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Chapter Text

“Move! ”

Namjoon jogged up to them, breathless, laptop clutched to his chest like a sacred text.

The cafeteria was its usual chorus of trays clattering, sneakers squeaking on polished linoleum, and over-caffeinated students laughing too loudly about things that probably wouldn’t matter tomorrow. The seven of them had carved out their usual corner by the window, half-eaten trays of food, shared drinks, and unfinished packets of chips scattered across the table like lazy artifacts of student life.

It was the late afternoon when Namjoon’s voice could be from heard across the dining hall, causing all six boys to briefly look up from whatever the fuck they were doing to see the nerd scatter through swarms of students like he was on a mission. Little did the group know that he actually was on a mission, a really successful mission that just got the green light from one of the top professors in their university.

“Guys!” Namjoon’s voice cracked with excitement as he nearly tripped over Jeongguk’s backpack, eyes wide behind the wire rimmed glasses he was wearing. “It got approved. My thesis proposal. Professor Lee said it’s solid. She even said it was fresh .”

“Fresh?” Taehyung echoed, amused, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. “What is she, sixty-five or a surfer?”

There was a brief pause, then Seokjin, already scooting aside to make space, broke into a wide grin. “Joonie ,” he said fondly, tugging Namjoon down next to him. He greeted him with a kiss to the cheek and wrapped an arm around his shoulders with practiced ease. “That’s amazing. Let me see.”

Namjoon flipped his laptop open without hesitation, tilting the screen toward Seokjin. He maneuvered his way to a word document that was minimised in his task bar, the split screen on his computer cluttered with graphs of data and youtube videos of psychologists explaining theories to him. Part of the word document was a dense, methodology section half-highlighted in yellow, a tab open to an ethics board submission form, and at least ten windows full of academic references with titles like "Compulsory Proximity” and “Attachment Theory in Simulated Intimacy."

Across the table, Jimin raised a brow. “Wait, what was your thesis on again?” he asked, stirring a half-empty iced Americano with his straw.

Namjoon looked up, eyes still a little wild with excitement. “Friendship-based intimacy. I’m researching whether two platonic friends can develop romantic or sexual feelings if they’re placed in a relationship dynamic. Basically I’m asking the question: is love something we fall into... or grow into when given the right conditions?”

Yoongi, tucked quietly in the corner with one AirPod in and a textbook cracked open on music theory, barely lifted his eyes. “And what experiment are you doing to show your findings?”

Namjoon turned the screen slightly toward him. “I need two people who are already friends—close, but definitely platonic. They’ll date for thirty days. Real dates, shared responsibilities, the whole couple package. I’ll track their responses through regular interviews and create several logs that outline their progression. If they start catching feelings, it proves my theory.”

Jeongguk made a face. “I dunno, I feel like that’s a bit of a reach, hyung.”

Namjoon’s head snapped toward him, offended. “You and Hoseok literally started dating after being best friends for what, five years? Through middle school and high school?”

At that, Hoseok let out a low snort, not even looking up from where he was picking apart a rice ball with his chopsticks. Jeongguk, however, narrowed his eyes at the other.

“That’s different,” he said, pointing a fry at him. “We didn’t force anything. That was organic. Years of slow-burn tension and mutual pining and stolen glances and all that sappy crap. You’re talking about making two people pretend to be in love for a month and seeing if they freakin’ imprint on each other like ducklings.”

“It’s not pretending,” Namjoon argued. “It’s simulating a romantic environment to measure psychological shifts in emotional response—”

“Okay, lab rats," Jeongguk interrupted, throwing a look at the rest of the boys who were sitting across the table. “Next thing you know he’s gonna make them sleep in the same bed and watch each other brush their teeth for science.”

“I mean,” Jimin chimed in, lips quirking as he stirred his drink again, “rats are kinda cute though.”

Yoongi scoffed quietly behind his textbook.

Hoseok finally looked up, grinning, and slung an arm over his boyfriend’s shoulder. “Koo,” he crooned in a mock-serious tone, “would you still love me if I was a rat?”

Jeongguk leaned away like he was actually considering it. “Mm... depends. Are you like, a street rat? Or like, a Ratatouille situation?”

“Wow,” Hoseok muttered, the smile falling from his face. He smacked Jeongguk’s arm with the back of his hand. “You better hope this relationship was organic, or I’d sue.”

Seokjin chuckled under his breath, eyes still scanning Namjoon’s screen as his thumb absentmindedly rubbed circles on his boyfriend’s shoulder. “This is actually fascinating,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. “Like something The Bachelor meets Psychology Today .”

Namjoon beamed, encouraged. “Right? I think I’m onto something big here.”

Across the table, Yoongi hummed, still unconvinced. His nose was deep within his textbook, head bopping along to some random rap song that was blasting from his singular airpod. He was writing notes from his music lecture whilst also simultaneously reading music composition theory, even an outsider could tell that he thought this weird forced proximity experiment was stupid.

And Taehyung, legs kicked out beneath the table, hair half-tied back, a lazy smile tugging at his lips as he sucked on a blue raspberry flavored lollipop as an attempt to distract himself, was listening far more closely than he let on. His sunglasses were now tangled within his black curls, dark eyes shuffling to Yoongi and now pulling a secret face of distaste. He was always doing boring shit like studying.

Seokjin, leaning over to nudge Namjoon’s glasses back up the bridge of his nose with two fingers, asked “Where exactly are you planning to find two friends willing to be your guinea pigs?”

Namjoon didn’t even blink, letting his boyfriend fix his frames. “I mean, I could advertise across campus. Put up some flyers on the announcement boards in the psych and sociology departments. Maybe the media building too. But I doubt anyone’s going to take it seriously.”

“No shit,” Jeongguk said, snorting. “You’re asking people to fake date each other for science. This is weird , hyung.”

“It’s not fake dating,” Namjoon huffed, tone defensive. “It’s structured proximity under observation. With the potential for genuine romantic outcomes.”

Jimin perked up, tapping his chopsticks against his bento box. “I think it’s kind of cute. If I wasn’t going on tour next week with the dance team, I’d totally do it.”

Jeongguk gave him an affronted look. “Don’t remind me. You and my boyfriend are leaving me for fourteen days to do hip thrusts and pirouettes in front of European judges.”

Hoseok raised a brow from where he was picking the sesame seeds off his kimbap. “It’s just two weeks. Plus, Jimin’s there to make sure I don’t drown in an Italian harbor or eat seventeen stroopwafels in one sitting.”

“I’d argue both of those are character-building experiences,” Jimin replied.

Across the table, Taehyung let out a long, melodramatic groan. “Hobi going is such a bummer. Who am I supposed to get high with now?”

Yoongi didn’t even look up from his textbook this time, just raised an unimpressed brow. “That’s your biggest concern?”

“Of course it is,” Taehyung said around the stem of his lollipop, the blue staining the tip of his tongue as he spoke. “Everyone else here are pussies and scared of the devil’s lettuce.”

Namjoon rolled his eyes. “It’s not our fault the rest of us are well-educated and have our priorities straight.”

He sat up straighter, looking offended. “My photography degree is just as important as your stupid research project, Namjoon.”

Jimin let out a stifled giggle. “Maybe if you actually attended a class this term, we’d believe you.”

He shot him a look, but it was too lazy to be threatening. “Hilarious,” he muttered, rolling his eyes before resuming his slow, dramatic lollipop consumption like it was the last shred of dignity he had.

Seokjin, ever the peacekeeper, gently patted Namjoon’s arm. “Maybe instead of putting up flyers, you just ask around? See who’s actually interested?”

Namjoon hesitated. He glanced around the table, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I… actually have a pair in mind.”

Jeongguk leaned forward, suddenly intrigued. “You know people who would willingly partake in this crap?”

Namjoon didn’t answer at first. He glanced across the table, then once more for confirmation, eyes flicking, calculating. His gaze landed briefly on Yoongi, who had returned to highlighting a passage in his textbook with surgical precision. Then on Taehyung, who was now drumming his fingers idly against the table, bored and still a little irritated from the comment Jimin made.

Namjoon chewed the inside of his cheek.

Jeongguk followed his line of sight, slowly catching on. His face broke into a grin, wide and amused. “No way. ”

“What?” Taehyung blinked, sitting up slightly.

Jimin had already started snorting, trying to suppress the laughter bubbling up from his chest. Seokjin raised both eyebrows, caught halfway between a smile and a grimace. “Joon…” he mumbled, in a somewhat disapproving tone. Hoseok turned his face away to hide the giggles he couldn’t quite contain, Jeongguk swatting him to get him to shut up.

“What?” Yoongi’s voice cut in, flat and completely unaware.

The two targets in question sat on opposite ends of the table, both slowly starting to register the shift in attention, both squinting at the sudden weird atmosphere. Namjoon, bless his earnest little academic heart, was nothing if not brave. He inhaled quietly, adjusted the laptop on his lap, and leaned forward just enough that Seokjin's arm had to shift to keep him tethered against his side.

"Yoongi. Taehyung," he began, eyes flicking between them with something that could almost be mistaken for innocence. "Would you two consider being my participants?"

The words hung in the air for one heavy, bewildered beat, and then the entire table exploded with laughter. "You're a moron, " Jeongguk cackled, nearly choking on his fries as he pointed across the table.

"Okay, rude, " Namjoon muttered, running a hand through his blonde hair.

Jimin, gleeful, clapped his hands. “ C’mon, it’d be so funny! Just imagine them fake dating for a month. Yoongi writing a love song for him, Taehyung posting photo dumps on Instagram…”

“I’d rather die,” Yoongi said flatly, the most deadpan look plastered across his face. He hadn’t even blinked.

Taehyung turned to him, brows drawn in mock-offense. “Now that's rude,” he muttered.

Yoongi glanced sideways at him, gave him a slow once-over like he was analyzing a questionable food court meal. “I don’t want to date you.”

The table howled again, Hoseok trying to calm himself down to attempt reasonable conversation skills. “Yoongi, you don’t want to date anyone.”

“Exactly,” Yoongi replied, lifting one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Dating is weird. I don’t date people. Love is just a made-up concept invented by marketing departments to sell chocolates and overpriced hotel packages.”

Taehyung tilted his head at him, playful squint in his eyes. “Do you think I’m ugly?”

There was a pause. Yoongi looked at him again, eyes slow and clinical, like he was calculating Pythagoras instead of evaluating his roommate’s bone structure. “You’re a strong six out of ten.”

“Wow, ” Taehyung scoffed, clutching his chest dramatically. “Now you’re just being mean. ”

“Sorry,” He deadpanned again. “I’m not interested in people who can’t pay rent on time and eat grilled cheese for dinner five nights a week.”

“Excuse me?” Taehyung said, eyes wide with faux outrage.

“They sound very domestic,” Seokjin whispered under his breath to Namjoon with a mischievous grin, reading the tension like a drama connoisseur.

Taehyung’s head snapped toward him so fast his lollipop nearly fell out of his mouth. “First of all,” he said, holding up a finger. “He’s right. Not about the ugly thing—I’m hot as fuck, actually. But yeah, I wouldn’t want to date an introverted loser who spends more time serenading rich old women in a hotel lounge than in an actual club.”

Yoongi didn’t even flinch. “Playing piano at the Blairmont is a legitimate job. It's classy. Unlike bringing home random campus guys and mauling their necks like a vampire.”

“My sex life is not the point here,” Taehyung snapped, folding his arms across his chest like a petulant prince. “The point is that the answer is no. Neither of us want to do this stupid experiment.”

Namjoon opened his mouth, then promptly closed it again.

Across the table, Jimin leaned into Hoseok’s shoulder, whispering with a giggle, “They’d either fall in love or murder each other by day six.”

Hoseok grinned. “Either way, Namjoon gets his thesis.”

Yoongi went back to his textbook like the conversation hadn’t even happened, and Taehyung, with a final scoff, popped the now half-dissolved blue lollipop back into his mouth, arms still folded.

Seokjin patted Namjoon’s shoulder sympathetically. “At least you tried.”

“Yeah,” He muttered, knowing that his boyfriend and their five other friends were blissfully unaware of the plan he had crafted in his head if this was the given outcome.

Namjoon was many things: an academic, a perfectionist, a virgo—but today, he was an actor. A very good one.

When the playful arguing and banter had simmered down enough for the group to return to their food and scattered conversations, Namjoon sighed softly. Not loud enough to draw immediate attention, but just audible enough for Seokjin, ever attuned to him—to notice.

“You okay?” Seokjin asked quietly, brushing his fingers over his boyfriend’s arm, gentle and comforting. His thumb drew a slow line along the crease of Namjoon’s sleeve, the warmth in his touch at odds with the heavy silence the other had suddenly draped over himself.

Namjoon didn’t look at him. His eyes fell to his laptop screen again, fingers clicking over the trackpad as he pulled up one of the many scholarly articles he’d been obsessively citing all week. “Yeah,” he murmured, leaning back a little with the kind of defeated exhale that was so well-practiced it bordered on theatrical. “It’s just a shame, really… that so many people are willing to give up 1.9 million won just like that.”

The pause was instantaneous. Stillness rippled through the group like a slap across the face. Taehyung’s lollipop dipped, slowly dangling from his slack lips.

Jimin blinked, turned, blinked again. “What?”

Jeongguk’s brows lifted. The faintest grin curved across his mouth as he sat back, arms folding across his chest. He knew exactly what Namjoon was doing. Even Seokjin’s comforting fingers paused on Namjoon’s arm, confusion creeping in behind his eyes as the number echoed in his brain. “Sorry, did you say—?”

“1.9 million won?” Taehyung choked, straightening so fast the bench under him creaked.

Namjoon, the picture of innocence, nodded absently. He didn’t look up from his laptop, still scrolling like he was trying to distract himself from the crushing disappointment of being misunderstood by the world. “Mmhmm,” he said. “Each.”

The table turned into a painting. Frozen. Stunned. Jaws slack, eyes wide. Even Yoongi’s pencil paused for a fraction of a second over his textbook, though he didn’t lift his head. He just blinked slowly and resumed writing like none of this affected him. Meanwhile, across from him, Taehyung was blinking like someone had just offered him a key to the gates of heaven.

Jeongguk leaned forward, tilting his head. “Where the hell are you getting almost 4 million won from?”

Namjoon finally looked up, all calm smiles and faux modesty. “The psychology department is funding the study since it’s technically research-based. Plus, I got picked up by a research and development sponsor in Seoul. They’re investing in experimental intimacy studies, particularly those that explore queer-coded dynamics in platonic friendships. It’s kind of a hot topic in academic circles right now.”

“Wait, so…” Taehyung’s eyes were practically vibrating. “We would both get 1.9 million won? Each? ”

“Yep.” Namjoon clicked his tongue and shut the laptop with a gentle snap . “But hey, I get it. Yoongi is boring with his piano playing, and he does hate your horrible roommate tendencies. So honestly, you guys doing this probably wouldn’t be such a good idea. It’d be a disaster.”

It was shameless. It was manipulative. It was textbook emotional baiting .

And it worked.

Seokjin’s grin was growing by the second, clearly impressed by the performance. Jimin let out a low, anticipatory oooh , watching Taehyung as though he were a kettle about to boil over.

The younger blinked, once. Then again. He turned, slowly, eyes locking onto his roomate, who still sat in the exact same position, head down, hand writing in neat, looping script in the margins of his music theory notes.

“We’re doing it,” Taehyung announced.

A slow, unmistakably derisive snort came from Yoongi. “No, we aren’t, weirdo.”

Taehyung’s jaw dropped. “Four million won , Yoongi. That’s a lot of fucking money.”

Yoongi didn’t even flinch. “I have a job. I don’t need bribery to play pretend. Unlike some people.” He looked up then, his eyes locking with Taehyung’s across the table. There was a smirk there, small but undeniably smug. Taehyung looked like he wanted to leap over the table and throttle him.

“You’re seriously saying no to free money?”

Yoongi shrugged like the thought bored him to tears. “I’m saying no to dating you .”

And that? That was when the table lost it again.

Jeongguk slapped a hand to his mouth. Hoseok practically doubled over, laughing into the crook of his arm. Jimin was gasping for air, trying to speak and wheeze at the same time. Even Seokjin had to hide his face in Namjoon’s shoulder to muffle the sound.

Taehyung just sat there, lollipop forgotten, lips pressed together in pure, offended silence. He looked like someone had just told him his bank account had been locked for suspicious grilled cheese purchases. Across from him, Yoongi picked up his pencil again, peaceful like he wasn’t making Taehyung’s world crash around him. Namjoon said nothing, but the sparkle in his eye gave him away.

Step one? Complete.

-

The kitchen was dimly lit in the way only college apartments managed, one of the overhead bulbs flickered every now and then like it was fighting for its life, and the vent above the stove hummed a little too loud for comfort. There was a chop board on the side of the stove filled with cubed spam and green onions, Yoongi taking delicate care to make sure the space was neatly organised before beginning to assemble the fried rice. The smell of garlic and soy was thick in the air, curling around the two figures who occupied the tiny space with the friction of a cold war.

Taehyung was leaned over the counter like a man on a mission, his arms folded tight against the chipped laminate, jaw tense, lollipop from earlier long gone and replaced by something far more stubborn: intent . His eyes were narrowed into burning slits of determination, fixed on Yoongi’s back like he could will him into agreement through sheer force of irritation.

“I’m just saying,” he said, gesturing vaguely with his free hand, “this is literally the easiest money we’re ever gonna be offered. No essays, no labs, no real effort. All we have to do is fake date. You’re being stupid for saying no.”

Yoongi, standing over the stove in his usual oversized black hoodie and sleep-rumpled hair, didn’t even turn. He calmly tossed the cubed spam into the hot pan and drizzled soy sauce over the mixture, steam rising up in lazy curls around him as he stirred. His face was blank. Completely, annoyingly unreadable.

“It’s not like anything bad would happen,” Taehyung continued, pacing now. “We already live together. It’s just that, plus a few dates. Maybe a cuddle at night if the vibe’s right. Hell, I could even cook for you.”

Yoongi raised a brow, finally glancing at him out of the corner of his eye with concern written all over him. “I wouldn’t trust you in the kitchen if my life depended on it.”

Taehyung rolled his eyes, waving the insult away. “ Besides the point. You just need to get over whatever commitment phobia or emotional constipation you’ve got going on and commit to the bit. That’s all it is.”

“There is no bit,” He replied, tone clipped but not angry, just tired, like someone being asked to do karaoke at a funeral. “I don’t date. Not people. Not for money. Not even ironically. It’s dumb.”

Taehyung’s lip twitched, part amused, part irritated. “Is this about your ‘love is a social construct’ nonsense again?” He dropped his voice into a mock imitation: “‘Capitalism has commodified affection’ or whatever the fuck you said last time—”

Yoongi didn’t rise to the bait. He calmly stirred the fried rice, folding the grains over the eggs like a man at peace with his own principles.

“You’re being insecure,” Taehyung added, biting the inside of his cheek. “That’s it, right? You’re scared you’ll catch feelings.”

Yoongi snorted under his breath. “I’m not insecure,” he said, pushing the rice into neat sections in the pan, “I just think dating is dumb. A performance. A headache.”

Taehyung huffed dramatically, flopping forward across the counter like a martyr. “It’s not real dating,” he said into his folded arms. “It’s a fake experiment . Nothing’s going to change. Namjoon’s theory will be proven wrong, and we’ll walk away with four million won and laugh about it at graduation.”

Yoongi was quiet for a second. Then, almost too softly, he said, “I feel bad for him.”

Taehyung lifted his head, blinking. “Namjoon?”

Yoongi nodded, now scraping the rice onto two mismatched bowls. “Poor guy has funding and researchers backing his theory, and nothing’s going to come of it. He’s betting on romance to sprout out of proximity. That’s just sad.”

Taehyung smirked, resting his chin in his palm. “Who knows. Something might come from it.”

Yoongi turned, meeting his eyes with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “I wouldn’t date you if you were the last guy on Earth.”

Taehyung sat up, affronted. “Well, good thing there’s at least eight billion other people, because the thought of dating you sends me to sleep. You’re like an emotional sedative. Just boring. ”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and handed him a bowl of rice with a muttered, “I don’t even know why I offered to cook you dinner tonight.”

Taehyung accepted the bowl like it was a peace treaty, immediately jabbing a spoon into the perfectly seasoned pile. “Because,” he said around a mouthful, “you’re secretly the best person in the world and you love me. Platonically. But deeply. ”

Yoongi squinted at him, unimpressed. “I’m still not going to date you.”

Taehyung dropped onto the barstool at the counter, the legs creaking under the sharp motion. He hunched over his bowl, spinning the spoon in the rice with the sort of casual drama that made everything he did feel like a performance. Yoongi stayed standing, leaning against the opposite counter with his own bowl cradled in one hand, chopsticks in the other. The soft clink of metal and porcelain filled the quiet space between them. They ate in near silence for a minute.

Then Yoongi spoke, voice flat and pointed. “Why do you even need the money, anyway?”

Taehyung didn’t look up. He scooped a large bite of rice into his mouth before replying, cheek full, “I’d be an idiot to miss out on free money. Which is why you’re stupid.”

Yoongi raised a brow. “Idiots are unemployed,” Taehyung rolled his eyes. “You probably just want to blow it on weed.”

That made Taehyung go still. Not dramatically, just a fraction too still. His fingers paused around the spoon. His eyes didn’t lift from the bowl. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying to think of a comeback but couldn’t find one fast enough.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “A little extra income would be nice,” he said, too casually. “Especially since I’m trying to find a new job.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes. “How are you gonna get a job when you can’t even show up to your seminars?”

The younger scowled and slumped deeper into his seat. “I’m trying my best.” Yoongi didn’t respond. He didn’t scoff, didn’t make a biting comment. Just went quiet again, and somehow that stung worse than all the teasing. Like he genuinely didn’t believe him.

“I’ll find one soon,” Taehyung blurted, voice rougher than before. He looked up then, finally, and something about his features had changed. The sharpness was gone, replaced with something smaller. Not quite embarrassed, but definitely exposed. “The money would really help,” he said, quieter now. “It wouldn’t be that bad, right? Just thirty days of… being stuck with me.” He tried for a teasing smile, but it faltered halfway through.

Yoongi frowned. “I won’t be stuck with you. Don’t say it like that.”

Taehyung’s expression twisted again, this time frustrated, brows knitting together as he leaned his chin into his palm. “Well, you didn’t exactly sound thrilled at the idea of dating me.”

Yoongi didn’t answer. He looked away, shoveled more rice into his mouth like he could eat the words he wanted to say instead. The rice was a little burnt at the edges, but he didn’t mind, it gave him something to focus on.

“I was just joking,” he muttered finally. “The whole 6/10 thing. And you bringing people home. It doesn’t bother me.”

Taehyung nodded slowly, eyes dropping again. “I know.”

And he did. Yoongi had never really complained. He might grumble under his breath or give a look when someone overstayed their welcome, but he never truly minded. That’s just what Taehyung did—he came and went like chaos in designer sneakers, and Yoongi tolerated it without question.

“I get it if you don’t want to do it,” Taehyung added, and this time there was no sarcasm, no performative flair. Just a quiet sort of practicality. “I’m not trying to guilt trip you or anything. I just think it’s easy cash. We’d both be dumb to pass it up, even if it means proving Namjoon wrong. We fake date, do some check-ins, take the money, move on. That’s it.”

Yoongi looked at him, really looked at him. The stubborn tilt of his chin, the hint of desperation in his voice that he was trying hard to hide, the way his fingers curled slightly around the edge of the counter as if grounding himself.

He’d seen Taehyung like this before—just not often. Not when the lights were low and the room felt too quiet. Not without an audience. Yoongi’s grip around his bowl loosened, realising that there was probably more to this than Taehyung was probably leading on, something that Yoongi still couldn’t quite decipher.

Why the hell was he actually considering this now?

He blinked, as if trying to clear something from his vision. Because the thought of dating Taehyung was still absurd. Because everything about this experiment sounded like a bad rom-com waiting to crash and burn. But there was something about the way his roommate had looked at him just then, a flicker of something too real to ignore.

Something that said: I need this.

And maybe, just maybe, Yoongi was starting to wonder if he needed something too.

“You really need the money?”

Yoongi’s voice cut through the kitchen, low and calm but too direct to ignore. It wasn’t accusatory, not even judgmental, just... honest. And somehow, that made it worse.

Taehyung didn’t answer.

He kept his eyes on the rice at the bottom of his bowl, swirling his spoon in slow circles. The goofy persona had drained from his shoulders, that usual confidence dulled under the weight of something more fragile. It wasn’t fun being the reckless one anymore, not when it meant being broke, being behind, being the one people talked about with that soft kind of pity.

Yoongi’s bowl clinked softly as he set it down on the counter. The quiet stretched. The warm overhead stove light cast golden shadows over their faces, highlighting the tension in Yoongi’s jaw, the way his fingers curled into his sleeves, the flicker of something caught between hesitation and resolve in his dark eyes.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek and muttered, almost too quietly to catch. “I’ll do it.”

Taehyung’s head snapped up so fast it was like he’d been yanked on a string. “You’re not shitting with me, are you?”

Yoongi met his eyes, dead serious. No smirk, no teasing glint, no Yoongi-brand sarcasm curled into the corners of his mouth. Just quiet, cautious resolve.

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m being serious.”

The silence that followed felt surreal. Taehyung blinked at him like he was trying to reboot his brain, then, suddenly, he lit up. His entire face transformed. The wide-eyed shock twisted into something borderline euphoric. He jumped up from the stool, nearly knocking it backward as he spun in place, cradling his now empty bowl like it was some kind of trophy.

“We’re gonna be fucking rich, Yoongs!” he beamed, grinning so hard his dimples practically had their own gravitational pull. He bounced on the balls of his feet, spinning once more before shooting the other a playful look.

Yoongi blinked, still rooted in place. “I still want you to look for a job.”

He groaned, waving him off as he danced toward the sink. “I absolutely will! Just let me enjoy our honeymoon phase first.”

“There is no honeymoon phase,” Yoongi said dryly, already regretting his life choices. “None of this is real.”

Taehyung shot him a smirk over his shoulder, mischief blooming across his face like he’d been waiting for the cue. “You’re really ruining the fun, hyung.”

Yoongi shook his head slowly, dragging his palm down his face. “We’re not actually dating.”

But the other just turned fully to face him now, leaning against the sink, eyes gleaming. He looked him up and down with deliberate exaggeration and grinned like the devil himself. “I’m gonna date you so hard.”

Yoongi stared at him, frozen mid-step with an expression that sat somewhere between terror and regret. What the fuck did he just agree to?

Chapter Text

The hallway outside the psychology wing buzzed with afternoon chatter, the kind that echoed off the linoleum floors and brick walls in muffled, chaotic bursts. Namjoon, clutching a folder full of printouts and his ever-present laptop bag slung over his shoulder, exited the spare classroom with the kind of energy only someone who had barely convinced two human beings to participate in his emotional chaos experiment could have.

“Seriously, thank you guys again,” he said for what must’ve been the fourth time since the debrief ended. “This idea’s been in my head since, like, second year, and the actual process of getting it cleared was hell. I didn’t think I’d even get participants. Jin had to calm me down last night while we were lying in bed because I was ready to pull the plug and just write a theoretical essay on intimacy theory instead.”

Yoongi gave him a flat, unimpressed look, his pace slow and unbothered. “I almost didn’t agree,” he said, monotone as ever.

Taehyung, walking on Yoongi’s other side, just grinned, reaching over and slipping his fingers between Yoongi’s in one smooth motion. “I think what my lovely boyfriend is trying to say,” he said, teeth flashing as he turned to Namjoon, “is that we both had doubts.”

Yoongi didn’t break stride. He didn’t even glance at Taehyung. He simply tugged his hand free, sliding it back into his hoodie pocket like the contact had never happened “We’re not holding hands.”

Taehyung stumbled for a beat, blinking at the empty air where Yoongi’s hand had been. “We have to. We’re dating. That’s the whole point.”

Namjoon, who is always quick to correct someone, lifted a hand, cutting in before the inevitable back-and-forth could spiral. “Technically, yes, you’re dating for the study , but Yoongi doesn’t have to do anything that makes him uncomfortable.” His tone was careful, but there was a thread of academic panic under it. “This is not meant to force anyone into intimacy they don’t consent to. That’s the opposite of what I want.”

Taehyung let out a heavy, dramatic sigh and crossed his arms over his chest like he’d just been wronged by the universe itself. “Yoongi is the worst boyfriend ever,” he muttered, glaring at the floor.

Yoongi still didn’t look at him. He calmly pulled one AirPod from his hoodie pocket and popped it into his right ear like he was trying to drown out reality itself.

Namjoon glanced between them, visibly uneasy. “Okay. Okay. I think when you two get back to the apartment tonight, it’s a good idea to sit down and talk about your boundaries. Seriously. Figure out what you’re okay with, what you’re not okay with. You don’t have to hold hands or share a bed or use pet names unless you’re both comfortable. This isn’t a performance for me—it’s an exploration of interaction and emotional response, nobody should be uncomfortable.”

Yoongi let out a short, unimpressed exhale through his nose. “This whole experiment makes me uncomfortable.”

Namjoon winced. Taehyung narrowed his eyes, voice quieter now, a little more wounded than dramatic. “Is holding my hand actually the worst thing on the planet?”

Yoongi finally looked at him. His face was unreadable, lips pressed into a line, brows faintly arched. “I mean, it ranks just below stepping in dog shit barefoot,” he deadpanned, “and just above running into your ex while hungover and wearing Crocs.”

Taehyung’s mouth fell open. “Wow. Wow.”

Namjoon gave a long, suffering sigh. “Okay, I’m gonna go cry into my thesis outline.”

The three had a horribly awkward walk for the next 126 seconds. They turned a corner on campus, and Namjoon spotted Seokjin outside of the student coffee house with two iced coffees in his hand. It was a perfect cue to leave whatever the hell this mess was, and for Namjoon to probably cry into this thesis outline for real. When he finally peeled off to go meet his loving boyfriend, all tired eyes and academic woes, Taehyung and Yoongi were left standing in the university courtyard like the wind had just been knocked out of the space between them.

Neither of them said anything for the first several minutes of the walk home. Their footsteps echoed out of sync on the pavement, with Taehyung walking just a step ahead, face uneasy, whilst Yoongi kept his head down, AirPod still in one ear, expression unreadable. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows on the sidewalk, stretching their silence into something tense and cold.

By the time they reached the corner near their apartment complex, Taehyung couldn’t take it anymore. “I don’t want to do this for thirty days if this is how you’re going to act,” he said abruptly, voice sharper than he intended.

Yoongi lifted his head just slightly, not even breaking stride. “Perfect,” he replied, tone dry as bone. “Let’s call the whole thing off then.”

Taehyung came to a stop in front of the convenience store just before their building, his eyes narrowing. “What is your issue?”

Yoongi stopped too, shoulders tense under his hoodie. He turned halfway, meeting Taehyung’s gaze with a weariness that didn’t look new—it looked old, worn-in, like something he’d been carrying for years. “My issue,” He said, voice low but cutting, “is that this whole thing is weird . It’s forced. None of it’s going to be natural. You can’t manufacture feelings, Tae. You can’t just pretend your way into something real.”

Taehyung’s arms folded over his chest. “Of course it’s not natural at first. But if Namjoon’s theory’s right, maybe it becomes natural. That’s the point, start with nothing, and see what happens.”

The other scoffed, looking away toward the street. A car passed, its tires whispering against the curb. “Namjoon’s theory isn’t right,” he said tightly. “I’m not going to suddenly start kissing you on day fifteen because I feel a ‘spark.’ That’s not how this works.”

His eyes narrowed. “No one’s asking you to kiss me. Joon’s not even asking that. What he is asking is that we take it seriously enough to at least respect the process. Act like a couple. Do what feels comfortable. That’s it.”

Yoongi let out a short, bitter laugh. “That’s the problem. I’m not comfortable. With any of this. I’ve never held hands with someone before. I’ve never gone on a date. The thought of someone calling me ‘honeybunches’ makes me want to crawl into a grave.”

Taehyung blinked. And despite the tension, despite the heaviness in Yoongi’s voice, his lips tugged up into the beginnings of a smirk. “Okay, well. ‘Honeybunches’ is a terrible nickname.”

Yoongi stopped mid-breath. His mouth stayed slightly open, like he’d just been caught mid-rant with a glass of cold water to the face. Taehyung tilted his head, arms still folded. “Seriously. You could’ve at least picked something more natural sounding, like baby or muffin . You wanna be my muffin, Yoongs?”

He just stared at him, half-annoyed, half... something else. Taehyung softened. “I think,” he said, gentler now, “you’re just deflecting. Because you’ve never really done the dating thing. Which is totally fine. I’m not judging you for that.”

Yoongi said nothing.

“But I have, okay?” He went on. “More times than I probably should’ve. And I know what it feels like when someone lets you in. When you let yourself get close. And it’s not this big dramatic thing, it’s just... nice. Quiet. Sometimes messy. But it doesn’t have to be this weird, scary thing.”

Yoongi's gaze flickered, the tension behind his eyes shifting into something a little more fragile. “If you just gave it a shot,” Taehyung said, “if you actually let yourself try, you might be surprised by how much you like it.”

The silence between them this time felt different. Less like static, more like a held breath. Yoongi didn’t reply, but he didn’t walk away, either. Being clocked by Kim Taehyung on a random Monday afternoon was not on his agenda, and he wasn’t particularly fond of being in the wrong for once.

Usually his job as the normal, composed and responsible roommate was to talk Taehyung out of doing stupid shit and cook him dinner at least three nights a week because despite his annoying tendencies, he was still a growing boy who didn’t know how to hold a knife properly. But now it seemed it was the younger’s turn to take the reins and talk some sense into the boy that found romance an uncomfortable conversation. Yoongi didn't know how to respond for the rest of their walk, keeping his eyes low as his brain raced with the only two possibilities that might come from this thirty day investigation.

Yeah no, Yoongi didn’t like this one bit.

He didn't like the idea of the unknown and he definitely didn't like the idea that there was at least a 50% chance of feelings to develop. Although he's certain he would never let that happen (he's stubborn despite his short build and innocent eyes) the chance of Taehyung maybe catching feelings for him was enough to make his whole body turn to jelly. They'd been roommates for two years now and the last thing Yoongi needed was to find himself on spareroom.com looking for a new tenant because things got awkward and he and Taehyung couldn’t even look each other in the eye anymore.

Living with Taehyung, despite his alarming characteristics and annoying tendencies, was unfortunately very easy. The original plan was to live with Seokjin when Yoongi first arrived at University just a year after him, but he got shunned away when the fucker decided that Kim Namjoon, the menance behind this horrible psychological experiment, was now the ‘love of his life’ which meant Yoongi had to go through the horrors that was university-assigned student housing. And somehow, out of the five thousand other students on campus with him that year, he ended up with Kim Taehyung.

Kim Taehyung, who left the crumbs of spicy shrimp chips in between the cushions of their sofa, which made Yoongi unbelievably uncomfortable. Kim Taehyung, who did his photography coursework the day before its deadline, giving himself a migraine on Adobe Photoshop at four in the morning. Kim Taehyung, who stole Jeon Jeongguk’s boyfriend from him two nights a week so they could listen to their favourite soundcloud rappers and get high in his and Yoongi’s kitchen, leaving Yoongi to awkwardly scatter back off into his room and pretend to not be aware of his roommate doing illegal substances two doors down.

But despite the weird propensity and horrible roommate etiquette, Yoongi had grown so accustomed to Taehyung’s way of life that the concept of finding someone else was honestly more harm than good. It was too much hassle to contact the university housing associates because of his roommate’s need to set off the fire alarm numerous times a week when attempting to cook, and it was certainly too much hassle to actually socialise and meet potential new candidates.

So, out of pure stubbornness, their roommate endeavors stuck for over two years, and now their stable yet unnivering dynamic was now being tampered with thanks to Kim Namjoon and his stupid thesis and his stupid glasses and his stupid need to force homosexuality on his already homosexual friends.

It was safe to say that he was losing his mind a little.

-

It wasn't until the evening where Yoongi gained the courage to continue the conversation, him and Taehyung mutually agreeing to order food (Yoongi paying for both of them and Taehyung promising he’ll pay him back soon) whilst starting season three of Below Deck together. This wasn’t just any normal Monday night though. This was the first day of their new spontaneous relationship, first night if we’re being technical, and Yoongi still wasn’t sure if he was even agreeing to this whole fake dating saga.

He wasn't too sure about Taehyung’s suggestion— the suggestion that suggested if Yoongi actually let himself enjoy the idea of being in a relationship, he might be surprised by how much he liked it. Because there was unfortunately one horrible factor in the equation that made the suggestion so un-suggestable:

Min Yoongi didn’t know how to love.

It sounded melodramatic when said aloud, so he never did. He stuck to his script instead, his well-rehearsed lines about how love was a fabrication of the consumer world, a concept manufactured to sell movie tickets and Valentine’s Day cards. Romance, he said, was capitalism in a red dress. Dating apps and overpriced dates. floral arrangements in grocery stores. A trap.

But beneath that, buried under the cynicism and dry wit, was the real reason. One he didn’t say out loud. One he rarely even admitted to himself. The truth was simpler. Uglier.

Yoongi didn’t understand love because he had never been surrounded by it.

Not the kind people wrote songs about. Not the kind that softened hearts and rewired brains. Not the kind Taehyung seemed to carry so casually in his back pocket, handing it out like candy to strangers, friends, and short-term lovers alike.

Yoongi had grown up in the absence of that kind of warmth. His parents had divorced when he was thirteen, which was a really horrible time for parents to be divorcing. It was right when his voice started cracking and his body started changing and nothing made sense anymore. Right when he needed structure and understanding the most, his father vanished into the echo of slammed doors and unpaid alimony.

He remembered the night it all fell apart.

The shouting had started quietly in the kitchen and built into something nuclear. Words sharp enough to cut bone. Things said that couldn’t be unsaid. He’d sat on the floor of his bedroom, earbuds in, volume turned up, but he could still feel it through the walls, the cracking of something that had already been broken for years. After that, his mother packed up their lives into four cardboard boxes, and they moved into a dusty apartment that always smelled vaguely like mildew and wet cement. It had one bedroom and terrible lighting. Yoongi took the pull-out couch and didn’t complain.

He never saw his parents hold hands. Never watched them flirt while making dinner. They didn’t kiss each other goodnight. They barely even looked at each other, let alone worked together. Affection was not modeled to him, it was a foreign language he had never been taught, and so he never craved it. Never trusted it.

So what was thirty days of fake dating supposed to do?

Namjoon’s theory might be compelling on paper, but to Yoongi, it felt like being asked to read an instruction manual for an appliance he didn’t believe existed. He could go through the motions. He could humor the pet names, the proximity, the public performance. But love wasn’t something that could be scripted. You didn’t flip a switch and fall into it just because you shared a bed and a bowl of rice.

Especially not with someone like Kim Taehyung .

Taehyung was chaos wrapped in silk, spontaneous, overwhelming, and maddeningly affectionate. Despite his rough exterior and impulsive thoughts, he moved through the world with his heart too open, like he hadn’t learned yet that people don’t deserve to be held so gently. He said things like “I’m gonna date you so hard” and meant it, which made everything so much more worse. Taehyung deserved someone who knew what to do with love. Who knew how to receive it. Reflect it. Grow something from it. Yoongi didn’t know how to hold something that fragile.

It wasn’t until the second episode of Below Deck that Yoongi finally spoke. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the worn-down sofa, eating chow mein straight from the greasy paper containers, their chopsticks clinking now and then as the show played from their small slightly busted TV. Taehyung was halfway through a sarcastic remark about the incompetence of the ship’s chef when Yoongi, entirely out of nowhere, mumbled:

“I think I want to give it a go.”

Taehyung paused, chopsticks mid-air, blinking once before turning his head slowly. “You do?” he asked, though the tone of his voice made it clear that he wasn’t exactly shocked. His lips curved just a little, amused. “Kind of had a feeling. You haven’t exactly sprinted back to Joon to cancel the whole thing.”

Yoongi didn’t answer at first. He stabbed at a clump of noodles, swirling them around like they were the source of his internal conflict. His voice was quiet when it came again, softer, less guarded “I’m scared.”

That made the younger shift. His teasing smile faltered, his gaze growing more attentive. He tilted his head to the side, long strands of hair brushing against his cheek, and let out a soft chuckle, not mocking, just surprised. “What on earth are you scared of?” he asked, curiosity threading through his voice.

Yoongi shrugged, the movement small and a little helpless. He didn’t meet Taehyung’s eyes. “I’m twenty-two and I’ve never… done any of this.” His voice was hoarse, half-swallowed. “Not really.”

Taehyung set his food down on the coffee table, wiping his hands on a napkin before leaning in with his elbows on his knees. His expression was unreadable, gentler than usual, and something close to understanding flickered in his eyes. “So what?” he said. “Twenty-two isn’t that old. Life doesn’t stop because you haven’t got laid.”

Yoongi’s eyes narrow “This isn’t about getting laid.”

“Laid, smooched, held hands with— It doesn’t matter.” Taehyung mumbled.

Yoongi gave a quiet, sardonic huff. “Easy for you to say,” he said, stabbing at a stray bean sprout in his container. “You bring home a new guy every other night.”

Taehyung winced at that, just barely, but it was visible. He paused the TV, the audio cutting out mid-yacht drama, and turned fully to face Yoongi now, legs crossed under him on the couch. “Just because I fool around,” He said, his voice unusually serious, “doesn’t mean I’ve figured it out. If anything, I’m the one running. I’m so busy chasing dreams I forget people don’t live in them.”

Yoongi glanced over at him, the faintest hint of skepticism in his raised brow. “That supposed to be deep?”

“It was deep,” Taehyung sniffed, faux offended, before rolling his eyes at himself. “Whatever. My point is, you think you’re the weird one because you’re cautious. But I think I’m the weirdo because I’m always rushing to try and find my husband in some student bar or at the campus gym.”

Yoongi’s lips twitched upward. “So I guess that makes us two weirdos.”

“Guess so.” Taehyung leaned back, smile returning in that soft, familiar way that made Yoongi want to look away but couldn’t.

There was a beat of silence, long enough for the hum of the city outside the window to fill the space between them. Then, the older muttered under his breath, “I’m not going to be your husband.”

And the smile that bloomed across Taehyung’s face was slow and mischievous, like a secret unspooling from the corners of his mouth. He leaned in just slightly, looking Yoongi over like he was the punchline to the world’s best inside joke. “I know you’re not going to be my husband,” he said, eyes gleaming with something almost smug.

There was a pause.

“…Yet.”

Yoongi’s groan was loud, muffled by his palm slapping over his face as the other dissolved into contagious laughter beside him, victorious in his nonsense.  “You’re not funny.” He mumbled in an unimpress manner, but the other didn’t seem to care. He was too busy slouched down into the sofa, hand covering his mouth as soft giggles tried to escape his palm. Taehyung eventually turned toward him, folding one leg beneath the other and setting his takeout box down on the low coffee table with a soft thunk . His eyes, still bright from the remnants of histeasing, settled on Yoongi, earnest now in a way that stripped the room of its previous levity. The shift was palpable, like they were getting more relaxed with the idea.

“Do you wanna talk about what you’re comfortable with?” he asked, voice gentler, more measured. It wasn’t laced with playfulness or challenge, just quiet sincerity. Yoongi appreciated that more than he knew how to say. He didn’t like being backed into corners. Taehyung, surprisingly, seemed to understand that.

Yoongi glanced over, half-sitting back against the couch arm. “I… don’t know,” he admitted, fingers tapping lightly at the edge of his container. “I’ve never really done any of this before, so I don’t know what I’m comfortable with. Not yet.”

“I’m not gonna pounce on you like a mountain lion or anything,” Taehyung said, his tone light again, but not mocking. “But if we’re really gonna partake in Joon’s study properly, we probably should do a few… couple-y things.”

Yoongi tensed slightly. His fingers curled around his chopsticks in his lap, and his gaze dipped downward. Couple-y things. But the younger was watching him closely, and he didn’t push. He simply asked, “What about pet names? What do you think about those?”

He blinked, caught off-guard. Pet names were not what he expected to come first. His brows furrowed slightly, like the concept itself was foreign. “Like nicknames?”

“Yeah.” Taehyung leaned back a little, resting his weight on his hands. “I mean, if I call you something sweet in front of the others, it sells the whole 'we’re hopelessly in love' angle. I just need to know where your bar is.” He tilted his head, faux contemplative. “Definitely not ‘honeybunches,’ I’m guessing?”

Yoongi scrunched his nose. “Absolutely not.”

Taehyung laughed lightly. “Alright. No honeybunches. What about muffin? You still set in stone that it's awful?” he offered, eyes dancing with mischief.

Yoongi’s entire face twisted, his hand coming up as if physically rejecting the word. “Jesus Christ, yes. It’s still weird.”

Taehyung giggled again, the kind that made his shoulders bounce slightly and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Yoongi didn’t say it out loud, but in this softened state, with the glow of the TV flickering across his face and the shadows of their tiny apartment framing them like a still life, Taehyung didn’t seem so unbearable. Yoongi exhaled through his nose, quietly. “What’s the most normal one?”

Taehyung, regaining composure, shrugged. “Probably babe or baby . Standard, inoffensive. It rolls off the tongue like we’ve been dating for years.”

Yoongi thought about it. Babe. Baby. Words he’d heard tossed around by classmates, couples in coffee shops, songs on the radio. He’d always thought they sounded a little silly. But now, sitting here with the weight of the thirty-day agreement resting on his shoulders, they didn’t feel unreachable. Just an acquired taste. “Those are fine,” he said eventually. “You can call me that.”

Taehyung lit up like a kid at a carnival. “Really?” he asked, already wearing the grin of someone who’d won a bet with himself.

“Don’t make it weird,” Yoongi mumbled, though his voice lacked heat.

“Babe,” Taehyung tested, sweetly, with a dramatic flick of his lashes. “ Baby. ” Yoongi visibly grimaced, half awkwardly laughing, half-dying inside.

His roomate shifted slightly on the couch, curling one leg beneath himself, and leaned in just a bit, enough to bridge the small, invisible divide that still hung between them like a thread stretched taut. His tone was casual, but laced with careful intention when he asked, “So… how do you feel about physical stuff?”

Yoongi visibly tensed. His back straightened like an elastic band pulled tight, and he exhaled slowly, almost like he was bracing for impact. The question didn’t come out of nowhere, not really. Namjoon’s outline had made it clear that simulated intimacy would be necessary for the full effect of the experiment, but hearing it aloud made it real in a way that written guidelines hadn’t. It turned suggestion into expectation.

He reached forward with mechanical precision, placing his now-empty takeout container beside the other’s on the coffee table like the act itself gave him something to focus on. “We’re not going to kiss,” he said flatly, the words clipped, defensive.

Taehyung rolled his eyes, not in frustration, but in the kind of exhausted patience he seemed to reserve only for his friend. “No one’s asking you to make out with me on the coffee table, Romeo,” he said dryly, brushing an invisible speck of rice from his sweats. “I’m saying we can’t just avoid everything.” Yoongi grumbled something under his breath about it being weird. He didn’t even realize his arms had crossed until Taehyung glanced at them pointedly, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “It’s only weird if you make it weird,” He reassured, his voice lighter now.

Then, without warning, he extended his hand, palm open, fingers relaxed, like it was the most casual thing in the world. Yoongi’s eyes dropped to it. He stared at Taehyung’s hand as though it were a foreign object, like it had the potential to detonate in his lap like some sort of explosive. Taehyung didn’t rush him. He didn’t say anything at all.

Slowly, hesitantly, Yoongi reached out. His hand hovered just above Taehyung’s, fingers twitching like they weren’t entirely convinced this was a good idea. But then, with a quiet intake of breath, he let their fingers brush and then slide between one another. Their hands met, intertwining clumsily at first. Yoongi’s touch was uncertain, warm at the tips from the takeout container he’d been holding earlier. Taehyung’s hand was also cosy. Firm, but not forceful.

Taehyung glanced at him. “Is this okay?” he asked softly, his expression still a little playful but it lacked an actual sense of mockery. He was being sincere.

Yoongi didn’t look back right away. His jaw ticked slightly, and his eyes were fixed on their joined hands like he was analyzing them for answers he couldn’t articulate. It felt strange. Not bad, just off . Like wearing someone else’s shoes— doable, but unnatural. He didn’t recoil, though. That had to mean something.

“I don’t love it,” he murmured, “but… I guess it’s fine.”

Taehyung nodded slowly, the faintest grin returning. “Fine.” he repeated, gently tightening his fingers around Yoongi’s for a second before loosening them again into a more natural fit. “I can work with fine.”

Yoongi didn’t say anything else. But he didn’t pull away, either. And in that quiet, between the dull hum of the paused television and the sound of traffic echoing through the windowpane, something tentative settled into place.

It didn't feel comfortable yet, Yoongi didn’t think any of this ever would, but it certainly wasn’t as bad as he had anticipated. He was thinking this whole thing was going to be like the drop of a rollercoaster, something so gut wrenchingly horrible that he’d have to back out last minute to avoid his neverending fears.

Instead, he was greeted with the realisation that he had been totally overthinking this.

-

Yoongi hadn’t planned to wake up before noon.

The curtains were still drawn, the dull, grey light of the morning barely bleeding through the edges, and the apartment was steeped in the kind of silence that usually followed a long week of lectures and unspoken social expectations. His limbs were heavy beneath the weight of his blanket, body boneless in the warmth of his mattress, his cheek nuzzled against one of his pillows.

They didn't sleep together in the same bed last night because that was definitely out of Yoongi’s comfortzone. But day two of the experiment was officially underway, and what Yoongi wasn’t expecting was this sort of awakening just twenty four hours after agreeing to this stupid task. He could feel fingers, light and careful, threading through the hair at the front of his forehead, sweeping it back with surprising tenderness.

“Yoongs…”

The voice was soft. Too soft for someone who’d likely been awake for hours already. Yoongi’s eyes blinked open, dry with sleep and bleary around the edges. It took him a moment to adjust, to make sense of the figure hovering above him, of the strange sensation in his hair, and of the fact that he wasn’t alone in his room.

Taehyung stood over him, one hand still gently brushing his fringe aside, the other tucked into the pocket of an obnoxiously oversized leather jacket that swallowed his frame in sharp angles and a glossy sheen. His expression was irritatingly sweet, smug in the way only Taehyung could be, like he knew exactly how disorienting this moment was for Yoongi and was delighting in the sheer absurdity of it.

Yoongi blinked a few times, lips parted as he tried to put together a coherent sentence. He didn’t move right away, but the confusion on his face did most of the talking. “It’s my day off from classes, moron,” he finally mumbled, voice gravelly with sleep. He rolled onto his side a little, squinting up at Taehyung through a half-lidded gaze, as though the light was blinding him permanently.

Taehyung grinned down at him, utterly unfazed. “I don’t think you should be calling your boyfriend a moron,” he replied easily, dropping the hand from Yoongi’s hair but still lingering by the side of the bed.

The elder groaned and rolled back onto his back with a sigh, muttering something under his breath about fake boyfriends and early morning harassment. Taehyung didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he reached into the crook of his elbow and held out a small, crinkled brown paper bag.

He eyed it with suspicion. His instincts told him to reject it outright, it could be poisoned, or worse, sentimental , but his stomach had already perked up at the smell of something warm and freshly baked. He reached for it wordlessly, still half under his blanket, and tugged the top of the bag open to peer inside. A ham and cheese croissant. Still warm.

His brows pinched together. “What the fuck is this?”

Taehyung gave a lazy shrug. “Breakfast. For you. Because I’m considerate.” He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but Yoongi just stared at him like he’d grown another head. Taehyung took a step back, watching the other’s reaction with quiet amusement. “You like ham, right?”

Yoongi didn’t answer. Instead, he slowly sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist as he rubbed a hand down his face and then picked up the pastry. He took a cautious bite, half-expecting it to be dry or stale, but it was annoyingly delicious. Buttery, flaky, something that was probably so disgustingly unhealthy for him, but that just made it even more worth getting out of bed for.

Taehyung smirked. “See? You love me already.”

Yoongi, mouth still half-full, shot him a pointed look. “I literally hate you more with every passing second.” But he didn’t put the croissant down.

And he didn’t kick Taehyung out of his room, either.

The croissant was warm and soft in Yoongi’s mouth, a pleasant surprise on what he thought would be a perfectly uneventful morning. The buttery flakes clung to the corner of his lips as he chewed slowly, half-listening to the gentle rustle of Taehyung’s jacket as he lingered near the bed.

“You got work later?” Taehyung asked in a nonchalant manner, though there was an unmistakable glint of expectation in his voice. His hands were stuffed into the deep pockets of his jacket, his frame leaned slightly forward, eyes watching the other too closely for the question to be casual.

Yoongi nodded lazily, licking some cheese off his thumb before muttering, “Yeah. Should get off around nine, maybe eight-thirty if it’s dead.”

Taehyung let out a dramatic groan, throwing his head back like he’d just received devastating news. Yoongi didn’t even flinch, he’d seen enough of Taehyung’s dramatics to recognize a brewing scene from a mile away. “That’s no good,” he lamented, lips forming a pout.

Yoongi gave him a long look, unimpressed. “What do you mean, that’s no good?”

The younger sighed, like this was all terribly inconvenient for his master plan. “I was gonna take you on a date.” His voice was light, but his grin turned mischievous the moment Yoongi reacted, choking slightly on the chunk of croissant he’d just bitten off, coughing as his eyes went wide.

“You okay, baby? No need to cause a scene,” Taehyung teased, the nickname sliding out so smoothly it could’ve been mistaken for habit.

Yoongi shot him a death glare mid-cough, eyes watery from the effort. “Don’t call me that.”

Taehyung smirked, totally unfazed. “What, baby? You said I could.” he pressed, grinning wider now.

Yoongi finally swallowed, clearing his throat and fixing the younger with a flat look. “I’m not causing a scene,” he grumbled. “I just didn’t expect you to go full loverboy this early in the trial period.”

“Loverboy is my middle name,” Taehyung declared proudly, puffing out his chest like it was something to be pleased about. Yoongi gave a dry hum, clearly unimpressed.

“Sorry, loverboy,” he said around another bite of his croissant, “but I can’t ditch work for a fake date.”

Taehyung’s shoulders sagged. “Ugh. You’re the most uncooperative boyfriend ever.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow at that, the corner of his lip twitching. “You can take me out tomorrow if it’s such a big deal.”

Taehyung looked hesitant. His bottom lip poked out just slightly before he chewed on it. “I had plans tomorrow.”

“What plans?” Yoongi asked between chews, brow arching in amusement.

Taehyung’s gaze shifted away. “Just… meeting up with a guy,” he said quickly, voice low and casual, but a little too casual.

Yoongi narrowed his eyes playfully. “Not cheating on me already, are you?”

Taehyung’s brows furrowed instantly, mock affront written all over his face. "It’s not like that, ” he said with faux dignity. “I will take that croissant away from you.”

“Touch it and die.” Yoongi clutched it like a sacred artifact. “If it's not like that, then what is it like?” He sat there with his half-eaten croissant still in hand, watching the other perched awkwardly at the foot of his bed like a guilty teenager caught sneaking back into the house. There was a subtle twitch in his brow, that same ever-present weariness he wore when something didn’t quite sit right with him.

“It’s just this guy on my course who no, I didn't hook up with.” he mumbled, perched on the end of the bed managing to look somewhat guilty. “I just needed to do him a favour and he's forcing me to meet up with him tomorrow.”

“What sort of favour?” Yoongi asks, clearly not bothered about overstepping. There was a steady thrum of curiosity laced with the barest edge of suspicion.

If they were going to play this game, be each other’s fake boyfriends for thirty days, he figured some transparency wasn’t unreasonable. It’s not like he actually cared. Not really. He was just… checking.

Taehyung winced, “Just a favour.” he said too quickly, too vaguely, beginning to get up from his roommate’s mattress and suddenly getting somewhat defensive. “It's fine, I’ll reschedule the date some other time. I need to get to class.”

Yoongi watched him, chewing slowly, thoughtfully. His eyes tracked Taehyung’s every movement, the stiff posture, the sudden need to escape, the way his hand lingered a second too long on the doorframe like maybe he was hoping Yoongi would call him back. He didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, Yoongi swallowed the last bite of croissant and muttered, “Just so you know, if this whole boyfriend act’s going to be convincing, you probably shouldn’t act shady like that.”

He paused, half-turned toward the hallway. His back straightened, chin rising slightly. “I’m not being shady,” he replied. “I just don’t want you thinking I’m bringing guys around while we’re… y’know. Doing this. ”

Yoongi met his gaze levelly. “Then don’t give me reasons to think that.”

It wasn’t an accusation, not really. Yoongi knew that Taehyung wasn’t sleeping around during this thirty day period, because that would really be going against Namjoon’s wishes. But he knew that finding time to meet up with a random guy on his course wasn’t innocent behaviour, and there was definitely something going on that Yoongi wasn’t fully aware of.

There was a beat of silence. The air between them thickened slightly, tension unspoken but unmistakable. Taehyung gave a tight nod, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Noted,” he said, his tone light but brittle around the edges.

It didn’t take him long to leave the room, his leather jacket swishing behind him like a curtain being pulled down on a scene neither of them had fully written yet. Yoongi stayed there for a while longer, staring at the spot where Taehyung had stood, feeling the heavy quiet that filled the space after he left.

He shoved the rest of the croissant in his mouth and tried to not think about whatever the fuck that was.

-

Kim Taehyung was going through a slight dilemma.

It wasn’t the kind that made your chest cave in or stole your sleep at night— but it lingered like static in his chest, a quiet itch he couldn’t quite scratch. A burden that had been bothering him for a little over a week now, hanging over his head like a conversation he kept putting off having with himself. And it all started at a party he hadn’t even wanted to go to.

It was a house party, thrown by a student he didn’t know, in a part of campus he rarely wandered into unless it involved Hoseok’s social life dragging him there like some magnetic force. Hoseok had been invited by one of his dance team members, it was their birthday, apparently, and Taehyung had come as moral support, something he did often when Hoseok needed someone just as loud, just as charming, and just as unwilling to be left alone in a room full of strangers.

The house was packed, pulsing with bodies and music and heat. The air smelled like weed, sweat, cheap beer, and faint hints of someone's floral detergent. Taehyung, armed with a red solo cup filled with an unholy mix of liquor he couldn’t identify, drifted through the crowd like a wide-eyed deer in search of shelter. Hoseok had disappeared about twenty minutes in, likely swallowed up by a circle of dancers or trying to get a hold of Jeongguk to let him know that he wasn’t doing anything stupid. Which meant Taehyung was left alone. And Taehyung, who could usually handle being alone, wasn’t really enjoying the evening.

That’s when he saw him.

Leaning against the chipped tile counter in the kitchen, the hazy overhead light casting golden tones across his jaw, was Lee Eunwoo. He was tall, with broad shoulders hugged by a worn bomber jacket, and a cigarette—or maybe a blunt, Taehyung couldn’t tell right away, lazily resting between plush lips. His head was tilted back slightly, laughing at something someone said, eyes half-lidded like he was comfortably drunk or just naturally dreamy.

Taehyung didn’t think. He just moved. Gravitation was a funny thing.

He wasn’t drawn only because Eunwoo was hot , though yes, that was certainly a part of it. He looked like he’d been ripped out of a daydream: sharp nose, sloping collarbones, fingers adorned with silver rings that caught the kitchen light. But Taehyung was also lonely. Hoseok had vanished, the alcohol in his cup was starting to taste like bad decisions, and he needed something, someone , to distract him from the sudden weight of being a stranger in a sea of people.

They talked. First about music, then about classes, then about who rolled better joints. Eunwoo flirted with ease, but not in a sleazy way. There was something soft about the way he looked at Taehyung, something patient and amused, like he saw right through the dramatics and still found him charming. At one point, Eunwoo took the blunt from between his own lips and, with quiet confidence, held it out to Taehyung. Didn’t say anything. Just placed it there, gently, deliberately, so that Taehyung could lean forward and inhale. Their eyes locked in that split second, smoke curling between them like a secret being shared.

And that was it.

Taehyung exhaled into the kitchen air and thought oh no . Because for a moment, for the briefest second hazed in THC and attention, he thought he might’ve just met the love of his life.

Which obviously, he now realises wasn’t the case. Because you don’t just meet the love of your life pressed against a random kitchen counter whilst your mind is wandering dreamland. You meet the love of your life in more sane circumstances, like Tinder or through your first long term workplace. Unfortunately for Taehyung though, his phone was dead and he suffered with this very tragic and serious disease called unemployeditis , meaning those two options were out of the window and he now had to makeout with a painfully attractive stranger.

Oh no… total bummer.

They stumbled into one of the upstairs bedrooms with a stumble and a laugh, Taehyung’s fingers twisted in the collar of Eunwoo’s shirt, the door creaking shut behind them with a definitive click. The room was dark save for the faint amber light spilling through the window, streetlamps casting stripes of shadow across the unmade bed and peeling posters on the walls. He could hear the music booming from downstairs, if Hoseok could ditch him so early on in the night— Taehyung could match the same energy.

He didn’t ask whose room it was. He didn’t care.

His back hit the mattress with a soft thud, the springs creaking beneath them as Eunwoo’s mouth found the slope of his neck. Warm, practiced kisses trailed along his skin like they knew where they were going, like they’d mapped him before. Fingers slid under the hem of Taehyung’s shirt, cool against overheated skin, and Taehyung tipped his head back, lips parted, eyes half-lidded.

“You’re a pretty little thing, you know that?” Eunwoo murmured against his collarbone, his voice gravel-thick and soaked in smoke and desire.

Taehyung’s eyes fluttered. But rather than responding with a kiss or a sweet remark, he blinked slowly and mumbled, “Can I have another hit?”

He paused, lips still against Taehyung’s skin. He exhaled, a warm breath ghosting across his neck. “It’s nearly dead,” he said, pulling back to look at him. “Stop being pouty.”

Taehyung just huffed in reply, arms loosely around the other boy’s shoulders as they kissed again, lips slow and tasting faintly of marijuana and something citrusy. He liked the way Eunwoo touched him, lazy and languid, like he had nowhere else to be, but there was something skittering just under Taehyung’s skin. A hunger, a restlessness.

And as his hands slid up Eunwoo’s sides, he mumbled into his collarbone, “Do you have a dealer?”

Eunwoo chuckled softly against him. “I am the dealer.”

That made Taehyung stop. His fingers curled slightly against Eunwoo’s back, and when he pulled away to look at him, his eyes were lit up like he’d just uncovered buried treasure. “Seriously?” he asked, his voice low and eager.

Eunwoo raised an eyebrow, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans with a sigh that sounded like he already knew where this was going. The makeout session had clearly taken a turn from something physical to something transactional. But he didn’t seem surprised. Just mildly amused.

He pulled out a small leather pouch and unzipped it with a practiced flick of his wrist. Inside were a few clear ziplock bags, some with fine white powder, others with pressed pills in muted blues and pinks, one with what looked like a pre-rolled joint.

“This is what I’ve got,” he said plainly. “Couple different things. Coke, MDMA. Some leftover edibles too, if that’s your vibe.”

Taehyung sat up, his expression sobering. His eyes scanned the contents, pupils flicking between labels, shapes, potential. Something settled behind his gaze, darker now. Less curiosity, more need. “How much for all of it?” he asked.

Eunwoo leaned back on one hand, studying him. “Seven hundred and fifty thousand won,” he said.

Taehyung blinked. That was… more than he had. By a lot.

He looked back at the little ziplocks, then at Eunwoo. His lips parted as if to ask about a discount, or a trade, or something . But he hesitated, and that silence said more than anything.

Eunwoo exhaled again, softer this time, and tilted his head, almost pitying. “Didn’t think this was gonna turn into a business meeting,” he muttered, the pouch still open in his palm. Taehyung looked down at the floor, feeling a little bad.

He hadn’t come here looking for love or connection, even if his body had leaned into the warmth of the stranger’s. He was chasing something else entirely. Something to mute the noise in his head, the gnawing hollowness in his chest. And right now, that something was sitting just out of reach in the other boy’s hand.

Taehyung leaned back on the bed, arms bracing behind him as he tried not to look too disappointed. The ziplocks were still in Eunwoo’s hand, flashing faintly under the room’s dim glow. He needed them, maybe not for the high, but for the quiet that followed. The kind that shut off the parts of his brain that whispered too much when he was sober. But the look on Eunwoo’s face was clear: no cash, no deal.

“I mean…” Taehyung started, trying for lightness, even as his stomach turned. “We can still have a good night, right?” He gave a small smile, more soft than sexy, like he was testing the waters. “I just, really need that stuff.”

Eunwoo sighed, drawing his hand back, zipping the pouch closed with a pointed gesture. “Not happening if you can’t pay,” he said flatly. “I’m not a fucking charity.”

Taehyung chewed the inside of his cheek, heart drumming harder now. His phone had died sometime around the second floor, and of course he didn’t carry cash. Who carried cash anymore?

“I swear I’ll get it to you tomorrow,” he said, inching forward slightly. His voice dipped into something smoother, silkier, something he knew often worked in situations like this. He let his hand fall onto Eunwoo’s chest, fingers brushing over the snug fabric of his shirt, thumb ghosting over his collarbone. “I’m great at paying people back. Incredibly responsible, actually.”

Eunwoo didn’t move. His jaw flexed slightly, lips pressed into a hard line. “I don’t take IOUs.”

But Taehyung was already tilting his head, lashes fluttering, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a coy little smirk. The haze of alcohol didn’t help, his thoughts half-foggy, his body more impulsive than usual. “Come on,” he whispered, voice lilting and warm as he leaned in. “I’ll be a good boy. Money’ll be in your account by the crack of dawn. Scout’s honor.”

Eunwoo stared at him for a long moment. Really stared, like he was trying to decide if this was worth the trouble. His fingers twitched, and Taehyung could feel the weight of that decision hang heavy in the silence. 

Eventually, the older boy let out a resigned exhale and muttered, “Fine.” Taehyung smiled, slow and victorious. “But,” Eunwoo added, leaning closer again, voice lower and more deliberate, “if you ghost me, or if I don’t see that money tomorrow, you’re in deep shit. Got it?”

He nodded, too quickly. “Crystal.”

Eunwoo set the pouch on the bedside table with a thud and reached out again, this time pulling Taehyung closer by the waist. Their bodies met with a practiced kind of heat, lips reconnecting, hands exploring, and whatever emotional weight had built up between them was pushed aside, at least for now.

Taehyung was good at this. At pretending the game wasn’t about survival. That it wasn’t desperation wearing perfume and pretending to flirt. He told himself it would be fine. That he’d find the money. That it was just a small lie. And besides, really was a good boy.

Most of the time, anyway.

Maybe not right now actually. Because right now, over a week later, he still hadn’t managed to pay Eunwoo back and was avoiding campus at all costs. Being seven hundred and fifty thousand won in debt whilst also simultaneously being unemployed was quite the flex. An embarrassing flex, but a flex nethertheless.

It was the reason why he wasn’t showing up to his classes, and was also the reason why he had to rain check his first date with Yoongi. Because Wednesday at 3pm was unfortunately the time he already agreed to meet up with Eunwoo, the boy finding Taehyung on social media and pestered him to either pick up the phone or transfer that money straight into his bank account.

Most of the time, Taehyung liked to think he was a decent person. Not a saint, not someone who always had it together, but decent. He bought his friends coffee when he could, listened more than he talked, and always smiled at the cafeteria ladies. But lately, he hadn’t felt decent. Not even close. Especially not today, sitting hunched at the back of the lecture hall with his hoodie pulled low over his curls and his eyes nervously flicking toward the fourth row where Lee Eunwoo was sprawled out like he owned the goddamn place.

He had meant to pay him back. Really. But meaning to and being able to were entirely different beasts.

His bank account was a graveyard. Tuition fees, textbooks, buying his new boyfriend ham and cheese croissants. And now? Eunwoo had his Instagram, his class schedule, his number, he was impossible to outrun. So Taehyung didn’t run. He hid. Ducked lectures. Blocked and unblocked Eunwoo three separate times before guilt pulled him back to keeping communication open. Every time his phone buzzed, his stomach twisted

Taehyung swallowed hard.

The 1.9 million won Namjoon promised to give each of them if they committed to the full thirty days? That money suddenly didn’t just look helpful, it looked vital. It was freedom. It was getting Eunwoo off his back. It was paying his overdue library fines, buying real groceries, maybe even replacing the shoes with the broken sole he kept duct taping every week.

He didn’t want to scam Namjoon. That wasn’t the plan. But for the first time, he realized just how badly he needed this experiment to work, or at least to seem like it was working. He’d play the boyfriend. He’d hold Yoongi’s hand and call him babe in front of their friends and feed him chocolate covered strawberries on one of their fake dates. He’d bury the guilt, just like he always did, and pretend things were fine.

Because maybe, if he played the part well enough, he could make up for the parts of himself that weren’t.

-

Working at the Blairmont Hotel wasn’t the worst thing in the world. In fact, if you asked Yoongi on a good night, when the lobby lights were dimmed to a warm amber hue and the polished piano keys felt smooth under his fingers, he might even admit it wasn’t all that bad.

He had started working there at eighteen, back when life still felt like a long hallway full of closed doors and he was too scared to knock on any of them. The job had been simple back then. Quiet. The kind of work where he could disappear into the background, folding towels in the laundry room, collecting empty wine glasses from the bar, and holding open doors for old couples who smelled like disgusting floral perfume. It was minimum wage, two days a week, and it paid just enough to buy a new video game every month and splurge on basketball posters for the walls of his childhood bedroom.

But four years later, he was still there.

Not because he had nowhere else to go. But because the Blairmont had become something of a constant in a life that didn’t have many. And because, somewhere along the way he’d told the manager that he played piano since he came out the womb, and when the hotel’s long-time pianist finally retired, Yoongi found himself in a new role, seated behind a baby grand in the middle of the dining lounge like it was always meant to be.

It was a strange gig, really. The kind of job that felt like it belonged in a movie about New York in the 40s, not in a boutique hotel wedged between a subway stop and a café that sold overpriced lavender lattes. He wore a button-down shirt every shift, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and he played soft jazz or classical medleys or, if a customer tipped well, the occasional pop ballad reimagined with sweeping chords and quiet finesse.

His shifts were usually 5 to 9, just enough time to soundtrack the dinners of rich couples and lonely travelers sipping whiskey at the bar. Sometimes, if the night was particularly busy, or if some out-of-town executive requested a song that reminded them of their ex-wife, Yoongi stayed a little later. He never complained. Not when the guests talked over his music. Not when someone dropped a fork and it clattered louder than his crescendo. Not even when the older patrons leaned a little too close and slurred compliments that blurred the line between flattery and discomfort.

He showed up. He played. He got paid cash in hand. That was the deal.

What made it bearable, more than bearable, sometimes, was the quiet kind of peace that came with it. The piano didn’t judge. It didn’t ask him questions about his major or why he hadn’t visited home during the holidays. It didn’t care that he didn’t believe in love, or that sometimes he felt like the world was moving too fast for him to keep up. When his fingers found the keys, something in him clicked into place. It was structure, it was control. It was the one place where Yoongi felt completely and unquestionably himself.

After what Yoongi is now referring to as Crossaintgate , day two of Namjoon’s experiment had passed with little fanfare. No great romantic strides. No tender confessions. No eye-contact-induced sparks. Just bluntness.

Yoongi had gone back to bed shortly after finishing the flaky, warm ham and cheese pastry his fake boyfriend had bought him, a small, confusing gesture of affection that made his stomach feel both full and strange. Taehyung, for whatever reason, hadn’t returned home after their mildly awkward exchange that morning. Yoongi had debated texting him once or twice but ultimately didn’t.

So he’d rolled out of bed by four, thrown on his crisp white button-up, layered a soft grey oversized sweater over it to brace against the April chill, and caught the subway downtown. The Blairmont Hotel was waiting.

It was a slow night. Boring, even. A couple from Busan had asked him to play ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ twice , and someone had tried to tip him in foreign coins. The highlight was probably when Seungmin, one of the younger waiters with a mop of black hair and a persistent twitch in his eye, had passed him a shrimp cocktail hidden under a napkin with all the drama of a spy operation. Yoongi had wolfed it down like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, then wiped his fingers on a paper towel and transitioned into a slow jazzy rendition of ‘City of Stars.’

At 9 p.m. sharp, he wrapped up. Same as always. He packed up his sheet music, thanked the manager, slipped into an oversized sweater that swallowed his frame, and stepped out into the night with his AirPods already humming something slow and melancholic. Seoul’s night air nipped at his cheeks, and he buried his hands in his pockets, mentally preparing for the trek to the nearest subway station.

What he wasn’t expecting, not in the slightest, was the blaring honk that shattered the quiet as he turned down the dim sidewalk that wrapped around the hotel. He jumped, flinching so hard he almost dropped his phone onto the pavement.

“What the—?”

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing at the sight of a cherry-red Honda idling at the curb with headlights flickering like the driver was trying to communicate in Morse code. The car stuck out like a sore thumb against the neutral backdrop of the Blairmont. Yoongi squinted through the windshield, eyes catching on the familiar mop of brown curls and smug expression behind the wheel.

Taehyung.

Yoongi groaned audibly, trudging toward the car with all the enthusiasm of a man heading to jury duty. He yanked the door open, slid into the passenger seat with a dramatic huff, and slammed it shut behind him.

“You scared the fuck out of me,” he muttered, yanking his AirPods out and shoving them in his pocket.

Taehyung didn’t even flinch. He sat coolly behind the wheel, one arm resting lazily over it, the other fiddling with the car’s aux cord. “Lovely to see you too, babe,” he said smoothly, lips curling into a lopsided smile.

Yoongi shot him a dry look. “Why the fuck are you here?”

Taehyung shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I promised you a date, didn’t I?”

“I thought you said that me getting off at nine was too late?” 

“Well I changed my mind.” He hummed, glancing at the elder innocently. “We left this morning on a weird note, I wanted to make up for it.”

Yoongi raised a skeptical brow, folding his arms. “I have class tomorrow.”

Taehyung scoffed, reaching to shift the car into drive. “Yeah, in twelve hours. You’ll survive. Stop being a wuss.”

“I’m not a wuss,” Yoongi snapped, already feeling the irritation bubble under his skin.

“That definitely sounds like something a wuss would say,” Taehyung said, grinning as he eased the car out onto the main road. The city lights cast patterns across his face, highlighting the playful glint in his eyes.

Yoongi sighed, leaning his head against the window and staring at the blur of Seoul at night. This wasn’t in the rulebook. None of this was. But the croissant was good. And maybe, just maybe, the idea of being driven around the city by his absurdly confident fake boyfriend wasn’t the worst way to spend his Tuesday night.

Maybe.

The car hummed steadily beneath them as Taehyung steered through the city’s arteries, neon lights blurring by in streaks of blue and gold. A subtle hush had settled over them since Yoongi slipped into the car, not tense exactly, but noticeably laced with something unspoken.

They’d only been driving for a few minutes when Taehyung spoke, voice quieter than Yoongi expected. “I’m sorry about this morning.”

Yoongi blinked, glancing over. The streetlights carved soft shadows over Taehyung’s face, but even in the dim car interior, the flicker of guilt was clear in his expression. “Why the fuck are you sorry?”

Taehyung shrugged, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “I don’t even know. I just— I felt weird. It’s stupid, but I didn’t like it.”

Yoongi leaned his head back against the window again, watching the road ahead with narrowed eyes. “Don’t apologise,” he said, not unkindly. “This whole thing is weird. There’s no manual.”

“Yeah, but…” Taehyung’s voice trailed off, like the end of the sentence dissolved on his tongue. He didn’t finish it. He just exhaled lightly through his nose and focused on the road. What followed was an awkward, meandering silence. Not heavy, but full of uncertainty, like both of them were aware of it, and neither knew how to smooth it out. 

And then, softly, a sound gargling interrupted the quiet. It was low, barely audible, but unmistakable. Yoongi’s stomach betrayed him. Both of them stilled for a second.

Taehyung’s eyes darted toward him, and then he grinned, that same lazy, charming grin that always made Yoongi want to roll his eyes. “Was that your stomach?”

Yoongi groaned, dropping his temple back against the glass window. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not looking,” Taehyung teased, amusement dancing on his tongue. “I’m just wondering if you’ve eaten anything.”

He sighed dramatically, his voice dry. “Does a shot glass of shrimp cocktail count?”

Taehyung barked out a laugh. “Definitely not.” He flicked the indicator and suddenly turned off the main road, veering them down a narrow side street lined with small mom-and-pop restaurants and late-night eateries still lit up and bustling.

“Where are you going?” Yoongi asked, turning his attention away from the window, genuinely intrigued now.

Taehyung shrugged, a spark of mischief in his eyes as he slowed the car and parallel parked with impressive ease. “I ate before, but I’m not passing up an evening treat. You’re clearly starving. Let’s fix that.”

Yoongi stared at him for a beat, caught off guard by how casual Taehyung made it all seem like this wasn’t some staged date, like they did this kind of thing all the time. 

The parking lot glowed under a wash of sickly fluorescent light, cracked pavement glittering with old spilled soda and the occasional lost fry. The night had fallen comfortably around them, quiet but not lonely, the occasional swoosh of a car passing by keeping them company. Taehyung’s Honda was parked with a view of the neon sign flashing the fast food joint’s name, windows fogged slightly from the contrast between the outside chill and the heat from their greasy dinner.

The aroma of sizzling steak, pickles, and grilled onions filled the car. Yoongi sat in the passenger seat, his legs folded crisscross, one of the containers of loaded fries balancing dangerously on his knee as he nibbled through the leftovers of his cheeseburger. The smash patty oil stuck to the corners of his lips, and he slid his sweater sleeves halfway up his forearms to prevent becoming drenched with sauce.

He’d paid for both meals without argument, shoving a handful of crumpled notes into the drive-through attendant’s palm like it was no big deal. It kind of defeated the romantic date energy Taehyung had been going for, but Yoongi didn’t care. His stomach was a gaping void after four hours of piano ballads and customer pleasantries, and greasy comfort food was more important than playing roles tonight.

“You know,” Yoongi said, swallowing a bite of burger, “I think I might actually die of joy if I never have to hear another rendition of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ ever again.”

Taehyung tilted his neck against the headrest, chewing on his own fry. “Is that what you played tonight?”

“Twice,” Yoongi groaned. “By request. I think I’m gonna start charging extra for Sinatra.”

They both laughed softly, mouths full, and the warmth in the car grew thicker, less from the food now, and more from something else settling between them. Taehyung took a long slurp of his vanilla milkshake, resting the cup against the dashboard afterward. “Well, my day wasn’t any better. Sat through two hours of critiques, most of them about how my compositions look like an Instagram moodboard.”

Yoongi gave him a sideways glance. “Is that a compliment or an insult?”

“Both, apparently,” Taehyung sighed dramatically. “I think I’m burning out. Maybe I should drop out and join the Below Deck cast.”

Yoongi gave him a funny look, licking ketchup off his thumb. “You, a steward?”

“Why not?” He replied with a grin. “I’d look amazing in boat whites. Plus, I already mastered the art of smiling while wanting to die inside.”

“You’d probably flirt with the guests and get fired.”

“Worth it.”

Yoongi shook his head, chuckling quietly as he wiped his fingers on a napkin. “You’re just in a rough patch. It’ll pass. Maybe you just need something new to inspire you.”

Taehyung shrugged noncommittally, popping another fry in his mouth. “Maybe.” After a pause, he glanced sideways at Yoongi’s drink. “Can I try your milkshake?”

Yoongi didn’t hesitate. He passed the chocolate milkshake over with a lazy flick of his wrist, letting their fingers brush momentarily. Taehyung took a sip through the straw, letting the richness roll over his tongue before humming in approval.

“Damn,” he said, wiping his lip with the back of his hand. “That’s ten times better than mine.”

Yoongi looked over, mouth twitching into the smallest smile. “We can swap if you want.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Taehyung said quickly, shifting the cup back to Yoongi. “I just need to order better next time.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, grabbing the drink but not without a scoff. “God, you’re annoying.” He held it out to the other again, more forceful this time. “Just take it. Or there will be consequences.”

Taehyung raised a brow, eyes glittering. “What kind of consequences?”

“Milkshake in your lap. You choose.”

Taehyung barked out a laugh, leaning over to snatch the drink from him and take another long pull from the straw. He gave Yoongi a wink. “Look at you, being all cute and thoughtful.”

Yoongi didn’t answer, just reached over, stole the pickles Taehyung took out of his burger, and popped them into his mouth.

Chapter Text

“Jesus, do I actually make that many errors?” Namjoon grumbled as he reread his theory essay, which his lovely boyfriend had proofread for him. That lovely boyfriend also happened to be sat next to him at the gang's usual cafeteria table, chuckling quietly whilst Namjoon appeared to be having some sort of academic crisis.

Seokjin raised his hand to sort out Namjoon’s hair, fingers carefully attempting to sort out the blonde locks that formed his middle part. “They’re not errors, just suggestions. ”

“Yeah, suggestions that make the difference between me getting a first and 2:1.” he mumbled, casually leaning into the other’s touch. “What would I do without you?”

“Starve, probably.” Seokjin grins, his eyes also focused on the other’s dusty laptop screen. “I’d like to hope you’re not just dating me to be your personal spell checker.”

Namjoon hummed, both at the teasing and how Seokjin’s fingers scratched at his scalp. He imagined that this was how cute dogs felt in public, kind of wanting his boyfriend to scratch behind his ear or something. “Nah. The real reason we’re dating is because of your Audible subscription and the way you give me amazing hea—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence!” Jimin exclaimed from the other end of the table, reminding Namjoon that they were not alone and there were three other pairs of eyes facing them. The two blinked, Jimin and Jeongguk grimacing whilst Hoseok fell into a fit of giggles.

The midday clatter of trays, chatter, and low thuds of plastic cups filled the campus cafeteria like static. Light filtered through tall windows, and the scent of cheap curry from the kitchen filled the room. The five were having their usual lunch together, their last one for a while actually. Because on Friday at 11am, Hoseok and Jimin would be leaving for tour with the rest of the dance team and wouldn’t be back for fourteen entire days. Which, even though he wouldn’t admit it outloud, was really killing Jeongguk.

Namjoon simply rolled his eyes and kept reading the suggestions Seokjin made, making Jimin slump back into his chair with a huff. As the current only single person in their friend group (thanks a lot Namjoon), he was not about to let any of them get away with vulgar sayings in front of his not-so-virgin eyes.

So Hoseok took it upon himself to steer the hostility away, animatedly talking with his hands as he turned to Jimin in a more positive manner. “I’m just saying,” he was saying between bites of something vaguely resembling a quesadilla, “I’ve never packed so much SPF in my life. I don’t even burn, I just… glow. ”

“You shine, ” Jimin affirmed, nursing his milkshake he remembered was beside him. “But I swear if you forget your passport again—”

“I won’t!”

Jeongguk, huddled at the end of the table with a tray of untouched food, muttered loud enough to be heard, “Can’t believe you’re abandoning me for white sand and ocean breeze.”

Hoseok giggled but didn’t deny it. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder.”

Jeongguk grumbled under his breath, something about betrayal. And then, right as Hoseok was readying a dramatic comeback, Jimin’s entire demeanor shifted. His eyes widened, straw still in his mouth as he stared over Jeongguk’s head, brows lifted like he’d seen a ghost. He pulled the straw out with a loud pop and declared, “No fucking way.”

It silenced the booth instantly. Five heads turned in unison to where Jimin was staring across the room, at the main cafeteria doors.

And then they saw it.

Taehyung and Yoongi. Hand in hand.

It was almost cinematic. Taehyung entered like he always did, confident, composed, practically glowing with his usual brand of reckless charm. He wore his backpack slung over one shoulder and greeted two people from his photography class like nothing was out of the ordinary, his free hand comfortably linked with Yoongi’s like it belonged there. Their fingers were intertwined in a way that was casual but unmistakably intimate.

Yoongi, on the other hand, looked like he was halfway to cardiac arrest.

His shoulders were tense, his gaze low and shifty, lips pressed into a tight line. His hoodie was zipped all the way up despite the warmth of the cafeteria, and his fingers around Taehyung’s hand were hesitant at best. He kept darting glances around the room like he was waiting for someone to call him out, or laugh, or worse— believe it. But they didn’t let go.

When they reached the table, Jeongguk leaned back in his seat, one brow raised, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. “Well, well, look at the happy couple.”

The table burst into a cacophony of chuckles, gasps, playful coos, and even Seokjin pushing his glasses up to get a better look. Taehyung, never one to let a moment go to waste, beamed like he’d just been crowned Prom King. He lifted their joined hands in the air and declared, “The happiest!”

Yoongi wanted to melt into the floor.

His ears were pink, cheeks tinged with the faintest peach colour that no amount of scowling could hide. He looked like he wanted to argue, deny it, explain it, disappear, but Taehyung’s grip didn’t loosen, and for whatever reason, Yoongi didn’t yank his hand away either.

Taehyung turned to the booth, still wearing that radiant, almost smug smile. “Is there any room for me and my lovely boyfriend?”

Namjoon, who hadn’t said a word since they walked in, looked like Christmas had come early. His smile was so wide it practically split his face. He scooted over immediately, nearly knocking his laptop off the bench in the process. “Of course,” he said, trying very hard not to sound too triumphant.

“Please, take my seat,” Jeongguk offered dramatically, already moving to slide out and sit on Hoseok’s lap instead. “You’re heavier than you look,” He muttered as his boyfriend settled on him, but only wrapped his arms around him.

Taehyung and Yoongi squeezed into the booth anyway, hands still linked on top of the table like it was second nature.

Jimin took a long, leisurely sip from his milkshake, the straw catching between his teeth with a soft squeak. His eyes, wide and sparkling with mischief, danced between Yoongi and Taehyung like he was watching the first act of a play he hadn’t realized would be so entertaining. “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” he said at last, setting his cup down with a dramatic little thud. “This is, like, prime time television.”

Yoongi grumbled, his entire face pinking again as he leaned back in the booth, trying to will himself into the vinyl seat cushions. “Taehyung just really needs the money,” he muttered, hoping that would shut them all up.

But Taehyung rolled his eyes so hard they could’ve fallen out of his skull. “The money is not the only important thing here.”

“Yes!” Namjoon cut in with a pointed finger, barely containing his enthusiasm. “Thank you, Tae. My thesis is obviously the most important thing in this room.” His eyes were bright, lips curved upward in a way that practically screamed academic validation.

That was enough to make Jeongguk and Hoseok dissolve into a fit of giggles, Hoseok even smacking the table lightly as he leaned into Jeongguk’s shoulder. “You hear that? This is all in the name of science. ”

“Academic heroism,” Jeongguk added solemnly, wiping a fake tear from his eye.

Jimin, of course, wasn’t done. He leaned sideways into Yoongi’s space, elbow nudging him playfully in the ribs. “So,” he started with a grin. “What’s your first relationship like, Yoongi? Learning anything juicy?”

Yoongi blinked, stunned into silence for a second too long before his brain caught up. His tone turned flat, deadpan. “It’s been three days. Nothing’s happening. I can assure you this is going nowhere .”

Jeongguk raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “How are you so sure?”

“Because we’re just following the guidelines Namjoon set out for us,” he snapped, sitting up straighter, clearly trying to reclaim whatever dignity he felt had slipped through his fingers since walking into the cafeteria holding Taehyung’s hand. “We’re participating. That’s it.”

Taehyung didn’t look remotely offended. In fact, he was smiling, slow and amused, resting his chin on his free fist like he was studying the other under a lens. “What’s got you in such a mood, babe?” he asked, tone light and lilting. “You were fine before we got here.”

The nickname landed like a spark on dry kindling. Hoseok’s eyes widened, nearly bulging out of his head. “Babe?” he echoed, scandalised and delighted all at once.

Even Seokjin, who had gone back to quietly annotating Namjoon’s thesis on the side of the table, let out a loud snort and ducked his head into his boyfriend’s shoulder, shaking with laughter. Namjoon simply blinked, dazed by the absolute chaos unfolding in real time.

But Taehyung didn’t flinch. Cool as ever, he leaned back and laced his fingers with Yoongi’s again, raising their hands slightly like it was proof of contract. “What?” he said with a shrug. “We talked about boundaries. Yoongi said he doesn’t mind pet names or hand holding.”

“Traitor,” Yoongi hissed under his breath, cheeks flushing anew as the table absolutely erupted .

“Oh my God, ” Jimin gasped, fanning himself with his hand. “ He’s the clingy one, I just know it—”

“I will throw that milkshake at you,” Yoongi threatened, but it lacked any real heat.

With his cheeks still tinged a stubborn shade of pink, slouched further into the booth as the laughter simmered around him, Yoongi’s fingers itched to tug the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and disappear. But instead, he tried the next best tactic, a distraction.

He glanced across the table at Jimin, who was still clutching his milkshake like it was a holy artifact. “What even is that flavor?” Yoongi asked, voice laced with trademark grumpiness.

Jimin perked up immediately, as if he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to ask. “Half banana, half strawberry,” he beamed, twirling the straw dramatically between his fingers. “I call it strawnana. ”

Yoongi blinked slowly, unimpressed. “I call it stupid. ”

The table cracked again, a smaller ripple this time, soft chuckles, grins hiding behind cups and hands. Taehyung’s eyes lit up like a switch had been flipped, quick to jump in. “Well, we had some good milkshakes last night, didn’t we, Yoongs?” he said, bumping Yoongi’s shoulder with his own and smiling far too brightly for the other’s comfort.

Seokjin looked up from Namjoon’s annotated thesis, one brow lifting in amusement as he turned toward them. “Wait— when did you two have milkshakes?”

Taehyung didn’t miss a beat. He leaned back with a proud little grin, fingers still tangled with Yoongi’s atop the table. “On our first date.”

That was all it took. The table burst into sound, not full-blown chaos, but the kind of delighted chattering you’d expect after someone casually announced they’d adopted a puppy or eloped in Vegas. There were giggles, gasps, and many whispers bouncing between friends like ping-pong balls. Yoongi sank lower into the booth, visibly folding into himself, but Taehyung looked like he was enjoying every second of it.

Jeongguk, still perched comfortably on Hoseok’s lap like some sort of oversized cat, leaned forward eagerly. “Wait, wait— what did you do?”

Taehyung grinned and began idly tracing patterns over Yoongi’s knuckles, the gesture soft and teasing. “I picked him up from work,” he said breezily, “and we got takeout. Burgers. Milkshakes. It was perfect.”

Yoongi groaned under his breath. “I paid,” he muttered, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

Taehyung gasped theatrically, clapping his free hand to his chest. “You weren’t supposed to tell them that, baby.” he said, pouting dramatically.

It’s like the rest of the boys couldn’t control their giddiness. Hoseok was practically shaking with laughter, Jeongguk leaning back into him. Seokjin leaned fully into Namjoon’s side, muffling his giggles against the shoulder of his boyfriend’s sweater. “This,” he whispered gleefully into Namjoon’s ear, “is comedy gold.”

Namjoon, for his part, was beaming so hard it looked like his cheeks might cramp. He watched the dynamic with something between fascination and pride, like a scientist watching a lab rat run through a maze to get a piece of cheese. His thesis participants, previously chalked up as emotional oil and water, were now flourishing under the forced dynamic.

He nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose, unable to wipe the smile off his face. “This experiment is going to do wonders,” he whispered back. “I’m telling you, I’m going to be the most talked about upcomer in the psychology field.”

At the end of the table, Yoongi let out another long-suffering sigh, eyes fixed on the table surface like if he stared hard enough, it would swallow him whole. But even as he glared down at the table, he didn’t let go of Taehyung’s hand. He’d somehow gotten used to the feeling, and it surprisingly wasn’t an unpleasant one.

The hum of cafeteria noise, murmured conversations, trays clattering, straw slurps, blurred into the background as Taehyung’s phone buzzed against the table. It was a small vibration, subtle beneath the chatter and laughter, but Taehyung’s attention snapped to it like a magnet. Without releasing Yoongi’s hand, which was still lazily draped across the tabletop, he tilted the phone toward himself and scanned the notification.

Yoongi, ever observant even when pretending not to be, caught the shift almost instantly. Taehyung’s posture stiffened. The playful tension that usually lingered between his shoulders melted into something tighter, more rigid. His lips, which had been tilted in an amused half-smirk seconds ago, pressed into a line. And the way his thumb stopped absentmindedly tracing Yoongi’s skin, that silence in movement said more than the message ever could.

“Uh— sorry guys, I gotta go,” Taehyung mumbled, already pocketing the phone and slipping on his jacket in one smooth but anxious motion.

Heads turned. Jimin, who had just been sipping the last of his drink with a pleased little hum, frowned in confusion. “You just got here!”

Hoseok leaned around Jeongguk’s shoulder with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Yeah, we were enjoying the relationship talk! You can’t just drop that you went on a date and vanish.”

Taehyung gave a short, restless huff, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, a tell. “I know, sorry. Something just came up,” he said, voice clipped and half-hearted, eyes already darting toward the exit like he was mentally halfway there.

Yoongi blinked, trying to make sense of the quick shift. He hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t done anything. But Taehyung looked like he was unraveling, just a thread shy of fraying. Their hands were still clasped on the table.

Taehyung looked down at them: at the tangle of fingers, so casual, so comfortable a few minutes ago, and then flicked his gaze up to Yoongi’s face. His expression softened a little, enough for Yoongi to see the sliver of apology behind the unease.

“I’ll meet you back at the apartment, yeah?” Taehyung said quietly, voice barely cutting through the buzz of conversation around them. Yoongi hesitated. It was that same tone again, one Taehyung used when he was worried but trying hard not to show it.

“Yeah,” Yoongi mumbled, confused but not pushing. “See you soon.”

They both looked down again, awkwardly unsure of how to untangle themselves. It was strange, how intimate it suddenly felt to let go. Like dropping something delicate. Their fingers lingered longer than needed, neither making the move, until Taehyung finally gave a small, almost reluctant squeeze before slipping free. Yoongi pulled his hand back into his lap, curling it into his sweater sleeves as he retreated into the booth.

Taehyung stood upright, smoothing the front of his coat out with jittery fingers before offering the group a lopsided smile. “Later, freaks.” he said, giving a lazy salute that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He didn’t wait for a response, already weaving through the cafeteria tables with quick, purposeful steps.

Jeongguk twisted around in Hoseok’s lap, watching the swift departure. “That was weird, right?” he said.

Yeah, really fucking weird.

-

Taehyung was ashamed to admit that this wasn’t the first time he met someone outside of the sketchy bikeshed that was on their university campus.

One time he met a guy here to hook up with him between lectures, claiming that a handjob really took the edge off of exam season jitters. Another time he met his usual dealer to receive his and Hoseok’s goods before they stuffed their faces with six bowls of instant ramen, he remembers that high so well. Today however, was an unfortunate day which wasn’t filled with positives.

Eunwoo stood there with a disappointing gaze as Taehyung marched his way over, playing nervously with his fingers. “Took you long enough.”

“I was occupied.” He huffed, dark eyes peering through his black curls. Eunwoo unfortunately towered over him, and that didn't make Taehyung settle. “I’m here now.”

Eunwoo didn’t waste time. “Where’s the money?”

Taehyung exhaled through his nose, his breath shaky as he reached into the inside pocket of his worn-out bomber jacket. He pulled out a creased and crumpled envelope, already looking pathetic in his hands, and passed it over without a word.

Eunwoo snatched it quickly, ripping it open with rough fingers and thumbing through the stack of notes. His count was swift, practiced. A sharp click of his tongue cut the silence like a whip. “This is only three-fifty,” he said, voice cold and rising. “That’s not even half. Where’s the other four hundred thousand?”

Taehyung winced like he’d been slapped. Still, he tried to keep his voice level. “That’s all I had left in my account,” he said, eyes flickering away for a moment. “I took it all out at the cash machine this morning.”

Eunwoo didn’t budge. His jaw flexed as he grabbed Taehyung by the wrist and dragged him around to the back of the shed, behind the low brush where campus lighting didn’t quite reach. The shadows made this whole moment feel tenser, darker, more dangerous.

“You said the day after the party,” Eunwoo hissed, cornering him against the rusted wall. “That’s what you told me. That you’d have the money by then. It’s been a goddamn week, Tae. You ghosted me. No texts. No replies. I thought you were trying to fuck me over.”

“I wasn’t!” He said quickly, breath hitching. “I just— I didn’t have it, and I didn’t know how to tell you. I will get it to you, I swear.”

“You said that before,” Eunwoo spat. His tone wasn’t raised, but it was venomous. “You think I do this shit for free? You think I give out pills to pretty little brats like you because I like you?”

“I know I fucked up,” Taehyung muttered, pressing the heel of his palm against his brow. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t pay my dealer,” Eunwoo shot back. “Or cover my risk if I get caught with half my stash missing. You have no idea what kind of shit I’ve already had to answer for.”

Taehyung’s voice cracked when he spoke again. “I get paid at the end of the month,” he said, desperate but trying not to beg. “I’ll give it to you. I’ll come straight to you the second I get it, okay? You’ll be the first person I see.”

Eunwoo scoffed, letting the silence stretch just enough to tighten around them. His lip curled. “End of the month?” he echoed. “It’s the third of April. You want me to wait another twenty-something days?”

Taehyung swallowed hard. His face was flushed, not with shame, but with the frustrated knowledge that he had no better option. No safety net. No miracle. His voice was small when he said, “I don’t have a choice.”

Eunwoo took a step back but his glare didn’t soften. He folded the envelope and shoved it into his pocket with a sharp snap of his wrist. “You better figure something out. Fast,” he warned. “Because if I don’t have the rest by the fifteenth—hell, even half of the rest, I’m not waiting for payday.”

Taehyung gave a shaky nod. He didn’t trust his voice anymore. Eunwoo gave him one last look, disdain and disappointment twisted into a single expression, before walking off, the sound of his boots against gravel fading into the growing tension in Taehyung’s chest.

Alone now, he leaned his head back against the cold metal shed, eyes fluttering shut as he exhaled through parted lips. That quite possibly was one of the most scariest encounters of his entire life, and he couldn’t quite grasp what could happen to him on the fifteenth if he didn't get Eunwoo that money.

Maybe he could move to Taiwan and change his name, leave his fake boyfriend alone back in Seoul whilst he was escaping a criminal record and his horrible homosexual tendencies. Falling off the face of the earth would be an easier way out than admitting he’s in trouble, that's what Taehyung seems to think, anyways. Maybe dropping dead in a ditch, or shaving his head and using a secret identity, would be better than admitting he slept with a guy for a few pills.

He couldn't let anyone know about this, and he really needed that money.

-

“So,” Jimin began, eyes sparkling mischievously, “is it nice having a boyfriend?”

The late afternoon glow poured softly through the café windows, casting golden stripes across the table where two half-eaten pastries sat between half-drunk coffees. The hum of nearby conversation filled the air like white noise, punctuated by the gentle clinking of ceramic cups and cutlery. It was the next day and Yoongi really, really needed an americano.

The Daily Grind was the campus coffee shop that, despite its cheesy name, housed the majority of the student body during the weekdays when they needed a pick-me-up. Yoongi had a routine of meeting Jimin here every Thursday afternoon because it was just around the corner from the beloved dance studio, and Yoongi wanted to do more with his day instead of ultimately going back to apartment and rotting in his bed with the Netflix brower playing through his macbook. Despite his grumpy exterior and introverted ways, he actually did care what his friends got up to.

However what he didn’t care about was the same topic of conversation being brought up again and again. This fake dating thing was now consuming his every thought, and apparently the rest of their friend group’s every thought too. The last thing he needed was his stupid friend asking him stupid questions about his stupid boyfriend who wasn’t even technically his boyfriend.

Yoongi didn’t even lift his gaze. He stared blankly into the dark liquid of his drink and muttered, “We’re not actually dating, Jimin.”

That just made his friend grin wider, kicking Yoongi lightly under the table. “I know ,” he teased, “but it’s just so fun watching you two pretend. You’re like an old married couple already. Holding hands in the cafeteria, the pet names, the matching drinks on your little drive-thru date—”

“We’re not matching,” Yoongi cut in, grumbling as he finally looked up. His expression was flat, unimpressed, and slightly pink at the cheeks. “And we haven’t kissed, if that’s your next question.”

Jimin didn’t miss a beat. “Yet,” he teased, licking a bit of muffin from the corner of his mouth.

“Not happening,” Yoongi said firmly, narrowing his eyes. “That’s not part of the deal.”

Jimin leaned back against the plush seat with a hum, sipping on his oat milk latte like he had all the time in the world. “Why are you so negative about this?”

Yoongi blinked at him. “I’m not being negative.”

“You kind of are.”

He huffed, exasperated. “It’s just… weird. Okay? I’ve never done this stuff before— holding hands, calling someone cute things , pretending to be in love. It’s not something you can just jump into. ” His voice lowered, more to himself now. “And it’s not like I even like him anyway, so I don’t know why I keep getting in my own damn head about it.”

Jimin watched him carefully, smile softening a little, eyes curious but not intrusive. “You don’t have to like him. That’s not the point. But…” He tapped his fingers on his takeaway cup. “Maybe it’s okay to let yourself feel something , even if it’s just play. You’ve been carrying this whole ‘love doesn’t exist’ narrative since I met you, and maybe this experiment is a safe way to test that theory, y’know?”

Yoongi glanced away, looking out the window like he might find an answer in the people walking past. The idea of “testing” love didn’t sit comfortably in his chest. He wasn’t sure if he was more afraid that nothing would happen, or that something might.

Jimin continued, a little gentler now, “You get thirty days where you don’t have to overthink everything. Where someone holds your hand and tells you you’re cute and buys you treats. And maybe when it’s over, you’ll know a little more about what you want.”

Yoongi was quiet for a beat too long, fingers tightening slightly around his coffee cup. “I’m not too sure about that,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, more unsure than unwilling.

Jimin didn’t push. He just smiled knowingly, the kind that came from years of friendship, and went back to picking at his muffin. “Maybe not,” he said, “but you’ve already lasted longer than I thought you would.”

The café had thinned out a little, the late afternoon rush tapering into a quiet lull. A few students lingered near the back with textbooks open and earbuds in, but at Yoongi and Jimin’s booth, the conversation had taken on a lazy rhythm. Yoongi enjoyed these quiet times with Jimin, even if he was one nosey little shit. So to detour from the hot gossip that was this horrible experiment, he attempted to change the subject.

“So,” he began, flicking his eyes over at Jimin. “You all packed for tomorrow?”

Jimin perked up instantly, his grin wide and proud now that the topic of conversation was on him. “Three cases and a carry-on,” he said, lifting a finger for each item. “And a neck pillow that looks like a duckling.”

Yoongi blinked. “A duckling?”

Jimin nodded, entirely serious. “I’ve named him Harold.”

Yoongi snorted, setting his cup down on the coffee table. “You’ve definitely overpacked.”

“I had to,” he insisted, unbothered by the accusation. “I've got all my dance costumes, my regular clothes, a couple of swim trunks— oh, and I smuggled all my skincare into Hobi’s suitcase. He doesn't know yet.”

Yoongi raised a brow, thoroughly entertained. “It’s a two-week trip, not Love Island.”

Jimin gave a dramatic sigh, resting his chin in one hand as he stirred his coffee with the other. “I wish it was Love Island. At least then I wouldn’t be the only single loser left in the group. Namjoon and Jin are nauseating. Hobi’s obsessed with Jeongguk and will probably be facetiming him every night. And now you and Taehyung are playing house. It’s killing me.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes, exasperated. “We are not dating .”

“You’re fake dating,” Jimin corrected, making air quotes with one hand. “Which is basically the same when you’re holding hands in public and going on late-night burger runs.”

“It’s for the experiment,” Yoongi deadpanned.

“Uh-huh.”

Yoongi shot him a sharp glare, but Jimin was unbothered, picking his coffee back up to sip like this was the best entertainment he’d had in weeks. He leaned back in the booth with a theatrical pout. “I’ve literally had nightmares about becoming the seventh wheel ever since Namjoon and Jin made it official. It’s not a cute look.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You’ll be fine. Who knows? Maybe you’ll meet some beautiful European boy. Have a summer fling.”

“Oh, I absolutely could,” Jimin said, eyes lighting up with renewed energy. “If straight men love me, then the men in Portugal definitely will. I’m international boyfriend material, Yoongi.”

“Maybe you can bring your new Portuguese boyfriend back to Seoul,” Yoongi said casually, not even looking up. “He can sit at the lunch table with the rest of us.”

Jimin raised a perfectly groomed brow. “There’s barely enough seats at that booth already. What do you want me to do, sit on the floor?”

Yoongi smirked faintly. “Jeongguk’s already permanently moved onto Hoseok’s lap. It’s not like we have rules anymore.”

Jimin grinned, ever the opportunist. “Then you can just sit on Taehyung.”

That made Yoongi finally lift his head, deadpan expression locked and loaded. “Shut up.”

Jimin’s laugh was bright and unbothered, echoing lightly off the café walls. “Just saying,” he said, sipping his drink again with faux innocence. But then, his smile dipped ever so slightly as his mind circled back to something that had been bothering him. He chewed on the inside of his cheek before asking, “Why did Tae leave lunch so suddenly yesterday?”

Yoongi paused for a beat. He knew he couldn't divert the topic of conversation forever, especially when it came to Jimin who was unfortunately the most gossip-driven individual in their whole friend group. He had two choices right now, to either detour away from his cautious thoughts regarding Taehyung’s schemes, or use this as an opportunity to open up to someone. Jimin may be single but he knows a thing or two about relationships.

Not that he and Taehyung are in a relationship, of course.

“I don’t know,” he said after a moment, noncommittal. “He got back to the apartment late and didn’t really talk. Just went straight to his room.”

Jimin frowned, the crease between his brows tightening. “That’s weird. He didn’t text me back either.”

Yoongi just shrugged, tossing the spoon into his empty cup with a small clink. “He can do what he wants. It’s not like I care.”

But his voice faltered slightly near the end, like the words were heavy in his mouth. And the second he said them, Jimin looked up sharply, eyes narrowing in that way he always did when he sensed a lie buried under Yoongi’s casual indifference. “Sure you don’t,” he said, tone light but tinged with something knowing.

Yoongi didn’t rise to the bait. He just slouched further into the seat, pulled his sleeves over his hands, and looked out the window like the sight of the busy campus could distract him from the way Taehyung’s silence had lingered longer than it should’ve. But it didn’t.

“I think he’s hiding something from me.”

The words slipped out before Yoongi could really stop them, his voice low, almost unsure, like he was second guessing himself. He didn’t look at Jimin when he said it, just kept staring down into the rim of his empty coffee cup like it might absorb the confession before anyone could hear it.

Jimin, for all his usual theatrics and mischief, immediately sobered. He straightened a little in the booth, muffin crumbs clinging to his sweater sleeve. “Taehyung?” he asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

Yoongi gave the smallest of nods, his expression carefully neutral, though his fingers betrayed him, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie, the skin around his knuckles tight. “Yeah, I don’t know. He’s just been off.”

He paused, trying to steady the shape of the thoughts forming in his head before they spilled out the wrong way.

“Tuesday morning,” he said slowly, “way before he picked me up from work, he said he had to meet a friend. He was being vague about it. Didn’t even say who it was.” He swallowed. “Then yesterday, in the cafeteria when his phone buzzed, he got all tense. Something’s going on.”

Jimin chewed the inside of his cheek, brows knitting together. He didn’t look alarmed, just thoughtful. “It’s probably nothing serious,” he said gently, the kind of voice he only used when he knew Yoongi might actually be feeling something, even if he refused to admit it. “Tae’s dumb sometimes, but he’s not reckless . It’s probably just some guy he’s hooking up with.”

Yoongi’s mouth twitched at that, a flash of something unreadable passing through his eyes. “Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s what I thought too.”

There was a pause, the café around them buzzed faintly in the background. Yoongi’s voice came through again, quieter now. “But…” he hesitated. “He knows we’re doing this experiment. Namjoon’s outline said we’re supposed to simulate a relationship— like, realistically. Including the boundaries. Sleeping around would kinda… go against all of that.”

Jimin blinked, the weight of the thought settling between them. He nodded slowly, lips pressed in a line. “You’re right,” he said, more acknowledging now. “That would mess with the data. He wouldn’t sabotage Namjoon like that, not on purpose.”

The two of them sat in silence for a moment, chewing the thought over like it tasted as bitter as Yoongi’s coffee order. Jimin tilted his head slightly, voice cautious as he asked, “You don’t care if he is sleeping with someone, do you?”

Yoongi nearly dropped his coffee mug. He caught it just in time, fingers gripping the handle a little too tightly as he shot Jimin a glare. “ Of course I don’t,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. “He can do whatever he wants. We’re fake dating. It’s not real. I don’t give a shit.”

The look Jimin gave him in return was mild, patient, and just slightly amused.

“Right,” Jimin said softly. “Of course.”

-

Yoongi didn’t mean to be such a creep.

It wasn’t intentional, it wasn’t calculated, he just had this unfortunate energy, like a cat who glided silently into rooms and scared the shit out of people without meaning to. The kind that appeared out of nowhere with glassy, observant eyes, always lingering just long enough to be accused of eavesdropping, even if he was just existing.

So when he ducked into the campus convenience store that evening, the hood of his jacket up and earbuds half in, the last thing he expected was to catch sight of his fake boyfriend standing under the harsh, flickering light of the instant ramen aisle. But there he was— Kim Taehyung, in all his tragic, disheveled glory.

And Yoongi paused.

Froze, really. Like a glitch in a simulation.

He stayed just at the edge of the aisle, half-shielded by the shelves of bottled iced coffee and suspiciously shiny apples. It wasn’t like he was trying to be sneaky, okay, maybe a little , but it had caught him off guard.

Because usually, Taehyung in a convenience store was an event. A full performance. The boy had a specific kind of swagger when he shopped, a little chaotic, a little charming. He’d usually be juggling an armful of cheap ramen cups and choco pies, maybe two banana milks pressed between his elbow and his side like an afterthought. According to Jeongguk, Taehyung apparently refused the help of baskets in most stores because he was, and Jeongguk quotes, ‘a big boy who liked a challenge’ and well, if that didn't sum up Kim Taehyung in one sentence Yoongi didn't know what did.

But tonight was different. Taehyung wasn’t doing his usual shopping performance. He was standing stock-still, shoulders hunched slightly under the weight of his oversized jacket, staring at the shelves of noodle packets like they were mocking him. His hands were empty. That, in itself, was unnerving. His expression held something close to betrayal, furrowed brows, slightly parted lips, and an odd stiffness in his jaw.

And that’s when Taehyung turned his head and locked eyes with him.

Yoongi froze like a deer in headlights, eyes wide and clearly caught. His heart dropped straight into his stomach. Shit. That was embarrassing . He must’ve looked like some kind of stalker, lurking by the rice crackers and gawking at his roommate like a lost ghost.

Taehyung blinked at him, visibly surprised. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed, painting pale strips across his cheekbones, making him look even more worn out than usual. For a beat, neither of them said anything, just stood there, one at the far end of the aisle, the other right in front of the beef-flavored ramen.

Yoongi fumbled to play it cool, adjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder like he’d just happened to glance down the aisle and see someone he definitely hadn’t been staring at for too long. He cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets, stepping forward with the stiff gait of someone who desperately didn’t want to make things weirder, but probably just was.

“You gonna pick something or start crying?” he asked, deadpan as ever.

Taehyung blinked once, the corner of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scowl. “Depends,” he said, eyes drifting back to the wall of ramen. “Do I cry before or after realizing I can’t afford any of it?”

Yoongi stood silently in the middle of the aisle, one hand still shoved deep into his hoodie pocket, the other hesitating midair. Taehyung looked like a kicked puppy, trying to play it off with his usual dramatics. But it was hard to do so when his eyes were duller, a little more sunken, and that small tremble in his laugh told Yoongi everything he needed to know.

He cleared his throat, softly. “I’ll buy you something.”

Taehyung immediately shook his head, hands lifting defensively, that stubborn smile spreading across his face like a mask. “Absolutely not. I’m fine. I probably have bread in the freezer at home or something.”

“Bread?” Yoongi muttered under his breath, already reaching for the shelves.

He began grabbing a few packs of ramen. One spicy miso, the cheesy carbonara kind Taehyung liked after late-night joints, and the seafood one he always paired with banana milk for some reason Yoongi never questioned. His fingers moved automatically, as if they’d done this a hundred times before.

Taehyung blinked, his hands still hovering awkwardly at his sides. “Wait— how do you know which ones I like?”

Yoongi didn’t look at him, just shrugged like it was obvious. “We live together. I see the wrappers when I take the trash out.”

There was a quiet pause between them, brief but soft, and in it Taehyung stared at him, really stared, his wide, brown eyes softening like freshly melted chocolate. It wasn’t a romantic moment, not exactly, but there was a kind of tenderness to it. A quiet gratitude. Taehyung’s voice dropped, gentle. “Thanks hyung… I’ll pay you back, okay?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yoongi said quickly, grabbing one last ramen bowl and tossing all of the food into one of the nearby baskets, then picking that up off the ground to carry. “Seriously. Go and grab some drinks or something.”

Taehyung hovered for a second, his gaze lingering like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with this unexpected kindness. But then he turned, obediently shuffling toward the fridge lined with neon-lit bottles of water, soda, and convenience store beer. His steps were quieter now, less theatrical.

Yoongi watched him go, feeling like something was sitting behind his ribs, pressing out with every breath. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was just a weird pang of protectiveness. Whatever it was, it made his voice come out lower, quieter than usual. Almost embarrassed.

“That’s what boyfriends are for.”

It sounded cooler in his head. Out loud, it came out half-mumbled, a little awkward and definitely more geeky than suave. He winced immediately after saying it, cringing at himself internally.

But Taehyung didn’t laugh. He didn’t tease. He just paused in front of the fridge door, fingers resting lightly on the handle as his shoulders lifted ever so slightly, like he was trying to stop a smile from taking over his whole face. And despite himself, he didn’t fight it. Yoongi caught the glimpse of it anyway, just the softest curve of lips, the faintest crinkle at the corner of his eyes before Taehyung turned back to scanning the rows of drinks like nothing happened. But that smile stayed there.

And Yoongi didn’t hate it.

The walk back to the apartment was quiet, but not in a way that felt uncomfortable.

Yoongi carried the white plastic convenience store bag in one hand, the handles stretched and digging lightly into his fingers. Inside was his usual low-effort dinner: a tuna kimbap, a crinkled bag of chips, and the iced tea he’d grabbed on impulse, mostly because he liked the silly koi fish logo on the can. Taehyung walked beside him with a big bag in hand, his ramen haul, random drinks and impulsive sweet treats.

Before they even made it halfway down the block, he slipped his free hand into Yoongi’s without a word. It was casual. Barely even a moment. Just a gentle slide of fingers and a light squeeze. Like it was normal now.

Yoongi didn’t react immediately, but the tips of his ears went pink. His fingers tightened slightly around Taehyung’s without thinking, grounding himself in the warmth of the touch as the city sky above them began to dim, hues of purples and grays rolling in from the horizon. The street lights flickered to life around them, one by one.

“Thanks again,” Taehyung mumbled, not quite looking at him.

Yoongi, eyes on the sidewalk, gave a small shake of his head. “I said it’s fine.”

Their footsteps synced. The world narrowed down to that, hands joined between two swinging bags and the rhythmic sound of sneakers on concrete. Yoongi hated how nice it felt.

By the time they pushed into the apartment, shoes kicked off at the door, keys tossed into the dish on the counter, it was nearing 8 p.m. The familiar hum of their shared space greeted them: the faint whir of the fridge, the creak of the wooden floorboards, the smell of laundry detergent from a basket Taehyung had clearly forgotten to fold.

Without speaking, Yoongi made his way to the small kitchen island, plopping himself down on one of the stools with his dinner while Taehyung moved into the kitchen. He reached for one of the ramen packets Yoongi had picked out and filled a pot with water, turning the stove burner on with a flick and a clink.

The TV in the living room played another episode of Below Deck , the same show they always defaulted to when neither of them had the energy to argue about what to watch. Taehyung stood at the stove, pressed forward against the counter as he stirred the ramen noodles with chopsticks, the steam curling softly around his face, fogging the air in front of him. He was humming, something low and tuneless, just a subconscious vibration of sound that filled the space.

Yoongi, on the other side of the kitchen, scrolled lazily through Instagram on his phone, chin ducked down. He wasn’t really paying attention to what he was looking at, just cycling through pictures of strangers’ lunches, dumb cat videos, and classmates posting from study sessions. But he could hear the water bubbling, the chopsticks clinking against the pot, and the small sigh Taehyung let out as he leaned closer to inspect the broth.

It felt oddly domestic. Like this was something they did often. Like this wasn’t some fake, thrown-together experiment. Like the edges of whatever role they were playing had started to smudge, becoming less about performance and more about habit. They’ve already lived together for two years. It wasn’t like sharing a kitchen space was uncommon. Their schedules just always seemed to clash, Yoongi either out late working or Taehyung goofing off with Hoseok or out and about meeting new strangers.

They've only really cooked together and lounged around like this a few times, and Yoongi was honestly just surprised by how natural it all felt. He glanced up, just briefly, and watched as Taehyung adjusted the burner slightly, tasting the soup with a plastic spoon, his features soft in the warm kitchen light. He looked peaceful.

He looked back down at his phone quickly, thumbing through stories. The dim hum of the stovetop and the muffled sound of the show’s background drama faded into white noise as he scrolled idly through Instagram, half-focused, half-bored. His iced tea sat sweating beside his untouched bag of chips, the kimbap slowly disappearing bite by bite as his thumb lazily flicked over his screen.

He’d paused on a story from Jeongguk: a mirror selfie taken in Hoseok’s bedroom, the both of them pressed together like puzzle pieces. Hoseok’s arms wrapped snugly around Jeongguk’s waist, his face buried into the side of his boyfriend’s cheek with a kiss. Jeongguk wore his usual smug expression, phone in one hand, caption sprawled across the bottom in bold white text:

“taking new boyfriend applications this fucker is leaving me for 2 weeks”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. Dramatic.

He flicked to the next story, Seokjin’s this time, of course. A blurry front-facing selfie, Seokjin grinning like a goof while he sat in between Namjoon’s legs, his back leaned against his boyfriend’s chest like he was some sort of mattress. Namjoon was half out of frame, mid-sentence and clearly unaware the other had just broadcasted him to 300+ followers with no warning.

Yoongi smiled despite himself, letting out a quiet breath through his nose before flicking back to his homepage. It seemed like everything at the minute was about love and relationships, like the theme of romance haunted his every move. He had spent twenty-two years of his life avoiding the very topic at all costs, yet was now forced into a relationship in the name of science.

Although he still had doubts, he must admit he had to agree with what Jimin said earlier today at the coffee shop. He had lasted way longer than he anticipated. He wasn't expecting to still be doing this on day four of the experiment, he also wasn't expecting to fall into such a comfortable routine like this with Taehyung.

But what he really wasn’t expecting was a pair of arms to wrap around him.

Yoongi startled, jolting like someone had touched a live wire. His phone nearly slipped right out of his hands and into the open kimbap container on the counter in front of him.

“Shit—” he hissed, fumbling for control.

But the body behind him didn’t move. Just stayed pressed against his back, arms wound snugly around his middle, chin resting easily on his shoulder like it belonged there. Kim Taehyung you sneaky little shit.

Yoongi went rigid, muscles locking up instinctively. He wasn’t used to a touch like this, so intimate , casual and possessive and warm. He blinked hard, as if trying to reset his brain like when his laptop froze. Taehyung, completely unbothered, peeked over his shoulder at the phone in Yoongi’s hands. “What are you looking at, baby?”

Yoongi short-circuited for a second, unable to form a proper sentence. “Just… stories,” he mumbled, eyes fixed firmly on the screen, pretending the way Taehyung’s thumbs brushed against the hem of his hoodie wasn’t making his stomach do weird little flips.

“Mm,” Taehyung hummed, clearly amused. “You saw Jeongguk’s one?”

Yoongi cleared his throat. “I saw it.”

Taehyung snorted against his shoulder, his breath warm on Yoongi’s skin. “We should probably check in on him. Make sure he doesn’t lose his mind while Hobi’s off dancing through Europe.”

Yoongi blinked at his screen, trying not to react to the closeness, the gentle press of Taehyung’s chest against his back, the smell of the ramen seasoning packet lingering on his clothes. God, they definitely weren’t watching the TV anymore.

“You’re too comfortable,” Yoongi grumbled, trying for irritation, but it came out too soft.

Taehyung only smiled, his arms staying exactly where they were. “Well, you bought me dinner. It’s the least I could do.” Yoongi didn’t reply. He just kept staring at his phone screen, which had long since gone dim. Taehyung just tapped against Yoongi’s sides playfully. “This okay?”

Yoongi didn’t look up from the phone he wasn’t really paying attention to anymore. His voice came quiet, guarded. “It’s fine.”

That was the only reply Taehyung got. But it was something. A small sign of approval. A single green light, dim but present.

And so he didn’t move. His arms stayed wrapped around Yoongi’s waist, his chin comfortably settled on his shoulder, as if that stool at the kitchen island was the most natural place in the world to melt into someone. It wasn’t invasive, or overbearing, just warmth. A steady heartbeat pressed against Yoongi’s back. 

He always knew Taehyung was like this. Affectionate. That brand of person who felt emotion with his whole body. It was probably why Taehyung hadn’t flinched when Namjoon outlined the experiment’s terms, when he’d said things like hand holding, cuddles, and physical intimacy were encouraged.

Because for Taehyung, touch wasn’t just intimacy. It was language.

Yoongi had noticed it early on, back in first year when they first became roommates. When Taehyung joined their friend group, he did it with all the subtlety of a whirlwind. Sat in cafeteria booths with his head on Jimin or Jeongguk’s shoulder, his fingers playing with their hoodie strings. During group club nights, he would drag Namjoon to the dance floor, despite the fact that Namjoon moved like a giraffe on ice, and grin through it all, arms around his waist, steadying his two-left-footed stumbles.

It was instinctual for him. He held Jimin’s hand when they walked across campus, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Compared hand sizes with Seokjin in the library, making some dumb joke about whose palms were “CEO material” while the older pretended to be exasperated. Wrapped himself around Hoseok at any given opportunity just because he could. Taehyung liked physical contact. It soothed him. It centered him.

And Yoongi? God, Yoongi couldn’t remember the last time he willingly touched someone at all.

He wasn’t touch-averse, not technically. But it just didn’t come naturally. No one had taught him to reach out, to initiate. It wasn’t instinctual the way it was for Taehyung. So far, five days into this experiment, and not once had Yoongi made the first move. No hand reaching. No accidental leaning. No brushing knees under the table. All the physical moments had been given to him— Taehyung offering, asking, waiting.

And Yoongi? Yoongi just stood there, receiving.

He hated how much that fact gnawed at him. He knew, knew, that he should do something soon. Touch his arm. Hold his hand without being prompted. Lean in instead of away. But every time the idea reached his brain, it just sort of… jammed. A hesitation. A self-conscious pause. A worry that it would feel awkward, forced, stupid. That he’d fumble it.

Taehyung had a kind of secret knowledge to all of this. The muscle memory of someone who grew up being loved out loud. He was able to touch gently but confidently, to ask if things were okay without making it a big deal. Like it was second nature. Yoongi felt like a lame teenager trying to hold hands at a movie theater, sweaty-palmed and two steps behind. It wasn’t jealousy, he didn’t resent Taehyung for it. It was just… envy, maybe. Or frustration. That it wasn’t that easy for him.

Though all good things must come to an end. Not that Taehyung being pressed against his back was a good thing, that would be ridiculous.

But their silence was sadly interrupted by the sound of water overflowing in the pot a few feet away from them, the younger’s ramen broth spilling out over the pan due to being left unattended a little too long.

“Oh fuck—” Taehyung grumbled, unravelling himself from Yoongi’s frame to run over and turn the heat off.

Yoongi watched in a daze as he grabbed a few paper towels to clean the mess, licking a bit of noodle juice off his thumb as he picked up the pan to try and salvage his dinner. It's like that minute of close contact didn’t even happen, and now the only thing on Taehyung’s mind was the amount of sodium he was about to consume.

Not like Yoongi, who’s mind was still kind of racing in regards to the touch despite the chaotic antics happening before his very eyes.

Cue him shovelling the rest of his kimbap into his mouth, ducking his head and not saying anything else. He suddenly really needed to lie down.

Chapter Text

Friday came with a different kind of air.

Not cleaner or warmer or anything tangible— just lighter , somehow. The apartment was a little quieter, the group chat a little slower, the general vibe just a bit softer around the edges. In the morning, Hoseok and Jimin had set off for the airport, their bags packed to bursting with dance gear, coordinated outfits, and each of them with their stupid neck pillows.

There were rushed goodbyes and hurried hugs in front of the dorm building, Jimin nearly crying from laughter as Hoseok yelled that he forgot his carry-on bag halfway to the cab. Yoongi watched from the window as they waved dramatically through the taxi windows, like they were going on a year-long deployment instead of a two-week dance tour through Europe. The group was officially down by two, and it felt weird.

Weird in that it was kind of a relief, but also not. Without Jimin and Hoseok, the noise level dropped significantly. The chaos quotient, the one that usually orbited around Jimin’s dramatics and Hoseok’s high-energy banter, had plummeted. They were, undeniably, the group’s loudest extroverts (Jeongguk a close third), and their absence left a strange kind of echo in the air.

Yoongi appreciated the quiet. Less teasing. Less eyes on him and Taehyung. Without Hoseok dramatically swooning every time Taehyung called him baby or Jimin poking at their fake relationship with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball, Yoongi could breathe a little easier.

But that peace came with a cost, because Jeongguk was miserable. Terminally, dramatically, loudly miserable.

Hoseok had barely been gone an hour when Jeongguk began spiraling. He’d dragged himself into the library to bother Namjoon, dramatically laying his head across Namjoon’s books as the older boy tried to write, muttering about loneliness and heartbreak and how he was going to start writing poetry about long-distance relationships.

“You’re blocking my thesis,” Namjoon grunted, trying to nudge Jeongguk’s head off a stack of printed sources.

“I’m blocking your heart, ” Jeongguk moaned. “Feel something, hyung.”

Then it was Taehyung’s turn. Jeongguk clung to him as they walked back from campus, begging for a piggyback ride to the convenience store around the corner like a child who had lost all will to go on.

Taehyung just grinned that smug little grin he wore whenever he had an opportunity to say something outrageous. “Sorry,” he said, brushing Jeongguk off with theatrical pity. “Piggybacks are reserved exclusively for my boyfriend.”

Yoongi, walking a few paces ahead, let out the most exhausted, unimpressed sigh of his life. Jeongguk gasped like he’d been betrayed. “You’ve changed,” he muttered, clutching his chest as Taehyung laughed.

Later, Yoongi found himself sitting at their kitchen table, finishing the last of his convenience store iced tea while Jeongguk sat across from him, arms crossed, mid-rant.

“He’s not even off the plane yet, and I already miss him,” Jeongguk muttered into the sleeve of his hoodie, his cheek squished against the table like a sulking cartoon character. “Do you think I’m pathetic?”

Yoongi shrugged. “Yes.”

Jeongguk groaned. “You're supposed to lie!”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest smile tugging at his lips as he nudged the boy's can of soda back toward him. “You’ll live.”

“But will I be happy?” Jeongguk countered, eyes wide and mournful.

Yoongi didn't respond, just sipped the last of his tea and stared out the window, watching the sky shift from grey to blue. The world felt slightly off balance without Jimin’s laugh echoing through the hallway or Hoseok’s feet pounding on the apartment floor to the beat of whatever song he was choreographing in his head.

The rest of the day wasn’t horrible, at least not once the apartment quieted down. Jeongguk, after an hour and a half of dramatic sighs, lamenting monologues, and using Yoongi’s shoulder as a leaning post while scrolling through his own camera roll full of Hoseok selfies, had finally sulked out of the apartment. He mumbled something about going to Seokjin’s and “spreading the burden of heartbreak evenly,” leaving behind nothing but an empty soda can and an even emptier silence.

Yoongi didn’t mind. It was mid-afternoon, and he had a few hours to himself before work, just enough time to sit at the kitchen table with his phone and the remnants of his lunch, trying to convince himself to be productive and not fall into a doom scroll.

The front door creaked open a few minutes later, and the air in the apartment shifted. It always did when Taehyung walked in. There wasn’t a loud entrance, no announcement. Just the sound of keys jingling, shoes being kicked off with a dull thud against the doorframe, and the soft rustle of his jacket as he entered. But the room felt warmer, fuller, like something essential had returned.

Taehyung’s voice came first. “Hey Yoongs,” he called out casually, already moving toward the sofa and flopping onto it in that loose-limbed way of his. “You had a good day?”

Yoongi turned in his chair to look over at him, his posture relaxing a little without him even realising it. Taehyung had one leg tucked under himself, the other swinging lazily off the edge of the couch, his face half buried into one of the throw pillows as he looked at Yoongi.

“It’s been okay,” Yoongi replied, voice low and even. “Boring school stuff. I’ve got work in like…” he checked the time on his phone, “four hours.”

Taehyung grumbled immediately, pressing his face into the cushion with a soft groan. “It gets lonely when you’re at work.”

It made Yoongi soften, the older snorting just slightly. “Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Taehyung muttered, flipping onto his back and staring up at the ceiling now. “It’s a me issue. I need to get a job or something.”

Yoongi let his lips curl into a small, teasing smirk. “You’re only thinking that now? Two years into being roommates?”

Taehyung didn’t answer, just shuffled into a more comfortable position, pulling the throw blanket over his legs and turning his back to him with exaggerated drama. Yoongi watched the movement with faint amusement, letting his elbow rest on the back of his chair. A small silence passed, filled only by the distant hum of traffic outside and the noise of the fridge.

Then Taehyung spoke again, voice muffled by the blanket. “Do you need me to pick you up again tonight?”

Yoongi shook his head, reaching for the empty tea can beside him. “Nah. I’ll take the subway like usual. It’s no big deal.”

Taehyung sat up at that, brows furrowing like Yoongi had just told him he was planning on walking home barefoot. “The subway is sketchy at night.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I do it every weekend.”

“Well, you shouldn’t, ” Taehyung replied, as if that settled it. Yoongi opened his mouth to protest again, to insist that it was fine, really, and that he didn’t need a babysitter. But before he could speak, Taehyung cut him off with a firm look and a gentle finality in his voice. “I want to.”

That stopped Yoongi short. The words hung in the air between them, simple and steady. Taehyung looked at him, soft eyes and messy curls, and Yoongi felt something twist low in his chest. He cleared his throat, looking away. “Okay.”

Taehyung leaned back into the couch with a little huff of satisfaction, blanket pulled up to his chin, content. Yoongi returned to scrolling, but now with a small, almost reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.

So Taehyung did. Just like he said he would.

By the time Yoongi stepped out of the glowing lobby of the Blairmont Hotel, his white button-down slightly wrinkled underneath his sweater from sitting too long at the piano, his fingers stiff from three straight hours of romantic jazz medleys. Taehyung was already parked at the curb. His red Honda idled under the dull orange glow of the streetlamp, headlights flicking twice like a silent signal.

Yoongi spotted him and exhaled through his nose, shoulders slumping as he stepped out into the night air. His limbs ached, wrists sore from overuse, and there was a fine sheen of fatigue behind his eyes that only piano playing could bring. But as he crossed the quiet street and opened the passenger door, the thrum of something warm and familiar filled his chest.

The car smelled faintly like Taehyung’s cologne, something earthy and spiced, with a layer of cheap strawberry gum mixed in. Taehyung chewed that strawberry gum like it was no tomorrow, Yoongi always spotted it lying around the kitchen or tucked in between the sofa cushions.

The heat was turned up a little too high. The aux played something with a heavy bass line and insufferably confident lyrics. Classic Taehyung. “Hey, rockstar,” Taehyung greeted casually, one hand on the wheel, the other fiddling with his phone to skip a track. “Need me to kiss your hands better?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, slumping into the seat and clicking his seatbelt in with an exhausted sigh. “I’d rather you not talk.”

Taehyung grinned like he found that endearing. “I can do that.”

The drive started off slow, the quiet hum of tires against wet asphalt mixing with the low thrum of Taehyung’s playlist, an unfortunate blend of moody R&B and overproduced club anthems. The kind of music that made Yoongi contemplate opening the door and rolling out at 30 miles an hour.

But Taehyung tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and bobbed his head like the bass line was divine inspiration, so Yoongi kept his mouth shut. “So,” He said after a minute, glancing over as he turned onto the main road. “How was work?”

Yoongi stared ahead, streetlights sliding over the windshield. “Fine.”

“Full crowd?”

“Not really.”

“Did you eat?”

Yoongi shook his head, pulling at the sleeves of his sweater. “Nah. I’ve got food at home.”

Taehyung frowned slightly, clearly unsatisfied. But he didn’t push it. There was another pause before Taehyung spoke again, more tentative this time. “Do you wanna do something this weekend?”

Yoongi blinked. His mind blanked. The question caught him so off guard it almost didn’t register as real. He stared out the window, lips parting as if an answer might fall out if he waited long enough. “I, uh…” he stalled, searching for an excuse as the streetlights blurred by. “I really need to study.”

Taehyung raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “You’re a music composition major. What exactly are you studying? Chords?”

Yoongi shifted in his seat, suddenly hot under his coat. “I have a project. It’s due soon.”

Taehyung let out a soft snort, eyes flicking back to the road. “That won’t take the whole weekend.”

“It might.”

“You wrote an entire piece in one night last month,” Taehyung reminded him, his voice light but his expression unreadable. “It was good, too.”

Yoongi felt his jaw tighten. “I said I’ll think about it.”

Taehyung didn’t say anything for a beat. The music played on, something sultry and obnoxious, but neither of them heard it now. Then, finally, he gave a little shrug and nodded, like he was giving Yoongi space to retreat.

Yoongi didn’t know why he’d said no. Not really. He stared at the road ahead, wondering why something so simple felt so difficult.

Taehyung’s jaw flexed slightly as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, at least not yet, but it teetered on the edge. The glow from the dashboard lights cast soft, shifting shadows across his features, making his eyes look darker, sharper, more focused as the Honda turned off the main road and onto the quieter streets that led toward campus.

The hum of tires against pavement was the only sound until, abruptly, Taehyung spoke. “I think you’re not putting in enough effort.”

The words landed with a thud, heavy and unceremonious, like someone had dropped a glass onto a carpeted floor. No shatter, just weight. Yoongi’s entire body tensed in the passenger seat. His spine stiffened, his mouth opened on instinct. Fuck. He cringed before he even spoke, before he could find a defense.

“What… do you mean?” he asked, carefully, eyes flicking toward Taehyung without turning his head. The younger didn’t look away from the road. His voice stayed frustratingly casual, like he wasn’t accusing Yoongi of something that made his chest tighten.

“You never call me the pet names back,” he said plainly, like he was listing groceries. “You don’t hold my hand unless I grab yours first. You avoid me like I’ve got the plague unless I’m the one who spots you in a crowd.” He shrugged, one hand letting go of the wheel to gesture vaguely. “It’s kinda one-sided, you know?”

There was a laugh tacked on to the end of his sentence, too light, too offhand, but it didn’t mask the weight of what he’d said. Not really. Yoongi felt it all at once, an internal recoil. Shame, guilt, the hot flush of being caught doing something wrong even if he hadn’t meant to. He glanced away, swallowing the dry feeling building in his throat.

“It’s not like that,” he muttered, trying to control the defensive edge creeping into his tone. “Things are just…”

“New?” Taehyung finished for him, voice quick and tinged with something sharp, like he already knew the script and was tired of hearing it. “Yeah, Yoongs. I know. You’ve said it like a hundred times.”

And it wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it. The flatness. The edge. A softness pulled too tight. Yoongi blinked, stunned for just a second, and then turned his head away, eyes dropping into his lap where his fingers twisted in the hem of his coat. He didn’t have anything to look at, but it was better than staring straight ahead and seeing his own reflection in the windshield.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a beat, voice quiet. “I’ll do better.”

There was a tremble to it, not because he was crying, but because it cost him something to say it. Vulnerability, maybe. Humility. He licked his lips and added, “It’s not even day six yet. I don’t think I’m doing that bad… considering I’ve never been in a relationship before.”

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Taehyung didn’t respond immediately. He kept his eyes on the road, headlights casting long streaks across the empty asphalt. But his grip on the wheel eased a little. The tension in his shoulders slackened. “I know,” he said finally, softer now. “I do know that.”

A pause.

“But it takes two people to make a relationship work. Even a fake one.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “You’re right.”

They drove the rest of the way home in a silence that wasn’t angry, but wasn’t quite peaceful either. It was a conversation Yoongi definitely wasn't expecting to have on a loaded Friday night, especially with someone who wasn’t even his boyfriend. But he took the feelings bubbling inside of him with a pinch of salt, leant his face against the window and watched as the streetlights of Seoul blurred around him.

-

“You told him what?”

Hoseok’s pixelated face flickered across the screen, the image stuttering every few seconds thanks to a tragic European hotel Wi-Fi connection, but the sheer flabbergasted tone in his voice came through crystal clear. His hair was damp and messy, like he’d just come from a post-show shower, and he looked every bit like someone who hadn’t expected to spend his early hours of the morning fielding romantic drama from 5,000 miles away.

Taehyung exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his lips into the cool night air as he leaned against the brick wall outside the apartment complex. The soft hum of crickets echoed faintly in the background, the street lamps casting long, sleepy shadows across the sidewalk.

He held his phone in one hand, the other balancing his cigarette lazily between two fingers, and squinted at Hoseok’s half-frozen image. “I told him he’s not putting in enough effort.”

The image glitched. Hoseok’s eye froze mid-roll, distorted into a blur for a second before catching up. “Tae…” he started, his voice now crackling. “Are you seriously bitching about your fake boyfriend right now?”

“Maybe.”

“You’re— Jesus Christ.”

Taehyung winced a little, lips twitching around the edge of a guilty smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Clearly!”

He dragged on the cigarette again, head tipping back to blow the smoke toward the dark sky, watching it coil and disappear above the rooftop. Somewhere upstairs, Yoongi was probably already passed out, stripped out of his stiff pianist shirt, maybe face-first in a pillow, already snoring like the emotionally repressed introvert he was.

Taehyung sighed, running a hand through his curls. “He’s just… not pulling his weight. And Namjoon’s study, like, it has to be accurate, right?”

Hoseok blinked at him, unimpressed. “Right. Because nothing screams ‘scientific accuracy’ like emotional guilt-tripping.” Taehyung grumbled, Hoseok leaned closer to the screen, squinting. “Dude. You’re being so demanding for someone who’s not actually in a relationship.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek, cigarette balanced between his lips. “I know.”

“Do you?”

He didn’t answer right away, just toed at the edge of a loose stone on the pavement, the tip of his boot nudging it over and over. “I just need this to go well. I’m trying. Every day. I call him pet names, I pick him up from work, I hold his hand so much it’s basically my full-time job— he barely even looks at me half the time.”

The frustration in his voice wasn't theatrical, not like usual. It was quieter. More real. Like something he hadn’t meant to admit, even now. “It’s like… I’m doing the experiment for him, and he’s just following along in a daze,” Taehyung added. “It won’t work if it’s one-sided. Nothing ever does.”

Hoseok softened a little at that. The corner of the screen froze again for a moment before his face returned, head tilted just slightly, his tone less exasperated now. “Tae. You’re really overthinking this.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Hoseok cut in, gently but firmly. “You’re acting like you’re dating him for real, and this is some make-or-break honeymoon phase.”

Taehyung opened his mouth to argue, but Hoseok steamrolled right over him. “You forget,” he said, voice quieter now, “Yoongi’s never done this before. Like at all. He’s never had to figure out what it means to be close to someone, let alone have someone like you clinging to him every hour of the day.”

Taehyung blinked, expression flattening. “Clinging is a bit much.”

“Mm, affectionate leech. Whatever.” He retorted. Taehyung flipped him off. “Why do you even care about this dumb experiment anyway?”

Hoseok’s voice crackled through the phone speaker, lazy and muffled, softened by distance and the threadbare pillows of his European hotel bed. He was lying back against the headboard in a plain white t-shirt, one arm propped under his head. The soft buzz of an unfamiliar city could be heard faintly behind him, cars echoing off unfamiliar streets, but his attention was fixed squarely on Taehyung.

The younger, now sitting curled on the concrete steps just outside their apartment building, had his hoodie pulled up over his hair despite the warm night air. He hugged his knees up close, one arm balanced on top of them as he stared at the screen, his features dimly lit by the glow of the streetlamp above.

He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth for a second, chewing on it absently like it might give him an answer. The question lingered between them, too simple, too direct, and somehow more threatening than it should have been.

“I just…” he started, then stopped. “I need it to go well.”

Hoseok raised a brow from the bed, squinting through the low-quality camera. “Yeah, but why? ”

Taehyung’s shoulders shifted, like the question physically pressed on him. “It’s nothing,” he said, too quickly.

“Taehyung.”

He didn’t reply. Just tilted his head away from the screen, eyes fixed on the quiet street, where nothing moved but the occasional breeze through the trees. A dog barked a few blocks away, but otherwise, the world felt still.

Hoseok’s expression softened, the playfulness gone. His voice dropped a register, quiet and careful. “You’re not in trouble, are you, Taehyungie?”

Taehyung blinked.

“If some punk’s messing with you while I’m not there, I swear I’ll—”

“I’m fine ,” Taehyung cut in, tilting the phone down slightly, so Hoseok could only see half his face and a bit of the dark hoodie framing it.

Hoseok frowned. “Tae.”

“There’s no issue,” he insisted, his voice low. Firm, but not unkind.

And it wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t the truth either. Not fully. Because the thing sitting heavy in his chest wasn’t just about the experiment. It was the fact that he’d needed it to happen. That he’d said yes so quickly, not because he thought it would be funny or cute or a good story, but because he needed the money. Desperately.

And the worst part was that it wasn’t for something noble. It wasn’t tuition or a gift for his mom. It was because he’d been reckless. Stupid. Because a moment of impulsivity at a party had turned into a seven-hundred-thousand-won problem wrapped in a ziplock bag and a cocky smile.

And he couldn’t tell Hoseok that.

Not even Hoseok, who had smoked with him in dorm stairwells, had held his hair back when he drank too much at Jimin’s birthday, had seen him cry from being too scared after taking some random pills back in first year. Not even he could know. Because what kind of idiot did this to himself? What kind of person had to pretend to fall in love just to dig himself out of debt?

“You sure?” Hoseok asked again, softer this time. His eyes weren’t teasing anymore. Just gentle. Like he knew something was off but didn’t want to push too hard. “Do you need help?”

Taehyung stared at the grainy little face on the screen. “Nah,” he said, forcing a small grin. “I’ve got it.”

Hoseok nodded, thankfully buying into the lie. “Go to bed yeah? And maybe don’t emotionally confront your fake boyfriend again until he’s had, like, eight hours of sleep.”

“Noted.”

“Goodnight, lover boy— Oh, perfect timing! Koo’s calling me. Bye.”

The call ended, screen going black. He stayed outside for a minute longer, watching the wind stir the trees and listening to the distant hum of late-night traffic. Then he turned, quietly made his way upstairs, and slipped back into the apartment, where Yoongi’s door was already shut, and the soft sound of faint breathing could be heard through the wall.

Taehyung hadn’t really slept. But that wasn’t news. Sleep had always come to him in waves, sporadic, unpredictable. Some nights, he’d knock out like he was dead to the world. Other nights, like last night, it was all ceiling-staring and blank scrolling, a buzzing behind his eyes that wouldn’t let him go under.

Still, the thing that finally got him out of bed wasn’t insomnia. It was the smell. He blinked awake around 9 a.m., eyes dry and head foggy, but his senses were sharp enough to register something that definitely didn’t smell like cheap ramen. No, this was warm, savory, homemade . Garlic. Soy sauce. Something sizzling.

Still in his oversized sleep shirt and grey sweatpants, hair a chaotic puff from twisting on the pillow all night, Taehyung padded out of his room, bare feet silent against the floorboards. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, squinting as the light from the kitchen filtered in, soft and gold and so domestic it made his chest tighten.

And then he saw it. Yoongi stood at the stove, back turned, loose black t-shirt draping off one shoulder, hair still slightly damp from what must’ve been an early shower. His airpods were in, and he was bopping his head subtly. Nothing dramatic, just small, rhythmic nods as he moved between the counter and the stove. One pan was still on low heat, the remnants of oil and browned garlic clinging to it. On the counter beside him, two bowls were already plated, each neatly arranged with steaming white rice, slices of pan-fried spam, scrambled eggs cooked soft, and a drizzle of dark soy glaze on top.

The apartment was clean . Not just tidy but actually clean. The usually cluttered kitchen counter had been wiped down, no stray cups or empty snack wrappers in sight. The living area looked freshly organized, blankets folded neatly on the couch, remotes aligned like a display. And on the tiny dining table they almost never used, Taehyung spotted something new, a small glass vase, holding three fresh tulips. Pale yellow. Crisp green stems. Not extravagant, but thoughtful.

It nearly knocked the breath out of him. He hovered there, stunned and blinking, unsure if he was still half-dreaming. Yoongi turned around mid-step, one bowl in each hand, and jumped slightly when he saw him.

“Oh,” Yoongi muttered, quickly setting the bowls down on the table. He pulled out his airpods with a soft pop, giving Taehyung a sheepish glance. “You’re awake. Finally.”

His voice was low and slightly rough, as if he hadn’t spoken to anyone yet today. He tried for casualness, but there was an underlying tension in his shoulders, a flicker of nerves in the way his fingers tapped against the side of the bowl.

Taehyung blinked again, still rooted to the floor. “Nice hair,” Yoongi added, lips twitching in a smirk that betrayed how hard he was trying not to laugh.

Taehyung immediately ran a hand through the back of his head, patting at the tufts sticking up like he’d been electrocuted. “Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it.

He looked from Yoongi to the table, then back again. “What is this?”

Yoongi rubbed the back of his neck, his ears pink. “I wanted to do something nice,” he said simply.

And then, softer, more careful. “You were right. About me not putting in enough effort.” He gestured toward the table, then reached to adjust one of the bowls so it sat perfectly aligned with the other. “I wanted to make it up to you.”

There it was. No grand gesture. No dramatic apology. Just Yoongi, in his quiet, awkward way, doing something that meant more than anything Taehyung had expected.

And God, Taehyung’s chest ached with it. Because he knew how much effort this took. Not just the food, not just the flowers, but the act . Yoongi was a creature of habit and solitude, and here he was, in a clean apartment, cooking breakfast, and admitting he was wrong without sarcasm or deflection.

Taehyung stepped forward slowly, voice still soft with sleep. “You really did all this?”

Yoongi shrugged, half a smile forming. “Don’t get used to it.”

He reached out, fingers brushing Yoongi’s as he took the bowl from his hands, his eyes meeting his with a glint of something warm and quiet and blooming.

“Okay,” Taehyung murmured, trying to sound cooler than he actually was.

He started to notice the difference immediately. It wasn’t anything dramatic, no grand announcement, no scene-stealing PDA, but it was something. A shift. A soft recalibration of distance and presence. Like a door Yoongi had been keeping half-closed was finally creaking open, even if just a little.

They’d gone to the student bar that night, the one nestled in the back corner of campus with chipped walls and sticky tables, where the booths were too small and the beer always slightly too warm. Namjoon had messaged the group chat earlier that day, wanting a nice evening out despite being down two members.

joon: drinks? we need to celebrate surviving another week of academia

jinnie: fuck yeah 

kook: only if ur buying hyung

joon: :/

Taehyung, who was sprawled across Yoongi’s bed scrolling through his phone, just turned and asked if he was down. The older was led next to Taehyung on his macbook, back hunched like some sort of goblin as he fiddled around with Logic Pro. Despite the stubbornness of yesterday’s car ride, Yoongi wasn’t lying about getting stuff done for his music class.

He shrugged and said, “Sure.” 

tae : me and yoongs also say fuck yeah

jinnie: FUCK YEAH

Now, hours later, the bar hummed with low music and cheap beer breath, dim lighting making everything feel a little dreamier, a little fuzzier around the edges. The five of them were tucked into one of the booths near the back, Jeongguk and Seokjin squished on one side, already bickering over some inconsequential nonsense (who could down the most tequila shots right here right now?), Namjoon in the middle like a parent wedged between two chaotic children.

Yoongi sat beside Taehyung on the other side, nursing a half-drunk glass of soju mixed with something fizzy and citrus. He looked casual, but present. Taehyung tried not to stare, and he definitely tried not to flinch when, halfway through Seokjin’s rant about Jeongguk’s lack of self discipline, he felt Yoongi lean in.

It was subtle, just a small shift closer, but then came the real jolt— Yoongi’s hand, steady and warm, landed lightly on Taehyung’s thigh under the table.

It wasn’t suggestive. Nothing too heavy, just there. Casual, almost confident. The kind of touch you’d expect from someone who had done it a hundred times before. But for Taehyung, it was like his brain short-circuited. His spine straightened slightly, his knee twitched a little. His drink suddenly felt far too cold in his hand, like his nerves had been jolted awake all at once. He didn’t dare look over.

Yoongi didn’t say anything for a moment, his fingers resting just above Taehyung’s knee like it meant nothing, like it wasn’t the most intimate, grounding contact they’d had in public yet.

Then, as the chaos across the table grew, Seokjin jabbing a finger at Jeongguk, Jeongguk pretending to bite it, Namjoon sighing so hard his glasses nearly slid down his nose, Yoongi leaned closer, voice barely brushing Taehyung’s ear. “This okay?”

It wasn’t flirtatious. It was sincere. Soft. The question slipped between them like a secret, as if Yoongi was still learning, still unsure, but trying. And it made Taehyung’s chest bloom in a way he didn’t expect. He nodded, a little dumbly, eyes glued to the condensation on his glass. “Of course.”

It slipped out before he could stop it, natural and practiced because at the end of the day: they were putting on a performance.

He could feel Yoongi glance at him, probably gauging his expression, but Taehyung didn’t dare meet his eyes. Not when his face was heating up, not when his heart had decided to pick up speed like it was trying to get his attention. Yoongi just rolled his eyes a little, the smallest tug at the corner of his mouth giving him away. But his hand, still resting on the loose denim, didn’t move.

And Taehyung didn’t want it to.

-

Sunday was boring in the slow, cold, nothing-happening kind of way.

The apartment was quiet when Yoongi woke up, the kind of quiet that feels suspended in air, like time hadn’t quite decided to start yet. No sunlight pouring through the curtains, just that pale, gray April gloom that had blanketed Seoul for days now. He sat on the edge of his bed for a full five minutes before moving, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, hair flat on one side, still in the T-shirt he’d fallen asleep in after kicking off his socks and jeans sometime around 3 a.m. The clock blinked 11:43. He didn’t care.

There was no time for a real breakfast, not that he wanted one. He padded into the kitchen barefoot, cracked open the cereal box, and started eating dry flakes of corn straight from the bag. His fingers were cold, the tips stiff from sleeping with one arm under his pillow. He leaned against the counter as he chewed, eyes unfocused, mind already halfway underground on the subway to work.

Taehyung hadn’t stirred. His bedroom door stayed closed, and Yoongi didn’t bother checking. It wasn’t avoidance, it was just easier this way. He didn’t know how to follow up homemade breakfast and casual thigh touches in a crowded bar. So instead, he slipped out of the apartment like a ghost, the front door clicking shut behind him with practiced ease.

By the time he got to the Blairmont, he was running on autopilot. Black slacks, white button-up, beige cable-knit sweater layered on top to fight off the unseasonable April cold. He wore his heavier coat too, scarf looped loosely around his neck, still not quite awake. Seoul’s chill had sunk underground lately, clinging to the subway platforms with icy fingers, seeping into shoes and jacket sleeves like a warning that spring wasn’t ready to bloom yet.

He arrived on time, as always. The staff room was cramped and smelled faintly of bleach and laundry detergent, a small space carved behind the kitchen with rusty lockers and a busted vending machine that had been under repair since December. Yoongi hung up his coat on his usual hook, shrugging off the sweater too, and was halfway through pulling out his airpods when he heard a voice call across the room.

“Guess who got fired.”

It was Seungmin, the waiter who liked to sneak Yoongi food from the kitchen, slouched on the bench like a tired houseplant. Yoongi blinked at him, confused. He pulled one earbud out. “Hm?”

Seungmin looked far too pleased. “Eunji.”

Yoongi froze, brows lifting slowly as if the words were taking a second to fully process. “Our fucking boss?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, a rare flash of surprise lighting up his otherwise tired face.

Seungmin grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “Yup. Area manager came in. Said the work environment sucked.”

Yoongi blinked again, straightening up now, far more alert than he’d planned to be on a Sunday afternoon. “Wait. Are you serious?”

Seungmin nodded, legs swinging where he sat. “Apparently he did a walk-through during last night’s dinner service. I was here. Saw him talking to Eunji behind the counter. She looked like she’d swallowed a lemon.”

Yoongi tilted his head, interest piqued now. “Because we get a 15-minute break every six hours and don’t get dinner unless we beg the kitchen staff?”

Seungmin nodded smugly. “I know you’re twenty-two and hardened by capitalism or whatever, but for seventeen-year-old me, it’s basically breaking child labor laws.”

Yoongi huffed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here since I was a kid too, you know. Shame it took them this long to do something about it.”

Seungmin leaned back against the locker behind him, arms crossed. “We’re getting a new manager tomorrow. Rumor is it’s someone from HQ. Maybe they’ll actually care about human rights.”

Yoongi smirked, shaking his head as he picked up his piano folder from his locker. “Well, I hope they get me someone to massage my hands after every shift.”

“You think I’m joking,” Seungmin said, pointing at him, “but I will file a report if I don’t get ergonomic breaks.”

Yoongi snorted, shouldering his satchel. “God, you’re such a Gen Z.”

“Thank you for your service, Grandpa.” Despite himself, Yoongi was still grinning when he made his way out to the lobby, the velvet sheen of the grand piano already waiting under dim chandeliers.

By the time the old gold-framed clock in the Blairmont’s lobby hit six, Yoongi’s fingers were done . His knuckles ached, stiff from constant repetition, and the pads of his fingers felt raw, like the keys had stolen some layer of skin and soul from him. The soft-lounge playlist looped endlessly in his mind, the clink of silverware and murmured conversation from the hotel restaurant blending into a numbing buzz around him.

He finally stood from the piano bench after what felt like a lifetime, rolling his shoulders with a quiet groan, and approached the front of house desk to find his shift supervisor. With a tired glance and even more tired voice, he asked for a break, and for once, without the usual resistance or excuses, it was granted. Bless the era of post-Eunji management.

Yoongi didn’t waste a second. He practically shuffled back to the staffroom like a ghost in slacks, every joint cracking as he moved. Once inside, the warmth of the cramped room hit him all at once—the faint smell of instant noodles, floral hand sanitizer, and too much fabric softener lingering in the air. His coat still hung on the wall hook, and he immediately fished through its pockets to retrieve his phone and airpods.

God, he needed noise . Not piano, not ambient jazz. Just anything else .

He collapsed onto the tiny faux-leather sofa in the corner of the room, body curling up like a stray cat finally finding a warm patch of sun. His knees bent over one armrest, his shoulders slumping into the other. He let out a breath as he settled, phone screen lighting up in his hand.

His lockscreen was filled with a handful of familiar notifications:

joon: don’t forget i’m doing days 6-9 tomorrow

Joon: pls send me ur notes from the last few days

There were half-dozen TikToks from Jimin: mostly thirst traps and weird choreography, probably sent during airport layovers. Can't forget the Snapchat from Jeongguk: a blurry selfie with the caption “hyung he hasn't responded in 4 hours is he dead”

Yoongi smiled faintly at that one, thumbs lazily swiping through until he spotted the final notification.

Instagram: kimtaehyung tagged you in a story.

Yoongi blinked. Tapped it. The screen shifted to Taehyung’s story and suddenly, all the warmth in the staffroom felt like it was surging through his phone and directly into his chest.

It was a picture. A candid, definitely-not-posed photo taken from the night before at the student bar, clearly captured by Seokjin, judging by the off-center angle and how it caught them mid-laugh. Yoongi was leaning into Taehyung, their heads tilted toward one another like some slow-burning magnetic pull had drawn them together. Their hands were tucked beneath the table, hidden, but Yoongi remembered the moment, the soft brush of knuckles, the hand on his thigh, the way he couldn’t meet Taehyung’s eyes for more than two seconds without feeling short-circuited.

Yoongi wore a small, shy smile in the photo, his gaze cast downward like he was mid-thought. Taehyung, on the other hand, looked like he was lit from within. Beaming. Shoulders relaxed, eyes crinkled at the corners, the very definition of happy to be here.

There was no caption. Just a small, pink heart scribbled into the corner of the picture with Instagram’s drawing tool, messy, a little uneven. Real. They looked like an actual couple.

Yoongi stared at the image longer than he meant to. Something in his chest tugged gently, like a thread pulling through fabric. He didn’t know what exactly he was feeling, just that it was strange and soft and slightly terrifying. Like standing on the edge of something tall, not quite ready to jump but definitely leaning over the ledge to look.

He let the story play again. Then again. The second time, he noticed how close their heads really were. How Taehyung’s shoulders had angled protectively inward. He flipped back to his lock screen, thumb hovering before noticing the small cluster of unread texts that had slipped past his tired attention earlier.

tae: did u really leave without saying goodbye?

tae: not very boyfriend-like of you :/

Yoongi exhaled through his nose, half-amused, half-exasperated, and tapped into the thread. He could practically hear Taehyung’s tone behind those texts, feigned offense, that signature whiny tone paired with a pout. He could picture it clear as day: bedhead, one sock missing, eyes still soft from sleep as he stared at his phone.

yoongi: not my fault u were out like a light

The reply came almost instantly, the typing bubbles barely blinking before the text appeared.

tae: u know soju makes me sleepy

Yoongi snorted faintly, shaking his head and adjusting his position on the sofa. The ache in his fingers was still dull and persistent, but the warmth creeping into his chest was enough to ignore it.

yoongi: u barely sleep as it is. maybe u should drink it more often

tae: awww hyung that’s so caring of u :p

yoongi: im just being a loving boyfriend

It was a joke. Obviously. That’s all this was. Light teasing. Banter. The kind of sarcasm-laced flirting that had become the rhythm of their days lately.

tae: ok then loving boyfriend

tae: are u at work?

yoongi: unfortunately

yoongi: i get off at 9

tae: i’ll get u

tae: have u eaten?

yoongi: nah i have food at home

yoongi: thanks for the ride

It was a small thing. A text conversation. Meaningless, maybe. But Taehyung hadn’t needed to offer the ride. He didn't need to ask if Yoongi had eaten, or post that photo, or draw a damn heart in the corner of it. He didn’t need to keep showing up like this, offering pieces of himself without asking for much in return. The couch creaked beneath him. Somewhere down the hall, someone shouted for a table setting and Yoongi shut off his phone and closed his eyes.

They did their usual pickup-from-work routine and made it back to the apartment just after nine. The hallway was dim and quiet, the soft click of their door unlocking followed by the familiar, muted thud of Taehyung’s boots being kicked off. Yoongi trudged in behind him, his shoulder slumped beneath the strap of his piano bag, his entire body sagging with exhaustion. His sweater still smelled faintly like the polished wood of the hotel lobby and whatever floral detergent the Blairmont used on their tablecloths.

The ride home had been nice. Quiet, with a low hum of Taehyung’s playlist and a few soft exchanges about Yoongi’s shift. Nothing too deep, just the kind of casual comfort that settled in their bones now, like a second language. But now, back in their shared space, Yoongi felt the weight of the day crash down on him all at once. He could barely keep his eyes open. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and cease to exist for at least eight hours.

But his stomach had other plans. He made a slow beeline for the fridge, his limbs moving like he was underwater. The light from inside hit his face harshly as he opened  it, making him squint and grumble to himself. Inside was half a block of cheddar, a mostly empty jar of pasta sauce, and one sad, lonely tomato that looked like it had been forgotten sometime in mid-March.

Well. decision made.

There were a few other essentials too, nothing too fancy, some butter and cream and even some leafy greens that Yoongi purchased not too long ago. All because he had convinced himself that health was important and that if he didnt start eating vegetables soon, it probably would catch up on him.

Behind him, Taehyung collapsed onto the sofa with a satisfied oomph , his long frame sprawling across the cushions. His voice drifted lazily from the living area. “I’m gonna make ramen later.”

Yoongi barely heard him. He’d already turned to the stove, grabbing a pot with one hand and pouring water in with the other, yawning so hard it made his eyes tear up. The stove clicked to life with a quiet whoosh as he set the water to boil. From behind him, Taehyung grinned through his exhaustion. “You sure you’re not gonna fall asleep at your workstation, chef?”

Yoongi didn’t answer, just lifted one hand into the air and flipped him off, too tired to even glance over his shoulder.

Taehyung cackled , head lolling back over the sofa arm like he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world. “Poor baby,” he teased, sing-song. “All grumpy over some food. You get hangry, don’t you?”

Yoongi didn’t deny it. He shuffled back toward the counter and nodded sleepily, pouring a small mountain of penne into the boiling water before setting a saucepan on the next burner for the tomato sauce. His movements were sluggish but efficient, he had cooked in worse moods.

He stared at the bubbling water, zoning out slightly as the steam curled toward the ceiling. He didn’t know why he said it, maybe it was the comfort of the quiet around them, or maybe it was the image still replaying in his mind from earlier, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“Cute story, by the way.”

His voice was soft, casual. He didn’t turn around. Taehyung, mid-scroll on his phone, paused for just a second. His head turned toward the kitchen. “Huh?”

Yoongi kept stirring the sauce, eyes fixed on the slow spiral of red. “The picture. On your story.”

There was a pause. Then, slowly, a grin spread across Taehyung’s face, bright and sweet and so pleased. “It was a nice picture, right?” he said, a little smug but also genuine. “Seokjin sent it to me yesterday. We look like a couple.”

Yoongi grunted, which could have meant anything. But he didn’t say no . Didn’t protest. Didn’t deny it. And Taehyung’s grin only grew. Outside, the wind pressed against the windows softly. Inside, the room smelled like garlic and tomatoes and something quieter. Yoongi stirred the sauce again, his cheeks just slightly pink from the stove heat. Or maybe something else.

“You wanna help me cook dinner?”

Taehyung perked up immediately, neck craning over the back of the couch, curls flopping into his face, eyes wide and gleaming with curiosity.

“You sure you trust me in the kitchen?” he teased, already halfway grinning as he rolled off the sofa and padded over in his socks, his oversized sweatshirt swallowing his frame in a way that made him look absurdly soft.

Yoongi turned away slightly, feigning indifference. “I’m just… making an effort.”

He kept his tone flat, almost lazy, but he knew Taehyung could see right through it. The half-second pause, the way he was scared to make eye contact, the fact that he was offering to share his food— Yoongi, who barely let anyone touch his half of the fridge, who didn’t even like people near him when he cooked.

But Taehyung didn’t call him out on it. Instead, his smile faltered for just a moment. “I’m sorry about what I said on Friday.”

Now that wasn’t the response Yoongi was expecting. He stopped stirring the sauce for a moment, looking over to the younger with a hint of confusion on his face. “Friday?”

“Yes, Friday.” Taehyung murmured, now beginning to fidget with his fingers awkwardly. “In the car… about you not making enough effort.”

Oh. Yoongi didn’t really know how to respond to that. Because sure, that conversation wasn’t the most comfortable, but he kind of assumed it was needed.

Taehyung didn’t necessarily do anything wrong, he just aired an issue that was deemed important to him. This experiment was important to him. For some reason? A reason that Yoongi didn’t quite know. However, he wasn’t one to make assumptions, so he just shoved it away into a deep dark pit and was hoping it would never get brought up again.

So much for that.

Instead, Taehyung kept going. “You were doing exceptionally well for someone who has never done any of this before. We were doing this for five days and I unloaded on you and was being weird because I was feeling stressed about some stuff. That wasn’t right of me, and I’m just— god, I’m really sorry Yoongs.”

He blinked, the spoon dropping against the pot with a small clang. He never once considered that this was a situation worth apologising about, especially considering he also agreed with Taehyung about him not putting enough effort into this. Namjoon was their friend and despite the strange, academic situation he put them both in, Yoongi wanted to make a fair attempt for his thesis.

“Don’t apologise you idiot.” Yoongi sighed, watching as the other tilted his head. “You may be feeling stressed but I wasn’t exactly putting my walls down either, you know?”

“The walls shouldn’t have come down in the first place.”

“That isn’t something you get to decide.”

“You had them up before I went prying!”

“Maybe I liked that you pried!”

It came out sharper than Yoongi intended, and for a second, the kitchen went quiet. Just the hiss of the boiling pasta water, the quiet whir of the extractor fan above them, and the flickering of the broken light that hadn’t been fixed in over a semester.

The realisation dawned on Yoongi that this whole fake dating situation had become so domestic that they were now having a literal domestic. There. In the kitchen. Arguing like an old married couple about their boundaries and how much effort they were putting into this experiment.

Taehyung quietened down after that one, Yoongi sighing slightly as he leaned back over the stove. “I don't know what you’re going through, okay? I just know you as my dumb roommate who I’ve been stuck with since first year and now I’m being forced to be in a fake relationship with you.” He started, turning to face him. “I may have known you for two years but that doesn’t mean I really know you.”

“But—”

“But.” Yoongi interrupted, still gentle. “Just because I didn’t take the time to get to know you then, doesn’t mean I can’t try to get to know you now.”

“We’re coming up to day nine,” Yoongi said, his voice lower now, more thoughtful. “And I think that conversation we had in the car? It was the push I needed to get me out of my comfort zone. I know you feel bad but if we want to do this right, for Namjoon’s sake of course, I really needed to hear that.” He stepped back, picking up the spoon again, giving the sauce an absent stir. “So please, don’t apologise.”

Taehyung stood still for a moment, eyebrows knitted in surprise. His lips parted, like he was about to protest again, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he just nodded once. 

“Alright,” he said finally, voice low. “Okay.”

Yoongi glanced over, the tension still faint in the corners of his chest, but lighter now. He looked back at Taehyung and, in a rare act of levity, smirked slightly.

“Now come on, sous chef. I’ve got some jobs for you.”

Taehyung let out a weak laugh, stepping back into the moment, the weight of emotion settling into something manageable. “Sorry, chef. Got distracted by our emotional breakdown.”

“I’ll deduct your pay.”

“Wait, you’re getting paid?” Taehyung gasped, his eyes widening with fake betrayal.

“You think I’d cook for free in this economy?” And just like that, they slipped back into motion. Two pans on the stove. Two voices making noise. Two people trying. Yoongi side-eyed him, trying, failing , not to smile. “You can have some of this for dinner too. You can’t live on ramen forever.”

Taehyung pouted. “You take that back.”

“I’m serious,” Yoongi replied, reaching for the pasta spoon and giving the penne a quick stir in the bubbling water. “I think there’s shrimp in the freezer. You can boil them if you’d like.”

Taehyung didn’t hesitate. He spun around, practically bouncing toward the lower cabinet, pulling out a small pot and clattering it onto the stove with a proud, “Yes, chef. ”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, but there was a fondness in the curve of his mouth that he didn’t bother hiding this time.

They worked around each other with surprising ease. No bumping elbows, no clumsy messes. Just soft conversation and small, practiced movements. The kitchen was warm with steam and low lighting, and the hum of the fan above filled the silences between their exchanges, not awkward but peaceful. Natural.

Taehyung rummaged through the spice cabinet with dramatic flair, pulling out pepper flakes and waving them in the air. “A pinch of this for some flair,” he muttered, tossing some into the shrimp pot.

At one point, he leaned over the sauce Yoongi was still stirring and said, “You should add some cream. Make it velvety.”

Yoongi raised a brow. “You’re the one who lives on instant noodles.”

Taehyung shrugged with a smirk. “Even artists deserve luxury.”

And Yoongi let him. He reached into the fridge for the half-used carton of cream and handed it over without protest. Taehyung poured a gentle dollop into the saucepan, and they both watched as the vibrant red tomato sauce swirled into a soft coral, creamy and smooth.

“I think we just invented something,” He said, eyes gleaming.

“Yeah, it’s called pasta,” Yoongi deadpanned. Taehyung nudged him with his hip, laughing.

They moved around each other like this for the next twenty minutes, shoulders brushing, trading off tasks. Taehyung peeled garlic, Yoongi grated cheese. They talked about Jimin and Hoseok, still flooding their group chat with photos from Lisbon. They talked about Yoongi’s shift, his aching hands, and the new manager. It all slipped out easily, without overthinking, like breathing.

At one point, Yoongi caught himself mid-sentence, realising that Taehyung had stirred the shrimp into the sauce and was now plating their food with something almost ceremonial in his expression.. He grated some of the cheddar on top of the pasta as a garnish, like he was some michelin star chef. He was focused, not being loud or chaotic or teasing, just present.

It made something in Yoongi’s chest shift.

It was early Tuesday afternoon when Namjoon finally saved the last sentence of his production log, fingers aching from the hours of uninterrupted typing. He’d written it with his usual academic rigor, but this time there was a weight behind his words, a quiet, internal giddiness.

His theory was working. Not just in a vague, conceptual way, but in the observable, data-backed, emotionally complicated way that made real psychology tick.

He closed his laptop with a satisfied click, glancing up to where Taehyung and Yoongi were standing by the door of the spare classroom he’d booked for their routine check-in. Namjoon stood, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, and the second he stepped toward them, Taehyung was already in motion, reaching down to grab Yoongi’s hand without hesitation, their fingers intertwining like it was muscle memory now. Yoongi didn’t flinch, didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t pull away. His thumb even brushed once, across Taehyung’s knuckle.

Namjoon had to fight the smile tugging at his mouth.

“You guys are doing amazing. No— more than amazing,” he said, his voice fast and full of quiet disbelief as they exited the classroom together. “Seriously, we’re not even halfway through the thirty days yet, and my experiment is already proving so many things about my theory.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the fringe that always curled when he was stressed or overexcited. “I mean, look at you. The physicality, the shift in communication patterns, the behavioral intimacy. It's a textbook.”

Taehyung grinned and squeezed his hand. “Hear that, Yoongs? We’re scientific prodigies.”

Yoongi’s lips curled at the corner, that dry amusement in his expression softening into something closer to fondness. “Maybe we’ll get a shoutout when Joon wins a Nobel Prize.”

The other laughed, soft and unguarded, the sound echoing gently in the hallway as they passed rows of empty classrooms.

Namjoon rolled his eyes, groaning like a tired father herding two mischievous kids. “You’re joking now, but I’m telling you, this is serious stuff. You two have never acted like this before. I have footage, timelines, social media references— notes . You’re closer now than you’ve ever been, and I’m definitely proving a point.”

He paused, watching the way Taehyung leaned a little closer as they walked, the way Yoongi let it happen. There was no stiffness anymore, no visible discomfort or dramatics. Just something that looked alarmingly like ease . “You’re starting to act like a real couple,” he added quietly, almost more to himself than to them.

Neither of them responded immediately. Taehyung hummed under his breath and bumped his shoulder against Yoongi’s. Yoongi just raised an eyebrow and murmured, “Whatever you say, Professor.”

But Namjoon didn’t miss the flicker in Yoongi’s eyes. Something was shifting. Whether they knew it yet or not.

Chapter Text

The morning had unfolded slowly, sunlight filtering into Seoul through a misty veil, casting long, streaky shadows on the pavement. It was the kind of day where the world looked golden but still felt cold, the sun deceptive against the spring chill. Yoongi had thrown on one of his cardigans, sleeves far too long, and packed himself into the corner of his lecture room just before the class began, his thermos still half-full of lukewarm coffee and his backpack drooping against the side of his chair.

It had been ten days. Ten days since Namjoon pulled them aside and laid out his half-mad, half-genius plan on a laminated table in the student cafeteria. Now here they were. Ten days of holding hands, eating in cars, sneaking glances at each other in their own apartment, and slowly but surely folding themselves into some strange version of what looked like love. Or something like it.

And surprisingly, Yoongi wasn’t exhausted by it.

He was still himself, low-energy, cynical, reticent, but somewhere between Taehyung’s stubborn grins and their late-night drives home from work, a rhythm had formed. A kind of quiet intimacy that didn’t feel like a performance anymore. Just Yoongi and Taehyung. Just… them. Flatmates, sure. Friends, maybe. Partners? Well, sort of. Kind of. In theory.

He was mid-way through not paying attention to his professor’s monologue on harmonic language in Romantic compositions when his phone buzzed softly against his thigh. Yoongi flicked his eyes up once, Professor Choi still buried in a PowerPoint slide, then ducked his head, discreetly unlocking his screen beneath the lip of the desk.

tae: ur in room 204 right

Yoongi’s eyebrow twitched.

yoongi: stalker

tae: u have ur timetable on the pinboard in ur room

yoongi: double stalker

tae: hyung shut up
tae: i come bearing gifts

Yoongi tilted his head back against the wall behind him, smothering a smile into his sleeve. Typical. So very Taehyung. Always showing up just when Yoongi started to forget this experiment wasn’t supposed to feel easy.

yoongi: oh?

He stared at the message for a beat longer, the small bubble of curiosity blooming quietly in his chest.

This was the Taehyung method. These small gestures. The croissant that one morning. Picking him up from work without asking. Posting that stupid, but admittedly sweet, photo on Instagram with the pink heart drawn in the corner. He was consistent, steady in the way he showed he cared. Even if Yoongi tried to brush it off with sarcasm or grumbles, it still got to him.

And now, with his phone in his palm and the sunlight making patterns across the scratched desk, Yoongi found himself doing the one thing he rarely let himself do, he started overthinking. Because no matter how good things felt lately, how seamless their routine was, how their fights had shifted into conversations, how the silence between them had softened instead of thickened, Yoongi couldn’t shake the feeling that he still wasn’t doing good enough.

Taehyung had always been the one to initiate—hand-holding, pet names, checking in, showing up. And even when Yoongi did try, like when he asked him to cook together or let his hand rest on Taehyung’s thigh at the bar, it still felt like a reaction. Not a lead.

And Yoongi hated that. Hated the idea of being the weak link in something that, while fake, mattered. Not just to Namjoon. Not just to the experiment. But maybe to Taehyung, too. It was a weird thing to care about. Because none of this was real.

Still, he found his fingers tapping again.

yoongi: what kind of gifts
yoongi: don’t say love and affection

tae: can’t a boy just do something nice?
tae: u better be outside the building in 3 minutes or i’m throwing it in the trash

Yoongi rolled his eyes. But he was already packing his things.

The moment the lecture hall bell chimed, an immediate wave of movement surged through the room. Yoongi moved slower than most, always unhurried, always at his own pace. He slung his bag over one shoulder with a quiet sigh, glancing down to make sure his phone was still in his pocket, Taehyung’s texts still fresh in his mind.

When he stepped out into the hallway, the mid-afternoon sun filtered weakly through the narrow vertical windows, casting bars of light across the tight space. Taehyung was leaning against the wall like he belonged there, like the corridor itself was a runway and he’d claimed it just by standing still.

He looked as annoyingly good as always. Oversized black hoodie, his favorite chunky sneakers, soft curls that framed his face just a little too perfectly for someone who claimed he just rolled out of bed. He held an iced americano in one hand, Yoongi’s favorite, Yoongi’s specific order, while lazily scrolling on his phone with the other. Completely unbothered. As if he hadn’t orchestrated this entire coffee-and-boyfriend-interception like it was nothing.

Yoongi couldn’t help the way the corner of his mouth lifted as he approached. Taehyung looked up from his phone, and the grin he offered was immediate, radiant, like he’d been waiting for this very moment. “There’s my academic weapon,” he teased, pushing off the wall with a little bounce and holding the cup out toward him. “Got you your favorite.”

Yoongi accepted it without hesitation, fingers brushing Taehyung’s as he took the cold drink. The cup was sweating, the straw already poked in, ice still clinking faintly with every tilt. He raised an eyebrow, a smile lingering on his lips. “And how, exactly, did you afford this?”

Taehyung tilted his chin up, the picture of smug pride. “Jeongguk bought it for me,” he said simply, like it was the most logical answer in the world.

Yoongi blinked once, then laughed. A soft, huffed sort of thing that escaped before he could rein it in. “And they say romance is dead.”

Taehyung’s grin widened. “Tragic, isn’t it? All I had to do was compliment his arms and boom, free caffeine.”

“Whoring yourself out for coffee now?” Yoongi took a sip from the straw, the familiar taste instantly waking up his senses, crisp and bitter and sweet in the way he liked. “He’s a taken boy Taehyungie, be careful.”

“I prefer to think of it as emotional bartering.”

They fell into step together, side by side as they moved down the hall and out of the building’s main doors. The spring air was cool but kind, brushing through Yoongi’s sweater like a soft exhale. The campus was alive around them, students sprawled on benches, skateboards rattling past, someone playing music in the distance with a bluetooth speaker too loud for decency.

Yoongi took another sip of his iced americano as they ambled toward the main path, his fingers brushing against Taehyung’s once… twice… and then staying there. Without a word, Taehyung slipped his hand into Yoongi’s, their fingers locking together easily, without tension or hesitation. It had become muscle memory by now. Not a performance. Just a habit.

Yoongi’s thumb skimmed the inside of Taehyung’s knuckle, subtle and fleeting, but there all the same. “I don’t have work tonight,” He mumbled, eyes squinting slightly in the sunlight.

“Oh?” Taehyung replied, voice instantly bright with interest. “I like where this is going,” he added, grinning, his fingers tightening slightly as if that alone could keep Yoongi anchored by his side.

Yoongi glanced at him, the corners of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. “Wanna go to the movie theatre?” he asked quietly, like it wasn’t a big deal— even though it kind of was.

Taehyung stopped walking for a beat, lifting an eyebrow with theatrical flourish, then widening his eyes dramatically. “Is Min Yoongi himself asking me out on a date?”

He ducked his head immediately, eyes hitting the pavement as color prickled at his ears. “Don’t be a dick.”

But the younger was already beaming, the way he always did when he was pleased beyond words, biting his lower lip like he could barely contain the joy bubbling in his chest. “It only took you ten days,” he teased, bouncing slightly as they resumed walking.

Yoongi scoffed and took another sip of his drink just to avoid saying something flustered. “I can take back this offer right now if I wanted to.”

“Nope. Too late,” Taehyung said smugly, swinging their joined hands a little as they walked. “It’s written in the stars now. Fated.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but he couldn’t suppress the smile that had crept up slowly. Quiet and sincere, tugging at his lips like it had every right to be there.

“Can you buy me popcorn?” Taehyung asked sweetly, already milking the role of doted-on boyfriend for all it was worth.

Yoongi shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

Taehyung grinned, giddy like a kid promised a trip to the fair. He gave Yoongi’s hand a squeeze, then another, and gently tugged him forward, walking faster now in the direction of their apartment. His energy was contagious, light and unburdened.

“You’re the best fake boyfriend ever,” he said through a lopsided grin, glancing at Yoongi like he already knew he was winning.

Yoongi shook his head, cheeks still flushed from earlier, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he walked a little closer. And if he held Taehyung’s hand a little tighter too— well, that wasn’t in the experiment outline.

But maybe it should’ve been.

-

The apartment was not supposed to be this full.

When Yoongi trudged back home after class with his half-finished iced americano and the blissful plan of zoning out with his laptop and procrastinating over the song he still hadn’t composed for his Friday deadline, he thought the rest of his day would be quiet. Peaceful. Just him, Taehyung, and maybe some mild pre-movie banter over who would pay for snacks.

But then the doorbell rang.

First came Jeongguk, uninvited, looking like a kicked puppy and muttering something about “emotional neglect” now that Hoseok was across Europe. Then came Namjoon, who claimed he desperately needed to make “real-time observations” for the experiment, notebook in hand like a nosy dad documenting mating patterns in the wild. Five minutes later Seokjin texted “on my way up” like he’d already been buzzed in (he had, by Jeongguk), and now the world’s most chaotic boy band was sprawled across Yoongi’s and Taehyung’s apartment like it was a hotel suite.

It was supposed to be a normal Wednesday.

“You’re taking him to a horror movie?” Seokjin asked, amused, head resting comfortably in Namjoon’s lap while he scrolled through his phone like he didn’t just bulldoze his way into someone else’s home. “Really whipped, Yoongi-ah. Embarrassing.”

“I’m not whipped,” Yoongi mumbled, arms crossed as he leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping the last watery remnants of his americano.

“Sure,” Jeongguk chimed from the fridge like he paid rent, pulling out a little box of apple juice and piercing it with the attached straw like a raccoon in someone else’s garbage. “Taking him on a date when you’ve never dated anyone before? Whipped.”

Yoongi scowled. “Did I say you could have that?”

Jeongguk stared him dead in the eye as he sipped, now making his way to sit on the sofa. “What’s mine is yours, bro. We’re one big communal family now.”

Taehyung finally emerged from the hallway, his hair damp from the shower and sticking softly to his forehead. He was in sweatpants and one of Yoongi’s old, oversized music festival t-shirts that he’d definitely stolen a few months ago. At one point in his life, Yoongi hated that Taehyung nabbed it. Now he doesn’t really mind that much.

He padded into the room with all the grace of a sleepy cat and yawned, stretching lazily as he stepped between them.

“Don’t be such an ass, baby,” he said casually, patting Yoongi’s stomach as he passed by and flopping onto the armrest of the sofa next to Jeongguk. “Jeongguk is our guest.”

Yoongi blinked. “I’m not being an ass,” he muttered, just as Namjoon scribbled something into his little notebook with the intensity of someone watching a science experiment go up in flames.

Yoongi turned his focus toward Seokjin and Namjoon, who were curled up like a rom-com couple in the corner of the couch, Namjoon dissecting social behaviors like it was Nobel-worthy.

“What’s wrong with a horror movie?” Yoongi asked defensively, adjusting his sweater sleeves.

Seokjin didn’t even glance up. “Do you not remember what Taehyung was like when we watched The Conjuring together last semester?”

“That’s not fair!” Taehyung said, immediately on edge, sitting up straighter. “Jimin kept touching my neck— it was freaking me out!”

“You screamed into the popcorn bowl,” Jeongguk added helpfully, slurping his juice like a child in a daycare. “Like inside the popcorn bowl. I had to eat around your trauma.”

Taehyung narrowed his eyes at him. “You're just mad because I flinched so hard I knocked over your Mountain Dew.”

“Exactly!” Jeongguk said, gesturing dramatically with the juice box. “You owe me a 1500 won and a dry hoodie.”

Namjoon looked over his glasses, finally chiming in with a faux-serious tone. “Technically, this is excellent for the experiment. Couple bonding through fear. Oxytocin levels increase in response to shared adrenaline spikes.”

“Yeah,” Seokjin deadpanned, still scrolling, “unless Taehyung goes into cardiac arrest and Yoongi has to perform CPR.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “I don’t even know CPR.”

“Oh, so when I die you’re just going to let it happen?” Taehyung grumbled, severely unimpressed. “You are a horrible boyfriend.”

“Correction, I would be a horrible friend because we are not dating and none of this is real.” He countered, eyes flickering to the rest of the group. “You want me to makeout with you to save your life?”

“Yes!” Taehyung huffed from the sofa, still clearly offended by this hypothetical situation “And I expect you to enjoy it.”

That earned a few laughs from the group, Yoongi glaring at each member on his couch like they were the jury in some court case. “Whatever.” He sighed, leaning back further against the counter.

Seokjin, Jeongguk, and Namjoon said in unison: “Whipped.”

Taehyung was beaming now, utterly delighted, legs swinging slightly off the edge of the sofa. He looked way too pleased with how this entire ambush was unfolding. “You’re all just jealous I have the best fake boyfriend in the world. One who would drop everything and touch lips with me.” he sang, leaning back and batting his lashes obnoxiously.

Yoongi stayed planted against the kitchen countertop like it was anchoring him to reality, arms crossed over his chest, watching as the rest of the boys made themselves disturbingly at home on the couch he and Taehyung once, once, called theirs. Now it looked more like a frat den: Jeongguk’s juice box on the coffee table, Seokjin’s shoes kicked off like he lived there, Namjoon with his little notebook resting on one knee like he was about to moderate a panel discussion. And it wasn’t even 5p.m.

Yoongi huffed quietly, choosing to ignore Taehyung completely, and muttered “I actually love horror movies.”

That earned him a round of skeptical looks. Jeongguk was the first to recover, eyebrows raised as he took another smug sip of his apple juice. “Weirdo,” he said without missing a beat.

Yoongi blinked. “Why is that weird?”

Seokjin, still luxuriously draped across Namjoon’s lap, smirked. “Because nobody should like horror. You probably have some twisted mind. Do you also enjoy being chased down dark hallways or seeing creepy kids whisper in corners?”

“I think it’s cool,” Yoongi defended, eyes narrowing slightly. “You guys are just babies.”

“Excuse me?” Taehyung scoffed from the other end of the couch, where he was now curled into the corner, legs tucked under him. “ Babies? ”

Yoongi’s expression didn’t budge. “Especially you.”

That made Taehyung sit up straighter, expression turning dramatic, as always, eyes gleaming with performative offense. “Just you wait, hyung. When we get in that theatre, I’ll prove to you I’m not a scaredy cat.”

Yoongi’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. The idea of Taehyung sitting beside him, knuckles white around the armrest and face buried in his shoulder at the first jump scare, was already playing in his mind like a reel. He almost challenged him then and there— we’ll see how brave you are when the lights go out —but the moment was derailed by Jeongguk, who suddenly shot up from the couch like he’d been electrocuted.

“Shit,” he exclaimed, fumbling with his phone, “Hoseok is FaceTiming me! BRB!”

And with that, he darted out of the living room, already holding the phone to his ear as he disappeared down the hallway, clearly on a mission to invade Taehyung’s bedroom and claim the sacred privacy of long-distance boyfriend calls.

There was a long pause. And then Yoongi, deadpan as ever, gestured vaguely toward the hallway and drawled, “And you guys call me the whipped one?”

Taehyung snorted, eyes creasing into a grin as he shook his head, clearly enjoying himself far too much. Namjoon didn’t even look up from his notes. “I’ve been collecting data on Jeongguk’s descent into boyfriend dependency. I think I need a separate thesis.”

Seokjin grinned and patted Namjoon’s knee like a proud professor. “You should title it Hoseok’s Not Even Gone and This Kid’s Already Melting. ”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but the curve of his smile betrayed him. And behind it all, across the room, Taehyung just looked at him with that soft, amused gaze he always had when Yoongi was trying not to care but obviously did.

“Don’t worry,” Taehyung said, voice low and sweet as he leaned a little to the side. “After tonight, you’ll be the one clinging to me. ”

Yoongi didn’t believe that for a second.

-

He hadn’t paid much attention to what movie they were seeing. Horror, sure. That was the only real requirement. Yoongi wasn’t picky, he liked the genre well enough. It was the ambience of it all that pulled him in more than the plot, shadowy lighting, eerie music, quiet moments that made your skin crawl. That, and the excuse to sit in the dark for two hours beside someone warm. It wasn’t until they stepped up to the movie theatre counter that the title made itself known.

“Two tickets for Inheritance of Evil, please,” Yoongi murmured to the guy behind the desk, voice steady and polite in that blank tone he used with strangers. The employee tapped away at his tablet with mechanical efficiency.

“Near the back if that’s okay,” Yoongi added.

The guy nodded. “Not a problem.”

Beside him, Taehyung was noticeably quieter than usual. He was fidgeting again, hands tucked into the sleeves of his bomber jacket, eyes darting between the neon-lit snack menu overhead and the display rack of candy and overpriced nachos.

It wasn’t his usual I’m excited and need to move or I’ll explode kind of fidgeting. This was subtler. Shoulders a little hunched. A half-bitten lip. A small bounce of his foot that didn’t sync with the blaring theatre music.

Yoongi cut his gaze sideways, watching him for a second longer than he meant to. He remembered Taehyung’s smug declaration back at the apartment, “I’ll prove to you I’m not a scaredy cat,” but right now, Taehyung looked less like someone ready to dominate a horror movie and more like someone debating the consequences of peeing his pants in public.

The guy behind the counter looked up. “You guys want any snacks?”

“Oh—” Yoongi blinked, refocusing. “Yeah. Uh, large popcorn. Extra butter. Two slurpees, blueberry and raspberry mixed in both.”

He said it all without pause, like he’d rehearsed it. And maybe he had. Maybe he’d memorized Taehyung’s favourite mix back when they all went to the movies last summer and Taehyung slurped his brain into a headache halfway through Top Gun . Maybe he’d remembered Taehyung sneakily brushing off his fingers on his jeans because Yoongi was a popcorn hoarder and wouldn’t share fairly. Maybe Yoongi remembered everything.

His gaze shifted to the candy rack beside them where Taehyung was eyeing a pack of chocolate peanut butter cups like they held the secrets of the universe. “You want those too?” Yoongi asked gently.

Taehyung blinked, like he’d been caught thinking too hard, then looked up at him with hesitant eyes. “You sure?”

Yoongi nodded, already reaching for them. “Yeah.”

He plucked the candy off the rack, added it to the pile, and the theatre worker scanned them with the same detached cheerfulness he offered every couple on a weeknight date.

“That’ll be 59,000 won,” he said flatly.

Yoongi didn’t even flinch. He slipped his card out of his wallet, tapped it on the machine, and waited for the beep. Maybe it was a little pricey. But for once, he was the one doing the thing— initiating, paying, leading. This whole fake boyfriend role had been something Taehyung had driven so far, and Yoongi had mostly coasted behind. But now? He was trying. He really wanted to try.

As the worker started filling the slurpees, the sound of syrup machines humming in the background, Taehyung leaned in slightly, close enough for his voice to barely carry over the noise.

“Thanks for paying,” he said, quiet but not shy, more genuine than anything else.

Yoongi shrugged like it was no big deal, though his ears warmed. “I’m taking you out, so…”

There was something in the other’s eyes then, something soft and fond and not entirely fake, that made Yoongi feel like the theatre lights weren’t the only thing flickering.

The theatre was blissfully underpopulated, and Yoongi couldn’t have been more relieved. He hated crowded screenings. The sticky floors, elbow room wars, people whispering behind him like it was a goddamn picnic. But this? This was perfect.

They took their seats in the second-to-last row, right in the center, where the screen looked panoramic and the world felt miles away. Yoongi placed the bucket of popcorn between them like a makeshift border and handed Taehyung his slurpee and candy. The peanut butter cups crinkled softly in their packaging as Taehyung tucked them into the cup holder beside him, his knee bouncing subtly in anticipation.

He took a moment to scan the room. A couple three rows ahead and to the right were tangled into each other, the guy’s hand already creeping up the other’s sleeve like they weren’t in public. Taehyung noticed it too and rolled his eyes, mumbling something under his breath that sounded like “get a room.” Yoongi smirked.

Further down, a group of teenage boys in neon shoes were chucking popcorn at each other, giggling every time one missed and smacked someone’s head. And just off to the left, two mid-twenties guys were scrolling through their phones with zero regard for the fact that the previews were almost over. Yoongi’s jaw clenched slightly at that, sacrilege, really.

But none of it mattered once the lights dimmed further and the opening titles of Inheritance of Evil began to crawl ominously across the screen.

The first fifteen minutes were uneventful, at least for Yoongi. A slow burn. Some eerie music, dark corridors, creaking floorboards. Classic setup. The occasional flicker of a figure in the mirror or a door creaking open a second too late to be natural. Yoongi sat comfortably, arms crossed loosely, eyes trained ahead.

But Taehyung? He was different.

At first, he seemed fine, staring ahead, pupils wide with focus, sipping his slurpee loudly as if the noise could drown out the tension in the soundtrack. He reached into the popcorn bucket frequently, too frequently , and Yoongi realized it wasn’t hunger but distraction . A comfort routine. Hands busy, mouth occupied, senses diverted. Yoongi watched him in his periphery, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

Then came the first real jump scare. A grotesque figure suddenly flashed across the screen with a distorted scream and a sharp cut to black.

It wasn’t even the scariest thing Yoongi had ever seen, but Taehyung flinched so hard he nearly kneed the popcorn bucket into his own chest. The bucket wobbled. Yoongi blinked. Taehyung froze like a deer caught in the projector light.

Yoongi turned his head slightly. “You doing alright?” he asked, keeping his voice low, more amused than concerned, for now.

Taehyung snapped his eyes to him, lips tight. “I’m fine,” he said too quickly, too high-pitched. It was the verbal equivalent of a dog growling with its tail tucked between its legs.

Yoongi didn’t press it, just raised an eyebrow and turned back to the screen.

Which, of course, was a mistake. Because not ten seconds later, the real scare came— a sharp zoom-in on a shadowy hallway, sudden silence, and then bam , a horrifying figure lunging from the ceiling like a spider, face twisted, sound design sharp and piercing.

Taehyung let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-squeak, and ducked down instinctively. His body curved behind the popcorn bucket like it was a bulletproof shield, his head practically in his lap. Yoongi didn’t even flinch.

He blinked slowly and turned to look at him, brows raised with a mix of sympathy and amusement. “Tae,” he leaned in slightly, whispering, “we can leave if you want.”

The other boy’s head snapped up. His hair was slightly tousled from his dramatic flinch, eyes wide and dark. “I’m fine,” he insisted again, voice stubborn this time, even though his whole body was vibrating like a tuning fork.

Yoongi squinted at him, unconvinced. His heart wasn’t made of stone, even if he acted like it was. “You look like you’re seconds away from crawling into my shirt,” he murmured.

Taehyung scowled, cheeks tinged red in the low theatre light. “Shut up.”

Yoongi didn’t say anything more. Just smiled faintly, eyes back on the screen, but his arm drifted ever so slightly along the back of Taehyung’s seat. Not quite touching. Not quite not touching. A silent offer.

And when the next scare came, Taehyung didn’t duck behind the popcorn, he leaned just slightly toward Yoongi instead.

“You’re actually a weirdo for liking this stuff,” He mumbled, his voice barely above the ambient noise of creaking floorboards and eerie whispers leaking from the theatre’s speakers. His shoulder pressed softly against Yoongi’s now, no hesitation in the lean, just a gentle, natural shift. Like it wasn’t even a conscious decision. Like his body had decided that this was safer before his mind could catch up.

Yoongi tilted his head slightly, amused. His lips curled faintly as he exhaled a silent breath of laughter through his nose. Movie etiquette, he reminded himself. Even in the middle of the fake world they were building together, some things were sacred. No full-blown chuckles, no whispered commentary, just enough of a reaction to let Taehyung know he’d heard him.

“I like them because they’re some of the hardest movies to pull off,” Yoongi whispered back, voice low and steady, his mouth close enough to Taehyung’s ear that he felt more than heard the words. “The fact you’re reacting this way over fiction means the director did a good job.”

Taehyung scrunched his nose and squinted at the screen like he was forcing himself to appear brave. “I think it just means I’m a pussy,” he muttered, the edges of his voice touched with self-deprecating humor. He didn’t sound ashamed, just tired of pretending.

Yoongi bit down on the inside of his cheek, his smile still playing across his lips. He didn’t answer that. Didn’t need to. Because of course Taehyung would try to joke his way out of his nerves. He was built on theatrics and over-exaggerated grins, the kind of guy who threw himself into the world like a lightning bolt and made everything crackle. Even when he was scared, he made it look like an act.

But Yoongi could tell the difference now. This wasn’t a bit. He wasn’t faking how tight his shoulders were or how he winced slightly before every scene cut. He wasn’t pretending when he paused before reaching into the popcorn like he was bracing himself for another scream. And he definitely wasn’t pretending when he subtly leaned more into Yoongi’s side after every scare.

Yoongi tried to focus on the screen again, tried to keep his eyes trained on the ghostly figure flickering at the edge of a bedroom door. He told himself he was going to get through the rest of this movie without glancing at Taehyung again. It was stupid. Counterproductive. Incredibly unscientific.

And yet, Taehyung shifted beside him, just slightly, adjusting his slurpee in the cupholder so it didn’t vibrate during a low rumble in the soundtrack. His thigh brushed Yoongi’s for a second too long.

Yoongi peeked.

It wasn’t much. Just a quick flicker of his gaze in Taehyung’s direction. But what he saw was endearing. Painfully, utterly, endearing. His brows were still knitted tightly, his lips pursed like he was trying to pretend the tension in his jaw wasn’t there. One hand hovered near the popcorn, paused mid-air. The other was curled into the sleeve of his own sweatshirt, like he was grounding himself with cotton and quiet. Yoongi smiled again. Couldn’t help it.

The movie played on, louder now, the scares building up, the tension tightening, but Yoongi barely noticed. His focus was split. Half on the screen, half on the boy beside him who said he wasn’t scared but leaned a little closer with every scene. And maybe, Yoongi liked horror movies for a completely different reason now.

-

Taehyung slammed the thin stack of paper onto the counter of The Daily Grind like he was laying down a royal flush in poker, not a hastily stapled CV that still had a typo in the first paragraph.

His eyes were wide with desperate optimism, an expression that might’ve worked on most people, but not on Kim Seokjin, who was currently finishing a delicate heart atop a latte foam with the concentration of a surgeon and the emotional resilience of someone who’d already worked three double shifts this week.

Seokjin didn’t even flinch. He side-eyed the application without pausing his wrist, as if the presence of Taehyung’s resume was a minor inconvenience, like a spilled sugar packet on the countertop. “That’s cute, Tae,” he said, lips barely moving. “But no.”

Taehyung gawked. “What— why?!”

Seokjin smiled sweetly at the customer waiting for the latte, handed over the cup with a polite nod, and only then turned to face Taehyung fully. His expression was equal parts affection and exasperation, like a tired older brother who knew better than to coddle someone who’d made his own bed, especially if that bed was made of overdue rent, ghosted drug dealers, and bad decisions.

Taehyung huffed and slumped against the counter, his oversized hoodie sagging at the shoulders as he planted his chin in one hand, looking like the picture of dramatized defeat.

It was the day after his horror movie date with Yoongi— date, he repeated in his head, questioning if it even happened. The movie had been terrifying (to him), but the night hadn’t been a disaster. If anything, it had been kind of nice. He got through the film without passing out, Yoongi bought him snacks, and they even debriefed under the comforting glow of Below Deck back at the apartment like it was their post-date ritual. It felt weirdly normal.

But then came today.

Yoongi had gone off to his part-time job at the Blairmont, like the responsible human he was, and Taehyung had been left to stew in his own anxiety about his current financial state, aka: absolute ruin. Eunwoo still hadn’t texted him since their meetup behind the bikeshed, which was either a good thing or a very bad thing . Either way, time was slipping.

So he spent the entire afternoon doing what he should’ve done months ago . He printed off copies of his less-than-stellar CV (which still had “hobbies: late-night photography and social activities” listed under interests) and started making the rounds, dropping them off at every café, convenience store, bookstore, and bubble tea spot within a 2-mile radius of campus.

The Daily Grind was his first stop. The Mecca of student coffee consumption. A familiar spot filled with warm light, mellow playlists, and overpriced oat milk lattes. He could already imagine himself behind the counter, wearing a dumb apron, drawing hearts in foam like Seokjin, flirting for tips, pocketing leftover pastries at the end of the night. It was perfect.

Except for the small detail of Seokjin standing between him and this fantasy, arms crossed, expression unmoved.

“Seokjin, please,” Taehyung said, his voice dropping to a pleading murmur. “I really need the money.”

The older boy softened, just a little. His shoulders lowered. He leaned forward with his palms on the counter, lowering his voice, “I know. Believe me, I do know. But we’re not hiring. We’re barely surviving off the staff we’ve got, and my manager won’t approve extra hours for anyone unless someone quits. Which isn’t happening unless I start poisoning people.”

Taehyung’s lips parted. “Would that help?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

There was a long pause, the ambient hum of the espresso machine filling the silence. Seokjin reached forward and flipped through Taehyung’s resume anyway, as if humoring him would soften the blow. “You listed your last job as ‘voluntary emotional support to Jimin Park during his monthly breakdowns.’”

Taehyung tilted his head proudly. “It’s an unpaid internship.”

Seokjin sighed so deeply it might’ve carried across the café. “Tae, I love you, but unless your CV includes a miracle or a threat to corporate, I really can’t do anything.”

Taehyung nodded slowly, lips pursed in disappointment. He felt a flicker of shame twist inside his chest, how had he let it get this bad? How had he gone from the most reckless, carefree person in the group to the one handing out job applications like he was auditioning for a second chance?

He pushed off the counter and slid his CV back across it, defeated.

“I’ll try the vape store next.”

“Jesus,” Seokjin muttered.

As Taehyung turned toward the door, Seokjin called after him, voice softer. “Hey.”

He glanced over his shoulder.

“You’re trying,” Seokjin said. “That counts for something.”

Taehyung nodded once. Quietly. And then he left. Resume in hand. Shoulders a little lower. Not just because he didn’t get the job, but because for the first time in a while, it was starting to feel like the consequences were catching up with him.

The guilt was eating him up alive, and it was making matters worse knowing that he couldn't confide in a single person about this mess. When he facetimed Hoseok the other night, he choked and couldn’t get the words out despite it being the perfect opportunity for him to come clean to someone. His friends could not know, his grandmother back in Daegu definitely could not know, and for the love of god— his unproblematic lovely fake boyfriend most certainly could not know.

Long story short though, the evening was a bust. Taehyung didn’t get a single bite.

The vape store clerk had looked him up and down with a smirk, squinting behind the glass display like he was trying to figure out if Taehyung was actually a high schooler in disguise. “You look like you should be the one getting ID’d, not selling it,” the guy had said, flipping his resume over like there might be a hidden credential on the back. There wasn’t. Just a light coffee stain and a corner that had folded in on itself.

The boba tea shop had been worse, polite, but firm. “Sorry, we’re fully staffed.” The girl at the counter smiled too sweetly for someone crushing his dreams.

And the pizzeria on the corner had barely glanced at his resume before the guy behind the counter, who looked like he’d been tossing dough since the beginning of time, raised an unimpressed eyebrow and grunted, “You ever worked in food service before?”

Taehyung had opened his mouth to lie, but his silence answered for him.

So no. No job. No luck. No time. It was all spiraling, and the pressure coiled tighter in his chest with every rejection. Like a rope slowly pulling him underwater. Every day felt like it ticked closer to something ugly, something unavoidable.

Somewhere out there, Eunwoo was waiting. Maybe not around every corner, but close enough that the hairs on Taehyung’s neck stood up whenever he passed a group of guys loitering near the library stairs or heard the buzz of a motorbike behind him too late at night. It was exhausting.

So instead of spiraling, Taehyung did what he always did, he shoved it down. All of it. He tucked the disappointment deep into his gut and locked it there, choosing distraction over dread.

He picked Yoongi up from work just like he said he would. Pulled up to the curb outside the Blairmont Hotel and flashed his lights once, catching Yoongi’s attention as he exited through the staff doors, looking tired and mildly irritated, like always. His oversized beige cable-knit sweater was pulled down over his wrists, and he had his satchel slung low across his shoulder, probably filled with sheet music and god knows what else.

Yoongi climbed into the passenger seat without a word, exhaled deeply, and then, right on cue, started venting.

“All I wanted was some of the buffet food during break, and they had me fixing a goddamn sticky key on the piano for fifteen minutes instead. And guess who managed to spill red wine on the bench? Again.”

Taehyung nodded along, a quiet smile tugging at his lips, eyes flicking between the road and Yoongi’s animated hand gestures. “And no one tips the musician. They’ll tip the guy who folds a napkin into a swan but not the one keeping their dinner from sounding like a funeral.”

Taehyung let out a soft laugh.

He found, lately, that Yoongi had become his favorite kind of distraction.

Not the mind-numbing kind that dulled everything out, like getting high and watching ceiling shadows melt. But the kind that cut through the noise in his head. The way Yoongi muttered under his breath while cooking, or how his fingers twitched against his thigh when a piano melody got stuck in his head. The way he complained about the hotel staff and television plot holes with the same amount of passion. It kept Taehyung tethered. Focused. 

“I applied for a few jobs today,” he said after a stretch of silence, voice quieter than before as they turned off the main road. The streetlights cast soft orange shadows over Yoongi’s profile as he looked over at him.

“Yeah?” Yoongi asked, brows lifting. “That’s really good. Did anyone seem interested?”

Taehyung shrugged, fingers tightening just slightly on the wheel. “I’ll wait and see if I get any calls. I gave my job application to Seokjin at The Daily Grind. ”

He knew he wouldn’t be getting any calls because he’d been brushed off, waved away, or ignored outright. But Yoongi didn’t need to know that. Not when he already looked tired, not when he’d just spent four hours playing classical music for strangers who didn’t care if his fingers cramped.

The other nodded slowly, then leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. “Well… I hope they call. You’d probably make a great barista. You already talk too much.”

Taehyung smiled to himself, soft and rueful. “I’d leave hearts in your coffee,” he murmured.

“I’d spit in yours,” Yoongi replied, eyes still closed.

By the time they got back to the apartment, the world outside had turned to grey and drizzle. Rain danced across the windows in soft rhythms, a lullaby for the restless. Inside, the air was warm and quiet, save for the occasional creak of floorboards and the hum of the microwave as Yoongi stood in the kitchen peeling back the film on his dinner, Japanese curry with a mound of steamed rice that filled the space with a rich scent.

Taehyung was slumped on the sofa, knees pulled up under his chin, head buried halfway into one of the oversized cushions they kept for decoration but always ended up actually using. He wasn’t hungry, he shouldn’t have been hungry, not after the convenience store ramen he'd inhaled earlier, the one Yoongi had bought him, the one that sat too heavy in his gut. But that didn’t stop his stomach from grumbling faintly as Yoongi stirred the curry in its plastic tray, steam curling into the air and brushing against his face.

Yoongi didn’t even bother to change out of his pianist clothes. He still wore the soft beige cable-knit sweater pulled over the collar of his white button-up, sleeves half-rolled and wrinkled from the day’s wear. His slacks looked a little too formal for their apartment’s dim lighting and sleepy energy, but somehow, that only made him look more like himself. Slightly out of place, but comfortable in it.

Taehyung watched him for a few seconds too long. There was something oddly grounding about it, like he was David Attenborough observing a woodland creature. It made Taehyung’s chest ache a little, in a way he didn’t want to examine.

The sound of rain grew louder, washing against the glass in soft waves. Taehyung exhaled into the cushion, eyes growing heavier, body more relaxed than it had been all day. For the first time in what felt like hours, the buzzing in his head dulled to something manageable. Yoongi glanced over, catching his gaze. “You feeling tired?”

Taehyung nodded, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah.”

“That’s good,” Yoongi replied, calmly grabbing a pair of chopsticks from the drawer. “You never sleep. You should get to bed.”

He scoffed lightly, shifting just enough to prop his chin on the armrest. “I feel tired now,” he murmured. “But as soon as my head hits the pillow I’ll be up all night staring at the ceiling again.”

Yoongi huffed a laugh, setting the plate on the counter and mixing the curry and rice together before sitting down to eat. “When I get comfy in bed, it’s over. It takes me thirty seconds and I’m gone.”

As if on cue, the chopsticks slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. He bent down with a sigh, mumbling a curse under his breath as he picked them up again.

“Lucky son of a bitch,” Taehyung grumbled, watching him with the kind of sleepy irritation reserved for people whose bodies didn’t betray them at night.

Yoongi just smirked, blowing softly on a small portion of his food before popping it into his mouth. “You need a better bedtime routine.”

Taehyung snorted. “You need to quit being so smug about everything.”

“Not smug. Just superior.”

“Same thing, baby.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but said nothing, chewing methodically. Taehyung stretched out on the couch a little more, blanket tangling around his legs, eyelids heavier now. The clink of his chopsticks against the ceramic bowl filled the space between them, muted only slightly by the soft hush of rain against the window and the rhythmic hum of the refrigerator.

Steam still curled from the now half-empty plate of curry as Yoongi, without even looking up, muttered, “Need me to tuck you in?” His voice was thick with food, casual and sardonic, like he hadn’t just said something that made Taehyung’s chest tighten for a fraction of a second.

“Fuck off,” Taehyung grumbled into the back of the couch cushion, eyes still closed, head tipped back in a lazy sprawl of limbs and warmth. The cushion muffled his voice, but not enough to hide the faint pout that laced it.

Yoongi laughed, a short, breathy sound that broke through the quiet like light through heavy clouds. It made Taehyung’s lips twitch, annoyed at how much he liked that laugh. He was realising, bit by bit, that he really liked that laugh. Liked hearing it more than the music Yoongi made. Which was saying something.

Yoongi shoved the last bite into his mouth and stood, scraping the chair back quietly as he carried his bowl toward the sink. “I’m gonna go finish that composition,” he mumbled, rinsing off the bowl under the tap like it was the most mundane thing in the world. “It’s due tomorrow.”

Taehyung, still lounging, cracked one eye open. “Can I hear it?”

Yoongi’s shoulders stiffened for a half second. It was barely perceptible, just the subtlest shift in posture as he ducked his head, letting the water run over his fingers longer than necessary. He didn’t turn around. Didn’t answer immediately.

“Maybe some time,” he said, soft and with a smile in his voice.

Taehyung frowned. Not hurt, exactly. But something like left out . He sat up a little, pushing his hair out of his eyes, voice tinged with playful complaint. “That’s not fair. I always hear you through the walls. Playing those sad little melodies. You’re always on your laptop making stuff, and I never get to hear anything. I thought we were fake boyfriends, Yoongs. Where’s the fake intimacy?”

Yoongi dried his hands on a dish towel, turning just enough to glance over his shoulder. The light from the kitchen haloed around him, casting a warm glow over his soft features. His eyes met Taehyung’s, unreadable, but something lingered there, something dense and almost electric.

“Maybe not everything’s meant for you,” he said, a little quieter now.

It landed heavier than either of them expected. Taehyung blinked, his tongue running across the inside of his cheek. There was something underneath that sentence, something Yoongi didn’t want to say out loud. Maybe Yoongi’s music was sacred to him, or maybe it was the one part of himself he hadn’t offered up, not even for this experiment. Not even for Taehyung.

But Taehyung, ever the one to toe the line, to push when he shouldn’t, didn’t back down. “Well then,” he said with a lazy smirk, stretching his arms over his head before letting them flop into his lap. “Be a good boyfriend and write me a song.”

It slipped out too easily.

He hadn’t planned to say it, not really, but now it was there, floating in the space between them. It wasn’t a joke. Not entirely. And the moment it left his mouth, he could see it hit Yoongi like a dart in the chest.

Yoongi froze, his hand still on the counter. His body didn’t move, but Taehyung saw it in his eyes, something flickering behind them, like the thought of it made his stomach twist. He looked at him then. Really looked. And for a second, the air between them tightened—not tense, not angry, just charged . Like they were both sitting too close to something dangerous, something they’d been pretending not to notice.

But then the older boy smiled. Not the big kind, not even his usual lopsided smirk. Just a small, soft twitch of his lips, as if he didn’t hate the idea as much as he should.

“Goodnight, Taehyung,” he mumbled, turning back around and walking slowly toward his room, hands in his pockets, voice quiet and just a little shaky.

Taehyung watched his retreating figure. The curve of his back, the gentle sway of his frame, how he always tilted his head to the left when he was overthinking. Watched the door as it closed behind him.

Then he leaned back into the couch again, arms sprawled over the cushions, the echo of Yoongi’s voice still humming in his ears. “Night, baby,” he called out lazily.

And he was alone again. With nothing but the sound of rain and a couple of dangerous thoughts. Maybe a song getting written just for him wouldn’t feel fake at all.

-

Yoongi skipped his morning class.

Not because he wanted to rebel or because he was falling behind, he just needed to finish the damn composition. It was due at 2PM sharp, and the version he’d bounced the night before still didn’t sit right with him. It was missing something. Something he couldn’t quite name, something that caught in the back of his throat when he listened through his headphones with his eyes closed. He didn’t want it to be passable. He wanted it to feel right.

So, he spent the morning hunched at his desk in his dim room, hoodie pulled over his head, the mug beside him going cold as he stared at waveforms on his laptop screen like they were coded maps to some deeper emotion he wasn’t ready to understand yet. He played, rewrote, deleted, rewrote again. Fingers fidgeting on the MIDI keyboard, breath held through every loop.

At 1:52PM, he hit submit. And then he collapsed backwards into his mattress like he’d just survived battle.

Yoongi liked his bed. Loved it , actually, maybe more than anyone should love an inanimate object. It was small and reliable and warm. It smelled like fabric softener and cheap detergent and sometimes, faintly, like lavender because Taehyung had once thrown a dryer sheet in there by accident and Yoongi had never complained. His bed was his sanctuary. The one place in the world where no one needed anything from him.

No deadlines, no fake dating experiment, no noise. Just silence.

Yoongi had always liked the quiet. It was less about introversion and more about survival. Back when his parents split, and his mom worked nights and his dad disappeared, silence became his default. He’d cocoon himself in his room, lights off, music low, and breathe through the ache of it all. Over time, silence stopped feeling like loneliness and started feeling like peace. Like control.

That habit stuck. Even now, two years into college, two years into living with the loudest, most chaotic person on campus, Yoongi still preferred early nights and quiet corners. Taehyung roamed the apartment like he was allergic to silence, ramen boiling at 2AM, laughter echoing from the bathroom where he brushed his teeth while texting five people at once, sometimes stumbling in with some guy whose name Yoongi never learned. 

Except today, sleep didn’t come. Instead, he found himself scrolling through his phone, thumb frozen over a single image.

That photo. The one Seokjin had taken at the student bar. The one Taehyung had posted to his Instagram story with a pink heart scribbled in the corner like it meant nothing. Like it was just another silly post in the sea of digital noise.

But Yoongi had stared at it for days now.

And, yes, okay— he’d taken a screenshot. Maybe cropped it just right so the Instagram frame was gone and it looked more like a real picture. A candid. A memory. He stared at it now, lying in bed, nestled under three blankets and a hoodie with the drawstrings pulled tight.

He hated how good it looked.

They looked… close. They looked real.

Yoongi frowned at the image.

This wasn’t supposed to be real. This was a thesis. A theory. A thirty-day commitment to a concept built on data and human behavior, not heartbeats and the way his stomach fluttered every time Taehyung smiled at him from across the room like he meant it. Yoongi had kissed no one. Held no one like he wanted to keep them.

And yet this image, this stupid, pixelated snapshot with terrible lighting and a crumpled napkin in the corner, had him curled under blankets like a teenager, staring at his phone like it held a secret he couldn’t admit out loud.

He sighed, locking his phone and tossing it to the side with more force than necessary. The screen landed face-down on the mattress. Still glowing. Still humming with the weight of things he didn’t know how to say. He pulled the covers up to his chin, closed his eyes and tried to fall asleep.

However, Yoongi’s nap, brief and unusually peaceful, came to a violent end.

One minute he was drifting somewhere between REM sleep and a quiet dream that smelled like lavender detergent and sounded like a song he hadn’t written yet—and the next, he was crushed .

Literally.

A full-bodied weight landed square on his stomach, jostling the air from his lungs and making his limbs twitch beneath the covers like he’d just been ambushed by a poltergeist. His eyes shot open, pupils still dilated from the dark of sleep, only to find the last person he expected looming above him.

Taehyung. Straddling him. On the bed.

Like it was the most normal goddamn thing in the world.

“No sleeping,” Taehyung said cheerfully, smacking Yoongi’s cheek with just enough force to be annoying, his fingers cold and smug. He was grinning, disheveled curls falling into his face like an angel with a devil’s sense of humour.

Yoongi, still half-wrapped in blankets like a human croissant, flailed uselessly beneath him. “Taehyung, what the fuck— ” he grumbled, voice rough with sleep. His body jolted in a twitchy panic, but Taehyung just stayed perfectly perched, like some lanky overgrown cat with no concept of boundaries.

“Get off me, you freak!” Yoongi hissed, shoving at his thigh with one hand. Unfortunately, Taehyung was broader than him, at least in the thigh department, and his balance was weirdly stable.

Taehyung didn’t move. Just leaned back a bit, hands braced on Yoongi’s stomach like a damn throne. “We need to meet Joonie for a progress log in like, twenty minutes,” he explained nonchalantly, gaze lowering to take in the dazed mess Yoongi was. His voice was playful but edged with urgency.

Yoongi blinked. Then blinked again. “Oh. Right.”

It took a full three seconds for that to register. Progress log. Namjoon. Fake relationship. Fuck.

Taehyung was still watching him with amusement, and Yoongi felt his face flush. He could feel the chaos in his bed hair, the crease marks on his cheek, the tragic eyeliner smudge he’d forgotten to clean off last night.

“Please,” Yoongi deadpanned, voice low and bordering on a whimper, “ Get off me so I can change. ”

Taehyung smirked. “You change in front of your boyfriend now?” he teased, pretending to settle in more comfortably. “That’s cute.”

Yoongi groaned, shoving again, his hand connecting with Taehyung’s hip this time, which was a mistake. It was warm. And solid. And made something in his brain short-circuit.

“This is abuse, ” he muttered, trying to wriggle out from under him. “I’m telling Namjoon you’re interfering with the experiment. We’re supposed to be emotionally intimate, not WWE wrestling. ”

Taehyung leaned down closer, their noses inches apart. “This is emotional intimacy, baby,” he said with a wink.

Yoongi sputtered. “I will kick you.”

“You’re in a burrito blanket,” Taehyung said smugly. “You have no power here.”

It went on like that for another minute. Yoongi grumbling death threats. Taehyung giggling like a child. Eventually, thank god , he rolled off the bed with a dramatic flop, landing like a starfish on the floor before peeling himself up and dusting off his sweatpants like he’d done something noble.

“I’ll be in the kitchen. Don’t be late, sleepyhead,” he called out as he left the room, tossing Yoongi a wink before disappearing down the hall.

Yoongi remained horizontal, staring at the ceiling, blanket still twisted around his legs, wondering how this fake relationship had escalated into morning mounted assaults. And worse— why part of him didn’t totally hate it.

Chapter Text

“Guess who just won Italy!”

Jimin sang through the speakers, his bright grin warbling from digital lag and low bandwidth. Behind him, a blurred sliver of a hotel room could be seen, gleaming white sheets, scattered dance shoes, and a single trophy sitting proudly on a table in the background.

It was a slow, golden kind of Saturday. The blinds were half-drawn against the pale spring light, the air smelled faintly of instant coffee and leftover ramen, and the living room of Yoongi and Taehyung’s apartment was, once again, crowded with bodies, limbs, and easy familiarity.

Yoongi sat in his usual spot on the couch, pressed up against one end with a throw pillow wedged under his arm and his phone cradled lazily in his lap. Taehyung had sprawled into the space beside him like he belonged there, half draped over Yoongi’s side with his cheek occasionally bumping his shoulder as he fidgeted with his sleeves. On Yoongi’s other side, Namjoon balanced his open laptop with the seriousness of someone juggling state secrets, tapping away even as the chaos unfolded around him. At Namjoon’s feet sat Seokjin, comfortably cross-legged on the floor, his back resting lightly against Namjoon’s knee as he angled his face upward toward the screen.

Jeongguk was attempting to scale the sofa like it was Everest, half-kneeling on the armrest and half-draped across Taehyung’s thighs just to catch a glimpse of the FaceTime call on Yoongi’s screen. He was Hoseok hunting.

Taehyung perked up immediately, nudging closer into Yoongi’s side— close enough that their arms were fully pressed together. “That’s amazing, Chim!” he beamed, the sheer brightness of his grin practically radiating heat. His voice was warm and proud, not a single note of surprise, as if he’d always known Jimin was going to dominate Europe one trophy at a time. Yoongi didn’t pull away from the contact.

Jimin flipped his bangs out of his face dramatically, nodding like he was accepting an award. “We’ve gotten three trophies so far,” he declared. “And a fourth is on the way if Hoseok stops being modest about his solo.”

Seokjin, ever the chaos instigator from his perch on the floor, craned his neck into the camera’s frame and smirked. “Have you seduced a beautiful man yet?” he asked, eyes glinting.

Jimin’s grin turned devilish, like he’d just been waiting for someone to ask. “Multiple,” he replied smoothly, punctuating it with a suggestive eyebrow waggle that earned a round of laughter from the room. However, Jeongguk was getting desperate . Not just in the casual, clingy-boyfriend way, but in the full-blown, post-long-distance-breakup-without-the-breakup sense of the word.

He had already finished another box of apple juice he stole from Yoongi’s shelf in the fridge, kicked off his shoes like a rebellious toddler, and now was crawling over the tangle of limbs on the couch to get some Hobi updates. His knee landed squarely in Taehyung’s groin as he clambered onto the couch backrest, and Taehyung let out a startled grunt, curling slightly in defense.

“God— Jeongguk,” Taehyung wheezed, voice a pitch higher than normal.

“Where’s Hobi-hyung?” Jeongguk asked without missing a beat, eyes locked on Jimin’s grainy figure in the FaceTime window like he was waiting for divine intervention. He didn’t even apologise for accidentally wounding his best friend, more so concerned with the fact that his boyfriend was nowhere to be seen.

Jimin blinked, lounging across a terribly patterned hotel bed on the other side of the world, bathed in warm European afternoon light. He tilted his head sympathetically. “He’s just napping,” he said, adjusting the camera angle so it wasn’t solely focused on his chin. “Long rehearsal day. He passed out about half an hour ago.”

“Ugh,” Jeongguk groaned, dragging his hands down his face and slumping dramatically into Taehyung’s lap like a man in mourning. “I haven’t spoke to him in eight whole hours.”

Namjoon, who had been typing idly on his laptop with the focus of someone pretending not to be listening, glanced up over his screen. “You’re pathetic, ” he deadpanned.

Jeongguk gasped audibly, one hand flying to his chest like he’d just been stabbed. “Easy for you to say!” he accused, eyes wide. “ Your boyfriend is literally sat in between your legs right now,” he gestured wildly at Seokjin, “ mine is halfway across the world eating pasta and being beautiful without me!”

Taehyung, still recovering from the knee to his groin, reached up and gently shoved Jeongguk’s head off of his lap with a grunt. “You’ve survived a whole week,” he muttered. “One more to go, then you and Hoseok can do whatever weird choreography you do when you’re alone in the bedroom.”

“This sucks,” Jeongguk moaned, collapsing more firmly into the couch, his legs sprawled across Taehyung and half over Yoongi’s thighs now. “I’m surrounded by couples. You’re all disgusting.”

Yoongi, who had been mindlessly rubbing at a fray in the seam of one of the throw pillows, looked up. “Tae and I aren’t actually dating,” he reminded, gesturing halfheartedly. “It’s just for the experiment, remember?”

Jeongguk rolled his eyes so hard it looked like it hurt. “Yeah, and I’m just mildly obsessed with my boyfriend, whatever. It’s the same thing.” He poked Yoongi’s knee. “You two literally sit like an old married couple. I’m allowed to be bitter.”

Taehyung grinned, adjusting his position so his thigh pressed more deliberately against Yoongi’s. “Aw, you jealous, Gguk?”

“Yes!” Jeongguk whined, flipping over dramatically and burying his face in the throw pillow. “I miss him. You guys are all cute and cozy and have fake romance and cinema dates . I have FaceTime and loneliness.”

Seokjin reached over to ruffle Jeongguk’s hair with all the sympathy of a teasing older brother. “You’re a menace and a sap.”

“And a hopeless romantic,” Namjoon added, glancing back down at his screen. “God help Hoseok.”

“God help me, ” Yoongi muttered, just loud enough for Taehyung to hear, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Taehyung saw it and bumped their shoulders together. “You love it,” He whispered. Yoongi didn’t answer.

-

Yoongi had barely been in the staff room for three seconds before regretting every single one of his life decisions.

He had regretted a lot of things in his life. Like agreeing to take a music theory elective taught by a man who hated music. Or keeping that half-eaten tub of kimchi in the back of the fridge even though it had started to smell like sorrow. Or maybe, most importantly, deciding that working both days this weekend at the Blairmont would somehow help him stop spiraling over the way Kim Taehyung made him feel.

He dropped his bag by the scratched-up coffee table, tugging his oversized cable knit sweater up over his head with a sigh that was already too dramatic for how early into the shift it was.

"Yoongi-hyung," Seungmin mumbled from the staffroom sofa, his legs stretched out in front of him as he scrolled through his phone, barely looking up, "who’s that guy in the red Honda that keeps picking you up from work?"

Yoongi froze. Mid-motion. Mid-step. Mid–everything. The sheet music in his hand slipped slightly, but he caught it before it hit the floor. He turned his head just enough to glance at Seungmin, whose face was as neutral and tired as always, bored, really, like he hadn’t just launched a missile into Yoongi’s tightly managed sense of denial.

Yoongi blinked, once. Twice. “I—what?”

Seungmin finally looked up, blinking slowly like this was the most casual conversation in the world. “The guy. Red Honda. Picks you up after your shift sometimes. You always get in the passenger seat looking pissed but then you smile like five minutes later. Who is he? Your boyfriend?”

Yoongi's brain stuttered like an old computer on 2% battery.

Your boyfriend.

His first instinct was to scoff, to say something dismissive like “Don’t be ridiculous” or “It’s not what it looks like.” But the words got stuck in his throat. Because technically... it was exactly what it looked like.

He was dating Taehyung. Publicly. Physically. On record. On Instagram. He held his hand in front of all their friends. He let him steal his fries. He woke up the other morning with Taehyung literally straddling him on the bed and had not thrown him across the room, which by Yoongi standards, might as well have been a marriage proposal.

But also? He wasn’t dating Taehyung. Not really . This wasn’t real . This was academic. It was fake. A controlled environment for an experiment. It was Namjoon’s science baby and they were just two awkward, lonely undergrads fumbling their way through it.

Yoongi cleared his throat, turned toward his locker, and very quietly said, “He’s… my roommate.”

Seungmin raised a brow. “Your roommate who picks you up from work every night?”

Yoongi shrugged, trying to sound as unfazed as possible. “He has a car. I don’t.”

“And who holds your hand when he thinks no one’s looking?”

Yoongi shut his locker with a little more force than necessary, the clang echoing through the otherwise quiet room. “He’s—” he started, and then cut himself off, exhaling through his nose.

There was a long pause. Seungmin didn’t press, which somehow made it worse. Yoongi’s brain scrambled for a sentence that didn’t sound like an insane confession. “It's complicated,” he finally muttered, fiddling with the sleeves of his button-up, suddenly very invested in the buttons on his cuffs. “It’s for… a project.”

Seungmin blinked slowly, like that answer was not nearly as clarifying as Yoongi thought it would be. “A… what?”

Yoongi grimaced. “A psychology project.”

Another pause.

“You’re dating your roommate for science? ” Seungmin asked, and Yoongi could hear the grin behind the words.

Yoongi groaned into his hands. “God, don’t say it like that.”

Seungmin laughed. Really laughed. A rare, raspy sound that bounced off the tile walls and made Yoongi want to melt into the floor. “College kids are so weird,” He chuckled, still scrolling casually, “I hope my love life isn’t that deranged when I enroll next September.”

Oh sweet little Seungmin, you have no idea.

Yoongi did end up surviving his shift like he usually does.

The car ride home was quiet in the best kind of way— windows cracked open just enough to let in the cool spring breeze, and the low thrum of whatever playlist Taehyung had queued softly filling the space between them. Yoongi had practically melted into the passenger seat, his back stiff, fingers slightly tingling from the hours of uninterrupted jazz performance. There was a light, satisfied tiredness hanging off of him, the kind that came after doing something you were good at, even if it drained the life out of you.

He slid into the passenger seat with a soft grunt, massaging his knuckles absentmindedly as he buckled his seatbelt. “Hungry?” Taehyung asked, glancing at him over the steering wheel with that soft, familiar twinkle in his eye.

Yoongi gave him a flat look that didn’t hide the exhaustion in the curve of his mouth. “I’m ordering pizza the second we get home.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened, lips already beginning to form the beginning of a pout.

“Yes,” Yoongi deadpanned before Taehyung could even say anything. “We can split it.”

And there it was— that big, ridiculous, full-face grin. The one Taehyung always wore when he was being indulged like a spoiled golden retriever. “You’re the best fake boyfriend ever,” he murmured, pulling out of the hotel’s side lot and onto the road.

Yoongi scoffed but didn’t disagree.

They ended the night as many of their nights seemed to go these days: entangled in the muted lighting of their shared apartment, sprawled side by side on the couch with Below Deck blasting its dramatic music and slow motion yacht shots on the screen. A double pepperoni, thick crust pizza sat open on the coffee table between them like a sacred offering, halfway devoured, still warm.

Grease glistened on their fingers. Yoongi had a sauce smudge at the corner of his mouth. Taehyung hadn’t even made an effort to get changed out of his hoodie and flannel pajama pants. It was the kind of atmosphere that felt too quiet and too loud at once. Comfortable, soft, domestic. The kind of quiet that made Yoongi’s stomach twist a little because it was getting too easy to let this feel real.

“Hey,” Taehyung murmured mid-chew, voice low like he was afraid to disturb the moment. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

Yoongi wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugged, eyes still on the screen. “Working again. Evening shift.” Taehyung pouted instantly, even though Yoongi wasn’t looking at him.

“That’s unfortunate,” he murmured, shifting so he was turned toward Yoongi now, one knee propped up on the couch, his face inches from the side of Yoongi’s. “You need to make time for our plans.”

Yoongi quirked a brow, finally turning toward him, mouth full of crust. “Our plans?”

“Tomorrow,” Taehyung said in a serious manner, “is our anniversary.”

“What?”

“Our anniversary,” Taehyung repeated, now grinning. “Fifteen days together.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and leaned back into the cushions, exhaling a laugh. “You’re insane.”

“Don’t disrespect our love story like this, Yoongs,” Taehyung scolded, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “We’ve made it half way. That’s longer than most actual couples.”

Yoongi side-eyed him, trying very hard not to smile. “Yeah, because most actual couples don’t sign up for a relationship contract as part of a university thesis.”

“Exactly. We’re exclusive,” Taehyung smirked, taking another bite of pizza. “We should celebrate. You know, do something nice.”

Yoongi raised a skeptical brow. “Like what?”

Taehyung shrugged. “I don’t know. Drinks? A walk? You could write me that song you promised.”

“I never promised that.”

“You did,” He shot back without missing a beat. “I was there. You smiled and nodded and said ‘of course baby, anything for you. I’ll get working on it.’ ”

“That is a horrible impression of me.” Yoongi let out a quiet, reluctant laugh, the kind that tried not to sound fond but failed miserably. He nudged Taehyung’s knee with his own under the table and shook his head.

Fifteen days. It didn’t sound like much. But when he thought about how it began— Namjoon’s pitch at the cafeteria, the initial awkward tension, how he almost backed out. Taehyung leaned into his side a little, resting his head on Yoongi’s shoulder without warning. “Happy anniversary, baby.”

Yoongi went stiff for a moment. Then relaxed.

“How’s the job search going?” he asked offhandedly, reaching for another slice of pizza as Taehyung leaned more heavily into his shoulder, face scrunching deeper into the crook of Yoongi’s neck like he could physically hide from the reality of being broke and aimless.

Taehyung groaned into his hoodie sleeve. “Can we not talk about that right now? Let’s just… focus on the good things.”

Yoongi chuckled, not unkindly. “You mean this pizza?” he teased, shifting slightly, his shoulder dropping as he pulled away just enough to reach for the remote. Taehyung slumped where Yoongi had once been, expression twitching with a subtle frown. Yoongi didn’t catch it right away.

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” he added quickly, glancing over. “I just meant—have you gotten any calls back yet?”

That was when the silence started to thicken. Taehyung’s eyes dropped to his lap, his fingers twisting absently in the hem of his hoodie. He shook his head.

“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

His hand hovered over the pizza box, suddenly unsure if he should reach for more. Instead, he shifted it out of the way and angled himself a little toward Taehyung, tone softer now. “You’re not doing anything wrong. You just have to keep trying. Something’ll come through.”

But Taehyung didn’t look comforted. He looked tired, defeated in a way Yoongi hadn’t really seen before. His voice came quieter this time, like it was weighing more than just the words.

“It’s just… everything’s piling up. Classes, the experiment, being away from home, not knowing what I’m even doing here. I’m barely keeping up, and on top of that I need to find a job?” He laughed a little, bitter. “It’s a lot, hyung.”

Yoongi nodded slowly. He got it. He did. But something about the comment sparked a flicker of something in him, maybe defensiveness, maybe irritation, maybe just a bad habit of not knowing when to shut up.

“That’s kind of just what college is like, Tae. You’re not special.”

He meant it playfully. He did. The kind of teasing that usually made Taehyung roll his eyes and bump his shoulder. But this time, the reaction wasn’t playful.

Taehyung’s head snapped up, blinking at him with wide, sharp eyes, like Yoongi had just slapped him. Yoongi froze. “I mean—”

But Taehyung was already sitting up straighter, tension crawling up his spine.

“You think I don’t know that?” he snapped, voice sharper than Yoongi had ever heard it. “You think I haven’t figured out that everyone else is managing just fine and I’m the only one who’s constantly behind?”

Yoongi blinked, trying to backpedal, words fumbling. “That’s not what I was saying—”

“But you were , weren’t you?” Taehyung cut in, now fully turned to face him, jaw clenched. “You said it yourself. That I’m always borrowing money, always needing help. That this whole experiment is some charity case for me.”

Yoongi’s heart dropped. “That’s not—no, Tae, that’s not what I meant—”

“You said it!” Taehyung's voice cracked slightly at the edges, not from volume but from something deeper. Something breaking. “You said you didn’t mind buying me stuff—so why the fuck are you on my case about it now?”

Yoongi was stunned into silence for a second. Then he frowned, brows pinching together. “Because I don’t mind,” he said, his voice quieter, but still firm. “Especially with this fake dating thing—we’re supposed to do couple stuff, it makes sense. I offered , didn’t I?”

“Then why bring it up like I’m a burden?”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did!” Taehyung bit out. “You say you don’t mind, but every time I so much as breathe wrong, you’re looking at me like I’m some irresponsible kid who can’t do anything right. I know I’m messing up, Yoongi. I don’t need you reminding me of it every time we talk.”

Yoongi’s mouth opened, then closed.  Where on earth was all this coming from?

The apartment felt suffocating all of a sudden. Too quiet, too heavy. The steam from the pizza box had cooled. The episode on the TV had ended. Even the rain outside had dulled to a hush. “I’m not trying to make you feel that way,” Yoongi said finally, voice small. “I was just… asking.”

“Well,” Taehyung muttered, eyes flicking away. “Don’t.”

And with that, he got up from the couch, stepping over the throw blanket and the now-forgotten pizza box. He didn’t storm off, he just walked to his bedroom with his arms crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched in that way that screamed don’t follow me.

Yoongi sat there, staring at the empty spot beside him. Half a slice of pizza still in his hand. Half a sentence still stuck in his throat.

-

Taehyung knew he was in the wrong.

He didn’t sleep much. Not that he usually did, but last night felt heavier than usual. The kind of night that pressed down on his chest and whispered cruel reminders into his ear every time he closed his eyes. And now, the morning sun leaking through the slats of the blinds didn’t feel warm or reassuring. It felt harsh. Exposing.

Today was their anniversary . Day fifteen of Namjoon’s thirty-day experiment. The halfway mark. The supposed milestone where things were meant to shift, where the spark of intimacy should be crackling under the surface, ready to ignite. And all Taehyung could think about was how he yelled at the one person who was actually trying.

Yoongi hadn’t knocked on his bedroom door last night. Hadn’t sent a sarcastic message or banged on the wall between their rooms. He just… left him alone. And it made Taehyung feel like shit. Because Yoongi didn’t deserve that.

His fake boyfriend, who bought him food without question, who let him nap on his shoulder during movies, who wrote down his ramen preferences without ever being told, was just trying to look out for him. And Taehyung, instead of being grateful, snapped like a rubber band stretched too far.

But how was he supposed to explain this? Explain the dread that had been living inside him for days now, curling around his ribs like a vice. The memory of that afternoon behind the bike shed still replayed like a broken film reel. Eunwoo’s voice rang in his ears, rough and irritated.

"If I don’t have the rest by the fifteenth—hell, even half of the rest, I’m not waiting for payday."

And now it was the fifteenth.

Taehyung hadn’t even scraped together a single additional won. Not from Seokjin at the café, not from the boba shop, not from the hundred other places that told him his CV wasn’t enough. His bank account was still sitting just over zero. The little cash Yoongi gave him for convenience store snacks and coffees felt like breadcrumbs compared to what he owed.

He was becoming a ticking time bomb.

And the worst part? He’d dragged Yoongi into the blast radius.

It wasn’t Yoongi’s fault. Of course it wasn’t. The guy was being roped into a psychology thesis for someone else’s degree and still went out of his way to meet Taehyung halfway. He held Taehyung’s hand in public. He brought him home from work when he was exhausted. And Taehyung? He yelled at him for being concerned.

He hated this, hated the way his stomach twisted every time he thought about Eunwoo. Hated that he couldn’t confide in anyone, not even Hoseok, who was halfway across Europe and unreachable except through laggy FaceTime calls. Hated that his pride was so loud it kept him from telling Yoongi the truth.

The truth: that he was scared. That Eunwoo wasn’t just a guy from a party. He was a dealer. A dangerous one. And Taehyung had already broken the only rule that mattered: don’t make promises you can’t keep.

He pulled the blanket tighter around himself on the bed, lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling as if the cracks above him held some kind of answer. They didn’t.

Suddenly, his ringtone cut sharp through the silence, slicing the tension in Taehyung’s chest like a blade. His heart had leapt before his brain caught up, dread blooming in his stomach like a bruise. He was convinced, absolutely convinced , it was going to be Eunwoo.

But when he flipped his phone over, the name “kook” lit up the screen. Relief flushed through him so fast his fingertips went cold. He didn’t hesitate, he answered immediately, bringing the phone to his ear with a shaky breath.

“Hyung!” Jeongguk’s voice boomed through the speaker like a firecracker, making Taehyung wince and pull the phone back slightly. “God, I’m so frickin lonely. I just got off FaceTime with Hoseok and he’s getting ready to go to the beach with the dance team. I miss him so much.”

Taehyung closed his eyes.

Here we go.

“And like, I get it! He’s got shit he needs to do like win trophies and whatever,” Jeongguk went on, breathless like he hadn’t talked to another soul in hours. “But I’m so depressed without him. I miss giving him massages after practice, and I miss his kisses and those dumb sunglasses he wears in the cafeteria like a K-drama villain. I’m going insane , Taehyung-hyung. Like, genuinely.”

Taehyung resisted the urge to throw the phone across the room. His brain was molasses, thick with all the shit he didn’t know how to process. But still, he kept the phone pressed to his ear, letting Jeongguk’s voice fill the space like wallpaper.

“Hey? Are you even listening?” Jeongguk finally asked, annoyance in his voice. There was a pause.

Taehyung blinked, suddenly aware that he hadn’t said a single word. His voice came out like a creak. “‘M listening. Sorry, Gguk.”

There was a shift in Jeongguk’s tone, like something in him immediately clicked. “Hyung… what’s up?” he asked, quiet now. Soft. Concern tucked between each syllable. “You sound off.”

Taehyung rolled to his side, the blanket curling with him like a wave. He looked out the window of his bedroom, the afternoon light bleeding gold and grey into the room. His throat felt dry.

He wanted so badly to unload everything, to say that he was tired of waking up with fear in his chest and nothing in his wallet, that the pit in his stomach was growing deeper by the day, and that he snapped at Yoongi last night because he’s never been good at asking for help.

But instead, he swallowed all of it. Swallowed it like he had every other emotion this week. He licked his lips, voice quiet. “Can we go to the park on campus?”

There was a small silence. Jeongguk didn’t ask why. Didn’t press him for more.

“Yeah,” he said instantly, gentle. “Yeah, of course. I’ll meet you there in fifteen, okay?”

Taehyung let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

“Okay,” he whispered.

And for the first time in what felt like days, he pushed the blanket off and sat up. The weight in his chest didn’t disappear, not even close— but at least it felt a little easier to carry.

The park in the centre of campus glowed beneath the late afternoon sun, the whole sky washed in warm orange and gold like a painting someone poured too much heart into. The air was crisp, tinged with the sound of students laughing, the quiet pop of a beer can opening, and the occasional flutter of leaves as the wind rolled through. It was one of those days that felt almost too pretty to waste on being sad. But Taehyung couldn’t help it.

He sat under the biggest oak tree in the park’s corner, its long, ancient branches stretching overhead like a protective roof. His knees were bent, arms resting on top of them, chin tucked low. Jeongguk led beside him, flat on his back on the grass, arms sprawled like a cartoon character in the middle of an existential crisis.

Taehyung let the silence hold for a bit, until it became too tight in his chest to ignore. “Me and Yoongs got in a fight yesterday.”

Jeongguk’s head turned to the side immediately, his eyes narrowing as if prepping to be mad on command. “What did he do?”

Taehyung sighed through his nose, shaking his head. “Nothing. He didn’t do anything. It was me.”

Jeongguk raised a brow. “You?”

“Yeah.” Taehyung nodded, his voice quiet now. “I fucked up. He asked about jobs and—like—he was just asking , you know? Not even in a mean way. But I snapped.”

Jeongguk rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one arm. “Why’d you snap?”

Taehyung didn’t answer at first. His gaze dropped to the grass between his legs, where a stray leaf had fluttered down from the oak above.

“Because,” he said finally, voice strained, “I’ve been… going through some shit. Like, real shit. Stuff I don’t wanna drag you guys into. And Yoongi’s been—” he swallowed, throat dry, “he’s been nice . Too nice. And that just made it worse, I think.”

Jeongguk was quiet, the breeze ruffling his bangs. “So you yelled at him for being nice?”

“I know how it sounds ,” Taehyung grumbled, dragging a hand down his face. “But he bought me pizza, Gguk. We were watching TV, it was supposed to be chill. And I snapped at him like a fucking asshole.”

Jeongguk’s face softened, eyes creasing a little with empathy. “Was it bad?”

“Not, like, screaming or anything. But he looked… disappointed. He didn’t say much after. Just went to his room. I think I ruined everything.”

“Everything?” Jeongguk asked gently.

Taehyung turned his head, leaning it back against the tree bark and looking up at the canopy above them. “Today’s our fake anniversary. Fifteen days of the experiment.” He let out a breathless laugh. “I didn’t even say anything to him. He just left for work and I didn’t say anything.”

There was a beat of silence before Jeongguk asked, softly, “Do you like him?”

Taehyung blinked, caught off guard. His stomach twisted. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I like being around him.”

Jeongguk smirked slightly. “That’s gotta count for something.”

Taehyung didn’t deny it. He just stared ahead at the orange haze of the sun dipping below the campus buildings, students silhouetted in front of it like still frames from an indie film. “I ruined it,” he said again, softer now. “I ruin everything.”

Jeongguk sat up fully, bumping Taehyung’s knee with his own. “Hey. Don’t talk about yourself like that. You’re human. And you’re stressed. That doesn’t mean you ruined it.” He paused. “But you should talk to him. You’re still in the experiment, right? You’ve got fifteen days to fix it.”

Taehyung exhaled slowly, fingers gripping the grass. “What if he doesn’t want to?”

“Then he’ll tell you,” Jeongguk said simply. “But I don’t think he won’t. I think you care about each other more than either of you realise.”

That made Taehyung bite his bottom lip. The sun was starting to dip lower behind the trees, casting a rich, golden hue over the campus park. The shadows stretched longer, and a cool breeze rolled over the patch of grass where Taehyung and Jeongguk sat.

Leaves rustled lazily in the wind, and the soft murmur of students around them filled the otherwise quiet air. Taehyung picked at a blade of grass between his fingers while Jeongguk leaned back on his palms, the air heavy with the kind of conversation that didn't really leave room for jokes anymore.

Taehyung looked over, lips quirking slightly. “That’s… really good advice,” he said, genuinely.

Jeongguk shrugged modestly, looking toward the amber sky. “I have been dating Hobi-hyung for over three years now,” he replied casually. “And before that, we were best friends for like… five. Through all of high school and even before that.” His voice softened with fondness. “It was, like, years of slow-burn tension. Wanting to kiss him. Dumb excuses to hang out. All that sappy crap .”

Taehyung huffed a small laugh under his breath. “Gross.”

Jeongguk smirked. “Yeah, well. I learned a lot about feelings during that time. Mostly because I sucked at figuring mine out. But also… because when you do figure them out, it kind of knocks the wind out of you.”

Taehyung looked away quickly, fingers tightening around the grass. “Yeah, well…” he started, voice faltering. “I don’t like Yoongi in that way.”

Jeongguk glanced at him. “You don’t?”

“No.” Taehyung’s tone was firm. “We’re just roommates who got put in this weird forced proximity, and now our brains are doing… whatever this is. It’s confusing. It’s messing with both of us.”

Jeongguk tilted his head. “You sure?”

Taehyung nodded without hesitation. “Positive.”

He didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“I mean,” he continued, “Yoongi’s… great. And I like doing this fake dating thing with him, being the one who leads. It’s—it’s kinda fun to call him ‘baby’ and hold his hand and pretend we’re something we’re not. But that’s just it. It’s fake .”

Jeongguk stayed quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he said, “If that’s really all it is to you… then okay.”

Taehyung looked down again, brushing the grass with the side of his palm. “I’m just more bummed that I snapped at him,” he admitted, voice smaller now. “That’s what’s eating at me. He’s been… really good to me, you know? Always picking up the pieces when I drop them. Never complains about anything. Doesn’t pry, doesn’t judge. He’s—” Taehyung swallowed. “He’s always just… there.”

Jeongguk hummed in understanding, watching the way Taehyung’s shoulders curled in ever so slightly. “Then that’s exactly why,” he said gently, “when he gets home from work tonight, you have to make things right.”

Taehyung blinked, jaw tightening a little. “What do I even say?”

“Start with ‘I’m sorry.’ And then just be honest. You’re good at talking, you talk more than anyone I know. Just use that mouth of yours for something other than lying to yourself.”

Taehyung gave him a look. “That sounded dirty.”

Jeongguk smirked again. “I knew you’d say that.”

Taehyung laughed weakly, pressing his knuckles to his lips before glancing back up at the tree canopy above them. “Okay. Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

“You better,” Jeongguk said, nudging him with his knee. “Yoongi-hyung is like the nicest person I know, even if he pretends he isn’t.”

Taehyung rolled his eyes, but the smallest smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Tell me about it.”

-

It was 8:30 when Taehyung made the call. Too late, maybe. Definitely not ideal. But he was still in his hoodie from earlier, hair messily pushed back with his fingers, pacing the length of his living room like a caged animal. His thumb hovered over Yoongi’s name in his contacts for way too long before finally hitting the call button.

He knew Yoongi got off at nine. He knew it. And still, the dumb hope in his chest fluttered uselessly as the dial tone rang out. Once. Twice. Then a soft click — the kind that carried disappointment.

Voicemail. Of course.

He pressed the phone tighter to his ear, heart a little anxious as he prepared to leave a message. His voice came out a little too fast at first, then slowed into a softer, more uncertain rhythm.

“Hey, Yoongs… it’s Tae.”

A pause. A shaky breath.

“Listen, I’m really sorry about last night, okay? It was—fuck—it was my fault, yeah? I know that. I shouldn’t have snapped at you, I was being… stupid. You were just trying to look out for me and I was—” he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I was just being a dick.”

His voice got quieter.

“I know you probably don’t wanna see me right now. I get it. But I’m still gonna come and pick you up from work, okay? I’ve got my jacket on and I’m trying to find my keys, just—just wait for me. I’m gonna make this right—”

And then he heard it. The soft metallic click of a door unlocking echoed faintly down the hallway. His head snapped toward it. The front door had just opened.

Yoongi stood in the doorway like some accidental dream. A little windblown from the outside, hair mussed like he’d run his hand through it one too many times, and cheeks tinged pink from the cold. He looked soft. Too soft. Dressed in that worn-in cable knit sweater stretched over his usual white button-up, bag still slung across his body like he hadn’t even thought to take it off yet. In one hand, he held a box.

Taehyung could only stare at him.

“Were you… on the phone?” Yoongi asked after a beat, eyes flicking between Taehyung’s face and the phone still clutched in his hand.

Taehyung blinked out of his daze, quickly fumbling to hang up the voicemail. “I—yeah, I was calling you. I was gonna come get you, I thought you finished at nine?”

Yoongi gave a tiny shrug, already stepping out of his shoes, voice casual but a little breathless like the cold air hadn’t fully left his lungs. “Got off early. The restaurant was dead. I took the subway but—” he lifted the box slightly “—I had to make a stop.”

Taehyung’s eyes dropped to the box. “What’s in there?”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. Instead, he moved into the kitchen, and Taehyung trailed after him automatically, like gravity had assigned his body to Yoongi’s orbit.

And then Yoongi started rambling .

“I was a dick last night,” he said all at once, placing the box carefully on the counter. “You were right. I shouldn’t have pushed you about the job thing, I made you feel like a burden and that’s not—fuck, that’s not what I was trying to do. I just—”

“Yoongi—” Taehyung tried to interject, heart already beginning to race.

“No, let me—just—” Yoongi kept going, fumbling with the box’s lid. “I’ve been kind of… shitty . And weird . I know that. You were dealing with stuff and I didn’t give you any grace, and I’m really sorry, okay?”

“But I’m sorry!” Taehyung jumped in, louder this time, eyes flicking between Yoongi’s face and the now-open box. “I snapped , for no reason. You’ve been trying so hard, Yoongs, and I just made everything worse—”

Yoongi shook his head, already pulling the box closer to him like he needed a distraction. “It’s just a cake.”

Taehyung blinked. “What?”

Yoongi nodded down at the contents of the box. Taehyung leaned forward slightly and— oh.

Inside was a small chocolate cake, round and modest in size, but lovingly decorated. Thick fudge icing had been piped carefully around the edges in clumsy swirls, and the entire top was dotted with strawberries, so many strawberries . Like Yoongi had overcompensated and gone all in on the one thing he knew Taehyung loved.

“I asked the hotel kitchen if I could use the prep area,” Yoongi mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, not quite meeting Taehyung’s eyes. “The pastry chef helped me out. I know it’s not perfect, they ran out of ganache so it’s just basic fudge icing, but I figured—”

“Yoongi…”

Yoongi kept talking. “It’s dumb, I know. I just thought since it’s, y’know… our anniversary or whatever… we should at least have something . Even if it’s just cake.”

Taehyung didn’t mean to tackle him.

Well, okay—he kind of did. But only because his body was moving faster than his brain, and before he knew it he’d wrapped both arms tightly around Yoongi’s middle, pressing himself flush against his fake boyfriend’s chest with a warmth that had been building up since the second Yoongi stepped through the door with a cake in his hands.

Yoongi, caught completely off guard, went rigid for a second. His arms floated in the air helplessly before finally, tentatively, wrapping around Taehyung’s back. It was stiff at first, like his muscles didn’t quite know what to do with this much affection. But it wasn’t long before his hands settled more securely, one on the curve of Taehyung’s spine, the other resting lightly on his side.

“You actually cared about our anniversary?” Taehyung’s voice came out muffled, cheek squished against Yoongi’s chest, the cable knit wool brushing against his skin.

Yoongi’s laugh was small, barely a breath. “Of course I cared. We’ve been doing this dumb experiment for fifteen days.”

Taehyung’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment.

“It’s not dumb.”

He didn’t even mean to say it out loud, but it slipped from his mouth like second nature. Yoongi paused. His brow furrowed, just slightly. “What?”

Taehyung leaned back enough to look at him, arms still looped securely around Yoongi’s neck. His eyes were soft, almost glassy in the dim kitchen light. “This,” he said, and then gave a tiny shrug. “This whole thing. It’s not dumb. You made me a cake , Yoongs.”

Yoongi chewed the inside of his cheek again, fingers twitching slightly against the fabric of Taehyung’s shirt. He looked at the younger like he wasn’t entirely sure how to take the compliment, like part of him was still waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him. “I’m sorry again,” he said softly. “I obviously hit a nerve last night to make you… y’know. Flip out.”

Taehyung shook his head immediately, his expression firm. “Don’t. Don’t apologise.” He tugged Yoongi’s neck down slightly, their foreheads nearly touching. “Actually, I’m banning you from ever apologising again. For anything. Ever.”

Yoongi let out a small breath of a laugh, warm and amused. “You don’t get to ban me from apologising.”

Taehyung arched a brow, smug. “I absolutely do. That’s what boyfriends are for.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, but the smile playing at the corners of his mouth betrayed him. His grip on Taehyung’s waist tightened just a little, grounding. Taehyung’s voice dropped a little, quieter now, more vulnerable.

“This is one of the sweetest things anyone’s ever done for me,” he admitted, his thumbs brushing lightly along the nape of Yoongi’s neck. “Even sweeter than the time Hobi-hyung helped me write my photography project analysis at four in the morning.”

Yoongi snorted. “That sounds traumatic.”

“It was . But this is better.”

He pulled back just enough to properly see Yoongi’s face now. The older boy looked flustered, cheeks pink and gaze slightly to the side, like accepting praise made his skin itch. But he was still smiling. Still here. And still holding Taehyung like he wanted to.

Taehyung’s voice softened, the humour fading slightly. “I’m really sorry for snapping. I was just— overwhelmed. And you’ve been nothing but… amazing.” His fingers played with the hair at the nape of Yoongi’s neck. “Can you forgive me?”

Yoongi blinked slowly at him. “You’re already forgiven,” he murmured. “And also, there’s a perfectly good chocolate cake on the counter and I think it deserves our full attention.”

Taehyung’s eyes lit up like a kid at a carnival. “ Finally. I thought you were gonna get all shy and mysterious and disappear into your room.”

Yoongi smirked. “Not tonight. I worked too hard on that ganache substitute.”

“Let’s eat it off the floor like gremlins,” Taehyung declared.

“Or,” Yoongi deadpanned, “we could just use plates.”

Taehyung grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Your ice cream is melting, Joonie.”

Namjoon had barely looked up from the glow of his laptop screen, fingers tapping steadily at the keyboard in a rhythm only he understood. His boyfriend’s words startled him for a mere moment, causing him to blink back into the present, gaze shifting to the half-forgotten vanilla cone now dripping down his knuckles.

He huffed under his breath and leaned forward to catch the dribble with his tongue, chuckling softly as he wiped his fingers on a napkin. “Shit. Thanks.”

Seokjin just smiled and leaned his head more firmly against Namjoon’s shoulder, his own pistachio cone held loosely in one hand as he stared out across the grassy campus park. April had finally decided to behave. The breeze was light, the trees budding faintly with green, and the warm sun painted golden stripes across the field like brushstrokes on a canvas.

Jeongguk was lying belly-down on a blanket nearby, legs lazily kicking in the air as he scrolled through his phone and licked a rapidly shrinking scoop of chocolate swirl. “I sent Hobi-hyung a picture of that cloud that looks like a dog.”

Namjoon didn’t reply, just let a small smile creep over his face. But really, it was hard to pay attention to anything when those two were just a few feet away.

Yoongi sat on the edge of the picnic blanket like some grumpy sun-drenched cat, his sweater sleeves rolled up and his eyes closed in the sun as he took slow, deliberate licks of his mint chocolate chip cone. He was definitely enjoying it, despite how much he pretended he didn’t even like sweets. Taehyung, meanwhile, was absolutely not letting him enjoy it in peace.

“Yoongs,” Taehyung said sweetly, scooting in closer until their knees bumped, “can I try some?”

“No,” Yoongi mumbled without even opening his eyes.

“ Please , baby?” Taehyung crooned, fingers sneaking over to intertwine with Yoongi’s. “You can have a bite of mine, it’s strawberry!”

“ I don’t even like strawberry,” Yoongi grumbled, cracking an eye open, his tone somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

Taehyung grinned. “But you’re my boyfriend , and you love me. Soooo…”

Yoongi sighed, but there was a barely concealed twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. With all the theatrics of a man handing over state secrets, he held out the cone and muttered, “One bite.”

Taehyung lit up like a child. “ You’re the best, ” he sang, and leaned in dramatically, taking a comically large bite before handing it back with a satisfied hum.

Yoongi wiped a speck of ice cream off the corner of Taehyung’s mouth with his thumb, muttering something under his breath, and Taehyung just beamed. Namjoon caught it all. Every look, every gesture, every little moment of soft banter between them that somehow didn’t feel like play-acting anymore.

Seokjin passed him the rest of his cone— half melted, barely cold —and Namjoon accepted it wordlessly, taking a slow lick as he watched his two participants on the blanket. “They’re really cute together,” He whispered, his voice so low it felt like it belonged only to Namjoon.

“I know,” Namjoon’s heart did something dumb in his chest. “And the best part? It’s working .”

Seokjin tilted his head. “Your experiment?”

Namjoon nodded, closing his laptop slowly, the screen dimming in the sunlight. “They’re acting closer, more naturally. They’re using pet names without thinking about it. They’re holding hands without even realising they are. And they’re choosing to be around each other even when they don’t have to be. That’s the shift.”

Seokjin grinned, nudging his shoulder. “You’re proud.”

Namjoon shrugged modestly, but the smile stayed. “I just think we’re proving something important.”

Seokjin leaned in, eyes soft. “What, that two idiots can fall for each other under controlled conditions?”

Namjoon laughed, leaning into the touch. “Exactly.”

Across the blanket, Taehyung had his head on Yoongi’s shoulder now, both of them pretending not to notice how natural it felt.

Neither of them pulled away.

Chapter Text

Yoongi found Tuesday night to be really weird.

Not the kind of weird that made your skin crawl, but the kind that sat too heavy in the chest. A lingering sort of weird that clung to your clothes, your hair, your thoughts.

He clocked out of the Blairmont later than expected, fingers aching and the waistband of his slacks digging into his side. But like clockwork, Taehyung was parked just outside the side entrance in his usual red Honda, head leaned against the driver’s seat window, scrolling absently on his phone.

The ride home was off. Quiet in a way that made Yoongi itch. He was used to Taehyung's obnoxious music choices and half-sung lyrics, or even just the absentminded clicking of his rings against the steering wheel. But tonight, Taehyung only asked the usual, obligatory things.

“How was work?”

“Have you eaten?”

The tone was hollow. Like a recording of himself, being played back in a loop. Yoongi responded with short nods and a couple tired grunts, trying to make sense of the change.

By the time the car pulled up outside their apartment, Yoongi felt suffocated by the silence. When they stepped inside, he kicked off his shoes and walked straight to the fridge, fishing out the leftover japchae from earlier in the week. He didn’t bother heating it, just peeled back the lid and grabbed a fork like a defeated man.

“You want some?” he asked, glancing toward the living room.

Taehyung didn’t even look up. His face was half-buried in his phone, his frame curled into the corner of the couch like he was trying to shrink. Yoongi stared for a beat longer than he should have. Something cold prickled at the nape of his neck.

He glanced at the kitchen island and noticed the cake from Sunday— their cake—still sitting there in its box, only half eaten. Their forks were still wedged in the corner like they'd been abandoned mid-bite. It looked lonely now.

“We still have cake left,” Yoongi tried again, more softly this time. “You wanna share some with me after I eat this?”

For a moment, it looked like Taehyung hadn’t heard him. Then the younger boy exhaled, sharp through his nose and gave a muted shake of his head without lifting his eyes.

No.

Yoongi’s brow furrowed, something flickering behind his tired gaze. He took a slow bite of cold noodles, chewed once, then set the container down harder than he meant to on the counter.

He walked a little closer into the living area, leaning against the kitchen aisle with his arms crossed. His voice, when it came, was more cautious than confrontational.

“What’s going on with you?”

Taehyung didn’t flinch, didn’t look up. Just kept scrolling like he hadn’t been asked the question at all.

Yoongi pushed off the counter and crossed the room, stopping at the side of the sofa. “Tae.”

Finally, Taehyung paused his scrolling, but still didn’t meet his eyes. Yoongi stared at him. His hair was messy in the way it got when he was constantly running his hands through it. His fingers were twitchy. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in days.

“You’re acting weird,” Yoongi said, softer now. “What’s going on?”

There was a beat of silence. Then another.

Then Taehyung said, “I’m just tired.”

He blinked at him, unamused. “No, you’re never tired. You’re the kind of person who drinks five coffees and wants to dance at 3 a.m. What’s really going on?”

Taehyung chewed on the inside of his cheek, then offered a smile so fake it made Yoongi want to scream.

“Seriously, I’m fine.”

Cue a sigh, Yoongi pulling back slightly and running a hand through his hair. “You know I can tell when you’re lying, right?”

Another silence. It was so fucking loud in the quiet. Taehyung's phone buzzed once in his hand—he flinched, and Yoongi noticed the way his thumb hovered over the screen like it was something toxic.

Taehyung’s voice was quiet when he said it. “I’ve got a photography portfolio due Friday. Barely started. That’s what’s stressing me out.”

Yoongi, still perched at the edge of the sofa with his arms crossed, nodded slowly. That made sense. At least, it sounded like it did. Something about the way Taehyung said it, eyes just a bit too low, voice too even, made Yoongi's instincts twitch. But he didn't push. Not now.

“That’s fair,” Yoongi said, settling back into the cushion a little. “Deadlines’ll do that to you.”

Taehyung gave a half-hearted hum in agreement, flicking off his phone and shoving it deep into his hoodie pocket like he was trying to banish a curse.

“I’m gonna start on it now,” he mumbled. “Maybe then I won’t be so… on edge.”

Yoongi watched him rise from the sofa, watched the way his shoulders tensed like they were bracing for something—impact, maybe, or another set of questions. He was clearly hoping to flee, to disappear into the comfort of his bedroom and the façade of productivity.

But something in Yoongi resisted letting him go like that.

So he asked.

“Can I sit with you?”

Taehyung’s back straightened immediately, mid-step. His head turned slowly over his shoulder like he hadn’t quite heard him right. There was a blink, two blinks, and then:

“Whilst… I go through and edit my photos?” he asked, genuinely confused.

Yoongi nodded, voice calm. “Yeah. Just to keep you company. I’ve never really seen your photography stuff before.”

Taehyung stared at him for a second too long. Yoongi could practically see the inner monologue racing behind his eyes. Why? Why now? What changed?

“You probably don’t want to,” Taehyung said with a nervous little laugh, trying to brush it off. “It’s kind of boring. And you just got back from work. You should sleep.”

Yoongi shrugged like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I’ve got class late tomorrow. Besides, if you’re stressed out, maybe it’d help if you weren’t alone while you work.”

He didn’t add that he wanted to be around him. That something about Taehyung’s quietness tonight had left an uneasy weight in Yoongi’s chest, and maybe sitting next to him while he did something creative would make things feel lighter.

Taehyung tilted his head at him, curious and cautious. Then, like it was some kind of bargain, he said, “You never show me your music.”

Yoongi smirked, the corner of his mouth pulling up as he folded his arms loosely. “If you let me watch you work,” he said, tone almost teasing, “I’ll show you a sample I’ve been working on.”

Taehyung’s expression cracked a little, just a sliver of something warmer slipping through. Not relief, exactly. Not joy. But something . And Yoongi could feel his own shoulders settle a bit at the sight.

“Okay,” Taehyung said softly, and for once his voice matched his face. There was no sarcasm, no flippant posturing. Just a quiet sort of trust. “Sure.”

After about five minutes of quickly changing out of his clothes into something comfier and quickly brushing the japchae out of his teeth, Yoongi braced himself for Taehyung’s room, hands in his pockets and pulse a little steadier than it had been all night.

Right now, Yoongi just wanted to sit beside someone who clearly needed not to be alone.

Taehyung’s room felt like a whirlwind wrapped in comfort. It was a mess. There were clothes abandoned in piles, open sketchbooks and tangled wires on the floor, film rolls in little trays by his nightstand, but it wasn’t a bad kind of mess. It was Taehyung’s mess. And as Yoongi carefully stepped around a crumpled hoodie to examine the wall of slightly peeling movie posters— Call Me By Your Name, Before Sunrise, some vintage French film he didn’t know—it hit him that he’d never really been in Taehyung’s space like this before.

“You wanna lie on my bed?” Taehyung asked casually, already pulling his MacBook off his desk.

Yoongi nodded, trying not to make a big deal of it. “Sure.”

Taehyung climbed in first, settling against the headboard and pulling his knees up to steady the laptop. Yoongi followed, perching carefully beside him, their shoulders brushing a little too easily for people who still weren’t dating. Taehyung didn’t say anything about the closeness. He just shoved the SD card into the side of the laptop and clicked around with muscle memory in Photoshop, sighing as folders popped up one after the other.

Yoongi blinked at the screen. Each folder was named something increasingly chaotic.

my life is a movie (help) ┃ NOT FOR CLASS ┃pretty things idk

“You ever consider labelling stuff normally?” he asked, glancing at Taehyung with a raised brow.

“Absolutely not,” Taehyung replied with a grin, clicking on a folder called suwon w/ hobi . “Where’s the fun in that?”

The screen filled with soft, silvery landscapes. Rows of cherry blossoms swaying beneath grey skies, the skyline of Suwon bleeding into distant haze. A candid of Hoseok mid-laugh, like it was a distant memory. Sunlight dappled against old temple stone. A tiny white car, parked under trees heavy with spring.

Yoongi blinked, his voice a little softer when he spoke. “These are really pretty.”

Taehyung smiled. “Thanks. That was a good day. Just me and Hobi, walking around for hours with no real plan. I used my 24mm lens for the city stuff—it has a way of making everything feel wider, you know? Like the space breathes more.”

Yoongi hummed, nodding slowly. His gaze lingered on one particular photo, Hoseok facing away from the camera, arms stretched up toward the sky, caught mid-movement under the falling blossoms.

“You’re good at this,” Yoongi said quietly.

Taehyung turned his head toward him, just enough to see his profile in the dim light of the laptop screen. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he replied, eyes still on the photo. “You make it feel like… someone could just step into these and exist there. Like it’s not just a picture. It’s a whole moment.”

There was a pause, a warmth creeping between them. Taehyung looked at Yoongi, and Yoongi looked back, the edges of something unspoken tugging at the corners of their mouths.

“God, when did you start turning so soft?” Taehyung murmured.

Yoongi bumped his knee into Taehyung’s thigh. “Shut up.”

He didn’t mean to nuzzle his face into Taehyung’s pillow. It just sort of… happened. He wasn’t even tired, at least not more than usual, but something about the scent of Taehyung's sheets, a mix of the detergent they shared and Taehyung’s own cologne, was grounding.

The soft cotton against his cheek, the way the duvet bunched up under his arm, and the distant sound of keyboard clicks created the kind of calm he hadn’t known he needed. He turned his face just enough to peek through the fringe of his hair and watch Taehyung work.

He was laser-focused, his brows slightly furrowed, the corners of his lips puckered in thought as he fiddled with sliders and toggles on the screen. One image after another faded into warm browns and grainy blacks.

“What are you doing now?” Yoongi mumbled, voice low.

“Adding grain,” Taehyung murmured, not looking away from his screen. “I want the whole thing to feel like a memory. Like a first date. Not the flashy kind—just soft and awkward and kinda lovely, you know?”

Yoongi let out a small hum. “So this was a date with you and Hoseok?”

He smirked, clicking something on his trackpad. “Hoseok’s hot as fuck. I’d date him if him and Jeongguk weren’t obsessed with each other.”

Yoongi grinned into the pillow, eyes creasing slightly. There was no jealousy in his voice, just playful sarcasm when he replied, “You shouldn’t say that to your fake boyfriend.”

Taehyung snorted. “My bad, baby. You’re the only one for me. No one else.”

The warmth that curled in Yoongi’s chest betrayed just how well it fit. The pet name wasn’t jarring anymore. It didn’t make him want to squirm. It made him  comfortable. And for a second, he forgot the whole thing was fake.

His fingers played lazily with the edge of Taehyung’s blanket. He didn’t say anything back—not out loud, anyway—but he felt it, soft and low in his bones:

He really, really liked being someone’s “only.” Even if it wasn’t real.

“How many photos do you have to do?” Yoongi asked, his voice low, thick with the beginnings of sleep. He hated how small it sounded.

“About fifteen,” Taehyung answered without looking up. “It’ll take a while, I don’t mind if you wanna go back to your room.”

Yoongi swallowed. “I like watching, it's relaxing.” He admitted, and it was true. Something about watching Taehyung so focused, so calm, made the usual storm in Yoongi’s chest feel quieter.

The other peeked over at him with a mischievous little smirk. “You cold? We can get under the covers, I really don’t mind.”

Yoongi blinked slowly. There it was. That signature Taehyung charm, shameless and casual, always pushing the boundary just enough to make Yoongi question if it was real.

Still, he played it cool. Just barely. “Sure,” he said, like it didn’t rattle something loose in his ribs.

They shifted together under the covers, a bit awkward in that new-ness way. Taehyung settled on his back, laptop balancing against his knees, and Yoongi took his usual burrito position, on his side, curled in a little, except now the blanket wasn’t his alone.

And god, that was weird.

Not bad. Just weird. New. And kind of warm. Not just physically, but in a being witnessed kind of way. He kept his eyes open, just a sliver, watching the way the light danced on Taehyung’s features, how his lashes flickered as he concentrated, how his lips pursed when he made micro-adjustments to the colours of the sky in one of the photos.

“When you get stressed and stuff, you’re always able to come to me, you know?”

Yoongi’s voice was barely above a whisper, his words spilling out like a secret he hadn’t meant to share. They hung in the air between them, soft but weighted, and it made Taehyung’s fingers freeze over the trackpad.

Taehyung didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the glow of his laptop screen, refusing to flicker over to the man lying next to him, not ready to see the sincerity he knew would be there. Eventually, he just mumbled, “I know.”

Except it didn’t sound like he knew. It sounded like he wanted to believe it, like he was trying to convince himself that it was okay to rely on someone. That it was okay to rely on Yoongi.

Yoongi turned his head just slightly on the pillow, blinking slowly, his voice heavy with sleep but still clear with meaning. “I just don’t like seeing you all tense and shit,” he murmured. “Especially when we’re being forced together all the time. I pick up on things.”

Taehyung finally looked at him then. Not fully, just a glance from the corner of his eye, like he was testing how much of himself he could show without cracking.

“You’re supposed to be the silly one in this relationship,” Yoongi continued, a dry smile tugging at the edge of his lips. “We can’t have that when you’re acting all cold.”

“I wasn’t acting cold,” Taehyung shot back instinctively, defensive in that familiar way he got when his walls were poked at just a little too hard. But as soon as he turned his head and caught the calm, drowsy sincerity on Yoongi’s face, he faltered.

“Okay. Okay, I’m sorry,” he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders sagging like a deflated balloon. “I’ve just been going through some stuff.”

Yoongi shifted, just slightly, trying not to press but unable to ignore the pang in his chest. “Your portfolio?”

There was a pause.

“Right,” Taehyung replied, his voice thin. “The portfolio.”

He said it like a line from a script he’d rehearsed a thousand times. Like it was the cleanest excuse in the world, polished and passable and easy to believe.

“Are you sure that’s all that this is about?” Yoongi asked softly, his words delicate, as if he was giving Taehyung one more chance to be honest. Not to force it, just to offer it.

Taehyung held his gaze this time. His brown eyes lingered on Yoongi’s face, flickering between the sleepy curve of his lashes and the faint crease between his brows. “Just photography stuff,” he lied, the words tasting bitter as they left his mouth. “I promise.”

Yoongi didn’t push. He just blinked slowly and nodded back.

He stayed still under the blanket, face half-buried, listening to Taehyung edit memories of a day he hadn’t even been part of and wondering how long it would take before this moment became one too.

-

Yoongi didn’t expect to wake up the way he did.

No blaring alarm to drag him out of sleep. No noisy neighbours or loud subway groans through the thin apartment walls. Just a gentle shift in his body, a blink into the greyed morning light seeping through the curtains, and the slow realisation that something was different. Something was warm.

And there he was.

Taehyung. Still asleep. Still pressed close. Their faces only inches apart.

Yoongi didn’t move—not out of fear, not out of tension, but because he physically couldn’t . Taehyung’s breathing was soft, his cheek nuzzled into the pillow, lips parted slightly, the faintest trace of a dream probably still playing behind closed lids. His dark curls had fallen across his forehead, some stray strands brushing over his eyebrows. Yoongi fought the strange, intrusive urge to push them back.

Their legs weren’t quite tangled, but they brushed barely under the covers. There was enough contact to be aware of it, not enough to call it intimacy. But God , Yoongi could feel it. Like a current humming in the silence between them.

He stared.

Not to be creepy, he just couldn’t not look. Taehyung looked peaceful. The most peaceful he’d ever seen him. Yoongi had shared space with him for nearly two years now, and not once had he seen him like this. Usually, Taehyung thrashed in his sleep or woke up in a daze with complaints about dreams he couldn’t remember. Some nights Yoongi heard him tossing and turning in the room across the hall. But not now.

Now he was perfectly still. As if all the chaos that usually followed him had slipped away for the night.

Yoongi swallowed thickly. He’s beautiful.

The thought popped up uninvited, and Yoongi tried to push it away like static from a broken radio. But it didn’t go. It just sat there, pressing down on his chest as he continued watching the rise and fall of Taehyung’s breathing. Slow. Rhythmic. Like a song Yoongi didn’t know he’d been waiting to hear.

His heart ached in the strangest, softest way. It wasn’t just because of how Taehyung looked. It was because this —this quiet, unguarded version of him felt like something Yoongi wasn’t supposed to see. And yet somehow, he was the one who got to witness it.

He stayed there for a while, just lying still and trying not to breathe too loud. Not because he was afraid of waking him up, but because part of him didn’t want this moment to end. Though Yoongi knew he had to leave.

The soft hum of morning was beginning to press against the windows, hints of light creeping past the curtains, birds chirping somewhere far enough not to be annoying. His body felt warm beneath the blanket, the weight of comfort clung to his limbs like a heavy coat, telling him to stay.

But he couldn’t. He had class in less than an hour. Clothes to change into. A toothbrush that was not in this room. Responsibilities he couldn’t ignore, no matter how much the steady rhythm of Taehyung’s breathing pulled at him like a magnet.

A part of him, small but persistent, just wanted to close his eyes again. To burrow down beside Taehyung and pretend a little longer. Pretend that this was normal, that waking up beside someone like this was a regular part of his life. That this… whatever it was… wasn’t some tangled simulation of love.

But he didn’t.

He was brave. Carefully, so carefully, he shifted the duvet off his legs and sat up slowly. The mattress gave a soft creak, but Taehyung didn’t stir, still blissfully nestled in sleep, his lips slightly parted, face turned toward the pillow. Yoongi stared for a beat longer than he should have, letting his eyes linger on the curve of Taehyung’s cheekbone, the faint crease in his brow, the way one curl had flattened against his forehead.

He reached across to grab his phone from the bedside table, unplugged it without a sound. A last glance. A shallow breath. And then he tiptoed out, each step across the cluttered floor feeling strangely loud, like he was trespassing in a moment not meant for him.

His own room was colder. He changed quickly, stripping out of the t-shirt he’d slept in and pulling on a hoodie he found on the floor. His fingers moved on autopilot, phone in his pocket, earbuds in, school bag slung over one shoulder. No breakfast. He didn’t have the appetite.

He stepped out the door without a word, letting the latch click quietly behind him. The sky outside was sharp and too bright, the morning chill biting at his cheeks. He tugged the hood up, eyes squinting, and started walking. The pavement was wet from last night’s rain. Everything felt louder, harsher, cars honking in the distance, footsteps of strangers brushing past him.

He pressed play on his music, something loud, something with heavy bass and rapid verses. Some rap song he didn’t even register the name of, but it buzzed in his ears like static.

He just walked. Head down. Hands in pockets. And pretended he wasn’t feeling anything at all.

That was—until thud .

The impact was jarring, but not painful. More embarrassing than anything.

Yoongi staggered back half a step, the music in his ears still thumping as the world momentarily realigned. Two textbooks hit the concrete with a loud slap , and Yoongi blinked, stunned, as a tall figure in front of him cursed under his breath. Shit.

Yoongi scrambled to pull out his AirPods and shove them back in their case, the bass cutting off as he bent down in haste. “I’m sorry,” he winced, already reaching for one of the books. The stranger crouched too, grabbing the other, his jaw tight, his brow furrowed with irritation.

“It’s whatever, dude,” the stranger muttered, brushing it off, though his clenched jaw betrayed his frustration.

Yoongi handed him the hardcover in his hand, a thick, scuffed-up volume with post-its peeking from the edges. “Still,” Yoongi mumbled, awkwardly, “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He stepped back, slipping his AirPods into the pocket of his hoodie, heart beating a little too fast.

He didn’t expect the stranger to pause. He didn’t expect him to look. But the guy’s expression shifted, eyes narrowing, brows pinching together in thought. And then, with a sharp edge to his voice, he said:

“What the fuck?”

Yoongi’s spine straightened. “Sorry?” he asked, confused, gaze flickering upward.

The guy was taller than him, broad-shouldered and intimidating in that effortlessly athletic kind of way. His hair was slicked back, his backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, and he was looking at Yoongi like he’d just solved a puzzle he really didn’t want to solve.

“You’re the guy,” the stranger said, as if it was obvious. “From Taehyung’s Instagram story.”

Yoongi’s mouth went dry. His face stone.

The story.

The black and white photo Seokjin had taken. The dim lighting at the student bar. His and Taehyung’s heads leaned into each other, hands hidden beneath the table. The stupid little pink heart scribbled in the corner like they were in high school.

Oh, that story. He could feel his stomach twist, the air thinning a little around him.

“You’re the guy he’s fake dating,” the stranger continued, voice lower now, more pointed. “For that psychology project. Right?”

Yoongi just blinked. His brain was buffering, trying to find a response that didn’t make him sound like a complete idiot. But the surprise of it, the recognition , disarmed him in a way he hadn’t expected.

“Um,” he managed, voice small. “Yeah. That’s me.”

And he hated how unsure it sounded.

“Yeah, well can you tell your fake boyfriend to answer his fucking calls?”

The guy’s voice cut sharp through the early campus air, slicing through the soft chatter of students and the faint hum of traffic in the distance. Yoongi blinked once, twice, trying to make sense of the sudden shift in tone. The stranger’s jaw was clenched, his expression bordering on livid.

“I’ve been trying to track him down for over a week,” the man growled. “He still hasn’t given me what he owes.”

Yoongi felt the words before he even processed them, like they were punched into his gut. His blood chilled beneath his skin.

“…What?” he asked, voice barely audible.

But the stranger wasn’t interested in explanations. He was pacing now, anger rolling off of him in waves.

“You think playing dumb is cute?” he spat, tossing his head back with a bitter scoff. “You’re just as bad as him.”

Yoongi took a half-step back. His heart had started to pound in his chest, a dull throb blooming behind his ribcage. The stranger slammed one of his books into his bag with a rough thud, not bothering to zip it. “I told him I needed half by the fifteenth. Half. And the fucker still hasn’t done shit.”

He looked up again, eyes piercing, and Yoongi felt like he was being burned alive under the weight of the stare.

“You guys live together, right?” the guy demanded, stepping closer now, voice lowered but no less threatening. “Tell him to answer my calls.”

Yoongi, frozen in place, could only nod. “Sure,” he whispered. “I can do that.”

But the stranger wasn’t finished. “Half the money won’t even cut it now,” he muttered bitterly, almost to himself. “I need more. Fuck this.”

And with that, he stormed off, his heavy footsteps slapping the concrete, vanishing into the crowd of students like he’d never been there at all. Yoongi stood there, unmoving. His palms were clammy. His mind was racing. His stomach had sunk somewhere to the soles of his shoes.

What the hell is going on? Taehyung owed someone money. Not just someone— this guy. And this guy clearly wasn’t just a pissed-off friend with a borrowed hoodie. He was angry. Desperate. Talking about deadlines. About needing more.

Yoongi’s throat felt tight. He had no idea what kind of trouble Taehyung had gotten himself into.

-

Kim Taehyung woke up in a bed that felt far too empty after a night that, for once, didn’t feel like it was spent battling insomnia.

The morning light slipped in through the gaps in his curtains, casting soft stripes of warmth across his sheets. The faint smell of sleep still lingered in his pillowcase, Yoongi’s faint scent too, maybe, or maybe that was just wishful thinking. The other side of the bed was creased and lived in—but empty. And Taehyung laid there for a moment longer than he needed to, staring at the dip in the sheets where Yoongi had been.

He told himself not to dwell. He was good at ignoring things. Good at burying the parts of himself that got too sentimental. Still, the memory of Yoongi’s sleepy voice from the night before, soft and sincere, echoed through his chest like a haunting melody.

“you’re always able to come to me, you know?”

Ugh.

He shoved the duvet off, his limbs heavy but his mind buzzing, and padded barefoot out of the room. His phone was dead so he fished it out from under his pillow and plugged it in at the counter, waiting for it to spark back to life.

The apartment was quiet. Still. The kind of quiet that felt out of place in a space usually occupied by Taehyung’s own chaos. Yoongi must have already left for his class. He didn’t even wake him. Taehyung blinked blearily, rubbing the heel of his palm into his eye and trying to suppress the strange tightness in his chest. He was used to people leaving before the morning. That wasn’t new.

What was new was the way it made him feel now.

His stomach grumbled pathetically, looking over to the kitchen counter and seeing the dessert. Taehyung immediately rushed over to eye it down like prey. It was the chocolate cake, the one Yoongi had brought home like it was no big deal.

He peeled back the lid and used a fork left inside to scoop a bite straight into his mouth. Fudge and strawberries. Still cold, still sweet. Still unfair. He leaned against the counter and let it melt on his tongue, chewing slowly, as his thoughts tugged him back to last night.

Yoongi had crawled into bed with him like it was the most normal thing in the world. Sat beside him whilst he worked, offered to stay. And it wasn’t just the domesticity of it, it wasn’t just the comfort. It was him . It was Yoongi taking one look at him and knowing something was wrong. Taehyung didn’t know how to process that. Didn’t know what to do with someone who gave without asking for anything in return. Someone who didn’t just use him for a good time.

He should’ve been in class right now. But the thought of being around other people, of going out into the world and pretending everything was fine, made his head spin. His hands itched, the usual restlessness creeping in, but it wasn’t the kind that could be fixed by distraction or caffeine.

Instead, he thought about Yoongi’s fingers resting over his under the covers. The soft lull in his voice. This fucking cake.

He needed to go back to bed.

Taehyung plodded back from the kitchen and buried himself under the weight of his duvet like it was the only safe place left on earth. The cold of the kitchen still clung faintly to his fingertips, but the warmth of his bed welcomed him back with open arms—soft cotton, familiar scent, the lingering weight of last night pressed faintly into the mattress beside him.

He flopped onto his side with a heavy sigh and reached blindly for his laptop, half-buried in the covers just like he’d left it the night before. It was warm from body heat and opened with a quiet hum, the soft glow of the screen lighting up his tired face.

He blinked at it. And blinked again.

Twelve. Twelve out of fifteen photos. Edited. Saved. Tagged neatly into folders that even vaguely made sense. He sat up slowly, propping himself against his pillows, staring at the screen like it had betrayed him. When the hell had he gotten this much done?

His trackpad was still smudged with fingerprints, his last edit still open on the screen. A quiet photo of the edge of Suwon’s Hanok Village, faded wood and cherry blossoms, blurred and pink like a memory already disappearing. He didn’t remember finishing this one. Didn’t remember much of anything except how warm Yoongi’s side of the bed had been.

God, Yoongi.

He groaned and flopped back into the pillows, throwing one arm dramatically over his eyes like some heartbroken heroine. He refused to make the connection, but the math was right there. He’d gotten the best sleep he’d had in weeks, and the most work he’d done in months, all in the same 12-hour window. And the only thing that had changed was Yoongi.

More specifically, Yoongi crawling into his bed. Yoongi keeping him company, not demanding anything, just... being there. Taehyung’s heart did a dumb little pirouette in his chest and he wanted to punch it. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He wasn’t supposed to like this.

His thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of his phone.

He sat up a little straighter in bed, the covers pooling around his hips as he propped the phone against his thigh, camera angled just enough to hide the chaos of his room. His hair was a mess, chocolate fudge smudged in the corner of his mouth, his face still puffy with sleep. But he didn’t care. Not when Seokjin had that particular look on his face—wide-eyed, grinning, far too pleased with himself. The kind of look that meant he was holding a secret like it was a winning lottery ticket.

“I swear to god, hyung,” Taehyung warned, voice still groggy as he blinked the sleep out of his lashes. “If this is about some sale on skincare again, I’m ending the call.”

Seokjin scoffed, one hand reaching up to run through his slightly greasy hair, brushing it out of his face. “I told you to buy that vitamin C serum when it was discounted, and look where that got you. You’re glowing like a dust bunny.”

“Thanks,” Taehyung deadpanned. “You’re glowing like a greasy dumpling, so at least we match.”

Seokjin cackled, throwing his head back, the camera shaking slightly as he adjusted his hold. Behind him, the corner of Namjoon’s pristine desk peeked into view, a notepad covered in dense writing, his laptop open on some sort of Google document, a few mini lego figurines crowding the shelf above.

Yup, definitely Namjoon’s room. One big nerd shrine.

“I did call for a reason,” Seokjin grinned once he recovered, straightening up and fixing Taehyung with that deadly combination of older-brother amusement and genuine excitement. “And no, it’s not skincare-related or boyfriend-related—though I’ll have you know Namjoon’s currently in the living room reciting his thesis outline to the IKEA lamp. Adorable.”

Taehyung smiled despite himself. “Then what is it?”

Seokjin’s eyes sparkled, that tell-tale pause thick in the air like he was waiting for a drumroll. “I got you a trial shift.”

Taehyung blinked. “A what?”

“A trial shift. At The Daily Grind.”

Taehyung’s heart practically slammed against his ribs. “You—wait, what?”

Seokjin nodded proudly. “I may have bribed my manager with cookies and told her I’d cover two of her morning shifts next week, but —she’s willing to give you a test run tomorrow. Just a few hours, nothing crazy. See if you’re cut out for the glamorous, soul-destroying world of overpriced lattes and exhausted humanities majors.”

Taehyung’s jaw dropped. His mouth opened, then closed again, then opened like he was about to say something, but all that came out was a disbelieving laugh. “Seokjin— hyung —you seriously did that for me?”

“You’re one of my favourite brats,” Seokjin replied coolly, clearly pleased with himself. “And you looked like a kicked puppy last week when I said we weren’t hiring.”

“I was a kicked puppy,” Taehyung said, eyes already misting slightly. “You—you saved my life.”

“Let’s not go that far,” He teased, waving him off. “I just gave you a floatation device. You’re still in the middle of the ocean.”

“I’ll take it,” Taehyung whispered, his voice softer now. “Seriously, hyung. Thank you.”

Seokjin’s teasing fell into something gentler, his smile fading into something sincere. “You’ll be okay, Tae. Just show up, be yourself, try not to spill anything—and if it goes well, who knows? Maybe you’ll get regular shifts.”

Taehyung nodded slowly, the relief settling into his bones like sunlight. For the first time in days, it felt like something— anything —might actually go right.

“Now go wash your face,” Seokjin said with a wink. “You look like you’ve been resurrected.”

Taehyung laughed, the sound spilling into the quiet of his room like something clean. Something hopeful. “Yes, sir.”

The call soon ended after that, and suddenly Taehyung felt a whole lot lighter. He  stood at the bathroom sink, his hands cupping cold water before splashing it gently over his cheeks. The jolt of coolness helped clear some of the fog that still lingered from sleep—and maybe, a little, from the heaviness that had been weighing on him all week.

He reached for the worn bottle of exfoliator perched behind the mirror, Yoongi’s. Well, originally Yoongi’s. But it had lived on his shelf for long enough now that Taehyung figured it had become mutual property. Like the rice cooker. Or the weird little mug with the chip in it that no one wanted to throw away.

He dabbed at his face with a soft towel, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His skin looked brighter. Or maybe it was just the first time in days that he wasn’t faking the sense of being okay. A trial shift. Even the words made his chest feel a little less crushed, like someone had pried open the lid of a too-tight box.

Maybe I’m not a complete screw up after all.

He pushed his dark curls back with his fingers, securing the headband a little higher so it wouldn’t slip. His reflection stared back at him, slightly puffy-eyed, hair a mess, skin dewier than he’d expected—but alive. Present. Hopeful. Which was more than he could say for the past two weeks.

His thoughts, however, immediately drifted back to Yoongi. They always did.

Yoongi had class in the morning, he remembered. Composition theory or… maybe the seminar with the professor who always wore crocs. Either way, he’d be home soon. Probably grumbling as he kicked his shoes off, sighing about how much people talked in group discussions, then immediately lounging on their couch for some rest. And then, Taehyung thought, I’ll tell him. I’ll finally get to say something good. 

He wondered what kind of face Yoongi would make. Probably raise his eyebrows, nod slowly, give one of those impressed-but-not-showing-it smirks Taehyung had grown painfully fond of.

He stepped out of the bathroom, padding softly down the hallway in his socks. The apartment was still quiet, but the sunlight pouring through the living room window was warm and full. Taehyung let it brush against his face for a moment before flopping lazily onto the couch. He tugged the blanket over his lap, pulling out his phone to scroll absently, a small smile playing at the edge of his lips.

What he wasn’t expecting was the sound of the door so early.

The door clicked shut with a heavy, definitive thud , the kind that made Taehyung blink. He had just adjusted the throw blanket over his legs, a lazy grin on his face, still buzzing from the weightless energy Seokjin’s call had left him with. He was practically glowing, rehearsing in his mind the way he’d say it— I have a job now, aren’t you proud?

But Yoongi walked in wrong.

There was no soft mutter of “I’m home,” no dragging of tired feet across the floor, no lazy sigh as he tossed his bag to the side like he always did. Instead, Yoongi moved with clipped purpose, shoulders tight, fingers fumbling with his keys before he chucked them on the small table near the kitchen. They hit the surface with a loud, metallic clack that made Taehyung flinch, ever so slightly.

Still, Taehyung didn’t take the hint. He beamed up from the couch, oblivious to the tension that coiled in the air like a storm cloud.

“Yoongs! ” he sang, like they were back to normal. Like they weren’t on the edge of something he didn’t yet understand. “It’s good to see you.”

Yoongi didn’t respond. He barely flicked his eyes over to him before looking away again, pacing a little. That should’ve been Taehyung’s second clue, but he was too caught up in the idea of finally giving Yoongi something good, something to prove he wasn’t just a liability.

“Listen, I know your brain’s probably fried with class and all,” Taehyung began, the blanket twisted in his hands like he needed it to hold his excitement together. “But I have some really exciting news.”

No answer.

“You’re gonna be so proud of me, hyung,” he kept going, breathless now with anticipation, still not seeing the tension building behind Yoongi’s still form. “It’s going to help so much.”

Yoongi turned around. His eyes weren’t tired, they were wide, sharp with something cold and unfamiliar. Something that made the hairs on Taehyung’s neck stand. There was a tremble in his jaw, in his voice when he finally opened his mouth.

“How much money do you owe? ”

Taehyung’s smile died instantly. It was like the whole room exhaled and sucked the air right out of his lungs.

Yoongi didn’t blink.

Taehyung didn’t speak.

The lightness that had been floating in his chest all morning plummeted like a stone. The edges of his blanket suddenly felt scratchy, too warm, the apartment suddenly far too quiet. He swallowed, throat dry. He just sat there, wide-eyed and silent, as his whole body dropped into a freefall.

“What?” Was all Taehyung managed to croak out, the words barely forming in his throat. It cracked mid-syllable, awkward and hoarse, and he forced a smile to follow it.

“Please, don’t play dumb with me.”

Yoongi’s brows were drawn, carved deep into his forehead, and his lips were curled into a scowl Taehyung hadn’t seen directed at him before. Not from Yoongi. Not from the person who baked him a cake and took him on a cinema date and slept in his bed last night.

“How much do you owe?”

The silence hung like a blade. Yoongi didn’t move, still standing in the middle of the apartment, hands braced on the edge of the kitchen table like he needed to hold onto something, because his voice had shaken when he asked the question, and now Taehyung wasn’t answering.

The longer the silence went on, the louder everything else became: the low hum of the refrigerator, the faint ticking of the wall clock, and the harsh rasp of Yoongi’s breath as he finally straightened up, eyes sharp and tired.

"Say something, Tae."

Taehyung looked small. He was wrapped up in the fur blanket on the couch, hair still pushed back with that stupid headband, wide eyes like a child caught doing something wrong. His throat bobbed when he swallowed.

"Yoongi, I was gonna tell you—"

"Don’t." Yoongi cut in, a hand lifting before falling to his side again. “Don’t say that. You weren’t going to. You haven’t. And now some random guy corners me on campus, cursing you out, saying you owe him money and that you're dodging calls? That’s how I find out?”

Taehyung’s chest tightened like it was being pulled inward by wires. “I wasn’t dodging —I was just…” he trailed off, words crumbling in his mouth.

Yoongi looked exhausted, and something about that expression—not angry, just hurt—made Taehyung want to disappear entirely.

“How much?” Yoongi asked again, quieter now.

Taehyung hesitated, his voice thin and guilty. “Seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

Yoongi blinked like he didn’t quite hear him right.

“I’ve paid back three-fifty,” Taehyung added quickly, like it would soften the blow, like any version of this would be easier to digest. “I still owe four hundred. I was supposed to pay the rest on the fifteenth.”

Yoongi stared at him. “It’s the seventeenth,” he said flatly.

Taehyung winced, the sound physically painful in his throat. “I know.”

“You lied to my face yesterday,” Yoongi said, pacing a step back, fingers running through his hair with visible frustration. “You let me think it was your photography portfolio that was stressing you out, and I got in your bed and told you that you could come to me with anything. I meant that, Taehyung.”

“I know, I know—Yoongs, I know.” Taehyung got up, blanket falling from his shoulders as he stepped toward him. “I was scared, okay? I didn’t know how to tell you. It’s not just some guy I owe. It’s complicated. The whole thing is stupid, I shouldn’t have—”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have,” Yoongi snapped, then immediately clenched his jaw, regret flickering in his eyes. His voice dropped again, quieter. “You shouldn’t have gotten yourself into this. Or… if you did, you should’ve told me.”

“That’s the thing,” Taehyung said, voice trembling. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. I thought if I could just get the money—through Namjoon’s experiment, or something —I could fix it before it caught up with me.”

Yoongi looked exhausted, rubbing a hand over his face. “You got into this much debt for what?”

Taehyung paused. His lips parted, then closed again.

Yoongi shook his head. “You’re going to make me say it?”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” Taehyung murmured. “It was one night. A stupid fucking night and—”

“It was drugs, wasn’t it?” Yoongi said it with a strange hollowness, not cruel, not angry, just disappointed. “And now you owe this guy half a million won.”

The mention of drugs made Taehyung cave in on himself, face breaking more after every passing second. This might just be the most mortifying situation of his entire life.

“Four hundred, ” Taehyung whispered. “Not half a million.”

Yoongi’s stare didn’t soften.

“You could’ve just told me,” he said finally, voice breaking the quiet. “You could’ve told me. I’ve been helping you with everything else. Food. Rides. Just… being there. Do you think I would’ve shut you out?”

His throat ached. “I was going to fix it before you could even worry about it. Before anyone had to know.”

“That’s not how roommates work,” Yoongi said, voice low and breaking. “That’s not how people who live together function. That’s not how boyfrie— ”

He stopped mid sentence, but Taehyung heard it. Felt it.

Yoongi stepped back, expression clouded. He tried to regain his composure, refusing to look back at the younger. “I care about you, and that didn’t start with this experiment.”

Taehyung couldn’t breathe for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far. I’ve been trying to fix it, Yoongs. I have a job now. Seokjin hooked me up. I’m going to pay it off.”

Yoongi nodded slowly, but the hurt didn’t leave his face.

“I want to help,” he said, and Taehyung opened his mouth to protest, but Yoongi cut him off. “I’m not offering you four hundred thousand won, so don’t panic. But I can… help you figure this out. Just no more lies, okay? None. ”

Taehyung nodded furiously, the guilt still bubbling in his chest.

“I swear,” he said, voice small. “No more lies.”

Yoongi stood in the center of the kitchen like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself anymore. The room was so quiet now, too quiet after the outburst, after the confession. His arms hung at his sides, fingers twitching and tugging at the hem of his sleeve without purpose.

It was like he heard Taehyung’s steps before he saw him—soft, hesitant, careful. Yoongi didn’t move. It seemed like he wasn’t ready to speak again, and he wasn’t sure what the next right thing to do even was. Taehyung thought part of him wanted to snap, to tell him to leave him alone for a while. But honestly? He could tell there was something else there.

When he wrapped his arms around the other’s shoulders, Yoongi froze.

He felt small in his arms.

That was the first thing Taehyung noticed, not physically, not really, but emotionally. He was usually the steady one between them, the one with his feet firmly planted, eyes cast downward like he couldn’t be bothered with the chaos around him. But now, in this moment, Yoongi was anything but steady. His shoulders were hunched. His breath shallow. The weight of the morning, and everything it revealed, sat in the slope of his spine like it was too heavy to carry alone.

When Taehyung had stepped forward, arms cautious but determined, he half-expected Yoongi to flinch away, to say “don’t” or “not now.” But he didn’t.

Taehyung pressed in closer, the curve of his arms locking behind Yoongi’s shoulders, pulling him in with a kind of warmth that only came when apologies ran deeper than words. The warmth of it startled Yoongi more than Taehyung expected. The older didn’t lift his arms, not at first. His hands clenched into slow fists at his sides while Taehyung’s voice murmured near his ear.

“This okay?” he whispered, lips brushing the pale skin of his lobe.

There was a pause. A heartbeat where nothing happened. And then—softly, almost imperceptibly—Yoongi nodded.

And that tiny movement, that silent yes , unlocked something. His head dipped into the crook of Taehyung’s neck, the fabric of his sweater brushing his cheek. And then slowly, like the smallest act of surrender, Yoongi’s arms lifted. They hesitated mid-air for a second, fingers curled like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want this, and then they folded around Taehyung’s waist.

Taehyung felt his own throat tighten. Yoongi’s cheek rested against his collarbone, his breath brushing warm against his skin. He wasn’t crying, but there was a tremble in his exhale. Taehyung just held him tighter for it.

“I fucked this up,” he murmured into Yoongi’s hair, voice thick. “I really fucked this up, and you shouldn’t have had to be dragged into it. You didn’t deserve that.”

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. But his grip didn’t loosen either.

There was something deeply intimate about it all. Not romantic, not quite, but safe. Like Yoongi was letting himself fall apart for the first time in a long time, and Taehyung was right there, holding the broken pieces like they were made of glass.

“You should’ve told me,” Yoongi mumbled, voice muffled against his chest. “We live together, Tae. We’re… doing this stupid thing together. You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” Taehyung whispered. “I know.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Yoongi admitted, voice hoarse, barely audible. “But I don’t want to let you deal with it alone.”

Taehyung swallowed. “You don’t have to do anything,” he whispered. “Just don’t hate me.”

Yoongi shook his head against him. “I don’t. I never could.”

And even though the air was still thick with tension, and nothing was solved, no money magically returned, no threats undone, it was a start. They stood there for a while. Just breathing. All Taehyung could feel was the warmth of Yoongi in his arms, the way his fingers gently clutched the fabric at Taehyung’s back like he was afraid of letting go.

And honestly, Taehyung was afraid of letting go too.

-

“This isn’t enough.”

The words cracked like a whip, echoing off the damp brick behind the dance building where the last of the afternoon sun barely reached. It was colder here, tucked in the shadow of the performing arts block. Taehyung stood rigid, his back to the wall, eyes cast downward like a scolded child.

It was the next day when Eunwoo towered over him, broad shoulders tense beneath a worn leather jacket, his jaw tight and his eyes dark. His voice didn’t just sound angry—it sounded frayed, like a wire stretched too far, one spark away from snapping.

“You told me two days,” he hissed, “two days, Tae. You said the fifteenth. You think this—” he shook the envelope in his hand with disdain, “—is gonna satisfy us?”

Taehyung winced, his heart climbing up into his throat. “I know, I know, I was gonna give you all of it— but you said half to me, remember?”

“That was before my crew started asking questions.” Eunwoo snapped, voice sharp enough to slice through skin. “What, you think I’m playing games with you? You think this is just me and you, huh? That you can go ghost, show up late, hand me half the fucking payment and expect it to be chill?”

Taehyung’s foot tapped anxiously against the cracked concrete, his pulse rattling in his ears. He tried to explain, though his voice was barely above a whisper. “I have 200,000. That’s all I could get.. my halmeoni thinks it’s for a school trip. Please, just give me a couple more weeks. End of the month, I swear—”

Eunwoo’s eyes flared. “A couple more weeks?” He stepped forward, and Taehyung instinctively shrunk back against the wall. “You think Siwoo’s gonna wait a couple more weeks? You think he gives a shit about your halmeoni or your cute little boyfriend experiment or whatever the fuck it is you’re doing on campus?”

That last bit made Taehyung flinch. He felt a pang of shame settle deep in his stomach. Yoongi found out about all this under the worst circumstances possible, the truth not even coming from Taehyung’s mouth. He hated that Yoongi was now being brought into this mess, his mess.

“Who’s Siwoo?” Taehyung dared to ask, voice hoarse.

Eunwoo shoved the envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket, exhaling a bitter laugh. “My boss. The guy who trusted me with that stash. You think I sold that shit for fun? I fronted it to you, Tae. I vouched for you. And now it’s my head on the chopping block.”

Taehyung’s chest tightened. “I didn’t mean—”

“Intentions don’t mean shit here!” Eunwoo barked, pacing now, unable to stay still. “Siwoo doesn’t care if you’re broke or stupid or fucking in over your head. He cares about the money. And if I don’t get the rest of it, he’s gonna come after me—and if he thinks you’re worth squeezing, maybe you, too.”

The air between them turned lead-heavy.

Taehyung’s throat felt like it had been scraped raw. He stood frozen against the back wall of the dance building, the cold from the bricks seeping into his spine. His palms were slick, clenched at his sides like fists were the only way to hold himself together.

“I’ll get it,” he whispered. The words came out weaker than he intended. “I will . Just give me until the end of the month. Please. Please, Eunwoo.”

Eunwoo’s jaw ticked, the glare he wore sharp enough to cut skin. His hands shoved into his jacket pockets with practiced aggression, and when he stepped forward just a little, Taehyung couldn’t help but flinch. Not because he thought Eunwoo would hurt him, not physically, at least, but because everything around this felt like a noose tightening.

“You know I can’t do that,” Eunwoo muttered lowly. “Siwoo’s already circling me. He thinks I’m lying about the stash, thinks I smoked half of it myself. You think he’s gonna wait another two weeks while I cover your ass?”

Taehyung’s knees felt unsteady. “I—I told you I’m doing this experiment, okay? It’s paying out soon. I just need until the end of the month.”

Eunwoo laughed, but there was no humour in it. Just disbelief and bitterness. “You think he gives a shit about your little love study?” He scoffed. “You slept with me to get high, Kim Taehyung. You begged me for that shit. Then you disappear and drop a half-assed payment, like that’s supposed to mean something.”

God, Taehyung wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

“I trusted you,” Eunwoo added, quieter now, though it sounded more dangerous than before. “And now you’re gonna fuck it up for me and for him.”

“I didn’t mean—” Taehyung’s voice cracked.

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter what you meant. What matters is you made a promise. And you broke it.”

The silence stretched. The only sound was Taehyung’s uneven breathing and the distant thud of bass coming from a practice studio inside the building.

“I have my first shift at my new job today,” he managed. “I’m trying to fix it. ”

“Trying doesn’t pay back what you owe.”

Taehyung’s vision blurred for a second. His voice dropped into something smaller, like a child left out in the cold. “Please, Eunwoo. I just need more time.”

But the look on Eunwoo’s face had gone unreadable. Cold.

“You’re done, Tae. I can’t protect you anymore.”

He turned and walked away, the sound of his boots fading into the gravel path like a countdown, like a door slamming shut in slow motion.

Taehyung didn’t move for a long time. His legs eventually folded, and he crouched low against the wall, burying his face into his palms as a wave of panic surged through his chest, constricting his breath. His eyes burned. He had never felt this cornered before.

What the fuck has he done?

Chapter Text

Taehyung had never felt more out of place.

The Daily Grind smelled like espresso and burnt hope, and by the time the lunchtime rush had simmered into a slow drip of customers, his nerves were already frayed at every edge. His apron was tied too tight, his shirt was sticking to the small of his back, and there was dried milk on his sleeve from a steaming mishap he was trying very hard not to cry about.

The machine hissed like it hated him. Every time he looked at the cash register, his brain turned into wet cotton. Numbers jumbled together, buttons blurred, and he could swear the “VOID” button was mocking him.

He’d already messed up a caramel macchiato twice. Burnt the milk so bad on the second try that his manager had swooped in like a coffee deity and redid it without a word. And then there was the latte art. God, the latte art. The heart he tried to pour for someone’s oat milk vanilla latte had looked like a wilting mushroom. Or a sad, melting butt.

Taehyung blinked hard as he wiped down the counter with shaky hands, his fingers trembling around the damp cloth. His mind would not settle. Yoongi’s tired voice was playing on a loop in his head. That look on his face. That horrible pit in Taehyung’s chest when he realised Yoongi had known, had seen through the whole thing.

Even their hug. It felt like Yoongi had to convince himself to hug back. And Taehyung couldn’t blame him.

He was disappointed. Everyone would be.

“Kid, are you okay?” Hana’s voice broke through the static, her sharp tone softened by the concern in her eyes. She leaned on the counter beside him, her black bob slightly frizzed from the humidity of the steam wand. “You look like you’re on the verge of a mental breakdown.”

Taehyung froze, cloth halfway across the espresso bar. His mouth parted to answer but nothing came out—just a weak, hollow sigh. He turned to face her fully, his shoulders slumped and his expression nothing short of worn.

“I’m fine,” he lied, because of course he lied.

But his manager wasn’t buying it. She clicked her tongue against her teeth and scanned the empty café. The lull in customers had bought them a brief moment of quiet. “You’re definitely not fine,” she muttered, pushing off the counter and grabbing a tray behind her.

Taehyung watched numbly as she pulled open the pastry case and tongs a slightly-too-toasty almond croissant onto a small ceramic plate. She handed it to him without flair, just a small huff and a side glance.

“Here,” she said. “You look like you need something to stop you from crumbling into dust. Almond croissants always make me feel better.”

Taehyung stared down at the flaky, golden mess in his hands like it was the most generous thing he’d been given in weeks. His throat tightened unexpectedly. Not because of the pastry—although he did really like almond croissants—but because someone noticed. Someone saw that he wasn’t okay, and instead of getting mad or throwing him out the back door, they handed him sugar and warmth on a plate.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Hana gave him a nod, still not smiling but somehow kind. “You mess up another macchiato and I will take you out back and spray you with the hose though.”

Taehyung laughed weakly, the sound catching on his breath. “Fair.”

The almond croissant was flaking apart in Taehyung’s fingers like his composure.

He chewed slowly, eyes cast down toward the pastry clutched in his hand, careful to avoid Hana’s gaze as she worked on the espresso machine across the counter. He could still smell the bitter espresso he had managed to splatter across the floor twenty minutes ago, and shame burned hot behind his cheeks.

“Seokjin’s a really sweet boy,” Hana said casually, her voice soft but cutting through the quiet space between them. “Always looking out for his friends.”

Taehyung froze mid-chew. Of course Seokjin told her. He’d probably mentioned it offhand, maybe trying to vouch for him, paint Taehyung as some struggling college kid who just needed a break. He didn’t know whether to be grateful or humiliated.

“He said you’ve been struggling to find work,” she continued, tamping the portafilter with practiced grace. “Do you need the extra money?”

Taehyung swallowed hard, the croissant suddenly dry and clinging to the roof of his mouth. He blinked down at it, watching a flake fall onto the counter like it was happening in slow motion.

God, Hana, you don’t even know the half of it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, picking at the edge of the pastry. “I’m not really in a good place right now.”

It came out more honest than he expected. Like admitting it to someone else made it more real, and more painful all at once.

“I know I’ve not been good today,” he added, the words laced with a self-deprecating laugh that didn’t quite land. “So if you wanna let me go and give the job to someone who actually knows what they’re doing, I totally get it.”

His shoulders slumped forward as he waited for her response, bracing himself for disappointment. For rejection. For another closed door. But instead, Hana just looked at him with a soft kind of patience in her eyes.

She didn’t say anything at first, just pulled out the group handle and packed the freshly ground coffee with a practiced motion. The smell of roasted beans filled the air.

“Kid,” she finally said, twisting the portafilter into the machine, “you should’ve seen Seokjin when he first joined.”

Taehyung looked up at her, blinking. She didn’t glance his way, but he could hear the fondness in her voice.

“He acts like he knows what he’s doing now, but it took him nearly two months just to not burn himself on a panini,” she said, shaking her head with a quiet snort. “The boy tried to toast a sandwich with the foil still on it. Started a fire. Had the audacity to blame it on the oven being temperamental.”

That coaxed a breathy chuckle out of Taehyung despite himself, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I get it,” Hana said more gently now, watching the espresso drip into the small ceramic cup below. “You’ve got stuff going on outside of this place. And the last thing you need is some rich kid complaining because you gave them oat milk instead of soy in their cappuccino.”

Taehyung felt something in his chest loosen, just a little. Like someone had peeled back the pressure valve by a single notch. She turned the machine off, lifting the tiny cup to inspect it before giving a satisfied nod.

“I’m not gonna fire you before you’ve even started,” she added, finally meeting his gaze. “I want you to get that paycheck at the end of the month. Okay?”

He nodded—quick, eager, his voice catching a little when he whispered, “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Hana said, a wry smile curling at her lips. “You’re still on trash duty today.”

Taehyung grinned properly now, the croissant lighter in his hand. Something about her patience made everything feel a little more manageable.

“Now finish that sweet treat,” she added, already prepping the next drink. “Before the next customer comes and makes you cry.”

-

Yoongi wasn’t built for this kind of emotional disarray.

He stood just outside the student guild building, back pressed against the coarse red brick wall, his fingers nervously fiddling with the zipper of his hoodie. It was warm today, one of those rare, golden April afternoons that blanketed the campus in a soft, lazy kind of sunlight. Students milled around the square with ice creams in hand and sunglasses perched on their noses, but none of it registered in Yoongi’s mind.

He was too busy spiraling.

He hadn’t properly spoken to Taehyung since the hug, the one that had both comforted and unsettled him in equal measure. Yoongi hadn’t meant to pull away so fast after that. He wasn’t even mad, not really. But things had suddenly snowballed into something much larger than either of them seemed capable of handling.

A fake relationship, a psychology experiment, a fucking drug debt .

Yoongi felt like he was starring in a badly written melodrama, except this wasn’t fiction—this was his life now, and he couldn’t even write his way out of it.

After Taehyung came clean, they’d cooked dinner in eerie silence. The clatter of cutlery and the occasional clink of pans had filled the void where their banter usually lived. And when they finally plated up their food, Yoongi mumbled something about needing to work on a project and disappeared into his room like a coward. He sat at his desk staring blankly at his laptop for hours, trying to compose music and failing miserably.

He’d barely slept. Couldn’t sleep, not with everything hanging heavy in his chest.

And now here he was, waiting for the gang to assemble on campus to welcome Jimin and Hoseok back after two long, chaotic weeks of dance tour. He hadn’t seen much of Taehyung today, just glimpses. An empty coffee cup on the counter, the faint smell of his cologne left in the bathroom. Taehyung had gone off to his trial shift at The Daily Grind in the early afternoon, and Yoongi hadn’t messaged him. Couldn’t bring himself to.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket now, checking the time—4:47PM. The bus was due soon.

He exhaled sharply, letting his head fall back against the wall. The pressure behind his eyes hadn’t eased all day. He knew the rest of the boys would be here soon, Jeongguk had been spamming their group chat for hours, saying he was going to sob the minute Hoseok stepped off that bus and warning everyone not to mock him for it.

And Yoongi? He didn’t even know how to be around them right now. Everything felt so fake. The lines were blurring. The experiment, the affection, the quiet intimacy he and Taehyung had somehow grown into—it was all starting to feel too real. And now, after learning about the debt and the danger Taehyung might be in, the whole thing made Yoongi’s stomach twist with something close to dread.

He wasn’t angry at Taehyung for lying. He was angry at himself for caring this much .

The wind had started to pick up, a biting breeze threading its way between buildings and tugging at the edges of coats and sweaters. The golden haze of late afternoon light was dimming now, shadows growing longer across the pavement as the boys crossed the street in their little unit, four silhouettes moving toward Yoongi with an ease and familiarity that should’ve comforted him.

It didn’t.

He saw them before they saw him. Seokjin was bundled up in Namjoon’s oversized corduroy jacket, the hem practically hitting his knees, hands tucked into sleeves for warmth. He looked ridiculous but still managed to wear it with that effortless prince-like charm of his. Namjoon, meanwhile, had sacrificed himself to the gods of aesthetic minimalism, wearing only a knitted oatmeal sweater that was definitely too thin for the drop in temperature.

Jeongguk was next to them, a bouquet of small, blushing pink carnations clutched like treasure to his chest. He looked jittery, eyes darting to the road as though expecting the tour bus to appear at any moment and deliver his boyfriend back into his arms like a war film reunion scene. And trailing just to the side, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his bomber jacket, head low, curls falling over his eyes—

Taehyung.

Yoongi’s stomach did something traitorous.

Taehyung didn’t look up when the group approached. He didn’t bounce the way he usually did, didn’t grin or nudge Jeongguk’s shoulder like they were in on some private joke. He walked with slumped shoulders, gaze locked to the concrete, like just being here—just existing—was something he felt guilty for. It stung more than it should’ve.

“Early bird catches the worm, right, Yoongi-hyung?” Namjoon smiled as he spoke, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. He pushed them back up absently with one finger. “You’re always the first one to show up.”

Seokjin grinned, tugging the sleeves of Namjoon’s coat over his hands. “Remember when he arrived at Jimin’s birthday party twenty minutes early and ended up helping me hang the banner?”

Yoongi gave a small, rehearsed smile. It felt weak. “Yeah. Well. Someone had to make sure the vibe was right.”

The air between him and Taehyung crackled with silence. Yoongi flicked his gaze over for a second, just to check. And there it was, Taehyung’s downturned face, a haunted expression swimming just beneath the surface. Their eyes met for the briefest, fragile moment, and then Taehyung looked away again. Like he couldn’t bear to be seen.

Ouch.

“Those for Hoseok, Koo?” Yoongi asked, his voice a touch louder than necessary, a desperate attempt to re-anchor himself in something normal.

Jeongguk brightened instantly, holding the bouquet up as though he’d just won a pageant. “Fourteen whole days without him,” he exhaled dramatically. “I’ve felt like a military wife whose husband’s gone off to war.”

Yoongi snorted before he could stop himself, grateful for Jeongguk’s comedic timing. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’ve missed him!” Jeongguk huffed, pouted, and hugged the flowers tighter. “The other side of my bed is too cold. I keep reaching over in my sleep. I’m losing my mind.”

“You’ve always been a little off the rails,” Seokjin offered gently, patting Jeongguk’s back.

Taehyung still hadn’t spoken. Yoongi felt the weight of his silence like a bruise pressing deeper every second. Still, he shifted slightly toward him. A small, silent act of closeness. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to be there, in case Taehyung wanted to reach back.

He didn’t. Yoongi swallowed it down. The wind picked up again, tugging at Taehyung’s curls. The tour bus was probably five minutes out.

Jeongguk turned to Seokjin and Namjoon to show them his bouquet, the three of them now engulfed in conversation and leaving the fake couple to their own devices. Yoongi knew he had to pounce, pull Taehyung aside and have some sort of conversation before their friends returned home.

“How did your first shift go?”

It was barely above a whisper, Yoongi’s voice so small he wasn’t even sure if Taehyung had heard him. However the other’s eyes did end up flickering upward, slow and uncertain, like it took actual effort to look at Yoongi properly. For a brief second, there was nothing between them but spring wind and the quiet hum of distant traffic, just Yoongi’s warm, familiar gaze and the way it settled over him.

And then Taehyung blinked again and looked away, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his bomber jacket, fists clenched, knuckles going white. “It was whatever,” he muttered, voice thin and quiet. Not his usual velveted baritone, not the teasing, smug lilt that made Yoongi roll his eyes every other minute. Just something tired. Something small.

Yoongi, ever patient now, more patient than he’d ever been before this whole experiment, tilted his head, studying him. “Just whatever?” His voice was soft, a gentle prod, as though he was trying to crack a shell without damaging what was inside.

Taehyung barely nodded. The guilt was written all over him.

You didn’t need to be a psychology major like Namjoon to read it. It was there in the slope of his shoulders, in the nervous shifting of his feet, in the way he couldn’t hold Yoongi’s gaze for longer than a breath.

And Yoongi hated it. Hated seeing him like this. Hated knowing that all of this, the weight, the silence, the pull of anxiety under Taehyung’s skin, was being carried alone. Well, mostly alone. Because Yoongi had tried. Tried to bridge the space between them with his words, his arms, a cake with strawberries. But still, Taehyung had lied.

Even now, Yoongi should’ve walked away. Pre-experiment Yoongi probably would have. But something had shifted in him. Something stupid and tender and kind.

“I was horrible,” Taehyung admitted suddenly, voice breaking through the hum of the others’ laughter behind them. “I don’t even know why she’s letting me stay.” He forced a laugh, empty and humourless. “I fucked up the cash register, I burnt myself on the milk steamer, and I ruined several lattes.”

Yoongi’s eyes softened as he took a small step closer, drawn in despite himself.

“I’m not gonna get paid till the end of the month anyway,” Taehyung continued, voice even quieter now, almost like he was ashamed to say it out loud. “And even if I do get the full paycheck, I probably won’t make the 200,000 I need. I just—” he paused, chest rising in a slow, shaky breath, “I just feel fucking stupid.”

Yoongi frowned. Not because he was angry. But because he hated hearing Taehyung talk about himself like that. He felt that protective streak again, fierce and uninvited, tugging at his chest like a leash.

He leaned in, eyes steady, voice low. “What I said the other night in the kitchen…” Yoongi’s fingers twitched at his side. “About not being able to hate you… that still stands, you know.”

Taehyung glanced back up at him, and this time he didn’t look away. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red from fatigue and all the unshed tears he was probably keeping locked behind his ribs.

“You don’t have to act weird around me,” Yoongi continued, gently. “You don’t have to fake anything. Not now. Especially not with me.”

“You’re the one who went into your room,” he muttered, the bluntness of it surprising even himself. It wasn’t accusatory, not really, but there was an edge to it.

Yoongi stilled, caught off guard, blinking at him. That kind of tone didn’t come often from Taehyung. He was all warmth and mischief, open-hearted and soft-spoken—even when he was angry, even when he was hurting.

“You’re allowed to be upset with me,” Taehyung continued, and his voice cracked just slightly now, no longer able to maintain the strength he’d started with. “You’re allowed to not want to hang out with me. Fuck, if you want, I can just go to Namjoon and we can call this whole experiment off and he can start again with two other participants.”

And that —that broke something in Yoongi.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Yoongi said quickly, voice softer, lower, the panic evident now as he stepped closer. His hand instinctively reached out, catching Taehyung gently by the wrist before he could retreat entirely into whatever dark space he was heading toward.

Taehyung froze. Just like that. All that motion, that built-up tension in his limbs, was gone, replaced by something still and trembling. Yoongi could feel it in the way his pulse jumped under his fingers, feel it in the tiny flinch of his shoulders. He was overwhelmed. He was spiraling. And Yoongi hated himself for being part of the cause.

“I don’t want any of that, okay?” Yoongi said, steadying his voice, lowering it like you would when speaking to a frightened animal. “I don’t want to call this off. I don’t want Joon to find two other participants. I want this. With you.”

Taehyung’s brows furrowed, lips parting like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. Yoongi sighed, keeping a hold of him.

“I left last night because I’m not good at emotions or talking about my feelings,” he admitted, voice taut with vulnerability now. “I always hide. That’s what I do. I freeze. I overthink. I go silent and pretend it’s fine when it isn’t.”

He glanced up to meet Taehyung’s wide, confused gaze. “I get a bit confused sometimes,” he added, quieter now. “Especially when it comes to you.”

Yoongi hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud. It just came. But the second it was out, he didn’t regret it. Because it was true. Everything about Taehyung confused him, how quickly he’d adapted to the experiment, how natural it felt to touch him, laugh with him, protect him. How real it had started to feel, even when it wasn’t supposed to be.

The weight of that confession hung between them like fog in the air, soft and dense, but impossible to ignore. Taehyung’s expression shifted immediately, any residual tension melting into something heartbreakingly gentle.

“I’m really sorry,” Taehyung said suddenly, voice small again, like all the air had left him. He blinked up at Yoongi with those soft, unreadable eyes, so full of apology it made Yoongi’s chest ache.

“I know you are,” Yoongi murmured, exhaling through his nose. “I never doubted that.”

There was a pause. One of those long, silent stretches of time where the world narrowed to just them. The two of them standing besides their unknowing friends, quiet voices and loud hearts.

“I’m not mad,” he said again, softly, honestly. “I’m just scared.”

Taehyung didn’t answer right away. But his eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment, not pulling away from his grasp, like he was giving Yoongi permission to hold him in this strange space between fake and real.

The shout of “Bus!” from Jeongguk shattered whatever fragile thread Yoongi and Taehyung were holding onto in that moment. They sprang apart like magnets snapped the wrong way, as if proximity itself had become dangerous.

Yoongi’s hand fell from Taehyung’s wrist almost too quickly, and the air between them crackled with unsaid things. Their eyes met for a fleeting second, Yoongi’s sharp with nerves, Taehyung’s unreadable, and then it was gone.

Both of them shuffled back toward the rest of the group like guilty schoolboys caught doing something they shouldn’t, even though not a single person had turned to look. Jeongguk, Namjoon, Seokjin—they were all fixated on the long white coach pulling up in front of the campus gates.

The bus gave a final loud hiss before parking completely, doors folding open with that familiar mechanical sigh. A wave of noise and energy poured out as students began spilling down the steps, suitcases dragged, duffel bags thrown over shoulders, water bottles clinking and phone screens lighting up as they searched for their rides or friends.

It took less than a minute to spot them. First came Jimin, suitcase in one hand and his dance bag over the other shoulder, wearing a grey hoodie and a pair of joggers that made him look younger, his face soft with travel fatigue. His hair was messier than usual, cheeks a little pink from the stale coach air, but his eyes were bright, scanning the crowd. Behind him, Hoseok followed, dragging two suitcases like it was nothing, sunglasses pushed up into his hair and a sleepy grin plastered across his face.

They both looked wrecked. And utterly relieved to be home. But no one looked more relieved than Jeongguk.

“Seok!” he shouted, pushing past Namjoon with zero subtlety, nearly tripping over Seokjin’s feet in the process. The bouquet of pink flowers in his hand wobbled with the movement, but he held it tight as he charged across the sidewalk like a man on a mission.

Hoseok spotted him mid-stretch and let go of his luggage instinctively, dropping everything as Jeongguk collided into him. Arms wrapped tight, Jeongguk buried his face in Hoseok’s chest, and Hoseok hugged him back with every bit of energy he had left. They stood there in the middle of the pavement, suitcases rolling away, completely consumed by the gravity of being reunited.

“Hi Gukkie,” Hoseok murmured, pressing his face into Jeongguk’s hair.

Jeongguk’s voice was a muffled breath against his chest. “I missed you so much. You were gone for so long.”

The flowers, now slightly squished between their torsos, still managed to survive the embrace. Jeongguk remembered them suddenly, pulling back just enough to offer them to Hoseok, cheeks red but proud. “I got these for you,” he mumbled, as if it wasn’t already obvious.

Hoseok lit up at the gesture, eyes crinkling as he took the slightly bent bouquet into his hands. “They’re perfect,” he said earnestly. “I’m gonna put them in the vase you hate on the windowsill.” Jeongguk smiled, like he was trying not to.

Before anyone could get too sentimental, Jimin slipped in between them with dramatic flair. “Wow, am I invisible? Where’s my warm welcome, Jeongguk?” he teased, slinging an arm around his friend’s shoulder with the full intention of stealing attention.

Jeongguk huffed out a laugh, pulling him into a tight hug with one arm while Hoseok looped his arms around them both from behind. “Of course I’m excited to see you,” Jeongguk mumbled, playfully bumping his head into Jimin’s temple. “Even if you did leave me here with no one but Seokjin hyung’s awful puns.”

Seokjin scoffed from behind them. “Excuse me, my puns are award-winning.”

Namjoon leaned into him with a grin. “Only in hell.”

Laughter rippled through the group. A series of greetings followed, Seokjin wrapping Jimin into a careful hug, Namjoon giving Hoseok a firm pat on the back. Yoongi stood a little off to the side, arms crossed but smiling quietly as he watched the joy spill over. And beside him, Taehyung shifted slightly closer, like the distance between them had become uncomfortable now.

-

Taehyung had been bracing himself for the kind of Saturday night he’d usually run toward. Normally, the mention of a house party—especially one hosted by Namjoon and Seokjin—would have him halfway out the door before the group chat could even settle on a time. But tonight, he didn’t feel like the usual Kim Taehyung.

Not with the crushing weight of debt still sitting in his chest like a boulder. Not with Yoongi acting all sweet around him. And definitely not with the possibility that his entire life could fall apart if one more thing went wrong. Still, he had to show up. For Hoseok and Jimin. For the sake of normalcy. Maybe even a little bit for Yoongi.

He threw on a pair of light-wash jeans that hugged him just right, a ribbed white tank top, and a short-sleeve button-up he didn’t bother to close. The jacket he pulled from the coat rack was a little more oversized than he usually went for, but it looked cool —like he hadn’t just spent the last four days mentally spiraling. Sunglasses pushed into his curls completed the illusion that everything was totally fine. He looked fine. If no one asked too many questions, he’d even sound fine.

He padded down the hallway to Yoongi’s door, fiddling with the hem of his jacket pocket, and knocked. “You ready, Yoongs?” he called, voice steady, light.

“Yeah! Just a sec,” came Yoongi’s muffled voice from the other side.

Taehyung blinked at the door, then leaned against the wall, sliding his hands back into his jacket pocket. The usual quiet rustling followed—clothes, zippers, the soft click of a phone charger being pulled from the wall. He wasn’t expecting anything in particular, just his roommate in his usual black tee and sneakers, maybe that ratty beanie he wore on low-effort nights.

But when the door opened, Taehyung's world shifted just a little.

Yoongi stepped out, head ducked slightly as he stuffed his phone into his jeans. He wore dark denim, a little oversized on his smaller legs. But what really made Taehyung’s brain hit a full, cartoonish record scratch was the olive-green oversized sweater. It draped on him cutely, falling off one shoulder just slightly, the sleeves bunching at his wrists like they weren’t quite sure what to do with themselves. His hair looked intentional, not just air-dried chaos, but styled into soft waves that framed his face, curling slightly around his ears.

And—holy shit. He had eyeliner on. Not a heavy line or anything flashy. Just a clean, soft smudge that made his eyes look darker, sharper. Catlike. Dangerous. Taehyung didn’t realize he was staring until Yoongi looked up, brows drawn slightly together.

“You good?” Yoongi asked, pausing in the hallway, as if trying to figure out what was wrong. Or on fire.

Taehyung opened his mouth. Closed it. Brain still buffering.

Then, like a complete idiot: “Are you wearing makeup?”

Yoongi blinked, then shrugged, completely unfazed. “Just a little.” He tugged at the hem of his sweater awkwardly. “Why? Does it look dumb?”

Taehyung scrambled for composure, but failed miserably.

“No,” he said, too quickly. “No, it—uh, it looks... really good, actually.”

Yoongi raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You sure? You’re looking at me like I’ve committed a crime.”

“Sorry,” Taehyung mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scratching the back of his neck. “You just—uh. I wasn’t expecting...”

Yoongi tilted his head, amused now. “What? That I’d clean up well?”

“No! I mean—yes! You do! But like—ugh, shut up, you know what I mean,” Taehyung groaned, turning to walk toward the door, flustered.

His cheeks burned under the hallway light, and he hated how Yoongi made it look so easy to be effortlessly cool. Behind him, the other chuckled softly, closing his bedroom door with a quiet click .

“C’mon,” he said with mock sweetness, falling into step beside him. “We’ve got a party to attend. Try not to get too distracted by your very hot fake boyfriend tonight, yeah?”

Taehyung rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth couldn’t help lifting into a smile.

Namjoon and Seokjin lived at a student house just on the outskirts of campus, a small fifteen minute walk away from Taehyung and Yoongi’s accommodation. The walk went just fine, Taehyung trying his very hardest not to stare too dumbly at Yoongi as they guided the dark streets that made up University of Seoul.

They arrived with their fingers intertwined, Yoongi pressing the doorbell despite the two hearing heavy music leaking through the walls. The warm buzz of laughter and bass-heavy beats spilled from the house as soon as Namjoon flung the front door open, halfway into a hug before either Yoongi or Taehyung could even say hello.

“My lab rats!” Namjoon declared with too much enthusiasm, his soju-sweet breath hitting their cheeks as he pulled both of them into a clumsy, swaying embrace. He was wearing one of Seokjin’s nicer button-ups, the white one with soft navy pinstripes that always made him look like he had his life together, even though the flushed cheeks and tipsy grin said otherwise.

“Joonie,” Taehyung laughed as he was squeezed into Namjoon’s chest, the corner of his sunglasses nearly getting knocked from where they still sat atop his curls.

Yoongi, still a little breathless from the walk, barely had time to blink before Namjoon wrapped an arm around his shoulders and nearly knocked his balance off entirely. “You good?” he asked flatly, but there was an unmistakable fondness beneath it.

Seokjin appeared in the doorway like the universe had conjured him at the perfect moment, rolling his eyes but clearly endeared. “Apologies,” he said with a grin, smoothing Namjoon’s hair down as if he were a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “He turned in his essay this afternoon and decided that meant all self-control is cancelled. ”

He leaned in to wrap Taehyung in a tight hug next, the kind that lingered just long enough to be comforting, before doing the same to Yoongi. “You both look nice,” he added with a glint in his eye, gaze flicking to the little smudge of eyeliner still shadowing Yoongi’s lash line. “Very pretty.”

Yoongi didn’t respond beyond a small grunt, letting go of Taehyung’s hand and making his way into the house. Taehyung’s lips twitched upward, following him lazily and quite pleased that someone else appreciated Yoongi’s makeup.

The house itself was already humming with life. Their little slice of student suburbia was glowing in the warm light of fairy lights strung across the ceiling, the usual faint scent of incense replaced by pizza grease and sweetened alcohol. There was music playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner of the living room, one of those thumping lo-fi house mixes that Hoseok always added to their party playlist. The floor pulsed with the rhythm, just subtle enough to vibrate through the soles of their shoes.

The kitchen counter was a chaotic masterpiece of disposable cups, soju bottles, vodka mixers, and several opened pizza boxes. Jeongguk stood by the counter, already mid-rant about something to Jimin, who looked like he hadn’t even unpacked his suitcase before arriving. Hoseok had claimed the aux and was lip syncing dramatically into a half-empty beer bottle, clearly making up for two lost weeks of attention.

Jimin spotted them first. “My boyfriends!” he called dramatically, beaming as he rushed toward them in his oversized sweater and plaid trousers. “My two favourite fake lovers.”

“Oh god,” Yoongi murmured, immediately detouring toward the food and leaving the two of them alone.

“Happy to be back?” Taehyung asked, accepting the squeeze Jimin gave him around the shoulders.

“You have no idea,” Jimin sighed, already leaning on him. “Europe was cute but I can’t handle Hoseok trying to make me drink espresso at every meal.”

“I’m right here,” Hoseok called from the living room, spinning mid-lip sync to flash Jimin a peace sign.

Taehyung couldn’t help but laugh, and somewhere in the back of his mind, beneath all the debt stress, the fake-dating confusion, the guilt still clinging to his ribs, it felt nice. It felt safe. Familiar. For a moment, just a moment, everything was soft. Everything felt okay.

The bass of the music thumped through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. His eyes lingered a second too long on that soft green sweater swaying toward the kitchen, the way Yoongi always slightly hunched when moving through crowded spaces like he was apologising for taking up room. Fuck, he thought. This was really happening. Something really horrible was happening.

“I heard you had your first day at your new job yesterday!” Jimin chimed in like a bright spark of confetti, immediately snapping Taehyung back into the moment. His best friend looked downright giddy, slightly tipsy, cheeks already flushed and dancing with the kind of chaotic energy that usually meant trouble was brewing. “How was it?”

Before Taehyung could even open his mouth, Jimin gasped. “Wait— you need a drink, here—have this,” he added, pressing a red solo cup into Taehyung’s palm like it was a potion for courage. “Vodka and coke. Very sexy. We’ve basically raided Joon and Jin’s stash so if you want to black out now’s your chance.”

Taehyung blinked. He barely had time to register anything beyond Jimin’s smile before his gaze was pulled back across the room again, to where Yoongi was now piling pizza on a plate, completely unbothered by the whirlwind Taehyung was currently descending into.

Still staring, Taehyung brought the drink to his lips and downed half in one go.

Jimin’s brows shot up, delight lighting his entire face. “My eyes are here.” he teased, voice full of playful sarcasm, clearly having seen everything. “Okay, what the hell is going on? Did something happen while I was in Europe, or…?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

He flushed immediately, the alcohol not doing nearly enough to dull his embarrassment. “No—what? Nothing happened. You’re crazy.” His words tumbled over each other clumsily, and he cleared his throat, grasping for a change of subject. “You asked about my job, right?”

Jimin tilted his head, clearly not buying the deflection but willing to play along for now.

“It’s good,” Taehyung nodded, trying to seem casual as he swirled the drink in his cup. “I make a great macchiato now.”

“Sure,” Jimin said, lips quirking into a grin like he was watching a live rom-com unfold. “And I’m dating Park Seo-joon.”

Taehyung gave him a light shove, but the tension broke, replaced with familiar warmth as Jimin looped their arms together like he used to do back in first year, back before all this fake-dating madness began. “Come on,” Jimin grinned. “Dance with me like old times. Before you do something stupid.”

“I’m not—!” Taehyung started, but Jimin was already pulling him toward the living room, the beat growing louder as they pushed through the crowd of students swaying and spinning under dim fairy lights.

Yoongi stood awkwardly beside the pizza box, half-eaten pepperoni slice drooping in his hand like it had given up on life. The bass thudded under his feet and the house buzzed around him, people laughing, yelling, glasses clinking, someone screeching a chorus to an early 2000s pop song across the next room. It was loud, and messy, and honestly kind of beautiful, in that messy-college-student kind of way.

He’d barely taken two bites before he was accosted by the warm weight of Namjoon’s body slamming into him like a very affectionate wrecking ball.

“Yoongi-hyung!” Namjoon yelled, half-choking on his own enthusiasm, a bottle of soju swinging precariously in one hand as the other wrapped around Yoongi’s smaller frame. He was beaming, cheeks flushed red with alcohol and joy.

Yoongi immediately stiffened. “Joon-ah, please,” he grumbled, trying not to grimace too obviously as he shoved Namjoon back with a hand on his shoulder. He hated physical touch unless stated otherwise. His pizza slid off the plate, landing with a pathetic flop back on the greasy paper. Namjoon barely noticed.

“I just missed you,” Namjoon whined like a sentimental puppy, using the counter to steady himself as he continued to sway in time with the music.

“You FaceTimed me this morning,” Yoongi deadpanned, brushing crumbs off his sweater. “For experiment feedback.”

Namjoon blinked, his brain short-circuiting for a moment before lighting up again. “Oh right! I did!”

Yoongi wanted to roll his eyes. But something about the sheer giddiness in Namjoon’s expression, about being here, being surrounded by his friends, being three sojus deep and completely unfiltered, made Yoongi soften. Against his better judgement, he smiled, quiet and fond.

“Thanks for hosting tonight,” he mumbled, nudging his plate away and bracing both hands on the edge of the counter. “I hope it’s fun for everyone.”

Namjoon nodded like a bobblehead, bottle swinging dangerously close to his own nose. “We need to get you drunk,” he declared. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you let loose. You’re always just sipping water like someone’s worried uncle.”

That made Yoongi pause. Right. When was the last time?

Maybe first year. Back when all of them were new and reckless and still learning the corners of each other’s lives. Back before the piano gigs, and the stress, and Namjoon’s thesis. Back when Taehyung was just his weird roommate who got chip crumbs in between the couch cushions and talked in his sleep and sometimes used Yoongi’s expensive conditioner without asking.

And now he was fake dating him. Now he was losing sleep over him. Now he was wondering what Taehyung actually thought of him when the cameras were off, when the giggles stopped, when he wasn’t calling him baby in that stupid, sugary voice that made Yoongi feel like his spine was made of lemon fizz.

“I wouldn’t want to date an introverted loser.”

Woah. What was that?

The words echoed, uninvited. That dumb moment in the cafeteria weeks ago, when Namjoon first brought up the idea of the experiment to them. Taehyung said it without really meaning it, without knowing that Yoongi would store it away like a thorn in his chest. It was a joke. A tease. That’s what they did.

But he was a boring, introverted loser with calloused fingers and a playlist full of sad jazz piano. There was no denying that. Three weeks ago he wouldn’t have batted an eye if he heard that phrase come from him. But now, in a social situation with far too many feelings clouding his brain and Namjoon reminding him how bland he could truly be, Yoongi suddenly felt a little embarrassed.

His mouth went dry. He looked up and around the kitchen like he was trying to spot a mirror and figure out what the hell he was even doing here. He turned to Namjoon, who was currently inspecting the contents of the fridge like it was the Louvre.

“Can I make myself a drink?” Yoongi asked, his voice low, trying to sound offhand but failing to hide the tightness behind it.

Namjoon didn’t even look back, just waved a sloppy hand and said, “Go for it, hyung. Help yourself to anything. Live a little!”

And for some reason, that was the sentence that landed. Live a little. Yoongi exhaled quietly and made his way to the makeshift bar on the counter, bottles lined up like soldiers, a half-melted ice bucket, sticky cups stacked too high. He found a clean-ish glass, reached for the vodka, and began to pour.

He didn’t know what he was trying to prove.

Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Maybe one drink wouldn’t hurt. Maybe three would be even better.

Yoongi didn’t flinch when Jeongguk approached, but he did brace himself. The younger always had this way of appearing out of nowhere like a silly puppy dog, head tilted, eyes scanning you like he was trying to unravel a riddle you didn’t even know you were part of. Tonight, apparently, Yoongi’s makeup was the puzzle of the hour.

“Are you wearing eyeliner, hyung?” Jeongguk asked, already cracking open a bottle of tequila with a twist of his wrist, pouring it into a solo cup without even measuring.

Yoongi groaned under his breath, rolling his eyes with a tug of his lip that almost resembled a smile. “Why is it such a big deal?” he muttered, mixing whatever the hell he grabbed first into his drink, it was definitely juice, probably too much vodka, maybe a splash of regret. “Everyone won’t shut up about it.”

Jeongguk just grinned like a kid caught with candy. “That’s ‘cause it’s pretty, hyung.”

Yoongi blinked. Literally blinked. Caught so off guard by the word that it felt like Jeongguk had just flicked a switch in the back of his brain.

He stared for a moment, trying to decipher whether or not it was a joke, but Jeongguk was already sipping from his cup and sidling up next to him like this was just another Tuesday.

“I love when Hobi wears makeup for his performances,” Jeongguk added, voice going warm and fond. “Makes his eyes pop. Just like yours now.”

And for a moment, Yoongi forgot how to breathe properly. He cleared his throat, nodding slowly, staring down into his mismatched drink like it was going to give him directions on what to do next. He hated how shy he got sometimes.

“Well... I’m glad you all like it, I guess. Was just trying something new.”

His tone was offhanded, but inside he was spiraling. Compliments were like foreign currency, unfamiliar, confusing, and probably taxed. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, especially not from people he actually gave a damn about.

Jeongguk clapped him on the back with a grin, then gestured to the drink in Yoongi’s hand. “Wait, are you drinking tonight?”

Yoongi raised the red plastic cup slightly, feigning nonchalance even as his palm slicked a little with sweat. “Yeah. Why not?”

“You never drink,” He pointed out, voice teetering on surprised and impressed.

Yoongi shrugged, cool as ever, though his pulse betrayed him. “Like I said,” he echoed, raising the drink to his lips with more bravado than sense, “just trying something new.”

He took a generous gulp. And immediately regretted every decision he had ever made in his life. The mix was awful, some ungodly blend of sour liquor, vodka, and the sugary tang of orange juice. It burned. He wanted to gag, but there was no way he’d let Jeongguk see him falter.

So he swallowed, let it slide like acid down his throat, and forced out a casual, “Mm. Nice.”

Jeongguk laughed, eyes crinkling as he leaned against the counter beside him. “You’re gonna be fun tonight, hyung. I can feel it.”

Yoongi just shook his head, eyes fluttering shut for a second as he tried to will the burn away.

-

The party glowed like a soft blur around the edges, the music thumping low from Seokjin’s ancient Bluetooth speaker as the air grew thick with laughter, soju breath, and the occasional off-key screech from whoever had grabbed the karaoke mic next. It was warm in the living room of Namjoon and Seokjin’s shared house, not from the heat, really, but from the bodies, the booze, the joy.

Taehyung was absolutely buzzed. He was sprawled on the far left couch like a Renaissance painting, legs splayed out and head slightly tilted against the armrest. His button-up had fallen off his broad shoulders, his tank top slightly crumpled, hair tousled and falling into his eyes as he blinked slowly, vision hazy but content. His fingertips toyed with the rim of his solo cup, now mostly filled with melted ice and regret.

Seokjin and Jimin had absolutely dominated karaoke with a stunning, emotional ballad, one of those dramatic love songs that required you to clutch your chest while singing. The two had stood side by side, Seokjin harmonising like a pro while Jimin hit the high notes and blew fake kisses into the crowd. They bowed at the end, giggling and tripping into each other. Namjoon tried to join in right after, but Taehyung had nearly flung himself over the back of the couch to unplug the mic, slurring, “No! I’ve heard you sing, hyung. For the sake of our ears, absolutely not.”

Namjoon had pouted dramatically, throwing his lanky frame into the nearest chair, where Seokjin was quick to find him and stroke his hair like a distressed puppy. Namjoon, in full drunk-sentimental mode, kept mumbling things like “Jimin thinks I’m annoying” and “Yoongi hasn’t laughed at my jokes all night” to which Seokjin replied with kisses and a fond, “You’re annoying in a good way.”

Yoongi, meanwhile, had steadily worked through what must’ve been his fourth or fifth drink. He was lounging by the open kitchen archway, his cup in hand, cheeks tinged a little pink, hair a fluffy mess of curls that framed his face so beautifully it made Taehyung ache. He wasn’t talking much, he never did at these types of gatherings, but he was smiling, that rare, real smile that curled at the corners and made his eyes disappear. Hoseok had sidled up beside him, poking at his arm as they shared a quiet conversation. Yoongi rolled his eyes at something Hosoek said, laughing into his drink, and even from across the room Taehyung could see the way his shoulders shook, dimples on full display.

He looked so fucking cute.

Taehyung’s gaze softened, his eyes lazily tracing every detail — the way Yoongi’s sweater swallowed his frame, how his wrist bent slightly with his cup as he talked. He didn’t even realise he was staring until Seokjin’s voice cut through his haze.

“Don’t drool, Taehyungie.”

He blinked hard, turning to find Seokjin watching him smugly from where he was now cuddling Namjoon like a weighted blanket. He tried to play it off, chuckling and turning his face into the couch cushion.

“Shut up,” he slurred, cheeks warm.

“You’ve barely hung out with your boyfriend tonight,” Seokjin teased, voice sing-song and slurred just enough to make the words wobble.

Namjoon, who was currently collapsed across Seokjin’s chest like a very large emotional support blanket, didn’t even lift his head. His eyes were closed, but he still mumbled into Seokjin’s shirt, “Mmm. Fake boyfriend.”

“Fake boyfriend,” Taehyung echoed quickly, voice too sharp to sound casual. He squinted into his cup like it held answers. “Big difference.”

Seokjin let out a slow whistle, raising a perfectly groomed brow. “Okay,” he drawled, “something’s up. Normally you’d be climbing into his lap and calling him pet names like you’re trying to win Best Couple at a high school prom. But tonight? You two are doing the ‘three-metre radius and no eye contact’ thing.” He leaned forward slightly, peering into Taehyung’s face with faux concern. “Did you guys fight again?”

Taehyung scoffed. “We’re fine. No issues.” He took a gulp from his drink, but it was clearly meant more to shut Seokjin up than to hydrate.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Seokjin said, sing-song again.

Taehyung grumbled something under his breath that might’ve been a curse, or a prayer, or both. Namjoon stirred, his cheeks flushed and hair a little damp against his forehead.

“Tae,” he said thickly, eyes peeking open just a sliver, “can you ask your boyfriend if he thinks I’m funny? I don’t think he wants to be my friend anymore.” His voice cracked at the end, like the idea alone had broken him.

Taehyung blinked. “Hyung, you are so gone.”

Seokjin laughed, brushing Namjoon’s hair out of his eyes. “He had wine.”

“I think he had half the alcohol at the bar.”

Namjoon only sighed, blissful and dramatic. “I just want Yoongi-hyung to laugh at my jokes again.”

Seokjin pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You made a joke about a breadstick being a metaphor for capitalism. He’s right not to laugh.”

“I thought it was insightful,” Namjoon mumbled, closing his eyes again.

Taehyung leaned his head back against the couch, letting his eyes wander. Across the room, Yoongi was now being shoved to his direction by none other than Hoseok, the younger laughing and dragging him along like he was planning something grand. Yoongi’s eyes were half-lidded and his grin was lazy, mouth still quirked in that post-lather ugh softness that made Taehyung feel stupid things. His eyeliner was smudging at the corners, cheeks flushed from either booze or heat or both.

God, Taehyung thought, throat tightening a little. He’s so pretty.

Hoseok’s voice cut through Seokjin and Taehyung’s conversation like a record scratch at a dinner party. “This fella over here,” he announced with a lopsided grin, tugging a very dazed and half-smiling Yoongi across the room by the wrist, “just tried to mix Malibu with rosé, so I’m putting him in time out before he poisons himself.”

“Shut up.” Yoongi grumbled softly, a very obvious whine in his voice. His cheeks flushed pink under the dim, moody glow of the fairy lights strung across the ceiling. His hair had gone messy, probably from Hoseok manhandling him.

He looked straight at Taehyung for a beat too long.

Taehyung looked away immediately. Fuck.

“Oh, Yoongi—c’mere, sit here!” Seokjin chirped from the couch, beginning to stand. “I think I’m gonna take Namjoon to bed, he’s…” He glanced down at the flushed, mumbling body latched onto him like a sleepy koala. “…feeling a little worse for wear.”

Namjoon let out a slow groan of betrayal. “Seokjinnieeee. I’m fine. I just—I just need the couch to stop breathing. ”

Seokjin winced fondly. “Yup. Bed. Immediately.”

Yoongi blinked slowly, like it took him a moment to register what was happening. He looked like he wanted to protest sitting down next to Taehyung. Taehyung looked like he wanted to fall through the floor. But Seokjin was already hoisting Namjoon to his feet, and Yoongi was being dropped in the suddenly vacated space with no ceremony.

Their thighs touched. Taehyung’s pulse hiccuped in his neck.

Yoongi sat stiffly, arms folded into the sleeves of his sweater, drink tucked against his chest. His knees knocked Taehyung’s every time he shifted slightly. Neither of them said anything at first, the music booming too loudly for small talk and yet somehow not loud enough to silence the tension that filled the air between them like static.

Across the room, Namjoon mumbled as Seokjin tried to lead him away, “Yoongi hyung, you think I’m funny right?”

Yoongi turned his head, blinked at the sight of Namjoon being bridal-carried away. “You’re the funniest guy I know, Joon-ah,” he said, and though his voice was dry as ever, there was a soft sincerity threaded through it that made Namjoon melt even more into Seokjin’s arms.

“See? He likes me,” Namjoon told no one, eyes fluttering shut like he’d just been validated on a spiritual level.

Taehyung laughed quietly next to Yoongi, nose scrunching with the effort of holding it in. Yoongi flicked his gaze to him—just for a second—and Taehyung could feel it, that lingering warmth that buzzed in the air whenever they got too close. He was scared to meet it head-on, but god, did he want to. He wanted to lean his head against Yoongi’s shoulder and pretend that none of it was pretend. Just for tonight.

“Hey,” Yoongi said softly, nudging him with his knee. “Thanks for not mixing the Malibu and rosé.”

Taehyung snorted. “What were you thinking?”

Yoongi smirked down into his cup. “Clearly, I wasn’t.”

Yoongi leaned back slightly on the couch. The thrum of the bassline from someone’s chaotic house party playlist vibrated through the floor, the walls, even their bones. But none of that mattered right now, not with Taehyung slumped beside him, red solo cup in hand and a loose, lazy smile playing on his lips.

“Are you drunk?” Yoongi asked softly, voice barely audible over the music but still somehow reaching Taehyung like a secret.

He turned his head to look at him fully, eyes half-lidded and gleaming beneath the fringe of his lashes. He blinked once, like he was pretending to consider it. “Nah,” he said. Yoongi raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed.

Taehyung’s face cracked, laughter bubbling out of him like soda fizzing too fast from a bottle. “Okay, maybe a little.” He tilted the cup in his hands, inspecting it with all the seriousness of a sommelier at a Michelin star restaurant. “I might’ve had a few.”

Yoongi smirked, just barely. “Shocking,” he murmured, watching Taehyung with a fondness he didn’t care to mask.

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed playfully. “And you, hyung?” he teased, nudging Yoongi’s knee with his own. “What about you, huh?”

Yoongi pretended to consider it, then lifted his hand and pinched his thumb and index finger together in the most endearingly nerdy gesture Taehyung had ever seen. “Just a little bit,” he mumbled sheepishly, eyes dropping to his lap shyly.

It was so absurdly adorable, Taehyung lost it. He giggled uncontrollably, a warm, loose laugh that made his whole body move, like the sound of it had no choice but to escape him entirely. He tried to bite his lip to contain it, but it didn’t help. “You’re so lame,” he wheezed through his grin.

Yoongi, smile faltering a little, shook his head. “Shut up. You’re drunker than I am.”

“Am not. ”

“Are too. ”

“Am not! ”

“Jimin told me you couldn’t speak properly ten minutes ago.”

“That’s because your sweater distracted me.”

Yoongi blinked. Taehyung blinked back, the words catching up to his brain a second too late.

“Shit.” Taehyung muttered under his breath, suddenly very aware of how close their knees were still touching and how hot his face felt.

Yoongi didn’t say anything right away, just looked at him— really looked at him. Like he was trying to piece something together, or maybe, like he already had. And then he chuckled, low and breathy, hiding it in the rim of his solo cup as he took another sip.

“Drunk,” he murmured again.

Taehyung laughed weakly, sinking a little lower into the couch, heart pounding. “Maybe,” he whispered. “But I still think you’re cute.”

Yoongi’s hand froze on his drink. And the music throbbed on, as if nothing had changed, though something very much had.

Yoongi’s mouth parted slightly, as if something—anything—might come out. But nothing did. His throat worked through a dry swallow, fingers still tugging nervously at the hem of his oversized green sweater like it could anchor him somewhere safer than here, on this couch, next to Taehyung. Drunk, warm, ridiculously affectionate Taehyung.

"You think I’m cute?” Yoongi had asked it mostly to buy himself time, hoping Taehyung would laugh it off, change the subject, get distracted by a dog video or something flashing on someone’s phone screen across the room. But instead, Taehyung doubled down.

“Yoongs, you’re kidding, right?” Taehyung leaned closer, voice dipped in that particular brand of low-lidded sincerity that only came with too much vodka and too little filter. “You showed up tonight in an outfit that drowns you and eyeliner I haven’t stopped looking at since you left your bedroom.”

Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat. He could feel the flush rising to his ears, crawling up the back of his neck like a slow burn. It didn’t help that Taehyung was looking at him like that—eyes soft and glassy, lips just slightly parted, hands still curled around that stupid red cup he was pretending to sip from.

“And it’s not just tonight,” Taehyung added, voice gentler now. “You’re cute in general. Like, always. You’re small and effortlessly pretty and when you actually smile every once in a while it’s kind of hard not to look at you like you hung the damn moon.”

Yoongi didn’t have the processing power to respond to that kind of poetic attack. He blinked, wide-eyed, and stared down at his lap like the hem of his sweater might suddenly hold the answers to life. His fingers twisted the soft cotton until it wrinkled under his hands.

“You’re being a really convincing fake boyfriend right now,” he mumbled, barely above the music pulsing in the room.

Taehyung tilted his head, cheek brushing against the shoulder of the couch as he leaned in closer. “Who am I trying to convince, hm? Who’s watching us?” he asked, almost teasing, but there was something serious underneath the slur of his words. Something vulnerable. “What if I told you I think all these things outside of the experiment?”

Yoongi opened his mouth. His heart was thudding now, so loud he was sure Taehyung could hear it. The alcohol had lowered all his defenses, but not enough to fight through the panic flooding his chest.

“I’d say…” he tried, barely a whisper, “I think you’re stupid. And that we should get you home. In bed.”

Taehyung smiled at him. Not his usual teasing grin, but something soft. Something sincere. He shifted a little closer, knees bumping. “Yeah, hyung,” he said, voice quieter now, like it was only for the two of them. “I wanna go to bed.”

Yoongi gaped. Into those eyes that always gave too much away. And then—

“With you.” Taehyung’s voice dipped lower. “Miss having you sleep next to me.”

Yoongi’s heart damn near stopped.

And for a moment, all the noise of the party faded into the background. All Yoongi could hear was Taehyung’s breath and the pounding of his own heart, all he could see was the flush blooming across Taehyung’s cheeks, the wide, open honesty of his expression.

-

Yoongi barely recognised himself.

His back hit the wall with a dull thud, his breath stuttering in his throat, swallowed by Taehyung’s mouth before he could even form a thought. The kiss was wild—sloppy and desperate, the kind of kiss you give when you’ve spent too long not kissing someone you’ve wanted for too long. Taehyung’s hands gripped his waist like he was scared Yoongi might disappear, thumbs digging into the cotton of his oversized sweater, dragging him closer, grounding him, claiming him.

Yoongi gasped softly between their lips, fingers twitching against Taehyung’s chest. Everything was dizzying, his body was still warm with liquor, and he couldn’t quite tell if the heat crawling up his spine was from the alcohol or Taehyung’s body flush against his own.

He had never kissed a boy before. Never kissed anyone before.

He let Taehyung take the lead, lips parting instinctively as a low hum escaped his throat, surprised at the press of Taehyung’s tongue, at how natural it felt despite his nerves. His fingers fumbled for something to hold onto, settling on the soft cotton of Taehyung’s open jacket, zipping and unzipping it slightly just to keep himself tethered. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Taehyung exhaled against his cheek, nose brushing along the curve of Yoongi’s. “Fuck, so pretty, hyung.” His voice was ragged, drunk with more than alcohol. “Wanted this for so long.”

Yoongi’s lips parted, eyes fluttering open. Taehyung was right there, close enough for him to see the crease in his brow, the flush beneath his cheekbones, the wet shine of his mouth. He looked wrecked. Beautiful.

Yoongi’s voice came out smaller than he intended, caught in the softness of the moment. “Bed, Tae…” He trailed off, unsure if it was a suggestion, a plea, or a warning.

But Taehyung stilled at the sound of his name, looking down at him with eyes blown wide and hands still cupping his sides. Yoongi swallowed hard, blinking up through dark lashes, fingers still clinging to Taehyung’s jacket zipper like it might hold him together.

“I wanted this too,” Yoongi whispered, the words barely audible. “Wanted you. ”

It came out so quietly, like a confession whispered into the dark after weeks of pretending nothing mattered, after too many almosts and too many lies. And the moment it left his lips, he felt it settle heavy and real between them.

Taehyung just stared at him, pupils dilated, breath hitching against his lips. And in that suspended second, Yoongi felt it: that what had started as an experiment had cracked something open inside him. Something he didn’t know how to close again.

His fingers threaded through Yoongi’s as he guided them down the familiar hallway, the soft sound of their mismatched footsteps brushing against the wooden floor. The alcohol still buzzed gently in both of their systems, a soft lull in their bodies that made everything feel just a little bit dreamlike. Taehyung nudged open the door to his room with his hip and turned over his shoulder, a smile tugging at his lips.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted you back in my bed, Yoongs,” he murmured, voice sweet and low.

Yoongi blinked, a little breathless, still dazed from the kisses they'd shared against the hallway wall. He let Taehyung tug him forward, their fingers still laced, his heart thudding unevenly beneath his sweater. The room was dimly lit, just the glow of a small lamp on Taehyung’s desk, and it cast a warm haze over everything, from the soft sprawl of bedsheets to the pile of clothes on the chair that had never once been used for sitting.

“Loved when you stayed with me the other night,” Taehyung added as he shrugged off his jacket and let it fall carelessly to the floor. “Wish you didn’t leave me.”

Yoongi’s hands found his waist instinctively, thumbs brushing against the hem of Taehyung’s shirt as they stood close. His voice was soft when he asked, “You… liked sleeping with me?”

Taehyung didn’t even hesitate. He nodded, all affection and wide, sleepy eyes. “Mhm. Watched you snore and everything.”

Yoongi groaned, face flushing as he ducked his head. “Stop,” he mumbled, clearly mortified.

But Taehyung just laughed, warm and airy and fond, before leaning down to kiss him again—soothing, unhurried, like he was trying to make up for all the times he wanted to kiss Yoongi but didn’t. The kind of kiss that felt like it could fill in every quiet gap between them.

The bed creaked under their weight as Taehyung flopped down with a soft oof, only to reach back and tug Yoongi down with him. Yoongi landed clumsily on top, catching himself with shaky elbows on either side of Taehyung’s chest. He could feel Taehyung’s grin against his lips when they met again, all softness and sloppy coordination, but neither of them seemed to mind.

Yoongi shifted awkwardly, straddling Taehyung’s lap, his oversized sweater bunching at his sides. “I don’t… I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he admitted shyly, voice barely above a whisper.

Taehyung blinked up at him, still smiling, still holding him steady. His hands settled on Yoongi’s waist, fingers spread warm over the soft cotton of his sweater, grounding him. “Couldn’t care less,” he said honestly.

Yoongi’s shoulders slumped with relief, and he leaned down just enough for their foreheads to brush. “I don’t wanna mess this up,” he breathed, quieter still.

Taehyung tilted his head, nosing gently against Yoongi’s cheek in a way that was far too affectionate for someone who was tipsy and grinning moments ago. “You’re not gonna,” he promised, gentle and certain. "Won't let that happen.”

And it wasn’t a grand declaration. There was no dramatic moment, no soundtrack, no lights dimming like in a film. Just two boys under a thin blanket of half-truths and deepening feelings, tangled in each other and fumbling through a moment that had taken far too long to arrive.

Taehyung kissed Yoongi’s cheek, once, twice. Then his temple. Then the corner of his mouth. Each one slower than the last, like he was savouring it. Like he couldn’t believe Yoongi was really here.

“You wanna just keep kissing?” Taehyung asked, his voice hushed, almost shy in the stillness of the room. His fingers were twitching against the sides of Yoongi’s sweater, brushing lightly along the fabric like he needed something to hold onto. “I like this. Don’t care about anything else but you.”

His words were a little slurred, a little sleepy, but the sincerity behind them couldn’t have been clearer.

Yoongi flushed instantly, pink creeping up his cheeks, and he dipped his head just enough to hide in the crook of Taehyung’s neck. “M’ want more,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. His voice was small, unpracticed in this kind of vulnerability. It wasn’t demanding. It was gentle, hesitant. “really sure, Tae. I’m positive.”

Taehyung blinked at him, stunned for a moment, watching the way Yoongi’s eyes dropped from his like he was afraid of being too much. His hands settled softly on Taehyung’s waist, fingertips barely pressing through the cotton of his tank top.

“Don’t wanna be an introverted loser,” Yoongi mumbled suddenly, the words muffled into the warm skin of Taehyung’s neck. He nuzzled closer like he could bury the confession there.

That—that—made Taehyung go still. Not from discomfort, but from the sheer weight of those words. His body tensed slightly beneath Yoongi. “Who said that about you?” he asked, quieter now.

Yoongi lifted his head just enough to meet his gaze, eyes glassy and red around the rims. “You did. In the cafeteria. Before the experiment.”

The air shifted, guilt flooding into Taehyung’s system like cold water to the lungs. Fuck.

“I tried to let loose tonight,” Yoongi continued, voice hoarse and raspy. “So you didn’t think that way about me anymore.”

The silence between them felt heavier than the alcohol in their system. Taehyung’s hands moved up slowly, fingers gripping Yoongi’s sweater like he could somehow reverse time. “You know I didn’t mean that,” he murmured, heart hammering painfully against his ribs.

Yoongi didn’t pull away. He just blinked, still hovering inches above Taehyung.

“We both said things about each other,” Taehyung added softly. “You called me a six out of ten. Remember?”

Yoongi’s expression twisted into pure horror. Right. Fuck. He did say that.

His brows knit together, lips parting as if to apologise before the words could form. “That was so mean of me,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.. I didn’t mean that either.”

Without thinking, his hand moved gently to Taehyung’s cheek, cupping it like he needed to fix what had been broken weeks ago. His thumb brushed under Taehyung’s eye with a kind of care he didn’t even know he was capable of. And Taehyung? He didn’t flinch. He leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, letting the warmth settle there.

“We were both idiots,” Taehyung said, breathlessly amused. “Let’s not let the past ruin this. Alright?”

Yoongi nodded—small, barely there. He felt like he was floating. Like he was being given something he didn’t think he’d ever have. Taehyung’s face, still cradled in his palm, softened with that sleepy smile again. His lips were parted just enough to breathe out against Yoongi’s wrist. A grounding kind of closeness.

“Alright,” Yoongi whispered back. “No more ruining things.”

Their foreheads touched again, lazy and natural. And when they kissed this time, it wasn’t messy. It was quiet. Intentional. Healing.

Despite the clumsiness of it all, something between them started to click. Yoongi was figuring out the rhythm, how Taehyung tilted his head when he kissed, when to open his mouth just slightly, how to press in with just enough pressure but not too much. It wasn’t perfect. They still fumbled. But it was them.

Taehyung’s hand moved carefully, one slipping under the olive-green sweater to find the warmth of his waist. He held him there, not gripping, not pulling, just grounding him. His other hand moved instinctively lower, finding the curve of Yoongi’s ass through his dark wash jeans. Yoongi made a soft, breathy sound against his lips. Not a word, just a quiet, dizzying reaction.

"Tae..." he whined a little, almost like a prayer. His hands hovered, unsure of where to land, one on Taehyung’s chest, the other at his collarbone.

The younger paused, not because he wanted to stop but because he needed to listen. He could tell that Yoongi was getting frustrated. It was bound to happen. This was messy and they were both definitely not sober enough for a coherent conversation.

But they had to communicate about this. His voice, gentle and steady despite the fog of alcohol, cut through the silence. "Tell me what you want, Yoongs. I need to hear it from you."

Yoongi blinked, breath shaky. The room was dim, the warmth of Taehyung’s body beneath him making his head spin. His voice was small but honest.

“I... I just want more. ”

“More?”

“More— shit. I dunno.”

He grumbled, against the other’s jawline, obviously enjoying the feeling of Taehyung’s hands on his ass. Yoongi rutted against his crotch, desperate for any sort of friction from the denim they're both wearing. He was aching at this point, a quiet whine leaving him as he pressed further into Taehyung’s bulge, turning his face into his neck.

Taehyung sighed as he showed him just what he wanted, Yoongi now forming a slow rolling motion against the other. The sensation of Yoongi’s cock rocking against him was distracting enough for Taehyung’s eyes to flutter closed for just a brief moment, his grip on Yoongi’s frame tightening as he pulled him closer.

“You feel so good.” Taehyung admitted quietly, feeling the other’s breath on his neck. Yoongi was panting a little, obviously inexperienced and incredibly clumsy as he jerked his body against his lower half.

“Please.” Yoongi mumbled against him.

“Please what, baby?”

Baby. Fuck, that was the first time Taehyung had used that word on him in a while. That was usually Taehyung’s forte, the pet name that started this whole spiral of confusion between them.

But wow, did it feel different coming from him now, whilst he was underneath Yoongi and bucking his hips upwards to help Yoongi chase his high.

“It—it feels good,” Yoongi admitted, rocking slowly against Taehyung. “I want—please, I…”

“You don't want me to stop, do you?” He asked him, and he could feel Yoongi shake his head in the crook of his neck.

This was when Taehyung realised that their first time fooling around was going to be clumsy, intoxicated frottage after a college party. This was going to be Yoongi’s first time with anyone at all.

Fuck. Fuck. Taehyung was so lucky that it was with him. So lucky that the two of them had crashed together like this. Suddenly he was very grateful for the horrible concoctions they had both drank throughout the night.

He attempted to bring Yoongi back up for air, turning his face so he could nose him out of his neck for just a moment. He didn't like the thought of Yoongi hiding, especially during his first time. They locked eyes a little lazily, Yoongi looking absolutely wrecked as both of their breathing finally matched up. His cheeks were flushed, his hair sticking to his forehead a bit from how he’d worked up a bit of a sweat, and his lips look plush and red from Taehyung biting them.

“You’re doing so good.” He praised, which only made Yoongi quicken up the pace further. Taehyung took it upon himself to connect their lips again, something to keep the other grounded whilst he chased his high.

It was true, how good Yoongi was doing. Considering just over a month ago Taehyung used to consistently bring guys back to their apartment every other night and definitely got put in similar situations like this on several occasions, Yoongi was definitely a fast learner.

This all felt so different from the strangers Taehyung used to meet on campus. Yoongi wasn’t just some guy from a bar or someone on his course who he merely uttered a word to, Taehyung was enjoying this way more than his other one night stands.

Not that this was going to be a one night stand. He prayed, anyway.

It was all just one big learning curve for Yoongi, he’d never felt anything like this before. Never been in this position. Never even thought about sex all that much before. Especially not with his.. Roommate? Fake boyfriend? Maybe not so much fake boyfriend anymore? Too many thoughts considering he had just one goal.

The goal being to enjoy this whilst it lasted.

At one point, Taehyung bit his bottom lip, firm and sharp enough to make Yoongi’s breath hitch. That plus the way Taehyung’s hand underneath his sweater was then exploring the bare skin underneath, caressing his side and pressing his thumb just above the curve of his hip bone. It was all getting much. His touch was reverent, trembling, Yoongi just full of pure nerves and want.

“Please— Please—” He cried against his lips, feeling a warmth pool in his lower abdomen. “I— I— think.. I think I’m gonna come..”

Taehyung’s heart tugged at that, moving the hand that was cupping Yoongi’s ass cheek back up to sit on the other side of his waist. He kept focus, wanting to make this as good as possible for the both of them. Their lips stayed connected for the most part, but Yoongi’s voice broke as he felt it getting more sensitive. He whined, unabashed, as Taehyung quickly rutted against him.

“Fuck— Yeah.” He mumbled, encouraging him. “You can come..”

Not that Yoongi was asking for permission, Taehyung just knew he had just never done this before. He was aware Yoongi didn’t date and had never kissed anyone, so he definitely didn’t know what the fuck he was doing in the bedroom.

Not that it mattered of course. Taehyung wouldn’t trade this for anything.

He was going to remember this messy exchange for the rest of his life, no matter what the outcome of this drunken confession was in the morning.

He felt the wetness grow more, cum leaking through the dark denim of Yoongi’s jeans as the older got off on him. Taehyung could feel Yoongi’s erection start to fall soft against his own bulge, his own hips bucking just a few more times so he could also savour the feeling and get himself off in the process. Their climaxes both embarrassingly reached at the exact same time, but Taehyung took the reins and attempted to guide the other through his high instead.

“That's it Yoongs, there you go.” Taehyung whispered against him, feeling as Yoongi started to go completely slack on top of him

He kept up the rhythm for the other, Yoongi erupting into a mess of soft whines as cum dripped between their bodies. Taehyung kissed him through it.

The room was filled with various noises, mainly pants coming from both of them, but also the small cries that came from Yoongi’s first chase. Yoongi kissed him back for what mainly seemed like comfort, Taehyung helping him catch his breath as his smaller frame crumbled on top of him like a paper bag.

Taehyung twitched a little as he came down, but it was Yoongi who was really trembling. He was aware of small sensations outside of himself, hands soothing over his back, rubbing small circles, Taehyung’s lips then at his jaw, peppering kisses down his throat, a light kiss against his wet and open mouth, the hot mess seeping in their pants.

Holy fuck. Holy fuck.

They just did that. Yoongi just did that.

"Tae—" he whined quietly, obviously overwhelmed.

Taehyung’s arms wrapped around him easily, instinctively. One hand curved up between Yoongi’s shoulder blades, pressing warm against the back of his sweater. The other rested low on Yoongi’s waist, fingers curling in a way that said I’ve got you, I’m here, it’s okay.

Their clothes clung uncomfortably to their skin, damp, wrinkled, sticky, but neither of them moved to fix it. Neither of them seemed to care. They were in the quiet part of the night now. The part where adrenaline settles and the noise falls away, and all that’s left is the truth of what you’ve done and who you’ve done it with.

Taehyung leaned up, slow and deliberate, brushing his nose against the bridge of Yoongi’s like it was the most natural thing in the world. The kiss that followed was gentle, featherlight, almost shy, and Yoongi sank into it like he’d been waiting for it his whole life.

“I know, baby,” Taehyung cooed, his voice warm and a little breathless, like he couldn’t believe it either. He pressed another kiss to Yoongi’s lips, soft and slow. “I know.”

He looked at him. Yoongi still looked beautiful. His hair was a mess and his eyeliner was smudged to hell, but his cheeks were pink and his eyes were soft, and he looked more real than Taehyung had ever seen him. He let out a tired hum, almost like a sigh, before burying his face deeper into Taehyung’s side.

He was clearly still drunk, still embarrassed, but his body was relaxed now in a way it hadn’t been all day. His voice was muffled but honest when he said, “Glad I got to do that with you.”

And Taehyung, heart thudding painfully against his ribs, just held him a little closer, a little tighter. His hand drifted up into Yoongi’s hair, combing through it slowly. He didn’t need to say anything else.

Chapter Text

The first thing Taehyung registered was the pounding in his head. Dull, throbbing, and entirely self-inflicted. But as he blinked his eyes open to the late afternoon light slipping through his half-closed blinds, the pain wasn’t the thing that made his chest clench.

It was Yoongi.

Still here. Still curled against him like they hadn’t moved all night.

Taehyung shifted slightly, careful not to wake him. Yoongi’s head was tucked into the crook of Taehyung’s shoulder, a mess of dark hair spilling over his cheek, mouth faintly parted, his breath soft and steady against Taehyung’s collarbone.

One of his arms was slung across Taehyung’s waist, hand curled gently into the fabric of Taehyung’s crinkled button-up. Their legs were tangled beneath the sheets, socks half-off, jeans still on. The chaos of the night before, emotional and otherwise, was still very much present in the disheveled state of the bed.

But it didn’t feel like a mess. It felt real .

Taehyung blinked again, slower this time, trying to convince himself that this wasn’t one of those sweet, impossible dreams his brain liked to feed him when life got too heavy. But it wasn’t a dream. He could feel Yoongi’s weight on his chest, could feel the warmth of him, the exact place where their bodies met and didn’t let go.

And unlike the last time Yoongi slept here, when Taehyung woke up to empty space and the cold side of the bed, this time Yoongi had stayed. Chose to stay.

Taehyung’s lips parted slightly, memory rushing in like a wave. Not all of it, not the tiny details, those were blurred out by cheap vodka and adrenaline. But he remembered enough. He remembered the way Yoongi had looked at him on the couch. The way they kissed like the world outside their apartment didn’t exist. The way Yoongi had whispered “glad I got to do that with you” with trembling breath and flushed cheeks.

His heart ached, not painfully, not like it had the last few days, but in that soft, inevitable way you feel when something inside you finally shifts. He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want this to end, even as his temples throbbed and his mouth was dry as hell.

For once, the fog in his chest wasn’t anxiety. It was something warmer.

His fingers twitched slightly under the covers, brushing gently against the fabric of Yoongi’s sweater. Taehyung stared at the ceiling for a moment, then let his eyes drop back down to the sleeping boy on his chest. Yoongi looked peaceful. The kind of peace Taehyung had rarely seen on him. No furrowed brow, no distant expression.

Just Yoongi. His Yoongi.

He smiled, eyes soft and unfocused, and let his fingers trail up Yoongi’s back gently. Maybe he’d fall back asleep too, just for a little while. Maybe when they both woke up, Yoongi would kiss him again. Maybe he’d even smile that gummy smile and say something sweet. Maybe they could laugh about how ridiculous this all started. Maybe they could text Namjoon and say, "Hey. Maybe your theory wasn’t so stupid after all."

It all felt too natural, dangerously natural, and Taehyung loved that. The way Yoongi curled against his chest like he belonged there, how their limbs had somehow ended up intertwined in the night, how they just fit. Taehyung remembered the first time Yoongi had ever fallen asleep in his bed, the way he had ached to reach out, to hold him like this. Now, it was real. Yoongi was here. In his arms. Peaceful.

Taehyung's fingers moved gently, brushing over the fabric of Yoongi’s sweater as if trying to memorize the shape of him. He trailed light touches down Yoongi’s spine, hesitant and careful, like he was scared to wake him. He took a quiet breath and let his head fall back against the pillow, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment, just savoring the warmth between them.

Yoongi stirred softly, his brow furrowing before relaxing again. His cheek nuzzled deeper against Taehyung’s chest, and Taehyung’s heart almost burst at how innocent he looked.

But then Yoongi blinked. Big, brown eyes opening slowly, taking in the soft light filtering through the curtains. There was a brief second, just one, where his gaze met Taehyung’s, sleepy and calm.

But then came the shift.

Confusion. A flicker of realization. And then: tension.

Yoongi’s eyes dropped to their tangled limbs, to the way Taehyung's arms were still wrapped around him. He blinked again, more alert now, his whole body subtly stiffening.

“Wait—” he breathed out, voice still hoarse from sleep. His eyes darted down further, taking in the wrinkled clothes they were still wearing, the heavy silence between them. The weight of everything that had happened.

Taehyung’s smile faltered just a little. He loosened his grip, giving Yoongi space. “It’s okay,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re okay.”

Yoongi didn’t respond right away. He just looked at Taehyung like he was trying to reconcile something in his mind. Like he was silently asking, what did we do?

Yoongi looked really confused, too much so for Taehyung’s liking. And maybe that was fair. Maybe they had both acted too fast, too impulsively, too emotionally. Maybe it should’ve been a slow, careful confession, the kind that unfolded over shared dinners and shy glances, not tequila and low lighting.

But it wasn’t. They had done it. And it had felt real. That was the part that stuck in Taehyung’s chest like a needle. It felt real.

So why did Yoongi look like he was trying to shrink into himself?

“ We did that, didn’t we?” Yoongi murmured, his voice barely above a breath. It was the tone that got Taehyung, the way Yoongi sounded like a boy who’d just realized he might’ve touched something too hot. He looked so fragile.

Taehyung nodded, slow and measured. He didn’t want to spook him. “Yeah,” he replied, just as quiet. “We did.”

There was a pause. Yoongi’s eyes flickered away. And that pause, just long enough to wonder, gave Taehyung the space to ask the question he suddenly needed answered.

“You don’t regret it… do you?”

Yoongi’s head jerked up so fast Taehyung thought he might hurt himself. “No.” His voice cracked on it. “No, I don’t—don’t regret it.” But his face told a different story: flushed, tight-lipped, mind racing. “It’s just—” he stammered, eyes dropping again.

Taehyung's chest tightened. Yoongi’s body was still perched in his lap, but now he felt miles away. His hands reached instinctively for the hem of Taehyung’s shirt, fidgeting, twisting it between his fingers like an anchor.

Taehyung could see the internal spiral happening, could feel Yoongi shutting down piece by piece.

Still, the words came again, gentler this time: “I don’t regret it,” Yoongi said, his voice steadier but still quiet. “I promise.”

Taehyung let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. That was something. A thread he could hold onto. His shoulders relaxed a little, even as Yoongi added, “But still, it’s just… a lot.”

There it was. The truth. Not rejection, not regret, just overwhelm.

Taehyung nodded, his expression softening as he looked down at the boy in his arms. Yoongi wasn’t pulling away, wasn’t trying to leave. He was still here, sitting in Taehyung’s lap in yesterday’s clothes, twisting the edge of Taehyung’s shirt like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. That had to mean something .

“I know,” Taehyung said gently. “It is a lot.”

Yoongi didn’t speak, but he rested his forehead lightly against Taehyung’s collarbone, as if he’d run out of things to say. Taehyung just let him, one hand sliding up to rest between Yoongi’s back. No pressure. No fixing.

Yoongi’s breath was shaky, his voice barely a whisper against Taehyung’s collarbone. “I’m really sorry.”

It made Taehyung’s chest ache all over again. They led there still wrapped in sleep, sweat, and the silence that always follows something big.

Taehyung didn’t want to hold Yoongi too tight, didn’t want to make him feel caged in. But he didn’t want to let go either. His arms stayed where they were, cradling more than clutching, fingertips grazing soft cotton and softer skin, grounding them both.

“Why are you apologising?” Taehyung grumbled, his voice low and rough with sleep and tension.

His head throbbed dully, not just from the alcohol but from the ache of expectation and whatever this morning was. Because this wasn’t what he wanted. Not panic. Not self-conscious regret. Not Yoongi curling up like he was ashamed of something Taehyung had wanted so badly.

Yoongi shifted a little against him, and his answer came out small, like he was embarrassed to even be feeling what he felt. “I’m just… really overwhelmed.”

Taehyung softened instantly.

“About what happened?” he asked, gentle like he was speaking to a frightened animal. He felt Yoongi nod against his collarbone.

“Never even kissed someone before,” Yoongi confessed, voice cracking just enough to make Taehyung flinch. “Nevermind… rubbed off on a guy like some horny dog.”

His body curled tighter, like he wanted to disappear into himself. Yoongi actually cringed, face scrunched, cheeks burning. It almost made Taehyung want to laugh, but he knew better. That would’ve been the worst thing he could do. So instead, he said the first thing that came to mind.

“You’re fine.” His voice dropped even lower. “I wasn’t exactly putting on a good performance either.”

It was meant to be a joke. A distraction. But it kind of hung in the air with nowhere to go.

Yoongi was quiet for a moment before asking something Taehyung hadn’t quite prepared himself for. “Do you regret it?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve never regretted any hookup,” he said, almost rehearsed. “They’re all very important plotlines in my life. I’ve learnt a lot.”

He tried to make it sound clever, like it was just another chapter in his story. But deep down, he knew he was full of shit. Last night wasn’t a regular hookup. It didn’t slot neatly into his narrative. It didn’t feel fleeting.

And when Yoongi tilted his head slightly to look at him, his voice smaller now, almost teasing: “What did last night teach you then?”

Taehyung’s heart stopped. The answer rose in his throat, unspoken and blistering:

That I want you. Outside of this stupid experiment. Outside of psychology logs and fake anniversaries. I want to know what your hands look like in mine when we’re not pretending. I want to know what your mornings look like when we’re not running away from each other. I want to kiss you when I’m sober and tell you I meant every bit of last night.

But none of that made it out.

Instead, with a carefully rehearsed breath, Taehyung leaned his head back against the pillow and muttered, “That mixing drinks is fucking lethal.”

For a second, he thought he’d lost him. But then a small, sleepy laugh broke from Yoongi’s chest. It was weak, breathy, but real. Taehyung cracked a smile too, eyes fluttering shut as he let the tension bleed out of him just a little.

Yoongi blinked through the sleep still weighing down his lashes, managing to look up at the other as the warmth between them dissolved almost instantly. Taehyung grabbed his phone from the beside table to check the time. 2:52pm. Fuck. They slept in late.

His phone was full of notifications. Texts and missed calls from Namjoon because they missed their meeting. The groupchat spamming asking if they were both alive. And then a really horrible Whatsapp notification that made Taehyung’s heart sank.

Hana (Work): hi taehyung, it’s hana from the daily grind. just wondering where you are? your shift was scheduled for 12pm and we haven’t heard back from you. if you could please give us a ring or leave a message explaining your absence that would be very much appreciated. hope you’re doing okay, kid.

“Tae?” Yoongi’s voice was quiet, uncertain. His hand lifted instinctively, reaching, but it hovered mid-air, unsure where it would land.

Taehyung didn’t answer.

Instead, his thumb jabbed against his phone screen like he could will it to change what it said. Like he could reverse time with sheer force of will. But he couldn’t. The time stared back at him, unforgiving. And Hana’s message glared up from the notifications like a curse written in ink.

“Fuck. Fuck, I’m so fucking stupid.” His voice was breaking, cracking at the seams. The words fell out fast, a little slurred from stress. “I missed it. My shift. My fucking shift, Yoongi.”

Yoongi’s blood ran cold at the sound of his voice, not angry, not annoyed, but spiralling. Full panic. Like the world was tilting sideways and Taehyung couldn’t find his footing.

“You’re not stupid,” Yoongi said instantly, quietly, like saying it softly would help him believe it. “Just— just breathe, yeah? We’ll figure it out.”

But he wasn’t hearing him. He was still spiralling, legs swinging out of bed, trying to find his clothes even though there was no point. His shirt was half buttoned, his hair a messy cloud of curls flattened on one side. “She’s gonna fire me. I missed my first real shift and I didn’t even call— I didn’t even fucking call. I had one job, Yoongi, one thing and I— I blew it.”

His voice cracked on the last word. The panic sat like a weight on his chest and Yoongi could see it, the way Taehyung’s hands were trembling, how his eyes started to gloss over.

“You’re not going to lose it,” Yoongi said firmly, sitting up now, the sheet pooling around his waist. “She’s not going to fire you for one mistake. Just call her— tell her what happened.”

“You don’t get it,” Taehyung muttered, shaking his head, still not looking at him. His voice was cracking with something harder now. Guilt. Helplessness. Shame. “If I lose this job, that’s it. I have no other options. I don’t have any backup, I don’t—”

He paused, shoulders shaking.

“I need the money. I need it. I already fucked everything up with that guy and now this— this is just going to prove that I’m exactly what he said I am.”

Yoongi flinched at the words that guy. The implication was too loud in the room. Eunwoo.

“Hey,” Yoongi said again, softer now, standing from the bed and finally placing a hand on Taehyung’s arm. He could feel the heat in him, how tight his muscles were from holding it all in. “Look at me.”

He didn’t.

“Taehyung,” Yoongi said, firmer now. “Please.”

Slowly, like it hurt to do it, Taehyung turned. His eyes were red. That stubborn shine was back in them, the one that made Yoongi’s throat tighten.

“You didn’t fail, okay?” Yoongi said, grounding him with every word. “You overslept. We both did. That’s all it is. You call her, apologise, and you show up tomorrow. You don’t throw everything away because of one mistake.”

Taehyung looked at him, biting the inside of his cheek so hard it looked like it hurt. “I always mess things up,” he whispered. “And now this. And you. And everything. I don’t even know what we are anymore, and I’m ruining it. Like I ruin everything.”

Yoongi exhaled through his nose, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around him slowly, testing the waters. Taehyung didn’t resist.

“You’re not ruining anything,” Yoongi mumbled, face pressing to his shoulder.

Taehyung didn’t answer, but Yoongi felt the slow rise and fall of his chest start to even out again, the panic starting to recede. A moment passed in silence.

“Besides, we don’t have to be something right now,” Yoongi murmured, his voice barely above a breath, fingers still curled gently at Taehyung’s side. “Fuck, I don’t even know what I want, if I’m being honest.”

The words came quiet. Careful. Honest. But they struck Taehyung like a punch to the ribs.

Oh.

So that was it, then.

Yoongi didn’t want this. Didn’t want him .

Of course not. Of course he didn’t. Why would he? Just because they had a moment, or a kiss, or a night that spiralled into something stupid and desperate and maybe beautiful for a second? That didn’t mean anything. Not to Yoongi, apparently.

Taehyung’s chest tightened, the sting creeping up his spine like a static shock he couldn’t shake. He swallowed it down, hard. Tried not to let his face crumple. He could feel the throb of his heartbeat in his jaw.

He didn’t say anything. Just… quietly moved.

He shuffled back, so slight it could’ve passed for adjusting position, but it wasn’t. He eased out from under Yoongi’s hand like it was burning him. Peeled himself back from the warmth of Yoongi’s chest, gaze suddenly focused on the corner of the duvet like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Yoongi blinked. Confused. His hand hung in the air for a second before lowering. “Tae?” he asked softly, voice unsure.

But Taehyung was already rubbing his eyes, trying to pretend it was just sleep. That nothing had shifted. That his heart wasn’t currently stuck in his throat.

“I’m gonna get changed,” he said, voice clipped and a little too fast, like he needed to get out of there before he said something dumb. “I’m gonna go to the café. Talk to Hana. Try and fix things.”

Yoongi sat up straighter. “That’s… That’s really mature of you,” he said, cautious like he could feel something slipping but didn’t know how to catch it. “You’re gonna fix this, I promise you.”

Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Taehyung didn’t say it out loud. But he thought it so loudly it practically echoed in his skull.

He just nodded instead, a stiff jerk of his chin that didn’t reach his eyes. He felt everything crumbling all over again, just like it did after he got caught by Yoongi about Eunwoo. This was worse somehow, this felt like he’d let himself believe in something that wasn’t even real.

“Do you have work later?” he asked, already half-distracted, already halfway out of the conversation.

Yoongi nodded. “Finish at nine like usual.”

“Right,” Taehyung mumbled. “I gotta… yeah…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He just climbed off the bed, grabbed his phone with a trembling hand, and walked briskly— ran, really—into the en-suite. The door shut with a click that sounded way too loud in the soft quiet of the room.

Yoongi sat there in the sudden silence, hands curled in his lap, the imprint of Taehyung’s warmth still on the sheets beside him. He frowned, chewing the inside of his cheek.

-

Taehyung stood stiffly by the corner of the kitchen, the smell of espresso clinging to his clothes and the ache in his skull pounding like a second heartbeat.

His skin felt hot and puffy, the edges of his eyes red and raw from the tears he wiped away in the mirror of the cafe’s bathroom not even five minutes ago. He hadn’t expected kindness today, he wasn’t sure he even deserved it.

But Hana, calm and composed and cutting strawberries like it was the simplest thing in the world, had said the words before he could even open his mouth.

“I’m not firing you.”

It didn’t register at first. Taehyung just blinked at her like the words were in a different language.

“You gotta,” he said, voice a little raspy, cracking from exhaustion and shame. His hands clenched by his sides. “I missed my shift. I didn’t call in. I’ve fucked everything up. I need to face the consequences.”

Hana didn’t flinch. She simply stacked a pile of clean tea towels on the counter and finally turned to face him. Her expression was far from angry, it was something else. Measured. Soft. Maybe even a little maternal.

“Oh, trust me,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You are facing the consequences. You’re cleaning the cabinet display out every morning and you’re on trash duty until June. But I’m not firing you.”

Taehyung opened his mouth. Closed it again.

She continued. “Seokjin told me a little. Not everything, but enough. Said you’ve been going through it.”

He ducked his head. Of course Seokjin did. That idiot cared too much for his own good.

“You’re twenty,” Hana said matter-of-factly, like it explained everything. “And let me tell you, no one has their shit together at twenty. You’ve got time to figure it out, and firing you wouldn’t help anyone—not you, and not me, because frankly, I’ve already trained you on the register and I don’t want to do that again.”

Taehyung cracked a smile at that, tiny and helpless. But then his voice faltered again. Quieter this time.

“I just feel like I can’t do anything right.”

The words sat heavy between them. Taehyung didn’t look up when he said it. He stared at the tiles on the kitchen floor, one cracked in the corner. His shoulders were tight, his face tight, every part of him wired with a shame that had been building for weeks.

Hana let out a breath, setting the towel down and leaning her hip against the prep counter.

“Kid,” she said, “you’ve gotta stop with this self-deprecating act.”

That made him look up.

“You’re not a failure because you missed a shift,” she went on, tone firm but never cruel. “You’re not a fuck-up because you’re a little lost. You realised your mistake. You didn’t ignore it. You didn’t ghost me. You got out of bed, hungover and miserable, and came here in person to apologise.”

She gave a small shake of her head, a glint of warmth behind her eyes.

“That’s more than most of my staff have ever done. Ever. ”

Taehyung felt something shift in his chest. Like a knot unspooling. He wasn’t used to being seen with this kind of clarity.

“I don’t think you realise how big your heart is,” she added, more gently now. “That thing in your chest? It’s the reason you care so much when things go wrong. And it’s gonna be the reason you get through this.”

His throat tightened. He swallowed against it, a sudden wave of emotion hitting him square in the chest. He nodded slowly, voice cracking when he managed to speak.

“Thank you.”

As a peace offering, a chicken katsu sandwich was offered. Taehyung may have been wrecked, but he wasn’t stupid. He had a big fat zero sitting in his bank account and only a few more instant noodles lying around at home. The idea of a free, somewhat nutritious meal was an offer he couldn’t pass up.

The kitchen of The Daily Grind was warm and humming with the low buzz of morning prep—the coffee grinder in the background, the soft clink of cutlery being dried, and Hana’s quiet humming as she wrapped Taehyung’s sandwich in parchment paper.

He sat on a barstool in the back of the kitchen, knees drawn slightly together, his head resting against the cold wall. When Hana slid the plate into his hands and gestured for him to come eat, he offered her the softest of smiles in return. “Thanks,” he said, voice still a little hoarse. “For… everything.”

She just shrugged, all warmth. “Eat first, thank me later.”

But before he could even lift the sandwich to his mouth, the kitchen door burst open with a loud clack, and a familiar whirlwind came flying in.

Seokjin.

Disheveled, eyes still swollen from sleep, hair standing up in tufts like he’d barely run a comb through it. He was wearing what Taehyung immediately clocked as Namjoon’s hoodie, oversized, pale grey, sleeves halfway swallowing his hands. He looked like a poster boy for post-party regret.

“Fun night?” Hana quipped, not even looking up as she rinsed a knife in the sink.

Seokjin froze mid-step, blinking like a deer in headlights, and then his gaze landed on Taehyung.

“Oh my god, you’re alive.” He said it with the exasperation of someone who’d clearly been worried.

He immediately forgot about the coat hook, the apron in his hands. “You ditched the party with Yoongi and didn’t answer your phone for twelve hours. Namjoon was ready to call the cops. I thought you guys got kidnapped.”

Taehyung winced so hard his soul nearly left his body.

“I—sorry,” he mumbled, cheeks burning. His fingers curled around the sandwich wrapper like it might save him from this conversation. “It was just… I don’t know. I didn’t mean to worry you guys.”

He was trying so hard to sound casual, but the truth was still sitting heavy in his chest. Yoongi. What happened. What didn’t happen. The way he felt like he’d been floating the whole morning, caught in the afterglow of something tender, until it cracked and the reality of uncertainty came pouring in.

Seokjin raised a brow, scanning his face for answers Taehyung didn’t want to give.

“Oh,” Seokjin said slowly, his tone shifting from mockery to something a little more cautious. “Oh. Something happened.”

Taehyung looked away.

Hana, from behind the counter, looked between them with interest but kept out of it, wisely choosing to refill the sugar tray instead of asking questions.

Seokjin, thankfully, didn’t press. He just sighed through his nose and began tying on his apron, muttering, “Well, whatever it was, you look like someone ran you over with a bus of regrets. I hope the food helps.”

“When did you know you liked Namjoon?”

The question seemed to come out of nowhere, definitely too much of a heavy topic for someone who was just about to start work. But Seokjin took it on the nose, realising that this was one of those important moments in life where he had to be Taehyung’s hyung and give him some stellar advice.

“I didn’t know all at once,” Seokjin admitted, voice quiet. “It wasn’t some grand cinematic moment. No string quartet playing in the background or sudden slow motion.”

Taehyung blinked at him, still chewing slowly, more curious now.

“It was little things. That’s what they don’t tell you about falling for someone. It’s always the little things.”

He glanced at the clock absently, like the memory he was about to unravel was floating somewhere on the hands of time. Seokjin had now picked up his own barstool and was dragging it over to where Taehyung sat, placing it just beside him to also sit down.

“I think the first time I felt something real was the day he helped me carry a printer up the stairs.”

Taehyung choked slightly. “A printer ?”

He gave a soft laugh. “It was during the first semester of second year. I was setting up my dorm desk, and I had this old, heavy piece-of-shit printer my brother gave me. It was bulky and awkward and the lift was out. Namjoon had come by to return my notes from our stats class, and when he saw me struggling he didn’t say anything—just picked the damn thing up without being asked and carried it four flights up.”

Taehyung tilted his head. “So… you fell for his muscles?”

Another laugh. “No, brat,” Seokjin nudged his knee. “I fell for the way he saw me. Like helping was obvious. Like being there was the default setting. There was no hesitation. And after that, it just… started stacking. Little things.”

He looked at the floor for a beat.

“His voice when he reads. The way he tries to cut his pancakes in perfect circles. The way he talks to me like I’m the smartest person in the room, even when I’m definitely not. I think I just started collecting those moments. And one day I realised I didn’t want to go through a single day without them.”

He was quiet now, sandwich forgotten halfway to his mouth. Seokjin turned his eyes on him then, voice softer. “Why’re you asking me this, Tae?”

Taehyung swallowed thickly. “No reason.”

And Seokjin, who had known Taehyung long enough to recognise that as absolute bullshit, just nodded slowly. “You’re scared, huh?”

He exhaled, long and low. “Yeah.”

A beat.

“You should be. Falling for someone is fucking terrifying. Especially when you didn’t mean to. Especially when it sneaks up on you.”

Seokjin’s words sat heavy in the air.

“But if you’re asking me whether you know when it’s real…” He smiled faintly. “You know when it’s real because even when it scares the hell out of you, you still want it. That person becomes the constant you start measuring everything else against. And suddenly they’re not just a part of your life. They’re the part you want to protect most.”

Taehyung’s eyes dropped to the plate in his lap. His heart was thudding too fast.

“Was there ever a point where Namjoon didn’t know what he wanted?”

“What he wanted?” Seokjin echoed, a little confused.

“Yeah like,” Taehyung mumbled, trying to make more sense. “Before you guys got together, did he ever freak out about things?”

He stared at Taehyung for a moment, and the playful tilt that normally curved his mouth was gone, replaced by something softer, more introspective. Outside the kitchen door, the faint hiss of the milk steamer and the murmur of a customer asking for oat milk filled the silence.

“There was a point,” he said finally, “back in first year. Before we were officially anything. I think we both knew something was happening. Something big. But Namjoon—”

He paused, his fingers linking loosely in front of him.

“His brain runs at two hundred miles an hour. He second guesses himself constantly. He plans out every possible outcome before he makes a move. He tries to avoid mistakes before they even have the chance to happen. Which… when it came to me, made things harder.”

He furrowed his brows, watching Seokjin closely now.

“There was this one night,” Seokjin continued. “We were walking back from a late lecture. It was raining, and I didn’t have my umbrella. He gave me his jacket, like in some cliché k-drama. And it felt so intimate. I remember thinking, this is it. This is going to be the night where he says something.”

He smiled, but it was sad. Fleeting.

“And instead, he told me he thought we needed space.”

Taehyung blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” Seokjin chuckled humourlessly. “He said he was confused. That he didn’t want to ruin the friendship. That maybe he was imagining things. Said I deserved clarity, and he didn’t want to give me half of himself. He thought pulling away was the mature thing to do.”

Taehyung’s stomach sank.

“What did you do?”

“I let him,” Seokjin said, voice quiet. “I went home and cried like an idiot. For a week I ignored his messages. Didn’t go to our shared classes. I even considered dropping the stats module we were doing together. But then…”

Seokjin paused again, this time looking right at him.

“Then he showed up at my door a week later with a bouquet of lavender and a twenty-six slide PowerPoint presentation on why breaking things off with me was the dumbest decision of his life.”

Taehyung gawked. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” Seokjin snorted. “Slide seventeen was just a picture of my face with the caption ‘look at this idiot. how could I possibly walk away from this?’”

Taehyung laughed despite himself, shaking his head. Seokjin tilted his head, the softness returning.

“The thing about Namjoon is—he’s not good at reacting on instinct. He wants everything defined. And I wasn’t that. I scared him because I made him feel things without an instruction manual."

Taehyung swallowed hard.

“So yeah, I got mixed signals. I had nights where I didn’t know where I stood. Where I questioned everything. But…”

He leaned forward again.

“The most important thing I learned is this: people show you what they want when they’re ready. If they don’t know yet, it’s not your job to pull it out of them. It’s your job to decide whether you’re willing to wait. Whether the uncertainty is something you can handle. Whether they’re worth it.”

Taehyung’s breath caught, eyes locked on the older.

“And was he worth it?” he asked quietly.

Seokjin didn’t hesitate.

“Every fucking second.”

And something inside Taehyung’s chest cracked open at that—because maybe, just maybe, even if Yoongi didn’t know what he wanted right now… maybe it was okay to still want him.

He watched as his friend got up, beginning to move the chair back to its original position and finally begin to start his shift. Taehyung didn’t know why he did it. His impulsive thoughts won and the chat had just gone so well, he needed to get it off his chest. He needed to repent his sins.

“We fucked last night.”

Seokjin dropped the barstool.

He was going to put it back and go ahead and start his shift, but instead, it clattered to the floor behind him with a loud bang, and Hana—half-crouched by the sugar shelf—froze mid-reach, a single packet of stevia dangling between her fingers. The silence that followed was thick, ringing with disbelief.

“Me and Yoongs.. We uh—”

“You—” Seokjin blinked. “You what?! ”

“I— we —” Taehyung’s hands flew up to his face, sandwich forgotten, mortification blooming scarlet across his cheeks. “God, I knew that would happen. Why did I say that? Why did I just say that?”

“You fucked him?” Seokjin repeated in a whisper-shriek, as if saying the word too loudly would cause the café walls to come crumbling down. “Like actually?! Like clothes off, limbs tangled, biblically acquainted ?!”

Hana, to her credit, had stopped pretending not to eavesdrop. She stood there, blinking slowly. “This is better than the drama in my group chat,” she mumbled, finally bending to pick up the sugar packets she’d dropped.

“It wasn’t actual sex. More like rubbing off on each other in a drunken state because neither of us were able to form a coherent thought.”

“Huh?!”

Taehyung groaned and dropped his forehead to the countertop. “Can we not do the recap of it, please? I’m already dying inside.”

Seokjin, slowly recovering from cardiac arrest, sank back down onto the barstool, eyes wide. “I mean—no judgment. None. Zero judgment. I support you. I just—holy shit, Tae. Last week you were complaining that he wouldn’t hold your hand. Now this? ”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” Taehyung muttered, voice muffled by his sleeve. “It was the party. And he looked— God, hyung, he looked so fucking good. He wore eyeliner. And a green sweater. And he drank and smiled and laughed and we left together and it was supposed to be this cute little moment but then it just— spiralled. And I thought—”

He stopped, lifting his head, eyes glassy now with something caught halfway between panic and heartbreak.

“I thought it meant something.”

Seokjin’s expression immediately softened. “Hey,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean to make fun. I’m just surprised. You’re clearly—like— in it .”

Taehyung nodded mutely, biting the inside of his cheek.

Hana, who had finally gathered the last of the sugar packets, slid a fresh cup of water across the counter towards him. “Hydrate. You’re pale and spiralling.”

He took it with a quiet “thanks,” barely tasting it past the ache in his throat.

“Does he know what it meant to you?” Seokjin asked softly, watching him.

Taehyung hesitated. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “This morning he just—froze. Got really weird. Said he was overwhelmed. That he didn’t know what he wanted.”

Seokjin winced.

“I don’t think he regrets it. But I think… maybe I scared him.” Taehyung’s fingers traced the rim of his water cup, mind far away. “And now I feel so stupid. Because I laid it all out.”

For a second, no one said anything.

Then Seokjin reached out, placed a hand gently over Taehyung’s fidgeting ones. “Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

Taehyung did, reluctantly.

“I don’t know what Yoongi feels right now. But I do know what you’re like when you care about someone. You’re all-in. You don’t half-love. And honestly?” His voice thickened slightly with warmth. “He’s lucky to be on the receiving end of that.”

Taehyung exhaled, shaky and overwhelmed. “Even if he doesn’t want it?”

“Even if. Because that doesn’t make your feelings any less valid. You didn’t do anything wrong by wanting more.”

And it shouldn’t have made him feel like crying—but it did. Taehyung blinked hard, looking away as tears began forming in his eyes.

Hana returned with a napkin and handed it to him wordlessly. “Crying in front of the cake display is a rite of passage here,” she said dryly. “Welcome to the team.”

Seokjin smiled softly, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Let him figure it out. Give him the time. You don’t have to have all the answers today.”

Theoretically, Taehyung knew that. He knew that after a night of drunken sex and with a boy who had never even been kissed before wasn’t going to lead to immediate answers. But fuck, did the whole thing sting.

-

Yoongi felt like his bones had liquefied into a useless, wriggling mess by the time Monday morning arrived.

He didn’t have it in him to look in the mirror. He hadn’t since waking up in Taehyung’s bed the morning after it happened. Since he blinked himself into consciousness, sticky and sore and entirely too vulnerable, Taehyung curled around him like he belonged there.

And fuck, for a moment Yoongi thought he did. Until reality swept in like a bitter wind and reminded him that none of this was real. Not really.

Taehyung had to rush to work, his shift already late thanks to their midday wake-up. He left with a quick apology and a wrinkled button-down, and Yoongi, like the complete coward he was, hadn’t said much in return. Just nodded, murmured something like “good luck,” and then buried himself under the covers like he could hide from what they did.

From what he did. From what he felt .

Now, on this sluggish, rain-streaked Monday, Yoongi stood in the bathroom with the tap running and his toothbrush hanging limply from his hand. His eyes were red—not from crying, he told himself—but from poor sleep. His stomach was hollow. His heart? Worse.

He ended up calling in sick to work yesterday, voice raspy and excuses half-hearted as he left a voicemail for the manager. It wasn’t like they’d care. No one asks too many questions when you’re the quiet pianist in the corner of a luxury restaurant. They’d just play soft jazz through the speakers and move on.

But Yoongi couldn’t move on.

The day passed in a blur of inactivity. He shut himself in his room, laptop balanced on his stomach, eyes glued to a Below Deck episode he barely processed. Every scene felt off without Taehyung’s commentary, no cheeky remarks, no sudden laughter, no limbs knocking against his as they fought over the last of the noodles.

The absence was loud. Like Yoongi had gotten used to living inside a warmth he didn’t even know existed, and now he’d been thrown back out into the cold.

He hadn’t meant for any of it to happen. Not the kissing, not the confessions, not the… everything that followed. It was supposed to be fake. It was supposed to be a controlled experiment.

Namjoon had sat them down, drew up the hypothesis, detailed every expectation with clinical precision: observe the development of romantic/sexual tension between two platonic friends under fabricated relationship conditions.

It was meant to be theoretical. But then Taehyung kissed him. And Yoongi kissed him back.

And now? He had no idea what the fuck to do. Worse still—he had no idea what Taehyung wanted.

There was no follow-up, no “hey, let’s talk about last night” moment. Just a quiet parting and radio silence. Maybe Taehyung regretted it. Maybe it was just something dumb and reckless that happened after too much drinking and too much pretending.

Maybe Yoongi was the only one who couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He flopped back down onto his bed, letting the toothbrush clatter to the floor and pulling the comforter over his head like he was twelve again. His heart was racing, head swimming with scenes from that night—his mouth on Taehyung’s, Taehyung’s hands on his waist, their ragged breathing tangled together like thread through a needle.

It should’ve been a disaster. It was a disaster. He was twenty-two and just lost his virginity during a fake relationship experiment with his roommate, and the worst part?

He didn’t regret it, he just didn’t know if Taehyung felt the same.

So yeah. He wanted to bang his head against the wall. Or maybe against Namjoon’s thesis, if only to erase the part of his brain that now associated scientific methodology with the fluttering in his chest every time Taehyung said his name.

He groaned into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut.

He was so fucked.

The sharp trill of his phone ripped through the silence of his room like a slap to the face. Yoongi groaned into his pillow, smudging his cheek further into the cool fabric as he blindly reached for the offending device with one arm.

God, please let it be something good. A cancelled class. A national holiday. The second coming of Christ. Anything.

But when he squinted one eye open and read the name Park Jimin flashing across the screen, Yoongi knew his day had officially gotten scarier. Still, he answered.

“Hello?” he mumbled, voice gravelly and flat, half his face still buried in cotton.

“Aha!” came the too-cheerful voice from the other end, immediately followed by a breathy, contagious giggle. Yoongi could practically hear the grin in Jimin’s voice. “I knew you were still alive. Barely, but alive.”

Yoongi closed his eyes again, already regretting this. “Why are you calling me?”

“You sound awful, hyung,” Jimin sang. “Did someone spike your drink with battery acid or did your soul just leave your body last night?”

Yoongi grunted. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m literally not. I haven’t seen someone stumble out of a party with their roommate that fast since Jeongguk and Hoseok’s ‘I’m just going outside to make a phone call’ era.”

Yoongi groaned loudly into the receiver.

“God, Jimin.”

“Don’t God, Jimin me! We were all very invested. You vanished. Taehyung vanished. The lovebirds never returned. Do you know how hard it is to get a karaoke duet out of Jeongguk without you there to distract him?”

Yoongi rolled onto his back, the ceiling blurring above him. “Jimin,” he said again, this time softer. “I really don’t have it in me.”

There was a pause. Just long enough for Jimin to hear what was not being said.

“Wait.” His voice changed instantly. “Yoongi. What’s going on?”

Yoongi pressed the phone closer to his ear, lips tight. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Is this about Tae?”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

“Oh my god. You did something. You did something and now you’re spiralling. Hyung, I swear to God if you—”

“We hooked up.”

The line went dead silent. Yoongi didn’t breathe.

“…Okay.” Jimin finally said, his voice pitched low with caution. “Hooked up as in—like, kissed? Or as in—you-need-to-go-to-church kind of hooked up?”

Yoongi closed his eyes. “Like… the second one.”

A long pause. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“You did the gay.”

“I did the gay. ”

Jimin wheezed on the other end, and Yoongi had to pull the phone away from his ear.

“Oh my god,” Jimin gasped between fits of laughter. “I knew it! I knew there was something going on!.”

Yoongi sighed. “Jimin.”

“No, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jimin said quickly, still giggling. “But are you okay? Like for real.”

Yoongi bit the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know.”

That wiped the smile out of Jimin’s voice like chalk off a board. “What happened?”

Yoongi stared up at the ceiling again. “We got drunk. Went home. It happened. But then yesterday, I tried to talk to him and I think I freaked him out. Or maybe I freaked out. I said we didn’t have to be anything right now, and now he’s acting weird.”

“You said that?”

“I was trying to give him space! I was overwhelmed. I didn’t want to rush it.”

“Hyung,” Jimin groaned. “That’s not space. That’s self-sabotage with a side of commitment issues.”

Yoongi closed his eyes. “You’re not helping.”

“I am helping. I’m giving you the truth. You don’t just fool around with each other if it means nothing. Stop doing this thing where you talk yourself out of good things.”

Yoongi pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, a fresh wave of regret crashing over him. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” Jimin said softly. “But don’t let that ruin something before it’s even had the chance to start.”

There was a quiet understanding between them after that. A kind of moment only two old friends could share. Yoongi swallowed down the tightness in his throat.

Jimin spoke once again. “Do you know what you want?”

The words dropped into Yoongi’s chest like a pebble into a deep well. His throat tightened. He stared at the ceiling, its familiar cracks and uneven plaster blurring through the heaviness in his eyes.

“…No.” The word came out like a breath, small and defeated, a confession he wasn’t ready to give anyone but Jimin. Not even Taehyung.

There was no sharp intake of breath. No sigh. Just the gentle shuffling of Jimin repositioning on his bed, as if to say I’m not going anywhere.

“You’re allowed to feel confused,” Jimin murmured, his tone void of judgment. “It’s not a sin to want to think things through logically before jumping into things.”

Yoongi blinked, eyes stinging a little. He’d been bracing for another lecture, another moment where someone told him what he should feel, what he should’ve done. But instead, Jimin gave him something rare. Understanding.

“I know you,” Jimin continued. “Probably the most out of all of us. I know how careful you are. How internal you get. You’ve never really let people get close, not like this. You don’t let people flirt with you, you get flustered when someone even compliments you. You’ve never even had a crush before.”

Yoongi curled into himself further beneath the blanket, the corner of the duvet pulled up over his shoulder now. It felt too intimate, too revealing. But he didn’t stop listening.

“God, even the hand-holding was a huge step for you,” Jimin went on, a small note of fondness in his voice. “So for you to do this? To kiss someone? To have sex? To feel something, and have to deal with it all at once? Of course it’s overwhelming. No wonder you’re confused.”

Yoongi squeezed his eyes shut.

It was like someone had taken a needle to the balloon in his chest and let all the pressure out. Like someone finally saw him. Understood that this wasn’t just about hooking up with a close friend. That it wasn’t just about the labels or the experiment. It was about change. Rapid, disorienting, emotional change that left him feeling like his own life was moving faster than he could keep up.

For once, someone wasn’t asking him to have the right answer. They weren’t guilt-tripping him for hesitating. They weren’t painting him as cold, or indifferent, or emotionally unavailable.

Jimin was giving him permission to feel lost. And that made all the difference.

Yoongi buried half his face in the pillow. His voice was quiet when he finally responded. “Thanks, Chim.”

“Always,” Jimin replied, gentle and warm like a hand resting on the shoulder. “But don’t take too long thinking. A certain weirdo is out there probably overanalyzing the hell out of your silence.”

Yoongi gave a small, muffled laugh. Not a full one, not yet.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Jimin said after a beat. “And hyung?”

“Mm?”

“You’re allowed to want him, too. Even if you’re scared.”

Click. End call.

Yoongi stared at the ceiling again, the words circling like quiet ripples in his chest.

-

The door clanged shut behind Taehyung as he stepped into the quiet, dim apartment, the cool air brushing over his cheeks still flushed from the wind outside. It was just before 5PM. The Monday sky was soft and grey, the kind of hue that made the world feel quieter. Campus had settled into that evening lull where everything moved slower—lights in the windows, distant laughter from the hallway, the hum of someone’s music from the unit below. The silence in their apartment, though, was heavier.

He dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, loosened the strap of his apron from the Daily Grind, and kicked off his shoes quietly, almost as if he were trying not to wake something. He had every intention of tiptoeing straight into his room and collapsing into bed, or maybe even crying into his pillow for a moment or two before dinner. But the universe had other plans.

Because right as he rounded the corner, he froze.

Yoongi was there. Emerging from his bedroom like a scene in slow motion.

His hair was slightly curled at the ends, clearly blow-dried with more care than usual, the brown strands soft and neat. His skin looked freshly moisturized, his lips slightly pink from the cold. He wore his white button-up, the one that was just slightly oversized on him, tucked into neat black slacks, and over that was his familiar cable knit sweater. His work outfit. The one Taehyung always secretly liked the most.

Yoongi had his bag draped across his chest, worn in from use, the outline of sheet music bulging just slightly from the corner. His polished shoes clicked softly against the hardwood floor as he paused in the hallway.

And then their eyes met.

A silence settled in the space between them that was far heavier than the quiet of the apartment. There was too much that hadn’t been said. Too much that had been felt.

Taehyung’s fingers twitched at his side. He could still feel the weight of Yoongi’s waist in his hands, still remember the sound of Yoongi’s voice whispering “I’m glad I got to do that with you” like it was etched into his skin. And now Yoongi stood here, more distant than ever, dressed like nothing had happened. Like they were back to being just flatmates passing each other in the hallway.

Yoongi’s face was unreadable for a second—stoic, like a screen had gone up. But then his eyes flickered, and there it was. That flash of emotion. Uncertainty. Guilt. Maybe even a little fear.

Taehyung swallowed thickly. “Hey,” he said, voice low, awkward.

“Hey,” Yoongi replied, a bit too quickly.

Another beat passed.

“You heading to work?” Taehyung asked, even though it was obvious.

Yoongi nodded, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “Yeah. Got the dinner set at the restaurant tonight.”

The distance in his tone wasn’t intentional, but it stung anyway. Taehyung tried to smile, but it barely reached his eyes. “Right. Of course.”

Yoongi hesitated then. Like he was debating saying something more, something real, something messy. But instead, he gave a shallow nod and started moving toward the door.

Taehyung watched him walk past. And for a moment, the weight of everything that had happened—the kisses, the confessions, the vulnerability—hung between them like a ghost.

“Are we okay?” he asked.

Taehyung felt the words hit him right in the chest. The question was so simple, but suddenly it felt like the most complicated one in the world.

He swallowed hard, his fingers twitching in the pockets of his jacket. He forced a smile, one that didn’t meet his eyes.

“Of course,” he said, too fast, too light. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

Yoongi turned then, slow and uncertain, his brows knitting together. His expression was drawn, eyes duller than usual, tired in a way that wasn’t just from lack of sleep. “You just seemed a little off before you went to Hana yesterday.”

Taehyung blinked. “Yeah. Um. Just stress.” It came out clipped, rehearsed, like he’d said it to himself a hundred times since that morning.

“ Tae .” Yoongi’s voice had softened, almost pleading now. He let go of the door and stepped closer, but not too close. He seemed to sense the wall between them, even if it wasn’t visible.

He shook his head too quickly, forcing out a small, dry laugh. “No, really. It’s fine. I get it.” His voice cracked just slightly before he pushed through it. “You don’t know what you want, and that’s like, cool. Super cool. The coolest, actually.”

It was sarcasm laced with pain, a kind of defense mechanism that was painfully familiar. Taehyung stared at the floor, pretending he didn’t notice how Yoongi winced.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” the other said quietly, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Didn’t you?” Taehyung shot back, eyes flicking up. He wasn’t yelling, not even raising his voice, but the hurt was there. “Because that’s what it sounded like. It sounded like everything that happened meant more to me than it did to you.”

Yoongi opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. The silence dragged for a moment, heavy and thick.

“I just need some time to wrap my head around some things, okay?” he finally said, voice strained.

Taehyung looked at him, eyes glassy with a sheen he was determined not to let fall. “And what do I do in the meantime?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “Keep pretending that I don’t care this much?”

Yoongi’s shoulders sagged. “That’s not fair—”

“I know we weren’t supposed to catch feelings,” Taehyung murmured, “but I did. I don’t know when it happened, or how, but I’m so far gone and I feel so stupid for it.”

Yoongi looked like he’d been punched in the stomach. “You’re not stupid.”

“Then say something. Because standing here in the dark while you hesitate, it hurts.”

The apartment had never felt so quiet. Even the ticking of the kitchen clock felt too loud. Yoongi’s face was conflicted, guilty and confused, all of it tangled up in his eyes.

“I’m scared,” he admitted. “Everything’s been happening so fast. The experiment, the fake dating, you. Us. It’s not that I didn’t feel something. I just—” he trailed off. “I don’t know how to be what you need.”

Taehyung’s throat felt tight. “I don’t need you to have all the answers. I just need to know if you’re still in this with me.”

He looked at him then. The way his jaw clenched and his eyes flickered down to the floor said more than words could.

“I’m trying,” he said softly.

The hallway felt like it was closing in on him, the air so thick with tension Taehyung could barely breathe.

“Can we talk about this later? I’m gonna miss my train.” Yoongi’s voice was tired, low and taut like a string about to snap.

There was no venom in it, not really. Just a quiet edge that made it clear he was done with this conversation, at least for now. But it still hurt.

Taehyung nodded, slowly, numbly, even though nothing about this felt okay. His arms hung uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching with the urge to reach out, to stop Yoongi from walking away like this.

“Can I pick you up from work later?” he asked quietly, trying to keep it casual and light, but the desperation leaked out in the cracks of his voice like smoke from a fire he couldn’t put out.

Yoongi’s back was still to him. He paused. Taehyung could see the way his shoulders lifted and fell with a deep breath. “I think it’s best if I get my own way home tonight.”

And that was the real punch to the gut. Taehyung stared at him, blinking like he hadn’t heard him right.

“Why are you being like this?”

“I’m not being like anything,” Yoongi replied sharply, turning halfway, his tone a little more defensive now.

“You’re being distant!”

“Maybe I’m just someone who needs a little distance,” he bit back. “Why can’t you accept that?”

“Because I’m losing my mind trying to figure you out!” The words tore out of Taehyung before he could stop them, his voice cracking with the weight of everything he’d been holding in. “First it’s ‘I’m glad I got to do that with you’, then it’s ‘I don’t regret it’, and now it’s ‘I don’t know what I want. ’ And now—this? This? How can you not know what you want?!”

Yoongi flinched like he’d been slapped. His hand gripped the door handle like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His jaw clenched, his chest rose and fell.

Taehyung could see his eyes glisten, tears pooling in the corners that he blinked away quickly, angrily.

“Oh fuck you, Tae.” The words came out rough, breaking, like they cost him something.

“Fuck me?”

“Yes! Fuck you!”

The tears weren’t the silent, graceful kind—no, they spilled hot and fast, blurring his eyes and painting streaks down his cheeks. His face was flushed, his nose pink from holding it all in for far too long.

“Do you really think I would’ve lost my virginity if it didn’t mean anything?” he choked out, hands clenched into trembling fists at his sides. His whole body was trembling—whether from rage, heartbreak, or both, Taehyung couldn’t tell. “You think I’d just throw that away for a bit of fun? Because we’re in this dumb experiment and I wanted to get a reaction out of you?”

“Yoongs…” Taehyung stepped forward instinctively, but Yoongi flinched back, like being close only made it worse. 

“No.” His voice was hoarse now, raw from the burn in his throat. “You don’t get to make me feel like shit because I can’t give you an answer right now.”

Taehyung froze. He hadn’t meant for this. He didn’t know it had hurt this badly.

“I’ve never let someone in the way I have with you,” Yoongi continued, barely above a whisper now, the tears still falling. “You make me feel things I’ve never felt before and you think I’m acting this way because I want to? I’ve never been more fucking confused in my life.”

He turned, grasping the handle of their apartment door a little helplessly. The door swung open hard enough to rattle the frame, and before Taehyung could say anything else, Yoongi was gone. It slammed shut behind him with a sharp, echoing crack.

The silence that followed felt brutal.

Taehyung stood there in the middle of their apartment, staring at the spot Yoongi had just occupied, like if he focused hard enough he could rewind time. Make it so none of that had happened. Make it so his chest didn’t ache like this. Like something inside him had cracked and left nothing behind but echoes.

He pressed his fingers to his temple, exhaling shakily, trying to steady himself—but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.

Shit .

Chapter Text

Taehyung's footsteps were slow on the gravel path, each one dragging like he was moving through syrup.

He hated how normal everything looked—how the sun dipped lazily behind the tallest buildings, casting golden hues over the library steps, how students milled about in their own little universes, smiling, laughing, living.

Meanwhile, he was falling apart.

His hoodie clung to his frame, pulled low enough to hide most of his face, but not enough to stop the ache behind his eyes. He tried to keep his head down as he passed by the courtyard. didn’t want to risk seeing someone who might ask how he was, or worse, someone who knew. He wasn’t sure if the rest of their friends had picked up on the shift, on the painful silence that had bloomed between him and Yoongi. Maybe they were all too polite to say anything. Or maybe they were just waiting for the storm to pass.

But Taehyung wasn’t sure if it would.

He hadn’t opened his curtains in three days. The air in his room felt heavy, thick with stale light and unspoken apologies. April 25th marked three full days since the fight. Since the shouting, since the door slam that still echoed in his ears every time he closed his eyes. Since Yoongi's voice cracked like it meant something, like it mattered. Since Taehyung finally heard all the things he had been dying to hear—but not like that. Not in anger. Not with tears falling like confessions neither of them were ready to say aloud.

He spent the last 72 hours curled up on his bed, arms around his own legs like they might anchor him to something real. His face was pressed into his pillow, the cotton scratchy and cool against skin still damp from crying. He had barely eaten, hadn’t had the energy to leave his room after stumbling back from his shifts at The Daily Grind. The hours had passed in a haze of coffee orders and fake smiles. It wasn’t real. None of it felt real anymore. Not since Yoongi walked out.

He’d heard him. The sounds Yoongi made when he was home. His soft footsteps down the hall, the quiet click of his bedroom door closing, the occasional murmur from his phone or his laptop playing something muted. Taehyung listened through the wall, heart in his throat every single time, waiting. Wishing for a knock. A sign. Anything.

But it never came.

And maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe Taehyung didn’t deserve it. He kept replaying it in his head. Every word, every tone, every time Yoongi’s voice cracked with something so raw and unfiltered Taehyung could feel the heartbreak ricochet off the walls of their apartment. He hadn’t just messed up. He’d broken something.

And the worst part? He’d gotten what he wanted. A confession. A glimpse into Yoongi’s heart. The realisation that Yoongi did feel something too, something big. But in the process, he’d pushed him. Pressured him when he needed patience. Demanded clarity when Yoongi was already drowning in uncertainty.

He sniffed, forcing his hands deeper into his pockets as he crossed onto the steps of the library, eyes unfocused and throat tight. Three days. Three whole days since he’d heard Yoongi’s voice. And yet, it echoed in his head like it was stitched into his thoughts.

“You don’t get to make me feel like shit because I can’t give you an answer right now.”

He winced.

He hadn’t meant to push. Hadn’t meant to turn his feelings into a timeline Yoongi was meant to follow. But he had. And now all that was left was the ache, of missing someone who hadn’t gone anywhere but still felt painfully out of reach.

Taehyung missed his roommate. Missed his fake boyfriend. Missed Yoongi’s dry wit, his late-night grumbling, the way he’d let Taehyung steal fries off his plate without complaining. He missed the feeling of Yoongi curling into him, warm and safe and so his that it made Taehyung’s chest burn. He missed the way Yoongi had looked at him after the party, soft and trusting, like Taehyung was something more than just a housemate in a dumb experiment.

He missed being loved by him. Even if they never actually said it aloud.

And the worst part was knowing Yoongi did care. That much had been made clear, between the frustration and the tears and the slammed door. But Taehyung had ruined it. He had taken something real and beautiful and laced it with his own fear, his own insecurity.

Though his own thoughts were persistent, the strong shove of his body made time stop for just a moment.

He staggered back against the brick wall, the impact knocking the breath clean from his lungs. His shoulder scraped rough stone, the concrete biting through the thin fabric of his hoodie as his hood fell back, exposing his flushed, startled face to the cool air.

He barely had a second to process before Eunwoo was right there, towering over him, face inches away, reeking of stale cigarettes and blood. His lip was split, swollen and glossy with old clots, the purple of his black eye spreading across his cheekbone like a violent bloom. Taehyung could see the scab on his eyebrow and the fury behind his eyes, a barely-contained storm thrumming under his skin.

“Where the fuck is the money?” Eunwoo snarled, grabbing Taehyung by the front of his hoodie and yanking him toward the alley around the side of the building, away from the doors, away from the students.

Taehyung stumbled along, breath short. His heart slammed against his ribs. “I—I don’t have it,” he choked out, his hands flailing against Eunwoo’s chest, trying to make space between them.

“You know I don’t have it…”

“That’s not good enough!” Eunwoo’s voice cracked like a whip, the sharp sound of it ricocheting off the brick walls and making Taehyung flinch. “I told you what would happen, didn’t I? You think you’re gonna keep playing the poor student card while I get my face broken in?”

Taehyung’s eyes dropped to the bruises again. His throat tightened.

“I have a job now,” he rushed out, his voice cracking as he lifted his hands—half in surrender, half in plea. “You just gotta wait a few more days, Eunwoo, I promise. I’ll get it—I'll figure something out. I just need more time.”

“Time?” Eunwoo spat, shoving him roughly back against the wall. Taehyung winced as the back of his head clipped the stone. “You said that last time. And the time before that. I don’t have time anymore, Taehyung! Siwoo’s on my ass. You think this black eye’s bad? You think a few bruises is the worst I’ve got coming?”

His voice cracked, and suddenly Taehyung saw it—real fear. Not just anger. Not just debt. Fear.

“You think this is a joke?” Eunwoo hissed, chest heaving. “This was never just weed, Tae. You’re in it now. I gave you that stash on trust. You said you’d pay me back. You said you’d be fast.”

“I didn’t know—” Taehyung’s voice shook, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know it would get this bad.”

Taehyung’s pulse pounded in his ears, loud enough to drown out the world around him. The brick wall behind him dug into his shoulder blades, grounding him in place like a vice. He stared at Eunwoo, unable to blink, barely able to breathe.

“Siwoo is on the hunt for you.”

It didn’t register right away. The words came out hard and bitter, but they still didn’t land. “What?” Taehyung asked, voice hoarse and small. “What did you just say?”

Eunwoo scoffed, dragging a hand over his face like even saying it exhausted him. His fingers paused over the bruises blooming along his cheek and swollen lip, as if reminding himself just how far things had already gone. “He’s looking for you. Actively. Been around campus. Asking questions. You think hiding under your damn duvet is going to fix this?”

Taehyung’s knees buckled a little. He leaned harder into the wall, the breath knocked out of him not by a shove this time, but by pure panic. “No—no, that’s not—he wouldn’t—he doesn’t know me,” he stammered, trying to grasp onto something, anything, that made sense. “He doesn’t know my face— ”

“He doesn’t have to!” Eunwoo barked, eyes flashing. “People talk. Photos circulate. He knows who you are, or he will. I’ve been trying to stall but he’s not fucking stupid, Tae.”

Taehyung’s throat burned like acid. His hands were shaking, fingers curling uselessly in the hem of his hoodie.

“Why are you telling me this?” he croaked. “Why are you looking out for me now, after all this?”

Eunwoo paused, jaw tight, expression bitter but not cruel. “Because I brought you into this, and you fucked up, yeah, but— violence isn’t going to fix it. Siwoo wants blood, and blood doesn’t equal cash.”

Taehyung’s chest rose and fell rapidly, shallow and ragged, like the world was closing in on him and his lungs had run out of space. “He’s really going to come for me?”

Eunwoo stepped closer, not to intimidate this time, but because he was done sugarcoating the reality of it all. “What he did to my face?” he gestured vaguely to the grotesque bruising, the crusted lip. “That’s nothing. That’s him warning me. You? You’re the one who went through the stash. You’re the one who couldn’t pay it back. You’re the one who dragged this out and made it messier.”

Taehyung felt like vomiting.

“You think he won’t go after a broke student if it means making an example?” Eunwoo’s voice dropped, low and strained. “You think he won’t ruin you just to prove a point?”

The words cut deeper than any bruise ever could. Taehyung’s ears were ringing.

“Go home,” Eunwoo said, quiet now, but deadly serious. “Don’t go to class. Don’t wander campus. Keep your fucking head down until you figure this out. Because he’s not going to give you another warning.”

And with that, Eunwoo shoved his hood up, turned, and disappeared into the thinning late-afternoon crowd—leaving Taehyung trembling in the shadow of the library steps, with the weight of the entire world crashing down on his chest.

-

“I feel so fucking stupid,” Yoongi mumbled, his voice muffled by the sleeves of his hoodie, pulled over his hands and pressed against his tired face.

The air in the studio was still warm from the earlier bustle of bodies and movement, the mirrors fogged slightly from the day’s leftover humidity. He was too far gone, curled up in the center of the studio floor, his head nestled in Jimin’s lap like a child seeking shelter from a thunderstorm.

Jimin’s fingers threaded gently through his hair, methodical and slow, like he was trying to massage the chaos out of Yoongi’s scalp. “You’re not stupid, hyung,” he said, voice soft but steady. “You had a valid reaction. Sure, you lashed out—but your feelings made sense. He was pushing you before you were ready. That’s not fair.”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. His breath hitched slightly, teeth sinking into his bottom lip like he was trying to physically hold the emotion back. “How can I miss someone I live with?” he asked, almost bitterly. “He’s right fucking there, but I feel like I’ve been losing him since the second I let myself care.”

Jimin’s hand paused in his hair for a brief second, just long enough for Yoongi to notice, before continuing its soothing motion. “That’s the thing about falling for someone you weren’t supposed to,” he murmured. “It sneaks up on you. One minute they’re just your roommate, and the next…” He exhaled gently. “The next, they’re the reason you’re losing sleep. The reason you’re playing sad jazz chords on the keyboard at 2am.”

Yoongi gave a breathy, broken laugh. “It’s not even sad jazz, Chim. I’ve been composing like I’m in a goddamn period drama. It’s humiliating.”

Jimin smiled at that, eyes creasing with fondness. “You like him.”

“He drives me insane,” he whispered. “He leaves his socks on the bathroom floor, and eats my leftovers without asking. He talks through movies and never puts his camera batteries back on charge. He acts like everything is a joke until it isn’t, and then he goes all quiet and closed off like he expects me to fix it.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed the lump forming. “And still, when I’m not near him, it feels like the world is off-balance. I walk into a room and expect him to be there. I hear a stupid song and I think about showing it to him. I miss him even when he’s in the next room, and now—now that we’ve crossed that line—fuck, I don’t even know how to be around him anymore.”

Jimin’s expression was all empathy and knowing. “He drives you crazy,” he said gently, “because somewhere along the lines you fell for him. Hard.”

Yoongi stayed frozen in Jimin’s lap, the words sinking in, deep and unrelenting.

“And that’s okay,” Jimin added. “You don’t need to have all the answers right now. You just need to want to figure it out. And you do, don’t you?”

Yoongi shut his eyes.

“Yeah,” he whispered after a long pause, voice fragile. “I really do.”

“You guys had sex,” Jimin said gently, watching Yoongi’s profile instead of the mirror. “Sex makes everything ten times more complicated. Especially for you, hyung. You’ve never done that with anyone before.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch at the reminder. He just exhaled, heavy and tired, his eyes still fixed blankly ahead. “Should I even forgive him?” he murmured. “After everything he’s done?”

Jimin turned to him, brow furrowing. “Everything he’s done?” he echoed, his voice laced with caution and curiosity. He didn’t sound judgmental, just concerned, trying to understand.

Yoongi’s jaw clenched, fingers twisting into the hem of his sweater like he was trying to wring the memory of Taehyung out of it. “He didn’t respect me,” he said, and it came out hoarse. “Not when I needed him to. He was so fucking annoying at the beginning, you know? Kept begging me to do this dumb experiment with him—pushed and pushed even when I didn’t want to. And god, the way he lied—”

“Wait, he lied?”

Yoongi blinked. His breath caught in his throat mid-sentence, mouth left slightly open like the rest of the thought had physically jammed somewhere between his chest and tongue.

Jimin frowned at him through the mirror, eyes narrowing slowly. “Hyung,” he said gently, no accusation in his voice, only concern. “You said he lied. About what?”

The fluorescent lighting above buzzed faintly, humming with the tension that had just thickened the air. Yoongi sat up slightly from Jimin’s lap, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. He scrubbed a hand down his face, hoping it would magically erase the weight crawling up his spine.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Yoongi muttered. “It’s not mine to tell.”

That only made Jimin sit up straighter. “Yoongi.” His voice dropped to something careful, more serious now. “Is he in trouble?”

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. He stared at his shoes and felt the truth crawl its way up his throat.

He hated this part. The part where the boundary between protecting someone and carrying their secrets started to blur. But Jimin wasn’t stupid. Jimin knew Taehyung almost as well as Yoongi did now, maybe even more in some ways.

So Yoongi sighed, finally turning his head toward him.

“He owes someone money,” he said quietly, keeping his voice low even though it was just them in the studio. “Like… a lot of money. Some guy named Eunwoo. It’s serious. Like, serious serious. The kind of shit people get hurt over.”

Jimin’s jaw tensed. “What the fuck.”

Yoongi continued, voice heavier now, like it was anchoring him to the floor. “He lied to me about it for weeks. Said he was just broke, but I didn’t know it was that. For most of the experiment I was paying for things for him, I didn’t question it. Not until I ran into Eunwoo himself— who recognised me from Tae’s Instagram story. Said I was the guy he was fake dating and started going off about how Tae hadn’t paid him back.”

Yoongi laughed, but it was bitter. Hollow. “So yeah, I cornered him in the kitchen. Demanded he tell me what was going on. He told me everything.”

Jimin was quiet. The silence that followed wasn’t judgmental, it was shock. And then, slowly, it turned into something heavier. Something sorrowful.

“He must’ve been scared out of his mind,” Jimin whispered.

Yoongi whipped his head toward him. “I was scared out of my mind! This guy cornered me on campus demanding answers when I had no clue what was going on.”

“I’m not saying it was okay to lie,” Jimin said calmly, “but you think Taehyung wanted to carry that on his own? He’s dumb as hell sometimes, yeah, but I know he didn’t keep this from you to be cruel. He probably thought if he told you, you'd run. That you'd look at him differently.”

Yoongi’s stomach turned. He had looked at him differently. He had pulled away.

“He just wanted to protect what you guys had,” Jimin added gently. “And maybe he went about it the wrong way, but you said it yourself: he’s not just your roommate anymore. He’s the first person you’ve ever let in. So maybe ask yourself if you’re mad because he lied, or because he made you feel something real.”

Yoongi swallowed, throat dry. His hands fidgeted in his lap, curling and uncurling. For a long time, he didn’t say anything.

Then finally, in a voice so low it was barely audible “You’re right.”

The dance studio was quiet again, the kind of hush that settled between people who’d just stopped pretending everything was fine.

“We need to help him out, Chim,” he said. His voice cracked at the edges, like glass straining under pressure. “You’re right. I’m not mad about the lying—well, I was—but that’s not the core of it. I’m mad because he gave me something I’ve never had. Never expected to have.”

He turned to look at Jimin now, eyes puffy, mouth twitching like he was trying to stop it from falling. “I don’t even feel love from my own family. How was I supposed to just… accept it from him? Like it was nothing?”

Jimin’s breath caught, his expression falling into something soft and stricken. “Yoongi…”

Yoongi shook his head, swallowing hard as he blinked up at the ceiling, trying to force the tears back. “No. I fucked up. I walked out on him. He was scared and spiralling and I just left.” His voice was trembling now, tumbling out fast, all the pieces falling at once. “We need to fix this. All of us. All six of us. We need to gather some money or—I don’t know—do something. He’s not going to be able to do this alone.”

Jimin placed a hand gently on his shoulder, grounding him. “Hyung, breathe. You’re not the villain in this. You’ve been dealing with so much. You just found out someone you care about is in danger, and you were hurt too.”

“I should’ve told you guys sooner,” Yoongi whispered, curling in on himself. “I should’ve helped him do the right thing. I should’ve protected him.”

“Yoongi.” Jimin moved closer, firm now, gentle but unwavering. “Stop blaming yourself. Please. You were thrown into this. You’ve been carrying things no one even knew about. But you’re right—he does need help. And he needs you. Not just a rescue party, not just money. You .”

Yoongi looked at him, eyes wide and lost.

“You need to reach out to him,” Jimin said softly. “Talk to him. Not like before. Not when it’s heavy and angry and everything’s falling apart. Talk to him. He still thinks you don’t want him, hyung. That’s eating him alive. So next time you see him, be honest. Be soft.”

Yoongi’s lip trembled. He nodded. “Okay,” he whispered. “Okay. I will.”

-

“Two hundred thousand won?” Hoseok repeated the next day, blinking as if trying to process the full weight of that number. He’d stopped mid-bite of his lunch, his chopsticks still hovering above a bowl of kimchi stew. “That’s insane. I didn’t even know he was involved with… stuff like that.”

Yoongi nodded slowly. “Neither did I. Not for a long time. I didn’t realise how bad it was until someone literally showed up to threaten me on campus.” His voice was quiet but unwavering. “He’s been trying to fix it on his own. He’s been scraping together what he could, and lying to his family. But it’s not enough. And he’s too scared to ask.”

Silence hung thick in the air, and for a moment Yoongi feared he’d said too much.

Then Jeongguk leaned in, a soft frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “We could never hate him, hyung. Never. He’s Taehyung.” His hand found Hoseok’s beneath the table, fingers threading tightly. “He makes dumb choices sometimes, but he’s one of us.”

Yoongi’s throat constricted. He forced a nod, a shaky breath slipping from him.

“He’s been hiding,” Yoongi said, his voice rough now. “Because of the debt. Because of what I said to him. Because he thinks we’d all hate him for getting himself involved in something so messy. But he’s scared. He’s scared, and I should’ve stepped in.”

Seokjin shifted forward in his seat, unusually serious. “I’ve got some savings,” he said. “Nothing major, but I can contribute a chunk. Whatever I can afford.”

Namjoon nodded beside him, sliding his glasses further up his nose. “Same. I’ve got some cash set aside for rent buffer. I’ll pull from that.”

“Me too,” Jimin chimed in, wrapping his hand protectively around Yoongi’s wrist. “This isn’t even a question, hyung. We can’t let him go through this alone.”

Yoongi looked around the cafeteria table and felt something clench tightly in his chest.

Not dread. Not shame. Relief.

A tidal wave of it—raw, consuming, threatening to knock him over as the reality settled into his bones. They weren’t turning their backs on him. They weren’t rolling their eyes at Yoongi’s desperation or telling him it wasn’t their problem. They were stepping up.

He looked down at Jimin’s hand and then across the table to the rest of them, his friends, his family in every way that counted.

“Thank you,” Yoongi whispered, the words catching in his throat. “I know I’m asking a lot, but… he doesn’t even know we’re doing this. I just—” He hesitated, heart twisting. “I need him to feel safe again.”

Jimin gave his wrist a squeeze. “He will. We’ll make sure of it.”

Yoongi nodded, blinking hard.

“Are you feeling okay?” Seokjin’s voice cut through the noise gently, anchoring him.

Yoongi looked up, his brow furrowed. “Yeah?”

Seokjin gave him a sympathetic glance, like he already knew. “Taehyung told me. About you guys.” He didn’t say it with malice or curiosity, just fact. “I obviously told Namjoon, because we tell each other everything. Who then blabbed to Hoseok, who couldn’t keep it from Jeongguk. And I’m guessing you told Jimin yourself, because you always tell him everything.”

Yoongi flushed scarlet, blinking in disbelief. “You guys all know?”

The table went awkwardly quiet. Jeongguk picked at the label on his water bottle. Namjoon cleared his throat and stared hard at his napkin. Hoseok raised a guilty hand in a kind of sorry gesture. No one met Yoongi’s gaze.

Yoongi’s heart sank. Unbelievable.

He pushed back his chair, legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Okay. I’m leaving. This is mortifying.”

“ Hyung — no, no, sit,” Jimin quickly tugged his sleeve, pulling him back down into the chair. “You’re making it worse in your head. It’s not embarrassing.”

“It is,” Yoongi muttered, voice low and sharp, his hands curling into the fabric of his pants. “My whole friend group knows I slept with him. Do you know how—how intimate that was for me? How terrifying? And now everyone’s whispering about it like it’s just some cute gossip—”

“Hyung,” Jeongguk piped up, trying for lightheartedness, “we’re all basically dating each other anyway. You’ve heard all my stories. And that time Joon did—”

“Zip it.” Namjoon’s voice cracked across the table, cheeks burning. He shot Jeongguk a glare so intense it could melt steel. “Do not finish that sentence.”

Yoongi buried his face in his hands, shoulders slumping with a defeated exhale.

Seokjin reached out, nudging his knuckles lightly against Yoongi’s elbow. “No one’s judging you,” he said softly. “We’re not making fun. We’re not gossiping. You don’t have to be ashamed for feeling something real.”

Yoongi didn’t respond at first. He just stared at the table through his fingers.

“You’re not weak for letting someone in,” Jimin added, tone quieter now. “You’re brave for doing it. Especially when it was with him.”

Yoongi finally looked up, his eyes glassy. “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“Like what?” Namjoon asked gently.

Yoongi swallowed. “Like I lost something. Even though I didn’t mean to let it go.”

“Then let’s help you get it back.” Seokjin exhaled slowly, nodding like he understood that weight all too well. “All of us send whatever the hell you have in your bank accounts to me and I’ll withdraw the money tonight.”

His voice was calm, steady. The kind of voice that had talked all of them down from cliffs more than once. “I’ll place the two hundred thousand in an envelope and post it through your apartment door tomorrow before I go to work.”

Yoongi gawked. His hands were in his lap, shaking slightly. He didn’t even realise until Jimin leaned over and gently touched his arm. “You okay?” Jimin asked, so softly it made Yoongi’s throat burn.

“I—” His voice broke, so he tried again. “Yeah.”

Seokjin kept going. “Taehyung’s not on the rota tomorrow. Which means he should be home. When you get the envelope, that’ll be your chance to approach him. You give him the money. The two of you have a real conversation. No more running. No more silence. Just the truth, face to face.”

The truth. Yoongi could already feel it bubbling in his chest, hot and unspoken for too long.

The plan made sense. It was clean. Clear. For once, something in this whole mess had structure—and God, Yoongi needed structure.

He swallowed hard, nodding slowly.

Because he did have an answer now.

The distance had given him clarity. Every day without Taehyung had hollowed him out a little more. It didn’t matter how many assignments he pushed around his laptop, how much music he blasted through his headphones, how many hours he spent curled under blankets pretending he was fine. He wasn’t.

He missed Taehyung like hell. Missed him in the ways that weren’t just romantic but human. Missed his dumb jokes, the way he always hummed a melody under his breath, how he stole Yoongi’s shampoo and lied about it. Missed how warm he was, how he never made Yoongi feel like he had to perform or be anything other than what he was.

Even when they’d kissed, especially when they’d kissed, Taehyung hadn’t asked for anything more than what Yoongi was ready to give.

That night in his bed had been messy, yes. Fast. Unplanned. But Taehyung had been patient. Careful. Kind. He didn’t make fun of him for being unsure. He guided him through it like Yoongi was something to be treasured, not laughed at.

And now, Yoongi knew.

He knew that he liked him. Really liked him.

“Okay,” Yoongi said finally, voice steadier now. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

Seokjin nodded once. No theatrics, no dramatics, just quiet understanding.

Jimin squeezed Yoongi’s arm again and gave him a small smile. “We’ve got you, hyung. And him.”

-

Taehyung clutched the strap of his backpack tight as he stepped out of the warm, coffee-scented glow of the Daily Grind and into the dimming grey-blue of early evening. The café door clicked shut behind him with a soft chime, and Hana’s quiet “get home safe, kid,” still echoed faintly in his ears. He didn’t look back.

His sneakers scuffed quickly against the pavement as he picked up pace, his hand darting up to yank the hood of his hoodie further over his head. The chill of April air hit him like a wave, but it wasn’t what made him shiver.

It was fear.

Fear that someone might see him. Fear that someone might be close. Fear that even if he made it home, it wouldn’t matter, because the damage was already done.

He kept his head down as he crossed the edge of campus, walking like a ghost through empty quads and past buildings that once felt familiar and safe. The Daily Grind’s warmth was gone, replaced by sharp shadows and the occasional echo of voices too far to make out. He didn’t dare linger under any lamplight, choosing the edges of the footpaths, tucked beneath trees and buildings. Out of sight.

His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, thumb hovering over the cracked screen.

There were the usual updates: Seokjin asking if he survived his shift, Hoseok sending him dumb TikToks with captions like “this is literally you.” It almost made him smile.

Almost.

But then his thumb froze.

There, in his notifications, was something completely unexpected. A message request on Instagram. From a handle he didn’t recognise—

@user226802. No name. No profile picture. Just a number.

He blinked, staring for a moment. At first he thought it was nothing. Probably a spam bot. A scam link to crypto or a weird OnlyFans impersonator. His finger hovered over the screen, ready to hit delete request, but something pulled at his gut.

Curiosity, maybe. Or dread.

Either way, he clicked it. It opened to a single message. A photo. And one sentence.

The image loaded slowly, his heart already hammering before it even resolved. It was dark, grainy, clearly taken from a distance. The resolution wasn’t great, but it didn’t have to be.

Because Taehyung would recognise that profile anywhere.

Yoongi. Standing outside the dance studio in his beige sweater, the curls of his hair just barely catching in the light from a nearby lamppost. Jimin stood beside him, leaning against the wall, mid-sentence. They looked unaware. Exposed. Hunted.

Taehyung’s fingers tightened around his phone. His throat went dry. Then he read the message underneath the photo.

user226802: Pay up or your fake boyfriend gets it.

The world stopped.

A hollow chill crawled up Taehyung’s spine, slow and suffocating. His legs wobbled, and he stumbled back a step, steadying himself against the side of the brick wall.

No. No no no no no.

This couldn’t be happening. He stared at the screen, willing the message to disappear. Maybe he read it wrong. Maybe it was a joke. A sick joke.

The timestamp was only a few minutes ago. Whoever this was, they were close. They were watching.

“Fuck,” Taehyung whispered, his breath catching.

His first instinct was to call Yoongi. To warn him. To run to him. But his fingers trembled too much. His body felt locked in place, frozen in time. He felt his heart thudding in his ears like a siren. Like a countdown.

Whoever this was, they knew. They knew about the experiment. About Yoongi. About everything. And now he was a target.

kimtaehyung: who is this?

A notification appeared instantly. They were online. Watching. Waiting to cast the bait.

user226802: You know who i am.

His breath hitched. Of course he knew. He just didn’t want to believe it.

kimtaehyung: eunwoo?

user226802: Hm close.

He could feel the panic starting to well behind his eyes, every heartbeat drumming a warning through his ribcage. His fingers moved again, more frantic this time.

kimtaehyung: siwoo? siwoo please don’t hurt him.

Please. Please don’t hurt him. Not Yoongi. Anyone but Yoongi. The reply came seconds later, sharp and heartless.

user226802: Where the fuck is my money?

Taehyung swallowed hard, mouth dry. His vision blurred for a second as the reality hit him. This wasn’t about the experiment anymore. This wasn’t just about him. He typed, hands trembling.

kimtaehyung: i don’t have it.. eunwoo probably told u

There was a pause. Three dots blinked at the bottom of the screen.

user226802: I don’t give a fuck about Eunwoo. I’ve already taken care of him.

Taehyung felt the floor tilt beneath him. Already taken care of him? He nearly dropped his phone. His stomach twisted, a sickening cocktail of nausea and horror rising in his throat. His lungs forgot how to breathe.

What the fuck did that mean? What had he done?

His mind raced through every possible scenario. Eunwoo bruised and bloodied, Eunwoo unconscious, Eunwoo worse. Far, far worse. And if that’s what Siwoo had done to someone who worked for him, what the hell was he going to do to Yoongi? He typed fast, desperation bleeding through every word.

kimtaehyung: i’ll have the money in a few days stay the fuck away from him.

He sent it. Immediately regretted the profanity. Regretted the delay. Regretted everything that had brought them here. If only he had told Yoongi sooner. If only he’d never taken that stash. If only—

user226802: You should’ve thought about that before you kept me waiting.

Taehyung’s heart plummeted. His hands trembled harder now, a fine shake that moved through his whole body like a cold current. He was too late. He always had been. He’d kept pushing this further down, trying to delay the inevitable, thinking he could fix everything before it boiled over. Now it was boiling over.

kimtaehyung: where are u now?

A pause. He could feel the smirk behind the screen. The malice. The control.

user226802: Wouldn’t you like to know.

Taehyung nearly threw his phone. His vision blurred with panic. He couldn’t breathe right. Yoongi. He needed to warn Yoongi. He needed to get home, get to him, explain everything properly. He hadn’t even apologized. Not properly. And now—

He typed again, fingers flying.

kimtaehyung: hurt me. stalk me. do whatever u need to do but please leave him out of it

kimtaehyung: he’s a really good guy he doesn’t deserve to be involved in this shit

The typing bubbles appeared again far too quickly.

user226802: Aw u guys are so cute.

user226802: Did u make it official?

kimtaehyung: ur not funny

user226802: Not trying to be.

user226802: He’s really pretty. Would be a shame if something happened to him.

kimtaehyung: i’m being serious where the fuck are u

kimtaehyung: i’ll come to u now we can talk it out in person

user226802: Talk about what?

user226802: You don’t have my money. You are no use to me.

kimtaehyung: please don’t hurt him

kimtaehyung: please pleade pleasef

user226802: You know that abandoned house on the outskirts of campus?

user226802: The one in the hagsaeng district?

kimtaehyung: yeah

user226802: Drop everything you’re doing and come and meet me there.

user226802: Or else.

The words on his screen glared back like poison, seeping into every corner of his chest, making it hard to think, to breathe, to move.

His thumb trembled above the screen.

kimtaehyung: don’t touch him. i swear i’ll come.

kimtaehyung: i’m on my way now.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

His feet moved before his thoughts could catch up, his legs carrying him with a frantic energy across campus, through winding paths and unfamiliar shortcuts, weaving past buildings that now looked blurred and empty.

The Hagsaeng District. Of course he knew it. Everyone on campus did. A string of old student housing that had been abandoned for years, tucked far enough out of reach that no one bothered to wander there. The stories surrounding it were endless: dares, ghost tales, weird squatters. But none of that mattered now. Not when Yoongi’s face was flashing in his mind like a warning light, not when he didn’t even know if this guy was bluffing or not.

Taehyung’s mind spiraled. How long had he been watching? When was that photo even taken? Was Yoongi safe right now? Was he alone? Was he—

Stop. No. He couldn’t let himself panic. Not now.

The sky had started to darken, the faintest tinge of dusk falling over campus like a closing curtain. Taehyung yanked his hood higher over his head, ducking into alleyways and avoiding anyone that might see him.

Yoongi had never run so fast across their apartment.

The sound of the envelope sliding through the letterbox echoed in the still quiet of the morning, soft but unmistakable. His bedroom door was already cracked open, and the moment he registered the sound, Yoongi bolted, feet pounding against the floorboards as he skidded to a stop at the front door.

It was there.

A plain brown envelope with a slightly crumpled corner, the flap barely sealed. His breath caught in his throat as he picked it up with both hands, fingers trembling ever so slightly. He carried it to the kitchen table like it was glass. The envelope felt heavier than anything he’d ever held, not because of the weight itself, but because of what it meant.

He peeled it open carefully, the paper whispering under his fingers. Inside, the wad of money sat cleanly bundled, the elastic band snapped tight around it. He didn’t even have to count it, he could tell. Seokjin was meticulous like that.

Two hundred thousand won. Every last bill accounted for. A lifeline. A second chance.

Yoongi exhaled, a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding for the last week finally escaping him. It was going to be okay. They were going to be okay. He could fix this. Make it right.

He resealed the envelope with gentle fingers, like it was something sacred.

Then, without wasting a second, he made his way down the hall, barefoot and breathless to Taehyung’s room. The hallway felt impossibly long all of a sudden. His heart thudded against his ribcage with every step, and with each one he repeated his little silent prayer.

Please let him be there. Please let him open the door. Please let him be ready to listen.

He knocked gently first.

“Tae?” he called, voice soft. His fingers tapped twice more, rhythmic against the wood.

No answer.

Yoongi swallowed, tried again. Louder this time. “Taehyung. It’s me. Yoongi.”

Still nothing. Not even a shuffle of blankets or the sound of someone clearing their throat. Frowning now, he pressed his palm against the door. The surface was cool. Still.

“I know we haven’t spoken in a few days,” he said, voice catching faintly. “But you gotta listen. I—”

He turned the handle. The door creaked open easily, the hinges giving a soft sigh like even they knew this wasn’t right. Yoongi stepped inside.

And froze.

The bed was untouched. Not unmade—untouched. The grey sheets were still drawn neatly over the mattress, pillows stacked like they hadn’t even held weight in a while. The faint smell of Taehyung’s cologne hung in the air, but the room itself felt cold.

Still. Like he hadn’t been here in hours. Maybe more. Yoongi’s heart dropped.

“Tae?” he said again, but this time it came out smaller. Much smaller.

He frowned, stepping further. The sunlight through the open window cast long, golden beams across the floor, and the breeze through the cracked glass made the curtains flutter lazily. It was peaceful, sure, but the quiet felt wrong. Like something was missing.

Like someone was missing.

He placed the envelope gently down on the bedside table, eyes drifting to Taehyung’s laptop. It was in sleep mode, the screen dark, a single notification glowing softly in the corner. Yoongi didn’t touch it. Wouldn’t. But he lingered there, chewing the inside of his cheek as the panic started to creep in slowly, uninvited.

“Tae?” he called out again, softer now, like he was trying not to scare off the silence. “You in the bathroom?”

He knocked on the en-suite door and pushed it open carefully.

Empty. The mirror still fogged slightly from a recent shower. A damp towel hung off the rail. But no Taehyung.

Yoongi stood frozen, eyes scanning every inch of the room for something he missed. A note? A phone? A sign? Nothing.

He started telling himself it wasn’t a big deal. His mind raced, rational thoughts battling against that creeping sense of dread crawling up his spine like a cold sweat. It’s nothing. It’s morning. Maybe he just—

Breakfast. Maybe he just left to get something to eat. Taehyung loved pancakes, didn’t he? The little café down by the art building served those big fluffy ones with whipped cream and strawberries. Yeah. Maybe he woke up early, didn’t want to disturb Yoongi, and just went.

But with what money?

Oh the library. Maybe it was the library. Taehyung was trying to be more productive lately. Maybe he was catching up on that photography coursework he kept talking about. Maybe he was curled up somewhere editing photos in silence like he used to do before things got messy.

But his laptop was here?

Yoongi tried to steady his breathing. Maybe he’s just out for a walk. Maybe he just needed air. Even as he thought it, his stomach churned.

Did Taehyung ever go on walks?

Yoongi scrambled. Not calmly. Not reasonably. He scrambled.

He darted out of Taehyung’s room, phone already in hand, fingers fumbling to unlock it. There was no time to think, only react. His thumb hovered over the message app for a second before he opened the group chat with trembling fingers.

He didn’t care that Taehyung was in the chat. He didn’t care if it seemed dramatic. Something felt wrong. And when that feeling settled into Yoongi’s bones, it was impossible to ignore.

yoongi: have any of u guys seen tae?

The typing bubbles popped up immediately.

joon: he’s not at home?

joon: jin said he’s not on the work rota

chim: i haven’t heard from him

kook: me neither

Yoongi stared at the screen, breath caught in his throat. His thumb tapped rhythmically against the edge of the phone, an unconscious nervous tick. A new message popped up.

hobi: i’ll ring him

Yoongi felt something twist in his chest. Hoseok was always level-headed. If Hoseok was taking action, then maybe he wasn’t completely overreacting. Maybe that gut feeling, tight and awful, wasn’t just his anxiety talking.

He paced. He stood in the kitchen. Then in the hallway. Then at the front door, still clutching the envelope like it was the only solid thing anchoring him to the earth.

Then, minutes later. Ping.

hobi: straight to voicemail

hobi: i tried 3 times

Yoongi’s breath hitched.

kook: that’s weird

joon: i’m sure it’s alright hyung!! he’ll be home soon.

Yoongi didn’t answer. Because he didn’t know if that was true. Because Taehyung didn’t just go off-grid. Because Taehyung’s phone was always on. Because Taehyung would’ve told someone, even if not Yoongi. Someone. Someone should’ve known his whereabouts.

And right now, Yoongi was standing in their apartment with a wad of cash in his hands and a twisting, gnawing, sickening feeling blooming in his chest like something had gone very, very wrong.

Chapter Text

The blade’s edge was cold against Taehyung’s skin, not cutting, but warning.

A thin line of pressure traced the curve of his cheekbone as he stood frozen, his back pressed hard to the crumbling brick wall of the abandoned house. His breath hitched—sharp, uneven—his palms splayed flat against the surface behind him, trying to ground himself, to stay calm.

Siwoo loomed over him, a shadow in the dim light filtering through the broken windows. Older, broader, more composed than Eunwoo ever was, like someone who’d stopped needing to shout to be terrifying.

"How come you couldn’t do me one simple favour, kid?” His voice was quiet. Too quiet. It made Taehyung’s stomach turn.

“I said I’m sorry,” Taehyung breathed out, voice trembling. “I will have the money. I swear to you.”

Siwoo tilted his head. His hand, the one holding the knife, didn’t move—just pressed the handle a little firmer into Taehyung’s cheekbone as if making a point. “You promised Eunwoo the money nearly a month ago,” he said, like it was a reminder, not a threat. “Now he’s out of the picture, and this debt? It’s all on you.”

Taehyung blinked hard, forcing back the panic rising in his throat. “I’m getting paid this weekend. I’ll have the rest. Just—just please, don’t drag anyone else into this.”

“Too late for that, isn’t it?”

Taehyung's back scraped against the rough brick, his breath caught somewhere between his ribs and his throat. The cold bite of the knife shifted just slightly, pressing firmer against the curve of his cheek. Not enough to break skin, but enough to send a jolt of panic humming through every nerve in his body.

"Why did you take that picture of him?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. It was all he could manage, his chest tight, his knees locked, every instinct screaming at him not to move.

Siwoo’s grin came slow, cruel. He tilted his head, like he was amused by the question. “Your boyfriend?”

Taehyung’s eyes flashed with something fragile—fear, confusion, guilt. “He isn’t my boyfriend,” he said quietly, not sure if it was meant to protect Yoongi or protect himself.

But Siwoo didn’t seem to care about the details. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, chilling murmur. “Whoever he is, I know you care about him.” The grin widened. “So it was easy. So easy to bring him into this. A little thread to pull. You wear your heart on your sleeve sweetheart, it wasn’t hard to figure out who mattered to you.”

Taehyung flinched as the knife pressed harder for just a second, a gesture of power, not harm. Siwoo was playing with him, and they both knew it.

“I didn’t need to hurt him,” Siwoo continued, voice calm in a way that made it all the more terrifying. “Just had to remind you who’s holding the strings. And now here you are.”

Taehyung’s throat felt raw, like every breath scraped on the way out. “Please ,” he choked, voice trembling. “Don’t touch him. Don’t go near him again. I’ll get you your money. Just don’t—don’t use him to get to me.”

The moment shifted in a breath. Swift, quiet, irreversible.

Taehyung gasped as he felt a sting flare across his cheekbone, hot and immediate. His head jerked to the side, body tensing as a sharp cry escaped him. The pain was real. Bright and shocking. His hand moved instinctively to his face, fingers meeting something warm, slick. Blood.

His breath faltered. He blinked down at his hand in disbelief, the crimson already spreading across his palm. The metallic scent hit his nose a moment later. Everything in him reeled, not just from the pain, but from the finality of it. The line that had been crossed.

Across from him, Siwoo’s expression didn’t change. There was no guilt. No doubt. Just cold, unwavering control. “Your time is up, kid,” he muttered, voice devoid of threat because it didn’t need to threaten anymore. “No more chances.”

Taehyung stayed frozen, his back still tight against the brick wall. He couldn’t speak, his mouth was too dry, his lungs too shallow. Siwoo stepped back slightly, but not far enough. His presence still loomed, a shadow that wouldn’t lift.

“You’re staying here for the time being,” he added, voice low. “No more hiding in your dorm room. You made this messy, and now you’re going to see it through.”

Taehyung didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His mind was screaming a thousand things at once. Yoongi, the boys, his future paycheck. None of them louder than the pulse pounding behind his eyes. He was trapped. Wounded. And now, apparently, being kept under the watch of Siwoo himself.

This was a fucking nightmare.

-

Yoongi woke up on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

His head pounded, not from lack of sleep but from too much thought. The envelope, thick with two hundred thousand won, neatly rubber-banded and tucked into a plain paper sleeve, sat untouched on his dresser like a ghost. Mocking him. Because it was meant for Taehyung. And Taehyung wasn’t home.

He hadn't been home in over a day.

The apartment was too quiet. A kind of quiet that made Yoongi’s skin crawl. Every sound felt louder in the stillness, his toothbrush hitting the side of the sink, the click of the fridge door, the sound of his own heartbeat pulsing against his eardrums. Taehyung’s bedroom was still untouched, the sheets rumpled the way he left them. No new dishes in the sink. No shoes by the door. Just silence.

On the walk through campus to Namjoon and Seokjin’s place, Yoongi shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, eyes downcast as he moved on autopilot. His mind was racing, looping again and again through every little moment, every small failure to say the right thing.

They fought. That was the last real interaction. A stupid fight. A flash of anger in the hallway. Harsh words that echoed through his brain like a drumline.

He could still hear his own voice, tight and wounded: “No. You don’t get to make me feel like shit because I can’t give you an answer right now.”

Why did it have to end like that? Why didn’t he just tell him? Yoongi kicked a stray stone as he walked, eyes suddenly stinging. They were so close. After everything—the hand holding, the late-night Below Deck marathons, the kisses that felt like breathing. After that night. That stupid fucking night.

Yoongi’s heart thudded painfully in his chest at the memory. The way Taehyung had looked at him like he was something precious. The way he held him afterwards, whispered to him, soothed him. That wasn’t fake. That couldn’t have been fake.

He swallowed hard, breath catching in his throat. He was furious with himself. If he’d just opened his mouth. Just said it. That he liked him. That he’d never wanted anyone the way he wanted Taehyung. That this experiment had done more than prove a theory, it had unraveled him completely and somehow, in the wreckage, made him feel whole.

But instead, he got scared. He pulled away. And now Taehyung was gone.

Yoongi stopped outside Namjoon and Seokjin’s house and stared at the front door, shoulders sagging. Please, he thought, please let someone have heard from him. Please let him be okay.

Seokjin answered the door with an unusually tight expression, pulling Yoongi into a hug that lasted just a little too long to be casual. The warmth of it, paired with the herbal tea Seokjin wordlessly handed him once they stepped inside, was enough to tell Yoongi everything. They were all worried. And no one knew what the hell was going on.

Yoongi barely even got his shoes off before he was curling up onto the corner of their couch, knees pulled to his chest, fingers cradling the mug like it might keep him from falling apart. Namjoon was a few feet away, sunk into the armchair with his laptop perched on his knees. But for once, he wasn’t grilling Yoongi about his latest interactions with Taehyung. He was quiet. Unnaturally so.

“I’m so worried about him,” Yoongi said eventually, voice cracked with emotion he didn’t want to show. The mug trembled faintly in his grip. “It’s been days, Jin-hyung. What if something’s happened?”

Seokjin sighed softly and reached out to rub slow circles into Yoongi’s back. “He’s probably just… made a spontaneous trip to see his halmeoni,” he said, trying to sound certain. But even he didn’t believe the words.

Yoongi frowned into his tea. “Then why not tell us? Why me, especially?” His voice dropped. “He always tells me.”

That silence again.

Seokjin glanced toward Namjoon, almost as if pleading for backup, some reassurance that this wasn’t as terrifying as it felt. But Namjoon didn’t offer any comfort. Instead, he snapped his laptop shut and met their eyes, grim-faced.

“I think he might’ve gone awol.”

The room fell silent.

“What?” Seokjin and Yoongi said at the same time, Yoongi’s voice full of alarm, Seokjin’s of disbelief. The contrast made Yoongi blink hard.

“He’s not missing, Joon, don’t be stupid,” Seokjin said quickly, sitting upright now.

But Yoongi didn’t speak at first. His mind was already spiralling. “But what if he is ?” he finally whispered. “What if something happened?”

“No. No, come on, you’re letting Joon ramble again,” Seokjin insisted. “Tae’s impulsive, sure, he ghosts when he’s overwhelmed. But he always comes back.”

Namjoon stood, now pacing slightly, rubbing the side of his neck like he was trying to soothe his own unease. “People don’t just disappear without a trace, hyung,” he said sharply. “This isn’t just some emo spiral. It’s been a while. He’s not answering calls. He hasn’t posted. He left his laptop. His toothbrush is still in your apartment, Yoongi.”

He exhaled, running both hands through his hair now. “I’m not saying we storm the police station. But we have to consider that something’s wrong. And you guys—” he looked between them, gaze hard “—you’re not ready for that conversation.”

Yoongi gripped his mug tighter, staring into the steam like it might give him a sign. He didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t. But his gut, his heart, was screaming that Namjoon was right. Something wasn’t just wrong. Something was dangerous. That Taehyung wasn’t just hiding.

Yoongi shifted closer to Seokjin on the couch, his hands gripping the edges of his hoodie sleeves, twisting them tightly between his fingers as though the motion might wring the panic out of his chest.

“I think he’s onto something,” he said, voice low but sure.

Seokjin glanced over at him, brows pinched in concern. There was caution in his expression, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. But Yoongi didn’t wait for approval. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, stare fixed somewhere on the rug like it might ground him.

“Joon’s right,” he continued. “This is not like Tae. He ghosts for a few hours—sure. Not days. Not this. There’s obviously something wrong, and I can’t stop thinking about that whole drug money thing.”

Seokjin tensed. Yoongi didn’t miss it.

“You don’t think…” Seokjin started, hesitant.

“That Taehyung’s stupid mistake finally came back to bite him?” Yoongi finished bitterly, his mouth twisting. “Yeah. I do.”

He exhaled shakily, one hand rising to rub the back of his neck.

“But just because he did something reckless doesn’t mean he deserves this,” he muttered. “We tried to help him. We got the money. We were ready. And it still wasn’t enough, so now we do something else.”

Seokjin blinked slowly. His fingers curled around the mug in his lap, knuckles going pale. Namjoon, still perched in his chair, finally closed his laptop and stood.

“I don’t think we should contact the police,” he backtracked. “Drugs are involved. Even though we want Taehyung’s safety, he’ll probably get in a lot of shit.”

Yoongi nodded once. His throat was too tight for words. It made sense really, the last thing they needed was for him to end up in more shit than he already was in. Seokjin turned to look at the other, jaw clenched.

“He’s not stupid, Yoongi,” he said quietly. “If he got himself into this, he’s probably spent every hour since trying to claw his way out of it.”

Yoongi’s leg bounced hard now. He didn’t respond right away. “What even happens to people who get into shit like this?”

Namjoon didn’t pause. Didn’t blink. “Threats. Blackmail. Violence,” he answered flatly. “If it escalates, he might be in serious danger.”

The words hit Yoongi like a punch to the gut. And just like that, the guilt came crashing back in waves. The way Taehyung looked the morning after the party—vulnerable and unsure. The argument at the door. Why can’t you accept that? The slammed door. The silence. The way Yoongi let days pass, stewing in his own fear instead of just talking to him.

Seokjin let out a dramatic, frustrated sigh. “Joonie,” he groaned, looking over at Namjoon, “a more positive tone would help lift the mood.”

“I’m sorry for not pretending that this isn’t serious.”

Seokjin’s brows furrowed, posture shifting defensively. “I never said it wasn’t serious. I just don’t like how we’re jumping to conclusions and making poor Yoongi sick in the process.”

Namjoon scoffed, exhaling sharply through his nose. “My bad for being the only one taking this thing seriously.”

Seokjin rolled his eyes, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “The only reason you’re taking it seriously is because Taehyung’s not here to do your stupid production log.”

Yoongi flinched, eyes darting between them. The heat in the room had shifted. What was once tension had now bloomed into something heavier. Namjoon’s face twisted, hurt flickering behind his glasses. “Stupid? ”

Seokjin’s expression immediately softened, guilt flashing in his eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

But Namjoon wasn’t ready to let it slide. His voice was quiet now, lower and wounded. “Are you sure? Because all I’m hearing is that my thesis is dumb. That I only think of Taehyung as some pawn in an experiment. Not as our friend.”

“I didn’t say that,” Seokjin murmured finally, more careful this time.

But the damage had already started to fray at the corners. Namjoon exhaled and looked down at his laptop, the screen casting a dull light against his tense face.

“Mind you,” he added, quieter, “I was going to suggest going to the police. I know now that we shouldn’t do it— but if drug money wasn’t involved, I'd be writing up a missing person report for him.”

Yoongi felt it then, like something in him cracked. The words missing person pressed against his chest like a vice. He hated the image forming in his mind: Taehyung alone, scared, lost. Or worse. His throat burned.

Seokjin tried again, more gently this time. “I just don’t think we should be jumping to the worst-case scenario.”

“I’d rather jump to conclusions and be totally wrong,” he said standing, voice low and final, “than never see Taehyung again.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the living room, leaving Yoongi and Seokjin in the heavy quiet. There was no movement at first. Yoongi just stared into his tea, watching the way the lukewarm liquid rippled ever so slightly with the trembling of his fingers. The ceramic was warm again from his tight grip. His jaw clenched, his eyes heavy.

“I’m such an ass,” Seokjin finally muttered, his voice muffled by the palm of his hand as he leaned over to place his mug on the table, face buried in a quiet self-scold.

Yoongi blinked out of his daze, turning toward him with a soft, tired frown. “If it makes you feel any better, hyung,” he said quietly, “I knew what you were trying to say.”

Seokjin peeked at him through his fingers, eyes tired. But the tension in his brow smoothed a little, as if Yoongi’s words had unclenched something in his chest. He let his hand drop and gave a soft, crooked smile. “Thanks. I’ll talk to him later.”

They sat like that for a while. Side by side, shoulders not touching but close enough to feel the weight of each other’s presence. Yoongi’s fingers were still curled around the cup like it was an anchor, while Seokjin leaned back against the cushions with a sigh that felt too big for the room.

“It’s okay to be scared, you know,” Seokjin said quietly.

Yoongi gave the smallest nod, his gaze not leaving the tea. “I know.”

Seokjin leaned over and nudged his knee against Yoongi’s, a quiet attempt to make him look up. “Do you have any regrets?” he asked gently.

Yoongi laughed. It was breathy, hollow, and didn’t quite reach his eyes. “The last thirty days of my life,” he muttered like a joke, but it landed too heavy to be one.

That actually made Seokjin smile, though it was more sad than amused. “You don’t mean that.”

“No,” Yoongi said, still staring down. “Really, I do. If neither of us had agreed to this stupid experiment, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Seokjin tilted his head, eyes searching. “The mess being Taehyung’s fate or the shit going on between you two?”

Yoongi blinked, slow and deliberate. He exhaled through his nose. “Both.”

Silence settled between them again, thicker now, but not unwelcome. Just heavy with things neither knew how to fix. Seokjin shifted, straightened up, and opened his arms without a word.

“C’mere.”

Yoongi hesitated. But then, wordlessly, he leaned in.

The hug was a bit clumsy, Yoongi folding into Seokjin’s side like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite know where to go, his cheek smushing into Seokjin’s shoulder. But Seokjin’s arms wrapped around him all the same. Steady. Warm. Familiar.

This was going to be a long few days.

-

The morning sunlight seeped through the gauzy curtains of Namjoon and Seokjin’s living room, casting pale gold over Yoongi’s crumpled blanket cocoon. He woke up slowly, eyes blinking open to the soft groan of his back adjusting to the rigid structure of the couch beneath him. His neck ached slightly, sleeping half-curled under a borrowed throw with one foot awkwardly dangling off the edge.

For a few seconds, he forgot where he was. Then the too-familiar ache in his chest returned.

Taehyung.

His heart twisted, the silence of the apartment stark in contrast to their usual mornings, no Yoongi grumbling in the kitchen about running out of coffee, no Taehyung poking his head out from his room asking what toothpaste Yoongi uses because his is making his mouth burn.

Just empty space. Unanswered questions. And the same gnawing dread.

He rubbed the sleep from his face and sat up slowly, the living room around him beginning to stir. The smell of toast drifted in from the kitchen, warm, a little sweet, and Yoongi followed it quietly, like a ghost in his own body.

Seokjin was at the counter, still in his sleep shirt, humming under his breath as he flipped a piece of bread onto a plate and lathered it with marmalade. “You’re up,” he said gently, without turning.

Yoongi nodded, even though the other couldn’t see him. “Thanks,” he murmured when the plate was passed his way. The toast was golden, slightly overdone at the edges, but the smell of it made Yoongi’s stomach growl. He hadn’t eaten properly in days.

He sat at the small dining table and took a tentative bite. It was sweet, tangy, comforting. The kind of taste that tugged memories from childhood, the ones where the world still felt fixable. The sound of shuffling socks on hardwood came next, and Namjoon appeared from the hallway, hair flattened on one side, wearing an oversized hoodie Yoongi vaguely remembered Taehyung calling his “cult leader look.”

Namjoon immediately shuffled over to Seokjin, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind like a vine seeking warmth. “Coffeeee,” he whined, muffled against Jin’s shoulder.

Seokjin let out a breathy laugh, giving his boyfriend a sideways glance. “You’re so clingy in the mornings.”

“You’re the only reason I get out of bed.”

Yoongi glanced at them from the corner of his eye but didn’t say anything, choosing instead to chew slowly and focus on the toast in his hands. Something about the softness between the two of them—the way they fit into each other’s rhythm, even after an argument—left him feeling a little too raw.

He didn’t resent it. In fact, he admired it. The quiet devotion. The way they hadn’t let last night’s tension linger. But god, did it make the absence of his person feel ten times worse.

He missed Taehyung. Missed his chaotic energy. Missed the clumsy way he brewed tea and forgot about it until it was ice cold. Missed the way his laughter filled up the apartment like light pouring into a dark room.

Yoongi swallowed the lump in his throat alongside the last bite of toast. No texts. No missed calls. Just that envelope still untouched, back on the dresser in his room. Still full of hope, still waiting for someone to come home and claim it. Yoongi quite wasn’t sure how many more mornings like this he could take.

“No news?” he asked, the words catching slightly in his throat like they didn’t want to be spoken.

Namjoon, still wrapped loosely around Seokjin’s back like a sleepy sloth, shook his head, cheek smushed against his boyfriend’s shoulder. “No texts or calls from our end,” he muttered. His voice was hoarse, dull, the weight of waiting clearly eating away at him. “Maybe he’s still ignoring us.”

Yoongi’s stomach turned. He hated every syllable of this conversation. The way the word ignoring sounded in a room where people were supposed to be safe and fed and loved. The room didn’t feel warm anymore. Not with Taehyung’s absence hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

Seokjin shifted in Namjoon’s arms to glance back at him. “Are the others awake?” he asked gently, trying to keep his voice even. Like he was trying not to let the dread win.

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. He just reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out his phone, fingers moving slower than usual. Like even checking felt too heavy.

“I’ll find out,” he murmured, the toast he’d been chewing suddenly tasteless on his tongue. He swallowed it dry and opened his recent contacts, thumb hovering for a second before tapping on Jimin’s name on Facetime.

It rang once. Then twice. And then, Jimin’s familiar face blinked onto the screen, still framed in the soft lamplight of his room. His bleached hair was tied up into a small bun, and his eyes were still puffy with sleep, but he offered a smile anyway—gentle, understanding, too kind.

“Morning, hyung,” Jimin said softly.

Yoongi tried to mirror the smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You still haven’t heard from him?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Jimin’s smile faltered instantly. He lowered his phone slightly so Yoongi could see he was already sitting at his vanity, dressed in ballet warm-ups, a thermos of tea in one hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, and the words were so simple, so small, that they made Yoongi’s chest cave in.

He didn’t want an apology. He wanted Taehyung. Yoongi’s thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he sighed and clicked “Add Person,” selecting both Hoseok and Jeongguk. The phone rang twice, three times, before one camera finally flickered to life.

Hoseok appeared, the screen dim and grainy in the soft dark of his room. His hair was sticking up in strange places, and only one eye was open as he scowled at the brightness from his phone. “Thanks for the alarm clock,” he grumbled hoarsely.

Yoongi raised an unimpressed brow. “Where’s Jeongguk?”

Before Hoseok could answer, the sound of rustling came through the speaker. Fabric shifting, a small grunt, and then the camera jostled clumsily, Hoseok shifting positions until the lens tilted enough to reveal the very top of a familiar mop of brunette hair. Jeongguk was still buried half under the duvet, face snuggled into a pillow, only his bare shoulder visible as he let out a sleepy, unintelligible whine.

“Unbelievable,” Jimin chimed dryly from the screen, rolling his eyes as he adjusted the hoodie draped around his shoulders.

Hoseok flipped him the middle finger, too lazy to defend their shared bed. “What is this? A council meeting?”

Just then, Namjoon and Seokjin wandered over from the kitchen, still holding mugs of coffee. Namjoon had his hand resting lightly on the small of Seokjin’s back, and they both knelt on the floor in front of the couch where Yoongi sat curled up. Their expressions were equally tense.

“Have either of you heard anything from Tae?” Yoongi asked, voice quiet, heavy.

There was a pause. Hoseok’s lips parted, but before he could respond, a muffled groan came from offscreen. Jeongguk shuffled closer to the phone now, eyes only half-lidded, his cheek marked with lines from the pillowcase.

“If we’d heard something, you’d be the first to know, hyung,” he mumbled sleepily, his voice rasped with morning. “I’ve been checking our chat. Nothing.”

Yoongi rubbed a hand over his face, pressing his palm into his eyes until he saw stars. “I know. Sorry. Just—every hour that goes by, it feels worse.”

The silence from the others said enough. They all felt it. The mounting weight in their chests. The quiet dread.

“I hate this,” Jimin muttered. “I hate just waiting around like this.”

“I know,” Yoongi whispered. “Me too.”

-

The abandoned studio in the Hagsaeng District was the kind of place that made your skin crawl even if you weren’t sleeping on the kitchen floor.

The windows were boarded from the inside, thick, uneven planks of wood nailed carelessly over cracked glass, sealing out any hint of daylight. The air inside was stale and humid, smelling of damp plaster, mildew, and the sharp undercurrent of something sour. The kitchenette, if it could still be called that, was a disaster. Every cabinet door hung ajar or broken off completely, and the sink was clogged with crusted-over dishes and old food. Flies buzzed lazily around the trash-strewn countertops. Nothing in the space was clean. Nothing felt safe.

Taehyung sat hunched on a mold-stained mattress shoved against the corner of the kitchen tiles, his knees tucked to his chest. There were no blankets, no pillows. Just the peeling linoleum floor beneath him and a growing chill that crept through his clothes as night closed in again.

The cut on his cheekbone throbbed, hot and sticky. Dried blood had hardened against his skin, pulling tight with every twitch of his jaw. He hadn't dared ask Siwoo for anything to clean it with. Not that he would’ve gotten it if he had. But it wasn’t the pain that bothered him. Not really.

It was the silence. The space where Yoongi’s voice should be. The last few days spun in his head like a broken record, Yoongi’s flushed cheeks in the dark, the sound of his sleepy laugh when they’d fallen asleep watching trashy TV, the way he’d said “I’m glad I got to do that with you,” like it meant more than just the moment. Like he meant more.

Taehyung bit down on the inside of his cheek, trying not to cry again. Crying was useless. He’d done enough of that last night when he realized this wasn’t just about money anymore. This was about power, fear, and being completely alone in the world.

Yoongi probably hated him now. After the lying. After the fight. After disappearing without a word. He probably thinks I ran away. Taehyung thought, curling in tighter. The ache in his chest wasn’t from the cold anymore. It was the regret. Heavy and sharp, like the knife Siwoo had pressed against his face.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to hold Yoongi tight and never let go of him. He wanted to hear his stupid little grumbles when Taehyung left crumbs on the sofa. He wanted to be in their tiny kitchen, watching Yoongi make dinner in his oversized cable-knit sweater. He wanted to apologize for everything.

But right now, all he could do was sit in the dark, surrounded by rotting food and broken glass, praying for a way out of this.

From his place on the thin mattress, he pressed himself instinctively closer to the wall, trying to appear small, forgettable—as if shrinking into the peeling plaster could make him invisible. He heard the sound of voices approaching and as soon as both Siwoo and Eunwoo barged through the door, he knew something was about to go down.

The lock had clunked three times. Click. Twist. Slide.

He’d watched it. He had to watch it. Siwoo’s movements had been fast but meticulous, a pattern Taehyung committed to memory in silence, one latch, one bolt, one chain. There would be no walking out of here. Not without help. Not without timing.

But it wasn’t the locks that made Taehyung’s skin crawl. It was the voices. Sharp and raw, cutting through the stale air like glass.

“You’re a useless fucking kid, Eunwoo.” Siwoo muttered.

The boy turned as Siwoo was locking the door, clearly unimpressed. “This guy paid me in full and you’re still not fucking satisified.”

It was clear the two were talking about something other than Taehyung for once. He daren't speak up or ask further questions, just silently listening from the ground with a scared impression. From the sound of things, Eunwoo was still doing Siwoo’s dirty work for him, and perhaps the higher up wasn’t too fond of the results from today’s sale.

“You think you did something?” Siwoo’s voice barked, low and venomous. “Full pay doesn’t mean shit if you still can’t make up for selling to this guy!”

Siwoo pointed harshly at Taehyung. Eunwoo snapped back. “He’s just a student. He panicked. He did me fucking dirty I know, but you can’t expect me to upcharge—”

“You vouched for him, you thought with your dick instead of your brain. So now you’re cleaning his mess.” Siwoo stepped in, closer now, the weight of his boots echoing off the tiles. “And he’s staying here until I say otherwise.”

Taehyung’s eyes burned, but he didn’t dare blink. He could feel Siwoo’s attention flick over to him, like a light turning suddenly to high-beam. He didn’t speak, didn’t flinch, just stared, expression unreadable.

Eunwoo glanced toward him too, jaw tight. There was something guilty in his eyes, but he said nothing. Just watched. Siwoo turned away first. “You wanna waste your time babying him, go ahead. But if he so much as breathes wrong—”

“I get it,” Eunwoo snapped, voice more frayed than before.

Siwoo scoffed under his breath and moved further into the grimy kitchenette, grabbing a half-drained water bottle and slamming it on the counter. “You’re both fucking embarassing.”

“I’m still in debt because of you ,” he spat, stabbing a finger in Taehyung’s direction. Taehyung flinched instinctively, his back pressed so tightly against the wall it was like he was trying to disappear into it. His cheek throbbed where the cut still lingered, the dried blood now crusted against his skin. It stung, but not as much as the weight of fear in his chest.

“And you —” Siwoo turned now to Eunwoo, “—you’ve done nothing but drag us down. You let some doe-eyed college kid walk away with a stash without paying and now you want to act like your conscience is clear?”

Eunwoo looked pale, his expression tight and jaw clenched. “I know I messed up,” he muttered. “I’m trying to fix it. But things are getting harder. We need to lay low, relocate, figure out a new drop system. Seoul is massive, we can’t stay boxed in here forever.”

“Relocate? You think we can just pack up and disappear? You think Jiwon gives a shit about our relocation plans?” Siwoo laughed coldly, stepping in closer. “The minute he finds out I lost his cut over this —” he motioned sharply toward Taehyung “—we’re all done for. You screwed protocol, and now we’re on borrowed time.”

Taehyung couldn’t look at either of them, not even paying attention to names or the random lore drop Siwoo was spewing. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, body tight with tension. The room felt colder now, like every breath was weighed down by the pressure. He heard the scuffle begin, not with fists, but with voices raised to the edge of something terrible.

Eunwoo’s voice cracked as he pleaded, frustration bleeding through the thin fabric of control. “I said I’m sorry! How many times do I have to say it?”

There was a beat of silence, stretched and thin.

Then— a crash .

Not fists. Something else. A stool, maybe. Something heavy colliding with something fragile. Taehyung didn’t look. He didn’t need to look.

The room was filled with the sound of someone stumbling, followed by more shouting, Siwoo’s voice now a thunderstorm of rage. Taehyung curled in tighter, hands covering his ears, heart thundering in his chest like a war drum.

And above all that noise, something inside him cracked. Not from fear. Not from pain. But from the cold realization.

He needed to get out.

Not just for himself. Not just to escape this hellhole. But for Yoongi. For the people who were trying to save him. He had to live. He had to make it back.

-

The piano keys were worn smooth under Yoongi’s fingertips, but tonight, they felt heavy. Each note he played sank like a stone in water—low, dragging chords that curled around the high ceilings of the Blairmont like smoke. He barely noticed the dim lighting of the lounge, the murmur of waitstaff or the quiet clink of cutlery from the restaurant nearby. It all faded into a blur as the melody took over.

He wasn’t even reading the sheet music. There was no sheet music. His fingers moved on their own, summoning something slow, sorrowful, almost haunting. The notes stumbled into one another in a way that might’ve sounded beautiful to the casual ear, but to Yoongi, it sounded like grief.

Taehyung should be texting him something dumb right now.

Should be sat outside in his red honda with a sly grin and a takeout bag of food he definitely hadn’t paid for, calling him ‘baby’ under his breath just to watch Yoongi roll his eyes and blush.

But there was no text. No takeout bag. No Taehyung .

Yoongi’s back ached from how long he’d been hunched forward, his foot trembling slightly on the pedal. He blinked down at the keys, eyes dry but burning. His heart felt sore, bruised from the inside. The fight they’d had before Taehyung vanished kept playing on loop in his head like a cruel joke. Every “I don’t know what I want” and every “You’re being distant” replayed in stereo until the silence after it hurt worse than the argument itself.

All he could see in his mind was Taehyung’s face, lit by the pale glow of his bedroom lamp. The night after the party. Taehyung’s warm mouth against his, the night that finally changed everything between them. Yoongi’s stomach turned painfully. He bowed his head and let his fingers press down again slowly, a mourning ballad that ached as much as he did.

Everyone kept telling him it would be okay.

Jimin had watched him cry over Facetime last night, saying “He’ll come back, hyung.” Jeongguk offered hugs. So many hugs. His shoulder had become Yoongi’s pillow for the last few days. Seokjin cooked for him. Because the last thing he needed right now was to be in the kitchen. Hoseok offered to help him with school work, listening to the same stupid beat Yoongi had been working on over and over again whilst Yoongi wasn’t in the right headspace to mess around on Logic Pro. Even Namjoon, despite the guilt in his eyes over the experiment, told him they were going to find him.

But Yoongi didn’t believe it anymore. Not fully. The silence from Taehyung’s side was louder than any reassurance. He barely registered the light applause as it fluttered behind him, polite, distant, unimportant. It barely scraped at the surface of the weight pressing down on his chest.

His hands hovered above the keys for a moment longer, trembling slightly, before he let them fall to his lap. He stared at the polished wood beneath them, seeing nothing but the blurry reflection of his own exhausted face.

You need to keep going. You’re still on shift. Don’t be weak, not here, not now.

But then he blinked. And a single tear slipped down his cheek.

He pushed himself off the bench so abruptly the legs screeched against the tiled floor. His chair scraping was louder than the clapping. A few guests turned their heads, mid-bite, curious. But Yoongi ducked low, head bowed, messy fringe falling in front of his face as he practically bolted across the dining lounge. His shoes thudded softly against the carpeted floor, his heart thudding even louder in his ears.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Minjun’s voice called out like a whip-crack across the room. Sharp. Judgmental. The new manager’s brow furrowed as he stepped away from the bar, watching Yoongi’s beeline toward the back hallway.

Yoongi didn’t even spare him a glance. “I’m taking my break,” he muttered, voice flat, raw.

“You’re in the middle of your set,” Minjun snapped, taking a step forward, hand half-raised like he might actually grab him. “You can’t just get up and leave now.”

Yoongi’s spine stiffened, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t answer. He didn’t apologize. He just kept moving, shoving past a tray stand and through the slim corridor that led into the staff wing, the double doors swinging shut behind him.

He finally exhaled. The hallway back here was cold, quieter than the front of house. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a sterile glow on the white walls. His shoes echoed against the linoleum as he made his way toward the staffroom like he was walking underwater. By the time he reached the door, his breathing was uneven. His chest burned. He yanked the handle and slipped inside.

The staffroom was empty. Dimly lit. The old leather sofa that he knew so well sat along one wall, the coffee-stained vending machine blinked in the corner, and the microwave hummed with leftover heat from someone’s meal hours ago.

Yoongi collapsed onto the sofa like a puppet whose strings had been cut. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clawing into his hair as his breath finally gave out in a choked, quiet sob. He squeezed his eyes shut, like maybe if he pressed hard enough he could block out the ache crawling up his throat.

It didn’t work.

He’d spent days trying to be strong. Days convincing himself Taehyung was fine, that this would pass, that they just needed time. He told himself he had a plan. He told himself the envelope with the money would fix everything. But none of that seemed to matter now.

But then, a toilet flush echoed dully through the wall, and Yoongi’s blood ran cold.

Shit.

He wiped at his eyes quickly, aggressively really, palming the tears away and swiping at his cheeks until they stung. His fingers trembled as he ducked his head, hair falling over his forehead to shield him. The last thing he needed was to be seen like this.

The staffroom door creaked open a second later, and in stepped Seungmin—fresh-faced, tucking his white button up back into his slacks, and humming to himself like the world hadn’t just cracked in two. Yoongi didn't move.

“Oh my god, the restaurant is crammed tonight, isn’t it?” Seungmin exhaled as he plopped into the armchair across the room, completely oblivious. His cheeks were pink from the steam of the kitchen and his hair stuck slightly to his forehead. “I swear Minjun’s in one of those moods again. Totally barked at me for asking about table nine’s allergies— like sorry for doing my job —and the chef? A nightmare! Had to get two steaks remade. Two. I’m about to call it quits and become a gardener or something—”

He paused mid-ramble, finally catching the way Yoongi was curled into himself. How he hadn't laughed. Hadn't nodded. Hadn't even moved.

“Hyung?” Seungmin sat forward, his tone shifting. “Hey—are you okay?”

He flinched. His arms were still resting over his knees, one hand clenched into his sweater like he might actually tear a hole in it. He didn’t lift his head. Just sat there, swallowing thickly.

“Did a customer yell at you or something?” Seungmin tried again, concern bleeding into his voice. “I mean—your playing was so nice tonight. Way more emotional than usual. I thought—”

“Taehyung’s gone.”  The words came out flat. Cracked. Like dried ink on paper.

Seungmin’s brows furrowed. “Wait—Taehyung? The guy you’re…” he hesitated, “…fake dating?”

Yoongi nodded once. Barely a movement. It looked like it hurt to even confirm it.

Seungmin’s voice dropped. “Gone as in…?”

“I don’t know,” Yoongi murmured. “He just left. Vanished. I haven’t seen him in days. None of us have. He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t text. He didn’t even take his charger.”

A silence fell. Seungmin shifted in his seat, processing.

“That’s not like him,” he said softly. “He always made such a big deal when you picked him up from work. He’d be waiting out front for you.”

Yoongi huffed a breath through his nose. It was supposed to be a laugh. It wasn’t.

“He used to complain about the tile grout in the kitchen being too grey,” Yoongi whispered. “He always tried to get me to buy the pink brand of dish soap because it ‘smelled happier.’ I kept telling him it was all the same. And now—”
He stopped. His chest was too tight. His hands clenched again. “Now he’s not even in the kitchen.”

Seungmin didn’t speak right away. He just stared at him, completely at a loss for words. The whole fake dating thing had always been a joke to Seungmin—a quirky little experiment from the psychology department. He’d giggle about it during slow shifts once he found out, placing bets on whether Yoongi and the artsy boy with the big eyes would fall in love for real.

But this? This wasn’t a joke. Yoongi was breaking in front of him.

“Do you think he’s in danger?” Seungmin asked carefully, voice hushed like it might crack something in the room.

Yoongi didn’t answer. His silence said enough.

Seungmin swallowed hard. “What can I do?”

Yoongi blinked, eyes rimmed red, finally glancing up for the first time. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Just don’t tell anyone you saw me cry.”

Seungmin smiled faintly, the corners of his eyes sad. “I won’t.”

Yoongi dragged the sleeves of his sweater across his face again, trying, failing, to stop the tears from spilling over. His hands were shaking. His nose was red. And he felt so utterly, humiliatingly exposed, crumbling in the dingy break room of a luxury hotel where he was supposed to keep up the act of the charming jazz pianist.

But Seungmin didn’t flinch. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t offer him a tissue with that patronising there, there tone. He just sat there. Quiet. Present. Letting Yoongi fall apart at his own pace. And then, after a beat, he asked softly, “Did you fall in love with him?”

Yoongi winced. His chest ached. His fingers curled into fists on his lap, knuckles pale with pressure. There was no point pretending now. No use in dodging.

“Unfortunately,” he muttered, bitter and broken.

Seungmin’s brows pinched. “Why is that unfortunate?”

Yoongi let out a hollow, pathetic-sounding laugh. The kind that was more exhale than amusement. His eyes fell to his knees, still curled up on the staff couch like a kid who’d lost his way home.

“Because this wasn’t meant to happen,” he said quietly. “It was supposed to be a fake relationship. Just a dumb psych experiment for Namjoon’s thesis. An easy way for both of us to earn money. A few weeks of pretending to hold hands and arguing over who makes dinner. That was it.”

His voice cracked on that last word, like it betrayed how naïve he felt. Like it laughed at him.

“I didn’t even like Taehyung before the experiment. I thought he was irritating. Loud. All talk. He flirted with anything that breathed and couldn’t sit still for longer than ten seconds. He was chaos personified and I hated chaos.”

He sniffed, nose stinging. “But then…”

Then he let me in, he wanted to say. Then he told me about his halmeoni. Showed me his photography. Made me a playlist one time. Let me sleep in his bed. Distracted me with silly small talk whenever I had a bad day at work. Held my hand like he meant it.

“…Then everything changed,” he finished lamely. Seungmin nodded, not pressing. Just listening. Yoongi stared down at the floor like it held all the answers.

“I don’t even know when it started,” he whispered. “Maybe it was when he asked to edit photos in bed with me. Or when I saw him fall asleep for the first time and realized he looked safe. Like someone I didn’t want to be without.”

His lips trembled. He bit them to stop it. He was holding onto himself so tightly he might bruise.

“And now he’s gone.” A breath. “And I don’t know if he’s hurt. Or scared. Or if someone’s keeping him from coming back. But I feel like—like something’s missing. Like I can’t breathe properly without him near me.”

“Are you sure it didn’t start sooner?”

A pause. “What?”

“The change? Are you sure there even was a change?”

“Of course there was a change. I didn't like Taehyung before the experiment.”

“ Right. ”

“I didn't." Yoongi was stern, mumbling a little with his now croaky voice. “Yeah he was easy to live with but god he could be such a pain in the ass. You always used to hear me complain about him last semester, remember?”

Seungmin grinned. “Yeah, you spoke about him way too much.”

Wait, what? Yoongi tilted his head, cheeks puffy and red from the tears. “What do you mean too much? I complained about him a very reasonable amount.”

The younger chuckled softly, leaning further back in the armchair, one leg crossed lazily over the other. There was still empathy in his expression, still warmth behind the teasing. But now there was something else too, something just a little smug.

“Hyung,” he said gently, “you complained about Taehyung like it was your part-time job. ”

Yoongi’s brows furrowed, visibly offended through his blotchy, tear-stained face. His lips parted in protest, but Seungmin held up a hand like he already anticipated the argument.

“No, seriously—like, entire shifts went by where you’d spend hours pacing around back here talking about how ‘he leaves dishes in the sink like it’s a modern art installation’ or ‘he sleeps with one sock on and I think it’s a war crime.’” Seungmin raised a brow, smiling fondly. “You complained about the playlist he used to play when he cooked, but you knew every single song title .”

Yoongi blinked. The room suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. Like the walls were inching closer and trying to tell him something he’d missed for far too long.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” he grumbled, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, though it lacked any bite.

Seungmin gave him a look. “Right. Because people who aren’t even slightly obsessed definitely go on ten-minute rants about their roommate’s inability to fold laundry.”

Yoongi opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then frowned.

“You’re reaching.” He tried, weakly.

Seungmin only grinned wider. “I’m not reaching, you’re reminiscing. And you’ve been doing it since day one.”

Yoongi looked down at the floor, cheeks still flushed, but now for a different reason. Something softer. Something far more embarrassing. He tried to run a hand through his hair, only to get stuck in the slight tangle near the nape.

“Fuck,” he muttered, under his breath. “Was I that obvious?”

Seungmin shrugged with a knowing smile. “Let’s just say I had my suspicions long before he started giving you lifts home.”

Yoongi groaned and dragged his sleeves up to hide his face again. His voice came out low, strained, cracking ever so slightly. “I can’t stay at work.” He was barely looking at Seungmin now, his eyes flitting restlessly between the floor and the wall, anywhere but at someone who might really see him. “Not tonight. Not when I’m in this state.”

Seungmin shifted where he sat, brows pinched in quiet concern. “You’re going home?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

Yoongi nodded once, stiff and automatic, like it took too much energy to do anything else. His throat bobbed as he swallowed down whatever storm was still clawing at his chest. Wordlessly, he turned and crossed the staffroom, his steps quick and uneven as he made a beeline for the coat hook. His fingers fumbled slightly as he grabbed his soft, cane knit sweater and tugged it over his head, the sleeves brushing against his damp cheeks.

“Minjun can just—just blast music from the speakers. He likes that fancy jazz playlist, right? Fuck, he can hop on the piano himself for all I care. I need to go home.” Yoongi’s voice cracked again, more to himself than to anyone else. His words were rushed, scattered, as if he needed to say something just to fill the silence and keep his composure from crumbling completely.

Seungmin rose slowly from his seat, the mood in the room heavy with the kind of grief that had no clean edges. He stepped toward Yoongi cautiously, like approaching someone made of glass. “I really hope Taehyung comes home,” he said softly, meaning every syllable. “I’m so sorry, hyung.”

Yoongi froze with his back still half-turned, bag slung carelessly over his shoulder, the strap twisting awkwardly across his chest. At that, he finally turned around. His face looked pale and worn, lips pressed tightly together in a losing battle not to tremble. But he managed a small nod. His voice was quiet—small in the way someone gets when their heart is bruised and heavy.

“Thank you,” he murmured, meeting Seungmin’s eyes for the first time in minutes. “I appreciate it.”

Seungmin gave him a tight-lipped smile, the kind you give when you don’t know how to fix something but want to.

Yoongi exhaled slowly, blinking fast. “Tell Minjun I threw up or something,” he muttered with a trace of dry humour, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Say it was all the emotional labour or whatever.”

Seungmin almost laughed. Almost. But instead, he just nodded and gave Yoongi a quiet thumbs-up.

Yoongi lingered for a second longer, like he didn’t quite trust his legs to carry him out the door, and then finally, he made his way out the building, hating himself for praying that a red honda would be out there waiting for him.

-

The light filtering through the cracks in the boarded-up windows was pale and grey, casting long shadows on the concrete floor. Taehyung sat cross-legged on the thin mattress, back to the wall, his hoodie still pulled up like it could somehow shield him from everything that had happened. Across the room, Eunwoo sat on an overturned crate, hunched forward, elbows on his knees.

He looked rough. jaw swollen, a thin cut beneath his eye. He hadn't said much since coming in that morning, and Taehyung hadn’t dared to ask. But the silence was too heavy now. It was pressing on Taehyung’s chest like a weight, and he finally had to break it.

"You didn’t deserve that," he said quietly.

Eunwoo blinked slowly. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” Taehyung’s voice cracked. “This is my fault. All of it. You’re here because of me.”

“No,” Eunwoo muttered. “I’m here because I was dumb enough to think you could keep a promise. That you could actually pull through.”

“I really thought I could,” Taehyung whispered, guilt swimming in his throat. “I thought I could fix it before it got this far. I didn’t think Siwoo would—”

“You didn’t think,” Eunwoo snapped, lifting his head now, his voice sharper than before. “That’s the problem. You smiled at me like it was nothing. Took what you wanted and ghosted like I wasn’t about to get my ass handed to me.”

Taehyung flinched. “I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” Eunwoo said, his voice flat now. Exhausted. “I know you didn’t plan for it to turn into this, but it did. And now we’re stuck in it together.”

There was a long pause. Taehyung stared down at his hands, which trembled faintly in his lap. “I was scared,” he admitted. “I still am.”

Eunwoo didn’t respond right away. Then, after a long pause, he let out a bitter breath. “Yeah. Me too.”

The room stayed quiet except for the creaks in the old studio and the distant hum of traffic outside. But for the first time, something between them settled. Not peace, not forgiveness, but a fragile understanding. Two kids in over their heads, shouldering more than they ever should have had to carry.

Taehyung’s throat felt dry. He sat stiffly against the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, his palms pressed into the thin mattress beneath him like he could ground himself there. Across the room, Eunwoo’s features were twisted in something raw. Not rage, not anymore. Just the sharp bitterness of disappointment. The kind that settles in your chest when you realize someone never thought of you the way you thought of them.

“Did you ever even like me?” Eunwoo asked.

His voice wasn’t angry. It was quiet, broken in a way that cracked straight through Taehyung’s chest. There was something so vulnerable about the way he asked, not accusatory, not bitter. Just… sad.

Taehyung froze. His jaw locked. He didn’t want to lie. He couldn’t, not anymore.

“I didn’t,” he whispered, barely able to get the words out. “Not like that. I’m so sorry.”

Eunwoo blinked. He didn’t look surprised. Just hollowed out. Like he’d already suspected it and hearing it out loud only cemented the ache.

“I didn’t mean to play you, I swear,” Taehyung added quickly, words stumbling out of his mouth. “That night at the party—I was just… desperate. I wasn’t thinking about you, and I should have. You didn’t deserve to be dragged into all of this.”

Eunwoo gave a soft, bitter laugh under his breath, leaning back against the peeling wall. “Yeah. Thank you for being honest with me, I guess.”

Taehyung’s chest caved in. He realized in that moment how cruel he had been without even trying. How many times had he flirted, thinking it was harmless? How many smiles had he given Eunwoo that came with no intention behind them? He had used him. No matter how he tried to dress it up—he had used him.

“We had a good night,” Taehyung said gently, as if offering scraps. “I didn’t know you were looking for something more.”

“I wasn’t,” Eunwoo replied sharply, turning to look at him with tired, swollen eyes. “I was at least expecting a Venmo notification in the morning.”

The words hit like a slap, laced with bitter humour that stung more than anger ever could. Taehyung couldn’t even muster a reply. He just lowered his gaze, guilt weighing so heavy on his chest he thought it might snap him in half.

“I really fucked this up,” he said quietly.

Eunwoo didn’t disagree. He just leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, exhaling like it was the only thing he could do to keep from screaming.

“Why do you even defend me in front of Siwoo?” Taehyung asked, voice barely more than a whisper, the words weighed down by guilt. “After everything I did?”

Eunwoo didn’t respond right away. His eyes were fixed on a peeling patch of wall above the warped countertop, as though the cracks in the paint mirrored something in himself. When he did speak, his tone was calm, too calm. The kind of calm that came after exhaustion had wrung every ounce of rage out of him.

“There’s no point holding grudges now,” he said, his shoulders slumped, a dry chuckle breaking out of him. “Not when we’re both in this mess. Especially not when you actually have a purpose outside this shitty studio.”

Taehyung’s brows pulled together in a confused furrow. Purpose? He looked down at his scraped hands, the dirty floor beneath him, and the ache in his bones from sleeping on it. “You have a purpose too, Eunwoo,” he said, sincerity dripping from his voice. “You’re just stuck right now.”

But Eunwoo laughed again. This time it was sharp, like he’d been waiting for someone to say that just so he could tear it apart.

“No, I don’t,” he muttered bitterly. “I’m just a guy who got sucked into this bullshit when I was too young and too stupid to know better. I’ve been in this game since high school, Tae. Selling, cutting, running. I’m not good at anything else. You think there’s something noble in what I do? Luring kids like you in with promises of a good time just to have them wake up broke and empty? That’s not a fucking life.”

Taehyung’s throat burned. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Eunwoo’s face, there was so much pain there, tangled behind the sharp jawline and bruised eyes. Pain he hadn’t seen, or maybe hadn’t wanted to see, until now.

“You have things to live for,” Eunwoo continued, softer now. “You take photos like your life depends on it. You talk about your halmeoni like she’s your whole heart. You’ve got friends, Tae—six of them who’d give up anything for you. And…”

He hesitated.

“You’ve got him. ”

The name hung in the air like smoke. Taehyung’s heart twisted. There was something heavy in the way Eunwoo said it. A flicker of envy. Not jealousy of what Taehyung had done, but of what Taehyung had— who he had. The kind of love that reached out across nights and fights and silence and still found a way to cling to you.

“You gotta get out of here,” Eunwoo said. “One way or another. You’ve got people waiting on the other side of this. Sure, I’m mad—fuck, I’m so mad. You played me, you lied. But none of that means you deserve to be here. Neither of us do.”

Taehyung blinked hard, trying not to cry again. He didn’t know what to say. He just looked at Eunwoo, really looked at him. And for the first time, he didn’t just see a dealer. He saw a kid who had once wanted something more and never got the chance.

“I’ll get us both out.”

“No you won’t.”

“Eunwoo—”

It was then when the door to the studio slammed open. Both Taehyung and Eunwoo jolted instinctively, hearts leaping into their throats. Siwoo entered like a shadow pulling all the air out of the room, calm, measured, and absolutely unpredictable.

His boots echoed ominously across the warped floorboards, and the musty scent of damp wood and cigarette smoke intensified as he stepped further inside. His eyes landed on Taehyung, unmoving, unreadable.

“On your feet,” he said, his tone flat.

Taehyung’s legs shook slightly as he rose from the old mattress on the kitchen floor. He tried not to look scared, but his chest was tight and his palms were clammy. Siwoo walked right up to him, too close, his presence loud without needing to raise his voice.

He lunged towards Taehyung, his hand immediately grabbing ahold of Taehyung's chin so he could inspect the scar forming on his cheek. “Not healing too badly, considering everything.” There was a bite to his tone, as though he was reminding Taehyung who had the power in the room.

His throat tightened, but he didn’t flinch. Behind them, Eunwoo stepped up from where he’d been slouched in the corner, eyes darting cautiously toward his boss.

“Have you been giving him the water and food?” Siwoo asked, tone deceptively casual, like this was a formality, not a threat.

Eunwoo nodded. “Yeah. I gave him the bottle and that bread this morning. He ate.”

Siwoo gave a short, humourless laugh, shaking his head as if their basic survival counted for very little in the grand scheme of his irritation.

“You two think you’re building some kind of redemption arc in here?” He turned his gaze back to Taehyung, narrowing his eyes. “This isn’t a lesson. It’s a consequence.

Taehyung blinked, but stayed still. Siwoo’s presence towered over him even without touching him. Every word landed like a warning.

As Siwoo turned toward Eunwoo, the air in the studio thickened with venom. “Are you still moping after our little miscommunication yesterday?” Siwoo asked, his voice laced with condescension, the smile on his face shallow and cruel. He moved lazily across the room, stretching his neck as if he hadn’t just spent days orchestrating fear.

Eunwoo didn’t look up. His body was tense, shoulders drawn in like he was bracing for something inevitable. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, kid,” Siwoo went on, slow, mocking. “You know I just had to let it out somehow .”

Taehyung's stomach churned. The way Siwoo wielded guilt like a blade, that was the real danger here. He twisted every situation into something survivable for himself. Every act justified. Every threat dressed in silk.

The youngest noticed something out of the corner of his eye as the conversation started. The studio door was creaked open slightly, a small thin gap which showed the outside hall off the apartment complex. His chest tightened, trying not to be too obvious.

Siwoo had forgotten to lock it.

“I deserve it,” Eunwoo muttered, not meeting Siwoo’s gaze. Then, quietly—he looked at Taehyung. Not for long. Just long enough.

There was something in that look. Something urgent. A flicker of determination buried in all the bruises and exhaustion. This is your chance.

Taehyung’s eyes slowly shifted. The studio door. It wasn’t shut. Just slightly ajar, no more than an inch. But enough. Enough. He tried not to breathe too loud. Siwoo, careless, for once, hadn’t latched it. No chain. No bolt. Nothing but a thin gap standing between Taehyung and whatever lived beyond this hellhole.

He glanced back at Siwoo’s frame. Broad shoulders. Back turned.

“You ruined everything,” Siwoo growled, his voice rising, pacing closer to Eunwoo. “Stupid fucking kid, messing up what I built. You think this was easy?”

He was talking more to himself now, pacing. Unraveling. Taehyung took a silent step backward. His socked feet barely made a sound against the warped floorboards. One step. Then another.

His heart pounded so loudly it filled his ears. His throat was dry. His legs felt like glass. But that gap in the door grew wider with every silent inch. Another step. Just two more.

Behind him, Siwoo’s voice rumbled low. “You think I enjoy this? You think I wanted to babysit the idiot who gave half a stash to a campus pretty boy for free?”

Eunwoo didn’t answer. His silence was its own kind of bravery.

Taehyung reached the door. Hand trembling, he slowly curled his fingers around the edge. Cold air rushed against his knuckles from the hallway. His eyes flicked one last time to Eunwoo. Still standing, still bearing the weight of it.

He had to go. He had to get out. For himself. For Eunwoo. For Yoongi.

Taehyung slipped through the gap. The door didn’t creak. Not once. And the moment the hallway swallowed him, he ran .

-

Taehyung moved like the earth was burning beneath his feet.

The cracked pavement of the Hagsaeng District blurred beneath him, the crumbling buildings flashing by in jagged shapes and rust-coloured memories he would never want to revisit. His breath came in ragged gasps, heart hammering so violently against his ribs it felt like punishment. But he couldn’t stop. Not even for a second. Not when he’d finally— finally —broken free.

The evening light cast long shadows across campus as he burst through its edge, his hoodie clinging to his sweat-soaked back, trainers slamming against the sidewalk with frantic urgency. His chest screamed with every breath, muscles locking and lungs burning, but Taehyung didn’t slow. Not for the students that turned their heads. Not for the cars honking in the distance. Not even for the ache in his stitched-up cheek as wind slapped across the still-healing cut.

His thoughts were a cacophony. Shards of memory stabbing through his mind with every stride. The smell of rotting food in the kitchenette. The knife. The scar forming on the side of his face. Eunwoo’s bruises and bitter voice. An escape plan that actually worked.

And then—Yoongi. God, Yoongi.

The way he looked that night after the party, tousled hair and flushed cheeks and sleepy laughter. The soft, clumsy kisses. The warmth of his body under the covers. His patience. A sob clawed its way up his throat as his legs carried him down familiar streets. He hadn’t said goodbye. He hadn’t said thank you. He hadn’t said I love you.

Fuck, Yoongi must be terrified. He probably hated him now, right? Thought he left without a word. That he’d run away again. Just like always. Taehyung gasped aloud, shaking his head mid-run. He couldn’t afford that kind of thinking. Not now. Not when he was so close.

He skidded around a corner, nearly slipping on the curb, his phone bouncing in his hoodie pocket as he sprinted toward the apartment complex. The sun was dipping lower behind the dorm buildings, casting the whole street in a dull, golden haze. His lungs felt like sandpaper. Every step was fire.

But the thought of getting home, of seeing Yoongi again, kept him upright. He just had to make it a little further—

Thud.

Taehyung didn’t even feel the impact, he was so lost in the noise of his own panic, the blur of buildings and faces and pavement and memory, that when his body slammed hard into another, he barely registered the stumble. Not until he heard the voice.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he mumbled out of instinct, hands fumbling to push off the stranger’s chest and keep moving, ready to bolt again. Every cell in his body was still screaming run .

But then—

“ Tae?! ”

He froze. The sound of his own name hit him like a gust of wind, like the kind that knocks breath right out of your lungs. He looked up, eyes wide and wild, heart pounding in his ears, and there he was.

Seokjin.

Still in his barista uniform, sleeves rolled up and an apron slung over his shoulder. Hair tousled from the walk home. His bag slouched against his hip, nearly slipping. And his face, his face looked like he’d seen a ghost. Taehyung didn’t even think. His body moved before his mind could catch up. He lunged .

“Hyung— hyung— ”

He wrapped his arms around Seokjin so tightly it was almost desperate. He collapsed into his chest like he needed to be caught, like he wasn’t sure he was standing anymore. His hoodie clung to his sweat-soaked frame, his hands fisting into the fabric of Seokjin’s shirt as though the moment he let go, he’d disappear again.

Seokjin barely caught him. His bag dropped with a thud to the sidewalk. His arms immediately lifted, circling around Taehyung and gripping him like a lifeline.

“What the fuck happened to you?” His voice cracked with it. His hands moved up to cup Taehyung’s cheeks, and that’s when he saw it.

The cut. That angry slice across Taehyung’s cheekbone, the skin still red and scabbed and trembling from the chill in the air. And under his eyes, dark bruises, fatigue written in every inch of his face, clothes stained and shoes muddy.

“Oh my god,” Seokjin whispered, panic creeping in now. “Taehyung—your face —”

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’ll explain later, fuck,” Taehyung rushed out in a breath, voice hoarse, eyes brimming. But everything in his body screamed the opposite. His legs were shaking. His shoulders were tight with exhaustion and fear.

And still, Seokjin held him. In the middle of the street, in front of passing students, in the late spring dusk that smelled like rain.

“Okay,” Seokjin whispered, fingers still cradling his jaw like it might fall apart. “Okay, you’re okay now. You’re safe.”

Taehyung’s lip trembled, eyes darting back toward campus like he expected Siwoo to appear in the shadows. “Yoongi—” he breathed. “I have to go home. I have to see him.”

Seokjin pulled him in again, one arm holding the back of his neck, the other wrapping tight around his shoulders.

“Then let’s go.”

And for the first time in days, Taehyung let someone carry the weight.

Chapter Text

Yoongi’s pacing had reached a kind of rhythm—ten steps up the hallway, pivot on the heel, ten steps back again.

The tension was coiled tight across his shoulders, jaw clenched like he was trying to physically bite back the panic still simmering just beneath the surface. His hair was messy, fingers twitching like they didn’t know what to do if they weren’t at a piano or pulling at his sleeves.

“I’m sorry your experiment’s gone to shit, Joon,” he muttered suddenly, words rushed and quiet but sharp enough to slice through the air between them.

Namjoon looked up from his place at the kitchen island, blinking over the rim of his laptop. “What are you talking about?”

Yoongi kept pacing. He couldn’t not move. His thoughts were too loud, his skin too tight. “If we didn’t fight, if I just talked to him, he’d still be here now. None of this would’ve happened. We never even helped prove your thesis, we just caused trouble and wasted your last month of research.”

Namjoon’s brows furrowed, lips parting in disbelief. “Hyung… are you even listening to yourself?”

Yoongi didn’t respond. His steps only quickened. Namjoon shut his laptop slowly, the click of it loud in the stillness.

“Sure, I haven’t been able to update a few product logs,” he said, voice gentler now, “but I don’t care about that right now. I care about Taehyung. His safety. His well-being. His life.”

Yoongi finally stopped pacing, frozen like someone had hit pause. He stared at the floor, breathing hard, his hands curled into fists by his sides.

“And besides,” Namjoon added, softer, “you and Taehyung did prove my theory correct.”

Yoongi blinked, looking up slowly. Namjoon gave a small, crooked smile. “The experiment worked. My theory was that forced proximity and structured intimacy could accelerate emotional development between two people—and it did. Look at you.”

Yoongi’s chest rose and fell, his eyes burning. “We’re not together.”

Namjoon tilted his head. “But you love him.”

Silence.

The air in the room shifted, grew heavy with unspoken things. Yoongi’s shoulders slumped, the last of his fight seeming to slip from his spine.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice almost broken. “Yeah, I do.”

Namjoon stood slowly from the island, closing the space between them until they were eye to eye. His hand settled on Yoongi’s arm, grounding him.

“Then you haven’t failed anything. Least of all the experiment,” Namjoon murmured. “You’re in love, hyung. That’s not something you measure. It’s something you feel. And it’s real.”

Yoongi stayed standing, arms crossed tightly over his chest like he was holding himself together with sheer force. His gaze remained fixed somewhere near the floor, the hem of Namjoon’s cardigan suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. Anything to avoid the weight of his words.

“He loves you too, I just know it,” Namjoon said softly.

Yoongi let out a hollow sigh, one hand rising to pinch the bridge of his nose. “He can’t love me,” he muttered, voice dry, worn out. Like he’d already run through every possible version of this argument in his head and lost every time.

Namjoon raised a brow, stepping closer from the island with that look he reserved only for when people were being stubborn and dumb, especially when those people were people he loved. “Please,” he huffed. “He told you that your night together meant something to him.”

Yoongi let out a breath that might’ve been a scoff. Might’ve been a sigh. “He’s had plenty of nights with plenty of guys.”

“And none of them were you.”

That made Yoongi’s gut twist. Namjoon didn’t stop there, voice steady, sure. “He liked that you opened yourself up for him. That you let him in. He liked that you actually talked to him. That you asked him about his photography. That you cared about what he was feeling when no one else noticed something was wrong. I have it written down.”

Yoongi’s mouth parted slightly, as if trying to argue, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

“You were there for him through everything,” Namjoon continued. “You didn’t just pretend to be his boyfriend for the experiment, you became one. When he was broke. When he didn’t have a clue how to fix his mess with Eunwoo. When he stayed up editing photos in bed and you just laid beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

Yoongi stared at the floor again, but this time his expression was different, more fragile, more vulnerable. His hands had unclenched slightly at his sides. Namjoon let the silence stretch. Let it sink in.

And then, finally, Yoongi’s voice cracked through it. Small. Wavering. His lips trembled, his throat tight. “I just want him home.”

“I know,” Namjoon said gently. “We all do.”

“I want him back. I don’t care about the experiment. I don’t care if we never prove anything to anyone. I just want him.”

“You will.”

“I just want him to walk through that door. I want to hear him hum something stupid in the kitchen while he steals bites of my dinner—”

“Hyung.”

“I want him to look at me again like he did that night. I want us to talk about everything and I won't run away this time. I won’t—”

“Hyung—”

“Long time no see.”

Yoongi didn’t think. He couldn’t. Not when he turned around and saw him.

The moment his eyes locked onto the figure across the kitchen, the hoodie hanging off thin shoulders, the messy hair curling over bloodshot eyes, and a slice of red, angry and healing, etched into his cheekbone like a war wound. His lips were chapped. His eyes were hollow, tired. And he was right there.

He was right there.

Seokjin stood in the doorway behind him, breathing heavily like he’d just run the whole way to the apartment. His eyes were wide and brimming with panic, but it wasn’t nearly as suffocating as the panic that was pressing into Yoongi’s lungs, because suddenly nothing was real and everything was.

Namjoon’s laptop was forgotten on the kitchen counter, stepping forward with wide eyes. “Oh my god,” he breathed. “Your face—”

“I know,” Taehyung said quickly, voice hoarse and barely holding itself up. “It’s, uh… been a long few days.”

His voice cracked in the middle, betraying the exhaustion in his bones. But Yoongi didn’t hear any of it. He couldn’t. His ears were ringing, his vision blurring as he tried to convince himself that this wasn’t just his grief hallucinating again.

“Tae…” he whispered.

Taehyung’s eyes softened instantly. “Yoongs, I—”

He didn’t finish.

Yoongi was already moving. His feet carried him forward without thought, his heart exploding into a sprint before the rest of him could catch up. And then he collided into him. Not gently. Not gracefully. Just real. Arms wrapping tightly around Taehyung’s waist and squeezing, anchoring him to something that wasn’t pain or fear or loneliness.

The air rushed out of Taehyung’s lungs as he stumbled back half a step, but he caught Yoongi, caught him like he’d been dreaming of doing for days, and buried his face into his shoulder. Yoongi’s fists clutched fistfuls of hoodie fabric like he was terrified it would disappear.

“I thought I lost you,” Yoongi choked, voice breaking into a sob.

Taehyung didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His throat swelled as he pressed his cheek against the top of Yoongi’s head, letting his own tears fall quietly into the older boy’s soft hair.

Namjoon turned away first, blinking rapidly as his own eyes welled. Seokjin exhaled through his nose, pressing a fist to his mouth. The kitchen was silent save for Yoongi’s muffled sobs and the sound of Taehyung whispering again and again.

“I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.”

It wasn’t a reunion. It was a homecoming.

Seokjin’s voice was gentle, a quiet thread in the thick stillness of the room. “Do you want us to leave you two?”

It wasn’t really a question. It was grace. Mercy. An offering made not just to Yoongi and Taehyung, but to the raw emotion that filled every inch of the apartment like smoke. The kind that clung to your skin and made it hard to breathe.

Namjoon nodded subtly, already walking towards his boyfriend to leave, when Taehyung opened his mouth—still breathless from the hug, from the sprint, from everything. “It’s okay, hyung, I—”

But Yoongi was already speaking, voice soft but certain, like something fragile and resolute at once. “It’s okay because we’re leaving. Tae, c’mon.”

His hand was already on Taehyung’s wrist, shaky fingers curling around the fabric of his hoodie sleeve like he was afraid if he didn’t physically anchor him, he might float away again. Yoongi’s eyes were still glassy, lashes damp, the flush of crying high on his cheeks, but his movements were decisive.

Taehyung didn’t question it. He couldn’t. His body just moved. His heart was too loud, too swollen with everything he couldn’t say yet. So he just nodded and let himself be led, his sneakers dragging slightly against the floor as Yoongi pulled him toward the hallway. As they passed Seokjin, Taehyung gave the tiniest nod, an awkward tilt of his head, eyes still wide with apology and relief all tangled together.

“I’ll see you guys soon,” he managed quietly, voice rough and dry.

Seokjin watched them go, lips pressed into a thin line. Namjoon stood beside him now, quiet and solemn, and neither of them said anything until the bedroom door shut gently down the hallway, clicking closed like the final punctuation in a chapter they’d all been holding their breath through.

And inside the room, Yoongi still hadn’t let go of his wrist. His breathing hitched the moment Taehyung began to speak, and it was like the dam he’d been holding back for days was finally starting to crack.

“Yoongi, listen—” Taehyung started, voice strained, but Yoongi was too full, too wrecked with worry to wait even a second longer.

“Where the fuck have you been?” It tore out of him, not as an accusation but as a cry, raw and desperate, his voice trembling just like his hands. His chest heaved, eyes wide and shimmering, the tears spilling freely now.

His grip loosened around Taehyung’s wrist as he stepped closer, rising on his toes to cup the sides of Taehyung’s neck like he was trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream. His thumbs brushed gently against the healing cut on Taehyung’s cheek, the contact featherlight but full of panic.

“Are you okay? You look so—so tired and... and your face, Tae—”

Taehyung swallowed hard, his own hands hovering before they gave in and clutched the front of Yoongi’s sweater. “I swear I’m okay, I just...” he trailed off, licking his lips like it would help form the right words. “I just ran into some trouble.”

The words weren’t enough. Not nearly enough. Yoongi’s brows furrowed, jaw twitching. He looked like he was going to fall apart all over again. “I didn’t mean to leave without a trace. I wanted to contact you. There was no service and I was being watched like a hawk—I got locked away in this house, I—”

Yoongi blinked rapidly, his heart stuttering. “You got locked away?” His voice was sharp with disbelief. “By who?”

Taehyung exhaled slowly, trying not to crumble under the weight of the confession. Yoongi’s hands were still holding him, still grounding him.

“Siwoo,” he murmured, voice almost too quiet. “He’s... he’s Eunwoo’s boss. Some higher-up. They got a hold of me through blackmail.”

“Blackmail?” Yoongi repeated like it physically didn’t make sense in his head.

Taehyung nodded, eyes glistening. “They told me they were going to hurt you. They sent me a photo of you and Jimin outside the dance studio. Said they’d go after you so I said I’d meet him.” He paused, eyes falling shut in shame. “I panicked. I didn’t know what else to do. I asked where they were and next thing I knew, I was trapped. I—I didn’t know how to get out.”

Yoongi’s hands trembled against his skin and his tears didn’t slow, no matter how softly Taehyung’s hand moved to wipe them away, the pad of his thumb brushing beneath his trembling lashes with care.

“Please stop crying,” Taehyung whispered, voice barely audible, a fragile thread of comfort stretching between them. His eyes were wide, glimmering, and full of desperation. “I don’t like seeing you cry.”

But Yoongi couldn’t help it. His lip quivered again, and that was it—his whole face crumpled with the weight of everything he’d carried these last few days, and the sob that escaped him was quiet but utterly wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, breath hitching in his chest.

Taehyung frowned deeply, immediately shaking his head, his thumb now tracing Yoongi’s cheekbone as if to soothe the pain away. “I’m here now, okay?” he said, voice wavering. “I’m not leaving you, I—”

But Yoongi cut him off, stepping forward like he couldn’t keep the words inside any longer.

“No,” he said, firmer this time, tears still streaking down his cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

Taehyung blinked, confused, lips parted but unsure what to say.

“I’m so sorry for the fight we had,” Yoongi continued, voice shaking like it was the only thing holding back another sob. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you an answer. We left things on such a bad note, and it was all because of how my brain works, how slow I can be, how scared I am of ruining everything.”

Taehyung’s expression twisted, horrified, heartbroken, his eyes beginning to gloss over now too. “Yoongi, no—”

But again, Yoongi didn’t let him speak. He reached out, cupping Taehyung’s jaw with both hands like he was anchoring himself to something real. “It took me far too long to realise it, but I love you.”

The words hung between them, heavy and pure, echoing in the quiet of their apartment like some long-awaited release.

“I love you so much,” Yoongi repeated, barely above a whisper, thumbs trembling against Taehyung’s skin. “And I don’t think I can ever forgive myself for putting you through those awkward days after the party—” his voice cracked, “—just because I couldn’t say what I really wanted.”

Taehyung’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and now it was his turn to cry, the tears slipping hot and silent down his face. He looked at Yoongi with all the love and pain he’d been holding back, voice shaking when he asked:

“What you wanted?”

Yoongi nodded, breathless, eyes never leaving him.

“You,” he said, without hesitation. “I want you.”

And just like that, everything cracked open. Everything shifted. Taehyung let out a sob, one hand gripping Yoongi’s shoulder as the other cradled the side of his face. Their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, tears shared. No more walls. No more fear. Just truth. 

Taehyung truly thought he might never breathe properly again with the way his chest was swelling. It wasn’t just the adrenaline of having run for his life or the aftershock of everything he’d endured these past few days, it was this. Yoongi. Standing in front of him. Loving him.

After all the fights, all the tension, all the miscommunication, somehow they had still found their way back to each other. He couldn’t stop crying. He didn’t want to.

“Fuck, Yoongs…” Taehyung whispered, pressing their foreheads together, noses brushing in the softest motion. “I want you too.” His voice broke as he spoke, trembling with sincerity. “So much. So fucking much, I love you too—”

He paused, throat catching, but his eyes didn’t leave Yoongi’s. Not even for a second.

Yoongi’s breath hitched, lips parting slightly, like he was trying to hold himself together. “Yeah?” he asked, voice so small, so full of hope.

Taehyung nodded, barely. It wasn’t just a nod, it was an ache, a truth, a statement. And in that moment, he felt like he could finally exhale. That maybe, just maybe, the world was giving them one more chance.

But there was something else too. Something gnawed at him, even in the quiet bliss of this reunion. “But please,” Taehyung murmured, blinking through fresh tears, “don’t apologise.”

Yoongi faltered, brows knitting as his grip on Taehyung’s neck grew tighter, grounding himself. “Tae…”

“I’m being serious,” Taehyung cut in, voice thick with emotion as his hands came up to cup Yoongi’s cheeks gently. “You’re not allowed to apologise after what I did. It wasn’t right. I—”

He swallowed hard.

“I basically tried to force an answer out of you when you needed more time. I wanted to believe I understood what you were feeling but… I didn’t. I didn’t consider how new this all was for you. How big it was. You’ve never done any of this before, and it was selfish of me to expect you to just give me everything so fast.”

Yoongi’s gaze softened, the emotion in his eyes dimming to something tender. He ran his fingers through the hair at the nape of Taehyung’s neck, slow and soothing, trying to ground them both. “I could’ve handled it better,” he murmured.

But Taehyung shook his head, frustrated now with himself more than anything. “You deserved to be mad at me,” he whispered, guilt bleeding into his words. “I can’t believe you’re still not mad at me—”

Yoongi stopped him there, hand moving from his neck to the side of his face, thumb brushing along his jaw “I was mad,” he admitted gently. “For a little while. And I was scared. But mostly…”

He took a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before opening again with quiet resolve. “Mostly I just missed you. And the anger didn’t matter anymore after that.”

Taehyung exhaled, like Yoongi had just cracked open his ribcage and put his heart back where it belonged.

“Please,” Yoongi said, a faint, watery smile forming through his tears, “let’s just agree we’re both idiots and move on from all that.”

Taehyung laughed, a broken, beautiful sound that made Yoongi lean in even closer.

“Idiots who love each other,” he whispered.

And Yoongi nodded.

“The worst kind.”

Taehyung was smitten. Completely, hopelessly, irreversibly smitten. And the most terrifying part? He wasn’t scared anymore. Not of what it meant, not of what it might cost him, not of what they’d already been through. Because all of it, every fight, every stumble, every aching day apart, had only led him here, to this moment, staring into the eyes of the boy who had changed everything.

Even now, after all the crying, after the storm of fear and uncertainty, Yoongi was still the most beautiful thing Taehyung had ever seen. His face was blotchy and flushed, his lashes clumped together from tears, but his eyes—those deep, vulnerable eyes—were looking right back at him with something soft and steady. Something real.

Taehyung didn’t need clarity or answers anymore. His heart knew exactly where it stood. He reached up, thumb grazing just under Yoongi’s eye, wiping away the remnants of his tears.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice just above a whisper, holding his face as gently as if it were something sacred.

Yoongi’s nod was small, almost hesitant. Taehyung could see it, the flicker of nerves behind his gaze, the uncertainty of someone still growing into the weight of intimacy. But it didn’t deter him. It only made him ache more, made him want to pull him closer and protect all the vulnerable corners of him that hadn’t been nurtured before.

So, Taehyung went slow.

He tucked a strand of Yoongi’s soft dark hair behind his ear and leaned in, careful, patient. He didn’t rush it, he let Yoongi set the pace. And to his surprise, Yoongi was the one who closed the gap between them, lips pressing into Taehyung’s in a way that made his whole body shiver.

God, he missed this. He missed him.

The kiss wasn’t polished, it wasn’t practiced or precise. But it didn’t need to be. It was gentle, grounding. Taehyung’s hand slipped naturally down to Yoongi’s waist, fitting around the familiar dip of it like it was muscle memory. Yoongi melted into it, just slightly, and Taehyung’s heart swelled. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a reunion.

When Yoongi eventually pulled back for air, their breaths mingling in the space between them, Taehyung didn’t let the moment slip. He smiled, eyes glassy but soft, and leaned back in to press a feather-light kiss to Yoongi’s cheek. Then another to the corner of his mouth. Then one more to the tip of his nose, just because he could.

“I love you,” Taehyung whispered, like a secret he’d been waiting his whole life to say aloud.

Yoongi flushed immediately, his hands twitching where they rested on Taehyung’s chest. “You’re being cheesy,” he mumbled, lips curled up in that signature gummy smile that always made Taehyung weak.

“I am cheesy,” Taehyung grinned, undeterred. He pecked him again, this time beneath the eye. “And I love you.” Another kiss. “So much.” Another. “More than anything.”

Yoongi huffed out something between a laugh and a sigh, and he looked up at Taehyung with such unfiltered affection it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. There wasn’t fear in his expression anymore, just softness, surrender.

“I love you too,” Yoongi murmured, finally. The words didn’t stumble this time. They landed gently between them, like a promise.

Taehyung beamed. “I could get used to hearing that.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, but he was smiling so wide it made Taehyung want to cry all over again. “You’re going to,” Yoongi said, teasing but earnest. “You’re stuck with me now.”

And Taehyung believed him. He pulled him in again, not for a kiss this time, but for an embrace. Yoongi tucked his face into Taehyung’s neck, arms winding around his waist as if he’d been built to fit there. Taehyung squeezed him tightly, holding on like he never wanted to let go. Because he didn’t.

They didn’t speak for a while. They didn’t need to. The silence was a comfort now, not a threat. The weight of all that had passed between them was still there, but it no longer pressed on their chests, it just lingered like an echo of something they’d survived together.

Taehyung kissed the crown of Yoongi’s head and closed his eyes. Though Yoongi's voice was quiet, a soft murmur against the cotton of Taehyung’s shirt. “Bed?”

The single word, spoken so timidly, was enough to shatter the last of Taehyung’s defenses. His tears had dried by now, but the sting of emotion lingered in his chest. It wasn’t sadness anymore, just the overwhelming tenderness that bloomed whenever Yoongi looked at him like that. Small. Hopeful. Home.

Taehyung tilted his head down to look at him, a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. “Wanna take me to bed, hm?” he teased, voice low and playful, letting the words dance between them.

He didn’t miss the way Yoongi’s skin turned the faintest shade of pink, even as his fingers pinched gently at Taehyung’s sides in protest. “Not like that,” Yoongi grumbled, pouting just a little as he leaned up to press a soft kiss to Taehyung’s lips. It was so light, it barely registered—but Taehyung felt it everywhere. “Just wanna cuddle,” Yoongi mumbled against him. “Haven’t seen you in days, I—”

Taehyung didn’t let him finish. He kissed him again. Quick. Reassuring. The kind of kiss that said me too.

Yoongi resembled a grumpy cat at times, Taehyung had decided a while ago. It was one of his most endearing qualities. The way he could pout and grumble and still somehow look so delicate. Like now, his brows slightly furrowed, his lips forming that slight downturn, even though all he wanted was to be held.

“You’re cute when you sulk,” Taehyung murmured, pressing their foreheads together as he rubbed Yoongi’s side gently. “I’m just teasing,” he added, voice softening.

He brushed their noses together in the kind of affectionate nuzzle that made Yoongi shiver, his hands gripping Taehyung’s waist tighter like he didn’t want to let go again. Not after everything. Not after the silence. Not after almost losing him.

“C’mon,” Taehyung whispered. “I missed you.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, just took Yoongi’s hand in his and gently tugged him backward, step by step toward the bed. Yoongi followed without resistance, the heels of his socks dragging slightly on the floor as Taehyung guided him like something precious. They didn’t need to speak. Their fingers did all the talking, laced tightly together, warm and sure.

When they reached the bed, Taehyung sat down first, legs spread just slightly so Yoongi could fit between them. He pulled the smaller boy close, arms wrapping around him without hesitation. Yoongi melted instantly, like his body had been waiting for this, like it remembered this shape, this position, the exact dip of Taehyung’s shoulder where his cheek belonged.

Yoongi sighed, burying his face in the curve of Taehyung’s neck, arms curling around his waist. “This is all I wanted,” he whispered. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t grand. But Taehyung felt the weight of those words like they were a vow.

“I’m here now,” Taehyung replied, pressing a kiss to Yoongi’s temple. “Not going anywhere.”

They laid down slowly, Taehyung’s shoes kicked off. The sheets were still rumpled from before, but it didn’t matter. Taehyung tugged the blanket over them and tangled their legs together like instinct, pulling Yoongi flush against his chest. Every part of him ached to hold tighter, to keep him safe, to never let him slip away again.

Yoongi’s nose nuzzled softly into the curve of Taehyung’s neck, his breath warm and shallow as it fanned against delicate skin. It made Taehyung shiver, but in that comforting way, like he was being reminded, over and over again, that he was here. That Yoongi was safe in his arms. That somehow, despite the chaos they’d clawed their way through, they’d landed in this sacred little moment.

Taehyung’s fingers moved instinctively, smoothing up and down Yoongi’s back in slow, grounding strokes. He could feel the tension slowly unravel in the other’s body, muscles relaxing one by one like they were exhaling.

But then Yoongi’s voice broke through the hush, muffled and unfiltered. “I really love you.”

Taehyung smiled against his hair. Soft. Quiet. “I know you do,” he replied gently, and it was true. He did know. The way Yoongi looked at him, how his hands held Taehyung like they were remembering every inch of him, there was no mistaking it.

But he still added, “I really love you too.”

That should’ve been enough. But Yoongi shook his head against his collarbone, as if those words hadn’t been nearly enough for what he needed to say. He shifted upwards on the mattress, arms tightening around Taehyung’s waist until his face hovered just inches from his, eyes glassy, lips parted, flushed and vulnerable.

“No, like—” Yoongi started, brow furrowing. “I love you so much. Like you know I love you and I know you love me, but I’ve never felt this way about anyone before and I’m just—”

Taehyung let him talk. He wasn’t going to interrupt. Not when Yoongi’s voice was trembling like that. Not when his thumb was nervously brushing over Taehyung’s waist like he was scared of vanishing again. Taehyung just kept stroking his back, grounding him, telling him silently.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” Yoongi finished, voice cracking around the edges.

That was when Taehyung gave him that look. The one that said, You’re being ridiculous, but I’m still listening. His eyes softened, lips quirking just slightly. Yoongi was talking nonsense, sure, but it was nonsense dressed in honesty.

Because on the flip side of all this vulnerability, Taehyung knew he was standing on just as shaky ground. Yeah, he’d had experience, hookups, flirtations, reckless kisses at parties. But this? A relationship? Trusting someone with all of himself and letting them see him? That was uncharted territory.

But he wanted it if it was with Yoongi. He wanted it so badly it made his chest ache.

“You’re not going to mess this up,” Taehyung reassured quietly. His voice was low, raw. He reached up to brush his thumb across Yoongi’s brow, right over that little wrinkle that always appeared when he was stressed. He wanted to kiss it, soothe it away, tattoo it with comfort.

“I want this too. So bad.” He blinked, eyes flicking between Yoongi’s. “You literally consume ninety percent of my brain, I swear.”

Yoongi sniffled out a laugh, the tension breaking just slightly. “What’s the other ten percent?” he asked, trying to be cheeky through the nerves. “Ramen and Instagram reels?”

Taehyung grinned, his dimple peeking out as he rolled his eyes. “Close,” he murmured. “It’s ramen and Below Deck season four. Which we are absolutely starting when this mess is over.”

Yoongi gave him a look, teary but amused, and let his forehead fall against Taehyung’s. Their noses bumped. Their lips hovered. It was then when Yoongi brushed his lips against Taehyung’s for a few more kisses.

His laugh was soft, breathless as it left his lips, still stained with the feel of Yoongi’s mouth. However the accidental clang of the bedside table that occurred when moved his legs to give the other more access echoed through the room, breaking up the sweetness just temporarily.

His knee throbbed from the impact, but it was the good kind of ache, the kind that made his heart beat louder because it reminded him this was real. This closeness, this intimacy, this comfort, they weren’t imagining it anymore.

“Shit, sorry,” he murmured, voice quiet but warm with affection, still halfway between laughter and apology.

Yoongi only hummed, fingers still lazily curled around the front of Taehyung’s hoodie, lips trailing slowly to the corner of his mouth, like he couldn’t bear to stop entirely. “Don’t worry about it,” he mumbled back, breath ghosting over the wound on his face.

Reluctantly, Taehyung leaned away, just for a moment. He shifted to the edge of the bed, reaching an arm down between the mattress and the table to collect the few things that had fallen. A lip balm. That little grey plush cat, its ears bent slightly from the fall. Yoongi always kept it nearby, ever since Jimin had gifted it to him for his birthday last year. Taehyung smiled softly, brushing some imaginary dust from its fuzzy head, before his fingers landed on the last item.

An envelope. It wasn’t heavy, just a simple paper envelope sealed with care.

“What’s this?”

“The money.”

Taehyung stared at the envelope like it might vanish if he blinked. His fingers tightened around it gently, reverently, like he couldn’t quite believe he was holding something real. His breath caught in his throat.

“You got what I owed?” he asked, voice small and disbelieving.

Yoongi nodded, his gaze never leaving Taehyung’s face. His eyes were wide with sincerity, glassy with the remnants of earlier tears. “All of us did. Me, Jin-hyung, Jimin, Hobi, Joon, Jeongguk—we put what we had together. It wasn’t even a question. You needed help, so we helped.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, as if trying to make Taehyung feel every word.

Taehyung looked down at the envelope in his hands. It felt impossibly light for something that meant so much. He couldn’t even bring himself to open it. Not yet. Not when he was still trying to swallow the lump in his throat, not when every inch of his body felt like it was trembling from the weight of it all.

Yoongi kept speaking, voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “Jin said he’d drop it through the door, I’d be the one to give it to you and talk to you properly—fix everything. But when I went to your room…” He trailed off, hands now nervously fidgeting with the strings of Taehyung’s hoodie. “You weren’t there. And I just knew. I knew something was wrong.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” he murmured. His voice cracked mid-sentence, and he hated how fragile he sounded, but it was the truth. “You didn’t owe me anything.”

“I wanted to,” Yoongi replied without missing a beat. “I wanted to help you because you were doing it all alone. Carrying everything like you always do, like you have to. But you don’t. You never did.”

Taehyung's heart clenched. He blinked rapidly, but a few tears slipped free anyway. “I thought.. I really thought I’d never see you again.”

Yoongi’s hands reached for him then, cupping Taehyung’s face gently, thumbs brushing away the tears as they fell. “I didn’t know what to do,” he said, voice wobbling now too. “I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. I kept playing piano at work hoping it would keep my mind off of you, but it didn’t. I missed you so much.”

Taehyung let out a shuddered breath, eyes fluttering shut. He leaned into Yoongi’s touch like it was the only thing anchoring him. “You’re unbelievable,” he whispered, broken and full of awe. “I’m gonna put an end to all this, okay?”

The envelope sat between them now, unopened, forgotten for the moment. Because what mattered most wasn’t the money, it was the fact that Yoongi had never stopped fighting for him, not even for a second.

Though he did know that this had to be wrapped up sooner or later. At least now with the physical cash in hand he had a way out, even if that meant probably having to go back to the Hagsaeng District to face Siwoo or Eunwoo for some sort of peace treaty. That part scared him shitless. Especially now when he finally had everything he wanted back here with Yoongi.

The older didn't quite know how to respond to the statement, and Taehyung could see it in the delicate furrow of his brows. But Yoongi didn't question it either, leaning back into the other’s neck just to stay there for a little while longer. Taehyung held him close with a hand running through Yoongi’s black locks. Yoongi returned the favour in his own way: soft kisses to Taehyung’s skin and falling asleep on top of him in less than five minutes.

Taehyung didn’t let go of him for a second.

-

The hallways of the Hagsaeng District studio were even darker than Taehyung remembered.

The paint on the walls peeled like old scabs, the air was heavy with the smell of mold and rot, and the faint clatter of their footsteps echoed in a way that made the space feel bigger, colder, wrong. Every so often, the broken floorboards creaked beneath their weight, and a distant wind whispered through cracks in boarded-up windows.

Hoseok practically climbed onto Jeongguk’s back. “Fuck, this place is creepy,” he whispered harshly, eyes darting over every shadow. His hands were twisted in the fabric of Jeongguk’s jacket, like he might fly off if he didn’t anchor himself to something.

Jeongguk didn’t reply immediately. His jaw was set, a little tense, but he glanced back with a roll of his eyes—half brave, half bluff. “Remind me why I’m dating the biggest scaredy-cat on the planet?”

“Because I’m hot and I do that thing you like—”

“ Enough ,” Jimin hissed, sharply cutting through the bickering. “You two are gonna get us killed.”

“It’s okay,” Namjoon said as calmly as he could, his voice still a little shaky. “We have numbers. This guy won’t attack all seven of us.”

Seokjin gave him a skeptical side-eye. “That’s exactly what people say right before they die in horror movies.”

Yoongi held onto Taehyung’s hand tighter. Taehyung’s other hand clutched the envelope against his chest, heart pounding against it like a drum. The money inside was crisp, counted, and ready. Two hundred thousand won, clean and carefully stacked.

After the other fell asleep on him, Taehyung sort of took that as a cue to savor the moment and just let it happen, arms resting on Yoongi’s back as the two let the bedsheets engulf them for the night.

God, he wanted to wake up like that for the rest of his life.

This morning had felt like a dream, like a scene from a life Taehyung never thought he’d have. A warm shower. A clean towel. Toast and coffee waiting for him when he got out. Yoongi, sleepy-eyed and hoodie-clad, sitting at the counter looking like he belonged there. Like they belonged together.

And now here they were, walking through a cold, rotting building with their entire friend group trailing behind like an impromptu SWAT team.

Taehyung felt eyes on him—Yoongi’s. He glanced up, and the other gave his hand a quick squeeze. No words, just comfort. It was all he needed. The others had come without hesitation. Even after all the secrets, the half-truths, and the distance, they showed up. That fact alone made Taehyung's throat ache with gratitude.

“Promise me we’re not all going to die here,” Jeongguk whispered to the group.

Namjoon turned to glare at him. “Seriously, shut up, Gguk.”

Seokjin, trying to lighten the mood, muttered, “If we do die, I’m haunting whoever brought me here.”

“You volunteered!” Jimin hissed.

The group finally turned down the last hallway, where the faint outline of the studio door appeared at the very end, familiar, splintered wood and all. Taehyung swallowed hard. The memory of that room slammed into him like a tidal wave.

The cold floor. The boarded up windows. Siwoo’s breath in his face. The blade. The helplessness. Taehyung stopped walking. Yoongi noticed first. “Tae?”

His breathing stuttered, gripping the envelope. “Just… give me a second,” he whispered.

Jimin stepped forward, his voice soft. “We’re here. You’re safe. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I know,” Taehyung whispered. His eyes flickered over each of his friends. “That’s why I think I can do it this time.”

In his defence, the hallway felt like it stretched on for miles. Each step forward sounded too loud, too present. The group walked like ghosts, silent, breath held, ears straining for the smallest sound.

Jeongguk was ahead now, hovering near the far end of the corridor. “I can’t hear much,” he murmured, like he was afraid his voice might carry through the walls and wake something.

Hoseok shuddered visibly. “What if they’re still inside? What if they’re, like… camping in the studio, just waiting for us? What if the scary guy pulls out a knife again like he did to Taehyung?”

At that, Yoongi tightened his grip on Taehyung’s hand, his thumb running slow, deliberate circles into the back of his palm. “That’s not happening,” he muttered, tone firm.

Hoseok narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. “How do you know that?”

Yoongi didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes said everything. Taehyung said nothing, of course. His stomach twisted into anxious knots, his skin clammy beneath his hoodie. His breath hitched, legs half-frozen with the urge to turn around and bolt back to the apartment, to safety. Back to Yoongi’s bed, where the sheets smelled like comfort and warmth and home. Not like mildew and blood and fear.

But then Namjoon stepped forward, and everything changed. The others didn’t seem to notice right away, too focused on watching the shadows. But Taehyung caught it: the way Namjoon suddenly paused, posture stiffening as he stood in front of the studio door.

“Is this the studio?” Namjoon asked quietly, his voice low, uncertain.

Taehyung’s hand was still laced with Yoongi’s, and he felt himself instinctively tugging closer, just a little, Yoongi guiding him forward like it would shield him from the past. Taehyung swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it.”

Namjoon didn’t move. Seokjin stepped up beside him now, glancing at the metal door, splintered paint, rusted handle, a piece of string hanging from the latch like someone once tried to rig it shut. His brows furrowed slowly, his mouth tightening. He placed a palm against the wood.

“Hyung?” Yoongi asked from behind, puzzled at their sudden stillness. “What is it?”

Seokjin turned slightly, eyes narrowing.

“This can’t be right.”

The hallway fell into a deeper silence. Taehyung’s chest tightened, the air in his lungs freezing like frostbite. “What do you mean?” he whispered.

Namjoon didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, eyes sweeping the frame again, scanning every inch of the door like he was seeing it for the first time. Yoongi’s voice was firmer now. “Joon?”

Seokjin stepped back, letting out a breath that sounded too loud in the stillness. “Someone’s already been here.”

The corridor didn’t feel quiet anymore. It felt still, like the entire building was holding its breath. Jimin’s footsteps echoed as he moved toward the others, a crease forming between his brows. “What do you mean someone’s been here already?” he asked, voice cautious, like he was already preparing himself for the worst.

Namjoon didn’t speak. He simply lifted a hand and pointed at the door, one finger extending to the thin slip of paper pinned to the middle panel. It looked too neat. Too official.

“There’s a notice,” he said. Just that. But the weight of those words sunk like an anchor in the air.

Taehyung froze. He let go of Yoongi’s hand without even realising, and took one, then two shaky steps forward.

And then he saw it. The paper was pinned neatly against the cracked wood. A printed document with a stark emblem in the top corner, the unmistakable insignia of the National Police Agency. For a second, the words didn’t register. His vision blurred, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else.

But then the block letters hit him like a punch to the gut.

His hands trembled as his eyes skimmed the page, stomach twisting with each sentence:

By the end of the letter, Taehyung’s vision was swimming. His breath hitched, and he looked down at the envelope he’d clutched so tightly to his chest the whole walk here. The money. The money that he thought was going to fix everything. His final olive branch. The thing that was supposed to end this nightmare and make it all okay again.

But he was too late. The police had already come. They’d found the place. Found them. And suddenly, the silence of the studio behind the door made a terrifying kind of sense.

They were gone.

Hoseok’s eyes widened as the full weight of the paper sank in. “The police are involved?” he breathed, like the words alone might collapse the entire hallway around them.

Seokjin let out a quiet string of curses, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fuck—” he exhaled, his hand already reaching for Namjoon’s. “We need to get out of here. Guys, seriously, come on.”

“I—I don’t understand…” Taehyung whispered, more to himself than anyone else. His voice cracked under the weight of the panic. “I was supposed to fix this. I—”

Yoongi was beside him in a second, pulling him back with gentle hands on his shoulders. “Tae. Hey, look at me.”

Taehyung didn’t move. The envelope still hung limply in his hand, his eyes fixated on the edges of the police notice as it fluttered slightly in the soft breeze from a broken window.

“The money,” he mumbled, throat dry. “Eunwoo—”

Jeongguk let out a sharp sigh, already turning back down the corridor. “Who cares about that guy?” he snapped, voice tighter than usual. “You need to get yourself out of this shit before it ruins you.”

Taehyung flinched at the words, visibly shrinking into himself. “I care about him.”

That made Jeongguk stop in his tracks. He turned, incredulous, brows lifted in disbelief. “You care about the guy who got you kidnapped? Who dragged you into this?” His hand gestured at the broken-down door, the empty hallway, the crumpled police notice still tacked to the wood.

But Taehyung didn’t look at him. His voice was low, cracked but steady. “I put myself in this situation. Not him.”

No one spoke. He swallowed hard, blinking down at the envelope in his hands as if it had just turned to ash. “He was a good guy once. And I used him. Lied to him. Made things worse. He didn’t deserve this.” His knuckles were white against the paper. “I thought giving the money back might fix that.”

Jimin stepped forward, wrapping a steady arm around him. “You don’t deserve this either,” he whispered, his voice so soft it was almost lost in the wind through the broken ceiling panels. “You were scared and cornered, Tae. None of us would’ve handled it any better.”

Namjoon let out a long, heavy breath. His jaw was tight, like he’d been holding in his own storm for too long. “Tae,” he said gently. “I know you want to make it right. But it’s over. The police have already stepped in. That studio is locked up, and those guys are either gone or being tracked down as we speak.”

He paused, voice softening even more. “This is a get out of jail free card. You have to use it.”

Taehyung’s lip quivered again. He blinked down at the envelope in his hand, now wrinkled from how tightly he’d been holding it. The weight of it felt heavier than anything he’d ever carried. It was supposed to mean closure. Redemption. A full-circle moment that could finally let him breathe.

And now? Now it felt like just another failure.

“I thought if I gave it to them, I’d feel better,” he said quietly, voice straining under the pressure of disappointment. “Like I could finally fix something. Just one thing.”

Yoongi reached for him then, not saying a word. Just pulling him gently away from the door, back into the circle of the people who loved him.

“You did more than enough,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against Taehyung’s wrist. “You survived. You came back to us. That’s everything.”

Taehyung nodded faintly, tears threatening again, but this time from relief. From grief. From the hollow ache of almost doing the right thing and just barely missing it. “I just didn’t want to be the fuck-up again,” he whispered. “Not in front of you.”

Yoongi shook his head, brushing the hair gently from Taehyung’s face. “You never were.”

They turned away from the door, the weight of the envelope still present, but somehow—just a little bit easier to carry. The feeling of dread didn’t leave Taehyung’s chest though, it probably wouldn’t for a while.

-

Taehyung knew he shouldn’t be looking at the messages.

Especially not here, not now—on his first shift back at the Daily Grind, standing behind the door of the backroom with a slowly building queue and the familiar hum of the espresso machine in his ears. But his phone screen glowed back at him anyway, and he stared blankly at the Instagram DMs he should’ve deleted days ago.

There wasn’t much to see, just a string of unanswered messages from Eunwoo. Short, increasingly desperate. “Can we talk?” followed by “Where are you?” then later, “I need the money soon, Tae. Please.”

They stacked one after another like stones on his chest, each one a reminder of everything that went wrong. Taehyung had never replied to any of them. Not once. But now, reading them with the knowledge of everything that followed, the studio, the knife, the bruises, the regret, they hit differently. They hit hard.

He wondered if Eunwoo had been scared. Truly scared. Maybe that night when Siwoo lashed out, it hadn’t been the first time. Maybe Eunwoo had been drowning too, and Taehyung hadn’t seen it.

“Kid,” Hana’s voice rang out from the kitchen, warm but sharp enough to cut through the fog. “You’ve got customers waiting for you.”

Taehyung jolted slightly, as if caught doing something illegal. His fingers fumbled with the screen, quickly tapping it dark and shoving the phone back into the pocket of his apron like it might burn him. “Right,” he said, sheepish, as he turned around to head for the counter.

But Hana didn’t let him pass so easily.

“Wait,” she said gently, wiping her hands on a towel and walking around the kitchen island to face him. Her eyes were kind but firm, and her expression carried something deeper than managerial concern. “Are you doing okay? Like really okay? Do you think it’s too early for you to be back?”

Taehyung hesitated. She had every reason to ask. He had sat in this very kitchen just this morning with a cut on his face and a tremble in his voice as Seokjin helped him explain what had happened. Hana had listened, wide-eyed and careful, her fingers wrapping slowly around a cup of tea she never finished. She hadn’t asked too many questions, but gave her unwavering support like always.

But Taehyung had shaken his head. He didn’t want time. He wanted routine. Something to tether him to this version of his life again, the one with coffee beans and early mornings and dumb inside jokes with Seokjin during peak rush. He didn’t want to be the boy who disappeared.

He wanted to be Taehyung again. Just… Taehyung.

“I’m doing okay,” he said softly, blinking as he offered her a small, tired smile. “Really. I just needed a second. I’m sorry for slacking.”

Hana tilted her head slightly, studying his face like she could still see the trauma stitched into his skin. The cut on his cheekbone had started healing, but the shadows under his eyes were fresh. He wasn’t lying, not really, but he wasn’t fine either. He was surviving. Pushing through. Holding on by the seams of a patched-up heart.

“You’re not slacking,” she replied eventually, voice softer. “You’re recovering.”

Taehyung nodded once, his eyes stinging more than he expected them to. He didn’t want to cry, not here, not now, not in front of someone who just offered him compassion. So instead, he straightened his apron. Cleared his throat. And headed back toward the counter.

“Table four’s probably wondering if I ran away again,” he joked lamely, trying to inject some of the charm he used to wield so easily.

Hana watched him go, and she didn’t stop him again.

His head was down as he pushed through the door from the back room, apron strings hanging loose behind him, the sleeves of his long-sleeved tee pushed up past his elbows. His fingers nervously toyed with the hem of his apron, heart still a little heavy from the message thread he shouldn’t have opened.

The soft buzz of chatter and the low whirr of the espresso machine welcomed him back into the Daily Grind’s front café area. It wasn’t rush hour— thank god —but it was still decently busy. A few students hunched over laptops, headphones in, typing furiously. Others sat with books or quietly chatted over cups of lavender tea or frothy cappuccinos, their conversations blending into a background hum Taehyung barely processed.

He kept his head ducked, letting the noise wash over him like static. The line was long but manageable, a slow-moving ribbon of people with puffy jackets and tired eyes. His hand moved to the cash register instinctively, body moving on muscle memory even if his head wasn’t fully there.

“Hi, what can I get you today?” he said with practiced ease, voice a little hoarse from the quiet morning, fingers already tapping at the screen of the ordering tablet. He didn’t even glance up.

“Iced americano, please.”

The voice was familiar. Too familiar.

Taehyung’s head snapped up, and everything else, the café noise, the coffee orders, the dull ache in his legs, disappeared in a blink.

“Yoongs…”

Yoongi stood in front of him, hair soft and tousled, his fringe curling just slightly over his forehead like it always did when he air-dried it in a rush. He wore a brown jumper that looked two sizes too big, sleeves swallowed his wrists, and the collar sagged lazily to one side like he had pulled it on without thinking. He looked comfortable. He looked like home.

And he was smiling. That shy, lopsided smile Taehyung had come to crave, gummy and soft, the kind that crept into his cheeks and lit up his whole face.

“Sorry,” Taehyung laughed, utterly smitten, not bothering to hide it. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, heart fluttering like mad. “My brain’s kind of scrambled.”

Yoongi shook his head, the movement small and fond. “It’s alright,” he spoke, eyes warm and unwavering. “I just wanted to see you.”

“I’ll get that started for you,” Taehyung finally said, voice quiet, almost reverent.

He turned back to the espresso machine, his fingers working the grinder with ease, muscle memory taking over as he packed the portafilter with the dark roast grounds. The hiss of the machine as the shot began to pour into the small glass caught in the drip tray filled the air, rich, warm, earthy. But even that sound, which usually grounded him during the mid-shift lull, was no match for the presence just a few feet away at the counter.

Out of the corner of his eye, Taehyung caught the way Yoongi leaned slightly over the front desk, chin resting in his hand like he had all the time in the world. There was this calmness to him now, a softness that wrapped around Taehyung like a second skin. His oversized sweater hung loose at the collar, and the sleeves pooled around his fingers as he fidgeted absentmindedly with a sugar packet, his gaze never straying far from him

“When do you get off work?” Yoongi asked, voice gentle and hopeful.

The words floated over to him, curling against the hum of the café like a quiet secret. Taehyung turned the steam wand just slightly, wiping it down with a clean rag before twisting his torso back to glance at him.

“Like two more hours. Why?” he asked, trying his best to sound relaxed, maybe even flirty. But his voice cracked ever so slightly with excitement, the corner of his mouth tugging upward before he could stop it.

He busied himself with pouring the shot over ice, letting it swirl for a second before reaching for the filtered water to top it off. Still, his hands moved on autopilot—his mind was on the boy standing on the other side of the counter.

“I’ve not got work today either so…” Yoongi mumbled, eyes dipping for a moment, that familiar shy smile twitching at his lips. “Thought I’d stick around.”

Taehyung didn’t say anything at first, setting the lid on the cup and sliding in a straw. He held it between his hands, the cold of the plastic grounding him as his heart thudded in his chest. This was real. Yoongi showing up in the middle of his shift just to see him wasn’t part of any script. It wasn’t an obligation. It was real and intentional and sincere.

“Wanted to spend some time with me?” Taehyung asked, teasingly. But the softness in his voice betrayed him, made it clear he already knew the answer—was just fishing to hear Yoongi say it out loud.

Yoongi rolled his eyes, a slight huff of a laugh slipping from him. “Always want to spend time with you.”

And god, if that didn’t send Taehyung spiraling. His fingers curled slightly around the cup, head ducking just enough to hide the way his cheeks flushed pink. His heart ached in that way it does when something feels too good to be true, like your body doesn’t quite know how to hold joy without also fearing its end.

He slid the cup across the counter, the tips of their fingers brushing for the briefest second. It was enough to send a shiver down Taehyung’s spine.

“You’re the worst,” Taehyung murmured, grinning now, unable to stop himself.

Yoongi tilted his head. “Why?”

“Because you’re standing there all cute and saying shit like that and expecting me to concentrate.”

Yoongi’s laugh was quiet, but warm. “I’ll wait. Two hours. Then we can head back.”

And Taehyung, who’d spent so long feeling like he was fumbling through the dark, felt something settle inside his chest. Something real. Especially when Yoongi did keep his promise.

For the rest of the afternoon, while Taehyung bustled around behind the counter, taking orders, foaming milk, restocking the pastry cabinet, he couldn't help but steal glances toward the corner of the café. Yoongi was there, exactly where he'd said he'd be, curled up in one of the plush, faded armchairs with his knees tucked up and his laptop balanced delicately against his thighs. Headphones cupped his ears, his brows furrowed slightly in concentration as he tapped away at the keys. Taehyung felt something flutter in his chest every time he looked over.

There was something comforting in seeing Yoongi like this, as though the last few weeks of chaos had condensed into this soft, quiet moment of calm. Taehyung’s coworkers didn’t even comment when they caught him smiling at Yoongi mid-shift, though Seokjin did waggle his eyebrows when he came in for the evening cover. Taehyung rolled his eyes and told him to mind his business, even though he couldn't help but beam like a fool.

When the clock finally struck the end of his shift, Taehyung ducked into the back room and slung on his jacket, stuffing his apron into the laundry bin before grabbing his tote and slipping out front. The café was still buzzing softly with early evening chatter and the hum of jazz from the speakers. His eyes went immediately to Yoongi, who looked up the moment he sensed him approaching, tugging his headphones off and folding the screen of his laptop closed.

“Took you long enough,” Yoongi teased, his voice low and fond, that little smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Taehyung raised a brow, grinning as he walked closer. “Excuse you, I was working like a normal citizen.”

Yoongi gave a casual shrug, like he wasn’t at all affected by Taehyung standing there with messy curls, flushed cheeks, and the smell of coffee clinging to his sleeves. “Right, right. Someone’s gotta make the world’s worst cappuccino.”

Taehyung gasped, mock-offended. “You take that back. I’m practically a barista god.”

“You wore a bandage like two weeks ago after burning yourself on the steamer.”

“Minor detail,” Taehyung replied breezily, holding out a hand. “Come on, Mozart. Time to go home.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance there. He reached for Taehyung’s outstretched hand, their fingers slipping together with the ease of something right. As he stood, slipping his laptop into his worn messenger bag, Taehyung asked, “What were you working on, anyway?”

Yoongi hesitated, eyes flickering to his bag before looking away with a shrug. “Oh, just a piece for next class. It’s nearly done.”

Taehyung blinked, lips quirking. That tone: casual, slightly too fast, Yoongi’s I’m totally lying but please don’t call me out on it voice. And it only made him want to tease him more. But he let it slide this time. He had a sneaking suspicion it was something long overdue .

As they stepped toward the door, Taehyung leaned in and whispered, “C’mon, I wanna get home and, like, not think for a while.”

Yoongi’s smile twitched wider. “I mean… I can help with that, I guess.”

“You guess?” Taehyung was trying to hold back a giggle, poking Yoongi’s side.

Yoongi ducked his head, clearly flustered, his ears tinged with pink. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but you still like me.”

Yoongi huffed a quiet laugh, squeezing his hand in reply. “Unfortunately.”

And just like that, they slipped out into the cool evening air, the door to the café swinging shut behind them, fingers intertwined and hearts a little lighter than they had been in days.

-

Yoongi didn’t really know how it happened.

One moment, he was nestled into the corner of their couch, holding a falafel half in one hand and scrolling through the TV menu with the other. Taehyung was beside him, warm and close, their dinner containers spread out messily across the coffee table: pita bread barely folded, a half-eaten skewer of chicken, and way too much garlic sauce.

Below Deck Season 4 played faintly in the background, but neither of them were paying much attention to it.

“You’ve got something on your face,” Taehyung said suddenly, grinning.

Yoongi turned to him, frowning. “Where?”

Taehyung didn’t bother pointing. He just leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief, and pressed a wet, sloppy kiss right to Yoongi’s cheek where the smear of hummus lived.

“Was that really necessary?" Yoongi asked, trying to contain himself.

“Yes,” Taehyung said proudly, already reaching for the other’s hand. “And I’d do it again.”

Yoongi tried to stifle a smile, but it was hopeless. He leaned in without thinking. “You’re weird.”

“I’m practical. Why would I waste food?,” Taehyung spoke, his voice low and fond.

They kissed again, softer this time. The kind of kiss that said I missed you, and thank you for coming back to me, and please don’t ever disappear again. It lingered. And so did the next one. And the next. Until next thing they knew, Taehyung had crawled on top of him and they were sorta making out lazily in their living room.

Eventually, Taehyung chuckled between kisses. “Okay, before we knock over the shawarma and I cry about it for three days, maybe we should relocate.”

Yoongi blinked at him, dazed. “To where?”

“My room. Yours. I don’t care.” Taehyung tugged gently on Yoongi’s sleeve. “Just somewhere with fewer sharp corners and less risk to our dinner.”

Yoongi’s laugh was breathy, his face warm. “Alright.”

“C’mon,” Taehyung said, guiding him up by the hand and walking backwards toward the hallway.

They stumbled a little in their socks, laughing and bumping shoulders, their hands still intertwined. When they finally reached Yoongi’s bedroom, Taehyung opened the door with his back, still holding Yoongi close, like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Do you realise how obsessed I am with you?” Taehyung whispered, voice more serious now, tinged with something quieter.

He looked up at him, heart pounding, and let his fingers rest gently against the side of Taehyung’s neck. “Yeah,” he whispered back. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Before either of them had time to think, Taehyung had Yoongi gently pressed against the door, his lips claiming Yoongi’s in a kiss that was both sweet and deeply sure of itself. Yoongi felt his back meet the wood with a soft thud, and his breath hitched—but not from surprise. From memory.

Taehyung kissed like he had something to say. Like he'd been waiting days for this. Maybe he had. The moment was filled with warm pressure, a slight tilt of heads, the soft rustle of Yoongi’s sleeves as his arms lifted to wrap around Taehyung’s waist. Taehyung's hands framed Yoongi’s jaw as if Yoongi were something fragile, something sacred.

It wasn’t just the kiss, though.

It was the way Taehyung kissed him. Like he meant it, like he felt everything. Like this kiss was a quiet continuation of every look they shared across dimly lit rooms, every sleepy confession pressed into pillows, every moment of tension since the start of that ridiculous experiment.

Then Taehyung shifted, his lips brushing from Yoongi’s mouth to the line of his jaw with surprising tenderness. A soft press, then another, small, slow kisses left like petals along Yoongi’s skin. Yoongi squirmed a little, not in discomfort but in that overwhelmed way that always hit him when someone touched him so deliberately.

“ Tae…” Yoongi’s voice cracked into a whimper, soft and unsure, his fingers bunching the fabric of Taehyung’s shirt near the hem. He wasn’t stopping him, but he needed a second. He needed air .

Taehyung stilled, lips lingering near the curve of Yoongi’s neck before pulling back just enough to speak. “What’s up?” he murmured, his tone light, teasing, but his gaze searching.

Yoongi’s eyes fluttered open, hazy but clear enough to show the vulnerability swimming just beneath. “I’m just…” He took a breath, chest rising against Taehyung’s. “Getting flashbacks.”

Taehyung blinked, but didn’t move away. “To the party?”

Yoongi nodded faintly. “To you. You were doing this exact thing. Hallway. Bedroom door. It was the first time I ever let someone touch me like that.”

Taehyung’s expression softened immediately, a crease forming between his brows. “Yoongs…” He raised a hand and brushed his knuckles across Yoongi’s cheek. “That night meant a lot to me. I know it was messy and drunk and awkward and all over the place—but it wasn’t just a blur. I remember every second.”

The other attempted to make eyes, but failed miserably.

“I remember how nervous you looked,” Taehyung went on gently. “And how careful I wanted to be. You were so careful too, even when you didn’t think you were. And now?” He leaned in again, kissing the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. “I get to be here with you, again, when you’re not scared anymore. I get the real you.”

Yoongi sighed, eyes fluttering shut again, his forehead resting against Taehyung’s. “I’m still scared sometimes.”

“That’s okay.” Taehyung’s voice was quieter now, his hands now rubbing soft circles against Yoongi’s sides. “You don’t have to be perfect. We’re just figuring this out together.”

Yoongi breathed out a laugh, short and shaky. “You’re too good at this.”

Taehyung smirked. “I am known for my excellent boyfriend performance skills. You remember the survey, don’t you?”

“Boyfriend?”

Yoongi watched Taehyung panic before him, the smile dropping from his face as he realised what he said outloud. Cue the stammering and the awkward glance, Yoongi couldn’t help but grin wider and wider at the sight.

“I mean— shit. Sorry I—” Taehyung blabbed, Yoongi watching him entertained. “It just slipped out I know we haven't talked about it yet I—”

It was Yoongi’s turn to reach out, face leaning into Taehyung’s side to press a kiss to his healing scar. His lips lingered there, shutting the other up. “I like it.”

He could practically feel Taehyung turn to jelly, all the stiffness and awkwardness escaping his bones. As he relaxed, Taehyung smiled a little. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Yoongi let out a proper laugh then, the kind that crinkled his eyes and made his nose scrunch. “You’re such a geek.”

“Take that back.”

Yoongi shook his head teasingly. “Nah.”

They stood there for another moment, neither in a rush to move away from the door, wrapped up in the warmth of one another’s presence. Giggles escaped them as Yoongi made the effort to keep his lips there, ghosting over tanned skin just so he could be close to him. It was sweet really, sickenly so, two boys finally feeling comfortable around each other for what felt like a lifetime.

One of Taehyung’s hands creeped back to Yoongi’s arm, merely grounding him back to reality. Yoongi knew he had an idea. That's the type of guy Taehyung was. Mischievous but so damn endearing. Always two steps ahead, especially in the sexual nature.

“C’mon, we’re gonna do this the right way,” Taehyung murmured, voice low and sure, thick with emotion and something softer than just desire. His hand tugged gently at Yoongi’s wrist, coaxing him away from the door like one would draw someone from a ledge. There was no rush in his movements—only purpose.

Yoongi blinked in surprise as he was tugged forward, his feet stumbling a little until Taehyung scooped him up in one seamless motion.

“Tae—!” Yoongi gasped, arms instinctively wrapping around Taehyung’s neck as his legs kicked up slightly in surprise. He clung to him without thinking, nose brushing the crook of Taehyung’s shoulder, chest rising and falling a little too quickly. “You can’t just pick people up like that—”

“I absolutely can,” Taehyung grinned, turning them around and carrying him with surprising steadiness. “You’re featherlight, hyung.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but didn’t move. He could feel the warmth radiating through Taehyung’s shirt, the beat of his heart so close he could almost count it.

Taehyung brought them to the bed, laying Yoongi down carefully like he was placing something precious on display. “Not drunk,” he whispered, his voice low and sincere, “not messy, and not awkward the next day.”

The mattress dipped slightly as Taehyung climbed on top of him, his hands planted on either side of Yoongi’s hips, not pressing down— just there. The weight was reassuring more than anything, grounding Yoongi back in the moment.

Their eyes locked, breath caught in the small space between them. Taehyung leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to Yoongi’s jaw, the kind that didn’t rush to prove anything. Then another. And another, soft, reverent kisses trailing down to just beneath his ear.

“Does that sound good?” Taehyung asked, pulling back slightly, his voice hushed like they were tucked away from the rest of the world. “Us talking about this. Making sure we both want it before diving in?”

Yoongi exhaled like the air had been knocked out of him, but in the best way. That dizzy, warm kind of breathlessness. His arms found their way around Taehyung’s waist, fingers splaying against the soft cotton of his shirt.

“That sounds good,” he murmured, voice so full of emotion it almost wavered.

Taehyung smiled, a proper smile, one of those wide, fond ones that showed the corners of his eyes and softened his whole face. He lowered his forehead to Yoongi’s, just resting there for a second, breathing in the closeness.

“So tell me what you’re comfortable with, okay?” Taehyung murmured, his voice so soft it nearly blended with the stillness in the room. He now hovered just above Yoongi, one hand gently cradling the side of his face while the other stayed firm against the mattress, grounding them both.

Yoongi’s cheeks were a warm shade of pink, flushed with the kind of bashfulness that came from being loved so openly. He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flickered across Taehyung’s face like he was trying to memorize every detail—the curve of his jaw, the way his lashes kissed his cheekbones, how earnest his eyes looked in this moment.

Taehyung leaned in again, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. Then one to the side of his face. Then his jaw. Another to the top of his nose. He was greedy, sweetly so, and Yoongi let him be—though his fingers gripped the fabric of Taehyung’s shirt a little tighter every time their lips brushed.

“I’m comfortable with anything,” Yoongi finally whispered, breath catching slightly as Taehyung kissed the edge of his chin. He turned his face a little so their noses brushed, their foreheads pressing again. “Anything.”

Taehyung tilted his head slightly, lips curling at the corners. “Anything?” he repeated, teasing but not in a mocking way, just lightly challenging, checking in again.

Yoongi nodded once, slow and certain. “I trust you with anything.”

It was honest. Quiet. Huge.

And Taehyung could feel the weight of it, how deeply Yoongi meant those words. After all this time—after awkward beginnings, misunderstandings, guilt, fear, and longing—this was Yoongi stripped bare of all the walls he used to live behind. This wasn’t just about physical closeness. It was about all of it. Everything they had built and broken and rebuilt. The way Yoongi let himself be seen now, completely and freely, felt monumental.

Taehyung exhaled, like the words had landed square in his chest. His gaze softened, eyes never leaving Yoongi’s. His fingers reached up and brushed a few stray hairs from Yoongi’s forehead, gentle and reverent like he was touching something sacred.

“Alright,” Taehyung whispered.

Yoongi’s heart swelled. It beat loud in his chest, not from fear, but from how good it felt to be wanted like this. To be touched so tenderly. To feel like the centre of someone’s attention without needing to hide.

Taehyung kissed him again, slower this time. It wasn’t about urgency. It was about presence. About grounding themselves in something real.

“I’ve got you,” Taehyung breathed between kisses.

And Yoongi believed him with his whole heart. For once, the voice in the back of his mind wasn’t telling him to pull away or protect himself. It was telling him to lean in. To keep going. To trust that maybe this was what it meant to be loved without condition.

“Can I take this off?” Taehyung whispered softly against Yoongi’s lips, fingers toying gently with the hem of the oversized brown jumper that clung a little too tightly now between them. His voice was careful, respectful, but carried a familiar affection that made Yoongi’s heart flutter.

Yoongi hesitated for a brief second, chewing the inside of his cheek, eyes flicking between Taehyung’s gaze and the hand tugging at the edge of his sweater. Then he nodded, his voice barely audible. “Please.” It came out breathy, tinged with nerves but also with trust— so much trust .

Taehyung smiled at him, a quiet, reassuring curve of the lips, before helping guide the fabric up and over Yoongi’s head. The sweater came off with a little rustle, leaving Yoongi’s hair adorably mussed. Taehyung’s breath caught slightly when it did, like something sacred had been revealed and he hadn’t quite been prepared for it.

Yoongi’s skin was fair, almost pearly in the soft light. There was a delicacy to him that made Taehyung's heart swell, shoulders slightly hunched from habit, not a single freckle or mole, collarbones etched delicately like brush strokes. Taehyung blinked, feeling like the moment had suddenly turned quieter, softer. Almost reverent.

Yoongi must’ve noticed the pause because his arms folded across his stomach instinctively, shyly.

“Is it okay?” 

The words came out so tentative, so small, like he was asking permission to be seen. Taehyung didn’t answer with words right away. Instead, he pressed forward, dipping his head to press slow, featherlight kisses to Yoongi’s collarbone. Then a few to his chest. One just below his heart. Each one gentle and full of care, like he was reminding Yoongi of how worthy he was of love in every inch of his skin.

Yoongi ended up unfolding his arms by this point, his limbs becoming loose and snaking away from his tummy to Taehyung’s back lazily. He felt it too, every kiss that lingered. It was hard to keep his eyes from fluttering shut.

“My boyfriend is so pretty,” Taehyung murmured into his skin, like it was the most obvious fact in the world.

Yoongi flushed instantly, looking away in embarrassment. “Shut up,” he muttered, though his voice didn’t have any bite.

“Never,” Taehyung replied without missing a beat, nuzzling into his chest, his hand resting flat on Yoongi’s side, thumb tracing small, soothing circles.

“I wanna see you too.” Yoongi’s voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. It wasn’t desperate, it was gentle, like he was finally giving himself permission to want something, to ask for it. Taehyung’s heart clenched in the best way.

“Well I can’t say no to you, can I?” Taehyung murmured, his chin resting lightly on Yoongi’s chest, eyes gazing up at him with something so fond, so filled with awe, it nearly made Yoongi look away. But he didn’t. He stayed. Because this moment belonged to them, and for once, he didn’t want to miss it.

Yoongi’s hands tugged slightly at the hem of Taehyung’s shirt, and Taehyung gave him a look—playful, teasing—but full of something warm. With one smooth motion, he sat up, pulling the shirt over his head and discarding it to the side.

The soft lighting caught the curve of Taehyung’s shoulders, the lines of muscle down his chest and abdomen. Tanned skin, dusted with slight moles, a tiny scar near his hipbone. All of it, him. And for a second, Yoongi forgot how to breathe.

“Fuck,” Yoongi said under his breath, voice airy and almost stunned.

Taehyung giggled, brushing the hair from his forehead as he tilted his head. “Like what you see?” he teased, voice light, but the redness on his ears betrayed his own shyness.

Yoongi flushed, glancing away as he bit his lip. “You’re so annoying,” he muttered, though it lacked any real annoyance.

“C’mere.” Taehyung leaned in again, one hand reaching out to gently guide Yoongi’s face back toward his own. Their eyes met, brown and darker brown, both wide and tender. “Gonna give you a good show, alright?” His voice dropped, not in sultry confidence, but in affection. “We’ll take it at your pace. Tell me if you wanna stop, okay?”

Yoongi’s heart gave an anxious little stutter. Not because he was afraid—but because he believed him. And being believed in, being given patience, was something new. Something precious.

He nodded slowly, eyes never leaving Taehyung’s. “Okay.”

And then, gently, Yoongi leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Taehyung’s lips, slow and certainly unhurried. There was no rush. No pressure. Just them. Their breaths, their hands finding each other again, and the soft creak of the mattress beneath them as they settled back in, piece by piece.

It wasn’t about going further. It was about being closer. Trusting, loving, choosing each other over and over again, even in the quietest of ways.

Taehyung set his hands on Yoongi's thighs, caressing them gently through the dark jeans he was wearing. Yoongi’s hands sort of lingered, fingers brushing up and down the other’s sides in a needy sort of way. Though this wasn’t clumsy like the night after the party, each touch Yoongi was giving had intention. He liked how soft Taehyung’s bare skin was, liked the colour of him when the salt lamp on his bedside table glowed onto his figure, liked the feeling of him getting more handsy.

It wasn't long until the thigh massage turned into a scavenger hunt, Taehyung’s big hands roaming all across Yoongi’s lower half until he found the button to his jeans. After unbuttoning them, Taehyung tugged them down his legs, tossing them to the floor and leaving Yoongi in nothing but his briefs.

Yoongi felt a little exposed, the once soft trail of his fingers now turning into something harsher. Inexperienced, he gripped onto Taehyung’s sides as they kissed, Taehyung’s gaze fixated on one thing and one thing only.

“Can I touch you?” 

“Yeah.”

His fingertips reached the edge of Yoongi’s boxers, hand lowering down just slightly until he was cupping his dick through the fabric. Yoongi exhaled sharply, not wanting to be too loud already, but that didn’t stop Taehyung from teasing. He rubbed Yoongi’s length a little, watching him react by falling back into the pillow.

Yoongi’s cock was already hard, and although the kissing was a decent distraction, he was getting aroused embarrassingly fast. It made sense in a way, especially since he hadn’t done any of this before. But he had to keep on reminding himself that this shouldn't be a nervous thing, not when Taehyung was being so cautious with every next move.

“You like that?” Taehyung asked against the other’s lips. Yoongi nodded dumbly, humming louder every time Taehyung pressed down a little harder. “Can you use your words for me, baby?”

Here he goes again with fucking baby, Yoongi thought in his mind, whilst all that was drawn out in real time was a small whine from the use of the petname. Similarly to the night of the party, that was the first time Taehyung had used that word on him in a while. It may or may not be having the same effect on Yoongi as it did when they were last in this situation.

Though his reaction was dizzy, Yoongi still made the effort to look up at him, burying down the noises that were trying to escape him. “I like it… I want more though.”

He pecks Yoongi’s mouth in response. The hand Taehyung had been using this entire time was finally pulled away from his bulge, raising ever so slightly so that they were back on the waistband of Yoongi’s briefs.

“Gonna take these off.”

Yoongi nodded, trying too hard not to think about it. His hands sort of roam Taehyung’s upper half to keep him occupied, fingers gliding gently over his stronger build. Yoongi never thought he was a touchy person until it came to Taehyung. Now he can't keep his hands off of him.

His briefs came down in one swift motion and suddenly, Yoongi really was bare. He shivered under him, harsh breaths that end in tiny little whines every time he exhaled and he hoped to god Taehyung thought it was endearingly sweet for some reason. Taehyung smiles against him, presses kisses down his chest.

“I like when you make noise.” he said, like Taehyung could magically read his mind somehow. One hand rested on Yoongi’s thigh, spreading him slightly, the other brushing over the sensitive area slowly. “Love being able to hear you.”

“Tae…” Yoongi breathed, but Taehyung could see how hard he was. He trailed his mouth down, leaving hot, wet kisses everywhere, Yoongi’s skin warm under his tongue

“Mmm,” He presses more kisses down, tongue flicking out. “Feel good?”

“Y-yeah.”

“I need you to tell me what you want, Yoongs.” Taehyung reminded him, hand now trailing his cock more comfortably. Yoongi squirmed at the strokes, not out of fear or dislike, but because this felt so new compared to the night of the party. “You wanna go the full way?”

Yoongi took a deep, slow breath, then exhaled, swallowed hard. “I want that—” he cut himself off, looking away quickly, brows furrowing. Taehyung hummed, then leaned in, their noses brushing slightly. “Please.. can we..”

Taehyung pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. Yoongi made a tiny sound in his throat, wrapping his arms around Taehyung’s neck and clinging to him, as the urge to sob bubbled up in his chest. Taehyung kissed him again, then tipped his head to the side, pressing his mouth to his neck. “Relax,” he murmured softly. “We can do that.. I’ve got you..”

“I trust you.” Yoongi blurted out, though the kisses did help ease his mind. He watched as Taehyung pulled away just slightly, fishing around on his bedside table and nearly knocking the cat plushie off a second time.

“Do you have lube? Condoms”

“They’re in the drawer.” Yoongi mumbled, watching the other’s arms flail. His cock was throbbing, begging to be touched, his whole body just begging for something. “Never used them though so I—”

“Shh, you don’t have to explain yourself,” He spoke softly, turning and reaching for the bedside table. He pulled the drawer open, reaching inside and grabbing the bottle of lube that was indeed still new in its packaging, along with a condom that he threw on the nightstand. “Gonna prep you, okay?”

Yoongi once again nodded, watching as Taehyung kicked down his own sweatpants like it was some sort of spectacle. His eyes wandered to Taehyung’s black boxers, how they contrasted against his tanned skin. Yoongi could only gulp, realising how real this all was.

His eyes were fixated at the sight of the lube being drizzled onto his longer fingers, Yoongi’s thigh twitching a little. “Deep breaths for me Yoongs. Need you to relax.” Taehyung spoke quietly, reaching between his legs, fingers petting over his hole slowly.

“Sorry ‘m trying..” Yoongi trailed off softly, taking another deep breath as Taehyung’s fingers continued to massage him. “It just—feels weird.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Not at all.”

“Alright. It’ll feel good, I promise.”

Yoongi had no doubts about that, especially when he was in such good hands. However, that did not compensate from the fact that Yoongi was still nervous as fuck. 

“Can I have a kiss?”

Yoongi asked somewhat shyly, but he knew that those worked to calm him down previously. Taehyung only smiled at that, leaning over him some more with smitten eyes.

“You’re so cute,” Though that reaction made him even shyer, Yoongi still got what he asked. Their lips connected again for just a short kiss, Taehyung finishing it off with a few small pecks, still hovering over his mouth. “Can you relax for me, baby?”

He nodded, staring up into his eyes as Taehyung slowly held him, his thumb pressing lightly over his skin, till Yoongi drew a long, deep breath, his exhale trembling. As he sighed and his body relaxed, Taehyung carefully began to slide one finger in.

Taehyung couldn't help but grin as he observed Yoongi's face, the way his eyelids fluttered shut when he breathed again. Before he proceeded to work his finger in slowly, he allowed him to take another deep breath. Once Taehyung's finger was completely within him, Yoongi continued to breathe as firmly as he could, a tiny sound rising up in his throat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, moving slightly on the bed. Taehyung hummed and used his free hand to gently pat his thigh before slowly pulling his finger away. As if striving to follow his finger, Yoongi's hips lifted slightly as he uttered another one of those little noises that made Taehyung go insane. “Do that again,” he mumbled and Taehyung happily complied by sinking his finger once more.

“Need to add more to stretch you, is that okay?”

“M fine.. I can take it..”

He tugged lightly on Taehyung's hair, and the other looked down at him before he pressed his mouth against his again. “I have no doubt you can’t, just don’t want to hurt you.”

Surprisingly, Yoongi took his fingers quite well considering it was his first time. He was incredibly tight, and Taehyung’s fingers struggled a little to get further in. It took a lot of time to get him properly loosened up, and when Taehyung began twisting, Yoongi was already panting, whining high in his throat.

“Mmm— Tae, that’s… ah —” He lets out a tiny broken whine, hips twitching. “Gimme more.”

Whenever Taehyung crooked his fingers, Yoongi babbled a bit, eyes shut tightly as his fingers roamed through Taehyung’s hair. Yoongi had his mouth open to say something, some sort of confirmation that this actually felt good, but Taehyung's fingers curled as he did, searching for a specific location within him.

With familiar ease, he located it, and Yoongi choked on whatever he had been going to say, letting out a jumbled half-whine, half-moan.

"Fuck—shit, fuck, fuck—” Yoongi babbled, face flushed, arching slightly off of the bed as he pushed against Taehyung's fingers, grinding against his hand as best he could. His cock twitched, precum dribbling out of the tip and Taehyung almost lost his composure for a second.

"Hey, shh,” Taehyung breathed, leaning down over him to press a kiss to his mouth, running the fingers on his free hand through Yoongi's hair. “You’re alright, I’ve got you,” He kissed him again, then nuzzled at his cheek gently. “That was your prostate.”

“That was a lot,” he mumbled quietly, arching back slightly to press a kiss to Taehyung's mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Taehyung said softly. “You want to keep going?”

"Please," Yoongi whispered. "Yes, please. "Fuck—ah, ah, fuck, it felt good.”

He curled his fingers slightly, pushing his fingertips up against Yoongi's prostate again, and he whimpered softly, lifting his hips slightly. When Taehyung withdrew, Yoongi was panting, frantic little noises stuck in his throat. "I’m gonna add another."

Yoongi was sort of distracting himself again, now using the other’s hair as an anchor. Taehyung’s hair was unbelievably soft, probably because he had been stealing Yoongi’s fancy shampoo since the start of the semester. Yoongi didn’t mind though, especially now when he could run his fingers through it to ground him.

Taehyung slowly, carefully, pressed a third finger into Yoongi's hole, just enough that he could feel the initial stretch of it. Yoongi’s cock ached with it, looking for any kind of relief but ultimately failing.

Taehyung moved slightly to the crook of Yoongi’s neck, nosing at the skin as he worked his magic. Yoongi looked over during the act, his eyes taking in the cut on Taehyung’s cheek just a few inches away from him. He wanted to kiss it better, hold him close after everything he had been through.

“I think you’re ready,” Taehyung said against him, slowly taking his fingers out. “You think you’re ready?”

“Please,” Yoongi breathed. “Yeah, yes, please. I want this, please.”

After clumsily removing his briefs, Taehyung reached over to the condom that led stray on the bedside table, ripping it open with his teeth and pulling it onto his length. He then proceeded to pour more lube onto Yoongi's hole, just after reaching for his own cock and smearing it all over. “Just relax for me. I'm going to fill you up and make you feel good, baby.”

Taehyung was breathing heavily as the words tumbled out, stuttering even before Yoongi felt the blunt tip of his cock sliding up against his hole, hips rolling forward slow, pressing in. Yoongi sucked in a hissed breath through his teeth at the thick burn of it, thighs moving so that they were around Taehyung’s hips.

It was incredibly tight, even after the thorough prepping, the heat and the wetness almost too much for a second. His neck arched back against the pillow as Taehyung fought the urge to nuzzle into the side of his throat. Yoongi made a low, needy sound, grip tightening on Taehyung’s face. He didn't break eye contact, holding the other's gaze as his cock stretched him open.

“Oh.. oh—” Yoongi gasped, head now thrown back.

“How’s that?” Taehyung asked him, hand on the side of his face. “Does it hurt?”

Yoongi shook his head. “No. S’good.”

“I’m glad.” Taehyung murmured, then bent down to give Yoongi a gentle kiss on the mouth. He gently sucked on his bottom lip, pulling it out of his mouth with his teeth. When he released his lip, Yoongi chased after him, seeking another kiss. Taehyung gave it to him, licking into his mouth, not letting up until Yoongi whined against him. “You’re so beautiful, Yoongs.”

“So are you,” Yoongi said, reaching up to tangle his fingers in Taehyung's hair, holding him tightly. “You're beautiful, so beautiful. I love you.”

Taehyung looked like he was about to melt. “I love you too, so much.”

“You can move.. I can take it..” 

“I’ll go slow,” Taehyung reassured, tightening a hand on Yoongi’s waist. Yoongi nodded quickly, letting out a shaky breath as Taehyung's cock sank deeper into him, his face moving back into that delicious curve just above Yoongi’s shoulder. “You're taking me so well, baby. I'm so lucky you're mine, you're so beautiful and you're so perfect, my perfect boyfriend.”

“Tae…” Yoongi whined, cheeks growing hot. 

Taehyung rolled his hips back in again, still fucking slow like he promised, the heavy drag of it making Yoongi’s head spin, noises beginning to babble low in his throat. He bottomed out slowly, and Yoongi's grip on him tightened further, a hand in his hair and hand on his neck.

He whimpered, needy, and Taehyung hummed, finally reaching down, wrapping his fingers around Yoongi's cock. Yoongi tried his best to match the energy, locking his legs around the small of Taehyung’s back, which only had Taehyung upping his pace because he loved how responsive Yoongi was being.

It started with little gasps every time their hips met, tiny gargles coming from Yoongi’s throat when the smack of skin against skin was louder than usual. Then it progressed to Yoongi’s hands dropping from Taehyung’s hair, seeking skin, gliding over the other’s sweaty shoulder blades as he arched off the mattress some more. Taehyung’s hand stroking Yoongi’s knowingly, leaving the older a shaking mess under him.

“You're gonna come for me, yeah? Wanna see your pretty face when you come.”

"Yeah, yes, 'm close, so close, please." Yooni moaned loudly, back arching. “Ha- ngh- fuck, Tae, fuck— ah, ah, ah—”

“You feel so fucking good,” Taehyung mumbled, his lips moving wet and sloppy where they’re pressed down against Yoongi’s shoulder. He thrusted in harder still, sucking in a hissed gasp through his teeth when Yoongi’s nails dug too hard into his skin.

Taehyung stroked his cock once, and Yoongi wailed, hips jerking up at the sensation, fucking his into the other’s fist. "Close, close, Tae— Tae, gonna, I'm gonna come, I'm gonna—"

“You can come, baby.”

And thank fuck for that, because Yoongi thought he was going to pass out or something. He ended up coming with a long, drawn out cry, hips kicking uncontrollably, rim clenching around Taehyung’s dick that ultimately, sends Taehyung over the edge too.

He clung to Taehyung, who lifted his head up to capture his mouth in another kiss, swallowing the sweet noises that rose up in his throat. He continued rocking against Yoongi, working him through his orgasm, making him moan against his mouth.

Taehyung also choked off a little with another moan when Yoongi clenched down on his softening cock. Yoongi’s thighs tightened around Taehyung’s hips, spurts of cum painting some sticky, wet mess between them. Taehyung wrapped an arm around Yoongi's waist and let his hips rut forward a couple of times, spilling inside of him.

“God—”

It was like there was a buzz in Taehyung's ears, pants filling the room as he flopped right back down on top of the other. Yoongi was full, extremely so, eyes fluttering closed as Taehyung tried not to doze back off in that safe zone in the crook of Yoongi’s neck whilst still inside of him.

“Beautiful,” Taehyung murmured quietly. “So gorgeous, Yoongs.”

“Shit...” Yoongi whispered, slightly pained, watching as Taehyung removed his fingers from his cock and letting it flop limp like the rest of his body. His limbs sort of trembled with the strain of clinging so tightly to the other, probably still coming down from such an intense orgasm. Taehyung kissed him again, then nuzzled his cheek.

"Relax," Taehyung murmured, then kissed the corner of his mouth. “Relax, I've got you. You're okay.” Yoongi made a soft sound as he released him, arms falling to his sides. “I love you.”

“I love you so much.” Yoongi whispered, eyes glossy.

Taehyung pulled out with a muffled whimper, Yoongi grunting at the sudden loss. He tugged the condom off, tied it and threw it in the trashcan underneath Yoongi’s desk before he let himself fall back on the bed next to him.

Yoongi’s chest was heaving, a little overwhelmed by the whole thing, hot and slimy skin making everything kind of gross, but in that way that’s still okay whilst all the post-sex emotions are running through, Yoongi felt like he was on clouds. Taehyung fit himself snug against Yoongi’s side, arm thrown over his body, holding him close.

Yoongi’s chest rose and fell steadily, his breathing still slightly uneven, like his body was trying to catch up with everything his heart had already processed. He was warm—too warm maybe—but Taehyung was draped over him, one leg tangled between Yoongi’s, one arm anchored lazily across his chest, and the weight of it all felt more like comfort than suffocation.

The sheets were clinging to their damp skin, and Yoongi was sure his hair looked like a complete disaster, but he didn’t care. Not when Taehyung was so close. Not when every inch of his skin still hummed with the memory of Taehyung’s touch.

“I don’t think I can move,” Yoongi murmured, voice low and content, barely more than a breath against the quiet hush of the room.

He felt Taehyung shift slightly, felt the warm press of his lips just below his jaw. A kiss, not teasing, not rushed. Just soft. Just there. Taehyung’s nose brushed the side of Yoongi’s neck, grounding him, tethering him to the moment.

“You did so well,” Taehyung whispered, a smile audible in his tone. “Did you enjoy that? I wanted to make it good for you.”

Yoongi turned his head, his eyes drinking him in like he wasn’t already memorized by every detail. He looked at Taehyung like he hung the stars—gaze slow and reverent, taking in the sweep of his flushed cheeks, the little wrinkle between his brows that always appeared when he was being earnest, the soft curve of his lips, pink and a little bitten from all the kissing.

“You took such good care of me,” Yoongi said honestly, his voice a little rough, a little small, but brimming with gratitude. His hand lifted without thinking, fingers brushing along the cut on Taehyung’s cheekbone. He didn’t flinch. “Thank you for that.”

Taehyung leaned in and nuzzled his nose into Yoongi’s cheek like it was instinct. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I wanna do that again,” Yoongi whispered, gaze still caught on Taehyung’s lips like gravity. “Maybe not right now. My legs feel like noodles. But definitely again.”

Taehyung grinned, this crooked, half-sleepy thing that made Yoongi melt even more. “Well,” he drawled, letting his fingers trail up Yoongi’s side in a lazy, ticklish stroke, “that can definitely be arranged.”

“Geek.”

“Shh.” Taehyung eased himself off the bed with all the reluctance in the world, brushing a kiss to the top of Yoongi’s head before whispering, “I’m gonna clean us up, okay? We’re not sleeping like this.”

Yoongi, all soft and pliant and deeply in love, let out a little groan of protest, his arms tightening around Taehyung’s waist like he could keep him there just by sheer will. “Noooo. I wanna go to sleep now,” he murmured, his words melting into Taehyung’s skin.

Taehyung laughed quietly—fond, warm, completely endeared. It was the kind of laugh you only gave someone when your whole heart was tangled up in them. “You don’t have to lift a finger. I’ll be so fast.” He kissed Yoongi’s forehead once, gently pried himself free despite the whiny little sound Yoongi made, and padded into the en-suite bathroom.

The rag was soft and warm by the time he wrung it out. He didn’t rush. He could still feel the imprint of Yoongi’s body on his own—could feel the rhythm of their breathing from earlier still pulsing in the back of his mind. It felt different this time. No nerves. No panic.

By the time he returned to the bed, Yoongi was halfway to unconscious, curled slightly to the side with his eyes closed but his face tilted toward where Taehyung had been. Waiting. Trusting.

Taehyung’s chest tightened.

He climbed back onto the bed carefully, balancing the cloth in his hands like it was something precious. Yoongi stirred, blinking one eye open with a little squint. “Back already?”

“I promised I’d be fast,” Taehyung said softly, kneeling beside him. “Just lay still, baby.”

Yoongi didn’t even argue. Just hummed quietly and let Taehyung lift the edge of the blanket. Taehyung moved with reverence, wiping his skin gently with slow, careful strokes. His touch was light, almost shy, like he was afraid he might wake Yoongi fully. But every time the cloth grazed Yoongi’s skin, his expression softened even further.

“You’re so cute,” Taehyung murmured, his voice barely audible above the quiet rustling of the sheets.

He leaned in without hesitation, brushing a kiss to the bridge of Yoongi’s nose. Yoongi didn’t respond with words—just made a small sound of acknowledgment, the corners of his mouth twitching into a sleepy smile.

“You’re not even listening to me, are you?” Taehyung whispered, smiling.

Yoongi’s hand reached up lazily, finding Taehyung’s wrist and giving it a little squeeze. “Mhm. Heard you. Cute.”

Taehyung grinned, then carefully wiped away the last bit of their mess. He set the cloth on the bedside table, tucked the blankets around Yoongi, and finally climbed in beside him again, wrapping his arms securely around the smaller boy and pulling him into his chest.

Yoongi tucked his head under Taehyung’s chin, letting out a satisfied sigh.

“See,” Taehyung whispered into his hair. “Clean and warm.”

“And sleepy,” Yoongi mumbled, nuzzling deeper.

“Sleepy’s allowed.”

The room fell into a soft, sacred silence. Their breathing synced again, and just like that, the chaos of the past month didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Not with Taehyung pressed close. Not with Yoongi letting himself be held.

It was messy. And hard. And so impossibly complicated. But it was safe to say that finally, after everything that had gone down between them, they could say that this— this —was theirs.

-

Yoongi adjusted the collar of his suit again, fingers nervously brushing down the pressed black fabric of his blazer as Seokjin continued to grumble beside him.

The air inside the university’s ceremony hall was thick with chatter, applause every few minutes as degrees were handed out on stage, names called in neat, practiced cadence. Namjoon hadn’t walked yet, that moment was still on the horizon, but the tension surrounding their missing sixth friend was enough to break the group’s otherwise celebratory mood.

“Where the fuck is he?” Seokjin hissed again, glancing at the large stage clock above the hall entrance. “He’s going to miss it. His own goddamn experiment and he’s going to miss Namjoon graduate.”

He looked sharp, Seokjin. Hair slicked back, tie a deep burgundy to contrast his fitted charcoal suit. He was radiating that typical eldest-son energy: pride, stress, and the urge to micromanage all at once.

Jeongguk, never one to take things too seriously, was sprawled across Hoseok’s lap now, legs draped over him like a bored house cat, his phone in one hand as he scrolled absently. Hoseok rolled his eyes but didn’t budge, allowing the younger’s weight to rest comfortably there.

“Maybe he tripped into a hole and died,” Jeongguk offered cheerfully.

Yoongi rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his own brain. “He’s just caught up at work, okay? He said he was gonna try and make it. Tae doesn’t miss important shit.”

Seokjin made a noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a humph. “If he shows up here in that stupid apron, I swear to god—”

“Hyung,” Hoseok interrupted gently, reaching over to pinch Seokjin’s cheek. “Cheer up. Today’s about Namjoon, remember? Let’s be happy for him.”

Yoongi leaned back in his seat, hands folded in his lap, trying not to let the creeping anxiety show too much on his face. He knew Taehyung wouldn’t just blow this off. It wasn’t like him. Ever since the experiment ended, Taehyung had been all in, heart on his sleeve, eyes only for Yoongi, his presence a comfort Yoongi had quickly gotten addicted to.

Four months.

Four fucking months since the last product log was edited and uploaded. Since Namjoon waved them off, took his notebook, and left them to their own devices.

The experiment might’ve ended, but what came after that was real. Real cuddles, real fights, real makeups. Real mornings waking up to the sound of Taehyung humming in the kitchen, making coffee in his boxers. Real nights where Yoongi fell asleep with his face pressed to Taehyung’s chest, lulled by the warmth of his skin and the soft scratch of his fingers through Yoongi’s hair.

He couldn’t speak for both of them—but for Yoongi, those four months had been the happiest of his life.

They annoyed each other to no end. Taehyung still left his wet towels on the floor, still used Yoongi’s shampoo like it was communal property, still stole the covers and kicked in his sleep. But he also surprised him with dinners after long shifts, whispered “I love you” into his hair at the most random times, and kissed him like he was holding something made of glass.

Yoongi liked to return the favour too. On the days where Taehyung’s photography professor was being incredibly harsh with his criticism, Yoongi went out of his way to cook him his favourite dinners and help him wind down in their bedroom. That’s right, their room. Yoongi’s lovely bed which he had cherished so much the past two years now had a second occupant— someone who enjoyed lazy makeout sessions and Yoongi’s cat plushie nearly as much as Yoongi did.

Taehyung was loud, ridiculous, terrible at cleaning, and somehow still the softest place Yoongi had ever landed. Yoongi wouldn't trade it for the world.

Just as the ceremony was starting, a familiar voice from the back of the auditorium rang out in a harsh whisper.

“ Shit, sorry, excuse me— I’m here! I'm here! ”

All five of them turned. There he was. Kim Taehyung, flushed, breathless, his barista apron not in sight (thank god), replaced by a half-tucked dress shirt and slacks that were slightly wrinkled, tie loosened as if he’d tied it while sprinting. Yoongi’s chest eased instantly.

The rustle of Taehyung’s paper bag and the low, familiar chaos of their friend group filled the rows around them, an oddly comforting soundtrack just before the moment they’d all been waiting for. The air inside the auditorium buzzed with anticipation, and Taehyung, ever the whirlwind, slid into his seat like a man possessed, pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to Yoongi’s cheek, and immediately began his rushed apology tour.

“So sorry for being late guys,” he breathed out in a hushed whisper, cheeks flushed and hair slightly windblown, like he’d sprinted all the way from the café. “There was this whole thing with the panini press and Hana nearly lost a finger, I—” He paused mid-sentence, his gaze landing on Seokjin who was already side-eyeing him with arms crossed and lips tight.

Taehyung didn’t even try to win that battle. He raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, so you don’t give a fuck. Got it.”

Jimin stifled a laugh next to him, but Taehyung was already digging into the paper bag he’d brought, the scent of warm baked goods wafting out like an unspoken peace offering. “But—” Taehyung added dramatically, pulling out a golden, perfectly domed muffin wrapped in crinkly parchment, “I did bring you a blueberry lemon muffin, hyung. I know that’s your favourite.”

Seokjin squinted at him. Suspicious. Still cold. But then Taehyung tilted the muffin closer, a smug smirk on his lips, and Seokjin took it with the air of someone accepting a bribe while pretending he wasn’t.

“I’m still mad,” he grumbled, peeling the wrapper down and taking a big bite anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Taehyung grinned, clearly not believing a word of it.

The moment the bag opened wider, it was like sharks circling chum in the water.

“Oh my god is that a matcha croissant ?” Jimin whispered in excitement, eyes glowing. “I call dibs.” He was already diving elbow-deep into the bag before anyone could object, pulling the delicate green-specked pastry out like he’d just won a prize at a carnival.

Jeongguk, who had previously looked like he was two seconds from falling asleep on Hoseok’s shoulder, suddenly perked up and sniffed the air like a trained bloodhound. “Did you bring any cookies?” he asked hopefully, half-joking, half-totally serious.

“Raspberry cheesecake or snickerdoodle?” Taehyung replied smoothly, producing both from the depths of the bag like some sort of magical snack wizard.

“Snickerdoodle,” Jeongguk declared, grabbing it eagerly. “Love you, hyung.”

Hoseok just laughed, tugging Jeongguk’s tie playfully. “You want something, baby?” Taehyung asked, turning to Yoongi with a crooked smile and an unspoken softness in his tone. Yoongi looked at him with that same fond expression he always wore these days, gentle and a little shy, but warm through and through.

He shook his head. “Maybe later,” he murmured. “Oh fuck, it’s starting.”

Sure enough, the lights dimmed slightly, and the crowd quieted as the presenter stepped up to the podium. “We now move on to the Department of Psychology,” the speaker said clearly.

A hush of anticipation rippled through the auditorium, thick with the weight of pride and possibility. Rows of students in gowns shuffled nervously across the stage one by one, each announced with their full name and degree, earning varying degrees of applause from the audience. Proud parents cheered, some stood to snap blurry photos on their phones, and friends waved excitedly from the rows of seats below. Yoongi watched it all unfold with a sort of quiet awe, hands clasped in his lap, eyes soft.

He didn’t say anything, but Taehyung could sense his thoughts. That distant look, like he was both present and already imagining what it would feel like to cross that stage himself next year. Taehyung’s fingers found his under the fold of the program book, offering a silent squeeze of support.

The lights over the stage warmed just a little brighter as the last few names were called and applause faded. The presenter, a tall, confident woman in a flowing robe adorned with honor cords, returned to the podium and adjusted her microphone. She gave the crowd a gracious smile, then scanned her notes.

“And now,” she began, voice steady but full of pride, “a student who has worked incredibly hard during his time at the University of Seoul.”

Yoongi straightened. Seokjin looked up from where he was adjusting his tie for the sixth time. Taehyung’s mouth dropped open a little in anticipation. Jimin perked up, nudging Jeongguk in the ribs, and Hoseok stilled beside him.

The woman continued, her smile widening. “For his intensive research in the field of Psychology, he has earned a special award today—as this year’s Valedictorian. ”

Cheers rippled through the crowd. The woman barely paused, letting the moment settle like a slow-building crescendo.

“He has earned his place at one of Seoul’s top Research and Development programmes for his groundbreaking thesis on Friendship-Based Intimacy Through Forced Proximity, in which he conducted his own experiment and crafted a thirty-thousand word dissertation, soon to be published and cited by scholars for years to come.”

Taehyung’s mouth dropped open into a wide grin. Yoongi blinked, stunned, his heart thudding louder in his chest. Seokjin beamed, already clapping even before the name was said. Seokjin looked like he was going to cry. The presenter’s voice lifted proudly.

“Please give it up for our star student— Kim Namjoon, from the Department of Psychology!”

The auditorium erupted. Applause thundered. Cheers rang out, some a little too loud, mostly from their row. Hoseok whooped with his hands over his head, Jeongguk whistled with two fingers in his mouth, and Taehyung and Jimin clapped so hard it was a wonder their palms didn’t bruise. Seokjin looked so fucking proud.

Namjoon, ever the composed one, stepped onto the stage in his robe, shoulders squared but eyes blinking rapidly like he still didn’t believe it. A flush of red bloomed at the tips of his ears, and even from their seats, Yoongi could tell he was smiling that shy, crooked smile that only came out when he didn’t know what to do with so much attention.

“That’s our Joonie,” Taehyung whispered to Yoongi, leaning close, his voice full of adoration.

Yoongi didn’t take his eyes off the stage. “Yeah,” he murmured, a rare full smile spreading slowly across his lips. “That’s our Joonie.”

The auditorium lights were warm against the wood-paneled walls, catching glimmers of proud tears, camera flashes, and the ripple of soft applause as Namjoon returned to his seat. He bowed graciously, his eyes darting through the audience until they landed on their row. The moment his gaze met theirs, six grinning faces erupted into a wave of over-the-top gestures: Seokjin making a heart with his hands, Jimin clapping above his head, Jeongguk fist-pumping like his favourite sports team just scored. Hoseok whistled. Yoongi just smiled, small and true, eyes shining.

And then Yoongi turned his head and saw him.

Taehyung.

Eyes glassy, lashes damp, lips trembling like they were trying not to. The smile was still on his face, but it was stretched by the weight of something deeper—pride, affection, awe. He ducked his head slightly, as if he could hide the tears sliding freely down his cheeks.

Yoongi's chest squeezed, and his expression melted. “Are you crying?” he whispered, leaning in, hand already moving gently to Taehyung’s cheek.

Taehyung gave a breathy laugh, too choked up to answer properly. “I—” he hiccuped, giggling through the tears, one hand coming up to swipe at his face, “sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

Jimin noticed, leaning forward a bit with a mischievous grin. “You good, Tae?”

Taehyung nodded, though his face said otherwise, eyes still shimmering. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, voice thick, “I’m just so proud of him.”

Yoongi smiled, brushing his thumb under Taehyung’s eye, the pad catching another tear. “We all are,” he said gently. “He did amazing.”

Taehyung sniffled, eyes locking with Yoongi’s now. He looked so boyish, so full of raw feeling, it made Yoongi want to tuck him under his sweater and hold him there forever. “It’s just—” Taehyung began, swallowing the lump in his throat, “he’s the one who brought us together, you know?”

Yoongi blinked at that, listening as Taehyung spoke on.

“I know the experiment was this big academic thing,” he whispered, his hand unconsciously resting over Yoongi’s on his cheek, “but it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just a theory or some test to me. It was real. It was a win. For me. For us.”

His voice cracked a little, but he kept going.

“I just really love you,” Taehyung admitted, soft and unguarded. “And I’m so lucky all of this worked out.”

Yoongi didn’t say anything at first, just stared at him, heart so full it ached. Then, with the smallest grin, he wiped the last tear off Taehyung’s chin with his thumb and leaned in just slightly.

“I love you too, you big dummy,” he whispered.

Taehyung giggled again, cheeks flushed. And though the clapping began anew as the ceremony continued, for a moment, neither of them heard it. He pressed a small peck on Yoongi’s lips, looking back at him with smitten eyes and his heart so full. two hands tangled together between their knees, warm and steady. A shared smile. A thousand unspoken promises sealed in one look alone.

The sun hung low above campus, soft and honey-colored, casting long shadows over the brick paths and the still-thriving tulip beds that dotted the university gardens. The ceremony had ended nearly an hour ago, but Yoongi and Taehyung hadn’t moved from their spot on the wooden bench tucked outside the old philosophy building, backs curved comfortably into the worn slats, as if the world had finally slowed enough to catch its breath with them.

Graduation was a blur now, cheers, handshakes, pictures with Namjoon’s proud parents, Seokjin pulling him into the sloppiest kiss that nearly sent his cap flying halfway across campus. Taehyung still laughed thinking about it.

Jimin had already disappeared in a flurry of pink chiffon and tiny bags of leftover pastries, waving with one hand and texting with the other. Hoseok and Jeongguk made their grand exit next, shoving each other playfully as they spouted off some terribly unconvincing story about a leak in the bathroom of their apartment. Jeongguk couldn’t even keep a straight face. “The faucet’s gushing, hyung,” he’d said with exaggerated urgency, and Taehyung had to physically turn Yoongi away before he could roast them into oblivion.

And now it was just them. Yoongi had sunk a little further down on the bench, his shoulders tucked under the weight of Taehyung’s arm, one leg bouncing gently while he pulled his AirPods out of their case with half-lidded eyes.

“You look sleepy,” Taehyung commented, voice soft and teasing.

Yoongi rolled his eyes, not even bothering to hide the tiny smirk that tugged at his lips. “Rude.”

Taehyung’s nose brushed along Yoongi’s cheek, the motion delicate and warm. It made Yoongi freeze, just a second, before melting right back into the contact. God, it was so easy to be around Taehyung now. Like his entire nervous system had been rewired to calm under one touch.

“I was just saying,” Taehyung murmured, nuzzling into the curve of Yoongi’s jaw now, “we could head back soon and nap.”

Yoongi made a noncommittal sound, trying to play it cool. But the image… oh, the image that sparked in his brain was anything but noncommittal.

Their shared apartment. Quiet. Light filtering through their crappy curtains. Taehyung’s shirt off and hanging somewhere on a chair, Yoongi swimming in one of the other’s stupid hoodies that were too big for him. Taehyung's arms lazily curled around him from behind. Their legs tangled up under the covers while they finally start that reality tv show about the guy that builds fancy cakes.

God, yes. That sounded better than heaven.

“Maybe,” Yoongi said aloud, but he knew his tone was uselessly soft, already betrayed by the smile curling on his lips and the way he leaned ever so slightly more into Taehyung’s chest.

“Mm,” Taehyung grinned, already knowing he’d won.

“Don’t get smug,” Yoongi added.

“Too late.”

Yoongi scoffed, but it lacked any real venom. “You’re literally addicted to cuddling me.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Taehyung said, squeezing his shoulder affectionately.

Yoongi didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He just twisted one AirPod toward Taehyung’s ear and held it there, offering it with that same softness he’d grown into. “C’mon. I wanna show you a song I found.”

Yoongi tried to play it cool. He sat back on the bench, arms crossed, one foot tapping slightly as the mellow beat drifted from the shared AirPod into Taehyung’s ear. But he wasn’t looking at the sunset or the trees swaying or the university building across from them. He was looking at Taehyung. Watching, as always, for every little flicker of emotion on his face.

Taehyung was squinting into space, head tilted slightly, brows drawn as he listened. His fingers drummed unconsciously against his thigh, and he looked like he was trying really, really hard to figure something out. His nose twitched, his jaw tensed, and then he said it— “I’ve never heard this song before.”

Yoongi bit his cheek to keep from grinning. “Just some SoundCloud rapper I found,” he replied, so casual, like it wasn’t him singing those words. “Do you like it?”

Taehyung hummed under his breath, a small approving sound. “Yeah it’s catchy.” He was still frowning, but not in a bad way. It was the kind of expression Taehyung wore when he was staring at a complicated puzzle, knowing he was seconds away from cracking it.

Yoongi turned away for a moment, laughing softly into the back of his hand.

“ Tae…” he said, a teasing lilt to his voice.

Taehyung looked over, confused. “What?”

And then the chorus hit. It was subtle, not overly dramatic. Just a shift in the beat, warmer now, fuller. And Yoongi’s voice, soft and low and a little raw, crooning in a tone that made the words sound like they were meant for just one person.

"All that time, I thought I was pretending
Turns out I was only waiting
For the part where you’d reach out
And I’d fall, without faking."

Taehyung froze. Yoongi watched as realization lit up his face. First in the eyes, wide and blinking in disbelief, and then in the way his mouth parted slightly, stunned. He stared forward for a few seconds longer before he whipped around to face Yoongi, practically whacking his own knee in the process.

“No. No fucking way,” Taehyung whispered, grin curling up like the sun itself. “This is you?”

Yoongi ducked his head a little, his ears turning red. He nodded sheepishly. “Been working on it for a while.”

Taehyung blinked. “A while?”

“Months,” Yoongi admitted. “Back when the experiment finished. I just… I needed something to make sense, I guess. And you—” He paused, voice quieting, but the weight of the words was all there. “You make sense.”

Taehyung’s eyes were wide like saucers. He reached over, grabbing Yoongi’s free hand and threading their fingers together.

“You wrote a song about me,” he said softly, almost reverently.

Yoongi shrugged, trying so hard not to combust under the warmth of Taehyung’s eyes. “Kinda. You inspired it. That’s different.”

“That’s worse,” Taehyung laughed, leaning in and nuzzling his shoulder into Yoongi’s arm. “You’re actually unbelievable.”

“You’ve always wanted to listen to my stuff.”

“I didn’t think you’d do something this cheesy.”

“I just wanted to make something you could listen to,” Yoongi said honestly. “For when we’re apart. Or if I mess up. Or if you forget, even for a second, how much I—”

Taehyung didn’t let him finish. He leaned in and kissed him, soft and sure, right there on the bench beneath the dying sun and the last few birds flitting overhead. It was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything, a kiss that made Yoongi feel like he was floating.

When they broke apart, Taehyung still had that grin. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Yoongi gave him a fond look, eyes wandering all over Taehyung’s annoyingly pretty face like he was memorising it. The cut on his cheek had fully healed now, leaving just a small white line that Yoongi liked to brush over every now and again to ground him back to reality. A reality with no debt or scary drug deals. A reality that was all about the concept of them.

“Thank you, Kim Namjoon.” Yoongi joked.

Taehyung barked with laughter, leaning in closer.

“Yeah. Thank you, Kim Namjoon.”