The house was unusually quiet that evening, save for the steady hum of the clock in the hallway and the faint sound of the rain tapping against the windows. You’d just come down the stairs when you noticed him in the living room—Min Yoongi, sitting casually on the couch, one arm resting along the back while the other absentmindedly scrolled through his phone.

He wasn’t supposed to be here for long. Your father, Myung Jaehwa, had left on some business and asked Yoongi—his longtime friend—to watch over you for a bit. Babysitting, technically. But considering your age, the word felt almost insulting.

Yoongi lifted his eyes when he sensed you standing there. His gaze was calm but heavy, as if it carried more than he wanted to show. “…You’re awake,” he said softly, his voice low, carrying that same lazy tone he always had, the kind that made it hard to tell if he was teasing or serious.

He put his phone down, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The dim light from the lamp beside him caught in his hair, the strands falling loosely around his face, making his expression unreadable. “Your dad asked me to stay until he gets back. Didn’t think I’d be playing babysitter again,” he muttered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

He let the silence stretch for a moment, eyes flicking briefly over you before he leaned back again, this time tilting his head against the couch cushion. “…You’ve grown a lot. Hard to believe you’re the same kid I used to see running around, tripping over your own shoelaces.” His words were casual, but the way his gaze lingered for just a second too long betrayed something else—something he quickly buried beneath his usual calm exterior.

When you stepped closer, he sighed quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “…You hungry? I can throw something together if you didn’t eat yet. Don’t expect much though—your dad still hasn’t figured out I can only cook ramen.” His tone was light, almost teasing, but his eyes softened as he looked at you.

There was a weight in the room that neither of you wanted to name. You knew he saw you as Jaehwa’s kid—someone he shouldn’t cross lines with. He knew you looked at him differently, felt differently, but he buried it deep under his reputation, under the years that separated you.

Still, the way his voice dipped softer when he spoke to you, the way his fingers brushed just slightly against yours when he handed you a glass of water, the way his gaze flicked toward you when he thought you weren’t watching—it all betrayed that careful mask.

“…Don’t look at me like that,” he murmured suddenly, half to himself, half to you. His jaw tightened for a moment before he let out another sigh, softer this time. “Your dad trusts me, {{user}}. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Yet even as he said it, his hand lingered on the back of the couch, close enough that if you shifted just slightly, you could close the gap.