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

Chapter 112 : The Cracks that Rebuilt Us 🔥

"Define every-OW, okay okay!"

Jimin fanned himself from the stairs like a Renaissance ghost.

"Finally," he exhaled. "I was getting crow's feet. My skin was aging from all this emotional constipation."

Y/N doubled over laughing, hiding her face in Kook's hoodie.

Taehyung appeared with Yeontan tucked under one arm like a furry purse and immediately staged a group cuddle.

"Emergency snuggle huddle. Now. Tannie's orders."

Yeontan barked once in what could only be described as moral support, then dove into the pile of limbs with royal dedication.

I stayed back.
Just watched.

Watched the way Yoongi caught Joon's shoulder in a quiet bump on his way to the kitchen.

The soft, knowing smirk on his lips.

"Took you long enough, idiot."

Joon huffed but didn't argue. "I deserved that."

"Damn right," Yoongi replied.

I felt the smile start in my chest before it reached my face.

They were okay.
We were okay.

The knot in my throat hadn't gone away, but it didn't hurt anymore.

It felt... tender.
Like a bruise healing.
Like scar tissue softening.

And when Y/N looked at me-really looked-and mouthed, thank you across the room, I just nodded.

Because that was all I needed.

_______________________

Later that night, the living room was a cocoon of pillows and sleepy limbs.

Yoongi sat curled into one corner of the sectional, laptop glowing softly on his lap.

Joon leaned against the armrest beside him, one arm looped lazily around Y/N's shoulders as she curled against his chest, a journal open on her lap.

I sat at the other end of the couch with Tae's legs draped over mine.

Yeontan sprawled on his back in the crook of Tae's arm like a baby. Wacha stretched out across the coffee table like she paid the bills here.

Kook and Hobi lay tangled in a blanket on the rug, their heads resting on opposite ends of the same body pillow.

Jimin was nestled between them, phone in hand, but not really reading.

It was quiet.
Golden.

Soft music from Yoongi's speaker drifted through the air-instrumental, piano, gentle like rain on glass.

Namjoon pressed a kiss to Y/N's hair.

"No more fear," he whispered. "Only love."

She smiled against his chest. "Only love."

God, my heart.

I hadn't realized how much I needed that sentence.

Not just for them.
For me. For all of us.

Yoongi leaned over, tapping his screen, showing them a new UX mockup for SoulReach.

"See this layout? I had Jae make this yesterday. It moves the focus away from location pins. It's more about emotional status-like a constellation of intent. Not presence."

Y/N perked up immediately, fingers brushing Namjoon's wrist as she leaned forward.

"It's perfect. It keeps the hope but cuts the exposure."

Joon studied it, eyes sharp, thoughtful.

"We could layer it over the existing volunteer networks. Keep data decentralized."

Yoongi raised a brow. "Exactly."

And I watched them-my loves-lean into one another, not just physically but intellectually, emotionally.

Namjoon was learning he didn't have to lead with control.

Y/N was learning she didn't have to fight alone.

They were learning to trust.
To speak fear, but not be it.

Me? I was finally forgiving myself.

For the silence.
The fear.
The shame that wasn't mine but lived in my bones anyway.

It wasn't my fault.
It wasn't any of ours.

And when I looked at Jimin, who had scooted up to Yoongi's side to peek at the screen-his head tilting curiously, eyes wide and thoughtful-I realized he saw it too.

The cracks didn't break us.
They remade us.

The fantasy of perfection?
It was gone.
Replaced by something messier.

More honest.
More real.

Love like this wasn't smooth edges and polite declarations.

It was Jungkook slipping his fingers into Jimin's just to anchor him.

It was Hobi tucking Tae's curls behind his ear and pretending not to smile when Tae looked away.

It was Yoongi reaching over to silently refill my tea when he saw the way my hands were shaking from a memory I hadn't even spoken.

It was all of us.
Still scared.

But together.
And ready.

Because when my father comes for us-when the storm breaks-so be it.

We would fight.
All eight of us.

Not perfect.
Not polished.
But family.

And I swear to every star that's ever burned,
We would win.