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Chapter Text

Seoul’s summer season opened with a sizzling headline: King Jaewon Abdicates Amid Misused Funds; Queen Hyerin to Assume Head of State Ceremonial Role.

The past month served a flurry of news, starting from Prime Minister Lee Sanghyun’s inquiry and a subsequent investigation led by the National Assembly’s Ethics Committee, to the findings that showed how the Kingdom of Korea’s figurehead misused some public funds allocated to the Royal Household, to his eventual abdication.

What followed was an unprecedented move in the history of their nation: a Queen assuming the lead sovereign role, as advised by the Royal Council and as approved by the National Assembly. 

Traditionally, the wife of the King was relegated simply as the Consort, with no real power or influence. But, as the woman formerly known as Kim Hyerin has proven in her years beside His Majesty King Jaewon, she is a woman who knows how to navigate a crisis with a sense of duty and grace.

But while the new Queen is a picture of dignity, there is still a good chunk of the country wary about trusting the royals, and understandably so. 

As one of their subjects, Park Jimin would say he sympathizes a little with the Royal Household, but honestly, the mess has been good for his business. 

Because while the news eventually died down and the crowd around Gyeongbokgung thinned out in the past few days, his little flower shop along Samcheong-ro, standing between the palace and Bukchon, is still receiving more than the usual foot traffic in the neighborhood. 

His flowers and his art are getting the spotlight they deserve, his bouquets finding their way to the hands and hearts of those who need a little light in their day. That’s what he wanted to do when he brought 빛꽃 to life: a humble flower shop that sells living art and healing keepsakes. 

Currently, Jimin is putting together a basket arrangement that symbolizes strength and new beginnings: some early blooming purple gladiolus that goes well with the last of his special shipment of pink proteas, thrown in with some white statice as filler.

As a finishing touch, he picks an artwork he painted the previous afternoon, an attempt at sumukhwa, or inkwash painting, that features green mountains dressed in the promising glow of a new day. On the back, written in simple handwriting: you have the strength to move mountains.

That’s what makes his bouquets special: flowers, arranged as handheld or in baskets, all come with a small card of artwork and a message or a quote on the other side, bringing a tiny spark of inspiration and healing to those who receive them.

The woman pays for the bouquet, and Jimin notices her media badge attached to her shoulder bag. “Oh! Are you in the neighborhood to cover news?”

“Just exploring. That recent news cycle was tough, so I never really got around to checking out the neighborhood,” The woman gestures around. “I got lucky that I stumbled upon your beautiful shop! Do you paint these artworks too?”

“I try to paint daily so I have a stack ready whenever someone orders a bouquet,” Jimin pulls out his box of mini paintings. “I just paint whatever speaks to me, but I do have some themed artworks that correspond to a feeling or a common event. Do you have any message or mood in mind for this bouquet and this recipient?”

She looks thoughtfully at the mini artcard and the complementary quote, “I think this fits perfectly, it’s something my dear friend would appreciate. Do you also supply flowers for events? I feel like this concept would fit a wedding.”

“I’m not able to, since I run everything on my own. So unless you visit my shop or send a message to order via Instagram, there’s no other way to get my bouquets to you,” Jimin hands over a business card. “I do random flower drops each month though. I leave them in public spaces for people to find.”

“Huh, I think there’s a potential for a story here,” The woman has a faraway look in her eyes, but snaps back to reality, smiling at Jimin. “I don’t do lifestyle stories these days, but let me pitch this to my colleague.”

“Thank you! That would be wonderful, but no pressure at all,” Jimin bows respectfully. “I’d be happier if you come by and get more flowers again.”

“Oh, absolutely. I love what you’re doing here and I’m definitely getting one for myself next time,” she gestures at the door. “I have to get going, but do you know if there’s any decent coffee shop nearby?”

“The record store to my right doubles as a café. Get the einspanner and tell them Jimin sent you.”

“I’ll do that then. Thank you, Jimin-ssi, have a great day!”

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Like a cosmic twist, the floral arrangement finds its way as a centerpiece on Her Majesty’s dinner table. She sits in her former residence, Gyotaejeon, which now primarily serves as her personal area, a place where she receives visits from family and friends.

A couple of weeks ago, it was where she rested and relaxed. A place for her to be herself, where she read books, ate chocolate, and yes, watched her guilty pleasure dramas. She’d come out to have tea at the garden between her residence and her husband’s, where they often talked, not as King and his Consort, but as husband and wife. 

She still has no idea where it went wrong — and perhaps, that’s where the issue lies.

In the past few weeks, she hasn’t found the time to fully grasp what was happening: the Royal Council and the National Assembly pushing for the King to abdicate, then in the same motion, pushing for Hyerin to replace him. She became a Queen overnight, moving across the garden from Gyotaejeon to Gangnyeongjeon, “promoted” to a role that has never seen a woman before.

She also lost her husband to Suwon, where he’s laying low and quiet, repenting his mistakes. She hasn’t reached out, and does not want to, at least until she has processed her emotions.

Hyerin supposes now is the time to lean in to family, for support. As a mother though, she cannot fathom showing her weak side to her sons, even if they’re both adults now. 

Seokjin, her eldest and heir apparent, has his own family, living with his wife Eunha and their daughter Nari up in nearby Changdeokgung. Eunha is carrying another child, further securing their future and their lineage. Seokjin, mild mannered and responsible, is the picture of a perfect heir, but has been understandably focused on his growing, young family. In recent years, Hyerin has suspected Seokjin, if given the choice, will choose his family over the Crown. 

Which brings her to: Taehyung, her second born, living alone in Changgyeonggung. Thirty and unmarried, her youngest keeping his soft heart behind a steady, stoic facade. Taehyung has been dependable too, remaining free of scandals, with the exception of that ex-lover everyone warned them about. Hyerin knows at the end of this dinner, Taehyung will walk away with another duty on his shoulders — one that he will bear silently, but also proudly. He is his mother’s child, after all.

Taehyung steps in the dining hall, bowing lightly for Her Majesty. 

“Mother,” hw hesitates, but eventually leans in to kiss his mother on the cheek. Polite, but somewhat perfunctory.

“Come and sit beside me, Taehyung,” Hyerin gestures the chair next to her. Like clockwork, the staff move around them in an almost choreographed fashion: the chair is pulled for Taehyung to sit on, glasses are filled with water and with wine, tableware covers are lifted to reveal their meal.

“Hmm, this looks good,” Taehyung says appreciatively, and Hyerin could almost see the playful, young boy that he was, when he had his bread cheeks and ears that seemed too big for his face. The Taehyung of today now looks regal, sometimes somewhat untouchable, having grown into his features and carrying it with poise.

“Had a long day?” Hyerin begins, feeling for a way in to drop the news. To request something from her son.

“The usual. The Royal Council meeting dragged on and on, lamenting how the public is disappointed in the Crown. That we need to take action and restore the people’s faith in us, before it fully slips away and we become irrelevant,” Taehyung slices his food with precision, then looks up to his mother. “I’m assuming this is why I was summoned for dinner on a random Tuesday, and not the usual Fridays for family dinner.”

Hyerin treads with care. “You’re right. I would have had Seokjin here too, as this is a family matter, but Nari has been fussy lately and Eunha is adjusting with her pregnancy. And your father… well, we would not be here if it wasn’t for what he did and for what happened.”

“It’s been a long few weeks,” Taehyung says dryly, mouth quirking up in a rueful smile. Takes a deep breath, steeling himself. And then: “What do we need to do, Mother?”

“I met with the Council over the weekend. They believe there’s nothing more I can do beyond giving my blessing and arranging this,” Hyerin sighs. 

“This meaning?”

Hyerin glances at the bouquet, at the card painted with mountains facing a sunrise and the message, you have the strength to move mountains.

“The Council asked me to arrange a marriage for you. Not just any marriage, but a marriage between you and a commoner,” Hyerin says gently. “They believe this will soften our image, a way to build a bridge between the monarchy and the people.”

She gives in to sentimentality, reaching for her son’s hand. “The people love you and have always been fond of you. You’ve grown into someone trustworthy, someone safe and reliable for them. As your mother, you know I would never impose and force you to do what the Council asks. But as your Queen, I know you understand duty as much as I do.”

Taehyung takes a sip of his wine, shoulders tensed and forehead creased with tension. He remains quiet, like he’s coming to terms with what he has to do.

"Who?" An important question, the only one he can think of after the unusual request.

“The Council handpicked some candidates. I didn’t have a candidate in mind until yesterday, when I received these flowers from a friend,” Hyerin’s eyes flickered back to the floral arrangement at the center of the table. “Park Jimin. He’s a florist who owns a flower shop across the palace.”

Taehyung turns to the flowers, surprised. “He made these?”

“Yes. My aide says Jimin handles the floral arrangements himself, from selecting the flowers to painting the artwork and picking the words to go with them.” Hyerin slips the artwork to Taehyung. “Beyond someone representing the people, or being suitable for the role of a Consort… I think he would be a good match for you, darling. He seems kind, gentle. A different kind of good, perhaps one that we need in the Palace.”

Taehyung touches the painting, brushing the strokes of vivid greens, golden yellows, and bold oranges on cardstock. He glances back up at the bouquet, its purple and pink hues standing out in his mother’s dining hall.

He doesn’t know anything about flowers other than they look pretty. He’s sure he has encountered hundreds of them in his lifetime: on tables at state dinners, in the vase placed strategically at his office, the shrubs outside his residence. He hasn’t given them any thought, any second glance, nothing more than a mere decor fading in the background.

But maybe it is time for him to pay attention. For him to experience something different and colorful, maybe something beautiful. Even if it will be within the boundaries of his duty as the Crown Prince. Even if he did not ask for it.

“I’ll meet him,” he finally says. 

Hyerin smiles softly, recognizing the resolve in her son’s voice. “Good. I’ll set it up this week, after I speak with him myself.”

For a moment, The Queen and the Crown Prince fall into a quiet understanding, letting Taehyung’s agreement settle over them. Taehyung looks outside the windows, noticing for the first time the delicate flowers growing in his mother’s garden and the way the setting sun spills across them.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Jimin’s life changes on Wednesday morning, precisely an hour after he flipped the open signage on the front door of 빛꽃. He was tending to the red and magenta zinnias on the front window’s shelf, when a sleek black car bearing the national flag and the royal banner parked in front of the shop.

A tall man stepped out, entered 빛꽃 with a polite, dimpled smile, and introduced himself as Kim Namjoon, royal advisor.

He didn’t need to say anything else as he handed over an envelope embossed with a Rose of Sharon pattern, the flap sealed with Her Majesty’s personal insignia, wax stamped in its distinct deep red hue. He left just as quickly as he arrived, bowing politely before he exited the front door.

Jimin felt anxious to open it alone, so in the meantime, he slid the envelope into the drawer behind the counter. He waited and hoped one of his hyungdeul would come by to talk him through it, if it was anything major.

Hoseok, who owns the bookstore beside 빛꽃, arrives a little past one, with a plastic bag of tteokbokki and gimbap from their favorite daytime pojangmacha.

“Jiminie, what’s the emergency?” he calls out from the small break room at the back of the store, where he sets up their lunch. 

“This correspondence from Gyeongbokgung arrived a couple of hours ago,” Jimin stands in the doorway, carefully holding the envelope between two pollen-stained fingers.

“Ohhh, our Jimin is getting his big moment! Are they requesting flowers for an event? They do that big royal garden gala annually.”

Jimin sits down, slowly lifting the wax seal and pulling a folded but crisp ivory correspondence from inside the flap. He reads out aloud:

Her Majesty cordially invites you to Gyeongbokgung on July 9, Thursday. Please arrive at Sinmumun Gate at 3:30pm. Formal attire expected.

Office of Her Majesty the Queen Hyerin

Hoseok drops the gimbap on its way to his mouth, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Time to bust out that vintage suit from your graduation ceremony.”

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Jimin arrives at Gyeongbokgung’s Sinmumun Gate, where a palace aide meets him and brings him to a two-story pavilion on top of a pond, where it feels like time has stopped amidst the usual hustle of life.

He assumes the meeting will be about a commissioned arrangement, maybe for an upcoming royal event like what Hoseok has mentioned. 

He’s not aware which of his bouquets made it within the royal family’s radar, so he thought of his elevator pitch and brought along a folder with photos of his best work. He also sketched a few ideas he thought could work for different events like a charity ball or a dinner for a foreign dignitary, just to impress the Queen with his creativity and planning.

As he steps into the pavilion, his eyes instantly land on a woman wearing a pale lavender hanbok embroidered with tiny flowers.

“Park Jimin,” Queen Hyerin says with a smile. “Thank you for taking the time to meet me today.”

Jimin bows, “Your Majesty, it’s an honor.”

“Come, sit. I’ve requested maesilcha, I hope you don’t mind,” The Queen gestures to the seat across her. 

Jimin notices the palace staff gave them the space to be alone, with them standing almost outside the pavilion. He feels like his heart will jump out of his chest and straight into the pond, but tries his best to look calm and collected.

The Queen plays the perfect host: pouring him the chilled plum tea from a clear teapot and into white porcelain teacups bearing a delicate plum blossom design. She places some of the tea snacks on matching small plates, handing it to Jimin. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Jimin accepts, still in awe. He looks at the plate and notices the tea cookies are shaped into flowers, while the hwajeon contain edible petals.

After a couple of sips from her own cup of tea, the Queen gets to business, “You might be wondering why I summoned you to the palace.” 

“I assumed it was for my floral arrangements, Your Majesty. I own a flower shop across the street near Bukchon,” Jimin says.

“A good friend of mine gave me one of your basket arrangements. I’m not knowledgeable with flowers, but the bold purple and pink hues definitely made an impression on me.”

Jimin’s memory flashes back to the purple gladiolus and pink protea arrangement that he did at the start of the week, the one he gave with the sumukhwa inspired painting.

“It arrived at a time I needed a reminder of what is outside our palace walls. The beauty that can be found in unexpected places,” she says. “I looked into your flowers and see that you take great care in sending a message. Not just through the flowers, but also through your art and the words that come with them.”

“I’m glad you liked them, Your Majesty,” Jimin reaches out to his satchel, to take out his folder with photos and sketches. “I’m assuming you’re interested in arrangements for an event?” 

The Queen sips her tea calmly, but Jimin senses something big is coming. He waits with bated breath.

“I asked you to come to the palace because I have an for offer you,” she begins. “Something signifcant and extraordinary.”

“Oh.”

“You’re most likely aware of the recent scandal with the former King. And I’m sure you’ve heard how the public feels about the monarchy right now — maybe a part of you feels the same. We understand the people need something to believe in again, to gain back their trust. We hope you can help us bring that to life.”

“Me, Your Majesty?”

“The Council has asked me to consider an arranged marriage match for my second son, Prince Taehyung. Preferably one who can represent the people and bring us closer to them, by bridging the gap left by the scandal and the growing mistrust,” the Queen continues.

“I… I don’t understand how I will come in,” Jimin says.

“I believe you’re a good match for my son. You seem to carry this gentle grace and warm sincerity, the kind of reassuring presence that complements Taehyung’s steadfast sense of duty. It’s something we need in the Palace, and perhaps something the people need at this moment as well.”

“I’m just a florist, Your Majesty,” Jimin pauses, struggling with words. He did not expect this request at all. “Surely there are others who can step into this role better than I would be able to.”

“Perhaps there are better candidates, that is true. Maybe someone noble from birth, or someone from a similar social standing,” she muses. “But I can tell you have the ability to see the world differently, and that you can bring clarity and comfort where there’s chaos and doubt. It’s there in your flowers, in your art, and the words you choose to go with them.” 

“Your Majesty, I truly am honored you think of me this way. And I hope it won’t be disrespectful of me to say this, but I do not want to be just a band aid solution or symbol to be used for whatever purpose the Crown sees me for.”

“We’re not asking for a symbol. We’re hoping for someone’s reassuring, relatable, and real presence — whether you want that to be for the people, or for Taehyung and the Crown, we would be thankful to have you with us,” the Queen lets her maternal instincts kick in.

"If I may speak as a mother though, I want someone real for my son. Someone who will choose to be beside Taehyung, amidst the weight of expectations he carries.”

“You want me to marry Prince Taehyung?” Jimin truly cannot believe how this afternoon has turned out.

“I want you to meet my son, Taehyung,” she gently corrects. “And if you’ll consider and you’re willing, then yes, I hope you would like to be with him as his partner and husband.”

“And if I say no?” Jimin asks with bated breath.

“Then we’ll simply part ways,” the Queen says.

Jimin traces the plum blossoms painted on his teacup, thinking how apt that the flowers made their way to his tea. The flowers signify perseverance and resilience, and it’s also a symbol of hope and new beginnings.

He can't fathom how his humble life can go from arranging flowers and living in a one bedroom apartment to stepping into the role of a royal consort and becoming a part of the royal family. He has no idea what it’s like: the palace life, the responsibilities, the expectations. It seems unreal and daunting to him.

But as he looks up to meet the Queen’s eyes, something inside him stirs. She barely knows him and yet she saw something in him that she believes is worth planting in the palace. She’s asking him to provide something he knows he can do: to be himself. To be a real, steady presence, whether it’s for the people or the prince.

He wonders if it’s the kind of life he wants to live. A part of him sees it as an opportunity to do something more, to be someone more. 

It’s not that he thinks his current life of arranging flowers is small — it’s the thing that got him here in the first place, and he plans to never leave that part of himself behind — but maybe, just like the flowers he loves so much, he can grow too. He can also bring a tiny spark of comfort and joy in a place that needs it. 

“Your Majesty,” he starts, soft but steady. “I honestly do not feel ready for what you’re asking from me. But there’s also a part of me that understands this… vision, or this hope that you have. I’m greatly honored that you see something in me, something that you believe is worth bringing into the monarchy. And so, even if I’m hesitant and cannot commit myself and my life to the Crown yet, I'm willing to try and at least meet the prince.”

A quiet sense of ease seems to wash over the Queen. “I perfectly understand, Jimin. You don’t have to decide on anything today. I’m thankful you’re open to meeting with Taehyung.”

“When you do, you can see for yourself who he is. You can both take the time to see if there’s something worth nurturing, and then take the next steps together from there,” she gives Jimin a kind smile.

Jimin nods, the decision and the possibility feeling heavy on his shoulders. He sees the way the Queen frames it though: he would not be entirely alone in this. They can go through it together.

“Alright,” He steels himself and tries to release the tension in his body with a calming inhale and a slow exhale. “I’ll meet the prince.”

“Thank you, Jimin. I truly appreciate your openness to giving this a chance. I will arrange for you to meet Taehyung this weekend,” The Queen stands, getting ready to leave. “I know it’s not easy and it will not be easy, but I believe in what you can bring to Taehyung, this family, and the Palace.”

Jimin stands up to bow, then meets her warm but unwavering gaze, “Thank you, Your Majesty. I will try my best.”

He doesn’t have the answers yet, and he still feels uncertain about the future. But the promise of something different and real thrums in the air, so he holds on to the hopeful anticipation of possibilities and new beginnings. 

♕❀♕❀♕❀

On late Sunday, the sky treats Seoul to a stunning sunset with streaks of lavender, pink, and orange. Jimin enjoys a moment to himself at Changgyeonggung, looking up at the sunset as he sits under a zelkova tree, its leaves softly rustling in the mild afternoon breeze. 

At first glance, he looks calm, at peace with what may come from this conversation with Prince Taehyung. 

His hands tell another story though, as his fingers nervously trace the ribbon tying the bouquet he brought for Taehyung. He was told it would be a simple meeting and that he didn’t need to bring anything but himself.

He also knew though that the Prince could have anything and anyone he wanted. But aside from bringing his presence and his willingness to possibly see this through to a marriage, there was also one true, honest thing he could offer for this moment: flowers that come from his heart.

Elegant white irises for hope and trust. Blushing pink camellias for respect and tranquil bluebells for gratitude. Delicate, cascading lily of the valley for sincerity and happiness. Forget me nots and freesias for devotion and fidelity.

Just as he’s overthinking his choice of flowers, he hears soft footsteps approaching. Jimin looks up, chest tightening, as he sees Taehyung walking towards him. Even from a distance, Jimin can feel the prince’s quiet but undeniable presence. One that carries a promise of something more, commanding attention or surrender. He doesn’t know yet which option he prefers.

Taehyung stops in front of the bench where Jimin is and Jimin finds himself rising to stand, like flowers moving and facing the sun.

Up close, Jimin notices the prince’s beautiful lashes framing his dark eyes and the moles dotting his face like constellations.

“Your Highness,” Jimin bows.

“Jimin,” Taehyung acknowledges him. His eyes linger on the bouquet, then flicks back up to Jimin’s face. “Are those for me?”

“They are,” Jimin offers the bouquet. Their fingers brush in a fleeting contact, leaving behind some warmth.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful. I saw the flowers that Mother received, and I can tell you truly have the talent and the eye in creating a living art,” Taehyung brings up the bouquet to smell the flowers, eyes softly closing. Jimin’s heart skips a beat.

Taehyung gestures for them to sit on the bench. They both sit in the silence for a moment, letting the tension of what is to come sit between them.

“I know why we’re here, a prince and a florist,” Taehyung breaks the stillness. Jimin nods, feeling comforted that he’s taking the lead, in a situation he has no idea how to navigate.

“The Council thinks I need to marry someone who represents the people, to unite the Crown and the citizens and to bring back trust. My mother thinks you could be good for the Palace and for me.”

Jimin curls his hands on his lap. “And what do you think?”

“I rarely stray away from what is expected of me by the Crown. Whether that’s public appearances, diplomatic matters, and now, my personal life,” Taehyung turns to him and looks at him openly. “I do what is expected.”

Jimin’s chest aches a bit. He knows romance might not be a possibility, but hearing it laid out like that is bringing up some vulnerable truths for both of them.

“I’m a man shaped by duty and obligation. But maybe I can be more than that, with you beside me,” Taehyung says, reaching for his pocket. “Maybe we can be something else, together.” 

He takes out a small velvet box and places it between them, opening it to face Jimin and revealing a ring inside.

“This ring is a family heirloom, passed down through a line of sons, for when the time comes to ask an important question,” Taehyung explains in a hushed, reverent tone.

They both look down at the ring, as it twinkles in the dusk: a brilliant diamond strikingly flanked by two gemstone bees, set in a platinum and gold band. “In some cultures, bees are a symbol of royalty. More than that though, they also symbolize partnership and loyalty, anchored in commitment and love.”

The moment presses between them, and Jimin feels a wave of awe and anxiety. He knew this was coming, and he knows what’s coming, but it all seems surreal to him as it’s unfolding.

“I know there’s a typical expectation to kneel, but I want us to enter this marriage equally,” Taehyung holds Jimin’s gaze. “And I also know I am asking something big, perhaps something bigger than we can imagine right now.”

Jimin feels a cocktail of emotions wrestling in his chest as he looks back at Taehyung, watching him earnestly put himself on the line.

“But I promise to stand beside you, as we face the future together. I promise to be truthful to you, and be devoted to this marriage. Even when things get tough. Especially when things get tough.”

And then:

“Will you marry me?”

The question lingers in the air, carried by the rustling of the zelkova tree above them.

Jimin still has no idea how he will carry this legacy. But he sees Taehyung’s sincerity in his eyes and hears the promise in his words. Perhaps they can share the weight of this commitment, and navigate the uncertain future together.

“Yes. I’ll marry you.”

Something like a mix of surprise and relief crosses Taehyung’s features. He lets out an exhale and a small smile curves at his lips, a glimmer of tentative hope in his eyes. 

“May I?” he asks softly, reaching for Jimin's hand. Jimin nods quietly, watching.

With a steady resolve, Taehyung slides the heirloom ring onto Jimin’s hand. He holds it for a moment, and like a silent thank you, he caresses Jimin’s hand, his thumb moving tenderly over the skin.

This is how their garden begins: a seed planted with trust, waiting to take root and to grow. Hoping for the right conditions to bloom into something beautiful.

Chapter Text

The early afternoon sky is a clear autumn blue whiskered with soft whites, like the gods themselves painted it in time for the royal celebration. Everything has been arranged precisely as planned, with immaculate precision and as rehearsed and scheduled.

Inside Gyeongbokgung's Geunjeongjeon Hall, the wedding ceremony between the royal family’s second son and a florist commence under latticed dancheong beams and dragons in clouds carved on the ceiling.

Standing in front of a screen painted with the sun, moon, and five peaks, Taehyung and Jimin recite their vows, steady and formal.

Each detail and moment of the ceremony is recorded: Taehyung’s reddish black gujangbok with embroidered dragons and mountains, complementing Jimin’s deep crimson robe embroidered with peonies and lotuses; the traditional exchange of bows, the sliding of the matching platinum rings. 

After the formal ceremony, the newlywed couple steps out of the hall to stand on the balcony. The public, allowed to wait beyond the main palace gate and within the palace’s front courtyard, roar with applause and flower petals to welcome and celebrate their union. Taehyung raises his hand to wave, Jimin follows suit with a small smile. For a moment, they turn to each other: an exchange of a glance and hands brushing between them, captured eternal by a camera.

The wedding reception follows at Gyeonghoeru, where a curated guest list of foreign monarchs, diplomats, and royal council members sit in the same pavilion as family, friends, and select members of the public, the latter group chosen through a lottery.

Servers dressed in black move with grace and ease, offering a mix of royal court cuisine and celebratory dishes on celadon wares. The guests enjoy traditional hors d’oeuvres like mung bean pancakes, familiar dishes like galbijjim, and court cuisine that honor both their heritage like grilled mackerel for Jimin’s hometown and euneogui for Taehyung.

As the late afternoon dips toward the evening and ceremonial makgeolli and hwajeon are served to cap off the celebration, the Queen calls on the couple to dance. Taehyung and Jimin, now dressed in a more casual but still complementary pearl gray and pale jade hanbok respectively, perform what will be one of the many measured moments they would have together: hands meeting, bodies pulled close, never far enough to suggest distance but never too close to be too intimate.

The small orchestra in the corner of the pavilion does a sweet rendition of At Last — a secret request from Jimin, which he mentioned to the orchestra when they were rehearsing the wedding ceremony. He sees, no feels, the surprise from Taehyung.

“This is one of my favorites,” he says in a quiet voice. 

“I know. That’s why I asked for it,” Jimin replies, a bit shy.

Taehyung tilts his head slightly lower to look at him, lips curving in an almost smile. “You remembered,” he murmurs. His hand curls a little more securely around Jimin’s waist, like a silent thank you. 

He feels the flutter of Jimin’s breath against his neck, notices how the pavilion lanterns cast a warm hue along Jimin’s lashes. There’s a sudden pull in his chest, from the ache of noticing too much and somehow still wanting more.

They sway, and from a distance it looks like love. Up close, it is two people learning a rhythm together, not leading too firmly, nor fully retreating.

After the final notes fade, polite applause rises across the pavilion. They make their way through the crowd, accepting congratulations and giving their gratitude.

The Queen stands to the side, beckoning them close. When they do, she gives them private parting words.

Her gaze settles on Jimin. “A marriage is more than a ceremony. It is a partnership,” she begins. “A dance between two people, if you may. A dance that you commit to, from the rhythm you learn together, when the music changes, and until the last note.”

“Be there for each other, and give yourself the grace as you grow together. Learn to lean on one another, and know when to lead or when to step back.” she says, her gaze sliding to Taehyung.

Taehyung and Jimin bow their heads in respect, then thank her for the advice. Taehyung gestures gently at Jimin, placing a hand on his back to guide him away from the festivities.

He leads the way, heading from Gyeonghoeru to Hyangwonjeong, a smaller pavilion at the back part of Gyeongbokgung, where it sits in the center of a pond. As they cross the bridge from the main palace grounds, Jimin notices how the pavilion is framed beautifully by trees dressed in autumn, lit by golden lanterns. He also notices how they’ve been left alone, without any guards trailing behind them.

Inside the pavilion is a pair of low cushions beneath the open windows, with a tea set sitting on top of a matching low table. They sit quietly, close, but not close enough to touch.

Taehyung pours them warm omija hwachae, gently pushing a teacup to Jimin. Jimin watches the delicate flower petals and pear slices floating in the pink hued tea, somewhat reminding him of spring.

“Does this get easier?” Jimin breaks the silence.

“Not really,” Taehyung replies. “We just learn to bear its weight.”

“It’s strange, all of it,” Jimin says softly. “Everyone watching.”

“It’s meant to be a spectacle. Almost like a performance, really, with the two of us onstage,” Taehyung tilts his head. “This isn’t part of it.”

“This, meaning?”

“This, sitting with you in the quiet,” Taehyung says. “No royal protocol and expectations; no audience and no guards. Just us, being here.”

Here, in the space between the end of the ceremony and the beginning of their life together. Not quite strangers, or not quite lovers, and not even friends. Sitting somewhere that’s tentative, leaping into something real.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

In the next couple of weeks, Jimin learns the rhythm of palace life.

There’s the distant echo of footsteps in the morning, of the palace staff preparing to make sure the rest of the day goes smoothly. The rustle of uniforms as the guards pass by and the hurried pace of the kitchen servants. The shuffling of papers as Namjoon, one of Taehyung’s royal advisors, passes by in the corridor connecting their private residence and Taehyung’s office.

Jimin appreciates the beauty and timeless splendor of the palace, understands the legacy of it and what it means to be within its walls. But if he’s being honest, he misses being in the presence of his flowers. He couldn't let go of it fully, so he turned over the reins of the flower shop to his assistant when it became clear that he won't be there daily. The royal family told him he's free to go to the flower shop though, as long as it does not interfere with his duties as the prince’s consort.

And while his schedule is not exactly busy, going to the flower shop always meant following royal protocols of asking for permission and bringing a whole security team, one that he did not like doing. Especially when the one and only time he did it, a long line of customers waited and had to be screened by the palace security before entering the shop.

And so he stayed within Changgyeonggung. He woke up on time, smiled when expected, attended royal functions, and stood beside Taehyung.

Taehyung? He is kind, thoughtful. At breakfast, he checks if Jimin slept well and if he has a specific meal he wants for the day. He carries the conversation, almost diligent to a point, a master of small talk. He never gets angry, never leaves abruptly, never raises his voice.

But he also never lingers. Jimin feels as if Taehyung is treating him as someone he’s assigned to care for, not as a husband or partner he can be with. 

Jimin is pondering about this late one night, sitting in his silk pajamas while drinking chamomile tea in the suite he shares with Taehyung. He hears a door open and as he turns, sees Taehyung stepping in. Hair damp, a robe half-pulled over bare skin and loose pants low on his hips.

Their eyes meet and they both freeze.

“Sorry. I didn’t —,” 

“No, it slipped my mind —,” Taehyung exhales, caught off guard but composing himself. The prince, always dignified. “Sorry, it’s been a long day. I forgot we share this space.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Jimin says, eyes back on his tea. “Do you want some tea?”

Taehyung pauses as he’s walking around the room — getting a towel here, pulling a wardrobe open there — but Jimin feels him despite the distance. The scent of lavender soap, the warmth from the shower.

He glances at Jimin, at the tea set for two and the empty seat beside him. Jimin watches him, and realizes he knows what Taehyung would say before he opens his mouth.

“It’s alright, thank you. Have a good night,” Taehyung retreats to his room, his door sliding shut with a muted click, taking a bit of warmth with him.

“Good night, Taehyung,” Jimin whispers to an empty room.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The next morning, things fall back into place as if nothing happened. 

“There’s a change in schedule today,” Taehyung informs him. “My brother asks for our attendance, for the cultural preservation advocacy that he champions. We have to be in hanbok.” 

Jimin sees a selection of hanbok selected for the outing. It’s still unfamiliar to him, these formal events where they have to dress up and how they will be scrutinized by the media or public. One wrong step and it’s a potential headline in the next hour.

Taehyung notices Jimin’s hesitation as he watches his husband’s reflection. After a moment’s pause, he crosses the space and picks one of the hanbok, the one with the deep royal blue robe embroidered with yellow flowers and muted green leaves.

“This one,” Taehyung says, then he gestures to his dark navy hanbok littered with silver flowers. “It matches mine.”

“Thank you,” Jimin murmurs.

Taehyung meets his eyes, just briefly. “You’re welcome.”

The crowd at the annual cultural preservation showcase is a mix of patrons, artisans and journalists. It’s one of the royal family’s visible patronages and Seokjin, as the heir apparent and crown prince, has been its longstanding figurehead. It supports traditional crafts and artisans who keep the arts alive, along with restoring Korean cultural artifacts.

Even if his attendance was not planned, Jimin fits in seamlessly. His smile is polite, his posture perfect. He greets each person with genuine interest, asking thoughtful questions in a clear, measured voice. 

Taehyung watches him, with a gaze sharper and somehow also softer than most.

He notices the tight line of his shoulders. The way his fingers curl slightly against his robes when he’s not speaking to someone. When he bends forward a little when he laughs and the realization that he did kicks in.

Jimin is doing well, but he’s holding his breath.

“You’re staring at your husband,” Seokjin says out of the corner of his mouth, tone low and laced with amusement.

“I’m observing,” Taehyung blinks, but does not look away.

“Observing as if he’s a bird in a glass cage?” Seokjin holds back an unelegant snort.

“Dramatic, hyung,” Taehyung retorts.

“You could talk to him, you know,” Seokjin says lightly. “Instead of watching like he’s going to fly away and disappear.”

“He’s doing well,” he replies, a non-answer.

“He’s doing what’s expected,” Seokjin corrects gently. Older and observant, understanding Taehyung before his younger brother does himself. “Maybe on some days, he just needs to be someone else outside all the royal expectations and engagements.”

As the day dips into dusk, the three of them wind down with a walk around Changgyeonggung. Seokjin pulls Jimin away to a side path, leaving Taehyung behind.

“I know it’s only been a couple of weeks,” Seokjin begins lightly, “but how are you finding things so far?”

“Ahh, no disasters so far,” Jimin gives a small laugh. “Just a lot of adjustment and learning.”

“The usual then,” Seokjin says with a grin. “You’ve been handling it well, though. You’ve adjusted quickly, and Her Majesty is impressed. We think you’re a fantastic addition to this family.”

“I’m not sure that’s what I am,” Jimin replies quietly. “I’m just doing my best to avoid mistakes.”

“We all do that, especially as royals leading a public life,” Seokjin replies kindly. “Is there anything you need to make it easier? Something no one’s thought to offer?”

“Ah, no, thank you,” Jimin blinks, slightly flustered. “I’ve been well looked after.”

“If anything changes, you can come to me.” Seokjin nods, careful not to overstep.

Jimin looks at him then, and something in his expression must give him away because Seokjin gives him a thoughtful and knowing smile.

“You’re learning Taehyung slowly,” he says. Jimin does not respond, so he continues. “My brother is careful. Everyone thinks he’s difficult to read, or that he’s cold. But he’s not, he just tends to measure the weight of things all the time. We were raised that way, and he never really outgrew it.”

“I’ve noticed,” Jimin says.

“If you want something from him — a comment, an opinion, his attention — you just need to ask. He’ll answer, even if it takes a while. You just need to be patient.”

“He’s not what I expected,” Jimin says with a small smile. They turn along the path and see Taehyung waiting, hands in his coat.

“That’s the point of marriage, isn’t it? We learn who someone becomes when they’re seen for who they truly are,” Seokjin says before they reach Taehyung.

They continue walking, nearing the back end of the palace grounds. Jimin hasn’t explored this part of Changgyeonggung yet, and his eyes catch something glass framed hidden beneath a line of trees. 

The old greenhouse, he thinks, eyes lingering and steps slowing just a bit.

Taehyung, who’s always paying attention, follows his line of sight.

He hasn’t thought about the greenhouse in years. But now, seeing the curious eyes of his husband, a florist, a seed is planted in his mind.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The days are getting longer and Jimin’s feeling lonelier. He’s more attuned now to the way the palace works, but on most days, he still feels like an outsider looking in. 

It doesn’t help that his relationship with Taehyung has pretty much remained the same since the wedding: friendly, yes, but still cold and formal. He’s out for official duties most of the time, and when he’s with Jimin, it’s either they have to appear together for work or they’re having small but almost stilted talk at home.

Home?, Jimin says one time, on a call with Yoongi, his friend who owns the LP café next to his flower shop. Yoongi has asked about his new home and Jimin, forgetting practiced smiles and rehearsed lines, says, It feels like I’m just pretending to be the prince’s consort and I’m playing house in a palace. I don’t know how to exist here, or if I’m allowed to be who I am.

He’s worn thin, frayed at the edges, that he lets his guard down a bit on this one call with Yoongi. He had no idea his voice carried through, and Taehyung briefly heard his conversation.

It’s been a few weeks since that call, the year turning over to a new one. Jimin now has his own office, at the hall connecting to Taehyung’s. He does not have much correspondence yet, barring the pet shelter and the hospital for kids with cancer advocacies he’s taken under his initiative.

Today though, he sees something different: a single stem of pink camellia and a gold key, on top of a folded slip of paper. He holds the flower in one hand, and carefully opens the note.

You’re allowed to be the person you are when no one is watching.

The key is for the greenhouse. I thought the flowers might like your company.

The note isn’t signed, but the handwriting is unmistakably Taehyung’s, in all its graceful, angled strokes. He sets down the note, fingers lingering on the key. 

For the first time in the palace, Jimin finally feels seen.

He goes to the greenhouse by sunset. The key slides into the lock with a quiet, obedient click, the door opens with a creak, and then Jimin feels the comforting warmth welcoming him. 

Not just the warmth of the controlled air that’s been set to a perfect balance for the plants and whoever steps inside, but from something else: the care and intention from Taehyung, who planned this gift.

The greenhouse is already alive with plants, mostly flowers, labeled with handwritten tags and in their own pots and sections. It smells like earth and bloom, everything well-thought of: gardening tools on a table, gloves his size, watering can near a hose, packs of fertilizer and soil, benches along the sides of the greenhouse. At the back, where it’s cooler, darker, and more private is a gray settee where one can rest quietly.

As he approaches it, he notices a moleskine on top of a pillow. He flips it open, blank except for a note on the inside cover, written in the same graceful, angled handwriting: In case you want to keep track of your flowers.

His throat catches. He realizes that this greenhouse is his, a space solely for him. And Taehyung is not only giving him space, he’s also giving him privacy and autonomy. It’s giving back a part of himself he had to temporarily leave behind.

He spends the next hours getting to know the flowers, taking note which ones need extra love and which ones are blooming alright.

There’s a wilting flower that caught his eye — a shy snowdrop, folding in on itself like it’s not sure if it belongs in the greenhouse. He kneels beside it, gentle fingers brushing the petals and the soil. “You’re going to be alright,” he whispers.

Later, he puts together a small bouquet: white carnations for devotion, purple hyacinths for forgiveness, and pink hydrangeas for sincerity. He quietly leaves them on Taehyung’s desk, a way to communicate his gratitude.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

It begins with color.

On Monday, Taehyung arrives at his office to find a small bouquet waiting on his desk: a gentle arrangement of flowers with soft white petals dashed with flowers in purple and pink. He doesn’t ask, and nobody mentions anything.

The next Monday, another arrangement greets him. This time, it’s hues of pink and big petals wrapped in a lace ribbon. They seem to call him, in an intentional but thoughtful way. 

By the third week, he notes that the flowers seem quieter, like a pause in the middle of a sentence. Cool blues and pale greens, in a clear vase beside his schedule for the day.

He looks at it longer than intended, trying to understand how the flowers make him feel, when Namjoon, who arrived that morning for a pre-meeting briefing, comments after sipping his coffee, “Flowers usually say something. These seem to be chosen with care, Your Highness.”

“Hmm,” Taehyung hums, noncommittal.

“If you’re curious, there’s a copy of Language of Flowers in the library,” Namjoon’s tone is casual, but with a nudge of suggestion. “It’s an old edition, but thorough and informative.”

Taehyung nods to acknowledge, but says nothing.

Later, when his meetings are done and the sky has turned dark, he finds himself pulling out the floriography book from the library. He browses it in his office, learning about the third bouquet and what the flowers mean: pale blue cosmos, for enduring love and green zinnias, for lasting affection.

It becomes a new ritual for him.

Each Monday, he takes the time to decode the flowers in a journal, jotting down the date he received it and their meanings according to the Language of Flowers.

At the end of the week, he picks a flower or its petals to press within the pages of his journal, writing down his thoughts, ranging from curiosity to surprise to wistful.

Taehyung tries to understand Jimin, flower by flower. 

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Taehyung has started looking forward to Mondays, when the start of his week smells faintly of fresh flowers. This morning, a new bouquet was waiting for him. He arrived early in his office, where the veiled pinks, subdued ivory, and touches of blue greeted him from his desk.

Jimin sits to the left of the desk now, posture straight, pen in hand and poised to write. He’s in Taehyung’s office, listening to a presentation led by Namjoon on outreach proposals.

When the presentation ends and Namjoon, along with the two other aides in attendance, begin to file out, Jimin rises from his seat. But just as he’s about to leave, Taehyung’s voice stops him.

“This vase seems new.”

Jimin pauses. He turns slightly, offering the smallest of glances over his shoulder. “I wanted to use a vase that matches the flowers.”

Taehyung nods once, eyes on the vase. “This white porcelain does fit the flowers better.” His gaze lifts, meeting Jimin’s. Something flickers between them, quiet and searching.

“The flowers looked more reserved earlier today,” Jimin adds, softly. Then, quieter, almost to himself, “When I arranged them.”

Taehyung shifts in his seat. “I’ve been learning more about the flowers,” he offers tentatively, not really admitting to his near obsession to decoding the flowers.

Jimin’s lips part slightly, like he might say something else. But then he just nods, and leaves the room with the same calm grace he entered.

Taehyung turns back to the bouquet, eyes lingering on the blue tucked between the stems. He doesn’t need the book this time. He remembers.

Blue salvia – I think of you.

Later that week, Taehyung sits at his desk, paperwork long forgotten. He holds the blue flower from the bouquet Jimin left, brushing the petals with care. Pressing it flat between the pages of his journal, he begins to write.

Blue salvia: I think of you

I can’t stop thinking about the weight of those words, tucked between the flowers.

Maybe it’s not meant to be taken that way. But maybe it is? And if it is, I don’t know what to do with it.

He glances at the flower again, and feels the ache bloom, gentle but insistent.

I can’t stop thinking of him too.

He closes the journal, slower this time, and holds it there with both hands. Not to hide the entry, but to hold something fragile and to keep the feeling from slipping away.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The palace rushes on, but the rhythm remains steady like clockwork. The bouquets still arrive each Monday morning, this time, a calm offering of soft petals in shades of blue.

Jimin has taken to walking in the evenings, when the palace is hushed and the pathways turn golden under the lamplights. Even in the midst of winter, he finds the ritual grounding.

As he passes by the half-open door of Taehyung’s office, his eyes catch the blues of his bouquet, where it still sits on the desk. His gaze shifts to Taehyung, slumped over the desk. His head rests on one arm, while the other is loosely wrapped around a leather journal. He looks like a picture of quiet exhaustion, body folded in on himself.

Jimin steps inside.

He walks to the lamp, twisting the knob to soften its light. Then he crosses to the couch, picking up the folded throw, and drapes it across Taehyung’s shoulders.

As he turns, his eyes land on the bouquet again. He pauses, then plucks the heliotrope and sets it on the desk next to Taehyung. He writes down on a small square of notepaper: You look tired. I hope this helps.

He lingers for a moment before he leaves, briefly taking in the rare sight of Taehyung unguarded. Then he slips out, closing the door with a soft click.

The next morning comes warm and slow, Taehyung waking up with a crick in his neck and stiffness along his shoulders. He didn’t mean to sleep in his office, but he was writing in his journal, overthinking his feelings as usual, and then exhaustion caught him off guard. 

As he moves to stretch and ease his muscles, he notices a single flower plucked out from the vase, sitting next to a handwritten note. You look tired. I hope this helps. in a handwriting he’s become familiar with.

He recognizes the heliotrope, its meaning whispering at the back of his head. He reaches for the floriography book anyway, to confirm what it means.

Heliotrope – Devotion. Eternal love. A heart turning toward the light.

He lays the flower on a blank page, hands brushing petal edges. He writes to himself, scribbling beside the flower: I don’t know how to do this, but I wish I did.

He holds the weight of his truth for a moment, the ache inside him that’s becoming more and more like want.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Taehyung’s hands hover over this week’s bouquet, more hesitant than usual. The flowers are cool whites and deep purples, restrained but layered with meaning. 

He stares at it longer than he means to, then gently sets his work notes aside and reaches for the floriography book. Some of the pages are soft or creased, worn down with his frequent browsing.

Sea lavender – Remembrance. I miss you.

Chrysanthemum (white) – Grief. Truth.

Hyacinth (purple) – Regret. Sorrow.

He leans back, chest tight. The message feels like something is shifting, as if Jimin is closing a door on him. On them.

He opens his journal, the one where he’s pressed petals and tracked their meanings. He writes, more for himself than anyone else:

Do you want me to see this? He stares at it, then crosses it out. What are you trying to say? He exhales, setting his pen down and closing his eyes for a moment.

Outside his open door, Namjoon passes by, about to head home. Without thinking, Taehyung calls out, “Would it be strange if I asked my consort for a walk?”

Namjoon pauses, a little surprised but fond. “It’s a marriage, Your Highness. Not a hostage situation.”

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Late that night, Jimin ends his evening walk outside the greenhouse. He sits on the greenhouse steps, arms resting loosely over his knees and taking comfort in the scent of soil and flowers wafting from the greenhouse. 

Jungkook stands nearby, keeping a respectful but watchful distance from the consort.

“Do you think I’m foolish?” Jimin asks, voice low but steady as he breaks the silence. “The way I keep sending flowers to someone who never replies?”

Jungkook blinks, surprised at the question. As the bodyguard for the prince and the consort, he's trained to keep to himself, but he’s always, always observing. It’s part of his job, to watch and to listen, especially Taehyung and Jimin who’s assigned under his care and duty.

He feels Jimin needs reassurance so he reveals something he’s known for a while, “He keeps every one of them.”

Jimin turns to him slightly, mouth open in surprise.

“I know because I’ve seen them, Your Highness” Jungkook says gently. “The prince rearranges them when he thinks no one’s looking, moves them around his office all week, and changes the water himself daily. He never lets the staff touch them. There’s even a drawer where he keeps the bouquets, each of them tied with a ribbon.”

Jimin inhales softly, then wraps his arms around himself. He feels like he will physically fall apart.

“But he doesn’t say anything,” he finds himself saying. “He just tiptoes around me and looks at me like I’m something he isn’t allowed.”

Jungkook stays silent, lets the consort unload the burden he’s carrying.

Jimin lowers his gaze to the soil at his feet. “I don’t need him to fall in love with me,” he murmurs. “I just... I want to stop feeling invisible to him.”

Jimin lets the quiet night and the smell of flowers untangle his heart. A moment later, he hears measured, familiar footsteps heading his way. Taehyung.

Jimin doesn’t move or speak, the silence stretching between them. Jungkook holds off an itch in his throat, waiting in the almost tense silence.

Then finally, Taehyung speaks, a bit shy and almost uncertain, “Do you want to walk with me?”

Jimin unfurls in surprise from where he’s sitting. The question settles over him, unexpected and a little unreal.

“Now?”

“Yes,” Taehyung nods. “Bukchon, if that’s alright? Just the two of us.” He says, subtly signaling Jungkook to stay behind. Jungkook steps back quietly, holding back a smile where he’s standing in the shadows.

Jimin blinks. He’s rarely alone with Taehyung, even if they live under the same roof in Hwangyeongjeon Hall, with just a shared suite and sitting room separating their rooms.

“Alright,” he agrees softly, rising to meet Taehyung at the bottom of the greenhouse stairs. The heaviness in his chest loosens just enough to let the smallest breath of hope in.

For the first time since they got married, they step out of the palace together not for a royal obligation or public appearance. They step out of the palace simply as two people slipping into the hush of the night, something unspoken but small and real stirring between them. 

Chapter Text

The night stretches wide around them, the late winter cloaking Bukchon with a light snow flurry.

They walk around with no destination, just the awareness of their nearness: bodies angling towards each other, coat sleeves touching, glances sliding.

Jimin reaches towards Taehyung’s shoulders, sweeping the slight dusting of snow on his coat, his fingertips grazing Taehyung’s throat briefly. Taehyung’s hand gently nudges Jimin’s back as they walk along a narrow street, his touch warm and steady.

They don’t speak, simply content in the shared warmth of closeness between them, the way the world seemed to stand still for this one moment.

Jimin slows down in front of a row of shops. “This one’s mine,” He says, motioning with a tilt of his head towards 빛꽃.

“Can we go in?” Taehyung asks.

Jimin briefly hesitates with surprise, but proceeds to enter the code at the keypad by the front door. It opens with a soft buzz, welcoming them with its fragrant warmth.

Jimin does not turn on the main lights, just the ones at the back room, its mellow light spilling across petals and shelves in the shop. He begins gathering flowers like second nature, picking up lavender roses, astrantia in blushing hues, and ivory hypericum.

Taehyung stands in the center of it, absorbing every detail, from the flowers on the shelves and the notes left by customers on a wall, to the way Jimin moves here with ease and how he ties the bouquet with a lace ribbon.

Jimin’s hands tremble slightly, both from the late winter chill and something else. He hands over the bouquet to Taehyung, feels him trembling slightly from the contact too.

“Let’s warm up a bit… I think I have a bottle of wine at the back,” Jimin murmurs, already pulling away. “Don’t tell Her Majesty,” he adds in a teasing tone.

Taehyung gives a small smile in response, watching Jimin head to the back room. He hears light jazz filtering low from a speaker, then Jimin comes out with a bottle and mismatched glass tumblers meant for drinking water.

They sit at the wooden floor, behind the shop’s payment counter, backs against a low cabinet. The space makes it feel smaller, more intimate, like they’re in a separate time and space from the world outside.

Jimin’s fingers still tremble, though it’s warmer from where they’re sitting. He figures maybe it’s not the cold at all, but the proximity with Taehyung. When he turns and gives in to the charged tension between them, Taehyung is already watching him — like he’s been waiting for him to turn and look back at him.

Without second guessing himself, Jimin leans in for a kiss, soft and slow, almost like a question.

Taehyung does not respond, stunned into stillness for a beat too long. Jimin pulls back and turns away, cheeks warming with shyness, but Taehyung grounds him with a hand on his waist and the other on his face.

He reels him back in for another kiss, warm, wine-stained mouths blooming together.

Taehyung’s fingertips trace Jimin’s jaw and he feels him exhale a soft sound, melting with the longing he’s held on to for so long.

And then, just as suddenly, Taehyung pulls away. Not with rejection, but with restraint, like something sparked inside of him and he has to put it out quickly.

“I’m sorry,” He says, voice low and cracked at the edges.

“You don’t have to —,” Jimin starts.

“You don’t have to do that,” Taehyung interrupts, gaze fixed ahead. “Not for our duty, and not for my sake.”

Jimin feels the cold slipping in, confused. “What do you mean?” he asks softly.

“I should go,” Taehyung rises from the floor, leaving Jimin without another glance.

Jimin stays seated, stunned by the sudden absence of warmth. The flowers blur in his vision and the cold creeps in again, unwelcome but familiar.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The cold welcomes Taehyung as he steps out of the flower shop, but he barely feels the bite of winter against his skin.

The warmth of Jimin’s mouth still lingers on his, like a phantom trace reminding him of who he left behind. He walks back to the palace quickly, even if he wants to go back to the flower shop and apologize.

Was that a moment or a mistake?

No. No, definitely not a mistake. He wanted it. He still wants it, and that’s the problem.

The kiss felt like a truth they haven’t voiced out yet. But what if it was just duty wrapped in affection? Something that cannot be helped, getting carried away while performing their roles.

You do not get to hope, he thinks to himself, breathing sharply. And you do not get to want.

He thinks about the bouquet that Jimin made for him. How he knew exactly what to make, and how it smelled like something Taehyung isn’t sure he’s learned to hold.

He gets back to the palace in a daze, passing by Jungkook who seems to be heading to the staff quarters.

“Hyung?” Jungkook asks in a surprised tone, forgetting royal honorifics.

“Get the car please,” Taehyung says, low and edged.

Jungkook blinks. “Is everything okay?”

“Jimin’s still at his flower shop,” Taehyung says, eyes unreadable. “Please bring him back home.”

Jungkook hesitates, trying to get a sense of what he’s walking in between, in a way only someone who’s known Taehyung for years could. 

“Yes, Your Highness,” he nods after a pause, heading out to the palace garage.

Taehyung watches the car pull out, and then eventually disappear beyond the palace grounds. His mind goes back to the flower shop: the soft lights, the wine, the flowers. The jazz music humming low from the back room. The kiss and Jimin’s lips, and how he melted in his arms.

It meant something. It means something, of course it does.

But love and desire isn’t something he can afford, not when the palace demands control. Not when love means surrendering the one thing he’s spent years perfecting: restraint.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Back at the shop, Jimin remains seated on the wooden floor, one hand on his now-empty glass and the other on the bouquet. The jazz, which sounded warm and alive earlier, now felt like grating in the silence Taehyung left behind.

You don’t have to do that. Not for our duty, and not for my sake.

The memory of what Taehyung said twists in his chest. 

Did Taehyung really think the kiss was pity? That it meant anything less than the truth simmering between them?

Jimin leaned in and kissed him because he wanted to. Because there’s something between them, and somehow it shifted and softened tonight. Like they're finally something real.

Jimin closes his eyes and rests his head against the cabinet behind him, letting his mind rewind to how Taehyung handled him so gently. He wishes the night ended differently.

He hears the sound of a car pulling up outside the shop, snapping him back to reality. When he opens his eyes, he sees Jungkook leaning on the car, waiting patiently for him. 

Jimin wants to press pause and stay in the melancholy. But time won’t pause for him; it moves and so he has to do the same.

He stands up slowly, going through the motion of picking up the wine and the glasses. Disposes the bottle and cleans the glasses in the small sink at the shop’s back room. Turns off the speaker, flicks off the light switch, dusts the few petals on the counter.

Before he leaves, he notices the bouquet he made earlier. He bends down to pick it up, cradling the flowers, feeling another pang of hurt wash over him.

Jimin curls into his body as he steps out, protecting himself against the cold. He’s unsure if it’s the chill or the heartbreak that will undo him first. 

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Taehyung sits in an armchair near his window, waiting in the darkness of his room. He strains to listen, wondering if Jungkook has arrived with Jimin, but he hears nothing.

He’s almost asleep when he hears the sound of movement outside the door that leads to the suite he shares with Jimin. He hears the slide of the door panels, the creak of the wood, then the faint rustle of a coat being removed and hung.

Jimin is back from the flower shop, and Taehyung holds his breath, waiting.

He hears Jimin walking around their shared suite, pausing, sitting on one of the chairs. Then the sound of slow steps, heading closer to his door. Taehyung eyes it, watching the small gap between the door and the floor, where the sliver of light from the other side passes through.

He feels Jimin’s presence beyond it, so he waits, sitting on his bed with his heart thrumming with anxiety or anticipation.

Just knock. Please.

Outside, Jimin stands with his hand lifted halfway, hovering near the doorframe. 

He wonders if Taehyung is sleeping, but he has a good hunch that he’s on the other side waiting. Jimin knows Taehyung can look or seem cold at times, but he cares. He isn’t the type to send someone else to collect his consort past midnight, then not check if he made it back.

He wants to knock, to say something. To not let the night end this way.

But then what would he say?

That he kissed Taehyung because he wanted to, not for duty and not for Taehyung’s sake, but his own desire?

It sounds selfish, when he puts it that way. Almost like he’s forcing himself in a place that doesn’t want him. Or, in this case, asking for love and affection, when it seems it won’t be reciprocated.

He drops his hand, takes a deep breath and turns away, walking to his side of their living quarters. 

He feels the weight of things left unsaid, as he sets the bouquet on the vanity. Ironic that he made this out of love, when it now feels like the flowers are mocking him for feeling that way. 

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Last night’s bouquet sits on the vanity, wilting and taunting them as they dress in silence. It’s the kind of quiet that wraps itself too tightly around the ribcage, where every movement feels distant.

Jimin buttons his shirt, hands steady only because they have to be. He sees Taehyung doing the same in his periphery.

Taehyung turns to him wordlessly, adjusting Jimin’s cufflinks, deliberate, impersonal. Jimin moves and fixes the boutonniere over Taehyung’s chest, careful to avoid lingering.

They don’t talk about what happened the previous night. They don't have room for that, not when protocols and appearances are waiting. They will dance, smile, and talk, two performers donning their suits and fulfilling their roles to perfection.

In the hotel ballroom, their first act begins with a slow waltz. The kind meant to be admired, with cameras flashing at the edges of the ballroom and the guests watching with soft smiles and tilted heads. The orchestra swells behind them, dictating every steady step.

They look like perfection, as if they were plucked from a romance book. A convincing fairytale fantasy. 

But they’re fracturing in places the public cannot easily see.

Jimin’s hand flexes on Taehyung’s shoulder, hesitant, as if reaching for something that’s not there. Taehyung’s hold on his waist tightens imperceptibly in response. Their eyes meet briefly, and for a moment, something soft and unguarded flickers in Taehyung’s eyes.

The music slows and a woman in glittering black approaches them with a gentle clap of her hands. “You two are absolutely breathtaking together! My husband and I were watching you, and I told him, honey, that’s how a modern royal couple should be,” she sighs dreamily. “So poised and effortless. So in love.”

Jimin smiles, the kind that’s almost instinctive in him after all these months. “You’re too kind. We’re very lucky we have each other.” He turns to Taehyung, gaze soft, like a flower turning to the sun.

“You fit so well together,” the woman continues, happy to rain them with praise and affection. “The way you hold each other, and the way you look at each other — as you can tell, I’m swooning.” She laughs.

They laugh with her, and Taehyung, still with his hand on Jimin’s waist, says, “We do our best together.”

The woman bows and says goodbye, oblivious, the curtain falling on Taehyung and Jimin’s first act. 

Taehyung drops his hand from Jimin’s waist, retreating to the edge of the ballroom where he can pretend to sip his wine. Close enough to be within reach, but far enough to watch.

Their second act is a separate one, where Taehyung remains where he is as Jimin socializes. He watches Jimin laugh beside a guest, place a hand on someone’s arm as they speak, nod in recognition or agreement. It wasn’t performative, Jimin’s eyes crinkling, posture relaxed but attentive.

Taehyung can’t look away. How do you find the courage to open your heart like that? he wonders. 

Taehyung’s gaze lingers on the curve of Jimin’s smile. The way the shadows catch along the hollow of his throat. The way he stands gracefully, feet apart like he's about to leap into a ballet position. Taehyung looks at him, like he’s memorizing Jimin.

And then the thought hits him too fast, too unguarded: he wants to be seen, to be memorized like that. Not as a prince, the second son of the Crown, who bears the weight of its duty. As him, as a person without the armor.

But wanting, as he’s been told, is dangerous. So he does what he always does — puts the walls back up and plays his part.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The applause and public affection has faded. The smiles, the flash of cameras, the weight of a hundred eyes are all left behind in the ballroom.

Now, in the hush of their living quarters, the silence bears heavy on them. There’s no one to perform for anymore, just two people trying to make sense of where they stand.

Taehyung wants to say something, but all he can think of is how, if he starts now, he wouldn’t know how to stop. And that terrifies him back into silence.

He sees Jimin shift slightly in his periphery, but Taehyung keeps his gaze fixed on his hand as he takes off his cufflinks.

Across the suite, Jimin’s fingers toy with the wedding ring on his hand, turning it slowly, again and again. He inhales, slow and shallow.

He thinks about that one moment when they were dancing, when something real slipped in Taehyung’s gaze. Like maybe the silence between them isn’t emptiness, but tension, charged and waiting.

But then Taehyung turned away, retreating like he did last night at the flower shop.

Jimin doesn’t want to keep silent and pretend anymore, not when it hurts like this.

“You’re hiding and pulling away.”

Taehyung exhales, his fingers reaching up to loosen his tie. “Not now, Jimin.”

“No,” Jimin says, stepping in front of him, blocking the way to Taehyung’s door. “Now. Because if we don’t talk now, we’ll never talk at all.”

Taehyung moves past him, entering his room but leaving the door open. He removes his tie and shrugs off his jacket, throwing both to his bed where they fall in a muted thud. 

“You look at me as if I’m a stranger,” Jimin says, standing across the suite. “and you treat me with a distance like we’re not married. You act like you just need to tolerate me for a few hours.”

“I don’t mean to,” Taehyung finally responds.

“That’s always your answer, isn’t it?” Jimin scoffs, exasperated. He starts unfastening his cufflinks with tense fingers, setting them down on the vanity. “You don’t mean to. But you do.”

Taehyung pauses, his back to Jimin, hands hovering at the buttons of his shirt. “I’m trying,” he says. “Fuck, I’m trying to do this right.”

Jimin scoffs as he sets his watch down too hard, next to his cufflinks. “By putting up walls and pretending none of this is real?”

Taehyung turns to Jimin, his shirt half-unbuttoned and one of his sleeves pushed up, like the act of holding himself together is becoming physically harder to do.

“Our marriage isn’t real,” he says, tersely. “It’s a symbol. A performance. That’s what it’s supposed to be.”

Jimin looks at him like he’s been slapped, his chest rising and falling. He blinks away his hurt, then softly, “That’s what you think of us?”

“No,” Taehyung’s voice cracks. He sits on his bed, hands running through his hair in frustration. “That’s what I have to think. The moment I let myself believe it’s more, I start wanting things I shouldn’t.”

Jimin steps inside Taehyung’s bedroom, controlled even if he’s unraveling. He stops in front of Taehyung, who looks up at him staring.

“And what if I want you to believe it’s more?” he asks. “What if I want a husband, someone who will look at me like I’m his and not the Crown’s? A lover who will sleep beside me and hold me at night? A partner who will talk to me like I’m real, and not just for a performance?”

Jimin looks undone, his shirt collar open and cheeks flushed from the hurt. Taehyung feels the urge to reach out and pull him into his arms, to apologize, to explain. But the fear gnaws at him, the same fear that has been there from the beginning.

“This,” Jimin gestures at the space between them, “was arranged so our people can believe again, in something sincere as love. But how are we supposed to make it believable if we’re faking our marriage?”

“Needing you — no, wanting you, would unravel me,” Taehyung says, a crack in his composure. “I can’t be vulnerable like that.”

For a long moment, neither of them speak or move, giving in to a tense impasse.

“I’m tired of being the only one who tries,” Jimin finally says.

He turns, slow and deliberate, walking out of the room and leaving behind the echo of things they finally spoke out loud.

Chapter Text

Taehyung knows Jimin didn’t sleep in their quarters before he even steps out of his own room. Last night’s confrontation clings to the walls, its aftermath echoing in Jimin’s untouched bed, sheets smooth as if he plans to never return at all.

Like a ghost haunting him, Taehyung remembers the last thing Jimin said to him: I’m tired of being the only one who tries. The way he looked — disappointed, tired, like he’s already halfway given up — has him taking out his phone to text him.

Are you safe? Please let me know where you are.

Palace routines pull at him all day. There’s a briefing over breakfast, a working lunch with a senior council member, a photocall with visiting journalists, a scheduled meeting with Namjoon to prepare for an out-of-town business trip. He wears his duty well, from his straight posture and easy smiles to acknowledging questions and giving the correct responses. 

But his phone stays face-up, and he checks every time it lights up with a new message. His heart sinks whenever he realizes not one of them is from Jimin.

His measured mask of ease slightly slips when, at the end of the meeting with Namjoon, the royal advisor asks, “Is something wrong, Your Highness? You’ve been distracted all day.”

“I had an argument with Jimin last night. He left, and I don’t know where he is,” Taehyung exhales, leaning back in his chair, phone still in his hand. “I texted him this morning, but he hasn’t replied.”

Namjoon's brows knit in a quiet concern, but does not press further. Years along Taehyung’s side have taught him this much: when it comes to personal matters, the prince holds things close. It’s the one part of his life that he guards like it’s truly his, though beyond protocol, the prince seems uncertain how to live it.

“Let me check with Jungkook if he has a lead, just in case.”

The reply from their head bodyguard comes quickly. Namjoon reads it, his expression neutral. “He’s safe. Jungkook said he’s taking space somewhere, but didn’t mention a location.”

“Did he say anything else?” Taehyung tries not to sound desperate, but he truly hates how they left things the previous night.

Namjoon looks up, something careful in his voice. “Just the assurance that he arranged for Jimin to be comfortable while he’s away. And that he apologizes for not interfering any further.”

Taehyung nods, jaw tense. He wants to reach out and look for Jimin, but he also understands Jimin drew a line. He’s not going to cross it, even if it hurts to wonder and wait. 

Still, his thumb hovers his phone, willing it to light up. Hoping that it’s finally Jimin.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Hours after they fought, Jimin quietly slipped out in the middle of the night. He briefly considered going to the flower shop, to the back room where the sofa unfolds to a small bed and he can fall asleep to the scent of flowers. 

But the memory of Taehyung’s mouth and the kiss they shared from nights ago still linger in his head. He didn’t want to deal with the additional pang of sadness it left behind. 

He headed to the next best thing: a pavilion in the palace grounds, tucked behind a thick line of trees to the right of the greenhouse. It was barely visible, and based on what he's researched, an almost forgotten part of the palace grounds where Joseon soldiers used to practice their archery and horse riding. Today, to the reigning royals and the palace staff, it might as well not exist.

Jimin noticed it on one of his walks. He figured some of the palace staff must live there, if there were working lights, a tap with running water, and a small but functioning bathroom. But he never saw anyone in the pavilion, no matter which day or time he dropped by. 

And so he started making it his own in the past couple of weeks, filling it with modern comforts: a foldable sleeping mat, a portable space heater, a couple of books, some linen and toiletries. He didn’t know it then, that it would all come in handy at a time when he needed distance.

It’s not palace luxury, but it’s his for now.

He decided to stay the night, maybe two. He hadn’t fully thought it through, just that he wanted to be away for a while. He knew he would have to deal with food eventually, but he figured he could sneak to the palace kitchens and ask for secrecy.

That night, he found himself lying on the mat, staring up at the ceiling fan playing with the shadows. Thinking about Taehyung and how they left things, both the said and the unsaid, echoing between them. 

In the morning, he wakes up to a text from Taehyung. He leaves it unread, letting the silence stretch instead. When he finally gets up to open the sliding wooden doors of the pavilion, he sees Jungkook sitting on the front porch, next to a tray of food and pitchers of water.

“Your Highness,” he scrambles to stand then bow. “I’ve arranged for your meals to be delivered here in the meantime. Let me know if you need anything else.”

Jimin blinks in surprise. “You’re not going to report it?”

“The staff are aware, but it’s not our place to interfere,” Jungkook says, with a small shrug. “They’re calling it a lovers’ argument. I call it none of my business.” He bows then turns to go, but pauses.

“He looked for you this morning,” Jungkook adds, like he cannot help himself. “I didn’t say where you went, just that you’re taken care of.”

Jimin gives himself permission to disappear then. What’s another two days, a weekend in hiding? 

He slips to the greenhouse at random times, successfully dodging any surprise encounters. He doesn’t work so much as move — watering flowers, trimming stems, sweeping petals and leaves from the ground, rearranging blooms without real intent. The scent of flowers and memory presses close, his body remembering what he doesn’t want his heart to name. 

When he’s done all he can do in the greenhouse to purge his melancholy, he retreats to his temporary and hidden home. He finds small comfort in how, for the first time in a long time, no one requires him to put on a performance and fake how he feels. Not in front of the flowers at the greenhouse, nor under the dancheong-painted beams in the pavilion.

By Monday morning, his hands itch to make his usual bouquet for Taehyung. He misses the routine… he misses him. He caves in to send a text, not as an olive branch, but more of a courtesy: I’m fine. You can keep to your duty.

The palace staff whisper behind gloves and beneath their duties, of course. A consort who disappears, a prince who waits too long, bouquets that stop arriving. No one, not Jungkook as the prince and the consort’s bodyguard, or even Namjoon as Taehyung’s advisor, interferes and mediates.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Taehyung stares at his phone longer than he needs to.

I'm fine. You can keep to your duty.

Just that. Final, clipped. Like a door closing softly but definitively.

He reads it again anyway, as if something between the words might change. He should be relieved, but the message somehow makes the silence louder.

All through the weekend, he noticed Jimin's absence like bruises. 

The soft footsteps in the morning, his little sighs when he’s stretching, the sight of him standing against the window. The way Jimin greets the palace staff with small pleasantries or little jokes that make the palace feel less lonely, less hollow. The little frown between his brows when he’s listening to a meeting, and the way he absentmindedly flips a pen between his fingers. The click of a kettle at night, the smell of chamomile tea, and the rustle of pages as Jimin reads in their sitting room at night. 

Jimin’s flowers are gone too. 

Taehyung’s Mondays used to carry color and scent, hidden meanings and messages left on his desk. He didn’t realize how much it meant to him, now that no new bouquet arrived.

Even in silence, Jimin had once spoken to him through flowers. But now that language has gone quiet too.

He wants to look for him. He almost does, thinking he’ll use his position and command Jungkook to tell him where his consort — his husband — is hiding.

But he refuses to stoop to that. He won't force Jimin to speak with him if he isn’t ready. He doesn’t want to further become the thing Jimin retreats from.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

A week after their argument, Jimin finds himself at the long worktable in the greenhouse, fingers wrapped around a messy, half-finished bouquet: stems of dark petaled scabiosa, cool blue hydrangea, fading pink ranunculus.

Jungkook stands by the doorway, his usual end of day routine checking on the consort. He knew there was no bouquet on Taehyung’s desk earlier that week, when he saw the prince's face in a picture of disappointment when he stepped out of his office.

“Do you want me to bring the bouquet to His Highness’ office?” Jungkook asks gently, like someone not wanting to startle a wounded animal. “I can take it for you.”

Jimin doesn’t look up, but his fingers pause in the middle of arranging them in a vase. He thinks of Taehyung, the distance between them and the way Jimin always reached for him first. Again and again and again. 

“No,” he says, not to inform Jungkook, but to confirm something he’s already decided. “He wants duty. I want something more.” His voice doesn’t waver. 

Jungkook doesn’t press. Just nods, then gives a small bow before leaving.

Jimin thinks about how love, if that’s really how he feels for Taehyung, shouldn’t feel like always being the one who waits and stays. The one who reaches for the other first.

He doesn’t fully finish the bouquet, just leaves a bright marigold in the center of the flowers, soft and exposed. Slightly drooping down, like a comma marking a pause.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Taehyung is walking around the palace grounds when he hears voices drift through a window from the servants’ quarters.

“…still goes to the greenhouse?” Namjoon’s voice.

“Mostly in the afternoons,” Jungkook replies. “He doesn’t want to be found.”

Taehyung slows to a stop.

“I assume he’s finding comfort in the flowers?”

There’s a pause.

“I briefly saw him do a bouquet today,” Jungkook murmurs. “I asked if he wanted me to take it to His Highness, but he said no.”

Namjoon sighs in reply. Taehyung doesn’t wait to hear more.

He walks to the greenhouse, even if, based on what he heard, he won't find Jimin at that hour. When he opens the door to the greenhouse, it's empty but feels full of a presence that hasn’t quite left.

There’s a worktable on the side, where scattered stems, petals, and leaves surround a bouquet in a chipped vase. It looks unfinished, like Jimin kept rearranging it and decided to just leave it behind. 

A bright bloom stands out in the center, his eyes drawn to it instinctively. 

Taehyung’s hand hovers, brushing the petals then closing his hand gently around the stem, lifting it from the unfinished bouquet.

He remembers from the nights he browsed his copy of Language of Flowers, understanding which flower this is and it means: marigold, grief and pain. But also — memory. Love that lingers, love that remains and holds on, even when it hurts.

He takes the flower with him.

When he enters their suite, he sets it down carefully, on the side table that holds the stack of books that Jimin always returns to at night. 

Not a message and not a peace offering, for when Jimin decides to come back. Simply a proof that he had been there, and that he heard what Jimin was trying to say.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

A royal aide appears mid-morning on a Friday, a simple message delivered with a bow, “Her Majesty is arriving.”

Taehyung is still in his undershirt, hair unruly and damp from his shower, blinking at the royal aide, thinking he misheard.

“She’s coming here? Now?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Not tomorrow, not this afternoon. Now.

There’s no time to panic, so Taehyung doesn’t. He moves calmly and efficiently like he’s trained for emergency drills, spine straightening automatically with protocol.

He meets the Queen in their sitting room twelve minutes later, posture perfect and without a wrinkle in sight. She raises an eyebrow as she enters, taking in the room — Taehyung’s damp hair, the empty vase, the lone flower in the room, Jimin’s open door.

“Where is your consort?” she finally asks.

“He will be here shortly, Mother.” Taehyung masks his panic by bowing low, eyes flying shut.

He didn’t have time to send a message, but he hoped Jungkook heard the flurry of staff movements and was able to pull Jimin somehow. That Jimin is nearby, and Taehyung wouldn’t have to explain his unexplainable absence.

“Your Majesty,” Jimin arrives less than five minutes later. Slightly breathless, with cheeks flushed and hair tousled, but properly dressed to meet the Queen. He composes himself then bows respectfully.

The Queen gestures for them to sit across her, privately noting the physical distance, and the way the couple barely looked at each other.

“I’ll keep this surprise visit short,” she finally says, her gaze sweeping over both of them. “I have a feeling you know why I’m here.”

Neither of them answer.

“There have been rumors,” she starts. “Whispers that there was an argument last week. That the consort has not been seen and that the prince appears distracted.”

Taehyung doesn’t flinch, but Jimin’s shoulders stiffen.

“I don’t care if you’ve had a disagreement. Married life is long and complicated, you’re bound to have one eventually,” she levels them with a look. “I’m not here to ask what happened or why you’re arguing. That is between the two of you. What I care about is when a private disagreement between the prince and his consort begins to spill beyond the threshold of their home.”

The Queen folds her hands on her lap. “You were married to serve the Crown. That does not mean you must always agree with each other, but it does mean you have to show unity. Especially in public.”

“Foreign dignitaries are arriving this weekend, and a formal dinner with the press will cap off their visit on Tuesday night,” she continues. “If the two of you are not seen engaging and sitting together, if even one of them senses the tension between you, then this private disagreement now becomes a public spectacle.”

The Queen rises, smoothing her skirt. “Fix it. Or pretend you have. Either way, no more whispers.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Taehyung nods, steady and reliable as always.

Jimin’s voice follows him a beat after. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Good. Then I’ll leave you to it.”

They remain seated for a moment after the Queen steps out and their doors close.

Eventually, Jimin stands too — and that’s when his eyes catch on the object resting on top of his books.

The marigold, alone and familiar.

Taehyung watches him silently, as Jimin touches it gently, fingers skimming the bright, golden petals. 

Jimin doesn’t ask how it got there, a flower from a bouquet that had never been delivered but Taehyung had seen anyway.

For a brief and bewildering second, it feels like despite the silence and the distance, they managed to speak to each other after all.

Not with words, but in flowers, a language they seem to understand together.

Chapter Text

Namjoon sets a briefing for Taehyung and Jimin over the weekend, a private session meant to help them prepare for the upcoming dinner with the visiting dignitaries. Taehyung arrives first, early and unreadable as usual, and Jimin follows him a couple of minutes after, quiet but composed.

He’s heard from Jungkook that Jimin went back to staying in their private quarters after the Queen reprimanded them, though Namjoon can see that nothing has been resolved overnight. And while he’s made it clear to them on separate occasions that they can come to him for counsel on personal matters, it’s not the reason why he’s here now.

“The upcoming dinner isn’t optional,” he begins, tone clipped and formal but not unkind. “Foreign ministers, cultural attachés, the press. They won’t be just watching you out of fascination or curiosity; they’ll also be watching you watch each other.”

Jimin straightens, hands folding over his lap. Taehyung glances at him briefly, reading him in silence.

“You will be seated together of course,” Namjoon continues. “Cameras will be at a distance, away from the tables. Photographers have a sharp sense for things that need to be captured though. You can direct the narrative and create visual harmony, to subtly send a good impression. Think something along the lines of coordinated gestures or mirrored movements. Shared glances and subtle touches when appropriate.”

Jimin inhales deeply, holding his breath a little too long before letting it out. It’s more telling than outright protesting with words.

“I’m not telling you to perform and fake affection,” Namjoon adds gently, sensing the tension from Jimin. “But you can dictate what kind of story will be written, which truths to show. The illusion of closeness is powerful that way.”

Taehyung glances at Jimin again, slow and deliberate. Namjoon catches it, nodding slightly.

“Moments to consider: when you enter, a hand resting near the other’s back. Fingers brushing as you’re walking. A shared smile mid-conversation. A look of acknowledgment after the toast. Doesn’t need to be dramatic or major, just quiet but believable.”

“Clear,” Jimin murmurs softly.

“The royal wardrobe team will arrive tomorrow with options. We’re thinking refined, minimal. Maybe a modern suit that pays homage to the hanbok,” Namjoon says, handing over briefing documents for them to review. “Until then, please spend time reading these and let me know if you have any questions.”

He studies them carefully one last time — Taehyung focused but quietly attuned; Jimin far too neat as if he’s reminding himself to stay still and hold. They don’t fully turn toward the other, but they haven’t turned away either.

“You might need to warm up to each other again, Your Highnesses,” Namjoon says kindly. “Offstage, just the two of you. That’s where it matters, more than any illusion we craft for the cameras.”

“I’ll arrange something,” Taehyung says, but his eyes are already on Jimin, voice lower than before. Less like a promise to Namjoon, and more like an offering to the person he’s still trying to reach.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Early Monday evening, their private quarters take on a softer shape, something meant just for the two of them.

The flowers are Jimin’s language — striking cobalt delphiniums, blushing sweet peas, and pale forget-me-nots, tucked around the suite like confessions and memories. The scent of flowers lingers delicately in the air, mingling with the faint smell of sesame oil rising from the burner. 

At Taehyung’s request, a mini kitchen setup has been assembled in their suite: a folding table, a small burner, a rice cooker, and enough kitchen tools and ingredients for a casual meal for two.

Jimin stands a few paces across the suite, observing Taehyung as he moves. Sleeves rolled up to his forearms and apron tied askew over his button down. Strands of dark hair curling from the heat, a line of salt across a knuckle, and a smudge of gochujang on his wrist. He seems not to notice, or maybe he doesn’t care.

When Taehyung confirmed he would arrange something private for them, Jimin did not imagine something like this. He thought it would be another walk along Bukchon, maybe coffee or tea somewhere in the palace grounds. He did not imagine it would be Taehyung fluffing rice with quiet focus or plating their dinner with a furrow in his brow, while music plays low from a nearby speaker.

It feels strangely intimate to witness him like this. Not as a Crown Prince, but simply as a man cooking for his husband. Trying to make amends, to make something whole. 

Taehyung places the final dishes on a low table: mandu, kimchi bokkeumbap, and a half-opened bottle of pinot noir between them. They sit barefoot on the floor, knees folded, shoulders occasionally brushing. 

“I don’t have much cooking experience,” he admits, turning to watch Jimin’s face as he takes his first bite. “But I hope it’s alright.”

“It’s not perfect,” Jimin teases him, smiling lightly. And then, softer and more gently, “But it’s yours. That’s what matters.”

They talk about mundane things — random, light updates about their life at the palace, the book Jimin is currently reading, the last film that Taehyung watched. Their eyes meet more than they are used to; less like strangers, and more like two people getting to know each other better.

By the time dinner is cleared and they’re drinking the last of the red, they’ve fallen into a soft silence with the music playing low in the background. Taehyung moves first, settling onto the couch behind them. Jimin follows, slower, sitting near him but not quite touching.

“Thank you,” Jimin says, eyes resting on the flowers he arranged that afternoon.

“For cooking?” Taehyung asks, gaze intently on him.

“For trying,” Jimin says softly. 

Taehyung fully turns to him, open and steady. “I’m trying. I don’t always know how to, but I am.” 

He reaches up, slow and deliberate, featherlight touch trailing the curve of Jimin’s cheek as he leans into Taehyung’s warmth. A small act, but enough to disarm them both. 

“Can I?” Taehyung asks, more of a breath than words.

Jimin nods. He watches Taehyung lean in, eyes half-lidded and wanting in the narrow space between them. 

They’re close enough, as Taehyung tilts his head and brushes his nose gently against Jimin’s. Close enough to taste a promise, as Jimin parts his mouth in invitation.

But just before the distance could close between them, Jimin stills. He lifts his hand to cradle Taehyung’s face  — not to pull him in, but to hold him there. 

“We shouldn’t,” Jimin whispers, voice threaded with restraint. His thumb rests tenderly against the corner of Taehyung’s mouth. “Not yet.”

For a long second, Taehyung stays frozen, breathing slowly with his eyes closed. Then he carefully leans back, looking at Jimin with all the gentleness in the world.

“Alright. Not yet.”

They don’t stray away from each other, but they don’t pull each other closer either — just hands loosely close to one another. Jimin takes a deep breath, the room smelling of wine and steam, of things blooming and things left unsaid. Aching at the press of almost.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

When Jimin wakes up the next morning, he finds their suite already in motion. Namjoon has sent the final briefing and reminders via email, the wardrobe and styling team about to arrive to assist them, and they are both expected to fill in their roles perfectly.

But in the calm before the storm, it’s just two people learning each other and the comforting scent of steeping tea. 

Jimin steps out of his bedroom, robe loosely tied over his pajamas. He finds Taehyung by the window, already dressed and standing beside a small stack of documents. He glances up as Jimin moves toward the tea.

“Good morning,” Taehyung says, quiet and careful.

“Morning,” Jimin replies back, raising the cup of tea to take a sip. He lets the silence stretch between them, avoiding Taehyung’s eyes, and then, “Thank you. For last night.”

“You’re the one who made it feel like something.”

Jimin looks up at him then. “You don’t have to,” he begins, but hesitates. “You don’t have to pretend for me.”

“I’m not pretending. Last night wasn’t just duty for me,” Taehyung replies easily.

JImin holds his gaze for a beat, as if anchoring himself to Taehyung’s small admission. 

“We should get ready,” Taehyung says, eyes dropping on the table where he straightens a paper crease.

“Right,” Jimin sets down his cup.

They move past each other, past the night that felt like a promise. The day already feels like it’s slipping away, and in a few hours, they’ll step onto a stage again to fulfill their duty. The perfect couple, the young lovers, the newlywed royals.

For now, all they can do is dress for the part.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The dinner is in Gyeongbokgung, in the grand hall with centuries of diplomacy and expectation. Crystal glasses and polished silver catching the light, the air smelling like early spring, foreign dignitaries filling the seats, their smiles too polished and their eyes too sharp.

Jimin sits beside Taehyung, dressed in a gray suit inspired by the hanbok. He moves with poise, luminous in action and speech, playing the part of a consort perfectly.

The first course passes with practiced ease — small talk woven with light laughter, gestures that mirror each other in motion. For a moment, even the silence between them feels bearable.

And then —

A slip. A word in a foreign language, mispronounced and spoken loud enough to be noticed. Not offensive, but it’s wrong and unexpected from a consort. In a hall full of trained ears, it lands with a quiet force, like a pebble in still water.

Taehyung feels the shift ripple through.

He flicks a gaze to his side, just for a heartbeat, but doesn’t reach for Jimin. Doesn’t meet his eyes and doesn’t ground him with a touch to hold him steady.

Instead, he lifts his wine, slow and smooth. He lets the moment pass.

He’s learned — painfully, publicly — that attention sharpens wounds. That affection becomes public spectacle. That a simple glance easily turns a small mistake into a glaring headline. 

He's not going to risk it. He stays still.

For Jimin, for them. For the expectations and the image of them the world believes in.

By the time the last course is served, Jimin’s fingers are laced tight beneath the napkin. His smile doesn’t falter, but the light in his eyes has dimmed to something brittle.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The car ride back to their palace hums with everything unsaid. When the door slides shut behind them in their private quarters, Jimin speaks first.

“I made one mistake.”

“It will be forgotten by tomorrow,” Taehyung says, still half-lost in strategy as he loosens his tie.

“That’s not the point,” Jimin says, stepping forward. “You left me there. Alone.”

“You weren’t alone.”

“Yes, I was.” His voice cracks. “You didn’t even look at me.”

“If I had, the attention would’ve doubled,” Taehyung replies. “They would’ve seen or noticed it more. They would’ve twisted it.”

Jimin blinks, quiet for a beat. “And what if they had?”

Taehyung pauses. His fingers find his cufflinks, movements slow and mechanical.

Jimin’s voice sharpens into something brittle and low. “You think silence protects us. But I needed more than a strategy, I needed you .”

“I thought I was protecting you —”

“No, you weren’t protecting me,” Jimin cuts him off, trembling. “You were protecting this version of us they already believe in. The image. Not me. ”

Taehyung sets the cufflinks down with a soft click that lands too loud in the room.

“I was trying not to make it worse,” he says, quietly. “The press have the tendency to twist things into something they’re not. I was avoiding that.”

“Then look at me when it happens,” Jimin says. “Let me know you're with me and I’m not standing there alone.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

Jimin gives a bitter laugh. “From what? A headline? A social media post? You think that’s worse than sitting beside the man I love and realizing I’m invisible to him?” 

Taehyung’s expression cracks.

“You keep saying that you’re trying — last night, tonight — but it’s always with distance or in silence,” Jimin continues. “I keep trying to feel it, to decode what it means. To figure out what I mean to you through what you don’t say.”

He turns away, a breath shuddering out of him. “I feel like I’m an outsider always reaching for something that never reaches back.”

And this time, Taehyung looks at him. Not with the softness that Jimin needs, but with the weight of what he couldn’t say. 

“You’re not an outsider,” he says at last, voice low.

“You treat me like one,” Jimin whispers. “And I’m starting to believe you want it that way.”

Taehyung stands in the stillness, armoring himself in silence. Not out of indifference, but because he doesn’t know how to speak without unraveling. The fear that words would shatter what he holds close to his heart.

Jimin turns away, heartbroken and tired. And Taehyung — too late, just too late — reaches for him.

The gesture dies in the air between them, like a sentence unfinished. All that remains is what was almost said.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The echo of their argument follows Jimin like a shadow as he steps out of their private chambers. He passes by Jungkook, dressed down and stationed outside, sipping from a thermos. He straightens the moment he sees Jimin walking.

“Everything alright, sir?”

Jimin doesn’t answer right away, shoulders squared and jaw tense. He considers, and then he asks, “Can you take me out of the palace?”

Jungkook blinks, eyes glancing back to the royal couple’s residence. “Yes, but —”

“Take me somewhere that doesn’t care who I am,” Jimin’s lips twitch into something that’s not quite a smile.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Jungkook brings him to a club that is dim and private, where the music thrums with a low pulse. No cameras allowed, for people craving brief anonymity.

Jimin steps inside, breathless and craving the sting. He lets the music, the drinks, and the crowd blur his edges.

Not too much,  never improper or scandalous. But just enough for him to feel like someone else for a little while. Just to forget, even for a little bit.

And then — a flash and a clicking sound. A sneaky phone camera, somewhere in the dark.

Jimin freezes, the realization of what it is dragging him back to his reality: that he's a prince's consort in a club, drinking and dancing.

He feels a hand on his elbow, firm. “Time to go,” Jungkook tells him. 

Jimin’s eyes search the crowd as they leave. Some curious, some recording, others whispering about him.

“Shit,” He curses once they’re outside, feeling the evening sharp with consequence.

Jungkook slides into the driver’s seat and pulls out of the parking spot immediately. “I covered what I could, Your Highness. But it might not be enough.”

“I just needed a moment,” Jimin looks up at him in the rearview mirror, eyes tired.

“I know,” Jungkook says softly. He’s been guarding and watching the young royal couple long enough to recognize what they're going through. 

♕❀♕❀♕❀

That night, Namjoon receives the update via a secure message on his tablet. He reads it once, exhales and mutters an expletive under his breath. Then, calmly and immediately, he calls a team to reinforce the digital containment protocols. Quiet, effective damage control that he hopes will hold. 

In the morning, the incident report was waiting on Taehyung’s desk. Not a formal intelligence briefing or news clippings, just a simple document with printed photos from Namjoon. It’s contained and kept private, his note says.

He reads the incident report twice. Once as the Crown Prince. Once as someone who loves.

He lingers on a photo longer than the rest: Jimin in a crowded room, mouth parted in mid-laugh, his hand holding an amber-filled glass. Taehyung looks away before the ache could take hold.

When Jimin enters the office fifteen minutes later, Taehyung doesn’t look up immediately.

“You left the palace last night,” he says flatly, hand tight on the edge of his desk.

Jimin closes the door behind him. “Yes.”

“You were seen.”

“I know.”

“Do you understand what that could mean?” Taehyung’s voice is soft, but the air between has turned tense.

“I needed space.”

“There’s a difference between needing space and turning it into a spectacle.” 

Jimin flinches. “It wasn’t —”

“You were photographed,” Taehyung says sharply, “with a drink in your hand. Alone, past midnight, in a club.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Jimin finally snaps. “Jungkook was there.”

“Oh, good,” Taehyung says. “So now the story is: the prince’s consort slips palace security to party with his bodyguard past midnight. Do you think that’s better?”

Jimin’s mouth parts in shock. “Is that what you think this is? A scandal?”

“I think it’s irresponsible.”

“And I think you’re more upset about the image again,” Jimin says, voice shaking. “You’re not even asking how I feel or why I left, you’re just judging by how it looks like.”

Taehyung stands then, slow and cold. “I’m worried about what you’re doing to both of us.”

“No. You’re worried I embarrassed you,” Jimin’s voice cracks. “That I ruined your perfect little palace fantasy.”

“You’re not being fair,” Taehyung exhales through his teeth, frustrated.

“Fair?” Jimin steps forward, chest rising. “You left me alone fumbling from a mistake. You ignored me and you said nothing, like I wasn’t sitting beside you. And now I’m not being fair?”

“I was protecting you last night,” Taehyung says tightly. “If I reacted to your mistake, if I defended you, it would’ve made it worse,” he adds. “Every pen and camera at that dinner would’ve spun it into a headline.”

“Sometimes silence doesn’t protect, it isolates,” Jimin’s voice trembles, but he doesn’t back down.

Taehyung turns his gaze to the papers on his desk. When he finally speaks again, his voice is measured.

“From this point forward, you're not allowed to leave the palace unless it’s beside me. Official events only.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re—,” Jimin’s voice falters. “You’re restricting me?”

Taehyung looks at him, eyes sharp. “I’m preventing another situation.”

“No,” Jimin’s eyes burn. “You’re locking me in a golden cage and pretending you care. But it's just safety and protection for you and the image and duty you care so much about.”

“You think that's what I care about?” Taehyung’s calm composure breaks. “I care about what I can’t afford to lose.”

He sits down again, avoiding Jimin’s angry gaze. “Namjoon intercepted the photos. He scrubbed them before they spread, so not a single outlet received a copy.”

Jimin looks at him, stunned. “...What?”

“It’s handled,” Taehyung says. “No scandal. No damage.”

“You knew before I walked in,” Jimin stares at him, realization dawning.

“I know everything that could cost us,” Taehyung says. “That’s my job.”

Jimin laughs, sharp and hurt. “That’s your excuse.”

Taehyung’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

“You think because no one saw, it doesn’t matter. But you still don’t get it,” Jimin shakes his head.

“I’m not a liability, Taehyung. I’m a person. And if you keep treating me like I'm some risk to be managed, some task to be accomplished, instead of treating me like your husband..." He swallows hard. “I don’t know how much longer I’ll want to stay. Not like this.”

Jimin leaves, and Taehyung doesn’t stop him.

Alone again, he pulls out the photo from the report — not the one of the club or the crowd.

Just the one of Jimin: mid-laugh, head tilted back, alive in a way Taehyung hasn’t seen in a long time. 

He sets the photo down eventually, face-first. As if hiding it could unmake the truth: that Jimin looked happiest when he was far from him.

Chapter Text

To the public, Taehyung and Jimin appear exactly as they should: composed, united, in love. They stand beside each other in a portrait of perfection, a carefully curated image the public is drawn to, like moth to a flame.

But it’s a completely different story within the palace walls.

In Changgyeonggung, they move around each other like strangers — coexisting, but circling their own sorrow. Words rarely pass between them, with mealtimes spent together in a polite distance and shared spaces like their sitting room empty most of the time.

The staff notices, stepping around them lightly, making themselves invisible as they sense the tension. Whispers float through the halls, soft as petals from a wilting flower.

Taehyung overhears them once, two royal aides murmuring about how “it seems they’re simply keeping up appearances now” and “what a shame, I thought they found something real.” The words stay with him, adding weight to the baggage of guilt he carries. 

Jimin senses the pitying looks and the occasional murmurs, but chooses to ignore them. He does his best filling in the role of a consort, following through with expectations while dealing with the dull ache of disappointment in private.

Tonight, they’re hosting a private dinner for a group of local civic leaders, to celebrate the new season.

Jimin plays his part perfectly: greeting the guests with his trademark warmth, speaking thoughtfully during the meal, pointing out the flowers on the centerpiece and explaining what they mean.

And then, just after dessert, Jimin stands to excuse himself.

“I’m afraid I have to retire early tonight,” he says, voice clear and even. “Thank you for visiting our home, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Taehyung looks up from his untouched dessert, and he sees Jimin turning to him, gaze unreadable.

He offers a bow — precise and practiced, the kind strangers use when greeting royalty for the first time. Not the nod of a husband, but the bow of a subject.

“Your Highness,” he says, low and formal.

A formal title, one that Jimin hasn’t used with him since they met for the first time. Not Taehyung or even Prince Taehyung.

He watches Jimin leave without looking back, as Seokjin raises an eyebrow across him. 

Later, as the guests filter out to leave, Seokjin lingers at Taehyung’s side. 

“By the way,” he says, “I was in your library before dinner. I have a book missing from our collection, so I stopped by to cross-check.” 

“I didn’t find what I was looking for, but I did notice something unusual,” he continues. “There’s a small floral arrangement tucked into a corner. A bit hidden, like it’s not meant to be found.”

Taehyung’s expression doesn’t change, but Seokjin sees the tightness along his shoulders.

“Does your husband do that often?” Seokjin asks, tone deliberately light. “Leave a trail of clues for you to find?”

“I haven’t seen it,” Taehyung replies curtly.

“Hmm,” Seokjin tilts his head, “maybe you should go and see it.”

He watches Taehyung reel in his facial expression so he doesn’t press further. He simply pulls his younger brother for a quick hug and a gentle advice, from one married man to another, “Jimin’s trying to say something. Don’t wait too long to listen.”

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Taehyung heads to their library that night, carrying his copy of The Language of Flowers. He moves through the room slowly, keeping an eye out for a floral arrangement, until he finds it in a reading alcove.

It’s in a slim, clear vase, difficult to see in the dim light. Holding stems of carnation, cyclamen, and white heather.

Taehyung flips through the book, matching petals to meaning. His chest feels tight, when he realizes what the flowers mean.

Carnation (Pink) – Remembrance.
Cyclamen – Resignation.
Heather (White) – Protection. 

He closes the book, fingers trembling slightly. He understands the message — it’s detachment, a goodbye, a request for space. 

Come back, he thinks, as if the sentiment alone can bridge the gap between him and his husband. Come back to me.

But Jimin already had, just not in words. He did it in the only language Taehyung shared with him: one built on silence.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The Queen hosts her annual spring brunch at Gyeongbokgung’s Gyotaejeon, an intimate and private affair meant only for family. The late morning breeze carries the scent of blooming trees, the sun drawing soft shadows across the room's dancheong-painted walls. Laughter and conversation flows easy over sweet rice cakes, honey cookies, and tea.

Nari, Seokjin’s daughter, giggles as she runs in circles around the table, her ribbon trailing behind like a streamer caught in wind. Seokjin pours a cup of barley tea for his wife Eunha, who fondly watches their daughter with a hand resting on her pregnant belly. 

Taehyung and Jimin arrive together, pleasant and poised. They walk beside each other, with a relaxed posture and easy smiles. They greet the Queen and Seokjin’s family with warmth, each gesture polite but affectionate.

Jimin leans in to offer the Queen a bouquet, bowing low as he places it in her hands — sweet peas and carnations, with blue irises tucked in the center.

“For you,” he says softly, “to welcome the season.”

“Lovely,” the Queen replies, fingers brushing the petals. “You always choose so well.”

He turns to Eunha next, handing her the second bouquet — lilies, orchids, and violets. Eunha beams and thanks him sincerely, lifting the bouquet for a sniff. “For well wishes,” Jimin says, smiling. “The lilies are for the princess of the household,” he adds, tipping his head toward Nari with a fond smile.

Nari runs to give him a sweet hug, and Jimin laughs, ruffling her hair affectionately.

The table becomes a gentle flurry of conversation as they take their seats and enjoy brunch: Eunha speaking about the baby’s expected arrival, Seokjin teasing her about possible names, and the Queen laughing at something Nari says about wanting a younger sibling who will eat the food she dislikes.

It’s grounded and real, the kind of gathering one can only enjoy in the safety of loved ones.

But the Queen is also watching. She notices the small things — the way Taehyung keeps refilling Jimin’s tea without being asked, but never once meets his eyes. How Jimin’s body is slightly angled away from Taehyung, his responses delayed when Taehyung speaks to him. How their arms never quite brush, even when they’re seated close to each other.

She glances down at her bouquet, the soft heads of the flowers moving slightly in the breeze. They’re beautiful, but something about them feels solemn. Like they were carefully chosen, not quite celebrating, and with a hint of something closer to sadness.

The Queen looks back at the couple seated side by side. Most people won't notice the silent tension between them, but she sees it clearly — how distance can wear the shape of intimacy. 

She sips her tea slowly, choosing her words with care.

“Spring is a great reminder that some gardens don’t bloom in their first season,” she murmurs, setting her tea down with a soft clink. “But a flower's roots can take hold, deeply and quietly. That’s the part no one sees.”

It lands gently, like the spring breeze drifting from the outside. No one responds directly.

“Some flowers might need more tending,” she adds, lightly stroking the edge of an iris in her bouquet. “Not just the warmth and the sun that the season brings, but also attention and patience. A caring hand that doesn’t shy from the dirt, the wilting leaves, or the thorns.”

Across the table, Taehyung finally glances toward Jimin, eyes unreadable. Jimin does not look back.

The Queen stands with a soft smile directed at Jimin. “Come, Jimin,” she says. “Walk with me.”

Jimin follows without hesitation.

They move in silence for a while, walking along the small garden behind Gyotaejeon. Here, at home and in the presence of family, the Queen carries herself without grandeur.

She pauses beside a bush of early blooms, their colors soft in the morning light.

“When I picked you to become Taehyung’s consort,” she begins, voice low and sure, “it wasn’t because you were the safe option. It’s because you aren’t.”

She turns to face Jimin fully. “You might not notice it, but I see him leaning towards you. Not as the prince, but as the boy who was never taught how to ask for what he needs.”

The Queen lets the silence stretch. Then, softer, as she reaches for her son-in-law’s hands:

“People like us are raised to speak in duty and diplomacy, not desire. We learn early that longing must be disciplined. But that’s one thing about being a modern, growing monarchy — we need people like you who remind us that some lessons must be unlearned.”

Jimin looks at her then, throat tightening.

The Queen gives him a small smile. “Whatever this season is between the two of you… let it be honest. Even if it’s difficult, let it be real.”

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Taehyung lingers behind in the pavilion, half-listening to Seokjin and Eunha. He watches as his mother and his consort disappear to the garden path nearby.

Seokjin elbows him to catch his attention. “Eunha still makes me cry at least once a year,” He says dryly. “But now it’s mostly in the good ways.”

He continues, “We almost didn’t make it, once. Too many opinions on who we should be or how we were supposed to be.”

“And not enough time to talk with each other and to listen to ourselves,” Eunha adds, reaching for Seokjin’s hand. 

Taehyung says nothing, but he eases up slightly. Eunha looks at him, knowing but understanding.

Just then, Nari clambers to the empty seat beside Taehyung, cheeks flushed and hands sticky with fruits.

“Uncle Tete,” she says solemnly, tilting her head, “why do you look sad?”

The question drops unexpectedly. Seokjin raises his brows, mouth parting to gently redirect his child, but Taehyung only blinks, startled. 

He smiles, slowly, just enough to pass for fine. “I’m not sad, Nari,” he says softly.

She looks at him with a small pout and a frown, unconvinced. Her chubby fingers reach for his hand, as if she understands her uncle needs comforting.

None of them noticed when the Queen and Jimin returned, until the light shifted and silence followed behind them.

Jimin’s eyes are on Nari, and then he looks at Taehyung. Their gazes catch for a heartbeat, long enough for Taehyung to realize Jimin heard their niece’s question.

The Queen releases Jimin’s arm then she glances at him, kind and knowing. She pats Taehyung’s shoulder as she moves forward to greet her granddaughter, who’s already animatedly talking about strawberries and cats and things that make no sense to anyone but her.

Her hand brushes Nari’s hair as the girl chatters, the scent of spring flowers stirring faintly from the garden, something sweet and waiting to bloom.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The car ride back to Changgyeonggung is quiet. 

Taehyung sits with one elbow propped against the window frame, eyes following the shifting reflections of sunlight across buildings and rooftops as they pass through Sajik-ro. Jimin sits beside him, hands folded neatly on his lap and face softened by the afternoon light, his expression suspended somewhere between the present and a memory. 

The space between them isn’t wide, just a few inches on the upholstered seat, but it might as well have been oceans.

Laughter and moments from the brunch echo faintly in Taehyung’s mind — Seokjin’s dry affection, Nari’s fruit-sticky fingers, Eunha’s kindness, the Queen’s steady warmth. 

And Jimin, who had said nothing, but had looked at him expectantly. How he heard the ghost of a child’s question and was waiting to see if Taehyung would answer it honestly.

Taehyung exhales, slow and quiet, the rhythm of the car tugging him deeper into thought. 

Uncle Tete, why do you look sad?

He didn't know how to answer Nari. But the honesty in her eyes lingers longer than the fruit-sticky stains on her fingers. And the way Jimin had looked at him afterward, unreadable, but far from indifferent, lingers too.

By the time the car rolls past the inner gates of Cheonggyeonggung, the mood shifts from melancholy to ceremony, settling back into their bones like habit. Taehyung straightens from his seat, smoothing the sleeves of his jacket. Beside him, Jimin does the same, posture composed. 

The door opens and they step out side by side, but not quite together.

“Your Highness,” Jimin says, measured and distant. The same way he had said it after that dinner with civil leaders not too long ago.

Taehyung watches him walk off without pause. His light suit catches the afternoon sun, shoulders squared with practiced grace, as he crosses the courtyard toward their private chambers. The ache blooms quietly beneath his ribs.

“Your Highness.”

Taehyung turns his head. Namjoon stands just off to the side of the car, hands in his pockets, as if he’d been waiting and knew exactly when to appear. 

“Walk with me?” Namjoon prompts him. “You look like you’ve got more in your chest than your office walls can hold.”

Taehyung falls into step beside him as a response.

Their initial silence between them is not unfamiliar. It’s old, easy. Built over years of growing up together within the palace walls — running down corridors, hiding from ministers, finding friendship in the rare privacy of corners. That childhood history has matured into a steady working relationship: Taehyung, the prince; Namjoon, his chief advisor. Namjoon has always known which voice to use: the one Taehyung needs, whether friend or counselor.

They cross the inner courtyard in the long shadows of late afternoon, footsteps soft against stone. They pass under the low-slung eaves of a covered walkway, walking deeper into the palace grounds. 

“Can I speak as a friend, Your Highness?” Namjoon asks. “I know you hate when I lead like that, but I’m going to anyway.”

Taehyung huffs a humorless sound, resigned. “Go on, then.”

“You think you’re protecting Jimin,” Namjoon begins, voice level. “But really, you’re protecting the idea of him and the idea of how this is supposed to look. You’re doing what you’re trained to do — manage risk, preserve legacy, serve the institution. You think that’s how it’s supposed to survive.”

Taehyung flinches, almost imperceptibly.

“But love doesn’t respond to protocol, Taehyung. It doesn’t survive in silence and restriction, or in distance and directives,” Namjoon continues. “Jimin… he’s not asking you to stop being a prince, or to bare every part of yourself. He’s asking you to meet him halfway. To be real with him, and to let him see the parts you hide from everyone else.”

“I am being real,” Taehyung says, words coming out flat and tired.

“No,” Namjoon replies, kind but firm. “You’re not being real — you’re being careful. You’ve convinced yourself that wanting anything for yourself is selfish. That if you need something, that if you want him, it will make you weak.”

Taehyung drops his gaze.

Namjoon watches him. “What if the only thing he needs is to know you’ll let him hold you, too? He’s already waiting on the other side. You just haven’t opened the door.”

The weight of it settles, not as judgment, but as truth.

“And if I do?” Taehyung asks, barely audible. “If I open that door, and he’s still standing there… what if I don’t know how to walk through it, hyung?”

“Then just take one step,” Namjoon answers quietly. “Just move, and he’ll meet you there.”

They turn a corner, and just ahead, a cluster of white gardenias bloom, fragrant and pale against deep green leaves.

Taehyung pauses.

He steps forward almost unconsciously, fingers grazing the petals. Then, slowly, he plucks one stem, careful not to bruise the petals.

“Secret love,” he murmurs. “Clarity. Hope.”

Namjoon doesn’t interrupt, just watches as Taehyung turns the flower in his hand. He holds the gardenia like a promise, wonder and something unspoken blooming across his face.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Jimin sits cross-legged inside his room, a blanket draped loosely around his shoulders. He’s writing in his journal, filling a page with half-starts and unfinished thoughts.

I didn’t expect to feel lonelier now than when I first stepped into this marriage. Back when we were strangers and barely knew anything about each other. But silence does that, doesn’t it? Makes you doubt what was ever real. Makes you wonder if it’s worth staying. Still, I think I prefer the melancholy of missing him, than the grief of pretending I don’t.

He pauses, ink smudging the page. Then he closes the journal, sliding it back inside his desk drawer. The weight in his chest doesn’t ease, but it presses less insistently when he’s among his flowers in the greenhouse.

He steps out to the sitting room, planning to leave their private chambers. Almost passes the table. Almost misses it.

A single white gardenia, resting on the stack of books he leaves for his nighttime routine of drinking tea and reading a book.

He stands still, gaze caught. Trying to understand what it means.

Gardenia. An untold love. Trust. Hope and renewal. The quiet language of starting again.

Jimin reaches out, reverently touching the petals. Then gently, he sets it aside to pick up the worn book beneath it. Something familiar, one of his favorites. He holds the poetry book and slips out into the night, toward the greenhouse.

Much later, Taehyung arrives back in the same room. His eyes land on the gardenia he left earlier, and then to Jimin’s door, left open to his empty room. 

His heart sinks, thinking to himself, Maybe he didn’t see it? Or am I too late and we’re beyond repair?

But then he remembers what Namjoon said earlier: He’s asking you to meet him halfway. To be real with him, and to let him see the parts you hide from everyone else.

And something in him — the part that’s tender, raw, and real — finally steadies.

Enough of his silence. Enough of being careful.

He steps out again, the night breeze blowing in soft pink petals from the nearby cherry blossom tree.

Just ahead, Jungkook stands at his usual post, alert even in the late hour. He looks up as he sees Taehyung approach him.

“Your Highness,” he says. “Is something the matter?”

Taehyung hesitates, considering. He shakes his head, “No.”

Jungkook tilts his head slightly, gauging. Sensing as if there’s something more. “If you’re looking for Consort Jimin… he’s usually alone at the greenhouse around this time.”

Taehyung nods once, holding his gaze for a moment. He turns, and this time, he doesn't hesitate.

He walks to the greenhouse — not as the prince. Just as himself.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

In a far corner of the greenhouse, half-veiled by shadows and moonlight, Jimin sits curled on a gray settee meant for two. An open copy of One Hundred Love Sonnets rests on his lap, but he’s stopped reading a long time ago.

Part of the poetry caught him, burrowed deep and refused to let go: I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that never blooms but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.

It hurts reading the sonnet, like putting pressure on a fresh bruise.

He almost doesn’t hear it at first, the presence of another person arriving in the greenhouse. Familiar, measured footsteps he once listened for outside his door on lonely nights, or on days when he felt invisible.

“Strange how I see you every day, and yet… not at all,” Taehyung says, careful. “It feels like I never really see you.”

“Is that a complaint or an observation?” Jimin doesn’t lift his head. 

“Maybe both.”

Silence falls between them, empty and thick with everything unsaid. 

“Jimin —,” Taehyung begins.

“If you’re here to apologize,” Jimin cuts in, rising from the settee, “please don’t. I’m not in the mood for apologies that don’t mean anything.”

“I’m not here to apologize,” Taehyung replies, approaching closer. “Not because I don’t regret how we’re falling apart — I do. But I’m mostly here to tell you I miss you. And that I want to try harder for you. For us.”

Jimin swallows. The words aren’t new — he heard a version of them some nights ago: I’m trying. I don’t always know how, but I am. But the way Taehyung says them now — less polished, more bare — makes them land differently.

Jimin’s chest tightens. He watches Taehyung, how the tension in his shoulders slip, how his hands hang at his sides, open, defenseless.

“No one trains you for something like this,” Taehyung murmurs, almost to himself. “How to wear a crown while loving someone.”

Jimin looks at him almost devastatingly. “Do you even want me, Taehyung? Or am I just here because the Crown told you to keep me beside you?”

“You think I’m here out of obligation?” He reaches for Jimin’s wrist, thumb skimming it tenderly. “You’re the first and only thing I want that has nothing to do with duty.”

Jimin blinks in surprise, startled at his honesty.

“You show me what it means to want something for myself,” Taehyung continues, voice low. “To trust that I can put down my armor and be known — not as a prince, but as me.”

The words hang there, raw and unguarded.

“It’s fine if you need armor to survive out there,” Jimin moves closer to him. “But you can lay it down, when it’s just us. You don’t have to be anything more than yourself when you’re with me.”

“I don’t know how to.”

Jimin reaches up without thinking, fingertips grazing Taehyung’s jaw. A question and an offering, seeking permission. He feels the tremble in Taehyung’s breath, betraying the tension he’s held for far too long.

Taehyung leans into Jimin’s touch, eyes fluttering closed. Answering and surrendering at the same time.

In that moment, something breaks open in Jimin — the ache of holding back, of loving in silence.

Jimin kisses him then, slow and aching. A kiss that unravels everything they haven’t fully acknowledged between them. The kind that says rest here with me; I’ll take care of you.

Taehyung gasps against him and Jimin swallows the sound, his fingers tracing the line of Taehyung’s neck, the slope of his shoulders, grounding them both. He feels Taehyung shudder, hands gripping his waist like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

Jimin’s hands drift lower, splaying across Taehyung’s back, drawing him nearer as they fall back into the settee. Until there’s nothing left between them but heat and skin, fabric rasping faintly with each shift. Taehyung is pliant under his touch, a low sound slipping from his throat when Jimin’s lips brush the underside of his jaw.

“I’m not afraid of you breaking me,” Taehyung breathes. “I’m afraid of wanting too much.”

Jimin kisses him again, slower this time. “You’re allowed to want.”

Taehyung exhales, like he’s hearing the words for the first time, like he’s been waiting for them without knowing. His voice catches when he whispers, “I want things I don’t know how to ask for. I don’t want to be too much.”

“You don’t have to ask. I see you,” Jimin says, threading his fingers through Taehyung’s hair. “And you’ll never be too much for me. You never were.”

Taehyung’s eyes flutter shut, and when he speaks again, it’s barely audible. “What if I don’t know how to be held?”

Jimin leans in, pressing a kiss to his temple. “We’ll take care of each other, and we’ll learn together. Just be here with me.”

He kisses Taehyung again, one that says this is yours, if you want it.

And this time, Taehyung doesn’t hesitate. He lets Jimin draw him in, he lets himself want.

Jimin moves with intention, reverent and caught in wonder, as Taehyung arches into him and unfurls beneath his hands, every inch of him blooming in soft surrender. Jimin takes his time memorizing the shape of Taehyung’s hips, the stutter of his breath when he kisses down his sternum, the way he tries to bite back a sound and fails. 

Every inch of Taehyung is warm, real. Something sacred, just for Jimin.

They move together, slow but certain. Toward knowing and being known. Toward seeing and being seen. Jimin holds Taehyung, and in each touch, pours unspoken love into every lonely, trembling part of Taehyung’s body.

In the hush after, as their skin cools and the night stretches around them, Jimin doesn’t have to fight to be let in and Taehyung doesn’t retreat behind silence. He stays, and lets himself be held. Secure, seen, and wanted for who he is.

That, more than anything, feels like love.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The first thing Taehyung feels is warmth.

Not the early morning sunlight spilling through the greenhouse, but the warmth of Jimin beside him, breathing softly, one hand curled beneath his chin like he's holding a secret.

Taehyung looks at the curve of Jimin’s spine beneath the button down they used as a blanket, at the bruises blooming faintly along his shoulder where Taehyung’s mouth had lingered hours before. Like petals written into skin.

Jimin stirs faintly, eyes fluttering open, heavy-lidded and warm.

“Hi,” he murmurs, voice still folded in sleep.

“Hi,” Taehyung smiles, thumb tracing the edge of Jimin’s wrist. He leans in, brushing his lips on Jimin’s temple, then his cheek — a kiss that lingers like a thought he’s not ready to let go of.

His mouth moves in reverence, the tender heat of it shifting from Jimin’s cheek, to the edge of his jaw, down the line of his throat. Jimin exhales softly as Taehyung’s lips reach the hollow of his collarbone, then lower. His name whispered there, low and holy, like prayer against his skin. 

Jimin arches into him instinctively, fingers threading into Taehyung’s hair. A silent yes. 

This time, he’s the one trembling in surrender, giving in to the devotion curling in the space between them.

“Mine," Taehyung whispers — not as a claim, but as a vow.

He presses closer, a sigh melting between them. One hand curls at Jimin’s waist, the other trailing a slow, deliberate path down his body, like he’s learning the shape of them together through touch alone.

They move together deliberately, unhurried, as if there’s nowhere else they need to be. The soft rhythm of bodies seeking and giving warmth, unraveling together in a way only lovers know how. 

After, Taehyung collapses on top of Jimin, sated and breathless, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against Jimin’s chest.  

Jimin turns slightly, pressing a kiss to his temple, lips brushing damp strands of hair.  

"Good morning."  

"Mmm. The best." Taehyung laughs lowly, nuzzling Jimin’s neck. He sighs as Jimin traces light, absent patterns across his back.

It doesn’t feel like he’s about to lose something because he chose for himself. 

It feels, finally, like he’s home.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The morning lingers around them, slow and golden.

Jimin lies draped across Taehyung’s chest. Nearby, their shirts lay forgotten on the ground. One of Taehyung’s hands rests low on Jimin’s back, warm and steady. The other holds the small, worn copy of One Hundred Love Sonnets .

“Read to me,” Jimin murmurs, voice thick with contentment.

Taehyung opens the book to a poem he knows well, reading the lines like it was meant only for them. 

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

He pauses when he reaches the final line. Jimin hums faintly as Taehyung adjusts beneath him, his lips brushing the curve of Jimin’s shoulder in a kiss that is more exhale than sound.

Still curled into him, Jimin whispers, “Read the last part again.”

Taehyung does — slower this time, like he’s learning it by heart. 

And when the final word falls away, Jimin turns his face and presses a kiss to Taehyung’s chest. He lingers there, lips resting over the steady beat of Taehyung’s heart.

“I used to think I understood that poem,” Jimin murmurs, looking up at him. His hand lifts to cup Taehyung’s cheek, tender and sure. “But I didn’t. Not until you. Now I know what it means to love like that. To belong.”

Taehyung curls his arm tighter around Jimin’s waist, leaving a kiss on Jimin’s wrist. 

They stay like that for a while — legs tangled, skin warm, sunlight catching on the soft rise and fall of breath between them. 

No roles to play. No protocols to follow. Just two people, no longer lost, finally arriving at the same place.

Chapter Text

The late morning light spills across the lush palace grounds as Taehyung and Jimin step out of the greenhouse, hands casually intertwined.

Jimin’s hair is mussed, his button-down hopelessly wrinkled, one hand holding a small bouquet; Taehyung’s jacket hung half-on, half-off his shoulders like an afterthought. Neither looked particularly royal, or seemed remotely concerned.

There’s an ease between them, as they walk in a quiet, unhurried symmetry. Like muscle memory, Taehyung slides his arm around Jimin’s waist, pulling him closer as he leaves a soft kiss to his temple. Jimin leans in, smiling, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

From behind a nearby tall hedge, Namjoon watches, holding back a grin as he sips his coffee. Jungkook stands beside him, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, half-amused and half-incredulous.

“Well,” Jungkook breaks the silence, “they’re definitely walking like they didn’t sleep and they have zero regrets about it.”

Namjoon huffs a laugh. “It’s about time.”

“That explains the radio silence this morning,” Jungkook mutters. “Glad I didn’t go poking around the greenhouse.”

Namjoon nods, eyes still following the pair. “They look lighter. Better.”

“Think it will last?”

“If it doesn’t, it definitely won’t be for lack of wanting.” Namjoon’s mouth quirks. “But they certainly look like they’ve stopped pretending.”

They watch as Taehyung leans in to whisper something in Jimin’s ear, a playful grin on his face. Jimin laughs, head tilted back and eyes crinkling into crescent moons, the kind of laughter they’ve never heard from the consort.

Jungkook looks away, feeling like he’s seen something too private.  “It’s strange,” he says quietly. “Seeing them happy like this. Like — real happy, not just for show.”

“They’ve always wanted it,” Namjoon replies, his voice softening. “They just didn’t know how to want it out loud.”

“And now?”

Namjoon smiles, faint but certain. “Now they’re learning and doing.” 

They turn away, coffee and cigarettes finished, their footsteps quiet as they leave Taehyung and Jimin behind — still walking slowly, still wrapped around each other.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

They slip into their private chambers together, the hush of their return settling like dust motes in sunlight.

Jimin moves first, stepping forward to slide Taehyung’s jacket off his shoulders. His knuckles brush the bare skin of Taehyung’s arms as the fabric falls past the half-folded sleeves of his shirt, fingers hesitating for a second, then lingering.

Taehyung reaches for the buttons of Jimin’s top, slow and careful. Each one comes undone with a soft flick of his fingers, revealing warm, flushed skin and memories of the night before. As he opens the shirt further, he sees a deeper mark near the curve of Jimin’s shoulder, where his mouth had lingered too long.

“You’ll bruise,” Taehyung murmurs quietly, brow creasing.

“I don’t mind,” Jimin whispers, hand curling gently at the back of Taehyung’s neck.

Taehyung bends, mouth sweeping the bruise with a kiss softer than breath. An apology and a promise, sealed on skin. Jimin exhales, eyes fluttering shut as he leans against Taehyung, steadying them both in the silence.

They undress each other slowly, every touch a reintroduction. Fingers drag over collarbones and ribs, down spines and over hips, cataloguing each other in the safety of their home. The graze of knuckles, the rustle of fabric, the sound of breath hitching — each one an echo of the night before, and the morning that followed.

They step into the shower together, warm water steaming around them and mist curling around their shoulders. Everything else falls away within the rhythm of their shared space.

Jimin reaches for the shampoo first, fingers threading through Taehyung’s hair with gentle slowness. Taehyung lets his eyes fall shut, as Jimin’s thumbs occasionally press at his temples.

It still startles him, the tenderness that Jimin offers so freely and one that Taehyung is now learning to accept.

When Taehyung opens his eyes, he meets Jimin’s open gaze and reaches for the soap in return. He lathers it slowly between his hands, then trails a lazy path along Jimin’s collarbone. Fingers mapping down the curve of a shoulder, the slope of a ribcage. Each touch unhurried — not in possession, or even apology — just memory, turned tangible.

Jimin hums low, nearly inaudible, and leans into him without a word. His weight settles naturally into Taehyung’s chest, like he’s remembering what it means to rest.

Taehyung breathes in the scent of warm skin and lavender soap, the steam thick between them. And when Jimin turns slightly, pressing a kiss along Taehyung’s neck, it doesn’t feel like an invitation or response. It feels like trust, like confirmation.

Jimin’s fingers smooth Taehyung’s hair behind his ear, lingering along a cheekbone. Taehyung answers by wrapping his arms around him, pulling him closer until there’s nothing between them but water and skin and breath.

When they finally step out of the shower, it’s together. Towels exchanged in silence, movements habitual, like they’ve done this all their lives.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The sun has climbed higher by the time they drift back into their sitting room, the slight heat mingling with the faint sweetness of the greenhouse flowers Jimin brought back with them earlier that day. He’s done a loose arrangement of the daisies, lilacs, and forget-me-nots in a vase on the windowsill. 

Taehyung, dressed in something halfway between sleepwear and duty, sits at his desk with a stack of reports in front of him, with zero intention of reading them. His gaze drifts, again and again, to the figure by the window. 

Jimin, in something soft and loose, sitting on the couch with his legs tucked beneath him. Jimin, with his glasses slipping slightly down his nose as he sketches something on a page. Jimin, who looks like he belongs, not just as a prince’s consort, but as the person Taehyung was unknowingly waiting for.

Taehyung gives up pretense, crossing the room to Jimin. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the crown of Jimin’s head. Casual, but heartfelt. 

“I love you,” he murmurs sweetly.

Jimin stills in surprise, but he looks up at Taehyung with a soft expression, lit from within. “I love you, too,” he says, meeting Taehyung’s eyes fully. 

They don’t keep constant conversation, instead letting a comfortable rhythm form between them — pages turning, fingers brushing in passing, a question out of nowhere. They move through the room like people who finally know how to be around each other fully and completely.

Later, when the light has shifted and the room has turned honey-gold, Taehyung drifts toward the vase and plucks a single flower — a forget-me-not, small and tender. He walks back and gently tucks it behind Jimin’s ear, letting his fingers linger in the soft sweep of his hair.

“Still mine?” Taehyung asks, voice low and fond.

Jimin smiles, amused but moved. He reaches up, curling his fingers around Taehyung’s hand, lifting it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “Always.”

Outside, the world spins on. Inside, time stretches gently around them, like the warmth of the day passing through flower petals.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Come dinnertime, they sit on the couch with their plates balanced on their laps and an open bottle of wine between them. It’s unpolished but comfortable, the kind of moment that feels like an exhale after months and months of keeping up protocols and appearances.

Their conversation starts somewhere near the present, moving backwards to the past. Jimin and the greenhouse. The flowers they’d brought back that morning. The bouquets that he left on Taehyung’s desk on Mondays. 

And then came the things that felt fleeting but necessary. The way Taehyung proposed, all those months ago. Which floral arrangement he liked best from Jimin. The night Taehyung cooked for them. Some memories weren’t always gentle, but there was an odd comfort in the telling and sharing.

At one point, Jimin reaches over and holds out a bite for Taehyung, and while Taehyung opened his mouth to receive it, he miscalculated and the food dropped on his shirt.

Jimin laughs in surprise, then immediately leans over, fingers brushing at a spot on Taehyung’s shirt. “Messy prince,” he chides playfully as he wipes at the food stain at the corner of Taehyung’s mouth.

Taehyung grins, eyes crinkling and cheeks lifting up. “Maybe I just want an excuse to be fussed over.”

Jimin’s thumb lingers a moment longer than necessary as Taehyung stills, leaning slightly into the touch. 

Eventually, they went on eating — still shoulder to shoulder, plates balanced, passing bites back and forth. The low hum of Seoul filtering in, distant and softened by the palace walls.

Taehyung looks over and finds Jimin watching him.

He tilts his head. “What?”

Jimin hesitates, eyes flicking down and back. “Just… trying to memorize this version of you.”

“This version?”

“The soft one,” Jimin smiles faintly. “The one that looks at me like I’m allowed to stay.”

The words wrap around something deep in Taehyung’s chest. He shifts, turning toward Jimin and reaching out to cup Jimin’s cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye.

“You’re not just allowed,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “You’re wanted.”

He takes Jimin’s hand, pressing it over his chest. “Can you feel that?” he asks. “You’re in there. Every beat.”

Later, when dishes have been pushed aside and their chambers have gone almost entirely dark, Taehyung stands over his desk, debating the pile of work waiting for him.

Jimin watches him as he lay curled on Taehyung’s bed, patting the space next to him and calling out, “Come to bed.”

Taehyung looks back at his husband and doesn’t hesitate. He follows into the room, into the bed that was once his but is now quietly theirs — into the space they’re building together, steady and slow.

That night, they don’t reach for more. They just curl up together, falling asleep face to face, no longer drifting apart. Turning inward, toward the same place.

And when Taehyung’s hand finds Jimin’s beneath the covers, it stays there — fingers laced, as though they had always slept together this way.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The couple eventually leave their bubble the next day, as Seokjin’s family is expecting them for lunch.

They arrive at Changdeokgung by late morning, where the courtyard is already filled with domestic sounds — the rustle of staff going from one pavilion to another, laughter drifting faintly from the kitchens, the sound of leaves and petals being swept by a gardener. 

Eunha greets them with her usual affection, one hand resting on her rounded belly, the other offering Jimin a small kiss on the cheek.

“Welcome,” she says with a bright smile that warms the whole room. “I’m glad you can make it.”

“Thank you for having us,” Jimin replies, bowing slightly. She waves it off with fondness.

“You’re family. And besides, Nari’s been asking for you.”

Nari peeks from behind a hallway screen, tiny and bright-eyed. Jimin crouches, opening his arms as she dashes toward him with a squeal.

They have a lunch of light dishes with rice, then some seasonal fruit and desserts after. Nari sits beside Jimin, happily stealing bites from his plate. Taehyung leans into the calm rhythm of it all, speaking lightly with Seokjin and Eunha about council and palace matters, their voices low, but unweighted.

Halfway through the meal, Seokjin, ever the keen observer, gives Taehyung a long look. Half-curious and half-knowing, chopsticks pausing mid-air.

“You look different, Taehyung” he says, teasing laced through the remark. “Marriage finally suits you, huh? I haven’t seen you this soft.”

Jimin blinks mid-sip, nearly choking on his drink. Eunha reaches to pat his back, laughing.

“It’s true,” she says, eyes dancing between them. “He’s smiling more now.”

Taehyung tries to level a look at Seokjin, but his mouth betrays him, curling into the very softness they teased him about. “You’re both insufferable.”

Seokjin grins playfully. “Oh, you haven't seen anything yet. Wait til we reach our tenth anniversary.”

After lunch, the group drifts toward the courtyard. Eunha excuses herself to rest, pressing a hand over her belly with a contented sigh. Jimin and Nari walk out to a sun-warmed path, crouching by a patch of clover and flowers. He lets her braid a flower chain around his wrist, as she solemnly declares him “the fairy prince”.

Taehyung stands just a few paces away, arms folded, his gaze fixed on them — on the soft curve of Jimin’s smile, the patience in how he teaches Nari the name of flowers, the way he tilts his head to listen attentively to his niece.

Seokjin approaches him quietly, hands tucked behind his back. He watches Jimin and Nari for a beat, then speaks without looking away.

“She adores him,” Seokjin says, fondly. “Jimin has that quiet charm. The kind of magic that even children trust.”

“I know.” Taehyung says, a hint of pride in his voice.

There’s a comfortable pause between them, the air fragrant with late spring and the promise of summer. Seokjin doesn’t fill it with his usual teasing.

“I’ve seen you command a room of leaders and charm diplomats,” he says, glances sideways to Taehyung. “But I’ve never seen you look at someone like this.”

Taehyung’s gaze doesn’t waver away from watching Jimin. “Like what?”

“Like you’ve finally come home.”

Taehyung bites back a smile.

“You were always different, even when you were little,” Seokjin continues. “Used to hide around Gyeongbok, with a sketchbook you never let anyone touch. You always said the palace was too loud and you didn't want to be there, remember?”

Taehyung huffs a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes. “And then you told Mother I was planning on stealing the throne from you and that I’m building a secret kingdom.”

“Well, you can’t steal my legacy,” Seokjin teases, nudging him with his elbow. “But you were building your own kingdom. Your own home. You just didn’t know then that you were looking for someone to build it with.”

Taehyung turns toward him, something unguarded in his face.

Seokjin shrugs his head lightly, but he looks at Taehyung with affection and pride. “You’ve found that person now. I see it in how you move, how you stay still. He brings you back to yourself.”

Taehyung looks back to the courtyard, where Jimin is now holding Nari’s tiny hand, gently guiding her towards a row of flowers.

“He makes it feel possible,” Taehyung murmurs. “Like all of this — the palace, the duty, the weight — it’s not something I have to carry alone anymore.”

Seokjin rests a hand on his shoulder. “Then let him carry it with you. Don’t shut him out when it gets heavy. You’re not thirteen anymore, Tae. You don’t have to build kingdoms alone. You don’t have to stay in the dark.”

Taehyung’s throat works around something unsaid, his hand coming up to squeeze Seokjin’s briefly in thanks.

A beat later, Seokjin adds, lighter now, "Also — just saying — Eunha thinks Jimin’s the best thing to happen to the monarchy. My whole family’s seriously in love with your man.”

Taehyung lets out a short laugh. “That’s high praise. And yes, he’s mine, so tell your ladies hands off.”

“Don’t mess it up,” Seokjin teases back. “Eunha’s already planning matching hanboks.”

Taehyung shakes his head, smiling despite himself.

Nari barrels into Seokjin's leg, tugging her father’s trousers in one hand. A crooked flower crown slides down over one of her ears, while a matching chain of clovers and tiny bridalwreath, loosely woven but heartfelt, is looped carefully around Jimin’s wrist.

“Appa, he taught me flowers,” she announces proudly, pointing to Jimin. “Uncle Chim knows all the names. Even the ones you says are just weeds.”

“They’re not weeds,” Jimin says fondly, as he adjusts Nari’s flower crown to gently fix it. “They’re just... unknown and misunderstood.”

Seokjin chuckles. “Sounds familiar.”

Nari turns to her father with a serious expression. “Uncle Chim is like a flower, but a small, quiet one. The kind you don’t notice at first, but it’s the prettiest and it smells the nicest.”

Jimin lets out a surprised, gentle laugh, caught off guard, and Taehyung’s heart twists. Of course she sees it too.

Seokjin places a hand over his heart. “I used to be her favorite man.”

Nari giggles in mischief, pulling her father with her as she skips ahead to show her flower crown to Eunha. Taehyung steps close to Jimin, brushing his fingers lightly over the chain of clovers and petals along Jimin’s wrist.

“Come,” he says quietly, a voice meant for Jimin alone. “I want to show you something.”

The couple slips into the shaded paths leading toward Changdeokgung’s hidden garden, where the trees grow tall and solemn and the grounds are old and ancient.

“My ancestors went here if they wanted a private retreat, a quiet space for reflection and leisure,” Taehyung says softly, slipping his hand with Jimin’s. “It’s where I used to hide before, when things get too much for me.”

“And now?” Jimin asks, thumb brushing against Taehyung’s hand.

“And now I don’t have to hide anymore. I get to share this place with you.”

They sit on a bench under a canopy of trees, the afternoon filtering through the leaves. Jimin rests his head on Taehyung’s shoulder quietly, enjoying the garden in its late spring hues and the scent of juniper and mulberry trees carried by the wind.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Taehyung emerges from the bathroom, the scent of lavender curling around him. His robe hangs loose on his shoulders, damp hair curling at the nape of his neck, droplets still tracing the lines of his throat.

He runs a towel over his hair absently, eyes locked on Jimin.

Jimin sits on the edge of the bed with a book splayed open on his lap, forgotten. His sweater is slipping off one shoulder, revealing the smooth line of his collarbone.

But it's not the skin Taehyung sees first — it’s the way Jimin’s eyes track him, slow and heavy, as though he’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

“You didn’t sleep yet?” Taehyung asks, voice low.

Jimin gives a small shrug, shifting his sweater further. “Didn’t want to.”

The silence that follows is something still new to them, but it crackles, slow-burning.

Taehyung lets the towel fall from his hand, the thud soft against the floorboards as he crosses the room barefoot. He stops in front of Jimin and reaches out, fingers sliding into the dark strands of his hair, thumb brushing over the curve of his cheek, then dipping lower near the corner of his mouth. 

“You always look at me like that,” Taehyung murmurs, laced with the vulnerability of wanting.

Jimin’s lashes dip as he blinks slowly, but his gaze doesn’t leave Taehyung’s. “Like what?”

“Like you’re still not sure I’m real.”

Jimin’s mouth turns up softly, hand rising to rest on Taehyung’s chest, where his robe gapes open. “And you’re touching me like you’re trying to make sure I am.”

Taehyung’s laugh was breath and warmth, barely a sound at all. “Maybe we’re both right.”

He leans in just as Jimin shifts closer to him, mouths meeting and parting as they explore the taste of each other.

Taehyung’s other hand tugs at the end of Jimin’s sweater, sliding it lower to reveal more of the skin he’s beginning to memorize. His lips trail a path along the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow of his neck, the curve of his collarbone.

He pauses at the fading mark he left on Jimin from two nights ago, hidden almost like a secret just for them. Taehyung traces the edge of it before sealing his mouth over it, reigniting the sensation.

Jimin makes a sound, something between a sigh and a moan, fingers clutching the fabric of Taehyung’s robe as Taehyung worships him with his mouth. “We don’t have to…” he begins, but Taehyung silences him with another kiss, as he gently eases Jimin against the pillows.

The movement brings their bodies flush — the warm press of bare chest against sweater, thigh against thigh. Jimin’s hand slides up behind Taehyung’s neck, fingers threading through damp hair and pulling him closer, as Taehyung kisses him again, softer this time, like a vow made through touch.

There’s no rush, no demand between them. Just the press of skin meeting skin, the slow build of heat, hands relearning the shape of each other.

Taehyung kisses the curve of Jimin’s cheek, the underside of his jaw, the fluttering pulse at his throat. His hands move with the same quiet devotion — slipping under the hem of Jimin’s sweater, smoothing up the soft plane of his stomach. Jimin lifts his arms without a word as Taehyung tugs the sweater over his head.

They still for a beat, Taehyung’s gaze trailing over all that is being offered without hesitation.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, breathless and awed.

“Come here,” Jimin whispers. “Touch me like you mean it.”

Taehyung obeys, bending down to kiss along Jimin’s collarbone, down his sternum, each press of his mouth slow and aching. His fingers skim Jimin’s waist, tracing the fine line of muscle, then slides lower, along the band of his sweatpants.

He hesitates just a breath, a pause not of doubt but of reverence, before pushing them down, letting them fall away as Jimin moves to help him.

Jimin’s legs part instinctively, curving around Taehyung’s hip to draw him in closer. The robe slips from Taehyung’s shoulders, baring the rest of him to the weight of Jimin’s touch.

Everything in that moment slows down into something sharp and needy. Taehyung moves over Jimin, hands bracketing his hips, then brushing down his thighs. Jimin arches into him, basking in the want that has nowhere to hide anymore.

Their bodies align easily, like memory. Like they’ve always known how to find and hold each other this way. Each kiss and each touch deepening the ache of something fuller. Of having longed quietly, and finally being touched the way they craved for so long.

Taehyung’s mouth returns to Jimin’s skin, tasting every breath and sound he coaxes from him. Jimin’s hands roam down Taehyung’s back, over his spine, along the lines that flex and move beneath his skin. He holds him there for a breath, then shifts — hips rising slightly in silent offering, knees drawn open.

His fingers trail lower, reverent, until he touches where Jimin is warm and waiting. He moves carefully, easing one finger in while listening to the soft way Jimin exhales — like surrender and permission in one. He moves with patience, with awe, feeling the way Jimin’s body pulls him deeper.

“More,” Jimin murmurs, breath catching.

Taehyung gives it — another finger, a kiss to the inside of his thigh, the low murmur of his name like it’s sacred.

When he leans forward, pressing their mouths together again, Jimin’s hand finds his wrist, guiding him — not to demand, but to show. His hips lift, a slow circle, until Taehyung finds the angle that makes Jimin gasp against his lips.

“There?” Taehyung whispers, lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

Jimin nods again, eyes dark and blown wide. “Please.”

When Taehyung finally presses into him, slow and full, Jimin’s legs tighten around his hips, arms wrapping around his shoulders. There’s no sound but their breath, the soft hum of their world narrowing to this — to the stretch, the ache, the slow joining of skin and heartbeat and need.

Taehyung stills for a moment, forehead pressed to Jimin’s. He shifts under him, and Taehyung follows, almost shakily, as Jimin moves his hips again — showing him a rhythm that’s more a plea than demand. A tilt of his hips, a tightening of his thighs, the brush of fingers urging him closer.

He gives in to it, lets himself be taught, to understand. To listen with every thrust, every breath. A rhythm born from knowing, of aching. 

“You make it feel like it’s okay to want like this,” Taehyung murmurs, half confession, half prayer.

“Then want me. Show me how much,” Jimin gasps.

So Taehyung does. He moves with deep, deliberate thrusts, following every sound Jimin makes, every subtle pull of his body. Jimin meets each motion with his own, until there’s nothing left between them but the heat of wanting and the months they’ve spent quiet with it.

It’s intimate, in the way only trust could be. 

It’s in the way Jimin arches to meet Taehyung, and the way Taehyung listens to every hitch in Jimin’s breath, every whimper when he moves just right. It’s in their moans tucked into the crook of a shoulder, in their mouths finding each other again and again. In their hands searching, hips shifting, breath tangling into the heat between them.

They’re not making love to defy the world or to mend wounds. They’re doing it because it’s theirs — a choice they made together, in the quiet dark. Because wanting each other no longer feels lonely and it no longer feels like a risk. It now feels like a promise. 

When their moment finally crests, Jimin pulls Taehyung into a deep kiss. Taehyung follows soon after, arms tightening to hold him through their mutual unraveling.

They lay entangled in the aftermath, limbs heavy but hearts light, skin damp and mouths occasionally brushing against each other out of comfort. 

They eventually fall asleep intertwined, home in each other's arms. For a few hours, the world was theirs — held at bay by nothing more than a closed door and the steady rhythm of two hearts, newly in sync.

It didn’t last.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The headline arrived before sunrise, brutal and unrelenting:

“Royal Consort’s Secret Past: Patronage and Privilege Dressed in Petals”

The morning air is bitter, colder than it should be for late spring. The kind of cold that settles under the skin, like something you can’t shake off.

Taehyung stands tense in their sitting room, coffee cooling in his hands, eyes locked on the newspaper flayed open like a wound. He didn’t touch it beyond the necessary first glance. He didn’t need to read it again. 

That blaring headline alone was enough.

He knows the palace has survived worse. But the scandals that touched the royal family were not like this. They didn’t have Jimin’s name carved into them like this. 

The photos were old and irrelevant. But paired with the lies and accusations, they painted a picture that the public would eat up. The kind of story that didn’t need to be true to spread. 

All it needed was implication, and a name.

And now his Jimin wasn’t just Jimin.

It’s that Jimin. The scandalous one who charmed his way to the top, through secrets, favors, and relationships. 

Taehyung sets his mug down too hard, the ceramic echoing through the room. He feels his chest tighten with anger and grief.

Something innocent and beautiful has bloomed between them, something that is theirs and theirs alone. And now it’s being ripped from the soil, about to be torn apart by the public.

Their bedroom door opens and Taehyung turns, slow and deliberate. His eyes meet Jimin’s, as he stands in the doorway. He sees him already bracing for what’s coming. 

“I saw it online,” he says quietly. He doesn't look away, and Taehyung sees the flash of something in his eyes — hurt and worry, swallowed down too fast.

He stands straight, but there’s a crack beneath the stillness. The kind that forms just before something breaks.

They’re interrupted by the front door sliding open — Namjoon entering without waiting, his usual composure giving way to tension. Even the folder in his hand looks stressed, creased at the edges, like he’d clutched it too tightly.

“Your Highness,” he says, voice clipped. “The Council has called an emergency session. They want you in Munjeongjeon now.”

Taehyung stiffens. “Jimin comes with me.”

Namjoon doesn’t flinch, but his eyes flick toward the consort with a brief apology. “They’ve made it clear that this is a closed session with you. Royal only, no consort.”

The words land like a slap. Not cruel, just absolute.

Taehyung’s jaw clenches, a protest rising in his throat. 

Jimin beats him to it. “It’s fine,” he says softly. “Go.”

Taehyung looks at him, reluctant to leave. “Jimin —”

“I said it’s fine,” Jimin repeats, this time steadier and sharper. “You need to pick your battles today.”

Namjoon steps outside to give them space, but the message is clear: the Council is expecting the prince to arrive without the consort.

“Go,” Jimin says again. “Just... come back to me when you can.”

Taehyung falters. His eyes linger on Jimin, memorizing the moment — how he stands bravely, dignified even when the ground has shifted beneath them.

He walks to leave their private chambers, but leans in when he passes by Jimin, whispering, “We’ll get through this together. I’ll protect what’s ours.”

He leaves a kiss on Jimin’s temple — soft and steady, an assurance and a promise delivered through touch.

Jimin doesn’t answer. But as Taehyung turns to go, his fingers reach out to brush against Taehyung’s wrist, light and fleeting. A grounding reminder of who they are now.

He watches Taehyung leave and close the door, feeling the press of his parting kiss still warm against his skin.

Jimin lets himself believe, just for a moment, that maybe their love can be louder than the noise. That what they built in the dark is strong enough to hold against the light.

Chapter Text

Royal Consort’s Secret Past: Patronage and Privilege Dressed in Petals

Anonymous insiders allege Park Jimin’s rise to monarchy is tactical

Before he married into the monarchy and became a Royal Consort, florist Park Jimin was a promising name in the niche cross-section of arts and flowers. He was known across elite circles for his flower symbolism beautifully executed through evocative and immersive floral installations. 

Recent claims from unnamed sources suggest, however, that the Consort’s former success wasn’t purely skill and talent — it was ‘bought and sculpted by patrons’.

“He was talented,” one of the sources said. “And that talent extended to knowing how to move around influence. He charmed people with a strategically curated persona, and he knew how to make anyone believe in him.” 

One former patron, speaking on condition of anonymity, claimed how they privately funded the Consort’s exhibit in Kyoto, Berlin, and Marrakech five years ago. “He had an unforgettable presence. He was always in control of the room, of how people would perceive him.”

An international donor also stepped forward with correspondences shared between them and the Consort, from as recent as two years ago. While the emails and notes are mostly of professional variety, some of them suggest possible personal entanglements.

When asked about the nature of their relationship, the international donor declined to comment further than saying, “I believed in him and his talent, but I can’t deny he had the gift of disguising art and flowers as intimacy. Let’s just say he could convince you that you’re essential and important to him.”

While these allegations seem to haven’t reached the Palace yet, the revelation of the Consort’s former life begs many questions. Who is Park Jimin? Is he the loyal, trustworthy Consort the monarchy and the public knows him to be, or is he the strategic chameleon who charmed his way to the top? Is marrying into the royal family just another step in courting patronage and privilege masked in pretty petals?

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Taehyung, to say the least, is livid. 

They had taken something special — Jimin’s love and dedication to beauty, to flowers and its language — and dragged it through dirt. They painted it as if he conned these cowards hiding behind anonymity. As if his bouquets meant seduction. As if he manipulated and beguiled them to support him and his art.

This wasn’t just a headline. It was a message. One that says, He’s not royal enough. He doesn’t belong in the Palace. He shouldn’t stand beside a prince, let alone be married to one.

He takes a deep breath, walking in sharp strides as he and Namjoon make their way to Munjeongjeon.

“You’ve seen it,” Namjoon ventures cautiously.

“I did,” Taehyung clenches and unclenches his fist. “They’re accusing him of seducing patrons.”

“It’s implied. Written with enough sensationalism, to draw interest from the public.”

Taehyung turns with a look in his eyes Namjoon has never seen on the prince before.

“It was written in a way that will damage Jimin and his image.” He says quietly.

Namjoon exhales slowly, understanding how Taehyung plans to address the situation. “You’re ready to fight them.”

“I’m not going to allow them to stand in my home, in my palace, and have them believe these lies about my husband.” Taehyung says firmly.

They walk the hallway heading to the council hall and Namjoon’s footsteps slow a little, watching Taehyung’s determined stance as the prince walks ahead of him. 

He’s never seen Taehyung like this before. Not when he had to deal with a scandal of his own in his twenties. Not when he had to stand beside the Queen when his father had to abdicate.

But now.

Now, with Jimin’s name under fire, he was something else entirely. Not a prince owing up to a personal mistake. Not an heir standing to choose one parent over another. Not a politician decisively making a move.

This Taehyung is a man in love — his own legacy be damned.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The headline breathed around Changgyeonggung — in the whispers of the staff that quieted when Jimin walked by, and in the lingering glances that followed him.

Talented. Strategic. Unforgettable presence.

Words printed for the world to see, attached to his name and his former life. Words that are typically considered like praise any other time, but are now meant to cut and undermine him.

Jimin thinks of how these words are being thrown around in the council hall right now. How Taehyung is there alone against the Council, and what the Council might be saying to him. The many ways they will be asking him to decide, to choose, to speak. 

He remembers what Taehyung said before they parted ways: We’ll get through this together. I’ll protect what’s ours.

But promises said in a Palace are difficult to keep, that much he knows. The weight of duty and protocol can harden one’s heart.

He looks down at his hands, the ones that arranged the bouquet that found its way to the Queen’s chambers and was somehow the reason he found himself as the Consort. The hands that picked the flowers for his own wedding at Gyeongbokgung. The hands that brought the greenhouse back to life, and put together the weekly bouquets for his husband.

Hands that are careful, loving, and trying to hold.

 ♕❀♕❀♕❀

Taehyung is positioned at the head of the room, posture straight and expression neutral. The sun had barely crested the palace walls when the meeting began and now hours later, the day has shifted, stretched, and sunk into nighttime.

The Council speaks in careful tones that are open to be questioned or debated, but each word carries a decision that had already been made, long before they all stepped into the room to meet with Taehyung. Taehyung sits quietly, face impassive, the only betrayal of his fatigue a tightening of his jaw and a subtle shift of his weight as the hours dragged on.

The council presses forward with an endless circle of stale words bouncing from one council member to another: scandal, fallout, stability, dignity of the Crown, manipulation. 

“We should send him away,” one of the older council members suggests. “Remove him from the public’s eye, like how we did with the King and the previous scandal.”

Send him away — like Jimin is simply a thing that could be cast aside, forgotten. A carefully choreographed cruelty, masked as damage control.

Another council member agrees, nodding his head. “The public is fickle. This will eventually blow over, as long as he’s not visible for a while.”

“Your Highness, if I may.” The council member across Taehyung gives him a look. “It is imperative that you make a statement that will distance you from him. He is a liability.”

“Staying silent implies complicity,” A younger council member murmurs to his left.

“And it also shows weakness.” Another agrees.

“A consort with that kind of past? It makes the Palace look questionable. We do not want any further association with somebody’s manipulation and financial impropriety.”

And then —

“This individual is an embarrassment to the Prince.”

Taehyung has had enough. “His name,” he says, voice low but cutting through the noise. “is Jimin. And he is not an embarrassment to me.” 

He stands, looking at the council members evenly. “You want me to denounce my husband. To issue a statement based on a version of him you tore from unverified sources and your own fear of what it might cost us.”

“We ask for your consideration, Your Highness. This is not the time to be weak, to play sentimental. ”

“I have listened to your counsel all day long,” Taehyung says. “But I will not apologize for the person I love.”

The room stays silent, expressions flickering from shock, disdain, disappointment.

One of the older council members speaks once more. “And what of public perception, Your Highness? The Crown? Your role as the Prince? Do these things not matter anymore?”

Taehyung turns to him, firm and unwavering. “You forget that Jimin is not a footnote. He’s not just a name on paper that you can discard just like that. He’s a person — my person.”

“And you would risk everything for love? Your reputation and your future, for your person?” The council member shots back, almost mockingly.

“You can speak of consequences, if it makes this easier for you. I will not stand for the allegations, but I will stand by my husband.” Taehyung walks out of the room with a steel resolve. The Royal Council can spend the rest of their evening debating, but he’s coming home to Jimin.

♕❀♕❀♕❀ 

Jimin did his best to be patient, but the silence from Munjeongjeon was deafening. He couldn’t stop the doubt and the anxiety that began to bloom.

It wasn’t Taehyung he doubted, nor the love they had for each other — it was himself.

It was powered by a thought that he couldn’t shake: Taehyung shouldn’t have to defend me. He shouldn’t have to suffer because of me. 

Every hour that passed chipped away at the small hope he held on to. He told himself the long day was to be expected, that protocol and politics tend to move slowly. But the longer the day’s silence stretched further, the more brittle he became. 

Not from anger or disappointment, but from the deepening fear that he might be the one thing weighing Taehyung down. 

By the time the light outside had settled into dusk, Jimin already had a suitcase packed in his mind. The physical act was quiet, as he moved around their home like he was memorizing it by sight and touch.

He packed ordinary things that reminded him of what he’s leaving behind. A sweater that Taehyung left on the couch. The journal he kept in his drawer. The tea he often drank in the evenings.  

Before he left, he ducked into the greenhouse to put together one last bouquet. 

A message, and a parting gift. One he knew Taehyung would understand.

Forget-me-not. Violet. Yarrow.

Remembrance. Devotion and loyalty. Everlasting love.

He hoped it was enough. 

That when Taehyung returned to only silence and flowers, he would understand it wasn’t an ending. It was Jimin stepping back, and giving Taehyung the space to decide freely. Not in front of the Council, not beneath the weight of expectations, but in the quiet that came after.

He boarded a bus alone, leaving before anyone could notice he was gone. 

Busan was waiting. The sea was familiar, and it had always been kind to him.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Taehyung walks through the quiet palace grounds, crossing from Munjeongjeon to Hwangyeongjeon. He had left the Council still arguing, their voices and their disapproval fading behind him. He couldn’t care less, how long they’ll keep arguing protocols and statements.

What matters to him now is getting back to Jimin. To hold him, and to assure him, I choose you. No matter what happens, I will always choose you.

He slides their front door open, calling out softly, “Jimin?”

No answer.

There’s a stillness in the room that makes him feel uneasy. The kind of stillness that marks absence, of something gone and something left behind. He lets it slide across his spine, and then —

He sees the bouquet. Placed in the center of the sitting room, waiting for him. 

A cluster of flowers: violet, yarrow, forget-me-not, tied carefully together with a twine. Their meanings rise to his mind, almost like an instinct: devotion, everlasting love, remembrance.

He steps forward and lifts the bouquet carefully, spotting a piece of paper amongst the petals. 

He knows, before he even unfolds it, that this will hurt.

I loved you last night, when you touched me with all the love you carry in you.

I loved you this morning, when you walked into the storm holding that love like a shield.

And I love you now, as I write this — before I leave, carrying that love with me.

This isn’t me abandoning you.

This is me choosing us — before the noise destroys us, before the world decides for us.

I won’t be by the flowers, but I believe in everything we’ve planted. I know we can bloom again, away from the noise and the storm.

Come find me. I'm still yours, and you're still mine. I'll wait for you, with love in my hands.

Taehyung sinks down on the couch, bouquet and letter trembling in his hands. He reads the words again and again, as if repetition could reverse time or undo distance.

The flowers blur in his vision.

He clutches them close to his chest, holding them for what they mean and what they carry. The love — always love — that Jimin’s flowers convey, and the careful hope they deliver.

He notices it then: a postcard tucked beneath the bouquet. Thick cardstock, painted with familiar brushstrokes in soft watercolor. A house by the sea.

He turns it over, heart pounding.

The back is unsigned and mostly blank. But in the corner, written in slightly smudged ink, is an address in Busan.

Taehyung closes his eyes.

You didn’t leave me, he thinks. You left a way back.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Taehyung wakes up to absence and silence.

The space beside him is empty, the sheets untouched except for a slight dent in the pillow. Faint, but undeniable proof that Jimin had slept there once before. He stares at it for a moment, letting the ache settle into his chest, the unspoken but deep yearning curling beneath his ribs.

He left because he loves me.

He holds this thought in his heart, as he prepares for the rest of the day the way he was raised and trained to: with restraint, and with the belief that something larger than him, larger than any of them, will see him through.

When he arrives at Munjeongjeon, the Council is already waiting. A folder rests on the table, heavy with decision and expectation.

One of the senior members bows before sliding it toward him. “We propose a separation in writing,” he says evenly.

“It’s not a legal dissolution, Your Highness,” another quickly clarifies. “It’s symbolic, a strategic move in optics.”

Another senior member speaks up. “Renounce the union and send the Consort away quietly. The public will forget.”

“We’ve prepared the statement,” someone continues. “You can deliver it tonight, at the formal dinner. The Queen will be there, along with members of the government and the royal press —”

“I won’t do it.”

The words cut through the room like a blade.

Taehyung’s gaze remains steady, posture straight and regal as he refuses to play into their demands.

“I won’t renounce Jimin. I won’t renounce our marriage.” He says, unflinching. “My decision is final.”

“This willfulness will be taken up with the Queen,” an elder snaps. “She will not be pleased.”

Taehyung meets his eyes, with the calm fire of someone who has already made his choice.

“Go ahead,” he says. “When you do, make sure you also tell her that I stand by the man I married. Tell her I will not be bullied into strategies you crafted for your comfort.”

His gaze sweeps across the room, landing on each council member. He’s past the point of arguing or challenging them, past the point of needing to prove anything.

“Tell her that I choose my husband,” Taehyung continues in a steady voice. “Tell her I choose love and loyalty, over legacy.”

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Later, he skips the formal dinner. 

Taehyung does it as a statement, and as a small form of rebellion. A gesture of solidarity with Jimin, who should be sitting beside him at that very table.

Instead, he goes to the greenhouse. To the place that held Jimin more gently, perhaps more than he was ever able to, in the short time they've been together. 

He doesn’t know much about flowers, not the way his husband does. He only knows their names, their colors, and the messages they carry. 

Still, he exerts the effort, moving with intention from one bloom to another. Watering them with care and handling them with gentle hands. His fingers skim through the leaves and petals, almost like an apology.

He stops in front of the heliotropes, fingers skimming through their purple heads that tilt towards the sky. Flowers that are steadfast and unwavering, that represent eternal love and devotion.

“I’m coming to find you,” he whispers.

He knows Jimin won’t hear him, from where he is by the sea. 

But his flowers will, and their roots will remember.

He’ll make sure the world will, too.

 ♕❀♕❀♕❀

In the morning, the Queen arrives at Changgyeonggung without ceremony. Dressed simply with no crown, no entourage, only the years of exceptional discipline and grace wrapped around her presence. 

“Am I interrupting?” she asks, knocking once at Hwangyeongjeon’s main entrance. She dismisses her guard, and Jungkook, who stands outside the door.

“Of course not. Come in, Mother,” Taehyung rises to bow, and the Queen waves him off. 

She steps inside, her gaze flickering to a vase where Taehyung carefully arranged the bouquet that Jimin left behind. One stem of red yarrow sits neatly pinned on Taehyung’s lapel.

“You skipped the formal dinner last night,” the Queen says without preamble.

“I did.”

She hums, not entirely disapproving, but somewhat measured and contemplative. “They told me about the Council’s proposal. And that you rejected it. Adamantly.”

Taehyung does not answer. There’s no point in confirming what she already knows.

The Queen studies him. “You do understand what you’re refusing.”

“I do.”

“The strategy is for stability. The statement is for perception.”

“I understand.”

Her gaze sharpens, heavy with the burden of duty. “And still you choose to stand by a man the public now questions. A man being painted as someone manipulative. A seducer and a fraud.” 

“It’s not true,” Taehyung says. “They’re twisting his past into something sordid, for the sake of a scandalous headline.”

“By choosing to stand by Jimin, you stand to lose more than your reputation. You know this, Taehyung.”

“I do,” Taehyung acknowledges, steady and determined. “But I also know I would lose much more than that if I lose him.”

The Queen pauses, looking at Taehyung intently. She looks at him as her son, not as a Prince. As a man unshaken, despite everything that happened in the past couple of days.

“You love him that much.”

"I do.”

Her eyes flicker with something unreadable, an emotion she reels in at the last minute. “Even when the world demands a different choice?”

“Especially then,” he says resolutely. “If I love him only when it’s easy, only when it’s safe — then that’s not love at all.”

Silence settles between them, and for a long moment, they both don’t say anything. The Queen eventually takes the seat across Taehyung.

“When I married your father, they said I was too quiet and cautious,’ she says. “They said that even with my noble, well-born background, I would never survive being a royal.” She exhales softly, something old passing through her eyes. “The only way I proved them wrong was by knowing what mattered to me. By believing what I was willing to stand for.”

She folds her hands in her lap, glancing at the yarrow flower pinned on Taehyung.

“Let me ask you once more, Taehyung. Not as your Queen. I’m asking as your mother.”

She meets his eyes.

“Do you choose Jimin?”

Taehyung does not hesitate. “Yes.”

The Queen nods once, her expression shifting into something maternal and proud.

“Then go to Jimin,” she says. “Not as a prince fleeing from scandal. Not as someone trying to reshape the narrative.”

She reaches across the table, taking Taehyung’s hand in hers. “Go as his husband. As someone who loves him.”

Taehyung bows his head in gratitude, tightening his grasp around her hand.

“I will.”

Chapter Text

Five days is too long for loneliness, but it’s also too short for waiting.

Inside his little hideaway, Jimin holds his breath for something just beyond the reach. His mornings begin quietly, on the porch, as the tea kettle whistles on the stove — the same ritual, the same tether to stillness. When the tea is done, he pours two cups of tea, drinking only one and leaving the second cup untouched. 

He watches the shoreline from his garden: the bright stretch of sky, the wind teasing the season’s final canola flowers, the waves coming and going, just as they always have. He closes his eyes and hears them crashing against the shore and breathes in the scent of the lavender and hibiscus flowers wafting through the air.

Jimin also sketches a little.

He doesn’t mean to draw Taehyung. He begins with a curve of a shoulder, the graceful bend of a neck, the fall of long fingers over a table. But the distinct lashes and the mouth with a freckle is unmistakable.

He draws him from memory, the only way he can: Taehyung, bent over a stack of documents in his office. Taehyung, in the sunlit greenhouse, amongst the flowers. Taehyung, eyes looking down on him with love and wonder, on their last night together. 

Later, he goes back inside his home, keeping the windows open. He tells himself it’s for the breeze — but then he imagines the sound of footsteps, a knock, a voice calling his name.

So he waits some more. For the ache to settle, and for the tide to shift. 

But most of all, he waits for Taehyung. For his husband to come to him.

By noon, Jimin is in the kitchen. Cooking helps him, it keeps his body and mind busy. He starts a jjigae, then preps banchan on the side. He places two bowls on the table with two sets of spoons and chopsticks, telling himself it's for symmetry and not because of hope.

He thinks about Taehyung multiple times a day. Never with anger, never with disappointment. Just a quiet wondering. Has he eaten? Does he notice the space beside him when he’s in bed? Has he slept at all? Did he understand the bouquet and what he tried to say? Is he on the way?

Jimin presses a hand to his chest, as if that might calm the rise and fall beneath it. The ache hasn't gone away, but it has shifted. Softer now, quieter. A kind of love that has worn through the worst of the storm and comes out beating but bare.

He eats quietly, washing the dishes afterward with mechanical focus. He folds laundry. He reads Neruda, skipping the sonnet that comes with a lot of memories. He returns to his sketchbook and tries not to draw the same eyes again. He fails.

And just before sunset, when the sky begins to bloom pink and lavender across the water, he quietly sets the table again.

Two bowls. Two cups. Just in case.

And then… he hears it. A break in his routine. 

The creak of the gate as it opens, footsteps over the soft crunch of gravel. A knock on the door.

Jimin doesn’t move right away. His breath catches, heart stumbling, as he thinks he might still be imagining it.

He opens the door cautiously, holding on to hope and to love — and there he is.

Taehyung, hair tousled by the sea breeze, heliotropes in one hand.

For a heartbeat, they just look at each other, neither of them speaking.

Jimin takes in everything at once — the travel-wrinkled jacket, the shadows under Taehyung’s eyes, the way his gaze doesn’t waver. Not once. As if afraid he’ll disappear if he looks away.

“Hi,” Taehyung says softly. A thousand heartbeats, a hundred miles, and five days apart, all folding into a single syllable.

Jimin steps forward and wraps his arms around him.

Taehyung exhales shakily, the flowers crumpling slightly between them as he clutches Jimin close. He drops his face to the crook of Jimin’s neck, holding him like he’s afraid to let go again.

“You’re here,” Jimin whispers, voice catching.

“I’m sorry you had to wait,” Taehyung murmurs back, “but I’m here now.”

Jimin pulls away briefly, stepping aside to let him in. Behind them, on the table, two bowls still wait — untouched, but ready.

Taehyung removes his shoes, setting the bouquet carefully on the counter. He looks around the space that has held so much of Jimin’s quiet waiting — the open windows, the folded laundry on the armchair, the sketchbook half-tucked beneath a throw. A teacup on a side table, still full.

“I was reheating the jjigae for dinner,” Jimin says, voice low. “Do you want some?”

Taehyung nods. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Jimin moves back to the kitchen, barefoot, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The scent of jjigae fills the room as he lifts the lid off the pot and stirs gently. 

It’s the first time Taehyung is seeing Jimin this way, and yet the rhythm feels familiar. He watches Jimin go through his rituals — straightening the spoons and the chopsticks, taking out a pitcher of water from the fridge, lighting a small candle on the kitchen counter. It feels like something he could have someday — Jimin, in this element, in another form of love.

As the sky outside darkens into deeper hues of purple and gold, they sit across from each other for their first meal together in days. The first few bites are quiet, just the sound of utensils against food and ceramic. Jimin’s food is good, of course it is, but Taehyung barely registers what he’s eating. His eyes keep flicking upward, as if he’s afraid Jimin might vanish if he looks away too long.

“You look tired,” Jimin says gently, breaking the silence between them.

Taehyung smiles faintly. “I didn’t sleep much. Not after… you left.”

Jimin lowers his gaze. “I wasn’t trying to punish you.”

“I know,” Taehyung says quickly. “I know that.”

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” Jimin admits.

“I found the bouquet and your note,” Taehyung says. “You left me everything I needed to understand.”

Jimin breathes out shakily — a release. His bowl is still half-full, but he sets down his spoon and leans back in his chair, watching Taehyung like he’s trying to reconcile memory with reality.

“You’re really here.”

“I’m really here.”

And then, almost shyly, Taehyung adds, “Can I stay?”

Jimin’s lips part, then close again. He doesn’t answer with words. Just reaches across the table and places his hand over Taehyung’s.

Taehyung turns his palm up and laces their fingers together.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

When the bowls stand empty, Jimin moves to gather the dishes. Taehyung rises silently beside him and reaches for the remaining ones, their fingers brushing over a pair of chopsticks.

"You don't have to," Jimin says, glancing sideways.

"I want to," Taehyung replies.

So they do it together — sleeves pushed up, bare feet on the tiled floor, the kitchen light and the small candle casting soft shadows on the walls. Jimin soaps and scrubs while Taehyung rinses, arms and hands occasionally meeting beneath the faucet. 

After the dishes are done, Jimin’s arm slips around Taehyung’s waist. He doesn’t say anything, just rests his cheek on Taehyung’s shoulder, then presses a kiss there through the fabric of his shirt. 

They move through the rest of the night in a familiar, easy rhythm. 

“Do you want to shower?” Jimin calls from the bathroom.

Taehyung nods. “With you.”

The bathroom is warm, mirror fogging up gently as the hot water begins to run. Jimin steps in first, letting the heat soak into his skin. Taehyung follows, wrapping his arms around him from behind.

The water trails over their shoulders, their backs, their joined hands. Taehyung presses a kiss to the back of Jimin’s neck, where a small, almost hidden, birthmark sits. Jimin leans into him and his touch.

They wash each other slowly — hands sliding over skin, fingers massaging shampoo into soft hair, the scent of bergamot rising in the small space between them. Taehyung traces patterns over Jimin’s shoulder blades with his thumbs. Jimin runs a towel over Taehyung’s chest with the same tenderness he uses to arrange flowers.

Later, in the bedroom, Jimin smooths down the blanket while Taehyung flicks off the kitchen light. When he returns, Jimin is lifting the blanket on his side wordlessly. Taehyung slides in without hesitation, their bodies turning and finding each other easily.

“I never stopped waiting,” Jimin whispers, hand reaching out to cup Taehyung’s face. “I always made room for you.”

Taehyung leans in, resting his forehead against Jimin’s. “And I never stopped trying to find my way back to you.”

His fingers rest on Jimin’s waist beneath the blanket, skin to skin, as if grounding himself in proof that Jimin is real. That he’s not just a memory Taehyung keeps revisiting in the quiet.

“You didn’t have to come for me,” Jimin looks at him through the low light. 

“I wasn’t planning on staying somewhere you weren’t.”

Jimin lowers his eyes, lashes brushing his cheek. “What happened back there? With the Council?”

“They wanted to send you away, and for me to renounce you and our marriage. For strategy, for optics.”

Jimin’s jaw tightens, subtle but not missed. “For what it’s worth,” he murmurs, “the allegations are not true.”

“I never believed them for a second,” Taehyung assures him, thumb drawing slow circles over his hip. “I told the Council that I will not renounce our marriage. That I choose you, over everything else.”

“Taehyung…”

“I don’t want any of it, if it means being without you,” Taehyung says. “We have my mother’s blessing. She told me to come to you — not as the prince, but as the man who loves you.”

Jimin leans in closer, whispering, “I thought I was being selfish. That I was making everything harder.”

“You weren’t,” Taehyung says immediately, his hand finding Jimin’s again beneath the covers. “You gave me space, while waiting for me to choose. And I did.”

Jimin exhales, shaky. “I waited every day. Even when I told myself not to.”

“I know,” Taehyung murmurs. He kisses the words gently from his lips. “But you don’t have to wait anymore.”

They stay like that for a moment — pressed forehead to forehead, the hush between them thick with everything that’s been said, and everything still resting in silence. The tide outside continues its slow rhythm.

The weight of it all — the waiting, the choosing, the near-loss — still lingers, but it no longer feels heavy. It just feels present, real.

Taehyung shifts, lifting his hand to brush the skin just beneath Jimin’s eye.

“Let me show you the places I missed,” he says.

He begins at Jimin’s forehead, sweeping his hair gently aside before pressing a kiss there.

“Here,” he murmurs, “where you furrow your brows when you’re thinking too much. I used to watch from across the room and wish I could smooth it for you.”

Jimin’s lips part, breath catching, but he stays still. 

Taehyung kisses lower, lips landing on the soft curve of Jimin’s ear. “Here’s where I first whispered your name when you were asleep. When I finally allowed myself to want it aloud.”

He pulls back to kiss Jimin, briefly, before trailing down the hollow of his throat.

“Here,” he says softly, “where you said yes to me. Even when we didn’t fully know yet what that meant.”

Jimin’s hand finds Taehyung’s cheek, steady and anchoring. Like a silent I’m here. Keep going.

Taehyung kisses his collarbone, then moves to the inside of his wrist, where his pulse thrums.

“This one,” Taehyung says, lips brushing the skin, “because you kept reaching for me, even when I didn’t know yet how to reach back.”

He shifts gently, guiding Jimin to his side so he can leave a kiss on the back of his neck.

“Here’s where you curl into yourself when you read,” he whispers. “I used to see you and I wanted to reach out. I didn’t know if I could, if I was allowed.”

Jimin sighs, eyes fluttering shut.

Taehyung takes his hand again, opening it like a page, as he kisses each fingertip.

“These,” Taehyung says, “your hands. You used them to tie every bouquet you ever left me. I never saw you leave them, but I kept waiting and wanting. Not just for the flowers. For you.”

Jimin curls his fingers around Taehyung’s briefly, squeezing.

Finally, Taehyung leans down to kiss his chest, right over his heart.

“This,” he says, voice almost breaking now, “because I want to hear your heart beat beside mine forever.”

Jimin reaches to pull him in for a slow kiss. Not with hunger or because of heat, but with something even deeper that only they can understand. 

“You saw me. You saw everything,” he whispers against his lips. “and you remembered too.”

“I was always looking, even when you didn’t think I was,” Taehyung presses another kiss against his lips. “I never forgot.”

They fall asleep like that — limbs tangled, skin warm — with the window cracked open and the sea breeze weaving through the curtains. For tonight, there’s no room for doubt or questions.

Just this: Jimin’s breath steadying, Taehyung’s arms around him, and two hearts finding each other and choosing each other, again and again.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Jimin wakes to the soft sunlight spilling across his room, alone in bed. The spot beside him is still warm, the pillow indented where Taehyung’s head rested last night.

He turns his face into it, breathing in the faint scent left behind — floral and citrus, skin and sleep — something from their shared shower and their shared bed. His heart still aches, but now it has softened into something tender.

A clatter from outside the bedroom draws his attention. The sound of a cabinet closing, a plate landing on the counter, something scraping against a pan. He gets up, heading toward the bathroom and then the kitchen.

Taehyung stands by the stove, shirtless in a pair of sweatpants. Jimin notices his mussed up hair and the slope of his back, eyeing him in a familiar way that he feels he’s still relearning.

He watches for a moment, wrapped in the hush of morning and the absurd wonder that this — this — is real. That Taehyung is here, in his home in Busan, because he wants to be with him.

It hasn’t sunk in yet, still. But he lets that feeling simmer for now, as he pads over on bare feet, slipping his arms around Taehyung’s waist from behind.

Taehyung doesn’t startle, leaning back into it like he expected him. “Morning,” he murmurs, soft and warm. His hand reaches down to rest over Jimin’s.

Jimin hums, nose buried on Taehyung’s back. “You left the bed.”

“Only to feed you,” Taehyung says, flipping something in the pan. “But if you want me back in bed, I’ll burn this and crawl back with you right now.”

Jimin laughs quietly, shaking his head. “I want both.”

He doesn’t let go. Just stays there, arms looped tight, cheek resting against Taehyung’s shoulder. At one point, he brushes Taehyung’s hair back from his eyes, fingers threading gently through it. When Taehyung turns his face slightly, Jimin kisses his temple. Then the edge of his jaw.

“You’re clingy this morning,” Taehyung says, fondly.

Jimin makes a sound of agreement. He cups his face and gently turns it just enough to steal a kiss, light and barely more than a breath. Taehyung leans into it with a hum, one hand reaching behind to hold Jimin’s body where it’s pressed against his.

They eventually eat on the small table by the front window. Taehyung doesn’t say a word as he leaves a cup of tea beside Jimin, briefly ducking down to kiss his temple.

“You kiss me like I’ll disappear,” Jimin teases, voice low and still full of sleep.

Taehyung smiles — soft, a little crooked. “I just want to make sure you remember.”

“Remember what?”

He leans forward and presses a kiss to Jimin’s cheek. “That you’re home.”

Another to the corner of his mouth. “That I love you.”

Another to his wrist. “That I’m yours.”

Jimin stares at him, lips slightly parted — and for a second, the sunlight hitting his skin makes him look like something Taehyung dreamed once and never thought he’d wake up to again.

Then he simply says, “You’re mine too.”

Taehyung reaches across the table to hold his hand like he intends to never let go.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

After breakfast, Jimin tells Taehyung to get dressed. 

“Come on,” he says, already grabbing a lightweight jacket by the door. “Let me show you the neighborhood. It’s not grand or historic, but it used to be mine.”

They walk side by side through the narrow streets, shoulders brushing now and then. 

The neighborhood is sun-drenched and worn in, cozy in the way a seaside town can be. Children’s chalk drawings scatter and decorate the pavement with streaks of flowers and animals. Flower pots in chipped ceramic line the stairs in mismatched colors. There’s the smell of drying laundry, the distant buzz of a scooter, the chatter of elderly men playing hwatu. 

Jimin enjoys the warm breeze of the sea, every turn holding a memory.

He shares them with Taehyung, almost shyly at first. “That park with the small playground? It’s where I spent a good chunk of my childhood, playing with my classmates.”

“That side street — the one beside the yellow house — it’s a shortcut that leads directly to the beach.”

“And here,” he says pausing by an early blooming crape myrtle, “I used to sit under this tree and draw blooms in spring. It’s where I realized I wanted to work with flowers.”

Taehyung listens without interrupting, taking each story in like it’s sacred. Somehow, the neighborhood feels like it’s now also his. As if Jimin is giving it to him, one memory, one story at a time.

They pass by other people, but no one stops them. Not for a photo, not even for distant scrutiny. They just receive polite nods and smiles from neighbors, sometimes a quiet hello. If they recognize the prince and the consort, they’re simply kind enough not to intrude.

Later, they reach a traditional food market tucked in an alley near the sea — humble than the ones you find in Seoul, but humming with life. Most of the vendors are older women in floral blouses and wide-brimmed hats, hands always busy with service or sale. 

Jimin leads them to a food stall, where he greets the owner.

“Imonim,” he says, bowing low as he calls out.

The woman turns at the sound of his voice. She blinks at him, then at Taehyung, her eyes narrowing slightly. 

Taehyung tenses for a moment, but then the woman smiles.

“Ah,” she says, accent thick and fond. “So the one you were waiting for finally showed up.”

Jimin ducks his head, blushing. 

“The handsome young man with beautiful eyes,” she continues, slightly teasing. Jimin lets out a laugh, slightly flustered.

She smiles wider, handing them paper sleeves with hotteok.

“You made him wait,” she says, patting Taehyung’s hand, “but you came. That’s what matters.”

“Thank you, imonim,” Taehyung bows, deep and sincere.

She waves them off with a wink, slipping two more pieces of hotteok in a paper bag. “Love him properly, or I’ll have to come to Seoul and bring him back to Busan.”

They walk in companionable silence after that, mouths full of melted sugar and peanuts, the warmth of the snack clinging to their hands.

“She knows about us?” Taehyung eventually asks, voice low and fond.

“I was lonely. I may have mentioned you a few times the last time I went on a hotteok run,” Jimin shrugs, feigning nonchalance.

Taehyung bumps his shoulder. “Mmm, you were yearning for me.”

Jimin glances at him, eyes gleaming with laughter and truth. “Of course I was.”

By the time they find themselves at the beach, the sun has started its descent. Everything feels suspended in the way late afternoons often are.

They find a quiet spot along a ledge, sand dusting their feet and the sea breeze rustling their hair. The melted sugar lingers on their tongues, sweet and sticky.

Taehyung leans back on his palms, eyes on the sunset.

“Do you ever notice how quiet it can be when it’s just us?” Jimin leans into his shoulder, nuzzling against Taehyung’s neck.

“It’s my favorite kind of quiet,” Taehyung answers.

Jimin closes his eyes, hands finding Taehyung’s. For the first time in days, everything is settled and full. Like a confirmation that what they have is lived in and real, that it’s something they can keep.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

By the time they return to the little house by the sea, the sky is ink-dark and dotted with stars. Dinner is behind them, the warmth of Busan’s soul food and the pojangmacha still lingering in their limbs. 

The world outside has gone quiet, and inside, the hush feels sacred. The kind that only arrives between two people who know exactly what it means to be alone and what it means to be found, when they have nothing left to prove. 

They move through the motions of getting ready for bed — another shared shower, lights dimmed, cotton sleepwear — until the moment Taehyung feels Jimin’s hand find his wrist, like a soft, deliberate tether. Their eyes meet briefly before Jimin pulls him for a kiss that begins as a memory, then it deepens into something new.

Taehyung lets himself be drawn closer, kissing back with slow purpose. He presses in until their breaths sync, until the distance between longing and finally having fades into nothing.

They move together, not rushed, not hungry — just aware. Of how much they want each other. Of the familiar way their bodies slot together. Of the sigh Jimin lets out as Taehyung kisses him again. Everything in this night, on this bed, feels like a vow made through touch between lovers.

Taehyung brushes his lips to the corner of Jimin’s mouth, then his jaw, then drags them along the column of his throat. 

“I want to take my time,” he whispers, words catching against skin.

Jimin nods, already yielding.

Taehyung undresses him slowly, revealing him with quiet wonder. Palms smoothing over Jimin’s chest, the soft dip of his waist, the curve of his hip — like he’s mapping him anew with every touch. His mouth follows, reverent: over Jimin’s sternum, down the firmness of his belly, lingering over the hollow above his waistband.

“Can I?” Taehyung asks, as he trembles with restraint.

“You don’t have to ask,” Jimin says, threading his fingers through Taehyung’s hair.

Taehyung kisses him over the fabric first, then he pulls down the last layer of clothes, baring him fully. His gaze darkens, lashes low, taking in the sight of Jimin, flushed and wanting.

He parts his lips and takes him in, warm and steady, the stretch of the slow, wet heat and soft suction drawing a sharp gasp from Jimin’s throat. Taehyung’s hands span his hips, thumbs sweeping rhythmic circles as he works him deeper, jaw relaxing, breath syncing with Jimin’s ragged moans.

He moves in a rhythm — taking, retreating, then swirling his tongue just beneath the head before sinking again. Everything sounds raw: Jimin’s hitched gasps, the slick glide of Taehyung’s mouth, the stutter of hips that thrust but hold still. Jimin’s fingers tighten in his hair, holding, like he’s anchoring himself to the moment.

When Taehyung pulls off, he kisses a trail lower: the inside of Jimin’s thigh, where his skin is hot with want. He bites gently, then licks over the mark with his tongue before returning to him. This time he adds his hand — pumping the base with slow, twisting strokes while his mouth works the rest. Jimin’s legs shift, thighs tensing, his chest rising unevenly.

“Fuck— Tae,” he moans, breath shallow.

Taehyung hums low, swallowing him deeper. Jimin’s hips thrust up again. The sound of it — the wet suck of Taehyung’s mouth, the faint tremble in Jimin’s voice — builds with pleasure tilting toward the edge until Jimin reaches down, hand trembling.

“Wait — I want —”

Taehyung lifts his head, lips wet, eyes warm and dark. “What do you want, baby?”

“You,” Jimin says, breathless. “I want to touch you too.”

Taehyung crawls up over him,  trailing kisses across his body until their mouths meet again in a kiss that’s all tongue and the taste of want. Jimin’s hand slides down, cupping him through his pajamas. He strokes him slow, feeling the hard heat beneath soft fabric.

He pushes the waistband down, freeing him, and strokes him skin to skin. He swipes his thumb over the head, spreading the precum, palm firm as he sets a steady rhythm. Taehyung's hips move into the touch, groaning into his mouth, the sound guttural and needy.

“You feel so good,” Jimin whispers, kissing the corner of his mouth. “So thick and hard for me.”

Taehyung’s breathing breaks as he reaches for the nightstand. He prepares Jimin with slick fingers, slow and careful. Every push accompanied by soft praise.

“You take me so well,” he says. “I missed touching you. I missed you.”

Jimin’s back arches, a whimper caught in his throat. “Please,” he gasps. “I need you.”

When Taehyung finally pushes in, it’s unbearably tender. Inch by inch until he’s fully sheathed, buried deep. Jimin’s mouth parts, gasping as his body clenches, then opens for him.

“Okay?” Taehyung asks, brushing his hair back, eyes searching.

Jimin nods, breathless. “Perfectly okay. Like I’m yours.”

That undoes something in Taehyung. He starts to move — slow, deliberate thrusts that make Jimin feel every inch. His hips roll in deep waves, the push and pull of his body like devotion in motion. Jimin wraps his legs tighter around him, grounding him, keeping him close.

“You waited for me,” Taehyung murmurs into the crook of his neck.

Jimin’s voice is thick with emotion. “You’re always mine to wait for.”

Taehyung’s rhythm falters, overwhelmed. Then his thrusts deepen, drawn out as he presses in like he wants to stay inside Jimin forever.

 “I love you,” he says. “I love you.”

Jimin moans, hand tightening at the back of his neck, another gripping his shoulder. Their mouths meet again, all heat and need and memory. Taehyung thrusts through the kiss, slow and deep, until Jimin falls apart beneath him.

He comes with a cry, legs shaking, his entire body pulsing with it. Taehyung follows, breath catching on Jimin’s name as he shudders through his release, face buried in his shoulder.

They lie tangled after, basking in the satisfying swell of knowing. A hand stroking down a spine. The slide of limbs, damp and soft. The curve of a thigh hooked over a hip. 

Taehyung shifts briefly to clean them, then pulls Jimin into his arms.

“Are you leaving tomorrow?” Jimin murmurs into his chest.

Taehyung kisses his temple. “Not without you.”

Jimin smiles — small and sleepy, but whole.

Taehyung stays awake a little longer. He traces the slope of Jimin’s spine, the dip of his waist, the steady heartbeat beneath his palm.

And in the hush of the night, he thinks — if this is all he ever has, it would still be everything. Because no crown or legacy could ever be worth more than this: Jimin in his arms, and the certainty of being exactly where he’s meant to be.

Chapter Text

Jimin wakes to the morning sun and the salt-laced breeze drifting in through the open window. His lashes lift slowly, gaze settling on Taehyung beside him — still asleep, face unguarded in a way he rarely allows himself. One arm rests heavy across Jimin’s waist, the other curled loosely in the space between them, as if he’d fallen asleep reaching for him.

Jimin lets his fingers drift across Taehyung’s cheek, tracing the curve of his jaw, then up toward his temple. He pauses there, his thumb brushing gently over the skin.

“You’re still here,” he murmurs, smiling to himself.

Taehyung stirs, eyes fluttering open. He blinks once, then again, until his gaze finds Jimin — steady, sure, familiar.

“Morning,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep.

Jimin hums, brushing a lock of hair off Taehyung’s forehead. “We said we’re going back today.”

“Are you ready?”

“No,” Jimin sighs. “But I have to do it anyway.”

Taehyung offers a faint smile, then leans in to nuzzle the corner of Jimin’s jaw, lips grazing skin. “Together?”

“Of course.”

They stay in bed a little longer, limbs shifting closer and breath syncing without effort. Taehyung pulls him in for a brief kiss, grounding and soothing Jimin for a moment. A quiet anchoring, against the tide of what’s to come.

Around them, the house begins to stir — the rustle of linen curtains, the groan of old floorboards, the trickle of water in the pipes. Familiar sounds of what was home for a few days, bidding Jimin a farewell.

Later, he stands barefoot in the kitchen, trimming flowers from the small garden. Lavender, pink hydrangea, a few stems of cosmos that survived the rain. His hands move with intention, almost an act of meditation, a way to ground him in this place, this morning, this moment before the return.

A bouquet, to carry Busan with him. But also, a small offering and a talisman for what lays ahead.

Behind him, Taehyung enters quietly, watching him for a moment before he steps forward. He says nothing, but helps to tie the bouquet with a twine, his hands passing over Jimin’s. Steady as always, when it matters the most.

After an early lunch, they step outside to find Jungkook waiting by the car. He stayed in a hotel nearby after dropping off Taehyung a couple of days ago, close enough to return with just a text. He’s dressed simply, bowing slightly as they approach then taking their weekender bags without comment and opening the door for them. 

Busan shrinks behind them in the rearview mirror, the coastal road unraveling into forests and plains lining up highways. Jimin sits with his shoulders squared, one hand on his lap, holding the bouquet while the other rests on the space between them. Taehyung reaches over, weaving their fingers together without asking.

He glances sideways, seeing the way Jimin distantly watches the trees, the tension in the press of his lips, the stillness of his body.

Taehyung leans in slightly and presses a kiss to his temple, just to remind him he isn’t alone.

Jimin exhales slowly, turning just enough to rest his head against Taehyung’s shoulder. Taehyung shifts to accommodate him, their hands still joined, his thumb stroking the inside of Jimin’s wrist in a comforting rhythm.

Outside, the scenery shifts from the sea giving way to trees, then the trees giving way to steel and concrete. The skyline of Seoul greets them in the distance, familiar and inescapable.

By the time they’re passing through Sejong-daero and the car turns to Sajik-ro, Taehyung could almost feel Changgyeonggung pulling them back in.

When Jungkook slows outside the main gate, they see the press waiting — cameras lined along the barricades, vans blocking a part of the sidewalk, microphones already aimed.

They’d agreed to be dropped off here. A different kind of return, one that is not shaped by palace protocol, but by personal intent. 

Taehyung steps out first, the afternoon sun catching on the smooth line of his dark suit. For a moment, the crowd stills. Then, a flurry of camera shutters and voices rising in a chorus of questions.

He doesn’t glance their way. He doesn’t give them the court-trained pause, the practiced nod, the poised smile.

Instead, he turns back to the car and offers his hand.

Jimin slides his palm into Taehyung’s, their fingers lacing together and leaving no room for doubt. The clasp is gentle, but the declaration is unyielding.

What they’re doing is far from protocol. Certainly not what the public and the press expects from a prince and his consort.

And that’s exactly why they do it.

Taehyung lifts their joined hands slightly as they move forward, a subtle but defiant gesture meant to communicate: This is what we choose. Jimin stays close, posture still composed but carrying tension from the weight of the crowd. Taehyung senses it, grounding him with a light squeeze to his hand. 

They do not falter and they do not let go, as they walk past the flashing bulbs and the fevered noise.

They’re not entering Changgyeonggung as they’ve done before — a prince bearing duty and a consort standing just behind. 

This time, they return beyond their roles or their titles. 

They’re returning as partners. As equals. As two people who refused to break.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

That night, they barely make it through dinner — too tired to talk, too raw to pretend. Their bodies had held the weight of the past several days, of distance crossed and truths laid bare. They'd only managed a quick meal, a shared look or two, and the press of a hand over another’s heart before sleep claimed them, tangled together in silence and skin.

And now, a new day comes gently.

They wake still wrapped around each other, limbs warm, slow to loosen. Their bodies move reluctantly, unwilling to part even for a moment. 

Taehyung presses a lingering kiss to Jimin’s bare shoulder before gently slipping out from under the covers. The morning sun catches at the angles of his body as he moves — long lines, silk pajamas worn loose, bare feet across the floor. 

Jimin stays in bed, chin resting on his folded arm, eyes following every step. Warmth blooms in his chest at the sight — not just of Taehyung, but of this private, domestic version of him: unguarded, at ease, radiant in their shared morning.

Taehyung pauses by the side table, fingers brushing over the bouquet Jimin had brought from Busan. The flowers are now in fuller bloom, their scent fragrant and heady in the room. He looks at them for a long moment, then lifts the vase carefully and carries it to the window, setting it where the light can better reach the flowers. Like gratitude and reverence in motion.

When Jimin finally rises, it’s with a soft stretch and a blink at the realness of it all — still here, still his. He crosses the room to Taehyung, their hands finding each other like they always do. Fingers brushing, hands holding, almost like a habit now.

The shower is brief, shared under the haze of steam and silence, warm water washing away the last of sleep from their limbs. They move in the kind of intimate rhythm that comes with ease and familiarity — one reaching for a towel, the other smoothing water from shoulders, drying skin with soothing hands.

By the time they’re wrapped in fresh lounge robes, the mirror has begun to fog at the edges. Jimin leans forward, combing fingers through damp hair, tugging the lapels of his robe a little tighter. He studies his reflection: cheeks pink from heat, face still relaxed from sleep.

Taehyung shifts behind him, hands warm against Jimin’s waist, fingers slipping inside his robe. Jimin sighs in content, eyelids fluttering close as Taehyung drags his mouth along the side of his neck.

“Careful,” Jimin murmurs. “You’ll make me forget we have a whole kingdom to face.”

Taehyung nuzzles closer. “We can let them wait.”

Jimin lets out a soft laugh, leaning his head on Taehyung’s shoulder. “Are you always this affectionate in the morning?”

“Mmm,” Taehyung hums against his skin. “This is part of our marriage now. Kisses and cuddles to start the day.”

Before Jimin can respond, Taehyung is turning and lifting him — hands sliding under his thighs, guiding him on top of the wide bathroom counter. The cool marble touches the backs of Jimin’s legs, and then Taehyung steps between them, palms braced on his thighs.

The kiss that follows is warm and wanting. Slow tongues, soft sounds, a compelling press of mouths. Jimin’s fingers tangle in the loose folds of Taehyung’s robe as his hands wander up Jimin’s sides, then across the bare plane of his back, anchoring him close.

They linger like that for a while, lips meeting in indulgent, unhurried kisses like they have nowhere else to be. Jimin pulls back with a half-hearted reminder, “We’re supposed to be dressing up for breakfast.”

Taehyung smiles against his mouth. “We are. Dressed up in kisses.”

Another kiss, deeper and hungrier now. Jimin’s arms slip around Taehyung’s neck, legs wrapping around his waist to draw him in. One hand trails down Taehyung’s chest, fingers brushing warm skin in a lazy, heated promise and then —

A knock.

They both freeze. A pause, then the sound of muffled footsteps — the staff laying out breakfast beyond the bathroom door.

Jimin presses his forehead to Taehyung’s, grinning. “That’s our reminder to not misbehave.”

“More like a rude interruption.” Taehyung groans softly. He presses one last kiss on Jimin’s lips. “Let’s go eat. Before I get distracted even further.”

He helps Jimin off the counter with a drawn-out touch, the slide of skin against skin a simmering tease. His fingers glide down Jimin’s waist like he can’t quite let go, as if he’s memorizing the shape and the nearness of his body.

Outside in their sitting room, the staff has laid out their breakfast spread on the low table: rice, fried fish and doenjang jjigae, with a side of eomuk bokkeum, gyeran-mari, japchae and sigumchi namul.

The set up includes several newspapers, neatly folded by the porcelain tea cups, black ink stark against the paper. They all bear the same photograph: the two of them walking at the same pace, hand in hand through the palace gates, heads tilted slightly toward each other. 

Jimin doesn’t even need to unfold them to see the bold headlines:

“The Prince and His Consort Returns in Silence”

“True Love or Calculated Move?” 

“Royal Reappearance Sparks New Discussions”

Taehyung feels it before he sees it. The way Jimin’s hand falters, the quiet inhale that doesn’t quite steady itself. He sets his teacup down, reaches across the table, taking Jimin’s hand with his own.

“It’s alright,” he says softly. He turns Jimin’s palm to press a kiss to its center — a steady reassurance.

Jimin meets his gaze. His eyes are calm, but Taehyung can see the weight behind them, like he’s bracing himself. He parts his lips like he might say something, but he just sweeps his thumb along Taehyung’s wrist in response.

“They can write whatever they want,” Taehyung tells him. “We already answered.”

Jimin breathes out a soft sound, something between relief and release, as if he’s letting go of the tension in his body.

They settle onto the cushions together, knees folding beneath them. Jimin pulls one leg up loosely, and Taehyung’s hand rests casually on his knee. It stays there even as he reaches forward with his free hand to hand him his cup of tea, steam curling gently into the air.

They move through their meal in smooth coordination, the rhythm unhurried. 

Jimin tears a piece of fish and places it on Taehyung’s bowl without prompting. Taehyung hands him the namul. A brief graze of fingers as their hands meet over the jjigae's serving spoon. Small, constant moments where touch lingers before retreating. 

They finish the meal that way, peacefully together as the world waits with their headlines and narratives.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The palace grounds are more subdued than usual, though not truly silent that morning — soft footsteps of staff, the distant movement of guards, the low murmur of a palace falling into protocol. 

Just outside their private residence, Jungkook and Namjoon stand waiting for them. Jungkook bows when he sees them emerge from Hwangyeongjeon, posture relaxed but attentive. Namjoon offers a nod, eyes flicking between them, observant and sharp as always.

They don’t hold hands, not here. Not where eyes might be watching from behind the pillars and screens. But their shoulders brush every few steps. Their sleeves occasionally graze. Jimin’s fingers hover close to Taehyung’s back when they reach a corner, like he might guide him through even as he trails a step behind. 

They slow by the time they get to Mungjeongjeon, where Taehyung is expected to meet with the Council and the Queen.

“I’ll wait for you at home,” Jimin murmurs, just under his breath.

Taehyung’s gaze lingers on him. “Then I’ll come home to you.”

“Come back to what’s yours,” Jimin gives him a small, private smile. “You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”

He reaches out just before Taehyung turns away, fingers skimming the back of Taehyung’s hand, the touch light but warm. Taehyung doesn’t look down, but he feels the steady assurance. A serene, split-second moment, just for them.

The chamber is cool when Taehyung steps inside. The Council is already seated, heads bowed in stiff conversation. A few glance up politely as he enters, none of them smiling.

At the far end of the room, the Queen sits in the seat of honor. Regal and composed as always, dressed in deep blue and pearl gray. She doesn’t rise when Taehyung arrives, but her presence is grounding.

Taehyung bows to her, then the Council. He takes his seat, spine straight.

The silence that follows is pointed.

One of the Council members clears his throat. “Your Highness,” he begins, tone clipped, “We trust you’ve had enough time to reflect on the recent issue.”

Taehyung doesn’t flinch. “I have.”

The councilor leans forward. “Then you’ll understand the necessity of distance. Appearances, at the very least, must be maintained.”

Another adds, “Your consort’s arrival back in the palace has only fanned the flames. The public perception —”

“I’ve seen the headlines. I’m aware of the perception,” Taehyung cuts in, voice even. “But as I’ve said before, I won’t renounce my husband and our marriage.”

There’s a beat of discomfort. A few murmurs, someone coughing, the scrape of papers shifting.

A third councilor speaks up — older, his voice determined and steely. “Then perhaps a formal statement and removal of title, if not separation in law. An announcement that the Consort will step away from palace duties.”

“My answer is still no.”

Resolute and final.

“I won’t make a public performance of turning my back on Jimin,” Taehyung says, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “You’re asking me to sacrifice my integrity and our marriage for the sake of strategy and perception. I refuse to do that.”

“And if the backlash continues?” The older councilor presses. “If the royal family is further tarnished by your consort, we lose the respect of —”

“That won’t happen.” Another voice cuts in, clear and measured.

All heads turn toward the Queen.

“The people will see that the throne does not waver simply because of rumors,” she says, folding her hands neatly on the table in front of her. “And that love and devotion is not a weakness, but a strength.”

The councilors look between themselves, but no one dares to speak against their Queen.

She stands, the silk of her hanbok rustling against the floor. “Prince Taehyung has made his choice,” she says. “And I stand by it.”

Her gaze sweeps across the room measuredly. “If this Council is as committed to the Crown as it claims to be, then you will respect the decisions made in its honor.”

She looks to Taehyung then, just briefly, before returning her attention to the rest.

“I expect to see every one of you at the next formal dinner this Friday,” she adds, voice calm and commanding. “There must be no absences. No exceptions.”

With that, she turns, leaving no space for protest. Her final word is not a suggestion — it is a command.

Taehyung remains seated a moment longer, heart steadying. The echo of her voice still rings in the chambers of his chest. It feels like armor — not the physical kind forged from steel, but of trust, support and certainty. 

They were doubted and questioned. Their marriage dissected. But they will not be diminished or cast aside, just because they choose love over duty.

He stands to leave, nodding once to the Council and the Queen’s empty seat before turning away.

The corridors echo with his footsteps. Past the weight of the Council’s judgment still pressed between his shoulders. Past silk-paneled walls. Past whispering palace staff. 

His steps are sure, his direction certain. 

He’s walking alone, but not toward solitude — toward home. Toward Jimin.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The door shuts with a soft click behind him, a barrier between home and the rest of the world.

Taehyung stays there, his back to the wood, breathing like he’s just stepped out of a storm. Jimin stands near the window, sunlight glancing off his cheekbone. His eyes meet Taehyung’s.

“It’s done,” Taehyung says quietly, voice still edged from the strain. “They asked me to let you go. Again.”

Jimin’s brows lift slightly. “And?”

“I didn’t.” A pause. “I won’t.”

Something unravels in Jimin’s chest, like a knot finally loosening. His shoulders drop just slightly, the edge of tension melting away.

“They’ll keep pushing,” he murmurs. “Even after today.”

“I know.” Taehyung's reply comes without hesitation. “I’ll keep choosing you. I’ll keep choosing us.”

Taehyung stands unwavering, but his hands are still folded into fists at his sides, like his body hasn’t quite caught up to his heart. He looks like he’s bracing for something — one more blow, one more demand — but what meets him instead is Jimin’s gaze, calm and certain.

The tension between them thrums, thick with wanting. Duty and protocol has cocooned them in formality, demanding performance over presence — but here, in the privacy of their home, it’s just them: two people who stand defiant in their love.

Softly, Jimin whispers, “Come here.”

Taehyung crosses the room immediately. When he stops in front of him, Jimin reaches up without a word, fingers brushing along the line of Taehyung’s jaw. His thumb finds the curve of his mouth, gentle.

“You’ve been so strong for us,” Jimin says. “All that poise and grace.”

Taehyung exhales, eyes closing. “I was doing my best to hold it together.”

“I know.” Jimin’s hand cups his cheek, fond and filled with love. “But you don’t have to anymore.”

Then he kisses him. It starts soft, almost like Jimin is offering himself. 

Taehyung leans in like he’s starved for it, and the moment he parts his lips, the kiss deepens with urgency. Their mouths press harder in something that feels like relief and hunger all at once. Jimin fists the lapel of Taehyung’s burgundy dapho, pulling him closer, kissing him like he’s coaxing the strain and the tension from his body. 

Taehyung walks them back without breaking the kiss, hands solid on Jimin’s waist, until they reach the velvet settee. He sinks down, breath hitching as he draws Jimin into his lap with a low sound in his throat. Jimin follows instinctively, straddling him, thighs bracketing his hips as he settles close.

He shifts and rocks forward, drawing a soft moan from Taehyung. Jimin kisses him through it, rolling his hips again, more intentional this time. Beneath him, Taehyung's hands coast under his jeogori, palms broad and warm as they skim up bare skin, tracing the dip of Jimin’s waist.

Their kisses turn hungrier as Jimin’s hand slips between them, finding Taehyung’s arousal and touching him with languid and deliberate strokes. He savors the weight and heat of him, then he strokes him more firmly. 

“Fuck —” Taehyung gasps, the sound ripped from somewhere deep, fingers digging into his hips now, desperate and white-knuckled.

Jimin moves his hand fluidly, thumb catching at the head as he smears precum with every twist of his wrist. He strokes him like he’s memorizing every twitch and gasp, learning Taehyung again by touch alone.

He trails open-mouthed kisses along Taehyung’s neck, teeth grazing skin as Taehyung arches his hips into Jimin’s touch.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Jimin murmurs, mouth dipping lower with a teasing bite.

Taehyung moans helplessly, head falling back as his hips keep chasing the rhythm.

“I thought about you in Busan,” Jimin confesses, voice low and full of heat. “That night in the greenhouse — how you let me love you like this.”

His hand curls tighter around Taehyung, stroking harder now, just to hear the sound he makes. Taehyung’s hips stutter, breath catching like a sob. “Please —”

Jimin eases off his lap and sinks to his knees, settling between Taehyung’s parted thighs as he removes the rest of Taehyung’s pants. He lowers his mouth, lips parting with purpose and Taehyung lets out a groan, hips jerking upward.

Jimin groans low, licking along the underside before taking him deeper. His hand strokes what his mouth can’t reach, steady and determined. When he pulls back to suck at the head, he looks up through his lashes to meet Taehyung’s gaze.

Taehyung looks wrecked already, flushed and needy. His hands find the back of Jimin’s head, fingers threading into his hair. Jimin moans around him, hollowing his cheeks, letting Taehyung feel the heat and the pressure.

“Wait — stop,” he gasps, thighs trembling and hips shifting up on instinct. “I’ll come if you —”

Jimin pulls off with a final kiss along his length. “Not yet.”

He rises to his feet, leading them to the bed, stripping off as they go — hanbok falling to the floor, kisses traded between each discarded layer, skin meeting skin until they fall onto their bed.

Jimin guides him down and straddles him, their hungry and wanting bodies pressing together heatedly. Taehyung’s hands fly to his thighs, gripping tight, trying to steady himself as Jimin begins to move again — slow, grinding rolls that spark every nerve in his body.

He grinds down harder, coaxing more moans out of Taehyung, then pulls back just long enough to reach for the lube on the nightstand. He reaches between them, fingers slick, watching the way Taehyung’s body yields to him and the way his mouth falls open on a breathless gasp.

“That’s it,” Jimin soothes, leaning down to kiss him as he works his fingers deeper, curling them just right.

Taehyung’s hips rock forward, instinctive and needy, chasing the pressure. “I want you inside me,” he pants, hands clenching into the sheets. “Now. Please.”

Jimin doesn’t make him wait.

He slicks himself quickly, then lines up and pushes in, breath catching at the heat around him. Taehyung moans, legs winding around his waist to pull him closer, eyes fluttering shut.

“I’ve got you,” Jimin murmurs, kissing him as he begins to move.

The rhythm is slow at first — deep thrusts, the drag of skin on skin, breath shared in the space between their mouths. Taehyung wraps around him tighter, gasping softly with every roll of Jimin’s hips.

“You feel so good." Jimin breathes. 

Taehyung arches into him, voice strained. “Harder — please —”

Jimin obeys.

He drives in deep, the drag of it sending shivers through them both. Taehyung moans with each thrust, head thrown back, fingers digging into Jimin’s back. Jimin leans down, sucking at his neck, dragging his teeth across his collarbone, then kissing him, swallowing every sound.

His hand finds him again, stroking and moving in rhythm with every push of his hips as he watches Taehyung come undone.

Taehyung lets out a wrecked sound, hips rising to meet every thrust, every relentless stroke of Jimin’s hand. His body coils tight with pleasure, trembling as he drags Jimin down for a desperate kiss, breath breaking against each other’s lips.

They keep kissing like they can never get enough — teetering between worshipful and wanton, caught between reverence and ruin. Jimin groans into his mouth, hips stuttering as he pushes Taehyung closer to the edge.

Taehyung’s voice splinters. “Jimin — fuck —”

Jimin strokes him faster, and Taehyung arches with a ragged cry, white-hot pleasure searing through him. He trembles as he comes, spilling over Jimin’s hand, breath stolen and body undone.

Jimin follows the rhythm of Taehyung's unraveling, hips moving with urgency until pleasure pulls him under and he gives in to the ache, coming deep and full inside Taehyung.

They collapse together, limbs tangled, breath slowly evening out as sweat cools on their skin.

Jimin stays buried deep inside him for a moment longer, breathing hard against Taehyung’s chest. He kisses him there, then again along his jaw, finally finding his mouth for a kiss that smolders, then softens — tender and grateful, like a promise.

When he finally withdraws, he eases them onto their sides and gathers Taehyung close. One hand traces a slow path down his spine, calming and comforting.

Taehyung’s voice is rough, low against his collarbone. “I needed that.”

“I know.” Jimin tilts his chin and kisses him again, tender and unhurried, all lingering affection. He murmurs against his lips, “You needed to come undone. Let someone else hold the pieces for a while.”

Taehyung lets out a breath, soft and honest. “You’re the only one who sees me like that,” he says. “The only one who holds me together when I fall apart.”

Jimin kisses the corner of his mouth. “Only because you let me.” His voice lowers, reverent. “You’re safe with me. Always.”

Taehyung melts into him then, one hand curled loosely at Jimin’s side, like he’s anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.

They lie there for a while, quiet and close, secure and loved in each other’s arms.

Eventually, Taehyung says, “The Queen’s hosting a dinner. Council, press, Seokjin hyung and Eunha noona. You and me.”

Jimin hums, eyes closed. “When?”

“This week. Friday.”

Jimin nods, brushing a kiss against his temple. “Then we’ll face it together,” he says. “Like we said we always will.”

Taehyung exhales, his smile tucked into Jimin’s neck. “Together,” he echoes.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

On Friday night, Gyeongbokgung’s Geunjeongjeon is ablaze for the midsummer banquet — chandeliers lit like constellations, floors gleaming, crystal and silver glinting in opulence. All of it pales beside the simple, inescapable fact that has drawn every eye the moment they entered: Taehyung, walking side by side with Jimin, muted devotion wrapped in ceremonial grace.

Taehyung is suited in sleek black, a single boutonniere resting above his heart — a bright red azalea, vivid and unwavering. A statement in bloom.

Jimin wears his own suit with unassuming elegance, cuffs fastened with gold. Those who look closely would recognize the pair of cufflinks: engraved with Taehyung’s initials and the prince’s royal crest — last seen on their wedding day, now gracing Jimin’s wrists. A vow made again.

The Queen, already seated, offers them a subtle nod.  Seokjin, sitting beside her, smiles with quiet pride. Eunha greets them with her eyes, a calm acknowledgment that Jimin returns with a slight, graceful tilt of his head.

They take their seats — Jimin to Taehyung’s left, Seokjin across the table. Council members, senior aides, and members of the royal press line the rest of the long table, where low conversation hums amid the delicate clink of silverware and glass.

For the first half-hour, it all goes as expected. Discussions about summer festivals, trade partnerships, and a slate of diplomatic visits in Europe, scheduled in autumn. And then — a minister clears his throat.

“Your Highness,” he begins, voice smooth. “There remains concern among the Council regarding public sentiment. Some believe it would be wise to ease the transition,” his eyes flick briefly to Jimin. “We recommend keeping appearances less… forward, for the time being.”

The room stills, the suggestion hanging like smoke. It’s almost insidious, like a veiled warning. And though it is not addressed directly about anyone, everyone knows who it is about.

Taehyung doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he finishes placing a slice of steak on Jimin’s plate — a precise, measured gesture, drawing out the silence. Then he lifts his gaze, polite and unreadable.

“Public sentiment,” he echoes.

“Yes, Your Highness,” The minister, known more for ambition than tact, presses on. “The Palace has certainly endured worse. But some of us are still concerned with transparency and public perception.”

Taehyung sets down his knife. His voice remains calm, but the steel is unmistakable.

“I believe I’ve been perfectly transparent,” he says. “That I intend to keep my marriage. That I’ll have my consort beside me.”

“There’s nothing else to perceive beyond that simple truth.” He pauses, then speaks sharper, “Let me be perfectly clear: Jimin is not a mistake or an inconvenience. I won’t allow anyone in this room to speak of him with anything less than the respect he deserves.”

He turns slightly, not enough to break posture, but enough to show the whole table his truth. His gaze softens when it lands on Jimin.

“He is my partner. My equal. We intend to move forward together.”

A low commotion stirs around the table. The minister bows his head, stiff with concession. Across the table, Seokjin raises his wine glass in silent cheers, acknowledging Taehyung’s bold stand. Jimin meets Taehyung’s gaze, lips curving into something small and certain.

The rest of the meal continues, taut with awareness. The message is clear — in every glance exchanged, in every plate passed hand to hand, in every tilt of the shoulder that draws them quietly closer.

Later, the Queen compliments the meal. Seokjin cracks a joke that draws laughter from his wife and a groan from Namjoon. The press are not scribbling furiously, but their pens move just enough to document the night.

Everyone heard what Taehyung had to say. And perhaps more importantly: everyone had seen.

By the last course, a stillness settles between Jimin and Taehyung — one that speaks of something fuller, like an alignment. 

They move as one and in tandem, eyes meeting now and then for the unspoken comfort of recognition and presence. And when they rise to leave, they do it together. 

The hush follows them all the way down the corridor — not the kind born from scandal, but the kind that signifies something harder to shake.

Something like respect. Something that has chosen to stay.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Back in their residence, Jimin slips off each cufflink carefully, setting them down on the vanity. They’d caught the light earlier beneath the chandeliers, subtle but unmistakable — and by then, the photos were already circulating.

On the tablet screen beside him, the palace feed loops through the nights headlines: 

Royals’ United Front at Midsummer Banquet

Worn Like a Vow: Azalea and Cufflinks Make A Statement

Steady Hands and Shared Symbols

One still image freezes them in motion as they were leaving Geunjeongjeon, a cue no one would miss or misread: Taehyung’s hand resting on Jimin’s lower back, Jimin leaning just slightly into the touch, their heads tilted toward each other mid-conversation. The cufflinks, once Taehyung’s, now on Jimin’s wrists, and the azalea bloom pinned to Taehyung’s lapel made it unmistakably clear. It wasn’t for simple styling reasons. It was made with intent. 

He looks at the photo for a moment, but doesn’t linger or tap through any longer than that. He powers down the tablet just as the door opens behind him.

“You saw the headlines?” Taehyung’s voice is low, careful.

Jimin nods. “They’re not terrible.”

Taehyung crosses the room in a few slow strides, his suit jacket already off, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled past his forearms.

“True,” he says, then pauses. “Still… I don’t want it to cost you anything, just to be beside me.”

Jimin looks up. “It’s a weight I’ll carry, if it means walking beside you.” 

Taehyung steps closer, fingers finding Jimin’s wrist, where the cufflink left a faint imprint. He brushes it with a thumb, feather-light. “I like seeing you in things that are mine,” he murmurs, smiling. “Even if it’s just this.”

Jimin huffs a soft laugh, eyes warm. “You gave it to me.”

“Still mine.” Taehyung leans in, their foreheads brushing. “And I’ll keep showing them,” he adds. “Every chance I get.”

He kisses him then, tender and sweet. Taehyung’s hands move to his waist, then his face, then down his arms again, like a reminder: We're here now. Jimin leans into it like it steadies him.

The noise of the banquet hall is long behind them now — so are the flashes of cameras, the prying eyes, the heavy weight of expectation.

Jimin’s hands slide up Taehyung’s arms, smoothing over the folds in his sleeves. “You held your ground,” he says softly. “You never wavered.”

“Only because I knew what I was fighting for.” Taehyung’s voice carries conviction. “Having you beside me was enough.”

They fall into another kiss. Jimin smiles faintly against his mouth — a little dazed, a little undone, in the way people only are when they feel safe.

Taehyung reaches down and begins to unbutton his shirt. Jimin lets him, easing out of the layers, allowing the weight of the evening to slip away, button by button. He steps back only long enough to change into something soft and loose, then returns barefoot and sleepy-eyed.

Taehyung’s waiting on the bed, sitting against the headboard. When Jimin draws close again, he simply opens his arms and Jimin walks straight into them. He curls into his side, legs folding comfortably between Taehyung’s. 

There’s a steadiness to the way they’re tucked into each other now, as the evening slows to something tender. The space between them is filled with a shared hush of belief, the kind that lingers after everything hard has been done and everything true has been said.

“Welcome home,” Taehyung draws his mouth along the curve of Jimin’s cheek. “This, right here. This is where you belong.”

Jimin’s breath stirs against his throat. He closes his eyes for a moment, then opens them, shifting just enough to meet Taehyung’s gaze.

“I know,” he murmurs, fingers tracing Taehyung’s collarbone before he rests his hand above Taehyung’s heart. “Because I can finally exhale here.”

They’ve already chosen each other in front of everyone. And now, in the privacy of their room, they choose each other again.

Not for duty or for legacy. But for love and for what they’ve grown. 

Rooted, tended, and in full bloom.

Chapter Text

Garden at Seoul Botanic Park Opens with Community-Focused Event Han So-hee, Royal Correspondent

Seoul Botanic Park’s garden officially reopened this week, following a months-long restoration project led by Royal Consort Park Jimin. The initiative brings together horticulturists, florists, artists, and local volunteers in an effort to create a space dedicated to healing, education, and seasonal reflection through flowers and art.

At the heart of the project is Bloom, a floral and art installation curated by the Consort himself. Designed around the symbolic language of flowers, the garden features an area with a rotating collection of seasonal blooms, complemented with art and signage explaining its meaning. The installation is a stunning nod to the Consort’s well-known affinity for flowers and art as a means of connection.

“Bloom is about restoring a space and returning it to the community,” The Consort shared during his remarks. “It’s a reminder of what we can cultivate and grow, when we do it together and when we do it with care.”

The event drew attention both from the press and the public. Guests included students from nearby schools and several community leaders who were involved in early floral and design consultations. Some memorable highlights of the afternoon event include the Consort talking about this season’s blooms, guiding a group of young students through the garden, and speaking with educators about future youth engagement programs.

Notably, Prince Taehyung was also in attendance — not at the podium, where he is typically expected at royal events, but standing inconspicuously behind the crowd. 

His presence was low-profile but deliberate: no formal address, no photo calls, no interviews, just a shared and discreet acknowledgment between the Prince and the Consort as the latter mingled with guests. The intimate moment echoed the tone of the project itself — quiet but meaningful, and as the Consort himself has shown during the event, sincere and deeply human.

The royal couple’s next public engagement is expected to take place in autumn. Bloom is open to the public daily from 10AM-6PM, no admission fee required.

54 Comments:

💬 @serendipity.flowers
Our shop volunteered during planning. Consort Jimin attended all meetings and listened to every participating florist and artist. 

💬 @mikrokosmos
Can’t stop thinking about the photo of Consort Park helping the volunteers set up the flowers. A down-to-earth leader, truly.

💬 @slow_dancing
The space feels like a love letter to flowers and community. I can’t wait to visit next weekend!

💬 @krroyalfan
Prince Taehyung at the back. 👀 No security and no press, just watching from afar and supporting his consort. His presence speaks volumes.

💬 @fleurfield
I’m a florist and even through pictures I can tell that every flower in that installation is intentional. It delivers so much heart.

💬 @95_613
I attended this event! I couldn’t look away when I saw the royal couple having a moment. 

💬 @blueandgrey
“Bloom” is one of the most meaningful royal initiatives I’ve seen in years. We need more of this.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

There’s a young girl who doesn’t want to let go.

“Your garden is the prettiest place I’ve ever seen,” she says as she hugs Jimin tightly around the waist, her cheeks flushed from wonder and excitement.

Jimin laughs, slightly flustered, bending down to return the hug. “It’s yours too,” he tells her gently. “You can come back anytime.”

A tap on his shoulder interrupts them — someone pressing a daffodil into his hand. A student from the arts school, his smile wide. “For you, Consort Park,” he says, voice catching with emotion as he bows. “I'm extremely thankful to be a part of this project.”

Jimin blinks, taken aback by the sincerity, but he smiles at him. He tucks the flower into the small bundle already in his arms, where petals press against his chest.

Staff begin clearing folding chairs, artists pack away pencils and paintbrushes, the air smells of damp petals and late summer edging to autumn. The crowd has thinned, but a few guests linger, trailing fingers over flowers and murals, reluctant to leave.

A press photographer shows Jimin some photos of the event. A council member gives him a nod that almost reads as respect. A florist shares too many grateful words, and Jimin, speechless, is touched by how much the project means to her.

He looks every inch the royal consort: composed, attentive, warm. He remains modest, while embodying strength. A consort who is not performing an assigned or expected role, but someone becoming something on his own terms.

Taehyung stands under the wisteria archway watching him — unannounced, unobtrusive, not flanked by the usual staff or security. He didn’t make his presence loud or visible, but Jimin still noticed him halfway through the event, feeling Taehyung’s steady presence like a thread tugging at the edge of his awareness. 

Jimin speaks with one more school principal, accepting a portfolio of student paintings. When the conversation ends, he excuses himself with a bow and crosses to where Taehyung stands waiting. 

It’s only several steps, but the shift is palpable. The garden almost stills in that particular way the public does when something important is happening. They notice and they watch, but choose to look away, respecting their privacy and understanding the intimacy of what’s unfolding.

Taehyung smiles at him in greeting, “You did beautifully.”

“How long have you been here?” Jimin asks, half-laughing in delight.

“Since you were arranging the dahlias before your opening remarks.”

“You didn’t have to come,” Jimin says, quiet and unguarded.

“I know,” Taehyung replies. “But I wanted to. I'm proud of how hard you worked on this project.”

Jimin shifts slightly, close enough that their arms touch — not quite intentional, but not accidental or casual either.

“I suggested we move the orchids and the lily of the valley near the greenhouse wall,” he shares. “They thrive best under the filtered light.”

Something flickers across Taehyung’s face — pride, awe, the lovely ache of watching someone you love in their element. 

“You made space for everything that matters,” he says at last, almost reverently. “You always do.”

They begin to walk, heading to the exit.

Their hands find each other in that space between steps, Jimin threading their fingers together. Just before they fully step out of the garden, Taehyung leans in closer to press his lips against Jimin’s temple lightly. 

Jimin closes his eyes at the touch, then squeezes Taehyung’s hand in response, trying to convey his affection.

This, he thinks — Taehyung’s palm against his own, Taehyung’s mouth lingering near his skin — this is what it means to come home.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

Their quarters are dim after dinner, late summer heat passing through the curtains and the weight of the day slipping from their shoulders. It smells faintly of wisteria and bergamot, and beneath it, something unmistakably them. 

Jimin exhales as he toes off his shoes, his fingers moving to the top buttons of his shirt, loosening them one by one. Across the room, Taehyung moves slower, watching him from behind.

“My facial muscles feel like they’re frozen in a smile,” Jimin says as he tugs the fabric loose from his waistband with a tired sigh.

“You were generous with your time,” Taehyung replies, a thread of fondness in his voice. “They’ll be writing stories about it.”

Jimin laughs softly, shaking his head. “You’re terribly biased.”

“Terribly accurate,” Taehyung says, stepping behind him.

He lifts his hands, thumbs skimming the curve of Jimin’s shoulders as he slides the shirt from Jimin’s shoulders, exposing heated skin flushed from the day. He leans in and leaves a kiss on the top of Jimin’s spine, a silent gesture of reverence.

“You were remarkable today,” Taehyung murmurs into his skin. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

They face their reflections on the mirror: Jimin, half out of his clothes; Taehyung, still mostly dressed, standing close enough that their silhouettes blur into one in the dim light. His arms come around Jimin’s waist, palms resting just above his hips.

Jimin tilts his head slightly, his voice casual but laced with intention, sharing a glance with Taehyung through the mirror.

“I was thinking,” he says as he unbuttons the rest of his shirt, “once the autumn schedule is over… maybe we could disappear for a while.”

Taehyung hums, raising a brow. “Disappear?”

Jimin nods. “Just the two of us. Somewhere no one will call us titles, somewhere we don’t have to attend events. Somewhere quiet, with a bed we won’t have to leave.”

Taehyung watches his husband — the ease in the way he moves, the reveal of skin as the shirt parts fully.

“Are you proposing sleep... or sin?” Taehyung asks, his voice dark with amusement.

“Both,” Jimin says, glancing at him over his shoulder. “In whatever particular order.”

Taehyung huffs a laugh, teasing. “Just say you want to spend days in bed with me and we can leave tonight.”

“I want to spend days in bed with you,” Jimin says easily, turning around to face him.

“Hmm,” Taehyung’s hand lifts, fingers brushing Jimin’s jaw then sliding into his hair. “Say it again.”

“I want to —” Jimin starts, but the rest of the words get caught between them as Taehyung leans down to kiss him.

It starts soft and light, more a hum of familiarity than a spark of heat. Lips meeting and parting, shaped by memory. Jimin’s hand finds Taehyung’s nape, fingers curling into his hair. Taehyung shifts closer, fingertips grazing along his jaw, like a habit remembered.

The kiss deepens, their world narrowing to touch and warmth, to the give of mouths and the press of hearts. Restrained hunger hums beneath their kiss, just enough to taste and to want.

They eventually pull away from each other, lips still touching in the pause between heartbeats.

“We should finish changing,” Jimin whispers, though he stays within Taehyung’s arms.

Taehyung presses another kiss on his mouth. “We could stay like this. Just for a little while.”

“Just for a little while,” Jimin echoes, words slipping out on a sigh. His heart feels steady, safe.

The mirror catches movement in fragments — a hand sliding over a shoulder, the way one body leans into the other, the press of a palm at the dip of a waist. The slow bend of Taehyung’s head to Jimin’s neck, as he leaves a trail of soft kisses. A low gasp muffled in the space between.

For now, it’s enough. Being held, being seen. Being in each other’s arms, after everything.

♕❀♕❀♕❀

The sun hasn’t fully risen yet, but Jimin is already on his way to the greenhouse. When he pushes the front door open, he’s greeted with the damp scent of soil and the familiar sight of dew clinging on the edges of petals and leaves. Somewhere inside the greenhouse, a wall of fans stir the air just enough to keep everything cool at the right temperature.

He rolls the cuffs of his loose linen shirt before getting to work: monitoring plant growth, checking the heating and cooling units, pruning the trumpet vines, and watering the sunflowers. 

Jimin takes a break after working steadily, leaning on the worktable as he sips from a thermos of coffee. He hears a pair of familiar footsteps behind him.

Taehyung enters the greenhouse, hair still mussed and feet bare like he rolled out of bed without a second thought. His wine-colored robe is loosely tied at the waist, slightly baring a sliver of skin. 

“You didn’t wake me,” he says softly, gaze landing on Jimin’s instantly.

“Didn’t want to disturb your sleep,” Jimin replies, just as gently. Almost like an apology. “You looked peaceful.”

“I would’ve come with you.” There’s a slight pout on Taehyung’s lips. “I like watching you here.”

“I know, my love,” Jimin says with a fond smile. “But this was mine for a long time. I just needed to feel it again, even for a moment.”

Taehyung nods, understanding without needing more words. He crosses the space between them and pulls Jimin into his arms, hands spreading wide across his back as he holds him close. 

Jimin melts against him, burrowing into the slope of his neck, breathing him in — sleep-warm skin, the scent of their shared bed, a hint of something green and floral.

“The greenhouse feels different now,” Jimin murmurs.

“In what way?”

“I used to come here when I felt lonely. Or alone. Now it feels like... something else.”

“Something good, I hope.”

Jimin lifts his head to look up at him, eyes filled with affection.

“It is,” he says. “It still feels like mine... while it also feels like ours.”

And then, because the moment asks for it, Jimin leaves a kiss along the curve of Taehyung’s jaw. His lips linger there for a breath longer than necessary, warm and intimate. Taehyung sighs in satisfaction, hand brushing up and down Jimin’s spine.

They hold each other for a moment longer, until Taehyung draws back.

“Wait here.”

Jimin watches as Taehyung moves across the greenhouse, barefoot and still languid with sleep. He picks up a pair of shears from a shelf of gardening tools, then walks through rows of flowers — fingers skimming leaves and petals, pausing now and then to consider, until he finally begins to clip.

Red peonies, lush like silk with its full, vivid petals. Daisies, radiant but simple, like sunlight after days of rain. Lilacs, soft and pale, with a delicate scent reminiscent of spring.

He doesn’t ask for help, and Jimin doesn’t interrupt. He watches instead, chest aching in the best way, as Taehyung moves with a kind of tenderness he reserves only for Jimin and their marriage. 

When he returns, he holds out the flowers to Jimin with both hands. The bouquet is loose, slightly wild, and beautifully imperfect. 

“For you,” Taehyung says.

Jimin takes the bouquet, fingers brushing Taehyung’s. He brings it close to his face, breathing in the scent of flowers and morning dew, looking up at Taehyung over the bouquet.

“Thank you,” he says, voice thick with adoration. “It’s beautiful.”

Taehyung steps closer, one hand slipping to the small of Jimin’s back, the other rising to cradle his face. A silent invitation, already half-answered by the way Jimin leans into his touch.

They kiss, warm and slow, wrapped in each other in a place that has always grown beautiful things. 

Jimin tilts his face further, lips parting with ease, and Taehyung follows with a low sound in his throat. He presses fuller and draws deeper, like they have all the time in the world. The kind of kiss that feels like a sacred promise. One that speaks of shared mornings and shared nights, of silences understood, of a future built together. 

Taehyung pulls back slightly just to see Jimin’s face, gazing at him as if he can’t get enough.

“I still don’t know how we got here,” he says, almost awed. “But I’d do it all again. Even the hard parts, so I could end up here with you.”

Jimin smiles, radiating joy. “We didn’t simply end up here,” he says. “We chose each other, again and again.”

Then, he adds, like it’s the simplest truth in the world, “I love you.”

Taehyung exhales, thumb brushing over Jimin’s cheek.

“I love you,” he says it back, with the steadiness of someone who plans to live it for a long time.

They had once planted something fragile — a small, trembling seed between two uncertain hearts. And somehow, against the odds and the weight of everything, its roots held fast and deepened.

Not in perfection, and certainly not without strain.

But in longing, in choice, and in devotion. Through quiet gestures and loud actions. In spaces no one else could see and in moments that mattered. 

And now, it unfurls — petal by petal, tender and enduring.

Still blooming. Still becoming.

This love, the home they found in each other — is only the beginning.