No Strings Attached | Min Yoongi x OC

6 ♡

A few minutes later, the door chimes.

She walks in wearing her work badge, hair still pulled back, blazer thrown over the black top she'd worn this morning. It's professional enough for everyone else, but my eyes catch on the curve of her wrist, the faint smudge of lipstick she hasn't noticed on her sleeve. Something so ordinary it makes my chest ache.

"Hey," she says, sliding into the seat across from me.
"Hey."

The word feels safer in public, easier somehow.

"Did anyone see you?" she asks, voice low but teasing.
"Only the barista," I say. "She looked more interested in my order than my face."

She smiles, the kind of smile that makes it hard to remember we're surrounded by people.
She opens the menu. "You eat anything that isn't instant ramen?"
"Occasionally."
"So this is a special occasion, then."

Her tone is light, but her eyes flicker up to mine, gauging my reaction. I let the corner of my mouth tilt up. "You could say that."

The server comes, we order, nothing complicated. Once they're gone, the silence that falls between us feels familiar, but not heavy. It's the kind of silence that knows its own weight.

"You said something last night," she says after a moment. "About staying honest. I keep thinking about that."

"Yeah?"

She nods, stirring her coffee. "It's weird. I've spent most of my life being honest about everything except what I want."

"Then what do you want right now? In this moment."

Her spoon clinks softly against the cup. "To finish lunch without anyone noticing that you're you," she says finally. "And maybe to see what happens if we stop pretending we're still those two people from the hotel."

I breathe out a laugh. "That's a lot for one lunch break."

"Then we'll take small bites," she says, smiling.

The food arrives; quick, simple. We eat, talk about nothing: a new song, the agency's temperamental soundboard, the stray cat she's been feeding behind the building. It's normal, painfully normal, and that normalcy is what disarms me most.

When the check comes, she reaches for it at the same time I do.
"I've got it," she says.
I shake my head. "No, you don't."

"Yoongi—"
"Eunah," I cut in gently, meeting her eyes. "Let me do this one thing."

She holds my gaze for a beat, then lets go of the bill. "You're impossible," she murmurs, but her tone has softened.

As we step out into the sunlight, she tugs her blazer tighter around her shoulders. "You should go first," she says quietly. "Less obvious."

I nod, then glance at her one more time. "Same time tomorrow?"

Her lips curve. "Depends on how the track sounds."

"Fair enough."

I start walking toward the corner, the sound of her footsteps fading behind me. The air feels lighter than it has in weeks; not because the tension's gone, but because it finally has room to breathe.

Back in the studio, the world clicks back into focus: monitors glowing, cables coiled neatly on the floor, the familiar hum of equipment coming alive again. She slides back into her chair, head down, already reviewing the morning's notes. I take my spot behind the console. To anyone watching, we're just coworkers settling into the second half of the day.

But every so often our eyes meet, and the corner of her mouth tilts up just slightly. The same time tomorrow line plays in my head like a refrain.