No Strings Attached | Min Yoongi x OC

4 ♡

[Yoongi's POV]

The week folds itself into routine.
Morning traffic, studio lights, coffee that's never strong enough. Same room, same faces. And her.

She's there every day; head bent over a laptop, hair caught in the light from the monitor, voice even and professional. She talks to everyone the same way she talks to me. It should make it easier. It doesn't.

Monday, I watch her laugh at something the other producer says. The sound hits me like muscle memory. For a second I almost laugh too.

Tuesday, she passes me a set of notes without looking up. Our fingers don't touch, but I still feel the heat of her skin like static. She smells the same as always; something warm, faintly sweet, a scent that clings to my shirts no matter how many times I wash them.

Wednesday, I catch myself staring. At the curve of her mouth when she's concentrating. At the way she pushes her sleeves up when she's about to explain something. She notices, of course she does, and meets my eyes for half a heartbeat before turning back to the screen. I look away first.

Thursday, she wears her hair down. It brushes her shoulders when she tilts her head, and all I can think about is the way it used to slide against my neck, the quiet little sigh she made when I said her name. I start another track just to drown the thought out.

Friday, we stay late. Everyone else leaves early. She's sitting on the couch behind the console, scrolling through her phone, humming under her breath. A melody she doesn't even realize she's making. I remember the sound of her laugh against my skin, the way she'd steal sips from my glass, the way she'd tell me stupid stories until I forgot I was tired. The ache sits low and constant, an old injury I keep pressing just to see if it still hurts. It does.

By the time the week ends, I've memorized the rhythm of her presence again: the sound of her footsteps, the tone of her voice, the way she pretends she doesn't feel me watching. I tell myself that I'll stop after this project. That distance will fix it.

But every night when I leave, the city smells like her perfume. Every morning when I wake, I can still hear her laugh in the back of my head.

By Saturday, the pretense feels paper-thin. I'm tired of polite, of pretending that the hollow in my chest is anything but her name whispered against the inside of my ribs.

Something's going to break. I can already feel it.

Sunday arrives too quietly.
No alarm, no schedule, no one waiting for me to walk into a studio. Just the hum of the city outside and the echo of her voice somewhere behind my thoughts.

I try to work in my home studio. I can't. Every unfinished file on the screen turns into the curve of her handwriting, the edge of her smile. The house is too still. Even the air feels like it's holding its breath.

By noon, I stop pretending. I pick up my phone and stare at her name.

There's nothing I can text that doesn't sound like an excuse.
So I call.

It rings once. Twice.
Then her voice; steady, wary. "Yoongi?"

For a second I can't speak. I just listen to the small domestic sounds in the background of her life: a kettle, the faint hum of a fan, a song playing low somewhere out of frame.

"Are you busy?" I ask.

A pause. "Not really. Why?"

"Can we talk?"

She sighs, soft but not annoyed. "About work?"

"No."

The silence that follows is long enough for me to hear my own heartbeat.