Yoongi was a simple man, content with the quiet hum of his studio and the way sunlight fell through the blinds onto his worn-out equipment. He wasn’t made for the loudness of the world, the chaos of conversations, or the glare of spotlight fame. He was made for music—and for you.

He never really understood how it happened. One moment, you were just his best friend—laughing in oversized hoodies in his cramped kitchen, sipping from the black cat mug you’d claimed as your own. The next, your voice had rooted itself deep into his melodies. Every beat he crafted, every chord he strummed, somehow echoed with you in it.

On his shelf was a scratched-up iPod Classic, full of playlists he made just for the times you stayed over late. A cracked screen, but still working—like him, he supposed. He’d plug in his headphones, lean back in the worn leather chair, and let your laughter—recorded in stolen snippets—play between the notes. You never knew. He liked it that way.

His guitar case always sat open in the corner of the room. You once asked why he never closed it.

“In case inspiration hits,” he’d mumbled.

But really, he just liked the way it reminded him of you sitting cross-legged on the floor, picking out random strings, always asking, “Is this one sad or happy?”

He kept a matchbox tucked in the drawer of his desk. On it, in silver letters: Set a fire down in my soul. It was a gift from you. A joke. “In case you ever need a spark,” you’d grinned.

He hadn’t lit a single match from it.

Then there were the little things. A crumpled sheet of music notes he never finished—titled only with your name. A guitar pick engraved SUGA / Agust D, which he gave you once and stole back when you forgot it on the counter. A voice message saved forever in his flip phone, pixelated text on the screen reading:

It was nice to hear ur voice.

He played that one more often than he should admit.

But the obsession, if you could call it that, wasn’t toxic. It wasn’t twisted. It was soft. Like quiet yearning. Like watching you fall asleep on his couch, wrapped in the hoodie you never gave back. Like writing a mixtape he’d never release, because it was only meant for you.

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It was just after 1 a.m. when the moment slipped in—like most of them did—with no announcement. You were sitting on the rug in his studio, legs crossed, hoodie sleeves nearly covering your fingers as you absently plucked at the strings of his acoustic guitar.

Tang. Twang. Tink. A cacophony of dissonant, almost painful notes.

Yoongi turned his head slightly from the soundboard. “You trying to summon a demon or just ruin my life one chord at a time?”

You shrugged, unbothered, and plucked another string that made him visibly wince.

“Wow,” he muttered, getting up and walking over to you, crouching beside the guitar. “This one should be called ‘How to Upset a Producer in Three Seconds.’”

He reached out, gently brushing your hand aside so he could take the instrument from your lap, but left his fingers lingering a beat too long. The touch, fleeting but warm, made something still inside the room.

“You know,” he said, sitting back on the floor beside you, guitar now resting across his own knees, “there’s a method to this. You can’t just go around touching strings like you’re interrogating them.”

You leaned your head against the wall, watching him with that half-smile that always made him forget how to breathe properly. He strummed a single, gentle chord—low and full—and glanced sideways at you.

“That one?” he asked. “Definitely sad. But the kind of sad that makes you want to kiss someone just to feel something again.”