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Yoongi sprawled across his futon, the springs digging into his shoulder blade through the thin mattress. His phone lit up his face in the darkness of his basement apartment—the overhead bulb had burned out three days ago, and he hadn't scraped together enough won for a replacement yet.
SubFilter commented on your post
Heat crawled up his neck. He tapped the notification.
SubFilter: Those hands could ruin me
Yoongi's thumb hovered over the keyboard. The photo showed nothing identifying—just his veined forearms and long fingers wrapped around his phone, the bathroom mirror fogged at the edges.
Min_D: could? baby, they would
SubFilter: Prove it then. Bet you can't back up all that talk about your tongue technology
Yoongi snorted.
Min_D: careful what you wish for
Six months of this—flirting that lived in the space between promise and action. SubFilter's posts made his mouth water: the curve of thick thighs, the swell of an ass that Yoongi wanted to mark with his teeth, captions about needing praise like oxygen.
His DMs pinged.
SubFilter: Okay I'm done with foreplay
SubFilter: Meet me for coffee tomorrow. Itaewon, that place on the main strip with the good americanos
Yoongi's stomach dropped. He sat up, the futon creaking.
Min_D: you serious?
SubFilter: Dead serious. Unless you're all talk?
He loaded his bank app. The number stared back at him—enough for one coffee, maybe a pastry if he skipped dinner. Again. The train fare would eat into his studio time fund, but.
Those thighs. That ass. Captioned: Please Sir, tell me I'm good.
Min_D: time?
SubFilter: 2pm?
Min_D: see you there
Yoongi dropped his phone on his chest, heart hammering against his ribs. One coffee. He'd make it work.
* * *
Yoongi pushed through the glass door at 1:58pm, the blast of air conditioning raising goosebumps on his arms. The coffee shop smelled like burnt beans and vanilla syrup—upscale enough to justify the seven-thousand-won americano that would leave him with pocket change.
He ordered, paid, and claimed a corner table tucked behind a potted plant.
Min_D: back corner, gray hoodie
The americano scorched his tongue. He scrolled through SubFilter's posts while he waited, thumb pausing on a mirror selfie—oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, exposing collarbones Yoongi wanted to bite.
Movement caught his eye.
A man weaved through the tables—stunning in a way that made Yoongi's breath catch. Platinum hair swept back from a face too delicate to be real, plush lips curved in uncertainty. His black turtleneck hugged a dancer's frame, all lean muscle and graceful movements.
He stopped at Yoongi's table.
"Min_D?"
Fuck. That voice—breathy and sweet, like honey dissolving in tea.
"SubFilter?" Yoongi gestured to the empty chair, throat dry despite the coffee.
The man folded himself into the seat, setting down an iced caramel macchiato topped with whipped cream. "You're exactly what I pictured."
"Disappointed?"
"Opposite." Pink flushed across those ridiculous cheekbones. "Your photos don't do you justice."
Yoongi leaned back, let his legs sprawl under the table. "Careful. Keep talking like that and I'll think you're trying to butter me up."
"Would it work?"
"Depends." Yoongi dragged his gaze down—the turtleneck, the way those thighs pressed together. "You planning to beg as pretty in person?"
SubFilter's breath hitched audibly. He wrapped both hands around his cup, condensation dripping onto the table. "Maybe you should find out."
"Here? In public?" Yoongi clicked his tongue. "Didn't peg you for an exhibitionist."
"I'm full of surprises." SubFilter leaned forward, voice dropping. "Besides, you're the one who promised your tongue could make me forget my name."
Heat pooled low in Yoongi's gut. "Still confident you can handle me?"
"Only one way to know for sure."
The cab ride burned through Yoongi's remaining cash, but he couldn't focus on that—not with Jimin's hand burning a brand into his thigh. Those fingers pressed just high enough to make Yoongi's jaw clench, thumb stroking small circles through denim that suddenly felt too thick, too restrictive.
"We're here." Jimin's voice cracked on the second word.
The building towered above them, all glass and steel gleaming in the afternoon sun. A doorman in white gloves pulled open the entrance. Marble floors stretched across a lobby that looked like it belonged in a palace, not an apartment complex.
Jimin guided him past the reception desk to an elevator tucked in the back corner. He punched numbers into a keypad—not to call the lift, but to unlock it.
The doors slid open.
They stepped inside. Jimin pressed his thumb to a scanner. The elevator lurched upward, climbing and climbing until Yoongi's ears popped.
The doors opened.
Not to a hallway. To a fucking living room.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Seoul's skyline. White leather furniture, abstract art on walls so pristine they practically glowed. A kitchen visible beyond, all marble countertops and chrome appliances.
Yoongi's stomach dropped.
This wasn't just wealth. This was fuck-you money. His hoodie suddenly felt threadbare. The hole in his sock burned against his heel.
"I, uh." Jimin stepped out of the elevator, shoulders hunching. "It's a lot, I know."
Yoongi couldn't form words. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
"We can go somewhere else." Pink crept up Jimin's neck. "I should've warned you, I just—I wanted privacy and—"
"You live here?" The question came out rougher than Yoongi intended. "Alone?"
"Yeah." Jimin twisted his fingers together, that earlier confidence evaporating. "Do you… do you want something to drink?"
Yoongi stepped into the living room, his sneakers silent against marble. The space stretched impossibly wide—no walls to close it in, just open air and light pouring through glass.
"Water's fine."
Jimin disappeared into the kitchen. Cabinets opened, ice clinked into crystal. Yoongi wandered toward the windows, Seoul sprawling beneath them like a circuit board. He could see the industrial district from here—a smudge of gray in the distance where his basement apartment sat collecting mold.
"Here."
Yoongi turned. Jimin stood three feet away, holding out a glass. His hand shook slightly, water trembling against the rim.
"Thanks." Yoongi took it, their fingers brushing.
Jimin flinched back like he'd been burned.
The silence stretched. Not the charged kind from the cafe—this one felt wrong, brittle. All that heat from the taxi had evaporated the second those elevator doors opened.
"Listen." Jimin's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "I get it if you want to leave."
"Why would I want that?"
"Because I'm not who you thought I was." Jimin gestured at the apartment, at himself. "Online, I'm just... I'm just me. But this—" He bit his lip. "I should've told you."
Yoongi set the glass down on a side table. "Told me what? That you have money?"
"That I'm Park Jimin." The name came out flat, like an admission of guilt. "Park Group. I'm all over the business news, I'm on magazine covers, I—fuck, you probably saw me and didn't even recognize—"
"I don't read business news."
Jimin's mouth snapped shut.
"And I don't give a shit about magazine covers." Yoongi stepped closer. "You came to that cafe looking nervous as hell. Told me my photos don't do me justice while blushing like a virgin." He reached out, caught Jimin's chin. "That's who showed up. Not some corporation."
Jimin's breath hitched.
"So I'll ask again." Yoongi's thumb brushed across Jimin's bottom lip. "Do you want me here?"
"Yes." The word came out broken, desperate. "God, yes."
"Then stop apologizing and show me your bedroom."
Jimin's pupils dilated, swallowing the warm brown until only a thin ring remained. He turned without a word, leading Yoongi down a hallway that stretched impossibly long. Doors on either side leading to who-knew-what. Gym? Library? Probably shit Yoongi couldn't even imagine.
Jimin pushed open the last door.
The bedroom matched the rest of the apartment—massive windows, minimalist furniture, a bed big enough for four people. But this room felt different. Lived in. A hoodie draped over a chair. Books stacked on the nightstand. A laptop abandoned on silk sheets.
"I know it's—"
"Stop." Yoongi kicked the door shut behind them. "Stop apologizing for shit I didn't ask about."
Jimin's throat worked on a swallow.
"Come here."
Jimin crossed the distance between them in three quick steps. His hands hovered at Yoongi's shoulders, not quite touching, like he needed permission for everything.
Yoongi grabbed Jimin's wrist, yanked him close until their chests pressed together. "You were braver in the cab."
"I wasn't thinking in the cab."
"Then stop thinking now." Yoongi's free hand slid up Jimin's neck, fingers tangling in platinum hair. Softer than it looked. He tightened his grip, just enough to make Jimin gasp. "We talked for six months about this exact moment. Still want it?"
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
Jimin's eyes fluttered shut. "Yes, Sir."
Something hot and sharp twisted in Yoongi's gut. He'd heard those words online, typed out in messages that made him palm himself through his jeans at three in the morning. But hearing them in person, breathy and desperate—
He kissed Jimin hard.
Jimin melted against him, pliant and eager, making small sounds in the back of his throat that went straight to Yoongi's cock. Those expensive clothes, this ridiculous penthouse, none of it mattered when Jimin kissed like he was starving for it.
Yoongi pulled back. Jimin chased his mouth, whining at the loss.
"Bed. Now."
Jimin stumbled backward, sinking onto pristine white sheets. His chest heaved, lips already swollen and pink.
Yoongi stayed where he was, drinking in the sight. Park Jimin—heir to a fashion empire, face on magazine covers—looking wrecked and desperate just from a kiss.
"Take off your shirt."
Jimin's fingers fumbled at the collar of his black turtleneck, tugging uselessly at the fabric before he dragged it up over his head, revealing smooth skin stretched over lean muscle. Not gym-rat bulk—just natural definition, the kind that came from good genes and personal trainers.
He tossed the shirt aside. It landed on the hardwood with a whisper.
"Pants too."
"I—" Jimin's hands stilled at his belt. "Should we talk about—"
"We talked for six months." Yoongi crossed his arms. "You know your safeword?"
"Red."
"Then stop stalling."
Jimin's throat bobbed. His fingers worked the belt free, button next, zipper sliding down with a sound that made Yoongi's mouth water. The slacks dropped to the floor. Designer briefs clung to narrow hips, already tented.
"Everything."
Pink bloomed across Jimin's chest, crawling up his neck as he hooked his thumbs under the waistband. He hesitated, teeth catching his bottom lip.
Yoongi waited. Didn't move, didn't speak. Just watched until that hesitation cracked.
The briefs joined the pile of expensive fabric on the floor.
Jimin sat there, naked and flushed, hands twitching like he didn't know where to put them. His cock curved up against his stomach, already leaking. Six months of dirty messages and teasing photos, and here he was—real, solid, trembling.
Yoongi's jeans felt two sizes too small.
He stayed rooted in place, cataloging every detail. The way Jimin's thighs pressed together. How his breathing came shallow and quick. The muscle jumping in his jaw as he fought not to cover himself.
"Beautiful." The word slipped out rougher than Yoongi intended.
Jimin's eyes flew up to meet his, wide and shocked.
"You think I'd say shit I don't mean?" Yoongi finally moved, crossing to the bed in three strides. He cupped Jimin's face, thumb stroking along his cheekbone. "Look at you. Fucking perfect."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are." Yoongi gripped Jimin's chin harder, forcing him to hold eye contact. "And you're gonna be good for me. Aren't you?"
Jimin's pupils dilated until his eyes looked black. "Yes, Sir."
"Scoot back. Middle of the bed."
Jimin scrambled to obey, sheets rumpling under him as he positioned himself against the pillows.
Yoongi pulled his hoodie over his head, let it drop somewhere he didn't care to track. His t-shirt followed. Jimin's gaze dragged over his chest, his stomach, lingering on the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath denim.
"See something you like?"
"Everything." Jimin's voice came out strained. "God, your photos don't—"
"Do me justice?" Yoongi smirked, popping the button on his jeans. "You already used that line."
Pink flooded Jimin's cheeks, but his eyes never left Yoongi's hands as they worked the zipper down. Yoongi shoved jeans and boxers off in one motion, kicked them aside. His cock jutted heavy between his legs, already slick at the tip.
Jimin made a sound—half whimper, half moan.
Yoongi climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into expensive sheets as he positioned himself between Jimin's spread legs. Those thighs trembled on either side of him, muscles jumping under skin that looked impossibly soft.
He placed his palms on Jimin's ankles. Dragged them up slowly, feeling the shift from bone to muscle, the way Jimin's breathing hitched with each inch. Over his calves, behind his knees where the touch made him jerk. Up his thighs, thumbs pressing into the sensitive inner edge.
Jimin's cock leaked against his stomach.
Yoongi skipped over his groin entirely, continuing the path up his abs, feeling them contract under his fingers. Over his ribs. His chest.
His right hand stopped at Jimin's nipple, thumb circling the peaked flesh.
Jimin arched into the touch with a broken sound.
"Did you prep yourself?" Yoongi pinched lightly, watched Jimin's mouth fall open. "Before you came to meet me?"
"No." The admission came out breathless. "I wanted—I wanted your fingers."
Heat shot straight to Yoongi's cock. He pinched harder, dragging a whimper from Jimin's throat.
"Yeah? You get off thinking about them?" Yoongi already knew the answer. All those messages, those posts captioned with filth about what Jimin wanted those hands to do.
"Yes, Sir. All the time."
Yoongi smirked, releasing Jimin's nipple to trace patterns across his chest. "Good boy."
Jimin's whole body shuddered. His hips lifted off the bed, seeking friction that wasn't there. "Fuck—"
"You like that?" Yoongi circled back to his nipple, this time with feather-light touches. "Like being told you're good?"
"Yes." Jimin's head pressed back into the pillows, throat working on a swallow. "Please—"
"Such a good boy for me." Yoongi leaned down, letting his breath ghost across Jimin's collarbone. "Asking so nicely."
Jimin whined, high and desperate, his cock jerking against Yoongi's stomach.
Yoongi dragged his mouth down Jimin's chest, trailing open-mouthed kisses over heated skin. He paused at the left nipple, tongue circling before sucking it between his lips. Jimin gasped, fingers twisting in the sheets.
His hand finally wrapped around Jimin's cock—light, teasing strokes that made those thighs shake on either side of him. Jimin's hips jerked, chasing more friction, but Yoongi kept the pressure feather-light. Just enough to drive him insane.
He kissed lower. Over abs that contracted with each ragged breath. The sharp jut of a hip bone. The crease where thigh met groin.
Yoongi settled between Jimin's legs, looking up the length of that flushed body. Jimin stared back, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.
"Lube?"
Jimin fumbled for the nightstand drawer, nearly knocking over a lamp in his rush. He shoved a bottle into Yoongi's hand with shaking hands.
Yoongi flicked the cap open, coating his fingers. He rubbed them together, warming the slick before sliding his hand down. His other hand stroked Jimin's cock in slow, deliberate pulls while his slicked fingers traced lower.
Jimin's breath caught.
The first finger breached him carefully. Tight heat clenched around the intrusion, and Yoongi paused, letting him adjust. Then he wrapped his lips around the head of Jimin's cock and sucked.
Jimin's spine arched off the bed. "Oh fuck—"
Yoongi worked his finger deeper, crooking to find that spot while his tongue swirled. Jimin's hands flew to his hair, not pulling, just holding on like Yoongi was the only thing keeping him tethered.
A second finger joined the first. Scissoring, stretching. Jimin's hole relaxed around him, greedy for more.
Yoongi took him deeper, hollowing his cheeks as his fingers pressed and rubbed. Found that bundle of nerves and stroked until Jimin sobbed his name.
The third finger slid in easier. Yoongi curled them, felt Jimin's thighs shake, heard those desperate sounds spilling from his throat getting louder, higher.
He pulled off Jimin's cock with an obscene pop. Withdrew his fingers slowly, watching Jimin's hole flutter around nothing.
"No—" Jimin whined, hips lifting. "Please, I need—"
"Shh." Yoongi pressed a kiss to his hip. "Turn over. Stomach."
Jimin's eyes widened. He scrambled to obey, flipping onto his stomach and presenting himself—ass up, face pressed into silk pillows.
Yoongi sank his teeth into the curve of Jimin's ass—not hard enough to bruise, just enough to make him jolt. Then he spread those cheeks and buried his face between them.
Jimin keened, high and broken.
Yoongi's tongue traced the rim of his hole, tasting salt and musk and the lingering slick of lube. He licked in broad strokes, then tighter circles, feeling Jimin clench and flutter under the attention. Six months of messages, of imagining this exact moment—nothing compared to the real thing. The sounds Jimin made, desperate little gasps and whimpers that shot straight to Yoongi's cock.
He wanted more of those sounds. Needed them.
His tongue pressed inside, fucking in shallow thrusts while Jimin writhed against the sheets. Hands fisted in silk, spine arching, hips pushing back for more.
Yoongi reached beneath him, wrapped his fist around Jimin's cock and stroked in time with his tongue.
"Oh god—" Jimin's voice cracked. "Wait, I'm gonna—fuck, I'm too close—"
Yoongi didn't stop. Tightened his grip, twisted his wrist on the upstroke while his tongue worked deeper.
"No, please—" Jimin's hand flew back, fingers scrabbling at Yoongi's hair. "I'll come, I'm—ah—"
Yoongi sucked at his rim, stroked faster, relentless.
Jimin shattered. His whole body went taut, shaking apart as he spilled across Yoongi's fist and the pristine white sheets. The sounds he made—raw, wrecked, almost sobbing—went straight to Yoongi's gut.
Yoongi worked him through it, tongue gentling to soft licks while his hand slowed to lazy pulls. Coaxing out every last aftershock until Jimin went boneless, trembling with oversensitivity.
He finally pulled back. Jimin sprawled face-down in the mess they'd made, chest heaving like he'd run a marathon.
Yoongi kissed his way up Jimin's spine—vertebra by vertebra, feeling each one shift under flushed skin. Over his shoulder blades. The nape of his neck where platinum hair stuck to sweat.
Then he collapsed beside him.
Silence settled between them, broken only by Jimin's ragged breathing. Yoongi traced patterns across sweat-slicked skin, feeling the tremors that still ran through Jimin's body.
"You okay?"
Jimin turned his head, hair plastered to his forehead. His eyes had that glazed, blissed-out quality. "Perfect." The word came out slurred, drunk on endorphins.
He shifted, pressing a kiss to Yoongi's shoulder. Then his collarbone. His chest. Working his way down with single-minded determination despite the way his limbs shook.
Yoongi's breath caught. "You don't have to—"
Jimin looked up through platinum lashes. "I want to."
His mouth traced lower. Over Yoongi's abs, tongue dipping into the ridges. The trail of dark hair leading down. Then his hand wrapped around Yoongi's cock—finally, after an hour of touching Jimin without relief—and Yoongi's hips jerked involuntarily.
Jimin's tongue traced the head, lapping at the precome beading there. His eyes fluttered shut like he was savoring the taste.
Then he sank down.
"Fuck." The word punched out of Yoongi's chest.
Wet heat enveloped him. Jimin's mouth stretched obscenely around his girth, taking him deeper with each bob of his head. No hesitation, no teasing—just enthusiastic, desperate suction like he'd been starving for this.
Yoongi's hand found its way into platinum hair, not pushing, just holding on. Watching those swollen lips slide down his length, feeling Jimin's throat work around him.
"So good." The praise slipped out rough. "Such a good boy for me."
Jimin moaned around him, the vibration shooting straight up Yoongi's spine. He doubled his efforts, hollowing his cheeks, tongue pressing against the underside with each stroke.
The sight alone—Park Jimin between his legs, debauched and eager, looking up at him like Yoongi was everything—it shoved him right to the edge.
"Close," he managed. "Jimin-ah, I'm—"
Jimin didn't pull off. Sank deeper instead, nose brushing dark curls, throat convulsing as he took everything Yoongi had to give.
His climax slammed into him. White-hot pleasure that erased thought, left him gasping Jimin's name while he spilled down that willing throat.
Jimin swallowed. Kept swallowing until Yoongi finished twitching, oversensitive and spent.
Then he pulled off slowly, opened his mouth wide.
Empty. Clean.
"Jesus Christ." Yoongi groaned, fingers tightening in platinum hair. "Perfect. You're so fucking perfect."
Jimin's satisfied smile could've lit up the entire penthouse.
* * *
The routine settled in easy. Too easy, maybe, but Yoongi didn't question it.
The delivery job paid shit—barely enough to cover rent after he factored in metro fare and the occasional studio session. Yoongi spent his weeks dodging traffic on a beat-up scooter, hauling boxes up endless flights of stairs for customers who couldn't be bothered to tip. His back ached. His knees protested. But the moment his shift ended, none of it mattered.
Two o'clock. Same time every Saturday.
Jimin rotated through cafes like he was working through a bucket list—sleek minimalist spots in Gangnam, cozy hole-in-the-walls in Hongdae, pretentious French places in Apgujeong. Always with Yoongi's americano waiting. Always with a bag of food sitting innocuous beside it.
"You mentioned you were hungry earlier," Jimin would say, not quite meeting his eyes.
Yoongi never mentioned anything of the sort. They both knew it. He ignored it.
After, they'd head to the penthouse.
Yoongi learned every surface in that sprawling space. The kitchen counter—cold marble against Jimin's overheated skin. The dining table, obscenely expensive and exactly the right height for Yoongi to bend him over, grip his hips, and fuck him until he sobbed. The floor-to-ceiling windows where Yoongi pressed Jimin's face against the glass, Seoul sprawling below them like Jimin was on display for the entire city.
Three weeks in, Jimin appeared from his bedroom holding red silk rope.
His teeth worried his bottom lip. "Please?"
The word came out small. Hopeful. Those dark eyes pleading in a way that made something tighten in Yoongi's chest.
Who was he to deny such a good boy?
* * *
A few months in, the gifts started.
Well—not gifts in the traditional sense. Jimin was smart enough not to call them that.
It began when Jimin asked Yoongi to stay the night. The first time caught Yoongi unprepared—no change of clothes, no toothbrush. Jimin produced a soft gray sweater and black joggers from his closet, fabric expensive enough that Yoongi handled them carefully.
"I'll bring them back next week."
Jimin waved him off. "They've been sitting unused in the back. Not my style."
Made sense. The sweater was oversized, slouchy. Nothing like the fitted designer pieces Jimin favored.
Sunday morning, Jimin insisted on breakfast before Yoongi left. Eggs, rice, banchan spread across the dining table like they hadn't fucked on it hours earlier. Yoongi's stomach, used to convenience store kimbap, practically wept.
The pattern repeated. Stay over. Accept clothes. Massive breakfast.
"These were just collecting dust," Jimin would say, handing over another hoodie, another pair of jeans.
Maybe the first two times held truth. After that?
Yoongi spotted the boxes.
They sat stacked in the corner of the living room—sleek black packaging with minimalist logos. The same brand as the "old" clothes Jimin kept giving him. Boxes that definitely hadn't been there last week, some still sealed, others opened and empty.
The jeans Jimin handed him that morning? Ripped black denim, exactly Yoongi's style. Nothing like the tailored slacks hanging in Jimin's closet.
"Really not your thing?" Yoongi asked, holding them up.
Jimin's ears went pink. "Impulse buy. Wrong size."
The tag read Yoongi's size exactly.
He should call it out. Should tell Jimin to stop, that whatever this was crossed a line they hadn't discussed. But Jimin looked so fucking hopeful standing there in his silk pajamas, morning light catching the silver in his hair, that the words died in Yoongi's throat.
Besides. The clothes were comfortable. Warm. Better than anything in Yoongi's actual closet.
So Yoongi pulled on the jeans and pretended not to notice the way Jimin's shoulders relaxed, the small satisfied smile tugging at his lips.
* * *
Yoongi prided himself on independence. On not needing anyone's pity or their help. On making it work, no matter how many delivery shifts he pulled or how many meals he skipped.
But with Jimin, pretending came easy.
Easy to pretend he wasn't skipping lunch three days a week because his bank account hit single digits. Easy to pretend going back to his basement apartment—the size of Jimin's fucking closet—didn't feel like descending into a hole after spending weekends in that penthouse. Easy to accept the "impulse buys" and "wrong sizes" without calling out the careful way Jimin observed what he wore, what he liked.
Jimin didn't ask for anything in return. Didn't hover or make a show of providing. Just left containers of japchae and bulgogi "accidentally" out on the counter Sunday afternoons when Yoongi gathered his things.
Neither of them mentioned it.
Yoongi knew he wasn't subtle—shoving containers into his backpack while Jimin pretended to be absorbed in his phone. Yoongi knew Jimin knew he was taking them. Had to know, especially after he started using meal prep containers instead of regular dishes, perfectly portioned and stacked.
Yoongi never said thank you. Jimin never acknowledged it.
This was the most clothes Yoongi had owned since his father kicked him out at nineteen. The most he'd eaten in a week since choosing music over medical school, since his older brother's legacy became a noose around Yoongi's neck and he'd refused to slip it on.
Six years of scraping by. Six years of proving he could make it alone.
Yeah.
Pretending felt good.
Except all good things come to an end.
Thunder cracked overhead, loud enough to rattle the penthouse windows. Yoongi zipped his backpack—three containers of galbijjim and rice tucked inside—and shouldered it.
"Stay." Jimin stood by the kitchen island, arms crossed. "The weather report said it'll get worse."
"I'll be fine."
"Yoongi-hyung—"
"I said I'll be fine." Yoongi headed for the elevator.
Jimin's hand caught his wrist. "Then let me drive you."
"It's just rain."
A jagged boom tore through the air, lightning flaring bright enough to freeze them both in place.
Jimin's jaw set in that stubborn line Yoongi usually found hot—just not like this. Right now it just irritated him. "If you won't stay, I'm taking you home."
Yoongi pulled free. "I don't need—"
"I'm not asking."
They stared at each other. Rain lashed against the windows, the city below disappearing behind gray sheets of water. Yoongi's phone buzzed—probably a weather alert he'd ignore anyway.
Fine. Whatever got him out of here faster.
"Fine."
Jimin grabbed his keys.
The garage housed four cars—four fucking cars—and Jimin led him to a black sedan. The leather seats were heated. The dashboard glowed with more technology than Yoongi's entire studio setup.
He rattled off an address a block from his actual apartment. A building that at least had functional exterior lighting and doors that locked properly.
Jimin drove in silence, windshield wipers working overtime. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
When they pulled up to the building—one Yoongi had walked past a hundred times, one with an actual security system and no water damage visible from the street—Yoongi unbuckled quickly.
"Thanks." He pushed the door open before Jimin could respond, backpack clutched tight.
"Hyung—"
"See you next Saturday."
He slammed the door. Jogged to the building's entrance, its overhead light casting everything in harsh yellow. Turned and lifted his hand in a wave.
Jimin sat motionless in the driver's seat, face unreadable through rain-streaked glass.
Finally, the sedan pulled away.
Yoongi waited until the taillights disappeared around the corner. Then he stepped back into the downpour and ran.
One block. Past the convenience store with the flickering sign, past the pharmacy that closed at six, around the corner to his actual building with its broken intercom and perpetually burnt-out entrance light.
His hands shook as he punched in the door code.
* * *
It became routine after that. Every Sunday, Jimin drove Yoongi home despite his protests about taking the bus.
"It's faster," Jimin said, like that settled it.
Yoongi sighed and let it happen.
Same building. Same entrance with its functional security panel and clean awning. Same wave as Jimin's car disappeared down the street.
Same sprint to his real address one block over.
The guilt started small—a pinch in his chest when Jimin smiled at him, easy and open. Then it grew. Festered. Yoongi had never been a liar. Had been called stubborn, reckless, too honest for his own good. But never a liar.
Yet here he was, performing the same charade every week.
He told himself it didn't matter. That where he lived had nothing to do with what they did together. That Jimin didn't need to know about the water stains on his ceiling or the way his radiator clanged at three in the morning or how he kept his coat on indoors during winter.
On his way to a delivery shift, Yoongi stopped at a convenience store. The newspaper rack caught his eye—specifically, the face staring out from the front page.
Jimin.
Next to some actor Yoongi vaguely recognized from billboard advertisements.
He grabbed a copy, fingers crinkling the edges.
Lee Minjae Frequently Seen with Park Jimin, Fueling Dating Speculation
The article detailed several occasions. Dinners at high-end restaurants. A gallery opening. Coffee at a cafe in Gangnam. Too frequent, the reporter claimed, to be merely coincidental friendship.
Yoongi's jaw clenched. He shoved the paper back and walked out.
Saturday arrived.
His phone buzzed at noon.
Jiminie: Can't make it today. Work is crazy right now. I'm sorry.
Yoongi stared at the message. First cancellation in a year. A full fucking year of Saturdays at two o'clock, and now—
Jiminie: I'll make it up to you next week. Promise.
He typed and deleted three different responses before settling on:
No problem.
Short. Clean. Nothing that betrayed the hollow feeling spreading through his chest.
* * *
Next week came.
Saturday. Two o'clock.
Yoongi's phone stayed silent.
He worked his shift, hauled boxes, ate ramen for dinner. Checked the newspaper stand on Monday. There they were again—Jimin and Minjae at some charity gala, standing close enough that their shoulders touched.
The week crawled by.
No messages.
Nothing.
Yoongi told himself it was fine. Expected, even. Whatever they'd had was temporary. Jimin lived in a penthouse. Yoongi lived in a basement that flooded when it rained too hard.
The math had never worked.
Thursday night, he opened his phone. Scrolled to Jimin's contact. Blocked the number.
Then he opened Twitter. Found SubFilter's profile—all those photos of Jimin's thighs, his ass, captions about praise and being good.
Blocked that too.
There. Clean break.
Another week limped past. Yoongi picked up extra shifts to fill the empty Saturdays. His body ached from the work, but at least exhaustion meant he slept instead of thinking about platinum hair and the way Jimin looked tied up in red silk.
The newspaper stand became unavoidable.
Lee Minjae and Park Jimin: Engagement on the Horizon?
Sources close to Park Group suggested talks between families. Potential merger. A match that made sense for business, for publicity, for everything except the hollow pit in Yoongi's stomach.
His phone buzzed during a delivery.
Unknown number.
Please unblock me.
Yoongi deleted it.
* * *
The texts kept coming.
Unknown: Please talk to me. I miss you.
Unknown: Hyung.
Unknown: At least tell me you're okay.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
Yoongi hauled boxes up four flights of stairs because the elevator was broken. His shoulders screamed. He ignored that too.
Wednesday. Another shift. Another message.
Unknown: I know.
Two words.
Yoongi's hands froze on his phone screen.
Could mean anything. Could mean nothing, or—
His throat tightened.
Yoongi's thumb hovered over the message. His chest felt too tight, like someone had wrapped rope around his ribs and pulled.
He deleted it.
Shoved his phone in his pocket. Finished his route. Went home to his damp basement and microwaved instant jjajangmyeon that tasted like cardboard.
His phone stayed quiet after that.
No more unknown numbers. No messages waiting when he woke up or came home from shifts. The silence should've been a relief—was a relief, Yoongi told himself. Clean break. Done.
He picked up another Sunday shift. Hauled furniture for some rich family in Gangnam who tipped him less than the cost of the coffee Jimin used to buy without asking.
Another week bled into the next.
Yoongi's routine solidified. Wake up. Work. Eat. Sleep. His studio equipment gathered dust in the corner because after twelve-hour shifts, he barely had energy to shower, let alone produce anything worth listening to.
The newspaper stand became easier to pass. He stopped looking for Jimin's face on magazine covers.
Saturday at two o'clock found him on his scooter, delivery bag strapped to his back, weaving through traffic in Hongdae.
This was better.
Simpler.
Yoongi almost believed it.
* * *
A month in, this Saturday started the same.
Six a.m. alarm. Coffee from the convenience store downstairs. Twelve-hour shift hauling boxes until his back screamed and his hands cramped around the scooter handles.
Seven p.m. found Yoongi parking in the alley behind his building, legs heavy as concrete. He grabbed his delivery bag and trudged around the corner, eyes fixed on the burnt-out entrance light he'd stopped reporting months ago.
Someone stepped into his path.
Yoongi crashed into them, stumbled back. A plastic bag hit the pavement.
"Shit, sorry—"
He bent to grab it, apology automatic, exhaustion making his movements clumsy. His fingers closed around the bag.
When he looked up, Jimin stared back at him.
Yoongi's grip tightened on the plastic. His pulse kicked hard against his ribs.
He scanned the street—left, right, calculating escape routes his body was too tired to execute. The broken intercom. The flickering streetlight. The building behind him with its peeling paint and rust-stained concrete.
Yoongi stepped sideways.
Jimin moved with him, blocking his path.
"Can we talk?" Jimin's voice came out soft, pleading. "Please?"
"There's a convenience store—"
"Somewhere private."
Yoongi glanced down his street. A liquor store with bars on the windows. The alley where dealers did business after midnight. Nothing that wouldn't expose exactly how far he'd fallen.
His shoulders dropped.
"Later. I can—"
"Now." Jimin's hand twitched toward him, then fell. "Please, hyung. Now."
The exhaustion hit harder than the delivery truck that nearly clipped him during afternoon rush hour. Yoongi had nothing left—no fight, no excuses, no energy to maintain the lie.
He turned toward his building.
"Fine."
His keys scraped in the lock. The door stuck like always. Yoongi shoved it open with his shoulder, muscle memory compensating for the warped frame.
The hallway smelled like mildew and someone's burnt dinner. Water stains bloomed across the ceiling. The overhead light buzzed, casting sickly yellow shadows.
Yoongi didn't look back to see Jimin's reaction. Just headed down the narrow stairs to the basement level, each step creaking under his boots.
His door—dented metal with scratched paint—waited at the end of the hall.
Yoongi unlocked it. Pushed it open.
"Come in."
Jimin's face stayed neutral as he looked around the basement apartment. His gaze swept across the mattress shoved in the corner, blanket tangled from last night. The futon—Yoongi's only furniture besides the desk he'd built from milk crates stacked two-high. A mini fridge hummed next to a single burner stove balanced on a wooden crate. The bathroom door hung crooked on its hinges, ready to collapse if anyone sneezed too hard. One ceiling light flickered overhead, working overtime to push back the shadows that gathered in every corner.
Yoongi grabbed his blanket from the mattress and draped it across the futon.
"Sit."
He dropped to the floor across from Jimin, legs crossed. His delivery bag landed beside him with a dull thud.
"I'd offer you something to drink, but—"
His voice died. He stared at his lap, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans.
"Hyung."
The thread snapped. Yoongi wound it around his finger until the tip turned white.
"Thanks. For everything." The words tumbled out faster. "The food, the clothes—I can return them. All of it. Well, except—" He tugged at the black hoodie he wore, soft fabric that had seen him through three months of broken heating.
"Yoongi-hyung—"
"This one. I need this one. But the rest, I'll get them dry cleaned first, I'll pick up extra shifts—"
"Look at me."
The stern edge in Jimin's voice cut through the rambling. The same tone he'd used during that thunderstorm, when Yoongi tried to walk home in sheets of rain and Jimin physically blocked the door.
Yoongi's head snapped up.
Jimin sat forward on the futon, elbows on his knees. His expression held too many emotions for Yoongi to decipher—disappointment, confusion, something that looked like hurt. Maybe disgust. Probably calculating how fast he could leave, how quickly he could scrub this basement and everything in it from his memory.
"Congratulations." Yoongi's jaw clenched. "On the engagement."
The challenge hung between them like a thrown gauntlet.
Jimin sighed. His shoulders dropped.
"When did you last eat?"
The question knocked the air from Yoongi's lungs.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. His brain scrambled for an answer that wouldn't reveal just how badly he'd been rationing convenience store kimbap.
Jimin's eyes stayed locked on him, patient and unrelenting.
Before Yoongi could formulate a response, Jimin moved. He grabbed the takeout bag from where it had sat next to him, ripped it open, and shoved a container toward Yoongi.
"Eat."
Yoongi stared at the food. Galbijjim, the meat glistening with sauce. Steam rose from the rice. His stomach twisted violently.
"I'm not leaving until you eat." Jimin's voice carried that same authoritative edge. "So you can either start now or we can sit here all night."
Yoongi's hand reached for the container before his pride could stop him.
"Thursday."
The word came out rough around the edges. He grabbed the disposable chopsticks, fingers clumsy as he broke them apart.
"What?"
Yoongi took a bite. The flavors exploded across his tongue—rich, savory, real food instead of the expired ramen packets he'd been surviving on. He forced himself to chew slowly instead of shoving it all in his mouth at once.
"Two days ago." Another bite. The meat practically melted. "That's when I last ate."
Jimin went still. His jaw worked like he wanted to say something, but he just hummed low in his throat.
"We'll talk when you're finished."
Yoongi paused, chopsticks halfway to his mouth.
"What about you? It's your food."
"I had a large lunch." Jimin leaned back against the wall, settling in. "I'm fine."
The lie was obvious—the bag had contained two full containers, two sets of chopsticks. But Yoongi looked at Jimin's expression, read the determination there, and knew fighting would cost more energy than he had left.
He nodded.
Yoongi scooped another bite of galbijjim, barely tasting it now that the initial hunger pangs had dulled. Movement caught his attention—Jimin stood, grabbed the second container from the torn bag, and crossed to the mini fridge.
The door opened with a soft pop. Jimin tucked the container inside next to Yoongi's expired kimchi.
Jimin's phone rang, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment.
He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and answered.
"Hello?"
Yoongi focused on his food, chopsticks scraping against the container. The voice on the other end filtered through—muffled, indistinct.
"Something important came up."
Jimin's tone shifted, professional and clipped. Nothing like the soft pleading from earlier.
The other person spoke again. Yoongi couldn't make out words, just the cadence of someone clearly displeased.
"Go ahead and order yourself something. I won't be able to make it tonight."
More talking from the other end, louder now. Insistent.
Jimin's eyes flicked to Yoongi—quick, almost imperceptible. If Yoongi hadn't been watching, he would've missed it entirely.
"Yes. I did."
The admission came out quiet but firm.
Yoongi's chopsticks stilled.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Minjae."
Jimin ended the call before the other person could respond. He slipped the phone back in his pocket and returned to the futon, settling against the wall like nothing had happened.
Yoongi scraped the last piece of meat from the container, chewed it slowly, then set the empty dish aside. He leaned back on his palms, studying Jimin in the flickering overhead light.
Jimin pulled out his phone again. His thumbs moved across the screen, face bathed in the blue glow as he typed.
Yoongi said nothing. Just watched.
After a bit, Jimin looked up from his phone.
Their eyes met.
"You didn't have to cancel your plans." Yoongi's voice came out rougher than intended. "With your fiance."
"I didn't have to." Jimin pocketed his phone. "I wanted to."
Yoongi pulled his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around them. The posture made him smaller, defensive.
"How'd you know? Where I lived."
"I went to that apartment." Jimin's fingers traced the edge of the futon's armrest. "When you wouldn't message back. The doorman said no one by the name of Min Yoongi lived there."
Yoongi's jaw tensed. His teeth ground together hard enough to ache.
"Figured you lived close by." Jimin continued like he was discussing the weather, casual and light. "So whenever I could, I'd walk these streets. Hoped I'd catch you."
The casualness of it—like Jimin hadn't put himself in actual danger—made something hot and angry coil in Yoongi's chest.
"That was risky." The words came out sharp. "People on this street could've attacked you. Robbed you. Worse."
Jimin just smiled. Soft, understanding, completely unfazed.
"I know."
The admission hung between them. No apology, no justification. Just acknowledgment that he'd walked through one of Seoul's roughest neighborhoods in designer clothes and platinum hair, searching for someone who'd blocked him.
Silence washed over the basement apartment. The fridge hummed. Water dripped somewhere in the bathroom, steady and rhythmic against rusted pipes.
Jimin shifted on the futon.
"I'm not engaged."
Yoongi's head snapped up.
"The newspapers—"
"Are wrong." Jimin cut him off, firm but not harsh. "When fans of Minjae started speculating about a possible relationship, someone in Park Group leaked lies to news outlets. Made a quick buck off manufactured drama."
He paused, meeting Yoongi's stare directly.
"Minjae's my childhood friend. Nothing more."
Yoongi didn't respond. His mind worked through the information—the articles, the photos, the speculation that had felt so concrete when he'd read them in convenience store aisles. All of it manufactured. Sold for profit.
Jimin let him process. Didn't push, didn't demand acknowledgment.
Just waited.
Yoongi sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet apartment.
"Why me?"
Jimin's head tilted slightly, a question in his eyes.
"You could have anyone." Yoongi gestured vaguely at the basement around them, the stark difference between this damp room and Jimin's penthouse impossible to ignore. "Could have someone with actual money. Someone who can take care of you instead of—" His throat tightened. "Instead of you taking care of me."
"Because I want you."
The answer came quick, absolute. No hesitation.
Yoongi opened his mouth.
"Don't." Jimin held up a hand, cutting off the protest before it could form. "After you found out about my wealth—about who I was—you didn't expect me to pay for everything. You never demanded anything from me."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again.
"Except to be exactly who I wanted to be."
"That should have been obvious." Yoongi frowned, confused why this needed explanation. "Just because you have money doesn't give me a reason to become entitled. That's—" He searched for the right word. "That's fucked up."
Jimin's smile returned, soft and knowing in the flickering light.
"That's not how most people view it." His fingers laced together, thumbs circling each other. "But call it selfish if you want—it was nice to feel like a normal human being. Where my paycheck didn't define who I was."
The words settled into Yoongi's chest, made something there ache. He'd spent six years being defined by his lack of money, by the empty bank account and rationed meals and this stupid basement apartment that leaked when it so much as drizzled. Never considered that drowning in wealth might feel just as suffocating.
"Why still buy me the food and clothes then?"
Jimin's expression shifted—thoughtful, careful.
"Probably being selfish again." He ran a hand through his platinum hair, mussing the perfect styling. "Considering how well you took care of me in bed, I wanted to care for you too."
Heat crawled up Yoongi's neck. He looked away, focusing on the water stains spanning across his floor.
"The longer we met—" Jimin continued, voice quieter now. "The more I noticed your body filling out. And I understood." A pause, weighted with meaning. "How little you were eating before."
Yoongi's jaw clenched.
"Then seeing the same rotation of clothes every week..." Jimin's thumb rubbed against his palm, a nervous gesture Yoongi had never seen before. "I wanted to give you better ones."
The basement fell silent except for ambient noise—the dripping pipe, the humming appliance, the muffled sounds of neighbors through thin walls.
Yoongi pulled his knees tighter to his chest. Jimin had noticed. Had seen past every careful deflection, every excuse about metabolism and laundry schedules. Had looked at Yoongi's body and read the starvation in his frame, had counted the days between the same worn hoodie and jeans, and instead of judgment or pity—
Just wanted to care for him.
Because Yoongi took care of him. In the only way Yoongi could, even without money.
"I'm sorry."
The words left Yoongi's mouth before his brain caught up.
Jimin's eyebrows drew together, confusion flickering across his features.
"For what?"
"For lying to you." Yoongi gestured vaguely toward the door, the street beyond it. "About my address."
Jimin shifted on the futon, the blanket rustling under his weight.
"You don't need to apologize for that."
Yoongi's head snapped up.
"I suspected that first day I brought you home." Jimin's voice stayed even, matter-of-fact. "Figured you'd tell me when you were ready."
The admission hit harder than any anger would have. Jimin had known. Had driven Yoongi to that fake building week after week, had watched him disappear around corners in the rain, and never once called him out. Just waited.
Yoongi's chest tightened.
"I'm stupid." The bitterness leaked into his voice despite his best efforts. "Should've talked to you instead of letting my jealousy and pride take over. Blocking you was—" He exhaled sharply. "Fucking childish."
Jimin didn't contradict him. Just sat there, patient and understanding in the flickering light.
Jimin's gaze swept across the apartment—the sagging mattress, the makeshift desk, the crooked bathroom door threatening to collapse at any moment. His expression remained neutral, thoughtful. After a long pause, he turned back to Yoongi.
"This is going to sound very far fetched."
Yoongi waited, bracing for whatever came next.
"Move in with me."
The words hung in the stale basement air. Yoongi's brain short-circuited, thoughts screeching to a halt as he processed what Jimin had just said.
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"That was indeed far fetched."
The sarcasm dripped from every syllable, a slight mockery without any real heat behind it. Defense mechanism kicking in automatically.
Jimin laughed—genuine, bright, filling the cramped space with warmth.
"We've been fucking for a year now." He leaned back against the wall, smile still playing at his lips. "Might as well have been in a relationship that long too."
The joking tone didn't quite hide the sincerity underneath.
Yoongi's fingers dug into his knees, grounding himself.
"I couldn't help pay for anything." The practical concern tumbled out. "At your apartment."
"Don't worry about it." Jimin waved a hand dismissively. "I'll continue handling the bills."
Heat crawled up Yoongi's neck, pride bristling.
"I won't be your housewife."
The declaration came out sharper than intended. Jimin laughed again, softer this time, fond.
"That's not what I want." He tilted his head, platinum hair catching the overhead light. "You can still work if you want. But all the money you make goes to things you want."
He paused, meeting Yoongi's stare directly.
"I'll handle the necessities."
Yoongi's eyes swept across the basement one last time. The water stains blooming across the ceiling like diseased flowers. The mattress he'd found on the street and disinfected three times before using. The mini fridge that hummed loud enough to keep him awake some nights. The bathroom door held together by hope and duct tape.
Six years of this. Six years of proving he could make it alone, that choosing music over his father's demands had been worth it. Six years of pride and stubbornness keeping him in this damp basement while his body slowly consumed itself.
"Okay."
The word spilled from his lips—soft, barely audible over the humming fridge.
But Jimin heard it.
His smile bloomed slow and genuine, reaching his eyes in the flickering basement light.