The days slipped by in much the same pattern—Yoongi and Y/N living under the same roof but worlds apart. They had grown accustomed to the quiet hostility, the strained silences, and the emotional distance that marked their every interaction. But despite their best efforts to maintain the status quo, small moments began to slip through, moments that neither of them could ignore.

It was a rainy evening when the next crack in their armor appeared. Yoongi had come home earlier than usual, the relentless downpour having cut short his workday. He was drenched, his clothes clinging to him as he stepped inside, shaking off the rain. Y/N, who was in the living room reading, glanced up as he entered, and for a split second, she saw the vulnerability in his eyes, the fatigue that weighed on his shoulders.

Without thinking, she stood up and grabbed a towel from the bathroom, handing it to him without a word. Yoongi took it, their fingers brushing again, this time with a little more intent behind the contact. There was no anger, no resentment in that moment—just two people sharing a quiet, unspoken understanding.

"Thanks," Yoongi murmured, his voice softer than it had been in weeks.

Y/N nodded, her gaze lingering on him for a moment before she turned away, retreating back to the safety of her book. But something had shifted in the air, a subtle change that neither of them could deny. It was as if the rain outside had washed away a little of the bitterness between them, leaving room for something else to take root.

Later that evening, Y/N found herself in the kitchen again, this time cooking a more elaborate meal than usual. She wasn't sure why—maybe it was the weather, maybe it was the look in Yoongi's eyes earlier—but she felt the need to do something different, something that broke the monotonous routine they had fallen into.

Yoongi, still drying his hair with the towel, wandered into the kitchen, drawn by the smell of the food. He stood in the doorway, watching as Y/N moved around with surprising ease, her focus entirely on the task at hand. He hadn't realized until now just how much he had been ignoring her, avoiding her presence as if it were the source of all his frustrations. But in that moment, seeing her in her element, he felt a pang of guilt.

"Need any help?" he asked, surprising even himself with the offer.

Y/N looked up, startled. She was used to Yoongi keeping his distance, so this unexpected gesture caught her off guard. "Uh, sure," she replied, hesitating for a moment before handing him a knife. "You can chop the vegetables."

They worked side by side in relative silence, but this time, it wasn't uncomfortable. The sound of the rain outside, combined with the rhythm of their movements in the kitchen, created a sense of calm that was rare between them. It was as if the simple act of cooking together had given them a temporary truce, a momentary reprieve from the coldness that usually defined their interactions.

As they sat down to eat, the atmosphere was different. There was no forced politeness, no underlying hostility—just two people sharing a meal, finding solace in the simplicity of the moment. They didn't talk much, but the few words they exchanged felt more genuine, more honest than they had in weeks.

After dinner, as they cleaned up together, Yoongi found himself glancing at Y/N more often, noticing the little details he had overlooked before—the way her hair fell over her shoulder when she was focused, the slight crease in her brow when she was deep in thought. For the first time since their marriage, he wondered what she was really like beneath the walls they had both built.

Y/N, too, was noticing things about Yoongi that she hadn't before. The way he meticulously dried each dish, the quiet determination in his movements, the way his eyes softened just a bit when he wasn't guarded. She had spent so long resenting him for what their marriage had taken from her that she hadn't allowed herself to see who he really was.

That night, as they once again settled into their separate sleeping spaces, the silence between them felt different—less like a wall and more like a bridge, tentative and fragile, but a bridge nonetheless. They both knew there was still a long way to go, and neither was ready to fully open up just yet. But the cracks were there, and with each passing day, they grew a little wider.

For now, they were content to leave it at that—a small step forward in a journey that neither of them had asked for but were beginning to realize might not be as impossible as they once thought.