I was in the kitchen, elbow-deep in warm dishwater, when my phone rang from the counter. I wiped a hand on my shirt and glanced at the screen.
Sugar.
I tucked the phone between my shoulder and ear, letting the soapy water run as I answered. "Hello?"
"Are you busy?" he asked, his voice still husky with sleep—his signature bedroom voice.
I frowned slightly. "It's 2 p.m., and you're still in bed?"
"It's my day off," he grumbled. "I can sleep the whole day if I want."
"Then go back to sleep and stop bothering me," I muttered, rinsing a plate. "You're the one who called."
"That's why I'm calling you—if you'd stop nagging for one second," he sighed through the phone. I could hear the rustle of sheets as he shifted in bed.
I didn't answer. He'd talk when he was ready.
"Jimin called. He's planning drinks with a few friends. You free tonight?"
The mention of Jimin lit something in me. "The cute one?" I asked, already interested. "Okay. I'll come."
He sounded vaguely annoyed. "Yes. Anyway, I'll pick you up—just send me your address."
"Nah," I said casually, "I'll take my bike. Just tell me the location."
He groaned. "No. If you end up drinking, who's going to make sure you get home safe?"
"Why? What are we drinking, poison?"
"I've known Jimin for five years. That man doesn't 'lightly' drink. You've been warned."
I rolled my eyes but gave in. "Fine. I'll send you my address."
"Good. You should listen to me more often, shorty."
"Says the guy who turns into a hobbit next to Seokjin and Namjoon."
His laugh rumbled through the phone. "See you soon."
After we hung up, I grabbed my towel and headed to the shower. Before stepping in, I quickly texted him my location—just in case I forgot later.
The water was hot, comforting. I let it run over me longer than necessary, letting the steam dull the noise in my head. Afterward, wrapped in my robe, I stood in front of my wardrobe in a quiet daze before pulling out my go-to comfort outfit—black cargo jeans, an oversized black shirt, and thick socks.
By the time I was brushing out my damp hair, the doorbell rang.
I checked the clock. 5 p.m. Exactly.
I pressed the intercom button. "Who is it?"
"It's me," came the familiar voice.
"Aren't you early?" I asked.
"The place is an hour away," he said. "Better to leave now."
I buzzed him in and told him my apartment number. Moments later, a soft knock echoed through the door. I opened it to find him standing there—dressed head to toe in black. Bucket hat. Mask. Oversized shirt. Shorts.
I raised an eyebrow. "Whose funeral are we going to?"
He smirked and knocked gently on my forehead. "Don't say that."
"I'm just joking," I said, stepping aside to let him in. He headed straight to the couch, eyes scanning the small space like he hadn't been here before.
I resumed drying my hair with my towel.
"Don't you have a dryer?" he asked, watching.
"Nope. This works just fine."
He rolled his eyes. "I'll get you one tomorrow."
"That's so nice of you," I said dryly. "Thank you, sugar daddy."
He snorted but didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled something out.
"I got you something."
I turned, mildly curious, but froze when I saw the box.
Dexcom.
My heart stuttered. I knew that box too well—the sleek packaging of a continuous glucose monitor, one I'd spent months dreaming of owning but could never justify with bills piling up.
"You…" My voice broke.
"I thought you needed it," he said simply. "You don't always notice your sugar levels dropping. I talked to a doctor. He recommended this."
I stared at the box in disbelief. Not just one—multiple boxes. Enough for a year.
I didn't take the box. I stepped forward and hugged him instead. It surprised both of us. My arms wrapped around him tightly, and for a second, he just stood there, frozen. Then slowly, his hands came up, returning the gesture—gently, hesitantly.
I pulled away, embarrassed. "Sorry. I just… how did you even know?"
He shrugged. "Like I said, I did a little digging."
"I'll pay you back," I whispered. "I just need some time—"
"Do you want to try it now?" he interrupted gently, brushing off my guilt. "We can talk about everything else later."
I nodded and sat at the kitchen table while he opened the box with careful hands. He studied the instructions like he was defusing a bomb.
"Where do you want it?" he asked, holding the device.
"My arm's fine."
With a click, it was done. The adhesive was firm, and he smoothed it down with care.
"Ten days," he reminded. "Then replace it."
"Yes, dad," I teased.
He froze. Then turned away quickly, his ears tinged with red.
Oops.
He handed me a slim device—looked like a watch. "This tracks your sugar. Let's check it."
The screen flashed: 60 mg/dL.
He looked at me. "That means?"
"It's low…" I muttered.
"You're eating something now," he said flatly.
I sighed and dug out a chocolate bar from the fridge. Took a bite. He stared. I took another. Finally, he relaxed, lounging on the couch again until I finished the whole thing.
Only then did he grab his bag and keys, checking the watch again. 100 mg/dL.
"Now we go."
The drive was quiet—comfortably so. He answered a call from Jimin as we hit traffic.
"Yeah, we're on the way," he said. "We'll be there in thirty… No, it's fine. Got it."
I glanced over. "Are we the last ones?"
He nodded. "Jimin said food's ready, so no coffee stop."
"That's okay. You stuffed a chocolate bar down my throat, remember?"
He chuckled. And just like that, the silence returned—but it wasn't awkward. It was familiar. We didn't need to fill every moment with words.
By the time we pulled up to the villa, night had fallen. Music pulsed from inside—soft bass and laughter. Lights glowed from the windows, casting golden pools across the driveway.
It looked like a party, but intimate. Tucked away from the noise of the city.
"Yoongi-ah!"
Jin's voice rang out before we even shut the car doors. He was standing near the entrance, a tall woman in a silk white dress beside him. Her smile was gentle, graceful.
"This is Selena," Yoongi said as we approached. "Jin's girlfriend."
"Hi." I gave a small wave. "I'm Rhea."
She reached out warmly. "Nice to meet you, Rhea."
Her elegance made me self-conscious. She looked like she stepped off a runway.
I leaned closer to Yoongi and whispered, "Don't you think I'm underdressed?"
He gave me a crooked smile. "Why would you think that?"
I gestured subtly. "Look at her."
"She's a model," he said easily. "She could wear a trash bag and still make it fashion. You're fine. Honestly—if you wore pajamas, you'd still be cute."
I smacked his arm. "Cute? I'm not a puppy. I'm pretty."
He laughed, clearly amused.
I flipped my hair dramatically and quickened my steps, catching up with Selena. She turned slightly, her height requiring a small tilt to meet my eyes. She gently looped her arm through mine.
"Are you comfortable?" she asked kindly.
I nodded. "Yeah. I used to work in clubs, so I'm used to the noise. But this... feels different. I feel safe here."
Her brow lifted. "Safe?"
"No one's going to grope me here," I said honestly.
Her expression shifted, smile faltering. "I'm so sorry to hear that."
I shrugged. "You don't have to be. That was a different chapter."
She still looked upset. I patted her hand. "Don't worry. Really."
She glanced at Yoongi, who was chatting with a small group now. "But Rhea…"
"I'm okay," I said, my gaze drifting toward him. He was scanning the crowd like he felt my eyes, and when they found mine, he smiled.
I smiled back.
"Right now," I said softly, "I feel like I'm secured."