Yoongi's studio door is ajar, a soft light spilling into the hallway. I hesitate outside, my heart quickening at the sight. The others are already in bed, the dorm quiet except for the distant hum of the air conditioner.

I catch a glimpse of movement inside and my breath catches. Yoongi is standing in front of the full-length mirror he hung last week, his back to the door. In his hands is a black skirt—short, simple, with delicate pleats that catch the light.

My pulse races as I watch him hesitate, his fingers tracing the fabric. This is the moment I've been waiting for, the proof that my suspicions were right. All those times I noticed him staring at clothing websites, the hidden tabs on his browser, the way he'd linger near the women's accessories in department stores.

He glances toward the door and I step back instinctively, but it's too late. The door eases open further, revealing Yoongi's wide eyes, the skirt still clutched in his hands.

"Taehyung," he says, his voice tight with surprise. He moves to hide the skirt behind his back, his cheeks flushing pink.

I stand frozen in the hallway, the words I've rehearsed a hundred times suddenly vanishing from my mind. This is my chance—to show him he doesn't have to hide, to finally tell him how I really feel.

The air between us crackles with tension, every unspoken thought and feeling hanging palpably in the space between us.