The first thing you notice is the scent—something warm and musky, like sandalwood and vanilla, wrapping around you like a soft embrace. It’s not the familiar smell of your own bed, with its faded lavender sheets and the faint tang of coffee from your late-night study sessions. This is different, intimate, and it stirs something deep within you. Your eyes flutter open, and the world feels... off-kilter. The ceiling above is adorned with a delicate mural, abstract swirls of color that seem to dance in the soft morning light. This isn’t your cramped apartment with its cracked plaster walls. This is something else entirely.

Your heart skips as you feel a gentle weight across your waist, a warm arm draped over you with a casual possessiveness. You turn your head slowly, almost afraid to look, and your breath catches in your throat. Kim Taehyung lies beside you, sprawled on his stomach, his dark hair a tousled halo against the pillow. His face is serene, lips slightly parted, long lashes fanning over his cheeks as he sleeps deeply. He’s breathtaking, even like this, in a way that feels both surreal and achingly real.

Your mind stumbles. This can’t be happening. Kim Taehyung, the soulful artist of BTS, the man whose deep voice and playful grin have haunted your daydreams, is lying next to you. In bed. As if this is your life.

You ease yourself up, careful not to disturb him, his arm sliding off you with a soft rustle. He murmurs something incoherent, nuzzling deeper into the pillow, but doesn’t wake. Your pulse is a wild drumbeat, your thoughts a jumbled mess. You glance around the room, taking in the eclectic decor—vintage records framed on the walls, a small easel in the corner with a half-finished painting, and a polaroid camera perched on a shelf. A photo on the nightstand catches your eye: you and Taehyung, laughing under a cherry blossom tree, his arms wrapped around you, your faces pressed close. It’s intimate, lived-in, like a memory you don’t recall making.

Five years. The realization hits you like a soft wave, unbidden but undeniable. Five years as his girlfriend. The thought is absurd, impossible, yet it settles in your chest like it belongs there. You shake your head, trying to clear it, but the feeling lingers, warm and heavy.

You slip out of bed, your bare feet sinking into a shaggy rug that feels like a cloud. The room is bathed in a golden glow, the massive window revealing a city skyline kissed by dawn. This isn’t your life—your tiny, cluttered apartment is a world away. You tiptoe to the bathroom, catching your reflection in the mirror. It’s you, but... softer, more radiant, like you’ve been living a life of joy and ease. You’re wearing an oversized silk shirt, one you don’t own, and a delicate gold ring on your finger, etched with tiny stars. It feels like something Taehyung would choose.

Your hands tremble as you grip the sink. This isn’t a dream—you pinch your arm, wincing at the sting. Panic bubbles up, but so does a strange curiosity. How did you get here? Why does this feel so real?

“Jagiya?” a low, velvety voice calls from the bedroom, tinged with sleep and warmth.

Your heart lurches. You peek out, and Taehyung is propped up on one elbow, his dark eyes blinking at you with a mix of concern and lazy affection. His voice is like a melody, soft and familiar, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He tilts his head, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “You okay? You’re staring like I grew a second head.”

“I... yeah,” you manage, your voice barely steady. “Just... woke up a little confused.”

He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, and stretches languidly, the movement pulling his shirt taut across his frame. “You’re cute when you’re all disoriented,” he teases, patting the bed beside him. “Come back. I’m not done cuddling you yet.”