The dorm door closed with a soft click, but it echoed like thunder in Yoongi's chest.
He walked in behind her, careful not to touch her, not because he didn't want to—but because he could feel her pulling further into herself with every step. Her hands were trembling in her sleeves, fingers tucked into the ends of her jacket, tugging them like a frightened child trying to disappear. Her head hung low, hair shielding her face. She hadn't spoken a word since they left the car.
Yoongi felt dread coil in his stomach, silent and sharp like a knife's edge.
The other members greeted them briefly, laughter still trailing from the kitchen after dinner prep, but it was like Rhea wasn't even in the room. Her aura had shifted. Gone was the soft, sarcastic spark in her eyes, the playful remarks. She barely made eye contact. She barely breathed.
Jimin tilted his head, about to speak, but one look at Yoongi's expression made him think twice.
Once the kitchen cleared and the noise faded, Yoongi gently tugged Rhea aside into a quiet corner near the hallway. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low—tender, but not trembling.
"Rhea," he began. "Were you raped by your ex?"
He hadn't wanted to say it. Not like that. But the moment he saw her freeze, her entire body recoiling like a string snapped inside her—he knew.
Her knees buckled slightly, and her face crumpled as if she were trying to hold it together but failed miserably. Silent sobs escaped her lips, broken and raw. She fell against the wall, hiding her face in her hands like she was ashamed of even existing.
Yoongi's heart shattered in silence.
His fists clenched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He had suspected it. For weeks now, maybe longer. The way she flinched when someone raised their voice, how she sometimes woke from dreams clutching her stomach or hiding her wrists under long sleeves. But suspecting it—imagining it—and knowing it were two different things. Being right didn't feel like a relief. It felt like a curse.
He stepped toward her, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal.
"Rhea," he whispered again, as if saying her name would keep her tethered to the ground. "You're safe now. You hear me? You're safe with me."
She sobbed harder at his words, but didn't pull away when he touched her shoulder—so he wrapped both arms around her carefully. She collapsed into him like a glass finally giving in to a hairline crack.
He didn't care if she soaked his shirt with her tears. He didn't care if she never spoke again. He just wanted her to know she wasn't alone. Not anymore.
After some time, when her breathing had slowed, he guided her gently to the table. He didn't say anything while he boiled water. He knew there were no words that could erase what had happened, so he did what he could—he made her tea.
Chamomile, not coffee. Something warm. Something calming.
She took the cup with shaky hands. "I'm sorry I made a fuss," she said softly, eyes cast downward.
"You don't have to apologize." His voice was firmer now. Protective. "I'm going to ask someone to file a police report. A blotter. Your ex should be as far away from you as possible."
Her eyes widened, panicked. "You don't have to do that."
"Let me," he said, the fire in his gut igniting again. "You saw him this morning—and now look at you, falling apart. Do you think I can just sit here and pretend this is normal? That I can go to work while you crumble in the corner?"
His words were a little too sharp, but it was the truth. And sometimes truth stings more than silence.
She said nothing, only pulled her sleeves down again and stared into her tea like it held answers.
He ran a hand through his hair, torn. His schedule was tight. They had 48 hours straight of filming, interviews, prep work. He was a professional. But none of that mattered now.
"I'll take you to the apartment," he said finally. "You need rest. A space that's quiet. Safe."
"I don't want you to worry about me," she replied. "You have work. You have priorities. Please don't let me bring you down."
He closed his eyes. For someone so hurt, she still thought about protecting him. That made it worse.
Just then, Jin appeared at the doorway, arms crossed but smile casual. "Yoongi. Got a second?"
Yoongi didn't respond right away.
Jin gave a knowing look before turning to Rhea. "You looked like you needed help. Sorry if I overheard a little bit of your conversation." He turned back to Yoongi. "Bro... you're not seriously considering putting work first, are you?"
Yoongi's jaw tightened.
"She's someone who loves you," Jin added. "And you love her. You shouldn't have to choose between protecting the person you love and doing your job. We can push taping back. The staff will understand. They always do when it's real."
Yoongi looked at Rhea—shaken, fragile, but trying so hard to pretend she wasn't—and felt his answer form before he even opened his mouth.
"No," he said. "You're right. Work can wait."
And with that, he turned to Rhea again, reaching for her hand—not as a savior, not as a fixer—but as a man who chose her, even in her most broken form.
***
"Would you… ever consider seeing a therapist?" Yoongi asked, voice softer than the steam curling from the tea between them.
Rhea didn't answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the edge of the cup, then drifted to the table. Her hands were steady now, though she still held the mug like it might slip.
"I don't know if I can," she whispered.
"I know," he said gently. "But I'll be there. I won't leave you alone."
She finally met his eyes.
Yoongi's gaze wasn't desperate or demanding. It was steady, unwavering—rooted in a quiet kind of love that didn't try to fix her, just hold the pieces with her until she was ready. He didn't push. He waited. And in that silence, Rhea felt something in her loosen—not fear, but the grip fear had on her.
So she nodded. Just once.
And that was enough.
The appointment was made that night. Yoongi spoke with his team and requested immediate leave. No drama, no arguments—just a calm, clear explanation: "It's personal. It matters. I'll be back when I can be."
The company understood. They didn't ask questions. They didn't need to.
For three days, Yoongi paused the world.
He drove her to the therapist's office and sat in the waiting room with headphones in but music off, just listening for her steps. When she emerged, pale but upright, he held her hand and drove her home.
He made her soup. He read beside her in quiet, letting her rest when words ran out. Sometimes they sat in silence. Sometimes she cried at nothing and he just squeezed her hand tighter. At night, when the memories returned like smoke under the door, he didn't talk her out of the fear. He just held her. Let her tremble. Let her breathe.
By the third morning, Rhea smiled.
It wasn't wide. It wasn't bright. But it was hers.
She even teased him about burning toast, deadpan sarcasm slipping past her lips before she realized she was doing it.
Yoongi froze, then smirked. "There she is."
She rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.
The following afternoon, as she stood by the windows of his apartment—his safe, guarded space where she'd now moved in—she let herself exhale fully for the first time in weeks.
Yoongi had installed additional security, reprogrammed access codes, and personally briefed the building staff. Rhea didn't ask for it, but he did it anyway.
Not because she was fragile.
But because she deserved peace.
When Yoongi returned to taping, it was with a new calm.
He was still tired. Worn. But lighter.
Rhea was already texting him a sarcastic meme before his hair was even styled. She was doing laundry. She was building playlists. She was healing—not linearly, not magically—but with small, stubborn steps. And she was letting him witness it.
And for Yoongi, that was everything.