Archive of Our Own

Jimin stares at his drink for too long. The globular ice in his glass is already half-melted, the whiskey diluted and cool against his palm. He doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just doesn’t care. The music outside the private room hums softly through the velvet-lined walls, thumping enough to remind him there’s life beyond this quiet, dimly lit space, but not loud enough to drown his thoughts.

The room is stylish in a way only Seokjin would design—sleek and dark, with ambient lighting, polished mahogany panels, and a tufted leather couch that seems more suited for lounging than conversation. A single warm light hangs overhead, casting Jimin in gold as he sits at the small marble bar, his fingers loosely curled around the crystal glass.

He’s not used to being alone in a room someone reserved just for him. It feels indulgent. Almost embarrassing.

But Seokjin is kind like that. And Taehyung? Well, Taehyung is nosy.

So when the door quietly opens and Taehyung walks in with someone trailing behind him—a small-framed man with milky skin and delicate features—Jimin doesn’t react immediately. He lifts his gaze slowly, letting it settle on the newcomer with calm, unreadable eyes.

“This is Yoongi,” Taehyung says with a grin, casual like he didn’t just bring a stranger to meet his best friend. “Hyung, this is Jimin. Jimin, be nice.”

Yoongi shifts, his hands tucked awkwardly into the sleeves of his oversized blue cardigan, and gives a small bow. “Hi.”

His voice is quiet. Softer than Jimin expected. Jimin nods in response, gestures to the couch beside him.

Yoongi hesitates only briefly before moving to sit. He doesn’t fidget, but he does keep his gaze low, as though he’s unsure if he’s allowed to look directly at someone like Park Jimin. CEO. Rumored heir. The man who doesn’t smile in pictures and whose name carries weight even in circles he doesn’t step foot in.

Jimin turns his attention back to his drink. “So. Taehyung sent you?”

Yoongi nods. “He… said you were lonely.”

A corner of Jimin’s mouth quirks. “He’s dramatic.”

“He’s your best friend,” Yoongi points out, a tiny flicker of amusement in his voice. It surprises Jimin. Pleasantly.

“He also thinks I need someone to hold my hand just because I don’t go on dates.”

Yoongi blinks. “Do you?”

Jimin lets out a low chuckle, resting the glass down. “No.”

Silence stretches between them for a moment. Not awkward, not quite. Just a careful sort of quiet. Yoongi relaxes into it slowly, legs folding under him as he settles on the couch, fingers playing with the frayed edge of his sleeve.

Jimin notices.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Jimin says. His voice is soft, lower than it was earlier. “You’re here to keep me company. That’s it. I don’t expect anything else.”

Yoongi looks up, startled by the sincerity in his tone. “Nothing else?”

Jimin shakes his head once. “No touching. No expectations. This wasn’t even my idea. Taehyung set it up thinking I’d… open up to someone if they weren’t from my world.”

Yoongi tilts his head, curious. “Do I seem that different to you?”

“You seem quiet,” Jimin replies. “That’s a good thing.”

Yoongi bites back a small smile. “You seem quiet too.”

“I like silence,” Jimin says, eyes on the ice in his glass again. “It makes the noise inside my head feel a little less.”

Yoongi looks at him then—really looks. The cut of his jaw, the long lashes that shadow his cheekbones, the smooth way his voice drops when he’s being honest. Jimin doesn’t speak much, but something about his stillness feels… warm. Solid. Safe.

It’s strange, Yoongi thinks, to feel comforted by someone so unreadable. But Jimin isn’t cold. He’s composed. Sharp on the outside but never cruel. And in the dim light of Seokjin’s bar, he feels almost… gentle.

“I like the quiet too,” Yoongi murmurs, folding his hands on his lap. “It’s easier to breathe in it.”

Jimin glances at him. Their eyes meet.

And for the first time tonight, Jimin smiles.

Just barely. But it’s there.

“Do you drink?” he asks, already reaching behind the bar.

“Sometimes.”

“Good,” Jimin says. “I don’t like drinking alone.”

He pours them both a glass of something amber and smooth, and when he passes Yoongi the drink, their fingers brush. Yoongi feels the warmth of Jimin’s skin for just a second—barely enough to register—but it lingers.

The rest of the night unfolds in silence.

They don’t talk much—not because there’s nothing to say, but because neither of them feels the need to fill the space. Yoongi stays on his side of the couch, curled slightly into himself, and Jimin remains by the bar, nursing his drink. The low hum of music outside the walls becomes a steady rhythm in the quiet room.

Sometimes, Jimin looks over. Sometimes, Yoongi catches his gaze, only to quickly glance away.

There’s no pressure. No expectation. Just two strangers sharing space, the stillness between them growing more comfortable by the minute.

When Seokjin peeks in after a while to check if they need anything, Jimin lifts a hand in a quiet shake of the head. Yoongi doesn’t move.

Eventually, Yoongi stands, giving a small, polite bow. He adjusts the sleeves of his cardigan, looking unsure of whether to say goodbye or just slip out quietly.

Before he can decide, Jimin speaks.

“Same time next week?”

Yoongi blinks, surprised. But he nods once, a quiet curve forming at the corner of his mouth.

Jimin doesn’t smile back. He just watches him leave, the glass still half-full in his hand.

And that’s all it is.

***

The second time they meet, something sits oddly in Jimin’s chest.

He ignores it.

Like the way he ignores the employees bowing at him in the hallway, the unread messages piling in his phone, and the ache behind his eyes that even espresso can’t shake. He walks with his usual confidence, shoes hitting the floor with sharp, deliberate steps as he makes his way through the back entrance of Seokjin’s bar.

It’s ridiculous, he thinks. To feel anything about this.

He’s not supposed to look forward to this—to meeting someone in a private room of an upscale bar he didn’t even want to be in last week. But his body moves on instinct now, muscle memory guiding him to the same door, past the same dim hallway, where something unfamiliar waits behind the soft amber glow.

Jimin pushes the door open.

And there he is.

Min Yoongi. Already waiting.

He’s curled into the couch, the same spot as before, but he looks a little more comfortable this time. A yellow cardigan drapes his small frame. His hair is messier tonight, like he’d run his fingers through it in a rush, and Jimin notices immediately that the color suits him better than the blue one from last week. Warmer. Softer. Somehow… him.

Yoongi looks up when he hears the door.

“You’re early,” Jimin says as it clicks shut behind him, the words out before he even thinks them through. His voice is calm but not cold, lower than usual.

Yoongi blinks once, then slowly rises to his feet out of habit, brushing invisible wrinkles from his jeans. “I was in the area.”

Jimin nods. It’s not much, but it’s acknowledgment. The room begins to shift around his presence—his scent, his stillness, the quiet authority that follows him like a shadow. Dressed in a fitted charcoal suit, his jacket open but crisp, and his black tie loosened just slightly, Jimin walks in like he owns the entire city outside.

He doesn’t smile, never does. But his eyes linger on Yoongi a beat longer than necessary before he gestures lightly to the couch. “Sit.”

Yoongi obeys, unsure if he should speak or stay quiet. He chooses quiet. Again.

Jimin moves to the opposite side, settling down with a soft sigh. His fingers curl around the edge of the seat, and for a long moment, neither of them says a word. It’s not uncomfortable—just suspended.

Until Jimin breaks it.

“I know that Taehyung is paying you to do this,” he says flatly, his eyes fixed somewhere near the table, not quite meeting Yoongi’s yet. “To keep me company.”

The words feel heavy in the room, like smoke curling into the corners.

Yoongi’s body tenses before he even realizes it, his spine going straighter, jaw tightening. “I—”

“I’m not mad,” Jimin cuts in, finally meeting his gaze. Calm. Careful. “I’m just saying… I want that to stop.”

Yoongi freezes. He blinks. “Stop?”

“I don’t want him involved anymore,” Jimin clarifies, adjusting the cuff of his shirt. His tone never wavers, cool and almost bored, like he’s discussing a business contract. “From now on, I’ll handle things myself.”

Yoongi’s voice comes slower this time, cautious. “You mean… you’ll pay me instead?”

Jimin nods. “I’ll pay you double of whatever he’s giving you.”

Yoongi’s lips part, a faint crease appearing between his brows. “Why?”

The question is genuine. And Jimin doesn’t answer immediately.

He leans back, gaze drifting to the dim ceiling light, thinking. Searching. Then finally, he answers with something close to honesty.

“Because I find your presence interesting,” he says. “It’s quiet. But not empty.”

Yoongi says nothing. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that.

“And,” Jimin continues, sitting straighter now, eyes sharp again, “we’ll meet at my condo unit next time. No more bars. No more middlemen. Just… discretion.”

A beat passes.

“I want this kept private. You won’t tell Taehyung or anyone else. Understood?”

Yoongi swallows, the air around them heavier now. There’s no threat in Jimin’s voice, but it carries weight nonetheless. He stares at the man sitting across from him—flawless suit, calm tone, unreadable expression—and wonders if he just stepped into something far deeper than he thought.

Still, Yoongi nods slowly. “Understood.”

Jimin’s lips twitch ever so slightly—not a smile, but something near it. He leans forward to pour himself a glass from the bottle on the table, then raises it halfway in Yoongi’s direction.

“To new terms,” he says.

Yoongi lifts his own untouched glass and nods back, though his hands feel colder now.

They drink.

And in the silence that follows, the rules are rewritten—not in ink, but in glances and unspoken thoughts. A new kind of arrangement takes shape between them, one that neither of them fully understands yet, but both feel shifting in the air like gravity pulling quietly closer.

***

The elevator glides up in silence, Yoongi’s reflection staring back at him from the mirrored walls. He adjusts the hem of his white shirt, simple and slightly wrinkled from the commute. His palms are cold, a little damp.

Jimin’s condo is at the top floor. Of course it is.

He almost turned around when the elevator doors opened into a pristine private foyer with a single security camera and no one in sight. But then the door opened on its own with a quiet mechanical click.

And now, he’s stepping into a place that doesn’t feel like a condo at all—it feels like stepping into another world.

The space is minimal but warm. Smooth wooden floors, dim pendant lighting, wide windows overlooking the city skyline. It smells faintly like cedarwood and something sweeter—maybe amber, maybe the candle burning quietly in the corner.

And standing by the kitchen island, barefoot, hair a little messy and holding two wine glasses, is Jimin.

In satin pajamas.

Yoongi stares.

Not in shock, exactly, but definitely not in indifference. The fabric clings in all the right places—navy blue with thin silver piping, the top half undone just enough to show the elegant lines of his collarbone.

“Hi,” Jimin says casually, like they didn’t last meet with an entire city’s worth of distance between them.

Yoongi blinks. “You’re… wearing pajamas.”

Jimin glances down at himself, amused. “Comfortable clothes. This is my home. Not a boardroom.”

He walks over and hands Yoongi one of the glasses. “Come in. You can sit wherever.”

Yoongi steps in cautiously, eyes scanning the room, taking in the grand piano in the corner, the framed abstract painting above the couch, the open bookshelf beside it.

“You live here alone?”

“Yes.” Jimin walks over to the couch and sits, curling a leg beneath him like it’s the most natural thing. “No staff after hours. I don’t like people in my space.”

Yoongi slowly follows, settling into the other end of the couch. “Then why did you invite me?”

Jimin shrugs, taking a sip of wine. “I wanted to.”

Yoongi studies him for a second longer. In the bar, Jimin was sharp angles and silence. Here, he’s softer—not warm, not yet, but real. Like someone at the edge of letting go.

There’s a pause before Jimin turns his head, eyes briefly landing on Yoongi’s chest. “That shirt’s too clean to be accidental.”

Yoongi huffs a quiet laugh. “I ironed it. Thought you’d still be in a suit.”

Jimin doesn’t smile, but something flickers in his expression. “I like yellow on you better.”

The words hang in the air longer than they should.

Yoongi stares down at his white shirt, his heart skipping a beat before he brushes the comment off with a soft shrug. “Guess I’ll wear the yellow cardigan next time, then.”

Jimin hums. “Do that.”

They drink for a while in comfortable silence. The wine’s good—expensive, but not pretentious. Yoongi catches Jimin watching him once or twice but says nothing.

Eventually, Jimin leans his head back against the couch. “What do you usually do with your time?”

Yoongi hesitates, but something about the setting—maybe the softness of the room, or the way Jimin isn’t looking at him like a boss or a client—makes him speak.

“I like music,” he says quietly. “I work at a studio sometimes. Mixing, mostly. I don’t compose much anymore.”

Jimin turns his head. “Why not?”

Yoongi shrugs, sipping his wine again. “Got tired. It started to feel like chasing a high I couldn’t catch.”

A beat of silence.

“I still play sometimes,” he admits. “Just… for me.”

Jimin hums in acknowledgement. “What else?”

Yoongi leans into the backrest a little more, eyes softening. “I like to paint. Small things. Not real art. I read too. When I can.”

Jimin doesn’t speak right away. He watches Yoongi, not with scrutiny, but with a kind of quiet attention most people don’t afford. Like he’s filing every answer away for safekeeping.

“What do you read?”

“Crime novels,” Yoongi answers. “And cookbooks.”

That earns him a raised brow.

Yoongi shrugs, grinning shyly now. “Cooking calms me. I like trying recipes that seem impossible. It’s like solving puzzles with flavor.”

Jimin stares at him for a long moment, then lets out something close to a laugh—but softer. More air than sound.

“I didn’t expect that.”

Yoongi stretches out his legs a little, relaxing despite himself. “What did you expect?”

“Someone who wouldn’t talk at all,” Jimin says honestly. “Someone who’d keep their coat on the whole time. Leave after twenty minutes.”

Yoongi smiles—actually smiles. “And yet here I am. Talking. In socks.”

Jimin tilts his glass toward him. “Progress.”

Another shared silence follows, but it’s different now. Familiar. Their shoulders don’t touch, but the space between them has shrunk somehow.

“I wasn’t sure this was a good idea,” Jimin admits suddenly. “Letting someone into my home. It felt like a risk.”

Yoongi looks at him, serious now. “Does it still?”

Jimin turns his head and meets his gaze directly.

“Not with you,” he says.

Yoongi doesn’t reply. He just sits there, soaking in the words like warmth spreading into cold places. And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like he’s performing, or pretending, or walking on eggshells.

He’s just… there. In someone else’s space. 

Wanted.

***

Yoongi never really looked into his bank account. Not after his grandmother died and the world slowly collapsed around him. One unpaid hospital bill turned into a collection of debt. One missed rent led to two. His part-time jobs kept him afloat—but barely. Every paycheck vanished before he could touch it.

Checking his balance only reminded him of how far he’d fallen. So he stopped looking altogether.

Until now.

The app loads slowly. Yoongi watches the screen in numb silence, expecting to see red text, zeroes, maybe another warning from the bank.

But the number that appears makes his stomach drop for a different reason.

He stares.

Refreshes the page.

Still there.

He rubs his eyes and leans in, like the screen might be tricking him.

Seven digits.

All positive.

“I’ll be damned,” he whispers, heart racing. “I’m rich.”

His voice sounds strange in the quiet corner of the café, but no one hears him. He fumbles to close the app, fingers trembling slightly.

It’s more money than he’s ever seen in his life. All transferred by one person.

Park Jimin.

All because Yoongi’s keeping him company.

***

He pushes open the front door to the apartment he shares with Hoseok and Namjoon, not even bothering to take his shoes off. He’s floating. Drunk off disbelief.

Their place is modest—a bit cramped, a bit loud when Namjoon lectures through the walls or Hoseok blasts dance music while mopping—but it’s home.

As he steps into the living room, Hoseok walks past in sweats, towel over his shoulder, fresh from a shower.

“What’s with that face?” Hoseok says, stopping short when he catches sight of Yoongi’s expression.

Yoongi blinks at him, wide-eyed. “You’re my best friend, right?”

Hoseok squints. “What? Yeah? …Are you okay?”

“Just confirming.”

“I mean—after everything we’ve been through, I’d hope so. Why, what did you do?”

Yoongi exhales slowly, holding up his phone like it’s a magic wand. “I got a job.”

Hoseok tilts his head. “You have like five jobs, hyung.”

“No. Like—a real job. One I can’t even explain properly.”

“Explain anyway,” Hoseok says, now curious. “Is it illegal?”

Before Yoongi can answer, Namjoon walks into the living room holding a mug, glasses slipping down his nose.

“What’s happening?” he asks, already scanning the room like he’s ready to mediate something.

“I’m rich,” Yoongi says flatly.

Namjoon stops mid-sip. “…Excuse me?”

Yoongi holds out his phone. “Look.”

Namjoon leans over. Hoseok peers with him—and immediately gasps.

“Hyung?! Is this real?!” Hoseok shouts.

“Yeah. Just got transferred today.”

Namjoon blinks, stunned. “Did you rob a bank?”

“No,” Yoongi deadpans. “Jimin sent it.”

“Who?” Namjoon frowns.

“Jimin. You know. Taehyung’s best friend? The CEO?”

Hoseok’s mouth falls open. “Wait. That Jimin?! Taehyung’s Jimin?”

Yoongi nods.

Namjoon raises a brow. “Since when are you hanging out with CEO-types?”

“Well,” Yoongi begins carefully, “Taehyung introduced us. Kind of. Through Jungkook.”

“Of course it’s Jungkook’s fault,” Hoseok mutters.

Yoongi shrugs. “They’re all close. I guess Jimin mentioned something about needing company and Taehyung thought I’d be a good fit.”

Namjoon tilts his head. “And what exactly do you do?”

Yoongi sighs. “I keep him company.”

Silence.

Then Hoseok makes a dramatic choking sound. “What?! You’re a—you’re a sugar baby?!”

“No!” Yoongi says quickly. “No. It’s not like that.”

“Hyung,” Hoseok points at the phone. “That is sugar baby money.”

“I’m not sleeping with him!” Yoongi blurts. “He literally told me he didn’t expect anything. We just talk. Sit together. Drink wine. That’s it.”

Namjoon raises an eyebrow. “But you’re calling it a job?”

Yoongi rubs his temples. “It is a job. I don’t know what to call it—he’s paying me to exist next to him for a few hours a week.”

“Every broke uni student’s dream,” Hoseok mutters under his breath. “Except you landed a hot one.”

Yoongi glares. “That’s not the point—”

“So he’s hot,” Hoseok grins. “Confirmed.”

“I mean…” Yoongi trails off, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. He’s… the most gorgeous person I’ve ever met.”

Hoseok stares at him, jaw slack.

“His pajamas probably cost more than our rent,” Yoongi adds quietly, as if that helps his case. “And he still offered me wine and let me sit on his couch and just… exist.”

Namjoon, surprisingly, is the calmest. “Honestly, it makes sense. Lonely, wealthy people tend to hire companionship—especially from someone referred by a trusted friend.”

Yoongi nods. “That’s what I told myself too.”

Hoseok groans and collapses onto the couch. “Hyung, if this turns into a romance novel, I swear—”

“It’s not like that!” Yoongi snaps, cheeks warm.

Namjoon chuckles. “Yet.”

Yoongi groans. “I’m going to bed.”

“Come in naked next time,” Hoseok calls after him. “Secure that raise!”

“Shut up!”

But later that night, as Yoongi lies awake, staring at the ceiling, he thinks about Jimin’s condo. The soft glow of the room. The warmth of his voice when he said, “I like yellow on you.”

Yoongi smiles—barely—and pulls the blanket up to his chin.

***

Yoongi definitely took his time.

He stood in front of his tiny closet, arms crossed, staring blankly at the few yellow pieces he owned—two faded shirts from college, one oversized tee he used to sleep in, and the cardigan.

That cardigan. The one Jimin said looked good on him.

He’d already worn it four times, but he still reached for it anyway. The fabric was a little stretched at the sleeves, the knit loosening along the shoulder seams, but it framed his body well and made his skin look warmer in the right lighting. Besides, it was either that or go buy something new—and new clothes weren’t exactly a priority.

Still, maybe he’d stop by one of the secondhand stores near Hongdae sometime this week. Just two or three yellow shirts. Nothing too expensive. Just something he could throw on without thinking too hard.

But for tonight, the cardigan will do.

He rubs his wrist nervously as he stands outside Jimin’s condo, shifting his weight from one foot to the other before knocking softly. Not too loud. Jimin hates loud things.

The door opens a moment later.

Jimin’s in another pair of satin pajamas, this time a deep plum that clings to his skin like a second thought. His hair is still slightly damp at the ends, like he just got out of the shower, and he smells faintly of something citrusy and clean.

He steps aside wordlessly to let Yoongi in.

The place is just as quiet and dim as usual. A movie plays on the television across the room, the volume so low it might as well be on mute. The sound barely hums above the clink of glass as Jimin pours them wine.

Yoongi toes off his shoes and pads over to the couch, sliding into his usual corner without asking. Jimin joins him a minute later, two glasses in hand.

It’s not extravagant. It’s not awkward either.

It’s just… their routine.

They sit in silence for a while. The kind that feels more like a warm blanket than an empty space. Jimin occasionally glances at the screen like he’s following the story, though Yoongi’s sure he isn’t. Yoongi keeps his gaze low, fingers brushing the rim of his glass now and then.

Eventually, Jimin speaks.

“I didn’t know you liked art,” he says, eyes still on the TV.

Yoongi blinks. “What makes you say that?”

“You talked about painting last time. Sounded like you miss it.”

Yoongi shrugs a little. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

“What do you paint?”

“Landscapes. Sometimes faces. Sometimes just color,” he says, voice quiet but honest. “It’s not good or anything. I just like how quiet it is.”

Jimin hums, like he understands. “That’s how I feel about playing piano. I haven’t touched one in years.”

Yoongi glances sideways at him. “Why not?”

Jimin exhales through his nose, then sips his wine. “It started feeling like a performance instead of peace.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but the quiet that follows feels like understanding.

They talk more after that—but only a little. Light stories. Yoongi talks about working late-night at a ramen shop with Hoseok back in college and how they got into trouble for stealing kimchi. Jimin mentions a bizarre board meeting where an executive accidentally played a cat filter during a presentation.

They laugh. Just a little. No, actually, Yoongi laughs. Jimin just nods at it.

And when they both fall silent again, the room feels a little warmer. Like it’s holding something gently between them.

Then Jimin turns slightly toward him.

His face is unreadable, calm as always, but there’s a subtle flicker in his eyes—like he’s letting Yoongi peek through a window usually closed to the world.

“What do you say about going out with me on Sunday?”

The words fall soft but intentional.

Yoongi blinks, brain short-circuiting for just a second. “Go out?”

Jimin nods, swirling the wine in his glass like he hasn’t just thrown Yoongi off completely. “Out. Outside this condo. You and me.”

There’s no teasing in his voice. No grin. Just that same quiet calm that Jimin always carries. He doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t label it. Doesn’t say if it’s a date or just an extension of the job.

Yoongi swallows once and answers before he even thinks about it.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Jimin nods like he expected it. Like it was already decided.

He goes back to sipping his wine. The movie continues playing soundlessly in the background.

And Yoongi?

He sits still, heartbeat ticking a little faster in his chest.

He doesn’t know what Sunday means.

But still he doesn’t ask.

***

Sunday begins with an address and a driver waiting.

Yoongi had almost convinced himself it wasn’t going to happen. That Jimin had maybe forgotten or changed his mind. But at exactly 11:00 a.m., a sleek black car pulls up in front of Yoongi’s apartment building, and the driver calls him “Mr. Min” as he opens the back door.

Yoongi’s wearing his usual: a clean white shirt, dark jeans, and the yellow cardigan. He thought maybe the cardigan would be too much—too obvious—but he couldn’t not wear it after Jimin’s comment. So he did.

The car glides through the city, not toward a café or a park like Yoongi expected, but toward a high-end shopping district he’s only seen in ads and dramas. Glossy storefronts, imported displays, everything clean, quiet, and unreal.

The driver pulls into a reserved lane near the back of the mall and leads Yoongi through a side entrance.

Inside, a tall assistant bows and says, “Right this way, sir. Mr. Park is waiting.”

Yoongi follows, heart thudding.

They walk through a wide corridor before stopping at a door that reads Private Collection – Clients Only in subtle silver lettering.

And then, he’s inside.

The room is huge—bigger than Yoongi’s entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors, velvet curtains, plush gray couches, and racks and racks of carefully curated designer pieces. An entire wall is dedicated to menswear in every color and cut imaginable. A separate shoe section gleams under soft, spotlight lighting.

And in the middle of it all, Park Jimin is lounging on a couch like he owns the world. One ankle crossed over his knee, espresso in hand, phone in the other. He’s wearing wide cream trousers and a tucked-in mocha blouse, gold-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose.

He looks up and smiles—not wide, not bright, just a subtle curve of the lips that still feels like sunlight.

“You’re on time,” Jimin says.

Yoongi nods, unsure what to do with his hands. “Barely. I didn’t know it’d be… this.”

“This?” Jimin echoes with a soft hum, rising to his feet. “Private? Lavish? Ridiculous?”

Yoongi gives him a tight smile. “All of the above.”

Jimin steps closer, gaze sweeping Yoongi up and down. “You wore the cardigan.”

Yoongi’s ears burn. “Well. Yeah.”

“Good.” Jimin gestures to one of the racks. “Start trying.”

“What?”

“Clothes, Yoongi. Try them on. I picked a few already.”

Yoongi blinks. “You picked—?”

“For you, yes,” Jimin says casually. “The dressing room’s over there. Just toss out anything you don’t like. I’ll veto what doesn’t suit you.”

And before Yoongi can form a full protest, a stylist appears beside him with a calm smile and a stack of folded outfits.

Jimin takes his seat on the couch again, legs crossed, wine-colored phone back in his hand.

Yoongi stares at him. “Are you… just going to sit there?”

“I’m here to supervise,” Jimin replies. “Go on.”

Reluctantly, Yoongi takes the stack and disappears behind the curtain.

He changes into the first outfit—cream trousers and a muted olive shirt—and steps out, awkwardly adjusting the sleeves.

Jimin glances up.

“Hmm,” he says, tilting his head. “Nice fit. The color washes you out a little, though.”

Yoongi stares. “Should I—”

“Next.”

And so it begins.

One outfit after another. Some are loose and breezy, others sharply tailored. Monochromes, deep jewel tones, even soft pastels Yoongi would never think to touch on his own. For every outfit, Jimin gives a quick critique:

“That one’s boring. Looks like something your math teacher would wear.”

“Good silhouette. Turn around.”

“I like this one. The shoulders are nice.”

“Too stiff. You look like a waiter.”

Yoongi eventually gets used to it. Kind of.

He still frowns every time a stylist hands him something that feels too expensive to be near his skin, but he stops arguing after the fifth outfit. Mostly because Jimin keeps pointing out more.

By the time they’ve gone through a dozen looks, Jimin’s standing, sifting through hangers himself.

“I want more yellows,” he murmurs to the assistant. “Soft ones. Warm-toned. He looks good in them.”

Yoongi stands frozen in the last outfit—a mustard-colored knit vest over a white button-up, with high-waisted trousers he could never afford in three lifetimes.

Jimin glances over and nods. “That one. Definitely that one.”

“Jimin,” Yoongi says, voice low, “this is too much.”

Jimin meets his eyes. Calm, steady. “No, it’s not.”

“I don’t need any of this—”

“I know,” Jimin says, turning back to the rack. “But I want you to have it.”

Yoongi stares. “You’re going to buy all of this?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

Jimin shrugs. “Because I can.”

And that’s that.

The shopping continues. After the clothes, Jimin drags him—gently but firmly—to the shoe section. Three pairs: one sleek black leather, one soft brown suede, one clean white pair “for casual walks, maybe brunch,” Jimin says.

Then onto accessories. Sunglasses. A watch Yoongi refuses to even try on. Bracelets. Two bags. A minimalist belt that Jimin insists will “tie things together.”

Yoongi starts saying no to everything.

But Jimin doesn’t stop.

Every time Yoongi declines, Jimin simply looks him in the eye, swipes his card, and moves on.

Like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like giving someone comfort through luxury is the most natural way to say you matter.

By the time they’re back in the car, Yoongi is overwhelmed and silent, surrounded by bags he didn’t ask for, holding a bottled water from a minibar he didn’t touch.

Jimin sits beside him, scrolling his phone.

“Thanks,” Yoongi says eventually. “I… don’t know how to respond to this.”

Jimin doesn’t look up. “Then don’t. Just wear the clothes.”

Yoongi huffs a quiet laugh. “Do you always do this for the people you hire?”

Jimin’s fingers pause on his screen. His voice is softer when he replies.

“No. Just you.”

And Yoongi thinks his heart skipped a beat.

***

[from: J]

Bring your guitar.

That’s all he says.

No explanation. No greeting. Just that.

And yet, the message lingers in Yoongi’s mind for hours.

It’s been almost two months. Twice a week, sometimes three. No rules. No names for what they are—just that Yoongi shows up and Jimin lets him in. Or rather, Jimin made it easy to come in, the day he sent Yoongi the code to his condo.

1-0-1-3. His birthday. October 13.

Yoongi hasn’t asked why. Jimin hasn’t offered. But still, each time he taps in those four numbers, something in his chest tightens, like he’s being let into more than just a place.

Tonight is no different.

Except it is.

Because Yoongi has his guitar slung over one shoulder and Jimin’s name beating beneath his ribs.

The door opens to warm light and city glow. Jimin’s condo is always dim—never too bright, never too cold. It smells like linen, sandalwood, and something citrusy underneath, like a peeled clementine resting quietly on the counter.

He steps inside, toeing off his shoes. He’s wearing the outfit Jimin picked out for him weeks ago. A light oatmeal shirt, tucked into soft cream slacks. Everything about it fits him a little too well. Like it was made to be worn in Jimin’s presence.

There’s no sound but the hum of the city outside and the clink of glass as Jimin pours something into two cups.

He’s in the living room, barefoot and curled up on the couch like something out of a painting. Pale sweater, hair slightly tousled, long legs tucked beneath him as he sips from a glass of golden whiskey.

“You’re on time,” Jimin murmurs as Yoongi steps closer.

“You’re never specific with the time,” Yoongi says, dropping his bag near the edge of the rug. “I came after class.”

“You still take classes?” Jimin asks, almost surprised.

“Yeah. Online class. Music theory,” Yoongi mutters, shrugging as he sits down on the floor. “I never finished.”

There’s a beat of silence as Jimin regards him, then slides the second glass across the low table. “You should.”

Yoongi wraps his fingers around the glass, letting the warmth seep into his hands before lifting it for a sip. “I’m working on it.”

They sit in the quiet for a moment.

Yoongi doesn’t take his guitar out immediately. He lets the silence settle around them. He listens to the subtle creaks of the floor as Jimin adjusts his position. Watches how his wrist flexes as he swirls the liquid in his glass. Studies the way his gaze is distant, not cold but… protected.

It’s always like this at the beginning of the night. Jimin needs time to let the day fall off his shoulders, like expensive clothing he’s still wearing beneath the sweater. It takes a while before he softens.

Yoongi never rushes it.

Instead, he sips slowly, the warmth burning lightly down his throat. Then, as Jimin shifts again and lets his foot dangle off the edge of the couch—closer, just slightly—Yoongi moves.

He reaches for the guitar.

He doesn’t announce the song.

He just begins.

[play: Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift]

Soft, slow picking. Each note like a step across the distance between them. And when his voice comes in, it’s almost a whisper:

“I remember tears streaming down your face when I said I’ll never let you go…”

His voice is gentle, worn at the edges like sea glass.

“When all those shadows almost killed your light…”

Jimin doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. But Yoongi catches it—the flicker of his lashes. The way his thumb stills on the glass. The way his head tilts slightly, like he’s hearing more than just a song.

Yoongi keeps going.

“Just close your eyes, the sun is going down…”

“You’ll be alright, no one can hurt you now…”

His voice falters a little, like the weight of the lyrics sinks too deep into his chest. He doesn’t know why he picked this song. Maybe because something about Jimin always looks like he’s been surviving something quietly. Or maybe because Yoongi wanted to promise him safety without saying it outright.

Then—

Jimin hums.

And Yoongi almost forgets the next chord.

He doesn’t look at him. Just keeps playing, lets Jimin’s voice blend into the room—gentle, cautious, but real.

“Come morning light, you and I’ll be safe and sound…”

They let the last note linger, floating between them like a thread.

Yoongi’s fingers pause. The room feels like it’s breathing.

Then he shifts, barely catching his breath, and strums a new progression.

Slower.

[play: Turning Page by Sleeping At Last]

“I’ve waited a hundred years…”

Jimin lifts his head. Eyes locked on Yoongi now. There’s something in them—an ache, a pull.

“But I’d wait a million more for you…”

Yoongi’s voice drops with the weight of the words. Not polished, but trembling with sincerity.

“All along I believed I would find you…”

“Time has brought your heart to me…”

This time, Jimin doesn’t sing.

He just listens.

Still. Quiet. Eyes burning with something he won’t name.

The final chord fades into silence.

Yoongi finally looks up.

“You okay?” he asks, a little breathless.

Jimin doesn’t respond right away. He sets his glass down, curling his fingers into the hem of his sweater. Then, voice low and almost hoarse:

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

Yoongi smiles softly. “Too much?”

“No,” Jimin says. “Not enough.”

Yoongi laughs, but it’s faint. Nervous. “You have a strange way of asking for encores.”

Jimin leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes locked on Yoongi’s like he’s searching for something there. “Do you always sing songs like that for people you just… keep company with?”

Yoongi’s voice is quiet. “No.”

Jimin nods. Breathes in through his nose.

“I don’t like most people,” he says finally. “But you… I don’t know. When you sing, I forget why I don’t.”

Yoongi swallows thickly.

Neither of them moves.

Then—barely audible:

“Same time on Friday?” Jimin asks.

Yoongi nods. “I’ll bring the guitar.”

“And maybe a third song.”

“Only if you hum again.”

That earns a real smile.

Small. Honest.

It lingers in the air long after the music fades.

And for the rest of the night, they don’t say much else.

Yoongi plays a few quieter melodies, Jimin rests his head on the back of the couch, and something unspoken settles between them like a promise.

Not yet love.

But something dangerously close.

***

The guitar rests beside Yoongi, forgotten after a few soft songs and melodies. It sits upright against the side table like a guest who has quietly excused themselves. Neither of them reaches for their glasses again—the wine left untouched, the warmth between them rendering it unnecessary.

Yoongi is lying half-curled on the rug, one arm bent under his head for support. The pale cardigan he wore earlier is folded behind him as an improvised pillow. He shifts, settling into the space like he belongs there, gaze occasionally drifting toward the ceiling, toward Jimin, toward nothing.

Jimin lies stretched on the couch, one leg tucked in, the other dangling slightly off the edge. His hand plays with the sleeve of his sweater, thumb rubbing back and forth on the seam.

It’s quiet.

Not the awkward kind. Not the heavy kind.

Just… quiet.

Then Jimin speaks, voice unhurried and smooth.

“Did you have some boyfriends before?”

Yoongi blinks at the ceiling. It takes him a second to realize Jimin’s talking to him.

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “Two.”

Jimin hums softly, encouraging but not pushy.

Yoongi shifts, rolling slightly onto his side so he can look at him. “The last one was two years ago. I think.”

“That’s a long time,” Jimin says, almost to himself, eyes still on the ceiling.

Yoongi lets out a small laugh, dry and honest. “I didn’t really notice. Things got busy. I was helping out with family stuff, then all the debt… and dating just felt like a luxury.”

Jimin nods slowly. “I get that.”

“How about you?” Yoongi asks, voice softer now.

Jimin stretches one leg out fully, his foot nudging the edge of Yoongi’s cardigan. “Maybe in college? But nothing serious. A few months here and there. Most of it felt… temporary.”

“By choice?” Yoongi asks.

Jimin tilts his head toward him, their eyes meeting briefly. “By disappointment.”

Yoongi huffs, “That’s valid.”

They both lapse into silence for a beat, the weight of past lives gently brushed against but not dwelled on. The kind of honesty that comes only in the late hours when no one’s asking for more than the truth.

Then, as if it’s just another question in the sequence—

“What about your sex life?” Jimin asks, tone as casual as it was earlier. No teasing. No edge. Just curiosity, quiet and sincere.

Yoongi doesn’t flinch.

He looks down at his hand resting on the floor, fingers absentmindedly grazing the fabric of the rug. “It’s been a while. Since my last relationship, actually.”

Jimin nods.

Yoongi continues, voice even. “I don’t really mind waiting. But I guess it’s easier when you’ve already had something meaningful.”

Jimin hums, thoughtful. “And what do you like?”

Yoongi glances up at him, amused. “You mean… in bed?”

Jimin shrugs a shoulder. “Yeah. I’m curious.”

Yoongi smiles, but it’s small. Nothing coy, nothing suggestive. “I’m versatile. Depends on the person. Depends on the night.”

Jimin nods, like he’s cataloging the answer somewhere in the back of his mind. “I’ve always topped.”

“Always?” Yoongi asks, curious now too.

Jimin shifts slightly, resting his cheek against the back of his hand. “Mostly because the men I dated were… not great. Didn’t know what they were doing. I figured if someone was gonna take care of me, it might as well be me.”

Yoongi laughs softly, just under his breath. “Fair enough.”

Jimin smiles—not wide, not loud, but something warm and genuine curves across his lips. “Not the best reason, huh?”

“It’s honest,” Yoongi says. “And I think it makes sense. A lot of people start that way. Control comes easier than trust.”

Jimin’s eyes flicker toward him again. “You sound like someone who’s been analyzing people for a while.”

“I have,” Yoongi says. “I just didn’t get paid for it.”

That earns another smile from Jimin—deeper this time, lingering. He doesn’t laugh. He rarely does. But tonight, he lets the corners of his lips curl and stay.

“I’m glad we’re talking about this,” he says quietly.

Yoongi props himself up on one elbow. “Yeah?”

Jimin meets his eyes. “It feels… necessary.”

And it does.

Because somehow, this conversation isn’t charged. It isn’t flirtatious or leading to something physical. It just is. As though they’re laying groundwork for something not yet named—but very real.

Yoongi shifts again, folding his arms beneath his head. “I was expecting this to be a lot weirder.”

“What? Us?”

“This whole thing,” Yoongi murmurs. “Getting paid to spend time with someone. And yet… this doesn’t feel like that.”

Jimin looks at him for a long moment. His voice is lower when he replies, almost a whisper. “It stopped feeling like that a while ago.”

They don’t say anything more for a while.

The city continues to hum outside, faint and indifferent.

But inside, the air is full—of shared confessions, the warmth of silences that don’t need filling, and the distant memory of songs that still linger in the corners of the room.

They don’t touch.

They don’t need to.

And still—it feels intimate more than anything.

*** 

“What’s wrong?”

Yoongi’s voice is groggy, still thick with sleep, but the sound of Jimin sobbing on the other end of the call snaps him fully awake.

He sits upright in bed so quickly that the room spins. His phone nearly slips from his hand as he pulls it closer, clutching it like it’s the only thing that matters.

Another sound—barely a whisper, but so broken it makes Yoongi’s chest twist.

“I need you.”

That’s all Jimin says.

Just three small words.

But Yoongi is already moving.

He doesn’t stop to brush his hair or change out of his worn pajama pants. He throws on a hoodie—backward the first time, because his hands are shaking—and slides his feet into the ratty slippers he only wears for quick convenience store runs or taking out the trash. He grabs his wallet, phone, and keys, and bolts down the apartment stairs before his mind can catch up to his body.

It’s 2:17 AM.

He doesn’t care.

The taxi ride is quiet. The city is quieter. Yoongi doesn’t bother texting Jimin again. He just keeps checking the small address saved in his phone under “J.”

By the time he gets to Jimin’s condo, the security recognizes him. They buzz him in without a word. He runs the familiar steps to the elevator, watching the floor numbers blink as his heart pounds in his ears.

When the doors open, the hallway feels too quiet.

He punches in the code—1-0-1-3—and opens the door slowly.

The lights are dim. The living room is bathed in the same golden tones as always, but the warmth feels thinner tonight, like even the room knows something is wrong.

And then Yoongi sees him.

Jimin is sitting on the floor near the couch, back pressed to it, knees drawn to his chest, hands shaking. His head is down. His phone is somewhere on the rug beside him. His shoulders are trembling.

“Jimin,” Yoongi breathes, crossing the space in seconds.

Jimin doesn’t look up.

But when Yoongi kneels in front of him, he moves—just barely. A hand reaching forward, unsure, like he’s never done this before. Like he’s never asked for this before.

And Yoongi—Yoongi opens his arms.

The second Jimin collapses into him, it all comes crashing out. Not in words—just in the kind of sobbing that shakes the ribs and steals the breath. His body folds into Yoongi’s, forehead pressing against his shoulder, arms winding tightly around his waist.

Yoongi holds him like it’s instinct.

Like his arms were made to be Jimin’s shelter.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, even though it’s not. “I’ve got you.”

Jimin doesn’t say anything at first. He just cries—ugly, unfiltered cries he’s probably never let anyone hear before. It’s not the kind of sadness that passes. It’s the kind that lives in the bones.

Yoongi doesn’t ask. He doesn’t rush him.

Only when the sobs begin to fade into sniffles, and Jimin’s body stops shaking so violently, does Yoongi speak again. His hand strokes gently at the back of Jimin’s head, fingertips moving through his hair.

“Tell me what happened,” Yoongi says softly, almost like he’s afraid the sound of his voice might break the moment. “Only if you’re comfortable in doing so.”

Jimin doesn’t respond right away.

His breath is uneven, catching every few seconds like he’s trying to hold it together, to swallow it down before the next wave crests. Yoongi can feel the tension in his frame—shoulders pulled tight, jaw clenched against the sobs he’s trying to suppress. His fingers curl slightly against Yoongi’s hoodie like he’s anchoring himself there.

After a long silence, Jimin shifts—just a little. He doesn’t pull away completely, just moves enough to rest his cheek on Yoongi’s shoulder instead of hiding his face. It feels like a compromise. A gesture of trust.

His cheek is damp. His breathing still uneven.

Then, a whisper—so faint Yoongi almost misses it.

“It’s… it’s my mom’s death anniversary.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He stays still. Steady. Listening.

Jimin exhales slowly through his nose, a shuddering breath that sounds like it’s been waiting to escape for years. He swallows once. Twice. The words stick to his throat.

“She died…” he starts, then stops.

He pulls back a little more, like he needs space to speak. His eyes are red, lashes wet, but he doesn’t try to wipe them. He just looks at the space between them, at the wine glass on the table, untouched.

“I don’t really talk about her.”

Yoongi nods once, not rushing him.

Jimin’s voice cracks as he continues. “It was a car accident. Just… one of those things. She was on her way home from a meeting. It was raining. The other driver ran a red light. She didn’t stand a chance.”

The pause afterward feels endless.

“She was everything to me,” he whispers, and this time, his voice wavers completely. “She was the only person who ever loved me just for being me. Not because of what I could do. Not because I was a Park. Just… me.”

Yoongi gently, wordlessly shifts closer. He doesn’t say I’m sorry. He doesn’t say that’s awful. He doesn’t say anything Jimin’s probably heard a thousand times. He just listens.

“My father didn’t even come home for the funeral,” Jimin says next, his voice suddenly bitter, sharp around the edges. “He sent white orchids. And a note. That was it.”

Yoongi’s hands curl slightly against the fabric of the couch.

“He only ever cared about the company. About numbers. About legacy. About what I could become.”

Jimin stops again, squeezing his eyes shut like it physically hurts to speak. Yoongi watches his throat work through the silence—trying to breathe, trying to hold it in.

But then—

“I was seventeen,” Jimin finally says. “I wasn’t even out of high school. And I remember standing in that funeral hall, surrounded by strangers in suits, and all I could think about was how she’d always hated white flowers. She loved color. She loved yellow.”

He says that word with so much softness, it nearly breaks.

“She wore it all the time,” he murmurs. “Yellow sweaters. Yellow shoes. Yellow ribbons in her hair or sometimes a headband. She said it reminded her of sunshine. Of warmth. Of days when nothing hurts.”

Yoongi’s voice is barely there. “That’s why you like yellow.”

Jimin nods slowly, eyes still unfocused. “It’s the only part of her I could keep.”

Yoongi’s throat tightens. He doesn’t know how someone can sound so full of grief and still speak so gently.

Jimin turns his head, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes shine with unshed tears, but his voice is calm now. Hollow, but calm.

“Do you know why I can’t sleep? Why I don’t laugh like I used to? Why I don’t… feel the way people think I should?”

Yoongi doesn’t speak. He just shakes his head slowly, gaze soft.

Jimin exhales, bitter and quiet. “Because when she died, something broke in me. And I realized… no one else would ever love me the way she did. I didn’t think I could survive loving someone again, not if it meant losing them like that.”

There’s a silence so full, it presses against their ribs.

Yoongi’s heart aches. He still doesn’t speak—not out of fear, but because he knows this is not the kind of pain you cover with words.

So he does the only thing he can.

He reaches up and gently brushes away the tear sliding down Jimin’s cheek. His thumb moves softly, slow enough to say I’m here without needing to say it at all.

They stay like that for a while—no sound but the soft hum of the city through the windows, and the faint wind moving through the slightly open balcony door.

Eventually, Yoongi shifts.

He moves gently, guiding Jimin with him until they’re both lying on the couch. It’s cramped, too small for two grown men, but neither of them complains. Jimin curls into him without resistance this time, his head finding Yoongi’s chest like it belongs there.

His fingers rest over Yoongi’s heart, and Yoongi wraps an arm around his waist, the other behind his head.

It takes a while for their breathing to match.

But when it does, it’s soft and steady.

Safe.

Yoongi’s eyes begin to close, heavy with the weight of the night. But he keeps his hand on Jimin’s back, fingers drawing slow, lazy lines.

There’s nothing else.

Only a kind of comfort that feels holy. Quiet. Warm.

Jimin’s breath eventually evens out. And when Yoongi looks down, he sees his lashes resting against his cheeks, his mouth slightly parted, finally asleep.

Peaceful.

Yoongi exhales and closes his eyes, too.

They fall asleep curled into each other. 

***

Morning comes in quietly.

No sunlight flooding the room—just the soft glow of an overcast sky, gray and gentle through the half-drawn curtains. The city hums outside, awake but not yet loud, like the world is tiptoeing so they don’t wake too soon.

Yoongi is the first to stir.

He opens his eyes slowly, gaze adjusting to the soft light before falling on the weight against his chest. Jimin is still there, curled into him, breath warm against the cotton of Yoongi’s shirt. His hand rests just beneath Yoongi’s collarbone, fingers slack with sleep. His lips are parted slightly, eyelashes casting the faintest shadows over his cheekbones.

And in that moment—still, quiet, fragile—Yoongi feels it hit him.

This isn’t the same Jimin he first met in Seokjin’s bar weeks ago. This isn’t the unreadable, marble-carved man in expensive suits with a glass of untouched wine and a voice too quiet for company.

No, this Jimin is real. Vulnerable. Easy to break if not handled gently.

And Yoongi wants to protect him from everything.

Everything that would hurt him.

He wants to keep him somewhere safe. Somewhere he can wipe away the pain. 

If only he could.

He stays still for a long while, watching the steady rise and fall of Jimin’s chest, until the warmth between them stirs, and Jimin lets out the faintest groan.

He doesn’t open his eyes yet—just shifts a little, blinking groggily against Yoongi’s shirt.

“…You stayed,” he mumbles, voice raspy with sleep.

Yoongi smiles faintly, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead. “I wasn’t about to leave you like that.”

Jimin blinks again, squinting up at him. There’s something raw and boyish about him like this. Rumpled and soft and completely unguarded.

“Thanks,” Jimin whispers. “For coming.”

Yoongi nods, offering him a small smile. “I figured crying alone at 2am doesn’t hit quite the same as crying into someone’s hoodie.”

“Your hoodie is backwards.” 

“Better than showing up naked, I guess? Unless you want that to feel better?” The elder one jokes.

That earns him a quiet chuckle—a real one this time, low and genuine. Jimin shifts again, less curled in now, a little more open.

They lie there for another moment, until Yoongi shifts, stretching a little.

“I’m gonna cook something,” he says, sitting up slowly. “Breakfast?”

Jimin watches him with a soft, almost confused expression, like the concept of someone making breakfast for him is a foreign idea.

“I need it.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

Yoongi moves toward the kitchen, dragging his hoodie down over his hips and yawning as he ties his hair back with the tie from around his wrist. Jimin remains on the couch, watching him from the blanket with his cheek squished against a throw pillow.

“What do you even know how to cook?” Jimin asks, voice muffled.

Yoongi opens the fridge. “Basic stuff. I’m not gonna start roasting duck or whatever rich people do for brunch.”

Jimin hums, still not moving.

“I’m thinking scrambled eggs,” Yoongi continues, fishing out ingredients. “Rice. Spam, if you’ve got it.”

“That sounds… amazing,” Jimin says, almost sheepishly. “I think I got some groceries left. Taehyung made sure I’m always stocked up.”

Yoongi glances back. “You sure you’re okay with Spam and eggs? I don’t want your private chef suing me for emotional distress.”

“I don’t have a private chef.”

Yoongi pauses. “Seriously?”

Jimin shrugs. “I don’t eat much at home.”

Something about that makes Yoongi frown, but he doesn’t say anything. Just set the pan on the stove and begin whisking the eggs with practiced ease.

Jimin eventually drags himself off the couch and pads toward the kitchen, barefoot and sleepy, wrapping a cardigan around himself.

He leans against the kitchen counter, watching Yoongi move with ease. The sound of sizzling fills the air, and the place starts to smell like comfort—warm oil, soft eggs, and toasted rice.

“Didn’t know you were this domestic,” Jimin murmurs.

Yoongi smirks over his shoulder. “Only on Sundays and days after I hold crying billionaires in my arms all night.”

Jimin lets out a small laugh—a real laugh.

And Yoongi feels it.

Like something cracked open between them last night and never quite sealed shut again.

Jimin takes a seat at the kitchen island as Yoongi plates the food—simple not quite like what Jimin is used to.

He sets the plate in front of Jimin, who looks down at it like it’s something special. Not just because it smells good or looks good. 

But because someone made it. 

For him.

Yoongi watches as Jimin picks up his spoon, taking a small bite.

His shoulders relax instantly.

“This is…” Jimin trails off, blinking like he doesn’t quite believe it. “Really good.”

“Right?” Yoongi says, leaning on the counter with his own plate. “Spam and eggs are an elite combination. I don’t care what anyone says.”

Jimin laughs again—quieter this time, but it lingers longer.

It’s small, this moment. But it’s something.

The air between them feels different now. Lighter. Easier.

Jimin isn’t the man behind glass anymore. Not this morning.

He’s just a person—quietly trying to put himself back together.

While Yoongi is just a man who stayed. 

***

It’s become a regular thing now—Yoongi spending most of his nights at Jimin’s place.

Not because they talked about it or Jimin offering money for it.

It just… happened.

Now, it feels as natural as brushing their teeth together before bed, as comfortable as passing the remote without a word. Yoongi knows where Jimin keeps his backup charger. Jimin knows what time Yoongi likes his tea.

There’s a rhythm to it. Quiet. Easy. Intimate in all the soft, wordless ways.

And over time, Yoongi starts noticing things. Little yellow things.

Not loud or obvious, but subtle. Meaningful.

A soft yellow mug Jimin never lets anyone else use. A throw blanket with a faded golden trim. A tiny sunflower-shaped trinket tray by the door. A postcard of a painting with yellow brush strokes tucked into the side of a bookshelf.

They’re small enough to miss.

But Yoongi sees them.

He’s standing at the sink now, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows as he rinses the last dish. The water is warm, the sponge soft between his fingers, and the sounds of the running tap and Jimin’s idle flipping of TV channels feel oddly harmonious.

“What do you want to do tonight?” Yoongi calls over his shoulder.

Jimin hums lazily from the couch. “We’ve already watched so many movies. What else can we do?”

Yoongi chuckles as he dries his hands. “We didn’t actually watch them, though. You keep talking through the important parts.”

“I give live commentary,” Jimin replies with a smirk. “That’s different.”

Yoongi grins and walks over, dropping into the couch beside him. A pillow separates them at first, like always—but that doesn’t last. Jimin shifts slowly, turning sideways until his knees brush Yoongi’s thigh.

Yoongi doesn’t mind. Not even a little.

Jimin picks at a thread on the pillow, then glances over at him. His voice is quiet, almost shy when he says, “I’ve been sleeping well lately.”

Yoongi blinks. “Yeah?”

Jimin nods. “I used to wake up all the time. Couldn’t get more than two hours straight. But now…” He trails off, then shrugs, gaze lowering. “I sleep. Like a human being.”

Yoongi watches him carefully. There’s no sarcasm in his voice. Just honesty.

“I’m glad,” he says, soft.

Jimin hums. “You’re good for me.”

The words land between them like a feather—light, but impossible to ignore.

Yoongi tries not to smile too wide. “Guess I’m better than melatonin.”

Jimin laughs, genuinely, and without hesitation leans closer, resting his chin on Yoongi’s shoulder. His fingers reach up to toy with the edge of Yoongi’s hair, twirling a strand absently.

“I like your hair,” he mumbles. “It’s soft.”

Yoongi chuckles. “Is that why you’re always petting me like a cat?”

“You don’t complain.”

“Because I like it.”

Jimin’s hand pauses, then continues its gentle rhythm.

Yoongi shifts on the couch, lowering himself and leaning closer to Jimin. They sit like that for a while, the room warm with unspoken things. Familiar. Sweet.

Then, out of nowhere, Jimin murmurs, “What if we try painting next time?”

Yoongi blinks, turning his head slightly to look at him. “Painting?”

Jimin pulls back just enough to meet his gaze. “I want to try it too. You always talk about it when, you know. How it calms you. I want to feel that.”

Yoongi’s heart does a quiet somersault. “Yeah? I didn’t think you’d want to.”

“I didn’t think I would either.” Jimin shrugs, smiling softly. “But you make things feel… safe. So why not?”

Yoongi smiles—one of those quiet, slow ones that reaches his eyes. “Then let’s paint.”

“Even if I suck?”

“You will suck,” Yoongi teases. “But I’ll be nice about it.”

Jimin lets out a soft laugh, fingers still threading through Yoongi’s hair. He leans in again, this time more comfortably, like his body has started to memorize the shape of Yoongi’s.

***

The sun filters through the wide windows of Jimin’s condo, casting a soft glow over the hardwood floors. Outside, the city is loud and fast as always—but here, inside, everything feels slower. Lighter.

Jimin drags a drop cloth onto the floor with exaggerated effort, grunting theatrically. “Why do I feel like we’re about to do something illegal?”

Yoongi, crouched beside an open box of art supplies, snorts. “Because you’re dramatic.”

Jimin kicks at his shin, missing on purpose.

They’ve cleared out space in the living room. The furniture has been nudged aside to make room for two easels, some canvases, jars of water, and a mess of paints that Yoongi arranged with care.

Jimin is barefoot, wearing one of Yoongi’s oversized hoodies—the one that falls mid-thigh on him and has paint stains on the sleeve. Yoongi’s wearing joggers and a shirt he doesn’t mind ruining, hair tied back loosely.

It’s cozy.

Jimin plops down cross-legged in front of his blank canvas, eyeing it like it’s a beast he has to tame.

“Okay,” he mutters, holding the brush like a sword. “Let’s do this.”

“You’re not going into battle,” Yoongi says, sitting across from him and opening his palette. “It’s just painting.”

“I’m not an artist,” Jimin whines, dipping his brush into a thick swirl of green. “I’m a try-hard with shaky hands.”

Yoongi smirks. “Paint whatever comes to you. Doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re basically a tortured genius.”

“I’m not tortured.”

Jimin lifts a brow. “You literally paint your feelings. You said so last week.”

Yoongi grins, saying nothing.

Fifteen minutes pass with soft music in the background—mostly instrumental, with the occasional gentle piano or guitar. The room is filled with the sound of bristles scratching canvas, the clink of brushes against jars, and Jimin’s occasional frustrated grunts.

Yoongi peeks over his easel. “What are you painting?”

Jimin hides the canvas behind his arms. “You’re not allowed to see yet.”

“Oh no,” Yoongi laughs, “it’s that bad?”

Jimin shrugs helplessly. “Possibly catastrophic.”

Eventually, he holds it up.

It’s abstract, to say the least—uneven brush strokes, odd color combinations, a strange circle in the middle that’s definitely too large. There’s yellow in it, though, and streaks of blue, and maybe… a little pink?

“I call it Hope with a migraine,” Jimin declares proudly.

Yoongi cackles, nearly dropping his brush. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I'm a visionary, thank you.”

They fall into easy laughter, the kind that makes their shoulders shake and cheeks hurt. The kind that echoes into silence after, like a good song finishing.

Then, it’s Yoongi’s turn.

“You done?” Jimin asks, tilting his head.

Yoongi nods and turns his easel around.

Jimin blinks.

The painting is a portrait—not perfectly realistic, but unmistakably him. His shape, his expression. But it’s the colors that steal his breath. Yoongi painted him in shades of yellow—soft golds, warm ambers, pale lemons—and woven between them are streaks of mint green, dusky purple, and blue. There’s even a faint blush of pink along his cheekbones.

Jimin stares.

It’s not polished. It’s raw. Emotional. Honest.

“I…” he starts, voice caught somewhere in his throat.

Yoongi looks down for a second, fiddling with his brush. “You said you wanted to try painting because it calms me. But when I paint, it’s usually because I can’t find words.”

Jimin looks up, meeting his gaze.

“I don’t see you in black and white, Jimin,” Yoongi continues, softer now. “I never did. You’re not cold. You’re not stone. You’re yellow. You’re colorful. Warm. Messy. Kind. Complicated.”

Jimin swallows, stunned into stillness.

“You hide it well,” Yoongi adds with a small smile, “but I see it. All the time. The way you always leave a light on when I fall asleep first. The way you cut the crust off your sandwich and pretend you don’t. The way you get quiet when you’re trying not to cry.”

Jimin looks down at the painting again.

It’s not just a portrait. It’s… how Yoongi sees him. The parts he never thought anyone noticed. The softness. The light.

“I didn’t know I could be someone like this to you,” Jimin whispers.

“You already are.”

Yoongi says it like a fact. Like he’s known it for a long time.

Jimin sets down his brush.

Then, without a word, he crawls across the floor—paint-stained hands and all—and wraps his arms around Yoongi’s neck, burying his face there.

Yoongi’s arms circle him automatically. They stay like that, on the hardwood floor, surrounded by the smell of acrylic and the sound of rain starting against the windows.

“You know what’s crazy?” Jimin mumbles against his shoulder.

“What?”

“This might be my favorite version of myself.”

Yoongi smiles. “The paint-covered one?”

“The one who laughs with you. Who sleeps. Who dreams again.”

Yoongi presses his cheek gently against Jimin’s temple. “That version looks really good in yellow.”

***

It’s a quiet evening, the kind that slips in gently like a whispered promise.

The place is dimly lit—just a low lamp near the couch and the soft glow from the hallway. Outside, the rain taps against the windows, steady and unhurried. Inside, there’s music playing low, something warm and acoustic that matches the weather.

Yoongi is curled up in the corner of the couch, his legs tucked under him, reading a book Jimin lent him weeks ago. The sleeves of his cream-colored sweater are pushed up, exposing his wrists. His hair is soft and slightly tousled, falling just above his lashes as he reads. There’s a quiet concentration in his features, brows gently furrowed, lips parted ever so slightly.

And Jimin can’t stop staring.

He’s sitting across from him, pretending to scroll on his phone, but his eyes keep drifting. To Yoongi’s skin under the low light. To the way his thumb brushes the edge of a page. To the curve of his mouth and how unfairly beautiful he looks doing absolutely nothing at all.

Jimin’s chest feels heavy with it—this quiet ache. It’s been months now. Months of gentle touches, of shared silences and stolen glances. Of sleeping next to each other, curled up like a promise. Of all the moments that could’ve been something more… but weren’t. Not yet.

Yoongi looks up from the book, and his eyes meet Jimin’s.

“Something on my face?” he asks, soft and amused.

Jimin swallows, caught. “No. Just…” He exhales slowly. “You’re really pretty tonight.”

Yoongi blinks.

His ears pinken faintly. “I didn’t do anything different.”

“That’s the problem,” Jimin murmurs, voice lower now. “You don’t have to.”

The silence stretches.

Yoongi sets the book down on the armrest, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sweater. His gaze flickers to Jimin, then away, like he’s unsure where to look.

“I was thinking about you earlier,” Jimin says, standing slowly, walking over until he’s standing in front of the couch. “Before you came. I don’t even remember what it was about. Just… you.”

Yoongi looks up at him now, wide-eyed and still.

“And I realized,” Jimin continues, voice softer, more vulnerable, “that I’ve been holding myself back. Because I didn’t want to ruin this. Us.”

Yoongi doesn’t move, barely even breathes.

“But now I think I’m going to lose my mind if I don’t kiss you.”

The words hang in the air like a lit match.

Yoongi exhales—shaky, hopeful.

“Then don’t hold back,” he says, barely more than a whisper.

That’s all Jimin needs.

He leans down slowly, like giving Yoongi every chance to pull away, but Yoongi just tilts his face up, eyes fluttering shut.

Their lips meet softly—tentative at first, almost too careful.

But then it deepens.

Jimin’s hand cups Yoongi’s jaw, thumb brushing along his cheek as he presses in, mouth warm and insistent. Yoongi breathes in sharply, fingers curling in Jimin’s shirt. And just like that, the tension that had lived between them for so long finally snaps, unraveling into something electric.

The kiss turns hungrier. Not rushed—never rushed—but full of everything unsaid. Yoongi’s hands slide up Jimin’s chest, and Jimin growls low in his throat, pulling him in until Yoongi is practically climbing into his lap.

When they finally break apart for air, they’re both breathless. Jimin presses their foreheads together, eyes closed.

“Come with me,” he murmurs.

Yoongi nods, wordless.

Jimin stands, offering a hand. Yoongi takes it.

The walk to the bedroom is quiet—no more talking. Just the sound of the rain, the rhythm of their hearts pounding louder than the storm outside.

Once inside, Jimin turns to him again.

“You sure?”

Yoongi answers with a kiss. One that says yes, and finally, and please.

Clothes come off slowly. No frantic tugging, no fumbling. Just reverence. Jimin watches every reaction Yoongi makes—the way his skin warms under his touch, the way his breath stutters when fingers brush over his ribs, how he arches just slightly at every kiss to his throat.

Jimin lays him down gently on the bed, climbing over him like he’s something sacred.

Yoongi reaches up, thumb brushing the edge of Jimin’s bottom lip. “You’re shaking.”

“I’ve wanted this for too long,” Jimin whispers, pressing a kiss to the heel of Yoongi’s hand. “You have no idea.”

Then he kisses down Yoongi’s chest, slow and worshipful. His touch is firm but careful—possessive in the way someone is when they’ve waited, ached, for this moment.

He leads.

Yoongi follows—open, trusting, gasping as Jimin maps every inch of him like he’s memorizing it.

It doesn’t take Jimin a minute to grab from his stash of condoms and a dangerously running low amount of lubricant. He comes back, kissing Yoongi deeper than ever. His hand finds its way down to the elder’s pale thigh and slowly to the cheek of his ass.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful.” Jimin whispers against Yoongi’s cheek. “I’ve been dreaming of fucking you senseless.”

The elder tilts his head up, trying to catch his breath because being this close to Jimin, their hot bare bodies pressed together against the silk sheets is making him breathless. “Do it. Please.”

“I will, baby.” Jimin then coats his fingers with lubricant, positioning himself just between Yoongi’s legs. The elder one uses a hand to cover himself, legs closing just as he realizes how exposed he is. “No, don’t hide, pretty thing. You are perfect.”

His words just make Yoongi feel more seen. Not in a way like he’s vulnerable and he just wants to drape a blanket over himself. 

No.

Jimin’s words make Yoongi believe that he is beautiful. That every inch of him is perfect and Jimin is doing a damn great job of proving that. 

A cold, lube-coated finger is pressed just against his hole, waiting for a nod. Yoongi nods, letting out a long breathy moan as Jimin’s digit slowly penetrates his walls. It glides on easily, “Taking it too well, baby?”

“Hmmph,” Yoongi replies, 

It’s usually not like that. Yoongi is good at taking things up his ass but it’s Jimin. Jimin is too much for him. A finger is a little too much of Jimin. 

Jimin shifts, his other hand playing with Yoongi’s pink nipples. And another finger goes in and another after a few minutes, “You okay?”

“Yeah, p-please,” Yoongi’s eyes are wet, almost devastated. “I want… I need more.”

The younger one swallows thickly, his eyes wandering all over Yoongi’s naked glory. The most perfect thing. “I’ll go slow, baby. I— I don’t want to hurt you.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. He squirms under Jimin, hands and fingers digging on the younger’s back. He takes anything and everything. That’s how much he wants Jimin.

The fingers inside him are long gone, Jimin wiping his fingers on his own thigh to put a condom on himself. 

“You’re…” Yoongi trails off, propping an elbow to lift his upper body up. His eyes are pinned on Jimin’s manhood that is standing proudly against his very toned abdomen. 

“What, baby?” Jimin’s hands come to a full stop, worry washes all over his face, “Do you want to stop?”

“No!” Yoongi’s mouth goes dry, shaking his head. “No, please. I just… You are big. Fuck, big.”

A chuckle escapes the younger’s lips, “I’m flattered, baby. Do you think you can take it?”

“I can. Please. Need it, Jimin.” He whines, hooking his leg on Jimin’s thigh. A clear message that he wants Jimin close. 

“Okay,” He whispers, “Okay, baby.”

Jimin towers over him, his knuckles running against Yoongi’s cheek. Then slowly, very slowly, Jimin breaches in. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t want to. He wants Yoongi to feel everything. Every inch of him.

He bottoms out with a quiet groan against Yoongi’s ear, breathing heavily. “Oh, fuck, baby.”

The elder one shudders, closing his eyes at the sensation. He feels— “Full, hmm” 

After a lot of soft kisses on Yoongi’s shoulder, then to the neck until Jimin reaches his lips, he finally moves. Shallow yet unhurried thrusts. 

Until Yoongi begs for more, “More. M-more, please. Give it to me.”

Then Jimin doesn’t hold back anymore, picking up the pace. He bucks his hips with a rhythm that drives Yoongi insane. The tip of Jimin’s cock hits his prostate repeatedly until his moans are too loud, too lewd just like the sound of their movement.

They move together like they already know each other. Like their bodies are catching up to what their hearts have been saying in silence for months.

There’s no rush. No fear. Just Jimin murmuring, “You’re mine,” against Yoongi’s skin, and Yoongi nods through a moan, hands gripping his shoulders like he never wants to let go.

Jimin holds him steady through the rise and fall of it all—never demanding, never harsh. Just there. Guiding. Kissing. Whispers breathed against skin. Hands gripping tighter when it’s too much, loosening when it’s not enough. Their bodies tangled, their breaths syncing, hearts pounding in the same aching rhythm.

And when it’s over, when the room is nothing but the sound of heavy breathing and the rain still falling outside, Jimin leans in, presses a kiss to Yoongi’s temple—slow and grounding—and exhales like he’s finally, finally, home.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he moves gently—grabbing tissues from the nightstand, wiping Yoongi down with soft apologies and a kiss to the shoulder. He cleans himself off too, before grabbing one of his soft cotton shirts from the drawer and easing it over Yoongi’s head.

“You okay?” Jimin asks quietly, voice still husky.

Yoongi, blinking slowly, hums in response. His skin is flushed, eyes heavy, but the way he looks at Jimin is nothing short of reverent.

Jimin smiles, fingers brushing a stray hair from his forehead. “You did so well.”

Yoongi actually blushes.

Then Jimin tugs the covers up around them, pulls Yoongi in—one arm around his waist, the other curling under his head. Yoongi lets himself be tucked into that embrace, legs tangled between Jimin’s, his cheek pressed to the younger man’s chest.

“You smell like expensive laundry,” Yoongi mumbles, voice muffled by skin.

“And you smell like sleep,” Jimin replies, grinning.

His fingers trail lazily through Yoongi’s hair, slow and soothing. The silence between them now isn’t loaded—it’s soft, like they’re resting in the glow of something finally given permission to bloom.

Then, Yoongi shifts slightly, looking up with a faint smirk.

“So…” he says, mischief sneaking into his voice, “does this mean I get a raise?”

Jimin huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that shakes his chest gently against Yoongi’s cheek.

“Well,” he muses, “you did work hard tonight.”

Yoongi snorts.

Jimin taps his nose and says warmly, “You deserve it.”

But Yoongi’s smile fades slightly, just enough to let something deeper through. His voice drops, softer now.

“It stopped feeling like a job, you know?”

Jimin’s fingers still briefly in his hair.

“I know,” he says, and there’s no hesitation. “But I still want to spoil you.”

Yoongi lets that sit. He nuzzles closer. “Then spoil me with breakfast tomorrow. None of your sad granola bars.”

Jimin chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I was gonna order from that French place you like.”

“From scratch?” Yoongi teases, eyes gleaming.

Jimin scoffs. “You want me to burn the kitchen down?”

Yoongi laughs, soft and real. “I’ll take the croissants. Just no fire alarms, please.”

“Fine,” Jimin says, dramatic. “Croissants, fresh fruit, and overpriced coffee. Delivered with love.”

Yoongi sighs happily. “Guess I really hit the jackpot.”

And Jimin—tired, full, warm in all the places he’s been cold for years—just holds him tighter.

They stay like that, bodies tangled, skin warm, laughter soft. The kind of night that feels like the beginning of something real. Something worth holding onto.

And Jimin knows—this isn’t just comfort anymore.

It’s love, quietly creeping in through the cracks.

And he’s not afraid.

Not tonight. Not with Yoongi in his arms, already planning breakfast that he won’t even have to cook.

***

It’s late.

The kind of late that softens the edges of the world, when the city outside hums quietly instead of shouting, when even time seems to pause just a little.

The movie credits roll on the TV, muted, casting flickering light across the living room. They haven’t moved in a while—Yoongi curled against the armrest, legs stretched across the couch, and Jimin at the other end, socked feet resting in Yoongi’s lap. A bottle of wine sits half-finished on the coffee table.

Neither of them says anything for a while.

Yoongi is toying with the edge of the throw blanket, fingers brushing over the stitches. He looks thoughtful—his eyes distant, but his hands warm where they rest on Jimin’s ankles.

“You’re quiet,” Jimin murmurs.

Yoongi shrugs, smiling faintly. “Just thinking.”

Jimin tilts his head. “Dangerous.”

“Mm,” Yoongi hums. “Sometimes.”

Jimin watches him for a moment, his chest tightening. It’s been months of dancing around this—months of slow touches, soft laughter, long nights. They’ve shared beds, stories, tears. But not this. Not words for what it is.

“What are you thinking about?” Jimin asks gently.

Yoongi pauses. His fingers still.

Then, softly, “You.”

Jimin’s heart stutters in his chest.

“I was thinking about how weird it is,” Yoongi continues, eyes still on the blanket, “How we started all this. How I was just supposed to keep you company. How it wasn’t supposed to mean anything.”

He looks up, finally, meeting Jimin’s gaze. “But it does. It really… really does.”

Jimin sits up slowly, folding one leg beneath him. “Yoongi…”

“I think I fell for you somewhere between your bad movie taste and your good wine,” Yoongi says, voice barely above a whisper. “Somewhere between your silences and your soft spots. I don’t even remember when it happened. Just that I noticed you stopped feeling like something temporary.”

Jimin’s throat tightens. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t smile either. Not yet. He just breathes in—shaky, deliberate.

“I was scared to say it,” Yoongi admits. “Because I thought maybe this would break if I named it.”

There’s a long pause.

And then Jimin says, quietly, “I think I fell for you the moment you made this place feel like home.”

Yoongi’s lips part slightly.

“I used to come back to this place and feel like I was living in someone else’s life,” Jimin goes on. “Like I was playing a role—CEO, son of a powerful man, some cold person who had it all figured out. But when you started staying over, when your yellow cardigan ended up on my couch and your toothbrush sat next to mine, it stopped feeling so hollow.”

Yoongi is silent.

Jimin’s voice softens further. “You filled the quiet without even trying. And you gave me something I didn’t think I deserved anymore.”

Still no words from Yoongi—but his eyes shine, a little watery now.

“So yeah,” Jimin says, smile small and real, “I love you. I didn’t mean to. But I do.”

Yoongi exhales a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving. “You’re kind of bad at this.”

“I know,” Jimin chuckles. “But I’m trying.”

“Good,” Yoongi whispers. “Because I’m yours. If you want me.”

“I do,” Jimin replies instantly. “I really do.”

“I love you too.”

They lean into each other, slow and careful, like a secret being told with a kiss. It’s soft and familiar—nothing frantic, nothing rushed. Just the kind of kiss that says— We made it. You’re safe here. So am I.

When they part, Yoongi rests his forehead against Jimin’s.

“So what now?” he asks.

Jimin smiles, hand cupping the back of Yoongi’s neck. “Now? I make this official.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I’ll take you on a real date this weekend. And every weekend after, if you let me.”

Yoongi grins. “Can we still eat pancakes in bed and paint ugly portraits of each other?”

Jimin kisses the tip of his nose. “That’s non-negotiable.”

They settle back onto the couch, this time tangled up in each other—no distance, no pretending.

The credits stop rolling.

The screen fades to black.

But for them, something new has just begun.

***

Jimin’s condo unit is quiet—too quiet.

Even the sound of traffic outside feels muffled, like the whole world is tiptoeing around the fact that Yoongi is alone.

It’s been twelve days.

Twelve days since Jimin flew out for that business trip to the States. And there are still two more agonizing days left before he comes home.

Yoongi is not surviving it well.

He exhales as he sinks deeper into the couch, swallowed by the thick fabric of Jimin’s oversized gray hoodie—soft, worn, and still carrying the faint scent of Jimin’s cologne. The sleeves completely engulf his hands, but he refuses to wear anything else. He hasn’t left the place in days, surviving on takeout and toast, refusing to go back to his own place because… well, what’s the point?

This is where Jimin lives.

This is where Jimin kissed him before he left.

This is where Jimin will return.

So Yoongi stays. Lurks. Wanders around barefoot like a ghost, wrapped in hoodie and heartbreak.

He glances across the room at the painting above the console—a portrait he did of Jimin months ago. It stares at him in silence, all gold and warmth and soft smiles.

Yoongi squints at it.

“You miss him too, huh?” he mutters.

The painting, loyal and mute, offers no comfort.

Yoongi sighs dramatically. “You’re not even blinking. That’s creepy, actually.”

He curls further into the couch, fingers absently tugging at a thread in the sleeve. “It’s not that bad,” he says out loud, to no one. “I mean, I’m fine. Just… haven’t really slept since he left. Or eaten anything green. Or seen the sun.”

He tilts his head. “Okay, maybe it’s a little bad.”

He doesn't notice it but he definitely dozed off on the couch. As he opens his eyes,

“Shit—what time is it?” Yoongi scrambles for his phone, nearly knocking over a glass of water as he checks the screen.

Four missed calls. All from Jimin.

“Fucking time zones,” he groans, dragging both hands down his face. “Every single time!”

Jimin’s schedule has been all over the place since he got to New York. Meetings, client dinners, quick media appearances—and somehow, every time Yoongi falls asleep, Jimin decides to call. It’s like a cosmic joke.

“I dozed off,” Yoongi whines at the painting, “and he thinks I’m dead.”

He flops back on the couch and opens their messages.

[J: tried to call :( are you okay?]

[J: i miss you]

[J: god i miss you so much]

Yoongi groans again, face buried into the crook of his elbow.

“Why is he like this? Why does he get hotter when he’s away? Why is his voice the only thing that calms me down and why did I MISS THE CALL?!”

No answer.

Yoongi rolls off the couch in defeat, dragging the hoodie sleeves against the floor as he walks to the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of water, sighs, then talks to the faucet this time.

“I’m starting to lose it. He’s not even gone that long and I’m already co-dependent. This is pathetic.”

The fridge hums in solidarity.

Later, he waters the plants in the living room—Jimin’s precious babies that Yoongi has somehow kept alive. He leans closer to one of the hanging vines, whispering to it like he’s sharing a state secret.

“Two more days,” he says. “Just hold on, okay?”

He turns to the painting again.

“Two more days,” he repeats. “Then he’ll be back and everything will smell like him again.”

The painting offers no comment. But Yoongi swears its smile looks a little smug.

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t judge me. You’re just canvas and oil.”

But still, he lingers there a moment longer, staring at the face he misses more than he wants to admit.

***

The front door clicks open earlier than expected—just as Yoongi is reheating leftover takeout, hair messy, Jimin’s hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

“Baby?” comes a familiar voice, deep and tired but full of warmth.

Yoongi freezes in the kitchen.

Then—footsteps. A soft grunt. And suddenly Jimin is in the doorway, sunglasses pushed into his hair, arms full of shopping bags.

“Holy shit,” Yoongi blurts. “You’re early.”

Jimin grins, breathless. “I caught the earlier flight. Couldn’t stay away.”

Yoongi doesn’t say a word—just sprints over, slamming into Jimin’s chest. Bags fall to the floor as Jimin catches him, arms wrapping tightly around his waist.

“Missed you,” Yoongi murmurs into his neck. “So much. I couldn’t even sleep right.”

“I missed you more,” Jimin replies, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “You smell like my hoodie.”

“I’ve been living in it.”

Jimin chuckles. “Good.”

Only after a moment does Yoongi finally notice the literal pile of bags at Jimin’s feet.

“What the hell—”

“I went shopping for you,” Jimin says like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Clothes, shoes, skincare, makeup, accessories. A few random things I saw and thought of you.”

“That’s not a few,” Yoongi gapes. “That’s a boutique.”

Jimin shrugs. “You deserve a boutique.”

Yoongi pretends to pout. “You think you can buy me after being gone for two weeks?”

“Maybe,” Jimin smirks.

Yoongi leans in. “I want something else.”

“Oh?” Jimin hums.

Yoongi doesn’t answer—just starts pulling at the hem of the hoodie, stripping off the oversized layer until his bare chest peeks through.

The hoodie falls from Yoongi’s frame, pooling at his feet like a surrender.

He stands there, chest bare and flushed, hair a soft mess, mouth already parted as he tilts his chin up to meet Jimin’s gaze.

Jimin just stares.

It hits him then—how much he missed this. Missed him. Missed the way Yoongi fits into his space like he was always meant to be there. The quiet curve of his waist, the way his skin still glows in the dim light. The faint shimmer of gloss still clinging to his mouth from earlier.

“You’re so pretty,” Jimin breathes, low and reverent.

Yoongi bites back a smile. “I know.”

Jimin laughs—a quiet exhale, the kind that feels like it could shake the weight off his shoulders. He steps forward and cups Yoongi’s jaw with both hands, thumbing at the corners of his mouth.

And then he kisses him.

It starts slow—sweet and grounding, like they’re both checking to make sure this is real. That they’re finally here. Finally home. Yoongi’s hands curl into the fabric of Jimin’s shirt, tugging him closer until there’s no space left between them.

And then it shifts.

The kiss grows deeper, messier, as Jimin walks them backward, palms roaming down Yoongi’s back with practiced familiarity. He’s already guiding, already taking control without even trying.

By the time the backs of Yoongi’s knees hit the bed, he’s gasping.

“Sit,” Jimin murmurs.

Yoongi does.

He watches with wide eyes as Jimin pulls his own shirt over his head, tossing it aside without breaking eye contact. His skin is sun-kissed from his trip, shoulders broader than Yoongi remembers.

Or maybe Yoongi just missed him that much.

Jimin moves between his thighs, running his fingers up Yoongi’s arms, over his collarbones, and then gently pushing him back until Yoongi is lying against the sheets, legs slightly parted. Waiting.

“You’re not even gonna pretend to play hard to get, huh?” Jimin teases.

Yoongi smirks. “Why would I? I am already yours.”

That makes Jimin groan—a soft, affectionate sound, almost a laugh.

He climbs over him, knees bracketing Yoongi’s hips, and kisses him again. Slower this time. Deeper. His hand roams down Yoongi’s stomach, fingers ghosting over skin, and Yoongi arches into it, already pliant under his touch.

Jimin pulls back for a breath. “You’re such a pillow princess.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” Jimin whispers, trailing kisses down Yoongi’s throat. “It’s my favorite thing.”

Yoongi moans, soft and high, as Jimin kisses lower. His thighs tighten around Jimin’s hips, his body already melting into the sheets like he belongs there—because he does. Every movement from Jimin is patient but deliberate, worshipful without being precious, like he’s unwrapping something he’s missed for too long.

“You’re mine,” Jimin murmurs again as he maps every inch of Yoongi’s skin with lips and hands.

“I know,” Yoongi breathes, fingers tangled in Jimin’s hair. “Always.”

They move together like muscle memory—slow, grounding, intimate. No rush, no pretense. Just soft gasps and shuddering breaths, whispered names and clinging hands, Jimin whispering praise against Yoongi’s skin while Yoongi lets him take everything.

By the time they finally fall still, the sheets are a mess, the air heavy with warmth and want and something gentler than either of them will say out loud.

Jimin wraps his arms around Yoongi’s waist and pulls him close, their skin still warm and damp, hearts slowly settling. He tucks his chin over Yoongi’s shoulder and presses a kiss there.

“Don’t ever leave for that long again,” Yoongi mumbles sleepily, eyes already fluttering shut.

Jimin smiles. “I won’t.”

He kisses Yoongi’s temple and pulls the blanket up over them, settling them into the quiet of their home, the world outside fading into nothing.

***

While the moon shines brightly in the sky, city lights too low for Jimin's condo, the room inside is only lighted by the golden spill of a lamp by the couch.

Yoongi is curled into Jimin’s side, legs tangled with his, head resting on Jimin’s chest. The TV is on but muted, playing some old film neither of them are watching. Jimin’s fingers are in Yoongi’s hair, slow and absent-minded.

It’s peaceful.

Jimin breathes out, his chest rising and falling beneath Yoongi’s cheek.

Then—quietly, almost like it sneaks up on him—he says, “This is what yellow feels like.”

Yoongi’s fingers pause where they’ve been tracing shapes over Jimin’s waist. “Hm?”

Jimin looks down at him, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Being here. With you. Right now.” He brushes Yoongi’s bangs aside gently. “This is what it feels like. Warm. Still. Safe. Like sunshine after too many years of rain.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything at first.

But his fingers curl against Jimin’s side just a little tighter. And when he finally lifts his gaze, his eyes are shining.

Jimin leans down, pressing their foreheads together. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For reminding me how to feel it again.”

Yoongi blinks slowly, voice barely above a breath. “You never stopped feeling it. You just… forgot what it was.”

Jimin smiles, small and full. Then kisses him.

Slow. Unhurried.

Like they have all the time in the world.

And for once—they finally believe they do.

***

They’re sitting on the rooftop of Jimin’s place—once a sleek, monochromatic condo that looked more like a showroom than a home. But that was before Yoongi moved in. Now, it’s almost unrecognizable.

There are plants lining the edges of the rooftop—some leafy and wild, others in small painted pots Yoongi picked out himself at a weekend market. There’s a cozy outdoor sofa with mismatched cushions, a string of fairy lights lazily draped above them, and a little table between them holding two coffee mugs, one already half-empty. The scent of something sweet—maybe jasmine, maybe the candle Yoongi insisted on lighting—is in the air.

The sun dips lower on the horizon, casting long shadows and soft gold across their skin. It’s spring, and the whole space hums with quiet life.

And for the first time in a long time, Jimin’s home finally feels like home.

Taehyung watches Jimin quietly, letting the silence stretch between them the way it always has—with ease. No pressure to speak unless it matters.

Jimin is curled slightly to the side, cradling his coffee, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders despite the mild breeze. There’s something different about him these days. The usual sharpness in his eyes is softer now. The air of constant tension around him—the weight he’s carried for years—seems lighter. Not gone. But bearable.

It’s peaceful. Taehyung can see it. Can feel it.

And for the first time in so long, he knows Jimin isn’t just surviving anymore.

“He’s really good for you, Jiminie,” Taehyung says, voice gentle, but certain.

Jimin turns to look at him, surprised at first—but then something crumbles in his expression. In the most beautiful way.

He smiles. Not the forced kind. Not the polite kind. But the kind that shows in his eyes, that tugs at the corners of his lips like it’s coming from someplace deep and true.

“He is,” Jimin murmurs, looking down at his cup. “He really is.”

Taehyung watches him, heart swelling. He remembers what Jimin looked like when he lost his mother—how he shrunk into himself, how he walked through life like it owed him pain. He remembers the coldness that followed, the way Jimin distanced himself from anything that looked or felt like love. He thought maybe his best friend would never let himself feel again.

But now here he is—wrapped in yellow light, sipping coffee on a rooftop, eyes warm with something so incredibly human.

“It’s the first time I’ve seen you like this since… you know,” Taehyung says softly. “Since your mom...”

Jimin nods slowly. “I know.”

“I missed you.”

“I missed me too.”

Taehyung smiles and bumps his shoulder gently against Jimin’s. “So? Do you love him?”

There’s no hesitation this time.

“I do,” Jimin says, voice clear and sure.

Taehyung studies him. “Do you want to marry him?”

Jimin looks ahead—eyes tracing the sun as it sinks below the city, as if watching his life finally fall into place.

And then, quietly, a smile forms—one that makes him look younger, softer, free.

He turns to Taehyung, warmth blooming in his chest, in his eyes, in every part of him that thought he’d never feel this way again.

“I will.”

—fin.