Set Me Free (But Don't Let Go)

by HappyHotteok

Summary:

Min Yoongi has rules for survival as a trainee: don't get attached, don't get distracted, and definitely don't fall for a group member. But when Park Jimin arrives with his terrible beanie and perfect dancing, all of Yoongi's carefully constructed walls start to crack.

A story of forbidden love spanning over a decade

***

"Jimin-ah," he breathes, and there's so much wrapped up in those syllables—want and fear. The tremor in his hands grows stronger.

I pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes are conflicted—want warring with that iron control he's so famous for.

"Hyung," I say softly, bringing one hand to cup his face. My thumb traces his cheekbone. "Stop thinking so hard."

"Someone has to," he mutters, but he leans into my touch like he's starving for it. "Coming here. Doing this. It changes everything."

Notes:

Hello! This is my first attempt at fanfic. This is a WIP, but I'm publishing as I write to keep myself motivated. This is a re-imagining of the last 13 years in cherry-picked lore.

PS: I do write! I’ve just never tried fic :)

Chapter 1: The New Kid

The new kid kicks off his shoes and they hit the floor with a sound like distant thunder. Behind those thick plastic frames, his small eyes dart about, taking inventory of the dorm—the three looming bunk beds, half-empty ramyeon cups perched on every surface, the water bottle in someone's dance bag leaking onto the vinyl tiles. New territory. Rules written in spilled soup and dirty socks. No fucking map in sight.

And then there's the issue of that fucking beanie.

The pom-pom bounces with his hesitant steps like a demented metronome, marking time between what was and what will be. No question who picked it out—mothers have a way of armoring their sons against the wrong battles. I've already heard that this new one's from Busan, where winter means rain more than snow.

His eomma probably went to some department store, fingering wool blends and thinking of her sweet boy heading to the frozen north. She couldn't know that the cold here isn't about weather—it's in the practice room mirrors, in the silence after the monthly evaluations, in the space between making it and going back home.

The kid turns, freezing when he spots me in my boxers. His body goes taut like a water deer caught in headlights as something electric crackles between us. My skin prickles with awareness, and I fight the urge to cover myself. The shitty overhead light catches his jawline just right. Sharp. Clean. Almost makes up for that ridiculous hat.

Almost.

His lips part slightly, and I force myself to look away before I do something stupid like trace their shape with my eyes.

"Hope you didn't bring too much stuff, bro." My voice comes out rough behind the towel as I bend over to dry my shower-damp hair, grateful for the excuse to hide my face. "Look around. There's no room anywhere."

And there isn't. We've had throwdowns over closet space that would make street gangs wince. Hobi's anime figures colonize the shelves like tiny plastic armies. Seokjin Hyung's fancy French pots crowd the kitchenette. Namjoon's Kakao plushies multiply in corners like horny rabbits. The space is suffocating enough without adding whatever this feeling is that's making my chest tight.

"Oh, h-hi!" He stammers. "Um, don't worry, I didn't bring much—just clothes and a few pairs of shoes. My name is Park Jimin."

His voice is softer than I expected, in a way that makes my stomach flutter. I squash the sensation immediately. "K. I'll try to remember, but no promises. It's a revolving door here." I don't offer my name back. Being an asshole is muscle memory at this point. There have been so many others standing in his spot over the last two years. Friends who are gone and never coming back.

Like Seojun. The memory hits like a sucker punch—him sprawled on our floor last winter, baseball cap twisted backward, spitting cyphers while I nodded along, both of us drunk on dreams and soju. "Look at this," he'd said, shoving his phone at me, showing some email from a small underground label. "Real hip-hop. Real stories. No fucking sparkly eye shadow or hair bleach required."

I remember how the screen's glow caught his face, how my stomach twisted seeing the way his eyes lit up. How I wanted to reach out and—but I didn't. Never did.

That was before the monthly evaluation where he went off-script, dropping his own lyrics instead of the company-approved ones. Before the screaming match with the dance instructor about "idol packaging." Before I found his bunk stripped bare, his notebooks—the ones filled with lyrics we'd worked on together—left behind like shed skin.

The last text I got from him was short: Following my own path. Don't let them change you too much.

I heard through mutual friends he's working at his dad's construction company now, releasing mixtapes on the side. Sometimes I pull up his SoundCloud late at night, let his raw verses wash over me. His new profile pic shows him with his natural black hair, bare face. Looking like himself.

I'm still working on the song about it, the one I can't seem to finish. The words come at night, when I should be sleeping:

Remember our playground promises
On that rusty seesaw
You rose as I was falling
Now we're pulled to different things

The verses pile up like bodies in my Notes app, but I can't make them move right. Can't get the words to say what I need. Can't make them hurt less. Sometimes I wonder if he was right—about all of it being fake, about us losing ourselves in the process. But I can't afford those thoughts. Not when I'm so close.

But when this one steps closer, something shifts in my chest—a tectonic plate I didn't know existed. New Kid—Jimin—all soft earnest edges and terrible fashion choices, has cheeks as round as fresh mochi. Someone needs to warn him about that open face. You can read every emotion that crosses it like a book, and in this industry? That's blood in shark-infested waters. It's also dangerous in other ways—ways that make me want to reach out and touch his lower lip, see if it's as velvet as it looks.

I grab my ripped black jeans and yank them on, movements harsh enough to hurt. So what if something about this Park Jimin tugs at my last remaining heart string. I can't afford to get curious about yet another dreamer who won't last. Can't afford to wonder. The idol machine is relentless, chewing them up and spitting them back to their hometowns, dreams like old gum.

That won't be me.

Can't be me.

It's debut or die trying, and feelings—especially these kinds of feelings—are just another way to fail.

"That spot is yours for now." I jerk my chin toward the bottom bunk by the window, trying not to think about how he'll be sleeping within eyeshot of me every night.

When I pull my gray sweater over my head, my earring catches. Instead of looking cool and detached, I end up thrashing like a turtle in plastic. The universe really knows how to kick a guy when he's trying to maintain his walls.

Jimin laughs then—an addictive sound that's sudden and sunbeam bright. It hits me right in the gut, warm and dangerous.

I rip the silver hoop free and cover my exposed stomach, but the damage is done. I look like a loser, and worse, the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs makes me want him to do it again.

"Next time that happens you can ask me for help," he says with a hint of a tease. The offer sends an unwanted shiver down my spine—his hands in my hair, untangling the earring, face close enough to—

"I never need help," I snap, turning to leave. But not before I catch him rolling his eyes and mouthing "o-kay then." The sight sends an unwanted spark of heat through my chest. He's got some sass in there.

And he's not afraid of me.

He should be.

"Well, Jimin-ssi. Welcome to Hell," I grab my leather jacket, needing to get out before I do something stupid like smile back at him. "Hope you have a pair of earplugs in that pack, because you're sleeping underneath Namjoon, and our leader? He snores like a freight train hitting a wall."

I walk out without looking back. No point getting attached. He won't make it past the week.

###

I'm officially fucked.

If the company is hell, one where we sell our souls for a shot at our dreams, the new kid—Jimin—is a demon cosplaying as an angel. The dance studio is his lair, and he stays there practicing until the early hours of the morning. Even past Hoseok. Each time I catch him dancing, it's like watching honey pour—his body melts from one position to the next, all liquid grace and impossible flexibility. The way he can make his frame ripple should be illegal.

In the weeks that follow, Jimin haunts me, a ghost I can't exorcize. Somehow, my body has attuned itself to his sleep schedule–insane even by our standards. I jerk awake moments before I hear the familiar melody of the door code. It's a Pavlovian response, my senses heightened, anticipating his arrival. I clench my fists beneath the covers, my jagged bit down nails pressing into my palms in bright sparks of pain.

He creeps in and moves through the pre-dawn shadows with a feline grace that makes my mouth go dry. I don't want this new twisted ritual where I lay in the dark, listening to him turn on the water, and hum under his breath. His voice vibrates through the walls, smooth as butter. Each note feels like a fingertip tracing the vertebrae down my spine.

Fuck. He is naked behind that door, naked and soaped up in the thick steam. I try so hard not to imagine myself there too—his hands on my skin, his breath hot against my ear, the water making everything slick and heated between us. The images come unbidden, an unwanted kalidescope, but impossible to shake.

It's a dangerous game, but one I can't stop playing. What does he look like underneath all his ugly clothing? Jungkook and Taehyung said he has abs–that he's shredded. I can't believe it, not with his mochi baby face, but why would they lie? The thought of it keeps me up at night, imagining running my fingers over the ridges of his stomach, feeling the strength hidden beneath all that softness.

I feign sleep when he finally emerges, his bare feet padding softly on the tiles. I'm hyperaware of his every move, every whisper of fabric, every creak of the cheap particleboard frame as he settles into his bunk. Sometimes I swear I can smell his shampoo—something fresh and clean like lavender.

I hold my breath and count the seconds until he settles, until the only sound is the soft whistle of air through his pert nose and the muffled noise of the city that never sleeps beyond these walls. And of course, Namjoon–snoring as usual.

Only then do I let myself exhale, the breath leaving me in a gust, my heart a jackhammer in my chest, my muscles quivering with the effort of holding myself still.

I roll over and grip the pillow, pulling it over my face and pretending I can scream out my frustration.

Nevermind.

I'm just horny.

This is a side-effect of being twenty and having my dick locked in a box by a company where everything is monitored from the calories we swallow to who we touch–shouldn't be anyone, really. Definitely not a guy, especially not a fellow member. If the new kid–if Jimin–sticks around, I'm screwed.

But if he leaves it's worse.

I don't want to give a shit. I don't want to give a fuck. But he's already under my skin, a fever I can't sweat out, a real thing in this plastic world of manufactured dreams. But the people I care about tend to end up as collateral damage, casualties of the fucking war zone in my head. I gotta find a way to shake this off, and focus on the grind, until my mind's too numb to wander. It's not gonna be easy, not with him right there, so close I can practically taste him.

Because in this world, in this life I've chosen, there isn't room for weakness.

My phone buzzes. A new comment on the underground rap forum where I sometimes post my rougher stuff, the tracks that would never make it past the company censors. It's from an account I recognize—SeojunFlow. My heart stutters.

Lyrics still bite. Hope you're surviving the beauty regimen bro.

I stare at the words until they blur, thumb hovering over the reply button. But what would I even say? Sorry I'm still here, playing the game? Sorry I let you walk away without telling you how I felt? Sorry I'm starting to forget who I was before all this? Sorry that the seven of us who are left are good, really good–and we could make it? Sorry that I never want to choose between noodles and bus fare again? Sorry. . .sorry. . .sorry.

To be human, does that just mean learning to live with regret?

I close the app. Some ghosts need to stay buried. Some songs need to stay unfinished. Some feelings need to stay unspoken. But when I finally drift off, I dream of Seojun's laugh mixing with Jimin's, and I wake up with tears on my face and new lyrics in my head.

But I'll do what I gotta do.

Because in this world, in this life I've chosen, there isn't room for weakness. And falling for Park Jimin? That's the weakest shit of all.

Chapter 2: The Accident

Being broke sucks. It eats at you, gnawing away at your insides until you hollow out. The richer trainees get care packages or envelopes stuffed with cash from their families. Taehyung's parents may be farmers, but his grandma sent him a new jacket. And Hobi's mom busts her ass at a second job to ensure he eats well.

Me? I can't ask my folks for a single won. They're barely scraping by as it is, living paycheck to paycheck in that cramped apartment back in Daegu. My hyung is paying his own way through university, and my old man? He hasn't spoken a word to me since I won my audition and left for Seoul.

Dad had it all figured out - his youngest son, a civil servant. Stable job, stable life. But I had to go and fuck it all up, chasing some pipe dream of being a rapper.

In South Korea, I might as well be saying I want to sprout wings and fly to the moon. It's a one-in-a-million shot, and everyone knows it. But I can't give up. This fire inside won't let me quit, even if it means skipping meals and tightening my belt until my stomach's pressed against my spine.

But a guy's gotta eat at least once a day. And with the company manager's bullshit rules about how school and practice leave no time for anything else, I've found a way to make some cash on the side.

Lucky for me, the other members have my back, and no one's gonna snitch. Seokjin and Namjoon, they look out for me, always making sure there's enough budaejjige and jajangmyeon to go around. But I can't rely on their kindness forever.

So I've been running orders for this chicken joint on my motorbike, hustling for a few hours every weekend night. The pay's crappy, but at least I can afford some protein and grape juice to keep me going. Blend it up. Chug. Repeat.

Tonight, the rain's coming in sheets, some typhoon is churning out at sea and dumping its guts all over the city. The wind whips at my face as I rev the engine, the bike's headlight barely cutting through the gloom. My clothes are soaked through, clinging to my skin like a second layer of misery. But I don't have a choice.

I'm zipping up this narrow side street, the chicken order secured in my bag. The rain intensifies, the uneven road bricks slick beneath my tires. I'm focused on keeping my teeth from chattering when suddenly there's a blinding flash of headlights and the sickening crunch of metal on metal.

I don't even have time to brace myself before I'm launched off the bike. It happens fast. My shoulder slams into the car's hood with a force that knocks the wind right out of me. The world's spinning, a dizzying kaleidoscope of pain and confusion as I tumble onto the cold, wet asphalt.

One minute I'm just another broke-ass kid, cold and grumpy, trying to make a few won to keep the hunger at bay. The next, I'm flat on my back in the middle of a Gangnam alley, my shoulder screaming in agony, the taste of blood sharp on my tongue.

The pain's like nothing I've ever felt before, white-hot and all-consuming. It's like someone's taken a blowtorch to my flesh, searing through muscle and bone until I'm nothing but a raw, exposed nerve.

I try to move, to push myself up, but my body's not responding. It's like I'm trapped inside my own skin, a prisoner in a broken shell. The rain's still pouring, the icy drops mixing with the hot tears that are cutting tracks through the grime on my face.

I can hear voices now, distant and muffled like they're coming from underwater. A woman is crying out, "I didn't see him. It's so dark. I didn't see him!"

Someone else's calling for an ambulance, their words laced with panic. But all I can think about is the chicken, the stupid fucking chicken that's probably splattered all over the road along with my hopes and dreams.

I close my eyes, letting the pain wash over me in waves. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is how it all ends —not in a blaze of glory, but here, in a dirty Gangnam gutter, just another nobody who flew too close to the sun.

But even as the thought swims through my mind, I know I can't give up. Not like this. Not when I've come so far, fought so hard. So I grit my teeth and hang on, clinging to consciousness like a lifeline as the sirens wail in the distance.

###

Because the universe just loves to fuck with me, Jimin's the only one home when I finally drag my sorry ass from the hospital back to the dorm. He's sitting there on the couch, a toothbrush in his mouth, all wide-eyed and concerned, like some kind of goddamn guardian angel.

"Where have you been, hyung?" he asks, his voice doing that soft and earnest thing. "I was starting to worry."

And that just about does me in. I can't help it - I laugh, even though it feels like someone's stabbing me in the ribs with a rusty knife. Park Jimin, worried about me? What is this, some kind of sick joke?

He's looking at me like I'm his long-lost runaway puppy, like he actually gives a shit about what happens to me and probably believes in fairy tales and happy endings.

I try to shrug it off, but the movement sends a fresh wave of agony rippling through my battered body. "I didn't know you were my mom," I spit out.

But even as the words leave my mouth, I feel a twinge of guilt. It's not his fault I'm in this mess. It's not his fault I'm so fucked up, so broken that I can't even accept a simple act of kindness without lashing out.

I can see the hurt flickering in his eyes, the way his shoulders slump just a little. And I hate myself for putting that look there, for being the one to snuff out that little spark of light in his sweet gaze. But I can't take it back. And it won't matter. Once the company learns what's happened to me—I'm probably out on my ass, everything lost over fried chicken and a part timer wage.

My stomach clenches. Sweat beads my upper lip. The pain, the fear—I can't keep it in. I'm going to be sick. I limp to the bathroom, drop to my knees and vomit. It's not until I finish, flush, and drop my head into my hands that I feel the hand on my back.

How long has he been crouched there beside me? He is rubbing my lower back, and fuck, he is singing something, a song that a mother sings to their children to calm them down, a song my mother used to sing to me.

I'm so pathetic that it doesn't matter if I cry. And he doesn't leave. It could be ten minutes or ten hours, but he doesn't budge, doesn't take his hand off me, and doesn't stop singing. His voice is breathy and high, like he really is holy.

And despite my shoulder, despite my terror, and even despite my embarrassment—the part of my brain connected to music, the part I can't turn off, knows he is good. Really good. And with more control and training he is going to be better than good.

Jimin isn't going anywhere. He is going to be the group's secret weapon.

###

I don't get fired. PD barely fucking reprimands me. He just forks over a bag of herbal pain relievers at practice.

"If you ever need money, come to me," he grunts.

And that's it. Suddenly, we're a confirmed group, and debut isn't a question of if, but when.

Management orders Jimin to get a haircut and me to go with him - make sure it's "cool." Hilarious. Jimin's the least cool person alive, and I'm no style icon.

I push back. "Hobi should do it. He knows what looks good."

"Everyone else needs to practice. You rest that shoulder this week. It's you," they insist.

Can't argue with that.

We head to the manager's recommended hairdresser. Pain meds loosen my tongue, and I can't shut up. I babble about anime, the Portland Trailblazers, and random YouTube facts.

"Did you know platypuses are one of two egg-laying mammals? The other's an echidna. Both live in Australia. Ever heard of echidnas?"

Jimin shakes his head, but he doesn't seem annoyed like Namjoon when I fixate.

"They're like spiky hedgehogs. I want to touch one, feel what it's like. I wonder if—oh shit, we're here."

Jimin eyes the salon nervously. "What should I ask for?"

"Anything's better than that bowl cut," I laugh. "Looks like your mom did it in the kitchen."

"She did," he admits.

I crack up, shoving him through the door. "Just pick someone cool and copy their style."

Forty-five minutes later, he emerges. My stomach flips like I'm on a roller coaster, even though I'm on solid ground. A canyon might as well have opened at my feet.

"I did what you said, hyung," Jimin says, shyly smoothing his bangs. "I told them I wanted to look like a cute celebrity. I picked Justin Bieber. Don't you like it?"

This kid looked good with a helmet head. Now? He's almost dainty. I've always secretly known I'm attracted to both guys and girls, but I've never acted on the guy part. Barely acted on the girl part either. But Jimin? He's both and everything - a beautiful guy or a masculine girl. The combination messes me up. Panic creeps in. I need to get out before I do something stupid like tell him he looks fucking perfect.

I shove my hands in my pockets and back away. "Shit, sorry bro. I forgot I've got to meet a friend."

"Really?" Jimin's shy smile twists into confusion. "Right now? I thought we could walk over to the park. Talk some more?"

"Yeah, no, sorry again." It takes all my self-control not to run. I keep my pace steady until I turn the corner, then beeline for a doorway. In the shadows, I let my breathing turn ragged. My shoulder throbs. It always fucking hurts, but right now my heart hurts more. My group member is the most beautiful person I've ever seen, and I don't know how I'll survive him.

Later at dinner, Namjoon won't shut up about some girl and her converse shoes, and Jin jumps in with his own dating story. Then everyone turns to me, expecting something because I'm second oldest. I must have hook up stories from Daegu.

What am I supposed to say?

I've kissed exactly two girls—once in middle school on a dare, and once after an underground show when adrenaline made me feel invincible. That's it. Nothing like the porn Namjoon downloads that gives our studio computer digital herpes.

Sure, I've watched that stuff. We all have. And yeah, it's hot. But half the time I'm watching the man—the way he grunts when he pushes in, that look of strained concentration. I like them masculine, with stubble and defined muscle. But there's no script for saying this sort of thing out loud. So I stay silent.

I feel Jimin's gaze on me from across the table. He's stirring his ramen with unusual focus, chopsticks moving too slowly to be casual. When I glance up, he doesn't look away. Just watches me with this careful, measured expression I've never seen before.

I almost choke on my beer.

"Yoongi-hyung? You okay?" he asks, voice low enough that the others don't hear over their chatter.

There's something in the way he says it. Like he's asking more than one question.

I ignore him and pour another drink.

Tonight Jimin comes back late as usual. Everyone's passed out except me, keeping my pathetic watch. He goes through his routine while I fake sleep. Finally, when he's in bed and everything's quiet, I roll over to look down at him... like I always do.

Except tonight his eyes are open, locked on mine. I freeze. My pulse hammers so loud I'm afraid it'll wake the others.

"I'm not good enough, hyung," he whispers, barely audible.

"What?"

"I can dance. But my voice..." He swallows. "Manager-nim doesn't know what to do with me. I heard him talking to producers. They can't decide—should I sing? Should I rap? But I'm not good like Jungkook, and I can't rap like you and Hoseok-hyung and Namjoon-hyung."

Fuck. His eyes are wet. He believes every stupid word coming out of his mouth. This isn't fishing for compliments. How can he not see how incredible he is?

"I want you on my team," I blurt. "So does everyone else."

He wipes his nose.

"You don't have to be nice."

I nearly laugh. "I'm not. When have you ever seen me be nice?"

"You aren't as scary as you pretend to be. You're nice to me."

"I'm kind to you. Sometimes. When you're not being annoying. But I never lie to you, and I never lie about music. Your voice is good. It's different from Jin's or Taehyung's or Jungkook's. You're all talented, but yours is my taste."

His eyes widen. "Really?"

I've already said too much. He's too much my taste. And I'd sell my soul for just a sample.

I roll over and don't look back.

Chapter 3: The Piano

Notes:

This will be the last chapter from Yoongi's POV for a little bit

The months dissolve into a blur of practice and preparation, because that's what time does when you're speeding toward something terrifying while pretending to be brave about it. Nothing to do but accelerate faster, like an idiot. Then it's June–debut month. Then it's June 12th. The night before.

Tomorrow, we step into the spotlight and try not to spectacularly fuck up our one shot at leaving a mark and proving the haters wrong.

I find myself gravitating toward this ancient brown piano lurking in the basement of the company building. It reminds me of the one from my childhood, where my mom first taught me to play. I'm picking out a tune from Empire of the Sun when he appears.

"Thought I'd find you here."

The whisper brushes against my ear and sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. It's Jimin, because of course it is. I'd know his voice anywhere - in a packed subway, during the apocalypse, probably in death. Sometimes I think I've developed some kind of Jimin-specific radar, like my entire nervous system has been recalibrated to his frequency.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" I grumble, scooting over to make room because I'm physically incapable of not making space for him. My fingers find a new melody, one I'm making up on the spot because this is what happens when he's near - my brain short-circuits and my hands try to translate the disaster of my feelings into music.

"I'm too scared," he admits softly, and then he's pressed against my side, all warmth and impossible grace and the kind of vulnerability that makes me want to fight the entire world.

I snort, because what else can you do when the actual embodiment of perfection is having a crisis? "You? You've worked harder than anyone."

"Doesn't feel like enough. Never does." His shoulder brushes mine as he leans in to watch my hands.

"Stop it, you're enough," I mutter, staring at the keys until they blur into an ivory smear. I can't look at him - those eyes of his, perpetually starving for affection. For hugs, praise, all that emotional stuff I'm bad at. Growing up in my house was more "repress everything until you die" than "healthy expression of feelings."

He makes this soft sound at my words, something between a gasp and a whimper, and I feel him tremble slightly where our bodies touch. It's unfair that he can just do that - take the most awkward attempt at comfort and treat it like I've handed him the moon.

Then he does something that stops my heart entirely. His hand finds mine on the keys, fingers tentatively brushing over my knuckles. It's clumsy, unsure - so different from his usual fluid confidence. I freeze, my melody dying in mid-phrase, because my brain has completely forgotten how basic motor functions work.

"Yoongi," he whispers, and there's a question in it that makes my chest ache.

I should move. Should make some joke to break the tension. Should do literally anything except sit here like a statue while my pulse tries to hammer its way out of my body. But I don't. I let his fingers intertwine with mine, and something shifts in the air between us - like we've crossed some invisible line we can't uncross.

He pulls back slightly, probably interpreting my paralysis as rejection, but I manage to squeeze his hand before he can retreat completely. Just once, quick and awkward, but it's enough. I feel rather than see his smile, and resume playing with my free hand, letting the music cover the thundering of my blood.

How does he do that? Wear his heart like it's not the most terrifying thing in the world to be that open? And why does it feel like some kind of superpower, the way he can transmute the smallest crumb of kindness into pure gold? It's so stupid that someone worth a million of me can act like my grudging compliments are anything special.

It pisses me off, in the way that only things that matter too much can. I want to push him away for his own good, but every time I try, I end up pulling him closer instead, like some kind of emotional boomerang effect. My fingers stumble when I catch his scent - something clean and subtle that makes my brain blue-screen.

Then a gurgling rumble makes me massacre a perfectly innocent chord. I stop playing and turn to him, grateful for the distraction from whatever just happened between us. "Dude, was that your stomach?"

"Been skipping some meals," he admits with that sheepish smile that does things to my internal organs. "Gotta get my abs perfect."

"Your abs are literally better than Jungkook's," I say, immediately wanting to throw myself into the sun for how that came out. "You don't need to starve yourself."

"But I have to show them off in No More Dreams," he insists, and then he commits an act of emotional terrorism by laying his head on my shoulder. His hair tickles my neck, and I focus on not combusting. His hand is back over mine and it feels like we're both pretending not to notice. "My body needs to be perfect."

I want to tell him he's already flawless. Want to explain how the entire practice room collectively forgets how to breathe when he moves. Instead, I restart my melody and shift into something softer, hoping maybe the music can say all the things I'm too much of a chicken to put into words. But now there's something new in the notes - a shared secret, delicate as a heartbeat, wrapped in the quiet dark of the basement and the warmth of his hand over mine.

"You should eat, I don't like you hungry," I say, too quick, too honest. I clear my throat, try again. "I mean, whatever. If you want."

His smile could power the entire building. "Okay. I'll eat for you. If it would make you happy."

I don't know what to say. More silence.

"Hobi-hyung is going to kill us if we mess up tomorrow," he says finally, but he's still smiling that smile that makes me want to write entire albums.

Then his expression shifts to something more mischievous, and my fight-or-flight response kicks in. I know that look. It's the same one he gets before attempting something particularly ambitious in the choreography.

"So," he starts, in a tone that makes me want to hide under the piano, "do you have a girlfriend, hyung?"

I choke on absolutely nothing. "What?"

"You know, a situationship, someone you like?" He's trying for casual, but there's something tight in his voice. "You never talk about anyone."

"I work," I say flatly, hoping my face isn't as red as it feels. "That's it."

He makes a skeptical noise that somehow manages to be cute and deeply annoying at the same time. "That's bullshit."

"It's not-"

"You write love songs."

"I don't." I snort. "I write whatever the company wants-"

"No, not those," he cuts me off, and suddenly his voice is serious. "The ones you write at night. The ones you think no one hears when you're alone in the studio."

Fuck. Of course he knows about those. Of course he's been eavesdropping. I stare at the piano keys like they might save me from this conversation.

"Those aren't... they're not about anyone specific," I lie, painfully aware that he's watching me with those impossibly perceptive eyes of his.

"What's your type then?" He presses, leaning closer. I can feel the warmth radiating off him, and it's destroying my ability to think straight. "Tall? Short? Cute? Sexy?"

"I don't have a type," I mutter, but my traitorous eyes flick to his face for a split second - to his lips, if I'm being brutally honest - before darting away.

"Everyone has a type," he insists. His voice has gone soft and a little breathless, and it's doing things to my internal organs. "What's yours?"

Jesus Christ. I'm going to die right here on this piano bench.

"I bet," he continues, and now there's definitely a tremor in his voice, "you like someone who works hard. Someone who needs looking after sometimes."

"Jimin-ah," I manage, and it comes out hoarse.

"Someone who likes your music," he whispers, and he's so close now I can feel his breath on my cheek. "Someone who listens outside your studio door at 3 AM because they can't sleep without hearing you play."

My heart is trying to escape through my throat. "That's... that's kind of creepy actually."

He laughs, bright and startled, and the tension breaks just enough that I can breathe again. But when I look at him, his dark eyes are still intense, still asking questions I don't know how to answer.

"Go eat then wash up and sleep. Or you'll faint and Hoseok really will kill you tomorrow," I say weakly, because I'm a coward.

"Let him try," Jimin says, but he stands up anyway. Then he does something that stops my heart - leans down and, quick as a thought, presses his lips to my temple. "Thank you for the music, hyung. And for not having a girlfriend."

He's gone before I can react, leaving me sitting there like an idiot, one hand pressed to where I can still feel the ghost of his kiss. The other hand finds its way back to the keys, playing something new - something that sounds like anticipation and terror and hope all mixed together.

I sit there way too long, trying to translate the feeling into music, trying not to think about him listening outside my studio door in the middle of the night, until Namjoon texts asking where the hell I am. When I finally drag myself upstairs, I'm pretty sure I'm still blushing.

Tomorrow's going to be interesting.

At least if I fuck up on stage, I'll have something besides nerves to blame it on. And maybe after the showcase, I'll start leaving the studio door open when I write at night.

Chapter 4: Flirting Practice

Notes:

A dabble into Park Jimin's POV ;)

Here's the thing about being an idol that no one tells you: it's method acting, except the method is your entire life and the acting never stops. And I'm learning that I'm really good at it. Like, ARMY-breaking-Twitter-every-time-I-breathe good at it. The kind of good that makes me wonder if I've crossed some invisible line between performance and reality, if maybe I've become too good at being what everyone needs me to be.

My fans have this whole narrative worked out where I emerged fully formed from some K-pop lab, with abs that could slice diamonds and the kind of smirk that makes hearts combust. As if I came into this life already knowing how to weaponize the precise angle of my jawline, as if I didn't spend years learning to inhabit this skin like it's a costume I can't take off.

(Spoiler alert: I didn't. And sometimes, in the quiet moments between performances when no one's watching, I still don't know if I know how.)

What they see: perfectly curated casual perfection, a walking fever dream in designer clothes.

What actually happens: Me, at 4 AM, having an existential crisis in front of a practice room mirror while attempting to master the exact scientific formula for "effortlessly sexy." Spoiler alert number two: there's nothing effortless about it.

But here's where it gets complicated: some parts of this whole idol thing are actually, embarrassingly, genuinely me. Like my pathological need to emotional-support-blanket everyone within a ten-mile radius, or how I've somehow become the designated crisis manager whenever Namjoon-hyung encounters glassware. (RIP to all the mugs and drink cups we lost along the way, scattered across the practice room floor like tiny ceramic martyrs to his perpetual clumsiness.)

And don't even get me started on whatever cosmic romance novel is unfolding between Taehyung and Jungkook. I swear to god, watching them orbit each other is like being trapped in the world's most elaborate slow-burn fanfiction. The way Taehyung's eyes follow Jungkook across every room like he's trying to memorize his movement patterns. How Jungkook practically vibrates with the need to be noticed whenever Taehyung's around, like a puppy made of pure golden retriever energy and unresolved sexual tension. If this were actually a fanfic, the comments section would be screaming "JUST KISS ALREADY" in all caps. (Which, coincidentally, is also what I whisper-scream into my pillow at least three times a week, usually after watching them do that thing where they almost touch and then don't, like they're playing some elaborate game of emotional chicken.)

The company likes to remind me about my assigned role: the flirty one, the bad boy, confidence personified with a side of dangerous charm. So I put it all on like armor - the half smile, the winks, the carefully calculated hip thrusts that send Twitter into cardiac arrest. And then one day, somewhere between the ten thousandth practice room session and yet another VLive where I pretend my heart doesn't grow three sizes when fans tell me I've helped them through hard times, something shifts.

The line between the performance and the person blurs until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. The idol, the friend, the guy who still sometimes can't believe that's really him in the mirror - they've all melted together into this weird, wonderful amalgamation that is somehow, impossibly, me. Like a chemical reaction you can't reverse, like falling in love with someone you shouldn't: gradual, inevitable, terrifying.

Plot twist: Maybe that's exactly who I was supposed to be all along.

And I love praise, crave it like oxygen. When our dance instructor says "beautiful form, Jimin-ah," something warm unfurls in my chest like a flower blooming in fast-forward. When fans scream that I'm gorgeous, I feel like I'm floating. But with one person, a compliment hits... different. Like when Yoongi-hyung quietly murmurs "good job" after a performance? The rush is addictive, dangerous, like the first sip of something that should probably be illegal.

Like right now. I'm sitting in our studio's tiny break room, pretending not to watch him make his third cup of instant coffee. His oversized sweater is slipping off one pale shoulder, and the late afternoon light makes everything soft and warm and golden, turning him into something that belongs in a museum, not a cramped studio with bad ventilation. I've spent approximately forever trying to decide if I should say something or spontaneously combust. Both options seem equally likely at this point.

"What. You're burning holes in my back," Yoongi snaps without turning around, and even his irritation feels like something I want to collect and keep.

"Am not," I say, which is both a lie and probably the least smooth response possible from someone who's supposed to be the group's resident flirt. "I was just zoned out and thinking."

"Careful, you might break something." His voice has that particular tone he uses when he's trying not to smile, the one that makes me want to do increasingly ridiculous things just to see if I can crack his facade.

"You're mean."

"And you're annoying. Where's Tae?"

"Taehyungie walked to the river with Jungkookie to see the full moon. I didn't want to be a third wheel. You know how they get."

He makes a sound that could mean anything from "I don't want to hear the details" to "those two should get a room." "Isn't there someone else you can bother? I have a lot to do."

He acts like he's a forty-year-old father of four sometimes, all gruff exterior and soft center, like one of those chocolates with the liquid filling that burns sweet on your tongue. It makes something in my chest ache in a way that's becoming embarrassingly familiar.

"Actually, Hyung," I say, sliding into one of the studio chairs, "I could use your help with something." I spin the chair slightly, trying to look casual even though my heart is already picking up speed. "I have a new schedule. The company wants me to film this Valentine's Day content tomorrow. You know—romantic messages to fans, flirty aegyo, that kind of thing."

Yoongi makes a noise that's somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "And you need help with that? You? Mr. Break-The-Internet-With-A-Wink?"

"It's different now," I admit, and something in my voice must catch his attention because he finally turns away from his coffee to look at me properly. "The fans expect more each time. It has to feel genuine, you know? Not just the same recycled moves."

"Ah." He takes a sip of his coffee, considering. "And you're overthinking it."

I try not to stare at the way his throat moves as he swallows. "When am I not?"

"Fair point." There's almost a smile playing at the corners of his mouth now. "So what do you want from me? Directing tips?"

I shrug, trying to ignore the way my stomach is doing backflips. "I just need someone to practice on. Someone who won't..." I wave my hand vaguely, "...get affected by it. You know, so I can try different approaches without it being weird."

"Show me," he says, suddenly spinning around, facing me dead on with those small dark eyes that see too much.

"Show you what?"

"Show me your flirting," he says bluntly. "Practice on me. No overthinking allowed."

Oh.

Oh god, he took the bait.

This is simultaneously the best and worst thing that has ever happened to me, because Yoongi-hyung's praise already makes me feel like I'm melting into a puddle of want and validation-seeking behavior, and now he is going to let me flirt with him? The universe is either laughing at me or finally throwing me a bone, and I'm not sure which option terrifies me more.

"I don't think—" I start, but he cuts me off with a wave of his hand that somehow manages to be both dismissive and devastating.

"Ppalli Ppalli, I'm perfect practice material," He crosses his arms. "Seeing as I'm immune to your charms."

And wow, that shouldn't sting as much as it does, like a paper cut right across my heart. But also – challenge accepted? Because if there's one thing that overrides my endless deliberating, it's someone implying I can't do something perfectly. And if there's one person I desperately want to prove wrong about their immunity to me, it's the guy standing in front of me.

Here's the thing about being impossibly good at something: it becomes both a shield and a prison. And right now, with Min Yoongi staring at me with that maddeningly smug expression that makes me want to crack him open and see what's inside, I'm caught between wanting to prove him wrong and wanting to run screaming from the room.

"Immune to my... charms," I echo, and something in me – the part that's been carefully crafted into the perfect idol, maybe, or possibly just the part that's hopelessly gone for this impossible man – kicks into gear. "Gotta say, that sounds like a hypothesis that needs testing, hyung."

He waves a hand dismissively, but I catch the way his fingers tighten around his coffee cup like an anchor. "Scientific method? Namjoon's rubbing off on you."

"I contain multitudes," I say, and then, because apparently I've lost all control of my mouth along with my common sense and self-preservation instincts, "Want me to show you just how many?"

His eyebrows shoot up, and for a second I think I've gone too far, crossed some invisible line in our careful dance of almost-something. But then the corner of his mouth twitches, and oh, that's dangerous. "Um. . .don't tell me that's the best you've got? I've seen better flirting from Joon talking up plants."

The thing is, he's right. This is amateur hour stuff, and we both know it. I'm better than this. I'm Park Jimin, for god's sake. I once made three fansites crash simultaneously with a single wink. I've caused international incidents with my hip movements. I am a professional at making people want me, except apparently when it comes to the one person I actually want to want me.

So I suck in a breath, let myself settle into the familiar rhythm of performance. Except this time, the line between performance and reality is tissue-paper thin, ready to tear at the slightest pressure.

"You're right," I say, pushing off from where I've been leaning against the counter. "That was basic. Let me try again."

I pad closer, watching the way his eyes track my movement like he can't help himself. This is familiar territory – the slow slide into someone's personal space, the careful calibration of proximity. What's not familiar is how my heart is trying to punch its way out of my chest, how every step feels like walking toward something that could either save me or destroy me.

"The thing about flirting," I murmur, voice pitched low, intimate, like I'm telling him a secret, "is that it's all about attention. Making someone feel like they're the only person in the room." Another step. "Like right now, how you've been watching my lips move this whole time."

He startles slightly, eyes snapping up to meet mine, caught. His pupils are dilated. "I have not—"

"It's okay," I interrupt, feeling bold, feeling reckless, feeling like I'm standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying and wonderful. "I watch you too. When you're producing, completely lost in your own world. When you think no one's looking and you do that little smile thing that makes me forget how to breathe. When you're wearing sweaters that are too big and pretending you're not soft."

The tips of his ears are turning pink, and okay, that's interesting. That's very interesting.

"This isn't flirting," he mutters, but his voice has gone slightly rough around the edges. "This is just... observation."

"Isn't it both?" I'm close enough now that I can see the individual eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks, close enough to count the tiny moles on his skin like constellations I want to map with my fingertips. "Paying attention to someone until you know exactly what makes them tick? Until you can read every micro-expression?" I lean in, just slightly, watching his pupils dilate. "Until you notice things like how your breath catches when someone gets too close?"

And it does – his breath actually catches, a tiny hitch that sends triumph singing through my veins like lightning. For one electric moment, we're frozen there, balanced on the knife's edge of something that feels dangerous and inevitable and perfect.

Then Yoongi clears his throat and steps back, nearly knocking over his forgotten coffee. "Okay, yeah, message received. You don't need flirting practice, Jiminah."

"Good to know," I say, but my voice comes out rougher than intended, like all the wanting I've been trying to hide has finally caught up with me. My hands are shaking slightly, and I stuff them in my pockets before he can notice.

"Right." He's not quite meeting my eyes anymore, and I wonder if he can feel it too, this thing between us that feels like a countdown to something inevitable. "Well. Good job. Very... convincing."

The praise hits different now, twisted up with something that feels like regret. Or maybe possibility. I can't quite tell, but I want to spend forever figuring it out.

"Thanks, hyung," I say, and then, because I apparently hate myself: "For someone who's immune to my charms, you're blushing."

He throws his napkin at my head. "Get out, brat."

I go, but not before catching his reflection in the glass door – the way he presses his hands to his cheeks once he thinks I can't see, the way he shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. Like maybe I've gotten under his skin the way he's always under mine.

Maybe he's not as immune as he thinks he is.

Maybe neither of us are.

Chapter 5: Five Beers In

Does everyone sit and marinate on the dumbass shit that they say? I mean, probably. But not everyone goes on YouTube and says that their wish for the next year is to punch the guy that they can't decide if they want to kiss or kill. I yank the front of my yellow shirt over my face and silently scream. How many thousands of fans watched me word-vomit like some sort of emotional sprinkler system?
The worst part isn't even the Festa video. The worst part is that Yoongi – annoying Yoongi with his stupidly perfect red cardigan and his stupidly endearing hat with a literal feather in it – probably hasn't given the morning recording a second thought. I bet he is too busy being completely oblivious and reorganizing his electronic music files or something equally pedantic.

I peek out from behind my shirt, which now has eyeliner smudges on it because that's just the kind of night this is turning into. My phone buzzes. It's likely another notification. Or maybe it's—

No. Nope. Not going to check. Not going to—

Oh god, fine, I'm checking.

It's worse than I thought. It's a text from Jungkook: "Bro! What were you thinking earlier??? That was hilarious" followed by a string of crying emojis. Taehyung's already sent me four voice messages, cackling. Because of course they noticed my big fat crush.

The thing about Min Yoongi is that he's like one of those indie songs that sounds simple at first but then you realize it's got like seventeen layers of complexity and suddenly you're crying at 3 AM about a lyric. That's what loving him is like – completely overwhelming and yet somehow not enough all at once.

I flop face-first onto my bunk and I do what any reasonable person would do: I grab my pillow, press it against my face, and let out another scream. This time it's not so silent. It's the kind of scream that probably has my neighbors wondering if they should call the police. I do it again for good measure.

"What the hell?"

I freeze. Because I know that deep soft voice. That voice that sounds like honey drizzled over gravel. Shit, I didn't hear him come in. What is he doing? I mean yeah, I know he lives here, but he lives in the studio more. The universe clearly has it out for me today.

I look up from my pillow and he's standing there in the space between our bunks holding a plastic bag full of cans, looking like some kind of convenience store angel. An angel still in that oversized red cardigan and that ridiculous hat that I want to knock off his head except I also kind of want to frame it.

"Aren't you working?" I snap, because apparently my fight or flight response has chosen fight.

He raises the beer he's already drinking, and his lips quirk up in that tiny smile that makes my stomach do Olympic-level gymnastics. "Having a beer instead. Drink with me. Joon and Hobi went home. Jin is out with friends."

"Jungkook and V might be back soon?"

"Nah. They're probably renting a love hotel," he says with all the emotion of someone reading a grocery list.

I choke on air, because apparently that's a skill I possess now.

"I'm serious," he says, and I can't read anything about him. Except he's doing that thing where he stares at my mouth again, the thing that makes me wonder if I've got something on my face or if maybe, just maybe…

"It's our year anniversary," he says. "One year since our debut, come on." He takes another long pull of beer, Adam's apple bobbing. "One year of..." he trails off, and for a moment I swear his ears go pink. "Just drink with me, okay?"

And yeah, maybe it's stupid to sit here drinking with him when my emotions are already a tangled mess, but I'm already moving over and patting the space beside me. The mattress dips as he settles cross-legged against the wall, and I mirror him.

"So," he says, cracking open a beer and handing it to me before opening his second. "One year."

"One year," I echo, because apparently my vocabulary has decided to go on strike. "Hard to believe."

He snorts, taking another sip. "Remember your first week? You tried to teach me that one move and said I looked like a possessed noodle?"

"'Aggressively unenthusiastic noodle' were my exact words, and I stand by them."

Two beers in, and we're somehow closer than we started, shoulders almost touching as we lean back against the wall. He's taken off that ridiculous hat, and his black hair is slightly messed up in a way that makes my fingers itch to fix it. Or mess it up more.

"Still can't believe you got me to actually practice ballet positions at 2 AM," he murmurs.

"And you weren't half bad at demi-plies, once you stopped complaining."

Three beers in, and the room is pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. Yoongi's cardigan has slipped off one shoulder, and I'm trying very hard not to stare at the exposed collarbone like it holds the secrets of the universe.

"Remember that night we got locked in the practice room?" he asks, voice warm with memory.

"You mean when I caught you trying to breakdance and you claimed you were 'checking the floor for dust'?"

 

He laughs, the sound low and rich. I can’t get enough. I’ll never get enough.

Four beers in, and somehow we've shifted so we're facing each other, knees touching, empty cans scattered around us like evidence of our poor life choices. The air feels thick with something unnamed, something electric. Every time he moves, I catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with something uniquely him, and it's making me dizzy in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

"Hyung," I say, because apparently alcohol has dissolved whatever filter existed between my brain and my mouth, "Why are you really here?"

He tilts his head, considering me with those dark eyes that see too much. "Maybe I missed hanging out with you. We’ve been so busy lately.”

"You see me every day."

"Not like this," he says quietly. "Not just... us."

And oh. OH.

The thing is, Min Yoongi has always been impossible to read. Except right now, with his eyes fixed on my mouth and his fingers barely brushing against my thigh (which has to be an accident, right? Right???), he's suddenly crystal clear. Not that this makes anything better. If anything, it makes it worse, because what the fuck am I supposed to do with this information at midnight while slightly buzzed in my own bunk?

The fifth beer disappears, and with it goes my last brain cell's attempt at self-preservation. My bunk feels like we've stepped sideways into some alternate dimension where every accidental brush of skin makes the air thicker.

"Mmmmm getting sleepy," I mumble, and somehow I've shifted closer, much closer. His cardigan is stupidly soft against my cheek, and his fingers are still moving in a way that's definitely making me lose my mind.

"Lightweight," he teases, but his voice has gone all honey-whiskey low, rough around the edges in a way that makes heat pool in my stomach. He adjusts, and for a heart-stopping moment I think he's going to move away, but instead he just settles deeper into the corner where my bunk meets the wall, pulling me with him until we're pressed together like puzzle pieces that were never meant to fit but somehow do. His thigh slides between mine, and I have to bite back a sound that would definitely be anything but nonchalant.

The thing about being this close to Min Yoongi is that it feels both too much and not enough. Every point of contact burns through layers of fabric - his hand on my neck, thumb stroking just behind my ear, my knee pressed against his thigh, the way his chest rises and falls against my side. I can feel his heartbeat racing to match mine.

And I'm hard. I'm really fucking hard. And I'm pressed too close for him to miss it.

"Should probably go back to the studio," he murmurs, his breath ghosting across my ear.

"Mhmm," I agree, but my traitorous hand has already found its way under the edge of his button down, fingertips barely grazing skin that feels fever-hot. He makes this tiny sound in the back of his throat that I'll definitely be thinking about for the next decade. Then rocks into me a fraction and I can't breathe.

Because oh my god. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He's hard too.

We stay like that, our breathing syncing up, neither of us sleeping, both pretending, and every small movement feels like a confession. Each shift sends sparks of electricity through my body, and I'm acutely aware of every place we're touching, every subtle rock of his hips against mine.

We do these small micro rocks almost like they could be an accident except there is nothing accidental about the way his fingers dig into my hip, the way my breath hitches every time he moves, the way we're both trying and failing to stay quiet in the darkness.

 

"Hyung," I whisper at last, testing the silence. He doesn't stir, but his grip tightens slightly in response, and his other hand finds its way to my hip, thumb brushing against the strip of skin where my own shirt has ridden up.

We're both pretending, and we both know it. Like how I'm pretending this position makes any kind of sense, and he's pretending his hand ended up under my shirt by accident, and we're both pretending this is just how friends fall asleep.

The last thing I remember before actually drifting off is his breath hot against my ear, his grip tightening just enough to make me gasp, and thinking that maybe some secrets are meant to be kept between midnight and sunrise.

Chapter 6: Stockholm Syndrome

Notes:

Last chapter in Jimin's POV for a little bit. Also how adorable are Yoonmin in the 2014 Stockholm photo shoot: https://behind-the-screen-of-bangtan.tumblr.com/post/151154618482/now-2-in-europe-and-america

Travel always makes me hungry. Maybe my body uses more calories trying to stay awake with time changes. Stockholm is seven hours behind Seoul. Right now I'm scanning a dinner menu in a centuries-old restaurang in Gamla Stan, when I'd rather be asleep. The whitewashed stone walls curve overhead into vaulted arches, and brass sconces cast a warm glow against the exposed timbers. Through the deep-set windows, I can see cobblestone streets still bright with endless summer sunlight. I don't know what most of the words say, and when the server approaches I'm almost ready to point at something and pray it isn't pickled herring.

"He'll have köttbullar," Yoongi tells the server, plucking the menu from my hands and pointing at some words for emphasis. His black silk shirt sleeve brushes my shoulder, and I catch a hint of his cologne – that subtle woodsy scent that always makes my stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

"What are you doing?" I wait to mutter until the server is taking Hobi-hyung's order. Around us, the melodic rise and fall of Swedish creates a buffer of privacy, mixing with the clink of glasses and the scrape of chairs against centuries-old floorboards.

"You didn't know what you wanted." Yoongi's hair falls across his forehead as he reaches for his water glass, the thick silver rings on his long fingers catching the light.

I snort. "Oh...and you do?"

"Yeah." He eyes me steadily, something dark and knowing in his gaze that makes heat race up my neck. "I think I have an idea."

Shit.

My cheeks catch fire.

We haven't ever talked about that night after Festa last month. The beer. The touching. How I woke up at 3am with a dry mouth and empty bed, the sheets still holding the ghost of his warmth. Yoongi hadn't been up in his bunk either. He'd gone completely and didn't return for three nights. One of our managers said he went home to Daegu, but his participation in our group chat went radio silent. And then he returned like nothing had happened, wearing his usual oversized hoodies like armor, creating careful distance between us during dance practice.

Under the table, I slide my leg to the side, letting my foot brush against his ankle. A test. He stiffens but doesn't pull away. Emboldened, I trace my foot up his calf, slow and deliberate. His expression doesn't change, but I notice his grip tightening on his water glass. When I reach his knee, though, he shifts away, creating distance.

I hold back an annoyed sigh.

Fine. If that's how he wants to play it.

I withdraw, grabbing a piece of bread from the basket in the center of the table, trying not to look annoyed. "Maybe I'm developing Stockholm syndrome," I muse lightly, "but I can't say no to carbs here."

His lips twitch. "That's not how that works."

Sometimes I feel as if we're keeping this giant secret, as I sit in company meetings, watching him across conference room tables while he chews on pen caps and avoids my eyes. And sometimes I wonder if I'm making everything up – if I'd imagined everything that night in the dorm...from the way his fingers had lingered on my waist, how his breath had hitched when I'd pressed closer, our cocks lightly grinding behind denim.

But now, in this ancient dining room, with candles flickering in crystal holders and the smell of herbs wafting from the kitchen, I catch him looking at me like he did that night. Like he's hungry for something that isn't on any menu. The murmur of conversation fades away, and all I can focus on is the way his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. The moment stretches like melting honey-filled hotteok, sticky and sweet and impossible to break. He looks away first–he always does–and there's a slight tremor in his hands as he reaches for his napkin.

The food arrives, and I have to admit – Yoongi does know what I like. I slide my fork through the lingonberry sauce, watching him take a sip of wine. The way his throat works as he swallows makes heat pool in my stomach. Around us, the conversation about tomorrow's shoot continues, but it feels distant, underwater, compared to the electricity crackling between us.

Then his hand finds my knee under the table, and suddenly I understand his earlier retreat. He wasn't rejecting my advance – he was waiting to make his own move. His touch is firm, purposeful, nothing like my tentative exploration.

"Careful," he murmurs so only I can hear, while dabbing his mouth with his napkin with his free hand. "You wouldn't want to make a scene."

"Scene? Me? Never." I take a deliberate bite of the meatball, letting the fork linger against my lower lip longer than necessary. His eyes track the movement. "I'm always very... controlled."

"Yeah. That's not the word I'd use."

"No? What word would you use, hyung?"

"Frustrating," he says finally, voice rough as he releases me.

I almost moan in protest when his hand disappears. "You did a good job ordering for me. The sauce is really good," I say innocently, but I let my tongue dart out to catch an imaginary drop from my lip. "Want to taste?"

His knuckles go white around his fork. "Jimin-ah..."

"Yes, hyung?" My voice is as syrup-sweet as the fruit sauce on my plate.

"You know exactly what you're doing."

I tilt my head in mock confusion. "Huh? I'm just really into Swedish cuisine."

He makes a sound that's half laugh, half groan. "You're impossible."

"You excited to have your own room?" We did rock-paper-scissors. Since there's seven of us, we pair up in twos and one person gets their own space. Yoongi won this time.

He grunts. "I can work."

"As expected." Another careful bite. I nod to the other end of the table where Taehyungie is laughing in open delight about something our maknae just said. "Wonder if I'll wake up alone. Wouldn't be the first time, right?"

The noise he makes is almost imperceptible, but I catch it. Just like I catch the way his eyes linger on the line of my jaw, how his fingers twitch like he's remembering what it felt like to brush the pad of his thumb over me there.

"Some things," he says carefully, "are better left alone."

"Are they though? Or are you just scared?"

"Scared?" The word comes out in a huff – sharp, defensive.

"Mm. Of losing control. Of letting things get... you know," I drag my fork through the sauce again, "messy."

"I don't lose control."

I lick my fork tines clean and watch his pupils dilate. Because that's the thing about Min Yoongi – for all his careful control, all his strategic retreats, he's never been able to hide how much he wants this. Wants me. It's there in every aborted touch, every lingering look, every sharp intake of breath when I get too close.

Deep down I know two things: I'm not crazy. And I'm mad about this stupid, stubborn genius.

His hand is back on me. And this time he means business. With those clever fucking fingers, he plays over my thigh muscles with the same grace he deploys on the piano.

"No squirming," he growls so quietly I can't be sure I heard him right.

"I'm nooooot," I protest, but my voice comes out breathier than intended as his fingers trace a particularly sensitive spot.

"No?" His eyebrows lift slightly. "What would you call this then?"

"Strategic positioning?"

He almost laughs at that, his hand stilling momentarily. "Clever, Park Jimin."

"I learned from the best at deflection, Min Yoongi." I shift slightly, lifting my hips a fraction higher to press into his touch. Two can play at this game.

His fingers tighten fractionally. "Careful."

"Or what? You'll run away to Daegu?"

The look he gives me could melt steel, but there's something vulnerable beneath it. Something that makes my chest tight. "Maybe I had good reasons."

"Better than this?" I shake my thigh slightly.

"I hate you, you know," he mutters, but his thumb is drawing patterns on my thigh that feel an awful lot like hangul characters. I think I catch my name in there somewhere.

"No, you don't."

"No," he agrees softly, surprisingly honest in the candlelight. "I really don't."

His fingers trace the inside seam of my slacks, mapping the strength in my thighs with deliberate pressure. Each touch feels like a confession – how long he's watched me dance, how well he knows every muscle, every curve. His thumb finds the sensitive spot just above my knee and circles there, making my breath catch.

"I'll take that as a compliment," I fight to keep my voice steady as his hand slides higher, tracing the curve where my thigh meets my hip. His rings are cool against the fabric, a sharp contrast to the heat of his skin. My dick is rock hard in an instant. I have barely taken three sips of wine but I feel drunk. If he touches my shaft here, I can't be held responsible for my actions.

Around us, the restaurant has begun to empty. The Swedish summer twilight has deepened to a pearly blue that makes everything feel slightly unreal. His fingers draw abstract patterns now, like he's composing a melody on my skin – sometimes soft, sometimes with just enough pressure to make me have to bite back a sound.

"We should probably head back soon," he says, but his hand continues its torturous exploration, finding the places where hours of dance practice have made me sensitive. His pinky traces my inner thigh in a way that seems innocent but isn't, not even close. "Early call time tomorrow."

"You sure you want to sleep alone? I know we did rock, paper, scissors, but it could be a plot twist."

"Oh yeah, what's that?"

"You were actually a game loser. And you don't want that do you?"

He flicks against my sac, just a fraction, and my eyes roll halfway into the back of my head.

"Who is calling me a loser?" he mock snarls and I'm terrified I might just kiss him right here.

A crash shatters the moment. We both jerk back as on the far end of the table Taehyung's wine glass topples, red liquid spreading across the white tablecloth like a wound. He'd been leaning too far over to whisper something in Jungkook's ear.

"For fuck's sake," Namjoon mutters, then louder, "That's enough. Both of you. We're in public."

"Sorry, hyung," Jungkook mumbles, but he's fighting a smile as Taehyung dabs at the spill with his napkin, somehow managing to make it worse.

I feel Yoongi's hand withdraw like it was never there. His walls slam back up so fast I can almost hear them. He shifts away, creating careful distance between us as the server rushes over with clean napkins.

"Aish, you two, this is why we can't have nice things," Jin sighs, helping to mop up the wine.

"Sorry, sorry!" Taehyung's laughing now, hands everywhere, making the cleanup harder instead of easier. "Kookie was just showing me—"

"I don't want to know," Namjoon cuts him off, leader-voice in full effect. "Just... please. We have an important schedule here. This isn't amateur hour."

I watch Yoongi retreat into himself, shoulders tensing, hands now carefully visible above the table as he helps pass clean napkins down. The vulnerability of moments ago vanishes beneath his usual mask of mild annoyance.

"I'm sleeping alone," he mutters, not meeting my eyes. "Don't want circles under my eyes for the photo shoot."

And just like that, we're back to pretending. Back to careful distances and plausible deniability. I want to grab his hand, drag him back to that moment of raw honesty, but I know it's useless. Once Yoongi decides to retreat, there's no stopping him.

"Right," I say, keeping my voice light despite the disappointment heavy in my chest. "Early call time."

He stands, adjusting his silk shirt with movements that now seem defensive rather than seductive. The moment has shattered like Taehyung's wine glass, leaving only stains and regret.

"Yoongi-hyung," I start, but he's already turning away. "Maybe you'll take a picture with me tomorrow?"

He makes a low, noncommittal sound, and walks away from the table, from me, from everything that almost happened.

I watch him go, my skin still tingling from his touch, my body already missing the weight of his hand. The endless Swedish summer light suddenly feels too bright, too exposed, highlighting all the things we keep trying to hide.

Taehyung is still giggling, completely oblivious to what he's interrupted. But when I catch Jungkook's eye, there's something knowing in his gaze. He mouths "sorry" when no one else is looking.

I just shrug, forcing a smile. After all, what can I say? That Taehyung's clumsiness cost me something I'm not even supposed to want? That I was this close to breaking through Yoongi's carefully constructed walls?

Instead, I stand and help clean up the spill, pretending my hands aren't shaking, pretending I can't still feel the ghost of his touch on my thigh.

Some things, it seems, are destined to remain unfinished

Chapter 7: Falling--and Everything

Notes:

We're back with Yoongi's POV and entering the HYYH era. Songs mentions: I Need You, Converse High, Moving On

I snap awake, head swimming with exhaustion. The monitors blur in front of me, their glow the only light in this studio cave I've made my second home. My shoulder screams from passing out hunched over. I grab my bottle of pain relievers and pop three, washing them down with the dregs of my water bottle.

Is it day? Night? Who knows anymore? Time's just another thing I can't control, like these dreams that won't leave me alone any time I close my eyes.

Jimin at MAMA. The way he tore that tank top off, pure instinct and raw sexuality. The crowd's screams hit different that night – primal, desperate, wanting. I've seen him shirtless before, seen the way people look at him. But watching him own that stage, own that moment, own every single person in that audience...

The pride hits first – fierce and protective, because that's my brother up there. But the jealousy that follows is hot and bitter as hell, because not only did the arena fall in love with him in that moment–so did the rest of the world as clips went viral. He harnessed desire like a weapon, turned want into power, and I've never made anyone feel that way.

The stench of jjajangmyeon hits me – the cheap kind Namjoon always gets from that place down the street, now cold and crusty in the trash he never thinks to empty, like some magical cleaning fairy exists just to handle his mess. My mind swims with the sourness of congealed black bean sauce and self-loathing.

Iron Man watches me from his perch on the speaker, judging. I see you there among Joon's army of plastic heroes, all lined up like they're waiting for something amazing to happen. Like they're waiting for me to be something amazing. The figurines cast weird shadows in the monitor light, stretching across my workspace like accusing fingers.

I should be better than this. Should be above letting jealousy eat at me like acid. But here I am, alone in the dark, watching the cursor blink on another unfinished track while my mind replays the way the crowd screamed his name. The way they wanted him. The raw hunger in their voices.

The cursor keeps blinking. Waiting. Judging. I need to work. That I can do even if I can't be a guy someone like Jimin deserves.

The half-finished track mocks me from the screen. Another attempt at something raw, something real. Dark & Wild moved units, sure. The critics said nice things. But "nice" doesn't cut it. "Nice" doesn't keep us paid.

My hands hover over the keyboard, trembling with caffeine and doubt. We have a shot and this is do or die. It's like we're characters in one of Jin's games. Can we hop to the next step and survive another day or are we going to fall into a pit? But what if I can't do it? What if this is all I've got – these half-formed melodies and unfinished thoughts? What if I peaked with our debut and everything from here is just... less?

The shadows from Joon's action figures stretch longer, darker. Iron Man's still watching, but now he looks less judgmental and more pitying. Poor Suga, the guy who almost made it. The one who came close but couldn't quite cross that line between good and unforgettable.

I pull up the sales numbers again, because I'm a masochist like that. They're not bad. They're just not enough. Not when I know we can do better. Not when I need to find a way to help keep us going.

Fuck this. Fuck the doubt. Fuck the panic. I reach for the volume dial, cranking it up.

The worst part isn't my reoccurring dream. It's the way that despite everything, Jimin still gets under my skin, has been getting under my skin since our first meeting.

I've pulled back. Or I've tried to pull back. But there's still the lingering touches. The way he'll rest his head on my shoulder while I work, breath warm against my skin. The way my fingers always seem to find his neck of their own accord. The times I've caught him watching me with something hooded and needy in his eyes. We toe the line but never cross it. We can't cross it. There's too much at stake.

He's a guy. He's a member. He's supposed to be a brother.

I wish I could delete my feelings like a melody that doesn't serve the song.

So I've been keeping my distance, burying myself in the studio. Hoba and Joon have written their lyrics for our upcoming album, but I'm still not satisfied with my effort. It's not honest. The song is Moving–what keeps me moving?

Easy answer: money

Hard truth: My mom. Her heart. The fact she got so sick after having me. I want to help her never worry about another bill again.

The cursor blinks, waiting for words I can't say. They feel too real. The paradox is real. I need honesty for my music to be good, and honesty is terrifying. I've come so far and want too many things and I'm still a coward.

The door creaks open and suddenly he's there–Jimin–filling the door frame with a presence that makes the room feel too small. My heart stutters – it always does– but I cover it with my best unimpressed glare.

"Oh. H-hi. Thought Hobi might be here," he says, but his eyes say something else entirely.

"Just me," I manage, voice rougher than intended. He wrinkles his nose dramatically as he steps inside.

"Holy shit, hyung, when was the last time you took out the trash? It smells like something crawled in here and died." He's already gathering empty containers, making exaggerated gagging sounds that shouldn't be endearing but somehow are.

"It's not that bad," I protest, but even I can smell the sour remnants of three-day-old jjajangmyeon. "I've been busy."

"Too busy to remember basic hygiene?" He's in full mother-hen mode now, moving through my space with practiced efficiency. "There's actual mold growing in this one. Like, visible mold. I'm pretty sure that's a biohazard."

"I don't see any mold."

"That's because you've probably lost your sense of smell by now." He dumps another armful into the trash, then props his hands on his hips. "When's the last time you saw actual sunlight?"

I shrug, fighting both a smile and the urge to lean into his warmth when he pauses behind my chair. "Time's kind of lost meaning in here."

"I can tell. You're starting to look like one of those deep-sea fish. All pale and..." his hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing gently. "And you need rest. Come out for a bit. Get some fresh air at least. You aren't going to make anything good if you get mold poisoning."

"Fine," I grumble, saving my work with quick keystrokes. "But only because you're going to nag me to death otherwise."

"Please, like I'm the worst nag we know. Want me to call Jin-hyung? Let him give you the full lecture about—"

"I'm up, I'm up." I push away from the desk, and the room tilts slightly. Maybe he has a point about the whole rest thing. Not that I'll admit it.

The sunlight hits like a physical force when we step outside. I squint against it, feeling exposed without the protective cocoon of my studio. Jimin's shoulder brushes mine as we walk, each point of contact another small crack in my defenses.

"See? The world still exists out here and everything," he teases. I open my mouth for a suitably cutting response, but something warm and wet trickles down my upper lip instead. Jimin notices before I can even reach up to check.

"Shit, hyung—" His hand cups my chin, tilting my face toward him. The touch is clinical, professional, but my pulse kicks anyway. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing. Just a nosebleed." I try to pull back but he holds firm. "Probably just the dry air in the studio."

"And the fact you haven't properly slept in what, two days? And your computer chair doesn't count" His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth as he dabs at the blood, and I hope he attributes my shiver to the breeze. "Tilt your head forward, not back. Unless you want to swallow blood."

"I know how to handle it."

"Clearly." His voice is dry but his touch stays gentle. "That's why you're dripping on your favorite hoodie."

He's right – there are already spots of red on my chest. I let him guide me to a nearby bench, too dizzy to properly argue. His fingers stay curved around my jaw, steady and warm.

"I should have tissues in here somewhere..." He digs through his bag one-handed, the other still cradling my face like I might break. Or bolt. He's not wrong about the second one.

"It's fine, really—"

"Can you shut up and let me take care of you for five minutes?" There's an edge to his voice that makes me look up. His eyes are focused on the tissue he's pressing to my nose, but I catch something else there. Something that makes my chest tight. "You don't always have to handle everything alone."

I want to tell him that's rich coming from him. Want to point out all the times I've seen him push through exhaustion with a smile. Want to say so many things that would cross the careful lines we've drawn.

Instead, I let him fuss, pretending my racing heart is just from the nosebleed. His fingers card through my hair, ostensibly checking for any blood that might have dripped there. The touch lingers longer than necessary.

"You're lucky I was there," he says finally, voice lighter. "You probably would have just bled all over your keyboard."

"Would have added character to it."

He huffs a laugh, warm against my temple. "You're an idiot." But his hand is still in my hair, and neither of us moves to change that. We sit in comfortable silence until the bleeding stops, his fingers tracing absent patterns against my scalp.

When I finally pull back, his expression is carefully neutral. "Think you can manage food without passing out?"

"As long as you let me buy."

He flicks his bangs. "Obviously."

"It was barely a nosebleed—"

"I'm sorry, who just had to keep you from ruining another hoodie?"

The bickering carries us down the street, as familiar as the ache in my chest when he walks a little closer than necessary. His hand stays near mine, just in case I get dizzy again. Just in case I need catching. And if our fingers brush occasionally, well, that's just concern for my wellbeing. Nothing more.

The sun feels warmer than it should for early spring. Or maybe that's just him.

When we reach the restaurant, it's empty except for an elderly couple in the corner. Jimin slides into the table across from me and sheds his puffy jacket. I hate how my eyes catch on the way his practice shirt clings to his shoulders. He's been working too hard again, pushing himself past exhaustion to maintain the image everyone expects. The "masculine" idol. The "sexy" performer that makes the girls go wild. I've seen how it weighs on him, even as he excels at it.

"Stop analyzing me," he murmurs, not looking up from the menu he definitely has memorized. "I can feel you thinking."

"Someone has to," I grunt, but there's no bite to it. There never is with him anymore. "You've lost weight again."

His lips twist into something that's almost a smile. "Are you worried about me, hyung?"

"Don't be ridiculous." But my eyes track the shadows under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands that speaks of too many hours in the practice room. "You're just making more work for the stylists."

He hums noncommittally, and I know he sees through my gruffness. He always does. That's the problem with Jimin – he reads people too well, sees too much. Especially me.

"You were amazing at MAMA," I say suddenly, the words escaping before I can catch them. His head snaps up, eyes wide with surprise. "The stage presence, the control. You owned every second of it."

A flush creeps up his neck, and I watch in fascination as it spreads across his cheeks. He practically preens under the praise, even as he tries to wave it off. "It wasn't that special..."

"Bullshit." The word comes out rougher than intended. "You know exactly how good you were. How good you are." I lean forward, caught in the way his pupils dilate slightly. "You could have the whole world on their knees if you wanted."

His breath catches, and something shy flashes across his face before he can hide it. "Maybe I don't want the whole world," he says, voice pitched low enough that it sends shivers down my spine.

The ahjumma chooses that moment to appear, and I've never been more grateful for an interruption in my life. We order quickly – he gets something healthy, of course, while I go for the greasiest thing on the menu just to see him wrinkle his nose.

"You're impossible," he sighs once she leaves, but there's fondness in it.

"You wouldn't know what to do with me if I was easy."

His pupils dilate, and fuck, I need to watch my mouth. Need to stop giving him openings like this. But I'm tired, and he's beautiful, and sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one who sees how hard he works to maintain this image they've built for him.

"How are you doing with practice?" I say instead of all the things I want to. "The choreo for I Need You coming okay?"

"Hobi isn't ready to kill anyone." His shoulders tense slightly. "But my movements need to be sharper. More aggressive." His laugh is self-deprecating. "Gotta keep up the manly image, right?"

"The real you is more than enough." The words slip out before I can stop them.

He stares at me for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. "Yeah?" His voice is small, uncertain in a way that makes my chest ache. "Sometimes I feel like I'm just... playing a part. Like they want me to be this aggressive tough person but..."

"But that's not all you are," I finish softly. "You can be soft, Jimin-ah. Gentle. It doesn't make you any less. I bet the more you do it the better."

His eyes get bright, and he blinks rapidly. "Yoongi-hyung..."

"Eat your food," I cut him off gruffly, because if he keeps looking at me like that, I might do something stupid. Like reach across the table and brush away the tear clinging to his lashes. Like pull him into my arms and tell him how perfect he is, just as he is.

He laughs wetly, but does as he's told. We eat in comfortable silence for a while, and I pretend not to notice how he keeps stealing glances at me when he thinks I'm not looking.

"You should come to practice with me sometime," he says suddenly. "When you need a break from the studio. You could... give me feedback."

The offer hangs between us, heavy with implication. I know what he's really asking – for permission to be vulnerable, to show me the parts of himself he keeps hidden from everyone else.

"Maybe," I say, which we both know means yes. Because I'm weak for him, have always been weak for him, even when I try to hide it behind sharp words and sharper walls.

He beams and my heart does something complicated in my chest. This is the Jimin I love best – the one who's soft and sweet beneath all that carefully cultivated sex appeal. The one who still lights up at praise like a flower turning toward the sun.

"Only if you promise to actually rest sometimes," I add, because I can't help but worry about him. "You're not a machine."

"Look who's talking," he retorts, but his foot nudges mine under the table. A silent thank you.

I kick him back gently, ignoring the way my skin tingles where we touch. This is enough, I tell myself. These small moments, these careful touches. It has to be enough.

But when he insists on walking me back to the studio, his hand brushing mine with every step. We both pretend we don't notice.

"Okay, I have a question," he asks when we're outside the company building. The winter sun is gone now and the streetlights are on. He nervously tugs on his knit hat.

"What?" I ask in mock exasperation, like I'm in a hurry. Like I have other things I'd rather do than be near him like this in the gathering dark.

"The lyrics in I Need You." His breath comes out in soft puffs of cloud. "Your part."

I make a noncommittal sound.

"Because of you I'm becoming ruined." He talks so fast the words tumble over each other. "It's sad. It's so sad, hyung."

I shrug. I'm not good at sharing my feelings. It takes all my blood, sweat, and tears to draw lyrics out of myself. Each time feels like I'll never be able to do it again. Like it costs me something.

And yet–it's the only time I feel most like me.

Except when I'm with Jimin.

"I'm worried. You need to have someone special to you." Jimin sucks in a deep breath and for a second I'm terrified he's going to burst into tears. "And–and I don't care if it's a girlfriend."

My brows knit. "What?" I'm genuinely lost right now.

He kicks one of his Timberlands against the concrete. "I heard part of Converse High's demo. It's cute. You deserve more cute things. Not pain. You can go and date someone if you aren't loud about it. Look at Namjoon. Look at Jin."

I would rather papercut my eyeballs than stand here and have Jimin tell me to get a girlfriend. "I don't need...stop…I'm fine."

Jimin scoffs. "You aren't fine. Honestly, you need to get laid more than anyone I know. When's the last time?"

I freeze.

His gaze locks on mine. "I'm serious. When?"

I can't say. Because there's nothing to say. And that realization hits Jimin at the exact same moment. His eyes grow wide. "Wait. No. You are a..."

The word hangs there, unspoken but deafening in the winter silence. My chest feels too tight, like all the air's been squeezed out. I try to push past him, but his hand catches my wrist, gentle but firm.

"Hyung, wait—"

"Don't." My voice comes out raw, exposed. "Just... don't."

But Jimin's never been good at letting things go, especially when it comes to me. "I didn't mean to—" He stops, swallows hard. "I shouldn't have pushed. I just... I always thought..."

"What?" I snap, defensive anger rising like a shield. "That I was out there fucking around between tracks? That I had time for that shit between trying to keep us relevant and—"

"That someone must have seen how special you are."

The words stop me cold. I look at him, really look at him, and the naked honesty in his expression makes me want to run. Or maybe fall into him. I'm not sure there's a difference anymore.

"It's not..." I struggle to find the words, throat tight. "Music was always more important. The group was more important. Everything else just seemed... secondary. Plus, I'm shy. You know that."

His thumb traces circles on my wrist, and I realize he's still holding onto me. "And now?"

"Now I write lyrics playing off Namjoon's shoe fetish because it's safer than writing about what I really want." The confession slips out before I can stop it, too honest in the gathering dark. "Because I'm still shy."

Jimin steps closer, close enough that I can feel his heat. "What do you want, hyung?"

I look away, but his other hand comes up to cup my jaw, turning my face back to his. His touch is so gentle it hurts.

"Things I can't have," I whisper, and we both know what I mean. Who I mean.

"Says who?" His voice is barely audible, but I feel it in my bones. "Why do you always decide things are impossible before even trying?"

"Because I can't fuck this up," I say roughly, and things I should never say break free. "I can't risk the group, risk your career, risk—"

"My choices are my own." There's steel under the softness now. "Stop trying to protect me from yourself."

I close my eyes, overwhelmed by his proximity, by the weight of everything unsaid between us. "Jimin-ah..."

"You think I care?" His fingers tighten slightly on my jaw. "You think it matters to me that you haven't... that you're..." He takes a shaky breath. "It just makes me want you more."

My eyes snap open at that, heart thundering against my ribs. He's looking at me with such raw tenderness that it steals my breath.

"I should go inside," I manage, but I don't move. Can't move.

"Okay," he says softly. His thumb brushes my bottom lip, feather-light. "But hyung?"

"What?"

"Next time you write about wanting to take someone's shoes off..." His eyes are dark, intent. "Think of me."

He lets go then, steps back, and the cold rushes in where his warmth was. I watch him walk away, his words echoing in my head, and realize with stunning clarity that I'm completely, utterly fucked.

Because once I'd seen him, I'd never thought of anyone else. Even Seojin's memories have faded to a dull grey.

I stand there in the winter night, touching my lip where his thumb had been, knowing I'll pour this ache into another song that says everything except what I really mean. But maybe next time, I'll be a little braver. Maybe next time, I'll let the truth slip through.

After all, Jimin's always been good at reading between my lines.

Chapter 8: Moonlight

Notes:

They need to finally kiss, am I right? Thanks for all your kudos and comments. It def. motivates me to keep going :)

The demo crashes to its finale with that last "accelerate" "idiot" "nevermind" section, and suddenly the room's so quiet I can hear the blood rushing in my ears. Which, honestly? Fair. I've basically just vomited my entire soul into audio form and hit play.

I wait a beat. Start counting to ten because apparently that's what well-adjusted people do instead of immediately bolting from the studio. My palms are sweating, which really adds to the whole professional musician vibe I'm going for here. I bite my thumbnail. There's probably some poetic way to describe the churning in my stomach, but mostly it feels like I've swallowed broken glass.

When I finally force myself to look over at Jimin—I'm expecting... well, I don't know what kind of reaction I'll get for my new song. Polite confusion? Diplomacy. Carefully worded criticism?

Nope. Its’s that crooked tooth smile of his, where his eyes disappear and the world stops. And oh, fuck, that's... that's not what I prepared for at all.

"Big softie," he murmurs.

"A big softie who what?" I challenge, swiveling my chair to face him properly. "Choose your next words carefully, Park Jimin."

He tilts his head, pretending to consider it. "Who writes songs that make me want to take the lyrics literally and get a tattoo? Right on my chest like you said."

"Come on." My cheeks flush. "It's not that deep."

"Says the man who just made me listen to the musical equivalent of ripping your heart out and showing it to me."

I feel my ears getting hot. "Ya, it's not—that's not what—"

"Hyung." He leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and the playfulness in his expression shifts into something more serious. "You can't write something like that and then pretend it's nothing. I won't let you."

"Watch me," I mutter, but there's no heat in it. The late hour and the lingering vulnerability of sharing the song are making everything feel slightly unreal, like we're in some bubble where normal rules don't apply.

Jimin stretches, his shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin. Not that I notice. "I need a drink," he announces. "You've emotionally compromised me and now you owe me soju."

"I owe you nothing," I say, but I'm already reaching for my jacket. "And the convenience store probably closed—"

"The one by the park is 24 hours," he interrupts, bouncing to his feet. "Come on, the night air will do you good. When have you last breathed fresh air?"

I glance at the clock. 2:17 AM. Every sensible bone in my body is saying to call it a night, but Jimin's already at the door, looking back at me with that expression that makes saying no feel impossible.

"Fine," I sigh, like I'm doing him some huge favor. "But I'm buying."

"Deal," he grins, tossing his bangs. "After all, I need to start saving up for that tattoo."

I grab another pen to throw at him but he's already out the door, his laughter echoing down the hallway. And somehow my feet are moving to follow him, like they always do, like they always have.

The city at this hour feels like it belongs to us alone—the streets empty except for the occasional taxi. No fine dust. Jimin's shoulder keeps bumping against mine, and tonight feels different. Maybe it's the song still hanging in the air between us, or maybe it's just that 2 AM has its own kind of courage. When his hand brushes against mine for the third time, I let out a breath I feel like I've been holding for months.

"You're not subtle," I say, but my voice comes out softer than intended. I loop my pinky around his smaller one and don't let go.

He bumps my shoulder again, deliberately. "You know what I think?"

"Jimin thinking? That’s dangerous."

"I think," he continues, ignoring my interruption, "that after we get our soju we should go sit in that spot in the park. You know the one. Our spot."

"Yeah," I say finally--hating how much I like the idea that we have a place. "Okay."

The convenience store fluorescents buzz overhead as Jimin deliberates between flavors of soju like it's a life-changing decision. I lean against the cooler, watching him scrunch his nose in concentration, and try not to think about how the harsh lighting somehow makes him look softer.

"Just pick one," I grumble. "It all tastes the same after midnight."

"That's because you have the palette of a rock." He grabs two bottles of grape and one original. "Some of us appreciate the nuances."

"Nuances," I snort. "Sure."

The night air hits different when we step back outside, like it knows something we don't. Jimin cradles the bag of soju and snacks against his chest like it's precious cargo. We fall into step together, and I notice he's not trying to hide the way he stays close enough for our arms to brush anymore.

The park is empty, just street lamps casting pools of yellow light across the worn paths. Our feet know the way without thinking, leading us to the small playground tucked away in the corner. The swings creak in protest as we sit, and Jimin hands me a bottle without looking at me.

"Remember the first time we came here?" he asks, twisting his bottle open.

"You were crying about your choreography not being perfect."

"And you told me I was being an idiot."

"You were being an idiot."

He laughs, pushing off slightly so his swing sways. "You also told me I was the best dancer you'd ever seen."

"I was sleep deprived."

"You meant it though." He's looking at me now, that intense way he has that makes me feel like I'm under a microscope. "Like you meant every word in that song tonight."

I take a long drink instead of answering. The grape soju is too sweet, but it gives me something to do with my hands. Jimin starts humming the bridge of Nevermind, just quietly enough that I could pretend not to hear it if I wanted to.

I don't want to.

"You really going to get that tattoo?" I ask instead, pushing my own swing into a gentle motion.

"Maybe." He tilts his head back, looking at the stars—or what passes for stars through Seoul's light pollution. "Would you hate it if I did?"

"Why would I hate it?"

"Because it would make it real. What the song means." He pauses, then adds quietly, "What's happening now."

I dig my feet into the ground, stopping my swing. "And what exactly is happening now?"

He turns to face me fully, his swing twisting sideways. The street lamp catches half his face in gold, leaves the other half in shadow. "You tell me, genius-nim. You're the one who wrote a whole song about being brave enough to choose what you want."

"That's not—" I start, but he cuts me off.

"About reaching for something even when you're terrified?" His voice gets softer.

"Park Jimin." It comes out rough. Warning or plea, I'm not sure.

"Min Yoongi." He mimics my tone, but his eyes are serious. "Tell me I'm reading this wrong. Tell me that you haven't been writing parts of me into your music for months."

I finish my bottle in three long swallows. "You know."

"I know."

The soju makes my legs just unsteady enough that when he suddenly grabs my wrist and tugs, saying "Come on! Catch me," I stumble after him without thinking. His laughter echoes through the empty playground as he weaves between the equipment, moonlight catching on his hair, turning it silver at the edges. My heart's already racing—from the chase or from the way he keeps glancing back at me with that spark in his eyes, I'm not sure.

"You're slow, hyung!" he calls, but there's something in his voice that makes my skin prickle with electricity. I follow him past the slide, around the jungle gym, our footsteps creating rhythm against the packed earth. The night air is cool on my flushed skin, and I catch traces of his shampoo every time I get close enough to almost grab him—that familiar scent of lavender and something uniquely Jimin that makes my chest tight.

He spins around the swing set, chains rattling like wind chimes, and I think I finally have him. But as I lunge forward, my foot catches on an exposed root. The world tilts—and suddenly his arms are around me, warm and solid. The momentum sends us spinning until my back hits one of the swing set poles, the metal cold through my jacket. The rattle of chains above us slowly fades into the sound of our breathing.

The playfulness evaporates like morning dew, replaced by something heavier, electric. This close, I can see the way his pupils have dilated, the slight tremble in his bottom lip. My hands are somehow fisted in his jacket, though I don't remember grabbing it. Every point where our bodies touch feels like it's burning.

"H-hyung," he falters. The streetlight catches his eyes, and there's something in the way he's looking at me that makes my chest ache. His hand comes up to barely ghost along my jaw, and I can feel him trembling slightly, or maybe that's me.

The first brush of his lips against mine is barely there, testing. My brain flatlines as his fingers tighten infinitesimally on my neck, thumb finding the spot just under my jaw where my pulse is going crazy. The second press is firmer, deliberate, and I can't find the willpower to keep still anymore. I pull him closer as I part my lips against his, and he makes this sound—soft and broken and wanting—that zaps straight through me like electricity.

And then we're really kissing, none of that tentative exploration. His hand slides up into my hair, fingers threading through it as he tilts my head to deepen the kiss. The angle changes and suddenly everything is heat and sweetness and the slight scrape of teeth that makes my breath hitch. When his tongue slides over mine, we breathe in the other's moan. The metal pole digs into my back as he presses closer, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is the way he tastes, the soft sounds he's making, the feeling of his heart racing against my chest.

His mouth trails down my jaw to my neck, and I have to bite back a deep groan. Each press of his lips feels like a brand, marking me in ways that will last long after the physical traces fade.

"We—" I try to say, but he sucks on my earlobe in a way that makes my breath catch. "Jimin-ah, wait."

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and the sight of him—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, hair mussed where I've been running my fingers through it—nearly makes me forget what I was going to say. His thumb is still tracing circles on my hip, and it's incredibly distracting.

"This can't become a thing, okay?" I manage to say, even as my hands betray me by smoothing down the front of his jacket, straightening it only to grip the material again, unable to let go. "We should keep it to tonight. Just this once."

"Just once, I get it," he agrees softly, but his eyes say something different. They speak of countless moments like this stretching into some impossible future. "We get it out of our system. Just tonight."

We both know we're lying to ourselves. Know that this isn't something we can contain to a single night, like trying to hold back the tide with our bare hands. The moon cuts sharp shadows across his face, turning this familiar thing between us into something dangerous and new. But it's easier to pretend, here in the shadow of the swing set where no one can see how my hands shake when I touch him. Easier to pretend that tomorrow we'll go back to normal, that I won't spend every moment replaying this - the way his breath hitches when I drag my fingers across his neck, how the night air feels electric against my skin. As if I could forget the way he moves under my tongue.

He must see something of these thoughts in my eyes because his next kiss is almost desperate, like he's trying to memorize the geography of my lips. His hands slide into my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss until I'm gasping against his mouth. There's an edge of need to it now that makes my knees weak. The metal pole is probably leaving imprints on my back through my jacket, but I couldn't care less.

Each kiss feels like a confession, like all the words we've been too afraid to say spilling out in the press of lips and hitched sighs. His mouth moves against mine with the kind of raw hunger that makes my toes curl in my Jordans, that makes me want to crawl inside his skin. When he pulls back slightly, his breath fans across my lips, warm and sweet from the soju, and something in me fractures at the loss. I lean in to chase the taste, desperate to reclaim that heat, and he meets me halfway, smiling into the kiss in a way that makes electricity spark down my spine. His teeth graze my bottom lip and the world could fucking burn for all I care.

"Just tonight," he whispers again when we part, but his fingers trace patterns on my skin like he's writing promises. Like he's composing a song only we can hear, its melody made of shared breaths and racing heartbeats.

My answer is to pull him back in, to kiss him like I'm drowning and he's air - except this isn't the desperate gasp of a drowning person, it's the slow, deliberate savoring of each breath. His hands slide under the soft cotton of my old Epik High concert t-shirt. His fingers drift to my shoulder, carefully working the spot where the motorbike left its mark - where late nights still wake me with phantom pain, a reminder etched in bone and memory. I lean into his touch with a barely audible sigh, heat blooming under his fingertips as he traces the edges of that ruined part of me. There's something devastating in how he touches me like I'm precious, not broken. When I tug gently at his hair - he makes this soft, hungry sound and I want to record it and keep it forever, lock it away with all the other pieces of him I'm collecting like contraband.

The night wraps around us like a blanket as we trade kisses that grow slower, deeper, each one feeling more like a promise neither of us should be making...of something that feels dangerously permanent. Each press of his lips writes secrets against mine that taste like tomorrow and terror. Maybe the most beautiful moments in life are the ones we can't face, and the most precious lies are the ones we choose not to unravel.

Chapter 9: Things To Figure Out

Notes:

Last Yoongi POV chapter for a minute so wanted to send him out with a bang? lol

The worst thing about having both OCD and ADHD is how they fight in your brain like cats in a bag. The OCD demands perfect recall and organization of last night's... incident. Meanwhile, the ADHD keeps hyperfixating on random details like:

• The exact sound Jimin made when I pulled his hair
• The sensation of his fingers against my injury
• That thing he did with his tongue
• How moonlight turned his eyelashes silver

HYYH pt.2 needs final touches, but instead I'm making a comprehensive list of:

Things To Figure Out:

* Do I tilt my head left or right when I kiss him?
* Why were my hands shaking?
* That spot on his neck - was that just luck?
* How do people do this without overthinking every move?
* What if I mess this up?

"Hyung, you dead or what? I've been here for over a minute and you haven't moved. I can't tell if you're breathing."

I startle at Namjoon's deep voice, minimizing my...notes. He's leaning against the doorframe with a concerned expression.

"Just... thinking about the mix," I mutter, trying to look busy.

"You okay? You seem kind of out of it." He drops into my extra chair - the one Jimin usually... nope, not thinking about that. "We need these files by Friday."

I fight back my hackles. As if I'll ever be late. "I'm aware of our deadline."

"I know. I know. It's cool. It's just that you don't usually leave things this late." He frowns slightly. "And what's with the turtleneck? Are you coming down with something?"

I resist touching the marks hidden under the fabric. "Studio's cold."

"Bro, what? It's like seventy degrees in here." His frown deepens. "Maybe you should call it and get some rest. You look... flushed."

A knock on the doorframe makes me jump. Jimin stands there in a black tank top with delicate silver necklaces around his neck. Just the sight of him makes my cock twitch. He hesitates when he sees Namjoon.

"Oh... sorry if you're busy. I thought we were going to work on the vocal mixing..."

"Were we?" I say too quickly, while simultaneously wondering how effective these soundproof panels are.

My brain is not helpful.

"I mean, last night you said—" Jimin starts.

"Last night?" Namjoon looks between us, confused. "You were both here late?"

"Just... working on some things," I manage.

"Very important things," Jimin adds, and I hear the suppressed laughter in his voice even if Namjoon can't.

"Right..." Namjoon stands slowly. "Well, try to get some actual sleep tonight. We're too busy for anyone to get sick and both of you look... weird. And hyung? Friday deadline. Don't forget."

I'm torn between relief at his obliviousness and wanting to combust from Jimin's intense stare.

"I said don't worry," I snap, proud that my voice sounds like its usual grumpy self. "I'll get it done."

"If you need help staying focused..." Jimin offers innocently.

I swear to God, I'm going to die right here in this studio.

"Fine. I gotta check on Hobi." Namjoon stretches as he stands. "All that matters right now is Eat. Sleep. Deadline. I'm out."

"Such a good leader," Jimin says sweetly, waggling his fingers in farewell.

The moment Namjoon leaves, Jimin closes the door. His giggle is soft but the click of the latch feels impossibly loud. I swivel my chair back to the computer, pretending to be deeply invested in something. Anything.

"What's that?" Jimin asks, moving closer. "Things to Figure Out?"

Shit. I forgot to close that document completely.

"Work stuff," I mutter, minimizing it so fast I nearly break the mouse.

"Really?" He leans over my shoulder to look at the screen. I catch the faintest trace of lavender and shudder. Focus. "Because I saw the word kiss."

How does he sound so calm? Like this is all so fucking casual.

I fight the urge to bite my nails. "Why aren't you at practice, Brat?"

"Finished early." His breath ghosts against my ear. "Thought I'd help you... focus."

"Hajima," I grind out. "You heard Namjoon. I need to work."

"Mmm." His fingers trail along my shoulder, finding that spot where the motorcycle left its mark. "I know. You are so good at working, Hyung." He presses gently on the knot of tension in my shoulder and I bite back a groan. "Very thorough."

"Jimin-ah..." It comes out embarrassingly breathy.

He moves so fast I can't stop him, tapping the mouse and opening my notes on the screen. I squeeze my eyes shut. My tactic of pretending indifference isn't going to work.

There's a slight pause. A distant part of my still-functioning brain realizes that Jimin is reading everything I wrote.

"Hmmm. I especially liked the part about wondering if this would happen again." His other hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back slightly. "One night isn't enough."

There goes the last of my coherence. I might have blacked out.

He laughs softly against my skin. "Hands shaking is normal, hyung. If you want someone badly enough." My eyes are already falling shut as he tugs at my turtleneck, his lips brushing my neck where he already marked me. "You must have wanted me... pretty badly."

He spins my chair around, and suddenly he's straddling my lap, knees bracketing my hips. My hands automatically find his narrow waist, and I'm hit with memories of last night - how he felt pressed against me in the park, the sounds he made when I—

"Focus." He grins, rolling his hips slightly. "Focus on me."

"First, I hate you," I manage, but my fingers are already brushing his cheek, and we do nothing but gaze at each other. "Second, do you think I focus on anything else? Ever?"

The corner of his pretty mouth twitches. "Really?" He rocks forward again, slower this time, applying such light teasing pressure that I have to bite my lower lip to stay quiet. "You mean that genius brain thinks about more than just production notes?"

"Forget I said—" But then he slides his mouth over mine, silencing me before I can backtrack.

It's different from last night. Less desperate, more deliberate. He kisses me like he's teaching something - like he understands parts of me I'm only beginning to recognize. His tongue moves against mine in a slow, lazy rhythm as if we have endless time. As if we get to do this whenever we want.

My hands shake slightly as they explore his skin, but he catches them in his own, and something inside me settles at his touch, at how naturally he guides me. Each moment feels like discovering a language I've always known but never spoken. "Stop thinking so hard," he murmurs against my lips, and the gentleness in his voice makes my chest tight. "You're doing fine."

"But—"

"But nothing." He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. There's something devastatingly loving in his expression, wrapped around a quiet certainty that makes me want to melt into him. "Not everything can be controlled. Some things are better when you figure them out together." His thumb traces my lower lip, and I lean into his touch, surprised by how easy it is to let him lead.

In the studio, I'm the one who has to know - track arrangements, deadlines, every decision burning holes in my pockets. At home, I've got to be the son who proves chasing music wasn't just a massive mistake. To the underground scene, I'm the one who went idol and have to show I can still be authentic.

But here, with Jimin's hands steady on my skin, none of that matters. I don't have to know the next move or justify the last one. His touch offers something I didn't realize I needed - a moment where I just exist, where someone else carries the weight. It's dangerous, how much I want this. How easily he makes me forget why I shouldn't.

"You're always in your head," he murmurs. "Even now."

"Can't exactly turn it off." The words come out rougher than intended.

"Can't, or won't?" His voice is soft but there's an edge to it that makes my breath catch. "You spend so much time proving your worth."

"I…"

"But not here." He brushes his lips against my temple. "Not with me. You're enough."

I better not cry. "Jimin-ah..."

"I see how tired you are. Carrying so much pressure." His fingers trail down my neck, feather-light. "You don't have to, you know. Not all the time."

The truth of it burns in my throat. "I wouldn't even know where to start."

He presses his forehead to mine. "Maybe just... stay here with me. In this moment. Let go."

And god help me, I want to. Want to let his voice and his touch pull me under, get out of my head. Just for a little while.

"Yeah," I manage, the word barely a whisper. "Okay."

His smile shifts into something darker, something that makes heat pool in my stomach. "Tell me what you're thinking right now. Not what you should be thinking. What you are."

"I—" The words stick in my throat. Years of careful control warring with the way he makes me want to unravel. "I'm thinking I should be working. That there's a deadline. That we shouldn't—"

"That's what you should be thinking." His voice drops lower. "Try again."

I close my eyes, let out a shaky breath. "I'm thinking I don't want to be responsible right now. Don't want to make the calls or have the answers or—" My voice breaks.

"Look at me." The quiet command in his voice makes me shiver. When I meet his eyes, the intensity there steals my breath. "Let me give you something that's just for you."

"What if—" I swallow hard. "What if I get lost in it?"

His smile is gentle but knowing. "Then I'll find you."

And then he's kissing me again and all my rules about one night dissolve. His fingers card through my hair, angling my head just so, and oh god. I make a sound that should be embarrassing but he just swallows it with another kiss.

We should stop. We're in the studio. There's a deadline. Someone could— Jimin rolls his hips again and suddenly my jeans are too tight.

"Lock the door, Hyung," he orders softly. My body responds before my mind can catch up, already rising as he slides off my lap. He gives me a gentle push and my legs nearly buckle, overwhelmed by his quiet authority.

I stumble to the door, fingers trembling against the lock. The click echoes through the quiet studio, making my pulse jump. I reach back, needing to check again—and again—the familiar ritual both grounding and frantic. Jimin's warm fingers circle my wrist before I can go for a third time, pulling me away from my compulsion. For once, I let go.

"You've checked twice," he says softly. "We're alone."

"But what if—"

"Yoongi." Just my name. No honorific. It catches in my chest. "Look at me."

I do, but it's hard not to notice the contrast - his golden skin against my pallor, how the studio lights make me look even more washed out. He's so close I can see the subtle amber flecks in his eyes, count each eyelash. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it.

"We don't have to do anything," he murmurs. "We can just—"

"I want to," I interrupt. "I just... I've never... done much with anyone..."

"You said that last night." Understanding softens his expression. "Never?"

I shake my head, heat crawling up my neck. "Never had time. Or trusted anyone enough." Or felt worthy enough, but I don't say that part.

He brings my trembling hand to his lips, pressing gentle kisses to each knuckle. The tenderness makes my breath catch. "Thank you for trusting me."

When he kisses me, it's different from our desperate encounters in the park. This is deliberate, patient. He takes his time until I'm melting against him, all my nervousness dissolving into desire.

His fingers toy with the hem of my shirt. "Can I?"

I hesitate. The overhead lights are unforgiving. "Maybe we should turn them off—"

"No," he breathes against my neck. "Want to see you. All of you."

"I'm so..." Pale. Awkward. Untouched.

"Perfect," he finishes, and the conviction in his voice steals my breath. He pushes the fabric up slowly, reverently, like he's unwrapping something precious. The cool air makes me shiver. Or maybe it's the way he's looking at me.

His hands explore every inch of exposed skin like he's memorizing me by touch. Each caress leaves fire in its wake, but it's his expression that undoes me - like he's seeing something beautiful instead of my pale, awkward form.

"You're thinking too hard again," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my sternum. "I can hear you worrying."

"I just..." I swallow hard. "The lights..."

"I love seeing you." He takes one of my nipples into his mouth, gently grazing his teeth on my sensitive skin before giving it a light suck. "I love showing you things."

Something in me fractures at the tenderness in his touch. My hands find his waist, uncertain but wanting. "What else do you want to show me?"

The smile he gives me is devastating. "This," he whispers, and then he's guiding my fingers under his shirt, teaching me how to touch him. Each gasp, each tiny shiver is a revelation. I catalog every reaction—the way he writhes when I skim his ribs, the soft hiss when I play with his left nipple, more sensitive than the right.

When his hands drift lower, toying with my buckle, a whimper escapes before I can trap it behind my teeth. My heart slams against my ribs, each thundering beat a drum of trust and terror and need. He freezes, those dark eyes capturing mine, burning with a tenderness that tears the breath from my lungs. The question hangs unspoken in the charged air between us. My nod is barely perceptible, but he catches it - he catches everything. His patience is devastating, each deliberate movement an exquisite torment, as if I'm something wild he's determined to tame.

The flash of his tongue as he wets his palm sends electricity down my spine, leaving me dizzy with want. And then, he's. . .fuck. .. he's there. Right there. Taking hold of me. Every time I tense, uncertainty threatening to drown me, he's there with whispered promises that slip beneath my skin like smoke.

"You're bigger than I imagined," he murmurs.

He imagined me? The thought crackles through me like lightning. "Nah. Your hands are just small."

He giggles his perfect laugh again and his reverent strokes strip away my defenses until I'm shaking in his grip, but not from fear. It's the way he sees through me, wants all of me, that wrecks me. How he can make me feel precious and desired simultaneously.

"Beautiful," he whispers, running his thumb around my tip, spreading the wetness gathering there. "So perfect for me."

My own hands shake as I reach beneath the elastic of his athletic pants and learn him in return, nerves warring with need. He steadies me with quiet words that cut through the chaos in my head, building my confidence even as they wreck me. His guidance strips me bare - this vulnerable intimacy I never expected. I've done this alone countless times, but nothing prepared me for his heat, or how warm and velvet-soft yet hard he feels, or how his hitched breaths punch through me. The sounds he makes are devastating, each one burning into my memory. I want to bottle them up, hoard them like secrets, proof that I can make someone feel this good.

There's a moment where everything crystallizes - foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air, both trembling with the weight of this connection. The world narrows to just us, just this, just now.

"I never thought-" I start.

"I know," he finishes, voice rough. "Me neither."

The intimacy catches in both our throats. We're mirror images of overwhelmed emotion, each touch reverent and wondering. His hands shake just like mine - it hits me then how we're both equally undone.

"Jimin-ah," breaks from my lips just as he whispers my name, making us both huff quiet laughs that quickly fade to awe. Everything feels raw, exposed, like we've cracked open our ribcages to show each other our hearts.

"I've got you," he promises, and I echo it back: "I've got you too." The words feel sacred in the quiet between us. His eyes are wide, vulnerable, reflecting everything I'm feeling.

"I've been waiting so long–" he starts.

"For this?" I finish, voice cracking on the words, already knowing his answer will break me.

"For you," he corrects, and fuck- the way he says it punches straight through my chest, rips me open. "Just you. It's always been you, you stubborn bastard."

Every sound that tears from his throat hits me like a physical thing, resonating in places I didn't even know could feel. We're like two raw nerves exposed to the same current, everything too much and not enough. When our eyes meet, the whole fucking world goes sideways - time splintering apart, struggling to piece itself back together, then shattering again because how can anything make sense when he's looking at me like that?

In this moment, I finally understand why I've spent years hiding behind my computers and beats, writing love songs I thought were lies. Because this - this terrifying, overwhelming thing between us - this is what I've been running from. This is what I've been searching for. This is what's going to destroy me, and god help me, I want it to.

His forehead presses harder against mine. "I think I'm-"

The confession punches the air from my lungs. "Me too," I gasp, heart thundering. "Fuck, me too. You're too good."

He shivers, a full-body tremor that fascinates me. His eyes are dark, cheeks flushed.

"You like that?" I whisper, watching his reaction. "When I say how good you are?"

"Hyung..." His voice breaks beautifully.

"You are though." I'm bolder now. "So patient. So good. Teaching me everything so perfectly."

He makes a soft, broken sound that shoots straight through me. His hands tighten on my waist

"You take care of me," I continue, voice low. "Know exactly how to touch me. How to make me feel safe."

He's trembling now, pupils blown wide. I didn't expect this - how my words affect him, how beautiful he looks coming undone from praise alone.

"You're fucking incredible," I rasp against his mouth, voice wrecked and desperate. "So goddamn perfect it hurts to look at you sometimes. The way you move, the way you just... exist. My Jimin-ah..." The possessive pronoun slips out before I can catch it, raw and honest and terrifying.

He goes completely still, muscles tensing under my hands. "Yours?" His voice cracks on the word, like he can't quite believe what he's hearing, like he's afraid to hope.

"Mine," I growl, and it comes out like a prayer, like a confession, like every secret I've ever tried to keep. The truth of it burns in my throat, sets fire to everything I thought I knew about myself.

And with that we shudder together, finishing something that we're only just starting.

When I kiss him again, he's pliant under my mouth, letting me take control for the first time tonight. It's a heady feeling, discovering this power to unravel him with just words.

The sun will rise soon. We'll have to face reality - practice, schedules, pretending. But for now, in the quiet dark of my studio with the taste of him on my lips, I let myself believe in impossible things.

"Thank you," I choke out against his collarbone, voice rough with everything I can't say, lips pressed to his sweat-slick skin like I'm trying to brand my gratitude there.

"For what?" His fingers tangle in my hair, gentle even now, and fuck- it makes my eyes burn.

For teaching me how to be touched without flinching. For seeing past all my sharp edges and defensive bullshit. For making me feel like maybe I'm not too broken to be loved. For showing me that vulnerability isn't weakness. For being the first person I've ever trusted enough to let see me fall apart.

"Everything," I manage instead, the word coming out wet and shattered. "Just- fucking everything. You don't know what you-" My voice breaks completely and I press my face harder against him, breathing in the scent of his skin, trying to memorize this moment in case it's all I get to keep. "You don't know what you do to me."

His arms tighten around me and we stay like that, tangled together, neither of us ready to let go just yet.

Chapter 10: Playing the Game

Notes:

Back to Jimin POV...

The company cameras will catch their clickbait gold for this Bangtan Bomb: Park Jimin, professional cheerleader, glowing with brotherly enthusiasm from the sidelines. I volunteered for this K-pop basketball game, shocking our staff - because normally I'd rather organize my sock drawer than watch sportsball. But here I am, fingernails carving crescents into my sweating palms, throat raw from holding my breath every time Yoongi moves.

And God, how he moves.

Like bottled lightning, all coiled power and precision, sneakers squeaking against polished hardwood as he slips through gaps between players who could use him as an armrest. The fluorescent lights catch his bleached hair, turning each droplet of sweat into starfire against pale skin. He scores again and again. And his cocky private grin makes me crazy.

Pre-debut when he first picked his stage name - "Suga, like Shooting Guard. Used to dream of the NBA" - in that deep voice, I'd laughed outright. Because really? We're both fun-sized on a good day, barely clearing 173cm. The glare he'd given me could have frozen hell.

But then I saw him with the ball - spinning it on one finger like it was tethered by invisible string, rolling it across his shoulders, making it dance between his hands like he'd learned basketball from street magicians instead of courts. Those precise fingers release the ball in perfect arcs, the net whispering victory. Then who was laughing? Just karma, at me, watching him turn this PR stunt into performance art that has my heart forgetting how to beat.

"Having fun?" The cameraman – Dongwoo – settles his equipment beside me. His presence is familiar after years of filming our behind-the-scenes content.

"I love it." I keep my smile media-perfect, even as my eyes track Yoongi's movement across the court.

My phone buzzes with a text from Taehyung: "Jiminie~ Where are you? I'm bored and the dorm is empty 😭"

I type back quickly: "At a basketball game."

"??????? Since when do you watch basketball???" Is this for Yoongi-hyung??????"

I ignore the message, watching instead as Yoongi sinks another perfect shot. I'm used to wanting – it's never been complicated before. A calculated smile, a brush of fingers, the simple mathematics of mutual desire. I've never denied myself when pleasure was freely given. Gender was irrelevant; attraction was a clean equation. Keep your heart vacuum-sealed and take what you need.

But this is watching him command the court like he owns it, all sharp edges and fluid grace. This is seeing him in late night practice rooms when he thinks no one's watching, that same focused expression. This is remembering his hands on piano keys the first time I saw him compose, the same precise control he shows now with the ball. This isn't about wanting his body. This is about wanting the fierce joy in his eyes when he scores, wanting the way he burns for everything he loves.

Wanting to be something he burns for.

"MIN YOONGI!" The shout leaves my lips before I can stop it, raw and perhaps too revealing. I watch him freeze for a split second, his ears turning red as he deliberately takes the long way around the court to avoid passing near me. His teammates laugh, clearly amused by his reaction, but the distance he maintains feels like a physical ache.

"Got some lungs on you," Dongwoo chuckles, adjusting his camera.

"All that dance training," I say lightly, but my chest feels tight. Because across the court, one of Yoongi's teammates waves to a pretty long-haired girl in the bleachers-both of them laughing at something private. Must be a girlfriend. She can kiss him on the street, can stand by his side proudly. Meanwhile, I'm calculating the exact distance I need to maintain, how to make my support look friendly but not too friendly, how to hide the way my hands shake with the need to touch him.

Another text from Taehyung: "I'm just saying... you never watch ME play anything 😭. He must look cute in his uniform though."

"Yah, don't be weird," I text back, but my throat catches because yes, god yes, he looks good. The red jersey makes his pale skin glow, his bleached hair falling in his eyes, his whole body radiating that quiet intensity. That control I got to unravel just once, two weeks ago when he finally let me in. When he shook apart under my hands before pulling away like he'd been burned.

Now it's careful distance punctuated by moments when I catch him watching me with dark eyes that say he wants more. But Yoongi's always been like this - one step forward, two steps back, letting me close enough to taste before retreating.

Each minute of the final quarter is torture. Yoongi's team leads, but the score is meaningless. All I see is the memory of how beautifully he broke for me. Just once, when he gasped my name before the walls came up, before he started dodging me. And still I'm here, taking these moments of watching him shine–just like his name promises–because even this is better than nothing.

My phone lights up: "Why do you keep going quiet... Is hyung that distracting? You know what they say about Daegu boys..."

If only Taehyung knew. If only anyone knew how badly I'm pretending. I've spent years perfecting the art of casual - taking what's offered freely and walking away whole. It's a dance I know by heart: no strings, no complications, two people scratching an itch before moving on. Simple. Clean. Safe.

But with Yoongi... every touch feels like free-falling. I want to be the one he lets stay. I want him to look at me and choose me. And I have no idea how to ask for that when we can't even talk about that night without him shutting down.

I've been the perfect supportive member all game - jumping up at every shot, making sure to catch the camera's eye with proud smiles, shouting encouragement that makes the fans coo. It's not fake. How could it be, watching him own the court like he was born for it?

"They seem like a good team," Dongwoo comments, adjusting his camera angle. "Especially Suga-ssi. Didn't expect that kind of skill from..."

"From someone our size?" I finish, voice bright with practiced cheer. The cameraman laughs.

"You said it, not me. He's lucky to have such an enthusiastic cheerleader."

I force my smile wider. If only he knew.

Behind us, I catch fragments of whispered conversation from the crowd. "Suga-oppa is so cool..." "Did you see that last shot?" "He looks so good in that jersey..." I maintain my encouraging expression even as my jaw clenches. These girls can openly admire him, even if from afar. Can wear their want like a badge. Mine has to stay buried under layers of "just members" and "close friends."

"Mmm," I hum, because I've lost my grip on the performance. My eyes are stuck on one player, one movement. One constant ache.

The final buzzer sounds, and Yoongi's team erupts in celebration. Below, I see a few players and their girlfriends share quiet moments - a head nod here, a soft smile there, the kind of subtle affection that flies under the radar but speaks volumes. Nothing showy, but real. Present. My chest tightens. Yoongi won't even glance my way.

I run a hand through my orange hair, suddenly too aware of how we must look - me with my bright colors and heart on my sleeve, him with his careful restraint and walls built high. Even now, as his teammates celebrate around him, he maintains that precise distance. I watch him accept congratulations with small nods, watch how he navigates the crowd without letting anyone too close. Would it kill him to meet my eyes? To let me see if what happened that night meant anything at all?

"That's a wrap," Dongwoo says, lowering his camera. "You went quiet there at the end, Jimin-ssi. Lost your cheerleader energy?"

I manage a laugh that sounds hollow even to my ears. "Just tired. Late practice yesterday."

Late practice where Yoongi had slipped out the moment I walked in, mumbling something about finished lyrics and early mornings. As if we haven't both pulled countless all-nighters in that studio before. As if this awkward dance isn't more exhausting than any choreography.

I wonder what Dongwoo caught on film. Wonder if anyone watching will be able to see how I was coming out of my skin, how my eyes tracked Yoongi's every move at the end.

Of course another set of idol duties awaits now - passing out medals with my brightest smile painted on. Just what I need right now.

"Jimin-ssi," our manager waves me over. "Let's get you set up."

"Coming," I call, my voice pitched to carry. I catch Yoongi watching before he turns away, his hand rising to rub at the back of his neck. That nervous self-soothing tell that I discovered months ago.

I paste on my brightest smile and take my position. The teams line up, and I force myself to look at each player equally as I drape medals around their necks. My hands don't shake. My smile doesn't waver. I'm good at this - at making everyone feel special while feeling nothing myself.

"Nicely done today," I tell one player.

"Great game," to another.

"You really shone out there."

But then Yoongi steps forward, and my carefully constructed composure threatens to crack. This close, I can see the sweat beading at his temples, the way his chest still rises and falls with exertion. Can smell the familiar mix of his cologne and skin that haunts my dreams.

"Congratulations, hyung," I say, voice steady even as my heart hammers.

"Thanks," he murmurs, not quite meeting my eyes. His hand twitches toward his neck again before he catches himself.

"You played well." I reach up to place the medal around his neck, letting my fingers brush his skin. "Really well."

His eyes snap to mine, dark and unreadable. "Jimin-ah..."

"Yes, hyung?"

But he just shakes his head slightly, steps back. "Thanks for coming. You didn't have to."

Like I'm any other friend. Like that night never happened. Like I don't know exactly how he sounds when he comes apart.

The frustration and want that surge through me are almost dizzying in their intensity. Fine. If he wants to play it cool, I can play too. I've spent years perfecting my bright, untouchable image. But I've never wanted someone to break through it quite like this.

The drive back to Hannam stretches forever. I'm hyper-aware of Yoongi beside me in the backseat, his thigh inches from mine as our manager navigates evening traffic. I pull out my phone.

You still can't look at me properly?

I watch his hand twitch toward his neck before reaching for his phone.

Eyes forward. Staff.

They can't read minds. Can't see how much I want to touch you right now

His breath catches audibly. The cameraman glances back and Yoongi coughs to cover it.

Dangerous, Jimin-ah

I think you secretly like dangerous. Just like you secretly like me.

He shifts in his seat, fingers white-knuckled around his phone.

You're playing with fire

Good thing I'm not scared of burning. Because I've been burning since I saw you on that court. The way you move...

His ears turn pink. I love those ears.

Stop

Make me. Oh wait, you can't. Not here. Not with everyone watching

I watch him type and delete three times before:

Later. I want to see you.

Victory floods my veins.

Promise?

His sigh is heavy. Like this is inevitable. Like we are inevitable.

Jin's out for the weekend. Fishing with his dad. I have my room to myself.

How convenient. Almost like you planned it

Shut up

Make me, hyung

You have a big mouth, Brat

Means I can fit a lot in it. Want to see?

He actually gasps this time, covering it with a cough. Our manager turns up the radio.

You're going to get us caught

Worth it to see you squirm. To watch your hands shake. I remember what those hands felt like on me.

His response takes longer this time. I watch him struggle to keep his breathing even.

Two weeks is too long. Even if you are really the biggest fucking brat.

The admission makes heat pool in my stomach.

Then don't make me wait longer

His whole body tenses beside me.

What happened to taking it slow?

Flew out the window when I saw you in those shorts. I have a thing for your knees.

I don't think he is breathing. I press my advantage.

I loved watching you own that court

It made me crazy to stand close enough to smell your skin and not touch

A sharp inhale.

Five minutes until we are back Hannam

Better make it count, Hyung. Tell me what you want. What makes you crazy?

The tips of his ears are scarlet now.

You know.

I know. Say it.

You

A pause.

Always you

Triumph surges through me. I've won this round.

Then have me

"Almost there," our manager announces as we turn into Hannam. "Good work today, everyone."

I watch Yoongi's hands tighten on his phone. Meet you in a half hour? I just want to wash up first.

Can I join you?

He coughs again.

"You feeling okay?" Manager-nim eyeballs him in the rearview mirror with a concerned frown. "I can have medicine ordered in."

"I'm fine." Yoongi's voice cracks on the second word. "Just the fine dust."

K. Come. Shower with me. But remember, we just can't make it obvious.

Tell me something I don't know.

We maintain perfect distance as we exit the car, bowing to staff, walking slightly apart up to the lobby. But as soon as the elevator doors close Yoongi's composure cracks. He fists my shirt and has me up against the wall and everything is tongue and teeth and sharp hitched breaths. I gasp as he licks and sucks his way to my neck, to the sensitive spot he knows already. He is just starting to grind when the floor chime dings and we tumble out, mussed, puffy-lipped and panting. And that's when we hear it - Jin's unmistakable laugh from up the hall, inside the bedroom.

We don't look at each other. We just quickly walk to the open door.

Yoongi freezes. "Jin-hyung? Why are you here?"

"Yah, Yoongi-yah!" Jin's sprawled on his bed in a matching pajama set, gaming controller in hand. "My dad had a work emergency and had to reschedule. Come help me beat this level!"

I watch the walls slam back up in Yoongi's eyes, even as his hand rises to rub his neck. The gesture makes my chest ache.

"Jimin-ah..." he starts.

"It's fine," I say quickly, even though nothing about this feels fine. "Another time."

But as I turn away, my phone buzzes:

Tomorrow. My studio. Late.

It's not enough. But with Yoongi, I'm learning to take what I can get.

Chapter 11: Happy Birthday

Notes:

Some hard moments are coming (December 2015 was rough for Yoongi)...so here is a happier moment first. Fighting!

I'm riding the sugar high from the cake when the staff switches off the last camera from the Vlive. My fingers are sticky-sweet, and I can't stop grinning. There's something about birthdays with Bangtan that feels like autumn leaves caught in a breeze - everyone swirling around at once, bright and warm.

"Ya, our Jiminnie!" Jin-hyung announces for probably the tenth time today, reaching over to pinch my cheeks. I dodge, but he's faster than he looks - a skill honed through years of terrorizing dongsaengs. "Look how far you've come since trainee days."

"Even cuter though," Taehyung drawls from where he's sprawled on the floor, head resting on Jungkook's leg like a particularly lanky house cat. Our maknae is performing what can only be described as an excavation of his plate, trying to scrape every last molecule of frosting while simultaneously filming something on his phone. The kid has priorities, I'll give him that.

"Jiminah!" Hobi-hyung calls out, with the kind of broad smile that means he's about to suggest something that will end with all of us sprawled somewhere before dawn wondering how we got there. "Let's go get meat! I know this new great place—"

"Get meat! Get meat!" Taehyung starts chanting, and Jungkook immediately joins in, abandoning his frosting for the promise of protein. The two of them are practically bouncing, shoulders brushing, sharing those quick glances they always do when they're excited about something together. The way Jungkook's eyes linger on Taehyung's smile is subtle, but I catch it - just like I catch how Taehyung's hand automatically finds Jungkook's sleeve, tugging him closer as they chant.

These little moments between them - they're like watching a secret language I'm not meant to fully understand. But I recognize it all the same, maybe because I have my own unspoken things to hide.

"Hyung," Jungkook whines at Jin, while Taehyung nods enthusiastically beside him, their shoulders still pressed together. "Please? We're hungry."

And then there's Yoongi.

And Yoongi in ripped skinny jeans should be illegal. He's standing awkwardly by the mirror, the green jacket hanging loose over his white shirt like he's trying to hide in plain sight, beanie pulled low in that way he does when he's feeling particularly seen. He keeps shifting his weight from one foot to the other, pretending not to listen while actually listening to everything, and it's so painfully, perfectly him that my heart does a complicated little dance in my chest.

"Aish! Our Jiminie's growing up so fast," Namjoon sighs dramatically, because Kim Namjoon has never met a moment he couldn't make into impromptu theatre. "Soon he'll be like Yoongi-hyung, all serious and—"

"Ya!" Yoongi protests, but his ear lobe is turning red beneath the beanie, and there's something about the way he ducks his head that makes me want to collect every single one of his small, shy gestures and keep them safe somewhere. "I'm not that serious."

"Says the man who spent three hours yesterday explaining to me why the bass line in your new track had to be exactly that frequency," Hobi teases, and the thing is - the thing is - I know exactly which track he's talking about, because Yoongi played it for me first, eyes bright with that specific spark he gets when the music is flowing just right.

As the others start gathering their things - Jungkook still filming, Taehyung now trying to convince Jin-hyung to buy him ice cream instead, Namjoon mediating some debate between Hobi and Jin about whose turn it is to treat - I bow to the staff, thanking them for the cake. One of them smiles and gestures toward Yoongi. "Thank him - he's the one who picked it out. That's why we had him bring it in."

I turn to Yoongi, catching how his ears go even redder under the beanie. My heart does this ridiculous little skip that I hope doesn't show on my face. "Really, hyung?" My puffer jacket suddenly feels too warm. "I'll have to return the favor for your birthday."

His eyes meet mine for just a second before darting away. "It's just a vanilla cake," he mumbles, but I see the way his fingers fidget with his jacket zipper - a tell I've learned to read like sheet music.

"Just cake that took him twenty minutes to choose," one of the coordi noonas adds with a knowing smile. "He was very specific about the texture."

"Very bossy," another adds, rolling her eyes in mock annoyance.

"Yah... Noonas!" Yoongi protests, and now even his neck is turning red.

"You all go ahead and text me the location," I say to the members, adjusting my white t-shirt where it's bunched under my jacket. "Think I'll practice a bit first, work off some of this sugar rush."

I make sure to sound casual, like it's just another normal night, even as Taehyung and Jungkook exchange a doubtful look. They know me well enough to know I never pass up meat, but they're too caught up in their own world to question it.

"Don't stay too late," Jin-hyung says, but he's already being pulled toward the door by an enthusiastic Hobi. I know they'll text me the restaurant details, and I know I'll never show up. But some lies are necessary, even with family.

"I have some tracks to finish," Yoongi adds quietly, still not looking at anyone directly.

Nobody questions it further - they're used to us both keeping workaholic schedules. The best cover stories are always the ones that are true. My phone buzzes as I head for the door: Five minutes behind you.

I bite my lip to hide my smile as I type back: Counting the seconds, hyung.

When I get to Yoongi's studio, I look around before entering, and the coast is clear. The room smells like coffee and that specific warmth of equipment that's been running all day. His last session is still up on the monitors, some melody I don't recognize yet. His notebook is open on the desk, margins filled with his cramped handwriting.

I shrug off my puffer jacket, draping it over the spare chair. My phone lights up: 4 minutes. Namjoon caught me with lyrics questions for RUN.

3 minutes. Save some energy

The update makes my stomach flip. I spin slowly in his chair, taking in the familiar space that somehow feels different tonight. There's a new Post-it on his monitor I haven't seen before, my name scrawled next to what looks like notation marks.

2 minutes. Almost free.

I get up, unable to sit still. The room feels smaller suddenly, charged with possibility. I trace my fingers along the edge of his desk, past empty coffee cups and scattered lyrics sheets, wondering how many of these words were written while thinking of—

1 minute. Don't touch my stuff, I can feel you rearranging things from here.

I laugh, pulling my hand back guiltily from where I was absolutely about to organize his pens.

And then I hear it - those quiet footsteps in the hallway, the slight pause outside the door. My heart speeds up as the handle turns.

Yoongi slips in like a shadow, barely making a sound as he closes the door behind him. He's taken off the green jacket somewhere between the practice room and here, white shirt making him look softer somehow. The beanie's still pulled low, but I can see how red his ears still are.

"Hi," he says quietly, hands shoved in the pockets of those ripped jeans, shoulders slightly hunched like he's trying to make himself smaller.

"Hi," I echo, suddenly unsure what to do with my own hands. This shouldn't feel different - it's just Yoongi, just us in his studio like a hundred times before. Except nothing about this feels like before.

"The cake," he starts, then stops. His throat works for a moment. "Was it okay?"

"You know it was," I say, taking half a step closer. "It was perfect."

He ducks his head, but I catch the smile he's trying to hide. "Just wanted it to be..." he trails off, then seems to gather himself. "Since everyone was watching."

"Right," I say softly. "Because everyone was watching."

The air feels thick between us, charged with everything we're not saying. Yoongi shifts his weight from one foot to the other, a nervous habit I've memorized by now. His eyes meet mine for a second before darting away again.

"Jimin-ah," he starts, voice barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?" My voice comes out just as quiet. I notice how he's angled himself slightly - not quite facing me head-on but not turned away either, like we're both orbiting something we can't name.

He hooks one thumb in his belt loop, a gesture I've seen him do during hundreds of broadcasts.

"I..." he starts, then that thumb tightens on his belt loop. There's a smudge of frosting on his sleeve that he hasn't noticed, probably from carrying in the cake. Something about that detail makes my chest tight.

"You..." I shift my weight, and my shoe squeaks against the floor - that specific sound of practice room floors that usually drives him crazy. But he doesn't flinch, doesn't even seem to hear it. He swallows, and I catch sight of the small mole near his nose that usually gets covered with makeup.

The silence stretches between us, but it's not awkward. It's like the moment in dance practice when everyone freezes at the end of a sequence, holding the final pose, waiting for something to break.

He shifts again, and his belt loop pulls slightly under his thumb. The movement draws my attention to how his other hand is hovering, not quite touching his own chest like he's about to smooth down a shirt that isn't wrinkled.

"I'm serious that I’ll get you a cake too," I say suddenly, surprising us both. "When it's your birthday. I'll make sure—"

"Jimin-ah," he interrupts, and his voice has that specific roughness it gets when it's just the two of us.

His thumb releases the belt loop. His hand moves like he might reach out, then stops, suspended in the space between us. And that's what finally does it - that aborted gesture, so careful, so Yoongi.

I step forward - one small step that feels huge - and reach up slowly. Not to touch him, not yet, but to fix his beanie. His breath catches audibly as my fingers brush the fabric, adjusting it back to where it should be. I let my hand linger, just for a moment, near his temple.

His eyes are wide now, pupils dark. That suspended hand of his twitches, like he's fighting some internal battle. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, see the way his chest rises and falls too quickly.

His hand finally moves, catching the edge of my t-shirt - not pulling, just holding, like he needs something to ground himself. His thumb brushes against the fabric in a way that feels almost accidental, except nothing about Yoongi is ever really accidental.

"I want—" he starts, voice rough. He swallows hard, and I watch the movement in his throat. "Ah, I—"

The studio air feels electric when his fingertips brush up my arm, feather-light but deliberate. His other hand is still twisted in my shirt, and when I lean closer, his grip tightens just slightly. The room feels smaller suddenly, the usual hum of equipment fading to background noise beneath the sound of our breathing.

"I've been wanting to try something," he whispers, and I freeze, watching as something new flickers across his face. His eyes have gone darker, more intense. "I want to give you..." The tips of his ears are burning red now, but there's a determination in his expression I've never seen before - not quite like his studio focus, not quite like his stage presence. Something just for me.

I knot my brows and cock my head, puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

"Rather show you." His free hand finds my waist, tugging me closer with a suddenness that makes my breath catch. When he kisses me this time, it's different - deeper, with an intent that makes my knees weak.

"The door," I manage to get out when he starts kissing down my neck. "Is it..."

"Locked," he breathes against my skin. "Already. I always..." He doesn't finish the thought, but his meaning is clear - he's thought about this before. Has imagined this moment, just like I have.

His hands are steadier now as they move with purpose, each touch deliberate. Like producing, like performing - when Yoongi commits to something, he gives it everything. The thought makes me dizzy. His fingers find the hem of my shirt, hesitating there like a question.

In answer, I pull him closer, swallowing his surprised gasp with another kiss. His beanie finally falls off completely, but neither of us moves to retrieve it. His hair is soft between my fingers, and when I tug gently, he makes that sound again - the one I'm quickly becoming addicted to.

"Trust me?" he murmurs, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. His hair is a mess, lips red, but his gaze is intense, focused. Waiting for my answer. One hand cups my face while the other slides lower, his touch growing more confident.

"Always," I whisper, and watch his eyes darken further.

He smiles then, soft and sure, before leaning in to kiss me again. This one feels like a promise of what's to come. When he starts walking me backward toward the studio couch, his movements are deliberate, certain. Like this was inevitable. Like we've both been waiting for exactly this moment.

The studio couch isn't really made for this - it's seen too many late-night producing sessions, too many quick naps between recordings. But right now it feels like the most important place in the world as Yoongi guides me down onto it. His hands have stopped shaking, but his eyes still hold that mix of intensity and vulnerability that makes my heart race.

"Been thinking about this," he murmurs against my neck, and the confession sends heat down my spine. "I... I want you in my mouth."

"Wait?" I freeze, not sure I heard him right, knowing I did. "Are you serious?"

His weight settles over me, solid and real. His face is dead serious and the leather creaks slightly as he shifts. Somehow that small sound makes everything feel more immediate, more real. This is really happening.

He nods once. "Been wanting to try."

He has?

"For how long?" I manage to ask, sliding my hands under his shirt and up his back. He shivers at my touch.

"Too long," he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at me properly. His hair is a mess from where I've been running my fingers through it. He's never looked more beautiful. "Will you let me, you know, um, try?"

"By all means?" I huff out a laugh. I'm already so hard I could break something. "But go slow."

"I won't hurt you." His response is fierce.

"I know." I pull him down for another kiss, trying to pour everything I can't say into it. His response is immediate, desperate.

Time becomes liquid, measured only in touches and breaths. "You're shaking again," I murmur, touching his face. Despite his confidence, I can feel the tremor in his body.

"Course I am. Because it's you," he says simply, with that raw honesty he usually only shows in his music. His eyes are so dark now, pupils blown wide. "Want this to be good."

"I know the feeling," I whisper back. "I always want to blow your mind."

He moves down between my legs, spreading my thighs open to slot between them. "Jimin-ah," he breathes as he reaches for my belt, and there's a question in it. Permission, confirmation, need.

"Yes," I tell him, arching up. "Yes, hyung. Please. Please. Hurry."

His answering smile is beautiful and devastating. When he moves to give me what we've both been wanting, the world narrows to just this - his touch, his voice, the way he makes me feel precious and wanted and whole.

He takes me out into his hand, each movement deliberate as a brushstroke.

"God," he breathes against my neck, and it really sounds like a prayer. "How are you so perfect...How are you so…” The rest of his words dissolve into a gasp as I arch up against him. His hands tighten their grip, leaving marks I'll find later, remembering this moment. "How do I want you so bad?" he breathes against my neck, finding that sweet spot he discovered that makes me dig my fingers into his shoulders.

"Please. Please." I whisper. I think I'm begging. "You have to now." And his response is immediate. He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and intense. Checking, always checking, even though we both know where this is going.

His hands move to the hem of my shirt, questioning. When I nod, he helps me out of it with shaking fingers. The studio air is cool on my bare skin, but his touch burns everywhere it lands. He looks at me like he's seeing something precious, something he can't quite believe is real.

"You're so..." he starts, voice rough. His thumbs trace patterns on my six-pack, making me shiver. "I'm serious. Are you sure? This is really okay?"

Instead of answering, I pull him down into a kiss. Our teeth knock. It's deeper than our usual ones, messier, more desperate. His body settles more fully against mine, and the weight of him, the heat of him, makes me dizzy with want.

His hands grow bolder, mapping new territory with growing confidence. Each touch draws sounds from me that would be embarrassing if this were anyone else. But this is Yoongi - who's seen me at my best and worst, who knows all my sharp edges and soft spots, who looks at me like I'm something extraordinary.

When he starts trailing kisses down my neck, my chest, I thread my fingers through his hair, and the memory of him carrying in my birthday cake feels like it happened in another lifetime.

"Been thinking about this," he murmurs against my skin. "About having you like this."

My laugh turns into a gasp as his hands find new sensitive spots. "Is that why you've been distracted today?"

He nips at my collarbone in retaliation. "Like you've been any better. I saw how you were watching me today."

"Can't help it," I admit, arching up as his fingers trace lower. "Not when you look like that in those jeans. Cute and sexy."

His responding groan vibrates against my chest. His movements become more focused, more intense, but still so careful - like he's afraid to break whatever's building between us. Like this next step matters.

"Wanna taste you," he rumbles against my skin. "Can I?"

Oh. My. God.

I nod, unable to form words as he moves with purpose. My fingers thread through his hair as he works his way down my body with careful attention. The tenderness in his touch makes my heart ache even as heat pools in my stomach.

The dim studio light catches the curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. When he reaches his destination, my head falls back against the couch. Through half-closed eyes, I watch the monitors go dark as they time out, leaving us in the soft glow of the desk lamp.

I can't believe this is happening. He takes his time, kissing me there first, learning what makes me gasp—licking the underside of my head—what makes me arch up against his hands—when he makes it wet and sloppy. The careful precision he usually saves for producing is now focused entirely on me, on drawing out sounds I didn't know I could make.

"I don't believe you've never done this," I choke out, rocking deeper.

He pulls back long enough to say, "What do I keep telling you? I'm a genius."

The leather couch creaks beneath us as I shift, pressing my feet down to seek more purchase. Fuck. I hit the back of his throat. I might die. Right here. Like this. But then one of his hands slides up my chest, finding mine and interlacing our fingers. That simple point of connection grounds me as everything else starts to blur at the edges.

He pulls back slightly, replacing his mouth with clever fingers while he watches my face. "Good?" he asks, his deep voice is somehow even deeper.

"The best," I manage to gasp. "I love it... I love..." My hitched moan finishes my sentence.

His eyes darken. His movements become more focused, more intense until all I can hear is our breathing, the deep hums he makes when I react particularly strongly to something he does. And then there are the other sounds, the wetness, his breathing. His thumb traces circles on my hip, soothing, even as his mouth works me closer to the edge.

"Careful, I'm close," I warn him, tugging slightly at his hair. But he just looks up at me through his lashes and redoubles his efforts. The sight of him like this – so focused, so... so hungry – undoes me.

I fall apart, and he works me through it gently, his hand still clasped in mine, taking everything I give. As I come down, trembling, he presses soft kisses to each of my hipbones, across my trembling stomach, making his way back up my body.

"Beautiful," he murmurs against my chest, right over my racing heart. "How are you so fucking pretty, Jimin-ah?"

I love this Yoongi. The one who babbles these sweet nothings over me in the dark.

I pull him up for a kiss, tasting myself on his tongue. His body settles over mine, solid and warm, and I can feel how affected he is. When I reach between us to return the favor, he catches my wrist. "No. That was just for you tonight." He suddenly seems nervous again, shifting against me. "Wait," he murmurs, reaching for a sweatshirt draped over the armrest. "I have something else. Another present."

"The cake wasn't enough? What you just did wasn't enough. You are spoiling me, hyung." I'm practically purring. And I really love being spoiled.

"This is different." He fumbles in his pocket, movements uncharacteristically clumsy. "It's okay if you don't like it. You won't hurt my feelings."

When he finally pulls out the small box, my heart stops. He won't meet my eyes as he opens it, revealing a simple silver band. No decorations, no embellishments - just clean lines and quiet elegance. So perfectly Yoongi that it makes my chest ache.

"It's not... I mean, it's just..." He swallows hard. "Something to remind you. Of this. Of us."

My fingers shake slightly as I touch it. "You bought me a ring?"

He ducks his head, but I can see his ears turning red again. "It's not a big deal..." He trails off, then gathers himself. "But, uh, will you wear it?"

Instead of answering, I hold out my hand. His fingers tremble as he slides the ring on, but his eyes are sure when they meet mine.

"Perfect fit," I whisper, tilting my face up to kiss him.

"Let me look at you first," he breathes, cupping my face. "Just... let me always remember you like this."

Chapter 12: Japan

The winter wind in Kobe bites at my skin as I hurry into the arena. December 27th. Our second Japan concert date at World Hall for The Most Beautiful Moments in Life On Stage. It's been thirteen days since I've last been alone with Yoongi. Thirteen days of sideways glances and careful distance, of watching him command the stage during concert rehearsals with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter. Thirteen days.

Not that I'm counting.

Beneath these bright dressing room lights, I study him like a sky of constellations - mapping patterns only I can see. The cute: the way he bites his nails. The painful: how his eyes catch mine in the mirror, then slide away too quickly. The bad: that subtle shift of his weight when his shoulder bothers him, a tell so subtle that only someone who's memorized his every movement would notice.

The mirrors in here multiply every movement into infinity, and God, it's torture - seeing him from every angle, each reflection a new way to destroy me. I watch him like an addict: the way his low cut t-shirt shifts when he moves, how his throat works when he drinks water, the flash of pale waist when he stretches like a cat. Is it becoming too obvious? Is someone going to notice if I don't stop?

Probably.

So I force myself to look away, but it's like fighting gravity itself and soon I'm back to staring. He thinks no one notices how he favors his right side, how he keeps his left shoulder unnaturally still when moving. But I see it all - Yoongi's careful adjustments, the way he shifts his weight before reaching for things, the split-second pause before each movement. These aren't random habits. They're survival tactics.

I catch him discreetly swallowing a pain reliever. He's got the timing down to a science: quick palm to mouth, water bottle already uncapped, face neutral. It takes me back to those first weeks after his accident, when he'd return to the dorm with his face blank, only the tightness around his eyes betraying the pain. Even then, he'd wave off my concern with a flat "I'm fine."

I find his PT exercises in the trash. I know where he hides his heating pad. I see him clutching his shoulder at 3 AM, face twisted, until he hears me in the doorway to his studio and smooths it all away.

He always says that - "I'm fine" - like if he repeats it enough times it'll become true. Except he's not as good of a liar as me. We're both putting on shows, trying to protect the people around us. His pain shows in stiff movements and hidden grimaces. Mine comes out in forced smiles and manufactured energy on the days when getting out of bed feels like moving through concrete. He doesn't want anyone worrying about his shoulder; I don't want them seeing the darkness that sometimes swallows me whole. Different kinds of pain, same instinct to shield others from it.

Last week, Hobi and I found him in the practice room at 2 AM, running the choreography again and again. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, his breathing ragged. When I tried to make him stop, he snapped at me. "I have to get this perfect. We can't afford any mistakes for the concert."

I wanted to shake him. To tell him that no dance move is worth the pain I see etched in his face. That watching him hurt himself hurts me more than anything. Instead, I stood there silently, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, wishing he didn't feel as if he had to go through everything alone.

Yesterday's concert on Dec 26th left all of us hollowed out, muscles trembling and voices raw. This promotion schedule is brutal - we're all running on fumes and coffee, stealing naps in waiting rooms and vans. Outside the window, light snow is falling, and through the fog of exhaustion comes this sharp, impossible want - to slip away from all of this, to watch snowflakes catch in his mint green hair, to find some hidden place where we can pretend the world is just us.

We can't risk it, not with how fragile this moment is. The Most Beautiful Moments in Life promotions could change everything - for the group, for our careers, but especially for him. For so long he has hunched over his laptop with dark circles under his eyes, pouring pieces of himself into each track until there's nothing left. Yesterday's show was almost perfect. So now we'll practice to make tonight even better. So it's back on stage for another run through.

"From the top," our choreographer demands. As we take positions, Taehyung stumbles beside me.

"Hey. You good?" I steady him, feeling fever-heat through his practice clothes.

"Just a little tired," he rasps, but his eyes are too bright.

Yoongi catches my gaze, and something in his expression makes my stomach drop. I know every micro-expression of his face -- and this isn't just exhaustion. And it's not the mask he uses to hide his shoulder pain. His movements grow sloppier with each run-through, breathing ragged in a way that sets off alarm bells. He stumbles during the bridge transition - he never stumbles there. My stomach gives a sickening lurch. What's going on? His lips are almost colorless.

"Hyung," I start to call out, but he waves me off. The same hands that create magic on piano keys, on my body -- they're trembling.

"Again," the choreographer's voice cuts through my rising panic. "Yah! Yoongi-ssi, tighten up that sequence."

"Sorry," Yoongi mutters, but his voice sounds wrong, distant. He blinks and eyes won't focus properly. That's enough. I don't care anymore about maintaining casualness.

"H-hang on. I need a minute," Taehyung's voice shakes. Yoongi's knees give out.

"No!!" I start forward, but Taehyung reaches him first. They collapse together while I stand frozen, my body refusing to move. Wanting to run to him. Knowing I can't. Not with everyone here.

"Someone call manager-nim," Namjoon says, taking control like always. "Now."

Everything in me screams to help. Yoongi's eyes find mine for just a second. The message is clear: Stay back. Stay away. Play your part.

Jungkook rushes forward instead, his face tight with concern. He reaches for Taehyung's shoulder but stops short, his hand falling away as the managers arrive. I recognize that aborted gesture. His eyes never leave Taehyung's face though. He isn't even a bad liar. He wears every emotion on his face. And someday it's going to get them in trouble.

So I do what I must. I step backward as the managers burst in, as they lift Yoongi between them. I watch them guide him past me, close enough that I could touch him if I dared. His jaw is clenched tight - fighting pain or the urge to look at me, I'm not sure which is worse.

"Taking him to the hospital," I catch one manager saying. "Through the back."

Taehyung goes next. Jungkook watches them leave, his expression a mirror of what I feel - helpless, worried, forced to stay behind. For a moment our eyes meet, and I wonder if he sees it too - this shared secret of caring for someone you can't reach for when they need you most.

The dressing room feels wrong without him. Everything is chaos. Fans are already outside, frustrated by the delay. We can't do the show as five. We are seven.

Yoongi's stage outfit hangs there, pristine in its garment bag, and something in my chest cracks. My phone sits heavy in my pocket. I won't text him. I can't be the first to reach out, not when there are too many eyes watching. Who knows who has his phone. The staff ask if I'm okay. I nod. Smile. Play my part.

Jungkook keeps checking his phone, his gaze fixed on Taehyung's empty chair.

I twist the ring Yoongi gave me for my birthday. Simple silver, nothing flashy. Nothing that would make anyone wonder. That's what hurts most - how carefully he chose it, making sure it wouldn't give us away.

When we finally walk out on stage, thirty minutes late, the restless murmur of the crowd hits us. Namjoon steps forward, bowing deeply. His words come slow, careful. Two members sick. Hospital. Performing three modified versions.

The translator speaks. Understanding ripples through the arena. Screams turn to sobs.

His verses play through the speakers during "Hold Me Tight," his voice haunting an empty space on stage. I know him. Know he's lying in that hospital bed counting every minute, every disappointed fan. Taking all the blame onto himself like he always does.

During "Let Me Know," I catch myself turning toward where he should be. A fan in the front row is crying, her ARMY bomb shaking. The backing track fills the silence he left.

"I Need U" breaks me. The crowd fills the gaps left by missing voices. Every line about longing hits too close now. He'll watch the fancams later, torturing himself.

Three songs. Then it's over. Cancelled. We bow one final time under the weight of eighteen thousand disappointed dreams.

My phone stays silent. The ring burns against my skin.

In the car back to the hotel, everyone processes differently. Jin handles logistics. Namjoon crafts statements. Hoseok tries to lift spirits. Jungkook stares out windows. And I sit silently, one hand pressed against the cold glass, wondering if he has a fever, if he's finally sleeping.

My hotel room feels like a confession of loneliness. I'm sharing with Namjoon, but he's out with the managers, dealing with the situation. The heater hums too loud in the quiet, and my skin feels too tight, too aware. I shower until the hot water runs cold, trying to wash away the memory of today's performances, of his collapse, of all the things I couldn't do or say.

One in the morning and I'm still awake. Every memory hits harder in the dark - his fingers tracing my lower lip, the way his eyes find mine in mirrors, how he says my name when we're alone.

I wonder if he's awake too, in that sterile hospital room. If he's watching the ceiling, blaming himself for every disappointed fan, every cancelled show, every burden he thinks he's become. Knowing him, he's probably already trying to figure out how to make it right. As if he owes anyone anything more than his health.

My phone lights up. Not the group chat. Stop worrying. I can feel you thinking from here.

Nine words and I'm undone. I type and delete a dozen responses before sending: You could try to stop giving me reasons???

I miss you too. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

The apologies hit me like physical blows. Each "sorry" a knife between my ribs, because I know exactly what they mean. Sorry for being weak. Sorry for ruining the concert. Sorry for making me worry. Sorry for existing in a way that needs care. Sorry for being human instead of the indestructible idol he thinks he has to be.

My vision blurs. He's lying in a hospital bed, probably still feverish, probably in pain, and he's apologizing to me. As if he owes anyone an apology for his body finally rebelling against months of overwork and hidden pain. As if disappointing fans is somehow worse than destroying himself. As if his worth is measured only in perfect performances and pushed-through injuries.

I want to scream. Want to throw my phone against the wall. Want to run to that hospital and shake him until he understands that he doesn't owe us his suffering. That watching him hurt himself hurts worse than any cancelled concert ever could.

Instead, I press my face into the pillow and let out a sound that's half-laugh, half-sob. Even now, separated by city blocks and careful secrets, he's trying to protect me. To carry the weight alone. To be the strong one.

One day I'll be brave enough to walk through those hospital doors. One day I'll be the person who can hold his hand without pretending it's fanservice, who can tell him he doesn't have to be sorry. One day I'll be someone who matters just for being me, not for being Park Jimin of BTS. One day I'll make him understand that he's enough - more than enough - just as he is, with all his human fragility and imperfect edges.

But tonight, all I can do is cry for him. For us. For all the sorrys that should never have to be said. Tonight I'm just another idol in a hotel room, lying awake, loving someone I'm not supposed to love, wanting to be special for someone who already carries too much weight.

Chapter 13: The Letter

Notes:

We'll get back to some fun & games after this...

I stare at my phone as his next message appears.

You can't ignore me forever. Where are you?

My fingers hover over the keyboard. The urge to respond is overwhelming. Just tell him I'm okay. That's all he's asking for. That's the least he deserves.

At least let me know that you're safe?

The concern in those words twists something in my chest. He shouldn't waste his worry on someone who left without a word. Someone who couldn't even face him. Someone who…

I lock my phone, but his messages burn bright behind my eyelids. Jimin deserves better than silence. Better than me. But knowing that doesn't make it any easier to ignore him.

At least let me know that you're safe.

The concern in those words–fuck. It twists in my chest like a knife. He shouldn't waste his worry on me. Not when I'm the one who let them all down. Not when I couldn't even handle my own limits, got sick, and ruined everything. The whole concert, all their hard work, all because I couldn't fucking pace myself.

This hotel room in Kobe feels too sterile, too quiet, like a vacuum has sucked out all the air, leaving nothing but the hollow echo of mistakes I keep making. I turn off the lamp and stare into the darkness, the blackout curtains cutting off even the neon glow of the city below, as if the world beyond this room has ceased to exist. The silence rings in my ears, broken only by the distant hum of the air conditioning and the rhythm of my own guilty heartbeat.

I remember how his breath feels on my neck, hot and urgent against my skin. Neither of us talks about what we do in the night when morning comes. We're experts at the casual goodbye now, at walking away before anyone notices, at burying every tender glance beneath layers of careful distance. Each time I tell myself it's the last time - that we can't keep risking everything we've built, that the world isn't ready for us. But in the darkness, when I feel his hands on me, I forget everything except how right this feels, even as I know how wrong others would say it is. How much we could lose. And still I can't stop, even knowing there may never be a time when we won't have to hide, when loving him won't feel like playing with fire.

We have Music Bank in two days. You can't just disappear.

I'll be back. I finally break. I was always going to. I always break my rules for Park Jimin. Like I always have, like I probably always will, no matter how many times I tell myself this time will be different.

The phone rings immediately. His contact photo appears – a stupid selca he took with my phone when I was sleeping. I let it ring four times before answering.

"You're in Kobe." It's not a question. His voice is rough with sleepiness and something else – worry maybe, or frustration. Both, knowing Jimin.

"Mm." I get up and walk to the window, needing to move, to do something with this restless energy his voice always stirs in me.

"Were you going to tell me?" There's that gentle persistence that only he can manage, the kind that makes me want to give him everything.

"Calm down." I open the curtain and press my forehead against the window, watching snow fall. "I left a note."

"For Jin-hyung." There's rustling on his end, probably him sitting up in bed. I try not to think about how he looks right now, hair messed up the way it was when— "A note for Jin-hyung isn't the same as telling me, and you know it."

"Jimin-ah..." I hate how soft my voice gets when I say his name. "I just... I needed to come back here. To see it again."

His silence tells me he understands, even if he wishes I'd done this differently. "You need to come out and talk to people," he says at last. "The fans are worried, hyung."

I press my forehead harder against the cold glass. "I know. I know they are. I just—" How do I explain that every message of concern feels like another weight? That their love sometimes feels too big, too pure for someone like me? "I don't know what to say to them."

"You could start by being honest," he says softly. "Write to them. Tell them why you had to come back."

"I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"The truth. They-they love you. They love you so much. They just want to understand."

My throat tightens. "That's not that simple—"

"Isn't it?" Another pause, gentler this time. "Two days, hyung. We need you there."

"I know." Even if I don't deserve the way he looks after me, the way he always knows exactly where I am, exactly what I need.

"You know," he murmurs, reversing our usual script.

My fingers grip the phone harder. I think about all the things I know. How he tastes. How his eyes disappear when he laughs. How his lower lip sticks out when he's thinking extra hard. How he sounds when he comes. How often I wake up reaching for him even when he's not there.

"Write the letter, Yoongi. Tell them what you couldn't say after you got sick that day. Tell them..." He trails off.

"Tell them what?"

"Everything you keep trying to carry alone."

My chest aches. "I'll be back for Music Bank."

"I know." His voice softens. "You always come back."

We sit in silence for a moment, both knowing there's more to say, both unwilling to say it. Outside, the snow is falling harder now, each flake catching the neon lights before disappearing into darkness. Like secrets. Like promises.

"Jimin-ah..."

"Just write the letter," he cuts me off, gentle but firm. "And text me when you're done. Not calling. Hobi is eating a night snack and will be back soon. I heard him coming now. I won't be able too–" He stops himself. "Just text me."

The call ends before I can respond. I stare at the screen until it goes dark, then:

I'll write a letter to Army

Good. And hyung?

Wae?

Next time wake me up before you run away

You would have tried to stop me

No. I would have kissed you goodbye

Oh

Yeah

I press my fingers to my lips, remembering our last kiss, stolen in the shadows of my room. The way he'd pulled back just enough to whisper "Let me stay" against my mouth. The way I'd almost listened.

I set the phone down, pull out my yellow legal pad. Behind me, the city lights of Kobe blur into a kaleidoscope of memories – the venue, the fans, the fever, the pain. I stare at the blank page, trying not to think about how I'm awful at this – at feelings, at timing, at everything except falling for a dumb boy from Busan. But maybe I can be brave. Maybe I can try.

Tomorrow I'll walk into that venue alone and face the painful memories, the ghosts of my failure. Tonight, I'll write until the sun comes up or until the words make sense. And in two days, I'll be back on stage, pretending I don't notice how Jimin's hand lingers too long when he fixes my in-ear monitor, pretending we both don't know exactly what we're not saying.

And dress warm. He sends me another text. Don't catch cold.

I groan like I don't love this. Go to bed already.

No u

You're the worst

You love it though

Sleep, jimin-ah

Ugh fine. A pause while I see the three dots appear and disappear that indicate he is typing. Finally it comes through. And when it does. It kills me a little. Please don't disappear

As if i could

I start the letter: "Dear ARMY..." and try not to think about how some confessions are easier to write than others.

Chapter 14: Homecoming

Summary:

Last Yoongi POV chapter for a little bit

And just like that, I'm home. Home - a word that's shifted meaning so many times I've lost count. Now it's this dorm, these guys who are the family I see more than the ones who share my blood. It's late when I slip into our room, rolling my suitcase. Jin's bathed in the glow of his screen, half-melted into his gaming chair as he mindlessly grinds away at MapleStory. He presses a finger to his lips, tilting his head toward the bookcase dividing our beds.

"What?" I freeze, understanding immediately, and playing dumb because it's the best way to handle it.

"You know what," Jin mouths, then adds in a stage whisper, "Keep it down. Don't wake sleeping beauty."

"Who?" The question leaves my lips even as my heart accelerates, already knowing the answer.

"Your favorite dongsaeng." Jin's eyes never leave his screen, but his lips twitch. "Said he'd wait up for you. Found him knocked out cold when I went to pee twenty minutes ago. He's been camping out here since dinner but your flight kept getting delayed. I got the blow by blow for hours."

"Why does he care?" I grumble, the words hollow even to my own ears. As if I haven't spent the entire flight back thinking about how he'd react to my return, about when I'd be able to get him alone. If I wanted that. If he wanted me?

"Oh, I don't know," Jin drawls, his character dying spectacularly on screen as he finally turns to face me. "Maybe because someone ghosted him for Japan? Just a theory."

"I didn't ghost-" I start to protest, but Jin cuts me off with a knowing look.

"Not that I've been keeping track of how many times he's checked his phone?" He turns back to his game with practiced nonchalance. "Pretty sure I can't count that high. Also...you never asked me who I was taking about. Because the answer is Jimin."

Busted. I feel heat creep up my neck. There's no point getting on my bullshit and denying. But I can try to salvage the situation. "How am I supposed to sleep with him..." I trail off, mind racing for an excuse that won't sound like the desperate deflection it is. Japan was my chance to face the demons, my fears that I'd fucked up and ruined everything. I wrote my heart out to ARMY, bled my feelings onto paper until the wounds felt less raw. I'm not healed - not completely - but at least I'm not drowning anymore.

The whole flight home I wrote in my yellow legal pad, the words once unleashed, flowing through my fingers, until suddenly I was planning my first mixtape - everything I want to express about depression, about poverty before debut, about the idol system and society's expectations. But now here's Jimin, making everything complicated again with his silent presence on my bed, probably curled up like a cat in my sheets.

"Bet you'll figure it out." Jin's voice drips with suggestion as he restarts his game. "Though if you're really stuck, I hear counting sheep helps. Or maybe counting dance practices you've been mysteriously showing up to watch?"

"Hyung-" I warn, but he just waves me off.

"Shut up so I can play. And go be the big spoon you've been dying to be. And Yoongi-ah?" He pauses, and I brace myself. "It's good to have you back."

In the monitor's glow, I catch his smirk - the bastard isn't even trying to hide it anymore, but somehow I can't bring myself to be mad.

I go around to my side of the room and the scent hits me before I see him - lavender and something else I've been trying not to think about for weeks. He's sprawled on his back, arms stretched over his head in complete surrender, face soft with sleep. His phone lies on the pillow beside his face, glowing faintly in the darkness.

I reach to move it to my desk but freeze when I see what's playing. A YouTube edit from our "Run" video and behind-the-scenes footage, moments of us carefully pieced together. I hit mute but can't help letting it play.

My chest tightens with something between longing and fear.

This romantic idiot. He always does this - holds onto moments I try to forget, finds weight in things I pretend don't matter.

It's us in that bathtub - the day he decided dragging me in fully clothed was the best idea he'd ever had. Both of us soaking wet, him glowing orange and me mint green, laughing with an abandon I only seem to find when he's around. In the footage, water drips from my hair and he's clutching my shoulder, head thrown back in delight. I remember how the wet denim clung to my legs, how warm his hand felt through my shirt, how his laughter echoed off the bathroom tiles.

I grab my sleep clothes and toiletries, moving on autopilot to the bathroom. As I brush my teeth, my hands shake slightly. The face in the mirror looks haunted, dark circles under my eyes from the flight, hair a mess. I take longer than usual washing up, as if clean skin might somehow prepare me for what waits in my room. The last few days in in Japan? The truth is... all I could think about was getting back here. And now that I am, I'm hiding in the bathroom like a coward.

When I return, the blue glow of Jin's computer is gone. Through the thin walls, I can hear the faint sounds of MapleStory drifting from the living room. Jin has never been subtle, but I'm grateful for this quiet acknowledgment, this gift of privacy. He knows - of course he knows. He's watched us dance around each other for months, and sleeps a few feet away from me. My secrets are his.

I close the door with a soft click. The room feels different now - heavier, charged with possibility. The city lights filtering through the window paint shadows across his sleeping form. Jimin hasn't moved, still sprawled across my sheets like he belongs there. Maybe he does. The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

I edge toward the bed, calculating the space. There's room on the far side if I'm careful. I could slip in without waking him, pretend this is normal, that my heart isn't trying to break free of my ribcage. That coming back to find him here isn't everything I both feared and hoped for. Carefully, I lift the corner of the blanket and slide underneath, holding my breath.

The bed feels smaller than I imagined. I lie rigid on my back, hyperaware of every inch between us. His breathing is deep and even beside me, and I find myself matching it unconsciously. We've fallen asleep near each other countless times - in vans, on planes, sprawled across practice room floors. But never like this. Never in a real bed, never alone, never with so much unspoken hanging in the air between us.

I stare at the ceiling, wondering if I should try to sleep, if I even can. The sound of his breathing fills the room, along with the distant hum of the city outside our window. Everything feels suspended, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. My mind races with all the things I should say, all the words I wrote in Japan that never made it into messages. How do you tell someone they've become the rhythm to your melody without sounding like a fool?

Then suddenly there's movement, so quick I barely register it, and his weight is pressing me into the mattress. His hands find my shoulders, pinning me down with surprising strength. In the dim light, his eyes are dark and fully awake - he must have been faking sleep this whole time. The realization sends heat flooding through me.

"You're back," he breathes, and it's not a question. His face hovers inches from mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his words against my lips. The heat of his body bleeds through my clothes where he pins me down, making my head spin. Before I can respond, his mouth crashes into mine.

The kiss is desperate, hungry, everything compressed into this single point of contact. His hands slide from my shoulders to cup my face, and I stay perfectly still, overwhelmed. When his fingers thread through my hair, tugging with just enough force to make me gasp, the sound that escapes me is raw, needy.

He tastes like mint - and something sweeter underneath. The intensity in his eyes pins me in place more effectively than his hands ever could.

"And did you?" His hips roll deliberately against mine, a slow cock grind, the friction making heat pool low in my stomach. "Figure some things out?"

I try to reach for him, desperate to touch, but he catches my wrists and presses them into the mattress above my head. "I asked you a question," he whispers, his breath hot against my ear.

The vulnerability of it almost breaks me - being touched, being wanted, being the focus of all that fierce attention. When I manage to nod he gives a grin that could charm the devil.

"Good," he mutters, before his lips trace a path down my neck that makes coherent thought impossible. When he releases my wrists to pull at my shirt, I lift up automatically to help him. Then he's ripping off his own shirt and pressing me back down, the slide of skin against skin drawing a moan from both of us.

His hands map me like territory he's determined to claim. Each touch is reverent but possessive, as if he's trying to prove something. When his fingers trace the lines of my collarbones, my ribs, my hip bones, it feels like worship tinged with desperation.

"You know what I thought about while you were gone?" He shifts to straddle me properly, and the moonlight catches the planes of his chest, the elegant line of his throat glistening with sweat. "How you always touch me like I might break. So careful." His hands slide up my arms, pinning them again above my head with bruising force. "But I'm not fragile, hyung."

To prove his point, he rocks against me deliberately, harder this time, the friction making stars explode behind my eyes. His mouth finds that sensitive spot below my ear, and when he bites down, claiming, my whole body arches into his, seeking more.

"There's those little sounds," he murmurs against my throat. "I love them. They're my friends." His free hand slides down my chest, my stomach, making my muscles jump under his touch. "I love seeing you lose control," he breathes against my collar bone. His teeth graze my skin and I shudder. "The way you tremble when I touch you."

His mouth moves hungrily down my neck, and I feel more than hear his breath catch when I arch against him. His hands map my chest, my sides, leaving trails of invisible flames.

"Gonna make you fall apart." When he tugs my hair to expose my throat, the moan that escapes me doesn't even sound like my voice. His teeth scrape against my pulse point and I buck up against him involuntarily.

"You thought you could always be the giver?" he murmurs, voice rough. "That I'd let you stay in control?" His hand slides down my side, gripping my hip hard enough to leave marks. "Not tonight."

This isn't the soft, pliant Jimin who curls into my side during movie nights. This is the Jimin who commands stages, who makes audiences forget to breathe.

"Gonna hear how much you want this," he breathes against my ear. "Gonna watch you come undone. No more hiding, hyung."

The honorific in his mouth sounds like sin, and when his free hand traces down my chest, my stomach, lower still, I arch into his touch like I'm dying for it. Maybe I am.

"You're incredible," I breathe, watching his eyes darken at my words. "Please, Jimin-ah, I need-"

He cuts me off with a bruising kiss, like my praise breaks something loose in him. When he pulls back, his eyes are wild. "More," he whispers against my mouth. "Give me more."

"You're perfect," I gasp as his lips find my throat. "So strong, so beautiful. The way you take control-" My words dissolve into a moan as he bites down gently.

"I love seeing you like this," he murmurs, rolling his hips in a way that makes me see stars. "The great Min Yoongi, falling apart under my hands. Begging so prettily for me." His grip on my wrists tightens. "Keep talking," he commands. "Tell me what you like about me."

"Everything," I gasp. "The fire in your eyes when you dance. How you see right through me, always have."

Each word seems to fuel something in him, making his touches more urgent, more possessive. When I praise his strength, his confidence, the beautiful way he moves, he rewards me with kisses that leave me breathless.

His mouth traces a path down my chest, each kiss fierce and claiming. His hands follow, making me tremble beneath his touch. My hands grip the sheets as his lips trail down my hipbones, and when he looks up at me through his lashes, the sight steals my breath.

His grip tightens. "Stop thinking," he commands softly. "Stop trying to stay in control. Just feel."

I've always been the one to take him in my mouth. I've been too nervous to let him return the favor.

When I hesitate, his fingers press more firmly into my skin. "Let go," he whispers. "Let me see you fall apart. I want to watch."

And something in his tone, in the fierce possession of his touch, breaks down my last defenses. My head falls back as I finally surrender to the sensation, to him taking me deeper than I've ever been. When his fingers join his lips, the dual sensation makes me arch off the bed. He builds a steady rhythm, slow at first, then deeper, more insistent. His pace increases gradually, deliberately, his free hand sliding up my thigh, gripping hard enough to bruise. Each touch, each movement drives me higher until I'm gasping his name, trembling and desperate beneath him. He takes his time, drawing it out until I'm begging, until there's nothing left but him, nothing but this, nothing but the way he makes me feel completely, perfectly whole.

His rhythm builds until I can't hold back any longer. Everything tightens, white-hot pleasure rushing through me as I arch off the bed, his name a broken cry on my lips. His hands hold me steady through it, grounding me as I shatter apart beneath his touch. When I can breathe again, can think again, he's watching me with dark eyes full of satisfaction and something deeper that makes my chest ache.

"Beautiful," he whispers, pressing kisses to my trembling thighs. "So beautiful for me."

Then he's crawling back up my body, pausing to lick my belly clean, and I pull him into a desperate kiss, groaning at the taste lingering on his lips. I chase the evidence of what we've shared until he's gasping into the kiss. The intimacy of it makes my head spin - everything we are, everything we've done, distilled into this moment.

His forehead drops to mine, breath coming fast. Under my hands, his skin burns like fire. Dawn will bring cameras and careful distance, schedule and stages where we can't let our eyes linger too long. The prospect makes something twist in my chest.

But right now he's warm and real in my arms, nosing at my jaw in a way that makes me forget why I ever try to resist this.

"Stay," he whispers against my skin, and there's a question in it that breaks my heart.

I pull him closer, knowing some promises are harder to keep than others

Chapter 15: 88 Keys to Hide a Truth

Summary:

Back over to Park Jimin's POV

Source material: Bangtan Bomb January 28, 2016 “Jimin Drawing A Piano for Suga”

The sharpie is sputtering out of ink, but I keep dragging it across the cardboard determinedly, drawing each key, the white and the black. I've positioned myself carefully - in the hallway where staff keep wandering past with cameras, but not so obvious it looks staged. I count the keys again. Nowhere close to 88. Definitely wrong.

Good. It's perfect.

The key to survival in this industry is understanding that sometimes the best hiding place is the spotlight. Everyone's so busy watching for secrets that they miss what's right in front of them. Take now, for instance - the cameras are rolling, about to catch every moment of what will be deemed as classic fan service. Min Yoongi and his dongsaeng, playing it up for the fans. It's almost too easy.

My heart jumps when I hear his brisk footsteps, but I keep my head down, focusing on drawing another wobbly black key. Three years of dancing together means I know his gait by heart - the slight shuffle when he's tired or the bounce when he's extra caffeinated.

"What are you doing?"

There it is - that perfect note of exasperation that means he's playing along. I've mapped all his tones by now, filed them away like precious recordings. There's his interview voice (practiced, professional), his stage voice (sharp, focused), his real voice (rough with sleep or want), and then there's this voice - the one that's just for me, wrapped in fake annoyance like a gift in plain paper.

I look up with my brightest smile, the one that makes my eyes disappear, the one that makes fans scream and Yoongi's fingers twitch like he wants to grab something. "I'm making this for you!" I gesture proudly at my mock cardboard piano made with questionable proportions, watching him try to hide his amusement behind a scowl. He's a good actor, but not as good as I am - I can see the fondness leaking through the cracks.

"Why..." He steps closer, and I watch his lips move as he counts silently. The furrow between his brows deepens exactly like I knew it would. God, he's beautiful when he's irritated. The mint hair falls in his eyes and I want to brush it back, want to trace that crease with my thumb until it smooths out. Want, want, want - it's become my constant state around him. "Why are you doing this?"

Because I want to hang out with you for a bit.

Because you look sexy as hell with that mint green hair.

Because I want to have a public claim on you even if it's just presented as fan service.

Because sometimes I feel like I'm drowning in all the things we can't say, and this is the only way I know how to breathe.

He flops in the chair beside me like I'm the most annoying creature in the city. The camera drinks it in - another perfect moment for their Yoonmin compilation. They love this dynamic so much–bickering brothers– and I have to bite back a smile.

"Is it wrong?" I ask with my best wide-eyed innocence, the kind I know drives him crazy.

"A piano has eighty-eight keys," he says slowly, like he's explaining to a child. But there's that hidden warmth that makes my stomach flip.

"Play something," I chirp, batting my eyes at the camera I know is still filming. "Play 'I Need U' on it."

He gives me that look - the one that says he knows exactly what I'm doing. The one that promises retribution later, when we can drop these careful masks. "I won't play unless it's an 88 key piano."

I smother a grin at his diva behavior.. And he calls me a brat?

"Eh. Just play, come on?" I pass it over. "Please?"

Of course he accommodates–showing off chords–his fingers dancing across the cardboard until I'm transfixed, remembering other times I've watched those hands move. In the studio, late at night. Discovering the ridges of my abs. Stroking me root to tip. Holding me in the aftermath while we tangle together in the dark still gasping. In the dark, when we can pretend we're just two people instead of idols.

I glance right at the camera, playing it up. "I can't tell if he's playing well or not because there's no sound."

Yoongi keeps hamming it up until he realizes his finger tips are covered in wet ink. He glances over at me in mock annoyance, but there's heat beneath it. He knows what this means - my mark on his skin, even if everyone else thinks it's just another cute moment for the fans.

"No one told you to press so hard," I say with exaggerated innocence.

"Ya! Park Jimin!" The irritation in his voice is real this time - he hates getting his hands dirty. But I've calculated this too: the way his fingers curl, stained with black ink, makes something possessive curl in my stomach. It's like I've marked him, even if everyone else thinks it's just an accident.

"Oops?" I offer innocently, watching his jaw clench. There's a different tension there now, one that makes heat pool low in my belly. He knows what I'm doing - he always knows - but he can't call me out on it. Not here, not now, not with the cameras still rolling, catching what they think is just another moment of fan service.

The camera turns a moment to cover Taehyung.

"You're dangerous," Yoongi mutters, soft enough that only I can hear. The words sink into my skin like ink, like promises.

I allow a half smile. "No idea what you mean, hyung. I was just trying to make you a nice gift." The lie tastes like sugar on my tongue. Sweet, artificial, perfectly crafted.

His eyes darken. "Fucking Slytherin."

"Mmm," I agree shamelessly, finally releasing his hands. "But you like it."

The look he gives me promises retribution later. I can't wait. This is what we do - push and pull, give and take, all while the world watches and thinks it's just for show.

That's when I decide to really get under his skin.

I pull out my phone and turn back to the camera. "You know I've lived with Yoongi for three years but I'd never seen him play piano before. Until recently." My voice is casual, conversational, but my heart is racing.

This is a dangerous game I'm playing, but then again, aren't I always?

I feel rather than see him tense as I hit play. I act like a YouTuber, holding my hand just so behind the phone. How many times have I watched this footage? Better question is how many times have I done it alone, sliding a hand beneath the waistband of my boxers. The mint green vibes paired with those thick black-framed glasses is a kink I probably need therapy to explore, but then again, what part of this doesn't need therapy to unpack?

The best lies are mostly truth, wrapped in enough sweetness that no one looks too closely. I've learned these lessons so well they're written in my bones.

And as always, the camera zooms in...

Hours later, schedules complete, we're all back at the dorm. I love these moments - when the cameras are gone and we can almost pretend we're normal. Almost.

Taehyung and Jungkook are sharing a single chair, another one of their casual intimacies that everyone sees but no one questions. They have a certain innocence to their affection - the way Tae's fingers trace patterns on Jungkook's neck, how Jungkook melts into him without thought or calculation. There's something untainted about them, something that makes even their most obvious moments seem wholesome. Maybe it's Tae's smile or Jungkook's wide eyes, but they get away with murder while looking like angels.

I don't have that luxury. There's nothing innocent about the way I want, nothing pure in how I calculate each touch, each glance.I watch Tae press a sweet kiss to Jungkook's temple, casual as breathing, and feel that familiar twist of envy. They make it look so easy.

Jin is in the kitchen making kimchi fried rice and yelling at Joon over his knife work - "Ya! Kim Namjoon! The vegetables need to be bite-sized, not microscopic!" Hobi is in the shower, his off-key singing echoing through the walls. And I'm watching Yoongi outside on the patio talking on the phone–probably to his mom from the way he is pacing, that particular restless energy he gets when he's worried about her health but trying not to show it. He does this dance a lot lately - call home, pace, pretend everything's fine.

I've memorized all his tells by now.

He hangs up and I see him pick up a book–definitely one of Joon's philosophical texts that somehow migrate all over the dorm like breadcrumbs–and flip through it distractedly before dropping it on the tiles. Even from here I can see the tension in his shoulders. I want to work it out with my hands, press kisses to each vertebra until he melts.

He comes back in, nose wrinkled. "Fuck.Got a paper cut."

That's my cue. He couldn't have scripted it better if we'd planned it. "Oh, come. I'll help you in the bathroom. There's a first aid kit there." My voice is perfectly pitched - concerned but casual.

He snorts. "I'm not going to die. This isn't a K-drama. It's a papercut."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. For being a musical genius, he is an idiot at the subtle art of sneaking around.

I'm across the room before I can think better of it, moth to flame, inevitable as gravity. "Let me see," I say softly, reaching for his hand. My voice has dropped just slightly, just enough that anyone listening would miss it. But I see the way his fingers twitch, the barely-there hitch in his breathing.

"It's nothing," he grumbles, but he lets me take his hand anyway. His fingers are beautiful like this - long and elegant, the narrow cut on one finger barely visible. I can still see faint traces of marker between his knuckles from earlier, my mark on him lasting longer than intended.

"Come on. I'll take care of you."

I wish I could say he got it at that point. But I swear he doesn't. He grumbles that he doesn't need a band-aid the whole way to the bathroom, completely missing how perfect this setup is.

Sometimes I wonder how he survived before me.

He enters first and I kick shut the door behind me, the soft click of the latch like a starting gun. I reach for his hand and bring it to my lips without thinking, pressing a soft kiss to the injured finger. It's barely a touch, but I feel the shiver run through him. I trace the pad of his finger with just the tip of my tongue, tasting ink and skin.

His breath catches. "No," he warns, but his voice has gone rough around the edges. "Everyone is up." The protest is weak, especially since he doesn't pull away. His eyes are fixed on my mouth, pupils already starting to dilate.

I grin against his skin, letting my lips part slightly. "Guess I'll be quick," I promise, then take his finger into my mouth, just to the first knuckle. A gentle suck, barely more than a suggestion. I feel his whole body go rigid, like a bowstring pulled taut. I pull back slowly, letting my teeth graze ever so slightly, watching his eyes go dark.

"Jimin-ah..." It comes out strangled. I respond by taking him deeper, curling my tongue around his finger in a way that makes his free hand clutch the counter. I hollow my cheeks slightly, maintaining eye contact as I suck with more purpose. The message is clear - this is a preview, a promise. His breath comes faster now, shallow and uneven.

"Someone could-"

I release him with a wet pop, but keep his hand captive. "No one's looking for us," I whisper, then take two fingers this time, sliding them deep. The taste of ink is stronger now, bitter and chemical, but I don't care. Not when he's looking at me like this, like he's about to snap. I work my tongue between his fingers, remembering other times, other places where we didn't have to rush.

His free hand grips the marble counter hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "You thought of doing this when you saw me get the papercut."

I hum in agreement, the vibration making him shiver violently. I feel powerful like this - reducing him to trembles and shortened breath, watching his famous control splinter. Namjoon is an actual genius. Yoongi is a musical genius. And me? I know how to do this, make someone want me. It's an art form all its own - the right look, the right touch, the right moment. I've perfected it over years, but with Yoongi it's different. With him, the calculation becomes instinct, the performance becomes real.

A noise in the hallway makes us spring apart, the spell broken. It's Taehyung and Jungkook running past, giggling about something.. I immediately adopt my bright, slightly mischievous expression just in case, the mask sliding back into place as easily as breathing. "So about that bandaid…"

Sometimes I think this is what will break us - not the hiding, not the pretending, but these fragments of moments. These almost-touches, these nearly-theres, these constant interruptions. But then I remember how we hide in plain sight, how we perform our truth so well that no one believes it's real, and I think maybe this is exactly what will save us. After all, the best place to hide is in the spotlight, and we've made an art of being seen without being noticed.

The contrast between what Tae and Jungkook have and what we do isn't lost on me. Their love is all summer sunshine and pure hearts. Ours is ink stains and stolen moments, calculated risks and carefully crafted scenes. But I'll keep dancing this dance that's half performance and half desperation. Because sometimes the only way to tell the truth is to show it in a way that everyone assumes it must be a lie.

Chapter 16: Late Night Texts

I'm Park Jimin. Anyone with wifi can find seven different fancams of me fixing my shirt during Music Bank, trending with #ChimChim #MochiPrince, or the "Park Jimin Being The Softest for 13 Minutes" compilation that's at 2M views. The internet documents my every move, but somehow Min Yoongi—genius producer, lead rapper, and current source of my emotional crisis—hasn't noticed that I've been trying to get his attention for the last half hour.

I've got my makeup done for the VLive, my hair is styled just right, and I'm feeling cute—even Hobi-hyung cooed when I walked by. But Yoongi is just staring at that stupid IKEA catalog like it's interior design porn.

I swear to god, if I ever need a confidence check, I just have to be around him when he gets in his zone.

At this point, I'm seriously considering legally changing my name to MALM. This is ridiculous. We're supposed to be co-emceeing a livestream in fifteen minutes for the Young Forever release, and I can't even get him to look up long enough to notice my cute pout. I clutch the script cards closer, trying my aegyo voice: "Hyuuung, we're supposed to practice..."

He doesn't even grunt. Just turns the page.

The sound of coordi noona's heels clicking down the hall makes me desperate. "Yoongi-hyung," I try one last time, voice deliberately whiny enough to make any staff listening roll their eyes, "if you don't pay attention to me right now, I'm going to reorganize your studio."

He looks up then, from under his ball cap, slow and deliberate, and something in his gaze makes my stomach flip. It's that look he saves for empty practice rooms and late-night studio sessions, when we're sure we're alone.

"Careful," he murmurs, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear, "or I'll make you put everything back. In order. All night." His eyes are saying something entirely different from his bored expression. Because that's Yoongi—he keeps his real expressions tucked away, lets everyone think he's barely tolerating my aegyo while saving his genuine looks for moments no one else gets to see.

My ears burn red and I feel suddenly exposed, even though I'm the one who pushed. This is the problem with him—he lets me play my games until suddenly he doesn't, and then I'm the one struggling to keep my mask in place.

"Ya, you're supposed to be helping me with the script," I mumble, loud enough for the staff to hear the familiar bickering tone. But my heart's doing that stupid flutter thing it does when he sees through me, and I can feel my practiced pout wavering into something more genuine.

He's already looking back at his IKEA catalog, but I catch the slight upturn of the lips.

But I'm a professional. And I make it through the Vlive without gawking at how good he looks in a ballcap or touching his knees, poking out from the rips in his jeans. We had over a million people watch and that night back in the dorm, the energy hits the group chat like a triple shot Americano:

Hobi: GUYS did everyone eat those banana milk popsicles I left in the freezer?

RM: The ones with the sticky note that said "NOT FOR JUNGKOOK"?

Jungkook: ...oops

Hobi: YAH

Jimin: No make up selfie, incoming!

Jimin: [sends selfie] [it's for an audience of one]

Taehyung: THE CROOKED TOOTH IS TOOTHING

Jin: Can we just start calling it "the toof"

Jimin: I WILL END YOU NOW

Yoongi: At least it's your actual face instead of another one with a puppy filter

Jimin: Says the one who practiced his finger heart in the bathroom mirror

Yoongi: ONE TIME

Taehyung: Hobi has video evidence that says otherwise

Hobi: I have everything on my phone

Jin: Exposed

[2 minutes of silence]

Hobi: The silence is deafening

Jin: Yoongi-yah, care to defend yourself~?

Taehyung: Shhhhh. Hyung's probably writing a song about Jimin's tooth as we speak

Jimin: This is actual bullying

Jin: Tae just said what we're all thinking

Yoongi: I was being honest. Jimin doesn't need filter.

Jungkook: Jimin needs a lot of things…

Taehyung: Facts

Jin: Speaking of honest, what about my magnificent nostrils?

Jin: [sends selca of his nose]

Jungkook: Nothing compares to those nostrils, hyung

Yoongi: [private message to Jimin] Your bare face is pretty.

Jimin: [private message to Yoongi] Hyung being nice to me? Are you catching a cold? Spiking a fever?

Yoongi: [private message to Jimin] Don't get used to it.

Hobi: We have Olympic Arena rehearsal tomorrow guys!!!!!! It's almost here

RM: Time to get some sleep

Taehyung: Sleep is for the weak

Hobi: Why is my roommate tucked in bed and smiling at his phone like that?

Taehyung: Probably admiring his toof in the mirror again

Jimin: Is the tooth that bad? Should I fix it?

RM: ENOUGH. SLEEP NOW.

Jungkook: [sends edited video of Jin's nostrils flaring in time to to Save Me]

Jin: That's it, I'm moving out.

Yoongi: [private message to Jimin] Your smile's fine. The tooth thing. Whatever. Fans like it.

Jimin: [private message to Yoongi] Just the fans?

Yoongi: [private message to Jimin] Don't make it weird

Hobi: Olympic Arena in one weeeeeek

Taehyung: Speaking of the concert, who stole my lucky headband?

Jimin: The one with the pink sparkles? Wasn't me this time

Jin: For once

RM: GOOD NIGHT

One hour later…

Yoongi: [private message to Jimin] Still awake?

Jimin: [private message to Yoongi] Hard to sleep when I've been watching you type and delete for the past ten minutes

Yoongi: Aish. My keyboard's acting up

Jimin: The cool kids know how to type

Yoongi: Guess that excludes you, then. You're too busy monitoring my status

Jimin: Because you're the one who keeps almost saying something

Yoongi: I hate that you know exactly what I'm doing

Jimin: No you don't

Suga: No, I don't.

Jimin: Like how you kept finding excuses to watch my private dance lessons this week?

Yoongi: I'm being thorough

Jimin: Especially during that one part

Yoongi: Don't start

Jimin: You started it with that look you gave me earlier before shooting

Yoongi: This is getting dangerous

Jimin: Been dangerous since you learned that new thing with your tongue

I spend five minutes watching him type and delete before sending the next message.

Yoongi: That was a mistake

Jimin: Three times?

Yoongi: All mistakes

Jimin: That why you keep making them?

Yoongi: Masochism?

Jimin: You love it though and you are getting very good at it

Yoongi: and you are getting awful bold

Jimin: Says the one who can't keep his eyes off me

Yoongi: I'm sick of you

Jimin: Your playlist says otherwise

Yoongi: That's private

Jimin: Not anymore

Yoongi: How did you even?????

Jimin: I know your soundcloud password

Yoongi: Since when?

Jimin: Since you started using my birthday

Yoongi: That's convenience

Jimin: Sure it is

Yoongi: It is

Jimin: Like how you conveniently watch me stretch?

Yoongi: BRB I'm changing my password

Jimin: To what? My birthday?

Yoongi: This conversation is over

Jimin: Want to switch to voice? We could get under the covers and…

Yoongi: ABSOLUTELY NOT

Jimin: Such a prude

Yoongi: Such a menace

Jimin: Your favorite menace

Yoongi: That's debatable

Yoongi: I'm leaving

Jimin: No you're not

Yoongi: Try me

Jimin: Already have. I like it. That's why I'm back for more.

Yoongi: THIS IS INAPPROPRIATE

Jimin: Your caps lock is showing. You must be typing so hard. Are you hard?

Yoongi: I hate you

Jimin: No you don't

Yoongi: No, I don't. But you're so…

Jimin: So?

Yoongi: Annoying

Jimin: Try again

Yoongi: Frustrating

Jimin: Getting warmer

Yoongi: I need to go to sleep

Jimin: Without saying it?

Yoongi: What do you want me to say?

Jimin: You know

[Five minutes pass]

Yoongi: You're fucking beautiful when you dance

Jimin: I'll accept that. So about that call...

Yoongi: GO TO SLEEP

Jimin: Make me

Yoongi: This is unbearable

Jimin: You're still here though

Yoongi: Clearly a lapse in judgment

Jimin: This is quite a long lapse?

Yoongi: What am I thinking? Oh wait? I'm not. You make me stupid.

Jimin: You love it

Yoongi: Stop being observant

Jimin: Too late for that

Yoongi: I'm nervous about my parents coming to our concert

Jimin: At the Arena?

Yoongi: Yeah

Jimin: First time in a while

Yoongi: Since debut

Jimin: Ah

Yoongi: Don't make it a thing

Jimin: It's allowed to be a thing

Yoongi: It's just a concert

Jimin: It's the Olympic Arena

Yoongi: Exactly

Jimin: Where their son is performing. They'll get to see how far you've come

Yoongi: Is it far enough?

Jimin: Yes. And you aren't just enough. You are everything

Yoongi: Stop

Jimin: And you are their incredibly talented son

Yoongi: Park Jimin

Jimin: Their son who made it

Yoongi: I said stop

Jimin: The one who proved them wrong

Yoongi: ...

Jimin: The one I'm so proud of

Yoongi: This is gross

Jimin: The one they'll be proud of too

Yoongi: You don't know that

Jimin: I do

Yoongi: How?

Jimin: Because you are who you are

Yoongi: Getting sentimental in the dark

Jimin: Getting honest in the dark

Yoongi: Bad judgment

Jimin: Like telling me about your nightmares?

Yoongi: That was different

Jimin: Because you trust me?

Yoongi: Hajima!

Jimin: K. K. But you don't mind when I'm mushy

Yoongi: ...no, I don't. Thank you

Jimin: Always

Yoongi: But don't make it weirder

Jimin: Too late for that too

Yoongi: Way too late

Jimin: I still could come over?

Yoongi: We have to get up so early

Jimin: That's not a no

Yoongi: Will you shut up

Jimin: Put something in my mouth

Yoongi: I'm blocking you

Jimin: Never

Yoongi: This is torture

Jimin: And you love it. Masochist 4 eva.

Yoongi: Unfortunately

Jimin: You mean fortunately

Yoongi: I hate this

Jimin: You love to say that. But you don't

Yoongi: ...no, I don't.

Chapter 17: The City Watches (While I Take You Apart)

Notes:

Buckle up!

I'm more used to fancy hotels these days, but seriously? This shower still took me three tries to figure out. What's with the settings—who needs fourteen water pressure options? I've been in here too long, my fingertips are pruning, but the scalding water helps calm my nerves. Which is stupid because it's just Yoongi-hyung. Just Yoongi-hyung coming over to be with me. In a hotel room.

That I booked.

So we can be alone.

All night.

Fuck.

I rest my forehead against the marble tile and try to steady my breathing. The same way I did yesterday when I saw him fall into that deep bow on stage, his shoulders shaking. None of us were prepared for it. We'd all clocked his parents in the VIP section—impossible to miss his mother dabbing at her eyes during his solo stage. But watching him break down in front of thousands... that was different. All that old pain of disappointing them, of choosing music when they'd begged him not to, of proving himself over and over just to get to this moment—it overwhelmed him completely. And they were finally there to see this: the sold-out Seoul arena, thousands of voices chanting his name, the masterful verses he'd written himself proving that his path had been right all along. The pride and vindication and lingering hurt and overwhelming relief—it all crashed down once, bringing him to his knees.

Namjoon-hyung had practically tripped over him in surprise. But I didn't hesitate. Being something of an expert in Yoongi's raw edges meant I knew exactly how to touch him in that critical moment—gentle pressure between his shoulder blades, hand moving in small circles. A touch that said "I've got you" without making it obvious to the crowd. When he'd gathered himself enough to stand up, he didn't so much as look in my direction. That's how I knew he was still hanging on by a thread, still processing the weight of their acceptance after all these years.

He'd spent last night with his family. And that was right, that was important. But I'd booked this room on the drive home from the arena, knowing he'd need this too. A space away from the dorm's noise, from well-meaning members, from everything except... well, me.

The water's starting to run cold, I've worn out the hotel reserves, but I can't make myself move. I rub my hands over my face. What if I read this wrong? Bringing him here. I know we're moving at a glacial speed for most people, but what if this is too fast for him?

What if—

I shut off the water, step out and wrap a plush white towel around my waist, suddenly remembering I didn't bring clothes into the bathroom with me. The steam-fogged mirror shows my reflection, flushed from more than just the hot water. It's fine. I open the door. I'll just change into some sweats, pour a drink while I wait and—

"Jesus Christ!" I nearly jump out of my skin. Yoongi's sitting in the armchair by the window, barely visible in the dim light from the city outside. His expression is unreadable, but there's something about the way he's looking at me that makes my breath catch.

"Sorry," he says, sounding anything but. "Didn't want to interrupt your hour-long shower."

"I wasn't—" I clutch the towel tighter, very aware of a few stray water droplets running down my chest. "How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to read the news." His fingers are drumming against the armrest—the nervous habit he thinks none of us notice. "You planning to put on clothes, or...?"

The trailing question hangs in the air between us, heavy with possibility.

I see his throat bob as he watches me. Good. Too often he tries to play it cool when I catch him staring—maybe it's time to push back. Instead of grabbing clothes from my bag, I walk closer to his chair, letting the water drip wherever it wants.

"What's wrong, hyung?" I keep my voice light, teasing. "You seem nervous."

His fingers stop drumming. Start again. "Ya, shut up."

That's when I make a choice. If I act like a gremlin he'll be more comfortable. "Make me."

His eyes snap to mine, dark and wanting, before he catches himself and looks away. "Park Jimin..."

"Poor Min Yoongi." I move closer until I'm right in front of his chair. There is so much unknown here, the night ahead is one big question mark. He's so skittish. Please don't let me scare him off. "You've been sitting here in the dark waiting for me. Thinking about me. Haven't you?"

"You're..." He swallows hard. "Being very confident right now."

"Hmmmm. You like it when I'm confident though." I lean down, hands on each armrest, caging him in. Water drips from my hair onto his shirt. "You just pretend you don't."

"This is insane," he whispers, but his hands are already reaching for my waist, hovering just shy of touching skin.

"You make me insane." I cock a brow. "So are you going to do something about it?"

His fingers finally make contact, feather-light against my sides, stroking up my ribs, and I can't help the small sound that escapes me. His eyes darken further.

"Last chance to put clothes on," he warns, but his thumbs are already tracing circles on my hipbones, just above the towel. They're shaking slightly—our Suga, always so composed, trembling at the thought of touching me. Something fierce and tender blooms in my chest.

I lean closer, until my lips are nearly brushing his ear. "No."

He hisses when I flick my tongue against his hot skin.

"Fuck Jimin-ah," he breathes, and there's so much wrapped up in those syllables—want and fear. The tremor in his hands grows stronger.

I pull back just enough to see his face. His eyes are conflicted—want warring with that iron control he's so famous for.

"Hyung," I say softly, bringing one hand to cup his face. My thumb traces his cheekbone. "Stop thinking so hard."

"Someone has to," he mutters, but he leans into my touch like he's starving for it. "Coming here. Doing this. It changes everything."

"I've got you," I whisper against his skin. "Like I had you yesterday. Like I'll have you tomorrow."

Something breaks in him then—I feel it under my hands, the moment his walls start crumbling. He yanks me down, until I'm straddling his lap, cock already throbbing, the towel slips, barely hanging on.

"You think you know me so well," he murmurs, but his voice is rough with emotion.

"I do know you." I press my forehead to his still cradling his face. "I know how hard you work to keep everyone at arm's length. I know how scared you are right now. I know—"

He turns his head to suck my fingers into his mouth, hips tilting now as if he can't hold back the writhing. I let out a moan. And I'm not quiet. I don't have to be. Not here.

It's just us.

He keeps sucking my finger while one hand skates across my chest, finding my nipple and pinching it. He's not gentle. I'm louder this time–more fractured.

He pulls back. "Why do you like things that hurt?"

"It means we're done playing safe," I whisper against his mouth. "Done pretending we don't want this exactly how we want it. When it hurts..." I roll my hips slowly. "That's when I know you've stopped fighting it. Fighting us."

"Jimin..." It's half warning, half plea.

My fingers thread through his hair. "Because you can't pretend this is just—"

"Please," he whispers, and Min Yoongi never begs. Never shows his cards. But his hands are still trembling against my skin and his eyes are wet. "I can't..."

"Can't what?" I press closer, feel his heartbeat racing. "Can't let me see you? Like I saw you yesterday?"

"Can't lose you," he breathes, and the words shake like they're being torn from him. "If we do this..." His fingers dig into my chest, desperate. "You'll see everything. And when you leave—"

"I won't." I press my forehead to his, holding him there, making him feel how steady I am. How sure. "I've already seen everything. Yesterday. Last week. Every time you think I'm not looking. And I'm still here."

His breath hitches. When he speaks again, it's barely audible. "You don't know what you're promising."

"Yes, I do." I brush my lips across his cheek, tasting him. "Let me show you."

His kiss is desperate this time, like he's trying to stop the truth from spilling out. But I can taste salt on his lips and feel the way his hands clutch at me like he's drowning.

"We have all night." I growl, as I lick my way down my neck. No one's going to interrupt. I bite gently at his pulse point, where I usually can't leave marks. "Maybe I'll get to hear you? For once?"

He's now gripping the back of my neck as if he can pull me even closer. "Brat."

"Yeah, but I'm your brat. Don't forget it." I suck harder at his neck, relishing the way he can't muffle his sounds now. "Tell me what you want."

"You want to hear? Want me to tell you exactly what I've been thinking about? Sitting here in the dark, listening to the shower run?"

Fuck. I freeze. I glance at him. Heart thudding.

"All those times we had to be quiet. Quick. But now—" his thumb traces my lower lip, "What if here I can take my time. Tell you everything I want to do to you. Make you beg for it..."

My breath hitches. "Since when are you so chatty?"

"Finally have time to use my words." He pulls me closer, lips brushing my ear. "Can show you properly."

"Yeah. Yeah. Big talk from someone who couldn't even look at me a minute ago," I counter, but my voice shakes when his lips find that spot under my jaw.

"Oh?" His hands find there way back to my hips, my precarious towel. "You think because you walked out here half-naked, you're in control?"

"Am I not?" But we both hear the tremor in my laugh when his teeth graze my shoulder.

"I know you love pushing me," he murmurs. "Testing my limits. Seeing how far you can go before I snap. But now—" his fingers trace up my spine, making me arch, "now we have all night for me to push back."

"You think you can handle me for that long?"

His laugh is low, dangerous. "You're pretty brave for someone who's shaking in my lap like a leaf."

"Maybe I want to see what you'll do about it."

"Always trying to break my control," he breathes against my throat. "But what happens when I break yours instead?"

"You can try," I manage, but my voice betrays me when his hand slides up my back, achingly slow.

"You're—" he breaks off with a hiss when I slide my hand between his legs, palm his hardness through his jeans, "—impossible."

"Impossible?" I giggle against his ear. "That's not what you called me last week. What was it again? When I had you pressed against the practice room mirror? Darling, was it? Or Dove?"

His hands tighten on my waist. "Park Jimin..."

"Oh right," I rock forward again, slower this time. "You couldn't talk at all. Too busy trying not to make noise."

"You're playing with fire," but his voice shakes when my fingers find the buttons of his shirt.

"No, hyung. I'm playing with you." Another button slips free. "And tonight?" My lips brush his ear. "Be a big talker. But know this. Later I'm going to be the one making you beg for it."

For me.

He tries to growl but it comes out more like a whimper. "You think you're so—"

"So what?" I grind down harder, watching his eyes flutter shut.

He tries to growl but it comes out more like a whimper. "You think you can just—"

"Just what?" I grind down harder, watching his eyes roll back. "Just drive you crazy? Just make you fall apart? What are you going to do about it? Going to push me off? Tell me to stop? Or beg."

"I hate you," he gasps, but his hands are sliding up my bare back, pulling me closer.

"No you don't." I bite his earlobe, making him jerk. "You love it when I'm like this. When I make you stop pretending."

"Fuck," he breathes, and his hands are everywhere now, like he can't decide where to touch first. "You're going to kill me."

"Not yet." I roll my hips again, slower this time, watching his face. "Not until I've had my fun. Not until you admit how much you need this." Another slow grind. "Need this." My teeth against his throat. "Need to stop pretending you're not desperate for it."

"I don't—" his voice cracks as my hand slides under his shirt, "get desperate."

"No?" I laugh against his skin. "So if I got up right now..."

His hands grip my hips so hard I'll have bruises. "Don't you dare."

"Then say it." I pull back to look at him, drinking in how wrecked he already looks. "Tell me what you want."

"You know," he grits out.

"I know." My fingers trace patterns on his abs, feeling them jump. "But tonight I want to hear you say it."

His head falls back against the chair. "You're going to destroy me."

"That's the plan." My fingers work on his remaining buttons. "Been thinking about this since yesterday. How you looked on stage. How you needed me."

"Don't—" but he breaks off with a moan when my towel finally drops.

"Don't what? Don't tell you how beautiful you were?" I'm opening his pants, lowering the zipper. "How much I wanted to take you somewhere private? How hard it was watching you leave with your family when all I wanted was this." A quick lick of my palm and he's in my hand now. We both are. I'm stroking us in tandem.

"P-please." His eyes meet mine and something in my chest tightens at how vulnerable he looks. How much trust he's giving me.

"That's it," I breathe, jerking us in a rhythm that makes his cheeks flush. "Let me have all of you."

"This isn't..." His hands slide up my sides, reverent and wanting. "Not like the other times..."

"Nope," I agree, catching his lower lip between my teeth. "No rush. No hiding. Just us."

"Just us," he echoes, and something in his voice makes my chest ache. His hands are everywhere now, like he can't decide where to touch first, like he's finally letting himself want.

"That's it," I murmur against his mouth. "Let go. Let me have you. All of you."

"Already yours," he admits, voice breaking. "Always been yours."

The confession hits me hard, makes my chest tight.

He pulls back to look at me, and there's something raw in his expression that makes my breath catch. "This isn't—" his voice breaks, "this isn't just—"

"I know," I tell him softly. "I know what this is. What we are."

The way he looks at me then—like I'm something precious, something overwhelming—makes my chest ache. Because this is what I've been waiting for. Not just the physical release, but this vulnerability. This trust. This complete surrender of all his careful walls.

His eyes meet mine, dark and wanting. "Please let me touch you."

I drop our cocks and brace my hands on his shoulders. "Show me then. Show me everything you've been holding back."

His hands are on me at once, like he can't decide between desperate and tender. Like he wants both. Like he needs both.

"What do you need?" His voice is rough, desperate. "Tell me."

"Need you to stop thinking." I catch his lower lip between my teeth. "Need you to let go. Need you to—"

His hands tighten on my hips suddenly, and the world spins as he stands, taking me with him. My back hits the mattress before I can process the movement, and then he's above me, panting and hungry. "Like this?" he breathes, and something in his voice makes me shudder.

"Didn't know you could move that fast, hyung," but my laugh catches in my throat as his hands pin my wrists.

His mouth crashes into mine, all pretense of control forgotten. My hands find his hair, tugging hard enough to make him gasp against my lips.

"Knew you could be like this," I whisper as his teeth find my throat. "Knew you wanted—"

"Shut up," he orders and something in his voice makes me shiver. "You talk too much."

"Make me," but my voice isn't as steady as I'd like.

His smile is feral. "Oh, I will."

He surges forward with a growl that sounds like breaking, and suddenly his thighs are bracketing my shoulders, his body trembling with barely-contained need. I drag him down hard, making him gasp as I take him deep, pushing him to the back of my throat, tasting him, filled with him. When I hum my satisfaction, his whole body shudders.

"God—Jimin—your pretty mouth—" A hungry groan tears from his throat as I show him exactly how desperate I am for this. For him. His fingers twist almost painfully in my hair as his hips rock. I dig my nails into his thighs, urging him to stop holding back, to let me have everything. He bucks and thrusts until I go lower, sucking and nosing my way to his balls, and then lower again, between his cheeks. I explore him–there–slowly with my tongue in soft circular patterns, he arches, my name a broken cry on his lips, and I fuck him with my tongue, eat him until it's so fucking good that he's thrashing, fisting his cock, letting out little whines and grunts that I've never heard.

"I'm going to. . .Jiminie," he pleads. "Fuck your mouth, I'm going to. . ." I suck his hole hard, my brain flatlining, and he's over the edge. When he collapses beside me, we're both panting. But I'm not content to just lie here. I push back against his grip, surprising him enough to flip our positions.

"Too many clothes," I growl against his throat, yanking at his shirt. He sits up enough to help me remove it, and then I'm pushing him back against the headboard.

"Thought you wanted—" but his words cut off in a gasp as I rock against him.

"Want everything," I breathe against his ear, dragging him off the bed. He is loose-limbed with a fucked-out face. "Want you everywhere. Want—"

His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, but I'm already moving again, pulling him with me as I stand. His back hits the wall with a thud.

"Like this?" I press closer, feeling him shudder. "Or maybe—" I spin us toward the window, pressing him against the cool glass. The city lights paint patterns on his skin.

"Wait. No. Anyone could see," he manages.

"Let them." I bite his shoulder as I tear down his boxers. He kicks them off his ankles. "Let the world see what you fucking do to me. What I do to you. Now freeze. Don't move an inch." I get to my bag in three steps. Grab lube. I'm back adding to the wetness I already put there with my mouth.

"Thought you were in charge?" I taunt, nipping at the back of his neck, when he whimpers.

"You think this is a game?"

"Not even a little bit." I roll on the condom, press against his hole. "I think we're fucking beautiful."

His fingers splay the window. His breath is fogging the glass.

"Yoongi. Do you want this?"

He doesn't hesitate. His perfect, dance toned ass presents as he nods. So I push, slow, careful, soon hitting a ring of tightness. He grunts.

"Shhhhh. It's okay. Let me in you, Baby," I breathe and this time he relaxes, giving way, letting my length sink to the hilt. "Oh my god." I think this is the realest prayer I've ever uttered. He's perfect. So tight and perfect for me.

"Fucking finally," he breathes, adjusting to my size, and the sharp relief in his voice does something feral to my brain. Has he wanted this as much as me? More even?

He moves against me and his sounds are wild now, desperate, and something fierce rises in my chest-protective and territorial. I've never seen him like this—completely undone, walls in shambles. He is mine. Mine. Mine.

"Look at you," I breathe, thrusting deeper. "Want me to wreck you?" I breathe against his ear. "Want me to make that brilliant brain of yours shut up for once?"

His whole body shudders. Got him.

"That's it, isn't it?" My teeth find his throat. "Want me to push you so far you can't think anymore. Can't overthink. Can't hide."

"Jimin—" It comes out broken, desperate.

"I know what you need." I roll my hips slowly, deliberately, as his head rolls back on my shoulder. "Need me to take you apart. Make you forget everything except how good I can make you feel. I see you," I whisper against his skin, pressing him against the cool glass, Seoul glittering behind us like stars. "All of you. Everything you try to hide."

The city lights paint shadows across his face as I move against him, reaching between us. His breath fogs the window as I touch him, making him gasp and arch back into me.

"I can't—" His fingers scrabble against the glass.

"You will." Namsan Tower glows in the distance, a streak of purple light through the darkness. My other hand grips his hip, steadying him as his legs shake.

I work him perfectly, desperately, like I've been waiting years to touch him like this. Because I have. The thought sends tears to my eyes.

"Look," I breathe against his ear. "Look at the city while I take you apart. Going to give you the whole fucking world, Hyung."

When I break, it's with my name torn from his throat. I hold him steady through his own release, whispering praise against his neck until we're both trembling.

After, I gather him close against my chest, both of us reflected in the window, silhouetted against the night sky. Our breathing slowly steadies, but his hands still grip me like he's afraid I'll disappear.

"I've got you," I murmur, running gentle fingers down his spine. "Not going anywhere."

He turns in my arms, tucking his face against my throat. For a long moment, he's quiet, just breathing against my skin. Then, barely audible: "I've never... with anyone..."

"I know, baby." I press my forehead to his. "I know."

"Stay," he whispers, and for once there's no guard in his voice. No careful distance. Just raw need.

I tighten my arms around him. "As long as you want me."

"I don't know how to do this," he confesses into the darkness. "How to let someone see me like this."

"You're doing it right now." I brush my thumb across his cheekbone, catching wetness there. "And I'm still here. Still want you. All of you."

He lifts his head then, and something in his eyes makes my heart stutter. Like he wants to say more, but can't find the words.

"Sleep, hyung," I whisper, tucking him into bed and curling around him. "I'll be here when you wake up."

We drift off tangled together, his heartbeat steady against mine. And finally, finally, he lets himself be held.

Chapter 18: Moats and Crocodiles

I stare at the questionnaire I'm supposed to fill out for Festa, slouched on our worn dorm couch. The fabric's gone thin where we all tend to sit - there's even a small burn mark from when Taehyung knocked over ramyeon last winter. The dorm feels too quiet with everyone gone, just the distant sound of Jungkook's voice floating from the shower, some English song he's been obsessed with lately.

Question 3: Rate your closeness with Min Yoongi (1-100%)

Of course the producers assigned me HIM. People love to watch our banter - the way Yoongi-hyung barely contains his eye roll before delivering some cutting remark that makes me squawk in protest. The fans eat it up. If they only knew.

Through the open window, the early June evening drifts in - humid air, the distant sound of traffic, the smell of someone grilling meat somewhere nearby. The empty dorm feels strange, like a stage between scenes. Even the usual chaos of shoes by the door seems to mock me - Taehyung's expensive ones missing, Yoongi-hyung's pumas nowhere to be seen.

"Closeness?"

The question feels like a blade.

I run a hand through my hair and let out a frustrated yell. My throat feels raw - too many hours of practice, too many nights of not enough sleep. Did I think everything was going to be rainbows and kittens after the night in the hotel?

No.

I'm not that naive anymore - not the wide-eyed Busan boy who first walked into BigHit with dreams bigger than his fear, who thought hard work could fix everything, who believed in fairy tales and happy endings.

What was I expecting after he slept all night in my arms and let me have him one more time in the morning, slow, romantic even - the way his cat-like eyes stayed fixed on mine, dark and wanting, the way his pale skin flushed pink when I traced his injured shoulder with my mouth, how he whispered "Jiminie" like it meant everything? How he let me see him vulnerable, all his sharp edges gone soft in the dawn light? And then came home to pull up the drawbridge and set crocodiles into the moat?

The only surprising thing is that I was surprised at all.

That I'd actually hoped for something to be different. Just a little shift

His official story is that he is working on a mixtape. A project just for him. And sure, he deserves it. Needs it even. But what about us? Me? He just disappears into his studio for days, I catch glimpses of him up the hallway with dark circles under his eyes, shoulders hunched under his oversized hoodie, avoiding eye contact. I've heard the same beat loop endlessly through the wall until I could hum it in my sleep - if I was sleeping. Min Yoongi, eternally married to his music. It's easier for him that way - emotions are messy, unpredictable, dangerous. But music? Music he can control, can perfect, can share without giving away too much of himself. Can love without risking anything in real life.

I get it. I do. Music won't look at you with hearts in its eyes. Music won't trace the line of your jaw with trembling fingers and whisper how beautiful you are. Music won't expect anything back.

The questionnaire sits there, judging me with its cheerful company letterhead and empty spaces waiting to be filled with fan-friendly lies. A headache forms behind my eyes, radiating to my temples.

I put myself out there - stripped away the idol mask, the perfect Jimin smile, all my careful boundaries. Showed him exactly what he means to me, how deep this goes. Laid my heart bare in that hotel room like some lovesick idiot. And for what?

He doesn't even see it, does he? Like... I'm the one who practices in front of mirrors until four in the morning, who plans every detail until the members want to strangle me. Who calculates every move, every expression, every word. And then I just... what? Threw my whole heart at him because…? I bury my face in my hands.

Because he is Min fucking Yoongi and all that entails.

Aish, Park Jimin-ah... you really are something else.

Pabo.

Fool.

I grab my pen and scrawl my answer–90%--my hand steadier than it has any right to be. Perfectly believable. Close enough to make the fans happy, distant enough to be safe. Nobody has to know that missing 10% is carved into my chest, keeping me staring at my ceiling every night, replaying every moment, every touch, every whispered word.

What's one more performance from Park Jimin, right?

But lately I've been wondering - how many lies can you tell before you forget what's true? I've been the idol for so long now, Park Jimin the dancer, Park Jimin who's close-but-not-too-close with his hyung. Park Jimin who's fine, who's professional, who's handsome. Sometimes I catch myself in the practice room mirror and I'm not sure anymore - which smile is real? Which laugh? After all these last few years of being what everyone needs me to be, what's left that's actually mine?

I almost laugh at myself. Listen to me, like I'm not just trying to avoid the simple fact: when Yoongi touches me, when he looks at me with hungry dark eyes, when his deep voice goes soft just for me - that's the only time all the questions in my head go quiet. The only time I'm not wondering which version of myself I'm supposed to be.

Maybe that's what scares me most.

At least the crocodiles in his moat are eating well. I hope they choke on my confessions - if they're even real anymore. Maybe I've practiced this hurt so many times it's just another choreography now.

Maybe I've gotten so good at pretending that even I can't tell the difference.

"Jiiiiiiiiimin." Jungkook crashes onto the couch next to me, all limbs and restless energy. "I'm going insane. Everyone's busy. Taehyung's with the Hwarang hyungs."

"You're jealous?" I raise an eyebrow, hearing the note in his voice.

"No," he mutters too fast, then, "Fine. Maybe. A little. He keeps sending selcas with them. I don't think he misses me at all."

"Ah, our Kookie's feeling neglected?" I reach to pinch his cheek but he swats my hand away.

"Whatever. What are you doing anyway?" His eyes fall on my questionnaire and he groans. "You got Yoongi-hyung?"

I feel my face heat up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you get all weird lately when he's around. Like yesterday in practice? When you came up behind him and tried to show that funny YouTube video and he jumped out of his skin. You pouted for over an hour."

"I did not—"

"You did though." He steals my pen, starting to doodle in the corner of my paper. "So annoying."

I grab for the pen but he holds it out of reach. "Says the one who's sulking because Taehyung has new friends."

"That's different," he says, still keeping the pen away from me. "At least I know what I'm sulking about."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

He shrugs, but his eyes are too sharp. "Just that lately you look at Yoongi-hyung like he's a math problem you can't solve. And I thought you were good at math."

"I am good at—" I start, then stop. "It's not—"

"You don't have to tell me anything," he says, softer now. "But something's different. You're different."

I stare at the questionnaire, at that damning 90%. "Sometimes I think I don't know how to be any other way except different. It's awkward."

"Hey." He pokes my cheek. "That's almost my line, Mochi Face. I'm just me. Awkward."

"You?" I scoff. "You're not awkward. You're just... selective about your chaos."

"Unlike some people who just throw their feelings everywhere?" His grin is teasing but gentle.

"Yah!" I snatch for the pen again. "I do not throw—"

"Please. You're like one of those firework shows. All sparkle and boom."

"That's... actually kind of nice?"

"Wasn't meant to be." But he's smiling. "Sometimes I think that's why Taehyung and I... why it works, you know? Because neither of us tries to be anything except what we are. Even when it's messy."

I feel something catch in my throat. "When did you get so wise, Jeon Jungkook?"

"About the time you noticed." He finally hands the pen back. "It's going to be okay, hyung. Be brave. Fighting!"

"Brave?" I laugh, but it comes out hoarse. "I practice the same move for eight hours because I'm scared of getting it wrong. I check the mirror a hundred times before leaving my room. I'm not—"

"That's not what I mean and you know it." He pulls his legs up, wrapping his arms around his knees. "You're brave with your heart. You always have been. Even when we were trainees and everything was scary and new, you just... loved us. All of us. No hesitation."

"That's different."

"Why? Because it's Yoongi-hyung?"

"Whoa." My heart stutters. "I never said—"

"You didn't have to." He rests his chin on his knees. "I get it, you know? Why you're scared. But hyung... maybe being scared is okay? Maybe it's not about not being scared, but about doing it anyway?"

I look at him – really look at him. "Is that what you do? With Taehyung?"

His smile goes soft at the corners. "Every day. But then he'll do something completely ridiculous like send me a three-minute video of him making faces at a dog, and I remember – oh yeah, that's why. That's why it's worth it."

"Even when he's off making new friends and forgetting about you?"

"He's not forgetting." Jungkook's voice is sure. "He's just... expanding. And I have to let him, you know? Because trying to keep him small would be like... I don't know...like trying to keep sunshine in a jar."

"When did you get so poetic?"

"Probably around the time you started doodling '90%' on papers while sighing like a drama heroine."

"Yah!" I kick at him, but there's no heat in it. "You are a pain."

"Eh, you love me." He stands up, stretching. "Maybe try loving yourself though?"

"I—" I start, but he cuts me off.

"Enough talking. I'm starving and if I stay here being wise much longer I might die. Let's get chicken."

I look at my questionnaire one last time. 90%. Such a careful number. Such a safe distance.

"Yeah," I say, getting up. "Food sounds good."

"Good, because you're buying."

"What? You just watched me have an emotional crisis and now you want me to pay?"

His grin is pure evil. "Think of it as my wisdom fee."

I roll my eyes.

He heads for the door, then pauses. "Hyung?"

"Mm?"

"Whatever's going on with you and Yoongi-hyung... I hope you figure it out."

I feel something warm in my chest. "Thanks, Jungkook-ah."

He just smiles that bunny smile and drags me toward food. And if I feel a little lighter, a little braver – well, maybe that's what dongsaengs are for.

The questionnaire can wait. For now, there's food to eat and a maknae to spoil.

And maybe, just maybe, some courage to find.

[2:34 AM] hyunggggg are you in your studio? of course you're in your studio that's where you live now right? your new home with your beats and your walls and your whatever

[2:37 AM] did you know did you know jungkookie bought me soju because I was sad isn't that sweet? he's such a good dongsaeng unlike SOME people who just who just pretend nothing happened

[2:41 AM] you know what's funny? I wrote 90% on that stupid form NINETY that's like that's almost perfect but the thing is the thing is that other 10% it's killing me it's actually killing me hyung

[2:43 AM] why are you like this? why did you have to why did you have to look at me like that? touch me like that? if you were just going to if you were just

[2:46 AM] I hate that I can still feel your hands I hate that I know what your skin tastes like I hate that I know how you sound when never mind never mind never mind never mind

[2:48 AM] I don't hate it that's the problem I don't hate any of it I don't hate you I wish I did

[2:50 AM] your mixtape better be worth it it better be the best thing anyone's ever heard since you chose it over over

[2:51 AM] whatever I'm going to bed don't reply to this I mean you won't anyway right? that's your thing now being quiet being gone

[2:55 AM] hyung I miss you I miss you so much it hurts please just

[2:56 AM] ignore that last one ignore all of them I'm just I'm just drunk that's all just drunk just Park Jimin being too much again

[Delete message?] [Message deleted.] [Delete message?] [Message deleted.] [Delete message?] [Message deleted.]

[3:01 AM] good night hyung: fighting ... ❤️

[Delete message?] [Message deleted.]

Chapter 19: Breadcrumbs

I catch glimpses of myself in the dark screen, a stranger wearing my face in the shadows. No one believed that lost kid would make it this far—now I'm selling out Olympic Gymnastics Arena, making enough money to set my family up. Finally reached every goal I bled for. All the success that was supposed to fix me.

But the hunger just gets sharper.

Got this black dog inside me, teeth bared, always starving. Ripping up everything to find another bone, don't care if it destroys the whole fucking yard.

I glare at my yellow legal pad. The verse I've been working on is finally cracking open—bleeding truth about what happened to me last winter in Japan. About my body giving out before the concert, panic climbing up my throat while staff called for medical attention. Wasn't just physical exhaustion. No fancy metaphors like Joon would write, no clever wordplay to hide behind. Just raw truth:

Behind the famous idol rapper stands my weak self.

Yeah. That line needs to stay. My hand cramps around the pen. The rest of the song is still finding its place. Who am I, really, down in my marrow? That Daegu kid who used to spit about uprising and struggle—he never dreamed of sitting through makeup brushstrokes, or learning the exact angle to smile for cameras.

Never imagined lying awake at night thinking about a boy from Busan, about the way he—

My phone rings. It's him. Jimin. Again. Should answer, should be his steady hyung, all composed tones and casual laughs. Like nothing's changed since that night in the hotel when the distance between us finally collapsed, when I let him peel away every layer I'd built, when I learned how it feels to be unmade by someone's hands. When want became need became destiny, and I knew we could never go back from this—from the way he took me apart, from how perfectly we destroyed each other. My skin heats just thinking about it. How am I supposed to fake it now? Heart slamming against my ribs, throat closing up, I can't trust myself when his voice hits my ears. One wrong word, one wrong touch at the wrong time, and I could detonate everything—the group, our careers, his whole fucking life. Mine too.

So I vanished instead, each missed call carving another hollow space inside me that I don't know how to fill.

I bite down on my thumbnail until I taste blood, barely feeling it. My hands won't stop fucking shaking while my mind floods with the way his name tore from my throat when he made me come. Every detail branded into me—the stretch, the heat, how he entered every part of me, how everything shattered into pieces I can't put back together. I'm changed now in ways I can't undo.

Stop.

Focus.

Finish the verse.

Bass throbs through my headphones, drowning in confessions about panic and pressure, about suffocating in expectations. But the real confession—about crossing a line I can never uncross, about how his tongue tasted me for the first time, about his mouth between my legs, about how his name catches in my throat now like a secret I never meant to keep—stays locked behind my teeth.

Has to. Has to.

The world would tear us apart.

What do I even say now? Sorry, Jimin-ah, I ghosted because every time I move I feel the ghost of you deep inside me, remembering how you opened me up for the first time? Because hiding in this studio forever feels safer than admitting how completely you've ruined me for anyone else?

My phone lights up. I'm at 7% battery. It's him. He's gone back to text. His words tear through my defenses: at least tell me if you regret it

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Then: because i don't

I close my eyes, press my palms against them until stars burst in the darkness. Trying to think of nothing, find some empty space where I'm not aching for him. Where I'm not remembering how it felt to let someone—to let him—

Phone rings again and I flinch so hard I almost knock over my cold coffee.

This time it's not Jimin.

"Yah, Min Yoongi." Seojun's voice is slurred, razor-edged. "The big fucking deal picks up."

My gut twists, remembering notebooks passed between us, how close we'd sit in the practice room, how I'd catch myself staring at his hands when he wrote. He was the first boy who made me question everything. "Hey, man. What's up?"

"Saw you at Olympic Stadium. YouTube." His slurred laugh scrapes like broken glass. "Remember me? Before they taught you to dance like their fucking puppet?"

My half formed verses are scrawled accusingly on the page. Panic attacks and masks and self-hatred. I should hang up. But Seojun was my first crash course into wanting something I couldn't have.

"Where are you?" My voice goes flat.

He coughs. "Somewhere you're too famous to be seen."

"Hang on." Dread creeps in. "Are you high?"

His laugh is all wrong. "What gave it away?"

"What are you on?" Words come out like ice. "Are you fucking stupid?"

"The hell do you care? Too busy being perfect?"

I make a noise low in my throat, almost a growl. "Cut the bullshit. What. Are. You. On?"

Another hollow laugh. "Nothing that'll stain your precious image. Bro, look at you. All polished up now. Bet you don't even write your own—"

"I write everything." My voice goes deadly quiet. "Every. Fucking. Word. And you're dodging my question."

"Just pills. The usual. Won't kill me." His bitter laugh slices through. "Not all of us escaped, Yoongi-yah. Not all of us got to be stars."

"This fun? Getting wasted and calling to tell me what a sellout I am?"

"You left us all behind. Forgot what gutter you crawled out of."

My chest goes tight with something darker than panic. Rage. Fear. Shame. I used to think he knew me so well. Maybe no one does. "I remember every fucking meal skipped, Seojun. But I'm not gonna apologize for making it. For changing. For becoming something you don't recognize." I pause, swallow hard. "Let me help you. I can come get you—"

"Fuck you and your savior complex."

"It's not—" I run a hand through my hair. "Forget it. Just... call me when you've sobered up, okay? I mean it."

"Whatever." The line goes dead.

When he hangs up, my hands are steady but something heavier settles in my chest. Not just for him. For every version of me I've had to become.

Idol. Sellout. Underground rapper. Anxious mess. The angry boy who swore he'd never bend down now perfecting ninety-degree bows. Depression eating at the edges until the doctors made me say it out loud—how sometimes I think about disappearing. Layer on fucking layer of truth.

And who's seen every single version? Who still looks at me like I'm something real even when I'm shattering in hotel rooms or barricading myself in studios for days? Jimin. I press my knuckles against my sternum, trying to push back the ache. Always Jimin.

I spin the pen between my fingers—something's cracked open. This song isn't about hiding anymore. It's about everything—the hunger, the terror, the evolution, the wanting. About sitting in sterile offices admitting my darkest thoughts. About scaring my parents with my silence. About drowning in expectations until I can't breathe.

I need to sleep. My eyes are raw, head throbs. Seojun's broken laugh echoing in my skull.

Should've known he was spiraling. Should've reached out. Should've... what?

Fuck.

Played hero to everyone I left behind? Like some bullshit savior in knock-off designer clothes?

I throw my writing pad down. Need sleep. Time to go home. I stuff my laptop in my bag and stumble out. The hallway emergency lights cast shadows that feel too much like memories. Everything's too quiet. Too loud inside my head. My phone's dead now. Probably missed five more messages from Jimin.

Jimin.

Who makes my heart do this terrifying thing I can't control. Who makes me want to call him, spill everything—about Seojun's spiral, about this song that's ripping me open, about how I can't trust myself alone with him or I'll say something dangerous like "I think I—" or "you make me feel—" or "I'm scared of how much I want this."

It's a short walk home. The corner flower shop's closed but there's a display case outside. Hydrangeas. Pinky-blue ones catching the streetlight. They remind me of him for some reason—everything beautiful reminds me of him now.

My hand's reaching out before I can stop it. Pick one stem. Leave some money under the box. Probably paying too much but fuck it. What's money anyway when you're already investing in being this pathetic?

The streets blur together. Every step taking me closer to our dorm, to him. My phone's still dead. Probably missed ten messages by now. Each one another crack in whatever resolve I thought I had.

The dorm's quiet when I slip in. Everyone's asleep except... his shoes aren't here. My stomach drops. Maybe he's at the practice room, dancing until his legs give out like he does when things get too much. Pushing himself past breaking because that's all he knows how to do. Making me want to drag him home, force him to rest, hold him until—fuck.

Or maybe... maybe he's with someone else. The thought hits like a physical blow, makes me grip the wall. Someone touching him, tasting him, hearing those sounds I—no. No. Can't think about that. Don't have any right to feel this sick, this possessive. I'm the one who ran. But the image won't leave: someone else's hands on his skin, someone else making him gasp, someone else getting to keep him. My chest feels like it's caving in.

The empty space where his shoes should be feels like an accusation. Like all the words I can't say. Like everything I'm destroying because I can't handle wanting him this much.

His bag's in the foyer where he always leaves it, neat like everything else about him. Ordered chaos - that's Jimin. Discipline in everything except taking care of himself.

I slip the hydrangea inside where he'll find it tomorrow. No note. No explanation. What would I even say? "Sorry I'm such a fucking coward"? "Sorry I watch the way your hands move when you talk and forget how to form words"?

Standing there in the dark, flower already gone from my hand, it hits me all at once:

I'm in love with him.

My knees crash to the floor before I even realize I'm falling. The truth of it smashes my chest like a physical weight. Been dancing around those words for so long, even in my own head, and now—

God fucking damn it.

I'm in love with Park Jimin.

Have been for... years? Months? The first second I laid eyes on his thick glasses and ugly ass beanie. Does it matter? Because I'm a greedy bastard who always wants more than I can have. Success wasn't enough. Fame wasn't enough. Making music wasn't enough. Had to go and fall for him. For his laugh. His dedication. The way he sees through every wall I put up. The way he touches me so casually, like it doesn't set my skin on fire. The way he makes me want to be better, be softer, be something I don't even know how to name.

Want him so bad it feels like drowning sometimes. Want his smile, his trust, his future. Want things I can't name, can't have, can't even let myself think about too clearly. Want to be the reason he laughs like that, head thrown back, eyes curved into crescents. Want to be the one he dances for at midnight when no one else is watching.

A blue petal must have fallen from the flower. There on the floor by my knees, caught in the first hint of morning light through the window. Reach out to touch it with shaking fingers.

Beautiful. Painful. Like him. Like everything about this impossible thing I feel.

Maybe this is who I really am. Not some D-Boy, not Suga, not the idol in designer clothes. Just Min Yoongi, terrified and wanting and so fucking in love it feels like drowning in open air.

Just Min Yoongi, leaving flowers in the night like breadcrumbs, watching them trace a path I can't stop following.

Chapter 20: Just Give It To Me

Notes:

I know the angst is high. I'm sorry for my fault. I promise there will be some fun and games soon...

Jimin drinks like he's waging war with each shot, until green soju bottles form a defensive line before him on the dorm dining table—a barricade against me. He spins toward Taehyung, who's lost in his own universe, rambling to a glazed-over Namjoon about star seeds. "Why would reincarnation be limited to Earth? Why wouldn't we come and go from anywhere across the galaxy? Just think about—"

A red cap whistles through the air, bouncing off Taehyung's dark waves before clattering to the floor.

"Yah!" Taehyung whirls, scowling at Jimin who's practically melted onto Hoseok's lap, eyes crinkled with laughter that doesn't quite reach their corners, cheeks flushed.

"Goooooooal!" Jimin throws his arms up in a V for Victory.

"Slow down, Bro." Namjoon shoots Hoseok one of those jaw-tight leader looks that say more than words ever could. Cut his ass off now.

Hoseok answers with a don't-blame-me shrug, and I return to my phone, pretending to read random news articles, acting like my heart isn't trying to punch through my ribcage every time Jimin laughs. Like I don't notice this is the second time this week he's got obliterated. That his eyes have mapped every inch of this room except the space I occupy. That his silence toward me has stretched into what feels like a fucking eternity.

The brat wages his war against me with surgical precision. 'Ah, hyung's making that face again,' he'll say during practice, earning chuckles from the others while my neutral expression burns under their stares. In the van, he'll stretch across three seats, then smile sweetly: 'But hyung likes his space, right?' Or he'll wait until the whole group is together, camera rolling: 'Yoongi-hyung must be tired from producing. He's been so quiet lately.' Always with that same bright laugh that makes Jin ruffle his hair, that has Namjoon nodding thoughtfully at his 'concern.'

And I've perfected my role as the rock—unmovable, unbreakable, un-fucking-feelable.

We're both Daesang-worthy in pretending we don't remember how each other tastes, how I've ridden his face on the studio couch until my thighs trembled, that he fucked me open in that hotel room while Namsan Tower watched like a silent witness.

I never responded to his late-night texts.

He never acknowledged the flower I left in his bag.

I would sooner chew out my own tongue than tell him I love him. And he'd sooner hurl himself out a window than believe he doesn't have to earn every scrap of affection that comes his way. We're both masters of different kinds of distance: my silence, his relentless performance of perfection.

For one terrifying heartbeat, unshed tears turn my screen into a watery mess. Shit. I can't break down here during Friday night drinks without everyone making it A THING in all caps.

I can't let him know he has this much power over me. No one should have any power over me unless they raised me or sign my fucking checks.

I might have fucked it up, but maybe it's better this way because what's the alternative? We can't keep stealing moments in the shadows forever. He can't keep blowing me in my bedroom while Jin discretely plays video games in the living room. The word forever has no business being anywhere near us.

We were reckless idiots trapped in a pressure cooker where it felt safer to seek things from each other instead of strangers, while being infinitely more dangerous.

I need to get out of here. The excuse is ready-made—gotta get back to the studio, my mixtape, my safety net of work and distance.

Pushing back my chair, I look up and freeze like I've been caught in a fucking tractor beam.

He's looking right at me. Not just seeing my face which must be an open book of misery right now. Those small dark eyes cut through my twelve layers of bullshit. How the fuck does he do this—slice through every defense I've built like tissue paper—at a moment when his eyes should be crossing from all that soju?

A cold wave of panic floods my gut. I don't know what he's thinking, what he wants from me now. Maybe the answer is nothing. Nothing on both counts. And maybe that hurts worse than anger.

"Hey Jungkookie," he says suddenly, still locked onto me. He reaches up to trace the underside of his lip with his thumb, slow and deliberate.

Okay. That gesture? That's not nothing. That's a loaded gun. What's cooking in that beautiful, dangerous gremlin brain of his?

I gotta go. Now. For self-preservation.

For sanity.

"Jungkookie," he says louder. Our maknae probably can't hear him over Jin's attempted headlock.

"Jeon Jungkook!"

"What?" Jungkook snaps.

"Aish!" Jimin slams a hand on the table, making the bottles rattle. "Who said you can drop honorifics? It's your phone hooked up to the speaker. Put on that playlist I shared with you this morning."

"Sure."

"Yes, hyung," he barks in that way he's joking but carrying steel underneath. Our Jimin—who'll break every rule there is except the ones about respect, still a class president rule dog at heart.

Jin releases Jungkook enough for him to grab the phone, scroll with a slight frown and hit play.

A song slithers out of the speakers—gone is the hip hop from before. This is club music. This is sex distilled into sound waves.

Before I can blink, Jimin's up and dancing, doing that boneless thing he does where he seems to be liquid except for those hard-thrusting narrow hips that know exactly what they're doing.

I'm rooted to the spot like he's cast a spell.

He starts with Hoseok, sauntering in, turning to present that perfect ass in those ripped jeans that might as well be painted on, and my mouth goes dry. This isn't just dancing. This is actual warfare.

Hoseok howls with laughter as Jimin body rolls against his shoulder, those practiced dancer's hips moving like liquid gold. "Ew, cut it out!" He pushes at Jimin's waist, but he's grinning so wide his mouth might break.

"What, my dancing isn't good enough for you?" Jimin pouts, spinning away toward Jin who's already raising his hands in mock surrender.

"Don't you dare—" Jin starts, but Jimin's already draped himself across our eldest's broad shoulders, making kissy faces while Jin pretends to gag.

"Hyung, I thought we had something special," Jimin whines, then bursts into his signature giggle when Jin shoves him off.

The music pulses darker, and Jimin slithers toward Namjoon, who's watching with that dimpled smile that says he's both amused and concerned about where this is going. But before Jimin can start his attack, Taehyung grabs him by the waist.

"My turn!" Tae announces, pulling Jimin into an exaggerated tango. They move together like they've practiced this, all dramatic dips and playful touches that have everyone clutching their sides laughing.

"Save some for me, hyung!" Jungkook demands, already reaching for Jimin who twirls away from Tae's grip right into our maknae's eager arms.

"Careful what you wish for, Kookie," Jimin purrs, and proceeds to give our youngest the most ridiculous lap dance I've ever seen, complete with finger guns and aegyo faces that somehow make it both hilarious and weirdly hot.

I stay frozen in my chair, knuckles white around my phone, watching him work the room like the attention demon he is. He doesn't look at me once, but the way he's deliberately skipping over my existence speaks louder than anything.

The others are eating it up, hooting and clapping as Jimin continues his performance. They don't notice how his smile gets a little sharper each time he spins past my corner of the table, how there's something almost desperate in the way he's trying to make everyone laugh.

I know this game. Jimin's favorite defense mechanism is to turn everything into a joke, make everyone focus on his bright surface so they don't see what's churning underneath. And fuck if he isn't good at it.

The song starts to fade out, and Jimin takes an exaggerated bow, accepting Jin's wadded-up napkin thrown at his head like a bouquet. He's flushed and breathless, hair sticking to his forehead, and so sweetly stupidly beautiful that it makes my teeth ache.

"Again!" Jungkook calls out, already reaching for his phone. "Encore!"

The new beat drops harder, darker, and I see something shift in Jimin's eyes—that dangerous glint he gets when he's about to push too far. His movements turn sharp, aggressive, like he's trying to tear himself apart with the choreography.

"Slow down, you're still drunk," Hoseok warns, professional instincts kicking in as Jimin launches into one of our more demanding sequences.

But Jimin's not listening. He's all fluid grace one second, barely controlled chaos the next. He spots the coffee table—the one we've all tripped over sober—and I know what he's thinking before he moves. The fucking idiot is going to try to flip over it.

"Don't—" I start to say, but he's already in motion.

Everything slows down like a fucked-up movie scene. I see his foot catch the edge of the table. See his eyes go wide as his balance shifts wrong. See the moment alcohol and momentum betray him.

My body moves before my brain catches up. I'm out of my chair and across the space between us in two strides. His weight slams into my chest, sending us both stumbling backward. My hip catches the edge of the dining table, and I grip his waist to keep us both upright.

For one eternal second, we're pressed together, his heart hammering against mine. His hands fist in my shirt. He smells like soju and that fancy lavender shampoo he loves, and fuck—he fits perfectly against me.

"Shit, you okay?" Namjoon's voice breaks through the roaring in my ears.

Jimin pushes away from me like my touch burns. His eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second, and I see everything there—anger, fear, want, confusion—before his idol mask slams back into place.

"I'm fine!" He laughs, but it's got a sharp edge. "Good thing our Suga-hyung has such quick reflexes, right?"

The way he says my stage name is like a knife twist. Casual. Impersonal.

"You're done," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. "Sit down before you crack your stupid skull open."

"You don't get to tell me what to do." It's barely a whisper, meant for my ears only, his smile never faltering.

"Sorry, hyung," he says, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Guess I really am drunk."

Then the brat starts singing, deliberately off-key, some English pop song. He drapes himself across Taehyung this time, all fluid grace and barely contained chaos, but his eyes keep finding mine between moves. Challenging. Daring.

"Maybe we should call it a night," Namjoon suggests, leader-mode activating as Jimin reaches for another soju bottle.

"Maybe some people should mind their own business." Jimin's smile is sweet poison. He takes a long drink, then adds with faux innocence, "Right, Suga-hyung? You're good at that—minding your own business. No one does it better."

"Jimin-ah," Namjoon starts, half-rising, but Jin catches his sleeve.

"Let it play out," Jin murmurs, exchanging a look with Taehyung who's watching the scene with unusual intensity.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, voice dangerously quiet.

Jimin's laugh is all jagged edges. "You're interested in what I have to say?" He climbs off Tae, swaying slightly. "Should I write it down? Post it on your bedroom door maybe?"

"Settle down," I warn, but he just smirks, taking another drink. A drop of soju trails down his neck and he wipes it away with deliberate slowness, knowing exactly what he's doing.

"Or what?" He stumbles against the table, narrowly missing knocking over a glass. "You'll pretend I don't exist? Or maybe—"

"Jimin, what's gotten into you?" Namjoon tries again, but Taehyung shakes his head.

"Let hyung handle it," he says quietly. Something in his tone makes me wonder how much he's figured out.

"Handle what?" Jimin's voice goes higher, more theatrical. "I'm just having fun! Unless..." He fixes me with a look that burns. "Unless Suga-hyung thinks I need handling?"

Something in me snaps. I'm on my feet, moving toward him before I even know what I'm going to do. All I know is I need to get him out of here before he says something we can't take back.

"Enough." My voice comes out like gravel. "You're officially cut off. I'm done."

"Ooooh, done with me?" His grin is feral, all teeth and no joy. "Like you were done with me last—"

I grab his wrist before he can finish that sentence, and yank. My fingers wrap around delicate bone and racing pulse, and for a second the world narrows to just that point of contact.

"Come on," I say, not even sure where I'm taking him, just knowing I need to get him away from here before we both combust with an audience.

"Hyung—" Namjoon starts to rise again.

"I've got this," I cut him off, already dragging Jimin out of the room. Behind us, I hear Jin murmur something that makes Namjoon sit back down.

"You've got nothing," Jimin hisses, low enough for just me to hear, but he lets me pull him along, his skin burning against mine. He struggles just enough to make it difficult, twisting in my grip like a cat—all sinuous strength held in check. We both know he could break free if he wanted to. He doesn't though.

I shove him through an open door, the bathroom, and kick it shut behind me. He spins to face me, backing me against the door with a thud that echoes in my chest. His breath fans across my face, bitter with things we've left unsaid. "What are you gonna do, hyung?"

The honorific drips with sarcasm, with days of hurt, with everything we've been choking on.

Without breaking eye contact, I grab him by the waist and toss him in the shower, reaching behind to turn the spray on full blast. The cold water hits us both and he yelps, trying to jump away, but my arm keeps him there. Keeps us both under the freezing spray that soaks through our clothes, through our pretenses.

"Fuck!" He gasps, instinctively clinging closer even as he curses me. His wet hair falls in his eyes, making him look younger, more vulnerable. "You psychotic bastard!"

"You wanted my attention?" I growl against his ear, one hand still pinning him to the tile wall. "Now you've got it."

His hands fist in my drenched shirt, pulling me closer even as he struggles. "I hate you," he spits, but his voice breaks on the words. "I fucking hate you."

"No you don't." My grip on his waist tightens as he shivers against me.

Water streams down his face like tears, or maybe they are tears. I can't tell anymore. His chest heaves against mine with each ragged breath.

"I want to," he whispers, suddenly raw, suddenly honest. "God, I want to hate you so bad. It would be easier than—" He cuts himself off, closing his eyes.

"What," I push, but he already averted his gaze.

"Real cute hiding in your studio," his whisper scrapes against my ear. "Such a man. So tough."

My hands tighten enough to bruise. "You done?"

"Not even close." His nails dig into my shoulders through the soaked shirt. "Must be nice, being so professional. Acting like you don't remember how I made you—"

"Shut up."

"Make me." He shoves his thigh between mine, vicious. "Or are you gonna ghost me again? Rearrange the whole fucking schedule so you don't have to look at me?"

"You think you're so goddamn clever—"

"I think," his whisper turns brutal, "you got scared because I know exactly what you feel like when you break. When you stop and just feel something for once."

I slam him harder against the tile, cutting him off with a kiss that's more teeth than anything else. He bites back hard, drawing blood.

"There you are," he pants, eyes savage. "Better than hiding flowers in my bag like a coward. What was that flower supposed to mean anyway? Too scared to even—"

"I wanted to say I was sorry."

"Liar." He twists his hand in my grip until our fingers lace together, somehow more damning than everything else. "You're such a fucking liar."

"And what are you?" I breathe against his neck, feeling his pulse jump. "Someone who has to get wasted to be brave?"

His laugh cuts. "Better than running scared the second someone gets too close." He shifts against me deliberately, a dare. "Go ahead. Run now. We both know you want to."

"You're not that terrifying." I tighten my grip on his hip, keeping him still. Making a point.

"No?" His hand fists in my hair, tugging sharp. "Then why haven't you looked me in the eye for a week?"

"Brat," I growl, but I can't make myself pull away.

"Coward," he bites back, but his fingers flex against my scalp.

We're pressed together, both breathing hard, both too stubborn to break first. The shower's still running cold but everywhere we touch feels like burning.

"Thought brats were supposed to be good at begging," I murmur against his throat, feeling him swallow hard. "Instead you're out there trying to make me jealous like some kid."

"Thought cowards were supposed to run." His fingers tighten in my hair, making my breath catch. "Instead you're in here pretending you don't want me."

The water's freezing but his skin's fever-hot under my hands. I could step back. Should step back. Instead I press closer, pinning him harder against the tile. "You're the one clinging."

"You're the one who can't let go." His thigh slides between mine, deliberate. "Go on. Step back."

"You first."

We're like some fucked-up seesaw—the moment one of us leans away, the other pushes harder, keeping us locked in this brutal balance. His fingers twist in my hair just as mine dig into his hip. His chest heaves against mine and I press him harder into the tile.

"You're the one who can't seem to let go."

"Rich coming from—" but I don't finish because suddenly he's shoving me back, hard. My shoulder hits the shower knob and the water turns scalding.

"Fuck!" We both jump, the seesaw finally crashing down. In the chaos of dodging the hot spray, my feet slip on wet tile. I grab for him instinctively, but he's already off balance and we go down hard.

The impact knocks the air from my lungs. Jimin lands half on top of me, cursing, both of us soaked and gasping and tangled on the bathroom floor.

"Shit," he wheezes, face pressed into my chest. "Are you—"

"Fine," I grunt, but when I try to sit up, pain shoots through my elbow where it hit the floor.

He must feel me wince because suddenly his hands are on my face, all that careful distance shattered. "You're not fine, you hit the—"

"Don't." I grab his wrist before he can touch me more, before he can be gentle. "Don't pretend you care now."

Something raw crosses his face. "Fuck you," he whispers, but his voice breaks. "Fuck you for thinking I don't care. That's the whole fucking problem."

"We should get back before they think I've actually killed you," I say, but make no move to leave. "First, you've got to look less..." I gesture at his face, his soaked clothes, his messed up hair.

"Could say the same to you." His eyes catch on what must be a bruise forming on my elbow. Something flickers across his face, but he swallows it down. "I'll go first. Give it five minutes."

"Right."

He rises and reaches for the door handle, before stopping. "If I promise not to pull any more stupid shit, will you stop switching your schedules around?"

"If I stop avoiding you, will you quit trying to make me jealous?"

A ghost of his usual smirk. "Knew you were jealous."

"Jimin."

"Fine." He runs a hand through his wet hair. "But you have to actually look at me sometimes. In meetings. In practice. Whatever."

"I can do that."

"And answer my texts. Doesn't have to be... anything. Just don't leave me on read."

The vulnerability in his voice makes my chest ache. "Okay."

He nods once, sharp, then opens the door. Pauses again. "For what it's worth," he says quietly, "I won't tell anyone about the hotel. About any of it."

"I know. You're professional."

"I miss you," he breathes, like the words are being torn from him. Like he hates himself for letting them escape.

One more look—his eyes bright with something that burns too much like truth—then he's gone, leaving me alone, dripping wet with the ghost of his touch haunting my skin.

I stay in the bathroom for another five minutes. Professional. I can be professional.

I know every step of how this falls apart—have memorized that recipe by heart—but can't seem to find the ingredients for keeping us whole. In a few days, we're going to be flying fourteen hours to Sweden, starting a new series—Bon Voyage—cameras tracking our every move. All we have to do is act normal. Like we haven't mapped every inch of each other's bodies in the dark. Like I can't still feel him inside me, can't still hear myself begging 'just give it to me' when he pressed me against the wall. Like we haven't just spent a week tearing into each other because it was easier than admitting what this really is. I can do this. I have to do this.

Professional means I can look at him without feeling like I'm going to crack open. Even when he says 'I miss you' like that—like he's ripping out his own heart and throwing it at my feet. Even when the words echo in my skull, making me want to scream back that I miss him too, miss him like a fucking knife between my ribs, miss him so much I can barely breathe through it.

I'm not strong enough to stop wanting him. I just have to get better at choking it down.

I push off the wall, check my reflection. My shirt's soaked through, hair dripping, but I don't look as destroyed as I feel. Good enough to go face the others. To watch him act like nothing happened. Like we didn't just break each other a little more.

Time to go pretend this is just another Friday night, just another member fight, just another mess for Namjoon to smooth over. Even if we both know it's not.

I reach for the door handle, taking one last breath in this space where we were almost honest. Where we almost— But almost doesn't mean shit when you're both too scared to fall.

Not yet anyway.

Time to go be fucking professional.

Chapter 21: A New Cartography

The fjord rips into the earth like an open wound, raw stone and ice-carved walls plunging into black water. I lift my camera to frame this ancient violence, knowing no lens can ever hold what I'm seeing, and then - the distinctive click of a shutter behind me.

Some things reshape you slowly, like ice through stone. Jimin has always been like that.

"Delete that," I say without turning around.

"No way." His laugh is low. Behind me, his lens keeps clicking. "You should see your serious photo face. All—" I glance back to catch him scrunching up his features like he's tasting something sour. Taehyung's snort carries across the deck.

The Bon Voyage camera crew circles like hungry gulls. They catch what they think is the story: sunshine and shadow, push and pull.

"I'm documenting a rare sight," he says, shutter clicking again. "The elusive Min Yoongi smiling in the wild."

"You're asking to get thrown overboard."

"You'd miss me." He moves like water finding its path. "Besides, these are good. Look how artistic you look, all brooding against the scenery."

The truth burns: he's the one who should be captured - all rumpled edges and crackling energy in the harsh light. I grunt instead, stare at my phone while he shows Taehyung the photos.

"Oh, oh, take one from over there," Taehyung says, pointing bowward. "The light's better."

"Hyung!" Jimin's voice carries like a current. "Come here, the waterfall's perfect from this angle."

I should plant myself like stone, immovable. Instead, I follow his pull like the tide follows the moon.

"Now pose," he demands, camera raised.

"I don't pose."

"You're literally a professional idol."

"That's different."

"Fine, just stand there looking annoyed. It's your best concept anyway."

I give him my middle finger. His laugh breaks across the water. The cameras roll, recording what they expect to see: the bright one drawing out the dark. They miss how his eyes find mine when he shows me the photos, careful and hopeful. Miss how I pretend to scowl but lean in closer anyway, both of us trying to bridge the space between.

"These are..." I pause, scrolling through them. Between the standard tourist shots, he's caught something I didn't expect - moments where I'm looking at the cliffs like they might answer some question I haven't figured out how to ask. "They're good."

He beams like I've given him something precious instead of grudging praise. This trip, that's how it goes with us - every small honesty feels bigger than it should.

"Of course they are." He bumps my shoulder with his. "I had good material to work with."

The words sit heavy between us. I want to grab his hand, tell him he's the one worth capturing. But we're still learning how to handle truths that big.

Later, on a tourist train, we hit a snag - six seats, seven of us to film. While the staff huddle over seat assignments, Jimin takes matters into his own hands.

"Problem solved," he announces, dropping into my lap like it's nothing. Like my heart isn't trying to escape through my throat. Like we haven't spent weeks caught between what's always been easy and what we're both still afraid to break. My hands find his waist automatically when the train lurches forward, an instinct deeper than thought.

"Sitting," he says with that bright smile that means trouble. "There weren't enough seats. Unless you'd prefer I sit with Taehyungie?"

The challenge in his voice hits like a physical thing. I should dump him onto the floor for that, should make him share with anyone else. We both know I won't. My fingers tighten at his waist instead, steadying us both. "Stay still then."

"So bossy," he teases, but he sinks back against my chest like he belongs there. The train rounds a curve, and I catch our reflection in the window - his smile softer now, my own face betraying everything I try to hide.

"Someone has to be." I let my lips brush his hair, barely there, like it could be an accident. Like my heart isn't hammering against his back. "Since you're about to vibrate right off this train."

"I can't help it. The mountains, the fjords - this place feels unreal."

"You get excited about convenience stores in Seoul."

"Not like this." He catches my eye in the window's reflection again, and this time the look there makes my throat tight. "You know what I mean, hyung," he says quietly, just for me. The camera swings toward Jungkook, who's dramatically reenacting his near-fall off the boat. Taehyung's knowing smile behind his phone screen tells me we're not as subtle as I'd like to think.

Norwegian countryside sweeps past in a blur of green and gold. Jimin shifts in my lap, turning to show me something on his phone—more photos from the fjord, but these ones aren't for the cameras. These catch moments when I thought no one was looking: me smiling at something Jin said, leaning on the railing lost in thought, dozing in a patch of sun on deck.

"You're a menace," I tell him.

"You like it," he mumbles, exhaustion finally catching up as his head drops against my shoulder.

The camera crew takes a break.

"Sleep," I murmur against his hair. "I've got you."

For once he doesn't fight it, doesn't try to keep his shine burning. He just turns into my neck like a key finding its lock. Like this was always where we'd end up, once we stopped running.

"Wake me before we get there," he mumbles, already half-gone. "Don't want to look messed up for the cameras."

"You never look messy." It comes out too soft, too real, but he's already drifting, fingers twisted in my shirt like an anchor.

Namjoon catches my eye. There's a lingering question there, but also a dawning understanding. He nods once before turning back to his book.

The train cuts through valleys older than time. Jimin sleeps against my chest, finally letting his guard drop. For once, I don't fight the weight of him, the way he fits against me like gravity finally got something right.

Some truths are simple - like being the place someone trusts enough to fall apart. Like learning to trust yourself to catch them.

I should say no. Should keep some distance. Instead, I let my cheek rest against his hair and close my eyes.

The last thing I feel is his fingers curling tighter in my shirt. Like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go. Like maybe I'm afraid of the same thing.

***

The rental house's private sauna cuts through the midnight twilight, all steam and soft colors. Everyone else disappeared to their rooms an hour ago with mumbled excuses about early schedules. I tell myself I'm here for the heat, for the way it works under my skin like forgiveness. Not because I knew he'd come. Not because some things are inevitable as gravity.

The door opens. Jimin in a fluffy white robe.

"Ha. I thought I'd find you here," he says, undressing to his swim shorts, and settling on the wooden bench beside me. His voice barely carries through the thick air, like it's meant just for this space we've carved out of the dark.

I stare at the ceiling, at the way steam curls against raw wood. Anything but how the heat flushes his skin. "Did you know Vikings used to hold their religious ceremonies in places like this? Something about the boundary between earth and sky being sacred."

"Mm." The bench creaks as he shifts closer. "Tell me more."

"They believed in nine worlds, all connected by this massive tree." My voice stays steady even as the space between us shrinks. "The roots went down to the underworld, branches reaching toward—"

"Trying to impress me with your research, hyung?" His eyes catch mine in the dim light. "Or is this what you do when you can't sleep - read about Norse mythology?"

"Both, maybe." I let myself look at him now, at the way his hair curls damply at his temples. "Though if I wanted to impress you, I'd tell you about the ravens."

"The ravens?"

"Odin had two of them. They'd fly around the world gathering secrets, whisper them in his ear." Like how my pulse picks up when he leans forward, interest sparking in his eyes. Like how I can't stop watching the way his lips curve.

"What kind of secrets?"

"Everything. Knowledge. Prophecies. Things people tried to hide in the dark."

"And what would they whisper about us?" His voice drops lower, a hungry edge in it now. "What secrets would they find?"

"That I—" The words stick. Even now, even here in this hazy space that feels separate from reality, they're hard to say. "That I might have been waiting. For you."

His smile turns knowing. "Might have been?"

"Shut up."

"Make me." It's barely a breath between us. "Or tell me more about your ravens."

"They're not my ravens." But I'm smiling now too, helpless against the way he draws it out of me. "And you don't care about Norse mythology."

"No," he agrees, close enough now that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, different from the sauna's burn. "Not really."

"But you came looking for me."

"Maybe I missed your random facts." He brushes my calf muscle with the edge of his big toe. "Maybe Vikings turn me on?"

"Park Jimin." My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. His eyes darken at the sound.

"Tell me why you are here waiting for me."

The words stick in my throat - they always have. But here in the dark, with nothing but steam and starlight between us, maybe I can be brave enough to try. "You know."

"Do I?" His hand finds my knee, burning hotter than the sauna air. "Maybe I need to hear you say it."

"Stay." It scrapes out of me, but it's not enough. Not with the way he's looking at me through the steam, waiting for more.

"Stay what?" His hand on my knee burns hotter than the air around us. "You're always telling me to stay still, stay quiet, stay out of trouble."

My jaw clenches. He knows exactly what he's doing, drawing this out. Making me say it.

"Jimin."

"That's not an answer either." His fingers trace higher on my thigh, both bold and barely there. "Tell me what you want, hyung. Tell me what kind of staying."

I could shake him. Could grab his little wandering hand and show him exactly what kind of staying. Instead, something in me breaks open, spills out before I can stop it. "Stay where I can breathe. Where everything doesn't hurt all the time when you're not—" I swallow hard. "When you're just out of reach."

His teasing smile shatters. For a moment he just stares at me, lips parted, hand trembling against my thigh.

"That was gross," I mutter, looking away. "Forget I—"

"Don't you dare." His voice cracks. When I glance back, his eyes are bright, dangerous. "Don't take it back." His fingers tremble against my jaw. "What do you want me to say?" The playfulness cracks, leaving something too real underneath. "That I've been staying as close as you'd let me? That I—" His breath catches and mine does too. "That everything feels wrong when you're not there?"

"Oh." It comes out quiet, stunned.

"Yeah." His smile is shaky but bright with relief, like finally setting down something too heavy. "Now who's being gross?"

"Still me." But I'm pulling him closer, hand sliding into his hair, both of us shaking a little with how much this is. "We never talk about this again."

"Yeah right." His lips brush mine. "Because I really like talking." His fingers dig into my shoulders, steadying himself or holding me there, I can't tell anymore. "What's the matter, hyung? You're shaking."

"You too," I get out, but my voice is wrecked. Everything's wrecked - all my careful walls, all my safe distance.

"Yeah, guess so." He presses his forehead to mine, breath coming quick. "God, I missed you."

"I'm right here." The words catch in my throat. "I've always been—"

"No." It tears out of him rough. "Not like this. This is you, you idiot. My idiot.”

So I kiss him. Because I can't bear to hear him sound like that. Because I can't stop myself anymore.

My fingers dig into his waist and the sound he makes burns through my blood.

"Missed you," he breathes against my mouth. "Missed you so much—"

"I know." I catch his bottom lip between my teeth, swallow the soft noise he makes. "Fuck, I know, Baby."

His hands are everywhere - in my hair, down my chest, like he can't decide where to touch first. Like every place we connect isn't enough. I drag him fully into my lap, press closer until I can feel his heart hammering against mine.

"You don't get to pretend this didn't happen," he says fierce and breathless between kisses. "Not this time."

Instead of answering, I drag my mouth along his jaw, feel him shiver. Tomorrow we'll go back to our careful on-camera dance, but tonight - tonight I can admit how much I need him here, like this. How right he feels in my arms.

"Always trust you." His voice breaks a little. "Even when I pretend I don't."

I kiss him again because I have to, because the honesty in his voice is too much to bear. His hands slide down my chest like he's learning me by heart, like he's storing up memories for when we have to pretend again.

Without warning, I lift him, press him against the wall - not to show off strength, but because I can't stand having any space between us. His breath catches at the intensity of it.

"Oh," he manages, voice gone high and breathless. His eyes are wide, darker than I've ever seen them. "You—"

"Yeah. Me." I lick his lower lip. "Looking at you." I rock my hips up so he can feel how hard he makes me. "Most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen. You know that, right?"

He makes a broken sound, shakes his head, fingers tightening on my shoulders.

"My fucking favorite person in this shit world." I drag my mouth along his cheek, tasting salt. "Irreplaceable."

"H-hyung," he chokes out, and I can feel him trembling.

"I see you," I breathe against his lips. "You know that, right? Everything you are. Everything you try to be. You're so enough. You're—"

He kisses me desperately, like he's trying to stop the words or drink them in, I can't tell which. But I can feel the wetness on his cheeks, feel how his heart hammers against mine.

And there are no more words for this.

Some moments exist beyond language - fragile and fierce, tender and desperate. What we cannot say, we breathe into each other's skin. What we cannot explain, we explore, a new cartography between lips and tongue.

In the midnight quiet, we become something untranslatable. Something that exists only in the space between us, in the way his fingers curl into my shirt, in the way my breath catches against his throat. Just us. Just this.

Chapter 22: Words and Wainscoting

Notes:

Popping back to Jimin POV and taking a little break from heavy angst for a bit...

I don't know what I expected when visiting Yoongi's new family home in Daegu after he invited me during our two-day break before shooting the "Blood Sweat & Tears" music video. I guess I'd vaguely constructed a moody aesthetic in my head - dark rooms and tense silences, everything in monochrome. Instead, I walked into warmth and color, walls adorned with his mother's artwork that seem to pulse with life - her abstracts capturing emotions I can't name but feel in my bones, fierce blues melting into rich greens that remind me of wind and grass. Family photos peek out between the paintings, an adorable record of Yoongi's unfortunate haircuts over the years. The afternoon sun streams through wide windows, catching dust motes that dance like tiny stars, while the rich aroma of gochugaru and doenjang drifts from the open-plan kitchen.

Strange, how in my head Yoongi is always somehow larger than life, even when I give him shit like it's my part-time job. But in these walls he paid for, he is a youngest son, caught in endless snapshots of family gatherings and piano recitals. It grounds him in a way I hadn't expected, makes him more real somehow.

And there he is... rolling around on a cream rug while a fluffy brown poodle licks his face as he... squeals. Swear to god. There is no other word for that sound - pure, unfiltered delight bubbling up from somewhere deep and genuine.

Watching him there, all his sharp edges softened by simple puppy joy, it feels more real than any version of him I've seen before. Like maybe all those walls of his aren't stone and steel, but just careful origami - complex and precise, but so much more delicate than they appear. Each fold and crease crafted not to keep people out, but to protect something tender within. Something in my chest cracks open at the sight, soft and sweet enough to make me dizzy.

My throat tightens as his mom steps beside me.

"He loves that naughty dog," she says, and something in her fond tone makes my chest ache even more. She presses a glass of lemon water into my hands, completely ignoring my earlier polite protests saying "I'm fine" because apparently the Min family has never met a guest they couldn't feed.

I try to focus on making proper conversation with his parents, I really do - discussing our upcoming performances, yes we're eating well, our dorm is always clean (a small lie but a kind one), and assuring them I keep an eye on Yoongi when he works too late in the studio. I tell them about the funny things that happen during practice, carefully edited versions that make us sound responsible and hardworking. I want them to like me, to see that their son has good people around him. But I keep getting distracted by these glimpses of an unguarded Yoongi - all smiles and joy, like seeing the echo of who he must have been as a child. It makes me want to gather up every single one of these moments and keep them safe.

His parents are exactly the kind of people who could raise someone like him - his dad pretending to grumble about "idol boys taking up his living room" while casually asking about our upcoming schedule, rising mid-sentence to help his wife carry in another tray of snacks despite her protests. And his mom hasn't stopped moving since we arrived, always one step ahead of what anyone might need, appearing with perfect timing to refill tea or adjust the fan just as the room starts to feel warm. Watching them together, the way his dad's complaints dissolve into fond chuckles when his mom swats his helping hands away from the dishes, the way they move around each other in the kitchen like a well-practiced dance - I understand a little better now how Yoongi learned to show love through actions rather than words.

He catches me watching him then, and I brace for it - that moment when Yoongi typically remembers himself, when the walls come back up and the softness gets tucked away like a precious secret. But his smile just gets wider, all teeth and genuine joy. "Ya!" He waves me over with the hand that isn't scratching the puppy's ears. "Stop being so stiff and get down here and meet Min Holy."

Holy wiggled hopefully in my direction, tail thumping against the rug, and Yoongi just laughs - that high, unfiltered giggle he usually tries to swallow down, like he's embarrassed by his own happiness. "Look, you're hurting his feelings now. He thinks you're too good to play with him."

"Since when are you such a dog person?" I shoot back, but I am already moving toward them, drawn in by this version of Yoongi I've never seen before.

Yoongi doesn't hear, he is too busy dissolving into baby talk. Actual baby talk. From Min Yoongi, who once spent forty-five minutes arguing that aegyo should be classified as cruel and unusual punishment. "Who's the best boy? Is it you? Is it you?"

I slid down onto the rug beside them, trying and failing to hold back my grin. This is the kind of ammunition I dream about. "Oh, I'm never letting you live this down."

"Try it and I'll tell everyone about the time you-"

"Yoongi-ya," his mother interrupts, walking to the kitchen, "stop threatening your nice member and come help me with these vegetables."

The look he gives me promises retribution, but it is hard to take seriously with Holy's paws still whacking him in the face. He extracts himself from the dog's embrace with visible reluctance. "Don't teach him any bad habits while I'm gone."

"Like what? Your dance moves?"

The throw pillow that hits my face is probably deserved.

"Min Yoongi! Stop throwing my good wool pillows!" But there is no heat in her voice, just the kind of fond exasperation you develop after raising someone who's made chaos into an art form.

"He started it," Yoongi mutters, but he is chopping, shoulders relaxed in a way I rarely get to see them. His mom just hums, unconvinced, and hands him another pepper.

I pet Holy as they move around each other with the easy rhythm of people who've shared a kitchen for decades - her gentle corrections to his knife technique, his automatic reach for the salt before she asks. It's like watching the backstage version of someone I thought I knew by heart, all his sharp edges softened by muscle memory and familiar habits. The familiarity of it all makes my fingers itch to reach out, to fall into the comfortable patterns like I belong here too. But for all purposes, I'm just another member of the group visiting a bandmate's family, so I focus on scratching Holy's ears instead of watching how the afternoon light catches in Yoongi's hair.

Then Holy decides my own ear needs cleaning and I have more pressing concerns.

"Hyung, your dog is trying to kiss me."

"Good. Maybe it'll shut you up for five minutes."

"When has anything ever-" I start, but am interrupted by Holy's increasingly determined attempts to show me love the only way he knows how - by drowning me in dog slobber. At least the dog's enthusiasm gives me an excuse for why my cheeks are flushed.

###

Hours later, the house settles into darkness. Down the hall, his parents' muffled voices fade into the quiet rhythms of evening - the soft clink of dishes being put away, water running through old pipes, floorboards sighing under careful footsteps. Holy has claimed his territory at the foot of Yoongi's childhood mattress on the floor, where we're supposed to sleep separately - a careful charade we've both mastered out of necessity rather than desire.

"Just take the bed, brat." Yoongi is a shadow on the floor cushions near the window, one arm thrown over his eyes, drowning in his oversized sleep shirt. Everything about this room feels like a time capsule, he said his mom set up this newer room just like the one he used to have even if this space is bigger - the shelves lined with well-loved books and comics, compositions scattered across a low desk that bears the scars of late-night creativity.

"Hyung," I whisper, after what could be minutes or hours of listening to the house breathe. The honorific tastes different in the dark, less like protocol and more like poetry.

He turns toward me, features barely sketched by the blue-dark filtering through the curtains. That same softness from earlier clings to his expression, but transformed now - intimate, unguarded, meant for no one else.

"Thanks for bringing me here for your visit. I know we don't get many days off."

"Huh?" Even in the gloom, I catch the familiar wrinkle of his nose. "Why are you being all serious?"

"It's your family. I don't know. It just feels significant somehow. God, why are you making it weird?"

"One of us made it weird and it's not me."

I make a fist and throw a mock punch at the air, rewarded by his low chuckle.

"I guess it’s cool having you here," he says, voice thick. "I...I don't know. Do you ever wonder what it would be like?"

My heart stumbles. "What would be like what?"

The silence stretches between us like taffy, sweet and tenuous. "Us," he finally says. "Just us...being an us."

I sit frozen, struck by this second revelation of the day. Yoongi initiating a conversation about relationships? Voluntarily? Without external threats?

"Ugh." His hands come up to shield his face. "This is disgusting. I hate it. Just highlight and delete everything I've just said."

"You...think about us in the future?" The words barely escape my throat.

"I mean...yeah. Yes. I don't know. Sometimes." A pause. "Is that bad? I don't just think about the physical stuff, you know."

I'm grateful for the night hiding the tear that escapes down my cheek, tracking a warm path of stupid hope.

"What kind of things?"

"Eh. It's stupid."

"I like stupid," I tease, voice wavering despite my attempt at lightness. "That's why I like you."

"Aish! It's not a big deal. Just like...we can't live in a dorm forever. Someday BTS will be done, we'll do our service and when we get out...I'll make sure my parents are taken care of. But I...want my own place. I look at design magazines and think about it. And sometimes I think, I don't know, you'd be there too. With me." The words tumble out faster and faster. "See it's stupid. I told you. Don't freak out. I'm not talking marriage or anything, I just sometimes think about wainscotting. And you."

"What the hell is wainscotting?" Another tear escapes and I brush it away, pretending to fix my hair. If I react too strongly either way, he'll withdraw like a startled cat.

"It's decorative wooden paneling on walls," he explains, then keeps going, talking about different styles and heights and finishes, and I let him ramble, my mind catching on the important parts. He thinks about a future with us. A life after BTS. Living together. He looks at design magazines.

"I was wondering," I whisper, after he's gone on about light fixtures for who knows how long. "Does your door lock?"

In the darkness, I catch the slight curve of his mouth as he pushes himself to standing. "Yeah."

He walks over and the lock clicks quiet as a secret before he lets out a breath. When he looks back at me, it's with an expression that makes me feel invincible.

He thinks about us.

"Remember that House of ARMY shoot last week?" I keep my voice low as I get up, cross the room, and tuck in beside him. "When you asked me to bite you for real?"

"Ya," he hisses, but there's no heat in it. "You're really bringing that up now?"

"Well," I settle beside him on the pillows, my fingers playing with one of his hoop earrings. "You said you wanted it to look authentic. But it seemed like you meant it. Do you want more biting, hyung?"

His sharp intake of breath is answer enough.

"You're a menace," he murmurs, but his hand is already wrapping around my wrist, thumb finding my pulse. "In my parents' house? Really?"

"Like you haven't been giving me the look since we got to your room." My grin grows as his ears flush pink. "Like you don't love seeing me in your pajamas."

"Hmmmm. Maybe a little."

"God, it's so hot when you admit I'm right." I settle more comfortably against him, stealing his warmth like always.

"Shh," he presses his finger against my lips, snuffing out my giggles, while his own eyes are bright with suppressed laughter. "If Holy starts barking-"

"Your fault," I whisper back, nipping at his finger. His breath catches, pupils dilating just enough to make heat curl in my stomach. "Being all soft and domestic today. Now talking about living together and wainscotting. It's very distracting."

"I wasn't–" he starts to protest, but I am already moving to that spot on his neck that always makes him forget how to argue.

"Really?" I murmur against his pale skin, teeth grazing lightly. "So you weren't being adorable with Holy? Weren't all sweet helping your mom in the kitchen?"

His fingers tangle in my hair. "Jimin-ah," half warning, half plea.

"Huh? Want me to stop?" I ask innocently.

"Don't you fucking dare," he breathes, and pulls me closer.

"So...answer my question. Want me to bite you for real?" I let my teeth scrape a little harder.

His breath hitched. "That's-fuck...you're not playing fair."

"When have I ever?" I soothe the spot with the flat of my tongue, feeling smug at the way he shivers. "Besides, you started this."

"How exactly did I-" but his indignant whisper cuts off into a soft gasp as I kiss the side of his throat, lazy, slow, with a lot of tongue.

"By existing," I mumble against his neck. "By being you. By giving me those looks during dinner. By talking about an us."

"What the fuck else are we?" He drags me closer. The sudden movement makes the cushions protest and we both stifle our laughter against each other's skin.

"Do it." He yanks off his shirt.

"What?"

"Bite me. I do want it. Leave a mark."

I hesitate. "I can't hurt you."

"You hurt me just by breathing, but I guess I like pain. So do it. Nowhere obvious. Just for me."

My hands are trembling.

"Do it." He grabs my face. "If you want me to beg, I will. I've already made a fool of myself tonight. What's a little more?"

"You aren't a fool. I just don't understand."

"Sometimes I think I'm imagining this. That I'm trapped in some fever dream. I need proof you're here, with me, like this. I want to feel you, only you, until there's not a single other fucking thought in my head. God, am I crazy?" His voice breaks. "Am I too much—"

I move before he can finish. He's talking crazy but I'm the same kind of crazy. Like he said in his song... sometimes we have to go insane to stay sane. Sometimes love is exactly that - a beautiful madness that makes perfect sense.

I press my lips to the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, then bite down - not to hurt, but to mark. To prove we're both here, both real.

He gasps, his whole body tensing. "Fuck..."

"That should leave your proof," I murmur, soothing the spot with a gentle kiss.

"Good." His voice is rough, needy.

"Hmm. Sensitive there?" I tease, moving up to nuzzle against his neck. Before he can retreat into embarrassment, I guide his hand to feel how affected I am too. "Don't worry. You're not alone in this."

We reverse ourselves, head to toe, each taking the other into our mouths at once, breathing in the intimate scent of each other before shuddering in unison as our tongues mirror each other's. Heat builds between us as we work in tandem, skin flushed and hearts racing. We both like long strokes down the shafts, and then circling the tip, drawing out shivers and twitches with each movement.

His thighs tremble under my palms as I explore. I taste him fully - a heady mix of salt and musk that makes my head spin with wanting more. Sweet and slightly bitter, uniquely him. The velvet-soft skin slides against my tongue as I take him deeper, my throat fluttering and tightening around him as tears prick my eyes. I wonder if he feels the same as he tastes me, if I affect him just as deeply as his own throat constricts.

His fingers trace patterns on my skin, making me arch into his touch. We both shudder as we hit the back of each other's throats - the perfect feedback loop of pleasure given and received, urgent and synchronized. Muscles tense and release with each motion, thighs trembling against ears, fingers digging into hips, leaving marks we'll find later. In his room, we keep quiet by necessity, letting only breath and the pump of hips mark our desperation.

The tension coils tighter in my core with each passing moment, every nerve ending singing with need. Heat pools low in my belly as pressure builds inexorably. His movements grow more erratic as we both near the edge. We chase our release together, faster and harder, until waves of pleasure crash through us both. His release floods my mouth, hot and thick, and I swallow eagerly, wanting all of him. He does the same, drinking me down without hesitation. Stars burst behind my eyes as my whole body pulses.

We shudder and shake against each other, riding out the aftershocks until we finally still, spent and satisfied, breath slowly returning to normal. In the quiet aftermath, hearts still racing, we untangle and reconnect face to face. The room holds our secrets in its shadows.

"I—I. . Jimin. . .I. . ." He catches himself, the unfinished word hanging between us like smoke.

"What?" I whisper.

"I can't get the words out..." His voice cracks slightly, and he kisses me hard then. I taste myself on his tongue and know from his groan that he must taste himself in return. "Fuck, I don't know anymore where wanting ends and—and the other thing begins. You're in my head all the time. Even when I try not to...when I should be thinking about anything else. It's stupid."

"Tell me," I breathe, smoothing back his damp hair off his forehead, my heart hammering. "What you just stopped yourself from saying."

"You know what it is." His voice is barely audible. "And it scares the shit out of me."

"Me too." I find his hand in the darkness. "But I'm so far gone for you it's kind of stupid. Have been for ages."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. So much it's embarrassing. Like a teenager with an embarrassing crush."

He lets out a shaky laugh. "We're both idiots then."

"Complete idiots. The worst."

"I'm sorry. I don't know how to say it yet." He closes his eyes. "The real thing."

"That's okay. Take your time." I kiss his cheek. "But...I'm yours. Have been ever since you told me you wanted me on your team."

A pause. Then, rough and raw: "And I'm yours. I'm sorry, but I am. Every fucked up piece of me - the panic attacks, the rage that scares even me sometimes. The ugly parts I hide from everyone else. The parts that want too much, need too much. Everything. I don't know how to be anything else anymore except yours."

The words we can't say yet fill the space between us, as real as heartbeats. I fall asleep thinking about pretty orchids I'll water and songs he'll write, about a future taking shape in whispers and half-finished sentences. About wainscoting and rainfall showerheads and a kitchen where he'll scold me for sitting on the counter while he cooks. About the way his nose wrinkled when he tried to say the big words neither of us is ready for yet. About how someone who claims to hate skinship has his arm wrapped so tightly around me right now, like he's afraid I might disappear if he lets go.

Just before I drift off, I hear him mumble something that sounds suspiciously like "my brat" into my hair. I smile, pressing closer. Maybe we're both idiots, but at least we're idiots together.

And maybe that's better than any words we're too scared to say.

Chapter 23: Silk Moons

The leaves are turning gold and red all over Seoul. It's getting colder - you can feel winter coming in the air. I'm watching them fall from the small studio window, thinking about how the members must know about me and Yoongi-hyung by now. It's the little things that give it away - how Tae, Jungkook, and Jin always knock before coming into rooms these days, the knowing looks they give us. Even Hobi and Joon must have figured it out, though no one says anything. Maybe it's better that way.

It's not just about what management would think anymore. It's everything - the millions of fans watching our every move, social media going crazy over the tiniest things, fan sites tracking everything we do in public. Sometimes it feels impossible, trying to be what everyone needs while still being ourselves. Like walking on a tightrope with the whole world watching, waiting for us to slip.

I find myself listening to Yoongi's mixtape constantly. On the subway with my hood up, walking back from practice, lying in bed at night with the volume way too loud. His voice through my headphones feels more real than the careful way we have to act around each other when people are watching. In those moments, it's just me and his words - raw and honest in a way we can't be anywhere else.

Every time I listen, I notice something new. Little details hidden in the tracks that hit different each time. Sometimes it's the way his voice breaks on certain lines, or how the music gets dark right when the lyrics cut deepest. When I tell him what I hear in AgustD, all the layers underneath, he just shrugs it off - says the music speaks for itself. Classic Yoongi-hyung, letting his tracks say what he can't say out loud. The others have tried getting him to talk about it too, but that's just how he is. He knows exactly what he put into those songs. But there's still so much I want to understand, so many sharp edges in his verses that make me wonder what else he's keeping inside.

I guess we're both trying to figure out how to be real. Him, putting everything out there in songs like "The Last," not hiding any of the dark stuff. Me, finally letting go of this image they created for me at debut - what Tae jokes about as their "sentient abs," this masculine fuck boy thing they thought would sell.

Everything feels like it's changed in the lead up to Wings. Writing "Lie" scared the hell out of me at first - putting all those feelings into lyrics felt like standing there naked. But Yoongi stayed up with me all those nights, showing me how to turn all that pain into something beautiful, until writing felt as natural as dancing.

Then the Blood Sweat & Tears music video happened, and something just clicked. The way the velvet jacket slid off one shoulder, how I could move between masculine and feminine without thinking about it, my dance training turning into something totally new. Jungkook watched the playback and said, "You know what, you look more like yourself," and he was right. After that, Hobi started putting more flowing sequences in my routines. Namjoon and I had these long talks about breaking out of boxes while looking at concept photos.

Maybe that's why I gravitated toward Yoongi during all those late-night writing sessions - he never tried to make me fit some mold, just let me figure things out on my own. I don't like calling him my boyfriend - that word feels wrong, too simple for whatever this is. Like trying to catch a storm in a jar. He's just Yoongi. My Yoongi-hyung. The one who somehow knows when my muscles are killing me after practice and leaves pain relief cream without saying anything. The one who notices when I'm almost out of my favorite spicy shin ramyeon and makes sure new ones show up before I even mention it.

Time gets weird when I'm with him. I could watch him work on music for hours, all curled up with his laptop in that huge sweater that keeps falling off his shoulder. I've memorized all his little habits now - how his breathing gets slow and steady when he's concentrating, the way his forehead wrinkles when something in the track isn't working. Sometimes he catches me watching him and smiles, this soft, real smile that's just for me, and my chest gets tight every time. I keep these moments locked away like secrets, somewhere no one else can find them.

It's 4am in the studio right now, that weird time when nothing outside feels real anymore. Just his laptop screen glowing and this old desk lamp making everything look gold. I've been lying here on the couch pretending to look at my phone, but really I'm watching him work. My heart's beating faster as I finally gather the courage to speak.

"Hyung?"

"Hmmmm?" He hums in response, not glancing up from his screen.

"Um, so, uh...you remember that scene we filmed?" My voice comes out softer than I meant it to. "When we were paired up and you covered my eyes with the scarf and. . ."

Yoongi's hands go still over his keyboard. Some melody he was working on just hangs there, unfinished. He turns in his chair - not all the way, just enough - and gives me that look that always makes my chest feel tight, like he'd wait forever for me to find the right words.

"Did you feel anything when you did that? A shift?" The question barely makes it past my lips. "It was different, wasn't it?"

He does that thing where he gets really quiet, really still. I watch his fingers tap against his leg - one, two, three times. I love that little habit of his, how it gives away when he's nervous.

"Okay. Yeah," he finally says, voice all soft and low in the dark. "I did."

I pick at the hole in my jeans, not sure where to look anymore— all this space between us suddenly feeling like it's full of electricity. "I liked seeing that side of you, Hyung. Another color."

His eyes lock on mine and something flickers there - like he gets it, like maybe he's been carrying around the same thoughts. "I know," is all he says, but those two simple words make my heart stumble.

The studio feels smaller somehow, warmer. And maybe it's the late hour making me brave, or maybe it's just him - how he always makes me feel safe enough to be honest.

"I've been thinking," I say, my voice catching. The words feel too big for my throat.

Yoongi looks up, really looks at me with those eyes that always see too much. "What kind of thoughts?"

My fingers twist in my lap. The leather couch creaks as I shift, heart hammering. "About... about trying something new." The rest comes out in a broken whisper. "I want you to take me. For my birthday. I want to feel what it's like when you have total control."

A ghost of a smile touches his lips, tender and knowing. "No one can truly control you, Jimin-ah. You just pretend it's possible."

Heat blazes across my face, but something in me refuses to look away. "What if pretending is how we find what's real?" My voice trembles but doesn't break.

"What are you really looking for, Jimin-ah?"

I press my hands against my burning face, words muffled behind my palms. "I just know I want to feel you... inside me." The confession tears from my throat. "I-I want... God, Yoongi, I want to bottom for you."

He wheels closer until I can hear his unsteady breath. "You're sure?"

I drop my hands to meet his gaze. "You know I've never... and I'm nervous. But ready. And it has to be you."

His eyes darken like storm clouds, but stay soft as rain.

"I trust you," I whisper, and it feels like confessing a secret I've kept even from myself. "More than anyone in this world."

"Okay." He nods, that small gesture that always means he sees all of me, even the parts I try to hide. "We'll find our way there," he murmurs, and I believe him with every piece of my heart.

We always do.

###

The dressing room lights burn against my skin as chaos erupts around me, cameras still rolling fresh from our MNET wrap. It's my birthday, and the familiar warmth of celebration wraps around me like a blanket.

"One more time!" Jin-hyung's voice rings out above the commotion, his arms spread wide. "Saeng-il chuk-ha-ham-ni-da!”

Taehyung drapes himself across my shoulders, his voice slightly off-key as he joins the chorus. A present appears in my hands, and behind me, I catch Jungkook trying to sneak a taste of frosting.

"At least wait until we finish singing!" Hobi bosses.

Then my eyes meet Yoongi's across the room. "Hyung has something special planned for later at home," he says, casual as anything, but his gaze lingers just long enough to make my heart stutter.

I laugh it off like it's just another moment between members, even as something electric courses through my veins. Each minute feels like an eternity until we can slip away from the BTS brightness, the professional smiles, until I can have him to myself.

A text from Jin-hyung lights up the group chat just as I make it back to the dorm - he's going to crash at a friend's tonight. My pulse quickens; Yoongi must have arranged this.

Steam fills the bathroom as I take my time getting ready, letting hot water wash away layers of stage makeup and hairspray. I pay attention to every detail, wanting to feel fresh and and ready. After I get out, my reflection in the mirror shows hands that won't quite steady themselves. Tonight I'm giving Yoongi something I've never trusted anyone else with - my need to always be in control. The thought sends tremors through me that has nothing to do with fear.

I press my forehead against cool glass, watching condensation bloom. No practiced steps tonight. No perfect angles I've rehearsed until they're muscle memory. I'm going to follow his lead completely, letting him show me new ways to move. The thought makes electricity dance under my skin.

I study my fogged reflection, watching my fingers grip the counter's edge. This won't do. I force myself to relax, one finger at a time. Deep breaths until my chest stops heaving. Until I can pick up my clothes without dropping them - black sweats, the simple white t-shirt he loves. This isn't anxiety coursing through me. This is anticipation. Raw, honest want. This is me choosing to give Yoongi every carefully guarded piece of myself. I meet my own eyes in the clearing mirror.

I'm ready.

Piano notes spill into the hallway when I open the door - "Kiss the Rain." My breath catches; he knows it's my favorite Yiruma piece, has played it for me countless times. Each step feels deliberate as I follow the melody. Following him, like my body always knows where to find him.

I pause in his doorway. Amber light spills from his lamp, catching on the curves of his forearms where he's pushed up his sleeves. When he looks up, his eyes capture mine, steady and dark in the dim light.

"Hyung."

"Happy birthday." His voice wraps around me like smoke. There's a small, neatly wrapped box beside him, but he doesn't reach for it. Just keeps looking at me the way only he can - like he sees straight through to my heart.

The door clicks shut behind me. I cross to him slowly, water still dripping from my hair onto the floor. He reaches out and his fingers find mine, weaving us together, drawing me in until I'm standing between his knees. His thumb traces patterns into my palm like he's reading secrets there.

"Want your present?" But his hand doesn't move toward the box. Instead, it finds my hip, anchoring me. His touch burns through the thin fabric, waking every nerve ending.

"You didn't have to get me anything," I whisper.

"Jimin." Just my name, but the way he says it makes something unravel inside me. His hand slides to my lower back, pulling me closer, until I can feel the warmth radiating from him. He reaches for the wrapped box and holds it out. "Open it."

My fingers tremble as I untie the ribbon, letting it drift to the floor. The paper comes away in careful folds, revealing an elegant box. Inside lies an Hermès scarf in waves of midnight blue silk, scattered with silver crescent moons. Each moon is unique - some delicate slivers, others full and luminous, arranged in perfect harmony across the dark silk. Tiny stars glitter between them, and the whole piece seems to glow with its own light. The craftsmanship takes my breath away - even the hand-rolled edges seem to float.

"Whoa, it's so beautiful," I breathe, lifting it from its nest of tissue paper. The silk unfurls between my fingers like captured starlight, impossibly delicate. "Perfect."

He takes it gently from my hands. "Close your eyes," he whispers, and when I do, cool silk whispers across my face. Everything sharpens in the blindfolded darkness - the low hum of music, his uneven breathing, the heat of his body so close to mine.

"Don't move," he breathes, and the command in his voice sends shivers down my spine. The air crackles between us as he shifts closer, his presence overwhelming my senses. His thumb traces my bottom lip and electricity shoots through me. Even blind, I can feel the intensity of his gaze burning through the silk.

"How are you this fucking pretty," he murmurs, voice rough with emotion. "Seriously how?" His fingers tangle in my hair, gently tilting my head back. "Most beautiful thing I've ever seen.."

The raw honesty in his voice steals my breath. This is Yoongi stripped bare, letting me feel the depth of his need.

"It's almost too much," he whispers against my neck. His hands tremble where they hold my waist. "Drive me crazy with how much I—" The words catch in his throat.

Behind the blindfold, every sensation is magnified tenfold - the heat radiating from his body, the slight shake in his hands betraying his careful control.

His fingers trace along my jaw, tilting my face up. "Sometimes it hurts to look at you."

His lips find my throat and and I instinctively reach for his shoulders. He catches my wrists gently but firmly.

"Tonight is for you," he reminds me softly. "Want to make you feel so good. Want to show you how precious you are to me."

My legs tremble beneath me. The silk across my eyes is damp with overwhelmed tears. Every cell in my body aches for more of his touch, more of this exquisite tenderness.

"Please," I whisper, voice breaking. "Yoongi—"

"Fuck." He inhales sharply. His grip tightens slightly on my wrists. "Say it again. Say my name like that."

"Yoongi—" The word dissolves into a gasp as his free hand slides under my shirt, tracing patterns on my skin. He's shaking now, his legendary control wavering with each breath.

"You're such an angel." His hips press against mine, and I feel how much he wants this too. "Gonna make you feel so good. Until you believe how perfect you are."

The blindfold makes everything more intense - each brush of his fingers leaves trails of electricity, each tender word sinks deep into my soul. I'm drowning in sensation, in the pure devotion radiating from his touch.

His lips find my ear. "Know what I think about?" The words come out raw, honest. "When I'm stuck in company meetings, trying to focus? All I can see is you like this. Trusting me. Letting me love you. Makes me want to drop everything and run back to you."

My fingers flex in his gentle grip. He responds by pressing a kiss to each wrist before releasing them.

"Been thinking about this for days," he confesses against my skin. "Knowing you were going let me in you completely."

"Hyung, please—" My voice breaks with need.

He lifts me suddenly, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he walks me to the side of the bed. The soft mattress meets my back, and his weight settles over me, grounding and perfect.

"Going to take my time with you," he promises, voice tender. His mouth finds my collarbone. "You're going to love how this feels."

My hands clutch at his shirt, trying to pull him closer. This time he lets me, pressing closer as I arch into him.

"You try so hard for me," he breathes, reverent. "I love it, you know that? I fucking love it."

The silk of the blindfold is soaked now, overwhelmed tears rolling down my temples. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered endearment sends waves of emotion through me.

"Please," I sob, beyond pride or restraint. "Need you, Yoongi, I need—"

"I know exactly what you need," he soothes. "Need me to love you. Need me to show you how precious you are. Need me to make you feel everything." His touch grows more insistent. "Going to give you all of it. Going to love you until you know you're irreplaceable."

"Do it," I whisper. "Please."

His breath catches audibly. Gentle fingers brush my cheek, and I gasp at the tenderness. "You're sure?"

Instead of answering, I reach for him, pulling him down to me. The kiss lands slightly off-center at first, making him chuckle softly, but then his hands cup my face and everything aligns perfectly. The silk intensifies every sensation – the gentle press of his lips, the warmth of his tongue, the soft brush of his thumbs against my jaw.

"Tell me if you need to stop," he murmurs. "Promise me."

"I promise." My fingers twist in his shirt like an anchor. "Just... go slow?"

"Of course, jagiya." His lips press against my forehead with infinite tenderness. "I've got you. Always."

What follows is a symphony of gentle touches and whispered devotion. Without sight, every sensation washes over me like waves. His hands on my skin feel like benediction. Each touch comes with a soft "okay?" that I answer with desperate nods. When I arch up with a gasp, his answering groan vibrates through my entire body.

"So beautiful," he repeats over and over. "So perfect." Each touch feels like electricity sparking under my skin. He takes off my clothing, and opens my legs, and when his mouth presses against my entrance, eating me out, I nearly come apart at the sensation. The wet heat of his tongue, the vibration of his groans against sensitive flesh - it's almost too much. He fucks me with his tongue until I'm dissolving, until I don't know where I end and he begins, and when I've almost lost my mind, I hear him reach for something. It must be lube because he replaces his tongue with fingers, and the initial discomfort melts gradually into something that makes me arch and whimper, desperate for more.

"Good?" His voice has gone rough with restraint.

I can only nod, lost in the sensation as he works me open with maddening slowness. One finger becomes two, endless gentle stretching until I'm squirming beneath him. His other hand pins my hip when I try to push back.

"Not yet, baby. Need to make sure you're ready."

Time dissolves into pure sensation. He takes forever, adding more slick, a third finger with excruciating care. Kisses my neck, my chest, catches every desperate sound with his mouth. By the time he curves his fingers just right, hitting that perfect spot, I'm trembling all over, incoherent with need.

"Please," I choke out. "I need you, I'm ready—"

"Shh." His voice shakes with the effort of control. "You're so good. Just a little more. Want this to be perfect for you."

When he finally pushes himself inside me, it's with agonizing gentleness. He holds me like I'm made of glass, whispering praise and love between kisses. The stretch burns despite his careful preparation, but he soothes it away with patient touches and tender words.

"Fuck," he breathes against my neck. "Look at you, taking it all. God. Fuck. Irreplaceable.You feel incredible."

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. His groan vibrates through my whole body as he starts to move with careful, measured thrusts. Each one sends sparks of pleasure racing up my spine, building slowly into an inferno.

"Who do you belong to?" he growls.

The silk against my eyes heightens everything - the whisper of his breath across my skin, the subtle shifts of muscle beneath my fingers, the way the air seems to crackle between us. His hands map my body like he's memorizing every curve, every dip, every place that makes me gasp.

"You. Only you."

"Good," he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. His voice has gone dark honey-thick with want. "Trust me?"

"Always," I breathe, and I mean it with every fiber of my being.

The mattress dips as he flips me over, gets me on all fours, strokes my shaft as he thrusts deeper, hitting me exactly where I need.

Even though my eyes are closed, I see nothing but white light as I lose myself as he comes with me.

After wrapped safe in his arms with my heart still racing, he finally slides the blindfold off. I blink in the dim light but keep my face hidden against his chest. I feel transformed - not because anything fundamental has changed, but because I've shared something profound with someone who sees every part of me and still wants to be here. Someone who held me like I was made of stardust and kissed away my fears and made me feel utterly, completely special.

"You sure you're okay?" he whispers, pressing a kiss to my temple. "That wasn't too much?"

I burrow closer, my smile pressed against his skin. In this moment, I am more than okay. I am beloved. I am home.

"Perfect," I breathe, and I've never meant anything more.

Chapter 24: Tony Montana

I hover outside Namjoon's studio, hands buried in my pockets to hide their trembling. Bass pulses through the wall – he's working. Wiping my damp palms against my jeans, I struggle to summon the courage to knock. This crosses boundaries I shouldn't breach, and my stomach churns with guilt. Yoongi has never truly been angry with me before, but questioning his artistic vision? That's sacred territory. Especially with this track from his debut mixtape, his baby. But what other option do I have?

The news dropped like a bomb over midnight ramyeon – Yoongi's glasses fogged with steam as he'd mentioned it offhandedly, chopsticks dangling: he'd already arranged everything with the company, secured approval for us to perform Tony Montana together at the upcoming Muster. My verses were practically written, he said, barely looking up from his bowl. My heart had soared then, warmth blooming in my chest at the thought of sharing that stage with him. Until I actually saw what he'd written. Until the words stared back at me from the page, and that warmth turned to ice in my veins.

Irreplaceable.

What he gasps against my mouth when we're lost in each other, when I'm trembling under his touch. A word meant only for darkness and tangled sheets. Something that belongs to night-warm skin and sweat – not bright stages and screaming crowds.

When I tried talking to him about it – just suggesting we replace irreplaceable with something else – he barely looked up from his computer, the light of his monitors casting shadows under his eyes. "The flow is perfect now, Jimin-ah. Trust me." His voice had that edge to it, the one that makes my protests die in my throat. Once he's satisfied with how something sounds, there's no changing his mind.

So freaking stubborn.

My fingers tremble as I pull up the lyrics again, though I've memorized every syllable by now. The characters seem to blur before my eyes. Maybe to anyone else "irreplaceable" would sound innocent enough, just another line about loyalty between friends. But performing it at Muster, with ARMY watching, with the members right there…

So maybe... maybe Namjoon needs to know. As our leader. I roll the thought over and over, testing its edges. He should know if something might affect the group, right? Our leader. Who keeps us steady, who sees the bigger picture. Who has to think about seven of us, not just one. Or two.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I knock.

"Come in," Joon's voice is muffled through the door. The studio air hits me first – that familiar mix of coffee and whatever scented candle Namjoon's burning tonight (vanilla maybe?). He's hunched over his desk, headphones around his neck, but he turns when I step inside. His eyes narrow slightly, taking in what must be my obviously anxious state.

I hover by the door until he gestures to the wooden chair in the corner. It creaks as I sit, too loud in the suddenly quiet room. My heart is hammering so hard I feel dizzy with it.

"Hyung, I—" The words lodge behind my teeth like glass. I can't. I can't do this. But I have to.

I draw in a breath that trembles all the way down, hands knotting so tight my knuckles ache. The silence stretches, heavy as a stone in my chest.

"I need to tell you something." My throat closes around each syllable. The fluorescent lights suddenly feel too bright, too harsh. Another breath. Steel myself.

"And I'm scared—" my voice cracks, barely a whisper now. I can't look at him. Can't bear to see his expression change. "—it's going to change everything."

My chest feels too tight, each heartbeat a hammer against my ribs. The words taste like betrayal on my tongue: "It's about Tony Montana. About Yoongi-hyung."

Namjoon crosses his arms, his face settling into that careful blank expression he wears during difficult meetings. He gives me a single nod – permission to speak, to shatter whatever comes next. The gesture is gentle but firm. Leader-nim now, not just hyung.

"We..." The fabric of my shirt twists in my fingers. "God, I don't even know how to say this. We've been together since—" My throat closes up. "Since a while off and on and now it's really on."

Each word feels like stepping onto thin ice. "And it wasn't supposed to... I never meant for it to become an issue for any of you..." I rake my fingers through my hair, hating how small my voice sounds. "And I don't know if you've ever noticed, or wondered or–"

"Jimin-ah..." Namjoon's sigh fills the space between us as he pinches the bridge of his nose. The silence stretches, stretches, stretches. Then: "We have eyes, you know."

My stomach drops. "What?"

"It's like that movie Fight Club," he says with a tired laugh. "Nobody talks about it because the moment we do, it becomes real. And real means complicated."

I double over, feeling like the air's been knocked out of me. "How long have you...?"

"Known? Suspected?" Namjoon's shrug doesn't match the tightness in his shoulders. "The thing is, this stuff can happen in the business. Trainees, rookies... people get close." His eyes drift to the messy stacks of lyric notebooks on his desk. "Like Jungkook and Taehyung – nobody wants to know what's really there. Maybe it's nothing, maybe it's everything. The fans can believe what they want, and management can pretend it's just fanservice. Unless it gets messy, no one has to address it."

He shifts, choosing his words carefully. "Usually these situations either fizzle out naturally or get problematic enough that management has to step in. But you two..." He trails off, and I can see him piecing together years of careful distances, of perfectly timed touches that never lingered too long. "You were always so careful. Almost perfect at keeping it under wraps. So me and the other members–we just... looked the other way."

"You thought we'd get it out of our system," I say softly, understanding.

"Can you blame us? It was easier than confronting it. But now..." He gestures. "You're here. What's up?"

I pull out my phone, nearly dropping it. "He wrote a new verse for the Tony Montana performance at Muster and used the word 'irreplaceable.' And maybe that sounds stupid, just getting worked up over one word, but—" My voice breaks. "It's a word that means something." I have to stop, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. "It's ours. Just ours." I finally look up at Namjoon, vision blurry. "I tried telling him it's too much. But you know how he gets. Once he decides something's perfect..." I trail off, letting out a broken laugh. "I don't know what to do. I'm terrified of messing this up – either for him, or for the group."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Maybe suggest some new lyrics as an alternative?"

Namjoon snorts. "You think I have a death wish?"

"Hyung, please," I lean forward, desperate. "He might listen to you. You're one person whose opinion on lyrics he actually—"

"Look, I get it. I do. When you're in this deep..." He trails off, and I can see him thinking about his own past relationships, the ones we all pretended not to notice. "But you two... this isn't just about you anymore. If this goes wrong—"

"I know," I cut in, my voice small.

"But damn," he continues, looking slightly amused now. "Min Yoongi, writing his feelings into lyrics for thousands to hear, but in a way only you would understand? That's..." He shakes his head. "Actually pretty on brand for him. Found a way to be both careful and reckless at the same time."

"Not helping," I mutter, but I'm fighting a smile now too.

"Yeah, well." He runs a hand through his hair. "I'll email you some alternate verses in the morning. But Jimin-ah?" His expression turns serious. "You need to think about the long term here. Both of you do. Because right now? You're walking a very thin line. The company can't protect what it can't deny. Just... don't give them a reason to look too close, okay?"

I nod, pushing myself up on shaky legs.

"Jimin-ah?" Namjoon calls as I reach the door. I turn back. "Whatever happens... we've got your back. Both of you. Just... be careful."

I have to swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat. "Thanks, hyung."

***

I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, scrolling through Namjoon's email when my door bursts open, the handle hitting the wall hard enough to make me jump. The sharp scent of cold air and cigarette smoke follows Yoongi in—a red flag if I've ever smelled one. Yoongi only smokes when he's truly furious. From where he's sprawled on his bed texting, Hobi barely glances up—then does a proper double-take, phone forgotten mid-message.

"What the fuck is this?" Yoongi's voice is deadly quiet, phone held up like evidence in a courtroom.

"Oh, hey, so I was just heading out anyway," Hobi says quickly, rolling off his bed. "Dinner with my sister, so..." He trails off, already grabbing his jacket.

"Jimin." Yoongi cuts through the awkward exit, advancing until he's right at the edge of my bed. His knuckles are white around his phone. "You went to Namjoon? Behind my back?"

I hear Hobi's quick footsteps and the soft click of the door behind him as heat floods my face – not from embarrassment, but answering anger. "Maybe if you'd actually listened to me—"

"To what?" His laugh is sharp, bitter. "To get him to change my lyrics? My song?" His hands are trembling slightly, and I can't tell if it's from anger or hurt. Maybe both. "Do you have any idea how that makes me look? The group's leader rewriting my verses because what – you couldn't handle having this conversation with me yourself?"

"Oh, like you're so easy to talk to?" I snap, shoving my laptop aside. "Mr. 'The-Flow-Is-Perfect-Trust-Me'?"

"Don't." The muscle in his jaw ticks.

"W-what?" I'm on my feet now, blood rushing in my ears. "Don't point out how fucking impossible you are when it comes to your precious lyrics? How you shut down any suggestion that doesn't match your vision?"

"This isn't about some fucking flow, Jimin!" His voice finally rises, and I flinch. He notices, something in his expression breaking before hardening again. "This is about you not trusting me enough to tell me you're scared."

"Of course I'm scared!" My voice cracks like glass. "Every time I go on stage, someone's watching to see if my dancing's too feminine, if my clothes are too much. The company, the media, the public—they're all waiting to see how far the world will let me push before pushing back." The words taste bitter on my tongue. "And then I go home, and it's just—God." I grab a pillow, hurl it across the room. "Every visit, every call. Dad sending me wedding photos of my cousins, hinting about grandchildren, about finding a nice girl. And I smile and nod because what else can I do?" My hands are shaking, my throat tight with angry tears. "So now you want to put this into a song? This thing between us that means everything? When I'm already walking this tightrope of what people will tolerate?"

"You think I don't understand risk?" His voice drops low again, dangerous. The air between us feels electric, charged. "You think I don't know what we're playing with? My family doesn't even know I—" He cuts himself off, jaw tight. "But I'm tired, Jimin. I'm tired of pretending the most real thing in my life doesn't exist. But look, I went over these lyrics a hundred times. No one's going to hear what you're hearing. No one's going to see what you're seeing."

"Really? Because every time you whisper that word to me," my voice wavers between anger and something softer, "every time it's just us, it feels like... like something I can't explain. Something that's only ours. And I'm terrified of losing that."

He moves so fast the air displaces around him, and suddenly my back is against the wall, his hands braced on either side of my head. His eyes are dark, dangerous – the way they get when he's about to either kiss me or start another fight.

"You really think I'd risk everything if I wasn't sure?" His voice is low, rough. "That I don't understand exactly what it means every time I say it to you?"

"Don't act like I'm the only one who's scared," I shoot back, chin lifting. "You're the one who practically runs away whenever someone asks why I spend so many nights in your studio."

His fingers flex against the wall. "That's different—"

"How?" I shove at his chest, but he barely moves. "Because you get to control it? Because you get to decide when and where we're visible?" The anger burns hot in my throat. "You don't get to put our word in a song and then act like I'm overreacting about what that means!"

"Our word," he echoes, and something softens in his expression. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb rough against my cheek. "You're right. It is ours. That's why I want to use it."

"Yoongi—" The honorific drops away without my permission, and his eyes darken further.

"Here's how this goes," he says, voice dropping to that rasp that makes heat pool in my stomach. "We do the song – my song – with my lyrics. Because you are irreplaceable." His fingers slide into my hair, tugging just enough to make my breath catch. "And no one else besides you really knows what that means."

When he kisses me, it's with all the intensity of our fight – teeth and tongue and barely contained violence. He tastes like cigarettes and winter air, and I kiss back just as hard, fingers digging into his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," I gasp as his mouth moves to my neck. "I'm sorry I went to Namjoon first—"

"Shut up about Joon," he growls, walking me backward until my knees hit the bed.

I fall back onto the mattress, pulling him with me. His weight settles over me, familiar and grounding, the cold fabric of his jacket a shock against my bare arms. For a moment we just breathe together, foreheads touching, his hand curved around my jaw.

"We could lose everything," I whisper into the inch of space between us. The bedside lamp casts strange shadows on his face, making him look softer and sharper all at once.

His eyes lock with mine, suddenly fierce. "Listen to me," he says, voice low and certain. "I will never let anyone hurt you. And I will never be the one to hurt you. That's a promise." There's something almost dangerous in his tone—not toward me, but toward anything that might threaten us. His fingers trace my bottom lip. "So trust me when I say this song... no one will know. But we'll know."

I slide my hands under his shirt, feeling the way his muscles tense at my cold touch. "I don't know if I'm as brave as you."

"You're braver," he says quietly, lips grazing my neck. His hand finds the hem of my shirt, pushing it up. "Look at you – challenging every rule they have about how we should move, how we should be. Making it okay for others to do the same. Meanwhile I'm hiding behind metaphors in lyrics."

"That's different—"

"Is it?" His teeth scrape gently against my collarbone, making me shiver. "You're rewriting the rules in broad daylight. I'm just trying to follow your lead, in my own way."

I arch into him, overwhelmed by the tenderness in his voice, the possessiveness in his touch. My nails scrape down his back, hard the way he likes it. He hisses. "Show me," I whisper. "Show me what it means."

"Hobi left, but Tae is watching tv in the living room."

"Better not be loud then."

His smile against my skin is both wicked and soft. "Alright," he promises, and then his mouth is on mine again, hungry and certain. The city lights paint shadows across the wall, casting us in gentle darkness. His hands trace reverent patterns along my sides, and I shiver, caught between the coolness of the sheets and the warmth of his skin. Time seems to slow, each heartbeat stretching into infinity.

"You're trembling," he whispers, pulling back just enough to study my face. His eyes are dark, intense, full of unspoken words.

"Good trembling," I assure him, reaching up to brush his hair back from his forehead. The tenderness of the gesture makes his breath catch. Here in the shadows, we can be soft with each other in ways the daylight rarely allows.

A sudden burst of laughter from the living room reminds us we're not alone. We freeze, then dissolve into quiet giggles, the tension breaking like a wave. His smile against my neck is pure joy.

"We'll have to get creative," I murmur, and feel his smile widen.

"I'm very creative," he promises.

"Think you can keep me quiet with Tae's drama marathon out there?" I tease in a whisper. "He always watches at least three episodes."

"Three episodes?" His lips curve against my collarbone. "Challenge accepted."

"Confident, aren't we?"

His smile turns wicked. "I know all your weak spots." As if to prove his point, his fingers trail down to that sensitive place between my hip and inner thigh, making me bite my lip. "Like this one."

I muffle a sound against his shoulder. "Cheater."

"Already breaking?" His voice is pure smug satisfaction. "We've barely started."

"Please, I'm a professional." I arch up to whisper directly in his ear. "I can be very, very quiet when properly motivated."

"Motivated?" His breath catches as I demonstrate exactly what I mean. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Got a better word?"

"I've got several," he breathes. "Want me to show you?"

"Without Tae hearing?"

"Watch me," he breathes against my skin.

"Always," I murmur back, then have to press my lips together when his mouth does that thing to my ear. His quiet hum of satisfaction vibrates through me.

"One noise and I stop," he threatens playfully.

I turn my head to whisper directly in his ear, "We both know that's a lie." My fingers trace down his spine. "You're worse at staying quiet than I am."

He pulls back just enough to raise an eyebrow. "Want to test that theory?"

"Thought you'd never ask." I shift deliberately against him, watching his jaw clench as he fights to stay silent. "Point for me."

His eyes narrow. "Oh, we're keeping score now?"

"Scared you'll lose?"

Instead of answering, he trails his lips down my neck, teeth grazing just slightly – exactly where he knows I'm most sensitive. I have to bite my lip hard.

"Point for me," he murmurs against my skin, smug.

I get my revenge by sliding my hand beneath his waist, touching him underneath, a soft gentle skim of his sac, and his forehead drops to my shoulder. "Even," I breathe.

We both freeze at the sound of Taehyung's laugh from the living room, followed by him talking back to the TV. When we're sure he's still absorbed in his show, the game resumes with renewed intensity.

"Two points if you can stay completely quiet for the next minute," he challenges, sliding down between my legs.

"Three points if you can," I counter, flipping over so my ass is in his face.

He really likes my ass.

"That's cheating," he accuses under his breath.

"That's strategy." I demonstrate my point by moving my hips until his breathing turns ragged. "Running out of self-control?"

He manhandles me into the mattress, wrestling me down. The competitive glint in his eyes makes it clear – he's not playing fair anymore.

"Still think I'm worse at being quiet?" he murmurs, and I can feel his smile against my neck when I have to turn my head to gasp into the pillow.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway makes us both go still. They pass by, and the drama soundtrack swells again. My heart is pounding so hard I wonder if he can hear it.

The competitive tension shifts into something more heated. Each touch becomes a deliberate move in our silent battle. We trade advantages like chess moves, each trying to make the other break first. When he works me up with his hand, I retaliate by giving attention to his nipples, feeling his whole body tense with the effort to stay quiet. His revenge is swift – doing that wrist twist thing that sends my eyes rolling back into my head.

Yoongi's smile curves against my skin, triumphant. "Point for me."

"Not for long," I promise, and prove it by trailing my fingers exactly where he's most sensitive. His sharp intake of breath is deeply satisfying.

Another burst of dialogue from Taehyung's drama makes us freeze, hearts racing. The forced stillness only heightens everything – the warmth of his skin, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his breath catches when I shift beneath him.

"Still keeping score?" I whisper against his jaw.

He answers by finding that spot below my ribs that always makes me gasp, forcing me to press my face into his shoulder. I feel rather than hear his laugh, but it cuts off abruptly when my hands wander lower.

The game shifts, grows deeper, more intense. Neither of us is counting points anymore, too lost in the challenge of staying silent while taking each other apart. Every touch is both a question and an answer. The playful competition dissolves into something more urgent, more meaningful.

When I arch up against him, his control finally slips. "Jimin," he breathes, barely audible.

My name in his voice still affects me like this, even after all this time.

"I win," I whisper, though we both know the game stopped mattering somewhere between heartbeats.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, and something in his expression makes my breath catch. I've seen every version of Yoongi – sleepy, playful, focused, angry, passionate – but this look... this one is rare. This is the look he gets when the words are too big to keep inside.

"What are you thinking about?" I murmur, reaching up to brush his hair back from his forehead.

His smile is soft, almost vulnerable. "You. Us." He catches my hand, presses his lips to my palm. "How fucking lucky I got."

"Luck had nothing to do with it." I try to keep my voice light, but it trembles slightly. "I was very strategic in my seduction."

"Strategic?" His quiet laugh vibrates against my skin. "Is that what you call it?"

"It worked, didn't it?"

Instead of bantering back, he goes still. His eyes hold mine with an intensity that steals my breath. His lips brush my ear, breath warm as he whispers, "Irreplaceable."

The word hits me like a physical force. Tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them, because I know – I know what that word means to him, what he's really saying. How many times have I watched him struggle to find the perfect word, the perfect note, never satisfied until it's exactly right?

A sound catches in my throat – too loud – and he kisses me quickly to muffle it. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with everything we can't say at full volume, everything we don't need to say at all.

I reach up to trace his jaw, his cheekbone, memorizing him by touch for the thousandth time. "Yoongi..." It comes out like a plea.

"My irreplaceable," he says again, and this time when tears spill down my temples, he kisses them away. Each brush of his lips feels like a promise, like coming home, like everything we've built together in stolen moments and whispered words.

His thumb catches a tear as it falls. "Too much?"

I shake my head, pulling him down until I can kiss him through my tears. "We'll do the song your way." Because he's right – some things can't be replaced. Some things are meant to be exactly, perfectly what they are.

Like us.

Chapter 25: Small But Definite Happiness

Notes:

Back over to Yoongi POV...we'll be entering 2017 next chapter and it's beginning to sink in that I'm writing a beast. Hope ya'll stick around!

I'm such a greedy bastard. Want money—same as anyone who grew up poor. The kid who used to scrape meal and bus coins, and smile at the metallic clink as they hit the bottom of the plastic jar on his desk. Factor in eomma's heart disease and her tired eyes, the way her hands would tremble after a long shift, and I never want her to lift another finger unless it makes her smile. Cool clothes? Shoes? Big chains? Crave them all. Travel. Sponsors. Hitting charts. Of course. Who doesn't covet success?

My mind always churns with wanting, it's how I'm wired. More than others, maybe. Hunger gnaws deeper, harder, not just for what's ordinary but everything—the extraordinary, the impossible. The undeserved.

Want so much it scares the shit out of me.

The van door slides open with a metallic scrape and my chest seizes—know it's Jimin without looking. I twist my sweat-slicked hands up in this dumb Beethoven-looking jacket, tears burning hot down my face. The scratchy lace cravat thing irritates my neck but I can't stop fidgeting with it. "Artist of the Year." The phrase keeps echoing, bouncing off concrete walls in this echoing garage. Surreal. Tonight BTS won fucking Artist of the Year. The trophy's heaviness still phantom-weighs in my palms, cold metal warming to my touch before they whisked it away for safekeeping.

Equal parts ecstatic and terrified, like I'm being ripped in two.

"Hyung." Jimin whispers. "You disappeared on us. I checked with our security team and Mr. Lee let me know you'd requested to come out here early and wait."

"Don't." The word chokes out raw as the leather seat dips with a soft creak. Jimin's velvet coat brushes my arm and electricity shoots through me—it's too much, everything's too fucking much, nerves blazing. "I can't—if you touch me right now I'll—"

My fist slams against the seat in front, the dull thud echoing. Trying to ground myself as emotions rise too fast, drowning me. Makeup's running, probably look like a goddamn panda. The others must still be finishing interviews, accepting congratulations. Should be in there being professional, smile plastered on, nodding at all the right moments. Instead I'm hiding in the parking garage coming apart...and now bringing my dongsaeng along for the ride.

"Did you eat anything at all tonight?" Jimin asks softly, changing tactics. The question catches me off guard enough that I almost laugh.

"What?"

"You looked like you might faint earlier.” His voice softens again—so fucking gentle it hurts—and a sound rips from my throat like a wounded animal, head thudding back against the seat. The leather's cool against my burning neck.

"Stop—please, I can't if you—" But my hands betray me, already reaching for his velvet lapels, desperate and contradicting every word. The fabric's soft under my fingertips, grounding. The greedy tide's rising in my chest, threatening to drown me with shadows and selfishness. Have so much. Our songs on the radio. Arenas screaming our names. Why can't it be enough? Why do I need him too?

"Maybe if you try to talk it will help." Lavender and something warm—just barely there but undeniably Jimin—wraps around me like an anchor in the storm. His fingers find the tension knots at the base of my neck, pressing gently.

"Everything's too big, can't hold it all..." My voice splinters, throat closing like I'm choking. Artist of the Year. The words pound in my skull, each syllable a hammer blow. Everything we worked for—basement practice rooms, bleeding feet, voices raw. The memory of sweat and Tiger Balm sharp in my nose. Real. Too fucking real. Tonight under the stage lights my shoulders betrayed me, sobbing through Namjoon's speech while sweat trickled cold down my spine. Wanted this so bad for so long, now it's here and I'm—I'm—

"S'okay. I'm here. I'm right here," he says.

"Shit. Fuck. But the others will be here soon." Words rasp out between gasping breaths as I try to pull myself together, chest heaving. "Need to—can't let them see me like—" Another wave crashes through and I double over, forehead pressing into his shoulder. The velvet's soft against my fevered skin, damp with tears or sweat or both. Feel his heart racing too, quick as a hummingbird's wings.

"Breathe with me," he murmurs, exaggerating his inhales. "You know how to handle your panic attacks. In through your nose..."

"You don’t need to take care of me—"

"I don't mind." His hand finds my spine. "You've always taken care of me. Can’t I return the favor sometimes?"

"Can't believe that we did it tonight." Words fight past the lump in my throat. "Showed all the haters, everyone who said we couldn't—everyone who tried to stop us, we did it—can't believe—" My voice shatters completely. The emotions are too big to put into words, just raw animal sounds clawing up from somewhere low and primal.

Jimin rubs my lower back making soft sounds, not shushing, but almost a coo. It's stupid how much I like it. How much I need it. His fingers find the knots of tension, working them loose with practiced ease.

"Sorry—I'm older than you," I choke out the words, trying to pull back but my hands won't release his jacket, fingers cramping. "Your hyung shouldn't be—shouldn't need you to—" Slam my head back against the seat, frustration burning hot as fever. "Supposed to be stronger than this—supposed to take care of you—"

"Who says you aren't strong?" His calmness wraps me like a blanket. "My genius hyung who just helped us win Artist of the Year? Who worked himself sick for years to get us here? Who knows more about music than I ever will.”

"Stop being so nice." My breath hitches violently, ribs aching.

"I'm not. Just honest." He pulls me closer, lets me hide my face in velvet while success threatens to tear me apart.

The familiar squeak of sneakers on concrete signals the others' approach before the van door slides again—more footsteps, familiar voices. My fingers clench tighter into his soft fabric but he doesn't pull away.

"Yoongi-hyung--you good?" Jungkook's voice cracks and something in my chest splinters further.

"Give them space," Namjoon murmurs.

The van shifts as they pile in, leather creaking. Hands patting my back, my shoulders. Tae's definitely crying—recognize those sniffs anywhere.

"Scoot over a bit—" Hobi starts, then catches himself. Feel his pause. "Ah, never mind, I'll just—"

"Here, hyung can sit—" Jungkook trails off too, probably seeing how my fingers are still twisted in Jimin's jacket.

"I'll take the backseat," Jin announces too brightly, his voice pitched higher than usual—a tell that he's fighting tears. "Taehyungie, come help your handsome hyung climb over—"

"Careful, your old bones—" Hobi's voice is thick but he's trying for lightness.

"Yah! My bones are perfectly—oof!" A thud, then Jin's whine. "Who put that arm rest there?"

My laugh comes out rough but real, the sound surprising me. Can't look at them yet but their familiar chaos steadies something in my chest. The van feels warmer now, safer.

"Did you see their faces?" Tae's voice is raw. "All those people who've looked down on us—"

"Fuck them," Jungkook says fiercely. His hand finds mine—calluses rough against my palm, still warm from the stage lights. "We did it."

"Language," Jin says automatically, then hiccups. "But yes, we fucking did."

"My eomma—" Jungkook's words catch. The leather squeaks as he shifts. "She's probably already calling everyone—"

"Mine too," Jimin murmurs above me. His thumb traces small circles between my shoulder blades. "The whole neighborhood's gonna hear about it.”

"Remember sleeping all in one room?" Hobi's laugh is wet. "Sharing ramyeon? Fighting over a banana?"

"Remember when Joon-hyung broke the practice room door?" Tae pipes up, voice still gravelly with tears. "And we all had to chip in—"

"That door was clearly defective," Namjoon grumbles, but he's laughing too. "The hinges were already loose."

"Artist of the Year," Jungkook whispers, wonder threading through his voice.

My eyes burn fresh. Because we did this. My members. My family. The ones who never let me give up...even when the wanting felt too big, too raw. The van smells like them now—cologne and hair products, and it's dumb but it's comforting as hell.

Their voices wash over me—Jin's windshield wiper laugh, Tae's sniffles, Hobi humming something under his breath. No one mentions how I'm still half in Jimin's lap or how my tears have definitely ruined his velvet jacket.

Still want everything for them. Still hungry for more, for bigger stages, brighter lights. But right now, crushed between Jimin's steady warmth and Jungkook's grip while the others crowd close, it feels like home.

###

Steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror into a ghostly blur. My stage makeup's still running—black streaks down my cheeks. Jimin reaches past me to test the water temperature, sleeve rolled up. Droplets cling to his forearm.

"Let me help, hyung." His voice is soft, barely audible over the shower's steady rhythm. "You're dead on your feet."

Want to argue but he's right. Everything feels heavy—the weight of the night, the award, all of it pressing down. Just nod, let him unbutton this ridiculous jacket. The velvet one he was wearing is probably ruined from my tears, expensive fabric stained with salt and makeup.

"Sorry about your jacket," mumble as he works the buttons. The air's thick with steam now, making it harder to breathe. "Coordi-noonas are gonna kill me."

"Stop apologizing." His fingers pause, warm against my chest.

"I don’t ever want to ruin anything that’s yours," the words slip out before I can stop them, harsh in the humid air. "Feels like when it comes to you that I’m allways wanting, always taking—"

"Good." The certainty in his voice makes me look up. He's smiling, that soft one that makes his eyes crinkle. Water droplets catch in his lashes. "I love being wanted. Especially by you."

My throat tightens. His fingers are gentle as they finish undressing me, careful even. Everything peels away until we're both stripped down.

The water hits hot—almost too hot but it's good, grounding. Steam curls around us as Jimin guides me under the spray, reaches for the makeup wipes. His touch is careful around my swollen eyes as black smears away, the wipe rough against my sensitive skin.

"Did you know your eyelashes get all spiky when they're wet?" he murmurs, thumb brushing my cheekbone. "Like a grumpy cat."

"Shut up." But something in my chest loosens. The familiar scent of his shampoo fills the air. "You're the one who uses three different kinds of mascara."

"And I look amazing." He works shampoo into my hair, fingers gentle against my scalp. The subtle scratch feels heavenly after hours of product and styling. "Your eyes are gonna be so puffy tomorrow."

"Like I care."

"The interview—"

"Fuck." We have a packed schedule.

"It's okay." His thumb traces my cheekbone, wiping away more makeup. Water runs in rivulets down his face. "You'll still be beautiful."

The words hang in the steam between us. Can't look at him. "Jimin-ah..."

"Let me say it." His voice is steady even as his fingers tremble against my skin. "Let me tell you what I see."

"It’s fine—I already want too much—"

"There's no such thing as too much. Not with us." Steam swirls around his face like a halo.

"There is. There always is with me." The words spill out, mixing with the shower spray. "I want everything. Success. Money. Recognition. You. It never stops, I never stop wanting—"

"Good." He says it fiercer this time, fingers tightening on my shoulders. "Want more. Want everything. Want me the most."

"How can you—"

"Because I was made for this." His smile is blinding through the steam. "Made for being wanted by you. You think I don't see how you hold back? How careful you are? But I'm greedy too. I want all of it. Every bit of wanting you have."

A laugh escapes me, shaky. Water runs into my mouth, warm and metallic. "You're fucking crazy."

"Maybe." Water streams down his face, plastering his hair to his forehead. "But we match, see? You can't want too much because I can't be wanted too much. Perfect pair."

Something about his certainty makes words spill out: "You know what I wanted first? Before all this?" My hands gesture vaguely at the marble tiles, the fancy shower heads. "Just... having enough songs on my phone that I never had to hear the same one twice in a day. Being able to buy meat whenever I wanted."

"Yeah?" His fingers work the tension from my shoulders, the water pressure adding to the massage. "Tell me more."

"Iced Americanos. The way it feels when I drink one on an empty stomach. New boxers the first time you wear them. Being able to take a taxi when it rains." The list tumbles out, years of small wants carried like stones in my pocket. "Having matching towels. Taking showers with you."

His hands still. "What?"

Feel my face heat but push through. Steam makes everything feel dreamlike, safer. "It's on my small but definite happiness list."

"Your what?" His voice goes soft, curious. Water drips from his lower lip and I want to lick it so I do.

"It's stupid. . ." I say after a long kiss.

"It's not. Trust me. Tell me about this list." His fingers resume their gentle pressure.

Run a hand through my wet hair, water dripping into my eyes. "Started it years ago. When things felt impossible. List of small things that made me definitely happy. Not big maybes like success or fame. Just... definite little things. Clean sheets. The first bite of japchae. And now..."

"Now?"

Fuck. My face is burning but his hands are steady on my shoulders, waiting. Steam wraps around us like a cocoon. "Now it's... the way you hum while washing my hair. How your eyes get small when you’re sleepy. The little circles you rub on my back when I'm in a mood. That weirdly adorable spot on your neck I can never stop touching. Just... you. Being here. Like this."

His fingers tighten on my shoulders. When I risk a glance back, his eyes are huge, lips pressed together like he's trying not to smile.

"Don't—"

"Hyung." His voice cracks. "That's the—oh my god—"

"Shut up—"

"You have a whole list of ways I make you happy?" He sounds delighted, breathless. Steam curls between us as he beams. "Specific little ways?"

"I'm never telling you anything ever again." The water runs hot down my back, soothing tired muscles.

"No, no, tell me more. I need to know everything. Do you write them down? Is there a happiness journal? Does—"

"Did you know in ancient Rome that soap was—" Steam catches in my throat as I try to deflect.

"Don't you dare start with Roman trivia!" He spins me around, eyes dancing through the mist. Water droplets catch in his lashes. "I'm serious, this is the cutest thing that's ever happened to me. My hyung keeps a list of how I make him happy—"

"I take it back. Showering alone is now on the list—"

"Nope, no takesies backsies." His smile is blinding, even through the steam clouds. "You definitely love showering with me. It's documented. It's on the list." He wipes away the last traces of makeup, the cloth rough against my sensitive skin. "Hold still, you've got eyeliner all—no, don't scrub—"

"It itches—"

"Baby." He tuts, batting my hands away. The pet name slides out natural as breathing, making something warm bloom in my chest. "Let me. I've had way more practice."

The shower's white noise wraps around us like a blanket. The wanting's still there, but it feels...manageable now. Like maybe he was right about us matching.

When we finally step out, skin pink from the heat, he wraps me in a towel like I'm something precious. The fluffy fabric is warm from the heated rack—another small luxury I never thought I'd have. Something worth all this wanting.

"Thank you.” The words feel small in the steamy air.

He just smiles, that same fierce tenderness. Water drips from his hair onto his shoulders as he leans in. "Always, hyung. Now you have to let me want things too."

"Like what?"

His kiss is soft against my temple, lips warm and slightly damp. "Like taking care of you. Like being everything you want."

The bathroom mirror stays fogged, hiding our reflections. But for once, I don't need to see myself to know exactly where I stand. Here, at this moment, wanting doesn't feel like too much.

Tonight it feels like just enough.

Chapter 26: Min Yoonji

Notes:

A shorter chapter because busy week--but of course we have to pay homage to this icon. Min Yoonji forever xxx

I catch Jimin staring at me from across the dressing room, his small eyes dark and focused on me. The wig is starting to itch against my scalp, and this school girl uniform feels too tight across my shoulders, but the heat in his gaze – the same one that left marks on my skin last night – makes me want to stay in it just a little longer.

His tongue darts out to wet his lower lip as he watches me, all pretense gone now that we're alone. I reach up to twirl a strand of the long black wig between my fingers, watching his neck muscles flex as he tilts his head, that familiar tension building between us. I should be getting changed. Should be heading home. Instead, I let the synthetic hair slip slowly through my fingers, a deliberate invitation. His eyes darken as he stalks toward me, and my pulse quickens.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," I mumble, then feel my cheeks heat when his own face turns pink – he's already taken plenty of pictures. His phone's probably full of them by now.

The dressing door slides open and we both freeze before Namjoon pokes his head in. "Hyung, staff wants to know if you've got the costume—oh." He pauses, looking between me and Jimin, something knowing in his expression. "Should I tell them you need a few more minutes?"

"I should probably change," I say, but make no move to get up from where I'm sprawled on the couch. The schedule's done for the day anyway.

"It's okay," Joon says carefully, "I'll handle the staff–say we'll be ready in fifteen," and closes the door again.

The whole thing was supposed to be a simple Run BTS skit. Just Min Yoongi playing dress-up for laughs, nothing more. But when I looked in the mirror after the transformation, something clicked into place that I hadn't even known was misaligned. The person staring back wasn't exactly me, but wasn't exactly not-me either – she was delicate in ways I've always pushed down, buried under the persona I thought I had to be. Long black hair falling just right, the subtle shadows around my eyes making them look bigger. A little bit sassy. A little bit coy. It was like seeing the shadow-self I'd been carrying all along, finally stepped into the light.

It's funny how we build these boxes for ourselves, I think, watching my reflection. BTS Suga the idol and producer. AgustD savage rapper who doesn't take shit from anyone. As if people are ever that simple. As if we don't all contain multitudes, pieces of ourselves we show and pieces we hide, masks we wear until we forget they're masks at all.

And Jimin... oh. The way he looked at me when I first stepped out – like seeing a sunrise or some shit. He couldn't even string two words together during filming. Just kept looking at me with those wide eyes of his, stumbling over every line.

"I wasn't staring that much," Jimin says as if reading my mind, but he's still scrolling through his camera roll.

"Right," I snort. "And those hundred photos just took themselves."

"It's not—I mean—" He's getting flustered now, the way he does when he's caught out. "Can I just... can I show you something?"

"Fine." He settles next to me on the couch and I try not to think about how the skirt rides up my thighs. "What's got you so worked up?"

He bites his lip before holding out his phone. The screen's full of Yoonji – of me. But it's like looking at a stranger I've always known. There's one shot that makes my heart skip: my head's turned slightly, a ghost of a smile on my lips, something soft and unguarded in my expression. Did I really look like that?

The door bangs open again and this time it's Taehyung, trailed by Jungkook who's already got his own phone out.

"Noona!" Taehyung sing-songs, throwing himself onto the couch between us. "Are you going to be our pretty noona from now on?"

"I will end you," I growl, but there's no heat in it. Especially when Jungkook snaps a group selca.

"For the memories," he grins, but something in his expression softens when he looks at the result. "Damn. You really do have great legs, hyung."

"Get out, both of you," Jimin suddenly snaps, and they both look at him in surprise. He rarely uses that tone with the maknaes. "Go bother Jin-hyung or something."

Taehyung's eyes dart between us, and I see the moment he gets it. "Ah," he says, standing up and grabbing Jungkook's arm. "Come on, let's go see if hyung will buy us dinner."

"But I wanted to—" Jungkook starts to protest, but Taehyung's already dragging him out. The door closes behind them with a decisive click.

"You didn't have to do that," I say quietly.

"I just...we don't have long…" Jimin's voice is barely a whisper. "And you're really pretty."

The words flutter in my chest like trapped birds. They shouldn't affect me like this – it's just makeup, just clothes, just pretend. But the gentle undertone in his voice makes me feel like I'm floating.

"Stop it," I murmur, but I can't meet his eyes. When I try to hand his phone back, our fingers brush, and I feel him draw in a small breath.

A knock at the door makes us both jump. "Ten minutes until car call," a manager calls through the door. "Yoongi-ah, staff needs the uniform back."

"Just... just five more minutes?" Jimin asks, so quietly I almost miss it. "As Yoonji? Please?"

I should say no. Should take off this wig and wash away all this makeup and go back to being just Min Yoongi. But Jimin's has that look, and I find myself nodding before I can think better of it.

"Five minutes," I call back to Manager hyung. "Tell them I'll bring it myself."

I hear him sigh, but his footsteps move away. Jimin's still gazing at me like I'm something beautiful, something rare, and maybe... maybe I can stay in this moment a little longer.

"Which one's your favorite?" I ask, surprising myself. Jimin looks up quickly, his eyes meeting mine, and for a moment we're both perfectly still, something delicate spinning between us.

His fingers tremble slightly as he scrolls through his phone. He stops on one particular photo, and my breath catches. It's from near the end of filming, when I'd started to forget to be self-conscious. In the photo, I'm laughing – really laughing, head tipped back, all my walls down. There's something so honest about it that my chest aches.

"Here," he says softly, thumb hovering over the screen. "You weren't trying to be anyone. You were just... happy."

"That doesn't make sense." But maybe it does. Maybe there's something freeing about being both more and less than myself, about the way Jimin's looking at me now – like he sees straight through to something I've kept hidden.

"Could we..." he turns back to me, stumbling over the words. "Can we take one together? Just... just for me?"

I should remember we're on a schedule, that security's waiting, that we're supposed to be careful. But something about the shy hope in his voice, the way his eyes keep darting between my lips and eyes, makes me nod.

He slides closer – not quite touching, but close enough that I can smell the lingering sweetness of his shampoo. His arm comes up, phone held out, and suddenly I'm hyper-aware of every inch of space between us.

"A little closer?" he breathes, and I'm not sure if he means for the photo or just because he wants me nearer, but I lean in anyway. The wig's long strands brush his cheek, and I hear his small intake of breath.

His finger hovers over the button, but he doesn't take the picture. Instead, he turns slightly, looking at our reflection in the screen. "You know," he whispers, so soft I have to strain to hear, "seeing you like this... I'm going to dream about it or something."

The honesty in his voice makes me shiver.

"Jimin-ah," I say, unsure if it's a warning or a plea.

"You look g-good like this," Jimin murmurs quickly, eyes drinking me in. "So good, it's crazy."

"You keep saying that," I whisper, tugging at my skirt again. "How pretty I am or whatever..."

"Because you are." His voice is gentle but sure. "The way you hold your head, how your body moves—"

"Maybe..." my voice wavers. "Maybe you just want a girl?"

His face falls, hurt flickering in his eyes. "No, no, that's not..." He sets down the phone, takes my hands in his. "I want you. Just you. This is just... another side of you. One you don't let people see much."

"I don't know how to be both," I admit, the words barely audible over the growing noise in the hallway. We have to wrap this up in a second.

"You already are." His thumb strokes over my knuckles. "Sometimes you're soft, sometimes you're strong. But you're always..." he swallows hard, "you're always exactly who I... who I need."

Something warm and aching blooms in my chest. I feel cracked open, seen, terrified. But I don't want to run. Maybe that's the scariest part – how right this feels, how natural. All these years of building walls, of fitting myself into neat little boxes labeled 'masculine' and 'tough' and 'straight,' and here's Jimin looking at me like every version of me is exactly right. Like maybe the lines I've drawn between who I am and who I could be were always more fluid than I thought.

It's not about wanting to be a girl – that's not it at all. It's about letting myself be whole. About acknowledging that maybe desire, identity, all of it... maybe it's more like music than mathematics. Less about rigid categories and more about flow, about harmony between seemingly contradictory notes.

"One more?" I whisper, and his eyes light up. "Before I have to take it all off."

His hands tremble slightly as he picks up the phone again. This time when he pulls me close, I let myself lean back against him, memorizing how it feels – this freedom, this warmth, this moment of being completely known.

Just before he takes the picture, his lips brush my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "So beautiful. Every part of you."

I close my eyes and take the moment. Okay. Now I'll wash away the makeup, fold away the uniform, return to being just Min Yoongi. The members will tease me about trending topics and fan reactions, and I'll pretend to be annoyed by all of it.

But right now, I turn in his arms to face him. His lips crash into mine with an urgency that makes me gasp. His tongue slides against mine as his hands grip my waist, pulling our bodies flush. It's only a few urgent seconds–we can't do more. Not here. Not now. When we break apart, panting, I see my red lip gloss smeared across his mouth. Gently, I brush my thumb over his lips, wiping away the evidence. His eyes are dark with want. Right now I let myself exist in this raw space between definitions, Jimin's heart racing against mine, his words branded into my skin.

Beautiful.

The final knock comes with real urgency. "Time," Manager hyung calls. "The car's waiting."

"Okay, okay," I call back, finally pulling away from Jimin's warmth. But before I can stand, his hand catches mine one last time.

"Hyung," he says softly. "Thank you. For letting me see you like this."

In the past, I'd say something cool, something dismissive. Should rebuild those walls before they crumble completely. Instead, I squeeze his hand once, quick and gentle.

"Save those photos somewhere safe," I mumble, already heading for the changing room where my regular clothes wait. "I don't know. Maybe... maybe someday we can take more."

I don't look back, but I hear his sharp intake of breath, feel the weight of his gaze following me.

Later, in the car, I feel my phone buzz with a message. It's that last selca, the one where I'm letting myself lean into him, where his smile is soft and secret against my ear. Underneath, he’s written just two words: "My Yoonji."

And maybe, just maybe, I save it in my favorites.

Chapter 27: 779

Notes:

Sorry for a posting delay--it's been busy IRL. Here is Room 779 to make up for it.

I want to throw myself away.

Panic's such a dick about timing. Never mind that we locked in these world tour dates months ago, or that I was relaxed and happy yesterday, or how I'm "supposed to have my shit together by now" or whatever. It just kicks down the door whenever it feels like it and wraps those icy fingers around my throat.

Ten stories below, Santiago pulses, a maze of lights and life that I can't bring myself to join. My chest is too tight, mind too loud. This hotel room—779– is both a sanctuary and prison – but at least here I can breathe.

My phone lights up. Jimin.

As expected.

A torrent of messages come from him in quick succession:

JAGIYA THEY HAVE LITTLE MEAT POCKETS OF HEAVEN HERE

'empanadas??? more like empa-NEED-as 🤪
that was terrible sorry
but seriously these are insane'

'did you eat yet? 👀'

'I can bring you back some. They will be cold but you know I have a hot ass…ortment kekekekeke.'

The noise that rips out of me is somewhere between a groan and a giggle as I chuck my phone onto the king-size hotel bed. He's such a pabo. Still, I press my hands to my chest, trying to contain this flutter, this ache that blooms every time he gets to me like this. And he always gets to me.

Here he is, out in the city with members, and yet trying so hard to include me. When I'd bailed earlier, his fingers had grazed my inner wrist - this pathetic, gentle touch to my pulse point that gutted me worse than if he'd just gotten annoyed. "It's okay. I understand," he'd said, voice steady.

He shouldn't have to understand.

Shouldn't have to waste his brightness on someone always choking on their darkness.

The phone buzzes again. Another message. Of course I shuffle over to look.

seriously though. you okay?

The kindness in those four words hits harder than any panic attack. I press my forehead against the cool window glass, watching my breath fog the view for a minute. Then two.

My fingers hover over the keys. I could lie. Say I'm fine, just tired, catching up on work. He'd pretend to believe me because that's what he does - gives me space even when it costs him.

But I'm so tired of making him work this hard to reach me.

'no' I type, then quickly before I can stop myself: 'but I will be.'

Take your time. we've got all night. HeeHee.

Guess I'm learning something about love too - it doesn't show up when it's convenient either. It just appears, steady and patient, wrapping warm fingers around your heart until it learns how to beat in time with another.

There's a soft thump against my door an hour later, followed by the fumbling of someone struggling with a keycard. I'm curled in the armchair by the window when Jimin's head appears, hair mussed and cheeks flushed.

"I left early," he announces, a little breathless, syllables sliding together in that way they do when he's had just enough drinks to make him brave but not quite drunk. He's clutching a paper bag that's spotted with grease stains, and his eyes are bright even in the dim room. "Hobi said he'd bring you dinner, I didn't mention these were for you. He'll probably stop by soon."

He doesn't wait for an invitation, just slides in and kicks off his shoes, movements loose but careful - like he's trying not to startle a wild animal. The bag gets deposited on the desk.

"They're still warm," he says, more softly now. "Had to fight Taehyung for them. He kept trying to steal one every time I wasn't looking. I swear that guy would shank me for a dumpling." A pause, then with feigned outrage: "He said it was for quality control. As if I'd bring you anything but the best."

He's hovering now, swaying slightly between the desk and where I sit, clearly unsure if he should come closer. The lamplight catches on his earrings, sending fragments of gold shadows dancing off the walls. His presence fills the room like warm honey, sweet and thick.

I should tell him to go back to the others. To explore Chile for the few hours we have, not ruin his night babysitting me. But the words stick in my throat when he looks at me like that - concern poorly disguised as casual cheerfulness.

"Ah, the mini bar!" he exclaims like he's just had the most brilliant idea in history. "We should - for the empanadas. They're better with..." He waves his hand vaguely at the small fridge.

I've already had two tiny bottles of whiskey, but something about his earnestness makes me nod. He beams, practically bouncing to the mini bar.

"You're already drunk," I point out, but there's no bite to it. The alcohol has softened my edges too, made the earlier panic feel more distant.

"Tipsy," he corrects, pulling out bottles with the careful concentration of someone trying very hard to appear sober. "There's a difference. Jin-hyung explained it very... thoroughly. He should make a PowerPoint." He giggles, then nearly drops a tiny vodka. "Oops."

"Clumsy," I murmur, but now I'm fighting a smile.

He brings his haul to the floor near my feet, arranging the bottles in a crooked line. His tongue pokes out slightly as he works, a habit I pretend not to find endearing. "The floor is better," he announces sagely. "Less far to fall."

"There's a metaphor in there."

"Because I'm very smart." He slips into satoori, puffing out his chest. "Even when I'm not smart, I'm smart."

I snort, sliding down to join him on the carpet. He immediately scoots closer, until our shoulders brush. The contact sends warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with alcohol.

"The empanadas are getting cold," I remind him, but make no move to get them.

"Mm. But we're getting warmer." He leans his head against my shoulder, heavy and familiar. "S'nice. Better than watching Jin-hyung try to flirt in Spanish again. He kept saying 'caliente' to everyone. Like, everyone. The waiter. A tourist. A plant by the hostess stand."

A laugh escapes before I can catch it, and I feel him smile against my shoulder. "You left him unsupervised?"

"Nah. Jungkook is dealing. I swear he is the older of the two." His words are starting to blur together slightly, soft and warm like melting sugar. "I missed you though. Not the same without your little judgmental eyebrows."

"My eyebrows are not judgmental," I protest, but my hand has found its way to his hair, fingers carding through the soft strands.

"They are. They're like..." He makes an attempt at my expression that's so terrible I have to laugh again. "Made you laugh. Mission accomplished."

"You didn't have to come back." Alcohol makes me honest. "The city's worth seeing. I read that it's famous for–"

"Shut up," he says softly, no heat behind it. His thumb traces my bottom lip. "Like I could focus anyway, knowing you were up here."

I catch his wrist, pressing my lips to his palm, and his breath catches. "Thanks. For checking on me."

"Yeah, well." He shifts closer, eyes dark. "Someone has to make sure you eat."

"The empanadas..." I point out again, but I'm already tugging him into my lap. His weight settles familiar against me, grounding.

"Fuck empanadas." He laughs against my mouth, the sound turning to a soft gasp when my hands slide under his shirt. His flat stomach, his narrow waist. I can't get enough. I could touch him forever.

"We've got the concert," I remind him, even as my fingers trace patterns on his skin. "Two days. You know the rules."

He makes a frustrated sound that I feel more than hear. "I know, I know. No marks." His hips shift restlessly. "Just... need you."

I catch his mouth with mine, swallowing whatever he was going to say next. He tastes like vodka and need, his tongue hungry, his fingers curling into my shoulders--cautious on the injured side.

"You're so good to me," I murmur against his lips, because I know what those words do to him. Sure enough, he melts in my arms even as his hips roll forward.

"Hyung," he breathes, the honorific catching on a whimper when I drag my teeth along his jaw.

"Quiet," I warn, though my own growl is wrecked. "These walls are shit."

He muffles a laugh-turned-moan against my neck. "Then stop being so..." He trails off as my hands slide lower.

"So what?" I can feel him trembling.

"You know what," he breathes, but I can hear the smile in his voice. He's playing too.

I hum against his neck, ghosting my lips over his pulse point. Not quite a kiss. "Maybe I want to hear you say it."

I circle his shallow belly button. keep my touch light. Teasing. Just barely grazing skin.

"Hyung," he protests softly, trying to press closer.

"Patience, Greedy," I murmur. Let my breath warm his ear as I speak. "Be good for me."

A shiver runs through him at that. His fingers twist in my shirt, but he stays still. Waiting.

I reward him with a proper kiss to his throat, slow and open-mouthed. Feel his pulse under my tongue. When I scrape my teeth gently, he makes a sound that's half whimper, half sigh.

"That's it," I breathe against his skin. I love how he smells. "Yeah. So good for me."

His hips rock like he can't help it. "Please," he whispers. The word trembles. "Need more. Need you to-"

"Huh? Need me to what?" I drag my nails lightly down his back, feeling him arch into the sensation. "Use your words."

He's panting now, little desperate breaths.

"Touch me properly. Stop being a tease."

"But why when you're so pretty every time I tease you." I bite at his earlobe, and his whole body jerks. "So feisty. It's perfect. You're perfect."

He is writhing now. "Uhnf. Hyung, I swear to god-"

I silence him with a kiss, but keep it G-rated. When he tries to deepen it, I pull back just enough that our lips barely brush. Feel him whine in frustration.

"You were kind earlier." My hands find his thighs, squeezing hard. Fuck, his muscles are insane. "Taking care of me. Maybe I wanna take my time taking care of you now."

"Your time management skills are terrible." He squirms in my lap. "Like, legendarily bad- oh fuck."

"Mm? What was that about my skills?" I walk my fingers up his sides, just where I know he's ticklish.

He rocks forward deliberately, a shiver running through him. "God, we're literally Tom and Jerry, aren't we?" He names that old American cartoon show we sometimes watch the reruns of over ramen. "Me causing chaos, you pretending you don't like chasing me-"

"You're exactly like that little brat Jerry," I growl. "Always plotting ways to drive me crazy."

"And you're my Tom." He pecks my cheek. "Getting all worked up every time I do something to get your attention." His grin turns wicked. "Though I don't remember Tom ever letting Jerry grind down on him like this-"

I flip us suddenly, pressing him into the carpet. His surprised laugh catches in his throat. "Maybe Tom isn't interested in anything physical. Maybe Tom just wants to hang out."

"So you're saying Tom is delulu or a liar?" His eyes are bright with challenge even as his breath comes faster. He deliberately squirms under me. "Come on. You've caught your mouse. What are you gonna do with him?"

"Could teach you a lesson about all that teasing." I palm his hardness, giving him just enough pressure that he lifts his hips but not enough he gets relief.

"Please, you love our games." His smile is softer now, even with desire darkening his eyes. "Admit it - your life would be so boring without me."

"Impossible brat," I murmur, but I'm already leaning down to kiss him. "Should've caught you sooner."

He hooks a leg around my waist, pulling me closer. "Stop talking-"

"Thought you liked my voice."

"Like it better when you're- fuck-" He cuts off when I roll my hips again. "When you're making me fall apart."

"Troublemaker."

"Your troublemaker." He is breathless. His color hectic.

I grab his wrist and slide his hand between us. His resultant moan echoes off the hotel walls.

"So loud tonight," I growl, sitting back on my heels. He is splayed before me with fucked out heavy lidded eyes. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen. That I'll ever see. Sometimes it doesn't feel real that I get to have this. That I'm going to wake up and learn it's a fever dream.

"Tell me what you want," he whines, biting his lower lip.

"Take it out." I order curtly. "Take it out and show it to me."

His eyes flutter but he does as he is told, undoing his tight pants, shimmying them and his briefs down his narrow hips.

"Is that pretty cock for me?"

His lips part. I'm not usually as direct but he loves when I am.

"I take care of what's mine," I continue, deepening my voice. "Do you believe me?"

He nods.

"I can't hear you." I feel like a king right now, bossing him like this. Not a guy who was too freaked out to leave his hotel an hour ago.

"Yes." His reply is more ragged whine than anything.

I grunt my approval. "Use your hand for me. Show me how you jerk it good. That you know how to take care of my property."

"F-fuck. You have a devil in you, Hyung." But he is doing what I ordered, working over his pretty cock with his small hand.

"YOU are going to have a devil in you if you keep looking that sexy." I wet my thumb. "First I'm going to—"

We both jump at the knock at the door.

"Suga?"

Jimin moans again before clapping a hand over his mouth.

Shit. Hobi's out in the hall. And he is calling me Suga. That's code. It means there is a camera with him.

"Don't stop," I order, directing his hand back in place. "And don't make single sound."

"Eat up, Hyung," Hobi says as I open the door a crack. "We brought food for you."

His gaze is wide-eyed and a little panicked. I can tell he knows what's going on more or less–what he's accidentally walked into with the crew. I drag his bag back and slam the door.

From the other side, I hear him smoothly addressing the camera, saying something about how "refreshed" I look. Classic deflection. That's why he's always been such a good friend.

I let the bag hit the floor with a thud and whirl around. Jimin's sprawled on the carpet, watching me through hooded eyes, his good boy aura replaced by a glint of wicked that makes my pulse jump.

"Sorry, Baby," he purrs, voice dripping with anything but remorse.

"So, you want to make some noise?" I grip the hem of my shirt and tear it off in one fluid motion. "Fine. Let's make some fucking noise."

Chapter 28: Tea and Honey

Summary:

Back over to Jimin POV :)

I check my phone clock again. Yoongi-hyung's been with the specialist for twenty minutes now. The waiting room of this Gangnam ENT clinic is all sleek lines and muted greys and chrome, the air sharp with antiseptic. Fight for My Way plays on the wall-mounted TV, its dialogue warring with Chopin from hidden speakers. Park Seo-joon's shirtless scene makes me avert my eyes - Tae wouldn't shut up about his co-star's abs during Hwarang filming.

My eyes feel heavy. 2017 has been relentless - performances, rehearsals, endless meetings about the next album. Sometimes I catch myself dozing off during vocal warm-ups. But Yoongi-hyung's been pushing himself even harder. The throat inflammation isn't serious, thank god, just needs medication and rest. Still, I insisted on coming along. Someone has to make sure he actually follows doctor's orders.

A movement catches my eye - a girl, maybe twenty, hovering near the magazine rack where the Songs' engagement photos peek out from glossy covers. She keeps glancing over, hands twisting the strap of her purse. The way she bounces slightly on her toes, it's kind of sweet.

"Excuse me... Jimin-ssi?" she whispers, bowing deeply. "I'm so sorry to bother you. My friend is getting her tonsils out and I'm driving her home after..." She waves her hands before clasping them behind her back. "I'm such a big fan."

I bow my head in return and gesture for her to come closer, smiling behind my mask. "Thank you. Would you like me to sign something?"

She fumbles with her purse, pulling out a small notebook. Her hands are shaking slightly. "Is Suga-ssi... is he okay? That was him, right? Going back for the appointment?"

"Just a regular check-up," I lie easily, signing my name with the gel pen she offers. "We take care of our health."

"Good because Army worries sometimes," she admits. "You all work so hard."

"We're okay. The members look after each other." I hand back her notebook, that familiar tightness gripping my throat. Four years, and none of us have figured out how to process being loved like this. "Fighting!" I add, but my mind's already drifting to fan letters, to birthday messages lighting up buildings, to thousands of voices learning our lyrics in Korean. How does anyone ever begin to understand that kind of love? A chill creeps down my spine as the thought surfaces before I can stop it: Or deserve it, especially when we're hiding so much.

The next thing I know, Yoongi is gently shaking my shoulder. "Ya, Park Jimin. Let's go."

I blink awake. The girl is gone, but there's a strawberry milk and a note on the table next to me: "Please rest well ♡ ARMY"

A nurse in pale blue scrubs steps out. "Min Yoongi-nim?" She hands him a paper bag and instructions sheet. "Please remember - absolutely minimal talking for the next two days. The medicine schedule is written here." 

Once we're in the elevator, I turn to face him. "Okay, hyung, no talking for two days. None. Zero. I'm telling the members and staff."

He sinks against the wall, catching my eye with that tired smile of his. Even running only on Americanos and willpower, he still makes my heart do that weird little flip. The fluorescent lights cast shadows under our eyes, but somehow sharing even this feels special...just another doctor's appointment, made softer because we've got a moment alone.

"I mean it," I continue, smoothing back a stray lock of his hair. "Not even in the studio. No wait. Especially not in the studio. You can write notes, text, or I dunno…do an interpretive dance if you need to say something."

At 'interpretive dance,' he raises one eyebrow. Then, because he's actually an overgrown kid when he wants to be, he pirouettes dramatically before clutching his chest like he's dying in Swan Lake.

I giggle despite myself. "Let's get naengmyeon - the cold broth will be soothing."

The elevator stops at the parking level. As we step out, he pulls out his phone: just us ?

"Just us," I say, the simple truth of it settling soft and warm between us.

His fingers brush my wrist - too brief for anyone else to notice, too deliberate to be accidental. The parking garage echoes with distant car alarms and the hum of fluorescent lights. Security cameras blink their red eyes. So I just walk a little closer, our shoulders almost touching, and plan where to get the best table at the restaurant - somewhere quiet, away from the windows, where we can pretend the world outside doesn't exist.

We head to a place back in the backstreets of Hannam-Dong, snagging the corner table behind a partition screen. Yoongi slides into the chair facing the wall without hesitation, giving me the better view. The rich scent of bone broth and grilled meat fills the air, mingling with the sharp bite of kimchi.

"Fire" crackles through the restaurant speakers. He pulls out his phone: everywhere we go. How does it feel to be a superstar.

"Like we can't escape ourselves." 

The waiter appears before we can say more and I order quickly - "Two cold naengmyeon, please." 

But before I can finish, Yoongi's showing his phone screen: extra meat for him

I nudge his foot under the table once we're alone again. "I am perfectly capable of ordering my own food."

He nudges back as he types: but you forgot the pork last time we were here

"That was months ago. How do you remember that?" 

i pay attention

"You've got a memory like an elephant." 

His eyes crinkle above his mask. When it comes to you 🐘

The naengmyeon arrives, its icy broth studded with thin-sliced brisket, asian pear, cucumber, boiled egg and crystalline shards of ice. His foot is still hooked around mine - casual, comfortable. Like we're just two friends having lunch. Like our growing fame isn't making these moments increasingly dangerous.

He slides the mustard and vinegar my way without looking up from his phone. I know his tells by now - the way his shoulders relax when it's just us, how his gestures become softer, more deliberate. He notices everything while pretending to notice nothing at all.

My phone lights up with his text: stop staring and eat

"Make me," I say, but I'm already reaching for my chopsticks, the metal cool against my fingers.

We eat in comfortable silence as afternoon sun streams through the window. The broth is perfect - cold enough to numb, spicy enough to warm. "Nice weather today. Not too hot."

His fingers fly across the phone screen: are we really at that stage? discussing weather like old people?

I pout. "Says the guy who complained about his joints for twenty minutes yesterday at the gym."

a legitimate grievance

I roll my eyes even as he gives me some of his pork given that I inhaled mine.

The restaurant's air conditioning gives way to August heat as we step outside. Yoongi's already rolled up his sleeves, the humidity making his hair curl slightly at the nape. These moments after dinner are always bittersweet - the peaceful bubble of our impromptu date slowly giving way to reality. Soon we'll be back at the grind, careful with contact, catching moments as we can. The pressure of comeback preparations is always heavy. We're bigger now, expectations higher. One wrong move could bring it all crashing down.

 

As we near the dorm, his hand finds mine on the gear shift. thank you he types with his free hand. needed this

"Me too, I’m not glad your throat hurts, but I’m glad we got a chance to be away." I squeeze his fingers. "Everyone's been so on edge lately."

My phone buzzes as I pull into our underground lot. His too. The group chat explodes with messages about tomorrow's practice, tension crackling about formations. I feel Yoongi's grip tighten slightly on my hand.

"They're all stressed," I murmur. "More than usual."

Yoongi sighs, letting go to type: we all are

"I know. But something feels different this time." I unbuckle my seatbelt but don't move to get out, voicing the fear that's been growing. "Like we're pulling in different directions. Getting too big too fast."

He's quiet for a moment, then shows me his screen: we'll figure it out. we always do

"Yeah," I say, but the knot in my stomach doesn't ease. "Come on. Let's go deal with the kids."

His hand catches my wrist before I can open the door. hey he types, eyes sincere in the dim light. whatever happens, you've got me

I want to kiss him then, security cameras be damned. But I don’t. Who knows who could be watching. "And you’ve got me. That's the one thing I'm sure of."

###

The dormitory kitchen is quiet except for the kettle's soft burble and the muffled bass line of Namjoon's music down the hall. Steam rises from the mug as I measure honey, the spoon clinking against ceramic. Arms slide around my waist, his chin hooking over my shoulder. His chest is warm against my back, steady with each breath.

"Guess it's just us and Joon tonight," I murmur, but lean into him. 

He just hums, watching my hands prepare the green tea. His breath tickles my neck. He makes an exaggerated sniffing motion, then points between me and the tea with an appreciative nod.

smells good He types one-handed, not letting go. the tea too

"Thought I was the flirt in this relationship." But I'm smiling, stirring slowly. His other hand slips under my t-shirt to rest against my stomach, thumb tracing idle patterns that make me shiver.

can't help it. you take care of me too well

"Someone has to." I turn in his arms, pressing the mug into his hands. "Drink."

Instead, he sets it down, pulling me closer. His eyes are soft in the dim kitchen light as he focuses on my mouth.

"Your throat-" I start, but he silences me with a finger to my lips.

worth it He mouths, before replacing his finger with a kiss.

It's gentle, careful. His hands cup my face like I'm precious, like I'm something that could slip away if he holds too tight. When we part, I rest my forehead against his. "The tea will get cold."

He shrugs expressively, then hugs me tighter, nuzzling into my neck where my pulse races beneath his lips.

don't care His thumb brushes my cheekbone. rather have this

Namjoon's music switches to something slower, dreamier. Yoongi sways us gently, pressing butterfly kisses to my temple. His voice, when it comes, is barely a rasp: "Love you."

I freeze. The kettle's steam clouds between us as I pull back to look at him. His eyes are wide, like he surprised himself too. This wasn't how I'd imagined it - and I had imagined it, so many times. Always me saying it first, always planned, perfect, when I was finally brave enough.

But here's Yoongi, throat raw, voice broken, saying the words we've been dancing around since that first desperate kiss. The words that felt too big, too fragile, too dangerous.

He reaches for his phone, fingers trembling slightly, but I catch his hand. The kitchen feels suspended in time - just us, the soft hiss of the air condition, and music drifting down the hall like a distant dream. His pulse races under my thumb, wild and afraid.

He swallows hard - I can see it hurts - and there's terror in his eyes now. I know that fear. It's the same one that's kept those words locked behind my teeth every time I've watched him sleep, every time he's kissed me like I'm precious, every time his hands have mapped my body.

"You're not supposed to talk," I whisper, my voice thick.

Trust Yoongi to say it like this - no fanfare, no perfect moment, just raw honesty in a quiet kitchen when he can barely speak at all.

"But since you did..." My voice breaks, but my smile feels endless even as sudden tears prick. "I love you too."

His exhale shudders against my lips, and when he kisses me, I understand why poets spend lifetimes trying to describe this feeling. Because how do you capture the way your whole world can narrow to a single person? How do you explain that sometimes love tastes like honey and tea, or feels like borrowed time and borrowed courage?

You don't. You just hold on tight and hope that somehow, against all odds, it will be enough.

Chapter 29: Serendipity

Notes:

Only a little more lovey fluff before the angst starts to return...sorry for my fault!

The makeup artist applies another layer of moisturizer with gentle dabs, and I try to resist squirming as her feather-light touch tickles my feet. 

"Oops. Sorry, Jimin-ssi" she whispers, noticing my tension. “I keep disturbing you, don’t I?”

"It's okay." I force a smile, catching my reflection in the full-length mirror across the room. The stylists have outdone themselves today—my blonde hair perfectly tousled, makeup giving me an ethereal glow. "They need to look perfect, right?"

Eight times. She's cleaned and prepped my feet eight times now, and I'm starting to feel ridiculous. The bright lights of the music video set make every detail stand out—were my toes always shaped like that? Has that mole always been there?

The more I stare, the more foreign my own feet look to me. It's like that thing Hobi-hyung was talking about last week— jamais vu , when something familiar gets weird if you look at it too long. Then he made us repeat words until they turned to nonsense to prove his point. Now it's my own feet that don't feel real anymore. Just these strange things attached to my legs under these harsh lights, like I'm seeing someone else's body parts instead of mine.

I miss having the other members around–both the chaos and comfort. The dressing room feels too quiet without their chatter–no bickering over hairspray, no sharing snacks between touch-ups.

The director, a woman in her forties with kind eyes and an air of quiet authority, approaches.

"Remember," she says softly, "this isn't just about looking pretty. This is about vulnerability. About transformation. Show us what that feels like."

As the lightning gets adjusted, my mind drifts back to earlier in the summer when Namjoon-hyung had called me to his studio. Our leader had been practically bouncing with excitement, which should have been my hint that something big was incoming. But nothing could have prepared me for the moment when the first notes of Serendipity filled the room.

I felt stripped to my skin the moment the song began—like someone had reached inside my brain and gathered up everything I felt about Yoongi (when I don’t want to strangle him). The melody wrapped around me like an old friend who knew all my secrets, but the lyrics... God, those lyrics. They cut right through me until I had to bite my lip to keep it together. Somehow, all that wanting, all my uncertainty, yearning and hope—it was right there.

When I'd finally managed to collect myself enough to thank Namjoon properly, my voice thick with emotion, I'd asked how. How had he known exactly what I longed to say?

He’d just ducked, suddenly shy himself, his dimples putting in an appearance. “I know you, right, Jimin-ah?" Then, more softly, "And I thought about my own first real relationship. That feeling...love…I guess it's different for everyone, but somehow it's all the same too, isn't it?"

That's when it hit me—how everything I felt for Yoongi was specifically mine , but also somehow the same thing that had people making fools of themselves since the beginning of time. I was just another person who'd looked across a room at someone and thought “oh no” and then couldn't think about anything else. 

"Jimin-ssi?" A staff member's voice pulls me back to the present. "Aren’t you excited about your song introducing the album?"

“More like nervous," I admit, although the word is an understatement. 

Terrified is more accurate. Terrified because this isn't just any song—it's my truth and soon it will belong to the world. And somewhere Yoongi will be listening too, maybe even right now, analyzing each note, each breath, each breathy confession hidden in plain sight. And would my voice be good enough? Would people say it should have been better coming from Jungkook, or Taehyung, or Jin-Hyung?

The director's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Ready?"

I open my eyes and nod, trying not to think about how Yoongi had kissed me on the forehead this morning before I left, sleepy and soft, muttering "Don't stress too much, okay, Jimminie," against my hair. 

“Don’t worry,” I’d mumbled.

“Too bad.” He’d made a low purring hum. "I always worry about you."

He worries like he loves - quietly, constantly, in all the spaces between our words. 

But I’m getting stronger. It has taken me years to understand that about myself—how I could be both soft and strong, delicate and powerful. Like a male calico, I'm just perfectly me—patches of light and dark, masculine and feminine all swirled together into something rare and real.

I’m not sure if I can honestly say that I love myself, but I know I want to.

"Last shot of the day!" the director calls out, and I try to focus. But all I can think about is how Yoongi will watch this later. How somehow he has always loved every version of me, from the flirt, to the brat, to the class president, to the stress ball, to the dancer, to the lover, to the friend.

Maybe that's why I'm not falling apart here. Because yes, millions will hear me sing about being a male calico, but only Yoongi will understand how hard I’m working to embrace these contradictions.

The camera starts rolling, and I let myself embody my true self—that I just want to love him.

And before too long, it’s a wrap.

###

The pojangmacha is quieter than I expected when I duck inside, just a few scattered businessmen hunched over their tables. Yoongi's in the corner, head tilted back against the red vinyl wall, hat low, eyes closed. He looks tired.

He doesn't move when I sit down, just says, "You came.” As if he hasn’t texted me the time and place.

"As expected." I frown at the shadows under his eyes, wanting to ask how he is feeling about our upcoming release, but maybe it’s better to get his mind off of work. I settle for pouring us both a shot of the soju he already has waiting. I’m still a little keyed up and shaky from the shoot, and a few drops spill onto the metal table.

"Careful," he murmurs, finally opening his eyes. "You're still all..." He gestures vaguely at my face, my clothes, everything that's still perfectly in place.

"Sorry,” I glance around. “I should have gone more low-key."

"No." His voice is soft but firm. "That’s why I picked this place. It’s just office workers. They don’t care. But I do. I like seeing Idol Jiminie.”

Something about the way he says my nickname makes my throat tight. I down my shot too quickly, welcome the burn. Around us, the tent fills with the sound of rain starting, gentle at first and then steadier. The owner's old radio crackles with some trot song I don't recognize.

"You should eat something," Yoongi says after a while, pushing the food toward me. "You always forget when you're working."

"I don't forget," I protest. "I just..."

"Get lost in it. I know." His chopsticks nudge a piece closer to my side.

We eat in comfortable silence for a while. Outside, people hurry past with umbrellas and shopping bags, heading home to their ordinary lives. A couple stops just outside our tent, the guy adjusting his girlfriend's silky headscarf with careful hands. Something must show on my face because Yoongi's watching me when I look back.

"Tell me," he says quietly.

“Eh.” I poke at the remaining fish cake. "It's stupid."

"Do it."

"I just..." I struggle to find the words. "Sometimes I wonder what we'd be like. If we were just... them." I gesture vaguely toward where the couple was standing. "If we could be careless. Open."

He's very still for a moment, then reaches for the soju bottle. "Even if we can’t…" he says finally. "It doesn't make this less real."

"I know, I just–" I stop, watching him pour another shot with too much concentration. "Sometimes…I miss you even when you're right next to me. Our work, our life–it’s not simple."

His hand freezes midway to his glass. The rain gets louder, drumming against the vinyl above us. 

"Yeah," he says roughly. "I know what you mean."

When he finally looks at me again, there's something raw in his eyes that makes me want to lace my fingers with his, damn whoever might see. Instead, I hook my ankle around his under the table, feel him lean into the touch like he's been waiting for it.

Three empty soju bottles crowd our small table now, and I've lost track of time. The rain hasn't let up, but neither of us has mentioned leaving. Yoongi's rolled his sleeves up further, his forearms pale despite the tent's warm light, and I catch myself staring at the veins in his wrists as he pours another shot.

"We should probably..." he starts, then trails off, looking at me with heavy-lidded eyes.

"Go home?" I finish.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "Or not." His voice is lower than before. "There's that one hotel, the one near..."

"With the blue sign," I say, too quickly. My pulse picks up when he nods. "We don't have anything on the schedule until tomorrow afternoon."

He stands slowly. When he offers his hand to help me up, his fingers are warm against my palm, and neither of us lets go. It’s late now. Just us on this empty side street.

The hotel lobby is deserted at this hour, just an elderly receptionist who barely glances up as Yoongi handles check-in, both of us in masks. The elevator ride feels endless - his hand still in mine, both of us watching the floor numbers climb in silence. The soju has left everything slightly soft at the edges, but I'm acutely aware of his thumb brushing over my knuckles, the rhythm slow but intentional.

Our room faces the city, Itaewon’s lights blurred by rain on the windows. The bed is small and generic hotel art hangs above it–but it’s clean. Yoongi drops our key card on the desk and just stands there for a moment, looking out at the rain-washed city.

"You still have your eye makeup on," he says finally, turning to face me. His eyes are intent. When he steps closer, I can smell the soju on his breath, mixed with something that's just him. "Let me..."

His hands are gentle as they frame my face, thumbs smoothing over my cheekbones. He's looking at me like he's trying to memorize something, and I realize he's wiping away the last of my camera-ready facade, revealing what's underneath. 

"There you are," he murmurs, and then he's kissing me - slow and deep and certain, like we have all the time in the world. Maybe tonight, we do.

His shirt is soft under my palms when I slide my hands up his chest. He makes a low sound against my mouth, fingers tangling in my hair, and suddenly we're stumbling backward toward the bed. The backs of my knees hit the mattress and we fall together, him catching himself on his elbows above me.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hair flops in his eyes, and something in my chest aches at how beautiful he is like this - guard down, walls fallen, just mine.

"We haven’t done this since..." he starts, voice rough. “Since I said it.”

That he loves me. 

Min Yoongi loves me.

"Since we both said it," I remind, wrapping my legs around his back.

His fingers trace my jawline like he's learning me all over again. "I've been afraid to."

"Afraid?"

"I dunno, yeah." He presses his forehead to mine, breathing uneven. "That I'd feel too much."

I curl my fingers in his shirt, pulling him closer. "Show me how much."

He makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "You can't just... say things like that."

"I love you," I say deliberately, watching his pupils dilate. "I love you, I love you, I-"

He cuts me off with a kiss that's deeper than before, hungrier, like he's trying to taste the words on my tongue. Everything feels heightened - every brush of his fingers, every shared breath - charged with the newness of being able to say it, to mean it, to show it.

"You're so good with your mouth," I murmur against his kisses. "That tongue technology is real.”

His breath catches audibly. "Don’t be a brat..." It's half warning, half plea.

I bite his lower lip hard enough to make him gasp. "What? I can't tell you what a genius you are?" Another nip, watching his eyes flutter. He likes when I hurt him before kissing it better. "How talented? How beautiful?"

He tries to duck his head, but I hold him there, making him meet my eyes. His cheeks are flushed darker now, from more than just the alcohol.

"Look who's trying to take control," he says roughly, but his hands are trembling where they grip my waist.

"You love it." I arch up to lick the sensitive spot below his ear. "Love when I tell you how incredible you are. How much I-"

Suddenly he's got my wrists pinned above my head, gaze darkening. "Two can play that game, baby." His voice is gravel and whisky, a growl that makes heat pool in my stomach.

 "Ooooh.” I wiggle my ass. “Going to show me who's in charge? He makes a broken sound and kisses me harder, still holding my wrists but gentler now, like he can't decide if he wants to dominate or surrender. 

"You don't play fair," he gasps against my mouth.

"And when did I ever say that I would." I test his grip on my wrists, not really trying to break free. "Not when you're so cute like this.”

His grip loosens just slightly - that's all I need. In one fluid motion, I've flipped our positions, straddling him. His eyes go wide, and I can't help but smile down at him. 

"I like looking at you so much," I murmur, pinning his hands beside his head.

He squirms, Adam's apple bobbing. "I...don’t, just…"

"Shh." I lean down to nuzzle his cheek. "Let me take care of you.”

His resistance melts slowly, beautifully. I can feel it in how his body relaxes beneath mine, how his breathing changes. When I pull back to look at him, his eyes are half-lidded, almost dazed.

"That's it," I praise, releasing his hands to unbutton his shirt and I press kisses to each new inch exposed. His hands come up to the back of my neck, not directing, just holding on.

"It’s almost too much," he breathes, voice ragged. "Being with you..."

I look up at him through my lashes. "Want me to list every single thing I love about you?"

He flinches and the sound he makes is almost wounded, but I take it as a yes.

"I see how hard you work," I murmur, trailing kisses along his sharp collarbone. "How you pour yourself into everything." My hands slide down his narrow waist, feeling him shiver. "How you pretend nothing affects you, but you feel everything so deeply."

He’s panting now. "Jimin-ah..."

"I see how you take care of me." I nip gently at his injured shoulder. "But right now, you're mine to take care of."

Shadows paint across his bare chest, and he's so beautiful it hurts - all that carefully maintained control falling away beneath my hands and words.

"Look at me," I command softly, and his eyes find mine immediately. The trust in them makes my heart stutter. "You're so brave. But let go now."

A flush spreads down his chest. "Only for you," he manages.

“As expected.” I kiss him then, deep and claiming, swallowing the small sounds he makes. His hands slide under my shirt, touch reverent against my skin, and I can feel him trembling.

"I've got you," I breathe against his mouth. "Let go. I've got you."

When he arches up against me, whispering my name, I know he believes it.

I sit back, still straddling him, watching his eyes track my movements.

"Keep your hands there," I tell him softly, pressing his palms into the mattress. He swallows hard but nods, fingers curling into the sheets.

"Like watching me?" The question makes his breath catch. I smile, knowing what the sight of me does to him. Slowly, I reach for the buttons of my shirt, taking my time with each one. His eyes follow every movement like he's memorizing it.

I let the shirt slip off my shoulders, revealing skin in slow degrees. The way he looks at me - hungry but reverent - makes heat pool in my stomach. His hands twitch against the sheets, but he keeps them where I put them.

"Good boy," I praise, rolling my hips slightly. "Watching and holding still.”

 "Always want you. You know that." Another small sound escapes him, almost pained. Like the confession hurts him. I genuinely think it does, and that he’s addicted to the feeling.

"Show me how much." I guide his hand to his waistband. "Show me what watching me does to you."

His fingers tremble against me. I lean back slightly, roll my hips, putting on a show just for him. "Go on, do it. Touch yourself," I command. "Let me see."

"Jimin..." His voice breaks on my name, as he wraps his long fingers around his thick shaft.

"Do it." I roll again, playing with my nipples, rubbing them to hard nubs.

He bites his lip, hesitating only a moment before his hand begins to move, shy at first, but then rougher. The sight of him obeying, eyes locked on me like I'm something holy, makes my breath catch.

"Yes, good," I breathe, watching his eyes flutter at the word. "Keep going."

His other hand grips my thigh hard enough to bruise as he follows my instructions, chest rising and falling rapidly. I can't look away from his face - the way his lips part, how his eyes keep trying to close but he forces them open to keep watching me.

"That's it," I murmur, loving the sound of the filthy friction. "Show me everything."

His breath comes in short gasps now, gaze intensely tracking my every movement as if imprinting the sight. I shift my weight deliberately, making him groan before pulling my own cock out.

"You look so beautiful like this," I tell him, stroking myself so slow and good that I almost see stars. I’m babbling now, things like: "So gone for me. Only for me."

"Only you," he manages, voice wrecked. "Always only you..."

I lean down to kiss him, swallowing the sounds he makes. "Faster," I command against his mouth. 

His whole body trembles beneath me. "Please..."

"Please what?" I pull back just enough to watch his face. "Tell me what you need."

"You," he gasps. "Need you to... need..."

I smile, watching him struggle for words. "Need me to take care of you? To make you feel good?"

The desperate sound he makes tells me everything. I press my lips to his neck, feeling his pulse race wildly.

"Yeah, okay. I've got you," I whisper against his skin. 

I replace his hand with mine, taking care of us both, jerking us in tandem. The sounds he makes are desperate, beautiful. His fingers dig into my hips as I set a steady rhythm.

He arches up, breath coming in short gasps. "Fuck... I can't hang on..."

"Yes, you can." I increase my pressure. "Together. Want us to fall apart together."

His hands slide up my back, pulling me closer, and I can feel him trembling beneath me. Everything narrows down to this.

When we finally break over each other, it's with each other's names on our lips, holding on like we'll never let go.

Later, when our breathing has slowed and he's tracing lazy patterns on my skin, he looks at me with something soft and vulnerable in his eyes.

“What?” I boop the end of his nose.

"You know," he whispers, voice still rough.

I press a kiss to his shoulder, tasting salt. "I know."

Chapter 30: Four Beats of Silence

Notes:

Please note: As we enter into this part of the timeline, I'll be occasionally changing the names of people who aren't BTS members (or notable staff like PD Bang, Mr. Lee, etc). This is fic "based on real events" but, ultimately, fictional and I want to create respectful distance around others--especially when I engage in speculation during upcoming chapters. Thanks for understanding in advance xxx.

MAMA - 2017

We're stacking up wins all night, riding higher and higher until I'm straight-up floating. Then - holy shit, I hear it like a bell clanging through everything - the presenter rips open her envelope and breathes: "Sa-rang and BTS Suga." My whole world just... stops.

I black out. Not even kidding. One second I'm planted in my seat, the next I'm halfway across the room with my arm around his shoulders, no memory of how I got there. You know that wild thing where your body just hijacks the controls? When you're moving purely on animal instinct? Yeah. That. It's almost like I've won the award too.

Jungkook and I have been clowning all night about being Yoongi's personal security detail due to his Hot Trend nomination, but now here we are, headed toward the stage, play-acting with fake earpieces and exaggerated serious expressions. And he looks so shocked, and so cute with his little bow tie I could die.

Taehyung's hand catches my sleeve, yanking me back with surprising strength. "Jiminie," he whispers, voice gentle but firm. "Whoa bro. You can't go on stage." His gaze holds mine. "Come on. Back to our seats."

Oh god. My stomach knots in an instant. How obvious was I just now? My heart's hammering so hard that I'm sure the cameras can pick it up. Around me, everyone's clapping and beaming, so I plaster on the same expression, silently begging that no one besides Tae caught my slip. But God, Yoongi's wrecking me up there on stage. The way he keeps ducking his chin, that smile he gets when something really means something to him - the real one, not his forced award-show smile. 

"And thank you to Sa-rang noona," he murmurs into the mic, and my gut twists even as my heart melts at how soft his voice goes. His collaborator is right there next to him, barely reaching his shoulder even in those thigh-high boots, and they look... perfect. I watch them pose for the cameras, all bright smiles and comfortable distance, and something cold settles in my core. Not because of her - she's great, actually, and that almost makes it worse. It's the ease of it all. No careful calculations about personal space, no lightning-quick glances to check who's watching, no need to turn natural moments into casual ones. Just two talented artists sharing a stage, no secrets, no stress.

Hotel - Later That Night

The limo ride back to the hotel is a blur of Hong Kong traffic and city lights. Now I'm in my hotel suite that I've been assigned to share with Namjoon-hyung, listening to him singing off-key trot in the shower, my thumb sore from scrolling through social media like a masochist. The photos are everywhere – Yoongi and Sa-rang posing beside each other, that trophy between them. I can't stop looking, even though each swipe feels like pressing on a bruise, the way they lean into each other like they're sharing a secret.

Yoongi's been whisked away to some exclusive celebration dinner with the management team and other industry executives. Probably making more plans, more collaborations, who knows... maybe more reasons for them to work together.

I flick past yet another Twitter post speculating about their secret relationship and finally force myself to put down my phone. Why is the whole world shipping my boyfriend with this noona? I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. I should be happy for him. I am happy for him. I just wish...

As if he can read my mind, my phone buzzes: Miss you. Hour three of smiling and bowing. Send help.

I type back "I miss you too" and then delete it. Type it again. Delete it again. Finally settle on a simple heart emoji, because what else can I say? That I'm here pathetically wallowing while imagining him at that dinner with Sa-Rang? That I keep picturing the way the execs must love seeing them together, the perfect traditional image our country wants. That maybe he's sitting there right now thinking how much easier everything would be with a woman like her - someone who wouldn't mean scandal headlines and dropped contracts and disappointed parents, someone who could give him a normal life, a family, instead of a dangerous secret? Someone who fits into all the spaces I never can, no matter how hard I try, because I was born wrong for this? Ugh. I groan. Where are these stupid, ugly thoughts coming from and why won't they stop? Everything is going so well...so why does it feel like some other shoe is about to drop right on our heads?

Namjoon saunters out of the bathroom in a white sweat suit set, towel drying his hair. One look at me and his leader instincts kick in - he's always been good at that, knowing exactly what I need without asking. He crosses the room to flop down next to me, and I can already feel my mind settling from its spiral.

"Hey," he says softly, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "Want to order every dessert on the room service menu and watch old Hong Kong action movies until we pass out? I'll even try not to snore."

I give a rueful giggle and lean into him, grateful for the millionth time that I have my members - that we can just exist without words when needed. And sometimes I just need my Namjoon-hyung. "Yeah," I manage. "Sounds perfect."

My phone buzzes again in my hand, but I don't look. I can't. Not right now. Instead, I let Namjoon grab the room service menu, listening to him dramatically read out dessert names in his terrible Cantonese, trying to remember how to smile.

Practice Room - A Few Weeks Later

All of us freeze as Manager-nim delivers the news about Min-hyuk The air conditioning hums, a mundane sound that feels obscenely loud in this deathly quiet.. Taehyung's water bottle hits the floor with a crack that makes us all jump.

"When?" Namjoon asks, his leader voice steady even though his hands aren't.

"Early this morning, at the hospital." Manager-nim says quietly. "His company just called."

"No," Jungkook breathes, the word small and broken. "We just saw him last week, he was-"

"Kook-ah," Taehyung moves to him instantly, pulling him close.

I can't process any of it. Just stare at our reflection in the mirror, at seven faces drained of color. Min-hyuk had smiled at us with his three other members in the hallway at a variety show, bright and genuine like always. Had complimented our DNA choreography. Their team are our seniors, competition of sorts, but in a friendly way--and they are all kind, always acknowledge us. The memory of that last short conversation feels like it's from another lifetime now. Maybe because it is.

Jin crosses to Yoongi without a word, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Yoongi's gone still, face blank, dark eyes fixed like he's looking straight through the mirror to a place none of us can see.

My fingers itch to reach for him. I want to be the one holding him right now, but there are too many people, too many eyes. Even in this moment of grief, we can't. Even now, I have to stand here and watch another member comfort him, swallowing back words that want to claw their way out of my throat.

"Practice is cancelled," Namjoon says finally. His phone is already lighting up with notifications. It's starting.

But none of us move. Because home means news reports and social media and having to face this as reality instead of this suspended moment where maybe we heard wrong. I catch Yoongi's eyes in the mirror finally, just for a second, before he looks away. My chest feels too tight.

Hobi's phone is buzzing - other idol friends checking in, probably. The first wave of what's going to be a tsunami of grief through the industry. Through all of us who knew him, who worked beside him, who never knew he was carrying such weight.

"Together," I hear myself say, voice cracking. "Let's just... stay together right now." I'm not sure if I'm talking to Yoongi, myself, or all of us.

The Dorm - A few weeks Later

After Min-hyuk's death, we all changed in our own ways. It's been almost a month now, and the dorm feels different. Not just quieter - we've had quiet before. But there's a weight to it, like the air itself is pressing down on us. Even our footsteps sound different, more careful, like we're all trying not to disturb something we can't name.

Everyone started retreating into themselves at the funeral, like we're all living behind frosted glass, able to see each other but not quite reach. And Yoongi... I watch him when no one else is looking, seeing all the little changes only a boyfriend would notice. He barely eats. He sleeps more. He hasn't written anything since it happened.

Tonight he's curled in the corner of the couch, playing on his phone with that blank expression that's become too familiar. The TV's on but muted, casting blue shadows across his face. Outside, snow is swirling by the glass. Before, I would have settled beside him, close enough to feel his warmth. Now every movement feels loaded, dangerous. Sometimes I catch him watching me with a strange expression...it isn't that soft, shy affection I'm used to - there's a new tension there, a worry that tightens my throat. Why does he look like he's trying to memorize me sometimes, or that he's afraid of what he sees?

"You should sleep," I say, trying to keep my voice casual. Like I'm not aching to touch him, like I haven't memorized the new bruises under his eyes.

He doesn't look up, just hums noncommittally. I stand there, unmoored, all my usual instincts about how to reach him, slip into that easy Tom and Jerry banter, is gone. Even our private moments feel fragile now, precarious in ways I don't know how to navigate.

I hover uncertainly by the couch. The distance between us is only a few feet but it might as well be miles. Hobi-hyung's left his schedule on the coffee table - endless meetings, rehearsals, appearances. The machine keeps turning, relentless. I stare at all those packed hours and think about pressure, about cracks. What can that do to a person?

"Hyung, wait..." I start, then stop. What can I even say? Be okay? Don't stare too long into the darkness? Don't disappear somewhere I can't follow?

He finally looks up, and for a split second he lets me in. And I see everything - the exhaustion, the fear, the weight of what we are to each other making everything both better and worse. Then it's gone, hidden behind that careful fucking blankness again. I hate that I don't know how to make this better. I hate that I'm starting to feel scared all the time...and I'm not even sure what about.

"I'm fine, Jimin-ah," he says quietly. "Go to bed."

But neither of us moves. The muted TV flickers between us, and somewhere in the building a door closes, echoing through the silence. I want to cross this space between us, to curl into his side like a calico cat, but something in his posture keeps me rooted here. There's a new rigidity to his shoulders as if he's bracing against something.

His phone screen goes dark and he just stares at it, thumb hovering over the surface but not moving to wake it up again. I used to be able to read his silences - could tell the difference between his tired silence and his creative silence and his comfortable silence. But this is something new. Something that makes me feel like I'm searching for handholds on a smooth wall.

"The company wants us back in rehearsals tomorrow," I say, just to fill the air between us. "Full schedule."

He nods slightly. "Life goes on, right?"

The bitter undercurrent in his tone makes me cold. I want to ask what he means, but I'm suddenly afraid of the answer. Instead, I find myself taking a step closer, testing. His shoulders tense further, almost imperceptibly, but I've spent years learning every micro-expression of his body.

The light from the TV catches the side of his face, and for a moment I see him as he was a month ago, curled up in my bed, sleep-soft and warm, whispering plans about someday. About maybe. About what if. The memory feels sharp enough to cut.

"Right," I echo in a whisper. "Guess I'll... I'll see you in the morning then."

He doesn't answer, already waking his phone screen again. I notice his other hand gripping the arm of the couch, knuckles white. As if he's physically holding himself in place. Like he's afraid of what he might do if he lets go.

As I turn away, I catch his reflection in the dark window - he's watching me leave with that new, heavy gaze that I don't understand yet. That I'm not sure I want to understand. There's something in it that reminds me of how he looked at the funeral, staring at the flower arrangements like they held some terrible secret.

A gnawing grinds at the edges of my mind, like when you know you've forgotten something important but can't remember what. I find myself mentally reviewing our interactions, searching for what I might have done wrong, what I could do better. Should I have pushed harder to get him to talk? Given him more space? Maybe if I'd been more careful with our moments backstage, been less obvious with my touches, my glances. Maybe if I could be more perfect at this delicate dance we do, he wouldn't feel so far away.

I pause again by the hallway, waiting for... something. His footsteps following me maybe, or his voice calling me back. The way he used to pad after me on quiet nights, catching my wrist and pulling me back to his room with that shy smile I fell in love with. But there's only the muted sound of him scrolling, scrolling, scrolling, like he's searching for answers in endless streams of text I can't see.

The dorm settles around us, creaking slightly with the winter wind. Somewhere, a door closes. Somewhere else, water runs through pipes. I stand there longer than I should, listening to him make no sound at all, the space between us stretch into something vast and dark and uncertain.

Finally, I make myself walk away. Each step feels like a choice I don't want, but I don't know what else to do.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll be better. I'll figure out how to be what he needs.

Chapter 31: Annyeong

There's an old saying: Where there's a meeting, there's a parting – I've never liked it much. But it's not wrong. 

That's the nature of things. 

Of life. 

Of love.

Annyeong means hello and goodbye.

The basketball makes a hollow sound against the pavement as I dribble alone in the empty court. Twilight bleeds purple into the sky, and my shadow stretches longer with each passing minute. Each shot I take echoes in the quiet park – finding their mark with a satisfying swish. I don’t miss. I keep shooting until my arms ache, until the rim becomes harder to see in the growing dark. But it's better to keep moving rather than go back to my studio, thinking about the questions that won't stay down: BTS, can we go on? Do we want to?

Me and the members…we’re like the fucking metaphorical frogs in a pot. We used to splash around in it like oblivious kids. The heat crept in so slowly, degree by degree, and we called it good. Called it progress. Called it growing up. But now I'm watching the bubbles rise, coming to boil. Now we're just taking turns pretending we don't see each other checking the temperature.

The press pretended to care about mental health for a week after Minhyuk's death, but now they're circling again like vultures, hungry for the next scandal. One misstep, one lingering touch, one photo from the wrong angle - that's all it would take. I see it in the way our manager's gaze follows us too long at events. Even our members' protective glances feel like warnings now.

Self-destruction hides in my DNA, and when that darkness whispers, it shows me Jiminie. Makes me see comment sections filled with hate, his career in flames, his family turning away - all because I was selfish enough to love him. Because I couldn't keep my heart locked away. Because I was too greedy.

My hands shake with every news alert, every time Dispatch posts about idol relationships, every time I catch someone watching us too closely. I've started counting the security cameras in every room we enter. Started measuring the exact distance between us during broadcasts. 

I've watched him dance until his reflection blurs in the practice room mirrors, watched him smile through exhaustion like it's another skill he had to master. He's built himself into something extraordinary. What if my love is the thing that will finally break all he's worked for? What if every moment I let myself keep him is another crack in the foundation of his dreams?

The streetlights flicker on one by one as I keep shooting. The air smells like it’s about to rain–it  hasn’t been cold enough for snow this winter.

My balls keep going in. I can’t miss in this game.

But basketball isn’t the real world. The idea of "Forever" used to taste like hope. Now I honestly can't fucking tell if loving Jimin is an act of courage or cruelty. 

But every time I gather my strength to walk away, the long night ends, and during the bright morning he sends me a selca of his Americano, or leaves post-it notes in my studio with his little doodles, or falls asleep so gently in my arms when we get the odd stolen moment. And I know that I stopped having a choice a long time ago. 

All I can do is love him. And it’s the easiest, hardest thing in a world that laughs at permanence.

I’m taking one last shot when I hear it – footsteps on the path behind me. My heart rate spikes instantly. I secure my mask higher, pull my cap lower, muscle memory from years of living under scrutiny. But when I turn, I see a familiar silhouette in expensive designer sweats and a giant puffy jacket.

"Taehyung-ah?"

He's standing at the edge of the court, hands stuffed in his pockets. "Hyung," he says, voice rough. "I was just... walking."

Even in the dim light, I can see his eyes are swollen, rimmed red. Tae's always been the worst at hiding when he's been crying. 

"I don't—" He walks towards me, then pulls up short, swallowing hard. His next words come out choked. "I don't think I can do this anymore, hyung. BTS. I—"

The sob that breaks through catches us both off guard. I'm already moving, grabbing the ball and his arm as the first drops of rain start to fall. The old gazebo nearby has sheltered countless couples and students over the years; tonight it shelters two idols who aren't supposed to cry in public. The rain picks up as we sit, its steady rhythm on the roof covering any sound of Taehyung breaking apart beside me.

We stay like that for a while, just breathing in the wet air, until he turns and buries his face in my arm. 

“I have to say it to one of you.” His voice is soft, unsteady. "So tag, you’re it. I'm in love with Jungkook."

The words hang there between us, delicate as spider silk and just as impossible to take back. I put my arm around his shoulders and pull him close. I don’t always go in for a hug, but Taehyung does. And shoot me, I have a soft spot for this guy who can’t ever help but to be exactly who he is.

He lets out a shaky laugh after the silence drags on. “You already knew that, right? I didn’t shock you?”

I shake my head. “Bro, I don’t think I’ve ever known you not to be in love with Kook.”

“Right?” His laugh is mostly a sob. “I like guys, and I've always liked guys, and I always will like guys, and—" His words tumble faster now, like he's afraid if he stops, he'll never say them again. "And also off topic, but not, acting in that drama last year was fun. It was different. And my friends from that–they get to go on vacation, dates, do modeling gigs. It looks fun. But everything here with us feels like a prison.”

I don’t say anything. Better to let him vent. Besides, where is the lie? We traded our youth for this career. Was it worth it?

I fucking hope it was worth it.

Taehyung wipes his face roughly with his jacket sleeve, then turns to look at me. "You know what makes me mad though, hyung? The way you just...aish—I don't know. Like you think if you never talk about anything, it'll just—" He makes a vague gesture with his hand.

I stay quiet, watching the icy rain create dark spots on the ground beyond our shelter. “What do you mean,” I mutter, eventually conceding he isn't going to let this go. Tae is the most stubborn out of all of us.

"You and Jimin..." He trails off, then tries again. "I mean, we all know about you two as well, right? But you act like—"

"Don't." The word comes out harsher than I meant it to.

"Why not?" There's an edge to his voice now. "I just sat here and told you I'm in love with Kookie. The least you could do is—"

"What?" I cut him off. "What exactly do you want me to say?"

"Something real!" His voice cracks. "Just... anything. I want to feel less alone.”

My jaw clenches even as my heart aches for him. "You want something? Fine. Lately I can't sleep because I'm thinking about all the ways we could go wrong. Sometimes I look at him and it hurts so much I can barely breathe. Is that real enough for you?"

"Yeah," he says quietly, holding my gaze. "Yeah, it is."

"I just wish I could protect him. From the world. Myself. Damn.” I rock my head back. “I don’t know shit about shit.”

The rain picks up, drumming harder on the gazebo roof. A drop of water finds its way through a crack, landing on my face. I wipe it off, horrified to find my cheeks are already wet.

I’m sitting here crying? Jesus Christ.

"But hyung... maybe protection isn't what he needs."

“But what the fuck am I supposed to do? Just kick back and wait to see if everything he's worked for burns down because of me?"

"Maybe..." Taehyung's voice is barely audible over the rain, his dialect getting stronger with emotion. "Maybe that should be his choice to make."

Something about the way he says it – maybe it's the familiar Daegu satoori, maybe it's the raw honesty in his voice – breaks through. "He-he looks at me…like...like...fuck...like I'm everything he's ever wanted. And I don't— I can't—" How did I even say those words out loud?

Taehyung finds my shoulder, squeezing gently. We sit there in silence, listening to the rain. The darkness hides the tears on both our faces, but we pretend not to notice anyway. Some things are easier in the dark.

###

I jolt awake to something shifting beside me. My heart nearly stops – there's definitely a presence in my bed. A ghost? I'm about to either scream or throw hands when I catch the familiar scent of lavender shampoo and hear a wicked giggle.

"Yah! Idiot! You trying to kill me?" I clutch my chest, willing my heart to quit hammering.

"Aw, Hyungie, how are you’re so cute?" Jimin's voice is muffled against my pillow. He rolls over to face me, and even in the dim light, I can see he's trying not to laugh. "Did you think you were being haunted or something?”

"Don't be stupid. There's no such thing as ghosts," I grumble, clearly lying, which just makes him laugh harder. "Why are you here at..." I grab and squint at my phone. "...three thirty seven in the morning?"

He sobers slightly. "Couldn't sleep. Keep thinking about Taehyung at dinner. I went to get water and saw Jin-hyung out there gaming so I figured I'd come say hi."

Dinner. Right. The way Tae had looked at all of them eating at the table after we got back, how he'd cleared his throat, and opened his mouth, like he was about to say something important. But when Jungkook's eyes got big, and he made an audible gasp, something deflated in Tae. And he just walked out. After our conversation at the basketball court, I know what he wanted to tell them. What he's afraid to say. And I know it kills him to cause pain to anyone, especially Jungkook.

But what if he gets more determined and quits? BTS can't be anything but seven. Will others want to leave? Do I?

"Also," Jimin adds, poking my side, bringing me back to the present. "Your bed is way more comfy than mine."

I scoff, trying to stuff down my rising panic. "It's literally the same mattress brand everyone has here, the company bulk ordered them."

"Mm, no. Yours is better."

"That makes no sense."

"You're in it," he says simply, cupping my cheek, and something in my chest does that familiar swooping thing, like missing a step going downstairs.

"Your feet are freezing,” I blurt, to cover my worry and my embarrassment.

His laugh is hot in my ear. "Warm them up then."

The domestic intimacy of sitting in my bed with his cold feet in my hands as I rub his arches, washes over me. Everything is simpler and more complicated in the dark.

"I want to say something." His voice is softer now. "You've been quiet lately. Like that old quiet, from before. I don’t like seeing it back."

I grunt noncommittally, but he persists. "Is it because of what happened with Minhyuk? Or how busy we've been, or everything combined..." He trails off.

"It's like I'm stuck on a seesaw," I blurt, the words coming out before I can stop. "You know what I mean, right? One side up, one side down. Can't ever find the balance. And then with you...the more serious this gets, the more I—" I stop, frustrated. "The more scared I get of losing everything. Of making you lose everything."

"Min Yoongi." His tone makes me look at him. In the faint light from the window, his expression is fierce. "I'm not a child who needs you to decide what's best for me."

"I know that—"

"Do you? Because sometimes it feels like you're trying to protect me from my own choices." He sits up, sheets pooling around his waist. "Like you think you're the only one riding on this stupid seesaw or whatever, the only one who knows how high the fall could be."

"Jimin-ah..."

"No, listen. You think I don't know the risks? That I haven't thought about it? But you—" He takes a shaky breath. "You're worth it. We’re worth everything. And I need you to just trust that."

His words hit like a punch to the chest. They're everything I want him to say and everything that I'm terrified of hearing. Because Jimin has always been like this – waffling about so much-his abilities, his looks, his contributions--but always certain about me. And I've always been the one with career confidence, but when it comes to love I'm counting costs, seeing shadows, preparing for the worst.

"Worth everything?" The words taste bitter. Because that's the problem, isn't it? He actually believes that. And I believe that he believes it, which somehow makes it worse. Makes me worse, for knowing better and still letting him think this could work.

He moves closer, and I let him, even though every cynical part of me is screaming that this is exactly how you get hurt – this slow slide into comfort, into believing you can keep something this good. His head finds my shoulder, and I wrap an arm around him automatically, muscle memory from a thousand nights like this.

Every hello is also a goodbye. Every hello is also a goodbye. Every hello is--

"I can literally hear you thinking," he mumbles against my shirt. “All those rusty wheels turning in your thick head, the gears going thunk, thunk, thunk.”

If he could really hear my thoughts, he'd run. Because while he's imagining puppies and rainbows, I'm thinking about those future Dispatch photos again, about career-ending headlines, about his father’s face if he ever found out. I'm thinking about how many idol groups have disappeared after scandals. About how many talented people never recover from being the subject of public hate.

"I'm tired," I lie, pressing a kiss to his hair. Let him have this moment. Let me have it too. Even though I'm starting to realize that loving him this much might mean loving him enough to let him go.

His breathing evens out gradually, but I stay awake, watching shadows move across the ceiling, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against mine. In the quiet, my mind keeps circling back to that seesaw metaphor. Up and down, give and take, win and lose.

I close my eyes, memorizing the weight of him against me. At some point, every seesaw has to come down. But not tonight.

Chapter 32: Interlude: Whisky

Notes:

Thanks for your patience waiting for these next chapters. This one took me a while to get out. I'm also dreading some of the sad times to come for these two. Even though the pay off after is going to be gooooooooooooood. Gotta keep focused on that. Thanks for your comments--they really help! xxx

The whisky goes down like bleach, but I'm drunk enough not to give a fuck. The bottle slips through my fingers, amber liquid sloshing as I catch it. Been sprawled out on the dorm's living room floor because that's my life now, I guess. The rug is doing this thing where it feels both scratchy and soft against my cheek, and the ceiling keeps... not spinning, but sort of breathing? Like it's alive or something. 

Shit, I'm wasted.

I scrub at my face like I could wipe away my thoughts. Can't stop my brain from spinning through the last month, images blurring together like a movie reel. The crying. The slammed doors. The silence that felt like drowning. We almost blew BTS up for real—walked away from it all. But instead me and the other members kept away from the cameras, from the world, and just when everything seemed about to go nuclear it somehow didn’t implode. 

Now we're all playing nice, spilling our guts about how hard everything's been, back to making music. I roll onto my side, pushing myself up just enough to take another burning swig. Everyone keeps talking about healing and I want that too, but I've also got this dread in my gut that won't go away. My fingers drum restlessly against the bottle, creating hollow echoes that sound too loud in the quiet room. Because BTS might be okay, but something's still coming. I can taste it.

But what? 

When? 

How bad?

My phone buzzes again, screen too bright in the dim room. Yet another Kakao from Jimin, and yet another selca with his new friend Hong Seong-ho from that rookie group Wanna Win. They're doing aegyo with filters at a coffee shop somewhere. At midnight. On a Tuesday. My stomach churns, and I'm not sure if it's the whisky or the way Jimin's smile looks so easy with someone else. The way he's out and about while I'm here marinating in cheap booze and cheaper self-pity.

"S' all good," I slur at the ceiling, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Good for him. Living his best life. Being all... friendship goals or whatever the kids say these days—" 

"Bro." Taehyung's voice cuts through my rambling like a spotlight, making me squint. He's standing over me with Jin, both of them wearing expressions I'm too drunk to read properly. "What's with the ahjussi speech?"

"Shut up," I mutter, but Jin's already plopping down next to me, yanking the bottle with that big brother energy that makes me want to bite him sometimes. “I’m fine.”

"Sure you are." He takes a hesitant sip, and immediately chokes, face scrunching up like he just licked a battery. "Where did you find this poison?"

"The back of the kitchen cupboard," I mumble. "Behind Jungkook's protein shakes. It looked depressing. I felt depressing. Seemed like fate." The words come out mushy, consonants blurring together like watercolors.

"Yeahhhhhhh. That's not fate, hyung. That's toilet bowl cleaner with food coloring." Taehyung says, and I can hear the smile in his voice even as something worried lingers underneath.

"I'm jus sayin’—" My phone buzzes again. Another aegyo pic. The pit in my stomach grows teeth, starts gnawing. "—isn’t it cool that Jiminnies's hanging out with new people."

"Uh-huh. So cool." Jin pulls me into a sitting position, the world tilting dangerously as he does, and confiscating my phone. "You look beyond happy."

"Like autumn leaves scattered by a cruel wind," I announce dramatically, because fuck it, I'm committed now, the alcohol making my tongue loose and my heart stupid, "we drift further apart, like stars in an endless—"

"Is he quoting from a drama or what?" Taehyung snorts over my head, and I can feel the vibration of his laugh where he's settled behind me.

Jin shrugs. "Dunno. Don't watch makjang."

"Fuck you both." I slump back over, letting my head rest against Taehyung's leg because the room won't stop moving. "I just made that up. I contain multitudes." My words taste like bullshit and bitter barley.

"Oh my god," Jin wheezes. "This is peak drunk Yoongi. Quick, Tae, film this for posterity."

"He’s out with a new friend," I say, and shit, that came out way more real than I meant it to. The alcohol's stripped away all my filters, leaving everything too honest, too exposed. “What if–what if–”

"What if Jimin dumps you for some new guy?" Taehyung cuts in, flicking my forehead gently. His voice is light but his eyes are serious when they meet mine, seeing too much like he always does. "Yeah, that's definitely a possibility. Because Jimin totally hasn't spent the last six or so years simping over–"

"I hate you so—" My phone starts ringing, the screen lighting up in Jin's hand like an accusation.

"Yah! Jiminie!" Jin answers, grinning like the devil. His voice sounds far away, like I'm underwater. "Your baby's too busy having an emotional breakdown to talk. No, the cheap whisky kind. Honestly, worse. Want proof?"

I try to suffocate myself in Taehyung's thigh, the fabric of his sweats rough against my face. His bony knee digs into my cheek as he leans over to join the call, but I don't move. Maybe if I stay here long enough the world will stop spinning.

"He's soooo emo right now. He was just talking like he was in a k-drama. No, I'm serious—" Tae's voice vibrates through me, warm and familiar.

"Time to disown you both," I groan, the words muffled against his leg. "I'm getting new members. Better members." 

"Nah. You'd miss us too much," Jin says, ruffling my hair. His tone is teasing but his hand lingers, warm and steady, like an anchor. "Face it, we're stuck with each other. We already considered breaking up and decided it sucked too much."

"The worst," I mumble, but I'm smiling now, can't help it. The room's still spinning but it feels less like falling. 

Jimin's cackling through the phone mic and these idiots won't stop roasting me, but I can feel Taehyung's arm wrapped protectively around my shoulders, Jin's hand still gentle in my hair. They're giving me shit but they also haven't left, haven't even suggested moving from our stupid cuddle pile on the floor. The whisky's making everything soft at the edges, but this feels real – the weight of them, the sound of their voices, the way they just... showed up. Maybe – maybe that creeping sense of doom can fuck off for tonight.

"Wait, hold on-" I think I hear Jimin say through the phone, voice getting clearer like he's moved somewhere quieter. "I'm almost back, just got to the elevator--"

I drift off and then suddenly a new warmth settles against my side and fingers thread through my hair, different from Jin's – smaller, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache.

"Hyung," Jimin says, no longer tinny through the speaker but right here, soft and amused. "What the heck happened here?"

"Existential crisis," Taehyung answers for me. "Jealousy. With bonus drunk poetry."

"M'not drunk," I mumble into what I think is still Taehyung's leg. "M'contemplating the universe—"

"Oh my god," Jimin laughs, the sound bubbling up close to my ear. He swims into focus – and he's got that look, the one that makes his eyes curve into crescent moons, the one that always makes me want to kiss him. "How are you this ridiculous? And still so cute."

"No." My tongue feels too big for my mouth. "M'profound. And deep. Like... like the ocean."

"You're something," Jimin says, but it's heavy with fondness. "Is it strange that I want to kiss you?”

"Come on, Tae," Jin announces from somewheres. "We're leaving before this gets weird."

I hear shuffling and probably Taehyung saying something but I'm too focused on the way Jimin's thumb is brushing over my cheekbone, the way he's looking at me like I'm something precious even though I'm a mess on the floor.

"You smell like a distillery," he says, shifting until he's got my head in his lap. "Were you really jealous?"

"No," I lie, then because the whisky's making me honest: "Maybe. Everything felt fragile and you were out there glowing in selcas and I was here being..." I wave a hand vaguely at myself, at the empty bottle, at the general disaster of my existence.

"Being my favorite person?" Jimin suggests, and the simple certainty in his voice makes my throat tight. "My incredibly talented but sometimes insecure boyfriend who I love even when he's dramatic?"

"Shut up," I groan, trying to hide my face in his stomach. "M'not."

"Did you or did you not make up bad poetry?”

“Any answer other than ‘yes, and I scarred my hyung with it’ is a lie’,” Jin calls from the kitchen.

"Mhm." I can hear the smile in Jimin’s voice. "Let’s get you in bed."

"Can't move," I whisper. "The floor's got gravity."

"Gravity?" Jimin’s giggling again. God, I love that sound. "Come on. Up we go."

He somehow manages to get me vertical, though the world goes a bit kaleidoscope for a second. His arm around my waist is firm, anchoring, and I let myself lean into him maybe more than I need to. Just because I can. Just because he's here.

"You came home," I mumble as we weave down the hallway, the words slipping out without permission.

His grip tightens just a fraction. "Always will," he says quietly. "No matter who else I'm hanging out with. You know that, right?"

I want to. Even through the whisky haze, even with all my stupid fears, I know I want to trust. 

"Your room or mine?" Jimin asks softly, and something about the familiar question makes my chest tight.

"Yours," I manage. “Hobi’s over at his new hookup’s place. The drama actor.”

“Twice in one week? Must be having fun.” Jimin helps me navigate to his bed, and I collapse onto it face-first. The mattress dips as he sits beside me, his hand finding its way back to my hair like it belongs there. Maybe it does.

"You've never acted jealous before." His voice is quiet in the darkness. 

I turn my head just enough to look at him. He's got that face on, the one that means he's working up to something serious. "M'fine," I mumble. "Just drunk and stupid." My hand's already reaching for him, fisting in his shirt to pull him closer. He comes easily, settling beside me, close enough that I can see the way his eyes catch the dim light from the window.

"Nothing bad is going to happen between us.” There's no teasing in it now, just something soft and maybe a little sad. 

The words hit like a punch to the gut, making me close my eyes against the sudden burn. "I’m still scared.”

"Shhhh. I'll get some water," Jimin says softly, starting to pull back. "Be right back.”

My grip tightens on his arm. "Baby," I growl, voice low and rough with want. "You think I want water right now?"

His breath catches as I pull him back down, flipping us so he's pinned beneath me. A familiar dance, but tonight feels different - rawer, more desperate.

"Yoongi," he gasps as I bite down on that spot on his neck that always makes him melt. "You're drunk-"

"Sure. But not too drunk for this," I murmur against his skin. "Not too drunk to want you." I grind down slowly, deliberately, making him arch up with a quiet moan. "Not too drunk to remind you why you always come home."

His fingers tangle in my hair as I trail kisses down his throat. "Like I could forget," he pants. 

I silence him with a rough kiss, claiming his mouth like I have a thousand times before but never get tired of. His body responds instantly, melting into me the way it always does, familiar and perfect.

"Mine," I growl against his lips. 

"Yours," he promises, and I can feel his smile as he pulls me closer. "Show me."

"Gonna take care of you," I growl against his skin, unbuttoning his shirt, licking down his chest. All this time together and I still can't get enough of my mouth on his skin. "Need to taste you."

I look up as I give his belly button a sloppy kiss. There's something wild in his eyes, something that matches the desperation clawing at my core. "Fuck, Yoongi," he breathes, arching up as I work my way down his body. Nothing gentle - just hunger, need, claiming. When I reach his hipbone, I bite down, loving the broken sound he makes.

"Gonna show you. Gonna make you forget anyone else exists, “Remind you who you belong to." His jeans are so fucking tight but I yank them down.

"Please.” His hands find my hair again as I settle between his legs, grip tight enough to sting. Perfect. "Hurry, please. God."

Time blurs after that, measured in gasps and curses, the sharp tugs of his hands, the way his thighs tremble under my grip. I love choking on him. I love when he bottoms out in the back of my throat. Even drunk, I know this dance by heart. Love the way he makes my eyes water. Love taking him to the edge and keeping him there until he's begging.

"Close," he warns finally, voice wrecked in a way that almost makes me come untouched. "Fuck, please, faster, I'm-"

I dig my fingers into his hips harder, wanting him to feel this tomorrow. Want him to see the marks in the mirror and remember who put them there. Who he belongs to. Who he comes home to.

I take everything he gives as his back arches, and he pants out my name like it's torn from his chest. The sound echoes off the walls, and some distant part of me hopes the others do hear. Let them know. Let the whole fucking world see how completely he's mine.

After, he drags me up for a kiss that must taste like his own release. "Love you," he pants against my mouth, still trembling slightly. "Even when you're being a possessive bastard."

"You love it," I murmur, but the vulnerability bleeds through. He must hear it because his arms tighten around me, one hand coming up to stroke through my hair.

"I do," he admits softly. "Love how much you want me." His lips brush my temple, still trembling from everything I did to him. "Love even when you're drunk and a teenie weenie bit jealous."

"Not jealous," I protest weakly, but we both know it's a lie. He just laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest where I'm pressed against him.

"Not done with you," I slur, dragging him back into another messy kiss. It's uncoordinated, needy - all tongue and teeth. I just don't want to stop touching him, being close. Safe. My hands slip on his sweat-slick skin as I pull him closer, looking down to meet his eyes. They're dark, desperate - perfect. 

How simple would it be for him to burn it all down... choose someone else, someone less complicated, less scared? My arms tighten around him involuntarily. 

"Hey," he murmurs, catching the shift in my mood. "I can hear you thinking. Stop it."

"Can't help it," I admit, voice rough. "Sometimes I just..." I trail off, pressing my face against his chest, breathing in his scent like it might disappear.

He sighs, pulling me closer. "Even now?"

"Especially now," I whisper, hating how vulnerable I sound. "When it feels this perfect, that's when I get the most scared. When I start waiting for it all to fall apart."

His hand slides to my chin, tilting my face up until I have to meet his eyes. They're soft but serious in the dim light. "Then I'll just have to keep proving it to you," he says quietly. "If I could, I’d be your light. But sometimes it’s got to come from you. I need you to believe in us just as much. Promise me you’ll try.” He holds out his pinky finger.

I link mine with his. “I’m sorry if this is too much for you.” If I'm too much for you.

“I’m all right.”

I want to believe him. God, I want to. Even as exhaustion pulls me under, I can't quite shake the fear that one day, one morning, I'll wake up and he'll be gone. That all of this - his touches, his promises, his love - will turn out to be nothing more than a beautiful dream I couldn't quite hold onto.

Chapter 33: Good Enough

Notes:

Back to Jimin's POV

I never used to have nightmares. I never used to even dream. But lately? This same one keeps coming back. No monsters, no falling, no drowning. No walls, no boundaries. Just a colorless void where nothing exists but me, breathing in emptiness, waiting for something I can't name. My chest tightens with each breath, the air too thin to fill my lungs. It's terrifying in how... quiet it is. How final it feels. How inevitable. My fingernails dig into my palms—just to feel something real.

I jolt awake, heart hammering against my ribs. It takes me a second to remember where I am. In my bed. Naked. Yoongi's warm body pressed against mine, his face tucked against my neck, his breath soft and rhythmic on my skin. His arm draped heavily across my waist, anchoring me to reality. The sheets tangled around our hips, the faint blue glow of his phone charger cutting through darkness, the only light in my room.

Four perfect crescent moons carve into both of my palms, some deep enough that I might find faint marks there come morning. I flex my hands, feeling the stiffness in my joints from clenching them so tightly. 

My first instinct is to turn and shake him awake, needing to hear his deep reassuring voice break through the fear still gripping me. I almost do it—my hand halfway there before I stop. No. I can’t. Yoongi's been pushing himself too hard lately, working all hours on our next album. I can't wake him up, not when he’s finally found some peace.

So I just lie here instead. His skin is warm against mine, and I try to match my breathing to his until my heart stops racing. I focus on the real things—the way his fingers twitch against my stomach when he dreams, his cologne that's mostly faded now mixing with his natural scent, the steady thump of his heartbeat I can feel against my back.

This is real. Not the nightmare.

I swallow hard.

Please let this be real.

Yoongi shifts behind me, mumbling something that sounds like my name as he sleeps. I gently run my fingers along his arm until he settles again. His skin is warm under my touch, familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. I want to protect him from everything - my fears, my doubts, all the broken parts of me that want to just love and be loved. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I could just tell him how scared I get sometimes, how the nightmares keep coming back. But then I see how tired he looks when he thinks no one's watching, how hard he pushes himself in the studio. So I swallow it all down and try to be the steady one, the one who holds things together when they start to fall apart.

###

The next morning, I wake first. Pale light sneaks through the curtains. Despite my nightmares, there's something peaceful about these quiet minutes before the day begins.

When he stirs, he kisses my neck as if on instinct. "Mmm. What time is it?" His morning voice is lower, rougher.

I love it. 

I love him.

"Still early," I whisper, not wanting to break the spell. "We have time."

He shifts closer. For a moment, everything feels good–normal. 

His fingers trail along my spine, gentle and sleepy. "How’d you sleep?”

"Fine." I turn to face him, pressing my lips against his forehead where worry lines will appear hours later. "Heavily."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes searching mine. They're still soft with sleep, but I catch something sharper behind them—doubt maybe, or that intuition he sometimes has. For a second, I think he might push, might ask something that would force me to either lie again or tell a truth neither of us is ready to hear. I hold my breath, waiting.

Instead, he sighs and pulls away. The morning air feels cold where his warmth used to be.

"I should shower," he says, already untangling himself from me and the sheets. His movements are careful now, deliberate, nothing like how he held me minutes ago. "Our schedule starts early today."

The way he says "our" hangs between us—a reminder that we'll spend the day side by side for work, even as everything not being said between us presses down, making the world feel like it's starting to crack.

The morning routine begins—his shower first while I check my phone, then mine while he dresses. By the time I emerge, he's already left my bedroom. 

Outside, the sky is a strange color—not quite gray, not quite green. Spring storms have been threatening all week, the air heavy with something waiting to happen.

I pad to the kitchen to start the kettle, towel around my waist, hair still dripping. Through the glass, I spot him on the balcony. One hand grips the railing, the other brings a cigarette to his lips. The smoke drifts up into the strange sky.

He only smokes when he's stressed. 

"Thought you quit," I say, sliding the door open just enough to speak through.

“Yeah.” He doesn't turn. "I did." A pause as he exhales a stream of smoke that's quickly caught by the wind. 

I don't push it. Instead, I retreat ro my room to dress. After, I press play on my phone, slipping on my headphones. I have a file mix of the new album. "Outro: Tear" fills my ears, and there's something masochistic about listening to Yoongi's verse while knowing he is outside alone.

There's a heaviness in my chest knowing these lyrics weren't just about our group and what we've been through. I know they are somehow about us too. He'd never admitted it, but I know. 

I walk back out to wake the others and find him sitting alone on the couch, flicking his lighter. Not to light a cigarette this time, but just to watch the flame. Once, twice, three times. His eyes never leaving that tiny fire in his hand. I can almost hear his lyrics playing in my head—"yeah, yeah, burn it"—as his thumb hits the lighter again. 

I stop for a moment, watching him. Usually I can tell exactly what he's thinking. When he's frustrated, when he needs space, when he's actually okay. It's just something I've always been able to do. But right now, I have no idea what's going on behind his eyes. Fear slides through me, cold and sharp. Is this really happening? Are we really falling apart like this, piece by piece? But I can't let myself believe that. I won't. Even as doubt gnaws, I straighten my shoulders. I'm not just going to sit here and watch him burn what we have. 

Not without a fight.

He glances up suddenly, catching me staring. The lighter snaps shut. "What?"

"Nothing," I say, automatically straightening. "Just admiring your audition for the role of tortured artist. Super convincing. The lighter routine really sells it."

"At least I have hobbies," he shoots back, pocketing the lighter. "Besides staring at people like a creeper."

"Wouldn’t call that a hobby," I protest. "At least my creepy staring has a purpose."

“Which is?”

“You look cute, even if weird.” My phone buzzes.

"Who's that?" he asks, his tone deliberately casual.

I glance at the screen. "Junhee from Eclipse. Somehow got my number from a manager."

Something shifts in Yoongi's expression. "The one with the pink hair? Blue contacts?"

I nod, surprised. "You know him?"

"Hard not to notice someone who couldn't take his eyes off you." Yoongi's voice is flat. "He wants you, you know. Made it pretty clear backstage at Music Bank."

I stare at my phone, at Junhee's message asking to meet for coffee, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Junhee with his easy smile and lingering handshake. The way he'd complimented my performance, eyes never leaving mine.

"Thanks, but I'm really busy. Maybe another time," I type, then immediately follow up: "Nice meeting you too, though."

Polite. Distant enough. I look up to find Yoongi watching me, his expression unreadable again.

"You don't have to turn him down on my account," he says, his voice carefully neutral.

"I'm not," I tell him, taking a deliberate step closer. "I'm turning him down because I'm too busy to make friends."

Yoongi looks away, but I catch the uncertainty in his eyes. 

"Hey," I say, my voice softening. "You know that, right? That I'm not interested in anyone else?"

He shrugs, but I can see the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. Outside, the first fat raindrops hit the balcony floor. Thunder rumbles, closer now.

"Storm's coming," he murmurs, running a hand through his wind-tousled hair.

I nod, taking another step toward him. My heart pounds against my ribs, but I keep my voice steady. "We've weathered worse."

His eyes meet mine then—really meet mine—for the first time in days.

"Yoongi," I say quietly. "Can we talk? Later, I mean. After the meeting."

"About what?"

"About—" I gesture vaguely between us. "This. Us."

His expression closes off. "Not sure that's a good idea right now. There's a lot going on. You need to focus."

"But–"

"I need to focus too."

"When, then?" I step closer, into his space. I hate sounding whiny.

"Jimin..." His voice holds a warning.

I ignore it. I'm tired of dancing around whatever this is, tired of pretending. I reach up, cupping his face with my hand, and lean in. My lips brush against his, a question, a plea.

He doesn't move. Doesn't respond. His lips remain still under mine, his body tense. After a moment that stretches like an eternity, I pull back, my hand dropping to my side.

The rejection burns in my chest. I try to keep my expression neutral, but something must show in my eyes because he winces.

"I'm sorry," he says, and the worst part is that he means it. "I just—I can't do this right now."

"Can't do what?" I hate how small my voice sounds. "Kiss me?"

"Come on." He runs a hand through his hair. "It's complicated."

"It's always been complicated," I counter, fighting to keep my voice steady. "That never stopped you before."

Thunder crashes outside. The kitchen lights flicker once, twice, then steady.

"We should get ready for the day," he says, effectively ending the conversation. He pours coffee into a travel mug, avoiding my eyes.

I stand there, trying to hold myself together. I straighten my shoulders, nod once.

"Fine. But this conversation isn't over."

He looks at me then, something like regret in his eyes. "Understood." He's so thin these days, like he's slowly disappearing.

The kitchen door swings open as Taehyung shuffles in, hair defying gravity and eyes still half-closed. “Hmmmph,” he mumbles.

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," I say, grateful for the interruption.

Jin breezes in next, already dressed and somehow looking camera-ready. "Why are you all standing around looking so serious? Did someone die? Or worse—did someone eat my new  cereal?"

Jungkook slides into the kitchen in his socks, nearly crashing into the counter. "Food? Is there food? I could eat an entire cow right now."

"We are not cooking you meat," Jin says, opening the refrigerator. "And who finished all the banana milk? Was it you, Jungkook? I labeled it!"

"That's exactly why I drank it," Jungkook grins, dodging the dish towel Jin throws at him.

Namjoon appears in the doorway. "Meeting's in an hour. Has anyone seen my—"

"Left pocket of your jacket," Yoongi interrupts. "Where you always leave them."

Namjoon pats his pocket, looking surprised when he finds his glasses. "Thanks."

"What would you do without us?" Taehyung asks, now marginally more awake and grabbing an apple.

"Probably sleep more," Namjoon replies.

As breakfast chaos erupts around us, Yoongi meets my eyes briefly before slipping out of the kitchen. The moment passes, but the question lingers, suspended between us like the storm clouds gathering outside. The others may not notice, laughing and bickering over breakfast, but something is shifting, and I don't know if we can shift it back.

I leave for the meeting in the first van with Tae and Joon. I need the space, need to breathe air that isn't heavy with Yoongi's silence. 

The rain streams steadily outside the window. My reflection distorts and reforms with every ripple. That's how I feel lately—like I'm constantly trying to hold my shape while everything around me shifts.

My phone buzzes again. I expect Junhee, but it's Jungkook.

Yoongi-hyung is riding with me? What’s going on with you two? 

I ignore the question. Jungkook means well, but I can't explain how even sitting beside Yoongi when he’s like this can feel like drowning.

Instead, I recheck my appearance on the camera phone. I look put together—styled hair, fashionable coat, confident posture. No one would guess at the hollow feeling spreading through my chest. I've always been good at this—at performing normalcy, at being what everyone needs me to be. Perfect Jimin. Reliable Jimin. I sometimes wonder if that's why Yoongi was drawn to me in the first place—my ability to be the ideal version of myself, to do things like anticipate his needs before he voiced them.

When we reach our company offices,  Hoseok is already inside, his smile bright but his eyes concerned. He bought an apartment and has been sleeping there more and more, but is still just as tuned in.

"What’s wrong, Jimin-ah.”

I force a smile. "Just stressed about the choreography changes. I'll be fine."

He doesn't look convinced, but nods anyway. "Oh, by the way, Junhee from Eclipse was messaging me about you earlier. Said he texted you?"

I keep my expression neutral. "Yeah, he wants to get coffee."

Hoseok's eyebrows raise slightly. "He's a good guy. Talented too." Something knowing flickers in his eyes. "Could be good to expand your circle."

"I don't have time for new friends right now," I say, perhaps too quickly.

"Sometimes new perspectives help," Hoseok says cryptically, then brightens. "Anyway, dance practice is pushed back. Quick talk first on release week plans. PD-nim is here."

The meeting room falls silent as we enter. Many faces turn toward us, but I only really register one. Yoongi is taking a seat at the far end of the table, expression unreadable. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second before he looks down at his notebook.

I take the only empty seat, directly across from him. 

Throughout the meeting, I'm hyperaware of his every movement—the way he taps his pen against the table when he's thinking, how he rakes  his hand through his hair when the producers suggest something he disagrees with, the small sigh he gives when Namjoon negotiates a compromise. These little gestures I've clocked over years.

"Jimin? Your thoughts on the changes?"

I snap back to attention, realizing our choreographer is looking at me expectantly. I haven't heard a word he's said.

"I trust your judgment," I say smoothly. Is it bad how easily lying comes to me lately. It’s so much easier than the truth.

He nods, satisfied, and continues. Under the table, I feel my phone vibrate. Another text. I check it discreetly.

Junhee again: Sorry if I came on too strong. I asked Hoseok what you like and he mentioned you're a coffee enthusiast, and I know this amazing hidden café near Hannam-dong. Their pour-over will impress you.

I should ignore it. But there's something comforting about this simple, uncomplicated interest when everything with Yoongi feels like navigating a minefield.

Bold claim. This pour-over better change my life then

I hit send before I can overthink it, then glance up. Yoongi is watching me, his gaze intense and questioning. My stomach twists—part satisfaction, part immediate regret. I want him to see, want it to sting, and the fact that I want that makes me hate myself a little. I hold his gaze across the table, chin slightly raised. Guilt surfaces, but I don't look away. I wonder if he can somehow sense what I'm doing, who I'm talking to. There's a flash of something in his eyes—hurt maybe—and it doesn't feel as good as I thought it would. My phone vibrates again in my palm, but I let it sit there, not caring what Junhee has to say. I hold Yoongi's gaze instead, refusing to be the first to look away. A small, petty challenge in a room full of people who have no idea what's happening between us, who can't see that I'm desperately trying to make him react, to do anything but slowly drift away from me.

He breaks first, returning his attention to the producer who's discussing the upcoming music video concept. But I see the slight tightening of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.

After the meeting, I'm cornered by three stylists wanting to discuss outfit options for the Fake Love shoot. I nod and give opinions on fabrics and colors while watching Yoongi slip out of the room with Namjoon, deep in conversation about production details. He doesn't look back.

"Jimin-ssi, we were thinking this for the concept photos," one stylist says, showing me a mood board. She taps a glossy image with her pen. "Your physique would look stunning in these."

"Whatever you think," I say automatically, though I notice they've chosen pieces that highlight my shoulders, my waist, my collarbone—features that have always garnered attention.

"The director specifically requested you in this animal print shirt for the music video," she adds, pointing to a particularly striking outfit. "He said you'd pull it off the best.”

I smile at the compliment, nodding along as she continues talking about fabric options. The praise settles into me, warm and reassuring. It's shallow, I know. Meaningless compared to what I really want. But right now, when Yoongi's approval feels so far out of reach, I find myself leaning into these small moments of being wanted, even if it's just for how I look in a shirt.

My phone buzzes again.

Junhee: You won't be disappointed, I promise. Your standards might be high, but so are mine.

There's something about his confidence that reminds me of Yoongi—before the complications, before his fears, before his silences stretched from hours into days.

I type back: We'll see. Maybe after this comeback chaos settles down.

I'm not actually planning to go. But this attention feels good too—simple and uncomplicated. The possibility sits there, a small spark of something other than the dull ache that's become my constant companion. Someone sees me again. Someone wants me. Even if it's not the someone I want back.

The stylists finish with me, and I head to the practice room. It's empty so I connect my phone to the speakers, and select something with a heavy beat I can lose myself in.

Dancing has always been my refuge, the one place where everything else falls away. I push my body until sweat soaks my shirt and my legs start to shake. In the mirror, I watch myself—the person staring back isn't thinking about Yoongi or text messages or whatever mess we're becoming. He's just counting beats, hitting marks. The studio is empty except for me and the music, and there's something honest about the ache in my muscles that makes the ache in my chest easier to handle. At least for a while.

"You're going to cramp if you keep that up."

I stumble slightly, catching myself as I turn to see Yoongi leaning against the doorframe. How long has he been watching?

"I'm playing around with some ideas," I say, returning to position. "The camera team wants to film the preliminary shots."

"It already looks perfect," he says quietly.

I meet his eyes in the mirror. "Nothing's ever perfect."

The words hang between us, heavy with meaning beyond choreography. His expression softens slightly, a crack in the wall he's been building.

"Jimin-ah..."

"Don't," I cut him off, continuing to dance. "Not if you're just going to apologize again without explaining."

He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. "I saw you texting during the meeting."

I miss a step, recover. "And?"

"Junhee?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“Tell me something.” I stop dancing, whirling to face him. "Why do you get to be jealous when you're the one pushing me away?"

"I'm not—" he starts, then stops, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "I just... I need you to be careful."

"Careful of what? Having coffee with someone who actually seems to want my company?" The words come out sharper than intended, laced with all the hurt I've been trying to swallow.

He flinches as if I've struck him. His eyes dart back to the hallway before he steps fully into the room, pulling the door closed with a soft click. "Is that what you think? That I don't want you?" His voice is low, almost wounded.

"What am I supposed to think?" I step closer to him, close enough to smell his familiar scent, close enough that anyone walking in would know this isn't just a casual conversation. "You shut down when I try to talk to you. You pull away when I touch you." My throat tightens around the words. "You barely look at me anymore, and when you do, it's like you're already saying goodbye. I hate it."

"It's not that simple."

"Then explain it to me like I’m five," I plead, hating the desperation in my voice but unable to hide it anymore. "Because I'm trying so hard to be what you need, and I don't even know what that is anymore."

He looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a moment the mask slips. The careful distance, the polite avoidance - it all falls away. The Yoongi I recognize is there, the one who sees me. God, I miss him so much.

"You've always been exactly what I need," he says softly. "That's never been the problem."

I wait for more, but he just stands there, looking at me with dark eyes that hold too many emotions to name. 

"Then what is?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. "Because I can't keep doing this, hyung. I can't keep pretending everything's fine when it feels like we're about to fall apart. It’s making me crazy."

He takes a step closer, then stops, as if caught between the desire to reach me and the need to maintain distance.

"The world is so big, Jimin," he finally says, his voice low. "And you've barely seen any of it. Not really."

I frown, confused. "Why are you talking like a Grandpa? We've toured everywhere."

"Hotels, venues, airports," he counters gently. "That's not the same as living. It's about all the people you could meet. All the experiences you could have if you weren't..." He trails off, unable to finish.

"If I’m not with you," I finish for him, the words burning my throat.

He doesn't deny it. His silence is confirmation enough. "It's been what? Five years. You haven't been with anyone else since."

"Either have you. And I've never wanted anyone else like this," I say, an edge creeping into my voice that threatens to splinter. I can feel heat rising to my face, not from embarrassment but from the effort of holding back tears I refuse to let him see.

"How could you know that?" His eyes meet mine, not angry but wounded, filled with a sadness that cuts deeper than any fight we've ever had. "You've never had the chance to find out."

I stare at him, the pieces finally clicking into place. All this time, I thought he was pulling away because he didn't want me anymore, when he's been pushing me away because he thinks I should want something else—someone else. The realization makes me feel hollow.

"So you've been pushing me away because you think I should... what? Date other people? Experience the world?" My voice cracks on the last word.

He doesn't answer directly. Instead, he looks down at the floor between us, at the growing distance he's been carefully creating. "I don't want you to wake up ten years from now and realize you missed out on everything because you settled on us."

"You know, when we went to that beach last summer, you built that sandcastle for hours," I say quietly. "The tide came in and washed it away, but you didn't mind. You said the point wasn't for it to last forever." I meet his eyes. "So why can't you just let us be what we are right now, without worrying about some future regret I might never have?"

His gaze drops. "I just want you to be sure."

"I am sure," I say firmly. "I've always been sure about you."

"You say that now..."

"I'll say it tomorrow too. And the day after that." I reach for his hand, relief washing through me when he doesn't pull away. "I'm not letting you push me away because you're scared I'm missing out on something. That's not how this works."

"Then how does it work?" he asks quietly.

"Together," I say simply. "We choose each other, every day. And all those experiences, all those places in the world? We see them together."

He doesn't smile, exactly, but something in his expression softens. His fingers tighten around mine, and for the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe properly.

"I just don't want to be selfish with you," he admits.

"Let me be the judge of that," I tell him. "Trust me enough to know my own heart."

I keep saying this. At some point he has to start believing me or…

No. I won’t go there. He will believe me. I’ll do better. I’ll make him.

Outside, the rain has stopped. Through the windows, I can see patches of blue breaking through the clouds. The storm hasn't passed completely, but it's moving on.

Voices approach in the hallway, and we step apart naturally, returning to our public selves just as the door opens and Hoseok bounds in tailed by few managers.

"Yah! There you are!" His face shifts suddenly from its usual brightness to that unnerving expression that doesn't match his cheerful clothing—eyes widened a bit too much, jaw set, nostrils slightly flared. It's the stern dance captain look. He taps his foot once, impatient. "We've been looking everywhere. We’re shooting a quick promo. Now."

As we follow them down the hallway, Yoongi walks beside me, close enough that our shoulders occasionally brush. It's not a solution, not yet. But that small point of contact—shoulder to shoulder, walking in step—feels like acknowledgment. A recognition that whatever the world has to offer, we're choosing to face it together.

He slows his pace almost imperceptibly, prolonging these final moments before we rejoin the others. The overhead lights cast gentle shadows across his face, highlighting the curve of his jawline and the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but a promise of one. For now, that’s good enough for me.

It has to be.

Chapter 34: Where Is My Text

Summary:

Things are building themselves slowly to an inevitable pain point in this year...remember the darkest hours are right before dawn etc etc etc don't panic

I'm not jealous—really, I'm not.

It's just that five minutes ago, I caught the sound of sniffling from the hallway bathroom. When I investigated, I found the door slightly ajar. I pushed it open to discover Taehyung sitting on the floor, back against the wall, his face turned up to mine with tears sliding silently down his cheeks.

"What's wrong?" I asked, dropping beside him. It's unusual to see Taehyung rattled. "Did you fight with Jungkook?"

"Huh? No. I never fight with Jungkookie." Taehyung wiped his face with the back of his hand. "It's Yoongi." He held up his phone, screen still lit. "He sent me a text. Out of nowhere." His big eyes were red-rimmed, but there was something else there—not quite pain, something deeper. Something like wonder.

"Show me?" The words slipped out before I could stop them. Three days since Yoongi's last real text to me—just a 'k' when I said I was leaving the company, hoping he'd ask me to come to his studio. Lately, I collect his silences like small, sharp stones in my pocket, weighing me down with each step.

"No." He pulled the phone back slightly, cradling it against his chest. "Sorry. I'm not ready. It's just really personal." He takes a breath. "And what the fuck, Yoongi barely talks lately. He's never sent me more than a few texts ever, and then he just shows up out of the blue and speaks to my soul—validating everything about me. Who I am. Who I love." His voice drops to a whisper. "He said he'd always be there for me, that he was proud of me—proud of the person I've become.

"And at the end, he said he loved me. Can you believe that? Our Yoongi? Saying that?" Taehyung huffed out a soft laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "He's never—I mean, we all know, but he's never actually said it." He looked at me, his gaze softening. "Well, it's not unusual for you, I guess. I'm sure you hear it all the time."

This wasn't the first time someone had assumed that. Two weeks ago, Namjoon said almost the same thing as I finished working up a routine with a choreographer. "You’re so cute. Yoongi-hyung must tell you all the time how amazing you are," he'd said casually, as if stating a simple fact of nature. I just smiled and nodded, swallowing the truth: Yoongi's "I love yous" are as rare as snow in summer these days.

Reality is…a little more complicated: a coffee appearing on my nightstand before I wake up. A jacket draped over my shoulders when I fall asleep in a dressing room. His compositions with notes in the margins: "This part would suit Jimin's voice." 

It’s how he shows me that he cares. I know this. But is it selfish that I want to hear actual mouth words too?

Probably.

"Yeah. All the time." I tried to keep my breathing steady, but my fingers betrayed me, picking at my cuticle until it stung. Why didn't I just tell Tae the truth?

Why do I pose questions if I already know the answer? I know deep down my tendency for bullshit. Like ‘if I lie, I can play pretend that everything is perfect.’

But it's not as simple as dismissing Yoongi for being too nonchalant or a cold guy. That would make him easy to walk away from. Instead, the other night I'd spent an entire evening sending him encouraging texts while he worked late at the studio. "You're doing great," "Don't forget to eat," "Your music will be perfect." A dozen messages, each one met with silence. When he finally came home after midnight, I pretended to be asleep, hurt by his lack of response. But then he sat on the edge of my bed, so carefully that the mattress barely dipped, and brushed my hair back from my forehead with trembling fingers. "What did I do to deserve you?" he whispered, thinking I couldn't hear.

The next morning, as if nothing had happened, he avoided my eyes at breakfast. Classic Yoongi—capable of breathtaking tenderness, but often when he believes no one is watching. Including me.

I know it’s his anxiety. That he feels so much he’s afaid. But I want him to defeat his demons–show me I’m worth it. 

Tae wiped his eyes again, composing himself. "I guess he sent something similar to Jungkook too. I don't know what's going on with hyung, but..." He trailed off, looking at the phone again. "It means a lot. More than I can explain. I used to wonder if everyone would hate me for who I am. But there are others. And I don't have to feel alone."

I nodded, my smile frozen in place as I imagined Yoongi hunched over his phone, sending heartfelt messages to everyone but me. First Taehyung, then Jungkook. A pattern forming where I'm the exception. I swallowed hard and looked at the bathroom tiles, counting the grout lines. Three texts sent this morning that still showed as delivered, not read. 

So no, I'm not jealous. I'm just...invisible unless it's in the shadows when he feels safe. My throat gets tight. I don't want to feel alone either.

I tucked my own phone deeper into my pocket, where I wouldn't be tempted to check it again.

So now I'm sprawled on the couch, some chaotic variety show playing on the TV that I'm not really watching. The hosts' laughter feels distant, background noise to my thoughts. My phone sits on my stomach, a cold weight. I pick it up. Okay--there's a change. He's seen my texts. Great. Now he's left me on read.

The familiar sick feeling washes over me—not quite panic, not quite anger, something between the two. I want to stop measuring his love by the speed of his replies. And yet, here I am, picking at the scab of his silence.

The screen goes dark, and I see my reflection staring back at me. I set the phone down on the coffee table, face down this time.

Where is my text?

Last week, Sungho, another idol from Wanna Win—the good dancer with the better jawline–messaged me after our paths crossed at a show. "Let's grab a drink sometime." Another simple, friendly text, but there was an undercurrent there—I'm not oblivious to interest when I see it.

I didn't go, of course. I didn't even respond. But I saved the message, rereading it on nights like this. It's pathetic, I know—seeking validation from someone else's interest while pining for the one person whose approval I actually crave.

But my boyfriend has time to send Taehyung and Jungkook heartfelt messages? Messages that made Taehyung cry? Make them feel seen.

Where is my turn--my text?

Did I do something wrong? Act too clingy? I groan and flop on my side. I hate this feeling. Hate how I'm always checking, always waiting, always so quick to spiral with self-doubt. I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. 

This is pathetic. 

I'm pathetic. 

Yoongi is just being Yoongi—quiet, reserved, in his own world. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean he's leaving.

But he wrote sweet love letters to Taehyung. To Jungkook. Not to me.

After we almost disbanded, and had too many drinks, Jin told me something I've not forgotten. "He's always been terrified of depending on people," Jin had said, his words slightly slurred but his eyes sharp. "The more he cares, the more he pulls away. It's like he's constantly preparing for abandonment by doing the abandoning first." I'd nodded, pretending I already knew this, unwilling to admit how accurately it described our relationship. How many times had Yoongi retreated after our most intimate moments? How often had he disappeared into his studio the morning after holding me all night, as if needing to reestablish distance?

Maybe that's it—maybe he cares too much. Or maybe that's just what I tell myself to make his silence bearable.

I check my phone again. Nothing. The screen mocks me with its emptiness.

Where. Is. My. Text?

The ramen beside me has gone cold, noodles bloated and soggy in the salty broth. I eat it anyway, shoving in mouthful after mouthful until the bowl is empty. The chopsticks clatter as I set it aside. I already regret it. All that sodium goes straight to my face—by tomorrow morning my cheeks will be puffy, eyes a little swollen. The stylists will notice the bloating. They always do. I touch my cheek, imagining tomorrow's reflection. Stupid. I know better. Here I am, sabotaging myself with a night snack because Yoongi is ignoring me.

The empty bowl mocks me from the coffee table. I should get up, throw it away, drink some water to flush out the salt. Instead, I slump deeper into the couch cushions.

Maybe I need to do something big. Something he can't ignore. Something that screams: look at me, see me, choose me. 

A tattoo? His lyrics etched permanently into my skin? He'd have to acknowledge that. I could get it somewhere visible, like maybe my forearm. What about his words from "First Love" curved along my wrist? Would he find it romantic or creepy? 

Or I could write him a song. Pour everything I feel into melody and rhythm.

But what if it's terrible? What if he listens politely and says nothing? Or worse—what if he says something nice but empty, the way you compliment a child's drawing?

The variety show host makes another joke. The studio audience roars with laughter. I turn up the volume, desperate for any distraction from the silence of my phone.

Please. Where is my text?

                                                                                                                                                      ###

The staff has finally cleared out, leaving behind the faint smell of hairspray and the quiet hum of the air conditioning. Yoongi slouches against the dressing room doorframe, his green sweater hanging loosely on his frame. He's lost more weight, and it makes his features sharper, more defined. I want to feed him, to see his dumpling cheeks fill out again, but I keep that thought to myself.

"You're an idiot, you know that?" he says, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite his attempt to look annoyed.

I can't help the smug grin spreading across my face. "It worked though, didn't it?"

The cameras captured it all: me nagging him from across the table, pouting, whining, until he finally cracked. The words were barely audible, mumbled under his breath.

"Jimin. Saranghanda."

But they were there. Real. And I was so surprised that I touched my own chest, feeling myself up in shock, a gesture that made the other members burst out laughing. Taehyung clapped wildly, his boxy smile taking over his entire face, Jin shoving an empty mussel shell into Yoongi's mouth to distract from the moment.

I shrug, trying to appear casual while my heart still flutters stupidly in my chest. "It was Festa. Might as well give them something good."

He rolls his eyes, but there's no real irritation behind it. "Next time I'll just write it on a sticky note. Less drama."

"You wouldn't," I challenge, moving closer until I'm standing directly in front of him. "You'd hate writing it down even more. Make it permanent."

Yoongi exhales slowly, his eyes fixed on mine. "You don't need to coerce me into saying it, Jimin-ah," he says quietly. "You already know."

"Do I?" The question slips out before I can stop it, more vulnerable than intended.

His eyebrows draw together slightly. "Have I given you reason to doubt?"

Is water wet?

A dozen moments flash through my mind: unanswered texts, late nights at the studio, the subtle way he pulls away when others enter a room. But also: the way he silently adjusts my in-ear monitor before performances, touches the side of my neck, buys me the special cream for my muscle aches, the snacks that get sent to the dance studio without a name—but are all my favorites.

So many little things, but…

"Shoot me. I like grand gestures," I admit, fidgeting with the sleeve of my jacket. "Not all the time. But sometimes."

Yoongi looks down, his shoulders hunching slightly in that way they do when emotions become too much. I know it isn't easy for him—the words stuck in his throat like they're physical things he has to push past barriers. His shyness isn't indifference; it's his nature. Just as my constant need for reassurance is mine.

"I'm not good at that," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "The big moments. The performance of it all."

"You're literally a performer," I counter, unable to help myself. "You rap in front of thousands of people."

Yoongi shoots me a look. "That's different and you know it."

"How? You write lyrics about your deepest feelings and share them with the world."

"Because those aren't—" He stops, sighing. "What about you? You're the one always performing. Dancing around what you really want to ask me."

"I'm not dancing around anything," I protest, even as I recognize the truth in his words.

"No?" His eyebrow raises. "Then why did you ambush me that dinner?"

"Jesus. It wasn't an ambush." I feel my cheeks warm. "It was flirting."

"Or begging," he mutters, but his eyes are soft.

"Maybe," I admit finally. "I didn't want the world to know you only say ‘I love you’ to Jungkook and Taehyung. Why did you send them a letter like that? And not me?"

There's a genuine look of confusion on his face. "Why would I write you a letter when I am writing a life with you?"

The words hang in the air between us. Simple. Unplanned. A truth so obvious to him he doesn't even realize what he's said.

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. The jealousy that had been burning in my chest suddenly feels ridiculous, like being upset about not getting a postcard from someone who shares your home.

He's gone back to scrolling through his phone, completely unaware that he's just undone me. "Come on. I'm starving."

As we walk toward the door, he slips his hand into mine, just for a moment, before we need to step into the hallway and pretend again. A small gesture, easily missed if you weren't waiting for it. But I'm always waiting, always watching. It isn't "I love you," but perhaps it could be something better—something just for me, no cameras, no performance. Just Yoongi's fingers wrapped around mine, warm and real and present.

A strange calm settles over me. If I like a grand gesture, then I shouldn't wait. I should just do it. I'll make something he can't ignore. Maybe that's what Yoongi needs—someone to be too much. Someone to keep pushing past all his carefully constructed walls and refuse to back down.

Because he picked the wrong person to ignore if he wanted quiet acceptance. I won't hire a blimp to state my love, but I can go big. Romantic. And in a way that shows the world everything. And plausibly nothing.

I grin as the two ideas take hold.

I know exactly what I'm going to do.

Notes:

Thanks to everyone writing and leaving comments. As always, it helps motivate me to keep going with this beast. I won't give up if you don't LOLOL

Chapter 35: Nevermind

Notes:

Apologies for the gap between chapters. Please know one thing to be true...I PROMISE I won't keep you hanging and leave the fic unfinished. I know what that feels like as a reader and won't torture ya'll. It's been a busy few weeks with travel and HOPE ON THE STAGE and more HOPE ON THE STAGE to come and gah, Hoseok is the best, right? They are all the best and all my favorites.

Including Yoonmin. I love these two dumb dumbs so much.

Sorry for my fault again on the gap. There might be others but I'll never ever ghost.

Someone—probably Namjoon—once told me there was an advertisement for champagne that called it "drinking the stars." Maybe that's why I like it so much. Every swallow feels like a wish, sharp bubbles pricking my tongue before dissolving into liquid warmth down my throat. And I'm greedy. Always have been. When I was little and believed in things like wishing on stars, my wish was always for more wishes. One could never be enough.

Even now.

I tell myself my wish is for BTS to make it through this tour with no more injuries—Jungkook's foot and my constant aches are already too much.

But is that really what I'd use my one wish on?

Or would I wish for us to be number one? For BTS to finally win that Grammy?

Or...

For Yoongi to text me. Ask me to come to his room. My fingers reflexively brush the outline of my phone in my bathrobe pocket, checking for a vibration that isn't there. Because I wouldn't walk to him. At this point? I'd crawl.

I take another sip of champagne and laugh because Hoseok is laughing and I guess that means he's telling me a joke. Something about the strange English phrase he saw on a fan's sign today. I haven't been listening. The plush hotel bathrobe feels too warm in this suite—Amsterdam? Berlin? The cities blur together now. All I know is we're thirteen floors up, and the lights of whatever metropolis this is twinkle beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows like the bubbles in my glass, while inside I'm hollowed out with wanting.

And I'm a bad friend even though I'm so grateful to him. Hoseok lounges across from me in his matching robe, bare feet propped on the coffee table between room service plates with half-eaten desserts neither of us really wanted. We don't talk about what's been happening this year—we don't talk about me and Yoongi—although sometimes I catch him looking at me when he thinks I don't notice, his expression turning serious, even worried. That's when I make a joke and watch the relief wash over his face, that we can pretend everything is fine. We are all just brothers. Everything as it always was.

Except Yoongi and I have never been brotherly. Not from the start. And our last time together was in Oakland, over a month ago, and I still can't shake it from my mind. His mouth hot on my neck, leaving marks I had to hide with makeup for days—Yoongi, who's normally so careful not to leave evidence, who understands better than anyone what we risk. His fingers pressed into my hips hard enough to bruise—so unlike the Yoongi who would trace lazy patterns on my skin in his bed, who would smile that gummy smile just for me.

He'd backed me against the wall, and there was something raw between us that night. But when I looked into his dark eyes, the anger there wasn't for me. It was like he was fighting himself, some battle I couldn't see or help with. The softness I'd always been able to find in him—that hidden center only I got to see—was buried somewhere I couldn't reach.

The way he ground out my name—"Jimin"—sounded almost like an apology. One hand tangled in my hair, the other holding my wrist, his body pressed against mine like he needed the contact to ground himself. Even in his roughness, I felt the care he couldn't express any other way. I tried everything I knew to bring him back to me, all my usual paths to his heart suddenly blocked off. I'd always known how to get past his defenses before, but that night, watching him retreat into himself, I realized I was helpless against whatever demons he was fighting.

The memory hits me at the worst times, leaving me aching not just with want but with the frustration of seeing someone you love hurting and not being able to fix it.

I reach for my abandoned chocolate cake, breaking off a piece with my fingers. I bring it to my mouth, licking the crumbs from my fingertips with the same desperate attention I give to my memories of Yoongi—savoring each fragment, collecting every trace, letting nothing go to waste.

And then I pour myself another drink.

"Aish, Jimin-ah, you're not even listening," Hoseok says, nudging my knee with his foot. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"I am," I protest weakly. "Something about a fan sign."

"I finished that story five minutes ago." He studies me over the rim of his glass. "You're somewhere else tonight."

I shrug, aiming for casual. "Just tired."

"You've been 'just tired' for weeks." His voice softens. "Is it your neck again?"

The concern in his voice makes something twist inside me. Physical pain would be easier to explain.

"It's fine. I’m fine." I lie with a smile. "Tell me about that sign again, Hyung."

Hoseok sighs but doesn't push. He's always known when to back off. "It said 'My NEST-EGG went to BTS merch.' The ARMY was dressed like a chicken."

This time my laugh is genuine. "I don't care what Taehyung says, ARMY is funny." A pause. "Do you think—" I start, then stop myself.

"What?" Hoseok prompts.

"Why don't you think Taehyung ever seems to worry about what he’s doing with Jungkook? What they are to each other?"

Hoseok considers this. "I think they're too busy living it to label it." He leans forward. "Not everyone overthinks like you do, Jimin-ah."

"I don't overthink," I protest.

"Please. Your brain works overtime even in your sleep." He sets down his glass. "You know, this morning, I ran into Yoongi at breakfast."

My heart trips over itself at the mention of his name. I say nothing, but Hoseok continues.

"He looked awful. Hadn't slept. He asked about you."

"What did he say?" The words escape before I can stop them.

"He wanted to know if you were eating properly." Hoseok watches my reaction carefully. "I told him you were fine. But I'm not sure that's true."

The air between us feels suddenly heavy. I get up and walk to the window, pressing my palm against the cool glass. Thirteen floors below, cars move like miniature toys, people like ants. All those lives, none of them are aware of my problems. The thought is both comforting and isolating.

"He's writing again, you know," Hoseok says to my back. "All night, according to Namjoon. On a new mixtape. It’s why we never see him between shows."

“So I hear.” I close my eyes. Yoongi's always been most honest in his music. What truths is he putting into lyrics that he can't say to my face?

"Jimin." Hoseok's voice is gentle. "Whatever happened between you two—"

"Nothing happened," I cut him off. "That's the problem. He just…disappeared, even though he's right here."

And like that, tears burn my eyes.

"Things can't go on like this," he says. "You know that, right?"

I turn to face him. "We're professionals. We'll handle it."

"I've never seen either of you this miserable. And we still have months of tour left." He sighs. "The staff are starting to notice. Even manager-nim asked me if you two had had a fight."

The panic must show on my face because Hoseok quickly adds, "I didn't tell him anything. It's not my place."

"There's nothing to tell," I say automatically.

Hoseok gives me a look that says he's not buying it. "Right. That's why you stare at your phone every five minutes. That's why Yoongi leaves rooms when you enter them."

I sink down on the couch, suddenly exhausted. "It's gotten complicated for a bit–that’s all."

Yoongi's gotten complicated.

"It's always complicated with you two." Hoseok reaches over to squeeze my knee. "But remember—watching you both suffer isn't any fun for the rest of us either."

I manage a weak smile. "Sorry for ruining your tour experience."

"You should be. I could be carefree, eating cake in Taehyung's hotel room right now. Oh wait, except we all know he's having Kookie for dessert." He grins, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

"That's a terrible pun," I groan, but there's no heat in it.

"Or I could watch Jin game or Namjoon read," he pushes on. "But that means leaving you alone to drink dramatically by the window? And I'd never do that." He throws a small pillow at me, which I catch. "Because I'm a friend."

"The best friend. But look. We'll have a break soon. The down time will be good."

He arches his brow. "When does BTS ever get down time?"

"At least we'll be home. And I'll make it right. I can make it better. You'll see."

"Make it right." Hoseok mulls my words. "But what if you aren't wrong. Neither of you. It's hard enough being BTS. Taehyung and Jungkook…they work because like I said, they don't overthink. I'm not saying they aren't smart. They are. Or rather wise."

“Wise? Really?” I scoff. "Tae thinks he talks to angels. And Jungkook hasn't cracked a book since graduation. I love them to death, but that's the truth."

"I'm serious."

And I can tell he means it, the way he's leaning forward, the happy face gone, his serious self putting in an appearance. All business. No sunshine. "The maknaes—they... they make their relationship look simple because they keep their minds in the present. They don't overthink. The past? The future? It doesn't factor. They keep things in the now."

"And I don't?"

"Are you kidding me?" Hoseok slams back in his chair. "You worry about everything. And Yoongi? He’s even worse."

I stare into my glass, watching the bubbles rise and burst. "What would you do, then? If you were in my shoes?"

Hoseok is quiet for a long moment, considering. "I'd stop strategizing about your relationship, for starters. Quit analyzing. Picking it apart like it's choreography that needs fixing."

"But it does need fixing." I hate the whine that enters my voice.

"Some things aren't meant to be fixed, Jimin. They're meant to be felt." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "You and Yoongi—you're both so locked inside your own heads that you forget to just... be. Together."

"That's easy for you to say."

"No, it's not. Nothing about this is easy." His voice softens. "But I see how you look at him when he's performing. And I see how he watches you whenever you're not looking. Whatever this is, however dysfunctional it can get, it's real. And real isn’t something that happens everyday–not for idols, not for anyone."

I turn his words over in my mind, feeling the weight of them. "When did you get so experienced about love, Jung Hoseok?"

He laughs, a sudden break in the tension. "I'm just tired of watching two of my best friends hurt."

"I'm not—"

"You are," he cuts me off, but gently. "And so is he. So when we get home, instead of plotting and planning like it's a comeback, maybe just... talk to him?"

"It's not that simple."

"It never is with you two." Hoseok sighs, but there's affection beneath his exasperation. "Just promise me you won't do anything drastic."

I think about the design on my phone, the melody taking shape in my head. "Define drastic."

"Oh god," Hoseok groans, falling back against the cushions. "Don't tell me what you’re thinking. I'll just worry."

I smile, my first genuine one of the night. "My lips are zipped."

He throws another pillow at me, which I dodge, laughing. For a moment, everything feels almost normal again. Almost. Because after Paris we're going back to Seoul before Japan.

It's when I'll finally put everything in motion. Hobi can say not to plan. But I brush my fingers across my ribcage, feeling the ghost of what will soon be there. Something permanent. Something Yoongi won't be able to look away from.

The design is already drafted, waiting on my phone like a secret promise to myself.

And at night, when the hotel rooms get too quiet, I've been writing too. Words flowing from someplace deep and raw, transforming into melodies I hum under my breath when no one's listening. The lyrics say the promise I can't tell him face to face yet—things that would make him understand what he means to me.

I smile to myself, picturing his expression when he sees what I've done, when he hears what I've created. He can try to shut me out, but I know better than anyone how to slip past Min Yoongi's defenses.

I know how to be someone he can't ignore.

"Uh-oh. You've got that look," Hoseok says, pulling me back to the present.

"Huh?" I glance up, brows knitting. "What kind of look?"

He studies me, then laughs. It sounds a little forced. "Like you're ignoring all my advice."

I just smile and raise my glass. "To taking risks," I toast.

Hoseok hesitates a beat before clinking his glass against mine, his eyes knowing. "Be careful, Jiminie."

But the champagne tastes like stars and possibilities. Like wishes that might, for once, come true.

 

                                                                                                                                                                      ###

 

It doesn't hurt. Or rather, I expected getting a tattoo to hurt more. All it did was sting, which felt right somehow—I'm putting something permanent on my body and that level of commitment deserves to be felt, doesn't it?

I'm the first in our team to get inked.

And I didn't ask for company permission. I didn't tell anyone. I chose Yoongi's "Nevermind," a replica from the one drawn on me for our old MAMA performance. And had it etched across my ribcage—because I don't want to hold back anymore, not with us, not with this connection. I'm ready to push forward, to accelerate.

But now that it’s done, I need to show him. Immediately.

Yoongi's been ebbing away, relentless as a retreating tide. 

I thought about waiting and setting up a moment somewhere that’s private and romantic. But he'd just find another excuse to avoid me. 

I know him.

Instead, I slip into his studio at midnight without a knock. Use the element of surprise to my advantage. I'm not here to fight fair.

The lights are out except for a desk lamp, and the familiar smells hit me first—the Diptych candle, the coffee, and traces of his cologne. It’s a wreck—crumpled paper everywhere, empty cups stacked like he's building a caffeine-fueled monument to sleep deprivation. He's hunched over his keyboard, headphones on, completely unaware of my presence.

I stand there for a moment, watching. The way his long fingers move. The slight head nod and low hum when he hits something right. My dick twitches at the sound.

It’s all so familiar that my chest hurts. God, how I’ve missed this.

How I miss him.

I tiptoe behind him, lean down and clasp my hands on his narrow shoulders. "Hey.” My mouth an inch from his neck.

He jumps, headphones clattering to the desk. "Jesus fuck—" He spins around, throat working as he swallows. "What are you doing here?"

"Your housekeeping service," I deadpan, nudging an empty ramen cup with my foot. "Though I need hazard pay for this disaster."

He almost smiles. Almost. "I've been busy."

"What are you composing, a soundtrack for the apocalypse?"

"Something like that." He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up at odd angles. I resist the urge to smooth it down.

"Two texts, Yoongi. That's all I’ve gotten from you since we’ve been back home. 'Can't make it.' 'Working.' It’s not okay. Especially when  you clearly know how to write. " I pick up one of his crumpled yellow legal papers, unfold it, reading the phrase scrawled all over it. "Why so serious? What's that, a lyric?"

“Stop. Fuck. It’s not ready.” He snatches it from my hand. "And I don't remember inviting you to critique my process."

"Funny. I don't remember you inviting me for anything lately." I step closer, and he shifts in his chair, like he can't decide whether to stand or stay seated. I make the choice easy, moving into his space until his knees press against my thighs.

"What do you want?"

"For you to look at me like you used to." My voice comes out lower than intended. I’m not playing this cool. I’m too needy. Too desperate. Too hungry. 

His silence is so loud it’s impossible to think. This disconnection feels unnatural–like sleeping with shoes on. I don’t want him to be a ghost I can’t touch. I don’t want us to fade.

His lips part slightly. They are too dry. He needs lip balm. He needs to be cared for.

"Jimin—"

"I did something." I step back and fist off my shirt, revealing the black tattoo written across my ribs. 

Nevermind.

His word. My skin.

His eyes widen, then narrow, fixed on the ink. He reaches out halfway before his hand falls back.

"What did you..." he starts, voice rough. "Is that? Did you? Holy shit...that's permanent, isn't it?"

"No shit," I can’t keep the snap from my voice. "Unlike your attention span, apparently."

His eyes flash. "You think this is funny?"

"No, it's kinda sad. But what can I say?" There’s an edge to my smile. "I’m a sucker for a tortured artist.”

He stands then, suddenly in my space. I can feel the heat radiating off him. "What were you thinking? This is forever!"

"Exactly." I say, holding my ground. We're the same height so eye to eye. "Some things can’t be erased. You’re the one who said when things get hard to accelerate faster. So here I am. Accelerating.”

"You’re crazy," he says, but he's moved closer, the air between us charged and heavy.

"For you." I reach out, straightening his collar where it's folded wrong. My knuckles graze his neck, and I feel him shiver. "And now you know where I stand. I'm all in–on you. On us." I tap the tattoo. "Not going anywhere."

Yoongi's breath catches. His pupils dilate until the brown nearly disappears.

He lunges forward without warning. My back hits the wall with a thud that knocks the air from my lungs. His cologne floods my senses—amber and cedar and something uniquely him. His hands tremble as they find my skin, fingers pressing into the fresh ink on my ribs.

"Fuck, Jimin—" His voice breaks on my name.

His mouth crashes against mine, teeth clicking. He tastes bitter-sweet, like the americanos he lives on. His tongue tangles with mine, demanding and desperate. I gasp into his mouth and he swallows the sound, pressing closer until there's no space left between us.

His palm splays across my bare stomach, callused fingertips mapping me like territory he's afraid might vanish. I arch into the touch, my hands rip at his shirt, dragging him impossibly closer.

"You can't just—" he growls against my jaw. "You know everyone gets to see this now?" 

Suddenly, his kisses trail lower as he sinks to his knees before me. The sight of him looking up, eyes black with want, steals my breath all over again.

His fingers trace the edges of the ink reverently, following the curves of the English letters. My muscles jump under his touch. 

"You marked yourself with me." His breath ghosts over the ink, raising goosebumps across my stomach. "Anyone who pays attention will know who you belong to."

"People only ever see what they want to see and--" I start but then his mouth is on me. His lips press against the N, tongue tracing the lines with deliberate slowness. My fingers find his hair, tangling in the soft strands as my knees threaten to buckle. He steadies me with firm hands on my waist, and takes his time, tasting the E, the V and so on. The gentle suction sends sparks shooting through me. His teeth graze my sensitive skin, as if adding his own signature.

"Everyone can see this. But nobody else gets to touch you like this," he murmurs against my skin. "Nobody else."

Something snaps in me at his words. The possessiveness in his voice, the way he's claiming me as if I hadn't been the one to make the grand gesture. As if I hadn't been waiting for him to wake up and see what's been in front of him all along.

In one swift motion, I yank him to standing and twist, reversing our positions. Now he's the one with his back against the wall, eyes wide with surprise as I press against him.

"You don't get to disappear and then act like you own me," I say, voice low but firm. My hand finds his jaw, tilting his face up to meet my gaze, his stubble scraping my fingertips. I squeeze, not enough to hurt, but to get his full attention. "You are the one who keeps running. Not me."

His lips part, but no sound comes out. I take advantage of his shock, leaning in until our mouths are just a breath apart.

"I put you on my body because I chose to." I lick his top lip, right on the cupid’s bow. "Because I wanted to. Not because you own me."

My teeth close on his lower lip, tugging lightly before soothing the sting with my tongue. His hands flutter up my back muscles, suddenly uncertain where they had been commanding moments before.

"But maybe," I continue, sliding my thigh between his, earning a choked gasp as I press into his bulge, already so hard for me. "I wouldn't mind owning you."

Yoongi's head falls back against the wall with a thud, exposing the pale column of his throat. But I don't give him the satisfaction of my lips there. Instead, I pull back slightly, creating a sliver of space between us that feels like a chasm after being so close.

"No," I say firmly, one hand still pinning his wrist to the wall. "You don't get to enjoy this yet."

Confusion flashes across his face, desire giving way to uncertainty. "Jimin, what—"

"You ran," I cut him off, voice low and dangerous. "You say you’ll try and then you don’t. No calls. No texts. Nothing."

His eyes drop, unable to hold my gaze. "I need time to—"

"To what? To decide if I am worth the trouble?" My fingers tighten around his wrist. "Do you have any idea what that does to me? Waiting? Wondering if you'd ever come back?"

“I hate hurting you. I’m sorry.” A muscle jumps in his jaw, but his words are honest. No taint of lie. "It isn't like that."

"Then what is it like?" I demand, using my free hand to force his chin up, making him look at me. "Explain it to me, hyung. Make me understand."

His breath comes in short bursts, chest rising and falling rapidly. The flush on his face deepens, but it's not just from arousal now—there's shame there too.

"I hate being so scared," he admits, the words seeming to cost him. "This—us—it's too important. I can't risk messing it up. I hate myself for what I’m doing, but I don’t know how to keep you safe."

“From who?”

“The world,” he snaps. “You are too perfect, too beautiful for it. If there’s a chance, they’ll come for you, they'll hurt you, and I can’t be the reason why.”

"So instead you decided to be the one to hurt me?" I press my body against his again, but there's nothing gentle about it now. It's a reminder of what he walked away from. "That was your brilliant solution? I thought you were smart."

He winces. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry isn't good enough." I release his wrist only to grab both his hands, pinning them above his head. The position makes him arch slightly, puts him completely at my mercy. "You don't get to decide for both of us. You don't get to push me away 'for my own good' or whatever bullshit excuse you keep telling yourself. I hate it. Don’t make me hate you. I swear to god that I’ll never forgive you if you make me hate you."

His eyes widen, pupils blown despite the tension between us. "Jimin—"

"No," I say again. "You talk when I tell you to talk. Right now, you listen."

I lean in close, my lips nearly brushing his ear. "And pay attention, hyung, because I'm only saying this once." My voice drops even lower, each word precise and cutting. "If you pull back again, that's it. We're done. No more chances. No more waiting. I go."

I feel him tense against me, a slight tremor running through his body.

"I'm not a toy you can shove away when you get scared," I continue, pulling back to look him directly in the eyes. "I put you on my skin because I meant it when I said I'm all in. But I won't be the only one fighting for us."

His throat works as he swallows hard. The vulnerability in his eyes is almost painful to witness.

"So decide right now," I say, loosening my grip on his wrist but not letting go completely. "All in or nothing. No middle ground."

The silence stretches between us, heavy with the weight of everything at stake. His chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, his pulse visibly hammering in his throat.

"I’ll try to stop pulling back," he finally says, voice raw but steady. 

“What the fuck does try mean?”

"I promise."

My eyes lock with his, searching for any trace of hesitation. Finding none, I release his wrist only to grab the front of his shirt.

"On the couch," I order, nodding toward the leather sofa where we've christened our relationship countless times before. "Now."

His eyes darken with recognition, pupils dilating at the command in my voice. This is familiar territory with a new edge—my patience has run out.

"And get those jeans off," I say when the backs of his knees hit the edge of the couch.

He complies without hesitation, fingers working at his belt, then zipper. The sound feels loud in the quiet. He sits to pull the black denim down over his white legs, kicking them free, boxers too, those pretty eyes never leaving mine as if afraid I might disappear if he blinks.

"We need—" I start, glancing around.

"Still in the bottom drawer," he says immediately, nodding toward his desk. 

I cross to the desk, pulling open the left drawer. The bottle of lube is right where it's always been—our silent witness to late nights and stolen moments. I grab it, turning it over in my hand, remembering all the times we've been here before. All the times he didn't run away afterward.

When I turn back, he's waiting, perched on the edge of the couch. Something about his posture—the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands grip the edge of the cushion—tells me he understands exactly what this is. Not just make-up sex, but a reckoning.

I cross the room slowly, deliberately, letting him feel the weight of my gaze. When I reach him, I place one knee on the couch beside his thigh, leaning into his space.

"This doesn't fix everything," I tell him, voice low but clear. "But it's a start."

"I know," he answers, reaching for me with steady hands. "I know, baby."

I settle onto his lap, straddling him with deliberate slowness. His hands find my waist, touch reverent yet hesitant, as if unsure of his welcome.

"You also don't get to hesitate now," I tell him, covering his hands with mine and pressing them more firmly against me. "Not after everything."

His eyes meet mine, dark and earnest. "I'm not hesitating. I'm memorizing."

The words catch me off guard, softening something in my chest. I lean forward, capturing his mouth in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens. His lips part beneath mine, yielding completely as my hands find his hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head back.

"Get this off too," I murmur against his throat, unbuttoning his shirt. He rolls back his shoulders obediently, allowing me to pull it off and toss it aside.

The sight of him naked—pale skin flushed with want, the subtle definition of muscle beneath—sends heat coursing through me. I've seen him like this countless times before, but there's something different now. A vulnerability he's never fully revealed, even in our most intimate moments.

"You're beautiful," he whispers, reaching up to touch my face with gentle fingers.

"No talking," I tell him, pressing a kiss to his palm before guiding him onto his back and stripping myself bare. "No thinking. Just feel. There's no past. No future. It's us. And it's now."

He nods, swallowing hard as I shift against him. The couch creaks, a familiar soundtrack to the rhythm we're building. My hands explore his chest, relearning territory I feared I might never touch again.

When I reach for the bottle beside us, his eyes flutter close. Time slows as I prepare us both, each touch deliberate and charged with meaning. 

"Jimin," he breathes as I bottom out in a single harsh thrust, my name catching in his throat.

God. He’s so tight. So warm. The fit–the fit is fucking perfect. He’s perfect.

"Look at me now," I demand, waiting until his gaze locks with mine. "Stay with me."

"I want to so much," he whispers, a single tear escaping. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

I lick the saltwater away, before giving him another kiss, one that steals the apologies I don't need anymore. Actions speak louder—and his body against mine, his hands holding me like I might slip away, tell me everything I need to know about the truth in his heart.

“You’re an idiot, Min Yoongi. But I love you anyway.”

The single tear becomes a flood. “I don’t know why.”

I huff a laugh realizing I’m about to cry too. “Guess I’m an idiot as well. Now tell me you love me. And make me believe you.”

“I love you.” His cock jerks against my stomach with the force of his words. “I fucking love you so much that it feels like it’s killing me every day and gets worse at night.”

“Good.” I set the pace—slow at first, then building, watching his composure fracture more with each movement. The control he maintains in every other aspect of his life dissolves completely, leaving him raw and unguarded.

"Touch me," I grunt, and his hands fly to my pumping ass immediately, gripping with an intensity that will leave marks—physical reminders that he was here, that he didn't run. “Look at us. Look at this.” I love it. The look and feel of my dick sliding in and out of his round ass, the long haul out, then thrusting balls deep.

“Gyah. I love it. I love it.” He’s chanting like it’s a prayer, moaning when I hit his prostate. It’s not long until we’re both sheened in sweat, making our own song from flesh hitting flesh and ragged breaths. 

When we finally shatter together, it's with his name on my lips and his forehead pressed against mine, sharing breath and promises in the aftermath. His arms wrap around me, holding me close as our heartbeats gradually slow to a more measured rhythm. 

"I missed you," he says into the quiet that follows. "Not just this. You. Us.”

I smear my hand across the cum on his stomach, as if giving him his own tattoo. "Good," I reply simply. "Don’t forget it. Because next time, I won't come back, you know."

His arms tighten around me. "I know."

And in the sanctuary of his studio, surrounded by the evidence of his passion for music and for me, I choose to believe him.

Because what other choice do I have?

Chapter 36: Promise

Notes:

Lyrics for Promise: https://doolsetbangtan.wordpress.com/2018/12/30/promise-jimin/

We are poised for a fall, friends. No parachutes.

Back to Yoongi pov

I sometimes brain rot online and look at pictures of places just before disaster struck.

Look, I know. Super healthy hobby.

The Twin Towers on that September morning, windows gleaming in sunrise. I zoom in on faces crossing the plaza. A woman laughing into her old fashioned cell phone. A man checking his watch, briefcase swinging. The courier focused and watching his feet as he walks. Tick tock.

Pripyat streets four days before Chernobyl. I study the teenagers lounging by a fountain. Their expressions—bored, hungry, in love. The old man feeding pigeons who will soon all be radiated. 

The beaches in Thailand before the tsunami. Tourist photos capturing paradise—children building sandcastles at the water's edge, couples walking hand-in-hand along shorelines soon to vanish, beachfront cafés filled with morning coffee drinkers, unaware of the wave building in the distance. 

Hiroshima from a military reconnaissance photo. A family in their garden. Children walking to school. I enlarge until the pixels blur, trying to read expressions of people who don't know yet. I check for signs. Always checking for signs.

No, that’s not it, not exactly. It’s more that I'm searching for something in these faces, seeking out some hint that they knew this was their final ordinary moment. 

But they all have the same thing in common: no sense that the boot is about to fall. That their world is about to be crushed. 

Is that why I'm an idiot?

Because I sense impending doom, but keep crawling along like some masochistic fucking bug, hypnotized by Park Jimin's light.  

It's a jamais vu feeling—when suddenly the most familiar things feel alien and wrong, like your childhood home becoming a house of horrors or your lover's face morphing into a stranger's. The ordinary world turning treacherous in an instant and– 

There is a knock on my bedroom door. One. Two. Three.

I know it's him. 

Namjoon would bang it doof doof doof . Hoseok would tap out a rhythmic beat and sing something. Jin would barge in yelling "knock knock." Tae and Jungkook— they don't come in here.

He never used to knock. 

He'd crack the door and give me one of those smiles where his eyes disappear along with my resistance.

Now, I'm getting up and greeting him. There is an air of formality in the act, a note of distance creeping in. I don't know whether to hate it or be grateful, so I'm both.

He is barefaced—in an oversized plain T-shirt and black sweats, holding a bottle of champagne…the real stuff down to a French label.

"Drink with me, Hyung," he says, deepening his voice and affecting a small swagger.

"You mean play with you," I mutter. He is in one of his moods, edgy, a little sharp, the push-pull that maybe should bother me more than it does.

"Why not." He takes a sip directly from the bottle before handing it over to me. "You like it."

"Play time with Jimin? Who could say no." I make a show of rolling my eyes before taking a long pull. Drinking hadn't been a part of my plan for the night. But I'd rather be here with bubbles fizzing in my stomach and Park Jimin flopping across my bed than researching more global disasters.

"Get over here." He pouts, holding open his arms.

"Nah. I'm good." I saunter to the side and take another long drink. "View's better from this angle."

He flips over, jutting out his ass, the dancer muscles making it compact and round. "I always thought you liked this view better." He glances at me over his shoulder. "Amuse me and maybe I'll let you fuck me tonight."

"Jesus." My ears burn. "How do you just say stuff like that?"

"Because it embarrasses you. And you're cute when you're shy." He flips back over and pushes to the end of the bed, locks his legs around mine. "I saw a fan made video on YouTube about you earlier. All about you being an alpha."

I arch a brow, one last drink before I hand it back to him. "Good to know your search habits I guess."

"We all have our kinks. Mine is watching people edit you like a baddie while knowing how good you take cock."

He says it so innocently it takes me a second for the filth to register. My expression must amuse him because he throws his head back and laughs, hard, straight from his belly.

"You are such a fucking gremlin. I hate you sometimes."

"No." He reaches for my hand and tugs me down onto his lap. "No, you don't. You're my baby. Babies aren't haters."

I knock my foot against his. "If this is your plot to get me to call you daddy it's not going to work."

That earns me a smirk. "Baby hyung doesn't want a daddy?"

I'm tired of the game, but not of him. "I just want you."

His gaze locks on my face, as if I'm one of those toys we saw in that magic shop in New York City— a magic 8 ball.

I arch one brow as he tries to gauge my ability to put up with him. 

Outlook good.

The champagne tilts to his lips once, twice—quick gulps that make his throat work. A drop escapes, trailing down his chin. I fight the urge to catch it with my thumb. He sets the bottle down with careful precision, smooths invisible wrinkles from his sweatpants with trembling fingers.

"So…okay…I did a thing." His voice floats too lightly, his shoulders too relaxed, but his eyes won't quite meet mine.

My stomach knots itself into something painful. Classic Jimin—the more casual his posture, the more I know something’s coming that will crush my chest. 

The room falls quiet. Outside, in the distance, an ambulance drives by–alarm blaring, then fading. My mind wanders to parallel universes—is there a world where I'm just a kid from Daegu with a weekend to spare, maybe wandering Haeundae Beach. Him, a dancer from Busan with nowhere to be. No cameras, no contracts, no consequences.

Would I still have turned at the sound of his laugh? Would my eyes still have found him in a crowd and thought: ah…there you are, finally ?

Back before we met in this timeline, my browser history told a different story—search terms for men nothing like him. Tall. Broad. Muscular. Beards. Safe, because they didn't exist in my real life. Didn't make me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

Now...

His smile breaks across his face, transforming it. That one crooked tooth catches the light, slightly overlapping its neighbor. Something raw and tender splits open inside me—that same feeling I've tried to drown in melodies, lyrics, bottles just like the one between us. My pulse jumps in a way no perfectly symmetrical smile has ever managed, in a way that terrifies me still.

 

I reach for the bottle, needing something to hold. "Good thing or bad?" The glass is cool against my suddenly sweaty palm. "You're making me nervous, Park Jimin."

"Made you a song." His eyes don't meet mine, focused instead on the phone turning over and over between his fingers.

My ears buzz. The champagne bottle slips in my grip. "You made a—" I swallow. "A song? When did you even..." The question trails off as he bites his lower lip.

"Not that long ago." His voice drops. He glances up. "I—I wrote most of it myself. Joon helped with some..." The confession comes with pink-tinged ears.

"Why not ask me?" I lean closer, catching the scent of his shampoo. "I could have—"

"It's for you." He laughs, short and breathy. "Can't exactly say, 'Hey hyung, help me write this thing about you. Plus, the English parts needed Namjoon's touch." He draws a deep breath, shoulders rising, then falling. "It's called 'Promise.'"

The word lands like a stone in still water. Promise. My ribs tighten around my lungs. Images flash—whispered words in the studio, fingers linked under tables, eyes meeting across crowded stages. Promises kept in shadows. Promises broken in daylight.

I sit next to him on the bed, close enough to feel his warmth but not touching. 

"Play it," I say, my voice barely audible. “I wanna hear.”

He takes a deep breath and hits play. A gentle melody fills the room, and then his voice—achingly sweet, painfully honest.

The lyrics wash over me like salt in an open wound. On the surface, it's about making promises to yourself. That's what everyone will hear.

But then it comes—that line about not throwing yourself away. I feel like I've been punched. He's singing about when I've said those terrible things about myself. I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the ending, waiting to see where it’s going. The final notes fade, and I realize my hands are trembling.

"You put us in a song," I say finally, my voice hoarse. "You made it pretty."

His eyes are too bright. "Not pretty. True."

"ARMY will think it's about loving yourself," I say, unable to look at him.

"S’kay. Let them." His voice is soft but determined. "I know who it's really for."

"But you don’t know what happens if we keep doing this," I say, my voice breaking. "You don’t know what it could cost."

"I know what it costs if we don't," he counters. 

I close my eyes. "Play it again.”

As the gentle melody starts once more, I hear it differently—not as a resolution, but as a question. An opening. A wound that could heal or fester depending on what we do next.

It's going to hurt. Whatever we choose.

And in that moment, with his song surrounding us, I realize some promises are meant to be broken and remade, over and over, until we get it right. No matter how much it hurts.

Loving Park Jimin is the easiest thing I've ever done. Figuring out how to live with that love is the hardest.

The song is filling my room with his voice. I feel the mattress shift as he inches closer, his hand brushing against mine. The contact sends electricity through me, even after all this time.

"What are you thinking?" he whispers.

"I'm thinking that you're braver than I am."

A smile ghosts across his lips. "Not brave. Just tired of being afraid."

His hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with practiced ease. We sit like that, letting the melody wrap around us, his promise hanging in the air between us.

My fingers close around the neck of the bottle. The glass is cool, slick with condensation. I raise it to my lips, tilt my head back. The champagne fizzes on my tongue, bubbles popping against the roof of my mouth. My eyes water. The alcohol warms a path down my chest, loosening something tight there.

"I don't know how to do this, Jimin." My voice catches on his name.

He watches me, head tilted. "Do what?"

Words crowd my throat. I look down at my hands, the raw-bitten nails. ""Be the person you seem to see when you look at me."

His fingers slide over mine as he takes the bottle, lingering a second too long. His eyes never leave mine as he brings the bottle to his lips. His Adam's apple bobs once, twice. A drop escapes, trailing down the column of his throat. I track its path, forgetting to breathe.

"You already are." His soft voice drops half an octave, husky from the alcohol. He hands the bottle back, our fingers tangling. "You just don't believe it yet."

Something in me snaps. I take the bottle from his hands, placing it on the nightstand with more force than necessary. Then I'm pulling him toward me, one hand on his nape, the other gripping his shirt.

"You drive me crazy," I mutter against his mouth. "You know that?"

His lips curve into a smile I can feel rather than see. "Good."

The kiss is hungry, desperate—champagne-sweet and dangerous. His hands slide under my shirt, fingertips tracing patterns on my skin that make me shiver. I push him back against the mattress, hovering over him, watching his eyes grow hooded.

"Is this what you wanted?" I ask, my voice rough. "When you played that song for me?"

His hands pause on my waist. "No." He watches my expression carefully. "I just wanted to see if you’d like it. This is a bonus."

I pull back slightly. "So if I stopped right now—"

"I'd hate you forever," he interrupts, tugging me back down with surprising strength. "But I'd still have meant every word of my song."

The music has stopped, but I can still hear it echoing in my head as I lower myself to kiss him again, slower this time. His hands slide into my hair, tugging gently, directing me where he wants me. Always in control, even when he's underneath me.

"You're impossible," I murmur before sliding a tongue between his lips, licking that crooked tooth like an idiot, like an addict.

"You love it," he counters, arching up against me.

"I love you," I correct.

"Tell me again," he demands, voice barely audible.

I swallow hard. "I love you, Park Jimin."

His smile is blinding.

He pulls me down again, the kiss turning urgent. His legs wrap around my waist, bringing our bodies flush together. The friction makes me groan against his mouth.

"Need you," he breathes, fingers digging into my shoulders. "Now."

I pull back just enough to look at him, taking in the flush spreading across his cheeks, the way his hair fans out against my pillow. "Are you sure?"

Instead of answering, he reaches for the hem of my shirt, tugging it upward. I help him remove it, then watch as he does the same with his own. The sight of him—golden skin against my sheets—makes my breath catch.

"Still think I'm the brave one?" he asks, eyes challenging as his hands move to the waistband of his sweats.

I capture his wrists, pinning them gently above his head. "Let me," I say, my voice thick with want.

His pupils dilate, a soft gasp escaping his lips. "Please."

I bend to kiss his neck, his collarbone, the center of his chest where his beautiful brave heart beats rapid and strong. He arches beneath me, impatient as always.

"Hyung," he whines, the honorific somehow both respectful and demanding in his mouth.

"Patience," I murmur against his skin.

"Never been my strong suit," he pants, straining against my grip.

I release his wrists to trail my fingers down his sides, feeling him shiver beneath my touch. "I've noticed."

The next kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and desperation. When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"Promise me something," I say, resting my forehead against his.

His eyes, so dark they're almost black, search mine. "Anything."

"Promise me you’ll always remember I love you. I know I fuck up. But I mean it, I think it’s my one real truth."

He reaches up to cup my cheek, his touch impossibly gentle. "I promise. You’re an idiot. But you’re my idiot."

I turn my head to press a kiss into his palm. "I know. I just needed to hear you say it."

His smile turns mischievous. "Now can we get back to the part where you were going to fuck me? I want you to top."

"So romantic."

"I tattooed you on my body. I wrote you a whole song," he whispers, teeth grazing my lower lip, tugging just enough to sting. His breath tastes like champagne and fucking starlight. "Romance quota filled."

His hands map constellations across my back. His scent surrounds me—that hint of lavender mixed with his clean skin. When my fingers find that one spot on his waist, he makes a sound that unravels me—half sigh, half whimper. 

My traitor brain flickers to those disaster photographs even as his small bright eyes never leave my face. No one ever knows when the boot will drop. 

"Hurry up. Need you in me," he breathes, pupils blown wide. His fingers dig into my thighs, leaving half-moon imprints.

My throat tightens. The rare request hangs between us like smoke. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out reason.

"You don't have to—"

"Shut up." His lips crash against mine, teeth clicking. "Just fucking touch me."

The champagne bottle falls, amber liquid seeping into the sheets. Neither of us moves to save it. His skin burns beneath my palms—fever-hot, demanding. I fumble with the drawer, nearly yanking it from its tracks. The cool plastic of the bottle slips in my sweat-slick grip.

He watches me with half-lidded eyes, chest rising and falling too quickly. A muscle twitches in his jaw as I prepare him. When he winces, I start to pull back.

"Don't you dare," he hisses, nails raking down my arms. “And don’t get anything else. I want it raw.”

I can’t breathe right. Swear to god, my cause of death will be Park Jimin.

The first push forward steals my breath—tight heat enveloping me, his body resisting then yielding. His face contorts, pleasure-pain flashing across his features. My hands brace beside his head, arms trembling with the effort of restraint.

"Hyung," he gasps, the honorific strangled, barely recognizable. "Look at me."

My eyes snap to his. The nakedness there—not physical but something worse, something unbearable—makes me want to glance away. But he holds my gaze prisoner, fingers digging into my nape.

“See me.”

How to tell him I never see anything else.

I rock forward, muscles burning with tension. His breath hitches. A tear tracks from the corner of his eye into his hairline. I can't tell if it's pleasure or pain. Maybe both.

The sound that tears from my throat is animal, unrecognizable. His answering moan vibrates against my chest where we're pressed together. My mind whites out, narrowing to this—the slick slide of skin on skin, the salt of sweat on my tongue as I taste his neck, the way his body grips mine like it's afraid I'll disappear.

“You’re perfect. God, so perfect.”

"Stay," he pants against my ear, voice breaking on the single syllable. "With me. Here." Each word is punctuated by the dance of our bodies. "Don't leave me. Promise. Promise me.”

“I promise. I promise. God, Jimin, I promise.” Every thrust I repeat the word, not knowing tomorrow is going to make me a liar.

Chapter 37: Nuclear Winter

The knock  comes early—a little before 8am. Three sharp raps that slice through my sleep like a blade. Not the lazy thump of one of the members who would have already called out my name or texted first. This is professional, expectant.

So I don't yell "get fucked" or burrow deeper under the blankets. Instead, I find myself untangling from Jimin, whose bare shoulder radiates warmth against my chin. I pause for a moment, inhaling. His scent fills my lungs—there's a delicate sweetness to it, not cloying, but honest—the way truth is sometimes bittersweet. It's funny how a breath of lavender  can make me feel both stronger and more vulnerable at the exact same time.

I pull away carefully, watching how his eyelashes flutter, but don't open. Last night's memories flash across my mind as I rub the faint crescents his nails left on my shoulder. Shit. How he'd arched beneath me, his commands breathless but unmistakable—"Deeper," "There," "Don't you dare stop"—controlling every movement from below, his eyes never leaving mine.

His breathing remains deep and even. Good. He needs the rest. He'll be sore today.

The floor is cold against my feet as I grab black sweats from the chair and pull a Fear of God t-shirt over my head, smoothing it down as I cross to the door. The polished hardwood creaks slightly as I open it just enough to frame my face and shoulder, creating a barrier between whatever waits outside and the sanctuary behind me.

"Wae?" The word comes out rough with sleep as I squint at our manager, whose blinking suggests he's somehow surprised by my appearance despite being the one who summoned me. Beside him stands one of the junior staff members—close to my age, with that specific brand of handsomeness that comes from protein shakes and mirror selfies, jaw clenched like he's perpetually flexing.

I watch the manager shift his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze sliding past me to scan the room beyond. His perfectly tailored suit can't hide the tension in his shoulders.

"Actually, we're looking for Jimin-ssi," he says, the formal suffix attached like an afterthought. His voice drops slightly as if we're discussing something illicit. The way his nostrils flare when he says Jimin's name doesn't escape me. "There's been a situation with a t-shirt. Something about Hiroshima. Japanese media just picked it up overnight."

A cold sensation spreads through my chest like spilled water. The manager's fingers tap against his thigh—a nervous tic I've noticed before when he's delivering bad news.

"He's probably in his own room," I say, maintaining a bored expression while my pulse hammers against my ribs. "Have you checked there?"

Our manager’s eyes don't meet mine, fixed somewhere over my shoulder with sudden interest. "We, uh... knocked but there was no answer." He swallows visibly. "I went to Namjoon and he said—" He stops, clears his throat. "He indicated we could find him here." He shifts a folder from one hand to the other—I catch a glimpse of what looks like screenshots from Japanese news sites. A flash of Jimin's face, a red circle, bold headlines.

"Huh," I reply, carefully neutral. "Well, I haven't seen him since—"

A hand lands softly on my shoulder, and I nearly jump out of my skin.

"Who is it, hyung?" Jimin appears beside me, hair mussed and eyes still heavy with sleep. He's wearing my basketball shorts—the ones with the faded Warriors logo—hanging low on his hips, and a tank top so oversized the neck dips to reveal part of his chest and shoulder. The bruise-purple mark on his collarbone is unmistakable.

The junior manager's eyes widen briefly before he schools his expression. His gaze travels down Jimin's body, lingering on the exposed skin of his shoulder, the mark, the bare legs. Something predatory flashes in his eyes before he catches himself. But there's something else there too—a flicker of genuine concern, yet still some form of calculation lingers. 

The look makes my jaw clench. I shift slightly, angling my body between them and Jimin. My elbow brushes against the doorframe—deliberate, creating a barrier.

"Something about a t-shirt and Hiroshima," I say to Jimin, my voice rougher than intended. "Guess Japan is upset."

Jimin's face goes completely blank, no recognition registering at all. "What t-shirt?" The sleep vanishes from his voice, replaced by the careful neutrality we've all perfected for cameras.

The manager pulls a tablet from his folder and turns it around. His fingers linger near Jimin's when he takes it, the contact brief but intentional. "This one. From a few years ago."

"Huh?" Jimin squints at the screen, then his eyes widen. "I don't... I never..." His fingers grip the tablet tighter, knuckles whitening. "I don't even remember wearing that. What does it say?"

The junior steps closer to him—unnecessarily close—the strong scent of his hair pomade intruding into our space. "It’s all over Japanese media,” he says softly, his voice dropping to a register reserved for intimate conversations. "Television appearances are being cancelled. Your tour dates are uncertain."

I feel Jimin tense beside me, his pinky finger brushing against mine, a silent request for support that no one else would notice. I respond with the slightest pressure back— I'm here .

"Was there anything else?" My flat tone makes it clear the question isn't really a question. The hallway's lighting suddenly seems harsh, exposing too much of this moment I wish we could hide from.

The manager straightens, adjusting his already-perfect tie. "No, that's all." He glances at his watch. "The car will be waiting in fifteen minutes to take you all to the company. Expect PR meetings for the morning."

He tugs at his junior's sleeve, a silent command to retreat, but not before that fucker's gaze lingers one final time on Jimin's sleep-rumpled form, as if committing every detail to memory.

As the door closes behind them, Jimin's composure crumbles. He slumps against me, forehead pressing into my shoulder.

"Fuck," he says, and then again, louder: "FUCK."

He paces to the window and back, movements sharp and frantic. "This is bad. This is so fucking bad." His hands rake through his hair, leaving it standing at odd angles. "Japan. That’s a huge market." His voice rises with each word, fracturing at the edges. "The tour dates. The appearances. All those fans—"

"I know," I say, surprised by how level my voice sounds. Internally, something has clicked off, like a circuit breaker tripping during a power surge. All the usual static in my head—the anxiety that normally claws at my insides, the overthinking, the paranoia—it's gone. Replaced by a strange, empty calm.

This is how I get sometimes. Not when things are fine, but when they're catastrophic. It's like my brain can't process regular stress but knows exactly what to do with disaster.

Jimin spins to face me, eyes wild. "I did this. Me. All those people who've worked so hard—the staff, the crew, the members—" His voice cracks. "Everyone's been killing themselves, and I just ruined it with a fucking t-shirt I don't even remember wearing."

I sit on the edge of the bed, hands resting calmly on my knees. "They won't cancel the tour."

"How can you be so fucking calm right now?" He's nearly shouting, face flushed. "This isn't just some minor issue. This is international. This is—"

"Nuclear," I supply, the word strangely appropriate. "Political."

"Yes!" He grabs his phone, scrolling frantically. "It's already trending. #JiminApologize. #CancelBangtanJapan." His breathing becomes erratic, chest heaving like he's just finished a three-hour concert. 

I watch him unraveling the same detached way I'd observe a storm from behind glass. What does it mean— this strange, hollow clarity?

He stops pacing. His expression shifts from panic to concern, momentarily distracted from his own spiral. "Yoongi-hyung...you’re so pale. More then normal. I can see through you almost.”

"I'm fine," I say, and strangely, I am. "Better than fine. I can see everything clearly."

And I can. I can see exactly how this will play out over the coming days. The emergency meetings. The carefully worded apology. The members closing ranks around him. And us—what we've built the last years —becoming a liability neither of us can afford.

"We'll get through the meeting," I tell him, voice mechanical. "They’ll give you an apology. Say you respect Japanese culture and history." I recite the PR playbook by rote. "You don’t pick most of your clothing while you are out anyway. It'll blow over."

His pacing resumes, more frantic now. "It won't be enough. You know how I am—I'll mess something up. This has to go perfectly and I’m not perfect."  

He chokes on the words, that familiar spiral I've seen too many times. Park Jimin: perfectionist, people-pleaser, the one who stays latest at practice because one move was a millisecond off. The one who apologizes for things that aren't his fault. The one who can't bear the weight of anyone's disappointment.

"Breathe," I say, still unnervingly calm.

"I can't," he gasps, and I can see it starting—the hyperventilation, the panic attack that's been building since the knock on the door. "Everyone's going to hate me. The company, the fans, Japan—everyone."

I cross to him in three strides, grasp his shoulders. "Jimin. Baby. Look at me."

He does, eyes wide and glassy.

"Breathe," I repeat, demonstrating a slow inhale. "In for four. Hold for four. Out for four."

He tries to follow, his breath catching. I press my palm flat against his chest.

"Again," I instruct. "With me."

We breathe together, his heartbeat hammering against my palm. Gradually, his breathing slows to match mine. The wild look in his eyes recedes slightly, replaced by exhaustion.

"I don't know if I can do this," he whispers.

"You can," I say with certainty. "You will." I keep my hand on his chest, steady against his unsteady heart. "But there's something else we need to talk about after this is over."

His eyes snap to mine, suddenly alert. "What do you mean?"

I can feel it building in my chest, behind the numbness—the decision forming like ice crystals in still water. But now isn't the time. Not when he's already breaking apart in front of me.

"Later," I say, dropping my hand from his chest. "After the meeting. After we know where things stand."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a flash of fear. He knows me too well. Knows what I'm like when I go cold like this—how the aftermath is always some brutal calculation, some ruthless cutting away of whatever I deem a threat.

"Yoongi, don't—"

"We should get ready," I interrupt, moving toward my closet. "You should shower. Wear something conservative. Black or navy. Nothing flashy."

He doesn't move, just watches me with growing dread. "Promise me you won't make any decisions right now. Not while you're like this."

I pull out a black button-down, inspect it dispassionately for wrinkles. "The car will be here in twelve minutes."

"Yoongi." His voice cracks on my name.

I look up, meet his eyes. Something in my expression must frighten him because he takes a small step back.

"Go shower, Jimin-ah," I say, gentler now. "We'll talk after."

He backs toward the bathroom, eyes never leaving mine, like he's afraid I'll disappear if he looks away. Or worse, that I'll still be here but become someone he doesn't recognize.

The bathroom door closes with a soft click. I finish buttoning my shirt, movements precise and economical. Outside, the world continues its indifferent roar. Inside, I am the calm at the center of a storm I know will destroy us both when it finally hits.

My phone buzzes. A group message from Namjoon: "Management briefing in 30. Everyone get to the company cars. They are waiting for us. No exceptions."

I stare at the screen, at the rumpled sheets that still smell like sex, and the direction of the bathroom where Jimin is probably leaning against the wall trying to breathe. Everything feels distant, like I'm viewing it through the wrong end of a telescope.

Everything goes quiet after the bomb drops. But eventually, the fallout comes.

The day passes in a blur of conference rooms and carefully constructed statements. The PR team distributes talking points to each member—what to say if asked, what not to say under any circumstances.

By evening, the first wave of damage control is complete. We ride back to the dorm in silence. Namjoon catches my eye in the rearview mirror, his gaze questioning. I look away.

When we arrive, I wait for the others to file inside before touching Jimin's elbow lightly.

"Let's go for a drive," I say quietly. “In my car.”

He hesitates, studying my face. "Now?"

"Yes."

His eyes search mine for a moment longer before he nods once. "Let me change first."

"No need." I keep my voice neutral. "It won't take long."

Something in my tone makes his expression shutter. He follows me to my car without another word.

The drive is silent. I keep my eyes on the road, acutely aware of him beside me—his lavender scent, the quick sound of his breathing. The playlist he made me last month plays softly in the background. I reach over and turn it off.

I head away from the main road to turn on an exit that leads beneath Banpo Bridge, tires crunching over broken concrete as we come to a stop. The engine idles for a moment, then falls silent. Three other cars are scattered along the riverside lot, their occupants nothing more than silhouettes behind fogged windows.

A cold draft slips through the window I left cracked open, like truth finding its way into a carefully constructed lie. It carries the metallic tang of the Han and something earthy—maybe fallen autumn leaves gathering along the banks. My fingers drum once on the steering wheel, then still.

I can hear the moment Jimin's breathing change rhythm—shallow then catching, like he's trying to hold himself together with just his lungs. He shifts, and the leather seat squeaks beneath him. His silver rings—the ones I gave him last month for his birthday—catch the light as his hand moves to his seatbelt, fingers trembling, then stops, hovering in the space between us that has never felt so vast.

The car clicks and settles around us as the engine cools, each sound a countdown to something irreversible. 

"So," Jimin says finally, his voice too deliberately casual, the same voice he uses for cameras. "Are you going to tell me what this is about?"

I force myself to look at him. In the dim light, his face is all shadows and planes, beautiful in a way that makes my chest cave in on itself. The same face I've traced in darkness, memorized with my fingertips, whispered confessions against. The blue bridge lights catch in his eyes, making them seem deeper, more fathomless than usual—eyes that found me when I was drowning and never looked away, not once. A distant boat horn sounds, low and mournful, and I don’t have a choice.

I never had a fucking choice.

This moment is as inevitable as our first kiss in the park.

"It's over," I say, the words coming out flat despite the roaring in my ears, despite my heart ripping itself in two as I speak. My mouth forms the syllables, but they feel like someone else's voice, someone stronger and crueler than I've ever been. "Us. It's over. For real. For good."

He stares at me for a long moment, uncomprehending. Then he laughs—a short, disbelieving sound. "Is this a joke?"

"No."

"Because of the shirt? Because of today?" He turns more fully toward me, his seatbelt straining. "Yoongi, that's—they said it'll blow over. A week, maybe two—"

"It's not just about today." I force myself to continue, each word feeling like glass in my throat. "It's about being serious with the risk. To you. To the group."

"Bullshit." His voice cracks on the word. "We've been careful. No one knows—"

"That junior manager from this morning knows," I interrupt. "Or at least suspects. And then did you see how he looked at you? That's all it takes—one person who thinks they can gain something by exposing us. And there have been others. You know that."

"So we'll be more careful," he says, desperation edging into his voice. "We won't touch in public. We'll—"

"It's not enough." I stare out at the river, at the lights dancing across the surface. "Not anymore. The risk too great and…”

I’m not worth that risk. But that’s a cowardly thing to say, even if it’s the truth. It will just give Jimin a crack, a way he’ll think he can fix this, make it right.

"Look at me," he demands. When I don't immediately respond, his hand shoots out, grips my jaw, and forces me to face him. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me."

I meet his gaze steadily. "Of course I love you," I whisper, the words simple and devastating. "That's why I'm ending this."

His hand falls away from my face like I've burned him. "That makes no sense."

"It makes perfect sense." I turn to stare at the river again, unable to bear the pain in his eyes. "I watched you today. Apologizing for something you don't even remember doing. Bowing to men who could try to cut you from the group without a second thought even now after we have achieved so much." I take a shaky breath. "What happens if they find out about us? Because eventually, they will. And then you won't just be apologizing for a t-shirt. You'll be apologizing for... this." I gesture between us. "For me."

"I don't care." His voice is fierce now. "Let them find out. I'll handle it."

"You don't get it." I feel something like anger rising in me, breaking through the numbness. "It won't just be you. Or us. It will be them too. The whole group. Everything we've built. Gone."

He falls silent for a moment, his breathing uneven in the dark car. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet but edged with something dangerous.

"So what happens now? We just... work together? See each other every day and pretend nothing happened?"

I swallow hard. "Yes."

"Bullshit." The word is soft but lands like a slap. "That's bullshit and you know it."

"We don't have a choice."

"And what about if I get with someone else?"

The question hits me like a physical blow, stealing my breath. I hadn't let myself think that far ahead—Jimin with someone else. Touching someone else. Loving someone else.

"What?" My voice sounds strangled even to my own ears.

"You heard me." There's an edge to his voice now, the kind of meanness that comes from pain. "What happens when I find someone else? Because I will, Yoongi. You think I’m going to be alone forever just because you're too scared to fight for this?"

He already gets so many texts. So many men–women–trying to shoot their shot. And how many more that I never hear about?

A flash of possessive rage surges through me, so intense it leaves me dizzy. The thought of his hands on someone else, his mouth, his laughter—it's unbearable. But I can't say that. I can't show it. Not if I want to make this clean break stick.

"That would be..." I struggle to keep my voice even. "That would be your right."

He laughs, a harsh, broken sound. "My right? That's not what I asked. I asked how you would feel."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

I force myself to meet his eyes, to lie to the one person I've never been able to lie to before. "I would be fine with it eventually. You’ll be a brother to me. Still important. But in a different way. A different kind of love. One that fits our situation.”

He stares at me for a long moment, searching my face. I keep my expression neutral through sheer will, though it feels like I'm being torn apart from the inside.

"You're lying," he says finally, his voice hollow. "You've never been able to lie to me."

"I'm not lying." Another lie.

"You would hate it," he continues as if I hadn't spoken. "You'd be sick with it. You'd write songs that hurt." His eyes are wet but focused, seeing right through me. "You'd watch me with them and you'd burn. You’d think about me all the time."

"Stop."

"But you know what the worst part would be?" He leans closer, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "You'd have to pretend it doesn't bother you. Every day. In interviews. In practice. At dinner. You'd have to smile and be happy for me while dying inside."

Each word is a precision strike, finding every vulnerability. He knows me too well—knows exactly how to hurt me because he knows exactly how I love.

"Is that what you want?" I ask, my voice rough. "To hurt me?"

His face softens, just slightly. "No. I want you to realize what you're throwing away. What you're condemning us both to."

"I know exactly what I'm doing."

"Then say it again. Tell me you'd be fine seeing me with someone else."

I look straight ahead, jaw clenched so tight it aches. "I'd be fine. I need some time to adjust of course, and then I’ll be fine."

"Look at me when you say it."

I turn to him, something breaking inside me as I form the words. "I will be fine with you being with someone else. It will be weird at the start but the group comes first."

“You asshole.” His eyes fill with fresh tears. "You really are ending this. There is nothing else I can do.”

"Yes."

“In the end you didn’t throw yourself away. You threw me away.”

As much as he hates me in this moment, I hate myself so much more.

“I’ll always be here.” I don’t know how I’m able to form words. I can’t feel my body. “As a friend you can always count on.”

“A fucking friend. Aish.” He rocks his head back on the seat. “What scares me most is that while you are talking like this I can’t tell if you know you are full of shit or believe your own lies.” He's quiet for a long moment, then he wipes roughly at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

"You don't get to be jealous, then," he says finally. "Not ever. You don't get to look at me differently or share your fucking heartbreak songs about me. You made this choice. You suffer with it."

"I know."

"No, you don't. You're such an idiot that you have no idea." He shakes his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips. "This is going to destroy us both, but at least I fought for us. At least I can live with that."

He reaches for the door handle as if ready to flee, then pauses. "We still have to work together. Every day. On camera. In the studio. We'll be professional." His voice hardens. "But for me it’s fake love — don't expect me to pretend when it's just us. Don't expect me to forgive you for this."

The gulf between us yawns wider with each word. I'm not just losing my lover—I'm losing my best friend. The person who's seen me at my worst and loved me anyway. The person who knows all my flaws and sharp edges and still chooses to come closer.

"I don't expect anything," I say quietly.

He nods once, sharp. "Take me home."

My hands shake so badly I need three attempts to get the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life—too loud against our silence. During the drive, I keep my eyes fixed on the road, though I can't help noticing how Jimin presses himself against the passenger door, creating as much distance between us as the confined space allows. The only sound is his occasional shuddering breath, each one hitting me like a physical blow.

When we pull up to the dorm, Jimin unbuckles his seatbelt before I've fully stopped. His hand is already on the door handle when I reach out, fingers circling his wrist. His pulse hammers against my thumb.

"Jimin-ah."

He freezes but keeps his gaze fixed on some point outside the window, jaw tight. The harsh orange parking garage light catches the wetness on his lashes.

"I—"

The words die in my throat. My mind races with everything I want to tell him. How many versions of this moment have I imagined? In none of them was I the villain. In none of them did I imagine the thought of him with someone else would feel like drowning from the inside out.

"What?" he asks finally. His voice sounds like something scraped raw.

My fingers loosen around his wrist, then fall away entirely. "Nothing."

Jimin's hand remains on the door handle, not pulling. His knuckles whiten. "Last chance," he whispers, so quietly I almost miss it. "If I get out of this car and you don't stop me, I'll know you mean it." He finally turns to me, eyes red-rimmed and fierce. "And I'll hate you."

I cover my face with my hands. My lungs struggle for air behind my ribs. The moment stretches between us—a tightrope I no longer have the courage to walk.

I'm silent. I think I cease to exist.

"Fuck you then."

The door opens. Slams. The car rocks with the force of it.

Through the windshield, I watch him walk away. His shoulders are squared, chin high—refusing to let anyone see the hurt. The light catches his silhouette briefly before he disappears inside without a backward glance.

I sit there, engine idling, the heater blowing air that feels like it's circulating through an empty shell. The seat beside me still holds the impression of his body, still smells like him. I reach out to touch the leather, then snatch my hand back as if burned.

Minutes pass. Maybe an hour. Eventually, I put the car in drive and pull away from the curb.

The city blurs around me as I push well past the speed limit, taking random turns down unfamiliar streets. Red lights turn green. Green turns red. The neon signs of Gangnam flash across my windshield in streaks of color that don't register. My mind keeps creating images I don't want to see—Jimin's smile directed at someone else. His hands, gentle on someone else's skin. His laugh, his secrets, his warmth—all given to someone who isn't me.

Someone who might actually deserve him.

Someone who would choose him over everything else.

Someone who would never make him cry like this.

The nausea rises sudden and violent. I swerve to the curb, tires screeching in protest. My fingers fumble with the seatbelt, with the door handle. The cold night air hits my face as I stumble out, barely making it to a storm drain before my body convulses.

I vomit until there's nothing left but bile, then retch even after that. My knees hit the pavement, tiny pieces of gravel embedding in my skin. The pain is distant, irrelevant. A car passes, headlights sweeping over me. They don't slow down.

On hands and knees on an empty side street, surrounded by buildings full of strangers, I finally feel the numbness crack. Something hot and terrible rushes in to fill the void—not sadness, something sharper. The kind of pain that comes from knowing there was no other choice.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to the gutter, to the night, to him though he can't hear me. My forehead touches the cold pavement. "I'm so fucking sorry."

But sorry doesn't matter. What matters is that he's safe. What matters is that the group survives. What matters is that if making him hate me protects him, then I'll bear that hatred like armor. I'll wear it every day even as it cuts me open from the inside.

I made the right decision. The only decision. 

The bomb has dropped. Nuclear winter is here. And I'm the one who pressed the detonation.

Chapter 38: Giving Up Decisively

Notes:

This is the last Yoongi chapter for a bit. I think I've shared a lot in previous comments, but this is not going to be the happy part of the story. It will get there. But sometimes things need to break in order to be rebuilt into something stronger.

I stare at the words scrawled in the margin—don't even remember writing them. Giving up decisively also counts as courage. The phrase taunts me now, as if my past self knew exactly what impossible choice I'd soon be facing.

Two fucking nights on this studio couch, my bad shoulder throbbing and clothes reeking of cigarettes. Two nights avoiding the dorm before we go back on the road. Sometimes I pace the small room, other times I collapse into fitful sleep, but always I'm haunted by the same thoughts—I can't face the others. Can't stand the thought of passing him in the kitchen or heading down the hallway to use the bathroom, both of us navigating this strange new distance.

My fingers hover over a key, cursor blinking on the track. Jimin's voice fills my headphones—clear, perfect, bright. I pull them off so violently the cord snaps, the sudden silence more deafening than any sound.

The company email sits open on the second screen. They are laying the foundations to go public. All those employees depending on us not to fuck up. The tour is getting more dates scheduled for next year. Another album needs to be released in spring. The BTS steamroller keeps going, flattening everything in its path, including me.

I reach for the bottle. Empty. Like everything else.

My phone lights up—Taehyung's name. Fourth time today. I flip it over, and bite my thumbnail, worrying the ragged edge until I taste copper. What would I even say? That I'm trying my fucking best to protect Jimin? That I'm being the responsible hyung? That ripping out my own heart was the only solution I could see? That I can’t be the cause of ruining his life. 

The walls of the studio close in. Equipment worth more than my childhood home surrounds me, but all I can hear is the airy echo of his laugh. All I can see is the space where he used to sit, legs sprawled, relaxed, watching me work like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. All I can feel is the absence carving deeper into my bones with each passing hour.

Outside, life must be continuing like nothing's changed. Like the world hasn't ended. Like I haven't just committed the perfect crime against myself.

I pick up my pen again, turn to a fresh page on the yellow legal pad. Maybe if I write it down, the pain will make sense. This han —this uniquely Korean sorrow that sits heavy in my chest—might become something bearable if I can just give it shape. Our ancestors transformed these same feelings into pansori, into poetry, into art that endured centuries. Surely I can transform it into at least one fucking paragraph.

But the page stays blank, just like the future I chose for us. My hand crumples the paper into a tight ball. I launch it at the soundproofed wall, then another, then another, until sheets litter the floor like discarded possibilities. Then I'm on my feet, sweeping equipment off the desk with one violent motion, the crash barely penetrating the roaring in my ears.

I need air. Need to move. Need something other than these four walls closing in on me. I grab my jacket, yank open the studio door—and nearly collide with Taehyung.

He steadies himself, eyes widening as he takes in my disheveled appearance—multi-day stubble, hair plastered to my forehead, the wrinkled clothes. A flash of surprise crosses his face before settling into something more resolute. He's wearing all black, hair perfectly styled despite the hour, standing straight-backed in the doorway.

"You look like shit," he says finally, voice level but eyes soft with concern.

"What a coincidence. I feel like shit too. Guess the universe loves symmetry." I try to brush past him, but he doesn't budge, solid as a wall where I need a door.

"Forty-eight hours, hyung. You haven't answered a single call." He cocks his head one way and then another—worried but trying not to show it.

"Been busy." I gesture vaguely toward the studio behind me, the wreckage I've made of it. "Redecorating."

Taehyung's gaze flicks past me, taking in the scattered papers, the overturned equipment. He winces slightly, his eyes betraying more emotion than he probably intended. Always feeling everything so deeply, this kid.

"Everyone's asking questions. We are leaving for Japan tomorrow." There's no accusation in his tone, just fact.

"Don’t worry. Tell them I'm having a spiritual awakening. Being on trend." The sarcasm tastes like ash.

Instead of responding, he reaches into his bag. "I brought food." He lifts a container. "And clean clothes." The scent of japchae wafts out, making my stomach growl traitorously.

The gentleness in the gesture catches me off guard. That's Taehyung—cutting through my bullshit with unexpected kindness when I least deserve it.

I take the bag and peer in. "What, no toothbrush?" But there's no bite to my words.

"It's in the side pocket," he answers seriously, then catches my expression and almost smiles.

I want to keep biting back, but the weight of these sleepless nights crashes over me like a wave breaking against rocks. My shoulders slump. "Fine. What's your master plan here? Talk therapy? Exorcism?"

"My car's outside." He says it simply, like it's the most obvious solution in the world.

"Okay? Where are we supposed to be going?" I ask, curiosity momentarily overriding my exhaustion.

"Does it matter?"

It doesn't. Nothing does. What I need right now is action, movement, anything but this suffocating stillness.

"Fine. Give me a minute," I mutter, turning back to gather my phone, wallet.

Behind me, Taehyung begins picking up the equipment I'd knocked over. I watch him straighten cables with careful hands, aligning edges perfectly, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"You don't have to fix my mess," I say, the words carrying more weight than just the studio debris.

"I know." He continues anyway, methodical in his movements. "But someone should."

By the time I've collected my things, he's restored half the room to order.

"Leave it," I say. "I'll do it tomorrow."

"We both know you won't." He finishes what he's doing before straightening up. "Ready?"

The hallways are empty at this hour, our footsteps echoing against polished floors. The silence between us stretches, but it's not uncomfortable. Outside, the night air hits me like a slap. I suck in a deep lungful, suddenly aware of how stale the studio had become, how I've been inhaling the same recycled despair for days. As we pull out into night traffic, the city lights blurring past the window, I feel myself breathing easier for the first time. 

"I’m serious, where are we actually going?" I finally ask, fidgeting with the radio buttons just to have something to do with my hands.

"Someplace quiet." Taehyung gently moves my hand away from the controls, turning on a low instrumental instead. "Somewhere you can sleep without your shoulder getting worse."

I almost laugh at how practical his concern is. "My shoulder is the least of my problems."

"It's the only one I can fix tonight." He glances over, expression softening just slightly. "The rest will take longer."

Taehyung navigates through the quieter streets, away from the neon chaos of Gangnam. Neither of us speaks much, the instrumental track filling the silence between us.

"Really?" I gesture at the stereo as a mellow jazz piece begins. "This is the vibe?"

Taehyung keeps his eyes on the road, but I catch the slight curve of his mouth. "Rather I put on sad ballads so you can really commit to the breakup aesthetic?"

"The unshowered, studio-dwelling composer is a classic for a reason," I counter, settling back into the passenger seat. "Don't mock what works."

"What works to feel better usually includes eating and sleeping." He changes lanes smoothly. "Radical concepts, I know."

"Food's overrated. Sleep is for the weak."

"Says the hyung who once fell asleep standing up during a meeting and tried to convince everyone he was 'meditating with purpose.'"

Despite everything, I feel the corner of my lips twitch. "That was a power move and you know it."

"It was something." Taehyung's tone is dry, but there's affection beneath it.

I watch familiar neighborhoods fade into an area I don't immediately recognize. "Where exactly are we going?"

"Bo-gummies's place. He's out of the country."

Ah, his actor friend. "And he's fine with you bringing your disaster of a member to his apartment?"

Taehyung glances over, his expression softening slightly. "You're a very specific category of disaster. He'd approve."

He pulls into an underground parking garage beneath a sleek apartment building and kills the engine. In the sudden silence, I feel the weight of everything I've been running from settle back onto my shoulders, a familiar burden I've grown accustomed to carrying.

"I'm not going to heart to heart about Jimin," I say preemptively as we get out and walk into the elevator.

"Did I ask?" Taehyung punches the code into the keypad without looking at me.

"The look on your face is doing all the talking for you.”

He just snorts a reply.

The doors open directly into a spacious apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Seoul skyline, the Han River a distant ribbon of light cutting through the darkness.

"Make yourself comfortable," Taehyung says, dropping the bag of clothes he brought for me. "Bathroom's through there if you want to shower. Please want to shower."

"Subtle," I reply, but there's no edge to it. 

"Yep," Taehyung says, moving toward the kitchen. "Much like your commitment to personal hygiene since I saw you last." He rummages through the refrigerator with the confidence of someone who knows where everything is. "Hungry?"

I'm about to deny it out of habit, but my stomach betrays me with an audible growl. "Apparently."

"The body doesn't lie." Taehyung pulls out containers, setting them on the counter. "Unlike the single text you sent everyone claiming you're 'fine' and 'just working.'"

"I have been working," I protest.

"Destroying equipment and staring at blank screens isn't working. It's performance art." He hands me a plate. "And not your best."

The bluntness is oddly comforting. No eggshells. Taehyung just calls it like he sees it.

We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes before I find myself saying, "You know what the worst part is? I can't even write my thoughts out. Every time I try, it just feels... hollow."

Taehyung considers this, taking his time before responding. "Then don't."

"That simple, huh?"

"Not at all." He meets my gaze steadily. "But sometimes the best thing you can do is nothing. Until you're ready."

I wasn't expecting wisdom, and it catches me off guard. This has always been Taehyung's gift—disarming with humor, then striking with unexpected insight when the defenses are down.

"When did you get so smart?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light.

"I've always been smart. You've just been too busy being right about everything to notice."

I snort, nearly choking on my food. "Fair enough."

After dinner, Taehyung points me toward the guest room. He's already collecting our dishes. "Go shower. Take your time. Use the fancy soap."

"You're very invested in my bathing habits."

"Someone has to be." He flicks water at me from the sink. "Go. Before I hose you down myself."

The shower is as good as promised. Hot water sluices away days of studio grime, steam clearing my head if not my conscience. Clean and dressed in the fresh clothes Taehyung brought, I sit on the edge of the bed. My phone still shows unanswered messages, the names blurring together—everyone except the one I'm both dreading and hoping to see.

Outside the door, I hear Taehyung moving around, the soft sounds of someone trying to be quiet. It strikes me then—the kindness of what he's done. Not just bringing me here, but how he did it. No lecture, no pressure, just practical solutions and enough normalcy to remind me that the world hasn't actually ended, even if it feels that way.

The bed envelops me as I finally lie down, muscles I didn't know were tense slowly releasing. My last conscious thought before sleep claims me is that maybe, just maybe, I don't have to face everything alone.

I wake to sunlight slicing through unfamiliar blinds. For one disorienting moment, I forget where I am—not the studio, not the dorm—until the events of last night filter back. Taehyung. Bo-gum's apartment. The first decent sleep I've had since I...

My phone says it's just past eleven. I drag myself up, shoulder protesting less than usual. The apartment is quiet, but I already smell coffee.

Taehyung sits cross-legged on the balcony, a steaming mug between his hands. He's looking out over the city, completely still in that way only he can be, like he's communing with something the rest of us can't see. Maybe the angels he is always talking about.

"Morning," I say, sliding the door open. "How long have you been up?"

He doesn't startle, just passes me a second mug that's been waiting. "Not long. There's food if you want it."

I take the it, lean against the railing. Morning light paints the city gold, peaceful in a way that feels almost offensive given the storm inside me.

"We have to go back," I say, the words tasting bitter against the dark roast. "The flight's at four."

Taehyung nods. "That's why I brought these." He indicates a plastic bag from the convenience store down the street. "Breakfast of champions."

Inside are kimbap, juice, and painkillers—he knows my shoulder acts up during flights. The unexpected thoughtfulness of it tightens my throat.

"Thanks," I manage, sitting down across from him.

He pushes the bag toward me. I take the kimbap but can only manage a few bites before my stomach rebels. The coffee helps, though—anchors me to the present moment when I'd rather be anywhere else, anyone else.

"Why aren't you with Jimin?" The question escapes before I can stop it, hanging in the morning air between us.

Taehyung's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes—a subtle darkening, like clouds moving across the sun. "Because I'm with you."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant." He sips his coffee, considering his next words carefully. "He's angry."

The simple statement hangs between us. 

"I'd be worried if he wasn't," I say, tracing the rim of my mug with my thumb.

Taehyung doesn't offer false comfort, doesn't tell me it will pass quickly or that things will be okay. It's one of the things I value most about him—his willingness to sit in uncomfortable truths without trying to reshape them into something more palatable.

I tighten my grip on the mug. "I had to do it."

"Did you?"

"You know why."

"I know what you think. Doesn't mean you're right."

I bristle at that, defensive heat rising up my neck. "We’ve been lucky, no one who mattered ever found out. But then with the shirt, and all this media bullshit, people looking for a reason to hurt him more—"

" The world hasn’t ended." Taehyung sets his mug down with deliberate care. "But you decided yours should anyway."

The words hit too close to the thoughts that have been circling my mind like vultures. I take another bite of kimbap to avoid responding immediately, but still can't finish it, the food turning to ash in my mouth.

"It's not that simple," I say finally.

"It never is." He stands, stretches. "We should head back soon. Manager-nim is already texting me."

The thought of returning to the dorm, of facing everyone—facing Jimin—makes my stomach clench like a fist. Taehyung must read it on my face because his expression softens, the morning light catching the concern in his eyes.

"It won't be as bad as you think."

"How do you know?"

"Because I know all of you," he says, gathering the food wrappers with careful hands.

I want to snap that he doesn't know anything about this situation. But the words stick in my throat. Instead, I help him clean up, pack the few things I brought. There's a strange domesticity to it, a rhythm I've been missing.

"What about you?" The question escapes before I can think better of it.

He glances up, waiting.

"You and Jungkook," I clarify. "You don't worry?"

His eyes meet mine, unwavering. There's not a trace of doubt when he speaks.

"I'd let the world burn before I left him."

The certainty in his voice makes something twist inside me. He doesn't understand what it's like to see every possible future as a minefield—to wake up each morning calculating the ways you might hurt the person you love most. He doesn't know how it feels to end something good before you become the reason it turns toxic. To sever a limb to save the body.

Maybe I should be jealous of him. How he carries his heart so openly. How love seems to strengthen rather than terrify him. 

But I'm not. 

We both grew up watching our parents count coins at the end of each month, both from the same province where pride runs as deep as poverty. We both know what it means to lie awake listening to hushed arguments about bills. The difference isn't in where we started, but in how we learned to survive it. Taehyung built shields around what matters to him. I learned that I was born hurting the person who gave me life—that sometimes your very existence can become a wound to those who love you. And once you know that, you never forget it. You carry it in your bones, this certainty that someday, somehow, you'll hurt them again.

The drive back is quiet, neither of us pushing for conversation. The lunch rush already building. Ordinary people living ordinary lives, untouched by my drama.

When we pull into the parking garage beneath our building, I feel my pulse quicken, my palms slick with sweat. This is it. No more hiding.

"Remember to breathe," Taehyung says as we step into the elevator. "To everyone out beyond us, he's just your teammate. Your friend. That hasn't changed."

Friend? I huff a laugh. Jimin has been a hundred things, but never just that.

But I understand the script we're supposed to follow.

My member. My friend. My bro. All the safe labels.

We walk into the dorm. Everyone's there, bags packed and piled by the door. Namjoon looks over first, relief washing over his face when he sees me, but I catch the thoughtful crease between his brows that means he's been turning something over in his mind for hours.

"There you are," he says simply, as if I've just stepped out for coffee, not disappeared for days.

Jin hands me my passport without comment, though his eyes linger on my face a moment too long, searching for something I'm not sure I have anymore. "Aigoo, look at those circles under your eyes, you need some sleep," he announces, loud enough for everyone to hear. "This is why I keep telling you all to invest in proper face masks. Even genius producers need beauty rest." The joke lands softly in the tense room, but I see what he's doing—diffusing tension the only way he knows how, creating space for normalcy.

Hoseok bumps my shoulder lightly as he passes—his way of saying both hello and don't do that again.

And then there's Jimin.

He's by the window, dressed for travel with meticulous care—the kind of attention to detail that means he's functioning on autopilot. When our eyes meet, something flashes across his face—too complex to name, too quick to interpret. Gone before I can even try. He turns away with deliberate precision, each movement careful, controlled. The anger is there in the rigid line of his shoulders, in the way his hands tighten around his phone. Not a performance for my benefit. Just raw feeling he can't quite contain.

"Ten minutes until the cars arrive," Namjoon announces, breaking the moment.

I nod, heading to my room to grab my pre-packed suitcase. As I pass Jimin, the air between us seems to still, like the moment before lightning strikes. He doesn't move, doesn't flinch, but I feel his awareness of me like a physical thing—the careful calculation of exactly how much space to maintain between us.

This is what I wanted, I remind myself. This distance. This safety. This is me being responsible, protecting what we've built together. So why does it feel like I'm suffocating with every breath?

I change quickly, throwing on clean clothes appropriate for travel. When I emerge, the others are moving with the practiced efficiency of people who've done this countless times before. I catch Jimin throwing a glance my way—not the absent, hurt look from my imagination, but a glare of undisguised contempt, the kind that burns like frost on bare skin.

I catch Taehyung's eye across the room, a silent exchange passing between us. His expression holds no judgment, just quiet understanding. Sometimes I wonder if he sees too much.

The managers arrive, ushering us downstairs. In the controlled chaos of departure, Jimin quietly shifts to the far side of the group. When our manager begins directing us to vehicles, Jimin murmurs something I can't hear, and slides into the second car without looking back.

Giving up decisively also counts as courage. The words still echo, but now they sound less like wisdom and more like the hollow justification they've always been.

Namjoon talks quietly beside me about all the writing he’s been doing for the upcoming album, his voice a gentle background to my thoughts. I nod at the right moments, offer the expected responses. Years of practice. None of them know how many unsaid words are caught behind my teeth, how carefully I'm holding myself together. Nevermind, Taehyung does. Maybe I’m full of shit and they all do, in their way.

Inside the terminal, we fragment into the usual formation—Jin and Namjoon handling check-in, Hoseok charming the staff, Jungkook slouched against a pillar with his eyes closed. I notice how he's positioned himself near Taehyung again, the way he has been since things fell apart, like he's intuitively seeking the most emotionally stable ground in our group's shifting tectonics.

Jin returns from the counter with our boarding passes, distributing them with commentary. "Economy for Jungkook because he keeps stealing my snacks," he jokes, though we all have the same seats. 

Jungkook drifts toward the windows to watch planes take off. Hoseok casually positions himself between me and Jimin, not obviously taking sides but creating a buffer that we both need. Jimin disappears into a bathroom and doesn't come out for fifteen minutes.

When he returns, his eyes are clear but something savage flickers beneath the surface. He sits as far from me as possible in the lounge, angled away.

I swallow hard against the pressure building in my chest. Seven years of practice keeping feelings locked down tight should count for something now. But my body betrays me—palms damp, pulse racing, breath catching.

"You okay?" Taehyung asks quietly, suddenly beside me.

"I've been worse," I lie.

"No, you haven't."

The simple truth of it stings. He's right. I haven't. Not even during those darkest days when we thought it might all fall apart.

Because even then, I had Jimin. Even at our lowest, when everything else was uncertain, I knew that one thing was real.

"Will it get easier?" The question slips out, so quiet I'm not sure Taehyung hears it. I don't want to be this needy.

He stops, turns. His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than comfortable.

"Not at first," he says finally. "Then one day, I guess you could forget to remember for a minute. And maybe those minutes add up."

I nod, looking away. It's both exactly what I needed and nothing I want to hear.

Our flight number echoes through the terminal. Time to board. Time to step back into the roles we've chosen. The ones that keep everyone safe, keep the machine running, keep seven boys with impossible dreams turning into men with impossible success.

Weeks later…

The last notes of the encore fade into deafening screams. Five shows spread across two weeks, ending tonight. The Japan leg of the Love Yourself tour concludes like they all do—with sweat-soaked clothes and the strange emptiness that follows adrenaline.

I peel off my in-ear monitors backstage, nodding mechanically at staff congratulations. My body moves through familiar motions while my mind drifts elsewhere. Almost two weeks since the first show. Almost two weeks of professional coexistence. Almost two weeks of something that looks like normal from the outside.

"Good work tonight," Jin says, patting my shoulder as he passes. His eyes search mine for a moment before he moves on, carrying that quiet concern he thinks I don't notice. "You know what a musician's favorite type of shoe is?" he adds, pausing. "Soul music." The joke is terrible, and he knows it. I offer a weak smile that seems to satisfy him, understanding that beneath the cheesy humor is Jin's way of saying everything doesn't have to be so heavy all the time.

Namjoon lingers nearby, seemingly focused on his phone but I can tell he's observing everything. He's been more contemplative lately, processing the shift in our dynamics like he does everything—analytically, thoughtfully, with too much responsibility on his shoulders.

Across the room, Jimin laughs at something Jungkook says. His smile looks genuine, the corners of his eyes crinkling the way they used to for me. Hoseok hovers nearby, an arm casually slung around Jimin's shoulders. The choreographer in him never turns off—always conscious of positioning, of balance. He's been gravitating toward him since we left for Japan, not obviously taking sides but providing the physical comfort I can't. I'm grateful for it, for the fact that Jimin isn't navigating this alone.

Jungkook catches my eye and quickly looks away, uncertain how to behave in this new reality where his hyungs aren't what they were, and shifts closer to Taehyung. When Jimin catches me watching, he doesn't look away like he did those first few days. Instead, he raises his water bottle slightly, almost a toast, before turning back to the conversation.

This is the strangest part. The casual friendliness that emerged somehow after the third show. The way he started including me in group conversations again. The exaggerated stage interactions, throwing his arm around my shoulders during the closing bow, practically performing our friendship for the cameras.

I don't know what it means. 

"You coming?" Namjoon asks, already halfway to the door where vans wait to take us back to the hotel.

"In a minute," I reply, needing the quiet.

When they're gone, I sink into a chair, the buzz in my head finally settling into something like silence. The dressing room empties out gradually, staff carrying equipment, coordinating the breakdown. I become furniture—something they work around, nodding politely when they notice me.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I almost ignore it until I see my brother's name. It's nearly midnight; he rarely calls this late.

"Hyung," I answer, voice rough from the show.

"Yoongi-yah." Something in his tone makes me sit straighter. "You alone?"

"Yeah. What's wrong?"

He takes a breath I can hear through the connection. "It's Dad. They found something on his liver scan this afternoon."

The world narrows to the phone against my ear, to my brother's voice saying words like "cancer" and "treatment options" and "early stage." I ask practical questions with a voice that sounds like someone else's, scribble down details with a hand that feels disconnected from my body.

"The doctor says the prognosis is good," my brother says, his voice steadier now. "They caught it early. But still..."

"I should come home," I say immediately.

"He doesn't want that. Not yet, anyway. He specifically said not to disrupt your schedule."

Of course he did. My father, who never wanted to be a burden, who called my choice of career impractical but always supported it, who has never once asked me to prioritize family over work. Even now, facing his own mortality, he puts my obligations first.

"When is the first treatment?" I ask, already pulling up my schedule on my phone. 

"Next Tuesday. But really, Yoongi, he's insisting you stick to your commitments."

I think of my father sitting in hospital waiting rooms. Of my mother trying to hold everything together. Of the distance I've maintained all these years, geographical and otherwise. Of all the things we've left unsaid.

"I'll figure something out," I tell him. "Keep me updated. Every detail."

After we hang up, I sit in the empty dressing room, surrounded by the debris of the concert—discarded water bottles, abandoned towels, the ghost of performance still hanging in the air. The contrast is dizzying. Two hours ago, I was on stage in front of thousands. Now I'm alone with news that would have seemed unreal even a week ago.

The door opens, and Jimin walks in. He stops when he sees me, surprise flickering across his face.

"Sorry," he says. "Forgot my bag."

I nod, not trusting my voice. He retrieves his backpack from under a table, slings it over his shoulder. He's halfway to the door when he pauses, turns back.

"What’s wrong?" he asks, eyebrows drawing together.

"Nothing," I say automatically. Muscle memory.

He studies my face. For a moment, I see a flash of the Jimin I knew—the one who could read my silences, who never took "fine" at face value.

"You look upset," he says finally, the first honest words between us in weeks.

"Just tired." The lie comes easily.

Something crosses his face—doubt, maybe concern. For a second, I think he might push further, might slip back into the role he used to play in my life. The one person I didn't have to lie to.

But the moment passes. He nods, adjusts his bag. "Don't stay too late. Early flight tomorrow." And with that, he's gone.

I zone out for another minute or too before I decide I need space, somewhere the walls aren't pressing in. The moment I step outside, the autumn night air hits my skin like a wake-up call, cool and clarifying. The alley behind the venue is quiet except for staff loading equipment into trucks, their practiced movements a counterpoint to my internal chaos.

A laugh cuts through the quiet. I look up and see Jimin at the end of the alley, phone pressed to his ear, back turned to me. Something tugs in my chest—that old reflex, that instinct to go to him. I take a step forward without thinking.

"No way," he says into the phone, voice light in a way I haven't since I…

Since that night at the Han River.

 "You're making that up." His posture shifts—that subtle change I know too well. Shoulders relaxing, free hand gesturing even though whoever's on the line can't see it.

I stop.

"We fly back tomorrow," he says. "Yeah, I know."

Another laugh. Softer this time. Intimate.

Fuck.

I stand there like an idiot, caught between stepping forward and backing away. Jimin turns slightly, and I can see his profile now—the small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. The one that used to be for me.

"Saturday? I don't know," he says, voice warm. "Don't blame me if—" He breaks off, listening. "Fine, you've convinced me. But I'm only staying for one drink, just so we're clear."

There's something about the way he's talking. Something I recognize because I've been on the receiving end, all those nights of whispered conversations.

He mentions Wanna Win's schedule, and everything clicks into place. That idol from the newer group, the one always lingering after joint performances. That's who's on the phone.

I back away slowly, careful to stay quiet, heart pounding against my ribs. It's none of my business who he talks to now, who makes him laugh like that. I gave up that right.

I retrace my steps to the stage door, slipping back inside. The bright hallway lights are jarring after the darkness. I blink, adjust, pull myself together. Move on. That's what we're both doing, right?

Except each of my fucking heartbeats whispers his name—a rhythm I think I’lll carry long after he's forgotten how to hear it.

Giving up decisively also counts as courage.

But there's nothing courageous about the way my chest caves in as I watch him laugh for someone else. Nothing brave about the taste of regret that burns the back of my throat.

I had my reasons. And now have new ones. My father's treatments won’t pay for themselves. He needs me strong, not scattered across headlines. 

Still, Taehyung's words echo in my head: "I'd let the world burn before I left him." But that’s easier for him to say. His world isn’t already on fire.

I made the decision. And I have no right to the anger that flares through me now—not at Jimin, never at him. At myself. At the industry. Something cold slides down my spine as the walls seem to press closer. At the whole fucking country that makes me believe there is no other way.

사람. The word floats unbidden in my mind. Person. Love. A single sound encompassing both. My mother used to scold me for always confusing the two when I was learning to write, but maybe I understood something then that I've spent years trying to forget. Some things were never meant to exist separately.

Yes, I chose this. But how is choosing between impossible things ever really a choice at all?

Chapter 39: Petals

Notes:

Back over to Jimin's pov...

I pluck a petal from the red rose beside my bed, letting it drift to the floor like a confession.

"He loves me." Pluck.

"He loves me not." Pluck.

Soon the flower I've pulled from the bouquet that arrived yesterday sits half-destroyed, crimson petals scattered across white sheets like drops of blood. I should have known better than to play childish games. When has the final petal ever landed on what I wanted to hear?

I pour another glass of champagne, the bubbles rushing to the surface like all the words I've swallowed these past two months. I used to savor this—the effervescence dancing on my tongue, the slight burn as it went down. Used to tell Yoongi it tasted like starlight, and he'd watch me with that quiet intensity of his, smiling when I'd close my eyes to fully appreciate the sensation. Now, I just want the alcohol to dull the edges, to get drunk enough to stop remembering.

I thought I was in some fairy tale, and maybe I was. It's just in my version the dragon wins. The dragon being our careers, our image, the constant fear of being discovered. The handsome prince loses his nerve and runs away, and what does the princess do? She's left alone in the tower, putting on extra lip gloss and tighter pants and starting to hold eye contact when out and about. Learning that's enough to make the admirers come.

My phone glows with Sungho's latest message: "u up?”

He's been relentless this last month. His group, Wanna Win, lives up to their name—collecting trophies at every award show, appearing at all the same events as us. First came the lingering glances across crowded rooms, then the casual invitations to hang out, escalating to those "accidental" touches that linger just a second too long. Yesterday, this bouquet arrived at my door. "You're hot when you dance," the card read, punctuated with an unsubtle wink.

I know he wants me.

I trace the rim of my glass, considering the transformation I've undergone since Yoongi walked away. How I've discovered that certain behavior draws attention like moths to flame. That I have the power to collect admirers–men and women–like souvenirs, each one temporarily filling the Yoongi-shaped void in my chest.

I reach out and the petals continue to fall beneath my fingers. With each one, the flower diminishes, becoming less than what it was.

Is that happening to me too?

It's the same version of a question I asked myself during today's schedule, watching my own reflection in the practice room mirror—smiling, joking with the others, my laugh perfectly timed and my eyes crinkling just right. 

I've become so good at this performance that the staff compliment me on my "positive energy" lately. If only they knew. 

The scary part isn't the lying—it's those moments in the middle of a broadcast or fan meeting when I completely forget I'm acting. For those brief seconds, I'm just Park Jimin again, beloved idol without a crack in his heart. Then someone mentions love or relationships, and reality crashes back like cold water. 

The line between my real and pretend self blurs more each day. 

Yesterday, I caught myself genuinely laughing at something silly and immediately felt guilty, as if moving on is a betrayal of what we had. Maybe that's what terrifies me most—not the pain, but the possibility that one day it might fade altogether, and with it, the last traces of what Yoongi and I shared.

My phone buzzes again. More Sungho.

"eating ramen alone is boring af. come over? i got that wine. promise to only stare at you like 50% of the time 😉"

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply button. The invitation hangs in the air like smoke—intoxicating, dangerous, tempting. The last petal clings desperately to the stem, a final hold-out against gravity. I let it be..

I type: "Now?"

His reply comes instantly: just his address, followed by a selfie—smile confident but eyes calculating. Like he's already counting his victory.

I freshen my lip gloss, unbutton my shirt one button lower than usual, and slip out of the quiet dorm. The night air hits my face, cooling the champagne flush on my cheeks. The taxi ride passes in a blur of neon lights and second thoughts.

Sungho's building looms before me, all glass and steel and modern angles. I stand outside longer than I should, watching my breath form clouds in the night air.

Three knocks, and he appears.

"Thought you might change your mind," he says, grinning. Water droplets cling to his neck from a recent shower, trailing down to disappear beneath his white tank top. The room behind him smells of expensive cologne and anticipation.

He steps back, invitation written in the gesture. "You coming in or what?"

I cross the threshold, hearing the door click shut behind me. The sound has a finality to it—before and after, separated by that single metallic note.

Two glasses of wine sit waiting on the coffee table, alongside a bowl of strawberries arranged too perfectly to be casual. A stage set for seduction.

"Nice place," I say, because the silence needs filling.

"Company pays for it for now, course not for long, we’re disbanding soon. But whatever." He hands me a glass, fingers deliberately brushing mine. "Drink. You look like you need it."

The wine is decent, but nowhere near what Yoongi would choose. He'd tell me about the vineyard, about the particular note of cherry or oak or whatever lurked beneath the surface. Sungho just watches my throat as I swallow.

"You always look so put together," he says, moving closer. "Wonder what it takes to mess you up a little."

When he kisses me, it's nothing like Yoongi's careful approach. Sungho kisses like he's staking a claim, hand gripping my hair just tight enough to tilt my head back, other hand already exploring beneath my shirt. After so long without anyone's lips on mine, I expected to feel something—excitement, desire, even nervousness—but instead there's a hollow disappointment. Where Yoongi's kisses had felt like conversations, this feels like being talked at. His movements are confident but impersonal, as if I could be anyone. Each second stretches uncomfortably long, and I realize with a sinking feeling that my first kiss after Yoongi isn't rekindling anything—it's only highlighting what I've lost.

"Fuck yeah. Been thinking about this for so long," he groans against my neck.

I try to lose myself in the sensation—the heat of his skin, the wine-sweet taste of his mouth, the solid weight of desire pressing against me. But behind closed eyes, I see only Yoongi. The way he'd look at me afterward, a little dazed, like he couldn't quite believe I was real.

Sungho guides me backward toward the bed, fingers working at my buttons with practiced efficiency.

"Wait," I say, the word escaping before I can trap it.

He pauses, confusion flickering across his face. "What?"

I step back, creating space between us. The room tilts slightly from the champagne-wine combination swimming through my veins.

"I can't—" The sentence hangs, fragmentary and incomplete. Like us.

"Not over someone," he finishes, understanding dawning. "Should've guessed. Who?"

I remain silent, but my eyes must give something away.

"It's fine," he says, switching tactics so seamlessly it's almost impressive. The hunger in his eyes dims, replaced by a calculated sympathy. "We've all been there."

I look at him—really look. His posture has already adjusted, creating a different kind of intimacy. One built on confidences rather than contact.

"Want to talk about it?" he asks, gesturing toward the couch by the window. "Not my first choice of activity, but..." His glance toward the bed makes his preference clear.

"You want to hear about my love life?" The absurdity almost makes me laugh.

"We're stuck in the same industry," he shrugs, dropping onto the couch and spreading his arms wide, claiming territory. "Maybe I get it more than you think."

I sit beside him, closer than intended as the cushions dip under our weight. The proximity feels different now—less charged but somehow more dangerous.

"It's complicated," I say, the understatement bitter on my tongue.

"It always is." He offers a strawberry, holding it to my lips rather than simply passing it to me. His eyes never leave mine as I take a bite, the sweetness bursting across my tongue like a small explosion.

The silence stretches between us, filled with the soft sounds of night filtering through the window. His arm has somehow slipped from the back of the couch to rest lightly on my shoulders, fingers playing idly with the hair at my nape.

"You know what the worst part is?" I say finally, words spilling out like the petals earlier. "He still loves me. And I still love him. But it isn't enough."

"So what are you going to do about it?" His question carries weight beyond the words themselves.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you have options." His voice drops lower, intimate. "You could fight for it, sure. But you'd probably lose if it's already over." The way he phrases it makes the idea sound foolish, childish. "Or you could move on. Find someone who wants to be with you." Someone like me , his eyes add silently.

"I don't know if I can just move on," I admit, watching the wine swirl in my glass like the thoughts in my head.

"That's because you haven't really tried." He refills my glass without asking. "Look, I know it hurts now. But trust me—the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Win the breakup."

The bluntness startles a laugh from me, breaking the tension like a stone through ice. He smiles, pleased with himself.

"Seriously though," he continues, shifting closer until our thighs press together, "I've been watching you for months. You’re special. The way you dance, the way you carry yourself—you deserve someone who sees that. Who isn't afraid to want you."

His words find the hollow place inside me where Yoongi used to live, filling it temporarily with something that feels almost like healing. Almost.

“Come on.” His thumb traces my bottom lip, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. "Let me help you forget. Just for tonight."

His other hand slides up my inner  thigh, and something inside me wavers. Two months of nothing but memories and emptiness. Two months of keeping everything locked inside, petals falling one by one until nothing remains but naked stems.

"I'm still not sure," I say, but my resolve fractures with each word.

"Don't think so much." His lips brush my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "For once, just feel."

It would be so easy to give in. To let his hands map new constellations across my skin, erasing Yoongi's touch like waves washing away footprints in sand. To trade complicated love for simple desire.

His mouth finds my neck, and I close my eyes, trying to surrender to sensation alone.

But the wine tastes wrong in my mouth. The strawberries are too sweet, artificial. And his hands—they're not the ones I want. They never will be.

I pull back, the movement decisive despite my swimming head. "I can't. Not right now."

Disappointment flashes across his face before transforming into understanding so perfect it can only be rehearsed. "Okay, calm down.”

"I should go." I stand, steadier than expected on my feet.

He catches my wrist, grip gentle but firm. "He's an idiot, you know. Letting you go."

"It's not that simple."

"It is to me." His eyes hold mine, intensity burning behind them. "When I want something, I go after it. No matter what."

Something cold slides down my spine at his words, but he releases me, breaking the moment with a practiced smile.

"At least finish your wine before you leave," he says, offering my glass. "No sense wasting the good stuff."

I drain half in one swallow, the alcohol burning a path to my stomach. "Thanks for understanding," I murmur, though I'm not sure he does.

"We've got that awards show next week in Hong Kong," he says casually.

I nod.

"I'll save you a seat at the after-party. No pressure. Just... friends."

Friends. The word sits awkwardly between us, ill-fitting as a borrowed coat.

Outside his apartment, the corridor stretches empty in both directions. I walk quickly anyway, afraid of being seen. Afraid of what I almost did. Afraid of how tempting it was.

Back in my own room, I kick off my shoes and collapse onto my bed. My phone buzzes almost immediately.

Sungho: sleep well beautiful. thanks for coming tonight even if it didn't end how I hoped

Before I can respond, another message appears.

Sungho: i’d treat you good. I’m ready.

The words strike a nerve, raw and exposed. Yoongi and I existed in shadows—stolen moments in practice rooms, careful distance in public, love confined to darkness. Always secret. Always hidden.

I set my phone aside without responding and look across the room at the vase of flowers. The one plucked stem stands stark among its intact companions, vulnerable in its nakedness. Petals litter the surface beneath like casualties of war.

My phone buzzes again.

Sungho: thinking about your lips. sorry. too much?

Despite everything, I find myself smiling.

Me: a little forward

Sungho: you haven't blocked me yet so I must be doing something right

The simplicity is seductive. No history. No complications. Just straightforward want, offered without apology.

I open my chat with Yoongi, preserved like a museum exhibit of what we once were. The last message from two months ago stares back at me—a simple gif of a dog giving side-eye, sent one week before he ended everything.

I type three different messages. Delete them all, one by one. Like always.

Sungho texts again: don't overthink. just friends. for now. goodnight Jimin-ah

I silence my phone and stare at the ceiling, watching shadows play across the surface. The champagne and wine swirl in my blood, making the room spin gently on its axis.

I think about the flower I destroyed, petal by petal, seeking answers in a children's game. About Yoongi, who loved me enough to let me go. About Sungho, who wants without complexity. About myself, slowly transforming into someone I don't recognize.

In the morning, I'll wake to more schedules. I'll shower and dress and become Park Jimin again—the idol who never misses a step, whose smile never falters. I'll dance under lights bright enough to blind, hoping no one sees what's missing inside me.

But tonight, I curl around the empty space in my bed where Yoongi used to lie, and let myself feel the weight of all I've lost. The final petal falls silently in the darkness: He loves me not. He loves me not. He loves me not.

And in the dark, I finally accept the truth I've been running from—no amount of petals or strangers or champagne will fill the emptiness he left behind. But I have to try to move on anyway.

Chapter 40: Swan Dive

Notes:

So...hi! I'm back.
Sorry for the absence. Sorry this chapter is a bummer LOL. Sorry for my fault. I feel like a bit of an asshole. Anyway...shall we carry on?

Falling can be fun. I should know. I've been doing it for months.

There's a wild freedom in the descent—that gut-punch moment when your stomach drops and you're caught somewhere between jumping and landing. That's where I live now. Suspended, neither here nor there.

Maybe I should be more frightened. Perhaps I should claw desperately for something to hold on to. But there's something seductive about surrendering to gravity's pull, about letting go. I've found a strange high in the empty air where there's no room for pretending.

Just me, gravity, and the thought: what if I fall so far I never want to come back?

I down the rest of my drink. The  Hennessy burns a familiar path to my stomach. It'll hurt later. It always does. The doctors said something about IBD last month—prescribed medications I've been skipping in favor of more effective remedies. Like the soju that numbs everything quicker than any pill.

Fingers brush against mine as they slide another glass toward me. Our eyes meet, and I smile—the practiced pretty kind that leaves me empty inside. For tonight, I can almost believe this is enough. That warm skin against mine can overwrite memories of Yoongi's touch, the way his fingers used to trace patterns on my skin in the dark. That this could be real if I just convince myself hard enough. After all, I'm a master at crafting beautiful lies, especially the ones I tell myself. 

Like how I could have kept him if I'd just been different. 

Better. 

More.

I take a gulp. Another.

"Hey. Slow down," Sungho says, frowning with an assessing look, the bass from the club speakers vibrating through his words. "This won't be fun if you pass out."

I signal the bartender for another. "I'm celebrating."

"Really? You didn't mention any occasion?"

"I made it through another day." My giggle sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Isn't that good enough?"

He studies me with that calculating gaze that should send warning signals but instead feels like recognition. Like he sees the mess I've become and isn't looking away.

"You look tired," he observes, no judgment in his voice.

"I am." The admission slips out before I can catch it.

Yoongi's birthday is tomorrow. Of course I'm going to have to play along. I've got a reminder set to make a post. Caption it something forgettable. Choose the cute filter and add the right tags. Check the boxes. Act normal.

Whatever normal is.

I think I've got it down to a science now. How many seconds to keep my arm around his shoulders during group photos. How to laugh at his jokes. How to stand beside him on stage.

Sometimes it's even like it never happened. That I never knew how he tastes. How he looks when he shatters. Now he's just a member, another face in our choreography, a voice in the in-ear. Not the soundtrack to my life.

The fresh drink arrives, and I reach for it, but Sungho's hand covers mine. "Wanna go back to my place."

"I should probably head home." My response is measured, each word carefully annunciated. "We have schedules tomorrow. Important ones." 

“Come on. Don’t be boring.” His fingers tighten around mine. "Sleep over."

My phone buzzes. Another text. I glance down reflexively and freeze. Yoongi's name in the group chat sends a shock through my system, breaking through the alcohol haze.

"Manager-nim says we’ll be getting picked up at 10AM. Don't be late."

Direct. Professional. But I know it’s directed to me. I can feel it in my bones.

Something inside me snaps—a taut string finally breaking under too much tension. 

I shut off my phone completely and look up at Sungho, decision crystallizing with sudden clarity.

"Let's go," I say, my voice steadier than it had been all night. "Now."

The cab ride passes in silence, the city blurring outside windows fogged with our breath. Sungho's hand rests on my thigh, a casual claim staking that should bother me more than it does. I close my eyes against the swaying motion, against the nausea that's becoming my constant companion.

His apartment is exactly as I remember—sleek, modern, impersonal. The only difference is the absence of strawberries on the coffee table. Tonight, it's just bottles—better quality than what we were drinking at the bar, arranged like chess pieces waiting to be played.

"Make yourself comfortable," he says, shrugging off his jacket.

My body is rigid with tension—shoulders hunched slightly forward, arms crossed protectively over my chest, gaze darting around the room rather than settling on Sungho directly. I perch on the edge of his couch, taking up as little space as possible, muscles coiled tight enough to snap.

"You look like you might run any second," Sungho observes, sliding a drink into my tightly clenched hand.

The whiskey burns a path down my throat. With each swallow, I can feel something loosening in my chest. My shoulders drop incrementally. My spine curves as I lean back against the cushions, allowing myself to sink in rather than hover at the edge.

The ice in my second drink has completely melted when Sungho's fingers find the nape of my neck. The club music still pulses faintly in my ears, though we'd left it behind.

"You're thinking too much again," Sungho murmurs, closer now.

"Bad habit."

His breath ghosts across my ear. Outside, a siren wails briefly, then fades. The city never sleeps, and neither do my thoughts.

"That's better," he murmurs, noting the change in my posture. His fingers brush my neck, and instead of tensing, I tilt my head slightly, allowing better access.

Sungho's mouth crashes against mine with purpose—all hunger and demand. His hands grip my waist with enough force to leave marks, fingertips digging into flesh that Yoongi once treated like something precious.

The building's heating system clicks on, pushing warm air through vents. The mundane sound anchors me to reality even as sensation threatens to pull me under completely.

He kisses like he's claiming territory, like he's been waiting around for this moment and isn't about to waste it on tenderness. His tongue traces my bottom lip before he bites down hard enough to make me gasp. The pain blooms sharp and sweet.

When I grab his shirt, he presses me against the pillow. No asking permission, no hesitation. Just the solid weight of his body pinning me there while his mouth moves hot against my neck. This isn't about connection or emotion—this is pure want, stripped down to its barest elements.

He tastes expensive but kisses dirty. Each movement is deliberate, practiced. He knows exactly what he's doing when his hand slides up my thigh, when his teeth graze my collarbone. 

The bass from his neighbor's music provides a rhythm as clothing is discarded. Each article hitting the floor marks the passage of time better than any clock. Shirt. Watch. Belt. Pants. The progression of inevitability.

Where Yoongi's touches felt like questions, Sungho's feel like commands. When his fingers tangle in my hair and pull, there's nothing careful about it. Nothing sacred.

“You like this?” he grunts. “You want me?”

"Stop," I gasp. "Stop talking. Just—" Words fail me entirely, replaced by raw sounds of need.

I should push him away. Should maintain whatever fragile dignity I have left. Instead, I pull him closer. If I can't feel good, at least I can feel something.

He responds immediately, spreading me open. "Fuck, baby. Been waiting for this," he breathes against my neck. "You have no idea how long."

But I do. He’s been patient, persistent. A predator tracking wounded prey, knowing it's only a matter of time.

"I said don’t fucking speak," I breathe. I can't bear it.

He laughs against my lips, the sound dark with satisfaction. "Whatever you want, sexy."

What follows is nothing like what I shared with Yoongi. There's no tenderness when he prepares me, no whispered confessions, no careful exploration. Just need against need, hands grasping, breath catching, bodies connecting in the most basic way possible. It's brutal and honest—skin slapping against skin. The couch slams against the wall with each thrust, and I don't give a fuck who hears.

For a little while, it works. Time fragments into snapshots: The burn of stubble against my chest. The bitter taste of his tongue. The distant sound of laughter from the apartment next door. The sharp bite of pain when he pushes too deep too fast.

I close my eyes and let sensation wash over me, drowning out the thoughts that have been plaguing me for months. 

Every rough touch feels like erasure. Every hard kiss is a desperate attempt to scorch away memories of sweet ones. The throw blanket beneath us tangles up as we move like animals, raw and without grace. This isn't making love. This isn't even fucking. This is exorcism.

When my release comes, it's violent and hollow—a blinding moment of physical relief without satisfaction. I arch up, mouth open in a silent scream as my body convulses, fingers clutching at his arms like I might drown if I let go. And maybe I would.

It's only afterward, as sweat cools on my skin and the digital clock on his entertainment center blinks 3:42 AM, that reality begins to seep back in. The emptiness remains, temporarily disguised but fundamentally unchanged.

Sungho traces patterns around my left nipple, looking pleased with himself. "You're even better than I imagined," he says, voice rough. "And trust me, I imagined plenty."

I stare at the ceiling, counting the seconds between heartbeats. One, two, three, four. Alive, despite everything. Still here.

"You good?" he asks, propping himself up on one elbow to study my face.

"Fine."

"Liar." His smile turns knowing. "But that's okay. I'm going to win you over."

My stomach churns, alcohol and emotion creating a toxic cocktail. I sit up abruptly, fighting the wave of nausea that follows. "I need to go."

"Now?" His hand catches my wrist. "It's almost four. Stay. Sleep here. I can even go another round in the morning."

The thought of returning to the dorm—facing concerned glances, whispered conversations that stop when I enter—makes my chest tighten. What if he is still up. No. No. No. I can't face that. Not like this when another guy is imprinted inside me. "No. You're right. I can't go back."

I can never go back. Not after this. Not after tonight.

"Good." He pulls me back down beside him. "I'll take care of you."

Something in his tone makes me look at him more carefully. There's calculation there, certainly—Sungho does nothing without purpose—but also something that might be genuine care. Or a convincing approximation.

"Tell me the truth." I ask. "What do you want here?"

He laughs, the sound surprisingly honest. "Isn't it obvious? I want you. Have since the first second that I ever saw you perform."

"You barely know me."

"I know enough." His fingers thread through mine, an unexpectedly intimate gesture. "I know you're hurting. I know you're tired of pretending you're not. I know you need someone who won't treat you like you're made of glass."

Each observation lands like a precise blow, accurate enough to sting. "And you think that's you?"

"It could be," he says, expression suddenly serious. "If you'd let me."

The offer hangs between us—simple on the surface, complex beneath. What he's really offering isn't just his bed or his body, but a different way to fall. Controlled, deliberate. With someone who sees the cracks and isn't afraid of them.

"I'm not in a good place," I warn.

“Eh.” He shrugs. "Don't care."

"I'm still in love with someone else."

"I figured that too." His thumb traces now circles on my palm. "But he's not here, is he? I am."

The simplicity of it—the absolute lack of pressure or expectation—makes something release in my chest. Sungho isn't offering salvation or healing. Just company in the darkness. A hand to hold while falling.

"Come to bed," Sungho says again, not a request this time but not quite a demand either. Something in between. "Just tonight. See how it feels."

I should say no. Should gather my clothes. Should throw on a face mask and call a cab.

Instead, I nod, surrendering to gravity.

He pulls me closer, arm draping possessively around my waist. "Gonna take care of you," he repeats, lips brushing my temple.

Later, his breathing deepens beside me, and I realize with startling clarity that I've truly become someone new tonight—someone who chooses oblivion over healing, who seeks destruction instead of repair.

But there's a strange freedom to it all. The old Jimin had been exhausted from pretending, from maintaining the careful fiction that his heart wasn't shattered beyond recognition. At least this new version of me acknowledges the wreckage. Embraces it even.

I close my eyes, letting exhaustion pull me under. Tomorrow will bring consequences—physical, emotional, practical. Questions from members, more concerned glances and whispered consultations.

But that's tomorrow. Tonight, I'm tired of fighting gravity. Tired of being alone in the descent.

Sungho snores softly, his arm heavy across my body. Not comforting, exactly, but solid. Real. I turn toward him, burying my face against his chest, inhaling the unfamiliar scent of his skin.

This isn't love. It isn't even healing. It's just another form of falling—deliberate this time, eyes open, a swan dive rather than a stumble.

Falling can be fun, when you choose the direction. When you're too tired to care where you land.

Chapter 41: Shadow

Summary:

Back over to Yoongi's POV.

I didn't even know it was March until two days ago, and now somehow it's my birthday. The world probably thinks I'm off living some big fucking rockstar fantasy—champagne showers, endless parties, the whole cliché. But here's what it really looks like: me dragging my ass to the studio over and over, following a schedule someone else wrote. I traded the love of my life for what? A guaranteed career trajectory.

The alarm goes off too early like it always does. Another day older, another day deeper into this machine we built around ourselves. I stare at the ceiling for ten minutes, listening to the building wake up around me—footsteps in the hallway, water running through pipes, the distant hum of traffic already building toward rush hour chaos.

Twenty-seven. Christ. When did that happen?

Sure, I can go bigger now—we all can. Bigger house, bigger car, bigger rings... bigger emptiness.

There's this greedy shadow inside me that's always hungry for more, always whispering that the next level will fix everything. It won't. But that voice never shuts up, and neither does the part of me that knows exactly what I sacrificed to feed it. The shadow knows I could own every European watch, every pair of Air Jordans, every piece of top-line recording equipment and it won't come close to waking up next to Jimin. Won't replace the way he teased me when I was in a bad mood, or how he'd pull me close when I couldn't sleep.

The memories hit me like it always—sudden and sharp. Him curled against my chest after a particularly brutal practice, whispering sleepy confessions into my collarbone. The weight of his trust, the way he'd trace patterns on my skin while talking about our future. How he'd laugh at my terrible bed head and still kiss me like I was worth something.

But the shadow keeps pushing anyway, wearing my face and speaking for me. Sometimes I can't tell where I end and it begins.

I shuffle to the kitchen, muscle memory guiding me through the motions of making coffee. The group chat has been buzzing for the last hour. Happy birthday messages, plans for later, the usual choreographed celebration we'll perform for the cameras this afternoon. I scroll through with numb fingers, responding with appropriate emojis, playing along.

Namjoon sent a paragraph-long message about gratitude and growth. Hobi posted a series of photos from past birthdays, all wide smiles and careful staging. Jin made some dad joke that probably took him twenty minutes to perfect. Jungkook and Tae’s messages are brief but warm, and I can picture them typing while half-asleep, still in bed despite our early call time.

But there's one person who hasn't said anything. One name conspicuously absent.

I check the time again. 9:15 AM. Where is he? We're leaving in forty-five minutes.

He didn't come home last night.

The not-knowing is what kills me. 

"Hyung." Taehyung's voice is soft, careful. I didn’t hear him come in. He's watching me from the kitchen counter where he's nursing water—the freak doesn't touch coffee—and those sharp eyes miss nothing. "You okay?"

"Fine," I lie, because that's what I do now.

Fine. Like that means anything when your chest feels hollow and your hands shake every time you check your phone. 

Taehyung sets down his glass and moves to sit beside me. There's something about him—maybe the way he sees straight through people's bullshit—that makes facades pointless around him. Too perceptive for his own good, too willing to carry other people's pain.

"Hey, Happy birthday," he says quietly. No forced cheer. Just the words, simple and sincere. "I'm really glad you were born, hyung."

When was the last time someone said something like that to me? When was the last time I believed it myself?

"Thanks."

He's still watching me with that intense focus he gets sometimes, like he's trying to solve a puzzle. "He's not here yet."

It's not a question. Taehyung doesn't do questions when he already knows the answers.

"No," I admit. "He's not."

My phone sits heavy in my hands. I can't stop checking it. No new messages. No explanations. Just that growing certainty in my chest that something is very, very wrong. The photo from last night keep flashing through my mind—from social media. Jimin getting in another guy’s car, his new idol friend.

Friend.

Yeah. Right.

Taehyung shifts closer. "Should I call him?"

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "He'll show up. He saw the message to be here by 10."

But even as I say it, I'm not sure I believe it. Not after months of watching him spiral while I stood by, paralyzed by my own choices. 

The shadow part of my brain—the part that made the decision to end things—keeps reminding me this was necessary. That our careers, our group, our future was more important than whatever we had. That I was protecting us both from a scandal that could have destroyed everything we'd worked for.

But sitting here, waiting for him to come home, I can't remember why that felt right. Can't remember what future seemed worth sacrificing the person who made me want to have a future at all.

"Hyung." Taehyung's voice is even softer now, and when I look at him, there's something in his expression that makes my chest tight. Understanding. Sympathy. The kind that makes him dangerous to be around when you're trying to keep your shit together.

"I know," he says simply.

My blood turns to ice. "Know what?"

"That you miss him."

The words hang between us like a confession I never made. My mouth goes dry. For a moment, I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but stare at this kid who's supposed to be younger than me, supposed to be the one I protect, not the other way around.

"Tae—"

"I'm not going to say anything," he continues, cutting off whatever denial I was about to make. "It's not my business. But... you look like you're dying."

Fuck, maybe I am. 

"It's complicated," I manage.

"Love usually is."

The simple acknowledgment nearly breaks me. For months, I've been carrying this alone, pretending what we had was just a fling, something that ended naturally. But Taehyung sees it for what it was—love, messy and complicated and real. The kind of love that leaves scars when it's ripped away.

"I had to," I whisper. "For the group. For him. For—"

"For who?" Taehyung's eyes are steady, unflinching. "Because it doesn't look like it was for him."

The question cuts deeper than I expected. For who? For the managers who smiled too wide when they hinted at the risks? For the fans who would have felt betrayed by the truth? For some imaginary future version of ourselves that would thank me for making the hard choice?

Before I can respond, the front door opens. My heart leaps, expecting him, but it's just Namjoon, earbuds in, oblivious to the tension, carrying that same leather bag he's had since debut. Some things never change, even when everything else falls apart.

He pulls out his earbuds when he sees us. "Morning. Ready for another year of being ancient, hyung?"

I force a smile. "Hilarious."

But Namjoon's expression shifts as he takes in the scene—me tense on the couch, Taehyung sitting close with that protective look he gets. Namjoon's always been good at reading a room, at sensing when something's off-balance. It's what makes him a good leader and a dangerous person to have around when you're trying to hide.

"Everything okay?"

"Fine.” I’ve got it on autopilot.

I’m so fine. We’re so fine. So fucking fine. The word has lost all meaning at this point, become nothing more than a reflex. A way to end conversations before they can begin.

Taehyung doesn't contradict me, but he doesn't agree either. He just reaches over and squeezes my shoulder, a silent reminder that I'm not as alone as I feel.

My phone buzzes. For a split second, hope flares, but it's just another notification. A fan account posting about last night's sighting. My stomach drops as I remember the grainy photo—him getting into a car with someone who isn't me, laughing at something someone else said, looking almost like his old self except for the emptiness behind his eyes.

Taehyung must see something in my face because his grip tightens. "Whatever you're looking at, stop."

"I can't."

It's pathetic, this compulsion to torture myself with evidence of his life without me. But I can't seem to stop searching for proof that he's better off without me.

"You can." His voice has that quiet authority that reminds me he's not as young as he looks. "You're torturing yourself, and it's not helping anyone."

He's right. Of course he's right. But knowing that doesn't make it easier to put the phone down, doesn't make the need to know disappear.

The door opens again, and this time my heart stops completely.

Jimin looks like he hasn't slept, like he's been running on nothing but alcohol and regret. His clothes are wrinkled—clearly the same ones from last night—and when he finally looks up, his eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. Empty in a way that makes my chest ache.

This is what my choice has created. This hollow version of the person who used to light up every room he entered. The weight of that realization is crushing.

"Sorry," he says to the room in general, not meeting anyone's gaze. His voice sounds scraped raw. "Lost track of time."

Namjoon checks his watch. "We've got three minutes. You might want to—"

"Let's go." Jimin's voice is flat, dead.

He turns to leave, but not before our eyes meet for just a moment. In that split second, I see everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the way he's barely holding himself together. And underneath it all, something that might be an apology. Or an accusation.

He disappears into his room and my phone buzzes one more time. A simple message that makes my heart stop:

Happy birthday, hyung.

I stare at the text, thumb hovering over the keyboard. There are a thousand responses I could give. A thousand questions I want to ask. A thousand apologies I need to make.

Instead, I type back: Thank you.

Because sometimes the distance between what we want to say and what we can say is too vast to bridge with words. Sometimes all we can do is acknowledge the space between us and try not to drown in it.

Taehyung stands, offering me his hand. "Time to go pretend everything's normal."

I take his hand and let him pull me up, grateful for the steady presence beside me. As we head toward the door, he leans close and whispers, "For what it's worth, I think you're both idiots."

It's not comfort, exactly. But somehow, it's exactly what I need to hear.

The cake appears that evening right on schedule. For once, it's not Jimin who brings it in. Taehyung carries it like he's delivering a prop for a stage production—which, in a way, he is. The whole setup designed for optimal camera angles.

"Make a wish," he says, and I can hear the gentle mockery in his voice. We both know this is performance, but he plays his part anyway.

I close my eyes and make the same wish I've been making all day. When I open them, the first person I see is Jimin—standing at the very edge of the frame like he's trying to disappear. He's smiling for the cameras, but it doesn't reach his eyes. The shadow has him too, I realize. We're both being devoured by the same hungry thing, just from different angles.

Later, my live stream goes well. Numbers are good, comments flowing. It feels normal, and that's weird. That I can have an entire birthday without really talking to the person who used to know me better than I knew myself.

I'm scrolling through fan reactions when my phone rings.

Unknown number.

I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over the decline button. We've been trained not to answer unknown calls. Too many sasaengs, too many reporters. But something makes me hesitate.

What if it's him? What if he got a new number, what if—

I swipe to answer before I can talk myself out of it. "Hello?"

"Is this... is this Min Yoongi?" The voice is unfamiliar—an older woman, breathless and shaking.

My blood turns to ice. No one should have this number except family and the company. "Who is this?"

"This is... goodness, I'm sorry to call like this but I didn't know... you remember Seojun, right? From Daegu? He was a trainee with you?"

The name hits me like a physical blow. Seojun. My first love, though he never knew. The one who left the company saying he'd never play the idol game.

"Seojun's mom?"

"Yes, yes." Her voice cracks. "Yoongi, I'm so sorry but I didn't know who else... he's in trouble. Bad trouble."

"What happened?"

"They arrested him. Drugs, they said. He gets out tomorrow but he's... he's not the same boy, Yoongi. He won't talk to me, won't listen. But maybe you..."

I close my eyes. The shadow feeds on this too—on guilt, on the weight of all the people I've failed to save.

"Send me the details," I tell her. "I'll be there."

"Really?" The hope in her voice is devastating. "Oh, thank you. I knew you wouldn't forget him completely."

But I had forgotten. I'd let Seojun fade into the background of my new life, another ghost haunting the edges of my success.

After I hang up, I sit in the silence of my studio, staring at my phone. Another year around the sun, and this is what I have to show for it—my first love in jail, my true love spiraling, and the growing certainty that every choice I've made has been touched by the same hungry shadow.

I pull up Jimin's contact, finger hovering over the call button. There are things I need to say. Apologies I need to make. Truths I need to confess.

But in the end, I put the phone down. Because some distances are too vast to bridge with a phone call. Some damage runs too deep for words.

Instead, I sit in the dark and let my shadow have its feast.

Chapter 42: Eight Months Later

Notes:

Time jump. Shifts emerging. Still Yoongi POV

"So, how was your week?" Dr. Kim asks, settling into her high-backed leather chair with that same patient expression she's worn for the past six months.

Her office sits on the fifteenth floor of a sleek building in Hannam, all floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a sweeping view of the Han River below. It's the kind of place that screams expensive discretion—the type of practice that caters to people who need their problems handled quietly. The waiting room had been empty when I arrived, as always. Dr. Kim schedules me as her last appointment of the day, ensuring I never have to worry about running into other patients.

The space itself still feels foreign to me—too bright, too warm, too full of plants that somehow manage to thrive despite being so far above the ground. A small water feature gurgles softly in the corner. The couch I'm sitting on probably costs more than most people's cars, positioned to catch the natural light streaming in from those massive windows.

I shift uncomfortably, still unable to fully relax in this space that's supposed to feel welcoming but mostly just reminds me I'm paying someone to listen to my problems. "Fine."

She raises an eyebrow. We've been through this dance enough times that she knows my repertoire of deflections by heart. "Yoongi."

"Sorry." I run a hand through my hair and focus. "It was... difficult. But I stayed present for most of it."

"That's progress," she says, and I can hear the genuine warmth in her voice. It still catches me off guard, the way she celebrates these tiny victories like they actually matter. "Tell me about the difficult parts."

I stare at the small sculpture on her desk—a bronze lotus that’s supposed to represent thriving in difficult circumstances or whatever. 

"The group had a photoshoot. Fashion magazine, winter concept." I pause, trying to find the words. "Jimin was... he looked tired. More than usual. And I wanted to ask if he was okay, but—"

"But?"

"But we don't do that anymore. Ask about each other, I mean. Not like we used to."

Dr. Kim nods, her expression thoughtful. "How has it been, seeing him with Sungho?"

The directness of the question catches me off guard. We've danced around Jimin's relationship, but she's never named it so explicitly before.

I almost answer “I don’t know” but pause, chewing the inside of my cheek. "I don’t like the guy.”

She tilts her head slightly, flipping back in her notes. "You said he was someone who 'throws money around like confetti.' Your words."

Right. I'd forgotten about that particular moment of bitterness.

"It's been... complicated," I admit. "Watching Jiminnie with someone else. Someone who can give him things I didn’t."

"What kinds of things?"

"Attention. Trips places around the world. The ability to exist together without constantly looking over our shoulders." I close my eyes for a few seconds. "Sungho is more reckless.”

"And you think that's what Jimin needs?"

"No. But I think Jimin deserves to feel chosen. Openly, obviously chosen. Not hidden away like some dirty secret."

Dr. Kim is quiet for a moment, waiting for me to continue. She's good at that—creating space for words I'm not sure I want to say.

"It's been almost a year," I continue, the admission feeling like pulling teeth. "Since I ended things, and I still..." I trail off, frustrated with myself.

"Love him."

The words hang in the air between us, competing with the soft sound of water trickling in the corner. Even after all these sessions, hearing it said out loud makes my chest tight. "Yes."

"And how does that feel?"

"Fucked up," I say honestly. "Like I'm stuck in this loop where I can't move forward but I can't go back either. Like I'm watching my life happen to someone else."

She leans forward slightly. "We've talked about your attachment style before. The way you tend to create distance when you feel vulnerable. Do you think that might be happening here?"

I hate that she's right. Hate that she can see through my bullshit with the same ease as the members, but with professional training backing it up.

"Maybe," I admit. "Probably. I don't know how to stop it."

"Awareness is the first step," she says. "You're recognizing the pattern. That's significant."

Significant. Like I deserve a medal for basic self-awareness.

"I went to see Seojun last month," I say, changing the subject because talking about Jimin feels like picking at a wound that won't heal.

Her expression shifts, becoming more alert. We've talked about Seojun before—the old trainee friend from Daegu, the phone call on my birthday, the guilt that's been eating at me for months.

"How did that go?"

"Terrible." The word comes out flat, matter-of-fact. "He's... he's not the person I remember. The drugs, the arrests, all of it. He's angry. Really angry. And he has every right to be."

"Angry at who?"

"At me. At the industry. At everyone who made it and left him behind." I lean back, feeling the familiar weight of failure settling on my chest. "He said I was a coward for playing the game. Loves saying that I sold out everything we used to believe in."

"Do you think he's right?"

"I don't know." The uncertainty is worse than guilt sometimes. At least guilt has clarity. "Maybe. I mean, look at my life. Look at what I've become."

"What have you become?"

I gesture vaguely at myself, then at the expensive office around us. "This. Someone who chose career over love. Someone who lets friends fall through the cracks. Someone who sits in therapy in Hannam-dong trying to figure out why he feels empty despite having everything he thought he wanted."

Dr. Kim is quiet for a moment, and I can see her choosing her words carefully. "Yoongi, you came to see me six months ago because you were having panic attacks. You weren't sleeping. You told me you felt like you were 'disappearing into yourself.' Do you remember that?"

I do. 

That first session, when I could barely string two sentences together without my hands shaking, when the view from her windows felt more like a cage than a privilege.

"And now?"

"I feel like shit, but at least I know why."

She actually smiles at that. "Progress isn't linear. And it's not about feeling good all the time. It's about building capacity to feel difficult things without drowning in them."

"I'm still drowning," I point out.

"But you're also here. Talking about it. That's not drowning—that's swimming."

The metaphor is too optimistic for my current mood, but I don't argue. She's probably right, which is annoying.

"Tell me about the fame," she says, switching tracks. "How has that been feeling lately?"

I consider the question. This is newer territory for us—learning to examine the way celebrity sits on me like an ill-fitting coat.

"Different," I say slowly. "Still fucked up, but... I don't know. I'm trying to see it more clearly. Like, I used to think I was either the worst person in the world or completely worthless. Now I'm starting to think maybe I'm just... complicated."

"Most people are."

"Yeah, but most people don't have millions of strangers forming opinions about their complications."

She nods. "That's a unique burden. How are you managing it?"

"I'm trying to separate what I actually think about myself from what I think other people think about me. It's harder than it sounds."

"It's some of the hardest work there is," she agrees. "What's been helping?"

"Honestly? Avoiding social media helps. Not reading comments. Not googling myself. Basic shit that I probably should have figured out years ago."

"And when you slip up?"

"I call someone." The admission comes easier now. "Hobi's good at snapping me out of spirals. Jin makes me laugh until I forget why I was upset. Namjoon reminds me that most of what I'm worried about isn't actually real."

"You have a strong support system."

The praise makes me uncomfortable, but I'm trying to sit with it instead of deflecting. Another thing she's been working on with me—accepting that I might occasionally do something right.

"Can I ask you something?" I say.

"Of course."

"Do you think I'm selfish? For ending things with Jimin but still... still wanting him to be okay?"

She considers this, tilting her head slightly. "What do you think?"

"I think I'm a coward who makes decisions based on fear and then tortures himself about it afterward."

"That's very harsh."

"But is it wrong?"

"I think," she says carefully, "that you made a decision you believed was right at the time, with the information and emotional resources you had available. I think you're human, which means you're imperfect. And I think the fact that you still care about his wellbeing says something important about who you are."

I want to argue with her, to insist that caring doesn't matter if it doesn't translate to action. But I'm tired of arguing with every positive thing anyone says about me.

"I don’t know if he really does seem happy with Sungho," I say instead. 

"How does that make you feel?"

"Like I'm watching him get used." The words come out sharper than I intended. "That guy, he's... he has a reputation. And Jimin, he's not... he doesn't see it coming."

"Or he does see it and he's making his own choices."

I don't like that possibility. It's easier to worry about him being naive than to accept that he might be choosing messiness over loneliness.

"There have been others too," I continue. "Random hookups. I don't go looking for information, but our world is small. Word gets around."

"And?"

"And it feels like he's trying to erase what we had. Like he's proving to himself that it didn't matter."

"What if he's just trying to move on?"

"By sleeping with half of Seoul?"

Dr. Kim gives me a look. "Yoongi."

"Sorry. That was... judgmental." I pause, then add more quietly, "Things have been better between us lately, actually. More... normal. New Zealand wasn't terrible. I think I'm doing a better job of showing up, being friendly. Not making everything weird."

"That sounds like progress."

"Maybe. I just... I see him laughing with Sungho, and I remember when he used to laugh like that with me. Before I got so caught up in protecting us that I forgot to actually be with him. I should probably go," I say, checking my watch. "Session's almost over anyway."

"Same time next week?"

"It has to be the week after–we have our final stadium dates then, sorry."

“How does it feel to be done with the tour finally?”

“Like I have a million other things to get to.” My music. Our next album. The discussions about the next tour.

I gather my things—phone, keys, the spiral-bound notebook she encouraged me to keep where I write down thoughts that feel too big for my head. I've been filling it more lately, which feels like progress, even if most of what I write is questions I can't answer.

"Yoongi?" she calls as I reach the door.

"Yeah?"

"Earlier you asked if I think you're selfish. I think you're someone who's learning to live with complexity. That's not the same thing."

I nod, not trusting myself to respond, and step out into the hallway with its muted lighting and expensive carpet that muffles every footstep.

The elevator ride down feels like decompression, fifteen floors of space between the careful safety of Dr. Kim's office and the real world waiting below. By the time I reach street level, Seoul has shifted into evening mode—neon signs beginning to flicker to life, the river reflecting the first lights of the night.

The walk back to my apartment usually takes twenty minutes, but today I take the long way, winding through side streets and past small parks. It's fall now, and the air has that crisp quality that makes everything feel more real, more immediate.

I'm thinking about what Dr. Kim said—about living with complexity—when I hear it. A small, pitiful mewing coming from the alley beside a convenience store.

I should keep walking. I have enough complications in my life. But something makes me stop, makes me peer into the shadows between buildings.

There, crouched beside a dumpster, is the smallest black cat I've ever seen. It can't be more than a few months old, all bones and matted fur and eyes too big for its face. When it sees me, it doesn't run. Instead, it sits down and looks at me with an expression that seems to say, "Well? Are you going to help me or not?"

"Shit," I mutter.

I crouch down, extending my hand slowly. The cat sniffs my fingers, then, to my surprise, bumps its head against my palm. It's purring—this tiny, ridiculous sound that seems too big for such a small creature.

"I can't take you home," I tell it. "I can barely take care of myself."

The cat responds by walking over and sitting directly on my foot.

"You're not making this easy."

I look around the alley. It's getting colder, and this little thing won't survive long on its own. There's a veterinary clinic a few blocks away. I could take it there, let them handle it. That would be the responsible thing to do.

Instead, I find myself scooping the cat up in my jacket. It settles against my chest immediately, purring like a tiny engine.

"This is temporary," I tell it. "Just until I figure out what to do with you."

But even as I say it, I know I'm lying. There's something about the way it looks at me—trusting, expectant, like it's been waiting for me specifically. Like it knows something I don't.

The walk home passes in a blur. I stop at a store for cat food and a small litter box, feeling ridiculous and overwhelmed and oddly hopeful all at once. The cashier doesn't comment on the small black head poking out of my jacket, though I catch her smiling.

Back in my apartment, I set up a makeshift bed in the corner of my bedroom and watch as the cat immediately claims it as its own. It eats the food I put down with single-minded determination, then begins what appears to be an elaborate grooming ritual.

I settle onto my bed—the one I actually sleep in now, instead of crashing at the dorms more nights than not—and watch this tiny creature that somehow chose me. The cat finishes cleaning itself and then does something that makes my chest tight with unexpected emotion: it looks directly at me and starts purring again, loud enough that I can hear it from across the room.

"Come here," I say softly, patting the comforter beside me.

To my surprise, the cat trots over immediately, scrambles up onto the bed with the determination and settles into the crook of my arm like it belongs there. The purring intensifies, a vibration against my ribs that I can feel more than hear.

I run one finger along its tiny head, amazed by how soft the fur is once it's been cleaned. The cat closes its eyes and leans into the touch, and something in my chest that's been clenched tight for months finally begins to loosen.

"Why are you so small," I mutter. It can't weigh more than a pound, all delicate bones and oversized ears. "And why can I already tell you that you're definitely going to be trouble."

The cat responds by climbing onto my chest and settling there like I'm the most comfortable pillow in the world. Its tiny paws knead against my shirt, and I realize I'm smiling—actually smiling.

"Fine," I whisper, scratching behind its ears. "You win. You're definitely staying."

The cat purrs louder, if that's possible, and bumps its head against my chin in what feels like agreement. We stay like that as the sun sets completely, this small warm weight on my chest anchoring me to the present moment in a way I haven't felt in months.

When was the last time I felt that kind of trust? When was the last time I let myself relax completely?

My phone buzzes. A text from Taehyung: "How was therapy?"

Instead of my usual deflection, I find myself typing: "Good. I think I just adopted a cat."

The response comes immediately: "PHOTOS. NOW."

I take a picture of the sleeping cat and send it. Within seconds, my phone is ringing.

"Hyung," Taehyung's voice is bright with excitement, but there's another voice in the background. "Oh my god, it's so tiny. What's its name?"

"Yoooooongi!" comes a deep, exaggerated voice through the speaker, and I can't help but smile.

"Hi, Jungkook."

"Hyung, you got a cat!" Jungkook announces, his voice getting clearer as Taehyung apparently puts the phone on speaker. "This is the best day ever. Can we come over? Please? I want to meet it."

"I literally just found it an hour ago," I protest. "I don't even know if it's healthy yet."

"But it chose you," Taehyung says, his voice warm with certainty. "Look at how comfortable it is already. You're going to be such a good cat dad."

"You think so?"

"I know so," comes Jungkook's voice, matter-of-fact in the way only he can manage. "You take care of people without even realizing it. This is just... smaller and furrier."

"And probably less dramatic," Taehyung adds, making Jungkook laugh in the background.

After we hang up, I return to find the cat has relocated to my pillow, curled up in a perfect circle with its tail wrapped around itself like a tiny black donut. I lie down carefully, not wanting to disturb it, but the cat immediately uncurls and climbs onto my chest again, as if that's where it's decided it belongs.

"You're going to be spoiled," I tell it, gently stroking its back. The cat stretches, tiny paws reaching toward my face, and I let it bat playfully at my finger. Its movements are so small and precise, like it's performing some intricate dance just for me.

I pull out my phone and take another photo—this one of the cat's tiny paw wrapped around my finger—and send it to the group chat. The responses come flooding in immediately: heart emojis from Jin, excited keyboard smashing from Hobi, and a string of "BABY!!!!" from Taehyung.

But it's Namjoon's response that makes me pause: "Looks like you both found what you needed."

Maybe we did.

The cat settles back down, this time sprawling across my chest like it owns me completely. Its purrs have shifted to a softer, sleepier rhythm, and I find myself matching my breathing to the rise and fall of its tiny body.

There's something about its presence that makes the apartment feel different—less empty, more like a home than a place I happen to exist. For the first time in months, I'm not thinking about Jimin or fame or all the ways I've failed. I'm just here, in this moment, responsible for this small life that appeared in my path like an answer to a question I didn't know I was asking.

Maybe Dr. Kim is right. Maybe this is what swimming looks like—not the absence of drowning, but the presence of something worth staying afloat for.

I pull out my notebook and write: "Day 1 with the cat. Still don't know what I'm doing, but for once, that feels okay."

Outside, Seoul hums with its usual chaos. But in here, for now, there's peace and purring. Small and fragile and real.

It's enough. For today, it's enough.

Chapter 43: What We Don't Name

Summary:

Jimin POV

We aren't fully out of the woods, but it's not going to be as dark and dreary going forward. Ready for that? I know I am.

Notes:

Hi...I'm back! I said I wouldn't abandon this fic and I'm not.

I've been traveling in Korea for a month. Sorry I didn't write while I was gone, but I did see HOTS Encore 1&2 and Jin! Plus, the members are all free. An OT7 album is coming. Life is good, ya'll.

My phone won't shut up tonight. Another Kakao notification chirps against the kitchen counter, persistent and unwelcome as a mosquito. I don't need to look to know if it's Sungho again—drunk and no doubt angry about something I probably didn't even do. The masquerade mask has slipped off, revealing what always lurked underneath his charming exterior–behavior that’s no longer possible to ignore or excuse. I keep stirring my honey citron tea in slow circles, watching the golden swirls fade away to pretty nothings.

Where the hell are you? Don't pretend you're not seeing this

Who are you with? Answer me right fucking now

Think you're better than me? You’re nothing

I flip the phone face down and take a careful sip of the bitter-sweet liquid, letting my eyes close for just a moment. The tour is finally over, and all I feel is hollow. This year has been one long spiral of hotel rooms and bathroom stalls, of letting strangers use me because at least then I know what I'm worth. A carnival attraction, something to be consumed and discarded—the pretty boy who dances for coins and vanishes when the curtain falls. At least the transaction is honest. At least I know my place in their circus.

It was Sungho—mostly. The way his hands felt like ownership, fingers digging into my hipbones, the top of my head hitting the wall while I counted the rotations of his ceiling fan. But there was also the photographer in Berlin who fucked me against a bathroom mirror while I stared at my own face. That dancer in LA whose name I never learned because names make things real and I needed it to be nothing—just sweat and my knees burning against the hotel carpet. The actress at the afterparty in London who tasted like cigarettes and bit my chest hard enough to draw blood.

How do you love yourself when you don't even know who you are anymore?

My phone buzzes again. This time I do look.

Fucking coward.

I snort. Sungho might be wrong about a lot–but not that. I've avoided this conversation for weeks, put off ending this stupid situationship once and for all. And for no good reason. Because I'm tired of the way I keep going back to him—to the way he makes me feel wanted and small at the same time, to the familiar toxic ache of something that hurts just enough to distract from the deeper hurt. The hurt that comes from everyone who touches me who isn't him.

Yoongi.

The name appears before me like something fragile. The one person I want, the one person I can't have, the one person who would never look at me like I'm something to be monitored and managed. Or a notch on the belt, a story, a conquest.

The tea is getting cold, but my hands shake too much to drink it. Here I am, standing in the dorm kitchen with a phone full of poison, and I can't bring myself to lie anymore. Tomorrow’s another busy schedule. In a few hours, I'll have to be Park Jimin again—the one who dances like he's made of silk and starlight, who smiles pretty for the cameras, who never lets anyone see the cracks spreading through his perfect facade.

All those faces in the stadiums blur together in my mind. ARMY holding up their phones, tears streaming when we sing about loving yourself. If they only knew—their idol collects strangers like souvenirs, desperate for something, anything to fill the void. Every time I tell them they're enough, the words taste like lies. I'm really begging them to tell me the same thing, but they can't hear me through their worship.

I toss the mug in the sink, watching my reflection fragment on the chrome surface.Some people don't have happy endings. Some nights, you just have to survive until morning and hope tomorrow's mask fits better than today's.

I turn to leave, but something about the abandoned mug pulls me back. It sits there like an accusation—another mess I've left behind.

I turn back and wash it properly—soap, warm water, working carefully around the rim where my lips found that bitter sweetness. It's such a small act, but when I place it clean in the drying rack, something shifts inside me. I've done something right. Something useful. 

My phone buzzes again. This time I pick it up without the familiar dread creeping up my spine. I don't even read his words—just delete them. If I can wash one mug clean, maybe I can wash my hands of him too.

I'm done, I type. We're done. Don't contact me again.

My finger hovers over the send button for a moment before I press it. Then I block his number before he can respond, before I can change my mind, before I can fall back into the familiar cycle of hurt and apology.

And now I need a shower. I need to wash today off my skin, wash off this year if I can manage it.

The hot water feels like absolution, steam rising around me like prayers I don't know how to utter. I stay under the spray until my skin is pink and clean, until I remember vaguely what it feels like to take care of myself instead of just using myself up.

When I finally step out, wrapping a towel around my waist, I can hear Jin's laugh echoing from somewhere down the hall—probably winning his game again. The sound is warm and familiar, a reminder that life doesn’t have to be hard or ugly.

I open the bathroom door and nearly trip over something small and dark.

A cat. A tiny black cat with bright green eyes, sitting primly in the hallway like he owns the place.

"Hello," I breathe, startled but somehow charmed. The cat blinks up at me slowly, and I can't help but smile—the first real one I've felt in weeks.

I scoop him up, and he immediately starts purring, a sound like a small engine of contentment. His fur is impossibly soft, and he nuzzles against my chest like he's known me forever.

"Oh, hey. Sorry, guess he got out."

I look up to see Yoongi emerging from his room, hair messy, wearing an old Epik High concert t-shirt and looking more relaxed than I've seen him in months.

"This is yours?" I ask, surprised. Yoongi with a cat—somehow it makes perfect sense and no sense at all.

"Mine? I mean, I dunno. I just found him last night." Yoongi says, running a hand through his hair. "Wasn't sure if I was going to keep him, but..." He trails off, watching the way the cat has settled completely into my arms, purring like he's found his favorite person. "Yeah, okay, I guess he’s mine. It’s pretty clear he's staying."

"What's his name?"

"Don't have one yet. I just call him Cat."

I look down at the small creature in my arms, at his perfect black fur and bright curious eyes. "Well, he needs a proper name," I say softly. "You know, in The Little Prince, the fox says that naming something makes it yours. Makes it real." I stroke the cat's head, and he purrs louder.

What had we ever named ourselves, I wonder. What Yoongi and I had between us—was that why it never felt quite real? 

"So what should we call him?" Yoongi asks quietly, and there's something careful in his voice, like he's not sure if this is allowed.

I study the cat's face, the way he looks up at me with complete trust. "What about Byeoli? Star. He showed up in the night for both of us, like maybe he knew we needed him."

"Byeoli," Yoongi repeats, testing the name. Then, more hesitantly, "We?"

The question hangs between us, awkward and loaded. I feel heat creep up my neck. "I mean—you. He knew you needed him. Obviously."

"Right." Yoongi clears his throat, looking anywhere but at me. "Obviously."

The silence stretches uncomfortably until Byeoli—not just Cat anymore, but Star, someone real and named—starts purring so loudly it sounds like a tiny motorcycle.

"Jesus, he's loud," I say, grateful for the distraction.

"Tell me about it. Little bastard has no volume control." But there's affection in his voice.

"Like father, like son."

"Wah. You calling me loud?"

"More like sometimes you don’t know when to shut up," I say, and we're almost-laughing now. It’s the back and forth we have been doing for the cameras more and more again, but now it’s just for us.

And I missed it. I missed it so much.

"Funny, coming from you."

I round my lips in mock offense. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You sleep-talk. Loudly."

"No way. I do not."

"You had an entire conversation about kimchi on the plane last week. Hobi filmed you until he got bored."

"That's a dirty lie." But Byeoli interrupts by reaching up to pat my mouth with his tiny paw.

"See? Even Byeoli thinks you're full of it," Yoongi says, using the name like it's always belonged to the cat.

"Traitor," I mutter into his fur. The cat just purrs louder and headbutts my chin.

"Nah, he likes you. He has good taste," Yoongi says, and there's something softer in his voice now, something that makes me glance up and meet his eyes.

We stand there like that for a moment, just looking at each other. I'm suddenly aware that I'm standing in a hallway in nothing but a towel, holding his cat, and this is probably the most domestically intimate we've been since... well, since everything fell apart.

"You look tired.” There’s  genuine concern in his voice that makes my chest tighten.

"Thanks. Way to make me feel hot," I deflect, but there's no real bite to it.

"I didn't mean—" He stops, runs a hand through his already messy hair. "You just... when was the last time you slept? Like, really actually slept?"

The question catches me off guard. When was the last time? I try to remember a night that wasn't filled with tossing and turning, or passing out drunk only to wake up more tired than before.

"I sleep," I say, but we both know it's not really an answer.

"Jiminnie." The careful way he says my name makes me want to cry. "You know you can... if you need to talk to someone..."

"I'm fine," I say automatically, the words as empty as they always are.

He takes a small step closer, and I catch the faint woodsy spice of his cologne, the same one he's used for years. 

I refuse to breathe deeper. 

"Because you don't look fine,” he pushed. “You look like you're drowning."

I want to laugh it off, but it comes out more like a sob that’s lost its way. "Dramatic much?”

"I’m serious.” The teasing is completely gone now. "And I don't know... I don't know how to help."

The admission hangs between us, raw and honest. Byeoli seems to sense the mood shift because he nuzzles deeper into my arms, a small anchor of warmth.

"You can't.” The truth of it tastes bitter. "No one can."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" And for a moment I let him see it—all of it. The emptiness, the self-destruction, the way I've been erasing myself one bad decision at a time. "Look at me, Yoongi. Really look. I'm a fucking mess."

He does look. Really looks. His eyes trace my face like he's memorizing it, taking in the dark circles that haunt beneath my eyes, the way my cheekbones are too sharp, the general air of exhaustion that I carry like a second skin.

"I’ve always seen you.” His voice is so quiet I almost miss it. 

The words hit me like a physical blow. Because he has, hasn't he? Even when I was pushing everyone away, even when I hated him, even when he deserved every ounce of my anger–Yoongi was always there, watching from the periphery with those careful eyes.

"Why?" I hate how small my voice sounds.

"Why what?"

"After everything...why do you care? After you…" I trail off, unable to finish the sentence. After you broke us. After you chose our career over what we were building together without ever talking to me.

Something pained pinches his features. He knows exactly what I'm not saying.

"Jimin—"

"No, it's fine," I say quickly, trying to step back but there's nowhere to go in the narrow hallway. Byeoli mews softly, wriggles, sensing the tension. "We don't have to do this."

"I disagree. Maybe we do.” And there's something different in his voice. More careful. 

I want to laugh bitterly, throw something in his face that’s hot and acidic, lash out and hurt. But something honest in his tone stops me. Instead, I just arch a brow. 

He runs a hand through his hair, and I can see him choosing his words carefully. "I've been... working on some things. About how I handle... difficult emotions. About how I make decisions when I'm scared."

This catches me off guard. Yoongi talking about emotions, about being scared, about working on himself—it's not like him. Or at least, not like the him I knew.

"Working on things how?" I ask, genuinely curious despite myself.

"Therapy," he says simply, and this time both of my eyebrows shoot up. "I know, I know. Never thought I'd be the type either."

I'm quiet for a moment, processing this. Yoongi, who used to bottle everything up until he exploded or shut down completely, in therapy. "When did you start?"

"Awhile  ago. The other members know, but you and I haven't had a chance to you know, talk much." He looks down at his hands, cracks a knuckle. "After I realized that the way I ended things... it wasn't just about protecting us, or the group. It was about me being terrified of losing control, of letting fears get the better of everything."

The admission hangs between us, and I don't know what to do with it. Part of me wants to ask more, wants to understand, but another part of me is still too raw, too angry.

"I'm not asking you to forgive me," Yoongi continues, his voice steady but soft. "I'm not even asking you to understand. I just... I've been learning about how I push people away when things get complicated. And I'm starting to see how much damage that's done."

"To who?" I ask, though I think I know the answer.

"To you," he says simply. "To us. To myself."

Byeoli chooses that moment to stretch in my arms, his tiny claws gently kneading against my chest. The small movement grounds me, reminds me that we're standing in a hallway at talking about things we've never been able to say before.

"I don't know what to do with that," I admit quietly.

"You don't have to do anything with it," Yoongi says, with a small wobble to the end of the sentence. "I just needed you to know that I'm... trying to figure out how to be better. How to not hurt the people I care about just because I'm afraid."

This particular note of vulnerability in his voice is not something I've heard before, and it does strange things to my chest. This isn't the Yoongi who retreated inward to make cold, logical decisions. This is someone who's been looking at himself, really looking, and doesn't like what he's found.

The moment flickers between us like candlelight, warm and wavering. His cat purrs against my chest, a steady vibration that feels like contentment made audible. We don't move, as if the smallest shift could make it all disappear.

"I should..." Yoongi starts, then trails off, glancing toward his room. He’s rubbing his stomach, a nervous tell. 

"Yeah," I say quietly. "Me too."

But we don't move. I keep stroking behind Byeoli's ears, and Yoongi just stands there, both of us drinking in this moment. The hallway feels different—warmer in the lamplight, like we've found some pocket of unexpected peace where we don't have to carry all the complicated stuff between us.

"Jimin." My name sounds different in his mouth. Careful. Real.

I don’t know if I should like hearing him say my name as much as I am. "Yeah?"

He opens his mouth like he's going to utter something important, then seems to think better of it. "Just... goodnight."

I want to ask him to stay. I want to ask what he was really going to say. I want to ask if we can ever name this thing between us too, ever make it real the way we just made Byeoli real. Instead, I carefully transfer the cat back to his arms, our fingers brushing for just a moment.

"Goodnight, Hyung," I whisper. "Goodnight, Little Star."

He disappears back into his room with a soft click of the door. I stand there for a long moment, looking at the space where they were, feeling something that's not quite sadness and not quite hope.

There's a knot in my chest that's been there so long I forgot it wasn't supposed to be there. But holding Byeoli, watching Yoongi say the name we chose together like it's already been true forever—something shifts. Not fixed, not healed, just... different.

Maybe we don't have to be what we were before. Maybe it's not about grand gestures or perfect confessions. Maybe it's just the weight of a purring cat in your arms or standing in a hallway in your towel, vulnerable and remembering what it feels like to want to stay instead of run. Maybe it's learning that some moments can hold possibility without demanding answers. That some connections can exist in the space between what was and what might be, delicate and undefined.

Suddenly, tonight feels different. Not as broken but not better, definitely not fixed, just... different.

And I think that's all I can handle right now.

Chapter 44: Shadow Pt. 2

Summary:

Jimin POV

The text comes at 10:03 AM, jarring me awake from the kind of sleep that feels more like unconsciousness than rest.

Shadow MV shoot today. New song for the album.

That's it. No context, no invitation, just information delivered in that sparing economical way that's so distinctly Min Yoongi. I stare at the screen until the words blur, my brain still foggy.

O-kay. Why…is he telling me this?

I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes, and read the message again. It was sent to just me—not the group chat, not multiple recipients. Just Park Jimin, 10:03 AM.

I drop the phone to my lap and stare blankly across the room at Hobi’s bed, already empty and neatly made.

Just me.

But that doesn't necessarily mean anything, does it? Maybe he meant to send it to the whole group and accidentally hit my contact instead. Maybe he's telling everyone about his shoot individually, just being professional, keeping us informed. 

Except... Yoongi is about as communicative as a houseplant on Kakao.

I scroll up through our recent messages, looking for clues like I'm some kind of detective in a drama. The last text between us was six days ago—asking if I'd seen Byeoli, me responding that the cat was asleep on my desk chair. Before that, nothing for weeks. We don't really text unless it's practical. We don't have that kind of relationship now.

Do we?

Shadow MV shoot today.

Maybe this is his version of an invitation. Maybe Yoongi doesn't know how to say "hey, want to come watch me mug sexily in front of cameras?" so instead he shoots me some kind of emotionally constipated fortune cookie.

Or maybe—and this is equally possible—he's just being polite. Maybe he figured I'd want to know about the shoot since we all care about the album. Maybe this is him being a good teammate, and I'm about to make it weird by showing up uninvited like some kind of overeager groupie.

God, what if I show up and he's genuinely confused about why I'm there? What if he looks at me with those flat, unreadable eyes and says, "I was just letting you know what I was doing today. Why are you making it a big deal?" 

I can already picture the awkwardness. The way the crew would pretend not to notice. The way I'd have to come up with some excuse—oh, I was just in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by—while dying internally.

But then again... what if he wants me there? What if this is his way of reaching out without actually reaching out? What if he's sitting in hair and makeup right now, wondering if I got the message, if I understood what he was really asking?

What if I'm overthinking a text message to the point of actual insanity?

I know it's a song for Map of the Soul: 7, the album we're all working toward for the new year. We've talked about it a lot—how this one will be different, more personal, each of us exploring different aspects of ourselves. Yoongi's been working on Shadow. Maybe he wants me to see this version of him. Maybe he wants me to witness whatever he's trying to exorcise through the music.

Or maybe I'm projecting my own desires onto six words and a timestamp.

My phone chirps again, and my heart jumps—but it's just a reminder about dance practice. I pull up the group schedule, scrolling through the careful choreography of our lives. Dance practice, then nothing until a company meeting at five PM. A relatively light day, actually—rare enough that I should probably be grateful for the breathing room.

That gives me a four-hour window. From noon to four, technically free. Where I could, theoretically, go somewhere. 

I could skip practice too, if I really wanted to. Tell them I  need to rest. It's not entirely a lie—I haven't been sleeping well lately, and my body feels heavy with exhaustion.

But seriously, what if I go and he doesn't want me there? What if I'm misreading everything and I end up being that person who shows up uninvited like a loser?

What if I don't go and spend the rest of the day wondering what might have happened if I'd been brave enough to take the risk?

I stare at the message again, willing it to reveal its secrets like some kind of modern-day crystal ball. But it just sits there, six words that could mean everything or nothing.

Ten minutes pass. Then ten more. I shower, drink some coffee, check my phone seventeen times. The message is still there, unchanged, offering no new clues about its intent.

Finally, I can't stand it. I pull up the address—it's not hard to find, just a quick message to one of the production assistants who's always friendly with us.

I shouldn't go. 

I think about two weeks ago in the hallway, the weight of Byeoli in my arms, the way Yoongi had looked at me like he was trying to memorize my face. The careful vulnerability in his voice when he talked about therapy, about trying to be better. The way he'd said my name like it was something precious.

Maybe that's what the text really means. Not just information, but an opening. A door left unlocked in case I want to walk through it.

I fix my hair, my hands moving on autopilot while my brain cycles through justifications. I could say I was curious about the production. I could claim I had time to kill.

The address leads me to a warehouse, the kind of industrial space that gets transformed into whatever the vision demands. I sit in the car for ten minutes, engine running, watching crew members carry equipment through the loading dock. This is insane. I should leave. I should go to the company, practice my vocals, be the professional I'm supposed to be.

Instead, I turn off the engine and walk toward the entrance.

The assistant director barely glances up from her clipboard when I approach. "You're late," she says, checking her watch. "Wardrobe is in the back. You're in the crowd scene."

The assumption catches me off guard, but I don't correct it. My hat and sunglasses work. She has no idea who I am. Sometimes the universe gives you exactly the excuse you need.

The styling team efficiently transforms me into someone who belongs in Yoongi's world—all black everything, sharp lines, mystery instead of the soft approachability that's usually my brand. In the mirror, I look like I could be part of his story instead of just a spectator to it.

When I emerge from wardrobe, I spot him immediately. He's standing near the main camera, arms crossed, watching the lighting crew with that intense focus that means he's seeing things the rest of us miss. He's wearing  Dior that threatens to ruin me.

He looks like trouble. He looks like art. He looks like everything I've been trying not to crave.

I hover at the edge of the crowd of extras, suddenly uncertain. What am I doing here? What did I think would happen? That seeing me would make him smile, make him pull me aside and confess that he'd been hoping I'd come? That rainbows would appears and unicorns dance cheek to cheek?

The director calls for places, and I find myself shuffled into the background with the other extras. 

"Action!"

I sway to the phantom rhythm, trying to look natural while my eyes keep finding Yoongi. This is where he comes alive—in front of the camera, transforming into something raw and magnetic. The public sees this version of him, all edges and enigma. But I know the other side too. The one that worries about stray cats and whether his members are eating enough.

Between takes, I watch him scan the crowd. His eyes pass over me once, twice, and I think maybe the lighting is too dim, maybe he hasn't recognized me. But then his gaze snaps back and holds. Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe confusion. Or annoyance.

He doesn't smile. Doesn't acknowledge me beyond that look. Just turns back to the director like I'm not there.

My chest tightens with familiar disappointment. Of course. What was I expecting? 

"Let's go again," the director calls. "More energy this time."

I try to lose myself in the movement, but all I can feel is the weight of my own stupidity. This was a mistake. I should leave during the next break, slip out before I make this any more awkward than it already is.

The music cuts, and people around me relax into conversation. I'm already backing toward the exit when I hear my name.

"Jimin."

I turn to find Yoongi approaching, his expression unreadable. Up close, I can see the exhaustion around his eyes, the way makeup can't quite hide how thin he's gotten lately. There's something brittle about him, like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will.

"Hyung," I say, trying to keep my voice light. "Good shoot?"

He nods, but there's something distant about it. "Uh, you’re here?”

The question lands like a small slap. "I... you texted me. About the shoot. I had some time between schedules, so I thought I'd come watch."

"You're not watching. You're in the crowd scene."

"The AD didn’t recognize me and assumed I was an extra. I didn't correct her."

"Why?"

It's such a simple question, but I don't have a simple answer. Because I missed you. Because I wanted to be part of something you were creating. Because I've been thinking about you every day since that night in the hallway, and I don't know what to do with that feeling.

"I don't know," I say instead, which is probably the most honest thing I've said all week. "I should go."

I turn to leave, but his hand catches my wrist. His fingers wrap around the bone there, thumb pressing against my pulse point, and the touch sends heat racing up my arm. I can feel my heartbeat hammering against his skin, giving me away completely.

"Jimin, wait."

When I look back, something in his expression has shifted. The careful walls are still there, but there's a crack in them now, letting something warmer through. His grip loosens but doesn't let go, fingers sliding down to rest against my palm.

"Your hat..." He clears his throat, and I can see the way his Adam's apple moves. "It's cute."

I make a face, trying to ignore the way his thumb is now tracing absent patterns on my wrist. "You have the same one." We’d gotten them together. At a different time.

In a different life. 

"I know."

"That's the big thing you wanted me to wait and hear?"

He winces, and his fingers tighten reflexively around mine. "No. Shit. I'm..." He runs his free hand through his hair, destroying the perfect styling, and I watch the way his shoulders tense with the movement. "I'm really bad at this."

"At what? Being cryptic? Because you're actually pretty good at that."

He snorts, which wasn't the response I expected. "At being normal when you show up somewhere. My brain just... stops working properly."

The admission catches me off guard. "Are you? Glad I'm here?"

He's quiet for a long moment, still holding my wrist. Behind us, the crew is setting up for the next shot, people moving with practiced efficiency. But it feels like we're in our own bubble of awkwardness.

"Yeah," he says finally, and his voice is softer now. "I really am. Which is fucking terrifying, if I can be honest."

"You have a funny way of showing it."

"I know." He lets go of my wrist but doesn't step back. "I keep... I keep defaulting to old patterns when I get nervous. Like if I act distant enough, I won't have to deal with actually feeling things."

"And how's that working out for you?"

"Like shit." He says it like he's admitting defeat. "Turns out avoiding feelings doesn't make them go away. Who knew?"

The words hang between us, raw and honest. There's something too vulnerable in his bright dark eyes for mockery.

"Revolutionary discovery," I say quietly.

"Yeah, well. I'm a slow learner. You and Namjoon are the good students, right?" He looks down at his hands, and I can see him wrestling with something. "I've been thinking though…”

"And?"

"And I realized that... fuck, this is hard to say out loud." He pauses, takes a breath. "I realized that I spent so long protecting myself that I forgot how to actually connect with people.”

"But you're not alone," I say. "You have the members. You have your music. You have—"

"I don't have you." The words slip out before he can stop them, and I see the exact moment he realizes what he's said. But instead of retreating, he just stands there, looking strangely relieved. “And it sucks.”

"I know what you mean."

We stand there looking at each other, and I can feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on us. The history, the hurt, the careful distance we've maintained for so long. But also something else. Something that feels like possibility, which is honestly the scariest thing of all.

"Ten minutes!" the assistant director calls. "We're going again in ten!"

The spell breaks, and Yoongi glances toward the cameras. "I should—"

"Yeah," I say. "Go be brilliant and brooding. It's very on-brand for you."

He starts to turn away, then stops. "You don’t have to but, um. Will you... will you stay? Until we wrap?”

There's something almost shy in the way he asks it, like he's testing whether this new honesty is actually safe.

"If you want me to."

"I do." He says it simply, no hesitation this time. "I really do. Even though I have no idea what I'm doing here."

I nod, and something that might be a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Okay. But try to look less like you're solving basic algebra in the crowd shots. Relax. You're supposed to be having fun."

"I'll work on my fake enthusiasm."

"Please do.” I nudge his toe with mine. “It's painful to watch."

He heads back to his mark, and I rejoin the extras. But something has shifted between us. When he looks at me during the next take, there's warmth in his eyes instead of walls. And when I move to the music, it feels less like pretending and more like dancing.

Later, when we're finally wrapped and the crew is packing up, he finds me again.

"Thank you," he says. "For coming. For staying."

"Thank you for not panicking and pretending I didn't exist in the end."

“No one will know you’re in it.”

“You’ll know.”

“I know.”

It takes everything not to let tears burn at those two gruff words.

We walk out together, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel his warmth. The city lights blur past us, neon and headlights painting everything in soft colors.

"Hey," he says as we reach the parking lot where we'll have to go separate ways.

"Yeah?"

"I don't know what this is. What we are. But I'm tired of being scared of wanting things." He pauses, then adds with a wry smile, "Even though it's probably going to be messy as hell."

My heart does something complicated in my chest. "Me too. The wanting things part, not the messy part. Though you're probably right about that too."

"So maybe... maybe we can figure it out together? Without overthinking it to death or expecting it to be perfect? Just... see what happens when we stop getting in our own way?"

I can't help but laugh. "That's quite possibly the most emotionally mature thing you've ever said to me."

"God, I’m really growing up, aren't I?" For a moment it looks like he might reach for my hand. Instead, he settles for bumping my shoulder with his.

"Goodnight, Jimin-ah."

He hasn’t called me that in a long time. "Goodnight, Hyung."

The next morning, I wake up to a photo of Byeoli curled up on his windowsill—apparently our cat has decided he's polyamorous and has been making the rounds between our rooms like some kind of furry little player. I text back a simple heart emoji, and something about the gesture feels right. Uncomplicated. Good.

We don't see each other for the rest of the day. He's in his studio. I've got dance practice and physical therapy. And I'm not sorry for the distance. I actually like having the space to breathe. I don't want to rush into anything right now—I need to figure out me first, remember who I am when I'm not trying to be what someone else needs.

So I zip up my jacket, pull my mask over my face, adjust my glasses and tug down my hat. It's enough of a disguise to let me blend in, just another person walking down the hill. My feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, buses rumble past on Hannam-daero, and a few snowflakes start drifting down. I try to focus on just that—the cold air, the quiet sounds, this moment.

I'm failing, obviously. Not sure I'll ever get the hang of it. My brain keeps picking apart every word we said to each other, looking for clues like I'm solving some puzzle. But for once I can at least try to tell it to shut up, to just let myself walk through the snow without overthinking everything.

One snowflake lands on my glove and I watch it for a second before it melts. Just like that—there, then gone. But for that brief moment, it was perfect. Complete. Real. The snowflake doesn't disappear—it just becomes water, becomes part of the fabric of my glove, part of the story of this walk down to the convenience store to grab some ramen and soju.

I pass under a streetlight and my shadow sprawls ahead of me on the snowy pavement, dark and long and kind of dramatic. Shadows only exist when there's light to cast them—they're not the absence of something, they're proof that something bright is shining behind you.

And here's the weird thing: my shadow isn't trailing behind me anymore. It's stretched out ahead, leading. Like it knows something I don't, like it's been waiting for me to stop being afraid of it. And right now, walking through snow that's melting in my hair with the memory of Yoongi's voice still warm in my chest, I think I'm finally okay with following where it leads. Maybe not being able to see the future isn’t always scary, and I should start trusting that the uncertain dark can show me something new.

Chapter 45: After Midnight

Summary:

Last Jimin POV for a bit. I think it's time we start hearing from Yoongi more

Notes:

One more chapter because it's ARMY's birthday today, and ya'll deserve it for putting up with some of my longer absences...

The thing about New Year's Eve in Times Square is that it's overwhelming in a way that makes you feel tiny and huge at the same time. There's something weirdly beautiful about being surrounded by all these people who've traveled from everywhere and packed into the barricades like sardines just to watch a ball drop. It's also freezing and smells like hot dogs and pee. By the time midnight hits, I've been standing in the same spot so long my toes are numb, but there's this energy in the air that makes it feel worth it.

We're here because the company thought it would be good for us to be seen, and honestly, I get it. American exposure, global reach—all those things that sound corporate but also mean we get to share this experience with people who might not have known our music existed a year ago.

By the time we get back to the hotel, we're all exhausted and wired at the same time. The kind of tired that comes from being "on" for too long, but also too amped up to actually sleep. Someone—probably Hobi—suggests we all cram into one room and break into the champagne that's been sitting untouched since we checked in.

"One more toast," Namjoon says, raising his glass. "To surviving American New Year's Eve."

"To never doing that again," Yoongi mutters, but he's grinning ear to ear.

“I saw you recording the whole thing--you were so into that ball drop that you almost missed the group hug,” I pointed out.

"To Jimin's face when that reporter asked if we were dating anyone," Taehyung adds his sloshing glass into the mix, grinning wickedly.

"Shut up," I say, but I'm giggling. "You should have seen yourself. You looked like you'd swallowed your own tongue."

"I was being mysterious."

"I think that’s just called being weird."

We end up sprawled across the floor and furniture, playing some drinking game Jin invented that involves way too many rules and even more alcohol. The champagne gives way to whatever's in the minibar or bags, and soon we're all loose-limbed and giggly in a way that only happens when we're completely alone together.

"Okay, okay," Jungkook says, swaying slightly. "Never have I ever... fallen asleep during a photoshoot."

"That's too easy," Yoongi complains, but he drinks anyway. So do the rest of us.

"Never have I ever," Hobi continues, "had a sex dream about a member."

The room goes dead silent. Then Taehyung starts snickering like he's lost his mind.

"You can't ask that!" he protests, but he's already reaching for his glass.

"Really? Cause I kinda think that I just did." Hobi's grinning like he's just pulled off the greatest prank in history.

"This is stupid," Namjoon says, but his ears are bright red and he's definitely drinking.

"Wait, wait," Jungkook says, pointing at Tae. "You're drinking? It's me, right?”

"Look, maybe I had another one before we got together!" Taehyung says, face flushed. 

"What?" Jungkook looks genuinely offended. "Who?"

"I'm not saying!" He cast a meaningful glance at Jin who blows him a kiss in return.

I'm trying not to laugh but also trying to figure out if I should drink, and apparently I'm taking too long because Yoongi is looking at me with this knowing smirk that makes my stomach flip.

"Oh my god, Jimin," Hobi says, noticing my hesitation. "Get over yourself. You're totally drinking."

"No I'm not."

"You are! Look at your face!"

"This is perfectly normal," Namjoon says, taking another sip. "Psychologically speaking, it's actually expected that people in close proximity would—"

"Bro," Yoongi interrupts. "You're making it weird."

"I'm making it educational."

I finally drink, because fuck it, and immediately regret it when everyone starts pointing and making noise.

"I KNEW IT!" Taehyung shouts.

"Shut up, you literally just admitted to the same thing!"

"Yeah, but I'm not being all secretive about it!"

"You refused to say who it was about!"

"That's different, I don't kiss and tell even in my dreams!"

Hobi drinks too, grinning shamelessly. "What? I'm a healthy adult male."

"This is crazy," Jin says, but he's laughing. "You're all disgusting hornballs. I'm the only normal one here."

"Wait," Jungkook says, squinting at him. "You're not drinking. Really?"

"Because I'm not a pervert."

"Or," Yoongi says slowly, "because you don't want to admit which one of us you've been dreaming about."

Jin’s perfect mouth makes an “o” of outrage…and is how he always lies. "I have never—"

"It's me, isn't it? J-Hope’s hot body." Hobi interrupts. "I'm very dreamable."

"It's definitely not you."

"Rude." Hobi sniffs.

"So it IS someone!" Taehyung shouts triumphantly.

"I didn't say that!"

"You basically did!"

"I'm leaving," Jin announces, standing up. "This conversation has reached maximum strange level even for us."

"Hyung, come back!” Namjoon calls out. “We're bonding!"

“Fine.” Jin lets Jungkook tug him back down. "But bond over something normal!"

"Moving on," I say quickly, because I can feel Yoongi still looking at me and my face is probably bright red. "Never have I ever... thrown up in a hotel room."

"Oh, come on! We don’t have to be boring." Jungkook protests, but he drinks.

The game continues, getting sillier and more ridiculous as we get drunker. Someone suggests we play truth or dare, which devolves into mostly dares involving increasingly stupid physical challenges. Hobi ends up doing a handstand against the wall. Taehyung tries to lick his own elbow. Jin attempts to sing our national anthem while doing jumping jacks.

"This is the dumbest thing we've ever done," Namjoon says, but he's laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

"Good," Yoongi says, picking a label off of a wine bottle. "We needed dumb."

Eventually, people start drifting back to their rooms. Hobi first, claiming he needs to call his family. Then Namjoon, muttering about needing to check emails. Jungkook and Taehyung disappear together, Jungkook's hand finding Taehyung's as they head toward the door. Jin announces he's going to take a shower that lasts exactly twenty-seven minutes because he can and because he needs to "wash off the secondhand embarrassment from all of you."

And then it's just me and Yoongi, sitting on the floor surrounded by empty glasses and the aftermath of our chaos.

"So." His voice cracks on the word, like he's swallowed glass. "That was fun."

My laugh comes out wrong—too sharp, too bright. "Yeah. We should fuck off more often."

"Fuck off." He rolls the words around his mouth like he's trying to memorize their shape. The silence stretches until I can hear my own heartbeat. "I've been thinking about that."

"About fucking off?"

"Caring less about consequences that haven't happened." When he looks at me this time, there's something raw and unguarded in his expression. "Care more about things that are real."

The champagne buzzes under my skin, making everything feel too close, too real. I should say something safe. Something that'll pull us back from whatever ledge we're dancing on. Instead, I hear myself ask:

"What kind of things?"

He shifts, and suddenly the couch feels too small. I can map the exact moment he decides to stop hiding—his shoulders drop, his jaw unclenches, and when he breathes out, it sounds like coming home. I recognize all his little sounds like they're my own. I could find him in a maze in the dark.

"You already know."

The words hit like a physical blow. My chest tightens, and for a second I forget how to breathe properly.

"Yoongi..."

No Hyung. No Suga. His name tastes like a confession.

"I know." His hand moves to my face with the kind of certainty that comes from muscle memory. His thumb finds the hollow beneath my chin—the same spot he's touched a hundred times before—and the familiarity makes it hurt more. "I know you deserve to hate me."

I arch into his touch the way I always do, and his breath catches—small, sharp, familiar. The sound goes straight to my dick like it has every time before.

"This is a bad idea." The words stick to my throat.

"Terrible." His forehead drops against mine, and I can feel the tension in his body that means he's fighting himself. "The worst."

The space between us disappears by degrees. His nose brushes mine. I can taste the whiskey on his exhale, feel the heat coming off his skin. My eyes flutter shut and everything else—the members up and down the hall, the reasons we shouldn't, the morning after—fades to static.

All that exists is this: the way his thumb traces my jaw like he's done it a thousand times.

And then we both freeze.

"Fuck," he breathes, and pulls back like he's been burned.

"Yeah." I'm breathing hard, my heart racing. "Fuck."

For a moment, we just look at each other, both of us wide-eyed and shaken. Then, without saying anything, we move at the same time, falling into each other in a hug that's desperate and safe and complicated all at once.

He holds me tight, his face pressed against my neck, and I can feel him trembling. Or maybe that's me.

"We can't," he says into my shoulder, and his voice is muffled and rough.

"I know."

"Not like this. Not drunk in a hotel room after everyone just admitted to having sex dreams about each other."

"I know."

But we don't let go. We just hold each other in the wreckage of our almost-mistake, surrounded by empty champagne glasses and the fading sounds of celebration from the city below.

I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, fast and erratic, matching my own. His breath is warm against my neck, and I have to resist the urge to turn my head, to see what would happen if I pressed my lips to the pulse point just below his ear.

"This is so crazy," he murmurs, but his arms tighten around me.

"Which part?"

"All of it. I don't know what to do."

The confession hits me like a physical blow. 

He pulls back enough to look at me, and his eyes are dark and honest and a little bit broken. "I know it's complicated. I know we can't just... figure this out overnight. But I also know I can't keep pretending you’re just a member. You’re not a brother. You’re not a friend. You’re…you.”

I want to say something profound, something that will make this easier for both of us. Instead, I just trace the sharp line of his collarbone with my finger, watching the way the pale skin flushes.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, and his voice is so soft I almost don't hear it.

"I'm thinking that you have a really nice clavicle.”

He laughs, sudden and bright, and the sound breaks some of the tension between us. "Seriously?"

"Among other things." I'm still tracing patterns on his skin, mapping the geography of him through his thin t-shirt. 

"I'm thinking about how your hands shake when you're nervous, but they're steady when you're touching me."

He looks down at where his fingers are still resting against my jaw. "What else?"

The question is barely a whisper, and I can see the want written across his features so clearly it makes my chest ache.

"I'm thinking about how you hugged me at midnight down there even with the cameras. Like it meant something."

"It did."

"I'm thinking about how scared I am," I admit, and the honesty tastes bitter and sweet at the same time. "I can’t repeat what we did before. It hurt too much.”

He nods like he understands, because of course he does. We've always been good at reading each other, even when we were trying not to.

"Can I tell you something?" he says.

"Yeah."

"I've been writing songs about you. Not obviously–of course. Nothing anyone would recognize or call out. But there are…I don’t know…lyrics about feelings, or…or… chord progressions that sound like the way you move.”

My breath catches. "Yoongi."

"I know it's weird.” He tugs on one of the ends of his earlobes and crosses his legs. “I know it probably crosses some line I shouldn't cross. But I can't help it. You're woven into my music now, whether I want you there or not. Sometimes I think you are my music."

The vulnerability in his voice is devastating. I want to kiss him so badly it physically hurts, want to close the distance between us and show him exactly how I feel about being written into his songs. Instead, I do the only thing I can do—I tell him the truth.

"I choreograph to your songs sometimes. When I'm working on something new, I put on your solo tracks and just move. It's like my body knows how to respond to you, even when my brain is trying to be smart."

"Fuck," he breathes.

"You make me stupid, hyung.” I shrug, surprised there are tears in my eyes.

"Jimin-ah." And there it is—my name in that same rough, low tone, and it sends electricity shooting down my spine.

"I really do hate you."

"No, you don't." His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, and I can see him fighting with himself, weighing desire against consequences.

"I don't. It would be easier though, you know."

"I know."

"We're drunk and emotional and it's been a long night."

His voice goes lower still. "I know."

"If we do something now, we can't take it back."

A pause. "I know."

"And tomorrow, when we're sober, we might regret it."

He considers this, his eyes searching my face like he's looking for certainty in an uncertain situation. His shoulder shifts, and I catch the slight wince he tries to hide—the one that's been getting worse lately, the one he keeps saying he'll deal with after the upcoming tour.

"What if we compromise?"

"What kind of compromise?"

"What if we don't pretend this isn't happening, but we also don't do anything irreversible tonight?"

I'm not sure what he means until he shifts closer, favoring his right side, until his forehead is resting against mine and our noses are almost touching.

"What if we just... stay like this? For a while. Just breathe together or something."

It's not what my body is screaming for, but it's something. It's acknowledgment. It's the beginning of honesty.

"Okay," I whisper.

So we stay like that, curled together on the hotel room floor, inhaling and exhaling the same air and learning the shape of each other's want. He runs his fingers through my hair, and I trace patterns on his back, careful to avoid the knot of tension in his shoulder that makes him tense up. We exist in this space between friendship and something more.

"Tell me more about these new songs of yours," I say eventually.

"Tell me about that choreography," he counters.

So we trade secrets in the dark, our voices soft and careful.

"You need to see a doctor about your shoulder," I murmur against his temple.

"I know." His fingers still in my hair. "I will."

"Soon. It's getting worse."

He's quiet for a long moment, and I can feel him weighing whether to deflect or be honest. "I know," he says finally.

We're quiet for a long moment.

"Happy New Year," he mutters at last, but this time there's something different in his voice, a kind of tentative hope. "Who knows? Maybe this year won't suck after all."

"Happy New Year," I echo back.

Who knows? Maybe 2020 will be the year where everything finally goes right.

Chapter 46: An Animal of Regret

Summary:

Yoongi POV, miss him?

The hot water scalds my shoulders, but I welcome the burn. It's better than the fucking vise squeezing my chest from what happened earlier tonight. The Grammys are over—all those cameras, the performance, reporters, the overwhelming rush of actually being there, up on that stage like we had every right to occupy that space. I'm still reeling from it.

And there was Jimin—that platinum hair slick with sweat under the lights, those aviators reflecting the flash of cameras, the way that white t-shirt went translucent in places where it stuck to his skin. The rockstar jacket hanging off one shoulder like he'd been ravaged by the performance itself. He looked obscene, looked like he was fucking the air with every hip roll during Old Town Road.

The shift from Jimin-ah— my Jimin-ah who gets the sleepy giggles after too much soju and hums off-key in the shower—to Park Jimin of BTS, untouchable and perfect and so fucking beautiful…it makes me physically off-kilter. There's something twisted about wanting someone when they're like that, when they're being everything for everyone else. Something dark about the way it turns me on to watch him perform, knowing that later he'll come back to earth and I might—maybe—get to touch the real version of him again like a greedy bastard.

I press my forehead against the shower tiles and try to breathe normally. The steam fills my lungs and I shouldn't be thinking like this. Not when we'd agreed to take things slow over New Years, to be careful as we rebuild everything I broke last year. But the image of him curled against me on that New York hotel room floor, eyes cautiously hopeful and wanting, keeps replaying in my mind. The way he looked at me when I told him about the songs—like I'd handed him my heart on a silver platter.

I know he's been with other people. So many people. I know because I'm not blind, and because Hobi can't keep his mouth shut when he's drunk. I tell myself I'm fine with it—I'm the one who walked away, I'm the one who got scared and ran. I have no right to be jealous.

But fuck, I am. The thought of someone else's hands on his skin, their lips where mine used to be—it guts me. Hollows me out until I'm nothing but this aching void. Not because I have any right to him, not after I shattered everything we had with my own two hands. But because I'm drowning in the stupidity of it all. The way I let terror win.

And the worst part? Did those who had him ever even know what they were holding. Did they touch him like he's ordinary. How could anyone take that laugh, that trust, that devastating gentleness he gives so freely, and treat it like it's nothing special. Like he's not the kind of person who remembers how you drink your coffee and texts you when it rains because he knows you love the sound.

I can't stop seeing his mouth. The way it would quirk up when he used to catch me staring. The soft curve of it when he'd whisper my name in the dark. How it would press into a thin line when I'd pull away again, that flash of hurt he'd try to hide. Those smiles that were mine alone—the frustrated ones when I was being difficult, the gentle ones when he thought I was sleeping, the uncertain ones when he wanted to believe I might stay.

And it's killing me because this last year, when people were occasionally confessing to me—pretty people, smart people, people who had their shit together—it never mattered. I'd listen politely, let them down gently, but my mind was always on somebody else. Jimin. Always on Jimin. I was still thinking about him. About the way he'd bite his lip when he was concentrating. About how his laugh could fill up every empty space inside me.

All those other people who wanted me, who could have been uncomplicated and easy, and I was stuck on the one person who deserved better than my fucked-up heart.

I'm nothing but an animal of regret now. Prowling through memories, feeding on the scraps of what I threw away. But regret has teeth, and it's tearing me open, spilling all this want I've been choking down for months.

My body responds without permission, and I press my palms flat against the shower wall, willing myself to think about anything else. I need to be clear-headed about this. I need to know exactly what I'm doing, what I want, what comes next.

But fuck, the way he moved tonight, the way he glanced at me afterward in the green room as if to gauge his effect—like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he wanted to watch me come undone.

I mutter to myself before gritting my teeth and turning the water colder, gasping as it hits my overheated skin. I'm not going to fall apart like this. I'm not going to let myself get lost in wanting when I need to figure out how to actually be able to have him.

"Get it together, idiot," I repeat, my growl echoing on the tile.

But the want is overwhelming. 

I can't fight it anymore. Can't pretend I don't need this—need him—need us–like I need air to breathe.

My resolve crumbles completely, and I give in to what I've been denying myself, gripping my shaft hard and working myself root to tip in savage ruthless pumps. It takes almost no time. The release is immediate and devastating, ripping through me like a wave while his name falls from my lips in a choked whimper that echoes off the tiles. It's desperate and raw and utterly pathetic, but fuck it—I'm past caring about dignity at this point.

The water pressure drops suddenly, and I realize I've been in here too long. My skin is pruned and pink, and the mirror is completely fogged when I finally step out. I wrap a towel around my waist and try to ignore the way my body is still humming with the aftermath.

But when I walk out of the bathroom, Jin is sprawled on my bed playing a game on his phone.

"Oh," he says, looking up from his phone with raised eyebrows. "Hey. Manager-nim let me in. I was going to see if you wanted to grab some late-night bbq, but..." He trails off, taking in my appearance—the way I'm clutching the towel, the flush that's spread down my chest, the obvious evidence of what I've been doing in there for way too long.

Heat floods my cheeks. There's no way he didn't hear.

"Jin-hyung," I start, but he holds up a hand.

"Before you say anything," he says, not moving from where he's sprawled across my bed like he pays rent here, "I should mention that these walls are thin as fuck and I've been listening to you have a breakdown in there for the past fifteen minutes."

My stomach drops. "Fifteen—"

"Yep." He doesn't look up from the screen. "Very inspiring stuff. Really enjoyed the part where you told yourself to get it together about six different times. Not at all crazy. Epitome of normal."

Heat floods my face. "Jin—"

"Look." He finally glances up, and there's something sharp in his expression that makes me shut up. "I lived with you for years. I know exactly what your meltdowns sound like, and I know exactly what causes them. Or rather who."

The air in the room shifts. Jin's not being gentle or understanding. He's being Jin—blunt and observant and completely unwilling to let me bullshit my way out of this.

"This is about Jimin," he continues, and it's not a question. "Again."

I want to deny it, but what's the point? 

"I don't want to talk about him."

"Too bad." Jin sits up, fixing me with a stare that could cut glass. "Because I'm not watching that trainwreck again."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" His voice is dangerously quiet. “Remember all the nights I went to watch TV or played my games at high volume?”

My chest tightens. Yeah. I remember. The way Jimin's teeth felt against my collarbone, the way he opened me so perfectly. A bookshelf separated my side of the room from Jin. It felt like galaxies but was likely fuck all.

"And then," Jin continues relentlessly, "you deciding it was too complicated and cutting him off completely. A year of watching him try to move on while you moped around like a kicked puppy."

The words hit like physical blows. I want to tell him he's wrong, but he's not. He lived through all of it.

"That's not what's happening now."

"Isn't it?" Jin's laugh is harsh. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're about to dive headfirst into the same fucking disaster. Only this time, you're both older and stupider and there's even more at stake."

I stare at him, anger starting to build in my chest. "So what, you think I should just ignore it? Pretend he's just a brother, a member?"

"I think," Jin says slowly, "That I have no think. It’s your business. It’s just your business effects us all.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. Jin's not wrong. When I ended things, it nearly destroyed me. It could have fucked over BTS. Permanently. 

"Things are different now," I say finally, but even I can hear how weak it sounds.

"Is it? You look like you're about to crawl out of your own skin."

He's not wrong. I can feel the tension coiled in every muscle, the way my hands are shaking with want and frustration and fear.

"What are you saying?"

Jin sighs, and for the first time tonight, he looks tired. "I'm saying that I care about you, for some reason. Probably because you're pathetic. And I care about him. And I care about this group that we've all sacrificed everything for."

He stands up, straightening his shirt. "I'm saying that if you're going to do this—really do this—then you better be sure. Because I'm not cleaning up the pieces again if it falls apart."

The threat is clear, but there's something else underneath it. Something that might be concern.

"And if I am sure?"

Jin pauses at the door, his hand on the handle. "Then you better figure out how to do it right this time.”

"So what do you suggest?"

"I suggest," Jin says, turning back to look at me, "that you stop jerking off in the shower and actually talk to him like an adult."

My face burns. "I wasn't—"

"Yoongi." His voice is flat. " I'm not stupid."

He goes to open the door, then pauses one more time.

"Besides," Jin continues, "you're both idiots if you think the rest of us haven't figured it out by now. Even Joon's been taking bets on when you'll finally get your shit together."

"He has not."

"He has. I've got money on Valentine's Day, but honestly, after tonight I'm thinking I might lose."

Despite everything, I find myself almost smiling. "You bet against us?"

"I bet on your ability to overthink everything and make it more complicated than it needs to be." Jin shrugs. "Seemed like a safe and profitable path."

The silence stretches between us, but it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of quiet that comes with old friendships, with people who know your worst habits and love you anyway.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I admit finally.

"That's okay."

"What if I hurt him again?"

"What if you don't?"

I look at him, and there's something in his expression that's both knowing and hopeful. "You really think we can figure this out?"

"I think you're both stubborn and dramatic and way too in your own heads about everything." Jin stands up and stretches. "But I also think you're crazy about each other, and that's got to count for something."

He heads toward the door, then pauses again with his hand on the handle.

"For what it's worth," he says, "I think you two are better together than apart. Even when you're driving the rest of us insane with your pining."

"We don't pine."

"Yoongi." Jin gives me a look that's pure disbelief. "At least pretend to be self-aware. Also...you know what's really tragic about all this?"

"What?" I ask, already regretting it.

"How is it that you never fell in love with me? I mean, I lived with you for years, I'm devastatingly handsome, I made you decent food when you were drinking chicken in a blender..." He counts off on his fingers with mock seriousness. "I've seen you at your absolute worst and still stuck around. That's basically marriage material right there."

I stare at him for a long moment, then deadpan, "How do you know I didn't?"

Jin's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, fuck off."

"I could be devastated by your casual dismissal of my feelings right now."

"You could be devastated by a lot of things, but my rejection isn't one of them." Jin snorts. "Nice try though. Your poker face is pretty bad when you're half-naked and emotionally compromised."

"But how about my abs?"

Jin throws a pillow at me. "You're an idiot. And you're deflecting."

"I'm not deflecting. I'm exploring alternative romantic possibilities."

"The only thing you're exploring is how to avoid actually dealing with your Jimin situation." Jin's grin turns sharper. "Which, by the way, is not going to go away just because you tried to handle it yourself in the shower."

Heat floods my face again. "Can we please stop talking about that?"

"What, the fact that you just spent all that time working through your feelings—"

"Jin."

"— in the most literal way possible?"

"I hate you."

"You love me, remember? You're devastated by my rejection." Jin's practically cackling now. "Should I let you down easy? Maybe we could try being friends first?"

"I'm going to murder you in your sleep."

"See, this is exactly why we'd never work out. You're too volatile. I need someone stable, someone who doesn't have jerkoff breakdowns in hotel bathrooms."

"Get out."

"Someone who doesn't pine like a tragic Victorian heroine."

I grab another pillow and launch it at his head. "Out!"

Jin catches it easily, still grinning. "You know what your problem is?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"You think too much. About everything. You probably spent the entire shower analyzing the exact angle of Jimin's hip thrust during that performance."

"I did not—"

"Oh, you absolutely did. I bet you could write a dissertation on it. 'The Erotic Implications of Contemporary Dance: A Study in Suffering.'"

"I'm changing the locks."

"You can't change hotel locks, genius." Jin blows me a kiss. "But seriously, get out of your own head about this. It's Jimin. He's not some impossible dream—he's the guy who cried during Toy Story 2 and eats cereal for dinner."

The teasing edge in his voice softens slightly. "He's also the guy who's been just as miserable as you, so maybe stop overthinking it and just... talk to him."

"What if—"

"Nope." Jin holds up a hand. "No more what-ifs. You've used up your quota of emotional spiraling for the night."

The door closes behind him with a soft click, leaving me alone with my fucking embarrassment and the lingering scent of floral body gel.

I get dressed slowly, Jin's words bouncing around in my head. He's right about one thing—I can't spiral. 

I pick up my phone and stare at Jimin's name in my contacts. My thumb hovers over the call button for a long moment before I set it aside.

But as I get dressed, I realize something that makes my chest tight with determination.

We're already talking again. Already rebuilding something fragile and precious between us. Like we're laying the foundation for a house we once shared, brick by careful brick. Except this time, I need to build it typhoon-proof. Strong enough to withstand whatever storms come our way.

And that means I can't fucking touch him. Not yet.

The realization hits me like a physical blow, settling heavy in my gut. Because Jimin is walking temptation wrapped in golden skin and a smile that could bring me to my knees. The way he looked tonight—sweat-slicked and devastating under those stage lights—it's burned into my retinas. I can still see the way his shirt clung to his chest, the sharp line of his collarbone when he threw his head back during that performance.

But I'm his hyung. I'm supposed to be the one with self-control, the one who thinks before he acts. I'm supposed to protect what we're building instead of tearing it down because I can't keep my hands to myself.

The physical pull between us is a fucking gale. It was what drew us together, but it was also what destroyed us—every serious conversation derailed by wandering hands, every attempt at honesty lost in the haze of want. We'd start talking about feelings and end up tangled in sheets, thinking we were communicating when really we were just fucking our way around the hard conversations.

I can't let that happen again. Not when we're finally getting somewhere real.

So for now  I won't touch. Won't let myself get lost in the easy escape of skin on skin when what we really need is to rebuild trust, word by careful word.

A sex free period. An embargo. I fall back on my bed, already aching with the anticipation of that particular torture. This is what being the hyung means—making the hard choices, even when they feel impossible.

Even when they might actually kill me.

Chapter 47: The Art of Digging Your Own Grave

Summary:

Yoongi POV

He awakens a demon...oops

The overhead lights in the HYBE conference room are way too bright for my jet-lagged brain—a migraine presses just behind my temples, sharp and insistent. We just got back from our US schedule and we're already diving into prep for Map of the Soul: 7, which drops next week. The whiplash is real. One day we're on American red carpets or talk shows, the next we're back in this corporate glass box discussing metrics and timelines.

I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms and try to focus on what Manager-nim is saying. His voice sounds like it's coming from the end of a tunnel. The jet lag has me floating somewhere between sleep and consciousness, my brain refusing to sync with Korean time. My internal clock is completely fucked, stuck somewhere over the Pacific.

The lights buzzes overhead with that particular frequency that makes my molars ache. I force myself to sit up straighter. Miss something important in this meeting and I'll hear about it for weeks. The album drops in seven days and there's still a mountain of details to nail down. Can't afford to check out now, no matter how much my body is begging for sleep.

"—and the World Health Organization announced the official name yesterday. COVID-19." He clicks to the next slide. "Coronavirus Disease 2019."

The room falls silent. I think about the crowded stadiums from the Love Yourself encore, all those faces pressed close together, screaming and singing along.

Namjoon shifts in his seat beside me. "How's this going to affect the tour?"

"We're monitoring the situation closely," our manager says. "Everything is still on track, but we're preparing contingency plans."

Hoseok frowns. "But the tour doesn't start until April. Hopefully things will be better then."

I glance around the table. Everyone looks as drained as I feel, but there's something else now—a tension that wasn't there before we left for the States. Jungkook is no longer leaning on Taehyung. Jimin's brows are knotted. Even Jin's usual lightness has dimmed.

"Right now, the main thing is to stay healthy," our manager continues. "More hand sanitizer, masks when traveling, the usual precautions."

Jin stretches and sighs. "So basically, we wait and see."

"Pretty much. The album release stays on schedule—that's not changing. But everything else..." He trails off.

The meeting drags on for another twenty minutes—logistics, schedule adjustments, protocol changes. But underneath all the practical talk, there's this growing weight. Everything feels fragile suddenly, like plans we've spent months building could dissolve overnight. I keep thinking about the footage I glimpsed on the plane—empty streets, closed shops, people walking with their heads down.

My mind drifts to our fans, how they've been counting down the days, making plans, saving money. Then I think about the larger picture, the world shifting in ways we can't control or predict. Nothing feels certain anymore.

When we're finally dismissed, I catch Jimin's elbow as we file out. I've been meaning to talk to him and with everything shifting around us—the ground feeling less solid under our feet—I can't put it off any longer.

"Coffee?" I ask.

He nods, relief flickering across his tired features. "Your apartment or the dorm?"

"My apartment. I need to unpack anyway." I pause. "And I think we both know we need to talk."

 

***

 

An hour later, we're sitting in my kitchen, the meeting already pushed to the back of my mind. Jimin is perched on my kitchen island, legs manspreading and swinging slightly—the space is clean and modern but still a bit sparse. I'm taking my time decorating, only adding things I actually like rather than filling it up just to fill it up. He's nursing his second cup of coffee from one of the few mugs I've bothered to buy.

"Wait. You decided what?" Jimin's eyes go wide, then narrow like he's trying to figure out if I'm joking.

"No sex. One year."

"Without…talking to me?"

“What? No?” I hook a hand around the back of my neck. "I'm talking now."

"Oh wow, thanks for the consultation." He takes a slow sip of his coffee, and I can't help but watch the way his full lips part around the rim, how they linger there a beat longer than necessary. "So thoughtful of you to include me in this major life decision."

"Look, I know how this sounds—"

"Do you? Because it sounds like you went off by yourself, mulled it over and then came back with a royal degree." He sets his mug down and leans forward slightly, close enough that I can see the way his shirt slides up, exposing his narrow waist. "Very communicative of you. Very Joseon sageuk . Should I just bow and say “Yes, majesty."

"Jimin—"

"What are you worried about? That I can't control myself around you?" His vocal register drops lower, teasing but with an unmistakenable edge. Those wicked lips curve into something that's not quite a smile. More a threat dipped in sweetness. "Think I'm going to throw myself at you the moment we're alone?"

The way he's looking at me makes my mouth go dry. "That's not—"

"Because honestly, hyung," he slides off the counter, moving closer until there's barely any space between us, "you might be the one with the self-control problem here."

I swallow hard. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" He tilts his head, and fuck, when did his voice get so rough? "Because you're the one who can't stop staring at my mouth."

"I'm not—" But I am. Christ, I am.

"Mm." He makes this little sound in the back of his throat that goes straight through me. "So this whole celibacy thing... that's going to be easy for you, right?" He steps closer, and I can feel the heat radiating off him. "No problem at all?"

"Jimin." My voice comes out strained.

"That’s me." He blinks through his thick black glasses, all false innocence except for the wicked glint in his eyes. "I'm just trying to understand the rules of this new arrangement. Since you made them without me."

"You're being such a fucking brat."

" I'm being a brat?" He barks a laugh. "Tell me something, hyung." He reaches up and adjusts my collar, fingers brushing against my throat. "How long do you think you'll last? Do you think you’ll go the distance? Twelve whole months?"

"I... I want us to communicate better. That's the whole point."

"By not communicating about it?"

"I thought if we took sex off the table, we'd have to actually talk to each other more. Build something real instead of just—"

"Just what? Fucking our problems away?" Jimin tilts his head. "Bold of you to assume I even want to have sex with you."

My stomach drops. "What?"

His expression softens immediately. "Relax. I'm kidding." He reaches over and flicks the tip of my nose. "You should see your face right now."

"That's not funny."

"It's a little funny. But okay, point taken." He leans back. "So you want to work on communication by... not talking to me about it first. Very paradoxical, even for you."

"I fucked up the approach, I get it. But the idea itself—"

"Is actually not terrible," he admits. "Just your execution. As usual."

"So you'll do it?"

"I didn't say that." He stands up, moving closer until he's right beside my chair. "See, the thing is, if we're going to do this, I think we need some... ground rules."

"What kind of rules?"

He leans down, lips barely brushing my ear. "Well, just because we're not having sex doesn't mean we can't do other things." His breath is warm and deliberate against my skin. "Touching. Teasing. Photos. Whispers. Building tension until you're throbbing."

My throat goes dry. "This isn’t what I meant—"

" You said no sex. You didn't say no foreplay." His fingers trail slowly along my shoulder, then down my arm. "No making out. No seeing how long you can last when I'm sitting in your lap wearing nothing but your t-shirt." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "No finding out what happens when I kiss you everywhere except where you really want me to."

"That's—"

"Torture? Yeah, probably." He pulls back with a grin, but his hand stays on my arm, thumb tracing small circles. "But think of all the communication we'll be doing. All that talking about what we want, what we need, what we're thinking about when we're lying in bed together not having sex." His eyes darken. "All those conversations about how badly we want each other that we'll have to have instead."

I stare at him. "You're evil."

"I'm creative. There's a difference." He doesn't step back, staying close enough that I have to tilt my head up to meet his eyes. "Besides, you started this game, hyung. I'm just playing by the rules."

"My rules didn't include—"

"Sorry.” He cupped his ear. “What was that? Your rules?”

“Ours,” I amend with a rasp. “I want it to be our rules.”

 “Ah, is that what you want?" His hand slides up to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair. "Mmmm. How much do you want this too? A lot? Maybe even more?" His thumb traces the sensitive spot just behind my ear and I can't suppress thel shiver that runs through me.

"Fuck." It comes out rougher than I intended.

"Mm?" He's watching my face intently, like he's cataloging every reaction. "Something wrong? We're just talking." His other hand comes up to rest on my chest, right over my heart. "Your pulse is pretty fast though. You haven’t done anything strenuous. Maybe you should see a doctor."

"You're—" I lose my train of thought when his fingers start drawing lazy patterns against my shirt.

"What?" He leans closer, close enough that our foreheads touch. "Helping you with your communication goals? Making sure you really understand what you're asking for?"

I try to focus, but he smells like coffee and something warm like orange blossoms, and when did he get this close? "This isn't what I meant by taking sex off the table."

"Oh, I know exactly what you meant." His voice drops to that low register that always undoes me. "You meant no quick fucks against the studio door. No getting each other off in hotel bathrooms between interviews." His lips curve into a wicked smile. "No you on your back begging for me to wreck you."

My breath catches. It’s been a year but these memories are still bright and clear. "Stop."

"Stop what? Talking?" His thumb brushes across my bottom lip, barely there but enough to make me want to chase the touch. "But communication is what you wanted, right? I'm just being very clear about what we won't be doing."

"You're being a tease."

"I'm being thorough." He shifts even closer, one muscular leg slipping between mine. "See, the thing about taking sex off the table is that it makes everything else so much more... intense. Every touch becomes significant. Every look loaded with meaning."

"Jimin-ah—"

"Like right now," he continues, ignoring my pleading tone. "The way your big hands are gripping the edge of your chair like you're trying not to reach for me." His fingers trace along my jawline. "The way you're breathing."

I am breathing differently, shallow and sharper, and fuck, when did he learn to read me this well? "This is torture."

"This is communication." He finally steps back, but only far enough to lean against the counter, still close enough to touch. "I'm telling you exactly what I'm thinking. How I'm already planning all the ways I'm going to drive you crazy over the next year."

"A year," I repeat weakly.

"Mmm. Three hundred and sixty five days of this fun." He runs his tongue across his bottom lip, slow and deliberate. "A year of almost-touches and almosts-kisses. A year of waking up hard and frustrated." His eyes glitter with mischief. "A year of finding out just how creative I can be when the only goal is to make you lose your mind."

"What have I done?"

"You forgot who you were dealing with." He moves to the kitchen doorway, then pauses. "Oh, and Yoongi? If we're really going to work on communication, maybe next time you want to change our entire relationship dynamic, you could try actually discussing it with me first."

"You're right."

"Yes. I am. But I appreciate you saying it." His smile turns wicked again. "Now, should we shake on it? Or would that be too... stimulating for your new rules?"

I've made a huge mistake. "What have I done?"

"You've given me a very interesting challenge." He disappears into my living room no doubt to seek out my gaming system, and calls back, "Hope you're ready for the most communicative year of your life."

I sink my head in my hands. I definitely dug my own grave.

Chapter 48: The Devil Works Hard, Jimin Works Harder

Summary:

Yoongi POV

RIP his sanity

Notes:

Warnings: excessive use of text messages, 1 diabolical shirtless photo

Jin only person in this chapter with a functioning braincell

I wake up to a shit ton of missed messages. My phone screen is a fucking mess of notifications, all with Jimin's pfp, and I have a sinking feeling that I've released something unholy.

The night before, Jimin and I sat on opposite ends of the living room couch, maintaining what I'd  thought was a safe distance while the others filtered off to bed early due to our busy schedule today. Jimin had somehow made eating chocolate Pepero look like foreplay, biting into each stick with deliberate slowness, letting his teeth graze the surface while maintaining eye contact. By the time everyone shuffled off to wash up, the air between us was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

He'd risen not long after—and walked around behind me, leaning over the couch back and pressing his lips almost against my ear to whisper "sweet dreams, hyung" in a voice that promised nightmares of the best kind.

Now, squinting at my phone, I see the carnage that came an hour after.

Jimin (11:45 PM): Your sweatpants are criminally tight fyi

Jimin (11:46 PM): Did you know I can see the outline of your dick when you stretch?

Jimin (11:48 PM): And now I can't stop thinking about it

Jimin (12:23 AM): Can't sleep

Jimin (12:24 AM): Keep thinking about how you looked at my mouth when I was eating

Jimin (12:25 AM): Like you wanted to bite my lips

Jimin (12:26 AM): Do you want to bite my lips, hyung?

Jimin (12:27 AM): Because I want you to

Jimin (12:28 AM): I want you to bite them and suck on them until they're swollen 

Jimin (12:29 AM): I want you to make me whimper

Jimin (2:15 AM): Still awake

Jimin (2:16 AM): This is definitely your fault

Jimin (2:17 AM): I'm so hard I can't think straight

Jimin (2:18 AM): Actually that's a lie, I'm thinking very clearly

Jimin (2:19 AM): I'm thinking about your hands, your long fingers

Jimin (2:20 AM): And your smart ass mouth

Jimin (2:21 AM): And how you sound when you're trying not to moan

Jimin (2:34 AM): Did you know that when you're trying not to think about something, it's all you can think about?

Jimin (3:13 AM): Taking matters into my own hands

Jimin (3:14 AM): Literally

Jimin (3:15 AM): Thinking about you the entire time

Jimin (7:42 AM): Good morning sunshine

Jimin (7:43 AM): Hope you slept better than I did

Jimin (7:44 AM): Because I barely slept at all

Jimin (7:45 AM): Too busy reliving every time you've made me come

Jimin (8:01 AM): Still waiting for you to wake up

Jimin (8:02 AM): I'm getting impatient

Jimin (8:05 AM): And when I get impatient, I get more creative

I stare at my phone in horror and arousal. Twenty-four hours. It's been twenty-four fucking hours since I proposed this celibacy thing, and he's already trying to kill me.

I can hear movement in the kitchen—probably Jin starting making coffee—so I grab sweatpants and try to make my face casual as my body hums. I pause and type out a quick response.

Me: Jesus Christ, Jimin. What the fuck was that.

The response is immediate.

Jimin: Oh look who's alive

Jimin: Took you long enough

Jimin: I was starting to think you died from sexual frustration

Me: I might

Jimin: Poor baby

Jimin: How are you feeling this morning?

Jimin: Rested? Relaxed? Ready to take on the day?

Me: Fuck you

Jimin: That's the point, you can't

Jimin: For 364 more days

Jimin: How does that feel?

I lean against the doorway to my room, gripping my phone like it's the only thing keeping me sane. Which it might be.

Me: You're evil

Jimin: I'm motivated

Jimin: There's a difference

Jimin: Speaking of motivation, what are you wearing right now?

I look down at my rumpled Fear of God t-shirt and the grey sweatpants I'd tugged on.

Me: Why?

Jimin: Because your answer tells me things

Jimin: Like whether you're still in bed

Jimin: Or whether you're up and looking all sleep-messed and edible

Jimin: Are you looking edible right now, hyung?

Me: I look like I got hit by a truck

Jimin: A sexy truck

Jimin: I bet your hair is doing that thing where it sticks up in the back

Jimin: I bet your shirt is riding up just enough to show that little strip of skin above your waistband

Jimin: I bet if I walked into that room right now, I could make you forget your own name

Jimin: Do you know how many times I came last night

Me: Stop

Jimin: Four

Me: ...

Jimin:  I see you typing responses and not sending them

Me: I don't know what to say. I can't flirt like you

Jimin: Do you know what's not unsexy?

Jimin: Your sleepy voice

Jimin: The way you hum when you're concentrating

Jimin: How you bite your lip when you're trying not to laugh

Jimin: How you taste after eating a tangerine

Me: Jimin

Jimin: How you sound when you're licking my—

My phone starts ringing before he can finish that thought, which is probably for the best because I was about to combust. Jimin's name flashes on the screen, and I answer without thinking.

"Pabo. Do you have any sense?" I say instead of hello.

"Good morning to you too, hyung." His voice is rough and way too close to my ear. "Miss me?"

I retreat back into my room and shut the door.

"You're a demon."

"The devil works hard, but I work harder." There's a smile in his voice that I can practically see. 

"I noticed."

"Did you? Did you notice how hard I'm trying to drive you completely fucking insane?" His voice drops to that register that goes straight to my dick. "Because that's my new full-time job."

"This isn't what I meant by better communication."

"Isn't it? I'm communicating very clearly. I'm telling you exactly what I want to do to you, in explicit detail, with helpful visual aids."

"Visual aids?"

"Check your messages."

I pull the phone away from my ear and look at the screen. There's a new message waiting, and when I open it, I nearly drop to my knees.

It's a photo. Jimin in his bed, shirtless, hair messed up from sleep, lips parted slightly. The angle is carefully chosen to show the lean lines of his torso, the sharp cut of his hipbones disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxers. But it's his eyes that destroy me—heavy and challenging and absolutely wicked.

"Jimin-ah." My voice comes out strangled.

"Want to know what I was thinking about when I took it?" His voice is pure sin through the phone. 

"No."

"Liar. You want to know everything. You want to know exactly what I'm thinking about, exactly what I'm planning, exactly how I'm going to spend the next 364 days making you lose your busy little mind."

He's right. I want to know all of it, and I hate him for knowing me so well. Except I love it. And I love him. Even though I want to muzzle him before I do something stupid.

"Where are you right now?" I manage.

"My room. Hobi's in the shower, so I can say whatever I want." There's a rustling sound, like he's moving around. "I'm still in bed, by the way. Still shirtless. Still thinking about you."

"Stop."

"Stop what? Stop thinking about how you looked last night when you were trying so hard not to stare at my mouth? Stop imagining what you'd taste like first thing in the morning? Stop wondering if you're getting hard right now just from hearing my voice?"

I am. I'm getting hard standing in the middle of my room listening to Jin sing a trot song off-key down the hall.

"This is torture," I breathe.

"This is communication," he corrects. "Very thorough, very honest communication. Isn't this what you wanted?"

"You know it's not."

"Do I? Because you seem to be enjoying it." His voice gets softer, more intimate. "I can hear it in your breathing. It's faster now. Shallower."

I can’t defend myself.

"I hate you—"

"No you don't. Do you want to know what I'm doing right now?"

"Not really." Yes.

"I'm touching myself beneath my balls. Very slowly, very carefully. Just the way you like to watch me do it." There's a slight catch in his breathing that makes my stomach flip. "Want to know what I'm thinking about?"

"We can't—"

"We're not doing anything, hyung. I'm in my room, you're in yours. We're just talking." His voice gets rougher. "But I'm thinking about your hands instead of mine. I'm thinking about how I suck your fingers wet and you'd touch me if you were here."

"Please."

"I'm thinking about how I'd make you beg for a taste."

"J-Jimin."

"I love when you get all needy and start to whine."

My grip on the phone is so tight my knuckles are white. "This isn't fair."

"Neither is celibacy." There's a soft sound that might be a moan, and my entire body clenches in response. "But here we are."

I hear footsteps in the hallway and panic. "Someone's coming."

"Yeah," Jimin breathes, and the double meaning makes me want to die. "Me, hopefully."

"Jimin-ah!" Jin's voice echoes down the hallway. "Are you on the phone? Get out here and eat something before we go."

There's a muffled sound like Jimin covering the phone, then his voice, perfectly innocent: "Sorry, hyung! Just checking the weather!"

"The weather?" Jin sounds suspicious. "It's the same as yesterday!"

"Climate change is unpredictable!"

I can hear Jin muttering something about young people and their phone obsessions these days as his footsteps retreat.

"Still there?" Jimin asks quietly.

"Unfortunately."

"Good. Because I'm not done with you yet."

"I think you are, actually."

"Oh, hyung." His voice is wicked and satisfied. "I haven't even started. That was just the warm-up."

"Warm-up for what?"

"For the most sexually frustrating year of your life." He pauses. "Speaking of which, Jin made breakfast. You should come eat with us."

The casual shift gives me whiplash. "Just like that?"

"Just like that. But fair warning—I'm going to sit next to you. And I'm going to find every possible excuse to touch you. Accidentally, of course."

"Of course."

"And I'm going to whisper things in your ear that will make you choke on your food. And every time you start to forget about this conversation, I'm going to remind you. All day. Every day. For 364 more days."

I close my eyes and accept my fate. "What have I done?"

"You've given me a very interesting challenge." His voice is pure satisfaction. "Hope you're ready for the ride, baby."

The line goes dead.

Day two of three hundred and sixty-five.

I'm going to die. I'm literally going to die. And Jimin's going to smile at my funeral.

Chapter 49: Tom & Jerry

Summary:

Inspired by the KKUL FM episode where Jimin said Yoongi had to beg
Featuring: Yoongi's terrible attempts at sexting, flirting notes (yes he made a list), and Jimin being gone for his awkward man.
213 days and counting...

Notes:

Jimin POV

We're at June 2020.

The studio feels smaller after Yoongi leaves.

He had another schedule so I'd made an excuse about wanting to check the recording quality—something about my mic sounding off during one bit—and the staff had waved me off with tired smiles. They're used to me being a perfectionist about our content, which is good as I really need five minutes alone to process whatever the hell just happened during that recording.

I move over into his chair, spinning it once, twice, letting the leather creak under my weight. The headphones he wore are still warm when I pick them up, and I notice everything—the faint woodsy scent of his cologne on the padding, the way he'd adjusted the mic stand, the half drunk and forgotten iced Americano. Then I remember the way my chest did something fluttery as he'd studied me—intense, focused, like trying to solve a puzzle that I'd scrambled on purpose.

Which, to be fair, I've been known to do.

This whole KKUL FM thing was supposed to be casual—Yoongi's solo radio show, sometimes featuring members when schedules aligned. I'd been on a few before, but never when the air between us was this charged. Every loaded comment about wanting him to beg, every deliberate pause when he'd asked if he should have pleaded for me to visit the Daechwita set, every time I'd run my thumb over my lower lip knowing he was watching—it all felt like playing with a lighter near gasoline. Dangerous and addictive and exactly what I needed after months of this bizarre celibacy challenge that's somehow become the best and worst foreplay of my life.

Do I have to beg?

Of course.

The way his voice had dropped after that response, rough and low, I'd nearly lost my composure right there. But that's the game we play now, isn't it? How close can we get to starting a fire without burning?

I'm pretty good at it.

My phone buzzes against the soundboard where I'd left it, and I don't need to look to know it's him. Yoongi's been texting more since he started this insane year-long challenge, as if denying ourselves physical contact has opened some floodgate of digital intimacy.

Yoongi: That was evil

Yoongi: The way you said 'of course'

Yoongi: I almost forgot we were recording

I smile despite myself, typing back quickly.

Me: Almost?

Yoongi: Fine. I completely forgot

Yoongi: Started thinking about what kind of begging you had in mind

Me: The pathetic kind

Yoongi: Fuck you

Me: Still can't

Yoongi: Over 200 days to go

Me: 213

There's a longer pause before his next message comes through.

Yoongi: You're keeping count

It's not a question, and something about the way he's phrased it—like he's discovered something I didn't mean to reveal—makes my stomach clench. Because hell yes, I'm keeping count. I have an app on my phone that tracks it down and check it daily, though I'd rather die than admit that to him.

Yoongi: I keep thinking about what you said

Yoongi: About wanting me to long for you more actively

Me: And?

Yoongi: Mission accomplished

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste copper. This is what I wanted, isn't it? To matter enough that he misses me. To force him to figure his shit out once and for all.

This whole thing started as his idea to prove some point about self-control and communication. But somewhere along the way, I've helped turn it into  something else. Something that feels less like deprivation and more like... anticipation. Like we're building toward something more honest at last.

Me: You say that now

Me: Wait until you see what I'm wearing changing into

Yoongi: What?

Me: Guess

Yoongi: Jiminie

Me: The black jeans

Me: The ones you said were criminal

Yoongi: I hate you

Me: The really tight ones

Me: That show off my ass

There's no response for several minutes, and I can picture him staring at his phone, jaw clenched, trying to decide whether to give me the satisfaction of a reaction. 

Taking sex off the table is torture. I'm jerking off daily.

But it's also... clarifying.

The tour cancellation had broken something in Yoongi that I'm still trying to understand. He'd gone quiet for days, disappearing to his parents' house and coming back hollow-eyed and fragile in a way that made me want to wrap him in blankets and guard the door. When he finally admitted that he'd spent a full day crying between his parents in their bed, something in me had cracked open.

I wanted to be that for him. The safe place he fell apart. The person he trusted with his broken pieces.

This thing growing between us now, this careful tending of something precious and unnamed, required a kind of vulnerability I wasn't sure I knew how to give anymore. But I want to. I want to so badly.

My phone buzzes again.

Yoongi: Are you trying to kill me?

Me: Maybe

Me: Is it working?

Yoongi: During the recording, all I could think about was your mouth

There's a pause, then another message.

Yoongi: Like not in a creepy way

Yoongi: Just... your mouth when you talk

Yoongi: And when you laugh

Yoongi: And when you bite your lip

Another pause.

Yoongi: Fuck I'm bad at this

Me: Bad at what?

Yoongi: Talking to you like this

Yoongi: Without being able to just... show you

Yoongi: I keep typing things and deleting them

I lean back in the studio chair, something warm and giddy spreading through me. This awkward, trying-too-hard version of Yoongi is somehow infinitely more devastating than any smooth dirty talk could be.

Me: Show me what?

Yoongi: How much I want you

Yoongi: How I think about your little fingers all the time. Seriously why are they so little?

Yoongi: And your neck

Yoongi: Especially that spot behind your ear that makes you make that noise

Yoongi: That little sigh. I want to find that spot again and I don't know...kiss it.

Yoongi: Is this working? Am I doing this right?

I actually kick my feet under the desk like I'm in high school, phone pressed to my chest as I try to process the image of Min Yoongi, master of savage deadpan delivery, earnestly trying to G-rated sext me and asking for feedback.

Me: Are you asking me to rate your dirty talk?

Yoongi: Maybe

Me: It's working

Me: Trust me, it's working

Yoongi: Yeah?

Yoongi: What about when I tell you I think about your thighs

Yoongi: typing

Yoongi: shit wait how do I make that sound hot

Yoongi: I think about your thighs... constantly?

Yoongi: No that's worse

Yoongi: Your thighs are really nice? Pretty? A whole ass anatomy lesson?

Yoongi: FUCK

Me: HYUNG. Anatomy?

Me: Stop I'm dying

Yoongi: This is humiliating

Me: It's perfect

Me: You're perfect

Yoongi: I want to be more smooth

Me: You will never be smooth

Me: Last week you told me my ass was "geometrically pleasing"

Yoongi: But you like math. I can say I want to ravish your thighs. 

This is so much better than smooth—this stumbling, honest attempt to navigate new territory.

Me: You...just non-ironically used the word ravish

Me: And I'm obsessed with this fact

Yoongi: Really?

Me: Really

Me: Keep going

Yoongi: I don't know what else to say

Yoongi: I'm not good at this flowery stuff

Yoongi: I just want to touch you

Yoongi: Like, everywhere

Yoongi: Is that too simple?

Me: It's perfect

Yoongi: I miss the weight of you

Yoongi: Above me, against me

Yoongi: I miss how you smell right after a shower

Yoongi: And how you steal my hoodies and they smell like you after

Yoongi: I miss how you always try to have serious conversations when you're half asleep

Yoongi: None of this is sexy, is it

Me: It's the sexiest thing you've ever said

Yoongi: Really?

Me: Really

This rambling, uncertain Yoongi trying so hard to find and offer me the right words is infinitely more devastating than any practiced seduction. I take off my black bucket hat and bury my face in it. I might even silently scream.

Yoongi: I should probably stop 

Yoongi: Before I say something really embarrassing

Me: Like what?

Yoongi: Like how I practiced what I was going to say to you today

Yoongi: For the radio show

Yoongi: I had notes

Me: NOTES?

Yoongi: Just bullet points

Yoongi: About how to flirt with you professionally

Yoongi: Never mind.

Yoongi: Fuck. Forget I said anything

I'm actually giggling now, pressing my face into my hands because the image of Yoongi with a notepad, writing down "flirting strategies" like it's a business presentation, might be my cause of death

Me: Show me 

Yoongi: Absolutely not

Me: DO IT

Yoongi: They're embarrassing

Me: We are embarrassing

Me: Show me. Please.

There's a long pause, then a photo. It's a page from his notebook, his careful handwriting listing things like:

• mention miniminiz thing and tom & jerry 
• ask about visiting sets (make him say he wants me there)
• don't be weird or obvious but be interested. Just BE SMOOTH

At the bottom, he's written "DON'T FUCK THIS UP" and underlined it three times.

I'm laughing so hard I'm crying.

Me: "BE SMOOTH" in all caps

Me: I'm dying

Me: This is the cutest thing 

Yoongi: I'm burning the notebook

Me: Don't you dare

Me: I want to frame it

Yoongi: You're enjoying this too much

Me: I'm enjoying YOU too much

Me: Awkward, planning, overthinking you

Me: You made NOTES to flirt with me

Yoongi: I wanted to do it right

Yoongi: I wanted to make you feel... wanted

The simple honesty of it stops my laughter cold. Because that's what this is about, isn't it? This whole challenge has forced us to find new ways to show care, new ways to create intimacy. And Yoongi, awkward and earnest and trying so hard, made a list because he wanted to make sure I felt cherished.

Me: Hyung

Yoongi: What

Me: It worked

Me: All of it worked

Yoongi: Yeah?

Me: I felt so wanted during that recording

Me: I felt like you were talking just to me

Yoongi: I was

Yoongi: I'm always talking just to you

The confession makes my chest tight again, but this time it's the good kind of tight—the kind that feels like coming home.

Me: Tom and Jerry

Yoongi: What?

Me: That's what you called us today

Me: Tom and Jerry who are friends now that they're adults

Yoongi: Are we?

Yoongi: Friends?

The question makes me laugh, though it comes out a little breathless.

Me: Is that what you want to be?

Yoongi: I want to be everything to you

I want to be everything to you.

My hands shake as I type back.

Me: You already are

Me: That's the problem

Yoongi: Problem?

Me: It's terrifying

Me: Wanting someone this much

Me: Needing someone this much

The typing indicator appears and disappears several times, like he's starting and stopping responses. Finally:

Yoongi: The night the tour got cancelled

Yoongi: When I went to my parents' house

Yoongi: I wanted to call you

Yoongi: But I was scared I'd fall apart completely if I heard your voice

The image of him alone and crying, wanting me but too afraid to reach out, makes my eyes burn.

Me: You can fall apart with me

Me: I want you to fall apart with me

Me: That's what this is supposed to be about, isn't it?

Me: Not the sex thing

Me: The trust thing

There's a long pause before his response comes through.

Yoongi: 213 days feels like forever

Me: Yeah

Me: It does

Yoongi: But also like not nearly enough time

Me: To figure this out?

Yoongi: To deserve you

I collapse back in his seat. Initially I saw this challenge as about proving something to him—that I could be worth the wait, worth the effort. But what if it's the opposite? What if he's trying to prove something to himself?

Me: Hung

Me: You don't have to earn me

Me: I'm already yours

Me: I've been yours

The confession spills out before I can stop it, raw and honest and more vulnerable than any of the filthy texts I've sent over the past four months. Because that's the truth, isn't it? Somewhere between the friendship and flirting and fighting and fucking, during the complicated dance of intimacy we've done over the years, I became his. Completely, irrevocably his.

And maybe that's what scares me most.

Yoongi: Jimin-ah

Me: Don't

Me: Don't make it weird

Me: Just... know that, okay?

Yoongi: I love you

The words appear on my screen so simply, like they're nothing. Like they're not the most important thing anyone's ever said to me.

Me: Obviously

Yoongi: Obviously?

Me: Did you think I was doing this for fun?

Me: This celibacy thing is hell

Me: But I'd do it again

Me: I'd do it longer if that's what you needed

Yoongi: What I need is you

Yoongi: In every way possible

Yoongi: But especially just... you

Me: 213 days

Yoongi: 213 days

Me: Think we'll make it?

Yoongi: I think we'll make it

Yoongi: And I think it's going to be worth it

Me: Yeah?

Yoongi: When I finally get to touch you again

Yoongi: When I finally get to show you everything I've been thinking about

Yoongi: It's going to be everything

The promise sends heat racing through my veins, but it's different now. Less desperate, more... certain. Like we're not just counting down to when we can have sex again, but to when we can have everything. All of it. The messy, complicated, beautiful everything that comes with letting someone matter this much.

Me: We have dance practice in two hours

Yoongi: I know

Me: I really am going to wear those jeans, you know

Yoongi: I know

Me: You're going to suffer

Yoongi: I know

Yoongi: But so are you

Yoongi: Because I'm on my way to the optometrist

Me: Is this meant to be kinky because I don't get it

Yoongi: I'm getting new glasses

Me: Oh?

Yoongi: I know you're a slut for me in glasses

Me: Send me a pic when you get them

Yoongi: Nah, I'm make you anticipate. I'm getting better at it, right?

Me: I hate you.

Yoongi: No, you don't.

I lock my phone, electricity humming under my skin. 213 days feels impossible and inevitable all at once—this careful dance we're doing, this building of something that feels too big and too important to rush.

Tom and Jerry, learning to be real.

Learning to be everything.

Chapter 50: Light It Up Like...

Summary:

Jimin POV. Dynamite just hit #1.

Notes:

yes i make them sit in separate chairs like they're in horny timeout. no i will not apologize.

Yoongi’s eyes well up as I buck deeper, feeding another fraction of my cock into his greedy mouth. How does he look so pretty while getting wrecked? I cup my hand against his neck and feel the muscles in his throat flutter between flight and fight.

“I…fuck feels so good…God, I wish you could see yourself,” I grunt, rocking harder. 

I love him. I’m so grateful for this, for us.

And I hate him, I want him to choke on every bit of shit that he ever put me through. 

But when he looks up at me like this - all vulnerable and hopeful and terrified - I can feel my walls crumbling faster than sandcastles in high tide. The hurt is still there, all those brutal months when I thought I'd lost him—and maybe even myself—for good, but it's fading around the edges. Like those were just practice rounds.

Like we had to break apart to figure out how to love each other the right way.

He gags and I pause, stoke his hollowed cheek. A silent question. Wanna stop? 

He hums a noise that sounds suspiciously like shut the fuck up and bottoms out, his lips hitting the base of my shaft, nose pressed to my pelvis. My whole world goes wet, tight and warm.

Seeing him like this...his eyes still bright with unshed tears but also something else. Something that looks dangerously like hope. It's making my heart do that frantic fluttering thing it used to do when we were new and everything felt electric.

I remember why I fell for him in the first place. Not just the big moments, but the little ones - how he'd rub his stomach to self soothe when nervous, how he'd reach for my hand without thinking, how he'd look at me like I was something precious.

Maybe we're not the same people we were before. Maybe those versions of us were too young, too reckless, too sure that love was enough. But looking at him now, I think maybe that's okay. Maybe we're better versions now. Maybe we've learned something about how to love each other without losing ourselves.

My climax hits without warning. Every nerve ending hums with barely contained energy, like champagne bubbles rising through my veins. The darkness wraps around me like velvet, but I know—God, I know—that in just a heartbeat, I'll shatter into a thousand brilliant pieces. My heart pounds against my ribs, matching the countdown that echoes in my bones. And then I'm flying, soaring upward on a trail of golden sparks, my very essence exploding into cascades of crimson and silver light. For one perfect, blazing moment, I am destruction and beauty, painting myself inside him and then --

"Jimin? Hey, bro. Are you okay--oh shit. Sorry sorry."

I open my eyes to see Hobi backing away, hands up like he's warding something off, gaze averted to a distant point somewhere above my head.

That's when I realize that I'm sticky. And sweaty. I scramble up to sitting, still disoriented. I was asleep? None of that was real? But my boxers are sticking to my thighs. Did I have a wet dream like some horny teenager?

"Y-you started moaning. It woke me up. I-I would have put on headphones if I knew that you were, you know. But I thought you were sick. It was so loud."

My roommate looks like he wants to evaporate. I don't blame him.

The room spins slightly as I try to piece together reality from the fragments of that dream. My face burns with mortification as Hobi's words sink in. Moaning. Loud enough to wake him up.

"I—" My voice cracks like I'm thirteen again. I clear my throat, pulling the blanket higher. "I didn't realize I was... I mean, I was dreaming about—"

"The fireworks," I finish lamely, because how do I explain that I was apparently having an incredibly vivid dream about exploding like a literal firework while... while other things were happening that I definitely can't mention to my roommate.

Hobi finally risks a glance in my direction, his expression caught between concern and the desperate desire to be anywhere else. "Fireworks?"

"From last night. The celebration." The memories start filtering back through the haze of sleep and embarrassment. The party. The champagne. Dancing on tables when our song hit #1 on Billboard. The way the room had spun with joy and disbelief and too much soju.

I scramble for anything to divert attention from the elephant in the room—or rather, the very obvious wet patch that's evidence of what my subconscious was up to.

"Wait, wait," I say, sitting up straighter and pointing at him with sudden theatrical urgency. "More importantly—did we really hit number one? Like, actually? Or was that part of the dream too?"

Hobi blinks, clearly relieved at the topic change. "Are you serious?"

"I'm having a crisis of reality here, okay?" I gesture wildly at nothing. "We actually did it, didn't we? We actually hit number one."

Relief floods Hobi's features as we shift to safer ground. "Yeah, man. We really did." His grin breaks through the awkwardness. "Though maybe next time we celebrate a little less... enthusiastically? You were pretty wasted when we got back."

I groan, pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes. That explains the pounding headache and the weird dreams. "How bad was I?"

"You kept trying to hug everyone and telling us you loved us. Then you insisted on calling your eomma at three am to brag."

"Oh God." The mortification deepens. "Please tell me someone stopped me."

Hobi's silence is answer enough.

"So, uh, did I at least sound coherent? Please tell me I didn't sing."

Hobi's shoulders relax as he settles into the familiar rhythm of teasing. "Oh, you sang alright. Something about being 'a little red chili pepper of success'.'"

"No." I bury my face in my hands. "Tell me you're lying."

"I wish I was. You also tried to FaceTime the Billboard Hot 100 chart. Like, literally called the number you found online."

"Did they answer?" I ask, morbid curiosity overtaking my shame.

"Thankfully, no. And then Jungkook put you in a chokehold." Hobi's grin is getting wider.

I throw a pillow at him, grateful for the distraction from my earlier situation. "You're making this up."

"Am I?" He dodges the pillow easily. "Because I have video evidence of you serenading the bathroom mirror, convinced your reflection was 'the other member who also hit number one.'"

"Delete it."

"Never. This is blackmail material for life." He's fully relaxed now, settling cross-legged on his bed like we're just having a normal morning-after-celebration recap instead of... well, whatever that was five minutes ago.

"I blame the champagne," I mutter, finally feeling brave enough to get up and hunt for clean clothes. "And possibly those shots Yoongi kept insisting were 'victory fuel.'"

"Victory fuel that nearly had you declaring your undying love to a houseplant."

"Wait, where's Yoongi?" I ask suddenly, like this just occurred to me and isn't a desperate attempt to redirect. "Please tell me he made it back okay last night."

Hobi tilts his head, studying me with barely concealed amusement. "He's fine. Crashed in the living room around two. Why?"

"Just—you know how he gets when he drinks." I'm pulling on a hoodie now, talking faster than necessary. "Did he say anything weird last night? About the celebration or... anything?"

"Nothing weirder than usual." Hobi's tone is carefully neutral, but there's a knowing glint in his eye. "Though he did mention something about making sure everyone got back to their rooms safely."

My hands freeze on the hoodie strings. "What do you mean by that?"

"Just that he's responsible like that. Making sure everyone was... settled in properly." The pause before 'settled in' is so deliberate it might as well be neon. "You know Yoongi. Always looking out for us."

I clear my throat. "Right. Good. That's... good of him."

"Mm-hmm." Hobi's practically radiating smug satisfaction now. "He's probably still sleeping it off. Long night for everyone, I imagine."

The way he says 'everyone' makes my stomach flip. I grab my phone off the nightstand, checking for messages with studied casualness. "Should probably see if he needs anything. Hangover remedies, coffee..."

"That's very thoughtful of you."

I mumble something noncommittal and head for the door, desperate to escape Hobi's knowing smirk. The hallway feels longer than usual as I pad toward the living room, rehearsing casual conversation starters in my head. Hey, how's the hangover? Sleep well? Remember anything from last night?

But as I round the corner, the bathroom door opens and Yoongi emerges in nothing but low-slung pajama pants, hair still messy from sleep, a towel draped around his shoulders. He's mid-yawn when he spots me, and we both freeze.

The air between us shifts, thick with something unspoken. His eyes do a quick sweep—taking in my rumpled hoodie, my probably still-obvious bedhead, the way I'm standing there like a deer in headlights. There's a flicker of something in his expression, gone so fast I might have imagined it.

"Morning," he says, voice still rough from sleep.

"Morning." My voice comes out higher than intended.

We're standing too close in the narrow hallway, and I can smell his soap, see the droplets of water still clinging to his collarbone. My dream comes rushing back in vivid detail—the way his hands had felt, the sound he'd made when—

"You okay?" Yoongi asks, and there's something careful in his tone. "You look... flustered."

Heat crawls up my neck. "Just hungover. You know how it is."

"Yeah." He shifts the towel, and the movement draws my attention to the lean muscles of his torso. "Big night."

"Big night," I echo stupidly.

Neither of us moves. The silence stretches, loaded with the weight of whatever happened—or didn't happen—or might have happened last night. I can't tell if the tension I'm feeling is real or just projection from my subconscious, but the way Yoongi's looking at me suggests I'm not imagining it entirely.

"Jimin—" he starts, then stops, running the towel through his damp hair.

"Yeah?"

"Nothing. Just... we should probably talk later. When you're more awake."

My stomach does a somersault. "Talk about what?"

His smile is small, dangerous. "You tell me."

The words hang between us like a challenge. My mouth goes dry because there's no mistaking the intent in his voice now, the way his eyes are fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

"Yoongi, I—"

"You what?" He steps closer, close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in his throat. "You remember?"

Remember. The word hits me like ice water. Something happened.

"I remember... pieces," I whisper, and his eyes darken.

"What pieces?"

My breathing is shallow now, fragments surfacing like puzzle pieces I can't quite fit together—stumbling in the hallway, Yoongi's hands steadying me, the way he'd looked at me in the dim light. The feeling of almost falling, of being caught. Heat and closeness and the smell of his cologne mixed with whisky. "You caught me. When I was... I almost fell, didn't I?"

His jaw tightens. "You were pretty drunk."

"But there was..." I struggle for the words, chasing the memory that feels just out of reach. "There was something else. The way you looked at me. Or maybe I imagined it?"

Yoongi's silence stretches too long, and I can see him wrestling with something.

"Yoongi, did we—"

"You leaned in," he says quietly, cutting me off. "But I stopped you."

"Stopped me from what?"

His eyes meet mine, and there's something raw there. "From doing something you might regret when you sobered up."

Footsteps on the stairs make us both jolt apart, but Yoongi's gaze never leaves mine.

"We can't do this here," he murmurs, but his voice is rough with want.

"Then where?"

"My studio. After the interview." It's not a question.

Namjoon rounds the corner with coffee, taking in our flushed faces and the careful distance we've put between ourselves. His expression shifts slightly, a flicker of understanding crossing his features.

"Morning," Namjoon says, voice neutral. "You two look like you need caffeine."

"Probably," Yoongi agrees, adjusting the towel around his shoulders.

Namjoon studies us for a moment, then takes another sip of his coffee. "Interview's at noon. They'll want to focus on the chart success, but you know how these things go—they'll be watching for anything else that makes good copy."

The reminder hangs in the air, practical and pointed without being heavy-handed.

"We know the drill," I say.

"Yeah." Namjoon nods. "Just making sure we're all on the same page." He glances between us once more, then shrugs. "Anyway, Taehyung is making eggs if anyone wants some. Figured we should eat something substantial before we have to be 'on' for a few hours."

It's so casually normal that it almost makes the tension worse. Like he's saying handle your business, but handle it smart.

"I'll be down in a few," Yoongi says.

Namjoon heads toward the kitchen, calling back, "Don't take too long. And maybe open a window—hallway smells like a bar."

When his footsteps fade, Yoongi and I are left staring at each other again, the weight of unfinished business and professional obligation pressing down on us.

"Studio," Yoongi says quietly. "After."

I nod, not trusting my voice, and watch him disappear into his room.

###

The studio feels smaller than usual when I slip inside three hours later, finding Yoongi already at his desk, headphones around his neck. The interview went smoothly—we were professional, charming, gave them nothing but music talk and gratitude. But the entire time I could feel the weight of unfinished conversation pressing between us.

"How does it feel?" Yoongi asks without looking up from his screen, but there's something different in his voice. Warmer. "Being a number one artist?"

"Surreal," I admit, closing the door behind me. "Like I'm going to wake up and find out it was all a dream."

"Not all of it was a dream though." He finally turns to face me, and that look from this morning is back—intense, searching. "Some of it was very real."

My pulse quickens. "You said nothing happened."

"I said I stopped you from doing something you might regret." He stands, moving closer. "I didn't say I didn't want it to happen."

The air between us shifts, charged. "Yoongi..."

"Do you know what Jin said when he bought us that Monopoly set last year?" We're the same height so always end up eye to eye. "He said every good game needs a get out of jail free card."

I blink, thrown by the reference. "What does Monopoly have to do with—"

"Maybe we need one too." His voice is soft, careful. "A card that says... what happens in this room, between a couple of number one artists celebrating their success, stays here."

My breath catches. "You're saying..."

"I'm saying you were drunk last night, and I was trying to be responsible." He reaches up, fingers barely grazing my cheek. "But you're sober now. And if you still want what you were reaching for in that hallway..."

The question hangs between us, heavy with possibility.

My heart hammers against my ribs as the weight of what he's suggesting sinks in. The pledge. Our promise to each other eight months ago. No giving in to the pull between us, no matter how strong it got.

"The fucking pledge," I whisper, and his jaw tightens slightly.

"I know."

"We said a year. We still have four months left."

"I know," he repeats, but his hand is still almost touching my face, hovering just close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his palm. "But we also didn't expect to hit number one. We didn't plan for... this."

"You think this qualifies?" My voice comes out rougher than intended. "A get out of jail free card?"

"Don't you?" He steps closer. "We hit number fucking one, Jimin. On Billboard. Something we dreamed about for years. If that's not worthy of an get out of jail free card, what is?"

The reference to Jin's board game makes me laugh despite the tension, remembering how competitive we all get during those game nights. How Jin always insists on being the banker, how Tae somehow always ends up owning all the railroads, how Yoongi plays with quiet strategy that usually leaves the rest of us bankrupt.

"Jin would say we're cheating," I point out, but my resolve is already crumbling.

"Jin would probably say we earned it," Yoongi counters, and there's something almost desperate in his voice now.

My breath catches. "You think hitting number one counts as extraordinary?"

"Don't you?" Yoongi's eyes search mine. "This is what we've been working toward for years. What we dreamed about when everything felt impossible."

The memory hits me—all those nights when we'd talk about our goals, our fears, our hopes for the future. Back when talking was easier, before we started using our bodies to say what our words couldn't. Before we realized that every fight ended in frantic kisses, every disagreement dissolved into desperate touches that solved nothing and complicated everything.

"One day," I hear myself saying, the words coming out before I can stop them. "Just today. Because of the chart."

"Just today," Yoongi agrees, and his voice is barely above a whisper. "Tomorrow we go back to the pledge. Four more months of... actually communicating."

"And if we can't handle it? If this makes it harder to talk to each other again?"

His hand finally makes contact with my cheek, thumb brushing across my skin with infinite gentleness. "Then we deal with that tomorrow. But Jimin..." His other hand comes up to frame my face. "We hit number one. We're standing at the top of the world right now, and I don't want to celebrate it by pretending I don't want you."

The honesty in his voice cuts through me. Eight months of careful distance, of forcing ourselves to use words instead of bodies, of learning how to fight properly instead of falling into bed to avoid the hard conversations. Eight months of proving we could break the cycle that nearly destroyed us.

"We've been doing so well," I whisper, but I'm already leaning into his touch. "Actually talking things through. Not running from problems."

"We have." His forehead drops to rest against mine. "We've learned how to be honest with each other. How to say what we mean instead of just..." He trails off, but we both know how that sentence ends.

Instead of just fucking until we forget what we were fighting about. Instead of using physical intimacy to patch over the places where emotional intimacy failed us.

But we're number one now. We made it to the top together, and we did it while learning to communicate properly. Maybe that's exactly why this feels different.

"One rule," I whisper, leaning into his touch despite every rational part of my brain. "Tomorrow morning, we go back to talking. Back to doing this right."

"Tomorrow we go back to the pledge," he agrees, but his eyes are dark with want. "Back to earning each other properly."

"The others—they don't need to know about this?"

"They've watched us learn how to communicate better. They've seen us work through our problems instead of..." He pauses, a slight flush creeping up his neck. "They trust us to handle our business. This doesn't have to be anyone's business but ours."

I close my eyes, remembering how destructive our old patterns were. The way we'd circle each other for days after a disagreement, tension building until it exploded into desperate, wordless encounters that left us both satisfied physically but more emotionally distant than before. The way the other members would watch us with worry, seeing the dysfunction we thought we were hiding.

But these eight months changed us. We learned to sit with discomfort instead of fucking it away. We learned to say "I'm hurt" instead of letting resentment fester. We learned that we could want each other and still treat each other well.

"We hit number one," I breathe, opening my eyes to meet his.

"We hit number one," he confirms, and there's wonder in his voice, like he still can't quite believe it. "And we did it while becoming better to each other."

Maybe that's what makes this feel safe now. We're not running from a fight or avoiding a conversation. We're celebrating something we achieved together, as partners who finally learned how to be partners properly.

"Fuck the pledge," I whisper, and something ignites in his expression. "Just for today."

But even as the words leave my mouth, I can see him wavering, the same doubt that's clawing at my chest reflected in his eyes.

"Wait." His hands drop from my face, and he takes a step back, running his fingers through his hair. "Wait, we... we can't."

The loss of his touch is almost physical, but I know he's right. "The pledge exists for a reason."

"We made it because we were destructive together. Because we used each other instead of talking." He's pacing now, the small space making his agitation more obvious. "We've worked too hard to throw it away, even for this."

I lean back against the wall, trying to get my breathing under control. "So what do we do? Pretend we don't want this? Go back to careful distance for four more months while pretending today didn't happen?"

"No." He stops pacing, turning to face me with an intensity that makes my pulse spike. "No, we don't pretend. We've learned how to be honest, right? So let's be honest."

"What are you saying?"

He's quiet for a long moment, and I can practically see him working through the idea. "What if... what if we amend the pledge? Just for today. Just for this moment."

"Amend it how?"

"We don't touch each other." His voice is rough, deliberate. "But that doesn't mean we can't... take care of ourselves. While being honest about what we want."

The suggestion hangs in the air between us, and I feel heat pool low in my stomach as I understand what he's proposing. "You mean..."

"I mean we celebrate. Together. But we don't break the rules we set." His eyes are dark, fixed on mine. "We just... bend them. Creatively."

My mouth goes dry. "That's not... that's still..."

"It's still maintaining boundaries," he says firmly. "Still honoring the spirit of what we promised each other. We don't use physical contact to avoid communication. We don't fall back into old patterns." He takes a step closer, but keeps his hands at his sides. "We just acknowledge what this success means to us. What we mean to each other."

"While watching each other..."

"While being completely honest about what we're feeling." His voice drops to a whisper. "About what we want. About how much this moment, this achievement, this... us... means."

I close my eyes, heart racing. It's not technically breaking the pledge. We'd still be maintaining the physical boundary that's been so important for our growth. But God, the idea of being that vulnerable with him, that open, while still maintaining that last thread of control...

"The door," I manage.

"Already locked."

When I open my eyes, he's watching me with an expression I haven't seen in eight months—want and affection and something deeper, all tangled together without the desperate edge that used to scare us both.

"This doesn't change anything," I say, but my voice wavers. "Tomorrow we're still..."

"Tomorrow we're still us. Still working on being better." He settles into the chair across from me, and there's something almost ceremonial about the deliberate distance. "Still four months left. But right now..."

"Right now we're number one," I finish, understanding blooming between us.

"Right now we're number one," he agrees, and his hand moves to the hem of his shirt. "And right now, I want you to see what that means to me."

But his movements are hesitant, almost tentative, and I realize that despite everything we've shared, this feels new. Vulnerable in a way that's different from our old desperate encounters.

"I'm nervous," I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

His hand stills. "Good nervous or bad nervous?"

"Good. Scary good." I shift in my chair, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space between us. "It's just... we've worked so hard to learn how to see each other properly. And now..."

"Now we get to really see everything," he finishes quietly. He pulls his shirt over his head slowly, reverently.

The sight of him, lit by the soft studio lighting, makes my breath catch. But it's not just the physical beauty—it's the trust in his expression, the way he's looking at me like I'm the center of the universe. People have looked at me with lust. With admiration. With calculation. But never with the sense that somehow, I, Park Jimin, am enough in all my ways, in every filter.

"You've got a beautiful dick," I whisper, and he actually blushes.

"Don't," he says, but he's smiling so wide that I can see his gums.

"I love you," I say, and the words feel both huge and simple. No teasing. No bullshit. "Not just want you. Love you."

He goes very still. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." I reach for the buttons on my own pants with trembling fingers. "Is that... is that okay to say right now?"

"More than okay." His voice is rough with emotion. "I love you too. That's why this feels so important. Why today matters."

We move together in quiet synchronization, maintaining eye contact like we're afraid to break the spell. There's no rush, no desperation—just two people who've learned to cherish each other finally allowing themselves to be completely seen.

"We're really doing this," I breathe, settling back in my chair.

"We're really doing this." He leans back too, and there's something almost sacred about the space between us—close enough to see everything, far enough to maintain the boundary that's kept us safe. "Together."

"Like everything we do best," I realize, and he nods.

"Exactly like everything we do best."

The silence that follows is charged but comfortable, filled with soft breathing and friction. There's something almost meditative about it—the way we mutually move together, the way our eyes never leave each other.

I drink him in like I'm memorizing every detail: the elegant line of his collarbones, the way the studio light catches the subtle definition of his pale chest, the curve of his slight waist.

"God, you're gorgeous," Yoongi breathes, his gaze traveling over my face, my body with savoring slowness. I can feel the weight of his attention like a caress, the way his eyes linger on my shoulders, trace the line of my throat, follow the path down my torso with obvious appreciation.

"So are you," I manage, voice catching as I take in the pink hue spreading across his skin, the way his breathing has gone shallow. "So so so pretty, Yoongi."

His lips part slightly at my words, and I watch, mesmerized, as his tongue darts out to wet them. The simple gesture sends heat racing through me.

"The way you look at me right now," he whispers, and there's wonder in his voice. "Like you see me, really see me, you know?"

"I know," I say immediately. "Trust me I know."

I let my gaze wander openly now—tracing the lean muscles of his arms, the way his fingers curl against his thighs, the vulnerable curve of his neck when he tilts his head back slightly. There's something intoxicating about being allowed to look, to admire, without a desperate rush.

"I love watching you," I confess, heat creeping up my neck at the admission. Sometimes when I'm around him I lose the upper hand. I don't even want it. I just want to sit at his feet and swoon. "You're so pretty when you move, the little expressions you make when you think no one's paying attention. I'm kinda obsessed."

His eyes darken at my words, and I can see the effect my attention has on him—the way his inhalations get raspy, the subtle arch of his back as he fists himself harder. "Keep looking at me like that and I won't last long," he admits with a breathless laugh.

"Good," I whisper, letting my appreciation show plainly on my face. "I want to see you fall apart. Want to watch how pretty you look when you let go."

"I can't believe we made it here," he replies, and I know he means more than just the charts. "Last year, I thought I'd ruined everything."

"I did too for awhile. But you didn't. You can't." I want to say we are inevitable. That this is forever. But instead I settle with, "We are just... are learning a better way."

A moan escapes him, soft and guttural, and I can see the moment approaching , the way his thigh muscles clench and his eyes flutter closed and then open again, like he doesn't want to miss a second of seeing me. Of watching my every stroke.

"Together?" he asks, voice strained with love and want.

"Together," I confirm, increasing my rhythm, feeling my own release building in the pit of my belly, better than any dream. "Always together."

When it happens, it's with my name on his lips and his name on mine, our eyes locked as we shatter and rebuild simultaneously. The intimacy of it overwhelms me—not just the physical release, but the way he's looking at me like I sit in the stars, like I'm the end game.

"I love you," he gasps as he comes undone, and the words hit me like dynamite.

"I love you too," I cry out, my own climax crashing over me. "God, Yoongi, I love you so much."

In that moment, we're not just two people celebrating success—we're two lost souls who found their way back to each other, who learned that love is worth waiting for, worth doing right. The number one hit feels insignificant compared to this: the way he's smiling at me through his aftershocks, stunned, shy, soft and devastated and completely mine. My Yoongi.

"We're going to be okay," I whisper, and it feels like a revelation.

"Better than okay," he agrees, his deep satori rough with emotion. "We're going to be us."

Chapter 51: Small Things

Summary:

Jimin POV

Notes:

Part of the 'learning to communicate properly' era. I think these two are getting there, slowly but surely. You?

The first sign something's wrong is when Yoongi doesn't show up for group dinner back at the dorm.

Not unusual by itself—he's been known to lose track of time in the studio, especially when he's working through something. But Namjoon mentions offhandedly that he saw Yoongi leave the company hours ago, and when I check the group chat, there's nothing. Radio silence.

"Has anyone heard from Yoongi?" I ask, trying to keep my voice casual as I help Taehyung set the table.

"You’d know best," Jungkook says, not looking up from his phone. "You two go everywhere together lately."

Heat crawls up my neck. Have we been that obvious? "We're not that—"

"I texted him about twenty minutes ago," Hobi interrupts, saving me from protesting too much. "Said he was stressed about something. Maybe he just needs space?"

But space feels wrong. We've been working on not running from each other, on talking through problems instead of disappearing. The fact that he's gone without a word sits wrong in my body, makes my shoulders carry weight they shouldn't have to.

I text him: Everything okay? Looks like you might miss dinner? Jin’s making sundubu jjigae

Nothing.

An hour later we finished eating: Just checking in. Call me if you need anything.

Still nothing. Crickets chirp louder.

By the time I'm getting ready for bed, the silence is gnawing at me. I'm standing in the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, staring at my phone and debating whether to try calling when it finally buzzes.

Can you possibly come over? Sorry. I know it's late.

Relief floods through me so fast I almost drop the phone.

On my way.

I throw on clothes, a jacket, a hat and mask, and run the blocks to his apartment. When he opens the door, my worry ratchets up another notch. He looks exhausted—hollow somehow, that worry line between his eyebrows deeper than usual.

"Sorry," he says immediately, stepping back to let me in. "You probably thought I was pulling a disappearing act again."

"Are you?" The question comes out sharper than I intended, all my previous lessons of learned anxiety making itself known.

He winces. "No. I mean—fuck, I almost did. That was my first instinct." He runs fingers through his hair–light brown for now. I notice his hand shaking slightly. ""But then I realized that was exactly the wrong thing to do. That if I was going to handle this properly, I needed... I needed you, okay? There, I said it." His shoulders drop slightly, some tension releasing. "God, I actually reached out. That's... that's something, right?"

His words settle between us like snow, quiet and transformative. And something shifts—nothing big and dramatic, just a subtle reordering of the world, the way winter changes everything by degrees until you wake up one morning and the landscape is unrecognizable.

"That's more than something," I say softly, following him into the living room. "So, what's going on?"

He settles onto the couch but doesn't relax into it, posture rigid like he's bracing for impact. He’s doing that thing where he twists a small lock of hair just behind his left ear, the same strand he's been unconsciously torturing since we were trainees. A little anxiety tell.

"Had a follow up doctor's appointment today. About my shoulder."

I nod, of course knowing exactly what he means. Years of watching him favor that side, roll it unconsciously during long rehearsals, the way he'd ice it after particularly intense dance sessions and pretend it was just preventative care. It’s been getting worse. We all know it. "What did they say?"

"Surgery." The word drops between us like a stone. "She’s recommending surgery to fix the torn labrum. Said the scar tissue from the accident has been getting worse, and if I keep pushing through it, I could do permanent damage."

My first reaction is relief, which probably shows on my face because his expression shifts.

"You think it's good news," he says, and there's something almost accusatory in his tone.

"More like… it's fixable news," I correct carefully. "That's better than some alternatives."

"Is it?" He stands abruptly, starting to pace. "We’ve hit number one, Jimin. We're here at the peak of everything we've worked for, and now I have to go on some fucking health hiatus? Do you see the sick pattern here? Every time something good happens, something else gets taken away."

The bitterness in his voice…I know this spiral—the way his brain works when he's scared, cataloging every disappointment and failure like evidence for a case against hope.

"Yoongi—"

"I should have expected it," he continues, voice getting tighter. "Should have known that getting everything I wanted was too good to last."

"Hey." I stand too, moving to intercept his pacing. "Look at me."

He stops but doesn't meet my eyes, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle spasm.

"You know what's not going away?" I ask quietly. "Me. I'm not going anywhere."

His laugh is hollow. "You say that now, but—"

"But what? I'm going to disappear because you need surgery?" The suggestion stings more than it should. "What exactly do you think is going to happen? I'll get bored waiting for you to heal and find someone more convenient?"

"I don't know." His voice cracks slightly. "Maybe. Everyone gets tired of dealing with broken things eventually, right? That's just... that's how it works."

And there it is—the real fear underneath all the anger about timing and bad luck. I want to shake him, to point out all the ways I've proven that I'm not going anywhere, but I can see how small he looks right now, how genuinely terrified.

"How long are we talking?" I ask instead. "For recovery?"

"Could be months," he mutters. "Depending on how the surgery goes, how well I heal. Months.”

"Okay."

He finally looks at me, confusion flickering across his features. "Okay?"

"Okay, months. We'll figure it out." I shrug like it's simple, because in my mind, it is. "What else did the doctor say? About the recovery process?"

"I..." He blinks, clearly thrown by my lack of panic. "Physical therapy. Gradually building strength back. They said if I do everything right, I should be back to full capacity eventually."

"Eventually meaning you'll be able to perform again? Dance? Play music?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Then I’m grateful." I settle back onto the couch, patting the cushion beside me. "Come on. Tell me the actual details instead of catastrophizing."

For a moment, he just stares at me. After a few long seconds, something in his posture shifts, like a string being released, and he collapses onto the couch next to me with a shaky exhale. 

"I'm scared," he admits quietly.

"I know." I can't help myself—I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together. "That's normal. Surgery is scary, even when it's not life or death."

"It's not just the surgery." He's quiet for a long moment, gently rubbing his thumb over the back of mine. When he speaks again, his voice is thoughtful in a way I recognize. "I think I'm struggling with accepting good things. Like, logically, I know this is fixable. I know surgery will help. But emotionally, it feels like punishment."

My Yoongi—the one who's learned to examine his thoughts instead of just drowning in them. My throat goes tight with something that feels like pride mixed with love. "What would you tell someone else in your situation?"

He huffs a laugh. "That they're catastrophizing. That one medical procedure doesn't negate their success or mean they're doomed to lose everything good in their life."

"Smart advice."

"Yeah, well, it's easier to see clearly when it's not your own traitor brain doing the spiraling." He leans back against the couch cushions, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders. "But you're right. This is just... a thing that needs to be handled. Not the end of the world."

"Exactly." I curl up in the corner of the couch, facing him. "And you're not handling it alone."

"How can you say that so easily?" The question comes out soft, wondering. "How can you just... promise to be there like this isn’t going to impact you?"

I consider the question seriously, because I can see he needs a real answer, not just platitudes. But I also can't help poking at him a little. "Are you fishing for compliments? Because you know I think you're pretty."

"Shut up." But he's almost smiling now, and his hand drops from his hair. "I'm having a vulnerable moment here."

"Sorry, sorry." I arrange my face into an expression of exaggerated solemnity, but I can't help letting my gaze drift over the sharp line of his jaw, the way his tousled hair falls into his eyes when he's tired. "Please proceed. I'll attempt to contain my attraction to all this emotional availability."

"Aish. You're a pabo," he says, but there's fondness threading through the exasperation, and I catch him looking at my mouth for just a second before he looks away. "I'm trying to understand how you can commit to dealing with me being nothing but cranky and useless."

"First of all, you're never useless. Cranky, yes. Insufferable sometimes? Absolutely. But useless?" I shake my head. "Secondly, remember how love is like the sky? Big and overwhelming and sometimes scary?"

He nods, settling back into listening mode.

"I think the big gestures sometimes feel easier because they're dramatic. Songs, tattoos." I pull my knees up to my chest, trying to find the right words. "But it's the small things that matter. The daily choice to stay. To stick around for the boring parts, the frustrating parts, the parts that aren't red carpet or rainbows."

"The small things," he repeats quietly.

"Like bringing you an iced Americano when you're stressed, even though you're particular about the ice ratio and will definitely complain if it's too watered down." I smile at him, letting my voice drop a little lower. "Like sitting in waiting rooms during doctor's appointments and pretending I'm not secretly judging the lobby music. Like helping you through physical therapy exercises even when you're grumpy and frustrated and probably blaming me for the existence of shoulder joints."

He snorts. "I wouldn't blame you."

"Give it two weeks into recovery. You'll find a way." I shift slightly on the couch, close enough that our knees are almost touching. "Though I have to say, watching you do physical therapy might not be a hardship. There's something about you concentrating that's..." I trail off deliberately.

"That's what?" His voice has gone slightly rough.

"Nothing. Just... you're very focused when you're working on something. It's sexy." I grin at him, enjoying the slight flush that creeps up his throat. "If love is the sky, then those small things are the roof, the walls, the bed—all the comfy stuff that makes the big scary sky feel safe."

Something shifts in his expression, a kind of wonder creeping in around the edges of his fear. "Really?”

"Yeah." I lean forward slightly, making sure he can see the certainty in my eyes. "Look what we’ve made it through. You think I'm going to bail now because you need surgery?"

"When you put it like that, it sounds stupid," he admits.

"It sounds ridiculous. But it's also human." I soften my voice. "I need you too, you know. Not just for the big dramatic moments. For the small ones. Putting together furniture in my room. Helping me with my laptop."

He laughs, and it sounds more real this time. "Your computer makes weird noises because you download suspicious files."

"I keep telling you I’m not Namjoon.” I try to keep a straight face but fail. 

He grimaces. "Definitely not.” 

But I'm laughing now, and so is he, and this feels more like us—the easy back-and-forth that means we're going to be okay. "Okay. Surgery. Recovery. Months of being patient while my shoulder remembers how to work properly."

"And me being there for all of it. The good days and the frustrated days and the days when you're convinced you'll never perform again."

"Promise?"

The question is small, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest tight. But the answer is easy.

"Cross my heart," I say firmly. "Not everything has to be a fight. Not everything has to be scary. Sometimes love gets to just be... steady."

He's quiet for a long moment, processing. When he speaks again, his voice is calmer than it's been all evening.

"I can do steady," he says. "We can do steady."

"Yeah," I agree, settling deeper into the couch cushions. "We can."

The silence that follows feels different from the tense quiet of earlier—comfortable, settled. Like we've talked through the scary part and come out the other side together.

"When's the surgery scheduled?" I ask after a while.

"Start of next month. Gives me time to wrap up a few current commitments and plan for the recovery period."

"Good. That means we can research the best physical therapy places, figure out what modifications you might need at home, maybe stock up on easy meals for the first few days."

He turns to look at me, something soft and amazed in his expression. "You're already planning."

"Of course." I shrug. "That's what you do for people you love. You plan. You prepare. You show up."

"The small things," he says again, like he's testing out the concept.

"The small things," I confirm. "They add up to something pretty big."

He nods slowly, and I can see him filing away this conversation, this reframe, for future reference. It's one of the things I love most about him—the way he takes insights seriously, lets them reshape his perspective instead of just dismissing them.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "For coming over. For staying. For not letting me spiral alone."

"Thank you for calling me instead of disappearing."

"Growth," he says with a small smile.

"Growth," I agree. "We're getting pretty good at this communication thing."

"Pretty good at a lot of things, actually."

The warmth in his voice makes me smile. "Yeah. We are. So," I say eventually, turning away from his intense eye contact with a flustered cough. "What do you want to watch? I was thinking something mindless. Maybe something with explosions."

"Explosions sound perfect," he agrees, reaching for the remote. "Something where the biggest problem is mafia bosses or aliens or fuck, I don't know, alien mafia bosses."

"Now you're talking."

As he scrolls through options, I let myself sink into just the sense of being here with him, of having worked through a problem together instead of letting it fester. The surgery is still coming. The recovery will still be long and sometimes frustrating. But we'll handle it together, one small thing at a time.