#what do you mean theyre together and in love

[xylatox]

Finally getting to read the other fics of this event!!Another Raya fic and it's Choi Beomgyu no less, going to fight for my life (bias wrecker Gyu 😭). I am of course, very excited.

Writing this sentence after I fixed up the review and holy moly, I'm sorry it's so long!

I absolutely love a good red string au, it taps into my romantic side so bad. The rules are simple: the second your eyes meet theirs, a delicate crimson thread will wrap and tug around your ring finger, stretching across, tied to the one who is destined to love you. — like this is exactly why I love this trope, to be destined to have someone to love and receive love from in such an unconditional way just puts me at ease.

The universe doesn’t make mistakes. And yet, your hands remained... stringless.— of course for right now that isn't the case for reader :( but I'm looking forward to how this will unravel.

How does love do that? How does it make someone shine like they’re carrying sunlight beneath their skin? Like just standing beside the right person is enough to set them alight? — I feel like Raya took my thoughts here, especially the first line😭 like how does love do that. I've always seen love where it seems more one-sided, falls apart later down or doesn't seem to exist in hard times, so I've always wanted/wondered of the existence of such an unconditional type of love.

"That's… weird, right?" The first girl tilts her head, genuinely puzzled. "I mean, we sat through those lectures together. Didn’t the studies say most people find their soulmate before twenty-five? That’s what the records say." — that's so, uncalled for😭 like as reader said she's just pointing out a fact but damn, maybe I'm a bit to sensitive lmfao.

Raya's change in POV will always be my favorite transition and I will die on that hill. It brings back memories of The Last Safe Place which was ironically also an idol!Gyu fic. I love that without fail, amidst the business, Gyu always wishes to meet reader, it's so sweet.

I love that the doctor reassures reader and the concept of there being therapy for things like this warms my heart. Lee Heesung cameo omg I did not expect this (so I love with him ugh). It's so disheartening tho that the reaction to idols having soulmates seems possible and that hurts, like theyre people too yknow?

“Come on, Y/N.” She grabs your arm, shaking it dramatically. “Look at me. I have a soulmate, and I still thirst over Tomorrow X Together.” — I love Da-hee so much, she's so real for this. I do love that reader isn't a MOA though, it somehow makes her future bond with Gyu even sweeter. And the fact that reader unknowingly picks Gyu's picket😭😭😭 they are so destined and her getting his photocard further solidifies it I'm going to fucking sob.

A tall man—easily the tallest—moves toward your section, waving with an easy smile, deep dimples carving into his soft-looking cheeks. It reminds you of bread. The warmth of it is infectious, and before you even realise it, you're waving back, grinning at someone whose name you didn’t even know this morning. — Soobin :(((( I'm going to sob this is so cute, it makes me so excited

And they have the bond ugh😭😭😭😭😭I'm going to throw up😭😭😭 — Everything else fades. The crowd, the shake of Da-hee beside you, even the music that was supposed to be loud. All that’s left is the pull—a red thread stretching between, searing itself into your vision, blinding in its intensity—demanding to be seen. — oh my god ugh.

I love that this POV change goes a bit before the moment and we see the boys thoughts on everything pertaining to soulmates and how hard it is for them as idols to deal with that considering society's response.

God, I love Gyu's entire reaction to them being soulmates, it's so endearing. Thin, and so impossibly red. A string stretched between, glowing faintly under the stage lights. He looks down at his hand—at his ring finger— it's tied there. His eyes trace its path. To you. His chest tightens. — this is so cute and I love how it makes him nervous for the concert now :(((.

He waves again, but this time, it’s for you. Directly. You tilt your head, hesitant, and then—an unsure wave back. It’s so small, so subtle, but it makes him smile. His grin spreads before he can think twice. — this is so cute I'll pass out. Him and reader are so cute your honor, I love them do much like the interactions are so cute I genuinely have no other words.

Love that Soobin kinda realizes something was up in the moment and ahhh :((( Gyu asking him I'll cry. I love that Da-hee is that supportive if a friend that she's so moved to cry for you (like same) but it's so endearing how much their friendship means to them.

Their first interaction:(( I feel so damn soft—"So, uh, hi?" Beomgyu says, and it pulls a laugh from you. His heart stumbles over itself at the sound, warmth blooming in his chest. It’s ridiculous, really, how easily you affect him.—god they're so awkward I love it :(( I think they're so cute I want to keep them in my pocket. I just love the idea of them not knowing anything about each other especially since ready wasn't a fan before so it feels so much more genuine.

The message he sends her after😭😭 I was wondering the significance behind the 315 roses and then I just fucking sobbed oh my god, may this kind of love find everyone😭 I'm so giggly lol, I love how cute Gyu reacts when she sends him a message during live God this is adorable.

Yall really do love causing me pain huh? Some people really are insane like, going that length to harass Gyu's soulmate??? Like he's glowing and happy let them live :(( The angst has fully kicked in and the only thing I feel is sick but best girl Da-hee coming to the rescue, she's such an empathic friend I actually love her so much, she's such a well written character.

I actually love how it was discussed from Gyu's perspective with everyone. Like their manager assuming reader asked him to choose when she in fact rather sacrifice the relationship for his job shows how much she loves him and the fact that he would trade it all for her is so heartwarming. "Because your words could never hurt me as much as your leaving does." — may this love find us wtf. I've been told before that my words will push people away (even if I'm being honest with no intention to hurt) and often times voicing your opinion or just trying to do the best for others comes off differently to them, but I hope everyone is able to receive a response like this in their life. To be loved really is an amazing thing.

Trying to go out my comfort zone this year and comment on smut because I always get shy/embarrassed but oh my god —Beomgyu's eyes never left yours as his fingers found your hand, seeking the place where the string was tied. The red thread appears, and he lifts it to his lips. A kiss—featherlight, reverent—pressed against the place where destiny tied you to him. — this is absolutely everything.

“I love you,” he murmured as he positioned himself, slowly sliding into you. A low, guttural sound escaped him as he felt you, tight and warm, pulling him deeper. He's sure he'll come right there and then. His face buried itself in the curve of your neck, and his words spilled out—"I'm sorry it took this long." — Raya, I AM GOING SO INSANE RN, running laps in my head rn.

He's so reassuring to reader too, that's so hot oh my god. —Because now, in his arms, with his lips claiming yours over and over, only pulls away when breathing becomes a necessity—his forehead pressing against yours for a fleeting second before his mouth finds yours again, as if letting go for too long might break him, you realise the truth—it was foolish of you to think that pushing him away would solve it all. — brb crying my eyes out again.

The moment I saw the title of the fic oh my god, my chest tightened, I gasped and a tear fell. I always love when titles are integrated into fics with significance like this.

I love that they met each others parents and reader and Da-hee met the members it's so cute, and reader using Gyu's nickname that his dad used omg crying.

Maybe in another world, the sky is burning, the world is ending, an apocalypse, and he still falls in love with you. Maybe in another life, he is a man undone, a husband who shatters more than he mends, but even then, he would spend eternity piecing himself back together just to be worthy of you.— Raya this caught me so off guard that I am sobbing so hard, a reference to The Last Safe Place and The Slow Surrender, you are absolutely insane oh my god.

This was so good Raya omg😭😭 I will always be so happy that ive read every fic you've published thus far and I always love to see how you'd grow with each fic and you never fail to surprise me, I absolutely loved this.

RAIN LILIES

pairing: soulmate idol choi beomgyu x soulmate fem!reader

Sitting at parties surrounded by lovers, a silent third wheel at movie nights, the friend holding the camera at weddings—your hands are always... alone in the spaces where others are full.

Were you an error in the grand scheme? An anomaly? A glitch in the unforgiving script? Or maybe, he simply doesn’t really… exist.

That’s how you ended up here, standing beside your korean-pop-obsessed friend who practically dragged you out and swore you’d love the show. It all became a blur when your eyes met his.

He’s on stage, gripping the mic impossibly still, staring down back at you like he feels it too.

He shouldn’t be real.

warnings: red-string au, strangers to lovers, reader is two years older, normal society norms, waiting, anxiety, doubts, sasaengs, insecurities, hasty decisions, drunk-in-love beomgyu. pov switching. everything written is a work of fiction. let me know if I missed anything.

smut-warnings: MDNI, explicit-descriptions, missionary, fingering, oral!fem receiving, dom beomgyu.

wc: 20k — playlist.

notes: fighting both my delulu and my demons while writing this. 😭 Might just be the fic I enjoyed writing the most—I hope you love it just as much! so glad to be part of this beautiful event. a big thank you to @killa-1009 for beta reading this. ilysm.

1/5 part of the valentine event with talented moas! see the full masterlist here.

If fate promised you something so certain, how could you not long for it?

Since childhood, you’ve heard the stories. The way people speak in hushed voices, weaving fate into riddles, how somewhere out there, it's waiting—a single red string, unseen until the exact moment it’s meant to appear.

The rules are simple: the second your eyes meet theirs, a delicate crimson thread will wrap and tug around your ring finger, stretching across, tied to the one who is destined to love you.

You watched it happen to everyone else. From playground giggles in elementary school to whispered confessions in high school hallways, to late-night talks in college dorm rooms. You listened as your friends spoke about finding their own soulmates, the feeling—the pull, the process. It's everywhere. In the way, your parents fit together like pages of the same story. On the way your younger sister—still so new to the world found her match.

When you’re told your whole life that destiny is waiting for you, how could you not ache for it?

The universe doesn’t make mistakes. And yet, your hands remained... stringless.

And now you wonder if it did—with you.

"One, two, three, smile!"

You press the shutter, capturing the way they look at each other. You lower the camera, but they don’t even notice—they’re too caught up in their own little world, whispering sentences only they’ll ever understand. They laugh, eyes soft, bodies leaning in just a little closer.

How does love do that? How does it make someone shine like they’re carrying sunlight beneath their skin? Like just standing beside the right person is enough to set them alight?

And why, no matter how long you wait, does that light never seem to find you?

There are days you curse it—this cruel design, this aching uncertain certainty. You tell yourself it would be easier not to know, to live without the quiet hope that somewhere, someone is meant to find you, or that fate had already written your name beside someone else’s.

And then there are days you fear it.

What if they don’t want to find you? What if that’s why you’re still alone? What if they got it wrong, skipped over your name, and he simply… doesn’t exist?

You're an anomaly. A glitch in the well-made script.

You lost count of how many times you wished it was never made this way. That love shouldn’t be a promise. Yet in the deepest hours of the night, you found yourself—gasping, trembling, and sobbing to your palms. The feeling of—

How can you miss someone you've never met?

You want to reach for a hand you’ve never held. You long for a voice you’ve never heard, a scent you’ve never breathed, a shadow you’ve never chased. And more than anything, you wish you had a name to whisper, to give you hope.

You swallow, forcing a smile as you turn back to the couple. "Congratulations," you say, "It’s a beautiful wedding."

"Thank you, Y/N!" Ha-rin squeals, practically glowing as she steps forward to hug you. "And thank you for being our photographer—I know you must be busy."

"You’re welcome," you reply, adjusting your camera strap. "It’s what I do, after all."

Ju-won steps in then, reaching for Ha-rin’s hand like he can’t stand even a moment of space between them. "Thank you, Y/N," he says, his eyes never straying far from his wife.

They were your high school classmates. You remember the day they met—first year, first morning, when their eyes met across the classroom, and just like that, the red string appeared. They grew together, from awkward introductions to effortless friendship, and now, here they were, husband and wife.

A picture of everything the universe had promised them.

Ju-won leans in, pressing a kiss to Ha-rin’s cheek like it’s the first time, like they haven’t spent years by each other’s side. The look in their eyes is so easy, so full of love, that you have to look away.

You can't look.

"Uh, I’ll get some drinks," you say, forcing a smile that feels as out of place as you do. You don’t wait for a response. You just turn, your heels clicking against the polished floor, head spinning as you try to count how many weddings you’ve attended this year.

Or no. You’ve lost count.

Everyone you grew up with—your friends, your classmates—have already found their soulmates. Most are married now, some already raising children.

Your heels dig into your feet with each hurried step, but you don’t slow down. You just keep moving, past everyone. You know exactly where you’ll end up. The same place you always do.

Alone at the sidelines.

You grab a drink, bringing it to your lips a little too quickly, hoping the cool burn will settle the unease twisting in your stomach.

"Hey! It’s been a while!" A voice cuts calls out, familiar—but not familiar enough. You turn to see a girl skidding towards you, her face vaguely recognizable. A former classmate? A clubmate? Someone who once sat next to you in a lecture hall?

"How have you been?" she asks, taking a drink for herself.

"I’m fine, thanks," you reply, forcing an easy nod before taking another sip.

A second passes, and then another girl joins the conversation, breathless with laughter. "Beom-seok finally let me go," she teases, tilting her head toward the man across the room—her soulmate. "The guy’s obsessed."

"Of course he is," the first girl grins. "He’s your soulmate." She swirls her drink before adding, "Mine just got back from overseas. He’ll see me tomorrow once he’s in the city." And there it is again—circling back to the same topic, the one you can never take part in. You nod, offering a small smile, pretending to listen.

Because what is there to say when everyone else has something you don’t?

"Y/N?" Your name pulls you out of your thoughts.

"Huh?"

"Did you meet yours yet?" The question hits like a slow, squeezing ache in your chest.

"No," you say, reaching for another drink. It's embarrassing that everyone knows you're empty. "I haven't."

"That's… weird, right?" The first girl tilts her head, genuinely puzzled. "I mean, we sat through those lectures together. Didn’t the studies say most people find their soulmate before twenty-five? That’s what the records say."

There’s no malice in her voice, just matter-of-fact. Like she’s pointing out a statistic, saying out what’s already been made painfully clear to you. it’s the same tired reminder, the same unspoken question: what’s wrong with you?

You’re used to it by now.

"Yeah," you say, unwilling to argue. What’s the point? Your mind slips back to those reckless high school days—the days when older girls, too cool and too cruel, mocked you for not having a soulmate. You remember snapping back, pretending their words didn’t sting.

Later, the tears came on the bus ride home—carving rivers down your cheeks as you sob. Strangers offered tissues, soft words, awkward kindness, but none of it could stitch you back together. You remember your mother's words after seeing her home. To stop them from hurting you, you have to accept all of yourself.

But how do you accept the whole of you, when it doesn’t even feel like you have all of you?

From the corner of your eye, you catch the second girl nudging her. "Don’t mind her, Y/N," she says quickly. "She doesn’t always think before she talks." Then, after a beat, she adds, "Have you tried dating in the meantime? You know, while you're waiting?"

You blink at her, taken aback.

"I mean, it's not like it’s cheating, right? Since you haven’t met them yet."

You set your drink down, your fingers suddenly cold. "Why are you suggesting something you wouldn’t even do?" Your voice is calm, but it makes her shift uncomfortably. "Or did you? Does your soulmate know?"

Neither of them speaks. Guilt in their expressions. You don’t wait for an answer. You're done for tonight.

It’s time to go.

You turn away, not bothering to look back. No one needs you here—your part is done. Your role here is over. You pull out your phone, quickly typing out a polite apology to the bride before slipping it back into your pocket.

The drive home is silent, and the buzz of the engine is the only company you have. Your hands grip the wheel a little too tightly, your thoughts drifting despite your best efforts to keep them at bay. When you finally reach your small apartment, you step out, clutching yet another wedding souvenir in one hand a meaningless token of a night that wasn’t yours to celebrate.

You lock the door behind you and lean against it blinking, exhaling shakily. "I guess today wasn’t the day either," you murmur to no one in particular, wiping away the single tear that managed to escape. "What's taking you so long?"

No matter how often you whispered this question, it never hurt any less.

"What's taking you so long?"

Beomgyu groans from under the covers, trying to burrow deeper into the warmth of his bed. The sudden tug of his blanket makes him blindly reach out, attempting to grab it back. "You shi—"

"Beomgyu, you're the last one. We're all almost ready to go," Soobin says, adjusting his belt in the mirror. "Look at this little child."

Beomgyu stretches with a dramatic yawn. "I'm up, I'm up," he mumbles, sitting up sluggishly and blinking against the light. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, feet landing on the bedside table. Soobin shakes his head but doesn't stick around—his job is done. Beomgyu is finally awake.

Minutes later, Beomgyu trudges into the living room, hair a mess, voice still deep with sleep. "Are we eating there?"

The entire room turns to look at him.

"You woke up late, and that’s the first thing you care about?" Yeonjun teases, shaking his head with a laugh.

"Well, I didn’t eat last night," Beomgyu grumbles.

"Oh?"

"Liar," the maknae pipes up from the couch, casually applying lip balm. "You literally snuck out to eat."

"You snitch," Beomgyu gasps, feigning betrayal. "I didn’t raise you to turn on me like this!"

"You? Raise me?" Kai scoffs. "Soobin hyung’s the one who raised me, what are you talking about?"

Soobin smirks and chucks Beomgyu’s towel straight at his face. "Exactly. Now go shower, you idiot."

Laughter erupts around the room as Beomgyu groans, trudging toward the bathroom. "Shower quick, hyung," Taehyun calls out.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

Beomgyu’s slightly damp hair clings to the back of his neck. He hadn’t had time to dry it properly before they rushed out of the dorm—there was no room for delays today. A broadcast for their comeback. Another promotion. His stylist would handle it in the green room anyway.

They pile into the van, the usual quiet settling over them. Despite being fully dressed and ready, exhaustion hangs heavy. One by one, his members drift off, heads resting against windows, bodies slumped in their seats. Only Kai remains awake, lost in his own world, music pulsing through his earphones. The maknae was so engrossed on his phone, obviously texting with a small smile on his face.

Beomgyu sighs, pressing his forehead against the cool glass, his breath slightly fogging up the window. Today would be a long day. Rehearsals, performances, a challenge video, taping. He missed this. He missed MOAs. The rush of the stage. The high of performing. And then—

Oh.

The van slows at a red light, and his gaze drifts absentmindedly to the sidewalk. His chest tightens.

A couple walks by, laughing, hands intertwined, completely lost in their own world. The way they move together, effortlessly in sync. In love. Content. Happy. He stares longer than he should.

He can't look away.

His throat feels tight as the van lurches forward again, pulling him out of his thoughts. He blinks hard, shifting in his seat. The image stayed, pressed into the back of his mind.

All four of his members had already found theirs—their soulmates. The one they could lean on when the world became too loud. Beomgyu was happy for them, of course, he was. He remember how he was when Kai blushed when he met his soulmate recently, right after his 23rd birthday.

Everyone teased the maknae relentlessly for weeks.

Beomgyu had been too busy his whole life, training since he was just a kid, running full speed toward a dream. His mind is busy to the point he sometimes forgets it. He does not mean to. It's just that—he never let himself dwell on it for too long. Pushing it aside became second nature, the same way he’d forget to eat when he was too busy, too distracted.

But every year, without fail, when the room dimmed and the birthday candles in front of him, his wish was always the same.

His soulmate.

It didn’t matter how many years passed or how much he achieved—when the glow of those tiny flames danced in his eyes, it was the only thing his heart whispered.

Beomgyu exhales shakily, his fingers curling into his hoodie. a quiet sigh slipping from his pouting lips.

Where are you?

The stark white walls of the hospital room loom over, mocking your awkwardness.

"There's nothing wrong with you, dear," the woman in front of you says, her lab coat lending a sense of authority to her words. Her voice is gentle, reassuring, but it barely soothes the unease twisting in your chest. "Soulmates do tend to find each other early, statistically speaking. But that’s just a pattern, not a guarantee."

You swallow hard. The lump in your throat stays put. "Is there… any chance this is a mistake?" Your voice is quieter than you intend, fragile in a way you hate. "That someone could go their whole life without one? That—" you hesitate, your chest tightening, "that I’m just… meant to be alone?"

Something flickers across her face—pity, maybe. You’re not sure. "I’ll look into it, I promise," she says after a moment. "I know twenty-six feels late, and I know it’s frustrating. But… trust in destiny a little longer. If you want, I can also recommend a therapist. I know the pressure can get to you."

Her words are meant to be comforting. They only make the weight in your chest heavier. You shake your head, managing a quiet “thank you” before slipping out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you.

“How was it?” Da-hee’s voice reaches you before you even look up. She’s already on her feet, eyes scanning your face, searching for an answer. “What did they say?”

“Nothing I haven’t heard before.” You sigh, walking past her. “I told you I should not do this.”

She huffs, crossing her arms as she falls into step beside you. “You never tried it,”

Your best friend doesn’t argue anymore, following you to the counter in silence. The cashier barely looks up as they say, “That consultation is $120 total, plus taxes, bringing it to $145.86. Card or cash?”

You catch Da-hee reaching for her wallet, but you gently push her hand away. “Don’t,” you murmur. “This was for me.”

You hand over your card. A quick swipe, a faint beep. And just like that, you’re down nearly $150 with nothing to show for it but a sinking feeling in your stomach.

That much money for a consultation. A conversation. No treatment, no tests, nothing tangible. Soulmate doctors are expensive. Too expensive. And health insurance? Useless. They don’t cover something as rare, as unquantifiable, as soulmate problems.

Because to them, it’s not a real sickness, proving that you are—once again—the outlier.

Perfect.

“Come on,” you say, nudging your still-guilty-looking friend. She follows you out of the hospital, quiet and pouting.

At the car, she pulls open the driver’s side door. “Let me at least drive?” she offers, voice softer now.

You chuckle at her persistence, shaking your head before tossing her the keys. “Okay.” Sliding into the passenger seat, you reach for the radio, as she pulls out of the parking lot.

"Let's hang out at your place," Da-hee says, and she grins as she sees you nod your head.

Music played softly through the speakers, blending with the casual flow of conversation. The air is light, and easy—until your car rolls past a towering black building.

HYBE.

Funeral wreaths. Trucks. Massive banners.

Your brows furrow as you take it in, the sight so jarring that it silences you for a beat. The road ahead clogs with slowed traffic, people lingering to gawk at the scene.

“What the fuck?” Da-hee mutters, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter, eyes darting across the scene. The traffic slows as more people crane their necks to look. You do the same, stomach twisting at the sheer scale of it. "This is insane."

“What’s going on?” you ask, still trying to piece together the meaning behind it all.

She exhales, lips pressing into a thin line. “Lee Heeseung. An idol,” she starts. “News got out that he recently went out with his soulmate.” Her voice dips, sadness flickering across her face. “And now… now, people want him out of the group.”

Your stomach twists. “What?”

You strain to read the bold, angry messages plastered across the banners:

GET LEE HEESEUNG OUT OF HYBE.

APOLOGIZE, LEE HEESEUNG.

EXPLAIN THIS, LEE HEESEUNG.

ENHYPEN IS NOW ONLY SIX.

IDOLS WITH SOULMATES ARE NOT IDOLS.

The messages feel suffocating, each one worse than the last. Then you see it—one of the trucks, its LED screen flashing an image like a public execution.

A man, young and striking, caught mid-laughter as he eats ramen with a girl beside him. She’s smiling too, her expression warm, content. The matching caps on their heads make them look like any ordinary couple, but the grainy, long-lens quality of the photo gives it away. Someone had been watching. Someone had been waiting to expose them.

Your stomach turns.

“It’s worse when so many fans are… young,” Da-hee murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. “Most of them are stringless.” She says the last word carefully like she doesn’t want to offend you.

But you almost hear what she isn’t saying.

Stringless people can’t understand the soulmate bond. And when it comes to idols, that misunderstanding twists into darker. As insane as it sounds, they feel entitled. Possessive. Like their devotion should be enough. Like an idol’s life—who they love, who they belong to—should be theirs to control.

It’s the only explanation, isn’t it?

The car inches forward, and your eyes drift back to the scene outside. Security guards push against the surging crowd, their faces strained. The banners wave wildly, like battle flags in a war meant to punish.

You swallow hard. “I don’t get it.” You don’t know him. You don't need to know him to know the injustice of it. “Why treat him like he committed some kind of crime? He’s meant to have someone. He’s a person, not—” You gesture vaguely at the protest, frustration bubbling up. “Not their property.”

Da-hee sighs. “That’s why idols who are caught with their soulmates—especially the ones who confirm it, get cancelled. Fans turn on them. They lose everything.” She shakes her head, voice laced with exhaustion and resignation. “It’s sad that they have to hide it.”

The thought of society hating someone just for loving who they’re meant to love makes your chest feel tight. How could something meant to be beautiful turn into this?

You guess your own situation isn’t the only cruel, unfair thing in this world.

The two of you make it back to your apartment, settling in for a movie with a bowl of popcorn between you. The glow of the TV flickers across the room, a comfortable silence stretching between you—until Da-hee suddenly squeals, nearly knocking the popcorn over in the process.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, shoving the popcorn bowl off her lap as she scrambles to her feet. “OH MY GOD.” She starts stomping in place.

You glance at her, unimpressed. “I want to wipe that ridiculous grin off your face.”

She just giggles and shoves her phone in front of you. “Joon bought me VVIP tickets. I’m going to die.” She pumps a fist in the air, bouncing on her toes like a kid who just won the lottery. “And there’s two. He can’t go—oh my god. Please, please, I am begging you to come with me. It’s next week! That sneaky bastard didn’t even tell me he bought them ages ago.”

You hesitate, already feeling the excuse forming on your tongue. “I don’t think—”

“Come on, Y/N.” She grabs your arm, shaking it dramatically. “Look at me. I have a soulmate, and I still thirst over Tomorrow X Together.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “That’s a long-ass name.”

“They’re my babies,” she says, clutching her chest like she’s been personally blessed by the gods. “You’ll love the show, I promise. And maybe—you’ll be like me. While you wait for your soulmate, it’s harmless to fangirl a little. OMG, what if you become a MOA? That’s my dream. Imagine us going to cafés with photocards, buying merch, collecting albums—”

“Okay, first of all, they are grown men. Not babies.” you cut in before she spirals. You know from experience that once she starts talking about her fangirl life, she never stops. “Anyways, okay, I’ll go. But don’t expect anything.”

Da-hee lets out another excited squeal before launching herself at you, wrapping her arms around your neck and squeezing way too tight.

“You won’t regret this!”

You already do.

It was your turn to trail behind Da-hee like a lost puppy, weaving through the sea of fans decked out in carefully coordinated outfits. Everyone is well dressed. So prepared. Keychains and accessories dangled from their bags, the sound of clinking metal filling the air.

"Look at them," Da-hee suddenly stopped, pulling out her phone. You followed her gaze to the massive banner hanging outside the arena.

TOMORROW X TOGETHER

They... didn’t look bad.

"My husbands," Da-hee sighed dreamily spinning turning to you with wide eyes. "Let's take a selfie!"

Before you could protest, she yanked you in, holding her phone high. The two of you posed—her grinning ear to ear, you looking like a reluctant daughter humoring her overexcited mom.

At the ticketing section, an attendant handed you both event wristbands and ID laces. You're about to shove yours into your pocket, but Da-hee looped it around your neck like a medal.

“So you don’t lose it,” she said firmly.

You sighed, adjusting the strap as you followed her toward a merch booth. Fans swarmed the display, eyes gleaming as they scanned the shelves stacked with albums, shirts, and accessories.

"Everyone's so hyped," you muttered, glancing around. "I can see a lot of Da-hees here."

"Of course they are," Da-hee said ignoring your last comment with a dramatic sway of her hand. She skimmed the display. "This comeback is a masterpiece."

You frowned. "What are we even doing here?"

"You need a picket." She says. "And don’t even think about saying no. I’m still heartbroken you refused the lightstick, so at least take this. We’re gonna be right at the barricades, you can’t just stand there empty-handed. Pick one."

You groaned, "Fine."

Your eyes sweep over the options, scanning each face printed on the glossy boards. You won’t say it out loud—not yet—but you’ll admit it now. They’re all… ridiculously handsome.

And one of them stands out.

Soft brown eyes. A small, almost knowing smile. Something about his face makes your breath hitch. "Uh..."

Da-hee leans in, brow furrowing. "What are you picking? Wait. Are you okay? Why are you so red—"

"I'm not," You quickly pointed at the picket, avoiding her stare like your life depended on it. "This one."

A slow, mischievous grin spreads across her face. "Oh-ho." She turns to the waiting merch seller, smiling some more.

"One Beomgyu, please."

You followed her... once again.

You didn’t have much of a choice. But this time, your steps felt… lighter. Movements are less reluctant than when you first arrived.

You weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the way the heat had finally eased, the golden glow of late afternoon settling over the pavement. Maybe it was the way MOAs—total strangers—smiled at you like you belonged, their warmth making you feel strangely at ease. Maybe it was the fact of not hearing the word soulmate even once. That you don't feel the odd one out.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was the picket you now held carefully in your hands.

You didn’t know how it happened. How you went from teasing Da-hee about her obsession to clutching a piece of laminated paper like it meant something. But the more you looked around, the more you understood.

It wasn’t just about the idols printed on banners or the music playing faintly in the background. But also, it was about them. These people who glowed with excitement, who found joy in simply being here, in loving unapologetically.

You were sceptical of it at first, seeing the front of HYBE last week. The protest. But just like everything, you saw it. The good side of being a fan.

How they shined—not only because of who they adored, but because of how they adored. How happy they were to love, and to share that love with everyone around them.

And somehow, standing here among them, you felt a little brighter, too.

"Where are we going now?"

"MOAZONE," Da-hee answers without hesitation, pulling you toward yet another booth. The concert doors won’t open for another thirty minutes, but she’s on a mission. The funny thing is—she doesn’t really need to drag you anymore.

Something has settled in your bones. You’re going to see this through, stay until the last song fades. And maybe—you’ll find yourself here again next time.

"It’s a booth where you can pull a concert-exclusive photocard," she explains further, eyes shining with excitement.

You nod, letting her lead the way. The line is long. When it’s finally Da-hee’s turn, she gasps, then squeals so loudly people around her chuckle. "Yeonjun!" she cries, clutching the card to her chest like it’s the most precious thing in the world. "I got him!"

Then, it’s your turn.

A row of face-down cards is laid out before you. You don’t think too hard about it—you just point to one.

The staff hands it over, and when you flip it, your breath catches.

"You got Beomgyu?!" Da-hee shrieks, bouncing on her toes beside you. You barely hear her. Because there he is.

Elbow propped up, chin resting on his hand, that same small, knowing smile—only this time, it’s wider.

Fucking hell.

Da-hee grabs your arm, shaking you. "Girl, you are officially a Beomgyu magnet. I'm unfriending you if don't start liking them,"

Beomgyu.

Beomgyu. His name loops in your mind, over and over. And for some reason, it fits. His name suits him.

You tried your best not to break a smile. "Come on,"

If you had told yourself a year ago that you’d be here—crammed into a packed venue, surrounded by screaming teenagers—you would’ve laughed. Hard.

And yet, here you are, laughing. Not at the absurdity of it, but with it. Caught up in the moment with Da-hee, the crowd’s energy vibrates as hundreds of voices chant their names.

“It’s soundcheck first,” Da-hee leans in, her voice barely cutting through the noise. “Then the main concert.”

You nod, still grinning. “Okay.”

Then, the opening notes of a song play through the speakers. The crowd erupts. “Oh my god!” Da-hee shrieks, “It’s Deja Vu!”

The five of them step onto the stage. It’s a blur—lights flashing, voices screaming. Your heart pounds against your ribs as the music swells, wrapping around you like something alive.

It’s beautiful.

A tall man—easily the tallest—moves toward your section, waving with an easy smile, deep dimples carving into his soft-looking cheeks. It reminds you of bread. The warmth of it is infectious, and before you even realise it, you're waving back, grinning at someone whose name you didn’t even know this morning.

Then, the song begins to wind down. And that’s when you see him.

Beomgyu.

His steps are slower than the others, like he’s taking his time, scanning the crowd with careful eyes. You tell yourself not to look. Not when he gets closer. Not when that strange, restless nervousness twists in your stomach. You clench your fists and stare at the ground. Why? Why does this feel so overwhelming?

Around you, voices grew. The energy shifts, and you know it’s only a matter of time before you give in. You look up, unsure.

The mic is at his lips, his voice singing into the melody—until suddenly, he stops.

All because his eyes meet yours.

Everything else fades. The crowd, the shake of Da-hee beside you, even the music that was supposed to be loud. All that’s left is the pull—a red thread stretching between, searing itself into your vision, blinding in its intensity—demanding to be seen.

On stage, he stands impossibly still, his fingers gripping the mic like he sees it too.

It can't be real.

“We're trending again,” Taehyun says, flopping onto Beomgyu’s hotel bed with a sigh. “What the hell?”

Beomgyu leans back against the headboard, “How much time do we have?”

Taehyun checks his watch. “Practice is in… oh. Hours.” He exhales, shaking his head in awe. “This is actually happening. A sold-out stadium, Beomgyu. Can you believe that? Remember that tiny, run-down building we used to train in? The cracked floorboards, the growing mushrooms?” He laughs, eyes distant.

“When Yeonjun used to sneak his soulmate in, trying to show off like he was already famous? As a trainee. And now—now, we’re here.”

Beomgyu snorts. “In that practice room, too. I still don’t know how his soulmate put up with that. Or how Yeonjun didn’t get kicked out.”

“Yeah. They just couldn’t let go of each other.” Taehyun laughs, shaking his head. “And I don't think Big Hit will let go of him too."

It had been one of the first rules drilled into them during training—no soulmates. No... searching. And if they already had one? They had to tell them. Have the conversation. An agreement that would turn everything into a secret.

Soulmates were inevitable, unstoppable. Beomgyu still remembers the contract in his hands, the way he read every word over and over, heart pounding. As if somewhere in the fine print, there was a clause that might hurt his soulmate. In the end, he signed.

If he ever found his soulmate, no one could know. Not until everything was over. In other words, disbandment.

"I'm missing her like crazy these days."

Beomgyu doesn’t respond right away. He just shrugs, tossing things out of his suitcase—a hoodie, a toothbrush, whatever his hands find first. He had noticed how restless Taehyun had been, the way he kept his phone glued to his hands, typing, hesitating, typing again. But what was there to say? What could he do about it?

The others were good at pretending. Hiding. The quiet hotel meetups, the stolen hours between schedules. But if Beomgyu was being honest, he could count on both hands the number of times any of the four had actually been with their soulmates since debut.

The fear of getting caught kept them all in line. Not just by the company, but by the fans. The horror stories weren’t just industry rumours—some were ancient, some recent.

If this doesn’t work out, I don’t know if I can take it. Taehyun had said that once. This career was everything. He wasn’t going to risk it. He wasn't ready. And Beomgyu understood. Everyone understood. He could already picture the protest trucks outside the company building if anyone ever slipped up.

"You heard anything from Heeseung?" Taehyun asks, his voice careful, his fingers tightening around his phone. Beomgyu knows him well enough to catch the shift—the way his mind drifts, went from missing his soulmate to remembering the latest scandal in their world.

Heeseung, the newest idol thrown into the fire.

He, who got caught with his soulmate.

"Yeah," Beomgyu says, swallowing. "He's okay, but… his soulmate is taking the worst of it."

Taehyun stills. The thought of his own soulmate being dragged into something like that—starts to burn at the back of his mind. What if it were her?

"Hey, don't overthink it," Beomgyu says because he sees it. He sees it in all of them. The quiet way they carry it, that they aren’t supposed to want. In their world, the idea that you should be free with your soulmate is just that—an idea. Or maybe worse. A peril. A risk too big to take.

He remembers Soobin crying once, blaming himself for wanting this life—this job. And how, in the end, the only person who could calm him down was his soulmate. The same person the company treated like a liability. Yet, the only one with the power to bring their leader back to himself.

The irony.

He also remembers the night he sat with his dad, asking him how he knew Mom was his. He had tilted his head, recounting their encounter, before he said one thing that stuck with him.

"Before I even saw the string, I knew… it was her."

Beomgyu used to cringe at that. Now, he wonders if he'll ever get the chance to feel it.

“Did you see everyone? Insane.” Yeonjun says, eyes wide as they sit in the salon-like chairs. “They’ve been out there since last night.”

Kai glances at him as much as he can without moving his head, his makeup artist carefully blending eyeshadow. “Yeah, I saw them. MOAs are bundled up out there, and it’s freezing. It's worrying me.”

"I feel like I'm about to throw up. I'm nervous,"

Playing a stadium—a sold-out one, this is the dream. The one every trainee chases, the one Beomgyu used to stare at the ceiling imagining, too afraid to believe it could ever be real. And yet, here it is.

His mind pulls him back to the past. The long nights, the aching muscles, the quiet sobs muffled into his pillow. The moments of doubt, the voices—his own, the other's—telling him he wasn’t enough. He remembers how hard they worked. How hard he worked. How many times they shared one meal because they couldn't afford another one. And still, somehow, they held on.

He knows he earned this, and fought for it with everything he had. But standing here now, bathed in the price of it all, it still doesn’t feel real. He stares at his hands once his stylist is done with his eyes. There’s something else tugging at him, a strange feeling that’s been lurking since morning.

What it is, he can’t quite say.

Beomgyu's eyes sweep over the big space. The kind of big that makes his head spin if he thinks about it too much. In a few hours, this place will be much packed. He’s been—on stages just like this, under lights just as bright but somehow, it still knocks the wind out of him.

It's soundcheck. He likes it because, with the lights up, he can actually see everyone. It was one of the rare moments he could see faces. He likes it as much as the offline fan signs. They move through the set, running back and forth across the stage, but his feet keep pulling him toward one side—like an instinct.

Beomgyu likes looking at MOAs. It feels good. Familiar, almost. Sometimes, he even recognizes a face— it was a feeling like a reminder of home, a classmate from school, someone he’d seen before. And then there’s the simple joy of it all. The way someone’s face brightens up because of him. It never gets old. It never stops making him happy, too.

But then, he notices one weird thing.

It’s strange. He’s right here. He could understand if you were looking at another member—fans have their favourites, after all. But you’re not looking at anyone. You're staring at the floor?

You’re not looking at all.

He tilts his head, trying to see better—to get a curious glimpse, and suddenly, his whole world shifts. His heart slams to a stop. It’s so sudden, so overwhelming, he almost stumbles forward, yanking him toward the barricade. "What?"

And then—you move, as if you heard his thoughts.

Just the slightest turn of your head, your face lifting, eyes locking onto his. He stops breathing. His fingers go numb around the mic. Everything slows, softens, blurs at the edges until there’s nothing but this moment. Just the two of you, staring.

The closeness of Beomgyu makes the crowd shift, bodies pressing closer—but you don’t move. You just stand there—still, steady—while the rest of the world shifts around you. Like the last grain of sand in an hourglass, holding on as everything else rushes past.

He swears he would’ve stayed like that forever—frozen, staring, lost—if not for the firm hand on his shoulder. A small tug. He blinks, the spell breaking just enough for reality to slip back in.

"Beomgyu? What's wrong?" Soobin. His leader gives him a look of worry and urgency, and that’s when he hears it, the music. He closes his agape lips, and clears his throat. The song is still playing. Right. He’s supposed to be—

But then his gaze flickers back to you.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. You’re just so so pretty. That’s all. Maybe it was your eyes or your hair or the way you did it. It was just fucking cute. It doesn’t mean anything. And—

His breath falters. He sees it.

He hadn’t noticed before. He had been too busy looking at you. Too caught up in the moment that he missed it entirely. Something all of the members have. Something Beomgyu had waited for his whole life.

The thread.

Thin, and so impossibly red. A string stretched between, glowing faintly under the stage lights. He looks down at his hand—at his ring finger— it's tied there. His eyes trace its path. To you. His chest tightens.

"Before I even saw the string, I knew… it was her."

Soulmate.

You’re his. After everything—after all this time—

He finally found you.

The dressing room is a blur of movement, stylists rushing, last-minute adjustments being made, and voices overlapping but he just sits there. Staring at the floor.

He’s dressed. He’s ready. He should be used to this by now, the pre-show jitters, the nervous energy that always sits in his chest before he steps on stage. But—his soulmate is out there. Somewhere in the crowd. And the thought grips him so tight it almost hurts. What if he never sees you again? What if you’re gone before he can find you?

Your face lingers in his mind, vivid and haunting. The way the lights hit your dress, the way you looked at him—it knocked the breath right out of his lungs. He was completely unprepared for it. You were so beautiful that he almost forgot what he was doing.

He’s never been shaken like that before. Not in his personal life. Not as an idol. Not in school, at the company, on stage, meeting seniors, at award shows—never.

Waiting for the music queue, he finally lifts his head.

Muscle memory takes over. His body knows what to do. He’s trained for this, conditioned for it. Every movement, every note, every expression—it’s muscle memory now. His instincts take over before his thoughts can catch up. This is his life. His career. The one thing he chose, out of everything he could have been. How many people in the world get to do this? To stand under those lights, to hear thousands of voices calling his name, to live a dream most wouldn’t even dare to chase?

Would he trade it all, just to see you again?

His feet move—before he can stop them, despite his thoughts, his heart pulls him stronger toward your section. It's a force beyond his control. When he finally sees you again, it feels like a miracle. You’re still near the barricade, still close enough that he doesn’t have to search.

He keeps up, waves, and makes faces—things for MOAs, things he’s done a thousand times before. But his mind isn’t on them. It’s on you. And you’re just standing there again, frozen in place like you don’t trust yourself to move.

He waves again, but this time, it’s for you. Directly. You tilt your head, hesitant, and then—an unsure wave back. It’s so small, so subtle, but it makes him smile. His grin spreads before he can think twice.

Got you, beautiful.

He pumps his fist in an exaggerated show of triumph, like he just won a game only the two of you are playing. He watches as your eyes go wide, and if the lights weren’t so blinding, he swears he’d see the warmth rising to your cheeks. He fists his hand, trying to hold back from reaching out to you.

He crouches, and the fans around you surge forward, eager to be seen, but you don’t move. And then, he sees it—your eyes kept flickering downward, tracing the thread again and again, like you were making sure.

Yet you see it perfectly too.

You smile—small, hesitant, like you’re not sure this is really happening. Then, as if on impulse, you lift your hand, forming a careful, uncertain hand heart.

He doesn’t even wait a second before returning it.

His eagerness made you laugh. A breathless, disbelieving kind of laugh. He can’t hear it, not over the noise of the crowd, but he sees it in the way your shoulders shake, the way your eyes crease at the corners. His chest aches.

You're even more beautiful when you laugh.

He tosses a few kisses out into the air, but he gives his last kiss, the last one to you. You hesitate for only a second before sending one back. His response is instant—dramatic, ridiculous—clutching his chest like you’ve just shot him straight through the heart. He stumbles back, clutches at his clothes, so completely gone for you.

It’s meant to be a joke, but it isn’t.

Because you do have his heart, don’t you? And the strangest thing is, he doesn’t even know your name. Has never heard your voice. But right now, none of that matters. Maybe he’d stay here forever if he could, but the next song cut through the air, pulling him back to the present. His feet move, leading him away—away from you.

Before he joins the centre, just for a second, he looks back. A second to meet your eyes again, to make sure you're watching him.

And you are.

"Hyung," he breathes out.

Soobin turns, both of them standing still as stylists tug their sweat-drenched shirts off, replacing them with fresh ones.

But Beomgyu isn’t thinking about the show anymore.

He’s looking at Soobin. Waiting. Searching for the right way to ask without anyone else catching on. He doesn’t want them to hear. Doesn’t want them to know.

Not yet.

Soobin frowns slightly. “What? You've been looking distracted since earlier. Are you okay?”

“Your soulmate…” His eyes flicker down. He hesitates, searching for the right words. The right way to say this. "At—Tokyo? How did you…?"

He doesn’t need to finish the thought. How can the older forget the only time he managed to sneak his soulmate backstage? Soobin stares at Beomgyu. The latter's face is practically screaming his questions. How did you do it? How did you get them backstage? How did you make it happen?

Beomgyu has to see you. In front of him. Next to him. Because what if you disappear? What if he lets this slip through his fingers, and suddenly—you’re just gone? And what if this is his only chance?

The room moves around him—zippers, voices, fabric rustling—but all he can hear is his own ragged breathing. He moves his eyes. And there, watching him is their leader who knows him better than anyone—with that equally knowing look on his face.

"Let's talk. Just the two of us."

Beomgyu is your soulmate.

The boys just disappeared backstage, their song still ringing in your ears, but your hands won’t stop shaking. Your chest is tight, your throat burns, and there’s a sting at the corners of your eyes.

You're not a mistake. He’s here. He saw you.

His eyes, his smile. The way he moves, the faint dimple that appears when he does. The thought is too much—it makes your knees weak, and forces you to grip the barricade to keep yourself upright.

"Girl, I swear Beomgyu kept looking over here," Da-hee says, nudging you, completely oblivious to the storm unraveling in your chest. Then she catches sight of your face—at your trembling fingers, at the way you can’t seem to catch your breath.

“Y/N?” Her voice softens. “What’s wrong?”

The words leave your lips before you can even think. "I saw my soulmate."

Your voice shakes, barely above a whisper, but Da-hee hears it. Her eyes go wide. "Wait, what? Oh my god—where is he? Is he a MOA? Is he—”

She doesn’t even get to finish the thought before she freezes.

It clicks.

Then, slowly, her face shifts—from confusion to shock to absolute disbelief. The finding out, then the realising. She stares at you, her mouth slightly open, her hands hovering in the air like she doesn’t know what to do with them.

“Oh my fucking god.” Her hands fly to her mouth, like she needs to physically stop herself from screaming. Then she grabs her hair, like that’s going to help her process this.

“Is he—is Beomgyu—” She cuts herself off, whisper-shouting now, eyes darting toward the stage, toward the place where he just was. “Is that why he kept coming back over here?”

Her grip tightens on your arm, searching your face, waiting for you to confirm what she already knows. But you can’t say anything. All you can give is a small nod.

Minutes pass. The music swells and fades, song after song drifting through the speakers.

Da-hee stays by your side, rubbing soothing circles on your back, whispering reassurances you can’t fully process. At some point, you catch her sniffling into her hands, wiping away her own tears.

Sixteen years.

Sixteen years of friendship, of growing up together, of knowing each other better than anyone else ever could. She’s seen every version of you—the messy, the broken, the parts of you even you struggled to accept. She’s cried with you, cried for you, carried your grief like it was her own. Even after finding her own soulmate, she never left you behind. Never made you feel like you were missing something, like you were less.

And now—now she’s the reason you’re here.

She’s the reason you met him.

You think of every birthday candle she ever closed her eyes for, every whispered wish she made on your behalf—because she believed that if two people wished for the same thing, the universe had to listen.

And maybe she was right.

It doesn’t matter if he never speaks to you. If the lights were too bright, if the crowd was too big, if he never even saw the thread at all.

It doesn’t matter. Because you saw it.

And that means you were never a mistake. Never some error in the grand design.

He exists.

Da-hee squeezes your hands, grounding you as a woman in staff uniform approaches. Her eyes lock onto yours, scanning your face, your outfit—like she’s confirming, making sure. Then, she stops directly in front of you. “We need to check some information on your tickets.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. You’re not stupid. You know what this is. You know they wouldn’t say it outright, not here, not in front of all these people.

“I—I have a friend with me,”

The staff member hesitates, studying you for a beat too long. Then she nods. “She can come with you, but she’ll have to wait in the holding room.”

You turn to Da-hee, and she’s already looking at you, her eyes wide and glassy. For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then she forces a wobbly smile.

Let's go.

You’re going to meet Beomgyu.

The walk was terrifying. Your hands clench tighter with every step, nails digging into your palms, but it does nothing to steady you. Every passing glance burns into your skin—people sneaking curious glances—staff members, crew, people who know exactly why you’re here.

Da-hee had to stay behind in the outer lounge. Now, it’s just you and the staff member leading you deeper into the backstage hallways. The air is thick, suffocating, and you force yourself to breathe through it.

Then she stops. A white door stands in front of you. Dressing Room is printed neatly on a sign, but the words blur as your mind spins.

She knocks. Opens it.

Panic rushes in. What if he doesn’t want this? What if he only let you come here to reject you—to tell you, to your face, that even if the universe says you’re meant to be, he doesn’t want you? What if—

The thought vanishes the second you see him.

Beomgyu.

He’s mid-step, like he’s been pacing. He removes his hands from his face, his eyes widening just slightly before he clears his throat. “Come in,” he says, voice softer than you expected. It’s meant for the staff member, but his gaze never left yours.

The staff steps aside, gesturing for you to enter. Heat crawls up your neck as you force yourself to move, hyper-aware of the way he’s watching every step.

“You have 60 minutes, Beomgyu,” she says before closing the door behind you.

Beomgyu stares at you, and you stare back.

For a moment, neither of you move. Just standing there, eyes locked, as if the world has paused just for this. To anyone else, it might look awkward—but you can't look away as he does.

Your eyes traces over his face, bare and fresh like he just washed up. The soft curve of his cheekbones, the freckles and moles scattered like constellations—proof that the universe took its time with him. Perfect in a way that makes your chest ache.

He blinks, and your eyes catch on his lashes—delicate, dark, fluttering against his skin like something out of a dream.

How can someone be made this perfect?

The question lodges itself in your throat, and before you can stop it, your vision blurs. Tears threaten to spill, but you blink them away. You don’t even know if he wants this yet—

"What’s your name?" Beomgyu asks, his voice quieter than he expected. He watches the way you blink, the slight parting of your lips like you hadn’t expected him to speak first.

His hands curl into fists at his sides. The urge to reach out—to cup your face, to feel your skin—is overwhelming. But he holds himself back.

Beomgyu has never considered himself the kind of person to take the first step. But not this. Not with you. He wants to start a conversation, anything—to get you talking, to hear your voice, to know you.

"Y/N." The sound of your voice stills him. It settles in his chest, not as something new, but as something he swears he’s always known—like a song he’s heard in a dream, waiting to be remembered. His lips twitch into a small, almost dazed smile.

Your voice is so pretty, he thinks. So pretty that it hurts.

He repeats your name, slower this time, rolling it over his tongue like he’s memorizing the way it feels to say it. And when you smile—just the faintest curve of your lips—his own smile widens into a grin.

"So, uh, hi?" Beomgyu says, and it pulls a laugh from you. His heart stumbles over itself at the sound, warmth blooming in his chest. It’s ridiculous, really, how easily you affect him.

"Did you come here alone?" he asks, trying to steady himself.

"I was with a friend," you say, and his eyes flicker—just for a second—to your lips before settling back on yours. "She’s outside."

"Hm." Beomgyu nods slowly, as if letting the thought settle. Then, slowly, he reaches out—his palm open, facing up, an unspoken invitation for you to give your hand out.

Your breath catches. Hesitation flickers for just a moment before you place your hand in his. Beomgyu feels warmth creep up his neck the second your skin meets, a flush he hopes you don’t notice. His fingers curl gently around yours, testing the weight of your hand in his own.

"Come on," he says, his voice softer now. He tugs you forward—careful, gentle, afraid he's hurt you in any way if he pulls too hard. "You should sit. You must be tired from standing out there."

"I could say the same," you murmur as you both sink into the couch. Beomgyu turns slightly toward you, his knee brushing yours, but he doesn’t let go of your hand. His thumb traces absentminded circles against your skin. "You danced and ran around the stage all night," you add, tilting your head at him.

He chuckles, the sound low and a little breathless. Your eyes drift around the room—clothing racks, scattered bags, the quiet remnants of a space that had been buzzing with energy just minutes ago.

"Yeah, I was pretty tired," he admits. Then, after a pause, softer this time, when you look at him again, he’s already staring. "But not anymore."

Beomgyu takes in everything—your lips, the way the light catches in your eyes, the soft of your hand in his. He doesn’t even think before he speaks, before the thought that’s been looping in his head since he first saw you finally slips past his lips.

"God, you're so beautiful."

Beomgyu watches as your cheeks flush, the warmth creeping up your skin like the slow bloom of dawn. He knew—you were his soulmate. Fates stitched together long before this moment, yet nothing could have prepared him for the way you looked right now. He never imagined that watching you blush under his words would feel this intoxicating.

"You’re the one who’s beautiful," you murmur, barely above a whisper. The words feel foreign on your tongue, yet true in a way that unsettles you. You clear your throat, trying to mask the way your heart stumbles over itself, but Beomgyu only tightens his grip on your hand.

You wonder how you even got here. This morning, you woke up with no idea that by evening, you'd be sitting across from your soulmate, flirting like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He chuckles—Beomgyu has heard the word beautiful more times than he can count. It’s been thrown at him in passing, whispered through screams from fans, printed in glossy magazines. But somehow, from your lips, it sounds different.

The next few minutes passed in easy conversation. Beomgyu had already pieced together bits of your life—you were only here because Da-hee dragged you along—he’d been hoping to meet her too, if only to thank her.

He knew you worked a corporate job, that photography was your escape. That you were two years older than him, a fact that he immediately latched onto, whispering noona in a teasing lilt just to see the way you’d roll your eyes laugh and swat his arm. But the truth was, he didn’t want to call you that. It was your name he wanted to say. He felt like he’d already spent a lifetime missing it, and now that he knew it, he never wanted to stop saying it.

You had learned things about him, too. That he’d loved music since he was a kid, that he picked up a guitar before he fully understood its chords. That he was cast as a trainee before he even hit the climax of his teenage years, and that six years had passed since he debuted. Things you could have easily searched online, or you could have read every article, and watched every interview, but nothing made your heart flutter quite like the way he told his own story.

The contrast between your lives was undeniable. Maybe that’s why it took so long for fate to push you toward each other.

While you were drowning in homework, he was in a practice room, chasing a dream. While you sat through lectures and worried about exams, he was in a studio, recording songs that would echo through stadiums. While you cried over a failed job interview, he stayed up until dawn, running through choreography again and again until his legs gave out. Your society—were parallel lines moving in different directions.

But sitting here, watching him scrunch his nose in laughter, none of that seemed to matter. Two people from different worlds, felt like it had faded into one—just by being next to each other.

He hadn’t once let go of your hand for the past hour.

"No, I just—I didn’t know where else to put it, so I stuck it there." You fumble for an excuse, cheeks burning as Beomgyu grins at you. He had spotted the photocard of him tucked into the back of your phone case, and he hadn’t let it go since.

“And it was random,” you add quickly, feeling your face heat up. “You have to randomly pick it.”

The truth is, Beomgyu knows. He knows it was a random selection. He knows you’re flustered. And he loves it. Loves the way you try to explain yourself, loves hearing you ramble, loves the way your face heats up under his stare. And to be honest, if it had been another member’s face staring back at him, no matter how petty it sounded, he also knows he wouldn’t have been too thrilled about it.

He’s in deep.

"Beomgyu, it's time to go." The same staff member says, pulling you both back to reality. You didn't even hear the doors opening. Her eyes flicker to your joined hands for a second, but she doesn’t say anything—just turns and steps outside.

You glance at Beomgyu, and he’s pouting. "We’re flying to Japan tomorrow morning, Y/N."

"Oh." The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. You just met your soulmate, and by morning, he’d be gone. "Okay."

You stand up, expecting him to do the same, but he doesn’t move. Your hands dangle between you because he still hasn’t let go. "Beomgyu?"

"I’ll see you as soon as I get back, okay?" His voice is softer now, like he’s trying to find the right words. His gaze lingers on you, unreadable for a moment, before he finally stands. He squeezes your hands gently. "It won’t be too long."

"Alright… we have each other's numbers, so… text me."

"Just know your phone might be buzzing non-stop,"

"Got it." You roll your eyes, smiling. "I’ll survive."

"And wear warm clothes—it’s winter."

"You too."

"Eat on time."

"You’re the one doing concerts. I should be the one saying that."

He ignores your deflection, pressing on. "Sleep well. Lock your doors properly. You live alone, so it’s dangerous. Don’t go out too late. And if you do, call me, okay? Actually, I’d prefer if you didn’t go out too late at all. Please—make sure you don’t—"

He doesn’t get to finish. Before he can say another word, you reach up, sliding your arms around the back of his neck, pulling him into a hug. His words cut off instantly, replaced by a soft inhale—like he hadn’t breathed since he started speaking. Your heart squuezes over itself at his endless concern, spreading through your chest. Blinking rapidly, trying to push away the tears threatening to spill.

For the first time tonight, Beomgyu lets go of your hand—only to wrap both arms around you, one firm around your waist, the other reaching up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair.

"I’ll see you soon, Beomgyu," you murmur.

You feel him tilt his head slightly before pressing a fleeting, warm kiss to your temple. "I’ll see you soon."

Elevators terrify you. It scares you because it feels like everything could come crashing down at any second. Why would you trust something that rises so quickly—too fast?

It can't last, doesn't it?

You feel him snuggle to you more, and you chuckle, pressed against him, his scent, his arms around you, holding you safely—his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek, as if whispering that the fall you fear will never come.

Elevators terrified you.

You wish you could have captured Da-hee’s face when she saw you walking over with Beomgyu beside you, his hand resting firmly on your back. Her eyes widened, mouth slightly agape, before she shot you a knowing look.

Beomgyu offered her a quick thanks, the paper bag with your heels swinging from your hands, and you stood there in the fresh pair of sneakers he’d somehow found in your size—because he wanted to. His eyes met yours for just a second longer before he turned to leave.

The second you stepped into the parking lot, Da-hee lost it. She let out a squeal so loud you had to clamp a hand over her mouth, laughing as she practically vibrated with excitement. "What just happened?!" she whispered against your palm, her eyes sparkling.

That night, as soon as you got home, your phone rang. His name lit up the screen.

It took only a second before answering.

It was awkward at first—neither of you really knowing what to say—but before you knew it, you were talking about everything and nothing, voices laced with exhaustion but neither willing to hang up first. He was leaving in a few hours, and you had to be the one to convince him to sleep, reminding him—more than once—that he had a flight to catch.

You had just curled up in your blankets when your phone buzzed again. Dozy, you reached for it, thumb swiping across the screen.

Choi Beomgyu I’m sorry for making you wait. I promise we’ll make up for all the time we lost. Sleep well, beautiful.

Even as sleep pulled you under, the smile on your lips never faded.

You wake up to the relentless ringing of your doorbell. A groan slips past your lips as you burrow deeper into your blankets. It’s Sunday. No work. No alarms. Just sleep—at least, that was the plan.

The doorbell rings again.

With an exaggerated sigh, you drag yourself out of bed, doing the bare minimum to look somewhat presentable. Your hair is probably a mess, your face still puffy from sleep, but you don’t care. Whoever decided to disturb your well-earned rest better have a damn good reason.

You glance at the clock on your way out. Oh. It’s not even early—it’s almost 1 PM.

Squinting against the bright light as you crack the door open, you’re met with a sight that instantly wakes you up. A delivery man stands there, arms full, holding the biggest bouquet of red roses you’ve ever seen. The sheer number of petals is overwhelming, a deep sea of crimson spilling over the edges of his grasp.

"What—" Your brain struggles to catch up, and then it clicks. Beomgyu. He asked for your address yesterday.

"Y/N?" The man confirms, struggling under the bouquet.

Your eyes widen. "Damn, just how many are in there?"

"Three hundred and fifteen roses," he says, barely holding onto the mass of flowers. "Please sign here."

Three hundred and fifteen. You’re smiling as you take the pen from him.

You stumble slightly, still half-dazed as you carefully set the massive bouquet down, trying not to crush a single petal. Your fingers tremble as you reach for the small card nestled between the roses, your heart already beating a little too fast.

315 months of not being with you. This won’t make up for it, but I hope it makes you happy.

You inhale sharply. Your chest tightens. 315 months. He counted. Beomgyu counted the exact number of months you’ve been alive—how does he even think like this? Tears prick at your eyes before you can stop them. He’s ridiculous. He’s thoughtful in a way that completely undoes you.

Before you even realise what you’re doing, you’re running. Not walking—running. Because suddenly, every second without hearing his voice feels like a second wasted.

Your fingers fumble as you dial his number, pressing the phone to your ear. It barely rings once before the line clicks open—like he had been waiting for this call all along. “Beomgyu—” your voice comes out uneven, breathless.

He chuckles softly, “So… I take it you liked it?”

It’s already 3 PM.

Somehow, you lost track of time, carefully splitting the bundle into smaller arrangements, placing them in vases around your apartment. Now, your living room and kitchen are drenched in the scent of roses—not that you’re complaining.

Beomgyu had stayed on the phone with you the entire time, talking about his morning, his voice in the background as you worked. That is, until someone called for him on the other end, reminding him he had things to do.

You sighed when the call ended. It's sunday, and his sunday is like the worst day of your week. And you're here, resting.

Now, fresh out of the shower, droplets of water still clung to your skin as you stepped onto the cool tile. A shiver ran down your spine as you grabbed a towel, pressing it to your face, inhaling the soft, familiar scent of fabric softener.

Dressed in cozy clothes, you curled up on the couch, remote in one hand, a bowl of yogurt and berries resting on your lap. Television played softly as you mindlessly scrolled through channels, enjoying the quiet.

Until your phone buzzed. You unlocked it, eyes immediately landing on the message.

Nut-job Da-hee. Girl! He's extra glowy today!! OMG <link>

You tapped the link, expecting a video to pop up, but instead, it directed you to download an app. You went along with it, quickly signing in and typing out a cheeky username.

The video loaded—Soobin and Beomgyu, in a hotel room. A small table sat near the camera, cluttered with food containers and drinks. Beomgyu was on the bed, lounging comfortably but still close enough to be part of the frame.

And Da-hee wasn’t exaggerating—he looked good. The black shirt fit him just right, his dark hair falling effortlessly, lips tinted a soft pink. A phone in hand, completely unaware of just how stunning he looked.

An idea sparked in your mind.

"It's not barley tea, MOA," Beomgyu laughs, shaking his head as Soobin insists otherwise. No matter how many times their leader repeats himself, the comments keep flooding in, doubting him.

"Choi Beomgyu really traumatized you, huh?" he teases, eyes crinkling with amusement.

"What do you mean?" Beomgyu argues, but Soobin is already moving on, reading a new comment aloud. "Barley tea is healthy,"

Just then, Beomgyu’s phone buzzes. He glances down at the screen.

My Y/N Live?

His back immediately straightens. Shit. You’re watching? He’s about to type out a response when another message pops up.

You look handsome.

Beomgyu presses a hand over his mouth, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. He wants to—

"Beomgyu, MOAs are asking what you're doing," Soobin interrupts, his eyes full of silent curiosity.

"Nothing," Beomgyu says too quickly. "Kai sent a meme." He shifts closer to the camera, Soobin right beside him. With his phone in his hands, he types a message, fully aware that Soobin is peeking at his screen. They probably look ridiculous—both of them staring down at their phones while thousands of people watch.

You're watching?

A few seconds pass before your reply pops up.

Yes.

Beomgyu inhales, trying to focus as Soobin keeps talking. His fingers move instinctively.

I'm shy.

Why? You look good.

A pause. Then another message.

Wait, stop looking at your phone. Let MOA see you? Username: 315flowersmyass.

Beomgyu chokes on a laugh. His lips curl up as he locks his phone and holds it up to the camera, as if to prove he’s done. As if to prove that he followed your words.

"So cute," he sings, the words slipping out without thought. The chat erupts, MOAs spamming hearts and messages.

Then he catches it.

315flowersmyass kekekeke -

His grin stretches wider. He closes his face on the screen. "Hi, MOA." He giggles.

This—this is cute. He’s always enjoyed going live, but now he knows you’re watching, he discovers a love for it he never even knew was possible.

The live eventually comes to an end. As soon as it does, Soobin turns to Beomgyu with a knowing smile. "I'm happy you finally found her," he says simply. Beomgyu doesn’t respond right away—just smiles, warmth spreading through his chest. Then his phone buzzes.

He checks it, and the moment he does, a gasp slips past his lips.

It’s a picture. You.

A snack is held near your face, your expression relaxed. You’re in cozy clothes, looking effortlessly beautiful, breathtaking. The picture made Beomgyu wish he could fly back to you right there and then. Over his shoulder, Soobin leans in. "Is that her?" he asks, then grins. "She's pretty."

Beomgyu doesn’t look away from his phone as his lips curl into a smile.

"She is," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"She’s here."

Ji-an’s voice pulls you from your focus. She’s standing beside your desk, phone pressed to her ear, while you scan last week’s finance report. Your eyes flick over the spreadsheet, catching an error in a formula, but before you can fix it, Ji-an calls your name. "Y/N, there’s a delivery for you. They’re at the door."

"Oh," you murmur, pushing your reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. Contacts felt like too much trouble today. "Thanks."

As you stand, a familiar warmth spreads through your chest. Outside, the delivery man hands you a bouquet—this time, white roses.

You peek at the note while walking back, the click of your heels filling the space. Your way back to your desk by the window. The skyline stretches endlessly beyond the glass, a vast expanse of city lights and open sky.

Ow! I fell! Fell for you~ —bg <3

A laugh escapes before you can stop it—he's so silly. One of the things you realised recently.

"That's the fourth bouquet this month, Y/N," Ji-an muses, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "I know you just met your soulmate, but flowers every week? That’s next-level sweet. I’m jealous—mine isn't really a flowers kind of person."

You return her smile, "Yeah, he's the sweetest."

It’s been a month since you met Beomgyu. A single day—that’s all you had together. And yet, in the weeks that followed, he never let distance become an excuse. Even with his tour in full swing, miles stretching endlessly between you, he still found ways to reach you. A call in the middle of the night. A voice note filled with sleepy laughter. And these flowers—his way of saying, I'm here. I'm coming back to you soon.

Ji-an leans against your desk, eyes glinting with curiosity. "So… when do we get to meet him?" she asks, wiggling her brows. "You know the drill—everyone meets everyone’s soulmate. It’s basically tradition. At least one or two quick bond drinks a year, right?"

The playful edge in her voice makes your stomach twist. Because as much as you want to laugh along, to pretend that everything is as simple as it should be… you know the truth.

They can’t meet him. Your friends, your family—none of them can. Maybe not now. Maybe not ever. You don’t even know when you will see him again.

You swallow, forcing down the sudden tightness in your throat. The warmth you felt just moments ago, thinking about him, is now laced with something heavier.

"He's��he's busy," you say, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. You glance at the bouquet on your desk, fingers tracing the petals as if they hold an answer you don’t have. "Maybe next time."

The day finally ends, and you’re grateful Ji-an didn’t push for more.

You clutch the bouquet a little tighter as you step into the elevator, the faint scent of roses lingering in the air. By the time you make it to the parking lot, exhaustion weighs on you—but then you remember.

You forgot to send a text. Pulling out your phone, you type: I’m heading home now.

The message sends, and a small smile tugs at your lips. Beomgyu is probably fast asleep by now, lost in a time zone opposite yours. He won’t see it for hours, but you text him anyway—because you can already hear his voice in your head, playful and pouty. You forgot to tell me again, he’d whine. Can you please let me know?

You’ve learned a lot from him in such a short time. How simple it is to make someone feel remembered. How easy it is to reach out. How even in the busiest moments, there’s always a second to say, I haven’t forgotten you.

Because that’s what he’s been doing for you all along.

You slip your phone back into your pocket, ready to head to your car when someone stops you. Your steps slow, brows knitting together as your scan lands on a girl—sitting right on the hood of your car.

Your car. She’s perched there like she belongs, fingers idly tracing patterns against the metal.

"Hey," you call out, keeping your voice even. "It’s not really polite to sit on someone else’s car, sweetheart."

Her head lifts, eyes locking onto yours with disdain, "Don't sweetheart me, you slut."

The venom in her words knocks the air from your lungs. Your breath catches, shock flashing through you as she stands. She’s young. Much younger than you.

"Excuse me?"

"Are you fucking deaf?" she snaps.

Your instincts flare—this isn’t normal. You take a step back, "Leave. Now. Before I call the police."

But she doesn’t move. Instead, she tilts her head, and smirked. "You’re Beomgyu’s soulmate, aren’t you?"

Your body locks up. How does she know? Your fingers tighten around the stems of the flowers, the thorns pressing into your palm. You want to speak, to deny, to do something, but the words won’t come.

Because you know—whatever you say next could make this worse.

She clicks her tongue, taking a slow step toward you. "Do this while I’m still being nice," she says, voice eerily light. "Stay away from him. Or I’ll destroy everything." She tilts her head again, a slow blink. "I’d rather see him ruined than with you, unnie."

She steps past you then, her shoulder knocking into yours just hard enough to make you stumble back. Your hands cold, heart hammering against your ribs. She doesn’t look back. Not until she’s a few feet away.

"Don’t think I won’t do it," she murmurs. "Just think about how I knew. Your name. Your workplace. Your parking spot."

She smiles, "Don’t test me."

I’m heading home now.

Beomgyu rubs the sleep from his eyes, his fingers fumbling for his phone the moment he wakes up. Checking for your messages has become second nature—his first instinct, before he even fully shakes off sleep.

The corners of his lips curl into a soft smile as he reads your text. You remembered.

God, he misses you.

When he gets back, he’s not letting you out of his sight. He’ll beg his company if he has to—anything to steal just a little more time with you. He wants to spoil you, to show up with flowers every single day just to see that shy smile of yours. He’d buy you things you didn’t even know you needed, take pictures of you at every chance, make playlists for you, drag you into late-night game sessions just to hear you laugh and call him ridiculous. Love is effort. That’s what his parents always told him. He’d give it—all of it.

Maybe one day, he’d convince you to visit Daegu with him. Introduce you to his family, let his mom fuss over you, watch his brother tease him relentlessly. And Toto… Would you like Toto?

The thought makes him chuckle as he taps your contact and presses call. It rings. Once. Twice. Three times. His smile falters.

Then, voicemail.

His brows knit together. He tries again. Straight to voicemail. The phone feels heavier in his hand now.

It’s the first time you haven’t picked up.

He’s in the van now. It’s been hours.

Beomgyu grips his phone, scrolling through his notifications, eyes darting to every new alert. His heart lifts for a second—only to sink just as fast when he realizes it’s not you. The screen dims in his hands, but he doesn’t put it down. He can’t.

"You still haven’t heard from her?" Soobin asked. He’s the only one still awake, eyes heavy but observant. Beomgyu hadn’t meant to make it obvious, but he’s never been good at hiding things—not to his members.

"No," Beomgyu mutters, shaking his head. His throat feels tight. "We always talk before she falls asleep."

Soobin exhales, tilting his head back against the seat. "She probably crashed as soon as she got home. Long day, maybe?" He keeps his tone easy, reassuring. "Just focus on later's concert. She’ll probably be awake by then."

Beomgyu nods, forcing a small smile. "Yeah. You’re right. Thanks, hyung."

Soobin claps a hand on his back. "Don't think about it too much."

Beomgyu did his best to push thoughts of you aside during the concert. He smiled, he sang, he danced—gave everything to the stage like he always did. But the second he was backstage, drenched in sweat and breathless from the high of performing, his hands were already reaching for his phone.

Still nothing.

Back at the hotel, Soobin and Yeonjun made sure he ate. He forced down a few bites, just enough to keep them from worrying. Now, fresh from a shower, exhaustion settles deep in his bones. His muscles ache, the weight of the night pressing down on him, but sleep won’t come.

His phone sits beside him on the bed. You’re probably asleep. He tells himself that. He should leave it alone.

But knowing doesn’t stop him from pressing call. It rings.

Once. Twice.

He’s about to give up when the line clicks.

“H-Hello?” Beomgyu stutters, his voice unsteady. No response. His heart pounds as he pulls the phone away, checking the screen just to be sure. The call is still connected. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Beomgyu.” The way you say his name makes his breath catch.

“Are you okay? I’ve been—”

“Beomgyu.” You cut him off again, your voice softer this time. “Yeah, I’m… okay.” He hears you take a shaky breath. “I’ve just been thinking for the past couple of hours, and…” His grip on the phone tightens.

"What is it?"

“Maybe we should lie low for a bit? You’re busy, and you’re at the peak of your career.” A pause. “It’s not that I’m going away,” you add quickly, “I’m your soulmate, after all.” The last part is barely a whisper.

Beomgyu shoots up from where he’s sitting, running a hand through his hair, fingers pulling at the strands. He feels cold all over. His pulse pounds in his ears.

“Where is this coming from?” His voice is raw, edged dangerously close to panic. “What happened, Y/N?”

“Nothing, really,” you say too quickly. “It just… crossed my mind.” There’s a pause. A beat of silence that feels like a lifetime. “It’s late there. It’s 2 AM. Please sleep.”

His chest tightens. “Are you breaking up with me?” The words feel foreign in his mouth. His voice drops to a whisper. “Do you not want me? Do you not want this?”

“Beomgyu, please.” You voice wavers. “Our fate is certain. But right now… I just feel like it’s not working.” You exhale slowly. “You should sleep, okay? Let’s talk again… soon.”

And then the line goes dead.

Beomgyu stares at his screen, his fingers frozen, his mind racing to process what just happened. His chest caves in, breath shaky as he stumbles back onto the bed. And then—he breaks.

His hands cover his face, shoulders trembling as it all crashes down on him. He had a feeling when you didn't answer his call. A whisper of doubt, an inkling of fear.

And now, it’s real.

4 AM, and Beomgyu still hasn’t slept. His eyes burn from exhaustion, but his mind won’t shut off. He’s been texting you, calling you—over and over—but every attempt goes straight to voicemail. At some point, your phone must have died, or worse, you turned it off.

He lies on the stiff hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s unfamiliar. Cold. But then again, when was the last time anything in his life felt familiar? Felt like home?

His phone dings.

He scrambles for it, heartbeat hammering, but before he can check the notification, an unknown number flashes across the screen. It’s stupid to answer an unknown call at this hour. Their managers had given them talks about it. But something—something in his gut—tells him to pick up.

“Hello?” His voice is hoarse.

“Beomgyu.” A pause. Then— “It’s Da-hee,”

His breath catches.

“She’s going to be angry if she finds out I called you,” Da-hee says, voice hushed, urgent. “But I can’t just sit back and watch this happen. Just listen to me. I’m going to tell you everything—from the start.”

"Please."

"Don’t think I won’t do it," she murmurs. "Just think about how I knew. Your name. Your workplace. Your parking spot."

She smiles, "Don’t test me."

You take another sip of whiskey, curled up on the couch, knees drawn to your chest. The tears won’t stop. No matter how many times you wipe them away, they keep coming, slipping down your cheeks, burning just as much as the liquor sliding down your throat.

Your thoughts won’t stop either.

Beomgyu.

He has everything—his dream, his career, a future so bright it could swallow you whole. He has the world at his feet. And you? You’re just… you. Not worth the risk. Not worth the detour. Maybe this was always how it was supposed to be. Maybe that’s why your paths were never meant to cross in the first place. You saw the consequence, felt it when you passed the Hybe building, that heavy reminder of the impossible divide between your worlds.

It should be enough. Enough that you got to know him, enough that he even knows your name. Enough that you get to see him on a screen. It should be enough.

But is it?

“Fuck,” you choke out, voice breaking. You press the heel of your palm against your eyes, as if that could stop the ache. “Just when I finally saw you… What a joke.” You shake your head, wiping your face with the sleeve of your sweater. “The universe is a fucking idiot for ever thinking we were meant to be.”

You take another drink, and it burns.

“Y/N.”

You blink up, vision swimming, to see Da-hee standing in the doorway, concern etched across her face.

“I’ve been ringing your doorbell,” she says, stepping closer. “I used the spare key—why are you crying?”

You don’t respond. You just stare at her, eyes glassy, cheeks wet. She moves toward you, eyes flickering to the near-empty glass in your hand. You’ve been drinking for hours. You already called in sick to work—there’s no way you could function like this.

"Oh, honey," She sighs, reaches for the glass, and you don’t fight it. You let it go. "What happened?"

“Fate is already taking back what it let me borrow.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but Da-hee hears it. She your holds your hand.

“What are you talking about?” she asks. “Explain.”

You swallow hard. Your throat feels tight, like every word is fighting to stay buried. But you force them out.

“A sasaeng,” you murmur, watching as Da-hee’s eyes widen in alarm. “She found out about me. She knows everything, Da-hee. Where I live, where I work, my family—everything.” You suck in a shaky breath, blinking back fresh tears. “And the worst of it, she fucking said she’s going to ruin Beomgyu.”

The moment the words leave your lips, your resolve shatters. You cry—like a child finally breaking after being scolded in front of everyone, holding it all in until no one’s around to see. Da-hee pulled you into her arms as you sobbed. You cling to her, hands fisting her sweater. “I have to let him go,” you choke out. “I can’t do this to him. To them. They don’t deserve this.”

Da-hee pulls back, her hands firm on your shoulders. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “You don’t have to do this alone. We can go to the police. We can tell Beomgyu—”

“And then what?” you cut in, voice hollow. “What can they really do? Stop her from telling the world? Keep every single person quiet? Even if she gets caught, the damage will already be done.”

Da-hee doesn’t answer. She just sinks onto the couch beside you, eyes shining with unshed tears, because she knows you well. She knows you too well—knows that the emotional version of you wouldn’t be able to hear her, not right now. Not until the sobs quiet down and the pain in your chest eases just a little. So, she just holds you.

Your phone screen lights up between you. Another call.

Beomgyu. He’s still calling. Still trying.

"I don’t think it’s best to answer it right now—"

But you don’t listen to Da-hee’s warning. Your fingers tremble as they hover over the screen. You have to end this. Now. While you still have the strength. Because deep down, you know—

If you wake up tomorrow, you might not be able to let him go.

“H-Hello?” He stutters on the other line, his voice unsteady. Your breath catches in your throat. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

Everything. Everything is wrong.

“Beomgyu.”

I miss you. How can I go on without you?

“Are you okay? I’ve been—”

“Beomgyu.” You cut him off again, your voice softer this time. “Yeah, I’m… okay.” You take a shaky breath. “I’ve just been thinking for the past couple of hours, and…” You hesitate.

I’m not okay. I’ve been thinking about you, only you, and how my existence could ruin everything you’ve worked for.

"What?" His inhale is sharp, laced with the beginnings of panic.

“Maybe we should lie low for a bit? You’re busy, and you’re at the peak of your career.” You pause, fingers trembling. “It’s not that I’m going away,” you add quickly, desperate to believe your own words. “I’m your soulmate, after all.” The last part is barely a whisper.

I should be replaceable. And I shouldn’t be your priority. You press a hand to your mouth, as if you can keep the words from spilling out—keep the truth from bleeding through.

“Where is this coming from? What happened, Y/N?”

My heart is breaking. And you’re too far away to hold it together.

“Nothing, really,” you say too quickly. “It just… crossed my mind.” You pause, swallowing. “It’s late there. It’s 2 AM. Please sleep.”

Please sleep. And forget about me.

“Are you breaking up with me? Do you not want me? Do you not want this?”

I want you more than anything. That’s why I have to do this. If I can save you from losing everything, I’ll do it. Even if it means losing you.

“Beomgyu, please.” You voice wavers. “Our fate is certain. But right now… I just feel like it’s not working.” You exhale slowly. “You should sleep, okay? Let’s talk again… soon.”

You press the end button.

The sobs rip through you, shaking your whole body and stealing the air from your lungs. You curl in on yourself, pressing your fist to your mouth, as if that could stop the sound, as if that could stop the pain. How can love be this cruel? How can the same thing that made you feel so alive now leave you feeling so hollow?

But this is for him. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like a prayer, like a desperate attempt to make it hurt less.

You’ll do this for him. Even if it destroys you.

Da-hee wipes at her eyes, sniffling as she looks at you—curled up in the fetal position, your body tense like you’re bracing for impact even in sleep. She managed to get you into bed, but it doesn’t feel like enough.

She’d do anything for you.

Carefully, she tiptoes to the bedside table and picks up your phone. Her heart pounds. If anyone’s watching me, I’ll beg for forgiveness later. But right now, she comes first.

She types in your usual password. 8888. Incorrect. She frowns, thinking. You changed it? Then, almost without realizing it, her fingers move on their own. 0313. The screen unlocks.

Beomgyu’s birthday.

Da-hee lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You idiot,” she whispers, shaking her head. “You love him so much, and yet you’re willing to walk away. How can you be this selfless?”

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she scrolls through your contacts, searching for his name. Her thumb hovers over it for only a second before she types his number on her own phone.

You’ll be furious. You might never forgive her. But if there’s even the slightest chance this stops you from making the biggest mistake of your life—she’ll take that risk.

Someone has to tell him the things that you can’t.

The line connects, and Da-hee inhales. “She’s going to be angry if she finds out I called you, but I can’t just sit back and watch this happen. Just listen to me. I’m going to tell you everything—from the start.”

She’ll prepare her apology later—more than that, she hopes Beomgyu will fight for you.

"I want to go home." Beomgyu’s voice is firm, but his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. His manager looks up from his laptop, brows furrowing.

The door bursts open. Soobin stumbles in, slightly out of breath—he must’ve run after him. Beomgyu doesn’t care.

Beomgyu already knows everything—Da-hee told him. Every sickening detail. And now, standing here, he has no idea how to fix this. No idol has ever come out of this unscathed. But none of that matters right now. His only priority is getting to you.

His manager sighs, already exasperated. “You’re flying back home in a few days, Beomgyu.”

“No,” he says, jaw tightening. “I mean now. I need a few days. To rest. To handle something personal.”

“You know your schedule is packed—”

“Then move everything,” Beomgyu interrupts sharply. He feels Soobin’s hand on his shoulder, hears his name spoken softly, but he shrugs it off. No one is stopping him from getting to you.

His manager sighs again, firmer this time. “We can’t do that.”

“You won’t even try?” His voice wavers between frustration and desperation. “You won’t even let the management know?”

“We can’t make last-minute changes like this.”

Beomgyu lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Of course.” He clenches his fists. All his life, he’s done everything they asked. Pushed through exhaustion, smiled through sickness, showed up even when his body begged him to stop. “I won’t follow you on this,” he says, voice steady. “I can’t do this. Not this time. If you won’t let me go, I’ll still leave.”

“Beomgyu, let’s talk about this when you’re calm,” Soobin says gently, patting Beomgyu’s back. “Please.”

Beomgyu turns to him, his eyes dark with frustration. “I love MOAs, hyung. I love all of you. They gave me everything.” His voice wavers, but he pushes through. “But Y/N… she is my everything.” His breath hitches. He can't even explain it properly. How badly he needs you. “You’re lucky. All of you. Your soulmates—"

“So this is about your soulmate?” The manager exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “Don’t you see? She’s making you choose between her and your career.”

“No.” Beomgyu’s voice breaks, his chest tightens, and the lump in his throat is unbearable. “She’s not making me choose. She’s already choosing for me.” His next breath is shaky. “She’s leaving. Can you let your own soulmate leave?”

The room falls silent. Soobin watches him, stunned. He’d never seen Beomgyu like this before—this angry, this desperate. And the question stings the older.

Beomgyu turns away, blinking rapidly, trying to keep the tears at bay. Explaining further is useless. He’s already said everything that matters. Nothing is going to stop him now. When he steps into the hallway, he sees Yeonjun standing there, leaning against the wall.

He’s been listening the whole time.

Yeonjun immediately reaches out, tugging at his arm. “Yah, Choi Beomgyu, come on,” he says quietly. “Let’s talk with everyone.” Beomgyu exhales shakily. If there's anyone he owes an explanation. It's them. His brothers.

So Beomgyu told them everything.

About the sasaeng. About the threats. About how you were walking away to protect him. About how he refused to let that happen. And just like he knew they would, the four of them listened—not as bandmates, not as colleagues, but as brothers.

No one understood him better than they did.

They didn’t tell him to reconsider. They didn’t tell him to stay. Instead, they held onto him, arms wrapped tight, as if they could shield him from the storm that was already brewing. They prayed—not for him to change his mind, but for the world to understand.

Kai was the first to break. His voice barely above a whisper, “Is it really worth it… if the world doesn’t want us to have soulmates?”

It shattered something in all of them.

Beomgyu didn’t answer—not with words. Because what kind of world was it, where love had to be hidden? Where choosing your own heart felt like a betrayal?

With the help of his members, he managed to slip through the cracks, securing a last-minute flight. Now, as he sat on the plane, adjusting his mask, pulling his cap low, he caught his own reflection in the window.

Maybe it was time. Time to stop pretending. Time to stop hiding.

Because an idol in love isn’t supposed to be shameful. Because having a soulmate shouldn’t be treated like a scandal. Because loving you would never make him love his dream any less.

He just had to believe in MOAs. In the people who gave him everything. What he has with them, he treasures so much that the thought of baring his heart isn’t impossible.

And he would.

Completely.

He would trade it all, just to see you again.

The pounding in your head hasn’t let up, a dull, relentless throb that even the hot shower couldn’t wash away. You pop an aspirin, sighing as you press your fingertips against your temples, willing the ache—and everything else—to disappear.

Then the doorbell rings. Right. The food.

Dragging your feet toward the door, you barely think as you swing it open—then freeze.

Choi Beomgyu.

His face bare, a backpack slung over his shoulder. A car idles in your driveway, but you barely process it. Your eyes lock onto the messy strands of blonde peeking out from under his hoodie, his gaze searching yours. He looks at you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks.

“Y/N—” The door slams shut in his face before he can say another word.

Your breath stumbles. Your pulse pounds. The damp strands of your hair cling to your neck as you press your back against the door, fingers gripping the handle like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. Shit. He fucking looks good with his new dyed hair— wait. Don't think about that. What is he doing here?

“I’m parked out front,” his voice comes through the door, muffled but you hear it. “I just want to talk.” A shaky inhale. Then softer, “Baby, I’m here. When you’re ready, just open the door.”

His footsteps retreat.

You start pacing, your heart ricocheting against your ribs. He’s here. He came all this way. After everything you stupidly said. You hurt him yet—

The doorbell rings again.

You yank it open, “Wait, my ass—”

“Chinese takeout for Y/N?” The delivery guy blinks at you, holding up the bag.

“Oh.” You blush, embarrassed. You fumble for your wallet, signing the receipt with shaky hands. Your eyes keep drifting past him, toward the car still parked in front of your house.

Just like what he said. He's there.

The hours slip away unnoticed, morning fading seamlessly into afternoon. Every time you steal a glance through the curtain, he’s still there. Evening creeps in as you start making dinner. Without thinking, you plate portions for two. Your hands hesitate over the dishes, your heart heavy. When you check the clock, it’s 8 p.m. He’s been outside for twelve hours—silent, waiting.

Just like he promised. He never knocked again. Twelve hours. Your hands tremble as you turn off the stove. He must’ve just come from another gruelling day, looking like he’d stepped off a plane after hours in the air—rumpled, drained, and still without rest.

Why did you let him wait this long?

You don’t stop to think anymore. You grab your keys, shove your feet into your slippers, and head straight for his car, blinking back the tears that blur your vision.

He must see you coming because, before you even reach him, the car door swings open.

And there he is.

His hoodie is pushed back now, his hair slightly dishevelled like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times. His face is drawn, exhausted. His eyes—red-rimmed, heavy, like he’s been crying for hours. You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Come inside,” Your voice cracks, but you don’t stop. You just turn around and head back toward the door. You don’t have to look back to know he’s following.

He steps inside, his tall frame filling the space as you quietly shut the door behind him. Your apartment looks small with him around. When you turn, your eyes meet, "Beomgyu—"

You barely get his name out before he’s on you. He can't stop himself anymore. It’s how you looked outside, so effortless—your hair pinned up, the simplicity of your everyday clothes, and yet, you somehow seemed untouchable. He envisions a life with you, a routine, your soft smile waiting for him when he comes home, you looking like something angelic—his hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against him, his body heat searing through your clothes. His lips crash into yours—hungry, desperate, like he’s been starved for you. His mouth moves against yours, claiming, taking.

His fingers thread through your hair, tilting your head back as his tongue slides against yours. His hands roam down, gripping, pulling, making sure you feel every bit of him. He grabs your wrists, lifting them, wrapping your arms around his neck as his lips move to your jaw, then to your neck, his breath ragged as he nips your sensitive skin. "I missed you," he murmurs. Another kiss—hotter, deeper, his body pressing your back against the wall. "I got fucking scared you'd never open the door."

His movements were hurried, frantic, as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. In one swift motion, he lifted you, his steps unsteady as he carried you to the bedroom. Your bedroom. The air felt heavy as he laid you down on the mattress.

"I get it. I know you don’t mean it—that you really believe this is for the best." His voice softens, almost breaking. He presses his crotch to yours, eyes seeking yours. "But did it ever cross your mind what I want? What I think is best for me? For us?"

“I'm sorry,” you said weakly, your hands clutching at his shirt, your voice trembling as much as your resolve.

"I'll always forgive you." His hands moved to your shoulders, then slid down to your waist, pulling you to him. He grinds desperately to you. You never knew that lips could talk without uttering a word as he captures your lips again and again. "Because your words could never hurt me as much as your leaving does."

You surrendered to his touch, your body softening beneath him. Your hands gripped his shoulders for balance as he pressed you deeper into the mattress, which groaned under your shifting weight. You reached for Beomgyu’s lips, catching him off guard as you kissed him with everything you had, tongues colliding in a heated frenzy. His hand slid between your thighs, cupping your middle and sending a shiver through you. But even in the haze of his taste, a heavy guilt settled in your chest. "Gyu,"

"I need you, baby. Or I'll go crazy." His breaths were ragged, syncing with your every moan as his tongue tangled with yours. Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer, urging him on. His body pressed against yours, grinding to yours, while his hands roamed over your skin, igniting every nerve he touched. His lips trailed downward, leaving soft kisses that melted into your flesh, a path leading straight to your core.

He stripped you of every barrier, leaving you bare under his gaze. His eyes shimmered with adoration and awe as they traced your body. You hadn’t realized how powerless you were against him until your legs parted, welcoming him. He's on top of you, looked at you like you were sacred, like you were his entire world.

Beomgyu's eyes never left yours as his fingers found your hand, seeking the place where the string was tied. The red thread appears, and he lifts it to his lips. A kiss—featherlight, reverent—pressed against the place where destiny tied you to him.

“It's going to be okay…” he whispered between kisses, his voice breaking in a way that made your heart ache. Tears pricked your eyes because you wanted to believe him. You needed to believe him. His hands explored further, his fingers shakily reaching for your clit, pinching softly then roughly rubbing, coaxing sounds from your lips that you didn’t know you were capable of.

"I'll fix it for us, for you." He looks at you—wanting to see every expression you make. He’s going to fuck you until you cum all over his dick and then he’ll do it again. Until you won't be able to think about leaving him anymore. He goes down further—kisses down and the smell of you is divine.

His face hovers and with his fingers he spreads you apart. He swallows—salivating. He sticks his tongue out, lightly licking your clit. You taste so—He buries his face in, tongue inside, hands on your hips. "Shit, you were really gonna leave me? And I was gonna miss this?" He groans, lapping up, sucking the arousal out of you. He moves up, nose bumping on your clit then he suckles more. His cock throbs with every taste of you, the way you melt against his mouth driving him insane. He feels you slick against his chin, but he doesn’t stop—doesn’t leave a single inch of you untouched by his warm, greedy mouth. It was as if your body had been crafted for his lips alone, flesh and heat meant to be devoured at his leisure.

When you tug hard on his hair, he groans against you, finally pulling back. His lips glisten as he moves up your body. He crashes his mouth onto yours, the kiss deep and hungry, and you taste yourself on his tongue—messy, desperate, a mix of him and you, blurring the lines between who’s devouring who.

“I love you,” he murmured as he positioned himself, slowly sliding into you. A low, guttural sound escaped him as he felt you, tight and warm, pulling him deeper. He's sure he'll come right there and then. His face buried itself in the curve of your neck, and his words spilled out—"I'm sorry it took this long."

"You feel so so good, don't ask me to stop, please." His touch was gentle even as his thrusts inside you grew more desperate. He cradled your head, kissed away your tears, and pressed his lips to your cheek. “I’m in love with you, Y/N,"

“I love you,” you replied, capturing his lips in a desperate kiss as you both unravelled together, bodies trembling in unison. Your thighs clenched tightly around his waist.

"Beomgyu, I— It was selfish of me—" You whispered his name and it made tears well up in his eyes. His hand gently pushed the damp strands of hair from your face, and he pressed tender kisses along your cheeks, your temple, and your jaw.

“Shh, no,” he whispered, pulling you against his chest, holding you like he was afraid you’d slip away. His lips brushed the crown of your head. "None of this is your fault," he murmurs. "But you have to trust me now."

All the horrors inside you dissolve with every kiss he presses to your skin, each one stripping away the fear, the doubt, the self-imposed distance. He kisses you like he’s rewriting everything, like he knows exactly where every shattered piece of you belongs. As if he’s memorized the map of your ruin and decided, you were always meant to be whole.

And you let him.

Because now, in his arms, with his lips claiming yours over and over, only pulls away when breathing becomes a necessity—his forehead pressing against yours for a fleeting second before his mouth finds yours again, as if letting go for too long might break him, you realise the truth—it was foolish of you to think that pushing him away would solve it all.

It was foolish to ever believe you could ever live without him.

Waking up with Beomgyu’s arm draped over your bare waist felt like something out of a dream.

The second you tried to slip away, he pulled you right back in, burying his face in the crook of your neck with a sleepy rough hum. His grip was loose but unwilling, like even in sleep, he couldn’t bear to let you go. He filled your morning with lazy kisses, tangled limbs, and muffled laughter, his fingers tracing over your bare skin.

You could live a lifetime like this and still never believe it was real.

Now, you sit at your vanity, dressed for work, fastening an earring as Beomgyu, fresh from the shower, tugs on a clean hoodie. He catches your eye in the mirror and grins as he walks over. “What are you doing baby? Dolled up and all.”

“Drying my hair,” you say, “I’m actually early today. Da-hee is dropping by later too, by the way.”

“Okay. I’ll drive you.” He leans down, eyes flickering to the hairdryer on the desk. He picks it up, flipping it on. “I know how to do this.”

You give him a skeptical look. “Oh, really?”

“Uh-huh. I could probably do your makeup too.” He presses a teasing kiss to your cheek, making you giggle.

The warmth of the dryer was against your scalp as he carefully runs his fingers through your hair, drying it with surprising patience. His touch lingers even after the dryer clicks off, his fingers gently gathering strands of your hair.

“I used to braid my mom’s hair when I was younger,” he murmurs. “I want to do yours too.” You nod, watching him through the mirror, watching the way he looks at you with so much quiet devotion it nearly steals your breath. "It will be an honour to do this every day for you, you know."

And just like that, you fall in love all over again.

You sit in the passenger seat, your hair loosely braided—the proof that he wasn’t just bluffing. His fingers lace with yours as he drives, his thumb idly tracing circles against your skin. Every time the car slows at a red light, he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. “I love you,”

He grins, that same cheeky, heart-stopping smile. "Love you more," he replies.

You let out a quiet breath, leaning your head against the window, watching the world blur past. But then—out of the corner of your eye—you see it.

And your breath catches in your throat.

Rain Lilies.

Flowers that shine the brightest in the wake of the storm.

It looks out of place. You remembered last night’s rain. It had come down in furious sheets, drowning the streets, washing everything away. The pavement is still slick, puddles reflecting the grey morning sky. And yet—there it is.

Small. Alive.

In the middle of a city that never stops, where people rush past without a second glance, too busy to care about a thing so insignificant, so easily overlooked—it stands, untouched. A quiet defiance against the cruelty that tried to take it.

It looks out of place, and it's beautiful.

If something this fragile can survive and still bloom—maybe, just maybe, so can you.

"Hyung!" Beomgyu’s laughter rings through the air as he runs straight into his brother’s arms. They embrace, laughing like they’re kids again, the older one attempting to lift him off the ground. Behind them, his parents rush to catch up, smiles stretched wide across their faces. The house, with its endless stretch of green, looks like out of a memory—soft, a paradise.

Beomgyu turns to you then, his hand resting gently on your back. His eyes soft when he speaks.

"Mom, Dad," he says, "This is Y/N."

You bow politely, but before you can even rise fully, his mother pulls you into a hug. "I’ve wanted to meet you for so long, dear," she murmurs against your shoulder.

When Beomgyu’s father steps forward, you feel your chest tighten. He smiles, and for a second, it’s like looking at Beomgyu in the years to come. His hug is just as warm, just as safe.

Lunch is a blur of laughter and stories, of hands brushing, of Beomgyu sneaking glances at you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

His parents laugh along with your stories—the one about meeting his sweet members, and how Da-hee had begged to meet them in person. You describe her pale face, wide-eyed and on the verge of fainting the entire time, and how Beomgyu grew irritated every time Yeonjun jokingly flirted with you, insisting he should be your favorite.

But it’s the story of Beomgyu meeting your family last week that really gets them, how he’d been so polite, yet adorably nervous, his hands fidgeting in his lap as he tried to make the right impression.

His mom grins, her eyes bright with excitement. “I’ll have to meet them soon,” she says, already making plans in her head, as if you’ve always been part of the family. At some point, Beomgyu tells them you’ll be staying for the week. They are overjoyed, and Toto, takes an instant liking to you.

Beomgyu sits on the porch, it's evening now.

This deck—he’s spent years here—on this very step, staring out at the world, wondering when he’d find you. Wondering if he ever would.

His fingers tighten around the handwritten letter on his phone screen, the words waiting to be sent out into the world. His heart pounds. What if they don’t understand? What if this changes everything? What if—

Laughter drifts from inside the house, yours mixing with his mom’s, his brother’s. It was the only assurance he'd ever need.

He exhales sharply, thumb hovering for only a second longer before he clicks post. It loads. He doesn’t watch. Just locks his phone and sets it aside as the front door creaks open.

"You’re trying to escape me, cookie?" Your voice is playful, arms crossing as you step toward him. Beomgyu only grins, shaking his head at the nickname his father gave him. He slips an arm around your shoulders as soon as you sit down, pulling you while he presses kisses on the side of your head.

"Never," His fingers find yours, a new habit of his—thumb caressing over your ring finger. His thoughts slip to the diamond ring hidden in his dorm, the one he bought after a week of meeting you. He just needs to find the right moment, the right words. Because even now, after everything, you still make him nervous. The way his heart races when you walk into a room, how everything seems to stop for a moment when you look his way.

He meets your smile with one of his own. Would he ever be this lucky in another life? To find you, to love you—not by destiny’s design, not by some divine script, but by choice?

Even without a soulmate mark, even without fate—

It would always be you.

Maybe in another world, the sky is burning, the world is ending, an apocalypse, and he still falls in love with you. Maybe in another life, he is a man undone, a husband who shatters more than he mends, but even then, he would spend eternity piecing himself back together just to be worthy of you.

Beomgyu knows this much: no matter the lifetime, no matter the universe, he will love you. Again and again, without hesitation, without end. As if loving you is written into the very fabric of his existence.

His fingers graze your cheek, and you lean into him like you were always meant to—like the universe has been bringing you back to him for centuries. Your smile reaches your eyes, soft and certain. His missing piece. The better half of him.

Beomgyu looks at you, and to him, you are something that comes after the rain—the hush of the earth reborn, the golden light breaking through the clouds, the promise that even the chaos was worth it.

He can’t help himself. Not when you’re looking at him like that. Not when your smile is the only thing he ever wants to see.

So he leans in.

The phone sits forgotten, lighting up with messages—teary words, heartfelt congratulations, the world calling for him. But none of it matters.

Because right now, you are in his arms. Right now, he is kissing the soft of your addicting lips. And right now, that is all that ever was, all that ever is, all that ever will be.

THE END.

taglist: I love you @beombunni @lovingbeomgyudayone @virtaideen @hyukascampfire @fancypeacepersona @bamgeutori @lilbrorufr @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @xylatox @imlonelydontsendhelp @yunverie @baekberrie @soobabby @hyunelixbun @kejingken @blossommi @sumzysworld @tyunningstar @filmnings @channieismylove @frankghgr @missychief1404 @fatbixchwithanopinion @saejinniestar @brrytears @sbnslver @hoefororeo @pagelets @urlocal-moa @ewsnup @moagyuu @melmochii

[thechildofshadows]

A DAY FOR LOVE

Avery Grambs/Jameson Hawthorne - 2k

Alright!!! This is my sad, sad attempt at fluff, and I also haven't written since like June, so I've had about half a year to lose my writing skills to the mess that is social media. This fic happens between The Hawthorne Legacy and the Final Gambit. When we first see our OTP, they've just told the world that they're dating, and they're preparing for a charity gala. (anyone can read- I rated this General Audiences on Ao3) have fun!

T-MINUS FOUR HOURS (BEFORE THE GALA)

“You’re nervous.” The statement came from Jameson, who saw right through her rapid finger-tapping as more than just an outlet for boredom.

Out of all of the things Avery needed to do that day, filling out forms seemed like the least stressful- and yet, it didn’t seem to curb her anxiety.

She looked up from her desk, and watched Jameson lean his back against the doorframe, putting her in the center of his field of vision.

“Of course I’m nervous! The Hawthorne Foundation Gala is today, and for some reason I’m doing taxes-“

“-and for your pain and suffering, you deserve at least a year’s worth of chocolate donuts!” Xander burst into the room, bearing said chocolate donuts and nearly knocking over Jameson. He tossed his brother a donut before taking a better look at Avery. “I fear you may require a stronger source of sugar with the amount of stress coming from you.” he placed the donuts on her desk.

When Avery didn’t take a donut, he raised an eyebrow. “Does this have nothing to do with taxes and everything to do with an upcoming press release involving the two of you?”

Avery looked at him, seeming close to panic, and both of Xander’s eyebrows went up. “I will take that as a yes, leave this room, and strongly recommend you lovebirds speak to each other.”

Jameson left the door and stood against her desk, facing away. “Do you regret this, Heiress?”

Avery stood and braced herself on the desk. “Of course not. You know that, I know that, but does everyone else know?”

Jameson looked at her. “We’re doing this so that everyone knows. I don’t know if they’ll believe us, but they’ll be informed.”

Avery turned around, and leaned against Jameson. “They’re never going to believe or accept it. This community is weird, Jameson. They hate me enough as is, they’re never going to accept us together.”

Jameson raised an amused eyebrow. “Is that what you think?”

“What?”

“Look, you gave Alisa the picture and the caption yesterday. She posted it about two minutes ago-“

“-when the donuts came?” Avery’s shock was mixed with anger and relief and it caused Jameson to give her a small smirk.

“-yes, when the donuts came. I think you’re prepared for the worst, Heiress, but maybe not as prepared for the reception we’re truly receiving.” He handed her her phone.

Avery rapidly opened up Instagram and found her phone filled with notifications. She checked her latest post and found a picture of herself and Jameson covered in paint, from the day the two had built and painted her desk. In the photo, she gave Jameson a kiss on the cheek and it was captioned ‘first love ❤️❤️’.

It had over a million likes.

“Wait, a million?” Jameson leaned over her shoulder to look at her phone. It felt oddly domestic and she embraced the feeling. “Alisa said it had 10,000. It’s been less than five minutes, how is the app still running?”

Avery shrugged, a smile finding its way onto her lips. She opened up the comment section.

angel_face222 THEYRE SO CUTE

SONICSCREAMS people date this guy?

reply from lia-eliza dude imagine the kids 😍😍

HOT_TO_GO OPPOSITES ATTRACT CONFIRMED?????

      reply from SONICSCREAMS didn't she date his brother 😭 like that one interview

laffytaffyhappy does this mean he’ll stop being all law-breaky or will she start doing illegal shit.

my-name-is-slim-shaky wait, I lwk never imagined this, but they work so well together, it's my new OTP

theCALENDARRR oh to be young and in love.

      reply from I_is_calculator you're like 16

      reply from theCALENDARR shut up Jessica

      reply from I_is_calculator my name is Elena 😭

Jameson stopped her from scrolling further. "Look, the reception isn't all going to be puppies and chocolate donuts. But I think you're doing pretty good if Instagram thinks it’s not propaganda.”

"Jameson, that was five people out of-" she checked the phone again. "nine thousand comments."

Jameson shrugged. "I highly doubt they're the only five positive ones, Heiress, you would've had a harder time finding it otherwise."

Alisa, who Avery hadn't seen since that morning, walked into the room holding a large garment bag, followed by a makeup artist. "Congratulations, Avery. That's one of the most positively recieved posts I've ever seen on your account."

Jameson raised an eyebrow at Avery, giving her a look that said I told you so, and Avery let go of a breath she didn't even know she had been holding. "You're not joking?"

"Have you ever known Alisa to joke?" Alisa glared at Jameson, who punctuated the statement with a smirk.

Alisa turned to Avery. "About 95% of the general public reacted well, and out of that 5% that didn't, most were teenage girls."

Avery sighed. "As expected."

With the problem mostly settled, Alisa clapped her hands. "Okay, then, onto the rest of our duties. Avery, you have a gala in about four hours. Jameson, get out."

Jameson opened his mouth to protest and then decided against it, for he closed his mouth and dropped a kiss on the top of Avery's head before leaving.

Avery turned to Alisa. "You didn't have to kick him out."

Alisa closed the door behind Jameson, before ushering Avery to the bathroom. "Once you figure out how to get your makeup on while holding a conversation with him, he'll be allowed to stay. We need you both there on time, and you take significantly longer to get ready than he does."

T-MINUS ONE HOUR (Before the gala)

Jameson wasn’t exactly one to panic, but neither was Avery. He began tapping his foot and took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down.

Alisa had left him a selection of four ties and matching pocket squares, and Jameson assumed he was supposed to wear them with a tuxedo. He pulled out the garment bag containing the black one, and began slowly buttoning his shirt.

The sounds of Hakuna Matata filled the room while he tucked his shirt in, and Jameson sighed before picking up his phone. Xander had set his ringtone over two weeks ago; Jameson hadn't gotten around to hacking it yet.

"How are ya doin', Jamie?"

"You live three doors down, why don't you tell me?" he hung up the call.

Not two seconds later, Nash strolled into his room, wearing flannel over jeans and a band t-shirt.

"You look like a waiter. Didn’t Grayson ever teach you to dress yourself?” he took a look toward the rest of the clothing Jameson had set out to wear.

Jameson ran a hand through his hair. “I look the same. I wore this last week.” 

“And then someone asked you for champagne. And you socked them in the face.”

He then proceeded to walk into Jameson's closet -"There’s nothing wrong with what I'm wearing!" "People are gonna ask you for more caviar; Grayson told me to not let you leave the house like that."- and after rummaging for two minutes, found a waistcoat that he didn't even know existed. It was the exact color of the tie Jameson wanted to pick, but Nash procured a black tie and pocket square.

"I think this is the same color as her dress, but honestly, it's gonna be dark, who's gonna see?" Nash held up the waistcoat, as if the nonexistant light would help him see better. 

Jameson took it from him. "Have I ever worn this?"

"Maybe. You were also drinking a lot, so I doubt you or the news remembers." Nash sniffed the cloth. "You would never even know. It doesn't even smell like bourbon."

Jameson raised an unimpressed eyebrow as he began to put his tie on.. “Don’t tell me you’re being serious.”

Nash crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “I couldn’t tell you whether it was true or not, Jamie, you wouldn’t believe me no matter what I said.”

Jameson buttoned up his waistcoat. “A wise man takes all truths with a grain of salt.” 

“Bullshit.” Nash drew out the first syllable.

Jameson gave his brother a smirk. “Don’t you know it.” He grabbed the suit jacket and left.

1.5 HOURS IN

“Oh hello dear!” The sound of posh over-confidence crept up behind Avery, who quickly turned.

“Mrs. Anderson!” The woman was one of the slightly pushy heads of a charity created to support budding culinary minds. While incredibly specific, the charity had sent over a thousand students to culinary school, who went on to open restaurants that were all doing pretty well. Avery didn’t mind the woman; she was a lot nicer than most of the attendees, and used her reach to benefit the people who needed it. “How are you, ma’am?”

“I’m doing great, darling, but we need to talk about that dress. You look stunning!”

Avery was draped in dark red silk, covering one arm, and hugging her body until it hit her hips, where it flowed in waves, just shy of reaching the ground. The asymmetrical neckline and bottom of the skirt were covered in minimal silver embroidery-visible when the light hit just so. Alisa had shoved her in a pair of black stilettos, and curled her hair, painting her lips with the same red as her dress. A silver choker was clasped around her throat, matching her earrings and the bracelets on her left hand.

She thanked the woman, handing her a glass of champagne, and asked, “Have you heard about the charity we’re sponsoring today?”

Avery and the woman chatted for a couple of minutes as Avery convinced her to donate thousands of dollars out of pocket.

“Cancer truly is a scary thing.” Mrs. Anderson smiled softly. “I lost my husband to lung cancer. I doubt the majority of these people consider the research worth funding.”

“They think they’re untouchable.” Avery said.

“Precisely, my dear.” The woman grabbed another glass of champagne before looking behind Avery. “Oh, I must add, you and Jameson Hawthorne are a beautiful couple.”

Avery felt her cheeks heat and she looked down, but Mrs. Anderson hadn’t finished. “The amount of love you two have for each other is simply incredible. Just being in the same room as you two makes me feel like an outsider; your bond is so sweet.”

Avery paused. Same room? She turned and saw an incredibly familiar face.

Jameson Hawthorne had finally showed up. He wore a dark grey suit-so dark it was nearly black, with a waistcoat the color of wine and silver chains. His tie matched his suit jacket and his hair was artfully arranged, neat with enough personality such that he still looked like himself.

Mrs. Anderson gave Avery a soft smile. “You two look at each other like a man seeing the stars for the first time in years. If this isn’t true love, I don’t know what is!”

Avery’s lips parted. “Really?”

“Oh trust me darling, you and Jameson are something that happens once in a lifetime.” The woman winked and walked away, exchanging greetings with Jameson, who was headed Avery’s way.

She motioned towards the side of the room, and he showed up a minute later with two wineglasses.

She leaned on a pillar and he stood her to her. “You look beautiful, Heiress.” Jameson handed her the wineglass as he said the statement.

Avery smiled. “And yet, you still upstage me by millions. How has this gala gone so far?”

Jameson grimaced and drained the wineglass like a shot. “All people want to talk about is the fact that I’m ‘off the market and it’s such a shame and won’t I please put in a good word for Grayson’ - if I hear another woman tell me any of that, I’m going through the old man’s whiskey stash.”

Avery suppressed a smile and switched their glasses. She doubted she would drink the wine, and Jameson seemed like he needed it more than she did. Jameson wasn’t usually this open, and she wondered if the wine wasn’t his first drink of the night. “You seem like you’ve had fun.”

Jameson shot her a smirk. “And you should be prepared for more, Heiress,” he clinked his glass against hers, “because I believe the slow dances just started.”

For the few hours, Jameson and Avery alternated between spinning around the dance floor and resting at the bar. Their routine was occasionally interrupted by a speech, a person or both, but by the end of the night, they had raised over a million dollars to charity. The venue closed, but they stayed for an additional thirty minutes to supervise cleanup.

  It took about forty minutes to get back to Hawthorne House and once they made it to Avery’s room, she tossed her heels into her closet and sat on the nearest chair.

Avery sighed. “I am never doing this again.” She stood up and began removing her jewelry, shedding her media persona for the sake of comfort.

Jameson unzipped her dress. “I highly doubt that.”

Avery shot him a look and she had to stifle a laugh when he mirrored it.

Once they were both changed and under the covers, Avery turned to Jameson and propped her head on a hand. “Do you know what day it is?”

Jameson’s eyes glittered and Avery knew he knew the answer. “The fourteenth?”

Avery rolled her eyes. “Valentine’s Day.”

Jameson smirked. “An astute observation, Heiress. And while one AM is a perfectly reasonable time to exchange gifts and other things, I don’t think you want to leave this bed right now.”

Avery nodded. “Definitely not.”

“Then Happy Valentine’s Day, Heiress, and I’ll see you when we inevitably wake up in six hours.”

Avery laughed and pulled him in for a kiss. When they broke apart, she whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Jameson.”

And if she woke up the next day with several news articles focusing on the gala (or rather its hosts), well, she was going to ignore it all and spend the entire day with her amazing boyfriend.

fin.

Alright- 2.5 thousand words later, I wish you a happy Valentine’s Day!

(or just a happy Friday if you don’t have plans like me 😄)

(dividers are from @/cafekitsune)

please like, reblog and leave feedback in the comments. Or just throw tomatoes at me. Anything works.

I also realize now that im going to keep writing even if the reception is negative, so if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know!

expect another fic in 1-2 weeks, more likely 2 than one.

[tacky-optic]

its that fanciful romanticistic day yet again so JIGZENI HEADCANONS be upon ye (in no particular order of importance or seriousness)💥💥💥

- zenigata is jig’s type. gotta get that outta the way first lmao

- favorite fic tropes: reluctant partners, wound dressing, cigarette lighting, slow burn, frenemies with benefits 

- and ok as much as id love this dark noir grizzled detective/hitman mobguy romance love/hate situationship whatever they're probably on the heathier end of the 10 possible lupin ships. they're both just too fucking honest and awkward about romantic sorta stuff yknow

- they both like really black coffee. like nasty "how tf can you drink this its literal tar" black

- zenigata runs hot, jigen runs cold-- obligatory "opposites attract" dynamic

- they both overthink things and small, awkward, semi-flirty situations haunt them for hours. they've brushed knuckles accidentally at a bar once i stg. worst day of their lives they still can't stop thinking about it

- really stand-offish around each other in public (virtually no pda outside of things people might not notice; nudging feet under a table, lighting each other's cigarettes (which is practically kissing for these people let's be real), hands brushing when theyre cuffed in the back of a prison van together, etc etc. normal guy shit)

- they feel obligated to not acknowledge each other, essentially. they're not SUPPOSED to acknowledge each other, it'd break the status quo, "why does that inspector that's always on the news suddenly care about his rival’s partner so much" -- people would get suspicious. best to simply not

- but when they're in private they NEED to be near each other at the very least. eyeshot/earshot. tbh this basically boils down to jigen lounging on top of zenigata. see temp boyfriends-- jigen uses that cop like a basking rock lmao

- facial hair... jig probably digs the five-o-clock shadow look but it usually means "bad mood" for zeni. real late nights, real big loss, real bad scolding from the higher-ups. lupin's dead for the third time this year and he's at the end of his rope about it. shit like that.

- lupin domesticated the shit outta jigen ok. he's the mother hen now. he knows what it looks like (and feels like) when someone's not taking care of themselves so he does the whole shebang-- cooking, cleaning, making sure everyone's hydrated n fed n not slowly rotting. he scolds lupin (plotting heists spiral) and goemon (training spiral) enough that they know to be more careful, but zenigata doesn't get that sorta constant attention since he's solo most of the time

- what im getting at is that jigen checks in after really rough shit ykno. things that might not hit their side very hard but he knows is devastating for zenigata. makes sure he isnt drinking himself into a gutter, makes sure he's sleeping, makes sure he isnt eating exclusively half-assed cup noodle, makes sure he gets cleaned up/shaved. then when zeni's tentatively grateful and Over It and threatening to arrest him again (in that order) he dips

- I FUCKING LOVE THE PATCHUP TROPE and i blame this fandom exclusively. there's this one jigzeni fic where zenigata admits to practically being the gang's third-pick medic and i really really like that idea. so yeah that mother hen shit goes both ways because thats just how zenigata is innately

- hes super cushy with jigen specifically cause jigen's kinda like when you try to clip a dog's nails when they do NOT want that to happen. theres always the looming threat that shit might get loud. and bitey. aaany moment now. but jigen sucks it up real quick when he sees how big this fuckin guy's hands are and how good he is with them winkwinkwink

- put these two alone together for too long and they'll blurt out shit that they BOTH need to hear but have always been too. idk. nervous? afraid? to say. probably afraid. they hate that it's so easy to talk about what's weighing on them

- mostly intrusive thoughts about lupin, but sometimes it's little stuff. i.e. "i actually don't like black coffee all that much but i can't bring myself to sweeten it up because i feel like i don't deserve it/it doesn't feel like i earned it."

- neither can bring themselves to tell the other that That Doesn't Make Sense and is In(s)ane. they both know it's nonsensical and neurotic but they both feel the same deep deep down, too. they get why. they hate it they HATE that they align on a intuitional level

- but once they break that initial barrier of extremely awkward silence where they just KNOW they're thinking the same thing, they can not and will not shut up about how they're feeling

- don't get me wrong. jigen totally vents to lupin (and to goemon and 10000% to fujiko too) but only zenigata can match that same level of angst he has and that's what makes said venting actually, genuinely, deeply relieving. because fuck, he gets it

- they're a tag team of worry. hype men of worry. there's this one mike birbiglia bit from "old man and the pool" -- can't even enjoy a comedy special without this pairing whacking me upside the head with a two-by-four, smh-- that is apparently jigzeni to me:

- "she's worried, and then because she's worried, i'm worried. we're like an anxious improv group. like... i initiate with a worry. she "yes and..."s the worry with some misgivings. i close out the scene with some neuroses, and then sometimes we have sex, and that's so fun."

- on that note, jigen's Worry is very much internal whereas zenigata's is very much not. this is borderline fascinating to them. "how're you so calm all the time" versus "how're you so hopped up on all this energy all the time". the answer is waiting till 2am to unpack by screaming into a pillow and/or drinking till they zonk out

- they tend to gravitate to certain places for what i guess you would call "noncommittal company"-- ambience, if anything-- and since they tend to be holed up in the same areas random bar encounters happen frequently

- they talk about drinking habits a lot. preferred drinks, cocktails, brands-- they're both big fans of whiskey

- jigen buys them both a bottle of real high-their top-shelf shit after particularly rough yet successful heists (the ones where they team up to take out nazis or whatever the hell) and zenigata (after a lot of convincing) never really turns jigen down when he offers him a glass

- okay so either these two happen slowly over many, many months (with the backdrop of many, many years behind them) or they happen IMMEDIATELY, no unpacking, no real deep thought from either of them. if they don't have that “ah, fuck it” moment then they've got a lot of silent pining to look forward to (which i rant about [here])

- damn i think thats it. im pretty shit at coming up with really cushy slice of life bits lmao, it always devolves into deranged character analysis

- some day i will comprehend the art of cozycomfy 'this is how they like their toast' stuff......some day

[hsslilly-blog]

shirt with a heart and child of divorce written on top but then there’s a picture of huntclaire. you wouldnt get it. i do

[dairyfairyy]

read ms s.e hinton's christmas fanfic for the curtis bros for the first time

im in tears.

[moeblob]

Huevember 22

Brent, the most expressive bard to ever bard.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

How would Riz give bardic inspiration in your class swap au

motivational speech

[hotchology]

i wish cm writers kept track of their lore a little better

[frankiebirds]

REID AND SEAVER GOING TO GET INDIAN FOOD TOGETHER AT THE END OF 6X24,,,,hear me out

[saintadeline]

Bloodborne is seriously the most beautiful game of all time i think about this every single time i replay it but genuinely. Just exploring yharnam and staring in awe at how gorgeous everything is, its never about graphics, bloodborne has a noticeable stylization i think in a way even stronger than other fromsoft games, and the use of lighting and color palettes is just so good it makes me want to Be there. The game is already so stunning as it is ingame but i think having access to the map viewer on my own to the side made me appreciate it even more i love seeing the way everything is constructed and put together with just the flat textures before applying any engines and even as flat surfaces you can just feel the cohesion in the backgrounds, even textureless stripped of everything that makes it "beautiful" it still feels so unique and already gets the vibe across and that explains how the game feels the way it does visually, which is something i think a lot of current gen "high fidelity" games struggle with. Hard to explain what I mean but I feel it. Also i love the slight like chromatic aberration effect bb has on the edges of the screen it adds such a nice touch to the atmosphere honestly. Sighs dreamily

[fluffalpenguin]

the mean girls of duel academia

[jrueships]

can you please walk us through the relationship between wemby and jabari the people need to know

i think the most notable thing about vic and Jabari's relationship is that they don't have one, when it would be so beneficial if they did. they're like two soldiers fighting for the opposite sides of a war, too loyal to the cause to stop and think about what could have been if they just lowered their respective weapons aimed by cold hands larger than their own. foils by fate, friends by freedom.

' remember, you will Always be Different. '

' remember, you will Always be Replaceable. '

'Replaceable'

Jabari's dad made it in the NBA, then didn't. He was a big that could shoot, but wasn't a post-up man. Back then, post-up was the desired style. Ironically, now, it's all about shooting. But his dad didn't live in the now, and his career in the US was short-lived, to keep it cordial. Jabari's older brother played basketball throughout his whole life, but stopped after college. Jabari's cousin, Kwame Brown, was drafted 1st overall in the lottery, and became a notorious bust for the Washington wizards.

Basketball is a business. Basketball is fleeting.

It doesn't matter that a big with sharpshooter skills is valued as something so 'prized' in today's nba, not back then, not when it would have mattered for Jabari's dad. Making it is one ballpark in its own, but Staying in it? Can perhaps be an even more painful ordeal when the hoops to accomplish it aren't circus hoops, but a plain hill some just don't have the strength, mentality, or the materials to help climb without distraction or pitfall.

Jabari's dad made sure Jabari had this threat forever ingrained in his mind. When he yells at Jabari for misplaced eye contact, for typing the wrong words in a public social media reply, for reacting in a way a camera might misinterpret, it's out of love. Jabari's dad was known for being a hassle to coach back then, maybe because he knew his potential and no one else did because it was too new to the mold. So he makes sure Jabari doesn't follow his same habits. Jabari is polite to authority, simply replies with a 'Yes Sir' or a 'No Ma'am', he holds eye contact, he wakes up hours before he needs to just to jump rope, just to uphold the standards that his family could not. He is Everything his father is and isn't, plus more. When his team wins, he's still talking about his missed freethrows even 8 hours later. Because someone else could have won the game And hit those free throws too . someone from a family that gained success and stayed in that success. Someone who wasn't Just Another Son of a basketball player trying to do what his father couldn't, someone who was Different .

Everyone knew wemby was different. When his literature class was asked to write an essay about your future dreams in life, he wrote a fictional romance about a couple where the woman got in a car accident and was comatosed as a result, but got better in the end. He didn't write about being a great basketball player one day, because his parents don't pressure him to hunker himself into the norm, even though his mother once was and now coaches. If Wemby one day realized this wasn't for him, they would encourage him to leave and follow whatever greater passions propelling him. He's so agile for his size because his dad was an Olympic talent in track and field. He is someone who has hobbies and talents that are considered common alone, but strange combined, because he loves what he has and what he does. He reads every night for one hour before bed not to appear as some pseudointellectual, but because he Genuinely loves it, and when he loves something, he excels at it. He does try to be different, but not out of ego. He just loves to be. He either accomplishes at 200% or zero. It may be 200% in an unexpected direction, but it's His direction and that's what matters. If he somehow does wind up a bust, a possibility he considers without fear but acceptance as potential fate, then he won't go down as yet another failed first pick. He'll fall as he flew, Victor Wembanyama.

' Different '

' Replaceable'

Jabari winces each time he's subbed out, even for a second, even on an injured ankle, he's silently Stubborn, his posture shrunken and his gaze at the ground yet his eyes, big, wobbling, staring up always at the speaker, he's silently scared.

Jabari doesn't Want to be different. He just wants to be what his family couldn't be when it came to fame: irreplaceable . His parents split when he was younger, he tries his hardest to appease them both as to not cause any more issues. The relationship relies on his shoulders more than ever, and he can't fumble it again. He has to be what his dad couldn't so his dad can stay, commenting on commonality or surprises. He wants to support his still working mother, especially after the split. He doesn't Want to be unique, he just wants Security.

Because this can crumble any moment now, it doesn't matter how high your pick was or how bright the future Could Have been or how the game would later shift to your style if you had just somehow Stayed. Why bet on low chances if you know you can't handle the risk. He shakes any college coaches' hands that showed up to his practices, personally thanks them for coming even though he's one of the best in the country so their presence should be a given to him, it's not. When he picks a college, he picks one that guaranteed their faith in him from day One, and didn't require any further prodding to finally say '.. Maybe we'll offer you a position' like Kentucky did, as big and famous as it is, it wasn't Secured . They saw him as a risk at one point, and that's everything he's been trying to avoid when it came to attention, negatively standing out.

Jabari wants to be known as the strong shoulder to the world. He WANTS to be known as That One Guy who can just carry everything, nameless but Good. He just wants to be Good. Please tell him he's good. Please tell him what he's doing is Good. That basing his entire personality around yet another soldier who ultimately fell in battle but fought nonetheless being nameless is Good. Please feel free to give him all your burdens to bear like he's just some mule, an animal, a Tool .. because that means he's Useful, at least. That means he's Good. And if he isn't good, then he's nothing. Because you can always just buy another one anyways. A better one.

'Different'

Although his parents try not to treat Wemby by simplifying his differences into a strictly labeled, simple FUTURE BASKETBALL PRODIGY box at birth, that doesn't mean that can always stop others from doing it. Wemby signed his first autograph at ten years old.

It didn't matter if he was a kid who was so much more than just his basketball future, basketball fans wanted one thing from him and one thing only: Success. People didn't care about his literary skills or his drawing hobbies. The eyes on his alien needed to be smaller 'so your shoe can sell better, trust us, it's still Your drawing.. your weird little .. not money-making hobby, do believe me, Vic, We know what We're doing. You just stick to whatever you do.'

His differences, in the end, are minimalized just to that. He's just Different. That's what everyone says who wouldn't really care to say anything at all if he never hooped as well as they wanted in the first place. The youtube videos of 40 year old men criticizing his 15 year old games didn't Really care if he was just a kid, they just cared in the 'imagine when he reaches peak physicality? imagine the points (money) he'd make for the nba.' His beautiful differences, artistic, soft, unique but oh-so wonderfully common and passionate.. are all dissolved into 'Different', the Base definition.

he's an alien. Someone you can just dump all your poverty franchise worries onto because don't worry, he's Different. Trust me, he'll save your team. 'He's Different. ..am i talking about how he'd effortlessly answer questions in class while also trying to hide the fact that he's playing on his phone by tucking his bony legs awkwardly in his chair and crouching his spine over that it looked almost scary? HELL NO? what does THAT have to do with BASKETBALL?? no, he's just freakishly long, but like. Gifted. Though. ... I don't know, man, he's just DIFFERENT, okay? you can trust me, i'm a sports podcaster, okay? everything i say is gold.'

A celebrity approaches him because he was different than most famous basketball athletes. He was Different. And yet, when he didn't recognize or notice her presence due to Different cultures ( due to Being Genuinely, Detailedly Different ), he was scorned and ushered out of public eye so another possible pr bomb couldn't injure his reputation as a Difference That They Really Would Rather Not Want.

that's what his reading falls into, his old friends, his family, his art, his personality. If it's beyond ball, if it's beyond Business. The world only cares if it's marketable. Sure, some reporters will ask a question outside of sport, but only because it'll be a Different.. funny little nugget of knowledge for fans to laugh at then soon disregard for what Really made him famous. But, Wemby is what he always wanted to be. He's Different. So What if it's not exactly the kind of Different he actually wants, he actually functions on? No one has the time to perform 200% anymore. Slap the label you wanted and call it quits, stop being so High-Maintenanced. That's not marketable.

You're just different. And to some people, that's all you'll ever be. No need to explore it any further. Who knows, your Consumers might find something they won't like. And we can't risk that happening to our greatest circus freak.

i mean. Generational basketball talent .

If there's a press conference going on that somehow includes the two, then Wemby just wants to be sure everyone can hear what he really wants to say, in his own words, not echoing anyone else's, and Jabari just wants to Be in the Room.

His brother stopped playing basketball because his family said he didn't try hard enough. Jabari Can't have that. His whole life revolves Around basketball, around sport. He doesn't WANT to be DIFFERENT if that isn't the soundest option, he just wants to be GREAT. Because GREAT is SUCCESS. Jabari Smith is not success. It's just a retry at it . His father shares the same name.

Wemby's life did not always revolve around basketball, to people, at one point. At one point, Wemby's life was just his life. Now, it seems like only his family think that, and they're from a whole other country. When he comments on videos critiquing his playstyle, he doesn't do so out of anger or questioning, he does so because he genuinely Wants to improve. He Does want to be great. But, he wants to be great in Everything that he finds interesting. He always did. When he likes an author, he reads All their books, not just their most notorious novel. He wants to be transported into other people's worlds so he can learn, so he can change, so he can be Different. Even if he somehow were to lose all of this fame, this Greatness, this job, this opportunity, he will never really lose. Because he's someone who's always taken opportunities to the fullest, so even if they pan out a little differently, that's Fine, really, because he's different. Not in the minimizing, dictionary definition then leave the meaning at that different, but in the butterfly effect. What he once was ten days ago is not exactly the same of what he is now, and it hurts, sometimes, when people fail to see that, or simply don't want to because textbook different is easier to digest than worldly different.

IN SHORT.. theyre foils. i can't Exactly walk u thru their relationship bcs .. there Isn't one.. & that's what's so Interesting about them. That's what makes their relationship, to me. Because if they WERE to be friends, if they somehow in some alternate world WERE to get paired up on the same team... they would be friends. I really think they would be. Not only because their signs are so compatible, or their differences are so stark, but because their similarities would triumph everything beautifully. Maybe. We don't know because they Weren't paired together, we can only speculate. But i think it would be big and beautiful, whatever they would have, it would be Something.

unfortunately, we don't live in an alternate world where they're teammates though ! Double unfortunately, Jabari and Wemby's biggest similarity is their loyalty to the game (a double-edged sword in both their lives from Jabari's silent unhealthy desire to be limited and Wemby's silent desperation not to be) Wemby, in Jabari's eyes, is Indeed a powerful...

Problem.

He's not really a person to him . In all fairness, no one really is when they're involved in the basketball world, not to Jabari, not from the way he's been taught. Everyone's supposed to be Replaceable, a faceless tool in the pocket of good business.

.. except for This freakazoid. Apparently.

APPARENTLY, he's some supposed 'saint'. someone to be feared for being more. APPARENTLY, the reporters just LOVE yapping about him SO much, that Jabari HAS to take the time out of his training just to talk about some guy who doesn't even GO here, yet when they ask him about his opinion on future prospects. WELL, that's ALL wemby IS to Jabari, just another future prospect. Just another problem.

A problem he'll be sure to check off his list.

... okay, so Maybe he's a bit more than a problem.. maybe.. he's just a really persistent problem? yeah, that's it, nothing more. Jabari will work through this. He Always does. That's what he does well, Work.

Wemby wonders if that's all he ever does .

But he doesn't have long before Jabari's marching down the tunnel to beat himself up over all his mistakes other people would never make, and Wemby's being escorted to an interview that other people would never make solely to show how Much he just Stands Out as a soul... in basketball .

I hope they find each other in basketball, and out of it as well. I just feel like

Something would Happen

[thelastharbinger]

Tidbits of ATSV That I Enjoyed (Or Alternatively: Just Miles Being The Most Endearing Spidey Ever)

Miles patting The Spot's head after successfully webbing him (I don't see this as condescending, but rather him still engaging with the humanity of a villain like Spot) and ~very assertively~ telling/asking him not to escape.

"I'm like Robin Hood-if he gave to himself."

Miles' spidey senses going off when he arrives late to his dad's party because there's nothing more frightening than Brown parents when they're mad at you. Beware the chancla or correa!

O.k. So we all know there are different versions of the movie out there. You may already know that one of the slight differences is when Miles goes to save Inspector Singh. There's a version where you can hear Gwen's voice in the distant background yelling no! when she thinks Miles gets crushed under the rubble, and there's another where she's silent as she webs to him. Now, I have found ANOTHER version (online) where her shouting is even more at the forefront. She's practically screaming and sounds more desperate, (prolly because it's close to the same way her Peter Parker died so she's reliving trauma) and the fear in her voice is palpable. That one haunts me.

Jefferson trying to equate studying for his police exams to childbirth, which Rio quickly nips in the bud.

Ganke having a soccer poster of Son Heung Min, a famous Korean footballer who currently plays for the Premier League Tottenham Hotspur and is captain of the South Korean national team.

Miles having a Sashimi (his universe's version of Supreme, but I just like the idea that Miles loves eating sashimi. Like I know that kid has good taste in food) poster in his bedroom.

The fact that Miles kept in touch with Aunt May for long enough after the events of ITSV that he helps her move.

The Spot saying he was one of the more handsome scientists at Alchemax according to his colleagues.

Miles and Gwen having the same collectible toys, the only difference being that he keeps his in the box and she doesn't.

"Hey, don't try to wow me with big words, man," *in deep manly voice* "I do crosswords every day"- Miles after Spot points out Alchemax as "the crucible of our connection!"

Miles going, "This job is so dumb sometimes" after he tries to web Spot at the deli, but it goes through a hole and lands on his face.

"Nahhh, he seems more Dominican to me." Kinda want Miles to meet a native Dominican Spidey because that dynamic would highkey fuck hard *pun not intended*. They would repair relations between our two islands-PR&DR.

"Almost there Mami *smiley face* *cowboy* prayer hands*"

The college admissions coach at Visions Academy straight up saying, "That's your story! Now, just stick to the script..." Ma'am what???

"Calmate Mami, eso no es my fault."

"I've hit a lot of different villains with a lot of different food...I'm just trying to lighten the mood."

Miles in his angsty teen era and smart-mouthing everyone around him. Love that for him.

"He almost killed his mom as a baby, I mean, look at those shoulders." No but for real tho. Those shoulders are as wide as a truck. Kim Seokjin who??? (if you understood that reference, ily).

Miles writing a love letter to his dad in 2 cakes.

Gwen at the water tower chowing and saying how feelings make her hungry after her and Miles talked about how they can't be together cause it would end in tragedy. Like Gwen, come again?!

Also, Miles' and Gwen's talk at the Williamsburg Bank Building being lowkey the catalyst for the 2nd/3rd acts of the film. Without them both kind of silently admitting their feelings for each other, Miles probably wouldn't have chased after her the way he did. Pretty sure you know the rest.

"I bet she doesn't even speak Spanish," and Jeff going "Que barbaridad" in his very broken Spanish. Queue Rio's bombastic side eye.

Both Gwen and Miles referring to Spot as a Villain Of The Week, even though neither of them have spoken about Spot to each other.

"I was bitten by a-wouldnt you like to know? Know what I mean?" SIR. Chill. This movie is for children.

The Spot inverting himself, going from a white mass with black spots to a gaping black hole with smaller white spirals. It's giving Junji Ito.

The irony of Pavitr exclaiming, "Well that was another easy adventure for Spider-Man!" right before an incoming canon event. HIS. He was about to experience his first big loss, and his happy-go-lucky nature would've been challenged.

Miguel saying conyo! when all the Spideys start pointing at each other.

"!Cállate!" "Nosy!" Sidebar: we don't talk about Gwen's banter with bad guys enough. She's so funny!

A lot of the Peters saying hi to Gwen as she passes HQ because she is canonically the one lost love--the love interest they all would've ended up with had she not died, so they all have an affection for her.

Web-Slinger going "Giddy up!" Cause he's swinging up.

Miles offering his fresh new takes on how to deal with the Spot upon meeting Miguel, saying "He just wants to be taken seriously. Like we all do." MILES YOU BEAUTIFUL, COMPASSIONATE GOLDEN SUNFLOWER BOY I LOVE YOUUUUU.

Hobie referring to Peter B. as Humbling Reality Spider-Man, which considering how steeped in tragedy the Spidey lore is, is really saying something.

Miguel's nonono no puedo más no puedo más. His misery is very funny and delightful to me. Little bitch ass.

"You know you're the only Spider-Man who isn't funny." Yes! More Miguel slander in the next one, please! Little bitch ass.

"Snitch!"

Miles shouting out Peter's name for help whilst Miguel pins and lays into him the fact that he's an anomaly. This after he momentarily glitches back to his ITSV store-bought suit. Mimicking the way-in also the first movie-Miles shouting out Peter's name for his own rescue as Doc Ock attacks him at the research facility. Because even though he feels hurt by Peter at this point, that's still his dad mentor and he still instinctively looks to him for protection. Rip my heart out why don't you!

Gwen sneaking back into her and her dad's place just to get that printed polaroid of her and Miles, a pic she already has on her phone.

Earth-42 Miles wearing Nike while our Miles wears Jordans.

[freakinator]

if i had it my way i would love a zam/leo/clown/red/mapicc/bacon/minute/mid alliance/team next season

[ilovepersephoneprice]

realised I'm pushing the Persephone and Mizzen sibling rhetoric unknowingly by commenting on posts about Mizzen with "MY BABY BOY 😭😭😭😭" when my pfp is persephone, user is persephoneprice and I'm posting about Persephone like "me reveal!!"

even subconsciously, Persephone and Mizzen, the nonbiological, mentor/tribute siblings reign strong

[fizzyghosts]

Hywel is inspired by a mix of my issues with stories with nonhuman protagonist/about nonhumans becoming human AND vet posts ive seen warning people about the dangers of anthropomorphisizing animals. Its fine to joke about your pets doing things out of spite or other human emotions, it does put you at risk of not being able to read their body language correctly. Cats dont cry out of sadness, a cat crying, with actual tears streaming down its face, is a sign of a medical issue. A dog smiling isn't doing it bc its happy, it means its nervous. Not being able to spot these is bad, and sometimes even dangerous, for you and the animal.

If you never get past Hywel's human appearance and treat him like one its like getting a reactive dog, doing zero research or training, and then taking it to a dog park. If Hywel mauls someone in town then its on you.