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They’ve just been named Korea’s “Couple of the Year.

The city glittered outside their penthouse window like it was trying to impress them.

Yoongi stood in front of it, unmoving, whiskey in hand, shirt half-buttoned, and his tie hanging loose around his neck. The TV was still on behind him, low volume, the screen showing a loop of press clips; photos of him and Hoseok in amazing outfits, in sun-drenched magazine shoots, in candid airport shots so clean they may as well have been staged.

“Couple of the Year,” the segment had said. “Unstoppable, untouchable, unfairly hot.”

Yoongi didn’t blink. He took a slow sip of whiskey.

Behind him, the door slammed.

“You saw it?” Hoseok’s voice cut sharply through the suite, echoing slightly against the marble. He walked in with his shoes already off, barefoot and furious in a long camel coat that slid off his shoulders like it was performing. Underneath, he wore an all-black outfit that had clearly been chosen to draw blood. Sheer shirt, silver jewelry, pants too tight for comfort but tailored like sin.

“I saw it,” Yoongi replied. He didn’t turn around.

They used the photo from last year’s Cannes party.” Hoseok’s laugh was bitter. “I told them to use something newer. You looked better in Paris.”

Yoongi let the silence grow heavy before responding. “You looked better without someone’s hand on your waist.”

He heard Hoseok suck in a breath. “It was his party. What did you want me to do? Elbow him on camera?”

“I wanted you to remember you were married,” Yoongi said, finally turning. Their eyes locked like two knives catching at the hilt.

Hoseok strode over, dropping his coat carelessly over the couch. He reached for Yoongi’s glass and took it from him without asking, sipped it, let the burn show. “Tell me something,” Hoseok said, eyes glinting. “Do you hate it? Us, I mean. Or are you just so used to pretending that you’ve forgotten how to be anything else?”

Yoongi looked down at him for a long time. He always looked at Hoseok like he was a painting he wasn’t allowed to touch. Something expensive, dangerous and easily ruined.

“I don’t hate you,” Yoongi said. “I hate what you make me do.”

Hoseok laughed. “Please.” He spun the glass in his hand in small circles. “Don’t make me the reason you spiral. That’s all you.” He handed the glass back and walked toward the bedroom, kicking a pillow out of his path like it offended him. When he reached the door, he paused with one hand on the frame. “You know I filed again, right?”

Yoongi said nothing.

“Top drawer in the study,” Hoseok added, looking over his shoulder. “Same as usual. Fresh signature lines, new lawyer.”

Yoongi took another sip of his drink. Then he said, calmly, “If I ever sign it, you’ll regret it.”

That made Hoseok pause. His expression flickered, something too quick to catch fully, and for a moment, he looked like a boy in a room too quiet, like the silence after an argument that leaves your chest aching.

Then he smiled, small, Icy. “You won’t,” he said. “You like me too much.” And then he disappeared into the bedroom, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Yoongi didn’t move.

Outside, Seoul kept glittering, like it didn’t know any better.

They stepped out of the black car like sin incarnate.

Yoongi in a black velvet suit that shimmered when the light hit it wrong. Hoseok in a red silk blouse shirt, backless, collarbone glowing under the press lights like it had been painted on. His pants were befitting of his slim, long legs. His curls were styled, neck exposed, slim and beautiful, his eyes twinkling like they were doing PR too.

The crowd screamed, and flashes exploded.  A reporter whispered “lethal” into her mic and probably wasn’t wrong.

Yoongi’s hand slid around Hoseok’s waist, fingers firm at the dip of his spine. The cameras caught it. Ate it, tweeted it. Hashtags trended about them within minutes.

Hoseok leaned in, smiling for the crowd, cheek brushing against Yoongi’s temple like he hadn’t spent the morning crying in their bathtub. “You’re touching me like you’re scared I’ll float away,” he mumbled.

Yoongi’s hold didn’t loosen.

Inside, the ballroom pulsed with luxury. Crystal chandeliers, smoke trailing from gold-rimmed champagne flutes. Everyone who mattered was here, everyone who watched them.

“Yoongi-hyung!” a familiar voice called out. One of the new idols. Too loud. 

Yoongi turned politely. Hoseok did not.

He approached with bright eyes and a firm handshake, discussing studio sessions and collaborations. Yoongi engaged, professional, and blank. But Hoseok? Hoseok watched with that particular stillness he reserved for watching animals circle his food.

The man touched Yoongi’s arm when he laughed.

“Excuse me,” Hoseok said suddenly, voice syrupy. “I need to speak to my husband. Privately.” He didn’t wait for permission. Just grabbed Yoongi’s wrist and pulled him toward the nearest hallway, shoes clicking, expression pleasant and completely terrifying. When they were out of sight, he shoved Yoongi against the wall; not violently, not hard, but with intent.

“You’re enjoying that,” he hissed.

“I’m talking,” Yoongi replied, simply. “That’s what people do at events, Hoseok.”

“Do they also grab your arm and call you hyung like they’re choking on it?”

Yoongi’s lip curled, amused. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“It’s not jealousy,” Hoseok said. “It’s principal.”

Yoongi made sure they were eye to eye, their mouths a breath apart. “And what principle is that? I don’t remember reading it in our wedding vows.”

“You didn’t read them at all,” Hoseok whispered.

Yoongi tilted his head. “Didn’t need to. I wrote the contract.”

And still – still, they kissed before going back in. Hard. Silent. Like they could scrub the poison from their mouths by giving it back.

They walked back into the ballroom like nothing had happened.

Everyone clapped when they were introduced.

They hadn’t spoken in four days.

Not really.
A few clipped sentences about schedules, an email Yoongi CC’d Hoseok on. One morning, Yoongi had poured him coffee, but said nothing, and Hoseok left it untouched.

So naturally, the stylist team decided this was the perfect day for a ‘raw, romantic’ photoshoot in black and white.

“We want tension,” the creative director had said, beaming. “That smoldering intimacy you two are famous for. Like… you want to kill each other, but also go at it on the same breath.”

Hoseok didn’t blink. “Right. So, a Wednesday.” He crossed his arms, unamused.

Yoongi didn’t say anything at all.

Now they were on set, standing too close, Yoongi in an open dress shirt, Hoseok shirtless under a cotton robe that clung to his body like it was afraid to fall off. The photographer barked orders while the music played low in the background, something jazzy and slow, the kind of track people used when they wanted fake sexiness instead of the real thing.

But this was already real.

Hoseok stepped into Yoongi’s space on cue, palm flat against his chest. Yoongi stared at him, unreadable, and cameras flashed.

“Now grab his chin, Yoongi-ssi,” the photographer called out. “Get in close like you’re gonna kiss.”

Yoongi’s fingers curled under Hoseok’s jaw.

They were supposed to fake it.

Hoseok didn’t move.

Yoongi’s thumb stroked his cheek once, slow.

“You look like you’ve been crying again,” he murmured, low enough that no one else would hear, looking into deep black eyes.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Hoseok whispered back, eyes dark and glossy.

“I haven’t,” Yoongi said. “It’s hard without you in the bed.”

Something flickered across Hoseok’s face. Fury, maybe, or something worse. Hope.

“Don’t talk like that if you’re not going to mean it,” he said.

Flash

They were still being photographed.

Yoongi’s hand slid from his chin to his throat, not tight, but there. “You keep handing me divorce papers,” he said softly. “And still sleep in my clothes.”

Hoseok swallowed. His robe slipped slightly, it wasn’t part of the direction, but no one stopped them.

The photographer mumbled on about how this was the perfect shoot and everything she wanted, and for them not to move.

“You still love me,” Yoongi said.

Hoseok didn’t deny it, couldn’t. Instead, he reached up and held onto Yoongi’s open collar, pulling him in close enough that their noses brushed.

“Then say it,” Hoseok breathed. “If you want me, say it.”

“I don’t want you,” Yoongi whispered, forehead pressed to his. “I need you.”

Flash.

They weren’t even pretending anymore.

Afterward, Hoseok went into the dressing room and locked the door. He didn’t come out for ten minutes. When he did, his eyes and nose were red.

Yoongi didn’t ask what happened in there. But when they rode the car home together, they held hands like nothing had ever gone wrong. Yoongi held it tight, fingers curling around each other's hand, like they didn’t spend every photoshoot daring each other to break in public.

Like obsession was just part of the brand now.

-

The lights were off when they came in, neither of them turned them on.

The penthouse was quiet, save for the sound of Hoseok’s coat slipping to the floor and Yoongi’s shoes thudding softly against the entryway tile. The silence between them was a living thing, thick and humid, pressing against their skin like sweat.

Yoongi walked into the kitchen and poured two glasses of water. Hoseok followed without being asked, leaned against the counter in nothing but a thin white shirt, hair still styled from the shoot, lips slightly raw from the gloss he’d licked off halfway through the ride home.

He didn’t touch the glass.

“I’m not sorry,” Hoseok said.

Yoongi didn’t look up.

“I know.” He took a sip of his own. “You never are.”

“I mean it,” Hoseok said. “I’m not going to apologize for what I said last week. I meant it. You make me feel like a trophy. A performance.” Hoseok huffed, taking a seat by the countertop.

Yoongi set the glass down slowly.

“And what exactly do you make me feel like, Hobah?”

That made Hoseok pause. His knuckles curled on the marble counter. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But at least I make you feel something.”

Yoongi looked at him then, really looked. Eyes shadowed and jaw tense, shirt collar open just enough to reveal the dip of his collarbones. He looked dangerous, the way people look when they’ve been pretending to be calm for too long.

He crossed the room. Hoseok didn’t move.

“You looked good today,” Yoongi said.

Hoseok’s mouth curled. “I always look good.”

“Yeah.” Yoongi voiced. “That’s the problem.”

And then he kissed him.

Hard and slow. A warning disguised as affection.

Hoseok gasped against his mouth, fingers tightening in the front of Yoongi’s shirt. Their bodies pressed flush, two halves of the same weapon, both sharp, both ready to draw blood. Yoongi backed him up until his hips hit the edge of the dining table. They kissed like they were still on camera. Like it mattered, like proving something.

“Tell me who you’re dressing for when I’m not home,” Yoongi whispered against his lips. “Tell me why you always come back looking like someone else touched you.”

“Tell me why you’re always gone,” Hoseok breathed at the feeling of Yoongi’s large hand dipping underneath his shirt and pressing his palm flat against his back. “Tell me why I file divorce papers and you don’t even open them .”

Yoongi’s mouth moved down his jaw, then to his neck, biting too hard to be gentle. Hoseok gasped. “Because if I open them,” Yoongi grumbled, “I might sign them just to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

Yoongi’s other hand held his waist. “No,” he admitted, voice wrecked. “I won’t.”

There was a moment of stillness. Hoseok leaned his head back, letting Yoongi kiss the column of his throat, fingers twisting in his hair. “You’re not allowed to leave me,” Yoongi said against Hoseok’s throat.

“I’ve tried.” Hoseok wept.

“Try again and I’ll make you sorry.”

Hoseok’s breath hitched. “You already do.”

And somehow, impossibly, that only made the kiss rougher. More desperate.

They made love on the dining table.

Hard, slow, silent at first, like they were still pretending to be people who didn’t hate how much they needed each other. By the end, the silence had broken completely. Words were said that neither of them would admit to in daylight. Hoseok cried. Yoongi didn’t stop him. He kissed the tears off his cheeks and said, "You're mine" like it was both a comfort and a curse.

After, they lay in bed, backs turned to each other, but feet tangled together like they hadn’t just ruined everything again.

The headlines exploded overnight.

“CEO Min Yoongi Caught in Late-Night Controversy”
“Exclusive: Min Yoongi’s Secret Meeting Sparks Rumors”
“Power Couple’s Perfect Image Shattered?”

The internet was a storm. Tweets spiraled into threads. Tabloids doubled down on every whisper, and cameras lurked like vultures outside every venue, every restaurant, every gated entrance to their lives.

Yoongi had been spotted entering an upscale hotel suite with an unknown man, an influential investor’s assistant. No one had seen them leave together, but the story was already spinning. Was this the start of a new scandal? An affair? A betrayal?

Hoseok woke up to the buzz before his phone even rang.

His eyes snapped open, wide and raw. His place felt too large, too cold, even though the morning sun poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

His first instinct was fury.

How dare he?

The second was panic.

Would that hurt less? If it was real?

The third was obsession.

I have to see it.

Before the day had properly begun, Hoseok was already scrolling through the endless stream of pictures and videos. Paparazzi shots of Yoongi entering the hotel, a grainy clip of the man laughing close to him, their bodies almost touching.

His chest tightened as he shoved his phone into his pocket and stormed out.

Yoongi was in the studio, headphones on, pretending the world outside didn’t exist, but the air was thick with tension.

Hoseok appeared without knocking, eyes blazing like a wildfire ready to burn.

“You’re a genius,” Hoseok hissed. “You ruin everything and act like you don’t care.”

Yoongi pulled off his headphones slowly, eyes dark.

“What do you want, Hobah?”

“To know what the fuck that was.” He shoved his phone at him, screen bright with headlines.

Yoongi’s jaw clenched.

“He’s just an assistant,” Yoongi said flatly. “Business. Nothing more.”

Hoseok blinked at him, stunned, then laughed – bitter, breathy. It came out too loud in the quiet studio room, bouncing off the soundproofed walls like mockery.“Business?” he scoffed, eyebrows raised. He took a few steps toward the mixing table, dragging his fingers across its edge like he needed to hold onto something. “You walk into a hotel with him at midnight and expect me to believe that?”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. He stood up slowly from the couch, hands falling to his sides, his posture suddenly sharp. “You want to believe I’m cheating,” he said quietly, eyes narrowing with something tired, something aching. “Fine. But don’t drag me through your jealousy.”

Hoseok’s hands shook. “I’m not jealous. I’m furious, and I’m terrified.” His oversized cardigan hung lopsided off one shoulder, his thin gold chain catching in the soft amber light. He looked too vulnerable for how loud his emotions were.

The room spun around them like a cyclone of emotions.

Behind him, Yoongi watched. Still. Silent. His face was unreadable except for the way his brows had drawn together slightly, like something in him was breaking but refusing to show.

“Tell me what to do,” Hoseok whispered. “Tell me how to stop this from killing us.”

Yoongi’s eyes softened for a fraction. He inhaled, a slow, deliberate breath like he didn’t want to speak unless he meant it. One heartbeat. Two. And then he said it. “Trust me,” he said.

But trust was a word they no longer used freely.

The paparazzi circled like sharks, and the world watched their every move. At the next public event, flashes erupted as they arrived. Hoseok’s grip on Yoongi’s arm was possessive, almost violent. Cameras zoomed in on every whispered conversation, every lingering touch.

The tension was palpable.

One reporter asked, “Mr. Min, how do you respond to the recent rumors?”

Yoongi’s reply was simple and firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “I’m focused on my work and my family. That is all.”

Behind closed doors, Hoseok wasn’t so restrained.

“You want me to break,” Hoseok snarled one night. “You want me to tear you apart for everyone to see.”

Yoongi held him steady. “Then do it,” he said.

It was the first time Hoseok called the lawyers himself.

Not his assistant.

Not his manager.

Not even a passing threat like usual, no tantrum or screaming match. Just a cold, clipped call, lips barely parted as he said, “Send him the papers. Hand-deliver them. I want him to see it’s from me.”

And so they did. A woman in a clean pressed suit delivered the envelope straight to Yoongi’s office that same afternoon, sliding it across his desk like a death sentence. The gold embossed initials at the top, Jung Hoseok , stared up at him like a dare.

Yoongi didn’t open it, didn’t even blink. He leaned back in his chair and signalled he wanted to be left alone.

He stared at the envelope for a long, long time, then picked up his phone.

Hoseok knew exactly what he was doing.

He was at the afterparty three hours later, wrapped in skin-tight sheer black mesh, tiny silver chains hanging around his collarbones and looping at his hips. His pants were tight, high-waisted, and left nothing to the imagination. His curls were wild. His makeup soft, his eyes unreadable.

The cameras ate it up.

He knew they would.

That was the point.

The party pulsed with lights and music. Celebrities, models, and designers all drank too much and pretended not to stare as Hoseok moved through the room like he owned it. He laughed loudly, touching arms that didn’t belong to Yoongi. Threw his head back and smiled like he wasn’t unraveling from the inside out.

Let him see this, Hoseok thought. Let him fucking choke on it.

Yoongi did.

He saw the pictures.

The livestreams.

The headlines lighting up every news alert on his phone.

"Jung Hoseok seen with mystery model at PR event"

"Divorce confirmed?", "Where is Min Yoongi?"

And he didn’t hesitate.

He threw on a black baseball cap, tugged low over his brows. A hoodie, unzipped, with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows, tension working in his forearms. A plain black face mask was pulled on last. No jewelry, no watch, just his phone in one hand and a kind of fury that made him blind to anything but motion.

Left the building without a word. No security. No driver.

Just rage in his lungs and possession clamped around his spine like a second skeleton.

He didn’t ask for entry. Didn’t call ahead.

He walked through the service entrance of the rooftop venue like he owned it, cutting past confused kitchen staff and trays of half-melted desserts. Slipped up a narrow stairwell with the kind of sharp, purposeful movement that makes people step aside and pretend not to see.

And there he was.

Hoseok.

Back turned to him, the center of attention. Laughing too loudly, the sound pure honey and sharp ice. Shirt nearly sheer under the lights, long legs shifting too slow not to be deliberate. Dancing too close to someone who wasn’t him..

Yoongi didn’t say a word. He just walked up and grabbed him, fingers curling hard around his wrist, yanking him back mid-step. 

Hoseok gasped, stumbling into his chest. His whole body froze. Even under the low brim of the cap, even with most of Yoongi’s face hidden, he knew.

“Yoongi–” he started, wide-eyed, breath stalling mid-syllable.

“Outside,” Yoongi snapped, low and quiet.

“You don’t get to–”

Yoongi stepped in closer, chest pressed flush against Hoseok’s, his breath hot against his ear through the fabric of the mask. One hand still gripping his wrist. The other now on his lower back.

“Outside,” he hissed again. “Or I’ll cause a fucking scene.”

People were watching.

The photographers were raising their cameras. The people near them were already turning. Someone whispered his name, a phone was raised.

Hoseok swallowed, throat working around the weight of the moment. His skin flushed — part fear, part something far worse, far better. His heart beat out a rhythm too chaotic to dance to.

He let himself be dragged.

Yoongi shoved open the back exit, slamming the metal door against the wall. The alley was humid with the breath of summer – sticky, warm, and stinking faintly of cigarette ash and sweat. The bass from the rooftop party thumped through the concrete behind them, muffled but pulsing.

“You think this is funny?” Yoongi barked, shoving Hoseok against the brick wall with a thud. His eyes were blown wide behind the mask, feral. “You think you can wave divorce papers at me and then prance around like this?”

Hoseok tilted his chin up defiantly, lips curling in a smirk. “I looked good, though, didn’t I?” Knowing how to push Yoongi’s buttons further.

Yoongi’s jaw flexed. He grabbed Hoseok’s face, fingers pressing hard into his cheeks. “You’re not walking away from me, Hobah.”

“And you already left,” Hoseok hissed, pupils shining wild under the amber alley light. “You left when you lied. When you hid. When you–”

“I never lied,” Yoongi cut in sharply. “I never touched him. I never wanted anyone else.” He stepped even closer, his voice shaking with restraint. “But you – look at you. You’re throwing yourself at anyone who’ll look your way just to make me feel something.” His hands tightened on Hoseok’s arms, dragging him forward so their chests were pressed tight again.

“I don’t need to make you feel anything,” Hoseok bit back. “You feel everything already, and that’s the problem.”

The silence that fell then was like a dropped match in a room filled with gas, trembling, ready to ignite.

Then Yoongi leaned in, forehead resting against Hoseok’s, breath uneven. His mask had slipped halfway off, exposing the line of his mouth. “I would burn this city to the ground if you ever left me.”

Hoseok let out a shaky breath, his hands fisting into the fabric of Yoongi’s hoodie. “And I’d pour gasoline over the ashes if you ever loved someone else.”

Yoongi kissed him then. Messy, punishing, desperate. Hands in Hoseok’s hair, shoving the strands back to get at his mouth, nails biting into his scalp. Hoseok clawed at his back, dragging him closer like he wanted to crawl into his ribcage.

Two men who hated each other, but loved each other so much, just enough to stay.

-

By 9:00 AM, the bruises had already started to bloom.

Yoongi sat at the edge of the dressing room couch, slowly rolling his shirt sleeve lower over the faint mark near his elbow – a fingerprint, maybe two. The fabric tugged awkwardly against it. His jaw was tight, focused. His knuckles still ached faintly from where they’d braced against brick.

Across from him, Hoseok stood by the vanity mirror, adjusting the high neck of his pale beige turtleneck – absurd for July, sweltering even indoors – but necessary. He fussed with it quietly, tugging the fabric higher until it brushed the underside of his jaw, covering the kiss marks, and also hiding the faint teeth marks that had bloomed high on his cheekbone. The one Yoongi’s teeth had left the night before, too close, too desperate, too much.

They were due on set in twenty minutes.

“Act natural,” Yoongi muttered, eyes flicking toward Hoseok’s reflection.

“I always do,” Hoseok replied, slipping on his sunglasses. They were gradient-tinted, obnoxiously large, and unmistakably designer. He slid them on with practiced ease. The tint veiled the truth.

Yoongi’s gaze dropped to his walk. 

“You’re still limping.”

“You’re still married,” Hoseok bit back with a smile so soft it could slice open a throat. “So I guess we’re both pretending today.”

-

Outside the studio, reporters were already circling like crows. The scandal hadn’t even reached its peak – just low whispers, flashes of phone cameras, grainy shots passed around socials. Min Yoongi seen entering private afterparty backdoor, 1:42 a.m. and Jung Hoseok’s latest outfit turns heads in Gangnam rooftop scene. The tabloids hadn’t stitched the pieces together yet.

But their lawyers had.

Inside, one of the interns read aloud from the new email, barely glancing up from his tablet. His voice was flat. Tired. “Min Jung Hoseok’s legal team has reissued the divorce petition, this time by formal courier.” 

The room didn’t flinch. It was déjà vu by now. Exactly sixty-three minutes later, Yoongi’s lawyer replied in kind:

Mr. Min has received the documents. He declines to sign. Again.

No one reacted. No one needed to. It was routine now - a legal choreography neither party seemed in any rush to finish.

On the shared office Slack, someone updated the running thread:

[Divorce Watch: Day 217]
Papers sent.
Papers ignored.
Sexual tension still off the charts.

In the PR corner, Jina, Hoseok’s assistant, was already texting her friend who worked in Yoongi’s building:

please tell your boss to stop showing up to alleyways like he’s batman

The reply came back in less than a minute:

please tell your boss to stop dressing like drama personified. this is a brand crisis not a runway.

Jina didn’t smile. Just locked her phone and rubbed her temples. Because the thing was, the fans weren’t backing down. 

They were doubling down.

#SOPEDIVORCE trended for twelve hours.
#JUSTSIGN trended for fifteen.
But by morning, a new tag took over:
#ALLEYGATE

And no one, not even their PR teams, could predict what was going to happen next.

Back on set, the stylist flinched when she reached for Hoseok’s neck. Her fingers had barely brushed the skin just beneath his jaw before she jerked her hand back like she touched fire.

“Sorry–” she started quickly, eyes wide.

“It’s fine,” Hoseok said smoothly, not missing a beat. His voice was all silk and caffeine, warm but rehearsed. He adjusted the collar of his shirt – black cashmere, high-necked, artfully wrinkled like he hadn’t just spent an hour in the dressing room. “It’s just… sensitive.” The stylist gave a tight nod and stepped back. Hoseok didn’t move again, just sat there with his spine straight and chin tilted like a painting, gaze cast somewhere past the lights.

Across the room, Yoongi was seated in front of the mirror while someone dabbed concealer along his jaw. He didn’t speak, didn’t twitch – but his gaze shifted slightly, meeting Hoseok’s in the reflection. Their eyes locked for a second too long. Neither of them smiled.

“Camera crew’s ready,” someone called.

The stage lights flicked on. Background chatter faded as the director signaled quiet.

They sat side by side for the interview, two parts of a headline pretending to be a whole. Hoseok’s legs were crossed neatly; his fingers toyed with the heavy designer ring on his index. Yoongi sat straighter than usual, one hand resting on his knee, the other curling slightly in his lap like he was holding back from clenching it.

The host beamed, voice syrupy. “So! The couple of the year!” She clasped her hands together in mock delight. “How do you keep your marriage so strong?”

Yoongi’s head turned slightly. His eyes went to Hoseok first, but Hoseok didn’t meet them. His gaze stayed forward, detached.

“We work through things,” Yoongi said, the edge of his voice just sharp enough to cut paper.

Hoseok’s mouth pulled into a pleasant smile. “With a lot of effort,” he said, crossing one leg over the other, “and sometimes… litigation.”

The host let out a nervous chuckle, clearly unsure if it was a joke. No one else laughed.

The assistants on set looked like they were about to chew through their clipboards. One of them mouthed something to another. “Did he just say litigation?”

Yoongi shifted slightly. The cuff of his sleeve caught the light as he reached across the gap between their chairs and took Hoseok’s hand. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t affectionate. It was slow, calculated – his fingers wrapping around Hoseok’s with something almost possessive.

Hoseok didn’t flinch. He let it happen. But he didn’t squeeze back.

The cameras clicked.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Behind them, someone whispered, “This is either brilliant or a disaster.”

Somewhere, stock prices ticked higher.

The conference table stretched the length of the glass-walled boardroom. Technically, it seated twelve. Sixteen people had squeezed in, all trying not to look like they were holding their breath.

Yoongi sat at the head of the table. Black slacks, collarless shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbow in quiet defiance of the dress code. A sleek silver watch gleamed on his wrist, the one he only wore to meetings that required power moves.  Five minutes late, Hoseok entered. He didn’t rush. He never did. His lace blouse shimmered with every step, loose and sleeveless, tucked into cream-colored trousers that fit like they were tailored only for him, which they were. A pair of tinted sunglasses rested low on his nose, and in his hand, a sweating cup of iced matcha with three stickers on the lid.

He didn’t say hello. Just pulled out a chair near the middle, sat down, and blew a lazy kiss to one of his stylists sitting in the corner.

The silence was absolute.

The VP of Crisis Communications cleared his throat. He was already sweating through his button-up. “Shall we begin?”

Someone halfway down the table opened a laptop and started reading from a prepped statement. “So the current headlines are mixed. Some blogs are praising Hoseok’s confidence, others are suggesting marital tensions–”

“Oh,” Hoseok murmured, not looking up from his phone. “Are they just now figuring that out?”

A few execs exchanged panicked glances. Yoongi’s mouth twitched at the corner, not quite a smile.

“We need to redirect the narrative,” another woman said, tapping her tablet. “Focus on longevity, power-couple branding, shared business ventures, suggest that the couple is passionate. Not unstable.” She turned the tablet around to show a mockup. A ring photo. A vague quote.

A lawyer interjected, “We also need to address the repeated divorce filings. Public record can only be cleaned so many times–”

“I’ve never signed,” Yoongi said, voice low but clear.

“Exactly,” Hoseok added, fingers still scrolling. “If he were serious, he’d be single.”

Several heads turned. One intern dropped their pen. Someone scribbled a note down.

Across the room, one of Yoongi’s assistants pinched the bridge of his nose. Another one of Hoseok’s assistants slowly unwrapped a granola bar and began chewing like he was watching premium cable.

“We suggest a joint social post,” said a PR rep gently. “Minimal caption. Maybe a quote from your wedding vows.”

“We didn’t write vows,” Hoseok said without looking up.

“You didn’t read them,” Yoongi murmured, more to the table than to Hoseok.

They didn’t look at each other.

Another exec jumped in, “Also, sorry, but, does anyone know why Yoongi’s stocks hit an all-time high this morning?”

“They spiked after the interview,” said someone near the monitor. “Like mid-broadcast. Almost twelve percent.”

“And Hoseok’s brand sold out again. International. Within minutes.”

“We didn’t even post anything,” someone muttered.

“I don’t get it,” said the legal aide. “They’re two of the most famous men alive. How are people still this invested?”

A beat of silence.

“Because,” said another exec without looking up from her laptop, “they’re obsessed with each other, and it’s mutual destruction in real time. No one’s seen this level of commitment to drama since 2016.”

Neither of them turned to face the other.

Under the table, their phones vibrated.

[Yoongi → Hoseok]
If you wear that slutty blouse again I’m showing up next time with a mic & marrying you all over again just to spite you.

[Hoseok → Yoongi]
tf do you mean next time? I’m wearing less next week. Vogue shoot’s mine. Don’t come.

Yoongi’s fingers moved again, calm as ever. His gaze didn’t lift.

[Yoongi → Hoseok]
Already RSVP’d.   

-

The shoot was Hoseok’s. His team, his concept. A celebration of elegance, ego, and divine silhouette. He was already on set in sheer mesh and pearl accents, standing barefoot against a soft cream backdrop.

“Makeup, please,” he called, twirling a single rose between his fingers. His voice was light, sweet, and already performing.

A stylist laughed from somewhere near the fans. “You look well-fed today.”

Before Hoseok could reply, the back door opened. Security didn’t flinch. A man in all black and a baseball cap walked past the lighting rig like he owned the place.

He did.

Min Yoongi.

“I said don’t come,” Hoseok snapped the second he saw him, stepping down off the raised platform and out of the light.

“I own the building,” Yoongi said. “You scheduled this on my floor.”

“You own the whole block,” Hoseok shot back. “That doesn’t mean you have to crawl into every room I’m in.”

Yoongi took a single step forward. “Stop dressing like you want me to.”

The studio went quiet.

A boom mic shifted a little too loudly. Someone coughed behind a curtain.

Hoseok didn’t flinch. “Stop showing up like I’m yours.”

“You are,” Yoongi said, quieter. “You just forget.”

A long pause.

Hoseok’s lips parted, then curled into a soft, dangerous smile. He turned slowly, letting the mesh fall flatter against his back as he addressed the room.

“Photographer,” he called out. “You good to roll?”

“Y-yeah?”

“Great. Let’s give them something delusional to print.”

The shoot resumed.

Yoongi stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching every frame like he was taking notes. Hoseok arched, danced, letting light catch on the pearl chain along his spine. Played to the camera like it owed him everything, and Yoongi watched like a man taking mental notes on every pose, every exposed inch of skin, every smile that wasn’t aimed at him.

Across the room, Hoseok’s PR assistant pulled her phone from her pocket and groaned.

“Yoongi’s stock just surged again,” she whispered to no one in particular. “Three percent spike since he walked in.”

One of the stylists looked up. “Wait, again?”

“And,” the assistant continued, reading the incoming text, “Hoseok’s new capsule drop just sold out. Every size. Gone.”

“That’s the third sellout this month,” someone muttered.

“They haven’t even done promo.”

“This shouldn’t be working,” said one of the interns, scrolling fast. “They’re already world-famous. They’re literally fighting in public, and the market treats it like foreplay.”

A hush.

Then, from behind the monitor, the social media coordinator whispered, “Do you think if they actually got divorced, our numbers would triple?”

Someone else answered without looking up, “They’d probably crash the economy.”

Later, someone would leak a behind-the-scenes shot of Yoongi in the mirror’s reflection, standing perfectly still, looking at Hoseok like he was a painting he wanted to burn and worship at the same time.

The post would go viral.

The stock would rise.

The lawyers would sigh.

And the assistants would start betting money on whether the next divorce paper would come printed on scented paper or wrapped in black ribbon.

The red carpet was saturated, not just with flashbulbs and velvet ropes, but with tension. That high-strung, unspeakable brand of electricity that clung to celebrity couples who had seen war together.

Hoseok stood in front of the cameras like he belonged to them. He wore a deep, plunging black suede shirt cinched at the waist with a wide ribbon, the sleeves translucent and falling off one shoulder like a whisper. His pants were tailored to filth. Not one hair was out of place. His lip gloss was beautiful.

Next to him, Yoongi wore sharp lines and an even sharper silence. Gray suit, no tie, rings adorning a hand. He stood with one hand in his pocket, the other on Hoseok’s waist like he’d planted a flag there and dared anyone to try and move it.

“Smile,” Hoseok said from the corner of his mouth, lips barely moving.

“I am,” Yoongi replied without looking at him.

Flashes went off. Reporters screamed their names. There was a short silence while they stood side by side for press photos, microphones waving, publicists managing chaos.

“Why is your shoulder out? Fix it,” Yoongi muttered under his breath.

“I wore it for the man I thanked in my last interview. You remember his name?” Hoseok muttered back, and then quickly smiled again for the cameras.

Yoongi didn’t answer. He just adjusted the hand on Hoseok’s waist, just enough to pull him closer.

“You two look stunning,” a journalist called out, “How’s married life treating you?”

Yoongi smiled thinly. “He wears the ring, I write the checks.”

A ripple of laughter. Hoseok smiled small, but it faded as they walked away.

“You don’t write shit,” Hoseok huffed. “You just chase me when I try to leave.”

“You run pretty, but you always slow down when you want me to catch you,” Yoongi responded, fixing his shirt.

Their smiles never cracked, but tension poured from them like heat.

Their assistants hovered close behind, both texting furiously.

[Yoongi’s Assistant → Hoseok’s Assistant]
What are the odds he drags him off the carpet?

[Hoseok’s Assistant → Yoongi’s Assistant]
Not zero. hoseok’s already twitching.

[Yoongi’s Assistant → Hoseok’s Assistant]
300 bucks on public scene before dessert.

“Also, why are stocks up again?” Yoongi’s assistant added a second later, now texting their finance manager.

“We just checked. Hoseok’s brand site crashed twice. All six colorways sold out in twenty minutes.”

“No explanation,” Hoseok’s assistant muttered, flipping through the socials. “It’s like every time they show up on a carpet half-fighting, the world loses its mind.”

“No PR campaign could fake this,” someone whispered nearby.

“No PR team would survive it,” someone else replied.

-

The room was cavernous and gold. One of those self-congratulatory nights that fed the industry’s hunger for worship.

Yoongi sat at a table near the front, stone-faced. He hadn’t clapped all evening.

Until Hoseok’s name was announced. Then he stood, slow and lethal, clapping with a steady rhythm that sounded like a threat. Everyone else applauded with admiration. Yoongi applauded like he owned the moment.

Hoseok took the stage glowing, not with humility, but with a quiet storm behind his smile. He accepted the award with practiced grace. Microphone in one hand, trophy in the other, he addressed the room like it was his court.

“I want to thank the production team, my stylist, my label, and…” A beat. His eyes skimmed the crowd. Landed on Yoongi. “And Nam Jaehyun. For reminding me I’m not impossible to love, and Min Yoongi.”

The room let out a delicate murmur.

Yoongi went still.

He didn’t blink, didn’t move. He just sat like a bomb under glass.

The murmurs grew louder.

Hashtags formed in real time.

Stocks began to fluctuate again – up, not down.

Yoongi’s CFO, seated two tables behind, leaned toward a colleague with disbelief. “Why does this shit work?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered back. “But he’s trending in eight countries and our fragrance preorders just quadrupled.”

Hoseok didn’t wait for the fallout. He walked off the stage without another word, suede shirt still falling off one shoulder, glitter catching in the lights.

Yoongi stood up.

His assistant put a hand on his arm. “Don’t.”

Yoongi didn’t shrug it off. He just walked, unhurried, backstage.

-

Hoseok was alone, sitting on a small leather bench with a water bottle in hand. When Yoongi entered, he didn’t look surprised. “You took your time.”

Yoongi shut the door behind him and locked it. “I let you have your moment.”

Hoseok didn’t smile. “You didn’t like the speech?”

Yoongi’s jaw ticked. “Who the fuck is Nam Jaehyun?”

Hoseok tilted his head. “He’s an artist. We worked together on the campaign last year.”

Yoongi stepped forward. “You never thanked me like that.”

“You don’t remind me I’m lovable, Yoongi. You remind me I’m trapped.”

Yoongi was quiet then. “You like it.”

A pause. Hoseok stood, walked up to him.

“I hate it.”

Their eyes locked.

“Then why do you keep coming back?” Yoongi murmured.

“Because I like it when you look at me like you’ll kill someone for touching me.”

Yoongi’s voice dropped. “I would.”

“And that’s the problem,” Hoseok whispered.

Silence.

Somewhere outside, a host cracked a joke into a mic. The audience laughed.

Inside the room, Yoongi reached for Hoseok’s jaw, fingers curling just enough to make Hoseok tilt his head back.

“You want to destroy me,” Hoseok said, quiet.

 “I already am,” Yoongi replied.

Their kiss, when it came, wasn’t tender. It was a slow, dragging, brutal thing that tasted like champagne and threat, and when Hoseok pulled away, his lip was bitten red.

“I’m leaving first,” Hoseok said.

Yoongi didn’t answer.

But when he returned to the table later, Hoseok’s seat was empty, and Yoongi’s ring finger was bare.

Ten minutes later, stock prices surged again.

No one could explain why.

The art gallery smelled like white wine, acrylic, and lies.

Hoseok arrived late. A sheer white blouse with pearl buttons, open to the sternum, tucked into low-waisted trousers with a satin ribbon belt. The shirt clung like it was in love with him.

He greeted Nam Jaehyun with a soft touch to the wrist. Whispered something that made the man smile. It wasn’t flirtation. It was worse, familiarity.

They stood close. Jaehyun’s hand brushed Hoseok’s lower back. A photographer caught it.

Yoongi saw the photo before he saw the room.

He arrived in silence. Face mask. Baseball cap. A vintage bomber zipped to the throat. No entourage. No assistant. Just fury disguised as calm. He slipped through security and ghosted through the hall until he found them.

Jaehyun was laughing. Hoseok had his hand near his lips, coy and slow.

Yoongi reached them without warning. His voice was low.

“Hoseok.”

Jaehyun startled.

Hoseok didn’t.

He turned, smiling like he’d seen a ghost he’d personally summoned.

“Didn’t know you were a fan of visual art.”

Yoongi didn’t smile back. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

“You texted ten times. One more and I’d have filed a restraining order.”

Jaehyun cleared his throat, polite but visibly confused. “Do you two – ?”

“We’re married,” Yoongi said flatly.

“Not for long,” Hoseok added, still smiling. “You’ll be the first to know, Jaehyun.”

Yoongi’s hand curled into a fist in his pocket.

“I need a word. Alone,” he said.

Hoseok tilted his head, feigning thought. “No.”

Yoongi stepped forward. “Now.”

Jaehyun looked between them, caught the edge in Yoongi’s voice, and wisely walked away.

Yoongi waited until they were half-shielded by a pillar before speaking. His voice was quiet, venom behind velvet.

“Are you doing this to punish me?”

Hoseok stopped to look at an abstract canvas, unfazed. “You think I’d wear this to punish you?” He leaned in, close enough that Yoongi could smell his skin. “I wore it because I wanted to be worshipped by someone who doesn’t rip up my divorce papers and call that love.”

He moved to the next piece.

Yoongi’s breath caught. His jaw ticked. “You don’t love him.”

“No,” Hoseok said, finally serious. “But I don’t hate myself around him.”

That landed like a knife.

“You’re not moving out.”

“I already found a place.”

“You’re not leaving me.”

“I already did.”

It started as a rumor on Twitter.

Then a blurry screenshot.

Then the full message:

i need to get away. even if he shows up and drags me back, even if he puts me in that fucking penthouse like a dog. i’ll always want him, but wanting him hurts. i’m tired of hurting prettily.

The message had been sent to an old stylist friend. Someone with poor judgment and an unlocked phone.

Within hours, hashtags trended.

#FreeHoseok
#LetHimGoYoongi
#TiredOfHurtingPrettily

Fans dissected timelines. Fancams. Airport outfits. Old livestreams.

And then stocks began to rise.

Yoongi’s investment portfolio reportedly jumped 12% in a day. Hoseok’s clothing line crashed three separate websites with a sudden restock of sheer white blouses and faux pearl belts. The new ad campaign was reposted by ten global fashion editors.

In the middle of the chaos, a private meeting was called with both PR departments. Assistants buzzed between rooms. Two lawyers were added. Yoongie sat at the head of the table like a statue in mourning, while PR reps argued over optics and damage control.

“He looks controlling,” one manager said. “We need a public statement. Something soft. Shared pain, emotional strain, mutual respect–”

“No,” Yoongi said.

“It’s getting out of hand. People think you kidnapped him.”

Yoongi looked up, eyes dead. “He’s not a victim.”

The room froze.

Just then, the doors opened. Hoseok entered in sunglasses and a dark blazer with nothing underneath. No shirt. No shame.

He sat beside Yoongi like thunder in human form.

Under the table, Yoongi’s phone buzzed.

[Hoseok → Yoongi]
they want me to cry in an interview. you should cry too. for balance.

[Yoongi → Hoseok]
I’ll cry when you come home.

[Hoseok → Yoongi]
you burned all the locks off the doors.

Their thumbs brushed. Accidentally. Or maybe not.

Across the table, the PR director cleared her throat. “What exactly is your status right now?”

Hoseok looked at her, removed his sunglasses, and responded, “He keeps losing the divorce papers. I keep printing new ones.”

Yoongi’s lawyer sighed. “And we keep shredding them. Paperless era.”

A low voice from the corner – one of the assistants, maybe, mummbled, “Can someone explain why the stocks are up?”

“They’re fighting in public and everyone’s buying it like popcorn,” someone else answered.

“They’re buying the popcorn,” said another.

No one laughed. But the snack budget doubled the following week.

Hoseok finally moved out.

Or tried to.

He’d barely unpacked his favorite diffuser when the air conditioning failed. Then the Wi-Fi dropped. Then, without explanation, his building access card was revoked under the vague excuse of “security concerns.” His groceries were returned to the lobby. The elevator refused to go to his floor. The concierge looked nervous every time he approached the front desk.

Yoongi had nothing to do with it. Officially.

Unofficially?

Yoongi was on the condo board.

And Hoseok’s driver was still paid by Yoongi’s company.

And the assistant who helped secure the lease? She used to intern under Yoongi’s publicist and still attended their monthly networking brunches.

By the third day, Hoseok was sneaking into his own building through the service elevator with sunglasses and a hoodie like he was evading paparazzi. When he arrived at his door, after getting stuck for ten minutes in a delivery corridor with a meat cart, three separate luxury flower arrangements were already waiting. They were monstrous, borderline theatrical, wrapped in black velvet ribbon and spritzed with perfume.

No sender name. Just a card.

'This building isn’t you. Come back where you’re beautiful.'

Hoseok stood still for a long time, staring at the blooms. Then he picked up the first vase, opened the balcony doors, and one by one, launched them into the night like he was in a melodrama. Shards of Baccarat crystal rained down the side of the building.

The media caught one blurry video. “Hoseok seen throwing gifts off his penthouse balcony. Min Yoongi involved?”

It trended for eight hours. The clip was set to jazz remixes and slowed down in fancams. Fans argued in comments, overanalyzing floral species and the brand of vase to determine who sent them. They noticed the signature perfume was the same one Yoongi once mentioned in a GQ interview as “smelling like him.”

By midnight, SOPEFLOWERGATE was a global hashtag.

The next morning, Hoseok’s clothing brand completely sold out its latest collection, for the third time that quarter. Their server crashed under demand. The most popular item? A lilac mesh top modeled after a design he wore when last seen publicly with Yoongi. Online, fans called it the "breakup blouse."

Meanwhile, Yoongi’s entertainment stock spiked 3.7% by the close of the day.

Analysts were baffled.

“They’ve both been seen fighting in public. Their reputations are... turbulent, to say the least.”

“Then why is the stock up?”

“Maybe people like the chaos.”

“Or maybe they’re playing us.”

They were famous, yes, but there was something different about this. Something primal. Addictive. Like watching a scandal scripted by lovers who knew how to make pain look poetic.

The mystery deepened when, later that evening, Hoseok’s personal assistant left the room, and Hoseok finally pulled out his phone.

[Hoseok]
you’re insane.

[Yoongi → Hoseok]
You hate when things don’t match your taste. The tiles in that condo are gray. You’re not gray.

[Hoseok → Yoongi]
stop getting into my house.

[Yoongi → Hoseok]
Then stop leaving the door in your heart unlocked.

'

It was supposed to be a closed guest list. Strictly industry. No press.

But secrets always felt safest when buried under glitter and champagne.

The rooftop shimmered in candlelight and string bulbs. Ice sculptures wept into imported marble. Everyone pretended to be casual in ten-thousand-dollar suits, voices low, smiles calculated, laughter polished to match the shine on their shoes.

Yoongi arrived late.

Hoseok had already been there, seen, photographed, and whispered about. He stood by the open bar in a soft violet shirt that barely stayed on his shoulders. Sheer. Lace. Cinched at the waist. A piece so delicate it had been hand-sewn for editorial but never meant to be worn outside a controlled shoot. Hoseok wore it like armour. He looked like temptation rewritten as revenge, and he was laughing at something another man said, long, pretty fingers tapping a coupe glass, head tilted back in mock delight. Gold rings glittered at his knuckles. His smile was devastating on purpose.

Yoongi cut across the party like a blade, cold, smooth, unstoppable. People moved. They always did. He stopped behind Hoseok without saying a word.

The man Hoseok was speaking to faltered. “Oh, Mr. Min.”

Hoseok didn’t turn. “Still learning manners? Introduce yourself.”

“I don’t need to,” Yoongi said. “He’ll be gone in five seconds.”

“Is that how you talk to people now?” Hoseok sipped his drink without looking at him.

Yoongi just stared at the man. Nothing else. And the man, like everyone, eventually fled.

Only then did Hoseok turn around. He looked Yoongi over, slowly, like he was inspecting damage on a sculpture he’d once loved and now wanted to destroy. “You really can’t stand it, can you?” He said. “Not being the center of the room.”

“I don’t need to be. I just need to make sure you don’t humiliate yourself in public.”

“I’ve done worse in private,” Hoseok said softly.

Yoongi’s jaw flexed. “Is this about the Vogue shoot again?”

“No,” Hoseok replied. “This is about you showing up to supervise like I’m your possession.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why did you call me after it ended?”

Hoseok didn’t answer right away. His voice dropped, as if he were trying to say something without letting it echo. “Because I wanted to see if you’d say something that sounded like love, not ownership.”

Yoongi stared at him.

“Did you?” Hoseok asked.

Yoongi didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. Held it out.

Hoseok didn’t take it.

“What is it?”

Yoongi looked tired. Really tired. “The divorce papers.”

Not shredded. Not burned. Not ignored with arrogant permanence like the other twenty-three.

Hoseok slowly took the page. His fingers trembled, just slightly.

“I haven’t signed yet,” Yoongi said. “But I will.”

Hoseok looked down at the paper, then back up. His lips parted. “Why?”

“Because you’re not a possession,” Yoongi said quietly. “You’re a person. A cruel, fucking radiant one. And I can’t keep you with threats.”

Hoseok blinked. Laughed, but no sound came out. It was too soft. Too close to something else.

“I’ll sign,” Yoongi repeated, more firmly this time. “If that’s what it takes for you to choose me instead.”

The penthouse was still listed under Hoseok’s name.

Yoongi didn’t ask him to come. Hoseok didn’t tell the driver where they were going. They just ended up there.

It was dark. Cool. Moonlight spilled through floor-to-ceiling windows.

Yoongi stood near the minibar, pouring a drink in silence.

Hoseok slipped out of his shirt. Didn’t look to see if Yoongi was watching.

He knew he was.

The blouse dropped like a sigh onto the carpet.

Yoongi crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. As if the floor might break under him. As if Hoseok might, too.

He stood behind Hoseok, just looking.

“You always do this,” Hoseok whispered. “Drag me back just when I start breathing on my own.”

“I never stopped wanting you,” Yoongi said. “I just stopped knowing how to keep you without ruining you.”

His fingers brushed Hoseok’s waist. Bare skin. Silk warmth.

Hoseok leaned back against him, closed his eyes. “I hate you,” he whispered.

“No, you don’t.”

“I hate what I become when I want you.”

“Then become something else.”

Yoongi turned him gently.

Their kiss was quiet at first. Careful. Reverent. Hands in hair, cheek to cheek. A kind of prayer. Hoseok tasted like mint and bitterness.

Then it twisted.

Hoseok bit his lip. Yoongi grabbed his jaw. They stumbled into each other, frantic and bruising.

It wasn’t lovemaking. It was madness. Skin against skin. Linen tangled around limbs. A war fought in half-sobs and bitten lips. Moans carved into collarbones.

“You only want me when I hurt.”

“No, I want you even when you leave me.”

“You say I’m yours, but you never ask what I want.”

“Tell me what you want. I’ll ruin myself for it.”

And in the end, Hoseok fell asleep on Yoongi’s chest. A hand on his sternum. Their hearts refusing to sync.

The producer had begged them.

“Just keep it light,” she said. “A little banter. No drama. People want to believe in you again.”

Yoongi showed up in all black. Sharp collar, pressed slacks, and a slim watch that glinted every time he shifted his wrist. His hair was lightly tousled, framing his face. He looked like a man attending his own trial.

Hoseok wore cream. A sheer blouse with delicate floral embroidery across the chest, skin visible beneath fine stitching. He sat with one leg crossed, rings catching in the studio light, a veil of disinterest soft across his face.

The host smiled too wide. “So, how’s the atmosphere between you two these days?”

Hoseok answered first, eyes not quite on Yoongi. “Civil. Like a ceasefire.”

Yoongi didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just let the silence linger a beat too long before the host filled it with a tight laugh.

“And the recent rumors?” she asked. “The messages that leaked? Any truth to the idea that you’re working through things privately?”

Yoongi finally turned his head. His voice was smooth, low. “We’re always working through something. Some people use therapists. We use lawyers.”

The audience laughed, unsure if they were supposed to.

Hoseok didn’t.

The host pressed forward, eager now. “And creatively? Any chance we’ll see a joint project again?”

Yoongi looked at Hoseok. Really looked. “Depends,” he said. “Are you still punishing me with solo shoots and softcore scandal?”

Hoseok raised an eyebrow, smiling small and sharp. “Are you still sabotaging my condo’s utilities like a rejected ex-husband with control issues?”

Gasps. Stifled laughter. The producer, off-camera, tensed.

Yoongi leaned back slightly, arms crossed. His lips curved faintly. “Depends,” he murmured. “Are you still wearing the cologne I bought you?”

Hoseok tilted his head. “Are you still jerking off to my ad campaigns?”

Silence. One long, stunned breath from the entire set.

The host choked.

A camera operator froze.

The boom mic dipped slightly, like it wanted to flee.

And in that silence, Hoseok leaned in.

He placed a soft kiss on Yoongi’s cheek, the kind that felt rehearsed but wasn’t. His hand brushed Yoongi’s wrist briefly, a quiet warning. Then he whispered something off-mic, too low for the audio to catch.

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. But his expression shifted, that slow, subtle darkening in his eyes like something dormant had stirred.

The rest of the interview was cut from airing.

-

It dropped at midnight.

A single photo. Cropped square. No caption. No filter. Posted briefly on a burner account with no followers.  It stayed up for exactly eight minutes. Then it vanished.

But not before it was screenshotted.

Not before the right gossip archivists who lived and breathed for scandal.

Yoongi. Hoseok. A dark room.

Yoongi sat back in a velvet armchair, shirt undone to mid-chest, neck flushed a faint pink like someone had been kissing too hard. He wasn’t facing the camera - he was turned sideways, lips pressed to the curve of Hoseok’s cheek, eyes closed. His hand rested on Hoseok’s thigh like it belonged there. Like he’d held it like that a hundred times before. Like he’d do it again.

Hoseok sat in his lap like he was used to it. Camera in one hand, wrist gone slack. His head tilted back slightly. His lips parted just enough to look caught - not mid-speech, not mid-laugh. Just taken.

There was no smile.

It was intimate. Private. Blurred at the edges like it had been taken from a breath between movements. And it looked like love. Or obsession. Or both.

The internet exploded.

“IS THIS REAL???”

“Who took this?? WHO TOOK THIS??”

“This has the energy of sin and wedding vows at the same time.”

“Yoongi looks like he dragged Hoseok out of a fight, sat him down, and kissed him instead of arguing.”

“No filter. No lighting. Just raw hunger and a $10,000 chair.”

The original post was deleted within minutes, but the image had already fractured. It was reposted, reblogged, quoted, saved, screen-recorded, downloaded, traced, cropped, edited, color-corrected, blown up to full screen, and circulated across multiple platforms in ten languages.

They trended for 11 hours straight.

-

“Who posted it?”

Yoongi’s voice was low. Sharp in its restraint.

Louise stood near the edge of his desk, his tablet gripped in one hand, coffee untouched on the tray beside him.

“We’re tracking,” he said. “VPN route. Burner email. It could be a leak. Or…”

“Or?”

He hesitated. “Or someone wanted it seen.”

Yoongi looked up now. His eyes were like ice under pressure.

“I want it buried.”

“It’s too late,” Louise said softly. “It’s syndicated. Tabloids watermarked it within the first hour. There’s already a thinkpiece on Jezebel. We can issue a privacy complaint, but–”

“Don’t bother.” Yoongi stood, adjusting his sweater. His shirt was pristine white. Pants neatly ironed. Appearance, impeccable. He looked composed. He wasn’t.

-

The advisors were already seated when Yoongi entered the boardroom.

Muted screens. Flickering stats. Open tablets displaying headlines in multiple languages. Every feed showed the photo.

A lawyer pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Yoongii,” she said, “your brand value has spiked nearly 4.7% overnight. The sentiment index hit 91% positive. Engagement is astronomical. Even board members are asking if this is an intentional pivot toward transparency and relatability–”

“It wasn’t,” Yoongi interrupted flatly.

“Of course not,” the woman murmured. “Still, we’ve had two global campaigns update their offer terms in your favor. They’re citing emotional resonance. Relatability metrics. International couple appeal.”

Yoongi’s jaw tensed. “So you’re saying I should thank him.”

The stilled.

“I’m saying,” said another advisor delicately, “that Hoseok has managed to reignite your public mystique and romantic marketability by doing exactly what you’ve explicitly told him not to for years.”

Yoongi tapped the edge of the table. Once. Twice. Then pushed back his chair.

“Did he tell any of you he was going to post it?”

Silence.

“Good,” he said, standing. “Because I’ll tell him myself.”

-

He found Hoseok in his apartment.

Not dressed, not waiting, just sprawled in a half-lit bedroom like a scandal painted in oil. The curtains were drawn, slanting faint blue across bare legs tangled in rumpled sheets. The same velvet chair from the photo sat by the window, still turned just slightly toward the bed, its silhouette an accusation. Yoongi could smell perfume and the distant echo of flashbulbs. Too much quiet for a place that had just been on fire.

Hoseok glanced over, lazy and unbothered.

“You’re early,” he said, voice rough from sleep. “Thought you’d storm in around noon.”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

He shut the door behind him, coat still on. His stare cut through the room, his silence louder than anything Hoseok could have said. He didn’t move with urgency, just precision, the slow kind that meant damage was already done.

Hoseok sat up, stretching his arms above his head like he didn’t feel the weight of half the world talking about him. The shirt he wore, Yoongi’s, slipped low on one shoulder. His thighs shifted against the sheets as he leaned back on his palms, eyes gleaming in the low light.

“Say it,” he said.

“Say what?” Yoongi asked quiet.

“That I’m reckless. That I crossed a line. That I ruined your empire with a single picture.”

Yoongi’s jaw tensed. His hands stayed at his sides, curled but not shaking.

“I told you not to make us public.”

“I didn’t,” Hoseok said, tone gentle but unapologetic. “It was a private account. No followers. I deleted it thirty seconds later.”

Yoongi took a single step forward. “You knew it would spread.”

“I didn’t post it to go viral,” Hoseok said. “I posted it because I looked happy. And so did you.”

The room felt electric now — not loud, but buzzing with everything unspoken. Yoongi’s gaze darkened, sweeping over him.

“You didn’t ask me.”

Hoseok’s smile was razor thin. “I’m not one of your interns, Yoongi. You don’t own my voice.”

“I own my privacy.”

“And I own my pain.”

That stopped him. Yoongi blinked.

Hoseok’s voice softened, barely a whisper now. “You think I post these things to hurt you? I post them to remind myself it happened. That we were real. That I wasn’t hallucinating every time you kissed me like I was yours and woke up to silence.”

Yoongi looked at him, eyes unreadable, but his breathing too shallow to hide.

“You looked happy,” Hoseok said again, quieter now. “I wanted to keep that version of you. Even for a second.”

Yoongi moved.

Fast. Without ceremony. He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Hoseok by the jaw,  not rough, but desperate. He pulled him forward and kissed him hard, like fury had nowhere else to go. It was the kind of kiss that bordered on punishment. Fingers tangled in hair. Teeth. Breathing harshly through their noses, trying not to drown in each other.

Hoseok gasped against his mouth but didn’t pull away.

When they broke, Yoongi stayed close, forehead pressed to Hoseok’s, their breaths uneven and sharp in the dark room.

“I don’t want to be known like this.”

“You already are,” Hoseok whispered. “They know now. They see it. That you’re not stone. That you burn.”

Yoongi’s eyes slipped shut.

“I wish you’d ruin me less gracefully,” he said. “So I could hate you properly.”

“You never really tried.”

That made Yoongi laugh, bitter and breathless. He slid a hand down Hoseok’s throat and rested it just over his collarbone, thumb pressing softly against the thump of his pulse. Hoseok’s breath hitched, whether from the touch or the weight of it, he didn’t say.

Outside the bedroom, the world kept spinning. Stocks climbing. Fans posting blurry photos of Yoongi’s car parked beneath this building. The news wondering if it meant they were back together. Hoseok didn’t care. He leaned forward and kissed Yoongi again, this time slower, less war, more surrender.

It wasn’t peace.

But it was enough.

-

It started with the grainy picture. Then the blurry video. Then a thousand clips of old interviews stitched together like fan confessionals – his laugh, Yoongi’s gaze, a thousand accidental touches that now read as proof.

The internet branded them a hundred different couple names, each more ridiculous than the last. Fan edits bled soft music over stolen glances. Vogue-style clips slowed them down in 4K. One reel got over six million likes before noon.

Even Yoongi’s team couldn’t stop it.

They tried. Legal fired off quiet takedown notices. Assistants called in favors at gossip outlets, asking for soft phrasing or delay. But nothing slowed it.

Because the truth was: neither team wanted it to stop.

Yoongi’s legal advisor forwarded Hoseok’s PR manager a confidential media report. Hoseok read it on the way to a fitting, seat reclined in the back of a blacked-out van.

Engagements up 300%. Product recognition up 480%. Board sentiment: very positive. Consensus: continue soft intimacy narrative.

Hoseok laughed out loud, head thrown back against the seat.

“‘Soft intimacy narrative,’” he repeated, half-choking on his own amusement. “Please, let me leak a sex tape.”

“No,” his manager replied without glancing up from her tablet. “But do wear something see-through to your next brunch. Black, sheer, and ‘accidentally’ unbuttoned.”

He smiled. “You’re twisted.”

“I’m effective.”

She was right. Within hours, the schedule shifted like clockwork. The Calvin Klein event got bumped a week. A DAZED editorial shoot was confirmed, rooftop location, three full pages, creative control handed over entirely. Three separate brands called asking if he could be “the face of chaos, but make it luxury.”

Hoseok’s name quietly landed on shortlists for three year-end awards, none of which he’d submitted for.

His stylist’s group chat was in flames.

And his DMs…

He scrolled with one hand, the other lazily stroking a thumb across his jaw.

“I need a burner account,” he muttered, lips twitching. “The amount of corporate sons and daughters offering me beach villas and private islands is almost insulting.”

Across from him, his manager sipped her espresso with clinical detachment.

“Keep them warm,” she said. “We might need them if the marriage finally implodes.”

Hoseok laughed, a real laugh, low in his throat, but the words hung heavy in the cabin. He didn’t respond. Just tipped his head back and let the thought settle next to the faint hum of the engine.

-

Yoongi, of course, said nothing.

No interviews. No posts. Not even a quote to circulate through “close sources.”

But exactly twenty-seven hours after the photo went viral, one of his companies quietly announced a strategic acquisition: a controlling share in a mid-tier entertainment media conglomerate known for film distribution and streaming.

The internet lost it. Stockholders, delighted. PR outlets called it a “visionary pivot.”

Some headlines used the phrase: "Celebrity-adjacent leverage strategy."

Hoseok read that one twice. Eyes narrowed. Smiling, but not soft.

“He’s playing the game,” he murmured, legs sprawled over his couch, silk robe falling open over a Calvin Klein set. A glass of cabernet balanced on the edge of the side table, half-full and dangerously close to spilling.

From the adjacent kitchen, his manager raised her glass.

“You’re playing it better.”

Their glasses clinked from opposite ends of the room, crystal and crystal, scandal and strategy.

In the background, a news anchor’s voice rattled off earnings updates. Yoongi’s face flashed on screen for half a second, boardroom shot, cold smile, ring still on.

The world saw what they wanted.

But Hoseok?

Hoseok knew the truth.

The ring never came off.

The assistants knew everything.

Yoongi’s secretary once leaned against a marble balcony outside a gala, lacquered nails tapping against her lighter. She shared a cigarette with Hoseok’s makeup artist, both of them hidden behind a curtain of artificial smoke and long-standing denial.

“He prints the photos of them,” she murmured. “Keeps them in his drawer.”

“I’ve replaced the ink cartridge twice this month.”

They both took another drag. Said nothing else.

Elsewhere, Hoseok’s stylist zipped him into an oversized trench and said nothing about the bruises she saw blooming along his hipbone like delicate rot. Just adjusted the collar and packed a thicker scarf.

Their lawyers exchanged texts the way surgeons might share X-rays of an untreatable condition.

Client still refusing to sign papers.

Mine shredded them again. Personally.

We’ll try again next quarter.

Good luck.

You too.

Everyone around them knew.

The assistants, the stylists, the chauffeurs, the interns tasked with dry cleaning Yoongi’s suits -all of them understood.

And none of them intervened.

Because the marriage, whatever it was, worked. Profitable. Clickable. Wildly photogenic in a way that distracted from the real messes of the world.

Tragic, yes. Transactional, absolutely. But real?

Only behind closed doors.

And in their world, peace was optional.

Profit wasn’t.

-

“I’m not stupid,” Hoseok said, eyes heavy with makeup and exhaustion, curled sideways on his manager’s velvet love seat.

He wore a pair of designer house slippers and an oversized hoodie with some startup's logo stitched across the back. A ridiculous PR gift he hadn’t taken off in three days.

His manager sat at the dining table nearby, drafting a pitch to Harper’s Bazaar , something elegant and shadowy. A two-page spread: “Inside the Mind of the Man Who Can’t Be Controlled.”

“I know this won’t last.”

“The marriage?” she asked, without looking up.

“The attention.”

She looked up, her eyes and voice softer.

“You’re good at this,” she said.

“I know,” he replied. “But he’s better.”

Silence folded between them like a velvet curtain.

She watched him for a moment. Really watched him.

“Do you still want the divorce?” she asked.

He stared at the ceiling.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I just want him to do something. Love me. Leave me. Ruin me. Anything that feels real.”

The studio lights were merciless, all sterile white and heat, as if truth could be forced out through sweat and overexposure.

Hoseok sat cross-legged in a high chair, fitted in gauzy Balenciaga and vintage pearls like a spoiled prince dragged to a formal affair. His hair was perfectly tousled, face dewy and glowing under the ring lights.

He was scheduled to talk about his latest charity work, his fashion campaign, his sudden viral relevance. The producer handed him talking points minutes before air. Charity campaigns. The new fragrance. Trending metrics. Keep it light. Keep it flirty.

The host leaned in, teeth too white to be real.

And then came the question.

“So, how’s married life treating you?”

It was a layup. An easy hit. A place to pivot into a charming, cheeky reply and move the show along.

Hoseok blinked once.

Then again.

A third time, slower.

And then he smiled, not his PR smile, not the one from training. This one was all teeth, curved slow and sharp like he knew exactly how deep to cut.

“Married life,” he repeated, taking his time with each syllable. “It’s… professionally lucrative.”

The host let out a tense chuckle, clearly thrown. “No, really. How is, um… how’s Yoongi-ssi doing these days?”

Hoseok tilted his head, blinked again, eyes blank. “Who?”

Dead air.

The producer behind the camera sat upright like someone pulled a string in his spine.

The host laughed again, awkward, desperate, confused.

“Your husband,” he clarified, voice thinner now.

“Oh,” Hoseok said, mock-earnest, blinking prettily. He leaned forward just a fraction, enough to make the mic pick up every breath. “I don’t say names for free anymore.”

He held the moment for one heartbeat longer. Two.

“And besides,” he added, lips curling just slightly, “he doesn’t like his private life discussed, right?”

They cut to commercial. The red light blinked out.

The clip was online within the hour.

By noon, someone had edited it on social media with dramatic music

By 3PM, Hoseok’s PR manager had already scheduled his next public appearance: a red carpet walk where he would wear the diamond ring Yoongi gifted him two anniversaries ago, just to keep the public on their toes.  The same ring Hoseok swore he threw into the Seine one summer. Now it would gleam under flashbulbs like nothing ever happened.

By 4PM, Yoongi’s assistant had sent a message requesting a “conversation” about media conduct.

Hoseok read it in the back of a car, sipping lavender matcha like he had all the time in the world.

He left it on read.

The video dropped at midnight.

At first, it looked fake. Grainy, almost security footage style, dark, badly lit, and taken from a shaky distance of an underground parking garage. Concrete. Fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The soft rattle of wind echoed through the structure.

But then the lighting shifted just enough.

And the frame focused.

You could see them.

Yoongi and Hoseok – unmistakably them, tangled up like a secret too loud to stay hidden. Hoseok was flush against the concrete wall, legs parted, posture lazy with indulgence. His coat had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the sheer collar of his designer shirt. The pearls at his throat caught the light. His head was tilted back in a breathless laugh, glossy mouth parted, cheeks warm with either wine or wanting.

Yoongi’s hands were planted firm on his hips, not possessive, but steady, like he’d done this before and would do it again. His collar was tugged loose, his jawline sharp in the shadow, expression unreadable as his mouth met Hoseok’s in rough, heated intervals. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was teeth and breath and urgency, the kind of kiss people faked in music videos but never got quite right.

A familiar private car waited just a few feet away, door open, driver turned discreetly away.

In the frame, Hoseok grinned into Yoongi’s mouth and said something, no audio, just breath and the shape of lips. But viewers didn’t need sound to read it.

The words were unmistakable.

‘Just fuck me here.’

Yoongi let out a sound, half-laugh, half-caught breath, and pressed his forehead to Hoseok’s like he was trying to collect himself. His fingers flexed at Hoseok’s waist. He shook his head once, slow, the smallest smile tugging at his lips.

His hand drifted to the small of Hoseok’s back, trying to guide him toward the car like a man pretending he wasn’t seconds away from losing composure. Hoseok resisted, arms looping around Yoongi’s neck, dragging him back into another kiss that made the pit of his stomach curl.

Eventually, reluctantly, they slipped into the backseat together.

The door shut.

The video ended.

The internet exploded.

Within twenty-four hours, the video reached 20 million views across platforms.

All sorts of tags trended worldwide, and the general public screamed.

“Why do they kiss like it’s the last time every time?!”
“Yoongi saying no while still grabbing him like that??? OBSESSED.”
“Hoseok taking risks like it’s a full-time job.”
“Give that parking garage a Blue Plaque.”

Luxury brands repurposed the moment overnight.

Dior posted the screengrab with copy that read:

Private passion. Public luxury. Dior Homme.

Yoongi, on the other hand, was not amused.

The moment he saw the clip, he shut his laptop so hard it cracked the edge.

He didn’t speak for ten full minutes.

His assistant waited in silence, then asked, “Should I call Hoseok’s team?”

“No,” Yoongi said. His voice was low, flat, and final. “Call him .”

The phone rang. No answer.

Texted. Left on read. 

Another ping came through, from their shared bank account notification.

Hoseok had just made another three-hundred-thousand-dollar purchase in a new brand partnership.

Captioned ' Late nights deserve diamonds.'

The image? A blurry screengrab from the parking garage. Hoseok, pinned, grinning. A sparkle from Yoongi’s luxury watch as his hand gripped Hoseok’s hip. The ad team hadn’t even color-corrected it. The rawness was the selling point. You couldn’t script it better.

Hoseok picked up hours later.

“Enjoying your trending moment?” Yoongi didn’t waste time, dead calm.

“You’re welcome,” Hoseok replied. “You’re more profitable when you look obsessed with me.”

“This isn’t a game.” Yoongi’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, Min Yoongi,” Hoseok sighed, slow and fake-pitying. “You married me. That was the first move on the board.”

Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose. “You don’t get to make my job harder every time you get bored.”

“I’m not bored,” Hoseok said softly. “I’m drunk on how much the world loves us.”

“You’re drunk on me.”

A pause. Then a laugh, light, gorgeous, devastating.“I was,” Hoseok said. “That night. You tasted expensive.”

-

The hotel suite was quiet when Hoseok walked in.

Too quiet.

He smelled the expensive wood polish before he saw Yoongi, standing by the floor-length window, back to the room, hands in his pockets like he’d been cooling off for hours.

Hoseok didn’t bother taking off his coat. Just kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the nearest velvet armchair with a sigh.

“If this is about the video–” Hoseok started.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”Yoongi’s voice didn’t rise. It never did. But the weight behind it was enough to make Hoseok pause.

Still, he didn’t flinch, just shrugged. “We were drunk.”

Yoongi turned then. Slowly. His expression unreadable but his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. “There were three separate cameras on us. Three. And you didn’t think to maybe keep your tongue in your mouth for five minutes?”

Hoseok stretched his legs out. “You seemed fine with my tongue in your mouth at the time.”

Yoongi didn’t move. Didn’t blink. “You said fuck me here , Hoseok.”

A beat.

“So?” Hoseok smiled slowly. “You didn’t.”

Yoongi crossed the room in three slow steps. Stopped in front of him. Not touching. Not yet. “You treat this like a theater. Like performance art. But I’m the one who still gets pulled into meetings about 'image rehabilitation' while you’re out here selling lip gloss with our sex tape footage.”

Hoseok tilted his head, eyes glinting. “And yet you’re always touching me. Even now. Even after all that.” His voice dropped, taunting. “What’s wrong, Yoongi? Can’t stop grabbing what you hate?”

Yoongi’s eyes darkened. “Don’t tempt me.”

Hoseok stood. Close now. Chest to chest. His lips ghosted against Yoongi’s ear. “Then let go,” he whispered.

Silence.

Yoongi’s hand found his wrist. Tight.

“I never do.”

The party downstairs was a mess of flashing lights and egos. Yoongi couldn’t even remember what the brand was. Something high-end. Something beige. Something Hoseok was supposed to be the face of.

Only problem? Hoseok had vanished.

It took Yoongi ten minutes to find the emergency stairwell unlocked.

Fifteen more to scale narrow industrial steps, cursing every locked maintenance door along the way. His blazer clung to his back with sweat by the time he hit the rooftop door and shoved it open.

Cool air hit him like a slap.

And there he was.

Hoseok leaned against the low stone ledge, backlit by the skyline. His hair was a mess, tousled by the wind. He hadn’t even fixed the lapels of his suit, the tailored $25,000 Brioni in a rare bone-colored silk.

“You know you’re not allowed to disappear during a campaign launch.”

Hoseok didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. His voice floated over his shoulder, dry as champagne left out too long. “I didn’t disappear. I relocated.”

Yoongi exhaled hard through his nose, walking forward slowly, shoes crunching on rooftop gravel. “You’re wearing a twenty-five thousand dollar suit.”

Hoseok tilted his head, eyes tracing the city skyline like it mattered more than anything Yoongi had to say. “It’s not my taste,” he said simply. “PR picked it.”

Yoongi stopped a few feet away, arms crossed tight. The wind tugged at his collar. “You ditched your manager. Left the photographers scrambling. They’re downstairs trying to explain why the face of the brand decided to vanish mid-press call.”

“Good,” Hoseok muttered, still not looking at him. “Let them sweat.”

A beat.

There was a long pause. Then, “Why are you like this?”

Hoseok turned, slow and lazy. His eyes were glassy, not drunk but something else, like he didn’t care about anything anymore. “Because I thought maybe if I acted bad enough, you'd finally leave.”

Yoongi’s hands curled into fists at his sides, nails pressing half-moons into his palms.
Every muscle in him pulled tight like he was holding back something reckless.

“You’re a selfish brat,” he said.

“You love that.”

“I hate it.”

Hoseok took a step closer, lips parting. “Then leave.”

Silence.

Yoongi didn’t move.

“Exactly.”

They stared at each other, unmoving, suspended in something that wasn’t quite hate and wasn’t quite love but had all the violence of both.

The city lights buzzed faintly below. The wind kept pulling. But neither of them looked away.

Like always.

It was sent at 2:17 AM.

The notification pulsed softly on the locked screen of his phone - an innocuous vibration against the nightstand.

Hoseok blinked awake in the dark.

The villa was still. A private rental tucked deep into the cliffs of southern France, all white stone and glass walls and hush. Outside, the ocean dragged itself across sand with lazy insistence. Inside, it was just him, a linen sheet tangled at his waist and the distant clink of ice melting in a glass he hadn’t touched in hours.

He didn’t listen to the message. Not at first.

He let it sit. Let the phone dim again and disappear into the soft blue dark.

No team. No manager. No press cycle. No damage control.

Just the weight of his name on Yoongi’s lips.

When he finally played it, the room stayed still, but something else inside him shifted.

Yoongi’s voice came through low and wrecked, each word barely dragged out of him like it cost something real.

Then he played it.

Yoongi’s voice was tired. Ragged. Barely above a whisper.

'You’re going to ruin both of us.'

A pause. Static buzzed behind his breath.

'You know that, right? You know what you're doing. You always know.'

Another pause. The sound of him pacing. The faint thud of his hand hitting a wall.

'I don’t even think I hate you anymore. I think I’m past that. I think I want you so much it’s making me sick.'

The words hung there, thick and intimate.

'Every time I try to fix this, you break it worse. And I let you. Because you smile at me like you know I’ll crawl back anyway. And the thing is…'

'...I will.'

There was a rustle. Another breath.

'I should have walked away the first time you called a scandal ‘opportunity.’ But I didn’t. I let you turn everything into gold. I let you weaponize me.'

Silence stretched for several seconds. It buzzed low and bitter.

'And the worst part is – I’d still touch you tomorrow.'

The message ended.

The phone screen faded to black again.

Hoseok let it rest face-down on the nightstand, then stared up at the ceiling for a long time.

Hoseok didn’t delete it.

Didn’t respond either.

But the next night, when the waves weren’t enough to lull him under, he played it again.

And again, the night after.

And again, on the fourth night, when the wind knocked something over on the balcony and he couldn’t fall back asleep.

By the end of the week, he knew the pauses.

Knew when Yoongi’s voice caught.

Knew exactly how long he waited between ' I want you and It’s making me sick.'

The document slid across the table with a quiet finality.

Hoseok stared at it like it might hiss. Like something alive had just been dropped in front of him, waiting to bite.

“No.”

His PR manager, Minah, didn’t blink. “Yes.”

They were in a private suite above a studio lot, fake greenery pressed against blackout windows. No press. No stylists. Just the business side of chaos.

Yoongi sat across from him, unreadable. His arms were crossed over his chest, legs spread, black t-shirt soft with wear, the only sign of stress a tight pull in his shoulders and the faintest twitch in his jaw when Hoseok spoke.

Minah tapped the folder. “We’ll position it as a mutual cooling-off period. The leaks, the kissing video, the rooftop incident – it’s too much, too fast. The sponsors are getting nervous. This gives us narrative control.”

Hoseok scoffed. “Narrative control? What is this, a war documentary ?”

“It’s not about truth. It’s about timing,” she replied coolly, flipping open the folder to reveal the prepared drafts. “You’ll each post a version of the statement. Same fonts. Same color palette. Clean, tasteful, regretful.”

Yoongi still hadn’t said a word.

Not until Hoseok turned to him, pout prominent and brows furrowed. “You’re really gonna play pretend? Again?”

Yoongi’s voice was quiet. Measured. “It’s not pretending if we are a mess.”

“But we’re a mess together.” Hoseok’s voice cracked just slightly. “So what? Now we’re doing soft launch divorce aesthetics for ad revenue?”

Minah cut in. “It’s not a divorce, it’s a brand pivot.” She gestured toward the mock-up on her tablet. “The media’s already romanticized your dysfunction. The public eats it up. But we have to pace it. Let them miss you. Slow burn. You reunite later and boom, double the engagement.”

Hoseok looked back at Yoongi, eyes full of disbelief. “You agree with this?”

Yoongi hesitated. “I agree that I’m tired of fighting behind closed doors and getting punished in public.”

“Then why not actually leave me?” he shot back, voice rising now, unfiltered and raw. “Why this PR theater? Why pretend it’s logistics when it’s just heartbreak in a press kit?”

Yoongi stared at him. “Because I still love you.” It was quiet. Flat. Honest.

And that shut Hoseok up instantly.

Later that night, the posts went live. Identical statements on sterile white backgrounds. Serif font. Clean borders. The exact shade of tasteful beige heartbreak the internet had grown to expect from celebrity couples too famous to speak plainly. “Time apart.” “Still care deeply.” “Respect and space.”

The internet went into mourning.

Fan edits slowed their music down to piano ballads.

Comment sections overflowed with crying emojis, conspiracy theories, and late-night social media threads analyzing the body language from a recent airport video.

Stocks for Yoongi’s production label inexplicably rose by 11%.

Hoseok’s clothing line sold out its summer collection within hours, again.

No one could explain it, not the analysts, not the investors.

“How is this breakup profitable?” one headline read.

“Why does the public want them to hurt together?” asked another.

No one had the answer.

Hoseok threw his phone into a pool and bought a new one three days later.

And it already had Yoongi’s contact pinned at the top.

The photo spread like wildfire.

Hoseok – tipsy off red wine and ego, was caught laughing too hard at an outdoor restaurant with a well-known indie actor. The man’s hand rested on Hoseok’s knee. Hoseok leaned in too close. Lips brushing an ear. A candid that screamed intimacy, whether or not it had meant anything.

It was fake, mostly. Harmless. But the optics were exquisite.

And Hoseok didn’t deny it.

No captions. No clarifications. Just another scandal layered onto a cake that had long since collapsed.

The internet split:

“He’s moving on.”
“He’s weaponizing the separation.”
“Is Yoongi seeing someone too?”
“Is this all scripted?”

Then, without warning, without preamble, Yoongi made his move.

A week later, he appeared at a charity gala.

Alone.

Dressed in head-to-toe black. Not his usual subtle tailoring, but something razor-sharp and severe. His shirt was slightly sheer. His rings silver. His hair slicked back and relaxed to reveal the sharp slope of his neck and the cold glint in his eyes.

On the carpet, he didn’t pose for couple questions. He didn’t smile. He didn’t acknowledge anything. He just let the cameras devour him.

But the real blow came later.

Mid-event, a journalist released a private quote Yoongi had given off-record , a subtle, loaded comment about how “some people don’t know how to stay loyal, even during a performance break.”

The wording was careful.

But it hit like a bullet.

Everyone read between the lines.

Everyone knew.

The media lit up. Reaction videos, fancams, body language analysis. Edits with slowed audio and red captions. News outlets called it “a masterclass in quiet revenge.” His stocks – both literal and social – soared overnight.

It made no sense.

Their separation was messy. The headlines were vicious. The public should have been exhausted.

Instead, Yoongi’s music surged back onto the charts. Luxury brands rushed to renew. Hoseok’s clothing line sold out again, pre-orders backlogged for three weeks. A limited capsule hoodie with the word Loyalty? embroidered along the sleeve began reselling for triple its price.

Backstage, their teams were scrambling. Charts. Graphs. Clickthroughs. Analytics buzzing like flies. Every scandal was turning to gold, and no one knew why.

“They’re eating this up,” Minah muttered, exhausted, staring at a dashboard of rising metrics. “Why do they care so much? They’re both already at the top.”

Someone else chimed in, not looking away from the screen. “Because it’s not a love story anymore. It’s a power struggle.”

Backstage - a week later

Yoongi sat on a leather couch, sipping coffee like nothing had happened. White graphic shirt, loose sweatpant shorts. He looked calm.

Then the door slammed open.

Hoseok stormed in, sunglasses still on, jaw clenched, fury curled beneath his posture. “You petty bitch.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. Just set his cup down with a soft clink. “You wanted narrative control.”

“You slut-shamed me in the middle of a UNICEF fundraiser .”

“I said nothing untrue.”

Hoseok laughed, humorless. “You love hiding behind that cold little voice of yours. Acting like you’re above it all.”

Yoongi stood, slow and deliberate. He stepped into Hoseok’s space, close enough to smell his cologne, sharp citrus, and leather. “You’re mad because I said it first. That you broke the truce. That you made it public.”

“It was a photo!”

“It was a performance. And you knew the cameras were there.”

They were toe to toe now.

Hoseok’s voice went quiet. “You think you’re punishing me? You think making me look disloyal helps either of us?”

Yoongi’s expression didn’t change. But his hand lifted, just slightly, and brushed against Hoseok’s coat lapel like muscle memory.

“I think you like it when I get cruel.”

A charged silence.

Then Hoseok grabbed him by the front of his coat and shoved him back into the wall. “I like it when you act like you actually want me,” he said.

“I always want you,” Yoongi said, barely audible. “That’s the problem.”

Behind the walls, someone knocked on the door for the next scheduled press event.

Neither of them moved.

It started with the audio clip.

Four minutes and twenty-three seconds of raw, unedited, late-night hell. A secret recording – captured through the walls of a luxury hotel suite, leaked without warning. Uploaded by an anonymous account, deleted minutes later, but already viral by the time it disappeared.

The clip was grainy, muffled in parts, but undeniably them.

Yoongi’s voice was sharper than anyone had ever heard. Not cold this time, but raised . Furious. Tired.

'I'm not your handler, Hoseok. I’m not your fucking leash.'

'Then stop acting like you own me!” Hoseok snapped back. “You don’t get to choose when I act like your little secret and when I’m your favorite PR prop!'

'You think this is easy for me? You think I like seeing your name trend with someone else’s every week?!'

' Maybe I want to be wanted! By someone who doesn’t only touch me behind tinted windows!'

A crash. Something, a glass, probably, shattering against tile.

And then silence.

Not a door slam. Not footsteps.

Just silence.

The clip ended there.

But the world didn’t.

It hit the internet like a bomb.

Within an hour, it had been reuploaded to every platform, subtitled in twelve languages, slowed down for clarity, and broken apart by online lawyers, PR experts, and audio engineers. Fans debated inflection, intent, who threw what, and who should’ve walked out first. Social platforms burned down. Threads titled “the leash metaphor explained (with charts)” hit trending.

And then the real madness started.

Yoongi’s stock rose.

Literally.

His management’s share price jumped five percent the next morning – an inexplicable surge that analysts couldn’t rationalize. His merch line sold out. His unreleased studio vinyls were being flipped for triple on auction sites. Fans streamed his last album like it was a lifeline. Corporate sponsors quietly renewed contracts.

The message was loud and clear: public breakdown or not, Yoongi moved product .

Even stranger – Hoseok’s brand saw bigger gains.

His fashion label released a “midnight version” drop that sold out in four minutes. A wine-red hoodie, near identical to the one fans think he wore during the fight, reappeared on resale for $900. A pair of sunglasses from a month-old campaign trended under #LeashMe . His Spotify followers spiked. His old choreography clips were repackaged as “emotional context.”
Even his absence had market value

Backroom analysts were stunned.

“How is this good for them?”

“Why are fans so obsessed with this?”

“They’re massive celebrities. Why is everyone acting like this is their friends’ breakup?”

No one had answers, only clicks.

Yoongi didn’t comment.

Hoseok disappeared.

Seven days. No sightings.

He skipped a sponsored event. Ignored Minah’s panicked calls. Vanished from socials. His last story? A shaky rooftop shot, city lights behind glass, a blurred skyline and a single love ballad in the background. No caption. Just one lyric that made its way into every fan thread:

“I was yours even when I hated you.”

It was chaos.

Fan cams.

Tracking apps. Flight path rumors. A scheduled podcast suddenly went “indefinitely postponed.”

Articles screamed, “Has Jung Hoseok Finally Quit Fame?”
And beneath every headline, the question people wouldn’t stop asking: Was this even real?

Then came the music.

Yoongi performed at a closed studio showcase two nights after the leak.
No livestream. No press. Just a private list of attendees – industry, family, long-time collaborators. Phones weren’t allowed. But someone always leaks.

By midnight, a vertical video had surfaced. Dark lighting, muffled cheers. The final track wasn’t on the setlist, an unnamed, unlabeled ballad, performed alone on piano.

Just him.

No beat. No synth. No lighting effects.

Only Yoongi’s voice. Rough-edged and aching.

“You disappeared for a week / But I stopped breathing on day two.”

That line trended in forty countries.

Fans cried. Artists tweeted support. Producers reposted the audio with crying emojis.
One trending post read: “He didn’t make a diss track. He made a post-breakup requiem for a person still alive.”

And Yoongi?

He bowed once. Didn’t speak.

Walked straight out of the venue and got into a waiting car.

Hoseok was found.

Not by the press. Not by staff.

By Yoongi.

A blurry photo surfaced of the two of them at a rest stop just outside Busan. Hoseok in an oversized hoodie, one fan quickly identified as Yoongi’s, his face downcast, eyes hidden behind thick black sunglasses. Yoongi’s hand around his wrist. Not yanking. Not dragging. Just gently guiding him back toward the car.

No captions. No official statement. Just a single moment, still and strangely soft, amid the chaos.

And one leak, one line, and the world watching a relationship so public yet impossibly private unravel in real time.

Still, no one knows who recorded the fight.

No one knows where Hoseok went.

And no one knows what Yoongi whispered to him as he opened the passenger door.

And that night, a new demo appeared on Yoongi’s private SoundCloud.

Only one file. Untitled.

Fans tore it apart immediately, filtering the background, isolating the final few seconds.
And there, under the fading piano chords, quiet, breathless, barely audible:
A voice. Laughing softly.

'You found me.'

'

Yoongi sat in the dim glow of his private office, the city skyline bleeding red and gold behind him. His phone lay face down on the mahogany desk, but he didn’t need to look to know what was on it. The legal team had just sent him a fresh media scan. He got annoyed as he read through the summary. Dozens of outlets, both legitimate and gossip-tier, were openly linking Hoseok’s name with other men. “Secret lovers.” “Quiet flings.” “The real reason behind the divorce.” It was turning into a tawdry soap opera.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t blink. His fingers moved.

He opened the secure app and typed with ruthless precision:

Effective immediately: All outlets associating Jung Hoseok’s name with any male figure outside of verified brand campaigns are blacklisted from our events, interviews, and future endorsements. Pull ads where applicable. No exceptions.

His assistant nodded silently from across the room.

This wasn’t just business. Every PR manager and brand liaison involved in his empire received the same directive Yoongi would allow no whispers, no half-truths, no damage to the image he was painstakingly building.

By the time his thumb hovered over the next call, his inbox had already begun buzzing with updates from his business affairs team.

“The stock has jumped 11% overnight.”
“Fan interest is at a two-year high.”
“We’re seeing record engagement on your brand’s anniversary fragrance campaign.”
“Hoseok’s streetwear site just crashed from the traffic. That limited run hoodie? Gone in three minutes.”

Yoongi stared at the screen, a muscle twitching near his temple. This wasn’t backlash, this was wildfire. Somehow, every scrap of drama, every “leak,” every faint whisper of their implosion had inflated their brands, sent profit margins surging like blood pressure.

The “leaked DMs” weren’t new anymore. They had circled the internet all night, flirty, vague, low-effort bait dressed up as scandal. Supposed screenshots of Hoseok messaging an ex.

Nothing too explicit, but just enough heat to ignite a media frenzy. Winks. Suggestive emojis. “Had fun last time.” Fans dissect the font alignment and timestamp formatting like forensic analysts.

Yoongi had studied them like autopsy photos. The syntax was wrong. The language was too bubbly, too innocent. Hoseok flirted with precision, cruelty, charm, never this sticky sweetness. But the world didn’t care. The fire had been lit.

By 7 a.m., he was on the phone with a private investigator.

By 9 a.m., Hoseok’s next three public appearances had been quietly canceled under the guise of “health preservation.” A soft, polite PR line written by Yoongi’s own team.

It wasn’t about reputation anymore. It was about control.

Hoseok found out during a fitting.

His stylist was tugging an embroidered jacket onto his frame when his manager leaned in to whisper, “Your schedule’s changed. The performance, the gala – all postponed. Yoongi’s orders.”

There was a beat of stillness.

And then Hoseok – hair half-pinned, lips glossed, one boot unlaced, only blinked lazily and tilted his head. “So I’m under house arrest now?” No anger, just amusement. He didn’t protest, didn’t text Yoongi.

He waited.

He doesn’t protest.

He doesn’t text Yoongi.

He waits.

That night, in the penthouse high above the city, Hoseok set the scene. He lit an obscene candle from a brand Yoongi hated, something saccharine and cloying. He poured himself two fingers of rare scotch just because he liked the colour. And then, barefoot, robe loose, he sprawled across the sofa lounge in the main room and waited.

Yoongi didn’t knock.

Security didn’t stop him. The elevator ride was silent. The hall outside the penthouse stretched empty and long, and Yoongi stepped through the door like a storm on two legs. Cap low, mask pulled tight.

He found Hoseok exactly where he expected.

Lit like a painting, legs crossed, robe slipping off one shoulder. Phone in hand. Expression unreadable.

“I know why you’re here,” Hoseok said without glancing up. His voice was amused. “The PR office still breathing?”

Yoongi’s voice was steel. “You posted those texts.”

“Did I?” Hoseok blinked up at him. Eyes heavy-lidded, mouth just barely glossy. “They’re fake. Obviously fake. But I figured the public needed reminding – that I’m still very, very desirable. You’ve been playing CEO for too long.”

Yoongi stepped forward, shadows dragging with him. “You’re playing with fire.”

For a moment, nothing moved.

And then Yoongi grabbed him.

He yanked the robe open, hands rough on delicate skin, and pulled Hoseok into his chest. Their mouths collided, hot, furious, punishing. Hoseok gasped, biting down on Yoongi’s lower lip.

“You gonna fuck the attitude out of me again?” Hoseok rasped. “Or just bark orders like one of your board members?”

Yoongi didn’t speak. He scooped him up, hands locked beneath Hoseok’s thighs, and walked him to the floor-to-ceiling glass wall.

The city below pulsed with life. Hoseok’s back hit the cool windowpane with a gasp.

“Hands on the glass,” Yoongi ordered, voice thick with heat.

And Hoseok listened.

They didn’t strip fully. They didn’t need to. Hoseok’s robe slipped off in pieces. Yoongi’s belt clanged once to the floor. Skin collided, sweat glistened under the city lights, and when Yoongi finally pushed inside him, Hoseok cried out, one hand slapping the window, the other clutching at air.

It was messy. Fast. Possessive. Hoseok clawed at the glass like it could anchor him. Yoongi held him steady with bruising hands and curses whispered into flushed skin. Yoongi presses kisses to his shoulder, his neck, his temple, and curses against his ear.

“You don’t get to make me look stupid,” Yoongi moaned, hips punishing. “You’re mine.”

“You love looking stupid,” Hoseok hissed, smiling through the haze. “You fucking love me–”

Yoongi swallowed the rest of the sentence with his mouth.

They came down in pieces.

Hoseok collapsed first, legs trembling, breath shallow. Yoongi followed, forehead pressed to the glass, arms still curled protectively around him. The air smelled like sweat, sex, and spiced candle smoke.

And then Hoseok, messy hair and a trembling hand, reaches for his phone.

He snaps the photo quick, black and white, blurry, crooked, a sliver of Yoongi’s bare back arched above him, his own face half visible underneath. The outline of their bodies impossible to misread.

He posted it.

🖤

Just that. One caption. No tags. No names.

Yoongi notices five minutes later, still half-dressed, chest rising and falling with the tail end of lust. He sees the screen light up with thousands of reposts, analysts dissecting shadows and outlines, PR teams already firing warning emails. It’s trending in under ten.

“Hoseok.” His voice is deadly low. “Delete it.”

Hoseok, still flushed and content, smiles at him from the couch. “They already saw it.”

“Delete. It.”

He does, twenty-three minutes later.

But by then, the image was burned into every fan feed, meme board, and media outlet alive. PR teams were panicking. Stock market analysts were charting yet another spike in Yoongi’s shares. Hoseok’s clothing brand site put up a second restock banner before the servers crashed again.

-

The blurry photo ignites everything.

It trends in seven languages within the hour. A screenshot of Hoseok’s now-deleted post — black and white, messy, unmistakably intimate — is reposted so many times it becomes a meme, a tattoo, a prayer.

#SopeDivorceParty
#TheyreFuckingAgain
#NotMyCEO
#FREEHOSEOK
#YoongiYouAreSoLoved

There are factions now. Entire fan bases split down ideological lines. Some mourn the "divorce that never happened.” Others obsess over every public move, convinced the couple is working through it, communicating through chaos. Some want Hoseok to burn it all down, others beg Yoongi to chain him to the bed again. A few just want peace, but they're shouted down on every forum.

Their popularity surges. Brand deals double. Streams hit a record high.

Everyone wants a piece of this love story.

And then, the matching sets drop.

The jewelry brand wasn’t supposed to ship them a shared PR package. But the message printed on the inside of the velvet box reads:

“To the couple that sells like sin.”

“May this bind you tighter than lawyers ever could.”

Two black velvet boxes.

Identical diamond-cut chains.

Matching engraved cuffs.

A card, handwritten, no signature - just a silver snake embossed into the corner.

Hoseok wears his first.

It happens at the Milan airport at 6 a.m., sunglasses low, oversized baby pink sweater half swallowed by a giant green fluffy hat. His jean shorts are barely there, frayed high up the thigh, long honey legs on full display. His lips are glossy. He’s not smiling.

But there it is - around his wrist.

The cuff.

Slightly too loose. Silver against bronze skin.

Captured in high-res by twenty-seven different fansites.

The photos go viral before he even clears security.

Comment sections explode:

“WAIT IS THAT THE SNAKE CUFF??”
“he wore it. he wore it. ”
“legally they can’t divorce if they’re still wearing matching jewelry. i read that in the bible.”
“he’s saying ‘i’m still his’ with his legs out .”
“yoongi’s gonna combust.”

And then-

72 hours later.

Another sighting.
Same chaos.

Yoongi lands at a private terminal in Milan. The photos are grainier - he’s covered from head to toe in black, big coat, black loose sweatpants that hang low on his hips, hoodie pulled up, and a massive black hat that shadows most of his face. But fans notice two things instantly:

1. The chain around his neck. Matching.
   
   
2. The cuff on his wrist. Silver. Identical to Hoseok’s.
   
   

No press statement.

No brand tag.

No smile.

Just Yoongi walking past a dozen shouting reporters, head down, cuff visible as he adjusts his bag strap. Silent. Focused. Brutal in black.

Speculation spreads like blood in water.

“Why are they both in Milan??”
“They’re shooting a secret brand campaign.”
“No, they’re reconciling. Yoongi’s there to drag Hoseok back into his hotel room and destroy him.”
“It’s a sex tape drop. The timing is too cinematic.”
“This is performance art. They're in on it. We’re in the middle of a live art piece called Codependence & Couture .”
“Not them inventing a new PR genre: toxic luxury intimacy. ”

Zoomed-in edits flood the internet. Fan cams play slowed-down audio of Hoseok biting his lip on the escalator.

Someone starts selling knockoff cuffs online: “Bind me like they bind each other.”

And still, no word.

No statement.

No confirmation.

Just a string of sightings.

Matching outfits in different time zones.

Shared hotel rumors.

Fans spotting Hoseok at a bar in Milan with a “short man in a hoodie” pulling him into a taxi by the wrist.

Yoongi photographed outside a recording studio the next night with his lips looking suspiciously bitten.

It starts with a veil.

A blurry, untagged Instagram Story from a boutique in Paris. No geotag, no hashtags - just a flutter of ivory in the corner of a mirror, caught mid-spin like a secret. But the internet is trained now. Fans zoom in, enhance, and trace the silhouette until there's no denying it.

It's Hoseok.

Sharp jaw. Slender frame. Laughing with his head thrown back, mouth parted in some off-camera joke. A stylist crouches in front of him, pinching the hem of a cream trouser leg. And standing just beside the mirror’s edge, barely visible, half in frame, is Yoongi.

In all black.

Arms folded. One brow raised. Unimpressed or just exhausted – it’s hard to tell. But his presence in that boutique says more than a caption ever could.

The Story vanishes in under eight minutes.

But the fallout lasts days.

Because this one’s different. Not a pap shot. Not a speculative tabloid whisper. It’s intimate. It’s a wedding fitting.

The internet spirals. Theories pile up like dominoes: “They’re remarrying.” “They never split.” “This is all a slow-burn PR arc.”

Suddenly, everything reframes. The matching outfits. The Milan sitings. The cuffs. The accidental dispatch photos of them exiting a flower shop at 2 a.m. with Yoongi holding a bouquet and Hoseok holding Yoongi’s arm like he’d never let go again.

They weren’t falling apart.

They were planning something.

Behind the scenes, it’s less dramatic, or maybe more, depending on who’s watching.

Hoseok lounges like a prince on a blush velvet settee, draped in muslin. One leg thrown over the other, shoes off, glossed lips sipping iced espresso from a crystal glass. A mini white veil is pinned playfully to the crown of his head, tilted like a crown.

Yoongi stands nearby, arms crossed, blinking in slow disapproval.

“I want a string quartet,” Hoseok declares, flicking through Pinterest boards like he’s swiping left on history. “No saxophones. I don’t want to hear jazz at my wedding again.”

Yoongi sighs. “It wasn’t jazz. It was a tasteful–”

“I’m not fighting about the first wedding. That was your mother’s fault.”

Yoongi lowers himself into the seat beside him like gravity wins. He doesn’t even argue, just exhales, long-suffering, eyes on Hoseok’s knee where the fabric of his trousers bunches.

“We never signed the divorce,” Hoseok adds softly, like it’s not a weapon but a fact. “I’m your husband.”

“You served me twenty-three copies.”

“Because you deserved everyone.”

Yoongi snorts. “So dramatic.”

Hoseok lowers his phone. Turns to face him, leg still crossed, head tilted.

“I just want to do it right this time.”

Yoongi looks at him. Really looks. At the gloss on his mouth. At the soft veil slipping sideways. At the ringless hand resting beside him, too still to be casual.

All this time. All the scandals. All the carefully orchestrated silence. And Hoseok is still here. Still burning bright. Still his.

“You mean you want to be in charge this time.” 

“Exactly,” Hoseok replies, sweet and cutting. “I want the wedding I actually wanted. Something very private and expensive, and scandalous. I want to look hot and radiant and maybe cry a little, just for effect. I want you in black again, because it’s literally your colour, and I want everyone to know I chose you.”

Yoongi’s voice comes out quiet. Like an apology that learned how to live inside a vow. “I’d marry you again tomorrow.”

“Good,” Hoseok says, soft smile, brushing their noses together like it’s muscle memory. “Because I already booked the villa.”

They kiss. Soft, slow, familiar.

And then Hoseok pulls back with a grin.

The reveal lands like a meteor.

No teaser. No warning. Just a Vogue cover that drops midweek and stops time.

VOGUE: “Love, Rewritten”

Yoongi and Hoseok.

Side by side. Married again, or maybe still.

Hoseok in a white suit covered in decorative lace, and in white lace gloves, a pearl veil attached to his collar and the top of his head. No ties. Matching rings.

Yoongi in a freshly pressed black on black suit tailored only for him, and his hand on Hoseok’s waist like he never let go.

The caption: “We never needed a comeback. We were always here.”

The photoshoot breaks the internet.

Comments detonate:

“THIS IS THEIR VOW RENEWAL SHOOT??? I’M CRYING IN PUBLIC??”
“The veil. The matching outfits. The Milan trip. It was all real.”
“They got divorced without signing the papers and married again without telling anyone. This is soulmates.”
“Hoseok PLANNED it this time. Look at the aesthetic. He ATE.”
“Yoongi looks like he sold his soul for a second chance.”
“They’re literally addicted to marrying each other.”

And quietly, in some corner of social media, a thread begins to climb:

“SOPE: A Timeline of Toxic Love, Redemption, and PR Genius.”

Meanwhile, Yoongi posts a single photo to his feed.

A narrow hallway.

Soft lamplight.

Hoseok just ahead of him – back turned, suit jacket draped over one shoulder, veil still clipped to the back of his head like he forgot it was there.

He's walking toward a hotel room door, one hand reaching to open it.

The moment is quiet. Candid. Unstaged.

The caption is simple:

‘Home.’

No emojis. No tags.

He doesn’t delete it.

He never does.

And the comments come in like clockwork:

“This is the most intimate photo I’ve ever seen.”
“HE SAID HOME?? I’M ON THE FLOOR.”
“Yoongi never posts and now he drops THIS??? I’m screaming.”
“No wedding pics. No rings. Just this. Just them.”
“ I feel like I shouldn’t be seeing this but also I’m never closing my eyes again.”