Emotions Of The Soul | Knj

Love this to bits! So charming and witty. A must read!

real magic (explicit)

genre: smut, fluff, bangin’ your boss, m attempts kidfic - part of a hyung holiday collab !

pairing: namjoon x reader

summary: the holiday season has never meant anything to you beyond suffering long hours for minimum wage and awaiting the collapse of capitalism— but this year, you’d be willing to add making out with your dilf coffee shop boss to the list.

word count: 16.7k 😩

contains: ~*~explicit sexual content (after kind of a slow burn sorry lol)~*~ the "moving back to your hometown" hallmark trope, a nick jonas poster (yes that's a warning), some taekook slander in the beginning because i thought it was funny, namjoon is so buff and so dumb but so wise and so hot, moni is a little shit, namjoon is a dad!, namjoon's kid uses they/them pronouns but it's not like A Focus of the story it's just flavor, reader thinks joon has a dead wife for like one second 💀 mentions of teenage pregnancy and co-parenting, one incredibly stupid asshole customer lmao, mint choco slander (it's what namjoon would want 😌), obviously there is an employee/boss power dynamic but they talk about it and figure it out because this is namjoon and he overthinks everything, namjoon driving (he's a dad i have to assume he would get his license if he had a literal child!!!!!!!!) and a lotta sentimental holiday and life talk. here are ur sex specific warnings: making out/going to second base in a car in a parking lot (what is it with my namjoons and cars in parking lots yo), fingering, semi-drunk sex, and fuckin' rawwwww with a smidge of size and breeding kink lmao (but she's on the pill!!! no more kids!!!!!!)

A/N: hello hello hi merry crisis this damn fic is finally here lmao~ as i have been babbling on about for days i really really (REALLY) love how this namjoon turned out he's just hesjkrgdhtgk such a fucking himbo but a good dad and wise and did i mention hot aaaaaa 🫠 all the love in my gay little heart to @goodsoop for their barista wisdom and real life experiences that went into this one (the cookie story will never not make me laugh) ! and to @sailoryooons for beta reading this 50 million times and encouraging me when i was convinced it sucked ass, and also for making all the gorgeous banners for this collab 😭

which btw - be sure to go check out @gimmethatagustd & @sailoryooons & @nabiolive 's fics tooooo !!! i've loved collabing with them so very much even when we were all hashtag Going Through It, we got the whole damn hyung line you hear meeeeee 🎁🎁🎁🎁

read on AO3!

Rudely awoken by the incessant beep of your alarm, you open your eyes to find Nick Jonas staring back at you, and you sit up with a scream.

Realization washes over your sleep-addled brain in waves: first, that you aren’t actually staring at a real person. He’s just smizing on a hot pink poster, held up by some remarkably durable masking tape you stuck to the wall fifteen years ago. Second, it comes back to you that you are staring at said poster because you’ve woken up in your childhood bedroom. It’s been left untouched since you were a teenager, like a weird time capsule of all your high school obsessions.

After reaching for your phone to silence the alarm, you kick your way out from under the blankets, trying not to make eye contact with Nick, or Justin, or Zayn as you stumble to the bathroom. The circumstances of your grand return to living in your goddamn parents’ house linger like a bad taste in your mouth, one that all the tongue brushing in the world can’t remove.

It still doesn’t feel real. Taehyung, your best friend in the world since freshman year of college, kicked you out. Sure, it may have been phrased more like a gentle request, but as far as your ego is concerned, it still feels like exile. Banishment, even. The person you thought you could never be parted from made his choice, and he chose his fucking boyfriend over you.

Jungkook. You think the name with all the venom your cold, dead heart can manage as you spit toothpaste into the sink.

Jungkook, the weird, bug-eyed kid who put his toe-socked feet on your couch, drank his banana milk out of your favorite mug, and ate up all of your Samyang ramyeon because he ‘thought it was communal’. 

Jungkook, who ruined your sleep schedule nightly, either by fucking Taehyung senseless on the other side of your paper-thin apartment wall, or by blasting the same four Ariana Grande songs over and over on his bluetooth speaker and singing along in an annoyingly good voice. Either activity would go on well into the early hours of the morning, until you had to bang on the wall so hard you nearly put your fist through it.

Jungkook, whose dog once took a shit right on the floor in the middle of the kitchen.

Bam was cute enough to forgive, of course. But you can never forgive Taehyung for his betrayal. Especially when he knew you’d just been fired from your shitty coffee shop job for the stupidest reason ever, and he didn’t let that derail or even delay him. He still went ahead and delivered the killing blow.

Et tu, Taehyung? you think angrily to yourself as you stand in front of the suitcase containing as much of your closet as you could possibly fit. You still need to go back for your bigger furniture, and little things like your plates and your mugs and your silverware, which Jungkook is probably putting his grimy little fingers all over at this very moment. But until you’ve checked out of your indefinite vacation at the Nightmare Parental Hotel, there doesn’t really seem a point.

If you were less upset, you might take consolation in the fact that your parents aren’t actually here, that they’ve jaunted off to their timeshare until the new year, but you’re busy being too swallowed whole by your misery to find an ounce of joy in any piece of your current reality.

You dig through the pile of clothes until you manage to pull out something halfway decent. The first order of business now that you’ve moved back in is simple: acquire another stupid coffee shop job. You have no plans to stick around long, you just need something seasonal that will give you some meager income while you start looking for a real gig, one that is ideally not in your hometown.

Watching yourself in the mirror as you pull on a simple black blouse and your least-stained pair of jeans, you attempt to mentally dust off your interview skills. You conjure up your best fake smile and customer service voice, both of which are second-nature at this point.

Why do you want this job? “I’m just so passionate about coming home sticky and verbally abused by caffeine-addicted assholes every night.”

What’s your biggest weakness? “Clearly it’s the fact that I’m a ray of fucking sunshine.”

Why were you terminated from your last job? “Oh, well, I attempted to get my previous employer to improve their standards of worker treatment. You see, I selfishly requested that they raise the bar a single notch above hell. Certainly won’t happen again!”

This should go well, you tell yourself, and your reflection grimaces back.

With several hours to kill before your job interview and a growing desire to avoid the weird nostalgia of your childhood that seems to lurk in every corner of your parents’ house, you decide to take a walk.

The sky is bright blue and cloudless, and though the air is brisk, it isn’t terribly windy. You tuck in your earbuds as you shut the front door behind you and pick a direction, aimless, letting your mind wander to the soundtrack of your “seasonal depression” playlist.

A whole new crop of families must have moved into your parents’ neighborhood in the years since you moved out, because the streets are more alive with kids than you can ever remember them being, even when you were a kid yourself. Bikes and scooters lay abandoned on the sidewalks between homes, and you can hear the repeated echo of a basketball dribbling on a driveway, punctuated by distant, playful screaming.

Even in the daytime, you can tell these families have spared no expense when it comes to Christmas decor: some homes have every eave outlined in string lights, some have candy cane stakes dug into the perimeter of their perfectly manicured lawns, and some have been seemingly invaded by small armies of inflatable reindeer and snowmen. You can’t help but giggle a little at the inflatable decorations that have been set to turn off during the day, the way the airless material lays limp in the grass, giving the impression of a yard strewn with dead bodies.

But you remember what it looked like when you drove in last night, everything lit up and brought to life.

Your parents definitely didn’t have inflatable lawn decorations when you were a kid, but you’d get so excited every year when your dad would drag the ladder out and spend the day stringing up the simple rainbow lights you did have. You still remember the little spark of joy you’d feel in your chest when the colors would click on after dark, the way you would run outside every night just to see them twinkle, your breath puffing steam clouds in the air, your bare feet freezing on the ice-cold driveway.

It felt like magic then. But somewhere along the way you grew up. And now that feeling’s gone. Even at night, the lights just look like… lights.

Distracted as you are by the music in your ears and thoughts of your childhood that have brought you to a standstill on the sidewalk, you don’t notice what’s happening until it’s too late. 

A blur of red and white is suddenly circling around and between your legs, and you feel something twining over your ankles, then tugging with a force that threatens to knock you off balance. As you lean forward in an attempt to right yourself, the chaos in question slows enough for you to realize it’s a fluffy white dog in a red sweater, who has excitedly tangled you up in his leash.

You manage to find the looped end of the leash and slowly get yourself unwrapped while the dog continues to pant and jump and occasionally yap at you. With your legs freed, you squat down for a proper greeting, laughing to yourself as he lifts up on his hind legs, balancing his paws on your knee to lick an enthusiastic greeting across your cheek.

“Hi, puppy,” you murmur, trying to get him to hold still long enough to read the name on his tag. A voice beats you to it.

“Moni!”

When you glance up to find Moni’s owner jogging up the sidewalk, you have to make a conscious effort to keep your own tongue in your mouth, because good lord, he is fine.

He’s tall, towering over you even once you bring yourself back up to standing, and the black workout tank and athletic shorts he’s wearing do absolutely nothing to hide the thick, well-defined muscles of his arms, chest, and thighs.

Despite his lack of clothing in the cool winter air, you can see his face and neck are slick with sweat, his white-blonde hair damp with it too. There’s even a dark patch that’s soaked his shirt at his sternum, making the firm swell of his pecs that much more apparent. It takes you an extra second to break eye contact with them, but when you do finally manage to drag your gaze up to meet his, you realize his face is just as nice of a view: honey-tan skin, full lips, and cute dimples that pop as he gives a sheepish, appreciative laugh.

“Thank you,” he says, a little breathless; his voice is deep and slightly husky in a way that makes your face grow hot. You blink stupidly at him for a few moments, your mind reeling, and then it occurs to you that you still have his dog’s leash in your hand.

“No problem,” you manage, handing the looped end back over and double-checking to make sure your ankles are still free from their entanglement. Though now that this man is holding the leash, you kind of wish they weren’t.

“Moni’s usually good about not taking off when I stop to do a circuit,” he explains, like you’re the dog owner police. It makes you wonder what kind of Karens must have moved into this neighborhood since you left it. “I don’t know why he ran, maybe he saw a squirrel or something.”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him with a smile, admiring Moni as he stretches and settles into a polite seated pose. “I like his sweater.”

“Thanks,” he laughs again. “C’mon Mon.”

You can’t help focusing on how big this guy’s hands are as he slips his fingers through the end of Moni’s leash, tugging slightly as if to encourage the dog back in the direction he came from.

Moni blinks and stays right where he is.

“You little shit,” his owner huffs under his breath, and you have to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from laughing. You distantly realize you should probably leave them to it and continue on your walk, but this is too entertaining to turn away from now. Your hot neighbor tries one more futile attempt to get Moni to move, then seems to give up entirely.

He stoops down with a low grunt of effort that makes your core flutter as he grabs the fluffy dog and hoists him up in his arms. You try to force yourself to stop noticing the way his biceps flex, the fact that the muscles of his arms are nearly bigger than your head.

“Thanks again,” he says with a final grateful smile, and your only response is to swallow hard and stand there like an idiot as he turns and carries his spoiled dog back home.

When you arrive for your interview, you’re delighted to discover that Indigo Coffee is nothing like your last job. It’s warm and bright, with large picture windows that flood the space in sunlight, and there’s a cozy personal touch to it, the likes of which you’d certainly never see in your former corporate shell of a workplace. The sitting area is dotted with live edge wood tables and mismatched chairs. There are an array of framed paintings on the walls that look handmade in a good way, simple yet bold brush-stroke lines in a deep blue color scheme. And, you realize as your eyes linger, the shop is absolutely overflowing with plants: in simple clay pots lined up along the windows, free-standing between tables, and tucked into bookshelves placed artfully throughout the space. 

You step closer to inspect one as you wait on your interviewer and are pleased to see that it’s real, that they all are— no waxy fake leaves jammed into a thick block of cement, but real greenery sprouted in real dirt, deep brown soil gone soft from what must have been a recent watering. These are plants someone cares for, coaxed and kept alive by someone’s time and patience and love. The thought makes you smile a little despite yourself.

There’s still fucking Christmas music playing, but you figure that’s inescapable this time of year.

“Are you here for the interview?” someone asks over your shoulder. As you turn away from the plant, you wonder if you’re imagining that the voice in question sounds slightly familiar, and then you find yourself once again staring up at a fine-ass man with white-blonde hair and a sweet pair of dimples.

He’s clearly showered since your last encounter, and is now slightly more covered up in a pair of faded jeans and a gray-green flannel thrown over a black shirt emblazoned with bold white lettering: Protect Trans Kids.

“Oh.” Moni’s owner blinks back at you, and the shock on his face is so apparent that a giggle escapes your lips before you can stop it. “Uh, hi again.”

“Hi,” you echo, equally flustered, before realizing you failed to answer his initial question. “Oh, yeah. Yes. I am. The interview. I’m— that’s me.” So well-spoken, you mentally kick yourself.

One dimple deepens slightly as he extends a hand. “Kim Namjoon. Owner of Indigo Coffee. And the world’s least obedient dog, as you saw earlier.”

You offer your best handshake in return and a smile that you surprisingly don’t have to force as you give Namjoon your name. He gestures to a table in the corner, and you each pull back a chair to have a seat. You try to banish any potential horny thoughts from your brain, but shifting into interview mode proves difficult as he rests his large hands on the table in front of him, drumming idly along to the horribly cheery music.

You manage to tear your gaze away from Namjoon’s fingers when he speaks again. “If it’s cool with you, we can just chat a little? I’m not so good at conducting formal interviews. Too inauthentic.”

It’s like you can feel some of the tension release from your shoulders. “I— yeah. That sounds great.”

“Cool,” he nods, and you try to ignore the rush of heat up your neck at the intensity of his stare. Professional, be professional. “So I saw on your resume that it looks like your last few jobs were out of town. Did you just move here?”

“Moved back,” you say quickly. “Yeah. I grew up here, actually.”

Namjoon’s eyes widen a little in clear interest. “Really? What brings you back?”

You purse your lips as you consider how to phrase it. “My life… kind of fell apart. So. I moved in with my parents for a bit. Like a winner.” His dimples pop when he smiles at your joke, and you drop your gaze to the table. “Just trying to figure out what’s next, and find something seasonal in the meantime.”

“Well, we could certainly use the help,” Namjoon admits. When you chance a glance up, there’s a look on his face like he’s choosing his next words carefully. “I saw in your application that you were terminated from your last position.” He leans in, lowering his voice slightly as he continues. “I’m gonna be honest, I hate that we even ask that question. But can you tell me a bit about what happened?”

You keep your stare fixed on the wood grain in front of you as you try to stay calm. “Well, if I can be honest too...” Squeezing your eyes shut, you tell yourself to just say it. “I was fired for trying to unionize.”

“Oh.” Namjoon sounds surprised, but you can’t manage to look at him. “Really?” You nod slowly, biting down on your bottom lip. “That’s— fucking illegal.”

That makes your gaze snap back up to meet his. His brow is furrowed slightly, a muscle in his jaw pulled tight.

“Yeah,” you say belatedly. “Yeah, I know. They made up a bunch of fake excuses as to why I was fired, but I knew what it really was. It was because I wanted them to actually pay us what we were worth, and hire more workers so we weren’t being scheduled to death. And I was getting everyone else riled up too, and I guess it scared them.”

Namjoon sits back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “Huh. Man. Well, I’m sorry that happened to you.”

It takes you a second to process what you’re hearing. Union has always been a scary word for any person in upper management you’ve previously encountered. You hadn’t expected this to be so… easy. For him to understand, or sympathize. “I— yeah. I am too.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Namjoon continues quickly, “I think it’s great, what you tried to do. I’m very pro-union.” He pauses for a moment, his face twisting slightly in thought. “I mean, admittedly, we don’t have one here. Granted, there are only five of us. I should probably ask, though, if they want one.”

You can’t quite hide your smile. “I’m gonna take a guess that you probably treat your employees pretty well as-is.”

“I try,” he says with a shake of his head. His eyes meet yours again. “So, here’s the deal. You have a ton of experience, and with holiday time off and a few people out sick, I’m super understaffed right now. You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders, and hopefully you feel like you can come to me if you have any issues, without fearing retaliation.”

You blink slowly, and he must be able to read the disbelief on your face. “What I’m saying is I’m offering you the seasonal position,” he clarifies. “Is that— do you, uh, accept?”

“Yes.” The word is chased by a dazed laugh, and Namjoon’s dimples resurface around a small smile.

“Cool. I told you I’m bad at interviews,” he huffs, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck. You try to ignore the swell of his bicep, clearly visible even beneath his bulky flannel. “I know this is a lot to ask, but. Is there any chance you can start, like, right now? Because Jimin’s shift ends in…” He tilts a little, fishing his phone from the front pocket of his jeans, and his mouth drops open in surprise when he gets a glimpse at the time.

“Oh, shit,” Namjoon murmurs, and then he raises his voice to call across the mostly empty store. “Jimin-ah! I’m so sorry!”

You turn around, your gaze landing on the barista leaned up against the counter next to the register. His dyed-gray hair dusts over his eyes, which pull into crescent moons as he laughs. “It’s cool. I knew you were almost done. But I’m gonna clock out now, if she’s good?”

“Yeah,” you answer, turning back to Namjoon. “Yeah, I can start now.”

The two of you move behind the counter, and you sweep your hair up out of your face while Namjoon starts to go through a basic run-down of where everything is located. The overhead bell tinkles as Jimin shoulders the front door open, and he lifts a hand over his head in parting.

“See you after the holidays!”

“Alright,” Namjoon says as he waves to Jimin, a little breathless from having rambled on for the better part of several minutes. “That was a lot. Do you want to just start on register? I feel like that should be easy enough, and I can train you on everything as people come in, since it’s pretty dead right now.”

You shrug. “Works for me.”

Within half an hour, there’s a line out the door, and Namjoon has managed to spill espresso grounds all over his shoes for a second time.

“Ah, shit,” he groans, taking a step back. “Sorry. Been a minute since I’ve had to be back here.”

“It’s okay,” you try to reassure him, but you can see from the faces of the customers who have been waiting on their drinks for several minutes— including one who’s had hers remade three times, all of them incorrect— that it is very much not okay. You certainly lack the people skills to smooth over any of Namjoon’s mistakes, and you can feel a stress-induced eye twitch starting to flare up, brought on by Kelly Clarkson’s incessant yuletide belting.

You give your boss five more minutes, wherein he scalds his hand on the milk steamer, forgets about a cookie in the warmer until it’s burnt entirely black, and nearly turns the blender on with the lid off, before you finally intervene.

“Hey, Namjoon?” You do your best to keep your expression pleasant when he glances over at you, wiping at his brow with the back of his hand. “Maybe we should switch?”

“A-are you sure?” he stammers, apparently torn between wanting to be a good boss and a clear desire to just take the L. “I feel bad, this is literally your first shift.”

“I think I can handle it,” you reassure him, lowering your voice a little. “Let me take care of the drinks, and you can do your… endearing golden retriever thing. Keep the people entertained.”

Color blooms in the apples of his cheeks as his dimples make a brief appearance. “Oh, okay. Can do. Just let me know if you need help.”

You can’t imagine a universe where his clumsiness could in any way be considered helpful, but you keep that thought to yourself as you smile at him. At least he’s cute.

Things improve dramatically once your roles are reversed: as you expected, Namjoon is far more charismatic than he is coordinated, and he chats endlessly with the people waiting on their drinks, hardly pausing long enough to take a breath, while you scramble around trying to get your bearings in a new environment. The steady stream of customers doesn’t let up for the rest of the evening, until the last few finally trickle out of the store a few minutes after close, and you waste no time locking the door behind them with a sigh of relief.

You spin around, letting your back thud against the door for a moment as you watch Namjoon fight with a broom and dustpan in a futile attempt to get espresso dust out of the grout between the tiles. There’s a dull ache starting to thud in your skull, and it’s only deepened by the shrill opening notes of another fucking a cappella song.

“Namjoon?” you ask as you cross toward the counter, and his head instantly snaps up. “Do you think we could maybe turn off the Christmas music?”

“Oh, sure.” He’s already fumbling to grab his phone, and he taps a few buttons until the music suddenly switches, a soft voice starting to croon over an old school beat.

“Thanks,” you say, and you can’t help the pity smile that pulls up your mouth when he returns to his useless task. “I think the grout might be a lost cause, but I can go ahead and mop whenever you’re ready.”

He rights himself with a defeated sigh, nodding his head to the storage closet in the back. You follow his lead to retrieve the mop, then set about filling up the bucket with water and cleaning solution. Namjoon’s voice floats in from the front of the shop as he busies himself with his own closing tasks.

“Imagine smokin’ weed in the street without cops harassin’ / Imagine goin’ to court with no trial / Lifestyle cruisin’ blue Bahama waters / No welfare supporters, more conscious of the way we raise our daughters...”

You’re laughing a little as you roll the bucket out, starting at the door to work your way back. “Is this… Nas?”

He glances up, like he’s just remembered other people exist in the world. “Yeah, sorry. I can turn it off.”

“No, no,” you say quickly when he starts to reach for his phone again. “This is good. Much better than Pentatonix. I’m just… you really know every word.”

Namjoon shrugs, clearly embarrassed. “He’s my favorite.”

The revelation surprises you, and you pause to think as you pull the mop back and forth over the tile floor. It didn’t even occur to you that Namjoon would have a favorite kind of music, apart from the soft elevator muzak you imagine must play on a steady loop in his brain, given the way he fumbles through life.

“I actually wanted to be a rapper,” his voice comes back, and you look up again, your interest piqued. “When I was younger. But you know. Life had other plans.”

“Ah yes, the rapper to coffee shop owner pipeline,” you muse, and he barks a laugh that you wish you didn’t find so hot. Shaking your head, you force yourself to look back down at the espresso-studded tile, doing your best to shove your attraction aside and not think about it. He’s your boss, dumbass.

Still, it’s hard to ignore, particularly as he continues to rap along to each song that comes on, his voice deeper and huskier than you’ve heard it thus far in casual conversation. He doesn’t miss a word, and you can’t deny that it’s impressive. And sexy. Fuck.

Once the floor has been successfully mopped and everything else is put back together, you hop up onto the counter to wait for the tile to dry, and your gaze lingers over Namjoon’s large hands as he cashes out the register. He flips through the bills in time to the music, still humming under his breath as he goes, and you do your best to hold in your laugh when he inevitably loses count and has to start over from the beginning. Thankfully the second attempt sticks, and he smiles proudly to himself as he zips everything up into the deposit bag.

“First shift down,” he announces, as if you might have forgotten, and then his eyes find yours and you swear your breath gets stuck in your throat. “How do you feel?”

It only occurs to you now how close he’s standing to you, and with the way your legs are casually dangling over the edge of the counter, it wouldn’t take much for him to step between them. And god, he’s so damn tall, you’re practically eye-to-eye.

“Uh,” you manage, your mouth suddenly gone dry. “Good. I feel good.”

“That’s good,” he answers, his voice dipping into that throaty tone again. You find yourself wondering absentmindedly if maybe Namjoon has a customer service voice, too, and then for the briefest flash of a moment, his gaze flits from your eyes to your lips and back again. It’s so quick, you can’t be sure it even really happened.

You tell yourself it’s just your exhausted post-shift brain seeing things that aren’t there, wanting this fine-ass man to be into you, too.

A sudden bang on the front door makes you flinch so hard, you come dangerously close to kneeing Namjoon in the crotch. He takes a large step back as you whip around to look over your shoulder, only to see a kid’s face pressed to the glass, framed by two small hands. You’ve never been great at telling the age of children on sight, but this one looks like… maybe a middle schooler?

“Whose fucking kid is that?” you say automatically, blinking, dumbfounded. Namjoon’s laugh is a low rumble behind you.

“That would be mine.”

It takes several days for the shock to wear off. Your boss has a kid. Kim “could’ve burnt the building down with a single cookie” Namjoon is at least partially responsible for keeping another human being alive. Which means you have a crush… on a father.

A father who also happens to be your boss.

You try not to think about any of it.

There’d been brief introductions when you left the shop that first night, but all you’d really managed to glean was the kid’s name, Sol, and their pronouns. As someone who is historically terrible with children, you’d excused yourself the minute Namjoon locked the front door, after what felt like an eternity spent watching him pat each of his pockets twice before he finally managed to find his keys.

“I hope it wasn’t weird,” your boss says out of nowhere in the middle of your next shift, during a much-needed moment of peace after the morning rush. “For you to meet Sol like that. It’s just been hard, since their mom, uh…”

Namjoon trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished. You glance up, eyes widening as you put the pieces together.

“Oh my god,” you breathe. “I’m so sorry.”

His gaze meets yours, and it’s like you can see the wheels in his head turning before he catches up. “No, no,” he says quickly, and then he starts to laugh. “Wow, I really did not start that sentence well. She’s not dead. She just got married, and she’s on her honeymoon for most of December. The logistics have been hard, is what I meant.”

An embarrassed heat creeps up your neck, and your elbows thud against the countertop as you press your face into your hands, attempting to muffle your own laughter. “In my defense,” you groan, “you really made it sound like you had a dead wife.”

“Not dead! She’s fine!” Namjoon’s dimples are as prominent as you’ve ever seen them when you peek up at him from your full-body cringe. “Very much alive, very much not my wife.” The muscles in his arms flex as he crosses them over his chest, leaning up against the counter next to the register. “Never was, actually.”

“Really?” you answer automatically, your damned curiosity getting the better of you.

He nods, his voice a little more serious when he continues, rambling on in the way that you’ve already started to suspect is his default setting, talking as if to fill empty space. “We were seventeen when we got pregnant. I knew we were young then, but I don’t think I really realized. Now that I’m almost thirty, I know: seventeen is fucking young.”

The line of his jaw tightens, thoughtful, as his gaze sweeps over the floor. “I thought I wanted to marry her, or at least felt obligated to. Like it was the right thing to do, but. We didn’t have any money, and then it all got so hectic after Sol was born. Didn’t even take a year for us to realize it wasn’t gonna work, not for us.”

You blink, trying to take in all the new information. “That sounds really hard.”

“It was,” Namjoon admits. “But we were both on the same page about it. That no matter what, Sol had to come first.” He glances up with a shrug. “It’s all good now. She’s a great co-parent, and her new husband is really good for her. And… well, I have Indigo.”

The tinkling of the bell at the front door snaps you out of a daze, makes you realize you’ve been staring at him, dumbfounded. You do your best to shoot Namjoon a soft smile, and to ignore the pang in your chest as he turns to greet the customer that’s just wandered in, already starting to babble on about the weather.

You find yourself more grateful for Namjoon’s presence with each passing shift, in a way that you try to convince yourself is thoroughly platonic. Between fairly steady work and his very steady chatter, your time spent in the warm, sunny space of Indigo turns out to be a good distraction from your own miserable excuse for a life. The repetitive motions of making drink after drink are oddly comforting, and you have to admit, Namjoon really is good with the customers.

“Peppermint mocha to go.”

You do your best to follow up the sentence with a polite smile as you set a drink down for the customer who has done nothing but scowl at you the whole time you were making it. The silent prayer you’ve sent out to the universe that he’ll take whatever personal problem he has elsewhere and leave you alone has clearly gone unanswered.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snaps, and you can feel your shoulders creep up towards your ears in anticipation of nothing good. Here we fucking go.

You blink twice, trying to keep your service persona engaged. “I’m sorry, is that not what you ordered?” It is, you know it is, you heard him say it.

“No, that’s mine,” the man quickly responds, reaching out to snatch the cup in a motion that makes you flinch. “But do you hear this fucking song?”

The honest answer is no: at this point the ever-present Christmas music might as well be white noise, so you have to make a conscious effort to tune back in and listen. It’s a few seconds, and then you pick up on the melody. “…Last Christmas?”

“Uh, yeah,” he continues, explaining like you’re stupid. “The original. Last Christmas by Wham!” When it’s clear you still aren’t putting the pieces together, he scoffs in pure frustration. “You just made me lose Whamageddon! I’ve won every year for the last five years, I can’t believe you would even put this on your fucking playlist!”

Your face pulls into an incredulous grimace before you can think to control it. “Uh, I’m sorry, but I didn’t make the—”

He cuts you off. “First off, I don’t need the fucking attitude. And surely you’re at least capable of checking what songs are on there, right? That’s not too advanced for you to handle?”

You didn’t even hear Namjoon walk up from the back office, but he’s suddenly stepping in front of you, and you’re more than glad to move back and let him handle this dude before you end up in jail. “Woah, woah, alright,” Namjoon interjects, his voice loud enough to carry. “What’s going on?”

The man beats you to it. “I’m trying to file a legitimate complaint and she’s rolling her fucking eyes and getting an attitude with me!”

“It’s the song,” you explain briefly, trying to keep everything about your expression neutral. “He’s mad that we’re… playing Wham.”

Namjoon’s face twists in an expression that you would find funny if you weren’t so fucking livid, one that you’re pretty sure is the mirror image of your own reaction minutes earlier. “The song? Seriously?”

You can see the guy scrambling, clearly starting to get embarrassed at his own dramatics. “Alright, I don’t have time for this. I guess I just need to take my business elsewhere, because this is ridiculous. What ever happened to the customer is always right?”

Namjoon goes silent for a minute, and you try to ignore the way the look on his face makes your pulse quicken, thudding brightly in the hollow of your neck. His voice is deadly serious when he speaks again. “I appreciate that you’re upset, but if you’re going to look my employee in the face, after she just performed a service for you, and disrespect her like that? Over a fucking song? Nah, I’m not gonna tolerate it. Maybe the next time you want someone to make you a toothpaste drink, you should take your ass to Starbucks.”

It takes every ounce of strength you have to keep the reaction off your face until the asshole has stormed out the front door, nasty drink in hand. As the bell finally tinkles to signal his departure, you collapse forward, just barely catching yourself on the counter so you don’t crumple straight down to the floor.

“Oh my god.” Your laugh of disbelief comes out more like a groan, at the ridiculous complaint and your boss’ insanely attractive comeback alike. “I fucking hate this time of year.”

“Hey.” The word is punctuated by Namjoon’s shoulder bumping into yours, and you look back up at him, still laughing a little at your own misery. His eyes search yours, sincere. “Assholes are assholes no matter what season it is. I’m sure that guy finds plenty of things to complain about the other eleven months of the year, too. Don’t let him ruin it for you.”

You can’t help rolling your eyes, if only because you can do it freely now, without a man standing over you and yelling about your ‘bad attitude’. “I guess,” you huff. “And thank you.”

Namjoon shakes his head, like it’s nothing. “Chin up, okay?”

The two of you breeze through closing that night, familiar enough to fall into a steady routine now. You’re wiping everything down behind the counter and humming along to Tupac when Namjoon’s voice drags you back out of your thoughts in a way you’ve already grown accustomed to.

“You know…”

You glance up, only to realize that he’s started to flip chairs on top of tables to clear the floor, and is grabbing them two at a time, one in each hand. The image makes you a little dizzy, and you tell yourself to focus on his words, not his biceps.

“I think we make a pretty good team,” he concludes.

“Yeah,” you breathe, trying to keep your composure at the unexpected compliment. “I was thinking the same thing. And thanks again for, you know. Handling that guy.”

Namjoon shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Hey, you’re doing me a favor, taking this seasonal job. I’m not about to let anyone fuck with you.”

You bite down on a smile as you head towards the back to grab the mop, and then you hear a loud bang on the front door— it’s another sound you’ve gotten used to in your brief time at Indigo. There’s the click of the deadbolt, chased by the tinkling overhead bell and Namjoon’s chiding voice. “Homie, if you break my door I’m gonna make you get a job to pay me back for it.”

“You think I don’t know about child labor laws?” you hear Sol retort, clearly not intimidated, and the attitude in their voice has you biting back a laugh.

Wheeling the mop bucket out of the storage closet, you glance up to see Namjoon jut his chin toward the large front window, indicating Sol to take a seat on the ledge. “Feet off the floor, she’s tryna clean.”

Sol complies, plopping down in the window with their eyes glued to their phone as Namjoon disappears back toward the office to grab his things. You watch as Sol pulls their knees into their chest so their chunky black boots clear the tile, and you can’t help noticing that said boots are adorned with oversized silver bat-shaped buckles, reflecting the amber streetlight gleam that leaks through the window.

“I like your boots,” you say, more to yourself than Sol, half expecting them to be so engrossed in TikTok that they don’t even hear you.

But to your surprise, Sol looks up.

“Thanks,” they say, glancing at their feet. “I just got them. I’m in my post-hardcore era right now.”

The statement is delivered without a trace of irony, and you do your best to hold in another amused giggle as you respond. “Wow, you are… so much cooler than I was when I was your age.”

Sol seems to consider this for a moment, then shrugs. “I mean, you didn’t have the internet back then, right?”

The question hits you like a train, and you have to pause and press a hand over your heart at the impact. “Okay, ouch, I’m not that old.” They grimace apologetically, and you lean up against the mop handle in thought. “But the internet definitely wasn’t like it is now. The only social media that really existed was Myspace, and my parents wouldn’t let me make one. I mostly just used the internet to, like, play RuneScape.”

“Oh shit,” Sol remarks, sounding remarkably like Namjoon in the process. “You played old school?!”

It’s like you can feel your bones crumbling to dust inside your body, and you wince as you resume dragging the mop over the tile. “Hey, back then it was the only kind of RuneScape we had. But yes, you can consider me a… founding father of that game.”

“That’s cool!” they exclaim, sounding so genuine it makes your head spin. When did RuneScape become cool again? “My friends and I play old school all the time. It’s the best, for real.”

You shake your head in disbelief as you continue to mop, and a long pause settles between you, with Sol’s interest clearly returning to their phone.

Fuck, you think to yourself, what else do kids even talk about? Marvel movies? It’s like your mind has gone totally blank, unable to conjure up a single topic of conversation, and you practically huff out an audible sigh of relief when their voice breaks the silence again.

“I think my dad has been happier since you started working here.”

The mop nearly slips out of your hands entirely, and you glance up, eyes wide. “I— really?”

Sol nods, playing absentmindedly with the strings of their black hoodie, then bringing the end of one up to their mouth to gently chew on. “It’s a theory I have. A game theory. I plan to ask additional follow-up questions tonight.”

At this, you can’t help but laugh. “Well, I’m sure your investigation will be very thorough.”

There’s a flash of a dimple in Sol’s cheek, like the mirror image of their dad. “I can tell you what he says, if you want.”

You wonder how telling your own smile is. “I mean… I can’t say I’m not curious.” You’re distantly aware of the sound of the office door closing, chased by Joon whistling to himself, and you lower your voice conspiratorially as you drop the mop back into the bucket. “I look forward to hearing what you find out.”

Monday morning, when you wake up to the omnipresent smize of Nick Jonas, you can’t help smiling back. 

You made it through your first week of work, and it wasn’t even that torturous. And best of all, Namjoon reminded you the night before that Indigo is closed on Mondays, which gives you an entire day to spend as you please. A real day off, which was truly unheard of at your last job, where you’d spend your non-scheduled days still anticipating an incoming emergency text asking you to cover a shift last-minute. More often than not, you’d end up working after all.

“But not today,” you announce to Nick.

A grand plan has already started to form in your head, one that involves a party size bag of Hot Cheetos and all eight episodes of The Fabulous, and yet. There’s a lingering urge at the back of your brain that you can’t quite ignore. With all the day-off energy you can muster, you drag yourself out of bed and tug on a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, then shuffle into the bathroom to at least make yourself halfway decent.

You’re just going for a quick walk around the block to get some fresh air, you tell yourself. That’s all. Certainly no other reason.

It’s only a few minutes after you step out your front door that a fluffy white blur nearly collides with your shins, and when you stoop down to lift Moni into your arms, you once again can’t keep the smile off your face. Huh, who could’ve seen this coming?

But when you glance up, there’s no hot buff man jogging up the sidewalk after his dog. In fact, you realize as you look back at the ball of fluff in your arms, he isn’t wearing a leash or harness at all, just another cute sweater.

“Are you even supposed to be out here?” you ask Moni. His only answer is to drag his tongue up the side of your face.

You shift him a little in your arms so you can fumble for the tag attached to his collar, and thankfully, there’s an address listed. It takes you a second to get your bearings in the neighborhood, having not lived here for close to a decade, but it eventually comes back to you where the listed street is, and you start to walk. Moni is already blinking sleepily in your arms, clearly enjoying his preferred mode of transportation.

A laugh bubbles up in your chest as you approach the house in question— even if you hadn’t had Moni’s tag to guide you, finding his home would’ve been easy enough as soon as you passed this street, because you can hear old school hip-hop bumping through a speaker despite still being several houses down the block. You suppose Namjoon can get away with it during the day, when all the neighborhood kids are still in school.

As you make your way up the driveway, you realize the music is actually coming from behind the house, and when you follow the path that leads around back, you spot the culprit: a simple wooden-slat fence surrounds the yard, and the gate has been left wide open.

Before you can even make it over the threshold, a familiar voice reaches your ears, sounding much closer than the music. “Ah, shit.”

Namjoon comes barreling through the open gate so fast he practically runs you over, and Moni yaps, like he’s annoyed at being jostled as you quickly try to stumble out of his owner’s path.

“Oh. Uh, hi.”

You wonder if you’ll ever be able to take in how shock looks on Namjoon’s features without giggling a little. Today is certainly not that day. It’s just so endearing, the way his eyes widen and his mouth pulls into a perfect o-shape.

“Hi,” you breathe out around your laughter, trying to ignore the heat that flushes into your face when his dimples appear in return. “I think I found something that belongs to you.”

With a wave of his hand and several profuse thank yous, you follow Namjoon back through the gate, and wait until he firmly shuts it behind you before letting Moni down to trot off across the yard. It’s only now that you take Namjoon in properly: he’s in a gray hoodie under a pair of denim overalls, both of which are splattered artfully with paint in a variety of colors.

“I was just in my studio,” he explains, tipping his head toward the small shed in the yard, which you quickly realize is also the source of the music that led you here. “Doin’ some art. Do you, uh… wanna see?”

“Yeah, okay,” you answer with a nod.

“Fair warning, I’m really bad at it,” he calls over his shoulder as he leads you in the open studio door, raising his voice to be heard over the music. He reaches for his phone, propped up in the windowsill, to turn the volume down a few notches.

There’s an easel up against the far wall holding what must be his current project, a half-finished scene that you realize upon closer inspection is thousands of tiny dots of color, painstakingly blotted onto the canvas to form a mountain landscape at a distance. A few more pieces that he’s already completed have been leaned up against another wall to dry, one featuring an abstract array of featherlight brushstrokes, and another where the paint’s been globbed on in thick layers.

Namjoon is talking a mile a minute as you inspect the canvases. “I thought maybe I’d do cyanotypes today, but it’s not sunny enough, and I’ve made that mistake before. I’m really into texture right now, so I’m trying out some different techniques with paint. I want to get better at pointillism, but it’s a lot harder than you’d think it would be. ‘Cause it’s just dots, right? But you have to be able to see the forest for the trees, too.”

“These are amazing,” you finally manage to murmur, and to your surprise, the compliment actually renders him silent. When you turn back over your shoulder to look at him, he’s glancing down, almost like he’s embarrassed.

“Thanks. But I just do it for fun. ‘Cause I love art.”

“I can tell,” you say, and when he looks up, you offer him a smile you hope reads as encouraging. “Did you make the art at work, too?”

He nods, still sheepish, and that answer also surprises you. You recall thinking on your first day that the paintings hung on the walls looked handmade, but it never crossed your mind that they might have been made by Namjoon’s hands. Maybe because you’ve grown so accustomed to seeing him drop and break things, you haven’t ever considered him as also capable of… creation.

And yet, here he is. Proving you wrong.

“Sorry,” Namjoon’s voice makes you refocus on him, and your brow furrows in confusion at the unexpected apology. “This is literally your one day away from me and here I am, taking up your time. Thanks again for bringing Moni back.”

“It’s okay.” You shrug. “Don’t have much going on today, honestly. I never really know what to do with myself when I’m not working. Which I’m aware is very sad.”

“Well, uh,” Namjoon starts, and when he takes a single step closer, you swear you feel something flutter in your stomach— or maybe lower. “Sol’s got a half-day today, since it’s the last day before break, so I’m picking them up in a bit. And we were gonna go on a hike, probably take Moni too. You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like?”

Your eyes widen at the invitation. “Oh. That sounds great. I mean, if you’re sure I wouldn’t be intruding?”

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up just so. “Nah. I actually think Sol really likes you. At least, they wouldn’t stop asking questions about you at dinner last night.”

“Is that right?” You do your best to keep your expression neutral.

Namjoon drives far enough north that there’s actually snow on the ground when you climb out of his front seat. You shove your hands into the pockets of your jacket as you follow him across the gravel parking lot towards the trailhead, a few paces behind Sol and Moni.

Sol shoots an expression of pure mischief at you over their shoulder, and then immediately starts to sprint up the marked path through the woods, Moni easily keeping up.

“Bye, nerds!” you hear them call before they disappear between the trees.

“Stay on the trail!” Namjoon shouts back, sounding as dad-like as you’ve ever heard him, and you can’t help but laugh. The two of you quicken your steps slightly to not fall too far behind, tracking the set of boot and paw-prints they’ve left to mark their trail.

For a moment, it’s silent between you, save the crunching of snow underfoot. It’s nice, being out in nature like this, time spent with Namjoon where you aren’t suffering through Christmas music and ungrateful customers. Where you can just… breathe. It makes you feel a little less sorry for yourself, a little less fixated on your own miserable life.

You glance over at him as that strange seasonal melancholy starts to settle into your bones again. “Are the holidays… better? With a kid?”

Namjoon makes a face, like he’s surprised by the question. “I mean, they’re definitely different. Then again, it’s been a long time since I did the holidays without a kid— not since I was a kid myself. What do you mean by better?”

Self-consciousness washes over you, your gaze drifting down to the path beneath your feet. “I don’t know, there’s just… I can’t shake this weird feeling now that I’m back home. This time of year used to be so exciting for me when I was Sol’s age. Everything felt special. Magical. But now I’m back here, and nothing’s really changed, except me. But I just keep feeling like the magic is gone. It’s… sad.”

He nods, taking a moment before he responds, and he’s chuckling softly to himself when he finally does. “You know, it’s kinda funny. When Sol was younger I actually felt a lot of stress this time of year. I couldn’t really enjoy it, because I was too busy trying to make sure that they had the best holiday I could possibly give them. That they didn’t feel like they were getting any less, since, you know. Their mom and I aren’t together. It’s funny that you bring up the magic, because I put a lot of pressure on myself to make that magic happen. But now that they’re a little older, I don’t know, it’s different.”

“Different how?” you prompt.

A dimple deepens as he hesitates. “It’s gonna sound corny. But really, I realized that the holidays aren’t about the gifts, or the decorations, or every little thing going perfect. You can make yourself sick over that shit, and I did, but kids don’t really care about it.” He pauses, and for a second you think that might be it, but then he keeps going, eyes fixed on the towering pine trees ahead of you.

“The year I opened Indigo, I had sank so much fucking money into it that I was broke. Broke broke. I couldn’t afford a single gift, a tree, not even a turkey. Sol and I sat on the floor of my shitty apartment and ate Chapagetti and watched Friends. And I felt like the biggest fucking failure imaginable. And then you know what happened?”

“What?”

“Sol turned to me, and they said, ‘This is the best Christmas ever, because we get to hang out, just the two of us.’” He blinks a few times, like he’s trying to ward off tears, and his voice comes back slightly less steady than before. “I still don’t know if they said that because they really meant it, or if they could just tell that I needed to hear it. But either way, I thought to myself: how fucking lucky am I, to have such a great kid? Like what did I ever do to deserve them? I still feel that way.”

Namjoon shrugs, as if to shake off the emotion. “I don’t know. Maybe that’s not helpful to you, but. I just see it differently now. It’s not about the what, or the how. It’s about the who. Spending this time of year with the people you care about, and making sure they know you do. That’s the real magic.”

You realize the trail has carried you up the sloping hillside, and is now flattening out at the edge of a clearing, where you can see Moni chasing Sol through the snow, can hear their high-pitched laughter ringing out in the wide-open air.

When you turn back to Namjoon, he’s already looking at you.

“I’m sorry you don’t feel the magic right now. I didn’t either, for a long time. But it does come back, I believe that. It’ll come back for you, too.”

You blink up at him, overwhelmed by his willingness to be so honest, and by the wisdom of his words. “I— thank you,” you finally manage to say.

Namjoon doesn’t answer, just glances up to where Sol and Moni are still playing, and your gaze follows his out over the snow-covered field. Sol is dusting off a sizable stick, and they call out for Moni to fetch before launching it into a dramatic arc, high up in the air.

Moni watches it go, entirely disinterested, then settles onto his haunches in the snow with a yawn.

“You’re so bad at being a dog!” Sol shouts, and that’s enough to make you and Namjoon both dissolve into laughter. They look up at the sound, hands-on-hips, before yelling again, this time in your direction. “My dad said he has a crush on you!”

Your jaw drops open, and Namjoon’s eyes are wide as you’ve ever seen them when you look up at him.

“Damn, dude, you said you were gonna be chill about it!” he exclaims, and you press a hand to your mouth as a fresh wave of giggles overtakes you. Given how long Namjoon’s legs are, it only takes him a few strides to catch up to Sol. You stay a tentative distance behind him, but still close enough to be able to make out their conversation.

“Uncle Hobi says you need to be bolder with women,” Sol chides, matter-of-fact.

“Uncle Hobi says a lot of shit,” Namjoon mutters under his breath.

“He painted my nails,” Sol raises their voice, clearly talking more to you than to their dad, and holds up a hand for you to see, waggling their fingers proudly.

“They look great,” you call out in response.

Namjoon turns back to you as you step in closer, then juts his chin to a bench at the other side of the clearing. “Sit with me for a sec?”

With a nod, you follow him over, and he wipes the metal surface free of snow with his sleeve before gesturing for you to have a seat. For a moment, the two of you sit silently and watch Sol, who is already busying themself with building a snowperson while Moni slow-blinks encouragingly from a distance.

Namjoon’s words chase a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna be real with you, despite the fact that my child just stole my thunder. I like you a lot.”

Your heart swells in your chest, threatening to burst. “I-I like you too,” you stammer back immediately. “Have definitely been harboring my own crush… basically since I started working at Indigo.”

When you turn to look at him, it surprises you a little that he isn’t smiling. You can see a muscle working in his jaw, like he’s nervous.

“That’s the thing,” he finally relents. “Work. I don’t— I hadn’t really planned to tell you how I was feeling, or act on it. Because I’m your boss, and that means, you know. There’s a power dynamic there. And it would be… unethical of me to blur the lines like that, by getting involved with my employee. I wanted you to come out with us today because it was a chance for you and I to be equals, outside of work, but it’s not like that dynamic just goes away, you know? And I feel a little guilty about it now. Because I really like being around you so much, but I just. We can’t. It wouldn’t be right. Not while you’re working for me.”

You stare down at the snow under your boots as you take in his words, and you can’t help it. Try as you might to sit there and take his worries seriously, laughter flutters out of you before you can hold it in.

“What?” Namjoon asks, and you shake your head, trying to compose yourself.

“I really, really appreciate that you gave it so much thought,” you say, willing your voice to stay even. “I mean it.”

“It’s weighed really heavy on me, if I’m honest,” he says solemnly, and you glance over to see him staring into the middle distance, like he’s deep in contemplation.

Before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching out to where his hand rests on the bench between you and covering it with your own.

“Namjoon?” you ask softly, and it seems to snap him out of his trance enough to look back at you.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” you preface. “But if I have to choose between you and my stupid seasonal coffee shop job?” The smile starts to flicker over your face again. “Then I quit. I quit right now.”

“Oh thank god,” Namjoon breathes, and you can only make a soft noise of surprise when all at once, he takes your face in his hands and kisses you. You need a split second for the shock to wear off, and then you’re moving your mouth against his, one hand fisting tight in the fabric of his jacket. His lips are full and warm, and it feels like far too soon that he’s pulling back again, his cheeks flushed with color.

“Will you, uh—” he pauses, like he’s remembering how to form a sentence. “Will you still work tomorrow though? Jimin’s back after Christmas, but I really don’t think I can survive a shift on my own.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, still a little breathless from his kiss. “Yeah, I think you’d burn the place down.”

Unable to deny the claim, he laughs brightly as you untangle from each other, then gets to his feet before offering a hand to help you up. “We should head out, it’s gonna get dark soon.”

It’s true: across the wide clearing you can already see the sun threatening to sink back down between the trees, casting a golden-pink light that gleams off the snow and paints the world in warmth.

Sol leads the way back through the woods to the car, tugging Moni along by their leash, while you and Namjoon bring up the rear. You glance over at him a few times to catch him staring, and you scrape your teeth across your bottom lip, unable to keep the smile off your face, unable to stop yourself from mentally replaying the moment when he kissed you, over and over.

Just as you step under the shadow of a large tree, snow-covered branches stretching up toward the clear sky above you, Namjoon stops in the path. It’s so abrupt that you continue a few more paces before you even realize, and then you stop, too, glancing back towards him.

“Hey Sol,” Namjoon calls. “Think you and Moni can make it all the way back to the car in ten seconds?”

“I know what you’re doing,” comes Sol’s cheeky reply, but when Namjoon starts counting backwards from ten, you can hear the crunch of their boots taking off down the path.

“Eight, seven, six…” You watch as Namjoon cranes his neck until he deems Sol far enough out of sight, taking a step toward you as his counting trails off, and you find yourself pulled into him like a magnet. “Come here,” he murmurs, and then his hands are slipping up your waist and guiding you backwards until your back hits the trunk of the tree.

In true Namjoon fashion, he uses way more strength than is necessary for the task, and though your winter jacket cushions you from the impact, you’re smacked against the bark so hard that it knocks a dusting of snow off the branches above you, covering you both in flakes that stick to your hair and eyelashes. The sudden rush of cold makes you gasp into Namjoon’s mouth, but then he’s rolling his tongue over yours and you can’t think about anything else. A heavy pulse has started to thud between your legs at the heat of his breath in your mouth, the way his hips have you pinned to the tree, his body big enough to cover yours entirely.

“Joon,” you find the air to breathe as his lips trail hungrily down the slope of your neck. You rake a hand through his hair, white-blonde strands studded with snow, to try and pull his attention back, despite very much not wanting him to stop. “Joon, we should go. Before someone steals your kid.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs against your skin, and then his mouth is on yours again for one more kiss, like he can’t get enough. “Okay,” he finally grunts as he pulls away, sounding as begrudgingly responsible as you feel. Your head is still spinning; you want nothing more than to stay here and let him kiss you dizzy.

“Let’s go.”

He takes a step back so you can right yourself, reaching out to dust some snow off your jacket, and then the two of you resume walking up the path, sharing a breathless laugh like confidantes. You assume it’s just his standard clumsiness when Namjoon’s hand knocks into yours, but then his fingers are twining through yours purposefully, until you’re pressed palm to palm.

The rush of heat that blooms in your chest at his touch keeps you warm the rest of the way to the car.

Your last shift at Indigo somehow manages to feel exactly like every shift that’s come before it and completely new at the same time.

The work is the same, the steady stream of customers unchanged, the Christmas music still an aggravating soundtrack. But you no longer feel like you have to ignore the butterflies that flutter in your stomach when Namjoon asks you a question, or meets your gaze across the shop.

The only urges you have to suppress are indecent ones, made worse by Namjoon seemingly taking advantage of every opportunity to touch you: hip-checking you when you’re both standing at the front counter, pressing a hand to the small of your back whenever he has to squeeze behind you, leaning in a little closer than necessary to be heard over the noise of the milk steamer. It’s enough to make your breath hitch each time, and you can’t help but wonder if he feels the same relief at not having to hold back anymore.

Towards the end of the night, it surprises you when the typically consistent flow of customers starts to slow down, until it seems to have ceased entirely. You still have two hours to go, but you find yourself staring at the walls, every table empty, having done all the side work you can think of to distract yourself from boredom.

The sound of the front door’s lock clicking shut makes you glance up, only to see Namjoon flipping the open sign over.

“What are you doing?” you ask, blinking dumbfounded, and he looks over his shoulder at you with a shrug.

“It’s Christmas Eve Eve, and I’m the owner, so. We’re closing early. Effective immediately.” The decree makes you laugh a little, and his dimples wink back. “Let’s finish cleaning, I wanna show you something.”

In record time, you find yourself standing outside the front door of Indigo as Namjoon locks up, only tonight your hands are kept warm by the hot chocolates he’d made for the two of you as you closed. He takes his cup back once his hands are free, and you try a tentative sip from yours, now cool enough to drink without burning your mouth. Given what you witnessed of his barista abilities on your first day, you brace yourself for the worst, but your eyes widen in pleasant surprise when the liquid hits your tongue.

“Being a dad means getting really good at a few specific things,” he says by way of explanation as he unlocks his car doors, and you smile as you slip into the passenger seat.

It occurs to you as Namjoon starts to drive that you don’t actually know where he’s taking you, but when you open your mouth to ask at the next red light, he leans over you to fumble open the glovebox and you lose your train of thought. He fishes inside for a few seconds before retrieving a CD case, then makes quick work of prying it open and sliding the disc into the slot on the dash. You attempt to hide your giggle behind the rim of your cup.

“No wonder you like ‘90s music so much. You’re still living there,” you say, nodding to his antiquated stereo, and he smirks as he turns up the volume. 

“This is A Tribe Called Quest,” he remarks, quirking an eyebrow when he looks back at you. “You better show some respect.”

“Yes, sir,” you tease in response, and you don’t miss the color that flushes his cheeks.

The light turns green and he accelerates through the intersection, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the center console to grip playfully at your leg, a few inches above your knee. You can see his tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, like he’s considering saying something, but when he finally opens his mouth, it’s just to rap along to the music.

It’s only a few songs later that he’s turning off the main road and following a barely-lit gravel path up to a large grassy parking lot, where he pulls into a space and kills the engine. You squint through the windshield, tucking your now-empty drink into the cupholder, but you can’t make out much except dusk and some vague lights over a hill in the distance.

“Was this crush thing just a ploy to murder me?” you quip, and Namjoon looks a little nervous when you glance over, like he took the question to heart. “I’m kidding,” you clarify quickly.

His voice comes out surprisingly soft. “This is one of my favorite things to do during the holidays. Thought it might help with, you know. The magic.”

Something cracks open inside you as you look back at him. “That’s… really sweet.”

“Ah,” he says, as if to dismiss the compliment. “You haven’t seen it yet. Maybe you’ll hate it. Come on.”

The two of you climb out of his car to start your trek to whatever he has in store, heading in the direction of the lights, and Namjoon’s hand slips into yours, like it’s already second nature. Easy and sweet. You grip tight to him, the night air colder now than it was when you left work, but then you finally crest over the hill, and the temperature is suddenly the furthest thing from your mind.

It takes you a moment to even understand what you’re looking at. The place is clearly some kind of arboretum, as the path ahead of you snakes through a perfectly manicured garden of various plants, but the only thing you can focus on are the lights. Every tree, bush, shrub, and other kind of greenery that lines the walkway has been intricately strung up with lights, each one boasting a different hue. The end result is nothing short of dazzling— a veritable rainbow of light and life and color, glittering diamond-bright against the deep-set night around you.

“Namjoon,” you breathe. “This is beautiful.”

There’s a dimple flickering at the corner of his mouth when you look up at him. “Thought you might like it.”

“I can’t believe I never knew this was here,” you remark, your eyes wide and blinking as you try to take it all in.

“Hey,” he answers with a shrug. “Maybe your hometown still has a few good surprises left in it.” You exhale a laugh as you lean into his side and he squeezes your joined hands; you can’t help feeling like you’ve already found the greatest surprise of them all.

After an hour spent wandering through the displays, each one more breathtaking than the last, Namjoon diverts you toward a small food stand. He comes away from the counter with a paper carton filled to the brim with long ropes of twisted, fried dough, warm enough to release steam into the air when you tear one apart to share, and dusted with cinnamon sugar that sticks to your fingertips.

The two of you take a few steps back down the path until you’re under an archway of glowing golden lights, then eventually come to a standstill, too hungry to do anything except devour your food.

Namjoon speaks first, mid-chew. “Can I ask you a question?”

“What’s up?” you answer as you reach for another piece.

He swallows, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth before he continues. “At your interview, you said your life fell apart. What happened?”

“Oh.” You smirk as you rip the braided dough in two, then in two again, before popping it into your mouth. “It seems a little silly now, but. I got fired from that last job, like I told you. And the same day, my roommate pretty much kicked me out of the apartment, because he wanted his boyfriend to move in. He was also my best friend, so. It stung a little. A lot. Moving back in with your parents at this age is humbling, to say the least. Feels a lot like starting over.”

Namjoon hums, like he understands. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Eh,” you respond noncommittally. “I should probably be happy for him. The timing just… wasn’t amazing.”

“You know,” he murmurs, thoughtful. “I thought my life was over when my ex and I got pregnant. Not even eighteen and about to be a dad. I really felt like… I don’t know, like that was it for me.” You nod slowly, unable to even fathom what that must’ve been like.

“But, here I am. Still alive.” Namjoon flashes you a grin, and you find yourself smiling back. “Still figuring it out. I actually feel like I’ve learned a lot from watching Sol grow up. They’re like—” He shakes his head, as if at a momentary loss for words. “They’re like a different person every month, I swear. What they’re into, how they dress. Who they wanna be. It makes me feel, I don’t know. Like it’s okay. Like I can change too.” He shrugs. “That’s the thing about life. It’s long. And even when you feel like it’s ended… it keeps going anyway.”

His words wash over you, and you’re so in awe that you can’t help but laugh.

“Ah, sorry.” He grimaces, suddenly self-conscious. “I know that was corny.”

“No, no,” you interject, trying to keep your composure. “I just think you are like, literally the wisest person I’ve ever met.”

The lights glimmering overhead aren’t enough to hide the way Namjoon blushes at the compliment, and then he pauses, as if recalling something. “Didn’t I nearly run the blender with the lid off on your first day?”

You double-over at the memory, and he’s laughing now, too. “Okay, okay. Fair point.” 

The thought keeps circling around in your brain as you dust cinnamon sugar from each other’s jackets and continue your way around the rest of the gardens, occasionally pausing to trade sticky-sweet kisses in the twinkling glow: you don’t want the night to end. You keep glancing over at Namjoon, wondering if he’s feeling the same way as he drives you back into town, the heat in his car on full blast, the CD player still underscoring your conversation.

“So, what do your Christmas plans look like?” he asks, eyes flitting briefly from the road to meet your gaze.

You fiddle with a button on your coat, wishing you had a less depressing answer. “I was just gonna spend it by myself. My parents already had a vacation in Hawaii planned, so I’m gonna do what I always do: hole up with booze and snacks and wait for it all to be over.”

He chuckles, tapping his fingertips absentmindedly against the steering wheel. “Well, I have about a hundred presents to wrap tomorrow night while Sol’s at their mom’s. Why don’t you come over and help? I can even provide the booze.” There’s a pause, and his voice comes back softer before you can respond. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

The corner of your mouth tugs up at his sincerity, the way he gently cares for you, has since day one. “Yeah, okay. I mean, you had me at free alcohol.”

Just like that, Namjoon is already turning back into the Indigo parking lot, where your car sits waiting for you. The two of you shrug off your seatbelts once he’s pulled into a space and parked, and he reaches to turn down the music before shifting in his seat to get a better look at you.

“So,” he starts, clearing his throat a little. “You are officially no longer my employee.”

“And you are no longer my boss,” you answer back, and a thrill buzzes in your chest at the statement.

“Which means,” he continues, doing his best to lean over the center console, “I can do this.” He barely finishes getting the words out before his mouth is on yours, your eyes fluttering closed, his kisses far less chaste than the ones you shared earlier. They’re open-mouthed and urgent this time, with Namjoon slipping his tongue into the heat of your mouth like he’s been waiting all night for it.

“Uh-huh,” you murmur between kisses, and then he dips his head lower, until his lips find the join of your neck and shoulder.

“And this,” he purrs before kissing you just as hungrily there, tongue-first. You can’t hold back the soft noise his mouth pulls out of you.

“Fuck,” you breathe as he sucks gently over the same spot, with just enough pressure to make you writhe in your seat. A shiver rolls up your spine when he hums against your skin, clearly pleased at your reaction.

“And, uh…” You slowly blink your eyes open when you feel the warmth of his breath dissipate, and he’s looking at you with his brow furrowed, as if attempting some difficult mental math. “Actually—” He reaches down for the lever to adjust his seat, and it drops all the way back with a graceless thud that makes a laugh flutter out of you. “Maybe you could take your jacket off and come over here?”

You don’t need him to ask you twice, and you’re moving quickly as you peel out of the thick material and scramble across the console to straddle him. You both groan a little when you duck down to press your mouth to his again, all of this suddenly feeling much more real now that you’re basically horizontal. His hands alight on your hips, tentative, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with them, and you smile against his lips.

“Touch me, Joon,” you instruct, and he does as he’s told.

His hands are warm as he slips them beneath the hem of your shirt, trailing over your skin until he reaches the band of your bra. When you hum encouragingly into his mouth, he keeps going, pushing the fabric up your chest so your tits spill free from their confinement. He cups one in each hand, and though you might’ve expected him to be clumsy or rough, given everything you’ve seen of him thus far, you’re surprised to instead find that he’s gentle, thumbs circling your nipples with just the right amount of pressure to tighten them into stiff peaks.

Unable to bite back your whimper at the heat that blossoms through you at his touch, at how much more of him you need, you pull away just enough to break your kiss, glancing up through the back window of his car to confirm the parking lot is still empty.

Namjoon groans low in his throat when you reach down to tug up the hem of your shirt, shifting a little on top of him to give him better access. He doesn’t hesitate, thumb still working at one nipple while he takes the other into his mouth, and your sigh of relief comes edged with a soft moan when he swirls his tongue over the bud of your breast.

“Shit,” you gasp. “Feels so fucking good.”

He pulls off with a wet pop to switch sides, and the slick heat of his mouth sends bolt after bolt of arousal through you until there’s a dull ache of need thudding between your legs. As you roll your hips in desperate search of friction, you can feel him beneath you, straining hard against the fabric of his jeans.

Namjoon pulls his mouth off your breast, letting out a hoarse laugh when you shift to drop your forehead against his collarbone with a groan, horny enough to practically be delirious. “I hate that I’m even saying this,” he rasps, “but I really can’t have sex in a car. I’m too—”

“Big?” you offer, and there’s a smile on his lips as he presses a kiss to your temple.

“I was going to say old.”

You can’t help giggling as you lean up to find his mouth with yours again. Namjoon kisses you a little while longer, lazily, his hands still kneading gently at your tits, until he finally tips his head back, heaving a sigh up to the roof of his car. “Okay, okay. You should go.” His tone is reluctant, like it’s the last thing he wants. “It’s late. And my jeans fucking hurt.”

There’s a self-satisfied smirk toying at your mouth as you sit up, tugging your bra and shirt back into place and not missing the bulge in Namjoon’s pants where your hips meet his. “I will take the blame for that one.”

He folds his hands behind his head, biceps and dimples on full display. “Damn straight.”

You lean down for one more kiss, letting it linger before you make your way back over the center console to retrieve your jacket. “Have a good night, Joon,” you murmur as you reach for the door handle, and when you glance back, his eyes are fixed on you, still heavy-lidded with lust.

“Get home safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I have booze, as promised.” Namjoon’s voice echoes in from the kitchen as you kick off your boots and hang your coat up at his front door come Christmas Eve. The aroma hits your nose as your socked feet pad down the hall to follow him: the spice of cinnamon and clove, paired with a hint of citrus. It smells like the holidays, like home.

“Mulled wine?” you wager a guess, and he nods, turning away from the stove to retrieve two mugs from a cabinet.

“I halved the recipe, since it’s just us,” he explains, mouth pulling down at the corners as he starts to ladle out servings from the pot full of deep red liquid. “Still made a lot, though.”

Your eyes drift across the kitchen until they land on the two empty bottles of red sitting next to the sink, and that makes you pause for a moment to consider. “So the original recipe called for four bottles?”

Namjoon’s brow is furrowed when he glances up, and then he follows your gaze, and a look of delayed understanding washes over him. “Oh, fuck.”

Your elbows dig into the kitchen island as you press your hands to your mouth, as if to physically hold in your laughter. “Did you… halve everything in the recipe except the wine?”

His eyes drop closed as he nods, his answer a resigned sigh. “Yeah. Yes, I did.”

You can’t help yourself: all at once, you’re circling around to join Namjoon behind the stove, so you can take his face in your hands and pull his mouth down to yours. He makes a soft noise of surprise, but then his lips fall into rhythm, kissing you hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs. Even through the fabric of your shirt, his large hands are warm when they slide over the small of your back, and then they keep going, until you finally break the kiss with another laugh when he reaches his final target and outright grabs your ass.

“Not the reaction I anticipated,” Namjoon admits, paired with a teasing squeeze. “But I’ll take it.”

You look up at him through your lashes, pressing your palms flat to the firm plane of his chest. “A very wise friend of mine once told me that the holidays aren’t about every little thing going perfect. I thought maybe you needed a reminder.”

His dimples deepen as his eyes search yours, and his voice is lower in his throat when he responds. “I think that fool was just sayin’ words because a pretty girl asked him a question.”

Heat flushes your face as you smile back. “Well, they were very good words.” You drop your gaze to the pot on the stove. “Come on, I bet we can salvage this.”

Determined to save Christmas, you throw in another handful of spices, chased with a few glugs from a bottle of orange juice Namjoon heroically digs out of the back of the fridge. After a few more minutes of simmering, you take a tentative sip of the mixture to find it perfectly adequate.

“I guess we just have to drink twice as much now,” Namjoon quips, filling up two fresh mugs with the remedied wine. You raise an eyebrow back at him, as if to accept the challenge, while you tap your drinks together in a cheers.

By the time you realize that a double-batch of mulled wine and gift-wrapping don’t exactly go together, it’s already too late. The booze makes Namjoon’s big hands go even clumsier, the few presents he attempts an absolute disaster, and you can’t stop laughing long enough to be of any help. At one point he reaches up to cup your jaw for a kiss, but completely misjudges the distance, deftly knocking into his half-drunk mug and spilling the contents all over a tube of wrapping paper and the crotch of your jeans.

You dissolve into giggles until you can scarcely breathe, scooting your chair a few inches back from the table as he jumps up to grab something to soak up the mess. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” you manage to gasp when he returns, immediately focused on cleaning you up first. You wave him away as you get to your feet. “Seriously, it’s not that bad, it’s mostly the table.”

“Jesus,” Namjoon groans as he drops the kitchen towels in his hands onto the wooden surface, doing his best to soak up the puddle, though there’s no saving the ruined gift-wrap.

“It’s not a big deal,” you murmur as he turns back, once again examining the extent of the damage done to your clothes. A shiver rolls through you as his thumb brushes over the waistband of your jeans, and he grimaces a little.

“This is probably gonna stain.”

“I mean…” Your pulse starts to quicken as his fingertips linger where they are, and Namjoon’s gaze flits up to meet yours when you speak, clearly hearing a shift in your tone of voice. “I could just… take them off.”

A smile teases at the corner of your mouth when his eyes widen. “Yeah,” he breathes, then seems to self-correct. “I mean, uh. If-if that’s something you would feel comfortable doing.”

You’re already reaching to undo the button, and then Namjoon takes over to tug open the zipper and push the fabric down your legs, and your nipples tighten beneath your bra at the reminder of how gentle his large hands can be. His lips find yours again and you don’t hesitate to lick into his mouth, jostling slightly as you try to make out with him and kick your pants the rest of the way off at the same time. It’s graceless, but you manage to make it work, and then he pulls away from you to glance back down.

“It looks like a little got on your shirt, too.”

He’s right, you realize: there are faint purple marks splattered just above the hem of your long-sleeve, and you smirk as you look up at him.

“If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you did this on purpose,” you tease, and then in one swift move you pull your shirt over your head, letting it drop to the kitchen floor next to your discarded jeans.

Namjoon’s hands are instantly on your bare skin, trailing heat as they trace the curve from your hip to your waist, and your breath hitches as he ducks down to brush his lips over your collarbone. The low tone of his voice reverberates through you when he speaks against your skin. “I like to think I could’ve gotten you naked tonight even without being an accident-prone idiot.”

You run a hand along the line of his jaw, tipping his head up to seek a kiss, before leaning back to murmur, “I guess we’ll never know.”

He kisses you again, and the two of you stumble across the threshold into the living room, pausing along the way to peel off his sweater and then his jeans, laughing into each other’s mouths, just drunk enough to lack any semblance of coordination you might have otherwise had.

When you drop down to lay back on his sofa, you’re both stripped to your underwear, and you can feel the thick bulge of him, pressing firm-heavy heat into your thigh as he settles his hips between your spread legs.

Namjoon’s eyes roam over your body beneath him, and then he’s tugging the lace of your panties to the side to slip a finger into your drenched center, beckoning it up to rub you just right. Your mouth drops open as he traces slow circles against your front wall, and when he adds a second digit, you can’t help but whimper softly at the stretch. It thrums through you like your lingering red wine buzz, hot and thick and good enough to get lost in, your head dropping back on the couch cushions as your hips rock up into his touch.

“Goddamn,” Namjoon groans, and your eyes flutter open again to take him in, his gaze heavy-lidded as he watches his fingers disappear up into you, coaxing slick sounds out with each pump of his hand. “I had a whole plan,” he rasps. “To take my time. But, fuck, I really want to fuck you.”

“It’s okay, Joon,” you breathe, not sure how much longer you could stand the torturous feeling of his clothed cock grinding into your thigh, so close to where you want him. An ache throbs in your cunt, needy, plugged up with two fingers but still begging for more. “Just fuck me.”

Realization flashes over his face, and then he suddenly heaves a sigh, looking defeated. You have to bite back a noise at the loss as he withdraws his fingers. “I— there’s an obvious joke here, but. I don’t have any condoms. Or if I do, they’re definitely expired.”

It takes you a second to process the revelation, and then you reach up to pull him down to you, smiling when he hums surprise into your mouth at the unexpected response. Your lips linger on his, and then you tip your head to press a kiss to the slope of his neck, not quite able to maintain eye contact as you murmur, “I mean. I’m on the pill, and I’m clean. So.”

“Yeah?” he replies, and your nose bumps against his shoulder as you nod. “Me too. Well, I-I’m clean, I mean. I’m not on the pill.”

You can’t help the giggle that slips out as you look up at him. “Right, no, I get it.”

“Sorry,” Namjoon huffs a laugh in return, his face flushing a little. “I talk a lot, when I’m nervous.”

“I just thought it was an all-the-time thing,” you admit, and the color in his cheeks deepens.

“I’m just always nervous around you.”

Your mouth seeks his out for a kiss sweeter than the last, slower for his shy honesty and the hummingbird thrum of your heartbeat behind your ribs. The heat of his breath ghosts over your lips when you tip back to answer, “You don’t have to be.”

“So, you’re okay?” he asks, almost reverent with his question. “If we—if I don’t—”

“Please,” you insist, and it’s all the encouragement he needs.

With remarkably little fumbling, he drags the lace of your panties down your legs, letting you kick them the rest of the way off while he moves up to unclasp your bra. You slip the straps off your shoulders and drop it over the edge of the couch, then watch as he shifts to strip out of his boxers, freeing his cock with enough force that it smacks against his abdomen with a hefty thud.

You swallow hard as you take him in: long and thick, flushed dark. Big, and fuck, you want all of him; you can feel how drenched you already are between your legs at the thought of all that cock filling you up.

When you tear your gaze away to meet his, Namjoon is staring at you just as hungrily, and he brings a hand to pump himself a few times, to coat his shaft in the wetness that’s started to drool from the head of his dick.

“Come here,” he grunts, his voice rough-edged, and you waste no time straddling yourself over his hips.

Given his considerable size, you figured it might take you a second to adjust, but you want him so bad, the feeling of his cock stretching you open is all white-hot pleasure. Your fingertips dig into his shoulders as you slowly lower yourself down on him, inch by overwhelming inch, until your ass is flush with thighs.

Namjoon’s head drops back against the couch as you slowly grind your hips into him, his hands gripping at your waist to guide the movement. You can’t help the soft sound that flutters out of you: he just looks so good like this, white-blonde hair swept off his forehead, beads of sweat trailing down his temples and glistening at his collarbones, his parted lips full and kiss-bitten.

“Baby,” he groans as you start to move a little more intentionally. “Fuck, I’m not gonna last long. Tell me what to do.”

“Touch me,” you breathe, and you close a hand over one of his, guiding him down to your clit. 

Just like the night before in his car, his touch is so gentle when he begins to trace circles into the sensitive nub with his thumb. You can feel the slow-hum build of an orgasm in your core, drawn up by the steady rub of his hand, and you lean back to allow him better access, bracing yourself on his thighs as you rock along his length.

A moan rips through you as the new angle drags the head of his dick just right against your front wall, and it’s good enough to make your eyes roll back. Chasing the feeling, you shove your hips down harder, driving his cock into that spot over and over until your thighs have started to tremble.

“That’s it,” Namjoon grunts encouragingly, his voice husky. “Use me, baby. Look so good when you bounce on my cock like that.”

The words set every last one of your nerve endings alight, and you dig your nails into his skin as your spine arches from the pleasure. His thumb is still working steadily at your clit, and the heavy stretch of his cock has you so wet, you can feel arousal starting to leak down your thighs. Your pussy clings to him like a vice, a throbbing-tight heat, taking him to the hilt every time.

“Oh my god, Joon,” you groan, “I’m gonna come.”

His touch doesn’t let up, and you can feel yourself teetering right on the precipice of it, only able to manage little gasps as you drop yourself down onto his cock again and again and again, with enough force that there’s an audible sound of your skin slapping against his.

Your legs are outright shaking from the effort now, from how close you are, and then Namjoon ducks his head, using his free hand to guide your tit into his mouth. The swirl of his tongue laved across the tight bud of your nipple is just what you need to push you over the edge.

With a moan that’s more like a sob, you drop forward against Namjoon’s chest, sinking all the way down to bury him in your pulsing cunt as you come. He continues to rub you through the waves of your orgasm, breathing ragged in your ear while your pussy gushes around him, until you grab his wrist with a soft whimper of overstimulation, and he relents.

Too gone to get any words out, all you can do is take his face in your hands and kiss him. He rolls his tongue over yours, decadent, as his palms slip down to cup your ass. You groan a little into his mouth when he begins to shift you, your cunt still fluttering-sensitive at every little motion, but he manages to maneuver you onto your back while still keeping himself sheathed in you.

His hands move to your thighs, encouraging your legs to hook over his hips, and his mouth trails kisses down the valley between your breasts before he breathes against your skin, “Can I keep going?”

“Please,” you murmur, and it’s chased with a moan when he starts to rock his hips into you. You feel so full, so swollen from your climax that it’s like your walls were molded to take him, the crown of his cock stroking deep-deep over the place that lights you up inside, shooting sparks of pleasure all the way down to your toes.

Namjoon’s breath stutters on a laugh. “Shit, I’m already close.”

You tilt up to brush your lips against his, humming encouragingly into his mouth, and then he pulls back again, one dimple teasing at the corner of his smile. “God, I— wanna hear you say it.”

Somehow, you know exactly what he means. “Come in me, Joon,” you beg, fucked so good that you’re shameless for it, and you gasp when he bottoms out in you with his next thrust. “Fill me up. Fuck me full of your cum, baby, please.”

It’s like the words send him into overdrive, and he practically growls as he starts to fuck his cock into you forcefully, hard enough to make your tits bounce. Each snap of his hips punches a heady groan from your lungs, and you reach up to drag your nails across the skin of his back as he chases his own end.

“Gonna fucking— give it to you,” he hisses, rolling his hips one, two, three more times, and then you feel his cock twitching, shoved in as deep as you can take him. He heaves a final strangled groan as he comes, rope after rope of his release pumping into you to paint your walls, until you can feel it beginning to spill back down your thighs.

You kiss through the comedown, inhaling shaky breaths into each other’s mouths, your bodies still fitted together like puzzle pieces, sweat starting to cool in the places where skin is pressed to skin. Namjoon finally moves first, giving a grunt of effort as he rolls off the couch, and you throw an arm over your face while the world slowly settles into focus around you.

When he returns, it’s with a towel in hand, and you can’t help smiling as he cleans you up, trailing soft kisses along your collarbone in tandem.

His voice is soft, too, when he finally speaks. “Will you stay here tonight?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms to look at him, and a little glimmer of something lights up in your chest that you can’t ignore. The first spark of an ember, just enough to reignite a flame you’d long since believed to be entirely extinguished. But now he’s shown you: it doesn’t have to be. You don’t have to be alone.

“Of course. We still have presents to wrap,” you say simply, and he huffs a laugh as he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Joon?” you murmur into the crook of his neck, unable to keep your voice entirely steady.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you breathe. “For the magic.”

magazine.weverse.io

Development notes on RM’s solo album, Indigo - Weverse Magazine

Album design as a work of art

Development notes on RM’s solo album, Indigo

Album design as a work of art

The Lease Chapter One: The Meeting

(A/N: Super excited to put this out! The first chapter is mainly just a set up of what's to come but I hope you guys like it!! I'm so excited to see what you guys think!)

Read Preview Here.

masterlist.

It was one of those rare days of utter perfection.

Crisp, wintery air holding you suspended in the world with the promise of spring warming the earth beneath you. The sun was out for the first time all week, shining brightly in the sky without a cloud in sight. It was the kind of day you'd ideally spend alone, in a park or hiking or journalling by the river. Things were better when you got to spend time outside, it lifted a weight off your shoulders and reminded you that the world was much bigger than whatever problems you had.

Everyone had gotten used to it at this point, knowing that on a day like today- a bright and shiny one, that there was no use making plans because you'd be busy spending time in the world alone. It was the kind of thing you did all the time, turning your phone off for the day and just secluding yourself to reconnect with nature.

It was exactly what you were doing now, taking a walk in one of the few parks you hadn't visited yet. You didn't normally think too deeply on these days, but this time was different. You couldn't stop thinking about something that seemed to be an open wound in your brain, bleeding into other areas of your life.

See, you had a theory.

The ability to love genetic- it had to be. There was no other explanation for every relationship in your life to fail the same way every relationship in your family failed.

If couples in your family weren't divorced then they should've been. It had to be some sort of a curse or a genetic mutation in your DNA dictating that you weren't meant to stay in love with anyone for longer than a couple of years or so.

You longest relationship had made it to a year and a half, ending when your ex proposed. He thought he loved you- you believed that he thought that, but all you could see was yourself in five years, stuck in a loveless marriage just like your parents had found themselves in. You were too young for that level of commitment, too young but you could see the end so clearly.

No way- that wouldn't be you.

You didn't think about your ex often, like you just mentioned- you hadn't really been in love if you could already tell it would all go to shit. You didn't think about your ex often, but you thought about him now, staring at a couple in the park making out unabashedly.

You tilted your head, very openly staring at the obnoxious shiny watch on the man's wrist. Your ex liked that brand too, said it made him feel expensive. You got him a platinum one for his 23rd birthday, two days before he proposed. It really was expensive. When you turned him down he threw it at you, ripping your favorite sweater.

Looking down at your sleeve, you eyed the sewn up tear near your elbow. The tear was invisible to everyone else but you could see it, plain as day. You remember the time it took to sew it up and the number of times you pricked your finger. You could see the threads you had painstakingly mended the tear with, a slightly more matted finish then the rest of the beige colored material. No one else could see the tear, but you could.

Yeah, you definitely made the right decision in ending things.

Besides, things were different now. You had a whole new life, a new apartment with a view of the city, a new job at your best friends' coffee shop. You were selfish with your time but it was yours and yours alone. You liked it this way, for the first time you owned every part of your life in its entirety.

Whatever- this was supposed to be a leisurely walk in nature, secluded and detached. Secluded and detached, secluded and detached.

You turned on your heels, taking two steps before swiveling around and walking the other direction on instinct. Leisurely walks require little to no navigation, you have to go where your feet take you and right now, they wanted to go towards the pond you spotted out of the corner of your eye instead of away from it.

There were park benches all along the pond begging to be sat on, three choices laid out in front of you. One was covered in bird shit, instantly eliminating itself as an option. That left two- one with a woman who was talking too loudly, which annoyed you just enough to detour you from sitting there. The last bench was under a tree but miraculously clear of any bird poop with a man quietly sitting on one end of it, scribbling furiously into a notebook.

Furious scribbler it is.

You stared at the pond in front of you, watching as a random swan swam across your viewpoint gracefully, another following it closely. How the fuck did two swans even end up in the middle of a city park anyway- what kind of traumatic experience brought them here? They probably didn't even like each other, probably just decided to stick together like humans often did. It was trauma bonding- nothing else.

"You know people think swans mate for life, but they don't. Even swans get divorces- if they can't mate successfully or if one of them dies or whatever. Scientists actually did a study and one in six swans are actually illegitimate."

You turned your head slowly, looking anxiously at the man who you had chosen to sit next to. You figured he looked normal enough when you had approached the bench. You would've gone even farther to say that he was attractive- flawless skin, sharp eyes that softened slightly when you asked if you could sit beside him, but clearly he was a freak and you should've sat with Chatty Cathy.

Or had you just ranted about trauma bonding aloud? You frowned, feeling deeply confused and slightly dazed.

The man seemed completely unaware of how bizarre his rant had been regardless of your own internal conflict, eloquently explaining the sex life of a bird stared as he straight ahead with a disapproving look on his face. The swans flocked together, entangling their necks to make a cheesy little heart shape.

"What a letdown," You said flatly, looking back at the swans.

The man next to you clicked his tongue and a silence fell over the two of you. See, you thought, not even birds could stay together. Yet another piece of evidence that long term monogamy was a farce.

You thought about the swans far too often until saw the same man a week later, a rice ball in his hand and a frown on his face.

All in all, you were having a shit ass day. A customer yelled at you, you had dried up whole milk on your shoes, and you were pretty sure your dinner plans fell through for later that night.

"Hey, snap out of it."

You blinked, snapping your head towards the sound.

Suddenly, the world around you was engulfed in noise. The sound of milk frothing, the low hum of espresso shots being pulled. You could hear people laughing, coworkers chattering to each other. Working at a coffee shop was a hectic environment, zoning out in the middle of your shift should've won you a medal for maladaptive daydreaming. Instead, your best friend and boss was glaring at you with mock annoyance.

"I'm gonna fire you if you keep dissociating," She warned, gesturing towards the multiple people in line waiting to be attended to.

"I'm the only one here who knows how to run a business, you'd go to shit in an hour." You pointed out, rolling your eyes. "You didn't even know what a wholesaler was before you hired me."

"Well, I do now!" Binna snapped back, stomping her foot down petulantly.

You smiled at the next customer, a short man with a nervous look on his face, and took his order- medium cold brew with sugar free hazelnut syrup and a splash of 2%. You passed the order on before spinning on your heels to face Binna, "Oh yeah? What's the name of the guy who we get our coffee beans from?"

Binna stared at you blankly, tilting her head before laughing awkwardly, "Okay- fine. Maybe I'm not the best at stuff like that, that's why I need you to pay attention so I don't go bankrupt!"

You grumbled but focused on clearing the line, helping the baristas by picking up half of the orders and making them yourself while Binna called out completed orders. Things slowed a little after, giving you time to make yourself a chai latte.

"But seriously, why are you so spacey today?" Binna asked, knocking her hip against yours.

You shrugged, pouring oatmilk into your cup, "Just one of those days- Did you know swans don't actually mate for life?"

Binna rolled her eyes, leaning against the countertop, "Please don't tell me you're about to compare humans to swans right now."

"It's true!" You cried, throwing your hands up, "If swans don't do it, why should humans!"

She threw you a pointed look, shaking her head, "You need to get a boyfriend."

You willfully ignored her, going back to making yourself a drink. Managing the shop was somewhat of a random career switch for you from your old corporate job but when Binna called you, sobbing about how in over her head she was, you were happy to help. Sure, your mom didn't understand it and it was a lot more responsibility, but working with your best friend was fun and the endless supply of coffee wasn't so bad either.

Except for days like today.

It was like you had a storm cloud hanging over your head, striking you with a lightening bolt of disdain every now and then. It hadn't been until your shift ended that you realized it was another perfect day outside. Less perfect than last week, you spotted a cloud on the way over here. But still, too good of a day to be wasted on your bad mood.

Suddenly, none of it mattered- two steps into the park and suddenly the day was turning itself around.

"Still looking at that pond, huh?" You asked jokingly, approaching the man slowly.

"Wha- Oh," He said, a look of recognition crossing over his face, "Sorry, is this your usual bench or something? I can move."

"It's fine," You said quickly before he could move to get up. "It's a public park, we can share ownership of the bench."

He stretched his lips into a tight smile and nodded, going back to eating. Sweet smile, cute dimples. You snuck glances of him every now and then, taking note of his large stature that took up more than half of the bench. His skin was tanned and his hair cropped short, although you could barely see it with the way he had a beanie pulled over his head.

"You got any more bird facts?" You mused, pulling your knees up to your chest and hugging them tightly.

You had no idea why you were making conversation with him, but after the day you had had, a little conversation wouldn't hurt. You liked the tone of his voice, mellow and low almost to the point of intelligibility, forcing you to put your undivided attention on him.

"No, just that they're pretty territorial. They've been known to attack people for getting too close," He smiled awkwardly.

"A slutty bird with trust issues," You said slowly, "Sounds like me."

The man laughed at that and you felt pride blooming in your chest. It was a little embarrassing to admit, but you started looking for him everywhere after that. Strange, how foreign a face could be one moment and then the next you were double taking every tall man on the west side of town in hopes that it was Bird Man.

Thankfully, you knew you'd see him at least once a week. It was the beginning of an unspoken tradition: every week, you'd share custody of the bench between the two largest oak trees at the park near your house facing the pond. You'd watch the birds and talk about stupid shit.

Sometimes you'd bring him coffee from work- an iced americano or an iced oatmilk latte with an added shot of espresso. Sometimes he'd bring you a rice ball, always tuna mayo and never salmon for some reason.

There were a lot of variables between the two of you, you were more different than alike, but one thing you agreed on wound up being the most important thing-

"So, you come here a lot." He said one day, handing you a rice ball wordlessly.

You snorted and nodded, taking it from him gratefully and willfully ignoring the way your fingertips grazed against his, "So do you."

"I come here to write- I'm a writer." He explained, a far too humble look on his face.

You raised your eyebrows and eyed his notebook and then his shoes. His notebook was old and the leather was cracking, held together by two jumbo sized rubber bands with a cheesy little pen with a tiny cactus on the end of it stuffed between the pages. His shoes were nice and looked too expensive for you to afford yourself.

Writers were usually broke if they were no good- but from the looks of his shoes and the worn down edges of his notebook made you curious- could you find his prose in a bookstore? What name would you look for him under? You really should ask for his name.

"Why are you always here?" He asked, cutting your train of thought off. You blinked blankly once before processing what he had said, smiling awkwardly.

"For the swans?" You joked, "I guess I just like nature, I dunno- I've just always been like this. I prefer being outside. It makes me feel...better, somehow."

"Less insane," He nodded, a look on his face saying he felt exactly the same way as you did.

You stared at him, astounded that someone could feel the exact same way as you. You tilted your head, wide eyes scanning the shy smile on his face. It was like someone lifted a veil over your eyes and suddenly there he was, the handsome stranger you had randomly befriended. You weren't sure if it was because you were finally taking the time to look at him, like really look at him- or if it was his mindset that suddenly made you all the more intrigued by him.

Ah, shit- you've got a crush.

"What did you say your name was again?" You asked, raising your eyebrows at him.

He grinned, leaning back against the bench with a satisfied smile, as if he knew exactly where you were going with this and why you were asking his name, "Namjoon. My name is Namjoon."

You smiled, a blush blooming on your cheeks. Namjoon. It paired nicely with your name, not that that mattered, "I'm glad we met, Namjoon."

taglist: @vanilla-sky01

Really hot thoughts!

bangtan shorts masterlist

night thots and other shorts ‼️

☆ short #1 ~ jungkook: stupid amounts of cum

☆ short #2 ~ yoongi: oral

☆ short #3 ~ namjoon: belly bulge

☆ short #4 ~ taehyung: a simple love for thighs

☆ short #5 ~ jin: cock warming

☆ short #6 ~ jimin: mutual masturbation

☆ short #7 ~ hobi: fake cum, real cum & a butt plug

☆ short #8 ~ jungkook: morning sex

☆ short #9 ~ taehyung: ghostface

☆ short #10 ~ taehyung: cum swallowing

☆ short #11 ~ jungkook: body worship

☆ short #12 ~ yoongi: sex in the dressing room

☆ short #13 ~ jimin: oral fixation

☆ short #14 ~ jin: fingering

☆ short #15 ~ namjoon: a specific love for creampies

☆ short #16 ~ jungkook: car sex and pantie stuffing

☆ short #17 ~ hobi: dacryphilia

☆ short #18 ~ taehyung: praise

☆ short #19 ~ jungkook: boob luvr

☆ short #20 ~ jungkook: mirror sex & a beefy back

☆ short #21 ~ jungkook: face riding

☆ short #22 ~ namjoon: slip of the tongue

☆ short #23 ~ namjoon: size kink

☆ short #24 ~ namjoon: in the closet

☆ short #25 ~ yoongi: make-up sex

☆ short #26 ~ jungkook: new toy

☆ short #27 ~ yoongi: hair pulling

☆ short #28 ~ jungkook: alternative methods

☆ short #29 ~ jin: brat tamer

☆ short #30 ~ jin: breeding kink

☆ short #31 ~ jungkook: clit teasing

My favorite person!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NAMJOON

I resonate with this a LOT!

This latest installment has it all! Angst, fluff, more angst, more fluff, and the sweetest smut scenes! 😁

@mortallydeepestobservation keeps leveling up in terms of story and writing! Will not disappoint and will leave you begging for more!

#KimNamjoon #RM #BTS #RM/Yn #Friends2lovers #morehashtagsicantremember 😅

The holiday pretense -4-

Summary: Namjoon has never been a fan of the holidays. In fact, he could list more things that sucked about ‘The most wonderful time of the year’, than things that brought him joy. Yet, beneath his cynicism, a flicker of hope appeared this year, as the faint scent of homesickness hung in the air. Unfortunately, there’s one tiny little thing that keeps him from calling home- his lack of a girlfriend. But fear not; this holiday season, Namjoon’s smart mouth gets him in a situation where he has no choice but to approach you- his longtime friend and roommate- with an unexpected request. Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: fake-dating, friends to lovers/roommates to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff. Rating: Explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: characters are very clumsy. Blood, mentions of blood and bandages. slight angst. Smut warnings: (finally), kissing, hickeys, marking, non penetrative sex act, pet names. Namjoon is a big boy Word count: Chapter 4- 23k Author's note: guys! it's done! they (almost) did it! This chapter is essentially the reason this story exists. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never read a pretend-dating or fake-relationship story where the reader feels guilty about lying, or where she  to the parents. This was fun. I’m really happy with how it came out tbh. And just for the record, y'all need to thank @callmenoona25 , because I was very willing to blue ball you, but she convinced me otherwise. So yeah. We are just one chapter out from seeing this story to completion!! I almost can’t believe it. happy v-day y'all✨💕 Tag list: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne  @oneshallsmile @ktownshizzle @jimineepaboya

Namjoon had his flaws; he was the first to admit it. Although he wouldn’t necessarily say that the meticulous way he liked to organized his closet was one of them.

That wasn’t a flaw—it was a quirk.

And you had your quirks too! Like your collection of pink pots that needed their own cabinet, and your insistence on a very specific way of stacking Tupperware—both perfectly reasonable in your eyes.

And for the most part, these quirks rarely clashed—he didn’t care about cooking or what colour skillet his food was made in, and you rarely had any reason to go through his closet (except to steal his clothes). But every so often, they would.  And when they did, they drove you both up the wall. Namjoon had a particularly bad habit of forgetting to check pockets before throwing clothes in the wash. More than a few pair of AirPods had met their untimely demise due to his own forgetfulness. Worse, though, were the tissues. Those tiny paper pieces would disintegrate in the wash, and would compromise the entire load. That was the one that really got to you.

And it wasn’t like he’d do that intentionally; it was simply Namjoon being Namjoon. He’d always start off doing the laundry with the best intentions—carefully separating colours from whites, ensuring delicates got the right temperature. But somewhere in the process, his mind would wander (as it often did) to a work issue or book he’d been reading. By the time he remembered to check the pockets, it was usually too late.

But you weren’t without your own faults. Like your refusal to put the sponge back in its designated holder—a choice that made absolutely no sense to him, because it was right there! And yet, every time, you left it sitting in the sink, soaking wet, slowly dissolving into a slimy mess. Namjoon hated a soggy sponge more than almost anything, and yet you kept deliberately inviting one into your home.

And then there was your compulsive need to clean the kitchen immediately after cooking. To Namjoon, this was the ultimate buzzkill, mostly because he was hungry and he’d always wait for you to finish, so you could eat together.

It wasn’t like you were trying to be difficult—just as Namjoon didn’t intend to obliterate every tissue he left in his pocket. You simply had your own rhythm, your own way of doing things.

The sponge thing, though? That was a hill he couldn’t understand why you choose to die on.

Still, quirks and frustrations aside, you both understood the bigger picture. And though he may never admit it, after years of living together, he almost found it endearing— how these quibbles have become woven into the fabric of your relationship. If a disintegrated tissue or a soggy sponge was the worst thing between you, he’d gladly take it.

He’d still keep you as his roommate, pink cookware fetish and all.

“Joonie, think you can hand me that cup?”

You appeared beside him, barefoot, wearing one of his oversized sweaters that practically swallowed you whole, your eyes glued to your phone as you read something.

Namjoon let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he grabbed the cup from the drying rack. “You know, for someone so obsessed with doing the dishes right away, you sure leave a lot lying around.”

“That’s your part of the agreement.” You replied smoothly, not even glancing up at first. But then your eyes flickered to meet his, a playful spark in them. “If I wash the dishes, you put away the dishes. Fair’s fair”

He handed you the cup, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Convenient how you always remember that part of the agreement when it benefits you. I’m the one who always ends up doing both—washing and putting away.”

You leaned against him as you filled the cup with water, your body brushing his in that effortless, unconscious way that never failed to send his mind spiralling. “That’s called teamwork, Namjoonie.” You teased, giggling softly as you fluttered those pretty eyes at him.

Namjoon exhaled softly, trying to steady his racing thoughts. It was always like this—the smallest of gestures from you could unravel him completely. You, in his sweater, standing so close that he could smell the faint scent of your shampoo, acting like it was nothing, but to him, it was everything.

His gaze lingered on you, drawn to the way the sweater slipped slightly off your shoulder, the easy confidence in your movements, and the way you made standing this close feel so natural. And in that moment, Namjoon felt the weight of everything he’d been holding back, everything he’d tried to convince himself was enough.

But it wasn’t. It could never be.

He couldn’t keep pretending this was just casual, that it didn’t mean something more. He couldn’t keep pretending he wasn’t in love with you.

“Teamwork, huh?” he said softly, his smile deepening.

Before you could respond, his hands moved, settling on your waist. His touch was gentle but sure, pulling you closer with a quiet confidence that made your breath hitch.

“Namjoon-”

Your voice was barely a whisper, but you didn’t get the chance to finish. He leaned in, closing the space between you, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was both hesitant and certain—like a question he already knew the answer to.

Warm and unhurried, your lips moved together, his grip on your waist steady, as though he wanted to make sure you didn’t pull away too soon.

The sensation of his lips against yours was electric, sending a wave of heat through him, but it was the overwhelming rush of emotion—the need to hold onto you, to make you feel what he couldn’t put into words—that sent his heart racing.

You were so warm in his grasp, your skin so soft in his hands, he couldn’t help but lose himself in the moment. In you.  His thumbs brushed against your sides, tracing lazy, delicate circles as if to memorize the feel of you pressed against him.

Your fingers dig themselves in his t-shirt, clinging to the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you in the surreal haze of the moment.

Namjoon tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding up from your waist to rest gently on your lower back, pulling you impossibly close. Every movement was intentional, like he wanted to carve this moment into his memory— the warmth of your skin, the taste of your lips, the way you always fit against him like two pieces of the same puzzle.

When the need for air finally forced you both to break apart, he didn’t pull away entirely. Instead, he stayed close, his forehead resting against yours, your breaths mingling in the charged silence, each exhale louder than the last.

But then, as if the spell had broken, reality—or something like it—came crashing down.

“Fuck.” The word escaped you like a gasp, and you pushed hard against his chest, tearing yourself out of his grasp “God, Namjoon! Why would you do that?”

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face, followed by hurt. He let his hands fall to his sides, taking a half-step back. “Wait-what? I...I thought—Do you not…like me?”

“Like you?” you interrupted, your voice sharp, though it trembled slightly. “My god, Namjoon, no! We’re roommates. Just friends! That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been!” 

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Namjoon felt the ground slip out from under him. The warmth of your skin was gone, the illusion shattered, and all that was left was a painful, confusing silence. He stepped back as though your words had physically struck him, his face pale and stricken. “I- I didn’t mean to-”

“You didn’t mean to what?” you interrupted, your voice trembling with fury and something he couldn’t name. “God, I knew moving in with a guy would be a mistake. I should’ve seen this coming. Typical man—constantly horny. God forbid you get drunk or you’ll just grab the nearest woman you see.”

“Drunk and horny—” He stopped short, his jaw tightening as he swallowed hard. “You really think that’s the kind of man I am?”

“I thought you were different!” Tears began slipping from your eyes as you instinctively stepped farther away from him, as though trying to put as much distance as possible between the two of you.

You looked at him like he’d violated something sacred, something irreplaceable. “I thought you were my friend,” you said, your voice trembling, angry tears spilling freely across your cheeks. “How could you do this?”

“I…” He hesitated, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the sharp exhale that followed. The words lodged in his throat, tangled in the knot of regret tightening in his chest. Why did he let this happen? The weight of his own stupidity pressed down on him, each passing second making it harder to breathe. Why couldn’t he have just kept his distance? Stay in his lane?

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You swallowed, hating the sting behind your eyes, hating that you even cared enough to be this angry. “Yeah, well. You did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I can’t do this anymore.” The words tumble out before you can stop them, your voice raw, cracking at the edges. “I can’t keep pretending like everything’s fine. Like I’m fine. I hate this—I hate feeling like I’m walking on glass around you.”

Namjoon stiffens, his face carefully neutral, but you see it— that flicker of something. Something vulnerable. Something guilty. “I know I messed up,” he says, voice low. “I know I-”

“You don’t know anything,” you cut him off, your breath uneven. “If you did, you wouldn’t have done it in the first place. You wouldn’t have asked me to lie to your mother.”

Namjoon’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. What was there to say?

“I hate lying to her! You know I’m terrible at lying, Namjoon! And I think lying is immoral! I should’ve known something like this would happen the second you asked me to lie for you!” Your voice wavered, an overwhelming mixture of anger, hurt, and frustration bubbling over. You threw your hands up, as if the motion could somehow shake off the suffocating weight of it all.

“I never should’ve agreed to spend Christmas with you!” you continued, tears slipping unchecked down your cheeks, your voice cracking completely. “I should’ve known this was just... just a convenient excuse for you to try to get in my pants!”

“Wait, what? No! That’s not-” He took a step forward, reaching out, but you recoiled, cutting him off before he could finish.

 “I should’ve known better.”

Namjoon’s chest tightened, his breathing shallow as he tried to process the words spilling from your lips. Every syllable was a punch to the gut, each one driving home just how badly he’d miscalculated.

The silence hung heavy between you, broken only by the uneven rise and fall of your breaths.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, needed to say something, but nothing came out. His gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw tightening.

“I-I can’t stay with you like this.” Your arms wrapped around yourself as if that could shield yourself from the overwhelming emotion threatening to swallow you whole.

“What?” his voice cracked, the single word escaping before he could stop it.

“I can’t live with you knowing you have these feelings for me. It’s too much,” you said, taking another step, as though putting space between you would make it easier to breathe. “I don’t know what to do with it. With you,”

The edges of the room seemed to blur, to darken as he could only focus on your words, on the space between you that seemed to grow with each passing second.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The reality of what you were saying hit him like a cold slap.

He had thought that maybe—just maybe—you felt the same. That there was something there, beneath the surface. But now it was clear that he had misunderstood. That his feelings had come out at the wrong time.

 And the last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable. To make you feel like this was something you needed to run away from.

“I... I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.” His voice faltered as he stepped toward you, but you pulled away. That hurt more than he expected, but he couldn’t blame you. “I was selfish. I got carried away,” he said quietly, shame creeping into his tone. “I never meant to hurt you.”

 “Well, you did,” you shot back, your voice breaking. “You ruined everything. Damn it!” You bit out the words before you could stop them, frustration and hurt thick in your voice.

The sharpness made both of you flinch, but you couldn’t help it.

The rawness of everything—the kiss, the confusion, the way things had been turned upside down—was too much for you to process.

Namjoon stood frozen, his limbs heavy and unresponsive, as if the weight of your pain had rooted him in place. A sinking feeling spread through his chest, the urge to fix this burning beneath his skin. He wanted to make things right. To erase the hurt he’d caused. The weight he forced you to carry by putting you in this position—to lie to his family, to be stuck in a confined space with him, to—

But it was too late.

The damage had been done.

 “I never wanted to make you feel this way. I just-” He stopped, unable to explain himself. “I’m sorry.”

 The words felt useless. Hollow.

“You don’t get it, do you?” You laughed bitterly, shaking your head as frustration threatened to boil over. “You think you can just act on whatever you feel, without any consideration for me?” Your voice cracked, your face still streaked with the emotions you couldn’t hold back “I’m not some—some game for you to play, Namjoon. You can’t just kiss me and expect things to go back to normal.”

He had no defense.

 No way to explain how he’d gotten so caught up in the moment that he’d forgotten everything that had made your relationship comfortable. Safe. Easy.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, the words sounding weak even to his own ears…

His sharp gasp tore through the silence of the night, and Namjoon’s eyes snapped open. His chest heaved as he sat up, drenched in a cold sweat, remnants of the dream still lingering like a throbbing pain in his mind. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he tried to make sense of where he was, his hands trembling as he ran them through his dishevelled hair.

The room was dark, quiet, save for the soft rustle of the sheets beneath him and your soft breathing at the other end of the bed. His body still felt the residual tension from the nightmare, the sting of your words echoing in his mind.

Namjoon glanced toward your sleeping form, curled up at the edge of the bed. The soft rise and fall of your shoulders should’ve been calming, but instead, it magnified the tightness in his chest. You were so close, yet the weight of everything that’s happened made you feel impossibly far away.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to shake off the feeling, the dread that came with the idea of having ruined everything. The dream had felt so real—your voice, the hurt in your eyes, the way you pulled away, making it clear that the line between friendship and something more was something he’d crossed without meaning to.

“God...” he muttered to himself, running a hand down his face, still trying to calm his racing thoughts. Why did he kiss you on the balcony?

He shifted his weight to the side of the bed, sitting on the edge with his elbows on his knees. He felt a rush of frustration—anger at himself for letting it happen, for letting his feelings get in the way of your friendship.

He could blame the alcohol, sure. That fleeting moment of warmth and lowered inhibitions, the way it made everything feel a little easier, a little less complicated. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the real reason.

The truth was, he’d been hanging on by a thread, barely clinging onto his composure around you. As if his mind was a battlefield, constantly tormenting him with thoughts of you—your eyes, your laugh, the way you moved. You weren’t just in his thoughts; you’d taken over his dreams too, pulling him into vivid, all-consuming fantasies. Like that dream from last morning—

That unbearable summer heatstroke, the salacious sight of you reading on the couch, wearing just your white tank top and those impossibly skimpy pyjama shorts. The way your legs were casually crossed, the soft glow of the light catching on your skin, making every detail seem more intimate than it should have been. Like the fact that you’ve forgone wearing a bra, a faint sheen of perspiration across your skin from the heat of the day. A few beads of sweat have gathered, one of which trickled down the valley between your breasts just as he walked into the living room.

Your eyes flickered up to meet his, the most adorable of pouts tugging on your bottom lip as you purred, “Namjoonie, I’m so hot.” Before abandoning your book and reaching for the hem of the tank top, slowly peeling it off your body…

He couldn’t shake the image, couldn’t forget the way his body reacted to it—how could he when he woke up with his dick slotted between your ass cheeks?— his mind spiralling into a frenzy of things he’d do to you (starting with licking every single inch of your skin).

He was walking on the knife’s edge. His heart going insane each time you looked at him, with each one of your actions he couldn’t distinguish. Why were you so adamant to drive him insane this week?

Was it punishment for putting you through this? For asking you to lie to his family?

Namjoon dragged his hands through his hair again, gripping it tightly as if the pressure might somehow reset his brain.

The memory of your lips on his neck—the soft teasing warmth, that had set every nerve alight as you marked him—had been haunting him ever since. He hadn’t been able to focus, to think straight, and every glance you spared him seemed to pull him further into the abyss.

He wasn’t supposed to want this, to want you. You were his closest friend, the one person who understood him in ways no one else did. The thought of losing that—of losing you—was enough to make his stomach churn. He’d have to move out. Hell, he’d have to leave the city entirely, because there wasn’t a single corner of Seoul that didn’t remind him of you.

But the kiss. Good god, the kiss.

He exhaled sharply, his head dropping into his hands. He felt ridiculous, pathetic even. He was supposed to be your safe place. Not the guy who couldn’t look at you without his thoughts turning traitorous, who kissed you on impulse and ruined everything.

When he’d whispered, “I really want to kiss you right now,” it wasn’t some calculated confession. It had spilled out like a dam breaking, a thought he’d been suppressing for far too long, finally escaping in the fragile quiet of the moment. It wasn’t bravery. It was recklessness, plain and simple.

And yet, even as he said it, he knew it was wrong. Knew it was selfish. Knew it would change everything. But the weight of holding back for so long had crushed his better judgment. Maybe that’s why his brain latched onto the “drunk and horny” accusation…

He had almost stopped. Almost pulled away when your eyes widened, when your expression shifted between surprise and something he couldn’t quite understand. That tiny moment should’ve been enough to stop him, to make him pull back and apologize. But no—like the fool he was, he’d pressed forward anyway, brushing his lips to yours in a soft, hesitant kiss, trembling with unspoken words. It had quickly unravelled, turning into something deeper, something he’d wanted for far longer than he cared to admit.

Your lips had been warm, soft, and devastatingly familiar. For a fleeting second, he thought he felt you lean into it, but the way you stiffened almost immediately afterward made his heart sink.

He replayed the moment he hesitated in his mind, that split second where he could have done the right thing and pulled away. But he didn’t. He’d kissed you, his hands on your waist, his body leaning into yours as if it were the right thing to do.

When he felt you stiffen, panic had taken over. His brain did what it always did when faced with something unbearable: it tried to smooth things over. He apologized. The words blurted out before you could speak, before you could call him a pervert or recoil in disgust. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” he’d said, his voice trembling with the weight of his shame.

And then you said the words that crushed him even more than silence could have. “Neither did I.”

But now? The distance between you felt like an unscalable chasm, an impossible void filled with every unsaid word and unspoken emotion.

Afterward, your interactions had been painfully formal, reduced to stiff, clipped sentences that lacked all the warmth they’d once held. He could still hear the careful neutrality in your tone when you’d said, “I’ll call an Uber.” The words had felt like a cold, deliberate wall being built between you, each syllable like a brick, laid on mortar.

That tone, that indifference—it cut deeper than any outburst ever could. He would have preferred you screaming at him, lashing out, even telling him to get out of your life. At least then, he could convince himself you cared enough to be angry. But this? The curt detachment? It told him everything he needed to know.

He’d ruined it. Whatever it had been…

He had wanted to say something, to apologize, to explain himself—but he was afraid of making things worse. So, he just nodded, his throat tight as he avoided your gaze, and let the moment slip away.

The ride back had been a haze. The uneasy silence between you so loud it felt suffocating. He’d glanced at you once or twice, hoping to catch a glimpse of emotion on your face, but you’d given him nothing. Your eyes remained fixed on the blur of passing streetlights and houses.

The walk through the house had been no better. The only sound rising between you was the soft shuffle of footsteps as you both went through the motions.

When you finally climbed into bed, it took everything in him not to break the silence. He lay stiffly on his side, staring at the ceiling, his mind looping through every single mistake he’d made. It wasn’t just the kiss—it was everything. Asking you to lie to his family when he knew how much you hated dishonesty. Putting you in this impossible situation, where you had no escape and no easy way to confront him. And God, his embarrassing morning wood—he cringed just thinking about it. He couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable that must have made you.

And then, like the selfish idiot he was, he let his feelings spill over without a single thought to how you’d feel about it. He’d convinced himself there was something there, something mutual. The teasing, the hickeys, the way you’d snuggled against him at Hoseok’s—he’d let his stupid heart twist those moments into meaning more than they did. He wanted to believe that you felt the same, that the line between friends and something more had begun to blur.

But now? Lying there in the condemning silence, every moment he’d misread felt like a glaring, neon sign of his own foolishness.

The bed, once a place where your easy companionship felt natural and comforting, now felt like an insurmountable void between you.

He wanted to roll over, to face you and apologize—really apologize this time. Not with a fumbling, half-baked excuse, but with the raw truth of how much he hated himself for putting you in this position. But he couldn’t. He was paralyzed by the weight of his mistakes, by the fear that even looking at you might push you further away.

So instead, he stared at the ceiling, biting back every word he wanted to say. And in the silence, the ache in his chest grew heavier.

“Goodnight,” he’d finally managed to say, his voice tight and unfamiliar to his own ears. He didn’t mean for it to come out so formal, so detached, but his voice betrayed him.

The faint rustle of the duvet broke the stillness, a soft sound that felt far louder in the oppressive silence of the bedroom. He heard you shift, felt the subtle pull on the blanket as you turned away from him. The tension hung in the air, thick and crushing, like a force pressing down on him.

You curled up at the very edge of the bed, your back resolutely to him, as if the distance already between you wasn’t enough. You made yourself small, retreating further and further until the invisible wall between you felt truly impenetrable.

Namjoon exhaled, running a hand down his face before reaching for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up, too bright in the darkness, making him blink against the glare. It was early—too early to be awake, too late to fix anything.  

The small sliver of light from his phone cast a fleeting shadow across the room, and his gaze flickered towards your unmoving form. Curled up on your side, the covers pulled high over your shoulders. You hadn’t moved in hours.

His thumb hovered over the screen of his phone, caught between the urge to scroll mindlessly to distract himself and the unbearable need to confront the mess he’d made. But neither option felt like relief, and the light dimmed as the screen timed out, plunging the room back into darkness, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t sure where he stood with you at all…

Namjoon leaned forward, pressing the hills of his palms against his face. He was at a loss, unable to find the right direction, the correct course of action to bridge the gap he created. But he knew one thing—he couldn’t stay here, couldn’t let his mind run rampant while lying next to you.

So, with one last desperate grasp at sanity, he got up, moving slowly, deliberately, careful not to disturb you. He reached for a hoody draped over the chair, slipped it on, and padded toward the door. The cold morning air outside might do him some good— clear his head and offer him the clarity he couldn’t seem to find in the stagnant darkness of the house.

And the driveway could use some shovelling, he decided absently, even though it was barely past 6 a.m. The absurdity of it didn’t matter.

What mattered was the escape, however temporary.

Namjoon took a deep breath, feeling the crisp air sting his skin as he stepped into the driveway, his boots crunching against the snow. He ran the shovel through the fresh layer, the rhythmic scrape against the pavement doing little to soothe the turmoil in his chest. But at least it gave him something to focus on, a mindless task that allowed him to shut out thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind.

And the music blaring in his earphones added to that sense of a mindless routine, the heavy beats and steady rhythm filling his head as he shovelled, drowning out the restlessness coiling in his heart.

He fully lost himself in the work. But just as he was reaching the end of the driveway, a snowball hit him squarely in the back of the head. He froze, blinking in surprise before turning around to face the source of the sudden assault.

The sun had risen, its soft, pale glow spilling over the horizon and reflecting off the untouched blanket of white snow that covered the garden.

There, standing in the doorway, was his mother. She was wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, her messy hair sticking out in all directions. Specks of snow clung to her fingers, and she gave him an incredulous look.

Namjoon blinked at her, still stunned by the unexpected hit. The snowball had left a cold, wet spot on the back of his neck, sending a shiver through him as he just stood there, unsure whether to laugh or get frustrated.  But seeing his mother’s dishevelled appearance—bedhead in full force, and her robe draped over her shoulders—somehow broke the tension.

“Are you serious?” she asked, hands on her hips. Her voice was a mix of amused and concern, as though she was both scolding him and silently asking why he was outside in the freezing cold.

Namjoon let out a strained laugh, wiping the snow from his neck, before flicking it back in her direction.  “I couldn’t sleep.” He tried his best to give her a genuine sheepish grin, but his mom was undeterred.

“So, you decided to shovel snow?” she replied, her eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“Yeah, I guess.” He shrugged, still clutching the shovel in his hands as though it could provide some sort of explanation. “I think I might go for a run too.”

Both her eyebrows shot up at that, giving him that unmistakable mom-look that had a way of making him rethink all his life choices. Namjoon shifted under her gaze, feeling the weight as she studied him with a kind of pointed confusion that made him feel like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew.

“You’re something else, you know that?” she finally said, crossing her arms against the chill but making no move to retreat back inside. A faint smile tugged at her lips, as if she couldn’t help but be entertained by the sight of her grown-ass son standing in the driveway at the crack of dawn, bundled up and clutching a snow shovel like it was a life raft.

He chuckled softly, a little embarrassed but grateful for the way she managed to disarm the weight of his thoughts without even trying. “Yeah, well...it seemed productive.”

She shook her head, the smile lingering as she turned to go back inside. “Don’t catch a cold,” she called over her shoulder. “And don’t wake up the neighbours with whatever midlife crisis you’ve got going on.”

Namjoon let out a huff of laughter, watching as the door closed behind her. He stood there for a moment longer, the quiet of the early morning settling around him again. The sting of the snowball was long gone, but the brief interaction had lightened something in him, if only slightly.

With a sigh, he pulled his gloves tighter and gave the driveway one last glance before deciding it was good enough. Without another thought, he took off running.

His muscles protested the sudden movement, but he pushed through, settling into a steady rhythm. His breath curled into the crisp morning air, vanishing as quickly as it came. The streets were quiet, untouched by the rush of the day, the only sounds accompanying him the soft crunch of his footsteps and the distant chirp of birds waking with the sun. He welcomed the familiar burn in his legs, the sharp bite of cold air in his lungs—anything to drown out the thoughts he couldn’t shake.

By the time he slowed to a stop, the morning had fully settled in. The sun stretched higher in the sky, casting a golden glow over the snow-dusted streets, turning the quiet neighbourhood into something almost peaceful.

His breath visible in the icy air as his chest rose and fell from the exertion. His muscles ached in the most satisfying way, a reminder of how long it had been since he’d pushed himself this hard— let alone in the biting cold. He glanced down at his soaked shoes and the streaks of snow clinging to his sweatpants, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the fatigue.

He could feel the steady pulse in his legs, the burn in his lungs from the crisp air. Bending over, hands on his knees, he worked on steadying his breathing as the faint sting of the cold nipped at his flushed cheeks. The sharp contrast between the warmth radiating from his body and the chill of the winter morning was invigorating, leaving him feeling alive in a way that only moments like this could.

The steady rhythm of his feet pounding against the snow-covered paths had given his mind some semblance of peace. Not clarity, exactly, but at least it dulled the sharp edges of his thoughts. For a little while, he could focus on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, on the rhythm of his body moving, the comforting burn in his muscles.

Namjoon straightened, stretching his arms overhead and twisting slightly to work out the stiffness in his back. His jacket was damp from the effort, and he could feel the chill starting to seep in now that he’d stopped moving. It was time to head back inside.

As he turned towards the house, his steps slowed, the weight of everything creeping back in. The brief distraction was over, and the reality of everything he’d left unresolved loomed once again. Still, he didn’t regret the time spent out here—at least he felt a little more grounded now.

By the time he reached the door, his stomach growled, reminding him that he’d skipped breakfast. Maybe food would be the next distraction. After a hot shower, though.

He shed his winter coat by the door, shaking off the lingering chill, and made his way through the still quiet house. Namjoon pushed the bedroom door open quietly, his steps light as he walked in.

He tugged at the hem of his shirt and hoodie, peeling them off over his head with a relieved sigh. The fabric clung to his skin from the exertion of his run, damp with sweat. He balled them up and tossed them into the laundry basket, running a hand through his messy hair as he exhaled, still catching his breath.

He was halfway to the dresser when the faint rustle of sheets behind him made him pause. His steps slowed, and he glanced over his shoulder, watching just as you stirred.

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, as if searching for the source of the noise. But when they settled on him, they lingered, and the room seemed to pause in that moment.

The sunlight pouring through the window caught his face, and Namjoon squinted, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the brightness.

His back and shoulders were framed by the warm morning light, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, almost rhythmic. The sheen of sweat that clung to his skin caught in the soft rays, and you found yourself grateful for his momentary blindness, because you couldn’t stop gawking at him.

In that fleeing moment, he thought he caught the faintest sounds—a soft, barely-there gasp—that seemed to come from you.

Namjoon faltered, still hovering near the dresser as he noticed your gaze fixed on him. His heart stuttered in his chest; the weight of your nondescript stare sending a jolt of nervous energy through him. His pulse raced as he struggled to find his composure. “Oh,” he muttered, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He cleared his throat, trying to mask the tension in his voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your lips parting slightly as though you were at a loss for words. But then you blinked, snapping out of whatever daze had momentarily claimed you, quickly turning away from him.

“It’s fine,” you grumbled.

Namjoon grabbed a clean shirt from the dresser, his movements slower now, his fingers lingering on the fabric as he watched your subtle shift under the blankets. Your response was quiet, but the way you quickly turned away sent a ripple of unease coursing through him. It was subtle, but he couldn’t ignore the way your actions made the weight in his chest feel that much heavier.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked tentatively, his voice soft.

You didn’t reply immediately, your back still to him as you adjusted the duvet slightly. “Yeah,” you said after a beat, though your tone was flat, leaving him unsure if it was the truth or just an automatic answer.

Namjoon nodded to himself, even though you couldn’t see it, and rubbed the back of his neck. The earlier clarity he’d found outside was already beginning to slip away.

“I’m going to shower,” he murmured, more for something to say than anything else, before stepping toward the bathroom door.

As he left the room, he cast one last glance at your still form, the lump in his throat tightening. ~~~

Stationed at the kitchen counter, your hands moved almost mechanically, the steady rhythm of the knife slicing through fresh vegetables, meats, and herbs filling the space. Mrs. Kim’s calm instructions flowed around you like a gentle stream, her voice clear and measured. Yet, with every absentminded nod you gave, her words seemed to fade further into the background, muffled beneath the weight of your own thoughts.

Namjoon was avoiding you.

 That much was clear. The way he had slipped out before you even woke up, his movements quick and his words barely a whisper when you caught him sneaking like some kind of thief in his own room, lingered in your mind like an unfinished sentence. The weird silence that followed all throughout breakfast...

Before you could sink deeper into those thoughts, Mrs. Kim’s voice cut through the haze again. “Add these to the broth, and then stir,” she said, handing you a bowl of neatly diced vegetables.

Her calm authority kept the kitchen in motion, leaving no room for hesitation or reflection. The bustling activity—the clatter of pots, the simmering sounds from the stove, the soft hum of her instructions—forced you to push the turmoil swirling inside you to the sidelines.

She had recruited you first thing in the morning knowing exactly how to keep you busy without you even having to ask for it.

 When you stepped into the kitchen, you were almost startled to see your usual cup of coffee waiting on the counter. It was a small, familiar gesture, one that might have warmed your heart on any other day, but now, it felt almost mechanical—like a habit performed without thought—Namjoon’s routine, his efforts to provide comfort, almost like a performance to fill a gap that no longer made sense.

You wondered if it was for your benefit, or his.

 But you never got a chance to dwell on it.

The Christmas dinner at the Kim’s house, you learned, was no small feat. Instead, everyone was involved in preparations, making sure every little aspect was perfect. Namjoon and his dad could be heard debating the placement of the dining table in the living room, their voices rising and falling in an easy, familiar rhythm.

Minhi, ever the perfectionist, hovered nearby, offering her unsolicited but animated advice on everything—the placement of napkins, the fold of the tablecloth, the angle of the silverware. Her critique earning a few exasperated groans from Namjoon, which were inevitably followed by indulgent chuckles from their father. The sound carried easily into the kitchen, where you worked alongside Jackson and Mrs. Kim, dutifully preparing dinner.

The air was fragrant with the aroma of roasted vegetables, savoury meats, and the citrusy tang of freshly chopped herbs. Mrs. Kim moved with the grace of a seasoned host, effortlessly orchestrating each task as though it were second nature. Jackson, eager to prove himself useful, chopped scallions with meticulous concentration under her watchful eye—though his attention would often wander to Minhi through the doorway, occasionally even catcalling her which in turn earned a delighted laugh from her and Mrs. Kim.

“Jackson, be a dear and go to the basement with Namjoon to fetch the wine,” Mrs. Kim instructed, her voice steady but decisive. She didn’t look up from the simmering pot, her hands moving expertly between stirring the broth and adding in seasoning.

Jackson nodded, a playful grin already tugging at his lips. He made his way to the living room, announcing their new task but paused by Minhi’s side long enough to deliver a quick pinch to her side, just as she was about to launch into another critique of Namjoon’s napkin-folding technique.

That unexpected pinch caused an exaggerated shriek to escape from Minhi. Her laughter bubbling up and spilling into the room, bright and unrestrained. The kind that invited everyone nearby to join in.

But it didn’t reach you. You were still caught up in your own little world.  You remained rooted at the counter, wearing that same look of muted control that was starting to wear you out by now.

A movement in the doorway caught your attention. Namjoon was walking past with Jackson, his broad back disappearing down the hall. His laughter rang out, light and carefree, as if he didn’t have a worry in the world. He was responding to something his dad said, dimples flashing in that familiar way that used to make your heart race.

But you noticed what no one else seemed to see. The stiffness in his shoulders, the faint tension in his jaw. His laughter, though warm, didn’t quite touch his eyes. It was so subtle, so carefully masked, but you knew him too well to miss it.

And that was the real problem, wasn’t it? Knowing him too well. Caring too much. Having feelings for Namjoon was already difficult—but this? This was unbearable.

You quickly turned away.

The knife in your hand trembled slightly as you refocused on the task in front of you, trying to steady your thoughts as much as your movements. The crisp scent of parsley filled the air as you began mincing, each chop echoing against the cutting board.

You told yourself to concentrate. To stay present. But no matter how hard you tried, your mind kept slipping back to him—to that moment.

You could still feel the warmth of his lips against yours. The way it made something bloom in your chest, a sensation so overwhelming it left you lightheaded. You’d clutched at his sweater, your fingers moving on their own, desperate to hold onto something real, something that felt like it belonged to the both of you.

For a fleeting second, it was perfect. Your heart soared, a dizzying rush of hope filling you, so sharp and intoxicating it almost hurt. It was reciprocated. It was mutual.

But then it all came crashing down. Hard.

The memory of his reaction was a jagged edge, replaying on loop in your mind, cutting through the warmth of that moment and leaving nothing but raw ache behind. His hesitation, the way he’d pulled back so quickly, mumbling an apology before you could even process what had happened. It was as though he couldn’t distance himself fast enough, couldn’t stand the weight of what he’d done—or what it might have meant.

Had it been a mistake for him? A fleeting moment of weakness he regretted the second it happened? Because that’s what it felt like. And yet, in the seconds before he’d pulled away, it had felt like something else entirely….

He was tentative, almost shy, as though he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want this. Then he kissed you like he meant it, like he’d been holding back for so long that he couldn’t stop himself.

But, of course, reality had a cruel way of snapping back. And when it did, it came in the form of his stumbling regret…

“I really want to kiss you right now”

The jerk. Asshole. Playboy!

If only any of those words actually described him…

You pressed the blade harder against the parsley, your movements growing more erratic. You hated that you cared so much. Hated that you were dissecting every microsecond of that kiss when he was probably fine. He was just being considerate and offering you the space you needed.

 Namjoon was laughing with his family, fetching wine, stealing cookies when his mother wasn’t looking, acting like nothing had happened—like you hadn’t happened.

But then again, there was that stiffness in his shoulders, the slight tension in his voice that you couldn’t ignore. It was as if he was trying to act normal, trying to match the energy of the room, but there was something holding him back.

Or maybe you were just imagining it… Maybe you were projecting your own confusion onto him, searching for cracks that didn’t exist because you wanted—needed—to believe that he felt it too. That the kiss wasn’t just a fleeting mistake.

The tightness in your chest refused to ease, no matter how much you told yourself to let it go. Namjoon was Namjoon—kind, selfless, and maddeningly perfect. And you? You were just someone he kissed and immediately regretted.

A sharp sting snapped you out of your thoughts. You gasped, jerking your hand back as a thick line of red bloomed on your fingertip. The knife clattered against the counter, drawing Mrs. Kim’s attention.

“Oh, sweetheart! Are you alright?” She asked, her voice laced with concern as she moved toward you.

“Yeah, nicked myself.” you said quickly, wrapping your other hand around the cut to stop the bleeding. The sudden rush of embarrassment at your clumsiness burned hotter than the sting of the cut itself.

“Let me see,” she insisted, reaching for your hand, but before she could, Namjoon’s voice came from the doorway, startling you.

You hadn’t even noticed him return to the kitchen, but there he was, bottles of wine in his hand, his gaze snapping to you the moment he stepped inside.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing!” The words came too fast, too sharp—too defensive. You pulled your hand back just as he stepped closer.

He barely hesitated, already setting the bottles down on the cutting board, reaching for you without a second thought.

But the thought of his touch made your chest constrict, panic rising like a tide, swallowing all the air between you. “I’ve got it!”

The space between you felt charged, too fragile, too dangerous. You couldn’t let him touch you. Not now. Not when your emotions were so precariously balanced on the edge of reason.

“Let me see,” he insisted, softer this time, but unyielding

You shook your head, stepping back from him, only to bump against the counter, keeping your hands close to your chest.

The panic bubbling under your skin left no room for restraint, no space for softness. It all came out, raw and unfiltered, as you practically cried—

“I said I’ve got it, Namjoon!”

His hands dropped to his side, his brows knitting together in silent concern. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t argue—and somehow, that made it all worse.

The silence that followed wrapped around you like a vice, all of it pressing down until your chest felt like it might actually collapse, your breath impossibly shallow.

Then it hit you—you’d raised your voice at him. The weight of it settled in you, heavy and foreboding, like thundercloud ready to break over you.

Namjoon’s gaze lingered, steady and searching, as though he was waiting for something—an explanation, a sign that you were okay, anything to bridge the distance suddenly between you. But you couldn’t give him either. You couldn’t even meet his eyes.

You sighed, stealing a glance at Mrs. Kim’s concerned expression before forcing your emotions down. You had to fix this—fast. Before things spiraled even further. Before your cover completely fell apart.

“Just-” you began, forcing yourself to look at Namjoon, “Let’s go upstairs so I can wash this properly.”

Namjoon hesitated for half a second before nodding. Without a word, he gathered the bottles from the counter and set them aside, his movements slower now—more deliberate, like he was afraid of setting you off again.

Mrs. Kim’s concerned gaze flickered between the two of you, her lips pressing together as if debating whether to intervene. But then she sighed, offering a small, hesitant smile. “Alright, sweetheart, just let Namjoon take care of you, okay? And be careful with that hand.”

You forced a nod, ignoring the way your throat felt too tight, the way your stomach twisted in protest as you turned toward the stairs.

Namjoon followed without a word.

When you reached your room, you stepped inside first, making a beeline for the small bathroom attached to it. You could hear Namjoon close the door behind him.

God damn it all.

The air stung the exposed wound, sharp and unforgiving, once you unwrapped your hand from around it, staining the sink with red.

 It was deeper than you’d thought—maybe not enough for stitches, but definitely not a scrape you could just ignore.

Blood still trickled steadily from the it, pulsing in rhythm with your racing heartbeat, like a painful reminder of your very severed composure

You bit your lip as you fumbled with the faucet, your uninjured hand trembling slightly, until it slipped. The sting of it accidentally hitting the open wound drew a sharp hiss from your lips, tears springing to your eyes—not just from the pain, but from the frustration of everything piling on top of you all at once. Damn him.

“Fuck. Ouch”

Namjoon was there in an instant, turning the faucet on for you.

“Are you okay?” His voice was softer now, careful, but the concern was still there, threading through the syllables like a quiet insistence.

You exhaled sharply, forcing your shoulders to stay squared even as your hands shook. “Yeah,” you muttered, pushing your hand under the jet of water. “Fine.”

“You’re not.”

His certainty grated against your raw nerves. You clenched your jaw, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you finally turned to face him. He was close. Closer than you’d realized. His gaze flickered down to your hand, the steady trickle of blood dark against your skin, and something in his expression shifted—tightened.

He brushed past you in that quiet, unassuming way that always threw you off balance. He reached up, opening the cabinet above the sink, pulling out the small white box with the familiar red cross on top.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, reaching for it, but before your fingers could graze the plastic, Namjoon pulled it back, holding it just out of your reach.

“Namjoon,” you warned.

His lips twitched, but there was no real amusement in it—just something unbearably patient, unbearably Namjoon.

“Let me,” he said simply.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to grab the kit from his hands and insist you could do it yourself, that you didn’t need him to fuss over you. But your hand was still bleeding, still trembling slightly, and the weight of everything pressing down on you made it feel like just one more battle you didn’t have the energy to fight.

Namjoon didn’t move, didn’t push. He simply waited, holding the med kit like an unspoken offer. His patience was maddening, his presence steady in a way that made your resistance feel flimsy.

With a sigh, you finally relented, dropping your gaze. “Fine.”

His lips pressed together like he was holding back a smile—not of victory, but of relief. He gestured for you to sit on the closed toilet lid as he crouched in front of you, setting the kit down between you.

“This might sting,” he murmured, taking your hand in his.

You braced yourself, but the first touch still made you flinch, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips. His grip on your wrist tightened just slightly—not enough to restrain, just enough to steady.

Blood still welled at the edges of the cut, glistening under the harsh bathroom light. You forced yourself to look away, focusing instead on the way Namjoon moved—careful, deliberate, as if he understood that this was more than just about the physical injury in front of him.

“Sorry,” he said softly when he dabbed antiseptic onto the cut, his voice softer than you expected, filled with regret.

His fingers brushed against your palm as he worked, his warmth seeping into your skin, and for a second, it felt like he was holding more of you than just your hand. The realization unsettled you.

But it wasn’t just about the cut. It was about everything you’ve been trying to ignore.

The sting made you flinch, but you didn’t pull away this time. His gaze flickered to yours for a moment, and you saw the quiet storm in his eyes—the concern, the worry, the frustration. You couldn’t look away, though you wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice barely audible as he reached into the kit. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” His fingers brushed against yours again as he retrieved the bandages, before moving to the underside, his thumb gently rubbing your knuckles.

You swallowed hard, “You don’t have to apologize,” you said, the words shivering under the weight of emotions you didn’t know how to voice—like just how much that kiss has shattered that fragile balance you’d worked so hard to maintain. How his reaction afterwards hurt you in ways you weren’t sure you could fully understand, not yet at least.

 How his apology now only made it that much harder to keep your guard up now.

The words felt like they were tearing out of you, raw and jagged, and you couldn’t quite grasp them fully as they left your lips. But as they floated between you, a terse silence settled, still thick with the unsaid.

You could feel his gaze on you, his presence so near that his breath brushed against your skin—a subtle, charged whisper of warmth. It filled every corner of the room, like a quiet storm.

“I still feel like I do,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if the tension between you was a chasm or a bridge. You didn’t know what to say. How could you, when his confession stirred up a hundred conflicting emotions? The relief mixed with the dread, the hope tainted by the doubt. You wanted to reach for him, to make it all clearer, but the uncertainty in his gaze reminded you how fragile everything between you was right now.

“I...” You started, but the words caught, the vulnerability of the moment threatening to consume you whole.

He squeezed your hand gently, as if sensing the battle inside you, and then he lowered his voice. “I’m not asking for anything from you right now, I just-” He stopped himself, his thumb brushing over your skin as if to steady both of you, as if saying more than words could right now.

You stayed silent, biting at the inside of your cheek as you fought to keep your tears from spilling over.

But his voice, soft yet tinged with doubt, pulled you back to him.

“I want to make sure we’re okay. I care a lot about you. And I can’t stand the idea of you hating me because of a mistake.”

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, pressing against everything you were trying so hard to hold together.

Hating him?

If only it were that simple. If only you could have been angry enough to make this easier.

But it wasn’t anger twisting your insides—it was something softer and far more complicated, more fragile. The kind of thing that didn’t fit neatly into words, that made your heart ache in ways you weren’t sure how to soothe. Because no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t forget the way he looked at you before he kissed you. And you couldn’t ignore the way he looked at you now, like he was waiting for something he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask for.

You exhaled slowly, dropping your gaze to where his fingers still held yours. You could feel the tension—gentle, but firm, like he was afraid of pushing too hard, but even more afraid of letting go.

So he did think it was just a mistake…

You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I don’t hate you, Namjoon.”

His grip tightened, just for a second, like those words alone had loosened something in him. But the relief in his expression was brief, quickly replaced by uncertainty.

“I just…” You swallowed; the words felt like cotton in your throat. “It’s not you. It’s just—everything. A bunch of things piling up all at once, and I-”

Your voice faltered, frustration prickling at the edges of your control. You didn’t know how to explain it, how to make him understand the chaos in your head when you barely understood it yourself.

 “I’m sorry I raised my voice at you.”

“It’s okay. I’m a big boy.”

A short, breathy laugh escaped you before you could stop it—small, barely there, but real. And Namjoon caught it, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but didn’t dare.

The awkwardness between you didn’t break, not fully, but it shifted, softened just enough to let you breathe like yourself around him.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. “I don’t know why I’m like this right now.”

Namjoon tilted his head, watching you carefully. “Like what?”

You made a vague, frustrated gesture with your injured hand, immediately regretting it when the sharp sting of the cut shot through your palm.

Namjoon moved before you could react, reaching for you instinctively, just enough to steady you.

“Like this,” you murmured, finally answering. “Like everything is just… too much.”

“Maybe because it is.”

Your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that—not something so simple, so understanding.

And damn him, because that was somehow worse.

You cleared your throat, forcing a smirk you didn’t quite feel. “You always this wise?”

Namjoon huffed, shaking his head. “No. I just know you.”

That undid you more than anything else.

Because you knew he meant it.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to come along with me this week. I know how uncomfortable this whole thing must have been for you.” His gaze locked with yours, and there was something raw and sincere in his eyes that made your heart skip. You found yourself wondering exactly what discomfort he meant—the list of things that had made you uneasy was long. But after a moment of hesitation, you went with the one you knew was safest to say out loud.

“I hate lying to your mom.”

“I know.” Namjoon let out a soft chuckle, but there was something strained beneath it, something that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She’s going to be heartbroken when I tell her we broke up.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “She adores you.”

“She adores you,” he corrected, his gaze steady on yours.

Your stomach twisted, your heart doing something complicated in your chest. This was the problem—this was always the problem. The way Namjoon said things, the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel like you weren’t just someone he was pretending with. Like you were something more.

But you weren’t.

You inhaled sharply, trying to shake the feeling off. “She’s going to be devastated,” you said, forcing lightness into your voice. “You’ll be the villain in her eyes.”

Namjoon nodded solemnly. “I’ll take the fall.”

It was so easy, this back and forth. So easy to pretend none of this mattered, that your heart wasn’t lodged in your throat, that his hand still holding yours wasn’t making it harder to think straight. The moment stretched, as he focused on the injury again, carefully bandaging it. The silence wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t as overwhelming now either. It was a delicate balance, the same one you’d been maintaining all week, the same one you always found yourselves teetering on the edge of.

Namjoon was still watching you, still waiting, but for what, you weren’t sure.

 For you to crack a joke? For you to take this moment and push it into something lighter, something easy?

That was what you always did.

So, you did it again.

“You better break the news gently,” you said, arching a brow. “She might actually disown you.”

Namjoon exhaled a small laugh, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“Oh, really?”

“She sends me links to apartments near her house, like, once a month. I think she was trying to slowly break me down to the idea of an arranged marriage.”

You grinned despite yourself. “That’s impressive.”

“She’s relentless.”

 You chuckled, imagining Namjoon’s mom with that kind of mission, plotting with all the subtlety of a military strategist.

“I’ll help you chose the engagement rings.”

Namjoon snorted, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. “I think that might be the last thing I need right now.” He sighed dramatically, though you could tell it was more out of affection than frustration. “At this point, I’m just waiting for her to start dropping hints about grandkids.” He cut himself off, realizing the direction the conversation was heading, and awkwardly cleared his throat.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the sink. “Grandkids, huh? So, you’ve thought about it.”

Namjoon froze, his hands still hovering near your wound like he wasn’t sure whether to keep bandaging or retreat. His gaze flickered back to yours, and for a second, there was a flicker of something—maybe vulnerability? —something you didn’t expect to see.

 “Of course, I thought about it.”

You tilted your head slightly, his words just hanging there in the small space between you.

“Yeah? What does ‘thinking about it’ look like for you?”

“Two kids. Maybe three if my wife’s up for it.”

You felt a strange tightness in your chest at his words, a soft ache that you quickly pushed aside. “Two kids? That sounds pretty... traditional,” you said, trying to keep your voice light.

Namjoon’s smile was faint, like he was walking a line between sharing and holding back. “Yeah, I guess so. I always figured, you know, the usual—boy and a girl, maybe a dog.” He chuckled quietly, but there was something a little distant in his tone now, like the vision he was describing didn’t quite line up with where he was standing at that moment.

You studied him for a moment, watching the way his gaze flickered away from yours, focusing on anything but you as he started rummaging through the first aid kit. It was like he had just shared a piece of his future with you, but it didn’t fit with the here and now. And that left a strange knot in your stomach.

“Sounds nice,” you murmured, not sure how to follow that up. Your heart was doing its complicated thing again—twisting, pulling. But you couldn’t let it show. Not now. Not when it just started to feel like maybe there is still a chance to fix this mess between you.

Namjoon cleared his throat and finished securing the bandage, his touch almost absent now, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Yeah, maybe. But… you know, it’s hard to imagine all that when things are, uh, a little uncertain right now.”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure exactly what he meant by it. The uncertainty could apply to a lot of things—his life, his future, your relationship. But for some reason, it stung a little when it felt like he was referencing you as part of that uncertainty.

“I think I’d like a cat.”

Namjoon’s brow lifted, clearly amused by the abrupt shift “A cat?”

“Yeah, two kids and a cat.” You hesitated, then added, “And the husband, of course.”

Namjoon’s lips curved upward into a full, genuine smile, a flicker of light breaking through the tension. “Two kids, a cat, and a husband?” His voice was teasing, but there was something light there too.

You shrugged, trying to match his tone, even though the ache in your chest remained. “It’s a solid plan,” you said, attempting to sound casual. “Maybe a dog too. If the kids beg enough.”

He laughed, the sound warm and familiar, and you felt a bit of that old comfort returning. Strange, though—the way your heart still fluttered when he smiled, despite everything.

“I think I could get on board with that.”

His hands dropped on either side of you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let the conversation end.

The warmth of his words lingered, but so did that quiet, nagging unease. He was playing along, keeping things light.

“We might need a bigger apartment tho…”

His words hung in the air between you, lighthearted just on the surface. You knew Namjoon well enough to recognize when he was joking and when he was saying something without really saying it.

And this?

This felt like a little bit of both.

You swallowed, forcing a smile. “Oh? So now we need a bigger apartment?”

Namjoon blinked, as if realizing what he’d just said. A flicker of something—panic? amusement? —crossed his face, but he recovered quickly, offering you an easy grin. “Well, yeah. Two kids, a cat, and a dog? You’re gonna need space.”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m gonna need space?”

He smirked, tilting his head in that way he always did when he was trying to play something off. “I mean… unless you think the husband would want to live there too.”

Your heart did that stupid twisting thing again, a tangled mess of what ifs and almosts. Because the way he said it, so effortlessly, like it was something that could just… be—it made you wonder.

For a split second, you let yourself picture it. A bigger apartment. A cat curled up on the couch. Laughter filling the rooms. Maybe even Namjoon, barefoot in the kitchen, making coffee before the kids woke up…

And just as quickly, you pushed the thought away. You weren’t sure your relationship will ever be the same after this week, let alone if you could afford to imagine a future that might never exist.

So, you did what you always did. You deflected.

You forced a smirk, arching a brow at him. “You make it sound like I’m actually considering you as an option.”

Namjoon placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Wow. Brutal.”

You shrugged. “I just think whoever my future husband is… he’s gonna need to be okay with the cat being the favourite.”

Namjoon chuckled, shaking his head. “Noted. Cat comes first. Husband, second.”

You grinned. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

The conversation should have ended there. Easy. Playful. Like always.

 But Namjoon hesitated, his hands lingering on either side of you for just a second too long before he pulled away.

And then, softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it at all—

“Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.”

Your breath caught. But before you could say anything, before you could even begin to process what he meant—he was already standing, already moving away, leaving you alone with the ache in your chest and the same unanswered question hanging between you.

“I’m gonna try and explain to my mom what that little scene in the kitchen meant before she gets any wild ideas,” he said, running a hand through his hair. His tone was light, but you caught the hesitation in his steps, the way he lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

You forced a laugh, hoping it sounded normal. “Good luck with that.”

Namjoon turned back to look at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Yeah… I think I’ll need it.”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the quiet bathroom, the weight of his words still pressing down on you.

Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.

Your fingers brushed absently over the fresh bandage on your hand, but all you could feel was the ghost of his touch, the warmth he’d left behind.

What the hell were you supposed to do with that?

~~~

As the evening wore on, the air between you and Namjoon slowly settled into something quiet, something less fragile. That burden that had pressed so heavily against your ribs all morning didn’t fully disappear, but it did loosen its grip just enough to let you breathe and get back into your role.

The tension that had once felt suffocating now ebbed at the edges, softened by the warmth of the flickering Christmas lights and the steady hum of familiar voices carrying over across the table.

The room glowed with the soft shimmer of Christmas lights, their golden hues reflecting off polished countertops and the delicate ornaments hanging from the tree. The scent of cinnamon and citrus curled through the air, mixing with the faint, nostalgic melody of holiday music drifting from the speakers.

There was something undeniably nostalgic about it all—the rhythmic motions of setting the table, the occasional bursts of laughter from across the room, the way the season wrapped itself around you like a well-worn comfortable blanket.

The ache in your chest remained, lingering just beneath the surface, but it no longer felt so all-consuming.

By the time dinner was served, the table was a stunning display of Minhi’s careful arrangements— a vibrant spread of tender, savoury meats, perfectly seasoned vegetables, and bowls of rich, colourful side dishes. The warm aroma filled the room, creating an inviting atmosphere, drawing everyone closer together.

Despite everything, you felt yourself settling into the moment, lulled by the quiet clink of silverware and the soft murmur of conversation. There was a warmth here, a sense of belonging woven into the shared meal, and you let yourself lean into it.

Every so often, your gaze drifted to Namjoon, seated beside you. The space between you still felt… uncertain. But it wasn’t as heavy now. He didn’t speak to you much, yet there was something different in the way he simply existed next to you—steady, present, like a tide softly pulling you in.

What surprised you most were the quiet gestures he offered without hesitation. The way he refilled your wine glass before you even noticed it was low. How he made sure your plate never emptied. The absentminded way he adjusted your chair when you shifted, as if it were second nature.

Set against the warmth of his family, these small, unspoken acts were unexpectedly grounding. A quiet reminder that, despite everything, he still wanted you to be comfortable. He still wanted you here. Maybe by the time you got home, things could even return to some version of normal.

You weren’t sure yet, but the idea no longer felt so impossible. It felt like something within reach.

Christmas, with all its quiet reassurances and unspoken meanings, had given you both a moment to breathe. To let it go, even if just for tonight.

After dessert, the night began to wind down. The table was cleared, dishes stacked neatly by the sink, but no one seemed eager to leave the cosy warmth that settled over the house. The tree glowed with soft fairy lights, the fireplace murmured quietly in the background, and the air was still rich with the sugary scent of baked goods.

Jackson, ever the romantic, had presented Minhi an utterly atrocious but hilariously heartfelt gift— A pair of bobbleheads styled to look like them, complete with exaggerated features and tiny versions of their favourite outfits.

Hers had her signature hairstyle and an exaggerated wink, while his sported his usual grin and an outfit that looked suspiciously like the one he was wearing.

“Now we can nod in agreement even when we’re bickering!” he declared, earning a genuine laughter from Mr. and Mrs. Kim.

Minhi gasped dramatically, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my god, Jackson,” she groaned, though the laughter shaking her shoulders betrayed her amusement. “Where do you even find these things?”

“I have my sources,” Jackson replied smugly, arms crossed as he stood proudly by his choice. “Only the best for you, babe,” he added, with a mock bow.

“Every year, it’s something new,” Namjoon muttered under his breath, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

Reaching for his mug, his fingers brushed yours. It wasn’t intentional—just a small, almost unnoticed touch—but it sent a gentle ripple through you regardless.

Your eyes lifted to his, and he caught your gaze. Leaning in just slightly, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Last year, he got her personalised socks with his face on them.”

Your laugh came soft and unexpected, spilling out before you could stop it. “Because he likes being stepped on?” you whispered back, your eyes sparkling with humour.

Namjoon smirked, his expression playful, “How’d you know?”

 The shared moment felt light and easy, a pocket of warmth that made you laugh genuinely for the first time all evening. It wasn’t forced or hesitant but natural, like slipping back into an old rhythm.

Namjoon’s eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, his smile softening into something quieter, almost fond.

“I got you something too.” He said, his voice low enough not to carry over the lively chatter around the room.

“You did?”

He nodded, glancing toward the small pile of gifts near the Christmas tree. “It’s nothing huge. Just something I thought you’d like. I can give it to you now if-”

“Wait,” you interrupted quickly, “You already know I got you the book, but let me grab it for you—I’ll be right back” A soft smile tugged at your lips as you hurried off to your room.

Stepping into the quiet space, you let out a small breath, your heart fluttering in a way that felt a little too telling. You rummaged through your suitcase, retrieving the carefully wrapped gift and adjusting the red bow atop the green paper until it was just right.

Taking a moment to steady yourself, you ran a hand through your hair before heading back to the living room. The second you returned, clutching the gift close to your chest, Namjoon’s gaze immediately found yours. His expression was calm, but there was a quiet anticipation in his eyes.

“Got it,” you said softly, holding it out toward him.

His lips quirked into a small smile as he reached for it. In return, he handed you his own gift, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with a pink silken ribbon.

“Now it’s a proper exchange,” he said, his tone light but carrying something more than just casual words.

Glancing down at the gift in your hands, you chuckled when you noticed the little marker doodle next to your name—a quick, playful sketch of a Christmas tree, leaning awkwardly to the side under the weight of a star that looked too big for it.

“Did you do this?” you asked, looking up at him, a playful smile forming on your lips.

Namjoon shrugged, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. “Maybe.”

 His casual teasing made you laugh softly as you carefully untied the ribbon, your fingers grazing the silky fabric as you peeled back the wrapping paper.

And then—you stopped.

The same book you’d gotten him was staring right back at you.

You blinked; your eyes locked on the familiar cover. The exact same book—the one you’d chosen with such care and anticipation—was now in your hands, wrapped just as carefully as you’d wrapped his.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to Namjoon, your mouth slightly agape.

“When we stopped at the bookstore and you told me you got it for me, I almost lost it.” He admitted with a chuckle, easily peeling back the paper from his own copy. “I’ve been trying to hide this in the apartment since it came out.”

He smiled, but as his eyes dropped to cover of the book, something shifted “But the thing is, I got yours signed-”

He paused when he lifted the cover and saw the delicate signature on the first page, resting neatly next to his name.  His fingers hovered over the autograph, a mix of surprise and disbelief flickering across his face. He looked up at you, his expression softening as the realization settled in.

“Wait, this is ridiculous.” He whispered, half laughing, half stunned.

You nodded slowly, a smile tugging at your lips despite the strange twist in your chest. “I thought it’d be a nice touch— God, I spent hours just waiting to get it signed.”

“Same here,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess we both have good taste.”

“You’re telling me,” You huffed, still amused. “We could’ve at least gone together, saved ourselves some trouble.”

“Did you two just get each other the exact same thing?” Minhi’s voice cracked with disbelief—clearly astonished—reminding you both that, yes, there were people around watching.

You and Namjoon exchanged a glance, both still holding identical copies of book in your hands. The absurdity of it all made it impossible not to laugh.

“God you’re disgusting.” Jackson chimed in—like he wasn’t the one who’d bought his girlfriend bobbleheads.

Namjoon chuckled, shrugging nonchalantly, clearly relishing in the banter. “Yeah. We did.”

From across the room, Mrs. Kim, who had been quietly observing, leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, it looks like you two are perfectly matched,” she teased. “Maybe next time you’ll coordinate your outfits as well.”

Mr. Kim, sitting beside her, chuckled and sent a playful wink your way. “Or maybe matching pyjamas?” he suggested, prompting a round of laughter from the group.

Namjoon tilted his head, considering it. “Now that I think about it... matching pajamas could be a vibe,” he mused, throwing you a teasing glance. “We could totally pull it off.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, biting back a laugh. “You’re pushing it.”

Mrs. Kim grinned, clearly enjoying the lighthearted moment. “This is what makes these dinners so special,” she said warmly, leaning into her husband. “Seeing all of you so comfortable with each other.”

Mr. Kim nodded, his lips curving into a fond smile. “It’s these little moments that really count.” His gaze softened as he looked at his wife.

Your eyes met Namjoon’s for a brief moment, like there was an unspoken understanding between you.

Despite everything that had unfolded this week, something inside you resolved. Maybe things didn’t need to be perfect right now. And with time, perhaps you’d find you way back to something resembling normal—whatever that was. For now, this was enough.

“Matching pyjamas it is, then,” you said, breaking the silence.

Namjoon chuckled; his smile genuine.

“Deal.”

As the evening continued, the conversations flowed effortlessly. The soft hum of festive music filled the room, mingling with the quiet laughter of those around you. The glow of candles on the mantle cast dancing shadows across the walls, wrapping the space in a homey warmth.

And for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things between you weren’t as uncertain as they seemed.

~~~

“Mrs. Kim, do you have any dishwashing gloves?” you asked, your hands reaching into a drawer. You didn’t want to risk getting your bandages wet right after Namjoon changed them.

With most of the family retreating to their rooms, you lingered behind, offering to help Mrs. Kim tidy the kitchen. It was a quiet, unspoken way of showing your gratitude for her warmth and hospitality, a small gesture to give back after everything she’d done. Besides, it gave you a chance to clear your mind in the soothing rhythm of cleaning plates and wiping counters.

A form of therapy—you told yourself—just you, the soft hum of the kitchen, and the slow settling of your thoughts.

There was a quiet sense of contentment washing over you, as if the whirlwind of the past few days was finally starting to wane. The trip was nearing its end, and despite the chaos, the awkwardness, and the emotional ups and downs, you’d managed to weather it all. Somehow, with some-god’s grace, you made it through, and that was enough to leave a faint, unexpected warmth in your chest.

“Oh dear, don’t bother with the dishes.” Mrs. Kim said softly, glancing at you over the fridge door where she carefully stacked the leftovers. Her tone gentle, almost pleading, as if she wanted to spare you the trouble. “We’ll take care of them tomorrow.”

You smiled, shaking your head lightly. “I can’t, sorry. It’ll bother me if I don’t.” A light chuckle slipped from your lips as you rummaged through the drawer, triumphantly pulling out a pair of green latex gloves. You pulled them on with a snap, feeling a little silly.

Mrs. Kim smiled at your insistence, moved by the gesture. “You’re so thoughtful,” she said sweetly. “But really, you don’t have to.”

With a soft smile, you picked up a dish from the counter and ran it under the warm water. “Honestly, I don’t mind,” you said, glancing at her. “It’s nice to have something simple to do right now.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

The sound of running water filled the space between you, while Mrs. Kim moved around the kitchen, cleaning and organizing the days messes.

 The evening had settled into a comforting cadence—the soft clink of dishes, the low hum of the refrigerator, and the occasional crackle of the fire still glowing faintly in the next room. Everything felt simple, peaceful.

For a while, the two of you worked in silence, the comfortable kind that spoke volumes without the need for filler words.

After a while, Mrs. Kim paused, setting the dish towel down as she looked at you, her expression thoughtful. “You know,” she said with a soft smile, “I’ve been meaning to sit down and chat with you all week, but Namjoon seemed determined to keep you all to himself.”

You froze mid-rinse, caught off-guard by the shift in her tone. lancing up, you caught the warmth in her eyes, and just like that, the familiar knot in your stomach came back full force. Your grip on the plate reflexively tightened, the ceramic cool against your gloved palm, as you forced yourself to smile politely

“I’m really glad you were able to spend the holidays with us,” she continued, unaware of the shift in your composure. “You make my son so very happy.”

The words hit you like an arrow to the chest, guilt rising right where it struck.

The worst thing was that Namjoon wasn’t there to protect you from yourself. It was just his mother. Her gentle warmth, and the mounting weight of your guilt. The truth of your relationship, —or the lack of—loomed large in your mind, suffocating in its quiet dishonesty.

“You know, I knew from the moment I met you that you two would make a good pair.”

Your body stiffened, her words hanging in the air like an unspoken threat. Despite the warmth in her gaze, kind and sincere, it only deepened the tension coiling in your chest. The sounds of the kitchen, the faint hum of music still coming from the living room—everything else faded, drowned out by the relentless echo of her words in your mind.

A lump formed in your throat, and your grip on the plate tightened as your hands began to shake. The walls seemed to shrink around you, the space too small to hold the enormity of the lie hanging between you.

Her voice, so earnest and trusting, repeated in your mind, each syllable weighted with an affection you didn’t feel worthy of. For a moment, you parted your lips, desperate to respond— to explain, to confess—but the words wouldn’t come. What could you possibly say? That everything she believed about you and her son was a carefully constructed illusion? That this trip had pushed your flimsy connection to its breaking point? That you and Namjoon hadn’t even kissed before this—and when you finally had, it only tangled things further, making you ache for something real, something freely given? But that he didn’t feel the same?

The truth felt like a tsunami too massive and chaotic to contain, too devastating to release. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering between holding back the wave and allowing it to crash down, obliterating everything in its path.

And all you could do was hold on to the plate in your hands, as if it could somehow keep you afloat through it all.

“I think it’s in the way you two-”

But the strain of the day—the strain of everything—became too much to withstand. The fragile hold you’d kept on your emotions shattered, splintering off like glass under pressure. The raw ache you’d buried deep inside surged to the surface, breaking through the thin veneer of composure you’d clung to so desperately as you tried to listen to her.

You blinked quickly, a futile effort to stop as tears began to pool in your eyes. But once a single drop escaped, sliding hot and unchecked down your cheek, another followed, and another, until the flood was unstoppable.

Your trembling lips pressed tightly together to stifle the sobs threatening to spill out, but your shoulders shook, and the quiet tremors of your body betrayed you. The stillness of the kitchen amplified the sound of your shallow, uneven breaths, the weight of everything pressing down all at once.

Mrs. Kim turned sharply at the sound, her expression shifting to concern in an instant, her hands stilling as she looked at you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” She murmured, stepping closer, her voice filled with a motherly warmth that broke you even further. “What’s wrong?” Her cold hands rested gently on your arms, rubbing them affectionately.

And in that moment, you realized there was no turning back.

Mrs. Kim’s voice was tender, laced with genuine worry that only made your heart hurt more. Her hands on your arms felt steadying, but they were also a stark reminder of the fact that you were breaking down.  You tried to speak, to form any explanation, but all that escaped was a shaky breath. The silence between you stretched, and you knew you couldn’t hide behind it much longer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips. You weren’t even sure what you were apologizing for yet—everything, perhaps, or maybe just for breaking down in front of her. “I didn’t mean to... ruin this moment.”

Mrs. Kim frowned, her brow creasing with concern, but her voice was as gentle as ever. “Ruin it? Sweetheart, no. What’s this all about?” She gave your arms a reassuring squeeze. “You can talk to me.”

Her kindness was unbearable, and for a moment, you debated whether you could hold back the truth just a little longer. But you knew deep down that this wasn’t something you could keep running from. Not here, not with her looking at you like that, so full of empathy.

“I...” You hesitated, your voice cracking. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Mrs. Kim stepped back slightly, her hands still hovering near yours as if to reassure you she was listening. “Go on,” she urged gently.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and tight. “Namjoon and I... we-” The words were so heavy; it felt like they might crush you if you said them out loud. “We’re not... what you think.”

Her expression didn’t falter, but there was a brief flicker of confusion in her eyes. She waited, patient but curious, as you tried to gather your courage.

“What do you mean?” she urged softly once you faltered.

“We’re not... a couple,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

The truth was out, raw and exposed, and you braced yourself for her reaction. “This whole thing—it was never real. We just... pretended.”

For the first time, Mrs. Kim’s expression shifted—her eyes widened slightly, but her hands tighten around your arms. She stared at you for a moment, processing your confession, before she took a small step back.

“You pretended?” She repeated, her voice quiet but heavy with meaning on your guilt-ridden mind. “Why would you do that?”

You looked down, unable to hold her gaze any longer. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” you said, your voice breaking. “It started as... as a way to avoid questions. To keep things simple. But then everything spiralled, and now-” You stopped, feeling the tears threaten to spill again. “Now, I don’t know how to fix it.”

Mrs. Kim was silent for a long moment, her gaze thoughtful but unreadable. When she finally spoke, her tone was soft, though there was an edge of disappointment there that made your chest ache. “So, this... this whole time, it was all just for show?”

You nodded.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together before stepping forward again. “I wish you’d told me sooner,” she said, her voice quieter now, but still kind. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but... I can see how much this is weighing on you.”

You looked up at her, surprised by her understanding. “You’re not... mad?”

“Oh, my sweetheart, you are way worse at lying than you think you are.” She squeezed your arms again, this time rubbing her thumbs across your skin as if to bring some feeling back into them.

She smiled faintly, shaking her head. “I’ve had a few suspicions,” Mrs. Kim admitted. “A mother knows, even when her son thinks he’s being clever. But I didn’t push because I thought... well, I thought maybe you two just needed time to figure it out.”

Her words landed softly, but they still carried weight, making your breath hitch. You felt an odd mix of relief and embarrassment—relief that she wasn’t completely blindsided, and embarrassment that you haven’t been as convincing as you’d thought.

“You knew?” you asked, your voice still weak from crying.

Her chuckle was lightly, a sound that was warm but reluctant. “I had my concerns. But I could also see the effort you were making, and I thought maybe it wasn’t my place to pry.”

Her hold lingered on your arms, steady and reassuring. “What I didn’t know,” she continued, her tone softening even further, “was how much it was eating you up inside. Sweetheart, this isn’t healthy—for either of you.”

You bit your lip, her understanding cutting through the storm of emotions inside you. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered, blinking a few tears away. “I didn’t want to deceive anyone. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Mrs. Kim reached up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a fondness that made you want to break down again. “I know that,” she said firmly. “And I believe you. But this is not just about me.”

You look up at her, a flicker of confusion crossing your face as you tried to process her words

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your cheeks for a moment, her touch offering a soothing presence. “It’s not just about me,” she repeated, her voice calm but filled with an unexpected tenderness. “It’s about you. And Namjoon.”

Her words hanging between you like a burden, and your heart tighten once more. “Me and Namjoon?” you echoed, unsure if she truly meant what you thought she meant.

Mrs. Kim nodded, her eyes locking onto yours with quiet understanding. “Yes, you and my oblivious son.”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing as the implication in her words finally settled into place. Maybe, it was the relief of saying everything out loud that washed over you, breaking through the layers of doubt you’ve been carrying.

 It was that relief, perhaps, that loosened the tight grip you’d kept on your emotions for so long.

“But I don’t know if he feels the same,” you admitted, your voice trembling, defences faltering as the words came out. It didn’t even matter that, in saying them, you were all but confessing your own feelings for him. “What if he doesn’t feel that way about me? What if I ruin everything we have?” You glanced away, ashamed of the vulnerability that laced every word, but unable to stop the thoughts from spilling over.

Mrs. Kim’s expression softened further. Her eyes brimming with compassion “Trust me, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, your thoughts a tangled mess of fear and doubt.

She smiled gently, her hand still resting on your cheeks. “You’re not imagining it. Trust me. I’ve seen this before—this shyness, this obliviousness to feelings. It’s from his father. That man was just as clueless when it came to my feelings for him.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her sudden pivot. “Really?” you asked, a faint laugh slipping through despite the swirl of emotions inside you.

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, rolling of her eyes playfully. “I had to practically spell it out for him before he realized how I felt. But once he did...” Her smile softened, nostalgia flickering in her gaze. “Once he did, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind—or mine.”

You bit your lip, the warmth of her story sparking a flicker of hope inside you, but the lingering concerns still clouded your thoughts. “But what if Namjoon’s not like that?” you murmured, your gaze falling to the floor. “I’m scared to say anything and risk ruining the friendship we have.”

Mrs. Kim tilted her head slightly, her expression growing more thoughtful. “Y/N,” she said gently, “Do you know what I noticed about you the first time we met?”

You hesitated, unsure of what she was about to say. “What?” you asked quietly

“I saw the way you looked at him,” she said simply. “It wasn’t just friendship. It was something deeper. Something you probably didn’t even realized yourself yet. And that whole time, he was looking at you the same way. He’s not just your friend. He’s your person.”

Her words hit like a wave, striking a chord in you that you haven’t been ready to confront. Your breath caught, your heart pounding. “You really think so?” you whispered, your voice trembling with equal parts hope and fear.

Mrs. Kim nodded with certainty, her eyes kind and unwavering. “I do. And I’m not the only one who sees it.” She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “I remember Namjoon’s ex—she was a lovely girl, but things always felt… easy to look past. But with you? The way he watches you, listens to you—like he’s waiting for something only you can give him. That’s different. That’s something real.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but this time they weren’t just from uncertainty. A flicker of hope mingled with the raw emotion coursing through you.

“What if I’m wrong?” Your words were soft, almost drowned by the silence around you.

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your arm, a quiet reassurance. “You won’t know unless you talk to him,” she said, her tone gentle but resolute.  “I won’t tell you it’s easy—putting your heart on the line never is. But if you let fear make the choice for you, you might walk away from something really special. And I don’t think he wants that. I don’t think you do either.” She paused, her eyes searching yours, her voice soft but certain— “He loves you.”

Her words settled over you like a warm embrace. It was still terrifying, the thought of baring your soul to Namjoon, but Mrs. Kim’s unwavering confidence— in you, in him—felt like a light guiding you through the uncertainty.

“Go talk to him,” she urged softly, reaching up to cup your cheeks in a gentle squeeze. “Trust me, sweetheart. You’ll be glad you did.”

“I-I will. When-”

“No! Go now!” she insisted with a gentle but determined push, her eyes sparkling.

With resolve that felt both fragile and real, you nodded, inhaling deeply as if to steady the maelstrom inside you. As you peeled off your gloves, a sniffle escaped before you could stop it. You wiped at your eyes, letting out a shaky laugh—half exasperation, half-relief.

Mrs. Kim’s hand gave your arm one final, reassuring squeeze, her warmth lingering even as you turned away.

And then, before doubt could creep back in, you hurried upstairs to the bedroom.

 The door slammed behind you and the echo resounded in the quiet stillness of the room. Namjoon’s head snapped up from the book in his hands, his wide eyes startled by your sudden arrival.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the warm golden light from the lamp next to him casting soft shadows across his face. He had that look of fuzzy contentment he always wore when he was reading—a serene expression you wanted to lock away and hold tight to protect forever. But right now, your own emotions were too unruly to appreciate it fully.

“Do you love me?”

The words burst out of you before you had the chance to reel them back in, your voice shaky and raw as adrenaline still coursed through you. You were a whirlwind—your heart thundered in your chest as you stood there, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes, the weight of the conversation you’d just had pressing heavily on your shoulders. You didn’t even try to give him context first. You didn’t prepare either of you for the leap you were about to take. Instead, you jumped.

Namjoon blinked at you, his lips parting, eyes flitting across your face as he tried to process the question. For a long moment, he looked utterly confused, but then, as if the air between you shifted, something soft and vulnerable lit up in his face. His book tumbled from his hands, forgotten entirely, as he straightened up.

“What…?” he began, tentative and breathless, but you didn’t give him a chance to run, to overthink, to temper his feelings behind those gentle walls he so often built. You had to know. There could be no half-truths now.

“Do you love me?” you repeated, your voice louder this time, more forceful, as every fibre of your being felt like it was burning alive, unravelling at the seams with desperation for an answer. For clarity. For him.

His lips quivered, caught somewhere between anxiety and trust, his gaze searching yours before his answer came in a breathless whisper that shattered you on the spot.

“Yes. Of course, I love you.” The intensity you saw there—the vulnerability, the unmistakable fear —it completely broke the barrier.

Before he could say another word, you surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was desperate, unrestrained, a collision of all the emotions you’d kept bottled up for too long. You slotted your lips against his, connecting in a way that felt as necessary as breathing. The world tilted. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you from unravelling.

Namjoon froze for half a second; you could practically feel the surprise radiate from him. But then, like a lightning strike, his arms were around you, pulling you closer. Close enough that no space for doubt could exist between you. He kissed you back with a fervour that sent a tidal wave of warmth from your head to your toes. His lips moved against yours as though he’d unlocked a secret of his own emotions, pouring them all out into this single moment.

 This confession without words.

Finally, when your lungs screamed for air, you pulled back just slightly, your foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. You could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

“What’s gotten into you?” he whispered, his voice so quiet, as if to speak too loudly might shatter the fragile bubble wrapping itself around you both. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone in the gentlest of touches, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape.

You drew in a trembling breath, your lips grazing his as you whispered, “I… I told your mother everything.”

He froze solid, just like that, and the warmth in his expression flickered with confusion. “What?” he asked, his voice just as soft but now edged with trepidation.

“I told her,” You repeated, your voice steadier this time, though your heart was racing. You pressed another kiss to his lips, unable to fully pull away. “I told her we were pretending. That we’re not really together. How you—how you asked me to lie to her and everyone else.” Your fingers remained clutched in his shirt; your mouth lingering on his, unwilling to part for more than a few seconds at a time.

Namjoon stilled for a fraction of a second, processing your words between the kisses you couldn’t seem to stop. Then his grip on you tightened, as if afraid this was a dream he would wake up from any minute. The hesitation in his posture melted, replaced by something stronger, fiercer—something that matched the irregular rhythm of your own heart.

“Hold on,” he whispered against your mouth, his voice breathless and uneven, “I can’t think straight when you kiss me.”

The vulnerability in that small confession sent a thrill through you, and you couldn’t help the big, silly grin that broke across your face.

“Why’d you tell her?” he asked, his voice softer now, his forehead resting against yours.

You let out a shaky laugh, your eyes dropping to his swollen lips, already wanting to kiss him again. “I didn’t mean to,” you admitted, the words spilling out quickly. “She was so nice to me, and with everything that’s happened—I just couldn’t hold it in. I started crying, and it all came out.”

Namjoon exhaled deeply and, with obvious difficulty, pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze softened, the concern there unmistakable. “What did she say? Is that why you’re crying?”

A watery sniffle escaped you as you tried to explain. “She said you’re oblivious,” Each syllable ghosted over his lips, the space between you nearly nonexistent. You wanted to kiss him again. “And that you get it from your dad.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, but you didn’t stop. “She said she already knew,” you murmured, your voice quieter now, your chest tightening as your fingers traced the warm skin of his neck. “And…” You hesitated, your eyes searching his. “She said you love me.”

You were so close, his breath mingled with yours, the space between you barely more than a whisper.

Namjoon stilled, his breath catching. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, but then something like awe swept over his face, softening every feature. His eyes searched yours, looking for doubt, for hesitation—anything that might suggest you didn’t mean it. But when he found nothing but truth staring back at him, he let out a shaky exhale, his lips parting as though he was about to speak.

He didn’t. Instead, his hands cupped your face, and his lips met yours again, but this time the kiss was slower, deeper, and achingly tender. Gone was the urgency, replaced by something raw and honest. This kiss wasn’t about desperation or pretending—it was about him showing you, with everything he had, exactly how he felt.

This was Namjoon, completely unguarded. And as his lips moved against yours, as his hands cradled you like you were the most precious thing in the world, you felt like it.  

His breath fanned across your skin as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still holding your face like he wasn’t ready to let go. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, slow and reverent, as if memorizing every inch of you.

Neither of you spoke right away. The silence between you wasn’t empty— it was filled with the weight of the past few days, the tangled emotions, the hesitation and longing, all melted into the space between your breaths.

Namjoon swallowed hard.

“I thought I ruined everything when I kissed you.” His voice was raw, unsteady, his hands moving with quiet desperation—grazing your jaw, your neck, brushing your hair away from your face like he needed to see all of you.

You exhaled sharply a mix of exasperation and relief. “I was so sure you regretted it,” you admitted, your fingers restless as they traced along his skin, unable to stop moving, needing to feel him. “God, Namjoon, how could you just shut down like that?”

He swallowed, his gaze flickering with something vulnerable, something hesitant. “I thought you hated me.” The words came quiet but heavy. “I didn’t know how to handle it. I convinced myself that I pushed you away—that I ruined any chance I had of being with you for real.”

 Your breath hitched at the vulnerability that poured out of him. His dark eyes shimmered in the soft golden light of the room; the weight of his emotions etched across his perfect, devastating face.

“Namjoon…” His name quivered on your tongue as the tears came back to your eyes. But it wasn’t sadness that overwhelmed you—it was relief. Relief that the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long had finally found a voice. Relief that you weren’t alone in this freefall of emotions.

Namjoon’s hands still cradled your face, his thumbs brushing circles along your cheekbones like he could soothe all the hurt away. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead in an act so tender that it sent another wave of tears spilling down your cheeks.

“I regret…” He hesitated, his hands angled your face carefully, “I regret not telling you sooner. Not being brave enough to—God, Y/N, I’ve loved you since forever, but I was always so scared. Scared that you’d pull away, that-”

But you never heard the end of it, because your lips were on his again, stopping him mid-sentence, sealing all those remaining words between you. Namjoon’s hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, desperate, as if he couldn’t get enough of you, as if he was trying to make up for all the lost time. The intensity of it all sent a spark through your chest, and when your breath caught, he deepened the kiss, his tongue moving against yours, the world outside completely fading away.

Each movement, each touch was a promise—of feelings so long buried, that suddenly burst to the surface. Everything melted away in that kiss. It was everything and nothing at once, a moment that felt like it could stretch on forever.

Each touch, every breath shared between kisses, sent shivers racing up and down your spine. His lips trailed away from yours for only a moment, long enough to press kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, always returning to your mouth again like you were magnetic. You lost yourself in him completely, in the way his thumb was curling just beneath the collar of your shirt, in the way he tilted his head for a deeper angle and the soft sound he made in the back of his throat when you pulled his lip between your teeth.

His touch, his scent, the way his hands moved with purpose yet a tenderness that was overwhelming—every sensation was overwhelming in the best way possible.

The kiss deepened once more, as if the air itself couldn’t fill the space between you, and all the words you’d both kept locked away for so long were exchanged in every press of your lips.

Namjoon’s hands moved to over your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer, and before you could realize, he turned you two around—your back pressing against the soft mattress of the bed. The sudden movement took you by surprise, but you didn’t protest. If anything, the new proximity only made your pulse quicken, the heat between you both intensifying as he leaned over you, his body hovering just above yours. His breath came in soft, uneven gasps, each one warm against your skin, as if the space between you both was no longer enough. His hands, once resting at your shoulders, now explored lower, tracing the curve of your waist before settling at the small of your back, drawing you closer with a gentle yet undeniable urgency, his hips slotting against yours.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the sensation of his hands on you, the warmth of his touch setting your skin ablaze. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, slipping beneath your sweater and gradually pushing it higher, sending a shiver down your spine. Instinctively, you arched into him—craving more, needing more.

Namjoon’s lips brushed against your forehead, his voice barely a whisper as he said your name.

“Hmm?” you murmured.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Say it back.”

His voice was low, a mix of vulnerability and quiet demand, a plea you just couldn’t ignore.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and your heart swelled with certainty. You reached up, cupping his face gently, your voice steady as you said,

“I love you, Namjoon. I love you too.”

Namjoon’s gaze never left yours, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of desire and tenderness. His lips parted slightly as though to speak, but instead, he closed the distance between you two, kissing you again. His kiss was the perfect answer.

Your fingers knotted in his hair, pulling him closer, and you returned his kisses with equal fervour. A feverish dance, tongues entwined in a desperate attempt to satiate the hunger that gnawed at your very souls.

You ran your hands up the sides of his body, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, memorizing the contours of him as if you could pull all of him into you. Namjoon groaned softly at the sensation, his hands tightening their hold on you as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling yours in a caress that left you breathless.

His lips trailed down to your jaw, pressing over the marks already blooming on your neck, each press searing, sending sparks of need racing through your veins.

He nipped and sucked at your sensitive skin, leaving a few new hickeys as he made his way down to your collarbone. You gasped, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him. The heat between you was palpable, a living, breathing thing that threatened to consume you both.

As if sensing your need, Namjoon leaned back down, capturing your mouth back in a heated kiss. His lips moving against yours, coaxing you open, and you wilfully let him in. You always let him. His tongue slid against yours, stroking, tasting, and you whimpered, clutching onto him.

He swallowed the sound, one hand sliding down your thigh, hooking behind your knee. He dragged your leg over his hip, pressing your core right against his straining erection, and you gasped, breaking the kiss.

 “God, I want you,” he groaned, rocking against you, his hands stroking up your sides to cup your breasts. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. “I’ve imagined this a thousand times, but nothing compares to the real thing.”

 “I want you too,” you confessed. “God, so much” Your breath hitched as his lips found the curve of your throat, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with a slow kiss. Heat coiled in your stomach, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, as if you could fuse yourself to him completely. “I need you, Namjoon.”

But just as his hands moved to the button of your jeans, your senses caught up with you. You suddenly became acutely aware of everything—the fact that this was real, no more unrequited feelings, no more hiding. But just as glaring was the truth that his mother was down the hall. The realization hit you like a cold wave, shaking you, and a wave of panic surged through your chest.

“But baby, there is no way I’m fucking you at your parents’ house,” you said, your voice a soft reprimand, edged with your own personal frustration.

Namjoon groaned, his head falling to your shoulder as he breathed in your scent. “You’re killing me,” he murmured.

You chuckled, the sound warm and breathless, threading your fingers through his hair as he groaned against your shoulder. “I’m saving you from potential lifelong humiliation,” you teased, nudging his cheek with your nose.

Namjoon exhaled heavily, his lips grazing your collarbone one last time before he pulled back, flopping onto his back beside you with a frustrated sigh. “You’re right,” he admitted begrudgingly, rubbing a hand down his face. “But damn it woman … you make it really hard to think rationally.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself up on one elbow as you gazed down at him, taking in the way his chest rose and fell, the way his lips were still kiss-swollen and impossibly tempting, the way his eyes—dark and filled with something deeper than just lust—stayed locked on you.

A slow smile curled at your lips as you leaned down, pressing a soft, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I promise, when the time is right…” Your fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns on his chest, just beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t make you wait a second longer.”

Namjoon groaned again, rolling over to bury his face in the crook of your neck as you giggled. “You’re really going to make me suffer, aren’t you?” he muttered against your skin, kissing it softly after.

You grinned, letting your fingers comb gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Just let me hold you a little longer.”

Namjoon’s voice was a low, almost pleading whisper as he adjusted, shifting until he was holding you tighter, his arms enveloping you in a warmth that made everything else fade away. That made all the waiting and suffering feel like it was worth it.

 That made you start to question your own rule—because you’ve just told this man there would be no sex tonight and yet there wasn’t a single trace of frustration or regret on his face. Just quiet devotion, steady and sure, like holding you was enough.

 His hand splayed across your back, pressing you firmly against him. You melted into his embrace, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It was a comfort, a steady rhythm that calmed the fervour between you. His fingers lightly traced circles on your back, soothing you with every movement.

A small smile tugged at your lips as your fingers idly traced patterns over his skin. “Are you always this romantic?” you murmured, your voice laced with amusement.

Namjoon chuckled, his chest vibrating against yours “I’ve had years to practice patience with you,” he said, his tone filled with fondness, before he took on that familiar teasing expression. “And when we get home,” he leaned in close to your ear, his breath tickling your skin as he whispered, “I’m fucking you against every single flat surface we find.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your heart racing at the challenge in his tone. His expression was playful yet intense, that familiar mischievous spark lighting up his features, making those dimples seem like anything but innocent.

“You better watch yourself, Mr. Kim,” you said, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “I’ve been known to bite back.”

Namjoon’s grin widened as his hands sliding down your hips, fingers pressing into your skin before giving them a firm squeeze. In one fluid motion, he pulled you up slightly, adjusting your position—just enough for you to feel the hard imprint of his cock against you.

 “I’m counting on it,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a brief but heated kiss.

“Namjoon…”

His name left your lips in a breathy whisper, and Namjoon’s grip on you tightened ever so slightly, his fingers pressing into your hips like he was grounding himself—or maybe like he was trying to keep himself from losing all control.

“Yeah?” he prompted, his voice lower now, rougher, his lips hovering just over yours.

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up at him, taking in the way his pupils had blown wide, the way his chest moved with each heavy breath, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, like he was trying to steady himself—like he was barely holding on. You had always known Namjoon was dangerous in a hundred different ways, but this? The way he looked at you.

This was something else entirely.

A smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as you slid your hands up his chest, resting them over his racing heartbeat. “I think you might be a little obsessed with me,” you teased, arching a brow.

Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he let out a low chuckle. “You’re just now figuring that out?” he mused, his thumb stroking absentminded circles against your skin. Then, his expression shifted, something softer blooming beneath the heat in his gaze. “You have no idea.”

Your chest ached at the sincerity in his tone, at the weight of his words, and suddenly, the teasing faded from your mind entirely. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his jaw as you murmured, “Tell me,” the words barely audible, even to your own ears. “Tell me what you want.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, his pupils blown so wide that for a moment, they hid the hazel entirely.

“I want to feel every inch of you” he murmured, his voice rough. “I want to taste you, touch you, tease you. I want feel you trembling in my hands.” You shivered, despite the warmth of his embrace, a small gasp escaping your lips at his words.

His smile was immediate—wicked and knowing—as his hand slid under your shirt, fingers tracing your spine with deliberate slowness, sending sparks dancing beneath your skin.

“You want that, don’t you?” His voice was nothing more than a low, sinful whisper that completely ruined your panties.

 “Want me to take you apart, baby girl?”

The words settled deep in your core, a slow burn spreading through your veins, igniting something primal. Your fingers curled against his jaw, your breath hitching as his hand continued its slow, torturous exploration beneath your shirt, carefully tracing the outline of your bra.

“Say it,” he teased, his lips brushing against yours, teasing but never quite closing the distance. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Namjoon…” you breathed, but he was quick to assure you.

“I’ll behave. Don’t you worry.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears, heat pooling low in your stomach as you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want it.”

His responding groan was deep, guttural, vibrating through your entire body as his grip on you tightened. In one smooth motion, he rolled, pinning you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his thigh sliding between yours.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as his lips trailed down your jaw, past the sensitive spot below your ear, down the column of your throat. “Now let me make you feel good.”

“Namjoon!” you tried, but you heard him hush you before his tongue flicked over your pulse point, his teeth scraping lightly before he sucked, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. His hand slid higher, pushing your shirt up, exposing more of your skin to the cool air as his lips followed the path his fingers had blazed.

“Namjoon-” His name was half a gasp, half a plea, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it was the only thing anchoring you.

“Hold that thought,” he murmured, suddenly pulling back. The warmth of his body vanished as he sat up, pushing himself off the bed.

You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. For a second, you thought he was walking away, and your protest was already forming—until you saw him stride toward the door.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

Then you heard it. The soft click of the door’s lock sliding into place.

“Really?”

He smirked, sliding a knee back onto the mattress, his hands gripping your ankles and slowly dragging you toward him. “I’m not taking any chances,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement and something deeper.

The heat in his gaze was enough to make your breath hitch, but you couldn’t resist pushing him just a little more. “And here I thought you had some self-control”

Namjoon’s hands slid up your legs, his fingers kneading into your thighs as he leaned in close, his breath hot against your lips. “Baby,” he rasped, tilting his head slightly. “I locked that door because I have self-control. Otherwise, you’d already be a mess underneath me.”

“Joonie,” you groan, the bright red blush burning your face as you cover your face with your arms.

Namjoon chuckled softly at the sight of you hiding behind your arms, his hands gently pulling them away to reveal the rosy flush spreading across your cheeks. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as his breath stirred the hairs on your neck.

“Tell me, how set are you on that rule of yours?” His voice was low, a teasing growl that sent a hot shiver down your spine.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the rapid beat of your heart. His proximity was intoxicating, and despite the rules you’d set, the temptation to surrender to him was almost overwhelming.

You met his gaze, eyes filled with a mix of defiance and desire. “I… I meant it,” you murmured, your voice a little shaky despite your attempt at sounding firm. “I’m not fucking you tonight.”

Namjoon’s lips quirked into a smile, though it was anything but innocent. “I know that.” His fingers danced along your skin, barely touching, just enough to make you ache for more. “But I can touch you right?” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear again.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you were unsure of what to say, before:

“We have to be quiet.”

Namjoon’s smile grew, but there was a sharpness to it now, a hint of challenge. He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours, “Easy.”

His hand moved lower, fingertips skimming over your waist, leaving goosebumps in their wake, his touch light yet electrifying. The contrast between his playful demeanour and the raw desire in his eyes made your pulse race.

You bit your lip, trying to hold onto your resolve, but the temptation of his touch, his proximity, was slowly unravelling you. “You’re making this harder,” you managed, though it was more of a breathless confession than a statement of resistance.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked up to yours, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to send heat pooling in your belly. “I haven’t even started yet,” he murmured, his breath hot against your lips. “But I’ll make sure you’re quiet.”

You shivered at his words, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. His proximity, the heat of his breath on your skin, and the way his hands were moving lower, this time unbuttoning your jeans, had you teetering on the edge.

“Namjoon...” you whispered, voice shaky, but his fingers moved to the zipper, steady and sure, making it impossible to think clearly.

“Shh…” he hushed you softly. “I’ve got you.”

The simple reassurance sent a rush of heat through your chest, your heart pounding in your ears.

With practiced ease, his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your abdomen. You let out a gasp, your eyes fluttering closed as you savored the sensation. Namjoon’s hands moved lower, cupping your ass through the fabric of your pants. He squeezed gently, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You have such a nice ass,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

A quick giggle escapes your lips, your eyes meeting his. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you replied, your voice just as low and breathless. He grinned, his fingers moving to the hem of your pants. With slow, deliberate movements, he began to slide them down your legs, revealing the thin fabric of your lacy underwear underneath.

 You felt a rush of embarrassment at the sight of your arousal seeping through the fabric, but Namjoon didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying it. His fingers deliberately pushing your thighs apart once your jeans were discarded off somewhere behind him, taking his time to admire you.

“Did I ever tell you you’re beautiful?” You tried to respond, but it came out as a gasp as his fingers slid higher, teasing the lacy edge of your panties. He didn’t push them down, just tracing the material, letting you feel the heat of his touch through the thin fabric. Your fingers curled into the sheets, trying to anchor yourself in the sensation, but your body was reacting on its own, pushing further against him

His fingers moved, testing, teasing, until you’re squirming under him. “Namjoon,” you whine, your hands fisting in the sheets.

But he just smirks, “So impatient,” he teases, his hands sliding further up, brushing over your wet core through the fabric, his fingers catching over your clit and making you gasp breathlessly.

“I’ve barely started and you’re already desperate for me.” His words send a pulse of heat through you and you bite your lip hard, fighting back a moan. He chuckles, his fingers pushing against your entrance as if he wasn’t testing your patience already/

 “Shh, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire, mock-hushing you before pushing your panties aside, his fingers sliding through the slick heat gathering there. “Fuck. You’re so wet for me already,” the hot exhale of his breath making you clench around nothing.

 He dragged his fingertips through your wetness, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch that had you writhing beneath him again.

“Please...” Your fingers scrabbled uselessly at his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and dragging him closer. “Namjoon, my love...”

He silenced your plea with a searing kiss, tongue delving past your lips as he finally breached you with one long finger. Your moan swallowed by his mouth, hips lifting to take him deeper. The stretch was exquisite, pleasure spiking through you at the curl of his finger, quickly finding that spot inside that made you see stars.

Namjoon swallowed each and every needy sound spilling from your lips, his mouth devouring yours with a hunger that left you dizzy. He pushed another finger in, fucking you slowly, maddeningly, the wet squelch of your arousal obscene and too loud in the quiet room, mixing perfectly with your muffled moans.

You were lost to sensation, a writhing mess beneath his ministrations. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders, his hair, any resolve you could find. He held you down with his weight, drinking down every whimper and gasp his fingers drew from you. His rhythm perfect, each push making you feel lightheaded, the pads of his fingers brushing against that spongey spot, making your keen in pleasure.

Your nails raked down his back at the same moment his thumb found your clit, and you sob into his mouth, orgasm cresting hard and fast, the most delightful buzz settling at the base of your spine. Namjoon smothered your cries, taking everything, you gave him, fingers never ceasing their relentless rhythm. His thumb was a steady pressure on your clit, drawing out your climax until you were boneless and shiver beneath him, your whole body convulsing.

Only then did he pull back, lips red and slick with saliva, a knowing smirk playing over them as he took in your dazed, sated expression. “I knew you’d be a good girl for me,” he purred, fingers still toying with your over-sensitive flesh, drawing out a weak whimper from you

“Nam- A-Ahm...” you groan, thighs snapping shut around his hand, trapping it in place. His amused chuckle vibrated against your skin.

As your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “Think you can let go of my hand now?”

You were a flushed, trembling mess, your eyes still hazy as you gave a small, stubborn shake of your head. “Mmm… no.”

Namjoon huffed a quiet laugh, his free hand brushing your hair back from your face. “And why not?”

“You’ll tease me again.”

His grin was all mischief. “Smart girl.”

Namjoon’s grin didn’t waver as he shifted slightly, his trapped hand flexing against your thigh. “And yet,” he mused, voice low and knowing, “you’re still holding me there. Almost like… you want me to keep teasing you.”

You pouted, pressing your legs together even tighter, as if that would stop him, just a second before you forced yourself to let go. “Give me 5 minutes.”

“Isn’t that the guy’s line?”

You groaned, turning your face into the pillow to hide your growing smile. “Shut up,” you mumbled, your voice muffled but still laced with lingering pleasure.

Namjoon chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, and you could feel the warmth of his gaze lingering on you. He shifted effortlessly, hover over you, his free hand smoothing over your thigh in slow, absentminded strokes, a quiet reminder he wasn’t done with you. Or maybe, just maybe, he was as desperate as you were. Despite the tension building between you both, he still focused entirely on you—your needs—even though you hadn’t given him any release yet. It was as if his sole concern was your pleasure.

Still, he wore a look that told you he would willingly let you ruin him, and then thank you afterwards.

You peek your head up, meeting his heated gaze through hooded eyes, a mischievous glint in your expression. A teasing smile tugs at your kiss-bruised lips. “Take your shirt off,” you purr, voice low and sultry.

Namjoon’s smirk deepens at the unexpectedly bold request, and the look in his eyes suggests he’s more than willing to comply. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, “Bossy.” His voice was thick with amusement, but there was no hesitation in his movements.

He sat back, lifting his arms to pull the fabric over his head with smooth, practiced ease. The moment his shirt hit the floor, you couldn’t help but take in the way the muscles in his chest and arms shifted as he moved. The sight of him, bare and exposed in front of you, sent a wave of heat coursing through your body, pooling between your thighs.

You swallowed, your breath catching at the intensity of his gaze as he leaned back over you, his hands now skimming over your body, tracing the outline of your form. “Better?” he asked, his voice low, each word thick with a mix of flirtatious edge and raw, aching need.

You bit your lip, feeling the pulse of your desire as you nod slowly. “Much better.” Your hands tentatively explore the newly exposed skin of his chest, mapping the hard planes and dips of muscle. A surge of gratitude washes over you as you realize the band-aid Namjoon had chosen for your cut now allows you to glide your fingertips over his heated skin without restraint.

Namjoon watches you through half-lidded eyes, his lips parting on a soft exhale as your fingertips brush over a sensitive spot. He catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, voice rough with want.

“I haven’t even started yet.” You tease, trailing your fingers down his chest to his stomach, following the defined V of his muscles down to the waistband of his sweatpants, where your fingers hook in the elastic. Namjoon’s sharp inhale was more than enough encouragement. You trace the waistband of his pajama pants, feeling him shift under your touch, before dipping your hand beneath the fabric to wrap your fingers around his length. Suddenly feeling even more grateful that it wasn’t your dominant hand that had been injured today.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Fuck is right. Damn it. You were totally on track—he was massive.

He was hot, silk over flame, and so very big in your hand. You stroked him base to tip, more to size him up, but instead marveling at the way he stirred against your palm.

Namjoon groaned, head falling back against the pillow, hips canting forward. “Oh baby”

You shivered at the guttural sound, circling your hand around him, almost getting your fingers to meet.

His cock twitched in your hold, a drop of precum welling at the head. You thumb the slit, smearing his precum down his length, before pulling your hand up to spit on it.

“God, you’ll kill me.”

You met his gaze through your lashes, quickly returning to your task, pumping him with slow, teasing strokes. Your free hand came up to cup his heavy balls, rolling them in your palm.

He cursed under his breath, hips rocking into your grip.

Namjoon’s hands fisted in the sheets on either side of you, breathy groans spilling from his lips as he softly guided your ministrations, showing you how he liked to be touched. Namjoon’s eyes stay locked on yours, even as they glaze over with pleasure. One of his hands finds your hip, gripping tightly as he guides your movements. “Don’t stop,” he pleads, voice strangled. “I’m close.”

You doubled your efforts, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, giving his length a squeeze, before running your thumb over his head, teasing the slit.  

Namjoon is practically panting now, his face etched with strain as he chases his release.

“Come on,” you whisper, your other hand joining the first, one hand around the base, the other cupping his heavy balls. “Let go. I want to feel you.” He barely has a chance to register your words before he’s coming with a low groan, his head burying in your neck and biting hard against your shoulder to try and keep quiet, which in turn makes you gasp. Still, you stroke him through it, milking every last drop until he’s a boneless, sated mess, his full weight crushing you.  “Fuck, babe,” he praises breathlessly, shooting you a lazy, satisfied smile. “You’re amazing.” He tugs you up, capturing your lips in a languid kiss. You melt into him, your hand still wrapped around his spent cock, enjoying the little aftershocks that continue to make him twitch.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmur against his lips, feeling your heart swell.

Because despite the pleasure, the heat, this—this moment right here, of feeling utterly connected—that’s what you craved.

Namjoon pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes soft. “I love you,” he admits quietly, like it’s just a simple fact. Like you both haven’t been fighting it for year.

You know your eyes are shining, but you don’t care. “I love you too.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you let him sweep you up in the feeling, in the moment. because right now, right here, tangled in his arms and the sheets of his childhood bedroom is exactly where you’re meant to be.

After a few lazy minutes, Namjoon shifts, prompting you to release him. You bring your fingers to your mouth, languidly licking them clean as a low moan escapes you, savouring the salty essence of him that explodes across your tongue.

“Fuck. Love, don’t do that. You’ll get me hard again.” He chuckles breathlessly, dropping light kisses across your face. “As much as I want to go for round two, I think we both could use a shower first”

Namjoon slides out of bed, extending his hand toward you with a playful grin. “Come with me? I’ll even wash your back.”

You raise an eyebrow, looking at him sceptically. “That shower is tiny, and in case you didn’t know, you’re huge.”

Namjoon laughs, clearly unfazed by your complaints. “I’ll make it work,” he says with a wink, his grin widening. He gave your hand a gentle tug, urging you to follow. “Besides, I’m pretty good at fitting into tight spaces.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “You’re impossible.”

He smirks, pulling you up gently by the hand. “Come on, let me prove you wrong. Besides, I think we both could use a little water to cool down.” His voice softens, a hint of seriousness underlying the playful tone.

You give in, following him with a small sigh, knowing very well that that you willingly played right into his plan.

Just reblogging for my future enjoyment 😁

Gemini Masterlist

Gemini Part 1 Part 2 (Jimin)

You and your twin brother Yoongi are heirs to the Min empire, richer than Croesus. Yoongi's set to take over the company, but you're not sure where your niche is. And then you meet Jimin.

Knight (Yoongi)

Yoongi prides himself on being a professional in the boardroom. You seem to be determined to crack his facade.

Lush (Jungkook)

Jungkook's built his empire from nothing, and he's damn well going to sit back and enjoy the spoils.

Charming (Seokjin)

You and Seokjin are in an arrangement of convenience, one that will enable each of you to claim your inheritance in a year. You've got an iron-clad contract, one that takes into account all eventualities, including romance. What could go wrong?

kim namjoon masterlist

last updated April 26, 2023: 8:36pm

key: ♡-fluff  ☽-smut  ★-angst ♢-old material

oneshots:

♡ ♢- I adore you.

☽ ♢- I like your thinking.

♡ ♢- Do you want me to sing?

♡- It’s more fun here with you, anyway.

♡- Weddings, birthdays, whatever. There’s still cake involved, right?

♡- I love every part of you.

♡- Bublé would be so offended right now.

♡- God, I love you, but what are you doing to my towels?

☽- Your apologies are unreal.

☽- You like my muscles that much, baby?

♡- Are you telling me I have to choose between you and mint choco?

♡- You’re my muse every night.

☽- Happy birthday to me.

♡- 8:36pm

drabbles:

key: ♡-fluff  ☽-smut  ★-angst

❥-anniversary drabble prompt

♡- A little bit of rain won’t hurt.

☽- You’re going to ruin me.

♡ ❥- “I think I just really need a hug.”

★ ❥- “I don’t like when you cry over me.”

♡ ❥- “Can you stop being so cute for a minute? I’m trying to be mad at you.”

♡ ❥- “I need cuddles or I’m going to die.” + “You’re so drunk. I’m merely tipsy.”

☽ ❥- “I didn’t know you were so sensitive.” + “Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

concepts:

key: ♡-fluff  ☽-smut  ★-angst

♡- something about calling him joonbug

☽- something about a steamy makeout in the car

♡- something about joon and his crush staying up till 4am talking about books

♡- something about swaying namjoon’s disbelief in soulmates

♡- something about sneaky kisses with friends to lovers namjoon

Oooh this sounds very promising! Can’t wait to read what happens next!

Kaleidoscope | Red

↳ Musician!Namjoon x Artist!Reader ⤜ Neighbors, Mutual Pining, Artist Muse ⤜ Rating: MA | fluff, eventual smut ⤜ WC: 873 ⚠️ Crass language, secret personal pining, intimate personal thoughts about a stranger

Next Chapter⇾ (coming soon) ◅ Back to series masterlist

Like the taut skin of the apple that snaps under his perfectly straight pearly teeth as he takes a bite. You try not to stare through the reflective surface of the metal wall, but it’s impossible as he brings the shiny, red fruit to his mouth to take another crisp chunk from the rounded side.

Your neighbor stands across from you in the tiny elevator that’ll take you up to the seventh floor, where your apartment door is just across from his. He’s lost in the music you can faintly hear carrying from his headphones and is oblivious to your unwavering attention.

Forbidden fruit, full of secrets that you want nothing more than to be privy to. That’s what he represents. A tantalizing, teasing morsel of the unknown that begs for your touch. At least, that’s how it is in the privacy of your own thoughts. You don’t even know his name. Just simply always think of him as Apartment A, the counterpart to your Apartment B on the seventh floor.

He moved in nearly two years ago, and you always meant to say hello, to introduce yourself. But, every time the opportunity arose, your tongue would thicken, and you’d find it impossible to form words around the offending muscle. So, it’s only been silence between the two of you with the occasional hospitable, cordial smile that everyone does to be polite when passing by strangers and unintentionally making eye contact.

Apartment A takes another bite of the apple. That’s three so far since you entered the elevator with him from the lobby of your apartment building. The steel carriage is slow, slower than it should be, but the super refuses to fix it until the thing breaks down completely. It lurches along, emitting a constant vibration under the worn soles of your ratty sneakers. They’re covered in splatters of paint, most dried, but some still shiny-wet against the black canvas from when you spent time in your studio this morning.

There is only one more floor to go. With that, you know you’ll only have a few seconds to continue admiring him before he disappears into his apartment, closing you off from learning more about who he really is and why you’re so enthralled with him.

You step closer to the elevator doors and, by proxy, closer to him. The sweet, floral scent of the apple reaches you. It’s involuntary, the way saliva pools under your tongue at the thought of taking your own bite. However, it’s not the red fruit that you imagine, but the pouty bottom lip of Apartment A.

The sudden jerk of the elevator stopping sends you stumbling forward a step, your palm instinctively catching on the button-laden wall beside the doors. Heat immediately crawls up your neck, replacing the momentary flare of self-indulgent fantasies. You throw a quick glance at him, more than sure you’re going to find his dark, quizzical eyes staring at you like you’re a spectacle.

Relief, mixed with an odd sense of disappointment, clouds into your mind when you see your stumble didn’t so much as register to him. He’s hyper-focused on the fruit in his hand, his lips silently moving as if singing along to whatever song is playing through his headphones. You might as well not exist.

As soon as the doors slide open, the squeal of the worn-out belt and pulley echoing through the small space, Apartment A steps out and continues the dozen paces to his door while you’re still trying to gather your wits against the elevator wall. The offending sound begins again as the doors try to squeeze shut before you can throw a hand out and halt them.

You scramble out, shoving the doors as they try to catch on your shoulders. “Fucking hell,” you grumble, the warmth of embarrassment quickly turning to burning irritation. It’s unlike you to get so caught up in your thoughts over Apartment A. It’s not fair. It’s all because of that damned fruit. If he weren’t eating it, the bright, ruby-colored skin practically screaming at you to pay attention, you’d not have gotten so distracted.

Red is still coloring your vision as you push into your apartment. Your shoes thud against the wall by the door as you kick them off, eyes honing in on the blank canvas waiting for you on the other side of your living room. What you do in your studio is for the eyes of the outside world, but what you create here—in the comfort of your own space—is completely and utterly for you. Which is why you let yourself indulge in him.

You know precisely what you’re going to paint. Arching strokes meet eager swipes—the gentle curve of a fruit, the solid straight lines of nimble fingers. Pouty lips and white teeth, the faintest hint of a wet tongue poised to accept the sweet nectar that waits hidden beneath the thin peel.

It’s comforting, getting lost in the process of recreating something with such intimate clarity. Channeling your emotions, whether that’s the unbidden lush fantasy of biting into Apartment A’s bottom lip or the self-critical chastisement laced with irritation for being so hung up on him, red flows across the canvas—glorious, wicked red.

Next Chapter⇾ (coming soon) ◅ Back to series masterlist

◅ Back to Main Master List   ©️ 2023-09-07 ColorMePurplex2