Seven years, and Kim Namjoon still ordered coffee like a man trying to solve a philosophical problem.
“You’ll want the washed Ethiopian,” Sora said, not looking up from the menu she already knew by heart. “The tasting notes on theGesha are a lie.”
“Sora-ssi.” Namjoon’s voice, a low and familiar rumble that settled somewhere deep in her sternum. He slid into the booth opposite her, bringing with him the scent of rain-damp wool and expensive cologne. “You haven’t changed at all.”
“I’m older and I have a mortgage. We’ve all changed.” Her thumb worried the edge of the paper napkin, tearing a tiny, serrated fringe along its fold. It was a disgusting habit, one she’d never managed to break.
“And you still hate oat milk,” he observed, nodding at the untouched latte the waitress had brought her ten minutes ago. It sat beside his own preferred abomination. People who claimed to love the taste of oat milk were liars, plain and simple. It was the affectation of people who wanted to be perceived as thoughtful.
“It tastes like wet cardboard,” she said flatly.
Behind Namjoon, Park Jimin slipped into the booth, silent as a cat. He didn’t greet her, not at first. Jimin just watched her, his expression a complicated knot of relief and something harder to name. His hair was the colour of champagne, and the sharp line of his jaw could have cut glass. He was no longer the boy who’d cried in her studio after twisting his ankle. This man was a prince forged in the crucible of global adoration.
“You came,” Jimin said. His voice was softer than Namjoon’s, but it carried more weight.
“You sent a plane ticket,” Sora countered, finally looking up to meet his gaze. “It felt impolite to refuse.”
A fragile smile touched Jimin’s lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. The air in the private room of the quiet Gangnam cafe was thick with unspoken things. Seven years of them.
“We need you,” Namjoon said, getting straight to it. He laced his long fingers together on the tabletop, a gesture she remembered. It was his ‘I am the reasonable leader’ pose. “It’s a… recalibration. A return to the source.”
Sora took a slow sip of her water. The napkin in her lap was starting to disintegrate. “I choreograph for a contemporary ballet company in Lyon, Namjoon. My ‘source’ is now a forty-year-old prima ballerina named Isabelle who smokes between pliés. What are you talking about?”
“A project,” Namjoon said, leaning forward. “Outside the company. Something just for us. The original seven. The original team.” He looked from her to Jimin. “We have the capital. We have the time. We have the story. We’re missing the heart.”
Her. He meant her. The ghost who’d designed their first stages, their first concepts, the one who’d pushed them until they bled and then pushed them further. The one who’d walked away right before the big bang.
A cold thrill went through her, quickly followed by a colder dose of realism. “The company would never allow it. And where’s Jungkook? If this is an ‘original seven’ meeting, we’re one short.”
The shift in the room was immediate. Namjoon’s carefully constructed composure faltered. Jimin’s gaze dropped to the table, his jaw tightening.
“He’s… resistant,” Namjoon chose his words with care.
“He’s a nightmare,” Jimin muttered, his voice laced with a fury so potent Sora could almost taste it.
“Jimin-ah.” Namjoon’s warning was soft.
Before Sora could press them, the door to the room slid open.
Jeon Jungkook stood there.
The years had been both kind and cruel to him. He was taller, broader. The softness of his youth had been planed away, leaving behind a stark, breathtaking beauty. But his eyes… the wide, curious eyes she remembered were gone. In their place was something guarded and cold. He was wearing a simple black hoodie, the drawstrings dangling, but he wore it like armour. He didn’t look at her. His focus was entirely on Namjoon.
“Don’t,” Jungkook said. Just that one word.
The silence that followed was a physical weight. Sora felt it pressing on her chest, making it hard to breathe. This wasn’t a reunion. It was a standoff. She could see the battle lines drawn, the invisible trenches dug deep over years of shared history she was no longer privy to.
She had to do something. She couldn’t just sit here, a spectator at the demolition of her own past.
“Jungkook-ah,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. She put her hand flat on the table, an offering. A bridge. “It’s been a long time.”
His eyes finally flicked to her. For a heartbeat, she saw a flicker of the boy she knew. A ghost of a ghost. Then it was gone, shuttered away. He stepped forward, reached into the pocket of his hoodie, and took something out.
He placed it on the table. A single, glossy photograph, face down.
“It’s done,” he said, his voice devoid of all emotion.
Namjoon’s hand shot out, flipping the photo over.
Sora’s breath caught. It was Jungkook. He was in a bar, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, a faint smile on his lips. Sitting next to him, his arm slung casually over the back of their booth, was Bang Si-Hyuk’s biggest rival. The producer who had spent the last five years trying to poach talent and dismantle everything they’d built, piece by piece.
Jungkook didn’t wait for the fallout. He turned and walked out, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft, final thud.
The three of them sat there. The cheerful chatter from the main cafe outside might as well have been from another planet. Namjoon stared at the photograph, his face a mask of disbelief turning slowly to stone. Jimin had his eyes closed, as if he could will the image away.
Sora reached for her glass of water. The glass was cold against her fingers, the condensation slick. In the dark window beside their booth, she could see their reflection: three figures huddled around a tiny square of betrayal. The reflection staring back wasn’t the woman who had walked in here an hour ago, buzzing with a fragile, reckless hope. That woman was gone. In her place was someone who finally understood the real reason she had been summoned back from exile.