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thealternateuniverse · 9 days ago

Text

You belong with Me

Bambam x reader

Masterlist

Warnings: Smut(?) if it counts as one

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"Y/N, I have a lunch with—"

"JYP, yeah, I already made the reservation. You'll be at the private lounge."

"What about the budget proposals for—"

"Done. Color-coded and on your desk."

"And don’t forget the contract for—"

"Stray Kids? Called Jinyoung. He’s drafting it, but he says you still owe him dinner."

Bambam leans back in his chair, eyeing you with exaggerated suspicion. "Are you secretly reading my mind? Or do you have little spies running around?"

You smirk. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He exhales, shaking his head. "I swear, if you ever leave, I’m screwed."

"Good thing I enjoy watching you suffer, then."

He chuckles before rubbing his temples. "No, but seriously, I don’t know what I’d do without you."

You mentally pat yourself on the back. Being Bambam’s secretary is a full-time commitment. If you had to describe it, you’re Donna Paulsen, and he’s Harvey Specter. The man doesn’t understand the concept of a break, and keeping up with him isn’t for the weak.

"No problem, Bam. I gotchu."

Just as you turn to head back to your desk, he suddenly remembers something.

"Oh, wait. I think you deserve this."

He lifts a small white envelope, waving it between his fingers.

You narrow your eyes. "What’s that? A bonus? A thank-you note? A restraining order?"

"Trip to Thailand." He grins. "All expenses paid. A whole week. You're welcome."

You blink. "You just said you don’t know what you’d do without me, and now you’re sending me away? Make it make sense."

Bambam leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Oh, don’t worry, I’ll suffer. But this way, when you come back, you’ll be well-rested and even more efficient. It’s a win-win."

You cross your arms. "Or… I could just stay there permanently and leave you to drown in your own mess."

He gasps dramatically. "You wouldn’t dare!"

You smirk. "Try me."

He laughs, shaking his head. "Nah, you love me too much to leave."

You roll your eyes, heart skipping a beat, but take the envelope anyway.

You hold up the envelope, inspecting it like it might be a prank. "There’s no catch? No secret work waiting for me in Thailand?"

Bambam smirks. "No catch. Just my way of showing appreciation. And maybe ensuring you don’t quit on me."

You narrow your eyes. "Mm-hmm. That part sounds more like the real reason."

He gasps, placing a hand on his chest. "Wow. Can’t a guy be generous without being accused of ulterior motives?"

You tap the envelope against your palm. "Not when that guy is you."

Bambam chuckles, leaning back in his chair. "Fine, fine. I admit, it’s a little bit of both. But mostly, I figured you deserved a break before you burn out and start plotting my demise."

You pretend to think. "Oh, I started plotting that months ago."

He winks. "And yet, I’m still alive. Must be the charm."

You roll your eyes. "More like my patience. Which, by the way, has a limit."

Bambam tilts his head. "And what happens when you hit that limit?"

You smirk. "Guess we’ll find out when I get back from Thailand."

Bambam dramatically shudders. "Should I be scared?"

"Always."

He laughs, shaking his head. "See? This is why I’m sending you away. You need some beach therapy before you actually murder me."

You sigh, slipping the envelope into your bag. "Fine. I’ll take the trip. But if I come back and find out you’ve made a mess of everything—"

Bambam grins. "Relax, I’ll be on my best behavior."

You snort. "That’s a lie."

He shrugs. "Yeah, but you won’t be here to witness it, so does it really matter?"

You shake your head, turning to leave. "Unbelievable."

Just as you reach the door, Bambam calls after you. "Wait!"

You turn back. "What now?"

He grins. "You’re still working tomorrow, right?"

You let out a dramatic sigh. "See? This is why I don’t trust you."

He chuckles, completely unapologetic. "Hey, just making sure. Enjoy your trip, assistant of the year."

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the small smile on your lips as you walk out.

--------------------

If your feet could talk, they’d be cursing you right now. Your heels felt like medieval torture devices, and your jaw ached from the forced smile you’d been wearing all night. When—please—would this damn party end?

And, of course, your boss was nowhere to be found. You’d spent the last hour weaving through the sea of socialites and champagne flutes, hoping to track him down so you could finally leave. You had a flight to catch tomorrow—destination: Thailand.

Bambam’s family’s annual charity ball was in full swing, a grand, glittering event that you had somehow managed to plan on top of your already impossible workload. And while you’d smiled and nodded through countless conversations, your mind was elsewhere.

You were dreading tomorrow. Not the trip itself—no, that was the one silver lining. You just couldn’t wait to escape for a while. To get away from all of this.

Spotting a familiar face, you grabbed the nearest (and hopefully sober) person. "Gyeom, have you seen your brother?"

Yugyeom blinked at you, swaying slightly. "Oh, he’s probably… somewhere… drunk."

You sighed. "That’s not helpful, Gyeom."

He grinned lazily. "Helpful is overrated. Besides, you know how these things go. Jackson got us all started, and once Jackson gets started—"

"—All of you lose all sense of responsibility. Yeah, yeah, I know."

Yugyeom patted your shoulder with the enthusiasm of someone who no longer had full control of his limbs. "Just… let him be. He’s having fun. You should too!"

You gave him a deadpan look. "I would love to, but unlike you, I actually have to leave in the morning. Flight. Early. Remember?"

He frowned. "Oh, right. You’re ditching us."

"Not ditching. Temporarily escaping before I commit workplace homicide."

Yugyeom laughed. "Fair. But if you’re looking for him, maybe check the balcony? He likes to hide when he’s had too much to drink."

You groaned but nodded. "Thanks, Gyeom. Try not to pass out in a fountain, yeah?"

He grinned. "No promises."

With a sigh, you turned toward the balcony, bracing yourself for whatever state Bambam was in.

You found the others—Jackson, Key, Mingyu, Ten, and Minghao—already deep into the party.

"Y/N… not even tipsy yet?" Jackson greeted, handing you a shot of Hennessy.

You glanced at the glass, debating. You were trying to avoid alcohol tonight—hangovers and early flights don’t mix—but one drink wouldn’t kill you.

"Nope. I’m ditching everyone tomorrow, and I gotta do it sober. Have you seen Bambam?"

"Oh, your boss? Yeah, he’s drunk off his ass. Went to the bathroom a few seconds ago—probably to throw up or negotiate with gravity."

Fantastic. Your feet were already killing you, and now you had to go find him again.

"Great. If he comes back, tell him I already left. And if anything goes missing this week, don’t bother looking for me until my plane lands back here."

The guys exchanged knowing looks, shaking their heads. They were used to your and Bambam’s chaotic boss-secretary dynamic. And you were dead serious about your DND mode.

"Well, enjoy Thailand," Mingyu said. "Just don’t enjoy it so much you forget to come back. Bambam will lose his shit. Hell, he’s probably losing it now."

Mingyu nodded toward the far end of the room. There stood Bambam, trying (and failing) to look composed. His stance wobbled slightly, and his half-lidded eyes gave him away. He was deep in conversation with Sandara Park, probably saying his goodbyes. She looked like she was about to leave.

"And… that’s my cue. Gotta vanish before he fully processes what’s happening."

After bidding the boys farewell, you made your way toward Bambam, who looked about three seconds from face-planting.

"Bam…" you called.

"Y/N!" he slurred, flashing a wide grin.

He excused himself from Sandara and turned toward you—only to stumble. You sighed, already predicting how this night would end.

"Hey, I’m leaving. Flight tomorrow, remember?"

Bambam groaned, pouting dramatically while still gripping his glass of Bombay.

"I regret giving you that damn ticket."

You smirked, arms crossing as you took in his state. His tie was crooked, three buttons undone, and his entire face was flushed red.

"And you should go home before you regret this hangover tomorrow."

Except… judging by the way he was looking at you—half-lidded, unbothered, borderline not comprehending. He didn’t argue. Instead, he placed his glass down on the nearest table. You pulled out your phone to call his driver.

"Come on, let’s walk out of here and at least pretend you’re sober. Your ride’s waiting outside."

Feigning casualness, you clung to his arm, guiding him as he insisted on stopping every few steps to say goodbye to people. By the time you finally reached the car, his legs gave out.

"Oh, for fu—Bambam!" you hissed, barely catching him before he hit the ground.

He was dead weight. Completely out.

"My god. This is not part of my job. Get it together! I haven't even left yet."

With no other option, you climbed into the car, directing his driver to drop your boss to his apartment

In the backseat, he was fully knocked out, snoring lightly.

Just another night dealing with your menace of a boss.

With the help of his driver, you somehow managed to haul Bambam’s deadweight up to his apartment on the 31st floor. By the time you got him through the door without breaking your backs, you were officially over it.

"Oh my god, I can’t wait to go to Thailand," you muttered under your breath as you tucked him into bed.

You should’ve left right then. But instead, you found yourself rummaging through his cabinets, searching for Tylenol or Advil—because knowing him, he’d wake up tomorrow hating his entire existence. You placed the pills and a bottle of water on his bedside table before turning back to him.

"Bam…" you tapped him gently, checking if he was conscious.

His right eye cracked open, barely.

"At least take off your coat and tie," you sighed.

He groaned, rubbing his face before sluggishly sitting up. With his eyes still shut, he half-heartedly peeled off his coat and tugged at his tie. When he finally got them off, he handed them to you—except, at the last second, he let them slip right through his fingers and onto the floor.

You exhaled sharply. "I swear to god, Bambam—"

Before you could finish, he caught your wrist, tugging you toward him. You stumbled slightly, caught off guard.

His grip was loose, but his voice was quiet—almost pleading.

"I wish I could tell you this when I am sober but.......I so badly need you. Don't leave, please?"

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, your pulse thudding so hard you swore your eyeballs were about to pop out of their sockets. What in Merlin's beard was happening to your boss? You mentally noted to check the batch number on that Bombay—maybe it had expired or something.

"Uhh… you technically gave me the ticket," you pointed out, trying to sound casual, even though your insides were screaming.

You carefully tried to slide your arm out of his grip, but instead of letting go, Bambam pulled you closer. His head slumped against your stomach, his warmth seeping through your clothes.

You froze.

Your boss was drunk. You were not. And… what the hell was this?

For a split second, you questioned whether you were the drunk one, but no—your mind was painfully clear. And yet, here he was, clinging to you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Right…" he muttered, his voice rough.

You stood there awkwardly, weighing your options. Should you push him off? Knock him out so he could go back to sleep? Pretend this never happened?

"And I need to leave now because I have a flight tomorrow," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "Don't miss me too much. It's just a week."

The words felt hollow as soon as you said them. You realized, too late, that it probably fed into whatever drunken fantasy Bambam had in his hazy, alcohol-laced mind. You saw his eyes flicker up to you, dark and heavy with something unspoken.

Your stomach did a flip. This wasn’t just some playful drunken nonsense, you thought. The room suddenly felt too small, the air thick with something neither of you could deny.

Bambam lifted his head, the vulnerability in his gaze cutting through the alcohol haze. "You don’t know what it’s like... being around you all the time. I’ve been... Trying to act..... Normal.....But you…mm" His words faltered as he inched closer, his hand now resting on your waist.

Your mind screamed at you to walk away, to snap back into your usual role, to remind him of who you were: his secretary, his subordinate, not someone he could...

But before you could finish that thought, Bambam was pressing his lips to yours. Your body froze at first, but the heat of it, the intensity of the kiss, was too much to ignore.

You could feel the tension snap, like a dam breaking. And despite every single logical reason to pull back, you didn’t. You kissed him back, feeling the desperation in the way his hands gripped your back, as if he were trying to pull you into his soul itself.

His lips were warm, insistent, carrying the weight of something he had been holding back for too long. He wasn’t just drunk; there was intention in the way he pulled you closer, his hands sliding over your waist, fingers pressing into your lower back as if to keep you from disappearing.

You melted against him before you could think twice, your body responding before your mind could catch up.

“Bam…” you whispered against his lips, unsure if it was a plea to stop or to keep going.

But he didn’t stop. His lips traveled down, grazing your jawline before pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your neck. Your breath hitched, and your fingers instinctively tangled into his shirt, gripping the fabric as he pulled you flush against him.

“I think I'm going insane,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low, heavy with something deeper than just drunken words. “And you drive me insane, do you know that?”

Your heart pounded as he trailed his hands up your sides, his touch firm yet careful, as if memorizing every inch of you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this was a bad idea. You knew this would change things. But right now, with his lips claiming yours again, with his hands slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, none of it mattered.

You barely registered him guiding you toward the bed until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. He sat first, pulling you down with him, his hands never leaving your body. His fingers traced slow, teasing patterns down your spine, sending shivers through you.

“Don't be thinking too much,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear.

You didn’t get the chance to respond because the next thing you knew, he was flipping the both of you over, pressing you into the mattress with his body caging you in. His eyes, dark and clouded with desire, locked onto yours as he leaned down, his breath fanning against your lips.

Your clothes were suddenly everywhere Scattered across the room in a blur of heat and hands. You weren’t even sure when or how they came off. Maybe you had been too distracted, lost in the feeling of his lips against yours, the way his hands explored your body with an intoxicating mix of urgency and reverence.

Oh my god. He’s your boss.

You’re about to fuck with your boss.

A fleeting moment of hesitation hit you, but then you glanced at him—his dark, hooded eyes watching you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded, his pouty lips swollen from kissing you, his breath uneven.

You made your decision.

"You know what? Hell yeah."

This time, you were the one pulling him down, crashing your lips against his as you worked to remove the last of his clothes.

And damn.

You had seen Bambam in expensive suits, silk shirts, and designer fits, but seeing him like this, bare, raw, unfiltered—was something else entirely.

He was toned, every muscle defined beneath your fingertips, his frame lean yet strong. And his tattoos? You took your time tracing the ink with your fingers, your lips following the patterns across his skin.

Bambam let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating against you as he hovered over you. "Didn’t know you liked my tattoos this much," he teased, though his voice was rough with want.

You met his gaze, smirking as you ran a hand down his chest. "Didn’t know you were hiding all this under your overpriced shirts," you shot back.

His grin widened, but there was something darker, more intense behind it. "Guess we’re both learning new things tonight," he murmured before his lips found yours again, stealing your breath, stealing your thoughts, until all that was left between you was heat and hunger.

And for the rest of the night, nothing else mattered.

----------

Bambam woke up to a pounding headache and a dry throat, his body heavy with the aftermath of too much alcohol. Groaning, he blinked against the morning light filtering through the curtains, his mind still hazy from the night before.

And then—flashes.

Soft lips. Warm hands. His name whispered like a secret.

His eyes snapped open.

What the hell?

Did he… have a wet dream about Y/N? His secretary?

He winced as the throbbing in his head doubled, rubbing his temples as he sat up. His first instinct was to reach for his phone, but instead, his fingers brushed against something on his bedside table—a bottle of water, pain relievers, and a note.

Confused, he picked up the note and read it.

I contacted the restaurant for your recovery food before leaving.

A slow grin crept onto his face despite the headache.

Of course. Y/N.

Always one step ahead, making sure his life didn’t fall apart—even after a night of getting wasted. He popped the meds into his mouth, washing them down with a long gulp of water before finally grabbing his phone.

No messages.

He scrolled. Refreshed. Still nothing.

Huh. So she was serious about the DND mode.

He leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. This would be the longest time they’d been apart since she started working for him. She was always there scheduling his meetings, handling his messes, reading his moods before he even had to say anything. And now? A whole damn week without her.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

This was his experiment, wasn’t it? Sending her to Thailand to see if he could function without her.

So why did it feel like he was already failing?

And more importantly… why did that dream feel so damn real?

---------------------------------

Thailand was a waking nightmare.

You had to put on your glasses—twice—just to make sure you weren’t hallucinating, you gave up the contacts for now. Every street corner, every billboard, every bus stop, every goddamn souvenir shop… Bambam’s face was everywhere. Smirking, posing, looking effortlessly cool.

It was like sleep paralysis, except you were painfully awake.

Even on vacation, you couldn’t escape him. You practically hid behind your shades and sweats on the way to airport because you were dead tired and slept the whole day on your first day here.

And it wasn’t just his face plastered all over Bangkok that haunted you. No. It was the ghost of that night. The heat of his touch still lingered on your skin, the memory of his lips burned into your mind like a brand. And the worst part? You ran. You got up, got dressed, and bolted from his apartment like your life depended on it, leaving nothing behind but the aftermath of a mistake you weren’t ready to face.

Now here you were, stomping down the bustling streets of Thailand, spiraling.

Using your DND mode as a pathetic excuse not to text or call him about that night.

Of course. It was a one-night stand. No big deal. He probably didn’t even remember it was you.

You groaned, rubbing your temples. How the hell did it come to this?

I mean… okay. Bambam was objectively attractive. He was rich, charming, and effortlessly cool, the kind of man women threw themselves at without a second thought. He was Jackson Wang’s brother, for crying out loud! The whole world wanted him.

But you?

You were his secretary. His friend. His personal damage control. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Just what the fuck!” you blurted out, stomping your foot in the middle of the street.

Passersby turned to stare.

You forced an awkward smile before speed-walking away like a lunatic.

This was a disaster. A catastrophe. A career-ending mistake. How the hell were you supposed to look him in the eye after this? How were you supposed to work for him like nothing happened?

You exhaled sharply.

The only solution was to draft your resignation letter the second you got back.

Because there was no way you could survive this.

“Is my brother giving you a hard time?”

Your jaw practically unhinged.

Mark Tuan.

Standing right in front of you, looking effortlessly cool like he owned Thailand.

Why the hell was he everywhere too? Was this some kind of twisted prank?

You let out a deep sigh, pressing your fingers to your temple. “Mark. Seriously?”

He smirked, clearly amused by your suffering. Unlike his usual polished, business-ready look, today he was dressed down, in casual, comfortable, blending in like any other tourist. Almost. There was still something about his presence that screamed power. He might’ve swapped his suit for a hoodie, but he still carried himself like someone who could buy this entire city if he felt like it.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, folding your arms.

“Business,” he answered simply. “Flying out tonight, though.”

You groaned dramatically, looking at him with the kind of silent desperation usually reserved for someone pleading for their life. Forget that he was technically your boss too, he was Bambam’s brother. Which meant he might be the only person right now who could truly understand your current suffering without getting into details.

Mark tilted his head, watching you for a beat before gesturing ahead. “Come on. I know a good restaurant.”

You didn’t argue.

You just followed him, hoping a good meal could somehow fix your life.

--------------

Bambam thought he had everything under control.

He figured the week without Y/N would be a welcome change. A chance to prove he could function without her.

But it was turning into a nightmare.

He felt restless, checking his phone every few minutes. He would scroll through messages, emails, but mostly—he’d just open Instagram, scrolling mindlessly, hoping to see one of Y/N’s posts, a story, anything.

Every time he saw something from the temporary secretary filling in for Y/N, it was like an itch he couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t right. They weren’t Y/N.

He found himself disappointed, irritated even, at the way the new assistant didn’t handle things quite the way Y/N did. The calm efficiency. The way she could anticipate his every need before he even voiced it. He missed her presence more than he wanted to admit, and every task, every email, felt... off.

It was a slow, quiet torture.

But there was something deeper gnawing at him. Something that wouldn’t leave his mind.

The memory of that night kept creeping back.

He kept replaying the blurry flashes in his head—the blackouts, the haze, the heat of her skin. At first, he thought it was a vivid dream. But the more he thought about it, the more it didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be real right?

He couldn’t have slept with her?

Y/N was his secretary. His friend. She was off-limits.

But as the days dragged on, he couldn’t shake it. The fragments of the night—her lips on his, the way she felt in his arms, the soft murmur of her voice, the way her name tasted on his tongue. It all felt too real, too intimate to just be some drunken fantasy.

He kept thinking, wondering if he’d made it up in a drunken stupor. Maybe it was just a wild dream that his mind fabricated. But no—there was too much detail. Too much... intensity.

It was bothering him more than he expected.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples, frustrated. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about this. Y/N was supposed to be out of sight, out of mind for the week.

Her absence made everything feel like it was missing its rhythm. Missing its pulse.

Still, every time his phone buzzed with another update from the substitute secretary, or when he walked into his office without her sitting at her desk, his chest tightened. He kept expecting Y/N to just be there, to fill the silence, to make things feel like normal.

Bambam sighed, tossing his phone down on the desk. His mind raced, and for the first time in a long while, he felt... uneasy.

"Fuck this."

He grabbed his coat, adjusting his tie as he prepared to leave his office. He was done, frustrated, and in need of a change. Maybe a flight to Thailand would clear his head. But then—he froze, hand mid-air, suddenly realizing something.

"At least take off your coat and tie," the voice in his head snapped, and for a moment, he cursed himself for not catching it earlier.

“You drive me insane.”

"You know what? Hell yeah."

A chill ran down his spine as he stood there, the realization hitting him like a freight train.

"Oh shit..." The dreams he’d dismissed, the ones that had haunted him for months, were suddenly real.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"

He grabbed his phone in a hurry, leaving his office, half-walking, half-running toward the elevator, panic mounting with each step. He needed answers.

When he finally got outside, his driver was already waiting for him. Bambam climbed into the back of the car, still processing the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his head.

"Sir," the driver greeted him, "Mr. Kim, how did I get home after the charity ball?"

Bambam turned his head to look at him, hoping for a shred of clarity. He couldn’t quite remember, and his brothers? Yeah, they were too drunk to even care.

"Uh... Ms. Y/L/N and I brought you home." The driver hesitated, unsure of himself, clearly caught off guard by the question.

"And did you drop her off after?"

The driver shook his head.

"Ms. Y/L/N texted me. She booked an Uber."

"What time was it?"

"It was already 4:30."

"Fuck!"

Everything clicked. The puzzle pieces were finally falling into place, and guilt washed over him like a tidal wave. That explains the no texts or any messages. That explains everything. He hadn’t remembered the night before... how could he not remember?

He had to go to Thailand. Why he needed to see Y/N? To explain? To apologize? Hell, he wasn’t even sure why, he just had to see her.

His phone buzzed, interrupting his thoughts. He checked it, Mark’s story on Instagram. A photo of his secretary—eating, no less. A stolen shot.

The caption:

"You deserve a treat for making everything easy."

Bambam’s blood ran cold.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

His heart pounded. Mark was in Thailand? And he was eating with his secretary? With Y/N?!!!

He wanted to scream. Yell. Destroy something. Anything to get the frustration out.

"Mr. Kim, can you bring me to the airport, please?"

His driver nodded, clearly sensing the tension. Bambam didn’t care anymore. He just needed to get there. Even if it means suffering and dreading in economy class. So he booked the earliest flight he can get to Thailand.

Bambam’s plane touched down in Thailand. His heart pounded in his chest. What the hell am I doing? His mind screamed, but his feet moved on their own, carrying him through the crowded terminal.

He had to get it together for being impulsive

He had no idea what he was going to say to Y/N, no clue how to even start the conversation.

"Separation anxiety hit me so hard, I almost wrote you a love letter. Be grateful I just showed up instead."

"Y/N, I was lonely and confused when I got drunk, and then I thought… you could fix that. So, hi!"

But all he knew was that he couldn’t let things be like this. He couldn’t leave things unresolved. Hell, he's still even wearing his office clothes and doesn't have anything but his phone and wallet.

His thoughts were interrupted by his phone buzzing again.

Mark’s story.

Another picture of Y/N, laughing at something in front of her. The caption read, "Glad I could make this trip easier for you." And there she was, looking... happy. With Mark.

The gnawing feeling inside him tightened.

Why, in the hell, Mark was in Thailand with his secretary. And they are together all night?

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. No more questions. He had to face what had happened—everything.

As he left the airport and entered a cab, his phone buzzed again, this time with a message from .....Y/N... Finally! After 2 days!!

'I'll be sending my resignation.'

Bambam froze, feeling like his world stopped. What the fuck?!

why does it seems like he couldn't catch a break.

----

You sighed, staring at your phone after finally sending a text to your boss—for the first time in two days.

Having Mark around made everything feel a little lighter, like a much-needed reset. He wasn’t prying or pushing for answers. He simply asked about work, about him, and you responded with the usual: your daily routine, the way Bambam was a perfectionist to a fault, how insufferable he could be when making decisions.

And then, maybe because the boba tea was too good or because your thoughts had been eating at you for days, you said something incredibly stupid.

"Let’s say, hypothetically, Mark, you have a friend. You two are close. Then you slept together."

Mark choked—actually choked—on his drink, coughing as he wiped his mouth. "Okay? I need the whole context before I die here."

You hesitated, but the words were already out. Might as well commit.

"You’re both drunk. Or, well… one of you is drunk to the point of forgetting. And the other? Sober. The next morning, the drunk one doesn’t remember, and the sober one runs away and pretends it never happened. What would you do?"

Silence.

The moment the question fully registered, you wanted to slap yourself. Why—why—why would you ask Mark of all people? The brother of the guy you slept with.

Mark, to his credit, didn’t look completely suspicious. Just… amused.

"Okay… hypothetically? Nothing."

Your brows furrowed. Not the answer you were expecting.

"You look disappointed." Mark tilted his head, giving you a knowing look. "But really, if I don’t remember, I go about my life as usual. Unless memories hit me like a ton of bricks, then…" He trailed off, as if considering something deeply.

"Then?" you prompted, unable to stop yourself.

Mark smirked, sipping his drink. "Depends. If I find her really attractive… I might continue what we started."

Your mouth went dry.

He chuckled at your reaction. "And if I wasn’t particularly interested… I’d just ghost or pretend it never happened. Simple."

Your lips parted slightly, forming a small "oh."

So, either Bambam doesn’t remember.

Or… he remembers and doesn’t particularly care.

Your stomach twisted at the thought.

"I see," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Mark studied you, his curiosity sharpening. "So… who’s this troubled friend of yours?"

You tensed.

The way he was looking at you—really looking—made you feel exposed, like if you lingered for even a second too long, he’d know. He’d see right through you.

Your phone buzzed.

You glanced down, checking your Instagram notifications—Mark tagged you in his stories.

You tapped it open, only to cringe at the stolen shots he’d posted. Oh my god. Did you really look that horrible when eating?

"Mark, seriously? You could’ve at least picked better photos and captions."

Mark grinned, unbothered. "The more dramatic, the better." He shook his head like it was obvious.

You tilted yours, confused. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Before he could answer, he glanced at his watch. "Oh, it’s already 4:30 PM. Cinderella’s gotta get back to the hotel."

You rolled your eyes at the nickname for himself but stood up nonetheless. "Well… thanks for today, I guess. Let’s just hope I don’t get flooded with hate DMs from your fans."

Mark smirked. "You won’t. They know better than to mess with the best secretary."

You chuckled, shaking your head. Best secretary, huh? Bambam would never.

Mark sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I won’t be able to walk you back, though. Didn’t realize the time—I have a flight to catch."

Something about the way he said it made you pause. Maybe it was the way he looked at you—like he wanted to say something more but wasn’t going to.

"Oh. Right. Safe flight, then."

You and Mark exchanged goodbyes before you turned and started walking back to your hotel. It was only a fifteen-minute stroll—just enough time to clear your head.

The evening air was thick with humidity, clinging to your skin as you navigated the lively streets of Thailand. Your thoughts drifted back to your conversation with Mark, to his hypothetical answers that felt a little too real.

But the moment you stepped into the hotel lobby, all of that vanished.

Your jaw dropped. "What the—"

Standing near the entrance, dressed in his office clothes, was Bambam.

His tie was loosened, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, and he was holding his coat in one hand—probably because of the humid weather. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d been running his fingers through it all day. And his eyes—dark, unreadable—locked onto yours the second you walked in.

"Took you long enough." His voice was casual, but there was an edge to it.

You blinked, still processing. "What… what are you doing here?"

He scoffed. "Oh, I don’t know. Maybe chasing my secretary across countries because she conveniently told me she is sending her resignation."

Your stomach flipped.

Oh, shit.

Your jaw remained unhinged, mind racing as you took in the sight of him—standing there, still dressed in his office clothes, not even bothering to change into something travel-friendly.

Bambam was always stylish. Always put together. But right now? He looked… wrecked. Like he had been through hell just to get here.

And then it hit you.

He flew all the way here, in a damn suit, because he thought you were quitting as his secretary.

You exhaled sharply, dropping your gaze before forcing yourself to meet his eyes again. His expression was unreadable, but there was something there—something Longing?

Your throat tightened. But you had already made your decision.

"I quit because I can't work with you anymore."

You braced yourself for his reaction. For the sharp retort, the mocking smirk.

Instead, his jaw clenched.

"If this is about what happened that night, then fuck it—"

He took a step closer.

Your breath caught.

Your eyes widened as he reached for you, his fingers grazing your cheek with an almost possessive touch.

"Two fucking days." His voice was low, heated. "Two fucking days, and I gave you space. But that’s enough. You can quit being my damn secretary, but you’re not running away from me."

Your heart pounded. "But… I thoug—"

"I wasn’t sure if it was real at first." His forehead nearly touched yours now, his warmth seeping into your skin. "I thought you were just serious about your DND mode. But how dare you think I’d pretend it never happened while I was going crazy for the past two days?"

You scoffed, trying to put some distance between you, but he didn’t let you.

"That’s rich, Bambam." You forced a laugh, but it came out weak. "You didn’t even text me. Didn’t even call."

His fingers tightened slightly on your cheek before he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. "Because I was trying to respect your damn space."

You swallowed. "And then you just decided to chase me to another country?"

His lips curled into a smirk, but his eyes still burned. "I panicked."

You blinked. "You? Panicked?"

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. And it fucking sucked."

For the first time, he looked genuinely exhausted. Like he had been running on pure adrenaline just to get here.

"Bam, you—"

"Why did you leave?" He cut you off, voice softer this time. "Was it because you thought I’d just forget about it? That I wouldn’t care?"

You didn’t answer.

Because yes.

And the silence must have been enough of a response, because his expression darkened.

"That’s bullshit." He shook his head, laughing under his breath. "You really think I’d let you go that easily?"

Your stomach flipped. "I didn’t know what else to think."

"Then let me make it clear." He took your hand, pressing it against his chest—right over his racing heartbeat. "I fucking remember. Everything."

Your lips parted, words failing you.

"And I’m not letting you run from me again."

"I…" Your voice trailed off, words failing you as you instinctively tried to pull your hand away.

But he didn’t let go.

Bambam’s grip wasn’t tight—just firm enough to keep you there, as if letting go meant losing you all over again. His exhaustion was evident, his usual sharp gaze softened by jet lag and whatever insanity had driven him to chase you down here.

He sighed, shaking his head. "At least let me hug you. Damn, I missed you."

You swallowed hard before nodding.

The moment his arms wrapped around you, you felt his body relax against yours, his weight pressing into you as if he’d finally let himself breathe.

"Come on. You need to rest." You murmured, patting his back lightly.

Bambam groaned. "Badly. My back hurts from that goddamn economy seat. No legroom, nothing."

Your eyes widened in horror. "Wait—you flew economy?"

He nodded tiredly, rubbing his temple. "Yeah. Worst decision of my life."

You gasped, covering your mouth. "You mean to tell me… you flew all the way here… in economy… with no luggage? Just yourself?"

Bambam blinked at you, deadpan. Then he exhaled dramatically. "Baby… see how down bad I am."

You stared at him, still struggling to process how everything had escalated so fast.

It was one night.

One reckless, alcohol-fueled night.

And suddenly, he was chasing you across the world, sleep-deprived, professing—well, whatever the hell this was.

You didn’t know how things changed so fast, but one thing was certain: you’d figure it out soon enough.

Just… after he got some damn sleep.

----

Bambam jolted awake from his nap, his heart pounding when he realized no one was beside him. Panic set in for a split second—had Y/N left him again? He had dozed off in her hotel room, finally getting some rest after battling jet lag. Earlier, he had bombarded his brother, Mark, with texts, frustrated after waiting four hours in the damn hotel lobby. Mark had enjoyed Y/N’s company a little too much for Bambam’s liking—even posting her on his story just to spite him. And worst of all, it worked.

"You’re awake. You should get more sleep."

Y/N’s voice pulled him from his thoughts as she set down the paper bags she brought—probably food.

"I thought you left me again."

He caught the way her smile faltered.

"You should eat first, Bam."

Bambam sighed, running a hand through his hair as he sat up, still groggy from sleep. His heart hadn’t quite settled yet. The panic from waking up alone still lingered in his chest.

"Bam?" Y/N repeated, her voice softer this time as she unpacked the food, carefully avoiding his gaze.

He didn’t argue. Taking the food, he quietly started his meal while Y/N sat across from him, absentmindedly poking at her dessert as she watched him. The silence between them was thick—almost expectant.

As soon as he finished, he wiped his mouth and leaned back. "You can start asking."

Y/N blinked, momentarily caught off guard. She hadn't expected him to cut straight to the chase. Scrambling to gather her thoughts, she hesitated, searching for the right words.

"Why?"

She looked at him, confusion evident in her eyes, waiting—expecting an answer.

Why?

That same question had been running through his mind the entire way here. When did it even start? He wasn’t sure. Had he just grown too dependent on her as his secretary, mistaking it for something more? Or had there been affection all along—buried beneath layers of denial—conveniently masked as a simple boss-secretary relationship?

Bambam exhaled, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against the table as he struggled to piece together his own emotions.

"You know, I used to think I just needed you. That’s it. You had my back, you knew exactly what I wanted before I even said a word—hell, sometimes before I even thought of it. I figured that’s what made you so damn important to me. You were dependable, irreplaceable, my right hand. But… turns out, I’m an idiot."

Bambam chuckled, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his hair. His gaze flickered to you, lingering like he was seeing you for the first time—or maybe, just finally admitting what had been in front of him all along.

"Because needing you? That’s the bare minimum of what I feel."

"I love watching you work, you know? The way your brows furrow when you’re deep in something—concentrated, unbothered by the chaos I bring. How you line up everything I need like clockwork, like it’s second nature to you. How you remember my coffee order down to the last damn detail, and somehow, it always tastes better when it’s from you."

"And it’s not just that. It’s how good you look when you’re serious—like you belong right next to me, running this whole damn empire together. How perfect we are together, wherever we go. How your eyes light up over the smallest things—ice cream, desserts—even after back-to-back meetings that should have drained the life out of you. How you love seafood. How you only accept real carbonara, not that cream-drenched imposter dish."

"How you wince when a trainee messes up, like you feel secondhand embarrassment. How you laugh at my jokes—like, genuinely laugh—not just because I’m the boss, but because you actually enjoy my stupid humor."

"And then there was last night. That charity ball. That dress. You looked… ethereal. Like some untouchable goddess. Too bad I got drunk, huh? Too bad I was too much of a coward to admit all this before we ended up in… whatever the hell this situation is now."

He stepped closer, voice quieter but firm, his usual confidence laced with something deeper.

"It's shitty that it had to happen before I figured it out together but I don't regret it. And I know one thing for sure. I don’t just need you, Y/N. I want you. All of you. Every little thing about you that makes you you. And if I’ve already messed this up, well… tell me now. Otherwise, I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not ever."