Oneshots || BTS X Reader

The Language of Silence || KTH

I sit on my bed, my gaze drifting out of the window where the children are playing. Their laughter fills the air, a symphony of joy that stirs a deep longing within me. I love children dearly, though I don't have any of my own. Watching them, my thoughts inevitably turn to my husband, Kim Taehyung.

Our marriage, three years ago, was born out of necessity rather than love-a strategic alliance between Shin Cooperation, the company I now own, and Kims Cooperation, led by Taehyung. My father's sudden death in a car accident had thrust me into the CEO position, a role for which I was woefully unprepared. The company went down under my inexperienced leadership and came on the brink of collapse. It was then that Taehyung's father extended a lifeline, and our marriage became the seal of that alliance. Taehyung stood by me, guiding me through the treacherous waters of corporate leadership, teaching me, supporting me.

For two years, we were consumed by our work. We lived as friends, our interactions polite and professional. But a few months ago, something changed. I began to see Taehyung in a new light. His quiet strength, his unwavering support, and his gentle nature drew me in. With the company now stable, we found ourselves spending more time together. Though he didn't speak much, his silence spoke volumes. I could feel his care for me in his every gesture, in the way his eyes softened when they met mine. His reserved demeanor, far from being cold, seemed to hold a depth of emotion that made my heart ache with longing.

Yet recently, something has shifted. For weeks now, he has been distant, his attention elsewhere. He doesn't talk, his once comforting silence now a chasm that I cannot bridge. I see the stress etched on his face, the frustration in his eyes, and it frustrates me that I can do nothing to help him. Sometimes, I want to shake him, to demand that he share his burdens with me. But then doubt creeps in. Who am I to him, really? Does he see me as his wife, or merely a friend? Am I just someone he feels obliged to care for, a responsibility rather than a partner?

As these thoughts swirl in my mind, the doorbell rings, pulling me from my reverie. My heart leaps with a mix of hope and apprehension. I rush to the door, eager to see him, desperate for a sign that we are more than just two people bound by circumstance.

Opening the door, I saw him standing there, the weight of the world etched into his features-exhausted, stressed, and frustrated. My heart ached to hold him, to offer some comfort, but my mind hesitated, trapping me in the same endless dilemma. I stepped aside to let him in, and he entered with a weary sigh, loosening his tie and setting his bag on the couch. He then slumped beside it, his exhaustion palpable.

I made my way to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, my thoughts a tangled mess of concern and helplessness. When I returned to the living room, seeing him in that state made my heart clench even tighter. I handed him the water, and he drank it quickly, almost mechanically.

"You should freshen up. I'll set the table for dinner," I said softly.

For a brief moment, his eyes met mine, and I saw a flicker of the old Taehyung-the one who cared deeply. But the concern was quickly swallowed by frustration, and he turned away, heading upstairs without a word.

I sighed heavily and moved to the dining table, setting it for dinner. The room felt colder, emptier. After a few minutes, he came back down, his steps slow and heavy. He sat at the table without so much as glancing at me, as if I were a stranger. The tears I had been holding back began to blur my vision. Seeing him like this, so distant and closed off, tore at my heart. I gulped down a glass of water, trying to keep from breaking down in front of him, though I wasn't sure he would even notice if I did.

"How's the food?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"It's good," he replied curtly.
"Is everything okay at work?" I ventured, hoping to reach him.
"Yes," he replied, his tone clipped.
"Then what's troubling you?" I asked, my voice trembling with the weight of unspoken fears and frustrations.