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The humidity of the Tampa Bey evening clung to the asphalt of the Raymond James Stadium loading dock, smelling of ocean salt and pyrotechnics. Inside the concrete belly of the arena, the air was still vibrating. You could feel the sub-bass of the final "Arirang Tour" encore echoing in your bone marrow, a rhythmic thrum that signaled the end of a three-hour marathon.
You stood in the "Dead Zone," a quiet corridor tucked behind a mountain of flight cases labeled STAGE GEAR. You were a shadow in the corner, dressed in a staff-issued black windbreaker, a face mask, and a baseball cap pulled low. Your lanyard was real, but the name on it belonged to a production assistant currently grabbing coffee in the catering tent.
For six weeks, you had been a flickering image on a phone screen. You had watched Namjoon’s face grow leaner through FaceTime, seen the dark circles under his eyes deepen as the Arirang Tour kicked off its North American leg. You had listened to him talk about the pressure of the "Arirang" concept—how he wanted to weave traditional Korean soul into a modern stadium pop spectacle. He was exhausted, exhilarated, and, most of all, lonely.
"Final bows in sixty seconds!" a stage manager barked into his headset, sprinting past you.
The roar from the stadium changed. It shifted from a rhythmic chant into a singular, deafening wall of sound- the sound of seventy thousand people realizing the night was over. Ten minutes later, the heavy curtains separating the stage from the tunnel swung open. The air that rushed out was hot and smelled of ozone and sweat. The members appeared like ghosts through the haze. Jungkook was sprinting, his adrenaline still peaked, tossing a water bottle to a staff member. Hobi followed, trailing energy like a comet, his face drenched but glowing.
And then, you saw Namjoon.
He was walking slowly, his head tilted back as he caught his breath. He looked like a fallen god- wearing his own tour merch to end the night, forehead damp with perspiration, the silver chain on his pants catching the harsh fluorescent lights of the tunnel. He looked older than he had six weeks ago, his shoulders carrying the literal and metaphorical weight of the group's leadership.
He stopped near your stack of crates, reaching for a towel. He didn't look up. He just leaned his forehead against a flight case, his chest heaving.
"The bridge in 'Come Over' was a little pitchy tonight, Joon," you said softly.
Namjoon froze. The towel stopped halfway to his face. He didn't turn around immediately; he stayed perfectly still, as if he was afraid that by moving, he would break the hallucination. Slowly, he turned his head. When his eyes met yours over the top of your mask, the exhaustion seemed to vanish, replaced by a shock so pure it was almost comical.
"Y/N?" he breathed, his voice a gravelly wreck.
"I’m kidding about the pitch," you smiled, pulling your mask down. "You all were perfect."
He didn't care about the cameras for the tour documentary. He didn't care about the twenty staff members buzzing around him. He moved with a sudden, desperate speed, his large arms wrapping around your waist and lifting you off your feet. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his skin hot and damp against yours. He smelled like the stage—heat, hairspray, and the faint, earthy scent of the woodsy cologne he always wore.
"You're here," he whispered into your skin, his grip tightening until you could barely breathe. "How? The flights... the Seoul schedule..."
"I have a very good relationship with your manager," you laughed, clutching the damp fabric of his stage shirt. "Happy opening night, Joon."
The transition from the chaos of the stadium to the sanctuary of the blacked-out SUV was a blur of adrenaline. Usually, the members rode together in a convoy, but Namjoon had pulled a "Leader’s Prerogative," claiming he needed to discuss setlist adjustments with a "production lead" on the way to the hotel. Now, you were tucked into the plush leather backseat of a tinted Cadillac Escalade. The driver was a silent professional who had been briefed to keep his eyes on the road. Outside, the streets of Dale Mabry were lined with fans holding up their lightsticks, hoping for a glimpse of a window. Namjoon slumped into the seat, his hand immediately finding yours. He laced his fingers through yours, his thumb rubbing rhythmic circles over your knuckles.
"I feel like I’m breathing for the first time since Seoul," he murmured, looking out at the palm trees blurred by speed. "The tour is beautiful, Y/N. The fans... they’re incredible. But it’s loud. It’s so loud, all the time."
"I know," you said, resting your head on his shoulder. "I watched the whole set from the sound booth. You looked like you were carrying the whole world on your back during 'Mic Drop'."
He let out a short, self-deprecating laugh. "I was just trying not to slip on the water Taehyung and Jimin spilt during the first break, I didn’t realize i’d have to prepare for a water fight that early on.” He turned his head to look at you, his eyes soft in the intermittent glow of the passing streetlights. "Thank you for coming. I know the flight is brutal. I know being the secret girlfriend of a guy in a fishbowl isn't exactly a fairytale."
"It has its perks," you teased, gesturing to the luxury SUV. "Free food and a very handsome passenger? Sign me up"
As the car pulled into the underground garage of the West Hollywood hotel, Namjoon didn't let go of your hand. He led you through the service elevator, a move designed to avoid the fans camped out in the lobby. By the time the elevator dinged on the penthouse floor, the "RM" of the Arirang Tour had faded, replaced by just Namjoon.
The hotel suite was a glass box looking out over the glittering sprawl of Tampa. Namjoon had insisted on ordering "everything" from the late-night room service menu. By the time he emerged from the shower, smelling of sandalwood and fresh linen, the table was covered in steak, pasta, and a suspiciously expensive bottle of wine.
He was wearing his own clothes now- loose linen pants and a soft grey hoodie. He looked like the Namjoon who visited art galleries on rainy days, the Namjoon who read philosophy books in the park.
"I told them to leave the cart outside," he said, pulling out a chair for you. "I don't want anyone else in here tonight. Just us."
The dinner was a slow, indulgent affair. You talked about everything except the tour. You talked about the books you’d read, the way the light hit your apartment in Seoul, and the small things you missed about each other. Namjoon was a vivid storyteller, his hands moving animatedly as he described a small bookstore he’d found in Tokyo a few weeks prior. After dinner, the wine had left a warm hum in your veins. Namjoon dimmed the lights and sat on the oversized sofa, pulling you into his side.
"Sometimes I look at all of this," he said, gesturing to the view and the luxury of the room, "and I feel like I’m living in a dream that belongs to someone else. Like I’m just holding the place for the 'RM' the world sees. But when you’re here... the dream feels like mine again."
You looked up at him, tracing the familiar line of his jaw. "You've worked so hard for this dream, Joon. Don't let the scale of it make you feel small."
He smiled, his dimples deepening, and leaned down. The kiss was slow and tasted of red wine and longing. It was the kind of kiss that made the six weeks of distance vanish in an instant. His hand moved to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
"I missed you," he whispered against your lips. "I missed you so much it felt like a physical ache."
"I'm not going anywhere," you breathed. "At least for the next three days."
The peace of the moment was shattered by a sound that definitely did not belong in a romantic penthouse suite: the muffled, hysterical wheezing of Kim Seokjin laughing in the hallway.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The door to the suite didn't just open; it was practically kicked in.
"NAMJOON-AH! OPEN THE TWITTER! IMMEDIATELY!"
Seokjin burst into the room, still wearing his silk pajamas and holding his phone like a holy relic. Behind him, Jungkook was doubled over, clutching his stomach, his face a shade of red that looked dangerous. Namjoon scrambled to sit up, his hair mussed and his face flushed. "What the- we are BUSY! There’s a thing called knocking!"
"No time for knocking!" Seokjin gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. "The internet has decided your fate! You are no longer the Leader of BTS! You are the 'National Gift-Giver'!"
Jungkook finally managed to find his voice, though it was an octave higher than usual. "Hyung, they saw you! They saw you leaving the stadium with Y/N!"
Your heart dropped. "Wait, did we get caught? Are there pictures of my face?"
"No, no, no," Seokjin said, shoving his phone into Namjoon’s face. "Look! Look at the hashtag!"
Namjoon squinted at the screen. His eyes went wide, and then his head fell back against the sofa with a groan.
Trending Worldwide: #GiveMeANDAToo
"What is an 'ANDA'?" you asked, leaning in to look.
"It’s not an 'ANDA'," Jungkook squealed, falling onto the carpet. "It’s 'A N-D-A'. It stands for A Non-Disclosure Agreement!"
Seokjin started scrolling through the tweets at lightning speed. "Look at this one! 'I saw RM leaving in a black SUV with a lucky fan! He even held her hand! Why can't I win the lottery too? #GiveMeANDAToo'."
He swiped again. 'The Arirang Tour is truly for the people. Namjoon-ssi is literally taking fans back to his hotel to discuss the cultural significance of the setlist. A true king. #GiveMeANDAToo'.
"They think..." you started, the realization dawning on you. "They think I'm a fan? Like, a contest winner?"
"Not just a fan," Seokjin corrected, his shoulders shaking with fresh laughter. "They think you're a 'Lucky Representative.' There’s a whole theory going around that because the Arirang Tour is about 'The People’s Song,' Namjoon is choosing one 'soulmate fan' per city to give a private lecture to. They can’t believe that Namjoon would hook up with a fan and it be caught this easily"
Namjoon covered his face with his hands. "A private lecture? I was literally kissing her two minutes ago!"
"Well, according to Twitter user @JooniesBonsai, you were actually explaining the Joseon Dynasty's influence on 'Intro: Persona'," Jungkook teased, poking Namjoon’s leg. "She said, and I quote, 'Look at how intently she's looking at him. She's clearly a PhD student in Korean History. Namjoon found his match. #GiveMeANDAToo'."
Namjoon looked at you, then back at his chaotic members. The absurdity of it all finally broke through his embarrassment. He started to chuckle, then barked out a loud, genuine laugh that shook his whole frame.
"So," Namjoon said, pulling you back into his side while Seokjin and Jungkook started filming a TikTok to the hashtag in the background. "Since you’re my 'PhD student' for the night, do you want to hear my thesis on why I love you?"
"Only if it comes with more of that wine," you laughed.
"Deal," Namjoon said, kissing the top of your head. "But I'm locking the door this time. And I'm taking Seokjin's phone."