Now That's One Perfect Ending... Very Well Written Dear Author, Chef's Kiss

Now that's one perfect ending... very well written dear author, chef's kiss

Covert Affairs | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: smut, angst, enemies to lovers, Spies!AU

Rating: M (18+)

Warnings: drinking, bantering, a little dirty dancing - tango style, a very charming Jungkook in a tux, kissing, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it up), fighting (hand to hand), weapons - guns, mentions of blood and bruises, allusions to torture (interrogation), mentions of war

Word Count: 4.3k

Disclaimers: NSFW, obviously I don’t own BTS - they just inspire me

Summary: The five times you cross paths with legendary spy Jeon Jungkook.

A/N: This is for the anon who sent me a request for Spy!JK vs Spy!Reader - I tried to keep this to a drabble, but, well, it had a mind of its own. 🤷‍♀️ I hope you enjoy!

Thank you to @minttangerines @herecomesjoon and @reliablemitten for helping me with this one! 💜

The vibe here was inspired in part by "The Bagman's Gambit" by the Decemberists. This ending is unlike most that I've written before. I would love to hear what you think about it! 🥺👉👈 Please don't be shy, my inbox is always open. 💕

Masterlist 💜 Find me on AO3 💜

The first time you meet him, it’s by accident. 

You’re late to arrive at the dead drop. It’s not your fault - there’s a crash on the Tower Bridge and your taxi is trapped behind it. By the time traffic starts moving again and you make it to the library, locating the flash drive your handler left behind, you learn that your target is likely already on the move, and you rush back to your hotel room to change.  

It’s another honeypot scenario. The woman you need to seduce is a scientist who holds a lot of secrets, state and otherwise, that your country desperately desires. She tends to frequent a pub a few blocks from your hotel at the same time every week. She never leaves alone. You pour yourself into a tight little dress, tuck your handgun into your clutch, and make your way downtown, heels clacking on the pavement at a determined pace. 

You’ve done a dozen of these missions. It’s rote by now. Locate the target. Hook them with your attention, your flirtatious words, a few light touches. Convince them to leave with you. Back in your hotel room, offer them a drink laced with a special ingredient, one meant to loosen their lips, and get them talking. And once you’ve obtained the info you need, leave them there, to wake up alone, confused and with one hell of a hangover. 

Couldn’t be easier. 

Except tonight, thanks to the accident, you discover that your mission might be a little more difficult, because your target is deep in conversation with the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. 

He’s tall, dark, and handsome, that classic trifecta. Brown eyes shimmer brightly as he gazes at your target, brushing a swoop of jet-black hair off his forehead. His pretty pink lips part as he smiles, revealing slightly large front teeth. One hand clutches a tumbler of some amber liquor while the other is slowly skimming the scientist’s forearm where it rests on the bar. From the flush that graces her cheeks, you know she’s enjoying the man’s company. 

That’s fine. You like a challenge. 

Sidling up to the bar, you position yourself across from the two of them, with the man’s back to you. The bartender greets you and you strike up a conversation. You’re sure to laugh a little louder than you typically would, to gesture a little more freely, to do anything you can to catch the target’s eye. Thankfully, the bartender is into you, returning to chat between serving others, and it’s not long before your laughter turns her head.

Using your peripheral vision, you see the target glance your way a few times before you finally look at her. Tilting your head, you hold her gaze for a moment, then lift your whiskey in her direction before taking a sip. A drop of liquid beads down your chin, and you wipe it away with your thumb before bringing it to your mouth and sucking it into your parted lips, all while never breaking eye contact. 

Overkill, perhaps, but it works. 

The target leans over to the handsome man and says something in his ear, then slides off her barstool. She’s already tipsy, bumping into another patron as she makes her way over to you. You gesture to an empty seat beside you and fall easily into a mindless back-and-forth with her. A little banter, a few brushes of your fingertips against her skin, and a couple more cocktails seal the deal. She’s yours. 

The handsome man has been watching the two of you since she left his side. You’re accustomed to the gaze of others when you’re working a honeypot. Usually, it’s a look of jealousy. Often tinged with lust. Tonight, you see both in his intense stare, but there’s something else there. Something that feels different about the way he observes you. It’s not until you’re guiding the target out of the bar and you pass by the man, getting a closer look at his face, that you realize why. 

It’s him. The Mole. 

So named not because he’s a sleeper agent, but because of the identifying mark on his face, nestled right below his lower lip. He’s a legend in the world of espionage, known for his supposedly astonishing abilities. Practically a myth, said to be able to dodge any enemies, infiltrate any organization, and capture any target. 

Well. Not this time. You lead the scientist down a labyrinthine route to your hotel, ducking down alleys and doubling back a few times. She’s too drunk to notice you’re walking in circles. A quick glance at your reflection in a storefront window shows you that he’s just a step behind, so you take the target by the hand and dash across the street, ignoring the swearing of the drivers as they slam on their brakes. 

On and on, he tails the two of you until you’re finally able to lose him by ducking into a restaurant. The scientist merely laughs at an irate chef as he hustles the two of you out of his kitchen and through the back door. You’re glad she’s enjoying herself. It’s not until you’re locking your hotel room door that you relax your grip on the handle of your gun.

In the early hours of the morning, just as the sun breaks over the city, you’re on your way to the airport. The information you obtained is already on its way to those in charge, already helping your country to assert its power. The taxi comes to a stop at an intersection, and when you glance at the traffic passing by, you think you catch a swoop of hair blowing in the breeze as a motorcyclist zips by, but you blink and he vanishes.  

The second time you meet him, it’s a trap. 

The museum gala is in full swing as you enter. The gown your handler sent you for the occasion fits like a dream, hugging your every curve, a daringly long slit up one leg giving all the other attendees a glimpse at the silky skin underneath. Grabbing a flute of champagne from a passing server, you stand at the top of the stairs and survey the room. 

Tonight’s mission is to intercept an official who is planning to defect. The informant who tipped you off doesn’t know who they’ve been in contact with, only that they’re very disgruntled with your government and ready to blow. You are to stop them before they meet with their liaison and spill any of your government’s precious secrets, and get them to reveal their connection so the rest of your team can apprehend them. Your handler’s voice crackles in your earpiece, alerting you that the target is currently spinning around the makeshift dance floor, so you quickly toss back your drink and descend. 

The night sky shines through the glass ceiling in the atrium as the couples on the dance floor sway. There’s a string quartet providing the music tonight, and as you weave your way around, the band strikes up a tango. The voice in your ear commands you to look to your left, and you spot the target with his arms wrapped around some poor young thing whom you vaguely recognize from social media. A hotel heiress, perhaps? Doesn’t matter who they are, you just need to cut in, but as you step towards them, your path is suddenly blocked by a handsome man in a tuxedo. 

“There you are, darling! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” his smooth voice purrs. It’s been a few years, but you recognize him immediately, glancing at the tiny mole beneath his mouth as he grins. His dark hair is slicked back, but there’s that swoop again, cascading into his warm eyes. “Come on, let’s give everyone a show.” His right arm is around your waist before you can react, left hand taking yours. And he steers you away from the target as he leads you into the tango. 

“I’m sorry, I think you must have me confused with someone else,” you declare, trying to pull away, but he swiftly tugs on your arm, spinning you back into his embrace. 

“Oh, now, don’t play shy! I know it’s been a while since London, but I remember you. Probably better than our mutual friend does,” he smirks. 

“London? Now I know you have me mistaken.” 

He doesn’t respond, placing a hand on the back of your neck and guiding you down into a low dip. You move instinctually, following his lead without hesitation. He’s light on his feet, dancing like he breathes, naturally, an innate rhythm flowing through him. 

You’re practically horizontal at this point as he eases you down, then he snaps you back into his arms. You let out a tiny huff of surprise as his mouth connects with your ear. “I couldn’t be more sure. You’re unforgettable.” His hand cradles your back as he pushes you forward, stepping in time to the lively beat. 

The voice in your ear goes haywire. Your dance partner is obviously the target’s contact. And he’s trying to distract you. But as your handler insists that you make a hasty retreat, it occurs to you that as long as he’s distracting you, he can’t abscond with the target himself. 

So you tango.

Lifting your leg, you hook it around his, and slide down his tall frame, dragging your hand slowly down his chest. His eyes lock on yours as you sink lower, and there’s a brief flash of something in his expression that sparks a heat inside you. As you rise, he clutches your thigh tightly, rough hand gripping the soft skin exposed there, and shuffles backwards, taking you with him.

“I knew I’d find you here,” he says, as you lean against his chest, letting him carry you across the dance floor. 

“Is that so?” With a coy smile, you slide around him, running your hand across his shoulders. “I guess you’ve got me all figured out.” 

“I do.” His gaze is earnest, eyes so wide you could almost believe none of this is an act. 

The target still has that young socialite in his clutches. You catch a glimpse of him over the handsome man’s shoulder before he spins you around, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you flush to his chest. He nudges your arm up and runs his hands down the silk of your bodice as you close your eyes, only for the briefest of moments. 

“Then tell me. Tell me about myself.” 

He twists, bringing you chest to chest again. The two of you part the crush of revelers easily, drunken donors happily ceding command of the dance floor. 

“You’re someone who is clearly devoted to their cause, which is why you’re here tonight.”

“Yes, supporting the arts is very important to me.”

“Mmm. I’m sure.” He pauses, lost in thought. “You enjoy a challenge.” 

You nod. “Never back down from one.” 

“God, I hope not.” His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek as he studies your face. “I’d say you’re pretty used to getting your way.”

“Am I that obvious?” He tries to steer you to the left, but you simply throw your weight to the right and he is forced to go along with your momentum or topple over. He lets you take the lead with a loud laugh.

“Just a little, darling.” You wonder how many targets he’s seduced with that smile. It’s very charming. Undoubtedly effective.

“And just how do you know all of these things are true?”

He shrugs. “I can just tell. I have good instincts, and I trust them.” He cocks his head. “Don’t you?”

You merely hum.

“You really impressed me in London, you know. No one’s ever given me the slip like that.”

“That’s rather surprising, given how easy it was,” you inform him, lips curling into an arrogant smile. If he’s not going to pretend, neither are you. 

He laughs again, and your smile broadens at the high-pitched giggle that tumbles from his lips. “I see. Well, wear that badge with honor anyway, because it will never happen again. I’ve got my eyes on you now.” His gaze roams over your body, the mirth on his face replaced by a hunger so intense your breath stutters. 

This time, when he spins you away, he releases his grip on your hand, and the voice in your ear yells that now is your chance to slip away, that the two of you are being watched by unknowns, and they’re closing in. The handsome man’s team, most likely. The trap has been sprung. 

Instead, you return to his waiting arms. 

“You can watch all you want, darling,” you whisper, nose nearly touching his as he holds you close. “I don’t mind. I’ll still win in the end.”

“And why is that?” he murmurs, peering at you through half-lidded eyes.

“Because,” you lift your chin, lips brushing his ear as you raise your hand behind his back, throwing a signal towards the camera on the ceiling, “it doesn’t matter if you find me, you’ll still have to catch me first.” 

The klaxons of the fire alarm suddenly blare to life, bright lights flashing as frightened screams erupt. His head snaps up in shock, and you immediately twist away, slipping behind him and kicking the side of his knee hard. He goes down, only for a moment, but it's long enough for you to dash away. Finding the target, you shout a lie about the contact sending you to meet him instead, and lead him away from the crowds surging towards the exits, heading instead for the backup plan rendezvous point. 

You try to fight the temptation to turn around, but as you reach the edge of the atrium, you glance over your shoulder. The swoop of hair bobs in the crush of bodies swarming to escape to safety. And then it’s pulled under. 

The third time you meet him, it’s a close call. 

“Attrape-la!” 

The shouting of the bodyguards behind you startles you into action. You smash through the crowds of ravers letting loose under the flashing strobe lights, leaving a wave of bruised bodies and cursing clubbers in your wake. 

Of course you’d been made. You should’ve expected that to happen, given that everything else tonight had gone so smoothly. Too smoothly. The painstaking lengths your country went through to orchestrate tonight’s little agent provocateur scheme paid off. Honestly, it hadn’t taken much to tempt the Prime Minister’s black sheep scion down into the catacombs below the city, promising him all the lurid delights his wicked little heart could desire.

And how he indulged in all of those delights, as you watched, the golden heart-shaped pendant dangling around your neck capturing every image. You were too far underground to transmit the photos via satellite; once you returned to the safe house, you would upload everything from the tiny chip safely ensconced within the necklace.

So the scion basked in his decadence and you snapped every second and it was all going perfectly to plan, until one of the young man’s bodyguards recognized you from a previous encounter, from back when he was in the army and not in the employ of the world’s most spoiled libertine, and you ran. Through the partygoers, down the antechamber, back into the tunnels. 

The catacombs are a complex maze beneath the sprawling capital. You hadn’t had long to prepare for this mission, meaning you’d given the map your handler provided only a quick glance. You now regret this lack of foresight.

Voices echo off the walls around you. You dart down another tunnel, barely gaining some distance from your pursuers, and that’s when you realize you’re lost. For all you know, you’ve already been down this passage before - they all look the same in the dim light of the electric torches. There’s no time to think, you have to keep moving - 

An arm shoots out of the darkness and grabs you. 

“No!” you shout, reeling back to punch your attacker, when he drags you into the light of another tunnel, and you stop in surprise. 

“Caught you,” the handsome man whispers, and then he presses you into the cool stone wall behind you, his body against yours, and tips your head up with a finger under your chin. “I win.” 

And then he kisses you. 

He inhales your gasp, fingers stroking your cheek. Your mind goes blank for a moment, only registering the taste of his lips. The warmth of his skin. Then your training kicks back in, and you open your eyes, watching him closely as he licks into your mouth. His eyes are shut, lashes fluttering as he moans when you curl your fingers into his leather jacket, urging him closer.

The tunnel rings with shouting and heavy footsteps as your pursuers approach. He slides his hands around your back, holding you tightly, and you close your eyes as his kisses grow more heated. The clamor of your would-be captors fades into the background until it vanishes completely. 

His nails rake the back of your neck as his other hand slips around your thigh. You wrap your leg around him, and the movement reminds you of your tango, and the way his eyes shone brighter than the starry sky. 

“I think they’re gone,” you whisper as his lips trail down your throat.

“Who’s gone?” he murmurs, taking a tiny nibble.

You push him away, maybe too gently, and he grins. 

“Thank you,” you mutter, and start to run, but he grabs you by the wrist. 

“Not that way!” He tugs you down another tunnel behind him. 

You dig your heels in, bringing him to a halt. “Why should I trust you?” 

His smile is all you can see as he disappears into the shadows, pulling you in. “Why would I let someone else have the pleasure of catching you?” 

It’s not until you make it back to the safe house, lips swollen, skin covered in marks, that you realize your necklace is gone. 

The fourth time you meet him, it’s the beginning of the end. 

The turbulent rivalry between your countries is a tsunami now, threatening to drown you in the tides of war. You’ve been racing through the city, chasing rumors and hunting red herrings as the fighting makes its way to your shores. Finally, after nearly twenty-four straight hours of running, an informant reveals the location you’ve been trying frantically to find.

From the outside, in the reddish light of the emerging dawn, the building looks like nothing more than a rundown old gas station, pumps out front long overgrown with weeds. But the door hidden beneath the counter is rather unusual, as is the long corridor below that leads you to a single room. The men standing guard outside it are no station attendants. These men have been specially trained to keep people like you out of places like this. 

They must need more training, given how easily they go down. It won’t be long before the next shift change, so you’ll need to be fast. But you still take a moment to compose yourself before turning the doorknob. Bracing yourself. You’re not sure what you’ve been looking for will be inside or not. 

As the door swings open, your heart sinks. The informant was right. This is the place. And there he is, slumped over on his knees, head hanging low, chained to a metal post. A dark bruise stains his left cheekbone, and there’s a cut dripping blood from his chin, but you’d recognize that swoop of hair in your sleep.

He doesn’t move as you close the door quietly behind you. But he startles when you suddenly dash across the room and drop to your knees beside him, eyes widening when you rip off the balaclava you wear. “You!” 

“Me!” you confirm, flashing him a weak smile. Your fellow agents clearly didn’t hold back, if the wounds on his face are anything to go by. Maybe you should’ve kept the mask on, if only to hide your reaction from him. There’s no other need to hide your face with the guards unconscious. There are no cameras down here, in this room that officially does not exist. 

“What are you doing?” You’re unchaining him, but that’s not what he’s asking. 

Helping him stand, you softly brush some dirt from his unharmed cheek. “Trusting my instincts. Come on.” 

Neither of the men have moved from where you left them lying. As quickly as you can, you escape from the nameless room, sprinting down the hallway and up into the gas station and not stopping until you reach a recently abandoned motel on the edge of town. The owners were so anxious to flee the encroaching battle that the linens are still on the bed when the two of you break into a room. 

“We should be okay here,” you announce as he stumbles into the bathroom to inspect the damage the agents inflicted. Standing by the door, you triple check the locks before leaning against it. “You can rest for a little bit, but you should leave as soon as dusk hits. It’s safest to cross the border at night.”

He wanders back into the room with a towel in hand, lightly dabbing his chin. “That eager to be rid of me?” 

Yes and no. If you stop to think about his question, you might start thinking about what you’ve just done and what your country will do to you if you get caught. You have to keep moving, keep that adrenaline flowing. Keep running.

Like right now. You should run straight out that door and not look back. But you don’t. Instead, you shake your head.

He says nothing as he walks over to you. With a gentle hand, he tilts your head back to meet his gaze. Beams of sunlight streaming between the cracks in the blinds reflect in his wide eyes, make you see stars. 

His lips are softer than you remember, belying the urgency in his kiss, the sharpness of it. You grab at his shirt, tugging him into you, and then you’re pushing him across the room and onto the bed, pulling off your clothes as you go, and he simply follows your lead everywhere. You try not to bump his wounded cheek as he slides between your legs, silver tongue laving the wetness he finds there, but when he coaxes your first orgasm from you, your thighs quake hard enough to make him hiss. 

Before you can apologize, he’s climbing on top of you, kissing you again. His moan as he finally slides inside you breaks the silence of the room, and then it fills with the sounds of his thrusts and the panting of breath. You add wordless cries, fingers digging into his skin to hold him, wanting him so close, so deep. Even with you clutching him tightly, his hips never stop moving, cock stroking into you again and again.

“Jungkook,” he whispers into your neck, “my name is Jungkook.” 

You breathe your own name back. Those are the only words spoken as pleasure washes over the two of you, giving you both something real to anchor yourselves to before you’re completely swept away. 

When you wake later, after the sun has set, the bed is cold beside you. Lying on his pillow is the heart-shaped pendant.

The fifth time you meet him, it’s goodbye. 

The decade since the war ended hasn’t been easy on you. Once your countries were done destroying each other, you climbed out of the rubble and ran as far as you could, seeking a new home. 

The life you’ve built for yourself in this country is a quiet one. Simple. But you’re okay with that. On Saturdays, you venture into town to purchase groceries, often stopping at a café on the corner for coffee and a pastry. It’s there, perched on an iron chair on the sidewalk outside the restaurant, that you see him. 

He’s standing on the other side of the street. That swoop of hair rises above the busy pedestrians trudging along with their hunched over shoulders, the crowd swiftly flowing around him like he's a towering rock in the stream. Your eyes meet, and you delicately place your coffee cup back on its saucer before you drop it. 

The years appear to have been kinder to him, but are visible nonetheless in his countenance as you peer at him. Strands of grey shimmer in his raven hair. His smile hasn’t faded, eyes still sparkle in the light of the morning sun, but there are more lines on his face now. Scars, yes, but also laugh lines crinkling around his eyes, deep and true. 

Maybe you should invite him to join you. Talk about what happened that night before the world burnt down. Regale each other with stories about your lives since. 

At the very least, you could tell him you understand.

He smiles at you, and before you can raise your arm to beckon him over, someone else takes his hand. Someone who looks at him with nothing but adoration in their gaze. He turns to them and his smile grows, and your heart expands in your chest, an oddly full feeling that overwhelms and calms you at once. The other person tugs on his arm, urging him forward, into the crowd.

He lifts his hand in a silent wave. You do the same. Then the passers-by swell, and he’s gone. 

© 2022-23 by sunshinerainbowsbts/minisugakoobies. Crossposted to AO3. Please do not copy or repost.

Taglist: @babycoffeefire; @parkdatjimin; @/reliablemitten; @yuugehn; @ut-dixisti; @hesperantha; @seokjinger-ale; @bangtanintotheroom; ​​@taeshuworld; @nch327; @hannahbee12719ficrecs; @7minsuga96; @dvalitaes; @wonieclub; @thatlongspringnight; @miscelunaaa; @acquiescence804; @itsirisz; @velvetskize; @starbtslove; @ajw05; @bruisedscrewedandtattooed; @minesuga; @greezenini; @aznstoner; @jkkkkkay; @xuxibelle; @soeur-de-ame; @boraborabts; @signmybook; @bbl32; @codeinebelle; @here4btsfics; @itbtoblikethatsometimes; @kookprada; @addictedtohobi; @shatzkrinslinzki; @jaiuneamesolitaiire

@ggukcangetit Hello there... better late than never huh!? Forget the no. of words or how long the story is... you have seriously written something that is so hard to put down. I loved every single bit of it. I loved how the main character is so fearless & brave & smart but has shades of grey as well. I love this Seokjin you've written. All the side characters are placed perfectly as well. Don't know if you are still active, but thought I should let you know that your work is awesome 💜

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@kpopfanfictrash I just had to read it albeit all my work deadlines... so so good I don't regret a single dark circle my sleep deprivation is surely getting me later. I am saving part 2 for tonight cause I want to savour every single sentence, every single word... partly also because it's already dawn & my sis will kill me if she sees my phone's screen still on. You weave amazing stories lady... simply spellbound. You will regret this you know, this smashing writings... cause God save you from the day I come barging on, ranting about your work in detail... Till then TC, love ya

The Ten Days of Ex-Mas (M)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Genre:  Holiday / Second Chance!AU / Hockey!AU

Author’s Note: Part of the Jingle All the Way collaboration with @leahsfavefics, @kithtaehyung, @yoonia, @cybrsan, and @sugaurora! Unfortunately, due to the new Tumblr text post limitation, this has to be published as two parts. Please, please interact with both! Thank you!!

Pairing: Jimin / Reader (F)

Synopsis: Three months following the worst break-up of your life, you finally feel ready to start moving on. The world, it seems, has other ideas when you pick up the phone and find your ex-boyfriend calling.

Jimin Park, star right winger of the NHL and (until recently), the love of your life, has a very large problem. Despite the courage he regularly shows on the ice, in his personal life, Jimin is kind of a coward. When you broke up this fall, he could barely admit it. Not to his neighbors. Not to his friends. Not even to his family, who are expecting him home for Christmas. In a desperate plea for more time, Jimin begs you to pretend you’re still dating – and to his surprise, you agree. Faced with a second chance, Jimin is determined not to squander it. If only fixing a relationship were as easy as falling in love.

Word Count: 44,416 (25K in part 1)

Rating: 18+

NSFW Warnings: oral (F), multiple orgasms (F), fingering, sex in a semi-public area (brief), breast play, spanking, masturbation (M, F), dirty talk, mention of toys

A/N: all collab fics incorporate the phrase, "the holidays aren't so bad with you around."

You should have known better than to trust Namjoon with your dating life.

Yoongi never would have put you in this situation. The more level-headed of your two best friends, Yoongi approaches matters of the heart with the same rationality he does everything else. Namjoon, on the other hand, is a great guy – who is notoriously bad at reading other people.

The number of times you’ve been forced to step in and save him from phone scams is astounding. It’s not his fault, really – Namjoon trusts too easily, which doesn’t serve him well in this world. He’s always willing to give others the benefits of the doubt, often getting himself into trouble. 

And now you, by extension, having accepted the blind date he proposed.

Mike Davis moved into Namjoon’s building two months ago, and Namjoon has been adamant since the start that you two would hit it off.

“He goes to all the same conventions you do,” he assured you last week on the phone.

“Which conventions?” you asked, squinting hard at the wall. “I know you’re not big into nerd culture, Namjoon, so as an FYI – not all cons are considered equal.”

Namjoon rattled off a few you’d attended, impressing you enough to agree despite the initial disinterest. This agreement may have been spurred by tonight being the three-month anniversary of the worst break-up of your life.

Almost as soon as you sat down though, you realized your mistake. While you may have reached a point where you don’t cry every time your ex’s name is mentioned, the prospect of dating someone else is an entirely different matter. Getting dressed up tonight felt strange, as did traveling to the restaurant and waiting for Mike at the bar.

The fact that Mike called this a ‘restaurant’ should have been your first warning sign, as Hat Trick is most definitely a sports bar – specifically, a hockey bar. Had you known (really, you should have known), you wouldn’t have gone, but you were nervous and trying to make a good impression. Upon arriving, you arranged yourself awkwardly on a sticky bar stool and waited seven minutes for Mike to walk in.

Nearly an hour later, you find yourself regretting coming at all. Mike excused himself two minutes ago for the bathroom and as soon as he left, you sagged with relief.

He’s a nice guy, you suppose. Good looking, with light brown curls and dark eyes. You can see why Namjoon thought he might be good for you – Mike is the exact opposite of your ex in many ways. Constantly frazzled, he arrived at the bar late, only to immediately duck out because he forgot to pay the parking meter. Jimin was the type who unpacked his suitcase immediately after reaching the hotel and brought several chargers in case one of them died.

Once the meter was paid, Mike sat down and launched into his entire life story. You suppose you should have been happy, since lack of communication ended your last relationship but instead, found yourself overwhelmed. 

Mike finally paused for breath once your drinks arrived, allowing you a moment to answer his questions. The moment you mentioned running a popular cosplay TikTok channel, Mike instantly shifted from arrogant to insecure. 

“I can’t believe you came,” he exhaled with a shake of his head. “When Namjoon showed me your picture, I said no way you’d go out with me. You’re way too beautiful.”

Shifting your weight, you managed to laugh. “Don’t try and get me to leave, now, Mike.”

His eyes widened, not catching your sarcasm and it took several moments to get back on track. Everything since then has been downhill, so when he excused himself for the bathroom, all you felt was relief.

Digging through your purse, you pull out your phone and swipe to the group chat.

Y/N: Namjoon, WHAT possessed you to set me up with this man [7:46 PM]

Yoongi’s reply comes immediately.

Yoongi: told you it was too soon [7:46 PM]

Namjoon’s ellipses join in.

Namjoon: what! Why? What happened?? Mike didn’t try something on you, did he? [7:47 PM]

Y/N: no, no – nothing like that [7:47 PM]

Y/N: he just keeps saying how *amazing* I am and how he doesn’t know why I’m on this date at all [7:47 PM]

Yoongi: dude [7:48 PM]

Y/N: EXACTLY [7:48 PM]

Before Namjoon can respond, the bartender changes the channel and an all-too-familiar name blares over the speakers. Slowly, you look up, and all thoughts of Mike fade in the face of NHL coverage.

Nope, no – absolutely not.

Leaning over the counter, you tap the bartender. “Hi.” Brightly, you smile. “First off, could I

have another glass of white wine? And then, maybe… could you change the channel?”

Glancing around, the guy shakes his head. “Yes, to the wine, but no, the channel,” he says with a shrug. “Half the people in here came to watch the game. Pre-show coverage is part of that.”

With an apologetic nod, he grabs a rag and disappears. Sinking back in your seat, you stare at

your hands, clasped tightly on the counter. Your seat at the bar puts you in the unfortunate position of hearing each word crystal-clear.

“Well, Josh – what chance do you think the Blackhawks have tonight?”

The silver-haired announcer bobs his head. “Steve, I’d say their chances are pretty darn good.

You’ve seen this team’s early games. Their first line is strong, especially now that Park’s back.”

“Oh, absolutely – Jimin Park has been crucial to the last couple of games. He was sorely missed last season.”

“Ha! You can say that again.”

Trying to hide a wince, you clasp your hands tighter as a fresh glass of wine is set down. “Thanks,” you mutter, downing half in one gulp.

Immediately, your plans for later tonight shift to accommodate a bottle of wine. Movement catches your eye and, lacking self-preservation, you look up in time for a montage of

star right winger, Jimin Park, tearing his way down the ice. Shamefully, you recognize

every shot because, although you broke up in September, you continued to watch every game.

“One of the most talked about moments last year in hockey was the late check on Park by Blues

player, Brent Howard,” continues the announcer, Josh. “Park’s helmet came loose

when he hit the boards, and he went down hard on the ice resulting in a

sprained knee and herniated a disc in his neck. A complicated surgery took him

out for the remainder of the season. He only started to skate with the team again during off season conditioning.”

Hearing Jimin’s trauma recounted with such callousness, you find yourself gripping your wine glass tighter than ever.

“I don’t think anyone expected Park to play again,” agrees the other announcer, Steve. “It’s a damned miracle he’s back on the ice – but to return and be this good? Park has always been one of the best right wingers in the league, but I’d say he’s the best offensive player on the ice right now.”

“A bold claim!” laughs Josh. “But I might just agree. Even Jungkook Jeon on the Kraken hasn’t been matching Park in assists.”

“Exactly! I mean, look at the numbers. Last year, the Blackhawks barely made the playoffs and now, they’re leading the Central Division.”

“Truly amazing, given the nature of his injury last November. I don’t know how familiar you are with herniated discs, Steve, but –”

Mike slides back onto his stool. Grateful for the distraction, you turn fully to face him. Having

already lived through the injury once, you have no need to reminisce. Replacing your phone in your purse, you smile gamely at Mike.

“So,” you say, attempting to save the conversation. “Namjoon mentioned you go to conventions? What fandoms are you a part of?”

“Oh.” Mike loosely shrugs. “I doubt you’ve heard of any of them.”

At his dismissive tone, you stiffen. Your experience with the male side of fandom is always a toss-up. “Well, there are a lot of them. Any more mainstream?”

He considers. “Marvel?”

Stunned, you blink a few times. Marvel must be one of the biggest fandoms on the planet, let alone in the country. Even if you weren’t deep in the convention circuit, you’d have heard of Marvel.

“Yeah,” you say slowly. “I think I’ve heard of that.”

“Cool, cool.” Mike nods. “Namjoon said you do cosplay – and showed me your TikTok! You know, you’d make a great Wonder Woman.”

You can practically feel your jaw tighten. “That’s DC, not Marvel. But thanks.”

Silently, you add for nothing. While you love Wonder Woman and have, in fact, cosplayed her many times, men usually only request her for one reason and it’s the skimpy outfit. Whenever you cosplay as circa 2010 Wonder Woman in pants, they’re decidedly less interested. By now, you’ve learned only to pick your characters based on personal interest.

“Have you ever cosplayed?” you query.

Unbidden, your gaze slides to the TV. Commercial break. Stifling the twinge of disappointment, you refocus on Mike.

“Nah.” His nose wrinkles, and your stomach sinks further. “I don’t do that stuff.”

“Stuff?”

Hearing your tone, his eyes widen. “I mean, it’s cool for you. I saw your TikToks and you look amazing. I’d just look dumb,” Mike says, attempting a laugh.

Sugary sweet, you smile. “I don’t know. My ex used to cosplay with me, and no one ever laughed at him.”

Admittedly, this is something of a low blow since your ex-boyfriend is Jimin Park, but either Namjoon didn’t tell him who your ex is, or Mike doesn’t care. Which – if that’s the case, maybe Mike deserves more credit than you gave him. 

“Ah.” He nods, taking a sip of his beer. “Have you ever thought about cosplaying as Wonder Woman, though?”

Your smile vanishes. Then again, maybe you’ve given him exactly the right amount of credit.

“I have,” you allow. “But more recently, I’ve been cosplaying Dimension 20 characters. It’s kind of niche, but my last character was Sundry Sidney from A Starstruck Odyssey. You know – giant machine gun arm, roller skates and a mechanical eye. Oh, and a ‘fuck erotica Ann’ button, of course.”

Mike’s smile freezes. “Why… would you dress like that?”

“Because it’s fun.” Finishing your glass of wine, you toss a few bills on the counter. “Well, it’s been nice meeting you, Mike, but I think we’d be better off as friends. Don’t you agree?”

Even with the answer right there in the question, still he looks flummoxed.

“I…” 

“Or acquaintances,” you add, standing to pull on your pea coat. “Or nothing at all. Whatever you prefer.”

Slinging your purse on your shoulder, you wave at the bartender and start to leave. You only make it several steps before Mike mutters something beneath his breath – loud enough that you hear.

“Stupid,” he mutters. “This is why you don’t date women like her, Mike.”

You come to a stop. Really, you should keep going. Common sense – and Namjoon’s HOA – depend on you being the bigger person and walking out. But your therapist has said you need to work on communicating, even when the message is something the other person won’t like.

Turning around, you tap Mike on the shoulder.

He glances upward, surprised – and then reddens, realizing you heard.

“Yep, I heard,” you say shortly, retracting your hand. “Was the muttering supposed to be secret?”

Mike opens, then closes his mouth, like a fish.

“What did you mean, ‘women like me?’” you inquire, folding your arms. “Ones with self-respect? Or hobbies? Women who know more about a subject than you do?”

Behind the counter, the bartender snort-laughs, rising in your esteem despite the whole TV channel thing. 

Mike stares at you, stunned. He seems to grow a pair in that moment though, straightening to face you. “Women with sticks up their asses,” he blurts.

Stifling an eye roll, you lean closer. “Listen, Mike,” you say, placing one hand on the counter. “If you think you can hurt my feelings – think again. Someone broke my heart three months ago, so nothing you say now will remotely compare. Do you really want to know why women like me won’t date you?”

The furrow between his brows deepens, and you take this as a sign to continue. Leaning even closer, you lower your voice.

“It’s because you’re insecure,” you say softly. “Giving someone a compliment and putting yourself down in the same sentence isn’t nice, it’s awkward. Not to mention, you’re sexist,” you add, watching him stiffen. “Telling me – a two-time Comic Con trivia champion – that I wouldn’t know Marvel is wild. Oh, and you’re a snob. Tabletop games are awesome, and cosplay is fun. Have a good night – I paid for your drink.”

With that, you turn around and march out the door to a smattering of applause from your new favorite bartender. 

The moment you step outside, you’re hit by a cold gust of wind. Objectively, you should have called an Uber before your dramatic exit. Pulling free your phone, you find several missed texts from the group chat.

Ignoring them, you order an Uber and stand under the heat lamp. Scrolling to your recent calls, you punch in Namjoon’s number.

“You’re so dead,” you declare once he answers.

Namjoon sputters loudly. “What – why? Is this because of the self-deprecating comments? Because I have to say, your sister does that all the time.”

“Yeah, and it’s annoying,” you say as your Uber arrives. “Why do you think I chose not to visit for Christmas?”

“Uh, because she’s obsessed with Jesus.”

“Well, that, too,” you sigh, sinking into the seat. “But the self-deprecating comments weren’t the only thing wrong. The entire date was uncomfortable. I don’t know how you thought we’d be good together.”

“Mike seemed fine!”

“Okay, first off – fine? You set me up with fine?” you repeat, imitating his tone. “And second, when I said I cosplayed, his first question was whether I’d ever cosplayed as Wonder Woman.”

“… maybe he’s a fan?”

“He thought she was Marvel.”

Namjoon exhales. “Damn. I’m sorry, Y/N. I really thought he’d be good for you.”

Something in your chest softens. “I know,” you say, glancing out the window. “Which is why I’m not really mad at you. One can’t be mad at the truly pathetic.”

“Hey!”

“Namjoon, he said I had a stick up my ass.”

“He said what?! Hang on, let me patch Yoongi in.”

“It’s fine, Namjoon,” you laugh, attempting to stave off any actual crimes. “Really. I learned two very important things tonight.”

“Oh?” He sounds skeptical. “What things are those?”

“Well, number one – I’m not ready to date.”

Reluctant, Namjoon sighs. “Yoongi was right.”

“Yoongi was right,” you agree.

Staring out the window, you soak in your reality. Even if Mike had been a nice guy, you still would have been counting down the minutes until leaving. Your ex-boyfriend blaring on the TV certainly helps, but even on a different channel, you would have been distracted. Still would have been comparing everything Mike did to him.

You’ve been seeing the same therapist since college, Dr. Lisa Germain. Mostly on and off, but especially during periods of turmoil in your life. Right now, you typically talk once a month although this greatly increased the month following your break-up. Dr. Lisa probably would have cautioned you about moving on so fast – or possibly she would have questioned why three months is too fast.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Namjoon says, dragging your thoughts back to the present. “That sucks. What was lesson number two?”

“Number two,” you say, as the Uber pulls to a stop outside your building. “Is I’m never letting you set me up on a blind date again.”

Namjoon protests, but you put the phone on mute. Exiting the Uber, you enter the liquor store below your new apartment. New being relative since you’ve lived here for three months. When you and Jimin ended, you decided he’d keep the apartment and you’d be the one to move out. Partly, the decision was made due to self-preservation.

The moment you left you knew you couldn’t move on surrounded by memories. This may have been for naught though, since you can’t seem to move on without the memories, either.

“Hang on, Joon,” you say, pushing open the door. “I need to grab something from the store.”

Slipping the phone in your pocket, you grab your favorite wine and head for check-out. The owner’s daughter, Sarah, looks up from the register.

“Y/N, hi!” she gushes, setting down her magazine. “How’s your night going?”

You give her a giant thumbs-down. “Awful. Just came back from a date.”

“Woof.” Ringing you up, Sarah shakes her head. “At least you’re trying, I guess? You couldn’t pay me to go on a date with a man.”

Your lips twitch, accepting the bag she hands you. “In this hypothetical scenario, are you also straight?”

“God, no.”

Laughing, you turn and head for the door. “Noted. Anyways, I’m off to drink myself into oblivion and hopefully wake up after the holidays.”

“Fingers crossed!” she yells as you exit the shop.

Shivering, you jog the remaining steps to your side door. Per usual, climbing the narrow steps steals your breath, and it takes you a moment to pull out your key.

“Did you hear all that?” you say, taking Namjoon off mute as you enter.

He makes a disgruntled sound. “I hate when you do that.”

“You love me,” you counter, putting the phone on speaker. Shrugging free of your coat, you kick off your shoes.

Inside your kitchen, you open the fridge to survey your Britta, a carton of eggs and half a block of cheese. Shutting the door, you glance at your equally dismal counters.

“Should I actually decorate my apartment?”

“Yes,” says Namjoon, and you decide to ignore him. “Are you inside?”

“Yep!” you yell, standing on tiptoe to grab a wine glass.

“Okay, then I’m going to hang up and get back to the game.”

Heart dropping towards your stomach, you turn. “Great,” you say. “I’ll just be here, trying to forget that Christmas is in ten days, and I have zero plans apart from sitting alone in my barely furnished apartment, watching bad movies, and trying not to cry the entire time.”

“I will repeat – your sister invited you over.”

“Yes, and I’ll repeat.” Making a face, you uncork the bottle. “I’d rather not sit through two very long, confusing ceremonies about the birth of a Lord I don’t believe in. Besides – even if I wanted to go, flight prices are crazy. I need to save up to buy a kitchen table.”

“What about your parents?”

Pouring yourself a large glass of wine, you shake your head. “Nope. They decided to go on another cruise this year. I swear, if having fun in retirement is a contest, they’re winning.”

Namjoon laughs. “Well, you can always come home with me. My mom would probably ask whether we’re dating again, though.”

Grin widening, you carry your wine into the living room. Plopping onto the second-hand sofa you bought from Yoongi, you flick through the channels until finding The Holiday.

“Tell her what I always say – that I’m too good for you,” you sniff. “And also, you’re in love with your neighbor.”

“Y/N!” You can practically see Namjoon’s panicked look at his door. “Not so loud! I had you on speaker.”

Rolling your eyes, you tug your blanket up. “Oh, please. She so obviously likes you – she’s just waiting for you to make the first move.”

“BYE, Y/N!” In the background, you hear Namjoon turn on his TV. “TALK TO YOU LATER!”

“Bye!”

“Don’t drink too much!”

“Byeee!”

Hanging up, you settle back on your pillows as Jude Law comes on screen. Seeing how easily Cameron Diaz’s character makes him laugh, you feel a lonely twang. Personally, you enjoy the latter phase of romance as much as the start. Comfortable silence, knowing glances, and thoughtful requests that come from knowing someone so well.

“Enjoy it now,” you mutter at the screen, drinking deeply. “It won’t last.”

Slumping lower, you draw your knees in. A deep sense of sadness washes over you, coaxing you closer to the fetal position. Running a finger over your blanket, you stare at the screen.

One of the things people don’t say about break-ups is how long they take. For a week, the pain nauseates, a knife to your stomach each time you draw breath. It’s there when you wake in the middle of the night, rolling over to reach for someone not there. Everything makes you think of them. Or worse, you forget them, only to remember a second later and be hit with a fresh wave of pain.

After the first week, the pain doesn’t fade. You just learn to live with it, allowing it to become an ever-present companion. Last week, when Namjoon set up the blind date, you thought you could do this, only for the pain to hit, as debilitating as ever. After three months, it feels different – no longer tinged with disbelief, but full of raw realization that this is your future. Strange men and strange bars while Jimin moves on.

Instead of improving, your life feels like survival. And always, it’s shadowed by an undercurrent of pain, waiting for the moment to drag you under. Like tonight, with your horrible date, a bottle of wine and The Holiday.

Unable to stem your regret, you pour yourself a second glass and add another blanket. If tonight is about feelings, you might as well feed them fully. Prepare for the eventuality of being alone.

After all, it isn’t like Jimin has reached out to you, either.

Buzzzzz. Buzzzzz. Buzzzzz. Buzzzzz.

Groggily, you roll over and open one eye. The TV is still on, the volume down low, light flickering across your wooden floor. The Holiday ended long ago, and now the channel plays reruns of a sitcom you hate.

The buzzing stops, and then starts, and you realize it’s your phone. Still groggy, you attempt to roll over – tangling partway and nearly falling to the floor. Yelping out loud, you grab the coffee table, inadvertently bringing yourself into contact with your phone.

Grasping it, you press answer. “Hullo?” you rasp.

“Y/N?”

Both your eyes open.

Heart hammering, you slowly sit up with one hand on the blanket. Feeling at once hot and cold, you shake your head slowly to clear away sleep. There’s no way the person you think is calling actually is.

“Y/N? Are you there?”

Fingers trembling, you tap your screen once to see Jimin’s name light up. For some reason, you never had the strength to delete it from your numbers.

It is him. Jimin is calling, and this isn’t a dream. Or if it is, it’s a particularly good one and honestly, you aren’t sure you want to wake up.

Returning the phone to your ear, you grab the remote to turn down the volume. Clearing your throat, you feel the beginnings of a headache pounding at your temples. Most likely courtesy of your empty wine bottle before you.

“Jimin?”

Softly, he exhales. “Hey. Yeah… it’s me.”

A thick silence falls, and you glance out the window. Orange-yellow streetlight illuminates freshly fallen snow. The last time you spoke to Jimin was… well, it’s been a while. After you broke up, you had to talk a few times to arrange the movers, but once the last box had cleared, it was radio silence.

I’m probably dreaming, you determine.

“Uh, no.” Jimin clears his throat, and you realize with horror you said that out loud. “It’s really me.”

“…ah.”

Weakly, he chuckles. “Hopefully it isn’t that bad to hear from me?” When you choose not to respond, Jimin exhales. “I mean, it’s not terrible for me to hear you.”

Exhaling softly, you squeeze your eyes shut. “Jimin… what do you want?”

Of course, it’s not terrible hearing from him. It’s the exact opposite, which is why this is bad. You worked hard to reach a point where you can sleep without him (sleeping well is another matter). Hearing Jimin’s voice, you’re terrified of slipping right back to needing him. If you ever even stopped, that is.

“Who says I want something?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Casting your gaze down, you pick at your blanket. “You’re the one calling me in the middle of the night, so… just tell me what you want, Jimin, so I can go back to bed.”

Something in his voice shifts. “Why, do you have someone waiting?”

Your hand stills. “Jimin, that is so not your business. We’re not together anymore – remember?”

“Oh, I remember.”

“Great,” you huff. “Then, say this is a butt dial, so I can hang up and pretend this never happened.”

Jimin is quiet for so long, you’re forced to pull back and double-check he hasn’t hung up. He hasn’t, so you can only presume he has something important to say. Brow furrowing, you return the phone to your ear.

Some of your initial irritation vanishes, replaced by worry. “Jimin,” you say, pushing yourself upright. “Is everything alright?”

“I…”

Almost without thinking, you find yourself on your feet. Of course, you should have assumed something bad happened. There’s no other reason for Jimin to call. Attempting to disentangle from your many blankets, you only make it worse and bang your shin on the table.

“Fuck!” you blurt, clutching your knee. “Fucking shit, that hurt!”

Jimin chuckles lowly, and you freeze. It’s been so long since hearing his laugh, you hadn’t realized the hole the sound fills in your chest.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asks.

“No,” you mutter, straightening when you remember your reason for haste. Shoving the blanket aside, you head for the door. “Are you okay? I’m still kind of tipsy, but I can call a cab and come over. Is it your neck?” you demand, grabbing your keys. “Did something happen to you during the game tonight?”

Mentally, you curse yourself for not watching. When you got home, you made a point of not turning on that channel. Every other game this season you’ve watched except this one, and of course, this is the one where Jimin gets hurt, and –

“Whoa, whoa,” he blurts. “Y/N, wait! I’m okay. I’m not injured.”

Immediately, you sag in relief – only to freeze, realizing how desperate you sounded. You broke up in September. Jimin let you leave and hasn’t contacted you since. This is your first conversation since then and here you are, pretending to have some sort of claim on his personal well-being.

Dropping your keys, you sink onto the couch. “Right. Okay, right.”

“Sorry… for making you think that I was.”

Rubbing your forehead, you glance out the window. “Just… say why you’re calling so I can go back to sleep.”

“Right.” Jimin pauses. “So, here’s the thing. Remember how my contract expired at the end of last season? And the team only agreed to a new one-year contract because of my injury?”

“Yes, Jimin. We broke up three months ago, not three years.”

“Anyways,” he says, breezing past your snark, “discussions are ongoing to extend my contract.”

“Okay…”

“You probably haven’t been watching” – when he says this, you shift uncomfortably – “but the season is going well. The team… well, they want to extend my contract three years.”

Frowning slightly, you pick at the blanket. “Cool. Congratulations.”

Truthfully, all you can think about is why he decided to call and tell you this. Surely, there must be someone else in Jimin’s life to share things with by now. This thought pierces a shattered piece of your heart, but you push past it.

“Yeah,” Jimin says. “Well, the thing is… I’m heading home for Christmas next weekend. Before I sign an extension, I need to tell my parents.”

Despite yourself, you wince. “Ah.”

Ah is an understatement. When Jimin was injured last year, it ushered in a stressful period. He’d been hurt before on the team, but never like this. Always, the team’s doctors patched him up and shoved him back on the ice with minimal consequences. Like the sports commentators said, when Jimin was injured last year, his career faced uncertainty.

A herniated neck disc is bad under normal circumstances, but for someone whose livelihood is their body, it’s downright terrifying. After seeing a bevy of doctors, Jimin realized he needed surgery. Fairly invasive surgery, with at least a six-month window for recovery. Jimin was told he’d definitely be out for the season, and that possibly he’d skated for the last time.

Last year held a lot of uncertainty, moments when Jimin wavered between fear and positivity. Through everything, you tried to provide support, but this wasn’t the case with everyone in his life. His parents were supportive about the surgery but wanted Jimin to quit hockey. They’d always been wary of the profession, although they ultimately supported what Jimin wanted. Last year changed their perspective.

You witnessed his mom flat-out beg him to quit several times. Jimin had played in the NHL for six years already and was a Stanley Cup champion. They didn’t understand what else Jimin wanted, but in your opinion, Jimin didn’t need anything. He was a hockey player, plain and simple. Asking him to stop was unfathomable.

His parents backed off once Jimin’s contract was extended for only a year. Jimin promised he’d reconsider whether to continue this fall.

“Shit,” you mutter.

“Exactly.” His tone is heavy. “Shit.”

You hesitate, drawing your blankets up to your chin. “I’m sorry, Jimin, but… I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“Right. So, here’s the thing. You see, I haven’t actually… I mean, it never really came up, so…”

Understanding slowly dawns. “Jimin,” you say. “What didn’t come up?”

His line muffles until he reappears, inhaling deeply. “Right, so. I… haven’t told my family that we broke up.”

Loud ringing fills your ears.

“You… what?”

“I was just so – busy, in the fall. We broke up right when the season started, and I was juggling practice and therapy, and then we ended and I just… I don’t know! I didn’t tell them. I kept putting it off, saying it’d be better to tell them in person, but now… I don’t know, Y/N,” he exhales. “I don’t have a good answer for you, I’m sorry.”

Gripping your phone, you stare at the ceiling. On the one hand, you don’t blame Jimin for putting off this conversation. Every phone call you had to explain the break-up was awful. Your sister cried and insisted on flying out, but her house was being renovated and you insisted she stay. Namjoon and Yoongi were somehow worse. Jimin hadn’t done anything, so they couldn’t bash him as a person, but they did insist he’d come to regret it. You weren’t so sure.

The fact that Jimin managed to avoid this makes you irrationally angry. Just like when you were dating, Jimin sidestepped the hard conversations.

“Okay, that sucks,” you say stiffly. “But I still don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“Y/N.” Jimin exhales. “I’m going home next week without you. I’m going to have to say we broke up, whether I want to or not. I also am crushing their dreams and saying I plan to extend my contract. My family loves you,” he adds, voice breaking. “My dad tosses around future names for our kids. My mom keeps saying she booked the lodge for our wedding, and I really don’t know whether she’s kidding or not. How –”

“Jimin,” you rush, cutting him off. “Stop.”

He ceases talking immediately, and you focus on breathing. Every word has your heart in a vice grip, squeezing out any progress made before this call. This time last year, you thought his family would one day be yours. You wanted everything Jimin is saying, and it hurts, remembering he walked away from all that.

“I… I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I know I have no right to ask this, but… Y/N, will you come?”

Your lips part. Jimin can’t possibly mean what you think he’s saying. And even if he does mean that, there’s no way you can accept. You’d never recover.

“I haveto tell them about the contract,” he says, sounding tired. “The team gave me a deadline of January, but I know they want an answer soon. Which means… Y/N, I can’t tell them we broke up. Not yet – not now,” he adds. “I promise to explain in the new year.”

“Jimin… I don’t think I can.”

You hesitate though, and you know Jimin hears. Honestly, from the moment the words left his lips, you can’t stop picturing it. The two of you broke up so fast, you never had the opportunity to grieve everything you left behind. Jimin’s family was a big part of that.

“I promise it won’t be weird,” Jimin says, and you huff. “Okay, well – I promise to make this as not weird as possible. I just… I’m sorry, Y/N. This was a stupid idea.”

Chewing your lower lip, you stare out your window. You shouldn’t entertain this but find that you are. The obvious answer is no. For your own sanity, and the progress you’ve made – but then again, what progress? Three months of therapy and distance, and still, you break into tears at the sight of an ice skate.

Trying to date again was a bust. You can’t possibly hurt less than you do now, and moreover, you genuinely care about Jimin’s family. The Parks always welcomed you in a way your own family never has.

Obviously, you love your parents. They’ve always been good to you but are frequently absent and your sister is kind, but vastly different from you and nearly a decade older. Christmas with your family is nice, comfortable but never chaotic. Never loud, never bustling and never as warm as Christmas with the Parks.

When you broke up, you lost not only Jimin, but the future you’d built together. It’s hard letting go of that overnight, and you wonder if a final trip would help you say goodbye. For months, you’ve responded to texts from Jimin’s mom and sister, Jisoo, with some confusion, and now you know why. They had no idea you and their son broke up.

“Please, Y/N,” Jimin says. “I know I don’t deserve you saying yes, but… I had to ask.”

This, more than anything, convinces you to accept. Towards the end of your relationship, you were practically begging to know what he wanted. Jimin always refused. He said he didn’t want to burden you with his problems, and instead, they grew in the space between you.

Hearing him ask for help stirs something deep down you thought were long buried.

“Fine,” you blurt. Jimin’s end of the call goes silent, forcing you to examine the phone again. “Hello?” you ask, returning it to your ear. “Jimin?”

“Yeah.” His voice trembles. “Sorry – I’m here. I just think I hallucinated because I thought you said yes.”

Although you roll your eyes, your lips twitch. “You heard right, Park. I’ll do it.”

“… are you sure?”

“Are you seriously trying to talk me out of this?”

“No, no!” Jimin blurts. “I’m sorry. I just – okay, cool.” He clears his throat once, then twice. “You won’t regret this, Y/N.”

“Yeah, we’ll see,” you mutter.

“I’m flying home next Thursday and staying until the day after Christmas. Does that work for you, or do you already have plans…?”

You shake your head. “I wasn’t planning on going home this year.”

Jimin pauses, and you can practically hear all his questions. Thankfully, he chooses to ask none. “Okay,” he continues. “So, do you want to fly together? I’ll get our tickets.”

Momentarily, you panic because you were just telling Namjoon you don’t have money for a last-minute trip to visit your sister. On the other hand, you really don’t want to owe Jimin anything.

“That’s not necessary,” you say quickly. “I can get my own flight.”

“Y/N.” His tone books no argument. “You’re the one doing me the favor. The least I can do is buy your plane ticket – please.”

“Well… okay,” you say, knowing you don’t have a choice. Dropping a huge amount of money on a last-minute flight isn’t in the budget.

“I can pick you up, and we can head to the airport together next Thursday?”

Frowning, you pick at a thread of your blanket. When you were dating, Jimin was your chauffeur. Not many people have cars in the city, but he does in case the team practices further out. You also hate to drive, something he seems to recall.

“That’s probably not a good idea,” you admit. “I can have Yoongi drive me, or something.”

“Y/N…”

“No, it’s fine,” you say, sounding more confident than you feel. “Or I can take the train. Either way. You probably have practice that day anyways, right?”

“Yes, but –”

“Then it’s settled,” you declare. “We meet at the airport. Okay?”

Sensing this to be a hard line, Jimin exhales. “Alright. I’ll email you the plane ticket tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Great.” He pauses. “And seriously, thank you. I promise I’ll make this as easy as possible. If you don’t want to see my family, that’s fine – we can say you have a big project, or something. That’s what I was planning to say, but my mom kept asking when you were coming and Jisoo was excited, and…”

“You just couldn’t tell them,” you finish. Honestly, you understand. It hurt nearly as much as breaking up, explaining over and over to people. “I don’t mind. I want to see your family.”

“Okay, well.” Jimin clears his throat. “I should probably get back to bed.”

“Probably. Talk to you later, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

There’s another long pause while you wait for him to hang up or say something else. Neither happens, and your heart thumps louder.

“Well, goodnight,” you prompt.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

The depth in his voice prompts a shiver as you hang up. Staring at your TV, your stomach slowly sinks as the conversation washes over you.

Jimin called.

He called you for the first time since the breakup, spoke to you (mostly) without bitterness and asked you to come home for the holidays. Which you agreed to.

Groaning, you grab a throw pillow to bury your face in the cushion. With dread, you realize this means you'll be forced to discuss the reasons why you broke up. Maybe when you wake up, this will all be a dream. A stupid, wishful dream that Jimin called and needed you.

Or rather – he needed something from you, you remind yourself as you head to bed. Needing something from you is different than needing you. And yet, you find yourself wishing they were one and the same. One short conversation and you find yourself right back where you were in September.

If you learned anything tonight, it’s that you’re not ready to date again.

And that when Jimin calls, you continue to answer.

Jimin has never been good at saying the things that matter.

Other things, he’s good at. Jimin’s classmates voted him most likely to host a talk show in high school, and his team routinely shoves him into front of the press after games. Jimin easily converses with strangers or friends, mostly due to his talent of turning the conversation on others.

Regardless of whether they’ve been friends for weeks or years, Jimin is good at making people feel connected. Once the conversation ends though, the person might look back and realize they only talked about themselves. They’ll realize Jimin laughed, asked probing questions and avoided sharing anything personal.

This is something his therapist pointed out the week after you broke up with him. Actually – Dr. Nygard would take issue with that phrasing. You didn’t break up with Jimin. You brought up a difficult conversation and asked for a break, both of which Jimin didn’t want to hear.

Exhaling deeply, he tears his thoughts from the past. Shaking his head, Jimin stuffs his hands in his pockets to stare out the window. Perforated glass separates him from the curb, dulling the cacophony of outside honking. Holiday travel is in full swing, with Christmas Eve only four days away.

Shifting his weight backwards, Jimin idly hopes you bought a warmer coat. For two winters, he’s nudged you to purchase and for two winters, he’s been overruled. You promised to let him buy you a parka this Christmas, only for… well.

Jaw tight, Jimin glances over his shoulder. He should have insisted on driving you to the airport. He should have said a lot of things Saturday night that he didn’t; Jimin has replayed the conversation often since you two hung up. Opening with jealousy probably wasn’t the best. Pinning the entire idea on his family and not saying once how much he missed you, how badly he messed up – that was the biggest mistake of all.

Despite his assurances, Jimin knows this will likely end badly. Not for you, but for him.

Jimin isn’t an actor, and he can only pretend for so long not to be in love with you. Even with a best-case scenario, his family won’t suspect you’re broken up, but you won’t end up together. When you return after Christmas, Jimin will go to his apartment alone.

A familiar blue SUV stops at the curb, momentarily hidden behind a throng of people. The moment they clear, Jimin spots a cat meme bumper sticker plastered across the window. Definitely Yoongi. The passenger door cracks open, only to pause. Through tinted glass, Jimin makes out the shape of your head, but–

His entire body stiffens. Did you cut your hair?

A moment later, the door opens, and you step outside. Yoongi exits as well, heading for the trunk to pop it open. Reaching inside, he grasps your large suitcase to set on the curb. Patting him once, you immediately pull Yoongi in for a hug and Jimin’s thoughts sour.

Jimin knows Yoongi. Jimin likes Yoongi – he also likes Namjoon, your two closest friends. They’ve even hung out without you, but right now, Jimin feels nothing but jealousy. Yoongi looks put together in a navy pea coat, glancing at the airport with noticeable suspicion. His hair is longer, curled behind his ears and multiple women on the curb are staring.

On instinct, Jimin glances at his old parka. Warmer, yes, but not as enticing.

When you pull back from the hug, Jimin realizes his fists are clenched. Shaking his head, Yoongi glances at the airport and says something you seem to disagree with, based on your expression. Brows pinched, you respond and Yoongi exhales. He hugs you once more, then shuts the trunk and heads for the driver’s side.

Jimin doesn’t realize he’s staring until you start walking towards him. Whirling around, he takes a couple steps backwards to steady himself. He needs the perfect opening line. Something to break the ice, letting you know this isn’t weird – something that isn’t, hey, Y/N, I love you!

A hand taps his shoulder, and Jimin turns.

“Hi,” you blurt, stuffing your hands in your pockets.

You’re still wearing the same wool trench coat. This is the first thing Jimin notices, and then his brain stutters. Words flash through his mind – gorgeous, beautiful – until they refract with each other to form a single concept. You look the same and yet, different – Jimin can’t quite put a finger on it. Your hair is shorter, but that’s not causing the dissonance.

Something in his chest tightens. “Hey,” Jimin blurts, the blandest opening ever uttered. So much for all his planning. “Um, how was the traffic?”

You attempt a weak smile. “Hellish. What else?”

Jimin chuckles, the sound slipping past before he can stop it. Something unsteady flashes in your gaze, gone before he can dissect it.

“So, uh.” Jimin looks at the baggage counter. “Do you want to check your suitcase, or…?”

“Oh. Yeah,” you say, reaching for your bag.

Before you can grasp it, Jimin swoops in to grab the handle. Wheeling it easily, he pulls this in the direction of the ticket counter. He already checked himself in, but you’ll need to show your ID to the attendant for your ticket.

Quickening your stride, you glance sideways. “I could have done that.”

“I know.” Jimin flips the handle around. “But coach said to lift weights while I’m gone. I figure this counts.”

You snort, disguising it as a cough. “I won’t hear your judgment on this. What did you bring – a couple black t-shirts? One sweater? Meanwhile, Ihave an entire skin regimen, hair care ritual and different shoes for each outfit.”

“And how many outfits did you bring? You know we’re only there for four days.”

“Yes, but I need nicer clothes for the evening, and the Christmas Eve party – that’s happening, right?” you add, glancing sideways. “I assumed but wasn’t sure.”

“It is.” Jimin nods. “You could have texted, you know.”

Your face screams disagreement. “I guess.”

Wheeling your suitcase into an empty line, Jimin pretends he didn’t hear. You realize which line you’re in a second too late, stopping in your tracks halfway.

“Jimin,” you hiss, grabbing his sleeve. “This is for first class. The real line is over there.”

“I know,” he says and continues. “I bought us first class.”

Your jaw drops, hesitating another moment before rushing to catch up. The attendant at the counter greets you, taking your passport with a sincere smile. Jimin shifts his weight, subtly glancing over his shoulder. Several people in the main line have noticed their presence – one guy has even whipped out his phone.

Leaning an elbow on the counter, Jimin conceals you from view. “Charlotte,” he says lowly. “I know you’re going as fast as you can, but could you wrap things up in the next minute or so? We’re getting some attention.”

“Of course!” she chirps, wrapping a hand around your suitcase to place on the belt. Handing over your ticket, she beams. “First class TSA pre-check is through those doors. Have a wonderful holiday!”

Thanking her warmly, Jimin places a hand on your lower back and guides you away. Left with only your backpack and purse, you move a lot faster towards TSA.

Still, you huff as you stare at your ticket. “First class – really, Jimin?” you say, removing your purse. “And last minute? That must have cost a fortune!”

Entering the line, Jimin places his coat on the belt. “It was necessary,” he says. “We were only in that line for a minute, and someone was already filming.”

Startled, you glance around, but the person is out of view. Jimin faces forward, fishing his keys and wallet from pockets to place in a tray.

In the past, Jimin didn’t mind being recognized. Usually, this was accompanied by something fun, like ‘congratulations on the game’ or a request for an autograph. Occasionally people crossed a line but for the most part, recognition was good. After last year, recognition turned to cell phones shoved in his face. Angry words insisting he personally tanked the last year for the Blackhawks. Invasive questions about therapy, his return and whether he’d ever play hockey again.

Jimin started disliking the attention soon after. Placing his tray on the belt, he hears a loud gasp behind him.

“No way!” someone blurts. “Is that – oh my god, are you Jimin Park?”

Fumbling slightly, Jimin starts to feel clammy – until your hand appears, steadying his elbow.

“No photographs,” you say brightly. “Mr. Park’s exclusive photography rights are owned by the Blackhawks, and as their legal representative, I will sue for payment. Phones down. Thank you.”

With an iron grip, you steer Jimin towards the x-ray machine, where he shudders a breath.

“Thanks,” Jimin mutters, shaking his head.

“No problem.” Realizing you’re touching, you swiftly withdraw. “I didn’t realize… well, I know things were intense. I didn’t know they’d gotten worse.”

“A little,” Jimin says, and then pauses. “I had to move.”

“What?” You glance at him, startled. “To where?”

“I –”

Leaving the line at security, Jimin realizes the couple behind you are following. Jerking his chin to the left, he silently points them out and sees your face darken. Subtly, you move closer and lower your voice.

“What now?” you ask.

“Oh my god!” Someone else gasps. “Is that Jimin Park?!”

“Run,” Jimin blurts, grabbing your hand.

Your fingers curl around his, something there’s no time to linger on while plunging into the crowd. Still holding hands, you weave between people and suitcases. Most don’t even attempt to stop you, too busy worrying about their departure time. That’s one thing Jimin likes about airports. Everyone is usually in a rush, not just celebrities.

It doesn’t take long to lose their pursuers, arriving at the lounge in record time. Smoothly, the doors open to admit your entrance. Handing over his ticket, Jimin is forced to withdraw his hand, something he does with great reticence. Worse, you take a pointed step away as you enter the elevator.

Doors open on the second floor, revealing the lounge reserved for first class. Most of the chairs are empty or populated by aging businesspeople, spurring an exhale of relief from Jimin.

Spotting the well-stocked bar, you drop your backpack and head in this direction.

“I need a drink,” you mutter as you pass.

Sensing you need alone time, Jimin elects not to follow. Instead, he sinks into the chair beside yours and folds his parka in two. Stupidly, he decided to check most of his things in his suitcase. The only entertainment he has for the long flight is his phone.

Returning to the seat beside him, you take a large sip from a glass of red wine.

Jimin watches you curiously. “What were you arguing about with Yoongi?”

The words slip past before he can stop them, although inward, he cringes. Jimin is supposed to convince you he’s different, show you things have changed, and instead, his first observation is jealousy.

Your gaze cuts sideways. “He thinks I’m being stupid,” you say. “And I have to admit, he’s not wrong.”

“Stupid for… coming with me for the holidays?”

Rueful, you nod. “Well… I’m embellishing somewhat. Yoongi just said this is a bad idea. I added the stupid part.”

“Ah,” Jimin says, falling silent.

Honestly, both of you are probably right. Since leaving the car, nothing has gone to plan. Jimin was supposed to wow you with how together he is. Show you he’s trying to communicate his feelings. Apologize for everything that went wrong in September. Instead, he’s done nothing but fumble and appear slightly out of control.

Being around you though, drags him right back to that night. Crisp air, as he came home from practice after two weeks apart. Jimin’s entire body ached, having left physical therapy after hours of practice. When he walked in and saw you seated at the kitchen table, Jimin just knew.

He knew whatever you said, things wouldn’t stay the same.

Shaking his head, Jimin ends that thought in its tracks. There’s no point ruminating on the past. All he can do now is move forward.

You showed up. That’s a start.

Leaning forward, Jimin’s knee brushes yours. Immediately, you stiffen and Jimin’s gaze lifts. “I am sorry for making you do this,” he says. “But I can’t lie, I'm glad you agreed, even if Yoongi is right and this is a bad idea.”

“I know.” Your gaze darts towards him. “That’s partly why I agreed.”

Jimin tilts his head, curious, and you sigh.

“Never mind,” you mutter, lifting your glass.

Sensing he won’t get an answer, Jimin spreads his legs and looks out the window. Technically, the Blackhawks are playing tonight, but his coach insisted he sit this game out. Last weekend, Jimin was slammed roughly into the boards. Nothing bad happened, just a bruised tailbone, but apparently, his coach saw the entire season flash before his eyes. Jimin has been allowed to practice but not play until after Christmas. Better than having him out during the playoffs, argued his coach.

Picking up his phone, Jimin scrolls through his texts, then sets it back down. He doesn’t know why he bothered – only a handful of people have his real number, and the only person whose message he wants is seated beside him.

Turning to face you, Jimin clears his throat. “We should talk about this weekend,” he says, arranging himself in the seat.

“Alright.” Leaning forward, you set down your glass. “What about?”

“I don’t know.” Jimin blinks. “Don’t you want to know what we’re doing?”

You shrug, and the faintest of irritation colors his thoughts. God, it hurts just to see you. To have you so close and not be able to touch you. Not to be able to say how he feels. Worse, these feelings are tinged with bitterness, recalling the hurtful words you said as you left. Jimin does his best to separate the past from the present, but he’s only human.

“We won’t get there until late tonight,” he says stiffly. “We have a connection from Seattle, and then I’ll get the rental car.”

Nodding, you take a light sip of your wine. “Sounds good.”

“Tomorrow, we’ll probably rest at the house. Hoseok texted something about the twins wanting to make gingerbread houses, but he was trying to get out of it.”

Your lips tighten. “Okay.”

“Saturday, my mom mentioned going to the Christmas market. It’ll be in full swing, but I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure it will.”

He leans closer. “Sunday is the Christmas Eve party.”

“Okay.”

“Then Monday, it’s Christmas.”

“Yep.”

“Tuesday, we’re all doing the polar plunge in the lake.”

“Sure th–” You whip your head sideways. “Wait, what?”

Jimin smirks and sits back. “Just checking.”

“Checking what?” Scowling, you finish your wine. “If I was listening? Turns out, I was.”

“You gave one-word answers.”

“And?” Briskly, you set down the glass. “Jimin. This is basically the first time we’ve spoken since we broke up. How do you want me to act? It’s hard enough seeing you without… without all this pretending.”

Jimin’s heart sinks. “Pretending?”

“To date.” Your gaze darts to his, then away. “Why? What did you think I meant?”

“Nothing.” He hesitates. “I know. I’m sorry. I just…” Jimin hesitates before reluctantly choosing the coward’s way out. “My family will never believe this if we aren’t at least cordial.”

You frown at the empty wine glass, then slowly exhale, and turn sideways to face him.

“Fine.” You fold your arms over your chest. “Let’s declare a truce.”

“A truce?”

You jerk your chin in a nod. “Yes. We pretend the last three months didn’t happen. Maybe we went through a rough patch, but nothing more. I never moved out. You never asked to break up.”

Heat flares up his spine. “I think you meant, you never asked for a break.”

“A truce,” you grind out, each word sounding painful. “Okay?”

“Fine.”

As much as he missed you, Jimin knows there are things to discuss. How you two ended, for one. The reason neither of you called, for another. Each small hurt compounded, becoming insurmountable until he couldn’t separate you from the rest. There’s so much to discuss – but Jimin can’t quite wrap his mind around the fact that you’re here.

He missed your intensity, that look in your eye when you know you’re right. Take now, for example. A tiny, prideful part of Jimin hoped that once you arrived, this all would be solved. He should’ve known better. Dr. Nygard would have cautioned him to know better. Time doesn’t solve anything; it just dulls the pain.

Before Jimin can say anything more, a monotone voice announces your gate is boarding. Panicked, you bolt upright and reach for your backpack. Fighting a smile, Jimin stands as well, grabbing your purse from the ground where you left it.

Following you to the elevators, he wordlessly hands it over when the doors open.

“Oh!” you blurt, accepting this from his hand. “I could’ve sworn – shit. Thanks, Jimin,” you murmur, facing away.

Jimin nods and stands beside you, ignoring the pang of familiarity this brings. He can’t count the number of times you left your phone or your wallet behind while you were dating. Despite your brilliancy, mundane things like purse or coat placements seldom seem to occur to you. Almost like you exist on a separate plane, one which only occasionally overlaps with this one.

The airport beyond is in full holiday swing. Jimin navigates as quickly as possible, reaching your gate as first class is boarding. Flashing your tickets, he falls into step alongside you as you head down the long walkway.

Jimin takes the window seat, while you take the aisle. Many vacations have taught Jimin that this is the ideal combination. You hate being cold, and without fail, will use the bathroom one hour into the flight.

Although you don’t say much as you taxi, you also don’t bicker – which Jimin supposes is positive. Once the plane is in flight, you take out an eye mask and make a vampiric attempt at sleeping upright. Lips twitching, Jimin orders a glass of whiskey and opens the novel app on his phone.

He’s midway through a chapter when your head, soft and heavy, falls on his shoulder. Surprised, Jimin looks down and immediately stills.

Even asleep, you’re beautiful.

Jimin nearly laughs, imagining your expression were he to ever say that. You’d call him a liar, saying you’re well-aware you drool when you sleep. Despite this, your expression is peaceful. The crease between your brows has lessened and dimly, Jimin wonders if he was the cause.

Idly, he reaches out to smooth a piece of hair from your neck. Fingers freezing, Jimin jerks his hand back and wonders what the hell he’s doing.

He used to be able to simply ask why you’re stressed, and you’d tell him. Jimin supposes he stopped being that person long before you broke up, though. The year after his accident, he had a hard time expressing the full depth of his pain. It wasn’t until later he realized the ripple effect this had on his life. People won’t confide in someone who doesn’t confide in them. As Dr. Nygard often says, trust works both ways.

Leaving your head on his shoulder, Jimin returns to his phone and tries to read. It’s a five-hour flight from Chicago to Seattle, and he spends this entirety reading less than fifty pages.

Partly, Jimin is distracted by your proximity and your fancy shampoo. Partly, he’s obsessing over what to say to his parents when he lands. With you here, there’s nothing to think about except the upcoming conversation.

Growing up, his parents never wanted him to play hockey. Jimin was put in the sport begrudgingly when his best friend, Jungkook, begged his parents for lessons. As the years passed and it became clear Jimin was talented, his parents were resigned but worried. Jimin can’t really blame them.

Hockey is dangerous. Jimin knows this firsthand, even if it wasn’t made obvious by the amount of gear players wear. It was hard enough, recovering from an injury without having to convince his main supporters the profession was worthwhile. For a long time, Jimin’s life felt like an endless cycle of doctors, surgeons, therapists and arguing.

Some experts doubted he’d ever play again, sending him into a spiral. Traumatic incidents often spark anxiety or depression, Dr. Nygard explained. For a while, Jimin didn’t know how to talk – to you or to anyone – about what happened that day. He was a hockey player, for God’s sake. He should have been used to getting injured, but last November was different.

Never had Jimin fallen and not been sure he’d get up. Shakily, Jimin exhales and glances down at your face.

The week you left, Jimin hit his rock bottom. It may not have looked that way to everyone, but to Jimin, it was the first time he saw he wasn’t in control. After the requisite therapy by his team, Jimin stopped going. He found a new therapist after you left, searching for a new doctor who really cared.

Now, Jimin knows there are no easy fixes. Self-change is a purposeful effort that takes sustained work. At least now, he feels equipped for the process. Before you left, he felt unworthy of change and so, he pushed you away.

When you gently snore, Jimin glances down. Hiding his smile, he reaches across you to adjust your blanket. Slowly, he withdraws and his smile fades. Before you arrived, Jimin had a plan. Said plan involved him getting on his knees and begging you for forgiveness, but everything changed when he saw your face.

You don’t trust him.

And really, why would you? The truth is, Jimin shut you out for months before you finally sat down and asked for a break. And his immediate response was you might as well break up.

Releasing a breath, Jimin sits back in his seat. For the rest of the flight, he tries not to think about what comes next. The work he must put in to earn your forgiveness. Instead, he simply enjoys the weight of your head on his shoulder.

When the wheels hit the ground, you’ve dozed for nearly four hours. Groggily, you lift your head as the plane lights come on.

“I – oh!” you blurt, jerking upward. “I’m so sorry,” you gasp, staring at a spot on his shoulder. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“Par for the course.” Jimin attempts a joke, and you manage to smile.

People crowd the aisles, and Jimin pulls you past them to exit first. Your connecting flight is on the opposite side of the terminal, forcing you to jog to make it in time. Seattle is the closest major airport to home, but if time is tight, a smaller flight is usually worthwhile. The drive to Garland, Washington can be upwards of five hours with traffic.

The second flight you take is small. Small enough to board directly from the tarmac. Jimin watches your suitcases brought onto the plane and exhales, knowing this is an eighty-twenty chance of success.

Approaching the stairs, he takes your backpack in one hand.

“I can take that, Jimin,” you say lowly.

“I know.” He ducks his head as he boards. “But from here on out, I’m your boyfriend – right? It’d be weird to let you carry your bags.”

Shaking your head, you follow him up the steps. “Your family isn’t even here, Jimin.”

Walking down the aisle, Jimin locates his seat and sinks down with your backpack. Carefully, he stows this beneath the seat before him.

“No,” he says as you sit beside him. “But everyone here is headed to Garland. Can’t hurt to start now, can it?”

“I guess not.” Setting your purse down, you turn sideways. “What am I walking into, anyways?”

“What do you mean?”

Aimless, you wave. “You mentioned a rough patch between us. Do they think that we’re fighting? Why… I mean, how have you been explaining my absence? Haven’t they noticed I haven’t been at your games?”

Jimin glances down, feeling queasy. “Well, that’s easy,” he mutters. “They haven’t been watching, so no, they haven’t noticed your absence. I’ve been avoiding my family, telling them that I’m busy. They probably suspect we’re having problems,” Jimin admits. “But I said you were coming, and they all seemed excited.”

When you say nothing, Jimin glances over and finds your brow furrowed.

“They haven’t been watching your games?” you ask.

“Can you blame them? My mom… she said she didn’t want to watch me get hurt again.”

Your lips press together, and Jimin can sense your disapproval. The night of his accident, you were there, in the crowd. If anyone understands the horror of watching, it would be you. And yet, you accompanied him in the ambulance, sat with him in every waiting room, brought him changes of clothes and new books to read.

“Hm,” you murmur, facing forward.

Jimin’s lips twitch. “Come on,” he says, poking you lightly. “What do you really want to say?”

You inhale deeply, and Jimin’s gaze drops to the front of your sweater. Dragging his eyes upward, he focuses on your mouth. No, no – your eyes.

Which flick to him. “They should be watching. That’s all.”

“Oh, right,” Jimin chuckles, settling back in his seat. “You mean, like you’re watching?”

Before you can say anything, the in-flight safety demonstration starts, and you shake your head and sit back. Jimin stares at your profile, wondering for a moment before he lets it go. Lord knows he checks your Instagram account multiple times a day.

The second flight is shorter, barely reaching cruising altitude before the seatbelt sign is back on for landing. Garland Regional Airport is only big enough for a handful of gates, a single baggage carousel, and a rental car agency. The hour is late enough for no line, and Jimin selects the only SUV remaining on the lot.

You insist on pulling your gigantic suitcase yourself, nearly tripping several times in reaching the car. Gritting his teeth, Jimin forcibly stops himself from trying to help. Even when you were dating, you insisted on reaping the consequences, saying you were the one who made your decisions.

With the suitcases loaded, Jimin enters the driver’s side and plugs in his phone. Service through the mountains is iffy, so it’s a good idea to download the map here. Opposite him, you crank the seat heater higher, wrapping your thin coat tight around your frame.

Gritting his teeth, Jimin loses his battle with self-control. “Here,” he declares, unwrapping his scarf. “Take this.”

You go still when he drapes this over your neck. The tips of Jimin’s fingers brush skin, and he thinks he sees you shiver. Likely, from the cold. Pulling away before his thoughts can run amok, Jimin places both hands firmly on the wheel. Yanking down the visor, he checks behind him, then does absolutely nothing.

Silence ticks by in the car, his heartbeat outrunning the holiday music.

“Hey.” When you touch his arm, Jimin nearly jumps. Glancing sideways, he finds your expression to be gentle. “It’s going to be fine. Okay?” you say. “I promise, we’ll get through this.”

Jimin narrows on your use of the word we, which gives him the strength to nod and face forward. Avoiding his parents won’t solve anything. Just like avoiding talking to you didn’t do him any favors.

Putting the car in reverse, Jimin pulls from the airport and merges onto the road. Garland being the tiny town that it is, the airport road soon transitions to a dirt one which winds its way through the foothills.

The ghost of your handprint lingers on his arm, and Jimin can’t help but hope when this weekend is over, your words will apply to more than his parents.

Bumps in the road rattle your teeth, making you latch onto the door with a death grip. You can see Jimin’s lips twitch, but barely have it in you to scowl. He’s used to these roads, having grown up on them. You, on the other hand, rarely drive if you can help it.

Fingers gripping the handle, you stare out the window at a sea of snow. Despite the car’s bouncing, the fields beyond it are serene. Garland, Washington is just on the other side of the Cascade Mountain range, near the Canadian border. This part of America always amazes you, especially being from the Midwest. In Chicago, everything is flat except for the skyscrapers, and maybe the staircases leading to upper Wacker.

In the West, you can drive past acres of land, only to be surprised by the sharp jut of mountains on the horizon. So tall they seem close from miles away, with rolling foothills at the base where Garland is nestled. The first time you came, you called the hill where his family lives a mountain and Jimin laughed so hard, he nearly walked into a door.

Remembering this, your lips can’t help but twitch. Glancing sideways, your amusement fades as your gaze lands on Jimin. Unfair of him, showing up this weekend looking like that. When you realized it was Jimin in the window of the airport, you almost tripped and fell over your gigantic suitcase.

His dark hair is longer than usual, curling a little behind reddened ears. Even with his gigantic parka, you can tell his fitness routine has amped up. As a hockey player, Jimin is contractually obligated to stay in shape, but this is something else. He even had the gall to put on reading glasses before the flight, something which necessitated your sleep mask – and promptly fall asleep, only to drool on his shoulder.

Cringing again, you force your gaze forward. If Jimin was feeling sentimental, there’s no doubt he’s regretting this vacation now. In fact, there have been several times today you wondered if Jimin was contemplating sending you home. Not that you’d blame him. This idea is terrible at best, but now you’ve committed. If Jimin wants you to go, he’ll have to ask you himself.

Something he’s proven he has no problem doing.

Stiffening, you drag your thoughts from the past. You only need to make it one weekend. One weekend, and then you can – well. Thinking too much of the future is dangerous. Yoongi and Namjoon were right in their caution, warning you not to come. Not for the reasons one might think. They like Jimin, and have always thought him a good guy, but they were the ones who saw you after. They were the ones who picked up the pieces when he left, and you know they’re afraid you’ll shatter again.

Hell, you’re afraid you might shatter and yet, here you are. Speeding down a dark road in the country at night. A metaphor oddly related to the state of your heart.

Hitting a bump, the car jostles again and Jimin reaches for you on reflex. Gaze darting towards you, he swiftly withdraws, brushing his scarf in the process.

“Sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” you mumble, sinking lower. As circumspect as possible, you take a deep breath. Jimin’s scarf smells just like him – black pepper and cedar, with the faintest hint of pine.

Rounding the bend, the trees clear and his house comes into view. For the first time since the airport, a frisson of excitement enters your stomach. You never really understood the appeal of the holidays until the Parks. Although they’re not religious, they truly adore the cultural Christmas spirit. Each time you visit, you’re surrounded by the feeling of home, love, and family.

When you and Jimin ended, you thought you’d never feel like that again. This weekend – and what comes next – might be worth it, if only to feel that once more.

Pulling to a stop in the drive, Jimin unplugs his phone and turns off the car. He hesitates a long moment before turning sideways.

“Okay,” he says. “Is there anything I should know before we go in there?”

You blink. “Like what?”

“Like, I don’t know.” Jimin lowers his voice, a dark piece of hair falling over his forward. “Any projects you’ve been working on – cool cosplay for your socials?”

His words make you swallow, struck by the reminder that he isn’t yours. For a moment, you nearly forgot.

“Um.” Searching, your gaze is drawn by the lights of the house. “Nothing much. I have a few demanding clients, but that’s pretty normal. Fantasy High season three is coming out, so I’ve been brushing off Dimension 20 cosplay. What about you? How’s training?”

Jimin frowns. “Good. Bruised my tailbone last Sunday, so I’m sitting out games for the next two weeks. I bought a new apartment.”

“You what?” Startled, you fully face him. Inside the house, you think you see shadows cross the front window, but that fades in importance. “You – when? Where are you living now?”

Jimin slides his phone in his parka. “It’s not a big deal,” he mutters. “I just… didn’t need that much space.”

He pauses, the words lingering but he doesn’t say more. Shutting your jaw, you face forward. After four years of dating, you’re familiar by now with Jimin’s many silences. This one means he has more to say but can’t fathom how.

The center of your chest feels hollow, stale in a way you can’t explain. When the two of you ended, you were the one to move out, but regretted it instantly. When you lived together, you hated the way his door squeaked, the radiator that hissed, but the moment you left, it all had a rosy glow. Your one-bedroom apartment on the north side is nothing to brag about; you’ve barely decorated that place for a reason.

“West Loop,” Jimin answers.

Your eyes widen. “Well… that’s fancy.”

Accusation laces the words, and you don’t try to hide it. Jimin used to make fun of his teammates who lived in fancier parts of Chicago.

“It’s closer to practice,” he argues. “And it’s not like –”

The porch light turns on, and the front door flings open.

“Jimin!” calls his mom, rushing outside. “Y/N! Is that you?”

Head jerking up, you recognize your audience at the same time as Jimin. Slamming down walls, you do your best to paste a smile on your face. The entire reason you came here was to convince Jimin’s family you’re still together. You can hardly do that while bickering about where he lives.

“Y/N,” he says lowly.

“Save it,” you blurt, pushing open the door. Immediately, you sink your foot into a snowbank. “Ah!” you blurt, hopping around – only to stumble, face-first, into Jimin. Catching you easily, he shuts the door with one hand.

“This way,” he says. Sliding his hand into yours, Jimin pulls you towards the house. Noticing your glance at the car, he adds, “My dad and I will get the suitcases after. Let’s just say hi to my mom.”

Your foot is damp and tingling, stifling any urge you had to stay. Limping up the front steps to the porch, you reciprocate when arms are thrown around your waist. Jimin’s mom is one of the sweetest – and shortest – people you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Pulling back, she holds you at arms-length. “Y/N, you are just too beautiful,” she sighs. “If I didn’t know better, I’d never believe you were on a seven-hour flight.”

Jimin chuckles, stepping past you to hold open the door. “All seven hours weren’t at once, mom,” he teases.

“Are you denying my beauty?” you quip as you pass.

His throat visibly bobs as he swallows, something you choose to ignore for the sake of your sanity. Inside, his mom leads you into the foyer.

Hands on hips, she turns. “And you!” she huffs, stepping forward to squeeze her son. “Not telling us until the last minute that Y/N was coming. I don’t know who raised you, young man.”

Jimin rolls his eyes playfully. “No one in this house, that’s for sure.”

“That was my fault,” you say as you shut the door. Removing your shoes, you set them by the coat rack. “I have a few big projects I’m working on, so I wasn’t sure I could take the time off.”

Breaking free of the hug, Jimin’s mom faces you. “Well, we’re incredibly glad to have you here, but tell us if you need a break this weekend. Even if you need to lock yourself in your room!”

“Thanks, Mrs. Park,” you say sheepishly.

As you unwind the scarf from your neck, the door opens again, letting in a cold gust. Hoseok and Jimin’s dad enter, stamping their feet on the rubber mat. They must have gone out the garage to get your bags, since you recognize your giant suitcase pulled by Hoseok, Jisoo’s husband.

Your stomach bottoms out. “Oops – sorry!” you blurt, rushing towards him. “I was planning to get that. I know that it’s heavy.”

“What, this?” Hoseok jokes, pulling it over the threshold. “Nah, this is light. You should see when Jisoo packs the twins’ suitcases.”

“Careful,” Jimin laughs, hanging up his coat. “Jisoo once heard me tell on her from across the house. She never lets me forget it.”

Dropping Jimin’s bag by the staircase, his dad crosses the room to hug you with one arm. “It’s so good to have you here, Y/N,” he says.

“Likewise,” you say, smiling faintly.

Setting down your suitcase, Hoseok bounds across the hall and scoops you in his arms. Hugging you tight, he imbues the scent of sugar and cinnamon. “Hey, Y/N!” he says, much too loud. “It’s fucking freezing out there.”

“Language!” scolds a familiar voice. “Y/N!” Jisoo cries, rushing forward and shoving her husband aside. Her arms wrap around you. “Thank god you’re here! There’s so much testosterone in this house, it’s unconscionable.”

“It’s literally just me and your dad,” Hoseok points out.

Trapped in Jisoo’s arms, you watch him and Jimin’s dad lug your suitcase upstairs.

“Yeah, like I said – too much,” Jisoo grumbles and releases. She looks you up and down. “Ugh, I agree with my mom. Why do you look hot at the airport, Y/N?”

You can’t help but laugh, warmth spreading through your chest the longer you stand there. Jimin leans on the banister, watching all this with a half-smile. If this were the airport, or the plane, you could have followed your instinct to look away. All that saved you from crumbling on the flight was your ability to avoid eye contact.

Here, though – you’re supposed to be in love with Jimin. Which you are. Except you shouldn’t be. Except right now, it’s okay to be and so, you look back. Locking eyes with him, you smile and Jimin’s face transforms.

He smiles so large, his eyes near-disappear, carving the hollow inside your chest even deeper. Before you can comment, tiny footsteps thunder down the long hall. Jisoo and Hoseok’s daughters, Hana and Ari, speed around the corner, catching themselves before they trip.

“Uncle Jimin!” they squeal, rushing forward.

Jimin bends to scoop them both around the waist. “Oh my gosh,” he groans, tossing them over his shoulders. “You two got even bigger. Soon, you’ll be taller than I am!”

“No, we won’t,” Ari giggles, kicking in mid-air.

Hoseok pops his head down from the landing. “Careful, Jimin,” he warns. “If they throw up down your back, that’s on you.”

Stopping abruptly, Jimin returns them both to the ground. “Did you say hi to Y/N?”

Both whirl to face you. “Y/N!” cry Hana and Ari, running forward.

Laughing, you bend and squish them both. Unlike Jimin, you don’t try to lift them, but just hold them close.

The first time you came for Christmas, Jisoo was pregnant at the time. You’ve watched the twins grow from infants to the three-year-old terrors they are, and honestly, it terrifies you how quickly they age. Followed by sadness, realizing they likely won’t remember you after this trip.

Pulling back, you manage to smile. “Jimin is right,” you say. “You two are going to play basketball for sure.”

Hana giggles loudly. “No, I wanna skate! Like Uncle Jimin!”

Behind her, Jisoo’s smile disappears. Straightening, she glances in the direction of her dad, and you watch Jimin’s father turn pointedly away. He walks down the hall, and Jimin’s mom shakes her head slowly.

Ari continues, blissfully oblivious to the tension in the room. “I’m gonna be on TV, like Y/N!”

Stifling a smile, you push yourself upward. No matter how many times you explain what you do, the twins refuse to believe you aren’t actually the characters you cosplay. At this point, you’ve mostly given up on correcting them.

“What about your mom and dad?” Hoseok jokes, scooping Ari onto his hip. “Don’t you want to be like us?”

“No!” Ari yells, and Hana latches onto Hoseok’s leg.

Hoseok sighs. “Should’ve expected that.”

Hana, already a daddy’s girl, turns her face towards him. “I’ll be a… a…”

“Physical therapist,” Jisoo stage-whispers.

“Yeah!”

Chuckling, Jisoo walks over and picks Hana up. “Okay, enough of that. You were allowed to stay up for Uncle Jimin and Y/N, but now it’s time for bed. Goodnight, everyone!” she calls, heading down the hall. “We’ll see you tomorrow!”

You smile, stifling a yawn as Jisoo and the twins leave. The hour is late, a fact Jimin’s mom seems to realize at the same time.

“Silly me,” she laughs, half-turning. “Have you eaten yet? I have leftovers, or I could whip something up?”

“We ate on the flight,” you respond. “But thank you so much.”

Jimin nods, appearing by your side and slipping a hand to your elbow. “Yeah, thanks, mom. But it’s been a long day of travel. I think we’re just going to head to sleep.”

“Of course, of course.” His mom waves you off. “Darling, will you help them with the bags?” she asks as Jimin’s dad re-enters.

“Oh, that’s not necessary –”

“There’s no use, Y/N,” Jimin says, grabbing your purse as his dad steps in.

Jimin’s dad is a kind, soft-spoken man – much like Jimin, he prefers to let others talk rather than state his own feelings. The fact that he specifically said he didn’t want Jimin to play, you know, impacted Jimin far more than he’d like.

Following them upstairs, you find yourself ensconced in memories. Much like Ebenezer Scrooge, Christmases of long ago rise the further you walk. Mid-way down the hall, your stomach drops when you realize something important.

Entering the door at the end, Jimin’s dad leaves it open. “The room’s been made up,” he calls over his shoulder. “Plenty of towels under the sink but let us know if you need more. Let’s see… there’s toothpaste, shampoo, and conditioner if you forgot any.”

You come to a sudden stop, forcing Jimin to walk directly into you. He stumbles, steadying himself with one hand on your back.

“Y/N.” Jimin lowers his voice. “Are you alright?”

“I…” The words stick in your throat. “Yeah. It’s just… nothing.”

In the center of the room is a single, Queen-sized bed. Somehow, in all your imaginings, you never actually pictured the sleeping arrangements. Every other visit, sharing Jimin’s childhood bedroom-turned-guest room was fine. Now though, you find yourself wondering how this will work.

Setting down Jimin’s suitcase, his dad straightens and dusts off his hands. “Well,” he says, turning around. “I’ll leave you two to settle in. Call if you need anything, alright? So happy you’re here, Y/N,” he adds before stepping outside.

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

After a moment of silence, Jimin crosses the room. He bends to unzip his suitcase and suddenly, you’re overwhelmed with memories. Jimin has always been the type who unpacked as soon as you arrived, whereas you’d live out of your suitcase if you could. Sometimes, you had pity and unpacked with him, while other times, you mercilessly waited and watched him squirm.

The second option seems rife with turmoil, so instead, you drag your giant suitcase aside and unzip. Pulling clothes from a rumpled mess, you grab hangers from the closet to put them away. When you turn around, you catch Jimin watching, crouched beside his suitcase.

His gaze tracks your movements. “You don’t have to unpack, you know.”

“I know.” Grabbing another hanger, you lift a shirt. “I want to.”

“Okay.”

“Besides,” you add, your panic shifting to irritability. “It’s not like I expect you to help anymore. We’re not together.”

“I know.” Jimin is quiet for a moment. “I’d help if you wanted me to.”

Pressing your lips together, you stop yourself from saying something embarrassing. “Maybe we need ground rules,” you blurt as you turn.

Slowly, Jimin rises. “What type of ground rules?”

“You know.” Desperate, you cast your gaze elsewhere. “Like, obviously we’re not going to… sleep together this weekend.”

“In that bed?”

“In any way,” you hiss.

Lifting a brow, Jimin moves closer. It takes everything in you not to meet him halfway. Instead, you tilt your chin upward as he stops before you.

“I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to do,” he agrees.

This only serves to worsen your mood. Of course, Jimin would turn this back on you. “I need to know how to act this weekend,” you demand.

“Act… like yourself.”

“And when we’re alone?” you ask. When he doesn’t respond, you continue, “I think we should only pretend to be a couple around your family.”

The furrow between his brows deepens. “Fine.”

“And agreed to your first rule – no sleeping together.”

A muscle in his jaw tics. “Fine,” Jimin repeats. “I can sleep on the couch.”

Your gaze darts to the worn loveseat shoved under the window. For a moment, you hesitate, since it barely looks large enough to fit Jimin lying down. The thought of him sleeping beside you in the same bed though, is dangerous enough that you nod.

“Okay,” you say.

“Anything else?”

His words are layered with challenge and, hearing this, your gaze narrows. Some of Jimin’s amiability has vanished, leaving behind a version of Jimin you used to enjoy. Not that you ever made him mad on purpose, but Jimin is rarely as honest as when he’s angry. Usually, he’s so concerned with people liking him, it can take immense anger to say what he thinks.

When he’s mad though, the façade slips. Like now – each mild annoyance and irritation is clear on his face. Jimin’s lips twist, his jaw set in a way that sends a thrill down your spine. Oddly enough, you revel in being able to get beneath his skin. It means you affect him, no matter how small.

“Physical contact is fine,” you say, lifting your chin. “Kissing is not.”

“Oh?” Jimin murmurs, tilting his head. “You think my family won’t be suspicious if we don’t kiss the entire time you’re here?”

“Fine,” you amend. “Kissing should be kept to a minimum, though. And no tongue.”

“Suit yourself. Anything else? Last chance to add, before the weekend starts.”

Jimin has moved close enough that you stand nose-to-nose and for a moment, you’re consumed by the urge to close the distance. To dig your fingers into his hair, crush your mouths together and allow him to consume you.

The thought of what comes next is enough to deter you. Deflating, you take a step around him.

“No,” you say softly. “That’s it. I’m getting ready for bed.”

Grabbing your toiletry kit, you head for the bathroom. Jimin doesn’t try to stop you, but you see he remains where he stands as you shut the door. Setting down your bag, you turn on the faucet and grip the counter. Tears burn your eyes, but you blink them away.

You may have made the wrong decision in coming here. Yoongi and Namjoon were right – how can you possibly sit here, pretending nothing happened and return Tuesday to your tiny apartment? Being around Jimin is one hundred times worse than being alone. All you can think about is when you were together, if you were together –

Groaning aloud, you turn. Opening the linen closet, you select a hand towel and go through your night routine as fast as possible. Five more days, you remind yourself while brushing your teeth. You only have to make it for five days.

Turning off the sink, you exit the bathroom and realize you might have been wrong. Five days is an eternity.

Jimin sits on the edge of his sofa, legs spread while scrolling aimlessly through his phone. He isn’t wearing a shirt and for a moment, all you can see is hard muscle. A clearly defined v disappears beneath flannel pants, making your mouth water.

In a moment of true inconvenience, he looks up while you stand there, mouth agape.

Immediately, his eyes widen when he sees you.

Glancing down, you recall the reason why, and your face starts to heat. Jimin bought you this pajama set two years ago for Christmas – purposefully scandalous, made with silk shorts so short they’re practically underwear. On a whim, you packed only revenge sleepwear – something you simultaneously regret and revel in now, seeing the look on his face.

“Goodnight,” you squeak, practically flinging yourself across the room and into bed. Reaching out, you turn off the light and burrow under the covers as quickly as possible.

Each sound in the room seems louder than normal. Jimin’s feet hit the floorboards, then he flicks the bathroom light on, shutting the door with a squeak of the hinges.

More sounds follow. The shower turns on, the curtain is pulled back, and Jimin steps inside as droplets of water hit his naked chest –

“Oh my god,” you moan, turning to muffle your face. “Y/N, get a grip.”

No one answers, unsurprisingly, and you stifle the sounds of the shower with your pillow. Although you expected to lie awake for hours, the exhaustion of the day slips over you easily. By the time Jimin returns, you’re mostly asleep.

You think you hear him say your name, imagine warmth on your forehead and then, nothing. Sleep claims you until daylight.

The next morning, Jimin is awoken by dull pain from his tailbone. Rolling over, he catches himself a split-second before he falls from his bed – which is to say, the old couch in his bedroom. Flopping onto his back, Jimin stares at the ceiling. An unassuming crack splinters above him, spiderwebbing towards the door in dramatic fashion.

No one seems to be up yet, so Jimin attempts to fall back asleep. He’s nearly succeeded when a knock sounds at the door. Jimin doesn’t stir, simply staying put.

“Jimin? Y/N? Are you up?”

Hearing the voice, Jimin’s eyes fly open. Shit. His mom is at the door, and if Jimin knows his family at all, he knows a forced entry is imminent.

Bolting upright, Jimin stumbles off the couch, one foot tangling in the blanket he slept in. Scooping this in one hand, he fairly sprints towards the bed and yanks back the covers. Before he can think twice, he slips beneath the sheets and throws an arm over your waist.

Jimin cringles, expecting you to wake up and berate him for breaking the first rule you gave. Indeed, he’s prepared to defend himself when you do the unthinkable – murmuring gently, you arch and shift backwards.

Jimin goes still. With his arm around your waist, he can feel your soft curves, pressed firmly against him and – fuck. Jimin squeezes his eyes shut, fully embarrassed by his body’s response.

“Jimin?”

The door cracks open, and Jimin exhales.

“We’re up, mom,” he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep. The door halts, and Jimin feels you stiffen beneath him. “Just sleeping in.”

“Oh! Right, yes – I’m sorry, dears. I just wanted to know if you need breakfast!”

“We’ll be down soon,” Jimin calls, tightening his grip when you attempt to wriggle free. Seeming to grasp the hint, you go still.

“Alright!”

The door fully closes, and Jimin exhales.

Half-turning to face him, your eyes narrow. “Jimin, wh–”

“Shh,” he murmurs, keeping you still with that same arm.

You stop moving, gaze lingering and Jimin hopes you don’t notice the front of his sweatpants. While you were dating, one of his favorite ways to wake up was with you in his arms. Entangled, half-asleep and drowsily aware of your need for one another.

Once his mom’s footsteps are gone, Jimin releases his grip. “Sorry,” he mutters, scooting away. “I heard the door open and panicked. Didn’t want them thinking we slept apart.”

“Oh. Right.”

You sound oddly disappointed, although he’s probably imagining that. Jimin valiantly attempts to keep his gaze on your face and not lower, where your excuse-for-pajamas exposes most of your chest. When he bought them for you two years ago, he never dreamt they’d be used in this fashion. Honestly, hat’s off to you if this was a planned torture.

A devious glint enters your eye, and Jimin can almost imagine the look is for him. At least, he thinks he’s imagining things until you move closer. Time seems to slow when your hand lands on his chest.

Jimin inhales, the sound embarrassingly rough. “So–”

“Do–”

You each pause, waiting for the other to finish and Jimin’s neck flushes. “You go,” he murmurs.

“I was just thinking…” Fleeting, you smile. “Do you remember the first time we visited?”

Jimin stifles the urge to cover his face. “Remember?” he groans, rolling onto his back and tugging you with. “Am I ever going to live that down?”

Grin widening, you rest your head on the pillow beside him. “Nope,” you tease. “You were so nervous your family would hear us doing something, you put a pillow barrier in the bed between us. A pillow barrier!” you repeat, dissolving into laughter.

Jimin’s lips twitch. “That did not work.”

“No, it didn’t,” you agree, your gaze bright. “If I remember correctly, I woke up on the last day with your mouth between my legs.”

“If I remember correctly, I had a standing invitation to do so.”

“True. Definitely still my favorite wake-up method.” You abruptly go still, remembering where you are and who you’re with. “I mean,” you rush. “Not that we do that anymore. Or that I like – well, I still like that, but I…”

Although Jimin stays silent, his heart squeezes tighter. The thought of you waking up like that with someone else sends heat through his veins, burning away common sense.

“Yeah.” Removing his hand, Jimin rolls sideways. “Anyways, sorry about that. I know we said we wouldn’t act like a couple when we’re alone.”

Facing away, Jimin can practically hear your walls being raised. Walls he encouraged – more for self-preservation than anything else.

“No problem,” you say tightly.

Your feet hit the floor and Jimin’s watches from the corner of one eye as you enter the bathroom. Only then does he exhale, wincing a little at the situation below. Leaning back, he stares at the ceiling and resigns himself to yet another cold shower. The memory of your pussy, gleaming and wet while he sucked on your –

“Fuck,” Jimin mutters, standing abruptly to limp across the room.

Gathering his clothes, he exits the room for the bathroom down the hall. You aren’t his anymore, he reminds himself while stepping under the spray. Tipping back his head, Jimin allows thoughts of you to consume him; imagining what would’ve happened if you were still his.

You aren’t his, though. The thought is enough to kill his hard-on, and he lets go of himself to grab the shampoo. Your words from earlier come back, and Jimin can’t help but wonder at your true meaning. Is theresomeone else waking you up that way? When he called you last weekend, Jimin thought you were with someone and you told him no, but actually – well. What you said was that was none of Jimin’s business.

Feeling slightly sick, Jimin goes through the motions of washing his hair. Stepping from the shower, he wraps a towel around his waist and clears off the glass.

Dr. Nygard would tell him to stop, to slow down and observe the situation. Jimin can’t automatically believe the worst option when he has ambiguous information. What have you said? You agreed to come here, for one. Jimin doesn’t think he’s deluding himself by imagining most exes wouldn’t do that. He also doesn’t believe you would come if you were seeing someone serious.

And that’s all that matters, really. Jimin doesn’t care if you’ve dated during your time apart – all he cares about is that you hear him when he says he wants you back.

Which he will. He just needs to figure out how.

Warm laughter drifts from the kitchen as you head downstairs. After the complete and utter disaster that was this morning, you spent longer than usual getting ready for the day. Mostly, you spent time in the shower, the water cranked to a temperature barely legal to stand in.

Definitely still my favorite wake-up method. Cringing again, you stop in the hall. If Jimin didn’t hear the desperation in your voice, you’d be surprised. You might as well have thrown your leg over his waist or told him you still think about him when you come. From the way Jimin yeeted himself out of the bed, it’s clear he doesn’t feel the same way.

For all you know, he’s been ‘moving on’ for months now. Stomach sinking, you recall the age-old adage about break-ups. Women feel the most at first, slowly getting better until, three months later, they’re ready to start dating again. Men are the opposite, throwing themselves into every open bed until, three months in, they realize how good they had it back then.

Feeling somewhat foolish, you wonder if Jimin has been sleeping around. He’s a world-famous NHL player – it’s not like he would be at a loss for options. Women and men hotter, funnier, and smarter than you are probably lining themselves up for the chance.

No, you reiterate, shaking your head. Even if he has been seeing other people, Jimin asked you to come with him to Garland. You’re the one he invited, which he wouldn’t have done if there was someone else in the picture.

Hovering outside the kitchen, you listen in. Hoseok laughs at something Jimin’s dad said, and Jisoo is asking her mom for more fruit. Jimin says he’s got it, making your chest tighten. This was the family you were supposed to be a part of; the future you envisioned for nearly four years.

Still, you manage to keep your smile in place as you enter. “Good morning!” you chirp, heading straight for the coffee.

Jisoo glances up from the table. “Y/N!” she says, shoving back her chair. “I was half-asleep last night and didn’t properly hug you. Come here!”

Passing Hana and Ari, who are giggling at something Jimin just said, Jisoo wraps you warmly in her arms. Laughing, you squeeze her back and feel some of your tension fade. Jisoo is one of your favorite people on the planet, and a role model you look up to.

Three years older than Jimin, she completed her residency while planning her wedding and became pregnant with twins her first year at UW Medicine. A year ago, she and Hoseok decided to uproot their lives and move to Garland for a promotion – Jisoo became an attending physician, which was rare for someone with only three years of specialty.

Before this year, you used to talk all the time. With the move and Jimin’s injury, you haven’t spoken as much, which explains why she didn’t realize something was wrong. Or maybe she did, but simply doesn’t know how bad things are.

At long last, Jisoo separates to look you up and down. “You’re way too skinny,” she huffs, tugging you forward. “Come on, have breakfast. The girls want to make Christmas cookies later this morning.”

“Who am I to crush their dreams?”

Before you can get very far, a steaming mug of coffee is pressed into your hands. Surprised, you glance up and find Jimin beside you. He catches your gaze and smiles, damp hair in his eyes.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still rough with sleep.

You stare at him, wide-eyed, until he turns around to cross the room. Jisoo laughs at your face, shaking her head.

“You two are the worst,” she groans. “The way you look at each other is positively nauseating, like you just started dating.”

Jimin’s shoulders stiffen as he opens the fridge.

“Not that it’s a bad thing,” Hoseok says from behind. Bending, he scoops Hana’s toy from the floor. “You two are sweet, that’s all.”

“Unlike Y/N’s coffee.” Jisoo shudders.

Gamely, you take a large sip of your coffee – black, like your soul. Just how you like it. Just how Jimin knows you like it.

“Delicious,” you say, meeting his gaze over the rim of your mug.

Jimin doesn’t look away, slowly sipping his tea.

“Breakfast!” Jimin’s mom sings songs, turning from the stove. Spooning eggs onto a plate, she pushes this towards you. “I hope you don’t mind I made them scrambled, Y/N. You liked that last time you visited, right?”

“Thanks,” you say, your smile genuine while taking a seat.

The meal is uneventful, passing with small talk and regular interruptions from the twins. By the time the table is cleared, you’re completely full. You forgot this part of the holidays – food and laughter, coupled with good company.

Finishing his tea, Jimin sits beside you and subtly extends his leg. His left thigh brushes yours, making you stiffen. An accident – or so you think, until he stretches both arms overhead, exposing a flat strip of abs. Clutching your mug, you shoot him a dirty look.

Jimin drops a wink.

Once the dishes are clean, the morning continues. At the twins’ insistence, this morning’s activity is holiday cookie making. Hoseok and Jisoo picked out three types and somehow, you’ve been stuck with the most difficult.

Jimin’s dad, a retired elementary school teacher, leaves for the local theater around ten. Apparently, he’s still involved with the kids’ Christmas pageant. Jimin’s mom follows, needing to pick up some things from the store.

You end up next to Jisoo, delicately sifting flour for your cookies. Jimin is with Hoseok near the stove, conversing lowly while filling small bowls with candy. Part of you strains to overhear them, but they’re too far away. Probably for the best – for months, you’ve been consumed by the past. Your therapist would encourage living in the moment.

“How’s the new hospital?” you ask Jisoo, whisking your ingredients.

Her smile brightens. “Really great. Honestly, I was scared to move from Seattle. I knew it’d be easier to have my parents nearby, but… I don’t know.” She exhales. “I was being a snob, I guess. Thought I could only make it big in the city.”

Rueful, you smile. “I get that. But I’m glad things are going well.”

“Really well,” Jisoo says. Her glance darts to Hoseok, and she lowers her voice. “Between you and me, Hoseok and I are trying again.”

“No way,” you whisper-gush. “Seriously? Jisoo, that’s so exciting!”

“I know, right? We – oh, no! Honey, not like that.”

Turning, you stifle laughter when you see Hana pouring flour into the cookie cutter. Standing, Jisoo rushes to correct the error and clean up the mess.

Sitting back in your chair, you focus on the ingredients and attempt to squash your discomfort. You’ve always wanted kids – your wanted kids with Jimin – but now, just the thought brings back awful memories.

Missed phone calls, doctor’s appointments, and a stick with two lines.

Jimin sinks into the empty seat beside you. “Did she tell you?” he murmurs, leaning in. “That they’re trying for a third kid?”

Seemingly on accident, his right thigh presses to yours. “Yeah,” you say, trying to ignore the sparks this contact brings. “That’s awesome.”

“You were right, you know.”

Lifting your brows, you turn fully. “About what, specifically?”

Jimin chuckles, shaking his head. “Hoseok noticed you weren’t at my games,” he admits. “I said you’ve been traveling a lot for work, which he seemed to buy.”

“Hm.” Glancing sideways, you see Hoseok is watching. “Maybe we should do something… you know, to keep them off track.”

“Oh?” Somehow, his voice gets deeper. “Like what?”

Strands of dark hair have fallen over his gaze and, tentative, you reach up to brush them away. Jimin goes still, his gaze fixed on yours. When your fingers skim his jawline, Jimin audibly swallows. Pulling back, you attempt to stay calm – until he reaches up to capture your wrist.

Still looking at you, Jimin tilts your palm and presses a kiss to the center. The feel of his lips, velvet and soft, weakens behind your knees.

“Enough,” Hoseok groans, collapsing into the seat alongside you. “These cookies won’t make themselves.”

Jimin smiles and withdraws, much to your disappointment. Returning to your cookies, you try not to replay his touch in your mind. Of course, you fail. Each time Jimin moves, your thighs press together, and you’re cursed with many memories of his bare skin on yours.

At least there isn’t much need for conversation. The twins, adorable as ever, demand attention from the table as they tell their stories.

Once the cookies are in the oven, Jimin busies himself making another pot of coffee. He refills your mug, sitting closer than before, blithely oblivious to your turmoil. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was torturing you on purpose, but Jimin isn’t like that. He just loves being close to people.

While you’re busy frosting, Jimin’s mom returns from the store. “Those cookies smell amazing,” she sighs, unwinding her scarf. “Honey, help me put these away!” she calls to Jimin’s dad, entering close behind her.

Opening the fridge, he starts to unload while Ari and Hana make a mess with the sprinkles. Jimin stretches again in his seat, casually licking frosting while you try not to stare. Only bad things can come from obsessing about Jimin’s tongue.

Bringing a fresh bag of candy, Jimin’s mom sits beside Ari to help her decorate. Pouring himself a fresh mug of coffee, his dad turns around and leans against the counter. His stance is so similar to Jimin’s, you can’t help but smile.

“What is it?” Jimin asks, leaning closer.

You stifle a shiver at his breath near your ear. “Nothing,” you murmur. “It’s just… nice being here, that’s all.”

Something unreadable darts across his expression. Before either of you can respond, Ari lets out a squeal and shoves her cookie forward.

“Look, Uncle Jimin!” she cries, showing him the final product. “Hockey puck.”

Leaning forward, Jimin blinks at a round cookie with black frosting. Hoseok shakes his head, hiding a smile and pulls the cookie back.

“Kind of looks like a button,” he mutters, and Jisoo elbows him swiftly.

You and Hoseok laugh, but you’re the only ones. Everyone else goes silent, glancing awkwardly at Jimin’s dad, who stands near the coffee pot. His lips are a thin line, his displeasure clear while setting his mug aside.

Removing his glasses, Jimin’s dad slowly polishes them on the end of his shirt. “Not sure you want to be encouraging hockey so young, Jisoo,” he says.

Jisoo visibly stiffens and Jimin sinks lower.

“She’s just supporting her uncle,” Jisoo declares. “She thinks the game is exciting – which it is.”

“Exciting, yes.” Jimin’s dad turns around. “Dangerous, is another word.”

Stomach flipping, you glance at Jimin. Part of you wonders if he’ll use this to broach the contract, but a single look sideways banishes this thought completely. Jimin’s knuckles are white from gripping his tea, his gaze darting swiftly from table to floor.

A surge of protectiveness goes through you. Although his parents mean well, in their desire to keep Jimin safe, all they’ve done is alienate him. Jimin, who does his best to please everyone and make others happy.

“Accidents can happen in a lot of sports,” you blurt, and Jimin looks upward, startled. “Or just walking down the street. Jimin is a great player, and a smart one. I, for one, am proud of everything he’s accomplished.”

Jisoo mouths, thank you, to you from across the table. Finished with your declaration, you feel an odd twinge of guilt, wondering if you overstepped. Jimin’s mom’s expression is unreadable, and his dad’s back remains to the rest of the room.

Hoseok clears his throat, always the mood-maker. “Yes, we’re all proud of Jimin for his two Stanley Cup wins– oh, wait a minute, hang on.” He presses one hand to his heart. “That was Jungkook who has two wins. Jimin only has one.”

Jisoo boos, pelting Hoseok with chocolate chips and Hana joins in. Jimin and Jungkook’s so-called ‘rivalry’ is infamous, both in the NHL and in their hometown, having grown up only streets apart. They were on the same team for one of said cup wins, but then Jungkook got traded and won another – a constant source of ribbing between them. You imagine you’ll see Jungkook at some point this weekend; he usually returns to Garland during the holidays.

While everyone laughs, you feel Jimin lean closer. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

You turn to face him head-on. “I meant it.”

His gaze only intensifies. “I know.”

A fission mends in your chest, once cracked by separation and distance. Towards the end of your relationship, you stopped being a team. Somehow, you ceased understanding what Jimin thought, and he stopped trying to tell you. It aches, imagining a separate reality where instead of breaking up, you became closer.

Jimin seems more self-aware now, more in touch with his feelings and you can’t help but wonder if it’s because you’re not together. Maybe losing you was the key to finding himself. And if that’s so – how can you ever ask him to come back?

The troubling thought lingers for the rest of the morning, and you’re no closer to an answer as lunch rolls around.

The entire rest of the day is a complicated dance of keeping your distance while simultaneously acting no different than usual. By the time the sun sets, your bones are exhausted from your world-class portrayal of Happy Girlfriend.

The rules are hindering more than they’re helping, you must admit. It’s exhausting to code switch every time you leave a room. Seeing Jimin purposefully give you distance, only to engage when his sister appears has the unfortunate consequence of making you feel used. As though you’re only worthy of attention with other people around.

Still, you’re the one who asked for this, so you’ll live with the outcome. After dinner, Jimin’s dad decides to build a bonfire and take advantage of the ‘warm spell.’ You and Jisoo exchange a glance, since your weather app states it will get below freezing. At least there’s no snow, which is likely what he means.

Jimin’s mom prepares you all for the cold, handing out blankets and making hot toddies. Jisoo bundles Hana and Ari in full snowsuits, despite Hana’s protestation that you’re wearing a sweater. Sweater is what Hana calls everything except her heaviest parka. Admittedly, you wish you’d bought a warmer jacket (Jimin has been insisting for years) when you step outside and are hit with a frigid blast of air.

Squinting into the wind, you almost don’t notice Jimin sneak up behind you. “Here,” he says, draping two blankets around you. “Ari was worried you’d catch up to the cold. I think that means, catch a cold.”

Smiling, you pull the fleece tighter. “She’s adorable,” you murmur. This time, the twinge of regret is easier to bear than before.

Settling into a chair, you accept the hot toddy Jimin hands you. Pulling his seat as close to yours as possible, Jimin drapes the same blanket over your legs. Across the fire, Hoseok and Jisoo settle on a bench – no alcohol for Jisoo, but Hoseok has a hot toddy. Jimin’s mom and dad take the seats between you, busying themselves with entertaining their granddaughters.

The fire crackles merrily before you, bronze and orange sparks drifting upward to the stars. Smiling, Jimin’s dad pokes the log and offers you marshmallows. You defer roasting to the twins, who happily take up the burden. Seeing Jimin’s dad smile eases some of your tension, glad he isn’t mad at you for what you said. You didn’t think he would be, having known him for years, but you never know. The injury changed a lot in their family.

Leaning your head to Jimin’s shoulder, you inhale his scent mixed with the bonfire. Curling your legs under, you take a sip of your drink and slowly exhale. Glancing at Jimin, you realize he’s wearing the sweater you got him your very first Christmas.

“Hey,” you blurt, reaching for the hem. “You’re wearing this.”

Jimin looks down when you push his coat aside. “Uh, yeah. I know, it’s kind of tight. I must’ve gained weight since then – it fit perfectly when you gave it to me.”

“It fits perfectly now,” you mutter.

His body stills beneath as you touch him. The fit might be snugger than your first Christmas, but you can’t help but think of it as an improvement. Jimin’s biceps strain against wool sleeves, and the pattern highlights the tapered v of his chest. Your fingers dance over the fabric, marveling until you realize you’re basically feeling him up.

Startled, you glance up and find Jimin’s eyes so dark, they’re practically onyx. Light reflects from the campfire, a hungry edge to his gaze that sends your mind reeling. Jimin’s hand moves under the blanket to grip yours, pointedly guiding your palm to rest on his thigh.

“Enough of that,” he says, his voice husky. “Or my family is going to see a lot more than they bargained for tonight.”

You squirm slightly beside him. Feeling his thigh beneath your palm has the opposite effect of what Jimin intended. You can’t help but think of this morning, waking up and the shower that followed. Now, more than ever, you’re starting to regret the rules. It’s hard to tell if Jimin is being genuine, or simply knows his family is watching.

Deciding to test this, you move closer. “Can you blame me?” you murmur. “You’ve always been good-looking, but this is something else.”

Jimin blinks, his surprise morphing quickly to something else. “Is that so?” he says lowly, his hand still over yours. “Because I seem to recall the first time we met you said you didn’t understand why I was a big deal.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, well, you deserved that. You were cocky.”

“You liked it.”

A smile twists your lips. “I did,” you admit.

The first time you met was in convention room A of some Hilton near the airport. You honestly don’t remember which one – all Hiltons look the same after a while. Jimin annoyed you at first since he drew attention away from the featured artists. Every time he entered a room, hushed whispers would follow, and focus from the panel would drift.

This eventually reached the point where you decided to say something. Personally, you claim no recollection of what you said, but Jimin insists you told him to either put on a mask or stay on the rink, but either way, his face better be gone tomorrow. This tickled him so much, that the next day at the con, Jimin wore an Iron Man mask and asked you out on a date.

His gaze heats, as though remembering the same night. You certainly didn’t intend to sleep with Jimin on the first date, but that’s what happened. After that, you were inseparable.

A marshmallow bag is thrust in your face.

“Marshmallows?” Hoseok asks, his cheeks red from the cold. “There’s only three left, so claim them before Hana and Ari roast them all. Or set them on fire.”

Jimin’s jaw drops. “You roasted the entire bag?”

“Yes and, well… some of them fell…”

Sighing, Jisoo shakes her head. “We’ll buy more tomorrow.”

Accepting the bag, Jimin pushes aside the blanket to stand. Without him, cold air rushes in to fill the empty space and you shiver. Before you can protest, Jimin turns and brushes a kiss to your forehead. No tongue, as agreed upon. Your test has completely failed.

“Be right back,” he promises, and jogs towards the fire.

Adding marshmallows to a stick, he begins to roast them in classic Jimin fashion. Finding the perfect spot over the fire so that the marshmallows turn a photogenic gold brown. Sipping your drink, you watch Jimin talk to his family, too far away to hear. Wind whistles through pine trees behind you, a wolf howling somewhere far in the distance.

Jimin throws his head back and laughs, his dark locks bright against amber flames. Every so often, he glances in your direction, as though ensuring you’re there. Something about this feels dangerous, as though neither of you are fully pretending. Whatever the truth is, you’re too tipsy to care. If you’re damned to burn by proximity, you might as well enjoy the warmth.

When Jimin returns, you accept the s’more he gives you. Jimin rejoins under the blanket, mock shivering until you lay your head again on his shoulder.

“That’s better,” he sighs, snuggling closer. “I know my dad loves these fires, but this is kind of excessive.”

“I heard that,” calls his dad from across the pit.

“You were supposed to!” Jimin yells back, prompting more laughter.

His fingers interlace with yours, and he tugs your hand to his lap. Single-handed, you finish eating the s’more and pick up your hot toddy. This feels comfortable, just like when you dated – except you’re not dating, you’re just pretending to date, but you’re still very much in love with Jimin, except you broke up for valid reasons, which –

“So,” Jisoo says, across the fire with Hoseok. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

Their mom glances at their dad. “Up in the air,” she says lightly. “I think the girls wanted to go ice skating, and we still need to holiday shop.”

“That all sounds good,” Jimin’s dad says without comment.

Your brows lift, although you keep your thoughts to yourself. It would seem the conversation this morning may have broken the ice where skating is concerned. No snide comment follows, or awkward glances.

Swallowing the last of his s’more, Jimin brushes off crumbs. “Heading into town sounds good. I need to get some last-minute gifts – I mean, uh, things. For no one.”

“Better not be my gift!” Jisoo pouts.

“Er, no – definitely not.”

Hana giggles, but Ari says nothing, fast asleep in Hoseok’s arms. Your chest twinges, looking at her sleeping body and you forcibly return your gaze to the fire. Beneath the blanket, your body has stiffened and Jimin seems to notice.

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, turning into your hair.

Silently, you nod and attempt to look happy. “I’m good.”

“Then, it’s settled,” says their mom, oblivious to your conversation. “We’ll do ice skating in the morning, and shopping in the afternoon.”

“Sounds good,” you agree.

“Sunday is the Christmas Eve party,” adds Jisoo. “It’s happening at the resort this year! Aka – it’ll be fancy.”

Jimin’s mom smiles. “Make sure your gifts are wrapped before then!”

“I already wrapped mine,” says Jimin, his hand tight on yours. “Except for the ones I definitely didn’t forget.”

Hana laughs louder, her mouth full of chocolate. You exchange a pained glance with Jisoo, knowing she’s going to crash soon – and hard.

“All of your gifts?” Jisoo teases, leaning forward. “How’d you fit them in that tiny suitcase, Jimin? Unless they’re little gifts. Like… a small, Tiffany blue box?”

Hoseok hoots, and you feel Jimin’s thigh tighten beneath your hand. You’re sure you’re no better, your smile frozen in place at the implication.

“Jisoo…” Jimin warns.

“What?” She glances at Hoseok. “Come on, Jimin. We all know you’re going to propose. How else will you have all those babies you mentioned?”

“I mean, we could have a child without being married,” says Jimin drily. “But that’s beside the point.”

Jisoo rolls her eyes and sits back. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

Each word slams your gut, made worse by the fact that Jisoo doesn’t know. That’s the problem. If she were saying these things to be mean, you’d know how to respond. As it is though, the only thing you can do is nod until it’s acceptable to retreat.

“We’re fine with more grandchildren,” adds Jimin’s mom. “With or without matrimony.”

“Okay, mom,” Jimin says through gritted teeth. “Can we please change the subject?”

“Yes, of course.” His dad waves a hand. “I think what everyone is trying to say though, Jimin, is that Y/N is already family. Additions are welcome in any way you see fit.”

Beneath the blanket, you grip the chair harder. The world around you dims as your vision blurs. As much as you’d like to pretend this is fine, all you can think about is what happened. You and Jimin aren’t happy, you aren’t together, and you definitely aren’t having children.

What actually happened was silence, much worse than any fighting. Conversations that should have happened, didn’t, pushed to the wayside because of your fear.

Abruptly, you stand and the blanket falls. Your head pounds as conversation around the fire ceases and heads turn to face you.

“I – I’m sorry,” you blurt, stumbling over the words. “I’m not feeling well. Too much hot toddy, I think,” you add with a feeble laugh. “I’m going to head in for the night.”

Surprised expressions stare back, but you don’t choose to linger. Turning around, you rush towards the house with your heart in your throat. Snow crunches beneath boots, light from the bonfire flickering over the path.

Time seems both fast and slow as you shrug off your coat and step from your boots. Rushing upstairs, you barely make it into your bedroom before a sob rips from your throat. After so long suppressing them, your emotions expand in a heady wave. Memories of the night you broke up – the reason why you broke up – rise to the surface, demanding to be heard.

Sinking onto the sofa, you bury your face in your palms as guilt swallows you whole. Guilt Jimin doesn’t even know the half of, and if he did, he might never have asked you here in the first place.

Feet pounding the staircase, Jimin rushes upstairs. He isn’t sure what happened but knows you well enough to know you shouldn’t be alone. As much as you like to pretend not to need anyone, there are times when you do. Times when the emotions are too much, too heavy and you can’t bear them alone.

Outside, Jimin doesn’t recall exactly what he said, only that he made an excuse to leave and disappeared. You’re what’s most important right now. Despite what he said to you on the phone, his family would understand if he confessed two pieces of bad news at once. Sure, the hockey subject is tense right now and of course, they love you, but they also love Jimin. He knows they’ll eventually come around, no matter what he decides with his contract.

You, on the other hand… Jimin doesn’t know how to fix.

Reaching his old bedroom door, he knocks once. “Y/N?” Jimin calls, leaning closer to listen. “Can I come in?”

Jimin hears you move around, a soft thump of footsteps while you ready yourself for bed. And then – an unmistakable hitch in your breathing.

Losing himself completely, Jimin barges inside.

Your head jerks up, eyes wide when you see him. Crouching next to your suitcase, you hold in one hand the sweater you wore at the fire. Jimin barely notices, zeroing in on your eyes, which are red-rimmed and swollen.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, dropping the sweater. “I’ll tell your family whatever you want tomorrow. I just...” Your eyelashes flutter when you straighten. “I just couldn’t sit there, listening t-to them talk about us and–”

Crossing the room, Jimin crushes you to him. You bury your face in his chest, your entire body hiccupping as your arms wrap around him. He feels your muscles melt, leaning against him in a way that cracks his heart. For the first time in months, things feel right.

“It’s alright,” Jimin murmurs, inhaling deeply. “It’s fine, I don’t care.”

He doesn’t. Nothing matters beyond you in his arms, this feeling that–

“Did you know…” Your voice hitches. “I thought I was pregnant?”

Jimin’s arms lock, his blood turning sluggish as time seems to slow. Sound goes in and out, his brain repeatedly trying to process this information. None of it works.

“You… what?” Jimin rasps.

“I… never mind.” Your voice tightens. “It’s not worth it.”

Disentangling from his hold, you head for your suitcase and Jimin comes to his senses. “Not worth it?” he blurts, turning to face you. “How do you figure?”

“Because,” you say, crouching down. Frantic, you yank out another set of pajamas – Jimin nearly swears, seeing their skimpy hem. Did you bring any clothes for sleeping that won’t give him a boner? “We’re broken up, Jimin. There’s no point in rehashing the past.”

Grasping your toiletry kit, you stand – and Jimin reaches out. Definitely not his proudest moment, but he grabs the kit from your hands to hold just out of reach.

Your jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

“Deadly,” Jimin says, gaze locked on you.

“Give that back,” you huff, attempting to grab it. “I swear, Jimin!”

“Tell me what you meant.”

“There’s no point.”

“There is a point if I did something to hurt you and never knew.”

Sidestepping Jimin, you snatch the kit from his hand. “Just forget it,” you huff, attempting to walk past him.

He steps between you and the door. “I don’t want to.”

Stumbling to a stop, you narrowly avoid his chest. “Jimin, stop,” you groan, and his hands slide to your elbows.

“When?” he demands. “When did you think you were pregnant?”

Your jaw sets, staring past him and for a terrible moment, Jimin is scared you won’t say. Scared you’ll decide you two are done and he doesn’t deserve the truth. Hell, you’re probably right. If you didn’t want to tell him back then, you probably had your reasons.

“September,” you whisper, barely audible.

Jimin finds it hard to breathe. He can’t recollect how to draw breath into his lungs, much less to expel it. “When in September,” he manages to ask.

Your gazes finally meet, and Jimin nearly regrets asking the question. “When you were at training camp,” you murmur.

September is both training camp for the NHL and the month you broke up. Jimin doesn’t view this to be a coincidence. Although he started skating with the team over the summer, training camp was a whole new level of hell for him. The rest of the team had an entire season of games and experience under their belt. Jimin felt like an outsider, at the bottom of his game both professionally and physically.

People love to think of recovery as a straight line, but it’s not. Dr. Nygard once called recovery polynomial, and that’s stuck with Jimin ever since. Full of dips and swift rises, plummets, and inclines. Training week was a plummet for Jimin. Coach was on some new kick, insisting the entire team stay for weeks at a hotel near the airport for ‘team building.’ All it meant was Jimin had no escape from his thoughts after leaving the ice. He had no you to steady him, no therapist he was seeing, and Jimin found himself drowning.

“What happened?” Jimin rasps, still holding on. “What do you mean, you thought you were pregnant?”

“I… realized my period was late and decided to take a pregnancy test. It was positive.”

Jimin’s stomach drops. “It was… positive? And you didn’t tell me?”

Your gaze narrows. “I tried, Jimin. I called you that night to talk but you were so in your head – the way you always were – that you barely heard.”

Jimin opens his mouth, and then closes it because he knows you’re right. Jimin wishes things had been different back then, wishes he could have pulled himself out of his depression long enough to talk, but he didn’t – or he couldn’t, Dr. Nygard would want him to say.

Last year’s injury shook his foundation in a way Jimin hadn’t anticipated. He had always been good at being a boyfriend, but not at relationships. Jimin was good at holding hands, saying comforting things and listening while you talked.

He wasn’t so good at confessing his shortcomings, or even acknowledging them to himself.

For most of your relationship, your problems were equal – or, if Jimin is being honest, yours were bigger than his. Then, suddenly, he was a burden. Jimin couldn’t stand, couldn’t shower, couldn’t even get dressed without you by his side. Losing his agency made him question everything he was, and he had no idea how to communicate that to you.

Jimin remembers the phone call you mentioned. He felt guilty about letting the team down that day, rushing you off the phone as penance. And then, he felt guilty about that, leading to a spiral which consumed half the night. Jimin hasn’t spiraled like that in a while, but right now, the panic feels tangible, hovering beneath his fingertips.

“And then what?” he manages to ask. “What happened?”

You stare at the wall, unfocused. “I went to the doctor that Friday. She confirmed I wasn’t pregnant, said the test had been a false positive, and I felt… confused.”

“Confused?”

“Relieved,” you clarify, gaze flicking to his. “I was relieved not to be pregnant. I want kids. Youwant kids. Even if it was unplanned, I thought getting pregnant was something I wanted, so when it happened, and I didn’t want it…” Your voice cracks as you speak. “I knew something was wrong.”

Jimin’s grip on you tightens, wishing he could go back and fix it. Wishing he’d heard what you tried to tell him, but he was so focused on his own pain, he hadn’t seen yours.

“We hadn’t talked in so long,” you whisper. “You… were so absent back then. You wouldn’t talk about anything, and I was terrified a kid would make that worse.”

A tear slips from your eye, and Jimin wipes it away. You lean into his touch, and his heart aches, that after everything, you would seek him for comfort. He only wishes he’d offered it then.

“I know I was absent. My… my therapist and I are working on communication. That’s why you said you wanted a break,” Jimin says, his voice hollow.

“Yeah.” Your eyelashes flutter. “It was.”

Exhaling deeply, Jimin lowers his hand. “Right.”

The night runs again through his mind, remembering how strange you sounded on the phone. And then Jimin recalls your face when he came home to the kitchen table. Again and again, the memory loops in his mind, a formative moment he can’t get past. You refused to even talk to him then, refused to tell him what the break was about. Just said you needed space, and that was that.

Ugly emotions bubble up, and Jimin tries to suppress them.

“I’m sorry,” you rush. “I should have tried harder to tell you, I know.”

“Yeah,” he exhales, turning away to run a hand through his hair. “Yeah, you should have, Y/N. Maybe if you’d told me, I would’ve –”

“You would’ve what,” you interrupt, steel entering your voice for the first time. Jimin glances sideways and finds you standing too close. “I tried for months to get you to talk to me. Why would this have been any different?”

“Because!” Jimin blurts, trying not to shout. “You thought you were pregnant.”

Eyes blazing, you take a step closer. “And? Thinking I was pregnant wasn’t why I asked for a break. I asked for a break because the pregnancy scare made me realize I couldn’t rely on you.”

Jimin reels, as though slapped.

Seeing this, some of your anger dissipates. “I was scared, Jimin. Scared that if the season didn’t go well, our relationship would change. And scared that if the season did go well, the next time it didn’t, our relationship would change. And I’d be left alone – again. Only with a child.”

All he can do is stare, wishing you’d said this when you were together. Then again, Jimin wouldn’t have been ready to hear it. Dr. Nygard says he internalizes problems, insisting on solving them by himself instead of asking for help. Ignoring a problem isn’t the same thing as solving it, though.

Unfortunately, Jimin didn’t feel the need to seek out a new therapist until after you left. Focusing on you and your pain, he takes a step closer.

“I didn’t know,” Jimin admits, somewhat broken. “I’m so sorry, Y/N. I didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well.” He sees right through your attempt to be brave. “Like I said, it doesn’t matter. I asked for a break, and you wanted to break up. The reason why doesn’t really matter – does it? It doesn’t change the result.”

“It matters,” Jimin says lowly. “It matters to me.”

Something unreadable flickers in your gaze. “Maybe you’re right,” you admit on an exhale. “Maybe it does matter. But… it doesn’t fix things. Does it?”

Jimin hesitates a moment too long, and he watches the moment light fades in your eyes. His throat clogs with his panic, trying to come up with an answer, but everything feels inadequate.

Nodding to yourself, you step around him. “That’s what I thought,” you say and shut yourself in the bathroom.

Jimin listens to the water turn on, the shower curtain shutting and still, he stands there. His skin feels too tight, stretched across his bones, and the one thing he knows is he can’t stay. Jimin might be better at talking about his feelings now, but there’s only so much he can unpack in one night. Besides, you didn’t seem to want to have him around.

Turning on his heel, Jimin grabs his wallet and heads out the door. Frantically texting the first person in his phone, he pauses at the landing to wait for a response.

When it comes, Jimin grabs his jacket and stuffs his feet into shoes. What he needs is a plan, someone to talk through his feelings with and there’s only one person here who fits that bill.

“You rang?” Hoseok asks, sticking his head in from outside.

“Yep,” Jimin says, opening the front door. “Let’s go out. I could use a drink.”

Part 9

Jimin’s POV

“Okay, so, explain this to me again.” Removing his hat, Hoseok smooths down his hair. “You and Y/N aren’t together… but you’re pretending to be together, because…?”

“Because.” Squinting, Jimin realizes he may have overdone it with that last shot of whiskey. For once, he’s thankful Hoseok convinced him to take an Uber. “I’m planning on extending my contract. I can’t tell my parents that and we broke up.”

“You could.” Hoseok nods. “I mean, you could, but it’d go poorly. I get that.”

Mid-sip of whiskey, Jimin nearly spits it back out. “You can’t make me laugh,” he complains, wiping his mouth with one hand. “I nearly died.”

Hoseok laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. Before Hoseok was Jisoo’s husband, he was Jimin’s good friend. Hoseok is two years older than Jimin but would always make time for the younger kids in their school. If anyone knows Jimin well enough to give advice, it would be Hoseok.

Unfortunately, prime advice-giving time was probably several shots back.

Glancing at the clock, Jimin’s eyes widen. It’s nearly 1:00 AM. “We should probably head back,” he says, although he doesn’t budge.

Hoseok nods. “Probably.”

Exhaling, Jimin traces the rim of his glass with a finger. He debates whether to say his next though out loud before deciding, fuck it.

“That’s not the only reason I asked Y/N to come,” he admits.

“No.” Hoseok pretends to be surprised. “I’m shocked.”

Jimin pretend-shoves him off the stool, missing wildly. Hoseok cracks up, teetering backwards and nearly falling for real. Draining the rest of his glass, Jimin slams this to the counter.

“I still love her,” he admits, staring at the counter. “Never stopped. This past year has been… hard.” Jimin pauses, and Hoseok waits for him to continue. “I didn’t handle things well after I got hurt. I found a new therapist after we broke up, and they’ve put things in perspective. I tend to shut down, and in doing so, I push people away.”

“You don’t say,” Hoseok muses.

“Anyways.” Jimin shakes his head. “That’s what I did to Y/N. I kept saying things were fine, but they weren’t. I didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t want her to think any less of me.”

“Why would Y/N think less of you?”

Jimin pauses since that’s exactly how Dr. Nygard responded. “I… my therapist thinks I can accept flaws in others, but not in myself. He says too much of my self-worth is tied to accomplishments, in what I am to other people. When I lost something I viewed as essential, I felt… lost. Like I had nothing else to offer.”

Hoseok’s face twists. “Jimin, that’s not true.”

“I know.” He frowns at the empty glass. “Or at least, I’m learning that’s not true, but it’s how I felt at the time. I couldn’t let Y/N in because I didn’t want her to see how lost I truly was. I didn’t want her to think… I wasn’t the guy she fell in love with.”

And yet, Jimin wonders if this was the reason you left. You said you felt as though you couldn’t talk to him anymore, like he couldn’t hear you. You never said you didn’t like who he was, or that you were scared he couldn’t play hockey anymore. You said you were scared he wouldn’t let you in again.

Seeing the horrible irony in this, Jimin lowers his head.

“Jimin.” Hoseok exhales. “Y/N didn’t fall in love with you because you’re some big hockey star. In fact,” he adds, perking up slightly. “If I remember correctly, she hated that fact about you.”

Jimin chuckles. “You’re right about that.”

“So, you concocted this entire plan, dragged Y/N here for the holidays… for what? What’s the big move?”

“You think I have a plan?” Bleakly, he laughs. “No. I don’t know. I just…” Jimin hesitates. “The past three months have been miserable. At first, I didn’t call because I thought she was better off. I thought if Y/N was so unhappy, she deserved someone better, but… it wasn’t until recently I realized I didn’t give her a choice in the matter.”

Hoseok takes a sip of his drink. “So, what you’re saying is, you want to give her that choice.”

“I want to apologize,” Jimin says. “I want to show her I’m trying, that I’m still hers if she wants me, but… I also don’t want to force any decisions on her. I just want Y/N to be happy, you know? I want her to know I want her, since I haven’t done a good job at telling her in the past.”

Although his head is spinning, Jimin feels as though a weight has been lifted. For so long, he’s kept this bottled inside.

Hoseok sniffs loudly and Jimin glances at him, startled. “Are you… crying?”

“No!” Hoseok wipes his nose. “I’m just a sucker for love, alright? Tell me what you need from me this weekend, and I’ll help.”

“Thanks, man.” Jimin reaches over, patting him on the back. “I just… want Y/N to know I’m trying. She said she couldn’t rely on me before. I want her to know that she can.”

Hoseok’s lips purse. “Okay, sure. Make you look trustworthy. Dependable. That’s a tall order, but I’m down for the challenge.”

“Can’t be any harder than convincing Jisoo to marry you.”

“What was that?” Hoseok leans closer. “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of me and your sister trying for our third kid.”

“Gross,” Jimin groans. “I absolutely didn’t need to know that. Let’s go home,” he declares, sliding off the stool. Leaving money on the counter, he waves at the bartender. “I’ll call another Uber, okay?”

“Great.” Hoseok joins him at the exit, looping his scarf over his neck. “But seriously, Jimin, just tell me what you need. Now that I know what’s happening, I can be your man on the inside! Finagle those magical, romantic moments for you and Y/N.”

“Just talking about it was helpful,” Jimin admits. “So, thanks for that.”

“Anytime. Just make sure you talk to her, too – okay?”

“That’s the plan,” Jimin exhales, breath frosting as he opens the door.

Starting tomorrow, he plans on showing exactly what this relationship can be. And this time, if you decide to leave, it will be with the knowledge that Jimin wants you to stay.

The next morning you wake to the smell of pancakes. Rolling to your stomach, you leisurely stretch – only to remember partway where you are and what happened. The events of last night slam into you hard enough for you to cringe as you open an eye.

Jimin is asleep on the sofa, his face smushed by cushions with one arm hanging off. You remember stirring when he came in, although it must have been late. Bitterness stains your thoughts, and you roll onto your back to block him from view. Last night, you confessed everything. The reason you asked for a break, how you felt last year – only for Jimin to disappear, rather than have the hard conversation. Again.

When you emerged from the shower to an empty room, you tiptoed downstairs with your robe wrapped around you. Jisoo and her mom were talking in hushed tones outside, and you caught enough to understand Jimin had gone out with Hoseok. Smothering the sting of rejection, you rushed back upstairs and attempted to sleep.

In the new light of day, you can examine the moment with greater clarity. Oddly, mixed in with your anger is a shred of relief. For months, you’ve wondered what Jimin would have done if he knew the truth. Having this question resolved makes you feel lighter. He said other things, too, last night that piqued your interest.

Jimin mentioned a therapist. You weren’t aware he’d gone back, having disliked the one his team provided. He has seemed different lately, not just because of the situation you’re in. Before, Jimin would never have asked you to come home with you at all. He would have never admitted to needing your help, let alone asked directly.

All this is positive and yet, Jimin still ran away. Just as expected.

Pushing the comforter aside, you rise as quietly as possible to grab your things from your suitcase. Rather than wake Jimin, you head for the bathroom down the hall. The door creaks when you open it, and you pause on the threshold.

Jimin stirs in his sleep, muttering something before he rolls over. You freeze, praying he doesn’t wake, and he eventually settles. Even so, he must be uncomfortable. The couch is barely large enough for him to lie down, a blanket half-covering him to trail on the floor. One sockless foot dangles over the cushions, and creases are embedded in his cheek from the pillow.

Before you can change your mind, you slip from the room. Jimin must have been out late with Hoseok – the least you can do is not wake him. Even the thought this causes jealousy to rear its ugly head. Why would they possibly go out last night? Hoseok is married and as far as the family is concerned, you and Jimin are dating. Jimin couldn’t possibly have been so upset he’d put that at risk – would he?

You banish this thought as you get ready. Jimin isn’t the type of guy to put you in a bad situation. Although naturally flirty, he’d never do anything to cross a line. Even if you’re not technically together anymore.

Once dressed, you head downstairs and find Jimin’s mom already in the kitchen.

“Oh,” you exhale, stopping short in the door. “I didn’t realize anyone else was up.”

Glancing at you, his mom’s smile widens. “Thought I’d get a head start! Please, Y/N, sit down. I’ll get you some breakfast.”

The clock on the wall says only seven, but you nod. “That sounds great. I woke up early and couldn’t go back to sleep.”

“I understand that.” She chuckles, turning to add batter to the pan. “There’s fruit on the counter if you want any. Pancakes should be ready soon.”

“I’ll take the pancakes,” you readily agree. “And put the coffee on.”

“Bless you,” she sighs.

Crossing the kitchen, the coffee maker sputters to life at the press of a button. Leaning your hip to the counter, you glance around and try not to get lost in the memories. Jimin’s parents have lived here since before he was born, and his childhood is everywhere, from photos on the fridge to height marks on the wall.

One of the reasons you used to enjoy visiting was because it pulled back the curtain. You saw the layers within, a list of the reasons Jimin was who he was. He had a supportive father, warm mother, and a strong older sister who kept him on track. His life was surrounded by love and when you came, it was easy to envision yourself in the future.

A future which no longer exists. Except – something about this thought snags in your mind. Jimin kept insisting that the reason you broke up matters. The only reason it would matter though, is if you had a future.

“Y/N…” Interrupting your thoughts, Jimin’s mom turns. “I hope I’m not overstepping by saying something.”

You straighten when she moves closer, turning the stove dial down.

“Of course, not,” you say, although on the inside, you’re panicking. “Go ahead.”

Stopping before you, she smiles warmly. “Oh, good. I just wanted to apologize if anything we said last night caused you discomfort.”

Inwardly, you shrivel. “Oh – no, no,” you hasten. “I’m so sorry for running off the way I did.”

Jimin’s mom shakes her head. “Don’t you apologize. We were the ones being insensitive, going on and on about marriage and kids. There’s absolutely no rush, Y/N. You and Jimin will figure it out eventually – if that’s even what you want.”

“Thank you,” you murmur as the coffee pot dings.

Grateful for something to do with your hands, you busy yourself as his mom returns to the stove. The two of you work in companionable silence, and you grab two mugs to fill up with coffee.

“Milk?” you ask, remembering how she takes hers.

“Yes, thank you, dear.”

Bringing this to the stove, you take a seat at the table and Jimin’s mom takes a deep sip. “Much better,” she sighs. “I hope this goes without saying, but if you ever have something you want to talk about, you can talk to me. I love my son,” she assures. “But you know I consider you more than his girlfriend. I care about you, too, Y/N.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes. “Thank you,” you murmur, taking a large sip of coffee in lieu of a response.

Glancing sideways, his mom sees this and sets down her spatula. “Y/N,” she says, pulling you in for a hug. Smoothing her hand up and down your back, she squeezes you tightly. “I don’t know what’s going on between you and Jimin, but know that we love you – okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, blinking the tears away.

Jimin’s mom pulls back with a final squeeze. Returning to the pancakes, she expertly flips several to reveal golden-brown. “Now, you better start eating these before someone else wakes up and claims them.”

Smiling to yourself, you settle back at the table.

“Someone like me?” Jisoo asks, breezing into the kitchen. She squeezes your shoulder as she passes, lifting her brows in wordless commiseration. “Glad you’re feeling better, Y/N. Wouldn’t want you to miss the iconic ice skating!”

“Can the twins even ice skate?” you wonder.

Jisoo takes a seat across the table from you. “Not really, no.” She laughs. “But it’s adorable watching Hoseok lose years from his lifespan with worry.”

You all laugh, digging into your pancakes as conversation continues. Some of your nerves disappear, knowing you didn’t mess things up for Jimin with your abrupt exit. And as hard as the conversation was last night, you’re glad you had it. Jimin deserves to know everything that happened this fall, even if it doesn’t change anything moving forward.

With everything out in the open though, there’s nothing stopping you from wondering. From asking yourself if you’d want to get back together if Jimin asked. It’s something you haven’t allowed yourself to even contemplate, fearing you’d never see Jimin again. Now though, you find yourself thinking and the answer comes to you as though it never left.

Yes.

Miraculously, the meteorologist on Channel 9 predicts clear skies all morning, which makes it perfect weather for ice skating. Jimin volunteers to drive, mostly so there’s an escape plan if you need one. You’ve seemed fine this morning though, your anger from last night mostly dissipated.

Unlike you, Jimin woke with a hangover and firm resolution. Now that you’ve talked about why you broke up, he can work on fixing things. Jimin hoped to talk to you at breakfast, but when he opened his eyes, you were already gone. He can’t really blame you. Last night, it seemed like a good idea to talk to someone else but in hindsight, it probably seemed like he left you. Again.

Padding downstairs in his PJs – with a t-shirt, having learned yesterday when Jisoo threw a balled-up sweatshirt at his head – Jimin was greeted by the sight of you eating breakfast. Jisoo threw him a dirty look when he entered, which Jimin supposed he deserved, although not for the reasons she thought.

Hoseok fared worse than Jimin, having emerged from their bedroom only five minutes before leaving. Jimin apologized to him profusely, which Hoseok waved aside with grim determination. Indeed, he seems to have taken last night to heart, loudly proclaiming that you should drive in Jimin’s car.

Something which only left you puzzled, seeing as you were already seated on the passenger side. Hoseok promptly ushered the rest of the family into his minivan and drove away. Alone in the SUV, Jimin drives into town and drums his fingers nervously on top of the wheel.

Holiday music plays over the speakers, and you hum under your breath while looking out the window. Jimin’s heart beats strangely louder when he opens his mouth.

“Y/N…”

You glance at him. “Mm?”

“I just…” He pauses. “I wanted to apologize for last night.”

Now, Jimin seems to have your full attention, and you turn sideways to face him. “What are you apologizing for?” you ask, folding your hands in your lap.

Jimin grips the wheel. “A lot of things,” he admits. “I was thinking about what you said, and I’m sorry I let us get to the point where you didn’t feel you could talk to me. I’m sorry I stopped confiding in you. I’m sorry I made you feel alone.” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “My therapist, Dr. Nygard, says I tend to internalize when things go wrong. I shut down, which pushes people away, and I’m sorry I did that to you.”

The car goes utterly quiet, except for the hum of the engine and Josh Groban’s voice.

“… you found a new therapist?”

Jimin blinks at the road, realizing he never told you. The entire last year, you encouraged him to talk to someone, but he refused. The first therapist Jimin saw left a bad taste in his mouth, always condescending to what he was feeling.

“I did, yeah.” Jimin slowly nods. “I’m trying to reach out for help when I need it.”

Something in your voice softens the next time you speak. “Well,” you exhale. “That’s good to hear. I hope this therapist is… helping? Do you like them?”

“Yeah, I do. I mean, it’s always going to be a process – right? The next time things are too much, I’ll have to work to make sure I’m alright. But it helps, having someone to talk to.”

“That’s great, Jimin,” you murmur, a wistfulness to your words.

He bobs his head once, as the song on the radio switches to Whitney Houston. You’ve nearly reached the edge of town by the time you next speak.

“You forgot something in that list of apologies,” you say softly.

Startled, Jimin turns at the stoplight. “What do you mean?”

Determined, you set your jaw and turn sideways. “You disappeared on me last night. We got in a fight, I confessed something personal, and then you just… left.”

Jimin stares, feeling like he’s been socked in the stomach. Last night, he didn’t think about it that way, thinking you’d want time alone, but you’re right. He left you – again. Jimin inhales, the sound shaky as the light before him turns green.

“Are you saying… you wanted me to stay?”

Before you can respond, the ice rink comes into view and Jimin’s attention is required to find parallel parking. Two days before Christmas, the town square is packed. Garland is renowned for their Christmas market, tourists coming from far and wide to browse all the stalls.

Once he parks – several blocks away – you begin the long trek towards the skating rink. Jimin continues to glance at you as you walk, knowing he needs to fix this, and fast.

“Y/N,” he ventures.

Your lips tighten. “Yes?”

Jimin hesitates, then decides, to hell with his dignity. “I’m sorry I left last night. I didn’t think you’d want me to stay, but that’s not an excuse. I didn’t ask if you wanted me to go. I should have stayed. I should have stayed, Y/N,” he adds, grabbing your elbow to make an about-face.

Your lips part, staring up at him from mere inches away. Jimin’s gaze intensifies, hoping you hear the double meaning. Before he can clarify further, a squeal cuts through the crowd.

© kpopfanfictrash, 2023. Do not copy or repost without permission. Author’s Note: thank you for reading so far! Continued in Part 2, here.

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@hamsterclaw this is jusssssssssst perfect... can't wait to read all the rest of it. Keeping them all to binge on during Christmas holidays. Have a good one, you too.

Brat

Bangtan Christmas drabble 6 - read the rest here.

Kim Seokjin is a lot of things to you. The high school heartthrob you never got with, the fuckboi you hooked up with occasionally in college, and now the chaebol boss you didn't sign up to work for. Things he's never been? A man you can rely on.

Pairing: Seokjin x f! reader

Rating: 18+

Genre: Chaebol! Seokjin, Vows AU spin-off, smut, angst, fluff

Word count: 4.9k

Warnings: Sex, swearing, Vows Yoongi

Prologue

Kim Seokjin admires the line of your arm, visible above the covers, thrown up above your head. Your skin is lovely in the low lighting seeping in under his bedroom door. 

You turn over onto your back, stare up at the ceiling. Seokjin isn’t sure if you know he’s awake too, and then you turn to him. 

The curve of your bare breast shifts delightfully as you turn onto your side, a rounded expanse that Seokjin wants to run his tongue over. He’s spent, he’s just come inside you, but his cock, always eager for you, twitches at the view. 

You sigh, and even in the darkness he can see the sweet curve of your lips. 

‘You’re very good,’ you say, almost begrudging even though he’s made you come three times tonight, made damn sure you enjoyed yourself as much as he did. 

Seokjin hums. ‘I’m good to go again if you are,’ he offers. He’s already looking forward to the ache of being hard again, of holding back until you’re crying and senseless underneath him. 

It’s when he loves you best. 

You look at him thoughtfully, as though considering, and then you sit up. The covers slide down off of you, bunching in a heap just high enough to cover the lower curve of your breasts. 

Seokjin’s unabashed about staring at you when you’re together like this.

You roll your eyes. ‘Seokjin.’ Your voice is softer in tone than the usual guardedness you address him with. 

‘Kiss me,’ Seokjin says. The words are out before he quite knew he was going to say them, and they hang in the air. 

He rarely shows vulnerability. He’s Kim Seokjin after all, a scion of the Kim family. He’s wealthy, outrageously good looking, privileged. He gets everything he wants with little effort on his part, and that’s exactly how he likes it.

Except you. 

He’s been trying to get your attention since high school. You sleep with him willingly, but you’ve never once asked for his company without him having approached you.

And here he is, begging for a kiss like some —-

The thought flies out of his head when you lean forward, put your hand on his chest, and kiss him. Your lips are sweet, familiar, and you know how he likes to be kissed. 

You’ve been kissing Seokjin for years, and you’re so good at it he can’t imagine a life without you.

Seokjin breathes in your scent, realises he’s humming quietly as you kiss him. His love for you thrums through his skin everywhere you touch him.

When you pull away, his eyes open.

Your expression is difficult to read. 

‘You’re such an asshole, Seokjin,’ you sigh.

‘I know, but you love it,’ he agrees. ‘Kiss me again.’

You shake your head. ‘I have to go.’

Seokjin says, ‘Stay. I’m good for another round.’

‘I can’t.’ 

‘Worried you’ll fall in love with me?’ he asks, injecting mocking into his tone.

Oh the irony.

‘I’m already in love with you,’ you say. You’re getting up, picking your clothes off the floor. ‘That’s the problem.’

Seokjin’s heart leaps. ‘I’m in love with you too,’ he says, simply. Truthfully.

He thinks he sounded heartfelt, but the history of fucking around between you paints over the present so easily.

You roll your eyes at his declaration. 

‘Convince me next time, Seokjin.’

He slips into the asshole persona he wears all the time around you. 

‘Please,’ he says, feigning nonchalance. ‘I don’t have to convince you of anything. You’ll be back.’

‘Yeah,’ you agree. 

You throw him a smile, affectionate but with a sadness to it that tugs his heart. 

‘See you.’

***

The beginning

‘You’re ridiculous,’ you scoff, fastening your bra.

The man who’s just fucked you breathless doesn’t even blink, stretching languidly on the bed.

He’s so long his feet hang over the edge. He turns over, and despite yourself, you can’t help but admire the expanse of golden skin on show.

You know that his skin is as warm as it looks. 

The sheet covers his ass, just barely. 

You feel like tugging it down so you can admire his bare butt too.

‘I’m ridiculous, but you’re still here,’ Seokjin purrs, turning his head, catching you staring at him.

His smile turns into a smirk. You want to slap it off his face, but you think he’d like that too much.

‘Anyway call me when you want to do this again.’ 

His voice is silken, and between the beautiful tone of it and his gorgeous body and face, you’re sorely tempted to jump back into bed with him.

You pick up your phone and dial. 

He raises an eyebrow at you when his phone rings, but he answers anyway.

‘Y/N?’ he says.

‘Yeah, can we fuck again?’ you ask.

Seokjin says, like the asshole you know he is, ‘Kind of busy right now.’

You glare at him. ‘Busy doing what?’

He laughs, and you marvel at his audacity. 

You hang up and storm out of his apartment.

Your phone rings when you get down to street level, but you don’t answer. 

You’re never going to pander to Kim Seokjin again. This is the last fucking time.

***

When Kim Seokjin was 17, he was the same height he is now, but only half as much of an asshole.

You were the prettier one then, the girl known for her artistic talent. 

He’d approached you one day after school, saying your name as you’d walked past him.

‘Yes,’ you’d answered politely. He was in your class but you ran in different crowds.

‘Can you help me make a card?’ he’d asked. 

‘What kind of card?’ 

‘A greeting card for Valentine’s day,’ he’d explained, walking with you to your next class. 

Sometimes now, when he’s feeling especially dickish, he claims to have kickstarted your entire career as a graphics designer.

You personally think that Seokjin was born to work in his father’s company. He has no discernible talent or skill but he’s always been good at delegating.

Anyway, you’d spent hours creating a beautiful card for him, personalised with the name of one of the prettiest and most popular girls in school.

He’d arrived at your senior prom with her on his arm.

He hadn’t so much as said hello as he’d swanned past you.

You were well into your second year at university before you’d realised he was at the same university as you. 

You were at some house party trying to get away from some drunken jerk when he’d walked right up to you and inserted himself between you and the jerk.

‘Don’t bother,’ he’d said to the jerk in a loud stage whisper. ‘She’s terrible in bed.’

Jerk dispatched, he’d then looked to you for approval.

You blame society for lifting men up who do the bare minimum. 

You’d let him fuck you in one of the bedrooms. 

And then again, a week later, at some other guy’s birthday party.

And then, regrettably, in a skanky club bathroom. 

Your little friends with benefits arrangement with Seokjin had imploded at the end of your final semester of second year. 

You’d been working on your final project with your partner, a quiet but sharply intelligent guy called Yoongi. You and Yoongi had ended up scoring the highest in your class.

You remember standing in the corridor outside the faculty office, admiring your name at the top of the list, when Seokjin had said your name.

Just like that first time, in high school, you’d turned, looked at him, and replied, ‘Yes?’

‘Want to go celebrate?’ he’d asked. 

His idea of a celebration had been to take you to his apartment off campus and to eat you out until you were sobbing his name. 

He’d offered to make you ramen after, which is when you’d discovered he had a roommate. 

Your fiercely intelligent project partner, Yoongi. 

Yoongi had looked as surprised to see you as you were to see him.

He’d given Seokjin a long look that you couldn’t understand, and then apologised to you. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Yoongi had said, politely. ‘Seokjin doesn’t often have guests over.’

‘I can’t imagine why,’ you’d replied. 

‘I just wanted to eat pussy in peace,’ Seokjin had muttered.

‘Don’t be an asshole,’ Yoongi had said, sharply. 

You’d watched in amazement as Seokjin’s mouth had snapped shut.

You’d said something about leaving then, and Yoongi had offered to drive you home, but all you’d wanted to do was get away.

The next time you’d seen Seokjin had been at a wedding of a mutual friend. 

Seokjin had been one of the groomsmen and you’d been a bridesmaid.

He’d smiled at you warmly at the rehearsal dinner, and although you’d been wary at first, he’d looked so handsome in his suit you’d been totally disarmed.

You’d let him pull you into a hug, and his hand had drifted down your back to the top of your ass.

‘Your ass is bigger now,’ he’d murmured.

You’d looked up at him and snapped, ‘Too bad I can’t say the same about your dick.’

He’d frowned. ‘It’s a compliment,’ he’d insisted.

You’d scowled back at him and ignored him for the rest of the dinner.

At the wedding, he’d escorted you down the aisle, quieter than usual. 

He’d been so quiet you’d asked him if he was ok. 

He’d blinked at you and replied that he was hungover and tapped out from fucking the maid of honour after the rehearsal dinner.

You’d dropped his arm as soon as it was acceptable to do so. 

You’d been applying for jobs after your company went out of business, when you’d seen your dream job advertised.

The ad looked like it was tailored for your skillset, the only downside being that it was for a subsidiary of the Kim conglomerate.

Seokjin’s family company. 

You’d run into him after your interview, just as you were leaving.

‘Y/N,’ he’d said, looking genuinely pleased to see you.

You’d been pleased too, before you remembered all of your history together.

‘How’ve you been?’ he’d asked. 

You’d told him about your job interview over drinks, culminating in a night of mind blowing sex.

A few days later you’d been offered the job.

You doubt he’d had anything to do with it, but you’ve never asked.

***

Han Yeri’s the person you work most closely with as part of the design team, and over the past few months she’s become a good friend too.

She eyes you over the screen you’re currently staring at. 

‘Let me guess, you saw him last night,’ she says, tossing a paperclip at you.

You look up at her, surprised.

‘You always look off after you’ve seen him,’ Yeri says, shrugging. ‘Disgruntled.’

Which begs the question, why do you continue to see Seokjin?

You avoid her direct gaze and the unspoken question.

‘I guess I like things that are bad for me,’ you say, morose.

‘Good dick is hard to find,’ Yeri says, ‘and he must be fucking good in bed for you to hate him so much and yet keep coming back to him.’

She’s not wrong.

Seokjin’s incredible in bed.

When you’re with him, really with him, his mouth loses its sardonic twist and softens into smiles and pouts. His height, often used to tower over you when he’s being particularly irritating, becomes thrilling rather than annoying. 

He holds you like he likes you, whispering praise that makes you melt for him, if only for the moments you’re in bed together.

As soon as you get out of bed, though, he makes you want to push him off a cliff.

Yeri’s looking at you, amused. 

There’s a knock on the door behind you, and Yeri straightens up when she sees who it is.

You turn to see Mrs Song, your head of design, accompanied by Kim Seokjin and a man who looks pretty familiar.

The man smiles at you, and as soon as you see the way his face crinkles you recognise him.

It’s Min Yoongi, your project partner from all those years ago.

‘Yoongi!’ you say, greeting him with a big smile.

He says your name, and you notice how beautifully he’s dressed.

‘I don’t get greeted like that,’ Seokjin murmurs so only you can hear.

You ignore him.

Mrs Song clears her throat. 

‘Y/N, you’ll be leading the community engagement project on tech safety, and working closely with teams from Mr Min’s company,’ she informs you.

‘I hope that arrangement is agreeable to you,’ Yoongi says, smiling politely at you. ‘You come highly recommended.’

‘Of course, it’s a wonderful opportunity,’ you say honestly.

‘I’ll have my project lead reach out to you,’ Yoongi promises. ‘What are you doing tonight? I’d love to catch up on what you’ve been doing since uni.’

‘She’s having dinner with me,’ Seokjin interjects smoothly. ‘We’d love for you to join us, Yoongi.’

Yoongi looks between you and Seokjin, a slight smile playing on his lips.

He looks like he’s about to say something but his phone rings, and his slight smile blooms into a full one, lighting up his serious face.

His wedding ring glints as he lifts his phone to answer.

At odds with the soft expression on his face, his tone of voice is neutral, cool, when he answers.

‘Jagiya, let me guess, you’ve hired out our house for filming and we have to move to the pool house for a month.’

His voice lowers, and he laughs softly at the response he gets. 

‘Of course there’s only one bed. I’m having dinner with Seokjin and an old university friend, would you like to join us?’

He listens intently, face softening. ‘Want me to ask Mrs Gye to make you soup? I won’t be late back, ok? Sleep in my bed.’

He rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. ‘I’ll see you later, my love.’

Seokjin pouts when Yoongi hangs up. 

‘You didn’t give her a kiss from me,’ he complains. 

You’re oddly endeared, you’ve never seen this side of Seokjin before. He’s cocky, self obsessed, borderline mean at all times, but never — cute.

‘She doesn’t want kisses from you,’ Yoongi replies, raising a brow, unbothered.

Seokjin scoffs at the absurdity of the notion that anyone might not want a kiss from him.

Yoongi’s already nodding to you. ‘I’ll see you later, Y/N, I’m looking forward to it.’ 

He walks out with Mrs Song. 

You glance at Seokjin to find he’s looking back at you. 

‘We didn’t have dinner plans,’ you say. 

‘I’m aware of that,’ he replies. He doesn’t deign to explain. 

He sighs. ‘I’ll have to call Kara and let her know I can’t see her tonight.’ 

You roll your eyes. 

‘Can you wear that black dress?’ asks Seokjin. 

‘Can you go away so I can work in peace?’ you retort. 

Seokjin blinks like you’ve hurt his feelings. 

You’re about to get back to work when he asks, ‘Are you on your period? Your tits look so nice.’ 

‘Get out of my office, Seokjin.’ 

***

The place you’re meeting Yoongi and Seokjin for dinner is close to your office, thankfully, because you’d lost track of time finishing off a project for a charity.

By the time you arrive, both Seokjin and Yoongi are already seated.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ you say apologetically.

Seokjin gets up to pull your chair out for you, and you don’t miss the look Yoongi throws Seokjin. You hadn’t realised that the two were so close, still.

Yoongi spends a lot of time telling you about his wife. You’re not one for society gossip, but you’ve heard a lot about their unconventional relationship.

It seems to be working for Yoongi, softening his edges, blunting the sharpness of the man you once knew.

Seokjin leans back in his chair across from you, busying himself with ogling the bare skin of your cleavage.

You fix him with a stern glare, but unsurprisingly, he’s undeterred.

‘Behave, Seokjin,’ says Yoongi, mildly, raising a brow. 

‘‘You must spend a lot of time keeping Seokjin in line,’ you say, deliberately trying to provoke Seokjin the way he provoked you. 

‘He only seems to misbehave around you,’ Yoongi observes, neutral. ‘He always has.’ 

You’re surprised, but saved from answering by the arrival of your appetizers. 

***

After the meal, Yoongi’s collected by his driver and Seokjin seems reluctant to leave, lingering by your side, until you say, dryly, ‘Is there anything I can do for you, Seokjin?’ 

He brightens. ‘Yes. I have a bottle of Malbec that I opened yesterday and I need help finishing it.’ 

You snort. ‘Why don’t you bring it over to Kara’s?’ 

He mumbles something that doesn’t make any sense. 

‘Speak up,’ you say, nudging him gently. 

‘I’d rather share it with you,’ he says. 

Your first reaction is disbelief. 

Then you realise he’s still looking at you, face completely serious. 

He doesn’t seem to have a punchline at the ready. 

‘Seeing you with Yoongi made me realise how you’ve been a part of my life for a long time,’ he continues. 

Seokjin shrugs, an elegant slight rise of his broad shoulders. 

‘The wine was a gift, and I’d rather share it with someone who means something to me.’ 

For the second time tonight, you’re stunned into silence. 

Then you scoff. ‘You mean someone you like fucking.’ 

Seokjin laughs, looks away. His profile in the moonlight is beautiful, straight nose, firm jawline, and the curve of his neck makes you think of all the times you’ve kissed him. 

If you really think about it, you’ve kissed him a lot. 

‘I like fucking,’ he admits. ‘I make sure you like it too, don’t I?’ 

You can’t deny it. 

‘I’ll share your Malbec with you, Seokjin, and your bed,’ you say, finally. 

His smile is blindingly pretty, but doesn’t make your heart race so much as the way he reaches over and grasps your hand. 

It feels loose, transient. You’ve never held hands before, not out of bed, anyway. 

You’re thinking of something to say when he says, teasing, ‘God, your hands are clammy.’ 

You try to pull away but he grasps you tighter. 

‘A little sweat never stopped me before,’ he remarks. 

‘Shut up, Seokjin.’ 

He laughs again, but he keeps holding your hand, and you don’t try to pull away again. 

***

The elevator to Seokjin’s penthouse is virtually soundless, doors sliding shut with a snick, elevator rising up with the faintest of hums.

He’s standing closer to you than he has to, body turned towards yours, chest brushing your shoulder.

He leans down, tucks a lock of hair behind your ear, affection in his gaze.

Butterflies start fluttering in your stomach.

You share a smile.

The elevator doors open, and he opens his mouth to speak, but you never hear what he has to say, because as soon as he escorts you out of the lift you’re greeted by a stunning woman in a silken dress, a pout on her lips. 

‘Seokjin,’ she says.

The man in question glances at you, and in his expression you read a mixture of chagrin and embarrassment.

‘Kara,’ Seokjin says, nodding politely.

Kara shoots you a look. ‘I thought we had plans, Seokjin.’

You raise an eyebrow. ‘I thought we had plans too, Seokjin.’

There’s no way you’re making this easy on him.

Seokjin says, ‘I’m sorry I cancelled on you, Kara.’

‘Well it’s fine, you’re here now,’ Kara replies.

You can see the brick red flush travelling up Seokjin’s beautiful neck, although you’re not thinking of kissing him now.

At this rate, he’ll be lucky if you don’t castrate him.

‘Perhaps we’ll share your Malbec another time, Seokjin,’ you say, smooth as silk, extricating yourself from the situation.

He says your name and really it’s your own fault for believing that a man like Kim Seokjin could ever change.

You turn around and exit the way you came.

***

Yeri, sitting on the sidelines beside the batting cage, winces as you swing the baseball bat and knock a ball straight up over the fence.

‘Let me guess,’ she calls. ‘You’re imagining it’s his balls you’re hitting.’

‘Even better,’ you call back, fixing your baseball cap on your head grimly. ‘I’m imagining it’s his face.’

‘He has a pretty face,’ Yeri says, trailing off when you glare at her.

‘No one is arguing that he’s pretty,’ you spit out. ‘That’s why he gets away with it.’

‘With what?’ Yeri asks.

‘Being an irritating, self-centred, cocky, arrogant, asshole!’ 

You miss the next five balls and throw your bat on the ground.

‘Whose idea was it to hold the company sports day here?’ you growl.

‘I’m sure as hell not going to tell you whilst you’re in a murderous rage,’ Yeri says.

She hands you a bottle of water. 

‘Come on, let’s do something else. Something without weapons.’

Which is how you end up in the three-legged race.

You’re waiting for Yeri to finish chatting to friends when you realise that Seokjin’s knelt at your feet.

You feel a tie tightening around your ankle and pull away, but you’re too slow.

‘What the hell, Seokjin,’ you hiss. 

‘I didn’t hear any complaints when I tied you up the other day,’ Seokjin replies. He gets up, brushing off his knees.

You keep forgetting how tall he is.

‘You didn’t complain when I tied you up either,’ you point out.

‘You can do anything you like to me,’ Seokjin replies. ‘Come on, let’s win this race.’

‘It’s not a —‘

You break off when Seokjin wraps an arm around your hip and starts running.

‘I hate losing,’ he tells you.

‘Me too,’ you agree.

Seokjin grins. ‘That’s why I love you.’

Your eyes snap to his, but he’s turned away, focusing on the finish line with a sharp, quiet precision that you have to admit is attractive. 

You wrap your arm around his waist to support yourself and concentrate on keeping up with his longer strides. 

By the time you cross the finish line, he’s bright red and panting, as are you.

‘Did we win?’ 

You look around for confirmation and realise that you’ve come in second.

Seokjin’s kneeling again, loosening the knot, freeing your leg.

You suck in a breath as he rubs his thumb tenderly over the welt in your skin from the tie.

‘Shouldn’t have tied it so tight,’ he says, looking up at you. ‘Does your leg hurt?’

‘Only my pride at coming in second,’ you reply.

He smiles. 

‘Come on, let’s take you home. Unless you want another go at swinging a bat pretending you’re hitting me.’

‘You saw that?’ you ask, grimacing.

‘It’s the same face you make when I tell you no,’ he says, casual.

He smirks at you. ‘You’ve never liked being told no, have you, brat?’

You don’t bother with an answer.

***

Seokjin’s broad back is to you as he soaps up in the shower, his wet hair plastered to his neck.

You’re watching the way his back muscles flex as he moves, when he says, in a knowing voice, ‘Are you staring at me again?’

You scoff. ‘You’re full of it.’

‘And you’re full of me, aren’t you, baby?’ he asks, voice velvety.

He turns around, takes the shower puff out of your hand.

‘Turn around,’ he says. 

You look up at him, deciding whether or not you’re going to do as he says.

‘Stop making that bratty face at me,’ Seokjin says, unphased.

His hand lands on your shoulder, and you let him turn you so you’re facing away from him.

He reaches out, traces the line of your spine with his finger, making you shiver.

‘You’re a pretty girl, aren’t you,’ he muses. 

He washes along your shoulders, down to the dip at the small of your back, runs the shower puff along your ass cheeks.

Then he replaces the puff with his hands, kneading lightly at your shoulders.

He grasps your sides with both hands, thumbs along your spine, fingers splaying under your breasts.

Your breathing quickens as his fingers travel up, cupping the weight of your breasts.

He pulls you closer, snug against his front, so he can hold you flush to him with one arm as he touches your breasts with his other hand.

Your nipples harden with each slow pass of his palm, slick with soap, sensitive from the jets of water streaming down on you.

His cock, nestled between your ass cheeks, grows as he touches you.

‘Look at this body,’ he says, low, into your ear, teeth nipping at your earlobe. ‘Look how you respond to me.’

You close your eyes and moan as he plucks at your nipples, and his cock swells even more, blunt head now nudging at your entrance.

He tilts his head down, and you turn your face to his for a kiss.

His mouth slants over yours, lips warm, tongue seeking.

You turn to get more of him, and he groans as you plaster yourself to his chest.

His now fully hard cock slots between your thighs, and you tighten them, rubbing yourself against him.

The thick vein along the top of his cock feels so good against your clit.

He leans down so you can get your arms around his neck, takes a step so you’re against the wall, so he can grind against you.

He curls his fingers around his cock, lifting it up so you can rub your clit against the underside of him.

You look down and moan at the view of him against your belly, head glistening with pre-cum.

‘It’s being wasted,’ Seokjin grunts. ‘Here, let me put it inside you.’

He lifts your leg, pulls it against his hip, and enters you.

You’re sore from the sheer number of times you’ve fucked tonight, but your walls still tighten around him, taking him in.

The drag of his cock is such a familiar pleasure you could cry.

He stops when he’s in you all the way, croons your name with an affection that makes your heart feel light.

Like it’s about to take flight in your chest.

Like he means more to you than you care to admit.

‘Seokjin,’ you say, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

‘Stay here with me,’ he says. ‘I’m right here.’

His touch makes you feel simultaneously weighted and like you’re floating.

Each thrust sends you higher, until you’re curled around him so tightly you can barely stand.

‘There you go,’ Seokjin grunts.

He tilts your face to his, kissing you deep, and swallows your cries as you come around his cock.

You’re vaguely aware of him calling your name as he spills inside you, but you’re more aware of how tightly he’s holding you, like he doesn’t want to let you go.

***

Present day

The company New Year’s eve party tends to start off civilised and then rapidly descend into mess and debauchery.

You’re in two minds about whether you want to go to it this year, last year you’d been hit on by Steven from payroll and equally irritatingly, Seokjin had been too busy being fawned over by Sera and Seulgi from finance to do anything but send a few smug smirks your way.

You recap your lipstick, smooth down the sides of your dress, and sigh.

You really ought to go, you’d promised Yeri you’d be there.

By the time you arrive at the venue, the party’s in full swing.

You spot Yeri with her latest crush by the pop-up bar, wave and head off in search of canapes.

You should have left enough time to eat before coming, you realise, looking grimly at the leftovers.

You remember the stash of chocolate you always keep in your desk drawer and head up in the lifts.

There’s a light on in your workspace.

Funny, you don’t remember leaving it on.

You peer around the partition to see Seokjin sitting at your desk.

He looks up guiltily as you tut loudly.

‘There’d better be enough of that chocolate bar left for me,’ you say, pulling up a chair.

Silently, Seokjin hands you the other half of the chocolate.

‘Remember that card you made for me?’ he asks.

‘The one that directly led to you getting laid?’ you ask.

Seokjin grins, crooked.

‘I was going to give it to you.’

You raise an eyebrow, incredulous.

‘Really.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I chickened out.’

You’re not convinced.

He reaches out, knits his fingers with yours.

There’s something oddly sad about the curve of his mouth.

‘I’m tired of this,’ he says, quietly.

Your heart drops.

‘Tired of us?’ you ask.

His eyes are intent on yours. ‘Tired of not telling the truth.’

‘What’s the truth?’

‘I don’t just want us to fuck around for another ten years.’

If you’re honest with yourself, that’s not what you want either.

You’ve promised yourself you’re not going to pander to Kim Seokjin ever again, but have you ever really given him a chance? 

You’ve always given your body freely to him, but you’ve never really given him access to your heart. 

You’ve been too afraid of getting hurt.

He’s still watching you, so you say, ‘I don’t know if I’m any good at dating, Seokjin.’

‘Me either,’ he says. ‘But there’s no one else I’d rather fuck it up with.’

His fingers are still knitted with yours.

You smile at him, unguarded, for the first time in a long time, and he smiles back.

‘Let’s go,’ he says.

You have no idea where he means to take you, but as you skip down the front steps of the building with him, you feel lighter than ever.

It’s a New Year, and a new start. 

©hamsterclaw 2023

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If you have Spotify reblog this and tag what your number one song on your “on repeat” playlist is.

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Couldn't have picked up a better fic than this after one hell of a week... @ugh-yoongi thanks girl, you never disappoints 🫂

a word from our sponsors | knj

you’ve co-hosted a podcast with namjoon for three years; have known him even longer. the two of you have always been the picture of platonic, but that hasn’t stopped the internet from doing what the internet does. the shipping? a little weird at first, but you can understand it: two attractive twenty-somethings always in close proximity to one another, obvious (platonic!) chemistry—people have created ships for less. the fanfiction, though? also pretty funny… until you can’t stop thinking about it. 🎙️

pairing: namjoon x f. reader genre: podcast, friends to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff rating: explicit. minors do not interact. warnings: parasocial relationships galore, a m*n with a p*dcast, author abuses italics, swearing, alcohol, reader uses a pseudonym/nickname (piper) because writing the meta fanfiction scene would've been too weird without one and i refuse to use y/n, dialogue-heavy but it is a fic about a podcast, everyone is down horrendous, mentions of social media & fake r*ddit posts, ex-boyfriend yoongi but in a good, healthy way. let me know if i missed anything but mostly this is just two goofballs not realizing they're in love with one another. smut warnings: kissing, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, unprotected vaginal sex (fiction), protected vaginal sex (nonfiction), a lil squirting, mild degradation, mentions of a p*ss kink but there is no actual pee i promise (...lest?), i didn't intend to write size kink but it's namjoon so it just showed up anyway, slight dom!joon, everyone orgasms. wordcount: 17.5k credits: this was entirely inspired by that one episode of the basement yard where frankie reads the smut fic of him and joe, so credits to both that author and that podcast. spotify, for their podcast name generator. astro-seek for helping me drag namjoon astrologically. an extra special, gigantic thanks to @effortandmore for writing the meta fanfic (3k of it, no less!) and not batting an eye when i said it could have pee in it as a joke. this is as much yours as it is mine. finally, @hot-soop and @the-boy-meets-evil for reading this over for me and telling me i'm funny. author's note: happy birthday, indigo! here i am to validate every fear you've ever had that the people you write porn about may one day read it. live and on air. :)

You’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years.

You can learn a lot about a guy in that amount of time.

None of it is especially salacious. You know all about his family and his dog and the brand of recycled paper towels he insists on buying in bulk. You know what he’d written his grad school thesis on and what he’d looked like in the thick of it, when he was staving off his fifth mental break of the week. You know how fidgety he gets when it’s closing in on Friday night and he’s got a date—how much he stresses over which restaurant to pick, which cologne, which expensive cashmere sweater to wear.

You also know what the internet thinks about him. Intimately.

Kim Namjoon, according to the internet, is peak husband material. He has cheeks ripe for pinching and thighs small countries would go to war to defend. He has a lap that doubles as a seat and dimples people want to get baptized in. He has Instagram selfies with hundreds of thousands of likes and comment sections full of intelligible keysmashes, especially the ones he posts from the gym.

Kim Namjoon, according to the internet, is a man written by a woman.

Looking at him now, you aren’t sure that’s true, you think people just need to raise their standards. Namjoon is just… Namjoon. He’s intelligent and kind and up to date on modern feminist theory, is all. And, sure, maybe in the current political landscape that puts him far above the rest of men, but the way the internet has latched onto him is a little concerning.

“There’s another post about whether or not we’re dating,” you say, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose.

sooo let’s be real here, we ALL think they’re dating, right?? Posted by u/pod-shipper 2 hours ago

Just like he always does, Namjoon huffs out a soft laugh, makes his way around to your side of the table. Puts his large hands on your shoulders as he leans in close to read from your screen, snorting every time he reads a sentence he finds particularly amusing. Whichever cologne he’d chosen this morning is, admittedly, very nice.

It’s sooo obvious, especially in the episodes they film and post on YouTube. The way they look at each other?? I don’t even look at my HUSBAND like that! (+1264) ↳ omg ur sooooo right! i could MAYBE buy that they aren’t full on dating, but they’ve def at least slept together. Namjoon is so 🔥🔥🔥 (+791) ↳ um how can namjoon be dating her when he’s already married to me 😌💅 (+3) ↳ For the millionth time, can we not speculate on their personal lives? This is weird and reinforces really harmful ideas that men and women can’t just be friends. (-51)

“How come they never talk about how hot you are?”

You can tell by the look on Namjoon’s face that he hadn’t meant to say that—or, if he did, he didn’t mean to say it like that, with an entire pout, eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline. “Cursed to be ugly and dumb,” you joke to ease the sudden tension, reading the comment that simply says you’d have to be the dumbest person alive to not sleep with Namjoon.

He scrunches his nose at that. Returns to his side of the table. “Yeah, I don’t think so, lots of people haven’t slept with me.” Starts to unpack all the gear from his bag before he says, “Hey, all that stuff—does it bother you?”

“What do you mean?” you answer, the corner of a protein bar stuck in your mouth. Namjoon always insists on recording at the most inconvenient times.

“People thinking we’re together,” he clarifies.

You shrug. “I dunno. Not really. Comes with the territory, I think, not to mention how much you love to overshare—”

“Hello?”

“I’m just saying,” you retort, hands raised in self-defense. “There really was no need for you to mention you blew your grad school stipend on a porn scam.” Namjoon looks affronted, like he can’t believe you’d stoop so low as to bring that up. “Or that you lost your virginity at fifteen.”

“We have a relationship podcast,” he states simply. “That’s kind of what we do, right? Talk about relationships? And the spectrum of human sexuality is part of that.”

You slump back in your chair as you quirk an eyebrow. “No one said it wasn’t, I just said you overshare. Which you do.”

“And that’s why there’s a dozen Reddit posts a week discussing whether or not we’re dating? Because I overshare?”

“Yeah, exactly. That’s the kind of behavior that leads to parasocial relationships. People latch onto that shit. Makes them think they’re your friend.” He glares. “Don’t give me that look, you know I’m right. It’s bad enough you’ve word-vomited all this highly personal information about yourself, but to not even do it under a pseudonym? It’s like you’re begging for trouble.”

Another comment he doesn’t even realize he’s making: “I don’t beg. For anything.”

To this day, you’re not sure why Namjoon asked you to co-host a podcast with him.

His reasoning had been simple: “You’re my best friend and we don’t agree on anything.” Hard to argue with that. Namjoon has seemingly endless patience, even in the face of things he shouldn’t entertain, and you… do not, to put it simply.

You’re not a cold person. Your fuse isn’t short. You’re just a little jaded, is all. Have far less propensity for bullshit than Namjoon does, so the two of you play well off each other. You end a sentence with a well-punctuated full stop and Namjoon’s right behind you to sigh and say maybe you shouldn’t be so hasty, not everything in the world can be so black or white.

Except some things are. Somewhere along the way, the podcast—which Namjoon had affectionately named Place Him Gently in the Garbage, even though some people should be shoved in there with force—had picked up a following. A big one. And now, every week, you’re inundated with emails ranging in severity. Sometimes people just want to vent after their tenth bad date in a row or share funny stories, and Namjoon lets you take the lead on those, but sometimes it’s a little more serious. That’s where Namjoon shines, all that endless patience, and people love him for it.

“What’s on the agenda today?” he asks, accepting a thick stack of papers from Jungkook.

Ah, Jungkook.

You aren’t sure what he actually does. Some kind of social media manager, which is obvious from the wildly out-of-context clips he posts of you to TikTok, and it’s his responsibility to go through the thousands of emails you get from listeners, but aside from that all you’ve got are your suspicions that he just sticks around to swindle Namjoon out of more and more money.

“I’m in a silly goofy mood,” comes Jungkook’s reply, and you let out a witch cackle as Namjoon winces. Nothing good ever comes of Jungkook being in a silly goofy mood, and that’s quite alright by you.

Fifteen minutes later finds you with a camera in your face that you greet with an unamused, flat stare. Jungkook is used to it by now. Just films for a few seconds before turning his attention to an unaware Namjoon. Head down, pen and highlighter going a mile a minute as he pores over the stack of papers with all the doggedness and eagle-eyed stare of a literature professor.

That’s the thing about Namjoon—he takes this really seriously. So do you, but not in the ways Namjoon does. He’s all skill and determination and you’re color commentary. It works. It clearly works, so you aren’t too bent out of shape about it, but sometimes you worry. Namjoon takes this really seriously and sometimes you worry that he takes it too seriously, that he carries the burdens and worries of all these strangers, that he’s trying to solve and fix things that aren’t his responsibility to solve and fix.

So he takes it really seriously and you don’t take it as seriously as you maybe should, and everything is by design. Balanced.

Twenty minutes later finds you staring across the table at Namjoon, who asks, “Are you ready?” and does one last equipment check before he launches into, “Welcome back to another episode of Place Him Gently in the Garbage with Namjoon and Piper. What’s new with you, Pipe? Any fun news?”

Pipe. It drives you nuts. Feels like nails on a chalkboard. “I see you almost every single day,” you respond dryly. “But for the sake of entertainment, I’m thinking about getting a cat.”

“A cat?” Namjoon parrots, and his eyebrows disappear beneath his fringe because he knows what that means.

You’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years, but you’ve known him even longer.

Since your first year of college, which is also when you met Yoongi. Yoongi, your ex. Yoongi, the person you’d been with for six years and had planned a life around. Yoongi, now one of your closest friends, because the two of you still love one another but no longer in that way, which is fine. But also—Yoongi, allergic to cats.

So, yeah. Namjoon knows what that means, and he has the good sense not to mention it. Unlike him, you’re intensely private and keep your cards close to your chest. Your listeners don’t even know your real name, let alone that you’d gone through a breakup a year ago.

“What kind of cat?” he continues, like his entire world hasn’t just been turned upside-down.

You shrug. “Eh, I don’t know. Probably one that’s been in the shelter a long time, I guess. I’m not too fussy, you know?”

“Right, a cat is a cat,” Namjoon says, thinking he’s done something. You and Jungkook gasp at the same time. “What? Why are you giving me that look?”

“Because that’s a fucked up thing to say! A cat is not just a cat. They have little personalities, just like people. You’ve got—”

“But you just said you’re not fussy,” he interjects. “And I know they have personalities and that you have to find one that suits your lifestyle! Like, you can’t have one of those really cool cats that likes to go kayaking and shit, it’d never work—”

“What does that mean? Why couldn’t I have a cool cat?”

“Hey, all you cool cats and kittens,” Namjoon mocks, and you can tell he thinks he’s done something again, but his impression falls flatter than flat. An awkward silence fills the studio. He coughs. “Anyway. Do you have pictures?”

“Yeah. I also have a list of candidates ranked by how cool their names are. Number five, Casserole.”

“That’s cute.”

“Mhm,” you agree, “but Casserole is a kitten, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“They do say you should adopt kittens in pairs.”

“And that’s how they get you. You want one kitten and they talk you into two, and before you know it you’ve got, like, twelve cats. Number four, Party Girl.”

“Sick name.”

“Number three, Toddler.”

“Toddler?”

“Number two, Flat.”

“Just Flat? Understandable.”

“And, finally, number one: Human Torch.”

“Yoooo.” Namjoon laughs. “You have to adopt Human Torch. Let me see.” You pull up a picture on your phone and hand it over. “Okay, for our listeners—Human Torch is a young, male Domestic Short Hair. He has stripes. I don’t know what that’s called.”

“Tabby,” Jungkook chimes in.

“Jungkook says he’s a tabby. He’s cute. Adopt him.”

You return your phone to your pocket. “Maybe. I still think I want an older cat, but I’ll consider it. What about you, though? Any new dating horror stories to share?”

Ah, the dating horror stories. Your most dedicated shippers are convinced they’re fake, that Namjoon just makes them up on the spot to keep them off your trail. If only. Not in the if only they were fake and Namjoon and I were actually dating kind of way, but the holy shit one of my closest friends is a fucking disaster and it’s a little embarrassing kind of way.

“Not really,” he answers. “I’ve got a date this Friday, though. Trying to decide if dinner and a movie is too boring.”

“It’s a classic for a reason. What are you gonna see, My Big Fat Greek Wedding 3?”

“Three?” Namjoon emphasizes, truly sounding scandalized. “Since when are there three? I haven’t even seen one or two.”

“Okay, first of all, the original is a classic and it’s a crime you haven’t seen it.”

“And second of all?”

“There is no second of all. Repeat point one.”

He snorts. “I’m not gonna see that, anyway. Maybe the re-release of Howl’s Moving Castle.”

“Subbed or dubbed, though?”

“Are you trying to get me canceled?”

“Absolutely.”

“I like both,” he chickens out. “Now, let’s stop wasting time and get to the point of the show.”

“Talking about cats is a waste of time?”

“I—no, we’ve just got a lot on the agenda today.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there’s lots to talk about on the celebrity front—”

Namjoon loves this part. As esteemed and educated as he is, not even he is immune to good old celebrity gossip. (Inside him there are two wolves.) Lives for it. Texts you about it at all hours of the night. Sends you links to Reddit threads with hundreds of comments. Has more opinions on Celebrity Big Brother than he does on Ludwig Wittgenstein, sometimes, and when that’s the case you know you’re in for a long evening. You’ve never even seen an episode of Celebrity Big Brother.

But Namjoon loves it, so you’ve become fond of it by association. Reminds you a bit of Yoongi and his love for sports and sports anime.

“—one should we start with?”

“Whatever you want,” you answer, because you haven’t been paying a lick of attention and you aren’t sure it matters anyway. Namjoon can talk to a wall on a good day, but he’s an entirely different beast once mundane, innocuous celeb gossip gets involved.

And even though you hadn’t been paying attention, it seems like this was the right thing to say, because Namjoon smiles so wide his dimples crater his face. “Cool. Let’s start with Taryn Manning. Did you see that bizarre—”

“Who?”

“What?”

“Who is Taryn Manning?”

Namjoon looks a little dumbstruck. Even Jungkook’s arching an eyebrow at you. “Are you serious? She was in Orange is the New Black and Crossroads.”

“The Britney Spears movie?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Weird, okay. Continue.”

Your co-host shoots you a very pointed look. “I will, thanks. Anyway, she posted a video on social media talking about this affair she had with a married man. Like, she pulled over on the side of the road to record this. Said she can’t stand the man’s wife because she called her a quote-unquote lunatic.”

“I—huh, thought we weren’t supposed to say that anymore. Alright.”

“But wait, it gets even more bizarre. Listen to this quote—and this is direct. This is a direct quote from the video, I can’t stop thinking about it: ‘Don’t you ever threaten me when your husband came to me to get his butthole licked.’ Can you—”

“What? Namjoon, what in the fuck—”

“It’s crazy, right? She was gonna buy this guy a boat.”

“Namjoon, this is a family show, you can’t just talk about ass-eating unprompted.”

“No it’s not.”

“Well, you still shouldn’t talk about ass-eating unprompted. It’s unbecoming.”

“You’re unbecoming,” Namjoon fires back, because he can’t help it. The words are out of his mouth before he can think. “Sorry, that was out of line.”

You sigh. Know whatever look Jungkook is catching on his camera right now is exasperated and pointed, the corners of your mouth probably tugged up just a hint. “Unbecoming, like I said.” Namjoon scoffs. “Anyway, so this actress was gonna buy this married guy a boat and was eating his ass?”

“Yeah. Apparently it was her friend’s husband? They all went to a Taylor Swift concert together.”

“Jesus, this keeps getting worse. Big year for Hollywood cheaters.”

“It is, right? Cheaters and divorces. Something in the water, I guess.”

“I saw the astrology girlies saying a bunch of planets are in retrograde, so—”

“Can you explain that to me? Like, what does it mean for a planet to be in retrograde? Why is it causing divorces?”

“I don’t know, I’m not an astrology girlie. That’s why I said the astrology girlies. What are your big three, though?”

“What’s that?”

“Your sun, moon, and rising signs.”

“How do I find that out?”

“Ugh,” you intone, “don’t worry about it, I’ll do it myself. What time were you born?”

Namjoon rattles off a time.

You grab your laptop. Pull up the page, type in Namjoon’s date of birth and birthplace, and wait. Then you’re staring at a circle with a bunch of lines in it that also don’t make a lick of sense to you. You roll your lips to keep from laughing and school your voice into something deadly serious. “Bad news: it says you’re a virgin.”

“Virgo,” Namjoon corrects, not taking the bait. “I already knew that.”

You scroll a little further down the page. “Your moon is in Sagittarius. Oh god, listen to this, they’ve got you pegged: ‘The greatest need is to always search for something. In order to feel safe you need a philosophy or belief’—”

“Haaa, that’s not—”

“—’You need to have a goal or mission that gives your life meaning. Your faith must be voluntary and it is a paradox that fighting against dogmas may lead you to other dogmas.’ Yeah, that’s you.”

“That could apply to anyone,” he argues. “There are seven-billion people on this planet; I’d imagine a sizable amount of them would say that also describes them.”

“Hm, sounds like your faith in astrology is not yet voluntary. Did you know you’re a Scorpio rising?”

“No. I’m sure you’re gonna tell me all about it, though.”

You smile. “Correct. ‘People with Scorpio on the Ascendant need to fight against dark and destructive power in their life.’ Is that true?”

“Yeah, you’re the dark and destructive power. You keep sidetracking me and we need to get to the point of the podcast.” He grabs the stack of papers Jungkook had given him. Looks more highlighter than paper, if you’re being honest. “I guess Jungkook thought we needed a lighthearted kind of day.”

“That was nice of him, considering what he gave us last week. I guess we’re allowed to have faith in humanity today.”

To your left, Jungkook scoffs.

“Alright,” Namjoon starts, putting on his Very Serious Podcast Guy voice, “first up we’ve got a question from one of our listeners in Canada. It says, ‘Hi, Piper and Namjoon. I recently agreed to go on a blind date with a friend of a friend. She said he was a bit old-fashioned but really talked him up so I thought I was in good hands—and then he showed up to get me in a ‘67 GTO and exclusively referred to me as doll. He didn’t use my name once. I’m torn, because he was really nice and I had a good time otherwise, but this is weird, right? Should I see him agai—’”

“No,” you interject.

“Can I finish?”

“You don’t have to. This guy sounds greasy.”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “And why is that?”

“Ignoring the fact that this guy has arguably one of the lamest classic cars around, he didn’t use their name once? Not once, in all the time they spent together? That’s really disrespectful.”

“Some people are just pet name people,” Namjoon argues.

“With absolute strangers, though? It’s really giving the impression that he didn’t even know it, not to mention some people are uncomfortable with pet names. The whole shtick is super lame.”

“I agree it sounds a bit misguided, but—”

Ignoring Namjoon, you say, “Sorry you had to go on a date with the ghost of less-cool James Dean. Into the garbage he goes.”

And, just like he’s done a million times before, Namjoon rolls his eyes and says, “If you really like this guy and want to see him again, a bit of communication will go a long way. Tell him the pet name made you uncomfortable—if it did—and offer to pick him up for the next date. I don’t think he’s completely destined for the garbage, yet.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t have a license. You probably think a 1967 Pontiac GTO is the pinnacle of romance. That’s probably like picking someone up on a Specialized Aethos to you, eh?”

“That’s a fifteen-thousand dollar bike, I’ll have you know.”

You groan. “Oh my god.”

Ep: #183 - Namjoon is a Virgin

I think Namjoon had the right idea on this one. Sure, the car can be considered lame, but I think a lot of men are deeply insecure and therefore overcompensate when it comes to dating. Women are hard to impress when they have unlimited options. You have to stand out, so I’m glad he advocated for him. Piper can come off like such a misandrist sometimes. (-649) ↳ just shut up bro namjoon would fuckin hate u (+204) ↳ Imagine caring about something like this when they’re getting a cat together 🙄 (+19)

You think about the cat thing for nearly a week.

Adopting a cat is certainly not the worst idea you’ve ever had, and truth be told it’s been a little lonely, living by yourself. No more Yoongi in your space; no more Holly. So, having a new little friend around might do you some good.

It’s just—

It’s a big commitment, and there’s also the dog sitting-shaped elephant in the room. Ending things on good terms means you’re still Yoongi’s second-choice sitter whenever he has to go out of town, and while you love Holly dearly (the two of you had adopted him together, after all), he’s a lot like his father in a lot of ways.

Should I get a cat, you type out, and it’s only been in Yoongi’s inbox a few seconds before the most unflattering picture you’ve ever taken of him is flashing across your screen.

“Are you dying?” you ask, because Yoongi doesn’t call you for much else.

And you already know what his response is going to be. “We’re all dying.”

“Lighten up, Yoongi. One might say being so existentially nihilistic before noon causes wrinkles.”

There’s a split-second pause. “It’s nine p.m.”

“Sure, but it’s before tomorrow’s noon, so it still counts.”

“Whatever. Listen, before you adopt that cat, I need a favor.”

“You going out of town again?”

“Yeah. Shouldn’t be long, though. A week at the most, five days if I’m lucky.”

“That’s fine, bring him over whenever. Yijeong’s busy?”

This pause is far, far longer. “No,” comes Yoongi’s eventual response, but it’s slow. Unsure. A two-letter word has never taken so long to say in the history of ever. “He’s, uh. Coming with me?”

Oh, you think. This is where your ex awkwardly and hesitantly breaks the news of his new relationship. You’ve known this day was coming, and this is what you get for staying friends with him. “This is a fanfiction plot,” you accuse. “Hot, mysterious man moves into a gaudy apartment complex after ending a long-term relationship and meets his equally-hot and mysterious neighbor and they fall in love.”

“I—that’s not—my apartment is not gaudy.”

“Yes it is. There’s a giant gold bust of a weird bird in the lobby.”

“Weird bird?” he parrots. “It’s a swan.”

“I see you’re not denying the in-love-with-your-neighbor accusations.”

“Am I on trial?” Yoongi retorts, and it’s such a Yoongi thing to say when what he means is, is this okay? He means, are we able to talk about this without it being weird? He means, I won’t ever say as much out loud, but your acceptance means a lot to me, and I’d like for you to give me this.

So you lower your voice and soften the edges because it’s not really something to joke about, and you say, “No, of course you’re not on trial,” and Yoongi knows what you mean. “And if you were, you'd get locked up for fifty years. You can’t lie for shit.”

There’s a beat of silence before he clears his throat, mutters a thanks that is so quiet you almost don’t catch it. “Send me pictures of the cats.”

Later on, once you’re freshly-showered and tucked into bed with a candle and a book (Eloge de l’amour by Alain Badiou at Namjoon’s insistence and request), your phone buzzes with a text from Yoongi—

Yoongi: toddler is a fucking hilarious name for a cat but so is flat Yoongi: it’s a tie for me You: Okay well pick one 🙄 Yoongi: yijeong says get both You: Both???? Is he paying my vet bills? Yoongi: kinda out of line to proposition him for money. flat is also good with dogs, js You: If he’s now being raised by you two, my perfect, well-behaved son is probably long gone. Does he even count as a dog anymore? Yoongi: me and yijeong both say fuck off Yoongi: holly too. he says he doesn’t miss you anymore and he’s not coming over now Yoongi has added Yijeong to the group Yoongi has changed the group name to #ThirdWheelChat Yijeong: Please don’t drag me into this. Also I did not say “fuck off” You have changed the group name to People Who Have Seen Yoongi Naked Yoongi: fuck you

You should’ve known something was going on with Jungkook, because it’d started like this:

(When you and Namjoon started the podcast three years ago, it was in the living room of his apartment.

Surrounded by books and plants. He loved to record in the afternoons back then—Namjoon loved to say it was because of his grad school schedule, but you’ve always suspected he just wanted to preen in the golden hour light, much like he’s doing now.

“Is this really necessary?” Jungkook whines from his spot on the couch. He’s already swindled Namjoon out of two bags of microwavable popcorn and three cans of sparkling water. “It’s a Saturday afternoon; I could be doing something so much more fun than this.”

Namjoon scoffs. “Are you saying this isn’t fun?”

“Yeah. It sucks, actually. This could’ve been an email.”

And because Namjoon is accomplished, mature, and absolutely incapable of not taking Jungkook’s bait, the space between his brows creases as he sends a murderous glare Jungkook’s way. “Stop eating my food, then. And drinking my drinks. And lounging on my couch like that—”

“I’m not lounging,” Jungkook argues.

“You’re manspreading all over the leather!”

“This is how I sit!”

“Well, knock it off! My couch is only for fun and people who think I’m fun!”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “So you fuck on it?”

“What?”

“What other fun things could you possibly do on a couch?”

Namjoon blinks. “Watch… watch a movie?”

Jungkook groans, throws himself backwards against the pillows as if he’s suffering a Victorian ailment. “Jesus. No wonder you can’t score a second date.”

“Okay, that was a little uncalled for. There are a ton of reasons a person might not want a second date, and no one is obligated to go out with me—”

“Uh-huh. Anyway—”

You clear your throat. Try to hide your own can of seltzer you’d taken from Namjoon’s fridge in the midst of his and Jungkook’s bickering. “Not trying to be rude, but I have an appointment at the shelter at three. If, y’know. You wouldn’t mind speeding this up a little.”

“Oh! Yeah, of course—”

“Oh, so you’ll speed this up for her but not—”

Namjoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “She,” he begins, jerking his thumb in your direction, “isn’t needlessly complaining and actually has someplace to be.”)

It was just a quick little rendezvous in Namjoon’s living room to come up with a rough draft for the following month’s episodes. He couldn’t do it over text because he’d fallen down the steps at his office and landed on his ass on the corner of a step and his phone had been in his back pocket. Cracked clean in half. And he couldn’t do it over email because he—rightfully—knew Jungkook would ignore them because he has his inbox set up to send all of Namjoon’s personal emails to the trash.

But Jungkook holds onto things like that. Grudges. Loves to let Namjoon think bygones are bygones and pop up a few days later with some evil scheme. Hence:

“What is this?”

Jungkook smirks. Rocks back on his heels. “It’s fanfiction.”

“I can see that, but… why?”

This is where Jungkook shines: the ominous, cheshire cat grin; the aw, shucks demeanor that gaslights Namjoon into thinking Jungkook couldn’t possibly be fucking with him. “Well, you were having trouble coming up with ideas for episodes, and there’s an email in there from someone whose partner reads really expli—”

“Jungkook, this is fanfiction about me.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you. Of all the weird shit you’ve seen on the internet (and there’s been a lot), fanfiction of people you know—your friends—was something you’d managed to escape. Probably by virtue of not knowing anyone famous enough to warrant fanfiction being written about them.

But you should’ve known. You really, really should’ve known.

“Oh my god?”

You’re not sure who says it. Could be you or Namjoon, but the sentiment is the same. He mouths a what the fuck at you that’s met with a shrug. You’re in uncharted territory now, too. “Where did you even find this?” you ask, taking the stack of papers from Namjoon. “And why did you print it out?”

“Because I’m going to track down whoever wrote it and get them to autograph it. Then I’m going to buy a nice frame and hang it on the wall behind him, so we never forget this historical moment in Place Him Gently in the Garbage lore.”

“It’s a podcast,” Namjoon deadpans, “how can it have lore? And how much lore can there possibly be?”

“It’s the internet,” you concede. “The lore possibilities are endless. Don’t tempt them.”

Jungkook nods sagely, well-versed in the degeneracy of the internet. “Yeah, that’s how you end up with shit like 4chan.”

“4chan? There’s Space Jam porn on there.”

As the youngest, all Jungkook can do is roll his eyes. “Sometimes explaining this shit to you feels like trying to teach old people how to rotate PDFs—”

Namjoon scoffs. “I’m not that bad. I know how to rotate a PDF.”

Wow, Jungkook mouths. “Anyway, back to the fanfiction—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Namjoon interjects. He looks at you. “It’s weird, right? Like, it’s weird that people have written this about us?”

About us.

Your scope of the world narrows to the size of a pinhead. It’d just been about Namjoon before. This is fanfiction about me, he’d said, and you hadn’t been included in that. Now it’s written about us and you’re included.

“I—what?”

“It’s about us,” Namjoon repeats.

Jungkook rolls his lips. “It’s about the two of you fucking, to be specific.”

“Can you not—”

“Fucking a lot,” Jungkook continues. “So much fucking.”

Namjoon looks at you, and it’s all you can do to keep from laughing. The look on his face is pure bewilderment, both that Jungkook has cooked up this idea and is hell-bent on executing it and that he remains employed. And maybe it’s a little bit of nerves, too, because neither of you are ignorant of the risks. Reading fanfiction about yourselves—about the two of you as a couple, specifically, or at least two people who have sex—is weird. Not something you can unread.

And maybe it’s because you’re so determined to not make it weird that you send Namjoon a cheeky, exaggerated wink, shrug your shoulders, and say, “I’ll need a couple drinks, but I’m down.”

Jungkook throws his head back and cackles wildly, and that look of bewilderment on Namjoon’s face morphs into something else. Trepidation, maybe; definitely disbelief, because sometimes he lets himself get swept away in Jungkook’s schemes, but it’s rare that you follow suit.

As Jungkook continues to laugh, you wonder if you should’ve said no.

Namjoon has two stipulations: the two of you have to film the episode completely alone, and he, too, needs to be a little drunk.

The latter? Piece of cake, considering Namjoon has become some sort of whiskey aficionado in recent years. His drinking is streamlined and to the point—he knows exactly how much and what to drink to get him where he wants to be. You can’t say he isn’t efficient.

The former, though? Borderline impossible. From the second Namjoon states his terms, Jungkook is having none of it. Argues that he’s the one who found the story and the one who cleared it with the author, so he deserves to witness the fruits of his labor.

“No,” Namjoon repeats for the nth time, “no way. I’ll barely be able to do this with just her, let alone both of you.”

And that—that doesn’t bother you, right? You force a laugh, because why would it bother you?

There are few secrets between you and Namjoon, except your respective sex lives have been staunchly off-limits. Namjoon could be a virgin for all you know, and as you study him—the way he keeps bobbing his leg, the slight shake in his hands—you wonder if that’s the reason he’s being so weird about this.

It’s just a story.

Fiction.

Most people don’t have to worry about someone writing stories about them fucking their friends. If they do, you reckon even less actually read them. So, sure, it’s a little strange, but people from all over the world send in stranger stuff all the time, don’t they? It’s literally the reason you’re in this predicament.

Eventually Jungkook agrees. His whining has gotten him nowhere, so he just throws up his hands. Posts a cryptic little “u guys won’t believe what the next patreon ep is lmao” that sends the internet into a frenzy. Doubles your Patreon numbers almost immediately, and both you and Namjoon do a good job of pretending the pressure isn’t overwhelming.

Jesus. You have to read explicit fanfiction about yourselves. On camera.

Namjoon gets caught up with work and isn’t available until the weekend, so you’re forced to sit with the nerves for a few days. Not too bad at first, but you’re nearly coming out of your skin by Thursday with the need to know. You’re well-versed in the world of fanfiction, but this is fanfiction about you: your name, your likeness, maybe even your personality.

What will they know of Namjoon, though?

Will they get it right, the way he looks with his jaw clenched? How impossibly deep his voice can go, both when it’s raspy with sleep and when he’s fully at ease? Will the Namjoon in the story be closer to the Namjoon you know, or the version of himself he presents to the public?

And you’ve known him a long time—long enough that there are few secrets between you, but you don’t know the most intimate parts. All the parts the internet loves to speculate on. All the little gaps that, apparently, need to be filled in by fanfiction.

Will they know what Namjoon looks like when he gets off?

No, you scold yourself, jerking awkwardly like you’ve been burned, and neither will you.

Because you are not going to think about this. Your thoughts are not going to go there. Namjoon is your friend, and you’ve listened to him scold an endless amount of men on the podcast for exactly this behavior. Sexualizing their friends. You’re not going to do it, too.

Maybe that’s why you’re kind of seeing double when it comes time to record. Namjoon needed an extra shot and offered you one as well. You’d necked it without a second thought and now you’re here, trying to ignore the slight tilt of the room as Namjoon adjusts the camera.

“How’s the shot look?” he asks, gesturing vaguely behind him at his laptop screen because Jungkook had refused to lend you his fancy cameras if he wasn’t allowed to be involved.

It’s a completely normal question.

It’s a question you’ve asked and answered a million times.

Except—there’s something horribly distracting about Namjoon in this moment. The outline of his back muscles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. The way the sleeves are tight around his biceps. He’s always been a gym rat, always carries around a protein shake that smells and looks completely foul, but you can’t remember it ever being this obvious.

And you take too long to answer, because Namjoon straightens up just enough to send you a concerned look. Which does not help. You are not imagining what else might cause his brows to pinch like that, what might have his lips parting, have sweat dotting his hairline.

You swallow. Hard.

“Looks fine,” you manage to say. He’s still staring. Are you on fire? You feel like you’re on fire, which would make sense. Would explain Namjoon’s sweating and concerned stare and the fact that he cannot stop staring at you. “Maybe a tiny bit to the right if we’re being picky,” you tack on, hoping it’ll break whatever spell the two of you are ensnared in.

It works. “To the—the right, yeah, makes sense,” he rambles.

He moves it an inch to the left.

—

Things are tense, to say the least.

Recording hasn’t been this awkward since your first episode, or maybe ever. You’re sat across from one another like you always are, and usually Namjoon would be making quip after quip by now, talking endlessly until Jungkook shushed him long enough to get the intro filmed. Now, there’s just silence.

“Should we…?” Namjoon startles. Bangs his knee on the underside of the table and drops a string of curses. “Sorry, are you—”

“I’m fine,” he says, cutting you off. He gestures vaguely toward the camera. “I’ll just… yeah.”

Showtime.

You wipe your hands on your jeans, unsure of when they got so damp. Unsure of when you’d grown so nervous, too, because you’d been fine an hour ago. Had strolled in with two cups of tea and a little too much confidence, giddy at what you were about to do.

Maybe the nerves had shown up alongside the alcohol. This sounds reasonable, and you do not, under any circumstance or for any reason, think about Namjoon’s back. Or his biceps.

Namjoon makes it through the intro, dimples deep and wide as he smiles, and you also don’t think about the way his voice cracks and gets a little breathy when he introduces you. It’s only because he’d been drinking, and the flush on his cheeks attests to that. The same flush that creeps down his neck, still a little sweaty; disappears beneath the hemline of his shirt.

“—Jungkook had. Right, Piper?”

Now it’s your turn to startle, and there’s not much you can do to hide the obvious except ask Namjoon to redo the shot. Because it’s bad enough the internet already overanalyzes every move you make, every word choice, every instance you’ve stared at Namjoon a second longer than they thought you would—this is a blatant display of… affectedness.

“Sorry,” you say, “I wasn't paying attention. Can we redo it?”

You’re expecting a playful scolding. A ha ha, get it together, because that’s what you usually get. But there’s nothing aside from Namjoon studying you and nodding. Asking if you’re okay. Saying, “Is this—this is weird, right? Is it too weird? Maybe we shouldn’t—”

An out. Namjoon is giving you an out, and you should take it, you know you should take it, so there’s absolutely no reason at all you shake your head and say, “No, no, it’s fine! I think I’m just a little, uh. Drunk?”

“Are you sure? We can—”

“It’s fine, Joon,” you insist. “Besides, it’ll be good content, right?”

“Good content,” he parrots. “Yeah, for sure.” He fidgets in his seat, runs his hands down the span of his thighs. Very, very thick thighs. “I’ll grab us some water.”

You faceplant onto the table as soon as he’s out of the room. When did his thighs get so thick?

But the water helps. Cures whatever strange, insatiable thirst has come over you, because you feel much more human after a few glasses. Less drunk, too, which makes sense. Yoongi could barely escape your drunken, horny wrath when the two of you were together, so you chalk it up to a Pavlovian response.

Namjoon does the intro again. Introduces you strong and steady, not a hint of nerves, and explains, with a fresh blush taking over his upper body, what the episode’s going to be about. “Someone wrote fanfiction about us,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s, uh, pretty explicit. Jungkook thought it’d be funny if we read it.”

You snort. “He might get fired, depending on how this goes.”

“He should get fired regardless,” Namjoon deadpans. “Anyway, we have permission from the author to read this so don’t come after us, and, as always, we’ll put all the credits in the video description.”

“Special shoutout to Jungkook, though, who was not allowed to be here with us for this momentous occasion.”

Namjoon laughs. “I’m sure he’s having plenty of fun at home.” You both pause. “That’s not—I’m not implying anything with that! I just meant—you know, like. He’s hanging out and enjoying his day off.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Moving on. I have two copies of this. Do you want your own?”

You grin, wicked and wide. “Nah, just read it to me.”

“Making me do all the work,” he huffs. “Typical.”

“There’s a stack of papers in front of you that might say otherwise.”

It’s clear you catch him off-guard. He cocks an eyebrow, opens and shuts his mouth a few times like a goldfish. An obvious question sits on the tip of his tongue: You think you’d be in charge? Instead he coughs, jerks his head to the side, and says, “I guess we’ll see.”

It sounds like a challenge.

Thirty seconds is all you get before Namjoon’s shuffling his stack of papers and clearing his throat. Asking if you’re ready and jumping right into it once you say you are. Reads the first few lines like they’re some old lecture notes, and they’re conservative and safe-for-work enough that you start to relax.

And then Namjoon reads, “A louder one wonders if Namjoon is a pet name person—if he’d call her ‘honey,’ or ‘gummy bear,’ ‘babe,’ or ‘baby,’” and you choke.

“Gummy bear?”

Namjoon laughs along with you—the weird one that almost sounds like a dog panting. “You want me to call you gummy bear?”

“I want you to call me a Lyft,” you snark. “I’m leaving.”

He continues:

And that’s how it starts, wandering thoughts, wandering fingers—the first time Piper comes to the thought of Namjoon calling her baby, pushing inside her, showing her that he definitely doesn’t beg, but she does… Well, she’s a little ashamed. She’s apparently got a reputation to maintain, anyway, not to mention a friendship.

His eyes leave the paper and lock onto you. “Or maybe you’d prefer baby?”

“Fuck off.”

Weeks after that first time, it’s become a habit, thinking about Namjoon as something more than a friend. It’s confusing and a little mortifying and it’s starting to affect her in ways she hadn’t expected. When they record, she feels fidgety—she’s jumpy when he gets close, has all the stupid obvious tells of an unwanted crush: her breath hitches when he whispers (why the fuck is he whispering in her ear, anyway? Doesn’t he know what that does to a person?) inside jokes to her so Jungkook can’t hear, her heart rate spikes when their fingers accidentally brush, she feels itchy and hot and a little embarrassed whenever he holds eye contact with her. It’s terrible, and it’s only made worse by the way he’s doing all of those things more than usual. Or, at least she thinks he is, thinks she’s not imagining the way his eyes linger on her more than she can remember happening before or the way she’s caught him staring at her lips when she chews on the end of her pencil mindlessly. 

You’ve completely forgotten how to breathe.

Namjoon’s staring again. You need to salvage this. He’s only on paragraph three and you’re already squirming in your chair and imagining things that are not appropriate. So you roll your lips, return his teasing. “Well? Do you stare at my lips?”

It works. “No,” he scowls.

“You sure?” you joke, morphing your face into something half-pout, half-duck face.

“We’re never gonna finish this if you keep making comments.”

“You started it,” you point out. “Go on, then.”

There’s some dialogue. Some prose that hits way too close to home, has you wondering who on earth wrote this and how they plucked every single thought from deep within your psyche. A pang of fear that maybe you haven’t been as subtle as you’d thought all these years. A moment to confirm to yourself that, no, you haven’t been harboring a secret, deeply-buried crush on Namjoon.

Then he reads—

And then he kisses her. It’s greedy and hot, his lips like a branding iron. She moans a little against her better judgment when he licks at the seam of her mouth, and in return, she can feel Namjoon’s lips curve into a smile against her own. It’s better than she’d been imagining it, really. He’s a good kisser—firm at the right times, soft when she needs it, careful but not cautious. He holds her jaw with one hand and keeps her right where he wants her beneath him (as if she’d want to move, anyway).  When their lips finally part, he rests his forehead on hers. It’s intimate in a way she hadn’t expected, and he looks at her as if she’s the answer to every question. Finally, he whispers, “What’re we doing, Piper?” His lips are still wet and pink and a little swollen from kissing, and she barely hears the question—she’s too busy thinking about kissing him again, about pulling his plump bottom lip between her teeth, teasing and…  “Kissing,” she says finally.  “What do you want?” he asks, sinking to his knees in front of her. And if that alone isn’t an answer to his question… “Whatever you’re willing to give,” she replies. It feels like she’s wanted this forever, this and so much more. Once she got the idea in her head, it’s hard to know if she ever felt differently, ever truly thought they could just be friends. Or, if in the back of her mind, in the dark corners that she never lets see daylight, she always knew she wanted Namjoon. Always knew she loved him.

—and everything goes right out the fucking window.

Namjoon sits with those words for a moment. Scans the paper in his hands and frowns a little when he confirms what you already know. “The rest is, uh. Porn.”

“That is why we’re here.”

“Last chance to back out.”

“I’m not scared,” you lie. “Are you? You’re the one who keeps stalling.”

He huffs. “You’re a pain in my ass,” he retorts, and then nothing is all that funny anymore.

Because Namjoon was right: the rest is straight-up porn. He’s barely able to read the part where he goes down on you with a straight face, turning a deep shade of crimson. Stutters through the part where you pull his hair, and that is not something you needed to know about your friend. You think he loses his grasp of language entirely when he reads, “When he slides a long finger into her and brushes past her most sensitive spot, she arches into him and lets his name fall from her lips in a soft cry. Piper, notorious skeptic, is a babbling, trembling mess as she gets closer to her orgasm,” because all the words are garbled together, producing nothing but gibberish. You think he’s ready to keel over and die when he reads, “Namjoon pulls away briefly, lips slick with her juices, and licks over his top one, pausing to tell her how good she tastes before he dives back in.”

“That was nice of them to include. I appreciate their attention to detail in regards to my personal hygiene.”

“This is so embarrassing,” he whines.

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “Gimme. I’ll finish it.” He hands over the papers immediately.

Except you regret it immediately. The words you’re staring at are not words you ever thought you’d read or recite in your entire life. Not even for a million dollars. “Oh,” you say instead.

“See? Not as easy as it looks.”

“This is really embarrassing,” you confirm. “I might need another shot.”

“Y-yeah. Alcohol sounds good.”

Namjoon staggers forward obligingly, looks completely fucked out and pliant, willing to do whatever she asks. She remembers the sounds he made when she pulled his hair, wonders if he likes being bossed around, if he wants her to tell him what to do, to be a little mean to him. Maybe it’s different from her dreams, maybe he will beg her. She wants him so badly, she’d do anything for him. So, she pulls his briefs down to expose his absurdly large member, already mostly hard, and slaps it. Gently at first to see how he’ll react, and when he shudders and jerks his hips, she does it again, a little harder. “Look at you,” she whispers, “such a needy boy.”  He whimpers at that, eyes pleading. “Please, Piper…” he whines.   “Please what?” “Please let me fuck you,” he begs. She wants to, wants him so much, wants to feel him stretch her open, and from the looks of his cock, thick and long and drooling with precum, he could. “Should I?” she asks. She musters all her confidence to keep the condescending tone up. It feels wrong given how desperate she is to get him inside her, but it also seems to be getting him worked up and equally as desperate. “Do you even know what to do with that big, stupid cock?”  Namjoon’s cock twitches, and he begs, “I—I’ll fuck you so good, Piper…. I know how, I promise. Just… please?”

“Oh my god,” the two of you say in unison.

You so badly want to ask if this is biographical. How Namjoon feels about a little degradation; what he’d do if someone actually called his cock stupid. Ifsomeone has called his cock stupid. You dare a glance at him and conclude that someone’s had to. Namjoon just has that kind of energy.

But you can’t ask because it’d be weird, so you keep reading.

“How do you want me?” she asks softly when their lips part. There’s a wild look in his eyes, like he’s processing all the possible options out of everything he’s considered. And then it occurs to her. “Have you imagined this before? Thought about how you’d fuck me?” she teases him as she stands, stepping into him. Piper pushes one hand through his hair, brushing it back off of his forehead and wraps her other around his dick, squeezing a little for emphasis on her words. “Yes,” he groans as she strokes him, thumbing at the head of his cock. “Tell me what you want, then. Want me on all fours for you? Want me to show you how it’s done, to let you lay back and ride you so you don’t have to put in any work?” Namjoon’s breathing is getting heavy, pupils blown wider with each suggestion. 

“I told you!” you shriek, laughing in between the words. “I told you I’d…” And then your gloating tapers off, because what happens next has your brain malfunctioning.

“All of that,” he whines as she lets go of his hair and brings her hand down to run a fingertip over his perineum. “Want all of that. Want to bend you over the table and fuck you right here. Hear your sounds in the microphone.” Even in her dirtiest thoughts about him, she hadn’t considered the microphone, hadn’t considered recording it. When she thinks about it though, it makes sense. Namjoon is exactly the kind of person that would get off to someone’s voice. So, she does. She makes a show of turning around and slowly bending over the table, sliding her upper body across it carefully until she can reach her microphone and turn it on. When she says into it, “What’re you waiting for?” she sees over her shoulder the way that Namjoon shivers.

This is… not good. You’re never going to be able to look at a microphone the same way, which is extremely not good for a person who supplements their income with a very popular podcast that requires them to speak into a microphone for extended periods of time.

This is very, very bad.

Namjoon must be thinking the same, because he lets out a strangled a-haaa that’s less of a laugh and more a plea to God, the gods, the entire gamut of higher powers that might be able to save him. No one’s going to, you think, staring down at the paper again. This godless piece of fanfiction will be preserved on the internet forever, will be seared into your mind forever, and no amount of praying is going to erase it.

“I should, uh. Just read the rest, yeah? Get it over with?”

“Mhm. Yep. Yes, please.”

Don’t say please, you almost say. You can’t take it; not after what you’ve just read.

So you put on a show. Steel your expression and your nerves and take it seriously. Use voices and sound effects and desperately try to stave off the awkwardness you know is inevitable because a smut fic is probably only going to end one way, and that’s with you acting out Namjoon having an orgasm.

Maybe you’ll have another one, too, if the author is nice.

It’s sweet, she thinks, the way he’s easy for her, takes his time with her. Strokes his fingertips along her sides and kisses the back of her neck reverently. As much as she loves it, part of her hopes he’s not always like this—hopes he’ll give as good as he takes, hopes he’ll put her in her place. She can feel his cock hard against the cleft of her ass, not even inside her yet, and still, she thinks about next time and the time after that. “Still okay?” He breathes into her ear as his tip rubs against her cunt.  “Yeah—want you, Joon.”  “Never thought I’d hear you say those words.”  “I never thought you’d record them,” she teases, eyes glancing up to the flashing light showing the mic picking up all of this as he starts his slow slide into her.  Piper falls even further forward when he bottoms out, letting her forehead rest on the table. He’s whispering filth in her ear, about how he has something to prove, how she’ll never want anyone after this, how no one can fuck her the way he does.  She hates that he’s right.  Each stroke brings a new sensation: sparklers, butterflies, nerve endings on fire as he fucks into her and licks and sucks at her neck, her shoulders, her ear. Piper can’t even think, and this is what people mean when they talk about being fucked stupid, she decides.  It’s perfect.  Every time she thinks she’s getting close again, he changes something: fucks her a little shallower, moves his hips just a little, slows down, speeds up… It’s driving her crazy.  “Come on,” she whines. “I’m so close…” At least she can tell he is, too. No longer able to sustain the dirty talk, he’s breathing heavily, letting out broken moans and sighs of her name. He’s moving rhythmically now, thrusts consistently faster.  “Oh, fuck, Piper,” he groans, “Gonna cum.” One of his hands finds her clit and he rubs careful circles over her, bringing her to her peak along with him, no more teasing.  When she comes, it’s with a loud moan into the studio mic, and that seems to be what tips Namjoon over the edge, too. His hips stutter into hers as he comes, her cunt clenching around him for what feels like forever.

You deserve an award, you think. An Oscar. You didn’t even groan when you had to read the word “cunt,” and that’s a feat in and of itself.

“Is it over?” Namjoon asks, words muffled by the hands covering his face.

“Not quite,” you answer. “There’s some aftercare, and at the end you ask if I’ll piss on you.”

Namjoon gags. “I asked you what—”

“Today’s episode has been brought to you by Stamps-dot-com—”

HOLY SHIT THE NEW PATREON EPISODE???????? Posted by u/pod-shipper 4 minutes ago NO WAY. NOOOOOOO FUCKING WAY DUDE THERE’S NO FUCKING WAY THEY DID THIS AS AN ACTUAL EPISODE WHAT THE FUCK WHAT HTE FUCK WHAT EHTU FKF DFGLKDG;L (+705) I wasn’t sure if they were messing around before, and I was quite critical of the “shippers,” but now I’m pretty convinced. (+423) ↳ we’ve been telling y’all for YEARS 😤 (+197) ↳ Glad you’ve seen the light, u/RandomAcorn2058! (+5) ↳ ugh. they weren’t messing around before and they aren’t messing around now. do you guys not listen to what they say? namjoon’s been dating, and piper got out of a six-year relationship just over a year ago. if they’ve had something going on for “years” that means they’re both cheaters, and that’s a really shitty thing to assume about them. not to mention it makes the entire point of the podcast moot. (-63) Why do you guys think Jungkook “wasn’t allowed” to be there? (+314) ↳ So they could fuck lmao it’s so obvious (+329) ↳ because it’s awkward af? would you wanna read porn about yourself w all your coworkers in the room? (+2) ↳ the “it’s awkward” excuse is sooooo lame he’s the one who found it and is the one who edited the episode, he’s gonna see it regardless. (+15) ↳ Tbh I’m more curious about how he even found it to begin with? Do they have a throuple thing going on? Like, why was he looking for smut fic about his bosses? (+38)

You do not get through recording unscathed.

You are very scathed. Perhaps the most scathed a person has ever been.

Jungkook texts the group chat sporadically throughout the week, cracking jokes and making memes at your and Namjoon’s expense which is par for the course and shouldn’t have you off-kilter, but something inside you feels deeply wrong. Feels like someone’s given you devastating news; feels like it used to back in uni when you knew you’d failed an exam and were just waiting to see how badly.

It both helps and doesn’t that the internet is so invested. All the clips Jungkook keeps posting have re-doubled your Patreon numbers, and jumping up a tax bracket never hurt anyone, you included. But all of those jokes and memes largely went unanswered by both you and Namjoon, still too close to the incident to find the humor in it from the other side.

The two of you had sex.

Not literally, of course, but you figure you might as well have with the way you’re feeling. The way you’re avoiding one another. Someone wrote a story about the two of you having sex and you both read it and something about that, days later, feels really fucking unsettling.

In a bad way? You aren’t sure. It’s not like you’re mad or upset or any other synonym. You just feel… off. Itchy from the inside out, and that’s far from the norm in your and Namjoon’s friendship. In all the years you’ve known one another, you’ve never once avoided each other, including the time you’d set him up with a close friend and he showed up 45 minutes late to their date and ghosted after.

(Unsurprisingly, that friendship had not lasted.)

Maybe it’s because Yoongi had always been there as a buffer. You aren’t of the belief that men and women cannot be platonic friends, but being in a years-long committed relationship nixed a lot of awkward interactions and assumptions off the bat. Even Namjoon had known Yoongi first. Had introduced himself to you in your shared 100-level psych course with a, “Hey, you’re Min Yoongi’s girlfriend, right?” because they ran in the same underground circles and Namjoon had idolized him from afar for years.

Pretty fucked up, then, that Yoongi’s off in Los Angeles with his hot new boyfriend and you’re on your couch, Holly at your feet, pointedly ignoring your texts.

“I’m gonna get a cat,” you say to the dog, trying to redirect his attention when he starts chewing on your sock again. Holly doesn’t offer any input, of course, and he’s a lot like his father in that way. “I can’t believe you have a stepfather. You’re a proper child of divorce now, Min Holly.”

There are a pile of unread texts you continue to ignore in lieu of showing Holly pictures of adoptable cats. A few more memes from Jungkook, one from Namjoon’s new phone asking to move the recording date a few days because “something came up at work,” one from the food delivery service you admittedly use too much offering 10% off your next order, and two from Yoongi. This reminded me of you, the first one says beneath a picture of an ice cream cone on the ground, and another one of him holding a water gun that says send me a picture of my son or else.

You eventually reply back with a picture of your middle finger, Holly nothing but a blurred brown blob in the corner of the frame.

That’s how it goes for the better part of a week. Namjoon’s work issue lasts four days. He doesn’t offer an explanation and you don’t ask for one, you just wait for the all-clear text and try to quiet the nerves once you get it.

You’ve never been nervous to see Namjoon before.

The more popular the podcast became, the more money rolled in. The more money that rolled in, the more you could afford nicer things. That meant going from recording in Namjoon’s living room to a bona fide office space. Third floor, an expanse of windows and natural light, thirty-five minute commute by train.

Today, it feels more like thirty-five seconds.

You can hear Jungkook’s witch cackle from the stairwell, and your mind fills in the blanks of Namjoon’s exasperated sigh. It helps, your brain reminding you that you know these people. You know this is Jungkook’s late gym day, so he’ll be in a pair of sweats and a hoodie that drowns his frame. You know that when Namjoon has work issues and feels like an inconvenience, he always shows up with two boxes of baked goods from the bakery near his place, and you know both of them will save the best donut for you.

So you walk in and Jungkook’s in a hoodie and sweats just like you expect him to be, and there are two boxes of baked goods next to the coffee machine. Both of them say hello and wave and, for all intents and purposes, everything is normal.

Except it isn’t.

Because Namjoon looks… different.

Not in a bad way. Not in a bad way. He almost always dresses nicely, always looks polished and put-together, usually because he’s either going to or coming from campus—fitted shirts, either of the tee or dress variety, and earth-toned cardigans; tailored trousers that are sometimes corduroy; polished loafers. Sometimes, if he’s feeling extra casual, a stark white pair of tennis shoes.

Today, he wears none of those things.

No, today torture comes in the form of form-fitting jeans and a t-shirt a little oversized so he can roll the sleeves. His hair is brushed back off his face instead of parted down the middle. He’s wearing gold jewelry that glints in the sun. A pair of off-white Converse high-tops. And, much to your horror, he’s also wearing his glasses.

According to the internet, Kim Namjoon is peak husband material, which you can usually ignore, but not when he’s wearing glasses.

You avert your gaze, convinced you’ll burst into flames if you stare too long, not to mention Jungkook will notice and that’s a ribbing you’d rather die than take. So you avert your gaze and pointedly ignore Namjoon, who’s talking about his work crisis to no one in particular. Something about a co-worker going on an unexpectedly early paternity leave, and Namjoon being asked to cover some of his courses until they could find a more permanent fix.

Jungkook asks a question you don’t catch. Because paternity leave means his co-worker and his partner had a baby, presumably via old-fashioned methods, and it’s not a direct mention of sex but it’s close enough to send you into a coughing fit you have to blame on your donut. Neither of them buy it, but Namjoon is a good enough person to look genuinely concerned. Reaches out, probably to slap your back, but the thought of him touching you is just… too much.

So he barely gets out an, “Are you o—” before you choke down whatever’s left in your mouth and cut him off with a, “Yep, all good!” before you’re scurrying off to the opposite side of the room like a little rat.

It doesn’t get any better.

Both of you are so stilted and awkward during recording that Jungkook has to be the voice of reason and call it, suggest trying again tomorrow. Luckily he has enough b-side stuff he can release if need be, Namjoon’s work emergency providing a decent cover, and he sends the two of you home for the afternoon with all the exasperation and incredulity of a disappointed parent.

Thirty-five minutes back home.

Thirty-five minutes to sit in the embarrassment of not being able to do your job. Thirty-five minutes to catastrophize and wonder what you’re going to do if you can’t get it together. Namjoon will keep the podcast, of course; you’ll be replaced with someone else. Maybe someone less cynical, maybe someone more, but undoubtedly a man. After this mess, you can’t imagine Namjoon would want another female co-host.

But as embarrassed as you are, your traitorous brain keeps thinking about Namjoon.

Thirty-five minutes to think about his glasses and his rolled-up sleeves and the way the denim of his jeans contoured perfectly to his thighs. Thirty-five minutes to think about, “Please let me fuck you,” he begs. Thirty-five minutes to squeeze your thighs together and overanalyze the way he stumbled over his words today; how he could barely make eye contact. Thirty-five minutes to draft a dozen resignation texts and delete them all.

You groan, head thunking against the train window. You’ll take a cold shower as soon as you get home.

That’ll cure you.

You get home and walk Holly so long he gives up halfway through and you have to carry him back to your apartment. You take a cold shower and actually find it pleasant once the initial shock wears off, so it doesn’t work to keep all your rogue Namjoon thoughts at bay. You make a simple dinner and don’t think about Namjoon sitting you on the counter and having his way with you. You tuck yourself into bed far too early and consider going back to therapy, because clearly something very, very bad has happened to your psyche.

Needless to say, nothing cures you.

But it’s a new day, and you’re determined to get your shit together. Yesterday was a fluke, because you’re so normal and so capable of being in the same room as Kim Namjoon.

Except—you’re not.

Jungkook’s there when you arrive, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. Barely looks up at you to say hello, and barely returns it when you do. You double-check the time, because you can count on two fingers the amount of times you’ve shown up and Namjoon wasn’t already there, jotting down extensively-detailed notes, circling and highlighting and chasing down Jungkook to ask questions.

“Where’s Namjoon?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Dunno. Not here.”

You roll your eyes. “Super helpful, thanks.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes right back. “You don’t pay me enough to also be his handler.”

You bite your tongue. Arguing with Jungkook means you’ve already lost the war. Not worth it. But it still eases your worries a bit that he doesn’t know any more than you do. That Namjoon hadn’t only texted him to say why he was running late because he didn’t want to—or couldn’t—talk to you.

So you wait. And you wait and you wait and you wait. Jungkook lets you talk to people on his dating apps and tells you about his new gym routine until your eyes are glazing over. Orders food delivery for the two of you because he gets hungry after an hour and had already eaten what was left of the snacks before you arrived. Cracks a joke that isn’t really a joke about calling the police, because Namjoon still hasn’t shown up and he hasn’t said anything and none of your texts are showing as delivered.

You’re halfway to hour two when the office door bursts open and Namjoon stumbles through, soaked with sweat and stammering over apologies.

“I am so sor—I broke my phone again so my alarm never went off and then I missed my bus? And apparently they’re not running the regular bus schedule today so the next one was a half-hour wait, but then I…”

You don’t catch the rest, because Namjoon is covered in sweat and breathing heavily and a week ago you could’ve survived this. A week ago you would’ve cracked a joke and handed him a towel and told him to get to work. A week ago you would not have been paralyzed in your seat, transfixed on the sweat rolling down the side of his neck.

You are fucked beyond belief.

Jungkook elbows you in the ribs, bringing you back to reality. “...even paying attention?” You startle, face warming in embarrassment. Namjoon still isn’t looking at you. “This is so sad to watch,” Jungkook mumbles, and thankfully it’s only loud enough for you to hear. “Like some stupid shit you only see in nature documentaries.”

Well, you can’t really argue with that, now can you?

But you’re a professional above all, so you hum an acknowledgment and take your regular seat. Pointedly ignore Jungkook. Wait for Namjoon to assume his position as well, and you’re surprised to see the space in front of him empty. No notes. No script. There’s just… nothing.

“Are you okay?” you ask, gesturing to the space in front of him when he seems confused. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a stack of notes in front of you.”

“I forgot them.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that, either.”

Your tone is light and airy, not at all accusing or confrontational, but Namjoon’s jaw clenches nonetheless. He scoffs, fires a shitty little, “Were you not paying attention when I was talking about what a horrible fucking morning I’ve had?” at you that makes even Jungkook flinch. A few moments of stunned silence, and then, “Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, that was rude—”

“Yeah, it was,” you agree, and all of a sudden you feel too big for your body. Feel like there are ants beneath your skin, feel like everything is wrong, and you don’t want to be here anymore. “It’s fine. Let’s just—”

Namjoon looks like he wants to argue, but he just sighs and says, “I—yeah, okay.”

This is where Namjoon would usually launch into the intro, a dimpled smile already plastered on his face that’d drop as he discussed another failed first date with that brand of self-deprecation that makes him so endearing. This is where he’d say what have you been up to, Pipe, and you’d try not to groan because how hard could it possibly be to add one more letter, another syllable, but Namjoon seems incapable of it. This is the part that, for three years, has been seamless and easy and instinctual, just two friends having a conversation.

There’s a red light on your microphones that indicates you’re recording. It’s on and it mocks you, because Namjoon is not doing the intro or telling you about a failed date. He doesn’t use that cringey nickname. He doesn’t say anything at all. His mouth opens and shuts and no words come out. What’s worse is that you know exactly why he can’t speak, because you’re thinking about it, too.

“So, uh,” you begin, and Jungkook makes a gagging sound from behind you. “Come here often?”

Namjoon ignores you. “Right, right, the intro…” He sucks in a breath. “Welcome back to another episode of Put Him in the Trash, I’m—”

“Joon—”

“Namjoon, and my co-host here is—”

“Joon, that’s not—”

“Piper. Wait, why are you looking at me like that?”

“That’s not the name of our podcast.”

“Huh?”

“You said Put Him in the Trash.” Namjoon just blinks. “It’s Place Him Gently in the Garbage.”

“Is it? Since when?”

“Since forever?”

He looks at Jungkook, who is hiding behind his hands. “Is she right?”

A beat of silence. “I can’t do this,” he half-shouts, half-whines. “Are you two going to be like this forever? Because if you are, I’m quitting. I’m so serious. I’m gonna quit. I can’t take it anymore. The two of you are insufferable.” Another beat of silence, before Jungkook stands at full height and lords over you and Namjoon. “Forget today. Just go home and try again on Monday. This is so—I’m seriously gonna quit.”

Yoongi comes on Saturday afternoon to pick up Holly.

Yijeong isn’t with him, which is almost disappointing. Now that he’s dating again, you were looking forward to seeing just how awkward it could get with the three of you in the same room, but he looks good. Refreshed. The trip clearly did a world of good for him, and you can’t even bring yourself to crack a joke at his expense.

He, however, has no such hang-ups. “You look like shit.”

“Weird way to say thank you.” You click your tongue and look down at Holly. “Do you see how your father treats me? You should bite him.”

“My son would never. But also, thank you.” He flops onto the sofa. “You do look like shit, though. You wanna talk about it?”

“Not with you, preferably.”

“Oh, gross, is it a dating thing, then?”

“I—no.” You pause. It’s not a dating thing, but you still feel like you’ve got motion sickness whenever you think about it. How would you even begin to explain this to Yoongi, anyway? Someone wrote a porn fic about me and Namjoon. You remember Namjoon, right? Namjoon, that I’ve known and have been friends with since college. Yeah, that Namjoon. Anyway, someone wrote fanfiction about us having sex, and it fucked me up so bad I can no longer be in the same room as him.

No fucking way.

“You look like you’re holding in a fart.”

“You know, I’m getting really sick of you. Did you just come here to insult me?”

He snorts, but his smirk dissipates a few seconds later, a familiar seriousness filling the void. “We’re okay, right? Was the Yijeong thing too soon?”

“No,” you answer immediately, leaning over to flick him on the forehead. “We’re fine, and if you’re happy, then I’m happy for you.” He still looks doubtful. “You want me to start singing ‘I Will Always Love You’ or something? It’s just… weird work stuff.”

“Depends. Are you singing the Dolly Parton or Whitney version? And real work or podcast work?”

“Podcast work, and obviously the Whitney version.”

Yoongi seems surprised by this, eyebrows disappearing beneath his fringe. “Like, the podcast with Namjoon?” He presses his tongue into the fat of his cheek when you nod your head. “Not gonna lie, I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Like I said, it’s weird. It wasn’t, like, an argument or anything.”

“How weird?”

“You’re so fake, Min Yoongi. You act like you’re so distinguished and above drama, but really you’re just as hungry for gossip as the rest of us.”

He shrugs. “I’m not denying it.”

God help you, you’re going to rip off the band-aid. “Someone… Jesus, this is so embarrassing. Someone… wrote? Fanfiction? About us.”

“About you and Namjoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god—”

“About us… uh. Having sex? Specifically.”

“Oh my god—”

“Jungkook found it and thought it’d be funny if we read it for an episode.”

“Oh my god?”

“So we did? And it was really weird, which I expected, because I’ve known Namjoon for a long time, and I never, ever thought about having sex with him because we were together and me and Namjoon are friends, so yeah, it was fucking weird. But now… I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it? And now we can’t even be in the same room as one another.” Yoongi is a concerning shade of red. “So our show is gonna get canceled, because we can only release b-side stuff for so long until people realize something’s up, and it was Namjoon’s podcast to begin with so obviously I’ll get fired—”

“Oh my god, you want to fuck Namjoon.”

Yoongi sounds like a strangled cat when he says this, which does not help the way you feel like you’ve been hit square in the face with a frying pan. “No,” you argue, though it sounds more like a question. You do not want to fuck Namjoon. “No, no. No. It’s just because it was weird.”

“Did you forget I dated you for six years? I know what you look like when you want to fuck someone.”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t be weird if someone wrote fanfiction about you fucking your friend?”

“Not if I didn’t actually want to fuck them, no.”

“You’re a liar. Get your dog and get out of my apartment.”

Yoongi laughs as he stands. Pats you on the back in the most condescending way you’ve ever had someone pat you on the back. “Let me know how it goes. No need to give me credit for your moment of horny clarity.”

Min Yoongi is a bastard.

Unfortunately, as you come to find out, he’s also a correct bastard.

You want to fuck Namjoon.

Which is… not great, you have to admit, considering he can barely stand to be around you, so you take another cold shower and decide you’re going to take this to your grave. You’re going to spend the rest of the weekend getting your shit together, and you’re going to show up on Monday and be a consummate professional. You’re going to look at Namjoon and say, ha ha, isn’t it so funny someone thought we would have sex? I don’t think about it at all because I am so cool and normal about it.

You’ve got it all planned out. You’re going to show up fifteen minutes early with your own box of pastries. You’re going to look nice, if not a little pretentious—maybe a nice sweater. You’re going to be prepared with notes of your own. You might even be nice to the villain of the week so Namjoon doesn’t have to pinch the bridge of his nose and sigh at you.

And then someone knocks on your door.

You find Namjoon on the other side, and all your plans immediately go to shit.

Has he always been this tall? You can’t remember. You can’t remember a lot of things, including how to speak, because Yoongi had launched you into a crisis of epic proportions and now here’s the source of it, standing right in front of you. With all of his… height. And thighs. And that heady, musky cologne he always wears, that you can still smell now even though there’s an unfortunate amount of distance between you.

“Uh, hi.”

You blink. “Hi,” you parrot, and it’s a little insulting how one single word seems to have sucked up all of your brainpower. “Namjoon,” you tack on, not awkward at all.

“Sorry to just show up,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. Very bad idea; makes his biceps bulge. You barely swallow your whimper. “It’s just—my phone’s still broken, and it felt bad leaving things how we did? So I was hoping we could talk.”

Talk. Namjoon wants to talk to you. Normally: not a problem. Currently: big problem. You manage a nod, open the door wider to let him in, and you don’t think about how jarring it is to have Namjoon in your space. You don’t think about how your legs feel like jelly all of a sudden, or what it’d be like if Namjoon bent you over the couch, or the kitchen counter, or the—

You cough. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Oh, sure. Maybe just some water if you have it.”

If you have it. What kind of person doesn’t have water? But you tell him to make himself comfortable and get him some anyway, and you mull too long over the size of the glass. Ultimately decide on a smaller one, because if things get unbearably awkward you can excuse yourself to the kitchen to get more.

“I haven’t been here in a while,” Namjoon says from the living room, and when you look up he’s sorting through a stack of books near the window. Some he’d lent you months ago, notes jotted in the corners, sticky notes in the shape of sea animals on important pages. “You ever wind up reading this?”

The Idiot. Namjoon had raved about it when he was in the midst of his 19th century Russian phase, right after he’d read a bunch of Tolstoy and Pushkin. You shake your head—though, judging from the title, you wonder if someone hadn’t written your biography.

“It’s good. If you have the time, you should definitely give it a shot.”

“Yeah, of course,” you say, handing over his water. You take a seat in an armchair, pull your knees to your chest. Namjoon’s still looking through your books, isn’t looking at you, so it feels safe to say, “You wanted to talk?”

“Yeah.” He moves to sit on the floor, massive thighs spreading until he’s comfortable. Thank god he can’t see the look on your face. “I just wanted to make sure we’re alright. Things have felt pretty weird since we filmed the, uh.” He coughs. “Thing.”

“Right, yeah.” You realize he’s waiting for an answer, and you offer up a very rushed, “We’re fine, Joon.”

“Are you sure?”

Yeah, you’re sure: sure you absolutely cannot be having this conversation in the safety and sanctity of your own home. It’s tainted now, contaminated by all your uncontrolled horny thoughts about the man in front of you. You’ll have to fumigate. Might have to pick up and move, actually, or call an exorcist.

“I’m sure,” you assure him. “The… thing… was weird, but it’s fine. Temporary.”

“Do you think we shouldn’t have done it?”

That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Because, in isolation, reading a porn fic about yourselves wasn’t a big deal. No one got hurt. Everyone who needed to be consulted was consulted. The episode made the two of you a lot of money, and Jungkook even promised to send some of it to the author, so your bases are beyond covered.

So, should you have done it? There wasn’t a good enough reason not to, because the story itself was never the problem.

The problem is staring you right in the face. It’s sitting on your floor, a book cracked in half at the spine and forgotten in his lap. The problem is looking at you like you hold all the answers to the universe’s secrets, and it’s no small thing to be looked at like that. The problem is that Namjoon is looking at you like that from across the room but you’re wondering what it’d look like from on top of you.

The problem is that you’ve co-hosted a podcast with Namjoon for three years, have known him even longer, and you’ve just realized today that you want to have sex with him.

And you can’t say that, can you, because Namjoon came here to fix things which really does not lend itself to a hookup. Namjoon cares about your friendship and your working relationship so much he came here to try and salvage it, so you’re going to keep your mouth shut. You’re going to say, “I think it’s okay that we did,” and leave it at that. Because it is okay.

Because you’re the problem.

It feels like a small victory when Namjoon sags in relief. When he exhales and says, “Okay, good, because I think so, too.”

“It made us a lot of money,” you tack on.

Namjoon’s eyes widen as he laughs. “Right? Like, that was almost too much money. Just to watch us read porn?”

“About ourselves. I think that was the selling point.”

He stands. You do, too. “Never thought I’d be doing that,” he says, returning the book to where it belongs. “Definitely the most embarrassing thing I’ve done for money.”

“Being a man with a podcast wasn’t embarrassing enough?”

He snorts. Gets closer to the door. “Hey now.” You’re going to survive this. “Thanks for entertaining me, by the way. For a second there I was really worried we’d fucked it all up.”

Just the ending. Just one more thing to say and you’ll be done with this, and then you can take your third cold shower in recent memory and triple text Yoongi with a full-fledged mental breakdown. Maybe he’ll bring Holly back and you can register him as your emotional support animal.

And Namjoon must sense the awkwardness that’s crept back in, because he tries to cover it with a joke. Says, “Haaa, like you’d actually piss on me, right?”

Except it sounds like he’s got a mouth full of marbles.

It’s no wonder you mishear him.

Because he says like you’d actually piss on me but you hear like you’d actually kiss me, and there isn’t a universe that exists in which the following makes sense: you, stunned into silence in the doorframe, Namjoon saying his goodbyes, you thinking fuck it, last chance and saying, “Yeah, I’d kiss you.”

Namjoon stops dead in his tracks. “What?”

Your entire body is on fire. “Is, uh. Is that not what you said?”

“I don’t think it matters anymore what I said.”

“I’d argue that it does, for the sake of my digni—”

“You’d kiss me?” Namjoon… doesn’t look put off of the idea, which is surely a point in your favor. Interesting to note that his diction is crystal clear, now. Bastard. “You’d kiss me right now?”

There’s also no explanation for the way you say: “It’s only been an option for ten seconds and you’re already begging for it?”

You’d say there’s no explanation for the way Namjoon’s jaw clenches, the way he repeats I don’t beg for anything, but maybe the simple fact is: the two of you want to fuck each other. And, judging from the way Namjoon crowds your space, keeps dropping his gaze to your mouth, it seems very likely to happen.

All that fixating you’d done on Namjoon’s thighs was wasted, you think, as you take in the shape of his mouth. His lips. The way his tongue darts out to run along the bottom at the last second before he reaches out, tilts your head up, and finally presses his mouth to yours.

And you’ve got to laugh, because no piece of written fiction could ever accurately portray what it feels like. How soft his lips are. The way he touches you—gentle, but still dominant enough to have you moving the way he wants, have you backing up into your apartment so he can smile against your mouth as he closes the door behind him.

No piece of fiction would get it right, the way you’re unsteady on your feet, breathless at the way Namjoon’s kissing you. How he only breaks apart long enough to ask where do you want me in that throaty, deep voice of his. How you’re so overwhelmed you can’t decide: unsure if you want to waste the time it’d take to get to your bedroom, but if it’s only going to happen once, wanting to make it count.

So you decide to risk it. Plant your hands in the middle of his exceptionally broad chest and push him in the direction of the hallway, and if the two of you can’t wait, can’t control yourselves, well.

But the story had gotten one thing right: Namjoon does kiss like a branding iron, hot and greedy. Namjoon kisses you like there’s nothing else he wants to do in this lifetime, and it makes you dizzy. Has you off-kilter, stumbling into the wall as you try to remember where the fuck your bedroom is and why it’s so far. Just like the fictional version of you, you also moan when he licks into your mouth.

“Should I do it the way we did in the fic?” Namjoon asks as the two of you cross the threshold into your bedroom, a cheeky grin on his face. “Do it like this?” he questions, pushing you gently until you’re on the back in the middle of your bed, chest heaving as you lift your head to look at him.

Namjoon is so, so big from where you lay, just hovering at the foot of your bed. Cheeks ruddy, bulge prominent. “What’d you say you wanted?”

Takes a second to remember how to breathe, let alone what you’d read. What do you want, Namjoon had asked, right before he’d sank to his knees in front of you. “Whatever you’re willing to give,” you answer.

Namjoon smiles. Puts one knee on the bed, and the way it dips beneath his weight is unsettling. Why does he have to be so fucking large. “That’s right, baby.” Christ, you think, because there’s another thing that fic had gotten right. No one on earth would be immune to Namjoon calling them baby in that tone of voice.

The riposte biting at the back of your teeth gets swallowed whole as Namjoon grabs your ankles and drags you to the edge of the bed. “May I?” he asks, hands poised above the waistline of your leggings. You nod, and Namjoon drags down your underwear with them. “Fuck, look at you,” he groans, awe creeping into the edge of his words.

“You want me to do it the same way? Hm? You’re being awfully quiet; thought you were giving me shit about being the one in charge,” he chides.

Because you’re short-circuiting. Namjoon’s on his knees, just like you’d envisioned, and his mouth is dangerously close to your cunt. How can you be expected to think and speak under these conditions? But if Namjoon can find the brainpower to be a bastard, so can you, because what you’d read and the way he’d reacted can both never be forgotten. So you thread your hands into his hair and pull. The resulting moan is enough to sustain you for years.

“Are you gonna keep running your mouth, or are you gonna make me come on it?”

He blinks. “Jesus Christ.”

There’s precedent. Fictional Namjoon ate you out like a man starved, like he couldn’t get enough. Had fictional you writhing and insatiable, so it’s a lot to live up to, but it doesn’t deter him in the slightest. He hesitates for only a second, giving you one last chance to back out before the two of you set every last boundary on fire, and then he’s settling between your thighs and making you see stars.

Now you know what it’s like. Now you don’t have to rely on fiction, and it doesn’t matter because it’d never compare to the way Namjoon feels as he works to bring you to your ruin. The way he flattens his tongue to lick long, thick stripes; the way his lips suction around your clit. The way it feels when he groans against your core. The way he says, “Fuck, you do taste good,” like that’s a completely normal thing to say. Like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing to you.

But you need more and Namjoon knows it. His mouth doesn’t leave your cunt for a second, but his fingers find your mouth, so you put on a show. Wrap your lips around them, suck on them the way he’s doing to you, make sure they’re slick. Namjoon groans again, doubles his efforts. Slides one thick finger inside of you and barely lets you adjust before he’s adding a second.

In an embarrassingly short amount of time, Namjoon has you unraveling. Presses incessantly on a spot that has your vision whiting out. Has you trembling, a little panicked as you say, “Joon, fuck—Namjoon, wait—” as it builds and builds and builds.

You might black out for a second, because you come to and Namjoon looks… stunned. He looks like he can’t believe any of what just happened, and you blink a few times, try to come back into your body, and when you regain enough consciousness, you’re extremely aware of the large wet patch beneath you.

“Um—”

“Holy shit.”

“Namjoon, that’s not—that’s embarrassing—can you grab a—”

He shuts you up with a kiss. Presses the taste of you into your skin, and all those silly protests die in your throat, because if Namjoon was needy before, he’s desperate now. Covers your body with his own, hips dipping down low enough to press his erection into the juncture of your thigh, and the weight of him is delicious. Has you fisting the fabric of his t-shirt to pull him closer, has you pulling it over his head, his pants following. Has your hands skimming down every thick part of his body until you reach his cock, hard and aching and slick with pre-cum.

“I need to suck you off later,” you say, done with overthinking. Time to just be honest, and Kim Namjoon has a dick you need to feel down your throat. “Remind me.”

He whines, thrusts into your hand a little harder. “How could I forget that?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t know if this would be the only time,” you answer. “Did you bring a condom?” Namjoon nods, fetches one from his wallet and rolls it on.

He hovers above you again. Looks nervous, all of a sudden, like he can’t tell his lefts from his rights. All out of sorts. You’re about to tell him it’s fine, you don’t have to do anything he doesn’t want to, don’t have to do anything at all, when he says, “It doesn’t have to be.” You just stare. “The only time.”

There’s a conversation to be had. You know that. Both of you clearly have feelings you need to talk about and sort out, but you reckon they can wait. They’ll still be there in the afterglow, in the morning. So you nod, say okay, Joon, and kiss away the insecurities that still linger.

You think about the fic. Think maybe Namjoon would appreciate it if you cracked a stupid joke, just like he’d tried to do earlier. “Has anyone ever called your cock stupid?”

He laughs, breath fanning against your skin. “No. Wanna try it and see what happens?”

Might as well. You try to remember the exaggerated tone of voice you’d used. Repeat the line—“Do you even know what to do with that big, stupid cock?”—and wait.

There’s a beat of silence, and then—

Namjoon swallows thickly. “I, um. Unfortunately, I think that really works for me.” You laugh. Pull him closer. Wrap your legs around his waist as he starts to move against you. Has jokes of his own. “Please. Please let me fuck you.”

You roll your eyes, laugh tapering into a giggle. “Do you know how?” Namjoon nods, looking all too much like a puppy eager to please its owner. “Do you promise?” He nods again. “Okay. Okay, come here.”

You expect him to move fast; expect the first time to be frenzied and a little awkward. It isn’t. Namjoon lines himself up and pushes the smallest bit inside, and then he’s leaning down to kiss you. Threads your fingers together, squeezes your hand. Pushes further inside and mumbles praise just beneath your ear.

It’s dizzying, the amount of care Namjoon handles you with. How soft he is. Does nothing to ease the discomfort of the stretch, the overwhelming fullness, but he talks you through it. Tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look. Spills a lot of words you’d probably be embarrassed to hear and he’d be embarrassed to say if this was any other time, but in the heat of the moment it all just works to unravel you faster.

He bottoms out. “Okay?” he asks, and you’re rewarded with a dimpled smile when you say you are. Namjoon is a devastating kind of beautiful.

But, as he gives you time to adjust and you give him the all-clear, he also fucks like a demon. What once was hand-holding is now your wrists pinned to the bed, your body caged beneath him as he rolls his hips at a pace that has your eyes rolling back into your head. You’ve been deceived. Lured into a false sense of security.

It’s almost a shame this isn’t being recorded, because you want to memorize all the sounds Namjoon’s making. Want to hear them for the rest of your life. Don’t want anyone else to be the reason he sounds like this, and as he ups his pace and presses his lips to your neck, you don’t want to sound like this because of anyone else, either.

Maybe one of those times in the future, you can talk him into it.

Namjoon reaches down, rubs circles into your clit. Every time you think you might be close, he pulls his hand away, smiles like the devil. You let him have his fun for a while, let him think you’re keen to lie back and take it, and then you tighten your legs around his waist and flip him onto his back.

He doesn’t think it’s very funny. Looks up at you all bewildered. “What’re you—”

“You were taking too long,” you snark. “Figured I’d take matters into my own hands.”

“Yeah? Shit,” he says as you begin to move. “Fuck, baby, like that. Ride me just like that.”

You do. Don’t change a thing, because Namjoon’s cock is long and thick enough to hit exactly where you need it to. You can feel yourself clenching, feel yourself getting wetter, and the sight of Namjoon beneath you does nothing to stave off the inevitable. He looks even better than you’d imagined: skin flushed, eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back, sweat-slick. You want to make him cry. Want to give him the entire world. You will.

Namjoon thrusts at the same time you roll your hips, and that’s what does it. Has you crying out, has stars flashing behind your eyelids. Has you saying fuck, fuck, fuck as he drives you over the edge for the second time. Has you on the brink of oversensitive as he thrusts a few more times to chase his own end, almost delirious at the way Namjoon moans as he spills into the condom.

Has you swooning, just a bit, at the dopey way Namjoon smiles at you, eyes half-lidded and crinkled at the corners.

“Was that okay?”

You snort. “Yeah, I’d say it was decent.”

“Maybe next time you could pee on me,” he jokes.

You whack him on the chest. “Sure. Or we could record it.”

Has you a little shocked at the way his cock twitches inside of you at the mention of it.

On Monday, you don’t wear a pretentious sweater.

When you stroll in, Jungkook’s already got the best donut shoved halfway into his mouth because he’s a shithead. He eyes you warily, probably hoping with all his hope that you spent the weekend finding God and getting your shit together.

And then he realizes you’ve got on Namjoon’s hoodie and he nearly chokes to death.

“What the fuck are you wearing—”

Namjoon appears at that very moment, and it’s so hard not to take credit for the way he’s glowing, the dazed smile on his face. But Jungkook notices, because Jungkook notices everything, and his gaze darts between the two of you: your hoodie, Namjoon’s face, your face. He opens his mouth, something inappropriate bound to spill out, but Namjoon beats him to the punch. “Ready?” he asks you, and you nod.

It’s seamless.

No hiccups, no awkward stuttering. Namjoon gets through the intro without a hitch, and it feels exactly like it used to. Just two friends having a conversation. It’s obvious Jungkook still wants to say something, but after suffering through last week, he stays quiet lest he makes it worse and sends the two of you back to the bad place.

“How was your weekend, Pipe? Do anything fun?” Namjoon rolls his lips, tries not to laugh.

So you play along. “No, not really, just some dog sitting. How about you?”

“Oh, you know me. Had another first date on Saturday.”

“Did you? How’d it go?”

“Perfect.”

It’s a blessing Jungkook isn’t filming this, because your eyebrows raise so far they nearly disappear from your face altogether. There isn’t even a hint of hesitation in Namjoon’s voice, and although you would’ve described it the same way, hearing him say it with such conviction has you a little stunned. “Wow. You gonna see her again?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, sharing a private smile with you. “I think I am.”

who the FUCK is namjoon dating Posted by u/pod-shipper 7 minutes ago This has honestly ruined my entire day. I thought all the stories he told about dating were a bit… Like, what kind of guy has a podcast about relationships but can’t seem to be in one? But you could just HEAR it in his voice how much he likes this woman he went on a date with over the weekend and I’m sick to my stomach. (+2195) ↳ bro you and me both 😭 i genuinely thought him and piper had something going on fr (+1302) ↳ Seriously might stop listening because of this! Any woman with self-respect would never let their partner host a podcast with someone they’re obviously in love with. If he gets serious with this woman, Piper will be gone within 6 months, mark my words. (+927) ↳ I wouldn’t worry about it too much! My cousin works at a really nice restaurant in the same city Namjoon lives in, and she said she saw this “date” on Saturday and that it wasn’t anything serious. (+788) ↳ Piper got a cat and Namjoon finally got a second date. Face it, it’s over. (+325) ↳ cannot believe him and piper aren’t dating.. do you think i should delete all my tiktok edits? (+4) ↳ this is unhinged lmfao i thought y’all hated piper? you’re in here bitching abt her being a “misandrist” every week and now ur gonna stop listening bc namjoon isn’t dating her? pick a lane and stay in it (-64)

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