Chapter Text
Yoongi is trying so hard to stay calm.
Keyword: trying.
He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, already damp with sweat beneath the unforgiving glare of the airport’s overhead lights. The air conditioning is clearly losing the battle against the summer heat, and the swarm of stranded passengers around him isn't doing any favours.
He checks his phone—again for what feels to be the hundredth time in the past thirty minutes. But, time mocks him, keeps moving, mocking him, while the car rental line remains stubbornly frozen in place. His patience is on its last thread.
His flight was cancelled almost an hour ago, just five minutes before boarding, thanks to a mysterious "technical issue." Now he’s stuck here, shoulder to shoulder with equally miserable and smelly travelers.
Apparently, everyone had the same Plan B: grab a rental, drive to Wando, and catch the ferry to Jeju.
The line continues to creep forward at a slow pace. Yoongi shifts his stance, backpack straps digging into his shoulders, suitcase dragging behind him like a ball and chain.
His eyes flick to the next line over—the one that’s been moving noticeably faster.
And of course, that’s when he sees him.
The guy from his gate.
The guy from his gate. Early twenties, annoyingly put-together in a mustard button-down and tailored khaki shorts.
The one who didn’t even blink when the flight was canceled, like it was just a minor hiccup in his otherwise perfect day. He’d just stood there, looking far too calm for someone in the middle of an airport crisis, and now here he is, several spots ahead of Yoongi in the line.
Of course.
Yoongi watches as the guy steps up to the counter, sliding his ID across the counter. And then the rental agent smiles—smiles—and says something that makes Yoongi’s stomach sink.
“Here you go, sir. Looks like it’s your lucky day—this is the last one available,” The Nam & Sons’ Rentals rep chirps to him.
Something cold floods Yoongi’s veins.
No.
His fingers twitch at his sides. The airport buzzes around him—announcements, rolling suitcases, a baby crying—but all he hears is white noise.
The stranger takes the keys with an happy nod, completely oblivious to the way Yoongi’s entire body has gone rigid with panic.
And then, as if to rub salt in the wound, the agent makes the announcement over the speaker:
"Apologies, folks! We're out of rentals for the day."
A collective groan rises from the crowd. Someone kicks a trash can. Yoongi doesn’t blink. His vision tunnels until all he sees is the back of that guy’s head with the stupid mustard shirt.
Yoongi moves before he thinks. His suitcase screeches behind him as he lurches forward. "Hey—wait!”
The guy pauses, keys dangling from his fingers, and turns and allows his unfairly pretty brown eyes to meet Yoongi’s frantic ones. "Yeah?"
Yoongi’s mouth moves before his brain catches up. "You’re heading to Wando." It’s not a question.
The stranger tilts his head with an amused twitch on his lips. "Depends who’s asking."
"I need that car." The words come out too sharp, too raw. Yoongi swallows, tries again. "Look, my brother’s wedding is in two days. I’m the best man." His voice cracks on best man, and fuck, he sounds pathetic, but he can’t stop. "I’ll cover gas. Tolls. Whatever. Just—"
The guy’s brows lift slightly. For a moment, Yoongi braces for a rejection. Then—
“Jimin,” he says, holding out a hand. “Park Jimin.”
“Min Yoongi.” He shakes it without thinking, still catching up. “So… is that a yes?”
Jimin's mouth quirks. "Unless you want to keep sweating in this airport.”
“Wow. Okay, thanks.” Yoongi blinks.
He can’t believe that worked.
“But, I sure hope you are better at navigating than you are at begging." Jimin adds with a playful wink.
Yoongi should be offended. Instead, relief floods his body so intensely he nearly sags against his suitcase. "I'll have you know I'm terrible at both."
Jimin laughs at that, as they start walking.
"I was starting to think I'd have to talk to myself the whole way. This works out better for both of us."
Yoongi lets out a breath he doesn't realize he's been holding, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Yeah, I guess it does."
They follow the signage to the the car rental parking lot.
The automatic doors whoosh open, releasing a blast of humid air that sticks to Yoongi’s skin immediately. He grimaces, as his suitcase handle slips in his sweaty palm.
"Someone left the sauna on." Jimin mutters, squinting at the parking signs.
Yoongi half-snorts at the comment, but then his phone buzzes in his pocket—He checks it and sees another text from Jungkook: "Hyung, you boarded yet???”
He sighs and stuffs the phone back into his pocket, nearly his losing his grip on his suitcase in the process again. Of course Jungkook would be texting him, because he should be sending back a photo of his airplane window right now.
Turning his attention back to the stranger walking beside him, Yoongi asks, “You’re from Busan, aren’t you? This heat should be nothing for you.”
Jimin glances over, one brow arched at him. “How’d you guess?”
"Your accent’s not exactly subtle."
Jimin chuckles, eyes narrowing in amused mock-offense. “And here I thought I’d fully assimilated into Seoul life. Should I be concerned you’re that observant? You’re not secretly a serial killer, right?”
“Relax,” Yoongi says dryly. “I only kidnap people on Tuesdays.”
“It’s Wednesday.” Jimin blinks.
“Guess you’re safe then.”
Jimin gives him a long, mildly suspicious look—but there’s a grin tugging at his lips, crooked and bright. Yoongi doesn’t smile back exactly, but something shifts at the corner of his mouth.
Maybe it's the heat. Maybe it's the way Jimin's energy matches his banter.
Or maybe it's the first flicker of hope that he might actually make it to this damn wedding.
“Which one’s ours?” Yoongi asks, scanning the rows of rental cars that all look exactly the same.
Jimin clicks the key fob. “Black Kia Sorento. Should be that one over there.” He points toward a mid-size SUV a few rows down.
Yoongi exhales—this time, not out of frustration, but relief. Finally, something is going right. He heads for the car. At the trunk, he wrestles his suitcase in—its wheels catch on the lip, because of course they do, but even that doesn’t piss him off as much as it should.
Jimin’s duffel drops beside it without a struggle—a compact, beat-up canvas bag with a faded sunflower keychain swinging from the zipper.
"You always travel this light?" Yoongi asks, slamming the trunk.
Jimin just shrugs in return. “I’m only going for a few days.”
The comment pokes at Yoongi’s curiosity.
Who flies down to Jeju for only a few days? But he bites back the urge to ask. Not really his business, he reminds himself.
He circles around to the passenger side, wiping his palm on his pants before reaching for the handle and slides into the SUV.
The leather seats scalding against the backs of his thighs. The new-car smell is sharp and chemical.
Jimin drops into the driver’s seat with a quiet hum, adjusting the mirrors, before pressing the ignition button with his thumb.
The SUV rumbles to life with a gentle purr. Cool air immediately begins blasting from the vents. Yoongi watches as Jimin's fingers dance across the dashboard, turning the AC up full blast while simultaneously connecting his phone to CarPlay.
"Okay," Jimin says, exhaling as the navigation system lights up. "Wando Ferry Terminal... and... there." He taps the screen decisively, and the route appears—a thin blue line cutting across the map. "Six hours with traffic. Not terrible."
"Can I just say, you're awfully calm," Yoongi observes, "for someone whose two-hour flight just became a six-hour drive."
Jimin shrugs, glancing over his shoulder with a soft smile. "Maybe. But stressing won't get us there any faster." His smile widens, his tone light. "Besides, road trips can be fun."
Yoongi hums, not fully convinced. He’s never liked long drives. But he’d drive across the whole damn country if it meant making it to his brother’s wedding.
Ah, right. Jungkook. He needs to call him once they are out of the concrete maze of the airport parking lot.
The minutes are silence and a bit awkward, interrupted only by the GPS’s robotic voice, endlessly repeating, "Lost signal... lost signal..."
Eventually, they hit the on-ramp. The last grey edges of the airport disappear in the rearview, and the open road stretches wide and long ahead.
Yoongi’s phone pings, a fleeting sliver of reception. He exhales, already bracing himself for the conversation he’s about to have, and pulls his phone from his pocket.
The line barely rings twice.
“Hyung?” Jungkook answers, voice sounding like static through the speaker. “Wait, are you—are you calling from the plane?”
“Didn’t even get on the plane,” Yoongi mutters. “Flight got cancelled. Whole airport’s a mess.”
“Wait, seriously?”
“Yeah. But, don't worry. I’m driving down instead. I’ll be there tonight.”
There’s a pause. “…You’re driving? From Incheon? That’s a really long drive.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Yoongi says, dryly. “But, it's okay. I made a friend along the way. We’re splitting the ride.”
Jimin glances over at that, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t say anything—just offers a quick, amused smile like he’s curious about how Yoongi described him.
“I’ll explain later,” Yoongi says into the phone. “Just—don’t freak out, okay? I am on my way.”
“I’m not freaking out!” Jungkook’s voice cracks slightly. “I just—I’ll tell Mom and Dad, you were delayed. Drive safe, yeah?”
“Yeah. I will.”
He hangs up and drops the phone into the cup holder with a sigh.
“Let me guess,” Jimin says, eyes on the road, one hand lazy on the wheel. “That was the groom-to-be?”
“Mm.” Yoongi tips his head back against the seat with another sigh. “I think he's convinced the entire wedding will implode without me.”
Jimin snorts. “Isn’t that literally the best man’s job? To keep everything from falling apart?”
Yoongi groans. “Don’t remind me.”
“Is he younger or older?"
“Younger,” Yoongi answers, watching a delivery truck crawl past in the slow lane. “By four years.”
Jimin lets out a low whistle. “Baby bro tying the knot before you, huh?”
Yoongi cuts him a look, mixed between amused and offended. “How do you know I’m not already married?”
Jimin doesn’t even flinch—just raises an eyebrow and gives him a once-over. “No ring. No flustered spouse panicking beside you. Feels like a safe guess.”
“Maybe I left them at home.” Yoongi says dryly.
Jimin gasps, dramatic. “Don’t tell me you’re that guy.”
"What guy?"
“You know,” Jimin drops his voice into a gruff imitation, complete with air quotes, “‘She hates traveling. Doesn’t like crowds. We do everything together except this one, extremely romantic and very important event’”
Yoongi can’t help it—he laughs. It slips out before he can stop it. “Wow. Cynical much?”
“Hey, you never know,” Jimin says, all mock gravity.
Yoongi huffs a quiet laugh again. “Well, I’m not that guy. Just… a single guy. With a cat.”
That earns Yoongi a full grin.
“A cat guy,” Jimin says, clearly delighted. “What’s their name?”
"Her name is Daisy."
Jimin practically beams. “Daisy,” he repeats. “Adorable. I bet she runs your entire apartment.”
“She pays no rent and all the bills are in my name, but yes. She’s in charge.” Yoongi says, but there’s unmistakable fondness in his voice, as he thinks about her. “Won’t let me sleep past 6 a.m.”
“A true queen of the castle,” Jimin says with a mock bow of his head.
Yoongi watches him for a moment, the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, how easily the banter comes between them. It’s strange—how not-annoying this is.
“You live alone, then?” Jimin asks lightly, glancing his way.
“Yeah.”
“That’s kind of cool,” Jimin says, shifting his grip on the wheel. “I’ve still got a roommate. Mostly for company. And so someone’s there to yell at me when I forget I left the oven on.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Jimin says with a grin. “I like having someone to talk to. But living alone? That’s pretty impressive to me."
Yoongi is quiet for a beat, fingers tapping absently against his leg. “I don’t know if impressive. I just… got used to it. It’s quiet and peaceful.”
The truth is, he does enjoy the solitude, but there's something about the way Jimin says it—not with pity, but just as a simple observation—that makes him pause.
He steals a sidelong glance at Jimin, taking in the easy slope of his nose, the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck from the humidity. He looks...kind. Not in a performative way, but just… someone who is easy to be around.
Yoongi glances back at the road in front of them, before checking his phone.
If they kept this pace, with minimal stops, they could hit Wando by nine and catch the last ferry at ten. He could already see the finish line—the reception prep tonight, the rehearsal dinner tomorrow, maybe even a full night’s sleep in between.
And his speech.
God, the speech. He still hadn’t written it. He’d been putting it off for weeks, telling himself the words would come when he needed them. But now the deadline was breathing down his neck, and all he had was a blank Notes app and the quiet, mounting panic of someone who wasn’t great at this kind of thing—being vulnerable while standing in front of his entire family.
Then a green highway sign whips past: Wando – 120km.
They were actually going to make it.
He allows himself a moment of calm.
But then—
Jimin doesn’t take the exit.
Yoongi sits up straighter, a frown tugging at his lips. "Uh...that was the highway exit."
"I know," Jimin replies, not even glancing over at him.
Yoongi blinks. "Then why didn't you take it?"
Jimin's lips curl into something dangerously close to amusement. "Because this was the exit to Coffee-holics."
Yoongi's frown deepens, a fresh wave of frustration rising.
"Coffee-holics?" Yoongi echoes, incredulous. But Jimin doesn't seem to register his disbelief as they smoothly pull off the highway and toward a familiar logo up ahead.
"I haven't ate anything except a sad little vending machine sandwich." Jimin flicks the turn signal as they pull to the drive thru. "You want anything?"
"No," Yoongi bites out, "I want to get on the highway. You know, the whole reason we rented this car?"
"Hi there, what can we get started for you?" a cheerful, static-filled voice interrupts from the speaker box.
"Hi, sorry—just a sec," Jimin says, holding up a finger—at the speaker, as if it can see him. He turns to Yoongi. "You sure? It's a six-hour drive. Caffeine might help."
“I’m fine,” Yoongi grits out, arms crossed, gaze locked on the horizon like if he stares hard enough, maybe he will teleport to Wando.
Jimin turns his attention back to the drive-thru speaker. "Hi, sorry about that. Can I get a large caramel macchiato, extra hot?" He pauses, allowing the worker to input the order. "And a box of a dozen donuts—assorted, but please make sure there's at least one jelly one!"
"Of course, anything else, sir?"
Jimin's eyes flick over to Yoongi again, glittering for a moment, before he turns back to the speaker. "And... a kid-sized Choco Chippity-o frappé. That'll be all, thank you."
Yoongi's head snaps up at that, but before he can protest the worker chirps the total, and Jimin pulls ahead to pay.
“You did not just order that.”
“It’s got chocolate and caffeine,” Jimin says, unapologetic. “You look like you could use both.”
Jimin drives up to the window, hands over his card, and waits as the worker processes the payment.
Yoongi sits there, arms crossed tight, irritation bubbling just under the surface. He glances at the dashboard clock and clenches his jaw. They are wasting time. Over this.
The worker hands Jimin the receipt, his coffee and a box of donuts, that Jimin throws in the back seat of the car.
"It'll be just another minute for the frappé!" the worker chirps, smiling brightly.
Of course it will be.
Out of all the things he imagined going wrong on this trip, being held hostage at a drive-thru for a kid-sized Choco Chippity-o frappé hadn’t made the list.
Then, finally—finally—the worker hands over the offending beverage with a smile brighter than the damn sun and Jimin immediately passes it to Yoongi.
The drink appears like a taunt—whipped cream towering like a snow-capped Everest, chocolate syrup zigzagging down its sides.
"At this point, you're just mocking me."
Jimin shrugs. "Sorry. They were out of the 'Grumpy Middle-Aged Man' special."
Yoongi glares and Jimin just grins wider.
This drive is going to be very, very long.
Neither of them say anything, as they merge back onto the highway, broken only by GPS Lady's passive-aggressive "recalculating."
He stares at the passing guardrails, the passing scenery while jaw tight.
Six hours.
Six hours trapped in a metal box with a human golden retriever who smiles at drive-thru delays. Who buys overpriced sugar bombs for strangers. Who—
"Hey."
Jimin's voice is softer now, his usual confidence tempered. "I'm sorry. Should've warned you. My friends and I always stop for coffee before road trips. It's... kind of a ritual."
Yoongi exhales slowly, his posture relaxing as he watches the pine trees blur past the highway. “It’s fine. I… overreacted.” The words taste like gravel in his mouth. He glances at Jimin, a slight edge of guilt in his tone. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to snap.”
He clears his throat, trying to defuse the tension. “But come on,” he adds playfully, a teasing note in his voice. “You take a surprise exit with a stranger... it’s not not suspicious.”
Jimin snorts. “Yeah, now that you say that, that’s serial killer behaviour. Totally my bad.” He flashes a glance at Yoongi, something sheepish behind his smile. “No more detours.”
Yoongi sinks further into the seat. The whipped cream from the frappé brushes his nose as he takes a reluctant sip—sickly sweet with a faint espresso kick.
…It’s not terrible.
(Not that he'll admit it.)
“Thanks,” Yoongi mutters into the straw. “For the sugar bomb. Even if it tastes like diabetes in a cup. And I don’t like chocolate.”
Jimin’s smile widens, his usual ease returning. “I’ll let you pick the flavour next time.”
“I thought no more detours—”
Jimin's laugh interrupts him—bright and real and stupidly contagious. Against his will, Yoongi feels his own mouth twitch.
He shifts in his seat, sneaking a glance at Jimin. The tension’s eased, and for the first time since the airport, curiosity wins out over frustration. “So,” he says, tone a little softer, “why are you going to Jeju?”
Jimin's expression brightens. "I'm visiting my mom," he says simply with fondness in his eyes.
"Oh." Yoongi watches Jimin's profile—the way his eyelashes catch the light when he blinks. "She's from there?"
“No, She's from Busan like me," Jimin answers, fingers tapping an absent rhythm on the wheel. "She just moved there this past summer."
Yoongi nods, noting how Jimin’s smile dims, just slightly. Not enough to vanish—just enough to notice.
“Big change,” Yoongi says, his voice a little more careful now.
"Yeah." Jimin hums. "She needed the space and the ocean air, you know?"
Yoongi doesn’t, not really. But he gets the part about needing space.
So he just nods again, and for a few minutes, they let the silence stretch between them—not tense now, but easy and comfortable.
Then Jimin shakes it off, reaching suddenly for the radio. "You want some music? Or are you one of those silent road trip people?"
“Music is my entire life,” Yoongi says without thinking—then immediately winces at how cringey it sounds.
Jimin’s eyes brighten. “Perfect.” He hits play on the CarPlay before Yoongi can add conditions.
A city pop track swells into the cabin—smooth bass, shimmering synths. Objectively well-produced.
"You like this?" Jimin grins, catching the movement.
Yoongi blinks. "This is alright."
"Alright?" Jimin clutches his chest. "This is my favourite song at the moment."
Yoongi rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betray him.
He doesn’t hate it. Doesn’t hate the way Jimin hums along, a little off-key but utterly unbothered. He likes Jimin—his bad jokes, his charm, the way he makes everything feel less heavy.
It’s… kind of nice.
And when Jimin glances over, catching him staring, Yoongi doesn’t bother to look away.
Jimin grins. "See? I knew you would like it."
"Like I said, it’s alright," Yoongi mutters, but there’s no bite left in it.
They’ve been on the road for an hour now, maybe more—long enough for the silence to stop feeling strange.
Long enough that Yoongi stops checking the map every five minutes.
Jimin’s still singing.
The frappé's straw makes a hollow sound when Yoongi takes the last sip.
He expects Jimin to make a comment, but he doesn’t.
Instead, Jimin stretches one arm into the backseat, rummaging blind until he grabs the pink bakery box. He cracks it open, and the scent floods the car: vanilla glaze, cinnamon sugar, something maple.
“You want one?” Jimin asks, already pulling out a donut with chocolate icing and sprinkles.
Yoongi pretends to consider it, but his stomach answers before he can. “Yeah. Surprise me.”
Jimin grins like he’s been waiting for the challenge. He roots around in the box again and finally hands over a sugar-coated one, slightly squished but still warm. “Cinnamon sugar. Feels like your vibe.”
Yoongi takes it, their fingers brushing for the barest second.
They eat in easy silence after that—windows cracked, sugar sticking to their fingertips, the radio low. Outside, the sky spills into pastels, and the highway unspools ahead like a promise.
The donuts are stupidly good.
And Yoongi still doesn't check the map again.
Until the smell hits.
It’s faint at first.
Something sharp, chemical, cutting through the car’s faux-leather and leftover coffee smell.
Yoongi wrinkles his nose, glancing out the window to see if a truck ahead is spewing exhaust.
But the highway stretches empty, sunlight glaring off the asphalt. When he turns back, Jimin’s relaxed grip on the steering wheel has tightened, his smile replaced by a worried flat line.
Yoongi wrinkles his nose, glancing toward the vents.
“Do you smell that?”
Jimin doesn’t answer right away. “Yeah. Burning rubber, maybe?”
Before Yoongi can respond, a thin wisp of smoke curls out from beneath the hood—slow and eerie, like a ribbon unraveling.
“Fuck, pull over!” Yoongi yelps, one hand instinctively bracing against the dashboard.
Jimin doesn’t argue. He guides the SUV to the shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires as they roll to a stop. The engine lets out a final tick-tick-tick before falling silent.
Yoongi is out of the car before Jimin even turns it off. Humid air slams into him like a wet towel. The stench of burnt rubber lingers in his nose as he rounds to the front of the SUV. Smoke curls lazily from under the hood.
He yanks it open with a groan of metal, and a thick cloud of acrid smoke billows out. Both of them stumble back, coughing. Yoongi’s eyes water as he waves a hand in front of his face. Jimin does the same, squinting through the haze.
“Well. That’s not good," Jimin comments.
“No shit,” Yoongi mutters, glaring at the smoldering engine.
“At least it didn’t catch fire,” Jimin offers, once again too chipper for someone standing next to a wheezing rental car in the middle of nowhere.
"Yet," Yoongi snaps, raking a hand through sweat-damp hair. "Where the hell are we?"
Jimin pulls out his phone and checks the GPS. His brow furrows.
“Somewhere between Seoul and Wando.” Jimin sighs. “It… doesn’t have a name. Just coordinates.”
Yoongi throws up his hands. “Oh, good. That narrows it down. Middle of nowhere. Broken-down car. No cell reception bars—”
“We have bars,” Jimin cuts in. “Can you just calm down for a second?”
“Calm down? ” Yoongi’s voice edges into high-pitched disbelief. “I don’t even know where we are, the last ferry leaves at ten, and my brother is expecting me tonight, and—”
“I know,” Jimin cuts in.
“Do you? Because you don’t look very concerned.”
Jimin’s expression shifts, no longer soft. “Because I’m trying to think. But sure—go ahead, keep yelling if you think that’s helpful.”
Yoongi opens his mouth—then closes it. The words hit like a splash of cold water. Jimin’s usual easygoing tone now carries an edge that slices clean through the panic.
Yoongi exhales hard, running a hand through his hair again. “I—no. You’re right. I’m sorry.” He swallows, forcing his voice down. “I’m just panicking.”
“It’s fine.” Jimin pulls out his phone. “I am going to call the rental company, surely they will help us.”
Yoongi nods. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
Jimin dials, putting the call on speaker.
A chipper robotic voice crackles out:
“Thank you for calling Nam & Sons’ Rentals! Your call is important to us. You are currently number forty-five in the queue. Your estimated wait time is two hours and fifteen minutes.”
Yoongi lets out a humourless laugh. “Two hours? Well, that's just great.”
Jimin sighs. “Good thing we have enough donuts for dinner.”
Yoongi levels him with a look. “Donuts won’t help if the car explodes.”
“It’s not going to explode, Yoongi,” Jimin says, brow furrowing. “It literally just died.”
“With the kind of day we’re having? I wouldn’t bet on it,” Yoongi mutters, eyeing the smoke still curling from the hood.
“Worst case, we hitchhike to the next town.”
Yoongi’s head whips toward him. “Ah, yes. Let’s get murdered after being stranded in the sun. Perfect solution.”
“Are you always this dramatic?.” Jimin’s mouth twitches. “This is the second time today you’ve thought you might get murdered.”
Yoongi scoffs. “Third, actually.”
“Third?”
“The diabetes in a cup.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“You’re right.” Yoongi hums, slightly amused despite himself. “Would’ve been a better way to go than melting on the concrete.”
The robotic voice returns: “Your estimated wait time is now two hours and ten minutes.”
Yoongi sighs, tipping his head back. The sun beats down, relentless.
They’re so screwed.
The sun, once high and glaring, now sinks lower in the sky, casting everything in a burnt orange haze.
But the heat hasn’t let up.
The air stays thick and heavy, pressing against Yoongi’s skin like a damp wool blanket. He’s long since shed his sweater and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, but his shirt clings to his back, soaked straight through. Sweat beads at his temples, slipping past his jaw.
Jimin isn’t faring much better. His usually neat hair sticks to his forehead in damp clumps. His mustard shirt is creased and grimy from when he tried—twice—to nap in the backseat.
They’ve tried everything to pass the time. Took turns pacing the gravel shoulder, each step kicking up dust. Played rock-paper-scissors to decide who would check the trunk for spare tools (Jimin won, but Yoongi found no tools). Both of them leaned against the car at some point, just to feel like they were doing something, but the heat from the pavement made it feel pointless.
Now, Jimin’s sprawled upside down across both front seats, legs hanging out the open door, looking half-dead. Yoongi leans heavily against the passenger side, head resting against the scorching-hot door with all the dramatics of a man surrendering to fate.
The voice from the phone, still on speaker, drones: “You are now number… 12… in line. Estimated wait time: thirty-seven minutes.”
Yoongi tips his head back against the scorching car door. "This is how it ends. Stuck on the side of the road in the middle of no where, slowly dehydrating into a human raisin. Jungkook’s wedding photos will have a sad little empty chair where his brother was supposed to be."
"At least you’ll be a remembered as a dramatic raisin."
Yoongi huffs a tired breath, but was too tired to argue. Instead, he glances down the empty highway.
Not a single car has passed in—god, at least forty-five minutes? Maybe more. He’s lost track. Even the cicadas sound tired.
Then—
A distant rumble.
At first, Yoongi thinks it’s his stomach again (he did eat four donuts and nothing else), but the sound grows—a low, diesel growl cutting through the stillness.
He straightens, shielding his eyes.
“Do you hear that?” He asks, looking up at Jimin.
Jimin flops upright, blinking toward the horizon. “Please let that be real and not heatstroke.”
It’s real.
A red tow truck—rusted, but alive—barrels down the road, kicking up dust behind it. It slows as it approaches, then groans to a stop just ahead of them, hazard lights blinking on.
Yoongi nearly sobs with relief. “Oh my god, our saviour—”
The truck door swings open with a long, theatrical creak. Out hops a woman who looks like she’s stared down more engines than people in her lifetime.
She is dressed in oil-streaked coveralls, a faded maroon trucker hat. And—
Pink crocs.
She squints at them with a scold. “Let me guess. Nam & Sons‘?”
Yoongi blinks. “Are you… with the company?”
She lets a deep laugh out at that. “God, no. I’d rather lick a battery. Saw yous stranded earlier. Live a few klicks down the road.” She shrugs. “Wondered if you two were still alive. Lucky for you, I’m nosy.”
“You came back for us?” Jimin asks, blinking up at her like she’s descended from the heavens.
“Someone’s gotta save you city boys in these country roads. Name’s Mrs. Kim.” She says, opening the hood. She bends into the front of the car, her voice muffled as she works. “Nam & Sons’ is a scam, you know. Half the cars I tow are theirs.”
A moment later, she resurfaces holding a sad, frayed hose that flops like a dead fish in her hand.
“See this? Radiator hose split like an overcooked sausage.” She tosses the hose at Yoongi’s feet. “Probably been dry-rotting for months.”
“They gave us a faulty car?” Jimin gasps with wide eyes.
“Oh, sweetheart, this your first rodeo? They’d rent out a shopping cart with three wheels if they could.” She straightens, wiping her hands on her coveralls. “This been here for months. You two just had the honour of being the ones to kill it.”
“So what, now we’re just stuck in the middle of nowhere with a broken car?” Yoongi snaps, pacing the gravel shoulder. His shadow stretches long in the late afternoon sun, frayed at the edges like his temper.
Mrs. Kim levels a look at him. “Relax, Cinderella. That’s why I came back with my truck. I’ll tow you to my shop.”
She strides back to her truck, yanking out a heavy set of chains with a screech that sets Yoongi’s teeth on edge. She tosses a pair of grease covered gloves at Jimin.
“You—Pretty Boy—help me thread the winch. And you—” she points a finger at Yoongi, “stand over there and try not to pop a blood vessel.”
Yoongi takes several obedient steps back.
Mrs. Kim belly-crawls under the SUV, muttering curses as she loops chains around the axle. Jimin crouches nearby, watching intently and holding the loose end of the chain when she gestures for it.
Once the chains are secure, Mrs. Kim pushes to her feet, brushing off her knees. “Alright. Let’s get this hunk of junk moving.”
She climbs back into the driver’s seat of the tow truck, fires up the engine, and flips the winch. The SUV lurches forward with a mechanical groan, rising inch by reluctant inch.
Yoongi watches it happen. His legs are dusty from sitting in the gravel earlier, and there's a bug bite swelling along his ankle. But at some point in the last hour, he stopped caring.
With one final tug, the SUV settled into place. Mrs. Kim hops out of the truck, gives everything a once-over, then slams the hood shut, denting the bumper with the heel of her boot for good measure. “There. She’ll hold ‘til we hit the shop. Maybe.”
She turns to them, jerking her thumb toward the tow truck. "Alright, pile in. You're gonna have to squeeze." Then, squinting toward the horizon, she huffs. "And make it quick—a storm's rolling in."
Yoongi frowns, ready to argue—until he follows her gaze.
Heavy clouds loom in the distance, the sky now bruising over with deep greys and purples. He'd been so wrapped up in his own misery—another delay, another damn setback on his way to Jeju—that he hadn’t even noticed the storm creeping up on them.
A jagged fork of lightning splits the sky in the distance. The answering thunder rumbles through Yoongi's chest like a warning.
Yoongi mutters, “Awesome,” and drags a hand down his face. “This day just keeps getting better.”
Mrs. Kim claps her hands, snapping him back to reality. "Come on, let's move. Grumpy—" She jabs a finger at Yoongi, eyes glinting. "—middle seat. You got hips thinner than a chopstick. Unless you want to sit on Pretty Boy’s lap instead."
Yoongi glares but doesn't argue.
His steps are stiff as he climbs in. The second he ducks into the cab, he's hit by a wave of stale air that smells like motor oil and copper.
A cracked Buddha bobblehead nods wildly from the dash, mocking him as he wriggles into place. His shoulder brushes a shriveled air freshener labeled Forest Breeze, its faded scent doing absolutely nothing to mask the grime of the cab.
Jimin follows, sliding in beside him. The seat's narrow, old leather sticky with age. Their thighs press together instantly, no room to pretend it’s accidental. Yoongi exhales through his nose. Jimin pretends not to smile.
Mrs. Kim swings into the driver's seat and slams the door shut.
“Right. Names. What do I call you boys? Or am I sticking with Pretty and Grumpy?”
“Yoongi,” comes the grumble.
“Jimin,” the other adds, softer, still trying not to grin.
“Well, Yoongi and Jimin,” she says. “What an unlucky pair you are, breaking down in the middle of Hwabongi-ri of all places.”
"Hwabongi-ri?" Yoongi echoes. “That’s not even on the GPS.”
Mrs. Kim snorts. "Exactly."
Jimin frowns. "Are we still closer to Seoul than Wando?"
"Barely," Mrs. Kim says, shifting the truck into drive with a metallic grind. The engine growls as she presses the accelerator, swinging them back onto the road. "Couple hours out either way. But Hwabongi-ri not exactly a hot spot for, you know—" she waves a hand toward the window "—civilization."
As if on cue, the first drops of rain splatter against the windshield. Mrs. Kim huffs, flipping on the wipers as they screech across the glass. "But, looks like I rescued yous just in time."
Jimin offers her a small smile, warm despite the exhaustion clinging to the edges of his voice. "Thank you for doing this for us, Mrs. Kim. I don’t know what we would’ve done if you hadn’t come by."
Outside, the road blurs with rain. Headlights from oncoming cars smear into gold streaks. The highway stretches endlessly ahead, its exit signs barely visible through the curtain of water.
Mrs. Kim grunts without looking over. "You’d be soaked and sunburned. Maybe eaten by coyotes. Who knows?"
The truck hits a pothole. Jimin jerks sideways into Yoongi, shoulder thumping against his. Yoongi makes a small annoyed noise but doesn’t move away.
After a moment, Jimin peeks toward the driver’s seat. “Have you always been towing cars?”
Mrs. Kim eyes crinkle beneath her cap. "Since I was younger than you two. Worked at my dad's garage before I could even see over the damn workbench."
"He taught you?"
Mrs. Kim’s mouth thins. "Wanted a boy," she says, downshifting as they approach a curve. "Got me instead." Mrs. Kim grunts, then smirks. "So, I became the best damn tow operator in three counties."
She cuts a sharp left down a narrow road, gravel spraying under the tires. Yoongi slams into Jimin with the force of the turn this time, his palm smacking against the dashboard.
The bobblehead Buddha wobbles violently, its head nearly snapping off with the sudden movement.
"Hold on to your tiaras," Mrs. Kim announces, swinging the truck into a gravel lot with a skid of tires. "We're here."
The garage squats in the darkness—small, low-roofed, and worn. A flickering overhead light buzzes against the night. Rust creeps along the metal siding, and the faded red garage doors barely retain their peeling white letters: KIM’S AUTO.
Inside, Mrs. Kim guides the tow truck into the bay. Pot lights slant from the ceiling, catching motes of grease on the ceiling and walls.. The SUV settles onto the concrete with a metallic sigh, releasing the scent of hot brakes into the muggy afternoon.
“Home sweet home,” Mrs. Kim drawls, killing the winch with a slap and wiping her hands on a rag that’s more grease than fabric. She pushes open the driver’s side door with her hip. “Your crap’s still in the back, right?”
Jimin’s already halfway outside of the vehicle, sandals scuffing against oil-stained concrete, with Yoongi following behind him. “Yes, ma’am. Thanks again for towing us.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she grunts, leaning against her workbench. “Still gotta figure out who’s paying for that new hose.”
Yoongi lingers by the door of the tow truck, squinting at a faded poster of a 90s K-pop group plastered next to a torque wrench chart.
“Maybe we can send the bill to Nam & Sons,” Jimin suggests innocently.
Mrs. Kim barks a laugh. "Oh, you sweet summer fool."
The SUV’s trunk creaks open under Jimin’s tug, releasing the scent of damp leather and stale coffee from their abandoned takeout. Jimin immediately grabs two things: his oversized backpack with the peeling sunflower keychain, and the precious pink pastry box from Coffee-holics.
Yoongi reaches past him for his hard-shell suitcase, yanking it free and nearly smacking his elbow on the tailgate.
Mrs. Kim folds her arms, surveying them like a disappointed gym teacher. "Alright," she says. "I'll deal with the car, but you're on your own for the rest."
"What does that mean?"
“It means,” Mrs. Kim says, pulling a wrench from her back pocket and passing it on the workboard, “I run a garage, not some all-inclusive bed-and-breakfast.”
She nods toward the road, voice dry. “Paradise Inn’s a few blocks that way. Only place in town. Don’t expect much—it ain’t fancy, but the roof stays put.”
Then, after a beat, she jerks her head toward the side lot, muttering almost like it pains her to say it, “But… ain’t gonna make you walk in the rain.”
Yoongi blinks but he is grateful. After everything today, he half-expected to be left to fend for themselves. But she’s offering a ride to a hotel.
Begrudgingly, sure—but she’s still offering.
Thank god.
Or the Buddha bobblehead.
They follow her toward the side of the garage, gravel crunching underfoot. The ancient red pickup waits for them, its paint faded to the colour of chewed bubblegum now with a bumper sticker reads CAUTION: DRIVER ONLY STOPS FOR COFFEE.
"You know the drill!" she calls to them, throwing the driver’s door open with a metallic screech.
Jimin scrambles into the passenger seat. Yoongi doesn’t complain about the back—he’s just grateful to some room to himself this time.
Mrs. Kim’s door creaks shut as Jimin pulls his closed more gently. The engine sputters to life with a sound like clearing phlegm.
The truck jolts over a pothole once again, making the pastry box slide on Jimin's lap. Mrs. Kim's eyes flick to it like a hawk spotting prey.
"Those better not be cupcakes," she comments.
"Donuts," Jimin says. "Jelly, glazed, and one chocolate—"
"Jelly?" Mrs. Kim’s interest perks up
Yoongi watches from the backseat as Jimin—without hesitation—opens the box and offers her the lone jelly donut. The same one he'd specifically requested at the Coffee-holics drive-thru for himself.
Mrs. Kim takes it with a satisfied grunt. “This might just cover your tow fee,” she mutters, taking a massive bite. Red jelly slides down her wrist, and she doesn’t bother wiping it off.
Without missing a beat, Jimin flips the lid open and wedges the whole box out in between his seat and the center console. “You can have the rest,” he says easily. “For everything, you’re doing for us, you’ve earned them.”
The truck rattles onward, rain tattooing the roof. Yoongi stares at the back of Jimin’s head, as Mrs. Kim devours his prize in three messy bites.
It’s been a long day. A cancelled flight, a shared car, hours of driving, a breakdown in the middle of nowhere. Still hours from where they need to be.
And yet, Jimin gave up the one thing he saved for himself.
Yoongi looks at him through the headrest—really looks—and feels something shift.
He already knew Jimin was kind, that was obvious from the getgo.
But this is different.
This is someone who gives even when he’s got nothing left. Who keeps showing up, offering softness in a world that hasn’t always been soft to him.
Rain streaks across the windshield as Mrs. Kim pulls up to the curb, parking with the kind of defiant angle that dares someone to comment on it.
"End of the line, princesses," she announces, killing the engine.
Jimin turns in his seat. "Thank you, really—"
“Save it.” Mrs. Kim yanks a business card from her visor and thrusts it toward him. “Text me. Car should be ready by nine—unless I find any surprises.” Her eyes narrow. “And I always find surprises.”
They climb out, the rain hitting them instantly—sharp, cold, and relentless. Yoongi ducks his head as droplets slide down the back of his neck. Jimin fumbles to tug his duffel higher onto one shoulder.
“Try not to stay out of trouble,” Mrs. Kim calls out, leaning halfway out her window, through the downpour.
“Yes, ma’am.”
As the truck backfires into the night, Yoongi finally asks: “Why’d you give her the jelly donut?”
Jimin shrugs. “She wanted it.”
Then, Yoongi’s chest does something stupid at that. It flutters.
The motel's neon sign buzzes weakly against the rain, half its letters burnt out so it simply reads PAR_ADI_E INN. The flickering pink light throws jagged shadows across the puddled parking lot.
Once inside though, the air hangs heavy and thick with the scent of damp carpet and something vaguely medicinal—like old cough syrup mixed with pine-sol.
There is a tower fan turns sluggishly, its uneven rhythm producing a persistent click-creak... click-creak that competes with the vending machine's low hum ahead of them.
To the right, an open doorway spills amber light into the lobby from the bar. Cigarette smoke curls in lazy plumes beneath low-hanging pendant lights, catching on the edges of truckers' caps as they hunch over their drinks. A scratchy radio plays music beneath the murmur of gravelly voices and the occasional clink of glass on glass.
Someone coughs wetly into their fist; someone else laughs low and rasping. Behind the counter, the wiry bartender his thinning hair plastered to his forehead—polishes a tumbler with a rag that might have been white sometime the last decade.
To their left, the front desk slouches under decades of neglect—a faded wood-paneled counter with a chipped brass bell and a plastic sign where gold letters flake off to reveal "R_ng f_r Ser_ice" with no one behind it.
Jimin steps up to the counter and gives the tarnished bell a sharp ring. A distant thud echoes from the back room, followed by the scuff of shoes on linoleum.
A man parts the beaded curtain with a deep frown. He looks exactly as tired as the mildew-scented lobby: hair in wild tufts, shirt wrinkled beyond salvation, a faded burgundy vest clinging to him with a crooked name tag reads: Seokjin — General Manager, though the way he rubs his temple suggests he’d rather be skydiving without a parachute right now.
He gives them a long once-over, gaze dragging across their rain-soaked clothes and dripping hair.
"Yeah?" he drawls.
Jimin, unfazed, shakes out his sleeves and flashes a smile bright enough to resuscitate the neon outside. “Hi! We'd like a room, please.”
Seokjin glances his eyes between the two of them for a moment. Then he sighs and sits down in the computer stool in front of the computer, begrudgingly.
"Fantastic," he says, matching Jimin’s energy. "Would you like the deluxe suite or the presidential penthouse?"
Jimin blinks and glances at Yoongi. “Uh—”
"That's a joke." Seokjin says, back to his monotone demeanour. He doesn't look up, fingers clacking over a keyboard that might've been new during the IMF crisis. The monitor bathes his face in a sickly blue glow as he squints at the screen.
Yoongi shifts beside Jimin, arms crossed tight. Water drips from his hoodie onto carpet that probably had been steam cleaned once.
"One night?" Seokjin asks, voice flat.
"Yes, please," Jimin chirps, either ignoring or genuinely missing the man's despair.
Seokjin nods slowly. "You got lucky. This is the last one." He jerks his chin toward the bar. "Completely booked by stormchasers."
Jimin tilts his head. "Like...the people who hunt tornados?"
"No," Seokjin says. "Like the storm that chased everyone else here."
Yoongi interjects. "Sorry, what kind of room is it? It has two—“
“The kind with walls and a roof.” Seokjin yawns, as the radio from the bar now blares weather alerts. “Severe thunderstorm warning until early morning,” the newscaster intones, as lightning lit the parking lot. “But hey—at least pool’s open.”
Jimin perks up at that. “Oh, there’s an indoor pool?”
Seokjin stares at him then blinks once. “I was referring to the puddle in the parking lot." He rolls his eyes. “Did you really think there was a pool? You’re at a motel in Hwabongi-ri. You get a bed, a bible, and forty-seven channels of pure static.”
Jimin’s smile falters, a trace of irritation flickering across his face before he recovers with a sheepish chuckle. Yoongi, however, catches the subtle sting behind Jimin’s attempt at levity.
Seokjin slides the keycard across the counter with a final, exhausted sigh. “Room 205. Elevator’s to your left. And by the way—keep an eye on the weather. There's a severe thunderstorm warning in effect.”
As if the universe had a flair for comedic timing—a single droplet slipped from the end of Jimin’s bangs and hit the floor while he blinks at Seokjin.
“You don’t say.”
Seokjin looks him up and down, expression as flat as his monotone. “Figured you might’ve missed it.”
Yoongi closes his eyes. Inhales through his nose. Counts to three in his head. Then snatches the keycard before Jimin can start bantering with the guy.
“Thank you,” he mutters tightly, steering Jimin away by the elbow.
The elevator looms ahead—ancient, humming, and definitely not up to code. When the doors screech open, Yoongi half-expects to find cobwebs and a skeleton operating the controls.
The door to Room 205 groans on its hinges as Jimin shoves it open, flicking on the light. A single flickering bulb casts a jaundiced glow over the space, revealing wallpaper that's peeling at the seams like sunburnt skin. What might have once been cheerful floral patterns now hang limp and discoloured, their edges curling with decades of humidity.
Jimin steps inside, shaking rainwater from his sleeves. "Well," he announces, spinning slowly to take in the room, "it's got walls and a roof. He wasn't lying."
There it is—his usual shine. The irritation from the front desk already rinsed from his voice. That relentless optimism, theatrical and genuine all at once, turning even this disaster of a room into something worth laughing about.
Yoongi follows a step behind, his soaked hoodie clinging to him like a second skin. He exhales slowly, eyes skimming the room until they land on the bed—the bed, singular—slumped against the far wall.
One bed.
Of course there's only one bed.
The comforter is lumpy and faded, patterned with suspicious shapes that might once have been flowers. It looks exhausted. Like it’s borne witness to too much and would rather not host one more night of human nonsense.
Because apparently the universe hadn't exhausted its quota of indignities today.
First the cancelled flight, then the car breakdown, now this - sharing a mattress with a man whose name he'd only learned six hours ago. A stranger who keeps smiling at this entire nightmare like it’s just a mildly inconvenient sitcom episode.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Complaining would require energy he lost somewhere on the rain-slicked highway—or maybe at the airport gate, back when this whole mess started.
Jimin flops down on the edge of the bed and bounces once. The springs wheeze, long-suffering, while Yoongi stares at him.
Jimin clocks the look and grins. “Sooo… if you are a serial killer, now’s the time to say something. Before we get all cozy.”
Yoongi blinks. “What—”
“I’m just saying,” Jimin shrugs, flopping backwards with his arms spread behind him. “if this is how I die, I at least want the true crime documentary to be juicy. You know, like, they shared one motel bed... and only one came out alive. ”
Yoongi doesn’t laugh, exactly. But he exhales, a quiet huff that could be irritation or amusement or something in between. He’s too tired to fight it. Too tired to argue. And too cold to stand here dripping onto carpet that feels like it’s growing new bacteria by the second.
Jimin sits up again, suddenly alert, his gaze sharpening as it lands on Yoongi’s shivering frame.
"Alright, priorities," he announces, pointing toward the bathroom. "Shower first, complain about sharing a bed later."
"What?" Yoongi blinks.
"Yoongi, you're wet and freezing," Jimin says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Don’t think your brother would be too happy if his best man shows up to the wedding with pneumonia."
It's a joke, kind of. But his eyes flick to Yoongi’s hands, the way his fingers won’t stop twitching from the cold and wetness.
Yoongi blinks, realizing how much he hadn’t been paying attention to himself. He’s a little stunned, honestly that Jimin had noticed before he did. Most people don’t notice, don’t care like that. Not unless they have to. But Jimin... he just does.
He.. cares.
And maybe that’s the part that messes him up a little.
"Yeah." Yoongi's voice comes out rougher than intended. He clears his throat, fingers plucking at his sodden hoodie. "Probably smart, thanks."
“Just don’t take too long,” Jimin then calls. “'Cuz I’m claiming whatever pillows have the less amount of stains on them.”
Yoongi exhales through his nose—half laugh, half sigh—and gathers his things from his suitcase before heading to the bathroom: dry clothes, toothbrush, the little toiletry bag he barely remembered to pack. He’s not about to do the awkward towel shuffle through a dingy motel room with a stranger watching some cursed TV channel. He’s got some dignity left.
He moves toward the bathroom, savouring the unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest—the kind no hot shower could replicate.
The bathroom, unsurprisingly, matches the rest of the motel in charm: grimy tiles, a cracked mirror, flickering overhead light, and a shower head that looks like it’s been through several wars and lost all of them. Still, he peels off his soaked clothes, shivering as he steps into the stall. The promise of hot water is the only thing keeping him upright.
He turns the knob. For a split second, nothing happens. Then—
A violent blast of ice-cold water punches him square in the chest like a fire hose. He yelps, stumbling back, arms raised like he’s under attack.
“Shit—” He twists the knob wildly in every direction, only for the water to swing from freezing to scalding in an instant. “Shit, shit, shit—”
A sharp knock at the door. “Yoongi? You good?”
“Yeah—” he gasps, slipping on the tile as he finally wrangles the stream into something close to tolerable. “Shower’s just—trying to murder me—”
“The serial killer has been the shower the entire time? What a plot twist.”
“What is with you and serial killers?”
“It’s a coping mechanism!” Jimin calls back. “Also, we are in a creepy motel, during a thunderstorm, sharing a bed. I’m not saying it’s textbook murder scenario but—okay, actually I am saying that.”
Yoongi groans, but doesn’t answer, he is too busy trying to adjust the temperature one last time until the water lands somewhere between survivable and deeply unpleasant.
The rest of the shower is quite miserable. The complimentary shampoo barely lathers, just sort of gloops in his hand like expired glue. The conditioner isn’t much better—he could swear it’s just secretly hand lotion.
And every time he tries to rinse, the water pressure fluctuates, coming out in uneven streams, almost like it’s sputtering.
He mutters curses under his breath, more at the universe than at Jimin, and finally scrubs the last of the motel sadness off his skin. Sort of.
He is clean but vaguely traumatized, now dressed in fresh pajamas and towel-drying his hair with all the vigour of a man trying to erase an awful day
When he emerges, Jimin is sprawled on the bed, lazily flipping through static-filled channels. The second he spots Yoongi, he perks up.
Yoongi immediately notices three things as he settles onto the bed:
- The food scattered on the bed. There’s some ramyeon and dubious-looking rice cakes from the vending machine, but it’s food—food he’ll eat because he has no other choice.
- Jimin has changed into pajamas—soft-looking plaid cotton pants and a threadbare t-shirt that slips off one shoulder, the kind that Yoongi can’t help but notice even though he tries not to.
- Jimin is grinning like he’s about to deliver either very good or very terrible news.
“Hey, good news,” he says, grinning. “Found one channel that isn’t just snow. Some old Korean soap opera. You missed the best part, though.”
Onscreen, a man in a trench coat slow-motion screams into the rain while the television blares, “YOUR FATHER’S FARM WAS NEVER YOURS TO SELL!”
A woman drops to her knees in the storm. The man rushes to her side just in time for her to slap him across the face with a full jar of kimchi. The camera lingers as the jar spins dramatically through the air.
Yoongi blinks. “Is… is he crying because of kimchi?”
“No,” Jimin says, completely serious. “He’s crying because she sold the farm and the family recipe.” He mimes wiping a tear.
Yoongi snorts despite himself, the sound startling them both. He sinks onto the bed, before Jimin offers to split what has.
They eat like that—shoulders brushing, chopsticks scraping the bottom of the ramyeon cup, passing the beer back and forth as the soap opera devolves into increasingly absurd twists. Yoongi tells himself he's only watching because the plot is so bad it's fascinating.
Jimin keeps laughing at the ridiculous lines, head thrown back, the column of his throat exposed and his eyes shaping into tiny crescent. His laughter is light, free, and it makes Yoongi’s chest tighten in a way he doesn’t want to examine.
Because he should not be noticing these things.
But he is.
By the time his phone buzzes in his hand, he hasn’t even noticed how much time has passed. The name Jungkook lights up the screen—and a bolt of guilt shoots through him.
Shit.
He’d been so caught up—between breaking down on the side of a highway in the middle of nowhere, getting rescued by Mrs. Kim, almost getting caught in a thunderstorm, then checking into the horror movie motel they were now calling home—that he’d completely forgotten to check in with his brother.
“Sorry. I have to take this.”
Jimin doesn’t look away from the screen. “Shh, you’re gonna miss the ending.”
“It’s my brother,” Yoongi says, already standing. “I’ll go to the hallway.”
Jimin bolts upright, taking their empty containers and used chopsticks with him. “What? No, don’t—stay here, I’ll give you space.” He mutes the TV and disappears into the bathroom without another word.
Yoongi exhales and then slides to answer his phone. “Hey, Jungkook—”
“Hyung!” Jungkook’s voice is sharp, cutting through the calm like a knife. “Where are you? Mom’s been asking me every five minutes why you’re not here yet! Do you know how many of our aunts are arguing over the seating chart, because they want to sit next to Grandma? It’s chaos!”
Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know. I’m sorry. The car broke down—we’re stranded, but it’s getting fixed. I’ll be there tomorrow, I swear.”
“Tomorrow?! ” Jungkook’s voice cracks. “Hyung, the rehearsal is tomorrow! If you’re not here, I—I don’t even know what I’ll do. Soojin’s parents are already asking about you too, and I can’t keep making excuses— ”
“I will be there,” Yoongi says firmly. “I’m not missing this, Jungkook. I swear, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”
There’s a pause, and when Jungkook speaks again, his voice is quieter. “You promise? ”
“Of course, I promise.” Another second ticks by, before Yoongi softens. “You doing okay?”
“…I don’t know, ” Jungkook admits. His voice is muffled, like he’s turned slightly away from the phone. “I mean, yeah, I am fine, but it’s just… everything’s happening so fast. Feels like I haven’t had a chance breathe since we landed.”
Yoongi’s chest pulls tight. “You’re allowed to feel like that, you know. Doesn’t mean something’s wrong. Just means it’s big.”
“Yeah,” Jungkook mumbles. “Big is right .” Another beat of silence. Then, softer: “I know you’re doing everything you can to get here,” Jungkook says quietly. “I just… I need you here now. That’s all.”
Yoongi exhales slowly, his voice calm but firm. “Breathe, Jungkook. Try to get some rest tonight, okay? I’ll be there tomorrow. I promise.”
“Yeah… you’re right,” Jungkook says with a sigh. “I should try and get some sleep.”
“Good night, Jungkook. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
There’s a soft exhale on the other end. “Thanks, hyung.”
The call ends.
Yoongi stares at the screen for a moment before setting the phone aside and dragging a hand down his face. A second later, the bathroom door creaks open.
The bathroom door creaks open. Jimin, who has very obviously not been eavesdropping, sits back down on the bed. “Everything okay?”
Yoongi exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just… my brother’s stressed.”
Jimin nods, his usual playful demeanor softening. “Weddings are a lot of pressure.”
“Yeah,” Yoongi mutters, leaning back against the headboard. “I feel like shit for not being there. I told him I’d help. I’m supposed to be his best man."
Jimin studies him for a beat. “You are there for him.”
Yoongi huffs a quiet laugh. “Not really. I’m stuck in some run-down motel in the middle of nowhere with some stranger.”
“Ouch. After all we been through, I’m still just a stranger to you.”
Yoongi doesn’t rise to the joke, too drained to muster the energy.
Jimin notices. His tone softens again. “Look, you’re doing everything you can to get to him. You’re checking in, calming him down, promising you’ll get there. That’s what matters. That’s what he’ll remember. And once you are there, this will all be a fun anecdote, you guys can share.”
Outside, thunder continues to rumble, low and distant.
“Yeah, I guess you have a point.” Yoongi turns his head, taking Jimin in. “When did you get so wise?”
Jimin shrugs, leaning back on his hands. “You pick things up when you are quiet enough to listen.”
Yoongi snorts. “You? Quiet? I don’t know about that.”
Jimin grins, sharp and amused. “Quieter than you’d think. When it matters, at least.”
The conversation settles after that, the weight of the day finally catching up to both of them. The room hums with the low flicker of the television and the soft, steady rhythm of rain tapping against the windowpane. Neither of them says it out loud, but they both know—it’s time to call it a night.
Yoongi grabs the spare pillows, setting them down the middle of the bed, marking the invisible line between his side and Jimin’s. Jimin watches, clearly amused, before nudging one just slightly out of place to give himself more space—just enough to test Yoongi’s patience.
Yoongi gives him a warning glance but says nothing. Jimin grins like he’s won something.
The lamp clicks off, plunging the room into a soft darkness lit only by the ghostly blue glow of the TV. Another episode of the soap opera begins—more screaming in the rain, more betrayal, more slow-motion slaps.
They shift under the covers, shoulders turned away at first, careful not to touch. Outside, thunder rolls, low and rumbling like a lullaby wrapped in static.
Yoongi doesn’t last long. The weight of exhaustion pulls at him, his body sinking deeper into the mattress.
The last thing he hears before sleep pulls him under is Jimin’s quiet, amused whisper: “Damn. He’s still crying over that kimchi.”
Yoongi only wakes up once that night.
The glow of the TV still casting blue shadows across the room. The soap opera has devolved into infomercials—a too-cheerful man demonstrating a knife that “slices through anything!”
Then he realizes: Jimin is pressed against his back.
Not just close.
Curved around him, arm slung heavy over Yoongi’s waist, breath warm against the nape of his neck.
Yoongi freezes.
The pillow wall is a wreck. One’s on the floor. The other is mashed between Jimin’s knees like he’d fought it in his sleep.
This is bad.
Except—Jimin’s fingers twitch against Yoongi’s stomach, and god, it’s been so long since someone touched him like this—and that Yoongi’s chest aches with it.
He should move.
He doesn’t.
Yoongi closes his eyes and allows himself to enjoy it.