Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bedroom is quiet.

Not the kind of silence that invites rest, but the dull, insulated hush of heavy walls and well-fitted windows. The kind of silence that seeps in over time, until even his thoughts move softer inside it.

Jimin stirs without meaning to. Wakes slow, the kind of waking that feels like it started before his eyes even opened. Blinks once. His pillow’s cool against his cheek, and his limbs ache faintly from the way he’s curled around himself. Almost thirty, and still sleeping like a child afraid to be touched. The duvet, something imported, silk-lined, hand-stitched, is already slipping down, exposing the soft press of cotton against his shoulder.

He doesn’t move at first. He listens.

The stillness holds. The lamps are off, the curtains half-drawn. Light slants in, grey and patient, across the foot of the bed. There’s no sound from the hall. From the kitchen below, he can hear the distant clatter of breakfast being set out.

When he finally sits up, the fabric slides along his sleeve in a hush. He stays like that for a moment longer, spine still curved, breath shallow in his chest.

He rises slowly, muscles stiff from disuse. His robe is draped over the armchair. Wool. Monogrammed. Not his taste, but he's never cared enough to replace it.

He doesn’t bother changing. Just pulls it on over his sleepwear—already late, already tired of pretending to care.

His scent clings to the fabric: fig sap and warm milk, something quieter at the edges. And beneath that, a trace he doesn’t quite recognize anymore. Leather. Faint musk. Not fresh. Not gone. Just... present. Like memory pretending to be scent.

He shrugs it tighter around himself and walks toward the door.

By the time he enters the dining room, Taeseong is already seated. Shirt perfectly ironed, sleeves rolled just high enough to suggest ease without losing authority. His watch glints as he sets his phone down beside the bowl of soup he hasn’t touched.

There’s soft tofu and egg soup on the table. A folded square of roasted laver. A small dish of jeon, picked from a breakfast spread prepared daily for two and never finished.

Jimin doesn’t greet him. He nods once to the staff, silent as they withdraw, and takes his seat.

It’s like this most mornings.

“I’ll be out late,” Taeseong says, breaking the silence without looking up. “Dinner at the Han River club. Some investors are in town.”

Jimin doesn’t answer immediately. He spoons a little broth, lets it linger on his tongue. Too hot, faintly bitter. He swallows and sets the spoon down with care.

“And after?” he asks. Not because he cares. Not really. Just because it feels expected.

“Drinks, probably. Depends how long they want to talk.”

Jimin doesn’t ask for details. He stopped keeping track years ago.

Silence settles, long enough for it to mean something.

“Don’t wait up.”

It lands without weight. Like most things Taeseong says. Lacquered smooth, cold at the edges. Nothing to hold onto.

Jimin sips his water. “I wasn’t planning to.”

Taeseong stands. The chair glides back without sound. One of the staff steps forward to retrieve his blazer. Another opens the front door before he’s even reached it.

It’s a quiet exit. Intentional.

Jimin stays where he is, fingers resting on the rim of the bowl.

When he finally looks down again, the broth’s gone lukewarm. A fine sheen of oil has formed across the surface, iridescent under the light. He doesn’t move to eat more.

Instead, he rises, smoothly, without a word, and walks back through the house that no longer feels like his.

Upstairs, the hallway stretches wide and soundless. The bedroom door falls closed behind him with a click that barely touches the air. He slips off the robe and folds it over the foot of the bed.

The bathroom is cool when he enters. He never adjusts the floor heat. No one else uses this space. Hasn’t, in over a year.

The shower runs too hot, then too cold, before settling into something tolerable. He stands under it longer than necessary, face tipped to the spray, palms flat against the tile.

By the time he’s dressed in soft knit and slate-gray trousers, sleeves pushed to the forearms, the morning is already tilting toward late. He passes the housekeeper in the upstairs corridor and offers a faint nod. She asks if he’ll be in for lunch.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, quiet. “I’ll eat whatever’s there.”

She nods in return. Doesn’t press.

He heads downstairs without thinking, his steps quiet on the floorboards.

His coat hangs by the back door. He shrugs it on, then steps into a pair of lined greenhouse boots, soles scuffed and canvas still stiff from use.

Cold air washes over him as he unlocks and pushes open the door. His breath ghosts in the air, thin and fading.

He crosses the short path to the greenhouse, boots crunching softly over gravel. The door sticks slightly when he opens it, hinges resisting his push. 

The greenhouse isn’t large. Just enough for one person to move around the narrow walkway, shoulders tucked. The panels are fogged at the corners, blurred by condensation. A dehumidifier hums in the corner, half-disguised by a stack of clay pots. The cold settles fast, clinging low around his ankles, damp and unmoving.

The air smells a little green, like moist soil, overwatered roots, something close to decay. It’s not unpleasant. But it doesn’t feel alive, either.

The persimmon sapling leans against its stake near the center. Its limbs are thin, leaves curled at the edges. The pot it sits in is too small now, roots likely twisted in on themselves. He should have transplanted it in September. He tells himself he was busy.

He wasn’t. Not really. Just couldn't bring himself to touch it.

He crouches beside it, brushing a bit of soil from the rim. The leaves feel dry despite the moisture. Not dead. But close.

A vine sprawls across the back wall, dormant now. This past spring, it bloomed for two weeks before receding into brittle stalks. He let it grow too far before cutting it back. He doubts it'll bloom again. 

There’s a shallow basin near the corner, filled with perilla, though the stems are leggy and pale. Yoongi once showed him how to prune them, how to run a thumb along the leaves to test for oil. Jimin’s never been able to remember which ones to cut.

He waters too much. Or not enough. It’s always one or the other.

This greenhouse is new. He had it built last year, behind the main house, discreetly enough that no one questioned it. It's nothing like the old one. 

That one had been his mother’s idea. A status feature. A place to impress. She’d had it built when Jimin was still a child, said it would help them grow rare ornamentals for entertaining guests. She lost interest in less than a year.

After that, the upkeep had fallen to the staff, until one day, Yoongi had offered to help. Quietly. He hadn’t been assigned, but no one stopped him. Not even his mother. Maybe she hadn’t noticed. Maybe she had, and didn’t care, as long as it kept him out of the main house. Either way, the plants had responded to him like something loyal. As if they knew he belonged, even when no one else said so.

Jimin presses a finger to the soil. It sinks easily. Still damp.

There’s a folding stool by the side table. He sits, hands resting between his knees, eyes unfocused. The silence feels heavier here, like something preserved. Like it remembers more than he does.

He hasn’t stepped inside the old greenhouse in years. He’s passed it, sure, but never looked closely. He doesn’t know if anything’s still alive inside. Doesn’t know if anyone takes care of it at all. But the image is still sharp: ivy crawling across glass panes, the scent of crushed mint, the sound of Yoongi’s voice, low and even, explaining the difference between grafting and propagation. Jimin hadn’t cared, not really. But he remembers the way Yoongi’s hands moved, patient and sure. Dirt under his nails and sunlight on his throat.

He runs his fingers along the cuff of his sleeve. The fabric’s worn soft at the edges. Light scatters across the glass above him, catching in the fogged edges. He should open a window. He doesn’t.

There's movement behind him. The scrape of a shoe against tile, slow and careful.

“Jiminie.”

He turns. Taehyung stands just outside the door, jacket half-zipped, hair tousled like he hasn’t been up long. He doesn’t smile, not fully, but his voice is light.

“I was gonna make coffee. You want some?”

Jimin nods, wordless.

Taehyung lingers another beat, then gestures with a tilt of his chin. “Come on. You look like you’ve been in here since sunrise.”

Jimin glances once more at the sapling. Then stands. Brushes his palms on his thighs.

The greenhouse door closes behind them with a soft click.

They cross the lawn in silence, gravel shifting under their boots. The air is cold but dry, the late-morning sky stretched thin over the tiled rooftops. Most of the trees have already shed their leaves; what remains clings brown and curled at the edges, swaying without sound.

Taehyung glances back at the greenhouse. “Are you ever going to fix that vine inside?”

Jimin follows his gaze, though the fogged glass reveals nothing clearly from here. Still, he remembers the brittle stalk, trailing across the back wall. “I tried. It didn’t take.”

“Tried doesn’t count if you only water it once.”

He makes a soft sound in his throat, something like a scoff. “Maybe it hates me.”

“Maybe you forgot how to care for things.”

Jimin doesn’t answer at first. He tightens his grip on his sleeves, eyes still on the path ahead.

“I do try.”

“You check on them every day, but never actually fix what’s wrong. That’s not trying, that’s watching things fall apart.”

Jimin sighs, but doesn’t argue. Just keeps walking.

The smaller house comes into view as they round the last turn in the path. It’s set back from the main wing, tucked near the treeline, with broad south-facing windows. The hedges around the porch are clipped, not ornamental. The shutters are open. Nothing showy. Just a house that works, and breathes, and holds people.

Inside, Jimin toes off his boots and steps into warmth. The floor is heated, faintly scuffed in places. The entry gives straight into the living space: high ceiling, soft lights, bookshelves, a couch tucked under the east-facing windows. A mug rests on the side table, half full. Someone’s scarf is looped over the back of a chair.

He’s been here hundreds of times. Still, the contrast always lands, how quiet the house is, but never cold. Not like his.

“Coffee?” Taehyung asks, already heading to the kitchen.

“Obviously.”

“Just checking. Last time you said you were trying to be healthier and asked for barley tea. You took one sip and gagged.”

The kitchen blends into the rest of the room, open and warm. There’s an unfinished canvas by the window, all angles and layered colors. Jimin glances at it as he walks past, notes the thick texture along one edge where the brush dragged and caught. He doesn’t comment yet.

Taehyung sets two mugs down and fills them from the press. His sleeves are pushed to his elbows. There’s a faint yellow smear along one wrist, almost hidden by his watch strap.

“Is that a new painting?” Jimin asks.

“Started it yesterday. It’s a disaster.”

“You say that every time.”

“No, but this one actually is.”

Jimin picks up his mug and sinks into the couch. The cushions give under him, just enough. Taehyung joins him with a quiet thud of ceramic on wood and pulls one leg up beneath him. His scent is already in the fabric, linen and sage, something faint and earthy and familiar. Jimin breathes it in without thinking.

“Is Jungkook home?”

“Upstairs,” Taehyung says. “He got in late. That gallery commission wants nighttime city shots, so he’s been pacing rooftops like a ghost.”

Jimin snorts. “Bet you loved that.”

“I did not love that. I got maybe three hours of sleep and had to pretend not to be offended.”

“You could’ve gone with him.”

“I did,” Taehyung says, dry. “Once. I stood in the cold for twenty minutes, stepped in something disgusting, and spent the rest of the night trying to warm up in a 24-hour convenience store while he took photos of traffic.”

Jimin huffs a laugh into his mug. “Romantic.”

“Extremely. He even bought me banana milk.”

“Gross.”

“Five years next spring. That’s love, bitch.”

Jimin smiles, the kind that barely reaches his eyes but still softens the corners. The warmth from the cup seeps into his hands, steady and grounding. Taehyung shifts beside him, elbow brushing Jimin’s as he reaches for the blanket draped across the back of the couch.

He settles it over his knees without comment, then lifts his mug and knocks it lightly against Jimin’s.

“Oh,” he says. “I forgot to tell you. Someone bought the Jeong estate.”

Jimin blinks. “What?”

“The place next to yours. The old Jeong house. It’s finally sold.”

Jimin straightens a little. “To who?”

“No idea. Some lawyer handled it privately. I only heard because Jungkook ran into the groundskeeper at the market.”

Jimin hums, brows drawing slightly. But Taehyung’s already waving a hand.

“I know. Mystery. But imagine,” he says, eyes narrowing with mock seriousness. “Tall. Alpha. Wealthy. Definitely hiding a dark past. Tragic childhood. Brooding aura.”

Jimin snorts. “Taehyung—”

“Moved to the countryside to find peace. Maybe build a garden. Maybe bury a body. No one knows.”

“Oh my god.”

“Glass cutting jaw. Expensive shoes. Never takes his sunglasses off.”

“Please stop.”

“Fine. But if he’s hot, I’m bringing him muffins.”

“You’re such a drama queen.”

Taehyung grins. “This neighborhood lacks drama. I’m manifesting.”

He leans in, voice dropping. “But imagine—tall. Hot. Single. Probably a bit older, because—hello, daddy.”

Jimin chokes on a laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m hopeful.”

“You’re married.”

Taehyung lifts a brow. “Married, not dead.”

“You’re not allowed to thirst after the imaginary neighbor. You already have a hot alpha who loves the hell out of you. Unlike some of us.”

Jimin tries to keep it light, but something in his voice pulls anyway. He feels it land the second it leaves his mouth.

Taehyung doesn’t push. But his smile fades a little, settling into something quieter.

“Is my brother still being a cold asshole?” he asks.

Jimin doesn’t look up. He traces a finger along the seam of his mug. “Yeah.”

Taehyung's voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I’m sorry. I haven’t stopped feeling guilty for encouraging it.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I thought—” he sighs. “I thought maybe he’d be good for you.”

“I was a grown man. I made my own choices.”

Taehyung nods, but the guilt doesn’t go anywhere. Jimin doesn’t try to take it away.

“Do you ever think about leaving him?”

Jimin doesn’t answer right away. He shrugs, small. Not dismissive, just tired.

“Sometimes,” he says. “But I don’t have it in me to do something about it.”

They sit with that for a moment. It doesn’t stretch. It just rests.

“Can we talk about something else?” Jimin asks, voice low.

Taehyung nods. “You want to stay for lunch?”

“Sure,” Jimin says. “I didn’t eat much earlier. And I’m going to Seokjin’s for dinner later, so something light is fine.”

“Good. Jungkook made spicy mayo perilla oil makguksu the other day. It was kind of insane.”

Jimin hums. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Do you want me to ask him to make some?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

Taehyung gets to his feet. “Not at all. Time to wake the baby up, anyway.”

He stretches once, then pads toward the stairs. “He always acts like he’s annoyed, but he loves feeding people.”

Jimin watches him walk up the stairs, then leans back into the couch. The scent of sage lingers in the fabric, warm against the cooler air of the room. He closes his eyes for a moment but doesn’t drift. There’s too much movement in his head today.

Footsteps return after only a few minutes. Taehyung settles back onto the couch without comment, hair slightly mussed, phone in hand.

“He’s up,” he says. “Sort of.”

Jimin glances over.

Taehyung stretches his legs out, socked feet knocking gently into Jimin’s shins. “He’ll come down once he stops pretending he doesn’t need twenty minutes to stare at the wall.”

“Sounds stable.”

“Deeply.”

They lapse into quiet, not uncomfortable. The kind that comes easy after years of knowing someone too well. The light has shifted a little, warmer now against the back wall, catching on the edge of Taehyung’s half-finished painting, its layers textured and uncertain. Some parts look confident. Others hesitant, like they’d been painted over and then halfway forgiven.

Jimin tips his chin toward it. “You’ve been hating everything you paint lately. What’s going on?”

Taehyung doesn’t look up. “I don’t know. My brain’s just...tired, I guess.”

Jimin waits.

“My last show did too well,” Taehyung says after a beat. “Now everyone’s expecting something bigger. Better. And I just—” He waves vaguely in the direction of the canvas. “Everything I touch feels flat.”

Jimin hums. “Maybe you should stop trying to impress people and just...have fun. You used to enjoy it.”

Taehyung glances over. “Yeah? When’s the last time you had fun?”

Jimin gives him a look. “Don’t turn this around on me. We’re talking about your creative crisis, not mine.”

“No, but really.” Taehyung sets his mug down. “How long has it been since you danced?”

Jimin doesn’t answer right away. Then he sighs, low and quiet. “It’s complicated, Tae.”

Taehyung watches him for a moment. “My brother sucked the life out of you,” he mutters. “Selfish bastard.”

Jimin lets the words hang there. Doesn’t argue. Just presses the rim of his mug to his lips and holds it there, eyes unfocused. The silence that falls between them is not heavy. That’s the thing about being here, he never feels like he has to fill the space. It makes him ache a little, sometimes, when he lets himself notice it.

The stairs creak overhead. A door opens, then shuts. After a short pause, Jungkook appears at the edge of the open-plan kitchen, hair damp, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He’s in black joggers and one of Taehyung’s oversized sweatshirts, the one with the worn cuffs and a streak of pale green paint along the hem. His scent hits gently as he passes: pine resin, clean rain, something grounded. Awake now, but still soft at the edges.

“I heard I’m on lunch duty,” he says as he steps into the kitchen, voice still rough from sleep.

“Payment for sleeping through half the day,” Jimin says, tipping his mug toward him.

“You’re welcome.” Jungkook opens the fridge. “But I’m not plating anything. It’s a weekday.”

Taehyung nudges Jimin’s thigh with his knee. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s very serious about cooking.”

“Because someone once swapped sesame oil for perilla in bibimmyeon,” Jungkook mutters, pulling out the noodles.

“We were out,” Taehyung says.

“Then we don’t make it,” Jungkook replies. “They’re not the same.”

Taehyung lifts a brow. “You didn’t speak to me for two hours.”

“That was restraint,” Jungkook says. “I was processing my grief.”

Jimin huffs. “You two are still bickering like undergrads.”

“He used to act like he didn’t like me,” Taehyung says.

“I didn’t act like anything,” Jungkook mutters. “I was cool.”

“You were mute,” Taehyung says. “You’d sit next to me for hours without saying a word. Just big eyes and no voice.”

“That was strategic.”

“You kept leaving snacks on my desk.”

“I was being polite.”

Jimin smirks. “You stuck a note under his sketchbook once.”

Jungkook sighs. “That doesn’t mean I was courting him.”

“It had a heart on it,” Taehyung says.

“A very small one.”

“And then he asked if I wanted to ‘maybe get dinner sometime, or not, no pressure, up to you.’”

“That’s called giving someone options,” Jungkook says.

Jimin grins. “You were so obvious.”

“Keep laughing. I'll overcook the noodles on purpose,” Jungkook mutters, turning back to the stove.

Lunch is ready just past one. The makguksu is tossed in glossy red sauce, topped with an egg yolk, sprinkled with crispy seaweed flakes. Jungkook hands Jimin a bottle of beer from the fridge without asking. He grabs one for himself, and a Coke Zero for Taehyung.

They eat on the couch with bowls in their laps. The spice builds slow, then hits. Jimin breathes through it and keeps going.

He doesn’t realize he’s finished until there’s nothing left in the bowl.

“Jesus,” he says, leaning back. “That was incredible.”

“Second time he’s made it,” Taehyung says, nudging his bowl aside. “And I’ve already decided it’s my new favorite.”

Jungkook doesn’t look up. “You said that about the soy-glazed mackerel.”

“And I meant it. You just keep getting better, babe.”

Taehyung leans over and takes Jimin’s empty bowl. “You want more?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Jimin says.

The room settles after that. Dishes are cleared. Jungkook disappears upstairs. Jimin stays where he is, watching the way the light has begun to move again. He’s comfortable, but the afternoon is slipping past.

“I should head back,” he says, rising slowly. He stretches once, and heads toward the entryway.

His coat hangs on the low hook beside the shoe cabinet. He pulls it on, boots already waiting near the mat.

Taehyung follows, arms folded loosely. “Text me tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says. “Thanks for lunch.”

Taehyung shrugs one shoulder. “You’re always welcome here.”

Jimin opens the door. The air outside is colder than before, enough to sting his lungs on the first breath.

“Don’t freeze,” Taehyung says.

Jimin half-smiles. “No promises.”

He steps out. The door clicks softly behind him.

He takes the long way back.

The path curves past the winter-bare hedges, then dips behind the fountain terrace before skimming the edge of the orchard—just a scatter of skeletal trees now, branches stripped, soil frost-touched. His breath curls in front of him, barely visible. It’s not quite four, but the light’s already slanting low.

At the back entrance of the house, the latch sticks for a second before giving. He steps inside, the warmth a strange contrast, too sudden against his skin.

No one waits for him.

He shrugs off his coat and places it on the bench by the door. The boots come off next, damp at the soles, dust and gravel still caught in the grooves. There’s no one in the corridor, but he speaks anyway.

“No need to prepare dinner,” he says, voice low but clear. “I’ll be out tonight.”

Someone murmurs in acknowledgment from the far side of the kitchen. He doesn’t look.

Upstairs, he moves on muscle memory. Past the unused library. Past the room Taeseong sleeps in now. In his room, he doesn’t turn the lights on. He pulls the curtains half-closed, toes off his socks, and slips beneath the duvet fully clothed.

Just for a little while.

The comfort isn’t in warmth. It’s in weight. In the way the fabric yields to him, not out of obligation but inevitability. The bed smells like nothing—linen, maybe. The faint memory of his scent, dulled by routine. He curls on his side, remote in one hand, screen glowing dim on the opposite wall.

It’s a show he’s watched before. Light, slow-paced, nothing at stake. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t frown either. Just lets it play, volume low, the familiar rhythm lulling him into stillness.

By the end of the episode, he’s too restless to lie still.

He changes into workout clothes, black and fitted. The gym still carries the faint scent of leather and musk. Taeseong uses it most mornings. The air feels thicker for it. Not unpleasant. Just not his.

He moves through the routine without pause. Arms, shoulders, core. One set becomes three. Then five.

It’s not about progress. Not even endurance. It’s about sweat. Control. Proof that his body still answers to him.

When he’s done, he stands in front of the mirror and lets the sweat cool on his skin.

He doesn't recognize his own expression.

Upstairs, he showers. Steam fogs the mirror. He dresses in a charcoal sweater, dark slacks, and a soft collared shirt underneath. Just enough to look like himself.

At six, he heads out.

The sky’s deepening to indigo, pale blue retreating beyond the treetops. Lights are already on in the upper floors of the main house. As he passes the Jeong estate, he doesn’t look up. The windows are dark. The driveway empty.

He doesn’t slow.

At the front entrance of the Park house, he nods to the staff member who opens the door. She greets him quietly, bows once. He slips his shoes off in the entryway, familiar with the rhythm here too.

“They’re in the upstairs lounge,” she says.

He thanks her out of habit and heads in.

The lounge is warm, lit by low sconces and the ambient flicker of the gas fireplace. Seokjin sits with one leg tucked under him, a drink in hand. Namjoon’s at the sideboard, pouring something dark into a pair of glasses.

“There he is,” Seokjin says, smiling. “I was starting to think you ghosted us.”

“I figured you'd send someone after me if I didn’t show,” Jimin replies.

Namjoon lifts a glass. “Neat?”

“Sure.”

He accepts the drink and sinks into the armchair opposite Seokjin. The scent of the house is familiar—white tea and honeycomb, sandalwood warmed by proximity. Beneath it, something sharper. Namjoon, maybe. Or memory.

Jimin sips once. Lets the quiet settle.

“Is Eomma joining?” he asks, after a moment.

“She’s not feeling well,” Seokjin says. “Or pretending not to.”

“She’ll be fine,” Namjoon adds. “We didn’t press.”

Jimin nods. The warmth from the drink spreads slowly. Not unpleasant.

The conversation shifts to lighter things. A news article Seokjin skimmed and forgot to finish. The new staff uniforms. Namjoon’s terrible handwriting.

After a while, one of the staff steps into the room.

“Dinner is ready, sir,” she says, bowing once toward Seokjin.

They rise without ceremony. Jimin follows them down the hall, glass still in hand.

The dining room is quiet. The table is already set, steam rising from the bowls.

It’s a proper meal. Warm, balanced, nothing fussy. The kind of table Seokjin insists on, even on a weekday.

They eat in silence at first. Then Seokjin sets down his chopsticks a little too carefully and exhales through his nose.

“Uncle pushed the merger through,” he says. “Did it last week. I’ve been trying not to talk about it, but it’s been sitting under my skin all day.”

Jimin glances over. “What merger?”

Namjoon wipes his mouth with his napkin. “He consolidated with a midsize holding group—mostly offshore equity. It’s technically domestic on paper, but the money trail doesn’t end here.”

“You mean shell companies,” Jimin says.

“Possibly. I haven’t followed it all the way back yet.”

Seokjin leans back in his chair. “He didn’t involve us. Not once. The whole thing was coordinated without internal disclosure. Legal, finance, PR… none of us saw the filings until after they were submitted.”

“And Eomma?” Jimin asks.

Namjoon nods slightly. “He gave her a summary. Something vague. Called it a strategic partnership. Promised long-term growth, reduced liabilities. She signed it.”

“She knew something,” Seokjin says. “Just not the parts that mattered.”

“She let him do it,” Jimin mutters. “Same as always.”

No one argues.

“The terms are still vague,” Namjoon says after a moment. “But from what I’ve seen, the merger gave them a capital injection and partial board restructure. Which only happens when there’s pressure—either debt exposure or a loss of investor confidence.”

“So the company needed it,” Jimin says.

Namjoon nods. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

“And you weren’t told,” Jimin says, looking at Seokjin.

“I get the ceremonial updates. Ribbon cuttings. Press statements.” He pauses. “He knows I won’t keep quiet if I see the real numbers.”

Jimin’s jaw tightens. “Appa would’ve thrown him out of the building for half of this.”

“Appa’s gone,” Seokjin says, not harshly. Just fact.

Jimin tips his glass, eyes on the tablecloth. “And he left the wrong person in charge.”

No one disagrees.

The conversation slows. A staff member returns to clear the plates.

Jimin leans back slightly. “By the way—Taehyung told me the Jeong estate sold. Do you know who bought it?”

Seokjin shakes his head. “Not yet. Some furniture’s been delivered. Movers, mostly. I haven’t seen anyone myself.”

The rest of dinner passes quietly. The wine lowers. Dessert is offered and declined. Outside, the sky has already gone dark.

They linger at the table a little longer, not out of need—just habit. Seokjin sets down his glass with a final, half-hearted swirl. Namjoon checks his phone, then slips it back into his pocket without comment.

When Jimin stands, the others follow. No rush, just the quiet rhythm of something ending.

In the hall, Jimin thanks the staff with a nod. Seokjin walks him to the door, arms folded, voice softer now, edged with something lighter.

“You’re sure you don’t want to stay?” He leans against the frame, one brow raised. “The guest bed’s made. And Namjoon just restocked the pantry with your favorite tea.”

Jimin pulls on his coat. “Tempting.”

He pauses, lips tugging. “But I left my book at home.”

Seokjin sighs, mock-dramatic. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to interrupt your epic saga of magical backstabbing.”

“This one’s got dragons and court politics,” Jimin says. “Very sophisticated.”

“You say that like it’s not the exact same plot every time.”

“It is. That’s why it works.”

Namjoon calls out a goodbye from deeper in the house, and Jimin returns it over his shoulder. The front door clicks softly behind him.

The estate is quiet at this hour, all the warmth of dinner fading into the stillness that comes just before full dark. His breath clouds the air in faint white wisps. Each step stirs the grit along the path, small sounds swallowed by the cold.

As he passes the Jeong house, something makes him glance up.

One of the windows on the second floor is lit. The curtain is parted slightly. At first, there’s nothing to register—just a glow behind the glass.

Then he sees it.

A figure. Still, half-turned. The outline of a shoulder, the suggestion of a face he can’t quite make out. Someone standing there. Someone watching.

Jimin slows. He doesn’t stop completely, but the air feels different now. Not colder, just closer.

Before he can look again, the curtain falls shut. A single movement. Quiet. Unrushed.

He stays there a moment longer, eyes on the darkened glass.

Probably nothing. Whoever it was, they’re gone now. Still, he breathes in deeper than before, lets it out slow.

Then he keeps walking.

Back at the house, the front door isn’t locked. It never is when Taeseong’s out this late.

Jimin steps inside and closes it behind him. The foyer is quiet, lights dimmed to evening levels. No shoes by the entrance. No coat draped on the rack. Nothing to suggest anyone else has come home.

He slips out of his own shoes, hangs his coat, and exhales into the stillness.

His room is just as he left it. The duvet still unsettled, a faint crease in the pillow where he’d rested his arm earlier. The overhead light stays off. He slips off his sweater as he crosses to the bathroom and flicks the switch on.

Cool white light fills the space. He washes his face, runs cold water over the back of his neck. For a long moment, he just stands there, watching the water bead on porcelain, drip from his fingers.

He feels tired. Not in the way that sleep fixes. In the way that feels like erosion. Days wearing down. Quietly. Slowly.

He thinks about resolutions. About starting something. Changing something. But not tonight.

Tonight, he just wants quiet.

He takes the suppressant pill with water from a glass already sitting on the counter. Pads back to the bed. Changes into pajamas. Cotton, soft, worn at the sleeves. Slides under the duvet.

His book waits where he left it. A corner folded, spine cracked. He opens it and starts to read, eyes scanning words without urgency.

Outside, the wind picks up. Something creaks faintly near the eaves.

Jimin reads until the page blurs.

Then lets the book fall shut against his chest.

His eyes close without meaning to.

And after a moment, the room falls away.

He dreams of rain.

He’s younger in the dream. Maybe fourteen, maybe fifteen. The air smells like wet soil and bruised grass, the hush of a summer storm pressing in around the trees. Rain hits the stone steps in a steady rhythm, fine and slanting. His shoes are soaked through. He’s running.

He doesn't know, in the dream, what made him run. Only that someone left, and he followed.

The umbrella shakes in his grip as he clears the side of the greenhouse, slips down a narrow gravel path lined with overgrown hedges. His breath hitches when he sees him.

Dark figure, shoulders hunched. Halfway down the hill that leads toward the old orchard, hair plastered to the back of his neck. Not running. Just walking. Like it doesn't matter how wet he gets.

Jimin slows, closes the distance. The umbrella tilts in his hand.

"Hey," he says, voice catching.

The boy stops. Doesn’t turn.

Jimin steps closer, lifts the umbrella higher until it shelters them both. The rain hits the nylon above their heads with a dull patter.

"You shouldn’t stay out. You’ll get sick."

No answer. Just the rise and fall of shallow breath.

Then the boy's shoulders shake once. A stifled sound. His hands curl tighter at his sides.

Jimin reaches out carefully. His fingers close around a damp wrist.

"Come back inside. Please."

Slowly, the boy turns. His face is shadowed, blurred at the edges, like a memory that refuses to stay whole. But when he steps in, the rain runs down the curve of his jaw. His lashes are wet.

He exhales. Then leans forward.

His forehead rests against Jimin’s shoulder. Then lower. Nose pressing into the crook of Jimin’s neck, breath catching against his scent gland.

Jimin doesn’t move. Just stands there, umbrella trembling slightly above them, arm curling around the boy’s back. He can feel the breath against his skin. The faintest tremble.

The rain doesn’t stop. But it doesn’t feel cold anymore.

The boy sighs once, low against his neck. Like something uncoiling.

Jimin wakes with a jolt.

The room is still. Blanketed in low light. The book has slipped from where it rested against his chest.

His heart pounds too fast. His shirt clings damp to his skin.

He stares at the ceiling for a long moment. Breath shallow.

The name falls from his lips like a prayer.

“Yoongi.”

Chapter Text

Yoongi wakes to the taste of cold air at the back of his throat. The room is dim, but the ceiling’s already pale with light, thin as wet silk. The clock on the side table reads just past ten.

Most days, he’s up by six. Seven, if the night ran long. The kind of sleep that’s light, functional. But ever since the move, he’s been letting himself linger. Ten feels off. Not lazy, just wrong.

His shoulder aches when he moves. It’s an old injury, nothing serious. Just something that never fully went away. He presses a palm to it and waits for the sting to fade.

He stays still for a moment, letting his thoughts drift, weightless and unfinished. They don’t settle. They rarely do.

Last night was nothing. A moment. A glimpse. He tells himself that again.

But it was Jimin. It had to be.

Yoongi had watched him walk from the Park house, passing by the Jeong estate on his way home. His coat was wrapped tight around narrow shoulders, one hand gripping the lapel like it couldn’t quite hold warmth. He passed under the porch light near the entry, and for a second, Yoongi saw his face clearly. That was enough.

He doesn't know if Jimin saw him. He’d pulled the curtain too quickly to be sure.

He thinks, uselessly, about how it would feel to see him up close. To smell him again. To touch him. Then pushes the thought out before it can settle.

He stands.

His ensuite is warm, the floor heated beneath bare feet. He showers, dresses. Dark trousers, a black sweater. Pulls the top half of his hair back into a loose tie, no effort beyond that. There’s no reason to look presentable. No one here to see him.

He heads downstairs.

Bora is vacuuming the corner of the living room when he enters. She straightens with a small bow.

“Good morning.”

“Morning,” he says, voice low from disuse.

“There’s gimbap in the fridge. You want me to cook anything today?”

“I’ll handle dinner,” Yoongi says, brushing a hand through his hair. “Thanks, though.”

“I’ll leave by noon,” she says. “Text me if you need anything.”

He nods and steps into the kitchen.

The light in here is stronger, angled through the windows above the sink. He moves to the counter and clicks on the grinder. The beans are good, roasted last week, just a little oil rising on the surface. He grinds enough for one cup, taps the grounds into the filter, and pours the first stream of water. It rises slightly, blooms. The smell fills the kitchen.

He checks his phone. A message from Hoseok, sent two hours ago.

morning sunshine 🌞💛

Yoongi types back:

morning.

The reply comes instantly.

you slept in. scandalous 🫢

what time are you coming?

6-ish. should I ring the bell or throw rocks at the window?

just buzz. you’ll forget the code again anyway.

fine. i’ll behave. are you cooking? 

yeah.

good. i want kimchi fried rice 😍🥰

that’s not how this works.

that’s exactly how it works 😙

Yoongi taps the screen off and lets the phone rest beside his cup. The smile comes without thinking.

He crosses to the fridge and takes out the gimbap. The rice is still firm, wrapped tight.

He eats standing, lifting pieces with his fingers. Finishes most of it before rinsing the plate and sliding it into the washer.

By then, Bora is leaving. A small lunch container is tucked under her arm, leftover bibimbap from yesterday, when she’d made too much. She always accepts when he tells her to take something home.

She waves once, and he nods in return.

The house is quiet after she goes. Not dead quiet, just settled.

He heads to the study.

His company, Vantem Global, is based in Singapore, with a growing design team in the Netherlands. He checks in with his Seoul lead over chat, reviews two product samples, forwards specs to the marketing team. Everything’s clean. Nothing urgent.

His workspace is set up the way he likes it: clean lines, neutral light, comfortable chair, full-spectrum monitor. The desk was custom. The drawers close without sound.

He works for close to three hours. Emails, approvals, quiet revisions. Nothing urgent, but every line gets his full attention.

When he’s done, he stretches once and walks down the hall toward the piano.

It’s in the west room, where the lighting’s best. A black upright he’d had restored years ago. Clean sound. Understated finish. It took three men and one scratched doorway to move it in. The mark’s still there, though no one sees it.

He plays without warming up.

Not a real piece. Nothing he rehearsed. Just a phrase he’s been trying to work out from something he heard on a video weeks ago. He gets part of it right. Misses the middle. Tries again.

His fingers are steady. He doesn’t rush. Sometimes he plays old songs he knows by muscle memory, sometimes fragments that sound right, sometimes just motion until the restlessness drains from his chest.

He doesn’t play for anyone. He plays to make the noise in his head stop.

After a while, he stops. Washes his hands. Heads back downstairs.

The kitchen is clean. The counters are cool under his palms.

It’s nearly five. Hoseok will arrive in an hour or so.

He sets out rice, oil, garlic, kimchi. Pulls chicken from the fridge. Cuts it into even pieces, coats it in seasoned flour. Sets the oil to heat while he minces scallions, cracks two eggs, mixes sauce. By the time the rice is crisping and the chicken’s almost done, the intercom clicks.

Yoongi wipes his hands on a towel and crosses to the screen.

Hoseok’s face is half-shadowed in the display, grinning like he owns the place.

“Yo. I brought beer.”

Yoongi presses the button.

“Door’s open.”

The front door opens with a muted click, followed by the sound of shoes landing somewhere near the entryway.

“Hey,” Hoseok calls. “Smells good in here.”

Yoongi doesn’t look up from the stove. “Took you long enough.”

“Traffic,” Hoseok says. He steps into view with a bag slung over one shoulder and a six-pack in the other hand. “And also, I stopped to get beer because I’m thoughtful and hot.”

Yoongi glances over. “In that order?”

Hoseok grins. “Obviously. You think I’d leave you brooding alone all weekend? That’s how haunted house movies start.”

He heads toward the hallway without waiting for an answer. “Gonna drop this upstairs and change.”

By the time he returns, the food’s plated and the table’s set. He’s swapped his work slack for sweatpants and an oversized navy hoodie that hangs soft at the sleeves. He’s barefoot now. Somehow it still looks like fashion.

“Damn,” he says, pulling out a chair. “You went all out.”

“It’s fried rice,” Yoongi says, sitting across from him. “Don’t exaggerate.”

“No, seriously. This looks amazing.” Hoseok takes a bite and lets his head fall back. “You’re wasted on hostile takeovers. You should open a restaurant.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond. Just chews, quiet, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Satisfaction, maybe. He won’t admit it.

A few minutes pass in the comfortable hush of chopsticks against ceramic. Then Hoseok looks up again.

“Your hair’s gotten long.”

Yoongi hums. “I need a haircut.”

“It looks good, though. That half pony thing you’ve got going? Kind of hot.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. Hoseok just grins and takes another bite.

“How was today?” Yoongi asks, pushing a bit of rice to the side of his bowl.

“Could’ve been worse,” Hoseok says. “Didn’t have to deal with Sangchul-ssi much, so that’s a win. Just one meeting this morning… something about overseas licensing that he didn’t understand and didn’t want to admit he didn’t understand.”

Yoongi lifts a brow. “Standard.”

“Mm. Dropped it on someone else’s desk. Parknoa’s legal team is good at nodding through things they haven’t read.”

Yoongi nods, taking a slow sip of his water.

“I also did some cleanup on the language from the merger filings. Legal’s still trying to pretend it was all routine. And Seokjin-ssi asked if we could talk. I had a short meeting with him this afternoon.”

That gets Yoongi’s attention. “Yeah? What did he want?”

“He asked to meet the partner,” Hoseok says. “The man behind the company. He didn’t press too hard, but it was clear he’s not going to let it go. He gave me his number. Told me to let him know if you'd be willing to meet.”

Yoongi leans back slightly. “Sounds like him.”

“So,” Hoseok says, dragging out the word just a little. “You want to meet him?”

“I better,” Yoongi says. “He’s always been stubborn. He won’t stop pushing until he gets what he wants.”

“Where?”

Yoongi thinks for a second. “Tell him tomorrow. Noon. That place near Sinsa... the one with the quiet booths.”

“The Italian place?” Hoseok asks. “With the absurd truffle fries?”

Yoongi nods. “That one.”

Hoseok pulls out his phone and types. A moment later, it buzzes in his hand.

“Confirmed,” he says, glancing at the screen. “You’ve got your audience.”

He sets the phone aside. “I’ll handle the reservation. Probably better to book it under my name anyway.”

Yoongi finishes the last bite of his rice and sets his chopsticks down.

“Good,” he says. “Let’s see what he really wants.”

Hoseok finishes eating a minute later, and they clear the table in comfortable rhythm. He stacks the plates while Yoongi brings over the rest. When he moves toward the sink, Yoongi starts to follow, but gets waved off.

“You cooked. I’m not a monster.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You hate dishes.”

“Yeah,” Hoseok says, turning on the tap. “But I hate freeloading more.”

He rinses a plate, then glances over his shoulder. “Go ahead and put on FIFA. I need to wipe the floor with you.”

Yoongi doesn’t argue. He grabs two beers from the fridge, sets them on the coffee table, and kneels to start the console. The loading screen hums softly under the quiet kitchen noise.

“You’re not picking Korea again,” Hoseok calls from the sink. “You just want to score with Son every time.”

“And you’re picking Portugal,” Yoongi replies. “Ronaldo's your cheat code.”

“God, you’re so competitive. You pout when I beat you.”

Yoongi doesn’t look up. “I don’t pout.”

“You sulk.”

“I don’t sulk.”

“You do this thing where you go really quiet and then accuse the game of cheating.”

“Because it does.”

Hoseok snorts. “Right. It’s the PlayStation’s fault.”

When he comes out a few minutes later, his sleeves are pushed back and his hair’s a little messy, like he’d run a hand through it without thinking. He drops onto the floor with a loud sigh, back resting against the couch near Yoongi’s knees.

“You smell like dish soap,” Yoongi mutters, passing him a beer.

“That’s domesticity baby,” Hoseok says. “Scent of the season.”

They play two matches. Hoseok wins both. Yoongi blames the lag.

By the third game, Yoongi is half-slouched on the couch, one leg tucked up, the other stretched out. Hoseok sits cross-legged on the floor now, beer wedged between his ankles. He scores another goal and pumps a fist in the air.

“Look at that. Beautiful. Textbook.”

“Lucky.”

“Skilled.”

Yoongi sighs and throws the controller onto the cushion beside him. “I hate this game.”

Hoseok tilts his head back. “And yet, you keep losing to me. That must hurt.”

“It does.”

“Good.”

They switch over to watching Stranger Things after that. Hoseok queues up the next episode without asking. He’s already seen the show, but he watches it again anyway, stretched out on the rug with a pillow under his chest, toes brushing Yoongi’s foot.

“You’re gonna love this one,” he says as the episode starts.

“You said that last time.”

“And I was right.”

They get through one and a half in near silence, save for a few half-comments and muttered insults at the screen. Then, somewhere near the climax of episode three, as Will leads the group into the tunnels, Hoseok says, “By the way, Will's been controlled by the Mind Flayer this whole time. He's luring them into a trap.”

Yoongi frowns. “You said no spoilers.”

“That's not a spoiler. It's foreshadowing.”

“Foreshadowing my ass.”

“Oh come on! You surely felt it coming. You’re emotionally intuitive.”

Yoongi glares. Hoseok beams.

They finish three episodes and the whole six-pack before Hoseok yawns hard and pulls himself upright.

“Okay,” he says, cracking his back. “I’m heading to bed before I pass out on your rug.”

Yoongi nods. “Try not leave all the lights on this time.”

“No promises.”

He disappears down the hall with a wave. Yoongi hears the creak of the stairs, the slide of a door, and then the house settles.

He lingers on the couch a little longer, nursing the last of his beer. When he finishes, he tosses the bottle in the bin, and turns off the lights on his way up.

In his room, he pulls off his sweater and slacks, leaves them draped over the chair, and slips under the duvet in just his t-shirt and briefs. The ceiling looks the same as it did this morning. As it does every night. 

He doesn’t feel tired.

He reaches for his phone and queues up a podcast, something about emotional intelligence. It’s one of the long-form series he started last month, the kind that breaks down psychology in parts: the shape of self-perception, the mechanics of trust, social courage, avoidance. Not soothing, exactly. Just clear.

The voice in his ear is steady. Low and even. Nothing demanding. He listens with his eyes closed, still as stone, until the words stop making sense.

Eventually, he sleeps.

Yoongi takes the bridge into Seoul just before ten forty-five. There’s a thin smear of cloud over the river, low and slow like smoke, and he watches it settle as traffic drifts around him. The radio murmurs quietly in the background, some morning current affairs segment, something about foreign policy and industrial strategy, but he’s not really listening.

His hands stay steady on the wheel. The morning passed as expected: wake, dress, coffee. Hoseok appeared in the kitchen wearing the same hoodie as last night, hair unbrushed, mug already in hand.

"You want backup today?" he’d asked, casual. "Emotional support beta in the corner booth? I can wear sunglasses. Stay silent. Just give you a thumbs up now and then."

Yoongi had snorted into his cup. "I'm fine."

"Sure," Hoseok had said, grinning. "But if he starts throwing things, I’m texting Bora to prep the ice packs."

Now, halfway into Gangnam, Yoongi turns down a smaller side street lined with banks and minimalist storefronts. The restaurant Hoseok had reserved for him is just ahead, one Yoongi chose for its privacy more than its menu.

He arrives a little early. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Gives Hoseok’s name at the front and is led to a discreet corner booth with a curved bench seat and frosted paneling at the sides. He orders a coffee, nothing else. Sits with his back to the wall.

The space is quiet. Warm wood, low conversation. Just enough sound to keep the silence from settling too deep.

Seokjin arrives at noon. Yoongi watches him through the pane as he speaks to the hostess. The woman nods and gestures toward Yoongi’s booth.

The recognition doesn’t hit right away. Not until Seokjin is a few steps closer, when something in his expression falters. His frame draws back slightly, like he’s been caught in a memory he wasn’t ready for.

He slows. Looks again.

"Yoongi?"

His voice is quiet, uncertain. "What are you doing here?"

Yoongi stands politely, offering a shallow bow. "Seokjin-ssi. Long time no see. Please, take a seat."

Seokjin doesn't move for a second. Then, still half-wary, he sinks into the booth across from him.

Yoongi meets his eyes evenly. "You asked to meet me."

Seokjin's brow knits. "Wait. You’re the one behind Vantem? The merger? But... how?"

A waiter steps forward then, wearing the kind of polite smile that comes from long days on the job. "Would you like to order something, sir?"

Seokjin blinks up at him, distracted. "Uh. Just a cappuccino. Thanks."

He looks back at Yoongi. Still studying him. "You’ve changed," he says, after a pause. "You look different. Good different."

Yoongi nods. "So do you."

He catches the edge of Seokjin’s scent then, familiar but dimmed, a little off from strain. Still sweet underneath. Not as sweet as Jimin’s. Less fruit, more warmth. But close enough to pull something loose in his chest. It’s threaded through with memory, and it slips past his guard before he can stop it.

Seokjin lets out a slow breath. Straightens. "So what is this, then? What’s your deal? Why the sudden investment? Why the, I don’t know. Hostility."

Yoongi lifts one shoulder. "I have my reasons. Sangchul made it easy."

"What does that mean?"

"Your uncle's not very good at business," Yoongi says simply. "I thought he’d sideline you, you were always too competent to let things rot. But I didn’t think you’d be this clueless."

Seokjin’s eyes narrow.

"You alphas," he mutters. "Always so sure of yourselves. Always assuming it’s about power. I’m not stupid, Yoongi. I was kept in the dark, yes. But I would have figured it out. I will figure it out. With or without you. The question is, why did you come back? And don’t tell me it’s just business."

Yoongi holds his gaze. "Revenge."

Silence stretches.

"I came to do what was done to me," he says. "To destroy the people who tried to destroy me."

Seokjin scoffs. "I never agreed with how my mother and uncle treated you. You know that. But in the end, you had it coming. What you did to Jiminie was unacceptable. You crossed the line."

"I know."

The words land flat, quiet. They carry weight.

Seokjin blinks. Looks at him again. "At least you admit it."

Yoongi's jaw tightens . "But was it only my fault?"

Seokjin narrows his eyes. "And here I thought you’d grown up. Who else, Yoongi? If you say Jimin’s name right now, I swear I’ll come around this table and punch your stupid face."

"Easy," Yoongi says. "I get it. You’re angry. You should be. But haven’t you ever thought, I would never consciously hurt him? He was everything to me. I loved him more than I loved myself."

His voice doesn’t rise. It just folds inward, quieter.

"I was eighteen. Unpresented. Late bloomer, if you want to call it that. He called me because he trusted me. He was in pain. In his first heat. I don’t remember much. Everything was cloudy. I thought it was the pheromones."

Yoongi looks down, then back up.

“But later, things started coming back. Not all at once. Just… flashes. The way I moved. How I spoke. It didn’t feel like me. And then I remembered the drink. Joowon handed me tea. He was one of Sangchul’s people. Always cold with me. Never once kind. But that day, he smiled. I didn’t question it. I was stupid. Desperate for some kindness. So I drank it.”

He spreads his hands slightly. "Everything after that, it’s a blur."

Seokjin laughs. Bitter, short. "You think you were set up? Is that the story you tell yourself now?”

"It’s not a story," Yoongi says. "It’s a suspicion."

"Do you have proof?"

Yoongi hesitates for a short moment before he says, "No."

Seokjin taps a knuckle against the table. "Exactly.”

Yoongi sits with it. Lets the weight of it settle between them. When he speaks again, his voice is calmer. Almost detached.

“We want the same thing, you know. Sangchul gone. Before he drags the company down with him.”

Seokjin scoffs. “And you think I need you for that?”

“I think you need someone who’s not scared of getting his hands dirty,” Yoongi says. “And unlike you, I’ve been preparing for this for years. I didn’t come back to play fair.”

“I’m not interested in revenge,” Seokjin says, voice flat. “I want justice. And I’ll get it. On my terms.”

Yoongi nods once. “Suit yourself. But when he starts to fall, remember who pulled the first thread.”

A long silence follows. Then Yoongi speaks again, lower.

“I need you to keep my name out of it. For now.”

Seokjin studies him. “Why?”

“Because if Sangchul knows I’m the one behind the merger, he’ll shut everything down. He’ll get paranoid. Start hiding the real damage. He needs to feel safe. Until it’s too late.”

Seokjin leans back, arms crossed. “I’ll think about it.”

He doesn’t agree, not aloud. But Yoongi can see the gears turning, can see the calculation in the stillness, the way Seokjin’s expression hardens, not with certainty but with strategy. He’s already thinking about what he might uncover with more time.

Finally, Seokjin pushes back his chair. “We’re done here. Just one more thing.”

He stands. Looks down at Yoongi with narrowed eyes.

“Stay away from my brother.”

Yoongi’s expression doesn’t falter. “I’m not sure that’ll be possible.”

Seokjin frowns. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I saw him. A few nights ago. Walking home from your place.”

That stops him cold.

“He didn’t see me. This time.”

A breath passes before Seokjin asks, quieter now. “Where?”

Yoongi doesn’t blink. “From the Jeong estate. Through the window.”

Seokjin says nothing.

“I own it now.”

For a moment, Seokjin just stares. Like he’s trying to decide if this is a joke, or a warning.

Then he shakes his head once, sharp. “You’ve lost your mind. You really bought that house? Moved in next door like some twisted fantasy?”

Yoongi doesn’t respond.

Seokjin reaches into his coat, pulls out his wallet, and tosses a few bills onto the table without looking.

“Get some help.”

And then he’s gone.

Yoongi leaves without finishing his coffee. He walks out of the restaurant, crosses the lot, and gets into the car. The door shuts with a dull click. For a moment, he just sits there, hand on the wheel. Then he starts the engine.

He takes the long way back. Past the hills. Past the curve in the road where the guardrail bends out like a warning. Doesn't bother turning on the radio.

By the time he pulls into the drive, it's just past three. The gravel crunches softly under the tires.

He parks, gets out, and shuts the door with a muted click. The air is cooler here. Still.

One upstairs window is cracked open. The curtain lifts faintly with the breeze.

Yoongi steps into the entryway. The house is still. He slips off his shoes without looking up, then heads down the hall, steps soft against the wood. The dining room opens off to the left. Hoseok is there, hunched over his laptop, one knee pulled up on the chair.

"How'd it go?"

"Later. Let's eat first."

"That bad?"

Yoongi doesn’t answer. Just heads for the stairs.

Hoseok watches him go. “You want me to order something?”

“Yeah. Order whatever sounds decent. I’ll be down in a minute.”

"Got it," Hoseok says, already tapping at his phone.

Upstairs, the west room is lit in quiet gold. Afternoon sunlight presses through the glass in soft streaks, warming the wood floors. The piano waits near the far window, angled toward the light.

Yoongi crosses the room, doesn’t bother unbuttoning his cuffs. He lowers onto the bench, hands finding the keys by feel.

He doesn’t play anything structured. Just motion. A low phrase. Then another.

The house across the slope is visible through the window. Just the upper floor, the roofline, a sliver of wall, the high windows shaded by old trees. Distant. Unchanged.

His fingers still against the keys.

The light has that same muted weight it had back then.

The first time he saw the estate, he was nine.

A black car. A too-small coat. His mother’s name still echoing from the funeral rites.

He’d kept his eyes on the road the whole drive. Didn’t speak. Didn’t cry.

The gates opened, and the house rose behind them like something pulled from another life.

The road turns just before the gate. The driver doesn’t slow. Yoongi keeps his eyes on the glass. It’s cold where his forehead touches the window.

He remembers the man. He’d come to the hospice once, maybe twice, after his mother got worse. Tall. Formal. A quiet voice Yoongi didn’t know what to do with. His mother had spoken gently when she introduced him, not affectionate, but careful. “This is Hyunsuk-ssi. He’ll make sure you’re looked after,” she’d said. Her hand had rested on Yoongi’s shoulder, light but steady. The air around them had smelled like dried flowers and rust. Something instinctive in Yoongi had curled back.

They’d buried her four days ago. The neighbors who let him stay had two kids of their own, and not much space, but he’d slept on a blanket near the window and they’d made sure he ate.

The gate creaks open. Heavy, taller than the ones near school. Past it, the house rises into view. Gray stone and low eaves, wide windows shuttered half-closed. It doesn’t look like it belongs to anyone. It looks like it could swallow you whole.

The car rolls to a stop. Yoongi waits for the engine to cut off before moving. His coat bunches at the elbows as he pulls the strap of his duffel over one shoulder. The zipper is broken. His fingers find the frayed edge automatically.

Outside, the air is colder than he expected. Drier. The gravel crunches under his shoes. It sticks to the soles.

The front door opens before they reach it. 

Hyunsuk steps out, dressed in a dark shirt and trousers, eyes narrowing slightly against the light. He doesn’t smile.

“Yoongi,” he says. “You must be tired”

He sounds the same as he did that day. Polite. Tired. Not unkind.

“Yes, ajusshi,” Yoongi says, quiet, almost automatic.

Hyunsuk nods. “Come in.”

Inside, the entry is warm underfoot. Yoongi slips off his shoes and follows. The air smells faintly like clean floors and something expensive he can’t name.

They don’t speak. Not until they reach the stairs.

A woman stands there. She wears dark grey, her back straight, her eyes too steady. Her hair is pinned up, not a strand out of place.

“This is Mihyun,” Hyunsuk says, his voice low. “My wife.”

She looks at Yoongi. Not kindly. Her scent lingers faintly in the air, powdered and sharp, like citrus peel left too long on porcelain.

“He looks just like her,” she says. Nothing else.

Yoongi doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Hyunsuk doesn’t respond. He turns slightly and gestures toward a narrower hallway branching off to the left.

“This way,” he says and Yoongi follows without a word. 

They pass a shuttered window, a low table with nothing on it. The hallway narrows a little before Hyunsuk stops at a door near the end.

The room is small. Neat. A bed tucked in the corner. A desk and chair. A folded blanket at the foot of the mattress.

“This will be your room,” Hyunsuk says. “Someone will bring you food soon.”

Then he turns and walks out, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.

Yoongi sets the duffel down by the wall. Doesn’t unpack. Just stands there.

A few minutes pass. The light turns dull at the edges. The room is quiet in a way that makes his ears feel strange. Like they’re waiting for something.

There’s a knock at the door. It opens a moment later without waiting for an answer.

A woman steps inside. Older, round-shouldered, her hair pulled back neatly. She carries a small tray and offers a quiet smile when she sees him.

“Hello,” she says, smiling. “I brought you something to eat. Rice and egg. It’s still warm.”

Yoongi nods. “Thank you.”

“You can call me Sunae-ssi. I handle the house.”

She unfolds the blanket at the foot of the bed, smoothing it out without saying more. Her scent is soft, like soap and worn linen. It lingers in the room after she steps out.

Yoongi sits down slowly. The mattress dips beneath him. His feet don’t touch the floor. After a moment, he reaches for the tray and picks up the chopsticks. The rice is still warm. He eats a few bites without really tasting it, just enough to quiet the ache in his stomach.

Outside the window, the side yard is quiet. There’s a stone path, bare hedges, the outline of a sandbox half-shaded by leafless trees.

The door opens again with a soft creak, enough to make Yoongi look up.

A boy stands in the doorway. Maybe a year or two younger, cheeks full, lips round and pink.

“Are you the new boy?”

His voice is light. There’s a faint sweetness that lingers. Not quite a scent, not yet. But it settles somewhere low in Yoongi’s chest.

The boy doesn’t wait for an answer.

“Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you the frogs. They don’t bite.”

Yoongi doesn’t move.

The boy shrugs. “You don’t have to. But they’re cool. They live in the pond.”

He turns and disappears down the hall.

Yoongi sits for a few seconds longer.

Then he stands.

He walks down the hallway, following the way the boy went. It leads through the back garden, where the grass is clipped short and the pond sits low beneath a tangle of stone and early weeds. The water is green at the edges. Thin ripples spread when the boy tosses a pebble in.

“They hide when it’s cold,” the boy says. He crouches near the edge and peers in. “But sometimes you can still see them if you wait.”

Yoongi stands a little back, watching.

“I’m Jimin,” the boy says, glancing up. “What’s your name?”

“Yoongi.”

Jimin nods like it fits. “Okay. Nice to meet you, Yoongi-hyung.”

He goes quiet for a second, then says, “Where did you live before?”

Yoongi hesitates. “Near the city.”

“Do you go to school?”

“I did. I’ll go to a new one now.”

“Do you miss the old one?”

“Not really.”

Jimin turns toward him again. “Did you have friends there?”

Yoongi shakes his head.

“The kids weren’t very nice.”

Jimin blinks. “I can be your friend.”

Yoongi looks at him.

“I’m nice,” Jimin adds, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Yoongi doesn’t answer, but something in his chest loosens a little.

“Do you want to see my toys?”

“…Okay.”

Jimin grins and pulls him along a different path, this one leading back through a side entrance. They climb the stairs and walk into a large upstairs room with soft blue walls and planets on the ceiling. There’s a globe on the desk. Toys stacked in clear bins. A few plush animals on the bed.

Jimin opens a drawer and pulls out two tops. “These are beyblades. You spin them like this—” he winds the launcher and lets one fly into the little plastic arena on the floor. It clatters, spins, wobbles.

Yoongi kneels down beside him.

“Here. You try.”

He holds out the second launcher.

Yoongi takes it carefully. His grip is a little off, but Jimin doesn’t say anything.

They’re laughing quietly by the third round when the door opens.

Mihyun stands there, eyes unreadable.

She looks from Jimin to Yoongi. Her voice is low. “What is he doing here?”

Jimin doesn’t flinch. “I’m showing him my toys. He’s my friend.”

Mihyun’s expression hardens. “Yoongi. Go back to your room.”

Yoongi freezes. Then stands.

He doesn’t look at Jimin. He turns to go but hesitates at the doorway.

That’s when her voice carries through the room, meant to be heard.

“He shouldn’t be in here, Jimin. You shouldn’t be playing with him. He should know his place.”

Yoongi doesn’t wait to hear more. He turns and walks away, quiet as he can, down the hall to the room that’s his, even if it doesn’t feel like it.

He lies down on the bed, pulls the blanket over his head, and lets his face fall into the pillow.

It’s the first time he cries since the funeral.

Not loud. Just enough to make his chest hurt.

Chapter Text

Jimin wakes to the press of weight on the mattress.

There's a hand at his waist. The faint clink of a belt, breath thick with alcohol. He turns before he's fully awake, confused, then freezes.

Not a dream.

The smell hits first. Whiskey. Expensive cologne, worn off at the edges. And something else. Subtle, but there. A scent that doesn’t belong to either of them.

His voice cuts through the dark. “Get off me.”

The hand doesn’t move. It presses lower, like it has the right.

“I said get off.” He jerks back hard enough to break the contact, sheets twisting beneath him. Taeseong hits the headboard with a dull thud, but doesn’t even flinch.

He just sits there, like nothing happened. Breath sour. Eyes glazed. “You’re being dramatic.”

Jimin sits up, heart pounding. “Are you out of your mind?”

There’s a pause. Taeseong doesn’t answer right away. He’s sprawled against the other pillow now, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, tie loosened. His scent is fouled, drenched in something cloying and cheap.

Jimin’s stomach turns.

“You haven’t slept in this bed for over a year,” he says. “And now you reek of another omega and you think you can touch me?”

Taeseong shrugs. “You’re my husband.”

“No,” Jimin snaps. “I’m your contract. Your image. That’s all I’ve been to you for years.”

“You’re my omega,” he says, voice too calm. “I have every right.”

Jimin lets out a laugh, short and dry. No real humor in it. “Right? You think you still have a right to me?”

The room goes still. Just their breathing. The weight of everything that’s never been said.

“We’re over, Taeseong,” he says. “We’ve been over for a while now.”

Taeseong pushes himself upright, sitting at the edge of the bed now. “You think saying it makes it true?”

“It is true.”

“Because I come home late? Because I don’t sleep here?” He scoffs. “You stopped being a real partner the moment you stopped trying.”

“Trying?” Jimin’s voice cracks. “You mean trying to be your trophy? Your obedient little chaebol husband? I gave up my work, my life, everything that mattered. And for what? To sit in this house and pretend you still cared?”

“I wanted a child but you always had an excuse. ‘We’re young.’ ‘I’m not ready.’ I let it go, but what was I waiting for, Jimin?”

“You never saw how hard it was for me,” Jimin snaps. “You just wanted the end result. Just like you wanted everything else.”

“You took dancing from me,” he adds. “You took everything from me.”

The silence lingers. Heavy. Breathless.

“I want a divorce.”

Taeseong laughs then, low and mean. “That’s not gonna happen. You’d be a scandal the second you tried.”

Jimin glares at him. “Then I’ll give them something real to talk about.”

“You think anyone else would’ve taken you in? With that mark on your neck?”

The words land like a slap. Jimin doesn’t move.

“I saved your reputation,” Taeseong says. “You were damaged goods, Jimin. You still are. You walk away now, you’re not just disgraced—you’re alone.”

Jimin stares past him. Past the room. Past everything. He’s done this too many times. Counted the ways he might leave and the reasons he never did.

“And where would you even go?” Taeseong continues, voice quieter. “Your brother has his own life. Your mother won’t back you. She'll take my side.”

Jimin’s throat burns. He doesn’t want to cry.

“Get out,” he says. “Right now.”

Taeseong doesn’t move.

“I said get out.”

After a beat, he stands. Straightens his cuffs. “Fine. I expect you to come to your senses by morning.”

He walks out without another word.

Jimin doesn’t breathe until the door clicks shut.

He sinks back into the mattress, skin burning. Stares at the ceiling, too alert to cry.

He lies there but doesn’t close his eyes. The ceiling is just shadow now, but his thoughts won’t settle. Every breath tastes like someone else. Every nerve feels too exposed.

After a long moment, his hand lifts. Finds the mark at the side of his neck. Barely visible now. Hidden under years of routine, of medicine, of restraint.

But tonight, it pulses. Not like heat. Not like longing.

Just… there. A knot of something that never healed.

He presses his palm over it.

This wasn’t supposed to be his life.

Eventually, sleep drags him under, but it doesn’t feel like rest.

The following day, Jimin wakes with a dry mouth and a pounding behind his eyes.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just lies still, breathing shallow. The sheets are tangled at his ankles. The air in the room is stale, and too warm. Like the heat’s been running too long with nowhere to go, or maybe it's just the weight of everything pressing down.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

It’s past eleven when he finally sits up. The house is quiet. Too quiet. No kitchen noise, no shuffle of footsteps. Just silence pressing at the walls. 

He stays in bed longer than he means to. Doesn’t check his phone. Doesn’t look at the clock again. It’s Sunday and he knows what that means. Lunch at the Park house. His mother expects them every week, like clockwork.

It’s one of the only things he and Taeseong still do together.

He thinks, for a minute, about not going. Just skipping it altogether. Staying in this room, in this silence, where at least he knows the rules.

But Seokjin will be there. And Namjoon. And if he doesn’t show up, Mihyun will find a way to make it worse.

He pulls himself out of bed.

Showers with the water hotter than it needs to be. Stands under the stream too long, until the fog in his head clears just enough to feel like breathing isn’t work.

He dresses in his most comfortable pair of jeans and a soft, black turtleneck. Something easy. No accessories. No cologne. Nothing that looks like effort. 

When he comes down, it’s already past noon.

Taeseong is in the dining room, flipping through something on his phone. He doesn’t look up when Jimin enters, just says, without affect, “What time are we leaving?”

Jimin stops in the doorway. Something twists in his chest. “Are you serious?”

Taeseong glances up. “What?”

“You’re going to act like last night didn’t happen?”

A flicker of irritation crosses his face, barely visible. “I don’t want to argue.”

Jimin steps farther into the room, but doesn’t sit. “You haven’t slept in our bed in over a year. You come home drunk, reeking of someone else, and touch me without a word. And now you think we’re going to smile through lunch like nothing’s wrong?”

“As I already told you,” Taeseong says, tone steady. “You are being overdramatic.”

Jimin stares at him. “How long are you planning to keep pretending?”

“I’m not pretending.”

“You think this is a marriage?”

Taeseong sets the phone down, leans back in his chair. “I think if you calm down, we can—”

“I can’t even look at you,” Jimin says. His voice doesn’t rise, but something in it goes flat. “I can’t sit next to you and play perfect. Not today.”

Taeseong’s expression shifts, tightens. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’m going alone.”

He turns before Taeseong can answer. Grabs his coat from the rack near the door and steps outside without another word.

The sky is clear. Cold. His hands sting a little as he pulls the coat tighter around his frame, shoulders tense against the wind.

The Park estate isn’t far. A short walk through the tree-lined drive, familiar in the way things are when you grow up trying not to look at them.

He visits often, but the house still feels divided. Since the renovations, it’s been split. His mother stays in the older wing, Seokjin and Namjoon in the newer one that overlooks the side garden. A quiet truce. No one says it out loud, but the separation suits everyone.

He approaches the front steps but doesn’t take them. Walks around to the side instead, where the secondary entrance is tucked just past the hedge. He lets himself in with the side key. Doesn’t bother ringing.

Inside, the lights are low. The floor warms underfoot. Someone’s cooking. A faint scent of ginger and root vegetables lingers in the air.

He steps out of his shoes and walks toward the sitting room.

Mihyun is already there, arranging tea cups on a lacquered tray. She turns at the sound of his footsteps.

Her expression doesn’t change. “Where’s Taeseong?”

Jimin lets out a breath, steadying himself. “He’s not coming.”

She doesn’t blink. “Why?”

“I didn’t ask.”

One of the cups is nudged slightly out of place. She realigns it with care, then stills her hands.

“You two used to be such a beautiful pair. Always so composed.”

Jimin says nothing.

She picks up the tray and moves toward the dining room without another glance.

He follows, but from a distance. Not ready to sit. Not ready for the rest of it. Just stands in the entryway and waits.

She doesn’t sit right away.

Instead, she circles the table slowly, checking each place setting as if the staff might’ve made a mistake. The tray is already down. The tea cups untouched. Everything immaculate.

She adjusts a spoon. Straightens the folded edge of a napkin. Then glances over her shoulder.

“Is everything alright between the two of you?”

Jimin doesn’t move closer. Just lingers near the threshold, far enough that he doesn’t have to pretend this is normal.

“We’re fine,” he says, after a pause.

She raises an eyebrow. “Did you fight?”

“Eomma.” He sighs softly. “Please. Can we not talk about this right now?”

There’s a silence that stretches just long enough to feel intentional.

She picks up a porcelain chopstick rest, turns it once in her hand, then sets it down again.

“You’ve stopped dressing the way you used to,” she says. “You don’t go to events with him anymore. You never come to brunches. I ask myself what people must be thinking.”

Jimin doesn’t answer.

“And still no child,” she adds. “You’ve been married what? Four years now? More?”

He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Doesn’t bite back, doesn’t lean forward. Just waits for it to pass like a wave.

“You’re not a boy anymore,” she says. “This thing you’re doing… sulking around the house like some sullen child. What do you think it looks like?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but the sound of the front door interrupts them. Two sets of shoes, steady and familiar.

Mihyun looks up. “Finally.”

Seokjin enters first, hair neatly parted, the last trace of cold still clinging to his cheeks. Namjoon follows with a quiet nod, slipping his phone into his pocket as they step into the room.

“You’re late,” Mihyun says, without looking at either of them.

“We were out,” Seokjin replies. “Should’ve kept an eye on the time. Where’s Uncle?”

“He sent his apologies,” she says. “Said he was tied up with something.”

Seokjin hums under his breath. Quiet enough that only Jimin hears. “Tied up siphoning the company credit line, maybe.”

Jimin doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth pulls tight for a second, then releases.

“Come on,” Mihyun says, sweeping toward the table. “What are you waiting for? Sit.”

They do. Jimin takes his usual place at the far side, near the window that overlooks the courtyard. Seokjin and Namjoon sit across from him. Mihyun takes the head of the table, like always.

Staff enter briefly to set the dishes. There’s lotus root, grilled fish, rice, namul, a light soup with tofu and gourd. Everything plated with care.

The room quiets for a while as they eat.

They’re halfway through the meal when Mihyun speaks again.

“Neither of you,” she says, voice light but cutting, “seems to be in any hurry to give me a grandchild.”

Namjoon’s eyes flick up. Seokjin keeps his gaze on his bowl.

“I understand Jimin’s situation,” she continues. “He’s always been… difficult. But you, Seokjin-ah! I thought you would’ve given me at least two by now.”

The air stills.

Namjoon sets his spoon down. Wipes his mouth with the edge of his napkin.

“With all due respect, eomeonim,” he says, voice steady, “it’s not that we’re not trying. And I think you know that.”

Mihyun doesn’t speak.

“So please,” Namjoon continues, “don’t speak to Seokjin like he’s failing you. He’s had enough of that already.”

A long silence follows.

Then Mihyun lifts her teacup. Takes a slow sip.

No one says much after that.

They finish the meal in silence.

Sunae, their housekeeper since childhood, enters with a tray, the bowls stacked neatly, still warm. Sweet rice, dried fruit, pine nuts… the scent soft and clinging to steam. She sets each one down quietly, her steps light against the floor.

Jimin glances up as she places his bowl. “Thank you, Sunae-ssi. How have you been?”

She straightens a little, her eyes warming. “Busy. But good.”

“You always outdo yourself,” he says, just loud enough for her to hear. “We look forward to your desserts more than the meal.”

Across the table, Seokjin hums in agreement.

Sunae offers a small nod, smiles and retreats without another word.

They eat slowly because they know leaving too soon will give their mother space to complain.

The tea is poured again. Mihyun picks up her cup and sits back.

“I’ve been preparing for the Hanok Preservation Fund’s autumn luncheon,” she says. “They keep changing the venue and expecting miracles. No understanding of scale or timing. Typical.”

Namjoon offers a polite noise of acknowledgment. Seokjin just sips his tea. Jimin keeps his focus on the curve of his spoon, where syrup glazes the rice like lacquer.

“They expect me to host the board this year,” Mihyun continues. “Which of course they decided after the original host backed out. No warning. No coordination.”

No one interrupts.

When the table is mostly cleared, she sighs and presses her fingers to her temple.

“I feel a headache coming on. I’ll get something before it gets worse.”

She leaves the room without waiting for a reply.

As her footsteps fade, Seokjin leans toward Jimin. His voice is low as he speaks. “Did something happen with Taeseong?”

Jimin just rolls his eyes. Doesn’t speak.

Seokjin studies him for a moment. Then says, “Come over to ours for a bit. You don’t look like you want to be home right now anyway.”

He waits, then adds, “And I wanted to talk to you. Privately.”

Jimin gives the smallest of nods.

They don’t wait for Mihyun to return. Seokjin stands first. Jimin and Namjoon follow.

They stop by the sitting room to let her know they’re leaving. Mihyun is reclined in an armchair, one hand resting over her eyes. A half-full glass of water sits on the table beside her.

“We’re heading to our side,” Seokjin says, brushing a hand down the side of his coat. “Jimin’s going to join us for coffee.”

Mihyun doesn’t move her hand to look at them. “Fine. Don’t forget the Chungs’ dinner next Thursday. They’re still deciding on an engagement date.”

Seokjin nods without responding.

As they cross into the new wing of the house, the layout softens. Lighter walls, thinner silence. Stillness, but not surveillance.

Namjoon steps in behind them, blazer slung over one shoulder, sleeves already rolled. He stretches once, then sets his blazer on the arm of a nearby chair.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” he says, not unkindly. “I’ve got an inbox to suffer through anyway.”

He leans in, presses a brief kiss to Seokjin’s temple on the way past. “Don’t stay too serious too long.”

Jimin watches the exchange, but doesn’t comment.

When Namjoon disappears into the study, Seokjin gestures toward the couch.

“Sit,” he says. “I’ll make some coffee. We both need it.”

Seokjin returns with the coffee a few minutes later, sleeves pushed back, a faint steam rising from the tray in his hands. He sets it down between them, sits without ceremony, and hands Jimin one of the cups.

Jimin wraps his fingers around the ceramic. Lets the warmth bleed into his skin before speaking.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

Seokjin lifts his own cup, inhales once. “Mm. Later.” He glances sideways. “Tell me what’s going on with Taeseong first.”

Jimin scoffs, mouth twisting. “Ah, hyung... even thinking about it is embarrassing. I don’t think you want to know.”

“Of course I want to know,” Seokjin says, more quietly than expected. “You’re my little brother, Jimin. You know you can tell me everything. Besides, let’s be real, Taeseong’s the one who should be embarrassed. As per usual.”

Jimin doesn’t laugh. He lets the heat from the cup settle into his hands.

“You know we haven’t been happy for a while now,” he says, eyes on the coffee. “But he’s been... crossing the line lately. I was fine staying for the sake of the family. For appearances. As long as he was at least respectful. But—” He stops. Swallows. “Let’s just say he hasn’t been very respectful.”

Something in Seokjin’s posture tightens. Not much, but Jimin feels it.

“Did he do anything?” Seokjin asks. “Did he hurt you?”

Jimin looks up quickly. “No. No, nothing like that. Not physically.”

“Jimin.”

“I swear. He didn’t lay a hand on me.” A beat passes before he adds, “But he’s been getting sloppy. Not coming home for days. I stopped asking a long time ago.”

Seokjin’s jaw sets.

“Last night,” Jimin says, voice thinner now, “he came back drunk. Reeking of someone else. Someone cheap. And he just… he just got into bed like nothing was wrong.”

Seokjin sets his cup down. “You’re sure he didn’t—?”

“I told you. He didn’t touch me. I pushed him off before he could.” Jimin’s face hardens. “But I’m done. I won’t tolerate it anymore.”

He pauses. Says it quieter.

“I want a divorce.”

Seokjin leans back against the couch. Lets out a breath that doesn’t quite carry.

“Took you long enough.”

Jimin huffs once through his nose.

“I just don’t get it,” Seokjin says. “Why did you stay this long?”

“I thought...” Jimin hesitates. “There was a time I thought he was good for me. That he accepted me. Even though I was...” He doesn’t finish it. Just shakes his head. “But now I see it was a performance. I was a prize he liked showing off. I need out.”

Seokjin nods. “You have every right to leave. You’ve tried. You’ve been patient. Too patient, honestly. And you’re young, Jimin-ah. Don’t waste your life in a house that doesn’t feel like home.”

Jimin stares into the rim of his coffee.

“Unless you still love him,” Seokjin adds.

“I don’t.”

Seokjin’s face softens.

“I’ll talk to Namjoon,” he says. “He’ll know a good lawyer. Quiet, effective. Someone who won’t drag it through the mud.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m your brother. I’m always on your side.”

They sit in the hush of that for a moment. Just the faint clink of ceramic when Seokjin lifts his cup again.

Jimin looks down.

“Are you going to tell me what you wanted to talk to me about now?”

Seokjin doesn’t speak right away. Just shifts slightly, cup held between both hands.

“Well,” he says at last. “I didn’t want to pile on. But there’s something you should know.”

Jimin glances at him. “Yeah? Something bad?”

Seokjin scoffs. “You could say that.”

There's a brief pause before he speaks again. 

“I found out who’s behind the merger.”

Jimin’s spine straightens almost imperceptibly. “You did?”

“I met with him yesterday.”

“Who?” Jimin’s voice tightens. “Is it someone we know?”

Seokjin looks at him carefully.

“It’s Yoongi, Jimin-ah.”

The name hits like a current.

Jimin closes his eyes.

For a second, he doesn’t feel the couch beneath him. Just a low heat winding its way up his neck. A pulse that isn’t heat at all. The faintest echo beneath the skin.

When he opens his eyes again, they feel dry. He speaks without looking at Seokjin.

“You saw Yoongi-hyung?”

Seokjin lets out a short, bitter breath. “Yeah. Had a very particular kind of reunion.”

Jimin finally turns toward him.

“He’s the one who bought the Jeong estate.”

“What?” The word escapes before he can stop it. Too loud in the still room.

“Yeah. He’s up to something,” Seokjin says. “And I don’t like it.”

“Up to what?”

“Revenge, apparently. That’s what he said.”

Jimin’s mouth parts. Nothing comes out.

“He wants to take Uncle down,” Seokjin continues. “And if Parknoa burns in the process, so be it. That’s how it sounded.”

Jimin’s hands tighten around his cup.

“He offered to work together,” Seokjin says. “Said we want the same thing. But I know better.”

Jimin’s brows knit. “Don’t you want Uncle out too?”

“Of course I do. But not like this. Not with Yoongi playing games and calling it justice.”

There’s a silence. Then Jimin speaks, soft and halting.

“Hyung. You know what happened... it wasn’t only his fault. I was the one who—”

“Don’t.” Seokjin cuts him off, firm. “Don’t go there. We’ve talked about this. You were sixteen. It was your first heat. You trusted someone, and you got hurt. That’s not on you.”

Jimin’s jaw tightens. “Still—”

“Still nothing.”

They go quiet again.

Seokjin finishes his coffee. Jimin doesn’t touch his. Just stares into it, unseeing. His mind is somewhere else entirely.

Yoongi is back.

And he hasn’t looked for him.

After a while, Jimin sets his cup down carefully. Stands.

“I’m gonna head home.”

Seokjin looks up. “Did I unsettle you?”

Jimin shakes his head. “No. I’m fine.”

He moves toward the hallway, finds his coat, slides on his shoes without speaking.

“I’ll talk to Namjoon,” Seokjin says behind him. “I’ll text you a name.”

Jimin pulls open the door.

“Thanks, hyung.”

He steps outside. The cold hits him first. Then the quiet.

He pulls his coat tighter around himself, fingers curled in the pockets, head down against the breeze. The light is already changing, softening toward dusk, brushing the trees with a grey that feels too still for November.

As he turns the corner, the Jeong house comes into view.

He doesn’t mean to look.

But he does.

The curtains are drawn. Lights on behind them, faint and impersonal.

He drags his gaze away and keeps walking.

When he reaches his own estate, he doesn’t head toward the front entrance. Just passes the steps, turns the corner, and continues down the gravel walk toward the back. The greenhouse waits beyond the hedges, low and glass-lit, half-shaded by the skeletal branches of the ginkgo trees.

He pulls the door open and steps inside.

The air has cooled, not enough to bite, just enough to feel. The light through the glass is thin, late afternoon edging into dusk. He doesn’t turn anything on. Doesn’t need to see more than this.

The persimmon sapling stands where he left it, staked near the center. Its leaves are curled at the edges, duller than before. The pot has cracked further. There’s a fine split running from the base to the rim. One of the lower leaves has browned completely.

His throat tightens.

He pulls a pair of gloves from the shelf. Fetches the larger terracotta pot from under the bench where he stores supplies he rarely uses anymore.

There’s no ceremony to it. No forethought. He moves the bag of soil, fills the new pot halfway, and kneels beside the sapling. His knees catch on the concrete, but he doesn’t adjust.

The old pot resists at first. Roots clinging. Earth stubborn. But eventually it gives, and he coaxes the plant free.

The roots are worse than he thought. Twisted around each other, starved for space, the lower ones dulled and brittle. He loosens them gently with his thumbs. Just enough. Not too much.

Then he lays the sapling into the new soil. Fills the gaps. Packs it down.

When it’s done, he doesn’t stand. Just lowers his hands to his thighs.

The sapling leans, but less than before. There’s room now. A little space to breathe.

His breath is steady. His knees are sore. A patch of soil has streaked across the hem of his coat, but he doesn’t brush it off.

He lets his eyes fall closed.

There’s no noise. No sound from the house. No flicker of movement behind the glass.

But something turns.

He doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t need to.

He breathes it in before he can stop himself.

It threads through him before he can contain it, something low and cellular that curls behind his ribs and doesn’t let go. His body holds still, but the bond doesn’t. It never did.

The scent isn’t strong. It isn’t even fully there.

But it finds him anyway.

He doesn’t know what triggers it. Whether it came with the cold or the silence or the part of himself that cracked a little wider when he heard that name again.

It’s not memory. Not exactly.

Smoke, faint and lingering. Like it clung to someone’s coat hours after they’d left the fire. Something darker beneath it. Metallic, maybe. Wet earth.

And persimmon.

Not ripe. Not cut. Just the echo of it.

He doesn’t reach for the mark. Just lifts a hand and rests it near his neck, as if his skin might confirm what he already knows.

The warmth there is his own. But it sits wrong now. As if something beneath it has stirred.

The bond doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t pull.

But it’s there.

He stays like that for a while. Knees on the floor. Dirt under his nails. Breath steady but uneven around the edges.

By the time he opens his eyes, the sky beyond the glass has gone from grey to dusk. The shape of the plant hasn’t changed.

But it stands a little taller.

Chapter Text

The study is quiet.

Yoongi’s mug sits cooling on the desk beside a stack of Vantem acquisition documents he hasn’t properly read. Light from the west-facing window cuts a narrow line across the floor, warm on one side of his chair and cold on the other. He hasn’t moved in twenty minutes.

The screen in front of him displays a spreadsheet he should be analyzing. But his eyes keep snagging on the same column of figures, the cells blurring until they don’t mean anything at all.

He leans back. The leather gives under his shoulders. Somewhere outside the study, the vacuum runs, a steady presence moving down the hall. Bora, finishing the guest rooms. He doesn’t mind the sound. It settles into the morning like something neutral and known.

His phone buzzes once. A message from Hoseok:

pulled those asset docs from the Vantem side. some weird filings under Parknoa Subsidiary G.

will bring them over after work. 6 ok?

Yoongi stares at the screen for a beat, fingers hovering. He types slowly, one thumb moving like he’s not quite committed.

yeah

The reply comes fast:

i'll bring dinner

He sets the phone beside the mug and adjusts his position in the chair. His spine protests. He rolls one shoulder back, rubs at the joint briefly, then lets the tension settle.

The spreadsheet on the screen hasn’t changed. Neither has his focus.

He stands.

It’s not purposeful. Just motion. Something to break the inertia.

He crosses to the bookshelf, trails his fingers along the spine of a volume he’s already read twice. At the window, he looks out over the slope beyond the property line. The trees are bare. The sky is washed out. Cold air stirs the branches but doesn’t commit to wind.

From down the hall, he can still hear Bora moving quietly between rooms, absorbed in her work.

The doorbell rings.

Yoongi waits, listening for footsteps on the stairs, but nothing changes. Bora probably hasn't heard it.

He heads downstairs.

Just as he nears the door, he glances at the intercom screen. A figure stands off-center, head lowered, hands tucked in the pockets of a dark coat. The image is mostly shadow.

Yoongi knows before the image resolves. Not from the screen. From something older, heavier. Something buried deep beneath his ribs, waking slowly after years.

He opens the door.

For a second, neither of them speaks.

Jimin stands on the step, framed by the cold. The air behind him is clear, pale against the edge of the trees. No wind. No noise. Just the stillness that sometimes comes mid-morning, when the frost has lifted but the light hasn’t warmed.

He’s not dressed for drama. Just a coat pulled snug, collar high, his hands tucked deep into the sleeves. The same posture Yoongi remembers from childhood, from long afternoons in the orchard or standing by the greenhouse door. Except now, there’s nothing soft about it.

He’s taller. Or maybe it just feels that way. He stands straighter, like he’s learned not to flinch. His face is leaner, the boyish fullness stripped away. Yoongi can still see the shape of his jaw, the mouth he used to draw from memory without meaning to. It’s all there. Familiar in a way that makes his chest feel too tight. Like nothing changed. Like everything did.

His skin looks cold. His mouth is parted, like he was about to speak but changed his mind.

They stare at each other.

Yoongi’s pulse is steady, but it doesn’t feel like his. He doesn’t look away.

Jimin speaks, low and certain. “So it’s true.”

Something clogs Yoongi’s chest. Dense and unmoving. He swallows, but it doesn’t ease.

“You really came back.”

The silence drags, catching in places it shouldn’t.

Jimin shifts slightly, shoulders drawn tight. Not restless. Not shy. Just bracing.

“Are you going to let me in,” he says, “or are we doing this outside?”

Yoongi steps back.

Jimin crosses the threshold. The warmth inside hits unevenly, faint and fast. The door clicks shut behind him.

It hits Yoongi almost instantly. Not a phantom trace. Not memory. This is real. Heavy in the air now, fig sap curled under the weight of cold fabric, warm milk folded in low. Something older beneath it. A sweetness that’s turned darker. Full.

He breathes it in before he can stop himself.

It threads through him anyway, something deep and cellular that curls behind his ribs and doesn’t let go. His body holds still, but the bond doesn’t. It never did.

He turns toward the living room.

Jimin doesn’t glance around. Doesn’t comment. Just stops near the center of the room, a step past the edge of the rug, as if going farther would mean something.

“Sit, if you want,” Yoongi says, voice low.

“I’m fine.”

He sinks onto the couch. Not carefully, just controlled. His hands rest on his knees, palms flat. He keeps his eyes forward, resisting the pull to look again. His pulse presses at his temples, louder now, thick with the effort of holding himself steady.

Jimin stays still, coat buttoned tight, spine straight. There’s tension in the line of his shoulders, held high beneath the fabric. Each breath moves through him like it takes effort. His jaw looks tight. Familiar. Like pain remembered before it’s even felt.

They don’t speak right away. The silence settles familiarly between them, worn thin by time, too delicate now to hold anything like comfort. Yoongi’s fingertips press harder into his knees, trying to ground him against the ache rising in his chest.

Jimin breaks first, not the silence exactly, but the careful balance of it.

“You’ve been here for days,” he says quietly, voice even but tight at the edges. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out, or did you just not care?”

Yoongi lifts his eyes slowly. He wants to laugh, almost, because of course Jimin would think that. Of course he would assume Yoongi didn’t care. But there’s nothing to laugh about. He meets Jimin’s gaze instead, careful and controlled.

“You’re married, Jimin,” he says, voice low enough that it doesn’t shake. “What exactly did you expect me to do? Knock on your door? Ask your husband if we could catch up over coffee?”

Jimin’s jaw tightens visibly. He looks away, blinking slowly, lashes casting shadows against his cheeks.

“That’s not the point.”

Yoongi breathes out. His voice is careful as he asks, “Then what is?”

“The point is,” Jimin says, and his voice cracks just a little, tight and strained, “that you didn’t even try. You came back here, you moved into the house next to the estate. You bought into the company, my family’s company. You were practically in front of me, Hyung, and still, you said nothing.”

“And?” Yoongi says, forcing himself not to flinch at the quiet accusation. “Should I have come running to you after everything that happened? You have your life now. You moved on.”

“Moved on?” Jimin’s voice trembles. “You think because I got married, because years passed, that means I just forgot everything? You think it was that easy?”

Yoongi holds still. “I don’t know,” he says, softer now, more carefully. “I don’t know what you felt. I don’t know what you feel now. All I know is you’re married to someone else. I had no right—”

“You left without saying anything,” Jimin interrupts, eyes flashing. “Not a letter. Not a call. Not even a note.”

“You think they would’ve let me?” Yoongi asks, the words slipping out before he can stop himself. He cuts off sharply, eyes dropping away from Jimin’s face.

Jimin goes quiet at that. “They?” he asks finally, careful. “Who, exactly?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. He knows he can’t. He doesn’t have proof, doesn’t have anything beyond suspicion and pain and the faint memory of bitter tea. He can’t say it out loud. Not now, not yet, not when the air between them feels fragile enough to break.

Jimin waits, then sighs softly. “Of course. You won’t explain. You never do.”

The room holds its silence again, heavier this time, each second weighted by what neither of them says. The scent of fig sap and warm milk hangs between them, familiar and maddening, threaded now with a darker sweetness. Yoongi’s fingers twitch, the bond stirring low in his chest, insistently aching.

“Does your husband even know you’re here?” Yoongi asks finally, voice flat. He hates himself immediately for saying it, for the way Jimin’s eyes widen slightly, the way he draws back, careful and defensive.

“Of course not,” Jimin whispers, bitterness lacing every syllable. “Why would he?”

“And why did you come?” Yoongi presses, voice lower now, rougher. “What exactly did you think you’d find here?”

Jimin looks away. “I don’t know,” he breathes, and Yoongi can hear the real hurt beneath the careful anger. “I just needed to see you. To see if you were really here.”

Yoongi’s chest aches. “I’m here, Jimin. But things can’t be like before. You understand that, don’t you?”

Jimin’s gaze lifts again, eyes dark, wounded. “I wasn’t delusional enough to think nothing had changed. I wasn’t stupid enough to think it could ever be like before. But I didn’t expect this.” His voice breaks slightly. “I didn’t expect you to be so cold. To become someone I don’t even recognize.”

Yoongi stands, the space between them tightening. He sees everything now: the full shape of Jimin’s face, the elegant line of his neck beneath the open collar of his coat, the place where he marked him once, years ago. His scent fills the room, heavy, painful in its familiarity, and Yoongi feels himself reaching out instinctively before he stops, fists clenched at his sides.

“You think I wanted this?” Yoongi whispers roughly, voice shaking at the edges. “You think I wanted to become someone else?”

“You could’ve tried,” Jimin says. “You could’ve said something, done something.”

Yoongi lets out a slow breath, his voice thinning. “To say what? That I’m sorry? That it wasn’t my choice? Would that have fixed anything?”

Jimin’s mouth twists bitterly. “No. But it would have meant something. It would have meant you cared.”

“I did,” Yoongi says, voice harsh, then softer, almost defeated. “I still do.”

Jimin shakes his head, eyes glistening now. “Then you hide it well.”

Yoongi feels something crack, deep in his chest, an old ache, worn smooth by years. “What do you want from me, Jimin? I can’t undo any of it.”

“I don’t want you to undo it,” Jimin says, voice trembling. “I just wanted to see that you’re still in there. Somewhere. That you’re still my Yoongi-hyung. But I don’t see him anymore. I don’t know if I can.”

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say, what to do. The bond pulls, fierce and painful beneath his skin, and he wants to reach forward, touch Jimin, to show him that the man he remembers is still here—buried, wounded, broken, but still his.

But he doesn’t move. He can’t.

Jimin draws a slow breath, shaky at the edges, then steps back toward the hallway. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have come. You’re not him anymore. You destroyed him.”

The words land, harsh and final. Jimin turns slowly, eyes lowered, coat pulled tighter around him as he steps toward the door. He doesn’t turn back, doesn’t speak again. He doesn’t need to. The latch clicks quietly behind him, leaving only silence and the scent of regret and loss.

Yoongi stays where he is, pulse pounding quietly at his temples, scent still thick in the air around him. His chest aches, an old hurt reopened, raw and too real. He stands still, counting breaths, counting heartbeats, feeling the space Jimin left behind him.

He waits, long after the scent fades, long after his heart steadies, until the silence around him is just silence again, and nothing else.

And it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

The rest of the day drags by in a kind of blur.

He tries to work. Opens the same spreadsheet three times, reads the same line five. The words don’t hold. The numbers don’t make sense. Nothing sticks.

He moves to the piano after lunch. Plays a few scattered bars from memory, but his fingers falter halfway through. The notes are flat, disconnected. He closes the lid.

He walks. From room to room. From the kitchen to the living room and back to the upstairs study. Every space feels too large or too quiet or too bright. Every thought circles back the same way.

Jimin’s voice. Jimin’s eyes.

The way he stood just past the edge of the rug like stepping forward would’ve meant something.

The way he didn’t smile. Not once.

By five, Yoongi hasn’t eaten. The sun has dropped low, pulling pale light across the windows. His head aches. His shoulder too.

He’s back at the desk, not working, when the doorbell rings again.

This time, he doesn’t pause. He already knows who it is.

The stairs creak beneath him. The air in the hallway feels stiller than it did this morning, like something lingering has finally gone. By the time he reaches the door, the intercom’s already lit. Hoseok stands on the screen in a dark coat, his work bag slung over one shoulder, takeout bags clutched in one hand.

Yoongi opens the door.

“Right on time,” Hoseok says, grinning. “Traffic tried to ruin it, but I triumphed.”

Yoongi steps aside, and Hoseok slips in easily, toeing off his shoes as he talks.

“God, I hate Mondays. Half the people in the office pretended they didn’t know what a meeting invite was. And that intern printed the quarterly report single-sided, again.”

He walks toward the dining area, drops the takeout bags onto the table, and shrugs off his coat, draping it over a chair. “Got the good stuff. Fried chicken from the place you like. And yes,” he adds, already untying the knot on the plastic bag, “I remembered the sweet and spicy sauce this time.”

Yoongi brings two plates from the kitchen. Sets them down.

“How was work?” Hoseok asks, unpacking napkins, chopsticks, and side dishes with mechanical ease. “Wait, don’t answer that. Let me guess. You didn’t eat. You didn’t reply to anything. And you definitely didn’t open the asset folder I sent you this morning.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond. He’s seated, chopsticks resting idle in his hand. His gaze is fixed somewhere on the table, but not at the food.

Hoseok pauses, a drumstick halfway to his plate. “Hyung.”

Yoongi looks up.

“Did something happen?”

He nods once. “Jimin came by this morning.”

The silence tightens.

Hoseok blinks. “Wait. What?”

“He just… showed up at my door,” Yoongi says, voice even. “Said Seokjin told him I'm back. Said he had to see it for himself.”

Hoseok lowers the chicken back into the box. “What did he want?”

“To ask why I never reached out. Why I disappeared. Why I came back and didn’t even try to see him.”

Hoseok frowns. “And?”

Yoongi’s mouth tightens. He looks down. “And I let him believe it.”

“You didn’t tell him?”

“I couldn’t. Not like that. Not when he was standing there looking at me like… like I’d done something unforgivable. Like I was a stranger.”

He swallows. The scent memory still hasn’t left him. It clings at the back of his throat.

“The bond reacted,” Yoongi says. “I could feel it. It hurt. And he’s married. What am I supposed to do? Ruin that too? Make it worse?”

Hoseok’s expression tightens. “You wouldn’t be making it worse, Hyung. They already did that for you. He deserves the truth.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer.

Hoseok wipes his hands on a napkin, then reaches for his bag.

“I think you should see this,” he says, pulling out a folder. “Found it in the file you flagged last week. Subsidiary G. It’s worse than we thought.”

He sets the folder down between them.

Yoongi doesn’t open the folder right away.

Hoseok waits, patient but alert, watching him across the table. The plastic containers sit between them, lids half open, the smell of fried chicken cooling in the space untouched.

After a moment, Yoongi touches the edge of the file. His hand is steady, but his breath is not.

The first page is plain. A dated cover sheet from Subsidiary G’s legal branch. Then a trust agreement. Names. Stamps. Terms.

Yoongi reads silently, his eyes scanning slower than usual.

"It’s a holding trust," Hoseok says. His voice is quiet now, grounded. "Set up by Park Hyunsuk. For Jimin. The assets are minor—on paper. Just under 4.2% equity. But enough."

Yoongi turns another page.

"The trust was supposed to unlock when Jimin turned twenty-five. But there’s an addendum. Filed two years before that. Signed by Mihyun, using emergency clause language—‘for the protection of family stability.’"

Yoongi doesn’t speak. The crease between his brows deepens.

"She deferred the disbursement indefinitely. Claimed Jimin was emotionally unfit to take on voting power. No legal challenge was filed. Probably because he never knew."

"And Sangchul?" Yoongi asks.

Hoseok nods. "She signed over proxy voting rights to him. That’s how he got 52%."

Yoongi leans back, just slightly. His eyes stay on the document, but he isn’t reading now.

"Seokjin didn’t know?"

"No mention of him. Nothing tied to his name or portfolio."

The silence stretches.

Outside, the sky has begun to dim.

"He had no idea," Yoongi says, finally. It isn’t a question. "They used him."

"Worse," Hoseok replies. "They used him to cut Seokjin out. To keep the control consolidated. And they didn’t even tell him."

Yoongi closes the folder slowly.

"So what now?" Hoseok asks. "Are we burning it down with this?"

There's a long pause before Yoongi speaks. His voice is quiet as he says, “Not yet.”

Hoseok studies him. "You’re going to wait?"

Yoongi doesn’t answer right away. His gaze lingers on the edge of the table, unfocused.

"He came here this morning," he says eventually. "Angry. Hurt. Still thinking I left him. Still thinking I chose to stay away."

Hoseok doesn’t interrupt.

"If I show him this now," Yoongi says, "what does it change? He’s married. Trapped, maybe. But still. This... doesn’t free him."

"But it gives him the truth."

Yoongi exhales, quiet. "I’m not sure he wants it."

The bond stirs faintly. It hasn’t gone quiet all day.

"I need to know how he feels," Yoongi says, more to himself than to Hoseok. "Not just about the past. About now."

His hand stays on the folder that's full of something he hasn’t figured out how to use.

"Then we decide what to do," he says. "Stick to the original plan, or take the cleaner shot."

Hoseok nods. "Alright. But don’t wait too long, hyung. Power like this doesn’t stay clean."

Yoongi doesn’t reply. The folder stays closed.

They don’t speak much after that. Hoseok doesn’t push, and Yoongi doesn’t offer. They finish what’s left of the food, slow and distracted. Hoseok mentions a deadline that’s been pushed again, an investor meeting he’s not looking forward to. Yoongi listens. Nods. Doesn’t say much.

When Hoseok leaves just after eight, the house feels too quiet. The sound of the front door clicking shut echoes longer than it should.

Yoongi stays in the dining room for a while. The dishes are still on the table. He doesn’t move them. He doesn’t move much at all.

Eventually, he walks back upstairs. The light in the study is still on, throwing a long rectangle across the floor. The folder is under his arm, unopened.

He sets it on the desk and sits down, staring at it like it might offer something new. It doesn’t. He opens his laptop, types in a password, and stares at a blank email draft until the screen dims.

His thoughts drift, slow and uneven. Jimin’s voice comes back to him, quiet and bitter. His scent still lodged somewhere in Yoongi’s chest. The memory of that mark, long healed but never really gone.

Thirteen years. And the boy he left behind is standing again in his mind, not sixteen anymore, not soft, not breakable. Just angry. Beautiful. Lied to.

The bond hasn’t settled. It doesn’t ache, not exactly. It lingers, like a bruise. A warning.

Yoongi doesn’t touch the folder again that night. He doesn’t need to. He already knows what’s inside. And what it means.

Jimin was used. Yoongi’s not sure who did more damage: his family, or Yoongi himself.

He presses the heel of his hand to his temple. The house is too quiet. The desk light flickers once, then steadies. Outside, the wind moves through bare trees.

He came back for revenge.

But now, it smells like something else.

And the bond, steady and low, feels like it’s waiting.

So he waits too.

Chapter Text

On Tuesday, Jimin wakes late, but not rested. He lies still for a long time, the sheets twisted around his legs, the light already high behind the curtains. There’s a faint tightness in his ribs, like something pulled too long without pause. It doesn't fade.

Eventually, he pushes the covers back and stands. The floor is warm underfoot, heated through the smooth wooden panels. He moves to the window and draws the curtains halfway. The sky outside is washed out, pale behind a veil of cloud. It doesn’t feel like morning. Just a soft, lingering hour without a name.

He showers on autopilot. Pulls on the first sweater he finds and makes his way downstairs. 

The kitchen is spotless. No coffee cups. No signs of breakfast.

Taeseong is gone. Or maybe he never came back at all. Jimin wouldn’t know, he didn’t check. They haven’t spoken since Sunday. Not a word. 

He grabs a banana from the counter. Opens a cupboard and pulls out a bag of cheese balls. Eats the banana standing there, chewing without appetite. The taste barely registers.

Then he climbs the stairs again, snack in hand, and shuts himself back into his room.

His phone is where he left it, face down on the nightstand. He turns it on and waits. The screen lights slowly, notifications lining up one by one.

Two missed calls. One from his mother, just after ten. One from Taehyung, earlier than that.

One message from Seokjin.

lawyer’s contact. he said he can meet next monday. he’s good. let me know if you want me to go with you.

Jimin saves the number, texts back a thank you, then calls. His voice doesn’t sound like his own, but the assistant doesn’t comment. The appointment is confirmed for Monday at eleven.

Before he can lock the screen, the phone buzzes again.

His mother. 

He lets it ring. Then declines the call, sets it to silent and places it back on the desk.

For a second, he just stares at nothing. Then sits on the edge of the bed, opens the bag of cheese balls and takes a few without thinking. Then more. They don’t taste like much.

The book he pulls from the nightstand is one he’s read before. He chooses it not because it’s comforting, nothing is, but because it asks nothing of him. He lies back on the bed, pulls the duvet over his legs, and opens to the first page.

The words blur quickly. His attention scatters. He reads the same paragraph three times before giving up and letting the book rest on his chest.

By the time he notices, the cheese balls are half gone. Crumbs cling to his sleeve. He brushes them off without looking.

The room is still. He tries not to think of Yoongi. But the morning loops. And everything comes back.

The door opening. That first second of silence. The shape of Yoongi's face in the cold light, different and not. His hair, longer than Jimin remembers, tied back in a half-knot that revealed the sharper lines of his jaw. His voice, restrained. His scent.

That’s what undid him. The scent.

It wasn’t the same as before. Yoongi’s scent had changed. Stronger now. Richer. The earth in it darker. The smoke more defined. It filled the space between them too easily. And underneath it, faint but immediate, persimmon. Ripe, warm, unmistakable. It had wrapped around Jimin like it remembered him.

And it still does.

He presses his face into the pillow, trying to block it out. It doesn’t work.

There’s a knock at the door. Soft, but steady. He hadn’t realized how still the room had become until then.

"Jimin-ah?"

Taehyung’s voice comes through the door. Muffled, but unmistakable.

He knocks again. "It’s me. Can I come in?"

Jimin sits up, brushing crumbs from his sweater. His voice catches when he answers.

"Yeah," he says, low. "Come in."

Taehyung pushes the door open with the gentleness of someone used to tiptoeing around broken things. He’s in sweats and an oversized cardigan, hair still a little wet like he didn’t bother drying it properly. His scent arrives before he does. Sage and linen, faintly herbal, like warmed ink on thick paper. Jimin breathes it in without meaning to.

“You scared me,” Taehyung says, coming to sit on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t touch him yet. “I thought something happened.”

“Nothing happened.” Jimin’s voice is raw from disuse. He folds the empty snack bag in half and tucks it behind the lamp on his nightstand.

“You didn’t even read my message,” Taehyung says, giving him a look. “You haven’t called since Saturday. You’ve been ignoring me all morning.”

Jimin lowers his eyes. His mouth is dry again. “Sorry.”

Taehyung finally moves closer, curling his legs under him and nudging Jimin until there’s space for both of them under the duvet. Jimin doesn’t resist. When Taehyung tucks in next to him, Jimin turns automatically, nose brushing against his neck.

The scent helps. It always has.

For a moment, there’s nothing but breathing. Taehyung strokes the back of Jimin’s arm with the soft drag of his sleeve.

Then Jimin’s chest pulls in too tight, and a sob breaks from him before he can stop it. 

“Hey,” Taehyung murmurs. “Hey, what is it?”

Jimin shakes his head. “I—I called the lawyer. I’m going through with it. The divorce.”

Taehyung holds him closer. “Good.”

But something sinks in the silence between them. He must feel it.

“You’re crying like you lost something.”

Jimin swallows hard. “It’s not that,” he says. “Not just that.”

Taehyung waits. Doesn’t push.

“I mean, I’m not indifferent,” Jimin whispers. “We’ve been married five years. There was a time I thought… maybe I could love him. That he was kind. Good. But the last two years…”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.

“Saturday night, he came home drunk. Reeking of someone else. Said things I—” Jimin breaks off. “I knew then. I told him I wanted out. He tried to scare me. Threaten me. But I meant it. I want out.”

Taehyung curses under his breath. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve come that night.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Okay,” Taehyung says. “Okay. But that wasn’t all, was it?”

Jimin curls in tighter. “The next day… Seokjin-hyung told me. That Yoongi-hyung’s back.”

He feels Taehyung still.

“I didn’t think it would shake me,” Jimin says. “But it did. I went to see him.”

“Jimin.”

“I had to.”

Taehyung doesn’t respond right away. His mouth opens, then closes again.

“I get it,” he says finally. “He left without a word. Even I want to ask him why.”

Jimin breathes, but it doesn’t steady him. “He’s changed. He didn’t even look for me. Didn’t tell me he was back. Like I don’t matter. Like we never—”

His voice breaks.

“Why does it still hurt?” he asks, voice small. “Why can’t I ever have something good?”

Taehyung grips his shoulders. “Jimin. Don’t do that.”

“Is it me?” Jimin’s shaking now. “Am I too weak? Too trusting? Do I just… do I give up too easily—?”

“Hey.” Taehyung pulls him back just enough to look at him. “I’ve known you my whole life. I know how strong you are. You survived what happened to you. You moved on. You danced, you studied, you lived. You were doing so well… until my fucking brother happened.”

Jimin lets out a soft, bitter laugh.

“And now you’re facing that, too. You’re not weak.”

Jimin nods, but it’s unconvincing.

“As for Yoongi-hyung…” Taehyung hesitates. “I’m not saying you should forgive him. I just… he loved you, Jimin-ah. I saw it. And I never believed he left you without a reason. Maybe it’s armor. That’s all I’m saying.”

Jimin presses his forehead to Taehyung’s shoulder. He doesn’t speak.

“You need a distraction,” Taehyung murmurs.

Jimin huffs. “A lobotomy, maybe.”

“No,” Taehyung says. “Something better.”

He pulls back. “Remember that initiative I mentioned? BIT? The one I started volunteering with a few months ago?”

Jimin nods faintly

“Their dance teacher’s leaving. She’s pregnant, so they need someone to replace her. It’s just a couple of classes a week, teaching the kids.”

Jimin pulls a face. “I haven’t danced in years.”

“Come on, you breath dance Jimin-ah. And it's not even performing, just sharing what you love.”

“I’m not in the right headspace.”

“I’m not asking you to decide now.” Taehyung's voice is gentle. “Just come by. Watch. That’s all.”

Jimin’s quiet for a long time.

“Just watch?”

Taehyung nods. “Then decide.”

“…Okay.” Jimin wipes his eyes. “I’ll come.”

Taehyung presses their foreheads together. “That’s my Minie.”

The next day, Jimin drives into Seoul with the windows cracked just enough to let the air move through. The traffic isn’t terrible, the city moves around him in low waves under the softer weight of afternoon. He doesn’t play music. Doesn’t need the distraction. He’s not nervous, exactly. Just... cautious. As if any sudden sound might tip the day too far in one direction.

The BIT center is tucked off a side street near Mapo, in a converted two-story studio building with a hand-painted sign above the entry. The paint is chipped in places, but the letters are cheerful. When Jimin steps inside, the space is warm with motion: voices overlap in waves, citrus clings in the corners, laughter rises and fades from down the hall.

He finds Taehyung upstairs, sock-footed in a sunlit room that smells of watercolor and paper pulp. There’s a row of low tables pushed to one side, a drying rack filled with swirling shapes and bold brushstrokes. Five kids are still gathering their things, trailing colored smudges and half-folded sketchbooks.

Taehyung glances up when he sees him. “Hey, you came.”

Jimin lifts a shoulder. “I said I would.”

Taehyung grins. “Well, come on then. I’ll take you to the studio. Eunji's the dance teacher. She's great. Class is already in full swing.”

The dance room is at the back of the building, separated by a short hall and a sliding door with smudged mirrors inside. Sunlight falls across the floor in wide rectangles. Socks slide. A voice counts over the music, steady and clear. Jimin steps in quietly, trailing Taehyung. There are about a dozen kids spread out across the space, ages ranging maybe from eight to thirteen. Some look focused, others distracted, but all of them are watching the woman in the center with rapt attention.

Eunji is tall for an omega, all open posture and expressive hands. Her voice carries clearly, bright and amused.

“Okay,” she says, clapping once. “Keep your lines long. Back straight. Yes, Sehee, just like that. Good. Now again, from the top.”

Jimin watches them move through the steps. It’s simple, contemporary-inspired, clearly adjusted for younger bodies, but still elegant. Eunji steps between the lines, gently correcting shoulders, tapping a knee with her foot to realign.

Halfway through the run, Eunji glances toward the door and spots them. She waves, smiling, and as she turns back to the class, Jimin notices the small curve of her belly. He had forgotten for a moment that Taehyung said she was pregnant.

Only after they finish the sequence does Eunji cross to the speaker and turn the music off. The room settles into an easy quiet. She steps toward them, wiping her hands on her pants.

“Taehyung, hey.” Her voice is warm, easy. She smiles at Jimin, tilting her head. “Is this the friend you mentioned?”

Taehyung nods. “This is Jimin.”

Eunji offers him a quick bow. “Nice to meet you. You picked a good day to stop by. Kids, say hello!”

A chorus of voices rises, a few shy, a few too loud. One boy near the front stares at him unabashed.

“He’s pretty,” someone mutters. Laughter ripples.

Jimin feels heat creep up his neck.

Behind him, Taehyung leans in. “I’ll be down the hall,” he says under his breath. “You’re in good hands.” Then he steps out, the door slipping shut behind him.

Eunji smiles, then nods towards the middle of the room. “Want to join me for a bit? Maybe help them with this last run.”

He hesitates. Then he steps out of his shoes, shrugs off his jacket, and moves toward the group. The mirrors catch his reflection, older than he remembers. Softer in places, maybe harder in others.

Eunji gives him a quick rundown of what they’ve been working on. Jimin nods, then moves to one of the students to demonstrate a better arm position. They try again. He moves through the room without thinking, correcting angles, offering encouragement, his body remembering more than his mind wants to admit.

A boy near the back, probably ten or eleven, with cat-like eyes and a mouth set in a small, stubborn pout, struggles with a turn.

Jimin watches for a moment, then steps closer. “Hey,” he says quietly. “What’s your name?”

The boy glances over, guarded. “Minjun.”

Jimin nods. “Try it like this.” He shifts his weight, demonstrating. “Use the ball of your foot. Here.”

Minjun copies him. The turn is smoother this time.

He looks up, expression unchanged, but something flickers there. Jimin swallows against a sudden ache.

The music winds down. Around them, the kids start to break away. Some stretching, some talking quietly. A few are already pulling on sneakers.

Eunji wipes her forehead with a towel and turns to Jimin.

“So? What did you think?”

Jimin is still catching his breath, but he doesn’t have to think.

“I loved it,” he says.

“How did it go?” Taehyung’s voice carries in from the doorway, easy and familiar. Jimin turns instinctively. He’s there, of course. Smiling like he already knows the answers.

Eunji nods, satisfied. “Looks like we have a new dance teacher.”

Jimin glances at Taehyung. He’s smiling, but there’s something careful in it.

“You sure?” Taehyung asks, voice a little lower now.

“Yeah. I want to.” He says it simply, but the words settle something in him.

Taehyung grins. “Alright. I’ll talk to Eunji-noona about scheduling. You’ll probably start next week. Maybe sooner.”

Jimin bows to Eunji. “Thank you,” he says, and means it.

Outside, Taehyung walks with him to the car, hand resting lightly on his back. “I’ll message you as soon as we have a start date.”

Jimin nods. “Thanks for bringing me.”

The sun has dipped lower since he arrived. The air is cooler now, edged with the slow stretch of evening. He drives back in the same hush he came in, only now there’s something quieter inside him, too.

But Minjun’s eyes stay with him.

Not in a way he can shake.

And when he closes his own at a red light, he sees another set of eyes. Same shape. Same quiet pull. Framed by a too-big hoodie and a mouth too proud to ask for anything.

Memory rises.

He lets it.

And the road moves forward, but Jimin slips back.

The car smells like leather and the faint bite of a pine-scented air freshener. Taehyung keeps fidgeting in his seat, one foot bouncing lightly off the floor. Jimin sits straighter, hands in his lap, staring out the tinted window.

"Do you think he’ll be surprised?" Taehyung asks, voice a little louder than necessary.

Jimin shrugs. "Maybe. He doesn’t know we’re coming."

They’d gotten out early today. The school was hosting some sort of internal evaluation and sent the lower years home after lunch. Instead of going straight back to the estate, Jimin asked the driver to stop near the old bus stop outside Yoongi’s school.

Taehyung hadn’t asked for a reason. He just said he was bored and started kicking at the gravel near the curb.

The building across the street is low and gray, its gates wide open. A few older kids lean against the wall out front, their uniforms more wrinkled, colars open. They look different than the kids Jimin sees at his school. Louder. Messier. Some of them are playing soccer with a crumpled bottle.

The school bell rings. A shrill, metal sound that echoes too long.

“There he is,” Jimin says, stepping up onto the low curb. He squints toward the gates, shielding his eyes from the light.

Taehyung climbs out behind him, brushing off his pants. Behind them, the car waits, engine low.

They walk a little closer, stopping just shy of the school entrance.

Yoongi walks out alone. His backpack hangs off one shoulder, scuffed at the corners. His hair’s grown out a little again. Not as long as when he first arrived, but enough to curl at the edges. He walks like he’s thinking about something else. Always does.

Taehyung lifts a hand. “Yoongi-hyung!”

Yoongi pauses when he sees them. Blinks once, then again. “What are you two doing here?”

Jimin steps forward, a little unsure. “We finished early. I thought…” He kicks at the curb. “We wanted to see you.”

Taehyung shrugs. “Our teacher said there was a meeting or something. We got let out.”

Yoongi glances around. His eyes pause on a group of boys leaning near the curb.

"Did you tell anyone you were coming?" he asks.

Jimin shakes his head.

"Probably should’ve," Yoongi mutters.

"Why?"

Before Yoongi can answer, one of the boys calls out.

"Hey! Min Yoongi! That your little girlfriends?"

Jimin stiffens.

Taehyung frowns. "What?"

The boys laugh. Another one speaks up. "That one looks like a girl."

"I am a boy," Jimin says automatically, voice flat.

"He’s prettier than my sister," the first kid says. "Are they your babies, Yoongi? You babysitting rich kids now?"

Yoongi steps forward before Jimin can say anything else. He doesn’t raise his voice.

"Leave them alone."

"Or what?"

Yoongi doesn’t answer. Just keeps standing there. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

Something in the silence stretches too long. The boy scoffs and turns away.

"Whatever. Weirdo."

The group drifts off.

Taehyung exhales. "They were mean."

Yoongi glances sideways. "You okay?"

Jimin nods. He’s not sure if he is. His cheeks feel hot.

Yoongi tilts his head. "Come on. Let’s go."

He starts walking toward the car, but not too far ahead.

Jimin follows, matching his pace without thinking.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but he thinks it anyway:

Yoongi didn’t even raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

And they listened.

They don’t talk much on the way back. Taehyung kicks the back of the driver’s seat a few times before settling, forehead pressed to the window. Jimin leans against his side, quiet. Yoongi sits by the opposite window, turned slightly toward the glass, not looking at anything.

The estate is quiet when they arrive. The sun is lower now, just brushing the tops of the orchard trees. No one stops them when they run past the front entrance, shoelaces dragging, laughter finally catching up to them.

They make it to the orchard breathless. Jimin throws himself onto the grass, arms flung wide. Taehyung flops down beside him. Yoongi stays standing for a moment, glancing up at the branches. The persimmons aren’t ripe yet. Still pale and hard. He knocks one loose with a stick and it lands in the grass with a soft thud.

Jimin picks it up and rolls it in his hands. "Let’s say this one’s poisoned. Anyone who touches it turns into a frog."

Taehyung shrieks and dives away, grabbing a fallen twig as a sword. "We have to destroy it!"

"We need a safehouse first," Jimin says. "Behind the trees. We can’t let the guards see."

They scramble toward the far end of the orchard, crouching low between the trunks. The world shrinks into their game. A snapped twig becomes a trap, a leaf pile a secret passage. They assign names to the trees: Captain Kim, Commander Min, General Park. Taehyung keeps forgetting the ranks.

Yoongi doesn’t say much, but he plays along. Always does.

Jimin watches him as they crawl through the brush, the hem of Yoongi’s school shirt catching on every branch. There’s a cut on his knee, already dried, and his shoes are worn at the edges, not made for running through trees. But he moves like he knows where he’s going. Like he’s done it before.

Jimin copies the way he ducks under low branches. When Yoongi runs, Jimin tries to run like him.

"You’re doing it again," Taehyung says, smirking.

"What?"

"The thing. Where you act like him."

Jimin shrugs. "He’s fast."

"You even walk like him now."

Jimin doesn’t answer.

They collapse again near the edge of the field, the sky above them turning gold at the edges. Taehyung tosses his twig-sword aside. Jimin lies on his back, arms folded under his head.

Yoongi sits cross-legged, picking at a piece of grass. "This place used to be a forest," he says. "Before the estate was built. There were deer and foxes. A wild boar, too. That’s why the soil’s weird. It holds water longer."

Jimin turns his head. "How do you know that?"

"Sunae-imoni told me. Her grandfather used to take care of the land. Before the Park family built the estate."

Jimin hums. He doesn’t know anything like that. Not about his family. Not about the land.

Taehyung’s already drifting off, one hand curled near his mouth. Jimin watches Yoongi pull his sleeves down over his hands and tuck his knees tighter.

He wants to say something. Something like you’re smart or you should tell more stories or I like when you talk.

But he doesn’t. He just lies there. The grass is warm beneath him.

Yoongi doesn’t look up, but after a while, he says, "It’s going to rain tomorrow. You can tell by the smell."

Jimin closes his eyes.

He believes him.

The sun is low when they head back up to the house. The orchard behind them glows at the edges, light caught in the branches like it doesn’t want to leave.

Taehyung waves goodbye at the gate, shoes in one hand, dirt smudged across his knees. Jimin and Yoongi cross the gravel drive together, slower now. The warmth has faded from their shirts. Yoongi’s is untucked, streaked with green. Jimin’s collar is askew.

Mihyun sees them from the front steps.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches.

When she speaks, her voice is flat. “Park Jimin. Look at you.”

Jimin freezes. Yoongi stops too, but doesn’t lift his head.

“Go wash up and change,” Mihyun says, tone clipped. “Dinner is in twenty minutes. Don’t be late.”

Jimin glances at Yoongi, but Yoongi’s already turning, heading toward the smaller wing where his room is. Shoulders hunched. Not running. Just quiet.

Inside, the lights are warm, but the house still feels cold. Jimin washes up quickly. Scrubs the dirt from his legs, uses too much soap. He gets dressed, brushes his hair. Mihyun doesn’t check, but he does it anyway.

The dining room smells like rice and grilled fish. He slows near the doorway when he hears voices inside.

“He doesn’t belong here,” Mihyun is saying. “I don’t care what your promise was. That woman is gone. This is our house.”

Hyunsuk answers, voice lower. “He’s just a boy.”

As Jimin steps in, they stop talking.

His father clears his throat. “You’re late.”

“Sorry.”

He takes his seat. The chair next to him is empty.

“How is school?” Hyunsuk asks after a moment.

“It’s okay.”

Jimin pokes at his rice.

“When is Seokjin-hyung coming back?”

Mihyun answers. “Next weekend. He has exams.”

Jimin nods. He doesn’t say anything else.

After dinner, Mihyun says, “Shower and go straight to your room. Homework, then sleep. Understood?”

Jimin nods. “Yes, eomma.”

He showers first, puts on his pajamas, finishes his homework slowly. Waits until the hallway is quiet. Then tiptoes downstairs and toward the smaller wing.

Yoongi’s door is closed, but not locked.

Jimin pushes it open slowly.

The room is dark. Clean. One window cracked for air. The bed is mostly undisturbed, Yoongi lying on his side, knees drawn in.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Jimin whispers.

Yoongi shrugs. “Didn’t try yet.”

Jimin climbs into bed beside him without asking. The mattress dips. The blankets are thin.

“Want me to tell you a story?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t say no either.

So Jimin starts talking. About two kings who ran away from a castle because it was too cold. They built a treehouse in a kingdom of wild animals and slept in hammocks made of ivy. No one told them what to wear or when to sleep. They only listened to each other.

Yoongi doesn’t say much. Just lets the words move.

Eventually, his head tips toward Jimin’s shoulder.

Jimin lowers his voice until it’s almost nothing. Until Yoongi is breathing steady.

He stays like that a while. Watches the ceiling. Doesn’t move.

The story doesn’t end. But maybe that’s the point.

Chapter Text

The restaurant isn’t fancy, but the food’s good.

Yoongi had picked it on purpose, a place far enough down Yangjae-daero to miss the lunch crowds, close enough to the market that he wouldn’t have to circle back. The tables are worn wood, the air warm from the grills built into every surface. Voices rise and fall between the booths, carrying over the low sizzle of meat on the burners.

He picks up a piece of pork belly from the grill, folds it neatly into lettuce, and eats without looking up.

Across from him, Hoseok sets his chopsticks down with a soft tap. "You're awfully quiet today. Even for you."

Yoongi swallows, wiping his fingers against a napkin. "Lot on my mind."

Hoseok grins a little. "Same old, then.”

Yoongi hums under his breath, reaches for his barley tea, sips once, then sets the cup aside. He isn’t in a hurry. The food’s solid. The quiet’s solid. Some days that’s enough.

Hoseok leans back in his seat. “How’s Vantem?”

"Good," Yoongi says. "Singapore signed off on the final prototype," Yoongi says. "The Seoul team’s ready to move once production locks in."

"Any delays?"

"A few, but nothing serious. We'll hit timeline."

Hoseok nods, snagging another piece of galbi off the grill. “Good. I was starting to think everything was catching fire at once.”

Yoongi huffs a quiet breath, but says nothing.

Hoseok turns the rest of the meat over, voice lighter. “Parknoa’s still bleeding at the edges. But the gala’s on track. Invitations went out this morning. Venue’s locked. Seokjin’s team is handling the charity angle. Scholarships, mostly.”

That makes Yoongi glance up, a flicker of real focus breaking through.

"Anyone poking around?"

“Not really.” Hoseok shrugs. “A few board members whining about the merger, but that’s normal. Most people think it’s just corporate politics.”

Yoongi tilts his head, studying him. “Seokjin?”

“Still sitting tight.” Hoseok twists his mouth. “Surprised, honestly.”

"It’s not that surprising," Yoongi says. "If Sangchul gets suspicious now, Seokjin’s the one who loses. His investigation dies before it’s finished.”

Hoseok snorts under his breath, nudging his empty bowl aside. “He’s gonna lose it when he sees you walk in.”

“Sangchul?” Yoongi’s mouth lifts, not quite a smile. “Good.”

The grill sizzles between them, the sound low and constant. Yoongi leans back, letting the stretch of the afternoon settle. It’s cold outside, cold enough that the windows near the entrance have fogged up halfway.

“We have everything we need already,” Yoongi says, quiet. “It’s just about timing now.”

Hoseok doesn’t argue. He just waves for the check when the server passes, slipping his card across the table before Yoongi can reach for his wallet.

Outside, the light's thinner than it should be for early afternoon, the sky already washing out at the edges. The city breathes differently in the cold, with steps growing shorter, pockets deepening, faces turning down against the wind.

They walk the short distance to the car without speaking. Yoongi unlocks it with a soft beep, and Hoseok climbs into the passenger seat, shrugging his jacket tighter around his shoulders.

The drive toward Yangjae Flower Market isn’t far. The streets thread through low office blocks and residential towers, the buildings pressing in closer as they move south. Yoongi drives one-handed, steady through the narrower streets. The cold creeps in at the edges, thin and patient.

Hoseok glances over once they clear the last major intersection. “We really stopping at the flower market?”

“House feels dead,” Yoongi says. 

Hoseok snorts. “You and your plants.”

Yoongi hums, steering the car into a small parking lot near the market entrance.

As they climb out, Hoseok shoots him a look. "You turned our place in Amsterdam into a greenhouse."

"It wasn’t that bad," Yoongi says, locking the car behind him.

Hoseok scoffs. "You had ferns growing on top of the fridge."

"They needed the light."

"You talked to them, too."

"They listened better than you did," Yoongi says, deadpan.

Hoseok laughs properly this time, warm and rough, and they cross the lot toward the long row of greenhouses.

The faded green archway over the entrance creaks in the wind. Trucks back up against loading bays. The smell of soil and wet leaves thickens in the air.

Yoongi pulls his jacket tighter around his body, breathing in the weight of it.

"Come on," he says, tipping his head toward the entrance.

"Help me find something that'll grow well."

Hoseok grins. "You're the plant expert. I’m just here for moral support.”

They step inside, and the greenhouse swallows the cold behind them.

It’s warmer here, damp and alive. Long rows of plants stretch out under the glass roof: dense-leaved palms, ivy trailing from stacked crates, rows of ferns curling toward the misted air. Some of the taller trees brush the rafters, just beneath the mounted heaters.

Yoongi slows without meaning to. His fingers skim a table of succulents without touching. Tiny leaves glisten under the overhead lights, fat and orderly. Past them, ZZ plants, snake plants, monstera, neat rows arranged like soft battalions.

"You look like you’re about to adopt half the place," Hoseok murmurs, trailing after him.

Yoongi doesn’t answer. He moves down the line, the weight in his chest loosening notch by notch. The chaos outside, the mergers, the gala, the Parks, all of it falls quieter here.

A salesperson, apron dusted with potting soil, approaches with a notepad in hand.

"Looking for anything specific?" she asks, polite but not pushy.

Yoongi nods toward the larger section near the back. "Houseplants. Preferably ones that won’t mind drier indoor air."

The salesperson smiles. "We’ve got some good options. Monstera, maybe? Easy growers if they get the right light."

Yoongi hums, already moving. "They like humid air more than most people think. But if the soil stays too wet, the roots rot."

The salesperson blinks, recalibrating. "Right. Good drainage’s important."

Hoseok leans in, stage-whispering, "You’re intimidating the plant lady."

Yoongi shoots him a glance, expression unreadable. "She’s fine."

He stops in front of a broad monstera with split leaves fanning wide like hands. Healthy, glossy, a good specimen. He crouches to check the base. The stem is strong, no sign of fungal spots.

"I’ll take this one," Yoongi says, standing again. His voice is quiet but certain.

The salesperson nods, scribbling.

"Also that ficus lyrata." He points toward a fiddle leaf fig near the windows, taller than the others but still manageable. "Two ZZ plants for low-light spaces."

He moves with unhurried precision, as if he’s walking through a memory he knows by heart. His palm brushes lightly over the thick leaves of a pothos, variegated in green and white. "This one too. Albo pothos."

The salesperson hurries to keep up, jotting each name down.

Hoseok watches him, arms folded loosely. "You know you don’t actually have to save them all, right?"

"They’re not strays," Yoongi says mildly, crouching to inspect a potted kentia palm. He checks the soil, the color of the fronds. "They’re investments."

Hoseok grins. "Of course they are."

Yoongi taps the rim of the palm's pot thoughtfully. "And a fern," he adds. "Boston or maidenhair, whichever’s healthier."

The salesperson hesitates. "We usually recommend watering them every three days—"

Yoongi straightens, wiping his hands on the side of his jeans. "Ferns prefer daily misting if the air’s dry. Especially indoors during winter."

The salesperson laughs, a little breathless. "Right. Daily misting."

Hoseok can’t help it. He snorts. "Told you. Greenhouse Yoongi. He probably has a PhD in ferns."

"I just read directions," Yoongi says, voice dry.

They follow the salesperson to the front counter, where pots are stacked neatly along the walls: ceramic, clay, neutral tones. Yoongi picks out understated ones: soft gray for the ZZ plants, glazed white for the fiddle leaf fig, a darker earthen brown for the monstera.

"We can repot them today and deliver tomorrow," the salesperson offers, tallying the list. "Would that work?"

"That’s fine," Yoongi says.

She passes him a notepad. Yoongi writes down his name, address, and his phone number for the delivery. His handwriting is clean, slanted a little left.

The total’s not small, but he doesn't blink as he slides his card across.

Hoseok watches, amused. "You realize you just impulse-bought half a forest."

Yoongi tucks the receipt into his jacket pocket. "I know."

They step back into the chill outside. The air feels thinner without the warmth of green things curling around them.

At the car, Yoongi unlocks the doors, tossing the keys into his palm once before glancing over. "You want me to drop you at Parknoa?"

Hoseok shakes his head. "Seogyo’s good. I’m stopping by the center."

Yoongi hums. He had always admired how Hoseok could build something real and stay with it.

The car fills with quiet as they pull out onto the main road. Traffic’s thicker, but Yoongi slips through it like water, his mind calmer than it’s been in days.

At the corner near Seogyo, Hoseok shifts his bag onto his shoulder and reaches for the door handle. "Here’s good."

Yoongi pulls to the curb. Hoseok steps out, turning back briefly.

"Thanks, hyung. Talk to you tomorrow."

Yoongi nods, watching him disappear into the crowd.

When the road clears, he pulls back into traffic, heading south.

Home.

And for the first time in a long time, he thinks it might actually start to feel like it.

The next day, Yoongi wakes with his pulse heavy against his ribs, the bond restless beneath his skin. Dreams cling to him, vague images of Jimin’s face, blurred memories of warmth fading as consciousness returns. He sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his eyes as the room settles around him again.

He showers without thinking, the heat of the water barely registering. After dressing, he moves downstairs, stepping into the kitchen and reaching automatically for the coffee beans. It's ritual more than anything else, comfort in routine, even when comfort feels impossible.

The grinder buzzes softly, the scent of fresh grounds rising into the stillness. He fills the espresso machine, watching the dark liquid spill into his cup, steam curling upward.

“Would you like me to prepare breakfast?” Bora’s voice comes from behind him, careful not to intrude.

Yoongi shakes his head, eyes fixed on the rich crema swirling in his cup. “Maybe later.”

Bora nods, sensing his mood, and withdraws, her footsteps fading down the hall.

He lifts the cup, sips once, then again. The bitter taste doesn't ground him as it usually does. Restlessness moves under his skin again, insistent. His gaze drifts toward the window, the sky pale behind thin clouds. Without thinking, he leaves the cup half-drained on the counter, grabs his coat, and steps into his shoes. He pulls on a mask, tugging the hood of his coat around his face. He hesitates at the door, fingertips hovering over the handle. Then he's outside, the cold hitting him with clarity.

He walks without a clear destination, the world blurred around him, his feet guiding him along familiar paths. He doesn’t realize how far he's gone until he finds himself standing near the fence behind the Kim estate, his heart tight in his chest.

There's a greenhouse now, one he doesn't recall from before. It's modest and half-hidden behind clusters of dormant shrubs, clearly newer, the glass still clear in places. Through the fogged panels edged with condensation, Yoongi can make out a figure moving between rows of plants. His pulse quickens, sudden and uneven.

It's Jimin. Unmistakably, inevitably Jimin. The gentle slope of shoulders, the careful, familiar movement of hands as he tends to something Yoongi can't quite make out from this distance. Yoongi's chest aches, an old pain made fresh by proximity.

He stands motionless, eyes fixed on the indistinct shape behind glass. His heartbeat fills the silence, too loud, too telling. Foolish, he thinks harshly. Reckless.

"What the hell am I doing?" The thought cuts through him, and with it, he steps back, turning abruptly away.

As he retraces his steps, each stride careful, the memory rises anyway, warm and insistent, impossible to ignore. He breathes slowly, trying to suppress it, but the past is stronger, the images clearer. The old greenhouse, the air heavy with quiet laughter and the faint sweetness of fig leaves.

Yoongi pushes his hands deeper into his pockets, letting the memory unfold reluctantly behind his eyes as he walks, feeling every step take him deeper into a past he has never truly escaped.

The greenhouse breathes around him.

The light outside has thinned to a cool gold, slipping through the grime-streaked glass and landing in broken patches across the floor. A dog barks somewhere beyond the orchard, sharp and careless. Near the door, a low branch scrapes against the frame, then stills. The greenhouse holds the sounds loosely, as if the world outside is already far away.

Yoongi kneels by the perilla beds, one hand steady on the soil as he checks the roots for rot. It’s good earth. Sunae had helped him replace it months ago, and he’s kept it turned and loose since, watered just enough that the stems stay firm. The leaves brush his fingertips when he leans in. Sharp-edged, green, faintly spiced. The smell of crushed mint lingers in the air, twined with the musky scent of damp earth.

He likes it here. Likes that the plants are simple in their need. Just water, sun and a hand steady enough not to bruise them. Likes that no one raises their voice inside these walls, no matter what storms curl around the house beyond.

He pulls a dead leaf from the base of a stalk, careful not to jostle the younger shoots, and tucks it into the canvas bag at his side. Routine. Familiar. Real.

The door creaks behind him.

“Hyung!”

Yoongi glances up without moving. A flash of dark hair, scuffed sneakers slipping on the cracked tile. Jimin barrels toward him, a grin already splitting his face.

"I knew I'd find you here," Jimin says, breathless like he’d run the last stretch.

Yoongi sits back on his heels, brushes dirt from his palms. Jimin’s still in dance clothes: loose black joggers, a faded university hoodie, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. A bead of sweat clings to his temple, catching the light.

"You look like you ran here," Yoongi says, watching him.

"Class was brutal," Jimin huffs. He toes at a fallen twig, squinting at the beds. "What’re you working on?"

"Perilla," Yoongi answers. He wipes his hands on his jeans and stands, stretching his back slow.

Jimin leans closer, peering at the rows of soft, ruffled leaves. He wrinkles his nose. "Looks like weed."

Yoongi snorts. "Don’t let Sunae-imoni hear you say that."

Jimin grins wider. "Is it really perilla? Like the kind we eat?"

"Same one," Yoongi says. He plucks a leaf and holds it out. "She planted them last spring. Uses them for kimchi and wraps."

Jimin pinches the leaf between his fingers, rubbing it gently. "No way. I thought perilla came from—" He stops, frowning. "Stores."

"Everything comes from somewhere first."

Jimin pulls a face at him but keeps holding the leaf like it's precious.

Yoongi watches him for a moment longer than he should. Watches the way Jimin's fingers move, light and careful. The same way Yoongi handles the saplings.

"Sunae told me," Yoongi says, because silence feels too heavy, "that perilla wards off evil."

"Yeah?" Jimin’s eyes widen a little. "You believe that?"

"Not really." Yoongi shrugs. "But they’re good for you. Rich in omega-3. Help with inflammation."

Jimin laughs under his breath. "You always know these weird things."

"Maybe I read too much," Yoongi says. He nudges Jimin’s shoulder lightly with his own. "How’d your class go?"

Jimin’s whole face lights up. "It was amazing. Hyung, the teacher said I have natural rhythm!" He bounces once on the balls of his feet, as if the energy has nowhere else to go. "We started with basic warmups and some turns—"

Without waiting, he spins clumsily on one foot, arms lifting, nearly losing balance halfway through.

Yoongi reaches out instinctively, steadying him with a hand at the back of his hoodie.

"Careful," he says, even as a smile tugs at his mouth.

Jimin rights himself, laughing. "See? Talent."

"World-class," Yoongi agrees dryly.

Jimin beams, a little pink in the cheeks now. "Seriously, though. It felt...right. Like when we used to sneak out and run until we couldn't breathe anymore. Like my body remembered something before I even learned it."

Yoongi hums. He remembers. Remembers scraped knees and grass-stained fingers, the two of them spinning wild circles in the clearing until the world blurred.

Jimin rocks back on his heels, looking around the greenhouse. "You’ve made this place alive again."

Yoongi sniffs, embarrassed. "Plants just need someone to care about them."

"Like people."

Yoongi’s throat feels tight all of a sudden. He stoops back down, checking a seedling that doesn't really need checking.

"You should head inside," he says after a beat. "Your mom will want you for dinner."

Jimin flops down cross-legged beside him, ignoring the dirt. "Come with me."

Yoongi keeps his eyes on the soil. "Better not."

"Why not? You never eat with us."

"You know why."

Jimin frowns. "Hyung. Don't be like that."

"I'm not family, Jimin-ah."

"That’s not true." Jimin leans in, voice dropping low, fierce in the way only twelve-year-olds can be. "You're family to me."

The words fall between them like a stone into still water.

Yoongi doesn’t look up. He presses his thumb into the dirt, watching it crumble soft around the nail.

"Go," he says again, but softer now.

Jimin lingers another breath, then stands, brushing dust from his knees.

"I’ll see you after," he promises. Light as anything, but heavy in Yoongi’s chest.

The door creaks again when he leaves. The glass rattles faintly in its frame.

Yoongi stays crouched by the bed, hands dirty, breath slow. Outside, the gold light has thinned to blue. Inside, the air cools, carrying the green smell of damp soil and bruised leaves.

He sinks back into the work. There are roots to tend, and leaves to trim, and hands that are better used for growing than wanting.

The light fades as he moves through the beds. By the time he brushes the last fallen leaves into a shallow clay pot and sets it by the door, the sky beyond the glass has deepened to navy. His knees crack when he stands. Dirt clings stubborn along the creases of his palms, under his nails.

He closes up the greenhouse carefully, making sure the latch catches. He gives the door a small tug to check, the way Sunae taught him. Then he crosses the gravel path, shoes brushing through the loose stones, and slips through the staff entrance without a sound. The coolness of the corridor rises up to meet him, prickling against the back of his neck.

The staff bathroom is empty. The faucet groans when he turns it, coughing up a burst of cold water. Yoongi scrubs at his hands until the dirt lifts, the soap stinging where fine scratches have opened along his knuckles. He cups water in his palms, splashes his face. The mirror over the sink is cracked at the corner, distorting his reflection into crooked pieces.

His room is just down the hall. Small, plain, a bed tucked against the wall, a dresser missing one handle. He peels off his dirty shirt, changes into a clean one from the drawer, soft cotton, stretched a little at the collar. He smooths his hair with damp fingers, checking that no streaks of soil linger along his wrists.

Down the hall, the kitchen sits in low light, warm and still. Sunae is tucking dishes away into the cabinets, moving slow like the day is wearing out of her bones. She looks up when he enters, and her face softens into a real smile, small but steady.

"Come, eat something," she says, nodding toward the plates stacked neatly to the side.

"Later, Imonim," Yoongi murmurs, voice low. "Is Hyunsuk-ajusshi still in his study?"

Sunae closes the cabinet, stretches her back with a soft grunt. "Went in after dinner," she says. "Should still be there."

Yoongi bows his head in thanks. He slips out before she can say anything else, the warm smell of the food trailing faintly behind him.

The main hallway is dim now, the sconces lit low along the walls. His footsteps barely stir the silence. He finds himself pausing outside the study door, hand hovering just above the wood. A small beat of hesitation, then he knocks, knuckles rapping once, twice.

"Come in," Hyunsuk's voice calls, muffled through the door.

Inside, the study is dim with lamplight, the air dry with the smell of old paper, threaded through with the faint, familiar scent of dried flowers and rust. Hyunsuk looks up from behind his desk, wire-rimmed glasses slipping low on his nose.

"Oh. Yoongi," he says, setting the papers aside. "Did you need something?"

Yoongi steps inside carefully, closing the door behind him.

"I..." he starts, then falters, fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt.

Hyunsuk leans back slightly in his chair, folds his hands over the desk. His voice softens. "Take your time."

Yoongi swallows. He moves to the chair across from the desk and sits, posture too stiff for comfort.

"There's something I wanted to ask you, ajusshi," he says, voice low.

Hyunsuk gives a small nod, quiet encouragement.

Yoongi lets out a small breath. His hands are tight in his lap.

"It was always just me and my mother," he says after a moment, voice steady only because he forces it to be. "She... she never talked about my father. Whenever I asked, she'd..." He trails off, lifts a hand, then lets it fall uselessly into his lap.

Hyunsuk listens without interruption, his expression unreadable.

"And then," Yoongi says, "when she got sick… when it got bad… she wanted me to go with you. She said you'd take care of me. I never understood why."

Silence settles between them. Hyunsuk breathes out slowly, the sound almost a sigh. He reaches up, presses two fingers briefly to the space just below his collarbone, as if easing a tightness there.

"I knew your mother when we were young," Hyunsuk says finally. His voice carries the weight of something long buried. "We were... close. She mattered to me. A lot." He pauses, choosing his words with care. "But life pulled us in different directions. That was my fault more than hers."

Yoongi watches him closely, the edges of his nails digging into his palms.

"When she reached out to me," Hyunsuk continues, "I knew I owed her. I cared about her. I respected her. Taking care of you, it was never a question."

Yoongi sits very still. The lamp flickers faintly between them.

He wets his lips, forces the next question out: "Did you know my father?"

Hyunsuk's mouth pulls tight for a moment, a shadow of regret there and gone. "No," he says. "By the time your mother and I parted ways, she was already living a different life. She never told me anything about the man she chose. I wish I could give you more, kid. But I don't know."

A knot in Yoongi's chest loosens, not completely, but enough that he can breathe a little easier.

"So..." he says, voice small, "that means... you're not..."

Hyunsuk's mouth lifts, a faint, almost sad smile. "No, kiddo. I'm not your father. If I were, I'd have claimed you from the start."

Yoongi drops his gaze, blinking hard against the sudden sting behind his eyes.

"Thank you, ajusshi," he says quietly. "I'm sorry for bothering you."

Hyunsuk leans forward a little, voice steady. "You're not a bother, Yoongi. You never were."

Yoongi stands, bowing politely. The air feels heavier now, though not unbearable. He lets himself out with a soft click of the door.

The hallway yawns empty before him. He walks back toward his room, steps slow, the faint burn of shame and something quieter, relief maybe, threading through his ribs. He doesn’t really want to know who his father is, he thinks. A man who left and never looked back isn’t someone worth chasing.

But at least… at least Jimin isn't his brother.

And for now, that small truth is enough.

Chapter Text

Jimin pulls into the small lot outside the BIT center just before four, the sun dipping lower over the tops of the buildings, the air carrying the dull weight of late afternoon. Beside him, Taehyung bounces a little on his heels as they cross the sidewalk, a lightness to his steps that Jimin envies without meaning to.

The building breathes with late-day motion: the clatter of shoes against tile, the sharp sweetness of citrus cleaner still clinging to the corners. A volunteer brushes past with a box of glue sticks and colored paper, nodding politely. Down the hall, a shout of laughter rises, cuts off, and the echo folds into quiet again. 

"Come on," Taehyung says, nodding toward a hallway that branches off to the left. "You can change in the staff bathroom. It’s not fancy, but there’s a mirror and hooks for your stuff."

Jimin nods, adjusting the strap of the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. "Thanks."

Taehyung pauses when they reach the door. His hand settles lightly on Jimin’s arm, warm through the thin fabric of his jacket. "You ready?"

"I think so," Jimin says, pulling a small breath. "Eunji-ssi sent me the schedule and notes the other day. I’m pretty sure I won’t mess anything up."

"You won’t." Taehyung squeezes his arm once, quick and firm. "They’ll love you."

Jimin smiles, a little realer than before. "I’ll find you after class."

Taehyung waves him off, already moving toward the main offices. Jimin ducks into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. It’s small, two stalls, a narrow sink, a crooked mirror, but clean. He changes quickly, folding his jacket and jeans into his bag, pulling on loose black joggers and a soft gray t-shirt. His sneakers squeak a little against the tile when he bends to tie them.

He makes his way to the back of the building, where the hallway narrows and the noise thins out. The door slides open with a soft scrape. Inside, the light is the same as last time, soft and angled, falling across the floor in long, familiar stripes. The kids are already there, scattered across the room in little knots: some stretching, some sitting cross-legged on the floor, some whispering behind their hands.

They straighten instinctively when he enters, a ripple moving through them. A girl in the front blinks up at him, ponytail swinging.

Jimin walks to the front of the room, his hands loose at his sides. "Good afternoon," he says, voice carrying gently across the room.

"Good afternoon!" the kids echo, some louder than others.

He smiles, easing into the space they give him. "Do you remember me?"

"Yes!" a few of them call out immediately, and one boy in the back pumps a fist before catching himself, glancing around sheepishly.

The girl in the front pipes up, voice clear. "Eunji-seonsaengnim said Jimin-seonsaengnim would be our new teacher!"

"That’s right," Jimin says, feeling the knot between his ribs loosen a little. "I’m really happy to be here with you. Let's get warmed up first, and then we’ll start working on some new steps."

He moves to the small speaker by the wall, flipping through the playlist Eunji had set up. It's mostly instrumentals, rhythmic and bright. As the first track starts, he turns back to them.

"Alright. Everyone spread out. Arms' length from your neighbor," he says, demonstrating with his own steps. "We’ll start with some stretching."

They follow easily, some more coordinated than others, a few still fidgeting, glancing at each other with barely-contained energy. Jimin leads them through neck rolls, shoulder circles, gentle side stretches. He keeps his voice even, encouraging, correcting posture with small gestures, never forceful.

When they move into basic footwork across the floor, Jimin catches sight of Minjun, the small boy he’d noticed last time, cat-like eyes and a soft, stubborn mouth. Minjun moves with a quiet seriousness, arms a little too stiff, but his focus is pure.

Jimin smiles without thinking, adjusting his own posture to mirror the boy’s and guide him without calling attention to it.

As they work, he asks names, repeats them aloud, trying to match them to faces and voices. The kids are sweet. Some are shy, some bold, some with a carefulness that reminds him of too many things at once. A few move with startling natural grace, their small bodies catching rhythm like it’s stitched into their bones.

The hour folds itself into movement, music, laughter caught and released like breath. Jimin feels it settle into his skin, a kind of rightness he hasn’t touched in a long time.

When he finally calls for cool-down stretches, the kids groan but obey, sprawling on the mats with exaggerated sighs. Jimin laughs quietly, kneeling to help a boy straighten his spine during a hamstring stretch.

"You did really well today," he says when they’re finished, clapping his hands once to gather their attention. "I’m excited to dance with you all."

The kids scatter slowly, collecting their things, pulling on shoes with lazy movements. Jimin lingers by the speaker, letting the last notes of the playlist fade out into the golden spill of late afternoon light.

He feels full, light in a way that makes his chest ache a little. Like he’s found something worth holding onto, even if he doesn’t know how long he’ll be allowed to keep it.

The studio feels warmer once the music stops. Jimin helps the last student tie a sweatshirt around her waist, then waves them off with a promise to see them next week. The door swings shut behind them, leaving the room briefly quiet. He lets out a breath, soft and steady, before crossing to the speaker to power it down.

He gathers his things quickly, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, phone back in his pocket, and steps into the hallway. The air outside the studio carries a quieter kind of noise now: footsteps echoing up the stairwell, a chair scraping somewhere far off.

Taehyung’s classroom is upstairs. Jimin makes his way up slowly, still smoothing the hem of his shirt. The door is open. Inside, a few kids are zipping their backpacks, colored paper crumpled under their arms. A low table has been pushed back against the far wall, and the drying rack is full, watercolors curling slightly at the edges. The light through the windows is soft, angled across the floor.

Taehyung stands near the back, laughing at something. Beside him is a man Jimin doesn’t recognize. He's lean, a little shorter than Taehyung, wearing a dark crewneck and jeans. His hand rests on Taehyung’s shoulder, casual and familiar.

Taehyung notices him first. “Ah, Jimin-ah. How did it go?”

Jimin steps into the room, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “It went great. The kids are lovely.”

“Good,” Taehyung says, then turns to the man beside him. “Hobi-hyung, this is Jimin. Our new dance teacher.”

The man steps forward, offering his hand. “Jung Hoseok,” he says. His voice is smooth, a little airy. “Nice to meet you.”

Jimin shakes his hand, and something settles in the air between them. Not pressure, not pull. Just a kind of stillness. It takes Jimin a beat longer than it should to realize that he’s a beta.

“Hoseok-hyung is the founder of the center,” Taehyung adds, nudging Jimin with his elbow.

“Ah.” Jimin nods. “It’s really nice to meet you. What you’ve built here—” he glances around at the curling papers, the scuffed floors, the way the light fills the room “—it’s incredible. Giving kids the space to create like this, without worrying about cost or who’s watching. That’s rare.”

Hoseok’s mouth lifts into a smile. “Thank you. And thank you for agreeing to teach. It means a lot to them, especially now.”

Jimin dips his head. “It’s my pleasure. Truly.”

Taehyung glances between them, then leans against the low table. “We’re heading to this café down the block. Want to come?”

Jimin smiles, but shakes his head. “I’d love to, but I’ve already made plans. Meeting hyung for drinks.”

“Right.” Taehyung’s mouth tilts. “Call me later?”

“I will.” Jimin waves once, then slips back into the hallway.

The bathroom is empty when he gets there. He locks the stall behind him, setting his bag on the bench and tugging his shirt over his head. The tile is cool under his feet. The shower is small but clean, steam rising quickly as the water warms. He moves without rushing, rinsing off the last of the sweat and classroom dust, letting his muscles loosen under the stream.

Afterward, he dries off with the towel he brought, changes into fresh clothes: a light grey sweater, soft at the elbows, black trousers, clean sneakers. He runs a hand through his damp hair, checking his reflection once before slipping out.

The drive into Banpo is steady. The city opens up around him, low buildings giving way to wider streets, storefronts flickering to life. He parks near a quiet block lined with small cafés, checks the time on his phone. Seokjin had said five-thirty.

The sky is pale above the rooftops, streak with late autumn haze. Jimin tugs the sleeves of his jacket over his hands and crosses the street, the air cool against the back of his neck.

The café is low-lit and quiet, with tall windows that catch the last of the day’s light. Jimin spots them near the back. Seokjin sits facing the door, Namjoon beside him, a leather folder placed neatly at the edge of the table. Two coffee cups rest on the table between them, half-full.

He crosses the room without rushing. Seokjin looks up first, smiles, and nudges the chair beside him out with his foot.

"Hey," Jimin says, sliding into the seat. His hair is still slightly damp at the temples.

"Hey yourself," Seokjin says. "How was your first class?"

Jimin settles his bag against the chair leg. "It was... honestly great. The kids are sweet. A few of them are already so talented. And the atmosphere! It's just good. Real. I’ll be there twice a week. I hope I can keep doing it for a while."

Namjoon nods, his expression softening. "That sounds amazing. I’m glad you’re able to use your skills again, even if it’s not performing. What you’re doing is valuable, Jimin-ah."

Jimin’s mouth curves. He rests his arms on the table, a little more settled now. "It felt good. I wasn’t sure I’d like teaching, but I really did. Being around kids who want to move… it reminded me why I love dance. The center’s doing something rare. It’s not easy to make space like that for kids who usually get left out."

Seokjin nods, then glances at the menu folded near the sugar jar. "What do you want to drink?"

"Just an iced americano," Jimin says. "Thanks."

Seokjin flags the waiter with a quiet gesture, then leans back slightly in his seat.

“Anything new at Parknoa?” Jimin asks. “How’s the investigation going?”

Namjoon sighs, low. He glances at Seokjin, then back at Jimin. “It's a lot.”

Seokjin pulls his coffee closer but doesn’t drink. “Namjoon’s been combing through the financials. Wire transfers, internal payments. It’s worse than we thought. Parknoa’s accounts are hollowed out. No wonder Uncle agreed to a merger so fast. He needed the money.”

“I’m still going through everything,” Namjoon adds. “Chronologically, line by line. If there’s a misstep anywhere, a missing invoice or a suspicious payment, something off, we might be able to use it. But it’s slow.”

“That’s if we have time,” Seokjin says.

Jimin looks between them. “Why? Is there a deadline or something?”

Before either of them answers, the waiter returns and sets Jimin’s drink on the table. He thanks him with a nod, then turns back.

Namjoon lifts his coffee, absently running his thumb along the rim. “You haven’t gotten your invitation yet?”

Jimin blinks. “Invitation?”

“There’s a gala next Saturday,” Seokjin says.

Jimin leans back in his seat. “Oh. Taeseong mentioned something about a fundraiser, but I wasn’t really listening. I assumed it was another dinner for investors.”

Seokjin’s mouth curves, but it doesn’t look amused. “Vantem proposed the event as a way to mark the merger. Charity-focused. Scholarships, mostly. Sangchul liked the idea, obviously. He never passes on a chance to dress up and pretend he cares about anything other than himself.”

“But?” Jimin says.

“But,” Seokjin continues, “if Vantem was the one to push for it, there’s probably a reason. My guess? Yoongi’s going to use it. Show up. Reveal himself.”

Jimin doesn’t move, but the old mark at his nape tightens, a quiet pull threading down his spine. He smooths the edge of his cup with one finger and keeps his voice even. “And when uncle finds out?”

“He’ll panic,” Seokjin says. “Tighten access. Cut people out.”

“Which means it’ll be harder to dig,” Namjoon finishes. “If we don’t find something soon, we might lose whatever leverage we have left.”

The silence stretches, not heavy, just waiting. Jimin lets it sit.

After a moment, he looks at Seokjin. “Can’t you talk to Yoongi-hyung? Ask him to hold off. Just give you more time.”

Seokjin scoffs. “As if he’d listen to me. He’s here with a plan, Jimin-ah. He won’t back down, not after I told him I wouldn’t work with him.”

Jimin hesitates. “Maybe he’d listen to me.”

“No.” Seokjin doesn’t even pause. “That’s out of the question. Don’t even think about it.”

“But it’s important,” Jimin says, quieter now. “You said yourself that he offered to work together. I don’t think he’d destroy Parknoa for the sake of revenge.”

“Oh, trust me,” Seokjin says. “He would.”

Namjoon leans forward slightly, his voice low. “Hyung, Jimin has a point. Let’s be realistic. If there’s anyone Yoongi might listen to, it’s him.”

“I said no.” Seokjin’s jaw is tight. “I don’t want Jimin-ah anywhere near him. I don’t trust him.”

He turns to Jimin fully. “Promise me you’ll stay away.”

Jimin holds his gaze. “I’m not a child. I know what I’m doing. This might be our only chance. Please be reasonable.”

Namjoon lets out a breath. “He’s right. And what’s Yoongi going to do? Jimin’s not naïve. He won’t fall for anything.”

Jimin nods once. “Right.”

It doesn’t sound as certain as it should.

Seokjin studies him for a beat longer, then sighs. “Fine. But if he tries anything, I’m going to kill him.”

They finish their drinks without saying much more. When Jimin stands, Seokjin reaches for his wrist and squeezes once, firm and wordless. Outside, the air has cooled. He walks to the car alone, hands in his pockets, the weight of everything pressing close but quiet.

The drive home blurs more than it moves. He takes the main road but slows when he reaches the turn for the estate, his fingers loosening on the wheel without meaning to. He passes the gate, coasts down the slope toward the Jeong property instead. The lights are on. A warm spill from the living room window, something softer in the upstairs hall.

He parks. Sits for a moment, engine ticking down, hands resting still on his thighs.

Then he gets out. Walks slowly. His footsteps land light against the driveway, too careful, like they might echo. When he reaches the door, he presses the bell once. Steps back. Waits.

It takes longer than he expects.

The door opens.

Yoongi stands barefoot in the frame, sweatpants low on his hips, white shirt loose at the collar, the edge slipping just far enough to bare the curve of his collarbone. His hair is half-tied, loose pieces falling across his temples. His eyes land on Jimin, and he doesn’t speak at first.

Jimin swallows.

“Jimin,” Yoongi says. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

Yoongi studies him for another breath, then steps aside. “Okay. Come in.”

Jimin toes off his shoes just inside the door, shrugs off his coat and hangs it on the rack. The hallway is quiet. He follows Yoongi into the living room.

There’s a tall leafy plant near the window. A fern on the low shelf beside the speaker.

Jimin gestures toward them as he sits on the couch. “These are new.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says, settling into the armchair across from him. “House needed a touch of nature or something.”

He glances over. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Just a glass of water,” Jimin says.

Yoongi nods and disappears into the kitchen. The sound of the tap runs low and steady. When he returns, he sets the glass on the table between them without a word. Jimin lifts it, drinks.

Yoongi watches.

“Okay,” he says. “What did you want to talk about?”

“The gala next Saturday.” Jimin sets the glass down. “Are you going?”

Yoongi lifts an eyebrow. “Are you?”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Don’t answer with a question, hyung. And it doesn’t matter if I go or not.”

“But it does,” Yoongi says. “It’ll be much less boring if you’re there.”

Jimin lets out a sound that might’ve been a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “So that’s a yes, then.”

“That’s kind of the whole point.”

Jimin picks up the glass again, turning it once in his hand. The way Yoongi is looking at him makes his neck itch. The bond isn’t loud, but it’s present. A quiet hum just beneath the surface, like static or heat too close to the skin.

“Would you consider not going,” Jimin says, “if I asked you to?”

Yoongi’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Is it you who’s asking? Or your brother?”

“Oh, come on.” Jimin leans forward, voice low. “I might not be part of the company, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. You know what uncle’s done. You know Seokjin-hyung is trying to clean it up. And you know exactly what’ll happen once uncle finds out you’re not just back, but back to burn everything down.”

Yoongi’s tone stays even, but there’s something sharper underneath it. “And you think I’d reveal myself if I wasn’t already holding everything I need? You really think I’d move without a plan?”

“Of course you have a plan. You always do.” Jimin’s voice rises, not by much. “And of course your revenge matters more than anything else. More than us. It always has.”

“This has nothing to do with you,” Yoongi snaps. “You said it yourself, you’re not part of the company. You have a husband now. A new family. Why do you keep coming here?”

“Right. Because none of it ever had anything to do with me. It was always just you. What you needed. What you lost. Nevermind the rest of us. Nevermind Seokjin-hyung. Nevermind me.”

Yoongi scoffs. “You think I was part of that family? That I ever mattered to them?”

“You mattered to me,” Jimin says. He’s standing now, voice unsteady. “But maybe I was wrong. Maybe you never cared.”

Yoongi’s on his feet before he realizes it, catching Jimin by the wrist just before he reaches the hall. The touch burns, but Jimin doesn’t pull back. Yoongi’s scent rises unfiltered between them. Not sweet, not cloying, just heavy with emotion.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Oh, so that’s it?” Yoongi’s voice is tight. “You come here, tell me I’m selfish and impossible, and now you’re walking away?”

Jimin draws in a breath and lets it out slow. The distance between them is gone now, nothing left but air, and it’s not enough.

“Don’t worry,” Jimin says, his voice low. “I don’t plan on coming back.”

Yoongi's fingers stay where they are, light now, like he’s forgotten he’s still touching him. His gaze drops to Jimin’s mouth before flicking back up, jaw clenched. “Good. It would be better if you didn’t.”

The tension hangs there, thick and coiled. Neither of them moves.

Jimin’s pulse is high, but steady. The kind of steady that only comes from bracing for something. Yoongi’s hand is still on his wrist, warm through the sleeve. His grip has loosened, but not enough.

“Then why are you looking at me like that?” Jimin says. His voice isn’t loud, but it lands hard between them. “Why is your scent like this?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. His eyes are darker than before, unreadable. His jaw tightens once.

“Is it guilt?” Jimin asks, quieter now. “Shame? Or something else?”

Yoongi breathes through his nose, slow and tight.

“Don’t,” he says.

Jimin laughs under his breath, bitter. “Right. Of course. I shouldn’t have come here. That was stupid. I should’ve known you wouldn’t feel guilty. You never did. Because if you did, you would’ve looked for me. You would’ve said something. Apologized. Anything.”

Yoongi still hasn’t let go.

“But you didn’t,” Jimin says. “You left. And maybe that’s what hurts the most. Not what happened. But that you just... left me with it.”

The words land like ash. Yoongi’s grip falls away.

“Jimin...” he says, voice low. “You know I can’t fix it. You know an apology would never be enough.”

Jimin doesn’t respond.

“I can’t erase it. I think about that night all the time. About everything that came after. If I could go back—”

“You’re so stupid, hyung.” Jimin’s voice catches on the word, but he pushes through. “I never blamed you for what happened. I blamed you for leaving. Do you have any idea what it took for me to keep going? To act like I was fine while everything in me was—”

“But you did,” Yoongi says. “You moved on.”

Jimin steps back like he’s been slapped. “You think that means it didn’t destroy me?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “What else am I supposed to think?”

“You know nothing, Yoongi” Jimin says. “You don’t get to say that.”

“And what is there more to know?” Yoongi’s voice cracks open now, raw and fast. “You moved on. You married. You have your life, Jimin. You don’t get to show up here and—”

“Mess with your feelings?” Jimin cuts in. “You think this is easy for me?”

Yoongi steps forward. One step. Just enough to close the space again.

“And what? You think it didn’t wreck me?” he says, voice low but shaking. “Hearing you got married. Knowing someone else got to have what I lost. That every time I see that mark I left—” his breath stutters. “You think it doesn’t kill me that I never got to finish it? That I never got to be yours?”

Jimin doesn’t think. He moves.

One hand in Yoongi’s shirt, gripping hard near the collar, yanking him forward. The other pressed flat against his chest, feeling the stutter of Yoongi’s heart through thin cotton.

Their mouths crash before they’re ready. There’s nothing sweet about it.

It’s a breaking point. Years pulled tight, unraveling in an instant. Teeth, breath, the faint scrape of nail against skin.

Yoongi responds like he’s been starved, hands catching at Jimin’s waist, pulling him closer. His mouth parts and Jimin doesn’t hesitate. The taste is familiar, bitter with adrenaline, something older than want.

The bond surges, low in the blood, heavy behind the ribs. Not loud, but undeniable now. The way Jimin melts into it, the way Yoongi lets him.

There’s only breath and grip, the shift of weight, the soft thud of Yoongi’s back hitting the hallway wall as Jimin leans in harder. He’s shaking. So is Yoongi.

One of them makes a sound. It might be Jimin. Might not.

Their mouths part a second later, but their bodies don’t. They stay close, breath mixing, skin too hot, hearts racing. Jimin’s hand is still fisted in Yoongi’s shirt, knuckles white.

Yoongi’s eyes are closed. He opens them slowly.

“Jimin,” he says, barely a whisper.

Jimin swallows, hard. Doesn’t speak.

They stay there, caught in the aftershock, breath shared, hands still half-clenched.

And nothing between them settling.

Chapter Text

"Jimin," Yoongi says, breathless.

Jimin swallows but doesn’t speak. His hand is still in Yoongi’s shirt, fist curled tight near the collar, knuckles pressing into his chest. The air feels too hot. Too close. Something in Yoongi stutters and catches, but he doesn’t pull away.

He leans in.

This time it’s him.

The kiss lands harder than he means it to. Not angry. Just everything else. Jimin meets him there, mouth parting, hands slipping beneath the fabric at Yoongi’s waist. Skin to skin. The contact is soft, but Yoongi feels it like a strike. His body responds before his mind can catch up.

Jimin's fingers press against his stomach, splay higher. Heat trails after them. Yoongi makes a sound he doesn't mean to make. His hand finds Jimin's back, pulls him closer. Their hips touch. He breathes into Jimin's mouth like he needs it to stay standing.

His mouth drags down, finds the curve of Jimin’s jaw, then lower. The scent mark calls to him. He mouths along the edge of it, not scenting, not yet. Just breathing him in.

Jimin shivers. Then purrs.

The sound lands low. Almost silent, but it vibrates through Yoongi’s chest like it belongs there. It knocks something loose.

He presses closer, scent rising without him meaning it to. Wants Jimin covered in it. Wants it on his skin, his clothes, his breath. Wants anyone who gets near him to know.

Jimin tips his head. Exposes the soft place just beneath his ear.

Yoongi stays there, mouth against his neck, breath shallow. He could scent him. He wants to. He doesn’t.

But Jimin does. His arms slide up, face tucking close, pressing to the side of Yoongi’s neck. Then he scents him.

Yoongi goes still.

It isn’t a tease. It isn’t playful. Jimin buries his face in Yoongi’s neck and breathes him in like he means it. Long. Deep. Full-body.

Yoongi feels it everywhere. Like heat down the spine. Like a hand in his chest. He grips Jimin tighter before he can stop himself.

He hasn’t been scented in years. Not like this. Not by someone who matters.

It doesn’t feel like a bond.

It feels like coming home.

And it’s too much.

He lets go.

“Jimin,” he says, breath catching. “Stop. This is wrong.”

Jimin’s eyes are glassy, lips red, scent warm and coaxing. “Then why does it feel so right?”

Yoongi looks away. Steps back.

He wants to hold him. He wants to say yes. But instead he lets go of Jimin’s waist. Straightens his shoulders.

“It doesn’t matter how good it feels,” he says, steady now. “It’s still wrong. You should go.”

Jimin steps back. His mouth tightens, like he's trying not to flinch.

“Right,” he says. His voice is thin. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have... I should go.”

He turns. Yoongi doesn’t follow. The scent is still on his skin. The heat of it hasn’t left.

But before Jimin disappears down the hall, Yoongi speaks.

“Jimin-ah.”

Jimin stops, barely turning his head.

“I can’t postpone the gala,” Yoongi says. “It’s already moving. Too many pieces in place. But tell your brother I can help.”

He watches the way Jimin's shoulders stay perfectly still, even as something in his stance wavers.

“I have access to everything. All Parknoa financial records. Transaction history. Internal approvals. Tell him to talk to Hoseok. He’ll give Seokjin what he needs.”

Jimin blinks. “Hoseok?”

Yoongi nods once. “He’s my partner. He’s been managing my side of the merger. Legal, finance, internal compliance. He’ll know what to do.”

Jimin doesn’t say anything. Just nods. Turns away.

Yoongi stays in the living room.

He hears the soft sound of shoes. The faint rustle of fabric. The click of the door.

Then it's silent. Yoongi just stands there for a while, Jimin’s scent still clinging to the space around him, woven into his skin and clothes. It doesn’t fade. Not right away.

When he does sit, it feels like surrender. Like the room pressed him into it. His body is still humming in the places Jimin touched.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, palms pressed together. Breathes slowly. Not to calm down. Just to keep breathing.

Stillness makes it worse. The scent settles deeper when he stops trying to hold himself apart. It's not just around him. It's in him. Caught in his shirt, along his throat. He feels it every time he moves. It's Jimin in spring. Jimin flushed and shaking. Jimin with his hand under Yoongi's shirt, voice thick with something too old to name.

Yoongi presses his fingers to the side of his neck. The skin is still warm.

He told himself he wouldn’t let it happen. That if he ever saw him again, he’d keep his distance. But Jimin walked in and it all collapsed.

The pull of the bond isn’t loud. Not anymore. Not like when they were younger. But it's still there. A thread buried deep. Tense and trembling.

He leans back slowly, gaze catching on the hallway.

If he closes his eyes, he can still feel the weight of Jimin's hand against his chest. The sound he made when he scented him. The way his scent deepened, open and wanting. Like he remembered everything too.

Yoongi swallows. He should shower. Change clothes. Get him off his skin.

But he doesn’t move.

His eyes fall to the table. The glass Jimin drank from. One fingerprint still visible along the rim.

The house smells like Jimin.

And for a moment, so does the past.

Yoongi checks his reflection, then leans closer to the mirror, fingers combing through his hair. He tries to push the front up into loose spikes the way some of the older boys wear it, more mess than style, but it holds well enough. The leather jacket is still stiff when he pulls it on, new enough to resist, not yet shaped to his shoulders. Black, heavy, just a little too nice for where they’re going.

He still can’t believe Jimin bought it. No one had ever spent that kind of money on him before, especially not for something he hadn’t asked for out loud. It made him feel seen, which was harder to bear than feeling ignored.

Birthdays weren’t really something he celebrated anymore, not since moving in with the Parks. Hyunsuk always gave him some money. Sunae made him a small cake and sent Jimin to his room with it, candles already lit. And Jimin always brought a gift. Somehow bigger every year.

This time it had been the jacket, handed over with that half-smile, like he was getting away with something.

“You kept staring at it every time we passed the window,” he’d said. “I figured it was easier than listening to you not talk about it for another month.”

Now, standing in front of the mirror, Yoongi tries not to think about how warm his chest had gone when he pulled it out of the bag. He adjusts the collar. The spikes are already falling. Whatever. It’s fine.

There’s a knock, then the door opens without waiting.

Jimin steps in, cheeks pink from the cold, hair half in his eyes. He stops when he sees Yoongi, then lights up.

“It fits perfectly,” he says, walking closer. “You look like a proper hyung now.”

Yoongi huffs, embarrassed. “You’re the one who wanted me to wear it.”

“And you listened. Growth.” Jimin leans forward, mock-inspecting the jacket. “I’m proud of you.”

Yoongi grins despite himself. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

They find Seokjin on the stairs, blazer off, shirt untucked, looking more tired than usual.

“Heading out?” he asks, adjusting the strap of his bag.

“Yoongi-hyung’s treating me,” Jimin says. “Belated birthday celebration.”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “Right. You turned fifteen this week.” He nods to Yoongi. “Happy late birthday, Yoongi-yah.”

“Thanks,” Yoongi says. He still doesn’t know what to do with being included so easily.

Seokjin steps closer and hugs him, quick and firm, not awkward. “Don’t let Jiminie bully you into buying snacks he won’t finish.”

“I always finish them,” Jimin mutters.

“Sure you do.”

Yoongi scratches the back of his neck. “You want to come with us? Could grab food after.”

Seokjin shakes his head. “Tempting, but no. I had three mock tests this week. I’m going to sleep for twelve hours.” He waves them off. “You two have fun. See you tomorrow.”

They head out. The sun’s low but not gone. There’s still light on the gravel, a quiet chill in the air. Jimin walks too close, like he always does. Shoulder brushing, elbows bumping, no real sense of space. Yoongi pretends not to notice, but some part of him leans into it anyway. Jimin’s presence has always felt like permission, like the space between them was never something to protect.

It’s a fifteen-minute walk downhill to the small commercial strip nearby, just a stretch of low buildings along the road. A bakery, a convenience store with tables out front, a couple of stationery shops. The arcade sign flickers near the end of the row.

They go in. The heat hits them first, then the noise. It's loud, music bleeding from different machines, plastic buttons clacking in bursts. There’s a row of fighting games against the far wall. Yoongi finds one he likes, The King of Fighters, and drops in a coin.

Jimin watches the first round, then joins for the second. Yoongi wins with the same move three times in a row.

Jimin glares at the screen. “You’re just doing that same kick again.”

“It’s not my fault you fall for it every time.”

“That’s cheating.”

"You just panic when the screen flashes,” he mutters, digging for another coin.

They go again. Jimin wins the next one. They call it even.

On their way out, Jimin spots the coin karaoke down a narrow hallway near the end of the arcade. The lights are dim, but the sign above the door is unmistakable. He grabs Yoongi’s sleeve.

“Two songs,” he says. “Come on. It’s your birthday.”

Yoongi groans. “You've been planning this, haven't you?”

“Maybe. Doesn’t mean you're getting out of it.”

He sighs like it’s the worst thing in the world, but he follows him in. The door clicks shut behind them.

The karaoke booth is dim, lit mostly by the glow of the screen. The walls are covered in vinyl padding, scuffed at the edges. There’s a bench along one side and just enough space for the two of them to sit without bumping knees, though they still do.

Jimin scrolls through the menu like he’s been here a hundred times. "Okay," he says, thumb flying over the screen. "We’re doing BigBang first. You’ll know this one, even if you pretend you don’t."

Yoongi groans. "Unbelievable."

"You’ll live. I promise."

The song starts. It's their latest hit, "Lies." Jimin grabs the mic and throws himself into it with too much energy for the small space. He knows every word, off by half a beat, bouncing his knee and laughing between verses.

Yoongi watches him for a second, then shakes his head. He leans back, arms crossed, trying not to smile.

Jimin finishes with a dramatic pose, half-winded. "Your turn."

Yoongi sighs, scrolls through the menu slower. Finds something older. Kang Jin's “Ddaengbul”. The moment the intro starts, Jimin groans.

"You’re so predictable."

Yoongi grins. "What? It's a classic."

He sings it half-seriously, leaning into the deeper register. He doesn’t have a stage voice, but it’s steady. Jimin watches, still catching his breath, eyes bright.

They go back and forth. Rain, Epik High, an old trot song Yoongi says his mother used to sing while folding laundry. Jimin tries to harmonize and fails on purpose. Yoongi tells him to stop helping. They laugh. The mics crackle. There’s no space between them now.

Yoongi doesn’t remember the last time he felt this good.

They leave the booth flushed and a little hoarse. The street’s gone darker while they were inside.

At the convenience store, they make instant ramen and carry it outside to the plastic table by the window. Jimin adds too much chili powder. Yoongi switches their bowls when he’s not looking.

They eat with disposable chopsticks, knees touching under the table. Jimin drinks Milkis straight from the can and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

"You have the music taste of a middle-aged man," Jimin says.

"And you’re one endorsement away from becoming a trainee," Yoongi shoots back.

Jimin shrugs. "Wouldn’t be the worst thing."

Yoongi rolls his eyes. "You’d hate being told what to do."

"Not if it meant dancing all day."

Yoongi doesn’t answer. Just slurps his noodles and watches Jimin tilt his head back to finish the drink.

They sit like that for a while. It’s not exactly quiet. Traffic moves somewhere beyond the curb. The freezer fan drones behind the glass. But it feels like stillness anyway.

When they finish eating, they toss their trash and stand. Jimin stretches, arms overhead, jacket lifting a little where the hoodie rides up beneath it. 

"Are we heading back?" he asks.

Yoongi nods. "Yeah. Let’s go."

They take the long way home, walking slow, the bag of snacks swinging from Jimin’s wrist. Neither of them says much, but it’s a quiet that feels full, not empty. The night’s colder than before. The wind cuts a little sharper around the corners of the estate.

When the house comes into view, Jimin slows. “I don’t feel like going in yet,” he says. “Let’s stay out a little longer.”

There’s a bench near the side path, half-shaded by a low tree and the hedge that wraps around the far edge of the lawn. Yoongi follows him without a word.

Jimin drops onto the bench and rustles through the bag. “I bought too much,” he mutters, pulling out a pack of grape gummies and a small red box of chocolate-covered biscuits. “Sorry.”

Yoongi shrugs. “You could’ve bought everything. I wouldn’t care.”

Jimin glances at him, mouth twitching. “You say that now.”

They eat a little more, sugar sharp on Yoongi’s tongue. His legs stretch out in front of him. Jimin’s foot bumps against his once, then doesn’t move.

When the food’s gone, they sit back. The chill sinks in fast.

Jimin shivers.

Yoongi starts to take off his jacket.

“Don’t,” Jimin says. “You’ll freeze.”

He leans in before Yoongi can argue, tugs Yoongi’s arm up and around his shoulders. “Here,” he says. Then rests his head just under Yoongi’s jaw.

Yoongi’s whole body stills.

Jimin doesn’t say anything. He just stays there, pressed in close, the heat of him soaking through.

Then his nose brushes against Yoongi’s neck. He takes a breath. Then another. Nuzzles into the curve above the collar, the place where scent holds strongest.

Yoongi feels it everywhere.

It’s not planned. It’s not thought through. Just instinct. Trust. Something older than either of them can name.

Jimin’s scent is still faint, still changing, but it’s there. Sweet in a way nothing else is. Green and soft and just starting to thicken at the edges.

Yoongi breathes in slowly, eyes half-closed.

There’s nothing in the world he wants more than this.

They stay like that for a long time.

Eventually, Jimin straightens a little. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sighs, soft against Yoongi’s collar.

“We should go in.”

Yoongi nods. They rise slowly, movements quiet, like neither of them wants to break whatever held between them.

The last stretch back to the house passes in silence.

Inside, the lights are low. The living room glows soft with lamplight. Seokjin is on the couch, elbows resting on his knees. Sunae stands just behind him, one hand settled on the back of the couch.

Seokjin looks up when they come in. His expression is carefully blank, but the strain in his voice makes something cold settle in Yoongi’s chest.

“Appa collapsed at the office,” he says quietly. “They think it was heart failure. He’s unconscious at the hospital now.”

Jimin stares, unblinking, like the words haven't fully registered. His voice is barely audible. “Is Eomma already there?”

Seokjin nods, slow and controlled. “She went ahead with Uncle. We should go too. The driver’s outside.”

He rises to his feet then, deliberately, with none of his usual ease. Jimin remains still until Seokjin gently places a hand at his shoulder, nudging him toward the hallway. Only then does Jimin start moving, his steps quiet and unsure, guided by his brother's steady presence.

Sunae watches without speaking, her hand still resting on the back of the couch, knuckles pale from the pressure she's putting on them.

Yoongi stays near the living room doorway, feeling suddenly out of place but unable to move.

“Sunae-imoni,” he says once they're alone, “Is Hyunsuk-ajusshi going to be okay?”

She looks at him, her eyes steady but tired. “I’ll pray that he is.”

Yoongi nods, eyes falling to the floor. “Poor Jimin,” he murmurs. “And Seokjin-hyung. I wish there was something I could do.”

Sunae crosses toward him, gently brushing a hand over his hair. “There’s nothing you can do right now, child. Go wash up, and wait in your room.”

Her hand lingers there, gentle. Like she wants to say more but doesn’t.

“I want to be here when they come back,” he says. “I want to know if he wakes up.”

“We don’t know when that'll be.” Her voice softens further. “If I hear anything, I'll come tell you.”

Yoongi nods again, slowly, accepting.

Then he turns toward the hallway, trying not to feel the heavy quiet that settles around him like a shadow.

In the bathroom, the water runs cold. He splashes his face, dries it roughly with the towel, doesn’t look in the mirror. 

Back in his room, he changes into something softer. Leaves the leather jacket folded neatly over the back of the chair, smoothing it down without thinking.

Then he sits at the edge of the bed. Not under the blanket. Not lying down.

Sleep isn’t coming. He knows that before he even tries.

There’s nothing left to do but wait.

But it’s there. That weight in his chest. The same one from the hospice. The one that settled in the moment they said his mother might not wake up.

It feels like knowing. Even when you’re still hoping.

He keeps his eyes on the door.

Just in case.

The funeral takes place three days later.

There’s a private memorial hall in the city, the kind reserved for families like theirs. Old wood, pale tile, white flowers arranged so carefully they hardly look touched. No one speaks above a murmur. The room smells like incense and something more sterile beneath it.

Yoongi stands near the back. Sunae beside him. Neither of them wearing black, but their clothes are neat, dark, clean. His shirt collar itches. The jacket doesn’t quite fit.

The hall fills quickly. Men in dark suits that barely creased when they moved. Women in pearls and long coats. Friends of the family, business partners, a few political faces. They speak to Mihyun quietly, bow to Seokjin, glance at Jimin and then look away. As if his size makes his grief harder to name. As if it's easier not ti see it. Sangchul stands on Mihyun’s other side, nodding politely, hands folded in front of him.

Mihyun doesn’t cry. Her hands are folded in front of her, unmoving. Like she doesn’t trust herself to let go. Seokjin holds still beside her, jaw tight, posture too straight. Jimin stands a step behind, hands clenched, eyes red but dry.

Yoongi watches from the back. He doesn’t try to get closer.

It’s all too quiet. Too folded in. The kind of grief that hides itself in formality.

Later, when the speeches are over and the line of guests has thinned, Yoongi sees Jimin slip out through a side door. No one follows. Not right away.

Yoongi doesn’t move.

He just stands there, hands at his sides, watching the door swing shut again. Sunae says something low to the woman beside her, then touches Yoongi’s arm. “We should go,” she says.

He nods.

They leave with the last wave of staff and extended family. Outside, the sun is already dipping behind the building. The wind is sharper than it was that morning. Yoongi doesn’t say anything on the ride home.

Neither does Sunae.

It’s late afternoon when Yoongi finds him. The first time he's seen Jimin alone since the funeral three days ago.

The air is cool but clear, the sun low behind the hills. Jimin sits by the pond, legs crossed, one hand flicking stones into the water without looking. The ripples spread out and disappear. A small pile of gravel has gathered beside him. Frogs keep their distance, tucked somewhere near the reeds.

Yoongi watches for a moment before walking over.

“You’re scaring the frogs,” he says.

Jimin doesn’t look up. “They’re not scared,” he murmurs. “They’re hiding.”

Yoongi doesn’t argue. He sinks down beside him, careful not to bump the stones.

It’s quiet for a while.

The wind moves the surface of the pond in small shivers. A crow calls from somewhere past the trees. Jimin’s sleeve is pushed halfway up one arm, the skin beneath pale.

“I thought it would be louder,” Jimin says suddenly.

Yoongi glances at him.

“Grief,” Jimin adds. “Funerals. I thought it would feel more like falling. But it’s just... quiet.”

Yoongi looks back at the pond. “Sometimes it is. Sometimes it’s worse that way.”

Jimin nods, but it’s not clear if he agrees or just heard.

“They keep saying he was a great man,” Jimin says. “That he’ll be remembered. But that’s not what I miss.”

“What do you miss?”

Jimin’s mouth tightens. “The way he used to tap the steering wheel when he was driving. Or how he’d always check if I had snacks before school. He wasn’t perfect, but he was mine.”

Yoongi feels something shift in his chest. He thinks of the way his mother used to hum while she cooked, how her hands always smelled like ginger and soap. How she used to touch his shoulder twice when saying goodbye. Once out of habit, once out of worry.

“I know,” he says.

Jimin finally looks at him. “You do, don’t you.”

There’s no question in it.

Yoongi nods.

The sun slips lower, throwing long shadows over the grass.

“You’re not going to leave, right?” Jimin asks. His voice is steady, but he doesn’t look at him.

Yoongi blinks. “What?”

“I mean, not right now. Not... ever. You won’t leave me.”

The words sit between them. Not dramatic. Not desperate. Just there.

Yoongi’s throat feels tight. He looks down at his hands.

“I won’t,” he says quietly. “Not unless someone makes me.”

That makes Jimin turn.

His eyes are glassy but calm. He nods once, slow. The kind of nod tham means more than it says. Like he’s sealing something he doesn’t know how to name.

They stay like that a while longer. The frogs never come out.

When the light starts to fade, Jimin stands first. Yoongi rises beside him.

They don’t talk on the way back.

They don’t need to.

Chapter Text

Saturday marks Jimin’s second class at BIT.

He’d looked forward to it all week. There’s something about the studio that steadies him. The way the kids fall into rhythm, how movement brings them to life. It’s not performance. It’s something quieter. More real.

Class goes well. Better than the first, maybe. He recognizes almost all their names now. Minjun greets him with a gummy grin and a lopsided stretch. Jimin corrects a few postures, laughs when someone tries to cartwheel mid-warm-up. When it’s over, they linger a little too long. He doesn't mind.

He showers quickly and changes into jeans and a dark sweater. His hair is still damp at the nape when he steps into the hallway, texting Taehyung to see if he’s still in his classroom.

He’s halfway there when a voice stops him. Familiar. Even, low-toned, with that careful rhythm Yoongi always had when he was trying to explain something.

Jimin freezes.

He turns slightly, eyes catching on the edge of one of the multipurpose rooms. The partition wall is drawn back. Inside, foldable chairs are set up in loose rows, and the lights are warm but bright enough to see. About a dozen kids sit clustered near the front, all facing the same direction.

And there he is.

Yoongi stands by a whiteboard in slacks and a white t-shirt, blazer sleeves pushed up just past the wrist. His hair is slicked back, though a few strands have fallen loose around his temples. There are glasses perched low on his nose, the kind that should make him look older but somehow don’t. He’s gesturing with one hand, the other tucked into his pocket.

Jimin steps back, just far enough to stay out of view, but not so far that he can’t still see him clearly.

He looks different, but not unfamiliar. More put together. More controlled. But the way he tilts his head when he’s listening, that’s the same.

And the way Jimin’s pulse kicks, that hasn’t changed either.

“You don’t have to be good at drawing to be a designer,” Yoongi is saying. His voice carries, but it doesn’t try to fill the space. “You have to notice things. What people pick up and put back down. Where their hands go first. What makes them stay.”

The kids are listening. 

A boy near the back raises his hand halfway, then pulls it down again. Yoongi spots it anyway.

“You were going to ask something,” he says.

The boy flushes. “I was just wondering... do you ever still mess up?”

Yoongi laughs, short and real. “You should see my inbox.”

One girl raises her hand next, asks something Jimin doesn’t catch.

Yoongi nods. “Yeah. Exactly. Scent’s part of it. Not just how something looks or feels, but what it reminds you of. Memory is physical. That’s why fragrance matters.”

Another hand goes up. A boy in a navy hoodie.

“No,” Yoongi says, smiling faintly. “I didn’t study in Korea. I couldn’t afford it then. I left when I was nineteen. Took scholarships where I could get them. Worked every job under the sun. Studied at night. Failed a lot. Learned more by messing up than getting it right.”

He says it plainly. Not with pride. Just as fact.

“Vantem didn’t start big. It started with recycled bottles in a half-basement and a fragrance brief we got off a message board. I had a friend who believed in me, and that was enough to start.”

His eyes don’t move toward the door. Not once.

Jimin isn’t sure how long he stays there, only that he can’t leave. Something about the way Yoongi speaks, easy and self-contained, doesn’t line up with the memory he carries.

When the talk ends, the kids clap. Hoseok steps in from the back, thanks everyone for coming. He moves toward Yoongi as the room begins to empty.

“You did great,” Hoseok says, loud enough for Jimin to hear. “I told you you wouldn’t suck.”

Yoongi groans. “I never said I’d suck.”

“You implied it.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. Hoseok laughs, and then pulls him in for a hug, quick but familiar, his hand resting between Yoongi’s shoulder blades.

Yoongi doesn’t tense. He leans into it, just a little.

When they pull apart, Yoongi’s smile is full. Crooked, unguarded. The kind Jimin hadn’t realized he missed.

It lands harder than it should.

He wonders, briefly, what it takes to earn that kind of closeness now.

Wonders if it’s too late.

The thought sits wrong in his chest. Too heavy, too loud.

He doesn’t realize Taehyung is behind him until a warm voice speaks over his shoulder.

“Oh my god,” Taehyung breathes. “Is that Yoongi-hyung?”

Jimin jumps slightly. “Don’t sneak up on me,” he mutters, then glances back toward the room. “Yeah. Apparently he and Hoseok-ssi work together.”

Taehyung leans in, eyes narrowing toward the folding wall and the last few kids trickling out. “Since when?”

Jimin shrugs. “No idea. He said his partner’s name was Hoseok. I didn’t connect it at the time.”

Before Taehyung can respond, movement catches in the corner of the room. Yoongi looks up. Hoseok is still beside him, hand resting briefly on his shoulder, mid-laugh. Then Yoongi’s gaze lands on them.

He freezes, only for a second. Then nudges Hoseok gently with his elbow and says something low. Hoseok turns. His face flickers into recognition.

A second later, they’re walking over.

Yoongi approaches first, slower than usual, hands in his pockets. Hoseok trails half a step behind, relaxed, curious.

“Taehyung-ah,” Yoongi says, voice quieter now. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Taehyung smiles, but there’s a carefulness behind it. “Same. You look...” He pauses. “Different.”

Yoongi huffs out a laugh. “It’s been thirteen years.”

“Has it?” Taehyung tilts his head. “Feels like yesterday you pushed me into the pond and pretended it was an accident.”

Yoongi smirks. “It was an accident. Mostly.”

Taehyung snorts, a low amused sound. “I had to walk home with one shoe. You owe me for that.”

Beside them, Hoseok looks between the two, eyebrows raised. “Okay, and how do you two know each other?”

“We grew up together,” Taehyung answers. “Same neighborhood. Same mess of a childhood.”

“You two go way back, huh,” Hoseok says, watching them.

Then he glances toward Jimin, like only just remembering he’s there. “Ah, yes. Yoongi-hyung, this is—”

“Jimin,” Yoongi says quietly, cutting in.

Something shifts in Hoseok’s face. “Wait.” He blinks. “This is the Jimin?”

Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “I guess that depends on which one you mean.”

Hoseok lets out a laugh. “You know exactly what I mean. Wow. Small world doesn’t even cover it.” He claps his hands once, decisive. “That settles it. We’re going for drinks. Come on. I won’t take no for an answer.”

“You just want an excuse to expense another round,” Yoongi mutters.

“Absolutely. Let’s go.”

Taehyung looks to Jimin. Jimin, still stunned, just nods. He doesn’t know what else to do.

They follow Hoseok down the hall together. 

Outside, the light is fading, the street just starting to glow with shop signs and passing cars. A few minutes later, they slip into a quiet café just down the block. The place is warm, the kind of heat that clings to your skin after you sit down. They find a table in the back corner, half-shielded by a column and close to the window. Coats come off. Shoulders ease. Something in the air softens, just a little.

Jimin ends up across from Yoongi. Hoseok beside him. Taehyung to his right. The table is small enough that their knees keep brushing.

The server arrives a moment later.

Hoseok glances up. “What’s everyone drinking?”

“Iced americano,” Yoongi says.

“Same,” Jimin murmurs.

“Coke,” Taehyung adds.

“Sprite,” Hoseok finishes, nodding to the server.

The server leaves, and for a moment the table is quiet. Jimin watches Yoongi from the corner of his eye. There’s a faint flush still at his collarbones, like the heat of the café hasn’t settled yet. He looks good like this. At ease. Relaxed. Like he belongs here. Like he belongs.

Hoseok turns to Jimin. “So. How’s it been so far? The class.”

Jimin nods slowly. “It’s good. Better than good, honestly. I didn’t think I’d love it this much.”

Yoongi glances up at that but doesn’t speak.

Jimin continues, quieter now. “It’s not like performing. But... it fills the same part of me.”

“He’s good with the kids,” Taehyung says. “They already follow him around like ducklings.”

“They better,” Jimin says, smiling. “I bring them grape gummies.”

Their drinks arrive. Hoseok thanks the server and nudges Jimin’s americano closer to him. Their fingers brush, brief. Yoongi watches it happen. Doesn’t react. But his gaze lingers.

Jimin clears his throat. “How did you come up with BIT?”

Hoseok sits back a little. “I grew up in a small apartment in Incheon. No money. Too much energy. I was lucky if I had pencils that worked. I wanted to draw, to dance, to build things. But everything creative felt like a luxury I didn’t deserve. BIT was the place I needed when I was a kid. So I made it.”

There’s no performance in the way he says it. Just quiet clarity.

“You didn’t just make it,” Yoongi says. “You made it work.”

Hoseok glances at him, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “We both did.”

Jimin watches Yoongi lean closer, say something low that makes Hoseok laugh. Hoseok’s hand lands lightly on Yoongi’s forearm. Yoongi doesn’t move away.

Jimin feels it in his chest. The bond, low and insistent, like something breathing under his skin. His own scent spikes before he can stop it.

Yoongi looks at him then. Just for a second. His eyes flicker down, settle at the curve of Jimin’s neck.

Jimin forces a smile. “And how did you two meet?”

“University,” Hoseok says. “We shared a flat in Amsterdam the whole time. He wouldn’t talk to anyone for the first two months. Just studied, ate instant noodles, and glared at me like I was the reason the sun set late.”

“You were loud,” Yoongi says.

“And you were like a grumpy cat with a caffeine addiction,” Hoseok grins.

Taehyung laughs, nudging Jimin under the table. “They’re like an old couple.”

Yoongi doesn’t smile at that. But he doesn’t deny it.

The conversation drifts. Something about funding, about an upcoming community showcase. Jimin listens. Nods when he should. But his thoughts are loud.

Next to him, Taehyung’s phone buzzes. He checks it a second later, thumb moving quick across the screen.

“Jungkook’s done early,” Tae says. “Wants to meet. We took my car, remember? You coming?”

Jimin shakes his head. “Go ahead. I’ll grab a cab.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Yoongi speaks before anyone else can. “I’ll drive him. I’m heading back anyway.”

Jimin blinks.

Taehyung looks between them, then stands. “Okay. Thanks, hyung.”

He squeezes Jimin’s shoulder on his way out.

Hoseok rises too, grabbing his coat. “I’ve got a bit of paperwork to finish up at the center. Taehyung, walk with me?”

Taehyung nods, already pulling on his jacket.

They leave together, Hoseok waving once over his shoulder.

It leaves just the two of them at the table. The iced americanos sit half-melted between them.

For a moment, neither of them speaks.

Then Yoongi looks over. “You ready to go?”

Jimin nods. “Yeah.” He pushes back his chair, pulls on his coat. Yoongi does the same.

They step out into the evening chill. Jimin follows as Yoongi leads the way, their footsteps soft against the pavement. They pass the quiet stretch of shops, rounding the corner back toward BIT, where Yoongi’s car is parked along the curb.

Yoongi opens the passenger door without a word. Jimin climbs in. The door clicks shut behind him. He fastens his seatbelt, settles his hands in his lap.

Through the windshield, he watches Yoongi come around the front of the car. His coat’s unbuttoned. The collar turned slightly from the walk. He doesn’t rush. Just moves the way he always has, calm and self-contained.

The driver’s side opens. Yoongi gets in and settles behind the wheel.

The car smells like burnt wood and iron soil, and beneath it, the warmth of persimmon. Ripe, sweet, just edged with tang. It’s always been there. The note that used to hit Jimin first, back when scent meant comfort more than pull. It’s stronger now. Deeper. But it’s still Yoongi. Still his.

Jimin looks out the window as they pull away from the curb. Streetlights flicker past in a slow, golden rhythm.

He doesn’t mean to stare, but his gaze keeps sliding sideways. Yoongi’s hair is pushed back, starting to come loose. His neck is thicker than it used to be. Shoulders broader. The coat pulls slightly when he turns the wheel, fabric stretching across muscle.

They drive in silence for a while, just the low row of tires on asphalt. Then, Yoongi’s voice cuts through, low but careful. “Do you still dance?”

Jimin swallows. He’s not ready for the question, not from Yoongi. He stares out the window. “Not really.”

“Why not?”

Jimin hesitates. His voice stays even, but something in it gives. “Life happened, I guess.”

Yoongi doesn’t push. Just nods.

A few more seconds pass.

“So… Amsterdam,” Jimin says, voice light but edged with something else.

“They offered the best scholarships,” Yoongi says. “And the program was right. Design, materials, production. Everything I wanted in one place.”

Jimin nods slowly. “I’m glad it worked out. You always dreamed of that. Of getting out, of making something that was yours.”

“And you always dreamed of being a dancer,” Yoongi says. There’s a change in his voice. Something quieter, almost careful. “I thought you’d be on stage somewhere by now. Big halls. Packed crowds. The whole thing.”

Jimin lets out a short breath. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“That’s not—” Yoongi starts, turning slightly toward him. “That’s not what I meant, Jimin-ah. It’s just... it mattered so much to you.”

Jimin looks away. “Yeah, well. I guess I’m destined to let go of the things that matter to me.”

Silence falls again.

The car winds through the last stretch of road before the estate. The trees thin. Light scatters in fragments across the windshield.

Yoongi pulls up near the side gate of the Kim property. Parks. Neither of them moves.

Jimin turns to him. “Thanks for the ride.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer right away. He looks at him, just looks, in that way he used to. Like he’s searching for something he hasn’t dared ask for in years.

The quiet holds. Not heavy. Not light. Just thick with something that hasn’t been named.

Jimin’s fingers curl slowly where they rest on his thigh, like something in him is bracing without meaning to. He doesn’t mean to lean closer, but his body tips forward anyway. Drawn in. The scent between them is stronger, deeper than memory, achingly familiar.

Yoongi leans in too.

Not all the way. Not enough. But close.

Then his gaze drops, and the moment slips.

“You’ll be at the gala next Saturday?” he says, quiet but certain.

It’s not a question.

Jimin breathes out, soft and crooked. A laugh catches at the edges of it, a little frayed. “Wouldn’t miss your grand entrance for the world.”

He opens the door before he can think better of it.

Yoongi watches him go.

Jimin walks to the house without looking back. When he reaches the porch, he turns. The car’s still parked by the curb. Yoongi’s still in the driver’s seat, watching him through the windshield. He hasn’t moved.

Jimin holds his gaze for a second longer than he means to. Then he goes inside.

The lights are low. The hallway is quiet.

Taeseong is in the living room, seated on the edge of the couch, one leg crossed over the other, phone resting in his hand.

He looks up when Jimin enters. “Where were you?”

Jimin shrugs off his coat. “Out.”

Taeseong watches him. “And that means?”

Jimin lets out a soft laugh, sharp at the edges. “Why do you care? Not like you tell me where you are every night.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. Just heads upstairs, the weight of the evening trailing behind him.

In his room, he drops the coat on the chair, then sits on the bed and presses his palms into his eyes.

Yoongi’s scent is still in his head. In the warmth of the car, in the way his voice curled around Jimin’s name.

He thinks about the shape of his mouth. The way he looked at him when the car stopped. The way they almost kissed, and how much he wanted it.

It brings him back.

To the first time.

To everything that came before.

The school grounds are quieter than usual. Early dismissal has emptied most of the main building, but the lingering ones cluster in pairs, still in uniform, some slouched on benches, some scrolling through their phones with that kind of restless boredom that comes with too much time and nothing urgent to do.

Jimin stands beside the hedges, shoulder brushing bark, bag slung low. He says no before Eunwoo even finishes asking, and now Eunwoo walks back to his friends across the lawn like nothing happened. Maybe it hasn’t.

"That was fast," Taehyung says, sliding up beside him with two drinks from the convenience store nearby. He hands one over like it’s already been accepted.

Jimin blinks. "What was?"

"Eunwoo." Taehyung sips his drink, watching the boy rejoin his group. "You turned him down before he even got to the question mark."

Jimin looks down at the straw wrapper in his fingers. "I’m not interested."

"In Eunwoo, or in dating?"

He shrugs. The kind that doesn’t invite a follow-up.

Taehyung hums. “You say that, but if Yoongi hyung asked you out, you’d probably pass out on the spot.”

That gets a reaction. Jimin looks up, too quickly. "That’s not true."

"Uh-huh." Taehyung leans in, all teeth. "Then why are you blushing?"

Jimin’s hand goes to his cheek before he can stop it.

"Am I being that obvious?" he asks, low.

Taehyung doesn’t tease him for the question. He just smiles, smaller now. "Duh. Both of you are."

Jimin frowns. "I don’t think hyung sees me that way. I think... I think he still sees me as a kid."

"You’re not," Taehyung says. "And he knows it. Trust me. The way he looks at you sometimes… it’s not exactly brotherly."

Jimin lets out a quiet breath, the kind of sound that could be a laugh in another life. "Yeah, well. He’s not doing anything about it."

Taehyung nudges him with his elbow. "Then maybe you should do something about it."

The silence after that isn’t heavy, but it settles between them. Jimin doesn’t answer. He just taps the condensation down the side of his drink, watching the way the waterline thins near the bottom.

A buzz in Taehyung’s pocket breaks it. He checks his phone. "Driver’s here. Lets go."

They start walking.

Jimin glances sideways. "If something did happen... my mother would never allow it."

Taehyung doesn’t look at him. “She doesn’t have to know.”

They don’t speak again until the car pulls up. Taehyung gets in first, sliding across the seat. Jimin follows, still thinking.

The rest of the day drags. He doesn’t see Yoongi. Not when he gets home, not after dinner. Just that one glimpse in the morning before he left for school: hair still damp, eyes ringed darker than usual, something folded under his arm as he disappeared down the back wing.

By evening, the house has gone quiet. Seokjin’s door shut, his mother vanished to her room hours ago. Jimin pretends to read through the last few pages of his textbook, but nothing sticks. His mind keeps circling around Taehyung’s voice, the question he didn’t answer, the way Eunwoo smiled like he thought he had a chance.

It’s well past ten when he finally moves. He waits for the silence to settle fully, then steps into the hallway barefoot, quiet on the stairs. At the end of the corridor, he knocks, soft and cautious. Waits a beat, then pushes the door open without waiting for an answer.

Yoongi’s at the desk, hunched forward, sleeves rolled. His hair is falling into his eyes, lit by the warm pool of light from the desk lamp. There’s a stack of books beside him, notes open, pen moving across a half-used page.

Jimin leans against the doorframe.

“Hyung,” he says, low. “You’re still studying? It’s late.”

Yoongi doesn’t look up right away. Just finishes the sentence he’s writing, then sets the pen down.

“Yeah, well,” he says, voice rough with tiredness, “your uncle made me re-sort the back storeroom. The one behind the laundry. Took all afternoon. Didn’t get to start until after dinner.”

Jimin feels something tighten in his chest. Not surprise. Not anymore. Just that same quiet, bitter heat.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Yoongi looks up at that. “What for?”

“For the way my mom and uncle are treating you,” Jimin says. “You shouldn’t be working like this, hyung. You should be at school.”

Yoongi just shrugs. There’s no anger in it, but something resigned. Quiet, practiced.

“It is what it is,” he says. “That’s why I have to study extra hard. And…” He gestures toward the books. “Thanks. For asking Minsik-seonsaengnim to bring these. It means a lot.”

“It’s nothing,” Jimin says. “I wish I could do more.”

Yoongi smiles at that. Small, tired. But real.

Then he looks back at the page and picks up his pen again.

Jimin hesitates. “I’ll leave you to it, then. See you tomorrow?”

He’s already at the door when Yoongi says, “Wait.”

Jimin stops. Looks back.

“I’m almost done with this section,” Yoongi says. “And I need a break. Wait up a few minutes?”

Jimin nods and walks back inside. He sits on the edge of Yoongi’s bed, careful not to disturb anything. Tries to stay still, but keeps fidgeting, crossing and uncrossing his legs, tugging at the edge of his sleeve.

Yoongi finishes writing a few minutes later. He caps his pen, stretches his neck, and leans back in the chair with a soft crack of his shoulders. His eyes flick to Jimin, who’s now turned sideways on the bed, one leg tucked under the other, fingers twitching against the seam of his pants.

“What’s up with you?” Yoongi asks. “You seem nervous. Is it school?”

Jimin blinks. “It’s not school.”

Yoongi raises a brow. “Someone giving you a hard time?”

“No,” Jimin says. “It’s not that. It’s just—” He trails off. Frowns. Tries again. “It’s weird.”

Yoongi turns fully in his chair now, facing him. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Jimin rolls his eyes, but it’s more reflex than deflection. He hesitates, the question sitting too high in his throat.

“Have you ever been on a date?” he blurts out.

Yoongi looks caught off guard. He glances away, then back again, a faint pink climbing his ears.

“Have you?” he counters.

Jimin lets out a soft laugh. “Why are you always like this? I asked you first.”

Yoongi scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

That lands heavier than it should.

Jimin straightens a little. “Oh. You haven’t mentioned it.”

Yoongi shrugs. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

“When was this? Who with?”

“Third year of middle school. A girl asked me out.”

“And?”

“It was just a couple of dates,” Yoongi says, half-smiling now. “We went to the bakery near the bus stop. Talked. That’s it.”

“Did you kiss?” Jimin asks, too fast, too curious.

Yoongi laughs, embarrassed. “Oh my god, Jimin.”

“Well?” Jimin presses. “Did you?”

Yoongi pauses, then nods. “Yeah.”

It knocks something loose in Jimin. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Of course Yoongi has kissed someone. He’s seventeen. He’s beautiful.

He looks down, mouth opening to say something, but Yoongi nudges his arm.

“What about you?”

Jimin clears his throat. “I’ve been asked out… a couple of times. But I don’t know. I just didn’t feel like saying yes was the right thing to do.”

Yoongi hums. “Good. You’re too young to be dating anyway.”

That gets under Jimin’s skin.

“I’ll be fifteen in October,” he says, frowning. “I’m not a kid. Everyone my age is dating.”

Yoongi watches him for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “Is there someone you like?”

Jimin hesitates. Then offers a small, sideways smile. “Maybe.”

Yoongi tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s bracing for the answer. “Who?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Oh yes you are.” Yoongi leans in, mock-serious now. “I need to know who’s ass I’m supposed to kick if they hurt you.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. Says nothing.

Yoongi doesn’t let it go. “Come on. Tell me.”

Jimin shakes his head and mimes zipping his lips.

“Jimin,” Yoongi warns.

But Jimin just laughs, and that’s when Yoongi lunges, tickling him without mercy. Jimin squirms, shrieking under his breath, trying to twist away, but they both end up on the bed in a tangle of limbs, laughing too hard to breathe.

Yoongi pins him, hands around his wrists. He’s above him, straddling his thighs, face flushed, chest rising and falling.

“I’m not letting you go until you tell me who,” he says, grinning.

Jimin stares up at him. Breathless. A little dazed.

“You, stupid,” he says.

It slips out too fast. Too real.

Yoongi goes still.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Close.

Something in Yoongi’s scent deepens, thicker now, edged with heat. His gaze drops to Jimin’s mouth, then lifts again.

Jimin wets his lips. He doesn’t mean to.

And then Yoongi leans in.

The kiss is soft. Clumsy. Not even a full press at first, just the shape of it. Warm breath, a touch of skin. Then Yoongi pulls back.

He sits beside him. Silent.

They’re both still breathing hard. Neither says a word.

After a while, Yoongi murmurs, “Sorry.”

Jimin turns his head. His chest is still rising too fast.

He frowns. “Well, I’m not.”

That makes Yoongi look at him. Really look.

His brows twitch. His mouth parts like he wants to say something but has to pick his way there first.

“Jimin-ah…” He adjusts his posture, folding one leg under the other, voice quiet but steady. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I wanted to—” he gestures vaguely, then drops his hand—“do it right. Ask you out. Take you somewhere. But I’m… I can’t really give you anything. Not right now. And if your mom finds out—”

“I don’t care,” Jimin says, fast. “I don’t need any of that. I don’t need fancy dates. I just… I just want to be with you.”

He swallows. His voice goes smaller.

“No one has to know. Not yet.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer right away. But he reaches for Jimin’s hand, and when he finds it, he holds it gently. Runs his thumb across the knuckles like it means something.

Jimin sighs and lets his shoulders drop.

Yoongi smiles at him, a little sideways. A little stunned.

“So,” he says, softly. “Park Jimin. Does this mean you want to be my boyfriend?”

Jimin giggles. It breaks the tension in his chest like a popped thread. “I thought you’d never ask,” he says, and links their fingers together like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Yoongi inches a little closer.

“Jagiya,” he says, mock-formal.

Jimin punches him in the shoulder. “Oh my god. Stop. Or this will be the fastest breakup in history.”

Yoongi laughs, real and warm, and slips an arm around Jimin’s shoulder. “Come here,” he says. “I want to cuddle with my boyfriend.”

Jimin leans in without thinking. His head finds the curve of Yoongi’s shoulder like it’s been there before. He closes his eyes and breathes in. Smoke, faint and lingering. Wet earth. And the familiar persimmon that always makes him feel steady.

Yoongi threads their hands together again. Lifts Jimin’s fingers and presses a kiss to the knuckles.

“I might not be able to take you on dates,” he murmurs, “not yet. But I’ll show you how amazing you are every day. I promise.”

Jimin doesn’t answer. He just presses in closer, and lets himself stay there.

Warm. Anchored. Home.

Chapter Text

By the time the meeting begins, sunlight filters through half-open blinds, striping the glass table in narrow, orderly bands. There's movement outside the conference room, distant murmurs, footsteps tapping rhythmically on the tiled hallway, but inside, the team has settled into respectful quiet.

Yoongi sits at the head of the table, composed and silent. He doesn't often attend routine meetings in person, but quarterly strategy reviews are different. His presence carries weight, felt in the careful way the others straighten subtly in their seats, pens poised, tablets open, waiting attentively for him to speak.

Aera Kim, Head of Product Strategy, stands to his left, advancing the slides projected on the large screen at the room’s far end. Her eyes move between the visuals and Yoongi, voice clear and calm as she summarizes.

"Blind testing results came back from Osaka and Daegu," she says, glancing down at her notes. "Retention improved notably on natural fibers. The adjusted scent carrier reduced volatility by almost ten percent."

Yoongi scans the printed data sheets in front of him, expression neutral, eyes quickly absorbing numbers and graphs. He notes the exact figures, compares them to previous benchmarks. Silence stretches a moment as everyone waits, accustomed to his measured pace.

"Ink stock?" Yoongi finally asks, eyes still down, turning a page.

"Original batch," Aera replies promptly. "We removed the matte overlay as you requested."

"Good," Yoongi says, voice even. "Keep it."

A junior analyst at the far end of the table scribbles something, her eyes darting toward Hoseok. Hoseok acknowledges her glance with a subtle nod, calm and reassuring, before turning back to his own notes.

"Projected saturation curve?" Hoseok asks, tone professional.

"Stable past six hours," Aera says. "Slight decline on exposed skin, negligible on fabric."

Yoongi sets the papers down, eyes lifting to meet hers directly. "Timeline?"

"If we lock in packaging and finalize the scent formula by Monday, we can comfortably roll out pre-launch by late January," Aera states.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. "Comfortably?"

There's a ripple of awareness around the table, pens pausing, fingers stilling on tablets.

"We lost three weeks due to overseas delays," Yoongi continues, voice calm yet firm. "January isn't flexible."

"Understood," Aera immediately amends, adjusting without hesitation. "We’ll make January firm."

"Good." Yoongi leans back, redirecting smoothly. "Hoseok?"

Hoseok steps in naturally, laying out regional partnership updates, warehouse logistics, and anticipated packaging costs. Yoongi listens closely, interrupting only when necessary, voice quiet and authoritative, never wasting words.

As Hoseok finishes, Yoongi surveys the team. Eight employees, carefully chosen, highly capable. Their collective attention is focused, posture attentive, understanding implicitly the importance of each decision he’s just made.

"I want revised specifications to legal by Friday," Yoongi says as the meeting wraps up. "No delays."

"Of course," Aera responds, already making a note.

The team moves efficiently, gathering materials, exchanging short nods and quiet thanks before leaving. The glass door closes behind the last of them, and Yoongi turns his attention to Hoseok, who's still seated, checking something on his phone.

"Legal’s pushing their deadline," Hoseok says, without looking up.

"Then they miss their window," Yoongi responds, gathering the papers.

Before Hoseok can reply, his phone vibrates on the table. He glances at the caller ID, brows knitting, then answers. "Seokjin-ssi?"

Yoongi observes, noticing the tension around Hoseok's eyes as he listens.

"Right now? Just a second." Hoseok covers the receiver, voice low. "Seokjin says he found something important in Parknoa’s accounts. He wants to meet immediately."

Yoongi doesn’t hesitate. "Tell him to come. We'll meet in my office."

Hoseok nods, lifting the phone again. "Seokjin-ssi, come directly to Vantem. We’ll be waiting in Yoongi’s office. Half an hour? Good. See you then."

Hoseok ends the call, sending a short message to reception. "Do you want me to stay?"

"You should hear it," Yoongi replies, pushing back from the table, calm and assured.

Hoseok rises, straightening his jacket, following Yoongi toward the door.

The hallway beyond is busy now, afternoon rhythm settling back into the office. Yoongi’s mind is already turning to what Seokjin might have found, focused, unhurried, certain.

Whatever it is, he’s ready.

When they reach the executive wing, the sound recedes, replaced by the hush of recessed lighting and distant phones.

Yoongi opens the door to his office. Hoseok steps in behind him.

The room is clean-lined, spacious but restrained. One wall is glass, looking out over the city’s eastern skyline. Shelves of scent archives line the corner wall. A square table, low and pale, sits beside the dark oak desk, surrounded by four upholstered chairs, comfortably spaced.

Yoongi sets his folder down and removes his jacket, draping it neatly over the back of the chair. Then he sits, settling into the chair with a quiet sigh.

"Want me to ask someone to bring coffee?" Hoseok asks, already glancing toward the phone on the desk.

"Sure," Yoongi murmurs. "Black. Freshly brewed."

Hoseok makes the call, short and efficient. When he hangs up, he sits, glancing around the office.

"So," he says. "Any idea what’s so urgent? I gave them access to the offshore logs last week. Still can’t believe you agreed to that by the way. What changed?"

Yoongi hesitates, then says, "Jimin asked me to postpone the gala. Said Seokjin needed more time. I couldn’t. So I gave him access instead."

Hoseok huffs a laugh. "Of course. I should’ve guessed."

Yoongi narrows his eyes slightly. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Hoseok says, smile tugging at his mouth. "I mean—I get it, hyung. He’s lovely."

"He is," Yoongi says. "And he’s very married."

"Still. I can’t help but feel there’s something off there. Why does he keep coming to you? And the way he looked at you at the café the other day..."

"You’re reaching," Yoongi says, voice even.

"Do you know his husband? Is he decent?"

Yoongi snorts. "An alpha. Rich. Five years older. We grew up in the same neighborhood. He’s Taehyung’s brother."

Hoseok blinks. "What? Wait. Really?"

"Yeah."

"Man. This is worse than a drama."

"Tell me about it."

They lapse into silence. A quiet knock sounds at the door, and a staffer enters holding a tray with two mugs of coffee. Hoseok thanks her. She bows and leaves.

Yoongi takes his mug, wrapping both hands around it. He drinks. The coffee’s hot, a little burnt and stronger than he likes, but it keeps his hands warm.

After a few moments, Hoseok glances at the time. "I’ll check in with operations before the four o’clock call. Seokjin should be here soon. I’ll meet him downstairs and bring him up."

Yoongi nods. "Alright."

Hoseok finishes his coffee, sets the mug down, and heads out.

The office quiets again, city haze blurring the glass. Yoongi stays seated, gaze resting somewhere beyond the skyline.

The coffee’s almost gone when the door opens again.

Hoseok enters first. Seokjin follows, face drawn, eyes flicking briefly around the room. The man with him must be Namjoon. He's taller by a few centimeters, dressed in black, clean-cut in a way that doesn’t try too hard. His scent reaches first, herbal and a little bitter, before the rest falls into place. Legal team. Seokjin’s husband.

"Thanks for making time," Seokjin says. There’s tension in his shoulders Yoongi hasn’t seen since they were kids.

"You said it was urgent," Yoongi says, rising slightly and nodding toward the empty chairs. "Please. Take a seat."

They gather near the low table. Hoseok sits to Yoongi’s right. Seokjin takes the seat opposite. Namjoon nods politely, then sits beside his husband.

“Namjoon-ssi,” Yoongi says. “Good to finally meet.”

“Likewise.” His tone is even, respectful. No unnecessary flourishes.

Yoongi nods once. “Would you like anything to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

Seokjin shakes his head. “We’re fine.”

“Thank you,” Namjoon adds.

The silence that follows doesn’t stretch long. Just enough for focus to settle.

Then Seokjin leans forward. “Namjoon found something. A financial transaction. Offshore account tied to one of Parknoa’s shell holdings. We were only able to trace it because of the access you granted.”

Yoongi glances to Hoseok, who gives a brief nod, then back to Seokjin. "What kind of transaction?"

Namjoon opens a slim folder and slides a copy forward. "Roughly six hundred million won, wired to a consulting firm registered in Singapore. Dated eight months before Chariman Park passed. On the surface, it looked like a regulatory retainer, but the funds were rerouted within forty-eight hours. Final recipient is Bae Sangil."

Yoongi stares at the name. It takes a second to place it.

Seokjin supplies the rest. "Appa’s cardiologist. He treated him privately for over a decade. Managed his medications, ran regular screenings. Appa trusted him. We all did."

He remembers now. Bae Sangil. The name had blurred with time, but the presence hadn’t. A tall man, always quiet, usually arriving early in the morning, coat buttoned, shoes leaving no sound on the old tile. He’d nod politely if they crossed paths in the hall, but never linger. Yoongi hadn’t thought about him in years. Just remembered that Hyunsuk always walked him out with a hand on his shoulder.

"The payment came through just before Appa’s condition took a sudden turn," Seokjin continues, voice thinner now. "And the timing, combined with the route, looked like a cover. Not compensation."

"We can’t prove what it was for," Namjoon adds calmly. "But the structure was deliberately obscured. The firm is a front. Bae Sangil left Korea six years ago. We found an address outside Geneva. No phone, no digital trail. Just a registry link."

"You’re going to try and find him in person?" Yoongi asks.

Namjoon nods. "Sunday morning. It’s the earliest I could book without drawing attention. I’ll go alone."

A silence follows. The kind that pulls at the edges of the room.

"You need to be careful," Yoongi says finally.

"I will."

"If he confirms anything—"

"Then we move," Seokjin says. His voice is sharp now. His hands are curled on his knees. "We expose Sangchul for what he is."

Yoongi doesn’t flinch. But his gaze drifts, darker now. "I can’t delay the gala. Everything’s already aligned. If something comes of this, you’ll still have maybe two weeks. After that, I take the company apart."

Seokjin meets his eyes. There’s no accusation in it, just quiet urgency. "We’re not stalling. I just never imagined it would come to this."

Yoongi lifts a brow. "You mean the company? Or your uncle?"

"Both."

Namjoon lays a hand lightly on Seokjin’s arm. "Let’s not jump to conclusions. We need to know exactly what happened."

Seokjin doesn’t look at him. "And if eomma was involved? If she knew?"

"Mihyun-eomeonim might be difficult," Namjoon says carefully. “But orchestrating this? No. I don’t think she’s capable of that.”

“You didn’t grow up with her," Seokjin mutters. He breathes out, the tension still coiled in his jaw. “After Appa died, she just let Sangchul take everything.”

No one speaks.

Then Seokjin stands, voice steady again. "We’ll keep you informed. If anything comes up, I’ll let you know.”

Hoseok rises too, pulling out his phone. "Namjoon-ssi, message me when you land. I’ll extend access for anything you might need from our end."

Namjoon gives a short bow. "Thank you."

They head to the door. Seokjin pauses with his hand on the frame.

"I knew he was corrupt," he says. "But I didn’t think he could do this. Not to his own brother."

Yoongi doesn’t answer.

Hoseok steps out with them. The door clicks softly shut behind them.

Yoongi stays where he is, fingers resting against the table’s edge. The city’s still bright outside the glass, but his eyes have lost the distance. His jaw works once.

He wouldn’t be surprised. Not after everything.

And if they were involved… if this started long before the exile, the bond, the betrayal, then maybe it was never about one ruined boy.

Maybe it was always about power.

And maybe this time, it ends with him.

The door of the greenhouse creaks softly as he pushes it open. When he steps inside, the warmth hits first, moist and faintly mineral, the kind that clings low to the skin. A thin fog beads on the inside of the glass panes, softening the light to a grayish haze.

Yoongi draws a breath through his teeth and steps in. His boots leave dull patches on the stone floor, heel prints darkened by hours of work. His back aches. He hasn’t eaten since morning, and the muscles in his forearms still sting from hauling boxes up from the storage cellar, spring fertilizer and gravel sacks that Sangchul demanded be sorted today, even though no one else would touch them until April. His shoulder twinges when he sets the bag down, same one he bruised last week slipping on the slick tile near the side entrance. He hadn’t told anyone.

Still. He’s here. On time.

He unrolls the blanket, one of the older ones from the storage cabinet, a corner fraying where the stitching’s come loose. He lays it down near the back wall, where it’s warmest in winter, then sets the thermos in the center. Two small glasses. A reused plastic container with the sandwiches, just slices of bread with tuna and mayo spread between them, cut into neat little circles with the rim of a water glass so they’d look like he tried.

He sets everything down just so. Then sits cross-legged on the blanket, fingers flexing once over his knees. It’s too warm to wear his coat in here, so he shrugs it off and lays it beside him. The sound of distant thunder stirs overhead, muffled by the greenhouse roof. Rain hasn’t started yet. It will.

The door bursts open.

“Hyung.”

Yoongi looks up. Jimin’s already halfway inside, breath visible in the cold behind him, cheeks pink from the wind. His jacket is unzipped, hair tousled, his favorite sweater rumpled like he got dressed in a hurry. He kicks the door closed with his heel and stares at the makeshift picnic. His mouth curves into something crooked, teasing.

“What’s all this?”

Yoongi lifts a brow. “What?”

“This. All of it.” Jimin steps forward, eyes bright. “Aw, hyung! Are you trying to impress me?”

Yoongi scoffs, but his mouth twitches. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Jimin drops to his knees without ceremony, leans forward, and kisses him. It’s quick, messy with cold lips and warm breath, but it slows, turns softer when Jimin’s hand settles on his chest, palm light through Yoongi’s sweatshirt. He pulls back just enough to look at him.

“Did you make all this?” he murmurs.

Yoongi shrugs. “It's just some sandwiches and yuja-cha.”

Jimin’s eyes crease as he smiles. “Citron tea? That's my favorite.”

“I know.”

“You’re the best.”

Yoongi tries not to show anything, but he can feel the heat rising under his collar. He busies himself opening the thermos. Jimin’s already sitting beside him, cross-legged, leaning close enough for their knees to touch.

He gestures at the container. “So what’s in these?”

“Tuna and mayo.”

Jimin leans slightly, lips parting just enough to tease. 

“Feed me.”

Yoongi blinks. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m starving.”

“You have hands.”

“Hyung. Please.” Jimin doesn’t pout. He doesn’t have to. His voice dips, softens, turns warm at the edges.

Yoongi rolls his eyes and picks one up. Holds it out. Jimin bites it straight from his fingers and makes a pleased sound.

“You made the spread?”

Yoongi shrugs again. “There’s nothing special in it.”

“It’s good,” Jimin says, licking a smear from his lip. “I love it.”

Yoongi looks away. Focuses on pouring the tea instead.

They drink slowly, passing the thermos between them. It’s thick and sweet, the syrup clinging to the bottom of the cups. Jimin sighs after his second sip and leans back on one hand, then lies down fully, stretching until his head finds Yoongi’s lap.

Yoongi freezes.

“I’m comfy,” Jimin says, like it’s obvious. “Stay still.”

Yoongi glances down. Jimin’s eyes are half-lidded, warm and unreadable. His scent is stronger now. Still sweet, but deeper than usual. Yoongi’s throat tightens. He doesn’t say anything.

“I wish we could stay like this forever,” Jimin murmurs.

The rain starts faintly against the glass, just a pattering.

“It was easier when we were kids,” he continues. “We had more time. Now I barely see you.”

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi says, fingers moving slowly through Jimin’s hair before he thinks to stop. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” Jimin closes his eyes. “I just miss you.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer at first. He keeps his hand moving. There’s mud under his fingernails, he meant to clean them before coming.

“I have to pass the exam this year,” he says. “The Geomjeong Gosi. If I want to get into university. I’m still behind.”

“You’re not behind,” Jimin mumbles. “You’re ahead of everyone. Just hiding it.”

Yoongi huffs, soft. “I’m almost eighteen.”

Jimin stirs. Yoongi doesn’t look down, but he knows he’s listening.

“I’ll be able to access the fund,” he says. “The one your father left. It’s not much, but enough to rent a place. Move to the city. Study full-time.”

Jimin is quiet. Then he sits up slowly. His hand stays on Yoongi’s knee.

“You’re going to leave?”

Yoongi brushes the hair out of his face, careful. “You know I have to. They’ll never let me study properly if I stay. Not while your uncle’s here.”

Jimin nods once. “Yeah. I know.”

Yoongi hesitates. “I’ll come visit. Your school’s close. You can come too. We’ll find time.”

Jimin looks at him for a long moment. Then he leans forward, resting his forehead against Yoongi’s.

“And in two years,” he whispers, “when I finish school, I’ll come live with you.”

Yoongi’s smile is quiet. “Yeah.”

“And we’ll be free. And happy. Forever and ever.”

Yoongi’s chest tightens. He doesn’t say anything for a second. His eyes stay on Jimin’s. 

“That’s the plan.”

Jimin wraps his arms around him, not too tight. Nuzzles into his neck and scents him, gently. It’s instinct more than anything. Familiar now. Safe.

“I love you,” Jimin says.

Yoongi presses his nose to Jimin’s temple. “Love you too.”

The rain picks up. The greenhouse creaks once in the wind. For a long time, they stay like that, bodies curled inward, breath shared in a space only they belong to. They talk in low voices about things that haven’t happened yet. Books Yoongi will read. A cat Jimin wants. A small apartment filled with plants and space for them to breathe. 

Eventually, Yoongi says, “We should go.”

Jimin groans. “Do we have to?”

“I need to study,” Yoongi says. “And the rain’s not letting up.”

Jimin sighs. “Fine.”

They rise together. Yoongi gathers the blanket and empty cups, places them in a corner to collect later. He shrugs on his coat. Jimin does the same. At the door, Yoongi pulls the hood over Jimin’s head before his own.

When they run, Jimin grabs his hand, laughing as the rain spills over their shoulders.

By the time they reach the side door, the rain is coming down harder, slanting against their coats, soaking through the seams. Wind lashes at the side of the house as Yoongi shoulders it open.

They step into the back corridor, coats damp, hair windswept. The hallway is quiet, warm and still, the kind of silence that settles deep in the walls. Jimin’s laugh is still lingering, low and breathless, when he leans over and pushes the wet hood from Yoongi’s forehead.

“I’m gonna go change,” he says. “I’ll come to your room in five, okay?”

Yoongi nods.

Jimin grins at him once, then disappears up the stairs.

He watches him go, then turns toward the west wing, boots tracking faint water prints along the tiles. His room’s still two turns down the hall, past Hyunsuk's study that Sangchul sometimes uses now. He’s almost there when he hears voices.

Low. Tense. The edge of Sangchul’s voice is unmistakable, threaded with something dry and cold.

The living room door is open a crack.

Yoongi doesn’t mean to stop. But he does.

“…saw them again,” Sangchul is saying. “Joowon says they were in the greenhouse alone. Late. What do you think they were doing in there?”

Mihyun’s voice is cool and tired as she speaks. “He follows Jimin everywhere.”

“He clings,” Sangchul says. “Like a tick. Like it’ll keep him safe.”

Mihyun says nothing.

Sangchul’s tone drops lower. “I told you what would happen. You let that mutt in the door, and he’d sink his teeth in. And now look.”

Yoongi stiffens.

Mihyun sighs. “It’s your brother’s fault. He insisted.”

“He’s not here anymore,” Sangchul snaps. “But we are. And I’m not going to sit by while Jimin is pawed at like some spoiled toy.”

Yoongi’s hand curls against the wall. His throat burns.

Sangchul goes on. “You know what happens when people like that think they belong. They start believing they’re owed something.”

There’s a brief pause, then Mihyun says, “He doesn’t belong. And Jimin will outgrow him.”

There’s a rustle. The faint scrape of a chair leg against the floor, careless and unhurried, like she’s already bored of the subject.

“Besides,” she adds, “you’ve seen how he’s been lately. The scent, the attitude. He’s going to present soon. Late-blooming alpha. Of course he thinks he has a claim now.”

Yoongi feels something slip sideways in his chest.

He moves.

He doesn't mean to step forward, but the sound of his boot against the tile gives him away.

Both heads turn.

There’s no flicker of guilt on either face.

Sangchul meets his gaze directly.

“Well,” he says, voice flat, “how convenient. Come to eavesdrop on your own obituary?”

Yoongi opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.

Mihyun doesn’t even blink. “You should be careful, Yoongi-yah,” she says. “People are watching.”

The way she says it is polite but venom-laced, the edge of his name like a slap.

Something breaks.

Yoongi turns.

He doesn’t remember moving down the hall. Doesn’t remember pushing the door open. Only the cold air hitting his face, the rain sliding down the back of his neck before he’s even cleared the steps.

He walks fast. Past the hedges. Past the side gate. The storm breaks open fully overhead, soaking through his coat in minutes. His feet slip once on the gravel. He doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. Just away.

His breath comes short, fogging in the wet air. His shoulder aches from earlier, worse now, each step tugging at the bruise along the joint. His hands are fists at his sides.

It isn’t that they hate him. He’s known that.

It’s how little it surprises them, to see him standing there.

Like he’s not even worth hiding it from.

He finds himself near the old orchard hill without meaning to. The slope dips down into wet grass, half-frozen earth soft underfoot. He doesn’t stop. Just keeps walking, head bowed against the rain.

His clothes are plastered to his skin. His hair drips into his eyes.

He hears footsteps too late.

“Hey.”

He stops. Doesn’t turn.

The rain muffles everything except the tremor in that voice.

A second later, there’s a shape beside him. The edge of an umbrella sliding into his line of vision. Jimin. Breathless. Hair stuck to his forehead, jacket sleeves pulled over his hands.

“What are you doing out,” Jimin says, voice barely above the rain. “You’ll get sick.”

Yoongi stares at the ground.

His hands shake.

Then Jimin’s fingers close gently around his wrist.

“Come back inside,” he says. “Please.”

Yoongi turns his head. Just enough to look at him.

He doesn’t speak. Just steps in, one slow movement. His forehead drops to Jimin’s shoulder. Then lower. Nose pressing into the space beneath Jimin’s jaw, where his scent is warm and soft and steady.

He stays like that, eyes closed. Rain running down the back of his neck. His chest tight. Throat full. 

Jimin doesn’t move. Just lets him be held.

The umbrella trembles slightly above them.

The rain doesn’t stop. But it doesn’t feel cold anymore.

They don’t say much on the way back. The path is slick, damp earth soft beneath their shoes. Jimin keeps close, fingers still curled around Yoongi’s wrist like he’s afraid to let go.

By the time they reach the house, the wind has slowed. The lights are on in the hallway. No one’s around.

Jimin shuts the door of Yoongi’s room behind them. Locks it without a word.

Yoongi shrugs off his soaked coat and lets it fall across the chair. Then he sits on the edge of the bed, pulling the damp sweatshirt over his head. His hair is dripping. The shirt hits the floor with a wet sound. Jimin crosses to the dresser, opens the second drawer without asking. He pulls out a clean hoodie, then comes back and holds it out.

Yoongi takes it. Doesn’t look up.

The mattress dips beside him.

“You weren’t in your room,” Jimin says. His voice is low, careful. “Sunae said she saw you going outside. I barely managed to find you.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. He finishes tugging the hoodie over his head, then stares at the floor for a long beat.

“You scared me, hyung.”

His chest tightens. He swallows against it.

“I can’t take it anymore, Jimin-ah.” His voice comes out quieter than he meant. “This… humiliation. The way they treat me. It’s too much.”

He presses the heel of his palm into one eye. Tries to breathe through it.

“I’m going to talk to your uncle tomorrow. Ask him for the fund. I need to be out of here as soon as possible. Before they manage to break me.”

A silence falls.

Yoongi doesn’t mean to let it show, but the tears are there anyway. He blinks them back, jaw tight, but one slips free before he can stop it.

Jimin reaches out. Brushes it away with his thumb.

“Okay,” he says softly. “I can help. I have savings.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “No need. I’ll have enough.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Jimin’s quiet for a second. Then he says, “It’ll be okay, hyung. You’ll pass the tests. You’ll get into university. And in two years, I’ll be free. I’ll come to you.”

Yoongi lets out a breath. Looks at his hands.

“Do you really think they’ll let you?” he says. “They’ll do anything to keep us apart, Jimin.”

Jimin scoffs. “Let me see them try.” His voice hardens. “Nothing will keep me away from you.”

“God, I hate them so much,” he adds after a beat. “I hate the way they treat you. I hate that you have to leave me because of them.”

Yoongi turns. Cups Jimin’s face with both hands.

“Hey,” he says, steady now. “I will never leave you. You know that, right? I promised.”

Jimin nods. Once. Barely.

Yoongi leans in and presses his forehead to Jimin’s. Then down, into the space below his ear. He breathes deep, lets his nose rest at the curve of Jimin’s neck.

Jimin shifts a little to give him room.

Yoongi scents him.

Not softly this time. It’s instinctive, almost possessive. Like something in him wants to leave a mark, even if he knows he won’t.

He would never bite. Never do that to Jimin.

But the urge is there. Just beneath the skin.

They stay that way for a long time, arms wrapped around each other, breath slowing. Jimin’s scent threads through the air like warmth. Fig sap and milk and something sweeter still. It settles into Yoongi’s lungs like a promise.

The following day is a Sunday. The family always has lunch together.

Most weekends, Sangchul joins them, especially since Hyunsuk died. He sits at the head of the table now, like it’s always belonged to him.

Yoongi spends the morning helping in the kitchen, rinsing vegetables, carrying things up from the storage pantry. He eats late, after the dining room has cleared out.

He finds Sangchul in the hallway just as he’s stepping out of the living room.

“Sangchul-ssi,” Yoongi says. “Could I speak with you a moment?”

Sangchul doesn’t answer at first. Just looks at him, long and unreadable. Then, finally, he nods. “Follow me.”

They don’t speak as they walk.

The study door shuts behind them with a soft click. The room is darker than Yoongi remembers. The windows are half-covered, and someone’s rearranged the furniture. Hyunsuk's ’s desk is still there, but the shelves, once cluttered with old ledgers and fountain pens, now hold decanters and framed certificates.

It doesn’t smell like Hyunsuk anymore. Now it smells of leather and musk. Sangchul’s scent, soaked into the furniture like he’s marked the room.

Sangchul moves behind the desk, takes his time adjusting the cuff of his shirt before sitting.

“Well?”

Yoongi stays standing. “I wanted to ask about something Hyunsuk-ajusshi said before he passed. He told me—” He pauses. Re-centers. “He said there was a fund being set aside for me. For when I turned eighteen.”

Sangchul hums, but doesn’t say anything. 

“I’ll be of age next month,” Yoongi says. “So I wanted to ask… how I can access it.”

Silence stretches.

Then Sangchul lets out a breath, slow and long, like he’s been handed a paperwork error someone else created.

“There’s no record of that,” he says.

Yoongi blinks. “I was told—”

“By Hyunsuk?” A small smile. “Yes, maybe he meant to. But meaning isn’t the same as doing. There’s no record. No account. Nothing under your name.”

Yoongi's fingers curl against the side seam of his jeans.

“I’m not asking for anything else,” he says. “Only what was promised.”

“And I’m telling you that there was no formal promise.” Sangchul’s voice stays even. “No trust. No documentation. No clause in the will.”

Yoongi forces himself to stay still. “You’re sure?”

“If there were something,” Sangchul says, “don’t you think you’d have seen it by now?”

Yoongi swallows. “He said it would help cover school. Living costs. He… he told me it would be enough.”

Sangchul folds his hands on the desk. “You’ve lived here nearly a decade. Slept under this roof. Ate our food. Wore what we gave you. That’s more than most would’ve offered.”

Yoongi’s ears ring. He tries to breathe past it.

“You’re not entitled, Yoongi. You’re not family.”

Something cold crawls up the back of Yoongi’s spine. He tries to hold it in place. Fails.

“If I were you,” Sangchul adds, tone flattening, “I’d be more grateful. Not everyone would tolerate someone like you around their children.”

Yoongi stares at the floor.

Then nods.

“Understood.”

He turns before anything slips. Keeps his face still. Opens the door without a sound.

The hall is quiet when he steps out. Warm and golden with late afternoon light, as if nothing had happened at all.

He walks.

Not fast, but with that tight, forward-leaning tension in his frame. Shoulders drawn, fists clenched. The kind of quiet fury that hums low in the spine, coiled and waiting.

Outside, the air bites cold. There’s still water pooled near the back steps, runoff from the night before. He doesn’t pause. Just keeps going.

The greenhouse is still. The light inside is dimmer now, gray cloudlight filtering through the glass, casting shadows across the tile. The blanket’s still folded where he left it. The empty cups, the thermos. He doesn't look at them.

He crosses to the far corner, past the citrus pots and trays of overgrown seedlings.

Then grabs the nearest ceramic planter. It's old, dust-lined, still holding bits of dried soil. He hurls it against the concrete wall.

It explodes on impact. Sharp edges scatter across the floor. A fine white dust rises where it broke.

Yoongi stands there, breath ragged. Something claws its way out of him. Low, harsh, half-swallowed. Not a scream. Not really.

It’s deeper than that. Almost a growl.

He presses the heel of his hand to his chest. Forces himself to breathe.

They were never going to let him go quietly.

That was the mistake. Believing in a promise spoken, not written.

Believing it was enough to work hard, to stay quiet, to be grateful.

They didn’t want him gone. Not yet.

They wanted him small. Humiliated. Easy to ignore.

They wanted him to give up, quietly and forgettably.

And maybe...

maybe they thought Jimin would forget him too.

He sees it clearly now. They were never afraid of him staying.

They were afraid of how he might leave.

With dignity. With Jimin’s love. With even a fraction of Hyunsuk’s name.

That’s why they took the fund.

That’s why they’ll keep denying him until there’s nothing left but failure.

Because it’s not about the money. It’s about control.

And if they can't erase him, they’ll ruin him.

His breath slows. The blood’s still pounding in his ears.

But he’ll find a way.

He’ll pass the exams. He’ll get into university.

He’ll claw his way out of this place with nothing but bone and want.

And then, when they’ve forgotten him, he’ll come back.

Not for kindness. Not for forgiveness.

He’ll come back to take everything they tried to strip from him.

To build something they can’t control.

To be someone Jimin can proudly stand next to.

To be worthy.

And never, ever need their name again.

He steps over the shattered pot and sinks to the ground, back against the glass wall. The cold seeps through his clothes, but he doesn’t move.

Just sits there, fists clenched, and stares into the dusk.

Chapter Text

The sun’s low enough now that the light through the windows has gone from gold to something paler. Not quite soft… just cold. It slicks against the mirror, catches on the edges of Jimin’s wrist as he fastens one of the thinner bracelets, the links pressing lightly into skin.

He’s not rushing. There’s still time.

The black suit sits close against his frame. Silk lapels, subtle taper at the waist, just enough give at the hips. He bought it months ago for an event he never made it to, some gallery opening he got sick the day of, ended up half-wrapped in a blanket texting apologies while Taehyung sent him blurry photos of canapés. It still smells like the boutique, untouched until tonight.

He adjusts the jacket. No shirt underneath. It’s buttoned at the waist, the collar open to skin and scent he hasn’t tried to dull. Fig sap, milk-warm. A little too honest, maybe. But he doesn’t care. Not tonight.

The necklace in his hand is heavier than it looks.

His phone buzzes.

He presses speaker. "Hey."

"Hey," Taehyung hums, casual, something clinking faintly in the background. "Are you getting ready?"

"Yeah," Jimin says.

"What are you wearing?"

He glances at the mirror, at the fine spill of white gold and diamonds across his collarbones, still loose in his grip. "That black suit. The one I never wore."

"Wait, uhh. The Dior one? With the silk lapels?"

"Yeah."

"Hot," Taehyung says decisively.

Jimin smiles a little. "Trying to pick jewelry now. Should I go subtle or—"

"Definitely not subtle," Taehyung interrupts.

Jimin laughs. "Noted."

There’s a beat of rustling on the line, then Taehyung speaks again, voice a bit closer. "You sure you don’t want to come with us? We’re heading out in like twenty minutes, but I could swing by. Jungkook’s already packed up his gear."

"Thanks," Jimin says, soft. "But I’ll go with Taeseong. I don’t need my mom lecturing me all night."

"Fair," Taehyung sighs.

Jimin doesn’t answer. He’s just about to fasten the necklace when the door opens without warning.

"Gotta go," he says quickly into the phone. "See you at the gala."

He ends the call.

Taeseong steps in, perfectly dressed, tie knotted tight, hair slicked back. For a second, Jimin notices the lines of the suit. The way it fits. How he used to think Taeseong looked good like this.

He doesn’t feel anything now.

"Do you need help with that?" Taeseong asks, nodding toward the necklace still in Jimin’s hand.

Jimin gives him a look. Not impressed. "What do you want?"

Taeseong shrugs, moving a step closer. "Just wanted to see my pretty little husband. You’re looking as lovely as ever."

"Please," Jimin mutters. "I thought we were past pretending."

"Who says I’m pretending?" Taeseong murmurs. He’s close enough now that Jimin can feel the weight of his gaze, and the familiar scent of leather and musk. "I always thought you were beautiful."

Jimin doesn’t look at him. "Yeah, well. I guess me being beautiful wasn’t enough to keep you home."

Taeseong’s face tightens, just briefly. "You can’t put the whole blame on me, Jimin. You haven’t—"

"Please," Jimin cuts in, voice flat. "Just stop. Let’s not ruin the night, yeah? I’m going with you because it’s convenient. But don’t flatter yourself. It doesn’t mean anything. I haven’t changed my mind about the divorce."

Taeseong’s smile is all teeth. "We’ll see about that, sweetheart."

He turns, walks to the door. Pauses there, hand on the frame.

"We’re leaving in an hour. I’ll wait for you downstairs."

And then he’s gone.

Jimin turns back to the mirror. Hooks the necklace around his throat. Lets it sit bold, unapologetic, over bare skin.

He picks out the earrings next. Small, angular studs that match the necklace. Clean lines. A little too elegant for how tense he feels. They sit just below the lobe, glinting when he moves. His fingers are steady as he fastens them, but only just.

The makeup comes next. Not much. Concealer to even out the shadows, a bit of color for balance. He adds some definition around the eyes, a little shading at the corners. He knows what to do. He’s done this a hundred times before. Dance showcases. Galas. Family portraits. But there’s something different about tonight. His mouth feels tight. Like he’s already bracing for something.

In the mirror, his reflection feels like someone else. Like a version of himself crafted for bright rooms and cold tables and people who only speak in smiles.

He pushes a hand through his hair, parts it with care. Presses the fringe back on one side, lets the other fall soft across his brow. He knows how it’ll look under the lights.

There’s still time, but not much.

He sits for a moment on the edge of the chair, hands loose between his knees. The room feels quiet in a way that’s starting to press.

He’s going to the gala with Taeseong. Sitting next to him. Playing the part again. But Yoongi will be there. Walking into that room, looking at them. His mother. His uncle. And there won’t be anywhere for them to look but back.

Jimin’s stomach pulls tight.

He kissed him. Just a few nights ago. Jimin can still feel it. The way Yoongi tasted. Hot. Furious. Familiar in a way that left him dizzy. He hasn’t stopped thinking about it since. The bond, whatever it is, whatever they never sealed, has only gotten worse. It reacts every time he does. When he remembers how Yoongi looked at him. When someone walks by with a scent that’s too close. When he tries to sleep.

And Hoseok. Always near him. Easy around him. Touching his shoulder like it means nothing. Like he’s allowed to be that close.

Jimin doesn’t know what Yoongi’s life looks like now. Doesn’t know if there’s space left in it for him. Or if Yoongi is even still the boy he once promised to run away with.

He presses his thumb into his palm. Feels the tight coil of nerves in his chest.

And there’s the divorce. That too. It feels like some heavy door swinging open behind him, and past it, nothing but dark space. A life he’ll have to rebuild from scratch, if he even gets out.

He closes his eyes.

His scent lingers at the collar, warm and sweet beneath the fabric. He doesn’t check the clock. He already knows what time it is.

He smooths his hands down the lapels. One last glance in the mirror.

Then he steps out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

The house is quiet. Nothing but the sound of his own steps on the stairs.

When he reaches the bottom, the lights from the living room spill just enough into the hall to tint the wood in a wash of warm gold. Taeseong is already there, seated on the couch with a tumbler in one hand, the other resting along the back cushion. He doesn’t look up at first. Just swirls what’s left of the whiskey, watching it catch at the bottom.

When he does glance over, his mouth curves into something between a smirk and a statement.

“Well,” he says. “Now I definitely can’t let you out of my sight tonight.”

Jimin stops just short of the threshold. “Don't make this something it's not,” he says, adjusting the fit of his cuff. 

That earns him a smile, if only on the surface. Taeseong finishes his drink in one slow swallow, sets the glass down on a coaster, and stands.

He doesn’t say anything else until they’re both in the car, doors closed, engine purring low beneath the seat.

The silence holds through the turn out of the estate. It’s only once they’re on the road, slipping into the stretch of city where the traffic starts to hum louder and the lights smear long across the windshield, that Taeseong speaks again.

“No wonder your uncle’s celebrating this merger,” he says, tone dry. “It literally saved his ass.”

Jimin doesn’t look at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean Parknoa was bleeding for months. Cash flow problems. Leadership vacuum. Bad quarter after bad quarter. Everyone knew it. This merger kept the whole thing from folding.”

Jimin’s fingers press lightly into the fabric of his pants. “How did you know Parknoa was having problems?”

Taeseong makes a soft sound. Not quite a laugh. “Come on, Jimin. It was a public secret. You think people weren’t talking?”

Jimin says nothing. He turns to the window instead. Seoul moves past in fragments. Glass. Concrete. A billboard flashing something too fast to follow.

“I’m more curious about the other side,” Taeseong says. “Vantem. They’re not that big, but the way they handled this? Too smooth. Too fast. I don’t think they needed the deal. Which makes me wonder why they wanted it.”

Jimin doesn’t answer.

“I wonder who’s behind them,” Taeseong says. “Feels like someone with a lot of reach. A lot of time on their hands.”

Jimin’s eyes stay fixed outside, but he can feel the bond stirring again. Just the edge of it. That same quiet pull he’s been carrying since the moment he first showed up at Yoongi's house. Like something waiting to be acknowledged.

He wonders how long Taeseong will take to recognize him. What he’ll do. What he’ll say. What he’ll try to control.

The rest of the ride is silent.

When they pull into the hotel’s lower level, the valet is already waiting. A young man in a fitted suit opens Jimin’s door with a small bow, offering a soft greeting. Another takes the keys from Taeseong and climbs into the driver’s seat. The car glides away without sound.

Inside, the lobby is quiet and dim. There’s music playing somewhere, soft strings that fade into the walls. The elevator doors reflect back the room in pieces. They ride it up without speaking.

The doors open to a long hallway lined with black fabric panels and flower arrangements. Simple. White orchids in low vases. Touches of green. The lighting is warm, flattering, expensive.

They follow the path to the main entrance. A staff member at the door checks their names and gestures them in.

Inside it's already crowded. 

Jimin takes it in slowly. Tables in black and gold. Waitstaff gliding between clusters of conversation. A subtle press of heat in the air, but no real scent. Everyone here has learned how to keep themselves still.

Taeseong guides them toward a small group gathered off to the side. People Jimin doesn’t recognize. The greetings are polite, brief. Someone compliments his suit. Someone else brings up the merger in passing, like it’s a headline and not a storm waiting to break. Jimin just nods.

He senses Sangchul before he sees him, laughing at something, drink already in hand, the ease in his voice just a little too loud.

“You made it,” Sangchul says as he approaches, smile wide. “What do you think? Not bad, right? I told them we needed something with presence.”

Taeseong gives a small nod. “Looks solid. Turnout’s impressive.”

Mihyun joins them half a step later, slipping in beside Sangchul like she’s always belonged there. Her lips brush Taeseong’s cheek, then Jimin’s.

“You two really are the most handsome couple in the room,” she says. Her smile holds. “How could anyone compete?”

Jimin smiles back. Just enough to pass.

“Look at this! Sangchul outdid himself,” she adds, glancing over at him. “And this merger? Smart. It’s exactly what Parknoa needed. It’ll only make us stronger.”

Jimin doesn’t say anything. Just watches her speak like the words mean something. It would be funny, if it didn’t feel like suffocating.

“Is Seokjin-hyung here yet?” he asks.

Mihyun waves a hand, eyes still on the room. “He said they’re running a little late. I came with your uncle.”

Jimin hums.

Taeseong’s hand brushes lightly at his back, a gesture meant to linger. Jimin steps aside before it can settle. His expression doesn’t change.

Across the room, he spots Taehyung talking to someone. He can only see the back. Straight shoulders, dark suit, the kind of easy stance that feels familiar.

A waiter passes with a tray of champagne. Jimin takes a glass, murmurs something about going to say hello, and slips away before anyone can stop him.

The figure beside Taehyung turns just as Jimin approaches.

Hoseok.

Their smiles meet without tension. Easy, natural. Hoseok nods first.

“Look at you,” Taehyung says, eyes bright. “You’re unreal tonight.”

Jimin huffs, lifts his champagne. "You’re biased."

He glances at Hoseok. That’s when he notices it. The suit. It’s the same one as his. The only difference is that Hoseok wears his with a black shirt beneath, collar open, a small diamond brooch pinned near the lapel. A V. The Vantem logo. It sparkles without trying.

Jimin takes a sip of his drink. Too fast. He empties the flute.

"This space looks amazing," he says. The words come out steadier than he expected.

Hoseok tilts his head, glances around like he’s seeing it for the first time. "Glad you think so."

He catches the attention of a passing waiter, swaps Jimin’s empty glass for a full one with a clean movement. Then he offers a quick smile.

“I should check in on a few people,” he says. “Enjoy yourselves.”

He disappears into the crowd before Jimin can say anything.

“Such a great guy, isn’t he?” Taehyung says, leaning in a little.

“Did you notice he had the same suit as mine?” Jimin lifts his glass. “A little embarrassing.”

Taehyung scoffs. “I didn’t notice. Probably because you wear it better.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.” Jimin glances toward the crowd. “Hoseok-ssi looks great in it too.”

Taehyung opens his mouth to answer, but a familiar voice cuts in beside them.

“Smileee.”

The camera clicks before either of them can react.

Jungkook. Camera in hand. Smile just shy of teasing.

Jimin turns to him, already bracing for whatever comes next.

"Jungkook," he says, lifting a hand half-heartedly. "Delete that. We weren’t even ready."

Jungkook laughs. "Oh come on, look at you two. You look gorgeous. Expensive. I’m probably the only one here who looks like he doesn’t belong. God, I’ll never get used to this kind of luxury."

"Don’t be ridiculous," Taehyung says, leaning in to press a quick kiss to his lips. "You’re the hottest alpha in the room."

Jimin rolls his eyes, but there’s a small smile threatening at the edge of his mouth.

He’s about to say something else when a familiar voice pulls his attention.

"There you are," Seokjin says, approaching with Namjoon beside him. "I was looking for you. Saw Taeseong near the entrance. Don’t worry, Jiminie. He didn’t look bored."

Jimin smiles at that. "What took you so long?"

"Seokjin-hyung didn’t feel well this morning," Namjoon explains. "We weren’t sure we’d make it. But he said he’s feeling better, so here we are."

"Of course he is," Taehyung says, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "He wouldn’t miss a party thrown by his uncle."

Seokjin scoffs. "What’s going on? Have we missed anything?"

"Nothing interesting," Jimin says.

Namjoon hums. "So the fun part is yet to come, then."

Jungkook looks at them, puzzled. "You’re telling me this is going to be fun? I doubt it."

Seokjin laughs softly. "You have no idea."

Jungkook lifts his camera again. "Alright. Let me take a few shots of the hottest people in the room before I go photograph a bunch of boring businessmen."

Taehyung, Jimin, Seokjin, and Namjoon step in closer. The camera clicks once. Then again.

Jungkook lowers it, glancing at the preview.

“Perfect,” he says. He waves once, then slips back into the crowd.

For a moment, they just stand there. No one rushes to fill the space he leaves behind.

Then Taehyung gives Jimin’s elbow a light squeeze. “I’ll be back in a bit. I think I spotted someone I know. Don’t let Seokjin-hyung drink too much while I’m gone."

“I’m right here, you know,” Seokjin says, deadpan.

Taehyung grins, presses a hand to his shoulder, and disappears into the room.

The three of them stay where they are. Not quite in the middle of things, but not on the outskirts either. People pass by without stopping. A waiter moves through the crowd with a tray of drinks, pausing just long enough for Seokjin to take a glass. Namjoon follows, and Jimin exchanges his empty flute for a fresh one.

Seokjin breaks the quiet first. “I thought I’d never say this, but I can’t wait for Yoongi to show up. Just to see Uncle’s face.”

“And Mihyun-eomeonim’s,” Namjoon adds, almost under his breath.

Jimin stays silent. He agrees, of course he does. Part of him wants to see it too, wants to watch them realize. But another part dreads what’s coming. Just hearing Yoongi’s name is enough to stir the bond again, low and insistent, threading beneath his skin. 

Seokjin turns toward him. “Are you okay? I mean... being here. Seeing him again.”

Jimin nods, slow. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

He doesn’t let the pause stretch. Instead, he looks over at Namjoon. “You’re leaving tomorrow, right?”

Namjoon nods once. “I am. I’m hoping the doctor’s willing to talk. But it won’t be easy.”

“It’ll be fine,” Seokjin says. “You’ve got the transfer record, and the fact that he left the country only works in our favor. You just need to push a little. Be firm.”

Jimin lets a quiet smile slip through. “I can’t picture you being firm, Namjoonie-hyung. You’re too kind for that.”

Namjoon’s about to reply when a familiar voice cuts in, smooth and close.

“I thought I'd find you back here.”

Mihyun joins them like she’s arriving on cue. Unbothered, collected. Her gaze skips over Namjoon, lingers on Seokjin, and settles on Jimin.

“Jimin-ah,” she says, with something close to a sigh. “You shouldn’t leave Taeseong alone so long. Then you wonder why your marriage is falling apart. Go. Find him.”

“Eomma,” Seokjin says flatly. “Leave him alone. I’m sure Taeseong can manage for five minutes.”

Mihyun gives him a look, the kind that lands without noise. Then, without waiting for a reply, she smooths her skirt and turns, walking off as if the conversation never happened.

Jimin stays right where he is. He has no plans to look for Taeseong. At least for now. He takes a longer sip, the cold trailing behind it as it settles in his chest.

Time slips oddly after Mihyun walks away. He lingers with Seokjin and Namjoon a while longer, taking another glass when a waiter passes. His fourth one. Not that he's counting. Not that he cares. Conversations swell and dip around them. Laughter in brief bursts. Empty pleasantries. The room feels heavier than it did before.

He’s not sure how long he stays there before he hears his name.

“Jimin-ah.”

He turns. Taeseong is approaching from the far side of the room, drink in hand, his expression neutral but unmistakably expectant.

“Where did you disappear to? I’ve been looking for you.”

He stops beside them. “Come, I want you to meet a few people.”

Jimin forces a smile and follows.

The men Taeseong leads him to are dressed like they’ve never had to worry about anything. They’re from a logistics firm, or maybe international shipping, Jimin doesn’t catch all the details. One of them laughs a little too easily and says, “Taeseong-ssi, you didn’t tell us your husband was this handsome. You’ve done well.”

Jimin smiles again. Not too much. Just enough to pass.

Taeseong’s hand rests at the small of his back. “He cleans up well,” he says. “But he’s much better at disappearing when I need him to stay close.”

Jimin says nothing. Just lets the moment slide past.

Soon after, a voice rises from the front of the room. It isn’t amplified, but it carries clearly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, dinner will be served shortly. Please make your way to your assigned tables.”

Chairs scrape gently across the floor as people begin to take their seats. Voices drop to a murmur. A few heads turn toward the front of the room, where the lighting grows a little brighter over the podium. It feels like the start of something.

He and Taeseong walk to their table together.

It’s round, covered in a dark cloth that shimmers slightly under the lighting. The center holds a tight arrangement of white orchids and green stems in a low golden vase. Everything else is clean and spare. Folded napkins, pale water glasses, silverware set in quiet order. A name card with Park Jimin printed in gold waits beside his plate.

Mihyun, Namjoon, and Seokjin are already seated. Jimin slips into the chair beside Seokjin, and Taeseong takes the one on his other side. When Taehyung arrives, he slides in next to his brother, quiet but present.

It’s not a loud table. Not tense, but not relaxed either.

Jimin smooths a hand over the top of his thigh. His leg hasn’t stopped bouncing. Across the table, Seokjin raises an eyebrow.

Taeseong leans toward him slightly. “Why are you so nervous?”

“I’m not,” Jimin says. He picks up his glass and takes a sip.

A moment later, the MC returns. This time, his voice is picked up by a microphone.

“If everyone’s settled, we’d like to begin our program for the evening. Please welcome the CEO of Parknoa, Park Sangchul-ssi.”

Polite applause spreads through the room.

Mihyun claps with quiet approval, eyes following Sangchul like she’s already imagining the applause lasting longer. Taeseong lifts his hands as well, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Seokjin and Namjoon clap too, but it’s quiet, automatic.

Sangchul steps onto the low platform near the front of the room. The lighting adjusts as he walks, just enough to draw attention without being theatrical. He stands behind the podium like he’s done it a thousand times, one hand already resting near the microphone. His mouth curves, pleased with the view from where he stands.

Jimin’s hands curl around the stem of his glass.

“Don’t worry,” Seokjin murmurs beside him. “He won’t be smiling much longer.”.

“First of all,” Sangchul begins, his voice smooth and composed, “thank you. To all of you, our partners, our colleagues, our family, for joining us tonight. It means more than I can say.”

There’s a soft murmur of acknowledgment from the room. Glasses are adjusted. Someone clears their throat at a nearby table.

"This merger is not only a major step forward for Parknoa," he continues, "but a reflection of what we’ve always stood for: innovation, stability, and legacy."

He pauses, just long enough to let the word settle.

"Legacy," he says again. "As many of you know, Parknoa was built from the ground up by my brother, the late Park Hyunsuk. He was the foundation of this company. Its mind, its strength, its name. And while it’s been years since we lost him, I still think of him every time I walk into our offices."

His voice softens.

"Tonight, I hope he’d be proud."

Jimin turns his head and glances at Seokjin. His brother is staring straight ahead, jaw tight. A muscle in his cheek twitches. Then he lets out a stiff breath and shakes his head, just enough for Jimin to see it.

"With this merger," Sangchul goes on, "we step into a future that honors what he built. We are stronger now. More agile, more competitive. And that’s thanks to the partnership we’ve formed with Vantem Global."

Jimin doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe too deep. He can feel something pressing at the edge of his chest, just under the bone.

"This partnership will allow us to expand our reach, modernize our operations, and better serve our clients here and abroad."

A small wave of polite applause rises. Sangchul lets it play out before lifting a hand.

"And of course, we haven’t forgotten why we’re here tonight. A portion of all proceeds from this evening will go toward the newly established Park Hyunsuk Memorial Scholarship Fund. A cause dear to our hearts, and one that reflects our ongoing commitment to giving back."

Another round of applause. Mihyun claps again, posture upright, eyes shining just faintly beneath the lights. Jimin joins in, fingers brushing together without sound.

Sangchul smiles again.

"And now, I’d like to welcome someone who has played an instrumental role in making this merger a reality. Our partners at Vantem have shown us clarity, strength, and vision. I have full confidence that this collaboration will lead to extraordinary things."

He turns to his left.

"Please welcome Jung Hoseok-ssi."

There’s a pause, then another smattering of applause as Hoseok stands from his seat at the VIP table. He walks to the podium with quiet ease, no papers in hand, no flash of nerves. Just the easy rhythm of someone who knows when to speak and when to let silence work for him.

"Thank you, Sangchul-ssi," he says, bowing once before facing the room. "And thank you all for being here. It’s an honor."

His voice is even, light, but clear.

"Vantem is proud to join hands with Parknoa, not just for business, but for what this partnership represents. Shared purpose. Shared future. And most importantly, shared accountability."

Jimin watches the room closely now. Some people are leaning forward. Others glance at each other, half-curious, half-expecting more.

"But tonight is not about me," Hoseok says. "I’ve had the honor of representing Vantem throughout this process. But I’m not the one who built it."

He pauses, just briefly.

"The person behind it, the one who shaped it and made tonight possible, is here with us."

The room stills. No footsteps yet. No motion.

"Please welcome the founder of Vantem Global… Min Yoongi-ssi."

It hits like a dropped glass. No one claps. A few heads begin to turn.

Yoongi steps out from behind the partition near the stage.

Jimin sees him before his body registers it. Before he breathes.

He walks like the stage is already his. Black suit, no tie. His hair is brushed back, loose at the ends. The lighting catches at his temple, glints once at the edge of a silver earring. He doesn’t look for anyone. Doesn’t hesitate. Just climbs the steps and takes his place behind the microphone.

Taeseong stiffens in the chair next to him. Then turns.

“Is that him?” he asks. His voice is too quiet. Controlled, but not calm. “What is he doing here?”

Jimin doesn't answer.

“You knew,” Taeseong says, and it’s not a question anymore. “You knew he was back.”

Jimin keeps his eyes on the stage. He can feel the heat rising at his collar, the thrum in his wrists. But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

Mihyun draws in a breath that doesn’t quite steady her. Her hand freezes above the glass, then falls back to her lap. She leans toward Seokjin, voice low but strained.

“Is that—?”

Seokjin doesn’t answer. His eyes are fixed forward. His expression is blank, but his fingers are curled too tight around the stem of his wineglass.

At the VIP table, Sangchul sits frozen. No forced smile now. Just stillness, as though movement would make it real.

Namjoon glances sideways at Seokjin, then toward Jimin.

Yoongi nods once to Hoseok and turns to the microphone. His voice is low but clear when he speaks. 

“Thank you for the introduction. And thank you for being here tonight.”

“We didn’t build Vantem to make things more exclusive. We built it because we believed good design should be functional, sustainable, and accessible. Not just in how it’s made. In who gets to make it. Who gets to lead. Who gets to stay in the room.”

Jimin doesn’t look away. He doesn’t need to glance around to know the room is listening.

“We saw in this merger a chance to modernize, yes. But more than that, we saw an opportunity to return something. To make sure the next generation doesn’t have to claw their way into a future they were never invited to.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t adjust his posture. He just speaks.

“We’ve pledged to match all donations made tonight toward academic access. That includes expanding scholarships nationally. And ensuring they reach the students who are told, implicitly or directly, that they do not belong.”

Mihyun’s mouth tightens. Her hand folds neatly in her lap, but the edge of the napkin twists beneath her fingers.

Sangchul leans forward slightly, elbows pressed to the table now.

“Many years ago,” Yoongi says, “I was given a second chance by someone who didn’t have to give me anything. He’s not here tonight, but I haven’t forgotten what it meant.”

Jimin feels it low in his chest. A pressure with no center. It keeps him frozen, but not numb.

“And I haven’t forgotten what it means to be cast aside. To be spoken about, but not to. To be silenced, and then treated like silence was a confession.”

The room doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Yoongi’s gaze sweeps the crowd, steady and slow. Then it stops. It holds.

Right on Jimin.

It rushes through him like heat against skin. Too much, too sudden. Jimin can’t breathe right. His pulse kicks hard beneath his skin. The bond, whatever it is, whatever they buried, claws its way back to the surface.

It feels old. Familiar. Like memory lit on fire.

Yoongi doesn’t smile.

He just looks at him. And for a second, Jimin can’t look away.

But the moment slips. Yoongi turns to Hoseok, gaze steady, like it never happened.

“Thank you, Jung Hoseok-ssi, for standing with this project from the beginning. For keeping the vision clear.”

He dips his head.

“And thank you, to everyone here, for your attention.”

The applause starts slow. One corner. Then it spreads. Jimin hears it swell and roll outward, but it doesn’t reach him.

His hands stay in his lap. The noise builds around him like water rising to his chin.

Yoongi steps back from the microphone. He doesn’t bow. He doesn’t look back.

And Jimin feels it. Whatever they buried, it isn’t buried anymore.

Chapter Text

The room doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Yoongi’s gaze moves slowly over the crowd, controlled and careful. Then it stops.

Jimin.

He's watching, as if he’s been waiting for this moment all along. Their eyes meet, and a silent acknowledgment passes between them. Unspoken truths, unfinished business, and the quiet weight of expectation. The bond stirs beneath Yoongi’s skin, restless and undeniable, like an ache he can’t quite place.

He holds Jimin’s gaze for just a second too long, then moves his eyes to Hoseok.

"Thank you, Jung Hoseok-ssi, for standing with this project from the beginning. For keeping the vision clear."

He dips his head.

"And thank you, everyone, for your attention."

Applause fills the room. Controlled, polite, spreading like a careful wave. Yoongi feels it more than he hears it, the weight of eyes and expectation pressing down on him. He steps back from the microphone, turns from the stage, and begins walking toward the VIP table where Hoseok is seated.

He doesn't get far.

Sangchul is already on his feet, blocking Yoongi’s path. His face flushes red, anger evident in the tight line of his jaw and the tension across his shoulders.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" His voice is low, scraped raw with fury. "Did you really think I'd just let you walk back in here like nothing happened?"

Yoongi stops, meets his glare evenly. “You got to decide how I left. You don’t get to decide how I come back.”

Sangchul steps in. His scent hits, leather and musk, thick in Yoongi’s throat. It sits wrong, like always.

"You think this is some grand fucking entrance? That I won’t bury you again like the trash you are?"

Yoongi holds his ground without flinching, keeping his expression unreadable, but the slight tightening of his fists betrays his tension.

"You needed this merger to save your ass. Now you're panicking because you just realized who you handed your lifeline to."

Sangchul doesn’t back down. His stare holds, unblinking, like he’s waiting to see if Yoongi will flinch. "You think this is about the merger? That you’re some kind of savior? You're just like your mother. A parasite. She knew exactly how to latch onto men with money. Smile, beg, take everything she could, then vanish when things got hard. You're no different."

Something raw flickers in Yoongi’s eyes for a brief moment, but it’s quickly replaced by icy control.

"You're grasping at straws, Sangchul-ssi. Insulting my mother won't get under my skin anymore. You can't threaten me out of this room.”

"You’re a fool if you think this changes anything. You’re still nothing,” Sangchul sneers. “The minute you turn your back, I'll remind you exactly how worthless you really are."

Yoongi steps closer. He keeps his voice even, because if he doesn’t, it’ll turn into something he can’t take back. "You already made that clear. And I haven’t forgotten a single thing.”

For a moment, the air between them is brittle, charged, on the edge of violence, until Hoseok calmly steps between them.

"Gentlemen, we're in public. Whatever this is, it can wait."

Awareness dawns visibly across Sangchul's features. Guests are glancing their way, conversations softening, eyes subtly shifting toward them. He straightens himself and forces a cold, brittle smile.

"Fine," he mutters, eyes locked on Yoongi’s. "But this isn’t over."

Yoongi walks past him without a word. He follows Hoseok back to the table.

The seat next to him is still empty. Yoongi takes it.

He reaches for his water. The glass is cold, the surface damp against his fingers. He lifts it slowly, steadying himself with a drink. From the nearby table, he feels the weight of their eyes. Mihyun’s tense stare, Taeseong’s anger barely hidden behind a mask of composure, and Jimin’s quiet, complicated gaze.

This is exactly what he came for.

And it’s only the beginning.

Dinner begins with little ceremony, waiters moving smoothly between tables, placing plates down without disturbing the conversations. The sound of cutlery against porcelain and the murmur of voices blend into a low, continuous backdrop.

Yoongi settles deeper into his seat, letting the rhythm of the room wash around him. The room is careful, each movement calculated, each glance too brief to be natural. He senses eyes avoiding him with meticulous caution, the tension evident in every guarded expression and careful smile.

Beside him, Hoseok unfolds his napkin and places it in his lap. He leans closer after a moment, speaking just loud enough for Yoongi to hear.

“You okay?”

Yoongi meets his gaze, steady and clear. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

There’s a pause before Hoseok speaks again, concern evident in his voice despite his composed expression. “I didn't catch what he said, but he looked furious.”

“That was the point,” Yoongi says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “He's exactly where I needed him to be.”

Hoseok watches him for a moment, his voice quieter now. “And you? How are you really handling this?”

A breath escapes before Yoongi speaks again. “Of course it affects me. But I came prepared. He didn’t.”

There's still worry in Hoseok’s eyes. Yoongi places a hand on his shoulder, gives it a light squeeze. “Hoba, you don't have to worry. I'm okay.”

Hoseok’s posture eases just a little. He glances toward Sangchul’s table. “I know you're strong. Still hate seeing him try to tear you down.”

“It won’t last,” Yoongi says, calm and certain. “It doesn’t land the way it used to.”

Hoseok nods, appearing reassured for now. As dinner continues quietly around them, Yoongi allows his attention to drift again to the nearby table.

Mihyun hasn’t looked away once. Her face is composed, but there’s tension at the corners of her mouth, too controlled to be calm. Namjoon and Seokjin speak in low voices. Neither of them is smiling.

Jimin sits next to Taeseong, upright and unreadable. But there's tightness in his jaw, and his hand wraps too firmly around his wine glass. Taeseong leans in, says something close to his ear. Jimin’s eyes narrow. He drains the glass in one motion and sets it down with too much finality. Taeseong’s expression darkens with clear irritation.

Yoongi’s hand tightens around his own glass, a protective feeling rising in his chest.

Hoseok, attuned to the change in him, leans in again. “You feel it, right? The tension in here?”

He gives a short nod. “Let them feel it. This is exactly what I came for.”

They sit in silence for a while. Around them, plates are being taken away in quiet intervals, glasses topped up, the occasional low exchange passing between tables. The room isn’t loud, but it’s awake, edges tight with effort.

Hoseok moves his fork across the plate, more out of habit than hunger. His voice comes quiet. “No regrets?”

Yoongi looks at him. “None.”

He gives a small, genuine smile. “Good.”

Yoongi finishes his water slowly, letting the coolness settle against the heat of the room. The evening stretches ahead of him, full of careful calculations and restrained confrontations. This night has only just begun.

Near the front, the MC steps onto the platform again and thanks the guests for their attendance. He says a few words about the scholarship initiative tied to the night’s contributions. The lights warm slightly as he speaks. Around the room, servers continue moving between tables. Voices rise in volume. The mood softens as the formal portion of the evening begins to give way.

Yoongi stays seated a moment longer. His plate is mostly untouched, though he’s eaten enough to calm the lingering tightness in his chest. Next to him, Hoseok finishes his wine and leans in.

“A couple of the board members have been asking about the scent partnerships,” he says quietly. “They are just down the table. I'll introduce you.”

Yoongi rises and follows him. The introductions are brief. Two polite handshakes, a few questions about sourcing, discreet praise for the speech. Yoongi answers evenly, keeping his tone light but engaged. Hoseok doesn’t linger. Just as they’re about to step away, he leans in again.

“I’ll circle back,” he says under his breath. “Don’t let her trap you too long.”

Yoongi doesn’t have to ask who.

Mihyun is already walking toward him. Straight spine, shallow smile. Something poised and brittle in the way she holds herself tonight. Like she’s fighting not to break character.

“Min Yoongi-ssi,” she says. “What a speech.”

He turns to face her. “Mihyun-ssi.”

“Must feel good,” she says. “All these people clapping for you. All this attention.”

“I didn’t come for attention.”

She tilts her head. “No? Then what was it for? The charity? Please. You’ve always wanted to be seen. To be important. You used to watch us like a stray begging to be let inside.”

Yoongi’s face doesn’t change. “You always made sure I stayed outside.”

“You didn’t belong,” she says flatly. “Still don’t. Money doesn’t make you one of us. You think because you’ve got a few investors and a new suit you can rewrite where you came from?”

“I came from the same house you did.”

“No,” she says. “You were brought in. Pitied. That's all you ever were. A favor.”

He stiffens but doesn’t step back. “He wanted to give me a future. You made sure I had none.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” she says. “You’re here now, aren’t you? All grown up. Dressed up. Pretending you earned any of it.”

He doesn’t respond. Her scent reaches him. Familiar. Unpleasant. 

“You talk about giving back,” she adds. “But you’re still taking. Just like your mother. Always clinging to someone richer. Always expecting something for nothing.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightens. “Leave her out of this.”

“She would’ve loved this,” Mihyun continues. “All eyes on her son. She’d have worn something too bright and stood next to you like she belonged.”

“She never needed anyone to make space for her,” he says. “She earned what she had. And I’m not ashamed of her.”

Mihyun studies him. “You’re the only one who remembers her kindly.”

Yoongi doesn’t flinch. He feels it, a glance from the side. When he turns, Jimin is there. A few meters away. Taeseong stands close beside him, speaking low in his ear. Jimin’s glass is empty.

Mihyun follows his gaze. “You shouldn’t look at him like that,” she says. “You lost that right the night you touched him.”

Yoongi’s voice is low. “You never asked him what he remembers.”

“He remembers enough,” she says. “And he knows better now.”

Yoongi’s eyes stay on Jimin. “Do you?”

She steps back with a tight smile. “Enjoy your night. It’s all downhill from here.” Then walks away without another word.

Yoongi stands still for a beat. There’s a chill beneath his collar. He draws in a slow breath and lets it settle.

Across the room, he spots Seokjin and Namjoon near a display of orchids, their heads inclined close as they talk. Yoongi adjusts his jacket, then starts toward them, not bothering to check if anyone is watching.

He doesn’t slow as he approaches. They’re half-turned toward each other, absorbed in something quiet. He knows this won’t be personal. At least not in the way everything else tonight has been.

Mihyun’s words still cling at the base of his neck. Sangchul’s too. He doesn’t replay them, but they linger, low, like sediment. This isn’t the moment to sort through what landed and what didn’t. Not when there’s still more to be done.

He crosses behind a cluster of tall candle-lit tables, sidestepping a waiter carrying a tray of glasses, then steps into the quieter corner by the windows. The orchids are set low on a black marble display table. White, long-stemmed, carefully arranged. Their petals catch stray light from outside, reflected through the floor-to-ceiling glass. Past the garden hedges, the night stretches still and distant.

Namjoon looks up first. Seokjin turns just after, shoulders tight but composed.

"Seokjin-ssi. Namjoon-ssi."

Seokjin gives a small nod, gaze steady. "Quite the entrance. Uncle looked ready to pounce the moment you stepped off the stage. I saw him go straight for you. He looked furious.”

"He was."

"What exactly did he come at you with?"

"He tried the usual things,” Yoongi says. “Dismissal. Insults. He’s scrambling."

There's no amusement in Seokjin’s voice as he speaks. "Good. Watching him squirm is the only satisfying part of any of this."

Yoongi doesn't respond. He just glances between them.

Namjoon sets his glass on the edge of the table. 

"Now that he knows you’re the one behind the merger, he might start panicking in other directions too. He could try to contact the doctor. He doesn’t know we found the transfer, but if he gets spooked enough, he might try to cover it anyway."

"He’ll want to protect himself," Seokjin says. "We have no idea how far he’d go if he thinks someone’s closing in."

Yoongi breathes out, low and even. "He won’t have the space to think straight. Not if I keep the pressure on. He’ll be too busy trying to stop me from dismantling the company he was never meant to run."

Seokjin doesn’t smile, but there's a flicker of something colder behind his eyes. "Let him try."

Yoongi’s attention moves toward the far edge of the room. Hoseok is standing near one of the sculpture alcoves with Taehyung, both of them mid-conversation. A third figure stands beside them, broad-shouldered, dressed plainly but still formal, just not lavish like the guests. There’s a strap across his chest and a camera in his hand. Yoongi doesn’t recognise him.

“I shouldn’t stay here too long,” he says. “If Sangchul sees us talking for more than a minute, he’ll start assuming things.”

“Better not give him a reason,” Seokjin agrees.

Yoongi turns to Namjoon. “I hope the trip’s worth it.”

“Me too,” Namjoon says. “Seokjin-hyung will keep you updated.”

Yoongi nods, eyes returning to Seokjin. “Let me know the second anything changes.”

“I will.”

“We’ll stay in touch.”

He moves steadily through the room, weaving past a group of older executives and two women laughing over their wine. The lighting here turns softer, warmer. Hoseok’s laugh comes again, easy and low, and when Yoongi reaches them, it’s Hoseok who spots him first.

“Look who finally made it.” Hoseok doesn’t hesitate, sliding an arm around Yoongi’s shoulders with the casual familiarity of years. “The man of the hour.”

“Don’t start,” Yoongi says, but his voice is lighter now. He doesn’t pull away.

“What a show tonight,” Taehyung adds, swirling what’s left in his glass. “I was honestly ready to be bored. This is much better.”

Yoongi gives him a look, but there’s no real edge to it. Taehyung grins.

“Yoongi-hyung,” he says, turning towards the man standing next to him. “This is my husband, Jungkook. Jungkook, this is Yoongi.”

Jungkook offers his hand without hesitation. “Nice to meet you. Your speech was probably the best part of the evening.”

Yoongi shakes his hand, tone mild. “I was hoping to keep it short.”

“Still left an impression,” Jungkook says.

“He always does,” Hoseok adds, arm still resting along Yoongi’s back. “He has a way of making people listen.”

Yoongi glances at him, half amused. “You’re not helping.”

“Not trying to.”

The four of them fall into an easy rhythm for a few minutes. Hoseok says something about the catering. Taehyung replies with something worse about the wine. Jungkook laughs and adjusts his camera strap, thumb brushing the release button out of habit. Yoongi doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t need to. Hoseok stays close. Their bodies lean slightly in the same direction.

When Yoongi glances up, he sees Jimin.

He’s standing with Taeseong near the edge of the floor. There’s a drink in his hand. The angle is wrong for reading his expression clearly, but his posture says enough. Taeseong is speaking close to his ear. Jimin doesn’t respond. He lifts the glass and downs what’s left in one motion.

Taeseong reaches toward his arm. Jimin rolls his eyes and pulls away.

Taehyung notices too. His smile falters, just slightly.

“I’m gonna go check on him,” he says, already stepping back. “It was good seeing you.”

Jungkook shifts his camera back into place. “I should get back to work anyway. It was nice meeting you, Yoongi-ssi.”

Yoongi nods. “Likewise.”

They leave in separate directions. Taehyung moves toward Jimin, careful but unhurried. Jungkook angles toward the outer circle of the room, where the photographers have regrouped.

Hoseok doesn’t say anything. He lowers his arm but stays beside Yoongi, eyes following Taehyung as he walks away.

Neither of them moves.

After a moment, Yoongi's eyes find Jimin again. His shoulders are too high. He doesn’t lean into Taeseong, doesn’t react when Taehyung reaches him and touches his arm.

Taehyung speaks. It looks gentle, almost quiet, but Jimin doesn’t move. Just turns his head slightly, answering with something low that Yoongi can’t make out. There’s a pause as Taehyung looks at his brother, says something else. Jimin gives the faintest shake of his head.

Without another word, Taehyung steps back and walks away.

Only then does Taeseong move. He doesn’t speak. Just reaches for Jimin’s arm and grabs it, harder than he needs to.

Jimin freezes.

Yoongi watches the way Taeseong’s fingers dig into the sleeve of Jimin’s jacket. Jimin tries to pull away. Once. Then again, more forcefully. Taeseong still doesn’t let go.

When Jimin finally tears his arm free, the movement jolts a nearby server. One of the trays tilts, but nothing falls.

Jimin straightens his jacket and turns without looking at anyone. Walks away toward the back of the room, toward the corridor that leads to the lobby.

Yoongi doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Hoseok speaks beside him.

“You should go.”

He doesn’t answer. Just watches the spot where Jimin disappeared.

“He didn’t want help there. But he won’t want to be alone either.”

Yoongi leaves without a word. There’s no hesitation as he walks, steady and quiet, toward the far end of the room, where the corridor begins and the lighting softens. It curves gently toward the lobby, the lights dimmer now, following the wall in a soft, unbroken line. 

The bar comes into view before Jimin does. It’s all clean lines and quiet corners, the kind of space meant to feel expensive but unmemorable.

Jimin is seated near the corner. One leg crossed over the other, posture looser now. Not collapsed. Just tired. There’s a glass of whiskey near his right hand, mostly full. Another, untouched, sits beside it. He isn’t looking at either of them.

Yoongi walks over and takes the seat beside him without asking. Close, but not enough to touch. Jimin's gaze stays on the bar, eyes low-lidded, unreadable.

When he reaches for the glass, Yoongi places a hand over his.

“Hey,” he says. Quiet. “Maybe slow down a little.”

Jimin doesn’t pull away immediately. For a second, he just stares ahead. Then he slides his hand out from under Yoongi’s and picks up the drink anyway. He takes a sip, lips pressed tightly to the rim. 

Yoongi watches the way his throat moves. The way his wrist trembles a little. His scent is fainter than usual, dulled by the alcohol. Still, Yoongi can feel it. Fig sap, familiar even now. The warmth of milk underneath, flattened under strain. It brushes past his senses like something tired but still trying to rise.

Neither of them speaks for a while.

Then Jimin asks, “Why are you here?”

Yoongi answers without turning. “I came to check on you.”

Jimin presses his lips together for a second. Sets the glass down. His gaze stays forward.

“You looked pretty happy back there,” he says. “With Hoseok-ssi.”

Yoongi finally glances toward him. “What?”

“I saw the way you were with him. Touching. Laughing.” His voice isn’t slurred, just low. “You looked... good together.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond right away. Jimin still isn’t looking at him.

“He makes you happy,” Jimin adds. “I get it, hyung.”

Yoongi looks at him fully this time.

“Hoseok’s my friend,” he says. “That’s all.”

Jimin stays quiet, but his shoulders lower slightly, like something braced had finally eased.

The bond stirs again. Not strong, but steady. Yoongi feels it settle low in his chest, familiar and unshakable, drawn to something that never really let go.

He sits a little straighter, voice quiet.

“Can I ask something?.

Jimin doesn’t answer right away. But he doesn’t tense either.

“Was it because of me?” Yoongi asks. “What happened earlier. Was it because I was there?”

Still nothing.

“Or is that something he does all the time?”

The silence stretches for a moment longer.

Yoongi watches the way Jimin’s hand wraps around the glass again, even though he doesn’t lift it.

“If that’s how he always is with you, Jimin-ah,” he says, careful now, “I swear—”

“What are you going to do?”

Jimin turns his head, finally meeting his eyes. He doesn’t sound angry. Just tired. Like the question has already answered itself.

Yoongi holds his gaze.

“It’s not right,” he says. “He can’t treat you like that.”

“I know.” His voice is flat. “And I’m not letting him.”

His hand stays wrapped around the glass, like it’s the only thing keeping him steady.

“You don’t need to worry,” he adds, quieter now. “I’m not a kid anymore. I know what I’m doing.”

“I still worry,” Yoongi says.

That gets a reaction. Jimin huffs out something that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so bitter. He lifts the glass again and takes another slow sip, then sets it down a little harder than before.

“Yeah. You’ve always worried,” he mutters. “That’s why you left, right? That’s why you didn’t check on me. Not once. Not for thirteen years.”

Yoongi doesn’t flinch.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

Jimin lets the words hang. Like he’s already heard them before. Which he has.

“You keep saying that,” he says. “You always say that. But it doesn’t explain anything.”

Then he turns to Yoongi fully. His shoulders are squared, jaw tight.

The glass is back on the bar. His focus isn’t.

“Can’t you just say it?” Jimin asks. “Be a man and admit it. Why did you leave?”

Yoongi feels it. Not in the silence. In the way Jimin’s scent rises. Fig, heavier now. The warmth of milk beneath it, unmistakable.

The bond tightens.

He answers without looking away.

“Because they made me leave,” he says. “You think I would’ve just walked away from you like that?”

Jimin freezes. 

“I was threatened,” Yoongi continues. “They said if I stayed, they’d press charges. That it would go public. That you’d be pulled into it. Marked for good.”

His voice doesn’t waver. “I didn’t care what happened to me. But I wasn’t going to let them ruin you.”

Jimin just stares at him. His mouth parts slightly, but no words come.

The bond holds steady between them. Quiet. Present.

A voice cuts in from behind.

“What the hell are you doing here with my husband?”

Yoongi turns first. Taeseong is already close, close enough that Yoongi knows he’s been watching for a while. His expression is composed, but his mouth is too tight. One hand is in his pocket. The other lingers at his side like he’s not sure whether to reach or restrain.

Yoongi doesn’t rise right away. His eyes stay on Jimin for another second, like he’s giving him a chance to speak first. But Jimin stays still.

Taeseong steps in closer. He doesn’t look at Yoongi. His focus is all on Jimin.

“Get up. We're leaving,” he says. “Before you make an even bigger fool of yourself.”

That’s when Yoongi rises. It’s not sudden, but it’s decisive. He looks straight at Taeseong, steady and unflinching.

“Don’t talk to him like that.”

Taeseong blinks once, slow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

His jaw tightens. “This is a private matter.”

“It stopped being private when you grabbed him like that in front of a hundred people.”

Taeseong cuts a glance at Jimin, quick and unreadable, before fixing Yoongi with a harder stare. “He's my husband.”

Yoongi holds his ground, gaze steady. “That doesn’t give you the right.”

“Are you trying to start something here?”

“No,” Yoongi says. “I’m trying to stop something.”

There’s a pause. It’s not long, but it’s long enough for Jimin to reach for his voice again.

“Hyung.” It’s soft, not urgent. “Please.”

It’s the first thing he’s said in minutes. He sounds tired. Not embarrassed, not shaken, just worn thin in a way Yoongi recognizes too well.

Taeseong turns to him. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

There’s no bite in his voice now. Just certainty. The kind that doesn’t ask.

Jimin looks at Yoongi for a second longer. His face is unreadable. The glass is still on the bar behind him, forgotten.

He nods once.

“Let’s go.”

Yoongi stays still. His hand curls at his side, then settles.

Taeseong walks without looking back. Jimin follows, quiet, a few steps behind.

Yoongi watches until they’re gone. Until the hallway empties and the sound fades.

He doesn’t sit. Just stands there, eyes fixed on where they disappeared.

The bond is still there, steady in his chest. It hasn’t gone dormant. It never does. It just waits, like he’s always waited. Like something that still remembers what it once belonged to.

And tonight, for the first time, it hurts less.

Not because it’s fading.

But because now Jimin knows.

Chapter Text

The morning air is already heavy, warm enough to promise the kind of heat that sits on skin all day, but the ground’s still wet from the overnight rain. Not enough to soften the packed summer earth, just enough to slick the stone paths with mud. 

Yoongi slips once carrying the compost buckets toward the greenhouse. He doesn't fall, but his palms hit stone. One glove splits at the thumb, and he feels the raw skin scrape beneath the fabric. He checks for blood, sees none, and tugs the glove tighter. It’ll hold until noon.

By midmorning, his shirt sticks to his back, heavy and damp. He’s already changed once. The spare uniform left in the laundry was older, probably from someone broader all over. It fits wrong, too loose at the waist, sleeves awkward around his arms. He’d been scolded once for bringing back a shirt with compost on the hem, so now he watches where he kneels. Tries to keep everything clean. Tries to keep himself as unnoticed as possible.

There’s a delivery waiting near the gate. A few trays of perennials and some bags of fertilizer, left beside the post like an afterthought. No schedule. No invoice.

Joowon rounds the corner.

“Take them to the east garden,” he says. “They want it finished by noon.”

Yoongi bows once and doesn’t respond. Joowon disappears without asking if he needs help.

The estate feels quieter than usual. Mihyun hasn’t left the house yet, which means the staff keep to one half of the property, avoiding unnecessary noise. Sangchul might arrive today. Or tomorrow. No one ever says clearly until he's already walking through the door.

By the time he finishes in the east garden, his back aches and his nails are dark with soil.

He stacks the emptied crates under the portico, glancing up toward the main house. All the curtains on the second floor are still drawn, windows reflecting clouds and shadows from ginkgo leaves that have thickened and grown wide, flickering gently as the air moves.

He wonders if he’ll get to see Jimin today, then tries not to think too hard about it.

They haven’t talked properly since Wednesday. A few scattered texts, nothing more. Jimin had an ethics exam, then a meeting with his literature tutor. Yoongi had spent the afternoon repairing an irrigation valve near the back of the estate. It was hot, quiet work. He came back sore and sunburned, and almost texted, then talked himself out of it.

It wasn’t always like this. Back when there was more time, fewer things pulling them in opposite directions.

Still, they find each other when they can. At odd hours. A knock on the door. A few minutes near the garden before someone calls them back. A few days ago, they’d stood together by the old stone wall, Jimin’s hands tucked into the hoodie Yoongi had given him when it got chilly, smiling like he wasn’t tired.

Yoongi had leaned in and kissed the side of his neck, lips pressed to warm skin. He’d stayed there longer than he meant to. Fig sap. Sweet milk. Something like calm.

Then he walked away first. He still doesn’t know why.

Just before noon, he slips into the greenhouse. It’s the only part of the estate he still treats like his. The fans are on low, circulating the air. Someone’s moved the trays he left soaking. He’ll have to check moisture levels again later, probably repot the citrus graft that started to root last week. Another thing he hasn’t found time to finish properly.

He crouches beside the perilla, gently lifting a leaf with his thumb, turning it over to inspect for pests or damage. Everything looks healthy. Better than he feels, anyway.

Lunch is quick and quiet. He eats in the staff kitchen, facing the small window over the sink. The head cook doesn't speak to him unless necessary, and the others follow her example. Only Sunae offers a small nod, setting down a bowl of salted vegetables beside his rice.

“Too hot today,” she murmurs, glancing around before touching his elbow briefly. “You need proper salt.”

He thanks her, keeping his eyes low.

By late afternoon, his shirt clings to him again, damp at the back, sleeves stuck to the bend of his arms. He’ll have to rinse it out later.

The air outside has settled into stillness. Warm, steady, almost heavy. He crosses the courtyard the same way he always does, not thinking much about the path. His legs are tired. His head feels full. The house is quiet, but not in a way that soothes anything.

He walks the long corridor to the staff washroom, showers fast, and dries his hair with the same towel he used this morning. The soap leaves his skin tight. He doesn’t mind.

He dresses in the washroom. When he gets back to his room, his hair’s still damp. He drags the towel across the back of his neck, drops it on the chair, and sits down to rest.

There’s a knock a few minutes later. Even rhythm. Familiar weight.

He opens the door to find Jimin standing there, one shoulder tipped under the strap of his schoolbag. His shirt’s untucked on one side, tie loosened, collar open. There’s color in his cheeks that doesn’t look like it came from walking.

"Aren't you supposed to be at dance class?" Yoongi asks. He steps back to let him in, closing the door after.

"I left early," Jimin says. "I wasn’t feeling great."

Yoongi studies him carefully, frowning. "You think you’re getting sick?"

"Maybe." Jimin shrugs. He sinks onto the edge of Yoongi’s bed, loosening his tie fully. "It just feels like I might be coming down with something.

Yoongi sits next to him, palm pressed lightly to Jimin's forehead. Warm skin, but not hot. Just warmer than normal. "Did you take anything?"

Jimin leans into his touch, eyes half closing. "Not yet. It's probably nothing."

"It’s not nothing." Yoongi’s voice lowers. "You’re never sick."

Jimin smiles a little. "Maybe I’m just tired."

Yoongi brushes his thumb over Jimin's flushed cheekbone. "Maybe you need rest."

Jimin tilts his head into Yoongi’s palm, gaze softening. "I'll be fine. You're the one who looks exhausted."

"Not that exhausted." Yoongi leans forward, kissing him without hesitation. Jimin makes a quiet sound against his mouth, and Yoongi deepens it, sinking into the warmth he's missed for days. The scent that rises from Jimin's skin is stronger now. Fig sap, sweet milk, a warmth that pulls him closer. His fingers tighten reflexively on Jimin's waist.

Jimin breaks away first, eyes gently amused. "Hyung… I might be contagious."

Yoongi shakes his head, unbothered. "I don't care." He noses along Jimin’s jaw, breathing in again. "You smell so good today."

That earns a laugh, soft and a little breathless. Jimin's fingers slide into Yoongi’s hair, brushing through the ends where they're still damp. "What’s gotten into you?"

Yoongi doesn't know. Doesn't think. He buries his face against the hollow of Jimin's throat, breathing deep, pulse steady beneath his lips. "I don’t know," he whispers. "You just do."

Jimin strokes his hair idly, relaxed against him. "Did you study much yesterday?"

“Yeah. Kind of. I kept going over the same page, but I don’t know how much actually stuck.”

"You don't give yourself enough credit." Jimin touches the side of Yoongi’s neck, thumb grazing just above the collar. "You'll pass. You've studied harder than anyone I know."

"Maybe."

They stay like that for a moment. Neither of them moves. The quiet stretches just enough to feel like something’s been left unsaid. When Jimin speaks again, his voice is quieter.

“I know you’re working hard and all, but…”

He huffs a little, like it’s stupid to even bring up.

“You could still text me. I kept checking my phone like an idiot all day yesterday.”

Yoongi lowers his head. "The battery dies so fast. You know my phone barely works."

"You need a new one," Jimin says firmly. "I'll get you one."

Yoongi’s voice stays quiet. “You already gave me this one.”

“That was Seokjin’s old backup. It barely turns on.”

“I don’t need anything more than what I have.”

Jimin looks at him like that’s not the point. But he doesn’t argue it.

Instead, he leans against Yoongi's shoulder, eyes drifting closed. His breathing slows a little, warmth pressing through the cotton, solid and familiar. 

Yoongi lifts his hand, touches his forehead. It's still warm and the flush on his cheeks hasn’t faded. "Maybe you really are catching something."

Jimin's eyes open slowly. "Yeah. I'll take some Tylenol and sleep it off."

"You should," Yoongi agrees. "I don't like seeing you like this."

Jimin leans in, slow and familiar, eyes still on him. Then he presses a kiss to the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. “You planning to study?”

Yoongi nods. "I have to."

“Okay.” He gets up, a little heavier than usual. “I’ll head upstairs and lie down. Text me later?”

“Of course.” Yoongi watches him cross the room. “Try to sleep a little, yeah?”

“I will.” Jimin glances back before opening the door. “Love you, hyung,” he says quietly.

The door closes behind him.

Yoongi sits on the bed for a moment longer, Jimin's scent hasn’t left yet. It clings to the sheets, the air, the space between his hands. Something settles under his ribs, steady and quiet, with nowhere else to go. Leaving is going to hurt more than he imagined. Still, it's only two years. Two years, and Jimin will be eighteen, free to follow him.

He reaches for the phone charging on the desk, flips it open, and types a single message:

i love you.

The next morning, Yoongi wakes early and reaches for his phone on the desk. Still no reply from Jimin. He sets it down again, pressing his lips together. Jimin might still be sleeping. He hopes that’s all it is. But the silence sits uneasily in his stomach.

By breakfast, it's clear Sangchul has arrived. Yoongi notices it immediately in the staff's lowered gazes and cautious movements. Voices carry less, footsteps soften, and the house itself seems to hold its breath.

He stays out of the way. There’s more than enough to do without needing to be asked. The path from the greenhouse to the kitchen is worn into his legs by now, and he keeps his head down, working through what’s left of the early morning chores.

Joowon crosses his path outside the tool shed. He pauses, unusually still.

“You managing alright?” he asks.

Yoongi nods. “Fine.”

Joowon gives him a short look and moves on. It’s too polite. Too normal. Yoongi watches him go, the shift lingering in the back of his mind.

When lunch is called, Yoongi doesn’t go to the dining room. He waits at the corner behind the kitchen, far enough to stay out of sight, close enough to hear. From where he stands, he can make out the sound of chairs pulling in, dishes being set on the table, footsteps moving across the floor. The conversation is low, hard to follow.

Seokjin speaks a moment later. “Where’s Jimin?”

“In his room,” Mihyun answers. “He’s not feeling well. Don’t bother him.”

There’s a lull, the kind that follows once everyone’s eating. After a while, Yoongi hears the faint scrape of a chair moving back.

“I’m heading up,” Seokjin says. “Got some reading to finish.”

Yoongi listens to his footsteps retreat toward the stairs. There’s a pause. Then Mihyun speaks, quieter now, like she’s leaned in.

“Jimin’s scent is stronger today. I told you it would start this week.”

Yoongi holds his breath.

Sangchul responds, voice even. “Then let him rest.”

There’s the sound of familiar footsteps, careful and steady. A cup is placed on the table. It’s probably Sunae, serving tea.

Then Mihyun’s voice cuts through.

“Watch your hands, Sunae. This set costs more than your month’s pay.”

No one replies. A moment later the dining room door clicks shut. 

Yoongi stays where he is.

Jimin is still upstairs. He hasn’t answered. Something’s wrong. He just doesn’t know what yet.

The air feels too still now. The clatter of plates has stopped. Voices gone. After a moment, he steps back from the wall, turns, and walks quietly down the corridor.

He slips out the side door near the pantry, letting it close behind him. The early summer heat settles over his shoulders as he walks the narrow path past the kitchen window, gravel catching underfoot. The scent of tea and cooked rice drifts faintly through the screen, but his stomach twists when he breathes it in. He’s not hungry. Not really. He’s just restless.

There’s more to do. There always is. By the time the sun begins to dip behind the trees, he’s crossed the estate half a dozen times, restacked crates, scrubbed the algae from the water filter at the irrigation pump, and finished re-oiling the shed door that’s been sticking since the last storm. 

Eventually, he heads back toward the house. On the path behind the shed, he slips his phone from his pocket. The screen stays black. Battery’s dead. He presses the power button anyway, thumb holding a second too long, like he thinks that might make a difference. It doesn’t.

The staff shower is humid but empty. He doesn’t linger. The soap leaves his skin stripped raw, and the cotton of his shirt clings damply by the time he walks barefoot back into the kitchen.

It’s late enough that the overhead lights are dimmed. The sink’s been cleared, counters wiped. Sunae stands at the far end of the counter, folding a kitchen towel. She glances over when he steps inside.

“Sit, child,” she says. “I’ve saved you some food. You haven’t eaten anything today, have you?”

Yoongi shakes his head. Pulls out a chair.

She brings the food over a moment later and sets it in front of him. A bowl of rice, a few side dishes, still warm.

He mutters a thank you and sits. Eats slowly, more out of habit than hunger.

When Sunae speaks again, her voice is calm but firm.

"I know you’re worried, Yoongi-yah, but Jiminie will be fine. It’s normal for omegas to feel this way when the time comes. It’s not pleasant, but it will pass. What’s important is for you to stay away until it does, okay?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Just nods once, eyes on his bowl.

Sunae dries her hands and steps toward the back door.

"Eat, then get some rest," she says without looking back.

The door clicks shut behind her.

He finishes the last few bites slowly, then pushes the bowl back and sits for a moment longer.

Joowon steps into the kitchen a few minutes later, sleeves rolled, moving with a casual ease Yoongi doesn’t quite trust.

“Still here?” he says, voice lighter than usual.

Yoongi nods without lifting his head.

Joowon pulls out the stool across from him and sits for a moment. “Quiet night. Want some tea?”

“Sure.”

He gets up again, moves behind him. The cupboard opens. Water runs. Ceramic knocks softly against the counter.

Yoongi stays seated, eyes on the table. 

A moment later, Joowon sets two cups down. One by Yoongi’s hand. The other closer to his own place.

He doesn’t sit again.

"I was supposed to bring something up to Jimin," he says casually. "Tea and a little food. Mihyun-nim asked earlier. But I need to check the supplier log at the back gate before they close."

He gestures toward the stove. "There’s a tray Sunae left… it’s already set. If you don’t mind taking it, I’d appreciate it."

Yoongi hesitates. Remembers Sunae’s voice. But Joowon’s tone is easy, almost kind.

"Alright," he says.

Joowon nods, already heading toward the door. "Thanks."

Yoongi finishes his tea, then stands. He crosses to the stove, removes the cover from the tray, adds the cup of tea Joowon prepared for Jimin, and picks it up carefully before heading toward the stairs.

He carries the tray upstairs, both hands steady beneath it. The hallway is quiet. The lights above the bedrooms glow dimmer here, casting a muted yellow along the floorboards. It’s warmer than it should be. The kind of warmth that builds slowly and stays.

By the time he reaches the landing, something’s off. He can’t place it exactly. There’s a pull behind his eyes, the edge of a headache settling in. His skin feels a little too warm, like he’s walked too far in the sun. He tells himself it’s nothing. He hasn’t eaten properly since morning, and the irrigation work kept him out longer than expected. He’s tired. That’s all.

He stops in front of Jimin’s door.

The scent in the air is faint but wrong. Fig sap, yes. But there’s a weight to it now, a thickness that slows his breath as soon as he inhales. Something in his chest tightens. He crouches and sets the tray on the floor with care, making sure the cup doesn’t slide. The tea is still warm.

He stands and wipes his palms against the front of his trousers. Then knocks, once, just loud enough to be heard through the door.

“Jiminie,” he says. “I brought your dinner. I’ll leave it here, alright?”

He waits.

There’s no answer at first. Just the stillness of the hallway pressing in around him. He rocks back slightly, ready to turn away.

“Hyung?”

The voice is quiet. Strained, like it’s coming through sleep.

Yoongi steps forward. “Yeah. I’m here. Are you alright?”

Silence again. Then the soft sound of bare feet against wood. The doorknob turns.

The door opens.

Jimin stands in the doorway, unsteady on his feet. His shirt clings to his chest, damp with sweat. His cheeks are flushed high, eyes unfocused. His breathing is fast, shallow. One hand grips the doorframe for balance.

Yoongi doesn’t speak. The scent is stronger now. It fills the space between them, catching in the back of his throat. The fig is thick, almost sickly, edged with a warmth that unsettles him. His pulse stutters.

Jimin takes a step forward. Then another. He’s shaking.

“Please,” he says. “Don’t go.”

Yoongi lowers his gaze, jaw clenched. “I can’t,” he says. “I shouldn’t be here. Sunae told me to stay away.”

Jimin doesn’t answer. He reaches for Yoongi’s shirt and closes his fingers around the fabric.

Yoongi doesn’t pull away. His body sways toward the touch, and by the time he registers it, the space between them is already gone.

The door clicks shut behind them as Jimin pulls him across the threshold.

Inside, the room is dark except for the light leaking through the crack in the curtains. The air is heavy, unventilated, thick with scent. Yoongi steadies Jimin without thinking, one arm braced behind his back, the other under his elbow.

Jimin leans into him, breath hitching. His knees nearly give. Yoongi adjusts his grip and helps him toward the bed.

The sheets are a mess, blankets pushed to the corners, two pillows stacked high at the head. There’s a hoodie tucked loosely between them. Black, worn-in. It's the one Yoongi gave him a few days ago when the temperature dropped unexpectedly in the evenings.

He helps Jimin sit. His legs fold onto the mattress clumsily. He leans forward, arms braced against his thighs, head bowed like it’s too heavy to lift.

Yoongi kneels beside him, steadying him with one hand. He tries to keep some distance. Just enough. But Jimin leans into him again, forehead pressed against his throat. His skin burns where it touches.

“I didn’t know it would be like this,” Jimin says, voice shaking. “I can’t make it stop.”

Yoongi stays still, hands on Jimin’s shoulders. He should leave. He knows he should. But his arms don’t move.

“You should lie down,” he says. “I’ll go.”

Jimin lifts his head. “No. Please. Stay.”

He kisses him. Quick and uneven, mouths brushing with more breath than aim. Yoongi stays where he is. Jimin’s hand finds the back of his neck and pulls him in again, more insistent this time. There’s no rhythm to it. Just need.

“I need you closer,” Jimin says. “You’re not close enough.”

His fingers hook behind Yoongi’s neck. The scent blooms around them. Yoongi’s body reacts before his mind does. He doesn’t mean to lean in, but Jimin is already pulling him forward, dragging him down onto the bed.

They land together. The mattress gives under their weight. Jimin presses into him, seeking warmth, seeking pressure. He noses against Yoongi’s jaw, open-mouthed, scenting him in earnest now.

Yoongi’s breathing falters. His skin is hot, stomach twisting. His pulse beats loud in his ears. Jimin’s hands are under his shirt.

“I need more,” Jimin whispers. “You smell so good.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. He can’t.

The room spins gently around him.

And he doesn’t pull away.

Jimin moves beneath him, thighs sliding closer, hands flattening against Yoongi’s chest. His scent thickens by the second, fig clinging to skin, turning sharp at the edges. A soft, unsteady purr catches in his throat. He presses his face into Yoongi’s neck and breathes deep, again and again, like he’s trying to anchor himself there.

Yoongi grips the sheets. He tries to count backwards. To think of anything but the heat soaking through his shirt and the press of Jimin’s mouth against his throat. But his hands are shaking. His jaw aches. Something low in his chest begins to tighten, coil.

“Hyung,” Jimin says, barely above a whisper. “It hurts. Make it stop.”

His fingers slide into Yoongi’s hair. His lips graze the corner of his jaw. Yoongi makes a sound before he even registers it, low and broken, somewhere between a breath and a growl.

Jimin arches against him. He’s clinging now, legs drawn up, arms tight around Yoongi’s back.

Yoongi noses along the side of his neck. He doesn’t mean to. It’s just there, just scent and heat and skin. His mouth opens against it.

He growls once. Quiet, raw.

Then bites.

Jimin gasps. His body jerks once beneath him, then slackens all at once. His next breath stutters before falling quiet.

Yoongi stays frozen, jaw tight, hands curled against the sheets.

His teeth are in Jimin’s throat.

And it’s already done.

The taste hits him, iron and warmth, sharp across his tongue. He blinks like it’ll clear the fog behind his eyes, but the pressure in his chest only deepens. Jimin is still beneath him, not tense anymore. His limbs are loose. His breath is slow.

Yoongi’s mouth is open, parted just above the skin he broke. The mark is already blooming, red and raw. It shouldn’t be there. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t think.

“Jimin,” he says, or tries to. It comes out hoarse. Shaken.

Jimin doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t move away either. His hand is still in Yoongi’s hair. His eyes are barely open, gaze unfocused, like the pain ebbed and left something quieter in its place.

The bond settles slowly. Not complete, but there. A pull beneath Yoongi’s ribs. Something instinctive. Not heat. Not desire. Just the weight of proximity. A tether formed. Jimin’s scent threads through it, grounding and dizzying at once.

Yoongi breathes in and feels it twist through him, alive and quiet and irreversible.

He lifts his head.

There isn’t time to process anything else. The bedroom door swings open hard enough to shake the frame.

“What the fuck?”

Seokjin’s voice cuts through the air, louder than it can hold.

Yoongi turns too slowly. His hands are still pressed into to mattress. His body won’t move the way it should.

Seokjin is already across the room.

“What did you do?”

He grabs Yoongi’s shoulder and yanks him backward. The contact snaps something loose. Yoongi falls onto one knee beside the bed, balance gone. He doesn’t fight it.

Seokjin drops to the mattress. “Jimin. Jimin, can you hear me?”

Jimin makes a soft sound, barely a response. His eyes are still half-closed. There’s blood at his neck.

And Seokjin sees it.

His voice breaks on the next word. “You bit him.”

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say. There’s blood on his lips. He wipes it off without thinking, hand shaking.

“You bit him,” Seokjin repeats, louder now. “You—fuck. Are you out of your mind?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to.”

Seokjin stands again. “Get up.”

“I didn’t—”

“Get the fuck up.”

Yoongi pushes off the floor, unsteady. He’s still too close to the bed. Jimin is watching him, barely, mouth parted like he wants to say something. But no sound comes out.

There’s movement in the hallway. The air seems to tense a moment before the door opens behind them.

Mihyun’s voice follows, low and laced with warning.

“What is going on.”

She walks into the room. Stops two steps in.

She sees Yoongi first. The blood. The way he’s standing.

Then Jimin, half-curled in the sheets, neck exposed, a fresh mark visible just above the collarbone. 

She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t say his name. Just crosses the room in silence, then kneels beside the bed. Touches Jimin’s shoulder. Reaches for one of the blankets and pulls it over him.

“Seokjin,” she says. Her voice doesn’t rise, but it cuts clean. “Get him out of my sight. Now.”

Seokjin grabs Yoongi’s arm.

Yoongi stumbles when he’s pulled. He doesn’t resist.

He looks back once. Jimin’s eyes are still on him.

Then the door closes behind them.

He doesn’t remember walking back to his room.

The hallways blur. The air is heavy with scent. Fig and blood and sweat. It clings to his clothes. His hands. His tongue.

Inside the room, he sinks onto the bed without undressing. His palms are dirty. There’s a stain along the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t try to clean it.

His body is too hot. His skin doesn’t fit right. The bed feels too small. The room too quiet. He doesn’t know how long he lies there, staring at the wall. The bond is a low thrum beneath his ribs, dragging like a current he can’t resist or reach.

He thinks of Jimin. Of the way he went still. The way his fingers didn’t let go. The sound he made.

He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t sleep.

The light changes. Grey-blue turns to yellow. Somewhere down the hall, footsteps echo and fade. A door clicks shut. Time thins.

When the knock comes, it’s careful. Two dull taps.

Yoongi lifts himself slowly. His muscles feel heavier than they should. The back of his throat aches.

He opens the door.

Seokjin stands in the hall. Loose clothes, drawn face. He looks like he hasn’t slept either.

“Come with me.”

Yoongi steps into the hall. He doesn’t ask where they’re going.

They walk the familiar stretch past the lower bedrooms and into the hallway that leads to the study. Seokjin stops outside the door and opens it without a word.

Yoongi steps inside.

The windows are half-covered. The air is dim, humid. The room smells like leather and musk. Familiar, now. Claimed.

Sangchul sits behind Hyunsuk’s old desk, sleeves rolled to the elbow. He doesn’t rise.

“Close the door.”

Yoongi does.

“You presented last night.”

The words land without ceremony.

“You presented,” Sangchul says again. “As an alpha. During a heat. And you bit him.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer, but his jaw tightens.

“You’re unregistered,” Sangchul continues. “There’s no documentation. No presentation report. Nothing legal to protect you. You know what that makes you?”

He doesn’t wait.

“It makes you unstable. A liability. You lost control in the middle of a minor’s heat. And you left a mark.”

Yoongi looks down. The back of his neck burns.

“If this goes public,” Sangchul says, voice still calm, “you won’t survive it. And neither will he.”

He pauses. “She wants to press charges. Mihyun. She wanted the police called last night. I talked her down.”

He opens the drawer. Pulls out a white envelope. Thin.

“I told her it would be worse for him if we made it official. That the scandal would outlive the incident. That if you really cared about him, you’d go. Quietly.”

He sets the envelope on the desk between them.

“This isn’t charity. My brother said he’d give you something. For school. For later. There’s no proof. No will. Maybe I didn't think you earned it back then. But I'm willing to reconsider.”

He leans back.

“You’ll leave today. There’s a bus to Seoul in an hour. Take it. Don’t call. Don’t come back.”

Yoongi stares at the envelope. His hand curls slowly at his side.

“I don’t want your money,” he says.

Sangchul doesn’t flinch. “Then don’t take it. But you leave either way.”

Yoongi looks down at the edge of the desk. The wood is worn at the corners. He thinks of Jimin asleep in that bed, breathing unevenly. He thinks of what it would mean to stay. Of what it would do to him.

His throat tightens.

He reaches out, touches the envelope. Pulls his hand back. Breathes in once. Then takes it.

It fits in his palm like it barely exists.

Sangchul doesn’t speak again.

Yoongi turns and opens the door.

Outside, Seokjin is still waiting, standing with his arms crossed.

He looks at the envelope. Then at Yoongi.

“You’re leaving?” he asks.

Yoongi doesn’t answer. He can’t.

Seokjin holds his gaze a second longer.

“It’s for the best,” he says quietly. “For both of you.”

Then he walks away.

Yoongi returns to his room. The envelope stays in his pocket. He doesn’t open it.

The room looks the same, but it doesn’t feel like his anymore.

He packs slowly. A few shirts, a pair of jeans. Toothbrush. His worn notebooks. A small stack of books. The jacket Jimin gave him on his fifteenth birthday. He folds it carefully, places it at the bottom of the bag.

He unclips the back of the old phone and removes the battery. Leaves it on the desk beside the charger.

If he kept it, he’d wait for it to ring.

When he steps into the kitchen corridor, the light’s changed again. Mid-morning. The smell of rice and seaweed.

He doesn’t expect to see anyone. But Sunae is there. Her back is to him. She’s wiping down the counter with small, even motions.

She turns when she hears his footsteps. Her eyes land on the bag.

“You’re leaving,” she says.

He nods once.

“I heard what happened.”

She crosses the room slowly. Stops in front of him. For a second, she doesn’t say anything.

“You were just a boy,” she murmurs. “You still are.”

Yoongi stares at the floor.

“I tried to tell them,” she says. Her voice catches. “Back then. That you were doing your best.”

He says nothing. His throat is thick.

She places a hand on his arm.

“It’s not your fault. What they did. What they didn’t do.”

She reaches into the pocket of her apron, pulls out a folded scrap of paper, and hands it to him.

“My brother’s in Seoul. He runs a noodle shop. It’s not much, but... if you need a place.”

He takes it without looking.

“I don’t know if I’ll call,” he says. Voice rough.

“I know.”

She turns back to the counter, then hesitates. Picks up a small bundle wrapped in cloth. Presses it into his hands.

“Eat when you get there. So you don’t arrive with nothing.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“Thank you,” he manages.

She nods.

He walks down the corridor.

The back gate creaks when he opens it. The air smells green and dry. There’s dust in the path, old roots curling under the fence.

He doesn’t count the steps. Doesn’t look back.

The house is behind him now.

But nothing leaves him. Not the scent. Not the mark. Not the boy in the room upstairs

Chapter Text

He wakes with the taste of old alcohol in his mouth and Yoongi’s voice still stuck in his chest.

The room is too warm. His sheets twisted around one ankle, pillow shoved to the floor. The sunlight leaking through the curtains is thin, flat, unkind. For a second he doesn't move, just lies there, arm draped over his face, trying to remember how much of last night actually happened.

He remembers the look on Yoongi’s face.

He remembers the sound of Taeseong’s voice.

He remembers what he said at the bar, and what Yoongi finally said back.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“They threatened me.”

“They would’ve ruined you.”

Jimin presses his palm to his forehead. Breathes out once, dry and shallow.

There’s a dull ache behind his eyes. He probably shouldn’t have drunk that much, but he wouldn’t have made it through the night sober. His body feels heavy, skin too tight across his ribs. He forces himself up anyway.

The light in the bathroom is too bright.

He squints against it, washing his face slowly, palms pressing over skin that still feels like it doesn’t quite fit. The water runs warm, then hot. He lets it go too long before turning the tap off.

He towels off without thinking. Drags the fabric across his chest, the back of his neck. Doesn’t bother with his hair. Doesn’t check the mirror.

In the bedroom, he pulls on a sweater from the armchair, one of those he never wears outside the house, and jeans that don’t sit right on his hips anymore. The button gives him a second of pause. Then he forces it and moves on.

Downstairs is quiet. Taeseong isn’t around. The house has been silent since they came back from the gala. He doesn’t remember if they said anything to each other at all. It’s better that way.

He puts on shoes at the door without thinking, grabs his coat from the hook, and leaves without announcing it.

The wind’s colder than he expected.

He walks fast, not because he’s late, but because it’s better than standing still. The short path to the Park estate feels longer today, the pavement sloping slightly with each step. He doesn’t take the main drive. Cuts across the trees, passing Yoongi’s new house without glancing up.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look at the windows. The bond is quiet. Or maybe it’s just waiting.

The air is dry, brittle in his nose. His jaw tightens on instinct when he sees the back edge of the Park property come into view. The stone path leading up to the east wing is washed in winter light. The garden wall casts a low shadow across the hedge.

It’s familiar. Unwelcome.

He doesn’t bother with the front entrance.

Past the hedge, the side path curves quietly. He follows it, keys in hand, and unlocks the door without hesitation.

The warmth inside is immediate. Clean floors, high ceilings, the faint smell of brewed coffee hanging in the air.

He steps out of his shoes. Hangs his coat without thinking. The silence isn’t unusual, but it somehow feels heavier, like the house is waiting.

When he walks into the sitting room, Mihyun is already there.

She’s seated on the edge of the settee, one hand curled around a coffee cup, phone resting face-down on the arm beside her. She doesn’t look surprised to see him.

“You’re early,” she says.

Jimin doesn’t sit. “Where’s Seokjin-hyung?”

“He’s not here yet. Took Namjoon to the airport this morning.”

She doesn’t ask where Taeseong is. Maybe she already knows. Maybe she doesn’t care.

He watches her for a moment, then steps into the room.

His voice is low, but not hesitant. “Why did you do it?”

She doesn’t look up.

Her fingers remain wrapped around the cup, thumb tracing a slow circle near the rim. Steam curls faintly from the surface. He waits a beat, but she doesn’t say anything.

So he says it again.

“Why did you do it?”

Still nothing. Not a blink. Not a shift.

“You knew how much he meant to me,” Jimin says. “You knew. And you tore him out of my life like he was nothing.”

Now she lifts her gaze. Her eyes are cool. Tired, maybe. But not surprised.

“You were vulnerable,” she says. “He took advantage.”

Jimin stares at her.

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I was protecting you.”

“No, you weren’t.” His voice rises. “You were protecting yourself. Your reputation. The image you needed to keep clean.”

Mihyun sets the cup down. The sound is quiet, but final.

“You were seventeen. You had no idea what you were doing. You called him because your instincts were all over the place. He should’ve known better.”

“I called him because I trusted him.”

“You were in heat—”

“I knew what I was doing,” Jimin snaps. “I knew who I wanted. I wanted him. I loved him.”

Her mouth tightens, like the word love offends her.

“And he still marked you, didn’t he? Still bit you.”

Jimin doesn’t answer.

“You think that means it was real?” she says. “You think a bond like that could be love? It was instinct. That’s all it ever was.”

“It wasn’t just instinct.”

“You’re not thinking clearly.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You ruined everything, and now you’re trying to tell me how I felt?”

“You were a child.”

“Then why did you treat me like a pawn?”

She straightens. “Because I had to. Because someone needed to protect this family when your father died. Someone had to hold things together.”

“No.” Jimin steps forward. “You didn’t do it to protect us. You did it because you liked having power. You still do.”

Her voice turns cool, almost careless. “That boy was never going to give you anything real. He had nothing.”

“You mean he had nothing you could control.”

“I mean he would’ve dragged you down with him.”

Jimin’s chest is heaving. His hands are shaking now, fingers curled and tense at his sides.

“He told me you threatened him,” he says. “That you gave him no choice.”

She doesn’t flinch. “I was going to call the police. I wanted to press charges. He bit you.”

“I wanted him.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It fucking does.” The words crack out of him. “It matters because I wasn’t some innocent you saved. I called him. I trusted him. And you destroyed him for it.”

She lifts her chin slightly. “Your uncle was kind enough to give him an out. And even money.”

Jimin stares at her.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” His voice rises. “Giving him an out? You threatened him. You bribed him to disappear. You made it impossible for him to stay.”

“I wanted to protect you,” she says again, brittle now.

“You wanted me silent. You wanted me obedient.” His voice breaks. “You wanted me to forget the only person who ever made me feel like I was more than a status symbol.”

Footsteps sound at the front of the house. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t lower his voice.

“You didn’t ruin just him,” he says. “You ruined me, too. You took the only thing that mattered to me and destroyed it because it didn’t fit into your world.”

The door opens behind him.

“Jimin?”

Seokjin’s voice is low. Cautious. He steps into the room, coat still on, eyes scanning between the two of them.

“What’s going on?”

Mihyun doesn’t miss a beat. “Ah, good. Tell him,” she says. “Tell your brother what you saw that night. How helpless he was. How that mutt took advantage of him.”

Seokjin frowns. “What—”

“You walked in, didn’t you?” Her tone tightens. “You saw what he did. You know what kind of boy he was.”

Jimin turns.

Seokjin looks like he’s only just catching up.

“Jimin,” he says again. “Did something happen? Did Yoongi say something to you?”

Jimin’s throat is dry.

“He told me the truth,” he says. “That she and uncle threatened him. That they told him they’d press charges. That they forced him to leave.”

He looks back at Mihyun.

“You hated him from the beginning. And when you finally had the chance to get rid of him, you did.”

Seokjin steps closer, but not too close. “Jimin-ah. Calm down.”

“No.”

“I was there,” Seokjin says gently. “What he did… it wasn’t acceptable. Leaving was the right decision. He knew it too.”

“You really believe that?” Jimin’s voice cracks again. “You think he would’ve left me if he had a choice?”

Seokjin doesn’t answer.

Jimin steps closer. “We were in love. We were bonded. And you let them rip him out of my life like it meant nothing.”

“I didn’t threaten him,” Seokjin says quietly. “But I still think—”

“You don’t know what it felt like,” Jimin cuts in. “To be seventeen and wake up without him. To carry a bond that doesn’t break. To walk into a marriage with someone else and pretend it never happened.”

Something in Seokjin’s face falters. He doesn’t try to recover it.

“You survived,” Mihyun says. “And now you have a good life. A stable husband. What would that boy have ever given you?”

Jimin scoffs. “A reason to breathe.”

She sighs. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I’m not.” His voice shakes. “You never asked if I was happy. You never asked what I wanted. You never saw me. You only saw what I could offer.”

“Everything I did,” she says, “I did for you and Seokjin.”

“Bullshit.” Jimin looks at both of them. “You did it for control. Because it makes you feel safe. Because it makes you feel powerful.”

He takes a step back.

“You took the only person I ever loved from me. You took away my happiness.”

He turns to Seokjin.

“You let them take the company from you. And you let them take Yoongi from me.”

He walks toward the door. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t stumble.

“I’m done,” he says. “I won’t let you control me anymore.”

He looks back at Seokjin one last time.

“And you shouldn’t either, hyung.”

Then he opens the door and walks out.

The sound of it closing behind him isn’t loud.

But it echoes anyway.

He doesn’t think as he walks. Doesn’t rehearse what to say. His shoes press into the gravel, crunching low and uneven with every step. He passes the garden wall, the hedge, the front gate that still doesn’t look like it belongs here.

Then past it.

Past the line that separates the estates. 

His coat is unzipped. Wind cuts through his sweater, but he doesn’t feel it.

He climbs the short steps to Yoongi’s door and presses the bell.

There’s a pause, brief and weighted.

Then the door opens.

Yoongi stands just inside. Gray sweatpants, white T-shirt, bare feet on the tile. His hair is damp, like he showered late. His eyes flick over Jimin’s face, then settle. He doesn’t say anything.

Neither does Jimin.

The space between them stretches, unspoken and unbearable. Jimin’s throat feels tight. His chest is still hot from earlier, from everything he said, everything that finally tore loose.

Yoongi doesn’t ask why he’s here. Just steps aside.

Jimin walks in.

The door shuts behind him, soft and final. The house is warm. Too warm. Or maybe it’s just his skin, still burning from the inside out.

He turns to face Yoongi. The quiet settles again, deeper this time. Yoongi watches him from a step away, hands at his sides, unmoving.

And there it is.

Burnt wood. Iron-rich soil. Persimmon warmth. It hits stronger than before. Heavier, like something unlatched inside him.

He knows it too well. His body knows it even better.

It hits like gravity. He sways.

Yoongi doesn’t move, but something tenses in his posture. Like he felt it, too.

Jimin’s voice comes out rough. “Say something.”

Yoongi looks at him. Just looks.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says.

Jimin swallows. “I didn’t think I would either.”

Yoongi’s gaze drops to his mouth, then returns.

“What changed?”

Jimin steps closer. Just one pace. It’s not enough.

“I couldn’t breathe,” he says. “Not after what you told me. Not after what they did.”

Yoongi stays still, but his scent pulses. He’s trying to stay calm. Jimin can tell.

“Did you come here to talk?” he asks quietly.

“No.”

Yoongi’s lips part just slightly. He draws in a shallow breath, held too long, like the bond flared too fast for his body to keep up.

Jimin closes the last of the distance and kisses him.

It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. He kisses him like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, like the silence has been killing him for years and this is the first breath he’s allowed.

Yoongi makes a sound, low and wrecked, and pulls him closer. His hands land on Jimin’s waist, gripping hard through the coat, then sliding beneath it. The contact is a jolt. Jimin gasps into his mouth.

He pushes the coat off his shoulders without thinking. It slips down his arms and falls to the floor.

They stumble together, slow, like neither of them wants to break the weight of it. Jimin’s fingers curl into Yoongi’s shirt, twisting tight. Their mouths don’t part.

Yoongi walks them back, one hand sliding up Jimin’s back, the other under his jaw, tilting him just enough. Jimin lets him. Wants him everywhere.

They reach the couch. Yoongi sits, pulling Jimin with him. Jimin climbs into his lap like it’s instinct, like it’s muscle memory, straddling him, knees on either side. Their mouths break just long enough to breathe.

Yoongi looks up at him. His hands are firm on Jimin’s hips. He doesn’t say anything.

Jimin kisses him again. Harder. This time, he opens his mouth, and Yoongi takes it like he’s been waiting. Their tongues slide together, heat and salt and something wild beneath it. Jimin moans, low and guttural.

Yoongi drags his hands up under Jimin’s sweater, palms hot on his waist, his ribs. He touches him like he’s memorizing it all over again. Like he never forgot.

When Jimin grinds down, Yoongi groans, deep and helpless, and Jimin feels it. All of it.

He’s hard.

So is Jimin.

Their bodies align like they were made to. It’s dizzying.

Yoongi’s mouth moves to his throat, biting down just enough to make Jimin gasp. His hands tug Jimin’s sweater up, fingers skating over slick skin. Jimin lifts his arms. Lets him pull it off.

The scent spikes.

Fig sap and burnt wood, mixing in the heat.

Jimin shudders. His body is already reacting, already opening, even without heat.

He feels it between his thighs, slick beginning to gather, his body responding to the bond like it never forgot.

Yoongi notices. Of course he does.

His hands tighten. His eyes flick up.

“Jimin.”

The way his name falls from Yoongi’s lips makes his breath stutter. He nods once, like it’s permission.

Yoongi leans in, kissing him slow, then murmurs, “I want to taste you.”

Jimin trembles. “Then do it.”

Yoongi barely pulls away, mouth trailing heat along Jimin’s jaw as he moves.

He helps Jimin ease off his lap, guiding him gently onto the cushions without pulling away. It’s fluid, familiar in a way that makes Jimin’s chest ache. His hands lead. Jimin lets him.

He barely hears the click of his jeans unfastening. He’s too busy watching Yoongi drop to his knees.

Yoongi moves down like it’s the only place he belongs, like kneeling in front of Jimin is natural. Inevitable. He doesn’t look away as he presses a hand to Jimin’s chest, then down to his stomach, then lower still. Each touch is grounding. Certain. No hesitation.

Jimin’s thighs part without thinking. The room is too warm, but his skin still prickles like it’s winter. He can feel how wet he is now. His jeans are heavy with it. He wonders, stupidly, if the cushion beneath him is soaked. Then Yoongi palms his inner thigh through the denim and he stops thinking altogether.

“Still want this?” Yoongi asks, voice low, rough with strain.

Jimin looks down at him. Sweatpants hanging low on his hips, shirt rumpled, jaw set. He nods once.

“I want your mouth.”

Yoongi’s eyes darken.

Then he moves.

He tugs the jeans down slowly, like he’s done it before. Like he’s still memorizing. Jimin lifts his hips to help, gasping as cool air hits him.

His underwear is damp. Slick has seeped through the fabric, clinging between his thighs. Yoongi stares for a second too long. Then he leans in and breathes.

Jimin almost arches off the couch.

He doesn't have time to be embarrassed. Yoongi presses a kiss to the front of the fabric. Then another, lower, lingering.

“You smell like you’re mine,” he says.

Jimin lets out a shaky breath. “Don’t say shit like that.”

But Yoongi doesn’t stop. He slides the underwear down in one motion, groaning at the wet mess underneath.

“Oh, Jimin.”

Jimin’s thighs twitch. He braces himself with one hand on the back of the couch.

Yoongi spreads him open.

Jimin should feel exposed, vulnerable, but there’s no shame. Just heat. Want.

The first drag of Yoongi’s tongue has him gasping.

It’s filthy. Warm and slow and deep, from the base of his spine up to the slick coating his entrance. Yoongi groans again like he’s starving. Like this is what he's wanted for years. 

Jimin moans, breathless. His hips jerk.

Yoongi holds him still with one hand, the other sliding under his ass to tip him up, get better access. The couch creaks. The room is full of sound. Wet, obscene, addictive.

When Yoongi presses the tip of his tongue in, Jimin whines. His hand fumbles to Yoongi’s hair, gripping hard.

“You’re—fuck, Yoongi—”

"God, you taste like you were made for me," Yoongi mutters. "Mine.”

He doesn’t give Jimin time to react. Just keeps licking, circling, fucking him open with his mouth.

Jimin’s legs shake. The pleasure is blinding.

When a finger slips in alongside Yoongi’s tongue, he cries out. There’s no resistance. He’s already so wet, slick spilling freely now. Slicking Yoongi’s fingers, soaking into the cushion beneath him.

Yoongi moans into him.

Jimin shudders. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Not planning to.”

Yoongi curls his finger, then adds a second, stretching Jimin open with obscene, careful attention. His mouth doesn’t leave him. Jimin writhes, head thrown back, mouth open.

He can’t believe how good it feels. How real.

His mind flickers. To how many others Yoongi’s done this to. How good at it he is. How confident.

Then Yoongi murmurs, “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to ruin like this.”

Jimin breaks.

The orgasm hits before he can warn either of them. It rolls through him like a wave, sudden and blinding and too much.

Yoongi groans as Jimin clenches around his fingers. His mouth stays pressed against him, tongue flicking gently, like he wants to feel it all.

When Jimin finally sags, panting, Yoongi pulls back just enough to look up.

“You good?”

Jimin nods. Barely.

Yoongi rises slowly, eyes still on him, and reaches to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he sits beside Jimin on the couch, knees brushing, breath still uneven.

He leans in and kisses him. It's slow, open-mouthed, like he’s not ready to let go.

And Jimin thinks, This is mine.

Even if it’s only for now.

His limbs are still trembling.

The air feels thick, humid with scent. He can barely process the pressure still thrumming low in his spine, the flicker of Yoongi’s tongue where it touched deepest, the possessive heat that soaked through every part of him until he was shaking, empty, and wrecked.

But he doesn’t want to stop.

Yoongi leans back into the cushions, hands braced on his thighs like he’s trying to stay still.

Jimin breathes, unsteady, then slips down from the couch to kneel between his legs.

Yoongi’s gaze drops instantly. His nostrils flare.

“Jimin.”

“Let me.”

His voice is hoarse. Still raw. His lips are swollen, chin damp from where Yoongi had kissed him open. He rests his palms on Yoongi’s knees and nudges them apart. Yoongi doesn’t resist. His breath shudders.

Jimin leans in and presses a kiss to the fabric stretched over Yoongi’s thigh.

"You took care of me."

Another kiss, higher this time, right where the fabric tents. Yoongi swears under his breath.

"I want to taste you now."

Yoongi looks down at him, chest rising unevenly. His hand brushes the edge of Jimin’s jaw. His voice is low, rough. "You don’t have to."

Jimin blinks up at him. Something spikes in his scent. Hunger, heat, the tangled echo of something more primal. "I want to. I need to. Please."

And then, quieter:

"Alpha."

Yoongi curses again, less restrained this time. His thighs tense beneath Jimin’s palms.

Jimin slides his hands up to the waistband of Yoongi’s sweats, fingers curling beneath the briefs too, and tugs them down, slow and intentional. Yoongi lifts his hips, just enough to help.

His cock springs free, flushed deep, thick at the base. Jimin stares for a second, his mouth parting. He feels another pulse of slick between his legs, his body responding to scent and instinct and memory all at once.

Yoongi watches him, eyes dark and hungry. "Come here."

Jimin moves closer, drags his tongue from the base up, slow and wet. Yoongi groans. 

He mouths along the side, then down again, licking just under the head where he knows it’s most sensitive.

One of Yoongi’s hands fists in the couch cushion, the other tangling in Jimin’s hair. He doesn’t guide him. Doesn’t force. Just holds, grounding himself.

Jimin takes him deeper, slow and controlled, letting the weight settle on his tongue. His throat stretches. His lips drag tight. He pulls back with a gasp, saliva stringing between them, then dives again.

Yoongi is panting now. His hips twitch once, then still.

"Jimin. You—fuck, you’re—"

Jimin hums, the sound reverberating down his throat. Yoongi shudders.

He pulls off again, just enough to speak. "Tell me what you want."

Yoongi’s voice is strained. "I want your mouth. Just like this. Don’t stop."

Jimin smiles and takes him back in.

His hands grip Yoongi’s thighs. He sucks harder now, sloppier. He lets spit drip down, lets it get messy. Lets himself be messy.

Yoongi growls, low and feral. His scent floods the air. Charred wood, iron and ash, alpha lust so thick it makes Jimin’s stomach clench.

"God, you look—" Yoongi’s voice breaks. "You should’ve always been mine."

Jimin moans, loud, and takes him to the back of his throat.

It’s fast, after that. Not rushed, just inevitable. Yoongi’s body tenses. His grip tightens.

"Jimin. I’m—"

Jimin doesn’t stop. Not when Yoongi comes. Not when he chokes on it. Not when Yoongi groans, deep and wrecked and stunned, hand still tangled in his hair.

He pulls off only when it’s done. Lips red, chin wet, breath ragged. He looks up, eyes wide, skin flushed.

And Yoongi just stares.

Like he’s never seen anything more unreal in his life.

His chest rises with each breath, still uneven, like he hasn’t caught up to his body yet. Then he reaches out, thumb brushing the edge of Jimin’s mouth. Careful, reverent.

Jimin leans into it.

Yoongi’s hand lingers, then moves to his arm. He helps him up and guides him back onto the couch. Jimin sinks down, pliant and dazed.

Yoongi kneels once more, only briefly, to reach for his sweats. As he stands, Jimin’s hand catches at his wrist.

“Don’t go,” he whispers.

Yoongi huffs a soft laugh. “I’ll be right back.”

Jimin frowns, but Yoongi is already tugging on the waistband, moving slow, steady. He watches the way Yoongi’s shoulders shift beneath the cotton of his shirt, lean muscle drawn tight with motion.

When he disappears down the hall, the house feels too still. Jimin sinks back onto the couch. Everything is sensitive now. His thighs, his spine, the place between his legs where Yoongi touched him like he belonged there.

The floor creaks. A moment later, Yoongi returns.

There’s a warm towel in his hand and a clean pair of briefs and sweatpants draped over his arm. Without a word, he kneels again and begins to clean Jimin gently, across his stomach, his hips, the insides of his thighs. 

The towel is soft. The touch isn’t rushed.

When Yoongi finishes, he helps Jimin up and into the briefs first. Then the sweats. They slide on easy but cling at the thighs. Jimin squirms, uncomfortable.

"They’re fine," Yoongi says. "You make them look better anyway."

Jimin flushes. 

Yoongi tosses the towel aside and settles on the couch. Reaches for the blanket folded over the armrest and opens it with one hand. 

Jimin crawls over without needing to be asked. Yoongi wraps him in, pulls him close. Jimin tucks into his chest, hands fisting the front of Yoongi’s shirt.

They sit there for a while. Breathing. 

Yoongi noses along Jimin’s throat. Over his scent gland. The mark that never faded.

"I missed you," he says, voice barely above a breath. "So much."

Jimin sighs against his collarbone. "Tell me about it."

Yoongi draws back just enough to look at him. "What now?"

Jimin blinks. "What do you mean?"

"I can’t watch you walk out that door again and go back to him. The thought of his hands on you makes me—"

"It’s not like that, hyung," Jimin cuts in. "It’s been over for a long time. We just don’t say it out loud."

He hesitates. 

"I’m leaving him."

Yoongi studies him. "Then stay. Don’t go back."

He lifts a hand. Trails it down Jimin’s cheek.

Jimin gives a small smile. Tired. Honest. "You think I want to go back? I don’t. I never want to leave your arms again. But it’s not that simple. I’m filing the papers tomorrow. I need to do this right."

Yoongi nods. Quiet.

Jimin pulls back, like he might move. Stand. Yoongi’s arms tighten.

"Just a little longer."

His voice cracks around it. 

"Let me hold you. Just a little longer."

Jimin doesn’t leave.

Not yet.

Chapter Text

The air upstairs holds a kind of stillness Yoongi has come to recognize. Not peace, but pause. A lull between movements.

It’s just past one. The light through the study window angles toward his desk in an uneven line. He’s not looking at it. His attention is fixed on a document open on the monitor, asset filings from a dormant Parknoa subsidiary Hoseok flagged last night.

He drags the cursor slowly across the screen.

His phone rings.

He picks it up. "Yeah."

"Found something," Hoseok says. No greeting. "Subsidiary G’s parent company. It’s still active. Registered under a new name, but the structure matches. Same backdoor Sangchul used for the trust.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond right away. His thumb presses into the desk edge.

“He never dissolved the shell,” Hoseok adds. “Been shifting funds through it. Quietly. If we leak it, we don’t even need a full case. Just the hint of it could tank his credibility with the board.”

“He’s still moving?” Yoongi mutters. “I thought the merger froze his play.”

“It did. But this might be the endgame. He’s liquidating something. Or prepping to. You want me to come over?”

"No. Just send the files."

There'a a pause before Hoseok speaks, voice quieter now, "You okay?"

Yoongi just hums, noncommittal. 

“If he makes a move, I’ll catch it. Just keep your phone on.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says. “Thanks, Hoba. Talk to you later.”

He ends the call and lets the phone sit beside his hand.

Outside the window, the slope past the property line is still gray with winter. There’s no wind, just the brittle hush of dry branches against cold air. He closes the file on his computer.

A knock sounds behind him.

He turns. Bora stands in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame.

"Sorry to interrupt," she says. "There’s a woman at the door. She says she’s here to see you."

Yoongi frowns. "Did she give a name?"

"No. But she said you’d know her."

He stands.

Downstairs, the front entry feels faintly colder. He steps toward the door, but it’s already open. Bora must have left it ajar when she came up.

A woman stands just outside the threshold. Her coat is plain. Her bag is one of those sturdy kinds, softened by use. Her hair is mostly gray now, gathered back in a way that tugs at something unspoken.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything at first.

His voice is quiet when it comes. "Sunae-imoni."

She lifts her head. Looks at him for a long moment.

Then steps forward and pulls him into a slow, unhurried embrace.

Her arms wrap around him like memory. One hand at his back, the other tightening briefly before letting go.

He stays like that. Like something might give if he lets go too soon.

When she eases back, her hands don’t fall away. They rest lightly on his arms, eyes scanning his face like she’s counting every year she missed.

"Look at you," she says, with a teary laugh. "You’ve grown so well. So handsome."

Yoongi huffs something like a breath of disbelief. "And you haven’t aged a day."

"Flatterer," she scolds, gently. But her smile lingers, softer now.

"Come on," he says, stepping aside. "Let’s go in."

She slips off her shoes and he helps her with the coat, careful with the sleeves. It’s instinct, more than anything. She’s shorter than he remembers, though maybe she’s always been that small. He hangs the coat by the door and gestures toward the living room.

They sit, not quite angled toward each other. She sinks into the couch like it’s unfamiliar, like she doesn’t want to take up too much space. Yoongi stands again after a moment.

"Tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee would be nice," she says. "If it’s no trouble."

He moves to the kitchen without answering. The sound of cabinets opening and the soft clink of mugs settles over the silence. He takes his time, measures out the grounds, pours the water, stirs in a little sugar into hers like he remembers she used to take it.

Behind him, Bora rounds the corner, purse over her shoulder.

"I’m heading out," she says, voice low when she sees the guest. "Have a good afternoon."

Yoongi nods. "Thanks. See you tomorrow."

She dips her head in a small bow toward Sunae, who returns it with a quiet smile.

When Yoongi brings the coffee, he sets one cup in front of her and keeps the other in his hands. She warms her fingers around the ceramic.

“I’m sorry to show up like this. I didn’t know how to reach you. But I heard… rumors, that you were back. That you’d bought the Jeong estate. So I asked Seokjin, and he confirmed. And I… I had to see you.”

"It’s okay," Yoongi says. "I’m glad you came."

He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees. "How have you been? You’re still working for the Parks? I thought you’d have retired by now."

She lets out a soft laugh. "I’m not that old, Yoongi-yah. I’ve got a few more years in me."

Then, quieter, "And where would I be? I’ve been with the Parks since I was very young. I’m used to them. They’re not perfect, I know, but…" She trails off, fingers tightening slightly on the mug. "I thought about leaving. Especially after what they did to you."

Her gaze lifts to him, steady. One hand reaches out, resting over his.

"But where would I go?" she repeats, as if that answers everything.

Yoongi hums faintly, his thumb brushing against the inside curve of his cup.

"And you?" she asks. "I want to know everything. How has your life been?"

A slow breath escapes him. "Good," he says. "I was lucky. It was tough at the beginning. After…" He pauses, gaze dropping to his knees. "After I left. But you know me. I’m stubborn. And I’ve never been afraid of hard work, so… I managed."

"You didn’t contact my brother," she says. "He would have helped you."

Yoongi shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "I would have. But I found work quickly. Then passed the high school equivalency exam, applied for universities. Was lucky enough to get a scholarship. Amsterdam.”

"Amsterdam?" Her eyebrows rise. "You studied there?"

He nods. "I always wanted to leave. To see something else. And I met a guy there. Korean too. We started a company. We've been doing well."

"I can see that," she says, and her voice is proud. "I’m happy for you. You deserve so much, Yoongi. Especially after everything you’ve been through as a child. I’m proud of you."

"Thank you," he murmurs. "It means a lot, coming from you. You were like a mother to me. I missed you."

"You know," she says, "I still take care of the greenhouse. After you left, I started going more often. Tending the plants. I was never as good as you were, but I tried. I would think of you every time I stepped inside..."

Her voice wavers. She reaches into her bag for a tissue, dabs the corners of her eyes.

Yoongi sets his coffee down. His voice is low. "Sunae-imoni, please… it’s okay. I’m here. I’m doing well."

"I know. And I’m happy to see you like this. But…" She looks at him carefully. "Why are you here, Yoongi? Why did you buy this house? Why would you want to come back to… this place? To the memories?"

He doesn’t speak for a while. The silence holds, and then he says, "It’s complicated."

Her expression softens, but she doesn’t push.

"Is it Jimin?" she asks gently. "Did you return for him? That boy was devastated after you left. He went through so much. Both of you did. And he’s not happy, Yoongi. I know he isn’t."

"It’s not that," he says. "I mean, part of me wanted to see him. To see he was okay. But I just… I couldn’t move on without seeing them suffer. I had to come back. To make sure they paid for what they did. That night… Joowon, he was suddenly friendly. Gave me tea. I didn’t think anything of it, but… he asked me to take food up to Jimin’s room and halfway there, I felt… wrong. I wasn’t myself, Sunae-imoni. You know how much I care about Jimin. I would never—"

"You think there was something in the tea?" she whispers. "Oh my god, child. That makes sense. Joowon was Sangchul’s pawn. He always had been. And I know what kind of man Sangchul is."

She presses the tissue to her mouth. "Joowon left soon after. Probably well compensated, son of a—" She stops herself. "Sorry. I’m just… mad."

"He left?" Yoongi asks. "Do you know where he is now?"

"No," she says. "We were never close. But I can ask around if you want. I still talk to some of the ex-staff. Someone might know."

"Please," he says. "It would mean a lot."

They fall into quieter conversation. Old stories, half-laughed memories. The coffee goes cold.

Before she leaves, Yoongi types his number into her phone. They stand. He helps her with her coat again.

At the door, she hugs him one more time, a little longer than the first.

"Don’t lose the good parts of yourself, child," she says. "Even when you’re fighting ghosts."

Yoongi nods, barely. Watches her walk down the path until she’s out of sight.

Then closes the door.

The rest of the day passes quietly. Yoongi finishes up some work, runs a piano scale or two, checks the time. He leaves the house around five, early enough to beat traffic. They agreed to meet at the art center after Jimin’s class.

BIT is already familiar by the time Yoongi arrives. The main hall is quieter than usual, just the rustle of activity winding down, a volunteer carrying boxes, a distant burst of laughter that fades almost instantly.

He walks to the back of the building without pause, passing familiar rooms. When he reaches the end of the hallway, he slows.

The door to the dance studio is a sliding panel with glass framed in the center, smudged near the edges, but clear enough to see through. He stops just short of it, gaze settling on the room beyond.

Jimin is in the middle of the floor, surrounded by a dozen kids. He’s wearing a loose shirt tucked at the hem, joggers that hug his legs when he moves. His steps are fluid. Confident. When he laughs, it’s with his whole face.

Something in Yoongi quiets.

He watches without meaning to. Watches the way Jimin mirrors the smallest movements, encourages a girl who’s falling behind, lifts his arms with a kind of reverence that doesn’t need praise.

And all at once, he’s not watching a man anymore. He’s watching a memory.

A boy, eleven, barefoot in the orchard. Turning slow circles between the trees. Or leaping off the edge of the porch with both arms outstretched, saying, "Hyung, I’m gonna be a real dancer one day. On real stages. Just watch."

Yoongi hadn’t said anything then. He doesn’t need to say anything now either. But something tugs at him. That familiar pull. The bond doesn’t need touch to wake.

The class ends with a bow. The kids scatter toward their bags, the music cuts out. Jimin glances toward the door and sees him.

His face stills. A flush rises, not from exertion, something softer. Their eyes catch and hold.

Then Jimin lifts his hand in a small wave, and mouths, “Ten minutes.”

He disappears through the far door, likely toward the showers. Yoongi waits.

When Jimin reappears, his hair is damp, pushed back from his forehead, still clinging in places. He’s already zipped into a dark padded jacket, bag slung over one shoulder.

"Hey," he says, not quite meeting Yoongi’s gaze.

"Hey. You good to go?"

Jimin nods. "Yeah. I’m starving."

They walk to a ramen shop just down the block. It’s not fancy, one of those narrow, street-facing places with laminated menus and warm bowls already lined along the counter.

They take a small table near the window.

A server greets them quickly. Jimin asks for jjambbong, extra spicy. Yoongi orders miso ramen, barely glancing at the menu.

"Still torturing yourself with spice?" he asks when the server leaves.

Jimin smiles. "I don’t feel full unless my nose runs."

The silence that follows is light, not strained. But they’re both aware of it.

Jimin folds a napkin between his fingers. "Did you work today?"

"Some." Yoongi lifts a shoulder. "Sunae-imoni came by."

Jimin’s head lifts. "Really?"

"Yeah. Out of nowhere. Said she just wanted to check in."

"I’m glad she came. She’s such a good person." Jimin pauses. "I always wondered how she worked for my mom that long. Dunno how she tolerates her."

Yoongi hums. "She didn’t have much choice."

Their food arrives. Steam curls up from the bowls, rich with broth and heat. They start eating slowly.

A few bites in, Yoongi says, "How did it go at the lawyer’s yesterday?"

Jimin’s chopsticks pause. "I signed everything. They filed it this morning."

Yoongi nods, jaw tense for a beat. “Did you tell him?” he asks, more carefully this time.

"I’m telling him tonight."

"Are you sure you want to do it alone?"

Jimin doesn’t look up. "I can handle him."

"I saw how he was at the gala."

"He won’t hurt me. Not really."

There’s a silence between them. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy.

Yoongi sets his chopsticks down. “And after that? What happens next?”

Jimin leans back slightly. “I’ll move. I’ve got an apartment in Seoul. Needs work, so it'll take a while… But I don’t want to stay with Seokjin-hyung or Eomma.”

For a while, Yoongi doesn’t say anything. When he does, his voice is quiet. “Stay with me.”

Jimin glances up, surprised. “Hyung… I don’t want to get in your way.”

Yoongi reaches across the table, covers his hand. His voice stays quiet, but steady. “Jimin-ah. I’ve had thirteen years of silence. You wouldn’t be bothering me. You’d be saving me from it.”

Jimin doesn’t respond right away.

He nods. Once.

They finish the meal without rushing. When they step back outside, the air is cooler, night settled low over the rooftops.

Yoongi unlocks the car. They slide into their seats, the doors closing behind them with a soft click.

The drive back to the Kim estate is quiet. Jimin stares out the window, fingers pressed to the side of his face. Yoongi keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. The radio is off. Nothing moves between them but breath and the unspoken.

When they pull into the residential street, Jimin straightens in his seat. "Let’s stop here. I’ll walk the rest."

Yoongi parks just shy of the gate. The house rises pale behind the hedges. Lights are on. Familiar.

Jimin’s hand lingers on the door handle. He’s about to push it open when a pair of headlights sweep across the street.

"That’s his car," he says, voice low.

Yoongi follows his gaze. A black sedan turns into the driveway, disappears into the garage.

Jimin lets out a slow breath. "Better to get this over with."

He moves to open the door, but Yoongi catches his wrist. "Wait."

Jimin glances back.

"I’ll be here. Just in case."

Something flickers across Jimin’s face. Gratitude. Resignation.

He leans in, brushes a kiss to Yoongi’s cheek. "Thanks, hyung. Let’s hope nothing happens."

As Jimin starts to draw back, Yoongi moves forward. His nose brushes the skin just below Jimin’s ear, breath warm where the scent gland sits.

He doesn’t press further. Just lingers there, long enough to leave his own behind. Burnt cedar and earth, threaded with the low warmth of persimmon. 

It’s not a warning. Not a claim. Just something quiet. A tether.

Jimin goes still. Then nods, like he understands.

"I'll call you as soon as I can."

Yoongi watches him walk up the path, jacket drawn close. The door opens. Closes. He’s gone.

Time moves strangely after that. Yoongi checks the clock, looks back at the house. The bond simmers under his skin, restless and warm. He drums a finger against the steering wheel. Breathes through his teeth.

Twenty minutes later, the front door opens.

Jimin.

Still in his jacket, shoulders tense. He moves fast, eyes low. Yoongi’s already reaching for the door handle when another figure steps out after him.

Taeseong.

He grabs Jimin’s arm, yanks him back hard enough that Jimin stumbles.

Yoongi’s out of the car in an instant. The gate’s still open from earlier. He runs.

Across the drive, through the front path, past trimmed hedges and dim garden lights. Each step landing harder than the last.

They’re at the top of the steps now. Taeseong says something, too low to hear, but Jimin jerks back, coat slipping from one shoulder.

Yoongi doesn’t stop. Not until he’s close. Just a few steps away.

“Let go of him.”

Taeseong turns. Sees him. Lets go, but doesn’t step back. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Yoongi doesn’t answer. He looks to Jimin. "You alright?"

Jimin nods, barely.

Taeseong’s eyes narrow. He steps forward again, scent flaring. "You were with him, weren’t you? That’s his scent you reek of."

His mouth twists. "You let him fuck you, didn’t you? After all these years. Like nothing ever happened."

He laughs, low and ugly. "That’s all you’ve ever been good for."

Yoongi moves before he thinks. The hit lands clean, heavy across Taeseong’s face. He stumbles, falls back onto the steps, stunned.

Jimin gasps.

Yoongi turns to him. "Come on."

Jimin doesn’t hesitate. He follows.

They walk fast, side by side, the sound of their steps tight against the dark street.

Yoongi opens the passenger door. Jimin gets in without a word.

He’s still shaking when the engine starts.

The drive is short. No more than five minutes, but the silence stretches longer than it should. Jimin sits stiffly, one hand braced against the door, the other curled on his knee. His gaze stays on the windshield, though his focus doesn’t. At a red light, his lips part like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t.

Yoongi says nothing either. He keeps both hands on the wheel, knuckles pale against the leather. When the gate comes into view, he clicks the remote from the visor. The house lights flicker on as they pull in.

Inside, the air holds warmth. Still, low-lit, familiar.

Jimin steps out of his shoes slowly. He takes off his jacket, dark fabric stiff where his shoulders are tense, and folds it over the bench by the door. His fingers linger at the seam for a second longer than needed. Then he follows Yoongi into the living room.

Yoongi doesn’t turn on the overheads. Just the floor lamp in the corner, soft and low.

“Something to drink?” he asks, already halfway to the kitchen.

Jimin nods. “Just water, please.”

The faucet runs. A glass fills. When Yoongi brings it over, Jimin takes it with both hands and drinks. One small sip, then another. He sets the glass down and reaches out without looking, fingers catching lightly at Yoongi’s sleeve.

Yoongi sits next to him right away. Jimin leans in almost as soon as he does, curling close like it’s instinct. His head finds the space beneath Yoongi’s collarbone, arms folding in tight.

The contact settles between them. So does the scent, fig and milk, but off-balance. Flickering at the edges.

Yoongi breathes in slowly, careful not to make it a sound.

Jimin stays quiet for a long moment. His voice is muffled against Yoongi’s shirt when he speaks. “I didn’t think he’d go that far.”

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi says, low but steady. “If I crossed a line back there.”

“You didn’t.”

“I hit him.”

Jimin huffs a breath that almost counts as a laugh. “He deserved it.”

Yoongi says nothing to that.

Jimin nuzzles closer, the bridge of his nose brushing Yoongi’s neck. His lips find the skin just below Yoongi’s scent gland. Nothing hungry, just something like thanks. Yoongi’s pulse jumps anyway.

The bond stirs under the surface. A familiar pressure. A thread pulled warm between them.

“Thank you,” Jimin murmurs. “For standing up for me.”

Yoongi doesn’t trust his voice for a second. So he just tightens his arm a little, lets his hand settle at the back of Jimin’s neck. Skin warm. Maybe too warm.

They sit like that for a while. Jimin’s eyes are half-lidded by the time Yoongi glances down again. His breath slows. Face turned into Yoongi’s collar.

“You sleepy?”

Jimin hums barely moving. “Mhm. I don’t know. Just feel a little off. Probably just tired.”

Yoongi brushes his hand through Jimin’s hair once, thumb catching against the curve of his ear. “You should lie down. I can set up the guest room—”

Jimin pulls back slightly, just enough to glance up at him. “Really?”

“What?”

“You’d rather have me not sleeping in your bed?”

Yoongi blinks. “No. I mean… I didn’t know if you’d want to.”

Jimin smiles, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but softens the space around them. “Come on.”

He stands, stretches his shoulders a little. Yoongi follows, turning off the hallway light as they pass through. The house is quiet around them, only the soft tread of their footsteps on the stairs.

Upstairs, the bedroom is quiet but lived-in. One dim wall light is already on.

Yoongi crosses to the dresser, pulls open a drawer. “Pajamas,” he says, handing over a folded pair of cotton pants and a loose shirt. “The toothbrush in the drawer is new. You can use the bathroom first.”

Jimin takes the clothes. “Thanks, hyung.”

He disappears into the ensuite. The door closes with a soft click.

Yoongi exhales, just once. Then turns to change. Black tee, flannel pants. He tosses his shirt in the basket near the closet, rolls his sleeves up to the elbow, and starts turning down the bed.

The door opens and Jimin steps out. His hair is damp at the temples, shirt a little too big, sleeves pushed back at the wrists.

He says nothing. Just crosses to the bed and slips in, movements soft but assured. By the time Yoongi stands, Jimin’s already under the blanket, one hand tucked beneath his cheek.

Yoongi ducks into the bathroom, washes his face, brushes his teeth. When he comes back out, Jimin hasn’t moved.

He crosses the room quietly and sits at the edge of the bed, letting his eyes linger on the curve of Jimin’s shoulder, the soft rise and fall of breath beneath the blanket.

After a moment, Jimin turns his head. His eyes find Yoongi’s. “What?”

Yoongi shakes his head, mouth tugging at the corner. “Nothing. I just… can’t believe you’re here. In my bed.”

That draws a small smile. Jimin moves closer, pulling the blanket up to his chest. “Well. Get used to it.”

Yoongi breathes out, the disbelief settling into something steadier. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I could.”

He pulls back the blanket and lies down beside him.

They settle easily, as if they’ve done this before. Jimin tucks in against Yoongi’s chest, cheek near the curve of his neck. One hand curls near the hem of Yoongi’s shirt, like he’s anchoring himself there.

Yoongi wraps an arm around him. Lets the silence stretch.

After a while, he asks, voice low, "You sure you’re okay?"

Jimin hums. "Just sleepy."

His breathing slows not long after. The weight of him grows heavier. His fingers go slack.

Yoongi stays awake, watching the ceiling for a bit. The room is quiet. It’s still early, but his own eyes begin to drift. With Jimin pressed close, his scent warm and steady, sleep doesn’t feel so far away.

He closes his eyes.

It’s still dark when he wakes.

There’s a stir beside him. A murmur. The blanket has slipped low.

Jimin’s leg is hooked around his. One arm slung across his chest. His nose is buried in the side of Yoongi’s neck, breath damp and uneven.

"Jimin-ah?" Yoongi murmurs, groggy.

No response. Just another restless movement, a soft sound deep in Jimin’s throat. His skin is warm. Too warm.

Yoongi moves carefully, reaches up to touch his forehead.

It’s burning.

He draws in a slow breath, throat tight. "Jimin-ah," he says again, quieter now. "You’re burning up.”

Chapter Text

"Jimin-ah," Yoongi says again, quieter this time. "You’re burning up."

He hears it through a fog. Like he’s underwater, or dreaming. Except everything aches. His skin, his legs, the hollow stretch behind his knees. Even the air against his neck feels wrong. Cold. Too much.

He stirs against the sheets, the blanket bunched low around his hips. A soft sound drags from his throat. His fingers clutch instinctively at the front of Yoongi’s shirt, still damp from sleep, still warm with him.

He’s not dreaming.

Yoongi sits up beside him, hand brushing damp hair from his forehead. "You're sweating through everything." His voice is careful. Quiet the way Yoongi always is when something matters.

Jimin turns his face into the pillow. His mouth tastes dry. His skin feels too tight. There’s a pressure building low inside him, warm and needy. Like something that’s been waiting to wake up.

"Are you sick?" Yoongi murmurs. There’s weight in the way he asks, like he already knows the answer.

"I’m fine," Jimin says, but it comes out thin. Useless. His hips twitch, pressing down against the mattress without thinking. He inhales, wants air, wants clarity, but what he gets is Yoongi. Not fabric softener. Not sleep or warmth. Just Yoongi. Earth and cedar and persimmon warmth that lingers in the back of his throat.

His stomach clenches. The ache deepens.

Yoongi’s hand finds the small of his back, steady. "Jimin," he says again, firmer this time. “Tell me.”

Jimin presses his forehead to the pillow. He doesn’t want to say it. Saying it will make it real.

"I think..." His breath catches. A tremor ripples down his thighs. "I think it’s starting."

Yoongi doesn’t move. Not for a second. Then he nods, once.

“Okay.”

Just that. No panic. No pulling away.

But Jimin’s heart is already beating too fast. He moves restlessly, thighs damp with sweat.

No. Not sweat. It’s slick.

Too much, too soon. Already soaking through.

His body knows what’s coming before he does.

“It shouldn’t be happening,” he says, breath stuttering. “I’ve been on suppressants… I didn’t mean to miss—”

“I know.” Yoongi’s hand strokes once down his spine. “You’ve had a rough week.”

That’s one way to say it. Jimin lets out a short, uneven laugh and curls in tighter, trying to press the ache into the mattress. His whole body is starting to throb, like a bruise just under the skin.

"I’m not—" He swallows. “I’m not ready.”

Yoongi lies down again, easing closer. The mattress dips. Then warm fingers curl around his wrist and guide him gently over, off his stomach and onto his side. Face to face.

Yoongi doesn’t look afraid. Just focused. Present.

“You don’t have to be ready,” he says. “You just have to let me help.”

That’s the problem.

It’s Yoongi. It’s always been Yoongi.

His scent is heavier now, curling around Jimin like smoke. Jimin blinks at him, already starting to lose focus. There’s a low heat building deep in his belly. An itch under his skin. His hips jerk again and this time he gasps, because even that slight friction makes his toes curl.

He’s shaking.

Yoongi notices. He leans in, brushing his nose against Jimin’s cheek. “You’re okay.”

“You don’t understand,” Jimin says, voice cracking. “It hurts.”

“I know.” Yoongi’s hand moves to cup his jaw. “That’s why I’m here.”

Jimin closes his eyes. The ache is spreading. His body is hungry and hot and unraveling fast. It’s too much.

“I don’t—” His voice breaks. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Yoongi doesn’t flinch. He kisses Jimin’s forehead, slow and grounding.

“I’ve always seen you.”

Jimin draws in a shaky breath. A sound escapes him, high and soft, almost a whine. It’s humiliating. It feels good.

“God,” he says, biting down on his lower lip. “I… fuck, I can’t—”

Yoongi pulls him closer. Their foreheads touch. “Breathe.”

He tries. Inhales. The air is thick with Yoongi. His scent is stronger now, ripe with alpha tension. Not overwhelming. Just… present. Steadying.

And Jimin breaks.

Not with tears, not with shame. With need.

“Alpha,” he whispers. Not even thinking. It just slips out.

Yoongi stills.

And then his arms are around him, fully this time. One palm splayed across his lower back, the other stroking up the line of his spine. Holding him there, anchoring him.

Jimin presses his face to Yoongi’s neck and breathes him in. It feels like safety. It feels like losing control.

And when his hips grind forward again, slick already dripping between his thighs, he doesn’t stop himself.

He moans. He clutches. He begs without words.

Yoongi doesn’t let go.

He just holds him, one hand cupped behind Jimin’s neck, the other warm on his back. There’s no hesitation in it, no space for shame to creep in. Only heat, steady and rising.

Jimin squirms. His thighs are damp, soaked through. Every movement drags friction across sensitive skin. The ache coils low in his belly, tighter now, restless.

“Hyung,” he says, barely more than a breath.

Yoongi noses against his hair, slow. “I’ve got you.”

It makes something in him split open. The helpless edge of it. The fact that it’s Yoongi’s voice and Yoongi’s scent and Yoongi’s body against his… solid, still clothed, not even doing anything except staying.

And even that is too much.

Jimin grinds forward again, searching. Slick smears against Yoongi’s thigh through the thin cotton of his pants. It’s obscene. Obvious. He can't bring himself to stop.

His hands fist in the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt, dragging it up. He needs more. Skin. Pressure. Something to match the way his pulse is crashing through his chest.

Yoongi’s breathing gets heavier, rougher. Jimin hears it just under his own.

“I don’t know what I need,” Jimin says. His voice cracks. “It just hurts.”

“I'm here.”

Jimin closes his eyes. Rubs his face into the side of Yoongi’s throat, where the scent is strongest. It’s grounding and sharp, clean and warm. It curls in his lungs and settles there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be.”

And then Yoongi moves, just a little. Just enough to press their hips together, slow and careful.

The relief is instant. Jimin chokes on it. His body surges toward the pressure, slick flooding out of him like his body’s been waiting for this exact weight, this exact heat.

He moans. Loud. Can’t help it.

Yoongi’s hand moves to his waist, steadying him. “That okay?”

Jimin nods, fast. “Yeah. Fuck… yeah, don’t stop.”

His hips roll forward again, helpless. There’s no rhythm yet, just need. His cock is already leaking, trapped in his pants, but the friction against Yoongi’s thigh is enough to make his whole body stutter.

He can't stop moving.

His thighs are trembling. Every breath drags over skin that feels too raw. Too exposed.

Yoongi adjusts, tilts them so Jimin can move easier. So he’s straddling one thigh now, the cotton of their pajamas soaked and useless. Jimin buries his face in Yoongi’s chest, mouthing at the skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You’re okay,” Yoongi murmurs again. Not commanding, just there.

Jimin whimpers. “I’m gonna… fuck, I think—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. His body takes over before his mind can catch up.

The orgasm hits hard. Sudden and choking. His muscles lock, and he cries out, clinging to Yoongi’s shoulders. His whole body pulses, slick gushing between them, thighs clenching tight. The friction, the heat, the smell… everything tips over at once.

He shakes through it, breathing ragged, forehead pressed to Yoongi’s collarbone.

It feels like drowning and floating at the same time. Like coming apart with nothing holding him together except the weight of Yoongi’s arms.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He just stays still, stroking a hand down Jimin’s back in slow passes. Anchoring him.

Jimin can’t breathe for a second. Everything inside him is pulling tight again already, the ache not gone but worse now that he’s tasted relief.

“I can’t—” he gasps. “It’s not enough.”

Yoongi holds him closer. “I know, baby. I know.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to.”

Jimin swallows hard. He’s still grinding down, barely aware of it, chasing friction even though he just came. His body won’t stop. His hands are shaking. His whole face is flushed and hot and wet with sweat.

“I need more.”

Yoongi’s hand cups his jaw again, tilts his face up. Their eyes meet. Jimin’s are wet, already glassy.

“I’ll give you whatever you need,” Yoongi says. “Just tell me.”

Jimin presses their foreheads together again. He doesn’t know how to ask for it. Doesn’t know how to explain the desperation building inside him.

But he knows Yoongi feels it too.

His scent’s changed, even thicker now. Alpha instinct bleeding through. Overwhelming. Taking control. Answering.

“Touch me,” Jimin whispers. “Please.”

And Yoongi does.

He moves his hand down, dragging it slowly over the curve of Jimin’s back, stopping where his soaked pajama pants cling to the base of his spine. It curls there, palm spreading over damp cotton. “Let me take these off.”

Jimin doesn’t answer. Just lifts his hips.

Yoongi moves slow, careful as he slides the fabric down Jimin’s thighs. It sticks. His briefs go with it, peeled low and slow. Jimin bites down hard as the cool air hits him, bare and slick and exposed. His cock is flushed, leaking. His hole pulses, wet and empty.

He shudders.

Yoongi pulls them off completely and tosses them off the side of the bed. Then he looks down, eyes dragging over Jimin’s thighs, the mess clinging between them.

“You’ve soaked the sheets.”

Jimin groans and buries his face in the pillow. “Don’t say that.”

But Yoongi doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. He leans in, presses his nose just behind Jimin’s ear, and breathes in deep.

“You smell like heat,” he says. “Like you need me.”

Jimin keens. His thighs twitch.

“Fuck,” Yoongi mutters. “You’re driving me insane.”

He pulls back enough to tug at Jimin’s shirt, his own shirt, loose and now half-soaked too. Jimin lifts his arms. Lets him take it off. Lets him see everything.

When the shirt’s gone, Yoongi drops it on the floor, then pauses.

“Just gonna text Bora. Tell her not to come today,” he says, reaching for his phone on the nightstand. His voice is thick. Rough now. “Then I’m not letting go of you for the rest of the day.”

A few quick taps. Then the phone hits the table with a soft click.

And Yoongi turns back to him.

Jimin barely has time to breathe before Yoongi is pressing close again, his chest warm against Jimin’s bare skin. The contact makes him gasp. He’s hypersensitive now, every brush of skin feels like too much.

“You’re still shaking,” Yoongi murmurs, one hand cupping the back of Jimin’s thigh. “Lie back.”

Jimin obeys, mind fogged. He stretches out, open. Slick drips down the curve of his ass onto the sheets. He doesn’t care anymore.

Yoongi climbs over him, eyes dark.

“Spread your legs.”

Jimin does, shaky but eager. He’s panting again, his cock resting against his stomach, flushed and wet.

Yoongi leans down, lips brushing his neck. He noses there, breath warm. Then he scents him properly, open-mouthed, dragging in deep lungfuls.

Jimin moans. His fingers grab uselessly at Yoongi’s back.

“You smell so fucking sweet,” Yoongi murmurs. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

“Then do something,” Jimin pants. “Please. I need… I need your fingers, I need anything—”

Yoongi slides a hand between his legs. Just touches him. Nothing rough, nothing fast. Just slick fingers brushing over his entrance.

Jimin jerks.

“Easy,” Yoongi says. “I’ve got you.”

He drags his fingers through the mess, spreading it. It’s obscene, the sounds loud in the room, the sheets wet beneath him. Jimin writhes.

“Fuck, you’re dripping.” Yoongi presses in with one finger, slow but firm.

Jimin gasps, tightens around it. His hips lift off the bed.

“More,” he begs. “God, Yoongi! Don’t tease, I can’t—”

Yoongi groans. “You feel how hot you are inside?”

Jimin nods frantically. “Please.”

Yoongi pushes deeper, twisting gently. “You’re sucking me in.”

Jimin chokes on a moan. His hands claw at the sheets.

“You want me to fuck you like this?” Yoongi’s voice is low now, rougher. “So needy and slick already, haven’t even touched your cock.”

Jimin can’t answer. Can’t think. Just whimpers and spreads his legs wider.

Yoongi presses a second finger in, slow and thick.

Jimin sobs.

The stretch burns, but it’s good. The way Yoongi crooks his fingers just right. Jimin sees stars. He’s falling apart already, and they haven’t even started.

“You want my cock in you?” Yoongi asks. “Want me to knot you?”

Jimin gasps. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

Yoongi leans down, lips brushing his temple. “Then let me open you up.”

Jimin shivers. Opens his legs wider. Gives in completely.

The stretch is deep now. Yoongi’s fingers push in slow and slick, twisting just enough to make Jimin gasp. His body is tight, desperate, clenching around every inch.

"Relax," Yoongi says, voice low. “You’ll take me easier if you loosen up.”

“I can’t,” Jimin breathes. “You’re… fuck, Yoongi, you’re making it worse.”

Yoongi chuckles softly against his throat. “That’s the point.”

Jimin claws at the sheets, back arching. There’s too much slick, and not enough friction. His cock is leaking again, untouched, aching against his belly. Every time Yoongi moves his fingers, the need grows, pulses deeper.

“I’m going to lose my mind,” Jimin chokes out. “Please. Just—”

“Just what?” Yoongi murmurs, pressing in harder, the heel of his palm brushing Jimin’s rim, smearing more slick. “Tell me what you need.”

Jimin twists beneath him, mouth falling open. “I need you inside me.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. Not with words.

He leans down and kisses him.

It’s not soft. It’s not hesitant. It’s open and wet and deep, Jimin’s lips parting immediately, tongue dragging against Yoongi’s, hips grinding up without thinking.

The kiss breaks with a gasp, both of them panting.

Jimin stares up at him, wrecked.

“Please,” he whispers again. “I want your cock. I want it now.”

Yoongi withdraws his fingers slowly. Jimin feels the emptiness immediately and moans, hips chasing the loss.

“You’re still tight,” Yoongi says, thumb brushing his hole, spreading the slick around again. “You sure you can take me?”

Jimin grabs at his waistband. “Take these off and find out.”

That gets a low groan from Yoongi. He pushes off the bed just enough to strip, shirt over his head first, then the pajama pants shoved down. His cock is hard, flushed, heavy against his stomach, glistening at the tip.

Jimin’s mouth waters.

“Come here,” he says hoarsely. “Let me feel you.”

Yoongi climbs back over him, naked now, his body warm and solid, scent thick and pulsing in the air. He presses their bodies together, groin to groin, and Jimin nearly sobs from the contact.

“You’re trembling,” Yoongi murmurs.

“Because I need you to fuck me,” Jimin snaps, breathless. “I’ve been needing it for hours.”

Yoongi moves again, guiding his cock down with one hand, rubbing the head through Jimin’s slick. It catches right at the rim.

“Say it again,” Yoongi says, his voice rough now. “Say what you want.”

Jimin claws at his back. “I want you to fuck me. I want your cock. I want your knot. Please, Yoongi, please—”

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi pushes in, slow and steady.

Jimin cries out. His body clenches hard, the pressure shocking, but it gives, inch by inch, the slick easing the way.

“Fuck,” Yoongi groans. “You’re so fucking tight.”

Jimin can’t speak. Can’t breathe.

Yoongi rocks in deeper, hips rolling. The stretch burns. The fullness is unbearable. Perfect.

He’s not even all the way in, and Jimin’s already falling apart again.

“I can feel everything,” he gasps. “You’re so big—”

“Take it,” Yoongi growls. “You were made to take it.”

And Jimin does.

His legs lock around Yoongi’s waist. His head tips back. The moment Yoongi bottoms out, fully buried, Jimin lets out a broken sound and comes again, completely untouched.

His whole body clenches around Yoongi’s cock, milking him. Slick and cum spill between them, soaking the sheets worse than before.

Yoongi holds still, breathing hard, jaw tight.

“You okay?” he manages.

Jimin nods, dazed. “Move. Please. I need it again.”

Yoongi doesn’t wait.

He pulls back and thrusts in hard. Jimin screams.

Not from pain, from relief.

And Yoongi doesn’t hold back.

Each thrust lands deeper, harder, filling Jimin so completely it feels like the air’s being pushed from his lungs. The stretch is unbearable, but he doesn’t want it to stop.

He moans, fists twisting in the sheets, knuckles aching from the strain. His body rocks forward with every push, slick smeared across the backs of his thighs, dripping onto the soaked bed.

“Fuck—” he gasps, voice hoarse. “More, please, Hyung, don’t stop—”

“Not planning to,” Yoongi pants, voice ragged. “You’re taking me so well.”

The praise sends a fresh wave of heat through him. Jimin shudders, back arching.

Yoongi’s hands settle at his hips, firm and possessive. He pulls Jimin back into every thrust, setting a pace that’s just this side of brutal, his cock dragging over the same sensitive spot inside with every pass.

Jimin sobs. He’s close again, too close, already twitching.

“Please,” he chokes out. “I’m gonna… fuck… I’m gonna come again—”

“Good,” Yoongi says, thrusting harder. “I want you to.”

Jimin breaks. Again.

He comes with a cry, his body clenching tight, hole spasming around Yoongi’s cock. It only makes Yoongi groan louder, makes his rhythm stutter.

And then Jimin feels it. The base of Yoongi’s cock swelling.

It’s subtle at first, just a thicker drag, a deeper stretch, but then the pressure builds, widening inside him with every thrust.

Jimin freezes.

“Oh my god,” he gasps. “Hyung. Are you—”

“Yeah,” Yoongi grits out. “I’m knotting. You’re ready.”

It’s too much. It’s not enough. Jimin can’t think.

“Please, do it. Fuck, tie me—”

“You sure?” Yoongi’s voice is strained. His hips still moving. “Once it locks, I won’t be able to pull out.”

“I don’t care.” Jimin’s shaking again, clutching at the sheets. “Just do it. Please, alpha, I need it—”

The word cracks something open.

Yoongi growls. His grip tightens. He slams in hard, deeper than before, and then the knot swells wide, catching.

A strangled sound rips from Jimin's throat.

It locks inside him, heavy and hot and full. He feels it stretching him wide, pressing against his rim, held in place by the tight seal of his body. He can feel every pulse, every twitch of Yoongi’s cock as it throbs inside him.

He can’t move. Can’t think.

He’s tied.

“Good boy,” Yoongi breathes, bent over him now, lips at his ear. “You’re perfect like this.”

Jimin sobs. His whole body is trembling.

“You feel it?” Yoongi says, voice thick. “My knot inside you?”

“Yes. Fuck, yes.” Jimin moans, lost. “So full… I can’t—”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Yoongi growls. “You’re mine.”

Jimin’s vision blurs. It’s too much and still not enough. His cock is hard again, untouched, pressed up against his belly.

Yoongi’s hand slips between them, fingers curling around him. 

“Come one more time for me,” he says. “Let me feel you.”

It only takes a few strokes.

Jimin shudders through it, cock spilling across his stomach. His body clamps down hard around Yoongi’s knot, milking it, squeezing with every wave.

Yoongi groans low in his throat. His hips jerk once, twice, and then he comes.

Jimin feels it. Hot pulses deep inside, the stretch of the knot keeping everything in. There’s no space left in his body, no control. He’s completely filled.

They’re both shaking now, skin sticky, the room thick with scent.

Yoongi doesn’t pull out. He can’t.

He just lowers himself over Jimin, arms wrapping around him, knot still locked tight inside.

“Breathe,” he whispers. “Just breathe.”

Jimin does. Slowly. His heart still racing, his body trembling.

But he’s safe. He’s full. He’s claimed.

And for the first time in years, he doesn’t feel alone.

They don’t speak for a while.

Jimin’s head tips to the side, cheek resting against Yoongi’s shoulder. His legs are still parted, thighs sore where Yoongi gripped them. He can feel the knot inside him, thick and swollen, still pulsing deep. Every little twitch drags out another ripple of pleasure. 

The silence stretches. Warm. Dense.

“You okay?” Yoongi murmurs. His lips brush the side of Jimin’s neck.

Jimin doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes. His body is wrecked. Sticky, stretched, aching in places he didn’t know could ache. But he feels good. Safe. Like the frantic edge of his heat has eased into something warmer. Softer.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, voice rough. “Just… fucked out.”

He feels Yoongi’s mouth curve against his skin. “You passed out for a minute.”

“I think I blacked out.”

“You did,” Yoongi says. “Made a mess all over me.”

Jimin groans. “Don’t remind me.”

Yoongi’s hand smooths over his belly, gentle now. “You were perfect.”

Jimin sighs, finally. Lets his body go slack. Lets himself feel it. The throb inside him, the hot press of Yoongi’s knot, the damp mess everywhere. It should be uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want to move.

They lie like that for a while, tangled and quiet. The scent in the room is thick. Alpha and omega, slick and come, heat still lingering. Jimin presses his nose into Yoongi’s arm and breathes deep.

“You smell so good,” he says, not quite coherent. “I missed it.”

Yoongi’s breath stirs his hair. “You didn’t forget it?”

“Never.”

There's a beat of silence before Jimin moves a little, winces. “Still… stuck.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi murmurs. “Shouldn’t be much longer. You’re doing okay.”

Jimin hums. “Kind of want to cry.”

Yoongi tenses behind him. “Too much?”

“No,” Jimin says, eyes fluttering. “Just… happy.”

Yoongi wraps both arms around him then, knot and all. Holds him like he might fall apart.

Jimin lets himself melt into it.

The bathroom is warm by the time Yoongi sets him down.

Steam curls from the shower, fogging the mirror. The overhead light is dim, softened by moisture, and Jimin blinks at the glow of it. His legs wobble the moment they touch the tiles.

“Hey,” Yoongi murmurs, steadying him with both hands. “Careful.”

“I’m fine,” Jimin mumbles, even though he’s not.

Yoongi just nods and guides him under the spray.

The water hits his skin, hot but not too hot, just enough to make him flinch before it soothes. He stands there a moment, letting it run over his shoulders, down his chest, legs, back. His thighs are sore. His lower back aches. There’s still slick clinging to his skin, drying sticky around his entrance.

Yoongi steps in behind him. Arms slip around his waist. He presses a kiss to Jimin’s neck, then reaches for the handheld nozzle.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “Just let me take care of you.”

Jimin doesn’t answer. He nods, eyes half-closed.

The spray changes, warmer now, more focused, and Yoongi moves slowly. He washes Jimin’s shoulders first, dragging a cloth over the curve of his spine, down each arm, over the swell of his hips. He’s not rough. He doesn’t linger anywhere too long. He just touches, rinses, cleans.

Between Jimin’s legs, he’s gentler. There’s no teasing, no pressure. Just a careful hand, parting his thighs, cleaning away what’s left of their mess. Jimin flinches a little at the contact, overstimulated and raw.

“Too much?” Yoongi asks quietly.

“No,” Jimin breathes. “Just… tender.”

Yoongi doesn’t speak. He rinses the cloth and starts again, slower this time. One hand pressed steady against Jimin’s hip, the other guiding the water where it needs to go. By the time he’s done, Jimin’s shaking for a different reason, bone-deep exhaustion sinking in.

“Sit for a second,” Yoongi says, coaxing him down onto the built-in bench. “I’ll wash your hair.”

Jimin lets him.

He leans forward, eyes closed, as Yoongi works shampoo into his scalp. His fingers are strong, deliberate. They massage more than they scrub, and Jimin sighs without meaning to.

“You’re good at this,” he says faintly.

Yoongi’s hands pause for a moment, then move again, slower now. “I like taking care of you,” he says. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Jimin snorts, lips tugging up. “Too late.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi mutters. “Figured.”

He tilts Jimin’s head back to rinse, cradling his neck with one hand. Jimin feels the water run down over his ears, down his chest. He doesn’t open his eyes.

By the time they finish, he’s too tired to move.

Yoongi towels them off together, hands brisk but not rough. He presses a kiss to Jimin’s damp shoulder, then wraps him in a robe. Yoongi’s, oversized and smelling like him. It’s soft. Warm. Jimin melts into it.

They don’t bother with clothes.

Yoongi leads him back to the bedroom, turns down the freshly made bed. The sheets are soft and clean. A faint trace of detergent, but Yoongi’s scent lingers beneath it.

He helps Jimin lie down, then disappears again. A moment later, he returns with a water bottle and a small tray. There’s a sliced pear, a kimbap in plastic wrap, and a bottle of banana milk.

He sits on the edge of the bed, nudging Jimin’s shoulder.

“Eat something.”

Jimin blinks at him. “Now?”

“You’ll feel better.”

Jimin doesn’t argue. He unwraps the kimbap slowly, takes a small bite. The rice is cold but familiar. He sips the milk in between, then nibbles at the pear. His body still feels wrung out, but steadier. Like the worst of the fever has passed.

Yoongi watches him, quiet.

When he finishes, Yoongi sets the tray aside and climbs into bed beside him.

Jimin turns toward him instinctively. Nuzzles into the warm curve of his neck.

Yoongi strokes a hand down his back, fingers trailing the edge of the robe. “Sleep.”

“You’re not going anywhere, right?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer with words. Just pulls him closer, tucks him in.

Jimin falls asleep to the sound of his heart.

It starts with heat again.

Not as blinding as before. It builds slower this time, crawling up from his spine, coiling low behind his ribs. Greedy. Persistent.

Jimin wakes to it. Or maybe his body just never cooled, lulled into rest by Yoongi's warmth. But the knot is gone now, and Yoongi is stretched beside him, bare and close, propped on one elbow with his hand stroking lightly along Jimin’s back.

"You awake?"

Jimin hums. His mouth feels dry. He turns his face toward the pillow, then glances up. "How long was I out?"

"Three hours. It’s almost four."

Late afternoon light spills pale across the blankets. Jimin’s skin is warm again, his thighs sticky. The ache hasn’t vanished, just softened into something heavier. Not pain. Just need.

"How are you feeling?"

Jimin doesn’t answer. He slides closer, drapes one leg over Yoongi’s hip, pressing his nose to the curve of Yoongi’s neck. Breathes in. Smoke, earth, the familiar warmth of persimmon.

“Better,” he says, muffled.

Yoongi’s hand steadies on his lower back. "You think it’s coming back?"

Jimin nods, already rutting faintly against him. There’s slick again between his thighs, less than earlier, but unmistakable.

“Not as strong,” he says. “Just… need to be close.”

Yoongi doesn’t pull away.

So Jimin moves slowly, limbs still weak, and climbs over him. Straddles his waist. His cock brushes Yoongi’s stomach, already hard. Yoongi’s is stiff too, caught low between his cheeks, slick easing the slide. The heat climbs at the contact. His hips roll once, searching.

They kiss.

It starts messy, open-mouthed and breathless. Jimin chases the press of Yoongi’s lips, licks into him, bites softly at the corner of his mouth. His thighs tighten. The friction is maddening. His whole body aches for more.

“I need more,” he gasps.

Yoongi breaks the kiss, breath warm against his cheek. “On your hands and knees.”

Jimin obeys without hesitation.

He moves to the center of the bed, settling on all fours, spine curving naturally. The position makes something in him go tight, submissive and aching. His thighs are damp again, hole flushed, still slick from earlier.

Behind him, Yoongi swears softly. "You’re so fucking beautiful."

Jimin lets out a soft, desperate noise. "Please. Alpha, please."

Yoongi’s palms glide over the curve of his ass, kneading gently. Then he leans down and kisses along Jimin’s spine. Featherlight. Worshipful.

When his mouth finds Jimin’s hole, everything inside him stutters.

Jimin cries out. His arms tremble, forehead pressing to the sheets.

Yoongi licks slow and deep, tongue dragging through the slick, teasing him open again. He doesn’t rush. Just holds Jimin steady and tastes him, tongue pushing in, curling, licking deeper. Jimin sobs. It feels endless.

"More," he begs. "Need your cock. Want your knot, please—"

"Not yet," Yoongi murmurs. "You’re still sore."

"I can take it—"

"Shh. Let me take care of you."

Yoongi slides a finger in. Then another. Curling slow. His mouth stays busy, licking around them, easing him open. Jimin keens, back arching, the heat nearly unbearable.

His arms give out completely. He slumps to his elbows, thighs trembling.

Yoongi’s voice is low again, close. "Turn over. Wanna see you."

Jimin turns over slowly. Yoongi helps him onto his back, careful.

They kiss again, messy and needy. Yoongi licks into his mouth like he can’t get enough, then trails down, lips ghosting over Jimin’s throat, his chest, teeth catching gently at a nipple.

Jimin moans. "Fuck, Hyung—"

Yoongi just keeps going. Lower. Across his belly. Then he wraps his mouth around Jimin’s cock.

Jimin gasps, head falling back. Yoongi’s tongue curls under the head, mouth hot and slow, while his fingers slip back in, stroking deep. Jimin is a mess. Shaking, sweating, babbling.

It doesn’t take long. He comes with a broken cry, hips jerking.

Yoongi swallows everything.

Still panting, Jimin pushes at his shoulder.

"Let me taste you now," he whispers.

Yoongi watches him, eyes dark. "You sure? You don’t have to—"

"I want to," Jimin says. "Need to."

He pushes Yoongi down and crawls over him. Kisses a line down his chest, his stomach. Wraps a hand around him and licks slow up the length of his cock.

Yoongi groans. Jimin takes him into his mouth.

He sucks deep, lips slick, tongue pressed flat. He moans around him, and the vibration makes Yoongi tremble.

"You like that?" Yoongi rasps. "Like having me in your mouth?"

Jimin moans again. Slick drips from his hole, his cock hardening again against the sheets.

Yoongi sits up slightly, cupping Jimin’s cheek. "Fuck, baby. You’re so good. Can I—?"

Jimin nods.

Yoongi braces on his knees, thrusts slowly into Jimin’s mouth. Deeper. Jimin takes it all.

One hand jerks his cock, the other claws into Yoongi’s thigh.

Yoongi watches him, flushed. "Look at you," he growls. "So desperate for it."

Jimin moans around him, hips twitching.

"Gonna come again?" Yoongi asks. Voice low. Rough. "Go on, baby. Let me see you.”

Jimin obeys.

They fall apart together. Messy, wrecked, panting.

Then Yoongi pulls him close. Wraps him up. Holds him there.

They stay like that for a while. Long enough for the air to settle. For their breathing to slow, matching beat for beat. Jimin’s face tucked close to Yoongi’s neck, fingers curled in the sheets.

Eventually, Yoongi moves.

Careful. Quiet.

He slips out from under the tangle of limbs and blankets, pads barefoot to the bathroom. Jimin barely stirs, eyes fluttering open, then drifting shut again as the space beside him cools. He doesn’t ask where Yoongi’s going. Doesn’t need to.

A minute later, the bed dips again. Yoongi returns with a damp towel, warm from the sink. He kneels beside Jimin, murmurs something low, and starts to clean him up.

Jimin lets him.

The towel is soft. Yoongi’s touch, softer. He moves slowly, carefully wiping the slick from Jimin’s thighs, his stomach, the mess between his legs. Jimin’s lashes flutter again. He reaches without thinking, fingers brushing Yoongi’s wrist.

Just to feel.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. Yoongi’s gaze flicks up once, meeting his, and something passes between them. Weightless, certain.

When he finishes, Yoongi tosses the towel aside and reaches for the blanket. Starts to pull it up. But Jimin shifts. Grabs the corner before he can tuck it. 

He pulls it close instead.

One of the pillows too, dragged toward his chest. Then the sleeve of Yoongi’s discarded shirt, caught in the sheets. He presses it to his cheek. Breathes in. Tugs the covers tighter around his shoulders. Not quite curling in on himself, but not stretched open either.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

Then he slides in behind him, warm and solid. One arm curls around Jimin’s waist, pulling him in. Jimin settles with a sigh. Presses back. The last of the tremors seem to drain from his body.

He closes his eyes.

A beat passes. Then two.

"Thank you," he whispers. Voice hoarse. Frayed with something more than exhaustion.

Yoongi’s lips graze his shoulder. "There’s no need to thank me, love."

Another kiss. Just beneath his ear. Gentle. Steady.

"Anything for you," Yoongi says. Softer now. "Anything."

Jimin swallows. His throat feels thick again. 

He turns slightly. Enough to press his forehead against Yoongi’s. Their noses brush. Breath mingles.

"God, I missed you," he says. A confession. A prayer. "Don’t you dare leave me again."

Yoongi’s eyes don’t move.

He touches Jimin’s jaw. Just once.

"You’ll always have me."

Outside, the light fades a little more.

Inside, everything holds.

Chapter Text

Yoongi wakes to warmth pressed along his side and a dull ache in his back from lying too still. Jimin is curled into him, limbs heavy, breath slow and even against his sternum. Their legs are tangled beneath the sheets, and the heat that clung thick to the room the night before has softened, dulled to something bearable. It's not gone. Not fully. But it's waning. Edges smoothed. Breathable.

He watches Jimin for a moment. The faint sheen at his temple. The quiet pull of his mouth in sleep. It does something to him. The way this boy, this man, has always come undone only for him. Even now, years later, without words or reason. Just instinct.

Yoongi moves carefully, easing out of the bed. He crosses to the ensuite, bare feet silent against the warm tile. The mirror is clouded at the edges. He washes up quickly, runs a hand through his hair. Then he steps back into the bedroom and pulls on a clean pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. His fingers pause at his neck, where the scent lingers strongest. Fig sap, sweat, something else he can't name. It’s not overpowering anymore, but it’s there. Threaded into him now. Familiar.

Downstairs, he plugs in his phone on the kitchen counter and watches the screen flicker to life. Three missed calls from Hoseok. One message:

call me when you can. urgent.

He presses dial.

Hoseok picks up immediately. "Where the hell have you been? Are you alive?"

"Jimin's here," Yoongi says quietly.

Hoseok doesn’t speak right away. When he does, his voice is gentler. “Oh. Is he okay?”

"Yeah. He’s alright now. Just needed time. Sorry I didn’t call back sooner."

"I figured something was up. Wasn’t sure if I should break your door down or let you be. Anyway. Namjoon-ssi came back yesterday."

Yoongi straightens. "And?"

“The doctor wouldn’t admit to anything. Just kept deflecting.”

"Fuck."

"Yeah. And get this—Sangchul called an emergency board meeting. Monday morning."

Yoongi frowns. "Why?"

"No clue. Probably trying to save his ass at the last minute."

"Bit late for that."

"Maybe. But I don’t know, hyung. We might be underestimating him. Just... be ready."

"I will be. Keep me posted, alright? I need to focus on Jimin right now. He needs me."

"You got it. Just keep your fucking phone on and maybe answer once in a while."

"Noted."

Yoongi hangs up. The coffee is ready, dark and hot. He plates out a simple breakfast. Some rice from the cooker, reheated banchan, a quick steamed egg. Nothing elaborate, but enough. Two mugs. He balances everything on a tray and carries it upstairs.

Jimin is awake. Bare-chested, eyes half-lidded, hair pressed flat on one side. He blinks slowly when Yoongi steps inside, then smiles, soft.

"Morning," he says.

"Morning," Yoongi replies, setting the tray at the foot of the bed. "You hungry?"

Jimin glances at the tray, then back at Yoongi. "Is Bora-ssi here?"

"No. I told her there was no need to come till Monday."

His brows lift slightly. "Then... you made all this?"

"Yeah. Why?"

Jimin leans forward, presses a kiss to his jaw. "No reason. Thank you."

“Coffee,” Yoongi says, holding one mug out.

Jimin takes it with both hands, voice still gravely. "Thank God."

Yoongi smiles. “Rough night.”

“Worth it,” Jimin murmurs.

They sit together against the pillows. Jimin keeps both hands around the mug, holding it close to his chest like warmth.

Yoongi reaches to brush the fringe from his eyes, then rests a palm lightly against his cheek. "You’re not feverish."

Jimin hums. "A little better today. Still tired."

"That’s alright."

Jimin doesn’t meet his eyes right away. His thumb runs along the rim of the cup. "Thank you. For taking care of me. For making it easier."

"You don’t need to thank me."

"I know. I just—" He pauses. "I’m glad it was you. I’ve never felt this safe. You’re... kind of too good at this."

Yoongi lets out a quiet breath, lips brushing his temple. "Only because it’s you."

They eat slowly, sharing bites. There’s no rush to move. The world outside feels far.

Eventually, Yoongi says, "How about a shower? We can go downstairs after, watch something. Or stay here. I’m good either way."

Jimin leans into him, cheek warm against Yoongi’s shoulder. "A shower sounds nice," he says, voice quiet. "But I still feel... off. Probably better to just stay here until it’s fully over."

"Good," Yoongi murmurs.

He doesn’t move away.

Instead, he shifts just enough to press a kiss into Jimin’s hair. Lets his hand trail down, brushing bare skin, following the curve of Jimin’s back. “Come on,” he says, low. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He rises first. Jimin follows, the sheet slipping off his bare skin. He doesn’t seem to notice how Yoongi watches him. How his gaze tracks the slope of his spine, the stretch of muscle in his legs. That fine waist, all lean definition. Honey-warm skin, flushed at the throat.

Yoongi’s chest tightens. His jaw. His fists.

Jimin doesn’t look back as he pads to the bathroom, only glances once over his shoulder when he reaches the doorway. The look is deliberate. A flicker of lips. A tilt of his head. He knows.

Yoongi swallows hard and follows.

Inside, he flips the light on and reaches for the shower knob. The water sputters, then steadies, steam already gathering at the edges of the mirror. Yoongi strips off his t-shirt, then the pajama bottoms. When he looks up, Jimin is already inside the glass stall, fingers pressed to the tiles. Waiting.

Yoongi steps in behind him.

Heat swells again. The kind that pools low, laced with scent and instinct. Yoongi's hands hover at Jimin’s waist, then settle, grounding them both.

Jimin shivers. "Yoongi—"

"I know. I've got you, baby."

They kiss first. Messy. Wet. Jimin’s mouth parts easily, tongue sliding slow and sweet before it turns deeper, hungrier. Yoongi presses him back into the tile, hips aligned, hands sliding to Jimin’s ass. He palms the soft flesh, groans low when Jimin whimpers.

"You’re already worked up," Yoongi murmurs.

"Can’t help it. You smell so good. I can’t—"

Jimin’s hips cant forward. His cock is hard, already slick at the tip. He makes a low sound, something from the back of his throat, and presses closer, rutting for friction.

Yoongi pulls back, breath caught between their mouths. "Easy."

"Please," Jimin whispers. "Touch me. I need—"

"I will. But not yet."

He reaches behind, twists the dial until the water slows, then stops. The heat lingers in the air, trapped between the glass and tile. Yoongi steps back and settles on the built-in bench, spreading his knees slightly.

"I want to see."

Jimin blinks.

"How you do it when you’re alone," Yoongi adds, voice low. "Show me."

Jimin sways. "Hyung..."

"Go on."

A whine catches in Jimin’s throat. But his cock twitches, and the scent of him deepens, syrup-slick and dizzying.

He brings two fingers to his mouth, wraps his lips around them, and sucks. Slowly, shameless. Then draws them down his chest, trailing slick across his torso. His nipples are already stiff. He brushes one, then pinches, mouth falling open.

His other hand drops to his cock. He wraps around it, hisses as he strokes up once, then again, just enough to feel it. His hips jerk, fucking into his own fist, mouth wet, lashes heavy.

Yoongi watches, unmoving. His own cock is hard now, resting against his thigh, but he doesn't touch himself.

"Slow down," he murmurs.

Jimin makes a soft noice of protest, but obeys. He moves his hand again, this time gentler. He rocks into it, hips flexing. His mouth parts. He’s beautiful. Wild.

Yoongi’s voice cuts in again. "You want me to fuck you again? Fill you up good?"

Jimin nods quickly. "Yes. Please."

"Then open up for me. Use your fingers. Let me see."

Jimin turns around. He leans forward, one palm flat against the tiles, the other reaching back. He spreads himself. Circles the rim. Then presses in.

Slick glistens. Yoongi groans. "Good. Just like that. You're so perfect like this."

Jimin adds a second finger. "Not enough. Need you."

"Be patient."

When Jimin starts to reach for his cock again, Yoongi’s voice cuts in. "Don't."

Jimin shudders. "I need to come."

"I’m not finished watching."

Jimin moans and pushes a third finger in. His body trembles. Slick drips down his thighs. His cock is flushed, bobbing with every movement.

Yoongi strokes himself now, slow and lazy, eyes never leaving the sight before him.

"Turn around."

Jimin does. His face is flushed, eyes wet. Yoongi stands. Closes the dostance. He pulls Jimin in and kisses him. Hard. Teeth, tongue, spit. Their cocks slide together. Jimin moans into his mouth.

Yoongi pulls back just enough to speak. "You can touch yourself now. Make it good. I want you to come on me."

They both stroke. Jimin’s faster, needier. He spills first, all over Yoongi’s cock and abdomen.

Yoongi strokes through the mess slicking his cock, then brings a hand to Jimin’s waist. He turns him gently, presses him back toward the tile.

"Can you take it? Or too sensitive?"

"Please," Jimin pants. "I need it."

Yoongi doesn’t make him wait. He lines up, one hand steady on Jimin’s hip, the other guiding himself. The first push is slow, drawn out. He watches the way Jimin braces, the way his spine curves, muscles flexing beneath damp skin.

Jimin breathes through it. "More."

Yoongi sinks in the rest of the way. Sets a rhythm. A steady roll of hips, deep and even, the wet slap of skin and the sound of Jimin’s breathing.

He reaches forward, wraps a hand in Jimin’s hair and tugs, just enough to tip his head back. His mouth hovers by Jimin’s ear. "Does this feel better than when you do it yourself?"

"Yes."

"Is this what you wanted?"

Jimin nods. "Wanted you. Wanted this."

"Good."

Yoongi moves faster. Finds the spot that makes Jimin cry out and keeps hitting it. He feels Jimin tighten around him, already close again. His cock is hard again, flushed and leaking, and Yoongi reaches around to wrap his fingers around it.

He strokes in time with his thrusts. Doesn’t stop. Holds Jimin steady when he starts to shake.

"Come for me."

Jimin does. With a gasp, a full-body jerk, head dropped forward. His knees buckle, and Yoongi catches him, keeps fucking him through it.

He feels the pull start again. The heat of it, the knot threatening to rise, but he reins it in. He already knotted Jimin once. Already pushed his body hard. He doesn’t need to claim him again. Not now. Not like this.

This is enough.

A few more thrusts and Yoongi pulls out, groaning as he comes. It spills over Jimin’s ass, warm and sticky. He strokes himself through it, then uses the head of his cock to smear it up, circling the rim.

Jimin breathes through it, head resting against his arm.

Yoongi steps forward, wraps his arms around Jimin’s waist, and pulls him up. Holds him. Kisses the side of his neck.

Then he turns the water back on. Reaches for the soap and begins to wash him, careful and slow.

Jimin leans into it. Breathless. Boneless.

Yoongi stays with him.

The rest of the day passes slowly. They stay in the bedroom, curled under the blankets, limbs tangled, breath steady. Jimin talks more now. Quiet fragments, nothing urgent. Stories from university. A memory about Taehyung spilling paint in their old kitchen. Half-sentences Yoongi doesn’t always answer, just listens to, one arm draped over Jimin’s waist, thumb brushing along the hem of borrowed fabric.

At some point, Yoongi gets up to order food. Jimin’s half-asleep when he returns, but sits up as the smell fills the room. They eat on the bed, passing containers between them. Jimin eats more than expected. Yoongi doesn’t say anything about it, just nudges the soup closer when he hesitates. The mood is light. Easy.

Later, Yoongi brings his laptop over and props it on the side table. “Pick something.”

Jimin gives him a look. “You’re going to regret that.”

“I'll regret it quietly.”

Ten minutes in, Yoongi realizes it’s one of those films with soft lighting, piano score, people falling in love and ruining each other across city rooftops and train stations.

“You’re joking,” he mutters.

But Jimin just hums and curls in closer, cheek against Yoongi’s chest, fingers splayed over his ribs.

Yoongi pretends not to care at first, mutters about clichés. But as it goes on, he gets quiet. Keeps his eyes on the screen. By the end, he’s fully watching. When the credits start to roll, he swipes under one eye, once, fast.

“Shut up,” he says before Jimin can open his mouth.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Evening settles in without fanfare. The light dims outside the curtains. Jimin stretches, then sits back against the headboard, knees drawn up. “I finally feel human again,” he says, like it’s a surprise. He hesitates, then mutters, “I should check my phone.”

Yoongi reaches past the pillows, pulls it off the charger. “I plugged it in earlier.”

“Thanks.” Jimin takes it, squints at the screen. Then groans. “Shit. Missed calls from Tae. Seokjin-hyung, too.”

Yoongi watches him hesitates, thumb hovering over the screen.

“I should call them back,” he says eventually. “Just to let them know I’m okay.”

Yoongi nods once. “Go ahead.”

Jimin dials. “Tae?”

Yoongi can’t hear what’s said on the other end, just the rise and fall of Taehyung’s voice, obviously concerned. Jimin listens for a few seconds, then says, “Yeah. Sorry for not calling back sooner. But everything happened so fast.”

He pauses. Rubs at his forehead.

“No. He didn’t hurt me. I swear. I’m okay. I’m at Yoongi-hyung’s.” Another pause. “I’ll explain everything tomorrow, alright? I’m still... not a hundred percent.”

His lips twitch. “No, just tired. We’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

A beat passes before he speaks again.

“Thanks. Say hi to Kookie. Love you too.”

He ends the call with a sigh and sets the phone aside for a moment, then turns toward Yoongi. “Tae stopped by last night. Guess he was worried and came to check. Taeseong was home. Told him what happened. In his own version of it.”

Yoongi touches his arm. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain it all now.”

“I need to call hyung, too. God.” Jimin rubs at his forehead. “This is more tiring than the heat.”

Yoongi gives him a small smile. “You’ll survive.”

Jimin snorts. Dials again. “Hey, hyung.”

Yoongi can’t hear the response, but Jimin replies, “No, I’m not at home. Things got bad with Taeseong. I had to leave.”

He pauses, then continues, “Don’t worry. I’m at Yoongi-hyung’s. It happened too quickly... and I couldn’t go back. You know how eomma is. I didn’t want to deal with her.”

There’s a long moment where Jimin just listens.

“Oh,” he says. “I’m sorry, hyung. I’m sure Namjoon-hyung tried his best.”

Another pause. Then Jimin’s tone softens. “Yeah, I know. We’ll think of something. Wait a second—”

He mutes the call and turns. “Namjoon-hyung came back yesterday. The doctor didn’t confess.”

“I know,” Yoongi says. “Hoseok told me this morning. Didn’t want to worry you.”

Jimin nods, then sighs. “I need to talk to hyung properly. Figure things out. But I really don’t want to go back there... especially not with a chance of seeing eomma.”

“Tell them to come here tomorrow,” Yoongi says. “I don’t mind. Maybe I can help.”

Jimin unmutes the call. “Hyung? Would you mind coming here instead? Tomorrow? We can talk here. Yoongi-hyung suggested it.”

Another pause. Jimin nods. “We’ll have more privacy. Yeah. Around noon works. See you then.”

He hangs up, sets the phone down, and leans back. “They’ll come over tomorrow.” He lets out a slow breath before he speaks again. “I can’t believe the doctor denied it. What can we even do now? We can’t just let him get away with it.”

“Let’s not think about it right now,” Yoongi says, voice low. “You need to rest. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

Jimin doesn’t argue. He just settles in closer, head against Yoongi’s chest. The tension in his shoulders begins to ease.

“Everything’s such a mess,” he murmurs. “And here I am, feeling happier than ever. But also scared. What an irony.”

Yoongi presses a kiss to his hair. “You’re safe with me.”

The next day settles in quietly. Outside, the cold hangs dry against the windows, the wind held at bay. Early winter, gray and patient. Inside, the house is warm.

Yoongi adjusts the kettle on the stove, clicks the heat down low to keep the water hot but not bubbling. He’s already lined the ceramic filter over the carafe. The beans, ground fresh just minutes ago, sit waiting in their paper cone. He tips the kettle, lets the first pour bloom through, dark and steady, the scent lifting slow into the air. He moves without hurry, careful and practiced.

In the living room, Jimin is curled under a throw blanket, one leg tucked close to his chest. His phone rests loose against his thigh, thumb pausing now and then on the screen. His hair is pushed back, cheeks pink with color again. He’d eaten well that morning. Finished everything on his plate. Yoongi had watched from the kitchen, quiet but full. Something in him had eased.

The scent in the house has settled too. No longer spiked with heat. Just fig sap and milk, low and steady. Familiar. It wraps gentle around the room, like a resting hum. The bond hasn’t dimmed, but it’s quiet now. Warm. Breathing.

Yoongi pours the last of the water through the filter and turns to reach for the sugar jar.

The bell chimes.

He sets the jar back down, wipes his hands on the dish towel draped by the sink, and walks to the wall monitor. Two figures stand just outside the front entrance, their coats buttoned up to the collar. The camera angle catches the slope of Namjoon’s shoulders and a glimpse of Seokjin’s scarf.

"They’re here," he says over his shoulder.

Jimin glances up from the couch. "Can you let them in?"

Yoongi is already on his way down the hall. He opens the door with a soft click.

"Hey," he says.

Seokjin steps in first. "Hey." He unwinds his scarf slowly, his expression neutral but drawn around the eyes.

Namjoon follows with a nod. "Thanks for having us."

They leave their shoes by the door, hang their coats on the rack nearby. Yoongi waits until they’re done before gesturing inward.

"Come on in."

They follow him through the hall into the living room. Jimin stands as they enter, folding his blanket aside.

"Hyung," he says.

Seokjin crosses the room and pulls him into a hug. It's brief but grounding.

"You okay?"

Jimin nods. "I’m okay now."

Namjoon steps in next, hand resting on Jimin’s shoulder for a moment. "Good to see you, Jimin-ah."

Seokjin takes the seat beside him on the couch. Namjoon lowers into the armchair across. Yoongi hovers for a beat, then turns back toward the kitchen.

"Anything to drink? I just brewed some fresh coffee."

"Coffee sounds great," Namjoon says.

Seokjin nods. "Yeah, please."

Yoongi glances at Jimin. "Jimin-ah? Coffee?"

"No thanks, hyung. I’m good."

Yoongi finishes pouring the coffee into three mugs, adds the jar of sugar and a small spoon to the tray and carries it over carefully. He sets a cup in front of Seokjin, one for Namjoon, and keeps the third for himself before settling into the armchair.

Seokjin wraps both hands around his mug. He doesn’t sip right away.

"Hyung, you okay? You look a little pale," Jimin says quietly.

His brother gives a small shake of his head. "It’s nothing. Shouldn’t have let Namjoon cook dinner last night."

Namjoon lifts a brow. "You said you liked it."

"You made haemul-jeongol with frozen squid. That squid fought back."

Namjoon laughs under his breath. "You ate three bowls."

"And paid for it."

Jimin looks between them, lips pressed together like he’s trying not to smile.

Seokjin turns back to him. "What about you? What happened with Taeseong?"

There’s a pause before Jimin answers, his shoulders drawing in. "I told him I filed for divorce. He didn’t take it well. I had to leave."

Seokjin frowns. "Did he hurt you?"

"No. I’m fine, really."

"You should’ve called me. I would’ve kicked that son of a bitch across the peninsula."

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth curves slightly. The image is satisfying, and closer to the truth than they realise. 

Jimin shakes his head. "It doesn’t matter now. It’s over. Let’s not talk about it, yeah?"

He turns toward Namjoon. "Namjoon-hyung. The trip didn’t go as planned?"

Namjoon sets his cup down. "The address was correct. He was home. I managed to get him to talk. But he denied everything."

"He admitted he treated Appa,” Seokjin adds. “Said he was devastated. That Appa’s condition was complicated. These things can’t always be predicted."

Yoongi’s voice cuts through. "And the payment? You showed him the proof, right?"

Namjoon nods. "I did. He said it was a consultancy fee. Some kind of follow-up work. Gave a vague excuse about internal recommendations and advisory notes. Nothing illegal, supposedly."

Seokjin leans back, rubbing his brow. "That’s a stretch."

Namjoon lifts his eyes. "I asked why the money came from a shell company. He said, and I quote, ‘I’m a doctor, not a businessman. You’re asking the wrong person. I don’t even know how those things work.’"

No one says anything. Seokjin drags a hand across his forehead, slow and heavy. Jimin stays still beside him, his knee angled inward, one hand curled loosely on the couch. Yoongi watches the movement without really meaning to, fingers loose around the cup in his lap. The silence presses down.

After a moment, Seokjin lets his hand fall. “We’re fucked,” he says. “I honestly can’t think of how we’d find real proof.”

Jimin doesn’t answer right away. His gaze drifts, jaw tightening as if he’s still searching for something to hold onto. “What about medical records?” he says. “Hospital reports?”

Seokjin sighs. “It’s been fifteen years, Jimin-ah. Who would keep anything that long?”

There’s a pause. Jimin’s brows knit, like he’s working backwards through something he forgot he knew.

“Eomma,” he says. Quiet, like the word found him before he found the reason why.

Seokjin stills. “What?”

“You know how she is,” Jimin says. “She files everything. Invoices. Test results. Stuff from school. She used to keep them in the storage room off the east hall. I used to sneak in and pull open the drawers. She hated that.”

Namjoon frowns. “But that was before the renovation.”

“She wouldn’t have thrown it out,” Jimin says. “Not because she needs it. Because she can’t stand the idea of not having proof.”

Seokjin leans back in his seat, thumb pressed to his jaw. “She does keep things,” he says slowly. “She had everything moved into her wing after the renovation, but it’s still a long shot. Fifteen years, Jimin-ah. We’d have to ask her directly.”

Jimin doesn’t look away. “Then we ask.”

Seokjin’s voice drops. “And if she’s involved? If she knew something? If she helped cover it up… she won’t make it easy.”

“I’m not saying we accuse her,” Jimin replies, rubbing lightly at his neck, gaze on the floor. “But if she reacts badly, that’s information too. Her reaction might give her away.”

Namjoon’s hand stays loose around his cup. “She’s not careless. Even if she did know, she won’t let it show.”

“Still,” Jimin says, looking up. “What do we lose by trying?”

No one answers.

Yoongi looks at him. There’s no uncertainty in his voice. Nothing held back. Just a quiet insistence, like he’s already made peace with whatever they might find.

“So what do you suggest?” Seokjin asks finally. “I can’t go alone. I’ve never been able to stand up to her.”

“You won’t have to,” Jimin says. “We’ll go together.”

Seokjin drops his hand. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Namjoon looks over. “Are you sure you’re ready to face her?”

Jimin hesitates, but only for a breath. “No. But it doesn’t matter. This is bigger than whatever I feel about her.”

“You know what she’s like,” Yoongi says. “Just don’t let her see hesitation.”

For a second, no one speaks. Then Seokjin exhales, nodding. “Tomorrow, then.”

His voice is quieter when he adds, “Did Hoseok tell you? Uncle called a board meeting. Monday morning.”

Yoongi nods. “He did. Said it felt rushed.”

“Do we know what it’s about?” Namjoon asks.

“Distraction,” Yoongi says. “He’s cornered, and he knows it.”

Seokjin’s expression doesn’t falter. “You’re not worried?”

“If he had anything worth using, he’d already have used it.”

Seokjin doesn’t answer right away. He looks toward Namjoon, then lets out a breath and rises. “We should head back,” he says.

Jimin stands with him. “Hyung. Call me tomorrow when you’re ready, yeah? I’ll come over.”

“I will.” Seokjin reaches out, gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Across from them, Namjoon sets his cup aside and stands with a stretch. “Thanks for having us. And the coffee.”

Yoongi gets up as well. “Anytime.”

The three of them make their way out. The hallway is long, lit warm along the edges. Yoongi waits by the entrance while they pull on their coats and shoes, scarf ends tucked in, collars fastened. He opens the door and steps aside as they step through. The cold meets them clean and dry, a quiet contrast to the warmth inside. Seokjin murmurs another goodbye, and Namjoon gives a short wave as they head down the walk.

The door closes with a soft click behind them.

When Yoongi returns to the living room, Jimin is still on the couch, back against the armrest, legs stretched long across the cushions. He lifts a hand and pats his thigh. “Come here.”

Yoongi moves without speaking, stepping around the low table and settling carefully between Jimin’s legs. His back meets the soft pull of Jimin’s chest, the curve of his spine fitting there like it always belonged. Jimin’s arms come around him slowly, one resting loose across his middle, the other curling in to trace fingers up and down the inside of his arm. Skin to skin.

Yoongi sighs, low in his throat. The bond stirs faintly in his chest. Steady. Anchored.

Jimin leans forward, nose brushing against the side of Yoongi’s neck. He breathes in once, then again, slower. Not out of instinct. Just need.

“How are you feeling?” Yoongi asks, voice quiet.

Jimin doesn’t answer right away. His fingers still against Yoongi’s skin.

“I wish I could say I’m not nervous,” he says eventually. “But the truth is... I’m freaking out. Still can’t even wrap my head around the idea that Uncle might’ve been involved in Appa’s death. I mean—” his voice wavers “—I know they’re awful. Him and Eomma. I know they only care about power and how things look, but still... it’s too much.”

Yoongi hums low. “You’ve had a lot to take in. Just a few days ago, you were still—” He stops. Shakes his head slightly. “It’s been a lot.”

Jimin runs his fingers down Yoongi’s arm again. The motion is light, but Yoongi feels each pass, familiar and grounding.

“I just want everything to be over soon,” he murmurs. “I just want to be free. Finally live the way I want to.”

Yoongi tips his head back a little. “Sounds nice. Got any ideas?”

Jimin presses a kiss to the side of his neck. It lingers.

“Be happy,” he says. “With you.”

Yoongi goes still.

Not from shock. Not even from instinct. Just that quiet, deep thing in him settling all at once. Like something that’s been braced too long finally letting go.

For a long time, he’d thought revenge would be the only thing that could make him feel whole again. That nothing would ever touch the ache in his chest unless he tore down the people who’d taken everything from him.

But now, being held like this, with Jimin’s breath soft against his neck and his scent wrapping warm around them both, something feels different.

He still wants justice. Still wants the truth exposed.

But more than anything, he wants this to last. He wants the weight in his chest to ease. He wants the world to stop spinning on loss and start, finally, to turn on something else. Something whole.

Maybe, he thinks, closing his eyes, it’s not about the rage anymore.

Maybe it never was.

Maybe all he’s ever wanted was exactly this.

To stay.

In Jimin’s arms. In this life that might still be possible. 

To be happy.

Forever.

Chapter Text

The wind rolls down from the trees, dry and cold across the back of Jimin's neck. He pulls his coat tighter as he walks, one hand curled deep in his pocket, knuckles brushing against the fabric of Yoongi's sweater underneath. The wool is soft, still holding the faintest trace of cedar and persimmon from where it pressed against Yoongi's skin. He draws it closer without thinking.

The path is familiar beneath his feet. Paved clean through the winter-bare trees, the kind of route he's walked since childhood without needing to think about direction. But today it feels longer. Each step carries him further from the warm weight of Yoongi's arm at his waist, from the quiet of the morning they'd shared.

It still feels surreal, waking in Yoongi's bed. The slow emergence from sleep to find himself tucked against Yoongi's chest, breath steady and unhurried against his hair. Real in a way that made his throat tight. Like something he'd only imagined for so long that having it felt too fragile to trust.

He'd tried to make breakfast. Burnt the rice, over-steeped the tea until it turned bitter. But Yoongi had praised it anyway, standing at the counter with that look he sometimes gets, focused entirely on Jimin like the rest of the world has gone quiet around them. Like nothing else could possibly matter.

Leaving had felt wrong. Like stepping out of something warm and necessary into the cold shape of obligation. But when Seokjin's text came through, I'm up. Come over when you can, he hadn't hesitated. Not really.

There are things that can't wait. Even when you want them to.

The Park estate rises ahead, stone and glass catching the pale winter light. Jimin turns toward Seokjin's wing, the left side of the property where the renovations carved out a separate entrance. He climbs the front steps, breath visible in small puffs, and presses the bell.

Seokjin answers after a moment. His hair is pushed back from his forehead, sleeves rolled to the elbows despite the cold. There's something careful in his expression, the look of someone who's been thinking too hard about a conversation he doesn't want to have.

"You look like you slept," he says, stepping aside.

"I did." Jimin steps out of his shoes, hangs his coat on the stand by the door. This side of the house smells different. The warm blend of Seokjin's white tea and honeyed sandalwood mixed with Namjoon's bergamot and waxed paper, cleaner somehow than the brittle citrus and powder that clings to his mother's wing. "Better than I have in weeks."

Seokjin watches him for a beat. "Good. You want coffee first, or should we—"

"Later," Jimin says. "Let's get this over with first."

Seokjin nods. "Right. We should go to her wing then."

They move through the house without speaking, down the corridor that connects the two wings. It's a clean stretch of gleaming floors and pale winter light, added during the renovations when Jimin was still in university.

Seokjin pauses as they reach the other side, listening. The house is quiet except for the faint sound of someone moving around in the kitchen, probably just morning cleanup.

They make their way to the sitting room. Seokjin knocks once at the familiar door and waits for permission.

"Come in," Mihyun's voice comes from inside.

Seokjin pushes the door open. "Eomma," he says, stepping inside.

The sitting room is warm, insulated against the cold outside. Mihyun sits in her usual armchair, a hardcover book open in her lap, reading glasses perched low on her nose. She looks up as they enter, and something tightens around her eyes.

Her gaze settles on Jimin, taking in the sweater that's too big for him, the way his hair is still slightly mussed from sleep. She closes the book with quiet care and sets it on the side table.

"I wasn't told you were coming," she says. Her voice is level, but there's an edge beneath it. "If I'd known, I might've asked the kitchen to prepare something."

"We're not here for lunch, Eomma." Jimin doesn't move deeper into the room. Just stands near the doorway, hands loose at his sides. "We need to talk."

She glances at Seokjin, then back at him. The silence stretches for a beat too long.

"Yes," she says finally. "We do. Taeseong called me yesterday. Told me you'd filed for divorce. That you'd left the house." Her voice hardens just slightly. "You're staying with him, aren't you? After everything he did to you, Jimin-ah? This is what you choose?"

The words hit exactly where they're meant to. Jimin feels the familiar twist of shame and anger, the old reflex to defend himself or explain. But it doesn't take hold the way it used to.

"That's enough," Seokjin says, stepping further into the room. "What Jimin does with his life is his decision. Not yours. You need to stop trying to control us. It doesn't work anymore."

Mihyun's mouth tightens. She looks between them for a moment, then lets out a slow breath.

"Fine," she says, gesturing toward the chairs across from her. "Why are you here?"

Jimin moves to sit, choosing the chair that was always too stiff, too formal. The kind of furniture that was meant to be admired rather than used. Seokjin settles beside him, leaning forward slightly, forearms braced against his knees.

"Do you still have the old files?" Seokjin asks. "School reports. Medical records. Things from before the renovation."

"Of course I do." Mihyun straightens slightly, the question catching her off guard. "They were all moved to the storage room off my study. Why?"

Jimin watches his mother's face as he speaks. "Do you still have Appa's medical records?"

The words hang in the air for a moment. Mihyun blinks, frowning.

"What?"

"His cardiology file," Jimin continues, keeping his voice steady. "Prescriptions. Clinic notes. Anything from the last few years before he died."

"What is this about?" Her voice has gone quieter, more careful.

Seokjin doesn't hesitate. "We found a payment. From one of Parknoa's offshore accounts. It was routed to Appa's doctor, Dr. Bae Sangil. Eight months before he died."

Mihyun doesn't respond immediately. Her hands remain folded in her lap, but something changes in her posture.

"It was disguised as a regulatory retainer," Seokjin continues. "But the money was rerouted. The final recipient was Dr. Bae. Namjoon traced the whole transaction. The timing..." He pauses. "It lines up too well to be coincidence."

Mihyun leans back slowly. "You think what? That Sangchul paid him to—" She stops, unable to finish the sentence.

"To alter something in Appa's treatment," Jimin says. "A dosage. A prescription. We don't know what yet. But the payment was real. Dr. Bae left Korea six years ago. The only records we might have left are the ones you kept."

For a long moment, Mihyun doesn't speak. Her face doesn't change much, but when her voice comes again, it's quieter. More fragile.

"That's not possible. Dr. Bae treated your father for over a decade. He was careful. Methodical. There was never any talk of risk."

"Are you sure?" Seokjin asks gently.

She hesitates, and in that hesitation, Jimin sees something crack.

"There was a change in medication, I think. A dosage increase. He mentioned it when he came home from the appointment, but..." She trails off, blinking. "He seemed more tired afterward. I thought it was just work stress. It wasn't supposed to be dangerous."

She closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them again, she looks older.

"Come with me," she says, rising from her chair. "The files should be in the second cabinet. I haven't looked at them in years.”

They follow her down the hall. The corridor feels longer than it should, each step carrying them deeper into territory none of them want to explore. The lighting is low, steady. Framed prints line the walls. Safe, meaningless landscapes that have hung there for years without anyone really seeing them.

Mihyun walks ahead without speaking, her blouse catching the light where the fabric pulls taut across her shoulders. She moves with the careful precision of someone who's spent years controlling every detail of her environment, but there's something different now. A stiffness that wasn't there before.

Jimin trails behind her, Seokjin quiet at his side. His mouth feels dry. The hallway seems to stretch endlessly, each closed door they pass holding its own secrets, its own carefully filed away pieces of their family's history.

At the last door, Mihyun pauses. Her hand hovers over the handle for just a moment. It's not hesitation, but the kind of pause that comes before crossing a line you can't uncross.

She opens it without ceremony.

"Second cabinet on the left," she says, stepping aside. Her voice is steady, but there's something brittle underneath it.

The room is meticulous in a way that feels almost oppressive. Every surface gleams. A clean desk sits beneath the window, its surface bare except for a single pen holder. Against the far wall, two lacquered cabinets flank a smaller storage unit, their dark wood reflecting the overhead light. Nothing is dusty. Nothing is out of place. It's the kind of room that exists to contain memories and documents, keeping them organized and out of sight.

Seokjin crosses to the cabinet she indicated. The drawer slides open with a whisper, revealing rows of manila folders, each one labeled in Mihyun's precise handwriting. He begins flipping through them, scanning the labels one by one. Insurance documents. Tax records. School reports going back decades.

Jimin lingers near the doorway, watching. The air in here feels different, heavier somehow, weighted with the accumulated silence of years. This is where their family's secrets live, filed away with the same care their mother applies to everything else in her life.

"Here," Seokjin says quietly. His fingers pause between two files, then slowly slide one free.

Jimin moves closer as Seokjin opens the folder on the desk. The file is thinner than expected, just a handful of printed consultation notes from their father's final year, all neatly arranged in chronological order. Clipped to the front is a single page from Samil Cardiology Centre, the clinic's letterhead stark against the white paper.

The fax header runs faintly along the top margin, the date clearly visible. Jimin does the math without meaning to. Eight months. Eight months before their father collapsed in his office and never woke up.

Seokjin reads aloud, his voice careful and controlled: "Adjusted nebivolol dosage to 10mg daily. Patient reports fatigue, increased BP variability. Prescribed increase as precaution. Monitor again in three weeks."

The words hang in the air between them. Below the typed text, there's a signature, Dr. Bae's familiar scrawl, along with his license number and the clinic's official stamp.

Jimin stares at the page. The numbers mean nothing to him, but something cold is spreading through his chest anyway. This is it. This is what Sangchul paid for. A few lines of text that look completely routine, completely innocent. A doctor's note that no one would ever question.

"Ten milligrams," Seokjin murmurs, running his finger along the line. "That's double what he was taking before."

Behind them, Mihyun has gone very still. When Jimin glances back, her face has lost some of its color.

The silence that follows is thick with realization. None of them are doctors, but they all understand what they're looking at. The timing is too perfect. The payment, the dosage change, their father's death. It all lines up in a way that makes Jimin's stomach turn.

Seokjin's hands are trembling slightly as he holds the paper. "We need to show this to a cardiologist. Someone who can tell us..." He stops, unable to finish the sentence.

"Whether it killed him," Jimin says quietly.

Mihyun makes a sound, soft and choked. She sinks into the chair by the desk, one hand pressed to her mouth.

"Sangchul," she whispers. "His own brother."

The word brother carries all the weight of betrayal, of trust shattered so completely it leaves nothing but wreckage behind. Jimin watches his mother's face crumple slightly, the careful mask she always wears finally beginning to crack.

"We don't know for certain yet," Seokjin says, but his voice lacks conviction. They all know. Deep down, they all know.

Mihyun looks up at them, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Take it," she says. "Take it and find out the truth. I need to know. I need to know what he did to your father."

Seokjin closes the folder carefully, his thumb resting over the clinic's stamp. The paper feels heavier than it should, weighted with fifteen years of secrets and lies.

"We'll bring it back," he promises.

"I don't care about the paper," Mihyun says, her voice breaking slightly. "I care about what it means. What it says about the man I trusted with our family's future."

She stands abruptly, turning toward the window. "Please go. I need... I need some time to think."

Jimin watches her turn away, but feels no urge to comfort her. Instead, he follows Seokjin out of the room, leaving their mother alone with the weight of what they've discovered.

The hallway seems different now. Even longer. Darker. Each step taking them further from innocence and closer to a truth that will change everything.

When they reach Seokjin's wing, the air feels lighter, warmer. But the weight of the folder in Seokjin's hands reminds them that some burdens can't be left behind.

"Coffee?" Seokjin asks, his voice rough around the edges.

Jimin nods. They both need something normal, something ordinary to ground them after what they've just uncovered.

"Yeah," he says. "I think we could both use some.”

It's just past one when Jimin unlocks the door and steps inside. His hands aren't quite steady. Haven't been since they left his mother's wing. He brushes off his shoes on the mat and closes the door behind him. The house is warm. Quiet.

He doesn't see Yoongi at first. The living room is empty, the kitchen counter cleared. For a moment, something tightens in his chest. What if he's alone with this weight? But then he hears it. Soft, slow piano notes drifting from upstairs.

He follows the sound.

One door is open just enough to let the music through. Jimin pauses in the hallway, then steps inside.

Yoongi sits at a black upright by the windows, back to the door, shoulders relaxed as his fingers move across the keys. The melody is unfamiliar, something quiet and full of little turns. It doesn't sound rehearsed, but it doesn't stumble either.

Jimin walks over slowly. He doesn't say anything, just comes close enough to wrap his arms around Yoongi from behind, fitting his hands together at Yoongi's chest. The contact grounds him, makes the morning feel less heavy.

Yoongi doesn't flinch. His hands keep playing, the line of his spine softening as he leans back slightly into Jimin's hold. He finishes the phrase before letting his fingers still.

There's a moment where neither of them speaks. Then Yoongi asks, without looking over, "How did it go?"

Jimin rests his chin lightly against Yoongi's shoulder. His throat feels tight. "We found something. A prescription from Dr. Bae. Eight months before Appa died, the dosage was doubled."

Yoongi's body goes still beneath his arms.

"It was signed and stamped. Faxed from the clinic." Jimin's voice wavers slightly. "Eomma remembered the appointment. She said Appa seemed more tired afterward, but she thought it was just work stress."

Yoongi's hand comes up to cover his, fingers curling around his wrist. Not letting go.

"The timing," Yoongi says quietly.

"Lines up exactly with the payment." Jimin swallows hard. "Namjoon-hyung’s showing it to a specialist on Monday. But we already know, don't we?"

Yoongi turns carefully on the bench. His hands frame Jimin's face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. There's something fierce in his eyes. Anger, but not at Jimin. For him.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is rougher than usual. "For what he did to your family. For what you're going through."

Jimin leans into the touch. "At least now we have proof. Or we will."

Yoongi nods, jaw tight. Then he tugs gently, and Jimin lets himself be pulled down into a kiss. It's soft, grounding, meant to comfort rather than inflame. When they break apart, Yoongi's forehead rests against his.

"That was lovely, by the way," Jimin says after a moment, needing to break some of the heaviness. "Where did you learn how to play?"

Yoongi's mouth curves. "Rec hall at uni had an old upright. I used to mess around on it between lectures. Mostly when I needed a break. Didn’t know what I was doing."

His thumb moves, brushing the inside of Jimin's wrist. "Later, when Hoseok and I got our place in Amsterdam, I bought a small digital one. Taught myself properly. Still wouldn't say I'm any good."

Jimin slides into his lap then, one leg on either side of the piano bench. The bench creaks a little under the weight. Yoongi settles his hands at his waist, looking up at him.

"Please. You're good at everything," Jimin says.

Yoongi huffs. "I suck at a lot of things."

"Yeah?" Jimin teases. "Like what?"

"Like resisting this," Yoongi says, hands sliding up his back. "Not one of my skills."

Jimin laughs quietly. He leans down and kisses him, arms winding around his shoulders. The kiss starts slow, familiar. Yoongi's hands slide up his back, and Jimin tilts forward until they're pressed together fully.

They stay like that for a while, caught in something soft and unhurried. Eventually, they make their way downstairs. The couch is just as they left it that morning, the throw blanket still draped along the back. They curl up together, legs tangled, and order food.

Jimin eats with his knees pulled up, tucked beneath the hem of Yoongi's sweater. Yoongi nudges pieces of mandu toward him with his chopsticks, watching until he takes them.

"You're not eating," Jimin murmurs, chewing.

"I'm making sure you eat. You were too nervous this morning to have more than a few bites."

Jimin is about to protest that it was because the breakfast he made wasn't edible, when his phone buzzes against the cushion.

He checks the screen, then looks up. "It's Tae. I told him I'd come over today to catch up. He's worried."

Yoongi nods. "You want me to drive you?"

"Hyung. It's five minutes on foot. I'll walk." He glances down again, then adds, "I was thinking I should stop by the house too. Pack up some things. I can't keep borrowing your clothes."

Yoongi looks over at him. “I like you in my clothes.”

That makes Jimin smile. He tugs at the sleeve of the sweater he’s wearing. “Why is everything you own oversized? We’re basically the same size, but I swim in this.”

Yoongi shrugs. “I like feeling cozy.”

Jimin leans into his side. “Right. Anyway, I’ll text Tae and let him know I’m on my way.”

Yoongi watches him for a beat, brows furrowed. “I don’t want you going to Taeseong’s alone.”

“I’ll bring Tae with me,” Jimin says. “He won’t try anything in front of him. Don’t worry.”

Yoongi pulls him a little closer and leans in, scenting lightly at his neck. The gesture is possessive and protective, and it makes something warm settle in Jimin's chest.

"I'll still worry," he murmurs against Jimin's skin. "But okay. I trust you."

Jimin nods and sits up, reaching for his phone. “I better go.”

He heads toward the door, but Yoongi’s voice follows him.

“Call me if anything happens. Or if he gives you trouble.”

Jimin glances back with a faint smile. “I will.”

The wind picks up again as he steps outside. It cuts beneath his scarf, stings the skin above his collar. He tucks his chin down and starts walking, one hand in his pocket, the other still holding his phone.

It's only a few minutes to the Kim estate. A path he's walked more times than he can count, but today his feet feel heavier on the gravel. Each step taking him closer to having to explain things he's not sure he has words for yet.

He passes the hedge line, cuts across the familiar route. The trees stand bare, limbs stark against the winter sky. Somewhere beyond them lies the house he'll have to face later, the rooms that were never really his, the husband who might be waiting.

The thought sits wrong in his stomach.

He adjusts the strap of his bag and keeps walking, breathing out slow clouds that dissipate in the cold air.

The smaller house comes into view just ahead, warm light pooling behind the front windows. It's tucked near the trees, slightly set back from the main path, a place that's always felt more like home than the estate ever did.

He reaches the steps and rings the bell. The door swings open almost immediately and familiar arms wrap around him before he can speak.

"Do you know how worried I was?" Taehyung's voice is close, warm at his ear. "Two days, Jimin. I couldn't reach you."

Jimin lets himself be held, breathing in the scent of sage and linen. It's grounding in a way he didn't realize he needed. "I know. I'm sorry."

"You're here now." Taehyung pulls back just enough to study his face. "Come on. You look like you need to sit down."

Inside, the warmth hits instantly. Jimin toes off his shoes and follows Taehyung into the living room, where Jungkook is sprawled on the couch with his phone.

"Look who's alive," Jungkook says, grinning as he gets to his feet for a hug. "We were starting to think you'd been kidnapped."

"Close enough," Jimin mutters, managing a smile.

"Coffee?" Jungkook asks, already heading toward the kitchen.

"Please."

Jimin sinks into the couch and Taehyung settles beside him, one leg folded beneath him. The familiar rhythm of domesticity starts to unknot something in his chest. Jungkook clattering around in the kitchen, the soft weight of the cushions, Taehyung's quiet presence.

When Jungkook returns with steaming mugs, they sit in comfortable quiet for a while. Jimin wraps his hands around the ceramic, letting the heat seep into his palms.

"So," Taehyung says eventually. "Yoongi-hyung."

It's not a question, just an acknowledgment of the obvious.

"Yeah." Jimin takes a careful sip. "I'm staying with him."

"And?" Taehyung's voice is gentle, but there's curiosity underneath.

Jimin considers how to answer. How to explain that waking up in Yoongi's arms feels like the first real sleep he's had in years, that even with everything falling apart around them, he feels more himself than he has since he was seventeen.

"It's good," he says finally. "Better than good. He's..." He trails off, searching for words. "When I'm with him, I remember who I used to be. Before everything got so complicated."

Jungkook leans forward, elbows on his knees. "That's all that matters, right? That you're happy."

"I am." The certainty in his own voice surprises him. "Even with everything else being a mess."

Taehyung studies him over the rim of his mug. "Everything else?"

Jimin hesitates. The weight of the morning presses against his chest. His mother's face when she realized what they'd found, the prescription with its neat, damning numbers, the way Seokjin's hands trembled when he held the evidence of their father's murder.

"Family stuff," he says carefully. "Things are... tense with Eomma right now."

It's not the whole truth, but he's not ready to say the rest out loud yet. Not when it still feels too raw, too unreal.

Taehyung nods, not pushing. He's always been good at reading the spaces around what Jimin doesn't say.

"And the divorce?" Jungkook asks.

"Filed. It's done." Jimin sets his mug down carefully. "Speaking of which, I should probably go over to the house, pack some things. And I..." He looks at Taehyung. "I don't want to face your brother alone.”

"Of course." Taehyung doesn't hesitate. "I'll come with you."

"Are you sure? I know things are weird with you and him right now."

"Things have been weird with me and him for years," Taehyung says dryly. "He made his choices. And you're my friend."

Jungkook stretches his legs out, half-smiling. "Plus, if anyone can keep Taeseong in line, it's Tae. I've seen him reduce grown alphas to tears with a single look."

"I have a gift," Taehyung says solemnly, then breaks into a grin.

The familiar banter settles something in Jimin's chest. This is exactly what he needed. Normalcy, friendship, the easy warmth of people who know him and care about him without expecting anything in return.

"Thank you," he says, and means it. "Both of you. For being here."

"Where else would we be?" Taehyung reaches over and squeezes his hand once, brief but grounding. "Ready to go face the dragon?"

Jimin drains the rest of his coffee and stands. "As ready as I'll ever be.”

The walk is short, quiet except for the gravel under their shoes and the wind brushing through the bare hedges. Jimin keeps his hands in his pockets. Doesn't say much. Taehyung doesn't push.

It's almost four when they reach the house.

Jimin punches in the code and pushes the door open. The lock gives with a soft click, and the air inside is warm, still holding the same citrus-clean scent it always did. He steps in first, Taehyung just behind him.

Taeseong is sitting on the living room couch, one arm draped over the backrest, phone in hand, gaze already lifted like he was waiting. There's a bruise along his jaw where Yoongi hit him. Dull and faded now, but still visible.

His eyes move from Jimin to Taehyung.

"I figured you'd come back eventually," he says. "Didn't expect you to bring an audience. Hello, little brother."

Taehyung doesn't respond. He stays a step behind Jimin, hands tucked into his sleeves, gaze fixed past Taeseong like he's not worth the effort.

"I'm here to pack some things," Jimin says. "That's all."

Taeseong hums, the sound low and unreadable. "Finally giving up completely?"

"There's nothing left to give up on."

Jimin heads for the stairs. He feels the weight of each step, but he doesn't look back.

The bedroom is just as he left it. Tidy. Barely touched. Like a hotel room he's been staying in temporarily for years. He crosses to the closet and pulls out a single suitcase, sets it on the bed.

He packs what he needs for the next few weeks. Enough clothes, his toiletries, phone charger. The few books from the nightstand that actually belong to him. From the desk drawer, he takes his passport, birth certificate, the documents that prove who he is.

There's a box tucked behind the dresser. Photos, old receipts, a birthday card Taehyung gave him years ago. He takes the card, leaves the rest. The photos feel like they belong to someone else anyway.

When he turns, Taehyung is in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame.

"You good?" he asks.

Jimin nods, zipping the suitcase closed. "This is just the essentials. The rest..." He glances around the room. "I'll figure it out later."

"I can coordinate with the housekeeper," Taehyung says. "Get your things sent somewhere when he's not home."

Jimin lifts the suitcase, testing the weight. "That would help. Thank you."

They head downstairs together, Jimin carrying the suitcase, Taehyung close behind.

Taeseong hasn't moved far. He's by the window now, staring out at the garden. When he hears their footsteps, he turns.

"That's it?" he asks, eyeing the single suitcase. "Five years reduced to one bag?"

"I never accumulated much here," Jimin says simply.

Taeseong's mouth tightens. "Right. Because you never tried. Never invested in us. Never gave this marriage a real chance."

"I gave it everything I had."

"Everything you had wasn't enough." Taeseong's voice sharpens. "You think running back to him will fix what's broken in you? You think he'll want you when you can't even—"

"That's enough," Taehyung cuts in, voice deadly quiet.

Taeseong's gaze flicks to his brother, then back to Jimin. "You were always half somewhere else. Even on our wedding day, you looked like you'd rather be anywhere but there."

Jimin meets his gaze steadily. "You're right. I should have been honest from the beginning. We both deserved better than what this became."

"Don't pretend this is mutual," Taeseong snaps. "You're the one walking away. You're the one who couldn't—"

"I'm the one who filed for divorce," Jimin interrupts. "But we both know this marriage ended a long time ago."

Taeseong stares at him, jaw working like he wants to say more. Something cruel, probably. Something designed to wound. But Taehyung steps forward slightly, and whatever he sees in his brother's face makes Taeseong think better of it.

"You'll regret this," he says instead.

"No," Jimin says, adjusting his grip on the suitcase handle. "I won't."

He turns toward the door. Taehyung is already there, hand on the handle.

"Jimin," Taeseong calls out.

Jimin pauses but doesn't turn around.

"When this falls apart, when he realizes what I realized, don't come crawling back."

Jimin looks back over his shoulder. "I won't need to."

He walks out with his head high, and doesn't look back.

At the gate, they pause. Taehyung glances at the suitcase in Jimin's hand, then back at his face.

"You want a ride?" he asks.

Jimin shakes his head. "It's fine. I want to walk."

Taehyung looks like he might argue, but doesn't. Instead, he studies him for a beat, then says, "You're still good for Tuesday, right? Our classes?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"We could grab dinner after. Maybe at the ramen shop near BIT?"

Jimin nods. "I'd like that."

Taehyung doesn't linger. He gives Jimin's arm a light squeeze, then turns back down the path. The crunch of gravel under his boots fades quickly, swallowed by the wind winding low through the hedge line.

Jimin doesn't move right away.

He stands with the suitcase in one hand, gaze following Taehyung's retreating form until it disappears around the corner. Then he glances toward the main gate, five minutes to Yoongi's, maybe less, but his feet don't turn.

Instead, they carry him the other way.

The path behind the house is narrow, tucked between hedges that haven't been trimmed since autumn. He used to take it almost every day, usually without thinking. It cuts past the back of the kitchen wing and leads to the small clearing where the greenhouse stands. No one else comes this way. No one has reason to.

Today, the path feels longer.

The gravel is damp beneath his shoes. The air turns cold as he walks, pinched with late afternoon wind. Just the steady hush of bare branches overhead and the soft, uneven drag of his breath.

The greenhouse appears slowly, rising between the trees like something half-forgotten. The glass is streaked from last week's rain, and one of the panels near the roofline is fogged over completely. From a distance, it almost looks abandoned.

He sets the suitcase down by the door and pulls it open.

The hinges stick a little. They always do.

Inside, the air is stale with disuse. Still damp at the base, but dry higher up, the way it gets when no one waters for too long. The light cuts through weakly, filtered through the dusty panels above. It settles on the walkways in long gray shapes, soft-edged and uneven.

Jimin doesn't flip the light switch.

He steps inside, letting the door fall shut behind him. It clicks, low and final.

Nine days. It's been nine days since he was last here. But it feels like something fundamental changed in his absence. Or maybe the change was always there, he just hadn't wanted to look at it clearly.

The persimmon sapling is the first thing he sees.

It leans slightly to the left, tilted toward the stake but no longer flush against it. The pot is still too small. He'd known that even when he chose it. A temporary fix that became permanent through neglect. The soil has dried at the top, crusted along the rim. One of the upper leaves is spotted yellow, curling at the edges.

He steps closer. Touches the edge of the stake with two fingers, then crouches beside it.

There's a stillness in here that doesn't feel peaceful. It never did. This place wasn't built to heal things. Not really. It was built because he needed somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one else would go. Somewhere he could sit with what he didn't have words for.

It was never about the plants.

He waters too much, or not enough. Forgets to prune, leaves the dehumidifier running too long. The perilla is hanging on by instinct alone. The vine against the back wall hasn't bloomed in two seasons. A brittle stem trails sideways into the corner, brown and curling. He reaches for it now, fingers grazing the dry bark, but doesn't pull.

He doesn't know if he ever meant to tend this space properly.

Maybe he just wanted to keep something close. Something private, even if it never thrived.

Maybe he was holding onto the shape of what used to be, what almost was, so he wouldn't have to ask what it meant to move on.

This greenhouse was the only thing he built with no one else's permission. He didn't tell his mother. Didn't explain it to Taeseong. Just had it constructed, quietly, behind the kitchen wing, out of view.

It wasn't for guests. Or for show.

It was for him.

And now he's leaving it.

Not because he wants to. Not even because he's sure what comes next. But because he has to. Because there's nothing left in this house that belongs to him.

And maybe he's known for a while now that this greenhouse doesn't either.

He stands, palms pressing lightly against his knees.

The air smells like old roots and aluminum. Like the damp crawl of time. There's no scent of Yoongi in here. There never was.

He walks once more around the edge of the walkway, letting his fingertips drag along the rim of the worktable. The gloves are still there. The empty watering can. A broken sprayer he never replaced.

He lets out a slow breath.

Then he says quietly, almost to himself, "I'm sorry."

Not to the plants. Not really.

He doesn't touch the sapling again.

Just lets his eyes fall to it one last time. It still leans. But there's no time left to adjust it now.

He turns, opens the door, and steps out into the cold.

The suitcase is where he left it. He picks it up and starts walking.

This time, he doesn't look back.

Chapter Text

Yoongi wakes to warmth.

Jimin's arm rests heavy across his chest, breath slow and even against his collarbone. The sheets smell like them both. Fig sap and burnt wood, something sweeter underneath that only comes when Jimin sleeps deeply.

Outside, the sky sits gray and ordinary. Like any other morning.

It's not.

He turns his head slightly. Jimin's hair is pressed flat on one side, mouth soft in sleep. A week of this. A week of waking up to the weight of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. It still catches Yoongi off guard sometimes. How simple it feels.

How right.

He shifts, careful not to wake him. Jimin stirs anyway, blinking once before his eyes focus.

"Already?" His voice is rough with sleep, but his hand finds Yoongi's ribs like it belongs there.

"It's early." Yoongi brushes his thumb along Jimin's cheekbone. "Sleep more."

Jimin hums, eyes already drifting closed. But his fingers curl slightly against Yoongi's skin. "You nervous?"

"No."

And he isn't. Sangchul is desperate, grasping. Whatever he thinks he has, it won't be enough.

Jimin's mouth curves slightly. "Good."

Yoongi stays there another minute. Just breathing. The house is quiet around them, settled in a way it never was when he lived here alone. Like it's finally being used for what it was meant for.

When he slides out from under Jimin's arm, Jimin makes a soft sound of protest but doesn't open his eyes. Yoongi smooths a hand over his hair before heading to the bathroom.

The shower runs hot. Steam fogs the mirror, blurs everything soft at the edges. He doesn't rush. Lets the water work the last of the sleep from his shoulders, the tension that isn't nerves but something closer to anticipation.

He's waited thirteen years for this.

A few more hours won't kill him.

When he comes back, Jimin is sitting up, hair pushed back, one knee drawn to his chest. The sheet pools around his waist. Morning light catches the line of his spine, the faint mark just below his ear that never quite fades.

"Coffee?" he asks.

"I'll start it." Yoongi pulls clothes from the wardrobe. Dark trousers, a shirt that won't wrinkle. Simple. Professional. "Bora should be here soon."

Jimin stretches, arching slightly before he gets up. A week, and Yoongi still watches him move like he's trying to memorize it. The easy way he reaches for one of Yoongi's sweaters, pulls it over his head. How it hangs loose on his frame but somehow looks right.

Downstairs, the kitchen lights come on as they move through. Automatic. Familiar.

Yoongi measures coffee while Jimin perches on one of the stools, legs tucked under him. His hair is still messy from sleep, but he looks settled. Content in a way that makes something warm unfurl in Yoongi's chest.

The front door clicks. Footsteps cross the hall.

Bora appears in the doorway with her usual paper bag, but stops short when she sees Jimin at the counter.

"Bora-ssi," Yoongi says. "This is Jimin. He's staying here."

Bora inclines her head politely. "Good morning."

Jimin slides off the stool to bow slightly. "Good morning. Thank you for accommodating the change in schedule."

"Of course." Her response is warm but professional. She doesn't ask questions, doesn't comment. Just adjusts seamlessly to finding two people instead of one.

She starts unpacking without ceremony. Rice, greens, something wrapped in brown paper.

When she finishes organizing the groceries, she glances over. "Would you like breakfast? I could make eggs, or there's fresh fruit..."

"Just toast, if it's not trouble."

"No trouble."

She moves through the kitchen like she's done this a thousand times. Good bread from the bakery, jam, a small plate of cut fruit arranged neatly. Yoongi pours coffee into two mugs, sets one in front of Jimin before taking the stool beside him. 

The morning stretches quiet around them. Warm. Ordinary.

Jimin wraps both hands around his mug. "What time again?"

"Ten."

"And you're still sure it's nothing?"

Yoongi nods. Takes a sip of coffee, lets the heat settle in his chest. "He's running out of moves. This is just noise."

Jimin doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Just watches Yoongi over the rim of his cup, eyes still soft with sleep.

Bora sets the plate beside him. "There's more if you want."

"Thank you."

She folds the empty bag, tucks it away. Moves to the sink to start washing the few dishes from last night. The sound of water running, quiet and steady.

Jimin picks up a piece of toast but doesn't eat right away. "You'll call me after?"

"I'll call."

"Even if it gets complicated?"

Yoongi turns to look at him. There's no anxiety in Jimin's voice. Just the quiet certainty of someone who knows what matters. "Especially then."

Jimin smiles, small but real. Takes a bite of toast.

They sit like that while the kitchen brightens. While Bora moves efficiently around them, giving them space without making it obvious. While the clock on the wall ticks closer to nine.

When Yoongi finally stands, Jimin follows. Slides his arms around Yoongi's waist like he's done every morning this week. Easy. Natural.

"I'll be back by lunch," Yoongi says against his hair.

"I'll be here."

Bora disappears into the back hallway. Giving them privacy, or maybe just avoiding the goodbye entirely.

At the front door, Yoongi shrugs into his coat. Checks his phone once, then slips it into his pocket. When he looks up, Jimin is watching him with something that might be pride.

"What?"

"Nothing." Jimin steps closer. "You just look ready."

Yoongi's hand finds his hip. "I am."

Jimin kisses him then. Soft and sure, like he's done it a hundred times before. Like he plans to do it a hundred more.

When they pull apart, Yoongi keeps him close for another second. Breathing him in. Fig sap and warmth and something that tastes like home.

"I'll call when it's over."

"I know."

Yoongi kisses him once more, brief but certain. Then he steps back, opens the door.

The morning air is crisp but not cold. The sky has lifted from gray to something clearer.

He doesn't look back as he walks to the car.

He doesn't need to.

The drive into Seoul takes forty minutes.

Traffic moves in waves, stop and start, but Yoongi doesn't mind. The radio stays off. Just him and the low rumble of the engine, his thumb tapping against the wheel when they crawl to a halt again.

He's ready for this. Whatever desperate move Sangchul thinks he has, it won't be enough.

The city builds around him gradually. Glass and steel catching morning light, cranes stitching new shapes into the sky.

He parks three levels down in the Parknoa garage. The air is cold and still. His footsteps echo off the walls as he walks toward the elevators, keys in his pocket.

His phone buzzes. Text from Hoseok: 

coffee shop in the lobby. already here.

Yoongi finds him at a small table near the windows, hunched over a cup he's barely touched. When Hoseok sees him coming, he stands, leaving a few bills on the table.

"You look like shit," Yoongi says.

"Didn't sleep much." Hoseok falls into step beside him as they head for the elevators. "Kept thinking about what he might try."

"Nothing that'll stick."

"Maybe. But something about this feels different."

They reach the elevator bank. Yoongi presses the call button. "He's backed into a corner. Cornered animals do stupid things."

"That's what worries me."

The elevator arrives, doors sliding open. They step inside. Hoseok hits twenty.

"Whatever it is," Yoongi says as they rise, "we've been careful. Everything we've done is clean."

Hoseok nods, but he's staring at the floor numbers. There's something tight around his eyes.

The elevator slows. Stops. 

"Ready?" Yoongi asks.

Hoseok straightens his shoulders. "Ready."

The doors open.

The hallway stretches wide ahead of them, carpeted in neutral gray, lined with expensive art. It feels foreign. Too clean. Too careful.

At the end, glass doors lead to the main conference room. Through them, Yoongi can see figures already seated around the long table.

They walk in together.

The room is all light and angles, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the city. Long mahogany table, leather chairs, the kind of space designed to intimidate. Ten board members are already there, voices low, papers scattered in front of them.

Sangchul stands at the head of the table, hands resting lightly on the back of his chair. He looks up when they enter and nods once, something that might be satisfaction flickering in his eyes.

About halfway down, Seokjin sits with his notepad open beside him. He gives Yoongi the briefest nod, careful and neutral. Yoongi and Hoseok take seats across from each other, and around them, conversation fades to silence.

Once they're settled, Sangchul straightens.

"Gentlemen. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

A thick folder waits at each place setting. Yoongi doesn't touch his yet.

"I've called this meeting because new information has come to light. Information that requires immediate board review before we proceed with final integration."

His gaze moves around the table, settling on Yoongi with something that looks almost like pity.

"I think it's crucial that we understand exactly who we're partnering with. Please. Take a look.”

The board members reach for their folders. Yoongi opens his.

The first page is familiar. Corporate registrations, financial transfers, dates and amounts. He recognizes some of it. Early Vantem funding documentation. Nothing he hasn't seen before.

He flips through. Bank records. Wire transfers. All clean, all documented.

He looks up, confused. This is just their normal funding history.

"As you can see," Sangchul says, voice carrying easily through the room, "Vantem's initial funding came through a private trust."

Yoongi glances at Hoseok. So far, nothing surprising. They've always known about the trust.

"Registered under Han Namgi," Sangchul continues.

The name means nothing to Yoongi. He's never heard it before.

"Mr. Han is a major shareholder in Liora Group. Our primary competitor in the wellness sector."

One of the board members looks up sharply. "A competitor funded them?"

"Yes." Sangchul's tone stays measured. "A competitor whose investor provided the seed capital for the company that's now acquiring us."

Yoongi keeps reading, but something cold is starting to creep up his spine. Not because of the documents. The funding structure is familiar. But because of the way everyone is looking at these papers like they mean something terrible.

"This funding," Sangchul continues, "was never disclosed in our due diligence process."

Another director leans forward. "Jung-ssi, were you aware of the source of this capital?"

Hoseok looks up slowly. His face has gone pale. "I was. The funds came through Han Namgi's private trust."

"And you didn't think to disclose this connection to a competitor?"

"I understood it to be a personal investment. Separate from any business interests."

Yoongi watches Hoseok's face. There's something wrong here. Something in the way Hoseok won't quite meet his eyes.

"Personal or not," Sangchul says, "the optics are concerning."

He starts walking slowly around the table. "A company funded by our competitor's shareholder, now positioned to take control of Parknoa."

"The funding was eight years ago," Hoseok says. "It has no bearing on current operations."

"Doesn't it?" Sangchul stops walking. His gaze settles on Yoongi. "Tell me, Yoongi-ssi. What do you know about Han Namgi?"

Yoongi looks down at the folder again. The name is just letters on a page.

"Nothing," he says simply. "I've never heard of him."

Sangchul's mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile.

"How interesting. Because Han Namgi certainly knows about you.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop. Yoongi feels the first real twist of unease.

"I don't understand what you're implying."

Sangchul moves closer. "I'm not implying anything. I'm stating a fact."

He pauses, letting the silence stretch.

"All these years, you've told yourself you built something from nothing. Pulled yourself up through pure will and talent."

Yoongi's jaw tightens. "I did."

"No." Sangchul's voice is quiet, almost gentle. "You didn't."

He leans forward, hands braced against the table.

"You built your empire on your daddy's money."

The words hit like a physical blow.

For a moment, Yoongi can't process what Sangchul just said. The words don't make sense. They can't make sense.

"What did you just say?"

"Han Namgi is your father, Yoongi-ssi. And he's been funding your success from the beginning."

The room goes completely silent. Even the air conditioning seems to stop.

Yoongi feels something fracture in his chest.

"That's impossible." His voice comes out rough, barely controlled. "I don't have a father."

"You do. You just never knew it."

Yoongi's hands curl into fists on the table. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Sangchul tilts his head. "Ask your partner. Ask him if he knew."

Yoongi turns to look at Hoseok.

Hoseok is staring down at the table, his face completely drained of color. His hands are shaking.

"Hoba." Yoongi's voice is barely a whisper. "Tell him he's lying."

Hoseok doesn't respond. Doesn't look up.

"Hoseok. Look at me."

Still nothing.

The silence stretches until it becomes unbearable.

"How long?" Yoongi's voice breaks on the words. "How long have you known?"

Hoseok's mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

"HOW LONG?"

The shout echoes off the glass walls. Board members flinch. Someone's pen clatters to the table.

Hoseok finally looks up. His eyes are red-rimmed, devastated.

"Since the beginning," he whispers.

The world tilts.

Everything Yoongi thought he knew, about himself, about his success, about the one person he trusted, crumbles to dust.

"Eight years." His voice is hollow. "You've known for eight years and never told me."

"I wanted to—"

"DON'T."

Yoongi stands so violently his chair topples backward. His chest is heaving, his vision blurring at the edges.

"Eight years you looked me in the eye and lied to me. Eight fucking years."

Hoseok flinches like he's been slapped. "Yoongi, please—"

"Don't say my name." Yoongi's voice cracks. "Don't ever say my name again."

He grabs the folder, crushing it against his chest. Walks toward the door on unsteady legs.

“We're done.”

Behind him, chairs scrape. Voices murmur. Someone calls his name.

He doesn't turn around.

The elevator is waiting when he reaches it. He stumbles inside, hits the garage button with a shaking hand.

As the doors slide closed, he sees Hoseok in the hallway, reaching toward him with desperate eyes.

Then the metal seals shut, and Yoongi is alone.

His reflection stares back from the brushed steel surface. Same face. Same eyes.

But the person looking back is a stranger.

Everything he thought he was, self-made, independent, strong, was a lie.

Built on his father's guilt money.

The elevator descends into darkness.

When the doors open to the concrete garage, he walks to his car on unsteady legs. Gets in. Shuts the door.

He sits there for a long time before starting the engine.

The folder lies on the passenger seat beside him, crumpled from where he'd crushed it against his chest. Inside, the documents with Han Namgi's name. A stranger's name that somehow holds the key to everything he thought he knew about himself.

His hands shake when he reaches for the ignition.

The drive home passes in fragments. Red lights that seem to last forever. The familiar curve past the bridge where construction has been going on for months. A truck that cuts in front of him, close enough that he should brake, should react, but he just watches it happen like he's watching someone else's life.

His phone buzzes against the console. Text messages. Probably Hoseok.

He doesn't look.

The folder shifts every time he takes a corner, pages rustling with a sound that makes his jaw clench. By the time he turns into his driveway, his knuckles are white against the steering wheel.

He parks. Turns off the engine. The silence feels wrong.

Through the kitchen window, he can see a shape moving. Bora, gathering her things to leave for the day. Normal life continuing like nothing has changed.

Like his entire world hasn't just collapsed.

He sits there until the movement inside stops. Until Bora emerges from the front door, keys in hand, glancing once toward his car before walking to her own. She doesn't approach. Doesn't wave. Something in his posture must tell her to keep her distance.

Smart woman.

When her car disappears down the road, he finally gets out.

The folder comes with him, held loose in his hand like something that might burn him if he grips it too tight. His feet feel heavy on the gravel, each step taking more effort than it should.

Inside, the house is warm. Quiet. It smells faintly of whatever Bora was cooking, something with garlic and sesame oil that should be comforting but isn't.

Jimin appears in the hallway before Yoongi makes it three steps.

"Hey," he says, and his voice is soft, concerned. "You didn't call. How did it go?"

Yoongi stops walking. Looks at him.

Jimin's hair is mussed like he's been napping. There's a crease along his left cheek from a pillow. He looks soft. Content. Like someone who belongs here.

Like someone who chose to be here because he thought Yoongi was worth choosing.

The thought makes something crack in Yoongi's chest.

"Fine," he says. His voice sounds rougher than he intended.

Jimin's brow furrows. He steps closer, studying Yoongi's face. "You don't look fine."

"I'm fine."

"Hyung—"

"I said I'm fine."

The words come out harsher than he means them to. Jimin flinches slightly, confusion flickering across his features.

Yoongi looks away. "I need to work."

He moves toward the stairs, but Jimin follows.

"What happened? Was it bad? Did uncle—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But—"

"I said I don't want to talk about it."

Yoongi's foot hits the first step harder than necessary. The sound echoes through the entryway.

Behind him, Jimin goes quiet.

He doesn't turn around. Can't. If he looks at Jimin right now, at the way he's standing there in Yoongi's clothes, in Yoongi's house, looking at him like he matters, he might break completely.

The stairs feel endless. Each step pulling him further from the life he thought he had an hour ago.

At the top, he turns left toward the study. His hand finds the door handle, grips it tight.

"Yoongi."

Jimin's voice drifts up from the bottom of the stairs. Quiet. Careful.

"I'll be here. When you're ready."

Yoongi's throat closes. He pushes the door open, steps inside, lets it close behind him with a soft click.

The study is exactly as he left it last night. Clean lines, neutral light, the custom desk with drawers that close without sound. His monitor is dark, papers stacked neatly beside the keyboard. Everything in its place.

Everything except him.

He sets the folder on the desk and sinks into his chair. The leather gives slightly under his weight, familiar and grounding, but it doesn't help. Nothing helps.

He stares at the folder for a long time without opening it.

Han Namgi.

The name means nothing. Should mean nothing. Some rich man he's never met, never heard of, who apparently decided eight years ago to throw money at Hoseok like it was spare change.

Except it wasn't spare change.

It was guilt money.

Daddy's money.

The words echo in his head, Sangchul's voice calm and satisfied as he delivered the blow that destroyed everything.

Yoongi opens the folder.

The documents are the same ones he'd looked at in the boardroom, but now he reads them differently. Line by line. Transfer by transfer. Tracing the money that built Vantem from a struggling startup to the company it became.

The company he thought he built.

The success he thought he earned.

All of it stemming from one wire transfer. One signature. One man's decision to ease his conscience by funding the son he'd never claimed.

Yoongi's vision blurs. He blinks hard, but the numbers don't change.

He leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling.

Everything he'd told himself, about pulling himself up from nothing, about proving he was worth something, about becoming more than the unwanted boy who'd been dumped on the Park family's doorstep, all of it was a lie.

He'd built his empire on his father's money.

His father.

A man he'd never met. Never even heard of until today. A man who'd apparently known about him all along but had never once reached out. Who'd watched from a distance while Yoongi and his mother struggled, while she worked herself to exhaustion trying to keep them afloat.

But who'd apparently felt guilty enough to fund his bastard son's business venture.

Not guilty enough to acknowledge him. Not guilty enough to help when it mattered. Just guilty enough to throw money at the problem and hope it went away.

Yoongi's hands curl into fists on the desk.

His mother had died believing she was protecting him. Had spent her last breath making sure he'd be taken care of, never knowing that the man who'd abandoned them both would eventually reach out anyway. Not to help. Not to love. Just to pay.

She would have hated it. Would have thrown the money back in Han Namgi's face and told him exactly what she thought of his charity.

But she wasn't there to protect him this time.

She'd been gone for twenty-three years, and he was still that scared nine-year-old boy standing in the Park family's entryway, trying to figure out where he belonged.

Nowhere, it turned out.

He didn't belong anywhere.

The success was borrowed. The company was built on blood money. Even Hoseok, the one person he'd trusted completely, had been lying to him from the beginning.

Yoongi drops his head into his hands and finally, finally lets himself break.

When Yoongi comes home from school, the apartment door is unlocked. His mom never leaves it unlocked. He pushes it open carefully, sets his backpack down by the entrance.

She's on the couch, still in her work uniform. The pale blue dress with the name tag she usually takes off the moment she walks through the door. Her shoes are still on, laces loose like she sat down and couldn't bring herself to bend over to untie them.

She's asleep. Or trying to be. Her breathing is too shallow, catching every few seconds like something's stuck.

"Eomma?"

Her eyes open slowly. It takes her a moment to focus on him, and when she does, she tries to smile. It doesn't quite work.

"You're home early," she says, voice rough.

"School ended normal time. You're the one who's home early."

She stirs on the couch, trying to sit up straighter. The movement makes her wince slightly, but she covers it by reaching for him.

"Come here, baby."

He goes to her, lets her pull him down onto the couch beside her. She's warm in a way that doesn't feel right. Not fevered, exactly, but like her body is working too hard just to keep going.

"How was school?" she asks.

He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at her. The way her hair is coming loose from the ponytail she always wears to work. The way her hands shake a little when she's not paying attention to keeping them still.

"The other kids were talking about their fathers again," he says.

Something changes in her expression. Not surprise. More like resignation.

"What were they saying?"

"Minho's dad is taking him fishing this weekend. And Jiyoung said her dad taught her how to ride a bike without training wheels." He picks at a loose thread on the couch cushion. "They asked me what my dad does."

She's quiet for a long time. Long enough that he starts to think she fell asleep again. But then her hand finds his hair, fingers combing through it gently.

"What did you tell them?"

"That I don't have one."

Her hand stills. "Yoongi..."

"It's true, isn't it?" He looks up at her. "I don't have a dad."

She takes a breath that sounds like it costs her something. "Everyone has a father, sweetheart. That's just biology."

"But I don't know mine."

"No. You don't."

"Why?"

The question hangs between them. He's asked it before, in different ways, but she's always found ways to change the subject. To distract him with something else, something better. But today she looks too tired to deflect.

"Because," she says finally, "some people aren't meant to be in our story."

"What does that mean?"

She stirs again, pulling him closer until his head rests against her shoulder. He can feel how thin she's gotten, even through the uniform dress. Like she's disappearing bit by bit.

"It means that the people who matter are the ones who choose to stay. Who choose to love you every day, not just when it's easy or convenient."

"Did he not choose me?"

Her breath hitches. Just once. "He didn't choose either of us, baby."

"Why not?"

"I don't know." Her voice is barely a whisper. "I wish I could give you a better answer than that. But I don't know."

He thinks about this for a while. About Minho's dad, who works at the bank and wears a tie every day and comes to school events with a camera. About Jiyoung's dad, who picks her up sometimes in a car that still smells new.

"Do you think he knows about me?"

Another long pause. "I think... I think some people know things and choose not to act on them. And that says more about them than it does about us."

"Are you sad that he's not here?"

She turns her head to look down at him. Really look, like she's trying to memorize his face.

"I'm sad that you have to grow up with questions I can't answer. I'm sad that you have to wonder about things that other kids take for granted." She smooths his hair back from his forehead. "But I'm not sad that it's just us. You're the best thing that ever happened to me, Yoongi. Even if everything else was a mistake, you weren't."

Something warm spreads in his chest. Something that feels bigger than the small apartment, bigger than the questions he can't stop asking.

"Will you tell me about him someday? When I'm older?"

She's quiet for so long he thinks she might not answer. When she finally speaks, her voice is thick.

"If you still want to know when you're older, I'll tell you what I can. But right now, you're eight years old, and you have enough to worry about without carrying someone else's choices."

She kisses the top of his head. "The people who love you are the ones who show up. Every day. When it's hard and when it's easy. Remember that, okay?"

"Okay."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

She holds him tighter then, like she's trying to keep something from slipping away. Outside, it starts to rain, soft drops against the window that make the small apartment feel even smaller, even safer.

"Are you sick, Eomma?"

"Just tired," she says. "I'm just very tired."

But her hand in his hair is still gentle. Still steady. Still there.

"Rest," he tells her. "I'll make dinner tonight."

She starts to protest, but he's already pulling away, already heading for the kitchen. He's eight, but he knows how to work the rice cooker. Knows how to heat up the soup she made yesterday. Knows how to take care of her the way she's always taken care of him.

Behind him, she settles back into the couch cushions. "I love you, baby."

"I love you too."

The rain gets heavier. But inside, it's warm. It's just them. And for now, that's enough.

It was always enough.

Chapter Text

Jimin wakes to cold sheets.

His hand reaches across the mattress before his eyes open, fingers finding only emptiness where Yoongi should be. The pillow beside him is smooth, untouched. Like no one was meant to sleep there at all.

He sits up slowly, the covers pooling around his waist. Pale morning light filters through the curtains, but the house feels different. Hollow. Yesterday replays in fragments. Yoongi coming home around noon, that harsh exchange in the hallway, the way his voice had cracked on "I'm fine" before he'd retreated upstairs.

The long afternoon that followed. Jimin hovering near the study door, listening to the occasional shuffle of papers, the creak of Yoongi's chair. Bringing dinner on a tray around seven and setting it outside the study door with a quiet knock. No response. When he'd checked an hour later, the tray was gone. Later that night, he found it in the kitchen. The bowl was barely touched, food cold and congealed.

Then the endless night. Lying awake listening to footsteps in the hallway, the study door opening and closing, movement in the kitchen around midnight. But never the soft creak of their bedroom door. Never the dip of the mattress as Yoongi slipped in beside him.

Now the bed feels enormous. Empty.

He pulls on yesterday's sweater, Yoongi's sweater, soft gray wool that still holds traces of cedar and persimmon. The scent should comfort him. Instead, it makes his chest tight with worry.

In the hallway, he passes Bora carrying an armload of fresh linens.

"Good morning, Jimin-ssi," she says quietly, her voice careful in a way that suggests she senses the tension.

"Morning." His voice comes out rough from sleep.

"I'll be working upstairs today," she adds, then pauses. Something flickers across her face. Concern, maybe, or the kind of discretion that comes from years of working in houses where silence is sometimes kinder than questions.

She continues down the hall without saying more.

Jimin heads downstairs, bare feet silent on the steps. He can hear movement in the kitchen before he sees anything. The soft clink of ceramic, water running from the tap. Normal sounds that should be reassuring but aren't.

He finds Yoongi standing at the counter, back to the stairs. His hair is disheveled, sticking up at odd angles like he's run his hands through it too many times. He's wearing the same clothes from yesterday. Wrinkled shirt, pants that look slept in. Or not slept in at all.

The coffee maker gurgles softly. Yoongi's hands rest flat against the counter, shoulders rigid with exhaustion.

"Hyung."

Yoongi doesn't turn, but his shoulders tense slightly. "You're up early."

"It's past eight."

There's a pause before he mumbles, "Right."

Jimin steps closer, studying the line of Yoongi's spine, the careful way he holds himself like he might fall apart if he moves too quickly. "Did you sleep at all?"

"I'm fine."

The same words from yesterday. Flat. Distant. Like a door slamming shut.

"Stop saying you're fine when you're obviously not."

"I don't know what else to say." Yoongi finally turns as he speaks, and Jimin's heart sinks. His face is drawn, shadows under his eyes dark enough to look like bruises. His skin has a grayish cast that speaks of too many hours awake. Too much coffee, not enough food.

The coffee maker beeps. Yoongi pours a single cup, black, his movements too precise, too controlled. None of his usual careful ritual, just necessity.

He takes a sip and winces. Too hot.

Jimin watches him struggle with the simple task, something cold settling in his stomach. Yesterday Yoongi had left the house confident, ready for whatever Sangchul might try. Now he can barely hold a coffee cup without his hands betraying him.

"What happened yesterday? At Uncle's meeting?"

Yoongi goes very still. The question hangs between them, heavy with implication. They both know Sangchul called that emergency session. They both know it wasn't routine business.

"Nothing important," Yoongi says finally, but his voice is too careful, too controlled.

"That's not true."

"It's what you're getting."

The words land sharp, cutting. But underneath the harshness, Jimin hears something else. Something broken.

From upstairs he can hear Bora moving furniture, the soft thud of cleaning. Normal life continuing while everything else fractures.

"You barely touched your dinner," Jimin says quietly. "You didn't come to bed. You look like you haven't slept at all. Something happened."

Yoongi sets down his cup with trembling hands. For a moment, something flickers across his face, raw and desperate. Like he wants to say something but can't find the words.

Then his expression shutters again.

"I have work to do."

He moves toward the hallway, and Jimin watches him go, something desperate clawing at his throat.

"Yoongi."

He stops but doesn't turn around.

"I'm here," Jimin says, echoing his own words from yesterday. "Whatever this is, I'm here."

Yoongi's shoulders drop slightly. Just for a moment. Then he straightens again, walks away.

Jimin hears his footsteps on the stairs. The soft click of the study door closing.

And then silence.

He stands alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the scent of cedar and coffee and something else. Something wrong. The morning light streaming through the windows feels too bright, too cheerful for whatever darkness has settled over the house.

He checks his phone. No missed calls. No messages.

Yesterday evening, after Yoongi had barely touched the dinner tray, Jimin had finally called Seokjin. Three rings, then voicemail. He'd tried again an hour later. Same thing. By the third attempt, he'd given up, figuring his brother was busy or dealing with his own aftermath from whatever had happened at that meeting.

But the silence had left him more alone with his worry.

He stares at his phone and tries to decide if he should try calling Seokjin again when it suddenly buzzes in his hand.

Seokjin's name lights up the screen.

He answers immediately. "Hyung."

"Jimin-ah." Seokjin's voice sounds strained, tired. "Sorry I missed your calls yesterday. I wasn't feeling well and crashed early. But we just got back from the cardiologist." He pauses. "Are you alone? Can we talk?"

"Yeah." Jimin glances toward the hallway, listening for any sound from upstairs. Nothing. "What did they say?"

"It's confirmed." Seokjin's voice drops. "The dosage increase Dr. Bae prescribed… it was lethal. Given Appa's condition, his heart couldn't handle that level. The cardiologist said it would have caused the kind of sudden cardiac event that..." He trails off.

"That killed him," Jimin finishes quietly.

"Yeah." There's a rustling sound, like Seokjin is shifting the phone. "Namjoon's already looking for flights. He needs to get back to Switzerland as soon as possible. With this medical evidence, he might be able to get Dr. Bae to confess."

Jimin sinks against the counter, the weight of it hitting him. Murder. His uncle murdered his father. "When will he leave?"

"Today if possible. Tomorrow at the latest." Seokjin pauses. "But Jimin-ah, how is Yoongi doing? Yesterday must have been such a blow to him."

Unease prickles at Jimin's neck. "What happened at the meeting, hyung?"

Silence stretches on the line. Then Seokjin's voice comes, careful and surprised: "Wait. He didn't tell you?"

"He shut himself in his study when he got home. He's been—" Jimin runs a hand through his hair. "He won't talk to me. He looks like he hasn't slept, barely ate anything I brought him. Something's really wrong."

"Oh god." Seokjin's voice is heavy with guilt. "I'm sorry, Jimin-ah. I should have suspected he wouldn't want to talk about it. I should have called you."

"Just tell me what the hell happened, hyung, because I'm losing my mind over here."

There's a long exhale before Seokjin speaks. "Where do I even start? I don't even know the whole story, but apparently Vantem was funded by Yoongi's father during their early days, and it turns out he's a major shareholder of a competitor company. The information wasn't disclosed during the merger, but Uncle found out—"

"Wait." Jimin's voice cuts through. "Wait. Yoongi's what?"

"His father. Han Namgi. Liora Group. You've probably heard of him."

Jimin's mind reels. "But—you're telling me Yoongi knew about this? He knows who his father is? Then..."

"No, no. That's the worst part." Seokjin's voice is gentle, like he's delivering a fatal diagnosis. "He had no clue. It all went through Hoseok-ssi, and he never told Yoongi a thing."

The kitchen goes silent. Jimin stares at the coffee cup Yoongi left behind, still sitting on the counter, and everything clicks into place. The devastation in Yoongi's eyes. The way he looked like he was falling apart. Learning that everything he thought he'd built was a lie. That the person he trusted most had been lying to him for years.

"Jimin-ah? Are you okay?"

"Yeah." His voice comes out rough. "Just... processing."

"We're almost home. Do you want to come over?"

"Thanks, hyung. But he needs me right now."

"I understand. Call if you need anything, okay?"

"Yeah. Let me know when you book that flight."

"Will do. Bye."

Jimin sets the phone down with shaking hands. His father was murdered. And somewhere upstairs, the man he loves is falling apart while refusing to let him help.

Footsteps on the stairs make him look up. Yoongi appears, changed into fresh clothes, but his face still looks hollow, exhausted. He moves toward the hallway like he's on autopilot.

"Where are you going?" Jimin asks, following him.

Yoongi pulls on his coat without looking back. "I need to go out."

His voice is flat, mechanical. Like he's reciting lines from a script he doesn't believe in.

"Hyung." Jimin takes a step closer, then stops. Something in Yoongi's posture, the defeated set of his shoulders, the careful way he's moving like he might break, makes him pause. "Can we please just... talk? Seokjin-hyung told me—"

"There's nothing to talk about." Yoongi's hand finds his keys, and for just a moment, his fingers tremble around them. "I'll be back later."

Jimin watches him, torn between the desperate urge to reach for him and the growing understanding that Yoongi can't handle being touched right now. Can't handle being pushed. He looks so fragile, so carefully held together, that any pressure might shatter him completely.

So Jimin steps back instead of forward. Lets him go instead of holding on.

The door closes with a soft click, and Jimin is alone with the weight of everything he now knows and no way to fix any of it.

The hours pass like a held breath.

Jimin moves through the house without purpose, picking up things and setting them down again. He straightens pillows that don't need straightening, wipes counters that are already clean. Around noon, he hears Bora's footsteps on the stairs, the soft rustle of her gathering her things.

"I've left some soup in the refrigerator," she says when she finds him standing aimlessly in the living room. "And there's rice in the cooker. Just small portions, but..." She trails off, studying his face with quiet concern.

"Thank you," he manages.

She nods once, then hesitates at the doorway. "Take care of yourself, Jimin-ssi."

After she leaves, the silence feels heavier. Jimin heats the soup she prepared, something light with tofu and scallions, and eats it standing at the counter. The taste is good, comforting, but it sits wrong in his stomach. Everything feels wrong.

He checks his phone. No messages from Yoongi. No missed calls.

The urge to call him builds slowly, a pressure behind his ribs that grows stronger with each passing hour. His thumb hovers over Yoongi's contact three different times. But what would he say? That he knows everything now? That he's sorry? That he understands why Yoongi can't look at him without falling apart?

He sets the phone aside and tries to wait.

The afternoon stretches endlessly. He attempts to read, but the words blur together. Tries to nap on the couch, but his mind won't quiet. The bond hums beneath his skin, restless and aching, reaching toward something that isn't there.

Around three-thirty, his phone buzzes with a text from Taehyung.

picking you up at 4. ready for class?

Jimin stares at the message for a long moment. Class. BIT. The kids. Normal life continuing while his world fractures around him.

yeah. i'll be ready.

He packs his duffel bag mechanically. A change of clothes, water bottle, the comfortable shoes he wears for teaching. His body knows the routine even when his mind feels scattered. The motions are familiar, grounding in their own way.

At four, another text arrives: outside.

Jimin locks the house behind him and walks to the car. Taehyung is waiting in the driver's seat, engine running, soft music playing from the speakers. When Jimin slides into the passenger seat, Taehyung gives him a quick smile.

"Hey. How was your day?"

"Fine," Jimin says, buckling his seatbelt. The lie tastes bitter.

Taehyung pulls away from the curb, glancing at him in his peripheral vision. They drive in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the city passing in familiar blurs outside the windows. But Jimin can feel Taehyung's attention on him, the way his friend's eyes flick over every few seconds.

"You're quiet today," Taehyung says finally, voice gentle.

"Yeah." Jimin stares out the window at the bare trees lining the street. "Just a lot going on."

"Want to talk about it?"

The question hangs in the air between them. Jimin considers it, unloading everything onto Taehyung's shoulders. The murder. The lies. Yoongi falling apart in front of him while he stands helpless. But where would he even start? And how much of it is his to tell?

"Not right now," he says quietly. "Maybe later."

Taehyung nods, doesn't push. He never does. It's one of the things Jimin loves most about him, the way he offers space without making it feel like abandonment.

"Okay," Taehyung says. "But you know I'm here, right? Whatever it is."

"I know." Jimin reaches over and squeezes his arm briefly. "Thank you."

They arrive at BIT twenty minutes later. The building looks the same as always, cheerful hand-painted sign, warm light spilling from the windows. But Jimin feels disconnected from it, like he's watching someone else's life through glass.

Inside, the familiar sounds wash over him. Kids' voices echoing from upstairs, the soft thud of movement from the dance studio, someone laughing in the hallway. It should feel welcoming. Instead, it feels surreal.

"See you after class?" Taehyung asks as they part ways at the stairs.

"Yeah. See you."

Jimin makes his way to the back of the building, pushing open the sliding door to the dance studio. The kids are already there, scattered across the room in their usual clusters. They look up when he enters, faces brightening with genuine pleasure.

"Jimin-seonsaengnim!" a few of them call out.

He forces a smile, walking to the front of the room. "Good afternoon, everyone."

"Good afternoon!" they chorus back.

The next hour passes in a haze of routine. Jimin leads them through their warm-up, guides them through the choreography they've been working on, offers corrections and encouragement. His body knows what to do even when his mind feels elsewhere. The kids follow his lead, trusting and eager, and he tries to give them what they need despite the hollowness in his chest.

It's during the cool-down that Minjun approaches him.

The boy with the cat-like eyes and serious expression has been quieter than usual today, following the movements with his characteristic focus but not speaking much. Now he stands beside Jimin as the other kids gather their things, his small face thoughtful.

"Seonsaengnim," he says quietly.

"Yes?"

"Are you sad today?"

The question catches Jimin off guard. He looks down at Minjun, really looks, and something twists in his chest. The boy's eyes are dark and perceptive, older than his years. There's something about his expression, the tilt of his head, the way he holds himself with careful reserve, that reminds Jimin so sharply of young Yoongi that it takes his breath away.

"A little," Jimin admits, crouching down to Minjun's level. "But that's okay. Sometimes we feel sad, and we still show up for the people we care about."

Minjun nods solemnly, like this makes perfect sense to him. "My mom says being sad doesn't make you weak."

"Your mom sounds very wise."

"She is." Minjun hefts his backpack onto his shoulders. "I hope you feel better soon, seonsaengnim."

"Thank you, Minjun-ah."

The boy gives him a small smile and joins the stream of kids heading for the door. Jimin watches him go, something tight and painful lodged in his throat.

Yoongi. God, Yoongi. Nine years old and serious and trying so hard to belong somewhere. And now, learning that the one person he trusted had been lying to him all along. Learning that everything he thought he'd built was a lie.

Jimin sits on the floor of the empty studio and pulls out his phone. His fingers hover over the keyboard for a long moment before he starts typing.

i love you. you're the strongest person i know.

He sends it before he can second-guess himself, then stares at the screen waiting for a response that doesn't come.

"Jimin-ssi?"

He looks up to find someone standing in the doorway. Hoseok. But not the composed, friendly man he'd met before. This Hoseok looks haggard, his usually neat appearance disheveled. Dark coat rumpled, hair mussed like he's been running his hands through it. His soft features are drawn with exhaustion and something else. Desperation.

"Hoseok-ssi?" Jimin gets to his feet, alarmed. "Are you okay?"

Hoseok steps into the studio, glancing around like he's checking if they're alone. When he speaks, his voice is rough and strained, nothing like the smooth, airy tone Jimin remembers from their previous meetups.

"I need to talk to you," he says. "About Yoongi-hyung. I've been trying to reach him all day, but he won't answer. You're the only one who might be able to get through to him.”

"Okay," Jimin says. "Let me just tell Taehyung."

He finds Taehyung waiting by the stairs, car keys in hand, eyebrows raised in question.

"Everything okay?" he asks, glancing between Jimin and Hoseok, who's still hovering in the studio doorway.

"Yeah," Jimin says quickly. "Hoseok-ssi needs to talk to me about something. About Yoongi-hyung. It might take a while, so don't wait for me. I'll grab a cab home. I'm sorry about dinner… Another time?"

Taehyung's expression shifts to concern. " It's okay. But you sure? I can wait—"

"No, really. Go ahead." Jimin forces a smile. "I'll call you later."

Taehyung studies his face for a moment, then nods. He doesn't push, he never does. "Okay. Take care of yourself, yeah?"

After Taehyung leaves, Hoseok leads Jimin upstairs to a small office tucked behind the main art classroom. It's cramped but organized. A desk pushed against one wall, mismatched chairs, a narrow window that looks out over the street. The walls are covered with kids' artwork, bright splashes of color that feel incongruous with the tension radiating from Hoseok.

"Sit anywhere," Hoseok says, closing the door behind them. His hands shake slightly as he does it.

Jimin takes one of the chairs across from the desk. Hoseok doesn't sit immediately. Instead, he paces to the window, runs a hand through his already mussed hair, then finally settles into the chair behind his desk.

For a moment, they just look at each other. Hoseok looks worse up close. Exhausted and hollow-eyed, like he hasn't slept in days.

"You said this was about Yoongi," Jimin prompts gently.

Hoseok's laugh is bitter, broken. "Everything's about Yoongi. Has been for eight years." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "He won't talk to me. Won't see me. I've been calling him all day, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. I even went to his house before I came here, but he didn't answer the door."

"He's been..." Jimin hesitates. "He's not been himself since yesterday."

"Since the board meeting. Since Sangchul destroyed him in front of everyone."

"What exactly happened?"

Hoseok closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, they're bright with unshed tears. "He found out about the funding. About Han Namgi. About how I've been lying to him for eight years."

The name hits Jimin like a physical blow. "Han Namgi. His father."

"You know?"

"Seokjin-hyung told me this morning. He told me it all went through you. That Yoongi never knew."

Hoseok's face crumples, and he drops his head into his hands. "I fucked up, Jimin. I fucked up so badly, and now he hates me. He looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I was nothing."

"Tell me what happened," Jimin says quietly. "From the beginning."

Hoseok takes a shuddering breath, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "We were broke. After university. Completely broke. Yoongi had this brilliant business plan for Vantem. Fragrance development, scent memory, all these innovative ideas. But we had nothing. We'd worked every job we could find, saved every penny, put everything we had into getting the company registered."

He looks up at the children's drawings on the wall, but Jimin can tell he's not really seeing them.

"Yoongi couldn't register the company himself. Visa issues. So it was all in my name. Netherlands passport, dual citizenship. But the money... we were so close to having something real, and we just didn't have enough."

Jimin waits, letting him find the words.

"Yoongi was falling apart," Hoseok continues. "When I met him in Amsterdam, he was this brilliant, driven person. Guarded, yeah, but ambitious. He had dreams. Plans. But watching our startup fail, watching all our work amount to nothing... he was disappearing into himself. Blamed himself for dragging me into it."

Hoseok stands abruptly, paces to the window again. "He's never had anyone, you know? Never had family who chose him, who believed in him. And I—" His voice breaks. "I'm an only child. Always wanted a brother. And Yoongi, he became that for me. The hyung I'd always wanted. The person I'd protect no matter what."

"So when Han Namgi contacted you..."

"It came out of nowhere. Some legal intermediary called, said a private investor was interested. I thought it was a scam at first." Hoseok's hands clench and unclench at his sides. "But then I met him. Han Namgi. He was so calm, so matter-of-fact. Just said, 'I'm Yoongi's father. I'll fund your company. But he can never know it came from me.'"

Jimin's throat tightens. "And you agreed."

"I was desperate," Hoseok whispers. "I could see Yoongi slipping away from me. Could see him giving up on everything we'd worked for. And this stranger, was offering to save it all. To bring back the Yoongi I..." He stops, swallows hard. "The Yoongi I loved."

"But you signed a contract. Promising to keep it secret."

Hoseok nods miserably. "He said it was for legal protection. I didn't understand all the implications. I just knew it would save Vantem. Save Yoongi."

"You didn't know about Liora Group? About the competitor connection?"

"Nothing. I thought it was just guilt money. A father trying to help from a distance." Hoseok's voice turns desperate. "If I'd known it would be used against him like this,..."

"But you kept lying to him. For eight years."

The accusation hangs in the air between them. Hoseok's shoulders shake. 

"How could I tell him?" he asks. "How could I tell him that everything he'd built came from the father who abandoned him?"

"So you decided for him. You decided what he could and couldn't handle."

"I was protecting him," Hoseok says, but there's no conviction left in his voice. 

"From what? From the truth?"

Hoseok sinks back into his chair. "I know how it sounds. But you didn't see him back then. You didn't see how broken he was. And when the money came through, when Vantem started to work, he came alive again. Brilliant, driven, proud of what we were building. I couldn't take that away from him."

Jimin stares at him, feeling a complex mix of anger and pity. "But it wasn't real pride, was it? It was built on a lie."

"The work was real," Hoseok says fiercely. "The ideas, the innovation… that was all Yoongi. The money just gave him the platform to show the world how brilliant he is."

"And now he knows. And he feels like a fraud."

Hoseok's face goes white. "Does he? God, I never wanted him to feel that way."

"What did you think would happen? That you could lie to him forever?"

"I don't know," Hoseok admits, voice breaking. "I just knew I couldn't lose him. I couldn't lose my brother."

The word hangs heavy in the small office. Jimin looks at Hoseok, really looks, and sees not just guilt, but grief. The grief of someone who made a terrible choice out of love.

"He cut ties with you," Jimin says.

"Told me never to say his name again. Looked at me like I was..." Hoseok's voice cracks completely. "Like eight years of friendship meant nothing."

"It wasn't just one lie, though, was it? It was eight years of lies. Every day you chose not to tell him."

"I know." The words come out as a sob. "I know, and I hate myself for it. But I love him, Jimin. He's the only family I've ever had."

Jimin's chest tightens at the raw pain in Hoseok's voice. "So what do you want from me?"

"I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to make him understand that everything I did was because I couldn't bear to watch him break again."

"Maybe you can't fix it," Jimin says gently. "Maybe some things can't be fixed with good intentions."

Hoseok looks up at him, eyes red and desperate. "But you love him too. You understand what it's like to want to protect him."

Jimin does understand. That's the problem. He can see Hoseok's love for Yoongi, can see how the decision was made from desperation and care. But he can also see how devastating it must have been for Yoongi. Learning that his greatest achievement was built on his father's guilt, and that his closest friend had been lying to him about it for years.

"I do understand," Jimin says finally. "But understanding your reasons doesn't make what you did right. And it doesn't mean Yoongi has to forgive you."

"I know." Hoseok's voice is barely a whisper. "But I had to try."

"He's hurting," Jimin says. "Really badly. This destroyed something fundamental for him… his sense of self, his trust. I don't know if he'll be able to get past it."

"Will you tell him I'm sorry?" Hoseok asks. "That I never meant for any of this to happen? That I'd give anything to take it back?"

Jimin looks at him for a long moment. "I'll tell him we talked. But you need to be prepared for the possibility that sorry isn't enough. Some betrayals are too deep to forgive, even when they come from love."

Hoseok nods, tears streaming down his face. "I know. I just... I can't lose him. He's all the family I have."

"You might have to," Jimin says. "And if you really love him, you might have to let him go."

The silence that follows is heavy with grief and regret. Outside, the sounds of the city continue. Car horns, distant voices, the ordinary noise of life going on. But inside this small office, two people sit with the weight of loving someone who's been broken by the very thing that was meant to save him.

Finally, Hoseok speaks again. "Will you take care of him? Make sure he's okay?"

"I'll try," Jimin says. "But he has to let me. And right now, he's not letting anyone close."

"But you'll try?"

"I'll try."

Hoseok nods, wiping his eyes again. "Thank you. For listening. For not hating me."

"I don't hate you," Jimin says, and realizes it's true. "I think you made a terrible mistake. But I understand why you made it."

As Jimin stands to leave, Hoseok calls out one more time. "Jimin?"

He turns back.

"Tell him..." Hoseok's voice breaks again. "Tell him that he was never just a business partner to me. He was my brother. My family. And losing him is the worst thing I've ever done to myself."

Jimin nods, then quietly leaves Hoseok alone with his grief.

The cab ride home passes in a blur of streetlights and silence. Jimin stares out the window, Hoseok's words echoing in his mind. He was my brother. My family. The raw pain in Hoseok's voice, the way he'd broken down completely. It sits heavy in Jimin's chest alongside everything else that has happened in the past couple of days. 

The house is dark when he arrives, except for a faint glow from the living room windows. He pays the driver and walks up the path slowly, keys heavy in his hand.

Inside, the air is still and quiet. No sound of movement, no hum of activity. Just the soft blue glow of the television casting shadows across the walls.

Jimin finds him on the couch.

Yoongi sits curled into the corner, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around his shins. His face is turned toward the television, but he's not watching. The screen shows some late-night program with the sound muted, casting pale light across his hollow features. He stares through it like it isn't there at all.

He doesn't look up when Jimin enters. Doesn't acknowledge his presence at all. Just sits there, perfectly still, like he's forgotten how to move.

Jimin's chest clenches at the sight. This isn't the composed, guarded Yoongi from this morning. This isn't even the shattered man who'd stumbled out of the house ten hours ago. This is someone who's been completely emptied out.

Carefully, quietly, Jimin approaches the couch. He doesn't say anything. Just settles onto the cushions beside Yoongi, close enough to feel his warmth but not touching. Not yet.

The silence stretches between them, heavy with everything unsaid. Jimin can smell the faint traces of Yoongi's scent, cedar and earth and persimmon, but it's muted, dulled by exhaustion and grief. Like even that part of him has given up.

Slowly, gently, Jimin reaches out and touches Yoongi's hand.

The contact is barely there. Just his fingertips against Yoongi's knuckles. But it's enough. Yoongi's breath hitches, and finally, he turns to look at Jimin.

"You are here," he whispers.

"Where else would I be?"

Yoongi's face crumples then, and he collapses forward into Jimin's arms like a marionette with its strings cut. Jimin catches him, pulls him close, and feels the exact moment Yoongi stops trying to hold himself together.

The sound that comes out of him is raw, broken. Eight years of pain and betrayal and loneliness finally finding its way to the surface. He cries like he's grieving, which Jimin supposes he is. Grieving the person he thought he was, the success he thought he'd earned, the friend he thought he had.

Jimin holds him through it all. Runs his fingers through Yoongi's hair, murmurs soft, wordless comfort against his temple. The bond between them hums to life, reaching across the space where words fail, offering what little healing it can.

"I'm here," Jimin whispers. "I'm not going anywhere."

Yoongi clings to him like he's drowning, fingers fisted in Jimin's sweater. His scent mingles with Jimin's. Fig and cedar, milk and earth, sweet and bitter all at once. Something deeper than desire. Something that speaks of home and safety and unconditional love.

They stay like that for a long time. Jimin doesn't count the minutes, just holds Yoongi as his breathing gradually slows, as the shaking subsides, as the worst of the storm passes through him.

Eventually, Yoongi pulls back just enough to look at Jimin's face. His eyes are swollen, his cheeks wet with tears, but there's something clearer in his expression now. Something that wasn't there before.

"I'm meeting him tomorrow," he says quietly.

"Your father?"

Yoongi's jaw tightens. "He's not my father. He gave up that right a long time ago." His voice is steady now, but there's steel underneath it. "But I have to see him. I have to understand why he thought throwing money at me would fix anything. Why he thought he could buy his way out of being a coward."

Jimin nods, thumb brushing across Yoongi's cheekbone. "What will you say to him?"

"The truth." Yoongi's eyes are hard now, resolved. "That his guilt money didn't make him a father. That it just made me into a lie. And that if he wanted to help me, he should have done it when my mother was dying. When it mattered."

There's pain in his voice, but also something else. Something like strength, rebuilding itself from the wreckage.

"I need to know who I am when all of this is stripped away," Yoongi continues. "When the company, the success, the reputation… when none of that matters. I need to know what's left."

"You're left," Jimin says softly. "You're still here. Still brilliant, still strong, still the person I fell in love with."

Yoongi's eyes widen slightly at the words. He searches Jimin's face like he's looking for signs of doubt, of pity, of anything that might suggest this love is built on lies too.

But all he finds is truth.

"I love you," Jimin whispers, pressing their foreheads together. "Not your success, not your company. You. Just you."

Yoongi closes his eyes, and for the first time since yesterday, some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "I don't know how to do this," he admits. "How to rebuild from nothing."

"You're not starting from nothing," Jimin says. "You have me. You have us. And that's not nothing."

Outside, the night deepens around them. But inside, holding each other in the soft glow of the darkened television, they begin the slow work of healing. Together.

Chapter Text

The elevator climbs in silence. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. 

Yoongi watches the numbers change and tries not to think about the last time he stood in a corporate building, surrounded by gleaming surfaces and the smell of expensive air fresheners, while his life came apart in a boardroom.

Thirty-two.

The doors slide open.

The hallway stretches ahead, all neutral carpet and abstract art that costs more than most people see in a year. His footsteps are muffled as he walks toward the reception desk, where a woman in a white blouse looks up with the kind of professional smile that never reaches the eyes.

"Min Yoongi-ssi for Han Namgi-ssi," he says.

She nods, makes a brief call, then gestures toward the far end of the hall. "Last office on the right."

The door is heavy. Expensive wood that probably has a name he doesn't know. He knocks once and waits.

"Come in."

The voice is unfamiliar. Not deep, not particularly commanding. Just... ordinary.

Yoongi steps inside.

The office is exactly what he expected. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, a massive desk, leather chairs positioned just so. Everything spotless and pristine and carefully arranged to intimidate.

The man behind the desk is in his sixties, silver-haired and wearing a suit that fits like it was made for him. Which it probably was. He's smaller than Yoongi imagined. More ordinary. The kind of man you'd pass on the street without a second glance.

When he looks up, his eyes are dark. Assessing. There's nothing familiar in them. No recognition. No warmth. Nothing.

"Min Yoongi-ssi," the man says, setting down his pen slowly. "Please. Sit."

Yoongi doesn't move from where he stands near the door. The office smells like bergamot and leather. Nothing that tugs at memory or recognition. Just a stranger's space.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet," he says finally.

Han Namgi leans back in his chair. Studies him for a long moment. "You look exactly like her."

"Luckily."

"She was stubborn too."

Silence stretches between them. Yoongi waits, but nothing else comes. No elaboration. No explanation.

"I don't know anything about you," he says. "She never... she never told me anything."

"Wise of her."

Another pause. Longer this time. Yoongi moves his weight from one foot to the other, hands clenched at his sides.

"I was wondering," he says carefully, "how you knew. About me."

"That you existed?" Namgi reaches for a glass of water on his desk, takes a small sip. "She told me. When she found out she was pregnant."

The casual way he says it makes something cold expand in Yoongi's chest. Like discussing the weather. Like it meant nothing at all.

"And?"

"And what?"

"What did you do? When she told you."

Namgi sets the glass down with a soft clink. "I ended the relationship."

The words land flat. Matter-of-fact. Yoongi stares at him, waiting for something more. An explanation. A justification. Anything.

Nothing comes.

"She was carrying your child," Yoongi says, voice carefully controlled.

"I was married. With responsibilities. A family to protect."

"You had a responsibility to her."

"I had a complication." Namgi's tone doesn't change. Doesn't suggest shame or regret. "One that needed to be managed appropriately."

Complication. The word sits wrong in the air. Yoongi's mother, reduced to a problem to be solved.

"Did you..." He stops, swallows hard. Starts again. "Did you ever see her? After?"

"No."

"Even when she got sick?"

Something changes in Namgi's expression. The first crack in his composure. "She wrote to me. Near the end."

Yoongi's throat tightens. His mother, dying, reaching out one last time. "What did she say?"

"She asked me to take care of you. To give you opportunities she couldn't provide." Namgi's voice remains steady. Clinical. "She was quite insistent."

"And you ignored her."

"I chose not to respond."

The admission hangs between them. Yoongi feels his vision blur at the edges, but he doesn't move. Doesn't give this man the satisfaction of seeing him break.

"She was dying," he says.

"Yes. She was."

Yoongi stares at him. At the complete absence of anything resembling regret in his expression. At the way he sits there, calm and collected, discussing the abandonment of a dying woman like it was a business decision.

"You kept track of me anyway," he says. "Somehow you knew enough to fund my company."

"I kept track of your progress. It seemed prudent." Namgi opens a drawer, pulls out a file. Sets it on the desk where Yoongi can see it. "An intelligent young man with my genetics could either become an asset or a liability. I preferred to know which."

Yoongi stares at the file. His whole life, reduced to papers in a folder.

"When you struggled in Amsterdam," Namgi continues, "intervention became appropriate. You needed capital. Jung Hoseok was the logical conduit."

"You made him lie to me."

"I ensured discretion. There's a difference."

"Why?" The word comes out raw. "Why help at all? If you never wanted me, if I was just a complication—"

"Because you were succeeding despite your circumstances. That suggested potential worth preserving." Namgi's tone remains flat. Transactional. "And because ensuring your success meant ensuring you'd never need to... reach out. Publicly."

The truth of it hits like ice water. Not guilt. Not love. Not even real charity. Just reputation management. Making sure his bastard son stayed respectable and quiet.

"You were protecting yourself," Yoongi says.

"I was protecting my family. My real family."

Real family. The words cut deep, but Yoongi doesn't flinch. Doesn't give this man the reaction he's probably expecting.

"Do I have siblings?" he asks instead.

"Two half-sisters. Both married now, with children of their own." Namgi's mouth curves slightly. Not quite a smile. "They don't know about you, of course. No reason they should."

Of course. Yoongi nods once, like this makes perfect sense. Like learning he has family he'll never know is just another piece of administrative information.

"There's a tradition," Namgi says, almost as an afterthought. "In my family. Sons are given names ending in -gi. I told your mother once, if I ever had a son, I'd name him Yoongi."

His name. The one thing that connected him to this man, and it was just... tradition. Not love. Not hope. Just following a pattern.

"She remembered," Namgi adds. "Obviously."

Yoongi stands there, taking it all in. The casual cruelty. The complete emotional void. The way this man discusses a dying woman's love like it was a minor inconvenience.

"I came here," he says finally, "because I needed to understand what kind of person could do what you did."

Namgi tilts his head slightly. "And?"

"And now I know." Yoongi's voice is steady. Clear. "You're exactly what I thought you'd be."

He turns toward the door.

"The funding was legitimate," Namgi says behind him. "Whatever else you think of me, your company succeeded on its own merits."

Yoongi pauses, hand on the door handle. Doesn't turn around.

"My company succeeded because Jung Hoseok believed in it. Because we worked twenty-hour days and refused to give up. Because we built something real." He opens the door. "Your money just kept us alive long enough to prove we didn't need you."

"Nevertheless—"

"You're not my father," Yoongi says, cutting him off. "You gave up that right thirty-two years ago. You're just the man who left my mother to die alone."

He steps into the hallway.

"And that's all you'll ever be."

The door closes behind him with a soft click.

He walks back down the corridor, past the expensive art and the mirrored surfaces, his footsteps steady on the neutral carpet. In the elevator, he leans against the wall and closes his eyes.

The parking garage is dimmer than the lobby above. He finds his car, slides into the driver's seat, and sits for a moment without starting the engine. The silence feels different here. Heavier. Final.

His phone buzzes. A text from Jimin: how are you doing?

He stares at the screen for a long moment, then types back: it's over. board meeting next, then home

Another message from Jimin comes almost immediately: i love you

i love you too, he replies, sets the phone aside and starts the car.

The cemetery sits on a hillside overlooking the city, rows of pale headstones arranged like steps climbing toward the sky. Yoongi parks near the entrance and sits for a moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel. 

Twenty-two years. 

He gets out slowly.

The vendor near the gate has her flowers arranged in plastic buckets, bright splashes of color against the concrete. Chrysanthemums, roses, carnations. His feet carry him there without conscious thought, and his eyes settle on a bundle of white lilies. Simple. Clean. 

"Those," he says, reaching for his wallet.

The woman wraps them in brown paper, and he pays without really seeing the amount. The flowers feel heavier than they should in his hands as he walks through the gates.

The cemetery is quiet except for the distant hum of traffic below. A few other visitors move between the graves, some kneeling, some standing in silent conversation with the dead. Yoongi follows the familiar path, past rows of stones marked with names he doesn't know, dates that span decades.

Section 12, Row 7. He's memorized it, though he hasn't been here in over a year.

Her headstone is simple granite, her name carved in hangul below the dates. Min Eunhee. 1961-1999. Beloved mother.

He added those last words himself when he could finally afford to.

Yoongi kneels in front of the stone and unwraps the lilies. The paper crinkles, too loud in the stillness. He places them carefully at the base of the headstone, arranging the stems so they lie straight.

The scent hits him as he leans back.

White lily and honey. Sweet. Warm. Familiar in a way that makes his chest lock up.

Eomma.

The memory crashes into him without warning. Her arms around him when he was small and scared. Her scent wrapping around him like safety itself. That soft sweetness that meant home, meant love, meant everything would be okay. The way she smelled when she held him during thunderstorms, when she kissed his scraped knees, when she was dying and still tried to comfort him.

His breath catches. After all these years of carefully not thinking about it, not letting himself remember. 

"I met him today," he says aloud, voice rough. "The man who left you."

A breeze stirs the withered grass around the headstone. Somewhere behind him, a woman's voice murmurs a prayer.

"He's exactly what you deserved better than." Yoongi's hands curl against his knees. "Cold. Empty. He thinks money fixes everything."

The scent of the lilies drifts up again, and this time he doesn't flinch away from it. Lets it wrap around him like a memory of arms that held him when the world felt too big.

"You would have hated what I became when I came back here. Angry. Obsessed with proving something to people who never mattered." He touches the edge of the headstone, fingertips tracing the carved characters of her name. "But I found him again. Jimin. The boy I told you about."

His throat tightens.

"I love him, Eomma. The way you taught me to love. With everything."

The honey-sweet scent seems to intensify, as if the flowers are listening. As if she's listening.

"I used to think I needed to be worthy of him. Rich enough, powerful enough, important enough. But you were never any of those things, and you were worth everything." His voice breaks on the words. "You were worth everything."

He stays there until the winter sun reaches its peak, casting long shadows between the headstones. When he finally stands, the lilies have settled into place, white petals bright against the dark granite.

"I have to go fight for us now," he says. "But I wanted you to know. I remember your scent. I remember how safe you made everything feel. And I'm going to make sure he has that too."

The walk back to his car feels lighter somehow. At the gate, he turns once to look back at the hillside dotted with stones, at the place where her honey-sweet love rests in the earth.

She taught him what home really was. Not walls or wealth, but love freely given. Now he understands. Home isn't a place to earn or deserve. It's a person who smells like figs and warmth, who chose him long before he learned to choose himself.

Yoongi arrives twenty minutes late.

The elevator opens to the familiar hallway, but his footsteps are different now. Steady. Unhurried. The briefcase in his hand carries more than documents.

Through the glass doors, he can see them all waiting. The same mahogany table, the same nervous energy crackling between board members. Sangchul stands at the head, gesturing with controlled animation. Hoseok sits halfway down the table, hands folded, staring at nothing. Seokjin's there too, notepad open beside him.

Yoongi pushes through the doors.

Conversation stops. Every head turns toward him. Sangchul's mouth curves in what might be satisfaction.

"Yoongi-ssi. We were beginning to think you wouldn't—"

"Sorry I'm late." Yoongi's voice is calm. He walks to an empty seat at the table without hurry, sets his briefcase down. "I had something important to take care of."

His eyes meet Hoseok's across the table. Just for a moment. Hoseok's face is exhausted, hopeful, devastated all at once. Yoongi nods once. Acknowledgment, not absolution. Then he looks away.

"Now then," Sangchul continues, settling back into his rhythm. "As I was saying, the board has serious concerns about proceeding with final integration given the... revelations about Vantem's funding sources."

One of the directors clears his throat. "The undisclosed connection to a competitor raises significant questions about conflicts of interest."

"Particularly," adds another, "when the funding was never disclosed during due diligence."

Yoongi listens without comment. His hands rest flat on the table, steady and relaxed.

"Of course," Sangchul says, "we understand this may have been an oversight. But the board must consider whether moving forward serves Parknoa's best interests, given the... unusual circumstances."

"Unusual circumstances." Yoongi repeats the words like he's tasting them. "That's an interesting phrase."

He reaches for his briefcase, opens it with a soft click. "Speaking of unusual circumstances, I thought the board might be interested in some additional documentation."

Sangchul's confident expression flickers slightly. "What kind of documentation?"

Yoongi pulls out a folder. Sets it on the table between them. "The kind that clarifies exactly who has the authority to make decisions about this merger."

He slides the folder toward the center of the table. "Please. Take a look."

Seokjin reaches for it first, opens it slowly. His face goes very still as he reads. After a moment, he looks up at Yoongi, then at Sangchul, his expression changing from confusion to understanding to something much colder.

"What is it?" one of the board members asks.

Seokjin's voice is quiet, controlled. "Trust documentation. From my father's estate." He turns a page. "And an addendum. Signed by my mother."

The room seems to hold its breath.

"It appears," Seokjin continues, his tone growing sharper with each word, "that my brother Jimin was supposed to inherit 4.2% of Parknoa equity when he turned twenty-five. Enough to constitute a significant stake in any major corporate decision."

Murmurs rise around the table. Board members lean forward, straining to see the documents.

"However," Seokjin's voice cuts through the noise, "the disbursement was blocked. Without Jimin's knowledge or consent. The proxy voting rights were transferred to..."

He looks directly at Sangchul.

"To you."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Sangchul's face has gone pale. "Those documents are—"

"Authentic," Yoongi says mildly. "I had them verified by three separate legal firms. Chain of custody is clean. Dating is confirmed."

One of the directors leans forward. "Are you saying Park Sangchul-ssi has been exercising illegal control over company shares?"

"I'm saying Park Jimin-ssi was defrauded of his rightful inheritance," Yoongi replies. "And that every major corporate decision made with those proxy votes may be legally invalid."

The explosion of voices is immediate. Board members talking over each other, demanding explanations, reaching for phones. Someone mentions lawyers. Someone else mentions the FSC.

Through it all, Sangchul sits frozen at the head of the table, watching his carefully constructed world crumble.

"This is outrageous," he finally manages. "These allegations are—"

"Documented." Seokjin's voice is ice. "With dates, signatures, and legal stamps." He looks around the table. "Which means my uncle has been operating with false authority for years."

"The merger vote," one of the directors says suddenly. "If his control was illegitimate—"

"Then every decision needs to be reviewed," another finishes. "Legal is going to have a field day."

Yoongi watches the chaos with detached interest. When the noise begins to die down, he speaks again.

"Of course, this is really Jimin's decision to make. Whether to pursue legal action, whether to reclaim his shares immediately." He pauses. "Whether to honor the existing merger agreement."

The implication hangs in the air. Without Sangchul's fraudulent majority, without Jimin's guaranteed cooperation, the entire corporate structure is in question.

"However," Yoongi continues, "I believe Jimin would be amenable to working with his brother on a... reorganized leadership structure. One that reflects actual ownership and competence."

Seokjin meets his eyes across the table. Understanding passes between them.

"Motion to suspend Park Sangchul-ssi from all executive authority pending legal review," Seokjin says clearly.

"Seconded," comes a voice from the other end of the table.

"Thirded."

The vote is swift. Overwhelming. Brutal.

Sangchul doesn't speak as the board strips away his power with parliamentary efficiency. He just sits there, watching sixteen years of control evaporate in minutes.

When it's over, when the emergency measures are in place and the lawyers have been called, Yoongi stands.

"I'll leave you to sort out the details," he says, collecting his briefcase. "Vantem's position remains unchanged. We're happy to work with Parknoa's legitimate leadership."

He nods once to Seokjin, professionally. Ignores Sangchul entirely.

As he reaches the door, Hoseok pushes back from the table.

"Yoongi."

The name carries years of friendship, guilt, desperate hope.

Yoongi pauses. Doesn't turn around. "Handle the transition paperwork. Make sure everything's clean."

"That's not what I—"

"I know what you meant."

The glass door closes between them.

Yoongi is already at the elevators when he hears footsteps behind him. Fast, uneven.

"Please. Just—please wait."

He turns. Hoseok stands a few feet away, breathing hard, hands clenched at his sides.

"Five minutes," Hoseok says. "That's all I'm asking."

The elevator arrives. Yoongi steps inside, holds the door open. After a moment, Hoseok joins him.

They ride down in silence until Hoseok finally speaks.

"I know you hate me."

"I don't hate you." Yoongi's voice is quiet. Tired. "But I can't do this right now."

"When? When can we—"

"I don't know." The elevator reaches the garage level. "I need time, Hoba. I need to figure out who I am when I'm not angry about this."

Hoseok's face crumples slightly. "But you're not cutting me off. You're not... ending this."

Yoongi looks at him. Really looks at him. Sees the sleepless nights, the guilt, the terror of losing the most important relationship in his life.

"You're my family," he says finally. "That doesn't just go away. But it doesn't fix this either."

The elevator doors start to close. Yoongi steps out, then turns back.

"Take care of yourself, okay? The company needs you functional."

"Hyung—"

The doors seal shut.

The house smells like fig and warm milk when Yoongi opens the door.

He pauses in the hallway, keys still in his hand, listening. No sound from the living room, but he can sense movement. The subtle shift of air that means someone's there, waiting.

His shoulders drop slightly. Home.

He finds Jimin in the living room, crouched beside the Boston fern near the window. A small spray bottle in his hand, misting the fronds with gentle attention. The afternoon light catches the water droplets, makes them glitter like tiny stars against the green.

Jimin looks up when he hears footsteps. His face floods with relief.

"You're back." He sets the spray bottle on the side table, rises to his feet. "I was worried."

Yoongi crosses the room without thinking, reaches for him. His hands find Jimin's waist, pulling him close enough to press his face into the curve of his neck. Breathes in. The scent is exactly what he needs. Sweet, familiar, untouched by boardrooms and betrayal.

"The ferns," he murmurs against Jimin's skin. "You didn't have to."

"They looked thirsty." Jimin's arms come up around his shoulders. "You've been distracted lately. I thought... I thought they might need it."

Something tight in Yoongi's chest loosens. The simple care of it. The way Jimin noticed what he'd been too consumed to see.

He scents him gently, instinctively, marking the pulse point just below his ear. Claiming the comfort, offering his own. When he pulls back, Jimin's eyes are soft but searching.

"How did it go?" he asks.

Yoongi leads him to the couch, their hands linked. They sit facing each other, knees touching.

"He was exactly what I expected," Yoongi says quietly. "Cold. Empty. He talked about my mother like she was a business complication that needed to be managed."

Jimin's hand tightens in his. "What did he say?"

"That he chose not to respond when she wrote to him. She was dying, asking him to take care of me, and he just... ignored her. Then sat there discussing it like it was a reasonable decision." Yoongi's jaw tightens. "He kept track of me over the years. Not out of love. Out of reputation management. Making sure his bastard son stayed respectable.”

"I'm sorry.”

"I'm not. It confirmed everything I already knew." Yoongi meets Jimin's eyes. "Meeting him just made me realize that the people who choose to care about you matter more than the ones who are supposed to."

Jimin's eyes brighten with something like relief. "Like us."

"Like us," Yoongi agrees.

"And uncle?"

"Finished. The board suspended him. Seokjin's taking over."

"Good." Jimin's voice is fierce. "He deserved worse."

"He'll get it. Namjoon left for Switzerland this morning, didn't he?”

Jimin nods. "Early flight. The medication records should be enough to get Dr. Bae to confess." He pauses. "Seokjin-hyung thinks with the doctor's testimony, we'll have everything we need to prove what uncle did to appa.”

Yoongi nods. The investigation will close that circle, finally give Hyunsuk justice.

"There's something else," he says. "Something you need to know."

Jimin's expression grows cautious. "What kind of something?"

Yoongi reaches for his briefcase, pulls out a copy of the trust documents. Sets them on the coffee table between them.

"You were supposed to inherit part of Parknoa," he says quietly. "When you turned twenty-five. Your mother prevented it."

Jimin stares at the papers like they might bite him. "What?"

"4.2% equity. Your father set up a trust before he died. It was supposed to transfer to you automatically, but your mother filed an emergency deferral. Claimed you were emotionally unfit."

The silence stretches. Jimin picks up the documents with shaking hands, scans the pages. His face goes through a series of changes. Confusion, understanding, fury.

"She gave my shares to uncle," he says finally. Voice flat. "That's how he got majority control over Seokjin-hyung."

"Yeah."

"She used me to steal my brother's inheritance."

Yoongi watches the realization settle. Waits for the explosion, the tears, the breakdown.

Instead, Jimin sets the papers down very carefully. Looks up with eyes that are bright but steady.

"She really couldn't stand the idea of me having any power, could she?" he says. "Even power I inherited. Even power she could have controlled."

"Jimin..."

"No, it's fine." Jimin leans back against the couch cushions. "I mean, it's not fine. But I'm not surprised. This is exactly something she'd do."

He's quiet for a moment, processing. Yoongi resists the urge to touch him, to offer comfort. Sometimes Jimin needs space to think.

"What happens now?" Jimin asks. "With the shares."

"That's up to you. You can reclaim them, file charges against your mother and Sangchul for fraud. You can work with Seokjin to restructure the company." Yoongi pauses. "Or you can walk away completely. Sell them, dissolve the trust, never think about Parknoa again."

"And you? What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to do whatever makes you happy," Yoongi says honestly. "I don't need Parknoa. Vantem's doing fine on its own."

Jimin considers this. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles. "You know what? I think I want to give them back to Seokjin-hyung. All of them. Let him have full control."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." Jimin reaches for Yoongi's hand, intertwines their fingers. "I don't want anything from that family except him. And maybe... maybe this is how I can help him get what he should have had all along."

The simplicity of it, the generosity, does something to Yoongi's chest. This man. How did he get so lucky?

"I also went to see her today," he says after a moment. "My mother."

Jimin's expression softens, grows tender. "How was it?"

"Hard. Good. I brought her flowers." He pauses. "White lilies. I didn't realize until I was there, but they smelled like her. Like honey and lilies. I'd forgotten."

"You'd forgotten her scent?"

"Buried it. Too painful to remember." Yoongi's thumb traces over Jimin's knuckles. "But today I let myself remember. Told her about you. About us."

Jimin's eyes are bright. "What did you tell her?"

"That I love you. That she would have loved you too." Yoongi brings their joined hands to his lips, presses a soft kiss to Jimin's fingers. "That she taught me how to love someone with everything, and you taught me I was worthy of it back."

The words hang in the air between them. Jimin's scent grows sweeter, the way it does when he's deeply moved.

"I want to meet her," Jimin says softly. "Will you take me sometime?"

"Yeah. I'd like that."

They sit in comfortable silence for a while. The afternoon light shifts, grows golden. Yoongi finds himself studying Jimin's face. The soft curve of his mouth, the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when he's thinking.

"You know what I realized today?" Yoongi says suddenly.

"What?"

"We've been surviving for weeks. Crisis mode, damage control, fighting battles." He moves closer, scents Jimin again just because he can. "But we should be living."

Jimin tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean..." Yoongi pauses, the idea forming as he speaks. "We've never been on a proper date, have we? Not as adults. When have you gotten to dress up for something that wasn't a disaster?”

A smile tugs at Jimin's lips. "Are you asking me out, Min Yoongi?"

"I'm asking you out." Yoongi grins, feels lighter than he has in weeks. "Let's get dressed up and go somewhere nice. Somewhere that has nothing to do with mergers or family drama or revenge plots."

"Just us?"

"Just us."

Jimin's smile widens. "I'd love that." He pauses. "Though I might need to borrow something to wear. Most of my nice clothes are still at the Kim estate."

"We'll figure it out." Yoongi stands, pulls Jimin up with him. "Come on. Let's go be ridiculously overdressed for dinner."

As they head toward the bedroom, Jimin bumps their shoulders together. "You know, I've been waiting for you to ask me on a proper date for seventeen years.”

"Better late than never?"

"Much better," Jimin agrees. He stops in the hallway, turns to face Yoongi fully. "I love you. For choosing this. For choosing us."

Yoongi cups his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. "Always us," he says, and means it. "Everything else is just noise."

When he kisses him, Jimin tastes like hope and new beginnings. Like a future they're finally free to build together.

Chapter Text

Jimin wakes slow. Weightless.

Yoongi's arm is draped across his ribs, fingers splayed over the dip of his waist. Their legs have tangled sometime in the night, ankles hooked together beneath sheets that smell like both of them. The room holds pale morning light, soft and unhurried.

He turns his head on the pillow. Yoongi's face is relaxed in sleep, mouth barely parted, hair falling dark across his forehead. There's a mark just below his ear from last night, faint purple that makes heat flicker low in Jimin's stomach. Their first real date. No hiding.

When Jimin shifts, Yoongi's fingers tighten against his waist.

"You awake?" Yoongi murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

"Mm." Jimin presses closer, nose finding the hollow of Yoongi's throat. "Did I wake you?"

"Don't mind." Yoongi's hand moves up his back, palm warm through the thin cotton of his pajama shirt. "How'd you sleep?"

"Perfect." Jimin lifts his head, meets Yoongi's eyes. "You looked good last night."

"Yeah?" Yoongi's thumb brushes the corner of his mouth. "You seemed distracted during dinner."

"I was." Jimin smiles. "Hard to focus on food when you're sitting there looking like that."

"Like what?"

Jimin laughs, soft and low. "You're fishing for compliments before coffee. That's new."

"I'm in a good mood." Yoongi pulls him closer, mouths at the curve of his jaw. "Can't imagine why."

The touch sends warmth down Jimin's spine. He tilts his head, giving Yoongi access to the sensitive skin just below his ear. When teeth graze his scent gland, he gasps.

"Want you," he breathes.

"Insatiable," Yoongi murmurs against his throat. "Didn't get enough last night?"

"Never enough." Jimin tugs at the hem of Yoongi's shirt, fingers finding bare skin beneath. "Do you mind?"

For answer, Yoongi kisses him. Deep and sure, tongue sliding warm against his. When they break apart, both breathing harder, Yoongi's eyes are dark with want.

They undress each other slowly. Hands and mouths. Familiar territory mapped again. When Yoongi's fingers brush between his legs, Jimin gasps at the slick already gathering there.

"Quiet," Yoongi murmurs, fingers sliding through the heat. "Bora's downstairs."

The reminder makes Jimin's stomach clench. But somehow that makes this sweeter. The way they move together quietly, soft sounds swallowed, intimacy stolen while the world goes on around them.

Yoongi works him open with careful fingers, thumb circling his rim while his other hand wraps around Jimin's cock. Jimin finds Yoongi in return, stroking him in rhythm. The dual sensation makes everything blur.

When he comes, it's with his face pressed to Yoongi's shoulder, teeth catching skin to muffle the sound. Yoongi follows a breath later, both of them working each other through the aftershocks.

They lie tangled afterward, catching their breath. Yoongi's fingers trace idle patterns on Jimin's chest, following the line of a rib, the dip of his collarbone.

"We should shower," Yoongi says eventually.

"Right," Jimin says, sitting up. "Shower, then coffee."

"And food. I'm starving."

They shower together, quick and practical, though Jimin's hands linger on the slope of Yoongi's shoulders, the line of his spine. When they make it downstairs twenty minutes later, the kitchen smells like ginger and scallions.

Bora glances up from the stove. "Good morning. Coffee's ready, and I made kongnamul-guk. Light, for breakfast."

"Perfect," Yoongi says, pouring coffee for both of them. "Thank you."

She ladles soup into bowls, adds banchan from the refrigerator. Rice, kimchi, pickled radish. Simple, warm, exactly what Jimin didn't know he wanted.

"Do you need anything else?" she asks, wiping her hands on her apron.

"We're fine," Yoongi says. "Take your time with the rest."

When she disappears toward the living room, Jimin reaches across the table for Yoongi's hand.

"I like this," he says quietly.

"The soup?"

"This. Morning. You." Jimin threads their fingers together. "Waking up next to you and knowing I get to do it again tomorrow."

Yoongi's expression softens. "Good thing," he says. "Because I'm not letting you go anywhere."

They eat facing each other, feet tangled beneath the table. The soup is perfect. Clear broth, tender bean sprouts, just enough salt. Jimin feels settled in a way he hasn't in years. Like his body fits inside his skin again.

"What time's your meeting?" he asks.

Yoongi glances at his phone. "Eleven-thirty. Just contract stuff. Boring."

"Your very important empire-building contract stuff."

"The most boring empire-building." Yoongi grins. "I'll be back by two."

Jimin's phone buzzes against the table. He checks the screen, smiles.

"Tae wants to bring my stuff over. Is that okay?"

"Of course. This is your house too."

The certainty in Yoongi's voice does something to Jimin's chest. Your house too. Like it's that simple. Like he belongs here in a way that doesn't need explanation.

He types back quickly: yes, perfect timing. see you soon

"Jungkook's coming too," he adds. "They'll probably be here in an hour."

"Good." Yoongi stands, carries their empty bowls to the sink. "I want them to see you settled here."

"I am settled."

Yoongi pauses at the counter, turns to look at him. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jimin joins him at the sink, hip bumping his. "More settled than I've been in years."

When Yoongi kisses him, soft and lingering, it tastes like promises. Like all the mornings they'll have, all the quiet moments they're building together.

Upstairs, Yoongi changes into work clothes while Jimin straightens the bedroom. Not because it needs it, just because he likes the ritual. Making their space neat, pulling the covers smooth, setting everything right.

"I'll be back before you know it," Yoongi says, adjusting his collar in the mirror.

"I'll be here."

"With all your things."

"With all my things," Jimin agrees.

At the front door, Yoongi kisses him goodbye. Long enough that Jimin's stomach flutters, brief enough to leave him wanting more.

"Love you," Yoongi murmurs against his mouth.

"Love you too."

Jimin watches from the window as the car pulls away, then turns back to the house. Their house. His house.

Home.

Twenty minutes later, gravel crunches in the driveway. Jimin opens the door before they can knock, grinning at the sight of Taehyung struggling with two suitcases while Jungkook manages a stack of boxes that looks ready to topple.

"Need help?" Jimin asks, grabbing one of the suitcases.

"Please," Taehyung gasps. "Your books are heavier than they look."

"I didn't have that many books," Jimin protests, leading them inside.

"You had enough," Jungkook says, setting the boxes down in the living room. "Plus shoes. So many shoes."

"A reasonable amount of shoes."

Taehyung sets the second suitcase down, eyes scanning the room. Plants everywhere. Ferns by the windows, trailing pothos on the bookshelf, a fiddle leaf fig in the corner.

"He still loves his plants, I see," he says with a smile.

"Yeah." Jimin's voice goes soft. "He was always good with them. Even when we were kids."

"I remember. He tried so hard to teach you about the plants in the greenhouse."

"I was hopeless." Jimin touches the edge of a fern's frond. "Could never remember which ones needed more water, which ones liked shade. But I'd sit there anyway, just to be near him."

Jungkook straightens from arranging boxes. "That's... actually really sweet."

"That was just… how he was." Jimin clears his throat, suddenly aware of how much affection has crept into his voice. "Anyway. Thank you guys for bringing all this over. I can sort through it later with Yoongi-hyung."

"No problem," Taehyung says, dropping onto the couch. "So this is home now?"

"This is home now." Jimin takes the armchair across from them. "It feels right, you know? Like I can finally breathe."

"Good," Taehyung says simply. "You deserve that." He settles back. "Oh, I almost forgot. We have classes tomorrow. Want me to pick you up?"

"Yes, please." Jimin's face brightens. "I'm really excited for class."

"You should see him with the kids," Taehyung tells Jungkook. "He's incredible. They absolutely love him."

"I never expected I'd enjoy teaching so much," Jimin admits. "There's this one girl who's never danced before but has such natural instinct. And this shy boy who just lights up when the music starts."

Jungkook studies Jimin's face. "You're glowing talking about it."

"It's been amazing discovering this side of myself. Watching someone learn they can move their body in ways they never imagined..." Jimin trails off, then looks thoughtful.

"Have you ever thought about opening your own studio?" Jungkook asks suddenly.

Jimin blinks. "My own studio?"

"Yeah." Jungkook leans forward. "I mean, BIT is great, but you're talking about this like it's your calling. What if you could do it full-time? Your own space, your own programs?"

"You'd be amazing at it," Taehyung adds. "You have the skills, the passion. And now you have the freedom to actually do what you want."

The idea sits in Jimin's chest. Warm. Unfamiliar. His own studio. His own space, his own students, his own rules.

"I... I've never really thought about it," he says slowly.

"Well, think about it now," Taehyung says. "It's a big step, but the best ones usually are."

"Besides, if you ever decide to do it, we'd help however we could. Finding a space, setting up classes… whatever you need."

Jimin looks at them. Friends who see his potential. Who encourage his dreams.

"Maybe," he says, but there's something like excitement in his voice. "Maybe I will."

They talk easily after that. Taehyung's latest painting. Jungkook's photography projects. Jimin finds himself relaxing fully for the first time in weeks. Surrounded by people who know him. Who want the best for him.

When they leave an hour later, it's with promises to see him tomorrow and plans for dinner later in the week. Jimin watches them drive away, then turns back to survey the living room.

His belongings scattered among Yoongi's things. His books that will find space on Yoongi's shelves. His clothes that will hang beside Yoongi's in their closet. A life being built, piece by piece.

His own studio. The idea glows bright in his mind. Full of possibility.

Home, he thinks again. And maybe, someday soon, a dream of his own.

Time passes in fragments.

Jimin spends Thursday evening unpacking, finding space for his books between Yoongi's novels, hanging his clothes beside Yoongi's shirts in their closet. The word feels strange, natural. Theirs.

By Friday morning, the last of the emptiness is gone. Not that things make a home, but there's relief in having nothing left behind. No part of his life still trapped somewhere else.

The afternoon finds him in Taehyung's passenger seat as they turn into the driveway. Class ran long; the kids were learning a new routine, and their enthusiasm made it impossible to cut things short. He checks his phone as they come to a stop. Almost six-thirty.

"Thanks for the ride," he says, grabbing his bag.

"Talk to you later," Taehyung calls as Jimin gets out.

Inside, the house is quiet but lived-in. Yoongi's coffee mug sits empty on the counter, probably hours old. Jimin can hear the faint sound of typing from upstairs. The study. Home.

His phone rings as he's filling a glass with water.

"Hyung?"

"Jimin-ah." Seokjin's voice is tight, controlled. "Are you somewhere you can talk?"

Something cold settles in Jimin's stomach. "Yeah. What's wrong?"

"Namjoon came back. The confession..." Seokjin pauses. "Dr. Bae admitted to everything."

Jimin sets his glass down carefully. "The medication?"

"The dosage increase was deliberate. Designed to cause heart failure over time." Seokjin's voice is flat, clinical. "But that's not all, Jimin. Three years after he killed our father, Sangchul contacted him again."

The kitchen feels too small suddenly. "For what?"

"A stimulant. Something to make someone lose control, affect their judgment." There's a pause, heavy with implication. "Dr. Bae gave it to him."

The words hit like cold water. Jimin's grip tightens on the phone.

"I know what it was for," Seokjin continues, his voice heavy. "When we first met about the merger, Yoongi told me he suspected he'd been drugged the night of your heat. Said Joowon gave him tea right before he came to your room, and everything felt wrong afterward."

"Joowon." Jimin's voice is flat. The butler. Sangchul's man.

"Yoongi said he felt disoriented, not himself. I didn't believe him then." Seokjin's voice turns bitter. "I thought he was just making excuses."

The pieces slot together with horrible clarity. Joowon, who'd always been cold to Yoongi, suddenly offering him tea.

"Joowon left soon after," Seokjin adds. "Probably well compensated."

Jimin sinks into a chair, phone pressed to his ear. The weight of it settles over him. Not just their father's murder, but the systematic destruction of his and Yoongi's lives. The bite, Yoongi being forced to leave, thirteen years of separation. All orchestrated.

"So Yoongi-hyung was right," Jimin whispers.

"He was right about all of it." Seokjin's voice cracks slightly. "I should have listened. Should have believed him."

"You couldn't have known."

"I could have tried." A pause. "Namjoon's already contacted the prosecutor's office. They want to move fast. Charges will be filed tomorrow morning."

"Good." The word comes out hollow.

"Jimin-ah, I'm sorry. For not protecting you better. For not seeing what Sangchul really was."

"None of us did." Jimin closes his eyes. "We never imagined he'd go that far."

After Seokjin hangs up, Jimin sits in the kitchen as shadows lengthen across the floor. The typing from upstairs has stopped. The house holds its breath around him.

Eventually, he climbs the stairs.

Yoongi's study door is half-open, warm light spilling into the hallway. Jimin pushes it wider, finds Yoongi at his desk, monitor dark, staring out at the darkening garden.

"Hey," he says without turning. "How was class?"

"Good." Jimin steps inside, closes the door behind him. "Seokjin-hyung called."

Something in his voice makes Yoongi turn. His expression changes when he sees Jimin's face.

"What happened?"

Jimin tells him everything. The confession, both crimes, the timeline. Watches Yoongi's face go very still as the truth settles between them.

"So we know," Yoongi says finally.

"We know." Jimin moves closer, until he can touch Yoongi's shoulder. "You were right. About Joowon, about the tea. Seokjin remembers what you told him."

"Thirteen years," Yoongi says quietly. "Thirteen years of thinking I'd failed you. That I was too weak to resist."

Jimin kneels beside the chair, takes Yoongi's hands in both of his. "You were drugged. You didn't choose to lose control."

"But I still hurt you."

"You were protecting me. Even drugged, even out of your mind. You came in when I called you because you wanted to help." Jimin's voice is firm. "What happened after wasn't your fault."

Yoongi's eyes are bright, too bright. "He took that from us. The choice. The innocence of it."

"But not this." Jimin brings their joined hands to his lips, presses a soft kiss to Yoongi's knuckles. "Not what we have now."

"No," Yoongi agrees. "Not this."

They sit like that as night falls outside, processing the full weight of Sangchul's betrayal. Tomorrow there will be lawyers, charges, justice finally served. Tonight, there's just them. The truth, finally. And the quiet certainty that some things like love, trust, and the decision to build something new can't be stolen.

No matter how hard someone tries.

Saturday passes in a haze of waiting. Quiet meals, half-read books, the weight of anticipation settling between them like dust.

By Sunday morning, Jimin feels hollow with it. He moves through the kitchen on autopilot. Coffee, toast, the ritual of normalcy when nothing feels normal. Yoongi sits at the table with his phone, scrolling through emails he's not really reading.

The television shows the morning news, Sunday programming with its slower pace, familiar anchors discussing the week's events. Neither of them is paying close attention.

"More coffee?" Jimin asks, though Yoongi's cup is still half full.

"I'm fine." Yoongi sets his phone aside, reaches for Jimin's hand. "You?"

"Restless." Jimin sinks into the chair beside him. "I keep thinking about what happens next. Trials, testimony..." He trails off.

"We'll handle it."

"I know. It's just—"

The news anchor's tone changes, becomes more urgent. They both look up.

"We're receiving reports of an arrest this morning at a residence in Gangnam district. Park Sangchul, executive director of Parknoa Group, has been taken into custody on charges related to—"

Jimin goes very still. Something cold drops through his stomach.

The image cuts to shaky footage, clearly taken from a distance. A black sedan parked outside an elegant apartment building. Two officers in dark uniforms flanking a third figure as they walk toward the car. The third man's hands are behind his back.

Even from this angle, even with his head ducked, Jimin recognizes that silhouette immediately.

Yoongi's hand tightens in response. Neither of them speaks.

Sangchul. His father's brother. His mother's trusted ally. The man who destroyed his family. Guided into the back seat of a police car, shoulders rigid, head turned away from the cameras. There's no dignity in it. Just the jagged, graceless movements of someone whose world has collapsed.

The car door slams shut. The sedan pulls away from the curb.

"—sources confirm the charges include suspected murder by medication tampering and conspiracy to commit assault. The investigation centers on the death of former Parknoa chairman Park Hyunsuk fifteen years ago—"

Jimin's throat feels thick. He wants to feel triumphant, vindicated, something clean and sharp. Instead, there's just a vast, settling quiet. Like a storm finally ending.

"It's over," he says, barely audible.

"Yeah." Yoongi's voice is rough. "It's over."

They sit there, hands linked, watching footage of Sangchul's building on repeat while the anchor runs through corporate history and speculation. All of it reduced to thirty seconds of grainy video and clinical news-speak.

Jimin's phone rings.

"Hyung," he says, not bothering to check the caller ID.

"Did you see?" Seokjin's voice is tight with something between relief and exhaustion.

"We're watching it now."

"How do you feel?"

Jimin looks at the television, where they're now showing file photos of Sangchul at various corporate events. Smiling, shaking hands, playing the part of respectable businessman while plotting murder.

"Empty," Jimin says honestly. "But... good empty. Like something poisonous finally drained out."

"That's exactly it." Seokjin exhales shakily. "They'll probably call us starting tomorrow. Statements, depositions, all of it. But the worst is over, Jimin-ah. Sangchul is finally going to pay for everything."

"He is." The certainty feels solid in Jimin's chest. "What happens now?"

"Now? Now we rebuild. Clean house, fix what he broke, make sure it never happens again." A pause. "Listen, why don't you both come over this afternoon? We can talk about everything that happens next. Plus I have some good news to share."

"Good news?" Jimin sits up straighter. After months of revelations and corporate warfare, the phrase sounds almost foreign. "What kind of good news?"

Seokjin laughs, and it's the first genuinely happy sound Jimin's heard from him in months. "It's a surprise. Just come over later, bring Yoongi too. Around six?"

"Hyung, you can't just—"

"Six o'clock," Seokjin repeats, still laughing. "Trust me, you'll want to hear this in person."

The line goes dead. Jimin stares at his phone, then at Yoongi.

"Good news?" Yoongi asks.

"Apparently." Jimin sets the phone aside, looks back at the television. The footage has moved on to stock images of Parknoa headquarters, financial charts, corporate analysis. "He wants us to come over at six. Says it's a surprise."

"A good surprise?"

"That's what he claims."

They watch for a few more minutes as the story cycles through the same information. Arrest, charges, corporate implications. Sangchul's name attached to words like murder and conspiracy instead of executive and respected businessman.

Finally, Yoongi reaches for the remote and turns it off.

The sudden silence feels enormous.

"We're free," Yoongi says quietly.

"We're free," Jimin repeats, testing the words.

They taste like morning air. Like possibility.

Like breathing again. 

The afternoon passes quietly. Lunch from leftovers, silence that feels comfortable rather than heavy. They move around each other with the easy rhythm of people who belong in the same space. When five-thirty arrives, it comes as a surprise.

"We should go," Yoongi says, glancing at his watch.

"Yeah." Jimin closes the book he wasn't really reading. "Ready?"

Yoongi's hand pauses on his jacket. "Actually. No."

Jimin looks up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. It's just..." Yoongi shrugs into the jacket slowly. "I haven't been back there in thirteen years."

The Park estate. Where Yoongi lived from nine to eighteen. Where he was treated like a servant, where he fell in love, where everything fell apart.

"We don't have to go," Jimin says quietly. "I can call Jin-hyung, tell him something came up."

"No." Yoongi's voice is firm. "I want to go. It's just strange, you know? Going back."

They step outside together. The air is crisp, the kind of cold that makes everything feel sharper. Their breath forms small clouds as they walk down the drive.

Jimin walks with easy familiarity, but beside him, Yoongi moves more carefully. Taking it all in.

"It looks different," he says as the Park estate comes into view.

"The renovation. When I was in university. Hyung wanted his own space."

"Smart."

They walk in comfortable silence for a moment. Then Jimin glances toward the back of the property, where the old greenhouse sits among bare trees.

"I haven't been in there for years," he says suddenly.

Yoongi follows his gaze. "The greenhouse?"

"Couldn't. Too many memories." Jimin's voice goes quiet. "I used to think about going in, after you left. But every time I got close..."

"Sunae-imoni told me she still takes care of it," Yoongi says. "When she visited. Said she thinks of me every time she goes in."

Something warm moves across Jimin's face. "She would. She always cared about you more than the rest of them."

They're closer now, close enough to see the outline of the building through winter branches. Glass panels catching the late afternoon light.

"I saw you once," Yoongi says suddenly. "At your greenhouse. The one behind the Kim estate."

Jimin stops walking. "You saw me?"

"A few weeks after I moved back. I was walking and I..." Yoongi's jaw works. "I shouldn't have been there. Shouldn't have been watching. But I couldn't help myself."

"I had that one built about a year ago," Jimin says. "Thought maybe if I had my own space, if I could grow things the way you taught me..." He trails off. "But I was never good at it. The plants barely thrived. I tried, but my hands don't work the way yours did."

"You said goodbye to them." It's not a question.

Jimin nods. "When I went to pack my things. Told them I was sorry I couldn't take better care of them."

They've reached the front path of the estate now. Stone steps leading up to the main entrance, but they turn left toward Seokjin's wing. The separate entrance he carved out when he decided to claim his own space in the family home.

"Do you miss it?" Yoongi asks as they climb the steps. "The greenhouse."

Jimin pauses, his hand on the bell. Considers the question.

"I missed you," he says finally. "The greenhouse was just... a way of trying to keep something alive. But it was never about the plants."

"No," Yoongi agrees. "It never was."

Jimin presses the bell. They wait, close together on the step, surrounded by the ghosts of everything they used to be.

When the door opens, it's Seokjin who answers. His face lights up when he sees them both standing there.

"There you are," he says, stepping aside. "Come in, come in. You must be freezing."

The warmth hits them immediately as they step inside. Seokjin's wing has always felt different from the rest of the house. Lighter somehow, more lived-in. The scent here is layered: white tea and honeyed sandalwood from Seokjin, bergamot and paper from Namjoon, something that speaks of home rather than obligation.

"Coats," Seokjin says, already reaching for Jimin's jacket. "You both look frozen."

"It's not that cold," Jimin protests, but he lets Seokjin fuss anyway. Some things never change.

Namjoon appears from deeper in the house. “Perfect timing. I just put coffee on.”

"And tea," Seokjin adds quickly. "Namjoon's making tea too."

There's something in the way he says it. Too casual, like he's trying not to make it significant. Jimin catches it but doesn't comment.

They settle in the living room, where Jimin has shared countless conversations with Seokjin and Namjoon over the years. His brother takes his usual spot on the couch, but instead of his typical sprawl, he sits more carefully.

"I'll get drinks," Namjoon says, disappearing toward the kitchen.

"So," Seokjin says, settling back against the cushions. "What a day."

"What a day," Jimin agrees. "I keep expecting to wake up and find out it was all a dream.”

"It's real. Finally real." Seokjin's voice is firm. "He's going to pay for what he did."

Namjoon returns with a tray. Coffee for Jimin and Yoongi, delicate tea service for Seokjin. He sets it down carefully, then perches on the arm of the couch beside Seokjin.

Yoongi glances at Jimin, eyebrows raised slightly. The hovering is new.

"Did you..." Jimin pauses, wraps his hands around his mug. "Did you talk to Eomma? About the shares?"

Seokjin's expression changes, becomes more guarded. "Yesterday afternoon. I needed time to process everything first."

"How did she take it?"

"About as well as you'd expect." Seokjin lifts his teacup with both hands. "She went very quiet when I showed her the documentation. Then said something about how the company should be led by an alpha anyway."

Yoongi makes a sound, somewhere between disgust and resignation.

"Even now," Jimin says quietly. "Even knowing what Sangchul did, she still..."

"She's not going to change, Jimin-ah." Seokjin's voice is matter-of-fact. "I've accepted that. We gave her chances to be better, to choose her family over her prejudices. She chose."

"So what happens now?"

"Now? Nothing. She can stay in her wing, live quietly, collect her allowance. But she's not part of this family anymore. Not really." Seokjin meets Jimin's eyes. "I'm not telling her about important things. She lost that right."

The finality in his voice settles over them. Mihyun, effectively written out of their lives. It should hurt more than it does, but Jimin finds he mostly feels... tired. Tired of hoping she might be different, might choose love over judgment.

"She made her choice," he says.

"She did." Seokjin reaches over and squeezes his hand once. "But we made ours too. And we chose each other."

Namjoon's hand finds Seokjin's shoulder, thumb brushing once across the fabric of his sweater. There's something tender in the gesture, protective in a way that goes beyond Namjoon's usual steady presence.

"Speaking of choosing each other," Seokjin says, and his voice becomes lighter. "That's actually why we asked you to come over."

"The good news," Yoongi says.

"The good news." Seokjin sets his teacup down carefully, turns to face them both. Behind him, Namjoon straightens slightly, hand still resting on Seokjin's shoulder.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. Then Seokjin smiles, soft and wondering, like he can't quite believe what he's about to say.

"We're having a baby."

The words hang in the air for a heartbeat. Then Jimin's mug hits the coffee table with a clink as he lurches forward.

"What?"

"A baby," Seokjin repeats, and now he's grinning properly. "I'm pregnant. About nine weeks along."

Jimin stares at him. At both of them. Seokjin's careful posture, Namjoon's protective hovering, the tea instead of coffee. It all clicks into place.

"Oh my god." Jimin's voice comes out rough. "Oh my god, hyung."

"I know it's—"

But Jimin's already moving, practically launching himself across the coffee table to wrap Seokjin in a careful hug. Not too tight, suddenly aware of what Seokjin's body is doing, what it's protecting.

"I can't believe it," he whispers against Seokjin's shoulder. "After all this time..."

"Neither can we," Seokjin admits, arms coming around him. "We've been trying for so long, we'd almost given up hope."

Jimin pulls back just enough to look at his brother's face. Really look. There's something different there. A glow he'd attributed to finally getting justice, but now realizes goes deeper. Joy. Pure, uncomplicated joy.

"When did you find out?"

"Wednesday morning. I'd been feeling off for a couple weeks, but with everything going on and Namjoon away in Switzerland..." Seokjin shrugs. "I finally worked up the courage to take a test."

"And then called me in a panic," Namjoon adds with a soft smile. "Made me walk him through taking two more tests over video call."

"I needed to be sure before I got my hopes up," Seokjin says. "We saw the doctor together Friday afternoon when he got back. Got it officially confirmed. Due date is sometime in late September."

"September," Jimin repeats, like he's testing the word. "A fall baby."

"A fall baby," Seokjin agrees.

Jimin turns to Namjoon, who's been watching the exchange with quiet satisfaction. "Congratulations, hyung. You're going to be an amazing father."

"I hope so," Namjoon says, but there's no doubt in his voice. Just steady certainty. "We both are."

"You are," Jimin says firmly. He looks back at Seokjin. "God, I can't wait to spoil this kid. They're going to be so loved."

"Careful," Seokjin warns, but he's laughing. "Don't turn them into a monster before they're even born."

"Too late. I'm already planning dance lessons and art supplies and weekend trips to the zoo." Jimin's mind is racing ahead, full of possibility. "Do you know what you're having?"

"Too early to tell yet. But honestly, we don't care. As long as they're healthy..."

"They will be," Jimin says with absolute conviction. "They're going to be perfect."

Throughout this exchange, Yoongi has been quiet, watching with something soft in his expression. Now he stands, moves around the coffee table to where Seokjin sits.

"Congratulations," he says simply, and there's weight behind the word. History. The acknowledgment of everything Seokjin has been through, everything this means.

"Thank you." Seokjin looks up at him. "For everything. For helping us get to this point."

Yoongi nods once. "You'll be good parents. Both of you."

"We're going to try." Seokjin's hand finds Namjoon's, fingers intertwining. "We want to do better than the generation before us."

"You already are," Jimin says quietly.

They sit like that for a while, the four of them, processing the magnitude of it. A new life, coming into a family that's finally found its way back to love. After years of loss and betrayal and careful distance, something pure and hopeful growing in the space between them.

"Have you thought about names?" Jimin asks eventually.

"It's still early," Namjoon says. "But we've talked about it."

"Something that means hope," Seokjin adds. "Or new beginnings. We want them to know they were wanted, planned for. That they're part of healing something that was broken."

Jimin's throat feels tight. "That's beautiful."

"They're going to be so lucky," Yoongi says. "To grow up in a house like this. With parents who choose love."

"With an uncle who's going to teach them to dance," Seokjin adds, nudging Jimin's shoulder. "And another uncle who'll probably spoil them even more."

"Hey," Jimin protests. "I'm going to be the fun uncle. Yoongi can be the responsible one."

"I think you have that backwards," Yoongi says dryly.

They laugh, and it feels good. Clean. Like the last pieces of something broken finally clicking back into place.

Outside, the sun is setting, painting the room in shades of gold and amber. Inside, surrounded by family and possibility, everything feels exactly as it should be.

"So," Seokjin says eventually. "What do you say we order dinner? I'm starving, and apparently I'm eating for two now."

"Whatever you want," Jimin says immediately. "Anything you're craving."

"Careful," Namjoon warns. "He's been obsessed with pickles and ice cream for the past week."

"Not together," Seokjin protests.

"Yet," Namjoon says.

"Pickles and ice cream it is," Jimin declares. "I'll go pick some up right now if you want."

"See?" Seokjin looks at Namjoon. "I told you he was going to be impossible."

"The best kind of impossible," Jimin corrects, and pulls his brother close again.

They're going to be okay. All of them. Better than okay.

They're going to be a family.

Two hours later, after dinner ordered and shared around the coffee table, after stories about Seokjin's morning sickness and Namjoon's panic over what foods are safe to eat, after plans made for baby shopping and uncle duties discussed with entirely too much enthusiasm, Jimin and Yoongi finally say their goodbyes.

"Thank you," Jimin says at the door, hugging Seokjin carefully. "For sharing this with us. For everything."

"Thank you for being here," Seokjin replies. "For choosing to be family."

They walk slowly back toward the main path, bellies full and hearts lighter than they've been in months. The estate is well-lit against the winter darkness, warm light spilling from windows, path lamps casting pools of gold on the gravel.

"I can't believe they're having a baby," Jimin says, breath visible in small puffs. "After all this time."

"They'll be good parents."

"The best." Jimin's smile is soft. "That kid's going to be so loved."

As they near the edge of the estate, Jimin slows, then stops entirely. He looks back toward the main house, toward the area behind it where the old greenhouse sits among bare trees.

"Can we..." He glances at the barely visible structure through winter branches. "I know it's silly, but..."

"It's not silly."

They turn back together, walking around the side of the house toward the back gardens. The greenhouse sits exactly where it always has, glass panels reflecting the estate's lights. Closer now, Jimin can see the faint glow of warmth from within.

"Sunae-imoni must have left the heat on," Yoongi says quietly.

They reach the door. The same door that creaked when they were teenagers. That Jimin burst through with wind-pink cheeks and Yoongi opened carefully after long days of work. Yoongi's hand hovers over the latch.

"Are you sure?"

Jimin nods.

The door opens with the same soft creak. Warmth spills out to meet them, carrying scents that are familiar and different all at once. Less complex than before. Simpler.

Inside, the greenhouse has been pared down to essentials. Gone are the elaborate beds Yoongi once tended with such care. Instead, neat rows of herbs line the back wall. Mint, basil, perilla. Things Sunae can manage easily, things that grow without too much fuss.

Without all the plants, the greenhouse feels smaller somehow. Simpler. But just as intimate.

"It's smaller than I remembered," Jimin says.

"We were smaller then."

They step inside fully, letting the door fall shut behind them. The glass is fogged with condensation, the outside world softened to impressions of light and shadow. It's just them now, in this space that holds so many memories.

Yoongi's scent is stronger here, as if the warmth has drawn it from his skin. Cedar and earth and persimmon, grounding and familiar. Jimin breathes it in, feels his own scent respond, sweetening the way it always does when Yoongi is close.

"Do you remember," Jimin says, moving toward the back wall where they used to spread their blanket, "when you made me that picnic? With the little round sandwiches?"

"You said you were starving."

"I was. Always starving for time with you." Jimin touches the stone where they used to sit. "We used to plan our whole future here."

"We did."

"You were going to study in Seoul. I was going to finish school and come find you." Jimin's voice goes soft. "We were going to get a little apartment. Fill it with plants."

"You wanted a cat."

"You said maybe." Jimin smiles. "Do you still think maybe?"

Yoongi steps closer, until they're standing in the same spot where they used to dream. "I think a lot of things are possible now that weren't before."

Something warm uncurls in Jimin's chest. The bond, settled and steady between them, pulses gently. Not desperate or demanding like it used to be. Just... there. Present. A constant gentle pressure that feels like home.

"I've been thinking about it," Jimin says quietly. "The bond."

Yoongi goes very still. "Yeah?"

"Not now. Not yet. But someday." Jimin meets his eyes. "When we're ready. When it's our choice, not something that happened to us."

"Someday," Yoongi agrees. "When we want it, not when we need it."

"When we're not running from anything anymore."

"Are we still running?"

Jimin considers this. Two months ago, he was trapped in a marriage he didn't want, suffocating in a life that felt like pretense. Yoongi was driven by revenge, hollowed out by years of anger and loss. They were both running. From the past, from themselves, from the truth of what they meant to each other.

"No," he says finally. "I don't think we are."

They stand there in the quiet warmth, surrounded by the simple herbs Sunae tends with patient hands. The same space where they once planned an impossible future now holds the weight of real possibility.

"I want to open the studio," Jimin says suddenly.

"You should."

"I want to teach kids who love dancing the way I did. Kids who need somewhere to belong."

"You will."

“I want to learn how to keep plants alive.” Jimin's voice grows stronger with each word. “I want Sunday mornings and grocery shopping and all the boring, beautiful things we never got to have.”

Yoongi's hand finds his face, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "We can have all of that."

"Can we really?"

"We already are."

It's true. They're already having lazy Sunday mornings, already choosing each other every day. The small domestic moments Jimin dreamed of. Coffee in the kitchen, shared silences, the comfort of waking up next to someone who knows every part of you. They're building that now, piece by careful piece.

"I love you," Jimin says. "Not the way I did when I was seventeen, desperate and half-crazy with wanting. I love you the way I choose to love you now. Clear-eyed and certain."

"I love you too." Yoongi's scent wraps around them both, rich with contentment. "I love you enough to be patient. To let us grow into this instead of trying to force it."

"We have time."

"We have time."

Through the fogged glass, the estate lights blur into soft impressions of warmth. Somewhere in Seokjin's wing, a new life is growing. Somewhere in Seoul, lawyers are building cases that will keep Sangchul locked away for years. Somewhere in the future, Jimin will open his studio doors to the first group of hopeful children.

But here, now, in this greenhouse that sheltered their first dreams, they have everything they need. Each other. The space to breathe. The freedom to choose what comes next.

"Should we go home?" Yoongi asks eventually.

"In a minute." Jimin leans into him, temple against Yoongi's jaw. "Let me just... remember this."

"What?"

"How it feels to have everything we wanted."

Yoongi's arms come around him, careful and sure. They breathe together in the warm, plant-scented air, surrounded by the simple herbs that grow without drama or fuss. Growing the way they're learning to love. Steadily, surely, putting down roots that will last.

When they finally leave, it's hand in hand, walking toward the house that's become home. Behind them, the greenhouse settles back into quiet darkness, holding their promises like seeds planted in good soil.

Some things are worth the wait.

Chapter Text

6 months later ~

The studio smells like fresh paint and possibility.

Yoongi stands near the back wall, champagne flute forgotten in his hand, watching Jimin move through the space like he's choreographing something invisible. Adjusting the angle of a mirror. Straightening a stack of registration forms that don't need straightening. Running his fingers along the smooth wood of the barre.

The sign outside reads Sowoozoo Dance Studio in clean Korean script. Little microcosms. Individual worlds where children can discover who they're meant to be.

It fits.

"He's been doing that for the past hour," Taehyung says, appearing at Yoongi's shoulder with a glass of his own. "The nervous energy thing."

"He's not nervous."

"No?" Taehyung raises an eyebrow. "Then what do you call reorganizing the same shelf six times?"

Yoongi watches Jimin crouch down to adjust the height of a small chair, even though it was already perfect. "Excited. Overwhelmed. Happy."

"All of the above," Taehyung agrees.

Next to them, Seokjin leans against the wall near the parent observation area, one hand resting on the curve of his belly. Eight months pregnant and still insisting he doesn't need to slow down, despite Namjoon's hovering.

"Should he even be here?" Namjoon asks Yoongi quietly, approaching with a small plate of catered appetizers. "The doctor said—"

"I can hear you," Seokjin calls out, accepting the plate with an amused look. "And the doctor said I'm fine. It's a party, not a marathon."

"Standing for too long isn't good for your ankles."

"My ankles are fine."

"Your feet were swollen this morning."

"They're always swollen in the morning."

Yoongi hides a smile behind his champagne. Some things never change. Seokjin's stubborn independence. Namjoon's careful worry. The way they bicker like the old married couple they've become.

The door chimes, and Hoseok steps inside. Behind him, a man Yoongi doesn't recognize. Tall, broad shoulders, wearing a simple button-down and jeans. He moves like someone used to being listened to, but doesn't demand it.

"Sorry we're late," Hoseok calls out, slightly breathless. "Surgery ran over."

Surgery. So this is the doctor.

Jimin hurries over, face lighting up. "You made it! I was starting to worry you got called away again."

"Wouldn't miss it." Hoseok grins, then gestures to the man beside him. "Everyone, this is Junho. Junho-hyung, these are the people I've been telling you about."

Junho bows politely, smile warm but reserved. "It's nice to finally meet you all. Hoseok talks about you constantly."

He stands close to Hoseok without crowding. His attention shifts naturally to include everyone in the conversation. Yoongi notices things without meaning to. The way Junho's hand hovers near Hoseok's lower back. The laugh lines around his eyes. The calluses on his hands.

"Surgeon?" Yoongi asks.

"Pediatric," Junho confirms. "Children's hearts, mostly."

"He fixes kids," Hoseok says, and there's something soft in his voice. Pride, maybe. Or something deeper.

Jimin pulls Junho around the room, introducing him to everyone like he's presenting a treasured friend rather than someone he's meeting for the first time. Classic Jimin. Immediate warmth. The kind of welcome that makes people feel like they've known him for years.

"This is incredible," Junho says, looking around the studio. "It's even better than Hoseok described."

"Thank you," Jimin smiles. "Hoseok helped with everything. Contractors, permits, insurance. I couldn't have done it without him."

"You could have," Hoseok says. "You just wouldn't have gotten it done as quickly."

"Or as legally," Taehyung adds, grinning. "Remember when you wanted to knock down that wall without checking if it was load-bearing?"

"It was a small wall," Jimin protests.

"It was holding up the ceiling," Jungkook says from across the room, camera in hand. He's been documenting everything. "I have photos of Hoseok's face when you suggested it. Pure terror."

"I wasn't terrified," Hoseok says. "I was having flashbacks to building code violations."

Junho laughs. Not too loud. Not trying too hard. Just honest amusement at the easy teasing between old friends.

Yoongi finds himself relaxing. First impressions matter, especially when it comes to Hoseok. They've found their way back to friendship slowly, carefully, rebuilding trust that was damaged but not destroyed. Yoongi wants good things for him. Wants him to be happy.

This man. Steady, kind, someone who fixes children's hearts for a living. He might be exactly what Hoseok deserves.

"So when do classes start?" Junho asks.

"Monday," Jimin says, and his whole face transforms. "Fifteen kids signed up for the first session. Ages five to twelve."

"That's wonderful."

"I'm terrified," Jimin admits. "What if they hate it? What if I'm terrible at teaching? What if—"

"You won't be," Yoongi says quietly.

Jimin looks at him, some of the anxiety smoothing from his expression. "How do you know?"

"Because you understand what it means to need somewhere to belong."

The words settle over the group. Seokjin makes a small sound, something pleased and emotional. Namjoon's hand finds his shoulder, squeezes once.

"Besides," Taehyung adds, "if you're anything like you were at BIT, those kids are going to adore you."

"They are," Hoseok agrees. "I've seen you with the BIT kids. You have this way of making them feel seen."

Junho nods. "That's the most important thing. In medicine, in teaching, in any work with children. They need to know you see them as individuals, not just small versions of adults."

"Exactly," Jimin says, warming to Junho immediately. "Each kid has their own way of moving, their own relationship with their body. My job isn't to make them all dance the same way. It's to help them find their own way."

"Little microcosms," Seokjin says softly.

"Little microcosms," Jimin agrees.

The hour that follows feels easy. Natural. Jimin explains his plans while they wander through the space. The mirror placement that ensures every angle is covered. The sound system that can handle everything from classical to hip-hop. The small storage room filled with scarves and ribbons and props for creative movement.

Yoongi watches it all with quiet satisfaction. This is what Jimin was meant to do. Not sitting in board rooms or attending charity galas or playing the part of the perfect chaebol spouse. This. Creating space for children to discover themselves. Offering them the kind of belonging he once desperately needed.

Junho asks good questions. About safety protocols. About the age range for classes. About Jimin's background in dance. The questions of someone who works with children professionally, who understands that details matter.

Hoseok beams. Not just for Jimin's studio, but for this moment. All of them together, celebrating something built from hope rather than survival.

The party begins to wind down as the evening deepens. Seokjin declares his feet can't take much more standing, despite his earlier protests about being fine. Namjoon immediately begins fussing about getting him home and elevated with ice packs. Taehyung and Jungkook volunteer to help clean up, though Jimin waves them off with promises that the catering company will handle everything.

"This was perfect," Hoseok says, pulling Jimin into a hug. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you." Jimin's voice is thick. “It means everything that you're here.”

Junho shakes Jimin's hand, then Yoongi's. "It was wonderful to meet you both. I can see why Hoseok speaks so highly of you."

"Take care of him," Yoongi says quietly.

"I intend to."

After the others leave, it's just Yoongi and Jimin in the empty studio. The champagne glasses have been cleared away, the catering plates removed. But the space still hums with possibility, with the echo of laughter and celebration.

"So," Yoongi says, watching Jimin do one final check of the locks. "How does it feel?"

Jimin pauses, key halfway to the deadbolt. "Surreal. Terrifying. Perfect."

"All at once?"

"All at once." Jimin turns the key, tests the handle. Satisfied, he turns back to Yoongi. "I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and find out it was all a dream."

"It's not a dream."

"No," Jimin agrees, stepping closer. "It's not."

They walk to the car together, Jimin's hand finding Yoongi's in the space between them. The studio sits dark behind them, waiting for Monday morning and the sound of children's laughter.

Waiting for Jimin to do what he was always meant to do.

"Ready to go home?" Yoongi asks.

"Ready," Jimin says.

And for the first time in years, Yoongi believes that both of them truly are.

The drive home is quiet. Comfortable. Jimin's hand rests on Yoongi's thigh, thumb tracing small patterns through the fabric of his pants. The radio plays something soft and unobtrusive. Neither of them feels the need to fill the silence with words.

When they pull into the driveway, the house looks exactly as they left it hours ago. Warm light spilling from the front windows, plants visible through the glass. Home.

Inside, Jimin kicks off his dress shoes with obvious relief. The tie comes next, pulled loose and draped over the back of a chair. He looks good like this. Rumpled from celebration, hair slightly messed from running his hands through it whenever someone asked about enrollment numbers or class schedules.

"Drink?" Yoongi asks, heading for the kitchen.

"Just water."

Yoongi fills two glasses, adds ice to both. When he returns to the living room, Jimin has settled onto the couch, feet tucked under him, still wearing that slight smile he's carried all evening.

"Fifteen kids," Yoongi says, handing him the water. "That's more than you expected."

"I'm trying not to spiral again," Jimin admits. "You already had to talk me down once tonight."

"Good. That means it's working."

They sit in comfortable quiet for a moment. Jimin sips his water, gaze drifting around the room they've made their own. Books shelved in no particular order. Jimin's dance bag slung over a chair. The small succulents on the windowsill that he's somehow managed to keep alive for three months running.

"I liked Junho," Jimin says eventually.

"He seems good for Hoseok."

"Yeah. He does."

Jimin sets his water glass on the side table, turns to face Yoongi more fully. The movement brings him closer, close enough that Yoongi can smell the faint sweetness that clings to his skin. Fig and warm milk, familiar as breathing.

"I've been thinking about something," Jimin says.

"What?"

"I want to stop taking suppressants."

The words hang in the air between them. Quiet. Certain.

Yoongi goes very still. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Jimin's voice is steady. "I've been thinking about it for weeks. Tonight just... confirmed it."

"Tonight?"

"Seeing everyone together. Seokjin and Namjoon starting their family, Hoseok with Junho. Taehyung and Jungkook." Jimin pauses. "Feeling like we've finally built something real. Something that belongs to us."

Yoongi's throat feels tight. "Have you talked to Dr. Kim?"

"I have. About tapering down gradually instead of stopping suddenly." Jimin reaches for his hand, fingers intertwining. "I don't want to do it right away. Maybe in a couple of months, once the studio is really established and the kids are comfortable with me."

"That's smart."

"I don't want to risk disrupting their sense of stability. They need to know they can count on me being there, being consistent." Jimin's voice grows quieter. "But after that, when I'm ready... I want my body to be mine again, completely. I want to choose when to bond with you, not have it chosen for me by medication or circumstance."

"Jimin..."

"I'm not asking for anything to happen right away," Jimin continues. "Just that when the time comes… when we're both ready… we let it happen naturally. And if we both want to complete the bond then..."

He trails off, but the implication sits clear between them.

Yoongi looks at him. Really looks. At the man who stood in his studio tonight, glowing with pride and possibility. Who carved out space for children who need belonging. Who chose to build a life with him not out of desperation or circumstance, but because they fit together in all the ways that matter.

"Yes," he says. "I want to."

Jimin's smiles. Wide and wondering. "Okay then."

"Okay."

They move closer without discussing it. Jimin's hand finds the back of Yoongi's neck, fingers threading through the hair at his nape. When they kiss, it's soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that speaks of time and certainty rather than urgency.

When they part, Jimin rests his forehead against Yoongi's. "I love you."

"I love you too."

"Not because I have to. Not because of bonds or biology or any of it."

"I know."

"Because you see me. All of me. The parts that are strong and the parts that are still scared."

Yoongi's hand finds the curve of Jimin's jaw, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "You see me too."

"Always."

They settle against each other on the couch, Jimin's head on Yoongi's shoulder. The house is quiet around them. Just the quiet sounds of summer evening outside.

"Are you nervous?" Yoongi asks quietly. "About stopping the suppressants?"

Jimin is quiet for a long moment. "A little. It's been years since I let myself feel it fully. Since I wasn't fighting it or medicating it away."

"We'll take it slow. Whatever you need."

"I know." Jimin tilts his head up, meets Yoongi's eyes. "Will you do something for me?"

"Anything."

Jimin shifts, exposing the curve of his neck. The bond mark sits just below his scent gland, faded now to a thin silver line. Barely visible unless you know where to look.

"Please," he says quietly.

Yoongi's breath catches. "Jiminie..."

"I want to feel it again. The way it feels when we both want it.”

Slowly, carefully, Yoongi leans down. His lips brush the mark first, soft as a whisper. Jimin's head tilts further, giving him access. Then Yoongi's teeth graze the scar, the faintest pressure.

The response is immediate. Jimin's scent spikes, sweet and warm. His hand fists in Yoongi's shirt, not pulling away but anchoring himself. The bond hums between them, gentle but insistent.

"God," Jimin breathes.

Yoongi presses another soft kiss to the mark, then pulls back. Jimin's eyes are dark, pupils dilated, but there's no desperation in his expression. Just want. Choice. The certainty that this is what he wants, when he wants it.

"Better?" Yoongi asks.

"Better." Jimin settles against him again, hand still resting over Yoongi's heart. "Much better."

Outside, Seoul glitters in the darkness. Somewhere across the city, children are sleeping, dreaming of Monday morning and their first dance class. Next door, Seokjin is probably arguing with Namjoon about putting his feet up. Across town, Hoseok and Junho are sharing quiet conversation over late dinner, still glowing from the evening.

But here, in this house they've built together, Yoongi and Jimin are exactly where they belong. No longer running from the past or fighting for a future that might never come.

Just choosing each other. Every day. Every breath.

Every beat of their hearts.