Chapter Text
Did you know?
Did you know that in a certain place, in a certain time, when conquest became certainty, women stepped into fire by choice.
Not because they were weak. But because they knew what waited behind the smoke was worse.
Did you know that flame, for all its hunger and pain, still handles a woman more gently than a man who believes he’s won?
You line the last ingredient up on Yoongi’s island counter, adjusting the angle slightly so it matches the rest.
The sugar sits in a shallow bowl, its surface smoothed flat like fresh snow. The carton of cream sits coolly beside a row of pale brown eggs, each one untouched, their fragile weight perfectly intact. A split vanilla bean lies open like a secret, its tiny seeds clinging to the inner seam. A small dish of salt. A folded towel off to the side, for spills or steadying hands. You even lined up the spoons, though you won’t need them for a while.
The overhead lights cast a soft glow across the countertop, catching on the edges of glass and metal, warming the cool marble. You take a step back, slowly, letting your eyes roam over what you’ve made ready.
You take one step back just to look at it. All of it. Arranged in careful order. Like proof that your hands still know how to do something right.
You've taken up baking recently.
A new hobby. A quiet one. Something slow and self-contained, because you believe it’s never too late to start something new.
You never really could find enjoyment in cooking. Not the way other people seem to—you’d even said as much to Yoongi once.
Because you always seem to let your guard down around him, especially in the quiet hours, especially when it's just the two of you in his kitchen, moving around each other like you’ve done it for years.
You’d been taste-testing a sauce over the stove, wooden spoon lifted to your lips, and you had said it offhand, unthinking, in reply to something he’d just mentioned.
“Yeah… I don’t really like cooking," you hummed softly.
That got him immediately. Not in a big way. But you heard it in his silence before anything else. The way his knife paused over the scallions he’d been finely chopping. The way his hands went still.
“What do you mean you don’t like cooking?” his voice echoed across the space.
He wasn’t mad, of course. But you could hear the disbelief in his tone, the confusion—the way his mind was probably running through all the times you’d asked him to teach you something.
All the hours you’d spent leaning over his shoulder, watching him with that careful little frown you get when you're trying hard. All the recipes you’d bookmarked. All the questions you’d asked him about knife angles and soup bases and seasoning ratios.
You’d just smiled, sheepish, stirring your sauce again, sprinkling in a little more salt like it would help explain yourself.
Yoongi had sighed then. The quiet kind. Not exasperated, not dramatic. Just… soft. And then he’d abandoned the cutting board completely to come over to you.
His hands found your forearms first. Gentle and steady. His thumbs brushed in slow, rhythmic circles over your sleeves, drawing you further from your focus on the stove and into his embrace.
“Okay, you know what,” he murmured, voice low. “When we…”
He’d paused, tongue flicking out quickly to wet his lips, eyes dropping to the floor for a second like he was trying to find the right words.
“When we spend time together… and have to cook,” he said finally, “why don’t you just let me handle it. Okay?”
And then he looked at you—really looked—like he was expecting you to fight him on it. To insist.
You admit, you almost did. That old part of you rising up, the part that hates handing anything off. The part that still believes care has to be earned with labour.
But then you remembered all the other things he’d told you before. That he truly doesn't mind things like this. That he likes taking care of the people in his life. That it calms him. Grounds him. Makes him feel like he's doing something good.
So instead, you nodded. Quietly. The fight in you softening like sugar over low heat.
“Okay, Yoongi,” you’d said, voice gentler than you meant it to be.
He’d smiled then. Just a little. Barely there. Easy to miss.
But you’d caught it.
You’d seen how happy it made him, underneath it all—that quiet, bone-deep happiness of getting to take care of someone who lets you. Like you’d just let him win a battle he hadn’t wanted to fight in the first place.
“Good,” he’d said next, a little smug now, holding out his hand toward you. “Go do something else now.”
And you had quietly handed the spoon over to him, eyes downcast, but then you had wrapped your arms around him.
Tight. Not playful, not brief. Tight like you meant it. Like something inside you needed to hold on.
You pressed your face into the side of his neck, arms wound around his waist, and stayed there for a second longer than he probably expected. Long enough for your heartbeat to steady. Long enough for your breath to leave a trace of warmth against his skin.
And then you kissed his cheek. Soft. Certain. Not shy.
As if you could tell him—without words—how much you loved and appreciated him. As if that kiss could say it all: thank you for making room for me. thank you for letting me rest.
You didn’t say it aloud. But your body did. The way you leaned into him. The way you squeezed once, hard, before letting go.
He never mentioned it again. Not the hug. Not the kiss. Not the way you’d leaned into him like you trusted him with something fragile.
But from then on, he cooked for you without hesitation.
And you were grateful.
Because cooking always just… felt like work to you.
You can spend hours on one meal sometimes. Sweating over every step. Trying not to mess it up. Only for it to be eaten in a matter of minutes once it's done. Never mind the fact that you hadn't even got to the clean up yet.
And you were never good at improvising. Never one of those people who could look in a fridge, see a couple of random ingredients, and somehow conjure up something edible. You’d just stare. Try to force something to make sense. Try to build something out of scraps that didn’t want to become anything.
And then there was chopping. Even when you practiced, even when Yoongi stood beside you and walked you through every movement—gently, patiently, always the teacher—you could never seem to get the hang of it. Your knifework was clumsy. Uneven. You’d hold the blade too stiffly or not tightly enough. Slice at the wrong angle. Crush herbs instead of dicing them. Nick your fingertip more times than you cared to admit.
It made you feel like your hands just weren’t made for holding them.
But baking…
Baking was different.
Baking was quiet. Contained. Forgiving, in its own strange way.
It was something to do with your hands that didn’t feel like a test. Something you could make alone, at your own pace, without feeling like you were failing at a basic life skill. Without feeling like you were disappointing someone.
Including yourself.
It made you feel capable. Steady. Like maybe your hands were meant for something after all.
And there was usually no complicated knifework. Just mixing. Measuring. Folding. Pouring. Waiting.
You like that it has rules.
That there’s comfort in the math of it—ratios and temperatures, step-by-step instructions. A structure you can follow. A framework that doesn’t shift beneath you. If you do everything right, something good usually comes out of it. Something warm. Something sweet.
Something yours that you could share willingly.
You’ve gotten your lyric notebook back by now.
It’s still in the same place you left it—Yoongi’s living room coffee table. Closed. Untouched. The edges of the pages soft from handling, the spine beginning to loosen from how often you used to open it. Now it just sits there, collecting dust under the window light. A fixture, no longer a tool.
You haven’t had it in your hands since the day you brought it home, and truthfully, you haven’t wanted to. The thought of touching it makes your skin crawl.
You especially don't want to bring it to work anymore.
Even though you know it’s pointless. Even though you know that if he told you to bring it in again, you would have to. You’d have no choice but to listen.
But it doesn't even matter anyway.
He’s already taken everything from it. All the pages he wanted.
He's surely taken pictures of it all. Then catalogued and backed it up in several different folders. You can imagine him sitting back in his office chair and laughing at how pathetically devoted you were to one man—every margin note, every crossed‑out line that still somehow circled back to him. Probably calculating exactly how easy it would be to keep you under control because of it.
And when you returned to work that Monday, it was all there.
Back in the conference room, during beginning lyric presentations and idea pitches for the second half of the album, you sat with your hands folded neatly in your lap. You smoothed out the hem of your sleeves while the projector warmed up, while the lights dimmed, while Jaehwan pulled up the first slide deck from his laptop. Your pulse had already started to pick up, even before anything happened—your body always seems to know before your mind catches up.
And then there it was.
Your words.
Sitting there.
Flayed open.
Snippets of lyrics without a song to live. Dissected lines from unrelated themes. Concepts you’d barely shared with anyone. Unfinished verses you’d written long ago. And now they were splayed across a screen for the whole room to see—taken from their homes, stripped of their context, pulled out of the bodies they’d once belonged to and forced into something new.
The rhythm was all wrong. The syntax rearranged. Your meaning hollowed out and stuffed with something plastic from being forced into somewhere it didn't belong.
You could hear it—how off it sounded, how soulless. Like someone else had taken over your voice and was using it to mouth things you would never say. You could almost feel your notebook being opened again in his office. Pages flipped under fluorescent light. Him leaning back, selecting pieces like weapons. Picking them apart, feeding them into a new machine.
And he just kept talking, presenting your work as his own, as if this had been the plan all along. As if you didn’t exist. You sat frozen in your seat, hands clenched together in your lap beneath the table, trying to keep your face blank, your mouth closed. Your stomach churned. You stared at the floor tiles to avoid seeing the way other people in the room nodded along.
But you felt it.
The humiliation.
The violation.
The sharp, nauseating panic of seeing something sacred displayed like evidence against you.
And yet—even with all of that twisting inside your chest, even with your stomach still clawing itself into knots—some fragile part of you had still been holding onto the hope that would be the end of it.
You told yourself—foolishly, desperately—that when he called you into his office later that afternoon, when he held out your notebook back toward you, that would be all he wanted. That returning those pages was a strange kind of full stop. That maybe his second layer of blackmail was just that—a contingency plan, a threat kept in the margins, something he never intended to escalate.
You tried to believe that.
He passed them to you without ceremony, without apology, without even a flicker of awareness at what he’d taken. His expression was maddeningly neutral—polite, almost. He didn’t leer. He didn’t threaten. He didn’t comment on the contents. He simply returned them with a faint, unreadable smile, as though he were handing back a stapler you’d loaned him rather than the most vulnerable pieces of yourself.
For a second—for the briefest, most treacherous second—you let yourself hope that meant something. That maybe he had gotten whatever he wanted from you already. That maybe he was finished. That this was closure, not a beginning.
But the hope was thin. Barely a thread. And you felt it snap the moment you turned to leave.
🌑
He's done with you now. But you’re still standing in front of him. Because he told you to stand there. Because your body is still running on the last command it was given.
Your expression has settled into a mask that doesn’t quite feel like yours. Your features are smoothed out, emptied of anything that might register as resistance or panic. Inside, you feel the tremor of your own blood scraping against your veins, but on the outside you look composed—disconnected, even.
Your breathing is thin and shallow, held high in your chest until it aches, each inhale controlled to the point of pain. You keep your eyes locked on the window beside you—the wide pane of glass overlooking the city, the blurred pale scatter of streetlights, the slow, indifferent drift of clouds across the night sky.
Focusing on that distant, unreachable world is easier than turning your head, easier than acknowledging the man standing inches from you, easier than letting yourself feel the heavy, suffocating aftermath hanging between your bodies. All you can smell is cigarette smoke.
His hands reach for your blouse now.
His fingers work clumsily at the buttons, slipping them free one by one with a carelessness that feels almost cruel in its indifference. There is no hunger in the motion, no desire, no intention beyond the assertion of power he has already proven he will use without hesitation. He’s unbuttoning your shirt not to see you, not to take anything from you that he hasn’t already taken, but simply because he can.
The clumsy drag of his fingers almost feels less like violation and more like mockery. His movements are idle, almost bored, the gestures of someone who is finished with the real cruelty and is now entertaining himself with the remnants.
He's merely toying with you now.
Under the numbness, under the dissociation, under the hollow space behind your ribs, there is a thick, suffocating mix of shame, helplessness and anger that has nowhere to go. Every touch feels like a stain sinking deeper into your skin. Every brush of his knuckles reminds you of what just happened. Every second the blouse hangs open reminds you how little control you have left.
You don’t react when he pulls the fabric aside to look at you.
His gaze drifts down enough for him to see them: the myriad of marks lining your collarbones and chest, blooming in colours both deep and fading, like a field of pressed autumn leaves slowly giving their pigment back to the paper that holds them. Soft violets and fading burgundies scattered like petals, richer plums toward the inner hollow of your throat, golds and browns where the bruises are older and beginning to soften.
There are more along your breasts, where skin swells softly into the lace of your bra—deeper colours blooming like petals drying under glass. Some are small and delicate, almost translucent at the edges. Others are darker, as though the moment had lingered longer there, as though Yoongi couldn’t bear to move his mouth away when you breathed into his hands.
His teeth had left them with the same quiet hunger that artists feel when they cannot bear to let beauty evaporate, his lips pressing into you not just to bruise you, but to keep something fleeting from slipping away.
As though someone had taken the season itself and pressed it carefully into your skin, wanting to hold onto the memory of warmth before winter came. Wanting the sweetness of those nights to remain long after the world had shifted.
The marks feel like claims. Like the devotion you crave. Echoes of breath and body heat still trapped inside the pigments beneath your skin, love letters written without ink, pressed into you like the memory of late summer held inside a glass jar.
You have spent mornings in front of mirrors tracing them with curious fingertips, pressing lightly where the colour deepens, feeling that phantom thrum of his mouth all over again. Each one reminds you of how you opened for him, how you surrendered willingly, how you felt chosen and wanted and entirely held.
They remind you of the way your back arched under his palms, the way he would murmur contentedly against your chest after marking you, the way his eyes softened when he pulled back and saw evidence of his hunger glowing like constellations over your heart.
And now—especially now —they make you feel safe in a way. As though every bruise is Yoongi trying to speak for you in the places you cannot. As though he is telling the world, even in his absence, that you are not alone, that you belong somewhere, that there is a body and a voice and a heart in this universe that wants you.
They feel like a protective circle, like silent witnesses, like the memory of someone who would burn the earth before letting anyone hurt you. Someone who would set the whole golden season aflame before letting winter steal what it had made warm.
If he only knew.
But Jaehwan sees none of that.
He studies them like someone assessing a damaged object, not an intimate history. His lip curls, eyes sharpening into disdain.
Still, you do not look at him. You keep your gaze pinned to the window, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing your expression change. You know what he wants—reaction, shame, collapse—and you are determined not to give him any of it. Your face remains vacant, your mouth slack, your shoulders too still. Only your pulse gives you away, thudding unevenly beneath your skin like something is trying to claw its way out.
Inside your silence, a different thought begins to unfurl—slow, unwelcome, strangely tender.
You remember the night you made that vow to yourself, quietly, almost without realizing: that you would do anything for Yoongi. Anything. That you would break your own heart for him if that was the cost of loving him. You would still give it. You would still stay. You would still hold the ache.
But you also swore you would not break your body or your mind for him.
You swore that kind of self‑destruction was not devotion, that sacrifice had limits, that loving someone should not turn you into a shadow. You told yourself you would never trade your safety for belonging, no matter how much you craved closeness or purpose or the warm gravity of his gaze when you felt like you were losing yourself.
That love was not supposed to turn you into something unrecognizable or undone.
You guess that was a lie.
Because here you are—your body standing where it should never have had to stand, your mind trying to endure what no one should ever have to endure—and you are still trying to hold onto something soft inside your chest for him. Still trying to protect the memory of how he makes you feel safe, even while you are not safe at all.
And that's the whole problem, isn't it?
If you lie too much about too many things, you are afraid you will forget the truth.
Your gaze stays fixed on the window—at the sun trying its best to shine through the winter clouds—while your thoughts drift somewhere else entirely. Not toward escape, but toward myth.
You think of Icarus again.
That same story: a boy too foolish to understand consequence, too intoxicated by flight to follow instructions. A cautionary tale about hubris and ignorance.
But you wonder if you—and everyone else—have the story wrong.
You think that maybe Icarus knew exactly what he was doing when he flew toward the sun.
Perhaps he wanted to see Olympus so badly, even for a breath, even for a heartbeat, that he accepted the price before he took his first step into the air.
Maybe he understood that the falling would break him. Maybe he understood the wings were never meant to last or go that high. But what if he decided it was worth it anyway—that one moment in the proximity of divinity, of beauty, of belonging, was worth whatever gravity would take from him afterward?
Maybe the taste of fire was worth every wound that followed, every bone shattered on impact, every gasp of seawater that flooded his lungs.
Because once you have tasted something holy, the memory never leaves you.
Once you have tasted fire, you ache for it—no matter how badly it seared your tongue.
Because the memory of warmth is sometimes stronger than the instinct to run.
And you cannot help but think—that if the home you made here were aflame, if every exit had turned to ash, you would let it all burn five minutes more just to stay in the room where he loved you.
Five more minutes with his voice and his warmth and the memory of belonging—even if it cost everything else.
That is what you are trying to protect now, even here, even under fluorescent light, even in the presence of someone who wants to unmake you. Because losing that would be a second kind of ruin, even worse than the one already happening.
If love is a house on fire, you have already inhaled too much smoke for escape to feel like the point.
And then Jaehwan sneers.
A flat, ugly sound.
“What is he,” he scoffs, tone laced with disgust, “some kind of dog?”
The words cut through your detachment like a hot wire.
Jaehwan leans in a fraction, still staring at your chest.
“There are so many,” he murmurs, voice now lazy, almost amused. “Would it even matter if I left one more? Do you think he would notice?”
Heat rises from somewhere low in your stomach, a sharp, sudden flare that cuts through the numbness like a blade pulled from fire.
You are not reacting to the touch, not to the threat, not to the power—you’ve already endured all of that in sickening waves, holding yourself still, forcing your face into neutrality, swallowing panic like acid.
You have taken everything he has said about you—every belittlement, every insult, every violation—without allowing yourself the release of a scream or a sob, without giving him the collapse he wants from you. You held still.
But this is Yoongi.
You cannot stand to have his name passed through someone else’s mouth like that, like it’s something dirty, something disposable. Like Yoongi hasn’t spent his whole life protecting the few things he allows himself to care for.
Yoongi is not the shame he’s trying to imply.
And so something inside you snaps.
It happens quietly. Not dramatic. Not loud.
A clean break.
Almost invisible.
Your jaw tightens. Your pulse spikes. Your hands come to life again.
“Stop it!”
Your voice cracks through the air—quiet, shaking, but unmistakably alive. You swat his hand away with a force you didn’t know you had left. You take a full step back, clutching your blouse closed heart slamming against your ribs, breath trembling as you try to pull yourself back into your body.
Jaehwan's eyes widen, just for a moment—surprised you moved, surprised you spoke.
Surprised you fought.
But the shock vanishes almost instantly, replaced by a hard, simmering anger that darkens his entire face.
You can see it gather in the set of his jaw, the tightness around his mouth, the stillness in his posture. He is not used to being told no.
But you press forward anyway.
You grip your blouse at the collar as you rebutton it back into place with frantic, shaking fingers, refusing to break eye contact now that you’ve started.
“I don’t want to hear his name,” you say, voice trembling but unwavering, “out of your mouth.”
The anger deepens in Jaehwan's expression. He looks like he wants to strike you now, only restraining himself because a bruise on your face wouldn't be so easy to hide away.
“And yes,” you add, throat tight now, buttoning the last one with a shaking force, “he would know.”
Jaehwan steps closer, towering over you with slow, suffocating intent. The cigarette smoke stronger now. His voice lowers to a dark, dangerous whisper.
“And what makes you think you get a say in what happens here?"
But you do not back away like he wants you to.
You force your spine straight. You meet his eyes with glaring bitterness, tilting your head up to look at him.
He leans closer, breath cold against your cheek. “Did you already forget what I have to use?”
But that makes you laugh. Just once. Humourless and sharp, the sound brittle in the air.
“You won’t use that,” you say, almost smiling at him now. "Not for this."
He scowls, voice roughening. “And what makes you so sure?”
“Because if you use it,” you say softly, deliberately, “then you won’t have any power over me anymore.”
You let the words settle, and something flickers in his expression—calculation, frustration, recognition.
You lean forward now, just half an inch—barely anything, barely movement at all—but enough that you feel it.
“And you should be careful,” you say to him, whispered out in an almost hiss. “The cornered rat will bite the cat, after all.” [궁지에 빠진 쥐가 고양이를 문다.]
You don’t wait for his reaction. Don’t give him the satisfaction of a flinch or a laugh or a threat. You simply turn on your heel and leave. You don’t ask permission. You don’t apologize. You don’t look back.
But your feet move faster than you want them to—betraying you in the quiet rush of footsteps out his door and then down the hallway, in the tremble of your legs, in the breath that sticks and stutters in your chest.
You know that you leave in a way that you will pay for later, but you still can't help but feel that it was worth it, even as your feet carry you toward where they always go after this.
You sink to your knees in front of the toilet before your body gives you a choice.
The vomiting comes suddenly, violently—your muscles contracting in hard, miserable waves like your body is trying to eject every trace of him. Like your body itself refuses the contamination. You grip the toilet seat with both hands, forehead pressed to your arm as acid rises and burns your throat raw.
Your stomach empties itself until it has nothing left to offer but spasms. Tears sting your eyes from the force of it. You breathe in short, uneven bursts between each surge, desperate to make it stop and terrified that it won’t.
You think—deliriously—that it’s too bad you’re not actually a rat.
Rats cannot vomit.
Not because they lack the desire to escape what poisons them, but because their bodies are built differently. Their stomach valves close off too tightly. Their neural pathways do not support the reflex. There are entire anatomical systems preventing it—an evolutionary dead end that forces rats to sense and avoid toxins long before swallowing them.
Your body, unfortunately, is not built that way.
You wipe your mouth with trembling fingers, leaning back just enough to breathe without choking on the remnants of bile.
You think that in nature, men are women’s only unnatural predator.
Unnatural.
Because you refuse to believe this was ever meant to be. Because there is no evolutionary imperative to humiliate. There is no survival advantage in control for control’s sake. There is only choice.
Predators that are capable of empathy and simply choose not to employ it.
Predators who speak your language, eat at your tables, work in your buildings, stand under the same sun as you, and still decide to approach you not like a person, but like territory.
Nothing biological forces them into it. No instinct absolves them.
It is choice.
Cold. Calculated. Opportunistic.
🌑
Back in the kitchen, you glance toward the clock on the stove.
It's 7:13 p.m., which means—it’s time to go annoy your boyfriend.
You spin on your heel, socks skimming quietly across the floor, the air shifting with the movement. The scent of vanilla still clings faintly to your sleeves. You follow the familiar path down the hall, turning past the framed photos and the cracked doors of other rooms, until you’re standing in front of the one place that always seems to hold him whole.
The studio door.
You knock, soft. Twice.
He’s never once told you not to come in. Never hesitated to welcome you, even when he's in the middle of something complicated. But you do it anyway, just in case.
“Mmm,” comes his voice, low and smooth. The sound of it hums through the wood like heat through a floorboard.
You ease the door open gently and step inside.
His chair is already turned toward you—forgotten work blinking idly on the monitor behind him. One arm draped over the armrest, head tilted just slightly, as if he’s been waiting for you this whole time.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you with those warm, dark eyes, taking you in.
You can’t help it—your smile stretches wide, slow and certain, blooming from someplace deep in your chest. You cross the threshold quietly and rush the rest of the way to him.
"Yoongi," you say adoringly as your body folds itself into his arms, into the solid warmth of him.
He hums softly when you reach him, arms already lifting to pull you closer. His hands spread across your back, fingers splaying like he’s grounding himself, not just holding you.
“That’s a strong reaction for a man who hasn’t moved in three hours,” he murmurs against your shoulder, voice dry but unmistakably fond.
You merely smile.
You don’t answer—not with words. Just press your face in a little closer to his neck, let yourself breathe him in. Because you remember what he said the last time. The quiet way he admitted that he loved this. How it made him feel.
And now—he holds you just as tight.
Tighter, maybe.
One hand moves in slow, steady circles at the centre of your back. Absentminded, almost. Like he’s not even thinking about it, like his body just knows what to do with you now. The other is anchored firm across your shoulder blades, grounding. Not letting go.
You pull back after a while, just enough to look at him.
At how beautiful he is.
Even now, in the low light of the studio and the hum of silence between you, there’s something quietly staggering about him. The overhead light is dim, casting his face in soft, forgiving gold. His skin is bare—clean, a little warm. His lashes sweep low, his mouth relaxed. His glasses sit slightly askew on his face in a way that makes you wonder if he took a small nap in between things. He’s all angles and softness at once. Effortless and undone.
You smile again—gently this time, more breath than expression—and lift your hands to smooth his hair back from his face.
It’s gotten even longer now.
The strands fall around his ears, curling softly at the base of his neck, kissing the collar of his shirt like they’re drawn to him too. You tuck a few behind his ear, fingertips trailing down his temple.
Yoongi doesn't really smile back.
He just… looks at you.
Eyes wide. Big and brown and impossibly soft. Like he’s trying to memorize you.
Like he already knows the moment is going to end, and he wants to trap it between blinks.
Your hand lingers on his cheek, thumb brushing just beneath the delicate skin under his eye. You glance past him then, toward the desk behind. The monitor still glows, idle—but your attention lands instead on the now-empty mug resting just beside his keyboard.
“Yoongi,” you murmur, voice soft. “Did you want me to make you more tea?”
He exhales a sound almost like a laugh. “No,” he says, smiling faintly around the word.
And as he says it, his right hand leaves your hip—reaching behind you with fluid, practiced ease, and sliding the mug just out of reach. Tucking it behind the monitor, where you'll have to dig to reach for it.
Trying to prevent you from washing it yourself.
You let him win this time.
You just smooth his hair back from his face again, softly, like a goodnight kiss in motion. Then you step away.
You turn and ease the door closed behind you, the latch catching gently.
But before you make it even one step down the hallway, you hear his voice—
“Yah!”
The yell rings out loud and dramatic, echoing down the walls like something out of a sitcom. You barely have time to react before he calls again:
“How can you leave without ppo?!”
A smile breaks across your face instantly. You try—fail—to keep your footsteps steady, to not speed up, fighting the warmth climbing into your chest.
The door whooshes open.
You hear it.
Then: his footsteps. Fast. Confident. Determined.
He catches you before the corner. One arm snakes around your waist and you squeal a little as he spins you, crowding you gently back against the wall with a soft thud. Before you can even speak, his mouth is on yours—hot and practiced, tasting faintly of tea and honey, tongue sliding with perfect, selfish familiarity.
You melt.
Your fingers knot into the back of his shirt, body arched toward him instinctively. He pulls back just enough to breathe, then dips lower to your neck—kissing, then sucking, so softly it’s more of a pulse than a mark.
You gasp, caught in it. “Yoongi—” you start, trying to scold him playfully, “that’s not ppo.”
He chuckles against your skin, the sound low and thick with fondness. Lifts his head just enough to kiss your lips once, twice, again.
“Really?" he smiles, all faux disbelief.
He leans in closer, hand coming up to cup your cheek.
"No," his voice dips, playful. "I’m the one who’s Korean, I think I would know. Maybe you need to study again.”
He’s already ducking back to your neck, leaving a trail of butterfly kisses down the slope of it. You’re laughing now, the kind that bubbles up from somewhere light and rare in you, and he smiles against your skin, his hands now sliding lower, too.
And then—
Ding dong.
The doorbell rings.
Yoongi stills.
His head darts up, turning toward the front door, eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"Tell him I'm not here," he says, tone equally as wary.
Then he turns back to you, kisses you once more—just a small, warm press of lips to lips. A real ppo this time.
And then, like nothing ever happened at all, he slinks away.
Disappears back into his studio. The door shutting behind him with quiet finality.
You stand there for a beat, heart still in your throat, breath slightly uneven. Then you move down the hall, toward the front door, feet quiet on the floor.
You check the peephole—just in case—though you already know.
And sure enough—there he is.
You smile—instantly, involuntarily—and open the door.
“Taehyung-ah,” you say, warmth threading through every syllable.
He’s already stepping forward the second the gap opens, arms outstretched like there’s no need for formalities or words or anything in between, his own signature grin on his face. He wraps you into a bear hug, strong and sweeping, lifting you slightly off the floor.
You gasp softly as your feet leave the ground, arms winding around his shoulders. He smells faintly of plum blossoms. Something soft and clean and slightly sweet. Familiar.
Because this had been the plan all along.
He'd called you up out of nowhere late one night, voice full of glittering mischief even when talking about something ordinary:
“I heard you’re trying your hand at baking. Want to make crème brûlée with me?”
“Taehyung-ah…," you frowned, caught off guard, "just because I’ve been to France doesn’t mean I know how to make that.”
“No,” he’d said confidently. “But I do.”
And then—he hung up.
Just like that.
As per usual. Like he couldn't bear to be on a phone call for longer than 2 minutes at a time.
Back in the present, he grins, setting you down gently.
“How are you doing?” he asks softly. The way only Taehyung can ask—with eyes dangerously close to seeing past your skin.
You smile, stepping back a little now. "I'm fine Taehyung-ah. Are you good?"
He pauses, tilting his head, hand coming to rest underneath his chin as if deeply considering his answer.
Then he focuses back on you and grins again.
"Yes," he says with an air of finality.
You fold your hands in front of yourself, your smile turning a touch wry.
"Your hyung told me to tell you specifically that he's not here," you say.
Taehyung’s grin widens, slow and mischievous. “Oh he did, did he?” he repeats, already toeing off his shoes with far too much enthusiasm.
You barely have time to blink before he’s off, coat fluttering slightly behind him as he beelines straight toward the home studio.
You follow after him quietly, thinking that normally you wouldn't have said anything at all. But you remembered what Namjoon said before—about how Yoongi sometimes says things in reverse.
And you think Taehyung knows about that too.
Even if he wouldn't know how to explain it in those words. He knows.
He reaches the studio door in another few, quick strides.
But he does not stop to knock.
He doesn’t even slow down.
He throws the door open with the confidence of a man who has never once entertained the concept of boundaries, stepping inside like he owns half the house. Maybe he does, in spirit.
You get the feeling if you weren't here—maybe still somewhat a guest in Yoongi's home—he wouldn't have knocked on the front door either.
You linger behind Taehyung at the threshold, fingers curling lightly around the doorframe as you watch.
Yoongi doesn’t flinch. Doesn't turn.
Doesn’t even glance sideways.
He doesn’t react at all to the noise, the intrusion, the new presence in the room. Just continues staring at his monitor like it’s the only thing in the world worth looking at.
“Hyung!” Taehyung calls cheerfully, already crossing the room.
He wraps his arms around Yoongi’s neck from the side, draping himself entirely over the man with his full, exaggerated weight.
Yoongi grumbles. Low and disgruntled. The sound of a man under siege.
But otherwise? Unmoved.
He just sits there. Still staring at the screen. Clicking his mouse a few times.
Taehyung, delighted with the lack of resistance, presses his cheek directly against Yoongi’s.
“Hyung,” he singsongs, “what were you and your girlfriend doing before I got here?”
“Nothing,” Yoongi replies immediately, tone bored.
Taehyung squints, cheek still pressed to Yoongi’s. “Nothing...?” he repeats, dragging out the word like it tastes suspicious. “That doesn’t sound like you.”
He shifts again, looping his arms tighter around Yoongi’s shoulders like a weighted scarf. “You’re sure I didn’t interrupt anything?”
“No,” Yoongi says, completely deadpan. “My girlfriend is perfectly innocent. All we do is kiss and hold hands.”
From the doorway, a soft snort escapes you.
Yoongi finally turns.
His head angles slightly over his shoulder, gaze sweeping past Taehyung to find you.
You expect him to smile a little when your eyes meet. That specific smirk that just barely lifts one corner of his mouth.
But he doesn’t.
His expression stays still. Calm. Unreadable, almost.
Only his eyes change.
And even then, it’s subtle. Barely a shift. Just the faintest softening around the edges—like his focus steadies when he sees you. Like the tension in his jaw forgets itself for a moment.
You blink, thrown a little. Wondering why he’s looking at you like that all of a sudden. But if you decide to ask, it’ll have to be later.
“Hyung…” Taehyung calls again, relentless. “Saranghae.”
Yoongi sighs, glancing back toward his monitor.
But after a beat, he reaches up with one hand and pats at the arms still draped around his neck. A small, half-hearted pat. Awkward, but not dismissive.
“Okay… thank you,” he says, mildly. Like he’s accepting a gift he didn’t ask for but doesn’t want to return.
Taehyung gasps slightly, betrayed. “Hyung, you’re not going to say it back?”
Yoongi grumbles again. Long and low.
But this time, the sound at the end curls upward—almost a whine.
Taehyung’s eyes sparkle.
He leans in closer, arms still around Yoongi’s neck, his voice dropping to a whisper just loud enough to be annoying.
“Hyung,” he says, “if you don’t say it back, I’ll assume our entire friendship has been a lie.”
Yoongi closes his eyes for a beat.
“Incredible,” he mutters. “Emotional terrorism.”
“Just three little syllables,” Taehyung singsongs. “I know you can do it. You’re so smart.”
Yoongi doesn't respond. He just picks up his mouse again and clicks something completely unrelated. Something he probably doesn't even need to click.
Taehyung stays draped over him a moment longer. Waiting.
And then—he shifts.
Not away entirely. Just enough to nuzzle his cheek one last time into Yoongi’s hair and whisper, with dramatic finality, “It’s okay. I know you mean it. I’ll tell people you said it.”
Yoongi exhales slowly. Like he's making peace with a force of nature.
“…Okay,” he mutters, so quiet it’s almost inaudible.
Taehyung beams, triumphant.
Then finally, he lets go. Arms slipping away as he straightens, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet like he’s just won a small, private game.
“I’ll let you get back to pretending to work,” he chirps.
Yoongi doesn't respond. His hand is already back on the keyboard.
Taehyung steps toward the door, casting one last glance over his shoulder. “Don’t think I won’t hug you again before I leave.”
“I’m not safe even in my own home…”—you think you hear Yoongi mutter, though you can't be sure.
Taehyung grins, then pulls the door closed gently behind him.
You’re still standing there when he turns toward you again.
“Let's go,” he says, voice softening by a degree.
Taehyung pivots, then marches straight back down the hallway toward the kitchen like he has a mission to fulfill.
You follow after him again, steps lighter now, trailing the faint scent of plum blossoms.
When you turn the corner, he's standing there looking at the countertop—how every ingredient is laid out just so, from the cream to the vanilla bean to the eggs lined up like pearls. Looking all the world like its ready for a recipe book photo-op.
He looks at you, brow lifted, a knowing curve pulling at his mouth. “Aw,” he says, voice dipping into something half-playful, half-touched, “were you that excited to hang out with me?”
You fold your hands slowly in front of yourself, gaze on the scene instead of meeting his eye.
“Yes,” you say simply, honest.
At that, he smiles a little—warm and full of something unspoken.
He doesn't joke about it or tease your further, merely walks further into the kitchen and starts pulling open random cupboards.
“Where’s the flour?” he mutters, pulling open another door.
You blink. “Taehyung-ah, we don’t need flour for this… Do we?”
“No, not for this recipe,” he agrees, as if that’s beside the point. “But we need it for us. It doesn’t feel like you’re really baking unless you’ve got a bag of flour pulled out somewhere.”
You don’t argue.
You just move quietly to the bottom corner cupboard and pull out the bag, setting it beside the rest of the ingredients with a soft thud.
He stops and smiles at you again. A little different from before.
“You know…” he drawls, leaning back against the counter, “Hyung will always hold my hand, but he doesn’t really like hugs.”
No.
You hadn't known that.
You had heard that before maybe, before you ever met him. But you didn't want to assume—
“...But he always gives them to you," he finishes.
You glance at him.
He’s not teasing. Not fishing for a reaction. Just telling you.
He straightens a little and grabs a spoon, starts lazily twirling it between his fingers like a prop to keep the air moving.
“We’ve all known hyung for so long now,” he continues, voice rhythmic and thoughtful now. “that we're very used to him. We all accept him exactly as he is. We all try to protect him…”
He glances over at you then, something a little more searching in his gaze.
“And I’m not saying that you try to change him. You’re not asking him to be different. But…”
He tilts his head.
“He changes for you anyway.”
You swallow, unsure what to say yet.
“And I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” Taehyung adds, voice softer now. “Not if it means a little more love escapes him on the way out.”
You feel something catch in the middle of your chest. Your heart stutters a beat.
You think of Yoongi’s hands on your waist earlier. The way he’d kissed you before slipping back into the studio, like it was something he couldn’t not do.
You think of how he pulls you in without hesitation, how he holds you tight, his hands always rubbing over your back, how he doesn't let you be the one to always reach for him first.
Because if you ever told him you loved him, and he just sighed…
If you went in for a hug and he pulled away, mouth twisting in discomfort…
That would hurt. Wouldn’t it?
You think he knows that.
And it’s not that he’s forcing himself. Not that he dislikes your touch, not in the slightest. He pulls you in before you ask. He keeps holding on long after you think he’ll let go.
But with you… you can recognize that he's definitely extra sweet. Extra gentle.
As if on cue, Taehyung breaks the silence with a quiet smile. “He really likes you, you know?”
You glance over at him, but his gaze is already back on the ingredients. His voice was casual, like he hadn’t just named something enormous.
But before you can respond, another thought nudges forward. Something that doesn’t quite add up to you.
“…Taehyung-ah?”
“Hm?”
“I think I understand that Yoongi likes me,” you say carefully, eyes tracing the soft sheen on the vanilla bean pod, the way the flour bag slouches like it’s exhaled something, “but why do you like me so much?”
Because here he is. Taking time out of his day to hang out with you—just you. Not for a party. Not for a group outing. Not even because Yoongi asked or is here.
And it's just to bake something. To do something quiet and ordinary and entirely innocuous.
“Well,” he starts, picking up an egg now, “at first it was because I thought you liked me. And I wanted to tease you a little.”
He glances at you, utterly unapologetic. “Which—sorry, it’s a habit.”
He shrugs like it’s a truth he’s long made peace with.
“I think," he says, cracking the egg over the bowl, "that even if nothing comes from it, giving people a little attention like that makes them happy.”
And then he adds, more thoughtfully, “After that it was because…”
He trails off. Stares at the cream for a beat too long.
“Bah. I don’t know!”
He shakes his hands like he's swatting a fly, and turns back to the eggs instead.
“Logically describing and reasoning feelings is Namjoon-hyung and Yoongi-hyung’s job," he says. "I just feel what I feel… And I like having you as my friend.”
“Okay, Taehyung-ah,” you say, voice soft. Accepting.
You move to come stand beside him at the counter and he nods, satisfied, already cracking more eggs like the conversation never happened.
And just like that, you start baking.
Learning from Taehyung isn't exactly the same as it is with Yoongi.
It’s not that he’s impatient—he isn’t, but he doesn't calmly watch over your shoulder. Doesn't make gentle corrections or offer advice about technique. He simply tells you what the next step is, gestures loosely toward what to add, and then moves on.
Where Yoongi teaches with focus—carefully explaining temperature shifts, timing, precision, always watching your hands to make sure you understand—Taehyung is much looser. Carefree.
And so when you call him over to ask about what you've done, voice tinged with that quiet uncertainty that tends to bloom within you, he glances down, hums thoughtfully, and says the same thing every time:
“It looks good to me.”
At first, it’s reassuring. Calming. Like he trusts you more than you trust yourself.
But eventually, you start to feel suspicious.
So you test him.
Instead of adding the cream at the right time, you pour in the milk first—cool, slightly heavier, the timing obviously wrong for a proper custard base.
You stir it like normal. Call him over again.
He peers into your bowl with that same serene face, the same soft lilt in his voice.
“It looks good to me.”
You glance at him sideways. Then gesture plainly to the mistake.
He pauses.
Smiles.
Sheepish. Slightly mischievous. Caught.
You don’t press him. You just laugh, and he laughs too, head tilting back just a little as he reaches for another egg.
At some point, you turn on a playlist—a Taehyung-focused BTS mix made by someone else. It plays moderately from the speaker in the corner, and his own voice fills the kitchen in alternating textures: low and smooth, sometimes layered in harmony, sometimes carrying the bridge alone.
He doesn’t react the way Yoongi might. He doesn't tease or pretend to complain
He doesn't say anything about it at all.
He just hums.
Not all the time. But when certain lines float out across the kitchen, his voice threads along with them automatically, soft and low and mostly to himself.
You don’t say anything about it either.
He talks to you while you both work. While the custard simmers and cools, while the ramekins are set into the water bath, while the oven door closes with a soft click.
He tells you about his last trip—how he stayed in a house by the sea with some of his friends from outside the industry. How they played card games too late into the night, made bonfires that didn’t light the first time, how he tried surfing again even though he always forgets he’s not very good at it. How one of his friends woke him up with a toy trumpet just to see if he’d flinch. He didn’t. That scared them more. How they met a dog on a beach walk who kept stealing someone’s socks.
He talks like the memories still glow behind his eyes.
And you talk too.
You talk to him about the laundromat you visited last week because your own washer broke. The one up a creaky flight of stairs, where the walls were full of exhibits of tiny buildings—each one no bigger than a teacup—lined up in a crooked little cityscape on a reclaimed windowsill. That you couldn't stop staring at it. Something about the smallness of it. How it felt like someone built a whole world just to be looked at softly. How you want to try recreating it in your own home.
That Minji made you go to a pottery café last weekend. You didn’t know what to make, so you ended up shaping a dish for Gimbap’s food. It came out lopsided, but you painted tiny buttercup flowers around the edge. You’re kind of proud of it.
That you’ve been listening to the same three songs on repeat while folding laundry and don’t know why—they’re not even your favorites, they just make the room feel less quiet.
That you’ve been keeping a list of weird street names around Seoul. Like “Dreamy Dolphin Alley” or “2nd Happiness Road.” You don’t know what you’ll do with the list, but it makes walking feel like treasure hunting.
You talk about dumb things.
Easy things.
Nothing deep. Nothing important.
And Taehyung listens like it is important anyway.
Just nodding along, tossing little comments here and there, his hands moving without much thought. Like he's used to working and talking at the same time. Like he's happy just to be there.
Keeping his hands busy next to yours while the kitchen fills with the smell of warm cream and vanilla.
It all makes you think that Taehyung is beautiful like a fairy.
Not the fragile kind. The older kind. The kind that wanders in without announcing itself and rearranges the air just by being there. Mischievous. Unbothered. Otherworldly in a way that feels half playful, half unknowable. Slightly out of step with the world as it is.
He notices things others pass by. He treats ordinary moments like they’re worth staying for. Time bends around him—not because he demands it, but because he doesn’t rush. And when he leaves, you realize something small but essential has shifted, and you’re not entirely sure how it happened.
You’re reaching for the last ramekin when it happens.
Steam curls around your arms as you lean in, protected by thick oven mitts, gripping the ceramic sides with a practiced steadiness. The kitchen is warm and golden, the scent of caramelized sugar just beginning to turn.
BTS's Take Two is the song now currently playing.
But there's a voice currently there that shouldn't be.
Muffled. Distant. Real.
Low and raw in a way that makes your pulse spike.
You know it before your brain catches up. Before you register the lyrics or the melody.
Yoongi.
Singing.
Not this song, no. But one that you've heard from him before.
Before you ever truly knew him.
Kim Kwangseok’s It’s Not Love If It Hurts Too Much.
Your hands falter.
The ramekin hits the counter with a clumsy clatter, not hard enough to break but loud enough to be a mistake. The oven mitts fall somewhere—counter, chair, you don’t know.
Your breath punches out of your chest too quickly. You stumble into a seat at the kitchen table, elbows planted on your knees, head bowed. Eyes wide and unfocused on the floor.
Because—
Despite everything.
Because despite dating a musician—probably the musician of the century—the only time you had heard him sing, truly sing, was that night in Namjoon’s backyard.
Otherwise not once.
Not in studios. Not in cars. Not in the shower or kitchen or curled up against you in bed.
So you sit there, shaking just a little, blinking hard. Your hands useless in your lap. Something in your throat caught between laughter and tears.
Taehyung approaches you then. He crouches down in front of you slightly, head tilted, hands braced loosely on his knees.
“Ah, please don't cry” he says, half-playful, half-worried. “Hyung’s gonna kill me.”
Your breath breaks into a shaky half-laugh, half-sob. It escapes before you can stop it.
“Taehyung-ah,” you look up at him, swiping underneath your eye. “He’s singing.”
Taehyung's expression softens. He tilts his head slightly, listening.
Then a slow smile spreads across his face.
"Ah," he says, turning back to you. "He is singing."
And you know by the way he says it that he knows exactly what you mean.
He's getting better.
Because at first, it had gotten worse again.
You remember one night in particular. Not because it was loud or dramatic. But because of how quiet it was. How wrong everything felt in its stillness.
You had found him on the couch. Slouched. Folded forward in on himself like his body was too heavy to hold up anymore. One shoulder pressed into the armrest, the other hanging loose at his side, fingers curled around a glass that kept refilling every time you passed through the room, his head tipped slightly down.
Whiskey.
You smelled it before you fully understood what you were seeing. Sharp. Sweet. Heavy. It sat in the air like a wrong note, staining the room. The lamp beside him cast a tired, yellow light across his face, catching on the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the shadow beneath his eyes.
This was the man the world bent around.
The one you did.
You hadn’t said anything at first.
You told yourself you were just checking the thermostat. Just getting water. But of course you were checking on him without trying to make it obvious.
Even though you knew he could tell. He always could.
Each time, his eyes looked a little less like they were holding on to the room. More glazed. More distant. Like he was slowly drifting somewhere you couldn’t follow.
Your chest felt tight. Not panicked yet—just wrong. Like standing in a doorway knowing something on the other side could hurt you, but not knowing what.
Eventually, you couldn’t pretend anymore.
You went to him.
And you kneeled.
Your knees pressed into the rug, the fabric rough against your skin even through your clothes. You were close enough now to see the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. Close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. Close enough to feel how unsteady the moment was.
Your hand reached out and curled gently around his.
Around the glass.
The cold hit you immediately.
His hand—always warm, always steady—was chilled through from the condensation slicking the glass. The damp cold seeped into your palm, wrong and startling. His fingers felt stiff around it, like they’d forgotten what they were supposed to do.
Cold from the drink. Cold from holding onto something that was hurting him.
"Yoongi-yah, please," you'd whispered. Pleaded. "That's enough now."
Your thumb brushed lightly against his wrist, feeling his pulse there—steady, stubborn, terrifyingly normal.
“Otherwise…” Your voice wavered. “…otherwise I have to call Namjoon-ah to help.”
You didn't mean for it to sound like a threat. Like you were trying to control him. You just... didn't know what to do if it turned so bad again he couldn't stand. If his veins became so poisoned he needed more care than you could give on your own.
His eyes focused over you as best as they could, trusting.
"Okay," he rasped out.
And then the glass slipped from his fingers into yours with an ease that broke your heart.
Like he never wanted to hold it at all.
You remember the rush of relief that followed—hot and dizzy and immediate. Your breath leaving you all at once, like you’d been holding it without realizing.
You weren't sure what you were expecting exactly.
For him to yell at you? Throw things?
All you knew was that you had heard too many stories of men who drank and turned violent. Your body braced even as your mind told you this is Yoongi, this is different.
Your hands shook just a little as you stood, carrying the glass into the kitchen.
You dumped it out.
Watched the amber liquid disappear down the sink, the sound soft and unceremonious. Like it hadn’t mattered. Like it hadn’t scared you at all.
When you came back, he hadn’t moved.
Still slouched the same way. His eyes were open, barely. Unfocused. Bloodshot. His lashes stuck together like they’d been damp not long ago. His hand lay empty now on his thigh, fingers curled loosely, as if still remembering the shape of the glass.
Or maybe…
You stood there for a second, unsure what to do with your hands. With yourself.
Then you knelt again.
This time, you shifted closer to his feet. They were still resting on the couch cushions, bare, pale against the dark fabric.
You slid the first sock on carefully, stretching the fabric wide so it wouldn’t snag. You eased the sock up over his heel, smoothing it into place with your thumbs, then did the same with the other.
Then you reached for the blanket.
You draped it over his legs first, tucking it around his calves, then pulled it higher, settling it across his torso. You adjusted it until it covered his shoulders, until the weight of it looked comforting instead of burdensome. You tucked the edges in gently, as if the night itself might sneak in if you left a gap.
You leaned in and kissed his forehead.
His skin was warm beneath your mouth. Too warm, almost. The way someone gets when they’ve been burning something from the inside out. You stayed there a moment longer than necessary, breathing him in. The faint smell of cinnamon and mint soap. The tired, human scent of him beneath everything else. Something broken but familiar.
Then you lowered yourself to the floor beside the couch.
You folded your legs in, close enough that your knee brushed the edge of the cushion. You reached for his hand again, this time without the glass between you. His fingers were warmer now, slowly losing that damp chill. You laced your fingers through his, holding on gently but firmly.
His fingers didn’t curl back. They lay limp in your grasp, heavy and trusting in a way that scared you more than if he’d resisted. You rubbed your thumbs gently over his knuckles, over the back of his hand, trying to chase away the cold that had soaked into him earlier.
His breathing was uneven at first—shallow, hitching slightly, like his body hadn’t decided whether it was safe to rest yet. You stayed still, listening to it, matching your own breath to his without meaning to.
Minutes passed. Then longer. Your legs started to ache where they pressed against the floor. You didn’t move. You watched his chest rise and fall. Watched the tension in his shoulders slowly loosen, inch by inch, until his head tipped back against the couch cushion.
You think he squeezed your hand before he went.
Then you didn’t move.
You just sat there on the floor, holding his hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the room. To you. To being alive in a way that didn’t hurt so much.
You lifted your free hand and brushed his hair back from his face. Slowly. Carefully. Fingers tracing along his temple, pushing dark strands away from his eyes. His hair was soft there, warm against your knuckles. You did it again. And again.
You remember thinking then that maybe, to Yoongi, a fallen angel wasn't a beautiful human.
But the walking dead.
A body still breathing, still warm, still powerful in the eyes of the world—but hollowed out. Moving through the days like someone already half-gone. Alive, but not really living.
Sometimes, loving him felt like holding a butterfly in the palm of your hand. You were so afraid to crush his wings. Afraid your love would press too hard in all the wrong places and leave bruises behind. So you barely breathed. Barely moved. You just let him rest there—fragile, trembling, impossibly alive—and prayed that your stillness could be enough to keep him from flying straight into the dark.
You stayed there until your legs went numb. Until your back ached. Until the lamp buzzed softly and the city outside shifted into a deeper hour.
You stayed because leaving felt unthinkable.
And you fell asleep there.
When you woke, it wasn't sudden.
There was the slow awareness of warmth where there hadn’t been before. A soft, repetitive movement. Fingers threading gently through your hair.
Your eyes flutter open, unfocused at first. The room is dimmer now. The lamp has been turned down or maybe switched off entirely. Your cheek is pressed to the couch cushion.
When you turned your head slightly, you saw him.
Yoongi was looking at you.
He was still lying on the couch, body turned toward you so that his face was inches from yours.
His eyes were clearer than before. Not bright, not quite—still tired, still heavy-lidded—but less clouded. Less lost. The brown of them looked warmer again, less dulled around the edges. Brown like the edge of a winter maple leaf. A warmth that knew cold and still stayed warm.
His fingers still combed gently through your hair, brushing it back from your scalp. It felt like the opposite of everything from earlier.
He smiles when he sees you awake.
Just barely. A breath of it. Small and tired and sad in a way that doesn't ask to be fixed.
“You should go to bed,” he murmured pointedly. His voice was rough but steady, like it had been sanded down by sleep. “You should sleep comfortably.”
You didn’t lift your head. You didn’t let go of his hand. You just blinked at him, the sleep still thick in your limbs.
“No,” you whispered. “I want to stay with you.”
Something passes over his face at that. Too quick to name. Relief, maybe. Guilt. Both tangled together.
He sighed, slow and tired. His hand paused in your hair, then shifted. Slid down to your face to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek.
“You lose too much sleep over me,” he said.
You shook your head again, slow and stubborn, cheek still pressed to the couch cushion.
Yoongi sighed—softer this time.
“Come here then,” he murmured, backing up against the couch to make more space. His arm shifted, pulling the blanket open to invite you in. “You’re gonna make your neck sore.”
You blinked, then lifted your head, wincing immediately. You guessed it was already too late.
The crick in your neck throbbed with the dull ache of something that had been ignored too long, your muscles stiff from sleeping where you shouldn’t have. Your thighs pulsed faintly with every shift.
Static prickled through your limbs as you sat up. Your hand stayed in his for as long as it could, slipping free only at the last second.
You eased yourself down beside him, the couch narrow enough that your knees bumped his legs, your face now level with his. You turned toward him, finding the shape of his body beneath the blanket. Finding his eyes again.
He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you the way he always did when words felt too clumsy to carry what he meant.
You reached for him slowly. One hand settling against his cheek, the other resting lightly on the blanket near his chest. You felt the slight rise and fall of it beneath your palm—his breath, steady and real and so fragile all at once.
And then you leaned in.
Pressed your lips to his.
Soft.
Slow.
A kiss so quiet it barely counted as one. Just a breath between you. A brushing of mouths. The faintest touch of warmth.
His lips were pink and parted, chapped slightly at the center from sleep and the night’s salt and silence. But soft. Still soft. Like something fragile. Like something that belonged to a better world than this one.
You kissed him again.
This time firmer, but still gentle. Still careful. Like your mouth was saying all the things you didn’t know how to say yet.
Like an angel’s wing might feel.
His hand came up again—slow, almost uncertain—and curved against your jaw, his thumb brushing once more across your cheekbone. Then his fingers shifted, sliding down to the side of your neck, where they began to move in soft, slow circles. Massaging gently. Easing into the stiffness he'd warned you about, like he was trying to undo the ache himself.
You felt his breath as you hovered there, close enough to share the same pocket of air, the same tired night.
And in the hush that followed, nothing else moved. Not the room, not the city outside, not even the weight of everything between you.
Only this.
Only the sound of his breathing. The warmth of his fingers. And the ghost of your kiss, still lingering on his lips.
But after that…
Well—that had been the worst night.
Otherwise, it wasn't just the singing.
He had been playing the piano more. So much more. Almost every day.
It wasn't always long. Usually just for a few minutes, a melody picked up and forgotten. Sometimes just enough to test a chord or a phrase. A handful of notes while waiting for water to boil. A progression you half-recognized while the evening news droned faintly in the background. Sometimes just one hand—no melody, no key, just chords that dissolved before they could land.
But it filled the space again, little by little. Sound settling in the corners like light.
There was one night, though, where he played for hours.
You weren’t sure what time it started. You’d been asleep on the couch again, curled up in the corner with your cheek pressed to your wrist and your knees pulled in close. The room was dim, only the light from the hallway still on. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep there, but you’d been doing that more often lately. And of course he hadn’t tried to wake you.
The music wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even really music, at first. Just quiet shapes—unfinished ideas, fragments of a language he hadn't spoken in weeks. You watched his hands in the reflection of the window glass, the blur of motion against a backdrop of dark sky and city light. His right hand moved more than his left. Sometimes both stilled entirely. And then started again.
You rose without thinking.
Sleep still clung to you, the kind that left your body heavy and your limbs unsure. But the music pulled at something deeper. A sound so quiet, so mournful, it felt like it had been composed just for this hour. Like it was never meant to exist during the day.
You crossed the room on bare feet. The carpet cool. The corners hushed.
You slid onto the bench beside him. Slowly. Carefully. You leaned, just enough to feel the heat of him, just enough to say I’m here without saying anything at all.
And he just kept playing.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t say anything. You didn’t either. Just stayed against his shoulder, eyes blurry from the kind of ache that doesn’t need to be named.
You’d never seen him like that before.
Not that far gone into music without warning. Not that gentle with it. He played like someone laying a hand on an old wound. Not to reopen it. Just to remember it was there.
His fingers didn’t falter. Not once. Even when the melody slipped into something rawer, something less polished. He didn’t stop to correct it. Didn’t stop at all.
And you… you let yourself listen.
Not just to the melody, but to what lived underneath it. The grief he never said aloud. The tension that never left his shoulders, even when he smiled. The way he sometimes rubbed the heel of his palm over his chest like something ached there, deep and unreachable.
You watched his fingers move. Noticed the way his left hand trembled slightly when he pressed into the lower keys. The way his pinky stayed curled, stiff, like it was still recovering from something.
And you pretended not to notice the glass sitting on top of the piano shelf.
And you remembered sitting there and wondering if this is what people mean when they say love is blind.
Eventually, his hands began to slow. The notes grew further apart, until the final one rang out.
His hands lingered on the keys for a moment longer. Rested there, open. Pale in the dim light. The left one twitching slightly before going still. You watched his shoulders rise and fall once, slowly. Then again.
And then—he turned to you.
“I like the piano,” he said, voice low and rough-edged from disuse.
You turned to look at him.
His eyes were brown. That warm kind of brown that always caught you off guard—the color of driftwood still damp from the sea, glossed with salt and light. There was something reflective in them tonight. Not bright. Not unbroken. But softened at the edges, like glass that's been in the water long enough to forget how sharp it used to be.
“It’s always been there for me,” he murmured, gaze falling back to the keys. “Even if I leave it for a while. Even if I forget how to talk to it.”
You kept listening.
“It always greets me happily when we meet again,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting, barely. “Always holds my hand.”
Your throat ached.
You reached down, gently, and touched your fingers to the edge of the bench, grounding yourself. And when you found your voice, it came out softer than you meant.
“I know, Yoongi,” you said. “Your first love.”
Something crossed over his face then.
Not a smile. Not quite sadness, either. Just a flicker—like a shadow moving across glass. Fleeting. Unreadable. Gone before you could name it.
Something like some sort of recognition maybe.
“You don’t have to stay up with me, you know,” he murmured.
He turned to you slightly, lifted a hand and gently smoothed it over the back of your head. His fingers threading lightly through your hair.
“You should go to bed," he told you, voice soft.
“I know that, Yoongi,” you whispered. “I don’t want you to be alone.”
Your voice was quiet but sure, even though your eyes were heavy with sleep. Even though your body leaned a little more into his. Even though you didn’t understand how he functioned on so little rest—how he moved through days on barely a few hours while you sometimes felt broken without eight. Though, you had read, recently, that women statistically needed more sleep than men—
Yoongi pressed a soft kiss to the side of your head—his lips warm against your hairline. And then his hands moved again. Picked up a melody, this time effortless, like breath. A ribbon of sound that didn’t ask to be anything more than what it was. Simple. Gentle. Something like water over riverstone.
But after a while, it stopped once more.
“Can I… talk to you about something?” He asked. His voice low. Tentative.
You shifted, slightly turning your face toward him more.
“I already talked to my therapist about it, but I…," he swallowed, "I want to talk to you about it. As my girlfriend.”
“Yoongi…” you said, gently disbelieving. “Of course you can. You don’t have to ask that.”
He lifted his hand, fingers threading through your hair again.
“I just want to make sure you’re not too tired,” he murmured.
He waited a breath longer.
Then, very quietly, he said, “You know the new song we’re writing? The one with Namjoon-ah. How he has so many ideas…”
You nod faintly, still curled slightly toward him.
Because after a short break, you had begun work on your new assignment by entering into Namjoon's studio, hoping to ease your way back into the world, but instead, he’d been already there—waiting, buzzing with joy the moment the door opened.
He had rushed to greet you, practically bounding from his seat with a too-wide grin.
“Yes!” he had cheered, eyes bright.
You barely had time to close the door before he was hugging you tight and lifting you just a little off your feet in a dizzy, awkward spin.
“Namjoon-ah,” you’d said, breathless, caught somewhere between confused and fond.
“Sorry,” he chuckled sheepishly, putting you down before rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just so happy I get to work with you on this!”
You’d blinked, startled.
“You know what the song’s about, right?” he asked.
You nodded as you stepped farther inside. “Pressure.”
“Exactly,” he said. “We felt so much pressure with this album that we just decided—fuck it. Let’s write about that.”
He’d launched into it then, barely pausing for breath. “I have so many ideas—we could open with that underwater feeling—everything muffled, like you’re not even part of your own life. Or maybe a heartbeat rhythm but skewed, like it skips where it shouldn’t. That kind of nervous system chaos. Or...” he turned back to you, eyes lit, “...or we could use the image of glass cracking—I just want it to feel real.
You’d listened quietly, your eyes aching, but your heart tugged forward by his passion, the cadence of his voice growing faster, rising like steam.
Then he paused.
He’d looked at you closely. “Ah, but you look tired.”
You’d hummed dryly, one eyebrow lifting. “Thank you for noticing my anguish.”
He snorted, honest and amused. “You’re funny.”
“Thank you,” you’d said. “I think I’m funnier in English.”
He’d gone to the fridge then, pulling something out.
“Here,” he'd said, holding out a small canned coffee toward you. “You like these, right?”
You blinked. “Yes… But how did you know that?”
Namjoon had smiled—soft, almost proud.
“The hyungs aren’t the only ones who can pay attention," he'd said with a grin.
And then you’d worked. Just like that. Shoulder to shoulder with someone who believed in you, who loved the process out loud, who could build whole choruses just by tracing the shape of a feeling in the air with his hands.
It was easy. Seamless. Words flowing between the two of you like they belonged there, like they always had. You’d felt productive, welcomed. Useful. And when you finally left his studio hours later, it had been with your mind buzzing—not from pressure, but from creation.
Now, back in the present, Yoongi exhales.
“The reason it’s taking me so long to join you two…” he hesitated, “...it’s not because you have to sort through all of Namjoon’s ideas.”
You kept your gaze steady.
“It’s because I have none about what to write,” he said quietly. “None at all.”
You opened your mouth to speak, but he continued on.
“Do you remember I told you that I don’t really write happy songs?” he said, voice quiet, tentative.
"Yes, Yoongi," you said softly.
Yoongi’s hand drifted from your hair. Rubbed along the seam of his pants, back and forth, like he could press the nerves out of his skin. He looked down, then sideways, toward the keys. Then past them, like he wasn’t really seeing anything at all.
“I know it’s stupid,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges. “And it’s not like it’s the first time I’ve gotten better before, but…”
His fingers curled into the fabric.
“Sometimes I’m scared to,” he admitted. “Get better.”
You felt your next breath turn shallow in your chest.
“I’m scared the music won’t be good anymore,” he said. “Like people won’t feel it. They won’t relate to it if I’m not—” He cut off, jaw tightening.
“Yoongi,” you said, finally. Your voice came soft. Not a whisper. Just low enough to meet him there.
He didn’t look at you. Only let his thumb slide once more over the curve of his thigh, anxious and quiet.
You sighed softly. Reached over and took his hand—gently, like you were asking permission. And when he didn’t pull away, you turned his palm upward and pressed your lips to his knuckles. Slow. Thoughtful. Like your mouth could answer something his heart hadn’t said yet.
He blinked, once. But his fingers curled tighter around yours.
“Yoongi,” you said, voice quiet. “It’s not stupid.”
Your thumb brushed over the ridge of his finger.
“But I don’t think you need to go looking for pain.”
He looked at you now. Not all the way. Just enough for his lashes to lift and his eyes to flicker your way—faint, uncertain, like the tail end of a tremor.
“Life has enough of it already,” you continued. “Things happen. People leave. People die… There will always be sad things to write about.”
His shoulders shifted, just barely. A breath passed between you. He didn’t argue, but he didn’t agree either. You could feel it in the quiet. In the way his mouth stayed still.
So you smiled. Just a little.
“Do you know what my favourite song of yours is?" you asked. "Not yours, but all of you?”
That made him turn. His brows knitted slightly. The smallest crease appeared between them, genuine curiosity in the dip of his mouth.
Your smile softened.
“It's ‘Yet To Come.’”
You watched it register.
Yoongi blinked again. Tilted his head, just slightly, like he hadn’t expected that answer. You could see the way his brow wanted to pinch tighter—how he was about to downplay it, maybe.
So you spoke again, before he could.
“I know it’s not what the whole song is really about…” you began. “It’s about you guys. Your journey. What you’ve been through, what’s still ahead.”
He didn’t interrupt. Just listened. His eyes a little darker now. More still.
“But for me…” you hesitated, then pushed forward, “Well, I think people spend a lot of time looking back."
His lips parted slightly.
You steadied your voice.
“They remember things better than they were sometimes," you said. "And they worry that things won't be like that again. They won't feel that sort of happiness. And then they get stuck there—comparing everything to a version of the past that probably wasn’t even real.”
“But when I heard that song…” you went on, a little breathless now, “I didn’t feel like I was supposed to go back. I didn’t feel like that happiness was something only in the past. I felt like—”
You faltered, just for a second.
“Like it could happen again. Like it could be even better next time. That maybe the best moment of my life hadn’t already passed. That there were more things to look forward to.”
Yoongi's mouth was parted, but no sound came.
“So,” you said, a little quieter. “My favourite song of yours is a happy one. A hopeful one.”
Yoongi blinked slowly.
You could see the way his eyes moved—not toward you, but within him. Tracking something invisible. His gaze darted from your face to the piano, to the floor, to nowhere.
“Yoongi,” you said gently, probing him from his thoughts.
His gaze flicked toward you again.
“When you put sound and lyrics together,” you said, "you can make a happy song sound sad. Or a sad song sound happy.”
A small furrow appeared between his brows.
“And I think… you already know that,” you went on, thumb brushing his knuckles. “You know more about music than I ever will. But... I think you just needed to hear it from someone else, hm?”
His lashes dropped. Then lifted again. His eyes flicked once more, like he was still arguing with himself—but the edge was dulling.
“I think…" he sighed. "I think you’re right.”
A breath passed.
Then Yoongi leaned in a little, so quiet you nearly missed it.
“My moonlight…”
The words were almost nothing. Whispered more to himself than to you.
But they landed.
He didn’t give you time to respond. Just bent his head and kissed the side of yours, mouth warm against your temple, the gesture simple but whole.
“I wish I met you sooner,” he whispered.
Your heart moved in your chest—just enough to ache.
Maybe that could be seen as romantic.
That the love inside of someone bloomed so quickly it outgrew the present, that it wasn’t careful or quiet, but urgent and whole.
So full it reached backward through time as if loving someone now wasn’t enough, as if it needed more days, more hours, more chances just to adore them properly.
Maybe that was the only way to survive a love this immense. To carry it backward through time. To reach with it into the spaces where he hadn’t yet been, and imagine he had always been there, waiting just out of frame. To send it like light through memory, illuminating days he never touched and hours he never saw, until even the past began to feel warm with the shape of him.
Maybe that’s what people meant when they said I wish I met you sooner—not we missed our moment, but there’s too much inside me now to believe this only belongs to now.
But there was another way to hear it.
Another meaning that sat just beneath the romance, heavy as undertow.
Because wishing to meet someone sooner also meant knowing—really knowing—that you hadn’t. That something essential had already been spent.
Years lived without each other weren’t just empty space; they were rooms already furnished with damage, with habits, with scars that didn’t vanish just because love arrived late and brilliant.
And so maybe what he really meant was:
I’m scared there won’t be enough time now.
That this—this fragile, luminous thing—had arrived not late, but precisely at the moment when both of you finally understood how much there was to lose.
You pulled out your phone next.
Your fingers moved without thinking, unlocking your screen, opening up that app of piano chords—the one Yoongi always looked at that you now had on your phone too.
You set the phone gently on the edge of the piano shelf.
"Here,” you said softly. “Play this song.”
His head leaned forward, already scanning the screen.
“But play it a little bit slower…" you added. "And maybe a little bit lower?”
He turned to you fully then. Face completely flat.
“Are you telling me," he said slowly, deadpan, "that you want me to transpose a song in real time?”
You smiled, humming a little.
“Are you telling me you can’t?” you challenged.
That earned you a small exhale. Not quite a laugh. But the shadow of one.
Yoongi didn’t argue. Just turned back toward the piano. Looked down at the screen.
You watched his eyes skim the chords—sharp, fast, precise. That genius twitch behind the quiet. He scrolled a little. Blinked. Then scrolled back up to the top.
And then he started to play.
It came softly at first, like the sound had to ease its way into the room. Familiar, but re-coloured—slower, as you asked. Lower, like dusk instead of noon.
You waited for the part you wanted, watching his hands move—
And then you began to sing to him.
“There is no upper hand, I’m giving you mine.”
You reached out. Rested your palm on his thigh, your thumb brushing in slow circles through the soft give of his sweats.
“It doesn’t have to end up wasting your time.”
He exhaled, barely audible.
“There’s things that I could say, but here in my way…” you continued, eyes on him, smiling a little now.
“...I want to let you know that it’s all okay.”
Then you leaned in, pressing your lips to his cheek.
And when you did—
He stopped playing.
Yoongi sucked in a breath like he was about to speak, but no words came—only the soft sound of his tongue catching against his lower lip as he wet it, his brow furrowing again.
“I don’t understand your music taste at all,” he said, tone dipping into something playfully exasperated.
You blinked, caught off guard by the pivot. But he was already going.
“First, you talk to me about Hozier,” he said, ticking off invisible points with his fingers, “then you showed me that punk band that one time, then you got really into that musical, and then you always, always play that one song—the one by…”
He trailed off, grimacing faintly. Searching his brain like it had betrayed him.
You smiled a little, wondering if he would ever figure out that you liked that song so much because it made you think of him. If maybe he already knew.
You watched him, something warm and foolish blooming in your chest. Sometimes, you also wondered if he ever thought of you like that. Hopelessly romantic. If there were songs that reminded him of you the way so many reminded you of him. If your voice ever looped in his mind like a chorus. What colour he saw in your eyes.
Yoongi let out a small noise of frustration.
“I don’t remember how to say the years in English from before 2000,” he said.
He made a vague gesture with his hand. “The one, nine, seven, five.”
You stared at him for a second.
“Yoongi,” you said. Very pointedly. “It’s the lyrics.”
He blinked.
“…Oh," he mumbled, eyes dropping to the piano keys. "That makes sense."
“Yoongi,” you said again, this time full of fond disbelief. “Are you being serious right now?”
But he didn’t answer your question. Just gave you a little half-smile in such a way that you were unable to tell.
You smiled, but it faded a little at the edges. Your body shifted—just slightly—on the bench, knees still turned toward him, your shoulder brushing his.
“I know it’s different for a lot of people,” you murmured. “But for me… it’s always been the lyrics that are the most important.”
He tilted his head slightly.
You went on. “Every time I hear something new, I’m always listening for the words first. That’s what sticks. That’s what moves me.” A soft shrug. “It’s what I focus on and remember most.”
There was a pause.
Then—
"Mm," Yoongi hummed dryly. "So you're saying… I work so hard, put in all these hours producing tracks, for nothing?"
You exhaled a quiet laugh at his teasing, barely a breath, and leaned in.
“Sorry, producer-nim,” you whispered, leaving a kiss on a certain spot behind his ear.
His shoulder tensed slightly—only for a second—and then you felt it. The smile. Soft, reluctant. His jaw tipping a little as he bit down on it, eyes dropping. You could see the faint pink bloom at the tops of his ears.
After a beat, when his expression settled, he spoke again.
“You have a song for everything, don’t you?” he asked quietly.
“Maybe,” you hummed.
Yoongi didn’t say anything else.
Just looked at you for a long moment—eyes soft but unreadable—before turning back toward the piano. His hands found their place again, resting on the keys with the ease of heartbeat. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to play again.
And he played and played, letting the music stretch long into the night—threading one melody into the next as if following a trail only he could hear. Sometimes slow and soft, sometimes fuller, like he needed to test the strength of sound again, to feel it pulse through the keys and back into his skin.
You sat beside him in silence, watching the way his shoulders moved. The way his fingers pressed into the keys like he meant it. Like every note mattered. Like they were answers to questions he couldn’t quite ask out loud.
It wasn’t until his hands finally stilled—resting at last on the piano like the hush after rain—that you noticed it.
The glass.
It sat untouched on the shelf, amber catching in the low light. His hands had been too busy to ever reach for it.
And now, in the quiet, he looked at it.
For a long time. He sat there, his gaze resting on the glass for a long moment like he was remembering something. Or deciding not to.
Then he turned his head—and looked at you.
His gaze was rested over you for an equally long time. Eyes soft and unhurried. Like he was weighing something wordless in the silence between you.
Then he sighed.
Then he stood. Picked up the glass without a word and walked to the kitchen.
You heard the water turn on. The faucet running. The subtle clink of glass against ceramic. Something splashing.
And while you couldn’t be sure—you didn’t see it—you thought you heard him pour it out. Not drink it. Just let it go.
He came back a moment later, his shadow stretching over the edge of the piano bench. You turned your knees slightly to face him, looking up.
He offered his hand. Held out to you, palm up, pale fingers slightly curved. The same hand that had played all night without pause. The same hand that had hovered beside yours for months before touching it.
“Come,” he said quietly. “Let’s go to bed.”
You hesitated for just a moment, eyes searching his.
His gaze met yours—deep and steady, the colour of burnt umber in low light. That rich, quiet brown that reminded you of walnut shells and old books and the warm press of earth after rain. Something patient. Something that stayed.
Then you took it.
And he pulled you to your feet gently, fingers closing around yours as he led you back through the dark hallway with something that felt a little like trust.
And again… while you couldn’t be sure—after that night, the glass on the shelf always seemed to stay where it was.
Untouched.
As if his hands had decided they were meant for other things now.
So was love that hurts love at all?
Well—you think it's the same thing.
I watched documentaries with the volume low and learned that once, before the water grew loud with engines and tainted with poison, that blue whales once sang across entire oceans. That their voices could travel for miles, could find each other through darkness and pressure and cold. Now they sing less. Shorter. Quieter. Because of course a dying planet would have less songs. Of course love can't echo the way it once did. I wonder if the last one will stop not because of the pollution. But because there is no one left to sing back. Because even the largest heart in the world can go silent from loneliness. Once on a boat, I caught sight of the large creatures. And my friend warned me not to feed it, but they didn't understand my heart was just there. See, I am the ocean, the earth, whatever dies for you. And I want to die here. I want to die in the same universe where I met you. In the same universe that loved me through your hands. And if I am buried beneath it all, six feet under with the sea lapping at the edges of my grave, and the amphipods and hagfish come to eat my heart, all they’ll taste is you. You, and you, and you, layered so deeply into me that even scavengers can’t separate us. And I will be sweet in their mouths because I was full of you when I died. I believe if I told the ocean what I felt for you, it would have abandoned its shores. Left its shells and salt and ancient hunger and followed me inland, just to stand near you and listen for your voice.
Once, I read an excerpt about how people treat fish with so much casual cruelty because fish can't scream. You can scream. But you don't. You wonder if he would keep going if you did.
Back in the present, you don’t realize Taehyung’s hands are already in yours until he’s pulling you gently to your feet, the motion easy and certain, like it’s the only thing he can think to do. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain—just pulls you happily into some sort of exaggerated slow dance.
The kitchen is small, and there’s nothing graceful about it. Your socks drag on the floor, the oven mitts still abandoned beside the ramekins, a chair knocked slightly askew. But that doesn’t stop him. He leads you in a slow, swooping waltz that doesn’t follow any rhythm but his own, his shoulders swaying with over the top gravitas, his free arm curved over your side like a theatre-trained prince at a school play.
"Taehyung-ah," you almost laugh. Not quite—but close.
He grins back. And you let yourself be moved.
It’s ridiculous. It's not romantic. It’s just that the joy—this quiet, stunned joy—has nowhere else to go, and so it spills out of both of you like this, in these wide, drowsy turns and overacted flourishes, in the way his head leans dramatically to one side and yours follows without thinking, your steps clumsy but somehow still in sync.
So you move together through the small, golden kitchen, swept along by something too big and tender to name, the edges of it caught in flour-dusted countertops and the scent of vanilla and warm cream, the echo of your laughter barely held back by your teeth, the sting behind your eyes softening into something else entirely.
But the moment doesn’t last forever.
The hallway creaks.
A shadow lengthens across the floor.
And then, without warning—arms crossed, shoulders leaning against the doorframe like he’s been standing there for who knows how long—Yoongi speaks:
“What the hell is going on here?" he says. "I’m gone for a few hours and I lose my girlfriend and my kitchen.”
You turn too quickly, socks slipping a little on the tile.
“Yoongi,” you say, a little breathless.
His name leaves your mouth like it’s been waiting at the edge of your tongue. Like relief and delight braided into a single sound.
And when your eyes meet his—arms still crossed, mouth twitching somewhere between disbelief and fondness—your voice softens.
“Will you eat a little?”
Taehyung doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s already moving, nimble and sure-footed, grabbing a ramekin from the counter.
“Try, hyung,” he says, dipping a spoon inside and holding a bite out toward him.
Yoongi sighs—long-suffering, theatrical. But his shoulders lower by a fraction, and his eyes flicker with that familiar glint.
He doesn’t say anything.
Just tips his head back slightly, mouth opening with slow resignation, like he’s doing you both an enormous favour.
Taehyung grins, triumphant, and carefully feeds him the first bite.
The sugar cracks audibly under the spoon.
Yoongi chews. Slowly. Thoughtfully.
Then, after a beat—still expressionless—he says,
“…It’s good.”
And the warmth between you simmers like the custard in the pot hours ago—slow and quiet and sweet.
You don’t say anything more.
But none of you leave the kitchen for a long time.