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Chapter Text

Aira Sen was thirty-two years old and used to holding herself together.

Her restraint wasn’t performative—it was practiced. A second skin formed after years of navigating academia, immigration, and the quiet violence of being observed in rooms where power liked its women palatable. A senior researcher at a university in Seoul—not that she offered that detail freely—Aira had made a career out of reading social systems while staying just beyond their reach. She moved through the world like a well-guarded theory: complex, refined, open only by choice.

She was beautiful in the way fog is beautiful—shifting, soft-edged, impossible to hold. Dusky skin, dark eyes that missed nothing, hair pinned back in a way that dared you to undo it. She wore her solitude like silk.

That night, she was not looking for company. She was looking for permission—to let go, to unfasten the tightness between her ribs, to lose herself in something unnamed.

She walked into Eon, a bar tucked deep into the velvet undercurrent of Hongdae, all low jazz and warm lighting and conversations spoken close to the mouth. She wore a black satin slip under a charcoal coat, lipstick the color of dried blood. Her heels didn’t announce her. She moved through the space like she belonged to no one.

She took a seat at the bar and ordered a Negroni, her voice low and unhurried.

By the second sip, he entered.

She didn’t look at first, only felt the shift—the way the air recalibrated itself to accommodate a presence. When she finally turned, he was there. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Effortlessly restrained in a way only someone very aware of his body could be. Olive jacket, grey shirt, beanie low over dark hair, and eyes that made you think of late-night confessions.

Kim Namjoon.

Of course she knew who he was. Anyone who read—or listened—did. But she didn’t flinch, didn’t shift, didn’t offer the faintest suggestion of recognition. She lifted her drink and took another sip, gaze indifferent.

He noticed. And smiled.

“You look like someone who doesn’t believe in small talk,” he said.

“I believe in timing,” she replied, turning slightly toward him. “Small talk before midnight feels dishonest.”

He chuckled, a sound like something soft unraveling. “And after midnight?”

“People try to tell the truth. Or seduce each other with the attempt.”

Their conversation unfolded with the ease of two minds used to reading between the lines. They spoke about the strangeness of living in Seoul—how crowded it felt, how lonely. About language, and whether intimacy had to happen in one’s mother tongue. About memory, and what gets left behind when a city remakes you.

He asked what she did.

“I study people,” she said. “That’s all I’ll give you.”

She didn’t ask about his work. That was the gift. She knew, and he knew she knew—and yet, she gave him the space to simply exist as a man, not a myth.

Her knee brushed his beneath the bar.

He didn’t move. Their eyes met.

“You’re impossible to read,” he said.

“Good,” she replied, her voice velvet. “I like being a slow translation.”

And then she stood.

“Come with me,” he said.

She didn’t need convincing.

The door to his apartment closed softly behind them. She dropped her coat without a word and walked into the space like she already knew where the heat lived. He followed, watched her move—her bare shoulders catching the low light, her body a study in self-possession.

When he reached for her, she was already turning, already pulling him in. Their mouths met—slow, then fierce. Her hands slid beneath his jacket, pushed it off his shoulders. His fingers curled around her waist, pulled her closer. Their kiss deepened, grew urgent. The kind that needed no build-up, only release.

He lifted her easily, sat her on the edge of his kitchen counter. Her thighs parted instinctively. She gasped when his lips found her neck, when his hands slid up her legs with the kind of reverence that made her skin hum.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said into her skin.

“Don’t,” she whispered, pulling him closer.

Clothes fell away—his shirt, her dress, his hands learning her with slow hunger. When he looked at her fully, she didn’t hide. She met his gaze, bare, still. Daring him to worship her properly.

And he did.

He kissed her with intention, touched her like he’d been waiting his whole life to know what she felt like in pieces. Her breath stuttered when his hand found the warmth between her thighs, stroking her in slow, deliberate circles until her hips bucked, her head falling back in a broken moan.

He carried her to the bedroom, laid her down like something sacred, and slid into her with a deep, shuddering breath that made them both still.

She gasped, legs curling around his hips.

He moved inside her—slow at first, as though memorizing each sound she made. She arched beneath him, fingers digging into his back, dragging him deeper. Their bodies moved in sync, all push and pull, friction and surrender.

His name left her lips in a breathless murmur, again and again, each repetition softer, more urgent.

She clenched around him as he thrust harder, faster, until all she could do was hold on. His mouth found her shoulder, her breast, the corner of her jaw. He flipped her over, dragged her hips back, filled her from behind with a deep moan that vibrated in his chest.

“You feel like everything,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, barely coherent.

When her release came, it crashed through her, sudden and devastating. She cried out, body trembling as she fell apart around him. He followed moments later, groaning into her neck as he buried himself deep, his fingers clutching her hips like an anchor.

Afterward, they lay still.

Their breathing slowed. Their hands drifted. He pressed a kiss to her spine. She let him.

But neither spoke.

The silence said enough.

Before dawn, Aira rose.

She dressed with quiet efficiency, watching the light shift through his curtains. He was asleep, one arm splayed across the bed where she had been.

She found a pen on his desk, a sticky note.

She wrote:

Nice talk. Maybe we’ll disagree next time. — A

She placed it beside a worn copy of The Prophet and slipped out the door.

The lock clicked behind her.

Namjoon woke to the scent of her perfume on his pillow.

And a note he couldn’t stop reading.

He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know what she did. Didn’t know where she went.

But he knew this: He hadn’t just been touched.

He’d been studied. And he wasn’t ready to be forgotten.

Chapter Text

Namjoon's POV 

He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about her anymore.

It had been three days.

Three entire days since she left his bed like it meant nothing—just another chapter, closed before morning. Since he woke to the scent of her fading on his sheets and a single note in her looping handwriting that said everything and nothing.

He hadn’t touched the sheets. Couldn’t bring himself to.

He told himself it was just good sex. And it had been—undeniably so. But it wasn’t just the way her body had arched into his, or how she moaned his name like it tasted good on her tongue. It was the way she looked at him while speaking about solitude like it was a shared language. The way her voice slipped beneath his skin like poetry long remembered.

Namjoon tried to write. Nothing came.

He stared at his notebook, at the words he had underlined days before: “Maybe we’ll disagree next time.”

He didn’t know what it meant to crave a disagreement with someone he barely knew. But he wanted it. He wanted more of her—her mind, her gaze, her questions. He wanted to know what kind of music she listened to alone. If she always left without looking back. If she ever stayed.

When the invitation came to speak on a panel about "Art as Cultural Memory" at a university-affiliated event, he said yes without much thought. He liked discussions like these—intimate, challenging, nuanced.

What he hadn’t expected was to walk into the gallery hall and find her already there.

Aira Sen.

Standing beneath a large abstract painting, elegant and unreadable, talking softly to a woman in a blue hanbok. She wore a fitted black saree, draped flawlessly. No jewelry. Just kohl-rimmed eyes, deep red lipstick, and that same dangerous composure.

His heart clenched.

She hadn’t seen him yet. Or maybe she had, and simply hadn’t reacted. That was more likely.

He forgot how to breathe properly for a moment.

And then—she turned.

Their eyes met.

Not even a flicker of surprise crossed her face. Instead, her gaze held his for one long, charged second… before she turned back to her conversation, lips twitching ever so slightly.

He felt that look in his spine.

Aira's POV 

She didn’t expect to see him again.

She certainly hadn’t planned to walk into the panel room and find him seated at the far end of the speaker’s table, notebook in front of him, looking like sin disguised as intellect. His hair was styled this time, brushed clean off his forehead. A sharp blazer over a black turtleneck. Hands inked with notes.

Of course he’d be here. Of course the universe would have a wicked sense of humor.

Her first thought was to leave. But she didn’t. She wouldn't give herself the satisfaction of fleeing.

So she did what she always did—she watched without blinking. Then turned away like he didn’t knock the wind from her lungs.

But her pulse was already a quiet roar in her throat.

The panel began. Moderators introduced everyone. Aira was the last to speak.

Namjoon didn’t hear most of what the others said. His attention was splintered—half on his own breathing, the other on the shape of her fingers as she tapped a pen against her knee.

And then she began to speak.

And he was gone.

Her voice—measured, low, unmistakable—filled the gallery space. She spoke about postcolonial memory, the trauma embedded in architecture, how migration narratives often get erased by nationalistic art. Her words were clinical, layered, powerful. But to him, every syllable hit like a kiss.

And god—he was distracted. Because mid-sentence, she licked her bottom lip, just once, absentmindedly. He shifted in his seat.

Flashbacks hit him like waves.

Her thighs around his waist. Her moans in his ear. Her breathless gasps under his mouth. Her fingers fisting his hair, her voice shuddering against his throat.

He adjusted in his seat again, jaw clenched.

When she ended her segment with a quote—one he recognized from the night she left—he felt her eyes slide to him, deliberate.

This time, he was the one who looked away first.

The discussion ended. Polite applause. Mingling began. High tea trays glided past—green tea, tiny pastries, murmured conversations and exchanged cards.

He found her by the corner of a sculpture exhibit, standing near a carved sandstone installation.

“You never told me you were a professor,” he said quietly.

She turned, not startled. “You never asked.”

Namjoon smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I thought you were an illusion, actually.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Do illusions usually ruin your focus for days?”

His chest tightened. “Only the rare ones.”

There was a pause. A sharp inhale. A moment of too much looking.

She lifted her cup. “Green tea?”

He stepped closer. “No. But I’m starting to like things I didn’t before.”

Their eyes locked. That same tension wrapped around them like a slow, tightening knot.

“Namjoon—” she began, but her voice faltered.

He leaned in, voice low. “You looked incredible up there.”

“So did you,” she admitted, then immediately regretted the softness in her tone.

A tray passed. Neither took anything.

Instead, they kept stealing glances. His gaze slid over the drape of her blouse, the exposed dip of her back. Her breath caught when his fingers lightly grazed hers while passing a napkin.

It was unbearable.

They were surrounded by academics and curators and curiously sharp-eyed students, and still, it felt like they were the only ones breathing in the room.

He stepped closer again. “This is… dangerous.”

Her lips twitched. “You think I’m going to ruin your reputation?”

“I think I’m going to ruin your lipstick,” he said, voice wrecked.

She didn’t reply. Just stared.

So he did it.

In the quiet alcove behind the exhibit wall, half-hidden by sculpture shadows and soft track lighting, Namjoon reached for her.

His hand slid behind her neck, gentle but certain. Her body leaned into him instinctively. And when their mouths met—it was instant combustion.

She gasped against his lips, and he swallowed it whole.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate, deep, hot—his lips moving over hers like he’d dreamed of this every night since she left. Her hands gripped his jacket, tugging him closer. His tongue brushed hers and she whimpered softly into his mouth.

He groaned into the kiss, his other hand gripping her hip, pressing her against the wall. Their bodies locked—hip to hip, chest to chest. Her fingers tangled in his hair.

“You drive me mad,” he whispered between kisses.

She bit his bottom lip, just enough to make him groan again. “That’s the idea.”

His hand slipped down, grazing the curve of her lower back. She pressed her thigh between his, and he cursed under his breath.

They broke apart, gasping. Foreheads pressed. Eyes shut.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she said softly.

He opened his eyes. “You didn’t do it. I did.”

She pulled back, smoothing her blouse, breath still shaky. “This was a mistake.”

But she didn’t walk away yet.

Their eyes met again.

And then—slowly, elegantly—she reached into her clutch and pulled out a cream-colored card.

She handed it to him without a word. Their fingers brushed.

And then she left, the sway of her hips deliberate, her composure immaculate.

Namjoon looked down at the card in his hand.

Dr. Aira Sen
Department of Sociology
Seoul National University
Mobile: [XXXXXXXX61]

His thumb brushed the number.

He smiled.

And for the first time in days, he exhaled.

Chapter Text

Namjoon had never invited anyone to this space before.

His studio wasn’t just where he worked—it was where he unspooled. Where the poems he never published lived. Where unfinished songs curled in the corners like half-spoken prayers. Where silence wasn’t an absence, but a tool.

But he texted her anyway.

"If you ever feel like continuing our debate on memory and desire, my studio has coffee. And books. And no panel moderators."

Aira took two hours to respond.

"I like coffee. I like books. I don’t like being predictable."

He smiled at his screen for too long before she followed up with:

"Text me the address. I’ll come by tomorrow. 4?"

He didn’t know if she meant it as a challenge or a promise. Either way, he hadn’t slept well that night.

At 4:07 p.m., she knocked.

He opened the door and there she stood, casual but devastating in high-waisted black trousers and a cream silk shirt, hair up, earrings delicate and deliberate. Her eyes swept the space as she entered, saying nothing at first.

"You live inside a library," she finally said, brushing her fingers along a shelf of philosophy books.

"And you look like a concept I forgot to write down."

That earned him the smallest smirk.

He made coffee while she walked around, trailing fingers over old turntables, stacks of vinyl, notebooks, art. Aira didn’t ask questions. She observed.

When he handed her a mug, their fingers brushed.

"So," she said, sipping. "Do you always text women you sleep with to discuss memory and desire?"

"Only the ones who leave notes quoting Kahlil Gibran."

Aira laughed—a low, surprised sound that made his spine tingle.

They sat on the rug beneath the wide window. Books scattered. Conversation meandered: relationships as performance, the ethics of nostalgia, whether obsession is a form of worship. She argued fiercely, eloquently. He countered with questions, not defenses. They spoke like two people who lived in language.

And beneath it all, the tension simmered.

Her legs were folded to the side, exposing the slope of her thigh beneath her trousers. Every time she shifted, the silk of her shirt pulled against her chest. He tried not to stare.

But when she noticed him watching—she didn’t look away.

"You keep looking at me like you’re afraid I’ll disappear," she said, voice soft.

"I’m looking at you like I’m trying to memorize you."

Aira placed her coffee cup down. Slowly. Deliberately.

"Come here," she said.

He did, because he just wanted to be there with her.

She reached up, brushing her thumb across his bottom lip. Her eyes followed the movement. "You talk so much," she whispered. "I want to see what else your mouth can do when it’s quiet."

She kissed him first.

Her hands tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. Her body shifted, straddling him in one slow, devastating move. The kiss deepened, turned breathless. She pressed him back until he was flat against the rug. His hands clutched her hips, but she was leading—mouth hot, tongue teasing, hips grinding against his growing arousal.

"Aira," he breathed, already wrecked, his hands slipping under her shirt, eager to touch skin.

"Let me," she whispered. "Let me do this."

He nodded, surrendering to her entirely.

She unbuttoned her shirt slowly, letting it fall open with a rustle. No bra. Her skin glowed in the muted studio light, soft and luminous. She slid the silk shirt off her shoulders and let it drop behind her, revealing herself with a steady, fearless gaze.

Namjoon's breath caught at the sight of her—bare, confident, utterly in control. His fingers reached for her, ghosting up her sides in reverence. But she grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head, eyes locked on his.

"Not yet," she murmured, lips brushing his cheek as she held him there. The tension between them buzzed like static, need simmering beneath her restraint.

"Not yet," she murmured, and kissed a path down his jaw, biting softly at his neck. He hissed as her teeth grazed his collarbone.

"You're marking me."

"Good. I want you to remember this."

She pulled off his shirt, fingers raking down his chest, then moved to unbuckle his pants. He helped her, breath stuttering as she freed him, already achingly hard. She wrapped her fingers around him and stroked, slow, controlled. He trembled beneath her.

"You don’t know what you do to me," he gasped.

She smirked, leaning down to flick her tongue against his nipple. "I have some idea."

He growled low in his throat, hips bucking upward.

When she straddled him again, she didn’t ease down. She sank onto him with intention—inches at a time, making them both cry out. Her hands pressed flat against his chest, holding him in place as she rolled her hips in long, slow circles.

Namjoon was completely undone. As Aira rode him slowly, his shirt already discarded and pants shoved down to his thighs, he sat up briefly, tearing the fabric the rest of the way off with shaking hands. His skin was flushed, chest rising and falling with every ragged breath.

Her hair brushed over his bare chest as she leaned forward, and his hands found her waist—gripping tight, thumbs brushing the curve of her ribs. Every inch of his touch was reverent but possessive, as if she were a scripture he needed to memorize. He dragged his fingers down her spine, then back up to cup her jaw and kiss her, deep and almost desperate.

He couldn’t help the way he thrust upward, matching her pace, desperate to stay buried in her heat. His lips moved along her collarbone, leaving warm, open-mouthed kisses, then biting lightly—just enough to leave a mark. She moaned in response, head tilting back as he groaned against her skin, both of them utterly lost in the moment.

Her moans turned raw, breathy, louder with each grind.

"You're mine right now," he growled against her ear, his hands possessive on her hips. One hand slid down, fingers trailing over the softness of her thigh, then upward between her legs, claiming every inch. "This—" he murmured as he touched her, "is mine."

Aira gasped, nodding, her moan catching in her throat as her head dropped to his shoulder. "Yes... yours," she breathed, breath stuttering with every slow thrust. "Right now... I'm yours."

"Yes," he groaned. "Yours. All mine."

She bit down on his neck again, just below his ear, and his grip on her hips tightened as she bounced harder, riding him with abandon. He felt the high building in his spine, heat pooling low, fire licking up every nerve.

"That’s it," he whispered, his voice nearly gone. "Take what you need."

She did.

She did.

When she came, it was a sharp cry, her body shuddering above his, walls pulsing around him.

He followed moments later, groaning into her shoulder, fingers clutching her hips like they were the only thing tethering him to earth.

They stayed like that for a long time. Breathless. Wordless. Still joined.

Then, slowly, she rose.

Gathered her shirt. Buttoned it in silence.

He sat up. "Aira..."

"That was..." She paused. "Unexpected."

He looked at her. "Was it?"

She met his gaze. For once, she looked almost unsure.

Then she tucked her hair behind her ear, slipped on her shoes, and walked toward the door.

"Don’t think too much about it," she said without turning around.

"Too late," he murmured.

She turned back at the door, hesitating. "Bye, Namjoon," she said softly, her voice steady but something flickering in her eyes.

He stood, instinctively, walking over to her. Just before she opened the door, he grabbed her wrist gently and pulled her back into him, crashing their mouths together in a desperate, hungry kiss that ignited like dry tinder. Their bodies pressed close, hands tangling, breath mingling.

She whimpered into his mouth, clutching his shirt.

"Don’t go," he murmured against her lips.

She pulled away, panting, brushing a hand through her hair. "I need to go. Not now."

He leaned his forehead against hers. "You drive me crazy."

"Pabo," she said with a crooked smile. Then she opened the door and walked out.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Namjoon sat there for a long time. Heart still racing. Skin still buzzing.

He didn’t know what this was becoming.

But he knew one thing with aching clarity:

She wasn’t done with him.

And he sure as hell wasn’t done with her.

Chapter Text

Namjoon didn’t need a mirror to know the hickeys were still there.

He could feel them—along his neck, just beneath his jaw, at the bend of his shoulder where Aira had bitten down like she wanted to brand him. And maybe she had. Because every breath felt edged with her memory.

He walked into the HYBE lounge in a black hoodie pulled high over his neck.

Didn’t matter.

“Hyung,” Jungkook said, narrowing his eyes.

“What,” Namjoon muttered, sitting down with a heavy sigh.

Taehyung leaned over from the couch and tugged the hoodie down. “Oh wow. That is not subtle.”

Namjoon rolled his eyes, tugging it back up. “Mind your business.”

Jimin burst into laughter. “You look like you got mauled by a tiger mid-symphony.”

Yoongi just smirked over his coffee cup. “Not denying. Not confirming. Interesting.”

Seokjin joined in. “Who is she, Namjoon? A tiger tamer? A storm chaser? Because you look like someone who barely survived the wild.”

He groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “She’s... not just anyone.”

Taehyung leaned in with a grin. “So, a model? A painter? Someone you met on a rooftop in Paris?”

Jungkook gasped. “Wait—is it someone famous? Are we going to see her on the cover of a magazine next to you?”

“Stop,” Namjoon muttered, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

Yoongi raised a brow. “So not denying it.”

“I didn’t say I was confirming either.”

“But you are blushing,” Jimin added.

“I’m not blushing.”

Seokjin leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Come on, just give us one clue.”

Namjoon exhaled, slumping back in his chair. “She’s... brilliant.”

“Aha!” Taehyung pointed. “We’re getting somewhere.”

They all exchanged looks. Hoseok raised a brow. “That serious?”

Namjoon didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t know.

Aira was halfway through a lecture on deviant subcultures when her voice trailed off.

Her fingers brushed the side of her neck absently, over the place where his lips had been. Where his teeth had sunk into her skin like he wanted to own her. Her students looked confused, but she smiled, cleared her throat, and moved on.

Later, in her office, she stared at her phone for too long. No messages. No calls.

She wasn’t going to text first.

“Earth to Dr. Sen,” came a voice from her door. It was Min Jisoo—a fellow sociology professor, about Namjoon’s age, with sharp cheekbones, a quiet confidence, and eyes that always seemed to understand more than he let on.

They'd worked in the same department for years. He'd always been kind, thoughtful, occasionally lingering a little too long after faculty meetings—but never crossed a line. Until now.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping inside, hands tucked into the pockets of his navy blazer.

“Just... thinking,” she replied, too quickly.

“You should try thinking with wine,” he said with a soft smile. “Friday? I made a reservation at that bistro in Samcheong-dong. You always mention their mushroom pasta.”

She paused. He was intelligent. Gentle. Familiar. And for years, he’d clearly admired her from a distance. She had always respected that restraint.

She said yes—not for him. But because she was tired of a certain someone occupying every breath.

“Sure,” she said, forcing a smile. “Why not.”

Namjoon drafted a message.

“Did you get home okay?”

Deleted.

“Want to come over?”

Deleted.

He stared at their thread, thumb hovering. Then locked his screen and threw his phone across the bed.

Friday night. Aira wore a sleek black dress and bold lipstick—armor, not desire.

Anik was charming. Witty. He talked about his thesis on urban alienation and his rescue cat. He made her laugh.

And yet—

When he leaned in outside her door and kissed her gently, her body stiffened. It wasn’t him. His lips were soft but wrong. There was no fire. No ache. No raw, bruising heat.

Not like Namjoon.

She pulled away quickly, smiling. “Thanks. Good night.”

She closed the door. And then texted.

“Are you at the studio?”

The reply came fast.

“Yes.”

She didn’t knock. Just walked in.

Namjoon looked up from his notebook—and froze.

She stood in his doorway like a storm he’d summoned. Still in her dress, hair slightly windblown, eyes unreadable.

“You’re here,” he said, half breath, half disbelief.

Aira smiled slightly, brushing hair from her face as she stepped further into the room. “You look... busy.”

His gaze moved over her—heels, the curve of her dress, lipstick not yet smudged. She smelled like jasmine and something new. Not casual. Not random.

“You look... dressed up.”

“Friend’s thing,” she said first. Then, after a pause: “A dinner.”

He tilted his head. “Just a dinner?”

“With Min Jisoo,” she added, watching him carefully. “He asked me out.”

Namjoon’s jaw worked. He set his pen down with slow precision. “And?”

She leaned against the edge of his desk. “It was nice. He's... kind. Smart.”

Namjoon nodded once, lips pursed. “Sounds great.”

Her eyes searched his face. “We kissed.”

A pause. “And?” he asked again, quieter this time.

She shook her head. “It felt like kissing a stranger.”

Something shifted in the air.

He stood slowly, eyes locked on hers. “So why are you here?”

“Because I didn’t want that,” she said. “I wanted... this.”

Namjoon took a step closer. Another. “You came dressed like this. Smelling like you do. Looking at me like that.”

Their bodies were nearly touching now.

“I didn’t plan to come,” she whispered. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

He reached out, fingers brushing her waist. “I tried not to text you.”

She pressed a hand to his chest. “I know.”

His breath hitched. His hand slid slowly along her waist, then lower, curving around to the dip of her spine as he leaned in. “Did you want him to touch you here?” he asked, his voice low, nearly reverent. “Like I do now?”

“No,” she murmured.

But in her mind, the words burned louder than breath: No one does.

He closed the distance.

Their kiss started soft—achingly slow. Then her hand gripped his shirt, and he growled into her mouth.

He pressed her back gently against the wall, hands now at her hips, thumbs drawing circles through the fabric.

He didn’t speak, but everything in him screamed:

You’re mine.

His lips marked her throat again, reverent and greedy. She gasped, arching toward him. Her dress slipped off one shoulder, and he pushed it further, watching it slide down her body with hungry eyes.

He undressed her like prayer. She let him.

And when she reached for his belt, he let her lead—only this time, his touches lingered longer, firmer, lips moving lower with unspoken possession.

He bent her over the desk instead—urgent, ravenous. Her palms splayed against the polished wood, her breath catching as he pressed in from behind, heat radiating from every point where their bodies met. His hands roamed her body with a kind of reverent madness—palming her hips, dragging slowly up the curves of her waist, fingers skimming just beneath the fabric.

His lips trailed down the line of her spine, open-mouthed kisses turning into greedy nips at the slope of her shoulder. She moaned—low and breathy—and the sound sent a tremor through him. He groaned against her skin, his hips grinding forward with need, his hands gripping her tighter as if anchoring himself.

She was trembling, whimpering his name, and he drank in every sound like it was salvation. The way she weathered under his touch made him feral—obsessed. One hand tangled in her hair, tugging gently so she arched into him; the other slid between her thighs, teasing, demanding, making her gasp louder.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a storm. Possessive, unrelenting. Every thrust was a vow unspoken, every moan he tore from her a claim.

Still, in the back of his mind, a single, consuming thought echoed louder than all else:

Mine.

And this time, when it was over, she didn’t rush to leave.

Breathless, flushed, her body humming from the storm they’d weathered, she stayed—curling into him on the couch, skin to skin, her cheek resting over his heart.

His arms wrapped around her like instinct.

She didn’t speak. Neither did he.

But her fingers traced circles over his chest, and he pressed a kiss into her hair as if to say, stay longer.

And for the first time, she did.

Chapter Text

Morning light spilled through the high windows of Namjoon’s studio, catching on the scattered pages of lyrics, half-drunk mugs of tea, and the tangle of limbs on the couch.

Aira stirred first. Her head rested on Namjoon’s chest, his heartbeat slow and steady beneath her cheek. One of his arms lay heavy around her waist, anchoring her in place. Their bodies were bare beneath the throw blanket, her thigh still hooked over his. The air smelled like skin and sweat and jasmine—like the night before.

She didn’t move.

Instead, she watched him. Studied the way his lashes brushed his cheek, the softness of his mouth, the bruise-like hickeys blooming along his collarbone. Her fingers ghosted over one. She’d left that. Claimed it. Him.

And yet… she was terrified.

Namjoon shifted, eyes still closed. But his arm tightened around her.

“I know you’re awake,” she whispered.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.” His voice was rough with sleep.

Aira smiled, just a little. “Do you always keep girls in your studio like this?”

He opened one eye. “No.”

They lay like that for a while longer, until her stomach growled. He laughed under his breath and rolled away reluctantly.

Coffee was made in silence. She wore his oversized t-shirt. He wore grey sweats slung low on his hips, his torso deliciously bare.

They sipped from mismatched mugs—hers had a cracked handle, his had a faded owl print.

“You have a very chaotic sense of organization,” she said, gesturing to the piles of books and papers.

Namjoon smirked. “It’s curated chaos. Like my mind.”

She hummed, leaning on the counter. “Makes sense.”

They were mid-laugh when the door creaked open.

“Oh, hyung, I—”

Jungkook froze in the doorway.

Taehyung stepped in behind him and immediately stopped dead. His eyes took in the scene: Namjoon half-dressed, Aira in his shirt, two coffee mugs, the faint marks on her neck.

“Oh wow,” Taehyung said, blinking.

Jungkook’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “Oh my god.”

Namjoon groaned. “Don’t you two knock?”

Taehyung tilted his head. “You don’t live here, hyung. This is supposed to be a creative space. Not a…” He trailed off, glancing at Aira again.

She straightened, calm as ever, and slowly slipped off the oversized hoodie, revealing a sleek camisole dress that clung to her frame like poured silk. She handed the hoodie back to Namjoon without a word, smoothing her dress and running her fingers through her tousled hair. Namjoon caught the motion with a faint smile—soft, almost reverent—watching her with that same quiet awe that had never really left his face since last night.

“Text me,” she said to Namjoon, brushing her hand lightly across his chest.

He stepped forward, his thumb grazing her cheek. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth—intimate, assured.

Then, she turned to Taehyung and Jungkook with a single, cool glance. The kind that said say anything, and I’ll end you with my eyes.

Neither of them dared speak.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Silence.

“Hyung,” Jungkook finally said. “She kissed you like she owns property in your soul.”

Namjoon exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s not—”

“A hookup?” Taehyung offered.

Jungkook blinked. “She was so calm. Like… CEO energy. But also… art teacher who would ruin your life.”

Taehyung snorted. “I think I’m scared of her. In a good way.”

Namjoon just smiled to himself, sipping his coffee.

“She said to text her,” Jungkook noted. “Are you going to?”

Namjoon didn’t answer. Just walked back to the couch, picked up a pen, and scrawled something in the corner of a notebook.

Aira.

Yoongi walked in, late, earbuds still in. “What did I miss?”

Taehyung just pointed to Namjoon. “Our leader’s in love with a woman who looks like she could command an army.”

Namjoon didn’t even look up. “Her name is Aira.”

Yoongi raised a brow. “Well. That’s going to be interesting.”

Chapter Text

The rain tapped softly against the windowpane as Aira leaned back into the couch, legs folded beneath her, a half-empty mug of ginger tea warming her hands. The soft scent of sandalwood lingered in the air—his incense, her perfume, the quiet comfort of shared space.

Namjoon sat across from her, notebook closed, pen discarded. The words weren’t flowing tonight. But something else was.

She was here again. Like every other night that week. No pretext. No expectation.

Just need. Quiet. Company.

He watched her from over the rim of his cup. Hair tied up, loose tendrils brushing her cheeks. A flush from the tea, or maybe from the way his gaze lingered too long.

Aira set the mug down, pulling her knees up. “Do you ever feel like you’re constantly performing?”

Namjoon didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back, gaze dropping to the ceiling. “All the time. It’s like... everyone wants a piece of me, but no one wants the whole.”

Her breath hitched. That was too familiar.

“I came here to escape that,” she admitted quietly. “Back home, I was the one who disappointed everyone. Didn’t marry young. Didn’t follow the plan. I didn’t want to be someone’s good decision.”

He looked at her. Really looked. “So you ran?”

“I chose myself.”

Silence. Then a slow smile tugged at his lips.

“That’s kind of sexy,” he murmured.

She arched a brow. “The feminist rebellion part?”

“No. The part where you choose yourself. That’s the bravest thing.”

Their eyes held for too long. The room felt warmer. Her fingers itched. His jaw clenched.

“Come here,” he said, voice low, rough.

She didn’t hesitate.

She moved across the room, straddling his lap in one smooth motion. His hands found her waist immediately, fingers digging in as if to anchor himself. Her lips hovered over his, breath warm.

“Touch me,” she whispered.

He kissed her like a starving man. Devoured her.

Their mouths collided—raw, messy, open. Tongues tangled. Teeth grazed. His hands roamed beneath her shirt, fingertips dancing up her spine, pulling a gasp from her throat.

She moaned his name into his mouth. That was all it took.

He stood, gripping her thighs, carrying her across the room. She clung to him, kissing down his neck, biting at the spot just below his ear. He dropped her onto the desk, scattering pens and papers.

“Take this off,” he rasped, tugging at her shirt.

She peeled it off slowly, teasing, until he lost patience and helped her. His hands roamed her bare skin like he couldn’t get enough—palming her breasts, dragging his tongue across her chest, down her stomach.

“Fuck,” he muttered, “I’ve missed this.”

She yanked his hoodie off. Then his t-shirt. Her nails scraped down his chest, and she kissed every inch she could reach. When her hands dipped below the waistband of his sweats, he growled, catching her wrist.

“Mine,” he whispered. “You’re mine tonight.”

She smirked, challenging him. “Then show me.”

He turned her around, bent her over the desk, and slid her panties down with agonizing slowness. His fingers found her first—stroking, teasing, circling until she gasped his name again, breathless.

“Do you want to be touched like this?” he whispered darkly, fingers pressing into her.

“No one touches me like you do,” she thought, but didn’t say it.

Still, her body gave the answer. She was already trembling.

He pushed into her with a groan that vibrated against her spine, and she cried out, gripping the edge of the desk. His rhythm was punishing, relentless, yet every thrust was deliberate—angled to ruin her.

She choked out a moan. “Namjoon—”

“I love the way you say my name,” he growled, biting her shoulder, leaving a dark mark.

He didn’t stop. Not when her legs shook. Not when she begged.

Not even when she came around him, crying out, nails raking across the desk’s surface.

He held her through it, then flipped her over, lifted her onto the edge again, and kissed her like he was drowning.

They barely made it to the bed before going again. Slower this time. Deeper. He looked into her eyes as he moved inside her, watching every flicker of emotion cross her face.

She cupped his face. “Don’t stop.”

“I couldn’t,” he whispered. “Even if I tried.”

They came together, bodies shaking, lips fused, moans muffled by kisses.

After, he collapsed beside her, pulling her into his chest. Their bodies slick with sweat, tangled in sheets and breath and something unspoken.

Aira rested her head against his heart.

“I don’t know what this is becoming,” she murmured.

Namjoon’s fingers moved slowly across her bare back.

“Neither do I,” he said. “But I’m not letting it go.”

She didn’t reply.

But she stayed.

For once, she didn’t get dressed. Didn’t run.

She fell asleep wrapped in his arms, tangled up in the chaos they were both pretending not to name.

And he held her like she was already his.

Because, in every way that mattered, she was.

Chapter Text

The room was dim, lit only by the warm golden wash of the floor lamp in the corner and the occasional flicker of headlights from the street below. Outside, the city buzzed in distant hums, but inside Namjoon’s studio, it felt like time had slowed. Like nothing existed but the two of them.

Aira was curled up in his oversized grey hoodie, knees tucked into her chest as she sat sideways on the couch, a soft throw blanket half-draped over her. Namjoon sat nearby on the floor, leaning against the coffee table, sketchbook open in front of him. He wasn’t sketching. Not really. Just dragging the pencil across the paper in aimless shapes.

They’d eaten takeout earlier, something warm and spicy that had left her lips slightly swollen and her skin tinged pink. Now, they were just... existing. Side by side. Breathing in sync.

“I used to hate silence,” she said suddenly, voice soft but clear.

Namjoon looked up at her, waiting.

“I grew up in a house where silence meant something bad was coming. A disappointed sigh. A raised eyebrow. A look.”

He didn’t speak, but his body leaned just a little closer.

“My parents were always civil. Polite. Never cruel. But with them, love was conditional. My brother was the perfect child. Became a doctor. Did everything they wanted. I...” She paused. “I questioned everything. Wanted things they didn’t understand. So I was the one they had to explain away at family gatherings. The 'she’s still finding herself' one.”

Namjoon’s gaze never left her. She felt it like warmth.

“They’re proud now,” she added, almost as an afterthought. “Now that I’m a professor at a top university. Now that strangers validate me. But they weren’t the ones who believed first. I was.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “That’s the kind of strength that scares people.”

Aira gave a dry laugh. “Sometimes it scares me.”

He pushed his sketchbook aside, rising slowly to sit beside her on the couch. His hand found hers without asking. Their fingers tangled easily.

“I always felt like I had to be good,” he said. “Perfect. Not just for my parents, but for everyone. The leader. The face. The role model.”

She turned her head to look at him.

“I think that’s why I wanted you so badly,” he said quietly. “You don’t ask me to be anything but myself.”

Her chest tightened. She looked down at their joined hands.

“I’ve never known how to be close to someone without preparing to be hurt,” she admitted.

He brushed a strand of hair from her face, thumb trailing the line of her jaw. “Then don’t be close. Just... stay.”

She leaned forward, and he met her halfway. The kiss was soft at first. Gentle. Like a question. But it deepened quickly—need curling beneath the surface.

She climbed into his lap, straddling him, the blanket slipping away. He pushed the hoodie off her shoulders, revealing the thin camisole dress underneath. His fingers skimmed along her arms, reverent.

“Can I take this off?” he whispered.

She nodded.

He pulled the dress up slowly, carefully, exposing inch after inch of skin. She let him, eyes never leaving his.

He kissed the hollow of her throat, then down to her collarbone. “You’re not a shadow,” he murmured. “You’re the light.”

She closed her eyes as his hands explored her, not with hunger this time, but awe.

They didn’t rush.

When he undressed, she watched with quiet wonder. His body—strong, beautiful—was familiar now, but it still undid her. He let her look. Let her touch.

He laid her down on the couch, hovering above her, and when he entered her, it was with a tenderness that made her eyes sting. No roughness. No claiming. Just the slow, deliberate rhythm of something sacred.

She gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. He held her gaze the entire time.

“Do you want to be touched like this?” he whispered against her ear.

She couldn’t answer with words. Only with the way her body arched, trembling, wrapped around him like a prayer.

They came undone together—quiet, breathless, trembling.

After, he didn’t move. He stayed inside her, forehead resting against hers.

She whispered, “This scares me.”

He kissed her nose. Her cheeks. Her eyelids.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m still here.”

She smiled against his shoulder. “And I haven’t run yet.”

He laughed softly, holding her tighter.

They fell asleep wrapped around each other, limbs tangled, hearts slower now but just as loud.

And in that quiet, for the first time, Aira felt safe.

Namjoon watched her for a long time before sleep took him.

He didn’t say it aloud, but the thought pulsed in his chest:

“I could fall in love with you.”

And maybe, just maybe, he already had.

Chapter Text

Namjoon’s apartment was quiet, wrapped in the amber hush of early evening. Outside, Seoul pulsed softly—traffic murmurs, neon flickers—but in here, there was only warmth and the faint scent of garlic from the takeout bag on the table.

Aira was sitting cross-legged on his living room floor, dressed in one of his hoodies—nothing underneath but the smallest black shorts, not that he’d seen them yet. She was grading papers, red pen in hand, glasses on, brows furrowed in concentration. Her hair was up in a messy knot, neck exposed.

Namjoon tried to read but couldn’t stop watching her.

Every time she shifted, the hem of the hoodie rode a little higher, baring more of her thigh. She was half-innocent, half-weaponized distraction, and she had to know it.

“You’re not even pretending to be subtle,” she muttered without looking up.

“Subtle about what?”

“The way you're watching me. Like you're one second away from pouncing.”

“I might be,” he said, voice low.

She rolled her eyes and tossed the paper onto the pile. “God, I needed this. A night of grading and greasy food. It’s... grounding.”

“You say that like I’m not thrilling company,” he teased.

She leaned back against the cushions and gave him a dry smile. “You are. In fact, I had a very thrilling week. Went out with someone last night.”

Namjoon’s beer paused mid-sip.

Aira didn’t notice—or pretended not to. “Just a casual thing. Dinner. Walked around a bit. He was nice.”

A cold weight settled in Namjoon’s gut. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Good conversation. Smart. Very polite.” She leaned over to grab another paper, letting her hoodie slip off one shoulder. “We kissed.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then she looked up, smirking. “What?”

Namjoon’s jaw clenched. “You’re casually telling me you went on a date with someone and kissed him while sitting on my floor in my hoodie with your legs wide open.”

“You’re not my boyfriend,” she said, tone airy.

“No,” he said, standing slowly. “But you’re mine. You know that.”

Aira raised a brow. “So possessive.”

“You like it.”

“Maybe.” She uncapped her pen again, deliberately casual. “What are you gonna do about it?”

His book dropped to the floor.

In two steps, he was crouched in front of her, fingers curled tight around her ankle, dragging her closer. The papers went flying. Her legs splayed out beneath the oversized hoodie, revealing just how little she had on.

“You kissed him?” he asked, voice low, almost too calm.

Her smirk faltered.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Once.”

Namjoon’s gaze dropped to the soft cotton between her thighs, the damp spot blooming there. “But he didn’t fuck you.”

“No.”

“Did he even touch you?”

“No.”

He leaned in close, lips brushing her ear. “So why the fuck are you dripping for me and not him?”

Aira moaned softly as his fingers slid the fabric aside. “Because I wanted this. Wanted you.”

He dragged his tongue along her jaw. “You walk in here like this, wearing my hoodie, teasing me with talk of another man... and then expect me not to lose my fucking mind?”

She shivered. “I wanted you to lose it.”

He chuckled darkly. “You’re about to regret that.”

He tore the hoodie over her head and let his eyes rake over her. Thin black camisole. No bra. Tiny shorts soaked through.

“You knew exactly what you were doing.”

She nodded, breath catching.

He grabbed her hips and flipped her over his lap, one hand yanking her shorts down, the other pressing to her back to keep her in place.

“Count,” he said, voice like smoke.

She gasped as the first smack landed.

“Fuck—one.”

He spanked her again, harder. “What was that for?” he murmured.

“For teasing you.”

Another. “And that?”

“For kissing someone else.”

Another—sharp and low. “And that?”

“For liking how jealous you get.”

He dragged her back upright and kissed her deeply, hungrily, while his fingers slid between her thighs and into her wet heat. She moaned, hips rolling, lost already.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against her lips. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

“You don’t let anyone else touch you.”

“I won’t,” she panted. “I don’t want anyone else.”

He stood, shoved his sweats down, and lifted her effortlessly into his arms. “Good. Because now I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll forget his name, your name, everything but me.”

He carried her to the couch, laid her down, and sank into her in one hard, brutal thrust.

She gasped, back arching. “God—Namjoon—”

“You think you can tempt me and get away with it?” he growled, driving into her again and again.

Her legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him deeper.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he hissed. “Like you were made for me.”

“Yours,” she moaned, nails raking down his back. “Yours—only yours.”

He grabbed her hips and changed the angle, hitting deeper, harder, until she was crying out, nearly sobbing from the overwhelming stretch and heat.

“I want to hear it,” he said. “Who makes you feel like this?”

“You do,” she cried. “No one else—only you!”

He fucked her like he owned her, because he did. And she let him. Welcomed him. Took everything he gave with greedy gasps and filthy praise.

When she came, it was devastating—writhing, body clenching, crying his name.

He followed seconds later, growling low as he emptied into her, marking her from the inside out.

They collapsed, sweaty and shaking.

Minutes passed.

She curled against him, hair sticking to her cheek, voice soft. “You’re insane.”

“Because I want you to myself?”

“Because you fuck me like I’m your religion.”

Namjoon chuckled, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You are.”

She looked up, eyes wide, unreadable.

“I don’t care who else you see,” he said quietly. “But no one gets to have you like this. No one gets to see you like I do.”

Aira didn’t answer. But she reached for his hand and laced their fingers together.

And this time, she stayed the night.

Chapter Text

The balcony doors were open, letting in the sharp evening air and the distant sounds of Seoul—the hum of life below, the faint honk of a taxi, the thrum of the city never truly sleeping. Inside Namjoon's apartment, the lights were dim, shadows flickering across the walls like a secret being whispered.

Aira leaned against the balcony frame, wine glass balanced in her fingers, her bare legs crossed beneath one of Namjoon’s oversized black shirts. The hem barely skimmed her upper thighs.

He watched her from the kitchen, frozen in place.

“You’re staring,” she said, not turning around.

“You’re standing there like a damn painting,” Namjoon muttered. “Wearing my shirt, drinking my wine, in my home—like you belong here.”

A sly smile ghosted over her lips. “Maybe I do.”

He walked over slowly, setting his own glass down on the coffee table. “You planning on telling me why you’re dressed like that and looking like sin? Or are you trying to provoke me?”

She turned then, meeting his eyes over the rim of her glass. “I told you I had dinner with someone yesterday.”

His jaw tightened. “Another casual date?”

“Blind,” she corrected, sipping. “A colleague’s idea. She set me up as revenge for that terrible double date she saved me from last year. Said I owed her. I just went to even the score.”

His voice dropped. “Did you kiss him?”

“No.” Her brow lifted. “Should I have?”

He moved faster than she expected—crowding her against the glass doors with one firm step. The wineglass in her hand was gently taken and set aside. His palm flattened on the glass next to her head as he leaned in, heat radiating off him.

“Don’t see anyone else again,” he said lowly. “Ever.”

Aira blinked. “That wasn’t what you said last week.”

“I didn’t mean it.” His voice was thick, hoarse. “I fucking care, Aira. I don’t want another man taking you out. I don’t want anyone else hearing you laugh like that. And I swear to God, if anyone else ever touches you—”

“Namjoon,” she cut in, voice playful, taunting, “I work with male professors every day. And let’s not forget the young, eager grad students who ask me to coffee.”

His eyes darkened. “You think this is funny?”

She slid her hands under his hoodie, fingers grazing the ridges of his abs. “I think it drives you crazy. You love it.”

He grabbed her hips, spinning her around so her front pressed against the cool glass door.

“You think I love the idea of someone else imagining you like this?” he growled against her ear. “Bent over, begging, soaking wet?”

“Not begging,” she gasped as his hand gripped her hair, tilting her head back. “I don’t beg.”

“You will.”

Namjoon yanked the shirt up her thighs, finding nothing underneath.

“Fuck, Aira,” he muttered. “Did you come out here like this on purpose?”

She hummed, teasing. “Didn’t want to waste time.”

He dropped to his knees behind her, hands spreading her legs apart as his mouth found the back of her thigh. Slow, wet kisses traced upward until his tongue was sliding between her folds—hot, deep, possessive.

“Don’t be loud,” he whispered. “Or maybe you should be. Let them hear.”

She choked on a moan as he devoured her from behind, tongue relentless, nose pressed against her ass as she writhed, pressed to the glass, one palm braced on the frame.

“Namjoon—”

“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped, hips bucking. “Always yours.”

He stood suddenly, yanking his sweats down, cock heavy and hard in his fist as he lined up behind her.

With one rough thrust, he filled her. She cried out, biting her lip, eyes squeezed shut as her cheek pressed to the cool glass.

He grunted, hips snapping forward again and again. “You’re mine to fuck. Mine to touch. Mine to be seen with like this. Let them see—how good you take me.”

His hand came around to pinch her nipple through the fabric of his shirt. “You wear my clothes, tease me, kiss other people—and you think I’ll just let that go?”

Aira moaned shamelessly, grinding back on him. “I didn’t kiss him—”

“But you wanted me to know. You wanted me like this.”

“Yes,” she whimpered. “Yes, Namjoon—just like this.”

He fucked her harder, both of them half-naked, bodies crashing against the balcony doors with enough force to rattle the frame.

The city was out there. And yet, all Aira could feel was him. All-consuming. Obsessive. Possessive.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, breath ragged. “I want to feel you come while I’m deep in you.”

She obeyed, slipping her hand between her legs, fingers circling her clit as his cock hit that spot again and again, dragging filthy sounds from her mouth.

“Fucking beautiful,” he whispered into her shoulder. “Fucking mine.”

She broke apart around him, body spasming, cunt clenching so tight he cursed and followed, grinding deep as he spilled into her with a loud groan of her name.

They stayed pressed together, panting, sweat-slicked against the glass. Namjoon nuzzled her shoulder, still inside her, unwilling to pull away.

“You keep pushing me,” he murmured. “I don’t want anyone else even looking at you.”

“I didn’t want anyone else either,” she whispered. “I just… sometimes I don’t know how much of this is real.”

He kissed the back of her neck. “It’s real, Aira. You’re not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”

They slid to the floor, limbs tangled, foreheads pressed together. Outside, the world kept turning. But inside that room, against that door, they had created a world all their own—savage and soft, filthy and full of feeling.

Chapter Text

Namjoon POV

It wasn’t often that Namjoon stared at his phone like a teenager trying to send a first text.
He’d typed the message five times already. Deleted it six.

The question lingered in his throat, heavier than it should be:
“Do you want to meet the guys this weekend?”

He paced the length of his studio like it would somehow make the nerves dissipate. The light outside had dipped into a soft peach, the kind of color that usually calmed him. Not today.

He pressed the heel of his palm against his brow and muttered, “Just call her, dumbass.”

So he did.

When Aira picked up, her voice immediately soothed him. Warm. Dry. Familiar.

“Was that a mistake, or are you finally evolving past the ‘text-only’ era?”

He chuckled, fingers twitching. “Maybe I missed your voice.”

There was a pause. “Did something happen?”

“No,” he said softly. “Not like that. I was wondering if you’d want to meet the guys. BTS.”

Silence stretched. Not long, but long enough for his heart to stutter.

“Oh,” she finally said. Calm, unreadable.

“You don’t have to,” he rushed. “I know it’s a big ask. But they’ve been asking. Jungkook’s dying to know who I keep ducking away to text.”

“You’ve mentioned me?” Her voice lifted slightly. “Like... in what capacity?”

Namjoon hesitated. Then, truthfully: “Enough that Yoongi said I smile like an idiot when your name pops up.”

Another pause. Then a breathless laugh. “Wow. Um. Okay. I’d like to. I’m just... I mean. It’s BTS.”

“I know,” he said gently. “But it’s also just the guys. They’re my family. And I want them to know you.”

Later That Night – The Dorm Group Chat

Namjoon:

hey
anyone around this weekend?

Jungkook:

👀👀👀
don’t tease us hyung. u finally bringing her?

Jin:

Her?? As in Her her?? The one who made you miss two game nights and forget your lunchbox?

Hobi:

We’re READY. Should we wear suits? Light candles?

Yoongi:

Let the man breathe. But also yes, I’m in.
I wanna see the woman who made Joon poetic in our last group dinner.

Tae:

Wait. Should we behave?? Or should we be ourselves?

Namjoon:

Please behave.
No interrogation. No weird questions. No stories from 2015.

Jin:

I’m going to ask if she’s a fan of flying kisses. I have to know.

Jungkook:

Namjoon hyung, blink twice if you’re in love

Namjoon threw his phone on the couch with a groan, covering his face with his hands.

But the warmth blooming in his chest? Unmistakable.

They were going to love her. He just hoped she wouldn’t bolt the moment Jungkook started grilling her like an idol fan on a variety show.

Aira POV

She had stared at her closet for twenty minutes. Then laid on the bed dramatically. Then texted her best friend:

“What does one wear when meeting global pop legends who also happen to be your situationship’s chosen family?”

Her phone buzzed:

“Black. So they know you’re serious.”

“Red. So they know not to fuck with you.”

“Nothing. Go full femme fatale.”

Aira groaned.

She wasn’t afraid of them. She was afraid of herself. Of being awkward. Too sharp. Too closed. Not enough. Not good enough for him.

Because if BTS was his family, then this was her walking into the heart of who Namjoon was.

And if she messed this up… if they didn’t like her…

She didn't want to think about it.

She exhaled, deeply, forcing herself upright. “It’s fine. It’s just dinner with seven world-famous men who love him. Casual.”

Chapter Text

Aira POV

The blow dryer hummed in the background while Aira sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her reflection. Her curls bounced lightly over her shoulders, styled just enough to look effortless. She wore a black cropped blouse with delicate ruching at the sleeves, high-waisted jeans that flattered her hips, and a soft beige jacket slung over the chair in case she chickened out of the crop top mid-evening. Her diamond earrings—tiny but sharp—glinted under the light.

Her pulse thudded like a distant drum.
Not for a class.
Not for a lecture.
Not for an interview.
For them.

She reached for her perfume, spraying the scent Namjoon once murmured lingered on his pillows. She gave herself a final glance and sighed, pressing her palms to her thighs.

“You’ve delivered keynotes, moderated panels on gender theory in front of international scholars. You can do this. You will not quote Foucault by accident. You will not freeze. You will not bring up sociological paradoxes in idle conversation.”

She closed her eyes.
But she was still nervous.
Because these weren’t just his friends.
They were his people. His family.

Namjoon POV

He was already at the members’ house when she texted: “I’m almost there. Try not to look too pretty before I arrive.”

Namjoon smiled down at his phone, heart tugging somewhere beneath his ribs.

The living room was full of life—Jin was complaining about the delivery app, Jimin was dancing absently to something on the TV, and Yoongi was lounging near the corner, sipping tea, silent but present.

“She’s on her way,” Namjoon announced.

A collective murmur followed.

Jungkook perked up, grinning. “The mysterious sociology professor cometh.”

Hoseok clapped his hands. “Do we need to hide the tequila? Or the banana milk?”

“I’m not introducing her to you as a test, you gremlins,” Namjoon muttered. “Just… be normal.”

Taehyung looked offended. “We are always normal.”

Jin arched a brow. “You mean like the time Kook challenged Hobi to a handstand competition at 1 a.m. wearing his underwear on his head?”

“That was functional chaos,” Jungkook defended.

Yoongi set his cup down. “Just try not to scare her. It took a lot for Namjoon to bring someone here.”

That sobered them all. Even Taehyung tilted his head in acknowledgment.

Namjoon glanced at the door again.
And then—
It opened.

Aira POV

The moment she stepped in, the room felt like it paused.

Not completely—but in that slow, cinematic kind of way.

Namjoon stood first, walking toward her with a soft smile already blooming across his face. The others followed his gaze, one by one.

She looked radiant—confident, curious, eyes warm but slightly wide with nerves. Her black top clung just right, the diamonds catching the overhead light. She smelled expensive, like flowers and rain and something older than memory.

“Hi,” she greeted.

“Hi,” Namjoon echoed, and leaned in to kiss her cheek—an uncharacteristic show of affection in front of the guys, but something about tonight made him want to show her off. He noticed the way she tucked her hand into his casually. She needed that anchor.

“You’re Aira!” Jin broke the silence first, already walking over with a bright grin. “Namjoon’s kept you under wraps like a CIA asset.”

Aira smiled. “He mentioned you’re the oldest, which means I should either be scared of you or butter you up.”

“Oh, butter. Always butter,” Jin said with a wink.

Jimin slid beside her next. “You’re even prettier than he described.”

She chuckled. “That’s suspicious. What did he say?”

“That you’re brilliant. And kind. And scary smart.”

“Mostly smart,” Taehyung added, lounging dramatically on the armrest. “But I guess we can let hot professors in the circle too.”

Namjoon groaned. “They’re not always like this.”

“They are,” Yoongi corrected from behind her. She turned to him and held out her hand, and he shook it gently.

“Nice to meet you,” she said.

“Likewise,” Yoongi replied, his eyes scanning her briefly, then Namjoon. “He’s been annoyingly happy lately. So. Welcome.”

The Evening Unfolds

They ordered food—half Korean, half fastfood —and gathered around the low table in the living room. Aira sat between Namjoon and Jungkook, sipping beer and gradually easing into the rhythm of the group.

At first, they asked safe questions.

“So what’s sociology like?” Jungkook asked with sincere curiosity.

“Like psychology’s weirder cousin,” she replied dryly, earning laughs. “But no, really—it’s about understanding structures, culture, behaviors. Why people do what they do. Power. Norms. Gender. Media.”

“So if we’re weird,” Taehyung said, “you can tell us why?”

She smirked. “I can write a thesis on it.”

That cracked them up.

Jimin leaned forward, grinning. “How did you two even meet?”

Namjoon visibly stiffened. “Fate.”

Aira coughed. “More like gin. And a mistake in bar seating.”

“Same thing,” Namjoon muttered.

Namjoon’s Subtle Gestures

Later, as Aira leaned over to pick up a napkin near the table leg while laughing at something Hobi said, Namjoon instinctively reached out and covered the sharp corner of the coffee table with his hand so she wouldn’t bump into it.

Yoongi and Jin exchanged a brief glance.

Aira didn’t even notice.

When she shivered slightly from the AC vent above, Namjoon stood, grabbed his hoodie from the back of the couch, and draped it around her shoulders without a word.

“Thank you,” she said, blinking.

He just nodded and continued eating.

At one point, when she tied her hair into a ponytail, he held her plate casually so it didn’t tip over, still deep in conversation with Jimin.

None of it looked performative. Just muscle memory.

The kind that screamed: She matters to me.

Later

As dessert appeared—some impromptu ice cream and honey-butter chips—Aira was giggling at Jungkook’s attempt to describe his tattoo pain tolerance using animal metaphors. The room was light, full of warmth and laughter.

“You’re really something,” Hoseok said to her at one point. “I don’t know many people who can walk in here and keep up.”

“I teach 18-year-olds,” she said dryly. “You’re not that different.”

Laughter again.

Jin gave Namjoon a knowing smirk when she excused herself briefly to the restroom. “She’s the one, huh?”

Namjoon didn’t respond right away. Just looked at the door she disappeared through.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I think she might be.”

Chapter Text

Namjoon

The morning after felt like golden silk—warm, soft, and almost too beautiful to be real.

Namjoon lay awake, propped on one elbow, simply watching her. Aira was fast asleep, curled toward him, her face relaxed and softened in slumber. Her bare shoulder peeked out from under the crumpled sheet, one hand tucked under her cheek. Her hair was a messy halo against his pillow, strands falling over her eyes, and Namjoon reached out carefully to brush them back.

She made a soft sound, half sigh, half murmur, and instinctively shifted closer. His heart clenched. He'd never been a morning person until her.

There was something about the way she slept—guard down, breath even, one leg always tangled in the sheets, as if she subconsciously tried to keep herself grounded. And when she smiled in her sleep—like she just had—it wasn’t soft. It was a full, dimpled grin like she was dreaming of something that made her impossibly happy.

God, he hoped it was him.

His gaze roamed her features—the little scar near her eyebrow, the faint freckle on her collarbone, the curve of her lips. He memorized it all.

He didn’t want to move. Not yet. Not while she was still here, in his bed, in his space. He’d never let anyone stay this long before, never even cared if they did. But her? He wanted her scent to linger in the sheets, her presence to haunt the corners of his house.

When he finally eased out of bed, careful not to wake her, he moved like he was walking on holy ground. He padded to the kitchen, started making coffee—hers, he remembered, with a dash of cinnamon and just the faintest hint of sweetness. She’d told him once, off-handedly, during their second night together. He remembered.

Because everything about her stuck.

Aira

She woke up to the smell of coffee and the faint sound of humming. A small smile tugged at her lips as she stretched under the sheets, feeling the soreness in all the right places.

Namjoon’s bed was large, warm, and unfamiliar in a way that didn’t make her uncomfortable. She took a second to just exist in the quiet morning light filtering through his curtains, hugging one of his pillows to her chest. It smelled like him—clean cotton, musk, and something deeply masculine.

Her stomach fluttered.

She didn’t do this. She wasn’t this girl. But with him, she was starting to forget the rules she’d written for herself.

She rose slowly, found her clothes folded neatly on a chair, and slipped his oversized shirt on instead. Padding to the kitchen barefoot, she found him standing by the counter, back turned, flipping through a book while waiting for the coffee to brew.

He turned just as she reached the doorway.

And smiled. “Morning, Professor.”

She rolled her eyes, grinning. “Morning, Rap Monster.”

“Low blow,” he chuckled, handing her a mug with both hands. “Made it the way you like it.”

She sipped and groaned. “Okay, you’ve officially ruined me. No one else is allowed to make me coffee ever again.”

“Good,” he said softly, watching her over the rim of his own mug. “That’s kind of the plan.”

The way he said it made her insides twist—softly possessive, gentle, certain.

And suddenly, she didn’t want to leave.

Later That Afternoon – Studio, Namjoon with Jin & Yoongi

The sunlight had shifted to an amber glow by the time Namjoon walked into the studio, still a little dazed from the morning. He found Jin and Yoongi already there—Jin eating dried mango slices with exaggerated flair, and Yoongi half-asleep in the mixing chair.

“You look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” Yoongi said without looking.

“A very happy truck,” Jin added. “One with hearts on the front.”

Namjoon didn’t respond right away, just slumped onto the couch with a smile he didn’t bother hiding.

Yoongi cracked an eye open. “Aira, huh?”

Namjoon nodded.

“You’re smiling like a teenager,” Jin said, tossing a mango slice at him. “It’s disgusting. But also kind of adorable.”

Namjoon laughed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, hyung. She’s… something else.”

“Oh, he’s gone,” Yoongi muttered, sitting up. “Alright. Tell us what makes her so special. Go on. Make us believe in love again.”

Namjoon leaned back and looked at the ceiling.

“She hums when she’s thinking. Always off-key. And she makes these tiny faces when she reads, like she’s arguing with the book in her head. Last night, she made fun of me for the way I organize my bookshelf, but this morning, I caught her rearranging it back to my way.”

Yoongi smiled faintly.

“She smells like wildflowers and that vanilla perfume she always wears. She’s so sharp—so sharp she cuts me open sometimes with just one sentence. But then she touches my hand like she’s terrified to break me.”

“And she always tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s nervous. When she thinks I’m not looking.”

“God, I sound ridiculous,” he muttered.

“No,” Jin said, serious for once. “You sound like someone who’s in it. Deep.”

Yoongi glanced between them. “So? Are you going to keep pretending it’s casual?”

Namjoon frowned. “It started with a one-night stand…”

“And?” Jin cut in. “So did a lot of great things. But tell me something—have you forgotten how we raised you?”

Namjoon blinked. “Raised me?”

“You’re a gentleman, Joon. Ask her out properly. Treat her like the queen you clearly think she is.”

Yoongi smirked. “Before someone else does.”

That one hit.

Namjoon sat up straighter, something sparking in his chest. He had been holding back, pretending not to want more. But he did.

God, he did.

Back at Namjoon’s Apartment – Aira’s POV

She lingered in his apartment long after he left. Wandering around, touching the spines of his books, reading the scribbled notes in his margins. She spotted the coffee mug she used, rinsed and placed on the drying rack, and smiled.

It was strange, this feeling.

Longing before he was even gone long enough to miss.

She picked up one of his hoodies, held it to her chest, inhaled deeply. It smelled like home.

Was she allowed to think of him like that?

She didn’t know where they were heading. But she wanted more. More mornings. More conversations. More coffee. More of that sleepy smile he gave her before kissing her forehead.

Maybe even a real date.

She sat on his couch, still wearing his shirt, biting her lip.

Maybe she was already his.

And maybe… just maybe… she didn’t want to run from that anymore.

Chapter Text

Aira had stopped counting the number of evenings she found herself in Namjoon’s apartment. She told herself it wasn’t anything unusual—Seoul was loud, her lectures were exhausting, his place was quiet, and she liked his bookshelves. That was all.

Except… it wasn’t.

There was her toothbrush in his bathroom. A half-finished jar of her favorite tea in his kitchen cabinet. A blanket she swore he’d bought just because she once offhandedly mentioned that her apartment never seemed warm enough in winter.

It was the little things, stacking up like bricks in a wall she didn’t know he was building around her.

Tonight, she sat cross-legged on his couch in her oldest pair of sweats, laptop balanced on her thighs, while Namjoon hovered in front of his bookshelf like a general before battle. He’d been moving the same five poetry collections back and forth for the last ten minutes.

“You know,” she said without looking up, “there’s no actual difference between the third and fourth shelf. It’s all still your shelf.”

He hummed like he hadn’t heard, lifting one book, then another, then sighing like the weight of the world rested on his alphabetizing skills.

“You’re procrastinating.”

That made him glance at her. Sheepish. Dimples flashing. “Optimizing,” he corrected, but the way he ducked his head ruined the argument.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he murmured, sliding a book into place, “you’re here.”

She rolled her eyes, but the truth was that she was here, again and again.

Last week it had been a bookstore in Mapo, where they ended up in the back corner reading the blurbs of the worst romance novels they could find. He had laughed so hard at one particularly bad line that she had to cover his mouth with her hand to keep the owner from glaring.

Two nights ago, the National Museum. What had started as a quick walk turned into Namjoon gesturing wildly at pottery shards while a small group of tourists actually gathered to listen. Aira had stood beside him, half-choked with laughter, as he bowed like an official guide when they applauded.

Even grocery shopping wasn’t safe. She had been pushing the cart, arguing with him about the fifth bag of chips, when he leaned down to murmur, What if they’re for you? in a voice that made the woman in the next aisle turn her head.

She’d shoved him, flustered. He’d grinned, unrepentant.

The routine settled in quietly.

Nights spent half-watching old films on his projector, mornings tangled in his sheets when she accidentally overslept before lectures, afternoons where she graded papers at his desk while he scribbled notes in the margins of his journal.

Silence with him wasn’t silence at all—it was space. Comfortable, unhurried space.

And yet, the word she didn’t dare say hovered at the edge of her thoughts every night when she lay awake beside him.

Dating.

Not official. But everything in her chest screamed otherwise.

Namjoon wasn’t much better at hiding it.

At practice, Jimin had caught him smiling at his phone mid-break. “Who is it?” Jimin demanded, trying to snatch it.

“Work email,” Namjoon muttered, ears burning.

But Hoseok had seen the photo of a cat sprawled across open lecture notes and laughed, “Work looks cute.”

Yoongi just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but knowing.

Namjoon shoved the phone back in his pocket, grumbling, but he couldn’t stop the curl of his mouth. He’d started structuring his entire week around her without even realizing it. Late lectures? He stayed in the studio so he could pick her up. Offhand cravings? He’d appear with takeout before she could talk herself out of texting him.

She wasn’t officially his. But his heart already thought otherwise.

The moment that nearly undid him came on a quiet Sunday.

He’d woken up earlier than her—a rare occurrence—and found himself moving around his kitchen, whisking eggs, making coffee, trying not to burn anything. It wasn’t perfect, but it was edible, and by the time she shuffled in, hair a glorious mess, drowning in his hoodie, the table was set.

“You cooked?” she blinked, incredulous.

He shrugged, suddenly awkward. “Wanted to.”

Her lips parted. Slowly, a smile bloomed across her face, the kind of smile that felt like sunlight and a dare all at once. She sat, fork in hand, and said softly, almost too softly:

“You’re dangerous, Kim Namjoon.”

He didn’t ask why.

Because he already knew.

Chapter Text

The appartment  was alive that night, not just with music but with the kind of easy laughter that seeped into your bones. Plates were spread across the low table, drinks half-poured, Jin loudly declaring himself the superior cook as Yoongi muttered under his breath and Hobi howled with laughter.

Aira sat between Namjoon and Jimin, her chopsticks hovering as Jungkook animatedly explained the “science” of his protein obsession. His hands flailed, his words came in bursts, and when Jimin nearly toppled against Hobi in hysterics, even Yoongi cracked a reluctant smile.

Namjoon’s presence was quieter but no less consuming. His hand brushed hers when he passed a dish, his knee bumped against her leg beneath the table, his palm rested at her back when she leaned forward. None of it loud, none of it demanding—just there. As natural as breathing.

And for the first time in years, Aira didn’t feel like she was on the outside of something.

When the chatter swelled too loud, she slipped away to the kitchen, the muffled hum of laughter fading behind her. The space was cooler, quieter, the refrigerator humming as she poured herself a glass of water.

“Professor Sen, right?”

She turned, startled, to see one of the producers she’d met in passing at the studio doorway. He leaned against the counter, tie loosened, eyes crinkled in polite recognition.

“That’s me,” she said evenly, holding her glass like an anchor.

“I’ve heard about you. Sociology, right? Makes sense.” He smiled, but it was the kind that carried weight behind it. “Joon’s always been drawn to people who make him think.”

The compliment should’ve warmed her, but something in his tone pressed heavy on her chest.

“You’re stepping into something complicated,” he added, softer now, as though confiding in her.

Aira tilted her head, forcing composure. “Complicated how?”

He swirled the liquid in his glass, eyes thoughtful. “You’re not just dating a man. You’re dating an idol. That means… constant eyes, constant judgment. Fans who believe he belongs to them. Headlines that twist every smile, every step. Privacy—” he shook his head, almost pitying, “—becomes a luxury you’ll rarely have.”

Aira’s lips curved into a careful smile. “I’m not the type to be easily intimidated.”

“I believe you,” he said quickly. “You’re brilliant. Accomplished. Grounded. But even strong people crack when the pressure isn’t fair.” His voice lowered. “The fans won’t see a professor. They’ll see someone stealing him. They’ll say you’re too plain, too old, too selfish. And the worst part?” He met her eyes. “If you hear it enough… you’ll start to wonder if they’re right.”

The kitchen was suddenly too cold. The glass in her hand felt slippery, fragile.

She told herself he wasn’t being cruel. He wasn’t sneering. If anything, he sounded sincere, almost kind. But it cut deeper than malice ever could—because his words rang with truth.

She swallowed tightly, nodding once, and excused herself before her voice betrayed her.

When she stepped back into the living room, Namjoon noticed immediately. His hand brushed her arm, brows furrowed. “You okay?”

She summoned a smile she didn’t feel and kissed his cheek softly. “I think I’m feeling a little under the weather. I should head home.”

He straightened instantly, reaching for his jacket. “I’ll take you—”

“No,” she interrupted, voice gentle but firm. She touched his cheek, a fleeting reassurance. “Stay. They need you here. I’ll text when I’m home safe.”

He looked unconvinced, but her second kiss—quick, light—kept him in place. “Enjoy your night, Joon. Really.”

Before he could press further, she slipped out the door.

The cab ride home blurred in streaks of neon and city light across the window.

Her chest ached, not from leaving him but from the echo of those words. Too old. Too plain. Too selfish.

And beneath them, the voices she thought she’d silenced years ago—her mother’s clipped criticisms, relatives’ whispers behind doors, classmates’ laughter when she said she wanted more than they thought she deserved.

Not good enough. Never enough.

She curled into Namjoon’s hoodie, fingers gripping the fabric tight. He made her feel chosen, seen, held in ways she hadn’t believed possible. But what if it wasn’t enough? What if the world shredded this before it even had a chance to become real?

By the time the cab stopped at her apartment, her throat was raw with words she couldn’t say.

And for the first time since Namjoon kissed her, she wondered if loving him might mean losing herself.

Chapter Text

Namjoon’s POV

He had given her three days.

Three days of clipped texts that felt like afterthoughts. Three days of unanswered calls that went straight to voicemail. Three days of “Sorry, busy at the university” messages that were far too convenient, far too rehearsed. Namjoon wasn’t naive—he knew when someone was pulling away, and it ate at him in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

The memory of her leaving the party still haunted him. Her soft, fleeting kiss to his cheek, her whispered, “You stay, have fun. I’ll call you later.” Words meant to reassure—but instead, they hollowed him out. He had watched her walk away, chest tight, forcing a laugh at Hoseok’s joke while every instinct screamed to sprint after her, pull her back into his arms, demand she stay.

And now he was here, outside her apartment, hands tightening around his jacket. Enough was enough. He couldn’t sit in silence anymore.

The door opened, and there she was—hair slightly messy, sweater loose, eyes wide with a combination of surprise and wariness. He stepped in before she could protest.

“Aira, we need to talk,” he said, voice low but tense. “Right now. No excuses.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she tried to retreat, but he was already moving closer, his presence impossible to ignore.

“I… Namjoon, I—”

“No,” he cut in sharply, but not cruelly. “No more half-truths. No more polite distance. I need to know why you’ve been shutting me out.”

Aira’s POV

Her chest heaved, and for a fleeting second, she wanted to deny everything. To tell him he was overreacting. But the truth was too complicated, too raw.

“I told you,” she murmured, moving toward the counter as if physical distance could give her courage, “I wasn’t feeling well.”

He tilted his head, eyes fierce. “Don’t lie to me, Aira. I can feel when you’re hiding something.”

She swallowed, trying to steady her voice. “Because… this—it’s not casual. We can’t pretend it is. We’re adults. We have careers, futures, aspirations. And I can’t just—” Her voice broke. “I can’t just let this… ruin everything I’ve worked for.”

Namjoon stepped closer, hands brushing against hers, searching for a connection. “So because it’s complicated, you think the answer is to push me away? Aira, I don’t care about easy. I care about you. About us. Every day I choose you.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I have dreams, Namjoon. Dreams I’ve fought for my whole life. And you—you’ve done everything for yourself, for your career, for BTS. You gave me strength just by watching you. And I can’t let my… my fears, my insecurities, destroy that. I won’t forgive myself.”

He cupped her face, thumbs brushing over her cheeks, voice low and steady but filled with fire. “Do you hear yourself? You think you are the problem? You’re the only reason I don’t feel empty. You’re not holding me back, Aira. You’re everything I’ve been waiting for, everything I’ve wanted, everything I choose. You ground me, and you inspire me. Don’t you see? You are the one thing that makes all the chaos make sense.”

She looked down, shaking, heart racing. “But what if I’m not enough?”

“You’re more than enough,” he said, his voice breaking, but filled with conviction. “I love you, Aira. I’ve loved you in ways I couldn’t even name. I’ve been holding back, trying to be careful, trying not to scare you—but I can’t anymore. I love you. I love you, and I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

Her breath hitched. His intensity, the raw sincerity, the depth of feeling in his gaze—it dismantled every wall she had built around herself.

The air between them was charged, electric. She leaned forward, lips brushing his, and he captured her instantly, hands threading into her hair, holding her close. It wasn’t soft; it wasn’t tentative. It was fire and need, passion and desperation.

Every frustration, every fear, every withheld desire poured into that kiss. Her hands clung to his chest, nails pressing lightly into the fabric of his shirt, as he pressed her against him. He tilted her head, deepening the kiss, claiming her, grounding her, letting her know without words that she was his—entirely, fiercely, irrevocably.

When they finally pulled back, foreheads pressed together, breaths ragged, he whispered, “This is us, Aira. Messy, real, and mine. You’re mine.”

For the first time in days, maybe even months, she let herself believe it.

Chapter Text

Her lips lingered against his, soft at first, then demanding, urgent, as if all the tension she’d been carrying could finally be released. He groaned low, the sound vibrating between them, hands running down her spine, pulling her impossibly close. Every nerve in his body screamed for her, yet it wasn’t just lust—it was a need to hold her, to show her she belonged here, in this moment, with him.

He cupped her face, thumbs brushing over the edge of her jawline, memorizing the way her pupils dilated, the way her lips trembled beneath his. Every breath she took felt like a promise; every small shiver a confession.

Their bodies pressed together in a rhythm that was both urgent and reverent. He trailed kisses down her neck, letting his lips explore every sensitive spot, each press sending shivers through her. His hands slid beneath her shirt, fingers brushing over her bare skin, memorizing every curve, every hollow, drinking her in with tactile hunger.

“Aira…” he whispered against her throat, voice hoarse. “God, I need you. I’ve needed you for so long.”

Her hands roamed over him, tracing the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his back, memorizing the warmth of his skin. She pressed herself against him, desperate to feel him, to claim him, her body speaking the words her mind had been too afraid to say.

She moaned when his lips found the swell of her breasts, tugging lightly at his shirt as her fingers found the waistband of his jeans. Every touch, every growl, every brush of teeth made her forget caution, forget the world outside. She arched, meeting his movements with equal fervor, a tidal wave of need and relief, letting herself go without shame.

“Namjoon…” she breathed, voice trembling. “I—”

He silenced her with a deep, claiming kiss, letting his hands speak what words never could. Tender, yet insistent, he explored, learned, memorized every inch of her body. Each sigh she let out made him ache to give her more, to make her feel the desire that had been building between them for days.

He lifted her effortlessly, pressing her against the edge of the couch. She wrapped her legs around him instinctively. He could feel her heartbeat hammering against his chest, her breath ragged. Every inch of her felt alive under his hands, every shiver feeding the fire burning between them.

His tongue traced hers, teeth grazing gently, alternating between soft and rough, driving her wild. His hands cupped her ass, pulling her impossibly closer, guiding her with reverent urgency. Her moans filled the room, mingling with his groans, a symphony of desire and trust. He kissed her neck, shoulders, the hollow behind her ear, leaving trails that made her whimper and him groan, until the world shrank to only the two of them.

She clung to him, hands digging into his back, nails leaving light scratches that only heightened their frenzy. Never before had she felt so seen, so known, so wholly desired. Her mind spun with sensations and emotions—desire, love, fear, trust—all bleeding into one wild need.

His lips returned to hers, and every brush, every bite, every wet, heated kiss sent her body spiraling. She whispered his name, desperate, needy, almost shaking as he responded with equal fervor, burying himself in her with long, measured thrusts that left them both gasping.

“I… I love you,” she breathed, voice trembling against his lips.

He froze for half a heartbeat, then cupped her face, pulling her impossibly close. “I love you too, Aira,” he growled, voice thick with raw emotion. “God, I’ve loved you from the moment you stepped into my life.”

They didn’t stop. Not now, not ever. Every movement became bolder, more daring. Clothes discarded, skin slick with sweat, every brush of friction, every gasp, every tug of hands and lips drove them to a new height.

He moved inside her again, slow, agonizing, then faster, harder, letting his hips tell the story of how much he craved her. She arched, tightened, gripping him like he was her lifeline. Every moan, every cry, every whispered plea sent him over the edge again and again.

When he pulled out, she didn’t rest. She pressed against him, guiding him back in, a mix of teasing and hunger, dragging him into another round of fevered passion. He obeyed, unable to resist, every thrust, every sigh, every wet, heated movement sending them spiraling deeper.

She wanted every inch, every second, every touch. Her nails raked down his back, dragging him closer, urging him on, letting her own desires take over fully. His lips traced her curves, kissed every part of her that he could reach, until she was trembling in the sweet agony of unrelenting pleasure.

Her moans became unfiltered, raw, wet, and impossible to ignore. Namjoon responded in kind, giving as much as he took, moving in waves of need, leaving no part of her untouched, no inch unexplored, until both of them were slick, shivering, and utterly undone.

By the third, final round, they were ragged, breathless, hearts racing, bodies slick, entwined. He kissed her, thoroughly, claiming her mouth, her neck, her soul. He whispered her name, her moans filling the space, and finally pressed into her with a slow, merciless rhythm, savoring every reaction.

She clung to him like she would never let go, trembling, crying out, moaning, losing herself completely to the intensity. Every gasp, every sigh, every whisper of “Namjoon…” was a promise, a confession, a surrender.

He thrust deep, kissed her forehead, her eyes, and whispered against her temple, “Mine… always mine.”

“I’m yours,” she gasped back, body shaking, heart overflowing.

And then, finally, they collapsed into each other, tangled limbs, sweat-slicked skin, hearts beating in tandem, completely undone yet utterly whole.