mortallydeepestobservation

[mortallydeepestobservation]

Yeah… except I’m more of a 25k+ kind of gal 😂

… and also a I’m working on 4 fics at the same time kind of gal

God help us

that feeling when youve written down 2k+ words and havent even got CLOSE to the main part of the fic yet </3

[mortallydeepestobservation]

Awww i want a boba (cat)

[mortallydeepestobservation]

This review has literally made my day. 🥹

My sweet, sweet @angellekookie , you have brought me so much joy at, what was it? 5-6 in the morning?

I absolutely love reading your thoughts. And your little comments made me giggle and almost—dare i say—blush ☺️

(Photo proof. See fig. 1)

Idk if you ever did this, but back in my teen days, me and my friend would read the same book, but we’d do it in turns (coz why would we buy the same book when we can buy 2 different books and lend them to one another?! —business savvy kids i tell ya. )

Anyway✨ After a few exchanges, my friend started adding small notes and jokes on the sides of the pages; sometimes accompanied by sticky notes with messages. (Or memes)

This review oddly reminded me of those simpler times. And I’ve been just very fondly reminiscing today, wondering why I ever stopped. 😂💖

Thank you for that. And thank you for taking the time to read and respond.

(Also disclaimer that I value your opinion greatly, and again, see fig.1 coz I was a giddy mess all day) thank you luff you bye.

(And don’t you worry, you already know the idiots be idioting in this bish)

The holiday pretense -2-

Summary: Namjoon has never been a fan of the holidays. In fact, he could list more things that sucked about ‘The most wonderful time of the year’, than things that brought him joy. Yet, beneath his cynicism, a flicker of hope appeared this year, as the faint scent of homesickness hung in the air. Unfortunately, there’s one tiny little thing that keeps him from calling home- his lack of a girlfriend. But fear not; this holiday season, Namjoon’s smart mouth gets him in a situation where he has no choice but to approach you- his longtime friend and roommate- with an unexpected request. Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: fake-dating, idiots in love, friends to lovers/roommates to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff. Rating: explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: every single trope in the book; but with a twist. Dialogue heavy. OC is really bad at lying, they are absolute idiots. like, there is no way about it. pure idiots. anddd… I didn’t write in literal years so yeah, this is gonna be fun. Yes. It is a warning. Smut warnings: to be added~ Word count: Chapter 2-9k Credits: this was literally one of those ‘if no one is going to write this, I will’ because there are not enough friends-to-lovers Namjoon fics out there. And none (that I know of) where the main character feels bad for lying to his family when pretending to date him. This work would not have been possible without the very kind and patient @callmenoona25, who not only helped me beta-read but also served as a guiding light during those moments when I wanted to rage-delete everything. Thank you for all your help! (and please keep helping me coz idk what I’d do without your constant encouragement) Author's note: We’re already in December. Damn… Enjoy. Merry Christmas. part 1: here, part 2: reading, part 3: here , part 4: here

Namjoon peered down at your sleeping form, his tired eyes tracing the soft, quirky murmurs that drifted from your lips as you burrowed deeper into his chest. What started as a faint whimper blossomed into a quiet, endearing snore, drawing a gentle smile from him.

He hadn’t planned to wake this early, but sleep had eluded him for the fast few hours. These quiet pre-dawn moments usually brought him peace—a hushed pause before the day took over. Today, however, his mind was restless, skimming over scattered thoughts until it inevitably circled back to you.

You looked like a dream. The soft morning light seeped through the curtains, bathing you in a warm, golden glow even as you nestled deeper into his body. He couldn’t tear his gaze away, mesmerized by the delicate lines of your face. His eyes lingered on the gentle curve of your lips—the same lips he’d kissed just hours before…

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t realize how intently he was staring, until your eyes suddenly fluttered open. Instinct kicked in, startled, you both reacted at the same time, and you jumped up just as he tried to lean back. The both of you groaning in unison as you cradle your forehead, which had slammed painfully against his chin.

“What the hell are you doing?” you cry, urgency quickly replacing the sleepiness in your voice.

“You were snoring. I’m sorry,” Namjoon defended, rubbing the spot where you collided.

“I don’t snore!” you glare up at him, eyes finally focusing enough to see the blood gushing from his nose. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” You leaned over him to grab a napkin from the bedside table. But still half asleep, the hand you’d placed between his legs couldn’t support your weight, and you crashed right onto his belly, eliciting a loud “oof” as he fell back on his pillow.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, your face smushed against him as you struggle to grab a napkin. In your frantic attempt, you knocked the tissue box off the table, sending tissues whirling to the ground.

“Just- ow!” He winced when you pressed the napkin to his nose, confusion evident on his face. He clearly hadn’t expected blood or to be in such a vulnerable position so early in the morning.

“I’m sorry,” you say for the third time, slightly loosening your grip on his face.

“Stop apologizing,” he mumbled “It’s my fault too.” Namjoon took the tissue from your hands and pressed it harder against his nose trying to suppress the stinging sensation.

You lingered there for a moment, captivated by the tissue grazing his lips, until the warmth of his skin under your cheek snapped you out of it. His shirt had ridden up in the altercation, baring a sliver of his toned stomach, now conveniently pressed against your face.

As if sensing your awareness, Namjoon furrowed his brows and gave you a quizzical look, prompting you to sit upright, the blanket trailing behind you like a cape.

“Yes, it is! What’s wrong with you?” You scolded. “Do you always stare at people when you sleep next to them?”

“I wasn’t staring!” Namjoon’s head shot up; his voice defensive but laced with amusement. “You were snoring.”

“I don’t snore!” you shot back, despite having no evidence to support your claim. You struggled to untangle yourself from the blanket, nearly tripping in your haste to escape. The bathroom door closed with an accidental slam behind you, leaving you momentarily alone with your spiralling thoughts.

Leaning over the sink, you splashed cold water on your face, the chill biting at your skin and grounding you—if only for a moment. Yet your heart refused to cooperate, its erratic rhythm spiking again when you heard the faint shuffling from the bedroom, followed by a soft, frustrated “Damn it.”

You glanced at your reflection in the mirror, meeting your own wide-eyed, dishevelled stare. Tangled hair perfectly framing your flushed cheeks, the hoodie you’d borrowed from Namjoon sitting askew on your shoulders and remnants of sleep clinging stubbornly to your face.

Charming. Just the image you wanted to project.

Then, your gaze drifted to the mint toothpaste sitting on the counter, and a fresh wave of emotions washed over you. It hit you all at once—His lips pressed to yours, the warmth of his breath against your skin, and the look he’d given you after.

 The way he looked at you…like he was searching for something. Or maybe you were imagining it. God, you hoped you were imagining it.

You gripped the edge of the sink, leaning into it as embarrassment burned its way down your spine.

But deep beneath the flurry of second-guessing and distress, you manage to find a crumb of courage while quietly going through the motions.

Taking a shaky breath, you pushed yourself upright and finished the small, familiar task of brushing your teeth. As you twisted the faucet shut, you stole one last glance at your reflection, your eyes searching for reassurance.

With resolve that felt both flimsy and monumental, you stepped back into the bedroom, bracing yourself for whatever came next.

Namjoon was still lying on the bed, a new tissue pressed against his nose. He looked up as you enter, and an unexpected flicker of self-consciousness crept in, making you hyper-aware of every step you took.

 “Are you okay?” You asked, attempting a softer tone.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, lowering the napkin to inspect the bright red spot there. “Just a bit of a love tap, you know?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you shoot back, but the words only made him laugh softly, easing some of the tension in your chest.

You grab a clean tissue and lean in closer to inspect the damage. "I'm really sorry," you say, perching on the edge of the bed. You take the napkin from his hands with little resistance and replace it with your own. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"It's okay," he replies, his voice soft. "But next time, maybe warm me about the snoring.”

"I don’t snore!" you exclaimed, the defensiveness in your tone spiking and earning another heartfelt laugh from him.

“Okay, fine. You don’t,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. But just as you were about to relax, he added under his breath, “Next time, I’ll record you.”

You narrowed your eyes and considered actually pinching his nose.

“You’re impossible.”

Namjoon only grinned, dimples deepening, as you carefully pulled the tissue away to dab the remains of the nosebleed. The softness of your touch seemed to quiet him; his teasing replaced by something warmer. There was a tenderness in the way you focused on his injury, small lines of worry forming on your forehead. He wanted to laugh, seeing as you dealt with more dramatic injuries in the past, yet he didn’t want to disturb you as you carefully touched his cheek with your free hand. The warmth of your palm contrasting sharply with the chill of the morning air.

As if you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, you look up, meeting his eyes.

“You’re blushing again.”

“Shut up.” You muttered, your cheeks heating further as you refocused on his nose, cleaning the surrounding area as if he were made of porcelain. You kept your attention on the injury, desperate to ignore the proximity—and the gentle warmth of his breath against your skin and the inexplicable tightness in your chest.

“There,” you finally murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, breaking the stillness as you placed the tissue aside. “All better.” To diffuse the tension, you gave his cheek a light pinch before standing up to tidy the room.

Turning your back to him, you busied yourself with cleaning, scooping up the crumpled tissues littering the bedside table. But Namjoon’s eyes never left you. He watched the way you moved, the way your hair caught the light, and the way you scrunched your nose in irritation when you realized how much of a mess you’d made earlier.

When you bent down to retrieve a stray napkin from under the bed, you caught him staring again. This time, a soft laugh escaped him when he realized he’d been caught red-handed.

Before he could say anything, you grabbed the discarded blanket and tossed it at him.

 “So, what’s the plan for today?” you asked quickly, moving toward your suitcase and fumbling with the zipper, your voice a little too casual.

“I’m taking you to a bakery,” his voice was muffled as he poked his head out from under the covers. “And my dad asked us to pick up a Christmas tree.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of a Christmas tree. Even though the holiday spirit felt far away in this moment, a surge of excitement stirred in your chest. “A Christmas tree?” You echoed, trying to mask the intrigue in your voice with an air of nonchalance.

“Yeah,” he replied, running a hand through his messy hair. “I thought we could decorate it together tonight.”

“You hate decorating the tree.”

“True,” he chuckled, “but I’d rather suffer through it with you than alone. Besides, my parents have some ornaments that I think you’ll like.”

You paused, makeup bag in hand, feeling his words settle over you. In the two years you’d lived together, Namjoon had never once shown a shred of enthusiasm when it came to decorating the apartment. He was more the type to lounge on the couch with a book or a video game while you tangled yourself in string lights and sparkling baubles, only for him to chime in at the end with a “You missed a spot”. Still, he always helped place the star on top —mostly because you couldn’t reach it, and he was taller.

“You’re volunteering for your own torture?” You glanced over your shoulder, eyebrow raised, just as he swung his legs off the bed and stretched his arms high above his head.

Your breath hitched at the sight of him leaning back, his shirt lifting just enough to reveal the muscles flexing underneath. The morning sunlight steamed through the window, contouring his skin with an irresistible golden hue.

Quickly you turned back to your makeup bag, rummaging unnecessarily for a lipstick as warmth crept up your neck and onto your cheeks

“My mom will force us either way.” He declared, the faint defeat in his tone punctuated by a dramatic sigh ash he strolled towards the bathroom.

You let out a small laugh at his resignation, but it got caught in your throat when he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it off, tossing in onto the bed.

Your gaze betrayed you for half a second, flickering toward him before you could stop yourself. The lean lines of his back, the soft stretch of his shoulders, the way his skin gleamed faintly in the light—everything you weren’t supposed to notice left an imprint far too vivid in your mind.

Heart pounding, you forced your eyes back to your bag, gripping it as though it were a lifeline. But it was too late. You were certain he’d seen your reaction.

“See something you like?” His teasing voice reached you just as he disappeared into the bathroom.

Your face flamed, and you whipped around, glaring at the now-closed door. “You’re impossible!” You called out, loud enough for him to hear over the sound of the running water.

~~~~

The aroma of freshly brewed tea greeted you as you stepped out of the room, mingling with the faint hum of life coming from the kitchen. The soft click of the bathroom door shutting behind Namjoon grounded you, though your thoughts still spun wildly. You took a deep breath, willing yourself to regain composure, but the sound of running shower only stirred your imagination further—steam rising, droplets tracing the contours of his bare skin. Heat crept up your neck, and you shook your head sharply, chastising yourself. Get it together.

In a desperate attempt to regain control after the completely unfair sight of your sun-kissed, shirtless friend, you decided a little distance might actually do you some good. Grabbing the first cozy sweater and pair of jeans within reach, you tugged them on and practically bolted out of the room.

He’s your friend, you reminded yourself firmly, though the mantra did little to steady the pounding heart in your chest.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Kim and Minhi were seated at the dining table, morning sunlight streaming through the large windows. The golden light bathed the cozy space, catching on the delicate wisps of steam curling up from their teacups.

“Good morning, my dear,” Mrs. Kim greeted warmly, lifting her head to meet your gaze. “Did you sleep well?”

You smiled, pushing away any lingering thoughts from earlier, and took a seat at the table. “Yes, thank you,” you replied, carefully avoiding any mention of what had just transpired.

“Is Namjoon taking you out?” Minhi asked, her bright eyes sparkling with curiosity over her teacup. You could almost swear there was a hint of a smirk forming on her lips.

You confirmed with a shy nod, but a new wave of heat crept up your spine, igniting your ears as if someone had turned up the thermostat.

Mrs Kim’s face broke into a broad grin. “Do you want me to whip you up something to eat first? Coffee or tea?” she asked, already rising from her chair.

“No, no,” you quickly interjected, waving your hands “We’re leaving in a few minutes. Namjoon’s just getting ready.”

Naked in all his glory in the shower…

You forced your mind back to the present as Mrs. Kim’s kind gaze lingered on you. Smoothing down your sweater, you took a steadying breath, doing your best to appear collected. You really had to pull yourself together.

“Is he taking you to Ajumeoni’s bakery?” Mrs. Kim asked, settling back in her chair with a huff. “At this rate, he’s paying for her grandkids to go to college.”

“C’mon Mom,” Minhi piped in. “The strawberry tarts are just-” She closed her eyes and inhaled dramatically, as if savouring the scent of sweet pastries. “They’re heavenly, I swear.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious, but Mrs. Kim merely waved her off.

“Alright, alright,” she relented, her own smile softening the mock exasperation in her voice “Just be home in time for dinner.”

“Yes, of course,” you nodded dutifully, resolute in your mission to be the perfect pretend-girlfriend today —a supportive friend, and nothing more.

“Jackson’s picking them up after work, mom, don’t worry.” Minhi said, her laughter cutting through your spiralling thoughts.

“He is?” you asked, blinking in surprise but taken in by her contagious laughter.

“Did you think you’d carry the tree in the metro?” Minhi giggled, her gaze flicking to the hallway as hurried footsteps echoed from upstairs.

Moments later, Namjoon appeared, his dimpled smile lighting up the room.

“Good morning!” he called out, running a hand through his freshly styled hair, the effortless charm in his voice matching his appearance. The brown sweater he’d chosen hugged his tall frame perfectly, drawing your attention to the way it accentuated the broad lines of his chest. The golden necklace at his collarbone caught the soft morning light as he bent down to plant a sweet kiss on his mother’s cheek.

Then, his eyes found yours, playful and warm before winking your way. “Are you ready?”

You fought to suppress the blush creeping up your cheeks, admiring him for a fraction too long. The vivid memory of his shirtless body flashed in your mind, and for a moment, words seemed to escape you.

“Hey, yeah, I’m all set,” you finally managed.

Namjoon’s smile just widened, a teasing softness in his eyes as he stepped closer. The scent of his cologne, fresh and warm, mingled with the aroma of tea as he leaned down toward you.

“You look really good.”  He said, his voice low and sincere.

All your mental preparations evaporated.

You glanced down at your grey sweater and jeans, disbelief flickering in your mind. Were you two looking at the same thing?

“Thanks. You don’t look bad yourself.” You replied, attempting a casual tone, despite yourself, but you’re certain your tomato red face gave you away.

Minhi and Mrs. Kim were shamelessly observing, their amusement barely concealed. Minhi raised an eyebrow, a mischievous smirk playing on her lips, while Mrs. Kim hid her laugh behind her teacup.

“Are you two going to stare at each other all day, or are you leaving?” Minhi nudged, leaning back in her chair with a knowing grin.

Namjoon chuckled, breaking the moment as he pulled back slightly. “We’re going, we’re going,” he assured, offering his hand to help you up.

As you stood, his palm rested briefly on the small of your back, sending a warmth through you that lingered. He shot his mother a cheeky smile as he led you toward the door.

“Don’t wait up,” he added with mock innocence, ushering you down the hall, and earning himself a pinch to the side form you.

~~~

The morning light was bright, yet it did little to chase away the frost in the air. All bundled up in your puffy winter coat, you walked through the bustling neighbourhood streets, the wind nipping at your cheeks as sunlight glinted off fresh snow. Beside you, Namjoon strolled at an easy pace, his tall frame hunched slightly against the cold.

 The shop windows glittered with seasonal displays- strings of lights, shimmering ornaments and snowy landscapes. Every so often, Namjoon would break the silence with a light-hearted comment or snippets from his childhood- stories that warmed you despite the cold.

“Look at that,” he nodded towards a window filled with beautifully wrapped presents underneath a grand Christmas tree. “I used to think those were real. I’d stare at them for hours, hoping someone would let me take a peek inside.”

You giggle, picturing a younger Namjoon, starry-eyed and full of wonder. “Did you ever get to sneak a peek?”

He shook his head, the soft pink on his cheeks deepening in the cold. “No way! My mom had a sixth sense for that kind of stuff. She always caught me.” His warm laugh carried over the frosty air, lifting your spirits even as the chill settled in your bones. Without thinking, his hand found, fingers curling gently around yours as he led you down the street.

A little later, he stopped again, his gaze stolen by a snug bookstore with a charming display in the window. The small shop exuded warmth, its large front window showcasing a centrepiece of fake snow, big red bows and a collection of carefully arranged books. His eyes lit up as they landed on a particular title propped up prominently in the centre.

 “Would you mind if we go in?” he asked, nodding towards the book, excitement brightening his face.

You followed his gaze, your heart sinking and cheeks flooding with heat the moment you recognized the book. Panic sets in as your mind scrambles for an excuse. It was a book from a Korean author who had recently burst onto the literary scene, earning praise for their intricate storytelling and philosophical metaphors. Naturally, Namjoon had fallen in love with their work, dissecting every layer of meaning in conversations that you secretly loved, but teased him mercilessly for.

You had heard so much about the author, that when you saw the newest release weeks ago, you knew it was the perfect gift for him.

“No!” you blurted out quickly, voice sharp enough to startle him.

“What?” He turned to you, eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Why not?”

“Because…” you hesitated, heat still rising to your cheeks as you struggled to find a good enough reason. But after a few seconds, you sighed in defeat and crossed your arms. “Because I already got it for you. You can’t buy it.”

His expression softened, a big grin spreading across his face as he stepped closer to you. “You got it for me?”

“Yes,” you muttered, averting your eyes as your blush deepened. “So, you can’t ruin the surprise. Keep walking, Kim Namjoon.”

He chuckled, his dimples making a brief but devastating appearance as he gave your arm a playful squeeze, holding you in place. “Alright, I’ll let it go. But…” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Did you see the decorations?”

You blinked at the sudden shift in the topic and followed his gaze. He was nodding toward the shop entrance, just a little further away, adorned with twinkling fairy lights and festive greenery. Your eyes drifted upward, landing on the small spring of mistletoe dangling above the doorway. Its pale berries glinting like snow in the soft light.

His hands burrowed deeper into the pockets of his coat as he tilted his head toward it, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Better be careful with that,” he teased, his voice laced with mock seriousness.

You raised an eyebrow, watching the delicate plant sway slightly in the winter breeze. “It’s bad luck not to kiss under it,” Namjoon clarified, watching you with a hint of challenge in his expression.

“Since when are you so superstitious?” you asked, a laugh escaping you as you shook your head in disbelief.

“I’m not,” he admitted with a shrug, though the sheepish grin that tugged at his lips made his intentions clear. “I just like covering all my bases.”

Before you could answer, Namjoon leaned closer, his breath a soft warmth against your skin. His lips brushed your chilled cheek in a quick, fleeting kiss—a touch so warm and unexpected it made the cold air around you feel sharper by comparison.

You stood frozen for a moment, your cheek tingling where his lips had been.

Namjoon pulled back, his grin deepening, dimples carving into his cheeks. “There,” he said lightly, straightening his coat as if nothing had happened. “No bad luck now.”

 Normally, you’d brush off his antics as harmless teasing meant to get a rise out of you. But this time, it managed to frits your brain. You stare at him, a mixture of indignation and disbelief sparking in your chest. “Kim Namjoon, you-”

He raised his hands in mock surrender, already stepping back towards the bakery door he’d been guiding you all along. “Don’t blame me, blame the mistletoe,” he quipped, holding the door open for you, the bell above it chiming softly.

Your cheeks still burned as you stepped past him, shooting him a glare that lacked any real heat.

Inside the bakery, the scent of sweet cinnamon and vanilla wrapped around you like a warm embrace. The bell above the door chimed softly again as Namjoon followed, the sound blending seamlessly with the cozy hum of conversation and the occasional clink of porcelain mugs.

The interior was just as inviting as the aroma —a rustic charm, with walls lined with wooden beams and subtle golden accents. Twinkling fairy lights cast a soft glow over the room, illuminating the rows of pastries displayed behind a pristine glass countertop.

Puffed-up croissants sat beside glistening hotteok, their caramelized centres looking absolutely delicious. Spiralled kkwabagi dusted with sugar and candied sweet potatoes. And then there were the cakes — delicate, crowned with fresh berries and swirls of vanilla cream, their perfect edges almost too beautiful to disturb.

Namjoon walked over to the counter, his tall frame leaning slightly as he studied the pastries with an almost childlike delight. The faint flush on his cheeks from the cold only added to his charm, softening his sharp featured and making him just the more endearing.

You couldn’t help but watch him, captivated the way his eyes shone with delight. There was something so disarming about his enthusiasm, so pure in its simplicity, that it made the flutter in your chest impossible to ignore.

“Will you let me order for you?” He asked, suddenly interrupting your thoughts.

“Yes, of course,” you smile, the slight flutter in your stomach making you laugh softly. As he turned to the counter, his brows furrowed in exaggerated concentration, you couldn’t help but admire him anew.  Namjoon has always been thoughtful, but this moment felt particularly tender, as though he was putting in the extra effort to make it memorable.

The bakery was alive with the bustle of other patrons, their laughter interlaced with the clinking of kitchen utensils in the back. A barista was busy steaming milk for lattes, while the warmth of the oven diffused toward you, chasing away any lasting chill from outside.

Namjoon finally ordered a selection of absolutely mouth-watering cream filled croffles and piping hot coffee. The lovely old lady at the serving counter lit up when she recognised him, leaning over to pinch his cheeks playfully. She gushed about how tall he had grown and how handsome he was, even calling her husband from the back to see Namjoon after all these years. You giggle softly, enjoying the lively exchange as Namjoon laughed, clearly relishing in the attention while trying to dodge her affectionate teasing. In the end, he walked away with an extra serving of milk bread as a ‘parting gift’ which he gratefully accepted, beaming as he thanked her.

The table Namjoon chose was tucked in a quiet corner, its window overlooking the bustling streets outside. The festive neighbourhood, framed by twinkling lights and snowy sidewalks, looked like a scene pulled straight from a snow globe. And as you settled into your seat, snowflakes began to drift gently from the sky, only adding to the hallmark-movie charm that seemed to influence the day.

“Here you go,” Namjoon settled the croffle in front of you. It was golden brown, with a crispy exterior that cradled the rich cream filling inside, adorned carefully with gingerbread crumbs — arguably, it was a masterpiece on a plate. He didn’t sit down yet, instead turning to fetch the coffee from the café counter

“Kim Namjoon?” a voice called out, and you looked to see a beautiful girl with big doe eyes shining once she looked at him, her pouted lips curving into a charming smile “I’m Min Iseul, do you remember me?”

Namjoon seemed shocked for a moment, but quickly regained his composure, his smile widening as he replied, "Oh my god, yes, hi! How have you been?"

“You know,” she smiled “life in a small town tends to be quiet. But what about you-?”

You watched from the corner of the table, feeling a tightness in your chest as Iseul place a hand on Namjoon’s arm. A frown formed involuntarily on your face as a pit began to settle in your stomach. Their conversation continued, the sound of their voices becoming a distant murmur as you forced your gaze downward, glaring at the croffle on your plate.

It felt horrible to realize that the sudden pang was indeed jealousy —raw and undeniable, it seemed it had taken root in your heart without your consent.

What was happening to you? You had always viewed Namjoon as a friend. You had watched him flirt with countless girls without a second though, yet now, here you were, on the verge of snapping at the mere sight of a pretty girl touching his arm. And of course she was perfect for him. She looked up at him as if he single-handedly hung up the stars, with her perfect hair, perfect smile, and that perfect body that made even the bakery apron look like high fashion.

It wasn’t just about Iseul, though. It was about something deeper, something you couldn’t quite explain. It was about not wanting to be replaced and a fear that quietly whispered to you that perhaps, you already had been.

As they continued their chat, the world outside quietly transformed. The snow began to blanket the streets in a delicate layer, framing the moment like a quaint, picturesque postcard. Inside, however, it felt like a different story. You picked at the croffle, the rich cream suddenly feeling too sweet compared to the bitter twist in your mood.

Finally, Namjoon returned, coffee in hands, a bright smile still lighting his face. “Sorry about that! Iseul and I used to be in the same classes at school,” he said, then paused when he noticed your expression. His brows furrowing in concern.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, his voice gentle as he reached out, taking your hand in his.

You forced a smile, trying to shake off the weight of the moment. “Yeah, just… it’s nothing.” You lied, tasting the bitterness on your tongue. God, you hated lying.

He studied you for a moment longer, and for a brief second, you swore you saw something shift in his eyes.

“Alright,” he said slowly, a hint of uncertainty lingering. “Well, let’s dig in! You have to try the milk bread. I promise it’s worth it!”

As you took a bite, followed by a big gulp of coffee, you resolved to push away your insecurity, even if only for today. After all, the reality of your friendship was simple: while you may never make his heart flutter like Iseul seemingly did, you could certainly raise his blood pressure.

Namjoon started a new conversation about the last book he read, and you fell into the familiar flow of dialogue as the snowy scene outside continued to unfold. But every now and then, your gaze would drift to the window, catching a glimpse of the town dressed in white. You found yourself wondering if it was possible to be both happy for him, and fearful of losing him, all while managing to still be his friend amidst the chaos of unbidden feelings.

“Do you remember Hoseok?”

You answered Namjoon’s question with a nod, seeing as he pulled you too abruptly from your thoughts. “He’s the pretty one that stayed over for spring break?”

Namjoon laughed, his eyes gleaming with the unmistakable light that made your heart skip a beat —even as you fought against it. Usually, his laughter would unravel the tight knots in your chest, but now, it seemed to tighten them further.

You remembered the visit well — Hoseok rolled up all the carpets in your living room, turning it into an impromptu dancing studio. He was kind, like all of Namjoon’s friends, but he also ate all your snacks and took great pleasure in flirting with you every time you ran into each other, much to Namjoon’s discomfort.

“Yeah, you two broke my laptop,” you started, but he cut you off.

“And I got it fixed!” he countered, defending his clumsy actions, which only made you laugh.

Namjoon chuckled, stirring his coffee absentmindedly. “He invited us over for a Christmas party tomorrow. It’s a little get together, if you want to go,”

“Definitely,” you replied, though your enthusiasm felt forced. The prospect of a party sent a thrill through you, but underlying that was a twinge of uncertainty. Would Iseul be there? Would it be just another night of watching Namjoon flirt with someone else knowing you’re just playing the part of girlfriend?

As you took another bite of the croffle, its sweetness still felt bitter, much like the turmoil in your heart. You wanted to be happy for Namjoon, wanting to fulfil the role you signed up for, but now, beneath your smile, there was a complicated mess of fear and longing. More than ever, you felt like all your walls might come crumbling down.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Namjoon’s voice cut through your thoughts again, concern lingering beneath his words “You seem distant.”

 You force a smile, but the ache in your chest screamed at you to be honest, to share your doubts instead of masking it under a façade of indifference.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” another lie. How could you possibly explain the heaviness that sat at the bottom of your stomach, the envy bubbling silently inside of you, the tightness in your throat that made it hard to breath?

Namjoon leaned back, his warm gaze unwavering, clearly unconvinced. But for the rest of the meal, he didn’t press further. You both continued to eat in comfortable silence, even as the air thickened with unspoken words.

The snowfall outside intensified, painting the windows with a blur of white by the time you were done, and you feared, once again, that the outfit you had chosen was ill-fitted for the icy weather.

Namjoon picked up a box of strawberry tarts for Minhi on the way out, and as he opened the door for you, you saw Iseul waving at him—a darling wave that ignited a firestorm of nerves deep within you.

In that moment, logic fled your mind. Without thinking, you grabbed Namjoon’s coat collar and pulled him towards you, pressing your lips to his. His eyes widened, a mixture of shock and confusion flickering across his face. The warmth of his body felt so close, yet the distance between you —created by your impulsive actions — seemed insurmountable.

You can’t believe what you were doing!

Namjoon was frozen for one second, but then he melted into the kiss. His free hand gently cupping your face, as if he were afraid, you’d run if he moved too quickly.

Namjoon’s lips were soft against yours, his warmth seeping through the layers of your clothes and spreading through you like a slow burn. The world outside seemed to blur even more, the cold, the noise of the streets, the snow rushing into the bakery, it all faded into an unimportant backdrop. All that mattered was the feeling of his lips against yours —gentle, hesitant, yet impossibly comforting.

For a moment, you almost didn’t regret it.

Then, just as quickly as it started, the kiss ended. Namjoon pulled back slightly, his hand still cupping your face, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek as if seeking reassurance. His gaze flickered between your eyes, searching for something.

You felt the rush of heat flood your face as reality hit like a ton of bricks. What did you just do? The panic set in, an overwhelming wave crashing against your chest. You tried to swallow it down, but the vulnerability felt raw, exposed.

“I-I’m,” you stammered, stepping back slightly, your hands trembling as you pushed them into your coat pockets. “Mistletoe!”

Namjoon blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion. His hand remained where it was for a moment, as if unsure whether to pull away or reach for you again. The warmth of his fingers against your skin was grounding, but the panic in your chest made it difficult to breath. You could hardly believe what you’d just done, but somehow, you still managed to squeeze out the most absurd explanation you could think of.

“Mistletoe,” you repeated, almost too quickly, the word falling past your lips like the snowflakes around you, each syllable hanging in the frigid air like a whispered secret.

His hand dropped to his side, the warmth from his touch slipping away as a flicker of something—concern, confusion, or maybe disappointment—crossed his face. It was hard to pinpoint, but whatever it was, it left an uncomfortable weight settling in your stomach.

He blinked, as if trying to make sense of the situation, then glanced at the mistletoe above the door. His expression shifted again, more uncertain now, and for a brief moment, there was a palpable silence between you, the world around you swirling in a soft flurry, but it felt like everything had stopped.

“Mistletoe?” he repeated, almost tentative. His eyes didn’t meet yours immediately; instead, they lingered on the mistletoe, as if searching for an answer in the small plant.

You nodded, fighting to keep your voice steady, but your throat felt tight, like the words were getting stuck somewhere between your chest and your mouth.

“Yeah,” he concluded, “I guess we could always put the blame on the mistletoe…” he said, his voice a little quieter now, as if he was still trying to grasp what had just happened.

You were about to argue further, to say something—anything—that would ease the tension building between you both, but just then, someone called out from inside the bakery.

“Hey! Make up your mind! Are you leaving or staying? You’re letting snow inside!” The voice was half-joking, but the discomfort in it made the moment all the more awkward.

Caught off guard, you and Namjoon exchanged a glance, and you both quickly moved toward the door, apologizing profusely to the patrons and the owners as you stepped outside.

“Sorry, sorry, we didn’t mean to make a mess,” Namjoon said, his words coming out rushed as he quickly pulled the door closed behind you, sealing off the chilly gust of wind that had followed you out.

You stood for a moment on the snowy sidewalk, the light of the bakery still visible through the frosted windows. The snowflakes seemed to have grown heavier, each flake falling in delicate patterns, as if trying to make the moment less heavy. But it didn’t. The air was cold, the street quiet, and despite the wintery beauty around you, your stomach twisted further and your heart beat erratically. Now it was just you and Namjoon in the silence of the day, both lost in thoughts you wouldn’t put into words.

Namjoon shifted slightly beside you, glancing down at the ground before speaking up. His voice hesitant, but there was an underlying softness to it that made your face heat despite the cold.

“So…” he began, trailing off as if searching for the right words. “No tongue this time?”

You blinked at him, your heart skipping over a few beats. The cold seemed to freeze in your lungs as you tried to process what he had just said. For a second, you were sure you hadn’t heard him correctly. You turned your head slightly, trying to gauge whether he was joking or not, but his expression was unreadable.

“Excuse me?” you asked, your voice coming out in a small, nervous laugh. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to lighten the mood or if he was just poking fun at you.

“I mean,” he continued, scratching the back of his neck, “if we’re going to blame it all on the mistletoe…” He trailed off, his tone playful but laced with a hint of something deeper, a flicker of curiosity behind his words.

That’s when you caught it. That familiar teasing glint in his eyes, the expression he had whenever he managed to make you fluster, and you huffed out in indignation, your breath transforming into a small cloud.

You crossed your arms, trying to gather your composure as you glared at him. The cold air biting at your skin, but the warmth of your embarrassment was far more overwhelming.

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” you shot back, your voice teasing but with a hint of defensiveness, as if you were trying to cover up how much his words had affected you. You couldn’t help it. The playful look in his eyes had a way of making your pulse pick up, and it didn’t help that every word he said seemed to sink deeper into the awkwardness of the situation.

Namjoon raised his hands in mock surrender, the grin on his face only growing wider “No, no! I’m not saying it’s your fault,” he said quickly, trying to reassure you, though the amusement in his voice didn’t quite match his words. “Just—y’know, I thought we were sticking with the mistletoe excuse. But, uh, it’s all on you now. You started it.”

“Me? I—” You opened your mouth, searching for a retort, but your brain was still scrambling to catch up with everything. Nothing coherent came to mind, and his look wasn’t helping in the slightest. “You kissed me first!” you blurted, the words tumbling out before you could stop yourself.

Namjoon arched an eyebrow, his smile turning smug. “Yeah, on the cheek,” he countered, giving a little shrug as if that settled the matter entirely. He tilted his head slightly, an eyebrow raised as if he was waiting for your response, but when none came, the smugness in his expression only grew. For a moment, you considered whether it was worth the effort to argue with him. But then, his look softened, just enough for you to notice the shift in his expression —something that made your heart pick up again.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words caught in your throat. The absurdity of the situation—the way it had spiralled from a jealous outburst into whatever this was—left you feeling strangely vulnerable. His presence, so close beside you in the cold, seemed to magnify everything.

“Fine.” You finally muttered, crossing your arms tighter and shifting your weight from one foot to the other, almost chasing the cold away.

Namjoon’s dimples deepened; the teasing look in his eyes returning full force. “Fine?” he repeated, his tone dripping with amusement. “Is that you admitting defeat, or are you too cold to keep arguing?”

He collected your hand in his free one, leading you down the street towards the Christmas market.

You gave him a fleeting glare, narrowing your eyes. “Neither,” you shot back, though the warmth in your cheeks betrayed the confidence you were trying to project. “I just don’t see the point in arguing with someone who twists everything to suit their narrative.”

Namjoon’s heartfelt laughter made any of the lingering tension dissipate, his expression taking on a look of sheer mock offence. “Twisting everything? Me?” He shook his head, his expression turning playfully solemn. “I’m just stating facts here. You’re the one who escalated things. I was perfectly content with a friendly mistletoe kiss. No drama. No tongue.”

Your eyes widened, and your jaw dropped at his audacity. “I did not escalate—oh my god, would you stop saying that?” you hissed, your voice low but filled with exasperation.

“Hey, you won’t see me complaining,” he replied smoothly, his voice softening just enough to send your thoughts spiralling. “But I never pegged you for the jealous type.”

“Gah! You’re insufferable!”

Namjoon’s grin grew as he watched you fume, his fingers tightening around your hand, as he led you down the snowy streets with easy confidence. The twinkling lights of the stalls cast a soft glow over the scene, the cold air whipped around you, but somehow, the heat between you kept the chill at bay, even if your cheeks were flushed from both the cold and the heated banter.

“Jealous? Who’s jealous?” you scoffed, trying to sound unaffected, but the way your beet-red face betrayed you. “I’m not jealous. I’m just…” you trailed off, realising you had absolutely no excuse lined up. The last part came out quieter than you meant, your voice showing more vulnerability than you were comfortable with, and you quickly buried your face in your scarf.

Namjoon tilted his head slightly, his smile not quite fading, but the glimmer of something more thoughtful flickering in his eyes. He slowed his pace, just enough to match yours, the quiet hum of the market and the soft crunch of snow beneath your feet filling the space between you.

"You’re just... what?" he prompted gently, his voice laced with curiosity and that familiar edge.

“Just acting like a good fake girlfriend would.” You concluded, trying to keep your tone casual, but you felt your stomach churn slightly as you lied, like you were trying to brush off something that had begun to feel a lot more real than you expected.

Namjoon’s expression shifted — just a little. His face softened as he thought it over, then he gave you a playful nudge with his shoulder, his voice light as he responded, “Ah, I see. Well, I’ll admit, you’re pretty good at it.”

His tone made your heart settle a bit, but you couldn't shake the underlying tension that had suddenly crept in. You hadn’t meant to sound so serious, and yet there was something in his eyes now that made you second-guess everything. He gave a small chuckle, the kind that felt like distance—just enough to make you realize he wasn’t leaning in any closer, but not pulling away either.

He let go of your hand for a moment, running it through his hair, then casually reached for it again, as if nothing had changed.

“Well, as long as I’m the good fake boyfriend, we’re golden.”

You nodded, still completely flustered, but grateful for the shift back to something a little more familiar. He wasn’t pressing anymore. He wasn’t trying to read your true intentions. He was just… being Namjoon, your friend, your roommate, the guy who could make you laugh and leave you absolutely wrecked emotionally.

The rest of the walk was quieter, but not in an uncomfortable type of way. He kept walking besides you, hands stuffed in his pockets, occasionally throwing out a random comment or nudging you along with him as you made your way through the busy market and to the small Christmas tree lodge.

You two picked a tree without much debate. The scent of pine and oranges filled the air as you threaded through the festive area, the twinkling lights surrounding you. Namjoon’s presence besides you was oddly comforting—like an anchor in the whirlwind of noise and flashing lights. As you both made your way to the tree lot, he casually pointed out the skinniest, most scrawny-looking trees, joking about how much he’d like to buy one just to see his mother’s reaction.

You couldn’t help but giggle at his commentary, the tension from earlier completely forgotten. The awkwardness in the air had faded, at least for the moment, and you were thankful for it, seeing as you didn’t need more things to overthink tonight.

After a bit of back-and-forth, you both finally settled on a tree—a little taller than you both had anticipated, but perfectly symmetrical, with just the right amount of fullness.

The rest of the day went by in a blur. You two stopped to grab lunch at a modest-looking food stall, the inviting scent of fishcakes winning Namjoon over. You both enjoyed the warmth of the food as the wind continued to bite at your cheeks, the steam rising from your cups offering the briefest respite from the cold.

You tried mulled wine for the first time—warmed, spiced, with a tangy sweetness, but most importantly, warm—and to your surprise, you liked it.

The two of you wandered a bit more, chatting idly and laughing at each other’s jokes, not caring much for the crowds around you.

And before you knew it, Jackson had pulled up in his car to take you both home. The drive was quick and quiet, with the warm glow from the streetlights casting soft shadows across the interior of the car. Namjoon leaned back against his seat, looking content, while you sat in the front, trying not to overthink everything that had happened in the last few hours.

Namjoon teasing you about ogling his naked chest felt like it happened an eternity ago.

And now, here you were, getting ready for bed again.

The tree got decorated under Minhi’s careful supervision, looking more like a Pinterest masterpiece than a simple holiday decoration when she was done with it, and Namjoon, to his credit, managed to break only one bauble during the whole process.

The evening wound down quietly after the tree was finished. Minhi insisted on taking a dozen photos of her work, including some with the whole group in front of the tree. Jackson wrapped an arm around her shoulder, grinning like he’d won the lottery, while Minhi tried (and failed) to strike a serious pose before dissolving into laughter in his arms.

You stood off to the side, trying to figure out what to do with your hands, but Namjoon made the decision for you. He tugged you closer, wrapping his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The flash went off, capturing the moment forever, but you couldn’t seem to focus on anything beyond the warmth of his body and the quiet weight of his laughter in your ear. It felt so unguarded, so easy, that for a fleeting moment, you could almost forget it was just pretend.

Later, Minhi pulled a mistletoe plant from her bag with an exaggerated flourish, announcing it was tradition. She delighted in the awkward reaction it drew from both you and Namjoon, who immediately avoided eye contact with each other, mumbling something about “respecting personal space.” But Minhi didn’t press too hard, instead planting a sweet kiss on Jackson’s cheek that had him grinning like a fool in love.

After that, their parents got home, dinner was served, and you finally got your turn taking care of the dishes.

You quietly tiptoed your way to the bed, shivering slightly once you felt the coldness of the room, but careful not to make a sound. Your nighttime routine had taken longer than usual, and you were doing your best to avoid waking Namjoon, who fell asleep while waiting for you. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the little reading lamp he left on for you, casting a soft shadow across the space.

Slipping under the covers, you turned off the light and shifted, trying to find a comfortable spot. But before you could settle, Namjoon stirred, and with almost no time to react, he turned around and wrapped an arm around you.

Your breath caught as he pulled you close, his chest warm against your back, his movements unhurried and natural, as if this was something he did all the time. You felt him bury his head into your hair, his voice low and groggy as he murmured, “It’s cold. Don’t stay so far away.”

The weight of his arm was grounding, but your heart was anything but steady. You lay there stiffly for a moment, your mind racing again. But his breathing slowed, steady and even, and the warmth of his presence started to seep into your bones, melting the tension little by little.

You didn’t move or speak, afraid to break whatever spell had been cast over the moment. Instead, you let yourself slowly relax into his chest, his arm tightening slightly as if he could sense your shift.

The cold, the overthinking, the lingering awkwardness—it all faded, replaced by the quiet sound of his breath and the calm rhythm of his heartbeat against your back.

You were absolutely hopeless.

[mortallydeepestobservation]

The reality of the situation is that I just talk a lot 😂

But no, c’mon, let’s be real. Smut is so different when you have backstory! 🥺

When you understand all the different phases the characters went through.

When you can drop a little inside joke and it makes sense to the readers, because they have the reference.

When she’s been calling him Namjoon the whole fic and now its suddenly “love” and “baby” 🫠🥹

Totally different category of smut.

The truth of it 🤣

[mortallydeepestobservation]

I love it wholeheartedly and you have just made my day

im so proud of my snow cat im showing as many people as possible

[mortallydeepestobservation]

Not you almost throwing yourself out of a bus window 💀 please, we need you alive for more emotional rollercoasters! (the smut)

And trust me, the ‘attachment to fictional characters’ problem is mutual. I don’t want it to end either… Namjoon proposing? Them moving into a bigger house... the kids, cat, books? 👀 Hmmm… you might be onto something.... but alas...i have 5 wips i need to get on yk

Thank you for reading sweetheart!✨💕

The holiday pretense -4-

Summary: Namjoon has never been a fan of the holidays. In fact, he could list more things that sucked about ‘The most wonderful time of the year’, than things that brought him joy. Yet, beneath his cynicism, a flicker of hope appeared this year, as the faint scent of homesickness hung in the air. Unfortunately, there’s one tiny little thing that keeps him from calling home- his lack of a girlfriend. But fear not; this holiday season, Namjoon’s smart mouth gets him in a situation where he has no choice but to approach you- his longtime friend and roommate- with an unexpected request. Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: fake-dating, friends to lovers/roommates to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff. Rating: Explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: characters are very clumsy. Blood, mentions of blood and bandages. slight angst. Smut warnings: (finally), kissing, hickeys, marking, non penetrative sex act, pet names. Namjoon is a big boy Word count: Chapter 4- 23k Author's note: guys! it's done! they (almost) did it! This chapter is essentially the reason this story exists. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never read a pretend-dating or fake-relationship story where the reader feels guilty about lying, or where she  to the parents. This was fun. I’m really happy with how it came out tbh. And just for the record, y'all need to thank @callmenoona25 , because I was very willing to blue ball you, but she convinced me otherwise. So yeah. We are just one chapter out from seeing this story to completion!! I almost can’t believe it. happy v-day y'all✨💕 part 1: here, part 2: here , part 3: here , part 4: reading Tag list: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne  @oneshallsmile @ktownshizzle @jimineepaboya

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

That wasn’t a flaw—it was a quirk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it wasn’t. It could never be.

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

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

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

“Namjoon-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “I should’ve known better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was too late.

The damage had been done.

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

 The words felt useless. Hollow.

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

He had no defense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the kiss. Good god, the kiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’d ruined it. Whatever it had been…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What mattered was the escape, however temporary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s fine,” you grumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon was avoiding you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 But you never got a chance to dwell on it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You quickly turned away.

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

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

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

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

But then it all came crashing down. Hard.

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

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

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

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

“I really want to kiss you right now”

The jerk. Asshole. Playboy!

If only any of those words actually described him…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I said I’ve got it, Namjoon!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon followed without a word.

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

God damn it all.

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

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

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

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

“Fuck. Ouch”

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

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

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

“You’re not.”

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

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

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

“Namjoon,” you warned.

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

“Let me,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hating him?

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

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

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

So he did think it was just a mistake…

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay. I’m a big boy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe because it is.”

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

And damn him, because that was somehow worse.

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

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

That undid you more than anything else.

Because you knew he meant it.

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

“I hate lying to your mom.”

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

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

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

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

But you weren’t.

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

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

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

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

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

That was what you always did.

So, you did it again.

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

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

“Oh, really?”

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

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

“She’s relentless.”

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

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

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

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

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

 “Of course, I thought about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think I’d like a cat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We might need a bigger apartment tho…”

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

And this?

This felt like a little bit of both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.”

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.

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

What the hell were you supposed to do with that?

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Last year, he got her personalised socks with his face on them.”

Your laugh came soft and unexpected, spilling out before you could stop it. “Because he likes being stepped on?” you whispered back, your eyes sparkling with humour.

Namjoon smirked, his expression playful, “How’d you know?”

 The shared moment felt light and easy, a pocket of warmth that made you laugh genuinely for the first time all evening. It wasn’t forced or hesitant but natural, like slipping back into an old rhythm.

Namjoon’s eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, his smile softening into something quieter, almost fond.

“I got you something too.” He said, his voice low enough not to carry over the lively chatter around the room.

“You did?”

He nodded, glancing toward the small pile of gifts near the Christmas tree. “It’s nothing huge. Just something I thought you’d like. I can give it to you now if-”

“Wait,” you interrupted quickly, “You already know I got you the book, but let me grab it for you—I’ll be right back” A soft smile tugged at your lips as you hurried off to your room.

Stepping into the quiet space, you let out a small breath, your heart fluttering in a way that felt a little too telling. You rummaged through your suitcase, retrieving the carefully wrapped gift and adjusting the red bow atop the green paper until it was just right.

Taking a moment to steady yourself, you ran a hand through your hair before heading back to the living room. The second you returned, clutching the gift close to your chest, Namjoon’s gaze immediately found yours. His expression was calm, but there was a quiet anticipation in his eyes.

“Got it,” you said softly, holding it out toward him.

His lips quirked into a small smile as he reached for it. In return, he handed you his own gift, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with a pink silken ribbon.

“Now it’s a proper exchange,” he said, his tone light but carrying something more than just casual words.

Glancing down at the gift in your hands, you chuckled when you noticed the little marker doodle next to your name—a quick, playful sketch of a Christmas tree, leaning awkwardly to the side under the weight of a star that looked too big for it.

“Did you do this?” you asked, looking up at him, a playful smile forming on your lips.

Namjoon shrugged, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. “Maybe.”

 His casual teasing made you laugh softly as you carefully untied the ribbon, your fingers grazing the silky fabric as you peeled back the wrapping paper.

And then—you stopped.

The same book you’d gotten him was staring right back at you.

You blinked; your eyes locked on the familiar cover. The exact same book—the one you’d chosen with such care and anticipation—was now in your hands, wrapped just as carefully as you’d wrapped his.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to Namjoon, your mouth slightly agape.

“When we stopped at the bookstore and you told me you got it for me, I almost lost it.” He admitted with a chuckle, easily peeling back the paper from his own copy. “I’ve been trying to hide this in the apartment since it came out.”

He smiled, but as his eyes dropped to cover of the book, something shifted “But the thing is, I got yours signed-”

He paused when he lifted the cover and saw the delicate signature on the first page, resting neatly next to his name.  His fingers hovered over the autograph, a mix of surprise and disbelief flickering across his face. He looked up at you, his expression softening as the realization settled in.

“Wait, this is ridiculous.” He whispered, half laughing, half stunned.

You nodded slowly, a smile tugging at your lips despite the strange twist in your chest. “I thought it’d be a nice touch— God, I spent hours just waiting to get it signed.”

“Same here,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess we both have good taste.”

“You’re telling me,” You huffed, still amused. “We could’ve at least gone together, saved ourselves some trouble.”

“Did you two just get each other the exact same thing?” Minhi’s voice cracked with disbelief—clearly astonished—reminding you both that, yes, there were people around watching.

You and Namjoon exchanged a glance, both still holding identical copies of book in your hands. The absurdity of it all made it impossible not to laugh.

“God you’re disgusting.” Jackson chimed in—like he wasn’t the one who’d bought his girlfriend bobbleheads.

Namjoon chuckled, shrugging nonchalantly, clearly relishing in the banter. “Yeah. We did.”

From across the room, Mrs. Kim, who had been quietly observing, leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, it looks like you two are perfectly matched,” she teased. “Maybe next time you’ll coordinate your outfits as well.”

Mr. Kim, sitting beside her, chuckled and sent a playful wink your way. “Or maybe matching pyjamas?” he suggested, prompting a round of laughter from the group.

Namjoon tilted his head, considering it. “Now that I think about it... matching pajamas could be a vibe,” he mused, throwing you a teasing glance. “We could totally pull it off.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, biting back a laugh. “You’re pushing it.”

Mrs. Kim grinned, clearly enjoying the lighthearted moment. “This is what makes these dinners so special,” she said warmly, leaning into her husband. “Seeing all of you so comfortable with each other.”

Mr. Kim nodded, his lips curving into a fond smile. “It’s these little moments that really count.” His gaze softened as he looked at his wife.

Your eyes met Namjoon’s for a brief moment, like there was an unspoken understanding between you.

Despite everything that had unfolded this week, something inside you resolved. Maybe things didn’t need to be perfect right now. And with time, perhaps you’d find you way back to something resembling normal—whatever that was. For now, this was enough.

“Matching pyjamas it is, then,” you said, breaking the silence.

Namjoon chuckled; his smile genuine.

“Deal.”

As the evening continued, the conversations flowed effortlessly. The soft hum of festive music filled the room, mingling with the quiet laughter of those around you. The glow of candles on the mantle cast dancing shadows across the walls, wrapping the space in a homey warmth.

And for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things between you weren’t as uncertain as they seemed.

~~~

“Mrs. Kim, do you have any dishwashing gloves?” you asked, your hands reaching into a drawer. You didn’t want to risk getting your bandages wet right after Namjoon changed them.

With most of the family retreating to their rooms, you lingered behind, offering to help Mrs. Kim tidy the kitchen. It was a quiet, unspoken way of showing your gratitude for her warmth and hospitality, a small gesture to give back after everything she’d done. Besides, it gave you a chance to clear your mind in the soothing rhythm of cleaning plates and wiping counters.

A form of therapy—you told yourself—just you, the soft hum of the kitchen, and the slow settling of your thoughts.

There was a quiet sense of contentment washing over you, as if the whirlwind of the past few days was finally starting to wane. The trip was nearing its end, and despite the chaos, the awkwardness, and the emotional ups and downs, you’d managed to weather it all. Somehow, with some-god’s grace, you made it through, and that was enough to leave a faint, unexpected warmth in your chest.

“Oh dear, don’t bother with the dishes.” Mrs. Kim said softly, glancing at you over the fridge door where she carefully stacked the leftovers. Her tone gentle, almost pleading, as if she wanted to spare you the trouble. “We’ll take care of them tomorrow.”

You smiled, shaking your head lightly. “I can’t, sorry. It’ll bother me if I don’t.” A light chuckle slipped from your lips as you rummaged through the drawer, triumphantly pulling out a pair of green latex gloves. You pulled them on with a snap, feeling a little silly.

Mrs. Kim smiled at your insistence, moved by the gesture. “You’re so thoughtful,” she said sweetly. “But really, you don’t have to.”

With a soft smile, you picked up a dish from the counter and ran it under the warm water. “Honestly, I don’t mind,” you said, glancing at her. “It’s nice to have something simple to do right now.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

The sound of running water filled the space between you, while Mrs. Kim moved around the kitchen, cleaning and organizing the days messes.

 The evening had settled into a comforting cadence—the soft clink of dishes, the low hum of the refrigerator, and the occasional crackle of the fire still glowing faintly in the next room. Everything felt simple, peaceful.

For a while, the two of you worked in silence, the comfortable kind that spoke volumes without the need for filler words.

After a while, Mrs. Kim paused, setting the dish towel down as she looked at you, her expression thoughtful. “You know,” she said with a soft smile, “I’ve been meaning to sit down and chat with you all week, but Namjoon seemed determined to keep you all to himself.”

You froze mid-rinse, caught off-guard by the shift in her tone. lancing up, you caught the warmth in her eyes, and just like that, the familiar knot in your stomach came back full force. Your grip on the plate reflexively tightened, the ceramic cool against your gloved palm, as you forced yourself to smile politely

“I’m really glad you were able to spend the holidays with us,” she continued, unaware of the shift in your composure. “You make my son so very happy.”

The words hit you like an arrow to the chest, guilt rising right where it struck.

The worst thing was that Namjoon wasn’t there to protect you from yourself. It was just his mother. Her gentle warmth, and the mounting weight of your guilt. The truth of your relationship, —or the lack of—loomed large in your mind, suffocating in its quiet dishonesty.

“You know, I knew from the moment I met you that you two would make a good pair.”

Your body stiffened, her words hanging in the air like an unspoken threat. Despite the warmth in her gaze, kind and sincere, it only deepened the tension coiling in your chest. The sounds of the kitchen, the faint hum of music still coming from the living room—everything else faded, drowned out by the relentless echo of her words in your mind.

A lump formed in your throat, and your grip on the plate tightened as your hands began to shake. The walls seemed to shrink around you, the space too small to hold the enormity of the lie hanging between you.

Her voice, so earnest and trusting, repeated in your mind, each syllable weighted with an affection you didn’t feel worthy of. For a moment, you parted your lips, desperate to respond— to explain, to confess—but the words wouldn’t come. What could you possibly say? That everything she believed about you and her son was a carefully constructed illusion? That this trip had pushed your flimsy connection to its breaking point? That you and Namjoon hadn’t even kissed before this—and when you finally had, it only tangled things further, making you ache for something real, something freely given? But that he didn’t feel the same?

The truth felt like a tsunami too massive and chaotic to contain, too devastating to release. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering between holding back the wave and allowing it to crash down, obliterating everything in its path.

And all you could do was hold on to the plate in your hands, as if it could somehow keep you afloat through it all.

“I think it’s in the way you two-”

But the strain of the day—the strain of everything—became too much to withstand. The fragile hold you’d kept on your emotions shattered, splintering off like glass under pressure. The raw ache you’d buried deep inside surged to the surface, breaking through the thin veneer of composure you’d clung to so desperately as you tried to listen to her.

You blinked quickly, a futile effort to stop as tears began to pool in your eyes. But once a single drop escaped, sliding hot and unchecked down your cheek, another followed, and another, until the flood was unstoppable.

Your trembling lips pressed tightly together to stifle the sobs threatening to spill out, but your shoulders shook, and the quiet tremors of your body betrayed you. The stillness of the kitchen amplified the sound of your shallow, uneven breaths, the weight of everything pressing down all at once.

Mrs. Kim turned sharply at the sound, her expression shifting to concern in an instant, her hands stilling as she looked at you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” She murmured, stepping closer, her voice filled with a motherly warmth that broke you even further. “What’s wrong?” Her cold hands rested gently on your arms, rubbing them affectionately.

And in that moment, you realized there was no turning back.

Mrs. Kim’s voice was tender, laced with genuine worry that only made your heart hurt more. Her hands on your arms felt steadying, but they were also a stark reminder of the fact that you were breaking down.  You tried to speak, to form any explanation, but all that escaped was a shaky breath. The silence between you stretched, and you knew you couldn’t hide behind it much longer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips. You weren’t even sure what you were apologizing for yet—everything, perhaps, or maybe just for breaking down in front of her. “I didn’t mean to... ruin this moment.”

Mrs. Kim frowned, her brow creasing with concern, but her voice was as gentle as ever. “Ruin it? Sweetheart, no. What’s this all about?” She gave your arms a reassuring squeeze. “You can talk to me.”

Her kindness was unbearable, and for a moment, you debated whether you could hold back the truth just a little longer. But you knew deep down that this wasn’t something you could keep running from. Not here, not with her looking at you like that, so full of empathy.

“I...” You hesitated, your voice cracking. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Mrs. Kim stepped back slightly, her hands still hovering near yours as if to reassure you she was listening. “Go on,” she urged gently.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and tight. “Namjoon and I... we-” The words were so heavy; it felt like they might crush you if you said them out loud. “We’re not... what you think.”

Her expression didn’t falter, but there was a brief flicker of confusion in her eyes. She waited, patient but curious, as you tried to gather your courage.

“What do you mean?” she urged softly once you faltered.

“We’re not... a couple,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

The truth was out, raw and exposed, and you braced yourself for her reaction. “This whole thing—it was never real. We just... pretended.”

For the first time, Mrs. Kim’s expression shifted—her eyes widened slightly, but her hands tighten around your arms. She stared at you for a moment, processing your confession, before she took a small step back.

“You pretended?” She repeated, her voice quiet but heavy with meaning on your guilt-ridden mind. “Why would you do that?”

You looked down, unable to hold her gaze any longer. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” you said, your voice breaking. “It started as... as a way to avoid questions. To keep things simple. But then everything spiralled, and now-” You stopped, feeling the tears threaten to spill again. “Now, I don’t know how to fix it.”

Mrs. Kim was silent for a long moment, her gaze thoughtful but unreadable. When she finally spoke, her tone was soft, though there was an edge of disappointment there that made your chest ache. “So, this... this whole time, it was all just for show?”

You nodded.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together before stepping forward again. “I wish you’d told me sooner,” she said, her voice quieter now, but still kind. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but... I can see how much this is weighing on you.”

You looked up at her, surprised by her understanding. “You’re not... mad?”

“Oh, my sweetheart, you are way worse at lying than you think you are.” She squeezed your arms again, this time rubbing her thumbs across your skin as if to bring some feeling back into them.

She smiled faintly, shaking her head. “I’ve had a few suspicions,” Mrs. Kim admitted. “A mother knows, even when her son thinks he’s being clever. But I didn’t push because I thought... well, I thought maybe you two just needed time to figure it out.”

Her words landed softly, but they still carried weight, making your breath hitch. You felt an odd mix of relief and embarrassment—relief that she wasn’t completely blindsided, and embarrassment that you haven’t been as convincing as you’d thought.

“You knew?” you asked, your voice still weak from crying.

Her chuckle was lightly, a sound that was warm but reluctant. “I had my concerns. But I could also see the effort you were making, and I thought maybe it wasn’t my place to pry.”

Her hold lingered on your arms, steady and reassuring. “What I didn’t know,” she continued, her tone softening even further, “was how much it was eating you up inside. Sweetheart, this isn’t healthy—for either of you.”

You bit your lip, her understanding cutting through the storm of emotions inside you. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered, blinking a few tears away. “I didn’t want to deceive anyone. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Mrs. Kim reached up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a fondness that made you want to break down again. “I know that,” she said firmly. “And I believe you. But this is not just about me.”

You look up at her, a flicker of confusion crossing your face as you tried to process her words

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your cheeks for a moment, her touch offering a soothing presence. “It’s not just about me,” she repeated, her voice calm but filled with an unexpected tenderness. “It’s about you. And Namjoon.”

Her words hanging between you like a burden, and your heart tighten once more. “Me and Namjoon?” you echoed, unsure if she truly meant what you thought she meant.

Mrs. Kim nodded, her eyes locking onto yours with quiet understanding. “Yes, you and my oblivious son.”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing as the implication in her words finally settled into place. Maybe, it was the relief of saying everything out loud that washed over you, breaking through the layers of doubt you’ve been carrying.

 It was that relief, perhaps, that loosened the tight grip you’d kept on your emotions for so long.

“But I don’t know if he feels the same,” you admitted, your voice trembling, defences faltering as the words came out. It didn’t even matter that, in saying them, you were all but confessing your own feelings for him. “What if he doesn’t feel that way about me? What if I ruin everything we have?” You glanced away, ashamed of the vulnerability that laced every word, but unable to stop the thoughts from spilling over.

Mrs. Kim’s expression softened further. Her eyes brimming with compassion “Trust me, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, your thoughts a tangled mess of fear and doubt.

She smiled gently, her hand still resting on your cheeks. “You’re not imagining it. Trust me. I’ve seen this before—this shyness, this obliviousness to feelings. It’s from his father. That man was just as clueless when it came to my feelings for him.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her sudden pivot. “Really?” you asked, a faint laugh slipping through despite the swirl of emotions inside you.

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, rolling of her eyes playfully. “I had to practically spell it out for him before he realized how I felt. But once he did...” Her smile softened, nostalgia flickering in her gaze. “Once he did, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind—or mine.”

You bit your lip, the warmth of her story sparking a flicker of hope inside you, but the lingering concerns still clouded your thoughts. “But what if Namjoon’s not like that?” you murmured, your gaze falling to the floor. “I’m scared to say anything and risk ruining the friendship we have.”

Mrs. Kim tilted her head slightly, her expression growing more thoughtful. “Y/N,” she said gently, “Do you know what I noticed about you the first time we met?”

You hesitated, unsure of what she was about to say. “What?” you asked quietly

“I saw the way you looked at him,” she said simply. “It wasn’t just friendship. It was something deeper. Something you probably didn’t even realized yourself yet. And that whole time, he was looking at you the same way. He’s not just your friend. He’s your person.”

Her words hit like a wave, striking a chord in you that you haven’t been ready to confront. Your breath caught, your heart pounding. “You really think so?” you whispered, your voice trembling with equal parts hope and fear.

Mrs. Kim nodded with certainty, her eyes kind and unwavering. “I do. And I’m not the only one who sees it.” She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “I remember Namjoon’s ex—she was a lovely girl, but things always felt… easy to look past. But with you? The way he watches you, listens to you—like he’s waiting for something only you can give him. That’s different. That’s something real.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but this time they weren’t just from uncertainty. A flicker of hope mingled with the raw emotion coursing through you.

“What if I’m wrong?” Your words were soft, almost drowned by the silence around you.

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your arm, a quiet reassurance. “You won’t know unless you talk to him,” she said, her tone gentle but resolute.  “I won’t tell you it’s easy—putting your heart on the line never is. But if you let fear make the choice for you, you might walk away from something really special. And I don’t think he wants that. I don’t think you do either.” She paused, her eyes searching yours, her voice soft but certain— “He loves you.”

Her words settled over you like a warm embrace. It was still terrifying, the thought of baring your soul to Namjoon, but Mrs. Kim’s unwavering confidence— in you, in him—felt like a light guiding you through the uncertainty.

“Go talk to him,” she urged softly, reaching up to cup your cheeks in a gentle squeeze. “Trust me, sweetheart. You’ll be glad you did.”

“I-I will. When-”

“No! Go now!” she insisted with a gentle but determined push, her eyes sparkling.

With resolve that felt both fragile and real, you nodded, inhaling deeply as if to steady the maelstrom inside you. As you peeled off your gloves, a sniffle escaped before you could stop it. You wiped at your eyes, letting out a shaky laugh—half exasperation, half-relief.

Mrs. Kim’s hand gave your arm one final, reassuring squeeze, her warmth lingering even as you turned away.

And then, before doubt could creep back in, you hurried upstairs to the bedroom.

 The door slammed behind you and the echo resounded in the quiet stillness of the room. Namjoon’s head snapped up from the book in his hands, his wide eyes startled by your sudden arrival.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the warm golden light from the lamp next to him casting soft shadows across his face. He had that look of fuzzy contentment he always wore when he was reading—a serene expression you wanted to lock away and hold tight to protect forever. But right now, your own emotions were too unruly to appreciate it fully.

“Do you love me?”

The words burst out of you before you had the chance to reel them back in, your voice shaky and raw as adrenaline still coursed through you. You were a whirlwind—your heart thundered in your chest as you stood there, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes, the weight of the conversation you’d just had pressing heavily on your shoulders. You didn’t even try to give him context first. You didn’t prepare either of you for the leap you were about to take. Instead, you jumped.

Namjoon blinked at you, his lips parting, eyes flitting across your face as he tried to process the question. For a long moment, he looked utterly confused, but then, as if the air between you shifted, something soft and vulnerable lit up in his face. His book tumbled from his hands, forgotten entirely, as he straightened up.

“What…?” he began, tentative and breathless, but you didn’t give him a chance to run, to overthink, to temper his feelings behind those gentle walls he so often built. You had to know. There could be no half-truths now.

“Do you love me?” you repeated, your voice louder this time, more forceful, as every fibre of your being felt like it was burning alive, unravelling at the seams with desperation for an answer. For clarity. For him.

His lips quivered, caught somewhere between anxiety and trust, his gaze searching yours before his answer came in a breathless whisper that shattered you on the spot.

“Yes. Of course, I love you.” The intensity you saw there—the vulnerability, the unmistakable fear —it completely broke the barrier.

Before he could say another word, you surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was desperate, unrestrained, a collision of all the emotions you’d kept bottled up for too long. You slotted your lips against his, connecting in a way that felt as necessary as breathing. The world tilted. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you from unravelling.

Namjoon froze for half a second; you could practically feel the surprise radiate from him. But then, like a lightning strike, his arms were around you, pulling you closer. Close enough that no space for doubt could exist between you. He kissed you back with a fervour that sent a tidal wave of warmth from your head to your toes. His lips moved against yours as though he’d unlocked a secret of his own emotions, pouring them all out into this single moment.

 This confession without words.

Finally, when your lungs screamed for air, you pulled back just slightly, your foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. You could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

“What’s gotten into you?” he whispered, his voice so quiet, as if to speak too loudly might shatter the fragile bubble wrapping itself around you both. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone in the gentlest of touches, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape.

You drew in a trembling breath, your lips grazing his as you whispered, “I… I told your mother everything.”

He froze solid, just like that, and the warmth in his expression flickered with confusion. “What?” he asked, his voice just as soft but now edged with trepidation.

“I told her,” You repeated, your voice steadier this time, though your heart was racing. You pressed another kiss to his lips, unable to fully pull away. “I told her we were pretending. That we’re not really together. How you—how you asked me to lie to her and everyone else.” Your fingers remained clutched in his shirt; your mouth lingering on his, unwilling to part for more than a few seconds at a time.

Namjoon stilled for a fraction of a second, processing your words between the kisses you couldn’t seem to stop. Then his grip on you tightened, as if afraid this was a dream he would wake up from any minute. The hesitation in his posture melted, replaced by something stronger, fiercer—something that matched the irregular rhythm of your own heart.

“Hold on,” he whispered against your mouth, his voice breathless and uneven, “I can’t think straight when you kiss me.”

The vulnerability in that small confession sent a thrill through you, and you couldn’t help the big, silly grin that broke across your face.

“Why’d you tell her?” he asked, his voice softer now, his forehead resting against yours.

You let out a shaky laugh, your eyes dropping to his swollen lips, already wanting to kiss him again. “I didn’t mean to,” you admitted, the words spilling out quickly. “She was so nice to me, and with everything that’s happened—I just couldn’t hold it in. I started crying, and it all came out.”

Namjoon exhaled deeply and, with obvious difficulty, pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze softened, the concern there unmistakable. “What did she say? Is that why you’re crying?”

A watery sniffle escaped you as you tried to explain. “She said you’re oblivious,” Each syllable ghosted over his lips, the space between you nearly nonexistent. You wanted to kiss him again. “And that you get it from your dad.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, but you didn’t stop. “She said she already knew,” you murmured, your voice quieter now, your chest tightening as your fingers traced the warm skin of his neck. “And…” You hesitated, your eyes searching his. “She said you love me.”

You were so close, his breath mingled with yours, the space between you barely more than a whisper.

Namjoon stilled, his breath catching. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, but then something like awe swept over his face, softening every feature. His eyes searched yours, looking for doubt, for hesitation—anything that might suggest you didn’t mean it. But when he found nothing but truth staring back at him, he let out a shaky exhale, his lips parting as though he was about to speak.

He didn’t. Instead, his hands cupped your face, and his lips met yours again, but this time the kiss was slower, deeper, and achingly tender. Gone was the urgency, replaced by something raw and honest. This kiss wasn’t about desperation or pretending—it was about him showing you, with everything he had, exactly how he felt.

This was Namjoon, completely unguarded. And as his lips moved against yours, as his hands cradled you like you were the most precious thing in the world, you felt like it.  

His breath fanned across your skin as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still holding your face like he wasn’t ready to let go. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, slow and reverent, as if memorizing every inch of you.

Neither of you spoke right away. The silence between you wasn’t empty— it was filled with the weight of the past few days, the tangled emotions, the hesitation and longing, all melted into the space between your breaths.

Namjoon swallowed hard.

“I thought I ruined everything when I kissed you.” His voice was raw, unsteady, his hands moving with quiet desperation—grazing your jaw, your neck, brushing your hair away from your face like he needed to see all of you.

You exhaled sharply a mix of exasperation and relief. “I was so sure you regretted it,” you admitted, your fingers restless as they traced along his skin, unable to stop moving, needing to feel him. “God, Namjoon, how could you just shut down like that?”

He swallowed, his gaze flickering with something vulnerable, something hesitant. “I thought you hated me.” The words came quiet but heavy. “I didn’t know how to handle it. I convinced myself that I pushed you away—that I ruined any chance I had of being with you for real.”

 Your breath hitched at the vulnerability that poured out of him. His dark eyes shimmered in the soft golden light of the room; the weight of his emotions etched across his perfect, devastating face.

“Namjoon…” His name quivered on your tongue as the tears came back to your eyes. But it wasn’t sadness that overwhelmed you—it was relief. Relief that the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long had finally found a voice. Relief that you weren’t alone in this freefall of emotions.

Namjoon’s hands still cradled your face, his thumbs brushing circles along your cheekbones like he could soothe all the hurt away. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead in an act so tender that it sent another wave of tears spilling down your cheeks.

“I regret…” He hesitated, his hands angled your face carefully, “I regret not telling you sooner. Not being brave enough to—God, Y/N, I’ve loved you since forever, but I was always so scared. Scared that you’d pull away, that-”

But you never heard the end of it, because your lips were on his again, stopping him mid-sentence, sealing all those remaining words between you. Namjoon���s hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, desperate, as if he couldn’t get enough of you, as if he was trying to make up for all the lost time. The intensity of it all sent a spark through your chest, and when your breath caught, he deepened the kiss, his tongue moving against yours, the world outside completely fading away.

Each movement, each touch was a promise—of feelings so long buried, that suddenly burst to the surface. Everything melted away in that kiss. It was everything and nothing at once, a moment that felt like it could stretch on forever.

Each touch, every breath shared between kisses, sent shivers racing up and down your spine. His lips trailed away from yours for only a moment, long enough to press kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, always returning to your mouth again like you were magnetic. You lost yourself in him completely, in the way his thumb was curling just beneath the collar of your shirt, in the way he tilted his head for a deeper angle and the soft sound he made in the back of his throat when you pulled his lip between your teeth.

His touch, his scent, the way his hands moved with purpose yet a tenderness that was overwhelming—every sensation was overwhelming in the best way possible.

The kiss deepened once more, as if the air itself couldn’t fill the space between you, and all the words you’d both kept locked away for so long were exchanged in every press of your lips.

Namjoon’s hands moved to over your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer, and before you could realize, he turned you two around—your back pressing against the soft mattress of the bed. The sudden movement took you by surprise, but you didn’t protest. If anything, the new proximity only made your pulse quicken, the heat between you both intensifying as he leaned over you, his body hovering just above yours. His breath came in soft, uneven gasps, each one warm against your skin, as if the space between you both was no longer enough. His hands, once resting at your shoulders, now explored lower, tracing the curve of your waist before settling at the small of your back, drawing you closer with a gentle yet undeniable urgency, his hips slotting against yours.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the sensation of his hands on you, the warmth of his touch setting your skin ablaze. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, slipping beneath your sweater and gradually pushing it higher, sending a shiver down your spine. Instinctively, you arched into him—craving more, needing more.

Namjoon’s lips brushed against your forehead, his voice barely a whisper as he said your name.

“Hmm?” you murmured.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Say it back.”

His voice was low, a mix of vulnerability and quiet demand, a plea you just couldn’t ignore.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and your heart swelled with certainty. You reached up, cupping his face gently, your voice steady as you said,

“I love you, Namjoon. I love you too.”

Namjoon’s gaze never left yours, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of desire and tenderness. His lips parted slightly as though to speak, but instead, he closed the distance between you two, kissing you again. His kiss was the perfect answer.

Your fingers knotted in his hair, pulling him closer, and you returned his kisses with equal fervour. A feverish dance, tongues entwined in a desperate attempt to satiate the hunger that gnawed at your very souls.

You ran your hands up the sides of his body, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, memorizing the contours of him as if you could pull all of him into you. Namjoon groaned softly at the sensation, his hands tightening their hold on you as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling yours in a caress that left you breathless.

His lips trailed down to your jaw, pressing over the marks already blooming on your neck, each press searing, sending sparks of need racing through your veins.

He nipped and sucked at your sensitive skin, leaving a few new hickeys as he made his way down to your collarbone. You gasped, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him. The heat between you was palpable, a living, breathing thing that threatened to consume you both.

As if sensing your need, Namjoon leaned back down, capturing your mouth back in a heated kiss. His lips moving against yours, coaxing you open, and you wilfully let him in. You always let him. His tongue slid against yours, stroking, tasting, and you whimpered, clutching onto him.

He swallowed the sound, one hand sliding down your thigh, hooking behind your knee. He dragged your leg over his hip, pressing your core right against his straining erection, and you gasped, breaking the kiss.

 “God, I want you,” he groaned, rocking against you, his hands stroking up your sides to cup your breasts. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. “I’ve imagined this a thousand times, but nothing compares to the real thing.”

 “I want you too,” you confessed. “God, so much” Your breath hitched as his lips found the curve of your throat, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with a slow kiss. Heat coiled in your stomach, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, as if you could fuse yourself to him completely. “I need you, Namjoon.”

But just as his hands moved to the button of your jeans, your senses caught up with you. You suddenly became acutely aware of everything—the fact that this was real, no more unrequited feelings, no more hiding. But just as glaring was the truth that his mother was down the hall. The realization hit you like a cold wave, shaking you, and a wave of panic surged through your chest.

“But baby, there is no way I’m fucking you at your parents’ house,” you said, your voice a soft reprimand, edged with your own personal frustration.

Namjoon groaned, his head falling to your shoulder as he breathed in your scent. “You’re killing me,” he murmured.

You chuckled, the sound warm and breathless, threading your fingers through his hair as he groaned against your shoulder. “I’m saving you from potential lifelong humiliation,” you teased, nudging his cheek with your nose.

Namjoon exhaled heavily, his lips grazing your collarbone one last time before he pulled back, flopping onto his back beside you with a frustrated sigh. “You’re right,” he admitted begrudgingly, rubbing a hand down his face. “But damn it woman … you make it really hard to think rationally.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself up on one elbow as you gazed down at him, taking in the way his chest rose and fell, the way his lips were still kiss-swollen and impossibly tempting, the way his eyes—dark and filled with something deeper than just lust—stayed locked on you.

A slow smile curled at your lips as you leaned down, pressing a soft, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I promise, when the time is right…” Your fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns on his chest, just beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t make you wait a second longer.”

Namjoon groaned again, rolling over to bury his face in the crook of your neck as you giggled. “You’re really going to make me suffer, aren’t you?” he muttered against your skin, kissing it softly after.

You grinned, letting your fingers comb gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Just let me hold you a little longer.”

Namjoon’s voice was a low, almost pleading whisper as he adjusted, shifting until he was holding you tighter, his arms enveloping you in a warmth that made everything else fade away. That made all the waiting and suffering feel like it was worth it.

 That made you start to question your own rule—because you’ve just told this man there would be no sex tonight and yet there wasn’t a single trace of frustration or regret on his face. Just quiet devotion, steady and sure, like holding you was enough.

 His hand splayed across your back, pressing you firmly against him. You melted into his embrace, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It was a comfort, a steady rhythm that calmed the fervour between you. His fingers lightly traced circles on your back, soothing you with every movement.

A small smile tugged at your lips as your fingers idly traced patterns over his skin. “Are you always this romantic?” you murmured, your voice laced with amusement.

Namjoon chuckled, his chest vibrating against yours “I’ve had years to practice patience with you,” he said, his tone filled with fondness, before he took on that familiar teasing expression. “And when we get home,” he leaned in close to your ear, his breath tickling your skin as he whispered, “I’m fucking you against every single flat surface we find.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your heart racing at the challenge in his tone. His expression was playful yet intense, that familiar mischievous spark lighting up his features, making those dimples seem like anything but innocent.

“You better watch yourself, Mr. Kim,” you said, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “I’ve been known to bite back.”

Namjoon’s grin widened as his hands sliding down your hips, fingers pressing into your skin before giving them a firm squeeze. In one fluid motion, he pulled you up slightly, adjusting your position—just enough for you to feel the hard imprint of his cock against you.

 “I’m counting on it,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a brief but heated kiss.

“Namjoon…”

His name left your lips in a breathy whisper, and Namjoon’s grip on you tightened ever so slightly, his fingers pressing into your hips like he was grounding himself—or maybe like he was trying to keep himself from losing all control.

“Yeah?” he prompted, his voice lower now, rougher, his lips hovering just over yours.

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up at him, taking in the way his pupils had blown wide, the way his chest moved with each heavy breath, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, like he was trying to steady himself—like he was barely holding on. You had always known Namjoon was dangerous in a hundred different ways, but this? The way he looked at you.

This was something else entirely.

A smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as you slid your hands up his chest, resting them over his racing heartbeat. “I think you might be a little obsessed with me,” you teased, arching a brow.

Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he let out a low chuckle. “You’re just now figuring that out?” he mused, his thumb stroking absentminded circles against your skin. Then, his expression shifted, something softer blooming beneath the heat in his gaze. “You have no idea.”

Your chest ached at the sincerity in his tone, at the weight of his words, and suddenly, the teasing faded from your mind entirely. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his jaw as you murmured, “Tell me,” the words barely audible, even to your own ears. “Tell me what you want.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, his pupils blown so wide that for a moment, they hid the hazel entirely.

“I want to feel every inch of you” he murmured, his voice rough. “I want to taste you, touch you, tease you. I want feel you trembling in my hands.” You shivered, despite the warmth of his embrace, a small gasp escaping your lips at his words.

His smile was immediate—wicked and knowing—as his hand slid under your shirt, fingers tracing your spine with deliberate slowness, sending sparks dancing beneath your skin.

“You want that, don’t you?” His voice was nothing more than a low, sinful whisper that completely ruined your panties.

 “Want me to take you apart, baby girl?”

The words settled deep in your core, a slow burn spreading through your veins, igniting something primal. Your fingers curled against his jaw, your breath hitching as his hand continued its slow, torturous exploration beneath your shirt, carefully tracing the outline of your bra.

“Say it,” he teased, his lips brushing against yours, teasing but never quite closing the distance. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Namjoon…” you breathed, but he was quick to assure you.

“I’ll behave. Don’t you worry.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears, heat pooling low in your stomach as you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want it.”

His responding groan was deep, guttural, vibrating through your entire body as his grip on you tightened. In one smooth motion, he rolled, pinning you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his thigh sliding between yours.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as his lips trailed down your jaw, past the sensitive spot below your ear, down the column of your throat. “Now let me make you feel good.”

“Namjoon!” you tried, but you heard him hush you before his tongue flicked over your pulse point, his teeth scraping lightly before he sucked, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. His hand slid higher, pushing your shirt up, exposing more of your skin to the cool air as his lips followed the path his fingers had blazed.

“Namjoon-” His name was half a gasp, half a plea, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it was the only thing anchoring you.

“Hold that thought,” he murmured, suddenly pulling back. The warmth of his body vanished as he sat up, pushing himself off the bed.

You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. For a second, you thought he was walking away, and your protest was already forming—until you saw him stride toward the door.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

Then you heard it. The soft click of the door’s lock sliding into place.

“Really?”

He smirked, sliding a knee back onto the mattress, his hands gripping your ankles and slowly dragging you toward him. “I’m not taking any chances,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement and something deeper.

The heat in his gaze was enough to make your breath hitch, but you couldn’t resist pushing him just a little more. “And here I thought you had some self-control”

Namjoon’s hands slid up your legs, his fingers kneading into your thighs as he leaned in close, his breath hot against your lips. “Baby,” he rasped, tilting his head slightly. “I locked that door because I have self-control. Otherwise, you’d already be a mess underneath me.”

“Joonie,” you groan, the bright red blush burning your face as you cover your face with your arms.

Namjoon chuckled softly at the sight of you hiding behind your arms, his hands gently pulling them away to reveal the rosy flush spreading across your cheeks. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as his breath stirred the hairs on your neck.

“Tell me, how set are you on that rule of yours?” His voice was low, a teasing growl that sent a hot shiver down your spine.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the rapid beat of your heart. His proximity was intoxicating, and despite the rules you’d set, the temptation to surrender to him was almost overwhelming.

You met his gaze, eyes filled with a mix of defiance and desire. “I… I meant it,” you murmured, your voice a little shaky despite your attempt at sounding firm. “I’m not fucking you tonight.”

Namjoon’s lips quirked into a smile, though it was anything but innocent. “I know that.” His fingers danced along your skin, barely touching, just enough to make you ache for more. “But I can touch you right?” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear again.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you were unsure of what to say, before:

“We have to be quiet.”

Namjoon’s smile grew, but there was a sharpness to it now, a hint of challenge. He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours, “Easy.”

His hand moved lower, fingertips skimming over your waist, leaving goosebumps in their wake, his touch light yet electrifying. The contrast between his playful demeanour and the raw desire in his eyes made your pulse race.

You bit your lip, trying to hold onto your resolve, but the temptation of his touch, his proximity, was slowly unravelling you. “You’re making this harder,” you managed, though it was more of a breathless confession than a statement of resistance.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked up to yours, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to send heat pooling in your belly. “I haven’t even started yet,” he murmured, his breath hot against your lips. “But I’ll make sure you’re quiet.”

You shivered at his words, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. His proximity, the heat of his breath on your skin, and the way his hands were moving lower, this time unbuttoning your jeans, had you teetering on the edge.

“Namjoon...” you whispered, voice shaky, but his fingers moved to the zipper, steady and sure, making it impossible to think clearly.

“Shh…” he hushed you softly. “I’ve got you.”

The simple reassurance sent a rush of heat through your chest, your heart pounding in your ears.

With practiced ease, his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your abdomen. You let out a gasp, your eyes fluttering closed as you savored the sensation. Namjoon’s hands moved lower, cupping your ass through the fabric of your pants. He squeezed gently, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You have such a nice ass,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

A quick giggle escapes your lips, your eyes meeting his. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you replied, your voice just as low and breathless. He grinned, his fingers moving to the hem of your pants. With slow, deliberate movements, he began to slide them down your legs, revealing the thin fabric of your lacy underwear underneath.

 You felt a rush of embarrassment at the sight of your arousal seeping through the fabric, but Namjoon didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying it. His fingers deliberately pushing your thighs apart once your jeans were discarded off somewhere behind him, taking his time to admire you.

“Did I ever tell you you’re beautiful?” You tried to respond, but it came out as a gasp as his fingers slid higher, teasing the lacy edge of your panties. He didn’t push them down, just tracing the material, letting you feel the heat of his touch through the thin fabric. Your fingers curled into the sheets, trying to anchor yourself in the sensation, but your body was reacting on its own, pushing further against him

His fingers moved, testing, teasing, until you’re squirming under him. “Namjoon,” you whine, your hands fisting in the sheets.

But he just smirks, “So impatient,” he teases, his hands sliding further up, brushing over your wet core through the fabric, his fingers catching over your clit and making you gasp breathlessly.

“I’ve barely started and you’re already desperate for me.” His words send a pulse of heat through you and you bite your lip hard, fighting back a moan. He chuckles, his fingers pushing against your entrance as if he wasn’t testing your patience already.

 “Shh, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire, mock-hushing you before pushing your panties aside, his fingers sliding through the slick heat gathering there. “Fuck. You’re so wet for me already,” the hot exhale of his breath making you clench around nothing.

 He dragged his fingertips through your wetness, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch that had you writhing beneath him again.

“Please...” Your fingers scrabbled uselessly at his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and dragging him closer. “Namjoon, my love...”

He silenced your plea with a searing kiss, tongue delving past your lips as he finally breached you with one long finger. Your moan swallowed by his mouth, hips lifting to take him deeper. The stretch was exquisite, pleasure spiking through you at the curl of his finger, quickly finding that spot inside that made you see stars.

Namjoon swallowed each and every needy sound spilling from your lips, his mouth devouring yours with a hunger that left you dizzy. He pushed another finger in, fucking you slowly, maddeningly, the wet squelch of your arousal obscene and too loud in the quiet room, mixing perfectly with your muffled moans.

You were lost to sensation, a writhing mess beneath his ministrations. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders, his hair, any resolve you could find. He held you down with his weight, drinking down every whimper and gasp his fingers drew from you. His rhythm perfect, each push making you feel lightheaded, the pads of his fingers brushing against that spongey spot, making your keen in pleasure.

Your nails raked down his back at the same moment his thumb found your clit, and you sob into his mouth, orgasm cresting hard and fast, the most delightful buzz settling at the base of your spine. Namjoon smothered your cries, taking everything, you gave him, fingers never ceasing their relentless rhythm. His thumb was a steady pressure on your clit, drawing out your climax until you were boneless and shiver beneath him, your whole body convulsing.

Only then did he pull back, lips red and slick with saliva, a knowing smirk playing over them as he took in your dazed, sated expression. “I knew you’d be a good girl for me,” he purred, fingers still toying with your over-sensitive flesh, drawing out a weak whimper from you

“Nam- A-Ahm...” you groan, thighs snapping shut around his hand, trapping it in place. His amused chuckle vibrated against your skin.

As your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “Think you can let go of my hand now?”

You were a flushed, trembling mess, your eyes still hazy as you gave a small, stubborn shake of your head. “Mmm… no.”

Namjoon huffed a quiet laugh, his free hand brushing your hair back from your face. “And why not?”

“You’ll tease me again.”

His grin was all mischief. “Smart girl.”

Namjoon’s grin didn’t waver as he shifted slightly, his trapped hand flexing against your thigh. “And yet,” he mused, voice low and knowing, “you’re still holding me there. Almost like… you want me to keep teasing you.”

You pouted, pressing your legs together even tighter, as if that would stop him, just a second before you forced yourself to let go. “Give me 5 minutes.”

“Isn’t that the guy’s line?”

You groaned, turning your face into the pillow to hide your growing smile. “Shut up,” you mumbled, your voice muffled but still laced with lingering pleasure.

Namjoon chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, and you could feel the warmth of his gaze lingering on you. He shifted effortlessly, hover over you, his free hand smoothing over your thigh in slow, absentminded strokes, a quiet reminder he wasn’t done with you. Or maybe, just maybe, he was as desperate as you were. Despite the tension building between you both, he still focused entirely on you—your needs—even though you hadn’t given him any release yet. It was as if his sole concern was your pleasure.

Still, he wore a look that told you he would willingly let you ruin him, and then thank you afterwards.

You peek your head up, meeting his heated gaze through hooded eyes, a mischievous glint in your expression. A teasing smile tugs at your kiss-bruised lips. “Take your shirt off,” you purr, voice low and sultry.

Namjoon’s smirk deepens at the unexpectedly bold request, and the look in his eyes suggests he’s more than willing to comply. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, “Bossy.” His voice was thick with amusement, but there was no hesitation in his movements.

He sat back, lifting his arms to pull the fabric over his head with smooth, practiced ease. The moment his shirt hit the floor, you couldn’t help but take in the way the muscles in his chest and arms shifted as he moved. The sight of him, bare and exposed in front of you, sent a wave of heat coursing through your body, pooling between your thighs.

You swallowed, your breath catching at the intensity of his gaze as he leaned back over you, his hands now skimming over your body, tracing the outline of your form. “Better?” he asked, his voice low, each word thick with a mix of flirtatious edge and raw, aching need.

You bit your lip, feeling the pulse of your desire as you nod slowly. “Much better.” Your hands tentatively explore the newly exposed skin of his chest, mapping the hard planes and dips of muscle. A surge of gratitude washes over you as you realize the band-aid Namjoon had chosen for your cut now allows you to glide your fingertips over his heated skin without restraint.

Namjoon watches you through half-lidded eyes, his lips parting on a soft exhale as your fingertips brush over a sensitive spot. He catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, voice rough with want.

“I haven’t even started yet.” You tease, trailing your fingers down his chest to his stomach, following the defined V of his muscles down to the waistband of his sweatpants, where your fingers hook in the elastic. Namjoon’s sharp inhale was more than enough encouragement. You trace the waistband of his pajama pants, feeling him shift under your touch, before dipping your hand beneath the fabric to wrap your fingers around his length. Suddenly feeling even more grateful that it wasn’t your dominant hand that had been injured today.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Fuck is right. Damn it. You were totally on track—he was massive.

He was hot, silk over flame, and so very big in your hand. You stroked him base to tip, more to size him up, but instead marveling at the way he stirred against your palm.

Namjoon groaned, head falling back against the pillow, hips canting forward. “Oh baby”

You shivered at the guttural sound, circling your hand around him, almost getting your fingers to meet.

His cock twitched in your hold, a drop of precum welling at the head. You thumb the slit, smearing his precum down his length, before pulling your hand up to spit on it.

“God, you’ll kill me.”

You met his gaze through your lashes, quickly returning to your task, pumping him with slow, teasing strokes. Your free hand came up to cup his heavy balls, rolling them in your palm.

He cursed under his breath, hips rocking into your grip.

Namjoon’s hands fisted in the sheets on either side of you, breathy groans spilling from his lips as he softly guided your ministrations, showing you how he liked to be touched. Namjoon’s eyes stay locked on yours, even as they glaze over with pleasure. One of his hands finds your hip, gripping tightly as he guides your movements. “Don’t stop,” he pleads, voice strangled. “I’m close.”

You doubled your efforts, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, giving his length a squeeze, before running your thumb over his head, teasing the slit.  

Namjoon is practically panting now, his face etched with strain as he chases his release.

“Come on,” you whisper, your other hand joining the first, one hand around the base, the other cupping his heavy balls. “Let go. I want to feel you.” He barely has a chance to register your words before he’s coming with a low groan, his head burying in your neck and biting hard against your shoulder to try and keep quiet, which in turn makes you gasp. Still, you stroke him through it, milking every last drop until he’s a boneless, sated mess, his full weight crushing you.  “Fuck, babe,” he praises breathlessly, shooting you a lazy, satisfied smile. “You’re amazing.” He tugs you up, capturing your lips in a languid kiss. You melt into him, your hand still wrapped around his spent cock, enjoying the little aftershocks that continue to make him twitch.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmur against his lips, feeling your heart swell.

Because despite the pleasure, the heat, this—this moment right here, of feeling utterly connected—that’s what you craved.

Namjoon pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes soft. “I love you,” he admits quietly, like it’s just a simple fact. Like you both haven’t been fighting it for year.

You know your eyes are shining, but you don’t care. “I love you too.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you let him sweep you up in the feeling, in the moment. because right now, right here, tangled in his arms and the sheets of his childhood bedroom is exactly where you’re meant to be.

After a few lazy minutes, Namjoon shifts, prompting you to release him. You bring your fingers to your mouth, languidly licking them clean as a low moan escapes you, savouring the salty essence of him that explodes across your tongue.

“Fuck. Love, don’t do that. You’ll get me hard again.” He chuckles breathlessly, dropping light kisses across your face. “As much as I want to go for round two, I think we both could use a shower first”

Namjoon slides out of bed, extending his hand toward you with a playful grin. “Come with me? I’ll even wash your back.”

You raise an eyebrow, looking at him sceptically. “That shower is tiny, and in case you didn’t know, you’re huge.”

Namjoon laughs, clearly unfazed by your complaints. “I’ll make it work,” he says with a wink, his grin widening. He gave your hand a gentle tug, urging you to follow. “Besides, I’m pretty good at fitting into tight spaces.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “You’re impossible.”

He smirks, pulling you up gently by the hand. “Come on, let me prove you wrong. Besides, I think we both could use a little water to cool down.” His voice softens, a hint of seriousness underlying the playful tone.

You give in, following him with a small sigh, knowing very well that that you willingly played right into his plan.

[mortallydeepestobservation]

Buckle up my sweet child. It tends to get worse before it gets better 🌿🪴

But fear not, they are both very much oblivious but in love 🥰

Enjoy and thank you for reading!

(Can’t wait for the reaction to the rest lol— its always so cool to see the things that stick out to people. Love interacting with you guys✨💖🥹)

The holiday pretense -1-

Summary: Namjoon has never been a fan of the holidays. In fact, he could list more things that sucked about ‘The most wonderful time of the year’, than things that brought him joy. Yet, beneath his cynicism, a flicker of hope appeared this year, as the faint scent of homesickness hung in the air.

Unfortunately, there’s one tiny little thing that keeps him from calling home- his lack of a girlfriend.

But fear not; this holiday season, Namjoon’s smart mouth gets him in a situation where he has no choice but to approach you- his longtime friend and roommate- with an unexpected request.

Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: fake-dating, friends to lovers/roommates to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff. Rating: explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: every single trope in the book; but with a twist. Dialogue heavy. OC is really bad at lying, anddd… I didn’t write in literal years so yeah, this is gonna be fun. And I know I am literally that meme rn, the: summer is over-skips straight to Christmas. But do you have any idea just how slow I write? Yes. It is a warning. Smut warnings: to be added~ Word count: Chapter 1-9k Credits: this was literally one of those ‘if no one is going to write this, I will’ because there are not enough friends-to-lovers Namjoon fics out there. And none (that I know of) where the main character feels bad for lying to his family when pretending to date him. This work would not have been possible without the very kind and patient @callmenoona25, who not only helped me beta-read but also served as a guiding light during those moments when I wanted to rage-delete everything. Thank you for all your help! (and please keep helping me coz idk what I’d do without your constant encouragement) Author's note: again, I didn't write in 8-ish years, so this is very very scary. Add in a dash of 'English is not my first language' and you get whatever this is. enjoy. Merry Christmas. part 2: here

Ah winter, the most wonderful time of the year.

The season when the air is crisp, and the city gets blanketed in thick, white snowfall. When the satisfying sound of crunching snow accompanies every step and every word transforms into nothing more than a puff of steam dancing through the chilly air.

When Mariah Carey’s voice echoes in literally every store for an obnoxious 24/7, as if she has some kind of personal vendetta against silence…

When the heating bill increases by 37%, and it takes an extra 15 minutes for the heater to kick in and for the hot water to grace the showerhead. Ergo, Namjoon now has to wake up half an hour early if he wants to take a shower and not freeze half to death during the day, because the landlord was adamant that there was nothing to be done about the situation.

But it wasn’t all bad.

Sure, Namjoon was never one to possess the so-called Christmas spirit. In fact, he was known to be a bit of a grinch among his friends.

Jin, in particular, enjoyed telling anyone who would listen about their first Christmas at college, when Namjoon adamantly refused to help him decorate the tree after begrudgingly lugging it to their shared apartment.

And most years Namjoon’s lack of enthusiasm for the season was palpable. While his friends reveled in the cheerful atmosphere, he somehow managed to remain detached and aloof, his grinch-like demeanor becoming a defining characteristic, much to the amusement of his companions.

However, there were still aspects of the holiday that Namjoon couldn’t help but secretly enjoy. The food, for instance, was undeniably good. Although the movies were mediocre and the music overplayed, he still found himself humming along to Winter Wonderland whenever it played. And the energetic buzz that seized his friends was no doubt contagious;

This year, before he could even process it, he was dubbed designated fairy-light fixer, the judge of the ugly sweater contest (solely because he had the audacity to show up wearing a black hoodie) and somehow promised Jungkook to help him pick up gifts for his mom, his cousin, and girlfriend.

And now, with the holidays looming just around the corner, and the entire city buzzing with chatter about family feasts, romantic rendezvous, and the art of gift-giving, Namjoon couldn't help but feel a little pang of longing. It had been a solid two years since he last set foot in his hometown, and the melancholic urge to return home seemed like the only logical response to it all.

Or maybe he just needed a vacation…

But there was just one thing that kept Namjoon, a logical being, from making that phone call home.

He knew that part of the reason behind his mother’s question was for organizational purposes, yet he couldn’t help but notice the mischievous twinkle in her voice each time she sweetly asked:

“And are you coming alone?”

Few things managed to irk him as much that specific question in that specific context. And even with countless nights analyzing the emotions it stirred within him, Namjoon found himself very stupidly replying with:

“Uhm, no actually-” despite being painfully single, and fully aware of it.

Following that, the hope of regaining any sensible thought was gone as a chorus of ecstatic comments erupted form his mother’s end of the phone. With a hurried, “Can’t wait to see you, yeah, love you too,” he was left in the suffocating silence of his bedroom, with a new predicament he needed to solve.

Now, let’s not forget, Namjoon is no ordinary man. He possesses a brain that could rival Einstein’s, and he knows all too well that he could simply call back and clarify that his plus one is as real as Santa Claus.

But Namjoon doesn’t half-ass anything. He full-asses it.

That and showing up alone would undoubtedly result in his mom’s attempts to play matchmaker. And if he were to show up alone, after lying about it, well, he might as well prepare for an arranged marriage.

Namjoon sighed as he looked at his phone. He couldn’t understand why his mother had this new found obsession with his relationship status. Especially after she witnessed just how bad his last one ended. Now sure, he may have taken the whole ‘healing-era’ to a bit of an extreme, seeing as he had no relationship, no situationship and no inclination to entertain any romantic thoughts whatsoever. But this was getting ridiculous. Lying to his own mother?

Perhaps he could ask his assistant to pretend to be his girlfriend for the week? No, that wouldn’t work. She mentioned she was hosting the Christmas dinner this year. And it would involve more explanations to HR than it’s worth…

And he couldn’t overlook the fact that her fiancé would most certainly not be amused by that idea.

Just as he was about give up and plunge into another rabbit hole of despair, the solution to his problem came accompanied by the familiar sound of glass smashing in the kitchen.

You.

You would be perfect.

Most people already assumed you two were dating, seeing how seamlessly you fit yourself into his life after moving in.

And last he checked you couldn’t make it home because of some pesky law-jargon issues that required your presence at the office. And changing your flight to a few days later cost you an arm and a leg, while changing it to January was completely free.

And last he checked; you were just as chronically single as he was. (He knew because your last date was so disastrous that he had to abandon his gaming night and rescue you from the restaurant).  

Another crash in the kitchen summoned him back into action. Swiftly snatching his hoodie from the designated clothes chair and making his way to you, detouring only to retrieve the medical kit from the bathroom.

He was quick to spot you, still clad in your work attire, crouched besides the counter, diligently sweeping the stray glass shards of what used to be an ugly mug. His eyes involuntarily wondering towards your ass, once again marveling at how flawlessly you wore that office skirt before snapping himself out of it.

“And I believe that evens out the score, seeing as I only broke a plate, and you killed two mugs this season” he declares, ensuring you weren’t bleeding before abandoning the first aid kit on the counter to fetch the trusty vacuum cleaner.

It was standard procedure by now.

“You also managed to break the microwave, so the title remains yours,” you grumble as you rose to your feet, a smile unconsciously tugging at your lips when you caught sight of his charming dimpled face. “Hey there.”

“Hello,” he replied, giving you a swift once-over in case he missed any hidden hemorrhages “what happened?”

“It just jumped out of the cupboard when I opened it,” you gestured towards the dust pan, as if to prove the cup suddenly acquired acrobatic skills before its untimely demise, causing him to break into a grin “I’ll get you a new one.”

“No worries, it was a gift form an ex, and it was hideous anyway.”

As he vacuumed the area, you disposed of the glass, making sure it wouldn’t slice through the trash bag like last time.

Once the kitchen was safe again, you returned to your previous task, grabbing a new cup and casually turning your back to him.

" Do you want to try an unreasonably expensive hot chocolate with me?" you playfully suggested, catching his eye as he noticed the purple tin on the counter, adorned with a big red bow, alongside a very generic Christmas card.

"Secret Santa?" he inquired back, picking up the card, already aware of the answer to your question.

Unconsciously, he began mentally listing reasons why you would make a good fake girlfriend. Topping the list was your uncanny ability to understand him without lengthy explanations. And it was all quite digestible, wasn't it? Two long-time friends and roommates, thrown together by chance, suddenly discovering hidden feelings for each other?

All his friends seemed to have unanimously agreed that the two of you would make a splendid pair, back when you met, when his roommate, Jin, started dating your roommate, Myeong.

 On their inaugural date, Myeong, in a fit of paranoia, asked you to tag along, in case her potential lover turned out to be a serial killer. And Jin, ever the considerate soul, felt compelled to invite Namjoon, not only to spare you the agony of being the third wheel, but also in the hope of pulling Namjoon out of his dating slump. Not that you would ever notice, as you were knee-deep in exam session, sleep deprived and buried in a mountain of law books.

Poor Namjoon somehow ended up carrying the weight of being third and fourth wheel simultaneously.

But you eventually made up for it, once your exams were over and had a proper 18 hours of sleep.

In no time you wiggled your way into his heart, transforming those awkward double dates into enjoyable hangouts. You’d spend countless hours discussing everything from books to the latest plot twists in popular dramas, to sharing dreams, fears and hopes.

As Myeong and Jin’s relationship blossomed, they gradually faded into the background of your outings, until they were eventually excluded all together. And neither of you seemed to mind, as you found it easier to focus on your conversations without their constant chatter.

That and they couldn’t be quiet in movie theatres like decent human beings.

It was during one of these outings that Namjoon realized just how alluring he found you. The way your eyes lit up when you laughed at one of his jokes made his heart race. Your sharp mind and wit were a match made in heaven for him. And your ability to render him speechless was both infuriating and exhilarating.

But Namjoon also knew that you were deeply committed to your studies, and he didn't want to do anything to distract you from your goals. So, he held back, admiring you from a distance and hoping that someday things might be different.

And as time passed, and he graduated, he came to terms with the fact that you two would never be more than casual friends.

Little did he know that the universe had its own wicked sense of humor. When fate decided to play its sly hand and leave you virtually homeless, because your respective roommates decided to take the next step in their relationship and move in together.

It was only logical, then, for the two of you to shack up as well. After all, you were friends, both neat freaks, and most of all, desperately in need of a roommate.

“The roommate switch”, as Jimin so eloquently put it.

And thus began the most wonderful living arrangement Namjoon ever experienced. Not that he would never tell Jin that.

Suddenly, his bathroom cabinet resembled a Bath and Body works store, and your pink pots and pans had taken over his kitchen. But he wouldn’t mind, seeing that the cooking interdiction was extended, once Jin started recounting all the times Namjoon almost turned their previous apartment into a bonfire during your housewarming bash.

However, you never scolded him for his butterfingers because, truth be told, you had your own healthy dose of clumsiness, (the cup chilling in the trash an indisputable witness to it).

It was quite refreshing to find someone who shared his knack for dropping things.

And he made up for all the free meals by taking care of the dishes. He even went above and beyond by meticulously following the odd care instructions for your fancy pots.

And the rest of your household chores fell into perfect harmony.

 He willingly handled all the ironing, including your own, simply because you couldn’t be bothered. In return, you would dutifully clean the lint tray in the dryer, even when it was his turn to do the laundry, because he found it absolutely disgusting, and you couldn’t resist the opportunity to gross him out.

It suddenly dawned on him why all his friends were convinced that you two were together. He was smitten with you, after all.

But again, time has worked its magic! His infatuation had been long departed, so he could proceed with his plan and not let it affect your friendship in any way, shape or form!

“You know, I never quite understood the purpose of Secret Santa,” you confessed, pulling him out of his thoughts. “I mean, sure, it makes sense in a small group where you can actually get to know the person and buy them something nice. But in a corporate setting, where you’re thrown together with people from different departments, it makes absolutely no sense!” you spoke with passion, even stirring the milk a little harder, causing an impish smile to dance across his face.

“Because you end up with situations like this, where creepy Greg from the watercooler suddenly feels the need to win my graces and splurge on stupidly expensive hot chocolate.”

Namjoon was familiar with your HR endeavors involving Greg, especially after he hit on one of your colleagues.

“Do you want to know how much this monstrosity costs?” you asked, trying to contain your amusement at the sheer absurdity of it all. Pouring the cocoa into the milk and placing the mugs in front of him, you couldn’t help but grin.

“Surprise me,” Namjoon took a sip, which he regretted because he choked once you answered,

“Sixty dollars!”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous” he coughed, once he regained control of his lungs.

The hot chocolate was nice, but nowhere close to justifying the hefty price tag. For all he knew, it could have been dollar store cocoa. But your contagious laugh made it all worthwhile, and he couldn’t help but think that maybe Greg deserved to lose his Christmas bonus on overpriced cocoa that you both would mock.

“Tastes like cardboard” you concluded after a mouthful, “maybe it was meant for that hideous mug your ex gave you,” you teased, earning a puzzled look. “This has horrible taste,” you tack on, noticing his raised eyebrow “just like your exes.”

“I’m not sure if I should be offended by that,” he replied, feigning offense.

“Well, they did break up with you, so clearly their taste is questionable,” You ruffled his hair as you walked past him, your cocoa abandoned on the table.

This wasn’t uncommon in your friendship. Afterall, you were his biggest supporter, as he was yours. But now, with the odd favor he was about to ask you; he couldn’t help but ponder your words for longer than usual. Until he heard the door to your room close and he realized he was left alone in the kitchen.

“Any updates on that flight of yours?” he asked, shooting a glance towards your door. Perhaps the universe would take pity on him and spare him the embarrassment he was dreading.

“Still in January!” you hollered back, your voice muffled by the commotion in your room.

“Ah, cool, cool…” he muttered under his breath, more to psych himself up and gather the courage needed to go over and make a complete fool of himself.  

“Are you still planning on heading home?” your voice was barely audible amidst the movement, so he walked over and propped himself against your door to keep the conversation going.

“Yeah, that’s the plan.” He replied absentmindedly massaging the back of his neck.

Not unless he can find a girlfriend for the week.  “Hey,” he continued, his voice devoid of any moisture, “can I ask you a favor?”

The door swung open, almost causing him to stumble, to reveal you, wearing pajama bottoms and a black tank top, clutching one of his sweaters.

“Depends.” You answered flatly. “Mind if I borrow this?” you gestured towards the sweater, awaiting his nod of approval before slipping it on and sauntering past him to claim your usual spot on the couch. With your feet cozily tucked under the cushion, you scrolled through your phone, probably looking up another horrible movie you’d force him to watch. Oblivious to the fact that you ticked off another item on his mental checklist: looking damn good in his clothes.

“Okay” he took a deep breath and settled down beside you, his posture impeccable and his gaze fixed on the blank tv screen. You glanced over intrigued by his sudden shift in behavior.

“This is going to be weird, and you can tell me to fuck off any moment this makes you uncomfortable. And I promise I’ll never bring it up again, and we can pretend this never happened,” he stumbled over his words, a stark contrast to his usually calmed and composed demeanor.

Your mind raced, conjuring up the worst-case scenarios as you slowly set aside your phone, captivated by every word leaving his mouth.   

Was he about to kick you out?

That only seemed to aggravate whatever Namjoon was on, as he continued to mumble, insisting that you didn’t have to agree to it if you didn’t want to. Which didn’t make any sense, because if he was going to kick you out, he should at least have the balls to tell you straight forward.

You gently collected his hands, causing him to halt abruptly. His wide eyes finally locked with yours as you softly uttered “Just tell me.” You peered up at him, bracing yourself for the worst, and completely unprepared for what was to follow.

“Will you please do me a solid and pretend to be my girlfriend for a week?” he stammered, unable to maintain eye contact, his voice fading into a whisper towards the end.

“What?”

“I might have told my mom I’m in a relationship, and now I desperately need a stand-in girlfriend for the next few days” he confessed sheepishly, quickly adding, “But seriously, if you’re uncomfortable with this, just say the word and we can erase this whole conversation from existence.”

“Oh my goodness, Namjoon,” you breathed out in relief, a laugh escaping your lips as you rested your head on his lap, leaving him even more perplexed. “I thought you were kicking me out.”

“What?” he chuckled, watching you raise a few seconds later, rubbing your eyes before fixing your gaze on him, contemplating his request.

“How can you be so brilliant and so dumb at the same time? Just call your mom back…”

“No, you don’t get it. I can’t do that. If I do, she’ll set me up with the neighbor’s daughter again” Namjoon explained, clearly not in the right mindset to entertain that idea again.

“You want me to lie to your mother?” you asked incredulously.

“Please don’t phrase it like that.” he covered his face, deflating completely besides you.

“This is essentially what you are asking me to do... I don’t know how that makes me feel. Your mom, by the way, is an absolute sweetheart…” you trailed off, observing him intently as he brushed away the hair in his eyes.

You didn’t get to know her too well, but the last time she visited she made sure to stock up your whole fridge with homecooked meals. And to top it off, she even baked cookies especially for you once Namjoon mentioned he had a new roommate.

The discussion, however, took a bit of an unexpected turn when she realized the roommate was you. A girl and not another frat guy. But she quickly developed a fondness for you. Or at least, that’s what you believed when she gave you the tightest hug goodbye.

“I know. It’s a stupid idea.” He muttered, rubbing his face a bit harder than necessary. Then he locked eyes with you and continued. “I am well aware of how dumb this is. And that is exactly why I need you there with me.” His statement left you dumbfounded, completely unable to find any words. “I just want to go home and relish in the fact that I am there without constantly worrying about being single.” he took a shaky breath before continuing,

 “I can’t comprehend why my mom is so fixated on this matter.” He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “I just need someone to navigate this absurdity with me for the holidays, and then we never mention it again.” 

His little speech left you stunned, and before you knew it, you were actually considering his proposal.

 Your Christmas plan was already ruined, and agreeing would mean that you would not be confined to your couch, enduring cheesy Hallmark movies and crying alone on Christmas eve.

Moreover, you were convinced that you had moved on from the little crush you had on him back when you met. Refusing still to admit that you’ve always had a soft spot for the gentle giant that slowly became a staple in your life, and that spending the holidays with him would be the best scenario that could ever happen.

But could you make it through this without getting your heart trampled and your friendship going up in smoke? As these thoughts started to swirl in your mind, your eyes began to wander aimlessly. From his eyes to his chiseled cheekbones and strong jawline, down to his neck and collarbone, and finally to his impressively muscular chest that seemed to only have grown since he started attending the gym religiously with Jungkook. And not to mention those arms that give the most incredible bear hugs. It was strange to allow yourself to notice his physicality in such detail, as if you had been willfully blind to his newfound buffness until now.

“Forget it, I’m sorry I asked,” he said, sensing your hesitation and preparing to end his suffering. But you stopped him in his tracks.

“If we are going to do this, we need a plan.” His eyes light up, color returning to his cheeks, before he squeezed you in a tight embrace “and just so you know, you owe me,” you laughed once he released you.

“Yes, yes, of course, whatever you want.”

“You take out the trash for a month,” he was too quick to nod “and I want you to take me to that bakery you and Jin always rave about.”

“Ajumeoni’s bakery?” he smiled at your request. That was the bakery Namjoon visited with his sister every Friday as a child, and every other day with Jin, on their way to school, because the milk bread was to die for. “Of course. It’s already part of the commute, so consider it done.”

“Good. We have a deal then,” you extended your hand as if sealing a business agreement, instead of setting yourselves up for a disaster. He reciprocated with a firm shake, and you swiftly retrieved your notepad from the coffee table. “So, what’s the plan?”

“Well, let’s establish a few key details about us. We need to become well-acquainted with each other’s personal preferences, so it doesn’t come across like we are just… pretending” he looked over at you as you scribbled.

“I mean, it’s a digestible story already. Two oblivious roommates, suddenly realizing they have feelings for one another after living together for years.” You mused, only to be met with his response.

“And once this is all over, we can simply tell everyone that we figured out we were better off as friends than lovers,” he pondered aloud.

“Right,” you replied, looking up from your notebook “How long have we been dating?”

“Anywhere from three to six months” he promptly answered and you jot it down before firing off your next question.

“And why haven’t we told any of our friends and family?”

“To avoid the inevitable ‘I knew it!’ and because we like the trill of keeping a secret.”

“Fair enough,” you chuckled “So, how did we get together?”

“You finally realized how charming I am and just couldn’t contain yourself?” he flashed a cheeky smile and you playfully deflect by giving his chest a gentle push.

“How about your birthday party?” you offered “We were both buzzed enough to share a kiss and then you confessed?”

“Why do I confess?” he whined, peering over at your notebook page where you already wrote down your version of events.

“Because I’m shy about that kind of stuff” you mumble, burying your face in the cozy confines of his sweater, avoiding any potential eye contact.

 “That’s adorable,”

“Shut up.” You chuckle “Alright, is there anything I should know about you?”

“I’m not a big fan of PDA, especially when we’re out and about, so don’t expect me to be all over you.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “But since we’re going home and pretending to be a couple, what level of affection are you comfortable with?”

“Well, I’m comfortable with you,” you cleared your throat, that bit of information being more truthful than intended “we can hold hands, and do normal couple stuff.”

“How do you feel about kissing?”

“Well, yeah, sure,” you responded nonchalantly, eyes fixating on the notepad in your hands.

A mischievous grin played on his lips as he teased, “Good, because I happen to be quite fond of leaving hickeys.” That broke you out of your little spiral, rolling your eyes at his poor attempt.

As if you weren’t already aware of this tidbit from his past conquests during your college days, before you two became roommates.

“You do know this is all pretend, right?” you retorted, refusing to take the bait.

“Oh, but baby, we’ve got to make it feel real,” he insisted, his tone dripping with charm. However, it did nothing to sway your logical approach to it.

“Right, ‘baby’” -you said it as if it was a legal term, “any preferences for pet names?”

Your serious charade did little to detour him. “Just promise me that our interactions won’t be like Jin and Myeong’s.”  He smiles, eyes twinkling with mischief.  “And surprise me, I’ll be putty in your hands.”

“So, you are not set on honorifics. I can call you Oppa if you want,” little did you know, your innocent suggestion struck a hidden chord within him. A new kink that needed further assessment later on, preferably after this week was over.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said, clearing his throat and reclining against the couch. “Anything I should know about you?”

You pondered his question for a few seconds, allowing a sly smile to play your lips. “I don’t like feet.”

“No duh!” he laughed, shaking his head in disbelief, before regaining his composure. With a meticulous air, he went over all the details once more. “Ah, you need a new background on your phone.”

 Swiftly, he snatched your phone form the coffee table, catching you off guard, and planted a quick kiss on your cheek before snapping a selfie. “Perfect,” he declared, a proud smile spreading across his face as he set the picture as your home screen and background, leaving you to gather your frenzied thoughts.

“But wait, you also need a new photo,” You retorted, only to find him already one step ahead, pulling out his phone from his pajama bottoms and scrolling through his camera roll.

“Done.” He announced, turning his phone towards you to reveal the horrendous picture he had chosen as his own home screen. 

 A candid shot he took during your last year at college, on one of those late-night noodles runs to the local shop next to the library. You were draped in an oversized hoodie, greedily slurping a mouthful of noodles. With eyes blissfully shut, you savored every bite, as it was your first meal of that day, completely oblivious to his hidden photography skills.

It wasn’t until you accidentally stumbled upon your caller ID that you saw it and naturally, grabbed the nearest pillow and hurled it at him, demanding an immediate change. But he stood his ground, claiming it was his favorite photo of you.

Claim proven yet again as now it was Namjoon’s home screen.

“I hate that photo.”

“I know.” He gave a smile, before safely tucking his phone back in his pocket, and rose to his feet, stretching leisurely. “I think we are good to go, girlfriend,” he said it in such a way that sent a swarm of butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “I’ll go book our train tickets, and you better start packing soon,” he playfully pointed at you, before gracefully disappearing into his room to retrieve his laptop.

“Oh, wait, I need to get a present for your mom!”

~~~

Before the train even arrived in the station, the sky was threatening to unleash upon you. The air filled with delicate snowflakes, determined to bury you, Namjoon, and your luggage.  But it was yesterday’s conversation that still lingered in the atmosphere, weighing heavy on both your minds.

The darkness of the night had given you both time to process what was about to unfold. Your only anchor on reality being Namjoon’s surprisingly warm hand clasping your freezing one, and tucking it away in his warm coat pocket.

And the fact that he looked like he just strolled out of the latest winter Vogue edition for men didn’t help. While you attempted to make a lasting impression, donning a cream knitted dress, black stockings and boots, topped off with a cream coat, that was far too flimsy for the weather, Namjoon effortlessly sported a navy-blue hoodie, snug jeans and a stylish black trench coat, and even a matching beanie that made his hair look absolutely flawless.

But beyond his impeccable fashion sense, he also proved to be quite the gentleman. Not that you ever doubted it, but now he seemed determined to showcase his chivalry. He wouldn’t even let you lock the door to your own apartment. It was a miracle he allowed you to carry the bottle of Chardonnay you insisted on getting his family, despite his protests that it wasn't necessary. You slightly regretted it now, seeing as your other hand was enduring the elements, instead of being intertwined with his.

“You have snow in your hair,” you pointed out, stating the obvious with the brilliance of a water-is-wet revelation.

“As do you.” he looked up from his phone, where he was engrossed in checking the train’s schedule for any potential delays. “And your lips are blue.” with a swift motion, he untangled his scarf and gently draped it around your freezing form. Something he had done many a time before, anytime he saw you slightly cold, but never before had you considered this gesture to be more than your friend looking out for you.

But today, things were different. Today you were pretending to be his girlfriend.

The sudden surge of warmth that enveloped you left you wondering if it was due to all your blood rushing to your cheeks or his scarf possessing some sort of magical heating abilities.

“It says here that the snow storm shouldn’t intervene with the scheduling, so the train will be here in a few minutes.” He looked up again, a cheerful grin appearing across his features as he caught sight of your pink face. “Aw you’re blushing again,”

“Shut up.” you retorted with the quick-wittedness of a third-grader.

“If I would have known it was this easy to make you flush, I would have made my fictional moves much sooner.” His voice did that thing again, where it went slightly deeper and, only the look in his eyes ticking you off to his teasing.

Your only response was to nervously nibble on your lip. Again, the realization that you are about to deceive not only his mother, but his entire family nestle in your chest, squeezing at your heart like a snake wrapped around it.

“Namjoon, I’m not sure about this.” you confessed, pulling the scarf closer to your face. It was a bit late to be getting cold feet, but this was your last opportunity to speak your mind before embarking on this little ordeal. “I don’t think I can pull this off.”

“Come on now, aren’t you an intern at a law firm?” he raised a playful eyebrow, attempting to ease the tension, but you only glared at him.

“I can’t lie.” You stated firmly “I’m the absolute worse at it. That is why I always find alternative ways of convey the truth. That’s what lawyers do. We don’t resort to lies.”

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he quickly apologized, before falling silent for a few seconds to ponder a solution. "Okay, listen. You don’t have to say anything."

"What do you mean?" you looked up at him, a hint of skepticism in your voice.

"I can take care of all the relationship talk, and I won’t say anything unless prompted.” he replied, trying to inject a touch of wit into his response. “Afterall, you are just my friend that just happens to be a girl.” He playfully wiggled his eyebrows at you “And I want you to spend Christmas with me and my family instead of being alone at home.” Namjoon gave you a sincere smile, and you couldn’t help but smile back, feeling the grip on your heart slightly loosen.

“Okay,” you gave a small nod “Thank you Joon.”

The nickname slipped by unnoticed, but you noticed the way Namjoon reacted, rekindling your burning cheeks.

“So, no Oppa?”

When your train arrived, Namjoon swiftly took charge, effortlessly carrying all the bags to your seats, settling in comfortably for the four-hour journey ahead.

He had come prepared, armed with at least three books to keep himself entertained, while you had grand plans of getting a head start on your work, perhaps even sneaking in a personal lecture and a quick power nap. However, much to your surprise, the allure of a nap quickly surpassed all other ambitions, your head found a cozy resting place on Namjoon’s shoulder, and you drifted off into a blissful slumber for the remainder of the journey. A sleepless night imagining what it would be like pretending to date your roommate could do that to you.

Only stirring awake when you were less than a few minutes away, because Namjoon was constantly shifting in his seat, half of his body numb from your weight on him.

“Oh hey,” he whispered, swiftly stretching his legs as soon as you moved off him. “I just spoke to Minhi, she said she’d come pick us up from the train station,”

“Oh, that’s nice.” you yawned, rubbing away any remnants of sleep from your eyes “You could have told me to move, you know.”

“Yes, but you looked so peaceful. It felt almost wrong to disturb you.” He grinned, fully aware that he also indulged in a little nap, using your head as a pillow just half an hour ago.

“Shut up,” you whispered, poking his thigh and retrieving your makeup bag to quickly fix your face before the train pulled up in the station.

The frigid air pierced through your very bones, sending an instant shiver cascading down your spine as you stepped into the snow filled air. You pull your coat tighter around yourself, trying to ward off the cold as you looked around for Minhi, seeing as Namjoon was on luggage duty again.

However, before you could spot her, Minhi’s voice sliced through the chilly air,

“Kim Namjoon, you have got to be kidding me.”

Namjoon’s little sister, all bundled up in a thick winter coat had fixed you two with a piercing stare, her hands on her hips in a classic display of sibling disapproval. 

Namjoon’s wonky smile did nothing to deter her piercing gaze, or calm any of your fraying nerves. “It’s good to see you too?”

You feel your heart drop as Minhi's gaze shifts from her brother to you, her expression a mix of confusion and suspicion. Your worst fears are confirmed - she's figured you out and you haven’t even been off the train for 5 minutes. Now Namjoon will be married off to some rich middle-aged woman and you'll never be able to look him in the eye again.

 You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, and you look away, silently praying that the snow beneath your boots doesn’t melt into a puddle while she stares.

But then, unexpectedly, Minhi starts to laugh. At first, it's a quiet chuckle, but soon it grows into a full-blown laugh. She laughs so hard that she has to hold her stomach, and at the end she wiped an imaginary tear from the corner of her eye.

“You two are perfect for each other,” she says still chuckling “Fine, I’ll play along. How did you two end up together?”

“Got drunk one night.” Namjoon casually replied, rubbing the back of his neck before wrapping his arm around you, “Turns out all I had to do was say something, because she was all over me the next second.” 

Minhi raised her eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Right,” She hugged Namjoon tightly, and then turned to you, surprising you with a warm embrace. She muttered something about Namjoon never confessing his feelings in your coat, but you were too busy drowning in a whirlwind of confusion and relief to register it.

“We'll talk more later about how inappropriate this is." She added cheerfully, beckoning you to follow her towards her little yellow jeep, bright against the snowy backdrop.

You look back at Namjoon just in time to catch him winking in your direction and giving you a thumbs-up that sent your heart whirling in your chest.

 The car ride was over faster than you would have wanted. Minhi navigated the snow-laden road while she and Namjoon chatted away about mundane topics—work, rent, the best coffee in town. You sank deeper into the backseat, overwhelmed and lost in your thoughts. Because What the hell was that and If this was how you were kicking things off you might as well turn around now. Was it just fear of ruining the friendship or was an old crush budding again? The way he ‘claimed’ you in front of Minhi clearly ignited something in your chest that was not appropriate for friends or roommates or roommate-friends pretending to be dating.

As if sensing your turmoil from the front, Namjoon caught your eyes, giving you a gentle, reassuring smile before the car came to a halt. He gallantly opened the door for you, his hand grasping yours and squeezing it tightly.  

 “I got you, baby,” he says, teasingly, but the poorly-timed joke earns him an immediate glare and an elbow to the ribs.  

“Oh, come on. They are lovely people.” Minhi interrupts before Namjoon can retaliate, “You should’ve seen the way mom was dancing around the kitchen once she heard Namjoon was bringing someone over.”

You just blink at her, your breath misting in the air as you unconsciously step closer to Namjoon, giving him a small nod of support. His presence radiates warmth, his fingers tightening around yours as you walked towards the small house that looms in front of you. Minhi ambles ahead, dropping her bag near the entrance, while you could practically feel Namjoon vibrating with excitement.

“Someone’s in trouble” She whispers dramatically, letting you both into the warmth of the household, where laughter and the mouthwatering scent of home-cooked food intertwine. You follow her into the kitchen and you see the older couple husting about, half-focused on a pot bubbling over the stove and half on each other.

“Mom! Dad! Look who I’ve brought!” she announces, and the couple turned, smiles blooming as they spotted you and Namjoon.

For a fleeting moment, you felt exposed. Like an exhibit at a museum, thrust into the spotlight. Your breath hitched as Namjoon gently nudged you forward, a gesture both comforting and terrifying, but steeling yourself, you bravely stepped ahead, bowing as a sign of respect.

“I knew it!” The affectionate glow sweeping across Mrs. Kim face relaxed your nerves considerably, “I’m so glad you could make it!” her eyes sparkled with genuine delight, and you suddenly realized that Namjoon inherited his dimples from her. But the thought was quickly squeezed out of you as she enveloped you in that bone-crushing hug.

Namjoon’s father, a tall elderly man with kind eyes, patted him on the back. His approval apparent, before he turned his attention to you, “Welcome to our home,” he said warmly.

“I’m honored to be here.” You managed to respond, your voice quacking slightly but laced with sincerity. You heard Minhi groaning in the background but did your best to ignore her exaggerations and focus only on Namjoon’s parents, as you exchanged the required pleasantries.

“Dinner is almost ready,” Mrs. Kim said, bustling around the kitchen with effortless grace. The contrast between her elegant movements and Namjoon’s clumsy demeanour in the kitchen made you smile inwardly “I hope you’re hungry.”

“Yes, we didn’t get a chance to eat today,” Namjoon added quickly, casually leaning against the counter and stealing a taste from the simmering pot.

“I’ll call you over once it’s done. Go show our guest to your room until then,” Mrs. Kim commanded, expertly shooing him away from the stove and passing plates to Minhi.

“My room?” Namjoon echoed, his eyes widening as if the concept had floored him.

“Yes, dear. I know we are old-fashioned, but we are not under any illusions that you two don’t already share a room.” Mrs. Kim replied, stirring the bubbling pot without sparing him a glance.

Minhi shot you a look that was equal parts amusement and something you couldn’t quite place—sympathy, perhaps? Or pity?

“Yes- No. I just thought that it would be more appropriate to let her have the guest room,” Namjoon articulated, his voice half-hearted in its conviction.

Mrs. Kim merely cooed, waved away his protests with a flick of the wrist. “Minhi and Jackson are staying in the guest room. You can have your room.”

“Come on, Namjoon. You always make everything so complicated,” Minhi chimed in, her voice laced with mischief. “Just accept it. You guys will have an entire night to sort things out, right?”

“Right.” he grumbled, shooting her a glare that softened as he turned his gaze back to you “Let’s get you settled in,” he gestured for you to follow him.

The moment you step into Namjoon's room, a charged silence enveloped you- like the kind that proceeds a brewing storm. The room was exactly as you imagined, a blend of cooler minimalist décor and hints of his personal touch, a few pieces of art and pictures hung up on the wall, all whispering tales of youth, friendship and moments you yearned to know more about.

But all those sweet memories fade into the background as the reality settled in: there was only one bed.

“So, let me get this straight,” you began, the awkwardness hanging heavily in the air “You thought about everything, including phone wallpapers, but forgot you only have one bed in your room?”

“No, of course not.” He lied, that endearing grin spreading across his face. “I just thought it would be polite to let you have the bed… since you’re my guest.” He seemed genuinely proud of the excuse, but that pride melted when you teased,

“Before or after you plan for the guest room fell through?”

“After.” He admitted at last, glancing away, as if the walls held all the explanations he could not muster.

“Don’t tell me you planned on sleeping on the floor too,” for a brief moment the ridiculous image of him curled up on the hardwood floor, blankets draped haphazardly around him pops into your mind, and you couldn’t help but giggle.

“No.” He smiles, “I knew you’d take pity on my lower back,” his dimples deepened and you playfully rolled your eyes at him.

“Very strategic Mr. Kim,” you laugh, walking further into the room and taking a seat on the edge of the bed. The playful banter creating a familiar atmosphere, dissolving any lingering tension. A part of you almost couldn't believe you were in Namjoon’s personal space, taking your sweet time admiring the various little parts of him decorating the room, while another part was acutely aware of his gaze on you, observing you as if he were trying to read your thoughts.

He stepped closer, his expression sincere, drawing you in gently as he took your hands in his. “Are you sure?” The tentative nature of his voice hinted at a deeper question—he was about to add an ‘I was only joking’—but you quickly shushed him.

“Yes, of course.”

There were a few past occurrences where the two of you ended up falling asleep together on the couch, limbs tangled under the fuzzy throw blanket, with a movie playing in the background. Without fail, one of you would wake up in the morning to find the other wrapped around them, as the night was chilly and body heat was a rare luxury. Most of the time it was Namjoon that dozed off first, his head lolling in an awkward position until you gently nudged him into a more comfortable posture, knowing he’d whine about neck and/or shoulder pain come morning time if you didn’t. But his lug of a body was always warm, so you didn’t mind snuggling closer to him when it mattered.

This was more of the same. Just in a bed.

You swallow drily, eyes flickering away for a quick second, “I told you, I’m comfortable with you.”

“Come on, lovebirds!” Minhi’s voice rang through the door, breaking the spell. “Dinner’s ready!”

You shared a hurried glance, perspectives shifting as the familiar nervousness rushed back to you.

“Ready?” he asked, his smile spreading across his face, deepening the dimples in his cheeks as he tugged you up to your feet. You nodded, suddenly buoyed by a sense of belonging.

To your surprise, dinner goes by without a hitch. You may have gone a little overboard on the kimchi, but it wasn’t anything you wouldn’t recover from. However, the warmth of Namjoon’s hand resting softly on your thigh might etch itself into your memory for all time.

Halfway through the meal, Jackson showed up, and you got to observe with amusement as Minhi transformed in his presence, her demeanor shifting from the laid-back hostess to a giddy schoolgirl. The way she playfully nudged Jackson, her eyes sparkling each time she teased him, be it about his late arrival or some inside joke, was a refreshing sight. And you couldn’t help but snicker each time Mrs. Kim would chastise them, before dotting lovingly on anything you and Namjoon did together.

As the lively conversation flowed around you, you leaned into Namjoon’s warmth. It felt easy, and so right to nestle beside him, to let your fingers brush against his with familiarity, each touch igniting tiny sparks. You stole a glance at him, watching as he engaged wholeheartedly in the conversation, his contagious laughter filling the room.

After dinner, you offered to help Mrs. Kim clear up the table, even if it was to get a second to clear your thoughts, but to your surprise, Mr. Kim placed a soft hand on your shoulder, smiling, as he gently guided you back to your seat.

“You’ve done enough, dear,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring “We appreciate your help, but tonight is for you and Namjoon to enjoy.” He gave you a kind nod, and you felt your cheeks warm.

“Yeah, there will be dishes tomorrow too,” Minhi interrupted, getting a heartfelt laughter from her father before he left the room, to join his wife in the kitchen.

You shared a sheepish glance with Namjoon, who watched the exchange with an amused smile. His eyes twinkling in the soft light of the dining room, and you felt your heart pick-up the pace in your chest again. You really needed to get away, perhaps splash some cold water on your face. But just as you felt the urge to excuse yourself, you overheard Jackson's whispered confusion.

“Wait, so they’re not actually dating?” His voice was muted, and laced with confusion as he looked between you and Namjoon, his eyes wide with bewilderment.

“Kyung Min!” Namjoon called Minhi by her full name, which made her owlishly blink up at him.

“What? He asked how long you two have been dating for,” she defended.

“And you couldn’t just say three months, like a normal person?” Namjoon shot back, half laughing, half exasperated and watched as her brows knitted.

“No! He deserves to know.” She persisted, glaring at her brother, and you felt the heat crawl up your neck, trying desperately to remain inconspicuous under Jackson’s incredulous stare.

“So how exactly does this work?” Jackson asked, stopping the siblings from their bickering “Is it like friends with benefits or-?” just when you thought it couldn’t get any more awkward, the sip of water you took ended up going down the wrong way, making you choke and sputter.

“No! it’s nothing like that.”  You stammered, trying to form a coherent thought, but all you could manage was a mangled mess of words.

“No babe, they don’t even kiss,” Minhi added, placing her hand over his as if she were breaking some bad news.

But Namjoon reacted with the prove-your-sibling-wrong part of the brain, making you stare at him in disbelief.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but we do.”  

And your pulse picked up again when you saw him leaning in, the implication clear in your mind. You steeled yourself, closing your eyes. But to your astonishment, he didn’t press his lips against yours as you had envisioned. Instead, they grazed the curve of your cheek, followed by a loud, exaggerated kiss.

“I’m confused.” Jackson mumbled, looking over at Minhi as she rolled her eyes.

“You’re not the only one.”

~~~

Why didn’t he just kiss you?

The thought still lingered stubbornly at the edge of consciousness, even as the icy water from the shower jolted you into the present. You fumbled with the knobs, trying to figure out the right temperature, but your mind was elsewhere.

That scene kept on replaying on a constant loop in your head, each time leaving you just as stumped.

What stopped him?

You talked about this- he brought it up! And you agreed, so what was the hold-up? Was he really so uninterested that the mere thought of kissing you sent him into retreat mode?

Frustration bubbled up alongside the steam, and you invertedly cringed at the image of his nervous smile that still haunted you, his eyes darting away. Scrubbing harder at your skin, you wish the shame and embarrassment would simply wash away with the suds.

And the absurdity of getting worked over your friend not kissing you was not lost on you, but at least if he had gone for it, you might have been able to push that nagging question aside ~What would it be like to kiss Namjoon?  

His lips looked so soft, like they were meant for more than just talking…

You violently shook that thought away, and with a resigned sigh, you turned the water back to cold in an attempt to wash away your sins. Friends don’t kiss!

And he clearly wasn’t interested, so the sooner you silence these thoughts, the sooner you could go back to being normal. Just four more days of pretending to be his girlfriend. You could manage that. And after, you promised yourself you’d lock yourself in your room and avoid human interaction for rest of your miserable life.

As the water continued its relentless pour, you felt your fingertips start to wrinkle, a reminder that perhaps it was time to step out of this session of self-pity. With one last shudder, you turned the water off, determined to face the world- if only for a little while longer.

When you stepped out of the bathroom, the soft glow of a lamp illuminated the room. Namjoon was already tucked into bed, gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose as he quietly looked over the pages of a book. Only, in reality he hadn’t been able to absorb a single word in the past fifteen minutes, his gaze lost in a world of his own.

Silently, you made your way to your side, wrapping yourself in the blanket and turning your back to him. A slight shiver coursed through you as you felt the warmth envelop you, the little tremor alerting Namjoon to your presence.

“Why are you so cold?” he asked softly, shifting slightly closer to you.

Your heart thudded at the caring tone, and for a moment, all the questions crowd your mind again.

Instead of answering, you huffed in frustration and turned to face him.

“Why didn’t you kiss me?” the words blurted out before you could stop them, surprising you both with their boldness, but your face flushed when you met his gaze.

Namjoon’s eyes widened, and he froze, the book forgotten on his lap. “I-I don’t know.” He stuttered, his hand running though his tousled hair, the soft strands falling back in place but not hiding the flush creeping up his neck. You watched the muscles in his jaw tense, eyes averted again in a way that tightened your stomach.

“It would’ve convinced Minhi sooner,” your added, your words hanging heavy in the air. Namjoon chuckled awkwardly, running that same hand down his face.

“You want me to kiss you?”

You hesitated, the corners of your mind fanatically searching for a safe answer

“I’m just saying it would’ve made things easier,” you deflected, avoiding his question much like he had done moments before.

He studied you for a moment, gears visibly turning in his mind before his lips curved into a small, daring smile. “Because I can kiss you if you want.”

Your breath caught in your throat, surprised by the sudden shift in tension.

“Now?” you breathed.

“Why not?” he shrugged “We’re both clearly anxious about it, so why not just get it over with?”

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, lost for words, staring up at him. All the courage from before evaporating into thin air. You quickly searched his features, seeking the playful glint, the laughter behind his eyes, but instead, his eyes just flickered from yours to your lips.

“Do you want to kiss me?” you finally found the words, and his eyes snapped back to your own.

“I think it would make things easier going forward,” he replied, his voice low and earnest.

A heavy silence settled between you, stretching like an elastic ready to snap at any moment, as snowflakes continued to drift outside, dressing the world in white.

You took a deep breath, “Fine.” Ultimately you mumbled, sitting up against the headboard and turning to face him.

“Are you sure?”, The way he phrased it made your stomach flop, as if he were validating a choice that seemed both reckless and somehow still challenged you.

“Yes, now stop talking and just-” The words were lost as the space between you disappeared. But now you knew; his lips were soft, warm and tentative against yours. It felt wonderful, and sent tingles shooting through your veins while your heart tried erratically to catch up. He hesitated for a heartbeat- less than a fraction of a second- before he leaned further in, deepening the kiss, his hand coming up to cradle your cheek. And you soften against him, all the tension melting away. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping lightly as if anchoring yourself amidst the storm of emotions that released once you tasted his mint toothpaste.

When he finally pulled back, both of you gasping for breath, the world resumed its muted noised- the quiet hum of the heater, the faint sound of voices downstairs, Namjoon’s breath against your lips. You could hardly meet his eyes, until you heard the first thing that left his lips.

“I just kissed you.”

Your eyebrow arched, blinking at him as if waiting for the punchline that never came.

“I know. I- was there too.” You replied, a little smile creeping on your face despite the rapid thump of your heart. Namjoon laughed softly; his cheeks still tinged with a shade of pink. “You’re a good kisser.” You added after a few beats of silence, before chewing on your lip, and unintentionally drawing his attention back to them.

“You too,” He gave a curt nod, remembering he has a book on his lap and fumbling to bookmark and put it away.

Another moment of silence followed once he settled back, and your eyes desperately scanned the walls for something, anything to say.

“This isn’t weird, is it?” you settled on the worst option, slightly cringing.

“No!” he answered louder than he anticipated, slightly shocking you which in return startled him. “I mean-” he let out an exasperated breath, “Friends kiss all the time.”

He didn’t believe it. And neither did you. But you still nodded in agreement.

[mortallydeepestobservation]

nothing but great news this valentine OMG first xo kitty s3 and now an update for thp aaAAAAAAaaAAAaa I'm so excited to read ch 4!!!!!!!!!!!

Hope you enjoy it love!!! ❤️ 💖

Glad inspiration and love is in the air lol

[mortallydeepestobservation]

Can’t wait to hear what you think of it ✨🥹

The holiday pretense -4-

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

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

That wasn’t a flaw—it was a quirk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it wasn’t. It could never be.

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

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

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

“Namjoon-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “I should’ve known better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was too late.

The damage had been done.

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

 The words felt useless. Hollow.

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

He had no defense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the kiss. Good god, the kiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’d ruined it. Whatever it had been…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What mattered was the escape, however temporary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s fine,” you grumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon was avoiding you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 But you never got a chance to dwell on it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You quickly turned away.

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

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

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

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

But then it all came crashing down. Hard.

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

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

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

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

“I really want to kiss you right now”

The jerk. Asshole. Playboy!

If only any of those words actually described him…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I said I’ve got it, Namjoon!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namjoon followed without a word.

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

God damn it all.

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

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

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

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

“Fuck. Ouch”

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

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

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

“You’re not.”

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

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

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

“Namjoon,” you warned.

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

“Let me,” he said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hating him?

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

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

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

So he did think it was just a mistake…

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s okay. I’m a big boy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe because it is.”

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

And damn him, because that was somehow worse.

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

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

That undid you more than anything else.

Because you knew he meant it.

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

“I hate lying to your mom.”

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

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

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

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

But you weren’t.

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

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

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

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

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

That was what you always did.

So, you did it again.

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

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

“Oh, really?”

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

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

“She’s relentless.”

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

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

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

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

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

 “Of course, I thought about it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think I’d like a cat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We might need a bigger apartment tho…”

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

And this?

This felt like a little bit of both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.”

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.

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

What the hell were you supposed to do with that?

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Last year, he got her personalised socks with his face on them.”

Your laugh came soft and unexpected, spilling out before you could stop it. “Because he likes being stepped on?” you whispered back, your eyes sparkling with humour.

Namjoon smirked, his expression playful, “How’d you know?”

 The shared moment felt light and easy, a pocket of warmth that made you laugh genuinely for the first time all evening. It wasn’t forced or hesitant but natural, like slipping back into an old rhythm.

Namjoon’s eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, his smile softening into something quieter, almost fond.

“I got you something too.” He said, his voice low enough not to carry over the lively chatter around the room.

“You did?”

He nodded, glancing toward the small pile of gifts near the Christmas tree. “It’s nothing huge. Just something I thought you’d like. I can give it to you now if-”

“Wait,” you interrupted quickly, “You already know I got you the book, but let me grab it for you—I’ll be right back” A soft smile tugged at your lips as you hurried off to your room.

Stepping into the quiet space, you let out a small breath, your heart fluttering in a way that felt a little too telling. You rummaged through your suitcase, retrieving the carefully wrapped gift and adjusting the red bow atop the green paper until it was just right.

Taking a moment to steady yourself, you ran a hand through your hair before heading back to the living room. The second you returned, clutching the gift close to your chest, Namjoon’s gaze immediately found yours. His expression was calm, but there was a quiet anticipation in his eyes.

“Got it,” you said softly, holding it out toward him.

His lips quirked into a small smile as he reached for it. In return, he handed you his own gift, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with a pink silken ribbon.

“Now it’s a proper exchange,” he said, his tone light but carrying something more than just casual words.

Glancing down at the gift in your hands, you chuckled when you noticed the little marker doodle next to your name—a quick, playful sketch of a Christmas tree, leaning awkwardly to the side under the weight of a star that looked too big for it.

“Did you do this?” you asked, looking up at him, a playful smile forming on your lips.

Namjoon shrugged, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. “Maybe.”

 His casual teasing made you laugh softly as you carefully untied the ribbon, your fingers grazing the silky fabric as you peeled back the wrapping paper.

And then—you stopped.

The same book you’d gotten him was staring right back at you.

You blinked; your eyes locked on the familiar cover. The exact same book—the one you’d chosen with such care and anticipation—was now in your hands, wrapped just as carefully as you’d wrapped his.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to Namjoon, your mouth slightly agape.

“When we stopped at the bookstore and you told me you got it for me, I almost lost it.” He admitted with a chuckle, easily peeling back the paper from his own copy. “I’ve been trying to hide this in the apartment since it came out.”

He smiled, but as his eyes dropped to cover of the book, something shifted “But the thing is, I got yours signed-”

He paused when he lifted the cover and saw the delicate signature on the first page, resting neatly next to his name.  His fingers hovered over the autograph, a mix of surprise and disbelief flickering across his face. He looked up at you, his expression softening as the realization settled in.

“Wait, this is ridiculous.” He whispered, half laughing, half stunned.

You nodded slowly, a smile tugging at your lips despite the strange twist in your chest. “I thought it’d be a nice touch— God, I spent hours just waiting to get it signed.”

“Same here,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess we both have good taste.”

“You’re telling me,” You huffed, still amused. “We could’ve at least gone together, saved ourselves some trouble.”

“Did you two just get each other the exact same thing?” Minhi’s voice cracked with disbelief—clearly astonished—reminding you both that, yes, there were people around watching.

You and Namjoon exchanged a glance, both still holding identical copies of book in your hands. The absurdity of it all made it impossible not to laugh.

“God you’re disgusting.” Jackson chimed in—like he wasn’t the one who’d bought his girlfriend bobbleheads.

Namjoon chuckled, shrugging nonchalantly, clearly relishing in the banter. “Yeah. We did.”

From across the room, Mrs. Kim, who had been quietly observing, leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, it looks like you two are perfectly matched,” she teased. “Maybe next time you’ll coordinate your outfits as well.”

Mr. Kim, sitting beside her, chuckled and sent a playful wink your way. “Or maybe matching pyjamas?” he suggested, prompting a round of laughter from the group.

Namjoon tilted his head, considering it. “Now that I think about it... matching pajamas could be a vibe,” he mused, throwing you a teasing glance. “We could totally pull it off.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, biting back a laugh. “You’re pushing it.”

Mrs. Kim grinned, clearly enjoying the lighthearted moment. “This is what makes these dinners so special,” she said warmly, leaning into her husband. “Seeing all of you so comfortable with each other.”

Mr. Kim nodded, his lips curving into a fond smile. “It’s these little moments that really count.” His gaze softened as he looked at his wife.

Your eyes met Namjoon’s for a brief moment, like there was an unspoken understanding between you.

Despite everything that had unfolded this week, something inside you resolved. Maybe things didn’t need to be perfect right now. And with time, perhaps you’d find you way back to something resembling normal—whatever that was. For now, this was enough.

“Matching pyjamas it is, then,” you said, breaking the silence.

Namjoon chuckled; his smile genuine.

“Deal.”

As the evening continued, the conversations flowed effortlessly. The soft hum of festive music filled the room, mingling with the quiet laughter of those around you. The glow of candles on the mantle cast dancing shadows across the walls, wrapping the space in a homey warmth.

And for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things between you weren’t as uncertain as they seemed.

~~~

“Mrs. Kim, do you have any dishwashing gloves?” you asked, your hands reaching into a drawer. You didn’t want to risk getting your bandages wet right after Namjoon changed them.

With most of the family retreating to their rooms, you lingered behind, offering to help Mrs. Kim tidy the kitchen. It was a quiet, unspoken way of showing your gratitude for her warmth and hospitality, a small gesture to give back after everything she’d done. Besides, it gave you a chance to clear your mind in the soothing rhythm of cleaning plates and wiping counters.

A form of therapy—you told yourself—just you, the soft hum of the kitchen, and the slow settling of your thoughts.

There was a quiet sense of contentment washing over you, as if the whirlwind of the past few days was finally starting to wane. The trip was nearing its end, and despite the chaos, the awkwardness, and the emotional ups and downs, you’d managed to weather it all. Somehow, with some-god’s grace, you made it through, and that was enough to leave a faint, unexpected warmth in your chest.

“Oh dear, don’t bother with the dishes.” Mrs. Kim said softly, glancing at you over the fridge door where she carefully stacked the leftovers. Her tone gentle, almost pleading, as if she wanted to spare you the trouble. “We’ll take care of them tomorrow.”

You smiled, shaking your head lightly. “I can’t, sorry. It’ll bother me if I don’t.” A light chuckle slipped from your lips as you rummaged through the drawer, triumphantly pulling out a pair of green latex gloves. You pulled them on with a snap, feeling a little silly.

Mrs. Kim smiled at your insistence, moved by the gesture. “You’re so thoughtful,” she said sweetly. “But really, you don’t have to.”

With a soft smile, you picked up a dish from the counter and ran it under the warm water. “Honestly, I don’t mind,” you said, glancing at her. “It’s nice to have something simple to do right now.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

The sound of running water filled the space between you, while Mrs. Kim moved around the kitchen, cleaning and organizing the days messes.

 The evening had settled into a comforting cadence—the soft clink of dishes, the low hum of the refrigerator, and the occasional crackle of the fire still glowing faintly in the next room. Everything felt simple, peaceful.

For a while, the two of you worked in silence, the comfortable kind that spoke volumes without the need for filler words.

After a while, Mrs. Kim paused, setting the dish towel down as she looked at you, her expression thoughtful. “You know,” she said with a soft smile, “I’ve been meaning to sit down and chat with you all week, but Namjoon seemed determined to keep you all to himself.”

You froze mid-rinse, caught off-guard by the shift in her tone. lancing up, you caught the warmth in her eyes, and just like that, the familiar knot in your stomach came back full force. Your grip on the plate reflexively tightened, the ceramic cool against your gloved palm, as you forced yourself to smile politely

“I’m really glad you were able to spend the holidays with us,” she continued, unaware of the shift in your composure. “You make my son so very happy.”

The words hit you like an arrow to the chest, guilt rising right where it struck.

The worst thing was that Namjoon wasn’t there to protect you from yourself. It was just his mother. Her gentle warmth, and the mounting weight of your guilt. The truth of your relationship, —or the lack of—loomed large in your mind, suffocating in its quiet dishonesty.

“You know, I knew from the moment I met you that you two would make a good pair.”

Your body stiffened, her words hanging in the air like an unspoken threat. Despite the warmth in her gaze, kind and sincere, it only deepened the tension coiling in your chest. The sounds of the kitchen, the faint hum of music still coming from the living room—everything else faded, drowned out by the relentless echo of her words in your mind.

A lump formed in your throat, and your grip on the plate tightened as your hands began to shake. The walls seemed to shrink around you, the space too small to hold the enormity of the lie hanging between you.

Her voice, so earnest and trusting, repeated in your mind, each syllable weighted with an affection you didn’t feel worthy of. For a moment, you parted your lips, desperate to respond— to explain, to confess—but the words wouldn’t come. What could you possibly say? That everything she believed about you and her son was a carefully constructed illusion? That this trip had pushed your flimsy connection to its breaking point? That you and Namjoon hadn’t even kissed before this—and when you finally had, it only tangled things further, making you ache for something real, something freely given? But that he didn’t feel the same?

The truth felt like a tsunami too massive and chaotic to contain, too devastating to release. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering between holding back the wave and allowing it to crash down, obliterating everything in its path.

And all you could do was hold on to the plate in your hands, as if it could somehow keep you afloat through it all.

“I think it’s in the way you two-”

But the strain of the day—the strain of everything—became too much to withstand. The fragile hold you’d kept on your emotions shattered, splintering off like glass under pressure. The raw ache you’d buried deep inside surged to the surface, breaking through the thin veneer of composure you’d clung to so desperately as you tried to listen to her.

You blinked quickly, a futile effort to stop as tears began to pool in your eyes. But once a single drop escaped, sliding hot and unchecked down your cheek, another followed, and another, until the flood was unstoppable.

Your trembling lips pressed tightly together to stifle the sobs threatening to spill out, but your shoulders shook, and the quiet tremors of your body betrayed you. The stillness of the kitchen amplified the sound of your shallow, uneven breaths, the weight of everything pressing down all at once.

Mrs. Kim turned sharply at the sound, her expression shifting to concern in an instant, her hands stilling as she looked at you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” She murmured, stepping closer, her voice filled with a motherly warmth that broke you even further. “What’s wrong?” Her cold hands rested gently on your arms, rubbing them affectionately.

And in that moment, you realized there was no turning back.

Mrs. Kim’s voice was tender, laced with genuine worry that only made your heart hurt more. Her hands on your arms felt steadying, but they were also a stark reminder of the fact that you were breaking down.  You tried to speak, to form any explanation, but all that escaped was a shaky breath. The silence between you stretched, and you knew you couldn’t hide behind it much longer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips. You weren’t even sure what you were apologizing for yet—everything, perhaps, or maybe just for breaking down in front of her. “I didn’t mean to... ruin this moment.”

Mrs. Kim frowned, her brow creasing with concern, but her voice was as gentle as ever. “Ruin it? Sweetheart, no. What’s this all about?” She gave your arms a reassuring squeeze. “You can talk to me.”

Her kindness was unbearable, and for a moment, you debated whether you could hold back the truth just a little longer. But you knew deep down that this wasn’t something you could keep running from. Not here, not with her looking at you like that, so full of empathy.

“I...” You hesitated, your voice cracking. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Mrs. Kim stepped back slightly, her hands still hovering near yours as if to reassure you she was listening. “Go on,” she urged gently.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and tight. “Namjoon and I... we-” The words were so heavy; it felt like they might crush you if you said them out loud. “We’re not... what you think.”

Her expression didn’t falter, but there was a brief flicker of confusion in her eyes. She waited, patient but curious, as you tried to gather your courage.

“What do you mean?” she urged softly once you faltered.

“We’re not... a couple,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

The truth was out, raw and exposed, and you braced yourself for her reaction. “This whole thing—it was never real. We just... pretended.”

For the first time, Mrs. Kim’s expression shifted—her eyes widened slightly, but her hands tighten around your arms. She stared at you for a moment, processing your confession, before she took a small step back.

“You pretended?” She repeated, her voice quiet but heavy with meaning on your guilt-ridden mind. “Why would you do that?”

You looked down, unable to hold her gaze any longer. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” you said, your voice breaking. “It started as... as a way to avoid questions. To keep things simple. But then everything spiralled, and now-” You stopped, feeling the tears threaten to spill again. “Now, I don’t know how to fix it.”

Mrs. Kim was silent for a long moment, her gaze thoughtful but unreadable. When she finally spoke, her tone was soft, though there was an edge of disappointment there that made your chest ache. “So, this... this whole time, it was all just for show?”

You nodded.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together before stepping forward again. “I wish you’d told me sooner,” she said, her voice quieter now, but still kind. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but... I can see how much this is weighing on you.”

You looked up at her, surprised by her understanding. “You’re not... mad?”

“Oh, my sweetheart, you are way worse at lying than you think you are.” She squeezed your arms again, this time rubbing her thumbs across your skin as if to bring some feeling back into them.

She smiled faintly, shaking her head. “I’ve had a few suspicions,” Mrs. Kim admitted. “A mother knows, even when her son thinks he’s being clever. But I didn’t push because I thought... well, I thought maybe you two just needed time to figure it out.”

Her words landed softly, but they still carried weight, making your breath hitch. You felt an odd mix of relief and embarrassment—relief that she wasn’t completely blindsided, and embarrassment that you haven’t been as convincing as you’d thought.

“You knew?” you asked, your voice still weak from crying.

Her chuckle was lightly, a sound that was warm but reluctant. “I had my concerns. But I could also see the effort you were making, and I thought maybe it wasn’t my place to pry.”

Her hold lingered on your arms, steady and reassuring. “What I didn’t know,” she continued, her tone softening even further, “was how much it was eating you up inside. Sweetheart, this isn’t healthy—for either of you.”

You bit your lip, her understanding cutting through the storm of emotions inside you. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered, blinking a few tears away. “I didn’t want to deceive anyone. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Mrs. Kim reached up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a fondness that made you want to break down again. “I know that,” she said firmly. “And I believe you. But this is not just about me.”

You look up at her, a flicker of confusion crossing your face as you tried to process her words

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your cheeks for a moment, her touch offering a soothing presence. “It’s not just about me,” she repeated, her voice calm but filled with an unexpected tenderness. “It’s about you. And Namjoon.”

Her words hanging between you like a burden, and your heart tighten once more. “Me and Namjoon?” you echoed, unsure if she truly meant what you thought she meant.

Mrs. Kim nodded, her eyes locking onto yours with quiet understanding. “Yes, you and my oblivious son.”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing as the implication in her words finally settled into place. Maybe, it was the relief of saying everything out loud that washed over you, breaking through the layers of doubt you’ve been carrying.

 It was that relief, perhaps, that loosened the tight grip you’d kept on your emotions for so long.

“But I don’t know if he feels the same,” you admitted, your voice trembling, defences faltering as the words came out. It didn’t even matter that, in saying them, you were all but confessing your own feelings for him. “What if he doesn’t feel that way about me? What if I ruin everything we have?” You glanced away, ashamed of the vulnerability that laced every word, but unable to stop the thoughts from spilling over.

Mrs. Kim’s expression softened further. Her eyes brimming with compassion “Trust me, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, your thoughts a tangled mess of fear and doubt.

She smiled gently, her hand still resting on your cheeks. “You’re not imagining it. Trust me. I’ve seen this before—this shyness, this obliviousness to feelings. It’s from his father. That man was just as clueless when it came to my feelings for him.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her sudden pivot. “Really?” you asked, a faint laugh slipping through despite the swirl of emotions inside you.

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, rolling of her eyes playfully. “I had to practically spell it out for him before he realized how I felt. But once he did...” Her smile softened, nostalgia flickering in her gaze. “Once he did, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind—or mine.”

You bit your lip, the warmth of her story sparking a flicker of hope inside you, but the lingering concerns still clouded your thoughts. “But what if Namjoon’s not like that?” you murmured, your gaze falling to the floor. “I’m scared to say anything and risk ruining the friendship we have.”

Mrs. Kim tilted her head slightly, her expression growing more thoughtful. “Y/N,” she said gently, “Do you know what I noticed about you the first time we met?”

You hesitated, unsure of what she was about to say. “What?” you asked quietly

“I saw the way you looked at him,” she said simply. “It wasn’t just friendship. It was something deeper. Something you probably didn’t even realized yourself yet. And that whole time, he was looking at you the same way. He’s not just your friend. He’s your person.”

Her words hit like a wave, striking a chord in you that you haven’t been ready to confront. Your breath caught, your heart pounding. “You really think so?” you whispered, your voice trembling with equal parts hope and fear.

Mrs. Kim nodded with certainty, her eyes kind and unwavering. “I do. And I’m not the only one who sees it.” She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “I remember Namjoon’s ex—she was a lovely girl, but things always felt… easy to look past. But with you? The way he watches you, listens to you—like he’s waiting for something only you can give him. That’s different. That’s something real.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but this time they weren’t just from uncertainty. A flicker of hope mingled with the raw emotion coursing through you.

“What if I’m wrong?” Your words were soft, almost drowned by the silence around you.

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your arm, a quiet reassurance. “You won’t know unless you talk to him,” she said, her tone gentle but resolute.  “I won’t tell you it’s easy—putting your heart on the line never is. But if you let fear make the choice for you, you might walk away from something really special. And I don’t think he wants that. I don’t think you do either.” She paused, her eyes searching yours, her voice soft but certain— “He loves you.”

Her words settled over you like a warm embrace. It was still terrifying, the thought of baring your soul to Namjoon, but Mrs. Kim’s unwavering confidence— in you, in him—felt like a light guiding you through the uncertainty.

“Go talk to him,” she urged softly, reaching up to cup your cheeks in a gentle squeeze. “Trust me, sweetheart. You’ll be glad you did.”

“I-I will. When-”

“No! Go now!” she insisted with a gentle but determined push, her eyes sparkling.

With resolve that felt both fragile and real, you nodded, inhaling deeply as if to steady the maelstrom inside you. As you peeled off your gloves, a sniffle escaped before you could stop it. You wiped at your eyes, letting out a shaky laugh—half exasperation, half-relief.

Mrs. Kim’s hand gave your arm one final, reassuring squeeze, her warmth lingering even as you turned away.

And then, before doubt could creep back in, you hurried upstairs to the bedroom.

 The door slammed behind you and the echo resounded in the quiet stillness of the room. Namjoon’s head snapped up from the book in his hands, his wide eyes startled by your sudden arrival.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the warm golden light from the lamp next to him casting soft shadows across his face. He had that look of fuzzy contentment he always wore when he was reading—a serene expression you wanted to lock away and hold tight to protect forever. But right now, your own emotions were too unruly to appreciate it fully.

“Do you love me?”

The words burst out of you before you had the chance to reel them back in, your voice shaky and raw as adrenaline still coursed through you. You were a whirlwind—your heart thundered in your chest as you stood there, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes, the weight of the conversation you’d just had pressing heavily on your shoulders. You didn’t even try to give him context first. You didn’t prepare either of you for the leap you were about to take. Instead, you jumped.

Namjoon blinked at you, his lips parting, eyes flitting across your face as he tried to process the question. For a long moment, he looked utterly confused, but then, as if the air between you shifted, something soft and vulnerable lit up in his face. His book tumbled from his hands, forgotten entirely, as he straightened up.

“What…?” he began, tentative and breathless, but you didn’t give him a chance to run, to overthink, to temper his feelings behind those gentle walls he so often built. You had to know. There could be no half-truths now.

“Do you love me?” you repeated, your voice louder this time, more forceful, as every fibre of your being felt like it was burning alive, unravelling at the seams with desperation for an answer. For clarity. For him.

His lips quivered, caught somewhere between anxiety and trust, his gaze searching yours before his answer came in a breathless whisper that shattered you on the spot.

“Yes. Of course, I love you.” The intensity you saw there—the vulnerability, the unmistakable fear —it completely broke the barrier.

Before he could say another word, you surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was desperate, unrestrained, a collision of all the emotions you’d kept bottled up for too long. You slotted your lips against his, connecting in a way that felt as necessary as breathing. The world tilted. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you from unravelling.

Namjoon froze for half a second; you could practically feel the surprise radiate from him. But then, like a lightning strike, his arms were around you, pulling you closer. Close enough that no space for doubt could exist between you. He kissed you back with a fervour that sent a tidal wave of warmth from your head to your toes. His lips moved against yours as though he’d unlocked a secret of his own emotions, pouring them all out into this single moment.

 This confession without words.

Finally, when your lungs screamed for air, you pulled back just slightly, your foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. You could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

“What’s gotten into you?” he whispered, his voice so quiet, as if to speak too loudly might shatter the fragile bubble wrapping itself around you both. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone in the gentlest of touches, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape.

You drew in a trembling breath, your lips grazing his as you whispered, “I… I told your mother everything.”

He froze solid, just like that, and the warmth in his expression flickered with confusion. “What?” he asked, his voice just as soft but now edged with trepidation.

“I told her,” You repeated, your voice steadier this time, though your heart was racing. You pressed another kiss to his lips, unable to fully pull away. “I told her we were pretending. That we’re not really together. How you—how you asked me to lie to her and everyone else.” Your fingers remained clutched in his shirt; your mouth lingering on his, unwilling to part for more than a few seconds at a time.

Namjoon stilled for a fraction of a second, processing your words between the kisses you couldn’t seem to stop. Then his grip on you tightened, as if afraid this was a dream he would wake up from any minute. The hesitation in his posture melted, replaced by something stronger, fiercer—something that matched the irregular rhythm of your own heart.

“Hold on,” he whispered against your mouth, his voice breathless and uneven, “I can’t think straight when you kiss me.”

The vulnerability in that small confession sent a thrill through you, and you couldn’t help the big, silly grin that broke across your face.

“Why’d you tell her?” he asked, his voice softer now, his forehead resting against yours.

You let out a shaky laugh, your eyes dropping to his swollen lips, already wanting to kiss him again. “I didn’t mean to,” you admitted, the words spilling out quickly. “She was so nice to me, and with everything that’s happened—I just couldn’t hold it in. I started crying, and it all came out.”

Namjoon exhaled deeply and, with obvious difficulty, pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze softened, the concern there unmistakable. “What did she say? Is that why you’re crying?”

A watery sniffle escaped you as you tried to explain. “She said you’re oblivious,” Each syllable ghosted over his lips, the space between you nearly nonexistent. You wanted to kiss him again. “And that you get it from your dad.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, but you didn’t stop. “She said she already knew,” you murmured, your voice quieter now, your chest tightening as your fingers traced the warm skin of his neck. “And…” You hesitated, your eyes searching his. “She said you love me.”

You were so close, his breath mingled with yours, the space between you barely more than a whisper.

Namjoon stilled, his breath catching. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, but then something like awe swept over his face, softening every feature. His eyes searched yours, looking for doubt, for hesitation—anything that might suggest you didn’t mean it. But when he found nothing but truth staring back at him, he let out a shaky exhale, his lips parting as though he was about to speak.

He didn’t. Instead, his hands cupped your face, and his lips met yours again, but this time the kiss was slower, deeper, and achingly tender. Gone was the urgency, replaced by something raw and honest. This kiss wasn’t about desperation or pretending—it was about him showing you, with everything he had, exactly how he felt.

This was Namjoon, completely unguarded. And as his lips moved against yours, as his hands cradled you like you were the most precious thing in the world, you felt like it.  

His breath fanned across your skin as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still holding your face like he wasn’t ready to let go. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, slow and reverent, as if memorizing every inch of you.

Neither of you spoke right away. The silence between you wasn’t empty— it was filled with the weight of the past few days, the tangled emotions, the hesitation and longing, all melted into the space between your breaths.

Namjoon swallowed hard.

“I thought I ruined everything when I kissed you.” His voice was raw, unsteady, his hands moving with quiet desperation—grazing your jaw, your neck, brushing your hair away from your face like he needed to see all of you.

You exhaled sharply a mix of exasperation and relief. “I was so sure you regretted it,” you admitted, your fingers restless as they traced along his skin, unable to stop moving, needing to feel him. “God, Namjoon, how could you just shut down like that?”

He swallowed, his gaze flickering with something vulnerable, something hesitant. “I thought you hated me.” The words came quiet but heavy. “I didn’t know how to handle it. I convinced myself that I pushed you away—that I ruined any chance I had of being with you for real.”

 Your breath hitched at the vulnerability that poured out of him. His dark eyes shimmered in the soft golden light of the room; the weight of his emotions etched across his perfect, devastating face.

“Namjoon…” His name quivered on your tongue as the tears came back to your eyes. But it wasn’t sadness that overwhelmed you—it was relief. Relief that the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long had finally found a voice. Relief that you weren’t alone in this freefall of emotions.

Namjoon’s hands still cradled your face, his thumbs brushing circles along your cheekbones like he could soothe all the hurt away. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead in an act so tender that it sent another wave of tears spilling down your cheeks.

“I regret…” He hesitated, his hands angled your face carefully, “I regret not telling you sooner. Not being brave enough to—God, Y/N, I’ve loved you since forever, but I was always so scared. Scared that you’d pull away, that-”

But you never heard the end of it, because your lips were on his again, stopping him mid-sentence, sealing all those remaining words between you. Namjoon’s hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, desperate, as if he couldn’t get enough of you, as if he was trying to make up for all the lost time. The intensity of it all sent a spark through your chest, and when your breath caught, he deepened the kiss, his tongue moving against yours, the world outside completely fading away.

Each movement, each touch was a promise—of feelings so long buried, that suddenly burst to the surface. Everything melted away in that kiss. It was everything and nothing at once, a moment that felt like it could stretch on forever.

Each touch, every breath shared between kisses, sent shivers racing up and down your spine. His lips trailed away from yours for only a moment, long enough to press kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, always returning to your mouth again like you were magnetic. You lost yourself in him completely, in the way his thumb was curling just beneath the collar of your shirt, in the way he tilted his head for a deeper angle and the soft sound he made in the back of his throat when you pulled his lip between your teeth.

His touch, his scent, the way his hands moved with purpose yet a tenderness that was overwhelming—every sensation was overwhelming in the best way possible.

The kiss deepened once more, as if the air itself couldn’t fill the space between you, and all the words you’d both kept locked away for so long were exchanged in every press of your lips.

Namjoon’s hands moved to over your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer, and before you could realize, he turned you two around—your back pressing against the soft mattress of the bed. The sudden movement took you by surprise, but you didn’t protest. If anything, the new proximity only made your pulse quicken, the heat between you both intensifying as he leaned over you, his body hovering just above yours. His breath came in soft, uneven gasps, each one warm against your skin, as if the space between you both was no longer enough. His hands, once resting at your shoulders, now explored lower, tracing the curve of your waist before settling at the small of your back, drawing you closer with a gentle yet undeniable urgency, his hips slotting against yours.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the sensation of his hands on you, the warmth of his touch setting your skin ablaze. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, slipping beneath your sweater and gradually pushing it higher, sending a shiver down your spine. Instinctively, you arched into him—craving more, needing more.

Namjoon’s lips brushed against your forehead, his voice barely a whisper as he said your name.

“Hmm?” you murmured.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Say it back.”

His voice was low, a mix of vulnerability and quiet demand, a plea you just couldn’t ignore.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and your heart swelled with certainty. You reached up, cupping his face gently, your voice steady as you said,

“I love you, Namjoon. I love you too.”

Namjoon’s gaze never left yours, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of desire and tenderness. His lips parted slightly as though to speak, but instead, he closed the distance between you two, kissing you again. His kiss was the perfect answer.

Your fingers knotted in his hair, pulling him closer, and you returned his kisses with equal fervour. A feverish dance, tongues entwined in a desperate attempt to satiate the hunger that gnawed at your very souls.

You ran your hands up the sides of his body, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, memorizing the contours of him as if you could pull all of him into you. Namjoon groaned softly at the sensation, his hands tightening their hold on you as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling yours in a caress that left you breathless.

His lips trailed down to your jaw, pressing over the marks already blooming on your neck, each press searing, sending sparks of need racing through your veins.

He nipped and sucked at your sensitive skin, leaving a few new hickeys as he made his way down to your collarbone. You gasped, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him. The heat between you was palpable, a living, breathing thing that threatened to consume you both.

As if sensing your need, Namjoon leaned back down, capturing your mouth back in a heated kiss. His lips moving against yours, coaxing you open, and you wilfully let him in. You always let him. His tongue slid against yours, stroking, tasting, and you whimpered, clutching onto him.

He swallowed the sound, one hand sliding down your thigh, hooking behind your knee. He dragged your leg over his hip, pressing your core right against his straining erection, and you gasped, breaking the kiss.

 “God, I want you,” he groaned, rocking against you, his hands stroking up your sides to cup your breasts. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. “I’ve imagined this a thousand times, but nothing compares to the real thing.”

 “I want you too,” you confessed. “God, so much” Your breath hitched as his lips found the curve of your throat, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with a slow kiss. Heat coiled in your stomach, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, as if you could fuse yourself to him completely. “I need you, Namjoon.”

But just as his hands moved to the button of your jeans, your senses caught up with you. You suddenly became acutely aware of everything—the fact that this was real, no more unrequited feelings, no more hiding. But just as glaring was the truth that his mother was down the hall. The realization hit you like a cold wave, shaking you, and a wave of panic surged through your chest.

“But baby, there is no way I’m fucking you at your parents’ house,” you said, your voice a soft reprimand, edged with your own personal frustration.

Namjoon groaned, his head falling to your shoulder as he breathed in your scent. “You’re killing me,” he murmured.

You chuckled, the sound warm and breathless, threading your fingers through his hair as he groaned against your shoulder. “I’m saving you from potential lifelong humiliation,” you teased, nudging his cheek with your nose.

Namjoon exhaled heavily, his lips grazing your collarbone one last time before he pulled back, flopping onto his back beside you with a frustrated sigh. “You’re right,” he admitted begrudgingly, rubbing a hand down his face. “But damn it woman … you make it really hard to think rationally.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself up on one elbow as you gazed down at him, taking in the way his chest rose and fell, the way his lips were still kiss-swollen and impossibly tempting, the way his eyes—dark and filled with something deeper than just lust—stayed locked on you.

A slow smile curled at your lips as you leaned down, pressing a soft, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I promise, when the time is right…” Your fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns on his chest, just beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t make you wait a second longer.”

Namjoon groaned again, rolling over to bury his face in the crook of your neck as you giggled. “You’re really going to make me suffer, aren’t you?” he muttered against your skin, kissing it softly after.

You grinned, letting your fingers comb gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Just let me hold you a little longer.”

Namjoon’s voice was a low, almost pleading whisper as he adjusted, shifting until he was holding you tighter, his arms enveloping you in a warmth that made everything else fade away. That made all the waiting and suffering feel like it was worth it.

 That made you start to question your own rule—because you’ve just told this man there would be no sex tonight and yet there wasn’t a single trace of frustration or regret on his face. Just quiet devotion, steady and sure, like holding you was enough.

 His hand splayed across your back, pressing you firmly against him. You melted into his embrace, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It was a comfort, a steady rhythm that calmed the fervour between you. His fingers lightly traced circles on your back, soothing you with every movement.

A small smile tugged at your lips as your fingers idly traced patterns over his skin. “Are you always this romantic?” you murmured, your voice laced with amusement.

Namjoon chuckled, his chest vibrating against yours “I’ve had years to practice patience with you,” he said, his tone filled with fondness, before he took on that familiar teasing expression. “And when we get home,” he leaned in close to your ear, his breath tickling your skin as he whispered, “I’m fucking you against every single flat surface we find.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your heart racing at the challenge in his tone. His expression was playful yet intense, that familiar mischievous spark lighting up his features, making those dimples seem like anything but innocent.

“You better watch yourself, Mr. Kim,” you said, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “I’ve been known to bite back.”

Namjoon’s grin widened as his hands sliding down your hips, fingers pressing into your skin before giving them a firm squeeze. In one fluid motion, he pulled you up slightly, adjusting your position—just enough for you to feel the hard imprint of his cock against you.

 “I’m counting on it,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a brief but heated kiss.

“Namjoon…”

His name left your lips in a breathy whisper, and Namjoon’s grip on you tightened ever so slightly, his fingers pressing into your hips like he was grounding himself—or maybe like he was trying to keep himself from losing all control.

“Yeah?” he prompted, his voice lower now, rougher, his lips hovering just over yours.

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up at him, taking in the way his pupils had blown wide, the way his chest moved with each heavy breath, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, like he was trying to steady himself—like he was barely holding on. You had always known Namjoon was dangerous in a hundred different ways, but this? The way he looked at you.

This was something else entirely.

A smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as you slid your hands up his chest, resting them over his racing heartbeat. “I think you might be a little obsessed with me,” you teased, arching a brow.

Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he let out a low chuckle. “You’re just now figuring that out?” he mused, his thumb stroking absentminded circles against your skin. Then, his expression shifted, something softer blooming beneath the heat in his gaze. “You have no idea.”

Your chest ached at the sincerity in his tone, at the weight of his words, and suddenly, the teasing faded from your mind entirely. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his jaw as you murmured, “Tell me,” the words barely audible, even to your own ears. “Tell me what you want.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, his pupils blown so wide that for a moment, they hid the hazel entirely.

“I want to feel every inch of you” he murmured, his voice rough. “I want to taste you, touch you, tease you. I want feel you trembling in my hands.” You shivered, despite the warmth of his embrace, a small gasp escaping your lips at his words.

His smile was immediate—wicked and knowing—as his hand slid under your shirt, fingers tracing your spine with deliberate slowness, sending sparks dancing beneath your skin.

“You want that, don’t you?” His voice was nothing more than a low, sinful whisper that completely ruined your panties.

 “Want me to take you apart, baby girl?”

The words settled deep in your core, a slow burn spreading through your veins, igniting something primal. Your fingers curled against his jaw, your breath hitching as his hand continued its slow, torturous exploration beneath your shirt, carefully tracing the outline of your bra.

“Say it,” he teased, his lips brushing against yours, teasing but never quite closing the distance. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Namjoon…” you breathed, but he was quick to assure you.

“I’ll behave. Don’t you worry.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears, heat pooling low in your stomach as you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want it.”

His responding groan was deep, guttural, vibrating through your entire body as his grip on you tightened. In one smooth motion, he rolled, pinning you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his thigh sliding between yours.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as his lips trailed down your jaw, past the sensitive spot below your ear, down the column of your throat. “Now let me make you feel good.”

“Namjoon!” you tried, but you heard him hush you before his tongue flicked over your pulse point, his teeth scraping lightly before he sucked, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. His hand slid higher, pushing your shirt up, exposing more of your skin to the cool air as his lips followed the path his fingers had blazed.

“Namjoon-” His name was half a gasp, half a plea, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it was the only thing anchoring you.

“Hold that thought,” he murmured, suddenly pulling back. The warmth of his body vanished as he sat up, pushing himself off the bed.

You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. For a second, you thought he was walking away, and your protest was already forming—until you saw him stride toward the door.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

Then you heard it. The soft click of the door’s lock sliding into place.

“Really?”

He smirked, sliding a knee back onto the mattress, his hands gripping your ankles and slowly dragging you toward him. “I’m not taking any chances,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement and something deeper.

The heat in his gaze was enough to make your breath hitch, but you couldn’t resist pushing him just a little more. “And here I thought you had some self-control”

Namjoon’s hands slid up your legs, his fingers kneading into your thighs as he leaned in close, his breath hot against your lips. “Baby,” he rasped, tilting his head slightly. “I locked that door because I have self-control. Otherwise, you’d already be a mess underneath me.”

“Joonie,” you groan, the bright red blush burning your face as you cover your face with your arms.

Namjoon chuckled softly at the sight of you hiding behind your arms, his hands gently pulling them away to reveal the rosy flush spreading across your cheeks. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as his breath stirred the hairs on your neck.

“Tell me, how set are you on that rule of yours?” His voice was low, a teasing growl that sent a hot shiver down your spine.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the rapid beat of your heart. His proximity was intoxicating, and despite the rules you’d set, the temptation to surrender to him was almost overwhelming.

You met his gaze, eyes filled with a mix of defiance and desire. “I… I meant it,” you murmured, your voice a little shaky despite your attempt at sounding firm. “I’m not fucking you tonight.”

Namjoon’s lips quirked into a smile, though it was anything but innocent. “I know that.” His fingers danced along your skin, barely touching, just enough to make you ache for more. “But I can touch you right?” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear again.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you were unsure of what to say, before:

“We have to be quiet.”

Namjoon’s smile grew, but there was a sharpness to it now, a hint of challenge. He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours, “Easy.”

His hand moved lower, fingertips skimming over your waist, leaving goosebumps in their wake, his touch light yet electrifying. The contrast between his playful demeanour and the raw desire in his eyes made your pulse race.

You bit your lip, trying to hold onto your resolve, but the temptation of his touch, his proximity, was slowly unravelling you. “You’re making this harder,” you managed, though it was more of a breathless confession than a statement of resistance.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked up to yours, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to send heat pooling in your belly. “I haven’t even started yet,” he murmured, his breath hot against your lips. “But I’ll make sure you’re quiet.”

You shivered at his words, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. His proximity, the heat of his breath on your skin, and the way his hands were moving lower, this time unbuttoning your jeans, had you teetering on the edge.

“Namjoon...” you whispered, voice shaky, but his fingers moved to the zipper, steady and sure, making it impossible to think clearly.

“Shh…” he hushed you softly. “I’ve got you.”

The simple reassurance sent a rush of heat through your chest, your heart pounding in your ears.

With practiced ease, his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your abdomen. You let out a gasp, your eyes fluttering closed as you savored the sensation. Namjoon’s hands moved lower, cupping your ass through the fabric of your pants. He squeezed gently, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You have such a nice ass,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

A quick giggle escapes your lips, your eyes meeting his. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you replied, your voice just as low and breathless. He grinned, his fingers moving to the hem of your pants. With slow, deliberate movements, he began to slide them down your legs, revealing the thin fabric of your lacy underwear underneath.

 You felt a rush of embarrassment at the sight of your arousal seeping through the fabric, but Namjoon didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying it. His fingers deliberately pushing your thighs apart once your jeans were discarded off somewhere behind him, taking his time to admire you.

“Did I ever tell you you’re beautiful?” You tried to respond, but it came out as a gasp as his fingers slid higher, teasing the lacy edge of your panties. He didn’t push them down, just tracing the material, letting you feel the heat of his touch through the thin fabric. Your fingers curled into the sheets, trying to anchor yourself in the sensation, but your body was reacting on its own, pushing further against him

His fingers moved, testing, teasing, until you’re squirming under him. “Namjoon,” you whine, your hands fisting in the sheets.

But he just smirks, “So impatient,” he teases, his hands sliding further up, brushing over your wet core through the fabric, his fingers catching over your clit and making you gasp breathlessly.

“I’ve barely started and you’re already desperate for me.” His words send a pulse of heat through you and you bite your lip hard, fighting back a moan. He chuckles, his fingers pushing against your entrance as if he wasn’t testing your patience already/

 “Shh, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire, mock-hushing you before pushing your panties aside, his fingers sliding through the slick heat gathering there. “Fuck. You’re so wet for me already,” the hot exhale of his breath making you clench around nothing.

 He dragged his fingertips through your wetness, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch that had you writhing beneath him again.

“Please...” Your fingers scrabbled uselessly at his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and dragging him closer. “Namjoon, my love...”

He silenced your plea with a searing kiss, tongue delving past your lips as he finally breached you with one long finger. Your moan swallowed by his mouth, hips lifting to take him deeper. The stretch was exquisite, pleasure spiking through you at the curl of his finger, quickly finding that spot inside that made you see stars.

Namjoon swallowed each and every needy sound spilling from your lips, his mouth devouring yours with a hunger that left you dizzy. He pushed another finger in, fucking you slowly, maddeningly, the wet squelch of your arousal obscene and too loud in the quiet room, mixing perfectly with your muffled moans.

You were lost to sensation, a writhing mess beneath his ministrations. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders, his hair, any resolve you could find. He held you down with his weight, drinking down every whimper and gasp his fingers drew from you. His rhythm perfect, each push making you feel lightheaded, the pads of his fingers brushing against that spongey spot, making your keen in pleasure.

Your nails raked down his back at the same moment his thumb found your clit, and you sob into his mouth, orgasm cresting hard and fast, the most delightful buzz settling at the base of your spine. Namjoon smothered your cries, taking everything, you gave him, fingers never ceasing their relentless rhythm. His thumb was a steady pressure on your clit, drawing out your climax until you were boneless and shiver beneath him, your whole body convulsing.

Only then did he pull back, lips red and slick with saliva, a knowing smirk playing over them as he took in your dazed, sated expression. “I knew you’d be a good girl for me,” he purred, fingers still toying with your over-sensitive flesh, drawing out a weak whimper from you

“Nam- A-Ahm...” you groan, thighs snapping shut around his hand, trapping it in place. His amused chuckle vibrated against your skin.

As your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “Think you can let go of my hand now?”

You were a flushed, trembling mess, your eyes still hazy as you gave a small, stubborn shake of your head. “Mmm… no.”

Namjoon huffed a quiet laugh, his free hand brushing your hair back from your face. “And why not?”

“You’ll tease me again.”

His grin was all mischief. “Smart girl.”

Namjoon’s grin didn’t waver as he shifted slightly, his trapped hand flexing against your thigh. “And yet,” he mused, voice low and knowing, “you’re still holding me there. Almost like… you want me to keep teasing you.”

You pouted, pressing your legs together even tighter, as if that would stop him, just a second before you forced yourself to let go. “Give me 5 minutes.”

“Isn’t that the guy’s line?”

You groaned, turning your face into the pillow to hide your growing smile. “Shut up,” you mumbled, your voice muffled but still laced with lingering pleasure.

Namjoon chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, and you could feel the warmth of his gaze lingering on you. He shifted effortlessly, hover over you, his free hand smoothing over your thigh in slow, absentminded strokes, a quiet reminder he wasn’t done with you. Or maybe, just maybe, he was as desperate as you were. Despite the tension building between you both, he still focused entirely on you—your needs—even though you hadn’t given him any release yet. It was as if his sole concern was your pleasure.

Still, he wore a look that told you he would willingly let you ruin him, and then thank you afterwards.

You peek your head up, meeting his heated gaze through hooded eyes, a mischievous glint in your expression. A teasing smile tugs at your kiss-bruised lips. “Take your shirt off,” you purr, voice low and sultry.

Namjoon’s smirk deepens at the unexpectedly bold request, and the look in his eyes suggests he’s more than willing to comply. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, “Bossy.” His voice was thick with amusement, but there was no hesitation in his movements.

He sat back, lifting his arms to pull the fabric over his head with smooth, practiced ease. The moment his shirt hit the floor, you couldn’t help but take in the way the muscles in his chest and arms shifted as he moved. The sight of him, bare and exposed in front of you, sent a wave of heat coursing through your body, pooling between your thighs.

You swallowed, your breath catching at the intensity of his gaze as he leaned back over you, his hands now skimming over your body, tracing the outline of your form. “Better?” he asked, his voice low, each word thick with a mix of flirtatious edge and raw, aching need.

You bit your lip, feeling the pulse of your desire as you nod slowly. “Much better.” Your hands tentatively explore the newly exposed skin of his chest, mapping the hard planes and dips of muscle. A surge of gratitude washes over you as you realize the band-aid Namjoon had chosen for your cut now allows you to glide your fingertips over his heated skin without restraint.

Namjoon watches you through half-lidded eyes, his lips parting on a soft exhale as your fingertips brush over a sensitive spot. He catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, voice rough with want.

“I haven’t even started yet.” You tease, trailing your fingers down his chest to his stomach, following the defined V of his muscles down to the waistband of his sweatpants, where your fingers hook in the elastic. Namjoon’s sharp inhale was more than enough encouragement. You trace the waistband of his pajama pants, feeling him shift under your touch, before dipping your hand beneath the fabric to wrap your fingers around his length. Suddenly feeling even more grateful that it wasn’t your dominant hand that had been injured today.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Fuck is right. Damn it. You were totally on track—he was massive.

He was hot, silk over flame, and so very big in your hand. You stroked him base to tip, more to size him up, but instead marveling at the way he stirred against your palm.

Namjoon groaned, head falling back against the pillow, hips canting forward. “Oh baby”

You shivered at the guttural sound, circling your hand around him, almost getting your fingers to meet.

His cock twitched in your hold, a drop of precum welling at the head. You thumb the slit, smearing his precum down his length, before pulling your hand up to spit on it.

“God, you’ll kill me.”

You met his gaze through your lashes, quickly returning to your task, pumping him with slow, teasing strokes. Your free hand came up to cup his heavy balls, rolling them in your palm.

He cursed under his breath, hips rocking into your grip.

Namjoon’s hands fisted in the sheets on either side of you, breathy groans spilling from his lips as he softly guided your ministrations, showing you how he liked to be touched. Namjoon’s eyes stay locked on yours, even as they glaze over with pleasure. One of his hands finds your hip, gripping tightly as he guides your movements. “Don’t stop,” he pleads, voice strangled. “I’m close.”

You doubled your efforts, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, giving his length a squeeze, before running your thumb over his head, teasing the slit.  

Namjoon is practically panting now, his face etched with strain as he chases his release.

“Come on,” you whisper, your other hand joining the first, one hand around the base, the other cupping his heavy balls. “Let go. I want to feel you.” He barely has a chance to register your words before he’s coming with a low groan, his head burying in your neck and biting hard against your shoulder to try and keep quiet, which in turn makes you gasp. Still, you stroke him through it, milking every last drop until he’s a boneless, sated mess, his full weight crushing you.  “Fuck, babe,” he praises breathlessly, shooting you a lazy, satisfied smile. “You’re amazing.” He tugs you up, capturing your lips in a languid kiss. You melt into him, your hand still wrapped around his spent cock, enjoying the little aftershocks that continue to make him twitch.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmur against his lips, feeling your heart swell.

Because despite the pleasure, the heat, this—this moment right here, of feeling utterly connected—that’s what you craved.

Namjoon pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes soft. “I love you,” he admits quietly, like it’s just a simple fact. Like you both haven’t been fighting it for year.

You know your eyes are shining, but you don’t care. “I love you too.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you let him sweep you up in the feeling, in the moment. because right now, right here, tangled in his arms and the sheets of his childhood bedroom is exactly where you’re meant to be.

After a few lazy minutes, Namjoon shifts, prompting you to release him. You bring your fingers to your mouth, languidly licking them clean as a low moan escapes you, savouring the salty essence of him that explodes across your tongue.

“Fuck. Love, don’t do that. You’ll get me hard again.” He chuckles breathlessly, dropping light kisses across your face. “As much as I want to go for round two, I think we both could use a shower first”

Namjoon slides out of bed, extending his hand toward you with a playful grin. “Come with me? I’ll even wash your back.”

You raise an eyebrow, looking at him sceptically. “That shower is tiny, and in case you didn’t know, you’re huge.”

Namjoon laughs, clearly unfazed by your complaints. “I’ll make it work,” he says with a wink, his grin widening. He gave your hand a gentle tug, urging you to follow. “Besides, I’m pretty good at fitting into tight spaces.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “You’re impossible.”

He smirks, pulling you up gently by the hand. “Come on, let me prove you wrong. Besides, I think we both could use a little water to cool down.” His voice softens, a hint of seriousness underlying the playful tone.

You give in, following him with a small sigh, knowing very well that that you willingly played right into his plan.

[mortallydeepestobservation]

You’re really sweet. Thank you for all the help 😭 only you know what hardships we went through with this chapter lol 🤣

But hey. We did it!!✨🌿

The holiday pretense -4-

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

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

That wasn’t a flaw—it was a quirk.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it wasn’t. It could never be.

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

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

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

“Namjoon-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

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

“I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 “I should’ve known better.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was too late.

The damage had been done.

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

 The words felt useless. Hollow.

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

He had no defense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the kiss. Good god, the kiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’d ruined it. Whatever it had been…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What mattered was the escape, however temporary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By the time he slowed to a stop, the morning had fully settled in. The sun stretched higher in the sky, casting a golden glow over the snow-dusted streets, turning the quiet neighbourhood into something almost peaceful.

His breath visible in the icy air as his chest rose and fell from the exertion. His muscles ached in the most satisfying way, a reminder of how long it had been since he’d pushed himself this hard— let alone in the biting cold. He glanced down at his soaked shoes and the streaks of snow clinging to his sweatpants, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the fatigue.

He could feel the steady pulse in his legs, the burn in his lungs from the crisp air. Bending over, hands on his knees, he worked on steadying his breathing as the faint sting of the cold nipped at his flushed cheeks. The sharp contrast between the warmth radiating from his body and the chill of the winter morning was invigorating, leaving him feeling alive in a way that only moments like this could.

The steady rhythm of his feet pounding against the snow-covered paths had given his mind some semblance of peace. Not clarity, exactly, but at least it dulled the sharp edges of his thoughts. For a little while, he could focus on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, on the rhythm of his body moving, the comforting burn in his muscles.

Namjoon straightened, stretching his arms overhead and twisting slightly to work out the stiffness in his back. His jacket was damp from the effort, and he could feel the chill starting to seep in now that he’d stopped moving. It was time to head back inside.

As he turned towards the house, his steps slowed, the weight of everything creeping back in. The brief distraction was over, and the reality of everything he’d left unresolved loomed once again. Still, he didn’t regret the time spent out here—at least he felt a little more grounded now.

By the time he reached the door, his stomach growled, reminding him that he’d skipped breakfast. Maybe food would be the next distraction. After a hot shower, though.

He shed his winter coat by the door, shaking off the lingering chill, and made his way through the still quiet house. Namjoon pushed the bedroom door open quietly, his steps light as he walked in.

He tugged at the hem of his shirt and hoodie, peeling them off over his head with a relieved sigh. The fabric clung to his skin from the exertion of his run, damp with sweat. He balled them up and tossed them into the laundry basket, running a hand through his messy hair as he exhaled, still catching his breath.

He was halfway to the dresser when the faint rustle of sheets behind him made him pause. His steps slowed, and he glanced over his shoulder, watching just as you stirred.

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, as if searching for the source of the noise. But when they settled on him, they lingered, and the room seemed to pause in that moment.

The sunlight pouring through the window caught his face, and Namjoon squinted, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the brightness.

His back and shoulders were framed by the warm morning light, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, almost rhythmic. The sheen of sweat that clung to his skin caught in the soft rays, and you found yourself grateful for his momentary blindness, because you couldn’t stop gawking at him.

In that fleeing moment, he thought he caught the faintest sounds—a soft, barely-there gasp—that seemed to come from you.

Namjoon faltered, still hovering near the dresser as he noticed your gaze fixed on him. His heart stuttered in his chest; the weight of your nondescript stare sending a jolt of nervous energy through him. His pulse raced as he struggled to find his composure. “Oh,” he muttered, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He cleared his throat, trying to mask the tension in his voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your lips parting slightly as though you were at a loss for words. But then you blinked, snapping out of whatever daze had momentarily claimed you, quickly turning away from him.

“It’s fine,” you grumbled.

Namjoon grabbed a clean shirt from the dresser, his movements slower now, his fingers lingering on the fabric as he watched your subtle shift under the blankets. Your response was quiet, but the way you quickly turned away sent a ripple of unease coursing through him. It was subtle, but he couldn’t ignore the way your actions made the weight in his chest feel that much heavier.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked tentatively, his voice soft.

You didn’t reply immediately, your back still to him as you adjusted the duvet slightly. “Yeah,” you said after a beat, though your tone was flat, leaving him unsure if it was the truth or just an automatic answer.

Namjoon nodded to himself, even though you couldn’t see it, and rubbed the back of his neck. The earlier clarity he’d found outside was already beginning to slip away.

“I’m going to shower,” he murmured, more for something to say than anything else, before stepping toward the bathroom door.

As he left the room, he cast one last glance at your still form, the lump in his throat tightening. ~~~

Stationed at the kitchen counter, your hands moved almost mechanically, the steady rhythm of the knife slicing through fresh vegetables, meats, and herbs filling the space. Mrs. Kim’s calm instructions flowed around you like a gentle stream, her voice clear and measured. Yet, with every absentminded nod you gave, her words seemed to fade further into the background, muffled beneath the weight of your own thoughts.

Namjoon was avoiding you.

 That much was clear. The way he had slipped out before you even woke up, his movements quick and his words barely a whisper when you caught him sneaking like some kind of thief in his own room, lingered in your mind like an unfinished sentence. The weird silence that followed all throughout breakfast...

Before you could sink deeper into those thoughts, Mrs. Kim’s voice cut through the haze again. “Add these to the broth, and then stir,” she said, handing you a bowl of neatly diced vegetables.

Her calm authority kept the kitchen in motion, leaving no room for hesitation or reflection. The bustling activity—the clatter of pots, the simmering sounds from the stove, the soft hum of her instructions—forced you to push the turmoil swirling inside you to the sidelines.

She had recruited you first thing in the morning knowing exactly how to keep you busy without you even having to ask for it.

 When you stepped into the kitchen, you were almost startled to see your usual cup of coffee waiting on the counter. It was a small, familiar gesture, one that might have warmed your heart on any other day, but now, it felt almost mechanical—like a habit performed without thought—Namjoon’s routine, his efforts to provide comfort, almost like a performance to fill a gap that no longer made sense.

You wondered if it was for your benefit, or his.

 But you never got a chance to dwell on it.

The Christmas dinner at the Kim’s house, you learned, was no small feat. Instead, everyone was involved in preparations, making sure every little aspect was perfect. Namjoon and his dad could be heard debating the placement of the dining table in the living room, their voices rising and falling in an easy, familiar rhythm.

Minhi, ever the perfectionist, hovered nearby, offering her unsolicited but animated advice on everything—the placement of napkins, the fold of the tablecloth, the angle of the silverware. Her critique earning a few exasperated groans from Namjoon, which were inevitably followed by indulgent chuckles from their father. The sound carried easily into the kitchen, where you worked alongside Jackson and Mrs. Kim, dutifully preparing dinner.

The air was fragrant with the aroma of roasted vegetables, savoury meats, and the citrusy tang of freshly chopped herbs. Mrs. Kim moved with the grace of a seasoned host, effortlessly orchestrating each task as though it were second nature. Jackson, eager to prove himself useful, chopped scallions with meticulous concentration under her watchful eye—though his attention would often wander to Minhi through the doorway, occasionally even catcalling her which in turn earned a delighted laugh from her and Mrs. Kim.

“Jackson, be a dear and go to the basement with Namjoon to fetch the wine,” Mrs. Kim instructed, her voice steady but decisive. She didn’t look up from the simmering pot, her hands moving expertly between stirring the broth and adding in seasoning.

Jackson nodded, a playful grin already tugging at his lips. He made his way to the living room, announcing their new task but paused by Minhi’s side long enough to deliver a quick pinch to her side, just as she was about to launch into another critique of Namjoon’s napkin-folding technique.

That unexpected pinch caused an exaggerated shriek to escape from Minhi. Her laughter bubbling up and spilling into the room, bright and unrestrained. The kind that invited everyone nearby to join in.

But it didn’t reach you. You were still caught up in your own little world.  You remained rooted at the counter, wearing that same look of muted control that was starting to wear you out by now.

A movement in the doorway caught your attention. Namjoon was walking past with Jackson, his broad back disappearing down the hall. His laughter rang out, light and carefree, as if he didn’t have a worry in the world. He was responding to something his dad said, dimples flashing in that familiar way that used to make your heart race.

But you noticed what no one else seemed to see. The stiffness in his shoulders, the faint tension in his jaw. His laughter, though warm, didn’t quite touch his eyes. It was so subtle, so carefully masked, but you knew him too well to miss it.

And that was the real problem, wasn’t it? Knowing him too well. Caring too much. Having feelings for Namjoon was already difficult—but this? This was unbearable.

You quickly turned away.

The knife in your hand trembled slightly as you refocused on the task in front of you, trying to steady your thoughts as much as your movements. The crisp scent of parsley filled the air as you began mincing, each chop echoing against the cutting board.

You told yourself to concentrate. To stay present. But no matter how hard you tried, your mind kept slipping back to him—to that moment.

You could still feel the warmth of his lips against yours. The way it made something bloom in your chest, a sensation so overwhelming it left you lightheaded. You’d clutched at his sweater, your fingers moving on their own, desperate to hold onto something real, something that felt like it belonged to the both of you.

For a fleeting second, it was perfect. Your heart soared, a dizzying rush of hope filling you, so sharp and intoxicating it almost hurt. It was reciprocated. It was mutual.

But then it all came crashing down. Hard.

The memory of his reaction was a jagged edge, replaying on loop in your mind, cutting through the warmth of that moment and leaving nothing but raw ache behind. His hesitation, the way he’d pulled back so quickly, mumbling an apology before you could even process what had happened. It was as though he couldn’t distance himself fast enough, couldn’t stand the weight of what he’d done—or what it might have meant.

Had it been a mistake for him? A fleeting moment of weakness he regretted the second it happened? Because that’s what it felt like. And yet, in the seconds before he’d pulled away, it had felt like something else entirely….

He was tentative, almost shy, as though he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want this. Then he kissed you like he meant it, like he’d been holding back for so long that he couldn’t stop himself.

But, of course, reality had a cruel way of snapping back. And when it did, it came in the form of his stumbling regret…

“I really want to kiss you right now”

The jerk. Asshole. Playboy!

If only any of those words actually described him…

You pressed the blade harder against the parsley, your movements growing more erratic. You hated that you cared so much. Hated that you were dissecting every microsecond of that kiss when he was probably fine. He was just being considerate and offering you the space you needed.

 Namjoon was laughing with his family, fetching wine, stealing cookies when his mother wasn’t looking, acting like nothing had happened—like you hadn’t happened.

But then again, there was that stiffness in his shoulders, the slight tension in his voice that you couldn’t ignore. It was as if he was trying to act normal, trying to match the energy of the room, but there was something holding him back.

Or maybe you were just imagining it… Maybe you were projecting your own confusion onto him, searching for cracks that didn’t exist because you wanted—needed—to believe that he felt it too. That the kiss wasn’t just a fleeting mistake.

The tightness in your chest refused to ease, no matter how much you told yourself to let it go. Namjoon was Namjoon—kind, selfless, and maddeningly perfect. And you? You were just someone he kissed and immediately regretted.

A sharp sting snapped you out of your thoughts. You gasped, jerking your hand back as a thick line of red bloomed on your fingertip. The knife clattered against the counter, drawing Mrs. Kim’s attention.

“Oh, sweetheart! Are you alright?” She asked, her voice laced with concern as she moved toward you.

“Yeah, nicked myself.” you said quickly, wrapping your other hand around the cut to stop the bleeding. The sudden rush of embarrassment at your clumsiness burned hotter than the sting of the cut itself.

“Let me see,” she insisted, reaching for your hand, but before she could, Namjoon’s voice came from the doorway, startling you.

You hadn’t even noticed him return to the kitchen, but there he was, bottles of wine in his hand, his gaze snapping to you the moment he stepped inside.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing!” The words came too fast, too sharp—too defensive. You pulled your hand back just as he stepped closer.

He barely hesitated, already setting the bottles down on the cutting board, reaching for you without a second thought.

But the thought of his touch made your chest constrict, panic rising like a tide, swallowing all the air between you. “I’ve got it!”

The space between you felt charged, too fragile, too dangerous. You couldn’t let him touch you. Not now. Not when your emotions were so precariously balanced on the edge of reason.

“Let me see,” he insisted, softer this time, but unyielding

You shook your head, stepping back from him, only to bump against the counter, keeping your hands close to your chest.

The panic bubbling under your skin left no room for restraint, no space for softness. It all came out, raw and unfiltered, as you practically cried—

“I said I’ve got it, Namjoon!”

His hands dropped to his side, his brows knitting together in silent concern. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t argue—and somehow, that made it all worse.

The silence that followed wrapped around you like a vice, all of it pressing down until your chest felt like it might actually collapse, your breath impossibly shallow.

Then it hit you—you’d raised your voice at him. The weight of it settled in you, heavy and foreboding, like thundercloud ready to break over you.

Namjoon’s gaze lingered, steady and searching, as though he was waiting for something—an explanation, a sign that you were okay, anything to bridge the distance suddenly between you. But you couldn’t give him either. You couldn’t even meet his eyes.

You sighed, stealing a glance at Mrs. Kim’s concerned expression before forcing your emotions down. You had to fix this—fast. Before things spiraled even further. Before your cover completely fell apart.

“Just-” you began, forcing yourself to look at Namjoon, “Let’s go upstairs so I can wash this properly.”

Namjoon hesitated for half a second before nodding. Without a word, he gathered the bottles from the counter and set them aside, his movements slower now—more deliberate, like he was afraid of setting you off again.

Mrs. Kim’s concerned gaze flickered between the two of you, her lips pressing together as if debating whether to intervene. But then she sighed, offering a small, hesitant smile. “Alright, sweetheart, just let Namjoon take care of you, okay? And be careful with that hand.”

You forced a nod, ignoring the way your throat felt too tight, the way your stomach twisted in protest as you turned toward the stairs.

Namjoon followed without a word.

When you reached your room, you stepped inside first, making a beeline for the small bathroom attached to it. You could hear Namjoon close the door behind him.

God damn it all.

The air stung the exposed wound, sharp and unforgiving, once you unwrapped your hand from around it, staining the sink with red.

 It was deeper than you’d thought—maybe not enough for stitches, but definitely not a scrape you could just ignore.

Blood still trickled steadily from the it, pulsing in rhythm with your racing heartbeat, like a painful reminder of your very severed composure

You bit your lip as you fumbled with the faucet, your uninjured hand trembling slightly, until it slipped. The sting of it accidentally hitting the open wound drew a sharp hiss from your lips, tears springing to your eyes—not just from the pain, but from the frustration of everything piling on top of you all at once. Damn him.

“Fuck. Ouch”

Namjoon was there in an instant, turning the faucet on for you.

“Are you okay?” His voice was softer now, careful, but the concern was still there, threading through the syllables like a quiet insistence.

You exhaled sharply, forcing your shoulders to stay squared even as your hands shook. “Yeah,” you muttered, pushing your hand under the jet of water. “Fine.”

“You’re not.”

His certainty grated against your raw nerves. You clenched your jaw, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you finally turned to face him. He was close. Closer than you’d realized. His gaze flickered down to your hand, the steady trickle of blood dark against your skin, and something in his expression shifted—tightened.

He brushed past you in that quiet, unassuming way that always threw you off balance. He reached up, opening the cabinet above the sink, pulling out the small white box with the familiar red cross on top.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, reaching for it, but before your fingers could graze the plastic, Namjoon pulled it back, holding it just out of your reach.

“Namjoon,” you warned.

His lips twitched, but there was no real amusement in it—just something unbearably patient, unbearably Namjoon.

“Let me,” he said simply.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to grab the kit from his hands and insist you could do it yourself, that you didn’t need him to fuss over you. But your hand was still bleeding, still trembling slightly, and the weight of everything pressing down on you made it feel like just one more battle you didn’t have the energy to fight.

Namjoon didn’t move, didn’t push. He simply waited, holding the med kit like an unspoken offer. His patience was maddening, his presence steady in a way that made your resistance feel flimsy.

With a sigh, you finally relented, dropping your gaze. “Fine.”

His lips pressed together like he was holding back a smile—not of victory, but of relief. He gestured for you to sit on the closed toilet lid as he crouched in front of you, setting the kit down between you.

“This might sting,” he murmured, taking your hand in his.

You braced yourself, but the first touch still made you flinch, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips. His grip on your wrist tightened just slightly—not enough to restrain, just enough to steady.

Blood still welled at the edges of the cut, glistening under the harsh bathroom light. You forced yourself to look away, focusing instead on the way Namjoon moved—careful, deliberate, as if he understood that this was more than just about the physical injury in front of him.

“Sorry,” he said softly when he dabbed antiseptic onto the cut, his voice softer than you expected, filled with regret.

His fingers brushed against your palm as he worked, his warmth seeping into your skin, and for a second, it felt like he was holding more of you than just your hand. The realization unsettled you.

But it wasn’t just about the cut. It was about everything you’ve been trying to ignore.

The sting made you flinch, but you didn’t pull away this time. His gaze flickered to yours for a moment, and you saw the quiet storm in his eyes—the concern, the worry, the frustration. You couldn’t look away, though you wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice barely audible as he reached into the kit. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” His fingers brushed against yours again as he retrieved the bandages, before moving to the underside, his thumb gently rubbing your knuckles.

You swallowed hard, “You don’t have to apologize,” you said, the words shivering under the weight of emotions you didn’t know how to voice—like just how much that kiss has shattered that fragile balance you’d worked so hard to maintain. How his reaction afterwards hurt you in ways you weren’t sure you could fully understand, not yet at least.

 How his apology now only made it that much harder to keep your guard up now.

The words felt like they were tearing out of you, raw and jagged, and you couldn’t quite grasp them fully as they left your lips. But as they floated between you, a terse silence settled, still thick with the unsaid.

You could feel his gaze on you, his presence so near that his breath brushed against your skin—a subtle, charged whisper of warmth. It filled every corner of the room, like a quiet storm.

“I still feel like I do,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if the tension between you was a chasm or a bridge. You didn’t know what to say. How could you, when his confession stirred up a hundred conflicting emotions? The relief mixed with the dread, the hope tainted by the doubt. You wanted to reach for him, to make it all clearer, but the uncertainty in his gaze reminded you how fragile everything between you was right now.

“I...” You started, but the words caught, the vulnerability of the moment threatening to consume you whole.

He squeezed your hand gently, as if sensing the battle inside you, and then he lowered his voice. “I’m not asking for anything from you right now, I just-” He stopped himself, his thumb brushing over your skin as if to steady both of you, as if saying more than words could right now.

You stayed silent, biting at the inside of your cheek as you fought to keep your tears from spilling over.

But his voice, soft yet tinged with doubt, pulled you back to him.

“I want to make sure we’re okay. I care a lot about you. And I can’t stand the idea of you hating me because of a mistake.”

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, pressing against everything you were trying so hard to hold together.

Hating him?

If only it were that simple. If only you could have been angry enough to make this easier.

But it wasn’t anger twisting your insides—it was something softer and far more complicated, more fragile. The kind of thing that didn’t fit neatly into words, that made your heart ache in ways you weren’t sure how to soothe. Because no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t forget the way he looked at you before he kissed you. And you couldn’t ignore the way he looked at you now, like he was waiting for something he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask for.

You exhaled slowly, dropping your gaze to where his fingers still held yours. You could feel the tension—gentle, but firm, like he was afraid of pushing too hard, but even more afraid of letting go.

So he did think it was just a mistake…

You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I don’t hate you, Namjoon.”

His grip tightened, just for a second, like those words alone had loosened something in him. But the relief in his expression was brief, quickly replaced by uncertainty.

“I just…” You swallowed; the words felt like cotton in your throat. “It’s not you. It’s just—everything. A bunch of things piling up all at once, and I-”

Your voice faltered, frustration prickling at the edges of your control. You didn’t know how to explain it, how to make him understand the chaos in your head when you barely understood it yourself.

 “I’m sorry I raised my voice at you.”

“It’s okay. I’m a big boy.”

A short, breathy laugh escaped you before you could stop it—small, barely there, but real. And Namjoon caught it, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but didn’t dare.

The awkwardness between you didn’t break, not fully, but it shifted, softened just enough to let you breathe like yourself around him.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. “I don’t know why I’m like this right now.”

Namjoon tilted his head, watching you carefully. “Like what?”

You made a vague, frustrated gesture with your injured hand, immediately regretting it when the sharp sting of the cut shot through your palm.

Namjoon moved before you could react, reaching for you instinctively, just enough to steady you.

“Like this,” you murmured, finally answering. “Like everything is just… too much.”

“Maybe because it is.”

Your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that—not something so simple, so understanding.

And damn him, because that was somehow worse.

You cleared your throat, forcing a smirk you didn’t quite feel. “You always this wise?”

Namjoon huffed, shaking his head. “No. I just know you.”

That undid you more than anything else.

Because you knew he meant it.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to come along with me this week. I know how uncomfortable this whole thing must have been for you.” His gaze locked with yours, and there was something raw and sincere in his eyes that made your heart skip. You found yourself wondering exactly what discomfort he meant—the list of things that had made you uneasy was long. But after a moment of hesitation, you went with the one you knew was safest to say out loud.

“I hate lying to your mom.”

“I know.” Namjoon let out a soft chuckle, but there was something strained beneath it, something that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She’s going to be heartbroken when I tell her we broke up.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “She adores you.”

“She adores you,” he corrected, his gaze steady on yours.

Your stomach twisted, your heart doing something complicated in your chest. This was the problem—this was always the problem. The way Namjoon said things, the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel like you weren’t just someone he was pretending with. Like you were something more.

But you weren’t.

You inhaled sharply, trying to shake the feeling off. “She’s going to be devastated,” you said, forcing lightness into your voice. “You’ll be the villain in her eyes.”

Namjoon nodded solemnly. “I’ll take the fall.”

It was so easy, this back and forth. So easy to pretend none of this mattered, that your heart wasn’t lodged in your throat, that his hand still holding yours wasn’t making it harder to think straight. The moment stretched, as he focused on the injury again, carefully bandaging it. The silence wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t as overwhelming now either. It was a delicate balance, the same one you’d been maintaining all week, the same one you always found yourselves teetering on the edge of.

Namjoon was still watching you, still waiting, but for what, you weren’t sure.

 For you to crack a joke? For you to take this moment and push it into something lighter, something easy?

That was what you always did.

So, you did it again.

“You better break the news gently,” you said, arching a brow. “She might actually disown you.”

Namjoon exhaled a small laugh, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“Oh, really?”

“She sends me links to apartments near her house, like, once a month. I think she was trying to slowly break me down to the idea of an arranged marriage.”

You grinned despite yourself. “That’s impressive.”

“She’s relentless.”

 You chuckled, imagining Namjoon’s mom with that kind of mission, plotting with all the subtlety of a military strategist.

“I’ll help you chose the engagement rings.”

Namjoon snorted, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. “I think that might be the last thing I need right now.” He sighed dramatically, though you could tell it was more out of affection than frustration. “At this point, I’m just waiting for her to start dropping hints about grandkids.” He cut himself off, realizing the direction the conversation was heading, and awkwardly cleared his throat.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the sink. “Grandkids, huh? So, you’ve thought about it.”

Namjoon froze, his hands still hovering near your wound like he wasn’t sure whether to keep bandaging or retreat. His gaze flickered back to yours, and for a second, there was a flicker of something—maybe vulnerability? —something you didn’t expect to see.

 “Of course, I thought about it.”

You tilted your head slightly, his words just hanging there in the small space between you.

“Yeah? What does ‘thinking about it’ look like for you?”

“Two kids. Maybe three if my wife’s up for it.”

You felt a strange tightness in your chest at his words, a soft ache that you quickly pushed aside. “Two kids? That sounds pretty... traditional,” you said, trying to keep your voice light.

Namjoon’s smile was faint, like he was walking a line between sharing and holding back. “Yeah, I guess so. I always figured, you know, the usual—boy and a girl, maybe a dog.” He chuckled quietly, but there was something a little distant in his tone now, like the vision he was describing didn’t quite line up with where he was standing at that moment.

You studied him for a moment, watching the way his gaze flickered away from yours, focusing on anything but you as he started rummaging through the first aid kit. It was like he had just shared a piece of his future with you, but it didn’t fit with the here and now. And that left a strange knot in your stomach.

“Sounds nice,” you murmured, not sure how to follow that up. Your heart was doing its complicated thing again—twisting, pulling. But you couldn’t let it show. Not now. Not when it just started to feel like maybe there is still a chance to fix this mess between you.

Namjoon cleared his throat and finished securing the bandage, his touch almost absent now, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Yeah, maybe. But… you know, it’s hard to imagine all that when things are, uh, a little uncertain right now.”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure exactly what he meant by it. The uncertainty could apply to a lot of things—his life, his future, your relationship. But for some reason, it stung a little when it felt like he was referencing you as part of that uncertainty.

“I think I’d like a cat.”

Namjoon’s brow lifted, clearly amused by the abrupt shift “A cat?”

“Yeah, two kids and a cat.” You hesitated, then added, “And the husband, of course.”

Namjoon’s lips curved upward into a full, genuine smile, a flicker of light breaking through the tension. “Two kids, a cat, and a husband?” His voice was teasing, but there was something light there too.

You shrugged, trying to match his tone, even though the ache in your chest remained. “It’s a solid plan,” you said, attempting to sound casual. “Maybe a dog too. If the kids beg enough.”

He laughed, the sound warm and familiar, and you felt a bit of that old comfort returning. Strange, though—the way your heart still fluttered when he smiled, despite everything.

“I think I could get on board with that.”

His hands dropped on either side of you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let the conversation end.

The warmth of his words lingered, but so did that quiet, nagging unease. He was playing along, keeping things light.

“We might need a bigger apartment tho…”

His words hung in the air between you, lighthearted just on the surface. You knew Namjoon well enough to recognize when he was joking and when he was saying something without really saying it.

And this?

This felt like a little bit of both.

You swallowed, forcing a smile. “Oh? So now we need a bigger apartment?”

Namjoon blinked, as if realizing what he’d just said. A flicker of something—panic? amusement? —crossed his face, but he recovered quickly, offering you an easy grin. “Well, yeah. Two kids, a cat, and a dog? You’re gonna need space.”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m gonna need space?”

He smirked, tilting his head in that way he always did when he was trying to play something off. “I mean… unless you think the husband would want to live there too.”

Your heart did that stupid twisting thing again, a tangled mess of what ifs and almosts. Because the way he said it, so effortlessly, like it was something that could just… be—it made you wonder.

For a split second, you let yourself picture it. A bigger apartment. A cat curled up on the couch. Laughter filling the rooms. Maybe even Namjoon, barefoot in the kitchen, making coffee before the kids woke up…

And just as quickly, you pushed the thought away. You weren’t sure your relationship will ever be the same after this week, let alone if you could afford to imagine a future that might never exist.

So, you did what you always did. You deflected.

You forced a smirk, arching a brow at him. “You make it sound like I’m actually considering you as an option.”

Namjoon placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Wow. Brutal.”

You shrugged. “I just think whoever my future husband is… he’s gonna need to be okay with the cat being the favourite.”

Namjoon chuckled, shaking his head. “Noted. Cat comes first. Husband, second.”

You grinned. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

The conversation should have ended there. Easy. Playful. Like always.

 But Namjoon hesitated, his hands lingering on either side of you for just a second too long before he pulled away.

And then, softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it at all—

“Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.”

Your breath caught. But before you could say anything, before you could even begin to process what he meant—he was already standing, already moving away, leaving you alone with the ache in your chest and the same unanswered question hanging between you.

“I’m gonna try and explain to my mom what that little scene in the kitchen meant before she gets any wild ideas,” he said, running a hand through his hair. His tone was light, but you caught the hesitation in his steps, the way he lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

You forced a laugh, hoping it sounded normal. “Good luck with that.”

Namjoon turned back to look at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Yeah… I think I’ll need it.”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the quiet bathroom, the weight of his words still pressing down on you.

Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.

Your fingers brushed absently over the fresh bandage on your hand, but all you could feel was the ghost of his touch, the warmth he’d left behind.

What the hell were you supposed to do with that?

~~~

As the evening wore on, the air between you and Namjoon slowly settled into something quiet, something less fragile. That burden that had pressed so heavily against your ribs all morning didn’t fully disappear, but it did loosen its grip just enough to let you breathe and get back into your role.

The tension that had once felt suffocating now ebbed at the edges, softened by the warmth of the flickering Christmas lights and the steady hum of familiar voices carrying over across the table.

The room glowed with the soft shimmer of Christmas lights, their golden hues reflecting off polished countertops and the delicate ornaments hanging from the tree. The scent of cinnamon and citrus curled through the air, mixing with the faint, nostalgic melody of holiday music drifting from the speakers.

There was something undeniably nostalgic about it all—the rhythmic motions of setting the table, the occasional bursts of laughter from across the room, the way the season wrapped itself around you like a well-worn comfortable blanket.

The ache in your chest remained, lingering just beneath the surface, but it no longer felt so all-consuming.

By the time dinner was served, the table was a stunning display of Minhi’s careful arrangements— a vibrant spread of tender, savoury meats, perfectly seasoned vegetables, and bowls of rich, colourful side dishes. The warm aroma filled the room, creating an inviting atmosphere, drawing everyone closer together.

Despite everything, you felt yourself settling into the moment, lulled by the quiet clink of silverware and the soft murmur of conversation. There was a warmth here, a sense of belonging woven into the shared meal, and you let yourself lean into it.

Every so often, your gaze drifted to Namjoon, seated beside you. The space between you still felt… uncertain. But it wasn’t as heavy now. He didn’t speak to you much, yet there was something different in the way he simply existed next to you—steady, present, like a tide softly pulling you in.

What surprised you most were the quiet gestures he offered without hesitation. The way he refilled your wine glass before you even noticed it was low. How he made sure your plate never emptied. The absentminded way he adjusted your chair when you shifted, as if it were second nature.

Set against the warmth of his family, these small, unspoken acts were unexpectedly grounding. A quiet reminder that, despite everything, he still wanted you to be comfortable. He still wanted you here. Maybe by the time you got home, things could even return to some version of normal.

You weren’t sure yet, but the idea no longer felt so impossible. It felt like something within reach.

Christmas, with all its quiet reassurances and unspoken meanings, had given you both a moment to breathe. To let it go, even if just for tonight.

After dessert, the night began to wind down. The table was cleared, dishes stacked neatly by the sink, but no one seemed eager to leave the cosy warmth that settled over the house. The tree glowed with soft fairy lights, the fireplace murmured quietly in the background, and the air was still rich with the sugary scent of baked goods.

Jackson, ever the romantic, had presented Minhi an utterly atrocious but hilariously heartfelt gift— A pair of bobbleheads styled to look like them, complete with exaggerated features and tiny versions of their favourite outfits.

Hers had her signature hairstyle and an exaggerated wink, while his sported his usual grin and an outfit that looked suspiciously like the one he was wearing.

“Now we can nod in agreement even when we’re bickering!” he declared, earning a genuine laughter from Mr. and Mrs. Kim.

Minhi gasped dramatically, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my god, Jackson,” she groaned, though the laughter shaking her shoulders betrayed her amusement. “Where do you even find these things?”

“I have my sources,” Jackson replied smugly, arms crossed as he stood proudly by his choice. “Only the best for you, babe,” he added, with a mock bow.

“Every year, it’s something new,” Namjoon muttered under his breath, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

Reaching for his mug, his fingers brushed yours. It wasn’t intentional—just a small, almost unnoticed touch—but it sent a gentle ripple through you regardless.

Your eyes lifted to his, and he caught your gaze. Leaning in just slightly, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Last year, he got her personalised socks with his face on them.”

Your laugh came soft and unexpected, spilling out before you could stop it. “Because he likes being stepped on?” you whispered back, your eyes sparkling with humour.

Namjoon smirked, his expression playful, “How’d you know?”

 The shared moment felt light and easy, a pocket of warmth that made you laugh genuinely for the first time all evening. It wasn’t forced or hesitant but natural, like slipping back into an old rhythm.

Namjoon’s eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, his smile softening into something quieter, almost fond.

“I got you something too.” He said, his voice low enough not to carry over the lively chatter around the room.

“You did?”

He nodded, glancing toward the small pile of gifts near the Christmas tree. “It’s nothing huge. Just something I thought you’d like. I can give it to you now if-”

“Wait,” you interrupted quickly, “You already know I got you the book, but let me grab it for you—I’ll be right back” A soft smile tugged at your lips as you hurried off to your room.

Stepping into the quiet space, you let out a small breath, your heart fluttering in a way that felt a little too telling. You rummaged through your suitcase, retrieving the carefully wrapped gift and adjusting the red bow atop the green paper until it was just right.

Taking a moment to steady yourself, you ran a hand through your hair before heading back to the living room. The second you returned, clutching the gift close to your chest, Namjoon’s gaze immediately found yours. His expression was calm, but there was a quiet anticipation in his eyes.

“Got it,” you said softly, holding it out toward him.

His lips quirked into a small smile as he reached for it. In return, he handed you his own gift, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with a pink silken ribbon.

“Now it’s a proper exchange,” he said, his tone light but carrying something more than just casual words.

Glancing down at the gift in your hands, you chuckled when you noticed the little marker doodle next to your name—a quick, playful sketch of a Christmas tree, leaning awkwardly to the side under the weight of a star that looked too big for it.

“Did you do this?” you asked, looking up at him, a playful smile forming on your lips.

Namjoon shrugged, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. “Maybe.”

 His casual teasing made you laugh softly as you carefully untied the ribbon, your fingers grazing the silky fabric as you peeled back the wrapping paper.

And then—you stopped.

The same book you’d gotten him was staring right back at you.

You blinked; your eyes locked on the familiar cover. The exact same book—the one you’d chosen with such care and anticipation—was now in your hands, wrapped just as carefully as you’d wrapped his.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to Namjoon, your mouth slightly agape.

“When we stopped at the bookstore and you told me you got it for me, I almost lost it.” He admitted with a chuckle, easily peeling back the paper from his own copy. “I’ve been trying to hide this in the apartment since it came out.”

He smiled, but as his eyes dropped to cover of the book, something shifted “But the thing is, I got yours signed-”

He paused when he lifted the cover and saw the delicate signature on the first page, resting neatly next to his name.  His fingers hovered over the autograph, a mix of surprise and disbelief flickering across his face. He looked up at you, his expression softening as the realization settled in.

“Wait, this is ridiculous.” He whispered, half laughing, half stunned.

You nodded slowly, a smile tugging at your lips despite the strange twist in your chest. “I thought it’d be a nice touch— God, I spent hours just waiting to get it signed.”

“Same here,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess we both have good taste.”

“You’re telling me,” You huffed, still amused. “We could’ve at least gone together, saved ourselves some trouble.”

“Did you two just get each other the exact same thing?” Minhi’s voice cracked with disbelief—clearly astonished—reminding you both that, yes, there were people around watching.

You and Namjoon exchanged a glance, both still holding identical copies of book in your hands. The absurdity of it all made it impossible not to laugh.

“God you’re disgusting.” Jackson chimed in—like he wasn’t the one who’d bought his girlfriend bobbleheads.

Namjoon chuckled, shrugging nonchalantly, clearly relishing in the banter. “Yeah. We did.”

From across the room, Mrs. Kim, who had been quietly observing, leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, it looks like you two are perfectly matched,” she teased. “Maybe next time you’ll coordinate your outfits as well.”

Mr. Kim, sitting beside her, chuckled and sent a playful wink your way. “Or maybe matching pyjamas?” he suggested, prompting a round of laughter from the group.

Namjoon tilted his head, considering it. “Now that I think about it... matching pajamas could be a vibe,” he mused, throwing you a teasing glance. “We could totally pull it off.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, biting back a laugh. “You’re pushing it.”

Mrs. Kim grinned, clearly enjoying the lighthearted moment. “This is what makes these dinners so special,” she said warmly, leaning into her husband. “Seeing all of you so comfortable with each other.”

Mr. Kim nodded, his lips curving into a fond smile. “It’s these little moments that really count.” His gaze softened as he looked at his wife.

Your eyes met Namjoon’s for a brief moment, like there was an unspoken understanding between you.

Despite everything that had unfolded this week, something inside you resolved. Maybe things didn’t need to be perfect right now. And with time, perhaps you’d find you way back to something resembling normal—whatever that was. For now, this was enough.

“Matching pyjamas it is, then,” you said, breaking the silence.

Namjoon chuckled; his smile genuine.

“Deal.”

As the evening continued, the conversations flowed effortlessly. The soft hum of festive music filled the room, mingling with the quiet laughter of those around you. The glow of candles on the mantle cast dancing shadows across the walls, wrapping the space in a homey warmth.

And for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things between you weren’t as uncertain as they seemed.

~~~

“Mrs. Kim, do you have any dishwashing gloves?” you asked, your hands reaching into a drawer. You didn’t want to risk getting your bandages wet right after Namjoon changed them.

With most of the family retreating to their rooms, you lingered behind, offering to help Mrs. Kim tidy the kitchen. It was a quiet, unspoken way of showing your gratitude for her warmth and hospitality, a small gesture to give back after everything she’d done. Besides, it gave you a chance to clear your mind in the soothing rhythm of cleaning plates and wiping counters.

A form of therapy—you told yourself—just you, the soft hum of the kitchen, and the slow settling of your thoughts.

There was a quiet sense of contentment washing over you, as if the whirlwind of the past few days was finally starting to wane. The trip was nearing its end, and despite the chaos, the awkwardness, and the emotional ups and downs, you’d managed to weather it all. Somehow, with some-god’s grace, you made it through, and that was enough to leave a faint, unexpected warmth in your chest.

“Oh dear, don’t bother with the dishes.” Mrs. Kim said softly, glancing at you over the fridge door where she carefully stacked the leftovers. Her tone gentle, almost pleading, as if she wanted to spare you the trouble. “We’ll take care of them tomorrow.”

You smiled, shaking your head lightly. “I can’t, sorry. It’ll bother me if I don’t.” A light chuckle slipped from your lips as you rummaged through the drawer, triumphantly pulling out a pair of green latex gloves. You pulled them on with a snap, feeling a little silly.

Mrs. Kim smiled at your insistence, moved by the gesture. “You’re so thoughtful,” she said sweetly. “But really, you don’t have to.”

With a soft smile, you picked up a dish from the counter and ran it under the warm water. “Honestly, I don’t mind,” you said, glancing at her. “It’s nice to have something simple to do right now.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

The sound of running water filled the space between you, while Mrs. Kim moved around the kitchen, cleaning and organizing the days messes.

 The evening had settled into a comforting cadence—the soft clink of dishes, the low hum of the refrigerator, and the occasional crackle of the fire still glowing faintly in the next room. Everything felt simple, peaceful.

For a while, the two of you worked in silence, the comfortable kind that spoke volumes without the need for filler words.

After a while, Mrs. Kim paused, setting the dish towel down as she looked at you, her expression thoughtful. “You know,” she said with a soft smile, “I’ve been meaning to sit down and chat with you all week, but Namjoon seemed determined to keep you all to himself.”

You froze mid-rinse, caught off-guard by the shift in her tone. lancing up, you caught the warmth in her eyes, and just like that, the familiar knot in your stomach came back full force. Your grip on the plate reflexively tightened, the ceramic cool against your gloved palm, as you forced yourself to smile politely

“I’m really glad you were able to spend the holidays with us,” she continued, unaware of the shift in your composure. “You make my son so very happy.”

The words hit you like an arrow to the chest, guilt rising right where it struck.

The worst thing was that Namjoon wasn’t there to protect you from yourself. It was just his mother. Her gentle warmth, and the mounting weight of your guilt. The truth of your relationship, —or the lack of—loomed large in your mind, suffocating in its quiet dishonesty.

“You know, I knew from the moment I met you that you two would make a good pair.”

Your body stiffened, her words hanging in the air like an unspoken threat. Despite the warmth in her gaze, kind and sincere, it only deepened the tension coiling in your chest. The sounds of the kitchen, the faint hum of music still coming from the living room—everything else faded, drowned out by the relentless echo of her words in your mind.

A lump formed in your throat, and your grip on the plate tightened as your hands began to shake. The walls seemed to shrink around you, the space too small to hold the enormity of the lie hanging between you.

Her voice, so earnest and trusting, repeated in your mind, each syllable weighted with an affection you didn’t feel worthy of. For a moment, you parted your lips, desperate to respond— to explain, to confess—but the words wouldn’t come. What could you possibly say? That everything she believed about you and her son was a carefully constructed illusion? That this trip had pushed your flimsy connection to its breaking point? That you and Namjoon hadn’t even kissed before this—and when you finally had, it only tangled things further, making you ache for something real, something freely given? But that he didn’t feel the same?

The truth felt like a tsunami too massive and chaotic to contain, too devastating to release. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering between holding back the wave and allowing it to crash down, obliterating everything in its path.

And all you could do was hold on to the plate in your hands, as if it could somehow keep you afloat through it all.

“I think it’s in the way you two-”

But the strain of the day—the strain of everything—became too much to withstand. The fragile hold you’d kept on your emotions shattered, splintering off like glass under pressure. The raw ache you’d buried deep inside surged to the surface, breaking through the thin veneer of composure you’d clung to so desperately as you tried to listen to her.

You blinked quickly, a futile effort to stop as tears began to pool in your eyes. But once a single drop escaped, sliding hot and unchecked down your cheek, another followed, and another, until the flood was unstoppable.

Your trembling lips pressed tightly together to stifle the sobs threatening to spill out, but your shoulders shook, and the quiet tremors of your body betrayed you. The stillness of the kitchen amplified the sound of your shallow, uneven breaths, the weight of everything pressing down all at once.

Mrs. Kim turned sharply at the sound, her expression shifting to concern in an instant, her hands stilling as she looked at you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” She murmured, stepping closer, her voice filled with a motherly warmth that broke you even further. “What’s wrong?” Her cold hands rested gently on your arms, rubbing them affectionately.

And in that moment, you realized there was no turning back.

Mrs. Kim’s voice was tender, laced with genuine worry that only made your heart hurt more. Her hands on your arms felt steadying, but they were also a stark reminder of the fact that you were breaking down.  You tried to speak, to form any explanation, but all that escaped was a shaky breath. The silence between you stretched, and you knew you couldn’t hide behind it much longer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips. You weren’t even sure what you were apologizing for yet—everything, perhaps, or maybe just for breaking down in front of her. “I didn’t mean to... ruin this moment.”

Mrs. Kim frowned, her brow creasing with concern, but her voice was as gentle as ever. “Ruin it? Sweetheart, no. What’s this all about?” She gave your arms a reassuring squeeze. “You can talk to me.”

Her kindness was unbearable, and for a moment, you debated whether you could hold back the truth just a little longer. But you knew deep down that this wasn’t something you could keep running from. Not here, not with her looking at you like that, so full of empathy.

“I...” You hesitated, your voice cracking. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Mrs. Kim stepped back slightly, her hands still hovering near yours as if to reassure you she was listening. “Go on,” she urged gently.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and tight. “Namjoon and I... we-” The words were so heavy; it felt like they might crush you if you said them out loud. “We’re not... what you think.”

Her expression didn’t falter, but there was a brief flicker of confusion in her eyes. She waited, patient but curious, as you tried to gather your courage.

“What do you mean?” she urged softly once you faltered.

“We’re not... a couple,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

The truth was out, raw and exposed, and you braced yourself for her reaction. “This whole thing—it was never real. We just... pretended.”

For the first time, Mrs. Kim’s expression shifted—her eyes widened slightly, but her hands tighten around your arms. She stared at you for a moment, processing your confession, before she took a small step back.

“You pretended?” She repeated, her voice quiet but heavy with meaning on your guilt-ridden mind. “Why would you do that?”

You looked down, unable to hold her gaze any longer. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” you said, your voice breaking. “It started as... as a way to avoid questions. To keep things simple. But then everything spiralled, and now-” You stopped, feeling the tears threaten to spill again. “Now, I don’t know how to fix it.”

Mrs. Kim was silent for a long moment, her gaze thoughtful but unreadable. When she finally spoke, her tone was soft, though there was an edge of disappointment there that made your chest ache. “So, this... this whole time, it was all just for show?”

You nodded.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together before stepping forward again. “I wish you’d told me sooner,” she said, her voice quieter now, but still kind. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but... I can see how much this is weighing on you.”

You looked up at her, surprised by her understanding. “You’re not... mad?”

“Oh, my sweetheart, you are way worse at lying than you think you are.” She squeezed your arms again, this time rubbing her thumbs across your skin as if to bring some feeling back into them.

She smiled faintly, shaking her head. “I’ve had a few suspicions,” Mrs. Kim admitted. “A mother knows, even when her son thinks he’s being clever. But I didn’t push because I thought... well, I thought maybe you two just needed time to figure it out.”

Her words landed softly, but they still carried weight, making your breath hitch. You felt an odd mix of relief and embarrassment—relief that she wasn’t completely blindsided, and embarrassment that you haven’t been as convincing as you’d thought.

“You knew?” you asked, your voice still weak from crying.

Her chuckle was lightly, a sound that was warm but reluctant. “I had my concerns. But I could also see the effort you were making, and I thought maybe it wasn’t my place to pry.”

Her hold lingered on your arms, steady and reassuring. “What I didn’t know,” she continued, her tone softening even further, “was how much it was eating you up inside. Sweetheart, this isn’t healthy—for either of you.”

You bit your lip, her understanding cutting through the storm of emotions inside you. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered, blinking a few tears away. “I didn’t want to deceive anyone. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Mrs. Kim reached up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a fondness that made you want to break down again. “I know that,” she said firmly. “And I believe you. But this is not just about me.”

You look up at her, a flicker of confusion crossing your face as you tried to process her words

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your cheeks for a moment, her touch offering a soothing presence. “It’s not just about me,” she repeated, her voice calm but filled with an unexpected tenderness. “It’s about you. And Namjoon.”

Her words hanging between you like a burden, and your heart tighten once more. “Me and Namjoon?” you echoed, unsure if she truly meant what you thought she meant.

Mrs. Kim nodded, her eyes locking onto yours with quiet understanding. “Yes, you and my oblivious son.”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing as the implication in her words finally settled into place. Maybe, it was the relief of saying everything out loud that washed over you, breaking through the layers of doubt you’ve been carrying.

 It was that relief, perhaps, that loosened the tight grip you’d kept on your emotions for so long.

“But I don’t know if he feels the same,” you admitted, your voice trembling, defences faltering as the words came out. It didn’t even matter that, in saying them, you were all but confessing your own feelings for him. “What if he doesn’t feel that way about me? What if I ruin everything we have?” You glanced away, ashamed of the vulnerability that laced every word, but unable to stop the thoughts from spilling over.

Mrs. Kim’s expression softened further. Her eyes brimming with compassion “Trust me, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, your thoughts a tangled mess of fear and doubt.

She smiled gently, her hand still resting on your cheeks. “You’re not imagining it. Trust me. I’ve seen this before—this shyness, this obliviousness to feelings. It’s from his father. That man was just as clueless when it came to my feelings for him.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her sudden pivot. “Really?” you asked, a faint laugh slipping through despite the swirl of emotions inside you.

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, rolling of her eyes playfully. “I had to practically spell it out for him before he realized how I felt. But once he did...” Her smile softened, nostalgia flickering in her gaze. “Once he did, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind—or mine.”

You bit your lip, the warmth of her story sparking a flicker of hope inside you, but the lingering concerns still clouded your thoughts. “But what if Namjoon’s not like that?” you murmured, your gaze falling to the floor. “I’m scared to say anything and risk ruining the friendship we have.”

Mrs. Kim tilted her head slightly, her expression growing more thoughtful. “Y/N,” she said gently, “Do you know what I noticed about you the first time we met?”

You hesitated, unsure of what she was about to say. “What?” you asked quietly

“I saw the way you looked at him,” she said simply. “It wasn’t just friendship. It was something deeper. Something you probably didn’t even realized yourself yet. And that whole time, he was looking at you the same way. He’s not just your friend. He’s your person.”

Her words hit like a wave, striking a chord in you that you haven’t been ready to confront. Your breath caught, your heart pounding. “You really think so?” you whispered, your voice trembling with equal parts hope and fear.

Mrs. Kim nodded with certainty, her eyes kind and unwavering. “I do. And I’m not the only one who sees it.” She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “I remember Namjoon’s ex—she was a lovely girl, but things always felt… easy to look past. But with you? The way he watches you, listens to you—like he’s waiting for something only you can give him. That’s different. That’s something real.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but this time they weren’t just from uncertainty. A flicker of hope mingled with the raw emotion coursing through you.

“What if I’m wrong?” Your words were soft, almost drowned by the silence around you.

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your arm, a quiet reassurance. “You won’t know unless you talk to him,” she said, her tone gentle but resolute.  “I won’t tell you it’s easy—putting your heart on the line never is. But if you let fear make the choice for you, you might walk away from something really special. And I don’t think he wants that. I don’t think you do either.” She paused, her eyes searching yours, her voice soft but certain— “He loves you.”

Her words settled over you like a warm embrace. It was still terrifying, the thought of baring your soul to Namjoon, but Mrs. Kim’s unwavering confidence— in you, in him—felt like a light guiding you through the uncertainty.

“Go talk to him,” she urged softly, reaching up to cup your cheeks in a gentle squeeze. “Trust me, sweetheart. You’ll be glad you did.”

“I-I will. When-”

“No! Go now!” she insisted with a gentle but determined push, her eyes sparkling.

With resolve that felt both fragile and real, you nodded, inhaling deeply as if to steady the maelstrom inside you. As you peeled off your gloves, a sniffle escaped before you could stop it. You wiped at your eyes, letting out a shaky laugh—half exasperation, half-relief.

Mrs. Kim’s hand gave your arm one final, reassuring squeeze, her warmth lingering even as you turned away.

And then, before doubt could creep back in, you hurried upstairs to the bedroom.

 The door slammed behind you and the echo resounded in the quiet stillness of the room. Namjoon’s head snapped up from the book in his hands, his wide eyes startled by your sudden arrival.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the warm golden light from the lamp next to him casting soft shadows across his face. He had that look of fuzzy contentment he always wore when he was reading—a serene expression you wanted to lock away and hold tight to protect forever. But right now, your own emotions were too unruly to appreciate it fully.

“Do you love me?”

The words burst out of you before you had the chance to reel them back in, your voice shaky and raw as adrenaline still coursed through you. You were a whirlwind—your heart thundered in your chest as you stood there, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes, the weight of the conversation you’d just had pressing heavily on your shoulders. You didn’t even try to give him context first. You didn’t prepare either of you for the leap you were about to take. Instead, you jumped.

Namjoon blinked at you, his lips parting, eyes flitting across your face as he tried to process the question. For a long moment, he looked utterly confused, but then, as if the air between you shifted, something soft and vulnerable lit up in his face. His book tumbled from his hands, forgotten entirely, as he straightened up.

“What…?” he began, tentative and breathless, but you didn’t give him a chance to run, to overthink, to temper his feelings behind those gentle walls he so often built. You had to know. There could be no half-truths now.

“Do you love me?” you repeated, your voice louder this time, more forceful, as every fibre of your being felt like it was burning alive, unravelling at the seams with desperation for an answer. For clarity. For him.

His lips quivered, caught somewhere between anxiety and trust, his gaze searching yours before his answer came in a breathless whisper that shattered you on the spot.

“Yes. Of course, I love you.” The intensity you saw there—the vulnerability, the unmistakable fear —it completely broke the barrier.

Before he could say another word, you surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was desperate, unrestrained, a collision of all the emotions you’d kept bottled up for too long. You slotted your lips against his, connecting in a way that felt as necessary as breathing. The world tilted. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you from unravelling.

Namjoon froze for half a second; you could practically feel the surprise radiate from him. But then, like a lightning strike, his arms were around you, pulling you closer. Close enough that no space for doubt could exist between you. He kissed you back with a fervour that sent a tidal wave of warmth from your head to your toes. His lips moved against yours as though he’d unlocked a secret of his own emotions, pouring them all out into this single moment.

 This confession without words.

Finally, when your lungs screamed for air, you pulled back just slightly, your foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. You could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

“What’s gotten into you?” he whispered, his voice so quiet, as if to speak too loudly might shatter the fragile bubble wrapping itself around you both. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone in the gentlest of touches, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape.

You drew in a trembling breath, your lips grazing his as you whispered, “I… I told your mother everything.”

He froze solid, just like that, and the warmth in his expression flickered with confusion. “What?” he asked, his voice just as soft but now edged with trepidation.

“I told her,” You repeated, your voice steadier this time, though your heart was racing. You pressed another kiss to his lips, unable to fully pull away. “I told her we were pretending. That we’re not really together. How you—how you asked me to lie to her and everyone else.” Your fingers remained clutched in his shirt; your mouth lingering on his, unwilling to part for more than a few seconds at a time.

Namjoon stilled for a fraction of a second, processing your words between the kisses you couldn’t seem to stop. Then his grip on you tightened, as if afraid this was a dream he would wake up from any minute. The hesitation in his posture melted, replaced by something stronger, fiercer—something that matched the irregular rhythm of your own heart.

“Hold on,” he whispered against your mouth, his voice breathless and uneven, “I can’t think straight when you kiss me.”

The vulnerability in that small confession sent a thrill through you, and you couldn’t help the big, silly grin that broke across your face.

“Why’d you tell her?” he asked, his voice softer now, his forehead resting against yours.

You let out a shaky laugh, your eyes dropping to his swollen lips, already wanting to kiss him again. “I didn’t mean to,” you admitted, the words spilling out quickly. “She was so nice to me, and with everything that’s happened—I just couldn’t hold it in. I started crying, and it all came out.”

Namjoon exhaled deeply and, with obvious difficulty, pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze softened, the concern there unmistakable. “What did she say? Is that why you’re crying?”

A watery sniffle escaped you as you tried to explain. “She said you’re oblivious,” Each syllable ghosted over his lips, the space between you nearly nonexistent. You wanted to kiss him again. “And that you get it from your dad.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, but you didn’t stop. “She said she already knew,” you murmured, your voice quieter now, your chest tightening as your fingers traced the warm skin of his neck. “And…” You hesitated, your eyes searching his. “She said you love me.”

You were so close, his breath mingled with yours, the space between you barely more than a whisper.

Namjoon stilled, his breath catching. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, but then something like awe swept over his face, softening every feature. His eyes searched yours, looking for doubt, for hesitation—anything that might suggest you didn’t mean it. But when he found nothing but truth staring back at him, he let out a shaky exhale, his lips parting as though he was about to speak.

He didn’t. Instead, his hands cupped your face, and his lips met yours again, but this time the kiss was slower, deeper, and achingly tender. Gone was the urgency, replaced by something raw and honest. This kiss wasn’t about desperation or pretending—it was about him showing you, with everything he had, exactly how he felt.

This was Namjoon, completely unguarded. And as his lips moved against yours, as his hands cradled you like you were the most precious thing in the world, you felt like it.  

His breath fanned across your skin as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still holding your face like he wasn’t ready to let go. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, slow and reverent, as if memorizing every inch of you.

Neither of you spoke right away. The silence between you wasn’t empty— it was filled with the weight of the past few days, the tangled emotions, the hesitation and longing, all melted into the space between your breaths.

Namjoon swallowed hard.

“I thought I ruined everything when I kissed you.” His voice was raw, unsteady, his hands moving with quiet desperation—grazing your jaw, your neck, brushing your hair away from your face like he needed to see all of you.

You exhaled sharply a mix of exasperation and relief. “I was so sure you regretted it,” you admitted, your fingers restless as they traced along his skin, unable to stop moving, needing to feel him. “God, Namjoon, how could you just shut down like that?”

He swallowed, his gaze flickering with something vulnerable, something hesitant. “I thought you hated me.” The words came quiet but heavy. “I didn’t know how to handle it. I convinced myself that I pushed you away—that I ruined any chance I had of being with you for real.”

 Your breath hitched at the vulnerability that poured out of him. His dark eyes shimmered in the soft golden light of the room; the weight of his emotions etched across his perfect, devastating face.

“Namjoon…” His name quivered on your tongue as the tears came back to your eyes. But it wasn’t sadness that overwhelmed you—it was relief. Relief that the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long had finally found a voice. Relief that you weren’t alone in this freefall of emotions.

Namjoon’s hands still cradled your face, his thumbs brushing circles along your cheekbones like he could soothe all the hurt away. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead in an act so tender that it sent another wave of tears spilling down your cheeks.

“I regret…” He hesitated, his hands angled your face carefully, “I regret not telling you sooner. Not being brave enough to—God, Y/N, I’ve loved you since forever, but I was always so scared. Scared that you’d pull away, that-”

But you never heard the end of it, because your lips were on his again, stopping him mid-sentence, sealing all those remaining words between you. Namjoon’s hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, desperate, as if he couldn’t get enough of you, as if he was trying to make up for all the lost time. The intensity of it all sent a spark through your chest, and when your breath caught, he deepened the kiss, his tongue moving against yours, the world outside completely fading away.

Each movement, each touch was a promise—of feelings so long buried, that suddenly burst to the surface. Everything melted away in that kiss. It was everything and nothing at once, a moment that felt like it could stretch on forever.

Each touch, every breath shared between kisses, sent shivers racing up and down your spine. His lips trailed away from yours for only a moment, long enough to press kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, always returning to your mouth again like you were magnetic. You lost yourself in him completely, in the way his thumb was curling just beneath the collar of your shirt, in the way he tilted his head for a deeper angle and the soft sound he made in the back of his throat when you pulled his lip between your teeth.

His touch, his scent, the way his hands moved with purpose yet a tenderness that was overwhelming—every sensation was overwhelming in the best way possible.

The kiss deepened once more, as if the air itself couldn’t fill the space between you, and all the words you’d both kept locked away for so long were exchanged in every press of your lips.

Namjoon’s hands moved to over your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer, and before you could realize, he turned you two around—your back pressing against the soft mattress of the bed. The sudden movement took you by surprise, but you didn’t protest. If anything, the new proximity only made your pulse quicken, the heat between you both intensifying as he leaned over you, his body hovering just above yours. His breath came in soft, uneven gasps, each one warm against your skin, as if the space between you both was no longer enough. His hands, once resting at your shoulders, now explored lower, tracing the curve of your waist before settling at the small of your back, drawing you closer with a gentle yet undeniable urgency, his hips slotting against yours.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the sensation of his hands on you, the warmth of his touch setting your skin ablaze. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, slipping beneath your sweater and gradually pushing it higher, sending a shiver down your spine. Instinctively, you arched into him—craving more, needing more.

Namjoon’s lips brushed against your forehead, his voice barely a whisper as he said your name.

“Hmm?” you murmured.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Say it back.”

His voice was low, a mix of vulnerability and quiet demand, a plea you just couldn’t ignore.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and your heart swelled with certainty. You reached up, cupping his face gently, your voice steady as you said,

“I love you, Namjoon. I love you too.”

Namjoon’s gaze never left yours, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of desire and tenderness. His lips parted slightly as though to speak, but instead, he closed the distance between you two, kissing you again. His kiss was the perfect answer.

Your fingers knotted in his hair, pulling him closer, and you returned his kisses with equal fervour. A feverish dance, tongues entwined in a desperate attempt to satiate the hunger that gnawed at your very souls.

You ran your hands up the sides of his body, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, memorizing the contours of him as if you could pull all of him into you. Namjoon groaned softly at the sensation, his hands tightening their hold on you as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling yours in a caress that left you breathless.

His lips trailed down to your jaw, pressing over the marks already blooming on your neck, each press searing, sending sparks of need racing through your veins.

He nipped and sucked at your sensitive skin, leaving a few new hickeys as he made his way down to your collarbone. You gasped, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him. The heat between you was palpable, a living, breathing thing that threatened to consume you both.

As if sensing your need, Namjoon leaned back down, capturing your mouth back in a heated kiss. His lips moving against yours, coaxing you open, and you wilfully let him in. You always let him. His tongue slid against yours, stroking, tasting, and you whimpered, clutching onto him.

He swallowed the sound, one hand sliding down your thigh, hooking behind your knee. He dragged your leg over his hip, pressing your core right against his straining erection, and you gasped, breaking the kiss.

 “God, I want you,” he groaned, rocking against you, his hands stroking up your sides to cup your breasts. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. “I’ve imagined this a thousand times, but nothing compares to the real thing.”

 “I want you too,” you confessed. “God, so much” Your breath hitched as his lips found the curve of your throat, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with a slow kiss. Heat coiled in your stomach, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, as if you could fuse yourself to him completely. “I need you, Namjoon.”

But just as his hands moved to the button of your jeans, your senses caught up with you. You suddenly became acutely aware of everything—the fact that this was real, no more unrequited feelings, no more hiding. But just as glaring was the truth that his mother was down the hall. The realization hit you like a cold wave, shaking you, and a wave of panic surged through your chest.

“But baby, there is no way I’m fucking you at your parents’ house,” you said, your voice a soft reprimand, edged with your own personal frustration.

Namjoon groaned, his head falling to your shoulder as he breathed in your scent. “You’re killing me,” he murmured.

You chuckled, the sound warm and breathless, threading your fingers through his hair as he groaned against your shoulder. “I’m saving you from potential lifelong humiliation,” you teased, nudging his cheek with your nose.

Namjoon exhaled heavily, his lips grazing your collarbone one last time before he pulled back, flopping onto his back beside you with a frustrated sigh. “You’re right,” he admitted begrudgingly, rubbing a hand down his face. “But damn it woman … you make it really hard to think rationally.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself up on one elbow as you gazed down at him, taking in the way his chest rose and fell, the way his lips were still kiss-swollen and impossibly tempting, the way his eyes—dark and filled with something deeper than just lust—stayed locked on you.

A slow smile curled at your lips as you leaned down, pressing a soft, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I promise, when the time is right…” Your fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns on his chest, just beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t make you wait a second longer.”

Namjoon groaned again, rolling over to bury his face in the crook of your neck as you giggled. “You’re really going to make me suffer, aren’t you?” he muttered against your skin, kissing it softly after.

You grinned, letting your fingers comb gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Just let me hold you a little longer.”

Namjoon’s voice was a low, almost pleading whisper as he adjusted, shifting until he was holding you tighter, his arms enveloping you in a warmth that made everything else fade away. That made all the waiting and suffering feel like it was worth it.

 That made you start to question your own rule—because you’ve just told this man there would be no sex tonight and yet there wasn’t a single trace of frustration or regret on his face. Just quiet devotion, steady and sure, like holding you was enough.

 His hand splayed across your back, pressing you firmly against him. You melted into his embrace, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It was a comfort, a steady rhythm that calmed the fervour between you. His fingers lightly traced circles on your back, soothing you with every movement.

A small smile tugged at your lips as your fingers idly traced patterns over his skin. “Are you always this romantic?” you murmured, your voice laced with amusement.

Namjoon chuckled, his chest vibrating against yours “I’ve had years to practice patience with you,” he said, his tone filled with fondness, before he took on that familiar teasing expression. “And when we get home,” he leaned in close to your ear, his breath tickling your skin as he whispered, “I’m fucking you against every single flat surface we find.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your heart racing at the challenge in his tone. His expression was playful yet intense, that familiar mischievous spark lighting up his features, making those dimples seem like anything but innocent.

“You better watch yourself, Mr. Kim,” you said, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “I’ve been known to bite back.”

Namjoon’s grin widened as his hands sliding down your hips, fingers pressing into your skin before giving them a firm squeeze. In one fluid motion, he pulled you up slightly, adjusting your position—just enough for you to feel the hard imprint of his cock against you.

 “I’m counting on it,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a brief but heated kiss.

“Namjoon…”

His name left your lips in a breathy whisper, and Namjoon’s grip on you tightened ever so slightly, his fingers pressing into your hips like he was grounding himself—or maybe like he was trying to keep himself from losing all control.

“Yeah?” he prompted, his voice lower now, rougher, his lips hovering just over yours.

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up at him, taking in the way his pupils had blown wide, the way his chest moved with each heavy breath, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, like he was trying to steady himself—like he was barely holding on. You had always known Namjoon was dangerous in a hundred different ways, but this? The way he looked at you.

This was something else entirely.

A smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as you slid your hands up his chest, resting them over his racing heartbeat. “I think you might be a little obsessed with me,” you teased, arching a brow.

Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he let out a low chuckle. “You’re just now figuring that out?” he mused, his thumb stroking absentminded circles against your skin. Then, his expression shifted, something softer blooming beneath the heat in his gaze. “You have no idea.”

Your chest ached at the sincerity in his tone, at the weight of his words, and suddenly, the teasing faded from your mind entirely. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his jaw as you murmured, “Tell me,” the words barely audible, even to your own ears. “Tell me what you want.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, his pupils blown so wide that for a moment, they hid the hazel entirely.

“I want to feel every inch of you” he murmured, his voice rough. “I want to taste you, touch you, tease you. I want feel you trembling in my hands.” You shivered, despite the warmth of his embrace, a small gasp escaping your lips at his words.

His smile was immediate—wicked and knowing—as his hand slid under your shirt, fingers tracing your spine with deliberate slowness, sending sparks dancing beneath your skin.

“You want that, don’t you?” His voice was nothing more than a low, sinful whisper that completely ruined your panties.

 “Want me to take you apart, baby girl?”

The words settled deep in your core, a slow burn spreading through your veins, igniting something primal. Your fingers curled against his jaw, your breath hitching as his hand continued its slow, torturous exploration beneath your shirt, carefully tracing the outline of your bra.

“Say it,” he teased, his lips brushing against yours, teasing but never quite closing the distance. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Namjoon…” you breathed, but he was quick to assure you.

“I’ll behave. Don’t you worry.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears, heat pooling low in your stomach as you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want it.”

His responding groan was deep, guttural, vibrating through your entire body as his grip on you tightened. In one smooth motion, he rolled, pinning you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his thigh sliding between yours.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as his lips trailed down your jaw, past the sensitive spot below your ear, down the column of your throat. “Now let me make you feel good.”

“Namjoon!” you tried, but you heard him hush you before his tongue flicked over your pulse point, his teeth scraping lightly before he sucked, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. His hand slid higher, pushing your shirt up, exposing more of your skin to the cool air as his lips followed the path his fingers had blazed.

“Namjoon-” His name was half a gasp, half a plea, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it was the only thing anchoring you.

“Hold that thought,” he murmured, suddenly pulling back. The warmth of his body vanished as he sat up, pushing himself off the bed.

You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. For a second, you thought he was walking away, and your protest was already forming—until you saw him stride toward the door.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

Then you heard it. The soft click of the door’s lock sliding into place.

“Really?”

He smirked, sliding a knee back onto the mattress, his hands gripping your ankles and slowly dragging you toward him. “I’m not taking any chances,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement and something deeper.

The heat in his gaze was enough to make your breath hitch, but you couldn’t resist pushing him just a little more. “And here I thought you had some self-control”

Namjoon’s hands slid up your legs, his fingers kneading into your thighs as he leaned in close, his breath hot against your lips. “Baby,” he rasped, tilting his head slightly. “I locked that door because I have self-control. Otherwise, you’d already be a mess underneath me.”

“Joonie,” you groan, the bright red blush burning your face as you cover your face with your arms.

Namjoon chuckled softly at the sight of you hiding behind your arms, his hands gently pulling them away to reveal the rosy flush spreading across your cheeks. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as his breath stirred the hairs on your neck.

“Tell me, how set are you on that rule of yours?” His voice was low, a teasing growl that sent a hot shiver down your spine.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the rapid beat of your heart. His proximity was intoxicating, and despite the rules you’d set, the temptation to surrender to him was almost overwhelming.

You met his gaze, eyes filled with a mix of defiance and desire. “I… I meant it,” you murmured, your voice a little shaky despite your attempt at sounding firm. “I’m not fucking you tonight.”

Namjoon’s lips quirked into a smile, though it was anything but innocent. “I know that.” His fingers danced along your skin, barely touching, just enough to make you ache for more. “But I can touch you right?” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear again.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you were unsure of what to say, before:

“We have to be quiet.”

Namjoon’s smile grew, but there was a sharpness to it now, a hint of challenge. He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours, “Easy.”

His hand moved lower, fingertips skimming over your waist, leaving goosebumps in their wake, his touch light yet electrifying. The contrast between his playful demeanour and the raw desire in his eyes made your pulse race.

You bit your lip, trying to hold onto your resolve, but the temptation of his touch, his proximity, was slowly unravelling you. “You’re making this harder,” you managed, though it was more of a breathless confession than a statement of resistance.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked up to yours, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to send heat pooling in your belly. “I haven’t even started yet,” he murmured, his breath hot against your lips. “But I’ll make sure you’re quiet.”

You shivered at his words, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. His proximity, the heat of his breath on your skin, and the way his hands were moving lower, this time unbuttoning your jeans, had you teetering on the edge.

“Namjoon...” you whispered, voice shaky, but his fingers moved to the zipper, steady and sure, making it impossible to think clearly.

“Shh…” he hushed you softly. “I’ve got you.”

The simple reassurance sent a rush of heat through your chest, your heart pounding in your ears.

With practiced ease, his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your abdomen. You let out a gasp, your eyes fluttering closed as you savored the sensation. Namjoon’s hands moved lower, cupping your ass through the fabric of your pants. He squeezed gently, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You have such a nice ass,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

A quick giggle escapes your lips, your eyes meeting his. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you replied, your voice just as low and breathless. He grinned, his fingers moving to the hem of your pants. With slow, deliberate movements, he began to slide them down your legs, revealing the thin fabric of your lacy underwear underneath.

 You felt a rush of embarrassment at the sight of your arousal seeping through the fabric, but Namjoon didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying it. His fingers deliberately pushing your thighs apart once your jeans were discarded off somewhere behind him, taking his time to admire you.

“Did I ever tell you you’re beautiful?” You tried to respond, but it came out as a gasp as his fingers slid higher, teasing the lacy edge of your panties. He didn’t push them down, just tracing the material, letting you feel the heat of his touch through the thin fabric. Your fingers curled into the sheets, trying to anchor yourself in the sensation, but your body was reacting on its own, pushing further against him

His fingers moved, testing, teasing, until you’re squirming under him. “Namjoon,” you whine, your hands fisting in the sheets.

But he just smirks, “So impatient,” he teases, his hands sliding further up, brushing over your wet core through the fabric, his fingers catching over your clit and making you gasp breathlessly.

“I’ve barely started and you’re already desperate for me.” His words send a pulse of heat through you and you bite your lip hard, fighting back a moan. He chuckles, his fingers pushing against your entrance as if he wasn’t testing your patience already/

 “Shh, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire, mock-hushing you before pushing your panties aside, his fingers sliding through the slick heat gathering there. “Fuck. You’re so wet for me already,” the hot exhale of his breath making you clench around nothing.

 He dragged his fingertips through your wetness, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch that had you writhing beneath him again.

“Please...” Your fingers scrabbled uselessly at his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and dragging him closer. “Namjoon, my love...”

He silenced your plea with a searing kiss, tongue delving past your lips as he finally breached you with one long finger. Your moan swallowed by his mouth, hips lifting to take him deeper. The stretch was exquisite, pleasure spiking through you at the curl of his finger, quickly finding that spot inside that made you see stars.

Namjoon swallowed each and every needy sound spilling from your lips, his mouth devouring yours with a hunger that left you dizzy. He pushed another finger in, fucking you slowly, maddeningly, the wet squelch of your arousal obscene and too loud in the quiet room, mixing perfectly with your muffled moans.

You were lost to sensation, a writhing mess beneath his ministrations. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders, his hair, any resolve you could find. He held you down with his weight, drinking down every whimper and gasp his fingers drew from you. His rhythm perfect, each push making you feel lightheaded, the pads of his fingers brushing against that spongey spot, making your keen in pleasure.

Your nails raked down his back at the same moment his thumb found your clit, and you sob into his mouth, orgasm cresting hard and fast, the most delightful buzz settling at the base of your spine. Namjoon smothered your cries, taking everything, you gave him, fingers never ceasing their relentless rhythm. His thumb was a steady pressure on your clit, drawing out your climax until you were boneless and shiver beneath him, your whole body convulsing.

Only then did he pull back, lips red and slick with saliva, a knowing smirk playing over them as he took in your dazed, sated expression. “I knew you’d be a good girl for me,” he purred, fingers still toying with your over-sensitive flesh, drawing out a weak whimper from you

“Nam- A-Ahm...” you groan, thighs snapping shut around his hand, trapping it in place. His amused chuckle vibrated against your skin.

As your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “Think you can let go of my hand now?”

You were a flushed, trembling mess, your eyes still hazy as you gave a small, stubborn shake of your head. “Mmm… no.”

Namjoon huffed a quiet laugh, his free hand brushing your hair back from your face. “And why not?”

“You’ll tease me again.”

His grin was all mischief. “Smart girl.”

Namjoon’s grin didn’t waver as he shifted slightly, his trapped hand flexing against your thigh. “And yet,” he mused, voice low and knowing, “you’re still holding me there. Almost like… you want me to keep teasing you.”

You pouted, pressing your legs together even tighter, as if that would stop him, just a second before you forced yourself to let go. “Give me 5 minutes.”

“Isn’t that the guy’s line?”

You groaned, turning your face into the pillow to hide your growing smile. “Shut up,” you mumbled, your voice muffled but still laced with lingering pleasure.

Namjoon chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, and you could feel the warmth of his gaze lingering on you. He shifted effortlessly, hover over you, his free hand smoothing over your thigh in slow, absentminded strokes, a quiet reminder he wasn’t done with you. Or maybe, just maybe, he was as desperate as you were. Despite the tension building between you both, he still focused entirely on you—your needs—even though you hadn’t given him any release yet. It was as if his sole concern was your pleasure.

Still, he wore a look that told you he would willingly let you ruin him, and then thank you afterwards.

You peek your head up, meeting his heated gaze through hooded eyes, a mischievous glint in your expression. A teasing smile tugs at your kiss-bruised lips. “Take your shirt off,” you purr, voice low and sultry.

Namjoon’s smirk deepens at the unexpectedly bold request, and the look in his eyes suggests he’s more than willing to comply. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, “Bossy.” His voice was thick with amusement, but there was no hesitation in his movements.

He sat back, lifting his arms to pull the fabric over his head with smooth, practiced ease. The moment his shirt hit the floor, you couldn’t help but take in the way the muscles in his chest and arms shifted as he moved. The sight of him, bare and exposed in front of you, sent a wave of heat coursing through your body, pooling between your thighs.

You swallowed, your breath catching at the intensity of his gaze as he leaned back over you, his hands now skimming over your body, tracing the outline of your form. “Better?” he asked, his voice low, each word thick with a mix of flirtatious edge and raw, aching need.

You bit your lip, feeling the pulse of your desire as you nod slowly. “Much better.” Your hands tentatively explore the newly exposed skin of his chest, mapping the hard planes and dips of muscle. A surge of gratitude washes over you as you realize the band-aid Namjoon had chosen for your cut now allows you to glide your fingertips over his heated skin without restraint.

Namjoon watches you through half-lidded eyes, his lips parting on a soft exhale as your fingertips brush over a sensitive spot. He catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, voice rough with want.

“I haven’t even started yet.” You tease, trailing your fingers down his chest to his stomach, following the defined V of his muscles down to the waistband of his sweatpants, where your fingers hook in the elastic. Namjoon’s sharp inhale was more than enough encouragement. You trace the waistband of his pajama pants, feeling him shift under your touch, before dipping your hand beneath the fabric to wrap your fingers around his length. Suddenly feeling even more grateful that it wasn’t your dominant hand that had been injured today.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Fuck is right. Damn it. You were totally on track—he was massive.

He was hot, silk over flame, and so very big in your hand. You stroked him base to tip, more to size him up, but instead marveling at the way he stirred against your palm.

Namjoon groaned, head falling back against the pillow, hips canting forward. “Oh baby”

You shivered at the guttural sound, circling your hand around him, almost getting your fingers to meet.

His cock twitched in your hold, a drop of precum welling at the head. You thumb the slit, smearing his precum down his length, before pulling your hand up to spit on it.

“God, you’ll kill me.”

You met his gaze through your lashes, quickly returning to your task, pumping him with slow, teasing strokes. Your free hand came up to cup his heavy balls, rolling them in your palm.

He cursed under his breath, hips rocking into your grip.

Namjoon’s hands fisted in the sheets on either side of you, breathy groans spilling from his lips as he softly guided your ministrations, showing you how he liked to be touched. Namjoon’s eyes stay locked on yours, even as they glaze over with pleasure. One of his hands finds your hip, gripping tightly as he guides your movements. “Don’t stop,” he pleads, voice strangled. “I’m close.”

You doubled your efforts, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, giving his length a squeeze, before running your thumb over his head, teasing the slit.  

Namjoon is practically panting now, his face etched with strain as he chases his release.

“Come on,” you whisper, your other hand joining the first, one hand around the base, the other cupping his heavy balls. “Let go. I want to feel you.” He barely has a chance to register your words before he’s coming with a low groan, his head burying in your neck and biting hard against your shoulder to try and keep quiet, which in turn makes you gasp. Still, you stroke him through it, milking every last drop until he’s a boneless, sated mess, his full weight crushing you.  “Fuck, babe,” he praises breathlessly, shooting you a lazy, satisfied smile. “You’re amazing.” He tugs you up, capturing your lips in a languid kiss. You melt into him, your hand still wrapped around his spent cock, enjoying the little aftershocks that continue to make him twitch.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmur against his lips, feeling your heart swell.

Because despite the pleasure, the heat, this—this moment right here, of feeling utterly connected—that’s what you craved.

Namjoon pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes soft. “I love you,” he admits quietly, like it’s just a simple fact. Like you both haven’t been fighting it for year.

You know your eyes are shining, but you don’t care. “I love you too.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you let him sweep you up in the feeling, in the moment. because right now, right here, tangled in his arms and the sheets of his childhood bedroom is exactly where you’re meant to be.

After a few lazy minutes, Namjoon shifts, prompting you to release him. You bring your fingers to your mouth, languidly licking them clean as a low moan escapes you, savouring the salty essence of him that explodes across your tongue.

“Fuck. Love, don’t do that. You’ll get me hard again.” He chuckles breathlessly, dropping light kisses across your face. “As much as I want to go for round two, I think we both could use a shower first”

Namjoon slides out of bed, extending his hand toward you with a playful grin. “Come with me? I’ll even wash your back.”

You raise an eyebrow, looking at him sceptically. “That shower is tiny, and in case you didn’t know, you’re huge.”

Namjoon laughs, clearly unfazed by your complaints. “I’ll make it work,” he says with a wink, his grin widening. He gave your hand a gentle tug, urging you to follow. “Besides, I’m pretty good at fitting into tight spaces.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “You’re impossible.”

He smirks, pulling you up gently by the hand. “Come on, let me prove you wrong. Besides, I think we both could use a little water to cool down.” His voice softens, a hint of seriousness underlying the playful tone.

You give in, following him with a small sigh, knowing very well that that you willingly played right into his plan.

[mortallydeepestobservation]

The holiday pretense -4-

Summary: Namjoon has never been a fan of the holidays. In fact, he could list more things that sucked about ‘The most wonderful time of the year’, than things that brought him joy. Yet, beneath his cynicism, a flicker of hope appeared this year, as the faint scent of homesickness hung in the air. Unfortunately, there’s one tiny little thing that keeps him from calling home- his lack of a girlfriend. But fear not; this holiday season, Namjoon’s smart mouth gets him in a situation where he has no choice but to approach you- his longtime friend and roommate- with an unexpected request. Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: fake-dating, friends to lovers/roommates to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff. Rating: Explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: characters are very clumsy. Blood, mentions of blood and bandages. slight angst. Smut warnings: (finally), kissing, hickeys, marking, non penetrative sex act, pet names. Namjoon is a big boy Word count: Chapter 4- 23k Author's note: guys! it's done! they (almost) did it! This chapter is essentially the reason this story exists. As far as I’m concerned, I’ve never read a pretend-dating or fake-relationship story where the reader feels guilty about lying, or where she  to the parents. This was fun. I’m really happy with how it came out tbh. And just for the record, y'all need to thank @callmenoona25 , because I was very willing to blue ball you, but she convinced me otherwise. So yeah. We are just one chapter out from seeing this story to completion!! I almost can’t believe it. happy v-day y'all✨💕 part 1: here, part 2: here , part 3: here , part 4: reading Tag list: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne  @oneshallsmile @ktownshizzle @jimineepaboya

Namjoon had his flaws; he was the first to admit it. Although he wouldn’t necessarily say that the meticulous way he liked to organized his closet was one of them.

That wasn’t a flaw—it was a quirk.

And you had your quirks too! Like your collection of pink pots that needed their own cabinet, and your insistence on a very specific way of stacking Tupperware—both perfectly reasonable in your eyes.

And for the most part, these quirks rarely clashed—he didn’t care about cooking or what colour skillet his food was made in, and you rarely had any reason to go through his closet (except to steal his clothes). But every so often, they would.  And when they did, they drove you both up the wall. Namjoon had a particularly bad habit of forgetting to check pockets before throwing clothes in the wash. More than a few pair of AirPods had met their untimely demise due to his own forgetfulness. Worse, though, were the tissues. Those tiny paper pieces would disintegrate in the wash, and would compromise the entire load. That was the one that really got to you.

And it wasn’t like he’d do that intentionally; it was simply Namjoon being Namjoon. He’d always start off doing the laundry with the best intentions—carefully separating colours from whites, ensuring delicates got the right temperature. But somewhere in the process, his mind would wander (as it often did) to a work issue or book he’d been reading. By the time he remembered to check the pockets, it was usually too late.

But you weren’t without your own faults. Like your refusal to put the sponge back in its designated holder—a choice that made absolutely no sense to him, because it was right there! And yet, every time, you left it sitting in the sink, soaking wet, slowly dissolving into a slimy mess. Namjoon hated a soggy sponge more than almost anything, and yet you kept deliberately inviting one into your home.

And then there was your compulsive need to clean the kitchen immediately after cooking. To Namjoon, this was the ultimate buzzkill, mostly because he was hungry and he’d always wait for you to finish, so you could eat together.

It wasn’t like you were trying to be difficult—just as Namjoon didn’t intend to obliterate every tissue he left in his pocket. You simply had your own rhythm, your own way of doing things.

The sponge thing, though? That was a hill he couldn’t understand why you choose to die on.

Still, quirks and frustrations aside, you both understood the bigger picture. And though he may never admit it, after years of living together, he almost found it endearing— how these quibbles have become woven into the fabric of your relationship. If a disintegrated tissue or a soggy sponge was the worst thing between you, he’d gladly take it.

He’d still keep you as his roommate, pink cookware fetish and all.

“Joonie, think you can hand me that cup?”

You appeared beside him, barefoot, wearing one of his oversized sweaters that practically swallowed you whole, your eyes glued to your phone as you read something.

Namjoon let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he grabbed the cup from the drying rack. “You know, for someone so obsessed with doing the dishes right away, you sure leave a lot lying around.”

“That’s your part of the agreement.” You replied smoothly, not even glancing up at first. But then your eyes flickered to meet his, a playful spark in them. “If I wash the dishes, you put away the dishes. Fair’s fair”

He handed you the cup, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Convenient how you always remember that part of the agreement when it benefits you. I’m the one who always ends up doing both—washing and putting away.”

You leaned against him as you filled the cup with water, your body brushing his in that effortless, unconscious way that never failed to send his mind spiralling. “That’s called teamwork, Namjoonie.” You teased, giggling softly as you fluttered those pretty eyes at him.

Namjoon exhaled softly, trying to steady his racing thoughts. It was always like this—the smallest of gestures from you could unravel him completely. You, in his sweater, standing so close that he could smell the faint scent of your shampoo, acting like it was nothing, but to him, it was everything.

His gaze lingered on you, drawn to the way the sweater slipped slightly off your shoulder, the easy confidence in your movements, and the way you made standing this close feel so natural. And in that moment, Namjoon felt the weight of everything he’d been holding back, everything he’d tried to convince himself was enough.

But it wasn’t. It could never be.

He couldn’t keep pretending this was just casual, that it didn’t mean something more. He couldn’t keep pretending he wasn’t in love with you.

“Teamwork, huh?” he said softly, his smile deepening.

Before you could respond, his hands moved, settling on your waist. His touch was gentle but sure, pulling you closer with a quiet confidence that made your breath hitch.

“Namjoon-”

Your voice was barely a whisper, but you didn’t get the chance to finish. He leaned in, closing the space between you, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was both hesitant and certain—like a question he already knew the answer to.

Warm and unhurried, your lips moved together, his grip on your waist steady, as though he wanted to make sure you didn’t pull away too soon.

The sensation of his lips against yours was electric, sending a wave of heat through him, but it was the overwhelming rush of emotion—the need to hold onto you, to make you feel what he couldn’t put into words—that sent his heart racing.

You were so warm in his grasp, your skin so soft in his hands, he couldn’t help but lose himself in the moment. In you.  His thumbs brushed against your sides, tracing lazy, delicate circles as if to memorize the feel of you pressed against him.

Your fingers dig themselves in his t-shirt, clinging to the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you in the surreal haze of the moment.

Namjoon tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his hands sliding up from your waist to rest gently on your lower back, pulling you impossibly close. Every movement was intentional, like he wanted to carve this moment into his memory— the warmth of your skin, the taste of your lips, the way you always fit against him like two pieces of the same puzzle.

When the need for air finally forced you both to break apart, he didn’t pull away entirely. Instead, he stayed close, his forehead resting against yours, your breaths mingling in the charged silence, each exhale louder than the last.

But then, as if the spell had broken, reality—or something like it—came crashing down.

“Fuck.” The word escaped you like a gasp, and you pushed hard against his chest, tearing yourself out of his grasp “God, Namjoon! Why would you do that?”

His brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face, followed by hurt. He let his hands fall to his sides, taking a half-step back. “Wait-what? I...I thought—Do you not…like me?”

“Like you?” you interrupted, your voice sharp, though it trembled slightly. “My god, Namjoon, no! We’re roommates. Just friends! That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been!” 

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Namjoon felt the ground slip out from under him. The warmth of your skin was gone, the illusion shattered, and all that was left was a painful, confusing silence. He stepped back as though your words had physically struck him, his face pale and stricken. “I- I didn’t mean to-”

“You didn’t mean to what?” you interrupted, your voice trembling with fury and something he couldn’t name. “God, I knew moving in with a guy would be a mistake. I should’ve seen this coming. Typical man—constantly horny. God forbid you get drunk or you’ll just grab the nearest woman you see.”

“Drunk and horny—” He stopped short, his jaw tightening as he swallowed hard. “You really think that’s the kind of man I am?”

“I thought you were different!” Tears began slipping from your eyes as you instinctively stepped farther away from him, as though trying to put as much distance as possible between the two of you.

You looked at him like he’d violated something sacred, something irreplaceable. “I thought you were my friend,” you said, your voice trembling, angry tears spilling freely across your cheeks. “How could you do this?”

“I…” He hesitated, dragging a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the sharp exhale that followed. The words lodged in his throat, tangled in the knot of regret tightening in his chest. Why did he let this happen? The weight of his own stupidity pressed down on him, each passing second making it harder to breathe. Why couldn’t he have just kept his distance? Stay in his lane?

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You swallowed, hating the sting behind your eyes, hating that you even cared enough to be this angry. “Yeah, well. You did.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I can’t do this anymore.” The words tumble out before you can stop them, your voice raw, cracking at the edges. “I can’t keep pretending like everything’s fine. Like I’m fine. I hate this—I hate feeling like I’m walking on glass around you.”

Namjoon stiffens, his face carefully neutral, but you see it— that flicker of something. Something vulnerable. Something guilty. “I know I messed up,” he says, voice low. “I know I-”

“You don’t know anything,” you cut him off, your breath uneven. “If you did, you wouldn’t have done it in the first place. You wouldn’t have asked me to lie to your mother.”

Namjoon’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. What was there to say?

“I hate lying to her! You know I’m terrible at lying, Namjoon! And I think lying is immoral! I should’ve known something like this would happen the second you asked me to lie for you!” Your voice wavered, an overwhelming mixture of anger, hurt, and frustration bubbling over. You threw your hands up, as if the motion could somehow shake off the suffocating weight of it all.

“I never should’ve agreed to spend Christmas with you!” you continued, tears slipping unchecked down your cheeks, your voice cracking completely. “I should’ve known this was just... just a convenient excuse for you to try to get in my pants!”

“Wait, what? No! That’s not-” He took a step forward, reaching out, but you recoiled, cutting him off before he could finish.

 “I should’ve known better.”

Namjoon’s chest tightened, his breathing shallow as he tried to process the words spilling from your lips. Every syllable was a punch to the gut, each one driving home just how badly he’d miscalculated.

The silence hung heavy between you, broken only by the uneven rise and fall of your breaths.

His lips parted like he wanted to say something, needed to say something, but nothing came out. His gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw tightening.

“I-I can’t stay with you like this.” Your arms wrapped around yourself as if that could shield yourself from the overwhelming emotion threatening to swallow you whole.

“What?” his voice cracked, the single word escaping before he could stop it.

“I can’t live with you knowing you have these feelings for me. It’s too much,” you said, taking another step, as though putting space between you would make it easier to breathe. “I don’t know what to do with it. With you,”

The edges of the room seemed to blur, to darken as he could only focus on your words, on the space between you that seemed to grow with each passing second.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The reality of what you were saying hit him like a cold slap.

He had thought that maybe—just maybe—you felt the same. That there was something there, beneath the surface. But now it was clear that he had misunderstood. That his feelings had come out at the wrong time.

 And the last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable. To make you feel like this was something you needed to run away from.

“I... I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.” His voice faltered as he stepped toward you, but you pulled away. That hurt more than he expected, but he couldn’t blame you. “I was selfish. I got carried away,” he said quietly, shame creeping into his tone. “I never meant to hurt you.”

 “Well, you did,” you shot back, your voice breaking. “You ruined everything. Damn it!” You bit out the words before you could stop them, frustration and hurt thick in your voice.

The sharpness made both of you flinch, but you couldn’t help it.

The rawness of everything—the kiss, the confusion, the way things had been turned upside down—was too much for you to process.

Namjoon stood frozen, his limbs heavy and unresponsive, as if the weight of your pain had rooted him in place. A sinking feeling spread through his chest, the urge to fix this burning beneath his skin. He wanted to make things right. To erase the hurt he’d caused. The weight he forced you to carry by putting you in this position—to lie to his family, to be stuck in a confined space with him, to—

But it was too late.

The damage had been done.

 “I never wanted to make you feel this way. I just-” He stopped, unable to explain himself. “I’m sorry.”

 The words felt useless. Hollow.

“You don’t get it, do you?” You laughed bitterly, shaking your head as frustration threatened to boil over. “You think you can just act on whatever you feel, without any consideration for me?” Your voice cracked, your face still streaked with the emotions you couldn’t hold back “I’m not some—some game for you to play, Namjoon. You can’t just kiss me and expect things to go back to normal.”

He had no defense.

 No way to explain how he’d gotten so caught up in the moment that he’d forgotten everything that had made your relationship comfortable. Safe. Easy.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, the words sounding weak even to his own ears…

His sharp gasp tore through the silence of the night, and Namjoon’s eyes snapped open. His chest heaved as he sat up, drenched in a cold sweat, remnants of the dream still lingering like a throbbing pain in his mind. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he tried to make sense of where he was, his hands trembling as he ran them through his dishevelled hair.

The room was dark, quiet, save for the soft rustle of the sheets beneath him and your soft breathing at the other end of the bed. His body still felt the residual tension from the nightmare, the sting of your words echoing in his mind.

Namjoon glanced toward your sleeping form, curled up at the edge of the bed. The soft rise and fall of your shoulders should’ve been calming, but instead, it magnified the tightness in his chest. You were so close, yet the weight of everything that’s happened made you feel impossibly far away.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to shake off the feeling, the dread that came with the idea of having ruined everything. The dream had felt so real—your voice, the hurt in your eyes, the way you pulled away, making it clear that the line between friendship and something more was something he’d crossed without meaning to.

“God...” he muttered to himself, running a hand down his face, still trying to calm his racing thoughts. Why did he kiss you on the balcony?

He shifted his weight to the side of the bed, sitting on the edge with his elbows on his knees. He felt a rush of frustration—anger at himself for letting it happen, for letting his feelings get in the way of your friendship.

He could blame the alcohol, sure. That fleeting moment of warmth and lowered inhibitions, the way it made everything feel a little easier, a little less complicated. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t the real reason.

The truth was, he’d been hanging on by a thread, barely clinging onto his composure around you. As if his mind was a battlefield, constantly tormenting him with thoughts of you—your eyes, your laugh, the way you moved. You weren’t just in his thoughts; you’d taken over his dreams too, pulling him into vivid, all-consuming fantasies. Like that dream from last morning—

That unbearable summer heatstroke, the salacious sight of you reading on the couch, wearing just your white tank top and those impossibly skimpy pyjama shorts. The way your legs were casually crossed, the soft glow of the light catching on your skin, making every detail seem more intimate than it should have been. Like the fact that you’ve forgone wearing a bra, a faint sheen of perspiration across your skin from the heat of the day. A few beads of sweat have gathered, one of which trickled down the valley between your breasts just as he walked into the living room.

Your eyes flickered up to meet his, the most adorable of pouts tugging on your bottom lip as you purred, “Namjoonie, I’m so hot.” Before abandoning your book and reaching for the hem of the tank top, slowly peeling it off your body…

He couldn’t shake the image, couldn’t forget the way his body reacted to it—how could he when he woke up with his dick slotted between your ass cheeks?— his mind spiralling into a frenzy of things he’d do to you (starting with licking every single inch of your skin).

He was walking on the knife’s edge. His heart going insane each time you looked at him, with each one of your actions he couldn’t distinguish. Why were you so adamant to drive him insane this week?

Was it punishment for putting you through this? For asking you to lie to his family?

Namjoon dragged his hands through his hair again, gripping it tightly as if the pressure might somehow reset his brain.

The memory of your lips on his neck—the soft teasing warmth, that had set every nerve alight as you marked him—had been haunting him ever since. He hadn’t been able to focus, to think straight, and every glance you spared him seemed to pull him further into the abyss.

He wasn’t supposed to want this, to want you. You were his closest friend, the one person who understood him in ways no one else did. The thought of losing that—of losing you—was enough to make his stomach churn. He’d have to move out. Hell, he’d have to leave the city entirely, because there wasn’t a single corner of Seoul that didn’t remind him of you.

But the kiss. Good god, the kiss.

He exhaled sharply, his head dropping into his hands. He felt ridiculous, pathetic even. He was supposed to be your safe place. Not the guy who couldn’t look at you without his thoughts turning traitorous, who kissed you on impulse and ruined everything.

When he’d whispered, “I really want to kiss you right now,” it wasn’t some calculated confession. It had spilled out like a dam breaking, a thought he’d been suppressing for far too long, finally escaping in the fragile quiet of the moment. It wasn’t bravery. It was recklessness, plain and simple.

And yet, even as he said it, he knew it was wrong. Knew it was selfish. Knew it would change everything. But the weight of holding back for so long had crushed his better judgment. Maybe that’s why his brain latched onto the “drunk and horny” accusation…

He had almost stopped. Almost pulled away when your eyes widened, when your expression shifted between surprise and something he couldn’t quite understand. That tiny moment should’ve been enough to stop him, to make him pull back and apologize. But no—like the fool he was, he’d pressed forward anyway, brushing his lips to yours in a soft, hesitant kiss, trembling with unspoken words. It had quickly unravelled, turning into something deeper, something he’d wanted for far longer than he cared to admit.

Your lips had been warm, soft, and devastatingly familiar. For a fleeting second, he thought he felt you lean into it, but the way you stiffened almost immediately afterward made his heart sink.

He replayed the moment he hesitated in his mind, that split second where he could have done the right thing and pulled away. But he didn’t. He’d kissed you, his hands on your waist, his body leaning into yours as if it were the right thing to do.

When he felt you stiffen, panic had taken over. His brain did what it always did when faced with something unbearable: it tried to smooth things over. He apologized. The words blurted out before you could speak, before you could call him a pervert or recoil in disgust. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” he’d said, his voice trembling with the weight of his shame.

And then you said the words that crushed him even more than silence could have. “Neither did I.”

But now? The distance between you felt like an unscalable chasm, an impossible void filled with every unsaid word and unspoken emotion.

Afterward, your interactions had been painfully formal, reduced to stiff, clipped sentences that lacked all the warmth they’d once held. He could still hear the careful neutrality in your tone when you’d said, “I’ll call an Uber.” The words had felt like a cold, deliberate wall being built between you, each syllable like a brick, laid on mortar.

That tone, that indifference—it cut deeper than any outburst ever could. He would have preferred you screaming at him, lashing out, even telling him to get out of your life. At least then, he could convince himself you cared enough to be angry. But this? The curt detachment? It told him everything he needed to know.

He’d ruined it. Whatever it had been…

He had wanted to say something, to apologize, to explain himself—but he was afraid of making things worse. So, he just nodded, his throat tight as he avoided your gaze, and let the moment slip away.

The ride back had been a haze. The uneasy silence between you so loud it felt suffocating. He’d glanced at you once or twice, hoping to catch a glimpse of emotion on your face, but you’d given him nothing. Your eyes remained fixed on the blur of passing streetlights and houses.

The walk through the house had been no better. The only sound rising between you was the soft shuffle of footsteps as you both went through the motions.

When you finally climbed into bed, it took everything in him not to break the silence. He lay stiffly on his side, staring at the ceiling, his mind looping through every single mistake he’d made. It wasn’t just the kiss—it was everything. Asking you to lie to his family when he knew how much you hated dishonesty. Putting you in this impossible situation, where you had no escape and no easy way to confront him. And God, his embarrassing morning wood—he cringed just thinking about it. He couldn’t imagine how uncomfortable that must have made you.

And then, like the selfish idiot he was, he let his feelings spill over without a single thought to how you’d feel about it. He’d convinced himself there was something there, something mutual. The teasing, the hickeys, the way you’d snuggled against him at Hoseok’s—he’d let his stupid heart twist those moments into meaning more than they did. He wanted to believe that you felt the same, that the line between friends and something more had begun to blur.

But now? Lying there in the condemning silence, every moment he’d misread felt like a glaring, neon sign of his own foolishness.

The bed, once a place where your easy companionship felt natural and comforting, now felt like an insurmountable void between you.

He wanted to roll over, to face you and apologize—really apologize this time. Not with a fumbling, half-baked excuse, but with the raw truth of how much he hated himself for putting you in this position. But he couldn’t. He was paralyzed by the weight of his mistakes, by the fear that even looking at you might push you further away.

So instead, he stared at the ceiling, biting back every word he wanted to say. And in the silence, the ache in his chest grew heavier.

“Goodnight,” he’d finally managed to say, his voice tight and unfamiliar to his own ears. He didn’t mean for it to come out so formal, so detached, but his voice betrayed him.

The faint rustle of the duvet broke the stillness, a soft sound that felt far louder in the oppressive silence of the bedroom. He heard you shift, felt the subtle pull on the blanket as you turned away from him. The tension hung in the air, thick and crushing, like a force pressing down on him.

You curled up at the very edge of the bed, your back resolutely to him, as if the distance already between you wasn’t enough. You made yourself small, retreating further and further until the invisible wall between you felt truly impenetrable.

Namjoon exhaled, running a hand down his face before reaching for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up, too bright in the darkness, making him blink against the glare. It was early—too early to be awake, too late to fix anything.  

The small sliver of light from his phone cast a fleeting shadow across the room, and his gaze flickered towards your unmoving form. Curled up on your side, the covers pulled high over your shoulders. You hadn’t moved in hours.

His thumb hovered over the screen of his phone, caught between the urge to scroll mindlessly to distract himself and the unbearable need to confront the mess he’d made. But neither option felt like relief, and the light dimmed as the screen timed out, plunging the room back into darkness, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t sure where he stood with you at all…

Namjoon leaned forward, pressing the hills of his palms against his face. He was at a loss, unable to find the right direction, the correct course of action to bridge the gap he created. But he knew one thing—he couldn’t stay here, couldn’t let his mind run rampant while lying next to you.

So, with one last desperate grasp at sanity, he got up, moving slowly, deliberately, careful not to disturb you. He reached for a hoody draped over the chair, slipped it on, and padded toward the door. The cold morning air outside might do him some good— clear his head and offer him the clarity he couldn’t seem to find in the stagnant darkness of the house.

And the driveway could use some shovelling, he decided absently, even though it was barely past 6 a.m. The absurdity of it didn’t matter.

What mattered was the escape, however temporary.

Namjoon took a deep breath, feeling the crisp air sting his skin as he stepped into the driveway, his boots crunching against the snow. He ran the shovel through the fresh layer, the rhythmic scrape against the pavement doing little to soothe the turmoil in his chest. But at least it gave him something to focus on, a mindless task that allowed him to shut out thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind.

And the music blaring in his earphones added to that sense of a mindless routine, the heavy beats and steady rhythm filling his head as he shovelled, drowning out the restlessness coiling in his heart.

He fully lost himself in the work. But just as he was reaching the end of the driveway, a snowball hit him squarely in the back of the head. He froze, blinking in surprise before turning around to face the source of the sudden assault.

The sun had risen, its soft, pale glow spilling over the horizon and reflecting off the untouched blanket of white snow that covered the garden.

There, standing in the doorway, was his mother. She was wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, her messy hair sticking out in all directions. Specks of snow clung to her fingers, and she gave him an incredulous look.

Namjoon blinked at her, still stunned by the unexpected hit. The snowball had left a cold, wet spot on the back of his neck, sending a shiver through him as he just stood there, unsure whether to laugh or get frustrated.  But seeing his mother’s dishevelled appearance—bedhead in full force, and her robe draped over her shoulders—somehow broke the tension.

“Are you serious?” she asked, hands on her hips. Her voice was a mix of amused and concern, as though she was both scolding him and silently asking why he was outside in the freezing cold.

Namjoon let out a strained laugh, wiping the snow from his neck, before flicking it back in her direction.  “I couldn’t sleep.” He tried his best to give her a genuine sheepish grin, but his mom was undeterred.

“So, you decided to shovel snow?” she replied, her eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“Yeah, I guess.” He shrugged, still clutching the shovel in his hands as though it could provide some sort of explanation. “I think I might go for a run too.”

Both her eyebrows shot up at that, giving him that unmistakable mom-look that had a way of making him rethink all his life choices. Namjoon shifted under her gaze, feeling the weight as she studied him with a kind of pointed confusion that made him feel like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew.

“You’re something else, you know that?” she finally said, crossing her arms against the chill but making no move to retreat back inside. A faint smile tugged at her lips, as if she couldn’t help but be entertained by the sight of her grown-ass son standing in the driveway at the crack of dawn, bundled up and clutching a snow shovel like it was a life raft.

He chuckled softly, a little embarrassed but grateful for the way she managed to disarm the weight of his thoughts without even trying. “Yeah, well...it seemed productive.”

She shook her head, the smile lingering as she turned to go back inside. “Don’t catch a cold,” she called over her shoulder. “And don’t wake up the neighbours with whatever midlife crisis you’ve got going on.”

Namjoon let out a huff of laughter, watching as the door closed behind her. He stood there for a moment longer, the quiet of the early morning settling around him again. The sting of the snowball was long gone, but the brief interaction had lightened something in him, if only slightly.

With a sigh, he pulled his gloves tighter and gave the driveway one last glance before deciding it was good enough. Without another thought, he took off running.

His muscles protested the sudden movement, but he pushed through, settling into a steady rhythm. His breath curled into the crisp morning air, vanishing as quickly as it came. The streets were quiet, untouched by the rush of the day, the only sounds accompanying him the soft crunch of his footsteps and the distant chirp of birds waking with the sun. He welcomed the familiar burn in his legs, the sharp bite of cold air in his lungs—anything to drown out the thoughts he couldn’t shake.

By the time he slowed to a stop, the morning had fully settled in. The sun stretched higher in the sky, casting a golden glow over the snow-dusted streets, turning the quiet neighbourhood into something almost peaceful.

His breath visible in the icy air as his chest rose and fell from the exertion. His muscles ached in the most satisfying way, a reminder of how long it had been since he’d pushed himself this hard— let alone in the biting cold. He glanced down at his soaked shoes and the streaks of snow clinging to his sweatpants, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the fatigue.

He could feel the steady pulse in his legs, the burn in his lungs from the crisp air. Bending over, hands on his knees, he worked on steadying his breathing as the faint sting of the cold nipped at his flushed cheeks. The sharp contrast between the warmth radiating from his body and the chill of the winter morning was invigorating, leaving him feeling alive in a way that only moments like this could.

The steady rhythm of his feet pounding against the snow-covered paths had given his mind some semblance of peace. Not clarity, exactly, but at least it dulled the sharp edges of his thoughts. For a little while, he could focus on the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other, on the rhythm of his body moving, the comforting burn in his muscles.

Namjoon straightened, stretching his arms overhead and twisting slightly to work out the stiffness in his back. His jacket was damp from the effort, and he could feel the chill starting to seep in now that he’d stopped moving. It was time to head back inside.

As he turned towards the house, his steps slowed, the weight of everything creeping back in. The brief distraction was over, and the reality of everything he’d left unresolved loomed once again. Still, he didn’t regret the time spent out here—at least he felt a little more grounded now.

By the time he reached the door, his stomach growled, reminding him that he’d skipped breakfast. Maybe food would be the next distraction. After a hot shower, though.

He shed his winter coat by the door, shaking off the lingering chill, and made his way through the still quiet house. Namjoon pushed the bedroom door open quietly, his steps light as he walked in.

He tugged at the hem of his shirt and hoodie, peeling them off over his head with a relieved sigh. The fabric clung to his skin from the exertion of his run, damp with sweat. He balled them up and tossed them into the laundry basket, running a hand through his messy hair as he exhaled, still catching his breath.

He was halfway to the dresser when the faint rustle of sheets behind him made him pause. His steps slowed, and he glanced over his shoulder, watching just as you stirred.

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, as if searching for the source of the noise. But when they settled on him, they lingered, and the room seemed to pause in that moment.

The sunlight pouring through the window caught his face, and Namjoon squinted, lifting his hand to shield his eyes from the brightness.

His back and shoulders were framed by the warm morning light, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, almost rhythmic. The sheen of sweat that clung to his skin caught in the soft rays, and you found yourself grateful for his momentary blindness, because you couldn’t stop gawking at him.

In that fleeing moment, he thought he caught the faintest sounds—a soft, barely-there gasp—that seemed to come from you.

Namjoon faltered, still hovering near the dresser as he noticed your gaze fixed on him. His heart stuttered in his chest; the weight of your nondescript stare sending a jolt of nervous energy through him. His pulse raced as he struggled to find his composure. “Oh,” he muttered, suddenly feeling self-conscious. He cleared his throat, trying to mask the tension in his voice. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your lips parting slightly as though you were at a loss for words. But then you blinked, snapping out of whatever daze had momentarily claimed you, quickly turning away from him.

“It’s fine,” you grumbled.

Namjoon grabbed a clean shirt from the dresser, his movements slower now, his fingers lingering on the fabric as he watched your subtle shift under the blankets. Your response was quiet, but the way you quickly turned away sent a ripple of unease coursing through him. It was subtle, but he couldn’t ignore the way your actions made the weight in his chest feel that much heavier.

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked tentatively, his voice soft.

You didn’t reply immediately, your back still to him as you adjusted the duvet slightly. “Yeah,” you said after a beat, though your tone was flat, leaving him unsure if it was the truth or just an automatic answer.

Namjoon nodded to himself, even though you couldn’t see it, and rubbed the back of his neck. The earlier clarity he’d found outside was already beginning to slip away.

“I’m going to shower,” he murmured, more for something to say than anything else, before stepping toward the bathroom door.

As he left the room, he cast one last glance at your still form, the lump in his throat tightening. ~~~

Stationed at the kitchen counter, your hands moved almost mechanically, the steady rhythm of the knife slicing through fresh vegetables, meats, and herbs filling the space. Mrs. Kim’s calm instructions flowed around you like a gentle stream, her voice clear and measured. Yet, with every absentminded nod you gave, her words seemed to fade further into the background, muffled beneath the weight of your own thoughts.

Namjoon was avoiding you.

 That much was clear. The way he had slipped out before you even woke up, his movements quick and his words barely a whisper when you caught him sneaking like some kind of thief in his own room, lingered in your mind like an unfinished sentence. The weird silence that followed all throughout breakfast...

Before you could sink deeper into those thoughts, Mrs. Kim’s voice cut through the haze again. “Add these to the broth, and then stir,” she said, handing you a bowl of neatly diced vegetables.

Her calm authority kept the kitchen in motion, leaving no room for hesitation or reflection. The bustling activity—the clatter of pots, the simmering sounds from the stove, the soft hum of her instructions—forced you to push the turmoil swirling inside you to the sidelines.

She had recruited you first thing in the morning knowing exactly how to keep you busy without you even having to ask for it.

 When you stepped into the kitchen, you were almost startled to see your usual cup of coffee waiting on the counter. It was a small, familiar gesture, one that might have warmed your heart on any other day, but now, it felt almost mechanical—like a habit performed without thought—Namjoon’s routine, his efforts to provide comfort, almost like a performance to fill a gap that no longer made sense.

You wondered if it was for your benefit, or his.

 But you never got a chance to dwell on it.

The Christmas dinner at the Kim’s house, you learned, was no small feat. Instead, everyone was involved in preparations, making sure every little aspect was perfect. Namjoon and his dad could be heard debating the placement of the dining table in the living room, their voices rising and falling in an easy, familiar rhythm.

Minhi, ever the perfectionist, hovered nearby, offering her unsolicited but animated advice on everything—the placement of napkins, the fold of the tablecloth, the angle of the silverware. Her critique earning a few exasperated groans from Namjoon, which were inevitably followed by indulgent chuckles from their father. The sound carried easily into the kitchen, where you worked alongside Jackson and Mrs. Kim, dutifully preparing dinner.

The air was fragrant with the aroma of roasted vegetables, savoury meats, and the citrusy tang of freshly chopped herbs. Mrs. Kim moved with the grace of a seasoned host, effortlessly orchestrating each task as though it were second nature. Jackson, eager to prove himself useful, chopped scallions with meticulous concentration under her watchful eye—though his attention would often wander to Minhi through the doorway, occasionally even catcalling her which in turn earned a delighted laugh from her and Mrs. Kim.

“Jackson, be a dear and go to the basement with Namjoon to fetch the wine,” Mrs. Kim instructed, her voice steady but decisive. She didn’t look up from the simmering pot, her hands moving expertly between stirring the broth and adding in seasoning.

Jackson nodded, a playful grin already tugging at his lips. He made his way to the living room, announcing their new task but paused by Minhi’s side long enough to deliver a quick pinch to her side, just as she was about to launch into another critique of Namjoon’s napkin-folding technique.

That unexpected pinch caused an exaggerated shriek to escape from Minhi. Her laughter bubbling up and spilling into the room, bright and unrestrained. The kind that invited everyone nearby to join in.

But it didn’t reach you. You were still caught up in your own little world.  You remained rooted at the counter, wearing that same look of muted control that was starting to wear you out by now.

A movement in the doorway caught your attention. Namjoon was walking past with Jackson, his broad back disappearing down the hall. His laughter rang out, light and carefree, as if he didn’t have a worry in the world. He was responding to something his dad said, dimples flashing in that familiar way that used to make your heart race.

But you noticed what no one else seemed to see. The stiffness in his shoulders, the faint tension in his jaw. His laughter, though warm, didn’t quite touch his eyes. It was so subtle, so carefully masked, but you knew him too well to miss it.

And that was the real problem, wasn’t it? Knowing him too well. Caring too much. Having feelings for Namjoon was already difficult—but this? This was unbearable.

You quickly turned away.

The knife in your hand trembled slightly as you refocused on the task in front of you, trying to steady your thoughts as much as your movements. The crisp scent of parsley filled the air as you began mincing, each chop echoing against the cutting board.

You told yourself to concentrate. To stay present. But no matter how hard you tried, your mind kept slipping back to him—to that moment.

You could still feel the warmth of his lips against yours. The way it made something bloom in your chest, a sensation so overwhelming it left you lightheaded. You’d clutched at his sweater, your fingers moving on their own, desperate to hold onto something real, something that felt like it belonged to the both of you.

For a fleeting second, it was perfect. Your heart soared, a dizzying rush of hope filling you, so sharp and intoxicating it almost hurt. It was reciprocated. It was mutual.

But then it all came crashing down. Hard.

The memory of his reaction was a jagged edge, replaying on loop in your mind, cutting through the warmth of that moment and leaving nothing but raw ache behind. His hesitation, the way he’d pulled back so quickly, mumbling an apology before you could even process what had happened. It was as though he couldn’t distance himself fast enough, couldn’t stand the weight of what he’d done—or what it might have meant.

Had it been a mistake for him? A fleeting moment of weakness he regretted the second it happened? Because that’s what it felt like. And yet, in the seconds before he’d pulled away, it had felt like something else entirely….

He was tentative, almost shy, as though he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want this. Then he kissed you like he meant it, like he’d been holding back for so long that he couldn’t stop himself.

But, of course, reality had a cruel way of snapping back. And when it did, it came in the form of his stumbling regret…

“I really want to kiss you right now”

The jerk. Asshole. Playboy!

If only any of those words actually described him…

You pressed the blade harder against the parsley, your movements growing more erratic. You hated that you cared so much. Hated that you were dissecting every microsecond of that kiss when he was probably fine. He was just being considerate and offering you the space you needed.

 Namjoon was laughing with his family, fetching wine, stealing cookies when his mother wasn’t looking, acting like nothing had happened—like you hadn’t happened.

But then again, there was that stiffness in his shoulders, the slight tension in his voice that you couldn’t ignore. It was as if he was trying to act normal, trying to match the energy of the room, but there was something holding him back.

Or maybe you were just imagining it… Maybe you were projecting your own confusion onto him, searching for cracks that didn’t exist because you wanted—needed—to believe that he felt it too. That the kiss wasn’t just a fleeting mistake.

The tightness in your chest refused to ease, no matter how much you told yourself to let it go. Namjoon was Namjoon—kind, selfless, and maddeningly perfect. And you? You were just someone he kissed and immediately regretted.

A sharp sting snapped you out of your thoughts. You gasped, jerking your hand back as a thick line of red bloomed on your fingertip. The knife clattered against the counter, drawing Mrs. Kim’s attention.

“Oh, sweetheart! Are you alright?” She asked, her voice laced with concern as she moved toward you.

“Yeah, nicked myself.” you said quickly, wrapping your other hand around the cut to stop the bleeding. The sudden rush of embarrassment at your clumsiness burned hotter than the sting of the cut itself.

“Let me see,” she insisted, reaching for your hand, but before she could, Namjoon’s voice came from the doorway, startling you.

You hadn’t even noticed him return to the kitchen, but there he was, bottles of wine in his hand, his gaze snapping to you the moment he stepped inside.

“What happened?”

“It’s nothing!” The words came too fast, too sharp—too defensive. You pulled your hand back just as he stepped closer.

He barely hesitated, already setting the bottles down on the cutting board, reaching for you without a second thought.

But the thought of his touch made your chest constrict, panic rising like a tide, swallowing all the air between you. “I’ve got it!”

The space between you felt charged, too fragile, too dangerous. You couldn’t let him touch you. Not now. Not when your emotions were so precariously balanced on the edge of reason.

“Let me see,” he insisted, softer this time, but unyielding

You shook your head, stepping back from him, only to bump against the counter, keeping your hands close to your chest.

The panic bubbling under your skin left no room for restraint, no space for softness. It all came out, raw and unfiltered, as you practically cried—

“I said I’ve got it, Namjoon!”

His hands dropped to his side, his brows knitting together in silent concern. But he didn’t say anything, didn’t argue—and somehow, that made it all worse.

The silence that followed wrapped around you like a vice, all of it pressing down until your chest felt like it might actually collapse, your breath impossibly shallow.

Then it hit you—you’d raised your voice at him. The weight of it settled in you, heavy and foreboding, like thundercloud ready to break over you.

Namjoon’s gaze lingered, steady and searching, as though he was waiting for something—an explanation, a sign that you were okay, anything to bridge the distance suddenly between you. But you couldn’t give him either. You couldn’t even meet his eyes.

You sighed, stealing a glance at Mrs. Kim’s concerned expression before forcing your emotions down. You had to fix this—fast. Before things spiraled even further. Before your cover completely fell apart.

“Just-” you began, forcing yourself to look at Namjoon, “Let’s go upstairs so I can wash this properly.”

Namjoon hesitated for half a second before nodding. Without a word, he gathered the bottles from the counter and set them aside, his movements slower now—more deliberate, like he was afraid of setting you off again.

Mrs. Kim’s concerned gaze flickered between the two of you, her lips pressing together as if debating whether to intervene. But then she sighed, offering a small, hesitant smile. “Alright, sweetheart, just let Namjoon take care of you, okay? And be careful with that hand.”

You forced a nod, ignoring the way your throat felt too tight, the way your stomach twisted in protest as you turned toward the stairs.

Namjoon followed without a word.

When you reached your room, you stepped inside first, making a beeline for the small bathroom attached to it. You could hear Namjoon close the door behind him.

God damn it all.

The air stung the exposed wound, sharp and unforgiving, once you unwrapped your hand from around it, staining the sink with red.

 It was deeper than you’d thought—maybe not enough for stitches, but definitely not a scrape you could just ignore.

Blood still trickled steadily from the it, pulsing in rhythm with your racing heartbeat, like a painful reminder of your very severed composure

You bit your lip as you fumbled with the faucet, your uninjured hand trembling slightly, until it slipped. The sting of it accidentally hitting the open wound drew a sharp hiss from your lips, tears springing to your eyes—not just from the pain, but from the frustration of everything piling on top of you all at once. Damn him.

“Fuck. Ouch”

Namjoon was there in an instant, turning the faucet on for you.

“Are you okay?” His voice was softer now, careful, but the concern was still there, threading through the syllables like a quiet insistence.

You exhaled sharply, forcing your shoulders to stay squared even as your hands shook. “Yeah,” you muttered, pushing your hand under the jet of water. “Fine.”

“You’re not.”

His certainty grated against your raw nerves. You clenched your jaw, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you finally turned to face him. He was close. Closer than you’d realized. His gaze flickered down to your hand, the steady trickle of blood dark against your skin, and something in his expression shifted—tightened.

He brushed past you in that quiet, unassuming way that always threw you off balance. He reached up, opening the cabinet above the sink, pulling out the small white box with the familiar red cross on top.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, reaching for it, but before your fingers could graze the plastic, Namjoon pulled it back, holding it just out of your reach.

“Namjoon,” you warned.

His lips twitched, but there was no real amusement in it—just something unbearably patient, unbearably Namjoon.

“Let me,” he said simply.

You wanted to argue. You wanted to grab the kit from his hands and insist you could do it yourself, that you didn’t need him to fuss over you. But your hand was still bleeding, still trembling slightly, and the weight of everything pressing down on you made it feel like just one more battle you didn’t have the energy to fight.

Namjoon didn’t move, didn’t push. He simply waited, holding the med kit like an unspoken offer. His patience was maddening, his presence steady in a way that made your resistance feel flimsy.

With a sigh, you finally relented, dropping your gaze. “Fine.”

His lips pressed together like he was holding back a smile—not of victory, but of relief. He gestured for you to sit on the closed toilet lid as he crouched in front of you, setting the kit down between you.

“This might sting,” he murmured, taking your hand in his.

You braced yourself, but the first touch still made you flinch, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips. His grip on your wrist tightened just slightly—not enough to restrain, just enough to steady.

Blood still welled at the edges of the cut, glistening under the harsh bathroom light. You forced yourself to look away, focusing instead on the way Namjoon moved—careful, deliberate, as if he understood that this was more than just about the physical injury in front of him.

“Sorry,” he said softly when he dabbed antiseptic onto the cut, his voice softer than you expected, filled with regret.

His fingers brushed against your palm as he worked, his warmth seeping into your skin, and for a second, it felt like he was holding more of you than just your hand. The realization unsettled you.

But it wasn’t just about the cut. It was about everything you’ve been trying to ignore.

The sting made you flinch, but you didn’t pull away this time. His gaze flickered to yours for a moment, and you saw the quiet storm in his eyes—the concern, the worry, the frustration. You couldn’t look away, though you wanted to.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice barely audible as he reached into the kit. “I didn’t mean to make things harder for you.” His fingers brushed against yours again as he retrieved the bandages, before moving to the underside, his thumb gently rubbing your knuckles.

You swallowed hard, “You don’t have to apologize,” you said, the words shivering under the weight of emotions you didn’t know how to voice—like just how much that kiss has shattered that fragile balance you’d worked so hard to maintain. How his reaction afterwards hurt you in ways you weren’t sure you could fully understand, not yet at least.

 How his apology now only made it that much harder to keep your guard up now.

The words felt like they were tearing out of you, raw and jagged, and you couldn’t quite grasp them fully as they left your lips. But as they floated between you, a terse silence settled, still thick with the unsaid.

You could feel his gaze on you, his presence so near that his breath brushed against your skin—a subtle, charged whisper of warmth. It filled every corner of the room, like a quiet storm.

“I still feel like I do,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if the tension between you was a chasm or a bridge. You didn’t know what to say. How could you, when his confession stirred up a hundred conflicting emotions? The relief mixed with the dread, the hope tainted by the doubt. You wanted to reach for him, to make it all clearer, but the uncertainty in his gaze reminded you how fragile everything between you was right now.

“I...” You started, but the words caught, the vulnerability of the moment threatening to consume you whole.

He squeezed your hand gently, as if sensing the battle inside you, and then he lowered his voice. “I’m not asking for anything from you right now, I just-” He stopped himself, his thumb brushing over your skin as if to steady both of you, as if saying more than words could right now.

You stayed silent, biting at the inside of your cheek as you fought to keep your tears from spilling over.

But his voice, soft yet tinged with doubt, pulled you back to him.

“I want to make sure we’re okay. I care a lot about you. And I can’t stand the idea of you hating me because of a mistake.”

The weight of his words settled deep in your chest, pressing against everything you were trying so hard to hold together.

Hating him?

If only it were that simple. If only you could have been angry enough to make this easier.

But it wasn’t anger twisting your insides—it was something softer and far more complicated, more fragile. The kind of thing that didn’t fit neatly into words, that made your heart ache in ways you weren’t sure how to soothe. Because no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t forget the way he looked at you before he kissed you. And you couldn’t ignore the way he looked at you now, like he was waiting for something he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask for.

You exhaled slowly, dropping your gaze to where his fingers still held yours. You could feel the tension—gentle, but firm, like he was afraid of pushing too hard, but even more afraid of letting go.

So he did think it was just a mistake…

You swallowed thickly, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I don’t hate you, Namjoon.”

His grip tightened, just for a second, like those words alone had loosened something in him. But the relief in his expression was brief, quickly replaced by uncertainty.

“I just…” You swallowed; the words felt like cotton in your throat. “It’s not you. It’s just—everything. A bunch of things piling up all at once, and I-”

Your voice faltered, frustration prickling at the edges of your control. You didn’t know how to explain it, how to make him understand the chaos in your head when you barely understood it yourself.

 “I’m sorry I raised my voice at you.”

“It’s okay. I’m a big boy.”

A short, breathy laugh escaped you before you could stop it—small, barely there, but real. And Namjoon caught it, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but didn’t dare.

The awkwardness between you didn’t break, not fully, but it shifted, softened just enough to let you breathe like yourself around him.

You exhaled slowly, shaking your head. “I don’t know why I’m like this right now.”

Namjoon tilted his head, watching you carefully. “Like what?”

You made a vague, frustrated gesture with your injured hand, immediately regretting it when the sharp sting of the cut shot through your palm.

Namjoon moved before you could react, reaching for you instinctively, just enough to steady you.

“Like this,” you murmured, finally answering. “Like everything is just… too much.”

“Maybe because it is.”

Your throat tightened. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting him to say, but it wasn’t that—not something so simple, so understanding.

And damn him, because that was somehow worse.

You cleared your throat, forcing a smirk you didn’t quite feel. “You always this wise?”

Namjoon huffed, shaking his head. “No. I just know you.”

That undid you more than anything else.

Because you knew he meant it.

“I shouldn’t have asked you to come along with me this week. I know how uncomfortable this whole thing must have been for you.” His gaze locked with yours, and there was something raw and sincere in his eyes that made your heart skip. You found yourself wondering exactly what discomfort he meant—the list of things that had made you uneasy was long. But after a moment of hesitation, you went with the one you knew was safest to say out loud.

“I hate lying to your mom.”

“I know.” Namjoon let out a soft chuckle, but there was something strained beneath it, something that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She’s going to be heartbroken when I tell her we broke up.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “She adores you.”

“She adores you,” he corrected, his gaze steady on yours.

Your stomach twisted, your heart doing something complicated in your chest. This was the problem—this was always the problem. The way Namjoon said things, the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel like you weren’t just someone he was pretending with. Like you were something more.

But you weren’t.

You inhaled sharply, trying to shake the feeling off. “She’s going to be devastated,” you said, forcing lightness into your voice. “You’ll be the villain in her eyes.”

Namjoon nodded solemnly. “I’ll take the fall.”

It was so easy, this back and forth. So easy to pretend none of this mattered, that your heart wasn’t lodged in your throat, that his hand still holding yours wasn’t making it harder to think straight. The moment stretched, as he focused on the injury again, carefully bandaging it. The silence wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t as overwhelming now either. It was a delicate balance, the same one you’d been maintaining all week, the same one you always found yourselves teetering on the edge of.

Namjoon was still watching you, still waiting, but for what, you weren’t sure.

 For you to crack a joke? For you to take this moment and push it into something lighter, something easy?

That was what you always did.

So, you did it again.

“You better break the news gently,” you said, arching a brow. “She might actually disown you.”

Namjoon exhaled a small laugh, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“Oh, really?”

“She sends me links to apartments near her house, like, once a month. I think she was trying to slowly break me down to the idea of an arranged marriage.”

You grinned despite yourself. “That’s impressive.”

“She’s relentless.”

 You chuckled, imagining Namjoon’s mom with that kind of mission, plotting with all the subtlety of a military strategist.

“I’ll help you chose the engagement rings.”

Namjoon snorted, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. “I think that might be the last thing I need right now.” He sighed dramatically, though you could tell it was more out of affection than frustration. “At this point, I’m just waiting for her to start dropping hints about grandkids.” He cut himself off, realizing the direction the conversation was heading, and awkwardly cleared his throat.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the sink. “Grandkids, huh? So, you’ve thought about it.”

Namjoon froze, his hands still hovering near your wound like he wasn’t sure whether to keep bandaging or retreat. His gaze flickered back to yours, and for a second, there was a flicker of something—maybe vulnerability? —something you didn’t expect to see.

 “Of course, I thought about it.”

You tilted your head slightly, his words just hanging there in the small space between you.

“Yeah? What does ‘thinking about it’ look like for you?”

“Two kids. Maybe three if my wife’s up for it.”

You felt a strange tightness in your chest at his words, a soft ache that you quickly pushed aside. “Two kids? That sounds pretty... traditional,” you said, trying to keep your voice light.

Namjoon’s smile was faint, like he was walking a line between sharing and holding back. “Yeah, I guess so. I always figured, you know, the usual—boy and a girl, maybe a dog.” He chuckled quietly, but there was something a little distant in his tone now, like the vision he was describing didn’t quite line up with where he was standing at that moment.

You studied him for a moment, watching the way his gaze flickered away from yours, focusing on anything but you as he started rummaging through the first aid kit. It was like he had just shared a piece of his future with you, but it didn’t fit with the here and now. And that left a strange knot in your stomach.

“Sounds nice,” you murmured, not sure how to follow that up. Your heart was doing its complicated thing again—twisting, pulling. But you couldn’t let it show. Not now. Not when it just started to feel like maybe there is still a chance to fix this mess between you.

Namjoon cleared his throat and finished securing the bandage, his touch almost absent now, his mind clearly elsewhere. “Yeah, maybe. But… you know, it’s hard to imagine all that when things are, uh, a little uncertain right now.”

You nodded, though you weren’t sure exactly what he meant by it. The uncertainty could apply to a lot of things—his life, his future, your relationship. But for some reason, it stung a little when it felt like he was referencing you as part of that uncertainty.

“I think I’d like a cat.”

Namjoon’s brow lifted, clearly amused by the abrupt shift “A cat?”

“Yeah, two kids and a cat.” You hesitated, then added, “And the husband, of course.”

Namjoon’s lips curved upward into a full, genuine smile, a flicker of light breaking through the tension. “Two kids, a cat, and a husband?” His voice was teasing, but there was something light there too.

You shrugged, trying to match his tone, even though the ache in your chest remained. “It’s a solid plan,” you said, attempting to sound casual. “Maybe a dog too. If the kids beg enough.”

He laughed, the sound warm and familiar, and you felt a bit of that old comfort returning. Strange, though—the way your heart still fluttered when he smiled, despite everything.

“I think I could get on board with that.”

His hands dropped on either side of you, like he wasn’t quite ready to let the conversation end.

The warmth of his words lingered, but so did that quiet, nagging unease. He was playing along, keeping things light.

“We might need a bigger apartment tho…”

His words hung in the air between you, lighthearted just on the surface. You knew Namjoon well enough to recognize when he was joking and when he was saying something without really saying it.

And this?

This felt like a little bit of both.

You swallowed, forcing a smile. “Oh? So now we need a bigger apartment?”

Namjoon blinked, as if realizing what he’d just said. A flicker of something—panic? amusement? —crossed his face, but he recovered quickly, offering you an easy grin. “Well, yeah. Two kids, a cat, and a dog? You’re gonna need space.”

You huffed out a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m gonna need space?”

He smirked, tilting his head in that way he always did when he was trying to play something off. “I mean… unless you think the husband would want to live there too.”

Your heart did that stupid twisting thing again, a tangled mess of what ifs and almosts. Because the way he said it, so effortlessly, like it was something that could just… be—it made you wonder.

For a split second, you let yourself picture it. A bigger apartment. A cat curled up on the couch. Laughter filling the rooms. Maybe even Namjoon, barefoot in the kitchen, making coffee before the kids woke up…

And just as quickly, you pushed the thought away. You weren’t sure your relationship will ever be the same after this week, let alone if you could afford to imagine a future that might never exist.

So, you did what you always did. You deflected.

You forced a smirk, arching a brow at him. “You make it sound like I’m actually considering you as an option.”

Namjoon placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Wow. Brutal.”

You shrugged. “I just think whoever my future husband is… he’s gonna need to be okay with the cat being the favourite.”

Namjoon chuckled, shaking his head. “Noted. Cat comes first. Husband, second.”

You grinned. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

The conversation should have ended there. Easy. Playful. Like always.

 But Namjoon hesitated, his hands lingering on either side of you for just a second too long before he pulled away.

And then, softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it at all—

“Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.”

Your breath caught. But before you could say anything, before you could even begin to process what he meant—he was already standing, already moving away, leaving you alone with the ache in your chest and the same unanswered question hanging between you.

“I’m gonna try and explain to my mom what that little scene in the kitchen meant before she gets any wild ideas,” he said, running a hand through his hair. His tone was light, but you caught the hesitation in his steps, the way he lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

You forced a laugh, hoping it sounded normal. “Good luck with that.”

Namjoon turned back to look at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Yeah… I think I’ll need it.”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone in the quiet bathroom, the weight of his words still pressing down on you.

Maybe he wouldn’t mind being second.

Your fingers brushed absently over the fresh bandage on your hand, but all you could feel was the ghost of his touch, the warmth he’d left behind.

What the hell were you supposed to do with that?

~~~

As the evening wore on, the air between you and Namjoon slowly settled into something quiet, something less fragile. That burden that had pressed so heavily against your ribs all morning didn’t fully disappear, but it did loosen its grip just enough to let you breathe and get back into your role.

The tension that had once felt suffocating now ebbed at the edges, softened by the warmth of the flickering Christmas lights and the steady hum of familiar voices carrying over across the table.

The room glowed with the soft shimmer of Christmas lights, their golden hues reflecting off polished countertops and the delicate ornaments hanging from the tree. The scent of cinnamon and citrus curled through the air, mixing with the faint, nostalgic melody of holiday music drifting from the speakers.

There was something undeniably nostalgic about it all—the rhythmic motions of setting the table, the occasional bursts of laughter from across the room, the way the season wrapped itself around you like a well-worn comfortable blanket.

The ache in your chest remained, lingering just beneath the surface, but it no longer felt so all-consuming.

By the time dinner was served, the table was a stunning display of Minhi’s careful arrangements— a vibrant spread of tender, savoury meats, perfectly seasoned vegetables, and bowls of rich, colourful side dishes. The warm aroma filled the room, creating an inviting atmosphere, drawing everyone closer together.

Despite everything, you felt yourself settling into the moment, lulled by the quiet clink of silverware and the soft murmur of conversation. There was a warmth here, a sense of belonging woven into the shared meal, and you let yourself lean into it.

Every so often, your gaze drifted to Namjoon, seated beside you. The space between you still felt… uncertain. But it wasn’t as heavy now. He didn’t speak to you much, yet there was something different in the way he simply existed next to you—steady, present, like a tide softly pulling you in.

What surprised you most were the quiet gestures he offered without hesitation. The way he refilled your wine glass before you even noticed it was low. How he made sure your plate never emptied. The absentminded way he adjusted your chair when you shifted, as if it were second nature.

Set against the warmth of his family, these small, unspoken acts were unexpectedly grounding. A quiet reminder that, despite everything, he still wanted you to be comfortable. He still wanted you here. Maybe by the time you got home, things could even return to some version of normal.

You weren’t sure yet, but the idea no longer felt so impossible. It felt like something within reach.

Christmas, with all its quiet reassurances and unspoken meanings, had given you both a moment to breathe. To let it go, even if just for tonight.

After dessert, the night began to wind down. The table was cleared, dishes stacked neatly by the sink, but no one seemed eager to leave the cosy warmth that settled over the house. The tree glowed with soft fairy lights, the fireplace murmured quietly in the background, and the air was still rich with the sugary scent of baked goods.

Jackson, ever the romantic, had presented Minhi an utterly atrocious but hilariously heartfelt gift— A pair of bobbleheads styled to look like them, complete with exaggerated features and tiny versions of their favourite outfits.

Hers had her signature hairstyle and an exaggerated wink, while his sported his usual grin and an outfit that looked suspiciously like the one he was wearing.

“Now we can nod in agreement even when we’re bickering!” he declared, earning a genuine laughter from Mr. and Mrs. Kim.

Minhi gasped dramatically, burying her face in her hands. “Oh my god, Jackson,” she groaned, though the laughter shaking her shoulders betrayed her amusement. “Where do you even find these things?”

“I have my sources,” Jackson replied smugly, arms crossed as he stood proudly by his choice. “Only the best for you, babe,” he added, with a mock bow.

“Every year, it’s something new,” Namjoon muttered under his breath, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

Reaching for his mug, his fingers brushed yours. It wasn’t intentional—just a small, almost unnoticed touch—but it sent a gentle ripple through you regardless.

Your eyes lifted to his, and he caught your gaze. Leaning in just slightly, his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper.

“Last year, he got her personalised socks with his face on them.”

Your laugh came soft and unexpected, spilling out before you could stop it. “Because he likes being stepped on?” you whispered back, your eyes sparkling with humour.

Namjoon smirked, his expression playful, “How’d you know?”

 The shared moment felt light and easy, a pocket of warmth that made you laugh genuinely for the first time all evening. It wasn’t forced or hesitant but natural, like slipping back into an old rhythm.

Namjoon’s eyes lingered on you for a beat longer, his smile softening into something quieter, almost fond.

“I got you something too.” He said, his voice low enough not to carry over the lively chatter around the room.

“You did?”

He nodded, glancing toward the small pile of gifts near the Christmas tree. “It’s nothing huge. Just something I thought you’d like. I can give it to you now if-”

“Wait,” you interrupted quickly, “You already know I got you the book, but let me grab it for you—I’ll be right back” A soft smile tugged at your lips as you hurried off to your room.

Stepping into the quiet space, you let out a small breath, your heart fluttering in a way that felt a little too telling. You rummaged through your suitcase, retrieving the carefully wrapped gift and adjusting the red bow atop the green paper until it was just right.

Taking a moment to steady yourself, you ran a hand through your hair before heading back to the living room. The second you returned, clutching the gift close to your chest, Namjoon’s gaze immediately found yours. His expression was calm, but there was a quiet anticipation in his eyes.

“Got it,” you said softly, holding it out toward him.

His lips quirked into a small smile as he reached for it. In return, he handed you his own gift, wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with a pink silken ribbon.

“Now it’s a proper exchange,” he said, his tone light but carrying something more than just casual words.

Glancing down at the gift in your hands, you chuckled when you noticed the little marker doodle next to your name—a quick, playful sketch of a Christmas tree, leaning awkwardly to the side under the weight of a star that looked too big for it.

“Did you do this?” you asked, looking up at him, a playful smile forming on your lips.

Namjoon shrugged, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes. “Maybe.”

 His casual teasing made you laugh softly as you carefully untied the ribbon, your fingers grazing the silky fabric as you peeled back the wrapping paper.

And then—you stopped.

The same book you’d gotten him was staring right back at you.

You blinked; your eyes locked on the familiar cover. The exact same book—the one you’d chosen with such care and anticipation—was now in your hands, wrapped just as carefully as you’d wrapped his.

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to Namjoon, your mouth slightly agape.

“When we stopped at the bookstore and you told me you got it for me, I almost lost it.” He admitted with a chuckle, easily peeling back the paper from his own copy. “I’ve been trying to hide this in the apartment since it came out.”

He smiled, but as his eyes dropped to cover of the book, something shifted “But the thing is, I got yours signed-”

He paused when he lifted the cover and saw the delicate signature on the first page, resting neatly next to his name.  His fingers hovered over the autograph, a mix of surprise and disbelief flickering across his face. He looked up at you, his expression softening as the realization settled in.

“Wait, this is ridiculous.” He whispered, half laughing, half stunned.

You nodded slowly, a smile tugging at your lips despite the strange twist in your chest. “I thought it’d be a nice touch— God, I spent hours just waiting to get it signed.”

“Same here,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess we both have good taste.”

“You’re telling me,” You huffed, still amused. “We could’ve at least gone together, saved ourselves some trouble.”

“Did you two just get each other the exact same thing?” Minhi’s voice cracked with disbelief—clearly astonished—reminding you both that, yes, there were people around watching.

You and Namjoon exchanged a glance, both still holding identical copies of book in your hands. The absurdity of it all made it impossible not to laugh.

“God you’re disgusting.” Jackson chimed in—like he wasn’t the one who’d bought his girlfriend bobbleheads.

Namjoon chuckled, shrugging nonchalantly, clearly relishing in the banter. “Yeah. We did.”

From across the room, Mrs. Kim, who had been quietly observing, leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Well, it looks like you two are perfectly matched,” she teased. “Maybe next time you’ll coordinate your outfits as well.”

Mr. Kim, sitting beside her, chuckled and sent a playful wink your way. “Or maybe matching pyjamas?” he suggested, prompting a round of laughter from the group.

Namjoon tilted his head, considering it. “Now that I think about it... matching pajamas could be a vibe,” he mused, throwing you a teasing glance. “We could totally pull it off.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, biting back a laugh. “You’re pushing it.”

Mrs. Kim grinned, clearly enjoying the lighthearted moment. “This is what makes these dinners so special,” she said warmly, leaning into her husband. “Seeing all of you so comfortable with each other.”

Mr. Kim nodded, his lips curving into a fond smile. “It’s these little moments that really count.” His gaze softened as he looked at his wife.

Your eyes met Namjoon’s for a brief moment, like there was an unspoken understanding between you.

Despite everything that had unfolded this week, something inside you resolved. Maybe things didn’t need to be perfect right now. And with time, perhaps you’d find you way back to something resembling normal—whatever that was. For now, this was enough.

“Matching pyjamas it is, then,” you said, breaking the silence.

Namjoon chuckled; his smile genuine.

“Deal.”

As the evening continued, the conversations flowed effortlessly. The soft hum of festive music filled the room, mingling with the quiet laughter of those around you. The glow of candles on the mantle cast dancing shadows across the walls, wrapping the space in a homey warmth.

And for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things between you weren’t as uncertain as they seemed.

~~~

“Mrs. Kim, do you have any dishwashing gloves?” you asked, your hands reaching into a drawer. You didn’t want to risk getting your bandages wet right after Namjoon changed them.

With most of the family retreating to their rooms, you lingered behind, offering to help Mrs. Kim tidy the kitchen. It was a quiet, unspoken way of showing your gratitude for her warmth and hospitality, a small gesture to give back after everything she’d done. Besides, it gave you a chance to clear your mind in the soothing rhythm of cleaning plates and wiping counters.

A form of therapy—you told yourself—just you, the soft hum of the kitchen, and the slow settling of your thoughts.

There was a quiet sense of contentment washing over you, as if the whirlwind of the past few days was finally starting to wane. The trip was nearing its end, and despite the chaos, the awkwardness, and the emotional ups and downs, you’d managed to weather it all. Somehow, with some-god’s grace, you made it through, and that was enough to leave a faint, unexpected warmth in your chest.

“Oh dear, don’t bother with the dishes.” Mrs. Kim said softly, glancing at you over the fridge door where she carefully stacked the leftovers. Her tone gentle, almost pleading, as if she wanted to spare you the trouble. “We’ll take care of them tomorrow.”

You smiled, shaking your head lightly. “I can’t, sorry. It’ll bother me if I don’t.” A light chuckle slipped from your lips as you rummaged through the drawer, triumphantly pulling out a pair of green latex gloves. You pulled them on with a snap, feeling a little silly.

Mrs. Kim smiled at your insistence, moved by the gesture. “You’re so thoughtful,” she said sweetly. “But really, you don’t have to.”

With a soft smile, you picked up a dish from the counter and ran it under the warm water. “Honestly, I don’t mind,” you said, glancing at her. “It’s nice to have something simple to do right now.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

The sound of running water filled the space between you, while Mrs. Kim moved around the kitchen, cleaning and organizing the days messes.

 The evening had settled into a comforting cadence—the soft clink of dishes, the low hum of the refrigerator, and the occasional crackle of the fire still glowing faintly in the next room. Everything felt simple, peaceful.

For a while, the two of you worked in silence, the comfortable kind that spoke volumes without the need for filler words.

After a while, Mrs. Kim paused, setting the dish towel down as she looked at you, her expression thoughtful. “You know,” she said with a soft smile, “I’ve been meaning to sit down and chat with you all week, but Namjoon seemed determined to keep you all to himself.”

You froze mid-rinse, caught off-guard by the shift in her tone. lancing up, you caught the warmth in her eyes, and just like that, the familiar knot in your stomach came back full force. Your grip on the plate reflexively tightened, the ceramic cool against your gloved palm, as you forced yourself to smile politely

“I’m really glad you were able to spend the holidays with us,” she continued, unaware of the shift in your composure. “You make my son so very happy.”

The words hit you like an arrow to the chest, guilt rising right where it struck.

The worst thing was that Namjoon wasn’t there to protect you from yourself. It was just his mother. Her gentle warmth, and the mounting weight of your guilt. The truth of your relationship, —or the lack of—loomed large in your mind, suffocating in its quiet dishonesty.

“You know, I knew from the moment I met you that you two would make a good pair.”

Your body stiffened, her words hanging in the air like an unspoken threat. Despite the warmth in her gaze, kind and sincere, it only deepened the tension coiling in your chest. The sounds of the kitchen, the faint hum of music still coming from the living room—everything else faded, drowned out by the relentless echo of her words in your mind.

A lump formed in your throat, and your grip on the plate tightened as your hands began to shake. The walls seemed to shrink around you, the space too small to hold the enormity of the lie hanging between you.

Her voice, so earnest and trusting, repeated in your mind, each syllable weighted with an affection you didn’t feel worthy of. For a moment, you parted your lips, desperate to respond— to explain, to confess—but the words wouldn’t come. What could you possibly say? That everything she believed about you and her son was a carefully constructed illusion? That this trip had pushed your flimsy connection to its breaking point? That you and Namjoon hadn’t even kissed before this—and when you finally had, it only tangled things further, making you ache for something real, something freely given? But that he didn’t feel the same?

The truth felt like a tsunami too massive and chaotic to contain, too devastating to release. It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, teetering between holding back the wave and allowing it to crash down, obliterating everything in its path.

And all you could do was hold on to the plate in your hands, as if it could somehow keep you afloat through it all.

“I think it’s in the way you two-”

But the strain of the day—the strain of everything—became too much to withstand. The fragile hold you’d kept on your emotions shattered, splintering off like glass under pressure. The raw ache you’d buried deep inside surged to the surface, breaking through the thin veneer of composure you’d clung to so desperately as you tried to listen to her.

You blinked quickly, a futile effort to stop as tears began to pool in your eyes. But once a single drop escaped, sliding hot and unchecked down your cheek, another followed, and another, until the flood was unstoppable.

Your trembling lips pressed tightly together to stifle the sobs threatening to spill out, but your shoulders shook, and the quiet tremors of your body betrayed you. The stillness of the kitchen amplified the sound of your shallow, uneven breaths, the weight of everything pressing down all at once.

Mrs. Kim turned sharply at the sound, her expression shifting to concern in an instant, her hands stilling as she looked at you.

“Oh, sweetheart,” She murmured, stepping closer, her voice filled with a motherly warmth that broke you even further. “What’s wrong?” Her cold hands rested gently on your arms, rubbing them affectionately.

And in that moment, you realized there was no turning back.

Mrs. Kim’s voice was tender, laced with genuine worry that only made your heart hurt more. Her hands on your arms felt steadying, but they were also a stark reminder of the fact that you were breaking down.  You tried to speak, to form any explanation, but all that escaped was a shaky breath. The silence between you stretched, and you knew you couldn’t hide behind it much longer.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips. You weren’t even sure what you were apologizing for yet—everything, perhaps, or maybe just for breaking down in front of her. “I didn’t mean to... ruin this moment.”

Mrs. Kim frowned, her brow creasing with concern, but her voice was as gentle as ever. “Ruin it? Sweetheart, no. What’s this all about?” She gave your arms a reassuring squeeze. “You can talk to me.”

Her kindness was unbearable, and for a moment, you debated whether you could hold back the truth just a little longer. But you knew deep down that this wasn’t something you could keep running from. Not here, not with her looking at you like that, so full of empathy.

“I...” You hesitated, your voice cracking. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Mrs. Kim stepped back slightly, her hands still hovering near yours as if to reassure you she was listening. “Go on,” she urged gently.

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and tight. “Namjoon and I... we-” The words were so heavy; it felt like they might crush you if you said them out loud. “We’re not... what you think.”

Her expression didn’t falter, but there was a brief flicker of confusion in her eyes. She waited, patient but curious, as you tried to gather your courage.

“What do you mean?” she urged softly once you faltered.

“We’re not... a couple,” you admitted finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

The truth was out, raw and exposed, and you braced yourself for her reaction. “This whole thing—it was never real. We just... pretended.”

For the first time, Mrs. Kim’s expression shifted—her eyes widened slightly, but her hands tighten around your arms. She stared at you for a moment, processing your confession, before she took a small step back.

“You pretended?” She repeated, her voice quiet but heavy with meaning on your guilt-ridden mind. “Why would you do that?”

You looked down, unable to hold her gaze any longer. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” you said, your voice breaking. “It started as... as a way to avoid questions. To keep things simple. But then everything spiralled, and now-” You stopped, feeling the tears threaten to spill again. “Now, I don’t know how to fix it.”

Mrs. Kim was silent for a long moment, her gaze thoughtful but unreadable. When she finally spoke, her tone was soft, though there was an edge of disappointment there that made your chest ache. “So, this... this whole time, it was all just for show?”

You nodded.

She exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together before stepping forward again. “I wish you’d told me sooner,” she said, her voice quieter now, but still kind. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but... I can see how much this is weighing on you.”

You looked up at her, surprised by her understanding. “You’re not... mad?”

“Oh, my sweetheart, you are way worse at lying than you think you are.” She squeezed your arms again, this time rubbing her thumbs across your skin as if to bring some feeling back into them.

She smiled faintly, shaking her head. “I’ve had a few suspicions,” Mrs. Kim admitted. “A mother knows, even when her son thinks he’s being clever. But I didn’t push because I thought... well, I thought maybe you two just needed time to figure it out.”

Her words landed softly, but they still carried weight, making your breath hitch. You felt an odd mix of relief and embarrassment—relief that she wasn’t completely blindsided, and embarrassment that you haven’t been as convincing as you’d thought.

“You knew?” you asked, your voice still weak from crying.

Her chuckle was lightly, a sound that was warm but reluctant. “I had my concerns. But I could also see the effort you were making, and I thought maybe it wasn’t my place to pry.”

Her hold lingered on your arms, steady and reassuring. “What I didn’t know,” she continued, her tone softening even further, “was how much it was eating you up inside. Sweetheart, this isn’t healthy—for either of you.”

You bit your lip, her understanding cutting through the storm of emotions inside you. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered, blinking a few tears away. “I didn’t want to deceive anyone. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Mrs. Kim reached up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a fondness that made you want to break down again. “I know that,” she said firmly. “And I believe you. But this is not just about me.”

You look up at her, a flicker of confusion crossing your face as you tried to process her words

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your cheeks for a moment, her touch offering a soothing presence. “It’s not just about me,” she repeated, her voice calm but filled with an unexpected tenderness. “It’s about you. And Namjoon.”

Her words hanging between you like a burden, and your heart tighten once more. “Me and Namjoon?” you echoed, unsure if she truly meant what you thought she meant.

Mrs. Kim nodded, her eyes locking onto yours with quiet understanding. “Yes, you and my oblivious son.”

You swallowed hard, your heart racing as the implication in her words finally settled into place. Maybe, it was the relief of saying everything out loud that washed over you, breaking through the layers of doubt you’ve been carrying.

 It was that relief, perhaps, that loosened the tight grip you’d kept on your emotions for so long.

“But I don’t know if he feels the same,” you admitted, your voice trembling, defences faltering as the words came out. It didn’t even matter that, in saying them, you were all but confessing your own feelings for him. “What if he doesn’t feel that way about me? What if I ruin everything we have?” You glanced away, ashamed of the vulnerability that laced every word, but unable to stop the thoughts from spilling over.

Mrs. Kim’s expression softened further. Her eyes brimming with compassion “Trust me, sweetheart.”

You shook your head, your thoughts a tangled mess of fear and doubt.

She smiled gently, her hand still resting on your cheeks. “You’re not imagining it. Trust me. I’ve seen this before—this shyness, this obliviousness to feelings. It’s from his father. That man was just as clueless when it came to my feelings for him.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her sudden pivot. “Really?” you asked, a faint laugh slipping through despite the swirl of emotions inside you.

“Oh, absolutely,” she said, rolling of her eyes playfully. “I had to practically spell it out for him before he realized how I felt. But once he did...” Her smile softened, nostalgia flickering in her gaze. “Once he did, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind—or mine.”

You bit your lip, the warmth of her story sparking a flicker of hope inside you, but the lingering concerns still clouded your thoughts. “But what if Namjoon’s not like that?” you murmured, your gaze falling to the floor. “I’m scared to say anything and risk ruining the friendship we have.”

Mrs. Kim tilted her head slightly, her expression growing more thoughtful. “Y/N,” she said gently, “Do you know what I noticed about you the first time we met?”

You hesitated, unsure of what she was about to say. “What?” you asked quietly

“I saw the way you looked at him,” she said simply. “It wasn’t just friendship. It was something deeper. Something you probably didn’t even realized yourself yet. And that whole time, he was looking at you the same way. He’s not just your friend. He’s your person.”

Her words hit like a wave, striking a chord in you that you haven’t been ready to confront. Your breath caught, your heart pounding. “You really think so?” you whispered, your voice trembling with equal parts hope and fear.

Mrs. Kim nodded with certainty, her eyes kind and unwavering. “I do. And I’m not the only one who sees it.” She paused, as if choosing her words carefully. “I remember Namjoon’s ex—she was a lovely girl, but things always felt… easy to look past. But with you? The way he watches you, listens to you—like he’s waiting for something only you can give him. That’s different. That’s something real.”

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes, but this time they weren’t just from uncertainty. A flicker of hope mingled with the raw emotion coursing through you.

“What if I’m wrong?” Your words were soft, almost drowned by the silence around you.

Mrs. Kim’s hand rested gently on your arm, a quiet reassurance. “You won’t know unless you talk to him,” she said, her tone gentle but resolute.  “I won’t tell you it’s easy—putting your heart on the line never is. But if you let fear make the choice for you, you might walk away from something really special. And I don’t think he wants that. I don’t think you do either.” She paused, her eyes searching yours, her voice soft but certain— “He loves you.”

Her words settled over you like a warm embrace. It was still terrifying, the thought of baring your soul to Namjoon, but Mrs. Kim’s unwavering confidence— in you, in him—felt like a light guiding you through the uncertainty.

“Go talk to him,” she urged softly, reaching up to cup your cheeks in a gentle squeeze. “Trust me, sweetheart. You’ll be glad you did.”

“I-I will. When-”

“No! Go now!” she insisted with a gentle but determined push, her eyes sparkling.

With resolve that felt both fragile and real, you nodded, inhaling deeply as if to steady the maelstrom inside you. As you peeled off your gloves, a sniffle escaped before you could stop it. You wiped at your eyes, letting out a shaky laugh—half exasperation, half-relief.

Mrs. Kim’s hand gave your arm one final, reassuring squeeze, her warmth lingering even as you turned away.

And then, before doubt could creep back in, you hurried upstairs to the bedroom.

 The door slammed behind you and the echo resounded in the quiet stillness of the room. Namjoon’s head snapped up from the book in his hands, his wide eyes startled by your sudden arrival.

He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, the warm golden light from the lamp next to him casting soft shadows across his face. He had that look of fuzzy contentment he always wore when he was reading—a serene expression you wanted to lock away and hold tight to protect forever. But right now, your own emotions were too unruly to appreciate it fully.

“Do you love me?”

The words burst out of you before you had the chance to reel them back in, your voice shaky and raw as adrenaline still coursed through you. You were a whirlwind—your heart thundered in your chest as you stood there, tears prickling at the edges of your eyes, the weight of the conversation you’d just had pressing heavily on your shoulders. You didn’t even try to give him context first. You didn’t prepare either of you for the leap you were about to take. Instead, you jumped.

Namjoon blinked at you, his lips parting, eyes flitting across your face as he tried to process the question. For a long moment, he looked utterly confused, but then, as if the air between you shifted, something soft and vulnerable lit up in his face. His book tumbled from his hands, forgotten entirely, as he straightened up.

“What…?” he began, tentative and breathless, but you didn’t give him a chance to run, to overthink, to temper his feelings behind those gentle walls he so often built. You had to know. There could be no half-truths now.

“Do you love me?” you repeated, your voice louder this time, more forceful, as every fibre of your being felt like it was burning alive, unravelling at the seams with desperation for an answer. For clarity. For him.

His lips quivered, caught somewhere between anxiety and trust, his gaze searching yours before his answer came in a breathless whisper that shattered you on the spot.

“Yes. Of course, I love you.” The intensity you saw there—the vulnerability, the unmistakable fear —it completely broke the barrier.

Before he could say another word, you surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was desperate, unrestrained, a collision of all the emotions you’d kept bottled up for too long. You slotted your lips against his, connecting in a way that felt as necessary as breathing. The world tilted. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you from unravelling.

Namjoon froze for half a second; you could practically feel the surprise radiate from him. But then, like a lightning strike, his arms were around you, pulling you closer. Close enough that no space for doubt could exist between you. He kissed you back with a fervour that sent a tidal wave of warmth from your head to your toes. His lips moved against yours as though he’d unlocked a secret of his own emotions, pouring them all out into this single moment.

 This confession without words.

Finally, when your lungs screamed for air, you pulled back just slightly, your foreheads resting together, breaths mingling. You could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.

“What’s gotten into you?” he whispered, his voice so quiet, as if to speak too loudly might shatter the fragile bubble wrapping itself around you both. His thumb brushed along your cheekbone in the gentlest of touches, wiping away the tears that had managed to escape.

You drew in a trembling breath, your lips grazing his as you whispered, “I… I told your mother everything.”

He froze solid, just like that, and the warmth in his expression flickered with confusion. “What?” he asked, his voice just as soft but now edged with trepidation.

“I told her,” You repeated, your voice steadier this time, though your heart was racing. You pressed another kiss to his lips, unable to fully pull away. “I told her we were pretending. That we’re not really together. How you—how you asked me to lie to her and everyone else.” Your fingers remained clutched in his shirt; your mouth lingering on his, unwilling to part for more than a few seconds at a time.

Namjoon stilled for a fraction of a second, processing your words between the kisses you couldn’t seem to stop. Then his grip on you tightened, as if afraid this was a dream he would wake up from any minute. The hesitation in his posture melted, replaced by something stronger, fiercer—something that matched the irregular rhythm of your own heart.

“Hold on,” he whispered against your mouth, his voice breathless and uneven, “I can’t think straight when you kiss me.”

The vulnerability in that small confession sent a thrill through you, and you couldn’t help the big, silly grin that broke across your face.

“Why’d you tell her?” he asked, his voice softer now, his forehead resting against yours.

You let out a shaky laugh, your eyes dropping to his swollen lips, already wanting to kiss him again. “I didn’t mean to,” you admitted, the words spilling out quickly. “She was so nice to me, and with everything that’s happened—I just couldn’t hold it in. I started crying, and it all came out.”

Namjoon exhaled deeply and, with obvious difficulty, pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze softened, the concern there unmistakable. “What did she say? Is that why you’re crying?”

A watery sniffle escaped you as you tried to explain. “She said you’re oblivious,” Each syllable ghosted over his lips, the space between you nearly nonexistent. You wanted to kiss him again. “And that you get it from your dad.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, but you didn’t stop. “She said she already knew,” you murmured, your voice quieter now, your chest tightening as your fingers traced the warm skin of his neck. “And…” You hesitated, your eyes searching his. “She said you love me.”

You were so close, his breath mingled with yours, the space between you barely more than a whisper.

Namjoon stilled, his breath catching. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, but then something like awe swept over his face, softening every feature. His eyes searched yours, looking for doubt, for hesitation—anything that might suggest you didn’t mean it. But when he found nothing but truth staring back at him, he let out a shaky exhale, his lips parting as though he was about to speak.

He didn’t. Instead, his hands cupped your face, and his lips met yours again, but this time the kiss was slower, deeper, and achingly tender. Gone was the urgency, replaced by something raw and honest. This kiss wasn’t about desperation or pretending—it was about him showing you, with everything he had, exactly how he felt.

This was Namjoon, completely unguarded. And as his lips moved against yours, as his hands cradled you like you were the most precious thing in the world, you felt like it.  

His breath fanned across your skin as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still holding your face like he wasn’t ready to let go. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, slow and reverent, as if memorizing every inch of you.

Neither of you spoke right away. The silence between you wasn’t empty— it was filled with the weight of the past few days, the tangled emotions, the hesitation and longing, all melted into the space between your breaths.

Namjoon swallowed hard.

“I thought I ruined everything when I kissed you.” His voice was raw, unsteady, his hands moving with quiet desperation—grazing your jaw, your neck, brushing your hair away from your face like he needed to see all of you.

You exhaled sharply a mix of exasperation and relief. “I was so sure you regretted it,” you admitted, your fingers restless as they traced along his skin, unable to stop moving, needing to feel him. “God, Namjoon, how could you just shut down like that?”

He swallowed, his gaze flickering with something vulnerable, something hesitant. “I thought you hated me.” The words came quiet but heavy. “I didn’t know how to handle it. I convinced myself that I pushed you away—that I ruined any chance I had of being with you for real.”

 Your breath hitched at the vulnerability that poured out of him. His dark eyes shimmered in the soft golden light of the room; the weight of his emotions etched across his perfect, devastating face.

“Namjoon…” His name quivered on your tongue as the tears came back to your eyes. But it wasn’t sadness that overwhelmed you—it was relief. Relief that the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long had finally found a voice. Relief that you weren’t alone in this freefall of emotions.

Namjoon’s hands still cradled your face, his thumbs brushing circles along your cheekbones like he could soothe all the hurt away. He leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead in an act so tender that it sent another wave of tears spilling down your cheeks.

“I regret…” He hesitated, his hands angled your face carefully, “I regret not telling you sooner. Not being brave enough to—God, Y/N, I’ve loved you since forever, but I was always so scared. Scared that you’d pull away, that-”

But you never heard the end of it, because your lips were on his again, stopping him mid-sentence, sealing all those remaining words between you. Namjoon’s hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, desperate, as if he couldn’t get enough of you, as if he was trying to make up for all the lost time. The intensity of it all sent a spark through your chest, and when your breath caught, he deepened the kiss, his tongue moving against yours, the world outside completely fading away.

Each movement, each touch was a promise—of feelings so long buried, that suddenly burst to the surface. Everything melted away in that kiss. It was everything and nothing at once, a moment that felt like it could stretch on forever.

Each touch, every breath shared between kisses, sent shivers racing up and down your spine. His lips trailed away from yours for only a moment, long enough to press kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, always returning to your mouth again like you were magnetic. You lost yourself in him completely, in the way his thumb was curling just beneath the collar of your shirt, in the way he tilted his head for a deeper angle and the soft sound he made in the back of his throat when you pulled his lip between your teeth.

His touch, his scent, the way his hands moved with purpose yet a tenderness that was overwhelming—every sensation was overwhelming in the best way possible.

The kiss deepened once more, as if the air itself couldn’t fill the space between you, and all the words you’d both kept locked away for so long were exchanged in every press of your lips.

Namjoon’s hands moved to over your shoulders, pulling you impossibly closer, and before you could realize, he turned you two around—your back pressing against the soft mattress of the bed. The sudden movement took you by surprise, but you didn’t protest. If anything, the new proximity only made your pulse quicken, the heat between you both intensifying as he leaned over you, his body hovering just above yours. His breath came in soft, uneven gasps, each one warm against your skin, as if the space between you both was no longer enough. His hands, once resting at your shoulders, now explored lower, tracing the curve of your waist before settling at the small of your back, drawing you closer with a gentle yet undeniable urgency, his hips slotting against yours.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the sensation of his hands on you, the warmth of his touch setting your skin ablaze. His fingers traced the curve of your waist, slipping beneath your sweater and gradually pushing it higher, sending a shiver down your spine. Instinctively, you arched into him—craving more, needing more.

Namjoon’s lips brushed against your forehead, his voice barely a whisper as he said your name.

“Hmm?” you murmured.

A beat of silence. Then—

“Say it back.”

His voice was low, a mix of vulnerability and quiet demand, a plea you just couldn’t ignore.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, and your heart swelled with certainty. You reached up, cupping his face gently, your voice steady as you said,

“I love you, Namjoon. I love you too.”

Namjoon’s gaze never left yours, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of desire and tenderness. His lips parted slightly as though to speak, but instead, he closed the distance between you two, kissing you again. His kiss was the perfect answer.

Your fingers knotted in his hair, pulling him closer, and you returned his kisses with equal fervour. A feverish dance, tongues entwined in a desperate attempt to satiate the hunger that gnawed at your very souls.

You ran your hands up the sides of his body, feeling the muscle beneath his shirt, memorizing the contours of him as if you could pull all of him into you. Namjoon groaned softly at the sensation, his hands tightening their hold on you as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling yours in a caress that left you breathless.

His lips trailed down to your jaw, pressing over the marks already blooming on your neck, each press searing, sending sparks of need racing through your veins.

He nipped and sucked at your sensitive skin, leaving a few new hickeys as he made his way down to your collarbone. You gasped, your fingernails digging into his shoulders as you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him. The heat between you was palpable, a living, breathing thing that threatened to consume you both.

As if sensing your need, Namjoon leaned back down, capturing your mouth back in a heated kiss. His lips moving against yours, coaxing you open, and you wilfully let him in. You always let him. His tongue slid against yours, stroking, tasting, and you whimpered, clutching onto him.

He swallowed the sound, one hand sliding down your thigh, hooking behind your knee. He dragged your leg over his hip, pressing your core right against his straining erection, and you gasped, breaking the kiss.

 “God, I want you,” he groaned, rocking against you, his hands stroking up your sides to cup your breasts. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. “I’ve imagined this a thousand times, but nothing compares to the real thing.”

 “I want you too,” you confessed. “God, so much” Your breath hitched as his lips found the curve of your throat, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing the spot with a slow kiss. Heat coiled in your stomach, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer, as if you could fuse yourself to him completely. “I need you, Namjoon.”

But just as his hands moved to the button of your jeans, your senses caught up with you. You suddenly became acutely aware of everything—the fact that this was real, no more unrequited feelings, no more hiding. But just as glaring was the truth that his mother was down the hall. The realization hit you like a cold wave, shaking you, and a wave of panic surged through your chest.

“But baby, there is no way I’m fucking you at your parents’ house,” you said, your voice a soft reprimand, edged with your own personal frustration.

Namjoon groaned, his head falling to your shoulder as he breathed in your scent. “You’re killing me,” he murmured.

You chuckled, the sound warm and breathless, threading your fingers through his hair as he groaned against your shoulder. “I’m saving you from potential lifelong humiliation,” you teased, nudging his cheek with your nose.

Namjoon exhaled heavily, his lips grazing your collarbone one last time before he pulled back, flopping onto his back beside you with a frustrated sigh. “You’re right,” he admitted begrudgingly, rubbing a hand down his face. “But damn it woman … you make it really hard to think rationally.”

You turned on your side, propping yourself up on one elbow as you gazed down at him, taking in the way his chest rose and fell, the way his lips were still kiss-swollen and impossibly tempting, the way his eyes—dark and filled with something deeper than just lust—stayed locked on you.

A slow smile curled at your lips as you leaned down, pressing a soft, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I promise, when the time is right…” Your fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns on his chest, just beneath the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t make you wait a second longer.”

Namjoon groaned again, rolling over to bury his face in the crook of your neck as you giggled. “You’re really going to make me suffer, aren’t you?” he muttered against your skin, kissing it softly after.

You grinned, letting your fingers comb gently through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Just let me hold you a little longer.”

Namjoon’s voice was a low, almost pleading whisper as he adjusted, shifting until he was holding you tighter, his arms enveloping you in a warmth that made everything else fade away. That made all the waiting and suffering feel like it was worth it.

 That made you start to question your own rule—because you’ve just told this man there would be no sex tonight and yet there wasn’t a single trace of frustration or regret on his face. Just quiet devotion, steady and sure, like holding you was enough.

 His hand splayed across your back, pressing you firmly against him. You melted into his embrace, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. It was a comfort, a steady rhythm that calmed the fervour between you. His fingers lightly traced circles on your back, soothing you with every movement.

A small smile tugged at your lips as your fingers idly traced patterns over his skin. “Are you always this romantic?” you murmured, your voice laced with amusement.

Namjoon chuckled, his chest vibrating against yours “I’ve had years to practice patience with you,” he said, his tone filled with fondness, before he took on that familiar teasing expression. “And when we get home,” he leaned in close to your ear, his breath tickling your skin as he whispered, “I’m fucking you against every single flat surface we find.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your heart racing at the challenge in his tone. His expression was playful yet intense, that familiar mischievous spark lighting up his features, making those dimples seem like anything but innocent.

“You better watch yourself, Mr. Kim,” you said, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “I’ve been known to bite back.”

Namjoon’s grin widened as his hands sliding down your hips, fingers pressing into your skin before giving them a firm squeeze. In one fluid motion, he pulled you up slightly, adjusting your position—just enough for you to feel the hard imprint of his cock against you.

 “I’m counting on it,” he murmured, his lips brushing against yours in a brief but heated kiss.

“Namjoon…”

His name left your lips in a breathy whisper, and Namjoon’s grip on you tightened ever so slightly, his fingers pressing into your hips like he was grounding himself—or maybe like he was trying to keep himself from losing all control.

“Yeah?” he prompted, his voice lower now, rougher, his lips hovering just over yours.

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked up at him, taking in the way his pupils had blown wide, the way his chest moved with each heavy breath, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, like he was trying to steady himself—like he was barely holding on. You had always known Namjoon was dangerous in a hundred different ways, but this? The way he looked at you.

This was something else entirely.

A smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as you slid your hands up his chest, resting them over his racing heartbeat. “I think you might be a little obsessed with me,” you teased, arching a brow.

Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he let out a low chuckle. “You’re just now figuring that out?” he mused, his thumb stroking absentminded circles against your skin. Then, his expression shifted, something softer blooming beneath the heat in his gaze. “You have no idea.”

Your chest ached at the sincerity in his tone, at the weight of his words, and suddenly, the teasing faded from your mind entirely. You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his jaw as you murmured, “Tell me,” the words barely audible, even to your own ears. “Tell me what you want.”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, his pupils blown so wide that for a moment, they hid the hazel entirely.

“I want to feel every inch of you” he murmured, his voice rough. “I want to taste you, touch you, tease you. I want feel you trembling in my hands.” You shivered, despite the warmth of his embrace, a small gasp escaping your lips at his words.

His smile was immediate—wicked and knowing—as his hand slid under your shirt, fingers tracing your spine with deliberate slowness, sending sparks dancing beneath your skin.

“You want that, don’t you?” His voice was nothing more than a low, sinful whisper that completely ruined your panties.

 “Want me to take you apart, baby girl?”

The words settled deep in your core, a slow burn spreading through your veins, igniting something primal. Your fingers curled against his jaw, your breath hitching as his hand continued its slow, torturous exploration beneath your shirt, carefully tracing the outline of your bra.

“Say it,” he teased, his lips brushing against yours, teasing but never quite closing the distance. “I need to hear you say it.”

“Namjoon…” you breathed, but he was quick to assure you.

“I’ll behave. Don’t you worry.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears, heat pooling low in your stomach as you swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. “I want it.”

His responding groan was deep, guttural, vibrating through your entire body as his grip on you tightened. In one smooth motion, he rolled, pinning you beneath him, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his thigh sliding between yours.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin as his lips trailed down your jaw, past the sensitive spot below your ear, down the column of your throat. “Now let me make you feel good.”

“Namjoon!” you tried, but you heard him hush you before his tongue flicked over your pulse point, his teeth scraping lightly before he sucked, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. His hand slid higher, pushing your shirt up, exposing more of your skin to the cool air as his lips followed the path his fingers had blazed.

“Namjoon-” His name was half a gasp, half a plea, your hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt as if it was the only thing anchoring you.

“Hold that thought,” he murmured, suddenly pulling back. The warmth of his body vanished as he sat up, pushing himself off the bed.

You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. For a second, you thought he was walking away, and your protest was already forming—until you saw him stride toward the door.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

Then you heard it. The soft click of the door’s lock sliding into place.

“Really?”

He smirked, sliding a knee back onto the mattress, his hands gripping your ankles and slowly dragging you toward him. “I’m not taking any chances,” he said, his voice dripping with amusement and something deeper.

The heat in his gaze was enough to make your breath hitch, but you couldn’t resist pushing him just a little more. “And here I thought you had some self-control”

Namjoon’s hands slid up your legs, his fingers kneading into your thighs as he leaned in close, his breath hot against your lips. “Baby,” he rasped, tilting his head slightly. “I locked that door because I have self-control. Otherwise, you’d already be a mess underneath me.”

“Joonie,” you groan, the bright red blush burning your face as you cover your face with your arms.

Namjoon chuckled softly at the sight of you hiding behind your arms, his hands gently pulling them away to reveal the rosy flush spreading across your cheeks. He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as his breath stirred the hairs on your neck.

“Tell me, how set are you on that rule of yours?” His voice was low, a teasing growl that sent a hot shiver down your spine.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the rapid beat of your heart. His proximity was intoxicating, and despite the rules you’d set, the temptation to surrender to him was almost overwhelming.

You met his gaze, eyes filled with a mix of defiance and desire. “I… I meant it,” you murmured, your voice a little shaky despite your attempt at sounding firm. “I’m not fucking you tonight.”

Namjoon’s lips quirked into a smile, though it was anything but innocent. “I know that.” His fingers danced along your skin, barely touching, just enough to make you ache for more. “But I can touch you right?” he whispered, his lips brushing your ear again.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you were unsure of what to say, before:

“We have to be quiet.”

Namjoon’s smile grew, but there was a sharpness to it now, a hint of challenge. He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours, “Easy.”

His hand moved lower, fingertips skimming over your waist, leaving goosebumps in their wake, his touch light yet electrifying. The contrast between his playful demeanour and the raw desire in his eyes made your pulse race.

You bit your lip, trying to hold onto your resolve, but the temptation of his touch, his proximity, was slowly unravelling you. “You’re making this harder,” you managed, though it was more of a breathless confession than a statement of resistance.

Namjoon’s eyes flicked up to yours, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to send heat pooling in your belly. “I haven’t even started yet,” he murmured, his breath hot against your lips. “But I’ll make sure you’re quiet.”

You shivered at his words, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. His proximity, the heat of his breath on your skin, and the way his hands were moving lower, this time unbuttoning your jeans, had you teetering on the edge.

“Namjoon...” you whispered, voice shaky, but his fingers moved to the zipper, steady and sure, making it impossible to think clearly.

“Shh…” he hushed you softly. “I’ve got you.”

The simple reassurance sent a rush of heat through your chest, your heart pounding in your ears.

With practiced ease, his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of your abdomen. You let out a gasp, your eyes fluttering closed as you savored the sensation. Namjoon’s hands moved lower, cupping your ass through the fabric of your pants. He squeezed gently, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You have such a nice ass,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

A quick giggle escapes your lips, your eyes meeting his. “You’re not so bad yourself,” you replied, your voice just as low and breathless. He grinned, his fingers moving to the hem of your pants. With slow, deliberate movements, he began to slide them down your legs, revealing the thin fabric of your lacy underwear underneath.

 You felt a rush of embarrassment at the sight of your arousal seeping through the fabric, but Namjoon didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed to be enjoying it. His fingers deliberately pushing your thighs apart once your jeans were discarded off somewhere behind him, taking his time to admire you.

“Did I ever tell you you’re beautiful?” You tried to respond, but it came out as a gasp as his fingers slid higher, teasing the lacy edge of your panties. He didn’t push them down, just tracing the material, letting you feel the heat of his touch through the thin fabric. Your fingers curled into the sheets, trying to anchor yourself in the sensation, but your body was reacting on its own, pushing further against him

His fingers moved, testing, teasing, until you’re squirming under him. “Namjoon,” you whine, your hands fisting in the sheets.

But he just smirks, “So impatient,” he teases, his hands sliding further up, brushing over your wet core through the fabric, his fingers catching over your clit and making you gasp breathlessly.

“I’ve barely started and you’re already desperate for me.” His words send a pulse of heat through you and you bite your lip hard, fighting back a moan. He chuckles, his fingers pushing against your entrance as if he wasn’t testing your patience already.

 “Shh, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough with desire, mock-hushing you before pushing your panties aside, his fingers sliding through the slick heat gathering there. “Fuck. You’re so wet for me already,” the hot exhale of his breath making you clench around nothing.

 He dragged his fingertips through your wetness, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch that had you writhing beneath him again.

“Please...” Your fingers scrabbled uselessly at his shoulders, torn between pushing him away and dragging him closer. “Namjoon, my love...”

He silenced your plea with a searing kiss, tongue delving past your lips as he finally breached you with one long finger. Your moan swallowed by his mouth, hips lifting to take him deeper. The stretch was exquisite, pleasure spiking through you at the curl of his finger, quickly finding that spot inside that made you see stars.

Namjoon swallowed each and every needy sound spilling from your lips, his mouth devouring yours with a hunger that left you dizzy. He pushed another finger in, fucking you slowly, maddeningly, the wet squelch of your arousal obscene and too loud in the quiet room, mixing perfectly with your muffled moans.

You were lost to sensation, a writhing mess beneath his ministrations. Your hands scrabbled for purchase on his shoulders, his hair, any resolve you could find. He held you down with his weight, drinking down every whimper and gasp his fingers drew from you. His rhythm perfect, each push making you feel lightheaded, the pads of his fingers brushing against that spongey spot, making your keen in pleasure.

Your nails raked down his back at the same moment his thumb found your clit, and you sob into his mouth, orgasm cresting hard and fast, the most delightful buzz settling at the base of your spine. Namjoon smothered your cries, taking everything, you gave him, fingers never ceasing their relentless rhythm. His thumb was a steady pressure on your clit, drawing out your climax until you were boneless and shiver beneath him, your whole body convulsing.

Only then did he pull back, lips red and slick with saliva, a knowing smirk playing over them as he took in your dazed, sated expression. “I knew you’d be a good girl for me,” he purred, fingers still toying with your over-sensitive flesh, drawing out a weak whimper from you

“Nam- A-Ahm...” you groan, thighs snapping shut around his hand, trapping it in place. His amused chuckle vibrated against your skin.

As your breathing slowly evened out, he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “Think you can let go of my hand now?”

You were a flushed, trembling mess, your eyes still hazy as you gave a small, stubborn shake of your head. “Mmm… no.”

Namjoon huffed a quiet laugh, his free hand brushing your hair back from your face. “And why not?”

“You’ll tease me again.”

His grin was all mischief. “Smart girl.”

Namjoon’s grin didn’t waver as he shifted slightly, his trapped hand flexing against your thigh. “And yet,” he mused, voice low and knowing, “you’re still holding me there. Almost like… you want me to keep teasing you.”

You pouted, pressing your legs together even tighter, as if that would stop him, just a second before you forced yourself to let go. “Give me 5 minutes.”

“Isn’t that the guy’s line?”

You groaned, turning your face into the pillow to hide your growing smile. “Shut up,” you mumbled, your voice muffled but still laced with lingering pleasure.

Namjoon chuckled, clearly pleased with himself, and you could feel the warmth of his gaze lingering on you. He shifted effortlessly, hover over you, his free hand smoothing over your thigh in slow, absentminded strokes, a quiet reminder he wasn’t done with you. Or maybe, just maybe, he was as desperate as you were. Despite the tension building between you both, he still focused entirely on you—your needs—even though you hadn’t given him any release yet. It was as if his sole concern was your pleasure.

Still, he wore a look that told you he would willingly let you ruin him, and then thank you afterwards.

You peek your head up, meeting his heated gaze through hooded eyes, a mischievous glint in your expression. A teasing smile tugs at your kiss-bruised lips. “Take your shirt off,” you purr, voice low and sultry.

Namjoon’s smirk deepens at the unexpectedly bold request, and the look in his eyes suggests he’s more than willing to comply. He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear, “Bossy.” His voice was thick with amusement, but there was no hesitation in his movements.

He sat back, lifting his arms to pull the fabric over his head with smooth, practiced ease. The moment his shirt hit the floor, you couldn’t help but take in the way the muscles in his chest and arms shifted as he moved. The sight of him, bare and exposed in front of you, sent a wave of heat coursing through your body, pooling between your thighs.

You swallowed, your breath catching at the intensity of his gaze as he leaned back over you, his hands now skimming over your body, tracing the outline of your form. “Better?” he asked, his voice low, each word thick with a mix of flirtatious edge and raw, aching need.

You bit your lip, feeling the pulse of your desire as you nod slowly. “Much better.” Your hands tentatively explore the newly exposed skin of his chest, mapping the hard planes and dips of muscle. A surge of gratitude washes over you as you realize the band-aid Namjoon had chosen for your cut now allows you to glide your fingertips over his heated skin without restraint.

Namjoon watches you through half-lidded eyes, his lips parting on a soft exhale as your fingertips brush over a sensitive spot. He catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your palm. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs, voice rough with want.

“I haven’t even started yet.” You tease, trailing your fingers down his chest to his stomach, following the defined V of his muscles down to the waistband of his sweatpants, where your fingers hook in the elastic. Namjoon’s sharp inhale was more than enough encouragement. You trace the waistband of his pajama pants, feeling him shift under your touch, before dipping your hand beneath the fabric to wrap your fingers around his length. Suddenly feeling even more grateful that it wasn’t your dominant hand that had been injured today.

“Fuck,” he hisses, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

Fuck is right. Damn it. You were totally on track—he was massive.

He was hot, silk over flame, and so very big in your hand. You stroked him base to tip, more to size him up, but instead marveling at the way he stirred against your palm.

Namjoon groaned, head falling back against the pillow, hips canting forward. “Oh baby”

You shivered at the guttural sound, circling your hand around him, almost getting your fingers to meet.

His cock twitched in your hold, a drop of precum welling at the head. You thumb the slit, smearing his precum down his length, before pulling your hand up to spit on it.

“God, you’ll kill me.”

You met his gaze through your lashes, quickly returning to your task, pumping him with slow, teasing strokes. Your free hand came up to cup his heavy balls, rolling them in your palm.

He cursed under his breath, hips rocking into your grip.

Namjoon’s hands fisted in the sheets on either side of you, breathy groans spilling from his lips as he softly guided your ministrations, showing you how he liked to be touched. Namjoon’s eyes stay locked on yours, even as they glaze over with pleasure. One of his hands finds your hip, gripping tightly as he guides your movements. “Don’t stop,” he pleads, voice strangled. “I’m close.”

You doubled your efforts, twisting your wrist on the upstroke, giving his length a squeeze, before running your thumb over his head, teasing the slit.  

Namjoon is practically panting now, his face etched with strain as he chases his release.

“Come on,” you whisper, your other hand joining the first, one hand around the base, the other cupping his heavy balls. “Let go. I want to feel you.” He barely has a chance to register your words before he’s coming with a low groan, his head burying in your neck and biting hard against your shoulder to try and keep quiet, which in turn makes you gasp. Still, you stroke him through it, milking every last drop until he’s a boneless, sated mess, his full weight crushing you.  “Fuck, babe,” he praises breathlessly, shooting you a lazy, satisfied smile. “You’re amazing.” He tugs you up, capturing your lips in a languid kiss. You melt into him, your hand still wrapped around his spent cock, enjoying the little aftershocks that continue to make him twitch.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you murmur against his lips, feeling your heart swell.

Because despite the pleasure, the heat, this—this moment right here, of feeling utterly connected—that’s what you craved.

Namjoon pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes soft. “I love you,” he admits quietly, like it’s just a simple fact. Like you both haven’t been fighting it for year.

You know your eyes are shining, but you don’t care. “I love you too.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you let him sweep you up in the feeling, in the moment. because right now, right here, tangled in his arms and the sheets of his childhood bedroom is exactly where you’re meant to be.

After a few lazy minutes, Namjoon shifts, prompting you to release him. You bring your fingers to your mouth, languidly licking them clean as a low moan escapes you, savouring the salty essence of him that explodes across your tongue.

“Fuck. Love, don’t do that. You’ll get me hard again.” He chuckles breathlessly, dropping light kisses across your face. “As much as I want to go for round two, I think we both could use a shower first”

Namjoon slides out of bed, extending his hand toward you with a playful grin. “Come with me? I’ll even wash your back.”

You raise an eyebrow, looking at him sceptically. “That shower is tiny, and in case you didn’t know, you’re huge.”

Namjoon laughs, clearly unfazed by your complaints. “I’ll make it work,” he says with a wink, his grin widening. He gave your hand a gentle tug, urging you to follow. “Besides, I’m pretty good at fitting into tight spaces.”

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “You’re impossible.”

He smirks, pulling you up gently by the hand. “Come on, let me prove you wrong. Besides, I think we both could use a little water to cool down.” His voice softens, a hint of seriousness underlying the playful tone.

You give in, following him with a small sigh, knowing very well that that you willingly played right into his plan.

[mortallydeepestobservation]

(text description in ALT and below the cut)

Based on some rumblings I heard, I ended up quickly throwing together a fun little WIP bingo sheet! I'll admit I largely wrote the prompts for writing, but I think a good number of them should also apply to art!

Ultimately, the goal is to have fun, and finish whatever WIPs you can (without burning yourself out or having a bad time). If you needed a sign to pick up that project you've been putting off, the time is now!

3x4 Bingo square titled "Finish your fucking fics february"

the top three across left to right read "Update your oldest WIP", "Finish a WIP that's been buried deep in your drafts", and "Finish a WIP that you haven't posted yet"

the second row reads "Finish a recent WIP", "Finish a WIP you're scared of" and "Finish a WIP that's been haunting you"

the third row reads "Update a partially posted WIP", "Finish any WIP/Free Space", and "Finish the next WIP in a series you've been avoiding"

the last row reads "Update your newest WIP", "Finish a WIP that's been ignored for at least 6 months", and "Finish the next chapter for a fic you've been meaning to for months"

[mortallydeepestobservation]

You know what’s gonna happen! 😂🤣

The Case of Us.

Summary: You and Namjoon are an unlikely pair, clashing from the start. He’s a seasoned detective, used to working alone and running on instinct. You, a rookie, fresh off acing your detective exam, ready to prove yourself. At first, you butt heads—your sharp, hardheaded approach grating against his calm, measured demeanor. But there's an undeniable pull between the two of you, an unspoken understanding that begins to form as you both tackle case after case. Through the chaos of the job, you rely on each other more and more. And though you're still figuring out the balance between the stubborn rookie and the seasoned detective, you both know one thing for certain—you're a hell of a team. A/N: Oh Hey everyone... So, I did it again—I got overwhelmed by life and felt the need to write... And you know the drill. (I ended up re-reading Chapter 4 of Holiday Pretense so many times that I couldn’t tell what was repeating and what was just my brain spiraling. And i guess I rage-quit for the day) So instead, I ended up writing something completely different. But this time, it's really random and far "into the story". Also, that pancake dialogue is loosely inspired by a conversation from "Castle"-oldish detective serries i love to this day. Call it a teaser if you will? (I wanna know if anyone would be interested in something like this.) (besides those 5 wips i have already lol. i need professional help 😓🥲) (thank you always @callmenoona25 for proofreading. love you) Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: detective/ thriller. neo noir(?) Rating: explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: Guns. Mentions of serial killers and bodies. Crimes. Corpses. police/detective lingo. Detective Yoongi and Jungkook being the best duo. (Also, if you know me. I tend to keep it light- not very gore. But i do have a genuine obsession with true crime/detective stories/criminology. So this might turn off some readers. proceed at your own discretion) tag list: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch7 @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne @oneshallsmile

The dead of night. The scent of rain still clung stubbornly to the damp, heavy air, even hours after the downpour had stopped. Your tv was on, though it was on mute.

Then you heard it.

A sound—a shuffle by the doorway.

Instinct took over. The lights went dark in an instant, your hand moving with practiced ease to the gun at your hip. You gripped it tight, steady, breath held as you listened.

The sounds didn’t stop. The lock turned. The knob twisted.

Before the intruder could take a step inside, you struck—slamming your full weight against him, pinning him to the doorframe, gun pressed firm against his throat.

“Holy shit-!”

A familiar voice. Your grip tightened for just a second before recognition set in.

“Namjoon?”  you didn’t lower the gun.

“Who else would it be?” his tone was maddeningly casual, one hand gripping your wrist, pushing the barrel down to his chest, right above his heart. “Just— don’t shoot the face.”

Your pulse was still hammering in your ears, the rush of the adrenaline refusing to fade. You let out a slow breath, easing the gun off his chest but not fully lowering it.

Namjoon let out a short chuckle- half amused, half exasperation. “Nice to see you too,” he muttered, rolling his shoulder as if shaking off the impact.

“You could’ve called.” you shot back, eyes still sharp, scanning his face in the dim light. he looked tired, damp hair falling messily over his forehead, his clothes wrinkled like he’d been running all night.

“And argue with you over the phone?” he asked, rubbing at his throat where the gun had pressed, “I think it worked out better this way.”

Your gaze flicked to the door, still slightly ajar. “You picked the lock?!”

He shrugged. “Old habits.”

You exhaled through your nose, finally lowering the gun all the way. “What the hell are you doing here, Namjoon?”

His smirk faltered slightly. For the first time, you noticed the tension in his jaw, the way is fingers curled slightly over the damp paper bags he was carrying.

“I-” he took a breath, like the confession hurt, “I’m worried about you.”

You huff, incredulous, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can. Clearly.” he gestured vaguely towards the gun in your hand. “Doesn’t change the fact that as your supervisor and partner, I worry about you.” He moved with ease, setting the bags on your kitchen table, leaving a trail of wet footsteps all across your tile floor.

“Namjoon, I’m not a rookie anymore.”

Namjoon let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning against the counter. “I never said you were.”

You crossed your arms, watching him. “Then stop treating me like one.”

His eyes flicked to yours—sharp, unreadable. “If you want me to stop, then quit making it so damn easy to worry.”

That shut you up for a second.

The weight of his words lingered in the space between you, thick as the humidity still clinging to the air. You glanced at the paper bags on the table, the edges crumpled from his grip. “What’s this?”

“Dinner.” He peeled one open, pulling out a takeout container. “Figured you haven’t eaten.”

You frowned, but your stomach betrayed you with a quiet growl. Namjoon heard it—of course he did—and the smirk that tugged at his lips made you want to shoot him just on principle.

“I was going to eat.”

“Yeah?” He arched a brow, flipping open the container. “What, exactly? Stale instant noodles? Maybe those grotesque granola bars you like to keep in your purse and only eat after they expire?”

You huffed but didn’t deny it.

Namjoon grabbed a pair of chopsticks and held them out. “Sit. Eat.”

“Is this standard procedure with all your trainees?” The sarcasm was thick in your voice, but you still took a seat across from him.

“Just the ones that get themselves targeted by serial killers.”

Your grip on the chopsticks faltered for just a second.

Then you scoffed. “That supposed to be a joke?”

Namjoon didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.

Your stomach twisted.

“I’m serious.” His voice had dropped, low and steady, the kind that sent a chill down your spine. “We need to talk.”

You eyed him warily, then set the container down. “About what?”

Namjoon exhaled, rubbing at his temple like he already regretted this conversation. “There was another one.”

Your fingers curled instinctively around the edge of the table. “Where?”

“Downtown. Two blocks from our last case.”

You didn’t need him to elaborate. Your mind was already connecting the dots, pulling up images you didn’t want to see.

Same M.O.? You almost asked, but you already knew the answer.

Namjoon watched you carefully, like he was waiting for the realization to hit.

It did.

“That’s why you’re here.” The words tasted bitter. “You think I’m next.”

His jaw tightened. “And you clearly agree. Why else would you sleep with your gun strapped to your hip?”

“I think you guys are overreacting.”

“Is that why you called the protection detail off? You were supposed to have uniforms watching you right now.”

“The captain is being absurd.” You take a bite of rice “Much like you are right now.” You argue between mouthfuls.

“You’re impossible.” He watched you with that usual superior look of his, that challenging glare that made your blood boil.

“So, what? You decided to break in and deliver takeout because you think I have a target on my back?”

Namjoon’s expression didn’t shift. If anything, his silence spoke louder than any answer he could’ve given.

Your stomach churned—not from the food, but from the implications hanging between you.

He wasn’t here just because he thought you were in danger.

He was here because he knew you were.

“I’m staying the night.”

You snapped. “Oh, like hell you are!”

Namjoon didn’t flinch. He just set down his chopsticks and looked you dead in the eye, his gaze unwavering.

“I’m staying the night,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You shot him a look that could cut glass, but his expression didn’t change. There was something in his eyes—something you couldn't quite place.

“Not a chance, Namjoon,” you snapped, pushing yourself away from the table. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, you need to not get killed.”

The words snapped like a gunshot between you, sharp and final.

Neither of you spoke.

Outside, the rain threatened to start again, fat droplets tapping against the glass.

You held his stare, your jaw clenched and shoulders squared, the air between you so tense it felt like either of you might snap.

“Fine.” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “But you sleep on the couch.”

Namjoon’s lips twitched into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Deal,” he said, nodding in silent agreement as he slowly backed away from the table. He didn’t argue further—there was nothing left to say once the terms were set. “I also got us a bottle of wine to celebrate you finally taking an order from me.”

“You’re impossible,” you counter, using his earlier line.

You resumed eating, though the rice had lost its appeal. Each bite felt heavy, burdened by the tension between you. Every clink of chopsticks and scrape of ceramic against the table punctuated the silence like a metronome counting down the moments until something else would shatter the uneasy calm.

Namjoon didn’t respond immediately, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen counter, where the bottle of wine sat like a silent witness to the strange turn of events. He seemed content to let the silence stretch between you, his presence still an unspoken weight in the room.

The tension was thick, almost suffocating, but you didn’t care to break it. Not yet. The thoughts swirling in your head—the things you hadn’t said out loud—kept you rooted in place. The noise of the rain outside, once soothing, now only added to the discomfort that crawled under your skin.

Namjoon poured two glasses of wine, his movements slow and deliberate. When he placed one in front of you, you took it without a word. He watched you for a beat, his eyes searching, trying to gauge what was really going on beneath the surface.

You took a sip, the warmth of the wine doing little to ease the cold unease that wrapped around you. The day, the case, everything was starting to feel too close, too personal. And Namjoon’s silent presence wasn’t helping, no matter how much it was meant to comfort.

After a few minutes, Namjoon cleared his throat softly, watching you look down into your glass. “I don’t suppose you’d mind if I set up my gear in the living room?” he asked, voice low. “Just in case we need to move fast.”

You frowned, glancing toward the door where the muted TV light played over the wall. “It’s your turn to be my backup tonight,” you muttered, half teasing, half warning.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I never leave your side—even if I’m on the couch,” he replied, a trace of amusement in his tone that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You shot him a sidelong look, then set your glass down. “Get your things, Namjoon. And for the record, I’d prefer not to have a detective rummaging through my living room,” you added, attempting to lighten your tone despite the unease creeping in.

He smirked. “I’ll try to behave,” he said with a wink that belied the seriousness behind his words.

Moments later, the quiet hum of preparation filled the apartment. Namjoon unpacked his duffel bag with the methodical precision of someone who’d been in high-stakes situations far too many times. You found yourself glancing repeatedly at the window, where the rain began to fall again in earnest, drumming against the glass like a ragged heartbeat.

“I’ll fetch you some blankets.”

“A few pillows too.”

You chuckle, “Do you want a facemask too?”

Namjoon looked up from his bag, a playful glint in his eyes despite the tension hanging in the air. “Only if it comes with a side of earplugs,” he teased, the corner of his lips twitching upward.

You rolled your eyes, standing up from the table and moving toward the closet “Yeah, baby boy needs his beauty sleep.”

You tossed the blanket and pillows onto the couch, but as you straightened up, the sound of the rain outside seemed to deepen, becoming almost repetitive in its heaviness. For a moment, neither of you spoke—just the low hum of the apartment and the soft drum of water against glass.

Namjoon broke the silence with a more serious note. “Try and get some rest. You’ve had a long week.”

You paused, turning to face him, your gaze met his, and for a moment, the usual banter was gone, replaced by something more sincere—something that tugged at the edges of your own quiet worry. You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come right away, and you debated if you even wanted to let them out.

“Thank you.”

Namjoon’s gaze softened, the seriousness in his face fading into something just slightly softer.

He nodded slowly, as if accepting your gratitude, though his lips didn’t curve into a smile. There was something grounding about the way he held your gaze, like he understood more than you were saying.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he murmured, his voice low, but the words carried weight. “It’s what we do.”

You exhaled quietly, finally giving in to the tension in your shoulders. “Yeah, well... it’s still nice to hear.” You couldn’t stop yourself from adding, the soft edge to your tone. “Thank you for being here. And for dinner.”

“It’s no problem,” he said quietly, his voice steady but gentle. “You know I’ve got your back.”

“Yeah.” You still sigh despite yourself, pushing towards the bedroom “Goodnight Joon.”

Namjoon watched you as you moved toward the bedroom, his eyes soft, but there was a hint of something unreadable in them. He remained silent for a moment, just watching you before speaking in that calm, reassuring tone of his.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly, though his voice lingered in the space between you, grounding you in the moment.

You didn’t turn back, but his presence, quiet and constant, felt like a weight lifted, even just for tonight. The quiet murmur of the rain outside seemed softer, less oppressive as you closed the door behind you.

~~~

The smell of pancakes felt foreign in your apartment. The rich, buttery scent filled the air, its warmth cutting through the cool, damp atmosphere of the morning. You blinked a few times, trying to shake off the grogginess, your mind still hazy from sleep. It took a few seconds for you to process what was happening.

Namjoon.

You could hear the faint sound of him humming, the clink of utensils, the quiet sizzle of batter on the griddle. The peacefulness of it felt almost surreal after the tension of the night before.

Rubbing your eyes, you stepped out of the bedroom, the coolness of the floor beneath your feet grounding you back in reality. You walked toward the kitchen, where Namjoon was flipping pancakes like he’d done this a hundred times in your kitchen—like he belonged there.

He glanced up when you appeared, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it was the kind of smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. The weight of last night still hung in the air between you.

“Morning,” he greeted softly, the scent of coffee following the pancakes.

You blinked at the scene, still a little dazed. “Did you... make this?” You gestured toward the stack of golden pancakes, the syrup bottle, and the neatly placed plates.

“I wanted to make eggs. But they expired last year, and your bacon had something growing on it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. We need to go to the precinct.”

“Will you relax? Just sit down and eat.”

You shot him a look, but he was already plating another pancake, as if he were completely unfazed by the chaos that had defined your life for the last few days.

“I’m serious, Namjoon. We don’t have time for breakfast. The precinct is waiting, and you’ve got a duty.” You gestured vaguely to the mess of plates and syrup bottles, your voice tightening slightly despite the absurdity of the moment.

He turned to you with an almost exasperated expression, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You need food. We both do. The precinct will be there when we're ready. In the meantime, we sit. We eat. You get a few minutes to breathe.”

You huffed in frustration but couldn't deny the logic behind his words. He was right, you were barely functioning on caffeine and adrenaline, and you needed a break—even if just for a few minutes.

“Fine,” you muttered, sitting down at the table. “But as soon as we're done, we're out the door. No more distractions.”

Namjoon gave you a nod, his tone still light. “Oh, I forgot the newspaper.” He turned off the stove and did his little half-jog to the door.

But as soon as he twisted the doorknob, the door slammed open against the weight of the body propped against it. A sickening thud reverberating through the apartment. Your heart skipped a beat as the sight of the corpse registered in an instant—its pale, lifeless face staring up at you, eyes vacant and unseeing. The air in the room felt like it had thickened, the weight of the situation crashing down on you.

Namjoon froze for a moment, his hand still on the doorknob. Then, without a word, he stepped back, his body moving with precision as he grabbed his cell and tossed it to you.

“Call the precinct.” He instructed, fetching his gun in an instant “And stay back.”

Your fingers trembled as you caught the phone, the shock still running through your veins. You barely registered the coldness of the device against your palm, too focused on the scene in front of you. The body. The blood that had pooled around it, seeping into the carpet like it was part of the apartment itself.

You fumbled with the phone, dialling the precinct, your breath hitching in your throat. The line rang once, twice, before someone picked up, their voice professional, unaware of the horror unfolding in your living room.

“112, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Detective Hwang, badge number 1209. There’s a body on my front door.”

The voice on the other end of the line shifted instantly, now alert. “Detective Hwang, stay on the line. Is the scene secure? Do you need assistance?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice tight as you tried to steady your breathing. “We have a body. It's… propped against the door. Get someone here immediately.”

“Understood, Detective. Stay where you are. Officers are on their way. Do not engage with the scene further.”

You glanced over at Namjoon, who was crouched by the body now, his gun trained at the door as he assessed the situation. He didn't flinch or pause, moving with the practiced calm that had always been his trademark.

It took less than 8 minutes for your apartment to be crawling with uniforms, CSU, and of course, Detective Yoongi and Jungkook.

“So,” Jungkook was talking to Namjoon, merely a few steps away from where you sat at the kitchen table across from Yoongi. “Wine glasses.”

“Yeah, Namjoon brought dinner and wine.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Namjoon with a smirk. “Dinner and wine, huh? Cozy night in?”

Namjoon shot him a deadpan look. “It was supposed to be breakfast, too, until we were rudely interrupted by a corpse.”

Jungkook let out a low whistle, shaking his head “Pancakes?”

You glanced over at him, confused.

“So, nothing else happened?” Jungkook continued undeterred.

“Jungkook what are you on about?”

“Well, you know what they say about pancakes.” Yoongi replied, though his eyes were still glued to his notepad.

You narrowed your eyes, glancing between Yoongi and Jungkook. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do they say about pancakes?”

Jungkook grinned like he’d been waiting for you to ask. “Pancakes are the best way to say ‘Hey, thanks for that amazing sex last night.’”

You choked on absolutely nothing, spluttering as Namjoon let out the world’s longest sigh beside you.

“Oh my God,” Namjoon muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we not do this right now?”

Yoongi finally glanced up from his notepad, entirely unbothered. “It’s a well-documented theory.”

Jungkook nodded, very seriously. “Classic post-hookup breakfast. Means it was so good that one of you felt compelled to whip up something warm and sweet the next morning.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “It was just breakfast, Jungkook.”

“Was it?” Jungkook teased, crossing his arms. “Because the way I see it, there are two wine glasses on the counter, Namjoon sleeping over, and pancakes on the table.”

Namjoon made a noise somewhere between a groan and a death rattle. “I hate all of you.”

You threw up your hands. “For the last time, nothing happened!”

Yoongi huffed, and Jungkook shook his head as he jotted down on his notepad “witness refuses to cooperate.”

You gawked at him. “Are you seriously writing that down?”

Jungkook nodded, scribbling dramatically. “Refuses to acknowledge the overwhelming evidence of post-coital carbohydrates-”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

Namjoon, looking moments away from actual homicide, turned to Yoongi. “Please arrest him for obstruction.”

Yoongi barely held back a smirk. “Tempting.”

[mortallydeepestobservation]

Ah, so now it’s a group effort, huh? 🥲 Alright, alright, I’ll get to work. maybe. tomorrow...

my current wips: you haven't feed us in DAYS we are escaping to the woods

me: ooh a shiny new wip that will join it's brethen soon. perfect

[mortallydeepestobservation]

Please don’t call me out like that. I’m feeling guilty already as is…🥺

my current wips: you haven't feed us in DAYS we are escaping to the woods

me: ooh a shiny new wip that will join it's brethen soon. perfect

[mortallydeepestobservation]

Thank you for including Perfect Plan! It always makes me so giddy to see people interact with my page (me by extension lol)

And I will most definitely check out some of the fics on that list!

Thank you for your service my friend ✨

*•̩̩͙✩＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚[FIC RECS]˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊✩•̩̩͙*

Namjoon (RM)

take it off by @jjungkookislife (fluff/smut)

snowed in by @eclipsethemagic (fluff/smut)

new parent syndrome by @1kook (fluff/comfort/smut)

closer by @lo1k-diamonds (fluff/smut)

it's december by @smoochkooks (fluff/angst/comfort/smut)

just the tip by @joon4eva (fluff/smut)

closer by @joon4eva (fluff/smut)

existential questions by @champagneher (fluff/smut)

when the leaves turn red by @pars-ley (fluff/smut)

baby fever by @95rkives (fluff)

back theory by @sopiloveshobi (smut)

staged romance by @aelinad (fluff/angst/smut)

naked by @muniimyg (fluff/smut)

connected by @7ndipity (fluff/smut)

perfect plan (series) by @mortallydeepestobservation (individual warnings)

Jimin

heartburn (series) by @jiminrings (individual warnings)

Jungkook

navigating tides by @jjungkookislife (fluff/angst/smut)

text divider credit: @kodaswrld

[mortallydeepestobservation]

The Case of Us.

Summary: You and Namjoon are an unlikely pair, clashing from the start. He’s a seasoned detective, used to working alone and running on instinct. You, a rookie, fresh off acing your detective exam, ready to prove yourself. At first, you butt heads—your sharp, hardheaded approach grating against his calm, measured demeanor. But there's an undeniable pull between the two of you, an unspoken understanding that begins to form as you both tackle case after case. Through the chaos of the job, you rely on each other more and more. And though you're still figuring out the balance between the stubborn rookie and the seasoned detective, you both know one thing for certain—you're a hell of a team. A/N: Oh Hey everyone... So, I did it again—I got overwhelmed by life and felt the need to write... And you know the drill. (I ended up re-reading Chapter 4 of Holiday Pretense so many times that I couldn’t tell what was repeating and what was just my brain spiraling. And i guess I rage-quit for the day) So instead, I ended up writing something completely different. But this time, it's really random and far "into the story". Also, that pancake dialogue is loosely inspired by a conversation from "Castle"-oldish detective serries i love to this day. Call it a teaser if you will? (I wanna know if anyone would be interested in something like this.) (besides those 5 wips i have already lol. i need professional help 😓🥲) (thank you always @callmenoona25 for proofreading. love you) Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: detective/ thriller. neo noir(?) Rating: explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: Guns. Mentions of serial killers and bodies. Crimes. Corpses. police/detective lingo. Detective Yoongi and Jungkook being the best duo. (Also, if you know me. I tend to keep it light- not very gore. But i do have a genuine obsession with true crime/detective stories/criminology. So this might turn off some readers. proceed at your own discretion) tag list: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch7 @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne @oneshallsmile

The dead of night. The scent of rain still clung stubbornly to the damp, heavy air, even hours after the downpour had stopped. Your tv was on, though it was on mute.

Then you heard it.

A sound—a shuffle by the doorway.

Instinct took over. The lights went dark in an instant, your hand moving with practiced ease to the gun at your hip. You gripped it tight, steady, breath held as you listened.

The sounds didn’t stop. The lock turned. The knob twisted.

Before the intruder could take a step inside, you struck—slamming your full weight against him, pinning him to the doorframe, gun pressed firm against his throat.

“Holy shit-!”

A familiar voice. Your grip tightened for just a second before recognition set in.

“Namjoon?”  you didn’t lower the gun.

“Who else would it be?” his tone was maddeningly casual, one hand gripping your wrist, pushing the barrel down to his chest, right above his heart. “Just— don’t shoot the face.”

Your pulse was still hammering in your ears, the rush of the adrenaline refusing to fade. You let out a slow breath, easing the gun off his chest but not fully lowering it.

Namjoon let out a short chuckle- half amused, half exasperation. “Nice to see you too,” he muttered, rolling his shoulder as if shaking off the impact.

“You could’ve called.” you shot back, eyes still sharp, scanning his face in the dim light. he looked tired, damp hair falling messily over his forehead, his clothes wrinkled like he’d been running all night.

“And argue with you over the phone?” he asked, rubbing at his throat where the gun had pressed, “I think it worked out better this way.”

Your gaze flicked to the door, still slightly ajar. “You picked the lock?!”

He shrugged. “Old habits.”

You exhaled through your nose, finally lowering the gun all the way. “What the hell are you doing here, Namjoon?”

His smirk faltered slightly. For the first time, you noticed the tension in his jaw, the way is fingers curled slightly over the damp paper bags he was carrying.

“I-” he took a breath, like the confession hurt, “I’m worried about you.”

You huff, incredulous, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can. Clearly.” he gestured vaguely towards the gun in your hand. “Doesn’t change the fact that as your supervisor and partner, I worry about you.” He moved with ease, setting the bags on your kitchen table, leaving a trail of wet footsteps all across your tile floor.

“Namjoon, I’m not a rookie anymore.”

Namjoon let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning against the counter. “I never said you were.”

You crossed your arms, watching him. “Then stop treating me like one.”

His eyes flicked to yours—sharp, unreadable. “If you want me to stop, then quit making it so damn easy to worry.”

That shut you up for a second.

The weight of his words lingered in the space between you, thick as the humidity still clinging to the air. You glanced at the paper bags on the table, the edges crumpled from his grip. “What’s this?”

“Dinner.” He peeled one open, pulling out a takeout container. “Figured you haven’t eaten.”

You frowned, but your stomach betrayed you with a quiet growl. Namjoon heard it—of course he did—and the smirk that tugged at his lips made you want to shoot him just on principle.

“I was going to eat.”

“Yeah?” He arched a brow, flipping open the container. “What, exactly? Stale instant noodles? Maybe those grotesque granola bars you like to keep in your purse and only eat after they expire?”

You huffed but didn’t deny it.

Namjoon grabbed a pair of chopsticks and held them out. “Sit. Eat.”

“Is this standard procedure with all your trainees?” The sarcasm was thick in your voice, but you still took a seat across from him.

“Just the ones that get themselves targeted by serial killers.”

Your grip on the chopsticks faltered for just a second.

Then you scoffed. “That supposed to be a joke?”

Namjoon didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.

Your stomach twisted.

“I’m serious.” His voice had dropped, low and steady, the kind that sent a chill down your spine. “We need to talk.”

You eyed him warily, then set the container down. “About what?”

Namjoon exhaled, rubbing at his temple like he already regretted this conversation. “There was another one.”

Your fingers curled instinctively around the edge of the table. “Where?”

“Downtown. Two blocks from our last case.”

You didn’t need him to elaborate. Your mind was already connecting the dots, pulling up images you didn’t want to see.

Same M.O.? You almost asked, but you already knew the answer.

Namjoon watched you carefully, like he was waiting for the realization to hit.

It did.

“That’s why you’re here.” The words tasted bitter. “You think I’m next.”

His jaw tightened. “And you clearly agree. Why else would you sleep with your gun strapped to your hip?”

“I think you guys are overreacting.”

“Is that why you called the protection detail off? You were supposed to have uniforms watching you right now.”

“The captain is being absurd.” You take a bite of rice “Much like you are right now.” You argue between mouthfuls.

“You’re impossible.” He watched you with that usual superior look of his, that challenging glare that made your blood boil.

“So, what? You decided to break in and deliver takeout because you think I have a target on my back?”

Namjoon’s expression didn’t shift. If anything, his silence spoke louder than any answer he could’ve given.

Your stomach churned—not from the food, but from the implications hanging between you.

He wasn’t here just because he thought you were in danger.

He was here because he knew you were.

“I’m staying the night.”

You snapped. “Oh, like hell you are!”

Namjoon didn’t flinch. He just set down his chopsticks and looked you dead in the eye, his gaze unwavering.

“I’m staying the night,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You shot him a look that could cut glass, but his expression didn’t change. There was something in his eyes—something you couldn't quite place.

“Not a chance, Namjoon,” you snapped, pushing yourself away from the table. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, you need to not get killed.”

The words snapped like a gunshot between you, sharp and final.

Neither of you spoke.

Outside, the rain threatened to start again, fat droplets tapping against the glass.

You held his stare, your jaw clenched and shoulders squared, the air between you so tense it felt like either of you might snap.

“Fine.” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “But you sleep on the couch.”

Namjoon’s lips twitched into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Deal,” he said, nodding in silent agreement as he slowly backed away from the table. He didn’t argue further—there was nothing left to say once the terms were set. “I also got us a bottle of wine to celebrate you finally taking an order from me.”

“You’re impossible,” you counter, using his earlier line.

You resumed eating, though the rice had lost its appeal. Each bite felt heavy, burdened by the tension between you. Every clink of chopsticks and scrape of ceramic against the table punctuated the silence like a metronome counting down the moments until something else would shatter the uneasy calm.

Namjoon didn’t respond immediately, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen counter, where the bottle of wine sat like a silent witness to the strange turn of events. He seemed content to let the silence stretch between you, his presence still an unspoken weight in the room.

The tension was thick, almost suffocating, but you didn’t care to break it. Not yet. The thoughts swirling in your head—the things you hadn’t said out loud—kept you rooted in place. The noise of the rain outside, once soothing, now only added to the discomfort that crawled under your skin.

Namjoon poured two glasses of wine, his movements slow and deliberate. When he placed one in front of you, you took it without a word. He watched you for a beat, his eyes searching, trying to gauge what was really going on beneath the surface.

You took a sip, the warmth of the wine doing little to ease the cold unease that wrapped around you. The day, the case, everything was starting to feel too close, too personal. And Namjoon’s silent presence wasn’t helping, no matter how much it was meant to comfort.

After a few minutes, Namjoon cleared his throat softly, watching you look down into your glass. “I don’t suppose you’d mind if I set up my gear in the living room?” he asked, voice low. “Just in case we need to move fast.”

You frowned, glancing toward the door where the muted TV light played over the wall. “It’s your turn to be my backup tonight,” you muttered, half teasing, half warning.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I never leave your side—even if I’m on the couch,” he replied, a trace of amusement in his tone that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You shot him a sidelong look, then set your glass down. “Get your things, Namjoon. And for the record, I’d prefer not to have a detective rummaging through my living room,” you added, attempting to lighten your tone despite the unease creeping in.

He smirked. “I’ll try to behave,” he said with a wink that belied the seriousness behind his words.

Moments later, the quiet hum of preparation filled the apartment. Namjoon unpacked his duffel bag with the methodical precision of someone who’d been in high-stakes situations far too many times. You found yourself glancing repeatedly at the window, where the rain began to fall again in earnest, drumming against the glass like a ragged heartbeat.

“I’ll fetch you some blankets.”

“A few pillows too.”

You chuckle, “Do you want a facemask too?”

Namjoon looked up from his bag, a playful glint in his eyes despite the tension hanging in the air. “Only if it comes with a side of earplugs,” he teased, the corner of his lips twitching upward.

You rolled your eyes, standing up from the table and moving toward the closet “Yeah, baby boy needs his beauty sleep.”

You tossed the blanket and pillows onto the couch, but as you straightened up, the sound of the rain outside seemed to deepen, becoming almost repetitive in its heaviness. For a moment, neither of you spoke—just the low hum of the apartment and the soft drum of water against glass.

Namjoon broke the silence with a more serious note. “Try and get some rest. You’ve had a long week.”

You paused, turning to face him, your gaze met his, and for a moment, the usual banter was gone, replaced by something more sincere—something that tugged at the edges of your own quiet worry. You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come right away, and you debated if you even wanted to let them out.

“Thank you.”

Namjoon’s gaze softened, the seriousness in his face fading into something just slightly softer.

He nodded slowly, as if accepting your gratitude, though his lips didn’t curve into a smile. There was something grounding about the way he held your gaze, like he understood more than you were saying.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he murmured, his voice low, but the words carried weight. “It’s what we do.”

You exhaled quietly, finally giving in to the tension in your shoulders. “Yeah, well... it’s still nice to hear.” You couldn’t stop yourself from adding, the soft edge to your tone. “Thank you for being here. And for dinner.”

“It’s no problem,” he said quietly, his voice steady but gentle. “You know I’ve got your back.”

“Yeah.” You still sigh despite yourself, pushing towards the bedroom “Goodnight Joon.”

Namjoon watched you as you moved toward the bedroom, his eyes soft, but there was a hint of something unreadable in them. He remained silent for a moment, just watching you before speaking in that calm, reassuring tone of his.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly, though his voice lingered in the space between you, grounding you in the moment.

You didn’t turn back, but his presence, quiet and constant, felt like a weight lifted, even just for tonight. The quiet murmur of the rain outside seemed softer, less oppressive as you closed the door behind you.

~~~

The smell of pancakes felt foreign in your apartment. The rich, buttery scent filled the air, its warmth cutting through the cool, damp atmosphere of the morning. You blinked a few times, trying to shake off the grogginess, your mind still hazy from sleep. It took a few seconds for you to process what was happening.

Namjoon.

You could hear the faint sound of him humming, the clink of utensils, the quiet sizzle of batter on the griddle. The peacefulness of it felt almost surreal after the tension of the night before.

Rubbing your eyes, you stepped out of the bedroom, the coolness of the floor beneath your feet grounding you back in reality. You walked toward the kitchen, where Namjoon was flipping pancakes like he’d done this a hundred times in your kitchen—like he belonged there.

He glanced up when you appeared, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it was the kind of smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. The weight of last night still hung in the air between you.

“Morning,” he greeted softly, the scent of coffee following the pancakes.

You blinked at the scene, still a little dazed. “Did you... make this?” You gestured toward the stack of golden pancakes, the syrup bottle, and the neatly placed plates.

“I wanted to make eggs. But they expired last year, and your bacon had something growing on it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. We need to go to the precinct.”

“Will you relax? Just sit down and eat.”

You shot him a look, but he was already plating another pancake, as if he were completely unfazed by the chaos that had defined your life for the last few days.

“I’m serious, Namjoon. We don’t have time for breakfast. The precinct is waiting, and you’ve got a duty.” You gestured vaguely to the mess of plates and syrup bottles, your voice tightening slightly despite the absurdity of the moment.

He turned to you with an almost exasperated expression, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You need food. We both do. The precinct will be there when we're ready. In the meantime, we sit. We eat. You get a few minutes to breathe.”

You huffed in frustration but couldn't deny the logic behind his words. He was right, you were barely functioning on caffeine and adrenaline, and you needed a break—even if just for a few minutes.

“Fine,” you muttered, sitting down at the table. “But as soon as we're done, we're out the door. No more distractions.”

Namjoon gave you a nod, his tone still light. “Oh, I forgot the newspaper.” He turned off the stove and did his little half-jog to the door.

But as soon as he twisted the doorknob, the door slammed open against the weight of the body propped against it. A sickening thud reverberating through the apartment. Your heart skipped a beat as the sight of the corpse registered in an instant—its pale, lifeless face staring up at you, eyes vacant and unseeing. The air in the room felt like it had thickened, the weight of the situation crashing down on you.

Namjoon froze for a moment, his hand still on the doorknob. Then, without a word, he stepped back, his body moving with precision as he grabbed his cell and tossed it to you.

“Call the precinct.” He instructed, fetching his gun in an instant “And stay back.”

Your fingers trembled as you caught the phone, the shock still running through your veins. You barely registered the coldness of the device against your palm, too focused on the scene in front of you. The body. The blood that had pooled around it, seeping into the carpet like it was part of the apartment itself.

You fumbled with the phone, dialling the precinct, your breath hitching in your throat. The line rang once, twice, before someone picked up, their voice professional, unaware of the horror unfolding in your living room.

“112, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Detective Hwang, badge number 1209. There’s a body on my front door.”

The voice on the other end of the line shifted instantly, now alert. “Detective Hwang, stay on the line. Is the scene secure? Do you need assistance?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice tight as you tried to steady your breathing. “We have a body. It's… propped against the door. Get someone here immediately.”

“Understood, Detective. Stay where you are. Officers are on their way. Do not engage with the scene further.”

You glanced over at Namjoon, who was crouched by the body now, his gun trained at the door as he assessed the situation. He didn't flinch or pause, moving with the practiced calm that had always been his trademark.

It took less than 8 minutes for your apartment to be crawling with uniforms, CSU, and of course, Detective Yoongi and Jungkook.

“So,” Jungkook was talking to Namjoon, merely a few steps away from where you sat at the kitchen table across from Yoongi. “Wine glasses.”

“Yeah, Namjoon brought dinner and wine.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Namjoon with a smirk. “Dinner and wine, huh? Cozy night in?”

Namjoon shot him a deadpan look. “It was supposed to be breakfast, too, until we were rudely interrupted by a corpse.”

Jungkook let out a low whistle, shaking his head “Pancakes?”

You glanced over at him, confused.

“So, nothing else happened?” Jungkook continued undeterred.

“Jungkook what are you on about?”

“Well, you know what they say about pancakes.” Yoongi replied, though his eyes were still glued to his notepad.

You narrowed your eyes, glancing between Yoongi and Jungkook. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do they say about pancakes?”

Jungkook grinned like he’d been waiting for you to ask. “Pancakes are the best way to say ‘Hey, thanks for that amazing sex last night.’”

You choked on absolutely nothing, spluttering as Namjoon let out the world’s longest sigh beside you.

“Oh my God,” Namjoon muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we not do this right now?”

Yoongi finally glanced up from his notepad, entirely unbothered. “It’s a well-documented theory.”

Jungkook nodded, very seriously. “Classic post-hookup breakfast. Means it was so good that one of you felt compelled to whip up something warm and sweet the next morning.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “It was just breakfast, Jungkook.”

“Was it?” Jungkook teased, crossing his arms. “Because the way I see it, there are two wine glasses on the counter, Namjoon sleeping over, and pancakes on the table.”

Namjoon made a noise somewhere between a groan and a death rattle. “I hate all of you.”

You threw up your hands. “For the last time, nothing happened!”

Yoongi huffed, and Jungkook shook his head as he jotted down on his notepad “witness refuses to cooperate.”

You gawked at him. “Are you seriously writing that down?”

Jungkook nodded, scribbling dramatically. “Refuses to acknowledge the overwhelming evidence of post-coital carbohydrates-”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

Namjoon, looking moments away from actual homicide, turned to Yoongi. “Please arrest him for obstruction.”

Yoongi barely held back a smirk. “Tempting.”