I Can Watch This All Day…

Void - Part 1 (M)

title banner by @rude–jude♡

Genre: Sci-fi with a little angst and a LOT of smut

Pairing: BTS x Reader (yup - all seven)

Summary: You are the only female crew member on a 12 year space mission with seven handsome men. The sexual tension is real, y’all.

Word Count: 7.9k 

Part 1 / ?

Warnings: explicit sexual content, masturbation, discussions of pornography, voyeurism, and excessive sexual tension

A/N: This chapter focuses on Hoseok, Yoongi, and Jimin. But trust me, all seven will get involved before this is over.

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

real magic (explicit)

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

pairing: namjoon x reader

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

word count: 16.7k 😩

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

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

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

read on AO3!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Moni!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Moni blinks and stays right where he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“See you after the holidays!”

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

You shrug. “Works for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That would be mine.”

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

A father who also happens to be your boss.

You try not to think about any of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peppermint mocha to go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But to your surprise, Sol looks up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But not today,” you announce to Nick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh. Uh, hi.”

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, okay,” you answer with a nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet, here he is. Proving you wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Different how?” you prompt.

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was going to say old.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is probably gonna stain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m just always nervous around you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

---

😆

Business Proposal || knj (3/?)

pairing: namjoon x f!reader || ex friends to lovers!au friends to lovers!au

Genre: fluff, angst, smut, slow burn, fwb!au, non idol!au, unrequited love

Warnings: slow burn, angst, namjoon is pretty much not the nicest dude lol (will add more as it progresses), kinda sugar daddy au but not really. It will make sense I promise.

Rating: mature, 18+

w.c: 6.5k

Synopsis: Namjoon is living on borrowed time, and it’s time to cash in. His father is months from taking his last breathe and his life long dream is to watch his oldest son say “I do.”

prev || next || m.list

a/n: Kind off a filler chapter, but also let the drama commence we are literally just getting started haha. Again, I’m going to be pretty busy for the next month so I don’t know when I’ll upload another part. But I hope you like this one and as always lmk your thoughts. Thank you.xx

The knot in your throat is hard to ignore as you put away your belongings in cardboard boxes. The tiny apartment that served as your home is looking more barren with the more things you take down and pack. Jungkook always made fun of you for giving meaning to silly things and getting attached to them. He calls you a hoarder and maybe he is correct about you hoarding shit you don’t ever need, but you call yourself a collector.

Keep reading

  ↳ return to saga index 

⟶ read in chronological order here 

A series of hook ups with Kim Seokjin, the college’s biggest fuckboy…

↳ the index (in order of events)

#1 The first time 

#2 The repeat 

#3 The kiss 

#4 The cherry lube 

#5 The daddy kink 

#6 The accidental cuddle 

#7 The kink shame

#8 The last (good) time…before you fell for someone else and dumped him… 

↳ bonus (not in order of events) 

#1 The orgasm 

#2 The movie theatre 

#3 The raging boner 

#4 The tentacle dildo

#5 The request 

#6 The 69

#7 The discovery 

#8 The sext

Written 2018-20. Reworked/Edited 2020 Please refrain from posting my work elsewhere. No translations allowed. © floralseokjin 2020

This is soo freaking good!!!

#kimnamjoonfic #RMfic #F2Lfic #BTS #BTSRM #Istilldontknowhowtohashtag 😆

The holiday pretense -3-

Summary: Namjoon has never been a fan of the holidays. In fact, he could list more things that sucked about ‘The most wonderful time of the year’, than things that brought him joy. Yet, beneath his cynicism, a flicker of hope appeared this year, as the faint scent of homesickness hung in the air. Unfortunately, there’s one tiny little thing that keeps him from calling home- his lack of a girlfriend. But fear not; this holiday season, Namjoon’s smart mouth gets him in a situation where he has no choice but to approach you- his longtime friend and roommate- with an unexpected request. Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: fake-dating, friends to lovers/roommates to lovers au; crack, smut, fluff. Rating: explicit. Minors do not interact Warnings: every single trope in the book; but with a twist. Dialogue heavy. OC is really bad at lying. Things are slowly starting to unravel. Drinking and a drunken kiss Smut warnings: morning wood, hickeys. Word count: Chapter 3- 17k Credits: You already know @callmenoona25, is the reason I got back on track with this story. But what you may not know is the fact that she is also incredibly smart and creative, and brainstorming with her is one of the best things that could have happened to me✨ thank you for all your patience and help. Author's note: uh... so, the plan was to have this story completed by new years eve. funny how that worked out huh... but don't worry, we are closing in on the ending. Where we are standing now, there are just 2 more chapters to come. Because, lets be honest, how much more can these guys take?? part 1: here, part 2: here.

Oh, also, would anyone be interested in being added to a permanent tag list? I keep toying with the idea of making one, so if you're interested, hmu ig?

current tag lol @uniquetravelerone

Anyway. Merry Christmas?

You stirred tiredly, frowning at the sliver of light that had somehow managed to sneak through the only crack in the curtains and land directly in your eyes. It pulled you from your slumber far earlier than you deemed acceptable. With a soft groan, you tried to turn away, seeking solace from the intrusion—only to be stopped by a solid body pressed against you.

Namjoon’s arm was draped securely over your stomach, his hand having somehow wandered beneath your shirt during the night. The casual intimacy of the gesture jolted your groggy brain into overdrive, the last remnants of sleep dissolving in an instant.

You shifted again, this time cautiously, trying to gauge your situation, but the movement elicited a soft, low moan from Namjoon.

That’s when you felt it—his erection, firm and unmistakable, pressing against your ass. Your breath hitched instantly, the realization flooding through you in waves.

The warmth of his body pressed closely against yours, your legs tangled together, and the weight of his arm draped possessively over you made your heart pound violently against your ribcage. His hand, impossibly warm, splayed against your stomach, sending sparks of electricity skittering across your skin.

You bit your lip, utterly unsure of how to navigate the situation you found yourself in. Just as you began to plot your escape—or at least a way to breathe through the moment—Namjoon let out another sleepy sound, a low, gravelly hum that vibrated against your back. He shifted slightly, adjusting his hips, and with that movement, pressing his cock more firmly against your ass.

Heat surged to your cheeks, a wave of nervousness mingling with an undeniable spark of desire. Damn. He was big. You’ve always suspected as much, but now you knew.

And knowing only made the moment harder to ignore.

“Namjoon,” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness of the room.

At the sound of his name, he stirred slightly, the grip on your waist tightening for a fleeting moment before he relaxed again. A sleepy mumble escaping his lips— something unintelligible, but the low timbre of his voice sent a shiver down your spine. You tried again, a little louder this time, but still soft enough not to startle him.

“Namjoon,” you repeated your heart thundering in your chest.

His response was a groggy grunt, and then, to your utter dismay—and maybe a little delight—he nuzzled his face against the back of your neck, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin.

Your face heat up even more at his senseless sleepy affection, and you struggled to cope with the current predicament that seemed to dawn only on you.

“Morning…” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep, his breath tickling the back of your neck.

“Uh, morning,” you managed to stammer, trying to keep your voice steady despite the sharp rise in your pulse. You weren’t sure whether to laugh, cry, or combust on the spot.

Namjoon didn’t seem fully awake yet, his hold on you tightening slightly as he murmured something that sounded like ‘gimme five more minutes’ against your shoulder. You placed your hand over his, gently trying to pry it off your stomach, but the action only made him tighten his hold and let out a contented sigh.

This was supposed to be simple. You’ve done this before—cuddled up during movie nights, casual and comfortable— but never has his hand wandered beneath your shirt, never before did you get to feel him quite like you were right now.

You were hyper-aware of every single point of contact, the heat of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest against your back, the very… noticeable evidence of his arousal still pressing insistently against you.

You struggled, torn between waking him fully or hoping he might shift away on his own.

But after a few seconds, seeing that he made absolutely no move to let you go, you ventured awkwardly.

“Are you…comfortable?”

He hummed softly, his fingers brushing absentmindedly against your stomach. “Mmh…yeah,” he muttered, still half-asleep.

Then, as if realization hit him like an avalanche, his body tensed.

“Fuck-” His arm jerked away as if he’d been burned, and he rolled onto his back with a groan, the sudden movement pulling the blanket askew. A rush of cold air immediately slipped under the blanket, biting at your skin and making you instantly regret every choice you made that led to this moment.

“My god.” He muttered, dragging a hand over his red face. “I-I didn’t mean-”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, trying to ease the tension, your own face burning. “You were asleep, it happens.”

Namjoon let out a nervous laugh, still covering his face. “No, no, it’s not okay! I-I didn’t mean to…”

“Really, it’s fine,” you reassured, trying to lighten the mood despite your racing heart. “It’s quite normal for men your age, right? Means you’re healthy and everything’s-”

“Oh my god, please stop talking.” Namjoon groaned, dragging both hands down his face as if that would somehow erase him from existence.

 “What? It’s true! It’s just biology. Natural instinct-”

“Please stop,” he interrupted, peeking at you from between his fingers, his ears now the colour of ripe tomatoes. “You’re not helping.”

“Okay, okay,” you relented, biting your lip to stifle the awkward laughter threatening to spill out. You turned your gaze to the ceiling, willing your own embarrassment to disappear, though the heat on your cheeks lingered stubbornly.

The two of you stayed quiet, the silence stretching long enough for the rhythmic sound of Namjoon’s breathing to steady and blend seamlessly with your own. The stillness should have been calming, but instead, it magnified the wild thrum of your pulse in your ears, a constant reminder of just how awkward this was.

You waited, hoping your heart would slow, that the tension coiling in your chest would dissipate. But the longer the silence stretched, the heavier it felt, like a fragile thread about to snap.

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, you cleared your throat softly. 

“Seriously, though,” you said gently, “It’s fine. I’m not mad or anything.”

Namjoon let out a sharp exhale, finally dropping his hands to look over at you, his expression hovering somewhere between mortification and gratitude.

“You’re way too calm about this,” he said, shaking his head slightly, his voice still carrying the remnants of self-consciousness.

“Yeah, well,” you started, struggling to inject some nonchalance in your tone. “One of us has to be.”

A small, self-deprecating smile tugged at his lips as he sat up, running a hand through his already tousled hair. “You’re not going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Never!” you shot back with a grin, finally feeling the strange strain between you start to give.

“Great,” he muttered, shooting you a playful glare before pushing himself to his feet. With his back to you, he stretched lazily, his broad shoulders flexing with the movement.

“I’ll take a cold shower first, though, if you don’t mind.” He added, his voice carrying bit of nonchalance and amusement as he glanced over his shoulder at you.

You could only watch as he walked out of the room, his broad shoulders and confident stride disappearing through the doorway.

The moment he was out of sight, you let out a long, muffled groan, flopping back on the bed and burying your face in the pillow.

A swirl of emotions crashed over you —embarrassment, amusement, a flicker of regret, longing and something dangerously close to arousal. It was all too unsettling to fully acknowledge, leaving you in a confusing storm of emotions, their weight pressing down on you as heavily as his arm had mere moments ago.

The warmth of his presence lingered in the room, stubborn and inescapable. It clung to you, refusing to fade, making it impossible for your heart to actually slow down.

Get a grip, you told yourself. This doesn’t mean anything. It was an accident. A biological response. Nothing more.

The sound of the shower starting up jolted you out from your thoughts. You turned your head towards the closed bathroom door, watching as a faint curl of steam began to escape from beneath it.

 Stop thinking about it, you scolded yourself, but the image refused to leave. Namjoon under the spray of cold water, his head tipped back, rivulets of water streaming down his toned back… the thought send a fresh wave of warmth to your cheeks, and you buried your face in your hands.

No! Not this again. Saying the words out loud might not help, but you muttered them under your breath anyway, as if sheer force of will could be enough to break the cycle. You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes. Focus on something else. Fast. 

But it was already too late. Your mind had betrayed you.

The moment from earlier replayed in vivid, torturous detail—the solid weight of his arm draped over you, his body pressed so closely against yours, the warmth of his hand resting so casually beneath your shirt. And then—as if your brain was determined to sabotage you further—the undeniable sensation of his cock, firm and insistent against you…

It all made it too easy for your mind to conjure images of him now, under the stream of water— each drop of water tracing its path down the expanse of his trim chest, the sharp lines of his collarbone, the defined strength in his thighs. Good god, his thighs.

And his shoulders, broad and commanding, perfect for digging your nails into. The curve of his arms, strong enough to hold you steady or pull you closer, each movement carrying that quiet confidence you couldn’t help but admire

You groaned again, louder this time, pressing your hands harder against your face as though you could scrub away the onslaught of thoughts. But the images lingered, refusing to simply be dismissed.

You haven’t felt this way since the early stages of your friendship, back when you harboured that stupid, fleeting crush.

Frustration bubbled to the surface—at yourself, at your stupidly overactive imagination, at the fact that none of this should even matter.

You were supposed to be pretending. Just pretending. So why the hell did it suddenly feel so real?

Why did he make you feel this way? His small, casual gestures—the brush of his hand against yours, the quiet laughter, even the soft mumbling in his sleep—were no longer just innocent moments. They were charged, electrifying, leaving you breathless and unsteady.

And the way he held you close when in public, the warmth and ease of it, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His genuine compliments that seemed to see straight through you. The way his gaze lingered, soft and intent, like you were the only person in the room. It was all maddening.

Unfamiliar.

Overwhelming.

Completely messing with your head.

The sound of water running in the background didn’t help. Because now you suddenly wondered if he was just standing there, letting the cold-water wash away the awkwardness, or if his thoughts were just as mangled as yours. Was he even thinking about you?

God, was he touching himself? He must, after all—

Stop it! You shook your head again, forcing yourself to breathe deeply.

This was Namjoon. The same Namjoon you’ve known for so long, your friend.  Not someone who had any business making your heart pound like this or set your skin alight with a simple look your way. 

This was the same Namjoon who forgot to take store receipts and napkins out of his jeans before tossing them the washer. The same Namjoon who broke a mug without even realizing it, too distracted by a conversation to notice the mess he made across the carpet.

The same Namjoon who tripped over his own shoelaces, then laughed about it like an adorable dork instead of getting embarrassed.

The sound of the water shutting off abruptly jolted you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you could hear him moving around in the bathroom. Your heart picking up again at the realization that maybe you weren’t that ready to face him again. You shut your eyes tight, willing yourself to calm down. Act normal. Nothing weird happened.

The door creaked open, and the fresh, earthy scent of his Cool Water shower gel wafted into the room. It hit you like a wave, freezing you in place as if your body had decided to betray you entirely.

Namjoon stepped out, his damp hair tousled messily, droplets still clinging to the strands and sliding down his neck. A loose t-shirt clung to his broad shoulders, the fabric soft and slightly damp, hinting at the toned frame beneath. Grey sweatpants rested low on his hips, completing the picture with an ease that felt unfair.

Your cheeks burned as a clear, unwelcome image flickered through your mind: your lips dragging along his damp skin, leaving a slow, heated path cross his neck, down his chest...

 You’re hopeless. Absolutely hopeless. You need to move out.

Namjoon walked over; his footsteps soft but deliberate. And before you could fully compose yourself, he leaned over your body to retrieve his phone from the nightstand.

The sudden closeness was dizzying, and he seemed completely oblivious to your internal meltdown. The warmth of his presence enveloped you, and the clean, minty scent of his toothpaste rendered you nearly catatonic.

“You good?” he asked, his voice low, almost too casual, his gaze meeting yours.

 “Yeah, yeah. Just... why are you still soaked?” you blurted, scrambling for any topic to defuse the tension threatening to suffocate you.

He glanced down at his damp shirt with a lopsided smile. “Didn’t feel like drying off properly. Why? Is it bothering you?”

Was it? Absolutely. But not for the reason he thought.

“It’s the middle of winter, Namjoon. You’ll catch a cold,” you shot back, your voice laced with feigned exasperations, hoping it masked the warmth creeping up your neck.

Namjoon raised an eyebrow, the barest flicker of amusement crossing his face as if he was holding back a smirk. “If you say so.” His tone was maddeningly calm, laced with a playful edge that made your stomach flip.

“I didn’t know you cared that much about me,” he added, his voice low, teasing and entirely too smug for your liking.

You opened your mouth to retort, but your brain short-circuited under the weight of his gaze—soft, warm, and far too knowing. It was as if he could see right through your attempt at deflection, straight into the chaos swirling beneath the surface.

“Someone has to,” you managed, crossing your arms in a last-ditch effort to look unaffected.

Namjoon didn’t move right away. He stayed above you for moment longer, his gaze fixed on your face, studying you with an expression you couldn’t quite place. The intensity of it made your cheeks heat again, through you tried your best to not show it.

 Finally, he stepped back with a shrug, breaking the tension like a twig. “I’ll go make us some coffee,” he said, slipping his phone into his pocket as he turned toward the door.

You exhaled shakily the moment he disappeared from view, your body sinking into the mattress, and you pressed a hand to your heart in a futile attempt to calm your racing heart.

Why did every interaction with him feel like a minefield these days?

But the warmth he’d left behind refused to dissipate, nestling deep in the space between your ribs, even as you stepped into the bathroom. Turning the water to its coldest setting, you braced yourself, hoping the icy spray could maybe douse the fire he’d unknowingly ignited within you.

 Goddamn it! You were an adult, perfectly capable of rationalizing your feelings. And logically, there was no reason to feel anything in particular about Namjoon.

Sure, he was effortlessly charming when he flirted, his sharp mind and quick wit made it hard not to admire him. And yes, the way his eyes seemed to burn into you, holding your gaze a little too long, was hard to ignore. But that was part of the act—part of the pretense.

And yet, there was something undeniably intoxicating about being on the receiving end of his affection, even if it was just for show. You’ve always secretly wondered what it would be like to be one of the women he pursued—those brilliant, breathtaking women who had him wrapped around their fingers. The ones who inspired grand, romantic gestures from him, the kind that left him stuttering and unsure in a way so unlike his usual self.

But that wasn’t you. It wasn’t then, and it certainly isn’t now.

You were here just to help him get through the holidays, nothing less, nothing more. The plan was already laid out, perfectly planned, and you couldn’t afford to let this mess with your head now.

Two days. That’s all you had left. And after that? Things would go back to normal.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself. Even though a small part of you wondered if that was even possible anymore.

You weren’t sure if you could go back to being just friends after this. Not when your heart was starting to stake its claim, not when every interaction felt charged with something you didn’t dare name. You’d gotten so used to the feeling of butterflies every time he was near. So much so that the idea of casually brushing against him, of not leaning into him like it was second nature, now seemed like punishment.

The holidays were meant to be temporary, a brief interlude where you could play pretend and then walk away unscathed. But the closer you got to the end of the week, the more you realized that this wasn’t something you could simply walk away from.

You were toeing the edge, willing to risk everything you’d worked so hard to bury in the past few years.

Sure, there had been moments when the lines blurred, but those were fleeting, right?

Like that little jealous outburst at the bakery… God why did you do that?

The weight of your emotions were suffocating, pressing against your chest like an anchor, dragging you further into uncertainty. Each rational thought told you to pull back, to maintain the boundaries that had kept your friendship safe and intact for years. But all those same boundaries now felt paper-thin, stretched to their limits under the strain of what this holiday had brought to the surface.

You had come so far in keeping your distance, convincing yourself that you were fine just being his friend, his roommate—just a temporary solution for the week.

But now…now it all felt like you were playing a dangerous game.

And it wasn’t just the casual touches or fleeting glances that unravelled you. It was all those quiet moments in between—when no one was watching, when it was just the two of you, and he looked at you as if you mattered in a way that went beyond pretense. It was in the way he held you so tightly at night. In the way he sought you out in a room full of people, his gaze always searching for yours, making sure you are comfortable, as if you were his anchor, too.

And that is what made this dangerous.

Namjoon had a way of making everything feel real, even the things that were supposed to be pretend.

Every part of you wanted to scream at yourself to stop, to push him away and hold on to the semblance of normalcy you’d worked so hard to maintain. Yet, with every passing moment, you felt that distance closing, felt the walls you’d built around your heart slowly crumbling under his unspoken promises. Especially since he had this knack for being affectionate with you when there was no logical reason you could point to. No audience. No performance. Just you, him, and an unspoken need neither of you seemed to acknowledge.

When you finally felt cold enough to forget why you were so unreasonably horny at seven in the morning, you retreated back into the bedroom to get dressed. You tugged on a soft hoodie, the fabric warm and grounding against your skin. It didn’t erase the tension coiled in your chest, but at least it gave you something to hold onto.

The scent of coffee wafted through the air as you opened the door, a fleeting reminder of normalcy—or at least a distraction from the mess in your heart.

Namjoon was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. His mom, still barely awake, moved around the kitchen, preparing the tools she needed for breakfast. A fresh mug of coffee sat on the table, steam curling invitingly from it.

“Hey, love," Namjoon greeted simply, his voice warm and casual, the corner of his lips curling into a soft smile, his dimples making a devastatingly brief appearance. He gestured towards the steaming cup he’d prepared, his gaze lingering on you for just a second too long. “Coffee’s ready.”

“Good morning,” you greeted, directing a polite smile towards his mother before shifting your attention back to him.

 Raising an eyebrow at the unexpected term of endearment, you decided you won’t to let him get in your head again. Two could play this game.

“Thank you, baby.” you said, deliberately exaggerating the word with mock sweetness, drawing it out just enough to make your point clear.

Namjoon paused, his smile faltering for just a second, as if the weight of what he’d just said had finally hit him. It was almost comical—the way his eyes widened slightly, the subtle tilt of his head as he realized he’d called you “love” so naturally, as ifwithout even noticing.

His dimples deepened as he recovered, but then there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—something that suggested he was more aware of the tension than he let on.

You watched him carefully, keeping your expression neutral as you took the mug from him. He opened his mouth, about to respond, but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head lightly.

“You know I can’t resist messing with you a bit.” He replied, the playful tone in his voice thickening, tough there was an edge of amusement in the way he looked at you.

Like he didn’t mess enough with you this morning.

 “What? Did you add salt instead of sugar?” you asked, keeping the sarcasm light enough to communicate your true intentions to him, but soft enough that no one else would notice the charged tension between you two.

Namjoon let out a soft snort at your jab, but the real reaction came from his mother.

A giggle bubbled out from where she stood in the corner of the kitchen, halfway through washing the rice. Her eyes sparked with mischief as she glanced over at the two of you. “Salt instead of sugar?” she repeated, a teasing edge creeping in her voice as she set down the bowl she was holding. “Is that your way of flirting these days, Namjoon?”

Namjoon groaned dramatically, rubbing the back of his neck as a faint flush crept up his neck. “Mom, please.” He mumbled, glancing sideways at you for support—or maybe escape.

You couldn’t suppress the grin spreading across your face, taking an almost perverse satisfaction in watching him squirm for once. “Oh, I don’t know,” you teased, holding the mug closer. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing he’s done this week.”

Namjoon’s eyes narrowed slightly at you, though the corners of his lips tugged upwards in an exasperated smile. “Don’t you start.” He warned lightly, his voice low and teasing as he shook his head.

Before you could get another word in, he stepped forwards, taking your hand with the mug still in it. With a mischievous smirk, he brought the cup to his lips and took a big gulp of your coffee, as if to prove there was no threat.

“See?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Perfectly fine. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You blinked, stunned for a moment by his audacity.

“You did not just drink my coffee.” You said, glancing at your mug, your voice incredulous.

His mother chuckled, clearly amused by the unfolding scene. “Honestly, watching you two is like watching preschoolers flirt,” she remarked, her tone light but pointed. As she turned back to her task, she added with a sly smile, “Namjoon, do you still pull on her hair instead of just telling her you love her?” 

Namjoon froze, his hand still loosely holding yours, his wide eyes quickly darting from you to his mother as though searching for an escape route.

You, on the other hand, could feel the heat in your cheeks, spreading rapidly as her words sank in. Your heart stuttered under the weight of her question, her casual delivery doing nothing to soften its impact. Did she realty see you that way? Did everyone? Because this—the playful back-and-forth—wasn’t even part of the charade. This was just…you two.

The playful energy of moments ago dissolved into an awkward silence, thick with unspoken questions and the sudden realization that your dynamic maybe wasn’t as innocent as you’d thought. You risked a glance at Namjoon, hoping to gauge his reaction, but his face was turned away, a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

Then, in true Namjoon fashion, he fumbled his way straight into the worst possible response. “Only when she asks me to.”

Your jaw dropped, and before you could stop yourself, you swatted his arm. “Namjoon!”

The innuendo wasn’t lost on you—or his mother, whose laugh bubbled up, filling the room with delighted mischief. Namjoon winced at your retaliation but managed a sheepish smile, as if realizing too late that his attempt at humour had only dug him deeper into the hole.

“Oh, you two,” Mrs. Kim chuckled, shaking her head as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Honestly, it’s no wonder it took you so long to get together.” She said with a smile, her voice light but laced with the kind of amusement only a parent could muster.

Namjoon groaned softly, running a hand through his hair. “Mom, please,” he muttered, clearly regretting every life choice that had led to this moment. His hand lingered at the back of his neck, rubbing at the spot where his embarrassment always seemed to gather.

You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to react—or to let the warmth rising in your own face betray you, one of your telltale signs when you were lying. Instead, you lifted the mug to your lips, completely forgetting that Namjoon just drank from it. The faintest hint of him lingered on the rim, but you forced yourself to focus on the bitter coffee, letting it anchor you as you scrambled to regain some semblance of composure.

Namjoon’s mother didn’t seem inclined to drop the subject, though, casting a glance between the two of you, her eyes sparkling. “You know,” she began, her voice as casual as if she were discussing the weather, “I’ve never seen you this flustered. It’s kind of adorable.”

Namjoon cleared his throat, clearly searching for an exit route, but his usual eloquence failed him. Because he very lamely defended with, “I’m not flustered.”

You bit your lip, trying to keep a straight face, but the sight of him so out of sorts was too much. You hid your grin behind the rim of your mug, the bitter coffee doing little to mask the warmth blooming in your chest. “Me either, now that I think about it,” you chimed in, your tone deliberately light. “I second that.”

His eyes snapped to you, a mix of betrayal and exasperation flashing across his face. “You’re the one who—Traitor,” he mumbled, though there was no real bite in his words.

You giggle at his reaction, watching with delight as he gently pushes off the counter. “I can feel you two ganging up on me in the very near future, so I’m going to start helping just to avoid any further embarrassment.”

His mom just grinned, clearly relishing the moment. “Don’t be silly. It’s good to see you getting along so well, that’s all. But if you’re so eager, you can help peel the carrots.”

Namjoon sighed dramatically, but began rolling up his sleeves to wash his hands. “Peeling carrots,” he muttered under his breath, his tone mock-sullen. “This is what my life has come to.”

You watched him for a moment, his shoulders relaxing despite the exaggerated complaints, and felt a strange kind of warmth settle in your chest. Being here, in the kitchen, with him and his family—it felt easy. Familiar. Like you belonged.

Without a word, you set your mug down and stepped closer to join him.

“Joining in on my torture?” he asked, his lips quirking in a half-smile as he reached for something in the cupboard above.

“Can’t have you slicing off fingers on Christmas,” you replied, nodding up at him, adding a pinch of that normal back-and-forth you were so used to, the kind that kept things light.

Or at least, you tried to.

 Because, to your utter shock, Namjoon somehow managed to smack himself in the face with the cupboard door.

The corner of the door caught him right above his eye, and he flinched back with a quick, hushed curse.

You stare for a second, completely stunned, your mouth opening in surprise as a small trickle of blood appeared at the edge of his eyebrow. He cursed again, more audibly this time, wincing as he reached up to touch the spot, only to pull his hand away like the pain had caught him off guard.

“Holy—Joonie, are you okay?” you rushed to his side, instinctively grabbing a napkin from the counter.

He looked at you, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief, though there was an underlying amusement that seemed to peek through, despite the situation “Yeah. It kinda hurts, though,” he admitted, glancing at you like he was trying to gauge just how bad it was.

“Yeah, no shit, you’re bleeding,” you shot back, holding up the napkin and carefully pressing it to the cut.

Namjoon chuckled weakly, the sound oddly endearing despite the blood trickling down his face. “I am?” he asked, raising his eyebrows—only to wince when the movement tugged at the fresh wound.

You didn’t even notice how close you had gotten, too focused on your task to register that you were standing on your tiptoes to reach him, or that his hands grabbed your waist to keep you steady. The proximity was a detail you were too preoccupied to process, nor did you notice Mrs. Kim watching the scene unfold with a fond smile on her face.

“Hold still,” you instructed, gently holding the napkin in place. “You’ll need some ice to stop the bruising.”

“There’s peas in the freezer,” his mom casually pointed out, “and bandages in the drawer to your left.”

You nodded absentmindedly, still focused on the napkin pressing against his face. The light pressure was enough to slow the bleeding, but you could already see the hint of a bruise starting to form.

You sigh, gesturing at him to hold the napkin while you get the supplies, his fingers brushing over yours in the exchange.

“Will you ever learn that you are tall and corners exist?” you chastised, walking over to the fridge to rummage for the peas.

Namjoon chuckled at your exasperation; the sound soft but warm. “Maybe one day.”

You managed to pull the freezer open, grabbing the bag of frozen peas and holding it up to the light. “Well, I’m not gonna hold my breath.”

When you turned to make your way back to him, you saw his eyes following you with an almost fond expression. “It’s lucky I’m cute,” he said with a wink, clearly trying to downplay the whole situation.

 “You’re lucky I don’t pass out at the sight of blood.” You quipped, handing him the peas with a soft chuckle. “Now, take a seat. I can’t reach you.” You grabbed the band-aids from the drawer, your fingers quickly working on finding the right sized ones.

Namjoon’s lip twitched, somewhere between amusement and exasperation, but he obediently pulled out a chair and sat down, slouching slightly so you could tend to him without straining.

When you turned back to him, you noticed how he was staring at you—his usual teasing gone, replaced by something softer, more genuine.

“Hold still,” you instructed, carefully dabbing at the blood on his face with a fresh napkin.

As you worked, your fingers brushed through his hair, tucking a stray lock behind his ear. It was a small gesture, but it sent a sudden flutter through your chest, because his eyes fluttered close under your touch.

The soft kitchen light seemed to highlight the details of his face—freckles, small moles, the curve of his jaw—details you hadn’t truly taken the time to admire before. But now, with his eyes closed, his features relaxing as though the pain was a distant memory, you allowed yourself the indulgence of taking it all in.

For a fleeting moment, you almost forgave him for drinking your coffee.

His breath evened out, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips as you pressed the band-aid into place with care. Your fingers lingered against his skin, cupping his face to keep him still, and your heart faltered when you realized how effortlessly he surrendered to your touch, as if trusting you entirely to put him back together.

It was only then you noticed how close you were—standing between his open legs, his hands resting quietly on your hips as though they belonged there, silently urging you closer.

The realization hit you like a jolt, and for a beat, you froze. The proximity sent a wave of warmth through you, leaving your hands a little shaky as you reached for the peas again, hoping to focus on something other than the magnetic pull between you.

But just as you moved away, the atmosphere shifted, heavy with the feeling of being watched. You glanced up, only to catch Mrs. Kim standing in the doorway. Her expression was knowing, her lips quirking into a faintly amused smile that made your cheeks burn.

Namjoon’s voice broke the silence, drawing your attention back to him. “Will I survive?” he asked, a hint of humour laced in his tone as he glanced up at you, still holding the bag of peas against his cheek.

His small, half-smile was so casual, so utterly oblivious to the storm of emotions tearing through you, that it only made your chest tighten further.

“You just might,” you managed to reply, your voice steadier than you expected, though your heart was pounding in your ears.

“Good.” He stood up, hands still holding you close. “Let’s get peeling. No one gets away from this job.”

~~~

You paced around the bedroom, rifling through the limited wardrobe you’d packed, desperately trying to assemble something decent for Hoseok’s Christmas party—something you’d completely forgotten about until the last minute. And honestly, who would blame you after a day like this?

Cozy sweaters and jeans had been your go-to during your stay at Namjoon’s parents’ house, but those felt far too casual for an event like this.

And while the little black dress paired with sheer tights and thigh-high boots seemed like a solid option at first, the howling snowstorm outside quickly made you reconsider.

Namjoon had assured you it didn’t matter, but one quick scroll through Hoseok’s Instagram had your anxiety kicking into overdrive. His house was sleek and impossibly modern, adorned with Christmas décor that looked straight out of a designer catalogue. The polished tree, the subtle golden accents—it all screamed sophistication, a stark contrast to the decidedly average contents of your suitcase.

After watching you agonize over your outfit for half an hour, Minhi had kindly offered to take you to the mall. You’d politely declined.

Because going to the mall during the holidays was, in your opinion, the worst form of torture ever devised by humanity.

Instead, she rummaged through her own closet and handed you a pair of thermal tights and a leather skirt.

With her help, you managed to put together an ensemble that felt both festive and weather-appropriate. The leather skirt paired perfectly with the tights, and your favourite thigh-high boots added just the right edge. You topped it off with a boatneck burgundy sweater that showcased your shoulders, cinching it all together with a sleek belt.

When you finally emerged from the bathroom, Namjoon was sprawled on the bed, already dressed for the party in a cream sweater and loose jeans—a frustratingly effortless combination—and halfway through a book. His eyes flicked up as you entered the room, and a slow, appreciative smile spread across his face.

He probably wasn’t admiring at your outfit, you thought dryly. More likely, he was just relieved you were finally done monopolizing the bathroom.

“You look good,” he said simply, his voice warm with something that sounded suspiciously like admiration as he watched you settle at the little desk to finish your makeup.

“You don’t think it’s too much?” you asked, smoothing your hands nervously over the skirt before rummaging through your chaotic makeup bag in search of a lipstick.

His words seemed casual, but there was an undertone that made your pulse quicken. Compliments from Namjoon weren’t rare, but it was always how he said them—earnest and genuine, like he meant them even when he wasn’t trying to. It was something you were used to, or so you told yourself.

The sound of his book closing drew your attention, and when you glanced in the mirror, your eyes locked with his.

“Not at all,” he said, his voice warm and certain, his gaze unwavering. “You’re perfect.”

That was different.

You felt a flush creep up your neck, but you kept your gaze on the mirror, pretending to be absorbed in the precise swipe of lipstick rather than the insane fluttering in your chest.

“Sweet talker,” you murmured, hoping to sound unaffected, though the grin plastered on your face gave you away.

Namjoon chucked, the deep, rich sound filling the room. “Just honest,” he replied, propping himself up on one elbow.  His gaze was intense, and it held you captive in that way that made your cheeks warm. Damn him.

You capped your lipstick and turned to face him, trying for a casual air as you smoothed down the sweater. “Alright, I think I’m ready.”

He rose from the bed, unfolding his tall frame with an easy grace and he made his way towards you with an easy stride.

Now standing in front of you, he reached out, fingers brushing against your temple as he to gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. A simple, intimate gesture, that made your breath catch just the same.

You crane your neck to meet his gaze, feeling the weight of his undivided attention on you. His eyes seemed to flicker with a thousand thoughts, a whirlwind of ideas that seemed to cross his mind before he finally settled on one.

“I want to give you a hickey.”

Your jaw dropped, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him, utterly stunned. “Excuse me?” you managed, your voice squeaking higher than you intended.

Namjoon’s dimples made an appearance as he tried to suppress a grin, though his eyes gleamed with pure mischievous delight. “I said,” he repeated, completely unrepentant, “I want to give you a hickey.”

You opened and closed your mouth, brain scrambling for a coherent response. “You-you can’t just say stuff like that, Namjoon!” you sputtered, heat rushing to your head and making you lightheaded.

“Why not?” His tone was maddeningly calm, as though he’d just commented on the weather rather than that sudden, unexpected declaration.

“Because!” you gestured vaguely at yourself and the outfit you painstakingly put together, still clinging to a sense of composure “Look at this! Do you know how much effort went into this? And you want to… to ruin it with a hickey?”

And fuel my late-night fantasies for the rest of my life while you’re at it, you silently added.

Namjoon tilted his head slightly, clearly amused by your outrage, his hand still hovering over your face. “I don’t think it would ruin anything,” he said softly, his voice low.

His gaze flitted briefly to your collarbone before returning to your eyes, warm but challenging. “I think it might add something, and make this whole ordeal more believable.”

“Namjoon!” you hissed, glancing nervously toward the door, half-expecting someone to walk in on this absurd conversation.

He laughed, the sound rich and teasing, before stepping closer, his legs bumping against your knees and almost making them open. The closeness made your heart go crazy, his presence overwhelming in the most intoxicating way. “Relax, I’m just teasing,” he said, tough the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“I told you I like giving hickeys to my lovers,” he said with a casual shrug—a detail you’d conveniently buried but now recalled with sudden clarity. The realization hit you like a freight train, and the weight of the implication made your cheeks burn.

Before you could respond, his hand moved again, this time his fingers grazing over your cheek before gently cupping your chin. “We want this to be believable, right?” he said softly, his tone low and disarming.

He tilted your head up, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin as his gaze bore into yours. His expression softened, and his lips quirked into a faint smile. “And you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he murmured, almost as if speaking to himself.

You huffed, clinging desperately to your last shred of defiance. “If you give me one then I’m giving you one too!” you protested, your voice more confident than you felt. You hoped the bravado would make him back down, but deep down, you already knew that Namjoon is just as hardheaded as you and would never back down when you push his buttons.

His eyebrows shot up, clearly intrigued by your declaration. “Oh, is that how it’s going to be?” he asked, his voice a velvety blend of amusement and challenge.

You crossed your arms, trying to look more confident than you felt. “That’s exactly how it’s going to be. Fair’s fair.”

His chuckle was low and dangerous, the kind that made your stomach flip. “Fair. But are you sure you’re ready for that?”

 His fingers lingered on your chin moving down to your neck, his touch light, the words hanging between you, making the tension even more palpable. He lowered his gaze to your lips for a beat.

You squared your shoulders, watching him with a daring spark in your eyes. You weren’t quite sure where this new-fond courage was coming from, but you couldn’t back down yet.

After all, you couldn’t make his heart flutter like he did yours, but damn it, you could at least make his blood pressure rise.

 “Oh, I’m definitely ready. Did you forget how I woke up this morning?” At that remark his confidence wavered, and you smirked. “Are you?”

Namjoon’s eyes darkened. He took a step back, but there was something in his posture now—something that hinted he wasn’t quite ready to let go of this newly formed energy between you. His fingers brushed against the fabric of your sweater, but it was almost as if he were trying to compose himself.

“I’m game if you are.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying not to let the rush of nerves make you falter. “Fine.” You said, mimicking his calmness, tough your heart was undoubtedly going to burst out of your chest and land on his lap any second.

Without another word, his hand slid to your neck, his thumb pressing softly against your pulse point. Then, with a fluid motion, he knelt in front of you, reaching under the desk chair to adjust it. He pulled you closer, the sudden shift leaving your knees brushing against his chest, until your faces were mere inches apart.

You gasped, the heat rising to your cheeks in a slow, burning wave as he leaned in, narrowing the space between you to a breath.

His lips hovered just above your skin, the warmth of his breath brushing teasingly against your neck. You froze, caught between the urge to pull away and the undeniable pull that kept you rooted in place.

He pressed closer, his body fitting perfectly into the space between your legs as you unconsciously spread them to make room for him. Your hands found his shoulders instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater as though holding on for dear life.

You felt his lips curve into a smirk against your pulse point, a maddening mixture of confidence and playfulness. His cologne, warm and woodsy with a hint of something spicy, enveloped you entirely, clouding your thoughts and making it impossible to focus on anything but him.

“Relax, I don’t bite…much.” His voice was low and laced with amusement.

And then you wonder why your feelings were so tangled…

You held your breath as his lips brushed against your skin, featherlight yet sending fireworks through your veins. The shift in the air was palpable, and you were acutely aware how it all transformed from mere playful flirting into something undeniably intimate.

When his lips finally pressed against your neck—soft and deliberate—it was like the world tilted on its axis. The simple gesture unravelled you in ways you hadn’t anticipated, setting all your nerves alight. His teeth grazed your skin, and a soft gasp escaped before you could even think to stop it.

He consumed you entirely, leaving no room for rational thoughts. You couldn’t tell if it was the gentle pressure of his mouth, the confidence in his movements, or the sheer closeness of him, but it was intoxicating, overwhelming and undeniably, all Namjoon.

You could feel the way your body responded to him, melting into his touch, leaving you boneless under his attention, and for a second, you wondered if he could feel the heat building between your legs.

As his tongue traced the outline of the hickey he was leaving, you let out a sound—a quiet, needy whimper that surprised even you. It was the kind of sound that you’d never meant to make, the kind that gave away everything you were feeling, despite your best efforts to hide it.

Namjoon stilled at that, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment longer before he pulled back slightly, his eyes searching your face.

But you refused to meet his gaze. Instead, you leaned further into him, burying your face in his shoulder, one hand threading into his hair in a silent plea.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Don’t stop.”

His breath hitched at your words, and then his lips found that spot again with renewed purpose. This time, he didn’t hold back. His teeth sank into your skin, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you gasp, the sensation igniting a shiver down your spine. When you mewled, his tongue followed, soothing the sting with deliberate, careful strokes.

Time seemed to stretch endlessly as he worked, every second heightening the electricity coursing through you. Finally, Namjoon pulled back, his lips ghosting over your skin one last time before he leaned away to admire his handiwork.

You lifted trembling fingers to touch the spot, the warmth still radiating from the fresh hickey.

“Told you it would look good,” he said, his voice low and slightly rougher than before, though his tone was carrying he same teasing edge.

You blinked up at him, your brain still struggling to catch up. The audacity, the thrill of what his lips had done to you—it was all too much.

His confidence was effortless, and it stood in sharp contrast to the insecurity now blooming in your chest. You were a mess, your emotions tangled and raw.

This was supposed to be a game, you reminded yourself. A performance. A pretense for the world.

But the way Namjoon looked at you, the amusement and unspoken understanding glimmering in his dark eyes—it felt far too real. Almost like he understood something you didn’t.

“Right,” he broke the silence, his voice cutting through the charged atmosphere with effortless ease. “Before you get your turn, my knees are starting to hurt.  Do you mind if I sit down?” He gestured casually to the bed behind him, his tone light, but his gaze remained steady locked onto you.

You nodded, your throat tight, the words getting lost somewhere between your racing heart and your scattered thoughts.

Namjoon casually sat down on the edge of the bed, patting the spot next to him. “Come here,” he said, the warmth in his voice undercut by an unmistakable challenge.

For a moment, you hesitated, a whirlwind of thoughts crashing through your mind. Every rational part of you screamed to play it cool, to call his bluff. But your feet were already in motion, betraying your resolve.

With a sigh, you stood, smoothing the edge of your skirt and walked toward him, heart still racing in your chest, but also a twinge of annoyance keeping it beating in contretemps—why did he get to be so effortlessly charming while you were left breathless and flustered by the slightest touch?

You reach him, and instead of sitting beside him like he expected, you boldly climbed onto his lap, your skirt riding up just enough to reveal a hint of your thighs.

“Is this better?” you purred, meeting his gaze in an intense staring contest. You couldn’t believe the words coming out of your mouth, but the challenge was clear: you could play his game.

Namjoon’s eyes widened slightly, his composure cracking for the briefest moment. “M-much better,” he stammered, his hands instinctively finding your hips to steady you, though the surprise in his voice was quickly masked with a hitched breath.

“Good.” Your whispered, the word barely escaping your lips as you leaned in, pressing your body flush against his. You couldn’t help but smirk inwardly, noticing the way he fought to keep his eyes from wandering down to where your chest was now pressed against him.

Closing the distance between you, you let your lips graze his jawline in a slow, electrifying touch that sent a thrill shooting through your veins. His heartbeat thrummed beneath your touch, its rapid rhythm mirroring your own, as though your hearts were tangled together in that moment. You smiled against his skin, trailing your lips down his neck, savouring the rare power shift you’d managed to create, though it was short-lived.

Namjoon’s hands slid from your hips to your lower back, his warm fingers pressing against you skin with a gentle insistence that sent a fresh wave of heat coursing through you. His touch was unhurried and deliberate, brushing beneath your shirt in a way that made your breath hitch and you skin prick with need.

You felt his body tense beneath your palms, every muscle coiled with barely contained restraint. His breath grew uneven as your fingers traced the curve of his neck, your touch lingering as you searched for that perfect spot to leave your mark.

Each movement was slow and deliberate, your intent clear as you took your time, savouring every shiver that rippled through him, every spasm that betrayed the effect you had on him. The quiet tension in the room thickened, each breath, each touch feeding the growing heat between you.

His fingers grip your back tighter, a silent plea for more. His eyes darken, and his mouth parts slightly, betraying the control he’s struggling to maintain as you pepper his neck with soft kisses. You catch his pulse flitter beneath your lips, and with that, you know exactly where to leave your mark.

You press your lips to the sensitive spot, and slowly, deliberately, you sink your teeth into his skin. Namjoon stiffens at the pressure, a soft gasp escaping him, but you don’t relent. Instead, you suck a mark—one that’s sure to linger.

He groans low in his throat, his hands moving up to your shoulders, but they’re not pushing you away. They’re pulling you closer, urging you to stay right where you are. His grip tightens again, not in restraint, but in a desperate need for more and you can’t help but indulge him.

You shift, moving lower to leave another mark, this time with more urgency, and then another and another until you reach the collar of his sweater. Once satisfied with his state, you leaned back, your gaze locking with his.

Namjoon’s eyes are blown wide, his ragged breath mingling roughly with yours. His chest rises and falls beneath your hands as you pull back, taking a moment to admire the marks you’ve left behind. The faint flushes of red against his skin making your heart race, a mixture of pride and something akin to love flooding your chest.

Your fingers glide along the sharp line of his jaw, your touch featherlight as you tilt his face upward ever so slightly. His compliance makes your heart stutter—how effortlessly he lets himself be guided by you again, trusting and open to you.

You pause for a moment, taking in the closeness, the way his dark eyes flicker with an intensity that threatens to steal your breath. Slowly, cautiously, you lean in, your lips hovering just a breath away from his, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours.

No more games, no more walls. Just this—raw, unguarded, and inevitable.

His breath was hot against your skin, the faint scent of mint makes your head spin. His hands tighten, as if anchoring himself in the moment.

But just as your lips were about to meet, the door swung open with a loud bang, the sudden noise splintering the tension.

“Ready to go? You two are going to be late-” Jackson’s voice trailed off as he froze in the doorway. “Oh?”

The room seemed to freeze along with him, the awkward, tension-laden silence settling in the air. Jackson’s eyes darted between you and Namjoon, his sharp gaze taking in every detail—the blush on your cheeks, Namjoon’s dishevelled shirt, and the undeniable red mark blooming on your neck. A playful eyebrow arched in genuine surprise, and an almost imperceptible grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he realised what he just walked in on.

Namjoon was the first to react, his grip on you loosening just slightly, though he didn’t let you go completely. He shot Jackson a pointed look, the faintest blush creeping up his neck, though his demeanour stayed intact.

“We were just-” Namjoon broke off, realizing there were no words that could really explain this without sounding absolutely ridiculous.

You, on the other hand, felt like the air had been sucked out of your lungs. You could feel your heart pounding, your cheeks flushed, and for the first time since walking into this room, you regretted wearing that confident smirk. You pulled back slightly, hands still resting on Namjoon’s shoulders, and glanced at Jackson, whose grin only grew wider.

“I-uh... we were just about to head out,” you stammered, standing up off Namjoon’s lap, awkwardly fixing your skirt before reaching for your purse, suddenly too aware of how dishevelled you both looked.

Fuck, fuck-fuckity, fuck.

“Yeah, sure looked like it,” Jackson grinned, leaning against the doorframe far too casually.

Namjoon exhaled sharply, his expression shifting from amused to mildly exasperated as he shot Jackson a look that could only be described as a warning. “Jackson,” he said, his tone light but firm.

 Jackson raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll be out here if you need me. Just try not to be too late, lovebirds.”

With a final chuckle, he stepped back, leaving the door ajar as he walked down the hall.

You let out a long breath, your hands now nervously smoothing over your skirt, trying to pretend like nothing had happened, getting a step ahead of Namjoon’s usual calm demeanour. But the charged energy between you two was hard to ignore.

“Well, that was... perfectly timed,” he muttered, his voice tinged with amusement, confirming yet again, that Namjoon was some kind of rare breed of monk that could remain calm even in the weirdest of situations, and it was only you and your stupid brain misinterpreting everything about the situation you were in.

You shot him a look, anxiety prickling at the back of your mind. What would have happened if you kissed him?

He probably would have finally dropped the act, and you in the process with it. God damn it all. Freud would have a field day dissecting your brain right now.

Namjoon tilted his head, watching you fidget with your lipstick, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. It wasn’t smugness, like you expected, or teasing, like you feared. It was softer, genuine, almost curious.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low enough that it didn’t feel like a question so much as an invitation to exhale.

You forced a shrug, your hand trembling just slightly as you turned back to the mirror, feigning nonchalance. “Yeah, never been better,” you replied, the words too casual, too light to be entirely convincing.

Namjoon’s gaze lingered, the weight of it making your skin buzz, but you avoided meeting his eyes, focusing instead on reapplying your lipstick, pretending like the tremor in your hands wasn’t there

“You, uh, might want to wipe that off your neck, though,” you added, gesturing vaguely toward the red lipstick smudges you left on his skin, along with the faint, blooming hickeys.

He blinked, his fingers instinctively brushing over his neck, and when he caught sight of his reflection in the nearby mirror, his lips quirked into a big smile.

“Not bad,” he murmured, his tone light but carrying an edge of amusement that made your stomach flip as he reached for one of your makeup wipes.

You shot him a glare through the mirror, head flooding your cheeks.

“What?”

Your glare sharpened, your words tumbling out before you could stop them. “What do you mean, what? You’re just... too calm about this!”

He raised an eyebrow, his hand pausing mid-wipe. For a moment, you thought he might actually take you seriously, but then that signature grin spread across his face.

And with maddening ease, he threw your own words from this morning right back at you.

“Yeah, well. One of us has to be.”

~~~

You were the last guests to arrive at Hoseok’s place.

Jackson and Minhi had dropped you off a few streets away on their way to the market for an intense last-minute Christmas shopping session. As the car slowed down to a stop, Minhi gave you a knowing smile, warm and teasing, while Jackson couldn’t resist throwing in one last jab from the driver’s seat.

“Don’t let anyone see that neck of yours, yeah? The marks might be gone by New Year’s though.” His grin was all trouble, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

Minhi swatted his arm, rolling her eyes, but her laughter betrayed her amusement. “Ignore him,” she said, though the grin tugging on her lips mirrored his perfectly.

Namjoon shot them both a withering glare, his hand tugging at the collar of his jacket in a futile attempt to shield himself from their bullying.

“Thanks for the reminder,” he muttered dryly, his voice twinged with irritation as he opening the car door for you.

You busied yourself arranging your coat, willing the heat rising in your cheeks to fade. It didn’t help that Jackson leaned out of the car window, calling after him, “Don’t worry, Joon. We’re all adults here. It’s normal!”

The sound of Minhi’s exasperated, “Jackson, drive!” was barely enough to drown out his laughter as they sped away, leaving you and Namjoon standing in the cold, with an interesting kind of silence stretching between you.

As the car disappearing into the snowy street, you felt the familiar nerves creep back in, knotting in your stomach.

Namjoon must have noticed because, without hesitation, his hand found yours. The gesture was casual, but the warmth of his palm grounded you. He gave your fingers a small squeeze before guiding you down the quiet street towards Hoseok’s house.

“Don’t worry,” he said, voice soft and steady as he glanced at you with a small, warm smile. “It’s just Hoseok.”

You managed a smile in return, through it felt more like an act of bravery than genuine reassurance. “Yeah, which means everyone will be there.” you laugh, even as anxiousness bubbled in your stomach

It wasn’t just the idea of walking into a house full of people you barely knew. It was what the party represented: being introduced to Namjoon’s closest friends, the ones who’d grown up with him, who knew him inside and out. It felt like lying all over again.

The role felt just as daunting, the weight of pretending just as heavy as when you first arrived at Namjoon’s parents’ house, stepping into the same carefully constructed charade. But now, it seemed even more complicated—because these people weren’t just family. They were the ones who’d shaped him, who might see through you with a single glance and not be afraid to call it out.

The cold nipped at your skin, but Namjoon’s touch was steady and warm. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, catching in your hair and melting against your searing cheeks.

Ahead, the glow from Hoseok’s house spilled onto the snowy lawn, warm and inviting. The windows framed silhouettes of people milling about inside, the occasional bursts of laughter spilled into the quiet night. It was the kind of place that instantly felt alive, where every sound promised laughter and warmth—but to you, it was another reminder of how much was riding on this evening.

Namjoon’s voice broke the quiet. “Hey,” he said, his tone softer than usual. He slowed his steps, turning to look at you fully. “You don’t have to be nervous. They’ll love you.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow. “Love me, or love the idea of you finally bringing someone over?”

His smile faltered for a split second, replaced by a sheepish look that made your stomach flip. “Maybe a little of both,” he admitted, his tone light. But before you could dwell on it, he added, “But I wouldn’t have brought you if I thought it wouldn’t have been great.”

“I just feel like I’m lying again.”

Namjoon’s expression softened at your words, his steps coming to a full stop as he gently tugged your hand, prompting you to face him. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, the comforting motion grounding you despite the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in your head.

“You’re not lying,” he said firmly, his voice steady and sure. “You’re here because you’re important to me, and that’s the truth. And the rest…” He paused, searching your eyes. “The rest doesn’t matter as much as you think it does.”

You frowned, your nerves still quickening under the surface. “But they don’t know that. To them, I’m your girlfriend. This whole thing—it’s still lying.”

“I know it feels like that,” he said gently. “But... it doesn’t feel like pretending to me. Not when it’s you.”

His words caught you off guard, a quiet warmth blooming in your chest even as your stomach twisted with doubt. You searched his face, trying to read between the lines, but his expression was earnest, open, and it only made your heart ache just a bit more.

“But what if they see through it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “What if they realize it’s all an act?”

Before you could overthink it further, his hand gently cupped your cheek. He smiled, a small, crooked grin that managed to melt away some of the tension in your chest. “They’ll be so busy being excited that I finally brought someone, they won’t even notice.”

Namjoon’s lighthearted comment earned a soft laugh from you, even as you shook your head against his palm. “You’re impossible,” you murmured, the smallest of smiles tugging at your lips.

“I mean it,” he said, his grin softening into something more genuine. “And trust me, with you looking this stunning, it’s going to be hard enough to keep the boys from hitting on you, let alone anyone noticing.”

The comment pulled a genuine laugh from you this time, the weight over your shoulders easing ever so slightly. “I’ll keep that in mind if things get awkward.”

Namjoon’s thumb gently brushed against your cheek. “It won’t. And even if it does, I’ll be right there with you. Promise.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, finding something steadying in the way he looked at you. “Thank you Joonie, I’m sorry I keep making this difficult on you.”

Namjoon shook his head, his expression morphing again into something soft, almost weak. “You’re not making it difficult,” he said gently. “I get it. It’s a lot to ask of you, and I’ve probably handled this in the most Namjoon way possible—which, let’s be honest, means a bit of a mess.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his self-deprecating humour, even as your heart ached a little. “You’ve handled it fine. It’s me who keeps overthinking everything.”

He tilted his head, his gaze searching yours with a quiet intensity. “You’re not overthinking—you’re just feeling. And that’s okay. I’d be worried if you weren’t.”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Joon, you make it sound like I’m the most complicated person in the world.”

“Maybe you are,” he teased lightly, his grin reappearing. “But I like complicated. Complicated is honest.”

The warmth in his voice made your cheeks flush, and for a moment, you felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you, the crisp night air and the soft crunch of snow beneath your boots fading into the background.

Namjoon smiled, the kind of smile that made his dimples appear and seemed to light up the cold night. Without another word, he started walking again, leading you up the stairs, your hand still firmly in his.

Before you could chicken out, he reached the door and knocked. It swung open almost immediately to reveal Hoseok, dressed in an awful Christmas sweater with reindeers humping, beaming like he’d been stationed there just waiting for you to show up.

“There they are!” Hoseok’s voice was jubilant as he threw his arms wide, ushering you both inside. “The couple of the hour!”

The heat inside hit you instantly, a stark contrast to the cold that made itself at home in your bones, but it was nothing compared to the heat that rose to your face at Hoseok’s greeting.

“Hobi, tone it down,” Namjoon said, though there was no real annoyance in his voice. He stepped forward to pull Hoseok into a quick hug, shaking his head. “You’re going to scare her off before we even get inside.”

Hoseok turned to you; his grin as impish as ever. “Not a chance. If I remember correctly, she’s tougher than she looks.” His smile only grew wider when he walked over to hug you, “It’s really good to see you again, peach,”

Then, with a theatrical lean forward, he added in a mock-serious whisper, “I’ve always known the two of you were endgame, by the way.”

Your mouth almost fell open, but before you could think of a reply, Namjoon groaned, “Don’t start this again.”

“Oh, I’ve barely started,” Hoseok shot back with a wink, stepping aside to let you both in. He gestured grandly toward the lively house behind him. “But first, welcome to the party. And just for the record, I’d like to take full credit for this coupling.”

“You?” you asked lightly, finally finding your voice. You steadied yourself with a hand on Namjoon’s shoulder as you leaned down to tug off your boots. “What exactly did you do?”

“I’d like to believe,” Hoseok said, his grin growing impossibly wider, “that my relentless flirting with you last time I visited was the final push Namjoon needed to grow a pair and actually make a move on you.”

Your laugh came out before you could stop it, equal parts shocked and entertained. You glanced at Namjoon, who looked simultaneously mortified and amused, his ears flushing a telltale red.

“You’d be surprised,” Namjoon chuckled, shooting Hoseok a sidelong look that was both warning and affectionate. “Though I’d hardly call your meddling relentless flirting. More like annoying provocation.”

“Semantics,” Hoseok said breezily, waving his hand as if to dismiss Namjoon’s critique. “The important thing is that it worked. You two are here now—perfect couple—and I have front-row seats. Life is good.”

Namjoon rolled his eyes, but his grip on your arm tightened slightly, as if to silently ask if you were okay. When you gave him a small amused nod, he relaxed, steering you further inside, with a warm palm against your back.

“Come on,” Hoseok said, leading the way. “Drinks are in the kitchen, snacks everywhere, and just about everyone’s dying to meet Namjoon’s mystery girlfriend. No pressure.”

The house hummed with warmth and energy, a perfect blend of festive chaos and cozy familiarity. “This is quite a big event, huh?” you asked, your tone light, though your eyes darted over the bustling crowd in the living room absorbing the vibrant energy.

“Only the best for my favourite people,” Hoseok replied smoothly, his grin widening as he gestured ahead. “You included, of course.”

Namjoon chuckled softly beside you, the low sound a comforting anchor in the lively chaos. His hand stayed firmly on your back, a grounding presence as the room’s details unfolded before you.

The chatter, bursts of laughter, and the smooth strains of jazzy Christmas music created a lively background symphony. The sweet, inviting scents of cinnamon, mulled wine, and a hint of vanilla wrapped around you, mingling with the warmth of the room. The golden glow of twinkling lights bounced off the ornaments, their soft shimmer casting a dreamy radiance over the space.

Your attention shifted on a familiar face—Jungkook, donning a garishly cheerful sweater that matched his girlfriend’s equally ugly one. Their cheerful waves caught your eye, Jungkook’s grin as bright as ever. His girlfriend nudged him with a playful laugh, clearly teasing him about something you couldn’t catch over the hum of the room. You waved back, a sense of relief blooming at the sight of friendly faces.

Namjoon followed your gaze, his lips curving into a small smile. “Looks like they’re already excited to see you,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Or you,” you teased, bumping his shoulder lightly. “He’s your gym buddy. I’m just here to admire his biceps.” You said, unable to resist the playful jab.

Namjoon let out a warm laugh, the sound rolling out effortlessly as he shook his head. “You’re my girlfriend.” he shot back with a smirk, “You’re only allowed to admire my biceps.”

Little did he know you already did.

You giggled, the playful banter a small but welcome release of tension. The knot in your chest loosened, a sense of ease slipping in. Whatever was waiting for you tonight, Namjoon was by your side. And if things went sideways, well…you could always throw him under the bus.

Of course, you already knew most of his close friends, whether from their random visits or the funny stories Namjoon had shared during your late-night talks. Still, you couldn’t ignore the curious glances that followed you both. Conversations dipped into pauses as people noticed Namjoon, greeting him with warmth—enthusiastic hugs and handshakes—and every time, their attention shifted to you, eyes filled with intrigue.

True to form, Namjoon was the perfect fake boyfriend. With a proud grin, he introduced you to everyone, weaving a believable story about how you met and ended up together. The pride in his voice sent a subtle flutter through your chest, even if the situation felt a little surreal.

After each introduction, he leaned in close to you, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered who they were, adding in fun tidbits or inside jokes about each person. It felt natural—too natural—like you’d always been a fundamental part of his world.

At some point, you found yourself chatting with one of Namjoon’s childhood friends, a quiet but kind woman named Jisoo, who had been part of their friend group since high school. Her presence was calming, and you found yourself sharing a laugh over something she said about Namjoon being a “closet softie” in his youth.

Meanwhile, Namjoon was off talking to a few people near the kitchen, gesturing enthusiastically with his hands. You could see the comfort and familiarity in his body language as he laughed along with his friends, but every so often, his eyes would flick back to you, checking in. It was such a subtle thing, but it made you feel like you were still the centre of his attention, even amidst all the noise and laughter.

Jisoo, noticing your gaze, smiled knowingly. “He’s a good guy, you know. You’re really lucky.”

Taken aback, you blinked, unsure how to respond. “Oh, uh, thanks,”

“I just mean,” she continued, “I’ve known him for years, and seeing him like this—happy, with someone who makes him smile—it’s a big deal. He’s been kind of... closed off since Su-Ho.” She gave you an appraising look before adding, “I’m glad you’re here.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You knew that Namjoon hadn’t been in a relationship since his last heartbreak. In the years living with him, you’d seen glimpses of the scars it left behind—the guarded moments, the hesitation when he let someone close, the way he avoided lingering too long in conversations about love. Hearing someone else acknowledge that weight, and imply that you might be a part of helping him carry it, it was humbling, overwhelming, and terrifying all at once. It made your chest tighten impossibly.

You had always wanted the best for him, of course. That’s why you’re here, wasn’t it? Back when you first moved in together, you’d even gone out of your way to suggest some of your single colleagues from work as potential matches. Because Namjoon was incredible—a unique combination of a golden heart and a brilliant mind. The right amount of sexy and dorky, a poet with a stubborn streak. The idea that someone could break that heart had always felt deeply unfair.

Especially since he barely held any resentment towards his ex.

But he’d always gently turned down your suggestions, saying he just wasn’t looking. You’d understood, of course. And if you were being completely honest, after years of living together, you couldn’t deny the small pang of dread at the thought of him finding someone else. Not because you didn’t want him to be happy, but because the two of you had fallen into a rhythm, a quiet, comfortable life shared between two people who had no one else to come home to. The thought of losing that, of being replaced, was a kind of ache you didn’t want to examine too closely.

You also understood his frustration when all he wanted was to visit home without having his relationship status turned into an interrogation. His life, his choices, they were enough—but somehow, they never seemed to be to anyone else.

And now, here you were. His friends accepted you so easily, welcomed you into their circle as though you’d always belonged there. But instead of feeling relief, you couldn’t shake the small, gnawing sensation of betrayal. It wasn’t towards Namjoon or his friends—it was towards yourself.

Because you weren’t entirely sure if you were pretending anymore.

“Oh! You’re Namjoon’s girlfriend, right?” a melodic voice cut through your thoughts, pulling you abruptly back to the present.

You turned towards the voice, immediately recognizing the woman approaching. “I’m Iseul, I work at the pastry shop you visited!” she said with an easy charm. Her big pouty lips curved into a warm smile, and before you could react, she enveloped you in a friendly hug.

“I kept meaning to come over and say ‘hi’, but I couldn’t get a break,” she huffed, her tone amused, her energy bright and disarming.

But none of that registered fully because your brain had latched onto something else entirely—Namjoon had introduced you as his girlfriend at the pastry shop.

Even in a situation where there was no need for the relationship, no one to convince, he’d called you his girlfriend.

The realization hit hard, quickly spiralling into another—your mini jealous outburst that day, the kiss you’d pressed to his lips out of pure, irrational possessiveness, all over something that didn’t even happen.

Heat crept up your neck as the memory replayed in vivid detail, your stomach twisting with a mix of embarrassment and something far more complicated.

“You should have seen those two” Iseul chirped, her voice light and cheerful as she glanced at Jisoo. “Barely managed to keep their hands off one another.”

She giggled, clearly entertained by the memory, and you froze, your heart pounding in your chest.

Jisoo raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued as she turned to you. “Really? Namjoon? Didn’t think he was one for public displays.”

Your mind scrambled for a response, but all you could do was let out a nervous laugh, one that sounded forced even to your own ears.

“Ah, well,” you started stalling for time as your brain worked overtime to piece together something coherent. “I guess he was just… excited about the milk bread.”

Iseul’s giggle turned into a full laugh at your weak explanation, and Jisoo smirked knowingly.

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but thankfully, Namjoon appeared by your side, his timing nothing short of miraculous. He slid an arm around your waist, his presence grounding you instantly.

“What’s this about milk bread?” he asked, his tone light but curious as his eyes dared between Iseul and Jisoo.

Iseul grinned mischievously. “Oh, just reminiscing about how involved you two were the last time you came to the shop.”

Namjoon’s brows shot up briefly, but he recovered quickly, his lips twitching into a sheepish smile. “Ah, yeah. This one likes mistletoe.” He gave a playful nod your way, his words laced with a teasing edge.

You felt your face heat up, your cheeks likely resembling the colour of the poinsettias in the room. “It’s festive,” you mumbled, glaring half-heartedly at Namjoon.

Jisoo raised an amused eyebrow. “Are you two always this committed to the holiday spirit?”

Namjoon chuckled, his hand tightening around your waist. “What can I say? She makes the season bright.”

The warmth of his tone made your heart stumble in your chest. It was the kind of comment that should have been part of the act, but the way he said it felt too genuine. Just a little too real.

“Sap,” you murmured, avoiding his gaze, which in turn earned a delighted laugh from the group.

Iseul sighed dramatically, clasping her hands together. “You two are disgustingly cute, you know that?”

Namjoon laughed again, his dimples flashing as he shrugged. “I’ve actually seen worse.”

As the conversation continued, you leaned into Namjoon’s side, his steady presence helping you navigate the teasing with a bit more grace. Still, the whole conversation lingered into your mind, and it made you wonder just how much of this you could actually take.

After a little while, the group moved to the couch, each one getting a glass of wine. You exchanged pleasantries with Jungkook and his girlfriend, laughing over some story of Namjoon being a klutz in the gym, and enjoying the warmth of the fireplace. As you took another sip of your wine, you couldn’t help but notice how comfortable Namjoon was in this environment—the ease with which he moved through the room, greeting people and making them laugh. His energy was contagious, and the way his friends reacted to him—warm, animated, full of admiration—was proof of the bond he shared with them.

“What’s going on here?” you said, half-teasing, as you watched him chat with a group by the fireplace. He’d just taken a seat on the couch, and you leaned over the back of it, one of your hands naturally moving over his shoulder and resting against his chest.

“I think I’m being serenaded by Taehyung,” Namjoon looked up at you, his smile widening as he caught your eye, and you couldn’t help but grin. His hand quickly found yours, intertwining your fingers together as he leaned back comfortably into the couch and you.

“Really? A serenade?” you raised an eyebrow, intrigued and amused at the same time.

Namjoon chuckled, a soft smile creeping into his face as he glanced at Taehyung across the room. “Yeah. Didn’t see that coming, but it’s pretty great.”

You followed his gaze to where Taehyung, guitar in hand, was effortlessly filling the space with a beautiful melody. Namjoon’s smile softened as he listened, his eyes briefly closing as he relaxed into the music.

“Tell him your taken,” you whisper, brushing your lips over his temple, convincing yourself that you were just playing your role.

Namjoon’s shoulders shook with a soft laugh as you whispered in his ear, the warmth of your breath sending a shiver down his spine. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, his expression both amused and tender. “I think he knows I’m taken,” he teased, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, as if grounding you both in this moment.

You smiled, the words lingering in the air for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Your heart raced, but it wasn't from the playful banter. It was the quiet reminder that even though you were pretending, this—this closeness, this connection—was something far more real than you had allowed yourself to admit.

Namjoon tilted his head slightly, his gaze softening as it met yours. “But just so you know,” he added, his voice low and teasing, “I’m not sharing my spot on the couch.”

You laughed quietly, settling further into his side, the warmth of his body against yours giving you a sense of peace that you hadn’t expected. “That’s fine. I’m going to go get another glass of wine. Do you want one?”

Namjoon’s hand gave yours a gentle squeeze as he leaned back, his eyes briefly fluttering closed. “Yeah, I'll take one,” he said, his voice relaxed but still playful. “But make sure you get something strong, ‘cause I’m pretty sure the boys are about to turn that guitar into a full-on concert.”

You giggle softly, standing up and threading your way to the kitchen. As you walked, you silently thanked whatever deity had smiled on you, allowing the evening to go so smoothly.

That is, until you turned the corner into the kitchen and froze, hearing your name called out loudly over the small crowd.

Before you could react, Meyong appeared from the crowd and wrapped you in a bear hug, squeezing all the air from your lungs.

“Wait—what the hell?” Meyong’s voice was loud, her words slightly slurred, and it only took a second before your mom-friend instincts kicked in. You cupped her flushed cheeks as she grinned up at you, her eyes full of excitement. “Oh my god, you’re here!”

“Meyong, hi,” you managed, trying not to panic.

“It’s so good to see you!” she mumbled the words happily, staring at you with that familiar starry-eyed admiration. The alcohol on her breath was evident, but you couldn’t help but smile at her infectious energy.

“It’s good to see you too,” you responded, returning the hug. But inside, your mind was racing. If Meyong was here, then Jin was probably somewhere in the mix, and that only meant one thing—this night was about to get tangled. This meant that there was no chance to avoid taking this home with you, because Meyong and Jin would undoubtedly tell absolutely everyone back home. You almost scolded yourself for forgetting the fact that your ex-roommates would also be visiting.

“When Hoseok said Joonie is bringing over a girl I just knew it was you,” she slurred sweetly, blinking affectionately at you

“And why is that?” you chuckled, trying to steer her away from the potential disaster of what she might say next as you unwrapped her hands from around you and gently pulled her toward the fridge to get her some water.

“Because you always had the fattest crush on Joonie.” She deadpanned. “Like, I knew you two were banging once you moved in together.”

“Oh my god Meyong! Keep your voice down!” you blushed furiously, quickly glancing around to make sure no one around heard your absurd conversation. This was exactly what you needed—your best friend, totally oblivious, blurting out something that could easily ruin the delicate balance you were pretending to maintain.

“Aww, Mrs. big shot lawyer is scared of talking about her feelings,” she giggled, taking the water bottle from you and twisting it. “So tell me? When did this all happen? And why didn’t you tell me you were fucking?”

You felt your heart skip a beat at her words, the colour rising in your cheeks in a way that felt downright painful. “Meyong, please, you’re making it worse,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice low while glancing around again, hoping no one was eavesdropping.

Her grin only widened as she took a long sip from the water bottle, totally oblivious to the chaos she was causing. “What? I’m just saying, it’s obvious you two are more than perfect for each other. How’s the sex?” her smile was almost wicked when she wriggled her eyebrows.

But then, as if a lightbulb went off in her head, her expression shifted, and her eyes widened in realization. “Oh! Jin owes me 100 bucks!” she said, as if everything made sense.

You blinked, a mixture of confusion and frustration flooding your system. “What?” you managed to get out, feeling like you were on the verge of losing your sanity. “Why does Jin owe you money?”

“We made a bet, he said there is no way Namjoon has the balls to confess to you, but I won!” She smiled, tacking on an unwarranted “Namjoon has balls!”

You stared at her, trying to process what she had just said. “Wait, hold on,” you said, your voice a mix of disbelief and embarrassment. “Jin bet against Namjoon confessing to me?”

Meyong nodded vigorously, clearly proud of herself, but before she could elaborate, Jin walked in.

“There you are,” his voice cut through the conversation, his face a mix of relief and amusement at the state his girlfriend was in, “I figured I’d find you here gossiping.” he looked directly at Meyong, carefully collecting her in his arms, keeping her steady.

“You owe me money,” she muttered looking up at him, completely undeterred by his shushing.

“Yeah, I figured,” he replied unamused. He carefully adjusted his grip on Meyong, who was swaying just slightly in his arms, looking utterly pleased with herself.

 Jin’s eyes softened as he looked at you, his tone shifting slightly. “Just for the record, I just figured that since Namjoon never made a move when you first met, that it would never happen.”

Jin’s words hit you like a bolt of lightning. You blinked, trying to process what he’d just said, your mind racing with confusion and disbelief.

“Namjoon liked me?”

Just then the subject of your gossip session walked in, his warm hand gently squeezing your shoulder.

You turned quickly, almost startled, as Namjoon’s presence loomed behind you. His hand on your shoulder was steady, grounding, and yet there was an unmistakable tension in the air. He must’ve sensed something was off from the way you were standing, the way your eyes lingered on him, wide with surprise.

“Everything okay?” he asked softly, his gaze flicking between you and Jin, his voice a little too casual.

Before you could respond, Meyong, still blissfully unaware of the tension she’d stirred, grinned at Namjoon. “Okay, spill. You’re dating now?” Her tone was loud enough to catch the attention of the people around you, and you felt your cheeks heat instantly. “It’s new,” Namjoon said smoothly, the practiced ease of his response both reassuring and unnerving.

“New?!” Meyong repeated, letting out a laugh that was just a little too loud. She turned to Jin, “I told you! You owe me money!” She gave a bubbly giggle, “They’re idiots in love. What did I say, babe?”

“You said it every chance you got,” Jin said dryly, though he was clearly enjoying himself, his arm protectively wrapping around her waist. “For years.”

You groaned internally, shooting Namjoon a quick glance. He gave you a subtle nod, like he was silently reminding you to play along, that he will fix it all later.

“Well, it just made sense,” you then added, trying to steer the conversation into safer waters. “We work well together. That’s all.”

Meyong squinted at you, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, honey. That’s all?” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a stage whisper. “You telling me you’ve been sharing an apartment with him and you haven’t been climbing him like a Christmas tree every chance you got? I see the hickeys!”

You allowed yourself a second to cuss out Namjoon in your mind, trying your best not to let your face drop too dramatically.

“Meyong,” you hissed, mortified, your face burning as you felt Namjoon laugh besides you, acutely aware of his hand that found its way to your hip, pulling you into his side.

“What?” she said innocently, though her grin only widened. “I’m just saying, if I’d been living with Jin before we got together...”

“Okay!” Jin interjected, raising his hands like a referee calling for a timeout. “Let’s not traumatize our friends tonight.”

“Oh baby, we can tell them about the sex book!”

You felt your entire body flush, unable to hide the growing heat in your cheeks. “Meyong, stop!” you managed to stammer, looking desperately around the room for a distraction, but it was clear that nothing could save you now. Namjoon, however, only chuckled softly, his hand resting casually on your hip as if he were fully aware of the storm he had just inadvertently stirred up.

Meyong's grin grew impossibly wider as she wiggled her eyebrows at you. “What? It's not like we're all virgins here. We know what’s going on behind closed doors.”

“Please, for the love of all things holy,” you muttered, half laughing, half mortified.

Jin, clearly amused but still calm, gave you a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to listen to her. She’s been drinking, and her filter is long gone by now.”

Namjoon’s chuckle rumbled beside you, and he gave your hip a playful squeeze. “Don’t worry,” he said in a low, teasing voice, “She’s just excited to be part of the gossip.”

“Yeah, thanks for the water, it was nice seeing you guys,” It was almost as if Jin could sense the awkwardness clinging to you, and he lovingly tried to maneuver his girlfriend towards a seat, but she twisted in his arms,

“Babe, but the book!”

Jin shook his head with a bemused smile, clearly used to this side of Meyong, taking her hands and wrapping them around his neck as they walked. “We’ll talk about the book later,” he said calmly, gently pulling her along to the couch before she could launch into any more embarrassing details about their private life.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, the tension slowly melting from your shoulders. Glancing over at Namjoon, you half expected him to wear that casual smile of his, but instead, you were met with an almost sombre look, as if that conversation took the same toll on him.

“About that strong drink,” his eyes avoided yours, and before you could respond, he reached for a bottle of whiskey on the counter, his hand pausing midair as if he was weighing the situation. He let out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh before grabbing the bottle and pouring himself a generous amount into a glass.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him carefully. There was something in his movements, a shift you hadn’t expected, and it made you wonder if the playful atmosphere had affected him more than he let on.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, your heart racing as you stood beside him. Your fingers grazed the edge of his glass as you instinctively reached out to steady it.

Namjoon gave a fleeting smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He took a long gulp from his glass, his gaze briefly shifting away. “Yeah,” he replied, though the word lacked conviction, like he was trying to convince himself just as much as you.

Your hand found his, your thumb tracing over his knuckles gently. His words hung in the air, and something in the way he said them made your chest tighten, an uncomfortable feeling settling between you two.

He finally met your gaze, and in that moment, it was as if everything else around you disappeared. The music, the laughter, the chatter—none of it mattered. It was just the two of you standing there, caught in the quiet space between words. He parted his lips, like he was on the verge of saying something, but then he faltered, swallowing hard instead and finishing his drink in one long, steady pull.

The silence stretched between you both, heavy and thick, but neither of you moved. You could feel the weight of his emotions, even though he hadn’t said a word. It was in the way he held himself, the way his fingers tightened around his glass before he set it down on the counter with a quiet clink.

“I-” Namjoon began, but then he stopped, shaking his head slightly, as if he wasn’t sure where to start. “I think I need some air.”

You nodded, understanding more than he could probably know. “Okay,” you said softly, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand one more time before you let go.

Namjoon gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod, his shoulders lifting in a resigned breath before he stepped past you and toward the door leading out to the balcony. You watched him for a moment, chewing your lip as a million different thoughts unleashed in your mind. Maybe this was it—the moment that he realized everything had been a mistake. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been aware of the consequences so far. But perhaps now he regretted ever asking you to come along, regretted just how big the lie you spun has gotten, how it was now seeping back into your day-to-day life back home.

You lingered for a while, lost in the muddle of your thoughts, trying to steady the whirlwind in your chest. Minutes passed, but nothing seemed to quiet your restless mind. Pouring yourself a glass of wine offered only a fleeting sense of calm—kike standing in the eye of a hurricane while the chaos swirled just out of grasp.

Finally, after about fifteen minutes, you grabbed a water bottle—a little gesture that somehow cemented your resolve. You reminded yourself that this was simply what a good friend would do, and with that thought, you headed towards the balcony.

As you reached the door, you hesitated for just a second, unsure if you should interrupt the space he had taken for himself. But the thought of leaving him alone, unsure, and potentially unravelling further without you there, spurred you forward.

You stepped outside quietly, the cold air hitting your face and clearing your mind.

 Namjoon was leaning against the railing, eyes staring out at the city lights, distant and lost in thought. His posture was tense, his body language closed off, like he was carrying the weight of something heavy.

Taking a slow breath, you walked up beside him, offering the water bottle as a simple gesture. “Thought you might need this,” you said gently, your voice soft against the backdrop of the night.

Namjoon glanced at you, a brief flicker of something in his eyes before he looked back out at the view. His hand hovered over the bottle, but he didn’t take it immediately. The silence between you two felt thick, but you weren’t in a rush for him to fill it with words.

The faint blush across his cheeks was still evident even in the cold air, and being this close, you could catch the scent of spiced wine and whiskey on his breath. Maybe that was why you didn’t question it—his intentions—when he leaned in ever so slightly, caging you against the railing of the balcony. His eyes searched yours, his lips tantalizingly close, the space between you evaporating as his breath brushed against your skin.

Your fingers gripped the cold metal of the railing, grounding yourself as the city lights blurred behind him, their brightness eclipsed by the intensity of his gaze.

“I really want to kiss you right now.” He said softly, his voice low and almost reverent, as if even voicing the thought would break the spell.

You let out a breathy laugh, a huff of exasperation you couldn’t quite contain. “Namjoon,” you said, barely above a whisper. “There’s no one around.”

The words should have been a reason to stop, to call this what it was: a charade, a performance. But instead, his lips curved into the faintest of smiles, his eyes shimmering with something you couldn’t name.

“I know,” he murmured. His lips hovered just above yours, his breath mingling with yours in the chilled air, reminding you just how intoxicated you both were.

 For a heartbeat, he froze, as though waiting for you to stop him.

But you didn’t.

The kiss was soft at first, a tentative exploration, as though he was waiting for you to pull away. But when you didn’t, when you leaned into him, he pressed harder, more insistent. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was the shattering of every barrier you’d built, the collapse of all your carefully laid plans to keep this friendship intact, to keep it fake.

Your hands found his chest, clutching at the fabric of his sweater as his moved to cup your face, tilting you closer like you were something precious. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, sending shivers down your spine as he deepened the kiss, his resolve crumbling as fast as yours.

He left you breathless, every nerve in your body alight, your chest rising and falling in sync with his. The warmth of his forehead against yours grounded you for a moment, as if the world had tilted on its axis, the alcohol in your blood suddenly going to your head, and this was the only thing holding you steady.

His forehead stayed pressed against yours, his breath shaky when he pulled back. You stood there, still reeling from the kiss, your heart pounding in your chest as his breath mingled with yours. The warmth of his forehead against yours felt like the only anchor in a sea of confusion. You weren’t sure if you were both still caught up in the intoxication of the night, the wine and whiskey blurring your sense of reality, or if there was something deeper at play.

But then he spoke, voice raw, hoarse, like the word scraped out of his throat, and cut through the haze.

“Fuck.”

It was the kind of word that felt like a confession, like a moment of clarity in the middle of chaos. And as much as you wanted to believe it was just a slip, a fleeting moment brought on by alcohol and the weight of your shared history, something deep inside you couldn't shake the feeling that it was more than that.

You pulled back slightly, your hands still resting against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. His eyes were wide, almost panicked, searching yours as if looking for something—anything—that would make this make sense. But nothing did. Not the kiss, not his reaction, and certainly not the way your heart refused to calm down.

This had been a mistake, hadn’t it?

A drunken mistake. A slip. And now, standing in the aftermath, you couldn't tell whether you were relieved or devastated.

His lips parted like he was going to say something, but then the words fell short. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head slightly, as if trying to clear the fog that had settled over him.

“I… I didn’t mean to… I don’t know what I was thinking,” Namjoon muttered, his voice thick with frustration.

You swallowed hard, your hands still gripping his sweater as you tried to make sense of it all. “Neither did I.”

The weight of the moment hung heavy between you, both of you searching for an explanation, but finding absolutely none.

Come back to me by RM at the Agust D tour D-Day the Final concert (Aug. 6, 2023)

The Lease Chapter One: The Meeting

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

Read Preview Here.

masterlist.

It was one of those rare days of utter perfection.

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

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

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

See, you had a theory.

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

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

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

No way- that wouldn't be you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Furious scribbler it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, snap out of it."

You blinked, snapping your head towards the sound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except for days like today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, shit- you've got a crush.

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

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

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

taglist: @vanilla-sky01

I already want to have Namjoon’s babies but thanks to this fic, the yearning is even stronger now. Fictional Namjoon and real life Namjoon are the same! I’m sure of it!

Daisies and Dinosaurs (M) – Chapter 05

Summary: A thank-you dinner between friends kindles the flame of something more.

Pairing: Namjoon x Reader

Genre: Fluff, light smut

Word Count: 26,351 (for the series so far – in progress)

Warnings: SingleFather!Namjoon, slow burn, pining, sex mentions, teasing in public, slice-of-life, softness, this will make you want to have Namjoon’s kids

Chapters: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | …?

Excerpt:

“Honeybee, why don’t you tell ___ where we’re going?”

“We’re going to the dinosaur palace!”

“The dinosaur palace! Wow!” you reply, laughing at the name. You’ve never heard of it a day in your life and you’ve been living in the city for over twenty years.

“It’s not called the dinosaur palace,” Namjoon corrects.

“Uh-huh!” Jaeah argues. “It’s got a T-Rex with the crown on his head. He’s the king of the dinosaurs and he rules over the dinosaur kingdom. And we’re going to his dinosaur palace-house where he keeps the pizza! PIZZA!” She kicks her legs wildly until her boots knock against the edge of the car seat.

Read now on AO3

Copyright © 2019 by dark-muse-iris. All rights reserved.

❝ FIC REC’S ⌗KIM NAMJOON !

❛ — ⌗ fluff ★彡

-not just friends

-like couples do

❛ — ⌗ smut ♪ (´ε｀ )彡

-creampies

-size kink

-birthday sex

-sugar

-overstimulation

-getting hurt during sex

-sweetest thing

-connected

-in the morning

-dripping wet

-wanna be yours

❛ — ⌗ dad!namjoon★彡

-namjoon as a first time dad

-nine months

-this

-expecting

-little steps

-pregnancy w namjoon

- becoming a girl dad

❛ — ⌗ angst彡

N/A

❛ — ⌗ headcannons / reactions / masterlist✿ 彡

-nsfw headcannons

- hearing you tell him to cum inside

-fluff alphabet

-namjoon masterlist

-this