No Strings Attached | Min Yoongi x OC

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[Yoongi's POV]

It's the quiet that wakes me.

Not the kind that lives inside studios or the press between takes, but the sort that hums behind your ribs when the world finally lets you rest. My head feels heavy, throat raw with the taste of whiskey and something sweeter I can't name. The sheets smell faintly of her perfume; something dry and warm, like cedar, and the air conditioner sighs against the curtains.

For a moment, I don't remember where I am. Just a hotel bed. My arm slides over the empty side and meets a bit of heat where it shouldn't. Panic flickers. I never fall asleep after, never let myself drift. It's safer that way. No one stays.

My eyes snap open.

There's a blur of light from the city leaking through the drapes, a low song still looping on the speaker. She's there, cross-legged in the armchair near the window, my shirt wrapped around her like an afterthought, phone in one hand and a half-finished drink in the other. The sight is too calm for how fast my heart's hammering.

"You stayed?" The words scrape out before I can swallow them.

She looks up, surprised but not guilty. "You were out cold. I didn't want you waking up to an empty room."

Her tone is simple, almost practical, but something in it lands heavy in my chest. No games, no soft manipulation, just a small kindness I didn't expect.

I push a hand through my hair. "I don't usually—"
"I know," she says, setting her phone aside. "You don't have to explain."

She stands, walks over, the hem of my shirt brushing her thighs. She checks the glass on the nightstand like she's making sure I have water, then glances at me again. There's no pity in her face, just that same quiet composure she always has.

"You okay?" she asks.

The question is so ordinary that it breaks something open. For a second I almost tell her no, that the noise in my head hasn't stopped in years, that this was supposed to be an escape and somehow she's made the room feel too real. But I just nod.

"Yeah," I lie, voice softer than I meant. "Thanks for staying."

She smiles, small and tired. "Didn't feel right to leave."

When she turns back toward the chair, I catch myself wanting to reach out, to stop her, to ask her to sit closer. It's stupid. This isn't supposed to mean anything. But the quiet between us feels different now, less empty, more like a pause before a song starts.

I push myself upright, the room tilting for a second before it steadies. My body's heavy and bare, skin still humming from sleep and whatever's left of the whiskey. I drag the sheet up to cover myself, more out of habit than modesty, and reach for the glass she left on the nightstand. The water's warm, but it clears my throat.

"What time is it?" I ask.

She checks her phone. "Three."
Her voice is low, a little hoarse. She hasn't slept either.

The neon sign across the street blinks a bright light across the sheets, painting her in half-shadow. That's when my brain finally catches up again; she's wearing my shirt. It hangs off one shoulder like it belongs there.

"Didn't know it doubled as pajamas," I murmur.

She glances down, faint amusement in her eyes. "It was comfortable," she says, like that's all the explanation there is.

Then she peels it off; unhurried, unbothered, not a performance. Just a woman returning something that isn't hers. I've seen her naked before, too many times to count, but right now I just watch. Not lust, not hunger. Just the quiet disbelief that a person can look that at ease in her own skin.