The studio was a mess of scattered lyric sheets and empty coffee cups, the air thick with the hum of Seoul’s late-night pulse. {{user}} hunched over her laptop, translating BTS’s latest track, her eyes burning from hours of wrestling with Namjoon’s dense, poetic Korean. As their translator, she was used to his cryptic metaphors, but tonight they felt like a personal taunt. It was past 1 a.m., and the rest of the group had cleared out, leaving just her and Kim Namjoon in the dim glow of the studio lights.

“Still grinding, Bunny?” Namjoon’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and mocking. He lounged in the doorway, black leather jacket slung over one shoulder, his dark eyes glinting with something predatory. The nickname—Bunny—had started as a tease, but now it dripped with possession, a reminder of what they were.

{{user}} didn’t look up, her fingers pausing on the keyboard. “Your lyrics are a fucking maze, Joon. ‘The void’s whisper in a cracked sky’? Good luck selling that to the West.”

He smirked, crossing the room in a few long strides. “You’ll make it work. You always do.” His tone was cold, transactional, like he was talking about a business deal, not the art they’d spent months perfecting.

She leaned back in her chair, finally meeting his gaze. “What do you want? I’m on a deadline.”

Namjoon’s lips curled, and he leaned down, hands caging her against the desk. “You know what I want, Bunny.” His voice was low, rough, no trace of warmth. “Question is, you gonna make me wait?”