No Strings Attached | Min Yoongi x OC

3 ♡

I didn't say what to do when I'm the one who is.

[Yoongi's POV]

Fate likes to play games, and today it chose me as its partner.

The studio smells like coffee and electronics. I've been in a thousand rooms just like it, but this one feels smaller. Maybe it's the walls, maybe it's her.

She's here.

Standing a few feet away, talking to the other producer, headset crooked on her neck. Her hair's pulled up, and the KISS crop top she's wearing shows a thin line of skin when she reaches for a cable. I know that shirt. I remember the sound it made when I tugged it over her head, the way she laughed against my mouth. I look away before memory turns into something that shows.

She notices me after a minute. No flicker of surprise, no hesitation. Just a polite nod—the kind people give colleagues, not ghosts. It stings more than I expect.

I clear my throat. "Didn't know you were working this project."

She shrugs, still focused on the monitor. "Got assigned last week. Small world."

"Yeah."

The other producer asks her to pull a file, and she moves past me to get to the computer. The scent of her shampoo catches on the air; something clean, citrus, not the same perfume I've been holding onto in my closet. My hands tighten around the edge of the table.

We work. Or pretend to. Every now and then our eyes meet over the glow of the screen, quick, accidental. She's professional, efficient, saying the right things at the right times. I match her tone. On paper we look fine.

During a playback break, she leans against the console, scrolling through her notes. The light from the monitor touches her jaw, her throat, that narrow stretch of skin between the shirt and the waistband of her jeans. I shouldn't look, but I do. The air between us hums like feedback.

She feels it. I can tell by the way she straightens, the way her gaze drifts toward mine for half a heartbeat too long before she looks back at the screen.

"You good?" she asks, casual, as if the question means nothing.
"Yeah," I say. "You?"
"Always."

It's a lie; I can hear it. Probably sounds the same when I say it.

The track ends. The room settles into that short silence between takes. I open my mouth, close it again. There's nothing I can say here, not with everyone watching, not without breaking whatever distance she's built.

When the session wraps, she gathers her things with practiced calm. "Good work today," she says, giving the group a quick smile before heading for the door.

She doesn't look back. But when she passes me, her arm brushes mine; light, deliberate, enough to make me wonder if it was an accident.

The door clicks shut, and the studio suddenly feels airless.

[Eunah's POV]

I make it halfway down the hall before I breathe again. The hum of the studio door closing behind me still sits in my chest. I tell myself I'm fine; that it was just work, that we were just two professionals in a room. My heart doesn't listen.

Back in my little office corner, I drop into the chair and press my palms flat against the desk. The surface is cool. My skin isn't.

That look in his eyes; steady, unreadable, but too focused, burns through every attempt at composure. He wasn't angry. He wasn't anything. That's what makes it worse. The silence between us is heavier now than it ever was when we weren't talking.