Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was a Tuesday night, and the car was parked in front of Seokjin’s building. Namjoon and his band had gathered for another late-night practice. Normally, Seokjin wouldn’t have gone—he had a paper to prepare. He didn’t want to go. He was tired.

He went anyway.

There was something he couldn’t quite name, something that left him feeling uneasy every time Namjoon got ready for practice or came back from one, gnawing at him. It was there during rehearsals too, like tonight, when he couldn’t stop noticing how Namjoon and Jimin laughed during breaks, their heads almost touching as they leaned over the same sheet of music. No one else seemed to notice. He usually didn’t care—there had never been a time he would feel uneasy. Namjoon and he went a long way and Jimin was a nice guy, Seokjin really liked him. Beautiful eye smile, charisma and a flirt. They had met Jimin when the singer of their group moved away and recommended him to take his place. Jimin had the voice of an angel so they obviously kept him.

But now, in the car back at Seokjin’s, that weight had grown into a massive elephant filling the space between them. No one acknowledged it, but it was there. His hands felt restless. Something inevitable was going to happen anytime now.

Seokjin stared out the window, watching the streetlights blur past, trying to fill the silence. He could hear the hum of the car engine, Namjoon’s fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. But neither of them spoke. The elephant demanded its place, and Namjoon seemed finally determined to face it. Seokjin would have dropped a comment by now, something to distract the conversation and keep avoiding. He did this almost every day by now. This time, he thought about it, what he could say, but the words didn’t come. He was so tired.

“Jin, starlight,  I’m sorry,” Namjoon began. Jin knew what was coming. But knowing wouldn’t make it easier. “I’m sorry. We’ve been through so much together, and I love you, you must know that.” He paused, searching Jin’s hand with his. “I’ve loved you from the start. It’s just…”

Seokjin closed his eyes, feeling the knot in his chest tighten. He knew he meant it and he didn’t want to hear what came next, but he knew he couldn’t stop it. Not forever.

“We were so young,” Namjoon continued, and Seokjin knew. “I’ve had other relationships, other experiences.” Their hands are still locked. But he could barely feel him. They were so close but so far. “I don’t want you to look back years from now and regret not having that.”

His thoughts began tumbling over each other, trying to come up with a different explanation for what he knew was about to happen. He reached for something—anything—that could ground him in the moment. Maybe he could avoid it again. Namjoon wouldn’t look at him. He hadn’t raised his eyes since he started speaking. Seokjin squeezed his hand, holding as much as he could. He really loves him.

“I don’t care about that.” Seokjin heard his own voice, but it barely felt like his. It was fragile, as if the weight of what was happening was crushing it. Damn it. “I don’t want to meet anyone else. I don’t need to meet anyone else.” His throat burned. The words felt like stones tearing through him, but they came out, one after another, because staying silent wasn’t an option. “Why are you doing this?”

He knew what was happening. He had known for weeks but had chosen to shut his eyes to it. It had always been easier to shut his eyes. If that meant Namjoon would stay, he would do it.

“Jin, listen…” Namjoon let out a long, heavy sigh, like he was in pain. The sound hit Seokjin like a cold punch to the gut. “It’s hard for me to say this. Believe me, it's so hard…”

“Don’t. Just don’t,” Seokjin interrupted, barely able to contain the urgency in his voice. Each word felt like running over broken glass. “Don’t speak for me. Only I can do that. Shit.” His head was beginning to throb. “But… if this is something you want, if it’s not something I did…” He swallowed hard. “Or something I can…” The nausea churned in his stomach, rising to his throat. “Then it’s different.” He was so pathetic.

He searched for Namjoon’s eyes, but he kept looking down, fixated on his hands. Seokjin gripped the edge of the seat, feeling a faint tingling in his fingers. Something in his chest started to tighten, as though each breath was smaller than the last. The engine kept running. Nothing else. No music, no words. Just a dull roar in Seokjin’s mind. And Namjoon, usually so full of words, suddenly had none.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Namjoon swallowed hard and let his head fall back against the headrest. “It’s hard. It’s not you… it’s me. I need… time,” he finally said.

Seokjin’s hands began to tremble. The truth was, Namjoon had a lot to deal with, but Seokjin wasn’t one of those things. Seokjin had always made sure to support him, so much that he often fell short at school, with his friends, with his family. Everything for Namjoon, everything because of Namjoon. Seokjin felt anger rising in his chest. “How much time?”

“I don’t know,” Namjoon said simply. He wasn’t going to say anything more. But Seokjin had a suspicion, a thorn that had been pricking at him more and more each day. He didn’t want to know. He really didn’t.

“I think... It’s because of- him.” Seokjin said anyway, the words dropping into the space between them like stones in a pond. They both knew who he was referring to. But Seokjin wouldn’t say his name. Whatever happened, he swore to himself he wouldn’t.

Namjoon reacted immediately, turning his head with an alarmed expression. “What? No! Of course not.” His voice was filled with denial, too quick, too firm. “Come on, starlight. It’s something else, and you know it. Your parents never accepted me. My friends didn’t get you. Your friends don´t get me. It’s my shitty job, the internship,  the band falling apart, everything…” Namjoon reached for Seokjin’s hand. “You don’t deserve to go through this.”

Son of a bitch.

Seokjin knew. They’d been together nine years, long enough to recognize every nuance in Namjoon’s voice. He knew when he was lying. This was a lie.

Seokjin felt the heat rising to his face. His chest was on fire, and the air barely entered his lungs. Each breath was a losing battle, but Namjoon didn’t see it. He didn’t even look at him. His thoughts made him dizzy. The gate to Seokjin’s building was just ahead, and he decided to focus on that.

“Fine.” His voice came out low, almost a whisper, as if the weight of the night had stolen the strength from his words. “Let’s take some time.”

Namjoon turned to him, stunned, but Seokjin didn’t wait for a response. Their hands came apart. He opened the car door and stepped out into the cold night. Each step toward the building was faster than the last until he was running.

By the time he reached his door, his hands were shaking so hard, he could barely turn the key. And when he finally did—when the door clicked shut behind him—his knees buckled. He didn’t mean to sink to the floor, but there he was. Curled up, lost, suffocating in the quiet.. Namjoon was his first love. And he had given up on Seokjin.

***

Min Yoongi, his childhood friend, had always insisted he had a good voice. It was Yoongi who first planted the idea in his head, who swore that Seokjin’s voice had something worth listening to. They had even worked on a few demos together, Yoongi producing while Seokjin sang whatever had been running through his best friend’s mind. That was why Seokjin had chosen to major in Audio Arts and Acoustics, because popularity had never been his forte, but for once, something felt natural and easy.

It was in college that he met Namjoon and Hoseok. With Namjoon, it had been something like love at first sight. That kind of ridiculous, storybook feeling he never thought would happen to him. They had been together ever since. And Hoseok—Hoseok had been his one true friend in the States, the only one who had ever made the loneliness feel bearable.

Seokjin had managed to carve out a somewhat stable life for himself. He had landed minor voice-over gigs, enough to keep himself afloat. His greatest achievement? Living in a neighborhood that wasn’t outright dangerous and affording a small room of his own. Hoseok lived right next door, and that alone made life more bearable. Hoseok was interning at a prestigious investment firm, which meant he was doing far better financially. A fact that Seokjin shamelessly took advantage of, preferring to shower in Hoseok’s apartment in the mornings rather than run up his own utility bills

One of those sleepless nights, his phone buzzed. A text from Yoongi. His name on the screen brought a fleeting warmth that disappeared almost as quickly as it came. Yoongi, his only long-time friend, who now lived in Seoul. Their friendship wasn’t one of daily calls or constant updates, but it was solid, built on shared moments of music and creativity.

Yoongi:
Hey. Got a job at a decent label. Decent enough, anyway.
They’ve got me making demo guides, and everyone they’ve sent me sucks. You’re the only one who can make this shit sound right.
Let me know when you’re free for a call.
Would be easier if you weren’t halfway across the world, but whatever. Just text me when you see this.

Seokjin glanced at the clock. Past three in the morning. That meant it was early evening in Seoul. He let the phone fall onto his chest and stared up at the ceiling, the glow of the screen illuminating the room in cold, artificial light.

It had been years since he’d last gone to Korea. He remembered winters in Daegu with fondness—the crisp air, the rarely snow-dusted streets, and the hearty food that warmed from the inside out. Nothing like the humid, stifling climate there. Or the flavorless, greasy meals he barely managed to eat these days. His appetite had left him the same night Namjoon did though.

Thinking of Namjoon sent a familiar pang through him, sharper than it should have been after weeks. Most of their mutual friends had gravitated toward Namjoon in the aftermath. That wasn’t surprising—Namjoon had always been the magnetic one. The one with many topics to talk to, with wisdom beyond his years. Only Hoseok could be neutral, but even if Hoseok wanted to stay in touch and talk to him Seokjin wasnt ready to talk, or to understand what was happening at all. He didnt want to cope.

Seokjin’s phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t Yoongi. It was a message from Daniel.

He didn’t need to open it to know what it said. Daniel had reached out before, offering unsolicited comfort cloaked in thinly veiled advances. You deserve better, Daniel’s messages would read, with just enough warmth to make Seokjin’s skin crawl.

Daniel had always been bold, even brushing Seokjin’s arm suggestively when they were still dating Namjoon, his coworker the same economy department where Namjoon worked. Not bad looking at all, too full on charisma and even more on himself. Seokjin had politely brushed it off then, too smitten with Namjoon to even entertain the idea. Now, the messages felt invasive, a reminder of things he didn’t want to think about.

He didn’t reply to Daniel. Or Yoongi. What could he say to Yoongi anyway? That he wasn’t capable of helping? That he couldn’t even pull himself out of his own misery long enough to be useful to someone else?

***

Professor Lee didn’t push. He never did. But one afternoon, after a recording session that Seokjin barely made it through, he mentioned a project, something big and overseas. A game adaptation with major backing, set to record in Seoul. He’d already given Seokjin’s name. “Think about it,” he’d said. Just that.

Lee had always been generous with his support—subtle, but consistent. Recommendations, introductions, quiet interventions that kept Seokjin afloat when things got rough. He wasn’t family. Not even a friend. But he’d seen something in Seokjin early on, and it wasn’t just technical skill. It was the way he could disappear into a character, make someone else’s words feel lived-in. And maybe, lately, that rawness had been bleeding through too much.

People were noticing. Not just Yoongi or Hoseok. Even people like Lee, who only saw him a few hours a week, could read the exhaustion behind his eyes. Seokjin hated that. Hated being so transparent.

But the offer was real. And it was something.

He didn’t want to go.

Seokjin showed up for the audition anyway. He didn’t feel ready, but then again, he hadn’t felt ready for much lately. Everything had become a struggle—dragging himself out of bed, going through the motions, pretending he was okay.

But not showing up would have been stupid. And as miserable as he felt, Seokjin wasn’t that stupid.

The project turned out to have a huge fandom, which explained the secrecy. Before he was even allowed to look at the script, they handed him a thick stack of non-disclosure agreements. He’d signed NDAs before, but this time, the pen felt heavier in his hand.

The game was big. Like professor Lee had said. The kind of title that fans obsessed over, the kind critics dissected. They wanted voices that sounded real, voices that matched the game’s Asian origins. The irony wasn’t lost on him—he’d spent years learning to smooth out his natural intonations, to sound polished and neutral. Now, they wanted him to undo all of that, to sound raw again. Local.

He almost laughed. Almost.

The recording room was cold—not freezing, just clinical. Designed for function, not comfort. The walls were lined with soundproof panels, and a Neumann microphone stood in front of him, gleaming under the dim overhead lights.

On the other side of the glass, three people sat at a long table, scribbling notes, their faces unreadable.

Seokjin adjusted the oversized headphones, took a deep breath. His fingers trembled slightly as they hovered over the script in front of him. Each line was marked with precise instructions:

Dramatic pause.

Increase intensity.

And his least favorite—genuine emotion.

Genuine. The word almost made him scoff. What did they know about what was genuine?

His job was to voice a brave, determined character. An antagonist.

“When you’re ready,” a voice crackled through the headset. Professional. Curt.

Seokjin swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. They wouldn’t let him read the script until ten minutes before. The words on the page seemed blurred, swallowed by echoes of his own thoughts.

The first line came out stiff. Controlled. Too controlled. He could hear it. They could hear it. But he couldn’t stop it.

Damn it.

He hated himself for it.

Stress felt heavy on his throat and mis hands were shaking so much he could barely hold the guide shits steady enough to read them.

He wasn’t sure why, or how, but as he read another line—a line about loss, about moving forward despite everything—something cracked.

His voice wavered, just slightly, at the end of the sentence. A hairline fracture, barely noticeable.

On the other side of the glass, the judges exchanged glances.

They didn’t say anything.

And maybe that was worse.

When it was over, they told him he’d hear back within 24 to 48 hours.

Thirty-six hours later, his phone rang.

Now, he was packing.

His flight to Korea was in six hours.

***

Memory

Seokjin was exhausted.

The first day of university had been… a lot. The kind of a lot that made him want to crawl under his covers and stay there indefinitely. He wasn’t new to being stared at, but being the odd Asian guy on campus came with a particular kind of scrutiny. Some of it was curiosity, some of it was the occasional microaggression, and some— ugh —felt vaguely fetishizing. He’d expected it, but that didn’t make it any less exhausting.

At least there was one silver lining: his roommate, Hoseok.

Hoseok was studying economics, but more importantly, he was nice. Not the fake, performative kind of nice either—his energy was warm and effortless, like a summer breeze. His smile was so wide and genuine that Seokjin trusted him immediately. 

“Come to the welcome party tonight,” Hoseok had insisted.

Seokjin groaned dramatically, flopping onto his bed. “Absolutely not.”

“I swear I’ll stick by your side all night.”

He regretted it immediately.

The party was loud, but conveniently out in the field. It smelled like sweat, alcohol, and cheap cologne. The lighting was dim, mostly lit because of the stars and the full moon, making it hard to tell who was who, but it didn’t matter. Seokjin already wanted to leave.

“I promise I’ll be by your side all night,” Hoseok repeated, as if reading his mind.

Seokjin sighed. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad—

And then it happened.

“Oh my God.”

“Hoseok, don’t.”

“OH MY GOD.”

“Hoseok, no —”

“That’s my song— hyung, I have to go .”

And just like that, Seokjin was abandoned.

“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, dumbfounded, watching Hoseok vanish into the crowd. He clearly saw that coming, and so he started to walk to the nearest corner to sit and enjoy watching a bunch of teenagers getting drunk. His kind of night. He found a really good bench and was fidgeting with his red cup when he felt a presence.

“You look like you need a rescue.”

Seokjin turned toward the voice, it was clearly his mother language and—oh.

The guy standing in front of him was tall, broad-shouldered, and had sharp, dragon-like eyes that somehow managed to be both intense and warm. He wore loose jeans, a simple black shirt, and an easy confidence that made him look like he belonged here. His hair was cut short, slightly tousled like he hadn’t bothered to style it but still somehow looked good .

“You’re Hoseok’s roommate, right?” the guy continued.

Seokjin blinked. “Uh. Yeah.”

“He told me to keep an eye on you.”

Of course, he did.

Seokjin sighed, shoving his hands into the pockets of his oversized pink hoodie, he felt weirdly self-conscious.

“I’m Namjoon, by the way.”

“Seokjin.”

Namjoon tilted his head slightly. “Not a big fan of parties?”

“ What gave it away ?” Seokjin deadpanned. Trying to sound confident.

Namjoon grinned. “You’re standing like you’re ready to make a run for it.”

Seokjin sighed dramatically. “If I wasn’t socially obligated to stay, I would’ve vanished ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Namjoon leaned casually against the wall, glancing at the crowd. “I was the same way my first year on the states.”

Something about that statement made Seokjin pause. He seemed confident and natural on this scene.

“You were?” He asked skeptical.

Namjoon nodded. “Felt like I was stuck out everywhere I went. Took me a while to realize that people don’t actually expect you to fit in right away. And even if they do, screw ‘em. You don’t owe anyone a performance.”

Seokjin stared at him. Maybe it wasn’t groundbreaking advice. But it was oddly reassuring.

“…That’s actually helpful,” he admitted.

Namjoon smirked. “Anytime. I’m full of wisdom.”

Seokjin huffed out a small laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.

They talked about their studies, Namjoon was on economics just like Hoseok. The conversation drifted to music, something that made Namjoon’s entire face light up.

“I’m learning how to play the bass,” Namjoon admitted, pushing his glasses up his nose, only for them to slide right back down. “Still terrible at it, but I’m getting there.”

Seokjin perked up, tilting his head in interest. “Oh? Define ‘terrible.’ Like… ‘finger-crampingly slow’ terrible or ‘accidentally composed an avant-garde jazz piece by mistake’ terrible?”

Namjoon sighed dramatically. “A little of both. I tried to play ‘Come As You Are’ last week and somehow ended up with something awful..”

Seokjin snorted. “Yeah, sounds about right. The beginner's curse. You ever play video games?”

Namjoon blinked at the sudden shift. “Uh… sometimes?”

Seokjin grinned, rolling his red cup between his fingers. “It’s just like trying to beat a boss fight. At first, you die immediately. Then you die a little slower. Then, eventually, after yelling at the screen and almost hurling your controller, you survive long enough to land a hit. And before you know it, you’re winning.”

He looked at Namjoon for a beat. There was something about him, kindness, or that steady charisma that didn’t need to beg for attention. The kind of person who meant what he said. Passionate in that quiet, sincere way.

Seokjin smiled wider, leaning back a little, shoulders loose as he tilted his head just slightly. “You know… you should start a band.”

Namjoon choked on his drink. “I can’t even play a full song yet.”

“So?” Seokjin leaned back smugly. “You don’t have to be good to start. Besides, even if you suck, you can just surround yourself with people who suck slightly less, and together, you’ll suck collectively less over time.”

Namjoon blinked, processing the logic like a computer buffering. “We’d be, like… a mildly dysfunctional band.”

“Exactly!” Seokjin grinned picturing Namjoon on stage glowing like he was just right now. “You should do it.”

Namjoon hummed, running a hand through his dark hair, making it even messier than before. “I dunno…”

Seokjin nudged him playfully. “Come on, overthinking won’t make you better at it. Just do it. The worst that happens is you suck and have fun anyway.”

Namjoon exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You make it sound so simple.”

“That’s because it is simple.” Seokjin stretched his arms behind his head, satisfied with himself. 

This was good, he no longer regretted going out, because talking with Namjoon was nice. Then Seokjin glanced up at the sky through the open field. The moon was bright tonight, glowing against the deep indigo sky.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured.

Namjoon stared at him for a beat, then followed his gaze. “Yeah.”

Seokjin exhaled. “I’ve always liked the moon. It’s constant, no matter where you are. It changes, but it’s always there.”

Namjoon wasn’t looking at the moon anymore.

He was looking at him .

“You shine more than any star I’ve ever seen.”

Seokjin turned to him slowly.

There was a beat of silence.

Namjoon’s face went completely blank. Then, all at once, he turned beet red.

Seokjin burst out laughing, clutching his stomach. “Oh my God.”

Namjoon groaned, immediately covering his face. “Forget I said anything.”

“No, no—keep going. Tell me more about how I outshine celestial bodies.”

Namjoon groaned, dragging his hands over his face. “God, that was ridiculous. I can’t believe I said that. I’m so awkward.”

Seokjin wiped a tear from his eye, still grinning. “That was ridiculous indeed. But… thanks.”

Namjoon peeked at him through his fingers. “For what?”

“For trying to make me feel better.”

Before Namjoon could respond, Hoseok reappeared, looking way too pleased with himself.

“There you are! You guys having fun without me?” He looked like he ran a marathon but with a gleeful smile on his face.

Seokjin rolled his eyes. “You swore, you traitor.”

Hoseok grinned unapologetically. “Yeah, yeah. But I send Namjoonie did I not?  Anyway, let’s head back. My feet are dying.”

They started making their way out. The night air was crisp, cool against their skin.

At the entrance, just as they were about to part ways, Namjoon hesitated.

“Goodnight, Starlight.”

Seokjin’s breath caught.

He wasn’t sure why, but… he liked it.

***

He packed light: one suitcase, one backpack. But at the airport, as he waited for his flight, the weight of everything hit him.

The tightness in his chest. The shallow breaths.

He felt so lonely. He felt like a coward.

For weeks, he’d fought the urge to call, to text, to beg Namjoon to come back. But he hadn’t. He couldn’t. It wasn’t love anymore. It was madness.

No wonder Namjoon left him.

***

Two nights had gone when he remembered he needed to fill a request for the agency. 

He’d opened his laptop and it was logged into Namjoon’s account. It was an honest accident, and once he realized, his cursor hovered over the log-out button. But then stopped.

He shouldn’t have.

He did it anyway.

The conversation was there.

And just like that, his world tilted.

Jimin: You really should let yourself have more fun, hyung. Always so serious.
Namjoon: Someone has to be.
Jimin: True, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy yourself. You’re always thinking five steps ahead. Maybe just… live in the moment a little?
Namjoon: You make it sound easy.
Jimin: Maybe it is. Maybe you just need someone to remind you.

Seokjin felt a prickling sensation crawl up his spine. Namjoon wasn’t supposed to be like this with anyone else. He wasn’t supposed to let someone else soften him like this.

Namjoon: I’m not taking your advice. You’re a bad influence.
Jimin: Maybe. But you’re still here, aren’t you? Talking to me
Namjoon: I guess I am.

Seokjin’s stomach twisted at the words. Jimin had always been flirtatious—he knew that. It was just part of who he was. But this… this felt different. It wasn’t just teasing banter. It wasn’t just harmless fun. 

Jimin: I’m just being honest, though. You looked serious tonight… but not in a bad way. You looked good. 
Namjoon: Ah, stop… I get shy.
Jimin: You’re terrible at taking compliments, hyung. But it’s cute when you try.
Namjoon: I'm not cute. You are.
Jimin: Hyung… you really think so?

The final blow. Seokjin felt his heart stop, even before the response came.

Namjoon: Of course I do. Everyone does.

Seokjin’s fingers trembled above the trackpad, but he couldn’t stop himself from reading. He couldn’t look away.

Jimin: Guess I’ll have to keep proving it.
Namjoon: The next stage will be huge. You better be ready to shine and impress them all.
Jimin: Don’t worry. I’ll be as bright as the sun. Who knows—next time you might end up calling me starlight.

It was a joke. A playful, flirty little joke. Seokjin knew that.

Namjoon: Don’t tempt me, starlight.

Everything froze. A hollow ringing filled Seokjin’s ears, his stomach caving in. His vision blurred for a second, but he kept staring at the screen, as if reading the words over and over would somehow change them. As if forcing himself to see the truth would make it hurt any less

July. The messages were from July..

They had broken up in mid-September.

His breaths quickened, shallow and uneven. His chest tightened, his lungs refusing to take in air. The buzzing started—low at first, then louder, a deafening hum in his ears. Words swirled in his mind, fragments of the conversation replaying like a broken record.

The nickname was the final blow.

The tightness in his chest cut the breath out of him. Couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think.

Frustration boiled over—he grabbed the laptop and hurled it against the wall.

The screen cracked. The casing shattered.

Good.

Like everything else.

***

The airport was packed. The hum of conversation, the overhead announcements, the hurried footsteps—it was all too much for a mind running on exhaustion and unresolved emotions.

No one had come to meet him.

Of course not.

He hadn’t asked anyone to.

Seokjin let out a slow breath and pulled out his phone. No signal. Roaming refused to connect. Fucking fantastic. He dragged himself toward a quiet corner, tapping into the airport’s free Wi-Fi with a resigned sigh.

It didn’t take long to find the last conversation Yoongi had sent him. The one he had deliberately ignored.

Seokjin:
Sorry for the radio silence.
But hey, looks like your wish came true.
Drop me your address.
And don’t tell me you’re asleep.

He hesitated before typing another message.

Taehyung.

The only other person he knew who lived in Seoul right now.

His cousin had always been a familiar presence during summer vacations, whether in Busan or the States. But living together? That was something else entirely. Would he even want him there? If not, well… Yoongi’s couch existed. Though Seokjin had serious doubts about how comfortable it would be, given the way Yoongi’s apartment was set up. He vaguely remembered Yoongi mentioning a roommate.

As expected, Yoongi answered first.

Yoongi:
Are you fucking serious?
I’m home.

Seokjin smirked, shaking his head before replying.

Seokjin:
Wow. No “I missed you”? No warm welcome?
Will I at least get a hug?

Yoongi:
Don’t push it.
(sends address)

Seokjin snorted faintly. Typical Yoongi—always curt in messages, his tone just shy of dismissive. Yet Yoongi was, without a doubt, the warmest person Seokjin knew. It was just that warmth was buried beneath layers and layers of sarcasm and bluntness. If you were lucky enough to dig through, there was something beautiful at the center.

Yoongi didn’t live in Gangnam, not exactly, but his apartment was nice. Small, cozy. When Seokjin entered, his eyes were immediately drawn to the massive, overstuffed couch dominating the living room. There was, of course, a piano—it made the space look even smaller—and a tall bookshelf overflowing with videogames and a three monitor ensemble over a studio table.

Yoongi, despite his earlier grumbling, greeted Seokjin with a stiff, awkward hug.

“Yoongi-ah, you haven’t changed a bit. Didn’t you take your vitamins or something?”

“Shut up, broad-shouldered giant.” Yoongi stepped back, giving him a once-over with a faint frown. “You, on the other hand, have changed. You’re thinner.”

The words landed like a soft blow, making Seokjin’s smile waver for just a second. He’d lost eighteen pounds in three weeks, but there was no way Yoongi could know. They hadn’t seen each other in months.

“I’ve always been thin,” Seokjin replied breezily, waving a hand. A half-truth, but it was all Yoongi would get. “You know what they say—cameras make you look bigger than you are.” He poked Yoongi’s stomach. “Besides, look who’s talking. You should eat something.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, clearly unconvinced but let it go.  “Fine. Let’s get japchae. You need to eat.”

“Ah, the great Min Yoongi feeding me? What an honor,” Seokjin quipped.

Yoongi muttered something about ungrateful hyungs but said nothing else.

As they walked, the cold air stung Seokjin’s face, but in a way, it was grounding. For the first time in days—weeks—he felt anchored to something. Maybe it was Yoongi’s steady presence beside him, the way he walked quietly, hands tucked deep into the oversized pockets of his hoodie, his breath visible in the crisp winter air.

They were an odd pair, always had been. Both introverts, both preferring the quiet, but their silences weren’t empty. If anything, they were filled with understanding, a language of glances and subtle gestures that only they seemed to comprehend. In high school, people used to joke that they communicated through telepathy. It was ridiculous, of course—there was no such thing. But even so, they often acted before asking. Yoongi would hand Seokjin a water bottle before he even realized he was thirsty. Seokjin would grab Yoongi’s coat when he inevitably forgot it. When one sighed, the other nodded before a single word was spoken.

It wasn’t telepathy. It was just understanding.

“It’s on me,” Yoongi said flatly as they sat at a small restaurant two blocks from Yoongi's apartment.

Seokjin arched an eyebrow. “Trying to bribe me into recording for free?” he teased, stirring his tea with slow, deliberate movements.

Yoongi’s lips twitched into what might have been a smile. “If it works.” His tone was as dry as the winter wind, but there was a flicker of something softer beneath it.

Eventually, Seokjin took a slow bite.

Not because he was hungry.

But because Yoongi was watching.

“So, what’s working for a record label like?”

“Like hell.” Yoongi grimaced before shifting into something more serious. Because when it came to music, Yoongi never joked.

“I’m producing demos for upcoming idols, but most of them struggle with the basics. Either they don’t have the ear or they just don’t understand the instructions. I need a reliable voice with good range to record the guide vocals, something clear and versatile enough for both male and female parts.”

Then, surprisingly, he smiled. “Your voice is exactly what I need.”

Seokjin blinked, caught off guard by the casual mention of something so significant. It warmed something in his chest—the way Yoongi spoke about him so matter-of-factly.

“Still can’t find anyone who can handle your temper?” he quipped, though there was a flicker of warmth in his voice.

Yoongi let out a quiet snort. “It’s not about that. It’s about trust. And talent. You’ve got both.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” Seokjin replied, voice dry but tinged with amusement. 

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” Yoongi said simply, leaning back in his chair. “There’s a party tonight. Industry thing. My label’s hosting it.”

Seokjin frowned. “Why are you telling me this? You hate parties.”

“Because you’re coming.” Yoongi’s gaze was steady, unyielding. “You know, basic social skills.”

Seokjin chuckled humorlessly. “Sounds exhausting.”

“It’ll be good for you,” Yoongi insisted, his tone firm but not unkind.

Seokjin studied him for a long moment. Yoongi wasn’t the type to suggest outings without a reason. They were both introverts, naturally inclined to avoid people when given the choice. And yet, here he was, insisting.

Seokjin shifted slightly in his seat, fingers tapping lightly against the table. The silence stretched longer than was comfortably acceptable, even between them. But Yoongi was waiting for a response, poised to argue if necessary. Fine. Two could play that game. And if Seokjin was careful, he could kill two birds with one stone.

“I’m actually here for work, you know,” he added, as if the weight of his own existence in Korea needed justification. “A dubbing project.”

It was true, just not the whole truth.

Yoongi didn’t respond right away, but his gaze remained sharp, unreadable. He wasn’t entirely buying it.

Seokjin smirked. “There’s also going to be a party. In two weeks. And I have a plus one. If I go to yours, you have to come to mine.”

That made Yoongi grimace. 

“There better not be a dress code. I packed like I was fleeing the country.” Which was pretty much the truth.

Seokjin huffed a laugh, distractedly checking his phone. No signal. Right—he’d turned off roaming.

“Can I borrow your Wi-Fi for a second?” he asked, already pulling up his messages. “I’m still waiting on Taehyung.”

Yoongi slid the code across the table without a word. A few taps later, the message came through: a string of emojis and at least three exclamation marks. Taehyung, of course, was thrilled.

Seokjin couldn’t help the small smile tugging at his lips.

At least that was settled.

“I should head over and unpack before tonight,” he said quietly. “Then we can go.”

**

Taehyung did live in Gangnam.

The apartment code clicked, and Seokjin stepped inside, immediately met with absolute chaos. Art supplies were scattered across the tables, mismatched pillows were haphazardly tossed across the couch, and a collage of photographs hung on the wall in a way that couldn’t have been intentional. The space was loud, not in sound, but in presence—lived-in, messy, warm.

Seokjin barely had time to drop his bags before the bathroom door swung open with force, and out walked Taehyung—soaking wet, towel slung low around his waist, damp hair curling against his forehead. Droplets of water clung to his shoulders, trailing over smooth skin.

Seokjin was unbothered. Yoongi, however, flinched.

"Hyung!" Taehyung beamed, his wide, boxy smile breaking across his face. "You’re here early!"

His excitement was short-lived. His eyes flickered past Seokjin’s shoulder, locking onto Yoongi, and in a flustered panic, he tried to step forward—only for his foot to catch on the edge of the couch.

With a graceless yelp, he disappeared behind it.

Seokjin blinked. "...You okay down there?"

A muffled groan.

Yoongi, deadpan, crossed his arms. "Surprise."

"Hyung. I didn't know you were coming too!" Taehyung huffed, finally pulling himself upright, his cheeks pink.

Seokjin leaned against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms with a knowing smirk. "Look at that. Flustering my cousin. I always knew you had a soft spot for younger guys, Yoongi-ah."

Yoongi’s glare was sharp enough to slice through steel. "Shut up and unpack."

But there was something. Something fleeting in the way his eyes flickered to Taehyung, in the way his fingers tightened ever so slightly around his phone. Seokjin caught it, but wisely said nothing.

Taehyung, ears burning, scrambled toward his bedroom. "I’ll... uh, I’ll get changed!"

Seokjin snorted, dropping onto the couch, making himself comfortable.

When Taehyung returned, now wearing a coffee-colored sweater and patterned trousers, Seokjin took a moment to really look at him.

His cousin had grown.

Not just physically, though that was obvious enough—but in presence. In confidence.

"You look good, Tae," Seokjin said warmly. "The genes in this family are no joke."

Yoongi, distractedly scrolling through his phone, muttered without looking up, "Stupid giant genes."

But Seokjin caught it again—that lingering glance. Too quick to confirm, but there.

He smirked. "Yah, Yoongi. He’s just a kid. Puberty’s rough for the Kims."

Yoongi shot him a side-eye of pure contempt.

Seokjin bit back a laugh.

Taehyung flopped onto a chair across from them, his mischievous grin firmly in place. The energy in the room lightened as they fell into easy conversation, but even as they talked, Seokjin’s mind drifted.

Memories.

Taehyung, six years old and crying inconsolably after losing the neighbor’s dog, face red and blotchy until they found it. The infamous grocery store incident where he tried tying his shoelaces, somehow tripped an elderly woman, and broke her arm. Or the time he accidentally evacuated an entire thirty-floor office building by pushing the emergency button, because—according to his six-year-old logic—it looked pushable. Seokjin had never seen a grown man cry until that day. The security guard’s sobs were forever burned into his memory.

Taehyung had a natural talent for attracting chaos.

And yet, his sincerity made it impossible not to forgive him.

Taehyung settled onto the couch, this time carefully, leaving a respectful distance between himself and Yoongi.

"Hyung, where’s Namjoonie hyung? Did he come too?"

The room froze.

Seokjin did too.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Yoongi’s sharp gaze flick toward him, expression unreadable. Carefully looking at him.

Taehyung’s question wasn’t malicious. He wasn’t prying.

But it cut through Seokjin like a blade.

His cousin and Namjoon had always gotten along—they had met when Taehyung visited the States, bonded too quickly over dumb memes and inside jokes Seokjin never understood. Namjoon had been patient with him, teaching him chords on the guitar, making space for him in conversations. Taehyung liked him.

What would he think if he knew?

If he knew everything?

Seokjin forced a smile. It felt wrong. Off.

"I wouldn’t know," he said evenly, keeping his gaze fixed on the window. The city lights flickered beyond the glass—something safer to focus on.

Taehyung tilted his head. "Why not? Don’t you two talk all the time?"

His stomach churned.

Seokjin rubbed his forearm absently, trying to distract from the itch—the weight—sitting heavy in his chest. He’d stayed quiet online, had made no dramatic announcements, had only removed a single relationship status. But the photos were still there.

There was no reason for Taehyung to think anything had changed. Because boyfriends talked all the time. They used to send messages—Good morning. How’s your day? Goodnight. Even when they were busy.

But that was then. Not now.

Seokjin inhaled.

"We’re… taking some time apart." The words were bitter on his tongue, like swallowing broken glass.

It was the first time he had said it out loud. Seokjin felt like ripping open a wound he had desperately been trying to ignore.

Taehyung blinked, processing but Yoongi moved first.

Stood abruptly and stretched his arms, too casual a bit too forced.

"Party starts soon," Yoongi announced, his voice slicing through the tension. "You should both get ready." Seokjin shot him a grateful glance. Bless Yoongi for knowing when to step in.

"Wait, what?" Taehyung asked, startled. "Did you—?"

"We should get going," Yoongi interrupted, brushing invisible dust off his pants.

The conversation was over. At least for now. But in the quiet seconds that followed, Seokjin knew.

This wasn’t the last time they’d talk about it. And next time… he might not have an answer.

***

Seokjin couldn’t shake the lingering unease from earlier.

Taehyung had been visibly caught off guard, his wide eyes flickering between concern and curiosity. Twice, he’d opened his mouth as if to ask something, only for Yoongi to effortlessly divert the conversation elsewhere. Clever.

For a while, Seokjin thought Yoongi was simply doing him a favor—steering Taehyung away from a topic he wasn’t ready to confront. But as their conversation drifted, he wondered. They were talking about Taehyung’s studies—art restoration, specifically. Their maternal grandmother had been his biggest inspiration. Seokjin remembered her fondly, too. She used to tell him he had a voice meant for the heavens and always reminded Taehyung that his way of seeing the world through art was a gift, not just a skill.

Yoongi, who rarely showed genuine interest in anything that wasn’t music, was listening intently. Asking questions, even. Maybe he wasn’t just running interference. Maybe he actually wanted to know more about Taehyung’s art.

They made a brief stop at Yoongi’s apartment.

"Just a minute. I need to download a file," Yoongi explained briefly, unlocking the door and disappearing into his room.

Seokjin and Taehyung remained in the entrance. Taehyung, still deeply engrossed in his phone, was furiously typing, his lips pursed in a slight pout.

Oh.

This was gold.

Seokjin smirked, side-eyeing his cousin. Someone was smitten.

His own phone was useless—no data, no Wi-Fi, no one to message even if he wanted to. He hadn’t turned on roaming because international charges were hell, and, more importantly, he was avoiding social media altogether.

Namjoon wasn’t much of a social media guy. But his bandmates were. Especially the lead singer.

Not worth the risk.

Instead, Seokjin let his gaze wander around the apartment. It was small, but comfortable—unmistakably Yoongi. His eyes landed on the piano in the corner—the same one Yoongi had learned to play on when they were kids. Then, the bookshelf caught his attention again.

Yoongi wasn’t allergic to video games, but he wasn’t exactly a gamer. And then, movement.

A quiet shift in the room. There was someone on the couch. The dim lighting and all-black outfit made him blend into the background, but now that Seokjin’s eyes had adjusted, he could make out his face.

Oh.

That had to be the roommate.

Something… Cookie? Yoongi had mentioned.

Younger than Yoongi. Definitely younger than Seokjin.

Taehyung, still locked in whatever digital war he was waging, hadn’t noticed a thing. Seokjin jabbed him in the ribs.

"Ow! Hyung!" Taehyung rubbed his side, scowling—only to blink in mild shock when he finally looked up and noticed the guy now standing from the couch.

His expression shifted instantly. He straightened, bowing politely.

Seokjin, ever smooth, followed suit. "Ah, good evening," he said, voice calm, easy. "I’m Seokjin, Yoongi’s friend."

Taehyung quickly followed. "Hello, good evening! I’m Taehyung, Seokjin-hyung’s cousin."

The roommate set his laptop aside and approached, bowing as well. "Nice to meet you both. I’m Jungkook, Yoongi-hyung’s roommate."

His tone was warm, effortlessly charismatic.

Seokjin gave him a once-over. Taller up close. His slightly oversized white shirt contrasted nicely against his fitted black pants, making him look both relaxed and put together. Muscular, but not bulky. More lean, sculpted strength than anything else. And young. Younger than Taehyung.

Seokjin suddenly felt like his very fashionable silver jacket might be trying too hard.

Jungkook adjusted the glasses perched on his nose, removing them to reveal warm, bambi-like eyes, framed by slightly tousled black hair. Seokjin felt his heartbeat pick up slightly. It was probably just nerves. Or exhaustion. Definitely jetlag.

Jungkook chirped, "Yoongi-hyung’s mentioned you before, Seokjin-nim."

Seokjin’s brows lifted in amusement. "Oh? No need for formalities, just call me hyung." Then, with a slight smirk, "Yoongi isn’t much of a talker. You two must have a pretty solid friendship."

Jungkook huffed a small, breathy laugh. "Well… that’s true," he admitted. "But to be fair, he was very drunk at the time. Mainly complaints about time zones and how his life would be easier if you were around."

Seokjin snorted. "Ah yes, Yoongi and flat-earthers—always complaining about time zones. And nothing about my nice personality? Some friend," he joked dryly, trying not to linger on the way Jungkook’s gaze softened at the remark.

Before Jungkook could respond, Taehyung perked up, catching onto the conversation.

"Wait, did hyung say anything about me?"

Jungkook hesitated. A small frown creased his forehead.

Seokjin worried for his cousin. It was unlikely Yoongi had ever mentioned Taehyung at all. It ws true taht they knew each other from the past, but Yoongi and Taehyung wern't exactly "friends".

Jungkook pursed his lips, seemingly about to confirm this suspicion, but then—his brows rose slightly, something flickering behind his eyes.

Then higher and higher.

Oh.

Jungkook’s pierced lips curled into something vaguely mischievous. He was about to say something. Something definitely fun, when—

"Kook."

Yoongi’s voice cut through the air like a blade. Jungkook glanced over.

Oh.

This was interesting.

A quick, silent exchange passed between them. Yoongi’s stare was a sharp clear warning one Seokjin recognized instantly. He suppressed the urge to laugh, watching Jungkook’s reaction with amusement. Jungkook turned back to Taehyung with a playful pop of his lips.

"Nope, sorry. Not a word."

Taehyung’s face fell slightly, but he shrugged it off, returning to his phone as if unaffected—though Seokjin didn’t miss the small pout.

Yoongi, still unamused, shrugged on his black leather jacket.

"Alright," he cut in. "If you’re done getting acquainted, we should go."

Seokjin sighed.

Of course, he’d landed in Korea on a Friday night. He should have seen this coming.

There was always a plan waiting to materialize when Yoongi was involved.

Apparently, Jungkook was coming along, too.

Jungkook worked at the same label as Yoongi, though in a different capacity as a junior composer.

The moment they stepped into the venue, a sleek bar nestled inside a shopping mall, rented out by the label to celebrate some new industry partnership, Jungkook was immediately swept into a tight-knit crowd.

Clearly, he was popular.

Yoongi, too, garnered attention, though his interactions were more straightforward. People approached him, offered compliments, then moved on. Some, however—both men and women—were far more forward, flirting under the guise of professional interest. They begged him to compose something for them, promising gratitude and collaboration in return, sometimes accompanied by a casual touch on his arm or shoulder.

Each time it happened, Taehyung took another measured sip of his drink.

Seokjin watched. Felt the shift in the air.

“Come on, Tae,” Seokjin murmured, placing a steadying hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Maybe don’t go too hard on the open bar.”

Taehyung hesitated before nodding and setting his glass down, though his expression remained tight.

“Hyung is really popular.”

“Well, he’s a talented man,” Seokjin replied in his best wise-mentor tone. “You can’t begrudge him for taking opportunities where they come. Tae, listen—as you get older, you’ll realize that every moment counts.” He sighed dramatically, like a disappointed sage. “And if it helps, I assure you, he doesn’t enjoy the attention. He’s a simple man, but this kind of spectacle is a necessary evil in our industry.”

Seokjin knew how to play his part.

Even if he wasn’t fond of these social environments, he could charm his way through them effortlessly when needed.

The more people welcomed him, the easier it became.

Yoongi, at least, didn’t let himself get dragged too far away. Despite the occasional attempt to monopolize his attention, he remained close, introducing them whenever possible.

Taehyung, to his delight, was recognized by a few industry figures—his social media presence had apparently gained traction. A well-dressed actor took an immediate interest in his photography, exchanging contact details for a potential shoot.

Yoongi, while polite, leaned in and murmured under his breath, "Never give out your personal number. Get a work phone. Take their contact instead."

Good advice.

Meanwhile, Seokjin found himself the subject of unsolicited attention.

A woman—older, impeccably dressed—cupped his face, cooing at him like he was some rare artifact.

"You have the face of a leading man," she declared.

Almost immediately, an older gentleman nodded sagely.

"If you sign with my company, I could have you debut by the end of the month."

It was… a lot.

Seokjin felt the beginnings of a headache, but he kept his expression composed.

He felt an instistent tap on his shoulder.

“Hyung.”

Taehyung was offering his phone to him.

“You have a call.”

“A call?” Seokjin frowned, taking Taehyung’s phone with mild confusion.

It was odd.

Why would someone reach him through his cousin?

He glanced at the screen and his breath caught.

An international number.

His stomach twisted.

“Starlight?”

His entire body seized.

The moment the voice filtered through the receiver, nausea curled hot and tight in his gut.

Somewhere in the background, someone had pulled Taehyung aside for a photo, laughter echoing in the distance. Seokjin barely registered it.

“Then you really are in Korea. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Say anything? Like what?

What a joke.

After everything, Namjoon had the audacity to expect courtesy?

Seokjin’s grip tightened around the phone.

His throat locked up, caught between rage and disbelief.

There was a pause before Namjoon spoke again, his voice calm, almost amused.

"Are you at a party? It sounds loud. Ah, I see. I was at a gathering too, with the band, but I heard you traveled..."

Seokjin struggled to form words, his voice barely above a whisper.

"How… how did you—?" His mind raced. "This number… why?"

His breath came shallow, his vision narrowing.

He felt a firm squeeze on his shoulder.

Seokjin blinked, suddenly aware there were hands gripping his arms.

And a pair of wide eyes were focused, full of concern as he studied Seokjin’s face.

Jungkook.

"...Are you okay?"

Seokjin exhaled shakily, shaking his head just enough for Jungkook to see.

Jungkook’s lips parted slightly in surprise, his brows furrowing before he nodded.

Without a word, he maneuvered them through the crowd, guiding Seokjin toward the exit, where the air was cool and quiet.

Seokjin pressed the phone to his ear again.

Namjoon was still on the line.

“Starlight? Are you there?”

Jungkook lingered close enough to offer support, but not intruding.

Seokjin drew in a breath, steadied himself.

And then, voice firm, he said—

“Fuck you.”

His voice cracked at the end.

Damn it.

“Starlight? What— You’ve never—”

Stronger this time, Seokjin cut him off.

"Shit. Don’t call this number again. Leave me alone and never—" his breath trembled, but he pushed through.

"Never call me ‘Starlight’ again."

And he hung up.

The distant thump of music still pulsed from inside the venue, muffled beneath the steady pounding of his own heartbeat.

As his breathing evened out, the world slowly came back into focus.

Jungkook was still there. Mouth agape.

Seokjin swallowed as the shame crept in.

"...I'm sorry," he muttered, voice hoarse. "You shouldn’t have seen that."

Jungkook blinked, snapping out of his thoughts.

"Don’t apologize. Really.” His voice was soft. “I get it.”

Seokjin exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. His head throbbed—a mixture of exhaustion, frustration, and the lingering sting of Namjoon’s voice in his ear.

“I should just take a taxi home,” he muttered, voice low. “Can you let Yoongi and Taehyung know I left early?”

He thumbed through Taehyung’s phone, scrolling fruitlessly for a ride-hailing app that, predictably, wasn’t there.

Jungkook was quiet for a moment. Then, lips pressed together in thought, he pulled out his own phone.

“No need,” he said simply, already opening an app. “I’ll call one for you.”

Seokjin sighed, fingers tightening around the phone. “Damn it. Tae doesn’t even have Uber?”

Jungkook huffed out a small laugh, glancing at him with something close to amusement.

“There’s no Uber here,” he said, voice edged with quiet fondness. “But don’t worry.”

A cab slowed to a stop almost immediately, its neon roof light flickering.

Seokjin hesitated.

“I don’t have any Korean cash on me,” he admitted, shifting his weight, reluctant.

He waved it off, already digging into his leather wallet with one hand while the other casually flicked his lighter open. A spark. A flicker of orange.

His cigarette lit with a slow inhale. A small ember glowed at the tip, casting a faint, warm light against his face in the dim street.

With his free hand, he pulled out a few bills and handed them over without a second thought.

“I got it.”

Seokjin felt something tighten in his chest.

Still, he took the bill, mumbling, “I’ll pay you back.”

Jungkook exhaled a slow stream of smoke, tilting his head slightly. “If you want.”

The cab driver impatiently tapped the meter, and Seokjin moved to climb in but then he paused.

Jungkook was still standing there, unmoving, cigarette dangling from his fingers, watching him.

Seokjin met his gaze.

“…You want to get in?”

Jungkook blinked, lips parting slightly in surprise. Between his fingers, the cigarette lingered, smoke curling lazily into the night air. He took one last slow drag, then flicked it to the pavement, pressing the ember out beneath his boot and then he took it from the floor.

Seokjin scooted over as Junkook slid into the taxi beside him.

Chapter Text

“The theater’s closed,” Seokjin said, voice flat, staring at the dark marquee like it might light up and explain what the hell he was doing there.

It was a stupid thing to say. Of course it was closed. It was past midnight and they were standing outside an old, half-forgotten building like it might still be playing a midnight special. But Jungkook didn’t laugh, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, as if none of this was strange at all.

That unsettled Seokjin more than anything.

The taxi ride over had been thick with silence. Not hostile at least. Jungkook didn’t ask questions, didn’t fill the air with useless noise. He just… stayed. And now he was still here, unbothered, as if it were normal to tag along after watching a near-stranger spiral in public.

Why had Seokjin invited him?

He didn’t know. He hadn’t thought it through. He was still raw from the call—from Namjoon’s voice through the receiver, from the shame that clawed up his throat like smoke. And maybe he had wanted a distraction. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to be alone.

That scared him more than he’d admit.

Jungkook tilted his head, eyes scanning the street like he was orienting himself. “You hungry?”

Seokjin nodded, numb, and fell into step beside him.

The streets were quieter here. Not the main roads, but side paths, the kind of place where things slowed down. The shuttered theater loomed behind them like a metaphor Seokjin didn’t want to unpack.

He caught Jungkook glancing back with a faint smile. “It’s not the theater. It’s a place just past it. You’ll see.”

As they turned the corner, the world softened. A breeze carried the scent of grilled meat, sugar, and something warm. Acoustic music floated through the air—guitar, maybe. Voices low and smooth, unpolished in a comforting way. Ahead, a pocket of lights blinked to life: string bulbs strung over worn tables, food stalls lit with buzzing lanterns, a musician under a tree with a mic and not much else.

It looked like a secret.

“They’ve got killer burgers,” Jungkook said, nodding toward the stalls. “And tokkebi. If you’re into that.”

Seokjin sat because he didn’t know what else to do. The metal chair was cold, slightly uneven, and it grounded him. A waitress with bright hair and a warmer smile dropped by their table. Jungkook ordered a beer like it was routine. Like he’d been here before.

Only then did Seokjin notice Jungkook  wasn’t wearing a jacket.

The breeze wasn’t harsh, but it bit around the edges, and Jungkook’s white shirt—soft cotton, worn thin in places—clung to his arms like it was holding on for dear life. The sleeves were pushed to his elbows, revealing a mess of bracelets and tanned skin that looked unfairly good in the glow of streetlight. One arm was fully covered in tattoos—he looked good, all in all

Seokjin shifted. “I can grab you a sweater or something. The apartment’s not far.”

Jungkook looked at him, surprised—but not touched. Not quite. “A beer’s fine,” he said, shrugging. “Besides, I look better like this.”

He said it like it was a fact. And Seokjin couldn't disagree or else he would be lying.

Jungkook was the kind of attractive that snuck up on you. Not loud. Not showy. A little too observant with those big round eyes and a little too calm for someone who’d just watched a stranger unravel. And Seokjin… felt it..

He didn’t know what image he was projecting. Not a good one for sure. He was sitting half-slumped in a midnight food stall, voice raw, hands still trembling faintly from adrenaline. He tried to style his hair with one hand.

But Jungkook hadn’t walked away.

“I’m sorry,” Seokjin said, fingers now worrying the edge of his napkin. “I kind of dragged you away from your party.”

Jungkook shook his head. “There’s really nothing to apologize for. I just had to show up for a little bit,” Then he tilted his head, eyes soft but sharp. “And I did.” He kept his elbows on the table. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

The question wasn’t forceful. It was the kind people ask when they’d listen, really listen, if you said yes. And Seokjin considered it. Briefly. The truth sat at the edge of his tongue—heavy, unwieldy. Jungkook seemed sincere, and that sincerity made it worse somehow. He didn’t want to talk. Not because there was nothing to say, but because there was too much. His heart still felt like it had been scraped out with a spoon.

Maybe it was the fact that Jungkook didn’t know him at all.. Seokjin maybe felt like he should justify his breaking voice and watery eyes. He felt the need to clarify he wasn’t always as pathetic as he seemed tonight.. But then again Seokjin was all that and painfully more.

“Not really,” he said quietly, voice faint and apologetic.

Jungkook smiled, just a little. “But?”

Seokjin looked up. One brow raised.

Jungkook was leaning forward slightly, arms on the table, posture open. Not pushy. 

There was a but , though. A whole sentence’s worth. But instead of facing it, Seokjin pivoted.

“Do you and Yoongi go way back?”

The dodge was so clean it should’ve come with a turn signal. Seokjin was a professional at voice acting after all. But Jungkook’s grin widened as he raised his chin to face Seokjin.

“That’s a pretty solid sidestep.”

How could he fucking tell. “This is called polite conversation,” Seokjin replied, tone light and faux-offended. “I’m trying to get to know my best friend’s nosy little roommate.”

“Nosy?” Jungkook laughed. “I prefer ‘curious.’”

He took another sip of his beer, and Seokjin watched the way his fingers curled around the glass. He had strong hands. Restless hands. Callused fingertips. Seokjin wondered, absurdly, what those hands would feel like against his shoulder, or his jaw, and immediately pushed the thought away like it had teeth. He was tired from travel and then he was also sleep deprived.

His head was a mess.

Jungkook’s voice cut through the fog. “I trust Yoongi-hyung. And Yoongi claims you are his best friend. He talks about you, you know.”

That pulled Seokjin up short. “He does?”

Jungkook nodded. “Said you take care of people. That you’re loud and dramatic and have this big, annoying heart.”

Seokjin huffed. “Wow. Compliments. I’m touched.”

“I think he meant it as one,” Jungkook said with a shrug. “So when you said what you said earlier, I just wondered—what happened to someone like that? What made you… say that?” He trailed his big eyes to the sky, where the light of the brightest stars could be seen even on the populated area of Seoul.

Seokjin stared at him. Not going to acknowledge them just now.

The food arrived then, mercifully interrupting. Burgers stacked with bacon and cheese, skewers of hot, golden tokkebi glistening with sweet-and-spicy glaze. He focused on unwrapping the burger, biting into it too fast, as if chewing could replace thinking. He was starving, after barely eating for the last month.

He could feel Jungkook’s gaze.

“You’re staring,” Seokjin muttered between bites. Not caring to clean his face after a really messy bite. Manners really, if Jungkook made even one remark about his eating habits, Seokjin was fully prepared to speak his mind.

“Because you’re avoiding,” Jungkook replied, deadpan.

Seokjin nearly choked. “Excuse me?”

“You might want to work on your poker face, hyung. You're not hiding as much as you think.”

This brat was annoying, he decided. “I’m being charming,” Seokjin retorted. “It’s called deflection with flair .”

“It’s called dodging,” Jungkook said, raising an eyebrow. “And I’m still wondering—why?”

“Why do you care?” Seokjin asked, his tone sharp before he could soften it. “Why do you give a shit about my life, anyway?” The next bite was also messy but this time he wiped his mouth somewhat aggressively with the napkin.

Jungkook’s eyes didn’t flicker. “Because I find you thrilling. And cute.”

Seokjin froze.

It wasn’t just the words, but the way Jungkook leaned in slightly, one elbow on the table, chin tilted with casual confidence. His voice dropped half a register, smooth and playful, Seokjin was a voice actor; he knew exactly what that timbre meant. Jungkook’s smile tugged crooked, eyebrow lifted in that kind of boyish challenge. Flirtatious.

Seokjin felt the heat rise, neck to ears, caught off guard not just by the compliment, but by the fact that Jungkook meant it. Was showing it openly.

He didn’t know what to do with that.

Not when Jungkook looked like that. Not when he was too young, too pretty, too much like a crush made real. Not when an echo hit him so deep.

And Jungkook, oblivious, just grinned and let out a soft snort at Seokjin’s stunned expression. Completely unaware he’d just torn open a wound with nothing but his charm.

Seokjin blinked. “I—excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His fucking nose was scrunching.

Seokjin tried hard to recover face “No, I must’ve hallucinated, because there’s no way you just called me cute.”

Jungkook grinned, chin in his palm. “I did.”

“You’re out of your mind.” Seokjin gaped. “ You’re the one who looks like a teenage heartthrob. You should be on some shampoo commercial, not flirting with me over fried dough.”

“I could be in both,” Jungkook said smoothly. “Dual talents.”

Seokjin opened his mouth. Then closed it. He could feel the heat from his chest to the tips of his ears.

He didn’t flirt. Not really. Namjoon hadn’t been much of a flirt either—they were both too awkward. They just fit . And now there was Jungkook, saying things like cute and thrilling with a straight face, like Seokjin hadn’t spent the last thirty days trying not to cry into his pillow at 3 a.m.

Before he could say anything remotely coherent, Jungkook’s phone buzzed. He checked it and typed something back quickly.

“They’re coming,” Jungkook said, gesturing with his chin. “Yoongi-hyung and Taehyung.”

Seokjin blinked, realization dawning like a spotlight to the face. “You told them to come?”

“I figured you’d be more comfortable with them around.”

Of course he did. Because apparently all Seokjin had managed to radiate for the past thirty minutes was isolation in capital letters. Fucking obvious.

He exhaled, somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “You’re... weird,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Like—strange-weird. Who does this? You barely know me.”

Jungkook tilted his head, still propped on one elbow, unbothered. “You looked like you needed backup.”

“That’s not the point,” Seokjin said, flustered now. “I shouldn’t have invited you. You’re—too much. Or not enough. Or just—” he groaned, pressing both palms to his face. “God. I don’t even know.”

Jungkook leaned in slightly. “You okay there, hyung?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

And the worst part?

He didn’t.

***

Memory

Seokjin had never been in love before. Not really.

He’d had crushes, of course. The kind you outgrow, the kind that fade quietly without ever being fed. But this—this was different. It settled in his chest like a second heartbeat that didn’t belong to him.

It started with a line. A stupid, poetic line delivered under a too-bright moon.

“You shine more than any star I’ve ever seen.”

It should’ve made him laugh—well, it did. Namjoon had turned beet red the second it left his mouth, trying to hide his face behind his hands while Seokjin cackled beside him, stunned and flattered and horribly, horribly doomed.

Because after that, something bloomed. Slowly. Relentlessly. Like a pest.

Namjoon was Hoseok’s classmate—another economics major with a giant IQ and zero motor coordination. Hoseok always talked about him like he was a genius wrapped in chaos.

Seokjin hadn’t thought much of it until he saw Namjoon in the cafeteria, spilling food down his shirt while trying to unhook his bag from a chair he’d just broken. Glasses crooked. Hands too big. A walking disaster. A tall, soft-voiced, gravitational nightmare.

Something in his chest felt off. He went to the campus infirmary expecting the worst, only to be laughed at by the nurse who said, “Ah, spring is really beautiful,” and sent him on his way. If it were allergies, his stupid brain reasoned, then why didn’t she give him any meds?

He bought Rivotril. Just in case.

It was worse when Namjoon looked at him. Like Seokjin was the only person in the room. Like he was a secret worth knowing. Namjoon’s voice was always steady, low, and warm, but when he said Seokjin’s name, it made Seokjin’s insides quiver.

And the worst part? Namjoon didn’t even seem to notice the effect he had.

It was maddening.

Seokjin started lingering around Hoseok’s classes more often. Joining study groups he didn’t need. Pretending to be annoyed every time Namjoon knocked something over—secretly hoping he’d knock into him.

He didn’t want to admit it—not even to himself—but he was already falling. Hard.

Then one day, in the quiet of the campus library during a study session where Seokjin was losing his mind over math, Namjoon tapped his pen against the table for the seventh time and blurted:

“There’s this cafeteria near the park. I heard it’s good.”

Seokjin looked up, startled. “The forest theme one? Yeah. I’ve been a couple of times.”

Namjoon deflated slightly, disappointment flickering across his features. “Oh. Okay.”

It was odd—Namjoon didn’t even like sweets. But Seokjin had been staring at this arithmetic problem for three days and still couldn’t solve it. The class started in two hours.

“…Still. Would you want to go? On Friday? Around five?”

It was the first time he’d suggested meeting off campus, and Seokjin wasn’t sure what to make of it. “Sure,” he said, thoughtful. “That’s perfect. Hoseok gets out of dance at five and—”

“No. I mean…” Namjoon straightened his spine and took a deep breath. “Just you.”

Seokjin blinked again. Tilted his head. Confused. Heart racing.

Namjoon floundered. “Not that I don’t like Hoseok—obviously I do—but this would be more of a… uh… a semi-exclusive, romantically motivated, socially conventional interaction designed to facilitate emotional intimacy and personal bonding.”

Seokjin didn’t feel that fluent in Korean anymore.

“…You mean a date?” The last word came in a breathy whisper.

Namjoon groaned, covering his burning face. “Yes. I mean a date.”

The earth tilted. Seokjin nodded.

They met at the entrance. Both in casual hoodies and wide jeans, hair styled just enough to look like they hadn’t tried. Seokjin stared at Namjoon’s frameless glasses and dimpled smile and felt his heart skip.

The place was small, cozy, dotted with fairy lights and a Bluetooth speaker playing bossa nova on the counter. Namjoon ordered confidently, then stared at the menu like it was a bomb about to explode.

“You don’t even like sweets, do you?” Seokjin asked.

Namjoon looked sheepish. “No.”

“Then why are we here?”

“Because you do.”

Seokjin spent the last three days lying face-down on his bed, trying to suffocate his hopeless giggles into a pillow. Because Namjoon liked him. Liked him enough to ask him out. But Seokjin wasn’t just comfortable with Namjoon. He wasn’t just curious. He was already cracking open. Already hoping.

And that kind of hope was the most dangerous thing of all.

They sat across from each other, a vanilla smoothie and chocolate chip cookies between them. Seokjin tore into the cookies, smiling like a child. He was a goner when it came to sweets—it reminded him of his halmoni baking in the countryside kitchen, flour-dusted hands and citrus perfume in the air. Summers and winters wrapped in the same warmth. His cousin would be there too, younger, chaotic, always drawing on walls. He grew into an artist with a name. With exhibitions.

Seokjin remembered her every time he ate cookies.

“You’re cute,” Namjoon said suddenly, eyes fixed on him.

Seokjin nearly choked, reminded this wasn’t just a casual outing. “What?”

“You are,” Namjoon repeated. “You’re cute. And thrilling.”

Seokjin flushed, eyes dropping to the swirl of his smoothie.

“You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not,” Namjoon countered. “You knocked me off my axis the second I met you. That night, when I told you you shined more than any star. I wasn’t trying to be poetic. You just… did.”

There was nothing more terrifying than being truly seen. And yet, with Namjoon, it didn’t feel so scary. It felt like floating. Like he could finally be all the things he’d only let live in his head.

It was his first date. The first, and only, true first date he ever had.

It was perfect.

Sweet. Awkward. Unforgettable.

***

The clink of cutlery, the soft hum of the acoustic set playing behind them—it all came back slowly, like surfacing from underwater.

Across the table, Jungkook was watching him.

His expression was open, eyes soft under the dim string lights, thumb mindlessly tracing the condensation on his beer jar. The tips of his ears were faintly pink, though his posture remained calm. Relaxed, even.

God, it was jarring.

A different boy. A different night. And a very different feeling.

The terrace was warm, crowded but pleasant, candlelight flickering in little glass jars on every table. Someone was laughing nearby. A server passed with plates of steaming tteokbokki. The moment should’ve felt cozy. It didn’t.

Seokjin sat up straighter, trying to shake off the lingering weight in his chest—the feeling of being too full of something he couldn’t name.

“Sorry,” he said softly, offering a tight smile. “Got lost in my head.”

Jungkook tilted his head, curious. “Was it a good place?”

Remembering felt like holding something delicate and dented.

Something he used to cherish.

Something that now just hurts.

Seokjin squirmed. “It used to be.”

Jungkook took a sip of his beer, eyes still on him. “There’s nothing wrong with a relationship that ends badly,” he said gently. “Some things happen for a reason.”

Seokjin turned toward him, slowly, like he was digesting every word one syllable at a time.

“For a reason,” Seokjin echoed flatly. “Like… fate?”

Jungkook hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe just… growth.”

That did it.

Seokjin let out a short, bitter laugh that barely made it past his lips. “So that’s the logic? If things fall apart, they were always meant to? That it’s just a stepping stone on some grand, invisible path?” He leaned back, eyes too bright. “Cool. Then I guess my pain is just a necessary plot point. My heartbreak, totally worth it. Great. I’ll be sure to thank the universe next time I can’t fucking breathe from it.”

The volume had risen. The table next to them turned subtly. Jungkook blinked, then quietly set down his beer with a faint clink.

“Wow.” Seokjin shook his head, voice cracking at the edges. “It must be so easy to say shit like that when you’re not the one left behind.”

Jungkook’s eyes flicked toward the alley just as Taehyung and Yoongi turned the corner. Taehyung’s smile faltered as he took in the tension.

“Hyung?” he asked, frowning. “Everything okay?”

Seokjin sat up straight, spine rigid, and forced a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Fine,” he said quickly. “Just talking.”

Yoongi’s gaze moved between them, sharp and unreadable. “That didn’t sound like talking.”

“It’s fine,” Seokjin repeated, colder now.

Taehyung’s eyes lingered on him, reading the clenched jaw, the fists curled in the fabric of his pants. “Hyung,” he said again, a plea. 

But Jungkook didn’t let the silence settle. “I’m not saying destiny has it all mapped out,” he said quietly. “I don’t believe in that either. But I do think some people are meant to stay in the past.”

That made Seokjin freeze. Not because he didn’t understand.

But because he did. 

Jungkook leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the edge of the table. His voice lowered, steady. “And I think some people—you—deserve better in the future.”

Seokjin stared at him. Something fragile flickered in his expression—hope, maybe. Or a wound too raw to name. But it vanished in an instant, swallowed by something colder.

“You don’t know me,” he said sharply. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. And you sure as hell don’t get to decide what I deserve.”

The moment hung there, heavy and hot and breathless.

Taehyung stepped in again. “Maybe we should call it a night,” he said gently, glancing between them.

Seokjin rose without a word. “Yeah,” he muttered, brushing past Jungkook. “Let’s go.”

Taehyung followed quickly, casting one last look at Jungkook, who remained seated—silent, still, watching the space Seokjin had left behind.

***

The week passed quickly. Almost too quickly.

Seokjin kept himself busy. That was the plan, after all—come to Korea, do the job, go back. No drama, no distractions. He’d already allowed too many cracks to show. He didn’t like how exposed that made him feel.

Taehyung had tried, of course.

While Seokjin was flipping hotteok at the stove, Taehyung hovered nearby with that telltale expression—the one that screamed worried baby cousin who sucked at pretending not to be nosy.

“Hyung…” he’d started.

But Seokjin only offered a bright smile, light and easy, like air. “You don’t need to worry about hyung. Let hyung worry about you instead, hmm?”

That was that. He focused on vocal exercises. His character demanded a low, grave voice. Not that natural on his range, so he had to practice a lot. Cardio and exercise helped too.

Taehyung was already a name. Not just a university senior buried in finals—he was a recognized artist, with solo exhibits under his belt and a growing social media following that adored his work more than his carefully guarded persona. Sponsorships sat unread in his inbox, tempting but unneeded for now. He was on a full scholarship, lived alone in a modest Gangnam apartment funded entirely by his own sales. Seokjin admired that. But none of it changed the fact that Taehyung was still his baby cousin. His precious dongsaeng. And Seokjin—ever the proud hyung—would sooner go hungry than let Taehyung pay for a meal. No matter how much money the kid made. No matter how grown-up he looked, sketching quietly on the floor or sipping overpriced tea in expensive sweaters. Seokjin still saw the boy who used to cry when his popsicle melted, and he spoiled him accordingly.

They settled into a rhythm. Seokjin paced through his script in the living room, practicing his intonation over and over, chasing a deeper resonance for his character. Meanwhile, Taehyung sat nearby, lost in graphite and paint, occasionally looking up to offer feedback or steal a cookie. It was domestic, warm. Almost enough to fool Seokjin into believing things were okay again.

The agency provided him with everything he needed for the project—schedules, scripts, pronunciation guides. It was a high-budget production, the kind that could make or break careers. Not that Seokjin thought about that too much. He didn’t have the mental bandwidth.

He also picked up a phone. Not the sleek, flashy kind everyone carried now, but a cheap flip phone from a convenience store. Just something simple. He only needed to call the agency. Text if necessary. It wasn’t like he planned to stay long. And he definitely didn’t need another app that might show him something he wasn’t ready to see.

His old phone, the one he kept off most days, buzzed constantly with notifications whenever he turned it on. His thumb hovered over some of them once or twice.

Then he deleted them. Unread.

Except two.

The last few messages were from days ago. Hoseok had no idea Seokjin had flown to Korea. He did know he was going for a few weeks—Seokjin asked him to keep the thing on his fridge and to take care of the few plants he owned. The plants Namjoon had gifted him in lieu of their forever love. Because roses and flowers were just pretty—but would eventually die. That alone made Seokjin wince. Bullshit.

So he typed:

Seokjin: Hope you’re doing okay. I’m sorry for disappearing. Just needed… some air. Miss you, Hob-ah.

The reply came less than a minute later.

Hoseok: WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK
You left the country and didn’t tell me???
Who even does that???
Are you okay???
Wait no.
I’m mad at you.
You don’t get to skip the country and then just text me like it’s nothing.
I thought it would be a couple of weeks, but months!
What am I gonna do
What am I gonna eat!
Who would get my rants!
Of course I’m glad you texted.
Because I miss you too.
Like… a lot.
You asshole.

Seokjin laughed, soft and reluctant. Hoseok—sweet, theatrical, emotional. Always too good for this world.

Hoseok: Look, I know things are tense. I’m not gonna pry.
But if you wanna talk—I’m here, okay? Anytime.
Also… I haven’t said anything, but… he’s not the same either.
I don’t know what’s going on in his head, but he’s not like he was before.
Different.
Just… not himself.

Seokjin stared at the screen for a long time.

He didn’t answer that part.

Instead, he closed the messages. Sat back against the wall. Let the silence stretch until night fell over Seoul, soft and cold. The silence rang in his ears.

Breathe in, hold, breathe out, slow.

He opened the other unread message.

Namjoon: I’m not trying to disturb you. I just hope you’re doing okay. I know I probably lost the right to text you, but I wanted to say… if I did something wrong, then I’m sorry. There’s no excuse for how things happened. I was confused, and I made it worse. I know that. But please don’t think I didn’t care. Or that you didn’t matter. I’ve always loved you, Seokjin. Nothing changes that. Not distance, not time, not silence. This space has been hard. It’s made me realize a lot. How I leaned on you for everything. How I took you for granted. And how much I regret that. I miss you. Not just the routines or the comfort. I miss YOU. Your jokes. Your stupid hoodie collection. The way you make people feel like home. I hope you’re doing things for you now. Big things. Important ones. You deserve that. If you ever want to talk… you can. You don’t have to. But I’ll be here. Always.

Seokjin let the phone rest in his lap. His eyes prickled, but he didn’t cry. Not really. Maybe a little.

He told himself not to answer. He even knocked the back of his head softly against the wall to stay grounded.

He told himself it was pride. Self-respect. Boundaries.

But hours later, as the moon rose higher and the stars blinked down on the quiet city, Seokjin flipped open his burner phone. He typed slowly, thumbs stiff with hesitation.

Seokjin: Joon-ah, This is my number while I’m in Korea.

***

The character Seokjin had been cast to voice had no name. Not really. In the fandom, they called him The Fallen General. Others called him The Traitor Saint.

He wasn’t the kind of villain that sneered or laughed maniacally. He was the kind of villain that had once believed in good. That had worked—breathed—for it. Until one day, the world made it painfully clear: good wasn’t real. Or if it was, it wasn’t meant for people like him.

While others were praised for mediocrity, he was punished despite excellence. And when injustice cracked his reality open like glass under pressure, he didn’t break quietly. He gathered his pain. Honed it like a blade. Became a force for something he believed was better.

Justice.

Or something like it.

And now Seokjin had to give him a voice.

He found it hard to slide into the role. The vocal direction asked for a steady, commanding tone—but layered. Conflicted. A presence both terrifying and heartbreaking. It was hard.

He was halfway through reviewing a scene breakdown when his phone buzzed. A message from Yoongi.

Yoongi: Come to the studio. Now. (address)

Seokjin sighed dramatically but pulled on his jacket. They were done for the day anyway. And if Yoongi was putting him to record guide vocals, he'd better be buying beef. He was starving.

He arrived twenty minutes later, letting himself into the glass-paneled studio. A pretty girl in a lean uniform and high ponytail greeted him with a relieved nod before disappearing behind the front desk.

Yoongi didn’t greet him. Didn’t even glance up.

“Cabin,” he said simply, gesturing toward the vocal booth.

Seokjin blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Booth. Now. Listen to the track. Read the lyrics.”

“I’m not ready, I have to—” Seokjin began looking around, but Yoongi cut him off.

“We’re alone. Just get in.”

He shoved a printout toward him without ceremony. Seokjin snatched it with a grumble and slipped into the booth. He wasn’t about to argue with Yoongi when he was in this mood.

He slipped on the headphones, adjusted the mic, and hit the playback.

A heavy drum beat punched through the silence first, followed by a cascade of distorted guitar—low, snarling, unapologetic. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t pretty. It was raw, jagged emotion in musical form. Demanding. Bleeding. Honest.

Seokjin’s eyes dropped to the lyrics.

I want you.

What the hell was this?

You got me falling.

He pressed the comm button. “Yoongi, what’s the brief here?”

Yoongi’s voice crackled through the headset. "Scream it. Like it hurts. Like you love it."

Seokjin stared at the mic. Then, slowly, he exhaled.

Fine. He could scream.

He had rage. He had a throat full of it.

It took seven takes. Seven full-body, gut-wrenched attempts—and another ten full-on adlibs, raw and cracked and barely holding together.

By the last, his voice was hoarse, his body vibrating, sweat clinging to his collar. When the final scream faded into silence, he looked up—breathless, wrung out—and saw Yoongi on the other side of the glass.

Not angry anymore. But at what cost? Probably Seokjin’s vocal cords.

And next to him, leaning casually against the back wall, stood Jungkook. Arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Seokjin blinked, still dazed. He couldn’t tell if he’d nailed it or completely missed. His chest was tight, lungs aching.

Yoongi turned to Jungkook. “Told you he was good.”

Jungkook tilted his head, gaze fixed on Seokjin. “He’s more than good,” he said. “Silver Voice, huh?.”

That earned a rare smirk from Yoongi as he leaned back. “Takes one to know one, golden maknae.”

Jungkook pushed off the wall and started pacing like he owned the space, brushing his fingers along Yoongi’s equipment shelf. He picked up a harmonizer, examined it. Tossed Yoongi’s baseball once, twice.

Yoongi didn’t even flinch.

That was new. Yoongi didn’t let anyone near that shelf. Not Seokjin for sure.

Still breathless, Seokjin grabbed his water bottle and drank greedily. Water spilled down his chin, but he didn’t care. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, chest heaving. His shirt stuck to his back with sweat. He didn’t bother fixing it.

He dropped onto the studio couch with a groan, limbs heavy.

When he looked up, Jungkook was still watching him.

Seokjin frowned slightly, confused.

Jungkook’s gaze dragged slowly—down his throat, across his chest, lingering at the damp edge of his collar before rising again.

Seokjin stared back. Tired. Raw. Unwilling to play whatever game this was.

He didn’t blink.

Jungkook did. Just once. Then he set the baseball back with a soft thud.

“Anyway,” he said. “Gotta run.”

And with a casual wave, he disappeared through the studio door.

The silence left behind felt heavier than the track Seokjin had just screamed into.

Yoongi looked up from his console. “He’s a brat,” he said, “but he’s not a bad guy. You two should clear it up.”

Seokjin blinked. “What?" His voice cracked like paper. "Why?”

Yoongi shrugged. “Because I care about both of you.”

That surprised a laugh out of Seokjin. “That’s… weirdly tender of you.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Well, for the record,” Seokjin said stubbornly, “I didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Maybe neither of you did. I’m just saying.”

Seokjin sighed and grabbed his jacket. “Fine. If he wants to talk, I’ll listen. But I’m not engaging.” Then he remembered. “Oh—and about the party this Saturday. Don’t worry. I’m taking Tae.”

Yoongi minimized a tab on his screen a little too fast. It flickered, then vanished.

Seokjin noticed. Raised a brow. Said nothing.

Instead, he leaned against the desk, arms crossed. “He’s been drowning in schoolwork. He deserves a break. Plus, free drinks.”

Yoongi didn’t look up. “Didn’t say it was a problem.”

Seokjin looked at Yoongi, a little skeptical. “…You’re being weird.”

“I’m not.” He couldn’t fool anybody.

Seokjin stared at him. “You totally are. Do you—? Wait. No way.”

Yoongi finally met his gaze. Expression deadpan.

“Oh my god,” Seokjin breathed, a grin forming. “You want to go.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re not denying it properly!”

“Shut. Up.”

Seokjin cackled. "Okay, but it's not the event itself," he said, trying to solve the situation like a difficult equation. "I doubt you're suddenly dying to keep me company since you couldn't care less about that..." He trailed off, squinting slightly. "Ah. Could it be...?"

“I swear to god—”

Seokjin couldn't help it; a sharp, bright laugh tore out of him. He held up both hands in surrender. "Okay, okay!" he said, still grinning. "Consider this your formal invitation. Hyung, be my plus-one, part two. I'll get that pass for you."

Yoongi groaned. “You’re the worst.”

Seokjin grabbed his bag, triumphant. “Great. And since you’re all soft and agreeable today, don’t forget you owe me dinner.”

“You’re insufferable.”

Seokjin winked and made for the door. “You’re the best, hyung.”

Yoongi didn’t look up. But his mouth twitched.

Just a little.

***

Seokjin hadn’t expected purple. He should have.

Taehyung had that look in his eye when he offered to “just even out the roots” a glint of mischief Seokjin had learned to recognize too late. He’d been trying everything lately—movies, board games, tennis, karaoke—and Seokjin kept playing along, trying to make it funny, light, survivable. Maybe he was trying just a bit too hard. And maybe the little artist wasn’t fooled.

But whatever Taehyung was up to, Seokjin had made a quiet promise to go all in.

So purple it was.

The damage, once done, turned out not to be so damaging. The color suited him. It glowed violet under some lights, turned lavender in others—chaotic, expressive, unpredictable.

Tonight, flashing his new hairstyle and that brittle kind of confidence that comes from pretending too well, Seokjin was at his studio’s anniversary party.

The venue was a renovated loft space with high ceilings, exposed beams, and raw brick walls softened by warm amber lighting. It had the usual industry gloss—sleek bar, scattered projection loops, curated drinks and snack tables—but the real centerpiece was the people.

Producers, animators, studio heads, and a few influencers circulated in curated clusters, each drink a prop, each compliment a kind of currency. Seokjin did the rounds. He wasn’t a lead, not really—the villain he voiced was important but not central. Still, a few people recognized him. More recognized the hair.

He smiled, nodded, let the attention wash over him. It didn’t mean much, but it was something. And tonight, he was willing to take anything that resembled warmth.

They’d just stepped into full production—scripts approved, syncing underway. Whispers said it might be a ten-month project if things went smoothly. Longer if they didn’t.

Seokjin didn’t mind. He was here to work. And apparently, also to play reluctant matchmaker.

Yoongi had shown up looking suspiciously clean. His hair was styled. His shirt—a black button-up, tucked in—was an offense to his usual slouchy aesthetic. Seokjin spotted him across the room and blinked twice.

“You own a dress shirt?”

“Shut up. It’s black. Doesn’t count.”

“Still has buttons. You know, I actually like the mafia boss kind of vibe.”

“I hate you.”

“So you’ve said. Are you trying to impress someone tonight?” he asked, with an all-knowing tilt of his head.

Yoongi didn’t answer. But Seokjin saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Taehyung, meanwhile, was something else entirely. He stood with that quiet, unreadable confidence of someone used to being looked at, but never quite seen. The light loved him: caught in his cheekbones, the curve of his mouth, the soft waves of his too-shiny hair that fell just messily enough to suggest carelessness. Tall, elegant, quietly magnetic.

But what stood out most wasn't his beauty. It was the way he kept glancing at Yoongi when he thought no one was watching.

He made a show of fixing his collar, of checking his phone with a too-casual shrug, and when Yoongi passed by, Taehyung tilted his body just slightly toward him, a gravitational pull he couldn’t seem to resist. Seokjin saw it all. Years of unspoken affection distilled into the smallest gestures. A hand brushing the back of his neck, a glance that lingered a breath too long.

Yoongi didn’t react. Not outwardly. But Seokjin caught the tiniest falter in his step. The way his fingers tightened around his glass. Blink, and you’d miss it.

“You’re not subtle,” Seokjin murmured into his drink.

Taehyung smiled, eyes still on Yoongi, voice just a notch too light. “Don’t need to be.”

And Seokjin believed him. Because maybe tonight wasn't about subtlety. Maybe it was about finally being seen.

He let his gaze drift slowly across the room, not looking for anything in particular, until something familiar caught his attention. Black hair. A sharp jawline. A black dress shirt stretched across broad shoulders. Strong arms.

It took a second for the image to click into focus.

Jungkook.

Standing near the sound team, nodding along to whatever the lead producer was saying, a bottle of beer loose in one hand. Laughing at something. Relaxed. Like he belonged there.

Seokjin blinked.

What the hell was Jungkook doing here?

The surprise wasn’t loud. It just settled somewhere low in his ribs.

Of course. Small industry. Smaller world.

And the prickle returned.

He’d told Yoongi he wouldn’t start anything. If Jungkook wanted to talk, he could damn well start by saying hello.

Taehyung unlocked his phone.

Seokjin hadn’t meant to look. But the screen lit up in front of him, too bright against the dim backdrop, and there it was—like a slap.

A photo.

Namjoon and Jimin.

“The aces of the band,” the caption read.

They weren’t together. Not technically. Jimin was sunshine incarnate, arm casually thrown around Namjoon’s shoulders. Namjoon looked… Content. Not euphoric. Not dramatic. Just at ease. Holding his bass. Smiling softly at the camera. Leaning a little into Jimin. Like a single man with a close friend. Like someone who hadn’t walked away from nine years of everything.

Seokjin stared and something twisted low in Seokjin’s stomach. The blood drained from his face so fast it left him cold. His ears rang, distant and hollow, like he’d ducked underwater without warning. For a second, he couldn’t feel his hands. Just the thrum in his throat, tight and rising—like nausea.

Taehyung noticed. He always did. “Hyung?”

“I’m fine,” Seokjin replied, smiling too fast, too sharp. “Just the wine.”

He drained the glass like it could flush the ache from his throat.

Yoongi’s eyes flicked to him.

Seokjin didn’t wait for questions. “Be right back.”

He reached the bar before the ache cracked open.

Because the truth was—he was alone now. Not just logistically. Not just in someone else’s guest room, or dodging questions he didn’t want to answer.

Alone.

Unattached.

Single.

And it felt like wearing a scar with no skin to hold it.

Namjoon had been the beginning. The middle. All the quiet rituals in between.

The morning text that said “drink water” with a sun emoji. The way he used to hold Seokjin’s wrist gently while crossing the street, even without thinking. The shared grocery list in their notes app with dumb emojis next to everything. Remembering how Seokjin liked his ramen spicy, his coffee sweet, and his bad days quiet.

Now there was none of that. No one to ask if he made it home. No one waiting up when he didn’t. No arms to fall into after a long recording, no familiar scent on the pillow beside him. No laughter in the kitchen over half-burned toast. No trips to the market where Namjoon would still buy shrimp even though he hated seafood—just because Seokjin loved it.

No sleepy kisses. No 2 a.m. murmurs. No voice anchoring him when the world felt too loud.

Just silence.

Just Seokjin.

And the aching, impossible truth that even the safest places disappear when the person who made them home walks away.

Just the world. Still spinning. Like it hadn’t lost a thing.

So when Yi-Kyung found him—elegant and slick in a suit that probably cost more than Seokjin’s rent—it wasn’t a surprise. After all, he was Seokjin’s immediate supervisor. Vocal director, series producer, and one of the reasons Seokjin had gotten the part in the first place. Yi-Kyung was a figure of power—admired, respected, a presence that demanded notice in and out of the studio. And close enough to Seokjin, professionally speaking.

He smiled. Tilted his head. Said something light. Something clever enough to sound whole.

Because maybe this was what came next. Maybe this was how you moved forward.

He wasn’t drunk. Not really. Just warm enough to believe his own bullshit. To pretend that this—whatever this was—meant something.

Yi-Kyung looked at him like he was valuable. Not priceless—no. Not precious. But desirable. Like an item behind glass, no longer rare but still worth the glance.

And in that moment, Seokjin didn’t feel like correcting him.

His heart was still sore. Still too full of the scent of old promises, of Namjoon’s voice saying "stay." Still too full of the silence that had answered instead.

He hated how hollow he felt. How easy it was to step into a role that didn’t ask him to feel—only to perform. Yi-Kyung, at least, played his part well. Handsome. Confident. Interested. Seokjin let him.

When Yi-Kyung leaned in, hand ghosting across his lower back, Seokjin didn’t move away. Not because he wanted it. But because wanting had become a distant memory.

“Want to get some air?” Yi-Kyung asked.

Seokjin nodded.

They didn’t get air.

The hallway they took curved away from the main floor, slipping past coat racks and curtain partitions, down a stretch of corridor where the music thinned and the laughter faded to a muffled hum. The further they walked, the colder it felt. Like the warmth of the party was being peeled off his skin. No lights here, except a flickering sconce overhead. No one in sight. No reason for anyone to be.

Seokjin followed because it was easier than resisting. Because being wanted—even like this—still felt like something. Even if it was thin. Even if it was wrong.

The stall door shut behind them.

It was all hands and mouths. Hunger without direction. No tenderness, no hesitation. Seokjin’s back hit the wall. Yi-Kyung’s hands were everywhere.

Seokjin’s fingers twisted in the other man’s shirt—not to pull him closer, but to create space. To hold on. To stall.

Yi-Kyung was hard. Seokjin was not.

“I can’t,” Yi-Kyung whispered, breath hot against his skin. “You don’t get it—I’ve wanted you since that first fucking time I heard you.”

Seokjin flinched as teeth dragged against his neck. The suck of lips too eager. Sharp enough to leave marks.

“Wait,” he said. Quiet. Shaky. “Let’s slow down—”

Yi-Kyung didn’t.

He leaned in closer, breath hot and heavy against Seokjin’s ear.

“You’re such a tease,” he muttered, a low chuckle in his throat. Like this was all a game.

With one hand, Seokjin tried to keep some distance between them—his palm flat against Yi-Kyung's chest, barely holding him back. With the other, he fought against Yi-Kyung’s impatient fingers, trying to stop them from undoing his belt. It was clumsy. Desperate. And it wasn’t working.

Seokjin’s heart kicked. Panic rising like cold water.

“Yi-Kyung,” he said again, louder this time, trying to push.

His voice had been trained—shaped to convey whatever tone the scene demanded. Calm under pressure. Sharp when cornered. Warm when needed.

But now it sounded foreign, thin and strained.

There was terror in the timbre, no matter how hard he tried to cover it with resolve.

“I can’t stop now.”

The words landed like ice down Seokjin’s spine.

Yi-Kyung’s body pressed him hard against the wall, chest to chest, thigh still wedged between his legs. The stall was too small. The air too thick. Seokjin felt caged, not just physically, but emotionally. Like this man, this moment, had pinned him in a corner far deeper than tile and concrete.

Yi-Kyung was stronger. Broader. His grip sure. The kind of man used to taking what he wanted and convincing people it was what they wanted, too.

Seokjin tried to pull away from the kiss, but Yi-Kyung’s teeth caught the edge of his lip, tearing skin. The taste of copper bloomed in his mouth as Yi-Kyung inhaled sharply, like he liked it. Seokjin felt the rigid pressure of Yi-Kyung’s arousal digging into his hip, a sick reminder of how far this had already gone. Then Yi-Kyung’s fingers moved with purpose, fumbling at the button of his pants—insistent, uninvited, and unstoppable.

The hallway door creaked open, and the distant hum of the party filtered in—basslines thumping, laughter dissolving into static. A step echoed. Then another. Not rushed. Intentional. Someone had entered.

“Seokjin-hyung?”

Jungkook’s voice.

Everything froze.

Yi-Kyung tensed. Seokjin went still beneath his hands, breath catching in his throat.

“I know you’re in there.”

A pause. Long enough to breathe in shame, confusion, maybe even relief.

Seokjin raised his voice, shaky but audible. “Just a minute.”

Yi-Kyung leaned in close. “You sure you want to stop?”

Seokjin pushed. This time, harder.

He straightened his shirt. Fixed his pants. Didn’t look in the mirror. He could feel the bruise blooming on his neck, throbbing in sync with the pulse behind his eyes.

His lip stung, the metallic tang of blood still sharp on his tongue. He wiped it once with the back of his hand, but the taste lingered, bitter and grounding—proof of what almost happened. What did. And there was nothing he could do to hide it. Not the swelling, not the bruise, not the echo of it all still clawing at the inside of his chest.

He opened the door.

Jungkook was there.

Staring.

His fists were clenched. His jaw locked. His eyes flicked down—first to the collarbone Seokjin had tried too late to cover, then to the split in his lip, still wet and red.

Then—past him—to Yi-Kyung.

He was still inside the stall. Still in the shadows, half-hidden by the door he hadn’t bothered to fully close. The dim light caught the edge of his shoe, the crease of his pants, the slow movement of his hand as he adjusted his clothes. Like nothing had happened. Like he wasn’t seconds away from forcing something Seokjin hadn’t wanted to give.

Seokjin turned to the sink, hands shaking, and began washing them. The water was too cold. His skin raw. But he couldn’t stop. The sweat. The ghost of unwanted touch. It needed to go.

He kept his eyes low. Couldn’t bear to meet his own reflection.

Not yet.

Then back.

Seokjin swallowed hard. Avoided his gaze. His dress shirt was missing the top three buttons, and no amount of tugging or smoothing could make it look whole again. He looked disheveled. Ransacked.

Jungkook took in the scene. At first, his expression read as maybe even irritation. But something shifted. The longer he looked, the more the pieces aligned. This wasn’t a tryst. This wasn’t a lovers’ quarrel. It was something else. Something worse.

Seokjin saw it happen—the realization. The way Jungkook’s fists clenched tighter. The way his jaw flexed. And the way his stare narrowed, pinning itself on the barely ajar stall door like he wanted to rip it off its hinges.

He looked feral.

Seokjin felt panic crawl up his throat again, this time for a different reason. For Jungkook. For whatever was about to erupt.

“I should get back,” he said quickly, voice low and brittle.

He hoped Jungkook would follow. He hoped he wouldn’t be stupid enough to let his fists do the speaking.

So Seokjin turned and walked. One step, then another.

Jungkook followed, silent and seething.

Right beside him.

Chapter Text

The sound of his dress shoes echoed against the black marble floors of the reception area. Seokjin wasn’t going back to the party—not in the state he was in. There would be questions. Probably photos. And that wasn’t a scandal he was willing to handle.

So he walked deeper into the venue, away from the music. Jungkook passed him quietly and told him to wait, his voice soft, then sprinted back down the hallway toward the party. Seokjin didn’t wait long. Jungkook returned, slightly out of breath, and handed him a coat.

It didn’t match either of their outfits. It was wool, patterned in grey and black stripes, and far too big on Seokjin.

Which, honestly, was perfect.

Seokjin noticed his hands trembling—he couldn’t get the buttons to work. Jungkook stepped in wordlessly, fastening them for him with calm, deliberate fingers, then guided him toward an emergency exit.

A member of the staff noticed and, with clear disapproval, pointed out that the area was restricted. Jungkook replied evenly that they were looking for a way out, because his friend—meaning Seokjin—wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to be seen through the main lobby.

One look at Seokjin, and they were let through the kitchen doors without another word.

Jungkook called a cab and gave the driver Seokjin’s address.

“Wait,” Seokjin said. “Can we go somewhere else?”

Jungkook looked at him like he was ready to go wherever Seokjin needed.

“If it’s okay… your couch,” he said. Then, as an explanation, when Jungkook nodded without hesitation: “Yoongi sleeps more and asks fewer questions.”

“He won’t know”. He said and offered him a little smile. His presence felt… grounding.

Once at the apartment, Jungkook moved fast. He flicked on the lights and led Seokjin toward the bedroom.

“Take a shower. Stay as long as you want. I’ll leave some clothes out for you.”

Seokjin walked to the bathroom like he was on autopilot, but paused when he heard Jungkook’s voice—soft, likely on the phone.

“Hyung… yeah, I found him at the party… not exactly, but… would you mind taking his cousin home? Seokjin-hyung’s staying in your bed—”

Seokjin shut the bathroom door gently.

He trusted Jungkook to handle the rest.

And well… Yoongi could take care of his cousin. Seokjin had no doubt about that.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, sealing the world away. The silence that followed was deafening.

Seokjin leaned against the sink, head bowed. His breath came slow, deliberate. Like if he could just manage to control that—he could control everything else. But his fingers were trembling again. The thin cotton of his shirt clung to his skin with leftover sweat, the kind of dampness that lingered long after fear had passed.

He touched the side of his neck. The tender throb of the bruise was warm under his fingertips.

It wasn’t the mark itself that made him sick—it was the weight of it. The implication. The way he hadn’t said no fast enough. The way he’d let it get that far. The way he couldn't stop it until someone else did.

He turned on the tap and let the water run hot.

He peeled off his useless shirt and dropped it on the floor, then slowly undid the rest of his clothes like they were restraints. He was naked except for a black leather bracelet. When he stepped under the water, it wasn’t relief he felt but mourning.

For his dignity. For his silence. For the version of himself that used to believe things like that couldn’t happen to him. That love would always feel like soft hands and careful eyes.

He let the water beat down on him, fingers dragging across his skin, slow and mechanical. Cleaning traces of not tender hands and rough kisses. Trying to forget the feeling on his skin. But the forgetting never came.

He focused on the bracelet and thought about Namjoon. Of course he did.

The way Namjoon used to touch him wasn’t forceful. It was reverent. Like his body was a map only he knew how to read. His breath on Seokjin’s neck had never been a demand, but a question, soft and constant: may I?

It was the way he whispered his name like a mantra under heavy breaths, how he always paused just long enough for Seokjin to say yes. How he learned every inch of his skin like scripture and made every kiss feel like a vow or a prayer.

That’s what he missed.

Not the sex, not exactly. The making of love.

He had been under the water for several minutes now. Jungkook’s shampoo wasn’t particularly fragrant—just a subtle jasmine—but it was enough to start quieting the noise in his head. Foam gathered near the drain, and Seokjin let his fingers move slowly over his skin, trying to soothe away the remnants of the night.

He conjured the image of Namjoon instead. Namjoon caressing him. Kissing him. Whispering soft nothings against his ear, his neck, down his chest. The phantom press of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the intensity of those dark, dragon-like eyes and the frown he made whenever he… 

That memory stirred something under his skin. The kind that made his stomach tighten. That made the blood in his veins pulse a little harder.

He shouldn’t want this. Not now. Not after what almost—

But the ache had already settled in. It wasn’t betrayal.

He needed to feel something that was his. Something no one had taken. Something no one could twist into power or shame.

He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, letting his hand trail down between his legs, testing.

He was already half-hard.

The body doesn’t know heartbreak. It doesn’t care who’s gone or what promises broke. It remembers the sparks, the rhythms, the way to crave.

His breath caught in his throat.

He wanted to be touched.

But not like earlier—not by someone who looked at him like a conquest. He came to realize that what he craved wasn’t just touch.

The one he had loved was far away now—unreachable in every way, and no longer his.

Even so, with his eyes closed and his body aching, he let himself imagine it—hands on his soft skin, not possessive, not demanding. Just… kind.

He wanted kindness. He wanted to be seen and still wanted.

He wanted to believe that was possible.

But it wasn’t Namjoon’s hands he imagined.

It was Jungkook’s.

Seokjin’s eyes snapped open, but there was no stopping it.

That piercing between their mouths—cold and startling. Hands firm. Mouth hot.

He should not be thinking about Jungkook.

But now that the thought had landed, it rooted itself deep.

That lip piercing. That mouth. The sharpness of his gaze, so precise, so focused—like he saw Seokjin in ways no one else did. The nerve of him to call him cute with a straight face. To intervene. To tell him he deserved better.

That arrogance. That control.

Seokjin groaned quietly and let his head fall back against the tile.

His hand moved again. Slower this time.

Because he’d seen how Jungkook looked at him in the studio. How his stare had darkened when Seokjin’s shirt clung to his chest.

He’d wanted to see.

The heat coiled tighter.

He imagined Jungkook grabbing him by the wrist. Pressing him back against a door. That mouth—God, that mouth—hot and insistent. The glint of silver between their lips, cold and shocking against flushed skin. Hands firm, but patient. Exploring. Asking. Tasting.

He wouldn’t say I can’t stop.

He’d say, dare me to stop.

And Seokjin wouldn’t.

He would beg for more.

His breath hitched as he stroked harder, the pace turning desperate. His thighs tightened, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily. The image of Jungkook kneeling in front of him, lips parted, fingers bruising his waist—it was too much. Too vivid.

Too fucking forbidden. And he was just meters away.

The ache built quick, pleasure blooming under his skin like something dangerous. Shame and want, tangled together. He gasped, one hand bracing against the wall, the other pumping fast, wet, filthy. He would love to have him under, shut him up from bratty replies and make him moan instead. Take that curly black hair and pull. Get him spread and needy with want. Oh he would be so good to him.

He came with a strangled moan, biting down on his lower lip to keep from crying out. The sharp sting made him hiss, and once again, the metallic tang of copper bloomed across his tongue.

He stayed there, breathing hard, one hand braced against the wall, the other stilling in his lap.

The deep, aching throb of guilt curling under his ribs like rot.

The water felt lukewarm now..

And still, he didn’t move.

A thought took root. Jungkook had shown up.

Seokjin had thought Jungkook showing up was a coincidence. Maybe he’d just needed to use the restroom. Maybe it was dumb luck. But then he remembered—Jungkook hadn’t said “Is someone in there?” or “Hyung?” like a question.

He knew.

Which meant he’d been watching. From when?

From the moment Yi-Kyung handed Seokjin that drink? When he placed his hand low on Seokjin’s back? When Seokjin laughed at something he barely heard? When he leaned in a little too close? When Yi-Kyung’s fingers lingered too long on Seokjin’s hip? When Seokjin didn’t stop it?

From the outside, it must have looked obvious. Like consent. Like interest. Like Seokjin wanted it.

And maybe part of him had tried to.

He remembered the swirl of wine in Yi-Kyung’s glass. The feel of his hand at Seokjin’s waist. The easy way his lips formed compliments. Seokjin played the role he was supposed to. He flirted back. He smiled. He let himself be led.

And Jungkook had seen him. Flirting and being led to intimacy. And still, he’d interrupted.

Why?

***

Seokjin stepped out of the bathroom in the oversized black pajamas Jungkook had left folded on the counter. They were tight in the shoulders, barely fit in the legs, and somehow still managed to be pretty comfy. They also smelled like detergent and something unmistakably Jungkook. It was nice.

He walked barefoot toward the kitchen, guided by the light spilling softly from under the cabinets. The steam of freshly made ramyeon filled the air, sharp with spice and something deeper, like anchovy broth. Not instant.

Jungkook sat on the floor by the low table, sleeves pulled over his knuckles, silent. A bowl already half-eaten in front of him. Another bowl still steaming waited across from it.

Seokjin approached quietly and sat down. He didn’t know what to say. Part of him hoped nothing needed to be said at all—while another part ached for something to say, anything, that might land between them and not fall apart on impact.

He picked up the chopsticks and slurped the first bite with quiet urgency. He wouldn’t admit he was starving, but he could’ve eaten anything put in front of him and this, surprisingly, was good. Very good.

“You didn’t have to,” he said, without looking up.

“I know.” Jungkook’s voice was low. “I was going to cook for myself anyway.”

They ate in silence for a moment, the sound of breath and broth filling the room.

Jungkook’s chopsticks clicked softly against the bowl. “Why him?” he asked, not looking up. The question wasn’t sharp—but there was a tension to it. Like it had sat too long in his chest before finding air.

“What?” So this was how it would go down?

Jungkook looked at him, big round eyes attentive. “Yi-whatever-his-name-is. I know he is someone important in the project you are. The producers told me so.” his shoulders twitched. “Why him? Why go with someone like that?”

The obvious answer would’ve been that Yi-Kyung was handsome, rich, talented, charming. That his smile came easy, that he had that effortless charisma people couldn’t help but lean toward. But this wasn’t that kind of conversation.

This wasn’t about excuses.

There was no way Jungkook should’ve known what had led Seokjin into that moment. His fucked up mind.

Seokjin set the chopsticks down, wiped his mouth slowly.

“It wasn’t about him,” he said, trying to explain. “It was…” He exhaled through his nose, eyes dropping to the table. The image burned into the back of his mind—Namjoon’s hand over Jimin’s shoulder. Their smiles. The feeling that something was so wrong and it makes his eyes burn and his throat sore.

“It was about something I saw,” Seokjin murmured. “A post. My ex… he was with someone. And not just anyone…” How could Jungkook know if he doesn't say it out loud. “Someone who’s been around. For a while.”

The last sentence slipped out on a shallow breath, barely audible. Still, saying it out loud made it real—and it landed with a sharp ache in his chest, like pressing on a bruise he hadn’t let himself examine until now.

Seokjin stirred his noodles, barely tasting them now.

“Guess I wanted to stop feeling like leftovers,” he added. “Guess I failed at that too.”

Jungkook didn’t interrupt. He kept quiet and his shoulders limp listening and probably sorting things about Seokjin.

But Seokjin was still wondering something.

He lifted his gaze again. He needed to know.

“So why were you there?”

Jungkook’s eyes flickered. He blinked once, then looked away, like he was weighing his options. For a moment, Seokjin thought he might deflect entirely.

"You knew I was in there with him," he continued trying to not sound accusatory "and in the end it's good you were... there. But I keep thinking why?"

Jungkook breathed in, held it, then let it go slow. His shoulders dropped a fraction, as if resigning to the truth he hadn’t wanted to admit.

“I wanted to be him,” he said. 

Seokjin watched him. Jungkook’s hands rested on his thighs, fingers twitching slightly as if unsure whether to fidget or stay still. His jaw ticked once, the smallest muscle betraying him. His shoulders were tight, his back too straight—like he was trying to appear unaffected, but the flush rising in his ears gave him away.

“The one who was with you,” he added, voice softer this time. “And I hated that it wasn’t me.”

He remembered the way Jungkook had looked at him in the studio—his eyes locked on Seokjin’s sweat-damp shirt, his breath still coming hard from a take. The hallway in the market, when Jungkook had called him cute like it wasn’t a throwaway line. And tonight—those same eyes, flicking to his swollen lip, the bruises blooming on his neck.

Jungkook had been watching him. Not casually but closely. And now, Seokjin couldn’t pretend he hadn’t noticed it too.

Seokjin’s gaze didn’t waver. “So you went after…,” his eyes scanned Jungkook’s face. “You wanted to…” he started, then hesitated. The words felt heavy in his mouth. “Be with me?” The tips of his ears were hot.

Jungkook shrugged, the smallest tilt of his shoulder. “You asked.”

“Yeah.” Seokjin leaned back a little. “I did.”

He didn’t know what this was. Not yet. But whatever it was becoming—it was intense. Tangled. Dangerous in the way only unspoken things could be. Their eyes kept drifting—to lips, to throats, to the small movements of hands and fingers. It wasn’t a conversation anymore. It was something heavier, stretched tight between them like a held breath. Ramyeon long gone cold.

Jungkook was the first to look away. He shifted awkwardly, then reached for the nearest pillow and pulled it onto his lap with a casualness that didn’t fool either of them. His gaze dropped to the floor, and he cleared his throat like that might erase the tension thick in the air.

“Yoongi’s not coming back tonight,” Jungkook said eventually. “He’s staying at Taehyung’s. Your phone’s with him.”

Seokjin nodded.

“There’s a toothbrush by the sink. It’s new.” A pause. “You can take hyung’s bed.”

Seokjin didn’t protest. He was too tired to fight kindness tonight, or to think about whatever just happened.

“Thanks,” he said, standing slowly walking towards Yoongi’s bedroom as he felt Jungkook’s eyes follow him. All the way to the door.

***

Seokjin woke up to the sound of muffled laughter.

Too loud for a dream.

His eyes blinked open slowly, light filtering in through unfamiliar curtains. The headache behind his eyes pulsed gently and his body ached.

God.

He ran a hand over his face and groaned. Dragging himself out of bed.What time was it?

Yoongi was on the floor chewing through a slice of toast. Taehyung sat cross-legged beside him, eyes glued to the screen. Jungkook occupied the center of the couch, controller in hand, eyebrows drawn in concentration.

"Look who decided to resurrect," Taehyung grinned, raising a glass of juice in his direction.

"Morning, hyung," Jungkook added without turning from the screen.

Yoongi just grunted.

Seokjin flopped down on the far end of the couch, knees to chest, watching the action on screen.

“What time is it?” he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

"Almost noon," Taehyung offered cheerfully. "Jungkook said we should let you.. rest."

The pause before that last word wasn’t lost on him.

Taehyung turned his gaze toward Seokjin’s neck—subtle, but direct. Seokjin knew what he saw. The bruises were impossible to miss now: purple smudges like fingerprints blooming across his throat, and just faintly below his collarbone. His lower lip was still slightly split, a thin scab forming at the edge. His stomach twisted. Not because of what Taehyung saw—but because for a split second, he feared Jungkook might have said something. Anything.

Yoongi squinted at him, chewing slowly. "What the hell happened to your face? You get into a fight or something?"

Seokjin forced a shameless grin. "What, this? Just a wild night. Turns out being bad has its perks."

He added a wink, the corners of his split lip tugging just slightly as he smiled. He was lying, of course. But keeping Taehyung and Yoongi from worrying was a small price to pay for a little theater. Jungkook didn’t contradict him. His silence, careful and blank, felt like mercy.

Taehyung laughed, and Yoongi snorted around his toast.

Relief crept into Seokjin’s chest, he was safe.

Whatever Jungkook had or hadn’t told them, it seemed the worst of last night—the part he didn’t have words for—was still his to keep.

“I almost forgot,” Taehyung said, reaching for the kitchen counter behind him. “Your phone kept buzzing earlier. I turned it off after the third time.”

He handed it over casually, but Seokjin felt something was odd about his cousin giving him the device.

Two messages from Hoseok. One from Yoongi, timestamped just before breakfast. But it was the name at the top of the list that made his stomach twist.

Namjoon.

He hesitated before opening it.

Namjoon: Hi
Namjoon: Just saw some cookies that reminded me of you.
Namjoon: We should go to this new bakery together sometime.
Namjoon: Hope you're eating something sweet and delicious over there.

Why was Namjoon writing to him like that—like nothing had changed? Like asking for a date?

He stared at his phone as he bit into a piece of toast drizzled with honey, the sweetness clinging to his fingers. The taste made him pause—he liked it. But even as he chewed, there was a quiet indignation simmering underneath.

Jin: How’s the band?

It was surgical. Cold. And unmistakable.

Namjoon: Haven’t seen any of them in a week. Been trying to sort some things out.

Seokjin stared at the screen. It would be around midnight for Namjoon right now. 

He thought of the photo he’d seen online—Namjoon’s arm around Jimin’s waist, smiles soft and tilted toward each other. But that could’ve been taken ages ago. Maybe it had just been posted last night. Maybe.

He sighed, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside him.

Maybe he’d believe him.

He rubbed the edge of his throat absentmindedly as his attention drifted to the rest of the room. Taehyung was now leaning slightly into Yoongi's side, both of them staring at the TV screen like they’d forgotten anyone else existed. Yoongi had one arm hooked over the back of the couch, casual but not distant and he was wearing a t-shirt he could swear belonged to Taehyung. Seokjin squinted. Suspicious.

Meanwhile, Jungkook was still locked into his game—something bright and pixelated with cartoonish cars spinning through rainbow-colored tracks. It looked old, but fast.

"You’re terrible at that," Seokjin muttered, mouth still full of toast.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. “I’m in first place.”

Seokjin snorted. “Yeah, and? That course is basically a tutorial.”

Jungkook glanced over, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Then come beat me.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen him play. Trust me—he wins. Every. Time.”

“I bet Jin-hyung can win,” Taehyung chimed in, turning to Yoongi with mischief. “Wanna bet on it?”

Yoongi frowned. “I don’t bet.”

“Too bad,” Seokjin said, licking honey off his thumb before setting the plate down. “Because I just accepted on your behalf.”

He stood, walked over, and took the second controller from the table, settling beside Jungkook with theatrical confidence.

The game reset. Countdown. Three… Two…

They launched forward—cars spinning, items flying. Jungkook was quick. Always in first place. Seokjin found himself in eight place within the first lap.

“Slow and steady?” Jungkook teased.

“Strategic,” Seokjin bit back.

Taehyung clapped once, then leaned back with a dramatic sigh. "I knew I shouldn't have bet on you."

"Ungrateful little shit. That’s what I get for feeding you?" He grumbled with mock offense.

Yoongi, for his part, barely glanced up. He just hummed under his breath and sipped his coffee, entirely unbothered.

Then, in the final lap—just as Jungkook was halfway the course of the last lap—Seokjin landed a well-timed lightning bolt, sending Jungkook’s car spinning off the track. Seokjin’s character activated a power that made him invencible and  zoomed past. First place.

Seokjin leapt up with a high-pitched yell, arms thrown dramatically into the air expecting an ovation.

Taehyung jumped to his side with both hands raised like a referee calling a win. “I never doubted you for a second, hyung!”

Seokjin turned his head, beaming. “As you shouldn’t.”

Seokjin grinned wide but coughed halfway through his next laugh, clutching his throat. “Shit—” he rasped, voice straining. “Okay. Maybe yelling was a bad idea.”

His throat burned. Dull and raw. But Yi-kyung only gave him hickies, so this was not a consequence of that. 

Yoongi eyed him. “You getting sick?”

“Nah,” Seokjin replied, waving it off. “Just… dehydrated or something.”

Jungkook shook his head, still staring at the screen. “I seriously don’t know how you won. That was just dumb luck.”

Seokjin turned to him, oh he loved to brag. “Weren’t you the one preaching about fate and getting what you deserve?”

“That was different,” Jungkook shot back without missing a beat. “Fate’s one thing. The choices you make inside it? That’s where the real mess starts.”

Seokjin straightened, eyebrows arching. “You wanna go there again?” So this was engaging?

“Gladly.” Jungkook got up as well, leveling eyes with Seokjin.

“Shut up,” Yoongi muttered. “Both of you. You are giving me a headache.”

Yoongi and Taehyung left a little after noon. Something about a gallery visit and late lunch plans. Seokjin hadn’t felt like joining, and no one insisted. His throat was still scratchy, his limbs heavy, and he wanted to pretend it was just fatigue from not sleeping well.

The truth was, it wasn’t just that. The stress, the depression, the anxiety was taking a toll on him.

Jungkook stayed behind, parked in front of the console again, now playing an open-world RPG with lush scenery and a melancholic soundtrack. Seokjin lay curled in one corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a tablet on his lap with Netflix running something he wasn't really watching. Instead he was watching Jungkook play.  Every few minutes, his phone lit up with another message from Namjoon.

Namjoon: That song I told you about? Finally got the strings to match.
Namjoon: I think it’s missing something. But we’re figuring it out.

Seokjin didn’t reply. Just stared at the message until the screen dimmed.

He sniffed and wiped at his nose. Jungkook didn't look up, but Seokjin noticed the way his lip ring moved, he was toying with it again, tugging gently between his teeth.

“You’re going to tear your lip off,” Seokjin muttered with a raspy edge.

That earned him a glance. Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “Does it bother you?”

Seokjin, without missing a beat, shrugged. “No. Go ahead. Rip it out. Not my problem.”

But it was. That mouth had no business being that distracting.

Jungkook huffed, half a scoff, but didn’t comment.

A moment later, he shifted on the couch and subtly turned his face away, focusing harder on the game. Like he didn’t want to be seen.

Seokjin turned his eyes back to the screen, but nothing held. Not the series. Not the room. Not even Namjoon’s name.

He got up after a while and shuffled to the kitchen, looking through the cabinets for anything helpful. Nothing. He opened the browser on his phone and started navering nearby clinics. Every one of them closed, booked, or required appointments. He clicked through screens with growing frustration.

“There’s a med box under the sink,” Jungkook said, still not looking up. “Yoongi-hyung keeps it stocked. I added a few things too. Mostly stuff my mom swears by.”

Seokjin opened the cabinet. The box was there. Inside: teas, lozenges, herbal pastilles, a couple of cough syrups, and a labeled bottle of tablets.

“This isn’t poison, right?”

“Only if you take like ten,” Jungkook replied dryly. “One’s enough. Two if you want to knock out. That one’s for the throat.”

Seokjin took one pill and a spoon of syrup, still suspicious, but willing to surrender. When he returned to the couch, he found Jungkook had dimmed the lights. A quiet forest theme played on-screen as his character wandered along a cliffside.

He didn’t say anything when Seokjin sat back down. Just kept playing.

Namjoon had replied again.

Namjoon: You okay?
Namjoon: You went quiet.
Namjoon: I’ve found your pink hoodie. It was in the swimsuit drawer.

His fingers hovered over the screen.

Jin: Bit sick. Just resting.
Namjoon: Have you seen a doctor?

It was like they were on a truce.

Jin: It’s fine.

He could feel Jungkook glance over. Just for a second. Then he returned to the game.

He didn’t comment. Didn’t react. But his mouth was tight. His hands too still on the controller.

Seokjin noticed. Not fully. But enough.

He didn’t say anything either.

Seokjin pulled the blanket tighter around himself and let his head fall back onto the folded hoodie Jungkook had placed under the armrest. His body felt heavy. 

He didn't remember closing his eyes. But the next time he opened them, the room was dim, his phone had slipped to the floor, and the TV was paused. The forest on-screen still swayed in gentle wind.

Jungkook had moved to the floor, cross-legged, blanket over his shoulders, back resting against the edge of the couch.

There was a glass of water on the table. Another blanket draped across Seokjin’s legs. A little bowl of peeled tangerines.

Seokjin shifted, his throat itched and he cleared it softly to ease the discomfort.

Jungkook didn’t look up. Just adjusted the blanket around him, muttering, “Don’t fall asleep without drinking some water, hyung. You’ll feel worse.”

Seokjin reached for the glass.

And as he drank, his throat still aching but soothed by the effort.

Jungkook didn’t touch him. Didn’t ask questions. Just stayed close, like he was waiting for nothing and everything all at once.

Seokjin lay back down, phone buzzed again beside him.

Namjoon: Get well Jinnie. 

Seokjin didn’t reply.

He closed his eyes instead.

And slept.

***

Seokjin returned to the studio five days later, a scarf wrapped loosely around his neck and the corners of his throat still marked in fading hues. His voice was steady again, if a little raw. He had recovered quickly, almost alarmingly so, and the routine felt like a balm he’d been needing—until he opened his script.

His character had fewer lines.

Not just that—entire scenes were gone. Interactions that once held emotional weight had been trimmed, redirected, or handed to other supporting roles. At first, he thought it was a mistake. A typo. But the annotations in the margins were clear. Intentional.

The head writer had been the one to mention they were reworking the flow of the story. Tighter, cleaner, more balanced between the ensemble—though even she didn’t seem fully convinced. Her expression had wavered, like she wasn’t sure when or why the decision had been made. Just that it had.

The readings were suddenly more spaced out. Two had been canceled altogether.

He wasn’t paranoid. Not this time.

When Yi-kyung passed him in the hallway that day, Seokjin’s stomach tightened. His posture tensed instinctively, shoulders drawing in as if trying to make himself smaller. He avoided the urge to step back, forcing himself to stand still, to breathe steadily. To not flinch.

Their eyes met briefly. Seokjin’s hand twitched, lifting unconsciously to brush against his healed lip. The memory was still there, lodged in the back of his throat like something he couldn’t swallow.

He squared his shoulders. He was an adult. This was work. And there were people around them.

He approached Yi-kyung and offered a careful "Morning."

Yi-kyung blinked, then smiled politely—but the step he took back, the way his eyes didn’t linger, said enough.

Seokjin stood there a moment longer, then turned away, pulse a slow throb in his ears.

Professionally, he couldn’t afford this.

His career was the only constant left. The one place that hadn’t collapsed entirely. If he lost that too…

He stared at the printed pages, eyes skimming scenes where his voice should have lived. It felt like watching someone else live his life—his character rewritten, stripped of nuance, reshaped for someone easier to digest. He used to know this voice. Now, even that was slipping away.

Losing lines wasn’t just about airtime. It was about erasure. About becoming a side character in his own story.

Namjoon had still been texting. Daily, almost. And Seokjin, for reasons he didn’t want to examine too closely, had been responding.

It wasn’t romantic. Not overtly. Just soft check-ins. Thoughts about songs. Stories about Hoseok being dramatic as always. Comments about the weather. 

It felt like pretending. Pretending was easy.

Taehyung found Seokjin in the kitchen that evening, poking at leftovers and sipping weak tea like it might solve his life. Taehyung leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes a little too bright to be casual.

"Hyung," he said, almost cautiously with his beautiful low voice. "Could you invite Yoongi over sometime soon?"

Seokjin was spending time at Yoongi’s more often than not, because it was closer to work and because Taehyung was working on a piece. He concentrated a lot on it and Seokjin tried to give him his space and quiet. Seokjin knew Yoongi and Taehyung wouldn't just reunite by accident.

Seokjin blinked. "What, like dinner? Are you finally trying to trap him with japchae and candlelight?"

Taehyung rolled his eyes. "It’s not like that. I tried... It's just… I think he won’t come unless it’s through you."

Seokjin chuckled softly. “He is a socially anxious cat in producer clothing.”

He grabbed a cup, filled it with more tea, and turned to face Taehyung fully. "But are you sure? Shouldn’t you be focusing on your art and not your… muse?"

Taehyung wrinkled his nose. "And you should stop throwing yourself into work like that. Seriously, hyung, you’ve looked tense all week. It’s starting to worry me a little."

Seokjin scoffed. Taehyung wouldn't know the kind of trouble he was facing and it would stay that way. "It’s called posture."

"It’s called you need a date," Taehyung said with a grin, the little shit had his way in deflecting too. "I know two or three people I could introduce you to. One’s a ceramicist. Very cute." Wiggling eyes all over.

"I’m not going on a date with someone your age, Tae. That’s illegal in some countries."

"They’re twenty-six."

Seokjin narrowed his eyes. "When I was twenty, they were sixteen. That would've definitely been jail."

But the teasing made something warm settle in his chest.

Taehyung leaned in just slightly, eyes gleaming. "Come on, hyung. You’re handsome and single—it’s a waste not to enjoy a little freedom."

Seokjin’s smile faltered, just barely. He set his cup down a little too carefully, eyes scanning Taehyung’s once childish expression for something he couldn’t quite name. “You’re not being that free, right?” he asked, quieter now.

Taehyung hesitated, then lifted a shoulder. “I know how to flirt.”

Seokjin studied him for a beat. Taehyung was older now, more composed—but Jin still saw him as his baby cousin, the one who cried over broken crayons and got shy during school plays. The thought of him navigating Seoul alone, open-hearted and too easy to read, left a cold knot in his chest.

He was beautiful. And kind. And young.

There were people who would take advantage of that. People who wouldn't even think twice.

But the way Taehyung held his gaze—steadily, knowingly—told Seokjin that maybe he wasn’t as naive as Jin thought. Maybe he’d grown up more than he realized.

Seokjin raised an eyebrow, suspicion creeping in. “You better not be testing that on Yoongi. He doesn’t do casual."

Taehyung gave a small, defiant smirk. "I’m not stupid, hyung. And I didn’t say it was casual."

Seokjin didn’t respond right away. He looked down at his phone on the table, then picked it up slowly.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll text him.”

He unlocked his phone and tapped out a short message to Yoongi.

Then he opened Namjoon’s chat. Almost every time, there was an unread message waiting. Because of the time difference, they rarely texted in real time. Instead, they left messages—small updates, passing thoughts—and the other would respond whenever possible. That rhythm gave Seokjin space. He didn’t feel pressured to answer right away. He could take his time.

Namjoon: You know your birthday’s coming up.

Seokjin stared at the message for a second too long. The reminder brought a heavy sensation to his chest. He hadn’t forgotten. He just didn’t feel like thinking about it.

Namjoon: Doing anything?

He hadn’t planned to. Work was still a mess. There was a recording scheduled for that same day, and unless it shifted, he’d have to be in the same room with Yi-kyung. Pretending nothing had happened. Pretending he was fine.

Seokjin: Nothing much. Work, probably.

He didn’t add anything else.

A few minutes later, Yoongi replied to his message.

Yoongi: I can come by tonight, if that’s okay.

Taehyung, who had been pretending not to stare at Seokjin’s phone, immediately brightened—and then tried to hide it behind a sip of water. His ears were pink.

Seokjin squinted at him. “You’re seriously blushing? I thought you said you weren’t stupid.”

Taehyung scowled. “I’m not nervous.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m not!”

Seokjin leaned in, teasing. “You can’t get like this every time you see him. How do you plan on dating someone you can’t even make eye contact with?”

Taehyung huffed and looked away, mumbling, “It’s not that bad.”

But Seokjin just watched him for a moment longer. He remembered the early days with Namjoon—the sweaty palms, the second-guessing every word, the way his mind would go blank the moment Namjoon smiled at him. It had taken him weeks to speak freely around him. Months to stop worrying about saying something dumb.

He understood. Maybe more than he wanted to admit.

And Yoongi arrived exactly on time.

Taehyung had insisted on ordering japchae from a place he liked, and was nervously fluffing pillows when the doorbell rang. Jin rolled his eyes but didn’t comment.

Dinner was laid-back. Casual. The three of them sat on the floor, bowls in their laps, a playlist humming softly in the background. Yoongi talked about recent sessions, how some of the demos were finally coming together. He seemed a little lighter than usual.

"You know that song you helped guide?" Yoongi glanced at Jin. "It might end up being the title track for that girl group. The team’s obsessed with it."

Seokjin raised a brow, chopsticks pausing mid-air. "Maybe I should quit voice acting and go idol."

"I’m serious," Yoongi said. "You and Jungkook could release something tomorrow and I swear it’d chart. Hell, we could start our own label."

Jin snorted. "We don’t have the money, Yoongi. And you need more than just two genius producers. You need choreographers, session musicians, stylists, marketing. Infrastructure."

Yoongi shrugged. "We could figure it out. If we wanted to."

It was the kind of conversation they’d had before, in passing. Half dreams, half teasing. But there was something a little more genuine in Yoongi’s tone tonight.

Then Yoongi added, "Namjoon would know how to structure it. He’s good with those numbers."

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp but it settled.

Seokjin reached for his tea.

Namjoon.

Of course.

Yoongi and Namjoon had always respected each other’s work. They weren’t close, not really, but they saw each other. Recognized something familiar.

Namjoon had been making music but it was never more than a hobby. His family came from money. They expect him to work in something serious. Reputable. Stable.

He worked at a private financial firm. Most of his days were spent managing portfolios, filing tax documents for high-value clients. The hours were brutal—sometimes twelve, fourteen at a time. They’d offered him an apartment next to the office. Just one room.

They’d said it was an honor.

Seokjin had a regular schedule. Morning recordings, rehearsals. And an even more regular income. He cooked. Waited. Sometimes days. Sometimes weeks.

He did it and never complained.

Yoongi had once told him to ask Namjoon to quit. To choose a different path. One with his own dream to fulfill. But Yoongi didn’t understand the weight Namjoon carried—didn’t see how his family looked at Seokjin, like he was just a temporary distraction. A phase. Something their son would eventually outgrow before settling into the life they had planned for him, with someone more appropriate. Someone they could introduce at formal dinners without having to explain. Or at least someone they could brag about.

Maybe that’s why Yoongi had never truly understood him. Seokjin had told him little about it, always trying to be cheerful when he talked about how many years they’d been together, about how maybe one day Namjoon’s family would come around. And even if they didn’t, he’d say, Namjoon and he were happy, they were in love—a love meant to last forever. Yoongi would just smile and listen to everything Seokjin said and everything he didn’t. Always loyal.

Yoongi set his bowl down and glanced toward him. "So… you two really ended things?"

Seokjin hesitated. That was the thing— they hadn’t . Not exactly.

"I don’t know," he said truthfully.

He could feel both Yoongi’s and Taehyung’s eyes on him. He couldn't look up. Waiting for him to elaborate.

“I thought he was with someone else,” he added, quietly setting down the tea mug. “For a while I was sure of it. But Namjoon said it wasn’t like that. He says he’s not. That he thinks about me. That he misses me.”

“Hyung… I mean, I don’t know Namjoon that well, but I can’t believe he’d move on just like that. Every time I saw you two, I thought you were endgame. His eyes would light up whenever you were around. He always said how perfect you were.”

He paused, still frowning, like he was trying to work out a puzzle that didn’t make sense.

“And you,” he added more softly, “how could he love someone else when he had you?”

Seokjin huffed a quiet laugh. “The lead singer of his band, apparently. He’s cute. Charming. Younger.” He didn't mean to sound bitter. 

Taehyung’s and Yoongi’s eyes almost popped out of their skulls. 

“I’m not saying he’s a homewrecker,” Seokjin added quickly, his voice soft, almost hesitant. He pinched the skin between his thumb and forefinger under the table, grounding himself. “Honestly, I don’t think Jimin even wants that. I think maybe I created that idea… because he got close to Namjoon and they had good chemistry. On stage, I mean.”

He tilted his head slightly, uncertainty flickering in his expression. “He’s a flirt. That’s just his personality. It doesn’t mean he flirts with everyone on purpose. I don’t want to think badly of him. He is actually nice and calls me hyung-nim”

He swallowed, then continued, more to himself than to them. “Namjoon’s just… figuring things out. His job, his family, his future. He didn’t end things with me. He just said he needed time.”

They stayed quiet.

“We text,” Seokjin continued. “Every day. It’s not like before. But it’s not bad.”

He could feel their eyes on him again. He looked away.

They pitied him. Not out loud. But he could see it—taste it in the way Yoongi stirred his drink without sipping, how Taehyung’s expression softened in that way it only did when he was trying not to make someone feel small.

Seokjin hated that look.

So he smiled, bright and deliberate.

“Still,” he said, clapping his hands once with mock enthusiasm. “Technically, we agreed that seeing other people was allowed. Not that we were out there looking, but after so many years... maybe this was a chance to explore. Recalibrate. You know—sample the menu while we're still charming and desirable.”

He grinned, trying to infuse the moment with humor instead of weight. Just enough to lift the atmosphere, shift it toward something more playful, less raw. He knew he couldn't fool Yoongi. Maybe Taehyung…

Taehyung raised an eyebrow, playful but not unkind. “Says the man who came home from his company dinner looking like he’d had a very… eventful night. Not judging, by the way. Just saying—it didn’t exactly scream ‘lonely evening.’”

Seokjin laughed, pushing his chair back dramatically. “Exactly. Single and ready to mingle.”

It was a good performance. He knew how to sell it. Fuck the idol dream, he was going for the acting career.

He nudged Jin’s foot under the table. “Your birthday’s coming up, by the way. We should do something. Maybe you can even invite your friend from that night.”

Seokjin shrugged, trying to not over react he said “It was just that one night. Fun, sure, but not really something I plan to repeat.” Then he added. “Let's just do something quiet,”

He leaned back, his tone lightening. “Just us sounds good.”

“Just us,” Taehyung said, not pressing the matter. “You, me, Yoongi. And Jungkook.”

Seokjin didn’t argue.

Taehyung shifted the conversation back to Yoongi, asking about his work, his recording schedule, whether he ever got a real day off. The attention turned elsewhere.

But Seokjin had drifted. His thoughts wandered to the last person Taehyung mention. Jungkook.

The last time he saw him, Jungkook had been the one to care for him. He’d made sure Jin took his medicine, brought him food, even paid the hospital bill up front.

Seokjin had already reimbursed everything. His job gave him insurance, and thankfully it covered most of it. No debt, no loose ends.

But still…

There was something that lingered. Something unsettled.

The conversation in the hallway. Jungkook’s boldness. The things he’d said, the things he’d nearly done.

It hadn’t come up again.

Since then, they’d just… gotten along. Jungkook never pushed. He never mentioned it again. Gave Seokjin space. And yet, here he was, still in Yoongi’s apartment most evenings—because it was closer to work. Because Jungkook’s consoles were there. Because they got along. Because it was easy.

Too easy.

And that was the problem.

Seokjin found himself thinking about him more than he wanted to admit. When they weren’t together, he wondered what Jungkook was doing. When they were, he laughed too hard at stupid jokes and felt something strange flicker under his skin every time Jungkook smiled at him. 

They got along too well. They’d sit close on the couch playing video games for hours, elbows brushing, bickering without heat and laughing until their stomachs hurt. Sometimes they cooked together—seamlessly, like they’d done it for years. It didn’t even matter if Yoongi wasn’t home.

A short text was all it took. Their messages were always brief, rarely more than ten characters, but somehow they always understood each other. Seokjin hadn’t felt that kind of natural rhythm with someone in a long time. And with how things were going at the studio, it was a quiet relief—a soft place to land when everything else felt uncertain.

Jungkook was always up for a match, already turning on the AC as if he knew Seokjin would show up. He’d bite his lip ring every time he focused hard—Seokjin had noticed it more than once—and he played to win. It wasn’t easy. Jin was really good.

It was infuriating.

Jungkook didn’t even seem to be working as much as before. He used to vanish for long hours, but lately, he was around more often. Seokjin had assumed maybe his schedule had lightened, but then he noticed the dark circles under his eyes.

When he asked, Yoongi had replied that Jungkook was behind on his deadlines. Apparently, he’d been staying up late catching up.

Seokjin didn’t understand it. Jungkook always acted like he had all the time in the world. He even knew Seokjin’s favorite brand of tea—there was always a box in the cabinet at Yoongi’s place.

When Seokjin had brought it up, Jungkook shrugged and said Yoongi bought it for him.

But Yoongi never did things like that. Did he?

It was infuriating.

His stomach always did this fluttery, ridiculous thing.

It had to be the lip piercing. Or maybe the shirts—too tight across the chest, too loose around the arms, showing skin Seokjin had no business noticing.

Oh no.

His fingers curled slightly around his teacup.

That feeling again.

That horrible, familiar feeling.

Chapter Text

Seokjin didn’t feel thirty-one.

He also didn’t feel like someone who’d spent the night before catching feelings—whatever that meant. And no, he wasn’t going to say it aloud. Not even in his head. Feelings was a strong word, and Seokjin didn’t do strong words unless they came with scripts and microphones.

He wasn’t thinking about Jungkook. Or Namjoon. Or anything with a pulse, really. He was thinking about work. About showing up. About surviving.

Seeing Jungkook later? That was a problem for future Seokjin. The one with more time, fewer walls, and maybe a stronger liver.

Or maybe he did. Maybe that hollow weight behind his ribs was thirty-one, and the quiet dread in his stomach was just another birthday guest he hadn’t invited.

But today was supposed to be good.

He told himself that as he rubbed moisturizer into his cheeks, dabbing gently under eyes that didn’t look as tired as they had in weeks. He still hadn’t gained the weight back, but his reflection didn’t feel so ghost-like this morning. That had to count for something.

He got in his shirt with deliberate slowness, smoothing the shirt down, trying to will himself into steadiness.

He had a shift at the studio—just a few hours—but afterward, Taehyung had planned something. Just a small gathering, he’d said, with drinks and maybe cake. Seokjin didn’t expect much, but the thought of being surrounded by people instead on loneliness, had him clutching his coat just a little tighter.

It would be a good day. He was determined to make it one.

The studio lighting was always too sharp in the morning—cold and functional, like everything else in this place. Seokjin entered with his bag slung low over one shoulder and greeted the front desk with a soft nod. He hadn’t seen Yi-kyung since… that day. And though every nerve in his body recoiled at the thought of being in the same booth, he felt strangely calm now.

He’d rehearsed this.

Yi-kyung was already inside when he arrived, looking down at his tablet, earbuds hanging around his neck. He looked up when Seokjin entered, then glanced back at his screen like nothing had happened between them.

That was fine. Seokjin could work with that.

“Morning,” Seokjin said, voice measured.

Yi-kyung hummed in response.

They went through mic checks and line readings, tension thick in the silence between takes. But Seokjin didn’t let it shake him.

Halfway through, he cleared his throat. “Listen,” he began, “I know we didn’t exactly part on the best terms last time. But I just want to say—I don’t hold any resentment. We were both in a weird place, and I’m glad we stopped when we did. I’d like to keep things strictly professional moving forward.”

He hesitated, then added, "And about the cut lines... if it was something I did—if I made things uncomfortable in the booth—I want you to know it wasn’t my intention. I’m here to do the work."

There. It was out. Clean.

Yi-kyung blinked slowly, eyes lingering on Seokjin with something unreadable beneath his lashes. His jaw tensed for the briefest second before he leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest with practiced ease. He was handsome in a cold, deliberate way—sharp features, neat lines—but the tension at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He tried to look indifferent, but his brow furrowed as Seokjin's words sank in. “You really think that’s what this is about?”

Seokjin looked at him confused. “…Isn’t it?”

Yi-kyung scoffed. “God. You really think they cut your lines because of me?” He shook his head, amused, but not unkind. “No, Seokjin. That wasn’t personal. You were cast for that character because your voice sounded broken . It was raw. Wounded. That’s what they wanted. But now?”

He tapped the script in front of him, flipping to a specific line.

“You’re polished again. Controlled. That ache in your voice—that unfiltered, human ache? It’s gone. I mean, you're good. You have control and emotion, sure. But it used to feel real. Now we’re talking about whether post-production can help your parts come through. I should’ve said something earlier, but I hoped it wouldn’t be necessary."

"The truth is, you haven’t performed the way we expected. And honestly? We’re disappointed. Hiring someone with your limited résumé was a risk, and we’re making adjustments accordingly. Until you can bring back what you gave us in your audition, your lines will stay as they are."

"Do us all a favor and think seriously about what I’ve said today.”

Seokjin stood frozen.

It wasn’t an insult. Yi-kyung wasn’t cruel about it. Just honest.

And that stung worse.

“Happy birthday, by the way,” Yi-kyung added casually, then stood and left the room, leaving Seokjin alone in the silence.

The recording light above the door blinked red once, then off.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Eventually, his hands moved on instinct—reaching for the strap of his bag and adjusting it over his shoulder, but his fingers trembled slightly, fumbling with the buckle longer than necessary. He caught his reflection in the booth’s dark glass: posture straight, face blank, but the tightness in his eyes betrayed him. He hated that he looked like someone who had been told the truth. Hated more that it hurt because it was true.

He should have left right then. Gone home. Let the night unfold like Taehyung had planned.

But instead, he stayed.

He asked the tech if he could keep the booth for a while longer. Said he needed to warm up some lines again.

And then he repeated them.

All of them. Every damn one.

Over and over, until his throat began to burn. Until the words no longer sounded like lines from a script but desperate prayers trying to pass as dialogue.

No one interrupted him—not even when they announced the studio was closing. It was a Friday night. The lights dimmed. The hallway quieted.

He stayed.

And stayed.

Until his phone buzzed violently in his coat pocket.

Yoongi: Where the fuck are you? We’ve been waiting forever.

Seokjin blinked. Looked at the time.

9:37 PM.

He was supposed to be there by seven.

When Seokjin arrived, the apartment was dimly lit but not quiet. Music played low from the speaker Taehyung had set up earlier, something lo-fi and harmless, but the tension was thick as fog.

The door opened to Yoongi first—arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“You could’ve at least sent a fucking text,” he snapped. 

Seokjin winced at the tone, but Yoongi’s eyes weren’t cruel. They were scanning him, cataloging.

“I’m sorry,” Seokjin said quietly, voice hoarse from hours of repetition. It rasped in his throat, unmissable.

Jungkook stood by the kitchen counter, casually leaning with a glass in hand, dressed in a loose black shirt that somehow made him look effortlessly put together. He hadn’t said anything, but his gaze tracked Seokjin from the moment he walked in, unreadable.

Seokjin saw him. It was just Jungkook, looking unfairly good, calm like nothing had changed. Seokjin forced a breath through his nose, adjusted his collar needlessly, and smiled lightly as if everything was normal.

He wasn’t thinking about how Jungkook’s eyes flicked up immediately. How he looked like he knew something. Seokjin refused to give it weight.

Just a friend. Just a birthday. Nothing more.

Jungkook’s eyes narrowed at the rasp of his voice when he greet him, the wear on Seokjin’s voice from overuse. It wasn’t professional. But Jungkook didn’t comment. He just studied him like he was trying to figure out the rules of a game that had suddenly changed.

And Seokjin, who knew denial like second nature, pretended not to notice any of it.

Taehyung emerged from the hallway. His eyes were rimmed with red, his smile too wide to be real. But he didn’t cry. He crossed the room quickly and wrapped Seokjin in a tight hug.

“You’re here,” he murmured. “That’s all that matters.”

Seokjin squeezed him back, letting out a shaky laugh.

“Come on, let’s get you a drink,” Taehyung said. “I’ve been saving the good stuff for you.”

Someone pressed a cup into his hand. He downed it faster than he meant to.

“Look, Yoongi,” Seokjin rasped, tipping his head with theatrical flair. “To make it up to you, I’ll sing you two full demos next week.” He could use the strain to train his vocals.

Yoongi arched an eyebrow. “Three.”

Seokjin laughed, the sound sharp and tired. “You drive a hard bargain.”

Dinner followed in comfortable silence, plates filled and refilled, laughter returning in cautious waves. Seokjin didn’t speak much at first, but the warmth of the food and the alcohol in his veins softened the edges of the day.

Jungkook spoke up between bites. “I got offered a project. First time they’re letting me produce the whole thing myself.”

Yoongi raised a brow. “Finally.”

“It’s not official yet, but… if it works out, I might need a voice for a few key tracks.”

Seokjin blinked, surprised, caught off guard by the steady way Jungkook’s gaze lingered on him. “Me?”

“If you want to,” Jungkook said, setting down his chopsticks. “You don’t have to say yes. But I’d like to test your range.”

Seokjin hesitated, then smiled. “I’ve only ever worked under Yoongi or Na—” he stopped himself, clearing his throat gently, the sound more raw than he intended. “But… yeah. Let me know.” He'll take every chance.

Jungkook nodded once, satisfied.

At some point, Seokjin drifted to the window, drawn by the quiet outside. The city lights blinked in soft clusters below, but it was the moon that caught him—pale and bright above the skyline, reflecting faintly on his skin. He didn’t look at the moon much anymore; it brought back memories—ones he’d rather forget. Not because the memory was ugly, but because it hurt.

Still, it shone—steadfast, unbothered—as only a full December moon could.

And then they sang to him.

Off-key, loud, ridiculous. As if on purpose.

As the last shaky note of the birthday song faded, Seokjin raised an eyebrow and looked around the room.

“Seriously?” he deadpanned. “Taehyung, you're a trained baritone. Yoongi and Jungkook are literal producers. Also Jungkook, don’t you have perfect pitch?”

They burst out laughing—Taehyung doubling over dramatically, Yoongi smirking behind his glass, and Jungkook just shaking his head. They were good.

Taehyung sat back down with his drink. "I've never had such a good time at a birthday," he said softly.

Jungkook raised his glass next. "It's good but I'll never have cake with soju again." He took a sip, then made a face. "It doesn’t go together. At all."

Seokjin, still smiling faintly, took a slow sip from his cup. “Wait this is good, lets play ‘Never Have I Ever’!

Three heads shook.

He exhaled a mock sigh. “Killjoys.”

“Alright,” Seokjin continued, shifting in his seat, raising his glass with mock gravitas. “Let’s start simple. Never have I ever gone skinny dipping.”

Taehyung immediately drank, grinning mischievously. “River behind my grandma’s house. You know this.”

Yoongi just raised an unimpressed brow. Jungkook didn’t drink.

“Never have I ever lied on a job application,” Jungkook offered next.

Yoongi drank without hesitation. “Everyone lies. It’s called surviving capitalism.”

They laughed.

“Never have I ever cried during a movie,” Taehyung said.

Everyone drank.

Seokjin wiped at his mouth, narrowing his eyes playfully. “What movie, Yoongi?”

Yoongi muttered, “ Grave of the Fireflies . Shut up.” Then gave Seokjin a light nudge with his foot, just enough to be playful.

Laughter again.

Jungkook leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm. “Never have I ever sent a text I regretted.”

Seokjin’s smile faltered for just a second, but he raised his glass and drank. Yoongi followed without a word. Taehyung hesitated—just a beat—before drinking as well. Their cheeks were already tinged with the blush of alcohol, their eyes just a little too bright, their laughs too easy.

Taehyung set down his glass, cleared his throat, and smiled sweetly.

“Never have I ever liked someone who made it too easy to pretend I didn’t.”

It was smooth. Okay it was not.

Yoongi didn’t react at first. Not with words. His eyes stayed fixed on his glass, thumb circling the rim slowly. But there was tension in his jaw, the kind that only someone who knew him well would catch.

Then Jungkook raised his glass—and drank.

All eyes turned.

Seokjin blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

Jungkook just shrugged, lips quirking slightly like it was nothing. “Crushes are universal, hyung. Some people are just really bad at noticing them.”

Yoongi finally lifted his glass.

After drinking, he let out a short breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Never have I ever pretended I didn’t care—just to protect myself.”

He took a sip.

He didn’t look at anyone, but the line had teeth.

Taehyung didn’t say anything, but he didn’t look away either. His expression had cooled, but not in surrender—more like the moment before a match is lit.

He reached for his drink, took a slow sip, then tilted his head just slightly.

“Never have I ever wanted to kiss someone in this room,” he said, voice quiet—but it didn’t need to be loud.

Jungkook’s brow twitched. Seokjin blinked.

Neither of them drank.

Taehyung didn’t either.

But his gaze was locked on Yoongi.

And Yoongi… Yoongi lifted his glass. Just a fraction.

He didn’t drink.

But he held it in the air.

Like a dare.

“Yah!” Seokjin interjected, slapping his palm lightly against the table. “New rule—no more kissing declarations unless someone’s taking their shirt off. Taehyung, you better keep it on or you’ll be grounded.”

That finally broke the tension. Taehyung laughed first.

Jungkook raised his glass again, eyes glinting. “Never have I ever bet on clothing.” Thankfully, the tension shifted into something easier. Seokjin made a mental note to thank him later for it.

Seokjin groaned and drank. “College. Poker night. Don’t ask.”

Taehyung howled, nearly spilling his drink. “You did not!”

Jungkook sipped too, trying—and failing—not to grin. “Turns out I’m very lucky with socks.”

They were visibly tipsy now, cheeks flushed, voices looser, laughter louder.

Seokjin leaned back in his seat, eyes slightly glossy but still sharp with mischief.

“Okay, okay—new rule,” he announced, finger wagging vaguely in the air. “Truth or dare. Because if we keep going with ‘Never Have I Ever,’ one of you is going to end up confessing a tragic childhood crush on a cartoon character.”

Taehyung nearly choked on his drink. “You mean another one.”

Yoongi sighed. “This is a mistake.”

Jungkook just smiled—slow, curious. “Truth or dare sounds dangerous.”

Seokjin grinned. “Exactly.”

If he could get even one of those two to confess something— anything —he’d call the night a success. Not that he was meddling.

They settled back in, drinks topped off, limbs loose, eyes a little glassy with the glow of too much alcohol and not enough regret.

“Yoongi,” Seokjin said, pointing at him with the seriousness of someone bestowing a royal title. “Truth or dare.”

Yoongi wrinkled his nose. “Pass.”

“Not an option,” Seokjin sing-songed.

Yoongi groaned. “Fine. Truth. But I’m getting all of you back for this.”

Seokjin tapped his chin in thought, then asked, “What’s something you’ve never told anyone in this room?”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the ceiling like the answer might be scribbled there. “I took the job at a smaller label,” he said at last. “Passed up a pretty solid offer to teach at a music academy back in Daegu. Would’ve stayed close to what I do now—songwriting, creative direction.”

He took a sip, casual.

“But this label was in the city. The same one someone else had lived in. So… I figured I might as well follow.” His eyes fixed on the ice in his drink, swirling it once.

No one asked who. But Taehyung swallowed hard.

Seokjin let the silence hang a second, then turned. Time for a new tactic. “Taehyung. Truth or dare.”

Taehyung focused on Seokjin and smirked. “Dare.”

Seokjin’s smile turned wicked. “Post something on your Instagram. Something only your crush would understand.” He was sure the situation required a little pressure. Let them sweat. He'd watch.

Taehyung arched a brow like he was weighing the gravity of the universe, but his fingers were already unlocking his phone. “Alright,” he murmured.

Jungkook leaned in, curious. “Don’t make it obvious.”

Taehyung rolled his eyes. “Only a few would actually get it.”

He took a moment, scrolled, and then typed something in his story. A dim photo of a hand resting on a piano, Yoongi's piano, with the caption:

it’s the way you play.

Yoongi froze with his glass halfway to his lips.

Seokjin blinked, then smirked. Taehyung set his phone down like nothing had happened, but his ears were visibly pink. The photo wouldn’t feel out of place on his feed—he often posted close-ups or abstract shots without much context. And the caption? Subtle enough. His followers were used to vague phrases with no tags or dedications.

Jungkook let out a soft whistle. "There are not many red pianos out there."

Yoongi said nothing. But he didn’t look away.

Jungkook raised his cup. “Hyung,” he said, turning to Seokjin. “Truth or dare.”

“Truth,” Seokjin replied confidently.

Jungkook hesitated for just a second. “How many people have you been with? And you know what I mean.”

Seokjin blinked, but didn’t flinch. He wasn’t afraid of the question—he’d known it would come eventually. Better now than dragging it out. “One.”

Jungkook stared at him, stunned. “Seriously?”

Seokjin nodded once, calmly. “Yeah. One.”

Taehyung blinked, looking from one to the other. “Wait—what? But the other day you came late with... I mean, you didn’t exactly deny it.”

It was true. He had let them assume things. Let silence fill in the blanks when he hadn’t been ready to explain. Of course Namjoon was a given so the other night would be just one of many others in the eyes of Taehyung. Seokjin lifted his glass and sighed, choosing his words carefully—honest, but with just enough distance to keep it safe. “Not lying,” he said evenly. “Believe it or not, there are ways to let things get… heated, and still not go all the way. I mean late is not laid .”

He paused, then added with a smirk in, “You're too young to know, my dear.”

Jungkook glanced sideways. “Ok fine, just surprised” he said voice low.

Taehyung raised his hands, half-amused. “Alright, alright. Damn hyung, you really know things.”

Seokjin smiled through it, deciding this was the perfect moment to steer into slightly more dangerous territory. He tilted his head slightly toward Jungkook, who was fidgeting in his seat. In a way, he had started it. “Your turn,” he said, voice full of mischief. “Favorite position? And you know what I mean.”

Jungkook’s ears turned red instantly. He blinked. “M—Missionary.”

Taehyung howled.

Yoongi took a drink without comment.

Seokjin smirked and leaned in just slightly. “Classic. Respectable.”

Yoongi cleared his throat. “Alright, Seokjin. Truth or dare.”

Seokjin narrowed his eyes. “I just went.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “It's a new round.”

Seokjin sighed dramatically. “Fine. Dare.”

Yoongi didn’t miss a beat. “Simulate the sound you make when you come.”

Taehyung choked on his drink. Jungkook’s mouth fell open.

Seokjin stared at Yoongi. “There are two literal babies in this room.”

“I’m unbothered,” Taehyung said, raising a hand. “I have a very good therapist. This is for science.”

Jungkook glanced between them, eyes wide. Yoongi lifted his glass in a toast.

With a theatrical groan, Seokjin pushed himself onto the floor, sprawled like he was accepting an Oscar. He paused for maximum effect—one hand draped over his forehead, eyes closed in mock ecstasy—then let out a high, breathy moan that cracked halfway through. A shaky gasp followed, then a groan that started low and climbed until it broke into stuttered, panting breaths. It was shameless. And absurdly convincing. He was a pro after all.

Taehyung shrieked and launched a pillow at him. “Hyung! Stop! I regret everything—now I really do need a psychiatrist!”

Everyone broke into laughter.

When it finally settled, Yoongi was grinning. “Jungkook. Truth or dare.”

Jungkook, still red in the face, bit his lip and said, “Dare.”

Taehyung didn’t miss a beat. “Call your crush.”

Jungkook arched a brow. “You’re evil.”

“You picked dare,” Taehyung said with his sweet boxy smile.

Jungkook sighed, but reached for his phone. “Fine. But this stays between us.”

All three solemnly raised their hands. “We swear.”

Seokjin was interested, actually. But in his current state—tipsy, warm, and wrapped in a tension he couldn’t name—he didn’t stop long enough to let it bother him.

He scrolled, tapped, and brought the phone to his ear. 

Seconds later, Seokjin’s phone lit up.

They all looked the name on the screen: Jeon Jungkook .

Taehyung gasped. Yoongi blinked. Seokjin stared.

Jungkook didn’t flinch. Just smiled, slow and mischievous. He let it ringed three times and then hung up.

“You already knew,” he said, his nose scrunching slightly as he tilted his head, voice soft but firm, “but you keep forgetting. Or maybe you just don’t want to acknowledge it.” His knee brushed gently against Seokjin’s under the table—a touch so small it could’ve been accidental.

Seokjin’s brain short-circuited. His face gave nothing, but his thoughts were chaos.

Jungkook turned. “Yoongi. Truth or dare.”

Yoongi, eyes still on Seokjin, said, “Dare.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “Show us your phone home screen.”

Yoongi didn’t respond. He focused his gaze on Jungkook while communicating something unspoken.

Finally, he stood, walked over to Taehyung, and took his hand.

“Come with me.”

Taehyung blinked but followed. 

The door to the main room clicked shut behind them.

Seokjin and Jungkook were alone.

"What’s on his home screen?" Seokjin asked, blinking in confusion. He’d never noticed—Yoongi used a privacy screen, and Seokjin had never been one to pry.

Jungkook just smirked, eyes flicking toward the closed door. "He’s been obsessed with this IG artist for years. His home screen is always his latest post."

Seokjin blinked again, then let out a quiet breath. There was something reassuring in that—something that told him he didn’t need to worry about his cousin. Or his friend.

He leaned back, bracing his weight on his arms and letting himself breathe a little easier.

“Truth or dare,” Jungkook said, his voice lower now.

Seokjin leaned his head on his left shoulder, “We’re still playing?”

Jungkook was biting at his piercing again, the metal catching faintly in the dim light. He looked at Seokjin, his smile lazy, teasing.

“Okay, fine,” Seokjin sighed, “Dare.”

Jungkook leaned forward. “I dare you to keep pretending you’re not interested in me.”

Seokjin let out a breath. “Pass.”

“Truth or punishment,” Jungkook countered.

“Hey. It’s my turn,” Seokjin deflected.

“It's not,” Jungkook said. 

Seokjin exhaled, defeated. “Truth.”

Jungkook didn’t blink. “Do you want to kiss me?”

Seokjin licked his lips. “No.”

Jungkook’s brows lifted.

“But my brain and my lips,” Seokjin added, “are apparently in disagreement.”

Seokjin narrowed his eyes. “Truth or dare?”

Jungkook raised his brow. “If the dare doesn’t include a kiss, I’m passing.”

Seokjin stared at him, pulse hammering.

“This game is stupid,” he whispered, almost breathless.

Jungkook didn’t move. His voice was quiet, almost amused. “It was your idea.”

“I’m—” Seokjin broke off, eyes flicking to the closed bedroom door. “You’re younger than me.”

Jungkook’s smile turned faint. “I’m an adult, Seokjin. I know what I want. And I’ll remember every second of it.”

Seokjin’s breath caught. The lack of honorifics felt a little strong. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested against his thigh, and he looked away for a heartbeat too long.

Jungkook didn’t stand. He just leaned in slowly where he sat, a subtle shift, deliberate but not rushed. His hand came up between them, just hovering.

There was still time to pull away. To laugh. To change the subject.

But Seokjin didn’t move. He didn’t even dare to breathe.

The distance closed.

“You can still back out,” Jungkook said, voice low, eyes locked on his.

Seokjin didn’t answer.

So Jungkook reached out, hand grazing his jaw—not possessive, not demanding. Fingers warm. Thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone.

“Tell me to stop.”

Seokjin already knew he'd say that.

Jungkook leaned in.

Not fast. Not soft.

The kiss landed light—just a press of lips. A question. A pull. And then he pulled back, just enough to look at him.

Seokjin’s heart thundered in his chest. It felt deafening, like maybe Jungkook could hear it too.

And for some reason, he closed his eyes again.

Jungkook let out a soft sound—a nasal chuckle, low and short.

Then his mouth found Seokjin’s again, more certain this time.

His hand slid from Seokjin’s cheek to his neck, then his nape, fingers threading through hair, anchoring him.

The kiss deepened.

Seokjin opened his lips slightly, just enough to catch Jungkook’s bottom lip—and the sharp press of the piercing there. He couldn’t help it; his tongue brushed over it, tasting.

That was all it took.

Jungkook shifted forward, pushing Seokjin down gently onto his back, bodies aligned in a breathless press. One of his hands caught Seokjin’s wrist and pinned it above his head, fingers tight but not cruel.

Seokjin gasped softly.

And Jungkook kissed him like he meant it.

Seokjin didn’t remember ever being kissed like that—with urgency, with need. Not like a question, but like an answer someone had been waiting to give for too long.

A quiet, helpless sound escaped from his throat—a small moan that he couldn’t bite down in time. Jungkook pulled back just slightly, enough to breathe, and then his mouth moved lower.

Down the edge of Seokjin’s jaw. To the sensitive skin of his neck.

His lips weren’t possessive. They weren’t rough. They were warm , and wet , and intentional —pressing kisses into the hollow of Seokjin’s throat, down to his collarbone.

Seokjin’s breath hitched, his body arching slightly under the attention.

Jungkook hovered again, lips parted, breath mixing with Seokjin’s.

“Should I stop?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Seokjin’s chest tightened.

He had imagined this. Not often, but enough to know exactly what Jungkook would say. Enough to know he wouldn’t be able to stop if it happened.

And just like in every fantasy he’d refused to admit to.

He knew they couldn’t stay there. Not in the middle of Taehyung’s living room.

Jin blinked, breathless. “I think we should do this somewhere else,” he murmured.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to him, understanding immediately. “Where?”

“I mean… we can’t. I don’t have…” Seokjin’s face flushed crimson. “Supplies.”

Jungkook’s brow lifted, the corner of his mouth curving. “We can go to my place. If you want.” Then added, quieter, “Or we could...”

Whatever Jungkook had been about to offer, Seokjin didn’t want to hear it.

His day had been shit for hours. He didn’t want another day.

“Your place sounds good,” Seokjin said.

They straightened their clothes, hands a little shaky, and Seokjin grabbed a hoodie before they quietly slipped out.

A taxi was waiting.

***

Seokjin didn’t remember much about the taxi ride. Just the faint smell of cigarette smoke from Jungkook’s jacket, and the way the city lights bled into each other like watercolors through the window. By the time they reached Jungkook’s building, the streets were quiet, the kind of quiet that settles when the night has gone too deep to be anything but honest.

He followed Jungkook up the stairs, not because he didn’t know the way. He did. By now, he could find that apartment blindfolded. But tonight it felt different.

Jungkook walked ahead, hoodie slightly pushed back, exposing the curve of his neck. His skin was golden, warm, and unbothered by the cold air. The way he moved, made Seokjin's breath catch in his throat. He shouldn’t be looking. He should know better.

He was younger.

Five years, that was it. Not enough to matter in theory, but Seokjin's brain still clung to it like a life raft. He was younger than Taehyung. And Taehyung, in Seokjin’s head, was a baby. A walking chaos of mismatched socks and sketchbooks and clumsy affection. If Taehyung was a baby, what did that make Jungkook?

But then he remembered tonight. The way Taehyung had looked at Yoongi—eyes soft, mouth tilted in a private kind of smile. The way he sipped his drink like it was part of the performance, like every movement had been curated to draw attention. He’d worn a wide-neck shirt that slid off one shoulder and torn skinny jeans that clung to him like paint. Seokjin wasn’t blind. He wasn’t innocent. He was just pretending not to see what was obvious.

Besides, Jungkook wasn’t a child.

Not with the way he looked at him.

Not with the way his hands felt when they held Jin by the elbow earlier, firm but careful, warm against his coat. Not with the way he stood next to him now, unlocking the apartment door with a glance over his shoulder, as if to say are you still with me?

He was.

And that was the worst part.

He’d only ever been with Namjoon.

Only ever loved Namjoon.

And that was still true, in a way. The pain in his chest every time Namjoon crept into his thoughts was evidence enough. But what he felt now wasn’t pain. It was heat. Want. Something low and unyielding curling in his stomach whenever Jungkook laughed too loudly or looked at him like he was something worth tasting. He was tempted.

With Yi Kyun, it had been different. Seokjin had gone to him because he was tired. He thought maybe if someone touched him hard enough, he’d forget the way Namjoon used to. He let himself be kissed, let himself be lead, not because he wanted it, but because he was desperate for something to fill the silence Namjoon left behind.

Jungkook wasn’t an excuse to feel less lonely.

He made Seokjin feel seen, not just looked at. His eyes didn’t linger on Seokjin’s mouth like he was waiting for it to open, they watched him, full of something like awe. His hands didn’t fumble. They held.

"You look like you’re about to run," Jungkook said quietly, standing in the doorway.

Seokjin met his gaze without stepping back. His shoulders were squared, his chin lifted, and though he was slightly taller than Jungkook, it didn’t feel like a power play. With a steady breath and deliberate movement, Seokjin stepped forward and entered the apartment first.

"I’m not."

Jungkook watched him step inside, a flicker of something like satisfaction dancing across his face. He let the door swing slowly shut behind them, his mouth curling into a small, humor-tinged smile.

"Good to know," he murmured, voice low and pleased. Then he clicked the lock shut with quiet finality.

The apartment was dimly lit, warm in a way that felt deliberate. Jungkook toed off his shoes and walked into the living room with ease, leaving space for Seokjin to follow at his own pace.

When he did, Jungkook turned.

"Just so you know," he said, voice low, a little rough, "I’ll do whatever you want. However you want. You can tell me to stop at any time. Or tell me where to touch you. Or let me take care of you. I don’t mind going down. I don’t mind being under. I'll do whatever you want."

Seokjin felt his breath leave him in a slow, shuddering exhale.

Jungkook stepped closer, but not enough to close the gap. His voice dropped just a little more.

"Tell me what you want, hyung."

He was still looking at him with that same mix of desire and reverence.

Seokjin didn’t know what he wanted—at least, not in clear terms. But he could feel something forming at the edge of knowing, like the warmth before a spark. He swallowed hard, his voice low.

"Truth or dare?"

Jungkook's lips parted in surprise, then curved into a smirk. "Dare," he said, stepping closer—too close. Close enough that Seokjin could feel the warmth of his breath.

Seokjin blinked once, twice, then found his voice again. "Take me to your room."

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He reached for Seokjin’s wrist, gentle but firm, his fingers curling around the delicate bones like a promise. He walked him backward, one slow step at a time, eyes never leaving his face. Seokjin’s back hit the doorframe with a soft thud, and then Jungkook’s hand slid behind him, locking the door with a soft click.

Jungkook’s voice dropped, the words like velvet. "Truth or dare?"

Seokjin inhaled slowly. "Truth."

Jungkook tilted his head, eyes dark with meaning. "Do you want to kiss me now? Or are your lips still waiting for your thoughts to catch up?"

That pulled a startled breath from Seokjin, half a laugh, half a shudder. He looked down for a moment, gathering the fragments of his bravado, then met Jungkook’s eyes again.

"Remember the rules," he said, voice a little breathless, trying to stall. "No more kissing declarations unless someone’s taking their shirt off."

His smile deepened, but he didn’t call him out—at least not directly. Just stepped back half a pace, letting the air stretch between them before tilting his head with theatrical innocence.

"Then I guess you owe me a truth," he said. "Or a punishment."

Seokjin froze. He didn’t want to lie, but the truth felt like a precipice he wasn’t ready to fall from.

So he whispered, "Truth."

Jungkook straightened slightly, a spark of interest lighting up his face.

"Are you ready to answer now? Or still trying to outsmart the rules?"

Seokjin’s lips parted to respond, but nothing came out.

He lifted a finger instead. "The rule still stands," he managed, breath hitching. "No declarations without shirt removal."

Jungkook’s brow rose. Then, without missing a beat, he reached behind his neck and tugged the hoodie and t-shirt off in one smooth motion, revealing warm skin and a constellation of inked stories across his right arm.

He tossed the clothes to the side casually. "There. Now, answer. What do you want hyung?"

Seokjin looked up at him, eyes glazed with want, voice thready. "I want—"

He swallowed. His cheeks were flushed. "I want you to fuck me."

Jungkook exhaled slowly, and a slow, almost reverent smile spread across his face. "Okay," he said softly.

And with one fluid motion, Jungkook slipped his fingers beneath the hem of Seokjin’s shirt. He didn’t ask—not with words. Just lifted his brows slightly, giving Seokjin the space to say no.

But Seokjin didn’t move.

So Jungkook peeled the shirt upward, slow and reverent, baring his chest inch by inch until he tugged it free and let it fall to the floor. The heather wasn’t even on and he was about to combust.

He didn’t remember moving, only that their mouths met in a kiss so immediate, so searing, it stole the breath from his lungs. It was messy, hungry, devastating.

He hadn’t felt hunger like this in years. His hands roamed with abandon, finding purchase on Jungkook’s bare skin—shoulders, chest, the taut curve of his waist. Jungkook kissed like he meant to unravel him, like every slide of his tongue was a question Seokjin hadn’t dared to ask before.

Jungkook pulled him in closer, their bodies aligning, hips brushing with a friction that made Seokjin gasp. Jungkook’s hands settled on his lower back, guiding but not forcing, grounding him as much as igniting.

Seokjin stumbled slightly as the backs of his legs hit the bedframe. He sat, then lay back as Jungkook hovered above him, eyes never leaving his face.

Clothes were shed in between kisses—Seokjin’s pants unbuttoned with nimble fingers. Jungkook took his time, pausing to mouth at his skin, tasting the heat along his chest, the jut of his hips. Every inch worshiped.

When Seokjin was finally bare, breathless, wrecked with anticipation, Jungkook settled beside him, hand splayed low across his stomach.

"Still sure?" he whispered, voice rough.

"Yes," Seokjin breathed, barely able to form the word.

Jungkook reached for the lube in the nightstand drawer without breaking eye contact. "Then tell me how you want it. Slow? Rough? Soft? I can be whatever you need."

Seokjin reached up, threading his fingers behind Jungkook's neck, voice trembling with want. "I want you deep. I want to feel you tomorrow."

That made Jungkook groan—deep, low, reverent. "Then let me take care of you, hyung. Just stay with me."

And Seokjin did. Jungkook gently guided him further up the bed, making sure he was comfortable before leaning down, trailing open-mouthed kisses across Seokjin’s chest. His tongue circled a nipple, then bit down just enough to make Seokjin arch and gasp.

It had been so long since Seokjin had felt this exposed, this seen. He wasn’t used to being watched like this—studied. And now, lying bare under Jungkook’s gaze, he was all too aware of the softness of his body, of how much weight he’d lost. His waist looked almost delicate compared to the athletic cut of Jungkook’s golden skin, lean muscle and sharp collarbones.

He shifted slightly, suddenly self-conscious.

But Jungkook looked at him like he was a painting.

"You’re beautiful," he murmured, with a kind of awe that made Seokjin’s chest ache.

Then he moved lower, his hand wrapping around Seokjin’s cock, already painfully hard. The first stroke was enough to make Seokjin moan, his hips twitching.

"So pretty," Jungkook said, lips brushing the head.

"Stop saying that," Seokjin hissed, flustered. “Are we doing this or not?”

Jungkook laughed, low and wicked. "You’re bossy," he teased. "That’s okay. I kind of like it."

Seokjin opened his mouth to retort, but the thought disappeared the moment Jungkook’s mouth closed around him.

Wet. Hot. Divine.

Jungkook sucked slow, intentional, taking his time. He hollowed his cheeks, letting his lips slide down, tongue working in tandem. One hand stroked what he couldn’t take, while the other gripped Seokjin’s thigh, guiding it up and over his shoulder. Their eyes met. It was too much. It had been too long since the last time.

Seokjin furrowed his brow, gasping. "Stop—or I’m not going to last."

Jungkook pulled back with a wet pop and a grin. "Okay."

He reached for the lube, slicking his fingers generously. His hand slid lower, parting Seokjin’s thighs with care. The first finger circled, then slowly breached him, making Seokjin hiss.

Why the fuck were his fingers so long?

"Been a while?" Jungkook asked, voice casual.

Seokjin glared. "Not something I need to answer."

Jungkook raised a brow. "Truth or dare?"

Seokjin huffed a laugh. "Pass."

"No passes," Jungkook said, sliding in a second finger.

Seokjin writhed, one hand clutching a pillow, the other tangled in the blanket.

The third finger made him tremble, and when Jungkook curled just right—

"Fuck," Seokjin gasped, body arching. That was it. That was the spot.

"Enough," he panted. "Just get in."

"Not yet," Jungkook said, soothing a hand over his thigh. "I want this to feel good, not just bearable."

"Damn brat."

Jungkook only chuckled, adjusting Seokjin's legs until they were over his shoulders. He was stronger than he looked. Seokjin blinked up at him, dazed.

When Jungkook finally removed his fingers, the emptiness was sharp. But then came the crinkle of a condom wrapper, the cool slide of more lube.

He knelt between Seokjin’s spread thighs, cock heavy and flushed, the thick length of it glistening with lube. His body was a sculpted promise—shoulders broad, torso gleaming with sweat, like a war god poised for conquest. The air around him thrummed with intent.

Seokjin lay beneath him, completely on his back, exposed and trembling. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way Jungkook looked above him—glorious, focused, and almost terrifying in his determination. There was nowhere to run, no part of him left untouched by the gravity of this moment.

Jungkook gripped his thighs, thumbs stroking over his skin before aligning himself at Seokjin’s entrance. He tugged once, twice at his shaft before positioning.

"You’re so fucking tight," he growled, pushing in slowly.

The stretch burned in the best way. Seokjin gasped, clenching at the sheets as inch by inch, Jungkook filled him, every nerve lit with overwhelming sensation.

It was too much.

He pushed in slow. Seokjin clung to the sheets, head falling back as the stretch filled him. He wasn’t even halfway and he already felt full.

"I’m not going to last," Seokjin groaned.

"Good," Jungkook bit out. "Because I won’t either."

The first few thrusts were slow, deliberate—a careful search for rhythm. But soon, Jungkook found it. Seokjin heard himself moaning, loud and helpless, and instinctively tried to muffle the sound with the back of his arm—only to feel it seized and pinned firmly above his head.

"Let me hear you," Jungkook growled, voice rough and low, breath hot against Seokjin’s ear. 

Jungkook’s hips moved with growing confidence, each roll deep and smooth, dragging across every oversensitive nerve. The stretch gave way to a searing, exquisite pressure, and Seokjin moaned again, the sound ripped from him as his body trembled beneath the weight of it all. He was full, dizzy, undone—each thrust a command, each breath a surrender.

Jungkook adjusted slightly, angling his thrusts until the head of his cock hit Seokjin’s prostate dead-on. The breath punched out of Seokjin, fingers scrabbling at his waist before finding purchase on his hips, and then his back, tracing the sweat-slick curve of his spine. Jungkook was beautiful like this—lost in sensation, lips parted and wet, worrying that damn piercing between his teeth, eyes half-lidded and dazed with lust.

He gripped Seokjin harder, pulling him in with every snap of his hips. The pace grew relentless—faster, harder, but never careless. Their bodies moved in sync, the air filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, soft moans and gasped names. Seokjin felt himself unraveling, dizzy and wrecked, completely consumed by the rhythm, by the warmth of Jungkook's body on top of his, around him, inside him.

He was gone. Entirely gone in him.

Seokjin dug his free fingers into Jungkook’s shoulders, moaning raggedly as Jungkook shifted his weight, bracing his elbows beside Seokjin’s head to drive in deeper—direct, relentless, unyielding. Each thrust struck his prostate with cruel precision, and Seokjin cried out, the pleasure blinding. Jungkook bent low, mouth latching onto his clavicle, kissing and sucking and dragging his tongue along the flushed skin of his neck.

Seokjin tilted his head back, giving him everything.

It was dizzying—heat bloomed in his lower belly, sharp and intense, then spiraled outward until his limbs trembled. The fire built, white-hot and consuming, and when it broke, it shattered him. He came with a sob, every muscle taut, toes curling, his vision narrowing to bright, searing light.

And through it all, he saw Jungkook.

Face drawn in ecstasy, breath stuttering, mouth parted as he spilled inside him, hips jerking uncontrollably. He was beautiful—wrecked and feral, every sound dragged from somewhere deep in his chest.

It undid Seokjin all over again.

Seokjin barely had time to breathe. His whole body tensed, a white-hot wave building low in his belly until it crashed, pleasure exploding through every nerve like wildfire. His toes curled, fingers clawed at Jungkook’s back, and his voice broke on a high, desperate moan as his orgasm ripped through him, leaving him trembling.

In the haze of release, he caught sight of Jungkook—face scrunched in pleasure, lips parted with a choked whimper, eyes locked as he came deep inside him, hips stuttering with each pulse.

The sound he made—half growl, half gasp—was devastating.

And the way he looked at Seokjin while coming undone? It was almost too much to bear.

Jungkook collapsed onto him, breathless, sweat-soaked, chest heaving.

His hair was stuck to his forehead, lips red, eyes unfocused.

Seokjin blinked up at him, dazed.

What a fucking view.

They stayed like that for a long moment, catching their breath, limbs tangled, sweat cooling between them. Eventually, Jungkook shifted and reached for a towel from the bathroom. He cleaned Seokjin with quiet care, the gesture oddly tender after so much intensity.

When he returned to the bed, he didn’t speak. Just laid down beside Seokjin.

Jungkook's hand moved slowly, brushing through Seokjin’s sweat hair. His touch was idle at first, then more deliberate, fingers carding with gentle rhythm.

"Why purple?" he asked quietly, thumb tracing a strand near the roots.

Seokjin let out a breath. "Tae’s idea. Something about emotional rebirth and saturated nostalgia. Or maybe he just wanted me to stop looking like a ghost."

Jungkook hummed, soft and genuine. "I like it. Suits you."

Seokjin flushed. It wasn’t the compliment. It was the sincerity. Too bare, too direct. He looked away, but Jungkook kept touching his hair, unbothered.

Their eyes met again. Jungkook didn’t smile, but his gaze stayed steady.

Seokjin sighed, exhausted but not uncomfortable. "I should shower."

"You want to?" Jungkook asked, voice still low.

"Yeah," Seokjin said. "Someday."

Jungkook laughed, and fuck, his smile was unfair—wide, golden, effortless.

The sound sliced through the quiet like a blade.

Seokjin blinked, confused for a second—until he remembered where he’d left his phone: somewhere in the living room. It kept ringing, sharp and metallic, a default tone because he hadn’t bothered to choose anything better. It echoed in the space between them.

He started to sit up, groaning a little. "I’ll get it."

But Jungkook shifted beside him. "I’ll bring it," he said, already moving off the bed.

The sound stopped.

Seokjin paused mid-motion. Huh. He was almost sure Jungkook had gotten there in time. 

There was a beat of silence. Then—

The ringtone blared again.

"Who is it?" Seokjin called, voice hoarse from sex.

Jungkook stepped into the doorway, holding the phone loosely in one hand. His expression was carefully blank.

He crossed the room and handed it over.

Seokjin didn’t understand until he looked down at the screen.

Namjoon.

What?

Why was Namjoon calling? The roaming charges alone were absurd. And they hadn’t talked on the phone since—well, in forever. Everything had been through messages. 

The ringtone shrieked again—cheap, grating.

He stared at it.

He carefully picked it up. "Hello?" he answered, cautious.

A voice burst through the line—off-key, loud, and painfully earnest.

"Happy birthdaaay to you... happy birthdaaay to youuuu—"

Seokjin pulled the phone slightly away from his ear, wincing. Namjoon’s singing was many things, but in tune wasn’t one of them.

Still, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. No one could sing that song decently. Namjoon managed to sound like he was trying his best and doing his worst at the same time.

"Happy birthday, starlight," Namjoon finished, soft and affectionate.

The warmth drained from Seokjin’s body like water.

Starlight.

His stomach twisted into cold lead. He forced the word out. "Thanks."

"I know it’s a weird hour, but… I couldn’t let the day end without hearing your voice."

Seokjin blinked, mouth dry. "Why are you calling? Roaming’s insane."

"Worth every cent," Namjoon said without missing a beat. "I missed you, Jin."

Seokjin said nothing.

In his periphery, he became aware of Jungkook—standing by the door in nothing but gray pajama pants, hair tousled, watching him. His expression was unreadable, eyes locked on Seokjin’s face like he was trying to interpret each breath.

Seokjin must’ve looked wrecked, because Jungkook’s gaze lingered a moment longer before he turned and walked into the bathroom. A second later, the sound of the shower filled the room.

Namjoon’s voice returned to his ear. "How was your day? Did you do something special? Sorry I couldn’t call earlier—we were stuck closing the month, had to work through Saturday."

Seokjin swallowed. His head was too full of noise. "I didn’t expect your call."

"Just because we’re not together officially doesn’t mean I don’t think about you."

Seokjin nodded, even though Namjoon couldn’t see it. "Thanks for calling."

There was a pause. Then Namjoon said it again, lower this time. "Happy birthday, starlight."

Seokjin’s fingers tightened around the phone. He closed his eyes.

"Don’t call me that."

"Why not?"

Seokjin hesitated. The truth felt like too much.

"I just don’t like it anymore," he said softly.

There was another pause on the line. Then Namjoon exhaled. "Okay. I’ll stop."

"Thanks," Seokjin murmured. "I’ll text you later."

"Sure," Namjoon replied, voice gentle. "Happy birthday, Jin."

Seokjin ended the call.

He sat for a while, phone resting on his chest, the distant sound of water still filling the silence around him.

It had been good to hear Namjoon’s voice.

And that made everything worse.

His feelings were a mess—twisted, clashing, impossible to label. He let himself drown in the confusion for a moment longer.

Then the water stopped.

Seokjin stared at the closed bathroom door, pulse thudding dully in his ears. He moved slowly, carefully—pulling on his clothes one piece at a time. Quiet hands, quiet thoughts.

Seokjin was gone before Jungkook stepped out of the bathroom.

Chapter Text

The cold night air hit him like a wall.

He didn’t take the elevator. He didn’t even bother putting his shirt back on—just grabbed his hoodie and ran, shoes half-tied, heart beating like it wanted out. The moment the building doors shut behind him, Seokjin slowed down, walking blindly into the street with a weight on his chest and a fire in his face.

What the hell had just happened?

He had slept with Jungkook.

No. Not just "slept". Fucked. Moaned. Gave himself away. He could blame the boost, but then he wasn’t wasted or anything near that. He was all the way conscious. 

And it had been good. Unfairly good.

His skin still buzzed where Jungkook had touched him. His thighs ached in that delicious way that made his knees feel unstable. And the way the younger man looked at him... Like he was something Jungkook had dreamed of and finally had under his fingertips.

And that was terrifying.

He turned down a narrow alley, one he vaguely remembered while passing by, and leaned against a closed noodle shop, trying to slow his breathing. It didn’t help. The adrenaline from their encounter was still rushing through him. But beneath that... was the other feeling.

The panic.

Because it wasn’t just the sex. It was everything that came before it.

Jungkook had been around too often. Too available. Too present. Helping with dishes. Inviting him to play games. Cooking without asking. Dropping casual compliments with no expectations. Looking at him like... like what exactly?

Seokjin wasn’t stupid.

He knew when someone was paying attention. And Jungkook’s attention was a spotlight—bright, focused, and warm in ways that made him want to crawl toward it just to feel something again.

But what did any of it mean?

A crush?

Jungkook had said he had a crush on him.

What was that, really? Something mild? Harmless? Something you got over?

Because if that was all it was, why did Jungkook look so disappointed when he saw the name on Seokjin’s phone?

Namjoon.

He hadn’t expected Jungkook to recognize the name. He never mentioned Namjoon, never talked about him. But who else would be calling at such an ungodly hour? Of course Jungkook figured it out. Of fucking course he did.

He really was a little genius. Which was annoying. And kind of hot. God, did Seokjin have a thing for smart guys? 

Was that a kink? A fetish? Probably. Definitely.

Seokjin had seen the look in Jungkook’s eyes. Realization, maybe. That he wasn’t the only one haunting Seokjin’s nights.

He groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. A streetlight flickered above him. A dog barked in the distance. It was late at night but still people rambled around the chaotic city.

And he wearing a thin hoodie in the middle of Seoul in full winter like a damn idiot.

What were they, anyway?

He and Namjoon were "on a break." That had been the agreement.

Time. Space.

But Namjoon still called. Still texted. Still said things like "I miss you" and "I hope you’re eating" and "Sweet dreams, Starlight."

And Seokjin answered. Every time.

Because he wanted to believe it wasn’t over. That maybe time apart was just a comma. A pause in the sentence of their forever.

Because Namjoon was home. Or he had been.

For nine years, Seokjin had built a life around him.

And now?

He was spiraling. With no road map. With Jungkook, of all people, standing at the next junction with open arms and warm eyes and strong hands that felt too damn good.

Seokjin started walking again. Aimless. Avoiding his reflection in every glass window he passed.

What if it was just for this one night?

Is that what they were now? Was that the code?

He didn’t know. Didn’t know the rules. Relationships had changed since his twenties. People were casual. Open. "No labels."

What if Jungkook had no intention of anything beyond this?

What if he was the one catching...

He stopped in his tracks.

"No. Nope. Not doing this," he muttered, slapping his cheeks lightly. "We are not catching anything except a cold."

He had just recovered from a nasty cold, and for one insane moment, he actually hoped it was coming back. Please let it be allergies, he thought. Anything but feelings.

He was battling with them already. This was a bad joke.

And Seokjin had just run.

Again.

Because that’s what he did. Escape. Evade. Make it a problem for Future Jin.

Only now, Future Jin was here. And he wanted to throw himself into the Han River.

His phone buzzed.

A text. 

Jungkook : You left. Is everything okay?

Of course he wasn’t. But how do you say that? How do you say, "Hey, sorry I ran out half-naked after mind-blowing sex and ignored you because my ex called from another country and I have no idea what I’m doing with my life"?

He locked the screen instead. Sighed. Rested his head against the cold wall.

Jin: “I’m sorry I left like that. It wasn’t fair to you. I just… panicked. I’ll explain, if that’s okay.”

Whenever he figured his own shit first. 

Until he figured out who the hell he was supposed to be to either of them.

His head throbbed. His chest ached. And he needed a nap. Or a stiff drink. Or to vanish.

The guilt. The lust. The hope. The shame. The longing.

And under it all...

A tiny, stubborn, stupid spark of wanting.

He wanted Jungkook.

He missed Namjoon.

He hated this.

He was alive.

And that sucked.

There was no moon tonight.

He clutched his hoodie tighter, fingers trembling. The wind was brutal—cutting through the layers like paper. His ears ached. His skin burned. His lungs protested with every breath.

But the pain in his chest—

That was worse.

Because he remembered.

Everything.

And tonight—tonight the sky offered him nothing.

He stopped walking. Just for a second. On the sidewalk outside Taehyung’s building.

He pressed a hand to his chest.

His breath hitched. His vision blurred.

***

Memory

The apartment was quiet.

Namjoon had turned off the TV an hour ago, but neither of them had moved since. The soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen was the only sound anchoring them to the present, to something mundane. Outside, the world was dim—winter already beginning to press its weight into the city, the kind of chill that crawled under doors and settled into bones.

Seokjin was lying on the couch, curled into Namjoon’s side, his cheek resting just below the curve of Namjoon’s shoulder. One of Namjoon’s arms wrapped around him, the other lazily tracing patterns on Seokjin’s hipbone over the thin cotton of his sleep pants.

He could feel the way Namjoon’s fingers paused sometimes, the way his breathing slowed, the way he tilted his head every so often—listening, waiting. They had stopped talking a while ago, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of unsaid things.

Namjoon was leaving the next morning.

Just a weekend trip with his family—an anniversary celebration for his parents, booked months ago. Seokjin hadn’t been invited. He never was.

He hadn’t expected to be.

And yet… it still hurt.

“You should go to bed,” Namjoon murmured eventually, his voice soft against the shell of Seokjin’s ear.

“I’m already here,” Seokjin whispered, not moving. “Don’t wanna get up.”

Namjoon chuckled, low and warm. “I meant in an actual bed. With blankets. Where humans sleep.”

“You’re assuming I’m still human.”

Namjoon hummed, a soft vibration in his chest. “You’re right. You’re far too beautiful for that.”

Seokjin groaned into his chest. “Gross. Go to your trip already.”

Namjoon didn’t laugh. He only held him tighter.

They lay like that for a while longer, the silence stretching again. Outside, moonlight filtered in through the blinds—thin slivers of silver striping the hardwood floor. The room felt suspended in time, like a snow globe someone had shaken and then abandoned, letting everything settle quietly back into place.

“I don’t think I would’ve gone,” Namjoon said eventually, barely audible. “If you hadn’t told me to.”

Seokjin stayed quiet.

He had insisted, earlier that day. Not because he wanted Namjoon gone, but because some part of him—older, sadder, wiser—understood what it meant. Namjoon’s family didn’t know about them. Not really. Not officially. And the few hints they did have, they ignored with a quiet precision Seokjin had long grown used to.

He didn’t belong there. And Namjoon didn’t want to go without him.

But Seokjin had smiled and said, “It’s okay. You should go. You should be with them.”

Because even if it hurt, it was the right thing to do.

“I know it’s not fair,” Namjoon said now, fingers resuming their slow path across Seokjin’s skin. “That you always have to be the one to understand.”

Seokjin swallowed.

“It’s not your fault,” he whispered. “It’s just... complicated.”

Namjoon shifted slightly, pulling back enough to look at him. His eyes were dark in the dim light, but clear.

“It shouldn’t be.”

Seokjin offered a tired smile. “But it is.”

Namjoon’s hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing lightly beneath his eye.

“You know what I hate the most?” he murmured. “That I get to love you fully, freely, when it’s just us. But out there... I pretend. And you let me.”

Seokjin blinked.

He didn’t know how to respond to that. Not without breaking a little more.

Namjoon leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. “You shouldn’t have to make it easier for me.”

“You make it easier for me all the time,” Seokjin said quietly. “You just don’t see it.”

Namjoon exhaled, long and heavy.

Then, without another word, he sat up, pulling Seokjin gently with him.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for a blanket and draping it over Seokjin’s shoulders. “Let’s go outside.”

Seokjin frowned. “It’s freezing.”

“Exactly,” Namjoon said, already tugging him toward the tiny balcony. “We’ll be cold and poetic.”

Seokjin followed with a reluctant sigh.

The December air bit at their skin the moment they stepped outside, sharp and unforgiving. Seokjin pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, teeth chattering slightly.

But the sky—

The sky was clear.

Stars scattered like sugar across the black canvas. And the moon… round and full, luminous, casting pale light across the rooftops.

Namjoon sat first, tugging Seokjin down between his legs, wrapping both arms around his waist and burying his face in the crook of Seokjin’s neck.

They stayed like that for a while, shivering but silent.

“She’s always there, you know,” Namjoon said suddenly, voice low.

Seokjin tilted his head slightly. “Who?”

“The moon.”

Seokjin smiled faintly. “Technically, she disappears once a month.”

“Sure,” Namjoon conceded. “But even when you can’t see her, she’s still there. Just... hidden. Waiting.”

Seokjin didn’t respond.

Namjoon shifted, resting his chin on Seokjin’s shoulder.

“I met you under a full moon,” he said. 

Seokjin huffed a soft laugh. “You mean the one where you said I shined brighter than any star you’d ever seen?”

Namjoon groaned. “Don’t bring that up.”

“You were so serious.”

“I was also very sleep-deprived.”

Seokjin smiled, but his heart thudded in his chest.

Namjoon tightened his grip. “Ever since then, whenever I see the moon, I think of you. Not like a star, not something far away. But like… something that stays. That’s always with me. Even when it’s hard to see.”

Seokjin’s breath caught.

Namjoon turned his head, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“So if there’s ever a night when you feel alone, when you feel like I’m too far or you’re too tired to carry everything—we’ll share the moon. And when you see it, you’ll know I’m thinking about you.”

Seokjin didn’t say anything.

He couldn’t.

Namjoon held him closer.

“And if the moon’s not visible?” Seokjin asked, voice shaking.

Namjoon smiled against his skin. “Then remember this night. This promise.”

Seokjin felt his throat close up, a burn starting behind his eyes.

“It’s not forever,” Namjoon said. “Just this weekend.”

But Seokjin already knew.

Some part of him always did.

That their love, however strong, was a small boat in a violent sea. They had fought so hard to keep it afloat—against prejudice, expectations, long nights filled with miscommunication and silence. They had tried. God, they had tried.

And he would keep trying. As long as Namjoon held him like this, as long as he whispered things like this into his hair, he would stay.

Even if it broke him.

***

His body ached in every way possible.

Not just from exhaustion, but from the weight of too many emotions left unchecked. It took a moment to realize where he was, the unfamiliar ceiling swimming into view, the faint warmth of blankets wrapped unevenly around his limbs.

And then it came to him.

The night before.

The cold, the silence, the sight of Yoongi’s shoes still by the door. That asshole. But Jin had smiled at the thought that maybe Yoongi was still around. He should check later.

Jungkook had texted him too. Worried. Honest. His voice still echoed faintly in Seokjin’s head.

Jungkook : You scared me for a second. Just… tell me you got home safe, hyung.

Jin : Home

Then added

Jin : I'm okay.

He reached for his phone, blinking against the brightness of the screen. No new messages.

His stomach grumbled lowly, protesting the lack of food, but his body was reluctant to move. He stayed there for a few minutes longer, watching the light crawl through the curtains, unsure whether he was ready to face whatever came next.

Eventually, he dragged himself out of bed. His joints cracked with every motion. He grimaced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror—hair tousled, skin pale, dark circles clinging beneath his eyes. And the smell—God. He hadn't showered. He stripped off his clothes and stepped under the water, letting it run too hot against his skin, trying to scald the shame away.

Afterward, wrapped in a towel and marginally more human, he made his way to the kitchen, following the faint scent of coffee and something sweet.

Yoongi and Taehyung were there.

Yoongi, hair slightly damp, was flipping hotteok in a skillet like a domestic cryptid. Taehyung sat at the counter, face glowing in the morning light, barefoot and wrapped in a giant cardigan, scrolling through his phone.

Seokjin leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“You’re disgustingly domestic,” he told Yoongi. “What happened to the grumpy lone wolf persona? Now you're flipping pancakes and smelling like sex and commitment?”

Yoongi turned, arching a brow. “I don't smell like nothing and I don’t care what you think. You should be grateful I’m making extra for you.” He jabbed a spatula in Jin’s direction. “When is he coming out?”

Seokjin blinked. “What? Who.”

Yoongi frowned, clearly confused. “You know who?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Where is the kid then? Jungkook—he didn’t crash here?”

Seokjin shrugged as casually as he could. “Probably at his place.”

Yoongi gave him a long look, flipping the hotteok with practiced ease. “Jungkook’s a good kid, Seokjin. Don’t mess with his head just because yours is a mess.”

Seokjin muttered as he sank into the chair beside him, “He’s definitely not a kid.”

Taehyung perked up. “Hyung! You have to see this.”

He turned his phone around.

Instagram. A new post. His.

A candid photo taken in Taehyung's living room the night before. Jin stood near the window, caught unaware, the moon full behind him—its silver light threading through his lilac-streaked hair, making it shimmer like something ethereal. His shirt had a wide collar, exposing delicate collarbones and pale arms, his expression soft, contemplative, mid-laugh. He looked breathtaking.

The caption read simply: "happy birthday hyung.”

The post had already gathered hundreds of likes, with comments stacking by the second:

@taetaeart: he’s glowing fr

@hobi_yeah: okay but WHY do you look 22 here?? rude.

@minzzzing: can someone drop the @ liliac angel??? I need therapy.

@makeitsoju: man of moonlight steals my heart in one frame.

@latenightjun: is he even real? like is this legal??

He scrolled slowly, thumb faltering. A tangle of warmth, tension, and that old ache rising again.

He scrolled.

Compliments. Heart emojis. A few jokes.

Then—

@j_k_ : Hard to believe he’s real sometimes.

@joontype: the most beautiful starlight.

He stopped breathing.

"I’ve gained like 300 followers in just a few hours," Taehyung said, his cheeks squishing his eyes as he beamed at his phone. “You really should get a phone with social media access and a decent camera.”

But then he noticed the way Seokjin’s face tensed, the subtle downturn of his lips.

“I mean… you can have this one,” Taehyung offered quickly. “I was planning to upgrade anyway. You wouldn’t have to spend anything—”

Yoongi cut in, his voice softer, gaze shifting toward Seokjin. “Tae… I don’t think it’s about the phone.” He hesitated, flipping a hotteok with too much focus. “Maybe it's… complicated?”

“Ah,” he whispered. “Complicated doesn’t even start to cover it.”

He turned away under the guise of pouring himself hot cocoa—the only warm drink in the apartment, because Taehyung didn’t drink coffee and Seokjin usually preferred tea. But the chocolate was sweet, rich, and familiar. Comforting in ways he wouldn’t admit out loud.

The mug clinked softly against the counter. His fingers curled tightly around the ceramic, absorbing its heat while his eyes stayed locked on the swirling surface. He didn’t look up. Not yet.

Taehyung turned his phone back to himself but glanced up, eyes full of curiosity and something gentler. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Jin shook his head immediately. “No, thanks.”

They sat together. Ate. Jin, with mock-seriousness, asked if it was official now, and whether Yoongi was planning on asking for permission to date his baby cousin.

Taehyung snorted into his cocoa while Yoongi flipped another hotteok, his ears slightly red.

Jin leaned fully into the role of overprotective cousin, fixing Yoongi with a mock-serious glare. “If you break his heart, he’s going to make devastating art out of the pain and become stupidly famous. Then everyone will find out you were the heartbreaker, and no label will touch you ever again. You’ll be blacklisted. Persona non grata. I'll make sure everyone knows it was you.”

Taehyung rolled his eyes, clearly used to the dramatics, though his cheeks were a telltale pink. Yoongi didn’t even bother hiding his own smile, eyes softening in a way that made Jin look away. He was still Yoongi—sharp, dry, deeply unimpressed—but the way he looked at Taehyung made it feel like the rest of the room had disappeared.

Yoongi must have noticed Jin’s silence stretch too long, because he shifted the subject, like a gift. “So… where is he, anyway?”

Seokjin blinked.

“Jungkook. Why didn’t he stay?”

Jin sighed and took a slow sip of his cocoa. “I guess I can’t avoid it forever, and he'll probably tell you anyway.” he said, his voice low. “You know he said he was interested and I… well, I am too. It’s just—” he paused, eyes flicking toward the steam rising from his cup, “I’m not in a good place for something I can put a name to. And that’s not fair to him.”

He hesitated, then added, almost reluctantly, “So, we went to his place.” His cheeks flushed deep red, the words sticking to his tongue. “And then…” He trailed off, deciding firmly to keep what happened between them and the phone call from Namjoon to himself. “I left.”

Yoongi raised a brow "You left?

He scratched lightly at his neck, eyes still on the mug. “I didn’t tell him I was going. So yes, I just… left. So now I’m here. And he’s… there. I think.”

Yoongi was frowning as if trying to solve a very difficult math problem. Or maybe just judging. 

“I don’t know,” Jin added with a groan. “Maybe I don’t get how things work with his generation. I don’t even know what we are—if we’re anything. A situationship? A… a nightstand?”

“You mean a one-night stand?” Taehyung asked, brows raised.

“I don’t know the terms, okay? This is hard,” Seokjin muttered, slumping forward and letting his forehead rest against the table with a dramatic sigh.

Yoongi hummed. “You keep saying ‘your generation’ like you’re a decade older than him.”

“I kind of am.”

“You’re not,” Yoongi said flatly. “And Jungkook’s not some clueless kid. You might be underestimating him.”

Seokjin didn’t answer, but Taehyung leaned forward, stirring his mug with a soft clink. “Then what do you want, hyung?”

Jin looked down. “I don’t know if I want anything serious. Not right now. I just got out of a nine-year relationship, Tae. Maybe it’s better if I stay alone for a while. Figure my shit out. Focus on work. Try to breathe again without someone else’s rhythm in my chest.”

Taehyung was quiet for a beat, then asked softly, “Maybe you should tell him how you feel.”

Seokjin snapped his head up like he'd been electrocuted. “What?” he said, scandalized. “Why would you say something so terrifying?”

He reached forward and, without shame or strategy, took the last three hotteok from the plate.

“Yah!” Taehyung cried. “Those were mine!”

Yoongi gave him a look of pure offense.

“I’m emotionally unstable and underfed,” Seokjin replied with his mouth full. “I need carbs more than I need a breakthrough.”

He stood, still chewing, and added with a small, genuine smile, “But seriously… congratulations, you two. I mean it. I’m happy for you and stuff.”

Before either could say anything, he slipped down the hall, cocoa forgotten, hotteok in hand, disappearing into the quiet of his room.

***

Seokjin had stopped going to Yoongi’s apartment altogether. Taehyung noticed, of course, but didn’t press. Maybe he understood that Jin needed space. Maybe he was too distracted trying not to stare every time Yoongi's name popped up on his phone. Either way, Jin was grateful for the silence.

He’d fallen into a rhythm—or maybe more accurately, into a kind of numb structure. Wake up early, grab whatever food didn’t make him want to gag, head to the studio, record, stay late, go home. Repeat.

He wasn’t just committed to the project now.

He was possessed by it.

After Yi Kyung’s ruthless but not unfair feedback during their last session, Seokjin had thrown himself headfirst into the role. He stopped trying to act around his pain and instead decided to use it. If his heart was already in pieces, he might as well make it bleed properly.

He started skipping meals. Not because he wanted to be dramatic, but because he didn’t feel like chewing. His stomach didn’t seem to mind.

Taehyung had stopped asking if he was okay. He would answer yes every time.

Yoongi had stopped texting. He wouldn’t reply to him anyway.

And Jungkook—well. Jungkook hadn’t been around at all. He made sure to evade him.

It was easier that way.

More efficient.

Days passed and Namjoon messaged him.

Namjoon : Your new look… it suits you.
Namjoon: The hair. Very sharp.

Attached was a screenshot. The post from Taehyung’s account. Comments filled the frame, little red hearts glowing at the bottom. He didn’t look at them. He didn’t need to.

Then a follow-up:

Namjoon: Looks like you’ve got admirers. Anyone in particular?

Seokjin stared at the screen.

Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Deleted.

Nothing felt right.

So he said nothing at all.

Three hours later, Namjoon replied to his own message.

Namjoon: Classic. Of course you ignore it.

Another pause.

Namjoon: Guess you moved on faster than I thought.

Jin’s throat tightened.

Seokjin: I told you to stop calling me that. And you still did.

Namjoon: Why? Does he not like me calling you that?

It was a low blow, and Seokjin knew exactly how to hit back.

Seokjin: I liked it when it was just for me. But now… I guess you’re "tempted" to offer it around.

Namjoon: How would you know?

Seokjin’s fingers tightened on the screen.

Seokjin: I just do. So cut the bullshit. Whoever I talk to now isn’t your business. And stop using that nickname. For good. 

He felt himself trembling.

Seokjin: You were the one who asked for space, and I agreed. But I don’t think we’ve really followed through. So maybe… let’s actually try it.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

And with a moment’s decision, he blocked him.

Even doing it felt terrible, like the worst decision ever. His chest tightened immediately, panic clawing behind his ribs. But then he remembered Namjoon saying they needed space. He should respect that. Even if Namjoon wasn’t.

He felt like crying.

And also, very, very light.

Seokjin put his phone on silent, shoved it into the bottom of his bag, and walked back into the sound booth.

The lines that followed were sharper. There was something guttural in his delivery, something ragged and brittle that hadn’t been there before. The engineers took notes. Yi Kyung still didn’t speak to him. That was fine. It was all fine.

After the session, one of the secondary actors invited him out for drinks with the rest of the team. Seokjin hesitated.

He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to think. So he said yes.

The bar was warm, noisy, filled with chatter and the sharp smell of soju and grilled pork. He laughed when he was supposed to. Flirted, a little, when the guy across from him leaned in closer than necessary. He was learning how to reply with boldness whenever he heard a good compliment and stopped feeling too nervous when people wanted to get near him. 

He didn’t take anyone home. Neither he went to theirs.

And when he got back to the apartment, always  alone and exhausted, he peeled off his clothes in the dark and stood in front of the mirror, staring at the stranger in the reflection.

He was trying to get into the feelings of his character and it worked. The lines were good. The voice was working.

But everything else?

Empty.

His phone buzzed. He had, perhaps too easily, shared his number with new acquaintances and coworkers over the last few days—a decision he was beginning to regret. But it wasn’t an unknown number that made him pause and unlock the screen.

Jungkook: Hey. Just wondering if you remember you said you’d help me record a demo sometime.
Jungkook: No pressure. Just… if you’re free, maybe drop by the studio?

Seokjin blinked at the screen, the familiar pang in his chest rising before he could stop it. Right. He had said that.

The last time he wrote to Jungkook, it had been short. Home. I’m fine.

Nothing since.

And now, Jungkook was reaching. Maybe hoping for the explanation he promised. Or maybe pretending there was nothing to explain.

Seokjin closed his eyes. Exhaled slowly.

Jin : Yeah. I remember.
Jin: I’ll swing by tomorrow.

He hit send.

He should probably be prepared for that encounter—though, truthfully, he had no idea how.

***

Seokjin slipped into the recording booth, placed the headphones on, and waited for the music to start.

The glass between them was thick.

But the tension?

That bled through just fine.

They worked like professionals.

Seokjin warmed up his voice while Jungkook adjusted levels, speaking into the mic to offer directions with that calm, focused tone that felt worlds away from the boy who had once fumbled through a clumsy compliment while having a beer.

“Let’s start with the ballad,” Jungkook said. “It should sound light. Flow through the words like you’re remembering them instead of discovering them.”

Seokjin nodded, eyes narrowing as the track began to play.

It was a slow climb, lyrically restrained but aching beneath the surface. Jin rode each line with deliberate softness, letting the weight settle in his vowels, then fade. Jungkook guided him from the console—sometimes asking for more vibrato, sometimes suggesting a shift in breath. Once or twice, he stopped the take to experiment with a modulation filter or to bend the tail of a note with the synthesizer.

It was different from Yoongi’s style. Yoongi always knew what he wanted—there was precision in his direction, an economy of words that left no room for exploration.

Jungkook was fluid. He tested things. Laughed softly when something didn’t work, encouraged when it almost did.

Seokjin found himself enjoying it.

By the time they wrapped the first track, his voice was steady, and his body loose. The silence in the booth felt earned.

Jungkook clicked a button and his voice came through the headphones again. “Take a break. That was great.”

Seokjin stepped out. Jungkook was hunched over the mixer, tweaking levels. He didn’t look up.

The silence stretched.

“Chicken okay?” Jungkook asked.

Seokjin blinked. “What?”

“I ordered food. Should be here soon.”

“Oh,” Seokjin said, easing onto the couch. “Yeah. Chicken’s good.”

It arrived minutes later, and they sat on the floor, passing the box back and forth, eating with their fingers.

The conversation was ... safe. Jungkook asked about his current project, and Seokjin offered vague but honest answers. Things were improving. He was settling into the work.

After eating, they returned to the booth.

The R&B track was different—more playful, more dynamic. Seokjin took his time adjusting to the rhythm, finding the beat beneath the syncopation, easing his tone into something smoother. He danced through the pre-chorus, smiled when he hit a run just right. It felt… fun.

When he stepped out, cheeks flushed, Jungkook was watching him with a small, unreadable expression.

Seokjin paused. “What?”

“Nothing,” Jungkook said, too quickly. Then, softer, “Everything’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Jungkook’s smile wavered, then held. “Yeah. I mean—better now. Definitely better.”

When it was time to leave, they walked together toward the front door. Just before Seokjin could offer a quiet goodbye, Jungkook spoke.

“Don’t be a stranger.”

Seokjin turned. Their eyes met.

“You said you’d teach me how to win at video games, remember?”

Seokjin smiled, just a little. “Right. Wouldn’t want you getting rusty.”

Jungkook grinned. “You wish.”

He knew Jungkook knew he had been avoiding him, and now things felt a little better. Still, it bruised his pride to let Jungkook be the one to reach out first. If they were going to move past the awkwardness, Seokjin wanted to make an effort too. He figured the timing was right—his coworkers had another Friday outing planned.

"So, you know, on Friday the studio guys are going out for drinks," Seokjin said casually, proud of how steady his voice sounded. "If you want, maybe we can hang out?"

Jungkook looked up, surprised, then softened into a genuine smile. Seokjin pushed forward.

"I was also planning to invite Tae and Yoongi. The place has a nice rooftop with heaters. Thought it might be fun."

Jungkook scrunched his nose playfully. "Yeah, that sounds good. Text me the address and I’ll come by. Might be a little late, but I’ll be there."

Okay. So things were good, Seokjin thought. Maybe there weren’t any hard feelings. Maybe they could stay on good terms after all.

But god—the memory of that night still lingered behind his ribs, stubborn and raw. So he left before he could say something stupid.

***

Seokjin stood in front of the mirror, combing his hair for the third time even though it looked fine. Maybe too fine. He’d changed his shirt twice. Settled on black—it always worked.

Taehyung called out from the living room, already dressed, already excited. Yoongi had just arrived, quiet as usual but with a small bag of snacks and a bottle of something dark tucked under his arm.

“We’re gonna be late,” Taehyung whined, tugging on his oversized coat.

“I’m ready,” Seokjin replied, stepping out of the bedroom and grabbing his keys. “You two look dangerously good tonight.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “Let’s just go.”

The bar in Itaewon was buzzing by the time they got there. Their coworkers had claimed a spot on the rooftop—a lounge-style patio lit with strings of warm lights, the tables surrounded by space heaters and soft music pulsing beneath the laughter.

The meetup was set for 10 p.m. Jungkook didn’t arrive until nearly midnight as promised

And he didn’t just arrive—he appeared .

Open silk shirt, leather pants that clung like a second skin, tattoos on full display under the low light. His hair was tousled, his walk easy, confident.

Seokjin wasn’t the only one who noticed.

“Who is that ?” one of the girls from sound engineering whispered.

“Friend of mine,” Seokjin said simply, ignoring the way her eyebrows lifted.

Taehyung, already a few drinks in, dragged Yoongi to the dance floor. It didn’t take long before Tae had charmed half the group into laughing and cheering, his energy impossible to resist. Yoongi followed behind him with mock reluctance, but the way he watched Taehyung dance betrayed everything.

Jungkook, meanwhile, joined them at the table, settling beside Yoongi’s now-empty seat. His eyes followed Seokjin across the rooftop, lingering whenever their glances met.

Seokjin laughed easily. Danced freely. Maybe too freely.

At some point, one of Seokjin’s coworkers—Han—wandered over. He leaned in to say something, placing a hand casually on Seokjin’s forearm. The contact was light, friendly. Seokjin didn’t flinch. He kept smiling, kept talking, let the touch sit there without encouraging it, but also without pulling away.

“Want to step out for some air?” Han asked, his voice low.

Seokjin shook his head, but paused narrowing his eyes. “We are on an open rooftop.”

"I mean—" Han averted Seokjin’s eyes, visibly flustered, trying to gather himself. "You make me nervous, and that didn’t come out the way I thought it would." He took a breath, then added, "Can I get you something to drink?"

Seokjin gave him a polite smile. "I’m fine, thanks."

Still, Han nodded and said he’d be back anyway.

The rooftop was nice, the air just chilly enough to feel clean in his lungs, but the heaters made everything feel cozy. The place had started to fill up, probably turning into a decent afterparty spot without meaning to. Still, Seokjin had picked up on Han’s real intention—he wasn’t looking for air, just a quieter corner, somewhere with fewer people and more potential.

Han was after something intimate, something physical, and Seokjin wasn’t interested. Not in that way.

Yet the image of Taehyung comfortably curled up on Yoongi’s lap, laughing with his whole face while feeding him a piece of tteokbokki, sparked something small and aching in Seokjin’s chest. 

Yeah. Maybe he did need some air after all.

So he slipped away.

Toward the far end of the rooftop, a column stood in a shadowy corner—less crowded, and with fewer heaters, which was probably why no one else had claimed it. The air there was colder, biting gently at exposed skin, and the music from the bar softened to a low, pulsing echo.

Jungkook was there, leaning against the column, cigarette between his fingers. He took a slow drag and exhaled away from Seokjin as he approached.

“Didn’t peg you for a smoker,” Seokjin said.

“I’m not,” Jungkook replied, not quite looking at him. “Not really.”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you smoking. So why do it, then?”

Jungkook stared ahead, expression unreadable. “I don’t know.”

Seokjin crossed his arms. “It’s a bad habit. Especially when it’s occasional.”

Jungkook huffed a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. “As if you care.”

Before Seokjin could respond, one of his coworkers stumbled into him—Mina, more than tipsy, her eyeliner slightly smudged and a teasing smile already forming on her lips.

“There you are!” she chirped, then noticed Jungkook and brightened. “Oh. Hi.”

She turned to Seokjin with a mischievous grin. “Han’s got such a big, fat crush on you. Did you know that?”

Seokjin blinked. “What? No, I—”

“He does! It’s adorable,” she insisted, swaying slightly. “Why not give him a chance? He’s cute. And you’re single. You are single, right?”

Seokjin’s mouth opened, stalled, then closed again. “…Yeah. I am.”

Jungkook shifted. A small movement, just enough to cross one foot over the other. But Seokjin felt it.

“Anyway,” Mina added with a wink, “I told him to come find you.”

Seokjin barely had time to process that before Mina reached for Jungkook’s arm and tugged. “Come on. You too. Let's dance.”

Jungkook didn’t move at first. His eyes locked on Seokjin.

It was only for a second.

Then he looked away, let her lead him back.

And just like that, Seokjin was alone again. Mouth dry. Chest tight.

After a moment of hesitation, Seokjin decided he should probably head back in—maybe find Taehyung, let him know he was calling it a night. But just as he turned, Han stepped out.

“Hey,” he said, smiling. A little too brightly.

Seokjin turned, blinking like he’d just been shaken from sleep.

“Oh. Hi.”

Han stepped closer, hands still in his pockets. His smile was small, uncertain.

“I hope I didn’t make things weird earlier,” he said, chuckling lightly. “I wasn’t trying to get you uncomfortable.”

Seokjin shook his head. “You didn’t.”

There was a pause.

“You just seem hard to approach,” Han said, glancing up at him. “But I guess that makes sense. You kind of glow.”

Seokjin laughed—genuine, if slightly flustered. “That’s not true.”

“It is.”

Han’s tone was warm, honest. Too honest, maybe. And it caught Seokjin off guard.

He hesitated. Not because he was uncomfortable, but because this, this kind of sincere interest, was unfamiliar terrain lately. His life had been noise and performance and controlled expression.

“I’m flattered,” he said, soft but steady.

Han nodded slowly. “You should know how I see you.” He glanced back toward the bar, then returned his gaze to Seokjin. “I know you're not looking for anything serious—and that's fine by me. Just… letting you know I’m here, for whatever you want.”

Then he stepped closer.

Seokjin flinched instinctively, taking a step back until his shoulders met the cold edge of the pillar. Han was a head shorter, with sharp monolids framed by long lashes. Undeniably handsome. His usual shyness clashed strangely with the boldness of his advance.

And yet, Seokjin couldn't help but wonder—how did Han know he wasn’t interested?

He didn’t ask.

“I’m really not looking for anything,” Seokjin said, the words flat but honest.

The tension crawled into his spine. Feeling cornered, he moved quickly to sidestep Han, nearly bumping into him in the process.

“We should go back. It’s freezing out here.”

As he turned to walk away, a hand caught gently around his wrist.

“Could you give me a chance?” Han asked, voice soft.

His grip wasn’t firm. Seokjin could easily pull away. But the way Han looked at him—eyes wide, open, almost pleading—made it harder. "A chance?"

“I’ve seen you,” he continued. “How hard you work. How passionate you are.”

Then, Han added with a faint edge to his voice, "I mean, it’s obvious you’re surrounded by people who notice. Like that friend of yours. The one with the tattoos."

“Jungkook,” Seokjin said automatically.

Han nodded. “Right. He made an entrance. Not hard to tell he’s used to attention. I’ve seen him around. Word is he’s talented—a bit of a prodigy in the scene, right? Heard his family’s all musicians. Not famous, just… around. That’s how he got in so young.”

Seokjin stayed silent.

Han went on, voice casual but pointed. “But you know how people like him are. Flirt with everyone, charm their way through every room. Guys like that don’t think twice about who they leave behind. Just… be careful.”

Seokjin’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

“Seems like you know him well.” Seokjin said. He didn’t mean it to sound bitter, but maybe it did.

Inside, something twisted.

Because the truth was, Yoongi had spoken highly of Jungkook. Had even pulled Seokjin aside and said he shouldn't mess with him. Not the other way around, a strong contrast to what Han was implying now.

And maybe that was what unsettled him most. Not Han’s assumptions, but the quiet voice in his own head asking: What if he’s right?

He hadn’t seen enough to be sure.

Han raised his hands slightly. “Hey, I’m not judging. Just saying what I’ve heard. You deserve someone who’s serious. Someone who knows what they want.”

Something inside him folded, quietly.

Because Han wasn’t entirely wrong.

Jungkook was younger. More experienced, in ways Seokjin wasn’t. More confident. More effortless. And while Seokjin had spent years in a relationship, that didn’t make him any less naive in other areas.

He hated that the thought even stung.

But it did.

He hadn’t seen enough to be sure. Not of Jungkook, not of himself. And that uncertainty dug deeper than he wanted to admit.

But Yoongi had. And he trusted Yoongi with his life.

"What I deserve and what I want is none of your concern," Seokjin said, gently pulling his wrist free from Han’s grip. His voice wasn’t harsh, but it was firm. "Thanks for the advice, but really… don’t worry."

Han opened his mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to explain—but Seokjin cut him off with a final look.

"At all."

And with that, he turned and made his way back toward the bar, spine straight, mouth tight. God, he really needed a strong shot.

Chapter Text

The lights were still soft and golden, the music still low enough to keep secrets, the drinks still flowing. 

Yoongi and Taehyung were still at the far end of the long table. Tae was laughing, cheeks flushed, animatedly telling a story to two of Seokjin’s coworkers while Yoongi, surprisingly relaxed, sipped something amber and kept a quiet eye on him. Their eyes met for a second, and Yoongi gave the smallest of nods. Jin nodded back.

He walked past a group chatting near the bar, ignored the raised eyebrows and half-hearted attempts to draw him into conversation, and went straight for the tequila bottle. No salt. No lime. Just fire.

He threw back the first shot.

A second glass slid his way.

"Hyung, you’re not allowed to be the only pretty drunk one.," Taehyung teased, eyes bright as he slid into place beside him. Jin smiled despite himself. They clinked glasses.

"Their family must be models," someone murmured, watching the cousins. A cheer followed. A round of toasts began in their honor, laughter spilling across the table. 

Yoongi didn’t join in, but he smiled. Just a little. Watching Taehyung glow, surrounded by people who were slowly falling under his spell. He looked proud. 

Jin saw Jungkook. Leaning casually near the railing, drink in hand, and Mina laughing at something as she leaned far too close, her hand wrapped around his arm. He seemed unbothered by it, though Mina was delighted.

Jin raised an eyebrow.

And Jungkook, with maddening ease, disentangled himself. He didn’t say anything to Mina, just gave her a polite smile and made his way toward Jin. She shot Seokjin a murderous glance.

"Hey," Jungkook greeted, eyes scanning him. "You look like you needed that."

"I did," Jin answered, setting the glass down.

Jungkook stepped closer, their shoulders nearly brushing.

"So," he said, voice light, teasing, "how did it go with the love-struck guy? Does he have a shot?"

Jin shrugged, turning slightly toward him. "He was a little drunk. Probably won’t remember any of it tomorrow."

"Mm. Word is he’s been trying to get your attention for months," Jungkook said, still playful, but there was something else under it. Something pointed. "Maybe he’s not the only one."

"I hadn’t noticed," Jin replied, tilting his head slightly. “You, on the other hand, seem to be getting some attention yourself.” he said, playing with his eyebrows in a teasing manner. 

It was just a comment but then his mind immediately wandered back to that stupid rumor Han just told him. It had been eating at him more than he cared to admit. He’d considered dragging Yoongi into it just to get it off his chest, but Yoongi was too busy being distracted watching Taehyung’s lips.

So instead, Jin went for the source of it.

“Maybe you shouldn’t just listen to what other people say about them,” he added smoothly, trying to ignore the twist in his stomach.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow at the tone. So Seokjin, voice low and laced with mock innocence, added, “Or maybe I should start listening to what they say about a certain junior producer.”

Jungkook cocked his head slightly, brow arching with mock offense, like he was trying to figure out if Jin had just complimented him or thrown subtle shade.

Jin’s lips curved, slow and deliberate as he swirled the liquid in his glass. He leaned against the bar, just a little too close, the alcohol softening his edges. When he spoke, his voice slurred ever so slightly low, sardonic, dipped in tequila and amusement.

"Apparently he’s talented," he continued to make it more clear, raising his glass halfway before pausing to smirk, "charming... maybe a little too charming."

He shot Jungkook a sideways glance. "Sounds like trouble to me." Came the reply.

Jin sipped his drink slowly, letting the pause stretch. "Sounds like trouble alright."

Jungkook leaned in just enough. "Dangerously so?"

Jin didn’t move away. He let the closeness linger, shoulder brushing shoulder now, eyes slightly unfocused but fixed on Jungkook’s with a kind of drunk defiance. His mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a challenge, words spilling out slower, weightier.

"Maybe I should be careful," Seokjin drawled, the sarcasm curling under his breath like smoke.

He meant it as a joke. Almost. But something in him flinched at the truth laced beneath it.

God, he was too tired to do this again—this teetering dance on the edge of something he couldn’t name. But Jungkook made it feel... less terrifying. Or maybe the tequila did.

Still, he held his gaze, daring him to say something, to cross that invisible line. Or not.

“You should always be careful,” Jungkook murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “But if I were him, I’d be the one worrying.”

Something about that landed warm and low in Seokjin’s body. Too warm. He bit down a smile, avoiding eye contact. But the way Jungkook was looking at him made everything feel like a game he didn’t want to win..

Jungkook leaned forward casually, bracing his elbows on the tall table. His biceps flexed as he shifted, unapologetically confident in how he carried himself.

Seokjin heard the sirens in his head. Loud. He forced his gaze back to Jungkook’s, returning the challenge.

“Good thing you’re not,” he said, voice soft but edged. “I’m too damaged to get involved with someone like that.”

Jungkook’s expression shifted. The teasing faded, something quieter flickering behind his eyes.

“I’m not here to break you,” he said.

Seokjin didn’t answer. He just looked at him—long and hard—until he felt the burn of it deep in his chest.

"Neither to mend me," Seokjin allowed, fidgeting with the shot in his hands before turning to Jungkook, lips curved in a crooked smile, eyes heavy-lidded but gleaming with mischief.

He looked at him differently now. Jungkook wasn’t just the kid from Yoongi’s apartment anymore. He was dangerous—captivating in a way that felt almost unreal. Seokjin could see it now, why people talked about him the way they did. He had that thing. Talent, visuals, the charisma. And tonight, all that quiet intensity was pointed at him. Why?

Seokjin, who had nothing to offer. Who was older, tired, patched together with sarcasm and habit. What the hell could Jungkook possibly see in him?

He didn’t know. But suddenly his mouth was dry. He licked his lips unconsciously, trying to ground himself in the moment, to estimate—evaluate—whatever the hell was happening between them.

He should stop. Say something safer. Something polite. Go home alone and reflect on his acts.

“Take me home." Or not.

Jungkook’s eyes darkened. Without a word, he reached out and plucked the shot glass from Seokjin’s hand, fingers brushing his in the process. 

"I was hoping you'd say that," he murmured, a slow grin spreading across his face.

***

They didn’t make a scene leaving the bar.

Jungkook kept a steady hand on the small of Seokjin’s back, guiding him subtly through the crowd with practiced ease. As he pulled out his phone.

“I’ll text Yoongi,” he said, already typing. “Let him know you’re with me. He’ll make sure Tae gets home.”

Jin blinked, warmth flooding him where the alcohol had started to fade. That was… thoughtful. Practical. So unlike the boy everyone seemed to whisper about.

Across the room, Han watched.

He’d been heading toward the bar again, pretending not to notice, but the moment caught his eye—the subtle way Jungkook’s hand rested at the small of Seokjin’s back, how Jin made a path through the crowd as they tried to reach the exit. Han’s eyes lingered longer than they should’ve.

Well, Han had already suspected. He wasn’t stupid.

By Monday, Seokjin was sure he’d hear a few whispers in the hall. Maybe even a name or two tossed around like tabloid headlines. And one of them would be his.

He liked the way they moved through the world together—steady, unhurried. No frantic hands or nervous glances. Just quiet confidence, like they both knew where the night was heading and were in no rush to ruin the magic by forcing it. It was only the second time they’d agreed to go to Jungkook’s place with intimacy in mind, but there was a quiet rhythm to it already, something that felt oddly natural..

Jungkook didn’t pin him to the wall or tear his clothes off before the door even shut. Instead, he hung up his own jacket, took Seokjin’s with care, and handed him a glass of water. Like it was normal. Like Jin belonged here.

“Are you always this responsible when you’re taking someone home?” he asked, voice dry.

Jungkook glanced up, corner of his mouth twitching. “Only when I bring them home,” he said, then paused. His gaze lingered on Jin for just a beat longer than necessary. 

“Which is never,” he added, quieter this time. “You're the first, actually.”

Seokjin wasn’t sure how to breathe for a second.

“You looked flushed,” he said, folding his arms.

Seokjin took the water and sipped quietly, the coolness grounding, unfamiliar against the heat still simmering beneath his skin.

They didn’t talk much then. Just moved. The silence didn’t feel awkward—just heavy with the thing they were circling around.

“Come on,” Jungkook said, voice quiet now, as he nudged the bedroom door open. “This way.”

The room was dim, but not dark. Jin sat on the edge of the bed, sipping the water again as Jungkook knelt to get off his sucks, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Seokjin watched, heart thudding.

Ever since Han hinted that Jungkook was the type to sleep around, Seokjin's mind had gone into a spiral of what-ifs. He had defended him at the time—and he would again, without hesitation—but the words had stuck. The image. The implication. Still, he'd tried to rationalize it: if Jungkook was that kind of guy, well... fine. No attachments suited Jin just fine. It was safer. Cleaner. Especially in his condition.

But that didn’t explain the tension building under his skin.

Because the way Jungkook looked at him made something inside Jin stir in a way he didn’t want to name. 

But his breath was itching now for reasons that had nothing to do with alcohol. And that meant something. Even if he didn't know what.

Jungkook looked up at him once he was done, hands still resting against Jin’s knees.

Jin nodded slowly. He wasn’t sure if he trusted himself to speak.

Jungkook held Seokjin glass, touching his fingers deliberately, and then he leaned in. Not fast, not urgent—slow, with the kind of patience that made Seokjin ache. His lips brushed Jin’s like a secret.

He kissed him like he had all the time in the world.

And maybe he did.

Jin responded, hesitant at first, his hands drifting up to Jungkook’s shoulders with a slight tremble. His kiss was a little too quick, a little off-center—unpolished in the way that only made it feel more sincere. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. Honest. They were still learning their rhythm, feeling out the steps as they moved.

Jungkook seemed to like that. He smiled into the kiss, murmured something soft against Seokjin’s cheek as his fingers found the hem of his shirt and eased it upward.

His touch wasn’t rushed. It was methodical, reverent. Lips moving from mouth to jaw, to throat, to collarbone.

Seokjin gasped when teeth grazed his skin, when warm hands slid over his ribs like a question.

Jungkook pulled back, just enough to look at him.

“Still okay?”

Jin swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

Jungkook kissed the corner of his mouth, smile slow and a little smug. Then continued.

Clothes were peeled away. Jin didn’t remember how. Just that Jungkook’s hands were steady and sure, his mouth warm, his body solid against his.

Jin’s own hands trembled as he touched him in return, tracing skin and muscle and ink, learning him.

He didn’t know what he was doing. But Jungkook didn’t seem to mind. He made a soft, pleased noise every time Jin let himself be bold, every time his fingers lingered a little longer, a little lower.

When Jungkook finally eased him onto the mattress and moved over him, there was no pressure. No urgency.

Only heat. And reverence. And time.

Jungkook kissed him like he was trying to memorize him.

And Seokjin, God, he let him.

Jungkook took his time.

Seokjin was already breathless by the time Jungkook kissed down his chest—slow, deliberate, dragging lips and tongue over every ridge and plane. Jin's hands twitched at his sides, torn between holding on and letting go completely.

Jungkook’s mouth wrapped around him with practiced ease.

Seokjin gasped, loud, choked—his hips flinching at the sudden wet heat. Jungkook hummed in response, fingers firm against his thighs, pinning him just enough.

“Fuck—Jungkook,” Jin managed, hand darting to his shoulder. “Sensitive. I’m—fuck, careful.”

Jungkook pulled back slightly, just the tip resting against his tongue, gaze flicking up with maddening calm. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“Just—just slow,” Jin said, breathless.

Jungkook obeyed. Expertly.

Too expertly.

His tongue flicked, circled, flattened—and every shift of pace felt calculated to pull Jin apart. He was relentless in the most precise, devastating way. Pausing only to breathe, to murmur something obscene against the skin of his hip, then diving in again.

Seokjin was panting now. Hand clenched in the sheets, the other twitching as if unsure where to anchor.

Then he looked down.

And the sight nearly undid him.

Jungkook’s lips—kiss-swollen, glistening, stretched around him—his cheeks flushed, lashes damp, jaw flexing with control. And Seokjin—God, Seokjin grabbed a hold of his hair, fingers twisting in the dark curls at his crown.

He tugged. Sharp.

“You insolent little brat,” he hissed, breath breaking, voice low and wrecked.

Jungkook moaned at that. Actually moaned.

When he pulled off, his face was flushed, mouth red and wet, chin shining with spit. He blinked up at Seokjin like he’d just been blessed—eyes wide and gleaming, every line of his face disheveled and beautiful and hungry.

Seokjin swallowed hard, chest rising too fast.

Jungkook was panting too.

“I can stop,” he said, voice husky, raw—challenging.

It wasn’t an offer. It was a test.

They’d been playing this game for weeks now—pushing each other, baiting, teasing.

Who would break first.

Who would lose control.

Jungkook looked like he was handing it over.

But Seokjin knew better.

He didn’t have control of anything.

Especially not with Jungkook.

Seokjin let the silence stretch between them, chest still heaving, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “It’s a little unfair,” he said, eyeing Jungkook with a shaky smirk, “that I’m here completely exposed and you’re still fully dressed.”

Jungkook tilted his head, the barest trace of mischief returning to his mouth. “You’re right,” he murmured, rising to his feet. “Let me fix that.”

With casual grace, he peeled off his shirt—tossing it aside—and then his pants, until there was nothing between them but skin and breath.

When he returned to the bed, he didn’t climb over Jin this time. He settled beside him, one arm folded behind his head as he watched him with lazy heat.

“So,” Jungkook said, voice low and teasing, “what else should I do?”

Jin stared at him for a beat too long. Then sat up.

Climbed on top.

Jungkook cleared his throat.

Seokjin leaned in, eyes narrowed slightly, mouth close to his ear.

“You ask what you should do,” he said, voice like silk over steel, “but it sounds more like you’re warning me about what you know is going to happen.”

He drew back just enough to meet Jungkook’s gaze, that smile returning—darker this time. “So how about you stop pretending to be the good boy and let me take you from behind?”

A beat.

Jungkook let out a breath he was holding.

He just reached for the nightstand, pulled open a drawer, and handed Seokjin the lube.

Seokjin’s pulse kicked up. “When was the last time you had something in you?”

Jungkook met his gaze, eyes soft, lips parted. “Had a plug last night.”

Ah.

Jin nodded, took the bottle, and gestured for Jungkook to turn over. He did without hesitation, settling onto his elbows and knees, body stretching out in a way that made Jin dizzy.

He kissed down the curve of his spine, the edge of his shoulder blades, the dip above his hips. Jungkook’s muscles twitched under each touch—tense, then softening. Ready.

Seokjin slicked his fingers. Pressed one in. Slowly.

Jungkook exhaled through a shiver, head dropping forward. “Hyung…”

Another. 

Jungkook gasped.

“Shh,” Seokjin murmured, leaning in to mouth at the sweat-slick skin between his shoulder blades. “I’ve got you.”

Jungkook moaned. Begged. Whispered hyung like it was sacred, like it meant everything. Over and over, like a plea, like a mantra.

Seokjin’s hand trembled slightly, not from uncertainty—but from want.

It had been so long since he’d been the one to lead.

But never had he wanted someone the way he wanted Jungkook now.

So he took his time.

Prepared him properly.

Even when his own need clawed at his spine.

Even when Jungkook’s thighs began to shake, his voice broken and pleading into the sheets.

Even when he thought he might lose his mind from the heat building between them.

He kept going.

Just a little longer.

Just until he was sure Jungkook would take him like this—and want it again.

The third finger slid in, and that’s when Seokjin felt it—Jungkook’s body clenched hard, the sudden pressure nearly cutting off the circulation to his hand. A sharp intake of breath.

“Oh,” Jin muttered, blinking. “There it is.”

Jungkook made a strangled sound, muffled against his forearm. “Hyung—I’m ready. Please.”

Seokjin raised an eyebrow, easing out with deliberate care. “You say that like you didn’t just try to break my fingers.”

“Please,” Jungkook whined, hips subtly rocking back, hungry for more.

Jin huffed out a breath, half-laugh, half-growl. “Alright. But you better mean it. Because that grip of yours?” He slicked himself, exhaling shakily as he lined up. “Could be dangerous." But what’s life without a little risk? He applied a generous amount of lube on himself.

He placed one hand on Jungkook’s lower back, the other at his hip. “Breathe with me.”

Jungkook inhaled. Exhaled. Once, twice.

Seokjin pressed in slowly.

The head breached first, and already Jin was shaking. He wasn’t thick, but he was long, and every centimeter was torture—for both of them. Inch by inch, he sank deeper, rocking his hips forward with excruciating patience.

His voice pitched higher with every breath. “Shit. So tight—fuck, Jungkook—breathe.”

Jungkook was trembling, one hand fisting the sheets, the other pressed flat against the mattress. His mouth hung open, gasping, eyes wet and shut. “I— am— you’re so—fucking big.”

By the time Seokjin bottomed out, both were shaking.

“Fuck,” Jin groaned, forehead resting between Jungkook’s shoulder blades. “You—God, you feel so good.”

Jungkook only moaned in response, breathless and hoarse. “Move—please—move.”

So Jin did.

Slowly at first. Rolling his hips in deep, lazy thrusts that had Jungkook gasping, whimpering into the pillow. It was overwhelming—hot, slick, tight. Seokjin’s mind emptied with each motion, instinct overriding everything.

He leaned forward, wrapping one arm around Jungkook’s waist, holding him close. “You’re doing so good,” he murmured against his neck. “So damn good for me.”

Jungkook pushed back, matching him now, the slap of skin loud and wet, echoing between sharp breaths and ragged moans.

Jin’s rhythm faltered, stuttered. He was getting too close.

He reached around and took Jungkook’s cock in hand, stroking him in time. “I swear to God,” he gasped, “if I come too fast, I’ll never recover from the shame.”

Jungkook laughed. “Then don’t—come—yet.”

“Easy for you to say,” Jin growled, slamming deeper, faster, his hand tightening.

Jungkook’s head dropped, a wrecked sound falling from his lips. “Hyung—can’t—please—”

And that was it.

Seokjin lost it.

Jungkook too.

His hips snapped forward, movements erratic now—desperate, searching for the edge. Jungkook tensed beneath him, head thrown back, a cry tearing from his throat as his body locked up. Seokjin felt it—every pulsing contraction around him—and it sent him over with a gasp, a stuttered groan against Jungkook’s spine.

They came together, tangled in heat and sound—Jungkook shaking, breathless and wide-eyed, Seokjin trembling, breath catching, muscles clenched around the overwhelming wave of release that tore through him.

It was a crash—violent and beautiful. A crescendo neither of them were ready for, but both gave in fully.

The room filled with the sounds of breath, the aftershock of skin against skin, the slick drag of movement finally slowing to stillness.

Seokjin slumped over him, heart pounding, lungs heaving.

He wanted to move—wanted to say something, do something. But his thoughts were static. His body felt like it was vibrating from the inside out, the aftershocks of orgasm still echoing through him. That had been... different. Sharp. Blinding. Maybe the most intense one of his life.

And he'd had some enviable ones.

But this? This had cracked something open in him.

He blinked down at Jungkook, still beneath him, still trembling slightly. The younger man wasn’t saying anything either, his breath ragged, cheeks flushed, his fingers loose and twitching where they'd dug into the sheets.

Seokjin shifted carefully, chest brushing against the slick heat of Jungkook’s back. He meant to ask if he was okay—but when he looked at him, he realized Jungkook couldn't speak yet either.

They were both wrecked.

And neither seemed in a hurry to recover.

***

It was almost noon when Seokjin stirred, warm and heavy against crisp sheets that weren’t his. Jungkook was still asleep beside him, limbs sprawled in every direction, lips slightly parted in the kind of peaceful expression that made Seokjin want to stare too long. He didn’t.

He slipped out of bed to use the bathroom and hunt for his phone—only to see it was dead. On his way back, he opened the drawer of the nightstand, rummaging without much care until his fingers brushed against a familiar texture. A soft cotton pair of sweatpants.

By the time he returned, Jungkook was up, hair a mess, black shirt thrown on and two steaming mugs waiting on the small counter near the kitchen.

“You take your coffee sweet, right?”

Jin blinked. “I take what’s available.”

Jungkook snorted. “Good to hear that. This is barely coffee.”

They drank together in an almost domestic silence. Seokjin leaned back against the counter, Jungkook nudged against him shoulder to shoulder. It would’ve been forgettable if it hadn’t felt so… easy.

Seokjin had asked for a charger. Jungkook pointed toward a drawer, and Seokjin plugged in his outdated phone with a grimace. The device clung to life, the screen flickering awake only when tethered directly to the wall. So Jin left it there, buzzing quietly, while he joined Jungkook at the counter—coffee in hand.

He knew the constant texter wouldn't give up until he got a response. Seokjin grinned at the incoming messages.

He kept pacing between the phone tethered to the wall and barely holding charge. It caught Jungkook’s attention.

"Who's got you walking laps?" Jungkook asked, amused but careful to ask.

Seokjin sighed, waving vaguely toward the device. "My annoying friend from the States. Hoseok. He's going to have a coronary if I don't prove I'm alive."

He tapped at the cracked screen, squinting. "But all I can do is chat. He'll have to manage with that"

Jungkook tilted his head, thoughtful, and then smiled. "Use my laptop. You’ll melt his dramatic little heart faster if he sees your face."

Seokjin hesitated, but Jungkook was already getting to it and sliding it across the table. "It’s fine. Go save your friendship."

The screen glowed to life between them, bright and inviting.

Jin typed furiously. Hoseok replied with emojis.

[Incoming Video Call: Hoseok]

Jin clicked it.

The moment Hoseok’s face appeared, he was screaming.

His dark hair was shorter now, cropped close to his head in a neat cut that framed his face. He wore rectangular reading glasses low on his nose, and somehow, that made him look even more dramatic.

“YOU’RE ALIVE!” he shrieked, eyes wide behind the lenses.

Jin laughed, surprised by how warm it felt to see him. Nostalgia swept in immediately—warmth, comfort, friendship. Hoseok was loud and ridiculous and so utterly Hoseok it made Jin's throat ache.

“You look like a person again!” Hoseok added, still shouting. “Holy hell, I was two texts away from flying over.”

“I missed you too,” Jin said softly, but just then, Hoseok’s gaze shifted.

“OH MY GOD,” he gasped. “Is that—IS THAT SOMEONE BEHIND YOU?”

He leaned in comically close to the camera, squinting. “Seokjin! Is that a man?! Is that a hot man in your background?!”

Jungkook, who had just re-entered the frame with another cup of coffee, blinked at the chaos. “Hi?”

Hoseok screamed again. “OH MY GOD HE’S EVEN HOTTER UP CLOSE! Look at that face! Look at those arms—no, Seokjin, look at me. This is betrayal. You’ve been ghosting me while you’re out here living your K-drama fantasy with the actual male lead.”

Jin groaned. “He’s joking. Ignore him.”

“I’m not joking. I’m spiraling. I'm ready to dump my himbo boyfriend and fly over. Jungkook, do you like your men loud, emotionally unstable? Because I have references.”

Jungkook grinned. “You’re making a strong case.”

Jin chuckled, shaking his head. There was joy there—real joy. But it was also tinged with tension. He knew Hoseok. Knew that behind the antics, his friend was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

Seokjin wasn’t surprised when Hoseok leaned back slightly and said, quieter now, “You… really do look good, Jin. I mean—better.”

Something in Seokjin tightened. He understood the weight of that comment. Understood what it meant to Hoseok, who had seen him at his lowest.

“I’m doing better,” Jin said, and it was the truth. But it wasn’t the whole story.

Jungkook, perceptive as ever, gave them space. He leaned casually against the counter nearby but didn’t interrupt. His presence was quiet, respectful, even as Hoseok threw playful glances his way.

“Okay, okay,” Hoseok said eventually, regaining his usual volume. “But just saying—if I met him first, you’d be in trouble. Jungkook, can you imagine the chaos?”

Jungkook smirked. “I think we’d get along dangerously well.”

“Oh god,” Jin mumbled. “Please don’t encourage him.”

“I’m sold, honestly,” Jungkook said, standing up at the sound of the ringer at the front door. “Food’s here—I’ll grab it.”

Jin watched him go, a smile still tugging at the corner of his lips.

He watched Hoseok's grin linger a little too long before faltering, just slightly—an almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. He knew that look. Hoseok didn’t need to say it out loud. He didn’t need to ask about Namjoon.

Because Jin knew he was asking anyway.

And Jin didn’t know how to explain it. Didn’t have the language. Didn’t have the strength.

So he smiled instead. Deflected. 

Then he glanced back at the screen.

A new message notification had popped up in the corner of Jungkook’s laptop. Unread. Brief.

“u up? ” from a name that was unmistakably feminine.

Jin stared at it for a second too long. 

The inevitable. Seokjin smiled tightly.

Maybe Han had been right.

“Anyway,” He adjusted his posture like that could straighten out his spine—or his heart. “Food’s here. I should go.”

Hoseok teased. “Gonna eat him whole?”

“Bye, Hoseok,” Jin said, and closed the call.

"Okay fine, but when are you coming back? Is it March or—" Hoseok’s voice was cut off as Seokjin ended the call, the screen going dark mid-sentence. He sat still for a moment afterward, lips pressed together, trying to ignore the faint echo of that notification still hovering in the back of his mind.

Jin remained seated for a long moment after the screen dimmed. The silence that followed was weightless, but his thoughts weren’t. That message—just four words and an emoji—still pulsed in his brain like a bruise forming. It wasn’t jealousy, he told himself. He wasn’t entitled to anything. Jungkook was young, vibrant, beautiful, and clearly someone with an active sex life. Jin had suspected this. Even before Han's words. The way Jungkook moved through the world with that casual allure. It all pointed in the same direction. Jin had no claim. 

It’s casual, he reminded himself, adjusting the band of the sweatpants he’d borrowed.

Across the apartment, Jungkook’s voice called out cheerfully, “They sent extra pickled radish!”

Jin stood up and joined him in the kitchen, masking whatever had lodged in his chest beneath a thin, practiced smile. Jungkook had already opened the takeout containers—crispy fried chicken glistening, a steaming box of japchae, and some side dishes neatly arranged around a stack of napkins. He had turned the TV on, an action movie already rolling with explosions and fast dialogue.

Seokjin noticed when Jungkook got to his own cell phone and reapplied to something.

Maybe, he thought, he should go. Maybe Jungkook was actually up to something with someone else and Seokjin was a bother. 

But then Jungkook looked at him with a full on smile on display and sat in front of the tv, right next to Seokjin.

“I watch Marvel movies in their original voices. Hope you’re not a subtitles snob,” Jungkook said, tossing him a pair of chopsticks.

“I’m a voice actor,” Jin replied, settling next to him on the couch. “I judge everything.”

Jungkook laughed and nudged him lightly. “Great. I’ll take the food as a buffer for your critiques.”

They ate side by side, knees brushing occasionally, and Jungkook—without ceremony—rested his arm along the back of the couch. A little later, he shifted closer, enough that their thighs touched. Jin didn’t pull away. He noticed, distantly, how Jungkook’s eyes changed with the light of the TV. How his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. How his smile flashed just barely crooked, exposing the cutest hint of bunny teeth.

Seokjin shouldn’t be noticing these things.

When Jungkook leaned gently against his shoulder. And Seokjin let it happen.

They stayed that way through the second act of the movie. Jungkook occasionally commented on a fight scene, or asked if Jin wanted another piece of chicken, and Seokjin answered like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like they did this all the time.

After they were done eating, Jin stood to take the dishes, but Jungkook intercepted him, balancing the empty bowls with practiced ease. “I’ve got it,” he said. “We can play something after.”

Jin watched him carry everything into the kitchen. There was something about the way he moved that made Seokjin’s chest ache. Jungkook was young, yes, but not careless. Not wild. Not in this space, anyway. Yoongi must’ve raised him well.

Speaking of—

Jin glanced at his phone. Still charging.

Still no message from Yoongi about Taehyung.

He rolled his eyes and grabbed Jungkook’s laptop again, opening the messenger and typing out a quick text to his cousin.

He was halfway through typing a second message when Jungkook returned.

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned down and kissed him—soft, unhurried.

Seokjin blinked. The warmth from earlier returned tenfold. His lips parted under the pressure, and Jungkook deepened the kiss gradually, fingers finding his jaw, thumb stroking just beneath his ear. The tension Jin had been trying to swallow slipped from his spine, replaced by something softer, quieter.

Jungkook pulled him closer with a hand around his waist, and Jin allowed it. He let his eyes flutter closed. Let himself feel it. The pleasant fizz beneath his skin. The way their mouths moved together, as if nothing else existed beyond this.

He knew better than to want more.

But in this moment, wrapped in warmth, with Jungkook kissing him like that, Seokjin let himself pretend it was enough.

***

The city didn’t slow down for him, but it somehow made space. As the weeks passed, Seokjin fell into something that looked suspiciously like a routine—although he’d never admit it out loud. That would mean naming it, defining it. And whatever this was between him and Jungkook, it wasn’t that.

Still, the days began to blur together in strange, soft-edged ways. Mornings started with voice warmups on autopilot, jogs that looped the same patch of park as if muscle memory could substitute for purpose. Afternoons vanished in the hush of recording booths, where his voice didn’t just fill roles—it explored them. Each script was a lock and he, somehow, had become the key. He wasn’t just hitting the marks anymore; he was breathing into them, bleeding a little into every take. The weight in his chest hadn’t disappeared—it had simply moved. Tucked itself into a quiet corner, whispering instead of screaming.

Nights, though—nights were different. Sometimes he found himself sitting beside Jungkook, too close to be just friends and too quiet to be anything else. There were no declarations, no rules, no boundaries drawn. Only shared laughter and the echo of controllers clacking on the floor as one of them cursed at a boss fight. Only the occasional brush of knees, the lingering glances, the way Jungkook handed him the last piece of fried chicken without a word.

It was dangerous, this illusion.

But Seokjin didn’t question it.

Weeks passed and he was working more now, and better. There was a moment when he heard one of his own takes played back and winced. The delivery wasn’t right. He understands it now. He could do better. So he’d asked the director to let him re-record a few lines.

"A few lines" turned into almost his entire script.

No one protested. If anything, they seemed relieved. His voice was on point now. More precise in its grief and anger, in its resilience. It sounded like a man who had lived through something and survived. Now was the time to fight.

He spent long hours in the studio, chasing perfection with a hunger he hadn’t felt in months. It left him little time for Taehyung or Yoongi or even Jungkook. And strangely, no one asked.

That was the first thing that made him uneasy.

The second came when he noticed how little Jungkook was around. No late-night messages. No spontaneous drop-ins with takeout or a quick game. And certainly no drawn-out makeout sessions that had somehow devolved into a ridiculous competition of who could make the other moan louder. (Still tied, last time he checked.)

And it wasn’t just the physicality—it was the way Jungkook would press his lips against Seokjin’s shoulder mid-conversation, or hum softly against his throat before pulling him into another kiss. The way they’d lie tangled together, legs intertwined like they’d never belonged apart. Jungkook’s fingers, calloused and sure, tracing constellations over his ribs, his voice low and teasing in the dark.

Now? Just—absence.

Seokjin tried not to make a big deal out of it, which is precisely why he brought it up as casually as he could with Yoongi. But the moment he did, Yoongi deflected. And sure, maybe it had taken every ounce of Seokjin’s courage to even broach the subject, but now Yoongi was just acting shady. From someone who’d allegedly shared a brain cell with him for years, this was starting to feel like betrayal. A lazy, bullshit-filled betrayal.

"Busy season," Yoongi would say, eyes not quite meeting his. "The studio's got him running loops. You know how it is."

And he told himself it was fine. They weren’t anything. He reminded himself. Jungkook probably had people lined up. People who weren’t still picking the glass out of their ribs from a breakup that had torn them open.

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t want the answer.

As he was preparing to sleep on a thursday night, Taehyung came over under the pretense of dropping off hot cocoa, but he lingered well past midnight. Seokjin, already resigned to the intrusion, retrieved a tin of cookies from the cupboard and set them between them.

“Spill it out,” He demanded.

His cousin sighed, deep and weary, and said, "Can I ask you something kinda gross?"

Seokjin blinked. "God, Tae. Please don’t make me regret this."

"It’s about Yoongi."

Of fucking course it was. He took a sip of the cocoa and immediately grimaced—no booze, no spice, just a lactose-heavy reminder that his life was a dry drama without even the courtesy of alcohol. With the flair of a man wronged by the universe, he snapped a cookie in half like it had personally offended him.

Taehyung fidgeted with his fingers, gaze flicking between Seokjin and the table, unsure how to phrase it. “I mean… you’ve known him forever, right? And he’s, like, perfect.” He paused, chewing on his lip. “But do you know if he’s ever, well…” A beat. A breath. “If he's a virgin?”

Seokjin nearly choked on his cookie. "Excuse me?"

Taehyung didn’t flinch. "Well, he won’t have sex with me. I mean, we do other stuff. Like, really intense stuff. But right before it goes all the way, he stops. Every time. And I don’t get it. Is it me? Am I doing something wrong?" As nervous as he sounded, Taehyung didn’t blush once. A stark contrast to Seokjin, who felt like his entire face was on fire.

Seokjin rubbed his temples. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I trust you. And because I genuinely don’t know what’s going on. I mean, if he were asexual, that’d be totally fine—but he says it’s not that. He just won’t explain. Whatever it is, he’s keeping it to himself, and I’m starting to feel like I’m missing something important." Taehyung looked genuinely distressed, his usual bravado stripped down to something tender and vulnerable.

Seokjin tried to come up with something helpful, but the words didn’t quite form. As far as he knew, Yoongi had dated both girls and boys in high school, and while they’d never shared intimate details, Seokjin was fairly certain Yoongi had been sexually active. Even with his reserved nature, Yoongi had his quiet charm. So maybe the issue wasn’t desire. Maybe it was Taehyung. Or rather, what Taehyung meant to him.

The thought struck him—Namjoon had done something similar at the beginning of their relationship. Held back. Not because he didn’t want Seokjin, but because he respected him. Idolized him, even. Sometimes admiration got tangled with fear. The fear of ruining something sacred.

Seokjin closed his eyes and sighed. He decided—very strictly—not to think too hard about what he was about to do next. Especially not the part where he was effectively turning his sweet, beautiful cousin into the ultimate temptation for his emotionally constipated best friend.

So Seokjin did the only thing he could think of.

He dragged Taehyung to the bathroom and dyed his hair electric blue.

"What the hell, hyung—"

"Trust me," Seokjin said with a devious grin. "That man won’t know what hit him. He’ll be too busy malfunctioning to look away."

Taehyung emerged looking like a celestial being. Seokjin stared at him for a beat, then nodded.

"Make sure you end up at his place, not dragging him back here for a sleepover. And please, don’t tell me the details."

Taehyung laughed, and Seokjin laughed with him, just long enough to forget everything else he didn’t want to name.

"Wait, hyung, let me fix your hair too," Taehyung said, already rifling through his supplies.

"Not purple again," Seokjin warned, eyeing his own reflection. The dark roots were already betraying him. "Maybe something a bit more... natural."

Taehyung grinned. "I think light brown will work great on your features” then pretending to search for some gloves he added “Your dirty little secret is going to love it.”

***

The dye stung a little at the edges of his scalp, but the familiarity of the ritual, of Taehyung humming as he worked, made the moment feel grounded.

His new hair didn’t go unnoticed either—Han raised an eyebrow the moment Seokjin walked in, making a noncommittal noise that landed somewhere between mild approval and concern for his sanity. Seokjin didn’t care. It was less dramatic than the purple, sure, but flattering enough. And besides, he was too busy fighting for line delivery perfection to entertain anyone's fashion commentary.

His studio hours stacked up into long blocks of repetition. He drank too much coffee. He skipped too many meals. He fell asleep with headphones on more than once.

His phone buzzed with a message.

YOONGI: what the fuck did you do?!

Seokjin blinked, rereading the message three times before replying.

SEOKJIN: …Hi? Care to be more specific?

Another message came almost immediately.

YOONGI: don’t play dumb. blue hair. model lighting. three scouts tried to sign him in the time it took me to order coffee. you turned him into a walking HR crisis.

Ah. So he’d seen Taehyung.

Seokjin had to stifle a laugh. He could picture Yoongi’s horror, the narrowed eyes, the gritted teeth. It wasn’t that hard to guess what had happened. Taehyung had probably shown up all dewy-eyed and radiant at some café near Yoongi’s agency, and the staff had swarmed him like pigeons on a baguette.

SEOKJIN: he just wanted your attention, dumb ass. You’re not exactly giving him much.

YOONGI: I give him attention, what the hell are you talking about?

Now this was fun.

SEOKJIN: Well, I bet there’s a line of people just dying to give him the royal treatment you’re so spectacularly failing to deliver.

There was a long pause.

YOONGI: fuck.

SEOKJIN: There you go! And for the love of decency, if you’re going to accidentally blurt out Taehyung’s love language, don’t do it to me. I am tragically underpaid for this emotional labor.

Seokjin let out a breath. He could practically hear the scrape of Yoongi dragging a hand over his face. Somewhere behind that word was guilt, or confusion, or maybe the quiet realization that Taehyung wasn’t going to sit around and wait forever.

Before he could commit to pretending that conversation had never happened, his phone buzzed again.

JUNGKOOK: hey hyung. Can I see you?

Seokjin stared at the message, a sharp twist curling low in his stomach. Now who's texting? After weeks of silence, of vanishing like a puff of cigarette smoke?

He didn’t answer.  He tossed the phone aside and refocused on the mic levels on his screen, pretending the knot in his chest wasn’t resentment. Pretending he wasn’t used to being the one left behind.

JUNGKOOK: i miss you.

Seokjin rolled his eyes so hard it nearly gave him a migraine. 

He had to know he was being ignored on purpose, the read receipts made that obvious.

JUNGKOOK: i brought galbi.

Oh.

That little bastard.

He was tempted to ignore it. He deserved better than leftover attention and bribery. But then his phone vibrated again.

JUNGKOOK: i even got the expensive cut. the one you said was holy.

Goddamn him. 

Seokjin sighed, dramatically and with intent.

SEOKJIN: fine.

JUNGKOOK: great. i'm already outside.

Seokjin snorted. Of course Jungkook didn’t know he was pulling late hours re-recording. They hadn’t talked in weeks. Jungkook was probably pacing in front of Taehyung’s place, slowly turning into a popsicle, muttering sweet nothings to a bag of marinated beef like some kind of tragic winter himbo.

JUNGKOOK: Outside your agency's studio. 

His brain short-circuited. That was absolutely not smooth. Or—well. Maybe it was.

Fucking Yoongi. Seokjin was going to personally make sure Taehyung made him pay for this ambush.

Still, Seokjin found himself walking toward the exit far too quickly, coat only half-zipped and scarf barely looped. He could blame his hunger later.

Jungkook was waiting near the entrance, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, shifting on his feet like he hadn't been standing in the cold for too long. When he looked up and saw Seokjin, his eyes widened slightly.

"You changed your hair," Jungkook said, a slow smile blooming on his face. "Looks good on you. Makes your eyes stand out."

Seokjin immediately frowned, cheeks warming.

Seokjin made a noncommittal noise and stepped past him, feigning indifference. But his fingers curled tighter into his scarf.

They took a cab to Jungkook’s place, and Seokjin didn’t know what he expected. But it wasn’t this.

The lights inside were dimmed. The small dining table had been cleared and set—two plates, candles, a modest bouquet of red and ivory roses resting in a glass jar at the center. There was actual food. Real food. Not takeout. A pot simmering gently on a portable burner, wine breathing next to it.

Seokjin stood frozen in the doorway.

Jungkook brushed past him casually. "Hope you're hungry."

He blinked. "What... is this?"

Jungkook shrugged off his coat and hung it neatly. "Dinner."

Seokjin’s eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the scene again. The roses. The candles. The soft music playing from Jungkook’s Bluetooth speaker in the background.

"I thought you said you’d be buying it?"

Jungkook gave him a sideways glance, amused. "Yes, hyung. I bought it and made it myself."

Now that he was really looking, Seokjin noticed Jungkook’s outfit wasn’t his usual sweatshirt or tight-sleeve overshare. He was wearing a light, loose button-down shirt with a soft collar and dark jeans that actually looked ironed.

Seokjin looked down at himself—oversized hoodie, tired pants, a jacket with studio air still clinging to it. "I didn’t know I was supposed to dress up," he murmured, almost to himself.

Jungkook looked over his shoulder and, without missing a beat, said, "You didn’t have to. You look perfect."

Seokjin’s ears burn. He force himself to walk in, pretending to inspect the food on the table. It was clearly home-cooked.

By Jungkook.

The realization made his throat tighten.

This wasn’t just dinner.

It looked and felt dangerously like a date.

Jungkook pulled out a chair for him, then sat down across the table, motioning toward the plates. "You should eat before it gets cold."

Seokjin nodded, grateful for the small shift in focus. He took a bite of the galbi-jjim and tried not to moan. It was tenderloin, perfectly seasoned, cooked with more care than any takeout ever would be.

Jungkook asked, voice casual, "How's work going? Still buried in the booth?"

Seokjin chewed slowly before answering. "It’s... intense. I think I’m close to finishing, but they only give me parts of the script each week. I never know what’s coming until I’m already behind on it."

Jungkook smiled faintly. "Sounds like hell. But you're good at it. They’re lucky to have you."

Seokjin let out a quiet laugh, the sound dry but not unkind. "Apparently my voice didn’t live up to the casting. But I’m catching up."

He risked a glance at Jungkook, trying to gauge something—tone, mood, intention. But the younger man was focused on his plate, nodding along.

He kept speaking, trying to fill the gaps. "They’ve been pushing longer sessions. I think they’re behind schedule, so now everything’s urgent."

Jungkook appeared attentive, nodding at the right moments, but something was off. There was a stiffness in his posture, a subtle delay in his reactions. The ease between them had frayed at the edges, leaving only a thin film of awkwardness clinging to every word.

Seokjin felt like the worst kind of guest. Like he’d walked into a room glowing with effort and poured cold water over it. Like he was pulling away before anything had even begun.

And if it was a date... what came next?

A question? A confession?

His pulse quickened.

He took a slow breath and forced himself not to panic. Jungkook still seemed a little nervous.

When dinner was nearly done, he gathered his nerves and decided to speak first. Better to say something than let the tension stretch further, wrapping around them both like a net.

"Jungkook-ah... I appreciate everything you're doing here tonight."

That made Jungkook still. His back straightened almost imperceptibly, shoulders twitching with the effort of restraint.

Seokjin pressed on, gently, voice quiet. "It’s lovely. I wasn’t expecting this, and I think... I need to say something, even if I don’t know how to say it right."

He twisted his mouth, searching. "I’m not saying this is wrong. I like it. But..." Seokjin paused, struggling to corral the knot of emotion forming in his chest. Everything felt too big, too much. He internally cursed his past self—for dodging so many things, for pushing emotions aside until they had no choice but to return louder, harder, all at once.

Jungkook turned slowly, his face carefully arranged into something neutral.

"Stop worrying," Jungkook said, his voice measured. "Nothing has to change."

He shifted his stance, trying to appear relaxed. It didn’t quite land. Then, with a shallow breath, he added, "This dinner... don't read too much into it. I wanted to do something nice to you, because I disappeared for a while. I told you I was busy and it was true but I was also being secretive on purpose."

He moved toward the table, picking up his phone. "I wanted to apologize, and I also wanted to share something with you."

He opened an audio file, set the phone on the table between them, and hit play.

Music filled the space between them.

Seokjin’s brow furrowed in recognition. The melody—familiar. The progression—the same one they’d worked on some month ago.

The demo.

A group of female voices layered in rich harmony poured from the speaker.

This was it.

Jungkook’s first official song.

Written, produced, arranged. His.

Seokjin’s lips parted in a breathless, silent kind of awe.

Jungkook had done it.

And he was sharing this moment with him.

"This is incredible," Seokjin said, voice low but sincere. "Really, Jungkook. It sounds amazing."

Jungkook's shoulders eased a little. "Thanks," he murmured. "Honestly, I only pulled it off because of your help."

"Ah, I didn’t do much. The guide was already beautiful. I just added a few falsettos here and there—it was all your direction, really."

Seokjin took another bite of the meal, more to fill the silence than anything else. He glanced down at the table, then back up at the younger man. Maybe he'd jumped to conclusions earlier. Maybe this wasn’t a setup for a confession. Maybe Jungkook had meant what he said—just a nice dinner, just a shared moment. Maybe Seokjin had panicked too soon.

They finished the meal with polite conversation. Seokjin asked a few more questions about Jungkook’s work now that he was officially a senior producer. But the tone had shifted. Jungkook’s answers grew shorter, less animated, his gaze drifting between his plate and the table. He smiled when appropriate, but there was something hollow behind it. Like he was pulling away mid-sentence. Like he was no longer sure what he was allowed to say. 

When Seokjin stood to leave, Jungkook followed him to the door. He looked like he wanted to say something—like the words were caught behind his teeth. But in the end, he just opened the door and said, "Thanks for coming."

Seokjin nodded, offering a soft smile. "Thanks for dinner. It was... really thoughtful."

"Yeah," Jungkook said, eyes searching his face. "Anytime."

The silence lingered for a beat too long.

Then Seokjin stepped into the hallway, and the door closed behind him.

He stood there for a moment, unsure of what he was feeling.

Jungkook had said it wasn’t a date. Had said not to read into it. But his posture, his voice, the effort—those candles, that song—everything had spoken differently.

Seokjin had never seen Jungkook like that. He was usually effortless, confident. Tonight, his shoulders were tense. His smile faltered when the conversation turned stiff.. Unsure. Like he was losing his nerve in real time.

And Seokjin hated that.

Because he’d caused it. But because he realized, for one terrifying second, that if Jungkook had actually asked for more—if he’d said it outright, if he’d made it clear that this was a date, that he wanted something—then maybe Seokjin wouldn’t have shut it down.

Maybe he wouldn’t have said no.

Maybe.

How long was long enough to move on? Was there some silent clock that started ticking after a breakup? A universal time frame that signaled when it was safe to try again? Three months? Six? A year?

Would it even matter?

Did he want to move on?

Were he and Namjoon already past tense, even if neither had said the words?

They were "on a break". What the hell did that even mean? How long was a break supposed to last? Were there rules? Boundaries? Namjoon had mentioned, vaguely, that they might see other people. But what did that imply—casual encounters? Emotional investment? What counted as too much, too soon?

Seokjin didn’t know. His feelings for Namjoon were a tightly tangled knot—complicated, sacred, familiar. He loved him. Of course he did. There was no denying that. Namjoon had been his constant for years—steadfast, intelligent, full of quiet tenderness. A man who loved with his whole being, even if he struggled to show it out loud.

But even that love had cracks. Doubts that festered over time. Seokjin remembered the tension—how Namjoon had often stood between him and his family like a rope pulled taut. How Seokjin had nothing to offer except patience, gentle reassurances, support. Sometimes it felt like too little. Like he was too little.

And it had made him wonder.

Would Namjoon be better off without him? Was that the truest reason Seokjin had begun to pull away?

Now he was here—adrift in the middle of this undefined pause—questioning everything.

What did he want with Jungkook?

What did it mean to feel comfort and desire and guilt in the same breath?

Jungkook made him feel seen. Laughed at his worst jokes. Cooked for him. Looked at him like he cared.

But could he trust that?

Could he trust himself?

Was it too soon? Was it unfair?

Seokjin didn’t have the answers. All he had was a throbbing behind his eyes and the creeping suspicion that whatever he chose, someone—maybe even himself—would end up hurt. 

He rubbed at his temple as he walked, hoping the cold air would clear something up, anything at all.

Every step toward Taehyung’s place felt slower than the last. Something inside him was still bracing for what didn’t happen—what Jungkook didn’t say. And it ached.

He should have felt relief. But it tasted like regret.

***

By the time he got to Taehyung’s apartment, Seokjin’s thoughts were spiraling. He replayed every moment—every glance, every word, every silence.

Maybe he’d overthought everything. Or maybe Jungkook really had wanted to say something and just didn’t.

And maybe... maybe Seokjin would’ve wanted to hear it.

Would that have made things easier? If Jungkook had just said it? If he’d called it what it was—whatever it was?

Would Seokjin have had the courage to answer?

He sighed, unlocking the door to the apartment and stepping inside without turning on the lights. He kicked off his shoes absently—though he didn’t really register the unfamiliar pair near the entrance.

Not until he saw the blouse tossed carelessly over the back of the couch.

And then... a sock.

And then—

A deep, guttural moan echoed through the hallway.

Followed by a rhythmic thump.

Seokjin froze.

Then the thump again. Louder this time. Flesh against flesh. Another moan, long and breathless.

He dropped the glass in his hand. It hit the floor, shattered loud and sudden. Water spilled across the tile, soaking his sock.

"You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!"

He spun on his heel and fled the apartment, the sound of skin and sin still echoing behind him as he slammed the door shut.

Chapter Text

He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath—not until the silence wrapped around him like a too-tight coat. The hum of the machinery, the distant echo of the building’s plumbing, even the soft thud of his own heartbeat—all of it felt loud. Too loud. Too still.

He could’ve gone to a sauna. Or maybe a hotel. But none of those options quieted the restlessness clawing at his chest. Not like this did.

He needed to see Jungkook. Maybe because the dinner had left a residue he couldn’t scrub out. Maybe because Jungkook had done something kind, and Seokjin couldn’t bear not to answer it. If Jungkook had been brave enough to care for him, maybe Seokjin could be brave enough to show up.

Even if it was selfish. Even if it made no sense.

He knocked, fully aware he could be turned away. Maybe Jungkook was asleep. Maybe he wasn’t even home. But Seokjin waited anyway, pulse ticking in his throat.

He waited until he heard the soft shift of movement inside, the click of the lock turning. And then, just before the door opened, he arranged a smile on his face.

Jungkook stood barefoot in sweatpants and a loose hoodie, the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends. No cologne, no smile. Just tired eyes that blinked once, then stepped aside.

"Hey," Seokjin said, stepping in not waiting for an invitation.

The space was clean—no sign of the plates, the wine, the candles. As if the dinner had never happened.

Jungkook’s face was a mixture of surprise and curiosity. His eyes followed Seokjin’s every movement, and after a hesitant pause, he asked, "Did something happen?"

Seokjin smiled, lips curving with restrained amusement. "Well, I may have successfully assisted Taehyung with a rather grumpy predicament—and as a result, I rather not spend the night there."

He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, his eyes catching for a second on the dip of Jungkook’s collar where the hoodie had slipped slightly to one side—revealing a bare stretch of skin and the elegant line of his collarbone. Jungkook, still quiet, seemed to be studying him. His initial surprise had faded into something else—something intent. His gaze tracked every movement Seokjin made: the shift of his weight, the cadence in his voice, even the way his hand hovered too long near the door before stepping away from it.

It wasn’t just curiosity. It was observation—careful, unflinching. Jungkook tilted his head slightly, and his tongue flicked briefly against the silver of his lip piercing, like a silent question poised between them. His gaze tracked every nuance in Seokjin’s movements: the way he hesitated, the shift in his voice, even the smallest twitch of expression. His eyes focused on his lips.

"You’re insufferable," he murmured, closing the distance between them. "You have this way of looking at me."

Jungkook arched a brow, mouth twitching upward. Because the little shit knew what look he was talking about, and tease about it. "Should I stop?"

"Don’t you dare."

Their mouths met fast, all teeth and friction and the burn of too many unsaid things. Seokjin kissed like he had a point to prove, hands already fisting in the front of Jungkook’s hoodie. Jungkook answered with a low hiss when Seokjin bit his lower lip, but he didn’t pull back—he surged forward, gripping Jin’s hips and turning them until Seokjin stumbled backward, pulling them both down to the couch.

"You’re—" Seokjin gasped between kisses, "—so arrogant. And competitive. And way too attractive."

"Hyung," Jungkook growled against his throat, breath ragged, "you’re projecting."

"You're a brat," Seokjin panted, dragging the hoodie over Jungkook’s head. He collaborated. "You’re too smug. It’s—fucking annoying."

Jungkook kissed him. Hard.

They rolled, Jungkook pinning him for a second before Seokjin twisted, flipping them over. He was stronger than he looked—but Jungkook’s body was solid under him, years of training molded into muscle and heat.

"You’re younger. You should show some respect," Seokjin said breathlessly.

Jungkook laughed, low and wrecked. "I’ll show you respect," he said, voice brushing against his skin. His hand steady on Seokjins neck "I’ll listen when you gasp, I’ll obey every shiver, I’ll say please with my hands and thank you with my mouth." He paused every statement with a hungry kiss.

They didn’t make it to the bed. No alcohol, no haze—just the kind of hunger that felt like possession. And through it all, Seokjin kept thinking: he should run. He should stop.

But why? He couldn't remember.

Seokjin didn't get his pants off. Jungkook was down to boxers, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run through a thunderstorm. His hair was a mess, damp with sweat now, strands sticking to his temples. His lips were swollen, the red of them smeared and glistening from the fight they called kissing.

Jin had one leg braced on the couch, the other half off the floor, barely holding himself upright as he straddled Jungkook’s lap. His hands framed Jungkook’s face, thumbs dragging along the jaw he pretended not to adore, and yet he couldn’t stop tracing.

Jungkook looked up at him, and Seokjin couldn’t decipher what lived in that gaze. 

"Take what you want from me," Jungkook said, voice rough and open. "I’ll give you anything."

The air left Seokjin’s lungs. He blinked down at him, stunned by the offering—not the words, but the way they were given. No expectations. No demands. It rattled him.

His fingers moved down, brushing over Jungkook’s neck, then chest. "I don’t need much," he said, the lie trembling in his throat.

Jungkook smiled. Soft, almost sad. "I'll make you need this."

It hit Seokjin like a wave. That look in Jungkook’s eyes—wide, dark, brimming with something deep and bright and terrifying.  Something Seokjin had seen before but couldn’t name. Couldn’t place. He only knew it made his breath catch. Made him want to crawl inside it.

He already knew how much he needed him. So he leaned down and kissed him again. Slower this time. Drawn out. Tongues meeting in a messy rhythm that spoke more than either of them could say.

"I'll make you feel good." Jungkook panted.

Clothes pushed further aside. Boxers tugged low. Hands gripping thighs, dragging fingernails down bare skin.

"I'll ..."

"Shut up," Seokjin breathed, his thoughts spinning out of control, untethered and wild.

Jin kissed his way down Jungkook’s chest, nipped at the edge of a tattoo. Jungkook shuddered beneath him.

Jungkook’s fingers tangled in Seokjin’s hair. Not pulling. Just holding. Worshipping.

Seokjin mouthed down the sharp lines of Jungkook’s abdomen, then came back up with equal fervor, pinning him again. Their bodies collided like a storm meeting shore.

And all the while, Seokjin tried not to think about what it meant.

Just the now. Just the way Jungkook moaned into his mouth, the way his hands mapped Seokjin’s back, the way their breaths hitched together like lines in a song only they could sing.

Jungkook rolled them again, but slower this time. Reverent. He pulled back just enough to look down at Seokjin beneath him, to take him in fully. "You’re beautiful," he whispered.

Seokjin stilled. His hands slid from Jungkook’s shoulders to the space between them, creating just enough room to breathe. Jungkook froze immediately, eyes wide with concern, his weight easing as if ready to pull back.

"Did I—"

"No," Seokjin cut in softly, fingers curling around Jungkook’s wrist to keep him close. "No, it’s not that. I just… I wanted to say something."

He met Jungkook’s eyes, steadier now. "You were right. During dinner. I was thinking too much. About everything. About us. About what this could mean. It made my head hurt."

Jungkook's expression softened but there was a flicker of something sad in his eyes. He nodded, just barely.

"But," Seokjin continued, leaning in so their foreheads touched, "I like being with you. Whatever this is. And I don’t want to lose it. So I’m not going to overthink it anymore. I’m tired of thinking."

A beat passed. Jungkook’s gaze dropped to his lips, and his voice came low, warm against Seokjin’s mouth. "I can think of a way or two to help with that."

Seokjin didn’t get the chance to reply.

Jungkook kissed him. It was all lips and breath and the kind of pressure that made Seokjin’s mind unravel. He let himself be eased onto his back, welcoming the weight above him.

Jungkook kissed him until Seokjin’s mouth ached. Hands slid lower. Jungkook’s palm covered the thick, aching heat straining against Seokjin’s pants, and Seokjin gasped, the sound desperate.

He bucked into the touch, shameless, greedy.

Jungkook murmured something unintelligible against his lips as he unbuttoned and tugged the last barrier away.

Seokjin’s breath caught, chest heaving. Every nerve ending he possessed seemed to respond to Jungkook’s touch—sharp and immediate. It was unbearable how much he felt, how his body lit up with every brush of those hands.

Jungkook’s fingers skimmed the inside of his thighs, dragged slowly along the skin until Seokjin was shaking. Those fingers were long and sure, calloused in all the right places. Possessive, like they’d already memorized his body and now were just reminding him who he belonged to.

He moaned, low and broken, as Jungkook lowered himself, the heat of his mouth brushing over the head of his cock. Seokjin cursed, fingers tangling in the cushion beneath him, back arching into the sensation.

"Careful," he gasped.

Jungkook chuckled around him, the vibration sending another jolt through his spine. Seokjin feels like he's about to pass out from how much he wants him right now. 

"You really are sensitive."

He pulled off with a wicked gleam in his eyes and kissed a slow trail down Seokjin’s hipbone before rising to his feet.

"Let’s move to the bedroom," Jungkook murmured. Seokjin followed without argument—an illusion of control clinging to his spine, even as every step betrayed how completely he was giving it up.

Moving to the nightstand, Jungkook retrieved a bottle of lube, his gaze never leaving Seokjin’s face—dark, steady, promising. When he returned, he uncapped it with a quiet flick, the slick sound sharp in the thick air. His fingers glistened as he leaned back in.

"Trust me, hyung. I'll make it feel so good."

Seokjin stared, dazed and flushed, as Jungkook settled between his legs again. The first press of a finger was slow, exploratory.

Seokjin shivered, lips curling in mock protest. "Oh? When exactly did we agree this was tonight’s dynamic?"

Jungkook kissed his thigh, eyes flicking up—pupils dark and brimming with promise. "We can do whatever you want, hyung," he murmured, lips grazing sensitive skin as one finger circled his entrance, slow and deliberate.

His body draped over Seokjin's, half on the bed, half on him. The heat of him was overwhelming, the press of his weight erotic in a way that made Seokjin dizzy. He glanced down at their tangled bodies—Jungkook’s defined frame coiled like potential energy, all control and practiced strength, in contrast to his own: long-limbed, lean, vulnerable under that gaze.

And Jungkook was watching him like he liked what he saw. As if the slender lines of Seokjin’s body were something worth admiring. His large hands held his narrow hips with a reverence that bordered on possession, while the fingers of the other hand continued their teasing circles.

"Okay, fine," Seokjin breathed, surrendering to whatever this was. Jungkook’s bunny smile flashed, disarming and infuriating all at once. Seokjin shut his eyes, because the sight—Jungkook shifting into a seated position, one hand stroking both of them together while the other breached him slowly—was something that would live behind his eyelids forever.

It was maddening.

Seokjin was already trembling, his body a livewire, every nerve tuned to the heat of touch and pressure. He tipped his head back, jaw slack, trying—and failing—not to moan as pleasure sparked up his spine like fire on a fuse.

Jungkook moved with maddening patience, two fingers scissoring inside him, drawing out every twitch, every gasp. His other hand never let up, stroking them together in a rhythm that was both relentless and expertly controlled. Damp strands of hair clung to Jungkook’s forehead, and Seokjin was almost certain he was tearing up from the intensity.

He cursed under his breath, a broken sound—and the fucking brat had the audacity to snort, utterly pleased with himself. 

When Jungkook slipped in a third finger, Seokjin froze. His breath hitched sharply, eyes snapping shut, body tensing in a jolt of raw sensation.

"Fucking fuck," he hissed through clenched teeth.

He knew exactly what Jungkook had found.

"Hyung." Jungkook’s voice was wrecked, ragged with restraint. "Hyung."

Seokjin reached for his bicep, gripping tight. "Yes," he breathed. "I’m ready."

Jungkook paused. His hand left Seokjin’s length, pulling a soft, desperate sound from him as his hips chased the lost friction. But Jungkook was focused, guiding himself to Seokjin’s entrance, his breath coming shallow.

"Can I… go without?" he asked, voice barely audible.

Seokjin’s eyes flew open. The very idea—skin to skin—made his nerves flare with something between panic and desire.

Jungkook didn’t look away. His eyes were wide, honest, unreadable. "I’m clean," he said,, voice steady despite the tension in the room. "And I’ve never done this without before. I just—want to feel you. Just once."

Seokjin’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t want to stop. Not now. Not when every part of him felt tuned to the way Jungkook touched him, looked at him, spoke to him. But a response—any response—felt too final, too much. So he hesitated.

Jungkook leaned in, thumb brushing his cheek, soft and grounding. "You don’t have to decide now. Just breathe. I won’t do anything you don’t want."

Seokjin’s gaze dropped, then flicked back up to meet his. And slowly—silently—he nodded.

Because the truth was, he did know what it felt like. That kind of intimacy. That rawness. The unbearable closeness of skin to skin, no barriers, no space.

And the memory of it, even vague, nearly undid him.

It had always been too much. Too intimate. Too vulnerable.

But Jungkook—Jungkook wasn’t just anyone anymore.

That’s what terrified him most of all.

He barely had time to brace himself.

Jungkook lined himself up with careful hands, and the press of him—bare, hot, unfiltered—was a shock Seokjin felt down to his spine. Every inch pushed in unrelenting, and Seokjin's breath scattered. His hands gripped at the sheets, at Jungkook, at anything to anchor him as the stretch burned, as it bloomed into something else. Something more.

He tried to keep his eyes open, to watch Jungkook’s face as he entered him, but the sensations were too much. And Jungkook—Jungkook looked destroyed. His lashes fluttered, mouth parted, brows drawn together in disbelief. His hips stilled, barely halfway in, and Seokjin had to reach up, press a trembling hand to his chest.

"Breathe," he whispered. "Go slow."

Jungkook obeyed, nodding once, sucking in air through his nose, like if he didn’t pace himself, he’d lose control entirely.

Seokjin watched him, mesmerized. This was something raw, something terrifying, something that made his throat tighten with everything he couldn’t say. He was also painfully aware—down to the marrow of his bones—that this was Jungkook’s first time like this. Nothing between them. Just skin, heat, and reckless honesty. That knowledge made every breath feel weightier, every second stretch longer.

Jungkook pressed deeper, inch by inch, his breath hitching with every bit of progress. His hand trembled where it cupped Seokjin’s thigh, and Seokjin could feel it—how careful he was being, how much of himself he was pouring into this. When he bottomed out, he didn’t move. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, looking down at him with eyes wide and overwhelmed.

Seokjin could feel the thickness of him, the heat, the weight. Every pulse, every tremor. It was intimate in a way that defied logic, and for a second, he hated how good it felt. Hated how right.

Jungkook leaned down, and Seokjin met him halfway. Their mouths met in a kiss that wasn’t urgent or frantic—it was grounding. Their lips slid together softly, slowly, with Jungkook still deep inside, unmoving but present in every nerve Seokjin had.

It was too much. And not enough.

"Are you okay?" Seokjin asked, voice rough, unsteady. He wasn’t sure who needed the reassurance more. Jungkook didn’t dare speak. He just nodded, breath catching in his throat, as if words might break the spell hanging delicately between their bodies.

Finally, Jungkook started to move.

The rhythm was slow, deliberate. Each thrust deep, unhurried, almost reverent. Seokjin’s hands found his face, cupped it like something fragile, their foreheads pressed together. They weren’t kissing anymore. They were breathing each other in, noses brushing, mouths parted, caught in a rhythm older than words.

Seokjin felt like he was vibrating apart. Every movement sent pleasure coiling deep inside him, and still it wasn’t just about the sensation. It was the connection. The surrender. The maddening, gorgeous clarity of being seen.

Jungkook was not just fucking.

And Seokjin couldn’t  realize what it was.

There was no urgency, no fast and furious chase toward euphoria. It was slow. Deliberate. Each time Jungkook buried himself deep, he lingered—just for a second longer—as if trying to etch himself into Seokjin’s body, into his memory. It made Seokjin feel everything: the fullness, the pressure, the presence. He couldn’t recall ever being touched like this. And he didn’t want it any other way. He didn’t crave harder or faster. This was its own kind of madness, a different rhythm that defied logic. Intimate. Consuming. Infuriating in the way it demanded surrender.

The slow rhythm grew more erratic, each thrust harmonized with a grunt. His prostate had been steadily, mercilessly stimulated for what felt like an eternity, and now the heat pooling in Seokjin’s lower belly felt like it was about to detonate. The pressure built with each stroke, precise. Seokjin moaned, wrecked, the sound ripped from his throat as if pulled by force. Jungkook groaned too, low and guttural, the sound catching as he pressed deeper. He looked wrecked, feral, utterly lost in the overwhelming grip of Seokjin’s body.

Jungkook wrapped his hand around Seokjin’s length, setting a rhythm that matched the thrust of his hips—slow at first, deliberate, almost reverent. Coaxing Seokjin closer to the edge, syncing their pleasure until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Seokjin’s head tipped back, a moan clawing its way out of his chest. He wanted to say something, anything, but all that came out was, "I’ve got you."

And Jungkook find his release.

His hips snapped forward in a stuttering rhythm, and the sound he made—half growl, half broken plea—dragged Seokjin over the edge with him. They came together. Bodies unraveling in tandem, pleasure colliding and cresting in a shared, breathless wave. Seokjin came, harder than he expected, every muscle taut as the sensation tore through him, soaking into his skin, his lungs, his heart—anchored only by the weight and heat of Jungkook moving inside him.

They stayed like that, bodies trembling, pressed close in the aftermath. Seokjin could feel the warmth of Jungkook’s release still pulsing inside him, thick and unfiltered, a raw reminder of what they’d just shared. It didn’t take long before he felt it start to slip, that viscous heat trailing slowly between his thighs. The sensation made him shiver—part overstimulation, part something else entirely. Something he didn't dare to name.

They didn’t speak right away. Their bodies were still too heavy, their chests still heaving in sync. Seokjin stared at the ceiling, muscles slack, breath catching on the echo of sensation. Jungkook lay partly on top of him, his arm curled under Seokjin’s waist, lips brushing his shoulder like a silent vow.

When Seokjin tried to move—to reach for a towel, maybe water, anything to bring them back to earth—Jungkook caught his wrist.

“I’ll do it,” he said softly. “Let me.”

Before Seokjin could argue, Jungkook eased himself up and padded naked across the room. He returned with a warm, damp towel and knelt beside the bed, wiping gently at the mess on Seokjin’s chest, the curve of his belly, the inside of his thighs. His touch was so tender, so careful, that it almost undid him.

“God, I can barely remember my own name,” Seokjin murmured, voice low and dazed, eyelids fluttering shut with exhaustion and something softer—something dangerously close to surrender.

Jungkook chuckled low in his throat, voice still husky from pleasure. "We could drop the honorifics, if you want... I’ll spell out your name nice and slow—right before I make you forget it all over again."

Seokjin groaned, face half-buried in Jungkook’s shoulder. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, voice slurred with exhaustion and post-orgasm haze. “Mouthy brat. I should ban you from talking to me."

He didn’t mean it. Not really. Especially not when his body was still trembling from everything Jungkook had done to him.

The towel fell away, discarded, and Jungkook climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket over them both. Seokjin let himself sink into the warmth, the comfort of skin on skin.

“I don’t think I can get up,” Seokjin admitted, voice muffled by Jungkook’s chest.

“Don’t,” Jungkook whispered. “You don’t have to go anywhere.”

Minutes passed. Or hours. Seokjin’s mind drifted somewhere soft and hazy.

He was somewhere in a foggy memory when he heard a voice—not quite a whisper, not quite a dream—soft patterns on his head like drifting touches of light. “...I'll give you a place to stay.” The murmur was barely there. “Even if I’m not yours the way you are mine.”

Seokjin didn’t know if it was real. He didn’t open his eyes to find out.

He just let himself drift, tangled in limbs and breath and something dangerously close to a feeling he once knew well—one he’d long since buried, and now feared to name.

***

Memory.

Namjoon sat cross-legged on Hoseok's carpet, Seokjin lay sprawled on the couch, his head pillowed on Namjoon’s thigh, pink-dyed hair messy from Namjoon's ministrations. Hoseok sat on the floor near the coffee table, holding a half-empty cup of chamomile tea with both hands like it could steady him. His face was blotchy, his eyes swollen, and every few seconds his lower lip quivered with the kind of ache that lived in the throat.

“—and then he said he didn’t think he could keep up with me anymore,” Hoseok sniffed, voice wobbling. “That I was growing too fast. That I was... changing.”

Seokjin exchanged a glance with Namjoon, then looked back at Hoseok. "That sounds more like an excuse than a reason," he said plainly.

Hoseok looked up, wounded. “Maybe. But it still hurts.”

“I know,” Seokjin said, softer this time. “But don’t you dare give up the internship, Hobi.”

“I’m not giving up—”

“You are if you even consider walking away from it because of him.”

Hoseok set his mug down a little too forcefully. “I just… I thought if I backed off, if I stayed where he could reach me, maybe we could fix things.”

Namjoon leaned forward slightly. “That’s not fixing anything, Hob-ah. That’s building your future around someone who doesn’t know how to hold it. That’s not love. Love doesn’t make you small.”

Seokjin smirked, lifting a hand lazily to play with the hem of Namjoon’s sleeve. “That was very quotable.”

Namjoon rolled his eyes but smiled, then looked at Hoseok. “Seriously though. Love should add to your life, not subtract from it. The person you’re with should be your biggest fan. Not your competition.”

Hoseok exhaled slowly, nodding. “I guess you two would know. You make it look so easy.”

Seokjin laughed, eyes sliding toward Namjoon. "That's because we’re high-functioning disasters who keep the spark alive through sarcasm, stubbornness, and frankly obscene levels of sexual action. Somehow, it works."

Namjoon grinned, his hand gently carding through Seokjin’s hair. “That's what you think about us?”

“We are also especially gross in summer.” Seokjin scrunched up his nose at the thought, clearly regretting the mental image he'd just summoned.

Hoseok threw a throw pillow at Seokjin’s head. “You’re both the worst. You’ve ruined me. My standards are wrecked.”

“Good,” Namjoon said. “You deserve something extraordinary.”

Seokjin watched him—so earnest, so steady in his optimism. Namjoon had always been good at lifting people up, the kind of person who wrapped his warmth around others like a blanket without expecting anything in return. It amazed him, really. How effortlessly kind he was. How genuine. If anyone could make someone feel like they mattered, it was Namjoon.

Seokjin, on the other hand, had always been more pointed. Sarcastic, dry, a little too sharp around the edges. He liked to think of it as honesty, but sometimes it bled into cruelty before he could reel it back. Where Namjoon soothed, Seokjin provoked.

Somehow, it worked between them.

“That’s what you think about us?” Seokjin asked, raising an eyebrow.

Namjoon’s dimples surfaced. “Well, if you’re involved, it’s far from ordinary.” Was that a compliment? Seokjin didn’t know. But it still made him grin like an idiot.

Seokjin tilted his head, nuzzling into Namjoon’s stomach. “Hey,” he mumbled. “Do you think we’re gonna last together?”

Namjoon looked down, hand stilling in his hair. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

“How long?”

Namjoon pressed a kiss to Seokjin's forehead "Everlong."

Their eyes met. Something still and sacred passed between them.

Hoseok groaned. “I hate you both. Stop being cute. This is emotional terrorism.”

They laughed, and even Hoseok managed a weak chuckle through his tears.

The next day, Hoseok moved on from his emotionally stunted boyfriend and dove headfirst into the coveted internship he’d worked so hard to secure. His new boss turned out to be a formidable, wealthy woman with razor-sharp standards and a spine of steel—a walking goddess in tailored blazers and six-inch heels.

Hoseok found her terrifying. And by the end of the week, he was pinned against her office door with her mouth on his neck and her perfume embedded into his skin. It was messy, chaotic, absolutely inappropriate, and the best damn thing that had happened to him in years.

A week later, Namjoon had slipped a thin black box into Seokjin’s hands. When Seokjin asked what the occasion was, Namjoon smiled and said, “Last week, you asked me if I thought we were gonna last together.”

Seokjin opened the box with hesitant fingers, unsure whether he feared what was inside.

Inside lay a black leather bracelet—its surface smooth and cool to the touch, the embroidered pattern subtle, refined, crafted to endure more than time. When Seokjin turned it over, the light caught on a delicate rosé gold plate tucked discreetly on the inside. A quiet message was etched there, intimate and unwavering. 

“Everlong ”

Seokjin caught the glint of the matching band on Namjoon’s wrist, only in white gold, and something about the symmetry had etched itself into his memory. He hadn’t taken his off since. Not once. Not even now.

And lying here, body still humming from another man’s touch, he raised his wrist and looked at it wondering.

He didn’t know where Namjoon was. But he remembered.

He remembered everything.

***

Seokjin came ringing the doorbell before entering Taehyung’s place. An unspoken act to protect the space they shared. He made sure to spot the shoes in the entryway before stepping in.

“I’m home!” he’d call out theatrically.

Taehyung’s laugh ringed back. "I'm here." Came the answer.

Seokjin slipped off his shoes, scanning the tidy apartment until he spotted Taehyung poking his head out from the hallway, hair dyed a celestial blue that glowed in the sunlight.

“Where’s the gremlin?” Seokjin asked, voice laced with mock annoyance.

Taehyung laughed. “He’s not here.”

“Good.” Seokjin rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed him. As long as Taehyung looked this this happy, nothing else mattered.

Taehyung looked radiant. Otherworldly. Like some ethereal forest spirit who’d won at life. Seokjin took in the shimmer of his hair, the effortless joy in his movements, and couldn’t help but sigh. That bastard Yoongi had been doomed from the moment Tae decided to win him over.

Well deserved, too. The traitor had clearly conspired to set up Seokjin with Jungkook—under the guise of a simple dinner. A dinner that had turned into a night. A night that had turned into...

Never mind.

“School?” Seokjin asked, already moving toward the fridge.

“Thesis is almost done,” Taehyung replied, stretching. “Honestly not worried. I’m thinking about showing my pieces in a gallery. I’ve got so much stuff collecting dust.”

“Smart.”

Seokjin busied himself in the kitchen, prepping vegetables while Taehyung leaned on the counter, humming some half-finished tune.

Taehyung blushed. “So...Last night—”

“Nope.” Seokjin pointed the spatula at him like a weapon. “Do not finish that sentence.”

Taehyung froze mid-syllable, grinning guiltily. “Fine, fine. But he did picked up the broken glass this morning before leaving.”

“Bare minimum,” Seokjin muttered.

Taehyung leaned on the counter with a teasing glint in his eyes. “So... how was dinner with Jungkookie?”

Seokjin cursed under his breath. “I go out of my way to do one nice thing for you and your scheming boyfriend, and what do I get? Don’t even try to act innocent—I know you two plotted this together.”

Taehyung gave a smug little shrug. “Just returning the favor.”

“I don’t need favors.”

“Oh? I wasn’t referring to you... but if that’s how you see it.”

Seokjin turned scarlet. “No japchae for disrespectful children.”

Taehyung laughed. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Seokjin narrowed his eyes, but his chest felt warm.

“I’m glad you’re smiling again, hyung.”

“This?” Seokjin scoffed. “You call this smiling?”

“Yeah. Because I know your humor. And I remember when your smile didn’t mean anything.”

Seokjin turned away, stirring the pot with more force than necessary. But his heart ached in that fragile, healed-over way.

"“Anyway, you weren’t supposed to come back. Why did you?” Taehyung accused as he crossed his arms and leaned against the table, eyebrow raised in playful indignation.

Seokjin narrowed his eyes, slicing a mushroom with slightly more aggression than necessary. “You’re one to talk. I specifically told you not to bring him here the night I dyed your damn hair.”

Taehyung smirked, unfazed. “Yoongi-hyung said he talked to Jungkook and... I don’t know, something about executing Order Sixty-Nine. Whatever that means.”

Seokjin slammed the knife down and pointed it at him with a narrowed gaze. “I’m not saying I’ll poison your kimchi, but I am saying you should start tasting it carefully."

Taehyung eyed the plate Seokjin set in front of him with theatrical suspicion, chin propped on one hand as he squinted at the food. Only when Seokjin rolled his eyes and took a bite himself did Taehyung finally pick up his chopsticks, still looking like he expected an ambush. Seokjin smirked to himself. Still got it—his misdirection skills were elite.

Seokjin realized he didn’t have his phone. It should’ve been in his coat pocket, but it wasn’t—probably left back at Jungkook’s. Still, he had to go to the agency soon, so he gathered his things and headed out into the morning. He'll go by his apartment later.

February had arrived. The chill of winter was still present, but something warmer hummed beneath it.

On the bus, Seokjin stood near the center pole, gripping the cold metal as the vehicle jostled beneath him. He wondered what Jungkook would say if he just showed up unannounced. Every time, Jungkook opened the door wider. Every time, he'd welcomed him in, no matter the hour, no matter the reason. Even the last time. Seokjin blinked, trying to trace back the moment those gestures stopped feeling extraordinary. When had this access become so effortless? So... given?

Funny. It didn’t feel strange at all.

Thinking about Jungkook made Seokjin’s hand tighten around the pole, the memory of that morning blooming vivid in his mind. Jungkook had been sitting up in bed, scribbling something in a notebook while Seokjin slept like the dead. When Seokjin stirred, Jungkook just smiled at him. Even when caught staring, he'd only chuckled and teased him for hogging most of the bed. Seokjin’s gaze drifted to the passing city, Seoul’s colors so unnaturally bright it almost hurt to look.

He felt eyes on him. Not hostile, just... curious. A pair of elderly strangers, sitting side by side, shared a gentle smile with him. The woman gave him a small nod, and the man offered a polite tilt of his head.

Seokjin returned the gestures, polite yet puzzled.

Two younger passengers were glancing and giggling quietly between themselves like they knew a secret. Seokjin frowned and looked down. Shirt wasn’t inside out. No food stains. Shoes were fine. He even discreetly checked his fly.

Nothing out of place.

So what was it?

The woman sitting next row offered him a soft smile, then let her gaze linger with a full-body sigh—like she was watching something beautiful, something quietly aching and full of longing.

She wasn’t flirting—her expression carried something else entirely. A quiet crease between her brows that hinted at envy, perhaps, or a tender sort of pity, as if she recognized the fragility of what she was witnessing.

His hand let go off the pole as realization spread like warmth through his chest. Like a tide.

They could see it.

They knew.

Because it shimmered through him—undeniable. The kind of thing that glowed beneath the surface, soft and brilliant and impossible to hide.

The feeling he hadn’t dared to name, the one that hovered like mist at the edges of his thoughts, now surged forward with clarity.

He knew it now.

As everyone else too.

Because it was...

It felt like spring.

A blooming, warm, inexplicable swell vibrating beneath his skin.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let it wash over him. 

He recognized it now.

His body felt like it was vibrating just beneath the skin, every nerve lit up with something uncontainable.

When the bus came to a stop, he had to sit—legs too weak to keep him upright. It really did feel like a tide, flooding out of him with no regard for shame or subtlety. Seokjin half-expected something to spill from his pores—shimmering and bright, like glitter or confetti, impossible to hide.

The sensation clawed at his throat, stole the air from his lungs. And god—he couldn’t pretend anymore. Not when strangers were already seeing it. Not when their eyes, kind and knowing, seemed to reflect back a truth he hadn’t spoken aloud.

A smile broke over his face before he could stop it. He lifted his hands to cover it, instinctively, like shielding something too precious from the world. But it was useless. He couldn’t hold it in. He tried. God, he tried. And still, it bloomed through his fingers like sunlight through cracks.

He looked at the floor as if expecting to see some evidence of it—sparkles or pixi dust scattered near his shoes, pieces of himself shed in this quiet unraveling.

It was that.

It was that.

Oh God he tried so hard not to.

What the hell was he going to do now??

***

Seokjin missed his stop.

He had to walk for ten minutes.

The agency loomed ahead but something in him had tilted. The warmth clung to his chest like static, persistent and unshakable.

He should tell Jungkook.

How? He didn’t know yet.

When? Today. As soon as he could.

Why? Because Jungkook believed Seokjin’s heart longed for someone else. Because he’d been holding back his own feelings, afraid Seokjin would bolt the second he got too close. And maybe he was not wrong. God, hadn’t he already tried? The dinner. The song. The party. Last night—especially last night.

And what had Seokjin been doing?

Running. Taking. Dismissing. Provoking.

He was a damn idiot.

He entered through the front doors, nodding politely to the receptionist, and barely made it halfway down the hall when Yi Kyung stepped out of the sound booth.

“Seokjin-ssi, do you have a moment?” He asked, clipboard in hand.

Seokjin blinked at him, still slightly adrift. “Uh, sure.”

He motioned for him to follow him to his office. The hallway was bright and sterile, but he felt like he was walking underwater, his senses dulled by the internal storm still crackling inside him.

Inside the office, Yi Kyung sat down and slid a small stack of papers across the desk. His expression remained stoic, but his eyes lingered on Seokjin’s face.

“Did something… good happen?” he asked, cautiously. When Seokjin flinched, he added, “Never mind. You just… look like you’re glowing.”

Seokjin almost scoffed. For a second, he wondered if maybe a neon sign flashing his feelings would’ve been more subtle than whatever expression he was wearing.

“Anyway,” Yi Kyung said, clearing his throat, “this is the final batch. We’re finally wrapping up.”

Seokjin lowered himself slowly into the chair, eyes skating over the text without taking any of it in. “Finally? We're? What?”

He nodded. “Post-production’s is already on schedule. The final recording is in two weeks. After that, just touch-ups and the wrap party.”

He stared at the paper. The final recording. Two weeks.

Then what?

Then he went back. To te states. To that other life.

He felt sick.

“We’ll send you the invite for the closing event,” Yi Kyung added. His tone was even, professional—but not cold. “You’ve done excellent work, Seokjin. Truly.”

There was a beat of silence, just long enough to feel deliberate, and then Yi Kyung added, voice still even but a shade warmer, "You should be proud. I mean that. You've come a long way these past few months—more than I expected. We're glad we chose you, Seokjin-ssi. If you need a letter of recommendation, I’ll write it myself. I see a bright future ahead for you."

He nodded mutely, clutching the pages like they might anchor him. If there had ever been a moment when Yi Kyung had overstepped with him, it had been buried under months of cautious professionalism. He was careful now, deliberate in his tone, reserved in his praise. Clearly protecting his own reputation, yes, but maybe also offering something else. A flag of truce. Seokjin blinked, forcing himself to stay grounded. He didn’t want anything from him. Didn’t need it. But still, he accepted it.

“Thanks,” he said. Professionally, politely.

Yi Kyung watched him a second longer, then offered a small smile. “You’re free for the rest of the day. Let me know if you need anything.”

Seokjin stood and bowed slightly before exiting.

He leaned heavily against the wall outside the booth.

What was he supposed to do next? Where was he meant to go?

Right—he remembered.

By the time he reached Jungkook’s building, twilight had draped the sky in burnished gold and soft, bruised orange. The tall buildings looked like cutouts against it, surreal and paper-thin. He stood on the threshold, chest tight with things unsaid, and reached for the doorbell.

He could still turn back. But it was time to face things.

The bell rang.

Click.

The door opened, and there he was. Yoongi stood in the entryway with a furrowed brow, arms crossed, his gaze sharp and immediate. He stepped aside without a word, leaving room for Seokjin to pass.

Seokjin hesitated, foot hovering at the threshold like his body hadn’t caught up to his decision yet. He could still leave. He should. But Yoongi’s eyes locked onto his with the kind of knowing that made escape feel pointless. If he so much as twitched, Yoongi might just grab the back of his hoodie and yank him in.

So he stepped in.

He lowered himself carefully onto the edge of the couch, trying to gather the right words, but Yoongi beat him to it.

“Don’t even think about dodging it this time,” Yoongi said flatly. “I’m sick of people calling me the emotionally constipated one, so start talking.”

Seokjin exhaled, tension leaking out of his shoulders. “You’re being incredibly invasive, you know that?”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “You really played puppet master with me and Tae and now I'm the invasive one?”

Seokjin scoffed, his grin tipping sideways. “If you’re unhappy with the results, I can always re-meddle.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Yoongi snorted, leaning back against the counter with his arms still crossed.

“Oh wow, now I see—” Seokjin began, tone edging toward defensive, but Yoongi cut him off without missing a beat.

“Tae and I are fine,” he said firmly. “What I want to know is why Jungkook—who’s busted his ass in this damn industry, who’s clawed his way up past every person who ever dismissed him—looks like the loneliest guy in the room after finally being promoted to full producer. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen how you look at each other.”

That silenced Seokjin.

His throat clicked as he swallowed, gaze dropping to his hands. They were clenched tightly in his lap, nails digging crescents into his palms. He didn’t speak right away. Couldn’t. The words sat too heavy in his chest.

Because Yoongi was right.

He knew it in the way Jungkook looked at him. In the way Jungkook touched him. In the way Jungkook waited, listened, stayed . Seokjin had felt it—every time—and still he’d run. Still he’d hesitated. Still he’d chosen silence over certainty.

The weight of it crashed down on him then. All of Jungkook’s confessions, all of the ways he’d shown Seokjin he cared—every gesture, every whispered promise, every moment of unbearable softness—and Seokjin had met them with self-protection. With walls. With fear.

He dragged a hand over his face, voice breaking as he finally said, “I know.”

Yoongi arched a brow.

“I know,” Seokjin repeated, softer this time. “He’s done everything right. And I’ve just—God—I'm an idiot.”

“Why?” Yoongi’s voice wasn’t angry, but it was sharp. Exact. “Is it Namjoon?”

Seokjin looked up, eyes red-rimmed, not quite crying but definitely close. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not good enough, hyung.”

“I don’t know, Yoongi.” His voice cracked as the words spilled out. “I haven’t spoken to him. I haven’t asked. I haven’t—resolved anything .”

He let out a slow breath, collapsing a little into himself. “We’re on a break. That’s what I told you. And I don’t know what the hell that means anymore.” His voice was quieter now, brittle at the edges. “I thought staying away would help. I thought if I didn’t get involved, it wouldn’t hurt anyone. But Jungkook...”

His hand moved, aimless, fidgeting with the seam of a cushion. “He’s persistent and loud and careful in all the ways I’m not ready for. He gets under my skin. He makes me feel—everything. And I’ve been trying so hard to keep my distance, but he keeps showing up. And I let him.”

He glanced at Yoongi, eyes glassy, as though searching for an answer he couldn’t find. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I really don’t.”

His voice fell to a whisper as he clutched the edge of the couch like a lifeline. “I miss Namjoon. I love him. I still love him. But I—” He choked slightly, eyes closing as his nails bit into his own palms. “—Jungkook.”

Yoongi’s posture shifted. He looked like he wanted to say something, but Seokjin kept going, voice tumbling forward like it couldn’t be stopped.

“I don’t even know what that says about me. How do I feel someone when I haven’t let go of someone else? How the hell do I even look Jungkook in the eye knowing I can't choose.”

The silence that followed was heavy, sacred.

Finally, Yoongi spoke. “You think Jungkook doesn’t know that?”

Seokjin blinked.

“He knows, hyung. He’s known . And still, he gave you everything. Every fucking part of himself.” Yoongi's voice shook, low and tight. “You think that song he produced was just for the project? He worked himself raw to get it done ahead of deadline—just so you could hear it as soon as possible.”

That landed like a blow.

Seokjin’s lips parted, breath shallow. His hands trembled. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep the sob in his throat from spilling out.

Yoongi’s voice softened, but the steel in it didn’t fade. “I’m not saying you’re the bad guy. I know you, Jin. I know your heart. But you have to stop floating through this like none of it matters. Talk to Namjoon. Talk to Jungkook. Talk to someone . Me, Tae, anyone. But stop pretending you can keep running from it all. Because whether you want to admit it or not—this matters. You matter. And I hate watching you unravel like this.”

Seokjin shook his head. “It’s not that easy.”

“I didn’t say it was. I said it was necessary .”

There was a long pause. Seokjin sat motionless, shoulders hunched, eyes unfocused.

Then, almost inaudibly, he said, “I'm leaving.”

Yoongi looked confused. “What?”

“In two weeks,” Seokjin clarified. “The final recording is in two weeks. Then I go back. To the States. That’s my life. My apartment. My job. My plan .” His voice sharpened, picking up speed. “Everything here? It’s been—beautiful. God, it’s been amazing. But it’s not real. It’s a bubble. And I can’t—”

He buried his face in his hands, fingers threading into his hair and tugging slightly, like the pain might pull something clearer to the surface.

“I forgot for a little bit there but that is the reality.”

A soft sound echoed somewhere in the distance—a lock, maybe—but Seokjin barely registered it. He was spiraling, the words spilling out faster than he could control them. Yoongi flinched, eyes snapping toward the entrance. His expression shifted, suddenly alert, jaw tightening.

“I can’t do this. I won’t do this."

Yoongi’s mouth parted, like he was about to speak. He moved one foot stepping forward as if to block something, someone. "Jin—" he said urgently, but Seokjin pressed on, louder now, determined to be heard, to finish the damn sentence before his own fear swallowed it whole.

"I’m not going to let myself catch feelings with someone who’s going to stay anyway. I'm leaving.”

And then he turned—just in time to see a familiar silhouette disappear through the door, the click of it closing behind him like a punctuation mark.

Jungkook.

Seokjin stood frozen. The words still hot in his mouth. His chest heaving.

“Fuck,” Seokjin whispered. “Fuck.”

***

Memory.

The bed was a mess of limbs and too-warm sheets, and the goddamn ringtone was getting louder.

Seokjin groaned, rolling over with a sleepy scowl, arms groping blindly across the nightstand for his phone. It wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t. The light buzzing and vibration told him it had somehow ended up under the bed. Great.

He shifted his weight onto one elbow, muttering curses under his breath as he half-hung off the edge, reaching beneath the frame. Dust clung to his fingers. He felt the cold edge of his phone and dragged it out, triumphant and blinking hard against the screen’s sudden brightness.

Behind him, a deeper groan rumbled against his spine.

"Hyung... make it stop," Namjoon mumbled, voice rough with sleep, arm tightening loosely around Jin's waist before flopping uselessly across the mattress.

"I’m trying," Jin hissed, finally locating the device by following the sound and yanking it free with a victorious grunt.

The screen glared up at him. Without thinking, he swiped to answer—and groaned again when the image stabilized.

Videocall.

Yoongi's face appeared mid-yawn, eyes narrowed into slits as he took in the image. His expression froze.

"For the love of God, hyung, put a damn shirt on. And cover Namjoon’s tit. That is a nipple. That is a full, goddamn nipple."

Jin blinked at the screen, then looked down.

Namjoon’s chest was very much visible. So was the reddish-purple bruise just below Jin’s collarbone.

He didn’t flinch.

"Jealous much?," Jin drawled, dragging the sheets up with deliberate slowness. "When was the last time you…"

Yoongi groaned loudly, interrupting Seokjin and pinching the bridge of his nose. "You two are disgusting."

"Good morning to you too, sunshine." Jin squinted toward the window, where a faint strip of morning sunlight barely seeped through the edges of the curtains, painting the room in a sleepy, pale glow. It had to be ridiculously early.

He shifted, propping himself against the headboard with one hand still holding the phone at a crooked angle. The sheets pooled at his waist. Namjoon made a sleepy noise and burrowed deeper into the pillow.

"It's not morning. It's the afternoon here. I forgot the States live in the goddamn past."

Namjoon shifted again, sitting up slowly with his hair in full chaos mode. He blinked blearily at the screen. "Yoongi-hyung. You're early."

"You’re naked."

"Ah. Yeah. Sorry."

"I’m not." Jin leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Namjoon’s cheek before rolling back with a smug grin. Namjoon groaned but didn’t move away.

Yoongi gave them both the most unimpressed look in his arsenal.

"Anyway," he drawled. "I'm finally settled. You told me to call when that happened, remember? Found a solid apartment in Seoul. Two-bedroom, decent area, and the rent is as fair as it can be."

Jin wiped his eyes, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. His thumb idly traced the rim of the phone case. There was a faint scratch along the corner—probably from one of the many times he’d dropped it in the kitchen.

"Look at you," he said, only half teasing. "Adulting."

"Got a roommate too," Yoongi added, ignoring him. "Kid's in high school—well, finishing early. Something of a prodigy. Smart. Responsible. Quiet."

Jin let his head fall back against the headboard with a soft thud. "Uh-huh. And how long before the police knock on your door?"

Yoongi didn't even blink. "Shut up. It’s not like that."

"Sounds like you’re housing a shounen protagonist."

"He’s basically a little brother, asshole."

"Which would make you what, the grumpy sensei with a secret heart of gold?"

"Shut. Up."

Namjoon chuckled, dragging himself out of bed with the grace of a sleep-deprived giraffe. "I’ll make coffee."

Jin watched him for a moment, the shape of his back familiar, solid, a quiet comfort. He turned back to the screen. "So. Prodigy roommate, huh? Bet he listens to your demos without flinching."

"He listens," Yoongi said, then added, "Which is more than I can say for you."

"I’ve always supported your chaos."

"You told me it sounded like someone autotuned a panic attack."

"With love."

Yoongi rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Joon liked it," Jin said, softer now. "He said the layering was genius."

Yoongi snorted. "Tell him to come to Korea and say it to my face. I’ll produce him."

Jin smiled, eyes crinkling. He pulled the sheet tighter around his torso, warmth lingering from Namjoon’s body. "He says music’s just his hobby."

Yoongi frowned. "It shouldn’t be."

"Try telling that to his parents."

Yoongi tilted his head, suddenly more serious. Understanding. "He’s a good guy, hyung."

"I know."

"But he lets other people write his story."

Jin’s fingers tightened subtly around the phone.

He didn’t say it aloud, but the words echoed somewhere low in his chest. That was what scared him most. The feeling that one day he’d wake up and realize the life they’d built was more someone else’s dream than their own.

"I know," he said again.

Yoongi sighed. "Just... don’t lose yourself in that."

Jin leaned his chin on his knees, pulling his legs up into the warmth of the sheets. The phone was a familiar weight in his hands now. "If things ever go to shit," he said quietly, "Promise you’ll remind me he loved me."

Yoongi didn’t hesitate. "I promise to be your friend."

Jin blinked. Then burst out laughing. "That’s such a Yoongi answer."

Yoongi raised a brow. "People change. Maybe one day it won’t be him who walks away. Maybe it’ll be you."

Jin laughed harder, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than humor. "That’s impossible."

"Nothing is."

They stared at each other for a moment longer.

Jin smiled. "Congratulations though. I’m happy for you."

Yoongi nodded. "Go put on a shirt."

"Make me."

Click.

***

The silence in Yoongi’s apartment pressed in like a tide, slow but heavy. Jungkook was gone. And Seokjin sat unmoving on the couch.

His thoughts were a mess. No— he was a mess. He stared at the floor, then the couch, then the door Jungkook had closed behind him. It hadn’t slammed. It had clicked softly. But the sound felt final.

His chest ached.

He wanted to go after him. Every part of him screamed to do just that. To run, to grab his wrist, to say something. Anything.

But what could he possibly say that wouldn’t make it worse?

‘I’m sorry’ wasn’t enough. ‘Please stay’ would be selfish. And ‘I love you’—

No. That one was too big. Too late.

“I did try to tell you he was here,” Yoongi said, voice low.

Seokjin pressed his palms against his eyes until sparks danced behind his lids, like pain could cancel out regret.

“Shit. That didn’t go well,” he finally said.

Yoongi moved to the kitchen and emerged with two mugs, handed him one, and sat beside him on the couch without pressing. “You think?”

Jin let out something like a laugh. It cracked halfway through. He took a sip, grateful for the burn.

“What are you going to do?” Yoongi asked gently.

“I’m going to talk to him.”

Yoongi raised a brow. “About?”

Jin opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, eyes stinging. “I just… have to.”

After a minute of heavy silence, he rose from the couch.

Yoongi took a sip from his mug and set it down with a soft clink. He didn’t look directly at Seokjin. “You should probably figure yourself out before you go unraveling someone else,” he said, calm, almost distracted. "Sort through what you're still carrying."

“And whatever you decide,” Yoongi added, “make sure it’s not fear making the choice. And if something’s holding you down... maybe it’s time you let it go.”

Let it go. Not him. Not them.

The words landed like a key slipping into the right lock.

Something in his chest went very still.

Yoongi wasn’t asking for answers. He wasn’t choosing sides. He wasn’t even trying to fix it.

He was keeping a promise.

Jin paused at the door, heart clenched. He looked over his shoulder, not quite smiling. “Wow. Look at you, being sincere. It’s disgusting.”

Yoongi scoffed faintly, but didn’t deny it.

Seokjin lingered another second. “Thanks.”

Then he left.

***

Seokjin had no idea where Jungkook might be. He obviously wasn’t at the apartment—Seokjin had just come from there. And the truth was, they never saw each other anywhere else. Their world was tight: the apartment, the small restaurant down the street, the café near Taehyung’s. That was it.

The studio crossed his mind. Too obvious. Too... hopeful. But it was late, and he had to start somewhere.

The agency’s lobby was quiet when he arrived, the artificial lighting too bright against the gray dusk outside. The receptionist looked up politely.

“Good evening. Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m here to see Jeon Jungkook,” Seokjin said, brushing his fingers through his hair in a poor attempt to look composed.

She nodded, called an internal line, murmured something, then hung up.

“There’s no one in Mr. Jeon’s studio.”

Seokjin hesitated. “Could you try Genius Lab?”

Her brows lifted slightly. She didn’t hide her surprise. But after a moment, she dialed again. Another pause.

Then a softer tone in her voice. “You’re cleared to go in.”

A wave of relief rushed through Seokjin so quickly it nearly stole his breath. He’d found him. But the comfort didn’t last—it twisted in his gut almost immediately, folding into a heavy knot of dread.

Because he had found him.

The elevator doors opened with a whisper. The ascent felt slower than usual, or maybe that was just the pacing of his thoughts.

He stopped in front of the door. Familiar lettering met him:

GENIUS LAB – STUDIO

Yoongi’s domain. The sight of those words always stirred something in Seokjin—a quiet, loyal kind of pride. Yoongi had built something lasting here. He exhaled, heart dragging behind the motion. His fingers hovered a moment above the keypad and with resolve he introduced the code. The soft click of the door unlocking echoed louder than it should have. He stepped in, not knowing what version of Jungkook might be waiting on the other side.

The door clicked shut behind him.

The studio was dim, lit mostly by the soft blue glow of idle screens and the ambient track monitors quietly pulsing in the background. The air smelled like leather, electronics, and faint traces of coffee. Familiar in a way that made Seokjin’s chest ache.

Jungkook was there—curled on Yoongi’s long, black leather sofa like he belonged to the silence. He didn’t look up at first. Just kept tossing a baseball between his hands. It looked worn, like it had been held through long waits and longer thoughts.

Seokjin exhaled. "I’m glad I found you."

Jungkook’s eyes lifted slowly. His expression was unreadable.

"How’d you know I’d be here?"

Seokjin stepped further in, carefully, like the floor might shatter under his feet. "I didn’t. I just thought… maybe you’d be here. And if not, I would’ve kept looking."

That earned him a pause. A flicker of something in Jungkook’s gaze. But still, no words.

The room felt both intimate and sterile—Yoongi’s studio wasn’t cluttered, but it wasn’t cold either. A space carved out for sound and solitude. Seokjin knew the equipment well enough.

He lowered himself slowly into Yoongi’s producer chair, facing the maze of controls and the boy he couldn’t stop hurting.

He stared at his hands for a beat, then looked at Jungkook. "The night of my birthday… when I left. I told you I’d explain. That I panicked, and it was unfair, and that I’d explain."

Jungkook nodded once, a small, almost imperceptible motion.

"I never did. And you never asked. But if it’s alright with you, I’d like to try now."

Jungkook set the baseball down on the cushion beside him. Sat up a little straighter, like he was bracing. "I’m listening."

Seokjin’s breath trembled. His posture slouched slightly, hands now wringing in his lap. He wasn’t sure where to begin—or if beginning would do anything but unravel him completely.

"I guess the thing is... I was in love. I still am, probably. My last relationship didn’t really end. We said we were taking space. And I told myself that was healthy, that we both needed time to grow, to figure things out. And that might’ve been true. But the truth is, I didn’t know how to stop loving him."

His voice cracked slightly. He didn’t try to hide it.

"I shaped my world around him. Around what he needed, what we could be. I gave it everything. He did too I’m sure… And then we started losing pieces of ourselves... he knew, and I did too. But he knew we had to do something. But I was so afraid and I did my best to deflect, and avoid but it still happened. We were supposed to take a breath, gather ourselves. But I still felt hurt. That he was letting me go and that I wasn’t enough."

Jungkook’s hands were still. His brows slightly drawn, eyes locked on Seokjin like he was trying to memorize every word.

"After that, I thought I needed attention. I let myself believe that being desired would fix something in me. That maybe if someone else looked at me like I mattered, I’d remember how to feel whole. It wasn’t true. And it hurt me in ways I’m still ashamed to name."

He took a deep breath, eyes flickering to the walls. "Then you showed up."

A beat passed.

"And you didn’t want me to be anything. You just... looked at me. Really looked. And I felt seen, not for the person I’d become with someone else, but for who I still was underneath. The one I thought I lost.  And I tried to fight it. I’m sorry, I really tried. Because I was a mess. I am still."

He let out a soft, shaky laugh.

"But you kept pulling me in. With your voice, your eyes, your confidence. You make me feel things I don’t know how to handle. I’m scared."

Jungkook shifted, his hands clasped now, white-knuckled against his thighs.

"I’m scared of how easy it is to fall into you. I’m scared to think I’m ready. To want to do everything for you, to make you smile, to be someone who makes your world brighter. Because that’s what I did before. I gave all of me. And I don’t know how to do it differently."

He reached down and touched the bracelet on his wrist. The black leather was warm against his pulse point. "I loved someone who gave this to me. Someone who still means something to me. That hasn’t gone away. But what’s happening with you... it’s not small. It’s not temporary. And it scares the hell out of me."

Seokjin finally looked up.

"I realized something today. Something good. Something I wanted to tell you right away. But right after that, I found out that I'm out of time. Two more weeks, and the recording wraps. Then I have to go back."

He breathed in slowly, like it hurt.

"Back to my apartment. My degree. The work waiting for me. And here, I have... nothing."

He shook his head.

"I don’t even know what I’m asking from you. But I couldn’t leave you thinking it's nothing or that I don't care. But the reality is I can’t promise to be around."

Across from him, Jungkook blinked slowly, his throat bobbing in a silent swallow. His expression was pained—but soft. Like every part of him was listening, trying not to fall apart .

Jungkook leaned back against the sofa, as if the weight of Seokjin’s words had physically pushed him into the cushions. He didn’t speak right away. His fingers toyed with the baseball again, slower now, rolling it across his palm.

When he finally did lift his gaze, there was something different in it, edged in something that felt like disappointment, but not quite anger. Not yet.

“You know,” he began, voice low, steady, “you keep saying how scared you are.”

Seokjin tensed, unsure whether to brace or fold.

“I get that. I do. I’m scared too.”

Jungkook’s jaw worked slightly. “Putting your heart out there. Hoping it means something to someone else... It’s terrifying. Especially when you don’t know if they’ll catch it, or just watch it hit the floor.”

He set the baseball down again, more firmly this time. “But at least I try. I’ve been trying this whole time,” Jungkook said, now looking directly at him. “Trying not to push. Trying not to ask for too much. You think you’re the only one who’s scared?”

His voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t need to.

“I’ve been showing up for something you won’t even name. Making space for you to figure yourself out. And I’d keep doing it—Shit, I would—but don’t sit there and pretend like this is just about you sorting through your pain. Because it’s not.”

Seokjin’s shoulders curled inward, his fingers gripping the edge of the producer chair.

Jungkook’s breath hitched. He looked down for a moment, collecting himself. “You say you don’t know what you’re asking for. But whether you mean to or not... you're asking me to be okay with halfway. With holding on while you drift in and out. And I can’t do that.”

He stood up slowly, rolling his shoulders back, like bracing for recoil. “I’m not asking you to stay forever. I’m not asking you to promise me the rest of your life. I’m just saying... if you want to be with me, then be with me. Right now. As you are. Not later, not maybe.”

Jungkook’s eyes didn’t waver. “And if you can’t... then go. Don’t string me along because you’re scared of being alone. I deserve more than that.”

He took a step closer, not aggressive, just firm. His voice softened but stayed clear. “You don’t need to know the future. And if it’s not me, then that’s okay.”

A pause. His gaze dropped, and when it lifted again, there was something quieter, more vulnerable in it.

“I always knew your heart beat for someone else. He must be incredible.”

Seokjin’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

He nodded. Weakly.

Jungkook gave a small, tight smile. Not bitter. Just honest.

“I don’t hate you for it. But I won’t compete with a ghost.”

He turned, walking past Seokjin—but paused at the door.

“I meant everything I felt. Everything I still feel.”

Another pause. One breath. Then another.

“But if you want me, then come get me.”

And with that, he left.

The door clicked shut behind him, softer than it felt.

Seokjin sat frozen in the producer chair, the ghost of Jungkook’s voice still lingering in the air. And for once, silence wasn’t enough to drown it out.

He stayed there longer than he meant to, staring at the empty space where Jungkook had been, as if the cushions might still hold the shape of his body, the heat of his disappointment. His own hands had gone cold, still gripping the armrests like he might fall if he let go.

It felt like he already had.

Outside, the air was crisp, kissed by the chill of early spring, and the streets were mostly empty. He tilted his head back, eyes catching the silver slice of moon hanging fat and full in the sky.

Of course it would be a full moon tonight.

He laughed under his breath, bitter and low.

The world kept turning. The moon kept rising. And here he was, still unsure how to stop chasing things that always slipped through his fingers.

His heart ached.

Maybe he couldn’t fix everything tonight. Maybe there wasn’t a clean answer.

But maybe, just maybe, he could make a decision.

Not for the future. Not for forever.

Just for now.

He shoved his hands into his hoodie pockets and started walking.

Chapter Text

The apartment buzzed with quiet movement as Seokjin adjusted the collar of his shirt in the hallway mirror. The deep green of the dress shirt clung just enough to flatter without being suggestive. Beneath it, the black undershirt added structure, subtle contrast, and most importantly, coverage. Taehyung stood behind him, gently ruffling the layers near the crown of his head.

“You’re ready,” Tae murmured. “You look... exactly how you’re supposed to look tonight.”

Seokjin gave a tight smile. “Like someone pretending everything’s fine?”

Tae rolled his eyes and swatted his shoulder. “Hot as hell”

Yoongi passed behind them with a mug in one hand, glancing briefly at Seokjin’s reflection. “Try not to start any fires,” he said. “And good luck.”

“Thanks,” Seokjin replied softly.

The conversation over dinner had been simple, direct. There was only the closing party left, and then he’d be flying back to the U.S. the next afternoon.

When Taehyung asked what would happen with Jungkook, Seokjin hesitated before answering.

“I need to go back. Handle some things. Close out my apartment, meet with a recruiter, talk to my old agency. There’s a possible project... But nothing’s confirmed yet.”

“And Jungkook?” Tae pressed.

Seokjin breathed out slowly. “He’s busy. Senior producer you know? We’ve been in contact though.”

Taehyung and Yoongi exchanged a glance Seokjin didn’t particularly like. It was too knowing, too quiet. But he let it pass, gracefully, of course, because that’s who he was.

The venue was glowing by the time Seokjin arrived. The crowd buzzed with familiar faces, voices spilling across the event space with celebratory energy. It was the kind of environment he could fade into. Or get completely swept away by.

He didn’t have time to decide which before one of the associate producers flagged him down.

“Seokjin-ssi, come meet someone.”

The woman she introduced him to was poised, polished. Hye-su. A recruiter for a high-end agency.

“I’ve heard wonderful things about you,” she said warmly. “From multiple sources.”

Seokjin bowed lightly. “Thank you. That’s generous.”

“I work with talent in both Korea and the U.S.,” she added, offering a card. “And I think there’s real potential for some big things, if you’re open to it.”

He accepted the card, nodding. “I’d like that. Thank you.”

“Of course,” she smiled. “Tonight, celebrate.”

He moved back into the crowd, connecting with coworkers, sharing a drink, even smiling when someone teased him about becoming “too handsome for voice acting.”

Han appeared again.

“I’m not giving up,” Han said, slurring words and eyes aflame. He had been drinking.

Seokjin sighed inwardly. “Han, I appreciate—”

“You’re not being fair,” Han cut in. “I haven’t done anything wrong. You won’t even give me a chance.”

Seokjin was about to reply, but a hand landed on Han’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Jungkook said smoothly. “Sorry to interrupt. Just figured I’d save you from embarrassing yourself in public.”

Han turned, clearly surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“Mingling,” Jungkook replied. “Did a few musical touch-ups for the game launch. Got an invite. And,” he added, giving Han a light but purposeful nudge, “I'd like to speak with Seokjin hyung privately.”

Shit.

Seokjin flushed, eyes widening. 

Han scowled. “Seriously?”

Seokjin, gently but firmly, stepped in. “Han, I appreciate your attention. Really. But… Jungkook and I have something going on.”

Han blinked, his mouth parting slightly, as if someone had splashed cold water across his face. Whatever retort he had prepared shriveled on his tongue. He looked between the two of them—at Seokjin’s calm, at Jungkook’s quiet certainty—and seemed to deflate. Just a little.

He turned to Jungkook, meeting his eyes.

Jungkook’s grin was smug but quiet. There was mischief in it, but also something steadier underneath.

Seokjin’s gaze drifted, tracing the curve of Jungkook’s tattoos beneath the sheer black fabric of his shirt. Silver chains glinted at his collarbones, and the metal on his lip caught the light each time he blinked. His hair was slicked back, revealing the full expanse of his face. Dashing.

“What are you really doing here?” Seokjin asked, controlling his breath.

“Told you,” Jungkook said, stepping closer. “Music, mingling and speaking to you.”

From across the room, Yi-kyung appeared briefly in their line of sight. Jungkook’s eyes tracked him for half a second before Yi-kyung turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction.

Seokjin frowned. “What was that?”

He turned back and caught Jungkook looking at him. Really looking. From the tips of his sneakers to the line of his jaw.

It was not a casual glance. Seokjin felt somehow exposed.

“Taehyung said I looked a certain way tonight,” Seokjin murmured, eyes flicking to the side.

Jungkook tilted his head. “He was right.”

“But you don’t know what way he said I looked,” Seokjin retorted.

“Well, I know Tae,” Jungkook said, unfazed. “And he likes to dress you up like you’re his favorite doll. If he helped you get ready for tonight, I can picture the intention.”

Seokjin thought back to the way Taehyung had insisted on heavier makeup, muttering about angles and drama and a statement finish. He groaned softly, because it was true. 

“I like your brown hair. It’s how you looked when we first met.”

Seokjin felt the air shift in his chest. He wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. He only had until the afternoon tomorrow. And Jungkook knew that too. He lifted the wine glass in his hand and took a slow sip instead, as if that might steady the feeling in his ribcage.

Jungkook watched him carefully, his gaze still warm. “Are you ready for your flight?”

Seokjin exhaled through his nose. “Obviously not.”

Jungkook chuckled. “Didn’t think so.”

“My suitcase was never big to begin with,” Seokjin added, trying for lightness. “Packing won’t take long. As long as I’m at the airport by three p.m., the plan holds.”

Jungkook nodded, his tone even. “It’ll go well. Let me know if you need help with anything.”

“Thank you,” Seokjin said. It was polite, but uncertain. He didn’t know what else to offer, or where this conversation might land. But his body betrayed him—leaning slightly closer, eyes following the familiar way Jungkook played with the ring in his lip. That nervous tic that made him look too young and too bold at the same time.

God, he was going to drive Seokjin insane.

Another sip of wine. A distraction.

“What are you thinking?” Jungkook asked, voice low. Seokjin was ready to risk ir all.

Seokjin tilted his head slightly. “I’m thinking I’m doing exactly what you told me to. Staying present. Right here, right now. Thinking about how much I hate that lip ring… mostly because I can’t stop remembering what it’d felt like between my teeth.”

Jungkook’s reaction was immediate. His eyes widened with delight, then narrowed with mischief.

“I’m glad you’re listening,” he said, stepping in just enough to drop his voice. “Because I’ve got another suggestion.”

Seokjin’s brow lifted. “What now?”

Jungkook grinned. “Let’s ditch this boring party.”

***

The door barely clicked shut before Seokjin had Jungkook pinned against it, mouths colliding with a force that shook the air between them. Jungkook’s breath hitched as Seokjin’s palm cupped his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek before sliding into his hair, gripping tight. Their teeth clashed, lips dragging wetly, the kiss messy and loud and absolutely perfect.

Jungkook tugged at Seokjin’s shirt with impatient fingers. “So... you hate my lip ring,” he panted, voice husky.

Seokjin grinned. “Hate is a strong word. But it’s a fucking distraction.”

Jungkook tilted his head, eyes dark. “Then do something about it.”

Seokjin leaned in until their lips brushed, until the cool press of metal met the heat of his mouth. “Don’t tempt me.”

Jungkook’s voice dropped an octave. “Too late.”

Seokjin bit the ring, tugged it hard enough to make Jungkook hiss and smiled when the younger man’s hips bucked forward.

“Thought so,” Seokjin growled.

And then he kissed him again. Hotter, hungrier, pulling him in like a storm.

They stumbled toward the bedroom, half-undressed, Seokjin’s fingers undoing buttons blindly while Jungkook yanked his shirt over his head. The moment they hit the bed, Seokjin pushed Jungkook down and straddled him, devouring his mouth again. Jungkook arched up to meet him, hips grinding, greedy.

Seokjin kissed him until they couldn’t breathe—biting, pulling, tasting—then kissed his way down his throat, sucking bruises just to see them bloom. Jungkook’s chest heaved, body already trembling as Seokjin’s hands roamed lower.

When Seokjin’s fingers found the waistband of Jungkook’s boxers, he didn’t hesitate. He slipped them down slowly, teasing, eyes locked on Jungkook’s face as he exposed him. Jungkook bit his lip, breath ragged.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “Please.”

“I’m getting there,” Seokjin murmured, reaching for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. “You like it wet, don’t you?”

He poured generously, the cold slickness coating his fingers before he pressed one to Jungkook’s entrance. He teased at first, circling, watching Jungkook twitch and whine.

“Hyung—”

“I said I’m getting there.”

When he finally pushed in, Jungkook gasped, legs falling open wider, back arching. Seokjin worked him open slowly, curling his fingers just right, watching his mouth fall open with each motion.

“More,” Jungkook begged.

“Greedy,” Seokjin muttered, sliding in a second, then a third. The stretch had Jungkook keening, sweat already beading at his hairline.

“Look at you,” Seokjin whispered. “Falling apart already.”

“Then fuck me,” Jungkook hissed.

Seokjin didn’t answer—he slicked himself quickly, positioning with one hand while the other held Jungkook’s hip firm. He pushed in slow, watching Jungkook’s expression twist—first with tension, then relief, then overwhelming need.

“Shit,” Seokjin groaned. “You’re still so—tight. Fuck.”

Jungkook’s fingers gripped his arms, desperate. “More.”

Seokjin rolled his hips, dragging out almost completely before thrusting back in, deep and smooth. Jungkook cried out, legs locking around him, pulling him deeper. Their rhythm built slowly, deliberately, sweat slicking their bodies together.

Seokjin leaned down, burying his face in Jungkook’s neck, nipping and panting against his skin. He whispered things there—nonsense, filth, praise—and Jungkook soaked it up with every gasp, every moan.

“I want...,” Seokjin murmured, voice hoarse. "I need...”

“I know,” Jungkook breathed. “I’m here.”

Seokjin sat back, lifting Jungkook’s hips into his lap, adjusting the angle. Lubricant and precum dripped down his thighs, slicking their movements, making every thrust obscene.

He reached for Jungkook’s cock, stroking in rhythm, watching how he bucked, how his mouth dropped open, how his eyes rolled back.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” Seokjin groaned. 

Jungkook laughed through a moan, breath catching. “You’re one to tell.” He gripped Seokjin’s waist, trying to meet every thrust with his own, pushing deeper, harder.

“You love this, don’t you?” Seokjin asked. “Me inside you. Deep. Slow.”

Jungkook’s nails dug into his skin. “Faster.”

Seokjin obeyed, hips snapping, sweat dripping onto Jungkook’s chest. His arm trembled, so he sat back again, lifting Jungkook easily, wrapping his legs around him, pounding up into him with sharp, precise thrusts.

Jungkook tried to hide his face, but Seokjin stopped him.

“No,” he said. “Don’t. I like to see you.”

Jungkook laughed, just for a second—then gasped, loud and broken. Seokjin had found it. That spot. That angle.

“Shit,” Jungkook whimpered. “Right fucking there.”

Seokjin stayed there, relentless.

“Hyung—hyung—hyung—”

“I know,” Seokjin panted. “Me too.”

Jungkook’s body tensed, his cock pulsing in Seokjin’s hand. His entire frame shuddered, legs twitching. Seokjin felt the pressure peak behind his eyes, his breath caught—

And they came together. Again.

Jungkook spilled across both their stomachs, clenching impossibly tight around Seokjin as he came deep, buried to the hilt, every nerve sparking white.

Seokjin groaned, long and low, collapsing forward as the world blinked out.

Their bodies stayed tangled, their breaths uneven. Seokjin kissed the corner of Jungkook’s mouth, a reverent touch.

Jungkook exhaled a shaky laugh and let his arms drape around Seokjin’s back. “You’re heavy,” he muttered, voice warm and wrecked.

Seokjin hummed but didn’t move. “I knew your muscles were all show.”

Jungkook grinned, voice lazy. “Guess I’ll just have to work you out instead.” He pressed a slow, possessive kiss to Seokjin’s temple, hand drifting low over his back.

Their sweat cooled slowly, and Seokjin eventually shifted just enough to reach for the blanket, pulling it over their naked bodies. Jungkook was still trembling slightly, so Seokjin wrapped an arm around his waist and held him close, anchoring him.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

Jungkook nodded into his shoulder. “Yeah. Just… still floating.”

They lay there in the quiet, heartbeats slowly settling. Seokjin could still feel the tremor in his own thighs, the ache in his hips, the ghost of Jungkook’s hands on his skin. The room smelled like sex, like sweat and salt and something that didn’t want to fade.

“You always do that to me,” Jungkook mumbled.

“Do what?”

“Make me feel like you’re already gone.”

The words sat between them like an open window.

Seokjin knew it wasn’t the moment for grand declarations. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. But God—how was he supposed to stop himself from feeling like this around Jungkook? It wasn’t something he could mute or manage. It just was.

At least now, the weight of pretending was gone. Jungkook knew. He knew too. And even if everything around them was still uncertain, tonight they had this—each other, warm and real and breathing in the same space.

He could live in that truth. Just for now, it was enough.

Seokjin kissed the top of Jungkook’s head, his fingers curling tighter around his back.

“I’m not gone yet.”

“Then stay a little longer,” Jungkook whispered.

And so he did. At least for that night.

***

Seokjin stared at the terminal screen even though he’d already confirmed the gate number twice. His suitcase stood beside him.

The airport bustled around him—families huddled around suitcases, businessmen tapping at tablets, children tugging on sleeves. Seokjin stood still in the middle of it all.

He was alone.

Taehyung had said goodbye before he got in the cab. He hadn’t cried, at least, but his voice had softened the way it did when he was holding back something heavy. “Text me when you land. And if you feel sad… don’t wait too long to come back.” His worries echoed faintly in Seokjin’s chest.

Yoongi had sent a message not long after. “Safe flight. Write when you get there.” No emojis. No fuss. But Jin knew what it meant.

And Jungkook…

Jungkook had fallen asleep on Seokjin’s chest, his breath a soft whistle against his skin, the faintest snore curling in the quiet between them. Seokjin had run his fingers through Jungkook’s dark, sleep-warmed hair for hours, letting the sound of his breathing wash over him like a tide. Each rise and fall made his chest vibrate, and with every breath, a strange calm soaked deeper into his bones. That’s how they stayed until the sky turned pale.

“I have to go,” he whispered, lips grazing Jungkook’s temple. “You don’t have to wake up.”

Jungkook didn’t stir, not really. Just a soft hum, a furrowed brow.

But when Seokjin had quietly shifted to leave, Jungkook’s hand had found his wrist.

He’d waited, heart in his throat, hoping for words, a protest, a plea.

But after a moment, Jungkook’s grip loosened. He reached for the pillow where Seokjin had been resting and pulled it close, burying his face in it. Seokjin watched in silence, heart caught in his throat, until he was almost certain Jungkook had fallen asleep again.

He hadn’t looked back.

Neither had Seokjin.

Now, under the fluorescent lights of the departure gate, the ache in his chest settled like something familiar. Not sharp. Not even bitter. Just… there.

A final weight in the carry-on of his heart.

He turned toward the gate when the boarding call echoed through the terminal, one hand tightening around the handle of his suitcase.

By the time he arrived at his apartment, Seokjin’s bones felt heavier than his luggage. 

The air inside smelled stale, familiar in the wrong ways. Dust clung to the corners. The kitchen lights buzzed faintly when he flicked them on.

Before he could get fully inside, the door across the hall opened with a creak, and a familiar voice cried out.

"Jhaan!"

Seokjin barely turned before Hoseok crashed into him, arms thrown tight around his shoulders. The hug was full-bodied and unapologetic, knocking the air out of him for a second.

"I thought you were coming back tomorrow!" Hoseok accused, already pulling away to check his face, his eyes, as if he needed proof Seokjin was really there.

"Told you a different date. I wanted to avoid the drama," Seokjin murmured.

"Yeah, well, failed," Hoseok replied, eyes shimmering. Then he was hugging him again, this time tighter. “Don’t do that again, please. Don’t leave me again.”

Seokjin exhaled slowly, warmth blooming in his chest. “I’m sorry.”

They stepped into Seokjin’s apartment together. Hoseok immediately launched into questions about the flight, the weather, his hair, his skin, and if he’d lost weight. How he was so awesome to keep the plants alive.

Seokjin felt comfortable there with Hoseok. His friend was all smiles and comfort. But the air in his department felt weird. Like he didn’t belong there anymore, like it was not his at all, but a faint memory of where he used to call home. Nostalgia hit him and although he tried to keep up with the warm welcome of his friend, he still couldn't quite mask it right. His friend clearly noted it.

Hoseok quieted, leaning against the counter as Seokjin embraced a pillow.

“So,” Hoseok said, gaze steady. “You gonna tell me what happened? About Jungkook?”

Seokjin smiled faintly. Of course this was one question for the night.  “You remember him?”

“Damn right I remember him. He was stupidly handsome. And the way he looked at you? Like he really, really liked you. It was obvious.”

Seokjin leaned back, thoughtful. “He’s… a lot. He makes me feel things I didn’t plan on feeling.”

“Like?”

“Like I’m whole. Like I’m fun. Like I’m on cloud nine or something.” He scratched at the corner of the cushion he was hugging.

Hoseok nodded slowly. “And Namjoon?”

“That’s what I came back to figure out,” Seokjin said, more to himself than to anyone else.

Hoseok stepped forward again, this time with the kind of hug that didn’t ask for permission. The kind that Seokjin had always thought should be sold in pharmacies.

“Your hugs have vitamins and minerals,” Seokjin mumbled against his shoulder. “Chicken soup energy. I swear.”

Hoseok laughed into his neck. “It’s all for you. Seriously, you need to eat something—you’re definitely skinnier. I can see it in your face. And maybe a little in the shoulders too.”

They eventually pulled apart. Hoseok stepped back toward the door.

“I gotta finish a report for tomorrow,” he said, then winked. “Also, I may have banged the hot guy from my gym.”

Seokjin nearly choke. “Hobi, what—”

“He was doing squats, Jin. You’d understand if you saw him. Steam. Perfect lighting. One of my top five. I have a lot to tell you, like... a lot.”

Seokjin groaned, rubbing his eyes. “This I didn't miss.”

“Anyway.” Hoseok grinned. “And I’m glad you’re back.”

Hoseok insisted on dropping off a bundle of freshly laundered blankets and sheets before heading back to his own apartment. "It’s been empty too long in here," he said, already fluffing a pillow. "You deserve fresh linens at least."

Seokjin thanked him with a tired smile and a half-hearted threat to strangle him with gratitude later.

Once alone, he spread the clean blankets over the bed and sank onto the edge of the mattress. The scent of lavender detergent hit him and for a moment he let himself feel held by it. The room was still quiet, still empty, but it was a little less cold.

He sat there for a moment, unmoving, before reaching for his American phone on the nightstand. It had been charging quietly while he caught up with Hoseok, glowing faintly in the dim light like it knew it had work to do.

The second it turned on, it lit up like a firework display—texts, emails, missed calls.

He stared at the chaos, blinking as it began to slow.

And when the last chime faded, he opened his contacts.

Namjoon.

Seokjin hesitated only a breath.

Then he hit call.

***

The hours leading up to Namjoon’s visit had been filled with quiet chaos. Everything in the apartment needed to be clean, not because it was messy, it was, but it gave his hands something to do. He needed to move.

He cleaned everything—scrubbed the counters, reorganized the pantry, ran multiple loads of laundry in his and Hoseok’s unit just to keep his hands busy. Anything to keep his mind from circling around the same tight, anxious loop. He even restocked the fridge with basics from the corner store, though he wasn’t hungry.

The apartment looked immaculate. Too immaculate.

He showered longer than he meant to, standing under the hot water until the steam fogged the mirror and the edges of his thoughts blurred just enough to keep him upright. But when he stepped out and faced his reflection, the ache returned. He pulled on a liliac sweatshirt and paired cotton pants. They hung a little looser on him now. Like everything else, they didn’t quite fit anymore. They offered the illusion of safety, but none of the substance.

He kept glancing at the clock. Namjoon was late. Seokjin’s chest tightened with every passing minute. Rationally, he knew Namjoon had a history of running behind. He’d spent years teasing him for it. He started pacing again, tried sitting on the edge of the couch, then stood and opened a bag of peanuts he had no intention of eating. Anything to distract himself from the nervous churn of his stomach.

When the knock came, it landed like a blow—sharp, unexpected. A hollow thud reverberated through his chest. His knees buckled slightly, and he reached out to grip the edge of the counter, grounding himself. He inhaled deeply, held it, then let it out in slow, measured breaths, trying to regain control of a body that suddenly didn’t feel like his own.

He didn’t check the peephole. He didn’t need to.

Namjoon stood behind the door. Taller, maybe. Definitely thinner. His hair was longer, messier. His shoulders were drawn inward, his posture careful. He looked like someone who had survived something.

And Seokjin didn’t know how to greet him. His body froze halfway between wanting to step forward and step back. His chest ached with something raw and immediate. He tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. There was too much history in the doorway. Too much space between them, even standing that close.

For nine years, it had always been a kiss. A hand grazing his jaw. A joke whispered against his neck. And now he couldn’t even hold his gaze.

He considered a handshake, or a hug. Maybe a nod.

Namjoon was maybe in the same predicament but then looked at him, stood a little straighter and said, "You look different."

Seokjin let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and tried a smile. “You look like shit.”

Namjoon huffed a laugh, dry and weary. One dimple appeared. “Yeah. I guess neither of us had an easy time.”

They stood there for a few seconds more before Seokjin remembered to step aside and Namjoon entered.

Namjoon left his shoes in the genkan like he always used to. That tiny ritual almost undid Seokjin.

“I have wine or water,” he offered. "Sorry I didn't got beer."

“Water’s fine.”

He poured two glasses, placed them carefully on a napkin, then joined Namjoon in the living room. The silence between them was thick but not hostile. Just careful.

Namjoon was scanning the room slowly, as if trying to reconcile the past with the present. His eyes caught on the framed print Hoseok had gifted them during his second year living there, still slightly crooked on the wall. Then his gaze dropped, and landed on the sofa. Seokjin followed his gaze too.

On the stain.

It was faint now, but still there. A splash of wine that had soaked into the fabric the night Namjoon had knocked over the glass while straddling Seokjin, lips bruised from laughter and kisses. It had been clumsy, chaotic, deeply intimate, and the stain refused to leave no matter how much they tried.

Seokjin felt exposed. Like Namjoon, he could see not just the room, but everything they’d been.

He shifted slightly in his seat, aware—acutely—that Namjoon hadn’t said anything else because he was waiting. Waiting for Seokjin to speak. The pressure of it wrapped around Seokjin’s ribs, made every breath feel borrowed. He looked down at his fingers curled around the water glass, the condensation pooling like sweat on his palms. But he had to say something eventually.

“I just got back yesterday,” Seokjin offered. “Didn’t have time to set up everything again. Hoseok kept the plants alive, though.”

Namjoon nodded. “Yeah, he texted me. Said two of them were dying. I think he panicked.”

Seokjin smiled despite himself. “Sounds like him.”

“They were drowning,” Namjoon added, “because he watered them everyday.”

“God, of course he would. That’s so Hoseok.”

Namjoon’s mouth tilted in a half-smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Seokjin saw the effort, the exhaustion behind it. He hadn’t expected Namjoon to still know about the plants, much less to have helped Hoseok care for them. That small detail lodged itself deep in his chest. Most of the plants were gifts—Namjoon had picked them out, given them names, placed them by the windows according to the sunlight. Seokjin had left them behind when he left, and Namjoon had still made sure they lived.

They both took a sip. Seokjin knew the small talk was done.

He could have chosen anything. Any topic. But the one that had festered, the one that haunted him, came out first.

“So... you and Jimin...”

Namjoon’s expression shifted into something sour. Tension in his jaw.

“What about me and Jimin?” His hands stiffened around the glass. “If you want to skip to the part where I’m the villain,” Namjoon said tightly, “then why did you even ask me to come?”

Seokjin felt the heat pool low in his stomach, a mix of shame and anger threatening to rise. "Well, it's not like you can deny it. I saw the messages."

Namjoon froze, as if struck. "You what? What are you even talking about?"

But Seokjin didn’t flinch. He felt too wronged to feel guilty. "Your account was logged in on my laptop. I didn’t mean to, but it was right there. I read a few lines. Not much. Just enough."

Namjoon was frowning now, like he was trying to piece together what Seokjin could've seen. He didn’t deny it. 

"Don’t worry," Seokjin added, voice tight. "It was from around June. June, Namjoon. For fuck’s sake. Couldn’t you wait until we were actually over?"

Namjoon flinched visibly. "I… I don’t understand what you mean. Jimin was just a friend."

"Don’t play dumb with me," Seokjin snapped, the pain in his throat sharpening. "You were flirting. You called him starlight."

The last word came out like a broken breath. His chest ached so suddenly he had to press a palm against it. His eyes stung. He shut them tightly.

Namjoon’s voice pitched up in panic. "No, no, fuck—that’s why you told me to stop calling you that? You thought I called him that? Jinnie, no. I would never..."

But Seokjin couldn’t stop now. "I saw what I saw. He dared you to, and you—God, you’re such a fucking idiot."

Namjoon stood abruptly, running his hands down his face. "You’re right. I am an idiot."

"A fucking idiot," Seokjin echoed, venomous but shaking.

Namjoon’s pacing slowed. He turned to Seokjin, breath unsteady. "I remember that message. But it wasn’t flirting. I wasn’t… I didn’t see him that way. Not at that time."

Seokjin’s breath hitched. The words hit harder than they should have.

"At... that... time ." He repeated it like trying to taste it, to figure out what the hell that even meant. Namjoon didn’t flinch.

"Yes. At that time. And I mean it, Jin—he had nothing to do with why I asked for space. I was overwhelmed, buried in everything—work, pressure, my family, my own head. But not Jimin. Not then. I loved you. I still do. I tried to show you that, in every way I could, even if we weren’t officially together. I called, I texted. I wanted you to know you still had me. But you cut me off. You didn’t just take distance—you vanished. You changed your number, blocked me, told Tae not to let me contact you. Jin, I was still trying. I was holding out hope that maybe we could still find each other again. And you burned it all down before I could even get close."

Namjoon was gripping the edge of the sofa like he needed something to hold onto.

And Seokjin… Seokjin saw it now. Saw how Namjoon had reached out. But he was still hurt.

"Because you were the one who asked for time apart," Seokjin said, voice rough with held-back tears. "You told me we needed it. You made it sound like it would help us. But it felt like dying, Namjoon. You kept texting, calling, like nothing had changed. But everything had. You weren’t mine anymore. Not really. And every message, every casual reach... it tore at me. It felt like you were dangling hope in front of me while slowly pulling away. And I was still here, wondering if I was supposed to be waiting, or if I was just too stupid to get the message."

His voice cracked. “I was drowning, Namjoon. I agreed because I trusted you. I didn’t know what the rules were. Was I supposed to wait? Move on? How the fuck was I supposed to keep breathing when every day without you felt like dying?”

Namjoon looked devastated. But Seokjin didn’t stop.

"So yeah," he finished bitterly. "You moved on. At some point. With him."

Namjoon broke eye contact.

"You want to feel justified? Blame me and be the victim? Fine. Maybe I deserve it," Namjoon said, voice shaking. "But don’t think for a second I didn’t suffer. I was grieving too, drowning in guilt because you left and I knew it was my fault. I kept replaying every moment, wondering where I lost you, wondering how the hell I cared so much and still managed to lose you. Do you think I was happy when you disappeared? That I wanted you gone so I could just fuck around and keep you on the side? God, Jinnie, do you really believe I’m that kind of person?" His voice cracked on the last word, and for the first time, he looked like he might fall apart.

Seokjin shook his head sharply, the motion jerky with frustration. He didn’t believe it—of course he didn’t—but that didn’t matter. The voice in his head, the one that had taken root in the silence and hurt, had already sunk its claws in. It twisted everything Namjoon said, turned it inside out, poisoned it until Seokjin couldn't tell the difference between memory and fear. 

Namjoon looked up again fire in his dragon eyes. "You moved on too. I don’t know everything, but I know you met someone."

Seokjin’s jaw tightened. "And if I recall correctly, you were the one who suggested I should gain some experience—see other people. So don’t you dare throw that in my face."

Namjoon exhaled slowly, his fists unclenching.

They were both breathing hard, like they’d just weathered a storm. Seokjin felt it in his ribs, the trembling, the ache.

"You’re right," he finally said. "I didn’t ask you here to fight."

Namjoon met his eyes. They were raw and red.

"Me neither."

A long silence stretched. Finally, Namjoon whispered, "I’m sorry."

The apology came heavy and raw. Seokjin felt it settle somewhere deep. It was too much. It always had been. And Seokjin knew it all too well.

Seokjin nodded, his own chest aching. "I’m sorry too."

They sat like that—burnt out and frayed—watching each other through the wreckage of what once was.

"So… let’s talk."

***

Memory

Seokjin came home late from class again. His body ached and his throat felt raw—he was probably getting sick. The symptoms were familiar.

The apartment was quiet. Hoseok’s lights were off next door. But Seokjin’s own place had a faint glow behind the front doorframe. He punched in the security code. Which was Namjoon's birthday.

Inside, Namjoon was on the couch with a beer in one hand and an old movie playing on the screen. This had become routine lately—Namjoon spending time there. His student housing was a glorified shoebox with a laughable kitchenette and barely any storage. Seokjin’s apartment wasn’t glamorous, but it had space. And warmth. And Hoseok had gotten them a decent rent thanks to charming the landlady within five minutes of meeting her.

Seokjin leaned down and kissed Namjoon briefly on the lips.

“You look exhausted,” Namjoon said, not looking away from the screen.

“I am. I spent the day in the studio trying to scream without actually screaming. Dubbing dramas is not the glamorous voice acting career I imagined. I think I was actually crying, not just performance.”

Namjoon chuckled. “Still, you’re getting recognized. Isn’t this better than those radio ads you used to do?”

“Don’t remind me,” Seokjin groaned. “Dark times.”

Namjoon raised his hands in surrender. “Just saying—not every job’s easy.”

Seokjin sighed and slid onto the couch, nestling under Namjoon’s arm. “Tough day for you too?”

Namjoon switched off the movie and scrolled through streaming options. “Nah. Just tired.”

“It’s Friday. We could stay up late and sleep in tomorrow.” Seokjin’s hand drifted across Namjoon’s stomach, fingers drawing idle circles.

Namjoon pulled him closer and rested his chin against Seokjin’s hair. “Movie night. No energy for anything else.”

Seokjin grinned. “I could ride you.”

Namjoon laughed, soft but knowing. “That’s what you always say—until five minutes in, you’re flipping over with that smug sigh and be like, ‘Okay, your turn, workhorse.’”

Seokjin arched a brow, voice dry. “Try five minutes on my knees and then get back to me.”

Namjoon snorted. “You’re not that old, come on.” Then he raised an eyebrow. “You could fuck me.”

“Err…” Seokjin gave him a flat look.

“Thought so,” Namjoon muttered with a smug grin, taking a sip from his beer.

Seokjin didn’t push. A movie night sounded good, too.

“What do we eat?”

“Pizza? Tacos?”

“Too much flour. Sushi?”

“Seafood at night messes with me.”

Seokjin sighed. He craved fish but well. “I’ve got instant ramen and two-day-old Chinese takeout.”

And that’s what they ate.

“What do you want to watch?” Namjoon asked.

“Something made after 2000. If you pick, we’ll end up watching The Godfather again.”

Namjoon grinned. “Fair.”

They settled on How to Train Your Dragon. Seokjin had asked for something animated, Namjoon had suggested something reflective. It wasn’t either of their top choices, but it struck a middle ground—gentle, heartfelt, safe.

Halfway through, with their empty takeout boxes on the table, Namjoon idly scrolled through his phone.

“Starlight?” he said.

“Mmm?” Seokjin murmured.

“There’s this exhibit at the museum I’ve wanted to go. This weekend’s the last chance.”

“I don’t really feel like going out. Was thinking of cleaning and catching up on games. The sequel’s coming out and I haven’t finished the first.”

Namjoon looked a little disappointed.

Seokjin’s chest tugged. He’d give anything to make Namjoon happy. “Of course we should go. And maybe finally fix that string—you keep putting it off and the band flinches every time you land on A flat like it’s a cry for help.”

Namjoon chuckled softly and nodded. “You’re right.”

His arm tightened slightly around Seokjin, and they both shifted to settle back into the couch. It was natural—familiar, even. But something was off. Seokjin leaned against Namjoon’s shoulder again, trying to relax into the warmth. The silence stretched. The movie played on.

Seokjin felt the shift like static in the air. Something unspoken, lingering. Settling between them like dust. The kind that only shows when the light hits just right.

***

"You know, I've been wondering what it would feel like to see you again."

Seokjin kept his eyes on Namjoon. Both of them were studying each other carefully. They sat on opposite ends of the living room couch, full glasses of water between them, postures stiff with tension. Seokjin tried to relax.

"Part of me thought that when I saw you, it wouldn’t matter what you said or did. I’d just say yes. Because I’d still do anything for you."

He adjusted his position in the seat. Namjoon’s gaze didn’t waver—intense, absorbing every word like it was something fragile and irreplaceable.

Seokjin continued. "When you said we should take a break. I agreed. Because you didn’t say it was the end. You said you still loved me. And I said yes. I said yes, and then forced myself to live up to my part of the deal. Not even knowing what I was really agreeing to."

Namjoon watched him closely, not fully understanding, but still listening. He hadn’t interrupted once.

"Leaving shouldn’t have surprised anyone. I always run from things when they matter too much. But this time, I had a reason. I left because if I didn’t, if I stayed close, I would’ve run to you. I would’ve tried to convince you it was a mistake. But you said it was something we needed. And Namjoon, I trust you. So if you said we needed it, then I had to believe you. I had to go. I had to put an ocean between us to do just that.."

He swallowed hard. The knot in his throat burned. Speaking like this—raw, stripped of deflection—was like pulling barbed wire through his chest. But Namjoon stayed silent. Listening. Truly listening.

Seokjin couldn’t even remember the last time he spoke without a joke or irony to soften his feelings. How many years, he wondered, how many years had Namjoon spent learning how to read him this way? Even his body was beginning to sag under the weight of it all.

"You said you needed time to think. You also said I didn’t have enough experience with other people. That maybe, one day, I’d regret only having been with you."

He let out a bitter, breathy laugh. "God, Namjoon. Why would you say that?"

He tilted his head back against the couch, gaze drifting upward. Exhaling slowly, heavily. "I didn’t need anyone else. You never understood that."

Namjoon lowered his hands to his knees. The movement was careful, almost reverent. His posture was open, but fragile.

The silence stretched again. Seokjin needed the pause—he was unraveling slowly, and it was getting harder to hold it together. Some part of him still ached that Namjoon hadn’t understood back then. And maybe it was too late now.

Namjoon cleared his throat gently. "Seokjin, you’re beautiful." His voice was soft, with a tenderness that pressed against the air between them. "Not just physically. You’re brilliant, fascinating, and funny. God—so many people tried to get close to you, and you didn’t even look their way. So many, I don't think you even realized."

His voice trembled slightly, but he didn’t stop. "I always felt lucky, you know? That you saw me as enough. But the fear…" He shook his head, eyes glassy. "The fear that one day you’d wake up and realize just how magnetic you are. That you could have anyone. And then look at me—so ordinary, so full of flaws, tripping over my own insecurities, a breaking disaster. I needed that space. I needed to know you were choosing me. That there was something in me worth choosing."

He leaned forward. Not crossing the space, not yet, but folding into it. Elbows on his knees, head bowed.

"God, Seokjin… You needed to know what I could give you. To compare. Because I would give you everything. More than anyone else ever could. And I needed you to know that."

He finally lifted his gaze. Vulnerable, stripped to the core.

"I never wanted you to leave."

Seokjin tried to meet his gaze again. Namjoon had always been sincere—one of his most disarming traits. He didn’t lie. Couldn’t, really. It had cost him too much: pulling all-nighters because he couldn’t say no at work, breaking himself in half to meet impossible expectations at home, still loyal to a family that treated him like a future they were trying to curate rather than a person. Seokjin had been part of that equation too. A piece of Namjoon’s impossible commitment. The black leather band around his wrist symbolized that loyalty. So many promises spoken, others only implied. Seokjin knew to well.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I had to.”

He straightened his back slightly, reached for his glass. “And I guess… It was a good opportunity for my career. A coincidence, given the timing. Maybe even lucky.”

He drank.

“I didn’t understand it at first. There’s a reason I avoid overthinking my feelings. There’s something in me… maybe something broken. I don’t know what it is, but I spiral. I spiral fast, and I get stuck. I become the worst version of myself, and then I start tearing everything down with me.”

Seokjin forced himself to keep talking, even as Namjoon watched him with that familiar flicker of concern. A kindness Seokjin wasn’t sure he could bear.

“I told myself I was hurt. I let one stupid seed of doubt take root and grow until it became a forest I couldn’t see past. And instead of asking you, I acted on it. I acted like I was owed something. I thought maybe I needed… attention or… something like that. Not to justify it, but…”

He paused. Swallowed hard. “Maybe I am. I don’t know.”

The weight of it all pushed down harder. He couldn’t look at Namjoon.

Namjoon’s posture changed—shoulders squared, body tense.

“Hyung. What happened?”

Seokjin’s eyes stung.

“I thought it would be like you said. That I’d gain experience, and eventually come back and tell you, ‘See? You were wrong.’ But it wasn’t like that.” His voice wavered. “Joon-ah… Oh Joon-ah”

He didn’t look, but he saw Namjoon’s hands clenched tightly.

“I was so wrong, and I was scared. And then…” Seokjin’s voice cracked.

“Hyung,” Namjoon said again, more urgently. “Did someone hurt you?”

Seokjin exhaled shakily, trying to keep his breathing steady. Because he was fine.

“No.”

Namjoon didn’t relax.

Seokjin met his eyes with unwavering clarity. His voice, calm but deliberate. “No one hurt me.” Because it was true.

Finally, Namjoon eased back slightly. But his eyes didn’t leave him. Not for a second.

“But you were right,” Seokjin said, voice steadier than before despite the memory flickering behind his eyes. “You always are.”

“I needed that time. I needed the space.” He searched Namjoon’s face again. There was something in his expression—almost like doubt, or maybe guilt. “But I didn’t understand at first. Because you kept writing to me like nothing had changed. Like you wanted to close the distance you’d asked for. Like somehow, honoring the break you told me we needed was the wrong move.”

“God, no, hyung, that’s not what it was.”

“No, Namjoon, you don’t get it.” Seokjin’s voice tensed, not out of anger, but from the effort to contain the knot twisting in his chest. “I was sad. I was angry. I was vulnerable. And I was all of that because I was lost.”

His throat constricted. The tears were gathering again, but he didn’t stop. “I lost myself, Joon-ah. And I did it happily. Because losing myself in you… was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever felt.”

He shook his head slowly. “I realized I wasn’t playing my games anymore, even when I wanted to. I’d started avoiding seafood that I craved. I was watching all these complex films that I didn’t understand. Waiting for your schedule to line up so I could be with you even if I couldn’t. And I stopped being me. It’s not your fault—it was the relationship or something. I’m sure you did it too. When you hesitated picking movies. When you skipped gallery shows because you thought I wouldn’t enjoy them. You don’t read anymore. Or when you hunted for cafés you thought I’d love, even when the menu wasn’t to your taste.”

Namjoon’s face didn’t move, but Seokjin saw it—something clicked.

“We gave so much to each other, Joon. So much that I think we forgot about ourselves. We neglected the parts of us that were ours alone. And in all that giving, we lost pieces we needed to hold onto.”

Seokjin turned fully toward him now, his hands outstretched as if grasping for something, anything to hold onto. “You were right. All this time. But Joon-ah, I was so confused. I didn’t get it.”

He met Namjoon’s eyes again, looking for something—clarity, maybe. Mercy. “What the hell is a break supposed to mean, huh? How long does it last? What are the rules? Who decides when it’s enough? When it’s not enough?”

His chest heaved, raw. “You said we needed space, and I gave it to you. I gave you everything. But you didn’t say how to survive it.”

“Hyung…”

“A part of me kept hoping you’d just tell me to come back. I would’ve done it. Right then. Pride my ass.” He drew a shaky breath. “But the other part—the bad part—it convinced me you didn’t want me anymore. That this was your gentle way of getting rid of me. So I pulled away first. Before you could leave me for good.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “It’s stupid. I know. But I loved you, Joon. I still do. And it hurts to know something broke, and I don’t know if it was you, or me, or both of us.”

He looked down at his lap, blinking through the tears. “All those promises we made. All the words we said. All that time… Does it still mean anything? Because I always trusted you. But this time apart—whatever it was we were supposed to be doing—it changed things. I can see it in you. I can feel it in me.”

His fists clenched in his lap.  “Something’s changed. And I broke, Joon-ah. I shattered into pieces. I don’t know if I’ll ever be whole again. Because the moon will still rise every night—and if one day it doesn’t, I’ll still know it’s missing. Just like you. And it’ll still hurt.”

His voice was trembling now. “Because I made promises. And they’ve stayed inside me—stitched to my body, wrapped around my soul. I don’t know if you’ve moved on. But even if I do someday, some part of me will always be thinking of you. Because loving… in any form… always leads back to you.”

He brought his fists to his temples gently, head bowed, trying to steady his breathing. His chest was rising and falling in shallow waves.

Namjoon watched Seokjin, eyes glassy, voice low. As Seokjin struggled to hold himself together, Namjoon finally spoke.

"Hyung, I haven't stopped loving you. Not for a single second. And I don’t think I ever will."

Seokjin tried to meet his eyes, but something in his body—his mind—was bracing for what came next.

"You're right to blame me," Namjoon admitted. "I ruined everything. I was a mess, and I thought setting you apart was the right thing to do. I thought it would protect you from seeing how bad things were getting. With me. Me and my problems."

He paused, letting the silence fall like a curtain between them before continuing.

"But I didn’t want you gone. I wanted you to know that even if we weren’t together as a couple, there could still be something left. I don’t know…"

"Friends?" Seokjin offered, a thread of disbelief in his voice.

"No," Namjoon said quickly, eyes searching Seokjin’s face. "Not that. But not strangers either. The time apart wasn’t meant to break us—it was meant to find ourselves again."

He exhaled shakily, rubbing his hands together. "When you left, I knew it was my fault. I knew I’d driven you away. But I still wanted to hear from you. I still wanted to be there for you. Because I never stopped caring."

Namjoon’s voice was thick now, close to cracking. "And if I’m being honest, a part of me knew I would hurt you regardless. We were both lost. I don’t know if it was in each other or just… lost. But something had changed. You didn’t seem happy. And I couldn’t fix that. I tried, but I thought maybe I wasn’t enough. That my own mess was weighing us both down."

His eyes dropped. "I needed to let go of things. My family. Their expectations. I needed to stop trying to be the person they wanted me to be. But I know you, Jin-hyung. You love deeply. You give everything. If you’d seen me suffering, you would’ve tried to carry it with me. And I didn’t want that. Not because you couldn’t handle it—but because you shouldn’t have to."

Seokjin sat in silence, a subtle thread of frustration growing in his chest. There was a part of him—small but persistent—that bristled at the thought.

But beneath that emotion was understanding. Namjoon had always leaned on him. Maybe too much. Maybe this was his way of learning how to stand alone. And if Seokjin was honest, he had needed the same thing.

In that moment, without needing to say it, they understood each other.

But the realization didn’t make it easier. Didn’t untangle the sadness wrapped tight around both of them.

The glasses of water had long gone lukewarm. Neither Seokjin nor Namjoon reached for them, both too absorbed in the weight of the moment, too wary of breaking the fragile silence that had settled between them like mist.

Trying to break the silence, Seokjin spoke again—his voice barely above a whisper, fragile but clear, as if even the sound itself had to tread gently here.

"So where does that leave us, Joon-ah?" Seokjin asked softly.

Namjoon looked at him with sorrow painted across his face. "I think you already know."

They didn’t say it. Neither dared to speak the word aloud.

Their eyes were rimmed red. Their noses, flushed and raw. Seokjin managed a tired smile. Namjoon mirrored it, his dimple showing faintly. God, Seokjin had always loved them.

Slowly, they looked away.

After a beat, Namjoon spoke again.

"I told you I know you met someone."

Seokjin’s eyes darted back to his, startled. Namjoon held his gaze with a soft, sad smile. 

"You don’t have to answer," Namjoon added. "I don’t want to pry. I just want to know... are you happy?"

There was no bitterness in his voice. Only sincerity—and the tenderness of someone who still loved deeply, even if it wasn’t his to hold anymore.

Seokjin, for a moment, didn’t feel like hiding.

He wasn’t ashamed of Jungkook. He had never thought of him as a secret, just as something too sacred to explain. He hadn’t expected there’d be a space for Jungkook in this conversation, but now that Namjoon had opened the door, he wanted to be honest.

Seokjin looked down at his hands, unsure of how to begin. The first thing that came to mind was: he's chaotic. Jungkook was competitive, shamelessly flirtatious, mouthy in the most frustrating way—but he always called Seokjin "hyung". And somehow, he always made Seokjin feel like someone special.

Yoongi and Taehyung always lit up when Jungkook was around. That had to mean something.

He hadn’t realized how soft his smile had become until he glanced up and caught Namjoon watching him with a look full of bittersweet warmth.

"If I had to describe my type," Seokjin said, nose scrunching slightly, trying to compose himself, "it would probably be chaotic."

Namjoon huffed a laugh, waiting.

Seokjin exhaled. "Okay fine. He’s... smart. Not like you-smart, more like—a different kind of genius. Yoongi calls him his baby brother, which is giving him way too much credit. They both have their own sense of humor. Taehyung loves visiting him they get along fine."

Seokjin chuckled at his own words. "He’s annoyingly competitive. Terrible at video games, but give him fifty years and maybe he’ll catch up."

Namjoon’s laughter broke through—warm, genuine.

"And he’s..." Seokjin hesitated, tone softening. "He’s got piercings and a jewelry box overflowing with silver. So yeah, imagine that kind of criminal. But he’s not. He’s... tender. Like a puppy."

He paused. "Okay—a baby kangaroo with big doe eyes."

Namjoon let out a full laugh. "That’s quite the image."

Seokjin nodded, lips twitching again. "I guess I didn’t really answer your question."

Namjoon looked at him—really looked—and shook his head slowly.

"Oh no, Seokjinnie," he said, eyes shining with something quietly resolute. "You did."

Seokjin felt his ears warm with heat. "I think, under the right circumstances, you two would get along too."

Namjoon nodded. "I’m sure we would."

The air felt gentler now. Not lighter, but less sharp. Seokjin glanced at him, measuring the space they'd carved out with honesty, and decided to keep walking through it.

"I’m sorry about Jiminie," Seokjin said, voice low but genuine. "I know I jumped to conclusions. And I acted on them."

Namjoon’s cheeks turned faintly pink. His gaze dropped. "About that..."

"What is it?"

Namjoon looked up, eyes flickering with discomfort. "I told you back then, Jimin had nothing to do with why I asked for space."

Seokjin had played this moment over in his mind a thousand times, trying to anticipate how it would unfold. He nodded, finally, deciding to trust the part of himself that always believed Namjoon’s heart. He didn’t interrupt.

Namjoon took a breath. "Jimin’s a friend. You know how he is—kind, open, affectionate. I hadn’t seen any of them in a while. But when I met up with them again, someone mentioned you were in Korea. That’s how I found out you’d taken the job there. I was shocked. You hadn’t told me. But I wanted you to know I supported you, even if we were on a break. I tried calling your number, but it didn’t go through, so I called Taehyung’s."

Seokjin remembered. That call. That version of himself—brittle and hurt and drowning in his own projections. 

"That was the night you told me not to call you 'starlight' anymore," Namjoon said softly, as if touching a bruise.

Seokjin’s chest tensed, and he shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other.

"It wrecked me," Namjoon continued, his voice quieter now. "Hearing you say that. I realized then just how much I’d hurt you. But I didn't remember the conversation with Jimin, it really was not what you thought. So I kept trying to reach out—texts, messages. When you finally replied, I thought maybe we had a sliver of connection left. But you shut it down completely."

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I left the firm. At first, they wouldn’t let me. Then they tried offering me more money. A better title. But the truth is... I’d already checked out. That place drained me. It felt like dying in grayscale."

Seokjin blinked. That was the most visceral Namjoon had ever sounded talking about work.

"With the resignation came the apartment loss. The studio had been company-sponsored, you already knew that. I scraped by, moved into a smaller place. I had savings, thankfully. But then came the family talks. My parents weren’t pleased, as you can imagine. Tried to set me up with a job through one of their friends. A great salary. Solid benefits. And a scandal waiting to happen. Financial fraud, embezzlement—you name it. They wanted me to save the company in exchange for shares."

Namjoon let out a dry laugh. "They thought they were handing me a legacy. I saw a trap. I said no. And then I cut them off. All of them. My brother too."

Seokjin blinked slowly, taking that in. He remembered how much Namjoon used to bend himself in half trying to please them. His loyalty had always been both his superpower and his curse.

"I’m proud of you," Seokjin said truly.

Namjoon looked at him then, a glint of emotion in his eyes. "Thanks."

He continued, more quietly now. "After all that... I spoke to the band. Nobody really wanted to pursue music professionally. So that dream ended, quietly. But then Jimin—he helped me. He knew someone at HYBE America. One conversation led to another, and I got a job. A good one. I'm leading a small finance team now. It’s not glamorous, but it feels real. Honest. They see me. And I get to see music. It felt like I got something off my shoulders, and I could breathe."

A beat.

"And I haven’t felt that way in years."

The silence was comfortable this time. Seokjin let it stretch. Let it land. But eventually Namjoon spoke again, more tentative.

"I don’t know when it started. It wasn’t supposed to. But Jimin was there. I didn’t expect him to be... that kind of constant."

Seokjin’s chest clenched, but it didn’t shatter.

Namjoon looked apologetic, but not ashamed. "He made me laugh. Made the loneliness a little more bearable. And I realized—I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. He’s not you. He never tried to be. But maybe that’s why I started to see him differently."

Seokjin nodded slowly, the ache dull but not cruel. "You don’t have to explain, Joon-ah." After all this was all about finding themselves and heal something they didn't knew hurt.

"I’m glad you’re not alone."

Namjoon smiled faintly. "I still dream of you. Sometimes. But the dreams don’t hurt anymore."

And Seokjin knew too well what he was talking about.

He’d once thought Namjoon would be his always. His last great love. His anchor.

But anchors don’t keep you still forever. Sometimes, they let go so you can move again.

Seokjin felt the ache swell quietly in his chest. He would mourn this—he already had—but now it felt cleaner. Like a scar instead of an open wound.

Namjoon exhaled, eyes bloodshot and voice low. "We’re going to be okay, hyung. I don’t know when, but we will."

Seokjin nodded. He wanted to say something clever, something light. But instead, he reached for honesty.

"Jimin’s a good person," he said honestly. "He always had that kind smile and this hopeful way of being. I’m glad it’s him by your side." He paused, lips tugging into the hint of a grin. "Just make sure you take care of him, okay? Someone else might see how wonderful he is too."

Namjoon looked down, his mouth curving into something quiet and grateful.

"Be happy, Joonie. Really happy."

Namjoon stood, and so did Seokjin. The hug came naturally—an instinct more than a decision. It wasn’t dramatic or desperate, just right. Like muscle memory. Like all their embraces before it. Tight arms, closed eyes, and a quiet understanding that some bonds don’t break, even when they change.

When they pulled apart, Seokjin didn’t follow him to the door. He didn’t have to.

Namjoon turned, hesitated, then looked back over his shoulder.

Then the door closed.

Chapter Text

When the video game project wrapped up, Seokjin had no real plan except to keep breathing. He hadn’t expected it to end early—he’d counted on eight months of work, not six—but the final review was glowing, the wrap-up was clean, and the pay was more than generous. For once, his bank account looked like a small future. Not a forever, but a good while.

After he’d spoken to Namjoon, Seokjin made a quiet, exhausted kind of peace with the choices they'd made. It wasn’t a ribbon-tied closure, but it was honest. It still hurt, of course it did, but at least it wasn’t tangled in what-ifs anymore. The chapter had ended. He already knew it even before.

Seokjin had a lot to think about.

For one, he needed to finalize the paperwork for his degree. Professor Lee had reassured him it was just a bureaucratic formality, he’d already fulfilled the credits, maintained his scholarship GPA, and, more importantly, proven his talent tenfold. Seokjin had expected university to feel easier, somehow more straightforward. But he’d made it through. He'd finished. And that had to count for something.

So Seokjin worked. Focused. 

But for the first time in a while, he could see the shape of a future that belonged to him. He felt actually proud of himself.

He also had to face his feelings. They were raw, and they ached for Jungkook. He needed to know whether they were real or just a rebound, an infatuation born from the last love and the habit of looking for it in someone else. He wanted to believe they were real. They felt that way. But he had to be sure. Jungkook understood and gave him the space. It wasn’t easy. It hurt. 

Still, Seokjin stayed with himself: he meditated, he wrote, he talked it through in therapy. He let himself feel without running and learned to name what he valued before anyone else, so he wouldn’t get lost or overwhelmed, so he wouldn’t break something that could become precious.

Namjoon texted him “Jimin made cookies. First time ever. They're burned. He wanted to bake them for you because he knows you like them. I don’t recommend eating them, though. Hoseok tried one of his cakes once and got food poisoning.”

Seokjin had nothing against Jimin. He’d always seemed kind, cheerful. After talking to Namjoon, Seokjin knew the best thing was to avoid dramatics. Still, he figured it was wise to keep a little distance. But maybe Namjoon was offering a peace flag. Maybe Jimin wanted to clear the air too. Seokjin could try, at least.

Seokjin: You don’t cook, and he’s a menace in the kitchen. Tell him to come over. I’ll teach him a few things.

So Jimin showed up at Seokjin’s apartment alone and slightly nervous.

When Seokjin opened the door, he almost shut it again. He squinted against the light—Jimin was radiant. Like a halo had settled around him, all smiles and gleaming eyes. Seokjin couldn’t hate him. Too pretty. Fucker.

The cookies he brought were burnt to a crisp. “Yah, it’s not enough you stole my ex, now you’re trying to kill me? Do you hate me that much?”

Jimin turned bright red and bowed so deeply it looked painful. “It was a joke” Seokjin clarified. Jimin confessed he’d never cooked before, after all he came from a wealthy family and had never needed to. Namjoon’s family would’ve adored him, but luckily, Namjoon had already severed those ties.

Jimin bounced into the kitchen, giddy at the prospect of cooking. “Hoseok and Namjoon said your food is amazing, Seokjin-ssi! Can you teach me mulhoe?”

Seokjin didn’t need compliments, but he didn’t stop him either.

“For starters I’ll teach you a cookie recipe,” Seokjin said. “Brown the butter first—it deepens the flavor. Butter is the heart of the cookie, so use good quality. Add a pinch of salt to enhance the sweetness—just a pinch. And pull them out of the oven before they’re golden. Butter keeps cooking outside the oven. Wait too long, and you’ll end up with burnt rocks.”

Jimin listened intently, laughing at Seokjin’s dry delivery. He had a warm presence, Seokjin wouldn’t deny that. The cookie recipe from his grandmother was the best he knew.

“You can just call me hyung,” Seokjin offered. No need to keep the formality. Jimin was Taehyung’s age. They could be great friends if they ever met.

Maybe Namjoon was telling the truth after all. Maybe they weren’t flirting then. Just two gentle souls sharing stupid words. Neither of them had planned a relationship. Namjoon was still healing. Jimin just wanted to help. Somewhere along the line, they felt something—but waited. Waited until Namjoon could talk to Seokjin.

Jungkook lingered in Seokjin’s mind more often than he’d like to admit. And that made it harder.

Jungkook was busy, truly busy. Back-to-back recordings. Press. Flights. He was living the kind of life Seokjin had once admired from afar. And Seokjin? He was doing well too. But even success didn’t quiet the ache of not knowing what they were now—or what they were allowed to want.

But life had to go on. Seokjin really needed time to be alone.

They both had things to prove, wounds to tend, lives to rebuild. Wanting someone didn’t always mean it was time to hold onto them. Still, Seokjin couldn’t help the way his heart ached when Jungkook’s name lit up his phone—or the way it sank when it didn’t. It was just not the right time.

He’d better get his shit together.

He updated his portfolio with fresh samples, re-recorded some of his older clips with better equipment, and booked a session in a small professional studio downtown to refine his reel. If he was going to keep up with the run of luck, then he needed to treat himself like someone worth investing in.

Namjoon encouraged him. Hoseok offered to help him vet contracts. Jimin sent him a custom notepad with his name printed at the top: Kim Seokjin — Voice & Vision. It was loud. And pink. And perfect.

They were all there, orbiting gently around him. And Seokjin was grateful.

The last time they’d seen each other, Namjoon had smiled and said that joining HYBE had been one of the best decisions of his life.

And Seokjin had meant it when he said, "I’m glad."

Because he was. Truly. 

Months passed and, the need to find work had begun to gnaw at him. He craved purpose, something to anchor his days. But applying for voice gigs felt mechanical. Disconnected. Nothing clicked.

Seokjin had kept in close contact with the manager, arranging a follow-up meeting to go over the project’s next steps. It wasn’t just a possibility—it was practically locked in. The agency had asked for him specifically. It should’ve felt like a win.

And maybe it was. Maybe it was exactly the excuse he needed.

His hands trembled when he stared at the contract.

This time—this time he wasn’t running. He was walking straight into it.

On his playlist, a new song appeared. Jungkook’s name in the credits.

Are you thinking 'bout us?
Say yes or no.

The lyrics clung to him like static. It was ridiculous, probably narcissistic, but he couldn’t stop thinking it was meant for him.  Or maybe he just wanted it to be.

Either way, his answer was a click away.

So he did it.

Bought the damn plane ticket. One-way.

Then, because there was no turning back, he called Hoseok—to celebrate the only way he knew how: with sugar, oversharing, and too much laughter.

He greeted him with a grin, arms thrown around Seokjin's neck, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Hoseok was the embodiment of joy, and maybe that’s why Seokjin loved him so fiercely—because even when everything else felt uncertain, Hoseok never failed to show up like sunshine.

They ended up sprawled on the floor of Hoseok’s apartment, two bowls of ice cream between them and a playlist of late-2000s R&B echoing softly in the background. 

“I swear to God,” Hoseok said mid-laugh, “I’ve never had someone go down on me like that. I thought I was going to lose consciousness with the post-orgasm sensitivity. Insane.”

Seokjin nearly choked on his spoon.

He waved his hand dismissively. “You’re unbelievable.”

But he wasn’t surprised. Hoseok had always been magnetic. He had the kind of face sharp and symmetrical. Plus a body that looked like it had been carved with intent. Maybe the most gorgeous Seokjin had ever seen in real life. Add to that his unshakeable confidence, an expressive laugh that made you want to join in, and the kind of social intelligence that made people open up without realizing it, and it was no wonder Hoseok had options. Too many options.

But still.

He’d known Hoseok for years. He’d seen him get involved—twice, maybe three times—with people who seemed like potential partners. But none of it lasted more than a few months. And Hoseok was dramatic about his breakups, sure. He cried, binged ice cream, made dramatic playlists—but he never disappeared. He didn’t fall apart. And Seokjin had never asked why.

“Hobi…”

Maybe it was the tone, or maybe the question had been sitting there too long, but Hoseok fell quiet and looked up.

Seokjin stirred the chocochip ice cream in his bowl. “You always say I can tell you when something’s too much or too TMI, right? Well, same goes for you. You can always tell me anything.” He considered how to proceed. “There’s one thing you’ve never really talked about.”

Hoseok tilted his head, serious now. “Its okay. You can ask.”

Seokjin hesitated, then pushed through.

“You’ve dated so many amazing people—guys, girls—it’s not a judgment. I’m honestly glad for you. As long as you are being responsible and safe. But I guess… I don’t understand. Like, how do you connect so deeply and then just… move on? I know some of them hurt, I remember the ice cream. But it’s never been like—like what I went through with Namjoon. And maybe that’s just me being dramatic or different, but… I’ve been wondering.”

Hoseok’s eyes softened, almost with pity. God Seokjin was regretting this already.

“Oh, Jin.” He breathed out a small laugh. “What you and Namjoon had? That shit was rare. So beautiful. Fucking terrifying.”

He shifted on his spot, crossing his legs under him, elbows braced behind him as he leaned back against the couch. His voice dropped into something contemplative.

“Love is amazing. I get that. I’ve just never… really been in love. Not the way you think of it. There was this one girl, during my internship—remember her? Fuck, she was incredible. Smart, magnetic, a little scary. I thought I wanted everything with her. I’d daydream about her voice, her hands. I was obsessed. But later I realized—I wasn’t in love. I was hooked. Infatuated. Maybe even addicted. But not in love.”

He glanced at Seokjin and smiled softly.

“Being around you and Namjoon. It made me see what real love looked like. Not just the fire, but the safety. The way you waited for each other without realizing you were waiting. The things you did for each other. That shit changes you. Set goals. And I knew—if I ever found someone who looked at me the way you looked at each other? I’d owe it to both of us to be all in.”

Seokjin felt his throat tighten.

“But I’m not searching, not avoiding either.” Hoseok added. “I’m open. I enjoy people. I’m honest from the start. And when I feel something real, I move. I don’t hesitate. Because life’s short and this is my life. I’d rather try and crash than sit back and wonder.”

He paused, spooning the last bit of his ice cream. “And honestly, hyung… I think you’re at the edge of that same cliff. You’re just still scared of the jump.”

Wow… Hoseok really had it more figured out than Seokjin thought. For someone who moved like he lived by impulse, his approach to love was surprisingly grounded. Progressive, even. In a way, more forward-thinking than Seokjin or Namjoon.

And it made Seokjin consider.

Hoseok didn’t rush love. He believed it would come when it was meant to, and he trusted himself to know it when it did. He didn’t fear it—he welcomed it. Always with that relentless optimism that seemed built into his bones.

Even Yoongi—God. For years, he had been quietly in love with Tae. Platonically patient. And then, Taehyung turned around and reached back. Two people waltzing in a long song of "what ifs" and “maybe one day.” And now they had each other. Maybe for a season. Maybe for a lifetime. Who could know?

Everyone thought Namjoon and Seokjin would last forever, too.

Seokjin’s mind spun.

What about Jungkook?

Seokjin had left Korea with a heart fluttering every time Jungkook was near. And that same heart had ached in the most private way when he forced himself to believe it wasn’t meant to be. But what if...

Love was terrifying.

“I think real love starts with what we’re willing to give, and what we’re brave enough to receive,” Hoseok answered.

Wait—no. Seokjin had said that. Out loud.

“Still scary,” he muttered, pushing aside the puddle of melted ice cream and letting his head flop onto the table.

Hoseok laughed. “You can’t be afraid of your feelings, hyung. That’s silly.”

His head ached with something like realization.

“I’m afraid of what I might do,” Seokjin admitted, “how far I’d go for him. I don’t even know if he wants to hear from me. He still messages me. And if he really hated me, he wouldn’t. But it’s rare. He’s busy. The time difference is hard. I don’t know what we are.”

Hoseok didn’t say anything right away, but Seokjin could feel his gaze on the back of his neck.

That’s what let him keep talking.

“It’s probably ridiculous,” Seokjin continued. “But I keep wondering.”

“You’re being romantic,” Hoseok replied. “It’s cute. And kind of thrilling.”

God. Hoseok had no idea.

Seokjin tilted his chin just enough to peek out from under the crook of his arms.

“I’ve been told that before.”

Hoseok grinned. “Because you are.”

“Maybe I should lean into it, then.”

Hoseok sat up straighter, eyes sparkling.

“So what are you gonna do?.”

Seokjin stretched in place. Making decisions sucked. But maybe that’s what adulthood was—learning to choose, even when you were afraid.

“I already did, Hob-ah.”

He thought of the contract, the one that would put him on a plane back to Korea in less than twenty-four hours.

“Come on Hob-ah, I've got some packing to do.”

***

His arrival in Korea had been quiet. No Taehyung waiting at the gate, no banners or fanfare—just a cold morning and a city that smelled like old coffee, rain, and hope. The agency had put him up in a modest but tasteful apartment in the Mapo district. Bright, central, and blessedly neutral. It didn’t carry the echo of his old life. Just white walls and clean bedding.

Taehyung, of course, didn’t let him rest once he got there.

“You’re not wearing that,” Taehyung declared as he stormed into the apartment, two hours before the gallery opening. Seokjin had only been back in Korea for two days—just enough time to restock his fridge and unpack his oversized suitcase. But Taehyung had practically glued himself to his side since he landed, a fact Yoongi had grumbled about more than once.

“It’s a turtleneck, Taehyung. It’s an art event, not a nightclub.”

“This is an art event, hyung. Even if you’re not buying paintings, you’re supposed to look like one.”

Seokjin recoiled, hand to his chest. “Excuse you, are you implying I don’t already look like art? I am walking sculpture, you ungrateful child.”

Mock-offended or not, he still ended up half-dressed in his room, arms raised like a disgruntled mannequin while Taehyung circled him dolling him up as if preparing him for auction.

Meanwhile, his phone was vibrating nonstop.

The fucking group chat.

Kim Seok-jin Fighting!

An unholy alliance consisting of Hoseok, Namjoon, Jimin, Taehyung, Yoongi, and the unfortunate main character: himself.

The chat’s original purpose? To “encourage” Seokjin to be brave and stop emotionally running from his latent desires (and by desires, they meant Jungkook). The actual result? Seokjin’s daily descent into mortification.

It currently read:

Hoseok: send nudes
Namjoon: wrong chat?
Jimin: [image attached] shows shoulder and suspiciously glowing collarbone
Taehyung: [image attached] shoulders, obviously. He’s a Kim.
Hoseok: [image attached] full abs, filtered like a Calvin Klein ad
Namjoon: [image attached]  dimples.
Yoongi: et tu, Brutus?
Namjoon: jimin send that last one

Seokjin stared.

Seokjin: Seriously?
Hoseok: Nervous much
Jimin: Today is THE night!!! Fighting hyung!!!
Hoseok: He’s avoiding again 🙄
Seokjin: Please stop
Jimin: Show us the outfit
Hoseok: It better show SKIN. If I see you in a hoodie, I swear I’ll burn your collection
Taehyung: Relax. I got this.
Namjoon: Jinnie… I fear for your life
Yoongi: Taxi will be there in 5
Hoseok: SEND. THE. DAMN. PHOTO.

Seokjin tossed his phone face down onto the bed. He did not have the mental energy to deal with their chaos. He was already barely holding it together.

The doorbell rang—Yoongi, probably.

He went to open it, just as the shutter click went off behind him. Taehyung stood there, holding his phone smugly.

“Got it.”

His own phone buzzed again. He didn’t check.

Taehyung, of course, looked absolutely breathtaking. Leather pants. Platform boots. A cropped, cinched-waist blazer in blinding red. The modest neckline of his blouse was offset by the way it exposed his entire midriff. He had dyed his hair to a silvery ash brown that made his features glow, and Yoongi had been one eye twitch away from an aneurysm ever since.

But Taehyung loved Yoongi’s possessive streak. Loved knowing that someone wanted to protect something he had spent so long growing into.

Compared to him, Seokjin felt plain. Taehyung always looked taller, even though they were nearly the same height. He walked with spine-straight confidence, decisive steps, a presence that pulled eyes. Seokjin moved slower, slouched slightly.

The sheer black shirt clung to him in all the wrong (or right) places, tracing his waist like a secret. The neckline dipped low, scandalously so, and Taehyung had somehow paired it with a designer suit that screamed editorial haute couture.

“I’m not showing up looking like a mannequin, Tae,” he snapped. “Just let me wear a black shirt and call it a day.”

Taehyung beamed and stepped forward, smoothing the collar like a finishing touch on his canvas. “You’re my masterpiece tonight.”

“I’m not for sale.”

“Obviously not. But we are getting pictures. Front page, baby. And when I retire, I’ll buy us matching villas in the countryside.”

Seokjin groaned. “What a pitch.”

Seokjin paused in front of the mirror.

Taehyung had done his magic.

His fringe was swept back, revealing a part of his face he usually hid behind bangs. The suit fit obscenely well, like it had been tailored for someone braver. And yet—there it was. Hugging his frame in all the right places, paired with a sheer shirt that hinted at skin and shadow.

It wasn’t his style. But damn… he looked good. Daring.

And maybe that was what he liked most about it.

And maybe… maybe that’s exactly who he needed to be tonight.

But beneath the sarcasm, his stomach turned.

He would see Jungkook tonight.

In person.

After six months.

To tell him…

This wasn’t just about looking hot or supporting Taehyung. It was armor. Costume. A shield of confidence over a heart that still trembled at the thought of Jungkook’s voice.

The doorbell rang again.

Time to go

***

The gallery was light and polished wood, minimalist enough to feel expensive without trying. Taehyung’s art had matured—there was a tenderness in the chaos now, a message behind the noise. Seokjin saw the patterns: the boy running with wings too small to fly, hands reaching upward but always just short of light, a mouth open but without sound.

Subtle, he thought as he passed a painting titled 비상 (너만 허락한다면)

“Art imitates life,” Taehyung whispered, handing him a flute of champagne.

Seokjin turned to throw a quip—And froze.

Jungkook.

He hadn’t noticed him yet. He stood by one of the centerpieces, talking to a tall, older man with silver hair and elegant posture.

Jungkook looked good.

Unfairly good.

He looked broader now—built. The dark blazer fit snug across his shoulders, and the open collar of his shirt showed just enough chest. His hair was slicked back, revealing a fresh undercut. The lip piercing caught the light, same as the silver rings in his ears. He stood tall, confident, like time hadn’t touched him at all.

The man next to him was older, tall, dressed in a light suit. He said something that made Jungkook smile—just a small, polite curve of the lips. Not a full laugh, just... social. The man touched his arm casually, fingers resting too long.

Seokjin didn’t check if the hand stayed there. He looked away.

Taehyung was some feet away now laughing with a small group of women, most of them older. Someone complimented a painting. No one noticed Seokjin standing still.

He pulled out his phone.

Seokjin: i don’t think i can do this
Jimin: yes you can!! come on
Hoseok: you got this honey
Namjoon: what’s happening
Seokjin: he’s laughing. he looks fine.
Namjoon: did you talk to him?
Seokjin: he hasn’t seen me. i’m just… standing here
Hoseok: where’s tae
Jimin: he’s probably being a host
Yoongi: i got you
Jimin: THE SAVIOR
Hoseok: please smack him (affectionately)

Seokjin exhaled, jaw tight.

Of course he was nervous. That was normal. They hadn’t seen each other in six months. And now Jungkook was here, looking gorgeous, talking to someone else. 

But none of that meant anything. Not yet.

Jungkook hadn’t seen him. They hadn’t even talked. Everything Seokjin was feeling—panic, jealousy, doubt—was based on nothing but assumptions.

He just had to get close. Say hi. Just… move.

He flexed his fingers once, then straightened his shoulders. And took a step forward.

Someone stepped in front of him.

“Hey. I’ve been watching you since you got here.”

Seokjin blinked. The man in front of him was all bright teeth and designer glasses. Hair slicked back in a practiced way, smile too perfect to be sincere.

“You have?” Seokjin asked, more stunned than curious.

“Yeah. You’re gorgeous. You here alone?”

Seokjin didn’t have time for this.

“I’m trying not to be alone for much longer.”

The man’s smile widened.

Seokjin cut in before he could speak again.

“No offense, but I’m not interested. I’m here for someone else and either I’ll leave with him or I’ll leave alone. Please move.”

He walked past him, shoulder brushing against the man’s without apology. Just ahead, he spotted Yoongi, who had definitely heard the exchange. Yoongi raised a thumb. Seconds later, Seokjin’s phone buzzed—probably an update in the group chat.

His heart was pounding. It was hot inside, but Taehyung’s ridiculous shirt offered ventilation in all the right places. Convenient after all.

He was close.

Jungkook still had his back turned. But the man he was speaking to noticed Seokjin’s presence and subtly pulled away. Jungkook’s posture stiffened. He straightened, spine snapping into attention. Then he turned.

Eyes wide. Mouth parted.

Seokjin’s knees wobbled.

“Hyung?” Jungkook’s voice was low. “Jin hyung? Is that really you?”

Seokjin exhaled. “It’s been a while.”

God. He didn’t want to remember the last time. His bed. That hand on his wrist, stopping him for only a second before letting him go.

“Hyung...” Jungkook stepped closer. His hand lifted, hesitating, then landed gently on Seokjin’s cheek.

Seokjin leaned into the touch.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve said something earlier.”

A soft piano track played in the background. Something like Ryuichi Sakamoto. A voice over the speakers called everyone’s attention—Taehyung was about to speak.

“I don’t want to interrupt, I’m sorry, ” Seokjin said, “but maybe we could talk?”

Jungkook nodded, a little too fast.

Seokjin took his hand. Led him to the balcony.

The breeze tousled his hair.

Outside, he took both of Jungkook’s hands and held them up between them.

“Jungkook-ah—”

His grip tightened by instinct. His palms were damp; he rubbed his thumbs over Jungkook’s knuckles to steady himself. His breath came shallow; he swallowed, tried again.

“I’m… sorry,” he said. “I should’ve told you before I left.”

Jungkook’s expression was patient. One eyebrow rose. He bit the edge of his lip ring once, then stilled it with his tongue. “Why do you keep apologizing?”

Seokjin blinked. He looked down at their hands, then back up. “Because I waited. Because I made you guess. Because I thought I didn’t get to want this.” His voice shook. He forced it steady. “But I do.”

He drew a breath. “I’ve thought about you every day. Not a fantasy. Just your name lighting up my phone. Your voice at night. Every day apart felt wrong. I should’ve said that before I left.”

He squeezed Jungkook’s hands once, firm. “I went to the States because I needed to be alone. To fix my head. To make sure what I felt wasn’t rebound or fear. I didn’t want to drag you into a mess. I wanted to show up right.” He swallowed. “Now I’m back because I’m sure.”

Jungkook’s fingers tightened around his. He didn’t speak; he waited. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was holding back a smile.

“I got a job,” Seokjin said. “A full series. I have to stay in Korea. Long term.” He wet his lips. “I’m not asking for anything you don’t want. I know I messed up the timing. But if you still want this—if there’s a chance—I want to try. For real. I want to date you. Serious. If you’ll have me.”

Jungkook’s eyes didn’t leave his. He raised that eyebrow again, softer this time. “So you’re asking me out?”

Seokjin let out a breath. “Yes. I’m asking.”

Jungkook’s smile finally showed, small and warm. He squeezed Seokjin’s hands—once, then twice.

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly. He glanced toward the gallery doors, then back. “I think I knew from the very start that I was so done for.” He bit his lip ring and held Seokjin’s gaze. “My feelings never changed.”

A soft piano line drifted from the hall. Then the room applauded—Taehyung must have finished speaking.

Seokjin looked at him. “After this… will you come with me?”

“Of course,” Jungkook said, voice gentle. “And yes—I want to date you. For real. I’ve been waiting for you to be ready.”

Seokjin let out a small breath. He didn’t let go of Jungkook’s hands. 

They stood close, quiet. Just warm hands and steady breathing.

“Whatever happens now, it’s us,” Jungkook said, low. “Don’t run.”

“I won’t,” Seokjin answered. “Not anymore.”

Through the glass, Seokjin noticed movement. Yoongi stood at the door with Taehyung leaning in, eyes bright.

Taehyung slipped outside, voice low. “Oh my god. Finally?”

Yoongi’s mouth curved.

Taehyung squeezed Seokjin’s arm, then glanced back toward the hall. “I have to get back, but you two just made my night.” He raised his phone to take one photo.

Seokjin nodded. A quick, flashless click. Taehyung tucked the phone away, still smiling. “Come in when you’re ready.”

Yoongi held the door and slipped through it after Taehyung. 

Seokjin looked at Jungkook, their fingers laced without thinking. 

They stepped back into the gallery; Jungkook kissed him once—quick and clean.

Seokjin startled, then let out a small breath. He didn’t step back. His hand found Jungkook’s lapel and stayed there.

“Okay,” he said, low. “I’m here.”

As they rejoined the room, Seokjin noticed something, his chest wasn’t tight anymore.

He wasn’t promising forever. He wasn’t asking to be saved. He was choosing.

He would stay. Work. Be true to himself.

Jungkook had waited; Seokjin could meet him there now. Honestly?

Yes.

***

Epilogue - Ten Years Later

Hoseok’s laughter was still echoing in Seokjin’s head when the elevator doors closed. The reception had been a jeweled blur. Yieun (the bride), incandescent, Hoseok crying exactly three times (Seokjin counted). Namjoon’s toast, a tender mess of metaphors. Jimin fighting tears and failing. Yoongi and Taehyung holding hands the whole time. And through it all, Jungkook kept one hand at the small of Seokjin’s back, grounding him, still tender after all these years together.

In the mirrored walls, Seokjin met his own eyes, new stories there. Softer lines, prescription frames, a drinking tolerance that wasn’t what it used to be. He reached for Jungkook’s tie as the elevator climbed, loosening it—not because it needed to be, but because touching him in small, ordinary ways had become his favorite language. Jungkook had been tempting him all night.

“Bold,” Jungkook murmured against Seokjin’s mouth, the discreet gold stud at his lip, elegant for the wedding.

“It’s our hotel floor,” Seokjin said, fingers skimming the dip of Jungkook’s collarbone, rosé still warm in his veins. “I’m blaming the wine for whatever happens next.” He could also blame the suit—devastating in silver, perfectly matched to his own blush‑pink suit—a thought he kept to himself. And the body beside him, solid and hot against Seokjin’s usually cool skin. 

The doors opened onto the top‑floor hall and their master suite, booked because work was good. They stopped at the door; Seokjin swiped once. Red. Again. Red. “I’ve got it,” Jungkook said, reaching over. Seokjin swatted his hand away. “I said I’ve got it.”

Jungkook snorted, stepped in behind him, and wrapped him from the back. One arm around Seokjin’s waist; his mouth on the nape, then the spot under his ear, then lower. The gold stud at his lip grazed skin. The reader flashed red again. “Stop,” Seokjin muttered, trying to aim the card and missing completely. Jungkook didn’t. He kissed him again, pressed closer, and with his free hand pulled out his own key.

Green. Click. Door open.

Seokjin turned—annoyed and burning—fisted Jungkook’s lapels and yanked him into a kiss, no patience, all tongue. Jungkook laughed into it as he stumbled backward into the suite; the door slammed on its own. Power move? Fine. Seokjin caught Jungkook’s lower lip, tasted metal, and took control.

Inside, the lamps were low. The city lights were clear through the window; the reception music still reached this floor even though the bride and groom were gone. Seokjin kicked off his shoes and turned. Jungkook was sprawled on the bed, heavy‑lidded, shirt rumpled, collar open, tie undone. His eyes followed Seokjin, dark and mischievous, tracking him from head to toe and back again. Seokjin’s pulse kicked.

“Come here,” Seokjin said commanding Jungkook who obeyed with a smile that didn’t reach anyone else’s eyes but his.

The kiss tasted of wine, hunger, and familiarity—the kind that came from years of knowing every sound the other made, every way to undo them, and still finding it unbearably hot each time. Maybe their lovemaking had begun long before they ever left the reception: during the slow dance when Jungkook held him too close, or earlier when their eyes caught during the vows, or when their hands laced as they walked into the ceremony. Maybe it started in the dressing room, Jungkook slipping Seokjin a pair of matching earrings, or in the shower when they couldn’t stop teasing, or when Jungkook whispered new lyrics for a secret love song he hadn’t shown anyone else. Wherever it began, it was burning now. 

Seokjin unbuttoned Jungkook’s shirt slowly, eyes never leaving his. He guided him back until Jungkook’s calves touched the bed, pants still on. Seokjin pressed him down with a hand flat over his toned chest, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath. Still nervous, he thought, absurdly fond. Still mine. Jungkook’s fingers slid to Seokjin’s thigh, heat burning through the fabric, creeping higher in a slow, deliberate pull toward the center.

“Hyung,” Jungkook breathed, the word loosening something old and tender inside Seokjin. He caught it with his mouth and then another sound after it, the soft one Jungkook only made when he was not trying to be impressive for anyone.

Jungkook kissed Seokjin’s flushed neck hard, sucking until marks bloomed. His hands stopped being gentle, roaming hungrily over skin and fabric as Seokjin pushed him back onto the bed. Jungkook growled and his mouth dropped lower to caught a nipple between his teeth; Seokjin let out a long, rough moan. He had always been sensitive there. One hand tangled in Jungkook’s dark hair, holding him there. Jungkook understood and bit, licked, sucked without mercy, devouring him greedily. Seokjin’s erection strained against his pants, hard and desperate, grinding against Jungkook’s thigh for friction.

“Look at me,” Jungkook whispered.

Seokjin did, pupils blown wide, catching the glint of Jungkook’s lip stud as he pressed in. His hand slid over Jungkook’s chest, then lower, fingers dragging down muscle and heat until he was palming the hard line straining in his pants. Jungkook’s breath hitched sharp; his back arched off the bed. Seokjin bit his ear and tugged at it with his teeth, swallowing the rough moan that tore out of him. Jungkook answered with raw sound, hips jerking, a helpless laugh cut off when Seokjin squeezed harder and ground down against him.

“Shit, hyung,” Jungkook groaned, eyes squeezed shut, voice breaking when Seokjin gripped his shaft hard through the fabric, rubbing him from base to tip. His hips bucked up into the touch, cock straining. 

“You’re still a brat,” Seokjin growled, loving how desperate Jungkook sounded. “All this time and you’re still complaining to my ministrations. Where’s your manners?” He yanked open Jungkook’s belt and popped the button. The pants slipped low, showing the edge of his underwear, the sharp lines of his abs. The bulge beneath was swollen, painful‑looking, matching the throbbing ache in Seokjin’s own pants.

“I still call you hyung,” Jungkook panted.

Seokjin snorted, indignant. “And I still call you brat.”

He stripped Jungkook’s pants and underwear off in one go, cock springing free—angry, leaking, thick.

“I’ll eat you until you can’t think straight, and while I do, I’m going to work a plug into you. I want you stuffed, aching, and ready. Do you want that?”

Jungkook swallowed hard.

“Shit—yeah. Okay,” he gasped, body shaking with anticipation.

Seokjin dug into his suitcase and pulled out the lube and the plug he’d packed. They didn’t use toys often, but kept them close for when the mood hit—like tonight. By the time he turned back, Jungkook was already jerking himself lazily, cock flushed and wet at the tip, and Seokjin almost groaned. He looked even hotter now than a decade ago—older, harder, muscles cut from years of training. Seokjin caught his reflection in the mirror: still lean, waist narrow, shoulders broad, hair messy from the party, faint traces of makeup smudged at his eyes. Not perfect, but tonight he knew he looked good, and Jungkook’s stare confirmed it.

“You like what you see?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Jungkook let go of his cock, hard and flushed without needing a hand, raising an eyebrow that said enough.

Seokjin knelt between his thighs, pushed them open, and slicked his fingers with lube. He pressed one finger inside slowly. Jungkook’s face pinched at the stretch. “Too much?” Seokjin asked, holding still.

“I’m fine. Keep going,” Jungkook hissed.

Instead Seokjin wrapped his other hand around Jungkook’s cock, stroking clumsy but firm. He watched every expression while working his crooked finger in. Jungkook’s head fell back, teeth digging into his lower lip. When Seokjin felt the muscle ease, he slid in a second finger, working him open, scissors spreading him wider. Jungkook writhed on the bed, restless with the intrusion, cock twitching in Seokjin’s grip as he worked him slowly, already getting ready for the third finger.

Seokjin let go of Jungkook’s cock and picked up the electric plug. He switched it to warming mode, then turned on the vibrator. Jungkook was already lost in sensation, too far gone to notice what Seokjin was preparing—until the lack of attention on his cock made him whine. Usually Seokjin was the one taking, not giving, but tonight he wanted to see Jungkook spread out, needy, begging for his hyung. He felt the plug reach the right temperature and pulled his slick fingers out slowly. Jungkook opened his eyes, focusing on what was about to happen. Seokjin coated the toy with lube and pressed it to his entrance. The heated touch made Jungkook hold his breath.

“Breathe for me, deep, Kook‑ah,” Seokjin remembered him.

He pushed carefully, the widest part meeting resistance, until Jungkook relaxed just enough for it to slide past and seat deep inside. Jungkook gasped and immediately started rolling his hips, searching for friction to ease the sharp pleasure ripping through him. Jungkook was already trembling like a leaf.

Seokjin forced Jungkook’s thighs wide, holding him down with a grip that didn’t waver. He leaned in and wrapped his lips around the swollen head of Jungkook’s cock, slick heat immediately engulfing him. His mouth stretched, lips flushed and plump, sliding lower as his tongue pressed along the underside. Jungkook’s hips bucked, desperate, chasing the wet pull of Seokjin’s throat. The vibration of the plug inside him had him shaking, undone, every muscle taut with need. He grabbed a fistful of Seokjin’s hair and pushed, groaning as Seokjin’s lips sealed tighter around him, taking him deeper. Seokjin gagged, jaw straining, but he didn’t back off—his mouth clung to Jungkook like he wanted to swallow him whole, eyes glassy and fixed on him.

Seokjin barely had a chance to breathe. Jungkook was lost, chanting hyung, Seokjin-hyung, every word tangled between curses and shameless moans. Seokjin almost wanted to laugh, but choking on cock wasn’t the moment to waste breath. He hollowed his cheeks, taking control of the pace, dragging his lips down slow and tight before sinking deeper. One hand wrapped firm around the base to steady him, the other pressed against his own cock, grinding for friction as the ache grew unbearable.

Jungkook thrust up, reckless, fighting Seokjin’s control, his hips bucking like he wanted to fuck his throat raw. Seokjin gagged, eyes watering, but refused to let go. The burn only made him hungrier. When it pushed too far—when his throat spasmed around the thickness—he slapped Jungkook’s thighs hard. A second later, he felt Jungkook’s grip in his hair loosen, giving him space to pull back.

That dizzy edge of almost blacking out nearly made him spill right there. His cock twitched, heavy and leaking, the rush in his veins pushing him too close. He was right there, teetering, about to lose it.

“Shit, hyung—fuck, that’s so good. So fucking good.” Jungkook panted, chest heaving.

Seokjin gave him a quick smile. “Hold it. You don’t get to come until I say so..” He reached for his pants. He was still half‑dressed, cock aching and leaking from being ignored too long. Just touching himself had him groaning. Jungkook watched, eyes dark, as Seokjin stripped the rest off and wrapped a fist around his own length.

Climbing back onto the bed, Seokjin pulled the plug out slowly. Jungkook gasped as it stretched him one last time. The toy was wide—wider than Seokjin—but nothing compared to the real thing. Seokjin spread Jungkook’s hips, positioning himself, eyes locked on Jungkook’s face that looked wrecked and worshipful at once. His own heart thudded erratic.

“I’m going in,” he warned.

Jungkook nodded fast, hand gripping the sheets. Seokjin pressed forward, cock sliding in inch by inch, his chest bending low so he could kiss Jungkook at the same time. Jungkook’s brow furrowed at the stretch. “Almost—just… fuck, almost,” he gasped. Even after years, this angle still had him trembling. 

Having Jungkook raw, watching his face twist in bliss while he took him—Seokjin knew he could never get enough of that sight

When Seokjin bottomed out, Jungkook finally relaxed under him.

Seokjin kissed his cheek, his nose, his eyes. “Kook‑ah,” he said, pulling back just enough to see him clearly.

“I love you,” Seokjin whispered.

Jungkook smiled shyly, nose wrinkling the way it always did when he was embarrassed. “Love you too, hyung.” It was honest.

Seokjin’s chest swelled, a rush like glitter under his skin. He kissed him softly, and Jungkook grabbed his hips, setting the pace. Slow but deep, every thrust pulling them closer together.

They found a rhythm that felt like falling and being caught in the same breath. Seokjin let the careful part of him dissolve—his self-protection, his old ache, the questions that used to sit between his ribs like stones. Jungkook held his hips, guided, gave, asked. Seokjin answered by opening, by meeting, by taking, by giving back until the edges of the room blurred and the only thing that stayed in focus was Jungkook’s face when he said Seokjin’s name like it belonged to both of them.

“Slow,” Jungkook murmured when Seokjin’s pace quickened, his forehead pressed tight against Seokjin’s temple. “We have all night.”

“We have forever,” Seokjin said before he could stop himself, feeling Jungkook shudder under his touch.

He kissed along Jungkook’s neck, catching the shell of his ear, while one hand slid down to grip Jungkook’s thigh just above the hip, anchoring him in place. The angle shifted, deeper, pulling a low sound out of Jungkook’s chest. Seokjin bit down lightly at his neck in response, harder when he felt the tremor run through him.

Both of them were gasping, Jungkook’s neck straining while Seokjin’s thrusts grew erratic. “I’m there,” Seokjin groaned. “Me too,” Jungkook answered, desperate. “Me too, hyung.” With his free hand, Jungkook stroked himself in time with Seokjin’s hips. Heat coiled low in Seokjin’s belly, matching Jungkook’s ragged moans, until they both broke—Seokjin collapsing with a guttural cry as his vision went white, Jungkook jerking hard beneath him, spilling over his own stomach.

Seokjin slumped, chest heaving, throat raw from the sounds he’d made. His weight pressed Jungkook into the mattress, but Jungkook didn’t complain; instead he traced lazy patterns on Seokjin’s back with his fingertips, soothing him while their skin stuck messily together. The slick mess between them was uncomfortable, but Seokjin was too blissed‑out to move, and Jungkook clearly didn’t mind holding him like that a little longer.

Minutes passed before Seokjin managed to roll enough for Jungkook to slip out, fetch a damp towel, and clean them both up.

They were both naked, skin to skin, except for the simple ring on Seokjin’s finger. Jungkook had given it to him on their first anniversary, the day they moved in together. Seokjin had worn it ever since—happy, proud—because even though it was plain, it was a promise from Jungkook. One that had lasted, held strong, and by now Seokjin knew it was exactly what he wanted, exactly what he needed.

The window turned to a mirror—skyline painted on their skin. Time had passed without them noticing.

Jungkook lay on his side, tracing the inside of Seokjin’s wrist where his pulse still skipped.
“Hoseok cried three times,” he murmured.

“I know,” Seokjin said, smiling. “I counted.”

Jungkook kissed the corner of that smile, then stayed close, eyes soft. “I think it’s really going to work for them.”

Seokjin tilted his head. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Hyung… it’s been over ten years for us.”

Seokjin narrowed his eyes. “What, you’re tired of me already?”

“Sometimes,” Jungkook teased.

Seokjin smacked his arm, but Jungkook caught his hand before he could pull away. He laughed, then brushed Seokjin’s hair back, looking at him with that gaze that never wavered.
“How could I be? I’ve loved you since then… and I’ll keep loving you.”

 Jungkook had always been steady, always straightforward, even when they clashed, even when he teased. Every word came from that same place of honesty, and Seokjin felt it settle inside him like something solid. Seokjin’s chest tightened. “For how long?”

Jungkook’s thumb stroked over his knuckles. “For whatever comes after goodbye.”

Seokjin closed his eyes and let himself feel the warmth of his partner’s body pressed beside him. The heat spread from his chest through every part of him, pulling a small smile to his lips. He tightened his hold on Jungkook and pressed a soft kiss into his curls.

“Then that’s how long I’ll love you too.”