No Strings Attached | Min Yoongi x OC

6 ♡

For once, I'm not dreading the workday.
For once, I'm looking forward to what comes after I arrive.

By the time I reach the agency, the morning haze has burned off. The lobby smells like coffee and printer ink, the kind of neutral buzz that means everyone's already deep into their day. I pull my hood down, slip off my mask, the familiar armor sliding out of place.

The receptionist nods, the other producers greet me with polite enthusiasm. Normal. All of it.
Except for the pulse sitting low in my chest because I know she's somewhere upstairs.

When I step into the production room, she's already there; headphones around her neck, hair pinned back, a pen between her teeth as she scrolls through her notes. She looks up the moment the door opens.

"Morning," she says.

"Morning."

That single word feels different now, like we both know what sits beneath it.

I take the chair beside the lead producer, nodding along as he starts talking through arrangements. My focus is half on the monitor, half on the way Eunah's eyes meet mine for the briefest second before flicking away. Professional. Controlled. But the air between us hums.

We work through the track, technical talk and numbers, her voice steady and clear as always. Every time she leans forward to adjust a level, a strand of hair slips free, and my hands actually itch with the urge to brush it back. Instead, I wrap my fingers around my coffee cup.

At one point she passes me a file. Our hands almost touch. It's a small, meaningless movement, but the spark that jumps between our skin is anything but. She catches it too, I can tell by the smallest pause in her breath before she steps back.

"Tempo feels a little off in the bridge," she says to the group, as if nothing happened.

"You're right," I answer, forcing my tone to stay even. "We can smooth it out later."

The others nod, already diving into talk about chord structure. We slip back into rhythm – two professionals doing their jobs, pretending their bodies don't remember each other's rhythms too.

Lunch break comes faster than I expect. The others file out first, leaving the room quieter. She gathers her notes, avoiding my gaze. I wait a beat before speaking.

"You have anything to eat?"

She glances up. "No. You?"

I shake my head. "Want to get something nearby?"

Her mouth twitches, like she's fighting a smile. "Wouldn't that look suspicious?"

"Probably," I admit. "But maybe honest isn't always neat."

That earns me a small, knowing look. "You're impossible," she says softly.

"And you still haven't said no."

A beat passes. Then she sighs, slides her pen behind her ear. "Ten minutes. There's a place across the street."

"Text me the name," I say, standing. "I'll get a seat in the back."

Her eyes meet mine, brief but warm. "You'd better not be late."

I grin as I slide my mask back on. "Wouldn't dream of it."

~

The café across the street is small and tucked between two glass buildings, the kind of place that smells like burnt espresso and warm bread. It's half full – office workers, students, nobody paying much attention. I take a corner table at the way back, hood up, mask still on, fingers drumming against the mug the server leaves in front of me.