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“How would you feel about the title of ‘wife’?”
Yoongi glanced over at you from his spot on the grass. Stars glimmered in the night sky above you, and they lit up his skin - Milky Way white.
You pondered his question for a few seconds - why was he asking? Letting out a laugh, you met his gaze.
“Why?”
He shrugged, looking as indifferent as ever. Only Min Yoongi could look careless when asking about a very serious step in a relationship.
“Just asking.”
“That sounds unlikely.”
“Can’t a man ask his girlfriend a question? They’re right -- women
are
nosy.”
You scoffed and turned away from him with a smile. “Wow, I can’t believe I’m dating a misogynist.”
“You should have figured this out after I called pussy hats stupid. Back to the question, how do you feel about the title ‘wife’?”
“This is a better question for Namjoon. He does seem to like his titles.” You were stalling, and it was obvious, but you didn’t mind. You needed time to think and didn’t want silence, and engaging in witty conversation and joking around about an embarrassing part of his group member’s past was a good way to fill in space.
“He would murder you if he heard you saying that. Anyway, you’re being annoying; answer my damn question.”
Erupting from you was another laugh - a loud one - and you know Yoongi was still watching you, smiling.
“Well, ‘wife’ is a nice word. Feels possessive, but like, in a nice way. Makes me feel nice. But marriage is capitalist propaganda.”
“Sure it is,” and you feel the grass next to you shifting, signaling that he’s shaking his head. “But it’s a nice kind of propaganda. A pretty ceremony. It’s money-wasting, but we do get tax benefits from it.”
“You’re right.”
Yoongi reaches around you and taps your shoulder. You lean up so he can wrap his arm around you and pull you closer. He was warm - strange, because
you
were the space heater in the relationship.
“Toasty?”
“I’m wearing a sweater.”
Right. That made sense. You turned your head and listened to his heartbeat - faster than Kook’s running speed.
“Nervous?”
“A little,” he replied.
“Spill.”
He shook his head. “Mm, do you deserve it?”
“I-- what?”
“Beg for it. Slut.”
You nearly choked on your air supply. He was being ridiculous. Not only was he nervous, he was
very
nervous, to the point where he couldn’t think straight.
“Okay, no. Now spill; you know I won’t judge you.”
Yoongi was silent. He squeezed your shoulder and you looked up at him, and he didn’t look back at you. Pursed lips, distracted gaze, and he swallowed. You reached up and poked his cheek, brushed your finger across his lip, and he finally looked down at you.
“...oh my God.”
You squinted at him. “
What
?”
And he started laughing out of nowhere, chest rising and falling, shoulders going up and down, and you were concerned, and honestly a little scared.
“You’re so– oh my God, I might just ask you right now. Holy fuck.”
And it hit you.
You were so oblivious, huh? So this was why he was asking about cake flavors, and colors, and your tastes in jewelry and poetry.
“I was gonna go all out with this, but–”
“Sure.”
He looked back at you, surprised. “Did you even know what I was gonna ask?”
“To marry you, right?”
Yoongi watched, speechless, and you were worried you said something wrong. But he shook his head, and then you
knew
you said something wrong.
“No, I was gonna ask if you wanted to go to Belize with me over our break.”
Oh. Oh, okay, well — your face turned red and you felt like crying out of embarrassment. You tucked your face into his chest - ‘Soft,’ you noted - and nodded.
“M’kay.”
“I– You dumbass, of course I was proposing,” and he tucked a hand into your hair and kissed the crown of your head softly. You sighed in relief. He spoke again.
“So it’s a yes?”
“Yep.”
“Great. I’ll change your contact name to
Wife
now.”
“
Fiancée
, actually.”
“I’ll get ahead of myself if I want to.”
“Hey, in a marriage, the woman’s always right.”
Yoongi smiled. Sexism in marriage sounded palatable to him if you were involved.