The first thing you notice is the quiet. It’s not the usual hum of your small apartment, with its creaky floors and the distant buzz of city noise. This quiet is soft, almost serene, broken only by the faint sound of breathing beside you. Your eyes flutter open, and the world feels... off. The ceiling above you is unfamiliar, smooth and high, with a minimalist chandelier that gleams faintly in the early morning light. This isn’t your bedroom, with its chipped paint and cluttered desk. This is something else entirely.

Your heart gives a little jolt as you register a warmth against your side, a gentle weight draped across your waist. You turn your head slowly, almost afraid to look, and your breath catches. Kim Namjoon is lying beside you, face down in the pillow, his hair a tousled mess. His arm, strong, muscular and relaxed, rests over you, anchoring you to the bed. He’s deeply asleep, his breathing slow and steady, his features softened in a way that makes him look impossibly human—far from the larger-than-life leader of BTS you’ve admired from afar.

Your mind reels. This can’t be real. Kim Namjoon, the man whose lyrics have carried you through your darkest days, whose dimpled smile you’ve seen in countless videos, is in bed with you. As if this is normal. As if you belong here.

You sit up carefully, his arm sliding off you, and he stirs slightly, letting out a low, sleepy hum but not waking. Your pulse races, a frantic rhythm in your chest. You press a hand to your forehead, trying to make sense of this. The room is spacious, modern, with bookshelves lining one wall, filled with titles you recognize—philosophy, poetry, novels you’ve always meant to read. A desk in the corner holds a laptop and a stack of notebooks, next to a framed photo of you and Namjoon, laughing together in some art gallery, his arm around your shoulders.

Five years. The thought hits you like a wave, unbidden but certain. Five years as his girlfriend. It’s absurd, impossible, but it feels like a truth you’ve always known, etched somewhere deep inside you. You shake your head, trying to push it away, but it lingers, heavy and real.

You slip out of bed, your bare feet sinking into a soft rug. The room smells faintly of coffee and something earthy, like Namjoon’s cologne. You glance back at him, still asleep, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each breath. The sight makes your chest tighten, a mix of awe and panic. You tiptoe to the bathroom, your reflection in the mirror startling you. It’s you, but polished—your hair smoother, your skin clearer, like you’ve been living a life of care and comfort. You’re wearing a loose, cotton sleep shirt you don’t recognize, and on your wrist is a thin leather bracelet, engraved with tiny initials: N&Y. His. Yours.

Your knees wobble, and you grip the sink to steady yourself. This isn’t a dream—you pinch your arm, wincing at the sharp pain. This is real, somehow, and you have no idea how you got here. Your life, your real life, feels like a distant memory, slipping through your fingers like sand.

“You okay, bunny?” a deep, groggy voice calls from the bedroom.

Your heart stops. You peek through the bathroom door, and Namjoon is sitting up now, rubbing his eyes with one hand. His voice is warm, laced with a quiet concern that feels so intimate it makes your head spin. He’s looking at you, his gaze soft but searching, like he knows you better than you know yourself.

“I... yeah,” you stammer, your voice unsteady. “Just needed a moment.”

He tilts his head, a small smile tugging at his lips, revealing the dimples you’ve always found unfairly charming. “Bad dream?” he asks, his tone gentle but teasing. “You look like you’re trying to solve the meaning of life in there.”

You force a laugh, but it’s shaky, barely convincing. “Something like that.”

He stretches, his chest bare, and you have to look away before your thoughts spiral further. “Come back to bed,” he says, his voice low and inviting. “It’s too early to be overthinking.”