Archive of Our Own ^beta

Your mother insisted.

Not in the casual, suggestive way mothers sometimes do. No. This was a full-on ambush. In fact, you might go as far as to say she strong-armed you into it.

One moment you were wondering why she insisted on meeting at 7:30 a.m. on a Tuesday ‘just to get tea’ and the next, you were dragged into into what looked like an episode of Hoarder’s that featured a shaman.

The front of the shop was unassuming enough: wooden shelves lined with loose-leaf tins, a sensible display of glass teapots, and a chalkboard menu written with impeccable penmanship.

But the back?
The back was a different story. It had thick lace curtains, mismatched mugs, a table draped in red velvet, faux-crystal strings dangling like tangled rain, and a giant bowl of fortune cookies with a handwritten note taped to the rim that read:

“In case the future scares you”

Now you’re sitting stiffly across from a woman who introduced herself as Ahjumma Hyejin, but whose Instagram handle—your mother gleefully showed you—is @TeaLeavesDontLie.

She’s wearing five rings on each hand, none of them matching and all of them looking like they might give you a mild concussion if she gestured too enthusiastically.

“I can already tell,” she says, before even looking in your cup. “You’re closed off.”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away? The arms crossed or the argument with my mother?”

Or maybe it’s the way the jasmine green tea has steeped so deep into your bones that you’re pretty sure it’ll give you an ulcer the next time someone so much as mentions matcha.

Ahjumma Hyejin looks unbothered, like this isn't the first time she’s had to deal with a passive-aggressive, resentful, and skeptical daughter pushed into her office by a mother panicking over the fact that said daughter has been single for close to five years.

She simply taps her many rings against the ceramic of the cup and peers in.

“Hm,” she says. “You drink too fast.”

Your frown deepens, mostly with dread at the thought of having to drink another bitter cup of tea, only slower this time. “That affects the leaves?”

She ignores you, muttering a quiet, convinced “Interesting.”

And you’ve watched enough dramas to know that’s never a good sign.

Ahjumma Hyejin tilts the cup toward the candlelight, her wrinkly face squinting with the intensity of someone trying to decipher hieroglyphs—or just pretending to be very convincing in order to earn her 100.000 won for this so-called “Romantic relationship reading”.

“You’ve been single for a while.” she says like she saw it in the leaves and not because your mother loudly aired your entire romantic history on the walk in.

You spend less than a second debating whether it’s worth justifying her with an answer or saying something so goddamn outrageous it might break her act.

You go with silence.

Ahjumma Hyejin doesn’t mind. She hums thoughtfully, still tipping the cup, turning it this way and that with the reverence of someone handling ancient bone china. Like the teacup was speaking, spilling lifelong secrets and not just swishing around about a mouthful of over-steeped bitter green tea leaves.

“There’s movement,” she says after a moment.

You chuckle.

She ignores you. Adjusts the reading glasses hanging from her neck and perches them high on her nose. Her eyes suddenly three times bigger than before, but still refusing to meet yours and fully focused on the butt of your cup.

“Routine. Predictability.” She explains a second later.

You blink. Once. Twice.

“There’s glass. A window, maybe. You looked out of it often…but not at the scenery.” Her voice is calm, almost bored. “At someone.”

Your eyes shift from her to the cup, then back at her.

“I see a bear. Sleeping. No!—hibernating.”

“In the window?”

“No. That’s gone now.” She tisks at you like you’re not paying attention.

You open your mouth, but she raises a finger before you can speak. Then she turns the cup again like she’s trying to connect to the universe or whatever the fuck. You half-expect her to murmur a “I’ve found your frequency”, but thankfully she just frowns, glasses sliding slowly down her nose.

“The bear is you,” she says plainly. “You’ve been asleep.”

You arch a brow. “I work full-time.”

“Yes, but your heart doesn’t.” She shrugs. “Lazy thing. It’s been sleeping through opportunities.”

You consider telling her you have a perfectly functional emotional life, thank you very much, but she’s already moving on.

“Cicadas.”

Your eyes widen in horror. “Like the bugs?”

But again, the woman you’re paying half your ‘Me’ budget on doesn’t bother justifying you with an adequate answer, and instead goes off.

“There’s a bend. A path that forks. Something that shifted recently. Something,” she pauses, “or rather, someone, you stopped seeing.”

That one lands a little more than you expect it to. You say nothing.

Because there’s no way—absolutely no way—you’re going to admit what actually pushed you to drunkenly give in and let your mother set you up. The actual reason you’re here is absolutely depressing.

Because it wasn’t loneliness. Not fully.

It was a someone.
Not even a relationship. Not even a fling.
You don’t even know his name, to make it fully pathetic.

Just a stranger. From your morning bus to work.

Same route, same time, same stupid earphones and worn-out book bag. You’d noticed him once when he gave up his seat for an old woman, and after that… well. After that, you just kept noticing him.

He was tall. Always dressed too casual to be heading to an office. He read a new book every week, always well-loved paperbacks, with dog-ears and spines-cracked. Sometimes, he'd smile at the pages, just barely, like he’d come across something secretly funny or quietly beautiful. And when he did, you’d catch a flash of dimples that never quite commit.

Once, he caught you tilting your head a little too much to read the title of his book.
He smiled—really smiled—then lifted it just enough for you to see it properly.
You typed the title into your phone, and you could swear he watched you do it, just for a second longer than necessary.

Then there was the time you accidentally dropped your bag straight into his lap.
He was sitting—your usual seat taken—so you stood in the aisle, trying not to jostle anyone.

Like any decent commuter, you stepped aside each time someone passed.
But then someone pushed you. Hard.
Uncalled for, honestly.

One rude shove from a passenger in a hurry to get off, and your bag slipped from your fingers, landing smack on top of his book.

You gasped, already mortified as you bent down to grab it, but he beat you to it. His hand closed around the strap first, lifting it gently from his lap with a quiet, amused sort of patience, like this wasn’t the weirdest thing that had happened to him on public transit.

“Sorry,” you blurted, taking the bag from him like it might bite. “I—Merci! Fuck, no, Arigatō, Xièxiè—”

He blinked. Then grinned. “Well, at least you’re polite in every timezone.”

You tried to smile back, but it came out more like a grimace.

“Sorry!”

Then you turned and power-walked to the back of the bus, desperate to end the conversation and maybe quietly pass away too.

Then there was that rainy morning. That miserable day when the city was still waking up under dark clouds, the only empty seat left on the bus was the one next to him.

He was tucked into a corner, phone screen lighting his face, only half-hidden behind whatever book he wasn’t reading. You slid into the seat beside him without a word.

Why would you speak? That would’ve been weird.

Still, when he tucked his phone away, he gave you a polite smile, and when he noticed you glancing at his book, he tilted it slightly towards you, subtly, almost imperceptibly, but just enough to let you follow along if you wanted to.

Then:
“Are you getting off at the next stop?”

You didn’t realize how fast the bus ride went by. “Uh—no. I’ll let you get off.”

He smiled when you stood to let him through.
And despite the rain, and the exhaustion, and the general state of the world that day, you smiled back.

He got off, the doors taking a second to close.
And that’s when you saw it: he’d left his umbrella behind.

If this were a K-drama, you would’ve rushed after him—dramatic music swelling, two umbrellas in hand, still somehow ending up soaked through by the rain—to return it, like destiny intended.

But this is real life.
So you took it.

You carried the umbrella to work, and then home, unsure if you felt more like a thief or a placeholder.
It wasn’t anything special—just a plain black one, the kind sold at every corner convenience store. But it was still … his.

You fully intended to return it the next morning.
But when your alarm spared you, you realized it was the weekend. And you had two days to romanticize every possible outcome.

You brought it with you Monday morning.
Got on the bus. Spotted him in his usual area.

Someone else was already in the window seat, so he sat by the isle, shoulder pulled in, legs tucked close, as if he were trying not to take up too much space.

You hesitated. Briefly.

Then you walked over, stopped right next to his seat, and waited for him to look up.

It was with light confusion that his eyes met yours, probably wondering who was crowding him for absolutely no reason on a Monday morning, until recognition flickered in.

“Do you want to take a seat?”

You held up the umbrella instead.
Wordlessly. Stupidly.

He stared for a moment. Brows furrowed , eyes dropping to the object in your hands, then understanding clicked into place, and his expression shifted. Recognition flickered in, then surprise. And then… something warmer.

“Thank you,” he said, smile deepening.

And you just nodded. Suddenly too aware of how warm your ears felt after getting a proper look at his face. The way his smile actually reached his eyes. The way he looked at you.

Without another word, you turned and made your way down the aisle to an empty seat, trying not to overthink the way your heart had kicked up somewhere between “You’re welcome” and oh no, he’s actually really handsome.

You didn’t look back.

Didn’t see if he watched you go.

Didn’t see if he smiled again.

The rest of the ride passes with you staring at your reflection in the rain-speckled window, trying not to feel completely and utterly ridiculous.

Because what the hell?

Because what would you even have said?
“Hi, I’ve been watching you read on this bus for months, and now I’ve built an entire narrative around the person I think you might be. Do you like emotionally unavailable, chronically single women who fear commitment?”

No.

So you sat there. And you stared. And you hated yourself just a little.

Because maybe you weren’t build for k-drama moments after all.
Maybe you were just the background character. The passerby. The girl who notices too late, who speaks too little, who doesn’t make it past the scene on the bus.

Because the next day, he wasn’t there.

And he’s gone the day after that too. And you never saw him again.

Now, you’re not delusional enough to think whatever that was, an umbrella and a smile, was anything close to romantic. But the fact that it made you feel something, something almost like sadness when you realized he wasn’t coming back, that made you pause.
Made you wonder if your mother was right…

If maybe, just maybe, you were a little lonelier than you let on.

Its not like you didn’t want to date. You did. It’s jus that, the older you got, the more exhausting it became to find a good man.

Because the boy reading on the bus? He could just as easily turn out to be a controlling misogynistic man-child that makes you feel like your worth only lies in how much he appreciates you. Because the charming doctor you met was (plot twist) secretly married. Because the sweet-talking, cunning lawyer who bought you flowers? He has massive gambling addiction, horrible credit, and is an absolute slob.

So, eventually, it just became easier not to try. To avoid the dating apps. To carefully craft an excuse when friends tried to set you up. To Lie about being engaged when your coworkers asked you out to dinner.

One choice at a time, you carved out a very peaceful, very intentional, unassuming celibacy.

And then, without meaning to, four, five years went by. Quietly. Consistently.

And maybe the shell you were so proud of started to wear a little thin. Maybe you were a little lonely. Maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t mind someone holding you. Prioritizing you. Fucking your brains out with love and intention and maybe staying until the morning and everyday after that.

So when your mother asked you for the 50,000th time if you’d be willing to go on an arranged date, the same month you lost your ‘chance’ with the ‘handsome stranger on the bus, you cracked. And said yes.
Which—somehow—turned into her frequenting the local marriage market like it was a competitive sport. Because, apparently, it’s near impossible to find a decent setup for a single, 29-year-old woman with a career. Apparently, people like you come with “baggage” now. Or “expectations.” Or the nerve to ask for an equal partnership.

And that, then, went a step further. Because apparently, according to her, the woman across from you is “very reputable” and “predicts everything with frightening accuracy” and also “set up forty successful marriages and one engagement that only failed because the guy moved to Canada.”

Which is how you ended up in a tea-scented dungeon of fate , staring at the woman who may or may not be high off tea fumes, trying to figure out your destiny through damp leaves and vague metaphors about sleeping bears and bugs.

“I see change,” Ahjumma Hyejin says, solemnly, snapping you back to the present. “A disruption. An unexpected meeting.”

You resist the urge to say well, yes, you’re the disruptor, and ask how exactly ‘change’ looks in the medium of tea leaves, but she’s already tapping your cup again with her rings, the clink now more irritating than mystical.

“I see mars in action.” She declares.

You blink at her. “The planet?”

“No, the candy bar,” she deadpans without missing a beat, then rolls her eyes. “Yes, the planet. Mars governs passion, desire, aggression—forward movement. Something’s coming.”

“Could it be a financial audit?”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just clicks her tongue and leans closer to the cup. “Mars means someone bold. Someone who won’t tiptoe around you.” She taps the rim. “Which is good for the bear.”

“What’s the monkey doing?”

She ignores that, which feels like an admission of defeat. You’re starting to suspect she’s the mature one between the two of you.

“There are footsteps near the cup handle.” she says instead ,as if that clears anything up.

You stare at the teacup. Then at her. Then back at the cup.

“Right,” you say, dryly.

She looks unimpressed, like she’s had to explain this exact concept to twelve equally disbelieving plebeians this week alone.

“That means an important decision is approaching. Very near,” she says, drawing out the last part like it’s supposed to rattle you. “This spring.”

You nod solemnly. “Got it. I’ll stop ignoring the terms and conditions when updating my software.”

Her sigh is long-suffering. “This is why your mother worries.”

“This is why I worry.”

She ignores that too, lifting the cup and giving it a final swirl, the leaves slipping sluggishly around the porcelain like they’re tired of performing.

“Don’t go looking,” she says, placing the cup down with finality. “But don’t look away either.”

“That’s not confusing at all.”

She shrugs. “Love isn’t a straight line. It’s a circle. A loop. You’ll know it when it comes back around.”

“I’ve been single for five years. My circle is a square.”

She finally meets your eyes, glasses danging from her neck again, a surprisingly warm smile on her face now, like she’s done performing, and switched back to costumer service mode.

“No,” she says, voice gentler than it’s been all morning, “Your circle is just taking the scenic route.”

You stare at her. At the absurd velvet-draped table. At the lace curtains trembling under the weight of faux-glass crystal strings.

At the fortune cookie bowl by the door that suddenly feels a little too on-the-nose.

You’re not sure what you expected to feel. Mocked? Seen? Reassured, perhaps? But all you really feel is… tired. And 50.000 won poor because your mom agreed to only pay for half of this insanity.

You push your teacup slightly away from you, watching the last of the leaves cling to its rim like stubborn passengers refusing to disembark.

“I still think this is a scam,” you mumble.

Ahjumma Hyejin smiles, wide and satisfied. “Of course it is. That’s why it works.”

You pause, then shake your head and rise to your feet, brushing imaginary lint off your coat.

At the doorway, just as your hand reaches for the beaded curtain, she calls out behind you.

“Don’t worry so much,” she says cheerfully. “The bear always wakes up in spring.”

You glance back over your shoulder.

“Yeah? What happens then?”

She just winks, eyes crinkling beneath the weight of too much eyeliner and not enough mysticism. “Your dry spell ends with a scandal,” she says, “and a dangerously handsome man who doesn’t play by the rules. Possibly a minor lawsuit too. But a fun one.”

You huff and grab two cookies from the jar before ducking through the curtain into the scent of ginger cookies, hibiscus tea, and other people’s hopeful futures. The bell above the door chimes faintly as you leave.

Outside, it only smells like rain.
And that’s way better.

Your mother had abandoned you in order to get to work, so you end up walking alone to the office, grimacing slightly at the fact that you’ll be late this morning with no time to stop for your usual coffee shop on the way.

And then a cold drizzle settles on your shoulders as you quicken your pace, the building too close by to justify stopping and digging through your bag for your umbrella.

When you arrive, almost half an hour later than usual, Jimin is already waiting for you, leaning casually against the doorframe, an extra coffee cup in his hand.

He flashes you a knowing smile. “Late start today?”

You can’t help but crack a tired smile back. “Long story.”

He hands you the coffee without a word, and you take it gratefully, the warmth seeping into your fingers. The bitter taste almost comforting—better than the rain soaking through your coat.

Jimin raises an eyebrow, still smirking. “How’d the reading go?”

“I’m a bear, and Mars is moving.”

“The candy bar?”

You huff a small laugh, shaking your head as you toe off your damp shoes by your desk. “I asked the same thing. She was not amused.”

Jimin chuckles, stepping inside and shutting the door with the ease of someone who’s made himself at home in your office too many times to count. “So what does Mars moving mean? You’ll have a heavy flow this month?”

You shrug out of your coat and hang it up, already searching through your desk drawer for a new, dry, pair of high heels. “Apparently, it means change. Boldness. Passion. Aggression.”

He whistles low. “Damn. Sounds like the sex horoscope I read over the weekend.”

You snicker, “I tried convincing my mom to send you in my place. You would have gotten a better reading and significantly less eye rolling.”

He laughs again, then falls into the guest chair across from your desk, propping one ankle over his knee like he owns the place. “Nah, she’d have taken one look at me and predicted a dramatic love triangle and a mysterious stranger with great abs.”

You sip your coffee, smirking. “Sounds about right.”

“Except I already have the great abs,”he adds with a wink, patting his stomach through his perfectly tailored shirt.

You snort. “Please stop flirting with yourself in my office.”

“I can’t help it,” he says, leaning back. “It’s my Venus placement. Bold. Aggressive. Very passionate.”

You laugh at that, gently shaking your head, because of course his Venus is always perfectly placed. “Again, she would have loved you. Given you a love spell on the house or sage or something.”

Jimin grins, smug. “She’d probably ask for my birth chart and a lock of hair.”

“She’d probably ask for your number too,” you mutter into your coffee, half teasing, half resigned.

He gasps, mock offended. “Are you saying she’d hit on me? That’s wildly unprofessional. I’m a client.”

“You’re not a client. I was a client! And I am 50.000 won poorer because of it.”

“I’m emotionally invested.”

You roll your eyes, pulling out your laptop as he keeps lounging like he belongs in a cologne commercial. “You're emotionally invested in my love life because your keep trying to set me up with your kinky friend.”

Jimin makes a face, like he’s about to argue, but he resigns just as quickly. “Yeah, Hoseok is kinky. He’d be a fun ride for you.”

“I’m good.”

Jimin wiggles his eyebrows. “Are you, though? You just got your tea read.”

You toss a sugar packet at him.

He dodges it easily, catching it midair. “I’m just saying, if Hoseok is Mars, then Mars is moving. Aggressively. The stars are all aligned. The teddy bear is ready to be stuffed. Maybe it’s time to get on the ride.”

“I’ll pass on the Hoseok rollercoaster,” you mutter, opening your inbox. “Too many loops. Not enough safety bars.”

“He’s very communicative.”

“I’m sure he is. Especially about rope tension and safe words.”

Jimin bursts out laughing, tipping his head back like he’s got all the time in the world. “God, I love when you get snarky. It’s so hot.”

“Great,” you say flatly. “Add it to the Venus file.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and fixes you with a delighted smile.

“Oh!” you say quickly, pulling out your bag, “I got you fortune cookies.”

“Multiple?”

“Just two.” You say, digging for them through your bag, “Technically they were free, but I think I paid for them with dignity.” You toss the little paper bag on the desk once you finally find it crumpled under your wallet and keys, and he immediately reaches for it.

“You need to open one too.”

“No,” you groan. “I got my dose of occultism to last me another five years.”

But Jimin isn’t listening, he already chose his and pushed the other towards you.

He tears into his with the enthusiasm of someone unbothered by the potential consequences of fate, eyes twinkling as he unfolds the tiny slip of paper.

“You will always get what you want through your charm and personality.” He reads aloud, then grins. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

You arch a brow. “Does this mean you’ll call back the one that tried to serenade you with an ukulele?”

“God no. She didn’t even tune it. No, this one’s definitely about Iseul.”

You blink. “I thought you said Iseul never replied to you.”

Jimin waggles his eyebrows. “Exactly. A mistake. An attractive one.”

You roll your eyes, muttering under your breath as you reach reluctantly for your own cookie. “This is how cults start.”

The cookie cracks open with a dry snap, and you unfold the fortune with the kind of resigned hesitation normally reserved for monthly reports and dating app notifications.

“You like Chinese food.”

Jimin stares at you.

You stare at the paper.

“…That’s it?” he asks, squinting.

You hold it up like exhibit A. “Verbatim. No metaphors. No mystery. No scandalous bear sex. Just—‘You like Chinese food.’”

He bursts out laughing, nearly doubling over in the chair. “Okay but… it’s not wrong.”

“It’s not a fortune, either,” you grumble, flicking the tiny slip of paper toward your keyboard. “At this point, the tea leaves were at least trying to be more specific.”

Jimin wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, still grinning like a lunatic. “Maybe that’s the message. Back to basics. Embrace simplicity. Order extra dumplings. Fall in love.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like Chinese food,” he repeats, mock-wise, tapping his temple like he’s cracked the code to your entire personality and you roll your eyes.

“Hey,” he says, stretching like a cat and standing from the chair. “If Mars is moving, it might be moving toward takeout. Lunch on me?”

You glance up. “Only if you promise not to get Chinese.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Oh look, there’s another fortune on the back,” you say, picking up the crumpled paper, “Get back to work before you lose your fucking job.”

Jimin gasps, placing a hand over his chest. “Wow. That one’s brutal. Is that printed or did you just manifest it?”

You smirk. “Maybe Mars moved me.”

He grins, leaning down to pluck the fake fortune from your fingers. “You know, even with all your sass and bad dating history, I think I am in love with you.”

“You’re in love with your own reflection in my office window.”

“True,” he says, pocketing the paper. “But you’re there too.”

You just shake your head and start typing again, biting back the smile that wants to creep up your face. He makes it too easy to feel like things aren’t as heavy as it sometimes get.

“I’ll see you later boss, just text me your order before Mars decided to take you out to lunch and order you a salad.”

“Thank you for the coffee!”

He smiles, giving you just a short nod before walking out.

You barely have time to settle back into your emails before your phone buzzes.

Eomma: “I found a match!”

Namjoon knows three things with absolute certainty:

1. The new boots he’s wearing are giving him blisters.

2. He should not have agreed to this arrangement.

3. He is definitely, one hundred percent, in the wrong building.

And that makes him anxious, because he is running late while his mother is waiting for him at the ‘modern’ and ‘lawful’ arranged marriage office that apparently functioned out of Seoul.

He squints at the paper sign taped to the wall, then back down at the scrap of address scribbled on the napkin in his hand. The napkin is from a place called Mrs. Choi’s Chinese Dumplings, which should’ve been his first red flag.

The second was when Seokjin texted “Don’t stress too much, you have good karmic balance, it’ll work out fine✨”

Which, in hindsight, is exactly what someone with terrible karmic balance would say to drag you down with them.

The third red flag, in retrospect, was when his mother said, “Just show up. Don’t argue. You owe me grandchildren and I’m not getting any younger.”

And now here he is, standing in what looks less like a licensed agency and more like a converted dental office with mismatched chairs, and a dried-out ficus in the corner.

He checks the time again. Five minutes late.

Perfect.

Namjoon runs a hand through his hair and exhales slowly, trying to summon whatever calm Buddha, his therapist, and three years of mindfulness apps have tried to instill in him.

Then he opens the wrong door.

An actual dentist looks up, just as confused as he is, before he hears his mother call his name from the other side of the hallway.

“Namjoon-ah!”

Her voice carries with the unmistakable tone of maternal urgency and just loud enough to draw strictly his attention.

He backpedals out of the dental office with a muttered apology, nearly trips over the doormat, and pivots toward the sound of motherly doom. His mother is standing at the end of the corridor in a chic blazer and the expression of someone who’s been waiting for six minutes too long.

She tuts when he gets close. “I told you to wear comfortable shoes.”

“They are comfortable,” he lies.

But she shakes her head and goes to straighten the collar of his shirt. She tuts again when tugging at the lapels like adjusting him will somehow fix his entire lack of a girlfriend.

“Did you rehearse what you’re going to say?”

“To my government-assigned wife?” Namjoon asks, deadpan. “No. I thought I’d wing it. Like romance.”

“Don’t be dramatic. It’s just a first meeting. You’re not signing a marriage license. You’re not even meeting her today”

Namjoon pauses. “Wait—what?”

His mother waves a hand like she’s swatting away a fly. “Today is the compatibility briefing. A counselor will walk you through your chart, your preferences, any red flags in your dating history—”

“I don’t have red flags.”

She raises an eyebrow.

He sighs. “None that are official.”

“Exactly. This is why we need professionals.”

He blinks at her. “You told me I was meeting someone today.”

“You are,” she says, already guiding him down the hall like a reluctant toddler. “You’re meeting a very nice woman named Ajumeoni Bae, who will determine if you're enough to deserve someone’s daughter.”

“Fantastic,” Namjoon mutters. “I love being graded.”

“She’s very fair. Kind. Been doing this for years.”

“Did she help arrange you and Dad?”

His mother snorts. “God no. I made my own terrible decisions.”

“Comforting.”

“But I made them in my youth. I’m not sure what you’re doing.”

Namjoon opens his mouth to argue, then closes it again. There’s no winning here—not with the boots, not with fate, and certainly not with his mother.

They round the corner just as a door opens ahead, revealing a petite woman in oversized glasses and a floral dress that looks older than Namjoon’s entire career.

His mother slows, then turns and beams like she hasn’t just marched her adult son into a bureaucratic personality evaluation disguised as matchmaking.

“Be honest,” she says. “And sit up straight.”

Before he can reply, the tiny woman chirps, smiling like she already knows everything about him.

“Kim Namjoon?”

“That’s him,” his mother says, giving him a pat on the back before sending him off to war. “Try not to overthink.”

“Impossible,” he mutters.

Ajumeoni Bae steps aside to let him in. “Come, come. We’ll begin with your aura.”

“My—” he starts, but it’s too late. He’s already in the room.

Namjoon glances back at his mom, but she pulled out her phone and sat down like she’s settling in for a very long dentist appointment.

Great.

The room looks…comfortable, he’ll give them that. Soft lighting. A round table with two chairs. A tray of tea. A diffuser working overtime. There’s a wall of post-it notes shaped into a heart above a whiteboard that says ‘Welcome lovers!’ in pink marker, and next to it, a huge wall of couple’s selfies.

Namjoon sits cautiously.

Ajumeoni Bae sits across from him with the solemnity of a tarot card reader about to deliver horrible news. “Now then. Before we begin the compatibility audit, let’s go over a few emotional baselines.”

He blinks. “Sorry, what audit?”

She pushes a laminated chart across the table. It's color-coded. There's a column titled Attachment Style Tendencies and another labeled Romantic Triggers: Known & Suspected.

“Oh,” he mutters. “Wow. This is…thorough.”

“We like to avoid surprises,” she says cheerfully. “You’d be amazed how many people forget to mention that they’re emotionally avoidant until they’re on their third marriage.”

He forces a smile. “Right. Honesty. Big fan of that.”

Ajumeoni Bae hums approvingly. “That’s good. Because your potential match? Very honest. A little sarcastic. Difficult with authority, but emotionally grounded.”

Namjoon’s brows lift slightly. “You’ve already profiled her?”

She smiles again, like she knows some secret he isn’t allowed to be in on yet. “Very spirited. Good head on her shoulders. She also, incidentally, said her ideal man doesn’t have a superiority complex or a podcast.”

He winces. “I agree.”

“We’ll see,” she says cryptically, standing up. “Wait here. I just need to print your karmic overlap chart.”

“Oh no, how could you forget,” he mutters a little too quietly for her to pick up, which—thankfully—spares him from immediate cosmic retribution. His mother would kill him if he pissed off the ‘matchmaker’ before the charts were even out of the jet ink printer.

Namjoon exhales and sinks further into the chair, rolling his ankle to relieve the pressure from his blistered heel. His sock is definitely bleeding.

That’s when he spots a framed quote on the wall that reads “Live. Laugh. Love!” And he has to take a full second to sigh and close his eyes.

Maybe he is emotionally unavailable.
Maybe Jin is right—and that is scary all in itself—about the fact that he is the imbalance…
It’s not that he avoided relationships, it’s that they kept not sticking. He met nice people. Smart, charming, perfectly reasonable people with dreams and cats and a Spotify family plan. But somehow, it always fell apart. Either slowly, like flowers wilting in the autumn. Or suddenly, like keys being thrown at a wall after a screamed “I hate you”.

He wasn’t sure which one was worse.

The slow fade made him question everything. The sudden ending made him question himself.

So, maybe it was easier to avoid thinking about the intimate interrelationship part of life. Maybe it was easier to focus on work, and music and books and his career, and let whoever came along attach themselves to him for as long as they could spare the time.

Maybe it was easier to play on the emotional logistics slide. To skim the surface. To love people without ever fully diving in, because it was born from convenience, not overly dramatic, rose tinted, explosive feelings.

Maybe that’s why his dating history reads less like a love story and more like a string of mutual coexistence for convenience: clean, polite, ultimately forgettable. A quiet shuffling of two people realizing that they were better off spending their free time alone.

He hadn’t meant to get good at detachment. It sort of…just happened. Like muscle memory. Like protecting what was left of the bleeding thing in his chest. Like the way he stopped flinching when the plans got canceled, or when the text went unanswered on both sides. Like the way he started replying to “How are you?” With "Busy.” Instead of “Fine, what about you💕”

And sure, he could intellectualize it. He was great at that. He could chalk it up to incompatible life stages, to ambitions, to the relentless grind of trying to build something meaningful out of art and chaos that outlasts him.

But at the end of the day, all excuses started to sound like static.

Because he just got invited to the third wedding of an ex while his own life somehow refused to progress.

Because his mother was certain he couldn’t get his head out of his ‘career mindedness’ long enough to find a human willing to attach themselves to him. Because, in a way, it’s easier this way. It keeps his mother occupied long enough to let him breathe; Half the sheets are already filled out by her, and the ‘commitment’ part isn't as dreadful as the movies make it out to be.

When he actually went over the terms and conditions with Jin and Jungkook, he realized its more like … the opposite of speed dating.

It’s more like bureaucratic courting.

“Like HR for the hearts!” Jin cheerfully declared.

In reality, it’s paper trails, emotional disclosures, NDA and compatibility metrics—all designed to screen out the chaos before it has a chance to bloom into heartbreak.

And maybe that wasn’t such a terrible thing.

Sure, it’s’ not love. But it could be…eventually. Maybe?

Namjoon rubs a hand down his face and stares up at the ceiling tiles. The diffuser gurgles softly in the background. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs—shrill, delighted, maybe in love .

But he sighs.

Maybe his mother was right. Maybe his career had eaten up so much of his life that he wouldn’t recognize intimacy if it filed a quarterly report and cc’d his assistant. Maybe she saw something he didn’t—something lonely.

Something tired. Something quietly unfinished.

Because when he got the memo about his office relocating, the first thing he thought —absurdly and involuntarily—was that he’d never see the girl on the bus again. And that tiny irrational pang in his chest? That flicker of what if she was the one, and you missed your chance because you were too scared to go after her?

It lingered.

Which, frankly, was pathetic.
The straight out a Russian novel kind; with a man gazing out the rain-streaked window, contemplating his own cowardice and social values based on the fact that he no longer had the balls to go talk to the girl who always pretended not to read his books over his shoulder.

Across from him, the laminated chart caught the light just enough to highlight a bold header at the bottom: “Potential Challenges: prone to rumination, risk of emotional retreat under duress, needs clear affection cues.”

He squints at it. “Yeah,” he mutters. “No shit.”

He leans back, arms folded loosely across his chest, and lets his gaze drift upward again—back to the framed “Live. Laugh. Love!”

He hated that it was easier to let his mother meddle than to argue. But more than that, he hated that some small cracked part of him secretly hoped this whole thing would work.

Because at least this time, someone else was in charge of the disaster. Someone else was drawing the map.

All he had to do was show up.

And bleed through his sock, apparently.

He’s in the middle of wondering how many people have stared at that exact same poster on the wall while questioning their entire emotional track record when the door opens again.

Ajumeoni Bae reenters with the calm precision of a woman who has arranged hundreds of lives into rom-coms. She’s holding a fresh printout that looks like it could get him qualified for a small loan, a manila folder, and a pink gel pen that probably has more dating options then he does.

“I brought the overlap chart,” she announces cheerfully. “And your Enneagram shadow type results. Oh—and your love language breakdown, though I don’t entirely trust the algorithm this week. It keeps giving everyone ‘touch’ and ‘acts of service.’”

Namjoon blinks at her, the sudden jump from sorcery to science giving him whiplash. “Is that…bad?”

“Depends,” she says, sitting down and flipping through the folder. “On whether or not you freak out when someone makes your coffee in the mornings.”

He decides not to answer that.

“Now,” she says, smoothing out the chart between them. “Let’s talk about your results. Your personality overlap is… actually quite balanced. Slightly skewed toward late-bloomer energy. But surprisingly high on reciprocity potential.”

“That sounds like a fancy way of saying I’m emotionally constipated but good in bed,” he mutters, before he can stop himself.

She doesn’t even blink. “That’s on page three.”

Namjoon groans and slouches deeper in his seat. His heel is throbbing. His pride has curled up in a corner and died.

“I’m afraid to ask how you got that information.”

Ajumeoni Bae doesn’t look up from her papers. “We cross-referenced your attachment style survey, Spotify history, your mother’s intake forms, and a six-minute phone call with someone named Jungkook. Your assistant?.”

Namjoon stares at her. “That’s a violation of at least seven privacy laws.”

“That’s adorable,” she says, clicking her pen. “You signed the agreement.”

He blinks.

She finally glances up, eyes twinkling behind thin cat-eye glasses. “Relax. We don’t have access to your browser history.”

“Thank God.”

“Yet,” she adds.

Namjoon looks back to the ceiling like maybe the plaster tiles can absorb his soul.

Ajumeoni Bae just hums to herself and circles something on the form in bright pink glitter ink. “You’re also touch-starved, verbally competent, and conflict-avoidant unless pushed. Which makes you compatible with partners who are clear, consistent, and slightly combative. Not overly, though—we don’t want another Taeyeon Incident.”

Namjoon’s head snaps back. “That wasn’t—how do you know about—?”

“I read your chart.”

“You mean my astrological chart?”

She smiles. “No. Your chart chart. The one your mother filled out and annotated.”

Of course she did.

“The point is,” she interrupts like she’s seen men contemplate how to jump out her office window before. And taps the chart lightly with a manicured fingernail. “There’s nothing here that scares me. You’re emotionally literate. You process conflict like a thoughtful Virgo. You even scored high in forgiveness aptitude—which is more than I can say for your mother, by the way.”

Namjoon huffs out a laugh, mostly because he doesn’t know what to do with the sudden swirl of relief and embarrassment in his chest. It’s not like he expected to be unmatchable. He is smart. Charming. Dare he say, handsome too. Just a little fucked in the romantic relationship department.

But hearing it said aloud—he’s not a lost cause, not someone who needs to be gently placed on the “maybe next cycle” bin—is… weirdly reassuring.

Even if it comes from a woman who uses glitter pens.

Ajumeoni Bae flips to another sheet. “Now. Emotional check-ins. How do you typically process heartbreak?”

“Poorly,” he says immediately.

“Honest. I like that.” She flips to another section. “Do you find yourself drawn to emotionally unavailable people, or do you simply become one after the third date?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. “That feels unfair.”

“But accurate?”

“…Somewhat.”

“Noted.” She jots something down again, and he swears it’s in bubble letters.

The questions keep coming, each one more specific than the last. Some are straightforward—emotional history, family dynamics, how often he feels the urge to ghost someone mid-conversation (rarely, thank you). Others are oddly philosophical: Would you rather be adored or understood?

Would you rather disappoint your mother or yourself?

At one point she asks if he has ever written a poem and not shown it to anyone.

He stares at her. “Is that a requirement?”

“No,” she says brightly. “But it’s usually a sign of romantic repression and creative depth. We like that.”

He’s never wanted to dig a hole in a commercial carpet more than he does right now.

By the time she reaches the final page, Namjoon’s ankle has gone numb, and he’s sweating through his undershirt.

Ajumeoni Bae sets her pen down. “You did well.”

“Did I pass?”

“This isn’t a test,” she replies serenely. “But yes.” She gathers the papers into the folder with gentle efficiency.

Then she looks up, expression softening for the first time.

“You’re a little overcooked. Been marinating too long in ambition and duty. But you’re not broken, Namjoon-ssi. Just… tired.”

He swallows. There’s a lump in his throat he didn’t ask for. “Thank you. I think.”

She pats the folder. “I’ve seen worse. Much worse. You’re going to be just fine.”

“Statistically?”

She smirks. “Statistically, yes. Spiritually? That’s between you and whatever God you have.”

He lets out a breath that sounds more like a laugh.

Ajumeoni Bae stands and smooths her skirt. “We’ll reach out to you and your mother with the potential matches after the alignment window closes. Gives you a few more days of peace and quiet.”

Namjoon rises too, limping slightly. His heel protests with every step.

“And maybe wear sneakers next time,” she adds, eyeing his boots.

He nods. “Yeah. I think I’ve learned my lesson.”

She walks him to the door. “Oh, one more thing. We don't believe in sending out head-shots beforehand.”

Namjoon pauses. “Why?”

“Preserves mystery. Encourages open-mindedness. Minimizes superficiality.”

He frowns. “And maximizes anxiety?”

Ajumeoni Bae grins, utterly unbothered. “Exactly. Builds character.”

He’s too tired to argue. Just nods instead, the slow kind, the defeated kind as she opens the door with a gentle flourish, like she’s ushering him out of a sanctuary and back into the wild.

“You’ll receive an email!” She continues. “It’ll contain the names and profiles.”

Namjoon stares.

“Don’t overthink it, Namjoon-ssi.” She says, not unkindly. “Just be open. Let love lead you. ”

He hesitates in the doorway, biting back a groan, then gives her a small, noncommittal nod.

He doesn’t feel enlightened. Or transformed.

Not even fully understood. But then again, he never did read the five novel-sized emails he received that went over every single aspect of his life.

The only certain thing he feels is the weight of another 500.000 won leaving his wallet because of this meeting.

His mother smiles brightly when she sees him, like he just returned victorious, with marriage prospects instead of a mild limp and a folder full of his own neuro-nonsense.

“Well?” she asks, practically bouncing. “Wasn’t she lovely?”

“Who?”

“The Ajumeoni. Did she say you were a good match? That you’re emotionally stable? Did you mention how handsome you are?”

He doesn’t have the heart—or the energy—to explain that what he just underwent was less matchmaking and more emotional calling-out. So he just mutters, “She said I did well.”

His mother beams, like she personally passed the exam.

“Good! I told you! I told you it would go fine.”

He doesn’t correct her. Doesn’t mention the poem question. Or the spreadsheet with a tab labeled ‘Romantic Delusion: mild to moderate.’

Doesn’t explain that he spent half the session wondering if the person who’s supposed to fix all his problems is to be trusted. After all, she deliberately hung up the “Live. Laugh. Love!” poster above her desk.

He doesn’t explain any of it.

Not the way he’ll probably limp for a full week from now. Not the weird ache blooming behind his sternum when she said “You’re not broken. Just tired.” Not even the deep, existential nausea that settled in his lower belly when he realized someone, somewhere down the algorithm, thinks he is the type of person who might benefit from pre-printed affirmation flashcards.

Instead, he follows his mother down the hallway, listening to the sound of her heels clicking cheerfully against the tile floor like nothing about this was odd at all.

She’s already planning something. Probably a family dinner. Or a group prayer circle. Or a celebratory visit to the temple to seal his fate.

“The next step is the matching!” His mother chirps as she hits the elevator button. “I asked the receptionist. She said the email usually get sent out on Thursday, so you have a little time to prepare.”

“Prepare for what?” He asks warily.

She looks at him like it’s obvious. “For love, Joonie.”

The elevator dings open.

He watches the doors close in front of him and thinks—somewhere between resignation and horror—that he’s about to be ambushed at the office by his own birth giver when the email comes.

Great.

On Thursday at 6:55 am, the email delivers. Nestled between a Google Calendar alert and a passive-aggressive client follow-up marked Urgent! with absolutely nothing urgent inside.

Subject: Preliminary Compatibility Matches - ACTION REQUIRED

Sent from a totally nondescript address, but cc’d to both his mother and, for some reason, ajumeoni@heart wise.kr.com

Namjoon opens the email over his first cup of coffee, bleary-eyed and already annoyed. There are six attachments. Two links. One encrypted folder. And a cheerful generic message that reads: Let your journey begin!

Underneath, in slightly smaller font:
—In the name of cosmic alignment and Ajumeoni Bae.

He nearly deletes it on principle.

Instead, he closes his laptop a little too harshly and goes back to his coffee before letting the thought to completely fall out of his brain and get ready for work.

That is until Friday when his mother texts to inform him that upon his lack of initiative, she decided that profile 3.b is a good match for him and she scheduled a date.

Namjoon: I think I lost the e-mail. And you can't just ‘schedule a date‘. I have a job.

Eomma 💮: Her family name is Kang! She’s smart! high IQ and sounds very pretty🥰.

Eomma 💮: And the date is on Saturday. When you’re off work!

Eomma 💮: （づ￣3￣）づ╭❤️～.

He closes his eyes and exhales through his nose.

Somewhere, deep in the distance of his brain, he can hear Jin’s voice, smug and unhelpful: “You know what your problem is? You let things happen to you. You just… show up and suffer. Like a very handsome seaweed plant.”

And maybe he does. Maybe he is seaweed. Maybe, once again, he’s allowed himself to be dragged around aimlessly by the waves—mildly annoyed still vaguely compliant— into another mess that might, against all odds, maybe not be a mess?

He reopens his laptop and finds the email again.

Just to make sure this woman isn’t secretly listed as a cult leader or, worse, a life coach.

The match profile folder is, frankly, more elaborate than his college thesis. There’s a flowchart. A vague psychological index. Another legal disclaimer about "emotional liabilities."

And in the middle of it, labeled neatly:

Match 3.b — Client ID 2411-K

Preferred identifier: Kang

Job: Corporate lawyer.

Identifying Details: will wear a pink dress on the first date.

Namjoon stares at the screen, squinting at the line like it might blink and disappear if he looks hard enough.

Identifying Details: will wear a pink dress on the first date???

That’s it? That sounds ‘pretty to his mother‘?

Well… of course it does.

But still, no bio? Not even a vague ranking on the Conflict Resolution Readiness scale they made him take twice.

Just a pink dress?

He scrolls down, half-hoping there’s a footnote, maybe an asterisk with some context, a The Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, something? Anything?.

But there isn’t. Just more color-coded charts, documents that require downloading and a section titled Projected Emotional Resonance that looks like someone tried to graph love using the free version of Canva.

He scrolls further. Accidentally reads two more profiles before he realized they we’re unrelated.

He closes the file.

Then opens it again.

Then closes it again, this time like it personally insulted him.

Namjoon: I had plans this Saturday.

Eomma 💮: Futsal with Yoongi? He was more than happy to reschedule.

That traitor.

Namjoon doesn’t reply. So his phone buzzes again fifteen minutes later.

Eomma 💮: You're meeting her at 12 at the cafe next to the SeMa. I told them you’d wear that nice black button up you have. Make sure you iron it.

He stares at the message for a long time.

Not because of the specifics—though the fact that his mother is coordinating both his wardrobe and his whereabouts like he’s a barely functional sims 4 character is… concerning.

But because she remembered the black button-up.

He hates how that detail gets to him. That his mom, for all her meddling and cosmic matchmaking and unsolicited life-management advice, still remembers what he looks good in. Still tries to make him happy.

He tosses the phone onto the couch, rubs a hand over his face, and groans into the void.

Because now there’s no getting out of it.

The dress is pink. He will iron his black shirt. The appointment has been scheduled. The stars, apparently, have been forced into alignment.

And he—Kim Namjoon, certified skeptic and part-time seaweed—has officially been roped into a color-coordinated blind date.

For love™️.

You weren’t very pleased to be thrown into a full-blown blind date.

From what you remembered about that unfortunate heart-to-heart with your mother, the overly vulnerable one where you’d been on your third glass of wine and developed a full-blown snot bubble, she’d promised to at least give you a heads-up next time. A name. A vague age bracket. Maybe a job title. Something to anchor the chaos.

Instead, she told you to wear a pink dress.

Because, apparently, she took care of everything

Apparently, “He knows how to find you.”

Which, frankly, has never sounded less romantic and more like a reason to change all your locks and reevaluate your relationship with your mother.

And it wasn’t like you were against the idea of being set up. You’d agreed, after all. But you were thinking coffee dates. Brief bios. The chance to vet someone before sitting across from them and wondering if you should order a second latte or leave and call the cops mid-date.

But no. Not this time.

This time, it was just “Wear a pink dress. His family name is Kim.” Like Kim wasn’t the most common name in all of Korea and you knew exactly who she was talking about.

Like you just had pink dresses lying around.

“Kim what?”

“Ahya—I forgot. But good boy. Very good.”

Zero context. Zero prep. No idea what kind of man would be scanning the room for bubblegum-colored chiffon in a sea of muted browns and pale nudes.

You had to practically beg her for a description. Which, based on her response, didn’t inspire much confidence.

“He’s tall. Very handsome. Korean.”

You stared at her. “Mother, that’s… statistically everyone.”

Still, she seemed pleased. Which only made you more concerned. Because your mother’s definition of “handsome” was deeply rooted in 2004. But she did think Jang Dong-Gun was handsome in his prime, so… maybe there was hope?

The place is nicer than you expected. Not too fancy, not too casual. It has that polished, neutral vibe with exposed brick, matte black fixtures, a variety of collected art pieces hung up on the walls and minimalist flower arrangements that scream couples get engaged here, but not you.

Probably.

Most certainly.

You tug at the strap of your dress, suddenly self-conscious. It’s the one you usually reserve for elegant events, tailored, corset-style bodice with an accentuated neckline. Spaghetti strap with a vintage touch and a skirt that flares out a little too much for a first date. You’ve actually worn it to a wedding once. And a third date, one time, but back then there was at least a sliver of hope and maybe some mild butterflies. Right now, all you have is caffeine jitters and Jimin blowing up your phone asking highly inappropriate questions for noon on a Saturday.

And how exactly does one wait to be identified on a blind date?

Do you sit? Do you pace by the window like some lovesick drama heroine? Do you hold up a tiny sign with your own name on it like you’re waiting for an airport pickup?

You chose to sit down by the window table, phone in hand, pretending to scroll, trying not to snicker at Jimin’s absurdity, but mostly checking your reflection in the glass every few minutes.

You: The worst part is I don’t know what I’m looking for.

Jimini🐸: A man. A Korean one.

Your eyes scan the street again.

Nothing.

You check the time. 11:45. Fifteen minutes early. Which is fine. Normal. You’re not desperate—you’re punctual. Efficient. Calm.

You are not imagining every tall man in a 20-meter radius as a potential match.

Except you are.

A guy in a hoodie walks past and you instinctively straighten. He doesn’t even glance your way.

You sigh, shifting your weight and feeling the first sting of regret that you didn’t just fake a fever and stay in bed, or go drink girly cocktails with Taehyung like you initially intended.

At least then, you’d have had backup. Or at the very least, alcohol.

Instead, you’re here. Sober. Alone. In a pink dress with a neckline that feels too daring now. Waiting for a man with no face, no first name, and presumably some kind of divine sense of direction.

You glance at the time again.

11:59.

Almost noon. Almost late. Not a good sight. Shows he’s not committed. And why would you ever want to date someone who can’t commit? You don’t. So you might as well leave now and spare yourself the heartache and disappointment before it has time to happen.

And then—

A shadow crosses the glass.

You look up.

There’s a man approaching. An undeniably Korean one. Dark hair. Tall. The same one you’ve seen on the bus on a daily basis so many months ago. He slows when he sees you, hesitation flickering across his features like he’s doing the same mental gymnastics you are.

He looks at your dress.
There are no other oblivious Korean men wondering around.
And it throws you for a second—because you know that face.

Not personally. Not really. But intimately enough that the sight of him stirs something unsettling in your chest. A weird little pang. Like your stomach just registered a plot twist and didn’t think to inform your brain.

You sit up a little straighter, something almost like a smile tugging at your lips when you see him make his way inside and over to you, his dimples already deepening.

It’s him.
The guy.
The one who always had a book. Who always sat two rows ahead, earbuds in, glasses sliding down his nose. The one who made every sensible thought slip and left you impossibly tongue tied.

You'd thought he disappeared. Married some rich sugar mama and moved to the Greek islands. You were almost sure you imagined the last time you saw him and you made a complete fool of yourself for not being able to say “You’re welcome” like a properly functioning adult.

But here he is. Wearing an impeccable black button-up that frames his chest a little too well, with dark jeans and sneakers, looking like he recognizes you, too.

"Hi” he says, a little breathless, like even he can’t quite piece it. “You’re…”

“Wearing a pink dress,” you supply, voice surprisingly steady.

He huffs a soft laugh, eyes running over your dress again, scratching the back of his neck. “Right. That makes you Kang, then?”

You nod once. “Kim?”

He smiles. “Kim Namjoon.”

“That’s… not what I expected.”

His brows lift, just slightly. “Good not expected? Or like, you’re about to run and block my number?”

“You don’t have my number,” you point out.

“Yet.”

That earns him a half-laugh, though you’re not sure if it’s because he’s cute or because you’re still processing the sheer absurdity of it all.

“Well, Kim Namjoon who doesn’t have my number, I’m Y/n Kang.”

He smiles like that name clicks, like it fits you. Like he doesn’t mind saying it for the rest of his life,maybe. “Nice to finally meet you, Y/n-from-the-bus.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Can’t believe this.”

Namjoon glances around, like maybe he’s double-checking that this is, in fact, still Earth. Still Seoul. Still a date arranged by meddling parents and not some glitch in the simulation, before he settles comfortably in front of you, smile honest and eyes focused.

He is big, taking up most of the booth in front of you, and you can’t help but look at his hand when he gently places his phone on the table. That’s when you notice a small key chain dangling from his phonecase—a sleeping koala.
You pause for merely a second, brain working overtime to understand what is happening, because there is no way the tea lady was right.

No, it can’t be.

1. technically they aren’t bears.

2. koala’s don’t hibernate.

So take that Ahjumma Hyejin. The only mysticism happening here is the fact that he is single. Looking to be married. And the fact that your mother accidentally chose the profile of a man you’ve secretly wanted to get to know.

“Me neither,” he admits. “When I saw your description and saw Corporate lawyer I was half expecting someone from Busan who believes in essential oils and is secretly a dominatrix.”

You squint at him, biting back a smile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He lifts his palms, visibly panicking, like he accidentally crossed a line in the first five minutes of this—whatever this is. “Hey. I mean—I like essential oils—”

You snort, fully grinning now. “And dominatrixes?”

His mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. “I’m… open-minded?” but he doesn’t sound convinced.

You laugh, loud and surprised, drawing a glance from the couple at the next table. Namjoon pauses briefly, then breathes, clearly relieved you’re not storming out.

“Relax,” you say, amused. “I’m not judging. Just… maybe don’t open with that if you ever go on a date with someone actually from Busan.”

He drags a hand down his face, laughing too now. “Duly noted. Strike dominatrix talk from the opening five minutes. Got it.”

You lean back, your shoulder brushing the curve of the booth, just watching him with a little more curiosity now. “Hey, I admire the straight-forwardness.”

“Thank you.” he smiles, “Normally I save it for the third date.” He winks, like it’s a joke—but the kind that flirts with not being one.

You raise an eyebrow. “Optimistic of you to assume there will be a third date.”

Namjoon tilts his head, eyes glinting. “Bold of you to assume there won’t.”

That earns him a real smile this time—warm, unguarded, the kind that slips out before you can measure it. He seems to like that. His own smile shifts, softens a little at the edges like he’s tucking it away just for himself.

You glance down at the menu but don’t read a word of it. “So what else did the matchmaking overlords tell you about me? Besides my lack of dominance and job, which, by the way, is just my mom overselling my CV. I’m just a mere paralegal.”

Namjoon visibly relaxes, his shoulders easing under the thin cotton of his shirt. “Ah. That makes sense. You don’t have the vibe of someone who yells objection in a courtroom.”

You smirk, flipping the menu open just to give your hands something to do. “I could yell objection. I’ve practiced in the mirror. Once. During law school. It was embarrassing.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, grinning. “But no, you seem too…” He pauses, like he’s trying to find the right word.

You raise an eyebrow. “Careful.”

Namjoon considers. “Grounded. Maybe a little skeptical.”

You stay quiet, waiting for him to continue.

“ Like you’ve already spotted all the exits and planned the escape route.”

At that, you blink, a little caught off guard, suddenly wondering what kind of documents your mother sent this man. “That’s… creepily accurate.”

He shrugs, sipping his drink. “What can I say. I read people.”

“I seem to recall you also read books.”

His smile stretches, equal parts amused and amazed. “You noticed that?”

You shrug. “You were hard to miss. Not a lot of people read The Master and Margarita at seven a.m. without looking miserable.” You offer, “And we shared a commute for, what, four-five months?”

“Seven,” he says without hesitation, then looks slightly embarrassed at how quickly that came out. “I mean… roughly.”

You can’t help but grin. “So you remember me too.”

“I do. Vividly. Especially the day you dropped your bag and said ‘thank you’ in three different languages except Korean.”

You groan, dropping your face into your hands.

“It was kind of cute,” he continues, “And you didn’t steal my umbrella.”

“So there’s no point in pretending I’m not a major klutz and have the moral compass of a toddler who watched too much PBS kids?”

Namjoon smiles, warm and full, his eyes nearly disappearing behind his cheeks as he straightens his back, chest puffing out a little. “I told you, I’m good at reading people.”

You glance at him, shifting closer in your chair without realizing you did it. “So, what do you read right now?”

He pretends to think about it, tapping his fingers against the table.

“Well, I already know you’re not a dominatrix, so half the mystery is gone.”

You groan. “Are we really circling back to this?”

“Look, I just want to be thorough.” He gives you a mock-serious nod. “Due diligence.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re a menace.”

“Been called worse.” He leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out slightly beneath the table—and you can feel the faintest brush of his shoe against yours. Not accidental. Not quite flirtatious either. Just enough to make your ears redden.

“I just finished rereading Don Quixote this week.”

“Don Quixote?” you echo, tilting your head. “That explains a lot.”

Namjoon lifts a brow, intrigued. “Does it?”

You nod solemnly, setting your menu down. “Tragic idealist. Delusional romantic. Prone to dramatic gestures. Clearly projecting.”

He grins, leaning forward again, elbows to the table like he’s settling in. “Are you calling me delusional or romantic?”

“Bit of both,” you say, sipping your water. “The umbrella scene was very Drama wired.”

Namjoon hums, looking vaguely impressed. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”

“You were.” You meet his eyes. “Which is what made it kind of tragic when you didn’t come back.”

His smile falters for just a second—not fading, but shifting. A little stunned.

It’s quiet for a beat too long.

You blink. “Sorry. That was overstepping.”

“No,” he says, voice warm and a little low. “It wasn’t.”

You hold his gaze, your pulse picking up just enough to be distracting.

You clear your throat and glance back at the menu. “So, Kim Namjoon, what do you do when you’re not getting roped into blind dates by my mother?”

“You mean besides trying not to overshare within the first ten minutes?”

You hum. “I’ll allow it. For now.”

“Well… I work in publishing. Mostly editorial consulting. A lot of revising other people’s half-finished masterpieces and telling them their metaphors are too heavy-handed.”

“That sounds interesting.”

He shrugs. “It’s weirdly fun. I get to help shape stories without the pressure of having to write them myself.”

“So you get to be opinionated for a living?”You smile, intrigued despite yourself.

Namjoon nods, his eyes brightening. “Exactly. And it means I get to meet a lot of interesting people, writers, artists, all kinds of dreamers.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “That sounds like the ideal job for someone like you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Someone like me?”

“You know—observant, articulate, low-key judgmental.”

He laughs. “Did they send my dating profile with a job recruiter attached?”

“Nope,” you say, popping the P. “I just read people.”

And you didn’t even get his profile—your mother picked it out, skimmed it barely. But he doesn’t need the logistics. Not when you’ve already got him pegged this well.

That earns you a look—a good one. A little surprised, a little impressed. Like he didn’t expect you to match him beat for beat but is thoroughly delighted that you are. And you find yourself sitting up straighter, shoulders dropping a touch.

Because in a weird way, knowing the man in front of you has already passed the maternal background check—knowing he has a steady job, some assets, and is looking for a wife and not just a girlfriend to drag around like a spare tire—takes out half the guesswork.

Now the game is different.

Now it’s about the edge. Tapping into the hidden quirks, the hidden bullshit all people try and hide. Figuring out if he actually wants a wife—the person, the partner, the messy, everyday constant—or just wants to check another box on some grown-up checklist, somewhere between career milestones and mortgage payments.

And most importantly: if he’s the type who’d turn toward you on the hardest days—or the kind who’d retreat and make you invisible.

But then he smiles again, that wide, boyish grin that scrunches his eyes and softens everything else—and for the first time in a long while, you think… maybe this one won’t try to ruin you.

After a beat, you close your menu again. “Are you hungry? I feel like I’ve opened this thing a hundred times and still have no idea what I want.”

Namjoon nods, leaning slightly forward like he’s sharing a secret. “Honestly? I was too distracted to read a single item.”

You glance up at him, one brow raised. “By what? The painting behind me of a naked dude?” you say glancing over your shoulder to make sure the oil painted dick is still up there.

But his gaze doesn’t waver. “By you.”

It’s not slick. It’s not even that smooth. You’ve fully walked into it. But it lands—unexpected and oddly sincere.

Your lips twitch, caught somewhere between flattered and flustered. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’m getting there.” He says it so casually, with a shrug, you almost miss the weight behind the words. Like it’s not a line—just a quiet promise wrapped in a smile.

You blink, trying not to let that affect you. Failing, a little. “Well,” you say, clearing your throat and reaching for your water, “It’s hard to get to know someone if they pass out from low blood sugar.”

Namjoon laughs, warm and open, like he genuinely finds you funny. “Good point. Do you trust me enough to order for you?”

You grin but your cheeks are still very much warm. “Bring me something I won’t regret.” You pause for a second “And a Rusty Nail.”

“Pressure’s on.” He rises, brushing his fingers lightly along the edge of the table, and shoots you a quick glance before heading off toward the counter. “Don’t go anywhere. I still have at least three more charming remarks and one mildly embarrassing anecdote left in me.”

You shake your head, watching him go. And despite yourself, you don’t reach for your phone. Don’t fake-text or scroll. You just… wait for him to come back.

Which, you realize, is its own kind of first.

Because maybe this isn’t as bad as you thought. In fact, it’s almost incredible. Like, you might actually text your mother and thank her if things go well. And even if they don’t, this feels oddly like closure. Comforting in a strange way—to know maybe the universe isn’t fully against you, the stars didn’t give up on you, and Mars isn’t bullshitting 100% of the time. Sometimes, the universe brings back the unfinished chapters and ties them up with neat little bows. Not the way you expected. But maybe not as horrible as you were bracing for either.

Now you have a name to match to his face. And a ‘profile’ you’ll definitely be begging your mother for later tonight—because suddenly, your interest is piqued by the handsome stranger that is making his way back to you with two plates and a couple of drinks, setting them down gently in front of you

The aroma makes your stomach rumble, despite the lingering nerves fluttering there.

He sits back down, eyes twinkling, hair perfectly fluffed, as if he ran his hand through it while deciding what to get you. “I ordered the Kimchijeon and the Bibimbap. Figured if I’m going to impress, might as well go classic.”

You glance at the food and then back at him. “Bold choice.”

He grins. “I’m a man of culture.”

You pick up your chopsticks, feeling the first real moment of ease settling between you.

“I’m learning I’m quite fond of those.”

“And I have a soft spot for whiskey girls.”

Your lips curl despite yourself, the words catching you pleasantly off-guard.

“Careful,” you murmur, lifting your glass. “That sounds dangerously close to flirting.”

Namjoon clinks his drink lightly against yours. “Only if it’s working.”

You take a sip, eyes not leaving his. “That remains to be seen.”

He watches you for a moment, amused and, if you’re reading him correctly, just a little bit in awe. “You always this quick?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” you admit, cheeks still warm from earlier. “And when someone orders for me without asking if I’m allergic to anything.”

“Wait—are you?”

You shake your head. “No. But that would’ve been an incredible power play.”

He exhales, dramatic. “Dodged a lawsuit.”

And you giggle. Actually fucking giggled.

The crisp edge of the kimchijeon breaks beneath the weight of your chopsticks with a satisfying crack. The spicy, tangy scent hits your nose, and for a moment, the nerves settle into something softer—like hope.

Because somehow, conversations with him skip the usual awkward buildup. There’s no forced small talk, no performance. Just an easy, comfortable rhythm, that carried you from his latest read, to places you both wanted to travel to, to the awkwardness of blind dates arranged by well-meaning but overzealous mothers. Then still, to the kind of mildly unhinged childhood stories people usually save for third or fourth dates—if ever.

Namjoon listens like it matters. Like he’s not just waiting for his turn to speak, but like every word is worth holding onto. And when he does talk, it’s with that same quiet charm and wit, a little self-deprecating, a little too sharp to be accidental, but still incredibly intelligent and cunning, (so much so that you assume his jokes fly over people’s heads most of the time).

You learn that he has a younger sister who taught him more about women than any relationship ever did. That he’s a terrible dancer but a committed one, thanks to years of wedding receptions and shameless cousins. That he likes finding strange little bars no one’s ever heard of just to compare craft beers. That he owns more notebooks than he knows what to do with, and he even showed you that he carried one with him in case you didn’t show up and he had the time to contemplate his life choices. That he’s mildly extroverted but fiercely protective of his alone time.

He’s emotionally intelligent—grounded, open without pretense, vulnerable in the quiet way that feels earned.

For his turn, he learned that you’ve always wanted a sister, but ended up with two younger brothers. That your laugh changes depending on the kind of funny—sarcastic snorts, startled giggles, full-bodied cackles that make him grin just hearing them. That you’re quick with your words but even quicker with your care. That you memorize birthdays but forget where you put your phone. That said phone is full of blurry photos of food and sky and friends who don’t even know they’re being documented.

He learns you don’t give your trust away easily, but once it’s given, you’re all in—loyal to a fault in that quiet, reserved way that makes people feel safe.

That you’re a little guarded, but not cold. That you’re more thoughtful than you let on, and that you were utterly drunk when you agreed with your mother to sign up for matchmaking.

And suddenly, you realize: you’re not waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And even after dessert, and two more boozy drinks, you’re not bored. Not even when you check the time and realize you’ve spent close to seven hours just talking and that's the reason why your butt is numb.

In fact, when the dessert plates are cleared and your water glass is sweating rings into the wood of the table, you find yourself reluctant to call it.
There’s no lull that prompts you to check your phone, no awkward silence that signals it’s time to leave. Just… comfort. The kind you didn’t expect to find with someone you technically just met.

At some point, you’re laughing with your whole body, head tilted back and eyes watering, because the image of a fourteen-year-old Namjoon holding an exploded hard-boiled egg he just tried to microwave is too much.

He leans back, satisfied. “Told you I had at least one mildly embarrassing anecdote in me.”

“I feel like that was a gift,” you say, catching your breath. “A very stupid, generous gift.”

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a pause, but not an awkward one. Just that brief, full-belly pause that follows shared joy.

Namjoon watches you, amusement and something gentler flickering in his eyes, elbows resting on the edge of the table. “Okay, this might be violating the arranged marriage first date pact, but… would you want to go for a walk?”

You glance at him, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. Because if he’s asking, then it must mean that he is feeling it too—that low, steady thrum beneath the laughter and easy banter. That easy pull that asks for this to go on just a little while longer. “Is that allowed? I thought this date was already pushing the legal limit of emotional intimacy.”

Namjoon stands anyway, offering his hand up with a mock-serious nod. “Well, I did dodge a lawsuit once. I’m willing to risk it.”

You take his hand.

It’s warm—steady. A ridiculous flutter sparks in your chest, just from the contact. Stupid. Dangerous.

But you follow him.

The waiter circles back with the bill, polite smile in place, and Namjoon reaches for it without hesitation. But before he can slide his card in, you’re already fishing your wallet from your bag.

“Split,” you say, tone final.

He blinks, amused. “Oh? We’re doing it like that?”

“We are,” you reply, matching his look. “I didn’t come all this way in a pink dress just to be reduced to a lunch tab.”

Namjoon holds his hands up in surrender, laughing under his breath. “Point taken. Independent, emotionally nuanced and financially assertive. I’ve really hit the jackpot.”

The server barely bats an eye at your tug-of-war before taking both cards with a gracious nod and disappearing behind the cash register. You glance back at Namjoon, who’s still watching you, something warm flickering behind the curve of his lips.

As you sling your bag over your shoulder, the spell between you is just as strong—stretching, trailing behind you like smoke.

The air outside is cooler than you expect, a welcome contrast to the cozy hum of the cafe.

The sky’s that dusk in-between, not quite night, but definitely no longer day. You fall into step beside him, your arms brushing once, twice, before falling into a rhythm that feels as natural as the rest of the evening.

He shoves his hands in his pockets. “So. What’s the real verdict? Did I live up to your mother’s brochure?”

You snort. “My mother didn’t give me a brochure. She gave me a time, a place, and a warning not to embarrass her.”

“Wow. High standards.”

“She’s terrifying,” you deadpan.

Namjoon chuckles. “Can’t wait to meet her.”

You glance at him, side-eyeing the grin blooming on his face. “You say that now. Just wait until she starts grilling you about your income bracket and astrological compatibility.”

He tilts his head, feigning concern. “What sign are you?”

You pause. “Pisces.”

Namjoon winces. “Yikes.”

You stop walking.

“Okay, rude.”

Namjoon lifts both hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Look, I’m just saying—Pisces and Virgos are famously… complicated.”

You narrow your eyes. “Oh?”

“I’m a Virgo.”

You let out a laugh, incredulous. “You yikesed me when you’re a Virgo?”

He grins wider. “Exactly. I know what I’m talking about.”

You scoff, nudging him with your shoulder. “Please. You’re probably the kind of Virgo that alphabetizes his books and thinks emotional vulnerability is a love language.”

He hums thoughtfully. “I do alphabetize my books.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“But,” he adds, voice a touch more serious now, “I also cry at movie trailers. And I keep handwritten cards from people I’m not even friends with anymore.”

You blink. That shuts you up for a second.

Then: “Okay. That’s not very Virgo of you.”

“I’m a closeted romantic.” He shrugs, casual. “Or maybe the stars aren’t that good at their jobs.”

“Thank god I don’t believe what the stars say then.”

Namjoon smirks, tilting his head toward you as you both keep walking. “You say that now. Just wait until Mercury retrogrades and I forget to text back.”

You try to roll your eyes, but a warm laugh escapes before you can stop it.

The sidewalk curves, leading past a row of quiet shops with shuttered windows, the kind that always open early with fresh bread and sleepy owners. It’s calm. Companionable. Not something you’ve ever done before on a first date.

“So what’s your actual verdict?” he asks, this time a little more quietly.

You glance up at him, the streetlights that came on catching like flexes in his hair. For a second, you let the warmth of the evening wash over you.

“I’d say,” you begin, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear and matching his quiet tone, “That you’ve exceeded every low bar my mother set.”

He grins, that slow, satisfied curve of his lips, and you feel that fluttering in your chest again.

“High praise,” he teases.

You roll your eyes, but your smile is genuine. “Don’t let it go to your head”.

“Alright, since we’re doing full disclosures—what’s something your mom conveniently forgot to mention in your glowing profile?” He pauses, like he’s considering something before tacking on, “Which, full disclosure, I didn’t read.”

You left the question hanging for a moment, quietly contemplating when his hand gently moves to your waist to softly guide you down another path, towards a little neighborhood park.

He didn’t read your profile?

“So you went into a matchmaking blind date with zero background?”

“I had your family name,” he says, like that’s enough. “I read the debrief though. The one that said your job, name and that you’ll wear a pink dress.”

You blink, again, wondering just what the fuck kind of documents your mother was handing out.

“And what if I’d been awful?”

He gives a small laugh. “You weren’t.”

You scoff lightly, brushing your hand through your hair as you step off the curb, his hand still gentle at your back. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

The park is quiet when you reach it, damp grass glistening under streetlights. A playground sits just ahead, swings swaying faintly, a few kids running around with parents sitting just off to the side, watching.

“So?” He asks, “What’s the big reveal? The thing your mom left out?”

You consider him, the open expression on his face, the way he’s really looking at you—like he wants to know, not just to fill silence but to understand you better. To keep unraveling the thread.

“That I’m a chronic over thinker,” you say at last, tone casual but honest. “Like, if someone ghosted me in 2020, I probably still have a running theory about why.”

Namjoon chuckles, his hand dropping away. “Oof. Do you keep a folder? Like a murder board?”

“Don’t tempt me. I already own the red yarn.”

He laughs, and you feel it—the way it eases something in your chest. The confession doesn’t feel like an admission anymore, but a thread pulled gently between you.

“So… you also knit?”

“Occasionally,” you say, half-laughing at yourself, stepping onto the soft grass. “Also, I tend to stress—but I’m working on it. I’ve been single for almost five years. I can’t whistle. I have a hard time sitting still through a movie, but airport scenes always make me tear up. And if you ask me to kill a bug, I’ll trap it in a cup and tape it to the floor instead.”

He lets out a laugh—full, genuine, delighted. “Good to know. I’ll bring tissues and bug spray on our next date.”

You raise a brow. "Bold of you to assume we're meeting at my place."

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t win you over enough for a third one too.”
It’s too smooth. Too charming. But the way he says it—like he means it, like he’s not trying to impress you so much as just enjoy you—it makes your stomach flip anyway.

You snort, shaking your head. “Confident.”

“Strategic,” he corrects, eyes glinting. “I’m just laying the groundwork.”

“Right. Your due diligence.”

“Exactly,”

It shouldn’t be this easy. It shouldn’t feel like you’re skipping steps. But it does. Like you’ve walked into the middle of something already halfway written, just waiting to be continued. No pressure, no perfect lines—just two people lingering a little longer than they planned to, and neither of you seems in any rush to flip to the next chapter.

Namjoon drums his fingers lightly against the knuckles of his other hand, his expression unreadable for a beat. Then, softer, “You know, I think this is the first blind date-slash-marriage interview I’ve actually wanted to keep going.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’ve been on multiple?”

He winces. “Unfortunately. Enough to make me question my mother’s taste in both partners and judgment.”

You laugh, leaning in slightly. “And yet, here you are. That’s brave.”

“Stupid,” he says, grinning, walking back on the path “But yeah—brave too.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Did you do this back when we were commuting together? Because I might take it as a sign you were cheating.”

That gets a surprised burst of laughter out of him—quick, bright, and a little louder than either of you expected.

“I knew it,” you say, mock-offended. “All those stolen glances and shared books… lies.”

His eyes crinkle with amusement, and he leans into the bit, hand reaching to catch yours dramatically. “No, no—baby, wait—I can explain.”

You snort, trying not to smile or go full tomato over the way he says ‘baby’, but he’s already grinning like an idiot, still holding your hand like you’ve just accused him of emotional betrayal in a cheap straight to DVD movie kind of way.

It’s easy. Cute. And you don’t mind the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles or that he hasn’t let go of it yet.

After a moment, watching how his hand still stays linked with yours, you ask,

“Why are you looking to get into a contract marriage?”

Namjoon quiets at that—not in the way people do when they’re startled or put off, but like he was waiting for the question. Like maybe he’d asked himself the same thing more times than he cared to admit.

His thumb stills on your hand, and he takes a breath, eyes flicking down to the ground before returning to you. “Honestly?” he says. “I think I’m tired of everything being temporary.”

You don’t interrupt. Just let him speak.

“I’m not naive. I know love doesn’t come from a form or a profile or a shared Spotify family plan.” His voice is calm, thoughtful. “But… I also think maybe structure helps. Like, having the same person in your corner. Not having to keep starting over and over from scratch. I’m not expecting a fairytale. I’m not that stupid. I’m just… open.”

You nod slowly, heart softening at the quiet truth of it. “That’s not stupid.”

He smiles, just a bit. “Good. Because I’ve been questioning my sanity since I got that complementary glitter pen.”

You hum. “Awh man, I got fortune cookies.”

That makes him laugh, and he nudges your shoulder lightly. “You can take mine.” He says it so easily it steals another burst of giggles from you.

You both fall quiet again, but it’s a different kind of quiet now.A little steadier. Like you’re no longer just dipping a toe in, but wading deeper into something that’s real and tender and quietly unfolding.

“What do you normally talk about on those dates?” You prompt after a little while. “I feel like the status quo is a little thrown off when the person sitting across from you already knows half your life.”

Namjoon chuckles, a low, easy sound that seems to fill the space between you. “Usually? It’s a lot of awkward questions about my job, my family, where I see myself in five years. Then it kinda slips into logistics. How many kids? Who’s house we’re moving into? How often,if any, ‘the sex’ takes place.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden frankness.

He smirks, clearly enjoying your reaction. “Hey, I’m just being honest. Dating in your thirties has a way of speeding things up.”

You shake your head, amused. “So basically, it’s less ‘getting to know you’ and more ‘getting your life on the table in case you pass away by the end of the date?”

Namjoon laughs. “Exactly. Which is why this,” he squeezes your hand, “feels like a breath of fresh air.”

You tilt your head, amused. “How many kids do you want?”

“Two. Boy and girl. And know about Montessori and Waldorf, but I’m intrigued by the new gentle parenting trend that’s going around. And I’m also open to having pets.” He answers it like it’s been pavloved into him, and he grimaces slightly at the realization, his voice wavering by the end of the sentence, which earns him another sweet snort from you.

“And who’s house are we moving into?”

Namjoon lifts your linked hands , mock-serious. “Yours, obviously. You’ve already have the cups for bug containment. Cicada season is in full bloom.”

You laugh, covering your mouth. “Wow. So you’re just marrying for the pest control?”

“I’m marrying for the emotional depth and lawyer perks,” he shoots back, grinning. “The pest control is just a bonus.”

You shake your head. “And here I thought I was the emotionally unavailable one.”

He leans in a little, his voice dipping just enough to make your breath catch, his hand squeezing yours. “You’re not nearly as unavailable as you pretend to be.”

The moment hangs—charged and quiet and far too intimate for a public park lit by overhead bulbs and filled with the clatter of a city that feels a million miles away, and the soft cicada calls. You could break it, if you wanted. Make a joke. Shift the topic. But you don’t.

Instead, you hold his gaze, one corner of your mouth tugging up. “You always this observant, or am I just special?”

Namjoon mirrors your smile, slower, softer, fingers curling around yours. “A little of both.”

And you believe him. God help you, you do.

“And the sex?”

Namjoon doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he breathes out a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling at the edges—not cocky, not smug, just surprised and thoroughly entertained. “See,” he says, voice low, “This is the part where I’m supposed to play it cool.”

You raise an eyebrow, chin tilted just enough to challenge him. “And?”

“And I’m failing miserably right now.”

The tension shifts again, softening at the edges. It’s not the kind of question you expected to ask—or mean, really—but now that it’s out there, it lingers. Daring. Curious. Makes your heels feel like they’re on fire and your heart do a stupid thing.

He walks you down a new path. “I’m vanilla with a bourbon kick. But notoriously monogamous, so no side lovers if we do this thing.”

Namjoon walks you toward the park’s edge, where the trees thin out and the path returns to concrete. His words hang between you, easy and unashamed, like everything else tonight has been. No pressure. No panic. Just… honest.

You blink—once, twice—because you weren’t expecting that. Not the answer, not the phrasing, not the quiet confidence laced with honesty and just enough mischief to make your pulse stumble.

“Vanilla with a bourbon kick?” you echo, trying not to smile.

Namjoon grins, unabashed. “Sweet, steady, just a little dangerous if you’re not careful.”

“That’s dangerously close to a pickup line.”

“I never said I wasn’t trying.”

You shake your head, but your smile gives you away. “And monogamous, huh?”

“Famously,” he replies. “Infuriatingly, according to my college girlfriend.”

You snort. “Let me guess—Aries?”

“Sagittarius”

You wince. “Oof.”

“Yeah.” He exhales through a laugh. “Her idea of an open relationship was just not telling me.”

“God” you murmur, half amused, but way more sympathetic. “Okay, I take back my earlier teasing. You earned a walk in the park and a bug-free home.”

Namjoon chuckles, gently swinging your joined hands as you reach the corner where the block dips into a quiet street. A few late commuters pass. Somewhere nearby, a dog barks and a door clicks shut. But between the two of you, it’s still. It’s intimate. It’s quiet. And it feels like it might slip if you speak too loud.

Then, softer this time, he asks, “What about you?”

You tilt your head. “What about me?”

“Same questions.”

“I like kids, so two doesn’t sound bad.” You hum, “Three if you’re good with them.”

“Cat or dog?”

“Whatever the little ones ask for more. We can keep a tally.”

Namjoon laughs, the sound low and a little disbelieving. “Dangerous game.”

You shrug, eyes teasing. “So is dating someone from the matchmaking market.”

“Touché.”

You walk a few more steps in comfortable silence, the kind that says we’re not done here, just catching your breath. Your shoulder brushes his again, casual, familiar. It’s ridiculous how you can see yourself doing this while your kids play in the park.

“And the house?” he prompts eventually.

“I’m willing to move my cups if your apartment is bigger.”

“Nice.” he says like he’s already won that point, and you can’t help but snicker at the reaction.

Then, softer this time, he asks, ”And sex?”Not teasing now—just curious, like he’s asking what you’re like when no one’s watching, or what song lives in your head when you're quiet.

You hesitate for a heartbeat. Not out of shame. Just out of surprise that you want to answer. “I’m slow to warm,” you say. “Not because I don’t want it. But because it’s never just a thing I do. It’s not casual for me, even when it pretends to be.”

Namjoon nods, not rushing the silence that follows. “I like that.”

You glance at him, surprised. “That I’m a cautious romantic?”

“No,” he says, looking straight ahead, voice steady. “That you say it like it’s not something to apologize for.”

Your heart does that flippy thing again. You straighten, take a breath of the cool night air, and let yourself answer honestly. “Yeah, well, I want someone who doesn’t treat it like a checklist. Someone who—” you pause, looking into his attentive eyes, “—who makes me feel safe asking these kinds of questions.”

Namjoon’s grin is soft, almost tender. “So I’m checking at least one box.”

You laugh, the sound warm against the quiet street. “Maybe more than one.”

Namjoon hums, pleased, like he’s mentally tallying points but won’t let you see the score just yet. “Are you hungry?”

You blink. “Right now?”

He nods, a little sheepish. “I know we ate lunch together, but I walked past this late-night tteokbokki cart on the way here and haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”

You cock an eyebrow. “Tteokbokki at this hour? You’re wild.”

“It’s just 9.” He grins, that confident tilt of the chin you know well by now. “Desperate times call for spicy measures.”

“Fine,” you relent, hooking your arm through his. “Lead the way.”

And he does, walking with you down the block towards the neon glow of the cart where steam rises in soft clouds around pink lanterns, the scent of gochujang already pulling at you.

He orders two steaming bowls without skipping a beat—extra rice cakes, a handful of fish cakes, and a single bottle of strawberry soju. You hand over your cash, but this time he refuses.

“I thought we established I’m financially assertive.”

Namjoon lifts a brow, confident . “And I’m romantically stubborn. Let me have this one.”

You huff, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Fine. But next time, I’m paying.”

He perks up, a little smug, a little too pleased with himself. “Noted. There’s going to be a next time.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t deny it.

The ahjumma behind the cart sets down your bowls with a nod, and the two of you settle onto the small plastic stools tucked beside the curb. The city has gone quiet. The stars have taken over the sky now, and the occasional flickering of the overhead street light casts a soft, golden hue over Namjoon’s features. He looks a little unreal like this—casual in that black shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open, a strand of hair falling in his eyes. The steam curls around him like he belongs here, like he’s always belonged in this little pocket of the night next to you.

Your first bite is molten—sweet, spicy, tongue-numbing in the best way. You nearly cough.

Namjoon laughs as you reach for the bottle of soju. “Careful,” he teases, already pouring you a shot.

“You didn’t warn me.”

He grins, pushing the shot towards you before taking a bite of his own, and wincing. “Okay, fair. I’m sorry,” he coughs softly and immediately pours himself a shot too. You lift your glass and clinking it to his, smirking.

You both eat with an unhurried rhythm, the kind of quiet comfort usually earned after months, not hours. Every now and then, his knee knocks into yours under the table and neither of you moves away.

At one point, a drop of sauce drips down your wrist, and Namjoon reaches forward instinctively—thumb brushing against your skin as he wipes it. You still. He notices, but doesn’t apologize, just offers a quiet, “Okay?”

And you nod.

It’s stupid how tender that feels. How intimate.

How insanely hot it is when he brings that very same thumb to his mouth. He pauses, finger poised at his lips, gaze flickering to yours before he presses the pad of his thumb gently against his tongue, tasting the sweet heat. You're breath catches. The heat from the tteokbokki mixes with the warmth flooding your chest and crawls up your face, in a delicious kind of overload. Because it’s not just the taste of gochujang on his skin, but the way he’s looking at you when he does it.

For a heartbeat, the world around you blurs into white noise. All you can focus on is Namjoon, the slow, deliberate motion of his tongue, the curve of his smile as he holds your gaze.

He looks at you like he’s daring you to say something. Anything.

You don’t.

“Damn,” he murmurs, voice low. “That’s… good.”

Your cheeks flare. You reach for your glass of soju to steady your racing heart, but your fingers brush against him just as he lowered his hand back on the table. The contact sending a jolt through you.

His eyes darken, and for a moment you swear you can taste him in the air between you. Spicy, sweet, borderline gallant.

He lifts his soju glass again, watching you over the rim.

“Truce?” he offers, a slow deliberate smirk tugging at his mouth, like he knows exactly what he’s doing and the effect it has on you.

You mirror him, lifting your glass. “Truce.”

You sip, the cold shot cutting through the heat, and when you set the glass down, you notice how close he’s leaning—so close that you can count each individual lash when he blinks.

Never before in your life have you kept such strong eye contact with a bowl of Tteokbokki. Never in your life have you prayed more that the person next to you blames the blush staining your cheeks on your food.

By the time you reached your limit you’re not certain if the heat cruising through you is due to the lava you’ve consumed or the man who’s knee keeps knocking yours, or who’s thigh pressed against your, yet acts perfectly unaffected.

You shiver as you rise, the cool night air—or maybe just the aftermath of all that—running goosebumps down your arms. Namjoon presses his jacket into your hands without a word, draping it over your shoulders. The fabric is warm, carrying the ever-faintest hint of him: laundry-soft cotton and something that smells uniquely like him.

“Better?” He asks, his voice low.

You tug the jacket closed around you and nod, breathing in the scent of him. “Much.”

He steps closer, lowering his voice to a hushed rumble. “Can I walk you home?”

Your pulse spikes—every streetlamp suddenly seems to spotlight this moment. “I…” you manage, gripping the lapels of his jacket as if anchoring yourself. Because you don’t want this to end. Because he’s been nothing but a perfect gentleman, and if he doesn’t make the first move, you’re pretty sure you won’t find the courage to do it.

And goddamn it! You want this man to kiss you.

Your eyes flick to the left, catching sight of something familiar, like a flash of a memory you can’t believe you’ve forgotten. Something Jimin mentioned in passing one morning at the water cooler, saying it would be a good distraction in case your date went horribly wrong— “Something pretty to look at to take your mind off of awkward silences or bad conversations,” Jimin had said, half-laughing, stirring sugar into his coffee like he wasn’t low key plotting your social survival. “Trust me. It’s weirdly romantic, if you squint.”

You’d rolled your eyes at the time. But now… now you’re standing under streetlight glow with Namjoon’s jacket wrapped around you, still tasting tteokbokki on your lips, still humming from the heat of his thigh against yours, still clinging to the last remnants of a night you’re not ready to let go of yet.

Suddenly, that backup plan doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.

Your gaze shifts back to him—warm eyes, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s trying not to touch you again too soon. He doesn’t push. Just watches. Waits.

“Do you have a curfew?”

Namjoon’s lips drag into a slow smile. His heart ticks up when he catches your eyes drop to his lips, like you can’t help it. Like you’re thinking about it—about him—in that very same way he’s been thinking about you all night.

He normally isn't one to chuck up moments of his life to ‘destiny’ or ‘stars’ or even on his karmic balance. In fact he is a proven rationalist. But there’s something about this moment—about you—that makes him want to believe in all of it. In missed connections. In soulmates. In the unspoken glances on the bus. In ironing his shirt for a first date. In the way your fingers lingered a bit too long when he lead you to the table. In the way your laugh cracked open the night like a lighter held to wax.

In the way you step just slightly closer to him, and he doesn’t pull away.

“No,” he says finally, voice low, steady. “Not the last time I checked.”

You nod, once, and it’s all the invitation he needs to let his heart figure-four leg lock his brain into submission. No more pretending this is just a good match on paper, or just a lucky coincidence orchestrated by the universe and meddling parents.

“So…” you start, barely louder than the rustle of wind through the leaves. You’re standing at the corner you’re supposed to turn down to get home—but your feet don’t move. Neither do his. “I know this wasn’t exactly in the matchmaking procedure, but—”

He tilts his head, curious. Heart absolutely stupid in his chest.

“There’s this exhibit down the block.” You offer, pointing with your chin like he can see it. “They’re doing a late-night show. Local artists. A light installation from what I gathered, glow-in-the-dark stuff… All the makings of a very respectable second date.”

His smile grows, slow and bright and so full of genuine delight, it feels like it might light up the sidewalk.

“Lead the way,” he says, voice warm—tinged with that rare, boyish kind of joy that slips out when he’s caught off guard by something good. Really good.

And maybe that’s what this is.
Not just a good night, or a good date.
But something good.

A second chance to fix the unbalance that was left in the universe that day when you returned his umbrella on the bus; when he wasn’t certain if he should speak, or follow or do anything beyond watch you disappear into the crowd with a polite smile and his heart held loosely on his sleeve.

Back then, he’d told himself it was fine. That not everything unresolved needed resolution. That some people are meant to be passing moments, not permanent fixtures. But now—walking beside you as your hands swing just close enough to brush—he wonders if that logic was just fear, dressed up as pragmatism.

Because here you are. In front of him again, months and lifetimes later, offering him not closure, but possibility. Like destiny is adamant not to let him screw this up again.

You turn before he can see your blooming smile, and he falls in step besides you like he’s done it for years, slipping an arm around your shoulders with something his mother might deem too forward. But he can’t quite bring himself to care.

Not when you’re practically sharing his warmth as you set off on another quiet street.

The gallery is only a few blocks down, tucked between a bookstore and a café that smells like burnt espresso even when its closed. The light from the entrance spills onto the sidewalk in soft waves—cool blue and lavender, gently shifting like reflections on water.

The entrance is marked only by a low-lit sign and a hand-painted poster peeling slightly at the edges. But Namjoon looks at it like it’s the Louvre.

The door softly chimes when he pushes it open, and you step into darkness punctuated only by the gentle glow of the installations. A corridor to the side, one that leads to a room with suspended lanterns pulsing in shades of pinks and oranges; each one swaying ever so slightly, casting rippling shadows across your faces. Your shoes echo against the polished concrete.

“Woah.” You slip away from his arm to brush a finger against one lantern—warm paper, almost like it’s humming against your fingertips. “It’s like a daydream.”

Namjoon lingers behind for a beat, something catching in his chest. The light pools across your shoulders, catches in your hair, glints off your cheeks as you move. You’re looking up, eyes wide, lashes tipped in gold—and he forgets, briefly, about the gallery, the installations, the rest of the world.

The only thing on his mind is that ridiculous manuscript he read many years ago about the red sting that tied fated souls together. It was cheesy, ridiculously syrupy and chucked full with cliches.

But now, even for someone who doesn’t believe in destiny, he sure as hell can feel it pulling taut between you.

He’s always scoffed at the idea before—chalked it up to folklore and sentiment. But there’s something about this moment, about you illuminated in all this soft, shifting light, that makes the whole myth feel less like fantasy and more like gravity. Not a string, exactly. But a weight. A pull. A line drawn from some unseen center straight through the quiet place behind his ribs.

Something about the way you tilt your chin up to see more of the ceiling, the way your fingers linger in the air even after the lantern sways back into place. Like you belong among the blinding lights, because they too, are trying to memorize the shape of wonder.

He should say something about light. About the meaning of the patterns painted on the lanterns. He should keep things easy.

But instead, it slips out—quietly, helplessly honest.

“You are.”

You glance over. “What?”

He blinks, half-embarrassed to have said it out loud. “I meant the room,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting down. “The whole thing. You were right. It’s like a daydream.” He pauses without meaning to, perhaps digging his grave a little deeper. “That’s what I meant.”

You watch him for a beat. Narrow your eyes. But you let it slide, lips curving with something softer than amusement as you walk deeper into the space.

Namjoon doesn’t follow right away.

He stays still, breathing through the sudden, aching swell beneath his ribs.

He’s always known how to be careful. Always kept his hope on a leash. He’s familiar with his own limits, with the way his heart learned to flinch before it could reach. The detachment wasn’t indifference—it was armor. It was survival. He was never scared of love itself, just what it asked of him. What it took when it left.

And right now—watching the way your silhouette slips through glowing strands of light, how you don’t even realize the effect you have just by being here—he feels it again.

That timeworn want.

That quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, this time he’ll be chosen back.

So now, with you…

He exhales, slow and steady, and lets his feet move. One step. Then another. He’s not sure where this goes, but he knows he wants to find out.

“Hey,” he says gently, catching up to you just as you part the curtain that leads into the next room—this one lit in a soft, underwater blue, where fiber optics ripple from the ceiling like kelp and stars and rain.

Fiber‐optic strands immediately brush around you like the a waterfall—thin, cool tendrils of light that tickle your cheeks and arms. You gasp, and he laughs softly, steadying you with one hand while he lightly brushes the sea of glowing fibers away from your faces with the other.

“They should really warn people.” You murmur, blinking through the light like you’ve just stepped into another universe.

“They kind of did,” Namjoon says, voice low and close. “There was a sign. You were too busy floating.”

You nudge him gently with your elbow, but you don’t step away. Neither does he.

This room is smaller, silence deeper—like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you and the hush of soft light. The strands pulse faintly, changing color every few seconds. Pale blue. Violets. Soft greens. It paints his skin in shifting hues, shadows brushing beneath his cheekbones, catching the warmth in his eyes.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head slightly toward him, “for someone who tried to backpedal out of a compliment five minutes ago, you’re surprisingly smooth when you’re not thinking about it.”

Namjoon smiles, but it’s the kind that flickers—bashful and unsure. “I think I just get clumsy when it matters.”

You study him for a beat. “This matters?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. It does.”

And it’s stupid, maybe—it’s barely been a night, you’ve only just begun—but there’s something in the way he says it that lands like truth. No embellishment. No overthinking.

Just real.

Your breath slows.

You don’t say anything, not at first. You just reach out, fingers ghosting over his sleeve, the edge of his wrist, like you’re not sure what you’re doing until you’ve already done it.

Namjoon doesn’t move. But he looks at you like he might.

“I think…” you begin, voice quiet, almost shy, “...if you kissed me right now, I wouldn’t stop you.”

Namjoon exhales, the air knocked clean out of him. “Yeah?”

You nod. Just once.

He moves in, slow and careful, as if waiting for you to change your mind, letting the strands slowly fall back around you.

But you don’t pull away. Your chin just tips up, lips part just slightly, and his fingers lift, brushing a strand of glowing fiber from your cheek.

“Stay still,” he murmurs, voice low. Catching the strand between his fingertips, drawing it gently across your lips. You swallow around a pulse of heat.

His thumb brushes the filament against your lower lip. He holds it there, the delicate glow outlining his fingertip, and you nearly tremble under his touch. The whole universe sums up to hush and halo—to lights suspended between you, breath and body caught in the stretch of the undeniable certainty that feels almost too overwhelming for words.

You part your lips just slightly, and Namjoon stills. His eyes search yours, asking one last time. Offering you one last out.

But you don’t take it. You don’t want to.

So you close the gap—only a few centimeters, really—but it feels like a leap. Like a decision. And when your lips finally meet his, it’s soft, almost hesitant, like a step taken into the unknown.

Then he kisses you back.

Fuller. Warmer. His hand slipping to the curve of your jaw, anchoring you to him as the filament falls away, forgotten. His other arm wraps loosely around your waist, drawing you closer, and you feel it—his steadiness, his quiet restraint, the way he’s holding back just enough to be respectful, but not so much that you can’t feel how much he wants you.

The kiss deepens naturally with all it’s warmth and unhurried movements, the kind that tastes faintly of strawberry soju and a hundred things still unsaid. And when you melt into him, finger curling in his shirt, lips sweet and slow, he knows he can die happy.

The kind of kiss that steals the breath right from his lungs without asking.

When you finally pull back, it’s only by a breath. He doesn’t let go. His eyes open slowly, lashes low and heavy, and he searches your face with that same quiet attention he’s held all night—like you’re an answer he didn’t realize he had the question for.

“You good?” he asks, voice husky.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s just…”

You kiss him again.

Because how else do you say thank you for the way he’s looked at you all evening? How else do you say please, don’t stop without giving him every single part of your heart right here and then?

This one is softer. Briefer. But somehow deeper—like a secret passed from mouth to mouth, like a promise sealed not with words but with the way your hand finds his again and stays there.

Namjoon exhales against your lips, like maybe he wasn’t sure you’d come back, like maybe this second kiss is the one that undoes him. His forehead rests against yours and you feel his smile before you see it.

“Okay,” he says quietly, thumb brushing your jaw.

You laugh, quiet and breathless, the sound curling between you like another thread tying future, circumstances and intention together.

Namjoon leans in, just slightly—enough for your noses to brush, for his smile to press against your cheek like a whisper. You feel it in your chest, that dizzy, buoyant thing rising, rising, rising. Hope, maybe? Or something even more dangerous.

“Okay,” he says again, like he’s trying to ground himself. Like maybe saying it out loud will help him believe this isn’t some flickering, impossible dream. “That was… definitely not in the matchmaking brochure.”

You smile, still so close your breath warms his lips. “No, but if it were, I’d sign up again.”

He lets out a laugh that melts into a sigh, and you feel him shift—his arm still around your waist, holding you like you’re something fragile but already his. His thumb strokes gently at your back beneath his jacket, like he needs to remind himself he’s not hallucinating.

The gallery hums around you, quiet and alive. Blue and violet and gold light shimmers on the walls, on your skin, on the edges of your shared silence. Somewhere deeper in the room, the soft whir of a projector starts, casting delicate patterns that ripple across the floor like light on water.

Neither of you rushes to move.

Eventually, he tilts his head, voice quieter now. “So... third date?”

You tilt your head slightly. “Confident, are we?”

“I kissed you twice,” he says, grinning now. “That has to earn me something.”

You lean back just enough to see his face, to read the smile tucked into the corners of his mouth and the warmth simmering in his eyes

“Do I still get points for tteokbokki?” He continues, and you snort.

Your smile stretches helplessly, warmth rushing in from somewhere deep in your chest. “You get a lot of points for tteokbokki,” you murmur, letting your fingers play lightly with the lapel of his jacket still hanging on your shoulders. “And the soju. And the walk. And, well… everything else.”

Namjoon leans in just a bit closer, voice dipping. “So that’s a yes?”

You press your lips together, pretending to think. “Hmm. I don’t know…”

His brows rise, exaggerated mock offense already painting his features. “Wow. Tough crowd.”

You shrug, stepping back through the curtain of light. “Better keep up, then.”

And Namjoon follows—because of course he does—his fingers finding yours like it’s second nature now, like you were meant to be holding hands all along. The lights ripple over your skin as you walk deeper into the exhibit, casting moving constellations across your joined palms.

By the next room, Namjoon’s brain finally reconnects to the server—sparking back to life with enough clarity to remember that he’s supposed to be intelligent, and articulate, someone who can string a sentence together without being entirely distracted by the feeling of your lips on his.

He clears his throat softly, as if that might reset the system.

The next few displays are quieter, dimmer. The lights are cooler—crystalline, and almost sharp. Glass orbs suspended from the ceiling spinning, catching slivers of light and scattering them in fractured bursts across the floor. A projector room that had animations interacting with the walls themselves.

The final corridor is lit by candlelight—flames flickering in unison, guiding you back toward the real world. Outside, the night is deeper than before, colder, and the sky stirs quietly overhead.

Namjoon lifts his eyes towards the black night, bracing against the sudden gust of wind that blows out the few candles outside the exit.

“Was there a rain warning today?”

“Not that I remember of…” But just as the words leave your lips, the clouds open with a loud thunder. Rain comes down suddenly, soft at first, a gentle patter against the gallery’s doorway—but quickly growing in urgency, as if the sky itself can’t hold back any longer. You both freeze in the doorway, caught between the warm cocoon of the exhibit and the cool, unexpected downpour outside.

“Guess the night’s not done surprising us.” He sighs before shifting his gaze over at you. “No chance of you having an umbrella stuffed in that little bag of yours, huh?”

You laugh, breathless and a little wild. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, fingers brushing back a strand of your hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you an Uber.”

You peer up at the night, cheeks flushed. “Isn’t your place close by?”

Namjoon pauses, rain splashing at his shoes. His gaze drifts to the street, then back to you—umbrella-less and close to being drenched.

“My place?” He echoes, voice soft, quickly picking up on the implications. “It’s not far. Maybe five minutes if we run.”

“I—” You stop, “If it’s okay. I don’t want to overstep.” You glance back at the rain slowly puddling the street. “Just to borrow an umbrella…”

He blinks, then smiles—slow and warm. “Borrow an umbrella? I was thinking more along the lines of borrowing your evening.”

You frown, half-smile tugging at your lips. “That sounds… generous.”

He shrugs, eyes sparkling with that same undeniable allure, before he pulls you close, lifting his jacket off your shoulders carefully and sheltering you beneath it. “Come on,” he says, tipping it your way. “Let’s run.”

His jacket settles over your shoulders, the fabric cold against your skin. You slip an arm into a sleeve, the other one around his waist, the collar brushing your neck. He drops his own shoulders under the rest of the fabric, creating a makeshift canopy against the downpour.

“Ready?”

You nod, heart fluttering. “Ready.”

And you dash down the street—feet splashing through fresh puddles, laughter tangled between ragged breaths. The rain pelts the makeshift covering, a thunderous applause that only draws you closer.

Five minutes later, you skid to a stop in front of a tall building, breaths visible in the misty air. He lifts the jacket just enough for you to slip inside first, then follows, shielding you both as he closes the building door against the storm.

The hallway light flickers to light when you move, soft and golden. He peels the wet outer layer from your shoulders with gentle fingers, revealing the pink dress damp at the hem. “Come on,” he murmurs, leading you toward the elevator, completely unbothered by the water he’s trailing behind on the tiled floor.

The elevator dings open, its doors sliding apart with a soft hum. You step inside first, the warmth of the building pressing against your chilled skin. Namjoon follows, pressing the button for the last floor.

“You live in the penthouse?” you ask, brows raised.

He glances at you, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “Technically, yes. But it sounds more impressive than it is.” He says, scratching the back of his neck like it’s a little embarrassing. “Just means I don’t have anyone stomping around above me.”

You raise an eyebrow, teasing. “So modest.”

He laughs under his breath. “I mean, it’s no castle.

You huff a laugh. “Still sounds like you’re trying to charm me.”

He leans a little closer, voice low. “Is it working?”

You don’t answer—just smile and look forward again, heart doing its own reckless thing inside your chest. And beside you, Namjoon tries not to grin too obviously, as if you haven’t both already completely given yourselves away.

The elevator hums upward, slow and steady, carrying you somewhere high above Seoul. The lights overhead casting a warm glow across his face—his wet hair slightly mussed, his shirt clinging just a little at the collar. You catch yourself staring and look away too late, heat blooming in your cheeks.

He notices, of course. But he doesn’t say anything. Just slides his hand gently back into yours, thumb brushing your knuckles.

When the doors open, the hallway is quiet, carpeted, softly lit. He leads you a few steps down, then unlocks a wide modern looking wooden door.

Inside, his apartment opens up into warm tones and wide windows—a soft, inviting space that smells faintly of cedar wood and something like bergamot. Books line tall shelves, and for some reason they frame his couch too, where a few shirts are strewn across the back of it. A turntable sits quietly in the corner, covered in plants, and a half-used mug of something forgotten rests on the kitchen counter.

The walls decorated in paintings that range from minimalism to neoclassicism.

Namjoon toes off his shoes by the door, gently guiding yours next to them before stepping further in. He moves through the space like someone used to solitude—quiet, unhurried, but there’s a steadiness in the way he turns on a few low lamps, casting the room in amber glow. It’s not the sterile kind of clean. It’s thoughtful. Lived-in in a way that feels intentional, not lonely.

“I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

“Thank you.”

You stand still for a moment, taking it all in.

Books by the armrest,manuscripts marked with reds and blues, a blanket draped over the side like it’s been used recently. Records leaning against the console—Miles Davis, Chet Baker, Bon Iver, something obscure in Japanese. There’s another sweater thrown over the back of a chair, and a framed photo tucked beside the speaker: Namjoon with someone older, maybe his father, both of them mid-laugh.

Namjoon reappears with a soft, oversized sweatshirt slung over one arm and a pair of black joggers folded neatly in his hand. “They might be big, but they’re warm.” He says, holding them out to you.

You take them, fingers grazing his. “I don’t mind big.”

His smile tugs a little wider, but he doesn’t comment—just tips his head toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s just down the hall. First door on the right.”

You follow his direction, padding down the hall as your bare feet sink lightly into the carpet. The bathroom is like the rest of the place; stone-toned, curated and clean, with eucalyptus hanging from the shower head. A candle, nearly burned to the end, flickers faintly beside the sink.

You change quickly, slipping into his clothes. The sweatshirt hangs loosely on you, the sleeves swallowing your hands and you have to double tie the joggers. They smell like clean laundry, rain and him.

When you return, Namjoon’s already in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring hot water into two mugs. He looks up when he hears you, and something in his face shifts—fond, quiet, maybe a little undone.

“You look comfortable,” he says, handing you a mug. It’s warm between your palms, chamomile and something faintly floral.

“I am.” You glance down at yourself. “I might not give this back.”

He chuckles. “I’ll allow it. As long as I get visitation rights.”

You settle onto the couch, tugging your knees up beneath you, the oversized fabric pooling around you. Namjoon joins you, a little closer than necessary, his own mug cradled between his palms. For a moment, there’s only the soft clink of ceramic, the patter of rain still against the windows, and the rustle of his breathing beside you.

Then—

“I haven’t brought anyone here in a long time,” he says, not quite looking at you.

You glance at him. “No?”

He shakes his head. “Not because I didn’t want to. Just…didn’t feel right.”

His voice is low, almost cautious, like he’s not sure if it’s too soon to say something like that—but says it anyway. And it hangs there, soft and honest, between the two of you.

You study him, the gentle slope of his shoulder where it meets the couch, the tension he’s clearly trying to mask in the line of his jaw.

“Why now?” you ask quietly.

Namjoon’s thumb runs slow circles along the edge of his mug. He exhales through his nose. “Because tonight felt… different.” He pauses, searching for the right words. “For some reason, it’s easy with you. You don’t ask for anything I wasn’t already offering. It just feels like you see me. Not the vision I sometimes hand out.”

You blink at that, unexpectedly moved. Because you know what he means. What it feels like to be seen and not simply looked at. That’s exactly what he does to you.

“I didn’t know I was waiting for that,” he adds, finally meeting your eyes. “But I think I was…ever since the umbrella scene.”

And you don’t know what kind of Fate or Moirai or Kismet is working in your favor. Or if its just two equally stubborn people, avoiding love, who finally decided to stop running.

Without quite meaning to, you reach out—resting your hand lightly over his, fingers curling around the edge of his mug. It’s a small touch, but it roots something between you.

His hand turns instinctively beneath yours, palm meeting palm, like it’s been waiting.

Namjoon doesn’t speak right away—just watches your fingers fit with his, the quiet press of skin to skin. There’s no urgency in the gesture, no need to rush past it. Just a kind of stillness. A shared breath.

Then he says, quietly, “I don’t really believe in fate.”

You nod, not pulling away. “Me neither.”

“But this feels like something,” he murmurs, glancing down where your hands rest between you. “Doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer right away. You just hold his gaze. Let it say everything your words can’t yet touch.

And when you do speak, it’s not a confession. Not a grand declaration. Just simple, quiet truth.

“Yes.”

Namjoon exhales like that was what he’d been holding out for. Like your agreement unlocks something in him.

He shifts, not closer—but deeper, and you move with an impulse, free hand cradling the side of his face, palm meeting the warmth of his cheek, your thumb grazing just beneath his eye. The soft stubble along his jaw, the way he leans into your touch, like it means something—it’s all disarmingly intimate, like a kind of closeness that’s been patiently waiting in the quiet between your words.

Namjoon doesn’t rush it. He just closes his eyes for a beat, like he’s memorizing the weight of your hand, the safety of this moment.

When he opens them again, they’re softer. Clearer. Lit with something that looks a lot like wonder.

His voice is barely above a whisper. “If I kiss you again, I won’t want to stop.”

And your heart stumbles, caught near the fear and the ache of wanting the same.

“Kiss me.”

His breath stutters—just for a second—and then he’s closing the space between you. The kiss is slower this time, surer. Less searching, more knowing. Your mugs forgotten somewhere on the table. Your fingers slip into his hair, nails dragging gently across his scalp, and his hand finds your waist like its meant to rest there. To pull you closer.

There's no background music. No dramatics. No closeups. Just the rain.

Rain on the windows. The tick of the clock. The hush of two people finally arriving at the same place at the same time.

The kiss deepens slowly—like it’s unfolding, not erupting. Like it’s been waiting in the wings, rehearsed in glances and half-smiles and every soft pause between you.

Namjoon tilts his head, just slightly, adjusting the angle, the pressure, the pace. One of his hands slips from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, anchoring you. His other arm is a quiet weight around you, steady and sure.

You shift, instinctively, knees brushing his thigh, the fabric of his joggers warm against your skin. The couch creaks softly beneath you when you move to straddle his lap—slowly, carefully—like you're not quite sure if it's boldness or gravity pulling you there. Namjoon doesn't stop you. If anything, his hands guide you, one resting at the curve of your hip now, grounding you against him.

The kiss never breaks. It just changes, to fuller, to deeper, bracing at the edge of something molten that tugs at the space between wanting and having. The kind of heat that grows steady, reverently, with no call to rush.

Your fingers trail from his hair to the sides of his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, memorizing him with every soft drag. Namjoon’s breathing shakes slightly against your mouth, and you feel it when he exhales, his chest rising to meet yours.

When your lips part, it’s only to rest your forehead against his, breath shared in the quiet lull that follows.

He’s the first to speak, voice low, almost rasped. “Okay. Yeah. I definitely don’t want to stop.”

You smile, slow and flushed, heart tumbling in your chest. “Then don’t.”

His eyes flicker open—dark and shining and impossibly soft.

And he kisses you again.

A little hotter. A little bolder. Like he’s memorizing the way you taste and is desperate to have it all to himself. His hands find your hips fully, holding you in place, anchoring you with all the reverence of someone who doesn’t take intimacy lightly.

You shift in his lap, just a little, just enough to feel the way he tightens his grip, more certain than anyone has ever held you before. Like he’s been holding back long enough and now, finally, he’s been given both permission and freedom.

Your hands move again, dragging slowly down the back of his neck, thumbs brushing his pulse point, feeling the way it kicks up beneath your touch. He groans softly against your mouth, the sound low and almost surprised, like maybe he hadn’t expected the way you’d undo him so easily.

His lips trail down, brushing your jaw, the slope of your neck, each kiss a question he’s too careful to ask aloud. And you answer with the arch of your back, the way your fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, tugging, pulling it out of his jeans.

The sweatshirt you’re wearing shifts slightly, slipping off one shoulder. Namjoon leans back just enough to see it—see you—and his breath hitches. His thumb ghosts over the exposed skin, reverent and slow, like he’s not sure how he got this lucky but he’s not going to waste a second of it.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, half into your shoulder.

You laugh, a breathless sound that doesn’t even try to hide how wrecked you already are. “You haven’t seen me yet.”

He lets out a soft laugh, the kind that’s half amusement, half awe, and presses another lingering kiss to the curve of your neck. His fingers tighten just a bit on your waist, pulling you that much closer.

“I’m getting there,” he says, voice like honey, like a promise unfolding.

You feel it in your spine—in the low, slow drag of his hands along your sides, the tug at the hem of your shirt, the warm press of his mouth as it returns to your collarbone, kissing lower now. His breath fans against your skin, and your fingers thread into his hair again, gently tugging, urging.

“Joon,” you whisper, not sure if it’s a plea or a warning, or if it matters.

He hums against you like he heard both. When his hands slide beneath the hem of the sweatshirt, they pause at your waist—fingertips stroking over bare skin as if to ask, this much? And when you nod, he moves upward, deliberate and slow, slipping the fabric higher. It peels off over your head with a soft sound, and for a beat, he stops.

Your chest is bare before him, flushed like your cheeks and Namjoon doesn’t speak—doesn’t know how to anymore. He just stares.

Like he’s trying to memorize the curve of you, the way the light catches your skin, the rise and fall of your breath. One hand lifts slowly, and rests just beneath your breast, palm warm, fingers splayed wide. You stutter slightly, and his eyes flicker to yours.

He finds no fear in your gaze, just the same quiet, open awe that took refuge in his own heart.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low, steady, thumb brushing lightly against your ribcage like he’s trying to soothe you even as you unravel.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… it’s you.”

His hands slide up, featherlight, thumb brushing just beneath you nipple and you tremble again.

“You’re unreal,” he says, like it’s something he’s trying to convince you of.

You don’t hide from it. You reach for him instead, fingers moving to his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “Touch me,”

He leans forward, pressing a kiss just above your heart—soft, almost shy—and then another, lower, slower, his lips brushing the swell of your breast like he’s learning the shape of your skin by his lips. His other hand slides up your side, calloused fingertips trailing over sensitive skin until they meet the curve of your back. When his mouth closes around your nipple, warm and wet, your back arches instinctively, his palm keeping you steady, a breathy sound escaping you that you’re too far gone to care about hiding.

Namjoon groans at that—deep and quiet, vibrating where his mouth presses against you. His teeth drag over your nipple and you moan again, wrecked, melting against him fully. Only when he deemed you wrecked enough he switches sides, lavishing the same attention to your other nipple, his hands never fully leaving your skin.

You feel yourself pulsing already, thighs tightening around his waist where you still sit in his lap, hips rolling without quite meaning to. The friction is slow, but it’s enough to drag a sound from both of you—his head dropping slightly, teeth catching his bottom lip as he exhales hard through his nose.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice cracking on it, running cold over your wet chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You give him a weak laugh through the haze, eyes fluttering half-shut. “That’s not the plan.”

He grins, kissing above your heart again.

“Take this off,” you murmur back, undoing just the top few buttons before tugging the shirt fully out of his jeans.

He doesn't hesitate.

Namjoon lifts his arms, and you pull the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, letting it fall somewhere behind you both. And suddenly there’s nothing between you anymore; just bare skin and rugged breath and the thrum of something heady and unstoppable threading through every second spent apart.

You take a second to look at him. Tracing the lines of his chest with your hands, the dip between his collarbones, the slope of his shoulders. His skin is warm beneath your palms, muscles shifting under your touch like he’s barely holding still. When you lean in to press a kiss to his sternum, you see the way his eyes flutter shut, and feel his heart jump beneath your lips.

The moment swells again when you rock against him, hips shifting just enough to draw a weak sound from his throat—low and guttural, his hands returning to your hips, gripping tighter now.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice strained.

“Don’t stop.”

That’s all it takes.

He lifts you, carefully, arms hooked around your thighs, slowly moving you down the hall. His kisses hungrier now—your jaw, your throat, the slope of your chest. The warmth of his body pressed against yours, drawing you closer with every step, every breath.

By the time he lays you down, the bed creaks under your weight, sheets cool against your back in stark contrast to the heat of his body above you. Namjoon hovers for a moment—like he needs that final second to catch up, to make sure this is real. That you’re here. That he’s allowed. And he kisses you, a little demanding now, impossibly tender, full of intent. Tongue sliding slow against yours, one hand braced by your head, the other trailing along your side, smoothing down the curve of your waist. You gasp softly into his mouth when his palm cups your thigh, guiding it around his hip, anchoring you.

His body fits over yours like it was made to.

Your own hands roam, tracing the planes of his back, feeling the taut muscles flex under your touch, nails softly tracing confessions of love until he shivers beneath your fingertips.

He groans against your mouth, and you answer in the same breath. You reach down between you, tugging at the waistband of your sweats, and Namjoon stills, just for a second, before helping you out of them. The fabric slides down your legs with your underwear, and joins the rest of your clothes somewhere forgotten. He kisses down your torso as he goes, mouth brushing each inch of newly exposed skin like a silent thank you.

When he settles between your thighs, his breath is already shaky.

“You sure?” he asks again, voice weak, reverent, gaze stolen by the wetness pooling between your legs.

You nod, and this time, you say it with your whole body—rising up on your elbows to brush away the strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead. “Yes. I just—” your breath shakes. “I never do this.”

Namjoon stills at that—just for a moment—his hand still resting on your thigh, thumb sweeping gently over the apex of your thighs.

His expression softens, gaze flicking between your eyes. “We don’t have to,” he says, voice low, steady. Not pulling away, just… waiting. “I want you, but not more than I want you to feel safe.”

You exhale, “No. I want to,” you say, and your voice is steadier now, like his patience gave you permission to mean it. “I just don’t usually—” You trail off, words failing, head sinking in his pillow, but he seems to understand.

Namjoon leans in, brushing a kiss to your hip. Then your thigh. Then the inside of it. “Then we go slow.”

His breath is warm where his mouth lingers, kissing down the tender skin between your hip and knee, charting you, piece by piece, before hiking your knee over his shoulder. “Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your skin. “What feels good.”

You’re already trembling, and he hasn’t even touched you properly yet.

Your fingers tangle into his hair, not to guide, just to hold. “You.”

He smirks at that. You feel it against your thigh before the sudden rush when he sinks his teeth right there in the doughy skin.

You gasp, fingers tugging, but it’s enough to distract you from the way he lowers himself fully, settles between your legs like he belongs there, like he’s not just willing, but eager to worship and take his time at this altar. His arms curl around your thighs, grounding you with the weight of his palms as his mouth dips lower, his breath teasing against your folds.

And when he finally licks you, it’s slow. A single, unhurried stroke from your entrance all the way to your clit that makes your hips twist and your breath falter. He moans softly, like the taste of you confirms something he’s been hoping not to long for, the sound rolling against your sensitive clit.

“God,” he murmurs. “You’re already so wet.”

You whimper, hips tilting toward him, and he takes the invitation gladly.

His mouth seals over your clit, tongue flicking with soft, rhythmic pressure—exploratory at first, then purposeful. Like he’s learning what makes you gasp and then doing it again. And again. And again.

Your thighs begin to tense, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other still anchored in his hair. You glance down and find him already watching you, eyes half-lidded and dark, utterly focused.

“Just like that,” you breathe, your voice so airy it hardly sounds like your own.

He moans into you—low, rough, vibrating straight through your core—and your whole body shudders.

When he shifts slightly, you feel the press of his tongue lower, dipping just inside, slow and deliberate. His hands adjust, one palm pressing against your lower belly, the other keeping you open for him as he moves back, mouth closing around your clit again—sucking just once, firmly—and your whole body arches.

You can’t stop the sounds you’re making now. You’re past that. Every flick of his tongue is unraveling you, making it harder to remember anything but his name, the way he tastes you like it’s Sacrament, like he’s been starving.

“Na-Joon,” you gasp, and he hums in response.

That’s all it takes. The rhythm. The hum. The patience in the way he doesn’t rush you, but feel you.

You come with a cry that splits the silence, fingers twisting in his hair, back arching, heels digging into the bed, his name catching in your throat like a prayer you weren’t prepared to say.

Namjoon doesn’t pull away—not right away. He lets you ride it out, only slowing when your body starts to tremble from oversensitivity. He presses one last kiss to your thigh, then rises over you, lips swollen and chin slick, eyes molten with something between adoration and hunger.

“Still okay?” he murmurs, voice hoarse, mouth ghosting over yours.

You nod, barely able to form words, breath catching as you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him back down to you.

“More than okay,” you whisper. “Come here.”

He kisses you again, slower this time, less urgent but no less intense. You can taste yourself on his lips, but there’s no shame behind it—just fucking heat you’ve never felt before. A flicker of something raw and real between you. His hand cradles the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek, your jaw, your neck, like you’re still something he needs to hold carefully.

You kiss him back just as fully, fingers threading into his hair, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress in all the ways you didn’t know you needed. And when you shift beneath him—bare skin sliding against the fabric of his jeans—you both groan at the same time.

“Namjoon, baby, my love,” you murmur, voice low and frayed, so wild it doesn’t even register what you’re saying.“I want to feel you.”

His gaze darkens at that. His hand trails slowly down your side, over your hip, between your legs again—touching you softly, testing how sensitive you still are. You twitch under his fingers, and he smiles against your mouth.

“You’re still shaking,” he whispers.

“I want you” you breathe again. “I want all of you. Please.”

You can see how that undoes him. The way his eyes flutter , jaw tightening without him wanting it, like he’s holding something back—like he has been for too long. He groans low in his throat, kissing you again, slower this time, like he needs it to confirm the last piece of his puzzle, to bring himself back to earth, to feel you, the sound of your voice saying things he never thought he’d get to hear.

“Okay,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, eyes dark and full, pupils blown wide. “Okay, yeah.”

You nod, lips parting with the ache of it, and he leans in to kiss you again—this time quicker, just to indulge himself. His hand moves to your thigh, fingers curling around it, anchoring you open beneath him, and he reaches down without breaking the kiss—fumbling for the drawer beside the bed.

The soft rip of the wrapper breaks the hush between you, and you breathe in shakily when you feel him shift back, just enough to strip the last of his clothing away, enough to reach for the fly of his jeans, and for your gaze to follow him instinctively.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen someone undress in front of you—but it feels like the first time. Maybe it’s the low light, or the hush of rain still ticking against the windows. Maybe it’s the reverence with which he wrecks you—or maybe it’s just him. But as Namjoon pushes his jeans down, your breath catches all over again.

You take him in slowly, eyes tracing the lines of him, the quiet power of his frame. The solid line of his thighs. The long stretch of his torso, skin kissed with warmth, marked by the rise and fall of his breathing. The way his cock hangs heavy, already hard for you, fucking big and flushed at the tip. He’s beautiful in a way that makes your throat tighten.

He doesn’t shy from your gaze. If anything, his stance softens. His hands fall loosely at his sides when he’s done with the condom, waiting for your reaction—not cocky, not proud, just… there.

You swallow. “You’re…”

He tilts his head. “Yeah?”

“God,” you breathe, sitting up more fully now. “You’re kind of ridiculous.”

A faint smile tugs at his lips, breath catching as your fingers reach for him, grazing lightly along his hip before you look back up. “That’s a good thing, right?”

You nod, unable to keep the heat from your voice. “It’s a very good thing.”

Namjoon laughs—quiet and a little unsteady, like you’ve knocked the breath out of him again. His shoulders relax, his stance falters just enough to reveal the truth behind it: he’s just as wrecked as you are. Just as undone by your eyes, and your voice, and the way you’re sitting there with your legs parted and your fingers on his skin.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he says softly, kneeling on the bed again, letting your hand guide him closer.

You hum, fingertips brushing along the V of his hips, watching the way his stomach flexes under your touch. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he echoes, leaning in until his lips meet your shoulder, then your jaw and his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling. “You’re everything".”

You don’t reply, you just kiss him instead.

His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face again, thumb brushing the line of your cheek before sliding into your hair, as he exhales into your mouth.

Then you shift, pulling him down with you, and he follows without hesitation—settling between your thighs, the heat of his body a welcome weight, grounding and electric all at once, pushing you against the mattress. He lines himself up, careful, steady, eyes flicking to yours for that last silver of confirmation.

You nod.

And he pushes in slowly, and it steals the very breath from your lungs.

The stretch is otherworldly. Intimate. painful and pleasurable all at once. His hands brace your hips, guiding you through it, and the moment he’s fully seated inside you, you both freeze, overcome. Your hand clutches at his shoulder. His forehead presses to yours again.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, barely audible.

Namjoon lets out a sharp breath, grounding his weight on one forearm. “You feel—fuck” he whimpers. Fucking whimpers. “Fuck,” he repeats every syllable drawn out, trembling.“You feel—you feel—” doesn’t even finish the sentence. Just groans, his hips rolling once, testing the fit, the friction, and your body clenches around him on instinct.

“I know,” you gasp, blinking up at him, swallowing down the sound building in your throat. “I know.” But it still dissolves into a wrecked moan when he starts to move.

Slow at first, measured. The roll of his hips smooth and sure, dragging heat out of you one breath at a time. You’re impossibly hot around him, slick and gripping tight, and it pulls a curse from his lips that has you tightening again, and his slow rhythm almost stutters.

“Fuck. Don’t do that.” He breathes, voice cracking low in your ear, like he's trying not to unravel right then and there on top of you. “You’ll kill me woman.”

But you do it anyway—tighten around him, just to see the way he loses control again. The way his voice wavers, the way his hips jerk forward harder than he meant to, pulling a moan from your throat that you don’t have time to swallow down.

“Fuckin’” he doesn’t finish. Just buries his face in your neck like he’s overwhelmed. “God you’re…”

He doesn’t even know what.
Evil? How can you when you feel like heaven.
Perfect? He already knows that, and suspects you know it too with the way you arch into him, chasing every slow thrust, one leg wrapping tighter around his waist to draw him in even deeper.

The love of my life.
Like what it means to want someone without fear.

His hand moves, cradles the back of your knee, lifting your leg higher around his waist, and the angle shifts—deeper, perfect, a little faster—and you keen again, clinging to him, nails scratching down his spine.

And he’s back at evil again.
Because how else can you explain it when someone breaks you like that? So easily, so completely, just with the way you say his name.

“Jesus, baby,” he pants, the endearment slipping out raw, like it doesn’t need permission anymore. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You smile—wrecked, breathless, wild around the edges—because you want to. Because the power feels electric in your blood and you can’t stop rocking up to meet every thrust, trying to pull more of him, all of him, deeper. “You’re already ruined,” you manage to say, even though your voice barely holds.

Namjoon groans like you’ve struck something in him, something buried, something feral. He braces both hands now, caging you in beneath him as his rhythm falters—harder, deeper, no less reverent, but touched with desperation.

The bed cries in protest, headboard fully slamming against the wall now, the sound of skin and breath and everything unspoken crashing into the space around you like a storm too long held back.

You can’t think anymore. Just feel. Just take him—the way he fucks into you, every push, every sound he makes, the way his breath runs hot against your sweaty skin. The way his teeth sink into your neck. The way you let go so easily with him.

“Say it again,” he grits out, voice wrecked, ragged, like he’s chasing something he can’t name.

You blink up at him, barely able to hold his gaze, but you do. You do. You reach for him—both hands cupping his face, your thumb sweeping over the sweat at his temple. “You’re mine.”

And that’s what breaks him.

Namjoon shudders like he’s trying to hold himself together and failing gloriously. Like he’s not just inside you but completely undone by the fact that he gets to have you. All of you, without pretense or performance.

His lips crash into yours again, breath mixing, teeth grazing, and it’s not graceful anymore—it’s reduced to it’s essence. It's raw. Devastation in its honesty. His rhythm stutters, faster now, deeper, each thrust drawing a sound out of you you’ve never made for anyone else.

You feel yourself tightening around him again—close, so close—and your fingers tangle in his hair as you gasp, “I’m gonna—Joon, I—”

“I know,” he whispers, forehead against yours, his voice cracking on the edge of it. “Come with me. Come on, baby.”

And when it hits—when your body seizes around him, when the moan breaks from your throat so loud it almost scares you—it drags him down with you. His hips stutter once, twice more, then he’s pulsing inside you with a groan torn from somewhere deep, too deep to name.

He collapses onto you slowly, carefully, doing his best not to crush you.

But you don’t mind. Not really. Not when you’re both there. And in the silence that follows, with chests heaving, limbs tangled together, skin flushed and trembling, you feel it.

The weight of everything you just said without words.

He kisses your shoulder. Then your cheek. Then your mouth.

Slow. Soft, like gratitude.

“You okay?” He whispers a moment after, brushing your hair back.

You nod, eyes glassy, lips parted, still catching your breath. “I think you just rewrote my brain.”

“Good. I’ve been meaning to leave an impression.” Namjoon laughs, quiet and breathless. and you can’t help but laugh too.

Outside, the rain still hasn’t stopped. But it’s falling slower now, softer. Like even the sky got the message that it’s time to quiet down.

You're still wrapped around each other, his arm heavy cross your waist, your fingers drawing aimless shapes into his back. Neither of you speak for a long while. Not because there's nothing to say. But because there is no urgency to say it. Not now. Not when it feels like everything that needed to be known has already been shared somewhere in the in-between.

Eventually, Namjoon shifts, slowly easing out of you with care, kissing your cheek before sliding out of bed with reluctance. You’re too tired to watch him pad across the room, still you pick up on the soft rustle of tissues and the low thunk of the bathroom bin as he knocks into it. Then the faint splash of water, the crackle of a wet wipe package.

He comes back with both—water first, holding the glass steady while you sip, then the warm, damp wipe he uses gently, reverently, to clean between your thighs. His touch is so careful, you almost want to cry, because you’ve never been handled quite like this—so cherished, even in the quiet after.

You whisper his name, blinking through tired eyes, and he only smiles—soft, boyish, exhausted in the way that means he gave you everything.

 Namjoon tosses the wipe in the trash, then slides back into bed beside you. The sheets are cool, your skin still flushed from the heat between you, but he pulls the covers over both of you and wraps his arms around your waist like he’s never letting go.

You’re just beginning to drift—his heartbeat steady against your chest—when you hear him speak again, barely above a whisper. 

“You’re not going to disappear in the morning, are you?”

 You smile faintly, pressing your forehead to chest.“No. Are you?”

He laughs under his breath, the sound gently shaking you. “No. This is my house.”

You laugh then, quietly—tired and soft and maybe a little in love with the way he says it. Like it’s obvious. Like of course he’s not going anywhere.

“I guess that makes it harder to sneak out unnoticed,” you murmur, your fingers brushing over the line over his heart, lazy and affectionate.

Namjoon shifts, just enough to nudge his nose against the crown of your head. “Exactly. You’d have to climb out a window. And I’m not sure you’re up for that after—”

You cut him off with a light pinch to his side, and he huffs a laugh, catching your wrist gently and bringing your hand back to his chest.

“Okay,” he says, quieter again, thumb stroking once across your knuckles. “Then stay. Just… stay.”

You nod. No teasing now. No hesitation.

“I’m here.”

And you mean it. Not just tonight, not just in the warmth of his bed. You mean here, with him. Maybe forever.

The light is soft when you wake—filtered through thin curtains and rain-slicked windows, casting a muted gold across the room. It takes a moment to remember where you are. The scattered clothes. The unfamiliar ceiling. The warmth at your back.

Namjoon’s arm is draped over your waist, his chest flush to your spine, breath slow and steady against your shoulder. His hold is loose, but sure. Like even in sleep, he’s still holding on.

You shift just enough to glance over your shoulder.

He’s still asleep. His hair is a mess, smushed from the pillow, lips slightly parted. He looks peaceful—unreasonably handsome in that soft, unguarded way people only look when they forget they’re being seen.

Then he stirs.

Nudges his nose into the crook of your neck like he’s chasing your warmth in his sleep. A beat later, voice low and scratchy from sleep, he mumbles, “Mornin’”

You turn to face him, smiling into the space between you. “Morning.”

“You’re warm,” he mutters.

You nuzzle into his chest, letting yourself settle there, your smile hidden in his skin. “You’re clingy in the morning.”

“You like it.”

You do. God, you do. You just don’t say it yet. Instead, you tease, “Do you always get this handsy before breakfast?”

His lips brush your temple, and you can feel the grin in his answer. “Only with you.”

You stay like that a while. Wrapped in the quiet. In each other. Long enough for the sun to climb higher, for the real world to knock softly at the edges of the room.

“Do you have a plan for today?” He murmurs.

You shake your head, cheek against his chest.“Not really. I just want a shower.”

Namjoon hums, his hand flattening gently against the small of your back. “Later.”

You laugh, quiet and warm, your legs tangling more deliberately with his under the covers. His fingertips trace idle patterns on your spine now, slow and lazy, like he’s in no rush to be anywhere but here. And maybe you aren’t either.

“I should text my mother,” you murmur eventually, not moving.

“Mhm.” He still doesn’t let go.

“And Jimin.” You smile at the way his eyes flutter close, hands still moving. “He’s my friend. He’ll probably grill you even harder than my mother.”

Namjoon just hums.

“I should grab my shirt.”

“No need,” he mumbles into your hair.

You snort softly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before slipping free—slowly, reluctantly. He makes a quiet noise of protest, half-heartedly reaching for your wrist but missing.

“We need to work on this morning person tendencies you have if we want this marriage to work.” He mutters, rubbing a hand down his face, his hair spiking up even more when he runs that same hand through it.

You grin, tugging the crumpled sheet with you as you stand up. “That’s fine. I’ll just marry you in the afternoon instead.”

Behind you, Namjoon groans into the mattress. “You can’t say stuff like that when I haven’t had my coffee yet.”

“You started it,” you call back, voice light even despite the ache between your thighs.

“I’ll get you a towel,” he says around a yawn, already swinging his legs over the bed just as you leave the bedroom in search of your phone.

You pad into the living room and grab your sweatshirt too, swinging it over your shoulder, muscles still deliciously sore. Your phone is right where you left it—wedged in the couch cushions—and as you pick it up, it lights up immediately.

[12 notifications – Jimini 🐸]

You swipe.

12:30 PM: did he come?
12:30 PM: lol come. 🤣😂🫣😏
12:31 PM: no. joking. your mother arranged this—DISGUSTING✨💕
12:31 PM: maybe… send me a pic! a sneaky one. just make sure ur flash isnt on like last time.😂
4:13 PM: Are we still getting drinks with Tae or…?
4:17 PM: helloooooo?!?!
6:27 PM: babe. are you alive?
10:37 PM: I swear if you’re dead I’m gonna be so pissed
12:10 AM: do you know CPR? because I might need it when you finally tell me what happened with that tall korean man.
8:55 AM: okay it’s morning! say something.
9:00 AM: HELLLOOOOOOOOO
9:01 AM: fine. I hope he’s ugly.

You bite your lip, suppressing a grin.

From the hallway, you hear Namjoon’s voice, still hoarse, “Do you eat in the mornings?”

You blink at your phone, thumb hovering over Jimin’s latest message.

You: he’s not.

Then—just loud enough for him to hear, a grin already creeping up your face—you call back, “Eat what?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then: a choked sound, and Namjoon’s footsteps.

You don’t even bother turning around.

“…Food,” he deadpans, emerging around the corner, already dressed in a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, towel in his hand, the other combing through his wild, sleep-ruined hair. “I’m going to get us some coffee. Wanted to know your order too.”

You nod slowly, pretending to consider it, even though your smile is already betraying you. “Hmm. Something strong. Hot. Sweet, but not too sweet.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow at you like he knows exactly what you're doing when you grab the towel from his hands. “You want me or coffee?”

You grin, finally meeting his eyes. “I can have both.” You tease, walking towards the bathroom.

He exhales a short laugh, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as you pass by. “I’ll be back before you finish.”

You glance back at him over your shoulder, already half down the hallway, towel slung loose over your arm. “Don’t rush on my account.”

Namjoon smirks, leaning his weight against the doorframe for a moment like he’s debating whether to follow you in after all. “Too late. I'm already thinking about round two.”

You snort. “Bold of you to assume I won’t lock the door.”

Namjoon grins, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Challenge accepted.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you walk into the bathroom, door completely open behind you, even when you step into the shower.

Namjoon chuckles, heart full and a little dumb, suddenly eager to actually keep his promise of being back before you finish. He slides on a pair of slides and heads down the hall. Waiting for the elevator, he pulls his phone from his pocket, scrolling through yesterday’s notifications.

Work mails, with nothing urgent still, his sister wishing him luck on his date.

Then, five missed calls from his mother and a message that makes him pause.

Eomma 💮: I can’t believe you Kim Namjoon. You are completely something else! How could you even think about skipping on the date!? let alone leave that poor girl hanging??? Ajumeoni Bae said she’d considering lowering your profile!! LOWERING IT! I am deeply disappointed.

His thumb hovers over the screen, mind momentarily blank.

Skip the date?

Namjoon blinks, glancing at the timestamp. The message came in sometime last night—hours after he’d already been tangled up with you in his sheets, your mouth on his, your laugh caught in his chest. Definitely not skipping anything.

Unless—

He swipes back to his call log. All the missed calls from his mom came after dinner.

Well after he’s already met you…

His brow furrows.

“The fuck?”

The elevator dings, but he doesn’t step in right away. Instead, he rereads the message before stepping inside and calling his mother.

The phone rings twice before his mother picks up—no hello, no greeting, just straight to the point.

“Namjoon-ah, you better have a good explanation.”

He closes his eyes briefly, already bracing himself. “Hi, Eomma.”

“Don’t ‘hi Eomma’ me. Do you know how embarrassed I was when I got that call from Ajumeoni Bae? I practically begged her to keep your file active! I told her you’re a good boy—just shy, busy, thoughtful. But this? Skipping on a date without so much as a message?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “I didn’t skip.”

“Oh really?” She huffs. “Because the girl you were supposed to meet complained you never showed!” She lets out something he can only describe as profound disappointment. “I can’t believe you did this—”

“No, I—” Namjoon blinks hard, staring at the elevator doors like they might provide answers. “I met with her, Eomma. At the Cafe next to the SeMa? A girl in a pink dress. Kang Y/N.”

That makes his mother stop mid rant, a long pause following. So long it makes him wonder if the elevator ate up all his phone signal.

“What?” she asks, suspicious.

“Yes. We ate lunch, ended up going for a walk and then dinner and a gallery too—” and he stops because that is enough information for her.

“Kang what?” His mother demands.

“Y/N.” Namjoon says, just as certain as before. “Pink dress. works as a paralegal at a firm in Seoul, at the café near the museum. You said—”

“I said your match would be wearing a pink dress, yes,” she cuts in, “but her name is Kang Mirae, Namjoon. Mirae!”

Namjoon blinks. “…Who?”

“Oh my dear God,” she breathes, and he can practically hear her pacing now. “ You mean to tell me you went on a date yesterday and didn’t even download her complete file? Did you just read the debrief?” She sounds borderline outraged.

“I thought—” He stops, then runs a hand through his hair. What did he think? “Listen, I saw a her by the window, she fit the description. I figured it was her.”

“And you just sat down?” The disbelief dripping from his mother’s voice is almost unbearable. He feels like a small kid again, getting scolded for coloring on the walls. “You didn’t even confirm she was sent by Ajumeoni Bae?!”

Namjoon grimaces. “No?”

There’s a pause. A sharp exhale. Then—

“Namjoon-ah. Aigoo.” The sound is somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement now. “How did you manage to pay to go on a date and still end up on the wrong one?”

He closes his eyes, forehead tapping against the cool elevator wall. “I thought she was her.”

“You thought? You thought? Did she even mention Ajumeoni Bae’s services?”

“No,” he admits, voice small. “But she looked… like she was waiting for someone too…”

“She wasn’t waiting for you!” his mom cries, fully amused now. “You just saw a girl in a pink dress and assumed?”

“Well technically she assumed too—she didn’t ask either!”

“Oh my God!” She was full-on giggling now. “Dear God,” she says. “You two really deserve each other. I accidentally raised a himbo.”

Namjoon groans. “Eomma—”

“No, no, don’t you ‘Eomma’ me. This is so stupid it must be destiny. You went on a blind date with the wrong woman,” she cackles. “Is she pretty? You said paralegal? Lawyer was better but paralegal isn't bad. Wait—” She pauses mid tirade “Did she know she was supposed to marry you after this date?”

“Yes…She was supposed to meet a Kim,” Namjoon says, running a hand through his hair again, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “That’s what her mom told her. Just—‘a Kim.’”

There’s a beat of stunned silence on the other end of the line.

Then: “Aigoo.” His mom’s voice turns reverent, like she’s just witnessed divine intervention. “That’s fate, Namjoon-ah! You stumbled into your match without even trying.”

Namjoon makes a low noise in his throat, not quite agreement, not quite denial.

“Does she like you?” His mom asks, immediately nosy again. “She must, if you’re still alive.”

“She stayed the night, didn’t she?”

“Kim Namjoon!”

“I didn’t mean it like—well, okay, maybe I did. But it wasn’t—” He pauses, mouth twitching. “I like her,” he admits quietly.

More silence.

“I really like her,” he adds, just as the elevator doors slide open.

And his mom, predictably, gasps like she’s just been handed a winning lottery ticket. “Then you better fix this before she finds out from someone else and thinks you’re some matchmaking scammer!”

Namjoon winces. “Why would she even think that?”

“I don’t know! I’m just being thorough. Now go! Make it right. And Namjoon?”

“…Yes?”

“You’re both idiots.”

“Thank you, eomma.” He deadpans.

His mother snorts. “Anytime sweetheart. Now go! I want to meet her soon!”

“You will.” He chuckles and hangs up with a sigh, slipping his phone back in his pocket as he steps out of the elevator and into the soft, overcast morning. The morning smells like rain and city steam, and his brain is buzzing, equal parts panic, disbelief and something stupidly light and warm.

He accidentally ghosted his match.

He accidentally met his better-half.

And yet—he can’t bring himself to regret any of it.

Not when you’re still upstairs in his shower. Not when he can still picture your sleepy smile and the curve of your neck and the sound of your laugh echoing off the bathroom tile. Not when his bedsheets still smell like you.

He ducks into the café on the corner, nods to the barista who already knows his usual, and adds a second coffee order. Strong, hot, sweet—but not too sweet.

Then he points to the pastry case, zeroing in on the flakiest, most obscenely overpriced croissant he can find. The kind of treat you’d mock and inhale in two bites.

He taps his card. He adjusts the pastry bag under his arm, balancing the coffees carefully as he starts back toward the building.

He’s going to tell you everything….

Just… maybe after caffeine.

Maybe after you’ve stopped smelling like his shampoo.

Maybe after round two.

Maybe.

Epilogue: The steam curls around you in the shower.
Your hands are all over him.

Water runs down your spine in rivulets, hot and heavy, but he’s hotter still—his skin, his mouth, the way his fingers skate over your damp skin, mapping out the slope of your waist, the curve of your ass and he carefully presses you against the cold tiles.

His lips drag across your neck, up to your lips to catch them back in another heated kiss. He tastes like coffee now. Like maybe he stole a sip before he got in with you, and you can’t seem to get enough of it.

His palm finds your thigh and lifts it, slow and deliberate, anchoring your leg around his hip. The movement brings your bodies flush together, and the groan that leaves him—low, ragged, real—makes you clench around him.

You bite at his bottom lip and feel him shudder.

Then—

“Random question, have you ever heard of Ajumeoni Bae?”

You gasp around a moan, a little wrecked, a whole lot confused. “Who?”