you murmur.

“We missed you more,” Namjoon replies, warm breath in your ear.

You finally pull free, toeing off your shoes, dropping your purse, stretching like you’ve been tense for days.

You have.

“God,” you mutter, heading for the kitchen, “I’m starving. I had half a croissant and a nervous breakdown yesterday.”

Yoongi flops onto the couch. “Sounds like a vacation.”

Namjoon helps you sort through the stack of takeout menus next to the fridge. “What’s the mood?”

“Comfort food. Anything covered in cheese.”

“Done.”

You settle on the couch between them, a bowl of pasta in your lap, grease-stained chopsticks in hand. It’s the most at peace you’ve felt in days.

Namjoon waits until you’ve taken two bites before speaking.

“So…” he begins gently. “What happened?”

You don’t dodge the question. They’d been so good and waited so patiently that you have no choice but give them what they want. The truth. All of it.

“It was perfect,” you say. “Like…unreal. The most romantic day I’ve ever had.”

Yoongi’s expression doesn’t shift, but his jaw tics slightly.

“But that night,” you continue, “I asked what we were going to do about my boyfriends.”

Namjoon blinks. “Us?”

You nod. “I meant it. I meant you. Both of you.”

Yoongi slowly lowers his bowl.

Namjoon stares. “And?”

“He got angry,” you say quietly. “Said he laid himself bare and I was still thinking about you.”

Yoongi mutters, “Damn right you were.”

“I asked if he was thinking about Jungkook and Jimin.”

“Oh shit,” Namjoon breathes.

“He stormed out,” you finish. “Left me in Paris.”

The silence is immediate.

Yoongi is the first to break it. “He what?”

You nod, sipping your water. “Left me behind. Luckily, I’m still a chaebol with access to jets.”

Yoongi’s face darkens. “I’ll kill him.”

Namjoon doesn’t speak. His eyes are locked on you, but not with anger.

Something warmer. Something deeper.

You glance between them. “I mean it, you know. I choose you.”

Namjoon’s breath leaves him in a rush.

He sets his food aside and pulls you into a hug—strong, solid, full of quiet joy.

Yoongi joins from the side, one arm wrapped around both of you.

Namjoon kisses your cheek. Then your temple.

“I’m sorry he hurt you,” he whispers.

You smile against his shoulder. “I’m not.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “No?”

You shake your head. “Because it led me back here.”

The three of you stay tangled on the couch, your pasta forgotten.

And for the first time in days, your heart feels steady again.

If only you could stay this content but of course not.

Taehyung

He walks.

He doesn’t remember where.

Not the street names. Not the arrondissements. Just that he needed to move, to get out, to breathe before he said something worse than what he already did.

Taehyung ducks into a side alley and leans against the wall, dragging a hand down his face.

His heart is still pounding—less from anger now and more from shame.

He can still hear her voice:

“Aren’t you thinking about Jungkook and Jimin?”

The question cut deeper than it should’ve. Because she wasn’t wrong.

He had wanted that trip to fix everything. To pull her back into his orbit. To make it simple again—just the two of them, just love without the mess. But love was the mess. And she saw through him.

Taehyung presses his head back and exhales through his teeth.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself. “You idiot.”

He thinks about the look on her face—confused, maybe hurt. The way she clutched the sheet when he stood up. The way her voice broke when she asked him not to leave like that.

He left anyway.

Because he was scared. Because he was selfish. Because when she said my boyfriends, it felt like she’d never really been his.

Not fully.

Not the way he wanted.

He pulls out his phone.

It’s already buzzing—messages from Jimin. And then…a group chat. One he’d muted. Dozens of unread texts, the thread alive and furious.

Yoongi: You left her in Paris?
Namjoon: I’m done making excuses for you.

He shuts the screen off.

Every vibration feels like judgment.

And maybe it is.

Maybe he deserves it.

He thinks about going back to the hotel. Thinks about calling her. Apologizing. Explaining. But what would he even say?

That he loves her and still loves them too?

That he wanted her to be his escape, but she became his mirror?

That he wanted monogamy just long enough to feel like he wasn’t breaking something else?

Taehyung laughs bitterly.

“You’re poly,” Hoseok once told him. “Stop pretending you’re not.”

He hated hearing that. Hated being boxed in. But maybe Hobi was right.

Maybe trying to make her fit into some fixed idea of love was the real betrayal.

And now he’s alone.

With the city still lit like a dream. And no one left to dream it with.

The car ride from the airport is silent.

Taehyung doesn’t ask the driver to stop by his apartment. He knows where he’s going. The place he’s avoided for weeks.

Jimin’s.

He still has the passcode. That’s how recent this all is. How broken and unfinished it all remains.

The door unlocks with a soft click. He steps inside.

It’s clean, dim. A soft, lived-in scent clings to the air — laundry, citrus, and something warm. Jimin’s signature candles, probably.

Taehyung doesn’t call out. Doesn’t have the right.

He hears movement.

Jimin rounds the corner, sleeves pushed up, a glass of water in one hand. He stops short when he sees him.

Neither of them speak.

Finally, Jimin sets the glass down.

“You’re back.”

Taehyung nods. “Yeah.”

“I heard what happened.”

Of course he did. From Yoongi. From Namjoon. Maybe even from her. Taehyung doesn’t ask.

Jimin folds his arms. “You left her in Paris.”

Taehyung winces. “I was upset.”

“She was alone.”

“I know.”

The words fall flat. Empty. Not enough.

“She called her brother to come get her.” Jimin’s voice is low, but it trembles. “Do you know how worried I was?”

Taehyung finally meets his eyes. “I didn’t know who to call. Not after what happened.”

Jimin just stares. And for the first time, Taehyung can’t read him.

“I messed it all up,” he says quietly. “I tried to make her mine, but I couldn’t even figure out if I wanted to share her… or if I just didn’t want to share you.”

Silence.

“I love her,” Taehyung whispers.

“I know.”

“I love you too.”

Jimin’s throat bobs. “You don’t get to say that right now.”

Taehyung’s shoulders sag. “I know.”

He walks closer, slowly. Not asking permission, just hoping.

“I keep thinking if I just explain it right, you’ll understand. That all this… jealousy and chaos, it’s not because I didn’t love you all enough. It’s because I loved you too much. All at once. And I broke it.”

“You didn’t break it alone,” Jimin says, finally. “But you didn’t try to fix it either.”

Another silence passes.

Then:

“You’re sleeping here tonight?” Jimin asks.

It’s not a challenge. Not an invitation either. Just… logistics.

“If you’ll let me,” Taehyung says.

Jimin sighs. “Couch.”

Taehyung nods. “Of course.”

Jimin turns to leave. Then pauses at the hallway.

“I missed you,” he says without looking back. “But that doesn’t mean I trust you.”

Taehyung doesn’t move.

“I’ll earn it,” he says softly. “If you let me.”

Jimin disappears down the hall.

The door to his room closes gently.

And Taehyung stands in the living room, coat still on, staring at the shadows on the floor.

It’s not forgiveness.

But it’s not the end either.

Chapter Text

You wake to warmth.

It’s quiet in the loft, the kind of quiet that feels intentional—soundproofed walls, heavy curtains, a world held at bay. You blink into the gray-blue hush of morning, your head still nestled between two hearts you trust.

Yoongi’s breath is slow behind you, one arm slung around your waist. Namjoon’s chest rises and falls in front of you, a book forgotten beside him, open like he’d tried to read before falling asleep. You’re cradled between them like a secret, like a soft confession no one’s quite ready to name.

You don’t move.

You want to hold onto this stillness. This sense of being wanted but not possessed. Safe but not small.

But eventually, Yoongi shifts.

He’s careful, always. His hand untangles from your waist like he’s memorized the curve of your body in case he needs to draw it from memory later. He sits up slowly, ruffling his hair. The room is bathed in the kind of pale light that makes everyone look honest.

Namjoon stirs next, stretching once, slow and sprawling.

Yoongi says something low. You can’t hear it.

Namjoon laughs under his breath, sleepy & soft. Then reaches up and touches Yoongi’s cheek.

You almost turn away. Almost pretend to be asleep again. But your eyes stay open, just enough.

Because in the next breath, Namjoon leans in and Yoongi lets him.

It’s not a deep kiss. Not fevered. Not frantic.

Just a quiet touch of lips, a hello spoken through mouths instead of words. An answer to a question neither of them voiced.

Yoongi’s hand finds the back of Namjoon’s neck. Namjoon’s brow presses gently to Yoongi’s. They stay like that, just breathing each other in.

You lie very still.

Not out of jealousy. Not even surprise.

But because some small part of your heart had always wondered if there was more between them. Now it knows.

Yoongi brushes Namjoon’s shoulder before pulling back. “Coffee?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, voice thick with sleep. “You?”

Yoongi smirks. “Always.”

They don’t notice you’re awake.

They don’t see the way your heart is beating harder—but not in fear. In wonder.

Because suddenly… you understand something new.

This love, this strange, sprawling constellation you’re caught inside. It’s not a line. It’s a web. A net woven of glances and near-kisses and old songs and re-learned truths.

And you’re not falling through it.

You’re part of it.

You close your eyes again as Yoongi pads into the kitchen. Namjoon sighs beside you, flipping the book shut. The smell of coffee begins to fill the loft.

And for a while, you let yourself float in this soft, golden quiet.

Not alone. Not anymore.

The coffee’s almost done when the knock comes.

It’s bright and double-timed—tap-tap… tap-tap—like someone can’t bear to wait.

You’re still curled on the couch beside Namjoon, his arm slung lazily around your shoulders, when Yoongi crosses the room and opens the door.

And then the light changes.

Jimin walks in like laughter slipped into human form. Hoseok follows like sunshine cracked wide open.

“Is it weird we brought croissants?” Jimin asks, lifting a paper bag like a peace offering.

“You brought food,” Yoongi says, voice flat but eyes fond. “You can stay forever.”

They kick off their shoes in sync, already moving like they own the space. Jimin tosses the bag onto the counter. Hoseok beelines toward you—and then stops.

His smile softens.

Without a word, he tugs you into a hug so warm and complete it makes your throat tighten. His arms wrap around your waist. His chin drops to your shoulder.

You don’t realize how much you needed it until your hands find his back.

And then Jimin’s there too, sliding in on the other side, sandwiching you between them like they rehearsed it.

“Missed you,” Jimin mumbles against your hair.

Yoongi chuckles from the kitchen. “She was gone for, what, a night?”

“She was gone,” Jimin insists, pulling back just enough to kiss your cheek. “That’s always too long.”

Hoseok hums his agreement and kisses your other cheek.

You barely have time to process the flutter in your stomach before Namjoon joins in, arms encircling all three of you from behind like you’re the warmest gravitational center he’s ever found.

You laugh into it, overwhelmed but not anxious.

This is different from yesterday. Lighter. Brighter.

Where Yoongi and Namjoon are slow-burning constellations, Jimin and Hoseok are shooting stars and summer heat. They’re already pulling you toward the couch, flopping down like it’s their place now too.

“You’re glowing,” Hoseok notes, tapping your nose.

“She’s not glowing,” Yoongi corrects. “She just finally slept.”

“With both of you?” Jimin teases, raising his brows. “Scandal.”

You raise your hands in surrender. “I didn’t do anything.”

Namjoon raises his mug. “That’s debatable.”

Laughter blooms. It fills the corners of the loft, brushing away any ghosts that might’ve lingered after Paris.

And for the first time since Taehyung left…
You feel like the world might still be capable of joy.

It starts with the quiet.

Not awkward silence, just contentment.

The five of you are sprawled across the living room like a painting of comfort: blankets, tangled limbs, half-empty mugs. Jimin’s legs are over Hoseok’s lap, your foot rests against Jimin’s thigh, and Namjoon’s fingers keep lazily brushing against your ankle where he sits on the floor. Yoongi hasn’t moved in twenty minutes, curled into a corner of the couch with one of Jimin’s hoodies slung over his chest like a blanket.

It feels easy. It feels whole.

But then you notice it.

A shift.

Yoongi’s glances are a little longer, lingering more on Namjoon than on you. Namjoon’s touches start drifting, not quite away from you, but toward Yoongi. Not possessive. Not dramatic. Just… natural.

At one point, Namjoon tucks a loose strand of hair behind Yoongi’s ear and smiles, and Yoongi doesn’t look away this time.

He smiles back.

You don’t say anything.
You don’t have to.

Because Jimin sees it too.

You catch him watching you—watching them—with a glimmer in his eyes. Not surprise. Not jealousy. Recognition.

When he catches you staring, he grins. “It’s weird, right?”

You blink. “What?”

“This thing.” He gestures between all of you. “How it… moves.”

Hoseok stretches, cracking his neck. “Love’s not a straight line. It doesn’t have to stay where it started.”

You nod slowly, the pieces beginning to click.

“You’re switching out,” you murmur. “Yoongi and Namjoon are becoming… something. And you two—”

“Are not backups,” Jimin says, playful but firm. “This isn’t musical chairs.”

“Or boyfriend roulette,” Hoseok adds, reaching for your hand and threading his fingers through yours. “No one’s replacing anyone.”

Jimin nods. “This is just… you learning that your heart has more space than you thought.”

You glance down at their hands. The way Hoseok’s thumb is brushing Jimin’s knuckle. The easy affection. The comfort.

“You two are together.”

Jimin shrugs, smiling gently. “Yeah.”

“And you’re okay with… me being here too?”

“Are you?” Hoseok asks, tilting his head.

You open your mouth, then close it. Because…You are.

It’s different. So different from the slow burn of Namjoon and the quiet gravity of Yoongi. Jimin and Hoseok feel like kisses that don’t need permission, like laughter that presses into skin, like you’re allowed to feel everything at once.

You nod slowly. “I think I like it.”

Jimin beams. “You will.”

And before you can ask what he means, Hoseok leans in and kisses you.

Soft. Confident. Certain.

When he pulls back, Jimin leans forward too, eyes sparkling. “May I?”

You nod.

His kiss is different—sweeter, slower, lingering like a promise.

They both settle beside you, one on each side. Like you’ve always belonged here.

And across the room, you see Namjoon nudge Yoongi’s arm with his knee. Yoongi doesn’t pull away.

He smiles.

And your chest expands with something you didn’t know you were missing.

You aren’t losing anyone.
You’re gaining something else entirely.

By the time the sun fully claims the sky, it’s clear no one’s in a rush to leave.

Namjoon’s half-curled in a chair, flipping through a poetry collection. Yoongi’s on the floor beside him, head leaned back, eyes closed. The morning moves slowly, stretching into something too soft to disturb.

But it’s Jimin who finally says, “We’re kidnapping her.”

Hoseok raises a brow. “Is it kidnapping if she wants to come?”

You glance at them from your spot on the couch. “Where are we going?”

Hoseok’s grin is boyish, bright. “Home.”

Jimin nods like it’s obvious. “Ours.”

You don’t take much. Just sleep shorts, a hoodie that still smells like Yoongi and a book Namjoon insists you borrow. When you say goodbye, they both hug you at once—Yoongi’s arms snug and grounding, Namjoon’s broad and warm.

Yoongi whispers, “Text me when you get there.”

Namjoon presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “And come back.”

Then you’re in Hoseok’s car, Jimin fiddling with the playlist, laughter already starting to bubble up again.

Hoseok’s place is exactly like him:
Big windows, open light, clean lines, and hidden surprises.

The moment the door clicks shut, Jimin sighs and throws himself backward onto the plush white couch. “We live here now.”

You raise a brow. “Isn’t this your place?”

Jimin shrugs. “It’s ours,” he says, then pats the space beside him. “Now it’s yours, too.”

Hoseok emerges from the kitchen with smoothies and that smile that makes you feel like the sun personally picked you to shine on.

“I don’t know what you like,” he says, handing you a glass, “so I made my favorite.”

You take a sip—and laugh. “It tastes like mango joy.”

“Exactly,” Hoseok beams.

The hours melt. You drift through the day with no demands. No pressure.

Jimin curls up against you during a movie. Hoseok plays with your fingers while you all scroll on your phones. Somewhere around dusk, you cook dinner together, moving around the kitchen like you’ve always belonged there.

They touch you often—gentle, casual, deliberate. A brush of knuckles. A hand on your waist. A kiss to your temple.

You think maybe it should overwhelm you.

But instead… you feel steady. Chosen.

That night, you all fall asleep in the massive bed, tangled and warm.

Jimin’s arm is around your middle. Hoseok’s breath is on your neck. Their legs tangle somewhere near your feet. It’s not tight—it’s comforting. Familiar.

At one point, you stir. And so do they.

Jimin whispers, “Can’t sleep?”

You shake your head, voice low. “Still getting used to this.”

Hoseok hums sleepily, rubbing your back. “Used to what?”

“This…” You exhale. “Not choosing. Just feeling. Just… being.”

There’s a pause.

Then Hoseok, soft and certain: “You don’t have to choose. You only have to want.”

“Love doesn’t fall in lines,” Jimin says quietly. “It moves… like shifting gravity.”

You close your eyes.

And this time, you fall asleep smiling.

The next morning, it’s pancakes and sleepy kisses and no one checks the time. You wear one of Hoseok’s hoodies. Jimin wears nothing but shorts and cheeky grins. When you ask if they do this every weekend, Jimin leans in and kisses your nose.

“We do now.”

Hoseok adds, “Only if you’re here.”

And you realize something quietly enormous.

You’re not being shared.
You’re being held.
Differently, wildly, fully—
But just as truly.

That evening, the three of you curl up in the same bed again.

As you drift, wrapped in lips and laughter and long exhales, you wonder—

What would the others think?

What would Taehyung say?

But for now…

You’re not in that conversation yet.

You’re here.

And you’re loved.

Namjoon

Namjoon doesn’t go home after you leave for Hoseok’s.

He doesn’t go back to Yoongi’s either.

Instead, he drives.

Out of the city. Past the river. Into the hills where Seoul begins to fall away and the buildings thin into silence.

He doesn’t call ahead. He doesn’t need to.

Jin always knows.

When Namjoon reaches the door, it opens before he can knock.

Jin just looks at him for a moment—long enough to see everything.

“You look tired,” he says.

Namjoon exhales. “That’s one word for it.”

Jin steps back and lets him in.

The apartment smells like something warm—soy and garlic, maybe. A pot bubbles gently on the stove. Jin always cooks too much, especially when he’s thinking. Or worrying.

He sets out two bowls without asking. Spoons. Kimchi. A side dish that’s probably too spicy but comfortingly familiar.

Namjoon sits down like his body remembers how.

Halfway through eating, Jin finally says it.

“It’s Taehyung, isn’t it?”

Namjoon doesn’t look up right away. “How did you—”

“You only come here when it’s about him. Or me. Or both.”

Namjoon sets down his spoon.

He doesn’t say anything for a while.

And Jin doesn’t press.

Because that’s how they’ve always worked. They talk best in silences. In sideways glances and shared history and the weight of time.

Finally, Namjoon speaks.

“He kissed Jungkook.”

Jin pauses. Waits.

“And then he hit me.”

That makes Jin stop chewing.

Namjoon laughs once. Hollow. “I know. Romantic, right?”

Jin leans back, watching him. “And you?”

“I want to kiss him back.”

A beat. Then—

“But he is not ready.”

Jin raises a brow.

“I mean—” Namjoon sighs. “He ran away after one kiss. And punched me for kissing her as if I didn’t mean for it to matter him.”

Jin’s voice is quiet. “But you do.”

Namjoon nods. Looks down at his bowl.

“I hope, but I’ve been avoiding it. Avoiding him. But the label called. They’re ready. It’s time for him to come back.”

“To BTS?”

Namjoon lifts his eyes.

“To us.”

Jin doesn’t smile. Not really. But something in him softens. Like the air’s shifted.

He reaches for Namjoon’s wrist. Covers it with his hand.

“Then you need to fix it.”

Namjoon swallows. “What if I don’t know how?”

Jin squeezes gently. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

Namjoon studies him.

This man who once stood at the front of the group. Who shielded them with laughter and loud jokes and a heart too big for his body.

“I need you to come home to Seoul,” Namjoon tells his Hyung. “Comfe home to me…us.”

Namjoon leans in and wraps his arms around Jin’s shoulders like it’s been months (because it has), and Jin buries his face in Namjoon’s neck like he’s letting go of something heavy.

They clutch each other.

No one watching would call it brotherly.

Not quite.

Not just.

It’s more than comfort. More than memory.

It’s a grief shared and survived. A tether that never frayed, even when distance tried to cut it.

Jin doesn’t let go first.

Neither does Namjoon.

They just breathe in sync, quietly.

Until the soup grows cold and the sun disappears behind the curtains.

Taehyung

Taehyung doesn’t hear the knock.

Mostly because there isn’t one.

He’s curled on Jimin’s couch, half-asleep with his phone in his hand, when the lock clicks.

The sound is soft. But somehow, it cuts through the air like thunder.

He sits up.

Slow. Heavy.

Jimin still hasn’t come home.

He’d told himself that didn’t mean anything. That Jimin was probably with Hoseok, or maybe… with you. That just because the silence stretched didn’t mean it had shape or meaning.

But when the door opens—

When he sees them—

All the pretending unravels in an instant.

Namjoon steps inside first.

Then Jungkook.

They close the door behind them. No fanfare. No noise.

Just presence.

Heavy and deliberate.

Taehyung doesn’t move.

He doesn’t blink.

Jungkook stays near the door, hands shoved into his pockets. He looks… nervous. Tense in the jaw. Tired in the eyes.

Namjoon, though—

Namjoon looks steady.

Determined.

He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t even look away.

He just speaks.

“We’re here to talk.”

Taehyung’s throat tightens. “About what?”

Jungkook’s voice is quiet. “The punch.”

Namjoon doesn’t flinch. “And the kiss.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty.

It rings.

Like a gun cocked but not fired.

Like breath held in a room about to break.

Taehyung’s expression doesn’t change.

But his hands curl into fists at his sides.

And then—

💜 To be continued. 💜

Chapter Text

Taehyung’s hands curl into fists at his sides.

And then—

“Why are you here?” His voice is rough. Like it got caught somewhere between anger and exhaustion. “You got what you wanted.”

“No,” Namjoon says. “We didn’t.”

Taehyung laughs. Just once. Sharp and humorless. “You got to kiss the girl. Jungkook got to kiss me. What more is there?”

“There’s the truth,” Jungkook says quietly.

Taehyung finally looks at him.

It’s not the look Jungkook’s braced for. Not rage. Not heartbreak. Just… confusion. Like something’s short-circuited in his chest and he hasn’t figured out how to speak the smoke.

“You kissed me,” Taehyung says. His voice is softer now. But that doesn’t mean it’s gentle. “You. Kissed. Me.”

“I know,” Jungkook says. “And you kissed me back.”

The room stutters.

Namjoon doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step in.

Taehyung’s mouth opens—then closes.

He shifts his weight like he’s about to stand, then changes his mind. Or maybe he just can’t decide what to do with the gravity in his limbs.

“Why now?” Taehyung asks. “Why any of this?”

Namjoon’s gaze is steady. “Because you’ve been screaming without a voice, and we finally heard you.”

Taehyung stares at him.

And maybe it’s the word we. Or maybe it’s the word finally.

But something in him wavers.

“Don’t make me say it,” he mutters.

“Say what?” Jungkook asks gently.

Taehyung’s voice drops. Barely audible. “That I didn’t bring Namjoon to the threesomes because I was afraid.”

The air goes still.

Namjoon swallows. But he doesn’t look away.

“You didn’t want to see me with anyone else,” Namjoon says, voice quiet.

Taehyung’s breath catches.

“And then you saw me kiss her,” Namjoon adds. “And everything broke.”

“I’m not in love with you,” Taehyung says—fast, defensive. Too fast.

“Not yet,” Namjoon answers. “But you could be.”

Taehyung blinks.

“And maybe,” Namjoon adds, stepping forward just once, “that’s what hurt the most.”

Jungkook watches it all unfold, jaw tense.

Taehyung closes his eyes. Just for a moment. Like he’s trying to breathe through a truth that doesn’t want to stay buried anymore.

Then—

He turns toward the window. “You should go.”

“No,” Jungkook says.

Taehyung turns slowly. “What?”

“You asked why,” Jungkook says, voice firmer now. “Why I kissed you.”

Taehyung says nothing.

Jungkook steps forward. “It’s because I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to finally do it.”

Namjoon doesn’t interrupt.

Taehyung’s chest lifts, then drops like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” Jungkook says. “I was trying to tell you something I didn’t know how to say.”

Taehyung doesn’t respond.

Not with words.

But something in his shoulders slumps. The corner of his mouth twitches like it wants to say something, anything.

Instead he says nothing.

Not yet.

And the silence returns. Tense. Pressurized. Like a second heartbeat thrumming under the floorboards.

Jungkook looks to Namjoon, and Namjoon gives a single, quiet nod.

And then—slowly, carefully—Jungkook walks toward the couch where Taehyung still stands.

Taehyung doesn’t back away.

But he doesn’t move forward either.

He just watches Jungkook come closer.

Taehyung’s eyes flick between them.

Jungkook is closer now—close enough to reach out, but he doesn’t.

Namjoon hasn’t moved since stepping inside. He doesn’t need to. His presence is steady. Rooted. Taehyung has always been a storm; Namjoon has always been the ground beneath him.

“You didn’t just kiss me,” Taehyung says, voice thin. “You looked at me like…”

“Like I meant it,” Jungkook says.

Taehyung flinches.

Namjoon steps forward now. Just one step. Enough to enter the gravity between them.

“We’re not trying to corner you,” he says. “But we’re done pretending this isn’t real.”

Taehyung opens his mouth—but nothing comes out.

Namjoon’s voice stays calm, but it cuts deep. “You’re not confused because you don’t know how you feel. You’re confused because you do.”

Taehyung finally snaps, “You don’t know what I feel.”

“You love us,” Jungkook says, soft but sure. “Both of us.”

Taehyung’s whole body jolts—like it hurt to hear it said aloud.

Like it shouldn’t be true.

Like it is.

His breath stutters. “I can’t.”

“But you do,” Namjoon says. “And that doesn’t make you broken, Tae. That makes you brave.”

Taehyung shakes his head. He backs toward the kitchen counter, like the distance might save him. “No—no, you don’t understand. I thought I loved you both separately. You and me were one thing. And Jungkook—”

“Was supposed to stay safe,” Jungkook finishes for him. “Because I never pushed. Never kissed you until you couldn’t ignore it anymore.”

Taehyung clutches the edge of the counter. “Why now?”

Jungkook’s eyes are warm. But they shine like tears. “Because I saw you breaking trying to hold all this in.”

“I can’t love both of you.”

Namjoon’s voice is low. “You already do.”

That’s when Taehyung shatters.

His knees buckle just slightly. His hand hits the counter like he needs it to stay upright. His chest caves inward, like something just cracked open.

And then—

“Namjoon,” he whispers.

Namjoon moves toward him.

Taehyung doesn’t step back.

“Please,” Taehyung says, the word thin and pleading and honest. “I don’t know how to—”

Namjoon’s hand comes to his shoulder, firm and grounding.

“You don’t have to do anything right now,” Namjoon says. “Just feel what you feel.”

Taehyung’s breath hitches. He looks at his leader, “Namjoon…please.”

Namjoon softens. “It’s okay. You can go.”

Taehyung’s head jerks up. “Really?”

“You can run, if you need to,” Namjoon says. “Just know that we’re not chasing you but we are waiting.”

Jungkook nods, his voice barely a whisper. “We’ll be here.”

And then, without another word…

Taehyung bolts.

He grabs his jacket, doesn’t look at either of them, and slips out the door.

The silence that follows is cavernous.

Like something sacred just broke.

Like something holy is still waiting to be born.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

The morning is quiet—rare and rarefied. No texts. No knocks. Just you and a playlist humming softly through the apartment as you wipe down the counter for the third time. The calm feels borrowed, like something precious you’re not sure how long you’re allowed to keep.

So when the knock comes, you flinch.

You aren’t dressed for company. Just one of Namjoon’s old shirts and a pair of sleep shorts. But when you open the door, you don’t care.

Because it’s him.

Namjoon’s standing there—broad, rumpled, eyes tired but warm. And behind him, awkward as a teenager on his first day of school, is Jungkook.

You open your mouth to say something, but Namjoon doesn’t wait.

He pulls you into a hug that feels like falling into the deep end of a pool you trust not to drown you. His arms wrap tight around your waist, his chin resting briefly on your shoulder. His breath hits your ear before his words do.

“I needed this.”

You blink hard, hands curling into his back. “Me too, always.”

He pulls back just enough to press a kiss to your forehead, then looks past you into the apartment. “You have coffee?”

You snort. “Always.”

Namjoon winks. “I’ll make myself an Americano.”

Jungkook steps forward. “I can—”

Namjoon cuts him off gently. “Nah. Stay. Talk.”

He disappears into the kitchen like it’s his place. Maybe it is.

That leaves you and Jungkook.

Alone.

You cross your arms, heart weirdly steady even though everything between you is jagged and too quiet.

Jungkook stands just inside the door, fingers twitching at his sides. He glances around, then meets your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The words are small. But they land heavy.

You nod slowly. “Good start.”

He exhales, almost a laugh. “I didn’t know how to face you. Not after… everything.”

You let the silence stretch before stepping closer. “You kissed my boyfriend.”

Jungkook winces. “I know.”

“And he kissed you back.”

His gaze flickers, but he doesn’t deny it. “I know.”

You pause. Then: “Do you regret it?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “No.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“I regret how it hurt you,” he says quickly. “I regret not saying something sooner. But the kiss?” He swallows. “That changed everything. For all of us. It cracked something open. It finally made us stop pretending.”

You study him.

This is the man who’s always been hardest to pin down, golden and slippery and more vulnerable than he lets on. And now he’s standing here like he’s ready to stop running.

“What do you want, Jungkook?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hesitate.

“Everything.”

The word drops like a stone into a still lake. Ripples. Echoes.

You don’t move for a second. Then you do.

You step into his space, lift your hand to his jaw and he leans into it like he’s been waiting for the permission.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not a question.

It’s not an apology.

It’s Jungkook.

Certain and wild and soft and hungry all at once. Like he’s writing his name on your skin in a language only he speaks.

And you kiss him back.

Because this maze of hearts may be complicated.

But this?

This part is clear.

Taehyung doesn’t knock.

He barely remembers how he got here. Just that his feet moved when his heart couldn’t. That the echo of Namjoon’s voice and the weight of Jungkook’s confession had crushed something in his chest so completely, he had to escape before it all showed on his face.

Before they saw him unravel.

The door is unlocked.

Jimin always leaves it that way.

Inside, the lights are low, and the scent of something soft lingers like fabric softener, maybe. Or Jimin’s shampoo. Or safety.

Jimin is on the couch with a book, one knee pulled up, glasses sliding down his nose. He doesn’t look surprised when Taehyung walks in.

“Hey,” Jimin says, calm as ever, like Taehyung didn’t run out on everyone an hour ago.

Taehyung doesn’t answer.

He just stands in the doorway.

He doesn’t know what he looks like—wrecked, probably. Split down the middle. He can’t explain what he’s doing here or what he wants. Just that he couldn’t go anywhere else.

Jimin waits. He closes his book. Gently sets it aside.

He doesn’t ask what happened.

He doesn’t say I told you so.

Then: “Come here.”

Taehyung obeys before he knows he’s moving.

Jimin pulls him down onto the couch, lets him fold into his arms like something fragile. Doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t push.

Just holds.

And slowly, the shaking in Taehyung’s limbs starts to still.

It takes a long time before he speaks.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he says, voice rough.

“I know.”

“I thought… I thought I was just mad. That Jungkook kissed me. That Namjoon kissed my girl. But I wasn’t just mad.”

“I know.”

“I was hurt. And confused. And—”

“Scared,” Jimin finishes, his voice quiet but sure.

Taehyung nods into his shoulder. “Why is it so hard to believe I can be loved like that? I’m an Idol in BTS! I believe that I’m loved by millions but this thing between the 8 of us…”

Jimin’s thumb traces a circle between his shoulder blades. “The love of ARMY is real but it’s also a love based on your talent and looks and what you allow them to see. I—we see all of you. Beyond your talent. Beyond your looks. We see that special thing that makes you Kim Taehyung. It’s hard to believe because it’s easier to think you’re the problem than to believe someone sees you fully and still stays…

“7 someones who see me..” Taehyung absorbs.

Jimin nods. “And stays. It’s been you running, Taehyung, not all of us.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty, it’s heavy with the weight of everything unspoken.

“I felt stupid,” he says. “Like I was the only one who didn’t understand what we were all becoming.”

“You weren’t. This isn’t easy to understand or accept.”

Taehyung pulls back enough to see his face. “Still! Why didn’t anyone say anything?”

Jimin looks at him for a long beat.

Then smiles.

“Because we were all afraid to admit we wanted more.”

Taehyung blinks, eyes wet. “And now?”

“Now,” Jimin says, brushing a thumb across his lips, “we’re finally telling the truth.”

The silence hums between them.

Jimin’s hand stays at his jaw. Gentle. Steady.

Taehyung’s breath hitches. “What if I don’t know what I want?”

“That’s okay.”

“What if I do?”

Jimin leans in. “Then take it.”

And Taehyung does.

He kisses Jimin

It starts like hesitation—but ends like a landing.

Not frantic. Not confused.

Just real.

Jimin melts into it, his hand cradling the back of Taehyung’s neck. They breathe the same air. Hold the same ache.

When they part, Jimin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Because for the first time in weeks, Taehyung’s eyes are clear.

Centered.

Still scared—but not lost.

Jimin brushes his nose gently against Taehyung’s. “You’re allowed to feel everything. Just stop running.”

Taehyung nods.

“I’ll try.”

Wrap it up or keep the story going? Let me know in the comments. 💜💜💜

Chapter Text

You’re stirring agave into tea when it happens.

It’s quiet in the “dorm” kitchen. It’s just you, the sound of the spoon against the mug, and the faint hum of the fridge. The morning light spills soft and gold across the counter, catching in the steam that curls upward like breath held too long.

And then—

You feel it.

Not footsteps. Not sound.

Just presence.

That strange tightening in your chest. That quiet tug in your ribs, like something remembered rather than sensed.

You turn—slow, hopeful, afraid.

And there he is.

Kim Seokjin.

Duffle slung over one shoulder. Hair a little longer. Eyes as unreadable as ever. He looks… good. A little tired. Tanned from somewhere warmer. Like a man who’s been living just far enough, he forgot how sharp it hurts to come back.

He sees you.

You wait—for a smile, a nod, a joke. But Jin just walks past.

No greeting.

No hello.

Not even a nod of acknowledgement.

Your throat tightens before you can stop it. You grip the counter like it might keep you upright.

“Jin-hyung?” Yoongi calls from the living room..

Jin hums in response, the sound barely more than breath, and disappears around the corner toward the bedrooms.

Like nothing happened.

Like

never happened.

You swallow hard, still holding your spoon midair. The tea’s long forgotten. The sweetness on your tongue suddenly tastes like ash.

Because you recognize his cologne, you remember everything.

You couldn’t differentiate between the men your lover brought to your bed back in the blindfold days. But there was a lover whose scent stood out and whose touch you remembered.

How careful he was with your body. How reverent with your name. How once he cried out when you touched him, and whispered that no one had ever stayed when he was no longer funny.

And now?

Now he won’t even look at you.

You hear laughter from the hall—someone greeting him with warmth, easy and whole.

You want to be happy for them.

You do.

But something inside you that was soft and scared and still starts to whisper.

What if they don’t need you anymore?

Not as a secret. Not as a lover. Not as the quiet in their chaos or the gravity they could orbit.

What if Jin doesn’t like you with his members.

You don’t cry.

You don’t say a word.

You just pour the tea into the sink and start boiling water for a new cup, like nothing happened.

But your hands shake the whole time.

The studio meeting room isn’t built for tension, but it holds it anyway.
Long glass table. Neat rows of chairs. Whiteboard wiped clean. It should feel productive. Safe. Routine.

But the moment Jin walks in, it’s like a string is pulled taut across the room.

Hoseok feels it snap under his skin.

Namjoon is already seated, flipping through the comeback agenda on his tablet. Jungkook’s tapping out a melody on the table. Yoongi is half asleep in the corner, and Jimin’s spinning a pen between his fingers, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

And then Jin walks in, looking rested. Calm. Like the last few months were a long, sunny vacation.

Hoseok feels his jaw tighten.

“Hyung,” Jungkook greets, cheerful.

Yoongi gives a nod. Jimin smiles faintly.

Namjoon stands, offers a quiet, “Welcome home.”

And Jin smiles back. “Good to be back.”

Hoseok doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

But Jin’s eyes find him just for a second. And Hoseok sees nothing in them.

No apology. No acknowledgment. Not even guilt.

Just a flicker. Like Hoseok is no more than another face in the room.

The heat rises fast beneath his ribs, behind his teeth. Sharp and sudden.

Namjoon starts outlining the spring comeback schedule. Song drafts. Group rehearsals. Possible photo concept shoots. He’s mid-sentence when Hoseok finally speaks.

“Are we just going to pretend like you didn’t disappear?”

The room freezes.

Jimin’s pen drops. Jungkook stops tapping. Yoongi lifts one eyebrow and sits up straighter.

Jin blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Hoseok says, voice low, cold. “You left for your tour and didn’t say goodbye. To any of us. To me.”

Namjoon rubs his temples. “Hobi—”

“No.” Hoseok cuts in, louder now. “This isn’t just about the tour. This is about the night before. When you came to me. When you fucked me like I meant something.”

Jin’s face doesn’t move, but his eyes narrow just a little.

“And then you left,” Hoseok spits. “Without a word. Not a message. Not even a goodbye.”

“I didn’t realize we were in a relationship,” Jin says flatly.

It’s a slap. A gut-punch of a sentence. Hoseok reels.

“We weren’t,” Hoseok says. “But you knew how I felt. You knew I don’t just—” His voice breaks. “I don’t just sleep with people for fun.”

Silence.

Namjoon stands slowly. “Maybe this isn’t the right place—”

“No,” Hoseok says, eyes locked on Jin. “I want to hear it from him. Tell me you didn’t know I cared. Tell me you didn’t use me.”

Jin exhales slowly. “I knew. And I left because I didn’t want to be what you were starting to see me as.”

“That’s bullshit,” Hoseok snaps. “You didn’t leave to protect me. You left to protect yourself.”

Jin’s jaw tightens. “Maybe I did.”

And that’s it. No defense. No apology. Just brutal honesty, cold and final.

Namjoon steps between them, hands up. “Enough. We’re not doing this here.”

Hoseok scoffs and turns away, grabbing his phone from the table.

“I’m done,” he mutters. “I’ll rehearse when you figure out how to be honest with each other.”

He’s gone before anyone can stop him.

The room stays still for a long time.

Jin doesn’t move.

Namjoon finally drops into his chair, heavy with disappointment. “Great start.”

Jimin lets out a breath and quietly starts gathering the papers Namjoon scattered during the shouting.

And Jin?

Jin just sits there.

Expression unreadable.

As if he knows something they don’t.

As if he’s the one who’ll have to pay for what was said and what wasn’t.

Your apartment is unusually quiet.

No music playing. No laundry running. No phone buzzing with messages from half of BTS. Just you, a fresh cup of coffee, and the rhythmic sweep of a sponge over your kitchen counter.

It’s… peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

You pause to wipe your hands on a towel just as the buzzer rings.

When you open the door, Namjoon is already stepping inside.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even take off his shoes.

Namjoon walks straight to you his shoulders tense, face unreadable and pulls you into his arms like he’s finally allowed to breathe.

You hug Namjoon, willingly.

Your chin slots against his chest. His hands find your lower back.

And after a long, quiet moment, Namjoon exhales into your hair and whispers:

“I needed this.”

You don’t ask why, not yet.

You simply guide him to the couch. He drops down with a sigh and lets his head fall into your lap like it belongs there. Namjoon lays his head in your lap like he’s done this a thousand times.

You run your fingers through his hair, gently. Soothing. Soft.

He closes his eyes.

You have a surreal moment where you remember RM of BTS is leaning on you for support. 🤯

“What happened?” you ask finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Everything,” he says. “And not enough.”

You wait.

“It was the first meeting with Jin. It… didn’t go well.”

You hum. You’d heard he was back in Seoul. But Namjoon’s tone says this is more than just a rough creative session.

“He didn’t even look at me when he walked in,” Namjoon murmurs. “Not really. And Hoseok..! Hoseok exploded! They’ve got history I didn’t even know about, and it came out like a landmine.”

You don’t interrupt.

Namjoon’s hand finds yours like he needs to anchor himself to the one person who hasn’t changed this week.

“I’m trying,” he says. “To be the leader. To hold space for everyone. But Jin’s ice-cold, Hoseok’s furious, Jimin’s distracted, Taehyung’s coming apart, and Jungkook…”

You glance down at him.

“Jungkook?”

Namjoon hesitates. “He’s in love. And scared. And trying not to lose the people he finally let himself want.”

You brush your thumb across his temple. “And you?”

He opens his eyes. They’re tired. So tired.

“I’m in love too,” he says. “With all of you. And I don’t know how to carry that and lead a band and keep from falling apart.”

With all of you. Meaning including you.

You lean down and press a kiss to his temple.

Then another.

Then one more for good measure.

“You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Namjoon laughs softly. “You keep saying that. And I keep forgetting how much it matters.”

You hold him until the weight in his shoulders lessens. Until the sharpness in his eyes softens. Until the man who walked in heavy with the world feels light enough to lean into you again.

Outside, the city moves.

Inside, Namjoon rests.

And for one quiet hour, he lets himself believe that love doesn’t always have to hurt.

Because it never hurts, not when Namjoon is with you.

Taehyung is halfway through making tea when you knock.

He doesn’t answer at first.

You knock again—gently, rhythmically—and this time, you hear soft footsteps pad across the floor.

When the door opens, he looks surprised to see you. Not annoyed. Not cold. Just… startled. Like he hadn’t prepared himself for the possibility of you.

You’re not sure if that hurts or helps.

He steps aside without a word, and you slip into the quiet of his apartment. The lights are low. Jazz hums from a speaker in the corner—his signature kind of melancholy.

Taehyung goes back to the kettle, but his shoulders are rigid.

You watch him for a moment, then say, “We need to talk.”

He doesn’t look at you. “About what?”

You walk closer. “Me. You. BTS.”

He still doesn’t turn around—but his hand tightens around the edge of the counter.

“I don’t want to fight,” he murmurs.

“I’m not here to fight,” you say gently. “I’m here to understand.”

Taehyung finally turns, teacup in his hand, and meets your eyes. His expression is unreadable. That careful mask he wears when he’s unraveling inside.

“What’s left to understand?” he asks, too quietly. “That I punched Namjoon? That I kissed Jungkook? That I ran away from everything, again?”

You cross the space between you and take the tea from his hand, setting it on the counter behind him.

“You stopped running,” you say. “You came back.”

Taehyung swallows. Hard.

“I’m scared,” he admits. “That everyone’s moving forward and I’m still stuck on the things I never said. That I’m going to ruin everything because I don’t know how to share the people I love.”

Your breath catches.

Because there it is.

The truth that’s been circling both of you since Paris.

“You don’t have to figure it all out right now,” you whisper. “I just need to know if you want to.”

Taehyung blinks. His eyes shimmer.

“I do,” he says. “I just don’t know how.”

You reach for his hand.

And this time he doesn’t pull away.

His fingers slip through yours slowly. Tentatively.

But it’s a start.

A thread.

A moment of gravity shared between two people who’ve been circling each other for too long.

You take a steadying breath and say it:

“We need to talk about me, you, and BTS.”

Chapter Text

You

You don’t mean to say it like a cliffhanger.
But once the words are out, there’s no taking them back.

Taehyung stiffens, like the syllables hit him in a part of his body he thought was already numb. His mouth opens slightly, searching for air—or maybe a response. But the silence hangs between you, heavy and waiting.

You’re standing just inside his apartment, coat still on, heart thudding in your ears.

He gestures toward the couch, wordless, and you nod. You sit at opposite ends like strangers trying not to wake something asleep between you.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“Is that… supposed to start a conversation?” His voice is tight. Rawer than usual.

“It’s your line,” You meet his eyes. “But, it’s supposed to be honesty.”

Taehyung’s jaw clenches. He leans back, exhaling through his nose. “Okay. Talk.”

You hesitate for a second. Then:

“I’m in love with more than one of you.”

He flinches, barely, but doesn’t interrupt. So you go on.

“I didn’t plan this. I didn’t expect any of it. But the truth is, I love Namjoon. I love Yoongi. I think I’m falling for Hoseok and Jimin too. And I never stopped loving you.”

Taehyung doesn’t respond right away. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between heartbreak and disbelief.

“I thought you would anchor me,” he finally says. “That being with you would make the rest easier to ignore.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But I’m not an anchor, Tae. I’m as tangled as you are.”

His hands curl into fists on his knees. “So what does that mean? That we all… what? Share you?”

“This isn’t about ownership,” you say softly. “It’s about choosing each other every day. Even when it’s messy.”

He laughs once, sharp. “Messy doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“I didn’t come here to convince you of anything,” you say, voice trembling but steady. “I just needed to tell the truth. Because I don’t want to lie to you. Not anymore.”

Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He stays there for a long time.

When he looks up, his eyes are glassy.

“Do you still love me?”

You nod. “Yes. But it’s not simple anymore.”

He breathes out through his nose. Then reaches for your hand. You let him.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” he admits. “But I don’t want to lose you.”

“You don’t have to. I don’t want to lose you either.”

You sit together like that for a moment. Not lovers. Not strangers. Just two people trying not to drown under the weight of too many hearts.

Taehyung squeezes your hand.

A beat.

Then he whispers, “Thank you… for not lying.”

You lean in, and for a second, it feels like a kiss might happen.

But he pulls back.

“Not like this,” he says gently. “Not yet.”

You nod.

Because this—whatever this is—is still a beginning.

And neither of you are quite ready for the end.

Hoseok

The Seoul afternoon is weirdly quiet, the wind cool against Hoseok’s flushed skin. He stands alone on the rooftop of the HYBE building, arms folded, eyes fixed on the distant skyline like the city might have answers he can’t find in himself.

The door behind him creaks open.

He doesn’t turn.

Not even when he hears that familiar laugh—soft, awkward—drift across the roof.

“Thought I’d find you up here,” Jin says. “I almost brought a bag of peanuts so we could feed our feelings to the pigeons.”

Silence.

Hoseok doesn’t even glance back.

Jin’s smile falters. He steps forward cautiously. “I’m back.”

No response.

“Hobi—”

“Don’t.”

That single word slices through the air. Hoseok turns slowly, arms still crossed over his chest. His face is unreadable, but his eyes, his eyes are on fire.

Jin falters. “I—” He exhales sharply. “You’re really mad at me.”

“You think I’m mad?” Hoseok laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Mad would’ve been easier.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then Jin steps forward. He’s bold, moving like muscle memory is taking over, Jin wraps his arms around Hoseok’s shoulders, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry, Hoseok,” he murmurs. “I missed you. I missed you so much.”

He doesn’t wait.

Jin leans in and kisses him.

But it’s not returned.

Not even for a second.

Because the moment Jin’s lips touch his, Hoseok shoves him back with both hands and slaps him hard across the face.

Jin stumbles, stunned. A red mark already rising on his cheek.

Hoseok’s voice shakes—not from fear, but fury. From grief long held in. “How dare you?! Who told you that you could touch me?”

Rightfully a bit fearful, Jin takes a step forward. “Baby, I am so sorry.”

“Sorry for what, Jin? For caressing me like I was precious? For staring into my eyes like I was all that existed in your world? For making love to me then disappearing?”

His chest rises with ragged breath.

“Well, we didn’t make love, did we? You fucked me and then you left without a word. That showed me that what I thought I saw was a lie. What I thought you felt? It was a lie.”

He steps forward now, backing Jin into the roof’s railing.

“You wrecked me, Kim Seokjin. And you think I care that you missed me?”

Jin’s mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

Hoseok doesn’t give him time.

“You’re lucky that me and Jimin are solid. That Jimin is secure in our love. Because he had to take care of me after you left. I was a wreck. A complete mess. But that man loves me and he healed what you broke.”

His voice cracks at the edges now—but he doesn’t back down.

Jin finally speaks, voice low. “What can I do?” he asks, helpless. “Tell me what I can do to make this right. To make you forgive me.”

Hoseok stares at him for a long, aching moment.

“I don’t know,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

And then he turns.

Walks away.

Leaves Jin alone on the rooftop, fists trembling at his sides, heart pounding with the sting of truth.

But just as Hoseok reaches the door—

“Wait—”

Jin’s voice catches.

He can’t let him leave.

Not again.

But Hoseok does leave and slams the door

And in a breathless moment, he runs after him. Jin, runs after Hoseok, unwilling to let him go.

Namjoon

HYBE’s lounge hallway isn’t glamorous. It’s wide and sterile, full of modern furniture and muted grays—designed for tired idols to sit and reset before getting pulled back into studios, cameras, or chaos.

You’re at a table near the far window, half-eaten salad in front of you. Yoongi’s across from you, quiet but present, rhythmically peeling the label off his water bottle. Namjoon sits beside you, one arm slung casually over the back of your chair, his chopsticks poking absently at his rice bowl like he forgot to be hungry.

It’s peaceful. Almost.

But not really.

Because all three of you keep glancing at the elevator.

Yoongi breaks first. “How’d it go?”

You sigh, stirring your greens. “Better than I expected. Worse than I hoped.”

Namjoon hums, thoughtful. “So… still no kiss?”

“No kiss,” you echo, and try not to sound disappointed. “But a lot of truth. Taehyung’s trying. He just… doesn’t know where he fits anymore.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “Neither do any of us.”

“He’ll come around,” Namjoon says. “Tae always does. He just wants to know he’s still wanted.”

“He is,” you say quickly. “They all are.”

Yoongi meets your eyes for the first time since the conversation started. “Including Jin?”

You flinch.

Because you haven’t seen him. Not really. Not since he got back.

Before you can answer, the elevator dings.

Footsteps echo down the hallway.

And suddenly—whatever was happening on that rooftop is now happening here.

Hoseok storms down the hall, posture stiff, jaw clenched. Jin is right behind him, flushed and chasing.

“Hoseok—”

“Don’t,” Hoseok snaps without even turning around.

He brushes past your table like he doesn’t see you—doesn’t see anyone.

But Jin sees everything.

He halts mid-step when he catches sight of you, Yoongi, and Namjoon sitting frozen at the table. He hesitates.

Namjoon stands.

“Figure it out,” he says, low but clear. “Not here.”

“Or what?” Jin scoffs. “You’ll write me a lyric about boundaries?”

Yoongi narrows his eyes. “Try me.”

You’re about to say something—anything to stop the spiral—but Jin’s already stepping forward again.

“Is that what you want, Hoseok?” Jin calls after him, loud now. “A confession?”

Hoseok stops in his tracks.

The hallway goes dead silent.

“Fine,” Jin says, voice cracking. “I love you, Hoseok. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Hoseok turns slowly.

You feel Namjoon’s breath hitch beside you.

Every staff member in the hallway has frozen—some standing with open files, some with coffee cups mid-sip. No one moves. No one dares pull out a phone.

Because this isn’t just gossip. This is BTS.

Hoseok stalks forward. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to hit him again.

But Namjoon gets there first, grabbing Hoseok by the shoulders and whispering harshly, “You cannot do this here.”

Jin exhales sharply, as if realizing—maybe too late—just how public this all became.

Then, like it’s nothing, he straightens his posture and turns to the crowd.

“And… scene!” he announces with a grin. “Hoseok’s auditioning for a drama. I’m just the unpaid acting partner.”

He grabs Hoseok’s wrist and forces them into a theatrical bow. There’s a smattering of awkward applause from a few of the staff.

Hoseok looks like he wants the earth to swallow him whole.

Namjoon steps forward again, voice low and final.

“Get in the meeting room. Now.”

Jin drags his feet, but follows. Hoseok goes, barely containing his fury.

The door slams behind them.

Silence.

The moment the meeting room door slams shut, Namjoon turns the lock with a sharp click.

Not a metaphorical lock. A real one.

Jin blinks. “Did you just—”

“Yes.” Namjoon doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t have to. His disappointment hits harder than anger ever could. “I just locked you two in a fucking room. Because I’m the leader of BTS and apparently the only adult left.”

Hoseok scoffs, pacing like a caged animal. “You’re acting like this was my fault.”

“I don’t care whose fault it is,” Namjoon snaps. “You embarrassed the group in front of staff. You brought drama into HYBE’s main hallway.”

He rounds on Jin. “And you. You’ve been back for a week and you’re already starting fires like it’s 2016.”

Jin flinches. “I—”

“No. Save it for him,” Namjoon nods toward Hoseok. “Because I don’t want to hear it.”

He points between them. “BTS is coming back. We made a promise to ARMY. I don’t care how much unresolved tension or misplaced ego is between you right now—you’re going to sit in this room and figure it the fuck out.”

Then Namjoon exhales and straightens, hand on the doorknob.

He looks them both in the eye.

“I don’t want to be your babysitter,” he says. “But I will not let this group fall apart because you two can’t speak like grown men.”

And with that, he unlocks the door—but doesn’t open it.

He just walks out.

And lets it slam lock behind him.

Namjoon returns to the table like the weight of the entire group is draped across his shoulders. He rubs his forehead with one hand, the other braced on the chair beside you. His steps are slow, heavy with something he doesn’t have the words for yet.

Yoongi watches him without speaking. Then quietly slides his unopened water bottle across the table.

Namjoon takes it, unscrews the cap, and drinks like it’s the only thing tethering him to the moment.

You watch his throat work as he swallows. When he sets it down, you reach out, touching his wrist gently.

“Are you okay?”

He lets out a breath—deep and ragged.

“No,” he says. “Absolutely nothing is okay.”

There’s a pause. You want to say something comforting, but Namjoon is already shifting in his seat, angling toward you. The leader mask slips back into place, but just barely.

“Listen,” he says, voice low. “You and Taehyung had a moment today. A real one.”

You nod slowly.

“And me and him? We’re still… not there. Not even close.” His fingers tap anxiously against the bottle. “But you could help pull him back in. You already started.”

“I don’t know if he’s ready—”

“No one is ready,” he says. “But I’m asking you anyway.”

You glance at Yoongi. He doesn’t speak—but he nods.

Namjoon leans in, eyes searching yours.

“Please. Not everyone can be fighting right now.”

You close your eyes for a moment.

Then nod once.

“Okay. I’ll go.”

You

You knock.

Soft, uncertain. Like your heart is on the other side of the door, waiting for permission to come home.

Taehyung opens it in a hoodie and joggers, barefoot, curls still messy from the afternoon. He looks at you like he wasn’t expecting you and he doesn’t know whether to hope or hide.

“I—” you start, but he steps aside before you can finish.

You slip into the apartment. It’s quiet, the lights low. The scent of sandalwood clings to the air. A song you don’t recognize hums from the speaker in the corner—low, wordless, more feeling than melody.

“I talked to Namjoon,” you say after a moment.

Taehyung’s brow furrows.

“I told him about us. About earlier.”

He nods slowly and drops onto the edge of the couch like gravity suddenly remembered him. His hands hang loosely between his knees.

“I keep trying to pretend I don’t care,” he says. “But I do. So much it’s exhausting.”

You cross the room.

He looks up just as you lower yourself beside him.

“Taehyung,” you say, and the name feels like a promise. “I love you.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “You… do?”

“I always have. But I tried to ignore it. Tried to put all my feelings in boxes that would make this easier. Safer.” You breathe in. “But nothing about this is safe, is it?”

“No,” he whispers. “It never was.”

There’s a pause. One of those long ones where your eyes talk more than your mouths.

“I love you,” you say again, softer now. “And I want to be with you.”

His hand finds yours, tentative at first, then firmer. Like he’s holding on for balance in a world that never stopped spinning.

“I’ve missed being yours,” he says.

You smile. “You still are. If you want to be.”

He leans forward until his forehead presses to yours. His breath mingles with yours, shaky and warm.

You close your eyes.

The kiss is right there. So close you can taste it.

But then he pulls back.

Not far—just enough.

“Not yet,” he says gently. “It’s not perfect enough for our first kiss.”

You nod.

Because you understand.

Because some things are too real to rush.

He holds your hand tighter. “But soon,” he says. “Because this… is real.”

You smile.

And for the first time in days, it feels like not everything is broken.

“I love you,” he says again, staring into your eyes.

“And I love you,” you reply l wrapping your arms around him and vowing to never let him go, not again. You were stronger together.

Your love survived so much! Confusion, judgment and your love survived silence. You’re sure that you can and will survive anything because you and Taehyung are definitely meant to be.

Seokjin

The dorm is quiet.

Jin laughs a little about this connected hall of apartments being a dorm, but the members have their own individual homes but prefer to live together while working. So the dorm was built, custom made for having seven grown men living together. All of the members are here, including Taehyung so why was it so damn quiet?

Too quiet.

Jin leans against the kitchen counter, sipping a water bottle he doesn’t remember opening. The silence curls around him like a fog. Hoseok is in the next room too far to touch.

He doesn’t know how they got here. Not really. All he knows is that silence used to be comfort.

Now it’s punishment.

Hoseok appears in the doorway, damp hair clinging to his forehead from the shower. His eyes flick toward Jin, then away again.

Jin clears his throat. “Do you wanna talk?”

“No,” Hoseok says flatly, moving toward the bedroom.

But Jin doesn’t let him pass.

“Please, Hobi. We can’t keep pretending.”

“I’m not pretending,” Hoseok snaps. “I’m ignoring, you.”

Jin blocks the door, hand on the frame. “Why are you still so angry?”

Hoseok’s eyes flash. “You really don’t know?”

“I said I was sorry. I meant it.”

“And you think that fixes it?” Hoseok’s voice rises, sharp now. “You think one kiss and one apology undoes being ghosted after the most intimate night of my life?”

“Ok, I admit that I panicked!” Jin’s voice breaks through the quiet like thunder. “I didn’t know what it meant—what we were—”

“What we were?!” Hoseok shoves him, hard. “We were something. Maybe not labeled. Maybe not defined. But you knew I loved you.”

The silence after that is deafening.

Jin’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t know how to stay.”

Hoseok shoves him again. “Then you shouldn’t have come back!”

Jin grabs his wrists before he can push again. “Stop it!”

“Make me!”

And then it happens.

The shove becomes a grapple. The anger explodes into motion. Not a brawl—but messy, real, fueled by months of unspoken feelings. A scuffle born of heartbreak.

Fists don’t land—but shoulders collide. Hands grip. They stumble against the couch, Jin losing balance. Hoseok yells something—inaudible through the pounding of blood in his ears.

The front door bursts open.

“Hey! Hey!” your voice cuts through the chaos as you rush in. “What the hell is going on?!”

You reach them, physically pulling them apart. Hoseok backs off first, breathing hard, eyes glassy.

Jin leans against the wall, chest heaving, a welt rising under his jaw where Hoseok had landed a glancing elbow.

“What the hell do you want?” Hoseok spits. “Drama? Closure? What?! A scene? Do want everyone to know you’re trying, so they won’t get mad at you? What do you want?”

“You back!” Jin says quietly. “ I may not deserve you, but I want you back.”

“You don’t deserve me,” Hoseok snarls. “In fact not even my enemies deserve you!”

You put yourself between them—one hand on each chest—trying to steady two men made of powder keg emotions.

“Enough,” you say. “Not like this.”

They both look at you. Broken in different ways.

And for the first time, you realize…

This might not be the kind of pain that’s healed in one chapter.

This might be a scar that never fades.

And as you stand between them, between what was and is breaking, you fear that something’s unraveling, because maybe not every love survives silence.

Chapter Text

Taehyung

Incheon’s private terminal hums with low, efficient energy. Staff move in silence, faces masked, hands full of luggage and boarding manifests. BTS moves through it like muscle memory—habitual and precise—but it’s quieter than usual. No jokes. No bickering. Just tension dressed up in casualwear.

They wait in a sleek lounge built for CEOs and royalty. Leather seats, espresso machines, and glass walls overlooking the private runway. Still, the air feels heavier than usual.

Taehyung stands near the window, scrolling through his phone like it’s a lifeline.

Namjoon stretches, arms behind his head. “You calling her?”

Taehyung nods once. “I should’ve asked her to come.”

He walks off to the far corner, tapping in your number.

Your phone lights up just as you’re finishing breakfast. You answer with a cautious “Hey.”

“I’m sorry,” Taehyung says, no hesitation. “I should’ve said something. You should be here.”

You smile a little. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” he says. “We miss you already. I miss you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t have to.

“FaceTime?”

A second later, the screen fills with Taehyung’s face, then the inside of the plane. The other members quickly crowd around.

“Why aren’t you on board?” Jimin whines. “We had snacks. Namjoon packed a blanket.”

Namjoon leans in, voice soft. “It didn’t feel right without you.”

Yoongi appears behind them, expression neutral. “Next time, no one leaves without her.”

The call turns into a blur of jokes, interrupted by someone dropping a pastry, Hoseok muttering about too much cream cheese, Jimin calling it a betrayal.

You’re smiling the whole time. But deep down, it aches.

You look for Jin.

“Where is he?”

Everyone quiets, knowing exactly who “he” is.

“In the front cabin,” Hoseok says, looking off-screen.

Nobody adds anything else.

The call ends as the crew signals takeoff. Just like that, they’re gone.

Outside the plane window, a set of digital ads rotate over the tarmac’s VIP terminal.

Jimin nudges Yoongi, nodding toward the glass. “Hey, isn’t that Joshua?”

A Givenchy campaign flickers on-screen—Joshua in all white, wind-tousled hair and a midnight gaze. He looks like he stepped out of a fairy tale. The tagline:
“Elegance isn’t worn. It’s lived.”

“Pretty boy,” says Taehyung, the prettiest boy.

Jimin and Yoongi share a laugh at Taehyung’s expense.

The Givenchy ad fades, replaced by another faceless luxury logo. BTS doesn’t comment further.

They settle into their seats, the cabin doors closing with a gentle hiss.

Back in Seoul, your phone screen goes black.

And just like that, they’re gone.

Gone—but still with you.

Almost.

But not really.

The apartment feels too quiet without them.

You’d always assumed you loved silence—until it became the only voice in the room. Their laughter used to echo down the hallways, their voices overlapping as they fought over snacks, or playlists, or who got to sit next to you on the couch.

Now? Just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the dull click of your spoon against your cereal bowl.

You barely slept.

You don’t cry. You’re not mad. It’s not even that you were left behind—you weren’t invited. You understand why. Album work. Focus. Time away to recalibrate. Still, the absence presses against your ribs like too-tight fabric.

You blink down at your phone. No new texts. A single photo from Taehyung from the jet—Jimin with a face mask on, flipping off the camera. It’s sweet, in a low-effort way. You double-tap it, but you don’t reply.

A knock rattles the apartment door.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

When you open it, your grandmother is there—perfectly styled, like the queen of a K-drama chaebol matriarch. Her assistant stands behind her, tablet in hand, expression tight with stress. Your grandmother doesn’t wait for an invitation. She never does.

“Get dressed,” she says briskly, stepping into your apartment like it’s hers. “We’re behind schedule.”

You blink. “For what?”

She peers at you over her sunglasses. “Your wedding gala, obviously.”

“…My what?”

Your mother walks in next, arms full of garment bags. “Darling, don’t be difficult. It’s not an actual wedding. Just a curated introduction. It’s how high society handles matchmaking.”

You stare at them.

They’re serious.

Your grandmother waves at her assistant. “Show her the list.”

The tablet is turned toward you, displaying a spreadsheet of names, photos, companies, family histories, assets, and—wait.

“Did you send a dossier on me to all of these people?”

Your mother frowns. “Of course. They need to know who they’re courting. It’s not like you’re some nobody.”

Your voice sharpens. “And what’s this about a bonus?”

Your grandmother’s expression doesn’t even twitch. “A small incentive. Any gentleman who receives a second date with you gets a cash prize. And if they reach engagement? Well. They’ll be quite set.”

Your jaw drops. “So I’m the prize?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” your mother sighs. “It’s just how things are done.”

You turn away from them, gripping the edge of the kitchen island. They chatter on behind you—venues, florals, photographers already notified.

You don’t say anything.

Because what’s there to say?

BTS is on another continent.

And here, in Seoul, your family has started planning your future without them.

Yoongi

The LA sun is sharp enough to cut glass.

Inside the rented mansion’s grand living room, the boys are scattered across velvet couches, marble floors, and the edges of an oversized piano. The sound of a delivery drone hums in the distance, but no one moves until Jimin returns with a sleek white envelope, sealed with gold wax.

“It’s from Korea,” he says, holding it up. “No sender.”

Hoseok tilts his head. “Hybe?”

“Nope,” Jimin says, then tosses it on the table. “It’s addressed to Jin.”

Yoongi immediately stiffens. “Then don’t open it.”

Too late.

Jin walks in, hair damp from the pool, towel slung around his neck. He catches the envelope in one hand and slices the seal open with his fingernail, casual—until he sees what’s inside.

Then his whole body changes.

He drops the towel.

“What is it?” Namjoon asks.

Jin holds up the contents slowly. Thick cream-colored cardstock. Gilded lettering. A guest list. A QR code. A formal invitation to The Im Family Gala: A Marriage Introduction Event.

At the top: your name. Below it, in bold: “Eligible Heiress & Prospect for Engagement.”

A second page lists the attending suitors—actors, idols, CEOs, even a foreign prince.

“What the fuck is this?” Jin hisses.

Jimin grabs the page from his hands, eyes widening. “Wait—is she getting married?”

“It’s her mother,” Taehyung mutters, jaw tight. “I told you she was still trying to force a match.”

“She just left Korea. It’s been what, two days?” Jin’s voice cracks. “And they’re parading her like a prize?”

Hoseok sits up. “There’s a bonus if one of them gets a second date. Jesus.”

Yoongi takes the invitation next, flipping it over. “This isn’t her doing. She would’ve told us.”

Namjoon nods. “Exactly. This is manipulation. From her family. Not her.”

But Jin’s eyes are wild, unreadable. “So what—she’s just gonna… go along with it?”

“She’s probably mortified,” Jimin says. “You know how her family is.”

“No,” Jin snaps. “What I know is that while we’re here, trying to fix our shit, her family is lining up replacements.”

Namjoon stands slowly. “Don’t take this out on her.”

“Then who should I take it out on?” Jin snaps. “Because that list includes men who don’t share, don’t hide, don’t run. Men who don’t need to be forgiven.”

“Go, then,” Hoseok says suddenly. “Go to the damn gala.”

Jin blinks.

“You heard me,” Hoseok continues. “You think she’s being stolen? Then stop it. Be a man about it for once.”

Jin flinches at that.

He starts to walk away, muttering, “I’m not babysitting for you.”

Yoongi lifts the invitation again, scans the QR code with his phone, and smirks. “Invitation accepted. Just in case.”

Jin glares over his shoulder. “You didn’t have the right.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Didn’t want to leave it up to you. This is a democracy, Seokjin. Not a dictatorship.”

Jin rolled his eyes. He refused to go. They couldn’t make him.

Your family Estate gleams under chandelier moonlight.

It isn’t just a house — it’s a palace disguised as a simple residence. Cherry blossom trees line the cobblestone driveway, each branch dusted with imported petals for the aesthetic. A valet takes your shawl while another offers you champagne before you’ve even stepped through the door.

You’re drowning in silk and expectations. Your grandmother’s chosen custom hanbok gown cinches your waist like a political statement. And the heels — chosen by your mother — are not made for escape.

Inside, you scan the crowd of men invited to “meet you,” your presence clearly the axis of the event. A band plays soft jazz. Elegant men in black-tie attire approach like job applicants.

You’re not given a chance to breathe.

Candidate #1 is a hedge fund heir with too much confidence and too little humility. “Our companies could merge by Q3,” he says, as if your heart has a fiscal calendar.

Candidate #2 flashes a blinding smile and tells you that you’ll raise the children while he runs things. “Just until the boys are old enough to take over,” he says, holding his whiskey with the smugness of generational wealth.

Candidate #3 is unsettlingly honest. “You’re abnormally pretty,” he says with a grin. “The women in our family have always been beautiful. That’s why our children are too. I am, of course, an example of my bloodline’s perfection.”

You take another flute of champagne. And consider leaping out a window.

Then—

Joshua.

It isn’t dramatic.

It’s quiet.

A calm presence in the eye of the storm. The room seems to shift, conversations dropping by half a decibel as he approaches.

His Givenchy suit is cut like it was born on his skin. Effortless. Regal. He doesn’t reach for your hand like the others. Instead, he offers a small bow.

“Miss Im,” he says gently. “It’s an honor.”

You blink. He’s here for a bonus?

The Kpop group Seventeen was huge. Joshua couldn’t need your grandmother’s bonus would he? Then why was he here?

He smiles, and it’s the first real smile you’ve seen all night. “I got your dossier.”

Your cheeks burn. “You… what?”

Joshua chuckles. “Your grandmother sent it. I didn’t expect to read it. But something in your photo…” He hesitates, then says, “You have the loneliest eyes.”

The room suddenly feels much smaller. His gaze doesn’t pull at your body—it reaches your ribs and wraps around your lungs.

No one in BTS had ever said that.

No one had ever noticed.

You feel your walls strain.

But just then—
A voice cuts through the murmurs like silk on steel.

“Excuse me.”

Joshua steps aside as a new figure walks into your vision, and the world—your entire world—tilts.

Kim Seokjin.

There’s no announcement.

But there doesn’t need to be.

Everyone knows who he is.

He walks like royalty. Broad-shouldered in a tailored tuxedo, hair brushed back like every camera in the world might be watching. World Wide Handsome, yes, but tonight he’s dangerous.

He doesn’t look at Joshua.

He only looks at you.

And when he reaches you, he bows to you, just like the others.

“Miss Im,” he says, tone polite. Formal.

Like you’re strangers.

You’re too stunned to reply.

“I hope I’m not too late,” he adds.

Before you can speak, he reaches for your hand and you let him take it in his.

He leads you to the dance floor.

The crowd parts instinctively.

The music swells.

And suddenly, the gala becomes something else entirely — not an event, but a declaration.

Jin dances with you like you’re the only person in the world. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t flirt. But his touch is careful, his hold steady.

The room watches.

No one else dares approach.

Joshua watches too — his jaw tight, unreadable.

Jin’s fingers lace through yours and guide your body into motion. You’re not dancing.
No, you’re gliding. As if your body was just waiting for his to remind it how.

Jin doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smile. He looks at you the way someone watches a sunset they’ll never see again—memorizing, not expecting.

And he doesn’t let go.

Not for an hour. Not for two.

You don’t talk much. Just occasional eye contact. A few soft, closed-lip smiles. But you feel it. The claim. The possession. The protection.

You start to forget the bonus-hungry men.

You forget the stares.

You forget your grandmother at the top of the stairs, watching like a queen assessing a field of knights.

You forget everything… until someone taps Jin on the shoulder.

Joshua.

He’s smiling politely, but there’s no mistaking the steel in it.

“May I have this dance?” he asks you, not Jin.

Jin doesn’t flinch. He looks at you. Waits.

You nod.

Jin’s fingers slowly slide from yours, lingering for a second too long. Then he steps back.

Joshua takes his place.

And Jin does not return.

But his absence is louder than any words.

Every man who had been waiting in the wings slowly drifts away. None approach you again.

Because they saw him.

And because they saw how long he held on.

Now there was Joshua and he wasn’t letting go.

You would never cheat on BTS, so why did Joshua feel so incredibly dangerous.

You didn’t want to know. And you refused to ask yourself what it all meant.

Joshua leads you to the center of the floor with effortless grace, guiding you into the rhythm like he’s done this a hundred times. Because he has. He’s not the type to fumble, not the type to chase.

The two of you dance in near silence for several moments. His hand on your waist is light but assured. Your other hand rests in his, soft and secure.

Finally, Joshua speaks—quiet enough that only you can hear.

“I received a copy of your profile,” he says. “Your grandmother sent it with the invitation.”

You tense slightly. “Did she?”

He nods. “It was… thorough.”

You glance away, embarrassed. “Let me guess. She listed my blood type and college GPA?”

He smiles. “That… and a photo.”

You meet his eyes again, uncertain. “And what did you think?”

“I didn’t look twice at the stats. But the picture…” He tilts his head. “You had the loneliest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

The words hit you unexpectedly hard.

Joshua continues, still calm. “I’ve met people who know how to pose. Who can look perfect on camera. But your picture wasn’t like that. You weren’t trying to be chosen.”

“I wasn’t,” you whisper.

“I don’t think you want to be chosen,” he says. “I think you want to be seen.”

Your steps falter for half a second—but he steadies you without missing the beat.

“I’m not here for the bonus,” Joshua adds. “Or to secure a business merger.”

“Then why are you here?”

He spins you once, slow and deliberate.

“To see if your eyes still look like that in person.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because Joshua isn’t trying to seduce you. He’s not pressing or asking for anything. And that makes him more dangerous than anyone else in the room.

You dance for a few more minutes, then he gently releases your hand.

“Thank you for the dance,” he says. “Enjoy your evening.”

Then he bows—just slightly—and steps away.

You’re left standing in the center of a room full of men with polished shoes and sharper agendas… and yet the most dangerous one didn’t even ask for your number.

Because he didn’t need to.

The gala is finally winding down. Champagne flutes are half-full, the string quartet plays its final soft notes, and the clinking of crystal has been replaced by the low murmur of departing guests.

You needed air.

The estate’s upper balcony wraps around the ballroom like a veranda on a castle. You step outside barefoot, heels dangling from your fingers, the cool night air wrapping around your bare shoulders like a silk shawl.

Below you, the line of luxury cars seems endless. Drivers open doors with practiced bows. Men in designer suits, some of whom tried to charm you earlier, are now escorted into sleek black vehicles, their expensive cologne lingering in the air like forgotten promises.

You lean against the balustrade, watching them go one by one.

None of them mattered.

Not the heir who offered to combine companies.
Not the one who saw your face as an investment.
Not the one who said you were abnormally pretty like it was a diagnosis.

None of them mattered.

Except… maybe one.

A flutter of motion catches your eye—someone moving slowly toward the far edge of the estate drive, not rushing like the others.

It’s Joshua.

He’s speaking to his driver, one hand in his pocket, the other casually waving off the offer to be shielded by an umbrella. It’s misting slightly now, and the soft drizzle beads across the surface of his blazer.

Just before he steps into the car, he pauses.

And looks up.

Straight at you.

His gaze finds yours instantly, like he knew exactly where to look.

You freeze.

There’s a long breathless moment between you—just stillness, just knowing. The kind that doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t need answers. His eyes hold no arrogance, no challenge.

Just recognition.

A quiet storm.

Then, slowly, Joshua nods.

Not a bow. Not a farewell.

A promise.

And just like that, he gets into the car and disappears into the night.

You stand motionless, heart thudding in your chest, a breeze catching your dress like a whisper.

Whatever this thing is—whatever just sparked in the electric space between you and Joshua—it doesn’t feel like a fling.

It feels like danger.

You already have too many hearts in your hands.

You can’t hold another.

But what if this one doesn’t ask to be held?

What if it takes root all on its own?

Chapter Text

Jin

The air in the LA house was too still for Jin’s liking. Not silent, exactly—just thick. Stale. Full of things unsaid.

He dropped his suitcase near the front door and didn’t bother taking off his shoes. His sunglasses stayed on even though the foyer was dim, and when he passed the hallway mirror, he didn’t look at himself.

Namjoon found him in the kitchen, rooting through a drawer for a bottle opener like it owed him money.

“You’re back early,” Namjoon said carefully, leaning against the fridge.

Jin didn’t answer right away. He cracked open a bottle of something local and drank like it was water.

“How was the gala?”

“Extravagant,” Jin said flatly. “She comes from real money. The old, estate-kind. The kind that tastes like privilege and smells like power.”

“Wouldn’t you describe her that way?” Asked a new voice.

Jin looked at Yoongi with a frown, “how?”

“That she tastes like privilege and smells like power,” shrugs Yoongi. “It’s in her DNA.”

Namjoon nodded slowly. “Sounds… intense.”

Jin gave a humorless laugh. “You should’ve seen the people there. It felt like a court. You know, like royalty. She was the princess, and the rest of us—” He shook his head. “We were just suitors with decent shoes, hoping she’d glance our way.”

Namjoon and Yoongi didn’t say anything to that. Jin didn’t expect them to.

One by one, the others began to trickle in. Yoongi and Joon had clearly been together—they shared a glance before settling in. Then Jimin and Hobi wandered in from the gym or the yard, still glowing with sweat and too-loud laughter. Jungkook ducked in a few minutes later with a half-drunken smoothie and headphones around his neck.

They asked questions, casually at first. What was the food like? Did she look happy? Was the estate as huge as she’d described?

Jin kept his answers superficial, carefully walled off.

“Catered by a Michelin chef.”

“She wore something gold. She looked… fine.”

“The grounds were big. You’d get lost after sundown.”

But something in his voice gave Jin away. He didn’t sound nostalgic or fond. He sounded like he was trying not to flinch.

Yoongi narrowed his eyes first. “You left early, didn’t you?” he asked, like he already knew.

Jin shrugged. “Jet lag hit harder than I expected.”

“You don’t get jet lagged.”

“Maybe it wasn’t that, then.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to bite into. Jimin raised his eyebrows, Hoseok looked between them, and Jungkook glanced over at Namjoon like their leader should say something first.

Then the door creaked open, and Taehyung walked in. He greeted them all, but his gaze landed on Jin and didn’t move.

Jin took another swig, feeling the pressure of being the only one invited. “It was fine,” he said, too loudly, too seriously and too dramatically. “It was just… she was busy. She had to be. There were too many men to greet. Too many hands to shake. I was just… one of them.” Jin set the bottle down with a clink. “She didn’t ignore me. But I don’t know… There was this moment. I saw her dancing. With someone. And I thought they looked good together.”

Taehyung’s voice was calm but direct,
“Do you mean Joshua?”

Jin’s jaw flexed. “So you know.”

“I know what she told me, that Joshua was there.”

Jin looked away. “He looked at her like he knew something. Something I didn’t… or couldn’t.”

Yoongi spoke up then, soft but firm. “She told me it wasn’t like that.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Jin snapped. “I’m not accusing her.”

“Then what are you doing?”

Jin stared at the counter, not really seeing it.

“I’m just… trying to understand why watching her with Joshua made me feel like I didn’t matter at all.”

No one had anything to say to that. And for the first time since he walked through the door, Jin wished he’d stayed away a little longer.

His relationship with her had always felt different, strained and heavy. Jin couldn’t really understand how one woman was supposed to love seven men, equally. He didn’t believe it. Didn’t believe… her.

“She looked like a princess,” Jin says suddenly, wanting to make them understand. “Floating through her family’s estate like it was her throne. And I just—stood there. Like another suitor waiting for my turn.”

Namjoon hums, not unkindly. “You mean because of the press attention?”

Jin scoffs softly. “No. Not them, they stayed outside. I mean the men. Her men. The way they watched her, smiled at her. Like she belonged to the night. And she let them.” A bitter pause. “She let him.”

Yoongi drops onto the arm of the couch beside Namjoon. “You mean Joshua.”

Jin tenses. “So she told you.”

“She told Taehyung and me,” Yoongi says carefully. “Said it was innocent. Just a dance.”

“Nothing to worry about ” Taehyung says, tone sharpening slightly. “Why would she lie?”

Jin’s jaw tightens, the twitch in his cheek giving him away before he even speaks. He doesn’t answer right away.

“I think…” Jin says slowly, eyes fixed ahead, “…I think she told you about Joshua so I couldn’t tell you what I saw.”

Taehyung’s eyes flash. “What exactly do you think you saw, hyung?”

Jin doesn’t answer.

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably. “You think she was… trying to hide something?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant,” comes Hoseok’s voice. He’s leaning against the door frame, arms folded. His usually bright demeanor is unreadable now. “You think she got ahead of the story. Cut you off at the pass.”

Taehyung inhales sharply, and suddenly it clicks. Jin’s jealousy isn’t just about seeing his girlfriend dance with another man. It’s not even about the dance.

It’s about trust. Or the lack of it.

“You don’t believe her,” Taehyung says, staring at Jin. “You don’t think she was telling the truth.”

Jin doesn’t answer, but his silence is damning. His silence says no.

Hoseok breathes in and out, once. “You don’t trust her.”

The air goes still.

Jin looks down at the floor, the lines of his face hardening. “I want to. I really, really want to.”

Namjoon’s voice is quiet. “Then what’s stopping you?”

Jin doesn’t answer.

Because he does know what he saw. But more than that, he knows what he feels. And what he feels is that she danced too closely with another man — one who looked at her like he knew her. One who touched her as if they’d done it before.

He knows the look of shared history when he sees it.

But the others… they believe her. Trust her. Especially Taehyung.
And that, maybe, is what hurts most of all.

You wake to a slice of sun cutting through the thick curtains. For a second, the silence feels luxurious—clean sheets, familiar walls, the scent of home. But then your mind starts up again. And all you can think is:

Jin didn’t call.

Your phone is facedown on the nightstand, screen dim. You roll over and flip it.

Two missed calls. A dozen texts. Your mother. Your grandmother. Joshua.

Nothing from Jin.

You stare at the lock screen until it goes dark again.

A knock, light and polite.

“Come in,” you call, voice raw.

Joshua steps inside holding a tray: rice porridge, fruit, and green tea. He’s already dressed—hair swept back, collar sharp. A far cry from the chaos behind your eyes.

“Your grandmother insisted I bring this up myself,” he says with a smile. “She said you’re too delicate to face the morning on an empty stomach.”

You try to laugh, but it’s thin.

He sets the tray down on the side table and gives you space to sit up. You don’t meet his eyes.

Joshua doesn’t press. He perches on the edge of the chair near the window, not quite looking at you, not quite looking away.

“You left early last night,” he says gently.

You nod. “It was… a lot.”

There’s a pause. Then you blurt it out.

“My mom and grandma are trying to set me up again. They keep calling them ‘suitable matches.’”

Joshua gives you a half-smile. “I figured. That one guy was practically breathing down your neck during dinner.”

You groan into your hands. “I’m not looking.”

Joshua’s eyes flick to you. “No?”

“I’m taken,” you say, before you even think about it. Then you hesitate.

Are you?

He tilts his head. “By Jin?”

Your stomach flips. “No,” you say quickly. “By… by all of them.”

Joshua studies you for a moment. “That’s not how most people describe being taken.”

You go quiet. The porridge cools beside you, untouched.

“I’m not most people,” you say finally. “And neither are they.”

He nods once, understanding more than you expected—but not everything. You can feel the quiet question hanging in the room, but he doesn’t ask it.

Instead, he stands.

“Breakfast’s there if you want it,” he says. “I’m heading back soon. The others are meeting up later.”

“Joshua.”

He stops.

“I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. Last night—I didn’t mean to make things messy.”

He offers you a small, honest smile. “You didn’t. You were honest with me. That’s more than most people are.”

You manage a nod as he leaves, pulling the door shut behind him.

The moment it clicks closed, you reach for your phone again.

Still nothing from Jin.

Your fingers hover over his name, but instead, you call Taehyung.

He picks up on the second ring, voice thick with sleep. “Hey.”

“Did he say anything?” you ask. You don’t even have to say who.

Taehyung exhales. “No. Not yet. He just got in. It was late. We haven’t talked.”

You pause. “Do you think he’s mad?”

“I think he’s… confused. Quiet. He looked tired.”

You blink against the sting in your eyes. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know you didn’t,” he says softly. “And so does Yoongi.”

Right on cue, another call buzzes in.

“Yoongi’s calling,” you whisper.

“Take it,” Tae says. “Call me back after, okay?”

You nod and switch lines.

Yoongi doesn’t waste time. “Tell me what happened.”

You take a shaky breath and tell him everything. The gala. The suitors. How Joshua was kind but never crossed a line. How you turned them all down. How Jin looked at you like a stranger before disappearing.

“I waited for him to say something,” you finish. “But he never did.”

Yoongi is quiet for a long beat. Then: “He’s hurting, but he won’t say why. Taehyung and I know you didn’t lie to us.”

You wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. “I wish I could talk to him.”

“Let him come to you,” Yoongi says. “When he’s ready.”

You hang up with a pit in your chest.

Because you’re not sure he will.

And if Jin doesn’t believe you now—does he ever?

You curl back under the covers, tray untouched, messages blinking. Still nothing from Jin.

You’re still under the covers when your phone rings again. You don’t even check the screen this time. You just answer, assuming it’s more family, more pressure, more something.

But it’s hisvoice.
Taehyung.
Warm. Low. Tethering you instantly.

“Pack a bag,” he says. “Come to L.A.”

Your breath catches.

“What?”

“Come here,” he repeats, soft and certain. “Come be with me.”

You sit up. The blankets fall into your lap. “Is… is Jin okay?”

“He’s not talking,” Taehyung admits. “But that’s not why I want you here.”

He pauses.

“I just miss you.”

Your heart wobbles. No one’s ever said it to you like that before, plainly. Without apology or agenda.

“I don’t know if I can just leave.”

“You don’t have to stay the entire time, we will be working,” he says. “But if you want to go, you should.”

He doesn’t pressure you. Doesn’t guilt you. Just makes space.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you breathe a little easier.

You miss them and they miss you.

You knock gently on your father’s office door, even though it’s cracked open and he’s muttering to himself over paperwork.

He looks up over his glasses. “Hmm? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say, stepping inside. “I need to talk to you.”

“Uh-oh.”

“It’s not bad. It’s just—” you hesitate. “I think I need to take a short leave of absence. From the company.”

He blinks. “What for?”

You steel yourself. “I’m flying to L.A. to see my… boyfriend.”

He freezes.

Then squints at you.

Then lowers his glasses and squints harder.

“Your what now?”

You look down, cheeks burning. “Boyfriend.”

“Since when do you have a boyfriend?”

You shrug helplessly. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it? You just said it out loud like it’s not!”

You’re ready for him to argue. Lecture you about responsibility, about family image, about making rash choices. But instead—

He laughs.

Laughs so loudly the housekeeper peeks in, startled.

He waves her off, still chuckling. “Finally! You’re a grown woman with a life! Thank God!”

You blink. “You’re… not mad?”

“Mad? No! Go to him! Go fall in love! Go kiss under palm trees and get tan and make me grandkids!”

You nearly choke. “Appa!”

He waves you off like your horror is irrelevant. “I was starting to think you were part monk. Or allergic to men.”

“Are you—drunk?”

“I’m hopeful,” he grins. “You deserve some happiness. Especially after what happened two year.s ago”

Your stomach twists, because you don’t think about that but your father’s eyes are kind.

“You’ve been so serious for so long,” he says. “I’m glad someone got through.”

He stands, walks around the desk, and gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Take what you need. Call your grandmother and tell her yourself, or she’ll try to send Joshua after you.”

“I already turned him down.”

“Shame. He’s handsome.”

You narrow your eyes.

“But!” he raises his hands in surrender. “If this boyfriend of yours is brave enough to handle you? I already love him.”

You’re too stunned to reply.

“Now go,” he says. “Before I change my mind and ask for his birth certificate.”

You’re at the airport, early, quiet, and still somewhat dazed.

There’s a latte cooling in your hand. You haven’t taken a sip.

Your gate is far down the terminal, and your first class ticket is burning a hole in your jacket pocket. You thought you’d feel powerful handing it over. Liberated. Luxurious.

Instead, your stomach is in knots. You haven’t even told Jin you’re leaving the country.

Then you hear it.

A sudden swell of noise. Screams. Shouts.
The whole concourse buzzes like a hive.

At first, you think maybe an idol group just landed — but it’s more than that. Security swarms. Staff barks into radios. Girls rush toward the windows like moths to flame.

You glance up.

And that’s when you see them.

Seventeen.

They’re moving through the terminal like it’s a fashion runway, masked and hooded, but unmistakably magnetic. A living storm of energy.

Joshua catches your eye from ten meters away.

Even through the chaos — cameras, fans, bodyguards — his gaze lands right on you.

You blink.

He doesn’t.

He lifts two fingers in a casual, come-here motion, as if you’re the calm in the center of his hurricane.

You hesitate, glancing around like someone will stop you. But then his voice reaches your ears:

“You can fly with us.”

“What?”

He steps closer, grinning. “Private jet. We’re headed to L.A. Come with us.”

Your eyes widen. “I have a ticket already…”

Joshua just shrugs, cocking his head. “Is it a private ticket?”

You blink again.

“Didn’t think so.”

It all happens too fast to second-guess.

Minutes later you’re slipping past a velvet rope and into a discreet VIP hallway, flanked by dark-suited staff. You’re whisked through a private security lane, then guided onto the tarmac.

The jet gleams like money and promises.

Inside, the cabin is spacious and clean. Leather seats. Gold-rimmed glasses. Soft music.

You’re barely buckled when the members of Seventeen going to LA, joins you.

Hoshi is the first to greet you, his energy palpable. “Wait, you’re coming with us? Joshua just said you were cool — but he didn’t say you were her.”

“Her?” Woozi echoes from behind his sunglasses.

Vernon gives you a quiet once-over, then a nod. “I like your vibe.”

S.Coups just settles in and tosses you a bottle of sparkling water. “Hope you’re ready for hours of chaos.”

Mingyu — tall, beautiful, annoyingly perceptive — leans against the opposite seat. “So. Joshua says you’re a friend of BTS?”

You freeze.

You could lie.

But what’s the point? You’re on a plane. With men who have secrets of their own. If anyone can understand the difference between public and private lives, it’s them.

You clear your throat.

“I’m not just their friend.”

Six heads turn.

“I’m… dating them.”

Silence. No gasps, just stunned quiet.

“Them?” Woozi finally asks, eyebrow twitching. “As in—more than one?”

You nod.

“Like… all of them?” Hoshi blurts, eyes wide. “Holy shit.”

Vernon just mutters, “Cool,” and pops in earbuds like you didn’t just shake the foundation of K-pop fanfiction.

S.Coups grins. “Respect.”

But Mingyu is still watching you.

Still quiet.

His gaze sharpens slightly.

Then he asks, deadpan:

“Are you with Jungkook?”

The air shifts.

You look at him. His expression is unreadable.

You don’t want to lie. So you don’t.

“Yes.”

His jaw tightens just slightly.

Then he nods — once — and looks away.

You’re not sure what that was.

But Joshua sees it too.

He leans over, voice low in your ear. “Don’t mind him.”

You don’t answer, because you couldn’t avoid Mingyu if you tried.

Are you with Jungkook? he asked even though he had to know the answer.

And why did his face fall that way? Why was he disappointed? Was there more happening with Jungkook than any of you knew?

You’re scared, but you just sit back, heart pounding in your chest as the jet begins to taxi, and Seoul disappears behind you.

If only your fears could do the same.

To Be Continued..!

Chapter Text

The flight from Seoul is smooth, but your stomach churns from takeoff to landing. You don’t know what’s waiting for you on the other side—not really. Not after Jin’s silence. Not after Jungkook’s distance. Not after the gala, the dossier, and Joshua’s eyes reading you like scripture.

Customs is a blur. Your suitcase thumps behind you like a heartbeat as you step into the arrivals hall, scanning for Taehyung.

You don’t need to look far.

He’s there, leaning against a pillar with his mask tugged down and his hair tousled by the California wind sneaking in through the automatic doors. There’s no sign, no wave—just him. Watching you like he’s been doing it in his dreams.

You pause, unsure. Then he smiles.

“I was hoping you’d still come,” he says softly, voice soaked in relief.

He doesn’t ask about Joshua. He doesn’t ask about Jin. He just takes your suitcase and laces his fingers through yours like it’s always been this simple.

It’s not.

The house is warm. Familiar. Smelling faintly of lemongrass and laundry detergent. But when you step inside, something is wrong.

Taehyung helps you inside, your fingers still wrapped in his, but the moment the door clicks shut behind you, a cold wind of tension settles over the living room.

Jungkook is on the couch. Hoodie up, eyes fixed on the blank screen of the TV. He doesn’t turn around.

Yoongi leans against the kitchen counter, arms folded, watching everything with the weariness of someone who’s already fought the fight and lost.

Namjoon gives you a quiet smile, a nod. A welcome home, but tempered.

Jin isn’t there.

You open your mouth to ask, but Jungkook’s voice slices through the room like a knife.

“Did you fly with him?”

You blink. “What?”

“Joshua. Did you fly with him?”

It’s not curiosity. It’s accusation. You’re not sure what you did wrong—but you’ve already done it.

“…Yes,” you answer, careful. “He and the others were flying private. I ran into them at the airport.”

You don’t mention the chaos. The horde of fans. The way Joshua had reached for you like he knew you were drowning again. You don’t mention Mingyu’s stare.

Jungkook doesn’t respond. He just nods once, like something inside him has been confirmed. Not fixed—just proven.

Taehyung squeezes your hand. “Come upstairs,” he says quietly. “You need to rest.”

But you don’t feel tired. You feel like you’re made of glass, and everyone here can already see the cracks.

You’re not sure who you are to anyone anymore.

Not to Jungkook.
Not to Jin.
Not even to yourself.

Taehyung senses it. He leads you upstairs anyway—past Yoongi’s quiet gaze, past Jungkook’s silence, past the version of yourself you don’t know how to be anymore.

The bedroom is softly lit. Your bags wait near the bed like they understand something you don’t.

You sit on the edge of the mattress. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits beside you, close but not crowding. There’s something in his face—softer than pity, deeper than concern.

You whisper, “Do you still want me here?”

His brows knit in disbelief. “Is that a real question?”

You glance down, unsure, arms wrapped around yourself like armor.

“I want you here,” he says. “I don’t care if you’re confused. I don’t care if it takes you time to untangle what you feel for the rest of them. I’m not waiting for permission. I’m here because I choose you. Every version of you.”

Slowly, you lift your eyes. His are steady, deep and full of something that’s too real to ignore. You can’t pretend that you don’t see it. Taehyung’s eyes when they look at you.

“You… love me?” you ask, like the words might collapse under their own weight.

“I do,” he says. No hesitation. “And I’m not afraid of how much.”

The world shrinks to the space between you. Your hand finds his, your heartbeat loud in your throat.

You lean in, slowly, hesitantly. Eyes fluttering closed.

But before your lips meet, Taehyung turns just slightly and rests his forehead against yours instead.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “You’re still healing. And I want our first real kiss to feel like you chose it. Not like you needed it to believe.”

It’s not rejection. It’s reverence.

You nod, barely, but enough. “I believe you, Taehyung. It’s why I’m here. I believe in us.”

Kim Taehyung just smiles, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel seen.

It’s hours later when the door finally creaks open.

You’re sitting on the edge of the guest bed, still in yesterday’s clothes, every muscle in your body tense from waiting. Jin steps into the room like a shadow — slow, quiet, unreadable.

There’s no hug.
No kiss.
Not even a smile.

Just distance. Enough to drown in.

You stand, half out of instinct, half out of hope. “Jin…”

His eyes are guarded. He doesn’t interrupt. But he doesn’t reach for you, either.

He speaks first. “I saw you. At the gala.”

“I saw you too, remember we danced,” you say because why is he bringing up your grandma’s attempted betrothal gala?

“You danced with him too,” says Jin, stuck on this one fact.

You inhale sharply. “Then you saw me leave Joshua.”

“You didn’t look like you wanted to.”

The words hit you like cold water. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m not trying to be fair,” he says softly. “I’m trying to be honest.”

You step closer. He doesn’t move.

“That’s why I told everyone about Joshua. Why I brought it up in the first place, so this wouldn’t happen. So there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings.”

His jaw tenses. “And yet, here we are.”

You blink at him, trying to keep your voice steady. “Do you really think I’d choose him over you?”

He doesn’t answer.

Maybe he can’t.

Or maybe he doesn’t trust you enough to believe your words. Maybe he still sees the moment—the dance, the spark, the part of you that came alive under Joshua’s gaze—and thinks that’s who you really are.

You don’t recognize this silence between you. It’s sharp. Unforgiving. You press your lips together, feeling the splinter form.

“Do you still want this?” you ask quietly.

You don’t mean for your voice to crack. But it does.

Jin looks at you like he’s searching for something in your face. Something he can hold onto. Something to prove you’re worth fighting for.

But he says nothing.

And somehow, that silence is louder than a no.

You feel like Anne Elliot, the main character in Jane Austen’s “Persuasion.” So much more is happening here but you feel like Wentworth just looked you in your eyes and told you there was nothing here worth staying for.

You nod at Jin once. The ache in your chest expands, but you hold your ground.

“I’m not going to beg you to be with me,” you whisper. “Not when you’re ignoring that I’ve already chosen you.”

You wait one more beat.

He still doesn’t move.

“You’ve chosen Taehyung and I’m just along for the ride,” says Jin, dangerously.

You gasp. You step back, away from him and the rejection in his voice.

And the space between you and Jin, once just distance, turns to glass, cracked and splintering, waiting for the next moment to shatter you completely.

You go outside for something to do. You walk the grounds trying to outpace Jin’s words.

You’ve chosen Taehyung and I’m just along for the ride.

How could Jin think that? Does he think you’ve opened your heart to seven men because they ‘came along for the ride?’

You go back inside the house as there is no solace to staring at empty pools, and beautiful grounds no one but you was in.

Inside, the air feels heavier than outside. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

Your eyes sting, but no tears fall.

It’s not numbness. Not yet. It’s something closer to control. Just a fragile thread you’re holding onto because the alternative might unravel you entirely.

And then—

Taehyung takes your hand.

Just… reaches out.

Warm skin against yours, calm and steady.

Everyone sees.

No one says a word.

There’s no awkward silence. No flickers of disapproval. No glances exchanged. Only a quiet shift in the room’s temperature—as if, somehow, everyone already knew it would be Taehyung who raised your sinking mood.

Namjoon moves without comment, filling the kettle, his motions slow and intentional. When he places the mug in your hands, it smells like peppermint and honey. Like medicine, not a beverage.

“It’ll help,” he murmurs. “At least a little.”

You nod and wrap your hands around the cup, grateful for the way the heat anchors you in your body.

Yoongi sinks down beside you, all stillness and presence, saying nothing until the silence softens.

Then, without looking at you, he mutters under his breath, “He’ll come around. He always does. He just doesn’t know how to trust something he thinks he doesn’t deserve.”

You blink. The words hit somewhere low in your chest.

“What does that mean—?” you start to ask, turning to him.

But before the question can land, Jungkook clears his throat from across the room.

“Hoshi, Mingyu, S.Coups, Woozi, and Joshua are coming over for dinner.”

You look up. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are bright with something—excitement, maybe. Or maybe nerves.

“They’re flying out soon,” he adds. “I thought… it’d be good for everyone to spend some time together.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no space left to react. No time to process.

Because just like that, you realize:

This day isn’t over.

Not even close.

Which sucked, this day was already too damn long.

Jungkook has gone all out.

The dining room is transformed—candles flickering like small stars across the length of the table, bowls of fragrant rice and sizzling meat laid out like offerings. The playlist hums low with something jazzy and smooth. His sleeves are rolled up, his hair pushed back like a K-drama lead hosting a finale.

It’s elegant. Thoughtful. Almost romantic.

He’s trying to impress someone.

But it’s not who you think.

The knock at the door comes right on time—like choreography—and soon the room fills with noise and new energy. The Seventeen boys spill in with easy laughter and gifts from Seoul: a designer candle, a jar of gochujang, a limited-edition photobook that Woozi hands to Taehyung with a smirk.

Joshua greets you first. Warm. Careful. His bow is low, his voice soft when he says your name—like he’s asking permission just to be near you. When you nod, he steps back, giving you space. Respect woven through every movement.

Mingyu follows, smile wide and blinding.

Until—

“Hey!” Jungkook says, calling for you across the room, and something about the way he says it—like it’s sacred, like it’s his—makes Mingyu’s eyes flicker.

The smile falters.

Hoshi slides in beside you at the table, asking about your job with genuine curiosity. He laughs easily, eyes crinkling as you describe your worst customer. Across the table, S.Coups raises his glass and teases Namjoon about leadership struggles, grinning as he dodges the inevitable rebuttal.

And Taehyung?

Taehyung watches.

Like a director waiting for a scene to detonate.

Like he already knows where this is going.

Yoongi → eyes narrowed, fork paused mid-air, watching Joshua closely as the other members makes you laugh. He doesn’t say a word. But he doesn’t look away either.

Jimin → sitting nearest to Jin, but looking at you. Noticing how your shoulders tense every time Jin glances your way… and looks away again. Like the eye contact burns you.

Jungkook → silent for most of the meal. Focused on plating, clearing, and pouring drinks, until Mingyu brushes past him. Their arms touch. Something unspoken crackles.

You’re reaching for a napkin when it happens.

You and Taehyung both see it at the same time:

Mingyu’s hand on Jungkook’s wrist. The tug. The two of them disappearing into the hallway and planting a kiss.

Rough. Emotional. Not quiet.

You gasp, hand flying to your mouth. Taehyung freezes beside you, lips parted, eyes locked on the open hallway like it’s a screen he can’t turn off.

Behind you, a hush falls over the table. You don’t know if Mingyu understands that you can all see him. That kiss… wasn’t private. But it was devastating.

What is Jungkook doing?!

You didn’t discuss rules, but you understood that we could only date inside of BTS. No others. It’s why everyone had been watching you with Joshua.

“Seems we’ve been watching the wrong relationship,” whispers Taehyung, reading your mind.

He was right. Jin shouldn’t have been watching you. He should have been watching Jungkook.

But everyone saw that kiss. And now, no one knew where it was safe to look.

Chapter Text

The laughter from dinner still echoes behind you, dimmed only by the hallway’s hush. You’re walking with Taehyung, plates in your hands, when a flash of movement catches your eye.

At the far end of the corridor, Jungkook is pulled—no, yanked—by the wrist. It’s Mingyu.

Your steps falter.

Taehyung notices too. “Is that—?”

You both stop. Frozen.

Mingyu presses Jungkook against the wall like it’s instinct. Urgent. Raw. His hands bracket Jungkook’s waist as he leans in and kisses him—hard. It’s not gentle. It’s not hidden. It’s not confused.

It’s desperate.

Your breath catches. You glance at Taehyung. His expression is unreadable—somewhere between disbelief and fury.

He takes a step forward.

“Taehyung—” you whisper, grabbing his sleeve.

But before either of you can react—

A shadow slices between them.

Jimin.

Silent, surgical, precise.

His hand grips Mingyu’s shoulder and pulls him back—not roughly, but with authority that stuns the moment.

Mingyu stumbles half a step.

Jimin doesn’t even look at him.

His eyes are only on Jungkook.

The air between them sizzles.

You can’t hear what’s said. Can’t see the expression on Jungkook’s face fully. But what you do see is this:

Jungkook looks at Jimin.

And then he takes his hand.

Just like that.

No words. No protest. No apology.

Mingyu’s face falls—not angry, just gutted. He looks like someone who thought he had more time, more chances. But now he knows. He doesn’t.

Jimin turns with Jungkook and leads him down the hallway without a word.

Mingyu watches them go, shoulders set, eyes shining with something close to heartbreak.

Taehyung exhales slowly beside you.

“Did you know?” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “No.”

You don’t move. You can’t. It feels like the floor has shifted under your feet.

You and Taehyung were watching the wrong relationship.

The living room has the kind of hush that only comes after a perfect meal and too much held breath.

Laughter hums faintly from the kitchen, because Seventeen is still gathered, clearing plates, refilling drinks. BTS is scattered in corners, half relaxed, half buzzing with questions no one dares ask.

Jungkook hasn’t returned yet.

Neither has Jimin.

You and Taehyung walk in from the hallway like nothing’s happened. But everything’s changed. The silence under your skin says it all.

Yoongi glances over. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly.

Namjoon starts to ask something—but then the front door opens, and Jimin walks in with Jungkook trailing just behind.

All heads turn.

Jimin doesn’t say anything at first. He’s calm, unreadable.

Jungkook keeps his gaze low. His hand still lingers loosely in Jimin’s.

The members exchange looks, the tension spiking—

Until Hoseok breaks the silence. “Did something happen?”

Jimin looks at each of them.

Then he speaks.

“Mingyu kissed him.”

A beat of stunned silence.

“What?” Yoongi asks sharply.

“Hallway. A few minutes ago. I pulled them apart,” Jimin says evenly, but there’s steel under it. “It wasn’t quiet.”

Namjoon’s jaw tightens. “Did he… force him?”

Jimin shakes his head. “No. But Jungkook didn’t want it. Not really.”

Everyone turns to Jungkook.

He just looks… lost.

Not ashamed. Not guilty. Just overwhelmed.

Taehyung steps forward, carefully. “Kook… you okay?”

Jungkook finally looks up.

“I didn’t expect it. I didn’t want to hurt him.”

Yoongi scoffs quietly. “He kissed you. You don’t owe him anything.”

“I didn’t stop him right away,” Jungkook admits.

Jimin’s voice is sharp. “But you didn’t kiss him back either.”

Jungkook glances at Jimin. Then gently, almost shyly, laces their fingers again.

It says everything.

Hoseok exhales. “Should we… say something to Mingyu?”

Namjoon nods toward the kitchen. “Too late.”

The members of Seventeen re-enter the living room—except for Mingyu. Joshua gives you a small nod, Woozi avoids everyone’s gaze, and Hoshi looks like he’s trying to piece everything together.

S.Coups glances at Jungkook. “He left.”

“Just him?” Taehyung asks.

S.Coups shakes his head. “He told us to go too.”

Joshua sighs. “He thought something might happen tonight. Something real.”

“It did,” Jimin mutters, tightening his grip on Jungkook’s hand. “Just not the way he wanted.”

Vernon shrugs on his jacket. “We’ll text later. Sorry about the drama.”

One by one, Seventeen filters out. Woozi lingers, then bows slightly to you. “You’ve got a complicated house,” he says. “But you’re brave.”

You blink at that.

And then the door clicks shut.

They’re gone.

The room exhales.

Namjoon speaks first. “Everyone okay?”

No one answers.

Because just as the air settles—

A door slams upstairs.

A voice rises in the hall.

Heavy footsteps thunder.

And everyone turns.

Because now—it’s Jin.

And this night isn’t over..

A door slams upstairs.
A voice raised in the hallway.
Heavy footsteps coming fast.

By the time Jin storms down the staircase, the room has gone still. Not quiet—alert.
Everyone feels it: the crackle of something long-held back, finally breaking open.

He appears in the archway, jaw clenched, chest heaving. His gaze sweeps the room and lands squarely on Taehyung.

“You,” Jin says.

Taehyung straightens. “Me.”

You’re halfway to standing before Yoongi gently tugs you back down.
“Let them,” he murmurs.

Jungkook’s hand is still locked in Jimin’s. Neither moves.

Jin steps into the center of the room. “I saw you,” he says, voice sharp. “In the hallway. Watching them.”

Taehyung doesn’t flinch. “So did you.”

“You were going to step in,” Jin accuses.

Taehyung nods once. “To protect him.”

“From what? Love?” Jin sneers. “Because I saw what I saw, and you didn’t move until someone else did. So don’t act like you’re some savior.”

Taehyung’s eyes darken. “You think this is about Mingyu?”

“No,” Jin snaps. “This is about you. You and your precious secrets. The way you’ve always looked at her like she’s some untouchable prize. Like you’re the only one who ever understood her.”

“Don’t talk about her like that.”

Jin scoffs. “Why not? You turned her into something else. Something filthy. You took a girl who was royalty and made her share herself like—like—”

“Like what?” Taehyung barks, stepping forward.

Jin’s voice cracks. “Like she was yours to divide.”

The room goes dead quiet.

And then Taehyung laughs—once, bitter and broken. “You think I sullied her?”

“You did.”

“Funny,” Taehyung spits, “Because I could say the same about you.”

Jin’s eyes flash.

“You touched her,” Taehyung says, low and hot. “You slept with her. You tried to kiss her like you owned her. You wore a specific cologne and touched her so specifically ao that she could single you out. So that she would remember not just your voice, but your scent and your touch. And then you left her wondering if it meant anything. You think I don’t know? Think I don’t know about you and your thoughts, Seokjin?”

“I couldn’t help myself whenever you offered,” Jin grits out. “She was—she is—everything. I couldn’t stay away. But I hated myself for it. Every second.”

“So you punished her for it,” Taehyung says.

“I loved her.”

Taehyung sighs. “You’ve never known her, Jin. You never spoke to her! Even before I was set up with her! It’s why she was free to come and see me when I called!”

Oh! You think with a relieved sigh. He never spoke to me. That’s why I didn’t know him back then. How could he have ever loved me?

“You loved your version of her!” Says Taehyung and you have go agree.

How could Jin have loved you without even saying “hello!” to you?

Unaware of your inner turmoil and confusion, Jin takes a step closer to Taehyung.

“You wanted a princess in a tower,” Taehyung continues. “You didn’t know what to do when she kicked the door down and let the rest of us in.”

“She was mine!”

“She was never yours!”

Jin lets out a strangled noise and lunges.

It’s not elegant. It’s not cinematic.

It’s brutal.

The first punch cracks across Taehyung’s cheek.

The second doesn’t land, because Taehyung shoves him back and slams a fist into Jin’s ribs.

They crash to the floor, tangled and shouting, fists swinging wild. Chairs scrape. A lamp topples.

“Stop!” Jimin yells, but no one moves.

Until—

Jungkook.

He throws himself between them with more strength than sense, grabbing Jin by the shoulders and shoving him back, his voice loud and shaking.

“Enough!”

Jin breathes heavy. His bottom lip is split.

Taehyung wipes blood from his own mouth, chest heaving.

Jungkook looks between them, eyes glassy.

“What are you even fighting about?” he whispers. “Her? Us? Or just the parts of yourselves you don’t know how to fix?”

No one answers.

Because maybe it’s all of it.

And none of it.

And too late, either way.

No one speaks.

The room is heavy with broken things—broken silence, broken pride, broken skin.

Jungkook is still standing between Jin and Taehyung, arms outstretched like a wall built too late.

Yoongi finally moves, stepping in with a quiet, firm presence. “That’s enough,” he says, his voice a thread pulled tight. “Sit. Cool down. Now.”

Taehyung obeys, dropping onto the couch with a hiss of pain. He touches the corner of his lip—red, swollen, and already bruising.

Jin doesn’t sit. He stays standing, body shaking with the effort to hold in whatever rage—or regret—is left.

Namjoon crosses the room slowly, picking up the shattered remains of a lamp with careful fingers. “You both embarrassed yourselves,” he says evenly. “And her.”

You flinch at that. Not because you didn’t know, but because you needed someone else to say it.

Taehyung breaks the silence first. “He said I sullied her.”

Jin’s shoulders tighten.

“I heard him,” Namjoon says, calm but cold. “And I wanted to hit him, too.”

That earns a bitter laugh from Jin, but it dies quickly.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jin mutters.

“Doesn’t matter,” Yoongi replies. “You said it. That’s the kind of poison you can’t take back.”

You stand quietly in the corner, unsure where to go. Unsure who to go to.

Jimin’s arms fold over his chest, his voice sharp. “You know what hurts the most?”

Everyone looks.

“That you couldn’t say it to her face,” Jimin continues, glaring at Jin. “You stood in her house, held her like she was gravity, and then called her filthy behind her back.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” Jungkook cuts in quietly. “And I don’t think you even know why.”

Jin finally looks at you, really looks. His face softens, regret tangled in disbelief.

“I treasure you,” he says.

Your throat tightens. “Then why does it feel like hate?”

No one breathes.

Jin takes one step back.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I think I’ve always been afraid of the way you love. Because you don’t belong to anyone. And I’ve never known how to be one of many.”

And then he turns, and leaves.

Not dramatically.

Not storming.

Just… gone.

The house settles like an exhale.

Jin is gone. His absence leaves behind a silence that no one dares to fill.

You slip into the kitchen alone. Not to hide, but to breathe.

The tiles are cool beneath your bare feet. The air smells faintly of mint tea and tension.

You don’t cry. You can’t. Not yet. You just… exist.

The kettle is still warm. You go through the motions—cup, bag, pour—because movement feels like control.

Behind you, a chair scrapes softly.

You don’t have to look.

“I thought you left with the others,” you murmur.

“I was going to,” says a voice you didn’t expect.

Joshua.

He stands at the doorway, not entering, not leaving. Just there.

“But then I saw your hands shaking when you picked up the mug,” he adds gently. “So I stayed.”

You stare at the tea, the swirl of steam, the stillness that follows pain.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says.

There’s a quiet honesty in his tone. No flirtation, no pressure. Just care.

You glance up.

He’s watching you like you’re something fragile, but not weak. Like he understands what it means to carry too much in silence.

“Did they tell you what happened?” you ask softly.

“Enough to guess the rest,” Joshua says. “I saw his face before he left. That kind of fury doesn’t come from nowhere.”

You nod slowly, holding the mug like it might anchor you.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” you whisper. “That he doesn’t trust me… or that part of me still wanted him to.”

Joshua steps closer, finally crossing the threshold. He doesn’t crowd you. Just enough to be near.

“I don’t think trust and love always know each other,” he says. “But they should.”

You exhale through your nose. “Is that a lyric?”

He smiles. “Not yet.”

The corner of your mouth lifts.

A long silence falls. Comfortable. Still.

Then, quietly: “Thank you for staying.”

Joshua doesn’t respond right away. He just looks at you—eyes kind, voice low.

“I didn’t stay, but came back…for you,” he admits. “I had to check on you after leaving with someone who hurt you.”

You blink. “Mingyu?”

Joshua gives a small nod. “He didn’t mean to start anything, but he acted selfishly. I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I care about the people I travel with.”

You laugh, because you were sure the popular Idol traveler with lots of people. But if he wanted to make sitting beside each other on a plane special…you wouldn’t fight it.

“And I care about you,” says Joshua.

That surprises you more than it should. Not that he feels it but that he would say it when he sees how tangled you are with BTS.

But then you think… Is Joshua trying to detangle me from BTS?

You look down at your tea, the warmth seeping through your fingers.

When you glance up again, Joshua’s already moving toward the door.

“Get some rest,” he says, gently. “You don’t have to hold everything together tonight.”

Then he disappears into the hall, his presence lingering like a promise.

And you sip your tea in the quiet, thinking maybe—just maybe—you’re not alone after all.

Then you shake your head, because what a dangerous thought.

You had so much. How could you possibly want more?

The door to the balcony clicks softly behind you, sealing out the low hum of voices and clinking glass from the dinner inside.

Night air curls around your skin, cool and gentle, brushing your cheeks like fingers that almost know you.

Taehyung is already there, standing at the edge of the stone railing, bathed in the silver haze of city lights. He doesn’t turn when you step closer, but you feel him breathe you in.

You stop beside him, arms brushing. Neither of you speaks.

It’s the kind of silence that isn’t empty—but full. Dense with everything you’ve seen tonight. Everything unspoken.

He exhales slowly. “You saw it, didn’t you?”

You nod. “So did you.”

“Mingyu kissed him.”

“And Jungkook didn’t stop it.”

Taehyung’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t look away. “He didn’t start it either.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You’re defending him?”

“I’m saying… he’s scared. We all are.”

The words settle between you. You think of Jungkook’s silence. Mingyu’s eyes. Jimin’s hand, closed around Jungkook’s like a declaration.

You lean against the railing, side to side with him. “Do you think it’ll change things?”

“I think things were already changing,” he murmurs.

You blink up at him. “Like what?”

He turns to face you fully, searching your expression. “Like how I feel when you walk into a room.”

Your breath catches.

Taehyung rarely speaks plainly. He lets his eyes do the talking, his hands, his patience. But now…

“I told myself I’d wait for the perfect moment,” he says softly. “But maybe that moment doesn’t come with fireworks or music. Maybe it’s just… standing here. With you. After a night like this.”

You’re close now—close enough to feel the heat of him.

“I see you,” he says. “I want you here. I want you.”

You tilt your chin up, heart fluttering in your throat.

It would be so easy.

To bridge the space.

To let your lips meet his and finally let it all out.

You rise onto your toes—

—but Taehyung gently presses two fingers to your lips.

Not yet.

His smile is soft. Devastating. “When it’s right… we’ll both know.”

Your chest aches.

He leans forward and presses his forehead to yours instead.

You close your eyes and stand there, suspended in something fragile and beautiful.

Not a kiss.

But a promise.

And that, for now, is enough.

Chapter Text

Jimin

Jimin lay sprawled across Jungkook’s bed, one knee bent, one arm propped under his head. The morning sunlight leaked through the blinds in pale stripes, catching the edges of Jungkook’s hair and turning them gold.

They’d been playing for almost an hour now — shoving each other around under the blankets, rolling until someone’s leg got tangled, kissing until they were both laughing too hard to keep it going. It was the kind of intimacy Jimin hadn’t had with Jungkook in a long time — if ever.

And Jimin knew exactly how rare this was. Jungkook’s affection wasn’t something you could pull from him on demand. You had to wait for it, earn it, hold it carefully when it finally arrived. This morning, Jungkook had woken up soft and unguarded, and Jimin intended to keep him that way as long as possible.

He kept his hand resting on Jungkook’s knee beneath the blankets, thumb stroking idle circles. It grounded him, tethered him to this version of Jungkook — open, playful, not running from touch.

The door creaked open.

“Morning,” Hoseok’s voice sang into the room.

Jimin’s head lifted, just in time to see Hoseok leaning in the doorway, hair still mussed from sleep and an easy smile on his face.

Jungkook didn’t move at first — but Jimin felt the change in him like a sudden cold draft. His leg tensed under Jimin’s hand, shoulders pulling in.

Hoseok stepped in without hesitation, dropping himself onto the mattress beside Jungkook like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You two look cozy,” he teased, stretching out on his back. “Mind if I join?”

Jimin had hoped — stupidly, maybe — that Jungkook would just roll with it. That this morning’s warmth would spill over, and he’d let Hoseok into the circle they’d built between them. But Jungkook’s body went rigid, his eyes darting toward the door like a trapped animal.

Jungkook pushed the blanket off and sat up so fast it jolted the mattress.

“What’s wrong?” Hoseok asked, the smile slipping a fraction.

“Nothing,” Jungkook muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

It was too sharp, too quick — and Jimin could see the hurt register on Hoseok’s face. A flicker of confusion, then the edges of something smaller, more vulnerable.

Hoseok didn’t say anything else, but the silence spoke plenty. It was heavy. Awkward.

Jimin slid off the bed too, trying to cut through it before it sank deeper. “Let’s go eat,” he said, lightly catching Jungkook’s wrist.

Hoseok’s eyes followed the movement, but he didn’t move from the bed.

Jungkook hesitated just long enough for the tension to twist tight, then let Jimin steer him toward the door.

Jimin didn’t look back, but he could feel Hoseok’s gaze between his shoulder blades all the way into the hall.

Jimin kept pace between Jungkook and Hoseok as they walked down the hall, the air thick with what had just happened in the bedroom. Hoseok’s jaw was tight, his confusion and hurt obvious in every step. Jungkook kept his eyes forward, silent. Jimin felt like the rope in a tug-of-war no one had agreed to play.

They stepped into the dining room to a chorus of, “Morning,” from the members already there. Jin and Yoongi were mid-conversation, plates half-finished in front of them. Namjoon sat at the end of the table with his coffee, scanning a news alert on his phone.

“This place is nice, but I miss proper Korean food,” Jin was saying.

“We had Korean last night with Seventeen,” Yoongi replied, spearing a piece of fruit. “Then they just ran out of here. Did something happen? Does anyone know?”

Jimin hadn’t answered yet when the door opened again. Taehyung walked in with their girlfriend at his side, both greeted warmly—Namjoon stood to hug them, Yoongi offered an easy smile. Jin, however, didn’t even look at her. His attention went straight to Taehyung.

“Do you know why Seventeen left so fast last night?” Jin asked. “Was Joshua making a move on your girlfriend?”

Before Taehyung could answer, she spoke up herself. “No. Joshua knows I’m taken.”

Jin leaned back slightly, unconvinced. “Then why did they run out of here?”

Jimin glanced at Jungkook, nudging him with an elbow. “Tell them about Mingyu,” he murmured.

Hoseok, standing right next to him at the buffet table, turned sharply. “What about Mingyu?” His voice was loud enough to cut through all other noise in the room.

Every head turned toward them. Jungkook froze, eyes darting between Hoseok and the rest of the table.

“He kissed me,” Jungkook said finally.

“Who kissed you?” Namjoon asked, voice low but carrying.

“Mingyu. He kissed me.”

For a second, silence. Then Jin’s brows shot up, Yoongi blinked slowly, and Taehyung’s jaw flexed.

Namjoon pushed his chair back and stood, walking straight toward Jungkook until they were face to face with nothing between them. “You rejected me,” Namjoon said, staring directly into Jungkook’s eyes. “Over and over, Jungkook. You rejected me so that you could kiss him?”

“I didn’t—” Jungkook started, but Namjoon’s hands were already on his jaw, pulling him in for a fast, unplanned kiss. The shock of it silenced the room.

When they broke apart, they stayed locked in each other’s gaze, breaths heavy. Then, slower this time, Namjoon leaned in again. Jungkook met him halfway, the kiss soft at first, then deeper, lingering long enough for the other members to shift uncomfortably, glance at each other, or focus intently on their plates.

The dining room buzzed from Namjoon’s kiss, two kisses, really. That first sharp, unplanned crash of mouths, and then the slow one that made the rest of them shift awkwardly in their chairs and pretend to be deeply invested in their food.

When Namjoon finally let Jungkook down, he didn’t set him far. His hand lingered at Jungkook’s back, low, steady. “Let’s take this to my room,” he murmured, already turning them toward the door.

Hoseok was out of his seat before they’d taken two steps. “Absolutely not.”

Namjoon froze, brows knitting, but Hoseok didn’t even look at him. His eyes were on Jungkook, sharp and unreadable.

The air thickened. Jimin’s stomach knotted. He could feel Hoseok’s hurt—he’d been right there in the bedroom earlier when Jungkook pulled away from him.

Hoseok finally tore his gaze from Jungkook and started for the door.

“Wait—” Jimin caught his wrist before he could get far. He didn’t care about the curious looks from the others; he just needed to get Hoseok out of the open. He pulled him down the hall, turning into the nearest room and shutting the door behind them.

Only then did Hoseok yank his wrist free. “What was that in there?”

“You tell me,” Jimin shot back. “You didn’t even let him—”

Hoseok’s laugh was short, humorless. “Didn’t let him? I’m the only one not running away from this, Jimin. From him. From us.”

Jimin’s brows pulled together. “You think I’m running?”

“I think you all are,” Hoseok said, voice rising. “Every time it gets close, somebody panics. Somebody makes an excuse. We’re supposed to be together, remember? Not playing musical chairs with each other’s feelings.”

The words landed harder than Jimin wanted to admit.

Hoseok stepped closer, chest heaving. “I’m sick of it. If you want him, say so. If he wants me, he can say so. Just stop—”

The door opened behind them.

Jungkook stood there, still in the same clothes, breath caught somewhere between surprise and resolve. His eyes moved from Hoseok to Jimin, then back again.

“No more running,” he said quietly. “From either of you.”

Jungkook’s voice hung in the air like a challenge.

No more running.

Hoseok’s jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t find a single reason that didn’t feel like hiding.

Jimin’s pulse was already picking up. “Then… what now?”

Jungkook shut the door behind him, the soft click cutting them off from the rest of the house. “We stop talking.”

The space between them vanished before Jimin could blink. Jungkook’s mouth found his first—warm, insistent, tasting faintly of coffee from breakfast. Jimin kissed him back without hesitation, his hands sliding up Jungkook’s arms, feeling the solid heat of him.

Hoseok stood frozen for half a beat before Jungkook turned his head, lips parting just enough to glance at him. It wasn’t an invitation—it was a pull. Hoseok stepped forward and caught Jungkook’s mouth in his, the kiss harder, rougher. Jimin’s breath hitched watching them, heat tightening low in his stomach.

When they broke apart, Jungkook looked between them, chest rising and falling. “Both of you.”

Jimin moved in, one hand at the back of Jungkook’s neck, the other finding Hoseok’s hip. The three of them closed the circle, mouths meeting in messy, overlapping kisses—Jimin with Hoseok, Hoseok with Jungkook, Jimin with Jungkook again—until it was impossible to tell whose breath was whose.

Jimin didn’t think—he just moved. One hand hooked behind Hoseok’s neck, pulling him in as Jungkook’s arm locked around Jimin’s waist. They kissed in turns, lips crashing and parting, breathing hard between moments, hands starting to roam—hips, backs, under shirts.

Jungkook backed them toward the bed until his legs hit the edge. He sat and pulled both of them down into his lap.

Hoseok’s low laugh rumbled against Jimin’s ear, disbelieving but already giving in. “This is insane.”

Jungkook’s mouth brushed his jaw. “It’s happening.”

Jimin’s pulse was a drumbeat in his ears as three sets of hands tangled in clothes, mouths finding skin, the air thick with heat.

The last thing Jimin saw before thought gave way to want was Jungkook leaning in, Hoseok’s lips parting to meet him, and the three of them tipping forward—together—onto the bed.

You

The food sat in front of you, untouched.

It wasn’t that you weren’t hungry—you’d been starving when you first walked in—but the atmosphere at the table was like trying to chew through wet cement. You sat across from Jin, and the silence between you was so thick it drowned out even the faint clink of cutlery.

Taehyung, bless him, kept tossing out little jokes and random observations, trying to break the tension. Yoongi added a few dry one-liners of his own, but neither of you bit. You just stared at the plates, moving your fork around without lifting a single bite to your mouth.

Jin was the same. He’d barely touched his breakfast, eyes fixed on some spot just past your shoulder, like if he didn’t look at you, he wouldn’t have to deal with… whatever this was.

The quiet stretched until the door opened again.

Namjoon stepped in, scanning the room like he was taking attendance. The corner of his mouth curved up.

“Didn’t want to interrupt,” he said casually. “From what I heard… those three were hooking up, finally.”

Taehyung’s head popped up. “You mean—”

“Jimin, Hoseok, Jungkook having a threesome?” Namjoon shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “No one’s mad. The vibe’s more like… finally. Jungkook finally gave in.”

Yoongi gave a low hum of agreement, already turning back to his plate. Even Taehyung seemed to relax, leaning back in his chair with a small smile. They were well on their way to coming completely together. They were on their way to complete happiness.

Yoongi laughed, “Of course they come together in a threesome. Us, so messy.”

Jimin was already sprawled back against the headboard, watching them like he owned the scene.

“Slower,” Jimin murmured, voice low enough to make it feel like a command. “I want to see you fall apart.”

Hoseok obeyed, sort of. He dragged his mouth along the Jungkook’s neck, deliberately slow, but his hands gripped tight at JK’s waist, holding him still. Jungkook’s breath hitched, and that tiny sound earned a dark chuckle from the man on the bed.

“Good,” Jimin said. “Now turn him toward me.”

It was almost comical how quickly they shifted, except there was nothing funny about the way Hoseok manhandled Jungkook into place — knees between his, head tipped just enough Jimin to hook two fingers under Jungkook’s chin. “Look at me when you make that sound,” Jimin commanded, and Jungkook tried, but his eyes fluttered half-shut when Hoseok’s hand slid lower, slower.

Jimin leaned forward, kissed Jungkook hard, then pulled away before Jungkook could chase it. “Not yet. You’ll earn it.”

Hoseok’s smirk was pure trouble. “I think he’s begging already.”

“Prove it,” Jimin replied.

It became a blur — a shove that had Jungkook flat on his back, Hoseok draped over him like he had no intention of moving, Jimin kneeling beside them and running his palm down the line of the Jungkook’s jaw in mock affection.

“You’re both mine tonight… today,” Jimin said, making his two lovers laugh.

“Love in the morning,” says Hoseok, kissing Jungkook who kisses him back.

Jimin was tender as his thumb presses hard under Jungkook’s chin. “Love in the morning, in the afternoon, in the evening and even late at night. Jungkook, you’re going to be my favorite.”

Hoseok laughed against the Jungkook’s shoulder. “Not if I get there first.”

“Try me,” Jimin shot back, and just like that, it was a contest, kisses stolen mid-breath, hands everywhere, bodies moving in a rhythm that had nothing to do with patience. Every gasp was met with a sharper grip, every laugh cut off by another claiming mouth.

Hoseok holds out his hand and Jimin instinctively hands over the lube. Jungkook had never been with a man before and Hoseok wanted to do all that he could to make it pleasurable for Jungkook.

Jimin agreed, so as Hoseok prepared Jungkook’s luscious ass, Jimin leaned down and took Jungkook’s cock into his mouth. From there it was a blur of touching, kissing, sucking and fucking.

The three were on fire together. Burning up the sheets. Their bodies moving together in pleasure. But with all the sex, what Jimin loved most was kissing Jungkook. So he kissed him and he kissed Hoseok and watched with pleasure as Hoseok kissed Jungkook.

That day was a marathon. Jungkook, Hoseok and Jimin trading places and taking as much pleasure as they were given. Hoseok had wanted this, wanted Jungkook for so long that he couldn’t get enough. Jungkook’s body was a dream, his hands were talented and his lips made for kissing.

So they kissed and they kissed and they kissed. By the time any of them remembered to breathe, the lines between bandmates and lovers had blurred entirely and none of them seemed to care.

You

Namjoon shifted his focus to you and Jin.

His gaze flicked to your untouched breakfast, then to Jin’s, and something knowing passed across his face.

“Alright,” he said, stepping toward you.

Before you could ask what he was doing, his hand closed around yours, warm and firm as he pulled you to your feet. With his other hand, he caught Jin by the wrist, dragging him up from his chair too.

“Namjoon—” you started, but he was already walking you both toward the door.

“Talk,” he ordered, tone brooking no argument.

Then, with one decisive shove, he pushed you and Jin out into the hallway and closed the door in your faces.

You stood there for a beat, staring at the door in shock. Breakfast wasn’t even half over and somehow you were now… what, exiled?

When you turned, Jin was looking at you with an expression you couldn’t read. Then he jerked his chin toward the other end of the hallway.

“Come on. Let’s make an omelette.”

It wasn’t an invitation so much as a statement, but you nodded anyway.

You fell into step beside him, the two of you heading down the hall in an awkward bubble of useless chatter. You pointed out a framed piece of abstract art you’d never noticed before. Jin hummed in acknowledgment. You made a lame comment about how quiet it was without the others. Jin made a noncommittal sound.

He wasn’t giving you anything, not an opening, not even a sideways glance—and it was starting to feel like walking next to a live wire. You didn’t know when it might spark, but you could feel the charge building.

By the time you reached the kitchen, yoour stomach was knotted in anticipation.

Jin suddenly looks at you and tilts his head to the side. You meet his eyes but can’t read them.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask Jin.

“The first time we met,” he says and as you stare into his eyes you’re there again.

You weren’t supposed to be here.
The entire reason you’d agreed to come was because your friend swore this party would be “low-key” — her words, not yours — and yet you were already regretting it. Too many people, too much noise, music thudding against your chest like a second heartbeat. You’d found the safest possible corner in the living room, clutching a drink you had no intention of finishing.

It was the kind of party where nobody noticed you slip away, and nobody missed you when you were gone.

Except one person.

Kim Seokjin saw you first.

From across the room, in a group full of laughter and flashier personalities, his gaze snagged on yours like he’d been looking for you without realizing it. You didn’t know his name then, or that he was supposed to be untouchable, or that he made entire rooms feel smaller just by existing.

You just knew he was staring.

It wasn’t the kind of stare that burned — it was quieter than that. Assessing. Curious. Like you were a question he wanted to answer. His friends were talking, but he wasn’t listening. Every time you looked away, you could feel him waiting for you to glance back. And every time you did, he was still there.

When he finally crossed the room, it wasn’t with the easy confidence you’d expected. He stopped a respectable distance away, tall frame blocking out a portion of the chaos behind him.

“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else,” he said.

“Accurate,” you admitted, voice wry.

His smile was small but genuine, tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Then maybe I should keep you company. Make it less miserable.”

You weren’t sure why you said yes. Maybe it was because he didn’t try to flirt right away. Maybe it was because something in his expression made you feel… seen.

Later, you’d remember this moment as the start of something you never saw coming — the exact second the world shifted, and you didn’t even know it yet.

Present Day

The sound of eggs hitting the pan pulls you out of the memory. Jin is already at the stove, whisk abandoned on the counter, a neat pile of chopped vegetables ready to slide into the omelette.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks. “You know what I thought when I first saw you?”

You shake your head, unsure if you can handle the answer.

“That I was in trouble,” he says, lips quirking like he can’t decide if it’s funny or dangerous. “Because talking to you felt… easy. Like I’d known you for years. And I thought—” He exhales through his nose, flipping the omelette with a practiced flick of his wrist. “—I thought maybe you were my whole future, standing there.”

For a minute, it’s like you’re both back there again — in that first conversation, laughing at nothing, riding the giddy, ridiculous high of meeting someone who could change everything.

But then Jin sets the spatula down, and the warmth in his voice cools.

“After all that,” he says, “you slept with Taehyung. Kept sleeping with him. Then you had sex with every member besides me and Namjoon.” His eyes finally meet yours, and the weight in them makes your chest ache. “And I finally gave in. I took Taehyung’s torrid invitation.”

Your stomach knots.

“The first time I touched you,” Jin says softly, “I felt heaven. Everything clicked into place. But you wouldn’t kiss me. And technically, you were V’s girl.” His jaw works, like he’s trying to grind down the edge of what he’s saying. “I wanted to punch him in the face and take you away. But I wasn’t sure you wanted that.”

His voice drops even lower. “Now I know what you want — BTS.”

For half a second, you think maybe this is his way of saying yes. But then—

“It will never work. Not with me.”

He slides one omelette onto your plate and one onto his, wipes his hands on a towel, and walks out of the kitchen.

You stand there, stunned. Did Jin just… say no? While you and the others are still figuring out how to navigate this insane, messy thing together, Jin has already decided not to even try?

Hell no.

You drop the fork and run after him.

To be continued…

Chapter Text

You’re still reeling when Jin drops the spatula into the pan and walks out, his words ringing in your ears like they’ve carved a path straight to your chest.

It takes you all of two seconds to decide you’re not letting him get the last word. You push away from the counter, the omelette forgotten, and follow him down the hall.

“Do you want to know when that meet-cute was?” Your voice comes out sharp enough to make him slow his steps. “Eleven months before I met Taehyung. You had a year, Jin. A year to call me, text me, find me—anything. But you didn’t.”

He turns, jaw tight. “You think I didn’t want to?”

“I think you didn’t do it,” you snap. “So don’t give me this ‘I saw you first’ crap when you did nothing to claim me.”

The tension between you is thick enough to chew on, and apparently loud enough to carry—because Namjoon’s voice cuts in from behind. “Hey—both of you, calm down.”

You glance over your shoulder and see him stepping out of the dining room, Yoongi and Taehyung just behind him, plates of untouched breakfast in their hands. Upstairs, the sound of a door opening announces Hoseok, Jimin, and Jungkook—now leaning over the banister.

“Fuck you!” Jin snaps at Namjoon without hesitation. “You wanted us to talk, now we’re talking.” His focus swings back to you, like none of the others matter. “I saw you first. Taehyung knew it, and he didn’t care. And now you’re all in this delusional relationship like a seven-on-one could possibly work.”

Yoongi’s voice is calm but firm. “It’s not seven on one. It’s eight. All eight of us together.”

“Delusional,” Jin fires back. “The seven of us hooking up? The six of you have done nothing but test our bond. You’re putting it in a pressure cooker, and someone has to defend BTS and I guess that’s me. Look at Hoseok and Jungkook this morning. Could we have gotten on stage together like that?”

“Yes,” Jungkook calls down from upstairs, steady as steel. “Because we’re professionals. We’ll do our job, and our new situation doesn’t risk BTS. It makes us stronger.”

Jin stares at him like he’s speaking another language. “Stronger?! How?!”

“Because now there are no secrets,” Jungkook says. “No hidden desires. It’s all on the table, and we pick each other.”

“Nothing could make us break up the band,” Namjoon says evenly. “Nothing could make us fail ARMY or each other. We’ve been together for a decade—you think any of us would throw that away?”

Someone mutters, “Let’s get back on topic—this is about you and our girlfriend—”

“OUR?!” Jin’s voice detonates. “Do you hear yourself? If you all want to run a train on her, that’s fine, but don’t give this more substance than it’s worth.”

“Shut your mouth,” Jimin bites out, coming down the stairs. “And never talk about our girl or this relationship like it’s cheap.”

“Of course it’s not cheap,” Jin says coldly. “I just can’t imagine her time in your beds comes cheap.”

It happens fast—too fast to stop. Namjoon’s fist connects with Jin’s jaw, the sound echoing in the hallway. “Shut your mouth,” he growls.

The hall erupts. Yoongi and Taehyung grab Namjoon while Jungkook and Hoseok step between them, but Jin shoves past everyone, voice rising above the chaos.

“I’ll say what I want, when I want! Because she isn’t OUR girl—” His eyes lock onto you, burning. “She’s mine.”

Before you can react, his hand closes around yours. You’re pulled down the hall, past all of them, into the nearest bedroom. The door slams shut, and the lock clicks and before your brain can decide whether to shove him back or demand an explanation, Jin turns.

You barely register the sound of fists on the door. Namjoon’s voice is muffled but sharp—“Open the damn door, hyung!”—joined by the thud of Hoseok’s palm, Yoongi’s low cursing, and Jungkook’s voice calling your name.

None of it matters to Jin.

He’s right in front of you, eyes dark, chest rising and falling like he’s been holding back for years.

“You have no idea,” he says, his voice almost shaking. “No idea what it’s been like, watching you with them.”

“Jin—”

“I don’t want to talk anymore.” His hand comes up, cradling your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks. “I’ve wanted this since the first time I saw you.”

The pounding grows louder! Taehyung knocks now, his baritone cutting through the noise, telling Jin to back off. But Jin’s gaze doesn’t even flicker toward the door.

“I’m done pretending I can share you,” he murmurs, leaning in until his forehead brushes yours. “I just want—”

The last word dissolves against your lips as he kisses you. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s years of swallowed feelings and unspoken longing, breaking free in the press of his mouth on yours.

You hear your name shouted from the hall, fists hammering the wood, someone jiggling the handle—but Jin only deepens the kiss, his other hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you closer.

“Kim Seokjin! Open the door!” Jungkook’s voice cracks with urgency.

Jin breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, his lips still brushing yours. “They can wait.”

And then he’s kissing you again, shutting out the noise, the band, the whole damn world.

The pounding on the door is relentless, but Jin doesn’t move. His hand is still on your cheek, warm and certain, eyes locked on yours.

“Do you ever think about it?” he asks quietly, almost like he’s afraid of the answer. “If it was just you and me?”

You swallow. “Jin—”

“We could have a life without the chaos,” he pushes, his voice low but intense. “No sharing, no schedules, no wondering who’s in your bed that night. Just us. I’d cook for you every morning. We’d travel when we wanted, disappear when we needed to. I’d make sure you never doubted how wanted you are every single day. No one else in the equation. No competing for your time, your touch, your heart.”

The image is so vivid you almost see it! Sunlight through unfamiliar windows, the quiet comfort of waking up beside him without the weight of anyone else’s claim.

“Jin…” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say, but the sound of his name feels like both an answer and a plea.

Metal scrapes in the lock.

“Hyung, move out the way!” Namjoon’s voice, urgent.

The door bursts open, and the room is suddenly full of them: Yoongi in the doorway, Jungkook crowding behind, Yoongi’s eyes wide. Taehyung doesn’t hesitate. He strides forward, grips your arm, and tugs you out of Jin’s hold.

“She’s either our girlfriend or nothing,” Taehyung says, voice low but cutting. “You can’t have all of her attention.”

“Attention?” Jin’s tone is sharp, incredulous. “That’s what you think this is?” He looks past Taehyung, straight at you. “No. This isn’t about attention.”

He steps closer, ignoring the way Jungkook shifts to block him. “What do you think?” he asks you directly, like the others aren’t even there. “Be with me. Just me. The two of us together.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Or stay in this mess with the six of them.”

The hallway goes still. Every breath feels too loud.

Seven sets of eyes are on you, waiting for the word that could shatter everything.

You open your mouth—

To be continued.

Chapter Text

“What do you think?” Jin asks his eyes on you and only you, like the other members aren’t even there. “Be with me. Just me. The two of us together.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Or stay in this mess with the six of them.”

The hallway goes still. Every breath feels too loud.

Six sets of eyes are on you, waiting for the word that could shatter everything.

You open your mouth—

Before you can get a word out, Yoongi steps forward, grabs the front of Jin’s shirt and kissed him. You’re shocked but not surprised because Yoongi had not taken his eyes off Jin. Not once, since he entered the hallway, has his focus left Jin. He listened intently - to his words, to his pitch to you and all Jin’s promises.

You don’t know how you could tell, but you could. Yoongi listened as if his life depended on it.

Yoongi didn’t warn you or Jin. One second, you was mid-sentence about to give an answer you weren’t ready to give. The next second, Jin’s back hit the wall with Yoongi’s mouth on his. This kiss was not soft, not careful, or even new. The kiss was all tongue and breath and clutching. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t asking. It was the kind of kiss that slammed a door shut, that said, you’re not slipping away from me.

“They’ve kissed before,” you hear Taehyung tell Namjoon.

And he was right. Yoongi and Jin had kissed before. They already knew how their bodies and lips fit together. There was no pause, no hesitation just the molten pull of a passionate, breath stealing embrace.

Jin froze for half a beat before his hand came up to Yoongi’s chest, the start of a shove. Yoongi knocked it away and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss until his tongue slid against Jin’s, until Jin’s breath hitched and his fingers curled tight in Yoongi’s shirt instead of pushing.

The rest of you just stand there quietly as Yoongi used his body and mouth to make a differebt choice. You exchange wide eyed looks with Taehyung who also seems to not know what’s going on. But when Jimin closes his arms across his chest and scoffs in satisfaction, you know that some of you are more informed than others.

When Yoongi finally tore his mouth away, both of them were breathing hard, the air between them tight with heat and things unsaid.

Jin’s mouth opened, but Yoongi beat him to it, voice low and sharp. “What the hell are you doing?”

The question shocked you, but Jin jusr blinked like he hadn’t expected to be challenged. But you know the other six members would fight Jin. Fight their sunbae for you.

“You think you can just walk out? Blow all of this up because you’re what? Scared? You think you’re the only one who’s confused?” Yoongi’s voice cracked, his frustration spilling over. “This is fucking confusing! 8 hearts intertwined?! It is scary! Terrifying, actually, but the rest of us are trying, Jin. All of us. You won’t be the only one fighting for this to work. But you can’t fight against it. You can’t fight against us!”

Yoongi looks at Namjoon as if for assistance. Their leader just nods, “say what you want, Seokjin, buy we won’t let you take her. Are you insane? 6 of us, 1 of you. Can you really win?”

You’re surprised by RM’s rough tone, but when he winks at you, you know that he’s just doing what he must to get through to Jin.

Yoongi’s tone softened, almost breaking. “Don’t… don’t do this. Don’t throw it away before we even see what we could be. We’ve come too far for you to run now. Please.”

Jin’s eyes flickered at that word… please. It was like something had cracked in him. For a moment Yoongi thought it had worked.

Then Jin’s jaw tightened. Without a word, he took a quick step back then another and another. Backing away before Yoongi could grab him again, he turned and bolted.

“Jin—!”

Yoongi lunged after him, but Jin was already gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall before disappearing entirely. By the time you rounded the corner, there was nothing! No sound or glimpse of Jin. The hall was just empty corridors and the distant thud of a door somewhere in the house.

You turn in the direction he went, ready to chase him. Yoongi swore under his breath and took off in the opposite direction, the search for Jin beginning.

Yoongi

Yoongi took the stairs two at a time, scanning every shadowed corner of the landing before cutting right. His pulse was still pounding from the confrontation and the kiss, Jin’s mouth, and Jin’s retreat, but now it was mixed with the gnawing urgency of a hunt.

He tore through the lounge first, shoving the sliding door open to check the deck. Empty. The pool glimmered under the security lights, untouched.

“Yoongi-hyung!” Jimin’s voice rang from the opposite hallway, breathless. “Anything?”

“Nothing,” Yoongi shot back, already moving past him.

Jimin shook his head, frustration etched deep. “I checked the studio, green room—no sign.”

They split without another word.

In the kitchen, Taehyung stood by the back door, phone in hand, eyes scanning the dark stretch of the yard. “Gate camera didn’t catch him. He’s still here,” he muttered.

“Then keep looking,” Yoongi said, pivoting toward the guest wing.

Room after room came up empty. Neatly made beds, open closets, silence so thick he could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Yoongi passed Hoseok in the hallway, the other man’s expression tight.

“Garage?” Yoongi asked.

“Checked it. Driveway too. Car’s still here.”

That should have been reassuring. It wasn’t.

He was rounding back toward the main staircase when he nearly collided with their girlfriend. Her eyes widened, and before she could say anything, Yoongi pulled her into a quick, fierce hug. His voice low against her hair.

“We’ll find him,” Yoongi murmured, like he needed her to believe it. Like he needed to believe it himself.

When he stepped back, Namjoon was already coming up behind her. “I’ll stay with her,” Namjoon said quietly, giving Yoongi a pointed look. “You keep searching. Don’t slow down.”

Yoongi gave a single nod before slipping past them, heading for the far side of the house. They were all looking. And they were all coming up empty.

Yoongi shoved open the side door and stepped into the morning air, sun was hot against his overheated skin. The backyard was washed in silver from the security floods, every leaf and railing throwing long shadows that could hide nothing and no one.

He jogged the length of the patio, scanning the hedge line. Beyond it, the narrow path to the tennis court was empty—just the hum of the lights and the faint rustle of wind through the net.

From somewhere near the front gate, Hoseok called, “Hyung?!”

“Nothing here!” Yoongi’s voice carried back, clipped with frustration.

They kept moving, crossing paths only to confirm the same thing: no Jin.

Yoongi checked the pool house—lights off, door unlocked, not a sound inside. The glass door reflected him back at himself, hair a mess, jaw set, shoulders tight. He turned away before the sight could sink in.

On the far side of the grounds, he circled the garden, even ducking into the small tool shed, but the smell of soil and fertilizer was the only thing waiting for him. He checked the guest cabana by the fence. Empty.

The house was large, but was it really that big? Everywhere he looked, Jin wasn’t there.

He cut back toward the main house, the weight in his chest growing heavier with each empty step. He knew Jin. When he wanted to vanish, he could do it better than anyone—slipping out of sight, slipping out of reach.

Yoongi’s mind kept replaying the look in Jin’s eyes after the kiss—shock, anger, something almost like fear. The kind of look that meant he wasn’t just running from them. He was running from himself.

You

You’d been replaying Jin’s words in your head ever since they left his mouth. He wanted her to choose only him or have nothing at all to do with him.

You can’t forget the way he touches you and the way he looks at you, but how can you forget the intimacy you built with Yoongi and Namjoon. The exploding passion of Hoseok and Jimin. How could you forget how Jungkook held you? Were you willing to forget about your most anticipated first kiss with Taehyung? Fireworks he’d promised. How could you turn your back on fireworks?

Jin’s demands didn’t feel like an ultimatum. It felt like a verdict. Like a sentence you couldn’t stop. Like a sentence you didn’t see coming.

“I don’t know…” you start, still trying to get your footing. “It just… It’s just that maybe it’s not fair to put me in this position? Unfair that he’s forced me into a choice.”

Namjoon’s head snaps toward you, sharp. “Not fair? It’s definitely not fair.” His voice has that low edge that means he’s past reasoning. “It’s like Jin closed his heart to us without a second thought. Like we never mattered. Like he can just… shut the rest of us out, steal our girlfriend away, and keep her to himself.”

You blink at the heat in his tone, the hurt underneath it. “You’re angry.”

“Damn right I’m angry.” He exhales, raking a hand through his hair. “He’s shutting the door on everyone else — on us — without even thinking about what we are to each other. Without thinking about what we are to you.”

You’re about to add your own grievances to Namjoon’s growing list when something catches your eye over his head.

Up on the roof terrace, two figures stand close, backlit by the soft wash of light from the house. At first, you think you’re imagining it, but then you realize it is Jin. And with him is Jungkook.

Jungkook’s hand is in Jin’s hair, the other braced at his waist, holding him close. Their mouths are locked in a kiss that’s anything but one-sided. Jin is leaning into it, fingers curling in the back of Jungkook’s shirt, kissing him back with heat that leaves no room for doubt.

Your mouth falls open. Namjoon’s too.

For a beat, neither of you speaks. The shock hits first, then something sharper. You can’t even begin to unpack what it means — for Jin, for Jungkook, for all of you — but you know you have to be up there.

Namjoon’s jaw is set. “Let’s go.”

You nod, both of you moving quickly toward the nearest door inside.

The moment you step into the hall, you almost run straight into Yoongi. He’s pacing, scanning every doorway with a tense, restless energy.

“Have you seen him?” he blurts, looking between you and Namjoon. “I can’t find Jin anywhere.”

You and Namjoon lock eyes — no time to soften it.

Namjoon answers first. “We just saw him… on the roof.”

Yoongi’s expression sharpens. “And?”

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “He was kissing Jungkook. Not just standing there. He was into it, Yoongi. He was kissing him back.”

For a split second, Yoongi just stares at you as if he’s trying to decide whether he heard you right. Then his eyes widen, a flash of something raw passing through them.

He doesn’t say another word. He just turns on his heel and takes off for the stairs at a sprint.

You and Namjoon share a wide-eyed look, hearts pounding, before you both bolt after him.

Jungkook

Jungkook took the stairs two at a time, scanning every shadowed corner, every hallway. The others were scattering across the grounds, calling Jin’s name, but Jungkook didn’t waste time with the guest rooms or the kitchen.

He knew where Jin was.
Of course he knew.

The rooftop door groaned when he pushed it open, spilling him into the cool night air. There Jin was ! Leaning against the railing like he’d been waiting for him.

“I knew I’d find you here,” Jungkook said, breathless from the climb but sure of himself.

Jin’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Of course you know me. We’ve been together ten years, since our trainee days.”

Jungkook shook his head sharply. “Don’t twist it, Hyung. Don’t downplay it! You know exactly what I mean. You love me, Kim Seokjin. You always have, and you always will.”

Jin pushed off the railing and closed the distance between them until they were chest to chest. He jabbed a finger into Jungkook’s sternum, voice low. “Don’t tell me about my own feelings. Don’t tell me how I feel.”

“Fine,” Jungkook said, heat flaring in his chest. “Then I’ll show you.”

Before Jin could react, Jungkook’s hand was at the back of his neck, pulling him forward. The kiss landed hard, almost defiant. Jin went still for a heartbeat then his hand came up, pressing against Jungkook’s chest like he might push him away.

But the push never came. The fingers curled, caught in Jungkook’s shirt. Then they were pulling him closer.

And then Jin was in it Yoongi

Yoongi stopped in the open doorway, late morning air curling past him. It was not even noon and yet so much has happened. Yoongi felt crazy, because him racing up to the roof? That was night drama, not day drama and yet here Yoongi was at 11 am.

Jin and Jungkook were locked together in a kiss that was hot, deep, hands already under each other’s shirts. Jungkook’s grip in Jin’s collar was possessive, but Jin wasn’t resisting, because he was into it! leaning in, drawing Jungkook closer like he couldn’t get enough.

Yoongi didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Of course Jungkook’s here. He’d known before he came up the stairs. And watching them now didn’t surprise him, it just confirmed what he already thought.

Jin was delusional. Delusional to stand in front of their girlfriend and talk about “just the two of us”.

The wind slammed the rooftop door against the wall. That was what finally broke them apart, both turning toward him, breathless.

Yoongi’s voice was calm, almost conversational. “Just you and her? When there’s so much more in your heart?” He stepped inside, gaze fixed on Jin. “When we’re in your heart. When I’m in your heart?! How long could you keep that promise, Jin, in your perfect little nonpolyamorous world?”

Jin’s jaw tensed. “This isn’t your business.”

“It’s exactly my business,” Yoongi said, taking another step forward. “Stop lying to her. Stop lying to yourself. Stop lying to me.”

Their girlfriend stepped in then, voice cutting through the space. “Jin.”

His eyes flicked to her.

“Do you love Yoongi?”

Jin scoffed, looking away. “Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t listen to him.” But he didn’t say no.

You repeated it, firmer. “Jin. Are you in love with Min Yoongi?”

Yoongi’s voice dropped, quiet but sharp. “Look me in my eyes and tell me you don’t love me.”

Jin turned toward him, met his gaze and held it. But the words wouldn’t come. His mouth pressed into a thin line before he broke the stare and turned toward the door.

Namjoon stepped in front of it, blocking his way.

Jin’s expression darkened. “Move.”

Yoongi shook his head at Namjoon. “Let him go. We all heard what he wouldn’t say. Now there’s no denying it. Let him sit with it.”

For a beat, no one moved. Then Namjoon stepped aside. Jin opened the door and let it slam behind him. He didn’t look back. He didn’t hesitate. Jin just left. Yoongi thought he’d go to his room to think, but when he walked through the roof door Jin kept on walking. He picked up the first car keys he found, got into Taehyung’s car and drove away.

Yoongi thought it was only fair to let Jin sit by himself and think about what happened on this roof, but instead Jin ran. Yoongi thought he just went for a drive but instead Jin disappeared. No one could find him and it was clear that’s exactly what Jin wanted.

Chapter Text

1:00 PM

Yoongi isn’t looking for anyone when he stumbles down the hallway. His head is pounding, chest tight from yelling, and his throat raw from saying Jin’s name too many times only to get silence in return. The air in the house feels heavier now, like even the walls know someone is missing. Like even the walls want to point out that Jin is gone.

He almost turns back when he hears the shuffle of feet in the kitchen. But then Hoseok’s voice cuts out, sharp, tired, as if it’s been bottled up too long.

“Did you know he took Taehyung’s car?”

Yoongi stops in the doorway. Hoseok is at the counter, hands braced like he might break the wood just holding himself up. His eyes are swollen, not from drink yet but from something messier—anger or grief, maybe both.

Yoongi’s voice comes out flat. “I figured.” He pulls a chair out and drops into it, all brittle limbs and restless energy. “He’s not picking up.”

“Of course he’s not picking up,” Hoseok snaps, turning around. “That’s his thing, isn’t it? Blow everything up and then vanish like—like he’s the one who got hurt.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightens. The words should sting, but instead they settle too easily, like Hoseok is only saying what Yoongi’s been circling himself. “That’s exactly what he does.”

There’s a silence between them, thick as smoke. Then Hoseok’s eyes flick to Yoongi, narrowing like he’s piecing something together.

“What did you fight about?”

Yoongi exhales hard through his nose. He doesn’t want to answer, but maybe the words are too heavy to keep carrying. “You want the short version?”

“Yeah.”

Yoongi leans back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “We’ve been… whatever we are… for years. Off and on. Mostly off. He likes to pretend it’s not real until it’s convenient for him. And today—” His throat closes on the memory of the rooftop. “Today he made it clear I was never supposed to expect anything. Not from him.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s charged. Hoseok’s face changes in real time: shock, disbelief, then a bitter, almost hysterical laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Yoongi’s gaze drops. “What?”

Hoseok shakes his head, looking like he might actually tear the kitchen apart with his bare hands. “Years? He told me—fuck, Yoongi, he told me I was the only one. That I was special. That—” He breaks off, raking a hand through his hair, eyes glassy now. “He played me. He played both of us.”

The words hit like a punch, and Yoongi has to grip the edge of the table to stay steady. He wants to deny it, to argue, but the pieces lock together too neatly. Jin disappearing. Jin always leaving trails of half-truths behind him. Jin making each of them feel like the exception.

Yoongi whispers, almost to himself, “Unbelievable.”

Hoseok laughs again, but it’s hollow, cracked. “No. It’s believable. It’s exactly him.”

They stare at each other for a moment, two men who’ve just realized they were orbiting the same black hole all along. Then Hoseok mutters, “I need a drink.”

He disappears into the fridge and comes out with a green bottle. Yoongi watches him twist the cap off the soju and take the first long swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing with each burn. Hoseok wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes dark.

“Your turn,” Hoseok says, shoving the bottle toward him.

Yoongi doesn’t hesitate. The liquid scorches down his throat, but it feels good—like punishment, like release.

They don’t realize yet how bad it’s about to get.

3:00 PM

The soju is gone. Hoseok slams a bottle of whiskey onto the counter, the sound sharp in the empty kitchen.

“Do you know what he told me?” Hoseok’s voice is rough, hands trembling as he pours. “He said I was the only one who understood him. The only one who saw him.”

Yoongi lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah? He told me the same fucking thing.”

Their glasses clink, both of them drinking like the burn might erase the memories. Hoseok tips his head back, eyes shining with fury. “He made me believe him.”

“Me too,” Yoongi admits quietly, and that might be the cruelest cut of all.

5:30 PM

The whiskey is half-empty. Their phones litter the counter, screens glowing with unanswered messages.

“Where is he?” Hoseok mutters, thumb hovering over Jin’s contact. His face is twisted between anger and despair. “Why won’t he just say something?”

Yoongi’s laugh is bitter, sharp. “Because he doesn’t care. He gets to run, and we’re left chasing shadows.” He drains his glass and sets it down too hard.

Hoseok leans forward, head in his hands. “I don’t get it. Was any of it real?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know if he can.

6:00 PM

The bottle is nearly finished. Hoseok is pacing the kitchen, words spilling out fast, wild, contradictory.

“I hate him. I fucking hate him.”

Yoongi, sitting heavy in his chair, lets out a hollow laugh. “I love him.”

“Same thing,” Hoseok mutters, slamming back the last of his drink.

They both laugh then, jagged and broken, the sound echoing too loud in the empty house.

8:00 PM

By now they’re slouched and sloppy, every line between fury and heartbreak blurred. Hoseok mumbles curses under his breath, eyes glassy. Yoongi stares at the ceiling, whispering Jin’s name like it’s a prayer and a curse all at once.

That’s when the kitchen door creaks open and you and Jungkook step in.

You

The scene is chaos: bottles scattered across the counter, chairs pulled out at odd angles, the sharp smell of whiskey heavy in the air.

“Hyung,” Jungkook says softly, moving to steady Yoongi before he slides off his chair.

You crouch beside Hoseok, who blinks at you like he’s seeing through water. His body is warm and heavy as you shift his arm over your shoulder.

“He’s gone,” Yoongi mumbles, eyes half-shut. “Jin’s gone.”

You meet Jungkook’s gaze over their heads. He looks as worried as you feel.

Together, the two of you guide them down the hall, half-carrying, half-dragging until you get them onto bed. Hoseok mutters Jin’s name once before passing out. Yoongi doesn’t speak again.

By the time you pull the blanket over them, they’re already wrapped up in each other deep asleep.

The house is quiet again. But not clean. Not healed. Just heavier.

Minutes after you’d left Yoongi and Hoseok tangled in the same bed, the house felt quieter — but not calmer. The silence was heavy, like the air itself was holding its breath. You leaned against the kitchen counter, rubbing your temples. Jungkook leaned beside you, a half-finished beer in his hand, his eyes following the floor as though the answers might be written in the tiles.

“I’ve never seen them like that,” you murmured.

Jungkook huffed a soft laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Me neither. Not like this.” He took a long sip, then shook his head. “But… I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve seen them in every situation possible. Every high, every low. Every meltdown, every win.”

You looked over at him. He was staring down at the bottle in his hand, turning it slowly, his jaw tight like he was about to say too much.

“They think I don’t notice. That I’m just the maknae, too busy in my own head to care.” He smiled faintly, bitterly. “But I know just about everything about them. Every little habit. Every tell. I thought I was just being a good coworker, you know? Paying attention because I had to. But…” His voice trailed, and for a moment he looked young — wide-eyed, uncertain. “I think it’s because I was always watching.”

You laughed softly, trying to lighten the weight of his confession. “So what? You’re a walking encyclopedia of BTS quirks?”

That pulled a real smile from him, and he leaned back in his chair. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He started ticking them off casually, like he’d been storing these truths for years. “Yoongi-hyung rubs his thumb over his bottom lip whenever he’s deep in thought. Hoseok-hyung hums under his breath before bed, even when he doesn’t realize it. Namjoon’s glasses always slip down his nose when he’s reading, and he never pushes them back up right away. Jimin curls his toes when he laughs too hard. Taehyung…” Jungkook’s voice softened. “Taehyung sings in his sleep sometimes. Just a line or two, then it fades.”

You were smiling, amused and warmed by his list. “You really do notice everything.”

Jungkook gave a small shrug, though his eyes betrayed how much it meant to him. “I didn’t know I was memorizing them. I thought I was just… being present. But looking back, I think I was in love before I even knew it.”

The words made your heart stutter. There was something so open, so vulnerable in the way he said it — like he was only just realizing it himself.

Then he added, almost too softly: “And Jin-hyung… I’d know his cologne anywhere. The perfect scent. Never overpowering, never too much. Just him. If I smell it, even for a second, it’s like he’s right there.”

Your stomach dropped.

Because you knew that scent too.

The night three years ago. The party. Jin in a suit, his hand at your back, the two of you dancing closer than strangers should, your cheek brushing his shoulder. His cologne wrapped around you, clean and distinct, branded into memory.

A year later, blindfolded in Taehyung’s bed, you smelled it again. The sheets tangled, the world narrowed to touch and heat, and still—his scent was there. You told yourself not to notice. You told yourself it was coincidence. You told yourself it couldn’t mean what you feared it did.

But Jungkook’s words shattered those excuses, dragging the memories into sharp, brutal clarity.

Because you always knew when it was him. Even if you didn’t admit it. Even if you lied — to Taehyung, to yourself. You’d known.

And now the questions came crashing down, jagged and merciless. Did that mean you’d always known it was Jin? Did that mean, deep down, you knew Taehyung was sharing you with someone else? Did that mean you’d known all along you were sleeping with celebrities?

Is that why you threw caution to the wind with your boyfriends — because some part of you had already pieced it together, even if you refused to admit it?

The realization spiraled through you, leaving you dizzy.

Jungkook didn’t notice. He was still lost in his own quiet revelation, eyes glassy with emotion, his voice soft as he added: “I thought I was just loving them like brothers. But I wasn’t. I was falling in love with all of them. And I didn’t even see it coming.”

You sat frozen beside him, breath caught in your throat, his words ringing in your ears long after he fell silent.

Your phone is already pressed to your ear before you’ve even thought it through. The line clicks and your friend’s voice comes sharp, low, like she already knows what you’re about to ask.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare ask me that.”

“Please. I need it.”

“You think I’m going to hand over that address? Do you know what happens if this gets out?”

“I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”

“Swear on what?”

The words catch in your throat. You swallow. “On my life.”

Silence. Then a bitter exhale. “Not enough.”

Your hand shakes around the phone. “Then I swear on my unborn child.”

Another silence, longer this time, stretching until you think she’ll hang up.

“…Fine. I’ll text it. But listen to me—if you breathe my name in connection with this, I’m finished. And so are you.”

The address pings seconds later. You stare at it like it’s something sacred, something cursed. Within minutes you’ve palmed Yoongi’s keys off the counter and slipped behind the wheel of his car. Headlights carve the road as you snake into the Hollywood Hills, heart pounding harder with every curve.

At the gated entrance, a uniformed guard steps out of the lit booth, clipboard in hand. “Who are you going to see at this address?”

Your throat tightens. “Chris Martin.”

He looks at you, then picks up the phone inside the booth. He dials, waits, glances up through the window. “She says she’s here for you.” A beat. A nod. He hangs up and returns to your window. “You’re cleared. He’s authorized it.”

The gate rolls open.

You sit frozen for a breath, realization crashing down. He’s really here. Chris Martin didn’t need your name to say yes. He only needed Jin’s.

The drive winds up to a glass-and-stone mansion lit from within. You park, palms slick, and take the path to the door.

It opens before you can knock.

Jin stands there, framed by warm light, shirt open at the throat, hair slightly mussed. For a heartbeat you just look at each other, the air between you charged with everything unsaid. Then you step forward, closing the space until your chest brushes his.

“Three years ago,” you say, voice low. “At that party. I remember your scent. You danced with me, and I thought I’d never forget it.” You tilt closer, breath at his neck, inhaling like you’re testing memory against skin. “And a year later—blindfolded in that hotel room—my lover brought me someone else. I knew it was you the moment you touched me.”

His hands settle on your hips, firm, holding you there like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His eyes darken.

“The second I walked in and saw you—naked, waiting, blindfolded—I knew,” he says, voice rough. “And it killed me. I couldn’t kiss you. I couldn’t let you know it was me. But I couldn’t stop touching you.”

Your palm slides up his chest to the thud of his heartbeat. “You can kiss me now,” you whisper.

For a breath he just stares, grip tightening on your hips. Then the restraint shatters.

His mouth finds yours, hard and hungry. The kiss lands like a release he’s held for years—sure, precise, desperate. His lips part yours, heat pouring in as he exhales against your mouth, a low sound of relief breaking in his chest. You fist his shirt and drag him closer; his hand slips to the small of your back and presses, eliminating every inch of distance until it’s only heat and breath and the taste of him.

He angles, deepens; your gasp disappears into him. He kisses like he’s making up for every second he couldn’t, like memory has been burning a path through him and finally found its way out.

You break first, lips swollen, breath unsteady. His forehead rests against yours, eyes closed as if one more heartbeat without you might undo him.

“I told myself I couldn’t,” he murmurs against your mouth. “That I wouldn’t. But I’ve wanted this every day since that night.”

“And now?” you breathe.

His lips return to yours, softer this time—lingering, certain—an answer he seals without words.

Your heart pounds the way it always does when Seokjin stares at you . When he looks at you like you make his day begin.

He kisses you. It’s not your first kiss and universe willing it won’t be your last kiss. You come together like moths to a flame, lips fused, tongues caressing.

It’s sweet between the two of you. Almost magical. The way your bodies ignite on contact. You always want Jin. To be with him and close to him. And the crazy part? Seokjin always seems to want to be close to you too.

You ignore the fact that this night is selfish. You’re both staring at each other like no one else existed. But they did exist, 6 men who deserved more than having you sneak out at night to fuck Jin.

It’s selfish. Every kiss and touch, selfishZ

But when he lifts you into his arms, carrying you out of public and lying you softly down on the mattress in Chris Martin’s guest room.

You lie on the bed staring up at Jin as his body comes down on top of your body. He looks at you. The Kim Seokjin stares deeply into your eyes. And then he says it.

“I love you,” he says, thrusting inside you.

You know better than to believe words said in the throes of passion, but in that moment you believed him. You believed that he loves you.

And then he proceeds to love you with his entire body. His cock stays inside you, fitted to you like a measured glove.

“I love you,” says Seokjin over and over again as he slides in and out of your body, a perfect fit.

He rides your body, taking you closer to heaven, to climax, to ecstasy.

You’re wrapped around Kim Seokjin like you were made for him. Made to love him. Made to fuck him. You grind your pussy against him, making you both groan at the frictions
You fuck, you make love to Kim Seokjin.

You wish you could say that you’ve never connected to someone’s soul as deeply as you connect to Jin. You can ignore it all you want but when you were done with this selfish moment with Jin, you will have to return to reality and the six other men who are devoted to you. But you don’t think about them, not tonight. You focus on connecting with Jin.

And you do connect, not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. You connect. But it’s physical right now as Jin rides your body to orgasm. You bite his ear. He moans loudly and you cum together. Rutting and thrusting and fuckinv and loving.

“Fuck!” Says Jin as he thrusts inside you one last time. “I love you.”

He collapses on top of you, spent. You run your hands through his damp hair. Loving every moment of him. Loving every inch of him.

Your heart begins to beat completely out of sync as you think about your thoughts, your feelings… your truth.

You look at Seokjin. He looks at you, sensing the depth of the moment. You look into his eyes so he can see your honest and authentic truth.

“I love you, Seokjin,” you confess.

He smiles like he’s won the lottery. “I know,” he says and then Jin kisses you.

“Jin?”

“Yeah?” He asks.

“I love them too,” you confess, ending your selfish evening.

“I know,” is all he says in return.

Chapter Text

You

The guest room was still, the faint hum of Los Angeles traffic bleeding in through the open windows. You blinked against the darkness, heart pounding with the weight of what you’d done… of what you couldn’t take back.

Beside you, Jin slept like nothing had broken. His face was soft in the glow of the bedside lamp left on low, lashes brushing his cheeks, lips parted just enough to catch each slow breath. One hand was curled toward the empty space you’d already started to put between you, fingers twitching faintly like even in his sleep he wanted to hold on.

It nearly undid you.

For a moment, you let yourself watch him. The quiet rise and fall of his chest. The way his hair had fallen across his forehead in messy strands, damp still from the sweat of your bodies pressed together. He looked younger like this. Jin was stripped of the edge, of the weight he carried in front of everyone else. Peaceful. Vulnerable. Like he’d finally laid his burdens down for just a few hours.

You leaned in, close enough that his warmth brushed against your skin. Close enough that you could memorize this version of him, the one just for you that you thought one else got to see. Then you pulled back, teeth sinking into your lip, because staying would be worse than leaving.

Careful, careful, you slid out from under the blanket. The mattress dipped and shifted but Jin didn’t stir, only sighed softly and rolled to the side, his hand finding the pillow you’d abandoned.

You dressed in silence, every rustle of fabric sounding too loud. Your heart beat like it wanted to betray you, but still you made it to the door. One last look over your shoulder caught him in the lamplight, sprawled across the sheets, one arm draped where you had been, the picture of peace.

You whispered it only to yourself, so quiet even the walls couldn’t carry it: “I’m sorry.”

Then you slipped out, closing the door with a click that felt far too final.

The LA house was silent when you slipped back inside. The night air still clung to your skin, the faint scent of Jin’s cologne trailing you like evidence you couldn’t wash away. You moved carefully, socked feet whispering against the hardwood, every creak in the floorboards making your stomach clench.

Yoongi’s car keys slid back onto the counter exactly where you’d taken them. No one saw. No one knew.

By the time you reached the hall outside your bedroom, your body sagged with relief. You’d done it. You’d made it back unseen. You wrapped your fingers around the knob, twisting—

“How’s Jin?”

The voice came from the shadows, low and casual, but it hit like a spotlight. You froze, blood running cold, before you turned.

Jimin leaned against the wall across from your door, a bowl of cereal in his hands like this was the most normal thing in the world. He was barefoot, hair mussed, eyes too sharp for someone who was supposed to have been asleep. He took a spoonful, chewed, swallowed, and only then lifted his gaze to yours.

He didn’t need to say it. The question wasn’t really a question. He already knew where you’d been and who you’d been with.

Your throat worked around words that felt paper-thin. “He’s… the same.”

Jimin hummed, noncommittal, and went back to his cereal. But the corner of his mouth curved like he could taste the truth anyway.

“You smell like him,” said Jimin. “You should take a shower.

You nodded because Jin’s signature sent rubbed off on you. All six of your boyfriends would recognize his cologne.

“So…” began Jimin. “Did Jin get what he wants from you? Do you want only him?”

You shake your head, emphatically. “No, Jimin.”

“Do you love him?” Asked Jimin, getting right to the point.

Were you picking Jin? Did you love only him.

You give Jimin the unvarnished truth. It’s what he deserved. It was all deserved.

“Yes, I love him,” you admit. “But I love you too. I’m back because I don’t want anyone to think I choose only Jin. Jimin you mean everything to me.”

He smiled. A happy twist of his lips that was all for you. You had given the correct answer.

“Let’s keep last night between us,” he said finally, tone unreadable. “No need to… complicate things further.”

Your pulse jumped. You nodded, because what else could you do?

Jimin tipped the bowl toward you in a mock toast and pushed off the wall, padding down the hallway without another word.

You slipped into your room, shutting the door with shaking hands. The relief you’d felt moments before had curdled into something sharper. You hadn’t been as invisible as you thought.

“I need a shower,” you said, walking toward your private ensuite bathroom.

You could wash the history of Jin from your skin but never from your heart.

Complicated,Jimin had called your love life and he was right. This was so damn complicated.

Jin

The morning sunlight was soft when Jin stirred, the curtains glowing faint gold. He shifted, reaching across the mattress for warmth he expected to find.

Empty.

His hand brushed only sheets. Cold sheets.

Jin sat up too fast, head pounding from the night before, his body heavy but his chest suddenly hollow. He looked around the room, the faint imprint of her body still pressed into the bedding, her lavender scent still clinging to the pillow, but she was gone.

No note. No text. No sound of footsteps in the hall.

Just silence.

For a long moment he stayed frozen, staring at the indentation on the mattress like it could explain why she’d left him there.

He’d thought last night changed everything. Jin told you that. he loved you, not once, not in passing, but over and over again, the words spilling from him with every thrust, every kiss, every breath. And she said it back.

So why did she leave?

His breath caught when Jin remembered her last words to him. She said that she loved them too.

Not a him. Not just one person. She thought that she was in love with seven. Jin was included in that seven, but it wasn’t enough. He shared his career and his successes to BTS, but did he really have to share his girl too?

Jin swung his legs off the bed, hands scrubbing over his face as anger pushed up through the sadness. How dare she leave without a word? How dare she sneak out like what happened didn’t matter?

His jaw tightened as Jin grabbed his shirt from the floor, yanking it on. By the time he snatched Taehyung’s car keys from the counter and slammed the door behind him, his grief had hardened into something sharper.

She wanted to run? Fine. But she couldn’t hide.

Not from him.

Jin

The drive blurred by in a haze of clenched teeth and white-knuckled grip on the wheel. The morning traffic wound around him, but Jin barely saw it. His mind replayed every second of last night. Her voice whispering his name, her confession, her body wrapped around his like she were meant for him.

And then, just as clear, the sight of that empty space beside him in bed.

By the time he turned onto the long road toward the LA house, the rage in him had curdled into something he couldn’t even name — a sick mix of fury and longing, betrayal and need.

He pulled Taehyung’s car into the drive, braking hard enough that the tires crunched against the gravel. He killed the engine but didn’t move right away. His hands stayed on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, breath shallow.

She left him.

But she couldn’t erase what had happened. She couldn’t erase the words she ’d said.

“I love you, Seokjin.”

The memory of it sliced him open all over again.

Finally, he shoved the door open and strode inside the house he’d run out of a week ago.

The air in the house was heavy, stale with alcohol and silence. Jin’s steps echoed on the tile as he moved down the hallway, each one sharper than the last. He didn’t have to look far before he found them. He wasn’t looking for them, but there he was.

Yoongi and Hoseok were in the kitchen, both wrecked. Their eyes red, their shoulders slumped, glasses and bottles scattered across the counter like the remains of a storm. They looked up when Jin appeared in the doorway.

“Jin?” Hoseok’s voice was hoarse, raw.

Yoongi’s expression hardened instantly, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

For one fractured second, nobody moved. Three men standing in the wreckage of trust.

Then Jin broke the silence, his voice clipped, almost pleading beneath the steel.

“Don’t—” he muttered, holding up a hand like he could ward off their stares. “Don’t look at me like that. Pretend I’m not here.”

He brushed past them, heading deeper into the house.

But Yoongi’s voice followed him, sharp enough to cut.

“Pretend?” Yoongi spat. “After everything, you think we can pretend?”

Jin froze, every muscle strung tight. He didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. Because if he did, he wasn’t sure what they’d see on his face — the shame, the guilt, the fear that maybe Yoongi was right.

Jin

Yoongi’s voice cut through the kitchen like a knife. “Pretend? You think we can just pretend after what you did?”

Jin’s back stiffened, but he didn’t turn. His hand curled against the doorframe, white-knuckled.

“Answer him,” Hoseok said, his tone low, deadly calm — the kind of calm that came only before a storm.

Jin exhaled, sharp and shaky, then finally spun around. “What do you want me to say? That I never cared? That I never—” His voice cracked, his face twisting with something raw. “Of course I loved you. Both of you.”

That should have soothed. Instead it detonated.

“Then why the fuck were we secrets?” Hoseok snapped, his hands slamming the counter so hard the bottles rattled. “Why did you make us hide like we were shameful?”

Jin’s voice rose with desperation. “What was I supposed to do? Enter seven different relationships? With each of you? With her?” His chest heaved, words tumbling faster now. “Yes, I love you. Yes, I love Yoongi. But what did you expect from me? What did you want—” his throat tore on the word, “—all of us running a train on our shared girlfriend? Lining up, waiting our turn?”

Yoongi stepped forward, his fury sharpened by something deeper. “You don’t understand a damn thing. You think this is about sex? Scratching an itch?” His voice broke on the last word, raw and pleading. “I wanted more. We wanted more.”

Jin froze, startled by the way his voice cracked. “More?”

Hoseok’s answer landed like a hammer. His voice was steady, almost eerily so. “Everything. That’s what we want, Seokjin. Not pieces. Not lies. Not secrets. Everything. All of you, all of us. Together.”

The words hung in the air like a verdict.

Jin’s throat worked around silence. For the first time, he had no quick retort, no defense. Because deep down, he knew Hoseok wasn’t wrong. He was the one who’d kept them all apart. He was the one who made love conditional, compartmentalized.

And for the first time, Seokjin felt the weight of that truth pressing down on him.

Everything…

The word echoed in the kitchen like a gavel.

Everything….

Jin’s breath came sharp through his nose. For a second he almost flinched under the weight of it, but then the mask came back down, anger wrapping around him like armor.

“Everything?” His laugh was sharp, humorless. “You’re insane. You think that’s even possible? That we could live like that without tearing each other apart? That’s not love, that’s delusion.”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. “No, what’s delusional is you pretending you can keep her away from us. You don’t get to decide who’s love is real. You don’t get to break us up! You don’t get to decide who we all end up with.”

Jin’s voice rose, ragged now. “I’m not here for this! I’m not here for some fantasy world where the seven of us take turns like—like it’s normal. I’m here for her. For my girlfriend. That’s it.” He jabbed a finger toward the hall, eyes flashing. “I’m sorry that I hurt you. I am, but it is in the past! So either get out of my way, or get used to being disappointed.”

Hoseok’s eyes darkened. “You can walk away from us, Seokjin, but don’t think for a second we’re going to let you walk away with our girlfriend or without answers.”

“I don’t owe you answers!” Jin barked, spinning on his heel and shoving past them.

But Yoongi caught his arm just long enough to make him stop. “You do. You owe all of us. And you know it.”

For half a beat their eyes locked. Yoongi’s eyes were wet with fury, Jin’s glittering with something closer to panic, before Jin tore free. He stalked down the hall, his footsteps heavy against the floorboards, each one louder than the last.

Hoseok and Yoongi exchanged a glance. No words passed, but the decision was already made.

They weren’t done talking. Not by a long shot.

And as Jin disappeared into the house, they went after him.

You

You weren’t expecting the footsteps. You’d been pacing your room, nerves fraying from the silence in the house, when suddenly the door opened hard enough to rattle the frame.

Jin stood there.

His hair was a mess, eyes bloodshot but sharp, like he’d run through fire just to get to you. “We need to talk,” he said, voice low, insistent.

You froze. After last night, after sneaking back before dawn and thinking you could keep this secret pressed between your ribs — here he was, dragging it out into daylight.

But before you could answer, two more shadows appeared. Yoongi and Hoseok, both stiff with purpose, stepping in behind him like they’d been waiting for this moment.

“Perfect,” Hoseok muttered, bitterness in his laugh. “All of us in one place.”

Jin’s shoulders went rigid. “This isn’t about you two. This is between me and her.”

“Bullshit,” Yoongi snapped, stepping forward. His eyes cut straight through Jin, then flicked to you — raw, almost apologetic, before slamming back to Jin. “You think you can stand here and talk about being hers when you’ve been ours too?”

Your stomach dropped. The words hit harder than you were ready for. “What?”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. “Tell her. Tell her how many nights you left me in your bed like I was nothing. Tell her how you told Hoseok he was the only one who really saw you.”

Hoseok’s laugh cracked like glass. “You played both of us. You made us believe it meant something. And now you’re trying to sell her this fantasy about just you and her?”

Your breath caught, the room tilting. “Is it true?”

For the first time, Jin looked at you. And his silence was answer enough.

“Say it!” Yoongi’s voice broke, desperate now. “Say you loved us, Jin. Say it wasn’t all a fucking lie.”

Jin’s jaw clenched, his voice a ragged shout. “Yes! I loved you! Both of you! Does it even matter? What were we supposed to do, announce it to the world? Pretend it could last? We were always a secret!”

The words slammed into you, hot and dizzying. Yoongi staggered back like he’d been hit, but Hoseok surged forward, chest heaving. “We don’t want scraps anymore. We don’t want the stolen pieces of you. We want everything.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Jin laughed, sharp and bitter. “Everything? You think that’s real? You think the seven of us could just—what? Run a train on her? Take turns like it means something?”

Your hands trembled. “Stop it.”

But Jin was unraveling, voice rising. “That’s all it ever could be. Sex. Scratching every itch until the next one comes. Don’t talk to me about love when this—” he jabbed his chest, his voice breaking, “—was never allowed to be love.”

Yoongi’s eyes glistened, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re wrong. We could’ve been more. We still could. But you’d rather burn it all than believe in us.”

For a moment, the room felt like it might break apart under the weight of everything said. Jin’s breaths came ragged, your own chest aching with the collision of truths you weren’t ready for.

And then, true to form, Jin spun on his heel. “I’m done.”

He stormed out of the room, footsteps echoing down the hall, but Yoongi and Hoseok weren’t far behind. They weren’t done. Not yet.

Jin

Jin storms down the hall, Yoongi and Hoseok hot on his heels. Their voices overlap, sharp and angry.

“You don’t just walk away from this!” Yoongi snaps.

“You owe us the truth, hyung!” Hoseok pushes, eyes blazing.

Jin rounds on them, already raw. “I said what I had to say!”

That’s when Namjoon appears from the side corridor. He doesn’t yell, just steps between them with a quiet authority that makes all three stop.

“Enough,” Namjoon says firmly. His gaze flicks to Yoongi and Hoseok, both still bristling. “Not now. Go cool off.”

They hesitate, still burning, but Namjoon doesn’t waver. Slowly, grudgingly, they back away, leaving Jin alone with their leader.

If Namjoon couldn’t figure this out, maybe no one could.

Namjoon turns to Jin. His tone is softer, but his eyes are sharp. “Wow. They’re amped up. What did you do?”

Jin laughs bitterly, dragging a hand down his face. “What I always do.” His voice cracks. “I lied. To them… and to myself.”

Namjoon studies him, but doesn’t push. Just waits.

Jin’s shoulders sag. “I keep pretending I can control this. Pretending I can choose one heart over seven. Pretending I didn’t… love them… you too.” His words stumble, broken. “And now they know that I’m full of shit. But I don’t even know who I am in all of this… not anymore.”

Namjoon lets out a long breath, not judgment, just quiet understanding. “Then maybe stop lying. You should stop pretending and start being honest with with me, with them, with her, and most importantly, with yourself.”

Jin swallows hard. For once, he doesn’t argue. Namjoon knew him better than anyone.

“I don’t lie to you,” Jin swore.

“I don’t think that’s true,” says Namjoon. “I think you lied to me when you said you wanted only her.

Jin laughs. Namjoon knew him so well.

“I want all of you,” Jin finally admitted. “But I don’t know how.”

“Stop fighting against us,“ says Namjoon. “Stop fighting and just be.”

Jin nodded, because that’s the only thing he could do.

Well, not the only thing, Jin thought

Then Kim Seokjin pulled Namjoon into his arms and just held him. Kim Namjoon only smiled and hugged Jin back.

Chapter Text

The early morning light crept softly through the blinds, warming the room in a golden haze. Jin stirred, still tangled up with Namjoon, his cheek pressed against the leader’s chest. Namjoon’s arm was draped over Jin’s waist, holding him close, steady like an anchor. Jin could feel Namjoon’s heartbeat beneath his ear, a calm rhythm that grounded him after days of storm.

Namjoon shifted slightly, brushing Jin’s hair back from his forehead. “Morning,” he murmured.

Jin groaned, burying his face deeper into Namjoon’s chest. “No,” he muttered, voice muffled.

“No what?” Asked Namjoon.

“No it is not morning,” announced Jin throwing the blanket over both their heads, blocking out the light. “No, the sun isn’t out. No, it’s not time to get up and face life.”

Namjoon chuckled softly, his breath warm against Jin’s temple. “When will you be ready then?”

“Ready?” Asked Jin.

“To face the morning,” said Namjoon gently pulling the blanket from Jin’s hands. “When will you be ready to recognize the sun and face life?”

Jin sighed, already knowing Namjoon was right. He would never be ready, not for the conversations, not for the truths, but Namjoon’s patience had a way of making him want to try. “Fine,” he said, lifting his head to look at Namjoon.

“Good.” Namjoon smiled, leaning in for a soft kiss. “Let’s shower together,” he teased, playful now, his dimples showing.

Jin laughed quietly, tension in his chest easing. “Alright,” he whispered, and for a moment, it felt like nothing else mattered.

On the other side of town, you were sandwiched between Hoseok and Yoongi, the morning air cool but the warmth of their bodies keeping you cozy. Yoongi was dozing lightly, his breathing slow, while Hoseok was awake, arm curled around your waist protectively.

You both pretended to still be asleep, unwilling to disturb the morning’s comfy, drama less atmosphere.

But neither of you anticipated Kim Taehyung.

Their peace was shattered with the sudden bang of your door flying open. Taehyung stood in the doorway, hair wild, wearing a mischievous grin. Before you could say a word, he sprinted forward and launched himself onto the bed.

You yelped, instinctively bracing for impact, but Taehyung managed to land with perfect precision, avoiding everyone on the bed entirely.

“Taehyung!” you exclaimed, laughing despite yourself.

He grinned, proud of his entrance. “Morning!”

Jimin appeared in the doorway next, arms crossed, a bowl of cereal in his hand. He surveyed the scene with a deadpan expression. “Are you here for fun or to ask them to breakfast?”

“I don’t see why it can’t be both,” Taehyung shot back with a wink.

You giggled, shaking your head. “I am hungry,” you admitted.

“Same,” Jimin said, his tone dry but amused.

Taehyung sat up suddenly, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “Then let’s go out for breakfast!” he said, bouncing off the bed now that he had a mission, his lovers were hungry.

The energy shifted instantly, laughter filling the room as Taehyung darted out to spread the news. “Twenty minutes!” he called over his shoulder.

“Twenty?!” You asked, affronted.

You had to remind your men that they had a woman in the house that wore make up every day and would need more time.

You sat at the vanity in your room, carefully applying glitter to your eyelids, debating whether it was too much for a casual breakfast. You’d never had a vanity but the lights on this mirror has you considering it for home. The morning sunlight spilled through the window, reflecting off your makeup brushes.

“Come in!” you called when you heard a knock.

Jungkook stepped inside, hands in his pockets, a shy but warm smile tugging at his lips.

“Too much?” you asked, turning your head to show him the shimmer you’d just applied.

“Nothing is too much on you,” he said without hesitation.

The compliment sent warmth rushing to your cheeks. You turned back to your mirror, pretending to focus on your makeup, but your heart was racing.

Jungkook shut the door softly, and you were struck by the way he leaned against it, suddenly shy. “I went to invite Namjoon to breakfast,” he started nervously, “but Jin was there… so I just… turned around and left.”

You laughed. “You just left?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “They’re my hyungs! I didn’t know what to say.”

You turned in your seat to look at him, your chest tightening at how endearing he was. Jungkook—the golden maknae, all tattoos and confidence on stage—was blushing like a teenager.

You wished you could kiss that shy smile from his lips. Then you realized… you totally and completely could kiss him. You haven’t talked it through but Jeon Jungkook was your boyfriend! You could kiss him whenever you want, well in private.

You couldn’t help yourself. You reached out, cupping his face in your hands, and kissed him.

He froze for a heartbeat, then melted into it, his hands resting on your waist. When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his. “Go invite them,” you whispered with a smile.

Jungkook grinned, stealing one more kiss before heading out, and you went the opposite way, intent on warning Hoseok and Yoongi that Jin was coming to breakfast.

The main living area buzzed with activity as everyone got ready to leave. Taehyung’s excitement was infectious, bouncing on his heels as he waited by the door. Jimin was composed but smiling softly at Taehyung’s chaos, but their boy loved Western style breakfast, even if the rest were a bit tired of it. Hoseok and Yoongi moved quietly, tension still lingering, while Namjoon radiated calm, Jin at his side looking surprisingly soft after the morning they’d shared.

Jimin’s voice cut through the noise: “All eight of us,” he said firmly. “We’re going together.”

It was decided—two cars, four in each. You found yourself climbing into the passenger seat of one car, Taehyung at the wheel, Namjoon climbing in behind him, and Jimin sliding in next to him.

Before you closed the door, upu realized who the occupants of the other car must be. Your eyes land on Jungkook, he’s driving but that’s not why he looked so uneasy. You shot him a smile which he returned as Jin got in the seat beside him while a frowning Yoongi held Hoseok in the back.

Unaware of the other car’s tension, Taehyung’s playlist was already blasting upbeat music as he pulled out of the driveway, Jimin rolling his eyes but smiling.

The ride was lighthearted, laughter filling the car as Taehyung sang dramatically to the music, you held his hand as he drove and chimed in with harmonies that had Jimin smirking and Namjoon groaning in amusement. The tension of the past few days felt distant, the car like a little bubble of joy.

But as you glanced out the window, the second car pulled up beside you at a red light. You couldn’t see much through the tinted glass, but you imagined it was quieter—Jungkook humming quietly at the wheel, Jin and Hoseok both silent, Yoongi staring out the window. A different kind of weight traveled with them.

You were relieved to be in Taehyung’s returned car because it was drama free.

By the time you reached the hotel that housed the restaurant you’re going to, you switched places with Jungkook, to give him a break and a peaceful breakfast. But when your eyes met Jin and saw all the anger radiating from his irises made you look away, maybe switching with JK wasn’t a good idea.

Inside, the hotel air was cool and perfumed, the soft hum of a piano filling the lobby. The dining room was elegant, all white linens and chandeliers, sunlight spilling across polished floors.

You followed the hostess through a space where every table seemed to hum with quiet importance. At one, a famous game show host laughed into his coffee. Two tables over, a Hollywood actor stirred sugar into his tea, sunglasses perched in his hair. Near the window, an author you admired leaned toward a quiet man who was an actor/producer from one of those prestige dramas.

You mirrored BTS’s calm, practiced demeanor, head high, eyes soft. No one stared openly, but you felt a few heads turn.

“Two tables,” Jimin said smoothly to the hostess, his voice calm but firm.

You weren’t paying much attention as she led you to your seats, distracted by the chandeliers and soft piano music. Jungkook sat with Jimin, Namjoon and Taehyung while you sat with Hoseok, Yoongi… and Jin.

Hoseok passed menus to you and Yoongi without a word, his face composed but cool as he ignored Jin, holding on to two menus. Jin sat back, entirely unbothered, smiling faintly.

“Menu, please,” Jin said smoothly.

Hoseok ignored him.

Jin sighed, flagging down a server. “One more menu, please,” he said politely.

The server handed him a menu, and Jin offered a soft “Thank you,” before glancing back at Hoseok with a smile just warm enough to annoy him.

You swallowed hard, staring down at the elegant table setting, aware of every tension-filled breath.

At the table next to them, laughter from the other table, Jimin’s bright and dramatic, Taehyung’s low and amused, floated over like sunlight you couldn’t quite reach.

“Go,” said Yoongi. “Sit with them, looks like fun.”

You wish you could, but no you shouldn’t. You were as invested in these 3 men as you were the four at the other table.

No, you shouldn’t leave them. You had to make them see that you were all in. In the good days and the bad days.

“Here is fun,” you insisted, shooting him a smile that he always returned, until now.

Yoongi just shrugged, “suit yourself.”

Not willing to give in, you lean over and take Yoongi’s hand. Then you realize you’re in public! You try to pull away, but Yoongi tightens his hold on you.

“No,” said Yoongi. “Touch me. I want you to, even it’s just your hand.”

You smiled. Hoseok smirked. And Jin, rolled his eyes.

This, you thought sadly, is going to be one awkward breakfast.

But at least Min Yoongi was holding your hand.

Chapter Text

The clink of cutlery and the low buzz of morning chatter rolled over the dining room like a soft tide. Sunlight struck the rim of your water glass and threw little shards of light across the tablecloth. At the table beside you, Jungkook was trying to stack orange slices on the lip of his flute while Taehyung narrated like a nature documentary, “And here we see the elusive citrus tower, natural enemy of gravity.” Jimin kept a straight face for all of four seconds before dissolving into laughter, and Namjoon rescued the champagne from Jungkook’s reach with the same patience he used to rescue entire albums.

“Put it down,” demanded Jimin.

Namjoon was confused, “huh?”

“Put down the glass,” Taehyung repeated, completely on Jimin’s side.

Namjoon put the glass down and Jimin took champagne away from him and carefully completed Jungkook’s orange… you don’t know what he was doing or what that is but you wish you were over there.

It should have been a good morning. It was for them. You could feel it in the way their laughter rose and fell, easy as breathing. At your table, the air was tighter, a membrane stretched too thin.

Hoseok set down three menus with a cheerful tap that landed just shy of pointed. One slid toward you, one toward Yoongi. He kept the fourth between his fingers—a curl of paper that never quite touched the linen.

Yoongi didn’t look up. “They do an okay shakshuka here,” he said to you, almost conversational. “But the potatoes are better.”

“Noted,” you replied, because your voice came easier than your pulse. The fourth menu stayed where it was, like a held breath.

Jin shifted in his chair. “Excuse me,” he told a passing server with a polite half-smile that you felt more than saw, “could I get a menu, please?”

“Of course,” she said brightly, and a clean, unclaimed menu landed in front of him. He murmured thanks. No one at your table answered.

From the other side, Taehyung called across, “Toast to day-off mornings?” Jimin raised his Bloody Mary, the skewer leaning like a flagpole.

You lifted your mimosa. “To day-off mornings,” you echoed, and the four of them cheered, oblivious, sweet, and warm. The sound should have traveled the short distance to your table. Somehow it kept curving around the empty chair sitting between you and Jin.

Hoseok pointed at the avocado toast for you, humming as though you needed help deciding. Yoongi tossed out a story about a producer who tried to rhyme summer with number and looked solely at you while he told it.

You tried, three times, to fold Jin into the conversation—“He’s the one who hates cilantro,” or “Jin, you liked that last time, right?” and three times the words fell to the table and slid to the floor.

Hoseok’s finger tapped the menu in front of him, still unopened. He’s here, you thought, heat prickling somewhere behind your sternum. He’s here, he’s trying, just—

“Be right back,” Hoseok said, and stood. The fourth menu stayed under his palm until the last possible second, like he wasn’t ready to set anything down.

Jin’s eyes tracked him, a pull like tidewater. His chair scraped lightly. He’d barely shifted when Yoongi’s voice cut, gentle in tone and somehow sharp in meaning. “Don’t mess with him unless you have something to say.”

Jin’s gaze moved from the doorway to Yoongi’s face. “I have something to say,” he said simply.

Yoongi blinked once, eyes flat as old glass. He tipped his chin toward the hallway. Permission, warning, dare—maybe all three.

Jin stood and went.

You exhaled into your napkin, fingers tensing around the cloth, the embroidered edge a small thing to hold on to. At the next table, Jungkook got his orange tower to stand for exactly one triumphant second. Their cheer rose again. You wanted this table to catch the sound like a bouquet.

You stared at the remaining menu, at the gap across the white cloth where a hand should be.

Please, you thought, let him have the exact words he needs.

Jin

The men’s room was bigger than it needed to be—overlit, the mirrors honest and brutal, water running somewhere even though the sinks were off. Hoseok stood at the far basin, palms pressed to the edge the way he’d brace himself before a show. He stared at himself like he was watching someone else decide something heavy.

Jin closed the door behind him, quiet. For a second, he didn’t trust his voice to hold. You don’t get to be a coward, he told himself, and walked forward.

“Hoseok,” he said.

Hoseok didn’t glance over. “Are you just here to look at me? Because Yoongi told you not to do that.”

Jin swallowed. “I’m here to grovel.”

That got a sideways flick of a look—the kind Hoseok had always given him when he pretended not to hear: a tiny tilt, a lid lifted just a fraction. Jin forced out a breath, then another, and made his voice slow. Steady. True.

“I’m sorry,” he said first, because anything else would be vanity. “I’m sorry for my actions. I’m sorry I made you feel used. I didn’t mean to—” His throat tightened. No, say it clean. “I didn’t mean to make you feel less than. I was a jerk. I was worse than that and I know it. I told myself stories about what was safest and what was neat, and I hurt you with those neat little lies.”

Hoseok’s jaw worked once, not quite a reaction, but not nothing.

Jin took another step. “I pretended I didn’t love you because loving you meant admitting I didn’t fit inside one box. I pretended I could be with just one partner when my heart was… when my heart was already full.” He exhaled. “It was cowardice. I’m not going to call it anything else. But I did love you. Then. And now.” Jin let the words land like vows. “I love you.”

A beat. Two. Hoseok’s mouth pressed into a line that looked like it might tremble. “I love you too,” he said finally, voice quiet, something fragile tucked into it. “I just… you made me feel like shit.”

“I know.” Jin nodded, that small movement costing something. “I know. I’m sorry.” He took one more step until he could see the flecks of gold in Hoseok’s eyes. “Don’t leave me ever again.”

Hoseok’s laugh was more air than sound. “You don’t get to demand that.”

“Then I’ll promise instead,” Jin said, desperation and certainty braided together. “I won’t leave again. Not like that. Not ever. Not again.”

Maybe it was the cadence of the promise, maybe just the way Jin’s hand drifted, asking, open and empty—weirdly, it felt like both of them reached at once, like the kiss decided itself and pulled them into it.

Heat. Salt. The taste of tomato and pepper from the Bloody Mary Jin had barely sipped and the faint sweetness Hoseok carried like his own weather. The angle was messy and then it wasn’t; Hoseok made a sound that Jin had cataloged long before he’d admitted to himself that he was collecting anything. He had collected so much from Hoseok.

The doorknob turned.

They broke apart with the practiced instinct of men who collected secrets for a living and ducked into the nearest stall, slamming the lock a half-second before the door opened. Footsteps. A pause. The quiet sigh of someone adjusting their life in front of a urinal.

Hoseok bit his lip. Jin could feel the laugh trying to spill out of both of them. They did not want to get caught. They couldn’t get caught hiding in a bathroom together!

Still, Hoseok’s shoulders started to shake. Jin kissed him to smother it, to hide the sound, to keep from laughing himself. The kiss got deeper for no good reason, for every good reason. Hands found hip and shoulder; a palm slid under fabric, then stopped, not a tease, just a here, I am here.

The faucet blasted on, then off. A paper towel tore. The door opened and shut. Silence returned in a square shape.

They separated by inches, foreheads touching like they could share breath without losing any of it. Hoseok drew in a long inhale and let it out slowly. “You need to talk to Yoongi,” he said, certainty replacing sweetness in the space of a heartbeat. “He’s even angrier than I was.”

Jin nodded, chest still racing. “I know.”

Hoseok’s mouth twitched. “Fix it,” he said, like a choreography cue.

“I will,” Jin promised, and kissed him quick, like punctuation. They stepped out, straightened, washed their hands like humans not currently rewiring their entire lives, and walked back toward daylight together.

You

Hoseok and Jin approached the table shoulder to shoulder, not touching, the us between them still shy, still hot, still tender from being named. You saw it anyway—in the loose set of Hoseok’s mouth, in the careful way Jin carried his spine.

“Yoongi,” Jin said softly, stopping at the edge of the table. “Can we talk?”

Yoongi’s gaze slid up without warmth. For a breath you thought he might relent simply because the request had come out gentle. Instead he stood, pulled some bills from his wallet and laid them on the table, paying way too much for the bill. “No,” he said, and walked away.

The thing you’d been holding in your chest all week yanked hard. “I’ll get him,” you told Hoseok, already moving. Yoongi was your boyfriend he didn’t get to disappear and you didn’t get to hide from nos feeling. Hoseok’s hand brushed your wrist, a fleeting thank you, and then you were threading through tables and out the side door into a narrow, walled-off alley that smelled like coffee grounds and oranges.

Yoongi was halfway down, shoulders squared, head bent like he was arguing with his own shadow. “Hey,” you called, and the word bounced weirdly between brick and sky. He didn’t stop. You quickened, caught him near the back corner where a stack of milk crates made a small barricade. “Hey,” you said again, softer. “Please.”

He turned. His eyes were wet and furious and exhausted all at once. “You don’t get it,” he said. “You keep telling me to try like we haven’t been trying.” His voice wavered and then steadied on rage. “Do you understand how much he ruined me? I gave him everything. Everything.” He dragged a hand through his hair and let it fall. “I even—” The word stuck; he forced it out anyway. “I even bottomed for him. And he never reciprocated. Not once.”

The admission landed in your ribs like a dropped dish. You swallowed and made yourself hold his gaze. “I hear you,” you said. “I do. And I’m not saying forgive him in a snap. I’m saying… just hear him. Because I think this is different.”

Footsteps behind you, then the soft sound of someone stopping. Jin’s voice, threaded with bone-deep purpose: “I’ll bottom.”

Yoongi’s eyes snapped to him.

“I’ll do anything,” Jin said, breathless with how very little pride he had left to protect. “Anything you want is yours. If you only give me a chance… I can prove it to you.” He stepped closer without crowding. “I’ll never disappoint you again.”

Silence stretched thin as a wire. Yoongi’s mouth quirked and steadied and quirked again, like he didn’t trust his face to stay attached to his skull. He looked at you, and the question there wasn’t small. It was a whole future, asking if it had a right.

“I believe him,” you said, and your voice surprised you by not shaking. “And you’re not in this alone. If he pulls away again, I’ll chop him up and mail the pieces to our worst haters.”

Jin’s mouth fell open. “Did you know she was this bloodthirsty?” he asked Yoongi, trying for light and missing it by a hair, which somehow made it land perfectly.

The corner of Yoongi’s lip broke first. A huff that flirted with a laugh. Then an actual laugh, reluctant and bright, like something cracking to let air in. The smile that followed was the one you’d caught once at 2 a.m. when he thought no one was watching—unguarded and young and impossible.

He grabbed Jin by the front of his shirt and kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cruel. It was everything—anger and apology and the ache of finding a door you were sure was locked and discovering it had been stuck, that was all. Jin kissed back with both hands open, let, let, let. When Yoongi broke it, he turned to you and tugged you in by the wrist, his fingers warm and decisive, and kissed you too. It felt like a promise written in three hands, the same sentence in different handwriting.

The three of you ended up in a huddle bumping shoulders and laughing into the same shared patch of air, foreheads almost touching, arms hooking at elbows because there was no dignified way to hold all of it in and no reason to be dignified.

“Let’s try, huh?” Jin asked, hope cracked open so wide you could see the light inside.

Yoongi looked from you to him and back, tension sliding from his shoulders in inches. The smile, the real one, crept back. “I’ll try,” he said, and this time it wasn’t reluctant. It was a door swinging on newly oiled hinges.

Somewhere inside, someone laughed too loud at a joke, and cutlery chimed again. Out here, you pressed your forehead to theirs, three points making a shape you finally let yourself name. Okay, you thought, the word blooming slow and sure in your chest. Okay.

“I want a margarita,” you announced to your boyfriends.

“It’s 5 o’clock somewhere,” Yoongi joked, taking you by the shoulder and softly nudging you towards the door.

You didn’t know what came next. You only knew the morning was different now, and that when you turned to go back inside, the weight on the table would be lighter because you were carrying it together.

Chapter Text

The eight of you had been inseparable all night, soaking in every last drop of Los Angeles before the flight home. Laughter spilled from every corner of the evening—inside jokes, playful arguments, shared smiles that felt like they belonged to family. For a few precious hours, it was as if the world had stopped watching.

But then Taehyung tugged gently on your wrist, a conspiratorial spark in his eyes. “Come with me,” he whispered, low enough that only you could hear.

You went with him and Taehyung led you down a narrow path that curled away from the others, into a pocket of darkness. You were about to ask if this is where he kills you when the trees opened up and the air shimmered alive—fireflies. Dozens of them, hundreds maybe, drifting in soft golden orbits like stars had fallen just to hover around you.

Among the fireflies, butterflies of all colors moved with slow, graceful wings, their bodies glowing faintly in the scattered light, as though night itself had conspired to make this moment unreal. The air smelled faintly of jasmine, carried on a gentle breeze, and for the first time in forever, everything felt enchanted.

Your breath caught. “Taehyung… what is this place?”

Why were there so many fireflies? How are their butterflies from all over the world in this small pocket in LA? No way this was a natural occurrence. You look at Taehyung and think that he must have done this, somehow.

But he just smiled, watching you take it in. “I told you magic happens here.”

You hadn’t seen his face for years. Not really. The blindfold had stolen faces, stolen certainty, left you with nothing but voices and touches in the dark. And yet—even then—he had always been Taehyung. You didn’t need your eyes to know him. You knew him in the way his laugh curved low in his throat, in the way his breath caught when he was about to say something that mattered. You knew him in the brush of his fingers when he pressed food to your lips, in the warmth of his palm steadying yours when you reached for him, unseen but never unfelt.

Those nights had been strange at first, confusing. his whispered secrets poured into your ear like riddles you weren’t meant to solve. But they stayed with you, every word threading itself into your chest. Now, standing here in the glow of fireflies and butterflies, you understood.

It was always leading you here to this pllace and this time. It all started with an illicit encounter that built the yellow brick road to magic. Whether you could see him or not, he was always Kim Taehyung. And Kim Taehyung was yours—heart, body, soul.

He was going to kiss you, your first kiss with him. For so long you waited for perfection but what was more perfect than this magical moment?

It felt impossible not to think of how it all began with him—small moments that hadn’t seemed like much at the time but had built into something undeniable. The way he noticed when you were tired before anyone else did. The way he lingered by your side in crowded rooms, as if your presence steadied him.

The jokes that only he could make land, the quiet understanding in his eyes when words failed you. Piece by piece, Taehyung had become gravity itself, pulling you closer without ever forcing you, waiting with infinite patience for you to realize you were already falling.

And now here you were, fireflies glowing around you, his hand warm against your jaw. You had waited for this kiss—through hesitation, fear, and all the noise of everything that came with him. He had waited too, never rushing, never demanding, only holding onto the certainty of this moment.

“Can I?” he murmured, voice barely audible, as though even the night was too sacred to disturb.

How could he find words? You couldn’t speak. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You nodded. It was all you could do as words escaped you.

He lifted a hand to your face, fingers skimming your jaw as though you might break if he pressed too hard. The world seemed to tilt, everything slowing, compressing into the single heartbeat before his lips touched yours.

The kiss was feather-light at first, tentative—like he was asking again, without words, if this was real. Then you leaned in, closing the space, and his mouth curved against yours with a quiet sigh of relief. Heat bloomed where your lips met, gentle and electric all at once.

One of his hands cupped your cheek, the other slipping to the small of your back, drawing you into him until you felt the steady pound of his heart matching yours. The fireflies and butterflies pulsed around you, a living constellation, as though the universe itself had been holding its because reath for this.

When you finally pulled apart, it wasn’t far—just enough for your foreheads to rest together, both of you smiling, dazed and breathless. Taehyung’s thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, lingering.

“Worth the wait,” he whispered.

And with his words, the air seemed to exhale, wrapping you both in the fragile, perfect moment you’d been waiting for all along.

Taehyung pulled away just enough to catch his breath, forehead pressed to yours, still tasting you.

“We shouldn’t be alone,” you whisper to him. You love it here and think all your boyfriends should experience magic.

“You’re right,” Taehyung says against your lips. “They should experience this with us”

Then, quietly, he pulled his phone out—a soft glow in the night—and his thumb hovered a second before tapping out a message to Jimin. “You guys should see this.”

Seconds later, your phone chirped: a group text from BTS. Namjoon, Jungkook, Jimin—you could almost hear them through the text: “Where are you two? We want in!” “Don’t run too far.”

Taehyung grinned, one hand still holding yours, and suddenly the world shifted. The magic in the air seemed to swell, carrying laughter out of the trees. Jimin appeared first—silent as a shadow stepping into the luminous clearing—then Jungkook, Suga, Jin, Hobi, RM, followed, drawn like moths to a flame.

Before you knew it, they were chasing each other among the fireflies and butterflies. Namjoon lunged at Jin, missing by an inch as Jin darted past, laughing. Jungkook swung an arm around Jimin, gently trying to pull him back, but Jimin slipped—barefoot—across the soft grass, his shirt catching the light of a hundred glowing bugs.

Your heart soared watching them, Taehyung’s hand in yours. The stars above, the glow around, the soft rustle of wings, the scent of jasmine on the breeze—all of it felt like something out of a dream. For just a few minutes, everything was weightless. You felt whole.

Taehyung spun you around, pulling you into the circle of laughter, letting you breathe in the shared joy. “Look at them,” he said, voice soft but full. “They brought even more magic.”

And in that moment—laughter echoing, butterflies flickering wings, fireflies dancing—you realized this was what home felt like. Not somewhere you lived, but somewhere you belonged. And you with him. You belonged with them. All 7 of them.

One True 7you thought with a smile knowing that no words were truer. You were in love with BTS.

Would wonders never cease? Because they loved you too.

“Hey,” Namjoon’s voice was soft, coaxing you back. You opened your eyes to find him kneeling beside your seat, his hand warm on your arm. “We’re almost down. Buckle up.”

For a moment, you still tasted fireflies and jasmine—the echo of laughter, Taehyung’s lips on yours, the way the eight of you had felt untouchable. Then the cabin light cut through the dream, and you realized you were on the private plane, engines humming low as it dipped toward the runway.

Across the aisle, Jungkook groaned and stretched. Hoseok rubbed sleep from his eyes. Jin was muttering about coffee. Everything felt normal—until the first vibration rattled a tray table. Then another. And another.

One by one, phones lit up like flares in the dark. Dozens of missed calls. Endless strings of notifications. Manager. Producer. Agent. Company. All of them.

“What the hell…” Yoongi frowned at his screen, scrolling. Jin’s brows pulled tight, his lips pressed in a hard line. Jimin turned in his seat, showing Hoseok the flood of alerts on his phone.

“Something happened,” Namjoon said quietly, scanning his own device, “but what?”

Jungkook leaned forward, voice sharp with worry. “Hyung…this seems… bad.”

Namjoon nodded, already shifting into leader mode. “Okay—straight to Hybe. No stops. We’ll figure this out there.”

The others murmured agreement, tension pulling the air taut. For a second, you almost felt steadied by their plan.

And then your phone lit up. One name. Your father.

You hesitated, then answered.

There was no greeting. No warmth. Just his voice, clipped and cold:
“Come home. Now.”

The line went dead before you could speak.

Your stomach dropped. The others were still muttering about Hybe, trying to piece together the storm waiting for them, but your hands trembled around the phone. Namjoon noticed, his eyes narrowing as he searched your face.

“You’ll come with us, right?” he asked carefully.

But you already knew—you couldn’t.

“My dad called… about 20 times, I have to go home,” you tell them and they nod in full understanding.

Something was up and you all headed to your perspective bases and answers you were almost afraid to ask about.

You missed LA and the magic, but it’s all gone and you apparently have to return to who you were before , a devoted daughter.

At the airport, the split was brutal. They couldn’t kiss or hug her goodbye. There were BTS fans everywhere. So the best Jungkook could do was lightly touch my hand before entering the fray and bowing to fans and the media.

Two black vans idled on the curb, engines humming. One for the seven of them, one waiting for you. As you approached your van you felt someone’s eyes on you like an iron prong in the back. You turn to find Taehyung unmoving, his eyes locking with yours, full of questions he didn’t have time to ask. You wanted to go with them—to cling to last night, to the laughter and the kisses and the magic—but your father’s voice echoed in your head, unyielding.

Taehyung continued to stare at you with such intensity that you know he doesn’t want to part with you. You turned and got in your car, because there was no choice. They had to part with you and you had to go home.

The doors slammed shut. Their van pulled away toward Hybe. Yours turned in the opposite direction, toward your father.

And for the first time since last night’s magic, you felt utterly alone.

The silence in the car pressed down on you like a weight. No music, no chatter, just the steady hum of the engine and the city blurring past the tinted windows. You stared down at your phone, scrolling through the sea of missed calls and messages, but none of them explained what the problem even was.

From Hybe. From unknown numbers. From managers you didn’t even know. And threaded through all of it—your father. Over and over.

Your chest tightened. The fireflies from last night felt like they belonged to another lifetime, a dream you’d stumbled out of and could never get back. Taehyung’s kiss, the boys’ laughter—it all hovered like a fragile bubble just waiting to be crushed.

Your phone buzzed again in your lap. This time you didn’t answer. You already knew what it would be. Another order. Another demand. Another reminder that whatever waited for you at home was bigger than anything you could imagine.

Your father’s office loomed cold and merciless, all glass and steel. He didn’t bother to sit. The moment you stepped inside, he slid a glossy photo across the desk.

You froze. It was a picture of You and Yoongi wrapped in each other’s arms and kissing. Someone knew about you and BTS!

Yoongi

The boardroom at Hybe was suffocating. Executives lined the long table, their faces grim, eyes darting anywhere but at them. Namjoon reached for the folder in the center and Yoongi leaned in as the photos spilled out.

The first one stopped his breath cold. Him and his girlfriend in a liplock.

Some one took a photo of an intimate private moment and was threatening to share it with the entire world.

Your father didn’t hesitate. Another photo slid across the desk. You kissing Jin.

Heat rushed through your veins, your voice rising. “This is a violation! Whoever did this—I’ll ruin them. This is my life, my private—”

“Private?” your father snapped. “Do you think anything about this is private anymore?” He shoved a sheet of paper across the desk, an attached note in unfamiliar handwriting.

Pay, or I go public. Pay, or the tabloids get the exclusives.

Yoongi

Jin’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the table. His eyes were locked on the second photo—me and her.

He didn’t like this blackmailer had seen her. He hated that this person knew that she existed.

A manager slid a printed email into the center of the table. His voice was flat, but it shook slightly at the edges.

“They want money. If Hybe doesn’t pay, these photos go to every tabloid in Korea by morning.”

The words tasted like poison.

“There’s more,” your father said, his voice low and sharp. He slid one final photograph forward.

Your hands shook as you picked it up. Jin and Yoongi. Together. Kissing.

Their reunion kiss was photographed. After so much chaos and pain, this moment was special. And now it was the source of your downfall.

Well, it could be, but you knew you would pay anything to keep their love private.

Your father’s gaze narrowed, cold as steel. “They’re threatening to release all of it. To sell it piece by piece to the highest bidder. My company is on the line. Hybe’s on the line. You are on the line. What in the hell are you involved in?”

Yoongi

His heart crashed against his ribs as his eyes landed on the last photo. Him and Jin. Proof no one was ever supposed to see. His stomach turned to ice.

Jin lurched forward, his voice cracking louder than intended: “What the hell is this?”

“Blackmail,” Bang PD said grimly. “And the price is already climbing. If we don’t pay, they’ll make sure the entire world sees it.”

Yoongi’s fists curled tight against his knees, every breath burning in his throat.

You clutched the photos with trembling hands, the blackmail note searing into your vision. The fireflies from last night felt impossibly far away, a fragile dream already slipping through your fingers.

On opposite ends of the city, you and Yoongi were crushed beneath the same truth:

This wasn’t just exposure. This was extortion. And unless someone stopped it—everything you had built together would be destroyed.

And just like that—everything went to hell.

You sat frozen in your father’s office, the glossy photographs trembling in your hands. The note—Pay, or we go public—burned in your vision until it was all you could see. Last night’s kiss, the laughter, the fireflies—it all shattered under the weight of blackmail.

Your father’s voice cut sharp across the silence: “This could ruin everything.”

But you barely heard him. Because in the photos, your face wasn’t blurred, your body wasn’t hidden. It was you. Exposed.

Yoongi

The boardroom had gone deathly still. The photographs sat in the middle of the table like weapons, each one aimed directly at him or at Jin. The manager’s voice still echoed: If we don’t pay, the whole world will see.

Yoongi’s fists curled tight, nails biting into his palms. Across from him, Jin’s expression was unreadable, carved from stone—but his eyes gave him away. Fear. Guilt. Rage.

“And her family?” Asks Bang PD reminding them they were BTS but she was from a family as powerful and influential as the families behind Samsung and LG. “They say you should keep your distance.”

“From our girlfriend?!” Jamin demands to know, speaking up for the first time.

“Maybe,” says Bang PD. “But her father called me and told me to keep my Idols away from his princess.”

Jimin had nothing more to say because BTS has known she was a chaebol of one of Koreas prominent families.

BTS was important to the South Korean economy but BTS had a shelf life. One day they would simply be less popular but her family will remain pivotal to SK’s economy. Her grandfather would die making her father Chairman and her CEO. Then her father would die and she would be the Chairwoman and her child will become the CEO.

BTS? They were from a company. But she was from a family.

The magic from last night—the butterflies, the fireflies, the way you had all felt untouchable—it was gone.

On opposite ends of the city, you and Yoongi whispered the same thought, though neither of you knew it yet:

Everything is over.

And with that, the trip that had felt like magic ended in ruin.

Chapter Text

The alley was supposed to be private. That was the whole point of places like this — Soho House–style sanctuaries where the rich and famous could breathe in the dark without cameras snapping.

But she couldn’t help herself.

The concierge had slipped outside for a cigarette, leaning against the dumpster in the shadows. That’s when she saw them — three silhouettes pressed close, laughter muffled into kisses. She knew the faces instantly. The girl with the sharp laugh, two men at her side. One with a hand tangled in her hair, another with lips brushing her jaw.

Her pulse skipped. Gold.

She fumbled her phone out, the cigarette forgotten. One snap. Then another. Blurry, dark, but unmistakable. She clutched the phone to her chest, breathless. In her five years at the hotel, she’d never gotten a raise. They told her discretion was sacred. Anonymity the lifeblood. She thought: Well, maybe my lifeblood needs paying for once.

She tucked the phone away, heart hammering. Insurance. A ticket out.

She knew that blackmail was bad. She knew outing someone’s sexuality or kink was foul, but she couldn’t let her morals stop her. Not this time.

She crafted the blackmail letter as she drove home. She loved Los Angeles at dusk and she let the sun shine into her car and she knew she was driving on Sunshine because this bounty would be nothing to BTS or the Seo Heiress but it would make this workers life.

When she woke, she was no longer in Los Angeles. She knew this because she sat in front of a window with the Seoul skyline stretched in front of her.

Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, the sterile tang of an airplane cabin still in her nose. Her wrists itched — the faint impression of zip ties burned into her skin.

The room around her was too quiet, too polished. Frosted glass walls, brushed steel table. Outside the window, Seoul’s skyline glittered like a thousand knives.

She blinked, panicked. Korea?

What the fuck…? Where—

The door opened.

A woman stepped inside, elegant suit, heels that didn’t echo. Her hair, impossible to ignore, was a sleek wash of cobalt blue. Not neon. Not messy. Perfect. Controlled.

The blackmailer opened her mouth. “Where—”

“Sit.”

The word was smooth, clipped, and carried no accent. The woman’s Korean rolled into English like glass.

Two men followed in behind her, silent, standing guard.

The woman sat across from her and opened a slim leather folder. Inside: the hotel worker’s employee file, her non-disclosure agreement, and a highlighted clause: termination for breach of confidentiality.

“You may call me Mrs. Choi,” said Mrs. Choi. “You knew discretion was the only rule,” the blue-haired woman said, voice steady. “You broke it.”

The American stammered. “I—I didn’t mean—look, I can delete them, right now, I’ll—”

Mrs. Choi tilted her head. “It’s already done.”

The worker’s stomach dropped. “What?”

An operative placed her phone and laptop on the table. Both screens wiped blank. Empty. As if her entire digital life had been dissolved.

She reached for them instinctively. One of the men’s hands pressed down on the lid, closing it with finality.

She looked closer, the Seo operator was logged into the American’s icloud. They were erasing all of her files. She was a fool not to back it up on an external hard drive. It seemed blackmail was not the job for her. If only she didn’t start this, then at least she would still have her job.

Her chest tightened. “Please—I didn’t hurt anyone, I just…I just needed—”

The blue-haired woman folded the folder shut with care. Then, without raising her voice:

“Escort her out.”

The well dressed guards stepped forward. The worker scrambled back, voice cracking. “Wait—please—don’t—!”

The door closed.

Later, the hard drive sat on a glass desk.

CEO Seo didn’t look at the operatives. He didn’t need to. His gaze was fixed on the screen, scrolling through dozens of images. Some worse. Some fatal.

His hand stopped on one: the kiss. The girl and Min Yoongi.

“This one,” he said at last. Calm. Clinical. “Release it. Let them choke on a scandal.”

He shut the drive, pushed it aside.

“The rest,” he murmured, “are on family property now?”

The blue-haired woman inclined her head. “Yes, sir.”

In the reflection of the office windows, Seoul glittered cold and endless.

Yoongi

The apartment was too quiet. That was what made it worse.

The sleek walls, the polished wood floors, the sterile air of Seoul’s richest neighborhood — it all pressed down like a lid. Outside, he could hear the muffled chaos of reporters camped on the street, their lenses pointed at every shadow that crossed the curtains. Inside, the others were scattered through the house, voices rising and falling, frustration mounting.

But all Yoongi could hear was the silence inside his own chest.

He’d been through scandals before, but nothing like this. This wasn’t whispers or rumors — this was his name, his face, plastered across every screen, every headline. “Min Yoongi’s secret romance.” The kiss replayed endlessly, grainy, stolen, but undeniable. They called it proof. They called him reckless. They called her a mistake.

He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars burst behind them. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to be furious. Instead, he just felt… trapped.

Namjoon’s voice floated from the other room: “Every lead’s a dead end. Silence was bought at everywhere we turned.”

Hoseok answered, sharp: “Then we hit harder. There has to be someone willing to talk.”

Taehyung: “They’re all bought. Every hotel, every gallery, every driver. It’s like she never existed.”

“Bought by who?” Asks Jimin.

“No confirmation but I have my suspicions,” says Namjoon.

“Same,” says Hoseok.

Then together they say, “her father.”

“We’re going to have to face him,” declares Taehyung and he’s met by five other voices in agreement.

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t take it anymore. He shoved back from the couch and stormed into the center of the living room where the others were arguing. Six pairs of eyes turned to him — some wide, some tired, some already bracing for a fight.

“I’m coming with you.”

The words came out low but steady, more a command than a plea. He was telling them, not asking for permission.

Namjoon blinked. “Yoongi—”

“I’m not sitting here while the world rips me apart and she’s out there alone.” His voice cracked, sharp with exhaustion. “If you’re
going to her family, I’m going too.”

“Hyung.” Jimin’s voice was small, almost a whisper. “The media and angry fans… They’ll tear you to pieces out there.”

Yoongi laughed, humorless. “Better me than her.”

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Hoseok looked at the floor. Taehyung’s mouth tightened. Jungkook’s fists flexed at his sides.

And Jin — Jin said nothing, his phone buzzing quietly in his hand.

Yoongi didn’t care. He had already decided. He was going to find their girlfriend no matter what it took.

Namjoon

The Seo estate didn’t look like a house. It looked like his own country was carved into walls and marble.

They were led across polished floors that swallowed their footsteps, through corridors lined with portraits that all seemed to be watching them, until they were finally ushered into a cavernous conference room. High ceiling. Long table. A wall of windows that framed Seoul like a painting.

And at the head of the table, waiting as if he had all the time in the world, sat CEO Seo.

It was hard to imagine the woman he loved growing up in this mausoleum. Even harder to imagine she was raised by this man. There was no warmth in CEO Seo’s eyes. There was no love lost between the CEO and BTS.

Namjoon’s pulse thudded in his ears. He had rehearsed what he would say in the car. He had thought of a hundred ways to frame their argument — responsibility, love, even inevitability. But standing here, under the weight of the man’s gaze, every word tasted fragile.

“Mr. Seo,” Namjoon began, bowing his head slightly, forcing his voice steady. “We’ve come—”

“To beg,” Seo interrupted, calm as still water. “I expected as much.”

The words cut. Hoseok bristled beside him. Taehyung’s fists flexed at his sides. Yoongi, stone-faced, said nothing.

Namjoon swallowed. He tried again. “Your daughter—”

“My heir,” Seo corrected, his voice iron. “She is not yours to define.”

Namjoon felt the air leave his lungs. He pushed forward anyway. “She isn’t just your heir. She’s—she’s a person. She deserves the right to choose her own life.”

Seo’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. “Choose? You mean to squander her future in a label’s dormitory? To be your scandal? Your secret?”

“No,” Namjoon said quickly, chest tight. “We love her.”

It sounded so small in the room, swallowed by the silence that followed.

Seo leaned back in his chair, studying them all in turn. “Love. A word boys use to excuse their appetites.”

Taehyung snapped, “That’s not—” but Jin’s hand caught his wrist before he could say more.

Seo’s gaze slid to Yoongi. “The world already believes you ruined her. And still you stand here, demanding more.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.

Seo’s voice sharpened. “Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve treated her like a sex worker. Years of bodies, years of shame. Do you think that is love?”

The words hit like a blade. Namjoon flinched as if struck, shame burning his face.

Seo turned away, dismissing them like insects. “The Seo family took care of the parasite who tried to sell her… and you. Don’t mistake that for mercy. I protect my family. Not you.”

The silence stretched, heavy and absolute.

Namjoon wanted to speak. To argue. To shout. But nothing came.

When the guards opened the doors, none of them resisted. They walked out one by one, the echo of Seo’s words chasing them into the hall.

Taehyung

The air outside the Seo estate was colder, but it didn’t help. It only made the burn in Taehyung’s chest sharper.

They walked in silence past the gates, shoes crunching on gravel, until the guards were far enough behind that they could finally breathe. But breathing wasn’t enough. Not after what that man had said.

Sex worker.
The words wouldn’t leave his head.

He spun, fists clenched. “We should’ve fought back.” His voice came out rough, half-growl. “We just let him—”

“Taehyung.” Namjoon’s voice was steady, but his face was pale. “It wouldn’t have mattered. He wasn’t listening.”

“That’s the problem!” Taehyung snapped. “We stood there and took it. Like cowards.”

Hoseok muttered, “We didn’t have a choice.”

Taehyung turned on him. “There’s always a choice.” His voice shook with rage. “We should’ve dragged her out ourselves—”

“Stop.” Yoongi’s voice was quiet but firm. “That would’ve killed her faster than anything he could do.”

The words hung heavy. No one argued.

That’s when Taehyung noticed it — the faint glow from Jin’s phone. A buzz in his pocket. Another. And another.

His eyes narrowed.

“Who keeps texting you, hyung?”

Jin froze. His thumb hovered over the screen, then disappeared into his pocket.

Taehyung stepped closer. “Answer me.”

“I don’t—”

Hoseok grabbed his wrist before Jin could finish. The phone buzzed again in his hand, loud in the silence.

Hoseok’s voice was low, dangerous. “Who is it?”

Jin’s jaw clenched. His eyes flicked away, just for a second — enough to confirm everything Taehyung already knew.

“You bastard,” Taehyung hissed. “You’ve been hiding something this whole time.”

Namjoon stepped between them. “Jin. Tell us.”

The silence dragged. Jin’s chest rose and fell, stubborn as stone. Finally, he spoke.

“I have… an ally. In her family.”

The words cracked through the night like lightning.

Taehyung’s stomach dropped. Rage and betrayal crashed in equal waves. “An ally? You mean you’ve been keeping secrets from us while we—”

“She’s a child,” Jin cut in, voice sharp, the first real fire in it all night. “You think I’d throw her into this? You think I’d risk her life?”

The others erupted at once — Jungkook demanding, Hoseok shouting, Namjoon trying to calm them — but all Taehyung could hear was the roar in his own head.

A child.
Jin’s been hiding a child.

The argument was spiraling. Everyone’s voices tangled, sharp and furious, but Jungkook barely heard them. All he could think about was Jin’s words.

A child.

His fists flexed at his sides. His chest hurt with the need to move, to fight, to do something. But before he could speak, before the storm could tear them apart completely, a sound cut through it—

The creak of a door.

Every head snapped toward it.

From the side of the estate, half-hidden by vines and shadow, a slim figure slipped into view. Pajama shorts, oversized sweatshirt, hair sticking up in defiance of gravity.

She couldn’t have been older than fifteen.

She pressed a finger to her lips, grinning like she’d just stolen a secret. “Keep it down,” she whispered. “Or Uncle will hear.”

The world froze.

Jungkook stared, his brain scrambling to make sense of it. This—this was Jin’s ally? This was the mysterious connection in the Seo family? A kid with messy hair and bare feet on the cold stone?

She planted herself in front of them like a general.

“I’m Seo Mina,” she said, eyes bright, fearless. “Her cousin.”

Her chin lifted, daring them to doubt her. “And you’ll never find her without me.”

The silence cracked.

Jungkook blinked. His chest went cold and hot all at once. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh or scream.

A kid. Their one chance was a kid.

But when Mina smiled again, sharp and certain, he knew—

She wasn’t joking.

Chapter Text

You

The first thing you notice is the silence.
It isn’t peaceful. It’s heavy, deliberate, the kind of quiet that means someone has already thought of every possible sound you might make.

Your childhood room gleams under the sunlight. The walls are the same soft ivory, but the details have changed — a sleeker desk, imported drapes, the latest air filtration system humming rm. The chair you used to spin in has been replaced by something more “executive.” Your father’s touch is in everything.

Your phone is gone. Your laptop, gone. Even the television has been locked to the Seo Enterprises news channel, looping quarterly updates you once helped edit.

You twist the door handle. It doesn’t move.
You pound once, twice. “Hello?”
Nothing.

You slam your shoulder against it. The impact sends a shock up your arm. The electronic lock flickers red…a silent no. You throw yourself again, harder, until your breath catches in your throat. The door doesn’t care.

You whirl toward the window. Reinforced glass. Magnetic seal. When you press your forehead against it, all you see is your reflection — hair disheveled, eyes wet — and beyond that, an empty garden. The oak tree that used to stretch toward your window is gone. Its absence glares back at you like a wound in the earth.

He cut it down.

Your father remembered. Every late-night climb, every clever escape. He anticipated every move before you made it.

You scream until your voice cracks. You kick until your knee gives out. You shout until your throat feels like sandpaper. The silence after is worse than the noise, a kind of proof that no one is coming.

When chef Park appears hours later, you stare at him like he’s the last human left on Earth. The tray rattles faintly as he pushes in the cart covered in delicacies made by his own hand. You could overpower him. He’s older now, smaller. But his kind eyes stop you. He’s the actual chef there is no reason for him to bring you the food himself. He’s checking on you. He’s not the enemy, just another loyal man caught in your father’s orbit.

He sets the cart down. You thank him. He nods, showing you that he bought your favorite chocolate cake. The lock clicks again when he leaves. That same small, merciless sound.

You pace the room. Thirty steps to the door, twelve to the window, 35 to the far wall. Over and over until your breath slows. You whisper names, soft at first, then stronger.

“Namjoon. Jin. Yoongi. Hoseok. Jimin. Taehyung. Jungkook.”

Each name steadies you for a heartbeat. Each syllable reminds you that you belong to more than this room.

You try the vent, the hinges, the outlet panel. Every one sealed. He’s out-thought you completely. The man who built Seo Enterprises on strategy and control has done the same to his daughter.

You sink to the floor, back against the locked door, breath trembling. The sun shifts across the marble, and you watch the light crawl, slow and certain, across the room you can’t escape.

For the first time, you stop fighting — not out of surrender, but because you finally understand.

You’re not being punished. Your father was never much of a disciplinarian. That was always your mom’s job. Your father didn’t think he was punishing you, but saving you… from BTS.

It was laughable. Your father was a silly man with way too much power and money. It’s probably why he doesn’t show himself, without back up your father will cave to you. You know it and he knows it.

“Oh, Dad,” you whisper, shaking your head.

You’re being “protected” by a man who doesn’t know the difference between safety and a cage.

And because of it, you’re trapped inside the most beautiful prison in the world.

Jimin

The sun is too bright for how serious this feels. It glints off the marble of the Seo
estate, bouncing across the white walls and trimmed hedges.

“Stay close,” Namjoon warns quietly.

Seven men in masks and baseball caps move behind a fifteen-year-old girl. It looks absurd, even to them, but it’s working. Seo Mina walks with the confidence of someone who knows every inch of the property and every security blind spot.

“I still can’t believe this is happening,” she says under her breath, nearly tripping over her sneakers. “Suga is literally dating my cousin. My cousin! Do you guys even know how insane that is?”

Jin shoots her a sharp look. “Mina.”

“Right. Focus.” She straightens her posture, whispering quickly. “The main house is mostly for guests and cameras. My uncle likes people to think that is where we live. But the real house is built partially into the ground. Half bunker, half palace.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen. “So she’s under there?”

Mina nods, almost breathless. “Yes and no. The Princess is the only one with windows that look out onto the grounds. Her childhood room. I bet she’s still there. My uncle would keep his princess close.”

“Then that’s where we’re going,” Jimin says firmly.

They slip through a side gate, careful to match Mina’s pace. The guards by the front drive don’t even glance their way; the Seos’ security isn’t built to stop a teenage girl taking a morning walk.

Inside the garden, Mina leads them to a service door hidden behind the old pool house. “This way. The staff use it when deliveries come.” She swipes her access card. The light flashes green.

They walk. And walk. Then walk some more. This place was massive. Jimin tried to imagine a little girl version of their girlfriend playing around these extensive grounds but it was impossible to imagine any fun or games were had in this ornate home. It reminded Jimin of a palace. Just the vases they passed were worth a small fortune.

Jimin tried to imagine his children running through these halls but he just couldn’t see it. Their grandparents would have to visit them because Jimin would worry too much about priceless things breaking as the kids played tag.

Jimin almost tripped over his own feet. Children! Grandparents?! Jimin was getting ahead of himself because never had he ever thought about his children before now. But he figured he could see it now that their mother had a face and name.

Jimin believed that the 8 of them were forever. But first they had to find their girlfriend.

“She’s down that hall,” Mina says, pointing toward a reinforced door. “That’s new. It’s soundproof.”

Taehyung steps forward first, hand pressed to the door. His jaw tightens. “It’s locked.”

Mina fumbles at the keypad, typing fast. The red light blinks. She tries again. Red again.

“He changed the code,” she says.

“Then we break in,” Jungkook says.

Taehyung and Jungkook brace their shoulders and ram the door. The metal shudders once, twice then gives way with a scream of bending steel.

“Wow,” says Yoongi at the younger mens show of strength.

“You think all I did in the Army was cook rice?” Jungkook asks as he pulls the door from its hinges.

Jin

They spill into the room all at once.

Light floods the space through the small, high window. It’s her childhood room—delicate wallpaper, glass desk, everything too neat to be natural.

“She’s here,” Jimin says, breathless.

The air smells like her perfume. The bed’s corner is wrinkled, the cup of tea beside it still half-full. The warmth in the room felt lived in.

“Look,” Jungkook says, pointing. On the desk sits a candle, its wax still liquid.

Taehyung steps closer, hand hovering above it. “It’s still hot.”

“She was here,” Yoongi murmurs.

“Not was,” Jimin snaps. “Is. She has to be.”

Mina rushes to the wardrobe, opening it in panic. “She doesn’t go anywhere without her sweater. It’s gone. Oh my god, it’s gone.”

The air turns heavier. Namjoon scans the corners—the sealed window, the new hinges, the lock still glowing faintly red. “This room isn’t for living,” he says quietly. “It’s for keeping someone.”

Footsteps echo down the hall.

“Hide,” Jin whispers.

They scatter behind the door and curtains. A shadow fills the doorway—her mother.

She stops, taking in the smell of burnt wax, the dented door, the teenage girl trying too hard not to breathe. Her eyes meet Jin’s. She doesn’t scream.

Then, turning toward the hallway, she raises her voice, calm and measured. “Darling! The driver’s waiting! You said you’d leave ten minutes ago!”

Your father’s voice calls faintly from upstairs. “Coming!”

Your mother looks back at them and nods once. Go.

BTS slips out quietly, following Mina through the narrow corridor and up the stairs. Jin glances back one last time. The candle’s wax glistens in the sunlight. The air is still warm, the cup still steaming faintly.

She isn’t there.

Only the ghost of her.

You

When the lock finally clicks open, you’re too shocked to move.

It’s your grandfather standing there, not a guard. His silver hair catches the sunlight like thread. He doesn’t say much—he never has—but there’s something in his eyes that softens you instantly.

“Come,” he says simply. “Let’s go for a ride.”

The words feel like oxygen. You don’t ask questions. You grab your sweater, step into the hall, and follow him down the polished corridor. The guards don’t stop you. No one does. For the first time in days, the air outside smells real—crisp, alive, not filtered through ducts.

The black limousine waits in the circular drive, engine humming. When your grandfather holds the door open, you slide inside before he can change his mind. The leather seats are cool against your skin.

He settles in across from you, quiet as always. The door shuts. The car rolls forward.

For a moment, you believe this is rescue. Hr was your hero! That your grandpa, of all people, couldn’t bear to see you locked away.

The tinted glass shields everything—no city skyline, no sound but the road. You lean forward. “Grandpa,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t answer. He watches the road through the divider window, hands folded over his cane.

“Do you really believe that monogamy can exist between 8?” Asks your grandpa.

“Yes,” you tell him. “I know it can. When the 8 is…”

The limo slows down.

“…me and BTS,” you finish, but your focus is not on your treacherous grandfather, but the building in which the limo slows in front of.

Something cold slides into your stomach.

The car stops. The door opens.

And it isn’t your grandfather who gets out.

It’s your father who climbs in.

Your breath catches. The air seems thinner now.

He sits across from you, immaculate as ever—pressed suit, calm expression—but there’s a tension beneath the surface, something raw and exhausted. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t even look angry. That’s what makes it worse.

He pulls a folded newspaper from his briefcase and lays it on the seat beside you.

Your face stares back from the front page—next to Yoongi’s. The photo is grainy but unmistakable: you, mid-laugh, his hand on your cheek.

For a second, you can’t breathe.

“I’m not angry,” your father says softly. “I’m… disappointed. Confused. You were always the smart one. The careful one. I thought you understood what it meant to be a Seo.”

You meet his eyes. “I do.”

“Then why are you doing this?” he asks. “Do you have any idea what this looks like? I’ve seen your iCloud. Do you know what was in it?”

You stare at the floor, “proof.”

“Yes!” your dad yells then he exhales slowly. “Not one. Not two. All seven!”

You flinch, and he sees it. “I don’t care about idols,” he says. “They’re hardworking men. Talented. But this isn’t about them! It’s about you. You’re going to inherit a company that employs thousands. You can’t lead an empire from inside a tabloid scandal.”

“I’m not in a scandal,” you whisper.

“Right now,” he says, “the world disagrees .”

The car hums as it turns down a private road. You don’t recognize where you’re going.

“Not just any Idols, Blossom!” Says your father. “The biggest, most groundbreaking band. The eyes of the world are watching you.”

“What’s a Blossom?” You ask.

“Just a nickname for you that I’m trying,” your dad explains.

“I don’t like it,” you say.

“Too bad for you. It’s growing on me,” says your father. “Blossom.”

You roll your eyes.

“You used to know everyone who worked for you,” your father continues quietly. “Every receptionist, every intern. You were brilliant. Steady. But lately… you’re not thinking like the woman I raised. You’re thinking like someone who doesn’t understand what’s at stake.”

“I still know every member of my team and your team, because I do understand,” you say. “You just don’t like what I’ve chosen.”

He studies you for a long moment, sadness overtaking the frustration in his eyes. “You’re right,” he admits. “Because I once chose something unconventional, too. And it almost destroyed me.”

“I warned you,” says your grandfather, suddenly remembering that he can speak.

“You did, but I didn’t listen,” says your father to his father before turning back to you. “I was lucky your mother was there to pick up the pieces and make me whole again. I don’t want you to have to survive what I did.”

You don’t have an answer. You stare at the blurred scenery through the tinted glass.

“Please,” he says, softer now. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to protect you.”

“From myself?”

“Yes! If you truly believe that you’re in love with seven different men!”

Your father is loud, but all you hear is the quiet engine and the click of the cars’ locks as they seal again.

The illusion of freedom fades.

You realize your grandfather didn’t rescue you. He delivered you. You feel betrayed. Grandfather was a traitor. You now knew better than to use “grandpa” with that slippery bastard.

You’re not just trapped in your room, you’re prisoner in your father’s world, where love and fear are the same thing.

And obviously your grandfather agrees, he’s the one who raised the psycho who is doing this to you!

You cut your eye at him and stare out the window. In no men could you trust, except of course, BTS.

Jungkook

The safehouse HYBE keeps on the outskirts of Seoul isn’t meant for this.

It’s meant for press leaks, obsessive fans, a quick hide-out between schedules.

Not for losing someone. And they had lost her. Their girlfriend was gone. This wasn’t like when she ran off after Jin or left town with one of them, she was just gone.

The seven of them sit scattered around the dim living room. There was half-finished take out on the coffee table, screens lighting anxious faces. They’ve been trying to track her for hours, every one of them searching a different angle: real-estate record, flight logs, security leaks, anything that might whisper the name Seo.

Mina paces near the door, gnawing her thumbnail. Jungkook wasn’t sure the teenager should even be here. Did they… kidnap her? No, her parents had to know she was as formidable as Jungkook knew her to be.

“It has to be one of the grandparent’s estates. There are six total — Daegu, Jeju, Busan, Gwangju, Sejong, and Gapyeong. But I don’t know which. No one in the family talks about them. They’re fortresses.”

Namjoon rubs his temple. “Each one has its own staff, private security, satellite blockers. If he’s hiding her at one of those, even a drone won’t get through.”

“Then we’ll go through every damn one,” Taehyung says. His voice sounds shredded from shouting earlier.

Yoongi leans back on the couch, eyes shadowed. “And what if he moves her again before we get there? We can’t chase a ghost.”

The room goes silent.

Jungkook hates that silence, the way it folds around them, thick with what ifs. He stands and paces to the window, fists buried in his hoodie pocket.

“She’s out there alone,” he mutters. “Probably thinks we’re not coming.”

“We are coming,” Jin says. His voice doesn’t waver. “We just need to be smart.”

“Smart?” Hoseok snaps. “Smart got us thrown out of a billionaire’s house!”

Mina flinches. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” Jimin cuts in, his voice steady but sharp. “He’s not blaming you, Mina. None of this is your fault.” He looks around the room. “But listen to me, all of you. Until she’s back, no one touches anyone. No sex, no hookups, no distractions. I mean it.”

Jungkook freezes mid-step.
Jimin’s eyes sweep over each of them — tired, worried, but still their anchor. “We can’t lose focus. Not while she’s gone. She needs to be the only thing we’re thinking about.”

No one argues. The silence that follows isn’t offended, it’s protective.

Mina sinks onto the couch beside Yoongi, pulling her knees up. “He’s not evil,” she says softly. “My uncle, I mean. He just… believes the world breaks people like her. He thinks he’s saving her from it.”

Yoongi exhales through his nose. “Then he doesn’t know her at all.”

The room falls still again. Then Taehyung’s phone vibrates on the table.

He grabs it , a number with no name, no thread history.

One message:

The world stops.

Jungkook is beside him in an instant. “What is it?”

Taehyung turns the screen for them to see. The text feels unreal — like something that slipped through time to reach them.

UNKNOWN: It’s me! I’m okay. Don’t reply. I’ll find a way.

“It’s her,” Taehyung whispe rs.

Namjoon’s hand tightens on the back of the chair. “Trace it.”

Taehyung shakes his head. “If I ping the number, her father’s security will see it. We can’t risk exposing her.”

“She said she’ll find a way,” Jin says quietly. “So we wait.”

Jimin nods once. “And we be ready when she does.”

They all stare at the glowing screen, the single line that means that she’s still fighting.

You

The sky over your grandparents’ estate stretches pale and cloudless. The air smells of trimmed grass and rain that never comes. You’ve forgotten what day it is.

You’re allowed to walk the grounds now, but not beyond the gates. No phone. No internet. No connection to the world outside of the family and Seo Enterprises.

Freedom, carefully staged.

You pass gardeners who bow without meeting your eyes. Guards who look away. Everyone polite. Everyone silent.
You are not a prisoner, not officially. Just a daughter “resting” under family supervision.

You’ve stopped screaming. You’ve started planning.

It happens one afternoon in the kitchen: your mother’s phone left on the counter, screen still lit. The lock screen is open. You freeze.

Every instinct screams trap, but the part of you that’s been silenced for days moves before reason can stop it.

You type the number from memory:
It’s me! I’m okay. Don’t reply.

You hesitate, fingers trembling. Then: I’ll find a way.

You hit send, delete the message, wipe the keyboard, step back.

By the time your mother returns, you’re stirring tea, pretending not to breathe.

That night, you lie awake wondering if anyone saw. You picture Taehyung checking his phone, Yoongi frowning, Jimin pacing. You imagine Taehyung reading those words in silence. You hope that they understand.

Days pass. You stop hoping.

Then, in the late morning light, your grandmother’s phone lies on the patio table beside a teacup, unlocked. No one in sight.

Your heart stutters. This time you don’t hesitate.

You type fast:
Jeju estate. Main grounds. South terrace.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press send.

The reply comes almost immediately.
We’re coming.

You gasp — then delete everything, heart hammering.

You stare at the blank screen until your pulse slows.

It takes hours for you to realize what really happened: your mother and grandmother both left their phones unlocked, both at the same time, both when the house was empty.
It wasn’t coincidence.

They’re not loyal to your father’s fear.
They’re loyal to you.

For the first time since you were locked away, you feel it — the tiniest crack of light through the wall.

You wander outside, barefoot on the stone path. The estate is quiet, so quiet you can hear the hum of cicadas under the sun.

Then something shifts.

A low vibration rolls through the air, deep and rhythmic, too steady to be wind. The birds lift from the trees in a sudden burst, scattering across the sky.

Your head snaps up.

At first, there’s nothing — just the horizon, pale and still. But the sound keeps growing, pulsing through your chest like a heartbeat you can’t control.

Whup. Whup. Whup.

You take a step forward, eyes scanning the sky, breath shallow. The noise grows louder, closer, heavier — the sound of metal cutting air.

You don’t see it yet.
But you know.

You know.

They came.

You drop the teacup in your hand, porcelain shattering across the stones, and start to run.

Taehyung

They don’t have time to think. Only to move.

The message came through at 3:47 a.m.
Jeju estate. Main grounds. South terrace.

For a few seconds, no one spoke. Then Namjoon exhaled. “That’s a twelve-hour window before anyone notices she sent it.”

Taehyung’s pulse had already taken over his body. “Then we don’t wait twelve hours.”

By dawn, they were in a hangar on the outskirts of the city — not HYBE’s, not theirs, one borrowed through old army contacts. Yoongi handled the permits, Namjoon the flight path, Jin the cover story. Jungkook moved like he’d been waiting his whole life for a reason to fly something again.

“We can’t tell anyone,” Namjoon warned. “If the media finds out, if HYBE finds out—”

“Then we bring her home before anyone can stop us,” Taehyung said.

They loaded quietly. No logos, no trackers. Only one helicopter — small, matte black, civilian registered. Hoseok double-checked the supply bag: emergency kit, rope, signal flare, spare headset, first-aid. Nothing flashy.

Mina stood at the edge of the hangar, hugging her backpack, wide-eyed. “My grandma has staff rotations every four hours. If you land between them, no one will be on the south lawn.”

Yoongi gave her a small smile. “That’s good work, kid.”

“I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” she whispered.

“Neither can we,” Jin muttered, climbing in.

Jungkook slid into the pilot’s seat, running through pre-flight checks with precision that didn’t match his age. The rest of them strapped in, the weight of what they were doing pressing down.

Taehyung’s mind wasn’t calm. It was too sharp, replaying every time you’d said trust me and he hadn’t. Every night you’d stayed awake waiting for them to come home.

He didn’t care if this ended his career. He just needed you safe.

The blades began to spin. The hangar filled with wind.

Yoongi leaned toward him. “You ready?”

Taehyung looked out the window at the horizon bleeding with dawn. “I’ve been ready since she disappeared.”

The helicopter lifted, tilting into the gray morning.

They flew low — below radar, hugging the coastline, sea spray occasionally misting against the glass. The rhythmic whup-whup-whup of the rotors drowned out everything, even thought.

Namjoon read coordinates. “Approaching Seo estate perimeter. Ten minutes out.”

Hoseok checked his earpiece. “You’re sure the signal blockers won’t interfere?”

“Jungkook’s flying manual,” Namjoon said. “No GPS. No transponders. They’ll never see us coming.”

Taehyung closed his eyes for a second and pictured you — pacing barefoot somewhere on those manicured lawns, looking up at the sound that didn’t belong there.

He smiled faintly. “She’ll know it’s us.”

Jungkook banked the helicopter left, descending toward the trees that surrounded the Jeju property. The estate sprawled beneath them like a storybook fortress — white stone, gray roofs, walls that stretched too far.

From this height, it looked unbreakable.

But Taehyung knew better.

Every fortress has a flaw.

And every cage has a key.

He tightened his harness and looked at Jin and Hoseok. “When we touch down, we move fast. No talking. No time to explain.”

Yoongi nodded once. “We get her, we go. That’s it.”

The helicopter leveled out, the rotors screaming against the wind. Below, the manicured lawn and glittering terrace of the south estate came into view.

“Landing zone ahead,” Jungkook said.

Taehyung leaned forward, heart pounding. “Let’s bring her home.”

You

The sound grows louder — whup, whup, whup — until it swallows the whole sky.

You run.

Barefoot across the terrace stones, across the trimmed grass that rips beneath your feet. Your lungs burn, your pulse pounding in your ears. You don’t see anything yet, but the vibration in the air feels alive, magnetic, impossible to mistake.

That’s them! Your boyfriends are back!

You reach the edge of the open lawn just as the helicopter breaks through the horizon — black, sleek, and low. The downdraft tears at your hair, sends leaves spiraling into the air. The wind hits you like a wall, hot and wild and real.

Guards shout behind you.

“Miss Seo!”
“Step back!”
“Get inside, now!”

You don’t stop. You don’t even look back. You’ve spent days locked behind glass; you won’t let anyone close another door.

The helicopter tilts, nose forward, engines roaring. The side hatch opens mid-hover, and figures move inside — dark uniforms, familiar shapes. You see Taehyung’s hair whipped by the wind, Jin’s white sleeve, Hoseok gripping the safety bar.

They’re here.

The guards converge around you, voices hard with panic. Two reach for your arms; you twist, stumble, shove one back with everything you have. The second grabs your wrist — and you bite him. Hard.

He swears, startled, and you break free, sprinting again.

The helicopter lowers, blades clawing at the air. Taehyung jumps first, boots slamming into the grass, followed by Jin and Hoseok. The guards falter; they weren’t trained for this — for global idols charging across a billionaire’s estate like it’s a battlefield.

“Go!” Hoseok yells over the roar.

You collide with Taehyung at full speed. His arms catch you, solid and shaking. For a heartbeat, you can’t breathe — not from fear this time, but from the shock of being held again.

“Are you hurt?” he shouts.

You shake your head, words lost to the wind.

Behind him, Jin and Hoseok fend off two guards trying to close in. Jin moves faster than you’ve ever seen him, redirecting their momentum with sharp, efficient precision. Hoseok grabs one by the arm and sends him sprawling into the grass.

“Let’s go!” Jin shouts.

Taehyung pulls you toward the helicopter. You stumble once, nearly dragged off your feet as the wind kicks up dust and petals. Jin and Hoseok grab your arms, helping you climb aboard.

The moment your feet hit the metal floor, Jungkook’s voice crackles over the comm:
“Everyone in?”

“Go!” Taehyung yells.

The helicopter surges upward, throwing you back into the seat. The estate falls away beneath you — the shining roofs, the endless walls, the men shouting below.

You press your hand to the glass, watching the world shrink until the noise fades and all that’s left is the beating of your heart.

Taehyung crouches beside you, sweat and dust streaking his face. “You okay?”

You nod, barely holding back tears. “You came.”

He exhales, smiling in disbelief. “You really thought we wouldn’t?”

“Not wouldn’t,” you say. “Couldn’t.”

“Of course I could,” Taehyung leans his forehead against yours. “I love you.”

You feel his words, over hearing them. Spoken against your neck. His arms wrapping around everywhere he could reach.

The horizon opens around you, it’s all sky, sea and light. For the first time in what feels like forever, there are no walls.

Below, the Seo estate vanishes behind the trees. Ahead, only clouds and the wide, impossible blue.

You lean back, air burning in your throat, chest rising and falling as the adrenaline fades. For the first time since your father locked that door, you can finally breathe.

You’re free.

“I love you, too,” you say, knowing in your heart that you weren’t completely free, not yet.

Taehyung kisses you. You marvel at how far your relationship with him has come.

“You. Us. Always,” he whispers.

“Always,” you repeat, because it would be hard but you and BTS were always and forever.