No Strings Attached | Min Yoongi x OC

5 ♡

I tell myself I'm only going to call out a goodbye.
When I turn down the hall, her door is open and light spilling into the hallway.

I walk toward it without thinking.

I stop at the doorway.

She's moving around the room—pulling clothes from hangers, humming under her breath. It's not the first time I've seen her like this; bare and unguarded but it feels different now. The same body, the same easy confidence, but threaded with something gentler; familiarity reshaped by distance.

My throat tightens with the ache of it. I've missed this—not the sight itself, but the ordinary closeness of it.

"Peeping Tom," she says suddenly without looking at me, voice light.

I clear my throat. "Door was wide open."

She doesn't turn right away. "Open door doesn't always mean invitation," she says, but there's a smile in it.

"I know."

When she finally looks over her shoulder, there's amusement in her eyes. "It's okay," she teases. "I left it open on purpose."

That draws a laugh out of me before I can stop it. The sound feels unfamiliar and good. "Still giving me a hard time."

"Someone has to."

I lean against the frame, careful not to step farther in. "You remember that night you stayed? The one where you kissed me before you left?"

She nods, the motion small. "Yeah."

"I keep thinking about it," I say. "I was half-asleep, but it felt... different. Like something I wasn't going to get again."

She's quiet for a moment, searching my face. Then she crosses the few steps between us, stopping close enough that I can feel her breath.

"You could've asked," she says softly.

"I didn't think I was allowed to."

Her eyes lift to mine; the corners crinkle just slightly. "You are now."

She tilts up, brushes her lips against mine; light, certain, not about hunger but recognition. The same rhythm, gentler now. Old familiarity meeting the new carefulness we built overnight.

When she pulls back, she stays close enough for her whisper to find me. "Now go wait in the kitchen. I'm going to be late."

I smile. "Yes, ma'am."

She laughs under her breath, and the sound follows me down the hall.

By the time she's ready, the apartment smells faintly of her perfume and coffee. She grabs her bag, phone, keys; I pull my hood up and slip on a mask.

The hallway feels smaller with both of us in it.

We ride the elevator down together, neither talking, both pretending to check our phones. Outside, the morning light is too bright after that soft apartment glow. Her car's parked a few spots from mine. I walk beside her, hands deep in my pockets, listening to the sound of her keys jangling.

"I'll be at your agency in a few hours," I say when we reach her car.
She nods, opening the door. "Then I'll see you there."

She smiles—real, unguarded, the kind that hits me harder than it should.
"Don't be late," she teases.

"Wait," I say, reaching out before she can step in. She turns, eyebrows raised, and I can't help it. I tug the mask down, close the distance, and kiss her.

It's brief, barely more than a breath, but she makes a small sound against my mouth—surprised, soft—and it feels like sunlight cracking through cloud.

When I pull back, I murmur, "Something to hold me till the end of the day."

She blinks, cheeks warming, then huffs a laugh. "You're greedy."

"Maybe," I say. "See you later, Eunah."

She shakes her head, still smiling, and gets into the car. As she drives off, I stand there for a moment, mask still around my chin, watching the taillights fade into traffic.

For the first time in a long time, I'm looking forward to the rest of the day.

~

The city rolls by in soft gray motion, early light bouncing off glass and asphalt. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other curled against my mouth, thumb pressed to where her lipstick brushed my skin.

Everything about this morning replays itself: the warmth of her apartment, the way she told me to stay, the sight of her at the doorway pulling on her bra, teasing me like we hadn't spent months pretending we didn't know each other that way.

Every small thing feels heavier now. The sound of her laugh when she called me greedy. The glimpse of her smile before she turned to go. The way she moved around her room; bare, ordinary, unguarded, and how the familiarity didn't feel like possession anymore. It felt like permission. Like trust.

At a red light, I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. I almost don't recognize myself. There's a softness in my face I don't usually allow anyone to see.

I think about what I told her last night: that I'd still be difficult, but that I'd stay honest. The words sound small now, but they're the only ones I have that mean anything. Honest. It's a start, at least.

Traffic thickens near my building. I let the car idle, fingers tapping against the steering wheel in time with whatever song the radio is quietly humming. Usually I'd use the drive to reset; to shed everything personal before stepping back into my own walls. But I don't want to this time. I want to hold onto her voice, her scent, the image of her smiling at me in the morning light.

When I finally pull into the garage, I sit there for a long moment before turning off the engine. The silence feels like a pause rather than an ending.

Upstairs, I shower, change, move through the motions automatically. But the apartment feels different now—less sterile, less quiet. She's threaded into the air somehow, in the scent of my soap, in the echo of her laugh that keeps surfacing between thoughts.

We crossed a line this morning, and there's no walking it back. Maybe that's the point. Maybe lines are just things you draw until someone teaches you how to step over them.

I glance at the clock. A few more hours until I see her again.