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

Chapter 109: Post-Nap Meows & Human Feelings

"Hobi," I say quietly,

"who told you that you had to hold us all up? Who told you that you weren't allowed to lean?"

His lips twitch, but not into a smile.

"No one. I just... I forget, sometimes."

My heart squeezes.

I get it.
I get it too well.

"You don't have to shine all the time," I say, setting my tea down.

"You're not here to be a lighthouse. You're here to be loved."

He swallows hard.
Doesn't speak.

So I do what I always do when words start to fail.

I move.
I get up, cross the deck, and gently sit beside him on the couch.

His eyes flutter open as I reach for his hand. I don't take it-just rest my palm near his.

A quiet offering.

And when he curls his fingers into mine, I squeeze.

The soft deck light catches the tears clinging to his lashes.

But he doesn't cry.
He just breathes.

Lets his head fall gently onto my shoulder.

We sit like that.

Two silhouettes resting under the stars, the sound of pool water with the quiet purr of the hot tub and distant laughter threading through the night air like white noise.

Wacha appears in the doorway, stretches like she owns the world, and hops up beside us like she's checking in.

Yeontan trails after her, plops dramatically to the floor deck at our feet, tail thumping once against the rug.

We're all here.
Everyone who matters.

Hobi whispers, "Thank you, hyung."

I kiss his temple.
Just once. Soft.

Like punctuation on a sentence that didn't need to be said out loud.

"I've got you," I whisper.
He leans into me like he believes it.

The quiet stretches.
Not heavy. Not uncomfortable.
Just full.

It settles between us like a blanket, warm and unspoken.

The kind of silence that means I'm here and you don't have to fill this space if you're not ready.

Hobi's shoulder is still tucked against mine.

His head has shifted off my shoulder now, but his hand is still wrapped in mine-his thumb brushing absently over my knuckles.

Not consciously, I think.

Just needing something to hold onto.
Needing someone.

His other hand fiddles with a loose thread on the throw blanket that Wacha kneaded to death last week.

It's the third time he's twisted it around his finger, unwinding and rewinding.

Again and again.
I don't press.
I just wait.

And finally, in the hush of lamplight and jazz and starlight-filtered stillness, he speaks.

"Sometimes..."

His voice catches, just barely.
He swallows and tries again, softer.

"Sometimes I worry that I'm just... too much sunshine, you know?"