XXXI

POV YN: 

Here I was. Two weeks after the Met Gala, lying like a drained tortilla on my hotel bed in Mexico, phone raised above my face as I doom-scrolled through the avalanche of articles still being published about that night. The gala might've ended, but apparently the drama (and my emotional stability) had not.

I had told myself I would stop obsessing over every photo, every blurry clip, every "Y/N and BTS moment you might have missed!" headline. But here I was. Reading them. Again. Out loud. Dramatically.

"'Y/N: The Enigmatic Muse That Stole the Met Gala—and Possibly a Few Hearts'." I snorted so hard I nearly dropped my phone on my face. Again.

The flashbacks hit me like tequila shots: fast, hot, and slightly disorienting.

After we floated up the Met steps like some celestial K-pop cult (in matching custom Givenchy), it was pure chaos. And glamour. But mostly chaos. Within an hour, I had been pulled into conversations with Zendaya, Regé-Jean Page, Ariana Grande, and some designer named Lorenzo who wore sunglasses inside and whispered his ideas like they were CIA classified.

"Y/N, bella, we must collaborate. I see you in red latex and origami. With wings. Trust me."

Sure, Lorenzo. Let me just grow some feathers.

But the best part? Everyone wanted more. Articles poured in praising our looks—yes, our. The seven deadly visuals and me. Apparently, someone on Twitter called us "the BTS Y/Niverse." I wasn't mad.

Unfortunately, the dating rumors had multiplied like mogwais in a thunderstorm.

"Y/N and Tae caught whispering in a corner—what was said?" "Did Jungkook just touch her lower back or am I delusional?" "The way Namjoon looked at her... please I'm begging."

Korean ARMYs? Not thrilled. Suspicious. Possibly plotting. International ARMYs? Living. Breathing. Thriving. They wanted a drama. A series. A wedding. Not necessarily in that order.

And just when I thought things couldn't get more surreal, I looked around at my current actual life.

We were in Mexico now. Concerts: done. Tacos: eaten. Next stop: Argentina. But not before I had successfully dragged the boys through half the country in the name of culture and content.

So far, we had:

Climbed the Teotihuacán pyramids, Jungkook vlogging us all wheezing halfway to the top.

Explored Cenotes near Tulum, where Hobi accidentally slipped on a wet rock and screamed, "¡Dios mío!" like a local.

Watched Lucha Libre, where Taehyung tried to convince everyone he could moonlight as a masked wrestler.

Visited Frida Kahlo's house, where Namjoon cried. Not sure if it was because of the art or the tiny doorframes.

Learned random facts from Yoongi, like how the word "chocolate" comes from the Nahuatl word xocolatl. (And yes, he said it with perfect pronunciation because he's a secret polyglot.)

And don't even get me started on the food. Real tacos—REAL tacos—ruined all my previous taco experiences. Jimin cried over a cochinita pibil. I cried over the tamales. Jin had a spiritual experience with chilaquiles verdes.

And then... the concerts.

Bésame Mucho as an encore? A cultural reset. Tae held that last note like he was trying to seduce the moon itself. But the real kicker? The Macarena. Picture it: eighty-thousand fans, in sync, doing the Macarena with BTS in full costume. Hobi leading it like a charismatic uncle at a wedding. Jungkook absolutely eating the choreo with terrifying accuracy.

We broke the Guinness World Record for the largest Macarena flashmob. I have the certificate framed on my imaginary wall of life accomplishments.

But if I thought that was wild, nothing—nothing—could prepare me for what was coming.

Because somewhere between chilaquiles and chaos, I had joked—joked, mind you—that I would die to see the boys take tango classes in Argentina. For the show. For the laughs. For the content.

Jimin, traitor of my soul, lit up like a Christmas tree.

"That's genius! And you should dance with us on stage!"

I choked. "I meant for the show, not the concert!"

Too late. Bang PD-nim heard about it from Korea. The idea spiraled. Contracts were signed. Wardrobes were discussed. And now...

Now, I was here, in a plush hotel room in Mexico, fingers trembling as I emailed a professional Argentinian tango instructor. A real one. From Buenos Aires. She had trained with the legends. Wore heels like weapons.

We had three days to master a passionate tango-passo doble fusion set to Airplane Pt. 2. Three. Days.

And the worst part? During the performance, each of the boys would take turns being my dance partner during their parts. That meant seven pairs of intense eye contact. Seven hands on my waist. Seven rounds of trying not to fall or spontaneously combust from the tension.

And while I was busy pretending to be chill about it all, there was one part I was absolutely, categorically, scientifically not okay about.

Namjoon.

My boyfriend. Secret. Mysterious. Dangerous. Hot.

Dancing the tango with him in front of tens of thousands of fans while trying not to look like I wanted to devour him with my eyes?

I was already blushing just imagining it.

The way his hand would slide down my back, firm and sure, pulling me into position like he owned the air between us. The way he'd look at me—because even offstage, when he looked at me, it felt like a private solar eclipse. Full blackout. Brain gone.

And now I'd have to maintain composure while wearing heels, staring into his eyes, brushing noses, and breathing the same charged air, while a million cameras zoomed in and ARMYs theorized in thirty languages.

How would I survive that?

Worse: what if I forgot the steps? What if I giggled? Or stumbled because I was too focused on the mole near his collarbone? Or worse-worse: what if I leaned in too close and accidentally kissed him and set off an international scandal and caused a butterfly effect that ended in the collapse of modern society?

I buried my face in a pillow and screamed.

Quietly. Like a professional.

Living with the boys? A pleasure. Filming and laughing every day? A joy. Dancing a torrid tango in front of 80,000 people with Namjoon, while pretending we weren't madly in love behind closed doors? An Olympic event in self-control.Lord, take me now.

But I couldn't back down. I loved dancing. It had always been mine. The one place where I could move without words, say everything with a look or a step. And deep down... I wanted to share that part of me with them.

With him.

So here I was. Dramatically flopping onto my back, arms wide, as I sent the final confirmation to the instructor.

Subject: Tango Lessons for 8 (Yes, Eight) Individuals Who May or May Not Cause an International Meltdown

My life? Not easy.

But damn... it sure wasn't boring.