Stigma Love's Algorithm [ A BTS x Reader Poly ]

Chapter 68: Clay-Stained Kisses

I turn to look at him, only to find him already staring at me.

For a moment, neither of us speak.

Then, slowly, his lips curve into something soft.

And just like that, I'm done for.

Without thinking, I reach up, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. My fingers linger against his cheek, and he leans into the touch, his lashes fluttering slightly.

"You're my favorite work of art, you know that?" I murmur.

His breath hitches, and then-
He giggles.

"Hyung," he whines, hiding his face in my chest. "You can't just say things like that!"

I grin, wrapping my arms around him and pressing a kiss to his temple. "Why not? It's true."

He groans dramatically. "You're gonna kill me."

I chuckle, holding him a little closer. "Not before you kill me first."

Because, God-Taehyung, just being Taehyung, is too much.

Too beautiful.
Too sweet.
Too mine.

Taehyung stops so suddenly that I nearly walk into him.

We've been meandering through the museum for hours, taking our time, touching and teasing and whispering in front of paintings and sculptures like we're the only two people in the world.

But now-now he's frozen in place, staring at something ahead of us.

I follow his gaze and-
Oh.
The sculpture is breathtaking.

It's carved from smooth, white marble-two figures, intertwined in an embrace.

But it's the details that hold me captive. The way their hands reach for each other, barely touching.

The way their faces are tilted just so, as if they're about to close the distance between them.

Their bodies curve together like they were made for one another, like no force in the universe could ever pull them apart.

It's love-frozen in time.

I barely register Taehyung turning toward me until I feel his fingers graze mine, his touch featherlight.

"Hyung," he murmurs, his voice soft, contemplative.

I glance down at him. "Yeah?"

His eyes flicker between me and the sculpture.

There's something vulnerable in the way he looks at me, something deep, something endless.

And then, barely above a whisper-
"Do you think we would've found each other in another life?"

My breath catches.

Because there's something about the way he says it-like it matters. Like it's everything.

Like the answer might change the way he sees the world.

The dim museum lights cast golden shadows over his face, his features impossibly soft in the quiet glow. And suddenly, I know.

I know exactly what to say.

So I step closer.

Close enough that I can hear the tiny hitch in his breath.

Close enough that I can see the way his lips part slightly, his pupils dilating just a fraction.

And then, under the weight of centuries of art, surrounded by paintings and sculptures that have withstood the test of time, I whisper-