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The dress is already digging into your arms and you’ve only just left the hotel. You have to admit that you looked good when you saw yourself in the mirror before leaving. But you are about to sit through a three-hour award show, maybe comfort should have been your top priority instead of looks. But what is it they say? Pain is beauty.  

God, you hope that’s true. The amount of press that will be there tonight, the amount of people who’ll be watching you on the TV at home. You can’t afford anything less than perfect.  

You turn your head to look out the window of the town car you’re sat in. It’s still light outside, people walking on the street, cars driving past, no one caring about the award show. You don’t even care about the award show, but you have a nomination, and no excuse to not go. Your manager said that it would be good publicity, that being seen at events like this, especially if you win, could help ensure you get future roles, boost your currently poor reputation. And of course you want to win, getting the award would be amazing, but everything around it you aren’t so keen on.  

Especially at the moment, everything feels like bad publicity where you’re concerned.  

It feels like no matter what you do, it always ends in headlines with your name splattered alongside negative words. Especially after your recent break up with Eddie James, the countries sweat heart, one of the most popular, sort after, men in Hollywood. And now your ex.  

And of course, even though he broke up with you, even though he started dating someone new not even two weeks after you broke up. You were the one painted as public enemy number one in the papers because  you   broke  his   heart. And even though neither of you spoke to the press about what happened, he got no backlash over it, everything turned to you like a spotlight. And maybe what hurt the most, was Eddie didn’t even try to defend you. You’d ended badly, but was that a reason for him to watch you take the blame? A sentence in one of his many interviews would have been nice. But, no, even that was too much for him it seemed.   

Not that you’re bitter, but before he dated you, he was a nobody, or at least not as popular as he is now. You wouldn’t go as far to say you made him who he is, but you certainly helped push him in the right direction. You did a film together a few years back, started hanging out, and then started dating and eventually moved in together. Your career was a lot higher profile than his, and the media took interest in your personal life, meaning Eddie got a lot of attention. He used to say that he didn’t care who you were, that even if you weren’t famous, weren’t Y/N, then he still would have loved you the same. A massive insecurity of yours, people using you for your name and not because they actually like you. And in the end, it seemed Eddie did exactly that. Dumping you the moment his career took off, as soon as he could get a newer, hotter, model girlfriend.  

Your reflection stares back at you as you look out the window. Eyes heavily lined in black, false eyelashes fanning out, hair styled in a way you never have it. You look good. You look like someone else. You look like the famous actress everyone sees you as. Not Y/N, the human.  

“We’re running late,” your manager pulls your thoughts back into the car. “20 minutes late. It means the red-carpet will be a bit more rushed than we’d like.”  

You hum, she knows you’d miss the whole night if you could so there’s no point in even pretending to be upset by the fact.  

“We’ll focus on photos over interviews, but I would like you to speak to some of the bigger media houses.”  

“I can do that,” you say flatly, eyes going back to the outside world. The traffic is worse here, other black cars forming a line to access the red carpet. A few people holding up signs and cameras, hoping to get a glimpse of the famous faces behind the tinted glass of the cars.  

“No one is going to ask about Eddie,” your manager continues, you’re only half listening now, mind focused on trying to get through the next few hours so you can get home to bed. “The questions will be focused on the film and your nomination only. I’ll move them on if anything else pops up.”  

You hum again. It is always the same spiel. Though you can’t blame her, you have been anxious about the whole Eddie situation since things turned rocky. And with the bad press, you’re not surprised your manager has stepped in to try and quieten things down.  

“Just enjoy the night,” you finally turn back and look at her.  

She has a genuine smile plastered on her face. And though she’s your manager, someone you work with, she is also someone you would class as a friend. One of the closest things you have to a friend anyway.  

You can see she’s excited to go tonight, the perks of her job. But you can also see how excited she is for you. Nominated for lead actress, it is a big deal. She’s proud.  

You return her smile, albeit a tad less big. “Make sure you enjoy yourself too. And make the most of the free bar.”  

“I plan on it,” she laughs.  

Your car slows to a stop and you look out of your window to see the lines of cameras, the never-ending red carpet, the famous faces and their managers, and the thousands of pounds worth of clothing on their backs. You take a deep breath as a man steps up to open your door and then offers you his arm.  

You plaster on you well practiced smile as you step out of the car, flashes immediately blind you and you pause to straighten your dress while also adjusting your eyes.  

The red carpet is a never-ending line of flashes, your name being shouted from various angles, the same questions being asked over and over ( “ who are you wearing?” “How do you feel about being nominated tonight?” “Have you got any upcoming projects?” “Who are you hoping wins tonight?” ). Thankfully, and as promised, there are no questions about Eddie.  

You’re ushered to your seat as soon as you walk into the building, barely being able to take in the room as you’re pushed down the aisle. A woman who is acting as the seat filler quickly makes way for you. You’re sat next to the lead actor of the film you’re nominated for, you give him a kiss on the cheek and talk while you wait for the show to start. It’s nice, but you wish you had someone with you that you were better friends with. You can’t help but think how fake these things always feel. You’re sat among some of the most well-known people in the world, some of them you have acted alongside, some you have only met in passing, most you have only ever seen on the big screen. And yet, they all smile at you as if you’re old friends.  

And what you hate the most is that you go along with it. You feel how fake it is, you feel how much of a show it is, you see that this is one big pantomime and just a way for already very wealthy people to become even more wealthy. And you hate it. But you still smile and hug everyone. Still secretly hope you win tonight.  

Applause ripples around the room. Music starts playing and then the host walks out.  

Nerves bloom in your stomach for seemingly no reason as your focus gets pulled to the stage. You suddenly become very aware of the cameras around the room and plaster a small smile on your face. As the night goes on, as the names get called out and people applaud and go up on stage and give never ending speeches, you feel your attention drifting. But still, you focus on the faces and voices, and clap along. It wouldn’t look good if a camera caught you looking unhappy.  

You’re just glad you’re an actress and not a musician, because although these ceremonies go on forever, you can only think how much longer it would be if there were performances between every award.  

There’s a break, and just as you relax and talk to your co-star, you feel the camera on you. The host announces the next presenters and the words leading actress appear across all the screens.  

This is it. The reason you’ve endured the hours on the make-up chair, and hours sat in this too stuffy theatre.  

You can hardly take in what the male on the stage is saying as nerves blossom in you. Because as fake as this all is, as much as you think how meaningless it all is, you still want to win. Who really wants to lose anything, even if it does feel like one massive show?  

A camera is put in front of you. The screens split into five boxes, one with your face, the others with the other women in your category. Your smile remains, even as your stomach does summersaults. You could stand in front of a camera all day reciting lines and doing crazy things in the name of art. But sat here, as you, you feel utterly lost.  

You remind yourself that you still need to clap and smile if you lose. The names are read out and the man lifts up an envelope. You take a deep breath in. Try to make your smile look more natural and less manic. Try to pretend that you want to be here and not sat at home in your pyjamas with a tub of ice cream.  

“And the award for leading actress goes to.”  

The man peels back the flap. Your co-star takes your hand in his, giving it a small squeeze of reassurance and you’re suddenly glad of his presence.  

“Y/N.”  

Your view of the stage gets blocked as the people around you stand up clapping. They all turn to you with smiles on their faces and it takes you a moment to register that the man said your name.  

It’s your co-star who pulls you up, pulls you into a strong embrace shouting words of celebration and affirmations into your ear before passing you onto the director. It’s here that you seem to snap back to reality, shouting your own thanks to her, you wouldn’t have been able to do it without her.  

You stumble the few rows to the stage, hands come out to touch you as you go and you feel the smile on your face becoming bigger and more genuine. The cheers seem to get louder as you head up the stage and you have to push down the emotions rising up within you. How could you have thought any of this was crap? For this feeling, you would go through it all again.  

You make it to the podium and kiss the man holding your award on the cheek. He hands you the award and you have a fresh wave of glee run through you. Your insides bubble like champaign as you step up to the microphone.  

“God, this feels better than sex,” you say without much thought, but a ripple of laughter goes through the room, and you carry on without much thought or care. “Or maybe I’ve just not had that great sex.” The laughter increases at your words and you smile at the crowd of recognisable faces.  

You look at the back wall, the lines of cameras pointed at you and seem to realise where you are and what’s happening. Right, you’re supposed to be thanking a long list of people.  

“I know everyone says this, but I really wasn’t expecting this so I haven’t prepared anything to say. So I apologise in advance for the ramble and for missing anyone. I guess I should firstly say thank you for this award. I was up against some amazing women, who were in some amazing films, portraying some even more amazing women. I think it’s easy to see why I didn’t expect to win tonight.” You take a deep breath and try to ignore the clock that’s counting down on one of the teleprompters. Instead, you turn your head to where you were sat moments ago and where your cast now look up at you.  

“Next, I want to thank my amazing director. Thank you for having faith in me and for telling me when I sucked so that I could give you the best performance,” there’s another small ripple of laughter. “Thank you to the many amazing actors and actresses that worked alongside me, without you it would have been an awful film. It also probably wouldn’t have made much sense if I was stood in every scene on my own, so thank you.” You pause to take another deep breath. “There’s a long list of people that worked on this film, behind the camera, and I am thankful to each and every one of you, I wish I could read every name off, but I only have 20 seconds left and I can’t read that fast. Lastly, I would like to thank my manager and friend. I wouldn’t be stood here without you, mainly because I would never have gotten the job in the first place, so thanks for keeping me employed.” There’s one last blast of laughter, but you’re already moving, holding up the award and grabbing the piece of paper with your name on it. “I hope you all have a great night. You’ll find me at the bar later, getting unbelievably drunk.”  

You take in the laughter and applause as you walk off the stage. Hands point you in different directions and you become numb to all the words and faces as you clutch onto the award. You feel so happy and you want to try and remember the moment. But as you get pushed and pulled, talked at and asked questions, you know you probably won’t remember any of it as you wish to.  

It’s funny how life works sometimes. How you can feel on top of the world one moment and within the same night, within a few hours, feel like you’re free falling into a dark abyss.  

But at this point in your career, you wonder why you expect anything different.  

After winning the award you were on such a high. Had gone into the press room and happily answered all the questions thrown at you. Had smiled, genuinely smiled, the whole time. The ceremony had finished by the time you had wrapped up; the lead actress category falling at the end of the night being a blessing. And you had done exactly what you said you’d do; you’d gone to the after party and you’d gone to the bar and you’d drunk.  

You drank and you danced and you talked and you got lost in the night. You had fun. Something you hadn’t had in a while. You felt invincible, on top of the world.  

And then, as you’d started towards the bathroom, you heard a whisper. A whisper that contained your name. A whisper that contained a comment, something that made your heart drop.  

The toilet was forgotten. Instead, you walk down the corridors and look in the doors. The first empty room you take. A small room with a small settee, a mirror and a chair. You don’t question the purpose of the room, just take a seat and look for your phone.  

It feels like a well-rehearsed routine at this point. Something that you would have been ashamed of a few months ago. Something that if someone asked you, you would say you have never done, never do.  

You type your name into the Google search bar and press enter.  

You’d been on such a high, had thought nothing could ruin the night, but you should have known how the media would spin it. You should have planned a fucking speech. You shouldn’t have said whatever came to your mind.  

Y/N SNUBS EX EDDIE JAMES IN AWARDS SPEECH.  

Y/N CLAIMS SHE’S NEVER HAD GOOD SEX BEFORE, WEEKS AFTER BREKING UP WITH EX EDDIE JAMES.  

WINNING BEST ACTRESS AWARD IS BETTER THAN SEX, CLAIMS Y/N, EDDIE JAMES’ EX.  

After everything you had achieved tonight. After feeling like you,  you,   had done something that stood out so much, that couldn’t possibly be conceived as anything but good, after being given an accolade so profound and nothing to do with your ex or your personal life. Still, the media paint you alongside Eddie as if you’re some bitter ex. As if everything you do in your life is to paint him in bad lighting. As if you’re still hung up on him and bitter about the way your relationship ended.  

You hadn’t even mentioned Eddie. The sex comment had been something off hand. Something you hadn’t thought twice about. It was supposed to be funny; it was  funny .  Not some pointed remark meant for a man that had been the one to break your heart.  

But as you scroll and scroll through the news and through twitter, you can only see your name being thrown in the mud. No mention of how the award was deserved, or how brilliant your performance was, or that you looked amazing stood on stage. None of the comments you’d hoped to see, only the ones you dreaded.  

Tears gather in your eyes and fall down your face. You let them, too busy looking at your phone, not caring about your make-up or how you look any more. You’re too engrossed on your name being a trending topic on Twitter to care anymore.  

You hear the door open behind you and naturally look over your shoulder as you hear an apology spoken out. Too late, you remember the tears streaking your face.  

You meet the eyes of a man around your age stood in the open-door way. He’s about to turn and leave until you meet his eyes and then he stops. You see the recognition flick across his face, but it’s gone quickly, replaced instead by concern. Concern because of the tears running down your face.  

You turn away as quickly as you look at him. Your back now fully to him you swipe at your face, wiping blindly at the streaks that must be painted black.  

You try to ignore the fact that you don’t hear the door closing. Try to prepare yourself as you hear the footsteps coming towards you instead of going away. From the brief glance you’d got of him, you hadn’t recognised him, he could be anyone. He could be about to add to this shit storm happening online about you.  

“You shouldn’t look at that rubbish,” his voice says from over your shoulder.  

It’s soft. Not loud and bashful, almost like he’s stating a fact he knows to be true. A flat tone, but still comforting somehow. You’d been too busy wiping at your face, trying to get rid of the evidence there, that you haven’t realised that the evidence of what you are crying at is shining clearly from the phone resting on your lap.  

You take a shaky breath. There’s no point in trying to hide what is clearly obvious now. You’ve been found in the act and you somehow feel guilty. A steady shame blossoming in your stomach.  

Footsteps sound out again and you close your eyes as the man comes in your peripheral vision, as if, if you can’t see him, he isn’t actually there. But you feel the empty side of the settee drop as the man takes the seat next to you. You wish he would just leave you alone. Wish he wouldn’t try to take whatever moral high ground he is trying to take right now. Most people would have seen you crying from the door and run off feeling intimidated by the fact it was you, and then told everyone that they caught you crying. It would have been a good dinner table story. The Hollywood actress caught crying on the night she won best actress, oh the scandal.  

“You’re not out enjoying the party?” The man says from beside you.  

“I could say the same to you,” your voice comes out croaky, another giveaway at your current state of wellbeing.  

He seems to ignore it completely though as you feel him lean back into his seat. As if he’s settling in for the night. As if he’s not here because he’s caught someone he doesn’t know crying. But instead, is here because he wants to be here.  

“It all got a bit loud. I needed some air,” he explains.  

You open your eyes. While he’s leaning back into his seat, you’re leaning forward, and it means you have to twist to get a look at him. His eyebrows lift when your eyes meet his, and his lips lift slightly into a smile, but otherwise there is no reaction. No screaming or blushing or crying or words to suggest he loves your work. Nothing to suggest that he is in awe of your presence like most people are when they meet you. It’s not that you’re vain, just that you’ve been in your business too long, been famous too long to not recognise the signs when someone feels intimidated by you. This man does not look intimidated by you.  

“You might want to keep looking then; it’s pretty stuffy in here. No windows,” you nod your head at a wall as if in evidence of your claim.  

You watch as he looks around the room and take the opportunity to look at him while his eyes aren’t on you. His white shirt clings to his skin, and though he still wears a skinny black tie, his top button is undone and the tie loose, revealing an inch of his skin. His black hair is gelled so that it’s pushed off his forehead and reveals an undercut, something that affects you a lot more than it should. His features are soft; a cute button nose, small plump lips, dark round eyes, long black lashes. You don’t know him, don’t recognise him from any of the films you’ve seen recently or from any of the sets you’ve worked on. He could be anyone. But he doesn’t feel like anyone.  

“It seems like a good spot to me,” he turns to look at you again and his lips pull back into a proper smile, revealing small white teeth and a lot of gum. “Unless, you’d rather I leave?” His eyebrow lifts again.  

You wouldn’t have asked him to leave even if you wanted him to, always too aware of what it could do to your reputation. Not that that should matter now, your reputation has never been worse. No one would be surprised if you asked this man to leave so you could have the room to yourself. But still, you can’t ask him. Part of you kind of wants him to stay too, there’s a calming presence to him, and it is kind of nice not to be alone for once.  

“You’re ok,” you say, your voice wobbling with some remaining emotion.  

You wonder what he would have done if you asked him to leave because at your words he only relaxes further into the settee, looking like he had no intension of leaving in the first place.  

If someone were to walk in now you would probably look like a right pair. You leaning forward, elbows resting on your knees as your head lays in your hands. The man sat next to you leaning so far back it looks like he’s trying to be horizontal. You with a tear-streaked face. Him with a calm, seemingly unbothered look on his face. You wonder whether he’s really drunk or whether this is just his usual behaviour; walking in on crying women and staying with them even when he doesn’t know them.  

“I really would have thought a party like this would be wilder,” the man finally breaks the silence. You turn to look at him again and raise a questioning eyebrow, the ghost of a smile plays on his lips at the gesture. “A load of rich, famous people all in one room after winning a load of awards. Sounds like a recipe for TV’s to be thrown out windows and champaign to be free flowing like it’s water.”  

So he isn’t rich or famous. Or at least he’s implying that, he’s certainly never been to a party  like this   meaning he probably isn’t even in the film industry. You don’t know why he’s at the party, or how he’s managed to blag a ticket, but it at least makes you feel better that you don’t recognise him.  

“A lot of things in this industry are disappointing,” you say flatly.  

The truth, but you regret the words instantly. You could think it, but it wasn’t something you should be saying out loud, let alone to someone you don’t know. This man could be a reporter for all you know.  

“Like most things in life I imagine,” he takes the comment in his stride, doesn’t jump on it as if it’s sacrilege like most people would.  

“Sorry,” you huff out some air that could be classed as a laugh and shake your head as if to clear it. “I think I’ve just had a bit too much to drink.”  

It’s not much better, but it at least feels better than the truth. That you’re sat in a room on your own, after you’ve just won one of the top acting awards in the world, googling yourself and crying over the fact that the media has twisted your words and painted you as some woman who can’t get over her ex. Yeah, being drunk sounded way better than that.  

You straighten up and brush your hands across your face one last time before standing up. You turn to look down at the man, smoothing out your skirt as you do.  

He stays in his seat, still leaning back, still staring at you. It feels like he’s staring into your soul, with his slightly down turned lips and dark eyes. He can probably see right through the bullshit you’ve just told him, and the thought has you squirming, no longer able to look at him but instead dart your eyes all around the room to avoid him.  

“Well,” you breath out. “I hope you feel better and can get back out to enjoy the party.”  

He hadn’t even said he didn’t feel well. Had in fact implied that he was looking for air to get away from the party because it was rubbish. So why you say the words, you’re not sure.  

“You too,” he says smoothly. “And congratulations,” you look back at him at those words and see the same hard gaze staring back. “For the award tonight, you deserve it.”  

You flush at his words. After so long, and so many compliments, you’d think you’d be used to receiving them by now, but you don’t think you ever will.  

“Thanks,” you say, before walking to the door.  

“And Y/N,” you stop at his words, heating further at the sound of your name coming off his lips. You had guessed he knew you before he admitted it moments ago, but the fact still makes something flutter in you. You feel bad for not asking his name, but you aren’t about to do that now, as you’re walking out the door. “You seriously shouldn’t look at that stuff on your phone.”  

You twist to look at him and see that he’s doing the same, still sat on the settee but body twisted at the waist so he can look at you. You don’t say anything, waiting to see if he says anything else.  

“It was a joke, a funny one at that, and you shouldn’t care if other people can’t see that or try to make it into something it wasn’t. You know what it was, and even if it was aimed at him, then who cares?”  

Your heart feels like it’s in your throat at his words. Does he know how close he’s hit to the truth? Does he know how much you needed to hear those words? You’ve only known him for a few minutes and yet he’d managed to say something that no one else has managed to say, that you have been feeling but have been unable to clearly see.  

You gulp down the lump in your throat and give the man a nod of your head, unable to form any words. They wouldn’t be able to get out of your clogged throat even if you tried.  

“Enjoy your night,” he says and gives you a small smile.  

You don’t say anything as you turn and head for the door. You don’t look at anyone as you walk through the party, don’t want anyone to stop you or speak to you. You just want to go home and get into bed. All of this will feel better in the morning, it always does.  

No one stops you as you slip out the party. You get into the car that your agency has rented for you for the night and look out the window as you get driven home. You don’t look at your phone again, however much you feel drawn to it. You know what you’d find, and you even though you know it won’t make you feel any better, you still feel a need to look.  

But you fight against it. And manage to change and take your hair down and take your make-up off and climb into bed without looking. Finally, you drift off to sleep.  

You do feel better the next day. Lay in bed looking at all the messages you couldn’t get through the previous evening. Texts from old co-stars, tweets from fans, all congratulating you. There are nice people out there, there are people you can turn to, but it is hard to see that sometimes. Especially at the moment when you’re in a particularly rough patch with the media.  

It’s hard not to take it personally. Hard not to take all the words to heart. You know that it is all just bored and petty people spouting rubbish online. None of them really know you, none of them know Eddie, none of them know your relationship. But because of who you are, because of how high profiled your relationship was, they all feel like they know you and all feel like they have a right to comment on it.  

Now lay in bed, thinking back to last night, you feel embarrassed at how strongly you reacted. It was probably the shock of hearing people talking about it and then looking at your phone and seeing how bad it was. It was probably because you were running on such a high that seeing all the negative comments about you had brought you down so much it felt like you were crashing. It was probably because you were just sick and tired of having your name everywhere, and always associated with negativity. But whatever caused it, you feel embarrassed that you had sat in a room alone and cried about it.  

Well, not alone. Because there was that man.  

You wish you’d asked his name, if for no reason just to know who had sat with you and made you feel less alone. He hadn’t done much, but it felt like so much. When you had felt like the whole world was against you, he had stayed with you. You wish you could thank him for that.  

You stay in bed for far longer than you normally would. But you have nothing else to do, so why not? You actually have a few weeks off, and even then, you only have photo shoots and shoots for commercials. No films or TV shows coming up.  

It wasn’t necessarily a conscious decision, just perfect timing. You'd been sent a lot of scripts, especially since your nomination (and no doubt now you’ve won the award you’ll only be sent more), but none of them felt like things you wanted to do. You’ve been in the industry since you were young, and with the negative media, you feel less inspired by your job than you once did. You still love it, it just definitely feels like a hardship now, when it was once something you loved.  

But for now, you can relax, and do what you want, and today that is to lie in bed. A lazy day is sometimes good for the soul.  

Yo u step into the shop, your eyes squinting at the stark light difference from the night outside to the florescent light inside. You’d asked your driver to drop you at the shop after the small party one of your cast members had thrown after all the film's success at the awards. You don’t need anything, but want to have a look and a walk home. With the few days being home alone, not socialising with many people, you want to do something that feels normal again. The chances of someone seeing you and recognising you are slim, and even if they do, at this time, you can’t imagine they would cause much of a scene.  

Plus, the night has been so good, you don’t quite want it to end. You haven’t felt this happy in a while, not since before Eddie broke up with you, not since your name took a deep dive and the media basically use it as a synonym for hate.  

You tie your hair into a loose ponytail and pull a cap over your head. A stupid precaution, but one that makes you feel at least a little better about walking into the shop alone.  

The lights feel blinding as you walk further into the shop, ducking your head down to hide your eyes as well as your face. You move through the shop, looking at the shelves, not really sure what you want. You find yourself in front of the chocolate when you eventually come to a stop. Eyes looking around at the range of flavours and colours of all the different bars. It depends on the role you’re playing, normally you’re quite fortunate and never have to do hard, weight losing diets, but chocolate has always been something you’ve found hard not to indulge in.  

You reach out for one of the brighter packages, one that you’ve never seen before. Mind only seeing the bright colours and not the words  

“It’s not quite as good as Superman.”  

Your head whips up to the sound of the voice and find a man smiling down at you. It takes you longer than you would like to recognise him. And he must catch the fact as his smile falters, but he recovers it quickly.  

“Your disguise,” he clarifies. “Clark Kent would not be impressed.”  

A full-blown smile breaks across your face. You’d thought you’d been caught by a fan, but instead stands the man from the after party. The man who had stayed with you when you felt so low. You’d assumed you’d never see him again, but here he stands.  

He’s not wearing a suit tonight though, his hair not styled back to show his undercut, which you reason might be why it took you a second or two to recognise him. Instead, his hair is loose and slightly wavey as it covers his forehead. Earrings in his ears and rings on his fingers. He has a large black sweater on, with black combat trousers and black vans. He looks cuddly, while you have a feeling he might be aiming for intimidating.  

“I knew I should have gone with the glasses,” you joke and watch as his lips pull back to show his teeth, his eyes crinkling in the corners.  

“Your second mistake was the chocolate bar,” his eyes flick from your face to the item in your hand.  

“Not a fan of...” you look down, “orange and avocado?”  

Your lips twitch realising your mistake. You’d picked it up merely for the bright orange and green, not noticing the flavours. The man lets out a small chuckle and you flush in embarrassment.   

“I seem to always make a fool out of myself in front of you,” the words tumble out as you turn and place the chocolate back on the shelf. You carry on before he can talk. “And always seem to say exactly what’s on my mind, it appears.”  

Making the most of your back to him you try to compose yourself. You’d not thought of him much since that night and you certainly had never thought you’d actually see him again. So now, with him stood in front of you, you wish you had been able to predict it, had given more thought to how sweet he was. And all the embarrassment from after that night comes flying back.  

You turn back to look at him and there’s a small smile on his face, his eyes gleaming as he looks at you. He looks thoroughly amused by your ramblings.  

“I guess I should apologise for crying on you too,” you continue. “So, sorry if I ruined the after party for you, I wasn’t really expecting anyone to walk in on me, but thanks for staying.”  

Your voice rises at the end of the sentence as if it’s a question, as if you’re unsure of yourself. Probably because you are unsure. Talking to strangers, especially this candidly is not something that you do. It feels weird and abnormal that it’s you flushing under his gaze and not the other way around.  

Still, he doesn’t talk, just continues to stare at you with what you assume is amusement, but could be anything, and it only makes you more flustered.  

“Anyway, not only did I ruin a party for you, now I’m totally ruining your shopping experience by blabbering at you. I’ll let you get back to buying,” you look down at the items in his hands, some tangerines, a pot of instant coffee and some washing tablets. “Your breakfast?”  

He chuckles, his gummy teeth showing again. And you can’t help but smile at the fact that you did that.  

“You’re ok,” he says when he’s recovered and your heart jumps. Did he mean to repeat the words you said to him from that night? It shouldn’t affect you, but it does. “I’d go for the peanut butter KitKat.”  

You instantly frown, so thrown by his comment that it takes you a second to understand the words. And when you realise what he’s on about, you only frown more.  

“Really?” You say disgusted, one of the corners of his lips quirks up. “I wouldn’t have said you’d be a peanut butter kind of guy.”  

“What type of guy would you say I was then?”  

You don’t know, you still don’t even know his name, let alone his preference in chocolate. You don’t even know if he’s talking about chocolate, the tone of his voice could be him hinting at wanting to hear you tell him more about what you think of him. But that would be ridiculous, he’s  definitely   talking about chocolate. You could take the easy road and say something flavoured orange or coffee, but you don’t do that. You turn to survey the rows of chocolate, humming as you think.  

“Double decker,” you say.  

“Nope. Never tried it, so I definitely wouldn’t pick it.”  

“What?”  

“I’ve never tried a double -”  

“Yeah, I got that,” you cut him off, eyes still bulging at him. “What I should have said was,  how ? ”  

“I guess I just never bought one,” he shrugs like it’s no big deal. But it is. It is a massive deal.  

“You do know what a double decker is, right?”  

“Yes..?” He elongates the word, his tone suggesting he doesn’t understand the question.  

“Are you not a fan of nougat?” You persist as if he has just declared he hates your mother and you need to find out why.  

“Nougat is good.”  

“What about cereal, or wheat, or crunchy bits, or whatever that crispy stuff is.”  

“Crispy stuff is good,” his tone remains level, but you can see the amusement glowing in his eyes.  

“Ahh I get it,” you say like a light bulb has just lit above your head. “You don’t like fun.”  

The man’s eyes open wide in surprise, eyebrows going up his forehead. But his smile only widens at the words.  

“Well then, it’s decided,” you carry on. “I’m buying you one.”  

You turn to the shelf and pick up the chocolate bar in question. He doesn’t try to stop you, doesn’t say that you don’t need to buy him anything. You take his silence to mean he accepts the offer and it brings you more joy than it should. Money was always a weirdly touchy subject with you.  

“In that case.” He steps forward and starts scanning the shelf. You realise what he’s doing straight away.  

“Oh, you’ll struggle to find any chocolate I haven’t eaten,” you say with pride in your voice.  

He hums, looking at you as if reading you, nodding his head lightly. “Ok,” he says before turning and walking away from you without another word.  

It takes you a second to trail after him. A second where a part of you wonders whether that was it, whether you had done something to ruin whatever it was you two were. A second where you wonder if he wants you to follow him. But you push those worries away and do a small jog to catch up with his retreating figure.  

He doesn’t speak as he wonders around the store, his head looking down each aisle as if he knows exactly what he’s looking for, just doesn’t know exactly where it is. He turns down the penultimate aisle and you look at the sign indicating what is there;  crisps, soft drinks and bread.  

“I hate to break it to you, but I’ve probably tried most types of crisps too,” you say to his back, but he ignores you.  

Finally he comes to a stop. You stop a foot away, staring at the shelf, trying to work out what it is he’s going to pick for you. His hand reaches out and plucks up a small green packet. He turns and hold its out to you expectantly.  

You take the packet from him as if it’s a bomb. Fingers light as your eyes take in the words.  

“Jalapeno pretzels?” Your eyes drag up to meet his.  

“Well?” He asks. “Have you had them?”  

You look back down at the packet as if you need further clarification.  

“Nope, I can’t say I have.”  

Long, ringed fingers reach out and snatch the packet back, grazing you only slightly, but sparks blossom at every point.  

“Then it’s decided, I’m buying them for you.”  

You smile broadly at him, unable to contain the glee at whatever game you seem to be playing. The man only stares at you. The amusement is still clear in his eyes, but his facial features remain flat. You can imagine most people wouldn’t be able to see that he’s just as delighted as you are now, but you aren’t like most people.  

“Let’s hope I like spice,” you reply.  

“You will,” he replies confidently.  

He gives you another long look, another look that makes you feel like he’s reading your soul. And then he holds up the items in his arms.  

“Well, I’m going to pay,” he says and then for the first time he sounds less certain of his words. “If you’re done, that is .”  

“Yep,” you say as casually as you can, even as your heart gives a pang in your chest. He’s waiting for you. It should be obvious as you’ve both just offered to buy each other some food, but it still sets off a firework of glee in you.  

You trail after him again, as he leads the way to the tills. And it’s here that you feel like you snap out of whatever daydream you’d been in.  

There’s a woman in her early twenties behind the till. Her phone resting on counter, her body hunched over the device as something plays into the headphones she wears. She’s not even looking at you, has given no indication that she’ll recognise you, but the fear still bubbles in you.  

The man you’ve been trailing, the one who’s name you  still   don’t know, stops. Glancing over his shoulder his eyebrows pull together in confusion as to why you’ve stopped. You give an unconvincing smile, but it’s enough for him to move again.  

The woman looks up as the man steps up to the counter. Her face is bored and annoyed as she looks up at him. She scans his items and reads out the amount he owes in no time, wanting to get back to whatever she was watching on her phone you presume.  

The transaction is over before you have much time to think, and the man is stepping away from the till revealing you.  

At first, the woman’s face doesn’t change. She doesn’t look up at your face as you place the lonely double decker onto the counter, and she doesn’t look at you as she scans the item. She barely looks at you as she reads out the amount you owe, but as you take a second or two too long to get your card out, and she manages to drag her eyes to you. You imagine it was initially so that she could give you her best  hurry up   look. But as she takes you in, realises who you are, her face transforms. Her whole body seems to transform. She sits up straighter, eyes widen, lips pop open, head lolls back. And you only plaster on your best, fake smile.  

Her mouth twitches as if she is trying to speak, but can’t quite get any words out. You use the opportunity to tap your card and pay for the item.  

“Thanks,” you say, putting you card back into your pocket.  

“You’re – You’re – Are you –”  

“I get that a lot,” you cut her off before she can even finish her sentence.  

“You were amazing in Beach Read,” she finally manages to say. “And you deserved the award the other day. I watched that film, like, five times because of how good you were. And your dress was amazing by the way.”  

“Thanks,” you say semi genuinely, because it was nice to hear, if not a bit awkward.  

“Can I – I mean, you must be busy,” she says and glances over your shoulder, to the man that you had forgotten was there. “But, would you mind if I get a photo?”  

“Of course,” you say quickly, words that are like a script by now. Because even if you didn’t want to take a photo with her, how do you even say that? You still have your cap on, day old make-up on your face, you feel sweaty and hot; you don’t want a photo right now. But instead, you smile and nod.  

The girl scrambles for her phone, almost knocking it from the counter in the process. She fumbles with the buttons as you stand patiently waiting for her.  

And then as she lifts the phone up, the man steps up to your side, closer than he has stood to you at any point this night.  

“Shall I take it?” He says softly, holding out his hand for the phone.  

“Oh my god, that would be amazing,” the girl beams at him, handing her phone before scrambling around the counter to stand next to you.  

The man gives you a small, reassuring smile before stepping away. He holds the phone up giving a small,  say cheese ,  before taking some photos. He steps so he is back beside you, holding out the phone so that the girl can take it back.  

“We should head off,” he says looking at you, placing a hand on your back so that he can push you a bit towards the door, not giving you or the girl a chance to speak.  

Maybe you should feel annoyed that he’s acting so protective over you in this moment. Maybe you should tell him that you don’t need his help to get out of this, that you experience this all the time, that this is your normal, everyday life, that you know how to deal with situations and people like this. Maybe you should feel embarrassed that you are reacting so hostile when this girl is only being nice to you, isn’t shouting abuse or telling you you’re rubbish.  

But instead, you let him guide you. Let him push you towards the door and take you away from the girl who was harmless but was causing you a stress that she couldn’t see.  

Much like when you stepped into the shop, it takes your eyes a second to adjust when you go out into the dark. But you keep on walking as the hand, and person attached to it, guide you away from the door. He doesn’t take you far, just around the corner, where there are less cars and less prying eyes.  

“I believe these are yours,” he says when you come to a stop, and when you turn to look at him, he’s holding out the jalapeno pretzels.  

You automatically hold out your hand for the pack and he places them in your hand.  

“I hope you like them,” he says.  

No mention of what just happened. No comment on how odd it was, or how annoying that must get or questions about it; all the things' people normally say. No, he just stays staring at you like he always seems to, a steady calmness flowing off him.  

You’ve thought it before, but now the question seems to blare in you like some sort of bell.  Who is this man?  

But it feels too late to ask for his name now. You feel like you’ve gone past that point where you can ask and now it would just be awkward. Could you even ask what he does for a living or would that become awkward too? The way he acts around you still makes you question whether you know him. But surely you’d remember him.  

He must seem to read all the thoughts flowing through your head, and as always, he takes it in his stride. The amusement returns to his eyes, as he holds out his hand, this time empty and on its side.  

“Yoongi,” he says easily.  

You take his hand, giving it a small shake before lightly saying your name. He has already made clear he knows it, but it feels like you should say it anyway.  

“Well Y/N, I hope you enjoy the pretzels,” he says, your hands still connected.  

“I’m sure I will,” your voice feels thick as it leaves your throat.  

His lip pulls up on one side, and he gives your hand a small squeeze before letting it go. You immediately miss it but don’t say anything as he steps back.  

“I’ll see you around,” he says.  

You can only nod, but it seems enough of a goodbye for him as he turns and starts to walk back in the direction you just came. And it’s only as you watch his retreating figure that you remember.  

“Wait,” you shout probably louder than necessary. You fumble through your bag as you pace towards him. “Your double decker,” you state holding the chocolate bar out for him.  

He gives you a full smile, teeth on display, and you decide that it’s your favourite smile of his. He takes the proffered chocolate and tips it towards you like you would a drink when cheersing someone.  

“I hope you enjoy it,” you say softly.  

“Oh, I know I will,” he says, smile still on his face.  

He doesn’t say anything else, no goodbye, as he turns again and starts walking away. You stand like a weirdo watching him the whole time, and it’s only when he glances over his shoulder before turning the corner and gives you a small wave, that you realise how odd it is. Even as heat from embarrassment washes over you, you wave a hand to him. And then he’s gone.  

As you turn and walk the few streets back to your house, you think about the man you now know is called Yoongi. Think about how different he is, but how great that is. You’ve never met anyone like him, never met anyone that is completely unbothered by your fame. Even most celebrities you’ve met are affected by it in one way or another, some intimidated, some in awe, some wanting to use it for their own gain.  

You have no way of keeping in contact with Yoongi, have no way to find him again; you don’t even know his surname. But his parting words had at least been positive, not a firm goodbye, but then not a solid time and date of when you’ll next see each other. Instead, a non-committal,  see you around .  

The ball feels firmly in his court. He knows who you are, can more easily get in contact with you. Maybe you should have asked for some sort of contact details, but you know you would have felt awkward as hell doing that; you couldn’t even ask what his name is. So now, as you don’t know his surname to try and stalk him out on social media, it feels like it is all on him whether you would speak again or not.  

You wonder if you’ll ever see him again.  

Who are you?  

The words feel like a broken record the number of times they go through your head in the days that pass.  

It takes a few days before you get desperate, until you realise that maybe he’s not going to contact you, a multi-millionaire actress, and that you would have to contact him if you want to speak to him again. You start by searching the name Yoongi into every social media site you can get your hands on. But as expected, the name throws up a long list of profiles, none of which have a photo of the man you recognise. You reason that it’s fine to do, you just want to tell him that you enjoyed the pretzels he bought you, and to do that you need contact information you don’t have.  

But as your days dip between good and bad, so does your desperation to find him.   

Maybe it’s selfish, but the two times you’ve met him he’s brought you such comfort, made you feel so much better, made you feel so unlike the famous actress you are, that you’ve started to crave that and him. And so far, only he has made you feel like that.  

You’ve only been doing small bits of media, some interviews off the back of your win, but nowhere near as much as you would normally be doing. Plus, with having time off, you’re not even being caught outside the house heading to shoots or doing things with co-stars (mainly because you become a hermit when you have any time off). And still, your name seems to be in the news.  

Eddie, it seems, made a comment about your win in an interview. “ It’s nice she finally won, as she’s been desperate to win for as long as I’ve known her. I hope she’s happy and can set her sights on something else now. I’m proud of her.”   You could probably recite the words now the number of times you’ve seen them. You know how the words could have been taken out of context and painted to be something they’re not, but you also know that he had to have actually said the words too. You can’t tell if it’s because he’s bitter of your success, or bitter of your brief happiness, or bitter that you can go on living without him. But whatever it is, you’re not sure you deserve those comments.  

Even as you feel yourself free falling into the social media abyss, even as you feel your mood dropping further through the floor the more negative comments you read; you can’t bring yourself to stop.  

And it’s when you’re truly low that you think of Yoongi. Sweet, calm, beautiful Yoongi.  

You want to see him again. You want to know more about him, really you want to know anything about him, because you still don’t know much. You want to know if he enjoyed the double decker.  

So the social media search is how it starts, and though that continues, you find excuses to walk or drive past the shop you bumped into him in. It’s not like you expect him to be there, but it’s the only place you’ve ever seen him, besides the after party.  

This is so very un-you. You normally think 50 times about the backlash you might get before you do something. You used to not care, used to dive right into things, but you’ve been scolded one too many times to do that now. You’re surprised you didn’t even think when you were at the corner shop together, when that girl at the counter saw you together, but then you had had drinks so maybe your edge was taken off from that. And nothing bad had happened then. No press got hold of the non-existent story that they would have twisted into whatever they wanted. So maybe you should stop overthinking it.  

Whenever you drive past the shop you always glance over as if you’ll see him stood outside waiting for you. You find excuses to go in and buy bags and bags of the jalapeno pretzels, because you did truly enjoy them. You go early in the morning and late at night. You go to the shop more times than you’ve probably ever been to any shop (though you don’t go in too often, still worried about someone recognising you in public and saying something).  

And when you’re drunk one night, after having a whole bottle of wine to yourself with dinner, you do the most desperate thing yet. The wine tips you over the edge, giving you the confidence to do it. You open up Twitter and snap as good a picture as you can of the current bag of pretzels you have on the go, and post it. The caption;  my new and current favourites.   Not the most original, and certainly not the most subtle.  

When you wake up the next day with no replies from the person you want, the embarrassment seeps in. Maybe he doesn’t want to see you as much as you want to see him.  

And when a day later you go back to the shop to pick up some more packets of pretzels and they’re all sold out, you just feel like a fool. You did actually enjoy eating them, not just because Yoongi recommended them, but because they were tasty. And now you’d lost those too. At least you knew that your reputation wasn’t so bad that people stayed clear of anything you ate. That was a small perk at least.  

…   

You get sent scripts almost daily at this point, but every one you send back to your manager, declining it. You do read some of the more interesting ones, but even those fail to spark any interest or any of the spark that you had when you were new to Hollywood. You used to feel such glee any time you received a new script, now you just feel deflated and anxious.  

Your manager, god bless her, at least doesn’t push you. She allows you the time off, lets you take the space you need from the industry so that you can work out what you want to do, what project you might want to actually do. But you know that there would come a point where even she would come to the end of her tether and would start pushing you into projects no matter what.  

You at least have a few photo shoots and interviews to do, which gives you time to think. You’re still being seen by the public, not being forgotten, which feels like a disappointment to you, but is enough to help keep your manager off your back, so you can grin and bear it.  

It’s after a shoot for a perfume that you drive past the shop. It’s been close to two weeks since you last saw Yoongi. You should give up, you know, but something in you still tugs to stop. For the pretzels, you try to convince yourself, to check whether they’re back in stock, not because you’re still hoping that Yoongi will turn up.  

You drag yourself around the shop, your heart hammering in your chest, trying to make the distance to the pretzel section as long as possible, as if it will magically help Yoongi appear there. But eventually you get to the aisle, and you can clearly see that he is not stood there.  

Your heart drops at the sight, but you carry on walking as if nothing has occurred. The thought of someone stood taking secret pictures of you, or being able to see your head dip even slightly from disappointment has you carrying on. They wouldn’t be able to tell why, but the thought of them linking it to anything, to Eddie, to your current quiet career, has your anxiety pulsing.  

You come to a stop where the pretzels should be and your heart drops again. It is one thing after another, everything you get even a small amount of joy from seems to get ripped from your life.  

Standing there looking at the empty slot in the shelf, you feel yourself falling into an abyss. The darkness sweeping in, threatening to swallow you whole. You should leave, you know you should, but you also can’t bring yourself to move your feet.  

“I hear you’ve been causing my favourite snack to be out of stock everywhere.”  

You spin so fast you’re surprised you don’t get whip lash. You’re sure it’s your imagination playing tricks with you, the voice so familiar, the voice you’ve been dreaming to hear, the voice you came here to hear.  

But it’s not your imagination, because there he stands. He looks particularly soft today, his hair fluffy, a big white fila jumper covering most of his upper body, black trousers and the same vans on his feet. He has the same neutral, unbothered expression on that he always seems to wear.  

You feel the darkness lift almost instantly, just the sight of him causing your heart to spring back into life.  

“Sorry,” you whisper, the only thing that your brain allows you to say. Why does he always make you feel so flustered?  

“I just wish you’d at least told me to buy stocks in the company before you did it.”  

And there it is, the same flatly cocky comment. Said so dryly that you could almost believe that he is being serious, but you know it’s just his sense of humour.  

“We could be holidaying in the Bahamas by now,” he continues, his lips growing into a smile the more he jokes.  

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, because it was all happening so fast. The hope, the darkness, the disappointment, then him stood there. Everything feels so mixed, your emotions feel so mixed.  

Yoongi must be able to tell, not that you imagine it would be hard, but his smile dips ever so slightly and his eyebrows draw together a fraction.  

“It’s alright. I’ll just have to find something better to give you,” he says.  

“How was the double decker?” His comment sparks a memory and the smile returns to his face.  

“As predicted, I loved it.”  

“Then I guess I’ll have to find a new chocolate bar for you too.”  

You follow the same routine as last time, him following you to the chocolate section, you picking him a chocolate bar you can’t believe he hasn’t tasted (this time a Caramac). And then you follow him around the store so he can try and find some mysterious item you haven’t tried (some twiglets). He pauses after picking your item and that nervousness that you rarely see comes over him. His eyes dart around the shop and a small smile toys at your lips as you wait to see what’s he’s going to say.  

“So,” he begins, still unable to meet your eyes. “I was actually coming here to grab some wine before I saw you. I was just going to go home and drink it alone, but, I guess, I wondered whether you’d want to join me?”  

Your smile grows and grows the more words he says, so that when he finally looks at you, you’re fully beaming. He still looks unsure of himself even with your mega-watt smile, so to clarify that you aren’t laughing at him, you reply quickly.  

“Sure,” you can see his body relaxing at the word, the tension leaving his body. “I’d love to.”  

“Ok,” he says, his own smile growing so that you’re both stood looking at each other with shit eating smiles on your faces. “Red or white?”  

“What were you going to get?”  

“Red.”  

“Red is good.”  

Again you trail after Yoongi as he heads to the wine section and he doesn’t consult you as he reaches out for two bottles of red. Maybe he’s a wine connoisseur as well as a snack one. He ignores you when you try to pay for one of the bottles of wine, and even takes the chocolate bar off you saying you could pay him back and then tells you to wait outside for him before you even get into view of the till and the person working there. You wonder whether he’s doing it because of what happened last time and is trying to save you from another fan interaction.  

Head down, looking at your phone to look busy, you nervously wait by the door for Yoongi to appear. You’re starting to overthink whether this was a good idea when he walks out the shop, wine and snacks in his hand, a few additional items you didn’t leave him with.  

“A few extra provisions,” he holds up some crisps and a punnet of grapes. “I didn’t want you to think I’m a bad host.”  

The nerves are still there, they always are when you’re out in public like this, silently simmering in expectation for something bad to happen. But Yoongi and his sweetness take the edge off and you can manage a genuine smile at him.  

“Shall I follow you?” You stick your thumb out pointing it towards your car as if he needs clarification. It was another thing you’d overthought when waiting for him, people (namely the paparazzi) knew your car and if it was parked outside wherever Yoongi lives and someone saw it then rumours could start flying. You also don’t want to cause people to swarm outside Yoongi’s place if you are discovered. But you hadn’t been caught yet, there were no pictures of the two of you together yet, and you have to remind yourself that the chances are so low that someone will see your car and put two and two together. You have to remind yourself that this felt worth the risk. You’ve been wanting to see Yoongi for a while and you weren’t about to throw that all away.  

And then Yoongi says, “I have a spare space in the car park under the building, you can park there if you want to follow me,” and your worries dissipate so quickly you wonder why you bothered worrying in the first place.  

It’s a 10-minute drive of you following Yoongi’s car from the shop to his apartment block, and as promised you go down a ramp into a car park under his building. You take the slot next to his and try not to think how this is all very spontaneous and that you don’t really know Yoongi at all and yet you’re coming to his flat.  

You plaster on your best fake smile as you climb out the car and try to act natural as you walk to where Yoongi stands waiting for you. As always, he seems to see straight through you and can tell how uncomfortable you must feel.  

“Ready to go up?” He lingers by the cars as if you’re going to change your mind, but you simply nod your head to indicate for him to show the way.  

The whole elevator ride up is silent, not awkward, but internally you’re reminding yourself how much you want to be here, how much you want to get to know Yoongi better, how this is a good idea, how nothing bad is going to happen. But the silence eats into you, the lack of noise causing no distraction from your thoughts.  

The elevator dings, the doors open and you follow Yoongi down the plain hallway, finally stopping in front of one of the many nondescript doors.  

“Straight in with the wine?” Yoongi says over his shoulder as he kicks off his shoes and walks towards a small kitchen. “Or do you want a soft drink to start?”  

You linger at the door, surprised at how casual he’s being. It shouldn’t surprise you, he’s always been like this around you, but you don’t think you will ever get used to it. Kicking off your shoes, you more neatly place them by Yoongis and follow the direction he left you.  

“I’ll go wine, if you are?” You say from the doorway of his kitchen.  

He’s already reaching up to grab two wine glasses from a cupboard, and you lean on the door frame as you watch him move around the small box kitchen. He’s just getting glasses, taking the cork out of the bottle, pouring a good few glugs into each glass; nothing too special, nothing extra ordinary, but you find every action undeniably hot. So much so, that when he turns to you with the glasses in his hands, the bottle under one arm, you’re pretty sure he catches you staring opened mouthed at him.  

He is visibly fighting a smile as he brushes past you, not saying anything as he once again leads the way to a different room.  

The flat is undeniably Yoongi. Plain walls with only a few pieces of not too bold art on the walls, there’s flashes of personality; a large display of CDs, a few small plants, books scattered on every surface, trinkets like small figurines on shelves. It’s lived in, not neat but not messy, it’s comfortable.  

Yoongi places the wine and glasses onto a coffee table in the middle of living room and then takes a seat on the only settee in the room, leaving a space on the opposing side for you.  

“Nice place,” you say as you sit down next to him, immediately picking up one of the glasses of wine.  

“Thanks,” he follows suit, taking the other glass and having a swig before carrying on. “I’ve been here four years now. Had a flat mate for the first three-ish years, and then when she moved to live with her partner, I decided that I’d just take on the extra rent myself.”  

You give an appreciative hum as your eyes continue to trail around the room. You take another sip of your wine to give yourself more time to come up with a response. Eyes trying to get clues as to anything about Yoongis life.  

“You like basketball?” You nod your head to a framed, signed shirt.  

“Yeah. Harden,” he says as if you can’t read the bold name printed on the shirt. “Do you watch it?”  

“I can’t say I have any clue about any of it unfortunately. I’ve always thought it would be cool to follow a sport though. Live games always look super fun, and I have a few friends that follow certain sports and are always super passionate about it all.”  

“Well, I’ll have to take you to the next game then,” he says easily. “At least then I can make sure you don’t support the Lakers.”  

You let out a small chuckle, having no real idea what he’s on about. “Ok, it’s a date,” you say and then immediately heat at the connotation.  

“I look forward to it,” Yoongi says, seemingly unbothered.  

There’s a beat or two of silence where you’re still internally dying and Yoongi is sipping his wine. You don’t want this to be awkward. You know you’re putting way too much pressure on this non-existent relationship, and you have thought about Yoongi more than you’ve actually ever spoken to him, but you want this to work.   

So far it’s felt like the most normal relationship you’ve had with anyone in so long. He treats you like a normal person, and you don’t want to mess up and throw that away. It was probably selfish of you, using Yoongi to make yourself feel better, to make yourself feel more normal. But you can’t help it.  

“So are the jalapeño pretzels really your favourite snack?” You resort to familiar ground.  

“Definitely top five,” he answers.  

“Go on then, what are the others?”  

“Well, I don’t think you know this, but you’re not the only famous person in this room,” your heart stutters over a beat, before falling back into its natural rhythm when you realise he’s not calling you out but is joking with you. “You are looking at the face of 2002’s mini cheddars kid.”  

A laugh escapes your mouth. “I thought I recognised you.”  

“I forgive you for not immediately asking for my signature.”  

“I’m just waiting for my coveted pickle mini cheddars to arrive in the post and then I’ll be knocking at your door, don’t you worry.”  

His lips curl at the edges. “For you, I’ll even throw in a selfie.”  

It’s a joke, but like 90% of things Yoongi does and says, your heart lets off an erratic beat. You find it hard to remain looking neutral and unaffected. Taking another sip of your quickly depleting wine helps.  

“So is that how you got an invite to the awards?” You slip in as casually as you can, a question you’ve wanted to know the answer to for ages, but have felt too awkward asking outright. “I’m surprised you weren’t asked to present, though I guess they don’t want you to take the spotlight off any of the award winners.”  

His eyes crinkle at the corners, another stage of him revealing his happiness. Slowly but surely you are picking up on the signs, the small traits that reveal his emotions.  

“Nah, unfortunately not. I was actually there as a plus one, shoved into the cheap seats at the back. My friend was up for an award for best Documentary, and although I had nothing to do with any of it, he asked if I wanted to come,” he says. “And before you ask, no, he did not win.”  

“Oh wow, that’s cool, and a nice friend,” you comment. “So if you don’t work in films, what do you do?”  

“Can’t you tell?” He tips is glass in the general direction of the room, giving you no clue whatsoever.  

You look around again, take another look at the book titles and the art on the walls and the blank TV, as if any of it will have a sign that tells you the answer to your question. Finally, you look back at Yoongi, and his eyes dance with amusement as he watches you.  

“I’m an actress, not a mind reader,” you lift your eyebrows at him in challenge.  

“I’m a freelance web developer.”  

You don’t even fully understand what that means. The fact only makes you feel even further away from him, only reminds you that you’re nothing alike. You don’t even know how to reply to him.  

“I get paid by companies or individuals to either create a website completely or just edit certain areas for them. I write code for them, or test code they already have and identify the issues with it.”  

“Wow,” you say, his explanation only making you feel like you understand his job less.  

“Yeah, it’s super boring,” his hand nervously scratches the top of his head.  

“No, it sounds interesting,” you say, and probably because the booze has loosened your tongue, or maybe just because it’s Yoongi and you seem to say stupid things around him, you carry on. “And it sounds super smart. I mean, you must be super smart to do it.”  

He lets out a small laugh, his hand moving to scratch his jaw instead. “I’m not sure about that.”  

“Oh come on, Yoongi. I’ve had to pretend to play a lot of smart people in my career, I know that you’re smart.”  

“Ah, so acting doesn’t make you a mind reader, but does allow you to have an authority on people's jobs and intellect. Got it,” he says, sarcasm dripping off every word.  

You roll your eyes at him, but still smile as you down the last of your wine.  

“Very defensive of you, definitely what a smart person would do.”  

“Yeah, yeah, so I’m smart,” he downs the last few sips of his drink before leaning forward and filling up both your glasses. “Big deal. But I’ve never won any awards for my job.”  

You hum, this was turning into some weird competition.   

“I bet you would if there were awards given out for your job,” you say.  

“You’ve not heard of web developer of the year?” He smiles at you, sarcasm lacing every word and you can see the laugh he is fighting. “I’m shocked, it’s a massive deal.”  

“I hear winning it is better than sex,” you huff a laugh before downing some more wine.  

Yoongi seems particularly affected by that joke if his laugh is anything to go by. His head thrown back on his neck, his cheeks going slightly rosy. The affect creates a larger smile to appear on your face.  

“I meant when I said that was a really funny joke,” he tips his wine glass slightly towards you as if in cheers to your speech.  

“Thanks,” you reply. He’d said the same thing that night at the after party, but the joke has brought you so much agro over the last few weeks, you can only regret saying it. Still, it’s nice to know he didn’t see it as anything but a joke.  

Your night continues in much the same way. No serious topics touched upon. Just wine drunk and jokes made. You enjoy it, enjoy him. But as the bottle of wine empties and the sky gets darker you realise that you have been here far longer than you should.  

You announce that you should probably head off, and help him to take the now empty glasses to the kitchen before standing before him at his front door.  

“You can stay if you want, there’s a spare bed you can use,” he must see the look that passes over your face, the one that thinks that even coming here was a risk, but staying over and being caught leaving in the same clothes in the morning seemed like going from a step to a jump. Even you weren’t drunk enough for that scenario to not play on your mind. “I would offer to drive you, but I think I've had a bit too much to drink for that.”  

You smile, why is he always so sweet?  

“I can call you an uber though,” he offers, pulling his phone out.  

“It’s fine,” you laugh, close enough to him to reach your hand out and put it over his phone, blocking his view of it. “I can order my own.”  

He moves his phone to try and see the screen, but you’re too quick for him, your hand following his path so that his screen is still covered.  

“But how will I know if you get home safely?” His lips jut out into a pout. “This way I can watch the little car driving around and watch it drop you at your door.”  

You hum, hand still covering his phone though both of you are now staring at each other.  

“Is this just your way to find out where I live?”  

His cheeks that are already pink from alcohol turn red. Though he remains flat faced, you can see how flustered you’ve made him.  

“Damn, you found me out. This was all some wild plot to get your address that I could almost definitely find online.”  

“Yeah, especially as you’re a super smart coder. Probably a piece of piss,” you say, and you swear his already impossibly red cheeks go redder.  

“Yep,” he pops the p, clearly unable to say anything else. “So, I’m just going to go ahead and order this now.”  

He manoeuvres his hand slowly from below yours and then snaps it a bit faster when you try to chase after him. You start laughing as Yoongi tries to escape your grasps. You both twist your bodies, he lifts his hand over his head and you stand on your tip toes to try and get it, tugging on his wrist to bring his hand within your grasp. Just when you think you have it, his spare hand encompasses your wrist, stopping all your movements.  

“Yoongi,” you whine, trying not to think about his hands around your wrist, your chest nearly against his, your head having to fall back so you can see his face. “Please, you got the wine and snacks.”  

“That’s because I didn’t want to be a bad host.”  

“I’m not letting you order me an uber home, Yoongi,” you say flatly.  

“But how will I know if you get home ok?”  

“Is this you now asking for my number?” There’s a beat of silence and you know this is going to have to come from you, so you carry on. “Give me your phone.”  

There’s another beat where you see an emotion flick across his eyes. He keeps the hand with his phone out of reach and you wait him out. And then he’s lowering it, bringing the phone down to your level. You have to take a small step back so you can get it in your hands, and you heat up as you create a new contact and type in your details. You text yourself so that you have his number and then hold the phone out in your palm for him to take.  

“There,” you say, looking back at him. “Now I can let you know when I’m home.”  

He doesn’t necessarily look happy with the arrangement, and you wonder what difference it makes if he orders the car or if you do. Neither of you say anything as you take out your phone and order a car.  

“It’s going to be here in 5,” you say.  

“I’ll walk you down,” he says, and as if predicting you’ll protest, he repeats the words a bit firmer.  

So you don’t say anything as you both slip on your shoes, and as he opens the door for you, and you wait for the elevator and you ride down in it. You only say something when you walk through the door onto the street and you finally see the last few minutes together and you realise that although you have his number, you have no plans to see each other again.  

“Thanks for having me,” you say softly. “And thanks for the wine.”  

“Of course,” he replies.  

“And sorry again for the whole pretzel thing.”  

His smile widens only slightly. “It’s ok.”  

“Well, that’s me,” you say, feeling a bit defeated that he is showing no interest in seeing you again. You should just be bold and ask him outright, but he makes you so nervous that you can’t. You feel like a school girl with a crush around him.  

“Safe journey home,” he says before opening the car door for you.  

He at waits until the car drives away, watching it the whole way, and then he’s gone from view and you’re leaning your head against the window wondering, again, if you’ll ever see him again.  

It’s only been a day since you were at Yoongi’s, and the only messages you have exchanged are when you text him to say you were home safe and he replied he was glad. It’s not been long, but sat in your house with nothing else to do, you can’t help but look at your phone every hour as if messages will magically appear.  

You could message him just as easily as he could, but given the lack of reply when you said you were going to pick up your car from his, you can’t help but think he doesn’t want to see you again.  

You drown yourself in reading the never-ending pile of scripts you manager keeps dropping off for you, but still find no desire to do any of them. You feel like you’ve lost your passion for acting, the one thing you’ve always loved and you don’t know if you want to carry on doing it. You don’t know what you’d do instead, really you have enough money that if you are careful, you could live out your life pretty comfortably without going back to acting. But you don’t even know if that’s what you want.  

You’ve felt lost over the last year, lost the love you once felt for your job. The press and the way they twisted stories about you never used to bother you. But it’s been too long, too many stories told about you, for you to easily ignore it. Mostly they report on your love life, any person you’re with even if it is just a friend, always speculations to who you’re with. You used to be able to laugh at it, used to be able to see how wrong they were and how out of context they were taking things. But when they kept twisting you and your dating life, making out you were a slut and that you go through men like they were going out of fashion, and then never giving the same treatment to the men you dated, you started not seeing the funny side.  

They wore you down, made you who you are today. Made you have these doubts about Yoongi. Made you feel like you shouldn’t message him first. Made you not want to turn up at his door in case there are cameras there. Made you not want to be friends with Yoongi because you knew that he would be dragged into the mess that is your life, and you didn’t want to do that to anyone, let alone him. Made you doubt his reasonings for wanting to be around you.  

So you don’t message him. You sit and read the scripts and try to find some passion again. But when your phone dings, you scramble for it so quickly you nearly knock it off the table.  

Yoongi: You’d enjoy these.  

Attached is a slightly blurry picture of some marmite cheese wheels. It’s so out of the blue, and said as if you had a long string of texts before, that you can’t help but smile at your phone.  

Yoongi: Also sorry I never replied to your previous message. I’m crap at texting. You should have come up to the flat when you picked the car up.  

Warmth spreads through you. You shouldn’t have overthought it when you went, should have just gone up to his flat and knocked on his door like you wanted to. But as always you had overthought it, had let the thoughts of being turned away over rule you.  

You reply that you’ll buy some marmite cheese and thank him for the recommendation. Then pause for a second, debating whether to try and keep the conversation going. But before you can overthink it, you just do it, a simple  how have you been?    

You hold your breath as if you’ve just asked him something controversial, as if you’ve just declared something ground breaking and are now waiting for his reaction. Because to you this is ground breaking. You never text people you don’t know, hardly text anyone full stop. And the nerves that bubble in you, the excitement while you wait for his reply, is something you never feel. You don’t want to mess up whatever this is, and the chances of that happening are high, you always mess everything up without having to do much at all.  

It doesn’t take long for the message to turn to read and then the three little dots to appear and then a new message is on your screen. Nothing ground breaking, but your heart still does a weird flutter in your chest at the sight. You don’t even care how you come across as you immediately type out a reply.  

Yoongi truly is shit at texting though. Over the following week your texts are few and far between. Mostly piss poor pictures of snacks that you think the other would enjoy. Every time you get one of those from Yoongi, as soon as you can, you hunt down the snack and buy it. So far, you haven’t not enjoyed any of them.  

It’s not just Yoongi that is bad at texting though. Over the week your work commitments start to increase. You still don’t have any acting jobs on the cards, but there are some advertising shoots, a commitment to a charity you work with, and some talks with production for a possible future job. But still, nothing feels inspiring to you, you don’t get the excitement about the thought of any job that you used to feel.  

And then one night as you’re sat on the sofa, scrolling through your phone, you see it. Another interview with Eddie. Another snub aimed at you. Another media outlet taking the bait and using his words to paint you to be something you’re not. People lap it up, Eddie is riding off your coat tails, the media see it as a way for more hits, all because the public love drama. And even though you know this, even though you know Eddies words aren’t true, have been twisted and warped so that they are now so far from the truth it’s laughable, it still hits you like a punch in the gut.  

You scroll through Twitter for far longer than you should. Every word dragging you further down into the dark pit in your mind.  

It takes you far longer than it should to snap out of it, to force yourself to put your phone down. And when you do, you immediately go to the kitchen and open a bottle of wine. As you pour a large glass your phone dings. You leave it while you take a large gulp, not wanting to read any messages from your management or friends about the latest shit storm that is your life. But when it dings again, you pick it up.  

Another blurry picture graces your screen. Yoongi’s large hand holding some biscuits described as triple chocolate chip cookies, dipped in chocolate. The message underneath reading:  

Yoongi: Never tried these, but they look like something you’d enjoy.  

A smile comes to your face as you stare at the picture that was clearly taken in a supermarket, the harsh lights and blurry background of some lino floor giving it away. It takes you a second to realise that he’s done something that can so rarely be done. He hasn’t even meant to do it, just coincidental timing, but he’s made you forget Eddie and the media, and the public currently hating on you. He’s made you smile in the middle of you feeling like you are drowning.  

Placing your wine on the table you don’t even think of the possible ramifications of what you’re about to type. Don’t overthink what you’re sending as you watch the double ticks appear to show your message has been sent and delivered.  

Y/N: Do you fancy coming over?  

Dots appear and disappear. A minute of watching him debate what to reply. You don’t let yourself think about it, just watch the dots.  

Yoongi: I’ll bring the cookies.  

You beam down at your phone. Don’t even think to reply to the message, just so happy that he didn’t turn you down. It’s not until Yoongi sends another message asking for your address that you remember he’s never been here. You send him the details before nervously pacing around the house.  

You clean a little, your house already tidy, you end up just moving items around that don’t need to be touched.   

Fifteen minutes he said it would take to get to yours. Fifteen minutes of you wondering whether you should have thought a bit more about this. You still don’t really know Yoongi well, was it safe to have him come to your house?  

The knock on the door makes you jump even though you’ve been anticipating it since Yoongi messaged you.  

He holds up the biscuits and a bottle of wine when you open your door. A small smile on his mouth.  

“I brought presents.”  

The beaming smile reappears on your face, all your previous worries disappearing as you see him stood at your door. Yoongis smile grows a little at your reaction. Opening the door wider you let him in and watch as he slips his shoes off and then looks around at the house.  

You can see the worry in his eyes, the way his feet shuffle a bit on the spot and his eyes flick around the room. You’d been so caught up in your own worries that you hadn’t even thought of what Yoongi would feel coming here. Your house isn’t massive, but for the city it is nice, with your status and wealth, you could afford to live in a place not many can afford. It must feel intimidating to him.  

“Come on through, I’ll get us some glasses,” you say, trying to act as natural as possible to ease both of your nerves. “Did you find the house ok?”  

“Yeah thanks,” Yoongi says. “It’s a nice area.”  

“Yeah, I’m super lucky that my job allows me to afford to live here.”  

“And what is it you do?”  

You twist and see a gummy smile on the man as he leans against your kitchen counter. That was a quick turnaround from him seemingly being nervous to now the confident unphased man you’ve grown to know.  

“And here I was thinking I’m super famous,” you say with a laugh, hoping it comes out in the jokey tone you are aiming for.  

“Oh no, you’re definitely that,” he says, the smile still on his face.  

“And yet you always seem completely unphased by it.”  

His eyes widen at your words, the smile dropping slightly.  

“Unphased? By you?” His tone reflects his face, full of surprise. “I’m sorry, what? I’m constantly... what’s the opposite of unphased? Phased? I’m always completely phased by you.”  

You ignore the joke and smile that’s returned to his face, instead focusing on the words.  

“But, you always seem so unbothered by me?” You realise how you might sound, as if you want him to be excited by your presence, as if you’re shallow enough to be affected by the fact he doesn’t care about who you are. So you carry on. “I just mean. You came and sat with me at that after party, you didn’t react when you saw me in the corner shop, or, well, at least didn’t react in the way people normally do when they see me.”  

He shrugs, as if it doesn’t matter. “Sure, I get nervous around you. I feel intimidated when I think about who you are and what you’ve done and when I think about the fact that I’ve seen you on the big screen alongside some other super famous people. But, at the end of the day, you’re just a girl, just a human with human feelings and human thoughts and I don’t really see why that should affect how I treat you.”  

You nod, you wish more people had that view point. Instead, so many people feel like they are entitled to know about every aspect of your life just because you have a very public job.  

“I can start screaming and crying whenever I see you though, if that’s what you’d rather?” The gummy smile returns to his face and you heat at the fact it’s directed straight at you.  

“You know, you screaming and crying would actually be something I’d like to see. I can’t imagine it.”  

The smile on his face deepens before he opens his mouth. Tears don’t fall from his eyes, but a sound somewhat like a scream comes out of his mouth. You can’t help but laugh at the sight.  

“Ok, ok,” you say through your laugh and Yoongis screaming. “I take it back; I don’t want to hear that ever again.”  

He stops the noise, but the smile stays firmly in place. You can only hold his gaze for a few seconds before it gets too much. Turning you open up the cupboard with your wine glasses, picking up one and bringing it down.  

“Let’s just have some wine and I’ll give you a tour of the house,” you explain as you pour wine into the empty glass while also topping up your own. Turning you hand him the glass. “If that’s ok with you?”  

Amusement dances in Yoongi’s eyes as he looks at you, clearly enjoying the unsureness that seeps into your voice. He shrugs again before taking a sip of the wine.  

“I’m here now, may as well have a look around,” he smirks at you.  

You pick up your own glass, taking a large gulp before walking past him. Heading out of the kitchen back towards the front door.  

“Or we can just sit and chat,” you say over your shoulder. “I don’t normally do a tour of my house like it’s a museum.”  

“Then I’m honoured you offered me one,” you can hear the smile on his lips even though you’re not looking at him. “I think I might have seen an Oscar on one of your shelves. Definitely museum material.”  

You stop just outside your sitting room door, spinning around to look at him. Yoongi obviously doesn’t expect the sudden stop and only just manages to stop himself before he hits you.  

“You know, sitting and talking sounds way better,” you say, attempting to step back around him and go back to the kitchen.  

He laughs as his hand comes out to stop you. “Y/N, I’m joking. Well I’m not, I honestly do want to see the Oscar. I just mean; I want a tour.”  

You look up at him. From here, stood closer to him than you possibly ever have, you can see every pour on his face, each one as perfect as the last. You can see each individual eyelash, see the many bands of colours that make up his eyes. Heat blossoms on the spot where his hand still rests from stopping your retreat. And when he gulps, you get a front row seat of how his Adams apple bobs up and down in his neck.  

You step back, putting a few inches of distance back between the two of you. Room to breathe.  

“Right,” you say, clearing your throat. “I have some BAFTAs too if they’re of interest?”  

His head gives a small bob as you twist and head into the room you previously tried to abandon. You look around, not really knowing what to say. This is why you shouldn’t have suggested a house tour, anything you think of saying sounds like you’re either trying to sell your house or are on MTV cribs.  In here I like to sit and read. I practice my lines for films in here too, it’s my safe space.  

Instead of saying any of that, you wait for Yoongi to stand next to you and then lamely gesture to the room.  

“You really don’t normally do this, do you,” he laughs and when you shake your head, he takes the lead. “Is there a place you keep all your awards? Like a display cabinet?”  

“They’re just dotted around. They used to all be in one spot but it started to feel a bit weird, so now I just put them wherever there’s space.”  

“See, intimidating,” he smiles at you, but you hear the genuine tone. “I think the last award I won was my 100m swimming badge.”  

“A vital skill to have.”  

“I was 10,” he says flatly.  

“At least it wasn’t when you were 20,” you laugh, before looking back at the shelves across the room, one of your Oscars sat on the middle shelf. “But I don’t know, I just do my job and my job just happens to give out awards. It’s nothing too special.”  

“And you just happened to win?” Yoongi replies, before nudging his arm against yours. “It’s impressive.”  

He doesn’t linger on the thought, doesn’t try to drive home the point or tell how much he admires you. Just simply says the statement and then walks across the room to get closer to the award. You stay stood where he left you, sipping on your wine as you watch him moving his head around the statue to get different angles.   

“You can pick it up, it won’t bite,” you say.  

He twists his neck so he can look at you, his mouth popped slightly open, eyes wide from looking at the award. Your heart does a weird leap at the sight.  

“Seriously? You’re not worried about my grubby hands getting on it?”  

“As you said, I have so many, what’s one ruined?” Your smile widens as his face lightens at your joke.  

He turns back around, places his wine on the counter top and then ever so delicately lifts the award from its spot. You drift closer to him, stopping when you’re by his side so you can look at the awards in his hands.  

“Best supporting actress for when I played Susie in Last Night,” you explain.  

Yoongi lets out a small hum, his eyes still focused on the award in his hand, his thumb slightly stroking the surface. Your eyes flick to his face. He looks so lost in thought as he stares down at it. You wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s seeing. Wonder whether showing him this, letting him into your home was bursting the bubble slightly on your relationship. You’d never really spoken about you and your job before. Yoongi has made it clear he knows who you are and doesn’t have a problem with it. But maybe this was all one step too far.  

“Are you starting to wish they gave these out to web designers?” You give an awkward laugh, hoping to break the tension that’s arisen.  

Yoongi doesn’t laugh though, just continues to look lost in his thoughts. Worry starts to grow in you. You’d thought it had been going so well, had thought all your previous worries of inviting him here were pointless, but maybe not.  

“I’m just wondering why you keep wanting to see me.”   

Your heart drops with the words. But as you keep looking at Yoongi, and he keeps looking at the award, you get it.  

Just like you haven’t been able to explain what it is about Yoongi that makes you so drawn to him, he feels the same. While you are struggling with understanding if he likes you for you, and not for the job you have. He’s struggling to understand why someone so famous is so interested in him, someone seemingly ordinary.  

You can remember the way he nervously lingered in the door when he caught you crying, unsure whether he should approach you. The way he shuffled and fidgeted in the shop when you bumped into him. The dots that appeared and disappeared when you were waiting for his reply as to whether he would come here tonight, and when he did reply it was an answer shorter to write than the time he took. And then the nerves that so obviously flowed off him when you opened your door to him.  

While Yoongi has been comforting you, been trying to lift your spirits when you’ve so obviously been down, you’ve been oblivious to his thoughts. You’d assumed it was just him. And while he is the cool, seemingly unbothered man, he is also human. Just like he said to you, he has human thoughts and emotions. Just like how you felt when you acted alongside Leonardo Dicaprio, he is nervous.  

“Because you give good snack recommendations,” the joke falls like a led balloon, definitely not the right time to joke, but at least it gets him to look at you.  

Just as delicately as he picked the award up, he places it back in the spot he found it. Award now safe he turns to you, face neutral, silent as he waits for an answer. You don’t say anything as you nod your head at the settee, and then lead the way to sit down.   

“I like you,” you say simply, wishing it was as easy as that, wishing everything in your life was that easy. But of course, nothing is. “I don’t know, you’re nice, and funny and you treat me like a normal person, and I enjoy spending time with you. Do you want me to keep blowing smoke up your ass?”  

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Yoongi says, a small smile returning to his lips, putting you at ease.  

“Listen, you might have seen, and you could probably guess from catching me crying in a room on my own after winning an award, but it’s not been a particularly great time for me recently.”  

“Do you want to talk about it?”  

“Yes,” you sigh. “And no.”  

You hate that you’ve somehow turned this back on yourself. Are conscious that this conversation started because of Yoongis worries, and yet here you were playing the victim. Yes, you want to talk about it, but not now.  

“You make me happy, you treat me like a normal person, and yeah, you give good snack suggestions,” you say.  

Yoongi tries to fight the smile, his lip wobbling, but he can’t hold the gummy smile showing for long. He looks soft and shy at your words, and you take a note for future; ways to get Yoongi to go soft, give him lots of compliments and tell him how much you like him.  

“I could say the same about you,” he replies.  

“But you won’t?” You tease, enjoying this flustered side.  

Yoongi lets out a small sigh, looking around the room before finally settling his eyes back on you.  

“I’m not good with words. And you’re still incredibly intimidating.”  

“You have seriously never seemed like you’re nervous around me.”  

“Are you joking?” Yoongi asks. “When I opened that door at the party, I nearly shat myself when it wasn’t the toilet, and instead of a urinal you were sat there.”  

You laugh loudly. You remember turning and seeing a shocked Yoongi standing at the door. The thought of him being tipsy and opening the door with that image, is something you don’t want to forget. Yoongis smile stays on his face, fondness seeping into his eyes as he watches you laugh.  

“Seriously, I nearly didn’t come in when I realised it was you sat there. Do you not remember me stuttering out a dumb greeting?”  

“I just remember you tell me to stop looking at my phone.”  

He nods his head. “Solid advice. But I’m pretty sure I stutter something dumb before that.”  

Pink tinges his face as he continues, the thought of the event clearly still playing on his mind. You wish you could remember it.  

“And then when I saw you in that shop, again, I nearly didn’t approach you,” he carries on, revealing more and more things you didn’t realise. “And again, with that dumb greeting.”  

“ Not a good disguise   if I remember correctly,” you say.  

“At least you got what I was aiming for and didn’t take offence.”  

“Yeah, honestly, I was still trying to work out if I knew you or not. I remembered you from the party, but most people don’t just approach me like they know me without complimenting a film I’ve been in first.”  

“Oh, I knew you had no idea who I was,” a big, cheeky, gummy smile appears on his face at the memory. “I could almost see your mind trying to work how to ask me what my name was.”  

It was your time to be embarrassed, had you really been that obvious? Yoongi lets out a small laugh at the look that comes over your face.  

“But you can’t have been that intimidated by me, you were the one to invite me to your flat first.”  

“Well, I had a pretty good idea you’d say yes,” you can sense the teasing tone and almost don’t want to ask why, sensing you’ll be embarrassed. But Yoongi is obviously playing off the fact that you don’t know, not giving in until you ask him.  

“Why?”  

“You did blast out to the world how much you enjoyed my snack recommendation. I got the impression you weren’t just doing that to tell people so they would make them out of stock.”  

You instantly heat. He’d nailed you, not that you hadn’t been completely obvious with what you had done. But he’d never brought it up before, only implied he’d seen the tweet and you kind of hoped the whole thing was forgotten, it wasn’t your finest moment.  

“Yeah, well, they were good,” is all you can stutter out.  

Yoongis eyes light up, his face dancing with amusement. He’s clearly enjoying seeing you flustered as much as you were enjoying it on him earlier.  

“Well, I need more wine,” you carry on, standing up, trying to get out of whatever situation you had dug yourself into.  

“And then will we carry on the tour?” The teasing tone is there as you hear him following you.  

“You know, I regret even showing you this room, so I might call it a day there.”  

“But I was so looking forward to seeing the BAFTAs.”  

You reach the wine and immediately fill your glass up.   

“I preferred you when you pretended you didn’t know who I was,” you turn and hand him the now nearly empty bottle.  

“I never pretended. I thought we just went through the whole,  I ’m always slightly shitting myself around you , thing,” he takes the bottle and empties it into his glass.  

You take a swig of your drink at the same time as him. You both need it by the sounds of it. You were really getting into it tonight, all the topics you’d avoided until now.  

“Well at least you’ve never actually shit yourself yet,” you pause. “Unless you have. You know, I thought there was a funny smell in that shop.”  

“Ha, ha, ha,” he says sarcastically, but there’s a genuine smile on his face.   

“Ok, come on then, if you really want a tour, then I’ll give you a tour,” you cave easily.  

“How often do you get to look around a global super star's house?” You smirk, raising an eyebrow at him. “Ok, so it’s probably pretty common for you. But for common folk like me, it’s something you have to take advantage of when you get the opportunity.”  

You let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head at him, but you have to admit he makes a good point. You wouldn’t have ever said you would be letting Yoongi into your house a month ago, so you can imagine how it must feel to him. But you don’t say any of that, just pick up your wine and start your tour.  

The ice is well and truly broken. Unsurprisingly, getting some of your feelings out in the open and talking about some of your worries helps the situation.  

Which is how, three weeks after he came to your house, you find yourself stood next to Yoongi outside one of his friends' houses.  

It was as if by him coming to your house, you had broken some sort of barrier, as after that he seemed to come to yours all the time. Probably a slight exaggeration. In the three weeks he had come six times, still, it felt like you saw him all the time. When he wasn’t at yours, you were texting, mainly exchanging crappy pictures of snacks, but texting none the less.  

He brought up that he was going to a friend’s house for a meal a week before the event. As if knowing that you would worry over the prospect of the invite. As if knowing you would read into it, worry over it, overthink it. He brought it up with enough time to convince you that you should come, that it would be fine, that he wanted you there.  

So, here you stand, outside his friend's house, invited to a monthly tradition they have, as if you’re somehow part of the group.  

“You’re sure they’re ok with me coming?” You ask for the umpteenth time.  

Yoongi doesn’t even answer. He only has to wait a couple of beats for the door to swing open. A large man with an even larger boxy smile stands before you.  

“Yoongi,” the man beams, eyes going from Yoongi to you. “And who’s this? You didn’t tell me you were bringing a guest.”  

You stiffen. The hand on the wine you clutch tightens. He had told you not to worry, had told you that you were invited, had said that -   

“Shut up Tae,” Yoongi mumbles from beside you, stepping the few inches so that his side rests against your side, his hand coming to the small of your back. “You’re not funny.”  

You relax with Yoongi’s presence now so near you, his calmness seeping into you. And as the man at the door, Taehyung, still continues to look at you with that shit eating grin, you realise that it was just a joke. Of course it was just a joke. You feel dumb for not realising before, for jumping to conclusions, for thinking the worst.  

“I brought wine,” you say with a smile, holding up the bottle in your hand.  

“Oh, in that case, you’re definitely welcome. Come on in.”   

Taehyung steps back and opens the door wide, smile still on his face. Yoongi pushes you gently with the hand resting on your back, guiding you forward. You smile as you step past Taehyung, stopping when you’re both firmly in his house, Yoongi by your side, in far enough that Taehyung can close the door behind you.  

“I will leave you two to take your shoes off, coats off, tops off, pants off, whatever you fancy really. We don’t judge around here Y/N.”  

You let out a small laugh. Yoongi had warned you about his friends, but you had thought he was exaggerating. Perhaps he had actually underplayed it.  

“I’ll be in the kitchen.” Taehyung leaves the two of you alone at the front door, disappearing in you assume the direction of the kitchen.  

You stare off in the direction for a few beats before bending to take your shoes off. You’re conscious of Yoongi not doing the same. Of him just standing in the same spot. But you carry on, trying not to think about it.  

“We can leave now if you want,” he says softly from above you, as if hoping no one will be able to hear him but you. “We don’t have to stick around if you want to leave. I can make an excuse for us.”  

Us. We.   Not you. If you want to leave, he will leave with you, seemingly no questions asked. Your heart leaps into your throat at the fact he would do that for you.  

You don’t reply as you finish taking off your shoes. Wait until you are stood back up looking at him.  

He looks worried. His features still not giving away too much emotion, but you can see the way his fingers pick at his nails, see his teeth gnawing at the inside of his lips. Is he embarrassed by you or by his friends? The way he seems pissed off by Taehyung’s comment is enough to suggest his feelings, the way he stands so firmly by your side is anything to go by, then you would say he is definitely embarrassed by his friends, not you.  

“Tae seems in a particularly good mood tonight, and that is never a good sign,” Yoongi comments, looking down at you. “We could just head out the door now.”  

You smile, unable to hide your glee anymore. You were worried about tonight,  are   worried about tonight. But even from the brief glimpse of him near one of his friends, you can’t even believe how you could have thought this wouldn’t be anything but gold. You love flustered Yoongi, you love when he shows his emotions, when you get glimpses of what he keeps hidden inside him. He’d warned his friends were embarrassing, how had you not thought that wouldn’t equate to this?  

“I like him,” you continue to try and supress your smile, and Yoongi definitely cottons on, his face dropping the worried look in favour of a knowing frown.  

“Ok, we should definitely leave,” he’s teasing, you know, and it’s enough for you to not be able to hold back your smile any more.  

“Yoongi,” you whine out his name, pouting your lips slightly, but still laughing at the look on his face.  

“The minute one of them starts talking about that time I played Peter Pan in university, we’re out,” Yoongi says flatly, and before you can even think about replying, his hands are on your waist, twisting you and pushing you in the direction Taehyung disappeared.   

The flat is much like Yoongis, the main difference being that the small box kitchen that’s separate in Yoongi’s flat, is open planned, attached to the living room come dining room in Tae’s flat. Rounding the corner, you realise that even your quiet conversation with Yoongi, would definitely have been heard by all the bodies sat at the small table.  

You heat at the all the eyes that turn to look at you in the door way. Yoongi just steps up beside you, again, hand still placed on your lower back.  

“I have a tape of it if you want me to send it to you Y/N,” one of the men at the table says. “The green tights really give a good view of all his assets.”  

You let out a light laugh as Yoongi pushes you to the two empty seats around the table.  

“Hoseok,” Yoongi says tightly as he pulls out your chair and when you look at him, you’re pleased to see his cheeks are tinted pink. “This is Y/N.”  

You give a small  hey   as you turn to look back at the man. He lifts his beer in salute to you.  

“And next to him is his girlfriend, Georgina. Then we have Namjoon. And last, you’ve already met Tae.”  

You give small smiles to each person Yoongi points out to you.   

“And we sometimes have Jungkook and Mary, but they are unfortunately busy tonight.”  

All things Yoongi had told you before tonight. The names around the table you already knew, could have guessed who was who from the descriptions Yoongi gave you.  

“Thank god, hey,” Taehyung pipes up. “Would have been quite the squeeze if they’d joined.”  

“Well, now you know everyone,” Yoongi ignores Taehyung completely.  

“Thanks for having me,” you smile at Taehyung.  

“You are welcome any time Y/N.”  

“You might not say that after eating his food,” Namjoon smiles at you.  

“Wait till you go to Namjoon’s house, then you will be glad of my excellent cooking.”  

“Tae and Namjoon buy takeaways, Y/N,” Georgina cuts in. “It’s merely a competition of who decides to pick the best, least questionable option each month.”  

“At least we don’t cheat by pairing up,” Taehyung points an accusing finger at the couple across from him.  

“Yeah, because having a girlfriend really makes me the loser here,” Hoseok says smugly.  

Taehyung just shrugs, clearly having no good come back to that slight jab. He takes a sip of his beer before turning his attention to you.  

“And what about you Y/N?” He asks. “Will you be buying takeaway or cooking when we come to yours?”  

You’re taken aback by his boldness, but try not to let it show on your face. Yoongi’s hand slips onto your leg, giving it a slight squeeze of reassurance, but you cut him off when he opens his mouth.  

“I heard you’re a fan of strawberries so was hoping I could get by with just putting out snacks.”  

You watch as Taehyung’s eyes dart from yours to Yoongis and then back again. He can’t hide his shock as easily as you can. You can see the surprise written all over his face, he obviously wouldn’t have guessed the man sat next to you would have spoken about him. Or maybe hadn’t quite realised just how close the two of you had gotten over the last few months, even though Yoongi has clearly spoken about you to them, is clearly close to you given your invite here tonight. Seeing it is probably a lot different to hearing about it, especially when that person is a well-known actress, you can imagine they all thought Yoongi was joking when he first said he was hanging out with you.  

“I was also kind of hoping that being in my house, with all my awards and bits from films I’ve worked on, would be enough of a distraction from my poor cooking,” you tease, all faces around the room stuck on you. It’s as if Yoongi had warned them not to talk about who you are, knowing him, he definitely had, so hearing you be so open puts them on edge, makes them unsure how to proceed. “I know Yoongi was particularly enamoured by my sword from when I played Feyre.”  

There’s a small chuckle from your side, and the hand on your leg tightens sending tingles up your leg. You and Yoongi were close, had been getting closer and closer over the weeks, but tonight, all the small touches; it made something primal stir inside you.  

“He might have mentioned it once or twice,” Namjoon says. “Or a couple of thousand times.”  

Your turn to laugh and you’re happy when you see the pink dusting on Yoongi’s cheeks. The smile on his lips shows he isn’t too bothered by the comment. And when he doesn’t deny the words, you realise they are the truth.  

“Oh no, I’ve heard more about the props from Beach Read,” Georgina chips in, any possible tension about who you are now completely gone. “Wasn’t it that scene where Y/N was pushed naked against the bookshelf that then moved onto the sofa that you couldn’t stop watching over and over again?”  

You join in on the laughs that go around the table, knowing exactly what scene she is talking about, and exactly how much media swarmed around the fact you and your co-star had showed so much skin. The only person not joining in the laughs being Yoongi, and when you turn to check in on him, the pink has deepened to a full-on red. The colour is the only thing that gives away his embarrassment. His features still completely flat and void of emotion, though while you try and catch his eye, he avoids yours completely.  

“Nah,” Yoongi says, his voice level. “I was more impressed by her Oscar. I mean, at least she won hers.”  

The words directed at Namjoon, a small jab at the man who was nominated for one in best documentary. The reason Yoongi was at the award show and the after party. The reason he was there that night he caught you crying in a room alone.  

Namjoon just laughs, clearly not bothered by the comment as he takes a sip of his drink.  

Underneath the table, Yoongi’s hand that rests on your leg starts to retreat. Nerves, you think. Even though he hadn’t given too much away, you could tell that the jokes had gotten to him, and now he’s retreating in case the comments have somehow affected you, somehow put you off him.  

You lift the hand closest to him, placing it atop his to stop it from moving off your leg. You feel Yoongi go taught at the touch, clearly not expecting it. But you don’t overthink it as you turn his hand over and lace your fingers with his.  

“What was the documentary on?” You steer the conversation away, knowing what the documentary was, having even watched it after Yoongi told you about it, but wanting an escape none the less.  

“Please, don’t get him started on this. We’ll be here all night, and I had a great story to tell about a terrible date I went on last night,” Taehyung whines.  

“All your dates are terrible. Hence your aforementioned singleness,” Hoseok says.  

“They’re not  all   terrible,” Taehyung rolls his eyes.  

“When was the last time you went on a second date?” Hoseok shoots back.  

Taehyung stutters for a few beats, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for the answer.  

“That’s not the point,” he finally replies.  

The bickering continues. Everyone now fully engrossed in the conversation happening on the opposite end of the table to you.  

With everyone distracted, looking away from you, you lean over to Yoongi. Placing you mouth by his ear you whisper the words so no one else can hear.  

“I like your friends.”  

You pull away and are rewarded with a full, gummy beam. His hand tightens around yours, his only reply. But you can see the joy dancing in his eyes.  

You hadn’t expected to not like them. Had reasoned that you liked Yoongi enough and would no doubt like the people he also liked. But he had told you enough about them, had talked about how close they all are, how they are like family. Had talked about the monthly meal he was inviting you to, the tradition that had been going for years and that although you were welcome, you would also be the first outsider in years.   

So, although you knew you would like them, you hadn’t quite expected to feel so at home. Hadn’t expected to feel so at ease so quickly around them all. You had thought it would be awkward at first, even though Yoongi warned you of Taehyung’s lack of social awareness, you had still thought they would be nervous, possibly unsure around you. But you are so glad you were wrong.  

You easily re-join the conversation, which flows easily the whole night. Eat the Chinese food that Taehyung doesn’t even pretend to have cooked. Drink the wine that you brought. You have fun. The hours slip by, so much so that when Yoongi announces you should both head off, you’re surprised when you look down at your watch and see the lateness of the time.  

When you invite them to come to your house next month, you genuinely look forward to it.  

Are you dating Yoongi?  

You start to question yourself after the meal with his friends. You’ve never been on an official date with him, at least the two of you have never explicitly called the times you hang out at your house a date. But after so easily holding his hand most of the night and after he so easily talked about the two of you plurally all night (“ we   should be heading off ”, “ we   did this together the other night ”, “ we   should do that together”), and after he drove you home and walked you to your door, and after your heart dropped a little when he didn’t kiss you goodnight; you can’t help but wonder if you’ve been dating him this whole time and are only now realising.  

It makes you nervous as you wait for him to come to your house. It’s the same as always, organised over a simple text,  w ant to come over tonight? ,  and there is no connotation to suggest it is anything other than two people hanging out.  

But you also can’t deny your feelings.  

You’ve always felt something towards the man. His steady, calming presence had been something you sort out from the start. And now you know him better, there are so many things you look forward to when you know he is coming to your house. You think about him when he isn’t around. You remember titbits of information you know he’ll enjoy hearing later. You continue to send him blurry pictures whenever you see some snack you know he’ll love. You miss him when he’s too busy to come over in an evening.  

So even if you aren’t dating, you know how you feel, and know that you hope this is more than just a friendship.  

But of course, you being you, you have to overthink everything. He had held your hand sure, but that was the only thing he has done that could be classed as something friends don’t normally do. What if you’ve been put firmly in the friend zone? What if Yoongi likes you, but not quite enough to be anything more?  

It eats you alive from the moment you first think of it until the next time you see him, stood at your front door with a bunch of flowers.  

“I saw these and thought of you,” are his opening lines.  

You huff out a laugh while simultaneously heating at the thoughtfulness. So maybe you guys were more than just friends, or maybe Yoongi buys flowers for all his friends. Your head hurts from thinking about it too much.  

Yoongi sits at your kitchen island while you trim the flowers and arrange them in a vase. There’s a bit of small talk, catching up with each other, while you finish off and then move to the living room.  

You ease into the conversation, but still feel a bit nervous at your best attempt of subtly broaching the subject.  

“So I was thinking about when we first met,” Yoongi’s eyebrows raise curiously. “That time I came to yours? And I was thinking about how I mentioned we should go to a basketball game together?” You pause, but not long enough for Yoongi to answer you. “I was just wondering about booking something. You know, a game? If you’re free to do something like that?”  S omething like a date,   you add silently.  

You can see the smile that Yoongi fights, can see the gleam in his eye that wasn’t there moments ago. Not mocking, no, fondness and pleasure.  

“Like a date?” He asks, as if reading your mind. You heat to near boiling point as if that wasn’t exactly what you were implying.  

“Well, I don’t know. I mean, if you want it to be, then sure. But, also, if you don’t want it to be then that’s ok too,” you stumble, attempting to cover all possible bases.  

“The basketball season isn’t on at the moment,” he says simply and your heart deflates as if it is a balloon popped by a pin. “But,” he carries in the same cool tone. “I’d love to take you on a date somewhere else?”  

Your heart reinflates, slower than it shrank, but it rises up all the same. You’d maybe been a bit too brash to suggest a basketball game, something so public, especially for your first (possibly not first) date. You tend to avoid a lot of public things as it is, let alone taking a date with you to cause a media frenzy.  

You want this to mean something. Want this to last. And going out in public so early on, or ever, with you, has never led to good things.  

He must see the way you turn in on yourself, the fact that you are that little bit less happy, little bit less enthused. As if in response, he turns softer, gentler, more reassuring.  

“We could just do something at mine, or here?” You give him a look that he makes a point to ignore. “I make a mean spaghetti bolognaise.”   

You huff a laugh while shaking your head. It seems to constantly happen to you these days, just when you feel happiness, something comes in to burst the bubble. And it almost always relates back to the media.  

“It’s stupid that I can’t even go to the cinema on a first date, or a bowling alley, or just out to a new cocktail bar for a drink.” You laugh, you want to cry, but you laugh.  

Yoongi shuffles towards you. Closing the three inches that separated you so that his knee now touches yours and so he is close enough to encompass your hand in his.  

“Who says you can’t do those things?”  

You give him a look,  really?  

“Ok, so being mega famous has its draw backs,” he carries on quickly as if to save himself. “But it doesn’t mean I can’t take you on a good date.”  

“I just,” you sigh at the words, pausing to gather your thoughts. “I just don’t want to drag you into my life. I want you to be happy. I want you to have a normal life. I don’t want you to be put under a spot light just because of me, because it’s crap Yoongi. It’s really and truly crap.”  

You can feel his eyes on you even as you look down at your entwined hands. Can feel him wanting you to meet his gaze. But you don’t look up. And he doesn’t force you to look at him.  

“And what if I want all of that?” He whispers. He sounds unsure, you realise, he’s saying the words but you can tell he’s not sure, isn’t from your world, doesn’t truly know what he’d be signing up for.  

You finally look up at him, to see whether the feelings are reflected in his eyes. But what you are met with is stoic indifference. The Yoongi you always know. The one that doesn’t put himself first, that has a steady presence. That is always so unphased by everything, takes everything in his stride. He feels pain and can be hurt by words, you have seen it, but he is also strong.  

“I’m not worth it,” you whisper, your faces now so close that you don’t need to raise your voice for him to hear.  

He lifts his free hand, brushing his long fingers across your cheeks, as if wiping away tears that don’t sit there. His eyes continue to look at you in the same steady manner, as if reading you, studying you.  

“I think you’re worth it,” he says the words just as softly as you did. “I know you have been through shit. I know the media have some sort of vendetta against you. I know you haven’t had the best time since breaking up with – your ex. And I know that I’m not in your industry, that I don’t have the misfortune of dealing with any of it, that I have no real idea about how shit it is, that I can see it, but until I experience it, I won’t fully understand. But, I know I like you. I know I want to take you on a date. I know I want to see where this can go. I know that your life isn’t normally, but I’m willing to try if you are.”  

You feel guilty even as your heart soars.  

You had briefly touched upon the subject weeks ago in this very room, but you had never fully discussed what is currently going on in your life. Yoongi knows how affected you are by all the negative media, he could see it in the way you acted, the way you would turn to him when a new story came out, how you cried at the after party, how you would curl up into yourself sometimes. But still, you have never directly discussed it with him.  

So many things he still doesn’t know about you, about your life. So many things that might change his view. That might ruin what you have with him. So many things that you have unknowingly been shielding him from, that you realise you will have to tell him one day, you will have to share him with the world one day, but that you realise that that’s when everything turned south in the past.  

Because even though he thinks he knows you, and even though you know he views you as a person and not one of your characters, he still doesn’t really know you. You’ve still been shielding him from your bad days, not letting him see when you’re truly down. And the thought of letting him that much deeper into your life still terrifies you.  

“I don’t want you to realise that I’m not who you think I am.”  

A small crease appears between Yoongi’s eyebrows. His eyes flicking between yours. The look on his face as if he’s been given a hard equation he can’t quite solve. You clear it up for him.  

“Everyone sees me as Y/N the  mega star ,” you echo his earlier words. “They see me as Feyre or January or Susie or one of the many other amazing women I play. But all too soon they get to know me and realise I’m not any of them. I’m just Y/N, and she is nowhere near as exciting or sexy or interesting as any of them.”  

Yoongi’s eyes have turned sad, and though you want to look away from the pity that swims in his eyes, his hand still rests on your cheek, keeping you in your place.  

“I know who you are,” he says, and when you go to talk, he cuts you off. “I know who you are. I’ve never thought you were any of those women. And even if I did, I’ve known you long enough now to realise who you really are.”  

“You’ve known me a few weeks.”  

“Long enough.”  

“I’m an actress. What if I’ve been acting the whole time?”  

“Then you really do deserve more awards,” his smile cracks and you get a glimpse of his teeth. “But also, maybe you’re underestimating yourself. Like you said, you’re really not  that   interesting.”  

You laugh, a small but genuine laugh as you manage to swing your free hand to lightly punch his side.  

“You said it,” he says in way of a defence.  

“And I didn’t expect you to agree with me,” you try to pout, but struggle through your smile.  

“Ok, ok,” he gives in. “You’re interesting,” he’s still smiling, but the atmosphere has shifted slightly, and he goes back to the more serious tone from earlier. “But you’re still just a girl. Still just a human. Someone with an abnormal job, who a lot of people know, and who still really intimidates me. But still just a girl, who I fancy, and who I want to take on a date and who I want to get to know more.”  

He’s said the words before. Has always made it clear how he views you. But it’s like you have to be told it a few more times for it to fully sink in. You’ve been scolded by one too many people, one too many times, for you not to doubt any new person you meet.  

But this is Yoongi. And if you push everyone away, then you would be left alone. You’d let him in a little over the last few weeks. Had left a small crack open and he has fully wormed his way in. A leap of faith, a risk, but if you really want this, you will have to put trust into it. It may end in heartbreak, but it may be something amazing, and you’ll never know if you keep pushing it away.  

“You can take me on a date,” you say simply.  

Yoongi’s lips curl back, his teeth beaming, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks like he’s just been told the best news ever, and your heart flutters at the fact that’s his reaction.  

You’re both silent as you just stare at each other. Hands still intwined in your lap, knees still touching, heads now only a foot from each other.  

You swallow, the noise sounding loud in the quiet room. And Yoongi’s eyes shoot down at the sound, but don’t get as far as your throat, instead stop when they see your lips. You feel a need to run your tongue along you lips at his scrutiny, but repress the instinct and after only a few beats, Yoongi’s eyes are back on your eyes.  

He seems closer now. As if he’s being dragged in by you. The distance has only reduced by a few centimetres, but it enough to now feel like you are sharing the same air.   

“I really want to kiss you,” Yoongi whispers the words, eyes flicking to your lips again. “But I should probably wait till our date for that.”  

It feels hard to talk, as if your throat is clogged up, unable to let anything pass through.  

“Who knew you were such a gentleman,” your voice sounds hoarse, lacking any of the light teasing the words were meant to have.  

“I thought I’d always acted respectfully around you,” his voice holds no offence and has a cool, calm quality yours didn’t have, though you can still see how nervous he is. “I mean, I’ve wanted to kiss you for a while now, and never have.”  

The words do funny things to your heart. “Then why haven’t you?”  

“I -”  

He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as you finally close the distance. Sick of all the chat. You’ve talked enough, talked for weeks, can talk after.  

There’s a moment of shock where Yoongi doesn’t move, his lips still against yours, as if surprised you are the one to make the first move. If you’re being honest, you’re surprised too, would never have guessed you’d be the first to kiss him.  

But before the seed of doubt can plant itself in your mind, before you can even question whether you had misread the situation, Yoongi is kissing you back.  

Time seems to stop as his lips move against yours. Mouth open, soft lips moulding against yours, tongue slipping between the gap created. It is definitely a lot hotter than any first date kiss you’ve ever had.  

He twists his body into yours, trying to close as much space between you as possible. His hand detaches itself from yours so that he can place it on your waist and tug you closer. There’s a desperation behind everything he does, as if he’s making up for lost time, as if he truly has been wanting to do this for so long that now he finally is, he can’t hold back. But you don’t care. You give into him, let him wield you and move you however he sees fit. Enjoy the feeling of his mouth on yours. Enjoy the lingering taste of his drink, but also the taste that is so wholly Yoongi.  

When you part from each other, you don’t go far, foreheads rest against each other as you lightly pant. His eyes are looking down so you get a view of his long black lashes, and below that see that his lips are now bright red, you know yours will look the mirror of his.  

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi says when his breathing finally levels out, and despite the words you can’t help but broadly smile. “I lost myself a little there.”  

You pull away enough so that your foreheads no longer rest against each other. Raising a hand you stroke back his hair, get a glimpse of the undercut that is starting to grow out.  

“You don’t need to apologise.”  

He doesn’t shy away from looking down at your lips now. The secrets out, he can be as bold as he wants. Still, he seems bashful.  

And for all your worrying, all your overthinking, all your anxieties about this and your relationship becoming more and the media finding out and your heart getting broken; you don’t feel any of that now. You don’t think about any of it, just think of Yoongi sat, red-lipped and looking utterly kissable in front of you.   

You lean in to him, pressing your lips against his. And this time he lets you have control.  

It’s slower, but still as passionate as before. This time it’s more like a marathon and less like a sprint. But you dive into him all the same, push your tongue into his mouth and feel his pushing back. His hands roam up your body, pulling you to him to the point that you decide the easiest thing is for you to just lift a leg over his and sit on his lap. Your lips detach while you do it and Yoongi lets out a surprised laugh, but doesn’t look disappointed by the thought. In fact, his hands go to your waist and tug you closer to him again.  

Your lips move and mould and bend around each other. Tongues press and pull and play. Your hands run through his hair and you can’t help it when your hips grind down into his a few times. But other than kissing it is purely innocent. A make-out session on the settee as if you’re teenage lovers who can’t get enough of each other.  

You’re content to just kiss him, happy to sit on his lap and have your lips attached to his the whole night if possible. And you both give it a good go, sitting there for probably nearing half an hour before things change.  

You’re not sure if he tugs your hips closer with his hands, or whether you involuntarily role your hips into his. But, whatever causes it, you can’t ignore the hard, solid mass that rubs up against you. Can’t help but roll your hips back onto the spot, as if to double check what you felt there, really just enjoying the sensation so much the first time you need to feel it again.  

The movement has Yoongi pulling away from you. His eyes wide, though holding no apology, no embarrassment, just concern that maybe you don’t want to take it any further than it has already gone and he may have ruined that with what you felt in his pants. His eyes go even wider when you shuffle backwards, away from him. But he doesn’t say anything as he watches your retreat. His eyes stay firmly on you, hands helping you to get up, no protest that you may be running away.  

“I don’t think I gave you a tour of the upstairs last time,” you say when you’re looming over him, your hand outstretched as if to pull him up from his spot.  

His eyes roam up and down your body, calculating, trying to work out the best response. And when his eyes meet yours, you know he has the answer.  

“You’re sure you want to show it me now?”  

You shrug,  when else,   your unspoken answer.  

“I’d happily stay here,” he replies, still unmoved while your hand stays outstretched for him to take.  

“It was an expensive settee; I’d rather not get any stains on it. Plus, I think the bed would be comfier.”  

His cheeks flush. The constant calmness that always flows off him has been present this whole time, but your comment is the first thing to chip at it. You can’t help but smile at the fact.  

“I didn’t mean – I just meant; we don’t have to go any further.” The slight stutter is the second sign.  

You wiggle your fingers at him, smile still on your face.  

“I want to,” you say simply. “That is, if you want to?”  

There is no hesitation as he lifts his hand up, placing it in yours. He doesn’t use it to haul is weight up though, you wouldn’t be strong enough anyway. And when he is stood, hand in yours, now looming over you, he says simply, “lead the way.”   

It’s enough for you to start walking, almost dragging him up the stairs to your room, his legs longer than yours, but seemingly in less of a hurry than yours. There’s a chuckle from behind you, but you don’t feel embarrassed by your keenness.  

You twist towards him when you step into the room, keep walking backwards towards your bed but now have your eyes firmly on him.  

“This isn’t a very good tour,” he smiles at you. “I won’t be rating it highly on yelp.”  

You ignore him, don’t give him the satisfaction of a response as the back of your knees hit the bed. You stop, staring him dead in the eye as your fingers go to the bottom of your top. Dragging it over your head you briefly lose sight of Yoongi, but when he comes back into view, you’re satisfied that his eyes wide and directly pointed at your chest.  

His cheeks tinge pink as he realises you caught him, but he otherwise doesn’t seem embarrassed.  

“Ok, I take it back. This might be the best yelp review I ever give.”  

You give a loud laugh as Yoongi follows your lead and takes his top off. You get a good eye full of his toned body, something you had guessed but couldn’t be sure of under all the baggy tops he wears. But you don’t get to look at him for long before he is closing the gap between the two of you.   

He attaches his lips to yours as he lowers your weight down onto the bed, and when your back is fully pressed into the sheets, Yoongi lowers his lips. He nips at your neck as he travels down your body and then more firmly attaches them at your collar bone while his fingers slip behind you back to undo your bra. He makes a satisfied moan when the bra is successfully discarded on the floor and then wastes no time in pressing his lips onto your puckered nipple.  

His tongue flicks across the skin, while he brings his hands up to your other breast, kneading it so that it is not forgotten. You arch up into him, while your fingers go to run through his hair. You moan out his name, not even conscious of the fact, just enjoying the way his tongue feels on you. But the word seems to cut through Yoongi.  

He lifts himself up and when you look at him you see his pupils are blown out from desire.  

“Move up the bed.”  

The demand and the tone in which he says it has you moving fast. On elbows, you work your way backwards away from him so that your whole body is fully on the bed. He stays where he is, watching your retreat with a small amount of satisfaction.  

“Fuck,” he mutters when you finally come to a stop.   

If there was any doubt before, there is none now. One look at Yoongi and you can see the desire and the want radiating off him.   

“Need to get these off,” he seems to be talking to himself more than you as he moves forward to your trousers.   

You watch as his large fingers work at the button and then the zip, and then he wastes no time in dragging both your trousers and pants down in one. Yep, he is definitely very keen for this.  

And while you stare at him from your position on the bed, you don’t have to even tell him what you want. He simply keeps eye contact with you as he goes to his trousers, pushes them down in much the same way he did for you moments ago. Your eyes travel down his body, and you make no secret of the fact that you like what you see. Yoongi clearly catches on as he lets out a small huff of a laugh.  

He steps to the bed, bringing his knees to either side of you as he leans down and starts kissing the skin by your knees. His eyes are on you the whole time as he works his mouth up your body, crawling along your length, his lips missing every spot you want them until he is looming over you face to face.  

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” you don’t think you’ve ever heard him swear so much, but then he seems like a completely different person since walking into this room.   

He’s still the Yoongi you know, but he’s almost cocky with confidence, more dominating. Doesn’t seem to shy away or allow you to make him flustered. You like it. It makes you feel hot when his attention if wholly on you. It turns you the hell on.  

He attaches his lips back onto yours. Slowly works your mouth open so that he can slip his tongue in and then slowly works his tongue with yours. And while he’s doing that his hand comes to your hip, and as if he’s memorised it like a map, his moves his fingers inwards, going straight to your folds and then wasting no time to sweep his fingers through them.  

You moan out at the sensation, but Yoongi doesn’t take away his lips, so the sound is swallowed up by him.  

He works your clit, circling his fingers with just the right amount of pressure for pleasure to coarse through your entire body. And then, without any warning, the pressure disappears and he plunges a finger into your core.  

This time when you moan and arch up into him, he lets you break away from his lips. But he doesn’t say anything as his finger dips in and out of you. His lips go to your neck, the way he moves them there seems to have the same rhythm as his finger that continue to dip in and out of you.  

It’s when he adds a second finger though that you realise how close to breaking you are. You warn Yoongi as much, but he just continues going, not letting you rest, just pushing you closer and closer to the edge.  

And when you fall, it feels hot and white and the sensation ripples through your whole body.   

You’re aware of Yoongi’s fingers still in you, working slower now as he guides you down. His lips still on your neck, but making their way back up to your face. By the time his lips are back on yours, you feel like you’re back in your body, the remnants of pleasure still going through you, but at least able to see Yoongi’s face and talk to him now.  

“Have you got any condoms?” He asks as his fingers slip out of you.  

The question throws you, though you’re unsure why. And after the release you just had it takes you a second to try and work out the answer. Yoongi waits patiently the whole time.  

“Yeah,” you say, working your way onto your elbows so you can scan the room. “They’re in the bathroom cabinet.”  

A peck on the lips and he’s up, not asking for any direction, not expecting you to go, just heading off in the direction you nodded.  

You rearrange yourself, getting into a comfier position while you wait for him. You hear a cupboard open and close and don’t have to ask if he was successful in his mission as he comes back in the room with several foil squares.  

“Jesus. I know I seemed keen, but I’m not sure I’ll make it that many rounds,” you raise your eyebrows at him.  

He chuckles, throwing all but one condom onto the bedside table.  

“Better safe than sorry,” he says as he rips open the packet. “Plus, I’m super lazy, and if there is the prospect of more rounds, I’m not trekking back in there every time.”  

You let out a small laugh even as you watch him roll the condom down his length. It’s an oddly satisfying thing to watch, but you also don’t miss the way that wetness seems to pool itself at your core. Something about his large hand looking so small while he does it.  

Yoongi doesn’t say anything as he crawls back over you, doesn’t comment on the fact he caught you staring, just gets back into the position he left you earlier.  

There’s a small gap between your bodies as he hovers over you, enough for him to angle his head and look down. You don’t look, so can’t see him taking his length in his hand, but you can feel when he drags the head through your folds. It’s unexpected, but you both moan out at the feeling it causes.  

“I don’t know how long I’ll last when I get in you,” he says, looking back at you. “I feel ready to burst now, and you felt so tight when my fingers were in you.”  

You want to say something witty back, but your mind goes blank when the head of his cock meets your clit.  

“At least I know how to shut you up if ever I need it,” he smiles from above you, continuing to drag his cock through your folds.  

“Yoongi,” you whine.  

“Yes?” The cockiness returned, yet innocent as if he has no idea what you want.  

“Please,” you just about manage to get the word out. “Need you in me.”  

He continues for a second as he brings his head down to meet yours.  

“You should have just said,” he mumbles against your lips.  

You don’t get a chance to tell him the retort that goes to your lips as his cock plunges into you. It’s not fast, but given his size, it’s not the most comfortable experience straight away. He must sense it, as once he is fully in, he stops and looks down at you, eyes softer now.  

“You can move,” you tell him before he can ask if you’re ok, and when you see that he’s about to protest you carry on. “You’re just big. But it feels good. You can move.”  

You don’t miss the cocky smile that goes to his lips. The almost pride that swims in his eyes from the words. But he’s doing exactly what you asked him to before you can roll your eyes, and the sensation of his cock drawing out of you only to plunge back in leaves all your senses unable to function.  

All you can feel is the pleasure working its way around you, everything else seems to disappear. Just Yoongi lying above you, his body moving against yours, and pleasure sparking with every thrust.  

You don’t do anything to help him. Just lie there, letting him use you however he wants and needs. And you can’t complain, because with everything he does, it only seems to bring you more pleasure.  

“I’m not going to last much longer,” his voice says close to your ear.  

“I’m close,” you manage to get out, the words sounding strained and airy as if you’re running a race.  

Your admission spurs Yoongi on though. He pushes himself up, slowing down his thrusts while he adjusts your positions. He doesn’t ask as he takes one of your legs and hooks it over his shoulder, but then you don’t complain as you watch. His cock slips in deep as he leans slightly forward so he can rest his hands on either side of your head.  

It feels so much deeper like this. Your leg up between your bodies like a pole, something Yoongi seems to use when thrusting into you. And he obviously enjoys the new position as he starts to become more vocal. Small groans escaping his throat every time he thrusts into you. But then, you’re enjoying the new angle just as much, feeling him deep inside you, the head of his cock hitting the perfect spot, and then looking up to see Yoongi above you, his hair damp with sweet, curling slightly as it sways with his movements.  

His speed increases as he gets closer and closer to his release. He doesn’t talk again, seemingly at the same point of pleasure as you where words become impossible.  

And it’s when he leans down further into you, pushes your leg a bit closer to your body, as his thrusts increase to near impossible speeds, that you find release. Yoongi continues to ram his body into you, chasing his own release, as you moan out. And he elongates your pleasure while trying to find his own. It feels an impossibly long time that you can only see white, your body feeling weightless as ripples run through you.  

You’re only vaguely aware of Yoongi fining his own release. Hear the moan he lets out. Feel him ease away from you, releasing your leg so that it can fall back onto the bed. Sense him tying up the condom and finding your bin to dispose it into. And then feel him crawl back onto the bed, this time next to you.  

His arm comes around you, pulling you into his side, and though he’s sweaty, so are you.   

His fingers run through your hair as you lie in silence, your clock and the light breaths you both let out the only noise.  

“I’ll get us basketball tickets one day,” you promise, the discussion you had earlier feeling like a lifetime ago now.  

“I have to take you on our date first,” he says softly. “There’s no rush.”  

You're glad you’re not looking at him, glad he can’t see the utter joy that the words bring. The ease at which he said them. Your heart soars at the fact that he plans on being with you for a while. That there’s no rush because he plans on sticking around.  

You settle where you lay, the smile not disappearing from your face as you drift off to sleep.  

You wake next to him, not quite in his arms, but one of them is slung around you. You think he’s still asleep next to you, the steady breathing suggests as much, and you bask in the niceness of it; waking up with someone beside you.  

But when you go to roll away from him, his fingers curl into you, stopping your movements. A small groan leaves his lips as if in answer to a question you didn’t ask.  

“I’ll be back in a minute,” you whisper a reassurance to him.  

You try and roll again, but this time there is more force in his hand. And then he shifts enough so that he can hook his arm fully around your waist and pull you into his side. You let out a small yelp as you’re jostled across the bed, surprised by his strength to move you so easily, especially at this early hour. Your head now on his chest, legs sprawled alongside his. While he seems to relax with the new position, you stiffen.  

“Yoongi,” you try again. “I just need five minutes to freshen up and then I’ll be back.”  

He huffs again, as if he can’t quite form words yet, hasn’t fully woken up. But the way his arm doesn’t slacken around you suggests his thoughts.  

“You can stay here,” you tempt him.  

“So can you,” the words come out a mumble.  

“I need the loo,” you say flatly.  

“And you can’t hold it for five minutes?”  

No. You can’t. Because in five minutes Yoongi will no doubt be more awake. No doubt be able to sit up and stare at you and take in the mess that you are in the mornings. You don’t need to use the loo; you need to go make yourself presentable.  

“Yoongi,” you warn.  

He doesn’t say anything as his arm slackens. Let’s you move away from him now without any protest. You let out a small thanks as you scramble away, and when you’re stood you dash into your bathroom.  

It’s not that you really care what you look like, but after how perfect last night was, you don’t want anything to ruin it. And though you also doubt Yoongi will care, you’ve thought that about people in the past and have been wrong. You don’t do anything too major, no make-up, just brush your hair, wash your face, clean your teeth, put a top on, enough to make you look better again.  

As promised, it only takes you a few minutes and then you are back in the room. Yoongi’s eyes are on you as you walk towards him, his arm opens up as a silent invite for you to crawl back into his side. Head back on his chest, you feel like you can fully relax now.  

“You don’t have to do that around me,” his voice mumbles above.  

You hum in response, but that doesn’t seem good enough for him.  

“I mean it. If it’s something you want to do, then by all means go ahead, but don’t do it because you think I want it.”  

As always, it’s as if he’s read your thoughts, seen through you. You lean back so you can angle your head to look up at him. His eyes are already on you, and though his face is neutral, his eyes swim with some emotion you can’t read.  

“My hair was a mess,” you say as if in explanation.  

“So is mine.”  

“And my breath stank.”  

“So does mine.”  

He’s not pushing for an answer, simply stating what he sees to be facts. But you feel like he deserves an answer, feel comfortable enough to explain it to him and not have him laugh or be angry or not understand.  

You shift, pull away from him enough so that you can lie on your side on the pillow next to him. He rolls on to his side so that now your heads are facing each other. Even though you aren’t touching, it feels way more intimate than when you were laying on his chest.  

“I once slept with a guy that I met at a party. It was early on in my career; I was starting to get more known in Hollywood and he had made it clear he knew who I was. I knew it was a casual thing, just a one-night stand, and that he was probably only sleeping with me because of who I was, blinded by me being famous. Still, it hurt the next day when I woke up in that post sex bliss, slightly hungover, and when he looked over at me, my hair a mess, breath stinking, he could only say that I wasn’t what he expected. Like he expected me to always look put together, that I was the person in the movies, who wakes with make-up on, hair perfectly placed on the pillow. I tried not to let it affect me and though none of the guys I was with after him were quite as blunt, I could see the looks in their eyes when I’d wake up anything less than perfect. So I guess it’s become more of a routine than anything for me, not because I think it’s necessarily right, or that I owe anyone anything, but because I want to do it if just to avoid seeing that look.”  

You swallow down the emotions that rise to your throat at the admission. You’d never told anyone that. Just like you Googling yourself felt like a dirty secret, something you shouldn’t admit; so did this.  

Yoongi is silent as he regards you. You’re grateful that he doesn’t jump into an answer, instead he weighs his answer, wants to say the perfect words and not just words for words sake. You worried that you would see pity swimming in his eyes, and though strong emotions show on his face, none of them are pity.  

“If you want to carry on then I won’t mind,” he says softly, his voice still a bit hoarse from sleep. “But if you want to just lie in bed and relax with your bed hair and bad breath, then I would also love that. I don’t expect you to be perfect all the time Y/N, just how I hope you won’t expect me to be.”  

You nod, the gesture a bit awkward from your position. No commitment to either stopping the routine or carrying it on.  

Still, it seems to please Yoongi as he is leaning into you and attaching his lips to yours. It starts off as a peck that deepens into a full out snog. Your bare legs tangle with his as his tongue sweeps against your lips.  

You let out a moan as he flips you onto your back, and then hovers his weight over your body. He is still completely naked from last night's activities, and you are only in a top, which has started to ride up your body, so you fully feel his hard member press down into you as he lays his body on yours.  

You detach your lips as another moan escapes you at the sensation going through your core. Your head angled back into the pillow, Yoongi takes the opportunity to move his lips from yours to your now exposed neck. He kisses and nips downwards and your fingers find their way to run through his hair.  

“As lovely as this is,” Yoongi says against your neck as he reaches the base. “I think I might need some coffee if you want me to put any effort into this.”  

You laugh even as Yoongi continues to kiss your neck.  

“Or, I could help? I feel awake enough to put some effort in.”  

His lips seem to stutter on your skin at the words, and his eyes are wide when he looks up at you. You can tell, and feel, how much he likes the idea, and you don’t let him say anything as you continue to laugh and push him onto his back.  

“After all,” you say now you’re on top of him. “It would be a shame to waste you bringing all of these in here last night.”  

You smile as you lean across the bed to pick up one of the many unopened foil packets he brought in last night.  

“And yet, I don’t hear you complaining,” he says simply.  

You hum, don’t give him an answer as you focus on moving down his body. Yoongi relaxes back into the bed as he watched you, and when you reach his cock, it’s already standing proud. Still, you take it in your hand and guide it up and down, just for good measure.  

There’s a few small moans from Yoongi, but you don’t even look up at him as you move your head down towards where your hand sits. You almost have your mouth on it before he realises what you plan to do.  

“You don’t have to,” he says it with such urgency that the words seem to merge together.  

You ignore him. You wouldn’t be doing it if you didn’t want to.  

There’s a hiss of enjoyment when you take the tip of him into your mouth, your hand below holding him steady. And then his hips buckle upwards when you swipe your tongue across him.  

“Sorry,” he moans out, the thrust of his hips clearly unintentional.  

Again, you ignore him. And as if to show him how you don’t mind, you take more of him into your mouth, removing your hand and placing it on his thighs to better support yourself.  

Your head bobs up and down, gagging slightly as you try to take in as much of him as possible. He doesn’t buck his hips again, and when you feel his hand being placed on your head, your worry it’s because he’s going to stop you. But he doesn’t, just strokes the hair on your head, as if in praise to what you’re doing. You moan out, the vibrations going through you and adding to his enjoyment.  

“Fuck,” he curses, and there is slight pressure added to his hand, not forcing you down but a suggestion to what he wants. You moan out again, enjoying the sensation, letting him know he can add more pressure.  

And he does. Not enough that it stops you from pulling away if you want to, but enough to force you down so that your nose hits his pubic bone. Even though you gag slightly, he holds you down, moaning out from above you.  

The pressure lessens after a second allowing you to bob back up and catch some air. Breath heavy, you don’t give yourself much time before you go back to take him in your mouth again. But the hand on your head once again goes taught, stopping you.  

“I won’t last much longer,” he admits, his voice just as breathy as yours even though all he’s done is lie there.  

“I don’t mind,” you say, looking up at him through your eyelashes.  

“But I was so looking forward to seeing you on top of me,” the words sound whiney.  

You chuckle, shaking your head lightly at the tone he’s using. But you don’t protest. You want to ride him as much as he wants to see it.  

“So demanding,” you laugh as you open up the condom and then roll it down his cock.  

It’s easy to slide down onto him. And bracing your hands on his chest, you start to move.   

It’s funny how you both had such incredible sex last night, and yet this feels just as amazing, makes you feel just as hungry to have him again and again, as if you’ll never tire of him. And as you feel him slip in and out of you, feel him hit every spot in you just right, you realise that you don’t think you will ever tire of him, that you would happily do this time and time again, day after day.  

It’s an almost lazy pace you set, but Yoongi doesn’t complain as his hands come to your waist and he stares up at you from where he’s lay. His eyes are slightly unfocused with pleasure, but it still feels like he’s looking at you as if you’re a goddess, and the fact spurs you on.  

It doesn’t take you long to unravel. You find it hard to keep moving as you find release, but you try to for Yoongi’s sake. But at last, he puts in a bit of an effort. Not much, he doesn’t need to, only requires a few quick, sharp thrusts into you and he’s coming undone himself.  

You collapse down onto his chest. Both of you panting, your top still on.  

“Shall we get that coffee now?” You say after a few minutes of silence.  

You receive a kiss on the head and nod in reply.  

Though you start to spend almost every evening and subsequent morning with Yoongi, he still insists that he’s taking you on a first date. You laugh, but he seems deadly serious on the fact. Goes to the extent of telling you a time and date he’ll pick you up, then reassures you that you’ll love the place and won’t be noticed. Though he continually fails to mention exactly where the date will be taking place.  

You decide to go along with it. Decide to be happy and carefree and to pretend that you are just the normal girl that Yoongi makes you feel.  

Still, it doesn’t mean you can’t put in a bit of effort. You route through your closet and dig out a sparkly dress you have probably only worn once. Go to the effort of applying some make-up. He’s not told you the location, it could be a fish and chip shop around the corner from him for all you know, but it feels good to dress up, feels nice to be excited enough to want to dress up.  

Yoongi is as punctual as ever, a knock sounding out at the promised time. Still, you have to shuffle around and shove a few last-minute things in your bag, find the shoes you had placed somewhere. It means that when you open the door you’re distracted, wholly unprepared for what is stood in front of you.  

Flowers in his hand, a large gummy smile on his face, yet neither are what grabs your attention. He’s in black jeans, not quite skinny but still tight enough to show you exactly how thick those thighs are. A belt sinching in his waist with a black shirt tucked in. But the sleeves are rolled up to his elbow and the top three buttons are undone. You’ve seen the man naked, yet this seems to have just as big an effect on you.   

The gummy smile is still on his face when you look at him, but it has faltered slightly as he takes you in. Both of you silent for the first few seconds as if you need the time to drink each other in. As if this is truly a first date, as if you haven’t already leaped ahead in the relationship, had sex, see each other nearly every day, as if you’re both just nervous people going on a first date.  

“These are for you,” he pushes the flowers in your direction, pinks and purples and reds. You give him a smile as you take them off him. “You look beautiful by the way.”  

A full smile breaks out on your face, face heating like you’ve never received a compliment before.  

“I’m just glad I didn’t go too over the top, you never gave me a dress code for the place we’re going. But I‘m glad I'm not too over-dressed; you look very dashing.”  

You’re satisfied when a light pink dusts Yoongi’s cheeks, though his facial features try to hide how the words affect him, you can see he is as affected as you were by his words.  

“They let any old riff raff in, don’t worry,” he says, seemingly satisfied with the comment as if he knows a joke that you don’t.  

“Probably a good idea. I wouldn’t want to have to leave you at the door when they let me in and not you,” you are rewarded with a laugh at your comment.   

“Shall we head off,” he nods his head behind himself to his car that sits on your drive.  

You nod, and tell him you’ll just put the flowers in some water and see him in the car. It doesn’t take you more than a couple of minutes and then you’re buckled in next to him.  

“So have I been to this place before?” You ask as soon as he pulls away from your house.  

He glances at you, a wide smile on his face. You’d been pestering him for details of where he is taking you, not being good with surprises, but so far, he has been good at evading all your attempts at getting information.  

“How am I supposed to know that?” He says simply, eyes firmly back on the road.  

“You haven’t Googled me yet?” You mock surprise. “I thought you’d know everything about me by now.”  

Yoongi doesn’t answer. And you wonder if the smile on his lips is still from amusement or whether he has actually Googled you. You suddenly become very interested in the topic.  

“Have you Googled me?”  

He seems to become more invested in checking his mirrors, trying to avoid answering, and it is answer enough. You turn in your seat so you can get a better look at him. But before you can open your mouth to pester him some more he pipes up.  

“Doesn’t everyone search someone they’re going on a date with on social media?” He still avoids your eyes as he speaks. “It just so happens there’s a lot more about you online then other people.”  

“Like you? Who seemingly has no social media,” you’d tried several times to try and find any traces of Yoongi online, but had failed with every attempt.  

He hums, shrugging as he puts on his indicator and turns down a road.  

“Wait,” you gasp. “Do you have social media?”  

He hums again, avoiding answering, but you can see the small smile that plays on his lips.  

“That’s not fair. You have to tell me. You’ve probably read loads of horrible things about me online, the least you could do is let me see your blurring pictures of your parent’s dog,” you whine, and the words at last get Yoongi to glance at you, all evidence of the smile gone.  

“There was nothing horrible written about you,” he says firmly, confidently, factually.  

You just roll your eyes. “Highly doubt that.”  

“You’re only as famous as you are now because of how amazing you are, how talented you are and how loved you are. If people disagree with that behind the safety of their keyboards, that’s their problem, not yours.”  

Now you’re the one avoiding his glances. Your face heats as you set your gaze firmly on the road.  

“Thanks,” you mumble, because it was nice to hear, especially said so certainly, even if you don’t believe every word of it.  

“And you may think you’re having a rough time with the media at the moment, but if you used some of the time that you use looking at the negative stories, you’d realise there are just as many, if not more, positive ones. There are people out there fighting in your corner Y/N.”  

You remain hot and awkward as he carries on, not put off by your clear discomfort. You’d never explicitly spoken about any of this. Haven’t spoken in depth about that night you met and what he had caught you doing, haven’t spoken about the fact he has seen you doing it many times since, haven’t spoken about when you have down moods and what causes them. You know he is giving you the space to bring it up yourself, know that he doesn’t want to push you too far, is simply there for you at every turn.  

Both of you dancing around the matter, not knowing how best to deal with it. You know you’re not being fair. It is your problem, your life. But you also feel like you’re in a bubble at the moment. A bubble that your mad, sometimes horrible, life hasn’t managed to penetrate. You worry that the moment the world finds out about Yoongi and you, things won’t be the same, and you don’t want to do that to him. But also, selfishly, you want to drag it out, want to wait for as long as possible, because you know the minute the bubble is popped, he might realise that this isn’t what he thought it was, that you have a lot more baggage than he expected and that he can’t deal with any of it.  

“Don’t think you’re distracting me. I want to know your Instagram handle and I want to see those selfies of you and Holly.”  

A clear evasion on the topic of conversation, but as always Yoongi lets you have it. He simply takes one hand off the steering wheel and places it on your leg. It only lingers long enough for his fingers to squeeze around your flesh before it’s back on the wheel, but it’s enough for you to know he understands. He’ll wait until you’re ready to talk about it all. Your heart blooms and you wonder how you managed to get so lucky to ever meet this man.  

“If the first date goes ok, maybe you’ll be lucky enough to get access,” he says easily.  

You laugh, looking out the window at the streets rolling past.  

“And you still haven’t told me exactly where this first date is taking place.”  

“You’ll find out in a minute. It’s just around the corner.”  

You’re thrown for a second, refocusing on the houses and blocks of flats. You're nowhere near the city centre or any area you know with restaurants, though Yoongi had said you wouldn’t be recognised, implying it wasn’t a well-known place, you still expected it to be a place you’d heard of. But as he puts his signal on, your brain all too slowly catches up.  

“Really?”  

You’re rewarded with a wide gummy smile. He is clearly very happy about the fact that you have only just worked out where he is taking you.  

“Like I said, a bit of a dump, they let any riff raff in, but I’ve been assured you will have a good time.”  

You laugh as he pulls into the car park under his building. The idea hadn’t even crossed your mind.  

“Bit of a dump?” You laugh as you get out of the car and head to the elevator with him. “You really know how to treat a lady.”  

“I called ahead,” he continues to smile, enjoying the role play. “I said that you would be in attendance and they got in a bit of a panic, a review from you would really boost their sales. Anyway, I’m sure they’ve cleaned up their act.”  

You hum, trying not to laugh as the elevator doors open and you’re met with the familiar sight of his hallway. You’ve still only been here that one time, every time you meet, he comes to yours.  

“Cleaned up their act?” You can’t help but laugh at the words, and Yoongi turns his still wide smile to you. “You’re really selling this place.”  

“You’ll see,” he says simply and he puts the key in the door and opens it up.  

He wasn’t joking. As the door opens and as you walk in and see more of the flat you realise that if anything Yoongi was underselling himself.  

There are flowers dotted around the room, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, and Yoongi dances ahead of you so he can light some candles, all of it not here the last time you visited. But more than that, he’s pushed the furniture aside in the living room to make way for a small dining table set for two.  

“You’re lucky you called ahead,” you say as you continue to take in the room. “Only one table; it might have been a risk to turn up without a booking.”  

There’s a laugh from behind you, Yoongi obviously having gone to the kitchen to do whatever other surprises he’s prepared for you.  

“I hate to brag, but if it will help the date,” the words are louder as he walks back into the room. “I actually know the owner.”  

You turn to look at him and he holds two cocktails in his hands. The small umbrellas and glittery straws looking so out of place in his hands.  

“I hope you like strong alcohol and sugar,” he holds one hand out for you to take the drink. “There is food in the oven. Also another issue with this place, only one option for food.”  

You beam at him, completely overwhelmed at the effort he has gone to. He has done all of this for you. You would have been happy if he took you to Burger King. But the fact that he has actually thought about the fact you wouldn’t necessarily want to go somewhere public, on top of that has taken the time to dress up his home and make cocktails and food all for you, you struggle to come up with any words to tell him.  

“I did consider asking my friend Seokjin to be the barman and waiter tonight, as he owns his own cocktail bar, but I thought that would be enough for you to run a mile. He’s quite intense.”  

You continue to just smile at him, his rambling and clear nerves making you feel more at ease.  

“I got him to teach me some recipes, so you can blame him if none of them are good.”  

“Yoongi,” you decide to stop him. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”  

He smiles back at you, clearly still nervous, and it’s cute to see him so bashful.  

“Though, I think I’m most surprised about the fairy lights.”  

“Didn’t everyone own some going to uni?” He smiles at you, and then leads the way to sit down at the table.  

“I wouldn’t know. I never went, I’m not super cleaver like you,” you say, smile still wide on your face as he sits opposite you.  

He puffs out some air at the comment, as if not believing it to be true. “Seems like you’ve done ok from it.”  

You roll your eyes, the two of you seem to have a never-ending war in trying to convince the other that they are better. Rather than retort, you take a sip of your drink, wincing as soon as the liquid hits your tongue.  

“Jesus, you weren’t lying about the strong alcohol.”  

“Like I said, blame Jin.”  

“He really gave you this recipe?”  

“Yeah,” he says, swirling his glass and looking at the liquid slosh around inside. “Though I may have added a measure or two more of the alcohol.”  

You laugh loudly at the fact, and don’t miss the way Yoongi’s face lights up at the sound.  

“I hope you haven’t done anything similar with the food.”  

He mocks offence but it doesn’t take much for him to join in with your laughing.  

It’s barely begun and you already know this is going to be your favourite first date ever. With your favourite person, who’s been so thoughtful and put so much time into everything because he wants you to be happy. It literally cannot get any better.  

You wake up the next day in his room, both of you naked under the sheets, your head on his chest as you draw patterns on his bare skin, as he cards his fingers through your hair.  

“What you thinking about?” Yoongi breaks the silence, voice raspy from sleep.  

“How lucky I am,” you reply, eyes focused on the nonsensical patterns your finger draws.  

He hums, the vibrations going through his chest into your head. His fingers still massage your scalp gently, and though he doesn’t say anything else you can hear the prompt without him having to voice it, he wants to know more, but isn’t bold enough to ask.  

“I feel very lucky about a lot of things in my life, which is why I always feel so guilty about getting down when things turn sour.” You note the way Yoongi’s fingers stop on your head, the way his body stiffens under you. You’re opening up to him and he’s surprised, but he remains silent, allowing you to continue without interruption. “I’ve been in the public’s eye for years now and you’d imagine that I’d be used to it, all the negativity, would think that it gets easier with time, but it only seems to be getting harder. I never used to care what people thought, or at least never tried to show I cared. I knew people who would use me like a stepping stone just to get higher, and again I didn’t care, because being used by someone seemed better than having no one.”  

You pause trying to get your thoughts in order, wanting to tell Yoongi everything while also knowing that for once he was here to stay and you would have time to tell him everything, you didn’t need to say it all now. Yoongi relaxes under you, his fingers restart their earlier movements as he waits for you to talk again.  

“I don’t really know what it was about Eddie, I’ve dated so many people before him, been ridiculed and torn apart for most of the men I’ve been with. But something about the media after breaking up with Eddie seems so much worse. Maybe it’s the fact of it being one too many times. Maybe it’s because I genuinely liked him, could see more of a future with him, didn’t think he was using me like some other people have. Or maybe it’s because he didn’t stand up for me, when I was sinking, he didn’t help. He didn’t even just remain quiet about it all, he made small jabs that he knew would be perceived in the way they were. He built himself on my downfall.”  

You pause again, trying to gather yourself, emotions that remain buried in you threatening to rise up and spill out.  

“He’s a dick,” Yoongi whispers the words from below you, his voice soft and full of emotion. You want to look at him, but know that if his voice sounds like that then his face will also hold so many emotions you don’t think you could see without breaking.  

“That he may be, but it doesn’t take from the fact that it was just a bad break up, with more of an audience, sure, but sometimes I feel guilty for feeling so down about it. There are so many people going through the same thing as me who are way less fortunate. There are so many people who are going through things that are a hundred times worse. And I’m entitled enough to be sat in my multi-million-pound home, feeling down about the fact some guy I don’t even like any more has said something mildly offensive about me in an interview. It makes me feel like an asshole.”  

Yoongi moves from under you. Takes his hands so that he can move you so that you are looking at him. You expect there to be pity in his eyes, sorrow maybe at your sad little tale. What you don’t expect is the anger, the hardness of his features, a look like he wants to hit something. And you realise that it’s not anger at you, anger that the fact that he agrees with you, you are an asshole. No, this is anger at Eddie, anger at the media, anger at all those anonymous tweeters and commentors who have made you think this way.  

“You shouldn’t apologise for who you are and the hard work you have done to get to where you are today. Capitalism may not be a perfect system, but that doesn’t mean you should be the one apologising for it. You give back, you donate your money and help charities. But even if you didn’t, it’s your money that you have earnt and if someone criticises you for that then is only because they are jealous that they couldn’t have done what you have done.”  

You nod your head at him, slightly taken back by how passionate he sounds on the topic, but also knowing this would be his view. He may not have pushed you on talking about any of this before, but he has never made it a secret how he feels about it, how he feels about you.  

“On top of that,” he continues just as passionately. “You said it yourself; if you weren’t Y/N the famous actress you would have been Y/N the, I don’t know, sweet developer,” you let out a small giggle and Yoongi smile at the noise, but continues all the same. “And you would have gone through just as crappy break ups. But what you wouldn’t have had is the world's eyes on you. I can’t pretend to know how that feels, and I know it is easy for me to say that you shouldn’t listen, but one day you will realise that you don’t know these people just like they don’t know you. When the people you really know don’t say the same things as the media, then you know it’s a lie. And I know that because I know you, and I’m still here, because you are amazing and funny and beautiful and smart and kind. You aren’t perfect, you have your flaws, but everyone does and they make you human. And I still like you, your manager still likes you, your friends still like you, my friends still like you. It may be hard to see, but I will help you to see it.”  

You let out a breath and it shudders with emotion as it goes through your tight throat. You can’t speak with all the emotions swimming around inside you.  

“Thank you,” the words are hoarse and almost don’t make it out of you, but Yoongi smiles when he hears them.  

And as he reaches a hand up to stroke the hair from the side of your face you finally let go. Months if not years of emotions you’ve not shown anyone finally break out. And though you can’t see Yoongi through the tears, you can tell he doesn’t judge you as he pulls you into his arms and holds you.  

You get a week of bliss before everything breaks. A week where you continue in your now normal routine; Yoongi coming to yours every night, and staying till most mornings. A week where you are happy, where you forget about the media, where you don’t care what they write about you.  

A week and then Yoongi is knocking at your door, duffle bag in his hand. Your eyes go from his face to the bag, a crease working its way between your eyes.  

“Everything ok?” You try to say it casually, but there’s a tense edge to your tone.  

“Yep,” he pops the p, before stepping around you, putting his bag down and slipping his shoes off.  

“Have you decided to move in?” You continue realising you’re going to have to probe him on whatever is happening.  

“I maybe should have left the bag in the car,” he glances down to where it now sits and then looks back up at you.  

“You’re really not helping the situation,” you say. “You’re starting to worry me.”  

“Ok, ok,” he says calmly, hands coming to your shoulders and turning you so that he can direct your from behind. “I’m shit at this. I didn’t mean to worry you. Everything is seriously fine.”  

“Then why does it not feel fine?”  

“Let’s just sit down first,” he says as he walks you through the lounge door, pushing you gently towards the settee.  

You fall onto the seat, twisting so that you can look at Yoongi taking the seat next to you. His face is unreadable as it normally is. You fiddle with the skin around your nails as you wait for him to explain, 101 possible horrible things running through your head.  

“The press has found out about us,” he says flatly, no emotion to suggest if he is either happy or sad about the fact.  

“What?” The word falls out before you can think much about it.  

“There’s pictures of you coming to my flat, and then a picture of you opening the door to me here,” he explains in the same calm manner.   

One of the many possible things that it could have been. And it’s not because you don’t want the world to know that you’re with Yoongi, but more that you don’t want to hear what the world has to say about it. They don’t know him, don’t know how wonderful and gentle and amazing he is, and you don’t know how they will twist anything and everything just to bring him down.  

Because of you. Because you’re so terrible and public number one, that anyone associated with you must also be horrible. It won’t be because they will find something that Yoongi has done wrong, no, they will ruin his life because of you.  

You should never have let this carry on for as long as it has. You’d been questioning it from the start, and yet you let your stupid heart lead you, you should have gone with your head, should have -   

“Hey.”  

Large, warm hands wrap around yours and break your thoughts. Ground you. Make you look up from the spot your eyes had drifted to on the settee and take in Yoongi in front of you.  

“I don’t mind,” he carries on as if reading every thought. “I want to be with you and no one will change my mind about that.”  

“You don’t know what they’ll say,” you reply.  

“So far it’s not so bad,” he gives you a small smile, his thumb stroking soothingly along the back of your hand. “I even saw one tweet saying that we looked like we’re made for each other.”  

A joke, and a flash of teeth as he attempts to break you down. But his comment only does the opposite, as if you only heard the one word he said.  

You lean as if to get your phone but Yoongi’s hands tighten enough to stop you. Not enough to make you feel trapped or caged, but enough to make you think twice.  

“Let’s not look now,” he says and you find yourself nodding to him.  

“How come my manager hasn’t messaged me? She normally does.”  

“I told her not to,” Yoongi carries on. “Well, I asked her not to. I’m actually surprised you didn’t know before I turned up.”  

“Though it may not seem it, I don’t look at my phone  that  frequently,” you wince as soon as the words leave your mouth, not meaning them to have the bite they have. Yoongi takes in his stride, doesn’t flinch, just lightly squeezes your hands in his.  

“I know. I just wanted you to hear it from me. I didn’t want you to worry,  don’t   want you to worry,” he pauses, eyes searching yours before he carries on. “I know you might think I’m naïve, I know you’ve had a tough time with it all, but none of this puts me off. I knew what I was walking into, knew what dating you would entail, and I accepted that long ago. This may not be the way we wanted it to go, but it’s what’s happened and I’m ok with that. I just want to know that you’re ok with it too.”  

“I just,” you stop, unsure what you’re saying, unsure how to put any of it into words. But as always, Yoongi seems to know exactly what you’re thinking, exactly what you want to say.  

“We can do this. Together. We can do this together.”  

Together.  

The word hits you like a tonne of bricks, as if until know you hadn’t ever heard the word. At least until now you’ve never truly felt like the word was true. Sure, your manager has always been there for you, past boyfriends have supported you, friends have helped you; but still never felt it as strongly as you feel it now. Like it’s not just you vs the world, like you have someone who will truly stay with you, be with you, through it all.   

“Together?” You ask as if needing clarification.   

Yoongi pulls your hands, tugging you closer so that you lean into him. Wrapping his arms around you he pulls you even closer.  

“Together,” he whispers into your ear, kissing your temple.  

You nod into him. Together. Because over these past few months you’ve known the man, Yoongi has already made everything seem so much better, made your world seem so less depressing. You know that no matter what anyone throws at you, together, you’ll get through it.  

18 months later  

You smile at the flashes, looking from left to right to where your name is shouted. You only have to stand there a minute before your manager is moving you on, pushing you towards the doors of the auditorium. You smile at the faces you pass, replying to the handful of hellos you get.  

And then you’re in the room. It’s funny how little you remember it, as if two years ago when you were last here didn’t happen at all. This time you take it all in, try to make an effort to remember the night.  

You slip into the empty seat on the aisle and turn to kiss the man occupying the seat next to you. Easy, so easy to kiss the man you love in front of a room full of people, cameras probably trained on you for the world to see, and yet you don’t care anymore, just want to kiss Yoongi.  

His hand slips into yours as you lean back into your seat.  

“You better win tonight,” he mumbles into your ear. “I put a £10 bet on it.”  

You giggle at the words, all joking. You know he won’t care whatever happens tonight, will be proud of you no matter what.  

“What do you think of the seats?” You ask instead.  

“You definitely have more sway than Namjoon,” he twists in his seat looking at the room behind you. “Do you see those people in the back?”  

You look at where he nods his head, “no?”  

“Exactly. That’s about the amount of influence Joon could sway.”  

You giggle again, leaning further into his side.  

“At least he could get you in the room,” you counter.  

“Touche,” he mumbles before leaning down and pressing a kiss to the side of your head again, unable to stay away from you for too long.