XLVI

POV Namjoon: 

I thought the hardest part would be walking into the light with her.

But it wasn't.

The hardest part was standing still in it, while the world looked at us — all at once — like we were a painting they had loved for years, now suddenly framed with a new color they hadn't chosen.

The moment we walked off the stage, hand in hand, the silence behind the curtains roared louder than the screaming crowd we left behind.

It was done.

No more hiding.

I had called her my universe in front of thousands — and by now, millions more had seen it.

I didn't touch my phone that night. Didn't need to. I felt the weight of it in my pocket like it had gained mass, like it had turned into a world of its own.

But Jimin was already crying.

He tried to hide it — turned away, clenched his jaw, said something about dust in his eyes. But I know that look. He wasn't sad. He was relieved. "You looked so happy, hyung," he said. "Like you were finally breathing right."

Yoongi chuckled softly and muttered, "About damn time."

Hobi smiled like the sun itself was proud of me.

Taehyung? He didn't say a word at first. Just walked up and hugged me so tightly I felt his pulse match mine.

Jungkook... he was quiet for a while. Sat cross-legged on the dressing room floor with his head low, nodding slowly. Then he whispered, almost shyly, "She makes you better. You're still our leader, hyung. Just... happier now."

By dawn, the reactions were everywhere.

Some were beautiful.

Others were brutal.

And all of them were louder than anything I've heard since our debut.

#NamjoonEngaged

#ForeverRM

#SheStoleOurLeader

#RMandYNAlfaCouple

#NotMyNamjoon

#FinallyHappyNamjoon

#ProtectYNRM

I sat beside Y/N on the floor of her room, her head resting on my shoulder, our fingers intertwined — not because we needed to reassure each other, but because we always reached for one another when the world grew too loud.

She asked me if I regretted it.

I looked at her — skin flushed from tears, hair still damp from the post-concert shower, wrapped in my shirt like it was armor — and I said, "Never. Not for a second."

There were fans who cried tears of joy. Who said things like:

"He finally let himself be loved."

"She's the woman behind his peace."

"You can see it in his smile. It's her. It's always been her."

Some posted photos from past concerts, circling tiny details I didn't think anyone had noticed.

The way I smiled in Lisbon. The subtle glances offstage.

Some even wrote letters — open ones.

One said:

"To Namjoon: I thought I'd be angry, but instead I cried like I was giving away a brother at his wedding. Thank you for letting us see love doesn't have to be loud to be real."

But not all love is soft.

Some fans felt betrayed.

Some were vicious.

They attacked her looks.

Her background.

Accused her of stealing me. Of breaking our pact.

As if love was a promise I made with a mic, not with my life.

Korean forums buzzed like hornets. Headlines ranged from "RM Shocks Nation with Surprise Engagement" to "HYBE Knew — Why Did They Hide It?"

Some asked if she was pregnant.

Some asked if BTS was over.

Some said I was selfish.

That I had ruined our image.

And maybe... maybe I expected it.

But it still stung.

I scrolled for hours. Read everything.

Let it all bruise me.

Because I needed to feel it.

Because love without consequence isn't real.

But the moment I looked over at her — eyes puffy, scrolling through hate with her lips tight and silent — I snapped out of it.

"You don't have to look at that," I said, reaching for her phone.

She didn't let go. "I want to," she said. "I want to know what loving you costs."

I closed her laptop and pulled her to me.

"Loving you didn't cost me a thing," I whispered. "It gave me back everything."

The members never left us alone that week. They cooked for us. Ate in silence. Laughed louder than usual, trying to drown out what neither of us said. Since we were back in Korea, we were back in our apartments. Us top floor, and YN the one beneath us. I moved in with her, and so did Yoongi and Hobi. The other members lived in the floor above, but spent all the time in our flat anyways. Their love and support was constant, never failing.

Yoongi sat with me late one night, glass of whisky in hand.

"You did good," he muttered. "It's rare... for people like us to find something real. You held onto it."

"Even if it costs us fans?" I asked.

"Fans come for the music. They stay for the soul. You gave them yours. This is just... part of your story now."

Eventually, something shifted.

The angry voices didn't disappear, but they stopped being the loudest.

Letters started flooding the company — hand-written ones in purple envelopes.

Drawings of me holding her hand on stage.

Poems.

Fans saying they felt inspired to stop hiding their own love stories.

That seeing me free... made them feel freer, too.

The bitterness didn't win.

Love did.

And Y/N?

She didn't flinch. Not for long.

She hurt — yes.

She cried in the shower once, thinking I couldn't hear.

But she also held my face the next morning, kissed my brow, and whispered,

"I'd choose you again. Even with the hate. Even if the world turned cold. I'd still walk out on that stage."

And I believed her.

Because her love doesn't shake.

It anchors.

So here we are.

No longer hiding.

No longer hoping the world will love us the way we love each other.

I don't need them to love her.

I just need them to know I do.

And that will never change.

POV YN :

The first night, I couldn't cry.

The second night, I couldn't stop.

It's strange — how something so beautiful can break you open in so many directions.

Like the warmth and the ache live in the same breath.

Like I can be the most loved and the most hated woman in the world, all at once.

And I wasn't prepared for that.

When Namjoon slipped that ring on my finger under the stage lights, I remember thinking, This is the safest I've ever felt.

Now... I don't know what "safe" means anymore.

Because being his means being seen.

And being seen by millions is not romantic. It's not soft.

It's a kind of violence — even when it's wrapped in admiration.

The comments weren't just cruel.

They were surgical. Precise.

Like people had been waiting —

just waiting — to rip me open.

My face. My job. My age. My skin.

My worth.

There were moments I sat in the bathroom with the lights off, scrolling until my eyes blurred, asking myself

"Am I strong enough for this?"

Am I strong enough to keep loving him out loud?

To know that I make him happy — but that my existence hurts people?

To watch strangers turn me into a villain in a story I didn't write?

There were nights I wanted to scream — not from fear, but from fury. Why should love demand this kind of punishment?

But even when I shake, I don't run.

Because when he looks at me — really looks — I see everything.

The fight. The faith. The love.

I see the man who holds my hand like it's the most sacred thing in the world.

The man who tells me I don't have to earn my place beside him — I already have it.

The man who would burn the whole industry down if it meant keeping me safe.

And the thing is... I'm scared.

I am.

But I'm also proud.

Proud that I still walk with my head high when they want me to shrink.

Proud that I didn't let fear steal this moment from us.

Proud that when he asked me if I'd be willing to face the world with him,

I said yes.

Not to the ring.

To the battle.

To us.

This love — it's not always tender.

But it's true.

And that makes it worth surviving for.

Even on the nights I don't sleep.

Even on the days I can't breathe.

Even when I cry and cry and cry —

And still whisper,

I'd choose him again.

A month passed.

One whole month since the ring, the headlines, the hate.

And somehow... we were still standing.

It didn't all go quiet overnight. The noise faded like a storm moving offshore — distant thunder still rumbling now and then, but no longer cracking over our heads. Some nights we still heard it in the distance. A comment. A headline. A whisper.

But we were learning how to sleep through it.

And strangely, the weight of that month — that brutal, burning month — began to feel less like a wound, and more like a badge. Not because it didn't hurt. It did. But because we'd survived it.

Namjoon said it once while holding me in our couch, voice still rough from sleep:

"One hard month for a lifetime of peace... I'd pay it again."

And he was right. When I looked back, it all seemed smaller. Not insignificant — just... outweighed. The warmth in his eyes each morning made it hard to remember the worst days. The hate felt like a ghost now, trying to haunt a house full of light.

And just when things began settling, the rumors started spinning again.

"Bang PD wants her to act."

"Modeling deal with luxury brand rumored."

"She's aiming for a celebrity life now."

None of them knew that Bang PD-nim had seen potential in me from the beginning. That it had nothing to do with Namjoon. That plans had already been quietly discussed before we were public. That I'd said no more than once, not because I lacked ambition — but because I wanted to deserve it first.

Still, some fans took it as proof of every fear they'd projected onto me.

And yet... we didn't bend.

Namjoon just raised an eyebrow and said,

"Let them talk. You'll write your own story."

So, slowly, normalcy found us again.

The kind you notice only in small things.

Morning coffee without checking trending hashtags. Grocery shopping without a bodyguard. Laughing together on the couch until tears rolled down our cheeks. Life, in all its fragile, ordinary sweetness.

And today, I was ready to do something I had been putting off for far too long.

I texted Songhee.

My best friend. My sister in everything but blood. The woman who had given birth five months ago to little Minji, and who I hadn't seen since the chaos began.

We had spoken, of course. Late night calls. Tearful voice notes. But I hadn't held her. Hadn't seen her eyes soften in person. Hadn't met her baby — the one we had dreamed of cradling on café afternoons, talking about love and futures and growing old together.

I wore something simple. Loose jeans, soft knit, and the ring that still made my heart stop when I looked at it. I tied my hair back loosely and tucked my nerves under my smile.

Songhee opened the door with a breathless gasp and no words.

Just arms around me.

Tight. Shaking. Familiar.

She didn't ask how I was.

She just held me like I'd never left.

And when we finally stepped inside, she whispered, "Minji's awake."

I didn't know what I expected. A baby, of course. Chubby cheeks, soft babbling.

But the second I saw her — dark curls like her mother's, huge round eyes blinking at the world with that new-soul wonder — I melted.

No cameras. No headlines. No shadows from the past month.

Just this tiny, perfect thing reaching for my finger like she already knew me.

And when I held her... I felt the universe shift.

"God," I breathed, eyes misting. "She's magic."

Songhee smiled. "So are you."

We spent hours catching up. Whispering like teenagers under blankets, Minji sleeping on my chest, Songhee laughing at the way I couldn't stop staring at the ring.

"She's beautiful," she said, meaning the diamond."He's everything," I replied, meaning Namjoon.

Later, we decided to go out. Just for a walk.

The sun was gentle, the sky high and blue. Songhee had packed Minji in the stroller, wrapped in soft pastel layers. We wore masks and sunglasses, hoping to blend in, to feel normal. Just two girls, one baby, a world of stories behind us, and one beautiful afternoon ahead.

And for a little while, it felt like everything would be okay.

Like love had truly won.

Like the past month had been a test... and we had passed.

But if only we had known—

That the hardest day hadn't happened yet.That someone, somewhere, was watching.Waiting.

And walking closer with every breath.