Days blurred into weeks like a fever dream—the relentless rhythm masking the seismic shifts beneath its glittering surface. For Mimi, the world had cracked open into something raw and radiant: stolen afternoons at Yoongi’s minimalist penthouse, where the air smelled of fresh linen and his cologne (sandalwood and smoke), her body arching under his tender hands as he mapped every curve with lips and fingers. Their fucks were a symphony—slow mornings with her riding his face until she sobbed his name, evenings bent over his kitchen island, his thick cock stretching her from behind while he whispered you’re mine, beautiful against her spine. No one knew: not Joon, buried in his oblivious rage; not Tae, too wrapped in his own conquests. And Yoongi? He’d cut off every other girl cold—club pickups ghosted, numbers deleted—because Mimi deserved more. Loyalty. Love. The kind he’d always harbored silent, now blooming fierce. She glowed from it—dances sharper, smiles brighter—her heart mending in his arms, Joon’s betrayal fading to a scar.