No Strings Attached | Min Yoongi x OC

2 ♡

[Yoongi's POV]

Work has a way of pretending to fix things.
Schedules, deadlines, voices in the hallway, the pulse of music through studio walls – all the noise that makes you believe you're fine. I dive back into it, let it swallow the parts of me that still ache. But every time I open the closet, there it is.

The shirt.

Hung alone, pushed into the corner where no other fabric can steal its scent. It's ridiculous, sentimental, not me, but I can't bring myself to wash it. Every night I tell myself I'll throw it into the laundry. Every morning I don't.

By the fourth day, the lie of normalcy starts to thin. I pull out my phone between home sessions, thumb hovering over her name. The contact is just an initial and an emoji, nothing that would ever give her away.

Yoongi: You busy?

It takes a while, but she answers.
E🌙: Not really. Work stuff. Why?

I stare at the words longer than I should before typing back.
Yoongi: Just checking in.

It should end there, but it doesn't. I ask a few small things; if she's been eating, how her week's going – and she gives those vague, polite replies that sound like her. The rhythm is easy, familiar. Too familiar.

Finally, I stop pretending it's casual.
Yoongi: Can I see you?

There's a pause. I can almost see her reading it, deciding. Then:
E🌙: Sure. Same place?

My thumb hesitates above the keyboard. The hotel is neutral ground. Safe. Detached. Exactly what this is supposed to be. But the thought of that bed, that room, feels wrong now; too impersonal after the way she stayed.

Yoongi: No.
I type, then delete it, then type it again.

Yoongi: No. Come to my place.

The typing dots flicker on and off for a long time before her reply appears.
E🌙: Are you sure?

I stare at that line. Three simple words, but they mean everything: Are you sure you want to blur the line we drew? Are you sure this isn't a mistake? Are you sure you're not lonely enough to regret it later?

My chest tightens. I answer anyway.

Yoongi: Yeah. I'm sure.

After what feels longer than an hour, the doorbell cuts through the apartment like a heartbeat.
I check the time; ten past nine, and tell myself to breathe. The city lights behind the curtains blur into gold and silver, soft against the dark. When I open the door, she's there.

No glamour.
Just Eunah.

She's in a loose flannel over a white cropped tee and black biker shorts, hair half-tied, face bare except for a swipe of balm on her lips. No bra. No armor. Just comfort layered over routine. Simple. Uncomplicated. Exactly how she's always been when it's just us — though now, it doesn't feel simple at all.

Something in my chest twists. This is what we agreed on. So why does it feel like she's walked into my home wearing the idea of her instead of the person?

"Hey," she says, smiling that quiet smile she always does.
"Hey," I answer, stepping aside to let her in.

She slips out of her shoes, moves like she's done this a thousand times even though she never has. My space looks smaller with her in it, more human somehow. I gesture toward the living room.

"Whiskey?"

She nods. "Please."

I pour two glasses and hand her one. The rim of the glass catches the lamplight, same way it used to in hotel rooms. We sit on the couch, a small distance between us that suddenly feels like a canyon. The hum of the refrigerator fills the pause.