Who Let You Get Hot?

by fromgloss

Summary:

The first time you see Min Yoongi again—after seven years of no contact, no crush, and no emotional spiral—is when he casually strolls into your parents’ house like he didn’t ruin your teenage life by calling you his “little sister.”

Now he’s back for Seokjin’s wedding. He’s the best man. You’re a bridesmaid. Your childhood bedroom is still painted pink. And unfortunately, he’s somehow even hotter.

You haven’t had a crush on him in years.

Thank god you brought Jungkook as your plus-one. Because someone’s going to have to physically hold you back.

Notes:

I finally finished this fic after years (started this around 2018...) hope you guys enjoy this!

Chapter 1: Home Is Where The Heart Is

Before everything got complicated, before New York and grown-up jobs and the stupid ache in your chest every time you heard his name—there was that one summer.

You were fifteen. He was nineteen. Home from college with longer hair and a new tattoo you weren’t supposed to notice. You tried not to. You failed spectacularly.

It was the Fourth of July, and your parents were throwing their annual neighborhood barbecue. Sparklers, streamers, tin trays of overcooked hot dogs, toddlers shrieking as they ran through sprinklers. Your mom had cleaned for two days straight. Your dad had pulled the ancient fold-out chairs from the garage. Seokjin was in charge of the playlist, which meant early 2000s boy bands were blasting off your deck while he pretended not to sing along.

And Yoongi—he’d shown up late, wearing black jeans in July, a six-pack of something craft and bitter swinging from his hand. You pretended not to notice him when he hugged your mom, high-fived Seokjin, and ignored the folding chairs entirely to lean against the railing with that lazy half-smile.

Of course you noticed him. Everyone noticed him.

You just . . . noticed harder.

The sun was down by the time you wandered around the side of the house, your paper plate abandoned on a lawn chair, your flip-flops slapping against the driveway. And there he was—away from the noise, half-lit by the flicker of a citronella candle on the back steps. “You hiding?” you asked, arms folded across your chest.

Yoongi looked up from his phone. “Nah. Strategically avoiding drunk uncles and marriage advice.” You laughed, nervously. “You’re nineteen.” You had said, tilting your head.

“Which apparently means I need to settle down immediately and start contributing to the gene pool.” He took a swig from his bottle and tipped it toward you. “You want a sip?” Your eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?” You asked, surprised.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, tipping it more. “It’s beer. You’re not gonna die.” You hesitated, “I’ve never had alcohol before.” You confessed, pursing your lips like you had just told him a sin so bad, god himself is looking down at you in shame.

Yoongi just smirked. “Then it’s your lucky night.”

You took the bottle, the glass warm from his hand, and brought it to your lips with exaggerated caution. It tasted like sweat and bad decisions. You gagged. “That’s disgusting!” You exclaimed, tongue poking out, head shaking in pure revulsion.

He laughed—an actual laugh, not one of his quiet huffs—and leaned back on his elbows. “And yet you’ll pretend you love it in college.” You handed it back, trying not to focus on the fact that your fingers had brushed. “You gonna tell Seokjin?” You asked. Yoongi glanced sideways at you, expression unreadable. “Do I look like I wanna die?”

You grinned.

And for a second, the world felt slow. Easy. Like maybe he didn’t see you as a kid anymore.

Two weeks later, you got sick. Really sick.

It started as a headache, slowly it evovled into a sore throat, and by Friday you were half-delirious in bed with a fever and no voice. Your parents were already halfway through a weekend conference in Rhode Island, and Seokjin—who had never taken care of a sick teenager—was in full panic mode by the time Yoongi dropped by to return his jacket. “She’s dying,” Jin told him dramatically, opening your door like it was a crime scene.

You groaned from beneath your covers. “Go away.” You huffed, tugging the pillow closer to your body. Yoongi leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “Wow. Still charming when you’re half-dead.”

“Why are you here,” you rasped, head reeling from the pain, and perhaps embarrassment that you crush is seeing you like this, hair all messed up, crusty lips, sniffling nose.

“Because your brother’s idea of care is yelling at the thermometer and Googling ‘how much soup is too much soup.’”

Seokjin shrugged. “I tried.” He said, as Yoongi rolled his eyes. “Go play Xbox or something. I got it.”

“Bless you,” Seokjin said, already retreating.

And then it was just Yoongi. In your doorway. Again.

He walked in like he’d done it a hundred times—which, to be fair, he had—and sat on the edge of your bed with the ease of someone who used to build pillow forts with you in the basement. “You look like death.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

He reached out without warning and pushed your hair off your clammy forehead. “Still warm. Have you eaten anything?” He asked, genuine concern dripping from his tongue.

“I had some crackers,” you mumbled. “Yeah? And did they fight back?”

You tried to smile. It turned into a cough. Yoongi stood. “I’m making you real soup. Try not to die in the ten minutes I’m gone.”

He brought back miso ramen—actual ramen, not the instant kind—and fed you spoonfuls until you got your appetite back. When you started dozing off, he stayed. Sat cross-legged on the carpet, scrolling on his phone, occasionally glancing over at you.

You woke up once, hours later, to find him curled at the foot of your bed, passed out in your desk chair with a hoodie over his face. That was the thing about Yoongi. He never said anything he didn’t mean. And he never said the things that mattered most. So he never mentioned the beer. Or the soup. Or the fact that he stayed all night to look after you while Seokjin checked in once in a while.

But he left his hoodie on the back of your chair when he left the next morning.

You wore it for two years.

Now, you’re twenty-eight. You live in a two-bedroom in East Village with hardwood floors, exposed brick, and a bathtub that doubles as laundry storage. The bodega guy calls you sweetheart. Your coworkers respect you. Your fridge has actual vegetables in it, and not just for decoration. You’re doing well.

Emotionally. Mentally. For the most part.

You have a job you’re good at. A therapist you ghost sometimes. A skincare routine. A gym buddy. Unfortunately, that gym buddy is Jeon Jungkook—co-worker, best friend, occasionally your duet partner when Taehyung couldn’t make it to karaoke night. 

“You’re dropping your guard again,” Jungkook says, ducking around your half-assed jab like he’s auditioning for a Gatorade ad. “I’m literally fighting for my life right now.” You pant, already regretting this whole session. You liked working out, you liked boxing, but Jungkook likes seeing you suffer. So, when he saw that you were getting comfortable in the gym, in the ring, he stopped going easy on you.

“You’re fighting like someone who ate a muffin for lunch and called it protein.”

“It had protein. Blueberry counts.”

Jungkook gives you a withering look and taps your forehead with the tip of his glove. “ Focus .” You swat at him, missing by at least a foot. He laughs. “Wow. So scary. I’m quaking.” He teased, going as far as pulling his fists together and shimmying his body like he was shaking in fear.

“Shut up,” you huff, yanking off your gloves and flopping onto the bench like a Victorian woman in distress. “I’m not trying to be a fighter. I just want sexy arms.”

“You should’ve signed up for pilates. You punch like a kitten.”

“A hot kitten,” you correct. “The hottest,” he agrees instantly, tossing you a towel. “Like, objectively very sexy and very bad at this.” You flip him off, and he bows theatrically.

You’re halfway through guzzling your water when he plops down next to you, fresh sweat clinging to his tank top in that gross, Jungkook way that somehow still looks like a photoshoot. “So,” he says casually, “What are we wearing to Seokjin’s rehearsal dinner?”

“ We? ”

“Obviously I’m your plus-one. The hot distraction. The arm candy.”

“I thought you were going as Seokjin’s friend, and let’s not forget as a groomsman?”

“I’m everything,” he says, deadpan. “But mostly, I’m the one who’s going to stand between you and your tragic, unresolved crush if he gets too close.” Your water bottle pauses mid-sip. “You mean Yoongi?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Oh no,” Jungkook gasps, clutching his chest. “She speaks his name.” You glare at him. “He’s not my tragic, unresolved crush.” You denied.

“Wasn’t he your first love?”

“He was my first delusion. There’s a difference.” Jungkook grins at you like the little shit he is. “Is there?”

“He’s four years older than me. He used to babysit me when Jin was lazy.”

“Hot.”

“I was fifteen and had the flu.”

“Still hot. In a morally questionable way.” He teased, grinning. You groan and tug your towel over your face. “Why are you like this?”

“Because,” he says, standing and stretching like the annoying menace he is, “If he flirts with you at this wedding, you’re going to panic and forget how to blink. And someone has to be there to film it.” You peek at him through the towel. “You’re the worst.”

“And you,” he grins, “Are in so much trouble. Besides, you have game, just, not when it counts.”

“You know,” you say between gulps of water, “For someone who promised to gently ease me into boxing, this feels a lot like hazing.” You changed the subject.

Jungkook doesn’t even look up from where he’s rewrapping his hands. “You said you wanted Sydney Sweeney arms. I’m helping you realize your truth.”

“I said that once, and I was joking.”

“You said it while holding a dumbbell in one hand and a churro in the other. That was peak honesty.”

You toss your towel at him. He catches it without flinching, of course, and grins like he’s the worst person alive. “You’re lucky you’re hot,” you mutter.

“I get that a lot.”

The door to the studio swings open before you can retaliate. Taehyung enters like he’s floating. All flowy sweatpants and messy hair and sunglasses indoors, even though you’re underground in a private boxing studio in SoHo.

“Did someone say hot?” he drawls. Jungkook groans. “You’re late.” He scolded.

“I brought muffins.”

“I take it back,” you say, reaching for the paper bag he’s holding. “You’re the only man I’ve ever loved.”

Taehyung bows low as you dig through the bag. “A woman of taste.”

“Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?” Jungkook asks, side-eyeing him.

“Because,” Taehyung says simply, “I cried during a TikTok this morning, and I’m still emotionally recovering.”

You and Jungkook blink. “What was the TikTok?” you ask, already halfway through a blueberry muffin.

“A dad came home from deployment and surprised his daughter during her ballet recital.”

Jungkook clutches his chest. “Shit.”

“I know.”

You all fall into a moment of respectful silence for TikTok dads and their tiny, sobbing ballerinas. Later, you’re back on your feet while Taehyung perches on the bench like a cat with a latte, offering completely useless commentary.

“Jab,” Jungkook calls. “Twist your hips—yes. Again. Breathe through it.”

“You know,” Taehyung says mildly, “Watching the two of you train together is weirdly erotic.” You swing wide and nearly fall over.

“Not like that,” he adds, not sounding sorry. “Just—you’re sweaty, aggressive, and he keeps grunting, and guiding you through it.”

“I’m gonna punch you next,” you mutter, wiping sweat from your forehead. Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Please. You can’t even punch me when I’m asking for it.” He huffs. Taehyung wiggles his brows. “Okay now that was erotic.”

“You two are the actual worst,” you say, dropping your gloves with a groan. But you’re smiling. And for a second, life is easy. Familiar.

You, Jungkook, Taehyung. Three idiot nurses in the city. Brunch warriors. Gym flirts. Co-conspirators in life and patient charting.

And none of this has anything to do with the way your stomach flipped when Seokjin texted you last night.

seokjinnie: yoongi’s flying in tomorrow. he’s crashing at the house for the week.

seokjinnie: try not to make it weird lol

seokjinnie: jk (unless??)

You’d left him on read. Jungkook hadn’t.

jungkook: oh we’re making it weird

jungkook: can’t wait to meet the man who turned our girl into an emotional support puddle

You’d seriously considered changing your name and joining a silent retreat in Vermont.

The dress code for the rehearsal dinner was white-tie.

White-tie.

“My brother is such a drama queen,” you mutter, flipping through a rack of floor-length gowns that all feel like they come with a prenup and a tragic backstory. “Facts,” Jungkook says. “Also, these price tags are making me break out.”

“Relax,” Taehyung sighs, already carrying three options over one arm like he owns the place. “It’s a wedding. A statement moment. You don’t walk into a white-tie rehearsal dinner wearing mall energy.”

You narrow your eyes. “Are you calling me mall energy?” Jungkook raises a hand. “I will not defend you here. That’s between you and the Forever 21 bodysuit you tried to buy.” You scowl at the dig. “It was tasteful.”

“It had rhinestones shaped like butterflies.”

“Which are timeless, thank you.” They really weren’t, but you just liked how it sparkled.

Ten minutes later, you emerge from the fitting room in the first dress—a strapless column of fabric that hugs everything and reveals nothing. “Thoughts?” You ask, arms slightly raised. “Do I look classy?”

“You look like you’re about to give a TED Talk about reinventing spreadsheets,” Jungkook deadpans. You scoff. “You’re such a hater.” You say, flipping him off.

“I’m not a hater,” he says, lounging in the velvet armchair like it’s his therapist’s office. “I’m a visual expert. And this dress says assistant vice president of sadness.” Taehyung sips from his overpriced iced matcha, nodding. “He’s right. Next.”

The second dress is floatier. Sweetheart neckline. Tulle skirt that could trap a small dog if you walked too fast. You do a tentative twirl. Jungkook blinks slowly. “Did you steal that from a Renaissance fair?”

“It’s romantic!” You protest.

“It’s feral prairie wife energy.”

“Honestly,” Taehyung hums, “I’m kind of into it. It says, I churn my own butter but I also know my way around a strap-on.”

“ . . . I hate you both.”

“And yet,” Jungkook grins, “You’re still twirling.”

By the third dress, you’re sweating. The dressing room is humid, your patience is thin, and the zipper on this gorgeous sage-green number is staging a mutiny.

You grunt. Yank. Twist. It won’t budge past mid-back. “I need assistance!” You shout through the curtain. “This dress is trying to kill me!” You were being dramatic, but that clearly runs in the blood.

“I volunteer!” Taehyung sings.

“Denied,” Jungkook says immediately. “You once broke a zipper on a romper and walked away like it was someone else’s problem.”

“That was one time—”

Jungkook ducks behind the curtain. You freeze, arms awkwardly above your head. He doesn’t say anything—just steps behind you, warm fingers brushing your bare spine as he finds the zipper. You catch a glimpse in the mirror, how the two of you are standing close, your eyes wide, his brow furrowed like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “Chill,” he mutters, “I’ve zipped more dresses than I’ve had relationships.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It should be.”

You purse your lip as he pulls the zipper up, slow and smooth, the fabric whispering against your skin. “There,” he says, not moving. “Perfect fit.”

His hands don’t leave your waist immediately. “Oh damn,” he says. You blink. “What?” He steps back, hands leaving your waist now, eyes flicking over you with sudden reverence. “Okay. I get why David from Neuro spirals over you.”

“ . . . What?”

Taehyung pulls the curtain aside dramatically. “Let me see—” He stops mid-sentence. “ Oh .”

You turn to the mirror. And yeah. It’s kind of a problem.

The sage green clings in all the right places. It makes your collarbones look sharper, your waist look narrower, and your skin glow like you had eight hours of sleep and emotional closure. You don’t look hot.

You look . . . grown. Sexy. But not sexy enough that your dad might start digging your grave. “You’re buying that one,” Taehyung says, arms crossed. Jungkook nods, still staring. “Yoongi’s gonna need therapy.” He says. You groan and turn away. “Okay. You guys are banned from compliments forever.” You say, pushing them out of the fitting room.

Once you’ve secured the dress and booked emergency tape assistance for later, it’s Jungkook’s turn. “Nothing flashy,” he says. “Just classic. Hot. Clean. Very I work out but also I’m deep.”

“Got it,” you say. “You want to look like you read poetry at Equinox.”

“I am poetry,” he says, pulling a velvet jacket off the rack. Taehyung squints. “Too red. You’ll look like a villain who dies at the opera.” He judges, feeling the fabric like some kind of connoisseur. 

Jungkook is now the one in the dressing room, trying on tux number three—it’s dark, green, velvet. Unexpected. Possibly dangerous. Definitely expensive. Jungkook steps out with one brow raised like he knows exactly what he’s doing

Taehyung gasps. “Okay this is hot. Like smokes clove cigarettes and probably quotes Oscar Wilde in bed hot.” 

You blink. Jungkook tilts his head. “Too much?” You swallow. “You look like you collect vintage lighters and bad decisions.” You said, still staring.

He grins at that. “So . . . yes?” He asks, Taehyung shrugs. “If it were a dinner party in Vienna, we’d say yes. But white-tie rehearsal dinner? It’s a little . . . decadent villain.”

“I’m not mad at it,” you murmur, shrugging as well.

Jungkook catches that. His smile widens. “You’re picturing it, aren’t you? Us walking in—me in this, you in your sage gown. You pretending you didn’t just check me out.” You glare at him. “I check you out constantly. It’s tradition.” You scoffed.

“Aww,” he coos. “You think I’m pretty.”

“I think you’re dramatic.”

“I think I’m right,” he sings, already turning back into the fitting room. 

You think Jungkook likes to pretend he hates shopping, but you know better. He walked into the boutique like he owned the lease, leaned against the marble counter like a walking cologne ad, and raised one brow at the men’s section like it personally owed him something.

And now he’s shirtless in a fitting room with better lighting than your apartment—which says a lot, sighing dramatically like this is so hard for him.

“I swear to God,” you mutter, arms crossed as you and Taehyung wait outside the fitting room, “If he comes out in that three-piece pinstripe mess, I’m leaving.”

“You’re just afraid of how much you’d like it,” Taehyung says, sipping from the matcha he insisted on bringing in. You shoot him a look. “He’s not allowed to outshine me.”

“Baby, he can’t. You look fucking sexy in that dress. He’s just . . . your hot sidekick slash maybe love interest with delts.”

The curtain shifts as Jungkook steps out. He’s wearing a black tux. Classic cut, slim through the waist, tailored to the kind of precision that feels illegal. The shirt’s crisp white, collar slightly undone, black silk bow tie dangling untied around his neck like he means business but also might ruin your life in a hallway.

“Oh my God,” Taehyung says reverently. “You look like you embezzle. In Monaco.”

Jungkook tugs on the cuffs. “I feel like I need a cigar and a mistress.” He says, checking himself out in the mirror. You blink again. “You need to be arrested.” You said. He turns to you, smug. “You like it?”

You scoff. “I didn’t say that.”

“You looked at me like I just fucked you silly and you liked it.”

“I looked at you like I’m deeply offended by your bone structure.”

He grins, “That’s fair.”

Taehyung walks a slow, theatrical circle around him like he’s judging an Olympic figure skater. “It’s giving a rich ex who shows up at your wedding just to say he still loves you.” Jungkook shrugs. “Not entirely off brand.”

You roll your eyes. “I think you should try it with the vest off. And maybe the shirt unbuttoned a little lower.” He tilts his head at your suggestion. “Is that a professional opinion?”

“It’s an aesthetic opinion.”

Jungkook disappears into the fitting room again.

A few minutes later, he steps back out. Vest gone. Top button undone. Hair a little mussed, like he just rolled out of bed and into trouble.

You do a double take.

“Oh come on,” you mutter. “Now you look like the villain who kisses the bride behind the chapel.” Taehyung clutches his chest again. “He’s gonna get so many numbers at this wedding.” He predicts. Jungkook smirks at you. “I only need one.” You narrow your eyes, a teasing glint behind them. “Please don’t hit on Seokjin’s fiancée.” You said. 

“I meant you, psycho.” He chuckles, seeing you choke. “We are not starting incest-adjacent jokes in this tux.”

“Too late,” Taehyung says, tapping a note into his phone. “That’s going in the speech.”

Jungkook steps closer, mock-serious. “You know this means we’ll look really, really good together.” He said, making you snort. “We always do.” You said. He grins at you. “Can’t wait to make Yoongi uncomfortable.” 

Taehyung claps. “Mission so accomplished.”

—-

The car smells like iced coffee, cheap perfume, and stress.

You’re slumped in the passenger seat with your shoes off and legs tucked under you, chewing on a straw wrapper like it wronged you in a past life. Jungkook’s driving your car—because you made him—with one hand on the wheel and the other drumming on the steering like he’s headlining a concert in his head. “You owe me so hard for this,” he says, glancing at you. “Like, I want a fruit basket and a handwritten apology.”

“You’re literally just driving,” you mumble, forehead pressed to the window. “You’re not being drafted for war.”

“You’re the worst road trip companion. You brought zero snacks. You’ve skipped twelve of my songs. You threatened to murder me for humming.” He bit back, “You were humming Nickelback.” You retorted.

“Justice for Nickelback.”

You groan and stretch your arms behind your head. “Wake me up when we hit the halfway point or a Wendy’s, whichever comes first.” “You’re the worst,” he says again.

“You said that already.”

“I mean it more now.”

The road unfurls like an old memory—flat highways, exit signs you used to beg your parents to take when you were kids. Jungkook has the windows down, and the breeze tangles your hair, and there’s something almost too peaceful about it all, of course until your phone starts buzzing in the cup holder.

It’s your mom. 

“Put it on speaker,” you say, already bracing yourself. Jungkook grins. “Can’t wait.” His thumb swipes the screen to answer the call, and immediately you greet her. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart!” Your mom chirps, her voice tinny through the speaker. “How’s the drive? Is Jungkook behaving?”

“No,” you say flatly. “Offended,” Jungkook mutters, glaring at you. “Oh, leave him alone,” your mom says with a laugh. “He’s always been better at long drives than you. At least he stays awake.”

“Thank you, finally,” Jungkook grins, smug.

“Are you two hungry? We’re having dinner at that restaurant you like with Sena—oh! And by the way, Yoongi’s already here. He got in a few hours ago.”

Your spine goes rigid. You look out the window like it has answers. “Already?” You ask, trying so hard to keep your voice casual. Like your heart didn’t just almost jolt out your ribcage at the mere mention of your ex-crush. Your mom hums in response, “He’s staying in the guest room, since his mom’s still deep-cleaning his old bedroom. Apparently lots of boxes. So—you’ll need to share with Jungkook again.”

You glance at him. He’s unfazed. One hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the center console like he owns it.

“Okay,” you shrug. “Fine with me,” Jungkook adds, nonchalant. “I already know which side of the bed’s mine.”

Your mom laughs. “Honestly, at this point, if you’re both still single at thirty-five, you should just get married.”

You groan because she’s doing it again. “ Mom .”

“I’m serious! You’re always together, you already sleep in the same bed, and you have amazing skin—imagine the children.”

“Stop,” you hiss.

“Tell her, Jungkook.” Your mom says, asking for backup. Of course, he shrugs. “She’s been planning this since sophomore year.” He says, like your mom made a point.

You sigh. He was right, though. “Literally since the first time he stayed over during a snowstorm. You gave him my baby blanket and told him to get used to it.” Your mom cackles at the memory. “Well, I meant it.” She said.

“We are very happy as best friends,” Jungkook says politely. Your mom hums. “Well, I still think you’d make a cute couple—”

“ Okay , we’re hanging up now,” you say. “I love you, but I will tuck and roll out of this car if this continues.” Your mom laughs like she’s won. “Love you both. Drive safe. Yoongi says hi!”

The call ends.

You sit in silence.

“She’s insane,” you say. “She’s an icon ,” Jungkook corrects. You roll your head toward him. “We’re really sharing my childhood bed again?”

“Obviously,” he says. “Like hell I’m letting Yoongi see me sleeping on the pull-out or the air mattress.” You snort at that. “You just want to keep tabs.”

“I want to win ,” he says. “And I look hotter in flannel.”

The second your car pulls into the driveway, you know you’re not ready.

Your childhood home looks exactly the same—porch light flickering, front door wide open like a welcome mat on steroids. There are at least four pairs of unfamiliar shoes stacked just outside the door, the smell of galbi smoke hanging thick in the air. Sunset is spilling gold across the lawn, turning everything soft and cinematic.

But your attention zeroes in on one thing. The car parked right next to yours. Sleek. Black. Brand new. The kind of car that says I do adult things like budget and floss and not fall apart at the sight of my childhood crush. It matches yours almost exactly. Of course it does.

Jungkook kill the engine. “He’s already here.” You say, as  Jungkook leans over to peer through the windshield. “Is that his car?”

“It has to be.”

He hums. “Nice taste. Shame he’s about to witness me carrying your Hello Kitty duffel bag.” He teased, looking at you with his eyebrows raised. You elbow him, rolling your eyes. “Shut up and grab something.”

You both spill out of the car, bickering the way only people who’ve shared too many 2AM snack runs and emotional breakdowns in nursing school can. “Get the heavy suitcase,” you say, as he tosses you the keys.

“I carried your emotional baggage all through college,” Jungkook retorts. “I think that counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

He pops the trunk and grabs your biggest bag like it’s filled with air. It’s not fair, the way he looks right now—tousled hair, white tee, tattoos half-visible as he shifts the bag over one shoulder. The late sun clings to him like it has a crush. He turns back toward you just as you yank off your hoodie, exposing the cropped tank top you’d forgotten was underneath.

He whistles low under his breath. “Okay, thirst trap. Damn .” You roll your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “You see me like this every week at the gym.”

“Yeah, but now we have natural lighting. I’m just a man.”

The front door swings open.

“Look who’s here!” Seokjin shouts, arms flung wide like a rom-com groom on a sugar high. “God,” you mutter. “He’s so happy. It’s disgusting.”

Seokjin bounds down the steps and immediately claps Jungkook on the back like they’ve been through war together. Which, in wedding planning terms, they probably have. “My guy!” Jin grins. “She let you drive her car again?”

“Didn’t have a choice,” Jungkook smirks. “She’s dramatic.”

“You’re aggressive behind the wheel,” you say, grabbing a tote bag. “You drive like a Fast & Furious extra.”

“I drive like a man who values momentum.”

Before you can answer, your dad pokes his head out from the side gate. “Oh good, you’re here. Jungkook—perfect timing. We’re moving the barbecue stove and Seokjin’s useless.”

“Hey,” Seokjin says. “I’m just embodying my groom-ness. I’m not allowed to lift things anymore.”

“Great,” you mutter. “So glad to be home.”

You’re halfway through dragging your suitcase up the driveway when you hear a voice—familiar, low, slightly raspy. “Who pulled in with her?”

You freeze.

Your mom’s voice chirps back, far too gleeful. “Oh, that’s just Jungkook. You haven’t met him?”

You turn. And there he is. Min Yoongi.

Carrying a stack of tupperware like it weighs nothing. Wearing a plain white tee and black slacks like he’s modeling for an Off-Duty But Emotionally Dangerous campaign. Hair slightly mussed. Jaw a little sharper. Shoulders broader than you remember, biceps definitely more defined.

You blink. Well, fuck . He got hotter with age.

Yoongi’s eyes meet yours. And then shift to Jungkook—who’s now laughing with your dad, one hand dragging the barbecue grill like a sexy little Hercules.

Yoongi’s expression falters because, what the fuck . You’re in a tank top, and he’s now noticing—you got hot. Like sinfully, irresistibly hot. With ab lines, and biceps hot and brought a man who’s just as hot.

Your mom tugs Yoongi forward. “Yoongi, come say hi!” She urges. He clears his throat, steadying the tupperware. “So . . . you two drove together?”

Before you can answer, your dad grins and claps a hand on Jungkook’s back. “Might as well be dating at this point.”

You choke. Jungkook just smiles. Yoongi’s eye twitches just a little. You chalk it up to older brother’s best friend's protectiveness, but you kind of hope it was something else. Maybe jealousy.

Your mom adds with a wink, “He’s already my son-in-law in spirit.” And Jungkook—absolute shit-starter, gym buddy, emotionally reckless best friend—just leans into it. “Well, you know me,” he says smoothly, meeting Yoongi’s gaze with all the innocence of a sinner in church. “I like to take care of what’s mine.”

You practically turn red. “Dude!”

Yoongi’s jaw tightens.

And in that exact moment, under the honey-colored light of your childhood driveway, you realize something vital.

The game has changed. You no longer looked like Seokjin’s younger sister—the same one who used to follow him around with puppy eyes that lit up anytime he gave you an ounce of hope. No, now you look like trouble. The kind he’d find back in the city, and staying up at night thinking about.

Your childhood bedroom is smaller than you remembered. Or maybe it’s just that Jungkook takes up too much space—shoes kicked off, shirt riding up, lying horizontally across your bed like he’s lived here forever.

Which, honestly, he kind of has if the weekends visiting your parents with him and Taehyung counted.

The room still smells faintly like teenage you. Old vanilla candles. Faint detergent. A hint of the body spray you used to drench yourself in before school dances. There are glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling and a polaroid of you, Jungkook, and Taehyung tucked into the corner of your mirror. “You kept this?” Jungkook says from your bed, holding it up. “Even with my freshman hair?”

You glance at the photo with a shrug. “It’s historically significant. You look like you were in a boy band. A bad one.” You grinned, as he tosses a scrunchie at your head. “Says the girl who still has butterfly clips in her drawer.” He said.

“They’re back in style!” You defended, hands on hip, eyebrow raised. “Oh my God, you’re part of the problem.” He teased, mouth hanging open.

You’re both halfway dressed for dinner—he’s in slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows showing off his body art ( rude ), and you’re shimmying into a black silky dress with an asymmetrical hemmed skirt that ruffled in white you can’t zip up yourself. “You need help?” Jungkook calls casually.

You nodded, trying to use the mirror as a guide somehow. Still, it served as a challenge you couldn't win on your own. “Yes, but don’t make it weird.” 

“I never make it weird,” he says, rolling off the bed. “You make it weird.” He said, “You walked in on me doing squats last week and said, a blessing and a curse. Then proceeded to judge my form.” You snorted.

“An observation, not a crime.”

You shoot him a glare as he steps behind you, fingers brushing your bare back as he finds the zipper. Your bedroom door is wide open. Neither of you think about it, your parents are already convinced you’ll be dating soon enough, and Seokjin does not give a single fuck anymore.

Somewhere down the hall, Yoongi is very much not looking for this. He was on a mission to the guest bathroom. What he found instead was your door open, your back bare, Jungkook standing behind you with the smuggest fucking look on his face as he slowly zips you into a dress that really doesn’t leave much to the imagination.

Yoongi blinks.

Your laugh floats into the hallway. “Careful,” you tease, “You’ll catch feelings.”

Jungkook’s voice follows, low and easy. “Too late.”

It’s a joke, obviously.

Right?

Yoongi should walk away. He should knock loudly and say something like “Hey, you guys seen Seokjin?” or “Tell your mom I’ll be out in a second.” He should do anything except stand there like a creep. But his feet don’t move.

You’re not his girlfriend. You never were. You just always acted like you belonged to him regardless. At least, that was the case when you were sixteen. But standing there—watching you let another man touch your back, laugh in your childhood bedroom, toss an arm over his shoulder like it’s nothing, it made him feel things he shouldn't feel for his best friend’s sister—the one he undoubtedly rejected in subtle ways for years, no less. 

Jungkook might not be your boyfriend. But he’s sure as hell not just a friend.

Yoongi’s jaw flexes again.

He turns around before either of you notice.

Back inside, you and Jungkook are unbothered.

You’re adjusting your earrings in the mirror, and he’s fiddling with his collar behind you. “You nervous?” He asks as you shrug. “About dinner?”

“About him .”

You don’t answer for a second. “No, not really. I’ve changed. I’m an adult. I have rent and a skincare routine.” You say, as Jungkook smirks. “You sure you’re not gonna choke on your water if he pulls out your chair?” He asks. 

“Only if he pulls it out while looking like a regret I’m not emotionally equipped to process.” You retort, raising your eyebrows.

He grins. “You’re doomed.” He says, peaking out your room to find Yoongi’s retreating back going down the stairs.

You toss him his watch. “So are you. You’re sitting next to my mom.” You laughed.

“God help us both.”

You and Jungkook are the last ones downstairs. You blame your earrings. Also your zipper. Also your lack of emotional preparation.

Because he’s here.

And not the casual, “hey, it’s Yoongi in sweatpants helping my mom slice onions” version. No . This is Yoongi in slacks and a slate gray dress shirt, sleeves rolled just so, collar undone like he woke up knowing he’d be the problem tonight.

You reach the bottom step and feel your heart stutter like it saw a ghost. Well . A ghost that does upper body workouts and looks like sin dressed in linen.

He’s standing by the bookshelf, hands tucked into his pockets, talking softly to your dad, watch shining against the lighting of the living room. Expensive. Tasteful. And when he looks up—you feel seventeen again. Not in a good way. In a diary under your pillow, is he smiling at me, I hate myself kind of way.

Jungkook notices. Of course he does. He leans in, voice low. “You okay?”

“No,” you mutter. “I’ve made a horrible mistake.” You continue. He grins, eyes raking your dress up and down before meeting your eyes. “Wearing that dress?” He asks, teasing, but he got the hint once his eyes landed on Yoongi. “Coming home.”

Jungkook just slings an arm around your shoulders. “Well, you look hot. So at least die pretty.”

Yoongi catches you mid-laugh, mid-grin, mid whatever the hell it is you think you’re doing. And he freezes. It’s subtle. Barely there.

But for a moment, Yoongi stares at you like he doesn’t quite recognize you. Or maybe he does—and that’s the problem.

You’re not the girl who wore braces and cried when she lost her iPod anymore. You’re twenty-eight, dressed in a silk dress that hugs every inch it’s supposed to, exposing a little of your upper thigh from the hem’s asymmetry like you knew you were trouble. Hair done. Lip gloss subtle. Eyes soft.

And when his gaze drops just slightly—past your collarbone, to the shape of your waist—he doesn’t look away the way he used to. He swallows once .

Then clears his throat. “You clean up well.” He compliments, meeting your eyes in a way he’s never done.

Your breath catches. Not because of what he says—but how he says it. Quiet. Measured. Like it’s a confession slipping through the cracks. You blink. “Thanks.” You reply, and he nods. “It’s been what—six years?” He asks, but really, he knew. “Almost seven,” you say. “Since graduation.”

He hums. “Right.”

Neither of you say anything about the fact that you both live in the same city. Neither of you explain why you never crossed paths. You both just stand there. The air sticky with almosts.

You step into the living room just in time to hear Seokjin say, “Okay. We need two cars. Two. Not three, Mom, because someone parked like a drunk raccoon and blocked the driveway—”

“Say it again,” your dad mutters. “Say raccoon again and you’re getting barbecue duty and the check.”

You suppress a groan and lean against the wall. Jungkook’s already lounging like he owns the place, spinning your car keys around one finger. “I’ll drive us.”

“Us who?” Seokjin asks. “Who’s in what car?”

“Me, obviously,” Jungkook says. “And her.” He jerks his chin toward you. You shrug, “You are the designated thief of my car, so . . .” You trailed off.

Yoongi, standing near the bookshelf in a black button-down that should come with a warning label, glances up at that. He hasn’t said much. But his eyes linger.

He says your name softly—just once—and it’s somehow worse than a speech. Like he’s still trying it on, six years later, and finding it fits tighter, better than he remembers.

Then, lightly, he asked, “You’re riding with Jungkook?”

There’s something in his tone. Not quite surprised. Not quite disappointed. Just . . . aware. You open your mouth.

And your mom jumps in before you can answer. “Actually, honey, why don’t you go with Yoongi? He knows where the restaurant is, and I don’t want you two getting lost again like last time.”

“I didn’t get lost,” Jungkook says flatly. “She just gave me deranged directions.”

“Excuse me,” you say, offended, “I navigated like a goddamn pioneer.”

“You made us stop for pie twice.”

“Both times were valid.”

Yoongi watches the whole exchange like he’s tuning a radio only he can hear. Then, like it’s no big deal, “I don’t mind. She can ride with me.” He smiled at your mom. You blink. Jungkook blinks, then a shit-eating grin appears on his face.

Seokjin, still deeply overinvested, throws in, “I’m with Jungkook. He plays better road trip music.”

Your dad pipes up. “We’re taking our car. We’ve got a parking voucher, and your mother’s shoes aren’t walking any extra blocks.”

That settles it. You glance at Jungkook. “Try and behave. That’s my baby.”

He flips the keys once, then grins. “Try not to flirt too hard,” he stage-whispers. “He’s old now.”

“He’s thirty-two,” you hiss.

“Exactly,” Jungkook says. “Basically a relic.”

Yoongi, without missing a beat, a teasing smile on his face. “I can still bench more than you.” He said. You blink, surprised. He’s teasing now? Jungkook shrugs, also surprised. “That’s fair.” 

Yoongi’s car smells like something expensive and barely there—leather and faint cologne and the kind of detail cleaning you don’t get unless you’re compensating for something. The second you slide into the passenger seat and close the door behind you, it’s quiet. Not awkward. Not loud.

Just quiet.

Yoongi starts the engine. A low, smooth hum. The kind of car that glides more than it drives. “So,” he says as he backs out of the driveway, one hand resting casually at the top of the wheel, “You’re working as a nurse practitioner now?”

You raise a brow, turning your head toward him. “Seokjin brief you?”

“Your mom.”

“Ah. The more dangerous source.” You chuckled. He smiles, barely. “She was very proud. Dropped the words top of her class at least twice when I got here.” He says.

You hum, tapping your fingers against your knee. “Yeah. I’ve been working in a private hospital. Emergency department.”

He whistles low under his breath. “Damn. Big league stuff.”

You shrug. “Pays the bills. And I get a nice break room with a window, if I even get breaks. That’s luxury in hospital world.” You say.

He laughs softly, eyes still on the road. “Bet you scare the hell out of new residents.” You grin at that. “Only the ones who think they know more than me.” You say, which was true. You’ve chewed out residents more than you’d like to admit—most of them in their first year. Most of your co-workers, including yourself, call them cowboys.

He glances sideways, just for a second. “You always did have that bite.”

You pretend not to notice the way his voice dips at the end of that sentence. Instead, you stretch your legs out a little, lean back in your seat. “What about you? Still in the music trenches?” You ask.

“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter now. “Producing full-time. Mostly under the label. Some independent work on the side. Lots of late nights.”

“Lots of Grammys,” you say lightly. He exhales a short laugh. “I don’t even keep them in the house.”

“Too humble?”

“Too dusty.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, big shot.”

He shoots you a crooked smile. “You think I’m a big shot now?” He asks, a little teasing. You tilt your head, give him a look. “Yoongi, you always were.”

That seems to shut him up for a second. Or maybe not. Maybe he’s just thinking too loudly to speak. You can see it in the way his fingers flex slightly on the steering wheel. The way his jaw ticks once, subtle.

When he speaks again, his voice is softer. Testing.

“I haven’t seen you since . . .”

“My college graduation,” you say, filling in the blank. “Six years ago.”

He nods, glancing over at you again. You don’t look away.

You say, breezy and devastating, “You looked the same back then, you know. Just slightly fewer wrinkles.”

He snorts. “Wow.”

“But still hot,” you add casually. “Don’t worry.”

He sputters. “You—”

“I mean, I wasn’t blind.”

“ Jesus ,” he mutters, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck like he hadn’t expected this from you. You smirk, a little teasing now that you can see the tip of his ears turning red. “What? You gonna pretend like you didn’t know I had a crush on you from, like, age thirteen to twenty?”

He clears his throat. “You were—”

“Little? Yeah, I know,” you say, turning to look out the window. “Trust me. You made it very clear.”

Silence. Heavy, but not cold.

The air changes somewhere around 72nd Street. Yoongi inhales. “You’re not . . . that little anymore.”

You glance back at him, expression unreadable. “No. I’m not.”

The restaurant is upscale but cozy—dim lighting, exposed brick, just enough jazz playing in the background to make you feel underdressed even though you’re absolutely not.

Yoongi opens the door for you, casual and quiet, and your pulse has the audacity to skip anyway. It’s like your body hasn’t gotten the memo that you’re grown now. Untouchable. Immune. You’re not immune. Not even close.

Sena—the bride to be—is already by the host stand when you walk in—warm, glowing, and giving off that bride who has her shit together energy that defies reality. Her champagne-colored slip dress is stunning. Her smile, even more so. She sees you and squeals. “You’re here!”

You barely have time to say hi before she’s wrapping you into a tight, perfume-sweet hug. “God, you look amazing. I love this dress. Did you get it in the city? You have to take me shopping when we’re back from the honeymoon.”

You smile, flattered. “Only if you let me steal that bag.”

She laughs, pulling back, eyes flicking to Yoongi just behind you. “And look who finally made it out of hiding.”

“Hi, Sena,” Yoongi says with a soft smile. She hugs him, too, like they’ve known each other forever. They probably have. “You don’t change.”

“Can’t say the same,” he says. “Seokjin clearly upgraded.”

Sena beams. “Flattery and punctuality? Maybe I was wrong about you.”

You glance around—and there they are. Your mom and dad at the table already, deep in conversation with the server. Seokjin’s waving a menu in Jungkook’s face like it owes him money. The table’s big, round, full of clinking glassware and voices bouncing between smiles.

Sena slips an arm through yours. “C’mon, come sit. You’re between two of my favorite boys.”

Your stomach drops. You already know what that means. And sure enough, you, Jungkook, and Yoongi. Like the universe has a sense of humor and it’s mean. Jungkook immediately leans over as you sit. “We missed you. Seokjin keeps trying to order appetizers like he’s never eaten before.”

“I have taste ,” Seokjin insists. “Unlike Jungkook, who tried to order mozzarella sticks at a white-tablecloth restaurant.” He scoffs.

“They slap,” Jungkook argues. “He’s not wrong,” you say, reaching for your water. Yoongi, on your other side, lets out a small laugh. Sena watches the chaos with a fond sigh. “Honestly, you all together again is my dream come true.”

“Not the wedding?” Jungkook teases.

“Oh, that’s part of it. But I’ve been looking forward to this dinner since we booked it.” She sits down next to Seokjin, then adds with a bright smile, “Taehyung’s driving up in a couple days too, by the way—just in time for the rehearsal dinner.”

You light up. “Wait, really?”

“Of course! He’d never miss it. I think he wanted to surprise you, but Jin kinda ruined it when he mentioned it in the groupchat.”

“I did not—”

“You did,” Jungkook and Sena say in perfect unison.

Yoongi’s quiet, but you feel it—the slight shift in his posture, the way his arm brushes yours as he lifts his glass. He hasn’t said much, but his presence is solid. Close. Not exactly comforting, but . . . constant. A kind of awareness that hums at the base of your spine.

You’re not seventeen anymore.

And yet here you are.

Pinned between your best friend and the boy you say you got over, but never did. Someone passes you a menu. Someone laughs too loud at something Seokjin says. Jungkook leans close to whisper a joke about the waiter’s mustache.

Yoongi doesn’t say much.

But when your knee accidentally bumps his under the table, he doesn’t move away. “Can someone who actually knows wine pick?” Seokjin groans, dramatically closing the menu like it offended him. “This all reads like cryptic poetry. Soft fruit, low tannins, a finish that haunts your third-grade memories. Just say if it tastes good!”

Sena plucks the list from his hands. “I vote she picks,” she says brightly, holding it out to you. “She always picks the best ones.”

You blink. “Me?”

“She has taste,” Sena adds, glancing at Yoongi like it’s obvious. “She’s basically my sommelier. We’ve had, like, five overpriced catch-up dinners in the past year and she hasn’t missed once. You should’ve seen the bill at that place in SoHo.”

Yoongi arches a brow. “Didn’t know you were the fancy dinner type.”

You shrug, taking the list. “I started making adult money, and Sena’s the fancy dinner type.” Jungkook leans in with a grin. “She’s lying. She has deeply expensive taste now. Don’t let the hoodie collection fool you.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, flipping to the reds. “You still think Barefoot is a personality.”

“I said what I said.”

You scan the list, then pause on a bottle near the bottom—something dry, rich, and, okay yeah, wildly overpriced , but Sena’s trusting you and you’ve had it once and it changed you. You flag the waiter. “The Brunello, please. The ‘19. Decant if you can.”

There’s a pause. Subtle. Like a flicker in candlelight. Yoongi lets out a low, surprised breath of a laugh. “Brunello?” You glance at him. “What?” You ask.

“Didn’t realize we were making declarations with our wine orders.”

You raise a brow. “You judging me?”

“Not at all,” he says. “Just didn’t know you liked wine like that.”

Your heart does a small, dumb flip. It shouldn’t matter—what he thinks. What he remembers. What he clearly doesn’t know about you now. But somehow, it lands. Heavy. Right behind your ribs. You take a sip of water, cool as you can manage. “Lot can happen in six years.”

Jungkook, bless him and his timing, tilts his head at Yoongi. “You’re surprised?”

Yoongi blinks. “Just . . . didn’t expect it.”

“She’s a full-blown New Yorker now,” Jungkook says. “Says things like notes of oak and mouthfeel and only swears when she’s losing in Mario Kart.”

You glare at him. “You mean when you cheat .”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

Across the table, Sena leans into Seokjin, whispering something with a smile. Yoongi doesn’t say anything else.

But when the wine arrives—and the waiter pours you the first sip—Yoongi watches you lift the glass like he’s never seen you drink before. Like you’re someone else entirely. You meet his gaze over the rim of your glass. And smile. Like this is fine, and totally normal.

The waiter pours with reverence, and soon the table hums with clinks of cutlery and the low buzz of laughter that only comes after the first few sips hit just right.

You’re cutting into your seared scallops when Yoongi leans a little closer—casual, measured, but you feel it like static in your spine. “So,” he says, tilting his glass. “You and Jungkook.”

You glance up. He doesn’t look directly at you—just swirls his wine, eyes on the table. “What about us?”

“You seem close.”

You don’t even get the chance to respond. Because Jungkook—sweet, terrible, chaos in a white button-down  Jungkook—grins like he’s been waiting for this. “Define close,” he says.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. Seokjin chokes on his drink.

“Don’t mind him,” you say, barely restraining a laugh. “We’ve been like this since nursing school.”

“And by like this,” Jungkook adds, nudging your thigh under the table with zero shame, “She means, devastatingly flirty, emotionally codependent, and perfectly platonic.”

“Perfectly,” you echo, sipping your wine. Yoongi blinks.

“Okay but, like . . .” Seokjin cuts in, setting his fork down. “You guys did slow dance at my birthday party last year to a Frank Ocean song.” He says, as you shrug. “The moment called for tenderness.”

“You called him your little spoon in front of our grandmother.”

“She laughed!”

“She blessed it.”

Sena is wiping tears from her eyes at this point. “Wait until Taehyung gets here,” she tells Yoongi, voice full of fond warning. “Then it gets worse.”

“He’s the dramatic one,” Jungkook nods. “I’m the grounded, hot one.” He says, shrugging in pure confidence. “You’re both annoying,” Seokjin mutters, “And I regret bonding with either of you.” He says, rolling his eyes, but with a smile.

“I regret nothing,” Sena says, reaching over to gently straighten your earring. “Especially not recruiting her to help me pick between three cake tastings and eight shades of sage.”

“She chose the right one, though,” Seokjin says, clearly still soft for his bride. “She always does,” Sena murmurs, then adds to Yoongi with a teasing smile, “She’s kind of my emotional wife. Sorry.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything for a moment. But you can feel it—that quiet tension humming in him like the slow build of a storm. His voice is mild when he finally asks, “So you guys aren’t . . .”

“In love?” You offer, deadpan. “Secretly dating?” Jungkook adds. “Fucking?” Seokjin says around a mouthful of risotto.

“ Dad ,” you hiss. Seokjin grins. “ Brother . And anyway, we all thought it.” He says, teasingly. “We’re not,” Jungkook says easily. “Never were. Never will be.”

“Because?” Sena prompts, like she’s moderating a reality TV reunion. “Because she’s my girl,” Jungkook says without missing a beat. Then glances at you. “But not like that.” You smile, bump his shoulder with yours. “He’s the family in New York.”

“Exactly. Like a hot support dog.”

Yoongi exhales a laugh—short, surprised. You catch him watching the two of you again, wine glass halfway to his lips. He doesn’t look angry. He just looks like he missed the entire plot. And maybe, for the first time, it’s starting to piss him off, seeing you all grown like this.

“I’m sorry,” Seokjin says, holding his stomach like a melodramatic old man, “But if anyone orders anything with coconut, I’m calling off the wedding.”

“You already signed the venue contract,” Sena replies sweetly. “You’re stuck with me. And my coconut cake dreams.”

“Coconut is soap with ambition,” Seokjin mutters into his wine.

“He says this like he didn’t eat three coconut truffles at the cake tasting,” you add. “I was tricked,” he huffs. “Bamboozled. I thought it was vanilla until it betrayed me.” He grumbles, sipping his wine with a pout.

“Honestly,” Jungkook says, picking at what’s left of his steak, “Your palate is a national tragedy.”

“Agreed,” Sena says, passing the dessert menu to you. “Which is why she’s picking. She’s never let me down.” You blink at her. “Me again?” You basically whine.

“You’re on a streak tonight,” she grins. “We’re calling you Taste CEO.”

“Add that to your resume,” Jungkook adds, nudging you. “Taste CEO. Nurse practitioner. Disaster prevention specialist for the emotional lives of men.”

Yoongi’s wine glass pauses mid-sip. You ignore that. “Alright,” you say, skimming the options. “We’re doing the olive oil lemon cake, the flourless chocolate torte, and the raspberry sorbet for balance.”

“That’s three,” Seokjin points out. “That’s called range ,” you reply.

“And I want all of it,” Sena says. “Let her live.”

Yoongi leans closer to peek at the menu in your hands. “Wait, the lemon cake?”

You nod. “Trust me.” He smiles, just a little. “I think I’m starting to.” 

That shuts you up for a second. Just a second. But Sena catches it. She always catches it. She wiggles her eyebrows at you like a menace. “See? This is why I keep her around. Impeccable taste. Unclogged intuition. And a terrifying ability to diagnose emotional tension at ten paces.”

“She’s so good at reading people,” Jungkook says. “It’s why I can’t lie to her anymore. She knows when I’m sad, hungry, or having a crisis about my eyebrows.”

“They’re perfect,” you say, barely glancing at him. “I know, right?”

Your mom is laughing now. “Honestly, you should have a podcast.”

“We do,” Jungkook says. “It’s just called the group chat.”

Seokjin groans. “Where they send unsolicited photos of their outfits and gym gains like I’m not emotionally fragile.”

“You are,” Sena says, patting his cheek.

Dessert arrives. The cake is perfect. So is the chocolate. The sorbet melts into clinking silver and soft hums of satisfaction. And through it all—Yoongi is quiet. Not distant. Just tuned in.

Like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of something he used to know. The way your friends love you. The way you laugh when Jungkook fake-flirts so hard you nearly snort wine. The way you and Sena exchange one-liner glances that say more than entire conversations.

He laughs with you. Smiles when you do. But you feel him watching you with something heavier than nostalgia. Not quite longing. But definitely not friendly anymore.

The drive back is dark and quiet—except for the hum of streetlights sliding past the windshield and the subtle buzz of your phone lighting up with Jungkook’s texts from the other car.

jungkook [10:14 PM]:

ur being suspiciously quiet

u good??

don’t sleep w him unless u tell me first

and make him wash his hands

You don’t reply. Because Yoongi clears his throat then, eyes still on the road, and says, “You and Jungkook ever . . . ?” You snort at that. “Oh my God. Not you too.”

“I’m just asking.”

“No, you’re not. You’re evaluating.”

He gives you a look. One that’s equal parts curious and something darker, heavier. But you just raise your brows. “He’s my best friend,” you say, tone definitive. “And if we ever did try anything, he’d probably start crying and say it’s like kissing his cousin.”

Yoongi coughs. “Romantic.”

“Deeply.”

He’s quiet again for a moment, lips twitching like he wants to say more but decides not to. You pull up to the house not long after, headlights sweeping across the lawn like a welcome-home spotlight.

Jungkook’s already parked and helping Sena out of the car. Seokjin’s tripping over a curb while trying to hold in a burp. Your mom is unlocking the front door with the grace of a woman who has absolutely tuned out the chaos.

“Hey!” Your dad calls, spotting you and Yoongi as you step out of the car. “Just a reminder—doors open tonight! I don’t want to walk in on anything I’ll have to bleach out of my memory.” He orders, pointing a finger between you and Jungkook.

You freeze. So does Yoongi.

Jungkook immediately perks up, yelling across the yard, “You say that every time we visit!”

“And I’ll keep saying it until you stop crawling into her bed at two in the morning claiming your room’s too emotionally cold.”

“That happened once!” Jungkook protests. “Three times,” Seokjin deadpans, stepping over a flower bed like it’s lava. “Twice while I was still brushing my teeth.”

You open your mouth to reply, but your dad just claps Yoongi on the back as he passes. “Sorry you had to hear all that, kid,” he mutters. Yoongi coughs. “No worries.”

“He lies awake thinking about it now,” Jungkook stage-whispers.

Inside, the house becomes a soft mess of sleepy footsteps and scattered laughter. The living room lights are low, someone’s put on a lo-fi playlist, and Seokjin’s already passed out halfway into a bowl of cashews.

Sena is curled up on the couch with a face mask on, scrolling Pinterest wedding boards and humming to herself. Your mom is in the kitchen making “sleepy tea” that smells vaguely herbal and vaguely illegal.

Jungkook drags himself into your childhood room like it’s his natural habitat. “I call left side,” he says. “Unless you want it. I’m not emotionally attached.”

“I am emotionally attached,” you reply. “That side saw me through a lot of teenage angst and Tumblr quotes.”

“Sold,” he grins, unbuttoning his shirt, and toeing off his dress shoes. “Also, if I sleepwalk again, just throw a pillow at me. Hard.”

Down the hall, you catch Yoongi slipping into the guest room, his expression unreadable. Until he turns just slightly. Looks at you over his shoulder.

And you swear—just barely—he smirks. You don’t say anything, just turn to Jungkook and inform him that you were gonna go take a shower. So he can wash-up in Seokjin’s room.

You’re towel-drying your face in the guest bathroom when you catch your reflection in the mirror. Slightly flushed cheeks. Clean skin. Hair pulled back. The soft, champagne silk of your pajama set gliding like water over your skin.

It’s stupid, maybe. A little extra. But you’re twenty-eight now. Matching pajamas do something to the soul. They say, I am put together. I am moisturized. I am dangerously close to spiraling, but I’ll do it in luxury.

You crack open the door quietly and step into the hallway, phone tucked in hand, half-expecting to float right into your childhood bedroom with Jungkook already snoring on your side of the bed.

You do not expect to walk directly into Yoongi. Literally.

“Oh shit, sorry—”

Your hand flies to his chest to steady yourself. Which is a problem. Because he’s shirtless. Still in the same black slacks from dinner, belt undone, hair a little messy like he’s run his hands through it one too many times.

Your palm is on his bare chest. You retract like he burned you. Yoongi blinks down at you, slow and warm. “Hey.”

You blink back. “Hey.” You say, your voice is much softer than you meant. His gaze drags over you in the kind of silence that feels loud—eyes flicking from your collarbone down to the subtle dip of silk at your waist. He’s not being gross. Not even trying to be subtle.

He just . . .  looks.

And you let him.

“You heading to bed?” he asks, voice low and rough with exhaustion and whatever the hell else is happening in the air. You nod. “Was just washing up.”

His gaze lingers another second. Then flicks upward, finally— finally —meeting yours. “You always wear that to sleep?” he asks, something teasing but tight at the edges.

You raise a brow. “Only when I wanna feel put together. Why, too much?”

“No,” he says, eyes locked to yours now. “Just . . . you’ve grown up.”

It hits you in the chest. That tone. That look . You don’t break eye contact. “You, too.” You say. He exhales through his nose, like he’s trying very hard not to say something else.

You step aside, letting him pass.

But the hallway suddenly feels ten sizes smaller. Your silk shorts brush your legs when you shift. His shoulder grazes yours as he walks by.

Neither of you look back. But you feel him watching as you disappear into your room.

And if the air was already heavy—it’s practically choking now. You step into your childhood bedroom like a woman who has seen things.

And unfortunately for your sanity, Jungkook’s already there—shirt damp from a fresh face wash, hair pulled back by one of your old headbands, leaning against the headboard like he owns the place, casually poking through your skincare bag. “Okay, first of all,” he says without looking up, “You’re almost out of toner and if you lie and say it’s not our favorite one, I’ll pour it on the carpet out of spite.”

You blink at him, still standing in the doorway. Frozen. Unwell. Possibly still hallucinating Yoongi’s collarbones. Jungkook finally glances up—and immediately pauses.

Because whatever expression you’re wearing? He knows it. Intimately. He sets the serum down slowly. “Okay. What happened.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then blurt, “I saw him shirtless.”

Jungkook just stares.

“Yoongi,” you clarify, like that helps. “Just now. Hallway. Chest. Skin. Whole thing. Full abs. Still wearing the slacks. Hair messed up. It was a whole cinematic experience, Jungkook, and I didn’t ask for it—”

He drops the moisturizer. “I think I blacked out,” you whisper. Jungkook grins. “Oh no. We’re so back .”

You flop onto the bed dramatically. “He was already hot at twenty. Smirky hot. College hot. Like— I’m gonna lean against your kitchen counter with my veins out hot. But now? Now he’s thirty-two, which is unfair. Because now he’s mature hot. Quiet tax bracket hot. Insufferably hot.”

Jungkook nods solemnly. “Like red wine and paid-off debt hot.”

“Exactly.”

“Father figure energy but without the trauma.”

You groan into a pillow. “I hate you.”

He reaches over and pats your head like you’re a fragile orphan. “No, you hate yourself for being attracted to someone who could probably assemble IKEA furniture in silence while looking like a Saint Laurent ad.”

You lift your head. “Why are you so good at metaphors?”

“Why are you so good at ignoring how he looked at you at dinner?” He bites back, eyebrow raised, piercing shining against the dim light of your bedroom. You blink. “Excuse me?”

Jungkook leans back on his elbows, smug as sin. “I clocked it the second you ordered that wine. His left eyebrow twitched like he was fighting for his life.” He explains, as you roll your eyes. “He was just surprised. I used to think wine coolers were classy.” You say, not quite convinced. “He was surprised. But then he looked at you like he was debating a felony.” He retorts.

You snort at that. “You’re insane.”

“No, you’re insane,” Jungkook says. “You didn’t even notice how his jaw ticks every time I say something mildly suggestive around you. I was holding back because your parents were there!”

Your brows furrow. “It does not—”

“Oh it does . I said baby once and his eye twitched. I thought he had a tic. But no. That man is on the brink. He almost choked when you gave me a look the moment I said mouthfeel.”

You toss a pillow at him, and of course, because he’s Jungkook, he catches it. “Also? You wore those pajamas? The silk ones?” He switches up, eyeing you.

“They make me feel put together!” You hiss. “You look like a sexy champagne popsicle,” he says, fully offended. “And I just saw you in them, so if Yoongi’s still breathing, I’ll personally call him a liar.”

You bury your face again. “I need a lobotomy.”

Jungkook flops beside you, head bumping yours. “You need to either kiss him or lock yourself in the laundry room until you stop seeing abs when you close your eyes.”

You groan again. He sighs. “God, you looked hot at dinner too. That dress? A violation. And that look you gave me when I said mouthfeel? Hot. ”

“You said it with a straight face.”

“I was trying to help you get laid.”

“By who!”

Jungkook grins at the ceiling. “Oh, I think we both know.”

And you hate that he’s right.

Chapter 2: Nostalgia Listens

The kitchen smells like coffee, toast, and mild judgment.

You walk in barefoot, hair still tousled from sleep, in your champagne silk pajama set—shorts scandalously breezy, cami dangerously soft—but now you’ve got Jungkook’s oversized shirt thrown on top. Technically, it’s a compromise.

Realistically, it’s just another red flag your dad will ignore because there’s a grill to fire up and Sena’s parents are arriving in two hours.

Your mom’s at the stove flipping hash browns like she’s commanding a culinary army. “Just a reminder, everyone,” she says without turning around, “Sena’s parents will be here by noon, and so will Yoongi’s.”

You pause mid-yawn. Yoongi’s parents.

Cool. Great. That’s normal. Nothing in your body short-circuits at that news. Definitely not after seeing their son shirtless last night like a walking thirst trap. You shake your head as Jungkook slides a mug of coffee into your hand like it’s an offering to the gods. “You good?”

“No thoughts, only static.”

He grins. “You’re welcome for the shirt.” He teases, eyes raking the way it slid on one of your shoulders, falling loosely to reveal the strap of your cami underneath.

“Don’t be smug.” You say, taking a sip of the coffee. “You’d be arrested in those pajamas.” He whispered, voice low so your mother wouldn’t hear him.

“ You picked them out for my birthday.” You retorted, raising an eyebrow. “And I regret it every time your dad walks into the room.” He sighed, eyes moving up and down with a teasing grin.

Speak of the devil—your dad walks by, nodding at Jungkook’s shirt. “See, this is what I like to see. Pajamas with coverage.” You salute him with your mug. “Morning.”

He eyes your legs anyway. “You’re still pushing it.”

Jungkook turns to hide his laugh.

Sena floats into the kitchen in a sage green robe and matching slippers like she owns the sun. She takes one look at you, sips her orange juice, and immediately goes for blood. “Is that Jungkook’s shirt?” she asks—loud. Too loud.

You glance at her. “Sena.”

She bats her lashes. “What? It’s cute. Oversized boyfriend energy. Very accidental sleepover.”

Yoongi, sitting at the kitchen island in linen shorts and a plain white shirt, looks up mid-sip of coffee. His gaze drags once over the outfit. The silk shorts that peek out beneath the hem of Jungkook’s shirt. The bare legs. The neck slightly too wide from being stretched over Jungkook’s shoulders.

His jaw twitches. Barely. You look away. So does he.

Seokjin walks in next, rubbing sleep from his eyes, followed by your mom placing a stack of pancakes on the table like it’s a peace offering for the chaos. “Where’s the groomzilla?” Sena asks sweetly, pulling a chair for Seokjin. “I’m not a groomzilla,” he mutters. “I’m just detail-oriented.”

“You cried over folding chairs.”

“They were ivory, Sena. Not bone. There’s a difference.”

“Anyway,” your mom calls from the sink, “Taehyung’s arriving early. His flight landed this morning.”

Your eyes widen. “What? I thought he wasn’t coming until rehearsal dinner.” You ask, taking a seat beside Sena. “He changed it last minute,” she says. “Apparently Paris could wait another day.”

“What?” Jungkook sputters into his coffee. “He told me he was booked ‘til Tuesday!”

“That little shit,” Seokjin mutters. “He was trying to surprise you.”

“Auntie!” Jungkook whines, pouting at her. Your mom just shrugs. “Surprise!”

Yoongi lifts his mug again. “Who’s Taehyung again?” He asks, as Sena smiles like the cat who just got her claws out. “Oh, you’ll love him. He’s Jungkook’s emotional twin. Funnier, though. Some say hotter.”

“No one says hotter,” Jungkook says. “I say hotter,” you chime.

“That hurts me personally.”

Sena sips her juice again. “Anyway, you should see the three of them together. It’s like watching a fever dream where everyone’s beautiful and can’t sit still.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. But he does glance at you again. You stir your coffee. Say nothing. Because the air’s already heavy. And it’s not just the heat of the stove.

By late morning, the backyard is a flurry of folding chairs, picnic tablecloths, and a dangerously overconfident Seokjin attempting to light the grill.

You’re in the kitchen with Sena, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained from slicing cherry tomatoes for the caprese platter while she assembles skewers with military precision.

“Okay,” she says casually, spearing another shrimp, “So you and Jungkook.” She starts, turning her body to face you. You don’t even look up. “We’re not doing this.”

“I’m just asking.”

“No, you’re fishing.”

“Same thing.” She leans her hip against the counter, eyeing your face. “He’s so handsy with you. It’s very my body is your armrest.”

“That’s because I’ve known him since he cried watching a Grey’s Anatomy finale. We’re bonded.”

“ Mhm ,” she hums, like she doesn’t believe a word of it. “He calls you babe like it’s a reflex.”

“He calls Taehyung babe.”

“Okay, true, but you don’t wear Taehyung’s shirt to breakfast.”

You pause. Squint at her. “You’re enjoying this.” You deduced. She grins. “Wildly.”

You go back to slicing, “It’s platonic. Completely. He’s like a glorified emotional support animal who does CrossFit and knows my menstrual cycle.” You reply, shaking your head.

“That’s the most intimate sentence I’ve ever heard.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Too close to cross the line.”

She raises her hands in surrender. “Fine. No Jungkook.”

“Thank you.” You sighed. A moment passed. Barely. And then, she’s moving onto the next thing that ticks you. “So what about Yoongi?” She asks, smiling sweetly. Knowing exactly what she’s doing.

You nearly slice your finger off.

“I’m sorry,” you say slowly. “ What .”

Sena’s already smirking. “Come on. I was there. I saw how you looked at him in high school. You practically floated when he helped you with algebra.”

“I was sixteen and delusional.”

“Sure, sure. But now he’s back. And hotter. And shirtless. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you now.” She raised her eyebrow. You press your lips together. “Sena.”

“He’s subtle. Broody. But his eyes? Screaming with want want want .”

“ Sena .”

She leans in, voice conspiratorially low. “When you got up from the table yesterday to grab the wine? He watched you like he was solving a crime scene.”

You close your eyes. “This is a safe space. I thought this was a safe space.” You muttered. To yourself mostly.

“Your silk pajamas say otherwise.”

You jab a tomato slice at her. “You told me to bring them!”

“Because I wanted you to feel expensive, not emotionally flammable.” She bites back, smug.

You groan. “It was just a teenage crush. He called me his little sister. He changed my flu meds and made me soup. It was humiliating.” You caved. “Well,” she says, popping a tomato into her mouth, “If he sees you in that sage rehearsal dinner dress, he might rethink the sibling narrative.”

You toss a towel at her. She dodges it, laughing, then nudges your shoulder with hers.

“Look,” she says gently. “Whatever it is—or isn’t —I just want you to have fun this week. Let people flirt with you. Let your childhood crush spiral a little. You’re hot. You’re grown. And if Yoongi can’t handle that?”

You snort. “You’ll slash his tires?”

“I’ll slash Seokjin’s, just to cause chaos.”

Your mom, who has been listening, but not contributing to the conversation, doesn’t even look up from her marinade when she says it. “You two—go wash up and change, please. You’re not serving kimchi in pajamas.” You and Sena freeze mid-bicker, both elbow-deep in prep. She blinks. “But we’re not even—”

“You’re hosting,” your mom says, sweet but firm. “And we have guests. There will be parents. Cameras. People who know how to judge quietly. Go .”

You exchange a look with Sena.

“Okay, mom,” you both chorus, dragging your feet like teens even though you’re both very much pushing thirty. Upstairs, the house hums with the soundtrack of a summer almost too pretty to touch. Sunlight spills across the wood floors, dappling your childhood bedroom like a secret. Your overnight bag is already open, clothes spilling out like options and memories.

You shower quick. Efficient. You pull out the linen shorts. High-waisted, ivory cream. Soft as sin and perfectly pressed, like they know they’re about to make someone uncomfortable in the best way. You pair them with a cropped black top—tight enough to flatter, modest enough to pass the Dad Test. The hem stops just above your belly button, teasing just enough skin to remind the world—you’re not seventeen anymore.

Your jewelry stays simple—small hoops, your usual rings. You swipe a little cream blush over your cheeks, some bronzer for warmth. A no-makeup makeup look, which—let’s be real—always takes the most effort.

And the final touch? Clear gloss.

You check your reflection once. Then again.

And okay—yeah. You look cute.

You head back down just as Sena steps out of her room in a floaty, strappy sundress that makes her look like she’s on the cover of a vineyard lifestyle magazine. She gives you a slow once-over and whistles. “Wow. Someone came back looking like a woman who owns at least two skincare fridges.”

You smirk. “Gotta protect my assets.”

“You are the asset.”

You bump shoulders as you both head back down the stairs, the distant clink of barbecue tools and Jungkook’s laugh echoing from the backyard.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Jungkook, who is most definitely eavesdropping on grill duty.

Jungkook [11:44 AM]:

yoongi’s jaw did the thing again

just a heads up

You roll your eyes. But your smile says, good.

Your mom doesn’t even turn from the cucumber salad she’s arranging with terrifying precision. “Sweetheart, tell the boys to go change before everyone arrives. It’s still a family lunch, not a pool party.”

You blink. “Define the boys. ”

“The ones outside acting like barbecue is a contact sport.”

“ Ah . Got it.”

Outside, the sun is already brutal, the air thick with grill smoke and testosterone. Seokjin is standing triumphantly beside a perfectly charred rack of galbi like he invented fire. Jungkook is poking at vegetables with tongs like they owe him money. And Yoongi—shirt still a little damp at the collar from sweat, one hand in his pocket—is watching the grill with quiet intensity.

You could walk straight to the group. But your path, predictably, detours to Jungkook first. “You need to change,” you say, flicking his shoulder with a dish towel. He doesn’t look up. “I’m working.”

“You’re shirtless. And barefoot. In public.”

He wiggles his toes. “Free the skin.” You raise an eyebrow, “You’re not in Mamma Mia.” You quipped.

“You don’t know that.”

“I already picked your outfit.”

He finally turns to you, grinning. “Oh? Did you lay it out on the bed for me like a proud housewife?” You roll your eyes, “Yes. Matching linen top and shorts. Light sage. Button-down. No graphic tees that say Choke Me Like Bundt Cake.” You reply, unimpressed. He frowns. “You take everything from me.”

“And yet,” you say sweetly, “I give you so much.”

Behind you, Yoongi shifts—subtle, almost nothing. But you feel it. His eyes flick up. Land on you. Linger. Your shorts. Your top. Your glossed lips.

His jaw tics again. That same muscle. That thing.

Jungkook’s eyes narrow immediately. “He’s doing it again.” He whispers, “I know.” You say.

“You’re going to melt him.”

“He’s the one standing next to fire.”

You glance over. Yoongi’s already looking away, grabbing another tray of skewers. But there’s a certain . . .  tightness in the way he grabs the tongs. Like they did something to him personally.

“Yoongi,” you call, breezy. “You, too. Clothes. Upstairs. Now.” You demand, arms crossing over your chest. He turns, brow arched. “Am I in trouble?”

“Yes,” you say. “For thinking that shirt could pass as appropriate.”

He looks down at his plain white tee, then back at you, unimpressed. “It’s cotton.”

“It’s a threat.”

He smirks. “You’re wearing linen shorts and a top the size of a coaster.” He teased, using the tongs he’s holding you point down at your outfit. You shrug. “Double standards. It’s what makes society fun.”

Seokjin lets out a bark of laughter. “God, I missed this.”

Yoongi’s already heading toward the house, brushing past you with just enough space to be polite—but not enough to stop the rush of heat that follows. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t say anything else. But as he passes, you swear you feel his eyes on the bare skin just above your waistband.

Back upstairs, the hallway is quiet—sun spilling in through the window, cicadas humming lazily beyond the glass, and somewhere in the house, your dad yelling about someone misplacing the grill tongs again.

Your bedroom door creaks open, and Jungkook follows behind you, dramatically clutching the sage linen button-down like he’s being punished.

“I’m just saying,” he mutters, flopping onto the bed, “You could’ve picked something that didn’t say I summer in Martha’s Vineyard.”

“It says I won’t be shirtless when your mom walks by with deviled eggs,” you counter, rifling through your toiletries bag.

“It’s stiff.”

“It’s linen .”

“It’s beige.”

“It’s sage ,” you snap. “It matches your skin tone and brings out your arms. You’re welcome.” You say, snapping your fingers and pointing at his biceps. He huffs, then starts taking his current shirt off without moving from the bed. You pause at the mirror, dabbing concealer under your eyes. “You could try changing in the hallway bathroom like a normal human.”

“Why?” he shrugs off the shirt. “You’ve seen me naked. I’ve seen you naked. We’re basically like elderly roommates.”

You deadpan. “You walked in on me once. When I was getting in the tub.”

“And what a glorious moment that was.”

“Jungkook.”

“What? You looked like a vintage perfume ad. Soft lighting. A little leg. It was cinematic.”

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, glancing toward the hallway. Because right down from you, Yoongi’s bedroom door is open. And so is yours. You swallow. “Tone it down,” you warn softly. “We have audience.” You jutted your head down the hall, as Jungkook glances at the hallway, clocking the cracked-open guest room door. Then smirks.

“Oh? We performing now?”

“I’m serious.”

He shrugs. “Fine. I’ll whisper.” Then, louder, “Baby, can you pass me my moisturizer?” He practically shouts. You nearly fling your foundation brush at him. “Jungkook!” You scold, eyebrows furrowed in . . . embarrassment. He only grins. “What? You said I’m dry.” 

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then come over here and help me button this. My hands are full.”

“They are not—”

“ Babe ,” he repeats, drawing the word out just to make you twitch. “Be useful. I’m shirtless and vulnerable.”

And yes—you feel it. That shift in the air. From down the hallway, a pause. The faint clink of metal, the quiet shuffle of someone trying very hard not to move at all.

You don’t even have to look. You know Yoongi is listening.

And he’s hearing everything .

Jungkook’s linen shirt is halfway open. His legs are kicked up on your bed like this is his own apartment. The room smells like your shared body wash and a little too much heat. You walk over to him with the buttons already between your fingers, but your eyes dart—just once—to the hallway.

Still no movement. “Unreal,” you mutter under your breath.

“What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

Just Yoongi. Yoongi, listening in silence. Probably shirtless. Definitely shirtless. Yoongi, trying not to break the sound barrier with his clenching jaw. Jungkook leans in, chin tilted up as you button the top few fastenings for him.

“Hey,” he says, voice lower now. You meet his eyes. “You know I’m just doing this to piss him off, right?”

You blink. He grins, soft but smug. “I mean—I think you’re hot. Obviously. But I know what this is.” You finish the last button. Smooth the collar. Then, quietly, you ask. “Do you think it’s working?”

And Jungkook—bless his petty little heart—just smirks wider.

“Oh, babe,” he says, patting your hip as he passes you on his way to the mirror. “His shirt’s still off, and we’ve been up here ten minutes.”

You choke on a laugh.

And in the hallway? A door shuts. Firm. Final. Frustrated.

The backyard has transformed into something out of a lifestyle blog titled Chill But Wealthy Backyard Gatherings. The grill is going. The drinks are cold. The sun is throwing golden light across the lawn like it knows it’s being photographed. The adults are arriving one by one, and you’re trying to keep your sangria from spilling while avoiding direct eye contact with Yoongi.

Sena’s parents are first through the gate—her mom in big sunglasses and beachy curls, her dad wearing boat shoes and retirement energy.

“There’s our girl!” Her mom shouts, arms already spread wide. “Oh, look at you—linen? Ugh , you are your mother’s daughter.” She comments, as you hug her like second nature. “You look amazing, Auntie.”

She pulls back, holds your face like she’s trying to memorize it. “And you’re glowing. City girl glow. I love it. You’re eating? Sleeping? Your skin is amazing right now.”

“Mom,” Sena sighs, trailing behind with a tray of corn. Her mom waves her off. “I’m just saying, she looks expensive.” She leans in, stage-whispers, “If Jungkook doesn’t propose by dessert, I will.”

Sena snorts. “Get in line.” You laugh, cheeks already warm. “You’re both crazy.”

“Fashionably,” Auntie corrects. “Now where’s that boy—Jungkook! There he is!”

Jungkook appears at your side like he’s summoned by compliments. “Auntie!” He wraps her in a big hug. “You still using that face serum I recommended?”

“Religiously,” she says. “Look at my jawline! Snatched!” She exclaims, using the slang you taught her once when she asked you during brunch what that meant.

You’re wiping a tear from your eye when the gate creaks open again—and suddenly, the volume drops. Like a rom-com slow motion entrance, Yoongi’s parents walk in. Mrs. Min looks the same as you remember. Composed, elegant, a woman who never once raised her voice because her eyebrows did all the work. Mr. Min is trailing behind her, already smiling.

And then she sees you. “Sweetheart! Gosh— is that you? ” she exclaims, as if you just emerged from a time capsule. You laugh. “Hi, Auntie.”

She pulls you in for a hug, hands soft against your back. “Look at you. I almost didn’t recognize you—what happened? You used to have these little cheeks!” She gasps, cradling your face. You laugh. “They left sometime in grad school.”

Mr. Min steps up and pats your shoulder. “You look great, kiddo. What are you now, twenty . . . ?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Mrs. Min gasps. “Min Yoongi, did you hear that?” She turns to Yoongi, mouth agape. From the grill, Yoongi doesn’t even turn. “I did.”

“She’s a whole grown woman!”

“She’s also standing right here,” you say, cheeks hot. Mr. Min chuckles. “You used to chase this one around in the backyard with a water gun. Now she’s got a job and muscles.” He pokes your arm, as you laugh. You’re about to reply when the side gate swings open again.

And this time? Time stops.

Taehyung strolls in like he owns the backyard. Loafers. Breezy white trousers. A striped shirt half-buttoned like he’s about to shoot a spread for Vogue or ruin someone’s marriage. Sunglasses hang from his collar, hair pushed back, and a grin that could convince a nun to sin.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, voice all deep velvet. Sena drops a fork. Your mother gasps like she’s just seen her long-lost son. “Taehyung!” Your dad shouts. “You grew into your jawline!”

“Oh my god,” you mumble, downing your sangria for dear life as you watch your mom practically run to hug him. “You look like trouble!”

“Only on weekends,” Taehyung winks. Sena’s dad claps him on the back like they’re college roommates. “Still single?”

“Tragically,” Taehyung says. Then throws you a wink. “Unless someone wants to change that.”

Yoongi’s head turns so fast you hear it. He blinks. Visibly recalibrating. Leans toward Seokjin, low voice.

“That’s Taehyung?” He asks, eyes trained on the man. Seokjin’s biting into a hot dog like he’s watching this unfold for sport. “Yeah.”

Yoongi nods slowly. Eyes narrowing.

“ Huh .”

The adults have drifted toward the grill and the shade—fussing over potato salad, asking about sunscreen, retelling stories everyone’s already heard three times. Which leaves you, Jungkook, and Taehyung standing in the grass with Yoongi’s parents. You flash them a sunny smile and gesture to your left. “Uncle, Auntie—this is Jungkook. He works with me at the hospital.”

Jungkook bows slightly, easy and respectful. “Pleasure to meet you both. I’ve heard a lot.”

Mr. Min eyes him with a tilt of his head. “Are you the one her mom keeps talking about?” He asks.

“She tells everyone about me,” Jungkook replies, shameless. “She also said she’d disown her real children to adopt me.” He grinned, as Mrs. Min lets out a delighted laugh. “She said that to us too! You’re the one with the skincare tips.” Jungkook smiles. “Always happy to help.”

“And this,” you continue, turning as Taehyung strolls up, sunglasses now hooked onto the collar of his half-buttoned shirt, “Is Taehyung. He’s our other partner in crime—co-worker, part-time chaos agent.”

Taehyung bows with a hand on his chest, dramatic as ever. “It’s an honor, Auntie, Uncle.”

Mrs. Min’s eyes sparkle. “You’re the artist, right? You work in the hospital too?” Taehyung nods. “I try to make the humans laugh while she does the real work.”

“You’re all so grown-up,” Mr. Min says with a quiet sort of wonder. “She was just a kid the last time we saw her.”

“Some of us still are,” Jungkook mutters, nudging you. “She makes me set reminders to drink water.”

“That’s because you forget to live,” you reply. Mrs. Min laughs again, clearly enchanted. “What a team you’ve got. Seokjin must be proud.”

“Oh, he tolerates us,” Taehyung smirks. “Barely.”

As the adults drift away again—lured by grilled shrimp and conversation about who brought the best side dish—Taehyung turns to face you and Yoongi for the first time. His gaze flicks between you both, reading something invisible in the air. Then he nudges you with one lazy elbow.

“So,” he says, just loud enough for Yoongi to hear, “That him?”

You blink innocently. “ Hm?”

“Yoongi,” Taehyung deadpans. “The brother’s best friend. The reason you drank peach soju in our dorm and dramatically rewatched Notting Hill that one time.” He recounts like Yoongi isn’t within earshot. Yoongi turns sharply at that. “ What .”

Taehyung’s smile is slow, devilish. “I mean, yeah. I get it. Tall, broody, dry sense of humor. You definitely had a phase.”

You don’t even flinch. Instead, you pop a piece of watermelon into your mouth, then look up at Yoongi coolly. “He’s not wrong.”

Yoongi’s eyes flick from you to Taehyung, then back again. “It was harmless.” You say easily, shrugging. Taehyung hums. “You doodled his initials in a planner. I saw it.”

“Okay, traitor.”

“Tastefully,” he defends. “It was aesthetic.”

Yoongi is . . . quiet. Not stunned, exactly. But something in his expression has shuttered. You see the way his brows draw just slightly together, the way his jaw ticks—like the idea of your affection being in the past has hit a nerve he didn’t know he had. “I moved on,” you shrug, all ease. “Obviously.”

Taehyung studies Yoongi for a second, then turns back to you. “Yeah, well. I see why you pined.”

Yoongi exhales sharply through his nose. “Great.” You glance at him. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“I won’t,” he says, low. “Just trying to . . . catch up, I guess.” You give him a look. Unreadable. Cool. Totally unbothered.

Lunch stretches out in golden, sun-drenched laziness. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker is humming through a playlist that sounds like it belongs to a coffee shop in Brooklyn—half indie, half nostalgia. The table is packed, voices layered and overlapping. Glasses clink. Forks scrape against plates. Someone’s laughing three seats down, and it might be your dad—it’s hard to tell over the low hum of everything.

You’re seated between Taehyung and Yoongi.

Taehyung is half-turned toward the sun, eyes closed like he’s charging solar energy. Jungkook’s across from you, still mid-story about a patient who tried to flirt with him while actively bleeding. Sena’s chiming in with commentary like a seasoned sports analyst. It’s loud. Easy. Familiar.

But Yoongi? Yoongi is quiet beside you.

Not aloof. Just present. The way he always is. Attentive in a way that feels private. He hasn’t said much since sitting down, but his forearm brushes yours every time he moves his wine glass. And eventually, his knee bumps yours under the table—just lightly.

You don’t move. You tell yourself it’s casual. Accidental.

Then it lingers. A minute. Then another. Still, he doesn’t pull away.

His knee is warm. Solid. Pressed just enough against yours that you can’t ignore it—but not enough that anyone else would notice.

You keep your expression even. Your posture loose. One leg crossed over the other like you’re listening to Taehyung describe the emotional symbolism of descendants of the sun with a shrimp skewer in hand.

But your pulse? It’s traitorous. You steal a glance. Yoongi is leaned back in his chair, one hand curled around his glass, gaze distant—somewhere just beyond Jungkook’s head. He looks completely relaxed.

Except for his jaw.

That sharp angle is set. Tense. Like he’s trying very hard to seem unaffected.

You shift slightly. His knee follows. Definitely not an accident.

You take a slow sip of sangria, tasting fruit and wine and something that feels a lot like your seventeen-year-old self rising from the grave in a crop top.

It’s then—without turning, without glancing at you—Yoongi says, voice low and quiet enough to be private, “You always this good at pretending nothing’s happening?”

You pause. The words hit you like the sun through the window—warm, a little too much, a little too soon. You glance at him. His eyes are still forward. His hand still curled around his glass like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You smile. Controlled. Subtle. The kind of smile that’s been practiced in bathroom mirrors and elevators and early-morning subways.

“Only when I’m not sure what’s happening,” you murmur back.

Yoongi doesn’t move. But something about the air changes.

Between you, the table, the laughter—the whole backyard folds in on itself, just a little. And you’re not sixteen anymore. Not staring at him from across your brother’s room, not wondering if he’ll ever look back.

He’s looking now . And he’s not the only one pretending.

By the time lunch came to a descend, you’re rinsing plates at the sink, hip leaned lazily against the counter, your cropped black tank top riding up every time you move. Jungkook’s behind you trying to stack leftovers into too-small containers. Taehyung has somehow found a glass of wine and a pair of sunglasses indoors. Yoongi’s drying plates next to you—quiet, calm, too composed for his own good.

“Did someone put grilled corn in the fruit salad bowl?” You ask, pulling a dish from the sink. “That would be Jungkook,” Taehyung answers immediately, not looking up. “I was multitasking,” Jungkook protests. “Also, who buys a lemon-shaped bowl and doesn’t expect it to be used for corn?”

“People with common sense,” you mutter.

“That’s rich coming from someone who labeled the ice cream container emotional support rice. ”

You flick water at him. He dodges. Barely. “Careful,” he warns, voice low, grin wide. “You get me wet in this shirt, and things might escalate.”

Taehyung claps. “Ten points. That one had texture.”

Yoongi clears his throat.

You glance at him just in time to see his eyes flicker—first to you, then to Jungkook’s hand resting a little too comfortably on the curve of your lower back. He doesn’t say anything. He just goes back to drying with surgical precision.

Jungkook catches the look.

And because he is, above all things, petty—he grins wider and leans into your space. “Want me to rinse for you, babe?” he asks. You roll your eyes, but hand him the plate. “Only because I don’t trust you near the wine glasses.” You answer. “That’s fair,” he says, brushing your fingers in a way that is absolutely intentional.

Taehyung leans against the fridge, sipping like he’s watching a drama unfold. “I love that you two are like this,” he says dreamily. “It’s like a fake engagement, but make it heterosexual tension and shared moisturizers.”

Yoongi’s jaw ticks so subtly it’s almost imperceptible.

You glance at him again. He’s still drying. Still quiet. Still so clearly watching. Meanwhile, Seokjin and Sena wander into the kitchen, giggling and clinking forks into each other’s mouths like they’re starring in a rom-com no one asked to be in. “Are you guys even helping?” You ask.

“No,” Sena says, completely unapologetic. “We’re in love.” She sighs, dramatically placing a hand on her forehead like she’s about to faint. “We’re doing important emotional labor,” Seokjin adds. “Watching the way you and Jungkook share dish duty is deeply healing,” Sena says, dreamy.

“Should I leave them alone?” Taehyung says to no one. “This feels intimate.”

“You could join in,” Jungkook teases. “But you’d have to earn your apron privileges.”

“Oh, baby,” Taehyung hums, “I come with apron privileges.”

Yoongi definitely chokes on air this time. You glance at him, straight-faced. “You okay?” You ask, fighting the corners of your lips that threaten to form a smile. He nods once. Dryly. “Just reevaluating your definition of just friends.”

“Oh, Yoongi,” Taehyung says sweetly, patting his arm. “You’ll get used to it. We’re like this all the time.”

You catch the way Yoongi’s hand pauses mid-dry on the rim of a glass. The smallest break in rhythm. He’s quiet for a moment before he murmurs, “I can tell.”

The last dish clinks into the drying rack. Seokjin sighs dramatically, stretching like he just led a twelve-hour surgery.

“I vote we break out Dad’s whiskey stash,” he declares, chest puffed with the confidence of a man about to marry up. “This is a momentous occasion.”

Sena, leaning against the fridge with a single brow raised, replies, “One drink. One . We still have the dinner rehearsal tomorrow.”

“Noted,” Seokjin says, already halfway to the cabinet where the good bottles are hidden behind mismatched mugs and expired vitamins.

Your dad’s collection is ridiculous—like whiskey museum level. A row of Japanese bottles, two rare Islays, and one bottle of Macallan that’s apparently not to be touched unless someone dies or gives birth. Seokjin picks out a bottle from Kyoto with reverence and holds it up like it’s the holy grail. “Permission to pour.”

Sena sighs. “Fine. But if anyone’s shirt comes off or karaoke starts, I’m pulling the plug.”

“Aw,” Taehyung says. “There goes my night.”

You and Jungkook exchange a look. He smirks and walks over to the whiskey glasses, grabbing two. Yoongi leans back against the counter, casual. Watching. The bottle in Seokjin’s hand catches the light. You see his gaze slide to it—and then to you.

“You drink whiskey?” He asks, eyes narrowed like this is something he should’ve known but very much did not. You look at him, amused. “Why do you sound personally offended?”

“Because,” he says slowly, “I gave you your first sip of alcohol and you nearly choked to death on one mouthful of Corona.”

“That was Fourth of July,” you grin. “You just handed it to me and said, Don’t tell your brother .”

“Because I knew he’d cry harder than you did.”

“You laughed at me.”

“You coughed into my hoodie.”

“You deserved it.”

He shakes his head, dazed. “Whiskey, though?”

“She’s a snob now,” Seokjin announces proudly, uncorking the bottle with flair. “Has a whole collection in her apartment. Stuff with names I can’t pronounce. Japanese. Single malt. Scotch. Whatever the fuck rich people drink when they want to feel like they’re bleeding money. Honestly, her bar cart’s better than mine.”

“She has a bar cart? ” Yoongi says, like that’s the most shocking part. “Don’t let the crop tops and skincare fool you,” Taehyung says, flopping into a seat beside you. “She’s secretly a middle-aged hedge fund manager with taste.”

Yoongi chuckles, low and incredulous. “Guess I missed a lot.”

“She even has little glasses for it,” Sena adds. “With the fancy balls of ice.”

“Oh my god,” Taehyung gasps. “You’re so rich now.”

“I work in healthcare,” you deadpan. “I have trauma and ice molds.”

Before Yoongi can say anything else, Jungkook slides a glass toward you—amber liquid catching the light. “Neat,” he says. “Unless your snobbery’s dulled since the last time I poured one for you.” He teases, eyebrow raising as you rolled your eyes. You take the glass and sip, expression unmoved. The burn is clean. Familiar. Easy.

Yoongi stares.

No flinch. No wince. No hesitation. Just you, drinking whiskey in a black crop top and linen shorts like it’s water and you’re still not impressed enough to say thank you.

“That’s . . . new,” he murmurs.

You set the glass down and smile, lazy. “She even has a favorite distillery,” Jungkook adds proudly, as if he’s reciting your résumé. “And a decanter. You should see it—it’s shaped like a spine.”

“That’s not weird at all,” Yoongi mutters, eyes still on you as you lower the glass.

Then Jungkook—warm now, body heavy with post-sip swagger—leans his full weight into your side. Arm over your shoulders. Chin practically resting on your hair.

Nobody reacts. Not Taehyung, who’s now lecturing Sena about why whiskey should be aged in wine barrels. Not Seokjin, who’s trying to steal the bottle back. Not even your mom, who passes through to remind you that the backyard still needs to be cleaned before you all disappear into your wedding bubbles.

But Yoongi? Yoongi notices.

You watch it happen in real-time—the way his eyes track Jungkook’s hand sliding down your arm, the way his lips part just slightly when you lean into it like it’s second nature.

You’re not doing anything. Not really. Just existing in the same way you’ve always existed around Jungkook. Soft. Familiar. Drunk on nothing but inside jokes and shared moisturizers. But something about it makes Yoongi hold his glass tighter. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t call attention to himself.

Later, after the whiskey’s been packed up and the last of the glasses rinsed, you slip out onto the patio where Yoongi’s parents are chatting with yours, plates of fruit and leftover cake between them. The warm night air smells like charcoal and citronella candles, and the sky’s just dark enough to start showing stars.

“Look at her,” Yoongi’s mom says as you walk out. “All grown up. What happened to my little assistant nurse who used to steal our blood pressure cuffs for her dolls?”

“She still has one,” your dad calls from the corner. “I found it in her old closet last year.”

You laugh. “It was for science.”

Yoongi’s dad waves you over. “Sit, sit—your mom said you’ve been working crazy hours in the city. How’s the hospital?”

You slide into the empty seat beside them and start telling them about your latest patient drama—something about a man who tried to claim his dog as a legal emergency contact—and they’re delighted. Genuinely interested. The kind of interest that only comes from knowing you since you were small enough to sit on their knees.

Yoongi appears a few minutes later, hovering by the edge of the patio like he’s just looking for something to do. His mom glances up, and smiles. You should’ve seen the way he looked at you then. Not longing, not regret. Adoration, maybe even, admiration. Seeing you nezzle your way with his family, like you’ve always done. Except, you’re older now. Wiser.

It’s sometime after clean-up, with the sun slipping into its golden hour drip and the kitchen finally quiet, when your mom walks in like she owns every timeline of your life—and announces a new one.

“Sweetheart, just so you know,” she says, pressing a stack of clean napkins into your arms, “Taehyung’s staying in your room too.”

You blink. “Yeah?”

She nods like this is obvious. “Just until the rehearsal dinner. Air mattress. You and Jungkook already have the bed.”

Behind you, the sound of a glass being set down a little too firmly on the counter makes everyone look up. You turn slightly—just enough to catch the way Yoongi’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t not say anything either. Sena strolls in from the backyard with her phone out. “Wait, is this slumber party again?”

“It’s not a slumber party,” you reply, stacking the napkins neatly. “It’s survival. That room barely has space for a bed and a bookshelf. You want to tell Taehyung to sleep on the porch?”

“I’d make it fashion,” Taehyung says, breezing in from the hallway with a lemon popsicle and not a care in the world. “But the air mattress sounds . . . plush.”

“I call the spot closest to the power outlet,” Jungkook says, kicking his feet up on the couch. “You always do,” you mutter.

“I need to charge my dreams.”

“I think you mean your phone.”

“Same thing.”

Yoongi, still at the edge of the kitchen, folds his arms. His jaw’s set tight, like he’s watching a storm gather over calm water. “So all three of you are just . . . crashing in the same room?” He asks finally. Like he’s trying very hard to sound neutral. You glance over, smirking. “Have been for years when we visit. This isn’t new.” You reply, ignoring how his eyebrow raised.

“Yeah,” Seokjin chimes in casually from where he’s refilling his water. “They’re weirdly well-adjusted about it. I walked in once and all three were in face masks watching reruns of Grey’s Anatomy. It was disturbing.”

“That was one time,” you protest. “And Taehyung cried.”

“They killed the nice one,” Taehyung says defensively, licking his popsicle. “It was the tequila,” Jungkook mutters.

Yoongi’s quiet again.

You glance over just in time to see his eyes move—from you, to Jungkook, to Taehyung, then back to you again. He doesn’t speak. But the math is mathing in real time behind his eyes.

Three adults. One small room. One shared bed. One air mattress. All of you in pajamas. Laughing. Comfortable. Dangerously close.

Sena loops an arm around Seokjin and grins. “I don’t know why Yoongi looks like he’s about to call HR on your childhood bedroom.” Yoongi lifts an eyebrow, slow. “Just surprised, that’s all.”

“You weren’t here last year,” your mom adds, cheerful. “Or for New Year’s. Or Seokjin’s birthday. You’ve missed a lot.”

“Apparently,” Yoongi says, voice dry. You toss him a too-sweet smile over your shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” you tease. “We’ll keep the door open—Dad’s rules.”

“Just in case we start sinning,” Taehyung adds solemnly. “Dear God ,” Seokjin mutters. Yoongi doesn’t say another word.

But you see it—that slight, unreadable flicker in his eyes. The kind that says, what the hell kind of friendship is this and why do I want to rip an air mattress in half.

The lot of you moved to the living room. Like always, there’s not enough room on the couch. There never is.

You’re tucked into the corner, legs folded beneath you, blanket thrown across your lap. Jungkook is beside you—beside being generous. He’s all long limbs and heat, shoulder to shoulder with you, socked feet kicked up on the coffee table like he owns the place. He sort of does. At this point, your parents have stopped asking if he’s staying for holidays. He just shows up.

Yoongi’s across the room on the other couch, one arm slung over the backrest, legs spread, glass in hand. Whiskey, neat. Still watching you like he hasn’t quite decided if this is a sitcom or a horror movie.

Seokjin is on the floor with Sena in his lap, laughing like he’s already honeymooned. Taehyung’s sprawled on the rug with a bowl of popcorn like he was born there.

Someone pressed play on a movie. No one’s really watching it. “Okay but,” Jungkook says around a mouthful of caramel corn, “Why are you always cold?”

“Because I run warm,” you reply, eyes still on the screen. “And I like the drama.”

He snorts. “You’re not dramatic.” He says, as you glance at him. “I literally made you drive my car because I didn’t want it to get confused about who it loved more.”

“True,” Taehyung mutters from the floor. “She once apologized to her favorite scrubs for cheating on them with a new pair.”

“I was emotionally attached,” you mumble.

“She cradled them.”

“Okay,” you say. “Mutiny.”

Jungkook chuckles, then—too casually—throws his arm across the back of the couch, brushing the tops of your shoulders. You feel Yoongi’s stare like static. You don’t look. Jungkook leans in just a little. “You want more blanket?”

“Already stole all of it,” you murmur.

He grins. “Force of habit.”

And now his thigh is pressed to yours. Not in a weird way. Not in a suggestive way. Just in a we’ve done this a hundred times and neither of us blinks anymore kind of way. Except tonight, someone is definitely blinking. Yoongi shifts on the opposite couch.

He hasn’t spoken since the movie started. But his eyes keep drifting. To Jungkook’s hand. To the blanket. To the little way your head tips toward him when you laugh too loud. Taehyung notices first, because of course he does.

He glances between you and Yoongi, then back at the screen. Smiles to himself.

You catch it. “What?” You ask him. Taehyung blinks innocently. “Nothing.” He shrugs. Yoongi finally speaks, low and easy. “How many times have you guys seen this movie?”

“At least eight,” Jungkook answers. “But she insists she forgets the ending every time.”

You nod. “It’s part of the thrill.”

Yoongi lifts his glass, sips slow, then tilts his head like he’s choosing violence. “She always this clingy when she’s cold?” He asks. You smirk, but don’t look at him. “Only with people who keep me warm without complaining.”

“Oh, I never said I’d complain.”

That makes you look. Yoongi’s face is unreadable. Cool. Calm. But his gaze is heavy on yours. Jungkook raises his brows, amused. Taehyung? Gleefully chaotic. “Yoongi, are you flirting? ”

“I’m just asking questions,” Yoongi says mildly. You sip your whiskey. “Dangerous game.” You state, as Yoongi sips his. “I don’t mind danger.”

The air shifts. Taehyung reaches for popcorn with a sigh. “Man. I love movies.”

The night goes on, the grill is still warm, and the kitchen smells like leftover charcoal, garlic oil, and whatever Taehyung’s slathering onto skewers with the intensity of a Michelin chef doing a TikTok collab.

You’re chopping scallions. One leg propped on the rung of the stool, shoulder loose, Jungkook’s playlist humming through the house speakers. He’s been DJ-ing with Seokjin in the living room, Sena perched on the couch like a cat sipping leftover sangria.

Yoongi’s leaned by the kitchen counter now, arms crossed, observing in silence. Again.

“I’m serious,” his mom says from her spot at the island, absolutely delighted. “She’s the daughter-in-law type. She’s helpful, smart, funny. And her knife skills? Immaculate.”

You laugh politely, not flustered in the slightest—you’ve heard this many times. More times than you could count. Most from Jungkook’s mom. “Thank you, Auntie. It’s mostly just years of meal prepping and chaos management.” You say. “You hear that, Yoongi?” His mom adds, a bit too casually. “She’s the total package. Wife material.”

Yoongi’s head snaps up like someone called his name in the middle of a war zone. His mom is still smiling. Still completely unaware of the full-scale meltdown happening inside her son’s chest cavity.

You glance over, amused. “What do you think, Yoongi?” You ask, deciding to tease the poor guy. His voice is so dry it could crack porcelain. “About what?” He replies. You wipe your hands on a dish towel. “Do I pass the test?”

Taehyung, without missing a beat says, “Oh, babe, you are the test.”

Yoongi blinks once. Slowly. Taehyung bumps your hip with his. “You’re gonna make someone a very lucky husband.” Taehyung winks.

Yoongi looks like he’s forgotten how to blink. His mother, completely oblivious, chuckles. “That’s what I’ve been saying!”

“Only if they can keep up,” you say smoothly, sliding the bowl of chopped scallions toward Taehyung. “You’re assuming anyone can,” Taehyung grins.

And Yoongi? He’s doing math in his head. Math he doesn’t like the answer to. You, looking like that. With a personality like that. In a house full of beautiful, flirty men who casually call you babe. While he stands there, drinking lukewarm water and trying not to physically combust.

His mom claps her hands. “I’m just saying. If none of you boys lock her down, someone else absolutely will.”

Yoongi finally sets his glass down. A little too gently. Taehyung notices. Of course he does. His smile turns devilish. He leans toward you, voice dropping low enough for only the three of you to hear. “Honestly,” he murmurs, eyes flicking briefly to Yoongi, “I wouldn’t wait too long if I were him.” You hum, noncommittal, slipping the last of the green onions into the bowl.

Yoongi turns away, finally, muttering something about checking the grill. But not before you catch the twitch in his jaw.

After dinner, everyone had gone their own ways. You said goodbye to Yoongi and Sena’s parents, and you decided to retire for the night. 

It’s well past midnight when you wake.

The house has fallen into that deep, comfortable silence of full bellies and tired bones. Your childhood bedroom is a mess of blankets and limbs—Taehyung is curled on the air mattress like a shrimp, and Jungkook’s breathing is slow and even beside you.

You shift gently, nudging him just enough to stir. He hums, not fully waking. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Just . . . need a smoke. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Box’s in my duffel,” he mumbles. “Front pocket. Took yours too. Don’t finish my gum.” You smile. “I love you, you know that?” You say, as he hums. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

He’s already drifting again when you swing your legs out of bed. You open his duffle, careful not to wake Taehyung, grabbing the box and Jungkook’s fancy lighter, before pulling on one of his shirts to protect you from the cold, night summer air. 

The front lawn is cool under your bare feet. Damp. Quiet. There’s the faint buzz of a streetlamp and the occasional distant bark of a dog. You light your cigarette, the flame illuminating your face for a brief second.

That’s when you see him.

Yoongi, sitting on the porch steps. Bottle of cheap whiskey resting beside him. A cigarette already between his fingers. He looks at you like you surprised him—but not really. Like part of him expected you.

His gaze is slow, steady, eyeing the lit up cigarette and the lighter in your hand. “You smoke now?” He asks.

You exhale your first drag, feel the warmth hit your lungs. “Yeah. Since nursing school. Started on night shifts, quit during boards. Stuck when I got my first pedia code. Stress, emotions and all that.” He grimaces, takes a long sip from the bottle. “Makes sense.”

You sit down beside him on the porch steps. The wood creaks under your weight, still warm from the sun. Yoongi doesn’t look at you right away. He only holds out the bottle. “You want?”

You take it. The glass is cool in your hand, the label faded. You know it’s not good whiskey—it burns on the way down, rough around the edges, but you don’t flinch. It feels right. You hand it back. He watches the bottle instead of you when he speaks. “Didn’t picture you smoking. Not back then.”

You exhale. “Didn’t picture you drinking alone on my mom’s front porch either, but here we are.” You reply. That gets the smallest tug of a smile from him.

You smoke quietly beside him, your thighs close enough that you can feel the warmth from his leg. You don’t look at him. Not yet. “You know,” he started, voice quieter now, “When my mom said that thing earlier . . .”

You glance at him. “What thing?”

“The daughter-in-law comment.” He taps ash off the edge of his cigarette. “I laughed it off. Pretended like it was nothing.”

You arch a brow. “It was nothing.”

He looks at you now. Direct. “It didn’t feel like nothing.”

You freeze—not dramatically, just still. He keeps going, slow but steady. Like the words have been waiting to leak out. “I keep seeing you around Jungkook. Around Taehyung. Cooking and laughing. Looking like you belong to them or something. Like they already know you.” His jaw tightens. “It hit me because  I don’t . Not anymore.”

You stay silent, wait for him to continue. “I knew you when you were fifteen,” he says, almost to himself. “Knew you when you wore braces and cried if Seokjin forgot to walk you home from school.”

You inhale smoke and hold it in. Let it sear. He turns more toward you. “And now you’re sitting next to me with whiskey on your breath and cigarette smoke in your hair and I—I don’t know who the hell you grew up into. But it’s doing something to me.” He says, honestly. You flick ash, an amused chuckle escaping you. “What kind of something?” You ask, tilting your head in slight confusion. He laughs once, dark and humorless. “The kind I can’t say out loud.”

You glance at him, eyes sharp. “Then why are you here?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Maybe I thought if I kept pretending you were still Jin’s baby sister, I wouldn’t have to admit how much that doesn’t fit anymore. You’re not a kid. You haven’t been for a long time. And I . . “ He trails off, shaking his head like he’s ashamed of even starting the sentence.

You stub out your cigarette. “You what?”

He finally meets your eyes. “I’m still trying to figure out when that changed for me. Because if I say I just noticed now, I’d be lying. And if I say it’s been longer, I don’t know what that makes me.”

That hits you in the chest. You hand the bottle back to him. “You want honest?” You ask.

He nods once. You rest your elbows on your knees, looking out at the empty street. “I thought I got over it. The whole crush. You and your stupid quiet voice and your music and your eyes that never looked at me the way I wanted them to.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. Just listens. “I thought I grew out of it. Moved on. And then I walked into my brother’s wedding week, and there you were. Like a fucking ghost I forgot still had teeth.”

That makes him exhale hard. Like you took the wind out of him. “I see you now,” you add. “And I hate that I still want to be seen back .”

He leans back slowly, cigarette burning between his fingers. You both sit in that raw stillness. That not-quite silence. Finally, Yoongi mutters, “This was easier when you were annoying.”

You huff a dry laugh. “This was easier when you weren’t hot.”

That earns a real smile from him. The corner of his mouth quirks, then twitches back into something softer. Tired. Open. “I’m sorry I kept treating you like a kid,” he says.

“I’m sorry I kept hoping you’d stop.”

Another long pause. He nudges the bottle toward you again. You take it. You take another sip, let it burn down your throat, then hand it back to him. He doesn’t drink. Just holds the bottle in both hands, like it’s anchoring him.

“I didn’t want to come back,” he admits. You glance over, surprised.

“I thought I could handle it. Jin’s wedding, the whole hometown thing. I figured it’d be fine. I’d say the speeches, pose for the photos, get drunk at the reception, go back to New York and forget it happened.”

You exhale, leaning your chin into your palm. “So what went wrong?” You ask. He lets out a quiet, frustrated laugh. “ You .”

You stare at him. He doesn’t flinch. No, he kept going. “You messed it up.” You shift, chuckling. “I didn’t even do anything.” You say softly.

“That’s the thing,” he says, sharper now, like it’s been bubbling under his skin. “You didn’t. You didn’t do anything. You just . . . showed up. All grown up. Wearing that dress at the dinner like it was nothing. Laughing with Jungkook like that’s just who you are now.” His voice cracks a little, just a hairline fracture, but you hear it.

“I kept telling myself you were still that kid,” he says. “That’s what I needed to believe.”

You go quiet, listening.

“The braces. The oversized hoodies. The way you cried that one time you thought Jin left you at the library, remember?”

You nod slowly. “I was eleven.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “And it was easier to keep seeing her than see you .”

He’s not looking at you now. He’s looking past you, like he’s confessing to the dark. “I drew that line a long time ago. Seokjin’s baby sister. Off-limits. Easy to ignore. Easy to protect. End of story.”

His fingers tighten around the neck of the bottle. “And now I see you—here, in your own house, barefoot on the porch, smoking like the world owes you something—and all I can think about is how badly I don’t want to want you.”

That lands like a gut punch. You sit still. Let it wash over you.

He finally turns toward you, eyes tired and open and unguarded in a way you’ve never seen before. “But I do. I do want you. And it’s driving me fucking insane.”

Your heart’s pounding so hard you think he can probably hear it. You speak, voice quiet but sure. “You don’t get to make me feel crazy for years, then act like I’m the problem because I grew up.”

“I’m not blaming you,” he says quickly. “I’m blaming myself.”

He looks down at his hands, then back up at you. “I didn’t let myself see you because I knew if I did . . . it would be over.”

You frown. “Over?”

“Over for the boundary. Over for pretending I didn’t care. Over for all the excuses I’ve been feeding myself since I realized you weren’t a kid anymore.” He confesses. You swallow, hard . “And when was that?” You dare to ask.  He laughs, almost bitter. “Honestly? I think it started the last time I saw you. Years ago. You hugged me goodbye and you were barely twenty something. Still looked a little unsure of the world.”

He looks at you now like he’s seeing the aftermath of that moment in real time. “And then I saw you this week and it hit me like a brick to the face. You weren’t unsure anymore.”

Your voice is a whisper now. “And that scared you?”

“No,” he says. “That ruined me.”

Silence stretches again, but this time it’s different. No weight. No avoidance. You sit beside him, the tension thick and humming between you like a wire pulled taut.

You sit there for a while, not speaking. The cicadas hum low in the background. A distant car passes by on the next street over. The porch light above flickers once, then steadies.

You run your thumb over the edge of the whiskey bottle. You don’t look at him when you say it. “I used to imagine what this would feel like,” you say, voice quiet, but clear. “You and me. Sitting out here. Smoking. Talking. You finally seeing me.”

Yoongi doesn’t move.

“I used to think . . . if it ever happened, it’d feel huge. Fireworks or thunder or something. But it doesn’t.” You finally look at him, and your eyes are steady. “It just feels . . . quiet. Like I’ve known it this whole time.”

His eyes meet yours. And they don’t flinch.

“I don’t want to go back,” you say. “To pretending this doesn’t exist. To acting like I’m just your best friend’s little sister who happens to be in the same house for a week.” Your voice dips lower, like something sacred.

“Because I’m not that girl anymore. And you’re not just someone I used to have a crush on.”

You shift a little closer—not to make a move, not to seduce. Just so your knees brush his. “I’ve wanted a lot of things in my life, Yoongi,” you whisper. “But not like this. Not like you. Not in a way that feels like it might actually break me.”

He swallows, hard. You shake your head once, just a little. “And still, I want you anyway.” You sigh, equally as honest. 

Silence. Again. But different now. It’s not just filled with what you’ve said. It’s filled with what neither of you can take back. He lets out a slow, ragged breath. “ Fuck .”

You smile. Small. Bittersweet. “Yeah. That about sums it up.” 

The porch is quiet again. That heavy, after-confession kind of quiet. Yoongi’s still staring at you like you just tore open the sky and asked him to look directly into the sun. You let your head tilt back, eyes on the stars. Your chest feels too full and too empty at once.

The door creaks open behind you.

You both flinch. A soft voice calls out, “There you are.” You glance over your shoulder. It’s Jungkook. Hair flattened on one side, hoodie pulled halfway over his head, socks but no shoes, eyes barely open. “I reached out and you weren’t there,” he mumbles, rubbing his face. “Scared me.”

You blink. “What are you, five?” You teased, but you knew he was still half-asleep. Which meant he’d be extra clingy. 

Jungkook walks out onto the porch and drops down between you and Yoongi like a sleepy golden retriever claiming his spot. His head lands on your shoulder without ceremony. “I missed you,” he mutters.

You let out a laugh through your nose. “You were unconscious, and I told you I was gonna go smoke. You even told me where you kept my box.”

“I’m sensitive.”

Yoongi watches the whole thing with an unreadable expression. Then, deadpan, he asks, “Is it always like this?” Jungkook, eyes still closed, nods. “She sneaks out, I follow. She gets cold, I become a blanket. She eats pickles at 3AM, I judge her.” He retells, like he’s checking a list off his head. You smile. “He only judges because I don’t share.”

Jungkook shrugs against your shoulder. “Fair.”

Yoongi is quiet. But not in that tied-in-knots way anymore. Just watching. Taking it in. Jungkook finally peeks one eye open at him. “You done spiraling?” He asks, not even in a teasing way. Yoongi’s been spiraling all day.

Yoongi lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I think so.”

Jungkook nods, satisfied, then burrows closer to you with a groan. “I came out here for cuddles and instead I found trauma. So rude.” He whines. You roll your eyes, but your hand lifts instinctively and runs through his hair once. Comfort. Habit.

Yoongi watches that, then looks away again—this time with a sort of reluctant smile. Not jealous. Just realizing. You glance at him. And for once, he doesn’t look like he wants to disappear. He just says, quietly, “You’ve got a good thing here.”

You hum. “I do.”

Jungkook lifts his hand, still not looking at either of you, and flips him off lazily. “Don’t make it weird, dude.”

Yoongi huffs. “You literally just climbed on top of her like a needy cat.”

Jungkook smiles. “Exactly.”

Jungkook is already halfway asleep on your shoulder again, arm slung loosely across your waist. You glance down, then nudge him gently. “Go back to bed.” You tell him. He grumbles. “You’re my emotional support person.” He says.

“And the porch is not your habitat,” you reply, standing slowly. He slumps against the step for a second before hauling himself upright with a sleepy groan. You squeeze his wrist. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

He stares at you like he knows better than to argue, then nods and shuffles back toward the door, muttering something about “pillow rights” and “herbicide in the lawn.”

The door clicks behind him. And it’s just you and Yoongi again. You glance at him once, offering a small smile, about to turn.

“Wait,” he says suddenly. You stop. Turn back.

He’s standing now too, not towering, but taller in the way that makes you feel just a little smaller than you are. The porch light casts warm shadows across his face, and his eyes are steadier than they’ve been all night. “I meant what I said,” he says. You nod slowly. “I know.”

He exhales, jaw tense, like he’s weighing every word before letting it out. “I didn’t want to want you,” he says quietly. “But I do.”

You don’t speak. You let him say it. He steps just a little closer—not touching you, but close enough that you can feel the air shift.

“I’m not gonna kiss you tonight,” he says. “I’m not gonna cross that line here. Not while you’re sharing a bed with someone else. Not when I don’t know what this is yet.”

Your heart is in your throat. “But I need you to know,” he finishes, voice firm, low, honest, “You’re not the only one losing sleep over this.”

That silence returns—deep, slow, full of weight. But it’s not uncertainty anymore. It's a promise . You nod once. Just a breath. “Good.”

You don’t say goodbye. Just turn and walk back inside, barefoot and still holding the smoke on your breath, the echo of his words in your chest.

And behind you, Yoongi stays on the porch. Still not crossing the line. But no longer pretending it isn’t there.

Chapter 3: Check-In, Checkmate

The hotel lobby was a five-star mess of polished marble, rich mahogany accents, and emotional instability.

Sena was orchestrating everyone’s check-in like she was coordinating a military operation. Her clipboard was fraying at the edges. Her smile was hanging on by one last espresso shot. Her fiancé—your brother—stood nearby holding exactly one suitcase and looking like he was waiting to be assigned a role in a play he hadn’t rehearsed for.

“Babe,” Jungkook said, handing you a matcha latte like a peace offering. “Don’t fight me, but I told the concierge you like your pillows medium-firm and your room freezing. You’re welcome.”

You took the cup. “I didn’t ask you to speak on my behalf, but thank you. That is unfortunately correct.” You quipped. Taehyung wandered over, sunglasses still on indoors. “I told them you don’t like citrus-scented body wash because it makes you sneeze.” He chimed in as Seokjin, in the background, nodded as if that tracked. “Yeah, she does get sneezy.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow from where he stood at the front desk, signing his name. “What the hell. Do you guys know her blood type too?” He asked, unfortunately for him, your friends did. “B positive,” Jungkook and Taehyung said in unison. Yoongi blinked. “That was a joke.”

They didn’t flinch. You took a long sip of your matcha to avoid eye contact. “We’re healthcare professionals,” Taehyung added helpfully. “It’s in our charts.” He shrugged.

Seokjin didn’t even look up from his phone. “Don’t care. Just don’t get her sick before the wedding. We’re not rescheduling for your little throuple colds.”

“Please,” you said, gesturing vaguely at Taehyung and Jungkook. “They’re high-maintenance. I don’t have the stamina for two boyfriends.”

“Excuse you,” Jungkook said. “You absolutely have the stamina.”

“Don’t do this here,” you said flatly, sipping your drink. Yoongi looked like he was witnessing a cult initiation. He dropped his keycard into his pocket and turned to you. “So . . . still a throuple?” He teased, eyebrow raised. You shrugged. “Sometimes we’re a quartet. Depends on how hot the attending is that week.” You chuckled.

You were trying not to overthink how Yoongi had just taken your suitcase from you without a word, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Which, historically, it had been.

Only when he handed it to the concierge, he muttered something low under his breath. Just loud enough for you to hear, “Didn’t realize you packed the whole hospital.”

You glanced sideways. “Sorry, do my well-toned arms offend you?” You bite, jokingly. His mouth twitched. “Not the arms. Just the attitude.”

“You love my attitude.”

He didn’t deny it. Just looked at you with that soft, infuriatingly unreadable expression of his. And that— that —was the moment Seokjin looked up from the front desk and froze. He didn’t say anything. Just stared. Squinted. Logged it away like a dad spotting an unfamiliar car in the driveway.

Then Jungkook reappeared at your side again with hotel cookies in both hands. “Here,” he said, handing you the better one. “They gave me two by accident, and I’m emotionally generous today.”

You took the cookie, unfazed. “Your emotional generosity depends entirely on snacks.” You state, as Taehyung slid up beside you with a keycard and a rogue chocolate truffle. “Didn’t realize we were co-parenting my heart,” Jungkook said, watching Taehyung feed you the chocolate truffle.

You sighed. “If I hear the phrase throuple logistics one more time this weekend I’m locking you both in the bridal suite closet.”

Seokjin, still watching from behind the front desk, did not react. Not to “babe,” not to Jungkook feeding you half his cookie, not to Taehyung looping his arm through yours like a boyfriend in a drama. But when Yoongi spoke again, Seokjin reacted. Yoongi, voice calm, almost bored, “Can’t blame them. She does have good hands.”

The silence that followed was instant. Jungkook—literal king of shameless banter—froze mid-sip. Taehyung blinked, like did he just hallucinate that? You turned toward Yoongi slowly, eyebrows raised. “I beg your pardon?”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. Just sipped from his own coffee. “You’re a nurse practitioner. Steady hands. Life-saving. Very professional.” He says, like he didn’t just make a suggestive joke about your hands. He looked at you. “Don’t make it weird.” He said, as you gaped. “ You made it weird.”

“Did I?” he said, utterly unapologetic. “ Huh .”

Seokjin made a sound. The kind of sound older brothers make when they realize they might have to punch one of their best friends in the face, but also want to see where this goes. He crossed his arms. “Okay. What’s going on here.” He asks, pointing his finger between you and Yoongi.

“Nothing,” you and Yoongi said in unison. Which, obviously, made it worse.

Taehyung was still staring at Yoongi, clearly reevaluating his entire understanding of this man. “Are we . . . friends now?” He asked, hesitant as Jungkook nodded slowly. “I don’t know if I like it.”

Yoongi shrugged. “You’ll survive.”

And that was the thing. He wasn’t joking at them anymore. He was . . . with them. Not warm, exactly. But comfortable. Like the years between you all weren’t stretching quite as wide anymore. You didn’t know what it meant. You just knew it made something in your chest twist—hard.

The elevator doors ding open and you think, briefly, about turning around and pretending you forgot something—your bag, your sanity, literally anything. But it’s too late. You’ve already locked eyes with Sena.

“Get in,” she says, with the deranged calm of someone who has been holding in a scream for forty-five minutes. You step inside. Yoongi follows you in. Then Jungkook. Then Taehyung. Seokjin barely squeezes in after, juggling a suit bag and an expression that says I regret introducing all of you.

The doors slide closed.

Sena exhales sharply through her nose. “The florist canceled. I’m getting emails from a woman named Denise who says she’s not emotionally available for wedding events. What does that mean?” She sighs, while Taehyung leans in, whispering, “Is she going through a breakup?”

“Should I call her?” Jungkook offers, already reaching for his phone. “I’m very emotionally available.”

You snort. “No, you’re not.” You raised an eyebrow.

“No one is calling Denise,” Sena snaps. “Someone please text my mom and tell her I’m not eloping. Again .” She dramatically flails her arms up and down. Jin’s voice is calm. “You never eloped the first time.” He states.

“That’s what makes it convincing!”

You stifle a laugh and reach across Jungkook to press your floor number. Yoongi’s right behind you. Close. Not touching, but you can feel the heat of him. He murmurs low by your ear, “She’s more high-stakes than I remember.”

You glance sideways. “She’s marrying your best friend. What did you expect, a yoga retreat?” You snort. Yoongi’s mouth twitches. “Could be worse. Could be you in the dress.” He says, and that makes you blink.

He sips from his iced coffee—unbothered. “You’d be a menace to society as a bride.” He continues. Before you can reply, Jungkook chimes in without missing a beat. “She’d be iconic.”

“Like, terrifyingly hot,” Taehyung adds. “But yes. Menace.”

Sena groans. “Oh my god. Can someone just hold me hostage until I figure out centerpieces?”

“We are holding you hostage,” Seokjin says, deadpan. “It’s called an elevator.”

Another ding—floor ten. The doors open and no one gets off. Not your floor yet.

Jungkook shifts and knocks his shoulder into Yoongi lightly, all casual. “You good, dude? You’ve been making a lot of jokes today.” He asks, Taehyung nods solemnly. “It’s concerning.” He adds.

Yoongi doesn’t even blink. “I’m adapting .” You scoff at that. “To what? Having to socialize?”

Yoongi glances at you. Slow. Sharp. “To whatever the hell this week is turning into.”

That shuts you up. And maybe Jungkook and Taehyung too, just for a second. Sena, still mid-panic, doesn’t notice the vibe shift.

“I need all of you dressed and downstairs for the rehearsal dinner photoshoot by six sharp,” she says, snapping her fingers. “No exceptions, no excuses, no distractions.”

Jungkook raises a hand. “What if I get kidnapped?”

“Do it after photos.”

The elevator dings again—your floor. You step out. So does Jungkook. Taehyung follows after, arms full of unnecessarily dramatic silk.

Yoongi pauses at the door. “I’ll help with the bags.”

Before you can argue, Seokjin grabs his arm and drags him back in. “Nope. You’re rooming with me, remember? Come on, Casanova. We’re late.”

The doors close on Yoongi’s mildly offended expression. You stare at the closed elevator for a second too long. Jungkook bumps your shoulder with his. “He’s adapting , huh?”

You blink out of it. “Don’t.” You shake your head. He grins. “Didn’t say a word.”

Taehyung sighs dreamily. “The tension in this hotel could power the grid.”

The hotel suite smells like linen spray and body lotion and too many styling products fighting for dominance. Your sage green dress is half-zipped, your hair is pinned up with exactly seven bobby pins you’re 80% sure you’ll forget to take out before bed, and Taehyung is lying upside down on the bed like a Victorian wife awaiting a letter from war.

“You look obscene,” he sighs, watching you shimmy the dress up over your hips. “Help me zip this and I’ll let you live.” You grunted.

He rolls over dramatically, climbs off the bed with all the grace of a man in silk pajamas, and zips you up with reverent slowness. “You’re a gift to mankind,” he murmurs.

“Tell that to my ex,” you reply, adjusting the neckline in the mirror. Behind you, Jungkook is steaming his tux jacket in his tank top and boxers like it’s just a casual Thursday. His hair’s still damp from the shower. His tattoos are out. You try not to look.

Fail .

“Are you not even going to pretend to wear pants?” You ask. “I’m multitasking,” he replies, stretching his arms over his head in a way that is both offensive and unfair. “Don’t punish me for being efficient and hot.” He says, not even looking up from his task.

“You’re lucky I’m into both.”

Taehyung gasps. “So brave of you to say it out loud.”

You’re still trying to fix your earrings when Jungkook finally buttons up the shirt—halfway. Of course. He whistles low, looking you up and down. Both blink at you like you just walked onto the set of a perfume ad. Jungkook drags the steamer away from his tux jacket. “See, this is why I need you to start charging for emotional damage.” You roll your eyes. “It’s just a dress.”

Jungkook circles you once with the steamer in hand like he’s inspecting fine art. “This is not just anything. This is a sage green, satin moment of main character energy.”

Taehyung nods. “It’s giving if I don’t get proposed to by dessert, I’m suing.” You snort at that. “You two literally made me buy it.”

“And we were correct,” Jungkook says, pointing at you with the steamer. “Don’t fight the vision.”

You sit on the edge of the bed and start clasping your bracelets, watching Jungkook smooth out the lapels of his tux. The white shirt is still half unbuttoned, collar open, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair’s damp, curling a little at the ends. He’s doing that thing where he focuses so hard on a task it makes him look kind of . . . intense.

Taehyung stretches out on the bed beside you and mutters, “So . . . are we gonna talk about it or are we just gonna let Yoongi keep pretending he’s always been funny?” You glance at him. “What?” You ask.

Jungkook doesn’t look up, but his smirk is audible. “Dude’s cracking jokes now. Full sentences. Actual banter. We’re in uncharted waters.” He says as Taehyung nods solemnly. “He made a hand joke. A very . . .  suggestive hand joke.” He says.

“Oh my god ,” you groan, flopping back on the bed. “Let it go.”

Jungkook raises a brow. “Let what go? We’re just observing.”

“Like scientists,” Taehyung adds. “Like drama queens,” you correct. Jungkook shrugs. “We’re drama queens with excellent taste and high emotional intelligence.”

You peek at him through your lashes. “He’s always been funny. You guys just didn’t know him before.” You explain, and Jungkook finally turns to you, arms crossed. “Okay, sure. But you knew him before. And now you’re talking like there’s a shared Google Calendar we missed.”

Taehyung lifts a brow. “Did something happen?”

You pause. Just for a beat. Too short for suspicion, too long for comfort. “Just . . . history,” you say softly, standing to fix the fall of your dress.

“ Mm ,” Jungkook hums. “You mean the kind that leaves scorch marks or the kind that makes your stomach feel like it got drop-kicked?” You stare at your reflection. “Yes.” You merely answer, still adjusting the neckline of your dress.

Taehyung sits up slowly. “Wait.”

Jungkook straightens. “Wait.”

You blink innocently. “ What .”

They stare at you in unison, twin looks of mock horror on their faces. Taehyung puts a hand to his heart. “I knew something happened on that porch.”

You lift your lipstick and wave it at them. “You two are insufferable.” Jungkook flops dramatically onto the bed, still in his unbuttoned tux. “We’re not judging. We just want the gossip.”

You smirk, uncapping your lipstick. “You’ll live.”

“Not if you keep gatekeeping Yoongi with personality,” Taehyung whines. You swipe on a perfect coat of crimson and say nothing. And behind you, your reflection doesn’t give anything away—except, maybe, the ghost of a smile.

The ballroom was everything Sena deserved—warm light spilling from modern chandeliers, soft jazz humming under the clink of glasses, floral centerpieces that screamed money but whispered taste. Every guest had a place card written in looping calligraphy. The seating chart had nearly caused two meltdowns and a vendor boycott.

You didn’t care. Because none of that mattered right now.

Right now, you were walking into the rehearsal dinner on Jungkook’s arm, your sage green dress hugging you in all the ways you’d hoped it would, and for once—just once—you didn’t feel like anyone’s kid sister.

“Holy shit,” someone muttered behind a glass of champagne. You didn’t look, but you knew that voice.

Yoongi .

Jungkook didn’t react, just adjusted the cuff of his tux and leaned in, voice smug, “I think you broke him.” You smiled, lips barely parted. “Good.”

Your heels clicked softly against the ballroom floor as you made your way across it, past cousins you hadn’t seen in years, friends of your parents, bridal party chaos. But you didn’t stop. You walked straight to the bride and groom.

Seokjin turned at the sound of your voice, and immediately softened. “It’s really happening,” you said, breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. “My big brother is actually getting married.”

You looked at Sena, radiant and sharp in ivory satin, a vision even without the veil. “To a goddess,” you added. Sena beamed. “You’re lucky you get to keep me.” She joked.

“I plan to abuse that privilege entirely,” you said, pulling her into a gentle hug. Then Seokjin tugged you in next, squeezing you with one arm and muttering, “Please don’t cry. You always cry at formal events.”

“Not true,” you sniffed, definitely about to cry.

“You cried at my high school graduation.”

“Because you looked like a proud chicken.”

Jungkook snorted into his wine. You stepped back as more people came to greet the couple, letting them be the center—as they should be. You leaned against Jungkook for a beat and sighed. “It’s really happening.”

“Yeah,” he said, softly. “It is.”

That’s when you felt it. The stare.

You didn’t have to turn around to feel Yoongi’s eyes on you. Didn’t need confirmation to know he hadn’t looked away since you walked in. But when you did glance his way—you almost forgot how to breathe.

He was standing near the bar, whiskey in hand, collar unbuttoned just enough to undo your entire emotional stability. His gaze dragged down the line of your dress, slow and hungry, then flicked to Jungkook beside you—and paused.

You held his gaze for a beat longer than polite. Then turned back to the crowd like it cost you nothing.

Spoiler—it cost you everything.

“You want a drink?” Jungkook asked, oblivious or pretending to be. “Yes,” you exhaled. “All of them.”

Taehyung appeared beside you, already holding two glasses of champagne. “I bring offerings,” he said, handing you one. “For the Goddess of Chaos and Her Hot Familiar.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who’s who?”

“Exactly.”

From across the room, Yoongi was still watching. And this time, he smiled.

You take a sip of champagne. Light. Crisp. No match for the heat crawling up your spine. Yoongi’s still watching. Not in a checking you out kind of way—though, sure, that too.

But this. . . this is different . Eyes narrowed. Mouth set. Like he’s studying something. Or maybe someone.

Taehyung follows your line of sight. Then hums. “Damn.”

“What?”

He doesn’t blink. “That’s not a look you give someone you’re trying to get over.”

You choke on your drink. “Excuse me?”

“He’s been staring at you like you’re a problem he wants to solve and make worse.” He explains as Jungkook whistles. “That’s poetic.” Jungkook compliments. “Thank you,” Taehyung says. “It’s the champagne.”

You’re about to argue—pretend you don’t know what they’re talking about—but it’s too late. Yoongi’s already walking over. No tie. Jacket off. One hand in his pocket, the other holding that same glass of whiskey he hasn’t touched in minutes.

Taehyung raises both brows. “Look alive , lovers.”

“Shut up,” you mutter.

Yoongi stops in front of you like it’s casual. Like he hasn’t been staring you down from across the room like you invented sin.

“Hi,” he says. Just that. You blink. “Hi.”

He glances at the boys, then back at you. “Can I steal you for a second?” He asks, making Taehyung perk up. “She’s expensive.” He states, making Yoongi’s lips twitch into a smile. “I’ll owe you.”

Jungkook tilts his head. “What kind of debt are we talking here?” He asks as you glare at them. “You two are not auctioning me off.” You bit.

“I’d bid,” Taehyung shrugs. “Same,” Jungkook says. Yoongi sighs. “I see the throuple rumors are accurate.” He says. You raise your glass. “Tragically so.”

Yoongi turns to them— really looks at them—for the first time all night. There’s a moment, a pause. A tension that used to live in his jaw. But it’s not there now. “Thanks,” he says, nodding once. “For taking care of her.”

Taehyung blinks. “Oh. We don’t—”

“Like emotionally,” Yoongi adds, half a smile. “Not just rides and coffee and unpacking her trauma while doing skincare.”

Jungkook snorts. “You think we do skincare?” He asks. Yoongi’s eyes flick over Jungkook’s glowing complexion. “Don’t play.”

You choke on your laughter. And for the first time, the three of them are just—talking. Easy. Wary, maybe. But no walls. No territorial shit.

Just Yoongi, trying .

“Okay,” you say, cutting through it. “Let’s go before someone asks if you’re proposing.”

You move to step past him. But before you can, Jungkook stops you with a hand on your wrist. You look up. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. His eyes already say you good?

You nod.

And then Yoongi’s hand brushes the small of your back as he leads you away. You feel it burn there for minutes after.

The terrace is quiet. Cool breeze slipping in from the edge of the city. The hum of laughter and soft jazz filters through the heavy doors behind you, but out here—it’s still. Safe.

Yoongi stands beside you, hands in his pockets, eyes on the skyline. For a while, neither of you says anything. He doesn’t have to speak for you to feel it.

That tension. The kind that makes your skin aware of itself. The kind that lives in silence.

Then, finally—his voice, low. “That dress is going to be the death of me.” He confessed. You glance sideways. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being honest .”

You laugh under your breath. “Same thing, usually.” He smiles at that—faint, crooked. The kind of smile that’s more exhale than expression. “I knew you’d look good,” he says. “You always looked good.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a compliment or a confession?”

Yoongi looks at you, really looks at you, like he’s still trying to figure out how you got here. How he got here. “Both,” he says quietly. You inhale once. Shallow.

“I didn’t mean to be obvious,” he adds, turning his gaze back to the city. “But Seokjin gave me a look when you walked in. Like he’d been waiting for me to crack.” He says, making your lips twitch. “And?” Yoongi breathes out a laugh. “And I cracked.”

He runs a hand through his hair—nervous. He never used to be nervous. “Being around you like this,” he says, “It’s . . . not what I prepared for.”

“Prepared?” you echo, smile tugging at your mouth. “Like it’s surgery?”

“Feels like it,” he murmurs. You turn to face him fully. “Yoongi.” You call out. He meets your eyes. “You can say it.” You say, voice softening. He swallows. “You’re making it really hard not to want you.” He admits.

The air thickens. 

“I don’t want to,” he adds. “I told myself a long time ago—I wouldn’t.”

“Because I’m Seokjin’s sister.” You nodded.

“Because you were young . Because I was stupid. Because I thought it would go away.”

“And it didn’t.”

His silence is the answer. You nod once. Slow. Letting it settle between you. Then, lightly—you say, “I could say something dumb right now. Like you should see the dress I almost wore.” Yoongi’s jaw tightens. “Don’t.”

Your laugh is soft, breathless. He steps closer—not touching, just there. “You’re not the same girl I used to know,” he says. “You’re not a kid anymore.”

You tilt your head. “That scares you?”

“No,” he says, voice lower now. “It makes it worse.”

Your heart is beating so hard it’s a miracle he can’t hear it. Yoongi exhales again. A shaky thing. “I’m not kissing you,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “I want to. I really want to.”

You lift a brow, surprised, and kind of amused. “Who said anything about kissing?” You ask. His gaze flicks to your mouth. “Don’t play.”

“I’m not,” you say quietly. “I don’t want this to be a mistake,” he murmurs. You meet his eyes, steady. “Then don’t let it be one.”

The silence between you sharpens—dense and electric. But no one moves. Not yet. The door creaks open behind you. A burst of laughter, the scrape of shoes. Yoongi steps back. Barely.

You both breathe. The door creaks open behind you again with the softest groan of polished brass and hotel elegance.

You don’t turn. Neither does Yoongi.

Not right away. Because the moment is still too sharp. Still suspended in that breathless space between not yet and almost. “Well,” Seokjin’s voice cuts in, far too casual. “This is romantic.”

You blink.

Yoongi closes his eyes for one brief second like he’s manifesting the strength not to die right here, on this damn terrace.

You both turn. Seokjin is already halfway onto the terrace, sleeves rolled, champagne glass in hand. He’s grinning. But it’s that grin. The one he wears when he knows exactly what’s going on and is pretending like he doesn’t—just long enough to give you a chance to lie.

No one speaks. He looks between you. You. Yoongi. Back to you. Then sips. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your smoke break or . . . whatever this is.”

“We weren’t smo—” you start, but Seokjin raises a hand. “I’m not asking,” he says, voice light, smile unwavering.

Yoongi shifts beside you. Just enough for Seokjin to notice. He does. Of course he does. But he doesn’t call him out. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t tease. Just gives him a look.

A very specific look.

The kind only big brothers can give their best friends when the line they always said was off-limits has officially become blurry. You know that look. You’ve seen it before.

Once, when Yoongi cracked his knuckles too loudly during a scary movie and you shrieked and buried your face in his shoulder.

Once, when he let you fall asleep on him during a road trip and didn’t wake you until you got home.

Seokjin saw it then. He sees it now. But still—no lecture. No scene. Just a long, quiet pause before he says, with a casual little shrug, “Dinner’s starting. Sena wants pictures. And if we don’t go now, she’ll stab me with a hairpin.”

You nod. “We’ll be right in.” Seokjin steps back toward the door. Then pauses.

“Hey, Yoongi?”

Yoongi lifts his gaze. Seokjin’s smile softens—barely.

“I’m not stupid.”

Yoongi’s throat bobs. Then Seokjin looks at you.

And you swear there’s something—pride, maybe, or surrender—in the way he sees you now. Not as his baby sister. But as the woman standing here. On purpose. With someone he used to know better than anyone.

“Don’t be late,” he adds, stepping inside.

The door swings shut behind him. You and Yoongi are alone again. But it’s quieter now. Different. You exhale. “He’s known for a while.” You said, as Yoongi rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

“Still alive, though.” You joked, bumping his shoulder. He huffs a soft laugh. “Barely.”

Another pause. You finally turn to him, lips twitching. “So. Dinner?” Yoongi nods once. “Dinner.”

But his eyes haven’t left your mouth.

You’ve just stepped back inside the ballroom when you spot them—Jungkook and Taehyung, posted by the dessert table like twin sirens of judgment and whipped cream. Taehyung’s swirling a champagne glass, eyes glinting. Jungkook, all smug grin and loosened bowtie, takes one look at your face and says, “Okay, what was that.”

You freeze. “What was what.”

“Oh, you know what,” Jungkook says. “You two disappeared for ten minutes and came back with new eye contact.” He raises an eyebrow. Taehyung, however, waggles his brows. “Is it serious? Is it cinematic? Do we need to prepare a speech?”

You open your mouth. “Don’t lie,” Jungkook warns, licking frosting off his thumb. “You have your post-flirt flush.”

“I do not flush—”

But you don’t get to finish. Because that’s when they descend. A swarm of aunties and uncles—some familiar, some vaguely recognizable, some who may or may not have held you as a baby—close in like a synchronized attack unit.

You’re barely able to register the sudden press of bodies, the scent of perfume and cologne and spicy-sweet laughter. 

“Is that our girl?”

“She grew up so fast, look at her!”

“Is this your boyfriend?” A chorus of hands gestures to Jungkook, who blinks, utterly unfazed. “Oh no, no—” you start.

“He’s very handsome,” one auntie says approvingly, nodding like she’s judging a melon. “Are you two engaged already? Where’s the ring?”

“I’m not—”

“But this one!” another voice interrupts, grabbing Taehyung’s arm. “He’s so good-looking. Is he your fiancé?”

Taehyung bows theatrically. “It would be an honor, ma’am. But she’s got very serious standards. My application is still under review.”

The aunties howl. Someone gasps. “So it’s him then?” Another hand points to Yoongi, who has very unfortunately chosen this moment to appear behind you with a drink in hand. You barely glance at him before someone grabs your wrist.

“ Min Yoongi? Is this Min Yoongi? You used to run around this very ballroom! You stole shrimp off the buffet when you were six!”

Yoongi blinks, caught. “That . .  sounds like me.”

“Are you dating her now?”

Yoongi sips his drink. Shrugs. Doesn’t deny it. You choke, looking at him very betrayed. And that is the beginning of the end. “Wait so—who’s the boyfriend?”

“Are you the one getting married next?”

“Where are you working now?”

“Still single? Really?”

“She’s not single,” one auntie insists. “Did you see the way that one looked at her?”

“Which one?”

“All of them!”

Another uncle chimes in, cheerful and unnecessarily loud. “I give it six months, tops. Then she’s engaged.”

“Six months? Try three .”

“We should start a betting pool.”

“I bet on the one with the eyebrow piercing—he looks like he’s in love.” Jungkook, who is chewing his dessert calmly, grins and doesn’t deny it either. You stare at him in betrayal.

“ Help me, ” you whisper.

“Why would I?” he says. “This is incredible.”

Finally— finally —Seokjin appears. Parting the crowd like Moses. Tall. Tired. Possibly tipsy. “There you are,” he says, sliding an arm around your shoulder like the oldest brother he is. “Sorry, everyone. I’m stealing her back.”

“Why?” an auntie whines. “She’s finally being interesting!”

“She’s been interesting,” Seokjin says firmly, steering you away. “We’re going to go bribe the quarter.”

There’s a smattering of laughter and a few disappointed tsks as the crowd disperses. You sigh so hard your lungs collapse. “I owe you my life.”

“I’ll collect later,” Seokjin replies. 

You stand together near the edge of the ballroom, warm lights casting soft gold across the marble floor. It’s quieter here, tucked behind the floral arch where the photographer isn’t looking and the aunties won’t follow. Seokjin sips his champagne. You sip your feelings.

He glances at you sideways. “You okay?” He asks, noticing the way your shoulders loosened, and the sigh that escaped your lips. You nod. Then shake your head. Then laugh. “I don’t know,” you say. “I think I blacked out somewhere around is this your fiancé and where’s the ring.” 

He chuckles. “That was impressive. I’ve never seen you steamroll Aunt Jina with just your eyebrows.”

“She asked if Jungkook was in love with me. ”

“Is he?”

You glare. “ Seokjin .” He raises both hands. “I’m just gathering data.” He defends. You roll your eyes. Then sigh, softer this time. He watches you for a second. Then nudges your shoulder. “You really are grown up, huh.”

You glance at him. “I always was.”

“No, you weren’t,” he says with a smile. “You used to cry if your glitter pens dried out.”

“You used to eat ketchup packets raw.”

“I was experimental .”

You both laugh. Then he exhales—deep, slow, quiet. “When did this happen?” he says, mostly to himself. “I was supposed to be the adult. You were supposed to stay my bratty little sister who needed help parallel parking.”

You lean into him. “I still can’t parallel park.”

“Good. Some balance.”

He falls quiet again. Then adds, more seriously, “You know . . . I really like Jungkook.” He says, almost like it’s something you didn’t already know. You blink, caught offguard. “What?”

“He’s a good guy,” Seokjin says. “I’ve been friends with him for what? Almost a decade? I’ve seen him. I know you’re just friends—at least for now—but if that ever changed . . .”

You freeze.

“I’d be okay with it,” he says gently. “Not because you’re close. But because I know him. He’s loyal. Smart. Protective in the quiet ways.” You swallow. “Seokjin . . .” You trail off.

“And Yoongi,” he adds, voice barely above a murmur. “Same thing. I’ve known him my whole life. Doesn’t mean he’s easy. But if he’s choosing you— really choosing you—it means something.”

Your throat tightens. Seokjin shrugs. “Basically, I’m just saying—if something happens with either of them, I’m not gonna freak out. I know you. And I know them. It’s scary to say, as your big brother, but I . . . trust them.” He admits. Albeit, almost forcefully. But honest.

You blink fast. “I hate you,” you say, voice cracking. He grins. “You’re welcome.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out choked. The tears sneak up before you can stop them. “Damn it,” you mutter, pressing your fingers under your eyes. “You said I always cry at formal events.”

“You do.”

“You’re crying too.”

“I am not—” he wipes under his own eyes. “Okay, maybe a little. Shut up.” You both stand there for a second, sniffling and half-laughing, trying to keep it together. Then he looks at you, really looks at you. “You turned out better than I imagined,” he says quietly. “I’m proud of you. Like . . . so proud.”

Your eyes sting harder. You try to speak but nothing comes out. So you hug him. Hard. He doesn’t joke. Doesn’t squirm. He just holds you. And for a second, it’s just you and your big brother, like it always was—except now, you’re older. Wiser. In love, maybe. No longer kids. “God,” Seokjin mutters into your shoulder. “Sena’s gonna kill me for crying before the wedding.”

You laugh again, wet and soft. And this time, it doesn’t hurt

The cake is half-sliced. The espresso martinis are making the rounds. The lights are dimmed just enough that everyone’s loosening their ties and their emotional defenses.

And now, the best man is holding the mic.

Yoongi steps up in front of the candlelit crowd with one hand tucked in his pocket and the other loosely holding a glass of whiskey. The hotel string quartet is packing up in the corner, the hum of chatter softening as people turn to listen.

You watch him from your seat beside Seokjin and Sena—heart beating just slightly faster. “Hi,” Yoongi starts, nodding to the room. “I was told to keep this short and sweet, which is good, because I’m better with short and bitter.”

Laughter ripples.

“But tonight’s not about me,” he says, voice steady. “It’s about Seokjin and Sena—and how completely insane it is that they found each other in this world.” He pauses, looking at the couple.

“Sena, I don’t know how you do it,” he says. “You’ve got grace, patience, and the ability to look good even when you’re stressed out of your mind. That’s terrifying. And impressive.”

She bows her head, pretending to cry dramatically.

“And Seokjin,” Yoongi says, softening. “You’ve always been the loudest person in the room—”

“That’s not true!” Jin interrupts.

“—and the biggest heart,” Yoongi finishes, grinning. “You’ve shown me what it means to lead with loyalty. With love. You deserve this. Both of you do.”

More awws. Soft claps.

“And,” Yoongi says, almost casually now, “Being here tonight, surrounded by people who love you—some I’ve known for years, others who’ve somehow grown up while I wasn’t paying attention . . .”

He pauses. His eyes flick to you. Just for a second.

“And somehow turned into the kind of people who stop you in your tracks.”

You freeze. So does Jungkook beside you. Even Taehyung blinks. Yoongi’s gaze slides smoothly back to the crowd, like he didn’t just drop a personal landmine.

You recover. Sort of. Yoongi raises his glass. “To Seokjin and Sena. May your future be full of loud laughter, quiet mornings, and not a single broken toilet during your honeymoon.”

Everyone laughs and cheers. Glasses clink. Seokjin claps Yoongi on the back when he returns to the table. You grip your champagne like it’s a lifeline.

Then you hear it. Your name.

“Oh no,” you mutter as the mic is handed to you.

Your mother is already clapping.

“She’s gonna make us cry!” She screams joyfully. “Thank you for the support, Mom,” you say, stepping up to the mic with a barely-managed smile. “That was subtle.”

Laughter. 

You clear your throat, looking out over the room. “I’m Seokjin’s little sister,” you begin. “So by blood, this speech is a legal requirement.”

More laughter.

“I’ve known Jin my whole life—which, unfortunately, means he’s also known me my whole life. Through every tantrum, every bad haircut, every regrettable high school fashion era, he was there.”

Seokjin nods solemnly, sipping his wine.

“And while I could tell you a hundred embarrassing stories about him—which I absolutely will at the afterparty—I want to talk about what it’s like to be his sister.” You pause, voice softening. “It’s knowing someone will always show up for you. It’s hearing your name screamed from the bleachers when you’re just trying to quietly exist. It’s being protected, sometimes too much, and loved, always.”

Seokjin wipes under his eye. You swallow.

“And then one day, you look up, and your big brother—the one who used to sneak snacks into your backpack and fight boys who looked at you too long—is standing next to the love of his life.”

You look at Sena, who’s already tearing up. “And suddenly, everything makes sense.”

A pause. Then you smile, crooked and wry.

“Sena, welcome to the family. It’s chaotic, but you’re gonna fit right in. Honestly, you’re probably the only one who can keep my brother in check without a fire extinguisher.”

She laughs through her tears. “And before I hand this mic back, I just want to say one last thing—”

You turn to the crowd, holding up your glass.

“The afterparty’s at the rooftop bar. First round’s on me. But—do not get sloppy drunk. Sena has made it very clear that hangovers are not welcome at her wedding, and she will know.”

Roaring laughter. Cheers. Someone screams “To Sena!” before even finishing dessert.

As you return to your seat, your mom is already dabbing her eyes, whispering “She’s so articulate,” like you just won a Pulitzer. Jungkook leans over. “You killed that.” Taehyung lifts his glass toward you. “That’s our girl.”

And Yoongi? He’s still watching you. Not smiling. Just seeing you. Like he did on the terrace.

Like he’s been doing all night.

You weren’t expecting them to get along. Really. You assumed it would take a small miracle—or a fire drill—to get Yoongi to linger next to Jungkook and Taehyung without looking like he wanted to escape.

So imagine your surprise when you return from saying hi to one of Sena’s cousins and see Yoongi . . . still here. At the bar. Still with them.

Jungkook is draped over the railing like he owns the skyline, swirling his drink with a citrus wedge he’s definitely already squeezed dry. Taehyung’s balancing an espresso martini on one palm like it’s a top hat. And Yoongi is . . . standing. Shoulders a little tense. Hands in his pockets. Brows slightly furrowed, like he’s still assessing whether this was a mistake.

But he’s here.

And Jungkook, who you know noticed that Yoongi didn’t bolt after dinner, nudges him again like they’ve been doing this forever. You ease into the edge of the group, sipping your cocktail. “Okay, when did this happen?”

“About twenty minutes ago,” Jungkook says cheerfully. “I approached him with the maturity and warmth of a grown man—”

“—You cornered him by the dessert table,” Taehyung corrects, “And whispered, ‘You don’t have to like us, but she does. So you’re stuck with us.’”

“I blinked twice,” Yoongi adds, eyes on his drink. You squint. “Wait . . . was that a yes? ”

“That’s what I assumed,” Jungkook shrugs. “Could’ve been a cry for help, but I read the room.” You smother a laugh. Yoongi doesn’t respond. But he does lean a little against the railing, angling himself more toward the group. Which—for him—is practically hand-holding.

Jungkook nudges your arm. “You look good, baby.”

Yoongi doesn’t jaw-clench anymore. Doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t look away with a subtle sigh. Instead, his eyebrow ticks up. Barely. You catch it. So does Taehyung.

“Oh,” Taehyung murmurs, grinning into his glass. “We’re doing the eyebrow thing now.”

Yoongi gives him a look. Dry. Dangerous. “You know what that means,” Taehyung continues anyway. “Flirting’s only gonna ramp up from here unless you do something about it. Other than confessing, I mean. Not that I know anything about that.”

You glare at him. “Do you want to be pushed off this rooftop?”

He shrugs. “I know how to land.”

Jungkook nods solemnly. “He practices parkour in the stairwell.”

There’s a beat of ridiculous silence.

And then, unexpectedly, Yoongi says, “That explains the shin bruises.”

The group freezes. Taehyung slowly lowers his martini. Jungkook blinks once. Twice. Then grins wide. “Oh he talks.”

“It lives,” Taehyung adds.

You laugh, genuinely surprised. Yoongi shakes his head, but the corners of his mouth twitch. “I regret everything.” Jungkook clinks his glass against Yoongi’s. “Nah. You’re fine. You’re one of us now.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally here.”

Yoongi exhales. “Still not.”

“Soon,” Taehyung says. “Resistance is futile.”

Yoongi raises his drink again, but he’s still listening. Still present. And despite the jokes, the undercurrent is warm. Familiar. Not quite friendship yet, but something taking shape under the neon lights and buzzed laughter.

You lean against the railing, watching them go back and forth—dumb theories about which groomsman is already blackout, complaints about the hotel playlist, a collective agreement that if the bar runs out of fries, they’re ordering delivery.

And for once, you’re not bracing for disaster. They’re not posturing. No one’s competing. Yoongi isn’t fighting this.

He’s just . . . quietly letting it happen. And somehow, that’s the best part.

Chapter 4: When The Wedding Bells Ring

You wake to the soft hum of city traffic far below, sunlight already cutting through the crack in the blackout curtains like a personal attack.  You groan, roll over, and check for signs of life in the suite.

Jungkook is brushing his teeth in the open-layout bathroom, shirtless, tattoos half-covered by hotel towel fluff, already doing calf raises like he’s about to be drafted into a beauty pageant–or the NFL. Taehyung is curled under a throw blanket on the sofa, hugging a room service menu to his chest like a stuffed toy. You shuffle out in your sleep shirt and hotel slippers, hair in total rebellion. 

“Breakfast?” you croak. Jungkook spits into the sink and gives a foam-mouthed thumbs-up. “Buffet.” You nodded. Taehyung groans, half-asleep. “Tell them I want hash browns and a new liver.”

By the time you shuffle into the hotel restaurant downstairs, the air smells like croissants and espresso and ambition. Groomsmen in sweats, makeup artists with rolling cases, wedding planners already whispering into headsets. It’s too early for chaos, and yet—chaos persists, and it did not give a fuck that you had just woken up and heading straight to the coffee section.

You, Jungkook, and Taehyung stake out a corner table near the omelet station. The three of you look vaguely hungover, suspiciously well-dressed for 8 AM, and deeply attached to your coffee mugs. “Why are these hash browns so emotional today,” Taehyung says through a mouthful. “I think I need five more,” Jungkook says, already halfway through plate one.

You’re halfway into a bowl of miso soup when someone clears his throat behind you. You glance back.

Yoongi. Crisp black joggers, white t-shirt, slightly squinty eyes like he just rolled out of bed—and a smirk that shouldn’t be legal before 9 AM. “You’re all up early,” he murmurs.

Jungkook lights up. “Yoongi! Buffet line’s shorter now. Go fast before the salmon croquettes get weird.” Yoongi raises a brow but wanders off toward the plates without protest. Taehyung leans over and whispers behind his coffee, “That’s new.”

“Very,” you mutter.

By the time he returns with a balanced plate–eggs, congee, three slices of bacon, one very deliberate tangerine, he slides into the empty chair beside you without fanfare. You freeze for half a second. He doesn’t say anything. Just flicks his eyes over your mismatched socks and puffy sleep face, then back to his bowl with the faintest curve of his lips.

Okay then.

Breakfast becomes a weirdly calm hour of clinking plates, shared bites, coffee refills, and dumb wedding day hypotheticals. “If Seokjin cries during the vows,” Jungkook says, “Do we roast him or cry with him?”

“I’m crying either way,” Taehyung replies. “My mascara’s waterproof. I came prepared.” You say, as you poke your spoon at your rice. “I’m emotionally available before noon today. That’s rare.”

Yoongi just lifts his cup of black coffee and says, “I’ve cried watching shampoo commercials. If he starts, I’m done.”

Taehyung points dramatically. “He speaks!” He exclaimes. You almost choke on your miso.

Eventually, you all head back upstairs.

The bridal suite is already in full tilt. Curling irons heating, flower girls running barefoot, Sena on speaker demanding someone to “hide the lavender linens because they look periwinkle and this is not periwinkle.”

Your mom has taken over the tea station. Your dad has disappeared into the spa. The hours begin to slide. You’re in a robe, hair half-pinned, a bridesmaid dress bag unzipped and waiting while the makeup artist prepped you. Jungkook and Taehyung get pulled away by the groomsmen group text “Fittings. Now. Go.” and vanish with promises of selfies and matching socks.

By noon, the makeup artist is dabbing setting spray into your cheekbones while Sena yells across the suite, “Tell Yoongi to make sure Seokjin eats, or so help me god! ”

And you, somehow, feel . . . okay. More than okay. Even with the chaos. The noise. The unraveling ribbon of nerves and joy.

There’s a knock at the suite door. You glance up.

One of the coordinators slips in, balancing three tux jackets on her arm. “Delivery for groomsmen,” she says. And just behind her, Yoongi. Stepping in without looking around, eyes scanning for Jungkook or Taehyung. His gaze snags on you—robe slightly slipping, blush still half-done. You expect him to look away.

He doesn’t. Just gives a nod, and a small smile . It’s casual. But it’s . . . something. You smile back. Equally casual.  But your heart does something strange. Like it’s listening.

You’re not talking now. Not about that. Not yet, it’s Seokjin and Sena’s day. But he’s here. Present. Standing in the storm with you. And when he leaves with the tux jackets over his shoulder, your stomach flips for reasons that have nothing to do with breakfast. And the wedding hasn’t even started yet.

It was the hour. The seats fill slowly. Guests shuffle down the gravel path lined with lanterns and blooms. A small sign reads “Welcome to Our Beginning” in Sena’s handwriting, propped on a reclaimed wood easel.

It’s warm, but not hot. Wind rustling just enough to keep your curls from flattening. The lake behind the altar sparkles like a daydream. The world feels soft around the edges, like someone pressed the pause button on everything else.

You’re lined up with the other bridesmaids under a giant oak just off to the side, bouquet in hand, tissue tucked in your palm like a secret. Jungkook and Taehyung are two groomsmen down, looking stupidly good in their tailored tuxes, bickering in whispers about who’s going to cry first.

Across the arch, Yoongi is already in position. Best man. Straight-backed. Hands clasped in front of him. Hair brushed perfectly, a single strand falling out of place like it was scripted that way.

He doesn’t look around much. But you feel it when he does.

The music starts—something soft, classical, a little whimsical. The officiant gives the nod.

It’s time.

You inhale deeply and step forward when your name is called. You take the aisle slow. Steady. The world narrows to the hush of satin, the crunch of gravel, the burn of tears forming before they’re allowed to fall.

Guests turn to smile. Your mom waves, already sobbing. You catch Seokjin’s eyes for half a second—he grins, impossibly wide—and then you slide into position beside the maid of honor.

The boys follow—Jungkook with a wink, Taehyung offering a ridiculous little bow. Seokjin walks out last, alone, until Yoongi steps forward, places a hand briefly on his shoulder, and the two stand side-by-side.

Then the music shifts. The audience rises.

And there she is. Sena . Glowing. Radiant. Floating down the aisle like the moment was written just for her.

She’s holding onto her father’s arm, veil lifted, tears already slipping down her cheeks. Her dress is a soft ivory lace with little appliqué flowers that flutter when she moves. She catches Seokjin’s eyes halfway down and actually laughs—the kind of laugh people spend whole lives looking for.

You start crying somewhere in the middle of it. Quietly. Completely. She reaches the altar. Her father kisses her cheek. She takes Seokjin’s hands.

Everyone sits.

And the ceremony begins.

The officiant starts with a welcome. Some words about love, about patience, about the leap it takes to bind your life to someone else’s. You’re mostly tuned in, but mostly tuned in the way you are when your heart is beating too loud and your eyes won’t stop stinging. And then come the vows.

Sena first.

Her voice is shaky but strong. “Seokjin, you have been my calm, my courage, and the reason I believe in forever. You’ve held me when I was anxious, cheered for me when I was tired, and somehow always know when to bring me iced coffee. I love you. I love you in every way, and I will choose you—every single day. Til death do us part.”

There’s a small gasp from the crowd. Sniffles. Your mom sobs again.

Then Seokjin clears his throat. He’s tearing up too. “Sena,” he says, voice thick, “I don’t know how I got lucky enough to be standing in front of you right now, but I promise to never take that for granted. You are my favorite sound, my safest place, and my best friend. I promise to protect your heart, to keep things light when life gets heavy, and to never—ever—touch your skincare without permission.”

Laughter. And then silence. Reverent. You blink, but the tears still fall. And then you look up. Across the arch. Yoongi is already looking at you. Not like he has something to say. Not like he’s holding something back.

Just . . . looking. And behind that look, there’s something you recognize. It’s not love. Not yet. Not longing either. But something quieter.

Stronger .

Like maybe he’s seeing the way you’re watching the ceremony, watching Seokjin make promises with trembling hands, and maybe something in Yoongi cracks open just a little. And for the first time, you think. He wants this. Not now. Not yet. But maybe . . . someday.

He holds your gaze a second longer. Then he looks away.

But it stays with you.

Long after the rings are exchanged. Long after the kiss. Long after everyone stands and cheers and claps and your brother throws his arms in the air like he just won an Olympic gold in love.

You’re still thinking about it. And maybe so is he.

The newlyweds are glowing. Literally glowing. Sena’s dress catches every beam of sunlight as she spins under the arch, holding Seokjin’s hands, both of them laughing while the photographer snaps away like their joy is a limited-time event.

You hang back with the rest of the wedding party, holding your bouquet, chewing on the inside of your cheek to stop from crying again because you’ve officially run out of tissues. Taehyung is already getting misty beside you.

“I’m gonna look like I’ve been crying for ten years in these pictures,” he says. “You have been crying for ten years,” Jungkook snorts, adjusting his cufflinks. “You cried during breakfast.”

“It was an emotional hash brown.”

Then—your cue.

“Bridesmaids and groomsmen to the arch, please!”

You and the rest of the party file in, adjusting dresses and jackets and laughing in between frantic posing. Someone sneezes. Someone’s heels sink into the grass. Jungkook gets scolded for flashing a peace sign in the serious group shot.

Then you’re paired off—one by one. And suddenly, Yoongi is next to you. He stands just close enough that your arms brush. His boutonnière is perfectly pinned. His expression? Neutral. Until the photographer says, “Okay, now one smiling.”

You glance at him, amused. “You do know how to smile, right?” You teased. He exhales, just a whisper of it. “Allegedly.”

You fight your grin. “You’re gonna ruin this whole aesthetic.”

He turns just slightly toward you, eyebrow lifting. “What aesthetic? You staring at me during the vows?”

Your heart skips. You laugh. “Excuse me? I was crying . I cry at phone commercials.”

“And yet, still found the time to stare.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“Okay, you were . . . glancing.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s something behind his. Something that’s not teasing. It’s not overwhelming. Not pointed. But it’s there. Like a flicker of recognition. Like he’s not running from the idea anymore. Like he sees it, now. Sees you .

You blink once, feel your breath catch—but before you can say anything, “Okay! Let’s get the trio over here!” the photographer shouts. “The three chaotic ones—come on.”

Jungkook loops his arm around your shoulder, Taehyung takes the other side, and suddenly you’re in the middle of two groomsmen who may or may not be pretending they’re the ones getting married. “Smile like you didn’t trauma bond in nursing school!” The photographer yells.

You all laugh—real, loud, eyes-scrunched laughs. Yoongi watches. And he doesn’t look away.

The reception is already in full swing by the time you sneak off with Seokjin for a quiet moment before the speeches. Just the two of you. Sibling to sibling. By the edge of the ballroom balcony, lights twinkling above you, a soft acoustic cover playing in the background. “You’re really married now,” you whisper.

“I am.” He says, like it’s now just sinking in. “You good?” You ask, eyes searching for anything that’d tell you otherwise. “I’m . . .  overwhelmed,” he admits. “But in a good way.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “She’s perfect.” You tell him, and he nods. “She is.” He says.

There’s a long beat of silence between you.

Then, quietly—too quietly, he says, “He looked at you, you know.” You blink at him, a little confused. “Who?” Seokjin doesn’t answer. Just shifts a little, eyes focused on the crowd below. You don’t press. You know exactly who. “I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that,” he says eventually. “Not even the people he dated. Not even close.”

You turn your head toward him slowly.

“I didn’t want to say anything before,” he continues, voice tight, heavy with emotion. “But . . . when you walked down the aisle and I looked at him—he looked at you like . . . like he’d just realized something.”

Your throat tightens.

“He had that look ,” Seokjin says, voice cracking a little. “The one I had. When I knew I wanted to marry Sena. That look that says, It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Your eyes burn again. Damn it. “You’re all grown up now,” he whispers, voice cracking fully as he glances down at you. “My baby sister.” You wrap your arms around him, hiding your face in his chest. “Don’t say that. I just did my makeup. And it’s your wedding day! We shouldn’t be talking about me right now.”

He laughs through his tears. “You used to have braces. And that awful Jonas Brothers shirt.”

“And you had bangs,” you shoot back. He sobs harder. “Why are we like this?”

You’re both crying now. A hot, messy, bittersweet puddle of joy and too much sentiment.

And across the room, Yoongi sees it. He sees Seokjin pull you in tighter. Sees the emotion in both your faces. Sees you wipe your eyes and nod slowly, like something has settled.

And he doesn’t run from it. Doesn’t look away. He just lets it happen. He lets himself feel it.

Not regret. Not fear. Just the quiet truth of it. Like a seed planted under his ribs. Maybe someday. Not now. Not yet. But maybe .

For the first time since you were kids, he doesn’t fight the idea of you .

The family table is at the front—right beside the dance floor, close enough to see the expressions, the dress details, the trembling hands during speeches. You’re seated where every emotion lands just a little heavier. The kind of table where generations gather and gossip and silently judge each other’s shoes.

You’re in your dress, napkin folded over your lap. Jungkook has already stolen a bite from your dessert. Taehyung’s holding a second champagne glass because he “needed symmetry.”

Yoongi sits beside you. He’s sharp in his tux, one leg casually crossed, a hand resting on his knee. He hasn’t said much since you sat down. But he hasn’t left, either. His presence is steady. Close. Like he’s not trying to be near you, but somehow always is.

And then the music softens. A slow, familiar swell fills the ballroom. “Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee says. “Please direct your attention to the dance floor for the newlyweds’ first dance.”

The lights dip low. Everyone turns. And then there they are.

Sena and Seokjin.

Spinning slowly beneath the fairy lights, her veil long gone, his jacket off, her arms looped around his neck like they’ve been dancing their entire lives. They whisper something only they can hear. They’re both crying. Of course they are.

And you—you lose it. Again .

You try not to sob, but the moment is too much. The way Seokjin holds her so gently. The way she smiles with her whole body. The look on your brother’s face—like the entire world just clicked into place. You press your fingers against your lashes. Try to breathe. And then you feel it. A hand. Warm, steady, slipping into yours beneath the table.

Yoongi .

You don’t look at him at first. You can’t. But you feel the way his fingers thread through yours like he’s done it before. Like it’s natural. Like it’s nothing to be scared of. Not anymore.

He gives your hand a small squeeze.

And then there’s something else—a soft rustle of linen. A napkin. Held gently in his other hand, extended toward you. You take it with your free one.

And finally, finally —you look at him. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak. But his eyes— oh, his eyes —there’s something settling in them. Not loud. Not urgent. Just a quiet, grounding truth. He’s no longer trying to resist the pull. Like he’s found the center of something, and it’s you .

You hold his gaze while Seokjin spins Sena again.

He doesn’t look away. And neither do you.

The dance floor is glittering, half-full of tipsy cousins doing the worm and overly enthusiastic aunties trying to outshine the DJ. Plates are scraped clean, the champagne’s flowing like water, and Sena—our stunning, sly bride—is standing in the center of it all with her bouquet in hand and murder in her eyes.

She grabs the mic like she’s hosting the finale of The Bachelorette. “Alright!” Sena’s voice rings out over the ballroom speakers, bright and sharp like the clink of champagne glasses. “Ladies, line up. You know what time it is.”

There’s a collective murmur, laughter, and a few dramatic groans as bridesmaids and cousins start gathering near the dance floor. The bouquet toss. Tradition. Danger. Sport.

You stay rooted in your seat. Calm. Composed. Eating your fruit tart like someone who is absolutely not participating. Jungkook, however, has other plans. He appears behind you like a shadow with far too much upper body strength. His hand clamps over your shoulder.

“Let’s go, bride-to-be,” he says in your ear. “I’m not—”

“Sena asked for you personally,” he grins, starting to pull you up. “You’re legally obligated. I read the fine print.” He teases, but you plant your feet, gritting your teeth. “Jungkook. No .”

“Use your nurse reflexes!” he says, with the enthusiasm of someone who is, unfortunately, very persuasive. “You’re built for this!”

“What does that even mean?” You twist, trying to break free, but his grip is stubborn. “Quick hands, great form under pressure, elite hand-eye coordination—”

“I’m literally trying to fight you.”

“Exactly! Athleticism! You’re halfway there!”

Across the table, you lock eyes with Yoongi. Desperate. Pleading. He’s watching the scene unfold with the kind of mild amusement reserved for reality TV. “Are you seriously just going to sit there?” You ask him pointedly, still struggling against Jungkook’s grip. Yoongi lifts his drink and gives you a very unhelpful shrug. “I believe in you.”

“You’re the worst.”

“You’re gonna catch it,” he says, sipping, like he knows something you don’t.

And now Jungkook is dragging you with full-body force, muttering things like “We trained for this” and “You owe me for carrying your tote all through SoHo.” You’re trying— genuinely trying— to not get up. You dig your heels into the floor. Use actual counterforce. Even grab the edge of the table. 

None of it works.

“ Traitor ,” you mutter when Yoongi smiles— smiles —into his glass.

 The music swells. Sena stands at the front of the floor, bouquet in hand, all grin and menace. “Okay, ladies. Let’s make it interesting.”

Your mom is already yelling from her table. “Keep your arms steady! Feet shoulder-width apart! Focus!” You turn around, horrified. “Mom!” You exclaimed.

“What? I want grandkids!”

You groan, and like the little shit he is, Jungkook beams. “I’m not trying to catch this,” you hiss, maneuvering toward the edge of the group. “I’m just saying,” Jungkook says, “Statistically speaking, you’re overdue. Reflexes don’t lie.”

“ Oh my god .”

Sena raises the bouquet over her head. “One . . .”

You crouch slightly. Pure survival.

“Two . . .”

Your mom is yelling form tips like a personal trainer at bootcamp.

“Three!”

The bouquet sails. There’s chaos. Screams. Arms flailing. Perfume and hairspray and desperation fill the air. You reach up only because someone else’s elbow is coming dangerously close to your face—and by instinct , not desire, your hand snatches the bouquet midair.

You catch it. You don’t even realize it until it’s in your hands.

The room erupts .

Seokjin’s shout comes first. “ Oh my god! She actually caught it!” Jungkook pumps his fists in the air like he’s the one who just landed the bouquet. “Yes baby! You never miss!” He shouts.

You just stand there, frozen, flowers in hand, eyes wide like you’ve been hit by a truck. Taehyung stares at your stunned face and dramatically clutches his chest. “I would like to formally withdraw my application,” he declares to the room. “I’m no longer accepting heartbreak.” He says, clearly loving this. 

Yoongi? Yoongi is still sitting at the table, elbow on the armrest, cheek resting on his knuckles. But he’s watching you—this whole absurd moment—with the softest smile. Not a smirk. Not teasing. Like maybe, just maybe , he’s looking at you with admiration.

Your mom, of course, takes it to the next level. “Jungkook! When are you proposing?” She yells, loud, booming across the whole venue.

The crowd howls. You want to sink into the floor. “Mom!” You hiss, but she’s not done. “Yoongi, you too! Don’t think I don’t see you, son! Make a move before someone else does!”

Yoongi doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t roll his eyes. He chokes a little on his water, tilts his head slightly—still smiling—and says nothing. Like he filed it away, a smile that screams duly noted .

Jungkook, unfazed, wraps an arm around your waist and grins at your mom. “Only if she promises to let me cook for her every day. And do her laundry.” You bury your face in the bouquet. “Someone end me.”

Sena, breathless from laughing, claps her hands. “Best bouquet toss ever.” She giggles, Seokjin, fanning himself dramatically, looks at Yoongi. “You okay over there?” He asks. Yoongi lifts a brow, sips his drink. “Doing great.”

You’re still standing in the center of the dance floor, holding the bouquet, completely bewildered. Jungkook throws a peace sign. Taehyung blows a kiss. Your mom shouts something about matching tuxes and garden weddings. Yoongi just watches it unfold—silent, steady, amused—and doesn’t look away.

The DJ shifts the vibe. The first few chords of a feel-good R&B track float through the ballroom. The lights dim lower, warmer—string bulbs pulsing above like low-hanging stars. The dance floor is calling.

And one by one, the crowd answers.

Sena and Seokjin are already out there, spinning each other with joyful recklessness, dress swaying, tux wrinkling. Your mom is doing the electric slide with a group of aunties. People are kicking off heels, slipping off jackets, and Jungkook is, well. “Let’s go,” he grins, hand outstretched, already bouncing on his heels.

“I just got dragged across a room and publicly proposed to,” you reply, clutching your bouquet like a shield. “That sounds like a personal problem,” Taehyung deadpans, joining him with a wink. “We have a dance floor to bless.”

They’re both in full wedding-mode—jackets off, ties loosened, confidence through the roof. You finally laugh, give in, let them tug you into the moving crowd.

You start dancing—loosely, joyfully, like your feet remember what freedom feels like.

And then, Yoongi joins .

Not all at once. He doesn’t rush. He stands at the edge of the floor for a moment, watching—hands in pockets, that same unreadable expression on his face. But then Jungkook calls out, “Yoongi! Don’t act like you don’t know this song!” And Taehyung whistles, “Get in here before we start grinding on each other!”

Yoongi blinks. Twice. Then steps forward.

It’s like watching a wolf step into the sunlight—hesitant, unsure, but curious. He doesn’t do anything fancy. Doesn’t start breaking out moves. He just starts . . . moving. Subtle. Relaxed. Like he belongs there, even if he’s still convincing himself of it. Taehyung clocks it immediately. “There we go,” he says, grinning. “One eyebrow twitch and he’s halfway in.”

Jungkook’s already handing Yoongi an invisible mic, rapping over the chorus, and Yoongi—actually accepts it. With timing. With rhythm. You almost trip over your own feet.

You laugh so hard you have to hold onto Jungkook’s shoulder. Yoongi looks over at you, eyebrows lifted like, impressed?

You nod. “Honestly? Yes.” He huffs a small laugh—quiet, but warm. The kind that settles in your ribs.

By the third song, Yoongi’s rolled up his sleeves. He’s standing closer. He’s even let Taehyung spin him once. Once . He draws the line at anything more elaborate, but he doesn’t look annoyed anymore. And when Jungkook throws an arm around both your shoulders and starts scream-singing the chorus to some throwback track, Yoongi just smiles .

Really, truly smiles. Like he’s let his guard down. Like the music’s tugged something loose inside him he hadn’t realized was still held tight.

You lean into the group, laughing, sweat starting to form at your temples, bouquet long gone, heels somewhere under a table. And for a few songs, a few shimmering minutes—you feel it. You’re not the girl Yoongi kept at arm’s length.

You’re not Seokjin’s little sister.

You’re just . . . you . And Yoongi’s finally in it.

You slip outside under the guise of fresh air—even though your heels are already in your hand and your dress is creased from dancing and you’re technically hiding.

The wedding’s still going full throttle behind the glass doors—relatives two glasses too deep, Seokjin doing the cha-cha slide with Sena’s uncles, your mom waving a glow stick with the energy of a woman who definitely didn’t stretch this morning.

You step out into the night, into stillness. The garden’s quiet now. The same spot where your brother said I do just hours ago. The lake’s still. The arch is lit in soft fairy lights. And you think— God, love is so stupid and beautiful, what the hell.

You take a cigarette from your clutch. You’re lighting it with your hand half-shielding the flame from the wind when you hear the sliding glass door creak open behind you. “Wow,” Jungkook’s voice drifts through the night air, amused and low. “Didn’t even invite me?”

You look over your shoulder. There he is. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to be criminal, sleeves rolled up, chain glinting at his throat. Hair damp from dancing, cheeks flushed. He looks like he walked off a runway and into a wedding. “God, you’re hot,” you mutter, because lying takes energy.

Jungkook grins, lazy. “You too, baby. Real Bonnie and Clyde energy out here. You got a spare?”

You flick the box open and hand him one. He lights it with a practiced flick, exhales long, slow, easy. And then, “You sure this is allowed? Your parents are still in there. Didn’t your mom install Life360 again?”

“She tried. I hit her with a HIPAA violation.”

“Sexy and litigious,” he muses, bumping your shoulder with his. “My favorite.”

You both fall quiet for a beat, smoke curling into the night air, the lake flickering silver under the moonlight. The music muffles into something softer, something a little romantic. Too romantic, maybe.

“I feel like I should be more surprised my mom didn’t yell it in Korean,” you say. “She’s pacing back and forth in the parking lot right now probably calling your aunties. You’ve got twenty-four hours before rumors of your engagement hit KakaoTalk.” He replies, huffing out a laugh as he inhales smoke. You groan. “God. Why did I let you drag me out there?”

“You were destined to catch that bouquet.”

“I was literally fighting you.”

“Not hard enough,” he shrugs. “You know what they say about reflexes.”

“Don’t start.”

“Built for impact, baby.”

You huff a laugh. It’s easy with him. It always is.

Jungkook exhales again, leans back against the bench like he owns the whole lawn. You catch the glint of his rings under the string lights—seven, maybe eight of them, because he’s excessive like that. “I’ve been thinking,” he says casually, like he’s about to talk about new protein powder and not your entire emotional wellbeing, “if Yoongi does hurt you . . .”

You give him a warning look. “I’m just saying,” he continues, lifting both hands, all metal and menace, “I’ve got seven rings on each hand. That’s fourteen reasons to rearrange his jaw.”

You laugh. Loud. “ Fourteen? ” He nods. “Fifteen if I put on the thumb one.”

“Oh my god .”

“But,” he adds, with a rare, measured pause, “I don’t think he will. Hurt you, I mean.”

Your expression softens. His voice has shifted—just enough. You’ve known him long enough to hear the difference. “I’ve only had like . . . three real interactions with him,” Jungkook says, gaze forward again, flicking ash into the wind, “Outside of, you know, deliberately trying to piss him off for sport.”

“An art form, really.”

“Thank you.”

You both smile. “But,” he starts again, more thoughtful this time, “I think he’s trying. I can tell. And if he’s trying—for you —I’ll try too.”

You blink at him. “Jungkook . . .”

“I mean, I still don’t fully get him,” he admits. “He’s a hard read. Doesn’t laugh at my jokes. But he looked like he wanted to punch me less when I called you baby earlier. So. That’s progress.”

You laugh again, but this time, it shakes something loose. “Hey . . .” he says, catching the subtle shift in your breath. “Don’t cry. What’d I say?”

You wipe your eye with the heel of your hand. “It’s just—Seokjin’s a husband now with Sena as his wife. You being oddly sweet. Yoongi. And it’s been a long day.”

He watches you, jaw ticking softly, then reaches up without ceremony and wipes under your eye with his thumb. Gentle. Thoughtful. Infuriatingly tender. “You’re still pretty when you cry,” he says. “Which is, frankly, unfair. Give the rest of us a break.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile is wet now. “Hey.” He tilts your head, catching his gaze. “I’ve seen you cry over a lot of people who didn’t deserve it. Biochem Brad to Medsurg Max to . . . that guy from the microbrewery with the stupid hat.”

You grimace. “Ugh, the hat.”

“So yeah, of course I’m protective,” he says, softer now. “But I also know you. I know how you love. How you carry people. So, I hope it’s not you hurting him either.”

That one lands. Right in your chest. You look away for a second, then back. “I can’t promise Yoongi won’t be a disappointment. I don’t know that yet.”

Jungkook nods. Quiet. Listening.

“But he’s . . . something,” you finish, voice barely above the hush of wind through the trees. “I hope he won’t be. I really, really hope.” Another pause. Then, because he’s Jungkook, “Cool. Now I want to fight him and hug him. Thanks.” He says, tenderness behind his eyes.  You snort, nudging his side. “You’re annoying.”

“I’m hot ,” he corrects. “And loyal. And I have fourteen rings.”

“Okay, okay, easy boxer.”

He grins, proud. “Still got it.”

And with that, you finish your cigarette in silence, shoulder brushing his as you both watch the lake and feel the night settle gently around you.

A moment, a breath, a friend who knows all your heartbreaks—and still stays beside you for every maybe that could become a someday.

You and Jungkook are leaned against the railing now, second cigarettes long gone, your toes digging into the soft grass, a little buzzed, a little wrung out, but okay. Jungkook nudges you with his shoulder, voice lazy. “You good?”

You nod. “You?”

He gives a little salute. “Built different.”

You’re both about to head back in when the door clicks again behind you.

Footsteps. Slow. And then—Yoongi. All sleeves rolled, collar open, chain catching the light. The tie’s long gone. His hair’s ruffled in that purposeful way that suggests either he was leaning back in a chair or life just keeps happening to him. He walks like he doesn’t need to be noticed, but good luck not noticing him.

Jungkook, who’s already halfway into a third-life crisis just watching him, whispers, “Oh, come on .” You grin. “Down, tiger.”

“Why does he look like that?” Jungkook hisses. “This is a wedding, not a cologne ad.”

Yoongi flicks open a slim black cigarette case as he approaches, glancing once between the two of you. His voice, always calm, cuts through the air. “You two okay?” He asks, casual, like he didn’t just include Jungkook in this slight concern. 

Jungkook blinks.

Then actually laughs—the kind that bursts out before he can stop it. “Wait. You’re asking me if I’m okay?” He asks. Yoongi shrugs. “You looked like you were about to cry earlier.”

“I cry beautifully, thank you,” Jungkook says, feigning offense.

“I never said you didn’t.”

You snort. “Oh my god. He’s flirting back.”

Jungkook fans himself with a hand. “I’m gonna need a moment.” He sighs as Yoongi pulls out a cigarette—sleek, black with gold trim. Sobranies. Of course they’re Sobranies.

“Of course,” Jungkook mutters aloud, squinting at the box like it’s a personality test. “I knew you smoked. You just have the vibe.” Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “The vibe?”

“Yeah. Brooding loner, poetic nihilist, quiet at parties but somehow still the hottest person in the room.”

Yoongi lights the cigarette and exhales. “You’ve thought about this.”

Jungkook deadpans. “Extensively.”

Yoongi pulls out the case again and, to both your surprise, offers it. Jungkook freezes. “Oh. You’re sharing?” Yoongi shrugs. “They’re just cigarettes.” He says like it was the most normal thing. Jungkook takes one reverently. “No, they’re not. These are rich people smokes.”

“I bought them at Duty Free.” Yoongi said, raising an eyebrow, confused.

“ Exactly .”

You watch the exchange like a spectator at a very specific, slow-burn mutual respect match. You finally chime in, grinning. “Look at you two bonding. Shall I leave?”

“No,” Yoongi says easily, flicking ash off to the side. “You’re the only reason this is happening.” He says.

Jungkook takes a drag from the Sobranie, eyes closing dramatically. “Tastes like emotional repression and generational wealth.” He describes. Yoongi smirks. “Close. Artist residency and one therapy session I never went back to.” He jokes— jokes. You’re laughing again, chest warm, the kind of laughter that makes your ribs ache. You lean into Jungkook, who’s still holding the cigarette like it’s holy.

“I like this,” you say softly. “This is nice.”

Yoongi’s gaze lingers on you for just a second too long. “Same,” he says.

And it’s not flirty. Not defensive. Just honest . Jungkook flicks ash toward the bushes. “Guess we’ll have to stop bullying you now.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Oh, thank god .”

A breeze cuts through the garden. Somewhere in the distance, the DJ plays a slow number. You don’t move yet. None of you do. Just three people. Smoke curling through the night air. The lake still. The fairy lights above. A strange, beautiful little balance. Fragile. Real.

You flick ash toward the edge of the flower bed, lean just slightly on one hip, and turn to Yoongi with a casual sort of glance—except there’s nothing casual about the way he’s standing there. Cigarette between long fingers, smoke curling around his jaw, collar open like he didn’t even try but somehow still walked out here looking like the leading man in a tragic French novel.

And before you can stop yourself, it slips out. Soft. Unfiltered. “Honestly? It’s kind of unfair how hot you look right now.”

Yoongi’s eyes flick to you. There’s a pause—like the air hiccups. He doesn’t freeze, doesn’t stammer, doesn’t look away. He just . . . blinks once. Then lifts a brow, a slow smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth like he’s genuinely surprised—not cocky, not smug. Just quietly caught off guard.

Maybe even . . . impressed?

He exhales smoke with measured calm. “That’s bold,” he says, voice low. “Didn’t know we were being honest now.”

Jungkook, who has been very much still here, immediately whistles behind his cigarette. “Oh, we’re flirting flirting . Should I go inside? Or just roll out a picnic blanket?”

You ignore him. Or try to. The heat behind your ears betrays you. Yoongi taps ash to the side and tilts his head ever so slightly toward you. “Unfair, huh?”

You nod, eyes narrowing slightly. “You know what you’re doing.”

He shrugs. “I did put on cologne.” Jungkook wheezes. “He’s funny now? Who is this guy?”

Yoongi doesn’t even look at him. Just keeps his gaze on you—measured, calm, like he’s been playing defense for days and just decided he’s allowed to shoot. “Well,” he adds, “For the sake of fairness,” he flicks his cigarette to the ground and steps closer, just enough to lean in, voice almost at your ear, “You’ve been driving me crazy all night.”

You blink. Your heart does something rude. Jungkook, now openly enjoying himself, makes a little exploding sound. “Pew pew pew.”

Yoongi leans back, face unreadable but mouth twitching like he’s pleased with himself, and says, “Figured I’d even the playing field.”

You exhale—because, honestly, what else can you do? —and shake your head, trying to collect whatever scraps of composure are left at your feet. Jungkook pats your shoulder. “You good?”

“ No ,” you mutter.

“Same,” he sighs. “But wow, the sexual tension out here. I’m so proud.” Yoongi says nothing. Just lights another cigarette, because of course he does, the smirking menace. And somewhere in the back of your throat, a laugh bubbles up.

You’re barely holding onto your last shred of composure after Yoongi’s whisper-in-your-ear ambush and Jungkook’s running commentary when you hear the sliding door creak open again.

“Don’t mind me,” Taehyung calls as he steps out, a glass of champagne in one hand and his shirt half-unbuttoned like he’s wandered off the set of a particularly expensive ad for men’s moisturizer. “Just needed air. And— oh .”

He stops. Blinks. Tilts his head. His gaze sweeps across the three of you—Yoongi looking unfairly composed, Jungkook looking thrilled, and you, probably still flushed from whatever just happened between your eardrums and your cardiovascular system.

Then Taehyung does a double take at Yoongi.

Yoongi, who doesn’t even flinch, just exhales smoke and goes, “Don’t worry. We were just confessing deep personal secrets and smoking to cope.”

Taehyung visibly short circuits.

“You were—wait, what? ”

Jungkook grins. “He’s joking. I think.”

Taehyung stares at Yoongi. “I didn’t know he did jokes.” He says as Yoongi nods, slow. “I charge per punchline.” Taehyung sputters into his drink. “Okay, no, hold on. Since when does Yoongi have comedic timing and charm?”

“You didn’t read the fine print?” You murmur. “I thought he was emotionally constipated!” Taehyung blurts.

Yoongi hums. “Still am. It’s the presentation that’s evolving.”

Jungkook pats Taehyung’s back as he coughs dramatically. “Welcome to the party, baby. He offered me a cigarette and asked if I was okay . I’m emotionally compromised.”

“I think I am too,” Taehyung whispers.

Before you can reply, the door opens again. And in walks Seokjin. Hair slightly tousled, bowtie loosened, and the immediate energy of a man who knew exactly what he was about to walk into and still showed up anyway.

“Okay,” he says with a heavy sigh. “This is not what I meant by step outside for some air.”

You straighten like you just got caught sneaking back home past curfew. Jungkook flings his cigarette into the dirt like it betrayed him. Taehyung tries to hide behind Yoongi, who merely lifts his hand in greeting like this is totally normal.

“You three,” Seokjin says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Smoking like you’re in a drama. This isn’t a rooftop confrontation. It’s a wedding. You want to cry dramatically, go find a mirror.”

Yoongi flicks ash. “Technically, we’re bonding .”

Seokjin gives him a look. “If bonding gives you lung damage, maybe skip the next session.”

You open your mouth, then immediately close it when he turns that Big Brother energy toward you. “I knew you’d be out here,” he mutters. “You used to sneak gum like this in middle school.”

“She’s evolved,” Jungkook offers, proud.

“She caught the bouquet, and she’s smoking on the patio. What’s next? Eloping?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say. Taehyung, still baffled, turns to Seokjin. “Did you know Yoongi was funny?”

Seokjin just sighs and claps a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder. “Honestly?” he says. “I’ve been waiting for him to act normal around her since she graduated high school. This is progress.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond—just smirks again, smug and low-key delighted, taking another drag like he has earned this moment. And Seokjin, who’s known you all longer than anyone, lets the moment hang. Then looks around at the three of you.

“You’re all disasters,” he says finally, fond and exasperated. “But you’re my disasters. Come inside before someone sends mom out here and I have to do damage control.”

Yoongi extinguishes his cigarette with a lazy flick. “Noted.”

Jungkook offers his arm dramatically. “Shall we, milady?” You roll your eyes, but slip your hand into the crook of his elbow anyway. “Let’s go before Taehyung starts weeping again.”

“I’m not over it,” Taehyung says, still staring at Yoongi. “He really just . . . talks now.”

“Stop making it weird,” Yoongi says mildly.

And with that, you all trail back inside. A little lighter. A little warmer. The air between you no longer smoky—just something like comfortable. And maybe, for the first time, you all feel like you’re on the same page.

Chapter 5: Just My Luck

Notes:

Hi, hi! I am in no means a healthcare professional, I am still studying as a nursing student (on the home stretch of the last year thank fuck), so I am unsure if this is 100% accurate since these are just based off what I studied, experienced during clinicals and research. Regardless, I hope you all enjoy!

The wedding was four days ago. Since then, no texts. No calls. Not even a meme from Yoongi, which is its own kind of silence.

But you don’t have the luxury of overthinking it, not when the hospital is an open wound and you’re one of the few hands left trying to suture it shut.

New York’s summer heat makes everything worse—tempers, traffic, the rate at which GSWs come through the doors. By 7:13 AM, you’re already in your second set of navy-blue Figs, hair tied in a bun so tight it feels like scaffolding for your skull. The ER smells like alcohol wipes, desperation, and someone’s breakfast sandwich that’s been forgotten somewhere near the nurse’s station since 4 AM.

You’re halfway through triaging a patient with suspected appendicitis when Taehyung walks past you holding a 1-liter bag of NS in one hand and a fresh pair of sterile gloves clenched between his teeth. His hair’s a mess. There’s a blood smear on the collar of his scrub top. He winks at you with the smug ease of someone who did not spend all night suctioning vomit from a combative elderly man with suspected liver failure.

“Hot girl summer,” he mumbles, gloved fingers giving a peace sign before he disappears behind curtain 3. “Shut up,” you mutter, pressing a stethoscope to your patient’s abdomen. “Deep breath. Good. Again.”

The doors swing open behind you, and in comes another ambulance—third in under an hour. You barely glance up as Jungkook’s voice cuts through the room, “ETA 60 seconds, 25-year-old male, construction site fall, responsive but hypotensive. Vitals on arrival.”

You look up in time to see him jogging backward alongside the gurney, radio still clipped to his chest, dark green scrubs clinging to him in a way that should be illegal in daylight. He catches your eye for half a second, says nothing—just flashes that grin. Pure chaos incarnate.

“Trauma bay 2!” someone shouts.

“CBC, BMP, T&C, and a VBG. Get two large bores, 18 at least—AC if you can,” the ED attending, Dr. Ha, barks as she pulls on a face shield. You’re already there. Gloves snapped on, IV kit prepped.

“Chlorhex prep?” You call. “On your left.” Taehyung’s suddenly beside you again, applying pressure to the patient’s leg wound as Jungkook slaps on the BP cuff.

“BP’s 82/54,” Jungkook mutters, reaching for the crash cart like this is just another Tuesday. “Get the O-neg in. I want that line now ,” Dr. Ha says, leaning over the patient.

You’re threading a 16-gauge into the left antecubital fossa before the words even finish leaving her mouth. “You’re a menace,” Jungkook whispers as he sets up the flush.

“Don’t flirt with me in front of trauma patients.”

“Wasn’t flirting,” he says, handing you the extension set. “Just admiring your technique.”

“Save it for HR.”

You tape the line, check flashback, and hook up fluids. “1 liter wide open. Pressure bag it.” He’s already doing it. You check pupils. Equal, sluggish. “LOC?”

“GCS 14,” Taehyung supplies, eyes already on the monitor. “Just confused. No loss of consciousness reported on scene.”

“Let’s get a portable CXR and pelvic,” someone calls. “Prep for CT if he stabilizes.”

In the next bed over, another patient starts seizing. “Oh, for the love of—”

“I got it,” Taehyung says, handing off the current patient and sprinting like the floor is lava.

You barely register the next hour. It’s syringes of lorazepam, it’s rapid infusion sets, it’s calling transport for imaging and rechecking vitals on the trauma kid who just coded for 17 seconds before coming back with 0.3 mg of epi and your hand pounding on his sternum.

Somewhere around 11:38 AM, Jungkook throws a protein bar at you like it’s a lifeline. You catch it without looking. “Thanks.” You say, already taking a seat not in the breakroom. It takes an extra minute to get there, which is an extra minute wasted walking instead of sitting down.

“You’ve had two sips of water and a five-minute break since 5 AM,” he says, unwrapping his own bar with his teeth. You nod. “Living the dream.”

“Dream’s a nightmare,” he mutters, but he’s smiling.

You finally sit for a moment near the back hallway, sweat damp at your nape, shoes sore from twelve thousand steps in three hours. You don’t even bother checking your phone. There’s nothing there. No one’s said Yoongi’s name, and you haven’t asked. Because this? This is your reality. It’s sharp and sterile and breaks your heart every twelve minutes. You love it.

Even on days like this, when your hands ache from clenching retractors and you’re still catching your breath from coding someone’s father—or child.

And maybe that’s the thing, this is a different kind of love. A harder one. A faster one. You haven’t had the time or energy to miss Yoongi. But you know you will. Eventually. When things slow down. When the adrenaline fades. When someone’s playlist starts looping that one wedding song you can’t hear without blinking a little longer than you should.

New York doesn’t sleep. But the emergency department? It runs on fumes, espresso shots, and you. It’s 6:42 PM. Seventeen minutes until the end of your twelve-hour shift. Technically.

In reality, the place is on fire.

“Charge, we’ve got another bus incoming!” The paramedic yells as he barrels through the automatic doors, gurney wheels squeaking, trauma pads soaked through. “Pile-up on the FDR. Three vehicles. One entrapment, multiple lacerations, blunt trauma. ETA five.”

You don’t blink. You shift. “Room 7 is clean?” you ask, already pulling gloves on. “Bleached and set,” says a nurse to your left. You give a nod and wave them forward. “Park incoming in 7. Notify Trauma Two. Let’s double up an ortho consult in 3 if we have to. And someone track down Dr. Sung, we’re gonna need surgical eyes on that hip fracture from earlier.”

You’re moving before anyone can respond, IV kit in one hand, trauma scissors in the other. The adrenaline hits like muscle memory. You’re halfway through assessing the teen from the first crash—20-gauge IV already in, oxygen running at 2 L/min via nasal cannula, GCS 14 and improving—when you feel the familiar buzz at your back.

“Need a second set of hands?” Jungkook’s voice, clear and calm. You don’t look up. “Always.” You said. He’s already got the saline primed before you finish flushing the line. “Labs?” He asks. “Full panel. Crossmatch two units and page blood bank just in case.” You say, like clockwork.

“Copy.”

Taehyung appears at your side like an overworked vision, gloves already on. “Vitals?” He asks. “BP 112 over 76, HR 108, RR 22,” the tech calls. “SpO2 at 97 with nasal O2.” He continues. “C-collar stays,” you add, gesturing to the light bruising on the clavicle. “But I want a trauma chest. Portable X-ray now. And tell them I want it upright, even if we have to hold the kid.” You bark, ordering them so you and the team can keep this patient alive.

“Got it, boss,” Tae says, already scribbling orders.

They flirt, yes—but it’s in the banter, in the speed. It’s clinical. It’s rhythm.

“Hey, my favorite scalpel-wielding queen,” Jungkook says as he catches the portable ultrasound probe tossed from across the room, “You gonna save lives or break hearts today?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Both. If I’m efficient.” You reply. Taehyung snorts. “You act like HR won’t snatch your badge if you say that to anyone else.” He jokes, flicking your badge that was clipping to your pocket.

“Exactly,” you reply. “You two are lucky I like you.”

Jungkook winks, then is gone—already sliding to the next bay, where a woman is clutching her ribcage and crying in Spanish. He switches tongues seamlessly, voice soft but urgent. You pause only long enough to catch your breath, and maybe admire Jungkook’s Spanish. 

Seven minutes to shift end. Which means at least twenty more until the next wave clears. Your hair’s damp from exertion, scrubs clinging. There’s blood on your sleeve that isn’t yours. Someone’s coffee is burning in the back room. The monitor beeps. The air smells like saline, sweat, and adrenaline.

You love it here. You hate it here. You live for it.

There’s no time to check your phone. No time to wonder why Yoongi hasn’t called or texted since the wedding. No time to replay his hand under the table, the way his eyes lingered on yours during the vows.

Just cracked ribs and code blues. A toddler with a febrile seizure in bed 9. An elderly man refusing to take his nitro tabs because he “feels fine.” Two nurses arguing about whether a finger fracture from bar fighting counts as priority.

The ED is a mess of wires and whirring, but under your watch, it’s a symphony. You snap off your gloves. “We need a trauma consult in 4.” You say to anyone who’ll listen. “Already paged,” Taehyung replies, eyes sharp as he checks his watch. “You staying past?” He asks, as you shrug. “When have I ever left on time?” You say, making Jungkook poke his head back in. “When we bribe you with matcha. Which, by the way, is in the breakroom.”

You look up, finally, and for a moment the chaos stills around you. You’re tired. A good tired. The kind that reminds you you’re still alive. The kind that tells you maybe, just maybe, your heart’s been too busy to remember it was aching.

The shift finally ended just past 9. The ED hadn’t seen peace since sunrise—a revolving door of chaos, traumas, walk-ins, one guy who tried to deep fry his own hand. There was blood. A shortage of clean linens. An intern on the verge of tears. And you? You had three hours of sleep, two cups of hospital coffee, and a solid seventeen seconds of sanity left.

Dinner felt like salvation .

You sat at your usual table in the all-night diner a few blocks from the hospital—third booth from the back, right under the weak overhead bulb that made everything feel a little like a noir film. Your legs were sore. Your brain was soup. Taehyung slid in across from you like he hadn’t just spent twelve hours wrangling patients and snapping vitals under pressure. His hair was a mess, curls wild, ID still dangling crooked from his pocket. He grinned like a man who’d earned his fries.

Jungkook plopped down beside you, still in his black joggers and scrub jacket, his neck glistening faintly with leftover sweat, because he had run to get to his last code. The sleeves were rolled. The smirk was automatic. “No babies tonight,” Jungkook muttered. “Thank God.”

“No baby talk either,” you said, pointing at him. “HR’s watching. I saw them in the break room today. Lurking.”

“Oh, no. What’ll I do without calling you baby in the trauma bay?” he deadpanned. “Cry, probably,” Taehyung said. “He cried once when she didn’t return his coffee.”

“You drank my coffee,” Jungkook shot back. “I thought it was a gift,” Taehyung replied, wounded. You barely kept a straight face. “You’re both on thin ice. I’ll have HR escort you out personally.” You chime in.

“But then who’ll flirt with you at 3AM while suturing someone’s forehead?” Jungkook asked, nudging your elbow with his. “Me,” Taehyung said. “But classier. I wait until the patient’s unconscious.”

You choked on your water. “That’s not better.”

“You laugh , though,” Taehyung said, stabbing a fry with dramatic flair. “You always laugh.”

And it was true. Somehow, despite the blood, the chaos, the heartbreaks that flooded in hourly through ambulance doors, they made you laugh. Kept you grounded. Kept you human.

Dinner was easy with them.

Jungkook stole fries from your plate. Taehyung offered you bites of his grilled cheese in exchange for exactly one mozzarella stick. You were too tired to care, too tired to fight back. This was your normal now. This weird, domestic closeness that existed somewhere between friend, coworker, family. A strange kind of throuple, only fueled by caffeine and medical-grade trauma.

“I swear, if one more family member says I Googled it while I’m trying to explain post-op instructions.” Jungkook started. Taehyung cut him off. “I’m going to start saying me too and just walk away.” You rested your cheek on Jungkook’s shoulder, eyelids drooping. “Is it bad I already started doing that?” You chuckle.

“No,” Jungkook said, nudging his cheek against the top of your head. “It just means you’ve evolved.”

Taehyung sighed. “She’s become one of us. We’re all doomed.”

You didn’t talk about Yoongi. Didn’t think about him—not really. He hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called. But it was fine. You were busy. You had things to do. Lives to help. People to yell at when they tried to walk out of the ED with an IV still in their arm.

You had them. You had this.

The hospital never sleeps. Not really. You’d been back for a full week now—eight-hour shifts bleeding into twelve, sometimes fourteen. Charts piling like confessions, vitals spiking like mood swings, trauma bays echoing with the chorus of alarms and overworked staff trying to hold the world together with IV drips and caffeine.

And Yoongi? Not a single text. Not even a thumbs up, or a call. 

But truthfully— truly —you didn’t have the luxury to care. You were back in your scrubs, hair pulled up, badge clipped to your pocket, trauma scissors sheathed at your hip. NP duties stacked shoulder to shoulder with split-second decisions and attending sign-offs. You barely had time to think, let alone spiral.

You, Taehyung, and Jungkook were back to moving as a unit—chaotic, efficient, flirty in the way that only made sense in whispered jokes and side glances between laceration repairs.

“Need a 22-gauge,” you called, already snapping on gloves. “Got a 20 in the left AC,” Jungkook replied, catching the movement without missing a beat, his voice smooth, eyes sharp. “BP’s holding. 120 over 72.”

You didn’t look up. “Good. Start fluids, NS bolus.” You ordered.

“I’m on it,” Taehyung chimed in from the other side, flipping the chart on his tablet. “She’s cleared for discharge if the dressing holds.” He said. You nodded, moving on instinct as the trauma pager lit up again. 

ED: Incoming. M, 32, FOOSH injury in a studio. Wrist deformity. GCS 14. Tachycardic, stable otherwise. ETA 2 min.

You barely registered it. Another chart. Another wrist. Another day in the fucking circus. “Jungkook,” you said, stepping back and stripping your gloves. “You and Tae on that wrist guy?”

“Yup,” he said, nodding. “Already on our way.” Taehyung winked over his shoulder. “We’ll see you in a bit, boss.”

You rolled your eyes but let it slide. They knew the routine. You trusted them with your life—multiple times over. It wasn’t until exactly six minutes later, as you were typing a SOAP note with one foot on the lower cabinet for balance, that Jungkook reappeared—too fast. Too gleeful. He leaned his forearms across the desk like a man with gossip burning a hole in his tongue.

“You’re never gonna guess who’s in our trauma bay right now,” he said, sing-song. You didn’t glance up. “Please tell me it’s not the guy who keeps swallowing Monopoly pieces.” You said, as he chuckled. “Nope.” He grinned, all teeth. “It’s worse.”

You paused mid-sentence. “ Worse how?”

Jungkook straightened, practically vibrating. “Min Yoongi. Big shot producer. Black hair. Wrist issue. Currently trying to convince Tae that he’s fine while actively refusing pain meds and avoiding eye contact.” He said, eyebrows raised. Your fingers stopped moving on the keyboard as you finally looked up. “You’re joking.” You said, mouth agape. “I don’t joke about people who ghost my favorite girl,” he said, cocking his head. “Now are you gonna come assess him or should I tell him we’re short-staffed and he should come back when he’s ready to be honest with his emotions?” He asked, tone a little biting, but nothing that warranted a defense off you. 

You cursed under your breath. Peeled off your note. Snatched a fresh pair of gloves.

Bay 4 was quiet except for the subtle hiss of oxygen from a mask someone had left on a side rail. Yoongi was sitting upright on the stretcher, hair pushed back messily like he’d run a hand through it too many times. Black jeans, oversized hoodie, gauze-wrapped wrist held gingerly against his chest.

He looked like the world had taken a swing at him and missed—but not by much. Taehyung stood at the foot of the bed, tablet in hand, a gentle smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “ Hi , Yoongi,” he said warmly.

Yoongi gave him a stiff nod, eyes flicking toward the door—expectant. Nervous.

And then they landed on you. You stepped inside, clinically, coolly, a queen in soft soles and nitrile gloves. Yoongi’s posture straightened. “Hey.” He greeted.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you said, grabbing the chart off the side rail from Taehyung. “Didn’t know ghosting came with a side of orthopedic trauma.”

Jungkook snorted behind you. Yoongi winced—probably more from the dig than the wrist.

“No loss of consciousness, no nausea,” Taehyung reported softly, sensing the shift in atmosphere. “But he’s tachy—running at 110. Could be pain. Or . . . something else.”

You leveled your gaze at Yoongi. “On a scale of one to ten?” He gave a half-shrug with his good shoulder. “Six. Maybe seven. Doesn’t really hurt.”

“Uh-huh.” You stepped closer, reaching for the wrist. “Left, non-dominant?”

He nodded. You gently rotated the forearm, pressing along the anatomical snuffbox. He flinched. “Okay—eight. Fine .” He admits. “Possible scaphoid,” you murmured, mostly to Jungkook and Taehyung. “How’d this happen?”

“Caught myself when I slipped. Floor was wet.”

“Of course it was.” You grabbed the splinting kit from the cabinet. “Any numbness? Tingling?”

“No.”

“Any sudden urge to stop answering my questions?”

“Only when you glare like that,” Yoongi muttered. You paused mid-wrap and glanced up. “This is me being polite . To someone who doesn’t even say goodbye. Jungkook, you’re up.”

Another wince. “Lucky me.” He muttered, as Jungkook replaced you from splinting.

Before you could retort, Namjoon swept in with a clipboard and half a protein bar in his hand. “Sorry, got held up with the guy who thought swallowing change would bring financial luck. What’ve we got?” He asked as you handed him the chart. “Yoongi. 32. Ground-level fall, possible wrist fracture. Stable. Wrist tender to palpation, mild swelling, no crepitus. No other trauma noted. GCS 15.”

Namjoon blinked at the name. “Wait. Yoongi as in . . . ?” He turned to you, eyes asking for confirmation. “Yeah,” Jungkook confirmed, hands still carefully working on Yoongi’s wrist. “ That Yoongi.”

Namjoon turned to him. “You okay?”

“Emotionally or orthopedically?” Yoongi muttered. Namjoon grinned. “Both. But let’s start with bones.”

You began prepping the local anesthetic. “He’ll need a lidocaine block. Jungkook’s splinting until radiology clears imaging. You’re fine with temporary immobilization?” You asked him. “Yeah,” Yoongi murmured.

You stepped in again with the 18-gauge and drew up the lidocaine with practiced ease. “You’re going to feel a pinch.” You informed. He eyed the syringe. “Do I get a sticker after this?”

“No,” you said flatly, swabbing the site. “But I’ll write patient was brave in your chart if you stop flinching.”

Yoongi exhaled slowly as you injected, slow and deliberate. Taehyung watched the exchange, amused. Jungkook leaned back against the counter like he was watching prime-time TV.

Then Jungkook, bless his timing, said, “You know, for someone who disappeared for a week, this is a really dramatic way to say hi.” You didn’t miss a beat. “ Jeon . Shut up.” You snapped. Jungkook raised both hands, delighted. “Wow. You snapped. Didn’t call me Jungkook. I’m honored.”

Namjoon, still glancing over the chart, gave Jungkook a sidelong look. “She only talks like that when she likes you. Or she’s going to kill you.”

“Hot either way,” Jungkook said under his breath. Yoongi blinked. Eyebrow raising again.

Jungkook wrapped the splint as you watched in silence, fingers efficient, tone clinical. “We’ll send you for an X-ray. Radiology’s backed up by an hour, so get comfortable.”

Yoongi glanced between you, Jungkook, Namjoon, and Taehyung—all gorgeous , capable men who worked in orbit around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t say anything. But his jaw ticked. Again. No eyebrows— jaw.

Taehyung noticed. Jungkook definitely noticed. Namjoon? He just smiled and asked, “So . . . karaoke this weekend? Still on?”

And Yoongi looked like he might throw something.

A few moments later, Yoongi was still quiet. Suspiciously so, for someone who had ghosted you and was now being surrounded by all your closest coworkers while cradling what was likely a non-displaced fracture like it was the reason he couldn’t make eye contact. For someone who had told you he didn’t want to want you, yet he still does.

You didn’t spare him a glance. Not while you unwrapped a fresh roll of Kerlix, not while Namjoon updated the chart, and definitely not when Jungkook leaned over and stage-whispered to Yoongi, “She’s being nice. You should’ve seen what happened to the last guy who lied about pain.”

“Laceration to the forehead,” Taehyung offered. “Needed eight stitches. She did it without anesthetic.”

“I offered anesthetic,” you said, tugging the wrap snug over Yoongi’s wrist. “He declined like a dumbass.”

“Did he live?” Yoongi asked, eyebrows raised. “Barely,” Jungkook grinned. Namjoon gave you a look over the edge of the tablet. “You’re clocking out at eight, right?”

“I was,” you muttered, smoothing the edge of the splint. “Why?”

Before Namjoon could answer, the air snapped around you. The hallway monitor blared, “Code Blue. Trauma Bay 2. Repeat, Code Blue, Trauma Bay 2.”

Your head whipped toward the door—instinct. Automatic. Reflex. That old, hard-wired shift in your chest that always came with a flatline and the knowledge that someone, somewhere, was seconds from not existing anymore. “ Shit ,” you muttered, already pulling your gloves off. “That’s Morales’ kid.”

Taehyung’s tablet was forgotten on the tray as he moved toward the exit. Jungkook was a step behind him, already reaching for the ambu bag. Namjoon gave you a look—you leading, me backing—and nodded once.

You turned back to Yoongi for the briefest second. “Don’t move. Radiology’s sending a porter. If you so much as think about getting off this bed, I will make you regret it.”

Yoongi blinked. “Okay.” You were already gone.

Trauma Bay 2 was chaos. The boy—mid-twenties, rolled in an hour ago with chest pain, no known history—was flatlined. You saw it the second you crossed the threshold. Full cardiac arrest. Bed stripped down, chest bared. The monitor screamed asystole in unforgiving green lines. “Confirmed flat,” Namjoon called. “No pulse,” Taehyung said, two fingers on the carotid.

“Starting compressions,” Jungkook said, already climbing onto the step to take over the chest. You hit the code button on the wall and grabbed the airway tray. “Two rounds epi,” Namjoon said. “Give me a 10cc syringe and a flush. What’s his last potassium?” You asked, “Pending,” Taehyung replied. “Labs are crawling.”

“Double lumen, right AC,” Namjoon added. “Push through there.”

Jungkook was counting out compressions like a metronome. His forearms were taut with strain, but his rhythm was perfect—deep, fast, consistent. He didn’t speak except to count. You loved him for it. 

You were at the head of the bed now, positioning the mask. “Tilt the head. Bag him, one every six seconds.” Namjoon passed the epi to you. You checked, pushed.

“Two minutes,” Taehyung called out. “Still no rhythm.”

“Switch compressors,” you barked.

Jungkook stepped off. You took his place without missing a goddamn beat. Heel of your hand between ribs four and five. Arms locked. Weight forward, knees on the side of his arm. You started compressions, and the world narrowed to that movement. Thirty compressions. Check the line. Push meds. Bag. Pulse check.

You didn’t even register the sweat sliding down your spine. You didn’t notice Yoongi standing in the hall. He wasn’t supposed to be there.

He knew it the second he stepped off the bed—wrist still in its half-splint, a dull throb echoing up his forearm—but the monitor outside Trauma 2 had started shrieking the second you disappeared and he’d heard your voice shouting instructions and he just— moved .

And now he was standing in the hallway, alone, watching it happen. You. In the center of a dying storm. No hesitation. No panic. Nothing but muscle memory and clipped, clinical control. You looked impossibly sharp. Gorgeous and terrifying and alive in a way he’d never seen before—not even at the wedding. Not even when you’d teased him under fairy lights or when you had a heartfelt conversation at the terrace during rehearsal dinner.

This version of you? Covered in someone else’s blood, hair sticking to your jawline, shouting “ Check the line again—again! ” while keeping tempo with your whole goddamn body? It was insane. It was holy. It was fucking magnetic.

He felt his mouth go dry.

Yoongi didn’t know anything about medicine, but he knew when someone was fighting to keep another person alive. You were cracking open your own ribcage to do it.

After another two minutes, the monitor finally blipped. It wasn’t a miracle, but it was something. “V-fib!” Taehyung called.

“Charging— clear! ” Namjoon shouted, grabbing the paddles. You stepped back, breath heaving, chest rising like you’d just sprinted through fire. “Clear!” You had echoed. The defibrillator screamed to life, and the body on the table jumped.

“Pulse,” Jungkook said. “Faint, but there.”

You leaned back, chest still heaving. You were shaking—only slightly—but you pressed the back of your hand to your forehead and nodded. “Call ICU,” Namjoon said. “He’s not out of the woods.”

“No,” you said, breathless, “But he’s not in the ground.”

You walked out ten minutes later. Yoongi was still standing there. Awe. Baffled. Looking at you like had saved someone’s life—which, you did . 

You stopped when you saw him. Jaw tight. Eyes soft. Something unreadable in his face. “You’re not supposed to be up.” You said. 

“You’re not supposed to be that fucking good,” he replied quietly. You blinked. “What?”

Yoongi’s voice was low, like he couldn’t figure out where to look. “That was . . . you saved someone.” He whispered, like he was just so impressed. You raised a brow. “That’s literally my job.” You replied.

“Yeah, but—” He cut himself off. Then, tried again. “You were amazing.” You let out a short, tired breath. “Thanks.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were like that?”

You looked at him— really looked at him—and said, “Maybe if you hadn’t disappeared, you would’ve seen it sooner.”

Then you turned and walked away.

Behind you, Yoongi didn’t follow. He just stared at the spot where you’d been standing, like you’d just knocked the wind out of him. Because you had.

You didn’t mean to linger by the vending machine, but after a code like that—after compressions and epi pushes and yelling yourself hoarse into the void of someone else’s mortality—you needed five minutes. Maybe six. Just enough time to reset your brain. Just enough time to not deck the guy who ghosted you and then dared to look soft when you saved someone’s life.

You dropped coins into the machine, let them clatter loud in the silence. Your palm hovered over the buttons, not even sure what you wanted. A protein bar? A KitKat? A sedative?

Behind you, footsteps. Two pairs. Familiar ones. You didn’t turn around. Jungkook’s voice came first, that low conspiratorial hum he reserved for gossip and shit-talking. “So. Let me get this straight.”

“No,” Yoongi said. “You fell in love with her,” Jungkook continued, “Mid-code?” You could hear Taehyung choke on a laugh. Still, you didn’t turn.

“I didn’t—”

“Oh, no, no . Let’s review, dude,” Jungkook said, full amusement now. “You ghosted her. For seven days. Not one. Not two. Seven .”

“She didn’t need—”

“Shut the fuck up, yes she did ,” Jungkook snapped, no malice in it, just protective heat. “Do you know how many times she checked her phone and then told herself she wasn’t checking her phone? I counted. And I’m not even in love with her. I’m just her incredibly supportive, stunningly handsome, fake fiancé.” You turned, slow, a brow arched. “We were never engaged.”

Jungkook didn’t miss a beat. “Not when you caught that bouquet.”

Taehyung was beaming behind him, arms folded like he was watching Broadway. “You should’ve seen your face, Yoongi. It was like . . .” He mimicked a wide-eyed Yoongi, mouth parted, gaze soft. “Is this what awe looks like? Is this what happens when men see God?”

“Shut up,” Yoongi muttered.

“Which part?” Taehyung grinned. “The part where you got heart-eyes while she was doing compressions or the part where you stood up from your gurney in the middle of a hospital hallway with a literal wrist injury to watch her save someone’s life?”

“I didn’t stand up to—”

Jungkook held up a finger. “Don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to put on seven rings and clock your ass fourteen different ways. I will Amazon Prime a fake wedding band so fast your ancestors will feel it.”

“I already said shut up.”

“You didn’t say sorry,” Jungkook replied, arms crossed now, voice softening. “You didn’t say why.”

That stung. You could feel the shift. Like a ripple under the laughter. You let them talk. You let them take the space you weren’t ready to fill. Yoongi let out a slow breath. “Because I didn’t know what the fuck to say.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “Try, Hey, sorry for vanishing. I panicked because I caught feelings for my best friend’s sister and now I don’t know what to do with my hands.”

Yoongi didn’t reply. But you caught it—the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. The barest tilt of his head. The confession hidden in silence. “I’m still mad,” you said.

Three heads turned to you. “Good,” Taehyung said brightly. “Healthy,” Jungkook agreed. Yoongi just nodded once, like he expected it. Like he’d been bracing for worse. You finally hit the vending machine button. Your snack thunked to the bottom like punctuation.

“Radiology’s cleared you,” you said to Yoongi, voice even. “No displacement. Hairline scaphoid. You’ll need a follow-up with ortho and a full cast for four to six weeks.”

Yoongi met your eyes. “Will you be there?”

You paused, the silence stretching just long enough to be dangerous. “I don’t do outpatient,” you said, low. “But I’ll be around.”

Yoongi nodded. Like that was enough. Like he knew better than to push right now.

Jungkook took a step closer to you, shoulder brushing yours, voice low but audible. “He doesn’t get a second chance unless he earns it.”

“I know,” you said. Yoongi’s eyes flicked to Jungkook, then back to you. He didn’t argue. He didn’t explain. He just stood there—bruised and bandaged and somehow still unreadable, like your silence was something he wanted to be worthy of.

And you? You picked up your vending machine snack, turned on your heel, and said over your shoulder, “Text me next time, Yoongi. Before someone else codes.”

Chapter 6: Three's A Crowd

He leans back, eyes on the city through your floor-to-ceiling windows, glass glinting amber in his hand. “You okay?”

You don’t answer right away. The code still lingers in your chest like smoke. You haven’t changed out of your scrubs. You don’t even remember eating today. You were just glad your shift was over, and you could finally be at peace. At home. “I’m fine.”

“Lie,” he says, not even blinking. “You haven’t even unclipped your badge.”

You glance down. The metal tag still dangles off your pocket, a little crooked. You pull it off and toss it onto the coffee table with a clatter. “I’m just tired,” you try again. Jungkook hums. “And Yoongi?”

Your chest goes still. “Didn’t know this was a couples therapy session.” You joked. He looks at you sidelong. “You think that man didn’t fall in love with you today?”

“I think he fell into a mixing board and fractured his wrist.”

“ I fell in love with you today,” Jungkook says, softly now. “And I’ve already seen you stick an NG tube into a guy who coughed blood on your scrubs. This was different.”

You take another sip of bourbon. Let it sear your throat. Jungkook’s hand finds your thigh again—warm, grounding, a casual anchor.

“He texted me,” you say finally. Jungkook straightens a little. “Oh?”

You hand him your phone. He doesn’t hesitate to read.

yoongi: I didn’t mean to ghost you.

yoongi: I just didn’t know how to show up without messing it up.

yoongi: But I want to.

yoongi: If you’ll let me.

He exhales through his nose and passes it back. “Well. That’s the most emotionally intelligent thing he’s ever said in the short-time I’ve known him.”

You pause. “You believe him?”

“I believe he’s terrified,” Jungkook says. “I believe he’s a dumbass . But I also believe he watched you bring someone back from the edge of death today and fell so hard he might never walk again.”

You stare at the rim of your glass. Jungkook’s voice softens. “But if he hurts you again—”

“I know,” you say.

“No, baby. Really listen to me.” He shifts closer. One hand slides behind your neck, warm and possessive, thumb at your jaw. You look at him. “If he ghosts you again,” Jungkook murmurs, “I’m showing up to his studio in pearls and seven rings, and I will knock sense into that man so hard they’ll have to cast his ego.” He says, seriously. Even if the whole seven rings had meant to be a joke, you knew he meant it. He’s done it before when Biochem Brad cheated on you.

You burst out laughing. It surprises you—the full, sharp crack of it. You hadn’t realized how much you needed to laugh until Jungkook handed it to you like a damn gift.

You lean into his shoulder. He lets you. You sit like that for a while, silent, watching the city crawl by outside.

Your phone buzzes again.

yoongi: I’m outside.

yoongi: I brought ice cream.

yoongi: Not sure if I’m allowed in yet.

Jungkook reads it over your shoulder. “Well, fuck,” he says, amused. “Looks like the ghost figured out how to knock.”

You exhale, slow. Then get up. And go to the door.

You open the door.

Yoongi stands there in the same hoodie from earlier—hood down, casted wrist in his pocket, a pint of Jeni’s in his good hand like a white flag. Darkest Chocolate, because of course it is. Of course he remembered. His eyes sweep over you slowly. Scrubs, wrinkled. Hair, messy. Mouth, unreadable.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just breathes like the hallway is heavier than outside. “Hey.”

Your voice comes out quieter than expected. “You brought ice cream.”

“Didn’t think flowers would cut it.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t flinch. Behind you, Jungkook is still on the couch—legs stretched out, bourbon in hand, phone glowing against his thigh. He doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t even turn his head. But you feel him, a presence made of unwavering loyalty and expensive cologne.

You step aside. Yoongi walks in without hesitation. That’s new. He offers you the pint like a peace offering, thumb rubbing the condensation down the side. “Didn’t know if you were still mad.” He starts.

“I am.”

He nods, like he expected it.

You walk into the kitchen to grab two spoons. He follows at a cautious distance, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to inhabit the same space as your body again. You crack the pint open and hand him a spoon. He takes it with his good hand, wrist bent awkwardly, and digs in.

First bite goes down like penance.

You lean against the counter and study him. He’s quiet, but it’s not the usual kind. It’s almost . . . soft. Like he’s not holding back as much as he’s trying not to mess this up. “You look tired,” he says finally.

You huff. “Code will do that to you.”

He nods, then shifts, his voice lower. “You were good today.” He says, softly. You raise a brow. “Just today?” 

Yoongi’s mouth quirks. It’s the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen since he walked in. “You were terrifying,” he admits. “In a good way.”

You glance down at your spoon. “I thought you left.”

“I did,” he says. “Mentally. For a bit. Not on purpose.”

“Do you always run when things get close?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Jungkook, still on the couch, adjusts slightly. Doesn’t speak. But you feel it—that subtle emotional buffer he always gives you. The room still belongs to you, even with Yoongi in it.

“I’m not used to people like you,” Yoongi says eventually. “People who actually say what they mean. People who mean what they do.” He explains. You exhale through your nose. “That’s a convenient excuse.” You almost scoff . You weren’t that mad, no, not really, you were just a little disappointed. At him. At yourself—for thinking this would’ve been easy. You knew Yoongi since you were a baby, before you could even have object permanence. You should have known this would be challenging, the same way he is.

“It’s not an excuse. It’s context.”

You look at him. He’s not defensive. He’s not begging. He’s just there. Calm. Steady in his discomfort. Letting you see him without armor. “Why come now?”

“Because I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t,” he says, slow, like it hurts to admit it. “And because . . . I wanted to say sorry. Properly. Without disappearing after.”

You scoop another bite. Eat it slowly. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t fill the silence. Just waits. You nod once, eventually. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“It’s a start.”

Yoongi doesn’t smile—but his shoulders drop, just barely. Like a fraction of a weight’s been lifted.

Behind you, Jungkook rises quietly and moves toward the hallway—still shirtless, still barefoot, still Jungkook—but when he passes, he ruffles your hair lightly. “You need me, I’ll be in the guest room. Playing Tori Kelly at an emotionally appropriate volume.”

You reach out and squeeze his hand as he passes. He squeezes back. No words needed.

When it’s just you and Yoongi again, the air shifts. Not hostile. Not charged. Just . . . tentative. And raw.

“You can stay,” you say softly. “If you want to talk.” Yoongi meets your eyes. “Only if you want me to.”

You nod. And so, he sits. Spoon still in hand. Wrists in his lap. And just like at the wedding, Yoongi doesn’t say much. But he doesn’t leave, either. 

You keep the lights off as you open the sliding door. The city looks softer this way—less like it’s daring you to keep up and more like it’s letting you rest.

Yoongi’s already outside. Sitting low in the wicker chair across from your monstera plant, wrist balanced on his thigh, cigarette perched between his fingers. He doesn’t turn when you step out. Just speaks, without looking. “Didn’t know if you’d come.” He says, as you lean against the railing. “You’re on my balcony.” You reply. He hums. A small exhale. “Fair.”

You pull out your own pack, the slim black one you keep in a drawer by the wine keys and aspirin. He notices. “Sobranie Blacks?”

You smirk. “Picked up the habit from a hot music producer I had a crush on in high school.”

That makes him glance at you. Just once. Just briefly.

He lights yours for you. The lighter clicks once, twice, before the flame catches. You inhale. Hold it. Let the smoke slip past your lips like the truth you haven’t said out loud yet. 

Inside, Jungkook’s soft, even breathing echoes from your bedroom. You left the door cracked open. He’s passed out sideways, one arm hanging off the bed like a child in a sugar crash. Your best friend. And Yoongi? He’s the memory you didn’t know you were still carrying.

You take another drag and ask, “Do you remember the wedding?”

Yoongi scoffs. “You mean the part where I smoked behind the tent, and failed to tell you I had real, legit feelings for you? Vaguely.”

You laugh—quietly. Smoke curls into the air between you. The city lights flicker against his skin. “I remember looking at you during Sena and Jin’s vows,” you say. “You weren’t watching them. You were watching me.”

His lips part, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“Like you wanted to believe in it. Like you already did.” You say, voice growing quiet towards the end. There was no hesitation there. You don’t know if it was because you’d shed so much tears that day, or if it’s your mind playing tricks—but you saw it. Seokjin saw it. 

He swallows. Hard.

“I remember you catching the bouquet,” he says. “I thought your mom was going to pass out from joy.”

“She almost did.”

“And I smiled,” he says. “Not because it was funny. But because you looked . . .” He trails off. You glance over. He’s still staring out at the skyline, jaw clenched, but the smoke rising from his cigarette trembles at the tip.

“Beautiful,” he finishes, breath shaky like he hasn’t already said it to you before. “You looked like you were holding the whole goddamn moment in your hands. And I wanted to be part of it.”

You nod. Once. “You didn’t flinch when she told you and Jungkook to propose to me already.” You comment, taking another drag of the cigarette. “I didn’t even hear her at first,” he admits. “I was too busy watching you laugh.”

You sit down across from him, barefoot, smoke curling from your fingertips. “Why didn’t you say anything then?”

“I didn’t want to ruin it.”

You’re quiet. So is he. The silence isn’t sharp anymore. It’s just full. “I get it,” you say, eventually. “Sometimes when things get too much, I shut down too. It’s something I’ve been working on for a long, long time.”

Yoongi looks at you now. Really looks. You meet his gaze. “I feel things too hard. Always have. I love fast. I grieve slow. I forgive like I’m giving someone a part of myself. And when I’m scared . . . I freeze.”

“That’s the part I didn’t get until today,” he says. “You’re brave as hell, but you don’t lead with it. You just . . . kind of live in it.”

He takes a final drag. Ashes out carefully. “You’re everything I’m not,” he adds, voice low. “And that scares the shit out of me.”

You flick your cigarette out into the tray. “You’re not nothing, Yoongi.”

He watches you. That stillness in his face—the practiced control— falters . “You’re steady, safe. You’re quiet in the way the world needs to be sometimes. And I’ve known you since I was ten, but I’ve never known this version of you.” You breathe out. He swallows again. “Neither have I.”

You lean forward, elbows on your knees. “So what do we do now?”

Yoongi shrugs slightly. “I stay. I try. I don’t run this time.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know. It’s a promise.”

You blink. Your throat tightens in that familiar way.

From the bedroom, Jungkook rolls over, grumbling something about “Marry her already, you coward,” before going silent again.

You both burst into quiet laughter, startled and tired and light. Yoongi leans forward, elbows matching yours, smoke still thick between you. “You scare the hell out of me, you know that?” He says softly. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement. A declaration of his vulnerability.  You tilt your head.

“You break my heart in ways I didn’t know it could break,” you say, just as soft. Equally as vulnerable.

He lets the words settle. Doesn’t shy from them. Doesn’t hide. And for the first time since the wedding—since childhood, since always —you’re both just here. No secrets. No ghosts. No running. No pretending.

Just you. And him. And whatever this is. For now, it’s enough.

The next morning, you weren’t sure what you expected when your eyes cracked open at eight twenty-three—maybe the silence of an empty apartment. Maybe Yoongi’s jacket folded neatly on the arm of your couch, his shoes gone, that untouched pint of ice cream left behind like a placeholder for something he couldn’t stay long enough to give.

But you definitely didn’t expect the scent of real, proper, roasted beans and soy-sesame rice hitting you all at once.

You sat up in the guest room—your guest room—where you’d chosen to sleep out of some vague sense of propriety, even though Jungkook had offered you the bed in your bedroom like it was his moral obligation.

“You and Yoongi have emotional tension. I just have pecs. I’ll be fine.”

Now, stepping barefoot down your hardwood hallway, you rub the sleep from your eyes and catch the familiar thrum of life coming from your kitchen. It’s the same life you always wake up to on your days off—Jungkook humming some early 2000s R&B deep cut, the clatter of pans, your bar cart untouched and judgmental in the corner.

But today? Today, there’s Yoongi. Still here. Still real.

Standing at your counter, his hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the cast still on, stirring two mugs of coffee like he’s been doing it every morning for years.

He doesn’t notice you right away. But Jungkook does.

He’s crouched in front of the open fridge, shirtless, tattooed, hair fluffed in twelve different directions, blinking like he’s just now entering the mortal realm. “Good morning, my favorite tragic lover,” he says, voice raspy with sleep. “Yoongi brought beans. Not weed , like I thought when he said it at first. Coffee beans. And they taste like God himself blessed them.”

Yoongi, without looking up, mutters, “Because they’re actually good.” You blink. “You’re . . . still here.”

Now Yoongi looks at you. There’s no defense in his posture. No apology. Just the smallest upturn of his mouth. “You said I could stay.”

You nod slowly. “I also said to take the guest room.” You said. He shrugs. “Couch felt right.”

You don’t push. Because—if you’re honest—you half-expected to find the cushions cold and empty. Instead, you walk further into the room, and Yoongi automatically holds out a mug. You take it without a word. Your fingers brush his.

He doesn’t pull away. You sip.

Oh. Oh, damn.

“This is criminal,” you say. “You could make money off this.” Yoongi shrugs again, like it’s nothing. “I grind my own beans. Ratios matter.”

“Are you hitting on me with science?” You ask, blinking at him over the rim. He meets your eyes. “Would it work?” He asks, eyebrow raised.

Jungkook makes a loud, exaggerated ahem from the stove, where he’s now very obviously attempting triangle gimbap with slightly too-wet rice and uneven seaweed sheets. “I’d like to remind everyone that I am, in fact, still in this room,” he says. “And currently making you both breakfast with my bare hands.”

“You’re wearing gloves,” you say.

“Don’t kill my art, baby.”

He slides one lopsided triangle onto a plate and frowns. “Something’s off.” He bites into it. Chews. Pauses. “Too bland.” He frowns as Yoongi leans over casually, eyeing the plate. “You didn’t season the rice.”

Jungkook blinks. “I—”

“You used the right ratio of vinegar,” Yoongi continues, already opening your spice cabinet like he’s lived here for months, “But you forgot sugar and salt.”

You and Jungkook stare as he mixes something in a small bowl, tastes it on the edge of a spoon, then hands it over. “Try this.”

Jungkook obeys, then stops mid-chew. “ Holy shit. ”

“See?” Yoongi says, smug but quiet. “Balance.”

It’s so subtle—so natural—that it makes your chest tighten. This shouldn’t feel easy. But it does now. Yoongi working silently at your counter. Jungkook animated, laughing at his own mistakes. You, barefoot in an old t-shirt, sipping your coffee like this is your version of peace.

“Okay,” Jungkook declares, “You’re now both banned from leaving me. You make me feel like a divorced kid at Christmas and like a full-time employee of a Michelin-starred daycare.” He sighs. You smile into your mug. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I don’t make sense before 10AM,” he says. “But I know love when I see it.”

Yoongi coughs into his coffee. Jungkook smirks. “Just saying.”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t land. Because in this soft, bright, ordinary morning, something feels different. Not in the way the air is charged—not in a dramatic, soul-shifting way.

Just . . . settled.

Yoongi’s second helping of triangle gimbap disappears somewhere between Jungkook’s third compliment and your second refill of coffee. The three of you are now lazily slouched around your kitchen island, bellies warm, the sun breaking clean through the windows like it knows what kind of night you had and is offering absolution.

You’re mid-sip when Jungkook says, way too casually, “So . . . karaoke night tomorrow?” You glance over, suspicious. “Since when are we planning karaoke nights with less than four days of emotional prep?” You ask.

Jungkook shrugs. “It’s our day off again. The group chat’s already active. Namjoon owes me two songs from the last shift. Hoseok wants to duet. Jimin’s been begging to sing something moody and dangerous. You’re overdue to blow everyone away.”

You snort. “You mean to emotionally destabilize every resident on the peds floor?”

“ Exactly .”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow, still chewing. “You do karaoke?”

Jungkook grins, sweet and sly. “We do karaoke. Not that sad, underwhelming American bar setup where you sing to a crowd of drunk strangers who clap when you’re off-key. No. This is full-blown karaoke . Private room. Stage lights. Echo mic. Snacks. Judgement.”

Your brow lifts. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

“It is,” Jungkook replies, then looks at Yoongi, all mock innocence. “You should come.”

Yoongi blinks, the tiniest beat too slow.

And there it is—the test.

You watch him carefully. Jungkook’s not being cruel. Just careful. Calculated. Protective, in the only way Jungkook knows how—by pulling people into your orbit and watching how they hold up under pressure. Yoongi sips his coffee, blinking twice. His voice is steady.

“Sure.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

He nods. “I told you I’d try. Meeting your friends would be a good start.”

Jungkook leans back, pretending to stretch—but you can see the twitch of a smile tug at the edge of his mouth. Like he didn’t expect Yoongi to say yes. “Cool,” he says, breezy as hell. “Bring your A-game. The mic doesn’t forgive.”

Yoongi just hums. “Neither do I.”

You swear the air shifts. And for the first time in a long while, you feel something close to hope curling up inside you like smoke from the end of a cigarette—slow, hot, dangerous in all the right ways.

Karaoke night’s gonna be hell.

Chapter 7: Track No. 14

Your apartment smells like setting spray and coconut wax candles and the faint, unmistakable tang of Taehyung’s cologne mixed with Jungkook’s stress. Which is to say—it’s karaoke night.

The city is buzzing beyond your windows, but in here? It’s ritual.

You’re using your car tonight—which means he’s already downstairs checking if the Bluetooth still automatically connects to his phone. He claims it’s a coincidence. You know it’s so he can blast your pre-karaoke playlist and pretend he didn’t spend an hour curating it.

Taehyung’s lounging on your couch in loose trousers and a button-down with only two buttons done up—curls damp, skin dewy, ankles crossed like the picture of relaxed temptation. He won’t be drinking much tonight; he never really does. But he will be driving, because as he put it, “Someone has to protect your reputations after the mic possession starts.”

You’re at your vanity, eyeliner in one hand, lip gloss in the other, applying with surgical precision.

Outfit? All black. Crop top—tight, cropped to show just enough, but not too much stomach, silver threading stitched through the hem. Baggy jeans cinched at the waist. Combat boots waiting by the door. Accessories? Silver. And real. Rings stacked. Hoops on. Chains layered, light catching each one.

You don’t do karaoke night halfway. Never have.

Your phone starts vibrating— FaceTime , not a call. You frown. Yoongi. You swipe up, and there he is—shoulders tense, eyes slightly wild, standing in front of a mirror with what looks like five black shirts strewn behind him like a fashion crime scene.

He doesn’t say hello. Instead, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” He half-whispers. You blink. “Hello to you, too.” You greet, eyeing the things in frame on your phone.

He exhales, gripping his phone like it owes him money. “You said karaoke. That’s casual. But Jungkook texted me a playlist with choreo. Am I supposed to move? Am I allowed to just exist in a corner? Do I look like someone who does jazz hands?”

You try not to laugh, but you fail—gorgeous and cruel. “You look like someone who once threatened to beat up his own laptop for lagging during a bass drop.”

“ Exactly ,” he snaps. “That man is not emotionally equipped for public mic use.”

You hum. “What are you wearing?”

Yoongi turns the phone so you can see the floor—ripped black jeans, a literal pile of chains, two fitted tees, and an alarming number of rings.

“Okay,” you say calmly. “Black shirt. Ripped jeans. Chain layered over a second, thinner one. Silver rings. Keep the cast. Girls love damage.”

“I am the damage.”

“I know, baby.”

Yoongi pauses. Realizing what you had just said. “. . . You just called me baby.” He blinks. Taehyung, from across the room, “She does that sometimes. Don’t get excited.” He shouts. You shoot him a glare in the mirror. Yoongi, smug now, “I am excited.”

You grin. “Good. Because we’re picking you up in twenty. Be outside or Taehyung will honk for thirty seconds and make eye contact with your neighbors while doing it.”

“That’s true,” Taehyung calls. “I’m famously not ashamed.”

Yoongi looks like he wants to argue but settles for a defeated sigh. “Fine. I’ll be outside.”

“Wearing the chains.”

“Wearing the chains.”

“And the rings.”

“All seven. Like I’m your final boss.”

You hang up. Check your reflection once more. And smile.

Taehyung drives like he doesn’t know fear. One arm draped casually over the wheel, the other fiddling with the volume of Jungkook’s carefully curated playlist—which, yes, is already on shuffle. You’re halfway through track three, the kind of beat-heavy, soul-laced song that practically begs for someone to grind in a hallway.

Jungkook’s in the passenger seat, sunglasses on despite the sun being long gone, narrating like he’s a DJ and you’re on a party bus instead of in your own car. His knee bounces with restless energy.

And you? You’re in the back, one leg draped over the other, boot planted against the car door, lip gloss reapplied and pulse already climbing.

Yoongi’s building anxiety over his outfit had been endearing. But when he finally walks out of the towering glass lobby of his apartment complex—where even the damn valet stand has mood lighting—you damn near black out.

Because he looks like sin.

Black on black—fitted shirt, slightly sheer under the lights, clinging in all the right places. Ripped jeans that should be illegal. Rings, plural , catching the glow from the building’s floodlights. And the chains? Perfectly layered. One longer, one shorter, framing his collarbone like a threat.

You actually grip the headrest in front of you. Jungkook lets out a low whistle. “ Oh, fuck me gently. ”

Taehyung doesn’t miss a beat. “Not until karaoke’s over. I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

Yoongi approaches the car like he knows the weight of three pairs of eyes tracking his every step. Which he does. And yet—he doesn’t falter. Doesn’t tug at his shirt or shift his stance. If he’s nervous, he hides it behind those half-lidded eyes and that slow, predatory gait.

You crack the window. Not for air. Just for the effect. He opens the back door, pauses. Looks at you.

Up close, it’s worse. He smells like something you’d buy in a bottle you couldn’t afford. Dark. Clean. Spiced with ambition and emotional unavailability. You blink. “You’re wearing the chains.”

He smirks. “And the rings.”

“Holy shit,” Jungkook mutters. “He understood the assignment.”

“Better than most residents,” Taehyung agrees, shifting into drive as Yoongi slides in beside you. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He meets your gaze once—steady, calm, sharp like he’s trying to memorize your expression.

“You clean up well,” you say, but really you think he looks fucking sexy. Irresistibly, unfairly, god-sinningly, sexy. Yoongi glances down at his outfit, then at you. His eyes trace the silver glint at your hem, the rings on your fingers, the subtle sliver of midriff exposed between your crop top and jeans. He doesn’t linger. But he sees you.

“You match me.”

You shrug. “I gave you the blueprint.”

“Accidentally?”

“Maybe. I think I was staring at myself when you showed me your options.” You admit. Jungkook turns around in his seat, grinning wide. “You two gonna coordinate setlists too? Or just outfits?”

You flip him off. Yoongi, smug, leans back in the seat. His casted hand rests on his thigh, the other fingers tap lightly against his knee in rhythm with the music.

Taehyung changes lanes smoothly. “You ready to meet everyone?” He asks as Yoongi lifts a brow. “Define ready.”

“You’re going to love them,” you say softly. “They’re not scary.”

“Jimin might cry if you out-sing him,” Jungkook adds. “And Hoseok will definitely hit on you, but only in the most respectful, you look like a poem kind of way.”

“And Namjoon?” That question comes from Yoongi. Not jealous. Just . . . curious. Cautious. You smile a little to yourself. “He’s gonna be a problem for you.” You teased. Yoongi turns his head. You shrug, innocent. “He’s tall. Hot. Smart. Great hands. My parents love him.”

Yoongi’s jaw ticks.

Taehyung stifles a laugh. Jungkook grins wickedly. “We all do. But you’ll like him. He respects game when he sees it.”

Yoongi leans closer to you, dropping his voice low enough for just you to hear. “Do you like him?” He asks. You look at him, matching his tone. “I like you .”

And maybe that’s all you needed to say.

Because Yoongi exhales once, slow. Shoulders relaxing for the first time since he sat down. His fingers brush against yours, just barely, but he doesn’t move them.

The rest of the drive passes in music, low laughter, a building sense of anticipation. The night hasn’t even started.

The second you walk into the karaoke lounge, it hits you—the bass, the glitter lights, the smell of soju and bad decisions. It’s private-room karaoke, hidden in a midtown basement where the walls are padded and the stage is optional, but judgment is not.

Taehyung checks you all in with a wink to the bored guy at the desk, who doesn’t even blink at the sight of five painfully attractive people descending on one of their VIP rooms. Jungkook’s already unzipping his jacket like he’s preparing for a performance, not a casual night out.

And Yoongi? Yoongi walks in behind you, cast tucked against his ribs, dressed like your sins and regrets had a baby with a silver chain.

Then Jimin and Hoseok explode into the room. “You’re late!” Jimin screams the second he sees you. “We already put in song requests under your name!”

Hoseok barrels in right behind him, arms outstretched. “We picked your solo song too! You’re welcome!”

Yoongi visibly flinches. Taehyung beams. Jungkook throws his hands up and shouts, “ Let my girl breathe! ”

You’re laughing before you’ve even hugged them.

Jimin is in platform boots, mesh sleeves, and pants that look spray-painted on. He’s chaos incarnate, eyes lined, cheeks flushed, and already halfway through a soju bottle. Hoseok’s in oversized denim and a white tank, gold chains glinting under the lights as he air-kisses you on both cheeks like he’s hosting a red carpet.

Yoongi doesn’t stand a chance. Then Namjoon walks in. Late. Always a little late. Which means the room goes still for one whole second as his presence shifts the gravity. He’s tall, in a relaxed blazer and a fitted tee, and he zeroes in on Yoongi immediately.

You can see it happen. The once-over. Analytical. Surgical. Not judgmental—just thorough. Then he smiles. “Min Yoongi, right?”

Yoongi stiffens. “Yeah.”

Namjoon gestures to his cast. “The hairline fracture?” Yoongi blinks. “Yeah.”

“I was the ED resident on call.”

“Oh.”

Namjoon tilts his head. “Nice call on the splint. Who did the placement?”

“Jungkook,” you say, way too proud. “Under supervision.” Yoongi, unsure if this is a trap or a compliment, nods once. “He was good.”

Namjoon grins. “That’s what they tell me.”

You exhale, tension bleeding out of your shoulders as everyone collapses into the room like chaos wrapped in satin. Someone throws you a mic. Hoseok’s already queuing songs. Jimin’s yelling about a medley. Jungkook’s doing mic checks with full performance energy. Taehyung’s already made everyone a soju and beer cocktail, god help you all.

And Yoongi? Yoongi is standing still in the middle of it, blinking slowly, as if trying to figure out when exactly he walked into a very attractive fever dream.

You step beside him. Watch as his gaze bounces from Namjoon’s arms, to Hoseok’s collarbones, to Jimin’s everything, to Taehyung’s cheekbones, to Jungkook—shirt now riding up from a stretch and not bothering to fix it.

He exhales. “All your friends are hot.” You sip your drink. “Yup.” You respond, not minding his admittance.

“They’re also men.”

“ Mhm .”

He stares at you. “Is this hell?”

You grin, stepping closer, voice just for him. “No, baby. This is family.” You reply as Yoongi stares at you for one long beat. Then, quietly, “I’m so fucked.” He says. You clink your glass to his.

“You really are.”

You offer him the first drink like it’s a peace treaty. Two tall glasses, one handed to Yoongi, one to yourself—each one layered with cold beer and a shot of soju balanced on top like a trap. “Why are there two?” He asks, already suspicious.

You nod to Jimin, who is standing with his arms crossed like a fashion-forward mafia don. “Because Jimin said if you’re here, you drink. And he doesn’t take no for an answer.”

Yoongi looks over. Jimin raises one eyebrow. It’s shiny.

“. . . So I have to drink both,” he mutters, resigned. “That’s the spirit,” you say, clinking his glass. “Welcome to karaoke night.”

You both slam the bombs. They hit fast. And just in time. Because the first song of the night? Jimin. The lights dim. The screen lights up. Jimin tosses his jacket onto the couch and takes the mic like he’s been waiting to headline Coachella. The track starts. Bass. Beat. Heat.

And then?

Carnage .

Jimin doesn’t sing the song so much as perform it like a threat. He’s sexy. He’s unhinged. He’s got the mic in one hand and eye contact locked with Yoongi as he slowly, very slowly, drops to one knee mid-chorus. Yoongi is, understandably, paralyzed. “Oh my god,” he mutters. “Oh my god .” He repeats. You cackle. “That’s just Jimin saying hello.” You teased. 

When the song ends, Jimin bows like a prince, shirt slightly askew, lip bitten red.

“Your turn,” he says sweetly. Yoongi blinks. “What?”

But Namjoon and Hoseok are already up, grabbing mics, harmonizing before the track even starts. It’s a soul duet. Hoseok’s voice is light, danceable, soft like wind. Namjoon’s is low, rich, smooth as bourbon. They circle each other like stage pros, pointing dramatically, bouncing in sync, laughing through the chorus.

Yoongi’s jaw tightens. Because they’re good. Not “for friends” good. Like actual good. And this is karaoke? 

Jungkook gets up next. And Jungkook doesn’t perform. Jungkook ascends . His voice is clean, angelic, stupidly effortless. You all scream the bridge and throw napkins at him like it’s a Vegas revue.

Then it’s you and Taehyung.

Yoongi—already two drinks in and wondering how the fuck he ended up surrounded by five disturbingly attractive men who can sing—sits up straighter as the track begins. You open your mouth. And he’s done .

Because your voice isn’t just good—it’s emotional. Lived-in. Velvet and smoke and something holy. You’re not just singing, you’re telling a story. You look at Taehyung during the chorus like you’re both in on some cosmic joke, and you move. Not like Jimin, not like Hoseok. You’re less dance, more presence. Command . Your hands move when you sing. Your eyes close. You laugh into the mic during the second verse because Taehyung makes a dumb face, and it’s so real.

Yoongi feels it in his chest. “ Fuck ,” he breathes. “I’m so fucking gone.”

Jungkook, refilling his glass, says without looking, “Told you.”

The next song gets louder. Someone adds tambourine. Hoseok’s up again. You’re dancing this time—real choreography. Jimin joins. Now Namjoon’s rapping, and Jungkook joins from the couch, and Taehyung decides this is a dance battle now.

You hop up beside Hoseok. Jungkook’s clapping. Jimin is screaming. There’s a part in the bridge where you and Hoseok spin and pop like you’ve done this before. Maybe you have. Yoongi watches it all with wide eyes. The drinks are hitting. His shirt’s a little damp at the collar. His rings catch the light. He has talent—he knows this. He writes music for people who chart internationally. He’s produced for legends. But right now, he feels like the quiet one at a table full of hurricanes.

And then Taehyung, drunk on sugar and power, leans across the room and tosses him a mic. “Your turn, dude.”

Yoongi catches it without thinking. “What did you put me in for?” He asks flatly. Jungkook grins. “Something you know.”

The screen flashes. The beat kicks in. It’s one of his . And he fucking smirks. He lifts the mic, angles it like he’s been doing this his whole life—because he has—and lets the beat take him.

The bass hits. He sinks into it. Flow? Clean. Words slicing through the backing track like a blade through silk, cadence unmatched . His casted hand stays close to his side, but it doesn’t matter—he moves. Not with choreography, not with intent to impress. Just . . .  natural. Minimal. Controlled.

You watch the room fall silent.

Jimin’s mouth is open. Hoseok is frozen, halfway through his drink. Namjoon leans forward in that way he does when he’s trying to study something—and for Namjoon, that’s a goddamn honor. Even Taehyung looks like he’s witnessing a religious event.

And you? You feel your soul leave your body. Because what the fuck. 

What the fuck.

Yoongi—stoic, grumpy, emotionally avoidant Yoongi —just turned a karaoke mic into a stage, like it owed him rent. His voice is low, sharp, just gravelly enough to feel dangerous. He makes eye contact on the bridge— with you —like he knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing.

You’re so fucked.

By the last chorus, he’s not even trying to perform—he’s just being . It’s in his body language. In the way he’s completely, utterly relaxed. In the way he lets the last line land, breathes into the silence, and drops the mic down slowly like he just murdered a man and is now calmly walking away from the scene.

Namjoon is the first to speak. “Holy shit,” he says, blinking once. “He’s actually good .” 

Taehyung, eyes wide, whispered, “That was so hot I forgot my PIN number.”

Jimin, stunned, threw his napkin at the wall. “Why would he do that to us. Why would he—what the fuck.”

Hoseok groaned. “I need to go to church. Tomorrow. Early.”

Jungkook muttered, “Jesus Christ,” like it was a prayer and an accusation.

You, however, don’t clap. You don’t scream. You just say—loud, clear, unrepentant , “I could suck your dick right now, you’re so hot.”

The room dies .

Namjoon chokes on his drink. Jimin throws a napkin at your head. Hoseok screams, “Bitch! Me too!” Taehyung gasps like it’s the season finale of a drama. “I knew she was gonna say something—but not that!”

Jungkook doesn’t even look surprised. Just leans back and sips his drink with a smirk. “She’s been saying that with her eyes since the wedding reception.”

Yoongi blinks. Takes a sip of his drink. Pauses. And coughs violently like the soju personally betrayed him. He covers it with the back of his hand, face flushed, brows raised like did that just happen? And you, unmoved, just sip your own drink and raise an eyebrow. You were raised on truth. Raised on don’t-bullshit-me honesty. You don’t play cool. You are chaos in lip gloss and boots, and Yoongi’s finally, finally , understanding what that means.

He clears his throat.

“You say that to all the guys who perform their own work at karaoke?” He asks. You grin in response. “Only to the ones I’d let ruin my life.” You say, as Jimin flops dramatically into Hoseok’s lap. “I’m gonna need a cigarette. And a therapist.”

Jungkook doesn’t even look up from the drink he’s pouring. “I give it two more songs before they disappear into the hallway.”

Taehyung giggles behind his hand. “Or the bathroom.”

But Yoongi? He’s still staring at you. Not flustered anymore. Not quite smug. Just . . . fixed.

“Ballad time, bitches!”

Jungkook’s voice rings out like an announcement from heaven—or hell, depending on your blood-alcohol content.

The room is buzzing. Half the song list is crossed out and sticky with beer. The table’s covered in empty soju bottles, lemon slices, crumpled napkins, and at least three forgotten tambourines. Namjoon is sweating. Hoseok’s shirt is halfway unbuttoned. Jimin’s eyes are glassy, flushed pink from forehead to chin. Yoongi’s definitely drunk now—eyes lidded, mouth relaxed, his cast resting gently on the mic stand like it’s seen too much.

You’ve swapped boots for barefoot. Your voice is warm. Your eyeliner is somehow still immaculate.

The room shifts as you and Jungkook step forward, already queued up, already syncing breath like you’ve done this a hundred times—you have . Because when it comes to duet ballads, Jungkook is your war general, your scene partner, your longtime fake fiancé, and chaos twin . He knows when to lean in and when to fall back. He knows when to harmonize and when to shut the fuck up and let you destroy souls.

The intro starts—slow piano. A song about longing, not loving. About the almosts and the never quites. Jungkook opens. Voice like sugar and velvet, a little too practiced. The room goes quieter, quieter still.

Then you come in—soft, precise, honest.

By the second chorus, Hoseok is whisper-singing, one hand on his chest. Namjoon’s leaned back in the booth, eyes closed. Jimin is silently mouthing, “Bitch.” Yoongi is looking at you like someone just cracked his ribs open and showed him a home inside.

Your voice climbs in the bridge, layered and aching, Jungkook sweeping beneath you like a current. When the final harmony hits, you hold the last note—steady, grounded—and Jungkook, already tipsy, gasps.

Applause. Actual applause. Jimin slams his hand on the table. “You stupid bitch. You’re so rude.”

You grin. “Thank you.” Jungkook bows dramatically. “We’re accepting Grammys and death threats.”

And then—more drinks. Another shot. Another beer. Namjoon is pouring three at once like he’s playing bartender. Hoseok is trying to stack them. You just screamed for salt and limes. The room is alive, lit from within by too many friends and too many feelings.

And then— god help you all —Jimin has the mic again.

“Okay!” he shouts. “I need vocals and drama! Yoongi, Tae—you’re with me.”

Yoongi—still in his seat, still processing your last performance—blinks. “What?” Jimin is already dragging him up by his good arm. “No one escapes Beyoncé night, bitch.”

Taehyung sighs theatrically, hands over the keys—metaphorically—and rises with resigned grace. “This is a terrible idea,” Yoongi mumbles, but doesn’t fight it. His cast is hanging loose at his side, drink still in the other hand.

The song starts.

And oh, it’s not Beyoncé. It’s screaming. It’s heartbreak at full volume. It’s chaos.

The three of them—Jimin, Taehyung, Yoongi—belt, howl, fall into each other like a wreck in slow motion. Taehyung’s holding the mic like it’s a damn sword. Jimin’s on the table. Yoongi is yelling lyrics like they owe him rent and throwing his head back to do it.

His voice is low, raspy, barely aiming for pitch. And it doesn’t matter. Because he’s in it. Red in the face. Eyes half-shut. Free hand moving like he’s conducting the damn orchestra.

You’re screaming. Laughing. Cheering. Jungkook leans into your side, still nursing a drink, smile bright and wild. “He’s drunk.”

“ So drunk,” you nod. Jungkook grins. “And he’s so into you.”

You look up just as Yoongi lets out a final line—messy, off-beat, sweaty—and shoots you a look so dark and sweet you forget what song it was. You raise your glass. He stumbles off the mic stand and takes the one straight from your hand.

The city hums around you.

It’s the kind of quiet only found at 3AM—subway rumbles far below, streetlamp flickers overhead, the buzz of neon signs trapped behind shuttered windows. Trash bags line the curb like passed-out party guests. The karaoke bar’s side door hisses shut again, sealing off the chaos inside—Jimin shrieking the wrong lyrics, Hoseok laughing so hard he can’t breathe, Namjoon probably making a chart about it on a napkin.

You lean against the brick wall, combat boots pressed flat to the pavement, your black crop top clinging like a second skin in the damp air. You stretch your neck, feel it crack softly. The buzz in your blood is warm, syrupy. A cocktail of beer, soju, and whatever the hell Jungkook slipped into your first round that he swore wasn’t tequila.

Jungkook’s beside you, shirt sticking to his back, a halo of sweat around his hairline. Still pretty. Still entirely too smug. He’s got a cigarette between his fingers and a smile curling the corners of his mouth, like he knows the secrets of the world and might just tell you—if he feels like it.

Yoongi steps out last.

And fuck , he looks good in the dark.

Black-on-black, silver catching in the streetlight—around his neck, on his fingers, in the subtle glint of the lighter you pass him. His cast rests against his ribs like a dare. He holds your gaze when he leans in, cigarette poised between his lips. You flick the lighter once, twice, finally catching the flame.

He inhales. The ember blooms. For a second, you just watch him. He exhales slow, lazy, smoke drifting from his lips like a secret.

You take your own drag, the nicotine rushing in and out of your lungs like something holy.

Jungkook breaks the silence first. Of course.

“You having fun?” he asks, looking at Yoongi. Voice soft. Curious. No edge. Yoongi doesn’t answer right away. He stares out into the street, eyes distant. Then he glances at you—just a flick, nothing showy—and lets the corner of his mouth twitch up. “Yeah,” he says. “I really am.”

You exhale through your nose, smile pressed to your filter. Yoongi leans back against the wall beside you, one foot kicked up behind him. His fingers tap ash loose, silver rings flashing.

“Honestly, I didn't think I would be,” he adds. “But your friends are . . .” He trails off, struggling for the word.

Jungkook offers, “Loud?”

“Unhinged?”

“Sexually aggressive?”

Yoongi huffs a laugh. “I was gonna say good people. But yeah. All of that too.”

There’s a beat. Just quiet. Smoke curling into the night sky. Three shadows against the wall, shoulder to shoulder. Then Jungkook says it. Out of nowhere. Like he’s been holding it in all night.

“I like him a lot now.”

Yoongi turns, startled. Jungkook shrugs. “Liked him when I first met him, but shit , man . . . can we keep him?”

You snort, eyes closing. “He’s not a stray cat, Kook.”

“Not yet.” 

You elbow him. “Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird,” Jungkook grins. “You offered to suck his dick in front of all of our friends twenty minutes ago.” You sigh, long and dramatic. “He was hot .”

“I am still here,” Yoongi mutters, cheeks pink despite the cigarette in his mouth. Jungkook just waves that off. “You’re welcome.” Yoongi turns to him, amused. “You’re not gonna threaten me anymore?”

Jungkook looks thoughtful. “Nah. I mean, maybe a little. Old habits. But honestly?”

He gestures vaguely between you and Yoongi. “You look at her like she’s a song you’re scared to ruin. Like if you breathe too hard, you’ll fuck up the whole mix.”

Yoongi blinks. You blink.

Jungkook exhales, throws the last of his cigarette to the curb, and crushes it beneath his heel like he didn’t just read the two of you for filth. You open your mouth. Close it again. Yoongi’s staring at the pavement now.

“. . . That was weirdly poetic,” you murmur. Jungkook shrugs. “I have layers.” He replies. Yoongi flicks ash, quieter now. “He’s not wrong.”

You glance at him. His profile is soft in the light, eyes dark, mouth pink, expression caught between amusement and something too vulnerable to name. He doesn’t look at you, but his voice drops just slightly when he speaks, “I like being around you.”

You hold his gaze when he finally lifts his eyes. “And I like knowing that,” you say.

It’s quiet again. Jungkook sighs like he’s watching the opening scene of a romance drama and groans. “Okay, you both need to get laid.”

You and Yoongi speak at the same time.

“Not tonight.”

“Shut up.”

You grin into your filter. Yoongi’s watching you again. And this time, he smiles without looking away.

Jungkook tosses his last cigarette into the gutter, rolls his shoulders, and announces, “I’m going back in before Jimin breaks something.” You smirk. “Too late. Last I saw he was standing on the table trying to duet with the ceiling fan.”

“Classic,” Jungkook mutters, already stepping toward the door. “Holler if you fall in love or need bail money.”

He slips inside with the ease of someone who knows exactly when to give you space.

It’s quiet again. Yoongi stays where he is, just a few inches from you—shoulders relaxed, fingers loose, his smoke curling lazily from his mouth. You don’t look at him when you speak.

You just say it soft. Like an offering. “You can sleep over, if you want.” Yoongi goes still. Not startled. Just . . . surprised. So you clarify. Gently.

“It’s not like that. I just—Taehyung’s dropping everyone off in my car. We’re the last stop anyway. It’s convenient, and you’re drunk.”

You glance at him then. Your voice drops, lower now. Truer. “And it’s not just convenient. It’s also me saying . . . I’m trying. If you are too.”

There’s a pause. A full breath. He exhales like he’s been holding it all night. He doesn’t say anything. He just shifts a little closer. Just enough that your arms brush. Just enough that the heat of him wraps around you like a second thought.

And then—he pulls you in. Not hard. Not desperate. Just . . . near.

One arm curls around your waist, the uninjured one. His palm rests against the curve of your back, fingers splayed. He presses his forehead to your temple, hair brushing yours, breath warm in your ear. It’s not a hug. It’s not a kiss.

It’s contact .

A silent I’m here. I heard you. I want to stay.

You don’t flinch. Don’t joke. Don’t pull away. You just lean in. Let your head tip into his shoulder, your palm slide over the hem of his shirt where the fabric clings warm to his spine. You let your eyes close, just for a second.

And in that second, the world softens. There’s no pressure. No need. Just the quiet miracle of letting someone in.

The apartment is warm when Taehyung dropped you off, calling an Uber for himself—you offered your bed, or couch, whichever he preferred but he said something about “Not wanting to intrude right now” so you didn’t push. You unlock the door and Yoongi steps in first, hesitating just a little—like he’s afraid last night might’ve been a fluke. But no one’s on the couch this time. Jungkook’s not sprawled across your pillows in a tank top and boxers, complaining about your sheets being “too soft it’s suspicious.” There’s no leftover triangle gimbap on the counter, no empty mugs, no half-finished conversations echoing in the walls.

It’s just you. And him.

The quiet clicks into place behind you when the door shuts.

Your boots come off with a dull thud. Yoongi’s already loosening his jewelry—the rings first, one by one, methodical, like always. You toe off your shoes, drop your bag, pull your hair tie out, shake your fingers through the strands.

Neither of you speak for a few moments. Just the soft ritual of home. You walk to the kitchen, grab two glasses, fill them with water. Offer him one. He takes it with a small nod.

Your voice is gentle when you say it. “Guest bedroom’s made up.” He looks up. You lean against the counter. “Not because I don’t want you close. I just . . .” You lift a shoulder. “It’d be too much. Too soon . You get it, right?”

Yoongi studies you for a second—his eyes unreadable, but not unkind. That same recognition he had when he looked at you at the altar flickering behind his eyes. Then he nods again. “Yeah. I get it.”

He sets his glass down. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t fill the silence with anything unnecessary. Just meets your gaze. “Thank you.”

And fuck, he means it.

Not just for the room. Not just for the space. For this. All of it. For the night. For the patience. For letting him in.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how loud the apartment is in its quiet. The hum of the fridge. The distant city noise through the windows. The soft creak of the floorboards when Yoongi shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “There’s clean towels in the cabinet,” you say. “Extra chargers in the nightstand drawer. And there’s melatonin gummies in the bathroom if you need to knock out.”

He smirks faintly. “Am I supposed to take that as a hint?”

“No,” you say. “Just being a good host. I don’t give a shit if you stay up all night and rearrange your trauma.”

That gets a laugh. It’s quiet, but it’s real. You turn to go, but he speaks before you do. “This place suits you.”

You pause. He shrugs. “It feels like . . . you .” He says, with confidence. Because he could finally say that. Because he finally got to meet you like this—as you , not as Seokjin’s little sister, not as the girl who used to look at him like he hung up the stars and told the moon to shine bright. 

You glance around. The soft lighting, the bar cart, the black velvet armchair, the silver-accented shelves with your stupidly expensive candles and art books stacked sideways. Your records, your photos, your touch in everything from the wall hooks to the espresso machine.

You look back at him. “Yeah. I think I built it that way.” His eyes soften.

You leave the guest room door open when you walk him to it. No ceremony. No lingering. Just the quiet thud of him stepping inside, the rustle of the sheets when he sits on the edge of the bed, the way he says your name once—soft, almost unsure—and the way you turn back to look at him.

He doesn’t say anything after that. He just looks .

And you nod. Once. 

“I know.”

Then you walk to your own room. Not alone. Not tonight. Just—separate. For now.

It’s almost noon when you shuffle out of your bedroom—hair messy, sleep still caught in the corners of your eyes, and the elastic waistband of your boxers sliding low on your hips. The floor’s cold beneath your feet, and the air smells like good coffee.

Not yours .

You blink twice. Yawn once. Then make your way to the kitchen, where the light is soft and golden, and Min Yoongi—producer, rapper, recent karaoke icon—is standing barefoot at your stove, flipping something in a pan like this is his apartment and not yours.

You stop. You blink again. And then you start laughing.

Because he’s wearing Jungkook’s pajamas.

A pair of absurdly soft gray sweatpants, too long, dragging, and an oversized white tee with a cracked graphic print of a tiger in sunglasses. His cast is balanced awkwardly as he stirs whatever’s in the pan, his hair a mess, but somehow still— still —he looks sinfully attractive. Comfortable. Real .

Yoongi turns just slightly and arches a brow. “What?” You wave vaguely at him, still grinning. “You’re literally in Jungkook’s pajamas.”

“I know,” he says, deadpan. “They were in the guest room. I wasn’t gonna wear jeans to bed.” You lean against the counter, smirking. “And the shirt?” He glances down at the tiger. “It was the only clean one that didn’t say Sexiest Bachelor in Brooklyn on it.”

You snort into your sleeve. “That tracks.”

Yoongi gestures at the stove with his elbow. “You’re out of bread. So I made fried rice.”

You blink again. “You cook?” He shrugs. “Only when I like the person.” You pause. The silence stretches between you like a bridge, and neither of you step off it.

Until you smile. “You’re soft in the mornings.” Yoongi throws you a look. “I’m hungover. Don’t mistake that for emotional availability.”

“ Mm .” You hum, already walking to the coffee pot. “I heard you sing-scream last night. Don’t pretend you didn’t love it.” He says nothing. You catch the ghost of a smirk when he turns back to the pan.

Coffee in hand, you settle at the kitchen island, blowing gently across the rim. “You staying long?” Yoongi shakes his head. “Got a session this afternoon. New artist.”

“Someone I know?” He shrugs. “You wouldn’t know him. Small label. Nervous kid. But talented.”

You nod. “That’s sweet.” Yoongi flicks you a glance. “It’s business.” You hum again. “Still sweet.”

He sets a plate in front of you, grabs his own coffee, and leans against the counter across from you. “Night shift?” he asks. You nod, mouth full. “Starts at six. Twelve hours.”

Yoongi whistles low. “God. That’s evil .”

“It’s the ER,” you say, like it explains everything. And it does. There’s a quiet moment. You both chew. Sip. Breathe. Then Yoongi says, casually, “You want me to leave the shirt?”

You look up. Eyebrow arched. And he smirks, full now, cocky and terrible. “For when you miss me.”

You throw a spoon at him. He dodges. You both laugh.

And somehow, just like that—you’re comfortable.

Like maybe this is what it means to let someone stay. Not just in your apartment.

But in the quiet. In the morning.

By the time Yoongi finishes folding his borrowed pajamas back into a neat little pile on the guest bed, the sun’s shifted across your windows, casting lazy gold over the hardwood.

He’s showered—thoroughly, judging by the fresh steam still curling from under the bathroom door—and now dressed in his black jeans and shirt from karaoke night, clean and warm from your washer-dryer. You don’t know what’s more impressive—that he figured out your laundry settings, or that he managed to dig up a Tide pod without asking.

You’re freshly showered too—hair damp, oversized T-shirt clinging to your back, slippers on your feet. You lean in the doorway of the guest room with your arms crossed, watching him do a final glance-over like he’s checking out of a hotel. “You know,” you say, sipping from your coffee mug, “Most people don’t fold their sleepwear before leaving a casual hang.” Yoongi straightens, throwing you a sideways look. “I’m not most people.”

You nod. “Yeah. I got that somewhere between the custom cast wrap and the black silk pillowcase you insisted on last night.”

“I have standards,” he mutters, brushing past you to grab his bag. You follow him to the door, slow, unhurried. The kind of quiet that comes from knowing there’s nothing to rush toward or away from. He turns just as he opens it—shoulder against the frame, bag slung low on his good arm. His other hand lifts, hesitates for a split second, and then rests—deliberate and soft—on your waist.

You blink. A little surprised. Not because he’s touching you. But because of how he’s touching you. No swagger. No irony. Just gentle.

Then—just like that—he pulls you in. 

Arms around you, solid, firm. You feel it all the way through your chest. His face buries against your shoulder like it’s not even a decision. Like it’s a reflex.

You don’t say anything. Just hug him back. Because this? This doesn’t need a punchline. This is the punchline.

He pulls back after a moment, but not all the way. Still close enough that you can see the faint smudge of sleep at the edge of his lashes. “I’ll text you,” he says. His voice is low, steady. No hesitation this time. Not like the wedding. Not like before. “Forreal,” he adds, like he knows he has to earn it.

You nod. “Okay.” Then, softer. “Good.”

He lingers for another breath, like maybe he’ll say something else, but then he just smiles—one of those small, rare ones you’re learning to recognize for what they are— real . And then he’s gone, door closing behind him with a quiet click.

You stand there for a moment, mug warm in your hands, eyes on the door. Not sad. Not aching. Just . . . full.

The ER doesn’t care what you did last night.

It doesn’t care that your throat’s still raw from belting power ballads at 3AM. Doesn’t care that Jimin danced on two chairs and a tabletop, that Hoseok used a mic stand as a weapon during a rap battle, or that Namjoon and Jungkook harmonized like they’d been born in a recording studio. Doesn’t even care that Yoongi—stoic, sexy, mostly-broken-wrist Yoongi—rapped like his soul was on fire.

It cares about none of that.

It only cares that it’s 6:03PM and already, two beds are filled, a trauma’s en route, and someone from security is paging about a combative patient in the psych hold. You’re barely through the night hand-off when Jungkook materializes next to you, chart in one hand, coffee in the other, ponytail still damp from a too-fast shower. “You’re late,” he says, smiling. You glance at the time clock. “By two minutes.”

“That’s how long the first verse of that song was last night.” He grins. “I timed it.” You snatch the coffee from his hand and take a sip. “I carried the harmony.”

“I was carrying the group, don’t start.”

Taehyung joins the two of you near the trauma board, coat only half-off, looking entirely too good for someone who just worked a twelve-hour shift and volunteered for another. “Jimin and Hobi are getting the curtain rooms prepped,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “And there’s a trauma coming in with a GSW, ETA five minutes.”

“Why are you glowing?” you ask, frowning. He shrugs. “Namjoon gave me a protein bar and told me I was his favorite.”

You pause. “Was he . . . lying?”

“No,” Taehyung says, grinning. “He was shirtless and still in falsetto range. I believed every word.”

You laugh. The tone changes fast.

Because five minutes becomes three. Three becomes one. And then you’re at the bay doors, gloves on, gown crinkling, pulse spiking as the sirens close in. Gunshot wound to the upper right abdomen. Male, late 20s, tachy at 124, BP 92 over 60. Alert but pale. One IV started en route, 18-gauge in the left AC. No loss of consciousness. No obvious exit wound.

You move fast.

Jungkook stabilizes the line while you do a focused exam, calling out findings to Taehyung, who’s charting with one hand and grabbing an ultrasound with the other. The man’s diaphoretic, curling on the gurney, teeth clenched. You slide the probe over his belly, your voice even as you find free fluid building behind the liver. “Positive FAST. Call the OR, and the surgery resident. He’s got intra-abdominal bleeding.”

“Already on it,” Taehyung says, tapping the screen.

Namjoon appears beside you like he always does—sharp eyes, scrub top half untucked, a smear of coffee on his wrist. “Good catch,” he says, low and fast, eyes on the ultrasound. “I’ll ride him up.”

You nod once, and he’s gone, pushing the gurney with transport.

When it’s over, you exhale like it was nothing. Because for you, it is nothing. Routine. Another near-miss filed in your ribs.

You peel off gloves, head to the nurses’ station where Hoseok’s crouched in front of the med cart, Jimin perched on the stool beside him, flipping through patient orders like they’re light reading. “You guys holding up?” you ask. Jimin doesn’t look up. “Define ‘holding .’ Emotionally or physically?”

“Physically,” you say.

Hoseok answers, “Fine, if I don’t have to catheterize another 90-year-old with untreated BPH tonight.” Jimin says, “Did you hear Yoongi almost killed the karaoke machine last night?”

You blink. “What?”

“He got mad at the latency. I’ve never seen someone insult a wireless mic’s entire lineage like that before.”

“God,” you mutter, sipping coffee. “He’s already a legend.”

Jungkook rounds the corner. “Speaking of—”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You glance at the screen.

yoongi: Hope your shift isn’t chewing you alive. Don’t let anyone die. That’s my job.

You grin. Text back fast.

You: Still breathing. One gunshot wound, three overdoses, and Jimin keeps diagnosing people before the residents.

Another text comes in.

yoongi: Good. I like the sound of you in charge.

You roll your eyes—warm. “Who’s texting you?” Taehyung sing-songs behind you. You lock your screen. “Nobody.” You answer. Jungkook just smirks. “That nobody wearing my pajamas this morning?” He asks, teasing. “You’re all nosy,” you mutter. Hoseok chimes in, “Yoongi was surprisingly cool.”

“Like weirdly cool,” Jimin says. “Kind of quiet. In a sexy producer who watches from the back of the club kind of way.”

“He makes good fried rice,” Jungkook adds. Namjoon reappears, tugging off his gloves. “And he’s punctual. I like punctual.” You stare at him. “You met him for karaoke night.”

“A solid karaoke night,” Namjoon replies. “He knew what a POCUS probe was and he called me Doctor—and he has flow. That’s love.”

Everyone laughs. You do too, shoulders shaking.

The trauma pager goes off again. Another case coming in. The night is still young. But you feel it in your chest—something different. Something light. Your team is chaos. Loud. Brilliant. Flirty. Dramatic. And Yoongi—he’s part of the narrative now. Not just an interruption. A thread. Pulled quietly through the seams.

It’s 5:45AM when the last patient is transferred out of trauma, and the ER falls into that strange, sterile lull that only happens at shift change. The fluorescents still hum like caffeine headaches, and your scrubs are clinging to your skin in places you didn’t even know had nerve endings, but somehow— somehow —you made it.

There’s a patient board full of vitals trending toward normal. A few discharge summaries left unsigned. The scent of antiseptic and bad vending machine coffee still lingers in the air. You’re posted up by the nurse’s station, sipping water like it’s whiskey, watching Taehyung argue with the printer and Jungkook fake-sleeping with his head on the charting desk.

Jimin and Hoseok are nowhere to be seen, which probably means they’re either raiding the breakroom or reenacting the Les Misérables barricade with oxygen tanks again.

Namjoon walks past with a yawn and a tired salute. “Shift report in ten,” he says. “Copy,” you mutter.

Your phone buzzes again.

yoongi: Still alive? Or are you passed out on the floor somewhere with IV tubing wrapped around your neck.

You: Still standing. Barely. I think Jungkook’s been napping since 3AM but Taehyung and the printer are locked in combat.

A pause.

yoongi: Sounds peaceful.

yoongi: I was gonna say good morning but I guess “survivor’s greeting” is more accurate.

You smile, biting your lower lip.

You: Morning. I’m off in fifteen.

yoongi: You heading straight home? Or can I see you? Just for a bit.

The request is simple. No pressure. No innuendo. Just him. It thuds in your chest like a second pulse. You reply before you can think too hard.

You: You can see me.

You: I’ll text when I’m heading out.

You pocket your phone just as Jungkook makes a dramatic snoring sound, lifting his head with a yawn too big to be real. “Yoongi?” he asks, not even looking.

“Yeah.”

“Cute,” he says, then downs the last of his coffee.

Taehyung walks by holding a crumpled sheet of paper in victory. “The printer has been subdued.” You raise your eyebrows. “Did you threaten it?”

“I told it we’d replace it with AI.”

“Christ,” you mutter.

Jimin and Hoseok emerge from the supply room holding exactly zero supplies but both covered in gold star stickers and inexplicably holding a box of graham crackers. “Shift’s over,” Hoseok says, raising a cracker in salute. “Just about,” you say.

It’s noisy again. Good chaos. Familiar noise.

But your chest is warm, and your mind’s already somewhere else—specifically in a living room with soft lighting, familiar carpet, a man in a black hoodie, and the best fried rice you’ve ever had at 9AM.

The sun’s rising. And you’ve survived another night.

The café you stumble upon isn’t new. It’s one of those places you’ve walked past a hundred times but never thought to enter—a storefront half-obscured by ivy and a hand-painted sign that just says here. No branding, no menu in the window. Just the faintest scent of espresso and burnt sugar in the air when you push the door open.

Yoongi’s already there.

He’s seated near the window, tucked into the far booth where the light hits him sideways, soft and slanted, like the universe is trying to show off. His black T-shirt’s thin and worn around the collar, the sleeves hugging his arms just enough to remind you he is not fragile. Gray sweatpants sit low on his hips. His hair’s still damp, pushed back with little regard for styling.

It’s the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him.

And somehow, it makes everything tighter in your chest.

He looks up when you walk in. And smiles. It’s subtle. Barely a twitch of his mouth. But you feel it like a shot of espresso—sharp, hot, direct. “Hey,” you say, sliding into the booth across from him. “You look like death,” he replies, sipping his coffee. You snort. “Twelve-hour night shift. One GSW, three overdoses, a seizure, and Jimin almost convinced an old woman to join our karaoke group next weekend.” You laid it out. Your shift. Your life that he’s slowly creeping into. Yoongi’s mouth twitches again. “He would.” You glance at his cup. “How’s the coffee?”

He tilts his head, considering. “Solid. Earthy. Good acidity. Finish is a little floral.”

You blink. “Jesus. You’re a coffee snob.” You comment. He shrugs. “I take things seriously.”

The waitress comes by—a middle-aged woman with a French braid and a soft accent. You order something basic. Warm. Sweet. You’re too tired to think. “So,” you say once she walks away, peeling off your hoodie to reveal the old T-shirt beneath. “Why a café?”

Yoongi shrugs. “Didn’t want to meet at your place. Again.” Your eyes narrow. “Was I too hospitable?” You teased. “No,” he says quickly. “You were . . . too much like home.”

You pause. Stare. He doesn’t flinch.

“Do you practice lines like that, or—”

“No,” he says. “That one just happened.”

You let it sit there for a second. “Okay,” you say finally, softly. “It wasn’t bad .” He sips his drink. “I know.”

Your food arrives—finally—and you pick at it slowly, letting the sugar and carbs inch back into your bloodstream. The table is quiet, but not awkward. There’s a kind of softness to it. Two people who have survived—a night shift, a drunken karaoke night, the weight of not saying what they wanted to say.

Now, they’re just saying it. “Namjoon likes you,” you offer. Yoongi looks up. “Is that a threat?” You shrug. “Depends. You ghost me again, he’s got a scalpel with your name on it.”

He smirks. “Noted.”

You eat. He watches.

“I wanted to say thank you.”

You pause. Chew slowly. Swallow.

“For what?”

“For not making me feel like I have to . . . perform,” he says. “I’m usually better at being alone than I am at—this.”

You study him for a second. “I don’t want you to perform, Yoongi. I want you to be real . Even when it’s messy. Especially then.” His jaw tightens. Not with discomfort. With emotion.

“You always talk like you’re not scared of any of this.”

You stir your coffee. “That’s the trick. You do it scared.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he reaches across the table—slow, careful—and presses his fingers lightly against yours.

Not holding. Just touching. Just enough.

Chapter 8: Someday Starts Here

Notes:

I had more ideas for the final chapter, but I felt like this is the best, most realistic way for me to end this. Thank you for reading this far, I hope you enjoyed their story and journey.

It’d been a week since Seokjin and Sena left Bora Bora, and just shy of five days since Yoongi last slept in the guest bedroom instead of your bed.

Technically, he still started in the guest bedroom. But more often than not, you’d find him the next morning curled behind you—casted wrist draped over your waist, legs tangled with yours, breathing slow and warm against the back of your neck.

You hadn’t said anything about it. Neither had he. That’s just the kind of progress it was—quiet, deliberate. All touch and no declaration.

You’d been clocking night shifts like a machine, and Yoongi—despite insisting he was “not domestic” and “barely functioning outside of studio hours”—had been showing up like it was instinct.

He picked you up from work when the sky was still purple. He cooked meals when you were too tired to remember eating. He’d press water bottles into your hand like they were offerings. Sometimes they were. Sometimes he kissed your temple after. Sometimes he didn’t.

You weren’t keeping score. You were too busy keeping him.

You pulled up to the restaurant with one hand on the wheel and one on your lip gloss. Sena had texted three days prior— We just got back from the honeymoon, so. Dinner. Me, you, and the men (ugh). Make sure Yoongi’s there. And wear that cute dress that drives even Jungkook crazy. Which only meant that the restaurant would be upscale, luxurious, probably somewhere in West Village, and had a dress code.

Yoongi was in the passenger seat, black button-up rolled at the sleeves, chest barely visible through the open collar, silver chain gleaming under the lights of valet. The cast was still on—fiberglass this time, sleek and matte black with a small velcro strap to stabilize the joint. One week post-fracture, and he had regained partial mobility. He couldn’t bear weight or twist it fully yet, but he could flex. Which meant texting. Cooking. Light hand-holding.

And, apparently, very effective filthy gesturing.

Because the moment you pulled the keys from the ignition and turned to grab your bag, his eyes swept down your dress—silk, deep charcoal, clinging where it needed to, loose where it didn’t, cut just short enough to haunt—and he made a noise that was nothing short of criminal.

“ Fuck me, ” he muttered, low. “You could make a priest reconsider.” You turned slowly, huffing a chuckle. “And you could make a nun ruin her vows.”

He blinked. Then grinned.

Just like that, you were both smirking like you had secrets. 

You handed the valet your keys and adjusted your straps while Yoongi adjusted his sleeve, and together, you walked into the restaurant—tall, dark, ridiculous. The hostess greeted you by name. You were a regular here—well, you and Sena were.

“Private dining room, right this way,” she said. Yoongi leaned in just a little as you walked. “You know the staff?”

“I know the chef,” you replied. “And the sommelier. I dated the pastry chef.” Yoongi blinked. “Oh?”

“He’s married now.” You added. Yoongi muttered, “To a man, or . . . ?” You just grinned in response.

The private dining room was already half-filled with laughter by the time you opened the door. “Holy shit ,” Jungkook stood first, dramatic as ever. “You two match.”

You did, actually. Silver accents, black outfits, chaos in the eyes. “Wasn’t on purpose,” you said.

“ Definitely on purpose,” Yoongi murmured.

“Hi, baby,” Jungkook added, grinning as he leaned in for a hug. He smelled like sandalwood and bad decisions. “Yoongi. You look fuckable.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. Progress.

Seokjin stood next, arms wide. “There they are! The newly situationally entangled!”

“Seokjin,” you warned.

But he hugged you tight, anyway. Big brother mode, fully engaged. Then he turned to Yoongi and gripped his shoulder. “You good?” Yoongi nodded once. “Wrist’s healing.”

“Not what I meant.”

Yoongi exhaled slowly. “Yeah. Very.”

Seokjin looked at you. Then back at Yoongi. He smiled. Smug. Like he’d known. Sena was already waving you over to the head of the table, cheeks pink with post-honeymoon glow. “You look amazing,” she said. “Did I not say this place would match your energy?”

“Did you choose it for the dessert or the wine list?”

“Yes.”

You hugged her, and she kissed your cheek, then whispered, “Please, for the love of God, help with the pairings. Jin chose something last time that made the veal taste like varnish.”

You slid into your seat with a grin. “My turf.”

Everyone was already settled by the time Taehyung arrived—fashionably late, of course, in a linen set so elegant it made the waiter stutter. “I’m here,” he announced. “You may begin applauding.”

There was actual applause. Light. Ridiculous.

Dinner was everything you’d hoped. The appetizers were plated like art. The entrees were seasoned like flirtation. And the wine—courtesy of your quick intervention—was flawless. At some point, Jungkook leaned across you to say, “I still can’t believe he’s not flinching when I call you baby. Did you drug him?”

“No,” you said, sipping. “He just got used to me being irresistible.”

“I’m proud of him,” Jungkook whispered. Then louder, to Yoongi, “I’m proud of you .”

Yoongi didn’t even blink. “Thanks. Your earrings are crooked.” He said, pointing at his ear as Jungkook raised an eyebrow, adjusting it anyway.

Seokjin caught you smiling. You caught him watching. And the look in his eyes—warm, smug, older brother has seen the truth kind of smug—was more than enough confirmation.

He approved. Of this. Of him .

And just before dessert—lemon custard with torched meringue, your pick—he raised his glass and said, “It’s good to be home. Even better to see everyone doing this well.”

He didn’t look at anyone in particular. But you knew. You lifted your glass. And clinked it softly against Yoongi’s.

He didn’t smile wide. He didn’t need to.

You felt it anyway.

“So just to clarify,” Taehyung says, swirling his wine like it’s a potion and not $18 a glass. “We are officially in the phase of this dinner where you two,” He gestures to you and Yoongi with his index finger and the lemon peel from his Negroni, “Are holding hands under the table and pretending we’re not watching.”

You hum innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jungkook leans forward, chin in his hand. “Baby, I’ve literally seen you do CPR one-handed. You don’t sit like that unless you’re physically attached to someone.” Yoongi doesn’t even blink. “You sound jealous.” He chuckled. “I am ,” Jungkook says flatly.

Seokjin, reclined like a bored king, bites into a chocolate truffle and moans. “This is why we should do family dinners more often.”

Sena wipes her lipstick off with a napkin, eyes still narrowed on your clasped hands under the table. “I just think it’s funny how he used to flinch when anyone mentioned your name.”

“ Oh my god, ” you groan.

“She’s not wrong,” Seokjin adds. “Remember that Christmas dinner? The moment I said you were dating someone, he coughed so hard I thought he aspirated the stuffing.”

Yoongi shrugs. “Was dry.”

“It was not dry,” Seokjin says. “It was perfectly moist and you panicked.”

“You ghosted me for a week,” you remind Yoongi.

“I got you triangle gimbap and made you garlic rice,” he says. “That was after,” you deadpan. Sena leans into her husband, eyes glinting. “He made you garlic rice? He grated for you?”

You nod slowly. “He julienned .”

Sena gasps. “ Shut the fuck up. ”

“Yoongi,” she says, turning dramatically, “Are you in love?”

Yoongi sips his water. “Probably.”

You freeze. Everyone else? Explodes. “ Probably? ” Jungkook shouts. “What the fuck kind of low-tension soft-launch was that?”

“That’s not a soft-launch,” Taehyung counters. “That’s a cryptic album drop. That’s a you’ll know when the lyrics hit kind of situation.”

“You’re all so dramatic,” you mumble.

Sena, grabbing your hand, “He used his good wrist to say it.” You blink. You look down. He had. Yoongi’s fingers are still looped around yours. He’s tapping rhythmically with his thumb—steady, constant. Like he’s keeping time.

“Okay,” you say, lifting your chin. “So what if I am into someone who looks like he runs a vampire cult out of his studio?”

“Own it, baby,” Jungkook grins. “I would too.”

Seokjin throws a piece of bread at Jungkook. “Stop flirting with my sister and my best friend at the same time.” He scolds as Jungkook dodges it. “You knew what you signed up for when you let me into your life.” He quipped, wiggling his fingers at your brother.

“Don’t drag me,” Sena says. “I like the chaos.”

Yoongi finally lifts your hand and kisses your knuckles. Slow. On purpose. It’s brief. Barely half a second. But the audacity of it echoes around the table like a gunshot. Sena actually slaps the table. Taehyung claps. “That’s romance.”

“You’re both disgusting,” Seokjin says, waving his fork like a gavel. “Still not the worst couple dynamic at this table,” Sena adds. “ Excuse me, ” Seokjin gasps, fully betrayed.

“Anyway,” Jungkook says, flipping his hair. “I give this dinner a ten out of ten. Energy immaculate. Food slaps. Yoongi has filth in his mouth now and joy in his eyes. Character development.” Yoongi looks at you, a little crooked smile rising. “They’re so fucking loud.”

“They’re your friends now,” you remind him. He squeezes your hand again. “Yeah. They are.”

And somehow, between dessert crumbs and half-finished drinks, with Taehyung arguing that Seokjin can’t be in charge of vacation plans because he chose the honeymoon destination based on the “aesthetic potential of the sunbeds,” and Sena defending her husband by threatening to revoke your shared HBO subscription—you’re happy .

Like, genuinely . 

The city hums like a lullaby outside the car windows. Streetlights flicker in passing. A yellow cab darts between lanes. Everything smells like summer—hot pavement, residual perfume, a whiff of honeysuckle drifting in from somewhere you can’t see.

Yoongi’s hand finds yours again between gears. Not by accident this time. Your fingers fit like muscle memory. Easy. Earnest.

There’s no music playing. Just the quiet clink of your bracelet when you shift in your seat and the faint rumble of tires against the road.

Yoongi drives with one hand on the wheel, casted wrist resting against his thigh. It’s late, but you’re both wired. Full of good food, wine, too much dessert. Full of something else, too—this hovering tenderness that neither of you wants to scare off.

His thumb grazes your knuckles. You don’t let go.

He clears his throat once. Then again. Finally, “Can I ask you something?” He asks. There’s a sense of difference in his tone. Like he’s about to say something that he’s been keeping in for a long, long time. You glance over, smile tugging at your mouth. “That sounds dangerous.” You meant it as a joke, light.

But when you look at him— really look—you see it. The shift. The change behind his eyes. Something taut and quietly urgent. He’s not looking at you. He’s watching the road like it’s safer than your face. You speak before he can convince himself not to.

“Pull over.” You say. He blinks. “What?” He asks, but before he cab protest, you speak again. “Just—pull over. Please.”

He checks the mirror, then the next intersection. Turns into a quiet side street with minimal lighting and zero movement. A parked UPS truck. A shuttered flower shop. Brick buildings lined like sentries. He shifts the gear into park, the engine still low beneath you. He’s quiet. A little unsure now.

“I’m not asking you to pull over because I want to leave,” you say, soft. “I asked you to pull over because it felt like you were about to say something serious. And if you’re going to say something serious—like that serious—I want you to look at me when you do.” You explain, eyes focused on the way his shoulders eased just a little.

Yoongi turns his head. Slowly. His eyes catch the dim dashboard light. That deep, velvety brown. You could live there. He opens his mouth. Then closes it. Tries again.

“I don’t want to be the guy you almost dated,” he says. The words are quiet but weighted. “I don’t want to be the ghost in the corner of your life. Or someone you loved more in hindsight than in the moment.” He continued. You feel your chest stutter.

“I want to be your person. I want to call this something. I want to call you something.”

Your heart trips, then steadies. He exhales. “If you’ll let me.” He looked at you, and you recognize that look. It’s that same look he gave you at the arch when Sena and Seokjin exchanged vows. 

You swallow.

There’s something wild and slow in your blood now. A bloom. You reach up, tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear—stalling, thinking, processing—and then nod. “Yeah,” you say. “I want that too.” You admit. His face does something then. Not a smile, exactly. Something deeper. Like a weight’s finally been set down.

You lean in. He does too.

The kiss isn’t rushed. Isn’t perfect. It’s a little too honest for that. But it’s real . You taste the quiet between his words. The breath he took when you said yes. The ache in his spine from holding himself back for so long.

He kisses like he’s allowed to, but still can’t believe he is. You kiss like you’ve been waiting since you were twenty-three and too scared to say something first.

When you break apart, your forehead rests against his.

Neither of you moves. You could stay like this. You might .

“I got you something,” he says suddenly, voice a little hoarse. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t even gonna tell you tonight. I just . . . I saw it. And I thought of you. And that was it.”

You pull back a little, confused. “You bought me something?”

He nods, then leans behind the seat, pulls out a small black velvet box.

You go still. He opens it, revealing a thin gold band. Soft-glow metal. A few small stones scattered like stars. Real diamonds. Understated. Stunning.

You blink.

“This isn’t—” He begins quickly. “It’s not a proposal. I’m not asking for anything yet . But I saw it and I couldn’t walk away. And I think . . . I think that’s when I realized I was gone. Like— fucked . Because I looked at this ring and thought, this one, this is for you .”

You can’t speak. He keeps going. “I looked at you during Seokjin and Sena’s vows, and I didn’t feel scared. I felt sure . I felt—I thought, like . . . I want that. With you. To be that honest. That soft. That loud about how I love you.”

You blink fast. You’re not crying. You’re just—surprised. “I’m not giving it to you to mean more than it does,” he says. “I just—I wanted you to know. That I meant it. That I mean it.”

“Yoongi,” you whisper.

He slides the box across the console. “If you want it.” He says, softly. You don’t look at the ring again. You just take his hand.

“Come home with me.” You say, as his brows lift slightly. “I mean it,” you say. “Not to my place. Not my world. I want you to show me yours. Let me see where you sleep. Where you keep your notebooks. Your records. Let me meet your baggage.”

He breathes out a laugh. A little choked. “And let me love them, too,” you add. “Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re gonna ruin me.” You take the box. Close it gently.

And kiss him again.