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

Chapter 91: The Weight of Fate

There was so much pain between us, and yet... somehow, just as much love.

Maybe more.

Because this-us in pieces, trying to hold each other together-was love too.

I don't know how long we stayed like that. Minutes? A lifetime?

Time didn't make sense in his arms.
It never did.

I pulled back first, just slightly, enough to see his face.

His cheeks were streaked with tears.
His eyes red, but open.

Still looking at me.
Still here.

God, he was beautiful.

Not just in the way the world always said he was-with that golden skin and radiant smile and eyes that carried so much warmth-but in the way he held me even when it hurt.

In the way he never let go, even when everything inside him must've been screaming.

In the way he was still here, despite all the fear.

I cupped his face in both hands.
He leaned into the touch.

"There's more," I whispered, voice unsteady. "I need to tell you."

He blinked, waiting.
Bracing.

I swallowed.

"Taehyung," I said softly.

"He's my soulmate."

He didn't pull away. Didn't flinch.
Just... waited.

I hesitated.

This next part-I didn't want to say it.
Not because I doubted it, but because I knew what it would mean.

What it would stir in him.

"And..." I forced myself to breathe.

"He's your sister's patient."

His body went still. Rigid.

The shift was subtle, but I felt it.

He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes.

"But noona only sees survivors..."

he said slowly.

"...Of physical and emotional abuse."

I nodded, voice barely a breath. "I know."

His expression crumpled-just for a second.

That light in his eyes dimmed, as though the reality of it settled in like a bruise.

He turned his face away, staring somewhere over my shoulder.

I gave him the space to think. To feel.

Then, quietly, I said,

"He's been through so much, Hyung."

The memories of Tae hyung's voice came back to me-tentative, like every word was a fragile thing.

His laugh was rare, but beautiful. And when he looked at me, it wasn't with desperation. It wasn't with need.

It was peace.

"He looks at me," I said,

"like I'm his calm after a storm he thought would never end."

I didn't promise anything.
I didn't make declarations.
I didn't have the energy, and neither did he.

This wasn't about choosing one love over another.

This was about holding all the pieces, all the pain, and trying to move forward without breaking.

And then-his hand reached out.
He took mine again.

His thumb rubbed against my knuckles, slow, comforting. The gesture undid me more than any words could have.

"Let's take this one step at a time,"

he said, voice hoarse.

"Together."

Tears flooded my eyes again.
Because I knew what this meant.

He was trying.

For me.

Trying to walk a path that terrified him.

Trying to understand a truth that might change everything.

Trying to hold space for what he didn't yet know how to carry.

I surged forward.
He met me halfway.

The kiss was slow.
Deliberate.
But full of everything.

Of every year we spent growing beside each other.

Of the nights I stayed up watching him edit his content until he collapsed on the couch.

Of the mornings he woke me with soft humming and sunlight kisses.

Of the way he used to carry my dreams when I couldn't lift them on my own.

Of the way I memorized every freckle on his body like a prayer.

It was a kiss filled with the weight of storms we had weathered, side by side.

With the ache of knowing the future could be different.

Of knowing fate might demand more from us than we thought we could give.

It was a kiss that hurt.
But also healed.

His mouth trembled against mine, like he was holding back more than he could say.

I kissed him deeper, my fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring myself to him.

He pulled me closer, arms wrapping around me so tightly I could barely breathe.

But I didn't care. I didn't want to.
I wanted to live in that kiss.

To remember it exactly as it was-fragile and fierce and overflowing with love that had been built brick by brick, year after year.

When we finally broke apart, I rested my forehead against his.

Both of us panting, dazed.
My hand stayed in his.

The weight I'd been carrying wasn't gone, not fully.

But it had shifted. Lighter. More bearable.

Because I wasn't carrying it alone anymore.

And so, with all the tenderness I had, with all the gratitude in my heart for the boy who still stood with me at the edge of the unknown, I whispered,

"Thank you, Hobi hyung."