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

Chapter 110: A Thousand Unsaid Things

He was currently using the oven mitts as puppets, dancing them along the edge of the island with a dramatic accent I couldn't quite place.

"Good sir," Mitt Left said in a British falsetto,

"have you considered the emotional impact of baking with unresolved romantic tension in the house?"

I gave him a look. "Are the mitts also therapists now?"

"Life coaches," he corrected, wiggling Mitt Right toward my face. "They also do tax consulting."

I flicked a pinch of flour at his nose without breaking stride.

He gasped like I'd slapped him with a fish. "How dare you, hyung!"

"Flour of justice," I replied calmly, going back to my bowl.

Hobi retaliated immediately, snatching a full handful of flour and tossing it-dramatically and with questionable aim.

Most of it hit the counter.
Some of it? My shirt.

We stared at each other in mock silence.
Then I lunged.

Chaos ensued.

Wacha, perched on the windowsill, let out a loud offended mrrow and leapt off in a flurry of tail and judgment.

Yeontan, always the dramatic one, barked once and then sneezed so hard he startled himself, sending flour clouds puffing up like stage smoke.

"Oh no!" Hobi gasped, clutching his oven mitts to his chest like fainting ladies.

"We've traumatized the children."

"You traumatized the children," I said, laughing as I wiped flour from my own cheek. "I was trying to make dinner."

"I am dinner," he declared with a wink.

I rolled my eyes. "More like a late night snack with a side of distraction."

Eventually, we settled-still chuckling, brushing flour off each other, finding a rhythm again.

Kneading dough side by side at the counter, hands pressing into the soft mixture, the air warm and dusted with the smell of yeast and sunlight and healing.

Hobi was quiet for a moment.

Then, gently, "Do you think they'll be okay?"

I didn't answer right away. My hands moved automatically, working the dough, folding, pressing, breathing.

"Eventually," I said. "But they'll need to want to be."

He nodded, eyes down on his own dough.

"We can help," he murmured.

I smiled softly. "We always do."

On the window of the kitchen I see Yoongi and Jimin sat on the swing, one headphone each, sharing a quiet song from Yoongi's phone.

Something with a lo-fi beat, a melancholy piano, and a bassline that hummed like a heartbeat.

Jimin's eyes were closed, head tilted toward the sun.

Yoongi didn't look away once.

I stepped into the quiet of the hallway, smiling, even through the tension.

Realizing that this house-it was cracked, sure. But love still lived in every room.

As Hobi and I placed the food in the dining room I see namjoon sat on the couch, a novel balanced on his knee.

The pages didn't seem to hold his focus.

Y/N passed behind him, arms folded, hair in a messy bun, a mug in hand.