XLI

POV YN :

If I close my eyes, I can still smell the sea on my skin from Milos — that ancient island of quiet waves and noisy laughter. One week of sun, salt, and too many grilled octopuses later, we boarded a small jet with sand still clinging to our sandals and hearts wide open for the next place waiting to know us.

Paris came first.

City of light, of love, of croissants that melted on the tongue like whispered secrets — of elegance sharpened to a point, history laced into every stone, and fashion that moved like poetry.

The boys scattered like kids set loose in a dream.Taehyung was off chasing vintage scarves and wide-legged trousers from obscure boutiques in Le Marais. Jungkook and Jin wanted to try every pâtisserie they laid eyes on. Hoseok dragged Jimin to a concept store that sold sunglasses shaped like galaxies.Yoongi disappeared for hours in a perfumery, sniffing his way through the scent map of the city.And Namjoon? He was exactly where you'd expect — the Louvre, standing in front of The Winged Victory of Samothrace, his notebook open, head tilted, completely still.

I, on the other hand, stayed at the hotel a little longer.I was tired. Tired in that quiet way when your body begs for stillness — not sadness, not stress, just the exhale after too many days of too much motion. So I let them roam while I ordered espresso to the room, opened the window, and watched Paris stretch into morning.

Later, I made my way to the stadium for rehearsals.

The boys, I was told, were late.

The sound tech — a real Frenchman in every stereotype you could imagine, from his scarf to his sarcasm — was pacing in frustration."C'est pas possible, ça! Vous pouvez pas chanter une chanson, vous? C'est juste pour être sûr que le micro marche bien, et que les appareils sont connectés."I blinked. "Me?""Yes, you. Just one song. For the mic check."

The stadium was empty. The sky above the open dome looked like brushed silver. I hesitated, then shrugged."Well... alright. Which song?""What you like."I smiled. "La Vie en Rose."Of course.

So I stepped up to the mic.

I sang.

Soft at first. Like a memory. Like Edith Piaf had woven herself into my throat. The lyrics melted on my tongue like they had waited their whole life to be spoken in Paris. This song meant so much to me. Now more then ever. I had met the boys because of this song. I had met Him. And I poured every emotion into it.

And at the end...

Applause.

From backstage.

A storm of it. Whistling, clapping, voices calling my name.

They hadn't been late.

They'd set it all up — just to hear me sing. In French. In France.

Later, they confessed that "La Vie en Rose" was their planned encore all along. And now they wanted my help — pronunciation, phrasing, the right feeling. So for two days, we trained like it was the Olympics of tenderness.

That night, the city came alive.

The concert felt like lightning bottled in glass — powerful, luminous, impossible to contain. We were swallowed whole by thousands of voices, by the trembling lights, by Paris herself.

When the encore came, they started La Vie en Rose. The music swelled.

Then it paused.

Namjoon stepped forward, mic in hand.

"I've heard this song a thousand times," he said, his voice carrying like velvet through the night. "But the version that stayed with me the most... was sung almost a year ago. By someone very special."

I froze.

He looked at me Backstage.

I wanted to melt into the floor.

He smiled — softly, impossibly. "YN... come sing it with us."

"No," I mouthed.

"Yes," said all of them.

Jimin reached for my hand and pulled me up. I could've killed him.The crowd roared. The lights dimmed. They made me sit at the edge of the stage, and Namjoon sat beside me, our knees almost touching.

My heart was going to shatter my ribs.

But then I gave in, I sang.

And the moment swallowed me whole.

When I opened my eyes again, it wasn't just applause — it was something else. Something like awe. Like the city had bowed her head in approval.

We sang it again, this time all together.BTS and me. French and Korean. Rose and fire. I kept touching the necklace Namjoon had gifted me. My rose necklace. This felt like a full circle moment.

And somewhere in that blur, the crowd began chanting — not a song, not a lyric, but two names.

"YN-JOON! YN-JOON!"

A joke at first.Then a pattern.Then...

Something neither of us dared name.Not yet.

But in that moment — under the Paris sky, in the city where love was a birthright — it was real.

And it had begun.

Italy was our next love affair.

We began in Milan — the pulse of fashion, espresso, and cathedral shadows.Namjoon said Milan looked like a poem written in architecture.I told him he looked like one walking through it.He flushed, but didn't deny it.

Taehyung and I spent an afternoon at a spa that felt like a dream you forget slowly. Eucalyptus-scented steam rooms, golden masks, soft laughter echoing off marble. He had his robe cinched like a prince, insisting the facial made his "already perfect" skin divine. He was right. The other boys didn't want to join.

Meanwhile, Yoongi kidnapped my brain, claiming my "Italian aura" was exactly what he needed for a new track.We sat on a terrace in Brera, eating cacio e pepe and drinking enough grappa to make me rhyme in five languages.He scribbled lyrics on napkins, I hummed a melody, and somehow we made something raw and glimmering. Like a wine too young to be perfect, but already unforgettable.

Shopping came next day.

Namjoon, quiet until he isn't, froze in front of a white silk dress in Bottega Veneta."It looks like something you'd wear in a dream," he said.Then he bought it.No questions. No hesitation. Just a gift wrapped in tissue and something unsaid.

Later that night, I tried to thank him.He shook his head, smiling."Just promise me you'll wear it someday. Somewhere special."

From Milan, we spiraled into a storybook.

Cinque Terre kissed the cliffs like the land couldn't bear to let go of the sea.We rented a boat and sailed along the coast — the sun dripping gold onto the water, our laughter lost to the wind.At one point, Jungkook yelled, "Jump!"

And we did.Fully clothed. Salt in our mouths. Screaming into the sapphire.Namjoon surfaced beside me, hair slicked back, smile bare.Taehyung shouted, "This is cinema!"And it was.

That night, we wrapped ourselves in towels and ate grilled calamari on the sand. Cameras rolled for Run BTS: Our Universe, but we forgot.I showed them how to ask for "un gelato per favore," and clarified that cornetto wasn't always a pastry.Hoseok kept yelling "cornetto!" at passing scooters. It became a bit.

Tuscany was made of warm stone and secrets.

We visited Lucca, San Gimignano, wandered narrow alleys with hands full of gelato so good it felt illegal.We tasted Montepulciano wines in candlelit cellars and ordered cases like we were royalty."What? A girl can splurge," I said.Yoongi raised an eyebrow."I'm a working woman."They clapped.

In Florence, we stood beneath Michelangelo's David.Yoongi squinted and whispered, "I see the resemblance."Jin howled.We ate bistecca alla fiorentina bigger than our heads, and watched the sun melt over the Arno from Piazzale Michelangelo.Jimin danced in a piazza as an old man played an accordion and made locals cry.

But then came Lake Como.And we held our breath.

There was a charity dinner there, organized quietly my a longtime friend of mine.  No press, no show. Just something meaningful in tuxedos and lace.

The villa was something out of myth — columns, ivy, candlelight catching in the lake.I wore a black lace dress that whispered at my hips. The boys...God, the boys.

Dark suits, unholy silhouettes. Jin looked like nobility. Jungkook like a villain in disguise. Hoseok glowed like wine. Taehyung wore velvet, of course, and made everyone swoon. Yoongi, quietly smoldering. Jimin? A walking sonnet.

And Namjoon.

Namjoon in midnight-black. Clean lines. Open collar. A look in his eyes that made my throat close.I said, "I could live here. I'd never get tired of that view."

He looked at me. Not the lake."Same," he said.

My heart did something dangerous.

Later that night, as candlelight danced on wine glasses, he touched my wrist under the table. A small touch. But I felt it for days.

Ravello was the exhale after the gasp.

A villa between lemon groves and cliffside sky. Bougainvillea in bloom. Real violins in the air, no metaphor this time.We stayed in a place that felt like it had been waiting centuries for a love story.One night, Namjoon and I sat on the balcony without words.A silence that held everything.

"I'd write an entire album about this place," he said.

"Then do it," I whispered.

He looked at me.

"Only if you're on it."

We flew to Sardegna — wilder, sunburnt, laughing.We swam in turquoise coves and rode ATVs through dust-blown trails.An entire Run BTS segment was ruined when Hoseok got chased by goats. Jungkook filmed the whole thing, cackling.Later, we roasted seafood over fire and watched stars tangle above us.

Naples came next.We ate pizza so good Jungkook literally got teary."This isn't food," he said. "This is... religion."We believed him.

And then, finally — Rome.

The air buzzed like espresso.Two nights. Two coliseums.Screaming fans. Unreal light.

For the encore, they sang "Sarà perché ti amo."The crowd roared the lyrics louder than we could.Then came a surprise:"Felicità" — a ridiculous, joy-soaked cover with a choreography that nearly made me cry-laugh backstage. Hoseok gave himself whiplash mid-spin.

And oh, yes. The scooter date.

Namjoon rented a Vespa."I want to see Rome with you," he said. "Just us."

I drove. Hair wild, skirt flying.He held on to me like I was the only real thing in the world.We zipped past ruins older than time, down alleyways that smelled like espresso and dreams.We stopped for carbonara in Trastevere, took Polaroids by the Tiber, watched lovers kiss on the Spanish Steps. 

At one red light, he quoted poetry.At the next, I kissed his hand.He didn't let go.

"You were made for Rome," he whispered."Or maybe," he added, "Rome was made for you."

Madrid was fire and rhythm.

The city pulsed like it never slept — and maybe it didn't. The concerts were pure calor. Two nights, both sold out, with Spanish ARMYs singing louder than the speakers.

We opened the encore with "Bésame Mucho". Jungkook's voice melted into the guitars like honey. Then we brought out the chaos with a flamenco-inspired remix of "Go Go", complete with Jimin in a red sash, stomping like a dancer possessed.

I swear I saw people cry from laughter.

Between shows, I guided them through tapas bars — teaching them to say "una caña", introducing them to jamón ibérico, tortilla española, and churros con chocolate at 2AM.Hobi said, "Spain is dangerous. I might stay."

Fans kept calling Namjoon mi novio. And he didn't deny it.He grinned and looked at me every time.They knew.

—

And then... Portugal.

Lisbon was our final concert — our goodbye to Europe.But instead of bittersweet, it felt golden.

The stadium trembled with energy, not sadness. The sky turned peach as the sun dipped behind the hills of Alfama, and the sea breeze carried the chorus of thousands. They sang "Lisboa menina e moça" with us — every word clear, heartfelt. I got goosebumps that stayed long after the song ended.

We closed with a cover of "Para mim tanto me faz" by D'ZRT — the first boy band I'd ever listened to.

"Who was your bias in that group?" Namjoon asked backstage, breathless and gleaming with sweat, mocking jalousie.

"The rapper," I answered without thinking.

Rap line turned around, grinning like cats who just stole the cream.Hoseok did a small dance, Yoongi tipped an invisible hat, and Namjoon—Namjoon just looked at me like he already knew.

"As it should be," he said.

And then... silence.The end of the tour.The kind of silence that holds applause, goodbyes, and too much adrenaline.

Except — not really.

We had two weeks of freedom left.No interviews. No flights. Just us.

And we used it well.

From Lisbon, we drove north to Porto.

Porto looked like a painting that had been brushed with emotion.Colorful houses spilled down toward the Douro like someone had knocked over a box of joy. We crossed the Dom Luís I bridge at dusk — the lights below twinkling like a second sky — and Yoongi muttered, "Even my cynicism needs a break."

We wandered Ribeira, chased the scent of grilled sardines down cobbled streets, and port wine-tasted until the world blurred slightly.I don't remember what we were laughing at that night, only that we didn't stop.

Taehyung bought a tweed vest from a local artisan in a shop that smelled of wax and dust and old music. He put it on over a linen shirt and looked like someone's dream from another century.

"Call me Visconde V," he declared, twirling once.

Later, we filmed a new Our Universe episode in Gêres National Park.The waterfalls were wild and secretive, the air smelled like pine and rain. Jungkook stripped his shirt off and jumped into a lake without hesitation. Hoseok screamed the moment he touched the water. Jin pretended to faint and floated like an ancient fallen hero.

We hiked, soaked in hot springs, and ate polvo à lagareiro — my favorite dish there.

Jungkook took one bite and stopped mid-chew."Oh my God," he whispered, eyes wide. "This is my Roman Empire."

Then came the vans.

We rented luxury campers and drove south, letting the road take us wherever it wanted.

Praia da Vieira was a quiet coastal village wrapped in the scent of salt and grilled fish. In the mornings, I woke to seagulls and the boys arguing softly about coffee ratios. We made bonfires at night and told sacry stories even Yoongi pretended to believe.I caught Jimin sketching in the sand one morning — a heart, with all our initials inside it. He wiped it away before anyone else could see.

In Nazaré, we tried surfing again.Let's just say... we were better at falling than standing.Jin managed to stay on his board for exactly four seconds and claimed world dominance, holding his arms up like an Olimpic Winner.

"Champion of the universe," he announced. "And I didn't even get my hair wet." And then fell. Wetting his hair.

Lisbon again — but this time, slower.

We wandered through Alfama, its mosaic-tiled walls and steep hills like a love letter from the past. Fado music spilled from open windows — songs older than regret. We danced in the streets of Cascais, drank Moscatel in Setúbal, laughed without cameras or call sheets.

The boys were happy. Truly.No pressure. No rehearsals.Just sun, food, waves, and us.

And finally...

I told them I wanted to take them to my favorite place in the world, before leaving.The place I go when I need to breathe.To remember who I am.

Where cliffs dive into the Atlantic like a promise.Where the wind sings in languages older than time.Where the sky feels endless, and the sea swallows thoughts whole.

Cabo da Roca.

The night before the drive, Namjoon came to find me.

We were sitting on the hotel balcony, the city glittering quietly behind us.

"I spoke to Bang PD-nim," he said, softly.

I turned. His voice had that tone — the one that always meant something was coming.

"He wants to use that place you mentioned... for a BTS + YN special photoshoot. He saw your old photos. Says it's too beautiful to pass."

"Oh..." I blinked. "That's... unexpected."

He smiled faintly, and I couldn't read the whole smile.

"Wear the white dress I gave you in Italy," he added. "Please."

I nodded, still confused."Alright."

But something in his eyes — that quiet certainty — made my pulse skip a little.