The days following their first night together were tense and distant. Yoongi and Y/N had established an unspoken agreement: they would coexist, but nothing more. Their schedules barely overlapped, and when they did, their interactions were minimal, often limited to terse nods or short, emotionless exchanges.

At work, Yoongi was the model of efficiency. He led his team through complex coding challenges, meeting deadlines with precision. His colleagues admired his calm demeanor and focused work ethic, but they had no idea that the reason for his late nights at the office wasn't just dedication—it was avoidance. The thought of returning to the strained atmosphere of his home was enough to keep him buried in lines of code until exhaustion forced him to leave.

Y/N, meanwhile, threw herself into her studies at medical college. The rigorous demands of her coursework were both a distraction and a refuge. She immersed herself in anatomy textbooks, clinical rotations, and late-night study sessions with classmates. To them, she appeared driven, focused, but no one noticed the sadness that lingered behind her eyes—the sadness of someone who had given up a piece of her heart for a future she had never wanted.

One evening, they both found themselves home earlier than usual. The silence in the house was deafening, each of them aware of the other's presence yet unwilling to acknowledge it. Y/N was in the kitchen, preparing a simple meal, while Yoongi sat in the living room, pretending to be engrossed in a book.

The tension grew as the minutes passed, neither of them knowing what to say or how to bridge the gap between them. Finally, Y/N broke the silence.

"There's food if you want some," she said, her voice neutral, not looking up from the stove.

Yoongi glanced up from his book, surprised by the offer. It was the first time she had made an effort to engage with him since their wedding, but her tone made it clear that this was more about basic civility than any genuine desire to connect.

"Thanks," he replied, equally neutral. He got up and walked to the kitchen, the air between them heavy with unresolved tension.

They ate in silence, the clinking of utensils against plates the only sound in the room. Yoongi tried to find something to say, but every topic that came to mind seemed pointless. Y/N, on the other hand, kept her gaze down, focusing on her food as if it were the most important thing in the world.

After dinner, Y/N began to wash the dishes, and Yoongi, feeling a strange sense of obligation, joined her. They worked side by side, neither speaking, each lost in their thoughts. The proximity was uncomfortable, the silence awkward, but it was better than another argument.

As Y/N handed Yoongi the last dish to dry, their hands brushed briefly. The contact was fleeting, but it was enough to send a jolt through both of them—a reminder that, despite everything, they were still human, still capable of feeling something, even if that something was buried under layers of resentment and hurt.

Y/N pulled her hand away quickly, pretending not to notice, and Yoongi did the same. The moment passed, and they went back to their routine, each retreating to their own corner of the house as if the brief touch had never happened.

That night, as they lay in their separate spaces—Y/N in the bed, Yoongi on the couch—their minds replayed the small, seemingly insignificant moment in the kitchen. It was nothing, they both told themselves. Just a moment of accidental contact. But deep down, it felt like the first crack in the wall they had both worked so hard to build.

Neither of them was ready to confront what that meant, so they pushed it aside, burying the thought with all the others they didn't want to face. But as they drifted off to sleep, the silence between them felt just a little less heavy, a small sign that maybe, just maybe, the wall between them wouldn't last forever.