Stigma Love's Algorithm [ A BTS x Reader Poly ]

Chapter 130: The House That Waited

“I’ll allow the banana milk,” I murmur.

Even Wacha climbs up my leg and flops into my lap like she’s claiming her territory back.

And just when I think I can’t feel more held—The hush returns.

The kind that doesn’t come from absence.
But presence.

The group shifts. And they part—just enough to let the light in.

And that’s when I see her.

Y/N noona.

Standing in the hallway.

A vision in soft colors and swollen eyes.

The girl I broke.
The girl who still waited.
The only girl that can make my heart soar through the skies.

Her eyes meet mine.
And in them—everything.

Four days of worry.
Four days of hope.
Four days of believing I’d come back home.

She’s crying now, but smiling.
The kind of smile that holds history in it.

The kind that says I love you still.
I love you anyway.
I love you always.

And then she whispers.

“I missed you.”
A breath, ragged but sure.

“Thank you for coming back.”

My whole body bows toward her.
I take a step—just one—

But Jin hyung slaps a hand to my chest.
“Uh-uh. No. Shower. Now.”

“What?!”

“You stink, Kook. You’re not hugging Aein until you scrub the guilt off.”

Yoongi hyung nods solemnly. “And the hoodie.”

“Burn it,” Jimin hyung adds.

“I liked that hoodie—”

“You like moldy ramen too, doesn’t make it right,” Tae hyung mutters.

I groan, rubbing my face. “Okay, okay—fine, I’ll go.”

But I pause before turning.
And glance back at her.

She’s still there.
Smiling brighter now.
Tears still falling.

And she says,
“It’s okay. We’ll talk after.”

A pause.
“I’ll always wait for you.”

My heart folds in on itself.
Because she means it.

Because she’s never looked more beautiful than she does in this moment—crying, glowing, forgiving.

I nod.
Then finally breathe again.

And head down the hallway to clean myself up.

Because love like this deserves to be met clean, whole, and ready.

And I’m ready now.
________________________________

Steam curls from my shoulders like ghosts leaving skin.

The mirror is fogged, but I can still see the outline of me—the boy who left, the boy who couldn’t stay, the boy who’s still learning how to come home.

I drag the towel through my hair, slow, rhythmic. Like maybe if I scrub long enough, I’ll wash the guilt out too.

My hoodie lies slumped in the corner like a discarded shell.

I step into clean clothes, not just to feel warm, but to feel worthy.

Worthy of the people waiting for me beyond the bathroom door.