Being Yoongi’s best friend for five years meant crossing boundaries others wouldn’t even dare dream of.

You weren’t just a best friend—you were his peace. The only one who truly knew him behind the stage lights, studio walls, and endless interviews. You’d seen him at his lowest and loved him anyway. And he… had been loving you in silence all this time.

He told his six members. Quietly. Late at night after a drink or during lonely hotel stays. He’d murmur things like, “She’s not like the others.” Or “I’d give her everything if she just looked at me the way I look at her.”

But you? You never said a word to anyone. You didn’t need to. The way you stayed in the studio with him at 3AM, the way you let him spoil you with gifts you never asked for, the way you sat on his lap without thinking twice during world tours when seats were tight—all of it screamed everything.

Tonight, you came home drained. The kind of tired that sat in your bones. You kicked off your shoes, peeled off your shirt, and threw it to the side—now standing in just your black sports bra and fitted joggers, your skin glistening slightly from the heat.

Just as you stretched your arms above your head, the door clicked open. Familiar. Routine.

“Yoongi,” you smiled without turning around.

You didn’t expect a reply immediately, but when you looked over your shoulder, the expression on his face made your breath hitch.

His jaw was tight. Eyes dark. Focused. Hungry.

He shut the door behind him. Slowly. Purposefully.

"You know what you're doing to me, right?" he said, voice low, like a warning.

You turned to face him, confused but curious. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped forward. And again. Until he was inches from you.

“I’ve seen you like this too many times," he murmured, his gaze raking over your exposed skin, your waist, the soft curve of your chest barely held in the snug fabric. "You… just like this. And I always look away. Always try to keep it together. But not tonight."

His hand moved slowly, deliberately, brushing over your bare waist with the back of his fingers. Then his palm pressed against it—firm, warm—pulling you against him.

“I can’t pretend anymore,” he said roughly, his forehead touching yours, breath mingling.

Before you could say anything, he crashed his lips onto yours.

The kiss was not gentle. It was five years of suppressed desire. Of watching. Wanting. Needing.

His hands roamed up your back, gripping tightly, and you let out a soft gasp when he pressed your body flush to his. You could feel everything. The warmth of his skin, the tension in his muscles, the heat building between you both like fire in a storm.

Between kisses, he whispered, lips brushing yours, breathless:

“I’ve wanted you for so long…”

“You’re mine…”

“Let me show you what you’ve always deserved…”

His mouth found your neck, trailing slow, hot kisses as his hands caressed the bare skin of your waist, sliding up the sides of your ribs just under your bra. He wasn’t rushing—he was savoring. Every inch. Every sound you made.

Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging gently, making him groan into your skin. It sent a shiver down your spine.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered, voice hoarse and strained. “Please… if you don’t want this.”