Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The hospital lights were too bright.

Staring at the ceiling tiles, Park Jimin found himself counting the tiny, sterile squares. Anything to distract from the suffocating weight in his chest. His lips were dry. Every breath scraped like sandpaper. Even the oxygen tube sitting just beneath his nose felt like a cruel reminder that something inside him had stopped working the way it was supposed to.

“Pulmonary thromboembolism,” they said.

It sounded far too elegant for something that made him feel like he was dying. He hadn’t asked for details. He didn’t need them. The looks on the doctors’ faces, the urgency in their steps, the way nurses flitted in and out of his room like bees around a dying flower—he knew. He knew he wasn’t okay.

And the worst part? He wasn’t scared.

Just… tired.

“Jiminie,” Taehyung’s voice came from beside him, softer than usual. “Are you listening?”

Jimin blinked. He turned his head slightly and was met with the face of his best friend. Taehyung looked exhausted. His eyes were bloodshot, and he hadn’t shaved. His clothes were rumpled, and a cup of untouched coffee sat in his lap, long since gone cold.

“I heard you,” Jimin murmured, voice hoarse.

Taehyung frowned. “Then say something. Anything.”

Jimin closed his eyes again. “I don’t have anything left to say.”

A silence settled between them, one too familiar, too heavy. Taehyung had stopped arguing days ago. Now he just sat by Jimin’s bedside like a soldier keeping watch over a crumbling city. But today, something was different.

“You haven’t met him yet,” Taehyung said, a bit firmer. “The new doctor. They brought him in from Seoul General. His name is Min Yoongi.”

Jimin said nothing.

Taehyung leaned forward. “He’s… he’s kind of a legend. Like, saved-a-patient-who-was-on-life-support kind of legend. I asked for him.”

Jimin opened his eyes and turned his head slowly. “Why?”

“Because I still believe you’re not supposed to die here,” Taehyung whispered. “And maybe he’ll believe that too.”

Jimin didn’t respond. He didn’t have the energy to hope anymore.

But Taehyung’s hand found his. Gripped it tight. “Please, Chim. Just… meet him, okay? For me.”

The door opened an hour later. Jimin didn’t look up.

He expected the usual sounds—clipboard shuffling, polite coughing, a nurse asking him how his pain was. But instead, there was silence. Heavy, almost reverent.

“Park Jimin?”

The voice was quiet. Low. Calm like an ocean before a storm.

Jimin turned his head—and saw him.

Dr. Min Yoongi.

Hair dark and swept back. Pale skin. A white coat draped perfectly over a black button-up shirt. No smile. No clipboard held in front like a shield. Just piercing dark eyes, sharp and observant.

Jimin blinked, and for the first time in days, something other than numbness passed through him. He forgot how hard it was to breathe.

Yoongi’s eyes flickered over him—not in a cold, clinical way, but as if he were memorizing him. Weighing something. Calculating hope. Then Yoongi stepped closer, pulled out the chair beside the bed, and sat without a word.

“I’ve read your chart,” he finally said. “I’m not interested in statistics.”

Jimin frowned slightly. “Then what are you interested in?”

Yoongi’s eyes didn’t waver. “You.”

Jimin stared at him. For a moment, he didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or turn away. But something in Yoongi’s voice, in the silence that followed, felt like a match flickering to life in the middle of a snowstorm. And just like that… Jimin took his first full breath in days.

+++

The hospital corridor on the east wing was noisy with movement. Nurses rushed between rooms, a code alert had just been cleared, and somewhere down the hall, someone dropped a tray with a crash. Taehyung had stepped out to call Hoseok when it happened—when a blur of dark hair and navy scrubs suddenly slammed into him.

“Ah—!”

Taehyung stumbled backward as strong hands grabbed his arms to steady him. The person who had collided with him looked up in panic.

Wide, doe-like eyes met his. “I—I’m so sorry,” the nurse stammered, breathless. “Emergency call, I didn’t see—”

Taehyung blinked, stunned more by the boy’s face than the impact. “You run like you own the place.”

The nurse laughed nervously. “Sometimes it feels that way.”

A tense beat. Then:

“You’re Park Jimin’s friend, right?” the nurse asked, still holding his arm. “Kim Taehyung?”

Taehyung narrowed his eyes. “How do you know that?”

The nurse hesitated, then smiled softly. “Your name’s in his file. I’m Jeon Jungkook. I’ll be working the night shift in his ward.”

“Oh.” Taehyung frowned. “Try not to break more ribs next time.”

Jungkook grinned. “Try not to block the hallway.”

Then he was gone, sprinting toward the nurses’ station.

Taehyung watched him go, confused by the flutter in his chest.

+++

The soft click of the hospital door closing behind him echoed more than Min Yoongi expected. He stood there for a moment, his hand still on the doorknob. That patient—Park Jimin—had looked at him like he didn’t care whether he lived or died. And Yoongi had seen that look before. He hated it.

“You saw him?” Taehyung’s voice startled him.

Yoongi turned. The younger man was leaning against the wall, arms crossed tightly across his chest. He wasn’t dressed like a typical visitor—he wore a green oversized cardigan and black jeans with paint on the knees, camera bag hanging from his shoulder like he was just passing through. But the tension in his posture told Yoongi otherwise.

“Yes,” Yoongi said simply.

Taehyung pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “And?”

Yoongi studied him. “You’re the one who requested me.”

“I am,” Taehyung nodded. “Because everyone else talks about survival rates and plans. But I needed someone who could see him.”

“I saw him.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Then clarify.”

Taehyung exhaled sharply, visibly holding back emotion. “He’s not just a patient. He’s my best friend. My family. He used to light up every room he walked into. He danced like he had stars inside his chest. And now he’s…” He bit his lip. “He’s fading.”

Yoongi didn’t respond. Not yet.

“I know you’re some brilliant genius or whatever,” Taehyung went on, voice quieter now. “But please don’t treat him like a case file. He needs someone who doesn’t give up, even when he already has.”

Yoongi stared at him for a moment, then said, “Do you always challenge doctors like this?”

“Only the ones who look like they feel too much and hate it.”

That made Yoongi freeze. Just for a second.

Taehyung tilted his head, watching him.

Yoongi’s tone was quieter when he finally replied, “I don’t promise miracles.”

“I’m not asking for one,” Taehyung said. “Just fight for him like he’s worth it.”

Yoongi’s gaze flicked back toward the door, behind which Jimin lay unmoving and pale in that too-white bed.

Then he nodded. Just once. And Taehyung finally exhaled.

+++

The wind on the rooftop was cold, biting at Yoongi’s cheeks as he sat on the bench with his coffee in hand. Across from him, Kim Namjoon sat cross-legged, notebook in his lap, gaze soft.

“New patient?” Namjoon asked gently.

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. Finally, he murmured, “He looked like he had already said goodbye.”

Namjoon tilted his head. “And you hate that.”

Yoongi let out a quiet laugh—sharp and dry. “I hate a lot of things.”

“But that one hits different.”

Yoongi sipped his coffee, eyes fixed on the sky. “He’s young. Beautiful in a way that feels wrong to witness in a hospital bed. Like something about him belongs somewhere else.”

Namjoon’s voice was quieter now. “Are you afraid you’ll feel too much again?”

Yoongi didn’t respond.

And Namjoon didn’t press further.

Later that evening, the on-call room was dim, lit only by the flickering blue of a vending machine across the hallway. Yoongi sat on the worn leather couch, elbows resting on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth.

His stethoscope hung loosely around his neck, forgotten.

He should have reviewed another case by now. He had three more patients scheduled for morning rounds, and his phone had already buzzed twice with updates from cardiology. But he couldn’t move.

Because all he saw when he closed his eyes was him.

Park Jimin.

Pale. Frail. Beautiful in that heartbreaking, fragile way that made Yoongi feel something he hadn’t let himself feel in a very long time.

Not sympathy. Not pity.

Something personal.

There had been a moment—just a flicker—when Jimin had looked at him, and Yoongi had felt it. That thread of something unspoken, something old, tugging at his chest like memory or fate.

He hated it. Feelings clouded judgment. That’s what he’d learned the hard way. Getting close meant letting pain in. Getting involved meant guilt when you couldn’t save them.

Yoongi had promised himself: Never again.

And yet…

“He looked like he had already said goodbye,” he muttered under his breath, repeating his earlier words to Namjoon like a confession no one would hear.

Yoongi muttered the words again under his breath, like a curse or a confession. Because he’d seen that look before.

Years ago. In another hospital. In another room that smelled of antiseptic and jasmine soap. On a patient who had smiled too much, even when their lungs were failing, even when they knew their time was running out.

Her name had been Hana.

Young. Bright. Barely twenty-three. She had leukemia that had relapsed twice before she landed under Yoongi’s care. But she never looked scared. Not once. She joked with the nurses, painted the walls of her room with watercolor sunrises, and wrote poems she kept taped to her IV stand.

And somewhere along the way, Yoongi had fallen in love with her. Not suddenly. Not foolishly. But deeply. He had tried to keep his distance. Tried to remain professional. But Hana had a way of making everyone feel like they mattered. And one night, after her second round of chemo failed, she had cried in his arms. Not from fear. But from sorrow that she might not see spring again.

And he’d held her. That was the moment he’d crossed the line.

She died two weeks later. Yoongi had stayed in the room long after her heart monitor went still. He had sat beside her, hands trembling, anger suffocating his ribs like a vice. He had promised himself that day: Never again.

Never again would he let someone under his skin like that. Never again would he allow a patient to feel like something more than a case number.

Because when doctors care too much, they break.

And Yoongi had broken.

Since then, he had built a fortress around his heart. Cold, clinical, efficient. He was brilliant—untouchable—and it had worked. Until now.

Until Park Jimin.

Yoongi leaned back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

He shouldn’t have said “I’m not interested in statistics.”

He shouldn’t have said “I’m interested in you.”

But it had slipped out—honest and dangerous.

Because something about the way Jimin looked at him—something about the quiet surrender in those eyes, the way his voice cracked when he spoke, the stillness of his body like he’d already left—had ripped a crack right down Yoongi’s defenses.

He didn’t want this. He didn’t need this. And yet, here he was. Not thinking about his next rounds. Not thinking about procedures or reports. Only thinking about a boy in Room 305 who looked like he was made of fading sunlight and who, for the briefest second, had taken a full breath when Yoongi spoke.

And Yoongi wasn’t sure what scared him more—

That he’d felt something again. Or that he already wanted to protect it.

Chapter Text

There was something strange about the way silence settled after he left.

Dr. Min Yoongi.

Even his name felt clinical and cold. Like the click of a door closing, or the rustle of paper in a quiet room. His presence had been heavy without being loud—so still, so unreadable. Jimin could still feel the echo of it, even now. He hadn’t said much. Barely asked questions. Didn’t poke or prod. Didn’t look at Jimin like he was fragile or already halfway gone.

He had simply looked. And when he spoke, it wasn’t in the language of doctors—the rehearsed optimism, the tight-lipped concern. It was something else. Honest. Unsettling.

“I’ve read your chart. I’m not interested in statistics.”

“I’m interested in you.”

Jimin turned his head toward the window beside his bed. The sky outside was gray, draped in clouds like the world had gone quiet in mourning. He wasn’t sure why that voice still echoed in his chest. Or why it made breathing feel… possible. He had been surrounded by people for weeks—nurses, orderlies, specialists with kind eyes and tired smiles. But not a single one had made the air feel lighter in the room.

Yoongi had.

And he hadn’t even smiled.

The doctor returned later that day. This time, he didn’t speak when he entered. Just walked in with a tablet in hand and began reviewing the monitor beside Jimin’s bed. His movements were precise, almost too quiet. His presence made Jimin tense. The air felt colder with him in it—calmer, but colder. Like Yoongi carried winter in his bloodstream.

Jimin didn’t dare speak first. He hated how easily he felt small around him.

“You didn’t eat,” Yoongi said without looking at him.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Jimin muttered.

Yoongi clicked his tongue once. “That’s not a reason.”

Jimin scowled. “It is to me.”

At that, Yoongi finally turned. His gaze wasn’t harsh—just sharp. Calculating. Like he was studying something he hadn’t decided was worth saving yet.

“You want your body to keep fighting,” he said coolly. “You should at least give it the fuel to do so.”

“You sound like you’ve said that before.”

“I have.” Yoongi’s tone didn’t change. “To people who lived. And to people who didn’t.”

Jimin swallowed hard, throat tightening. The silence that followed crackled with something thick—tension or discomfort or something deeper. Jimin didn’t know what it was, but he hated the way it made him feel: exposed.

Yoongi returned to his notes, unfazed. “I’ll be back later.”

“Lucky me,” Jimin muttered under his breath.

If Yoongi heard, he didn’t say anything.

Taehyung entered not long after. He immediately took one look at Jimin’s expression and sighed. “What happened?”

“Your genius doctor came back.”

“And?” Taehyung asked carefully.

Jimin frowned. “He’s… cold.”

Taehyung chuckled, dropping into the chair beside the bed. “You’re not exactly warm lately either.”

“That’s different. I’m dying. What’s his excuse?”

“He’s not cold,” Taehyung said after a pause. “He’s precise. Quiet. But not unfeeling.”

Jimin turned his face toward the window again. “You don’t know him.”

“I know how he looked at you,” Taehyung said, softer now. “Not like a lost cause. That’s already more than most.”

Jimin didn’t answer, but the words stuck. Because even now, hours later, he could still feel Yoongi’s eyes on him. Not judging. Not pitying. Just seeing. And it terrified him more than the diagnosis ever had.

+++

Taehyung didn’t usually eat at the hospital.

The food was bland, the lights too harsh, and the plastic utensils always made his teeth ache. But today, he couldn’t leave. Not after Jimin’s oxygen levels had dropped unexpectedly in the afternoon. Not after the nurse—Jeon Jungkook—had calmly adjusted the monitor, explaining in a soft tone that it was a temporary dip.

Still, Taehyung had paced until the room felt too small.

So here he was now. In a chair that squeaked every time he shifted, picking at a slice of banana bread he didn’t want. His fingers drummed the table, restless.

“Do you mind if I sit?”

He looked up.

Jungkook stood there, tray in hand, dark curls falling slightly into his eyes. His scrub top was wrinkled. He had that freshly showered scent that lingered after a shift—clean, slightly floral, and warm.

Taehyung blinked. “There are other tables.”

“There are,” Jungkook agreed, setting his tray down anyway. “But this one has banana bread. And a view.”

Taehyung huffed, trying not to smile. “Help yourself.”

They sat in silence for a while. Jungkook ate slowly, like he actually enjoyed the food. Taehyung stole a glance at his profile—his jawline, the slight scar near his chin, the dimple that flickered into view when he chewed thoughtfully.

He was annoyingly pretty.

“You stayed with him today,” Taehyung said finally.

Jungkook nodded. “He didn’t say much. But he didn’t flinch when I changed his IV. That’s something.”

Taehyung’s chest tightened. “He used to be louder than me, you know. In high school, he’d talk your ears off. Laugh at everything. Now he barely blinks.”

Jungkook didn’t interrupt.

“I feel like I’m watching him disappear,” Taehyung whispered. “Like someone turned the volume of his life all the way down, and I’m the only one trying to hear the static.”

Still, Jungkook didn’t say anything.

Instead, he reached into the bag beside him and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

“I made this,” he said softly, sliding it across the table.

Taehyung frowned and opened it.

A pencil sketch. Delicate and haunting. Jimin lying on the bed, sunlight casting thin shadows across his face. His eyes closed, but not in pain—in peace. Like he was dreaming something soft.

“You drew this?” Taehyung’s voice cracked slightly.

Jungkook shrugged. “From memory. I sketch when my hands feel too still.”

Taehyung stared at the page. “He looks… alive.”

“That’s how I saw him.”

Silence settled again—warmer this time.

Taehyung folded the drawing carefully, like it was glass. He looked up, meeting Jungkook’s gaze. “Why did you give this to me?”

“Because you look like you’re carrying him by yourself,” Jungkook answered. “And maybe you don’t have to.”

Taehyung didn’t reply.

But he didn’t look away either.

+++

Yoongi stood in front of Room 305 for longer than necessary.

His hand hovered over the doorknob, mind racing through vitals, reports, dosage adjustments—anything to keep his thoughts from drifting back to that face. Pale skin. Hollowed cheeks. Eyes too tired for someone so young.

Jimin.

He hated how easily the name stuck.

Yoongi stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him like a warning bell. Jimin didn’t look at him, not right away. He stared out the window, expression unreadable. A porcelain figure frozen mid-meltdown. Still beautiful. Still too quiet.

Yoongi kept his footsteps soft. Clinical. Detached. He approached the bedside monitor, skimming through the numbers—oxygen saturation: still too low. BP: borderline stable. The numbers were steady, but the body beneath them looked anything but.

“You didn’t eat,” he said quietly.

He didn’t mean it to sound like a scolding.

“I wasn’t hungry,” Jimin replied, voice clipped.

Yoongi exhaled, not in annoyance but restraint. “That’s not a reason.”

He wasn’t trying to provoke him. But he saw it again—that look. The one from earlier. The one that said Don’t waste your time on me.

“You want your body to keep fighting,” Yoongi said. “You should at least give it the fuel to do so.”

There was silence. Then… “You sound like you’ve said that before.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened. “I have. To people who lived. And to people who didn’t.”

The weight of those words hung in the air. He hadn’t meant to be cruel. Just honest. It was the only way he knew how to be. He looked at Jimin then—not just at him, but into him. The truth was, Jimin intimidated him more than the other way around. Not because he was difficult. But because Yoongi saw something familiar in the way his shoulders sagged. In the way his eyes darted toward escape routes. In the quiet defiance that masked deeper surrender.

He had seen it in Hana, too. The quiet giving-up that pretended to be strength. Yoongi returned his gaze to the tablet in his hand. He needed to step back. Rebuild the wall.

“I’ll be back later,” he said, too flat, too quick.

And then he heard it—muttered under Jimin’s breath.

“Lucky me.”

Yoongi froze for a fraction of a second. Not because of the sarcasm. But because it hit the one part of him still soft—the part that wanted to matter.

He didn’t look back.

He couldn’t. Not when every second he stayed in that room chipped away at the armor he had so carefully constructed over the years.

He decided to take a short break that evening and go to the only place he felt calm… at least a bit. And that was… the rooftop of the hospital. It rooftop was quiet again. Just like Yoongi preferred it. Above them, the sky was a dull charcoal. No stars tonight. The city’s glow swallowed most of them. Wind brushed against his sleeves, lifting the edges of his coat. He was used to this feeling—the solitude, the late-night air, the hum of fluorescent hospital lights below.

Namjoon sat beside him on the bench, legs crossed, notebook open but untouched. His pen tapped rhythmically against the page, waiting.

Yoongi sipped his now-cold coffee. “I hate that you always know when something’s wrong.”

Namjoon smiled. “That’s my job, hyung. I’m the feelings guy, remember?”

“You’re also annoying,” Yoongi muttered.

“Comes with the title,” Namjoon shrugged. “So. Room 305?”

Yoongi was silent. Namjoon didn’t push. He just waited, as he always did.

After a moment, Yoongi spoke—quietly, like the words were too heavy to say out loud. “He’s different.”

Namjoon turned his head slowly. “Different how?”

Yoongi rubbed the side of his thumb with his forefinger, like trying to scrub away the answer. “He doesn’t even fight. Most patients—they cry, they bargain, they ask questions. But he’s just…”

“Waiting to die?”

Yoongi flinched. “Yeah.”

Namjoon was quiet for a second, then asked, “Why does that get to you more than usual?”

Yoongi didn't respond right away. He looked down at the parking lot far below, lights twinkling like stars that had fallen.

“I’ve seen that look before,” he said eventually. “But with him, it’s like…” He paused, brows furrowing. “Like something inside me won’t let me walk away from it.”

Namjoon’s voice softened. “And that scares you.”

“I don’t get scared.”

Namjoon gave him a knowing look. “You do. You just name it something else.”

Yoongi let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.

Namjoon leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You think you’re slipping, don’t you?”

“I already did,” Yoongi admitted, voice lower now. “The moment I looked at him. I didn’t see numbers or stats or probabilities. I saw someone who shouldn’t be fading.”

“You saw him,” Namjoon said quietly.

Yoongi nodded.

“And he saw you too,” Namjoon added.

That part Yoongi hadn’t let himself think about. But it was true. In those quiet seconds when Jimin had finally looked up at him, there had been no fear in his eyes. Only something raw and honest, like a silent dare: Don’t pretend you care unless you mean it.

Yoongi had felt his walls stutter then. Just a little.

Namjoon leaned back again. “Whatever it is, don’t run from it this time.”

Yoongi didn’t reply. But his hands were clenched, coffee forgotten. And his heart was louder than he’d heard it in years.

Chapter Text

The walls were starting to feel like they were closing in.

Not physically—no, the room was just as sterile and still as always. But it was getting harder for Jimin to stay in his own skin. His body felt foreign. Like a cage. Like something that wasn’t working the way it used to. The pain came and went, but the weight never lifted.

He was slipping.

And the worst part? He couldn’t bring himself to care.

The nurse—Jungkook, he’d said—had offered to open the blinds that morning. Jimin had just stared at him until he quietly stepped away. The food tray sat untouched at the corner of his bed, soup long since cooled. The TV remote hadn’t been touched in days. The silence wasn’t comforting anymore. It was suffocating.

When Taehyung walked in, humming softly under his breath, Jimin didn’t even look up. He heard the rustling of his friend’s jacket, the familiar clink of bracelets, the way Taehyung set something gently on the table—probably one of those terrible smoothies he insisted on buying from the hospital cafeteria.

“Still ignoring the world?” Taehyung asked gently.

Jimin didn’t answer. Taehyung sighed, but there was no anger in it. Only patience. He pulled up the chair beside the bed, crossed one leg over the other, and pulled out a sketchbook. Jimin glanced at it briefly before looking away.

Taehyung opened to a page near the back and held it up. “You remember this one?”

It was a sketch of Jimin dancing. Not from life—but from memory. Arms raised, body mid-turn, expression soft and open. It was an old drawing. One Taehyung had done months ago, when Jimin was still teaching beginners at the studio. Back when he was still himself.

“I found it last night,” Taehyung said. “Thought maybe you’d want it. Or maybe you’d just call me dramatic. I’d accept either.”

Still, Jimin said nothing. But his fingers twitched. Taehyung smiled to himself. He didn’t need a thank-you. He just needed something. He reached into his bag again and pulled out a second sheet of paper. “Someone gave me this, actually.”

Jimin looked. It was the sketch Jungkook had drawn—the one of Jimin asleep in the sunlight, looking… peaceful. Like he wasn’t broken. Jimin’s brows pulled together.

“Apparently,” Taehyung said, setting it down beside him, “you still look alive to other people. Even when you’re trying not to.”

That hit somewhere deep. Jimin closed his eyes. “I don’t want to talk.”

“I know,” Taehyung said softly. “But I’ll be here anyway.”

And he was. For hours. Drawing. Humming. Just being there. Because if Jimin was going to fade, Taehyung would be the light that stayed on.

It started with a sound Jimin barely registered. A tight wheeze in his chest.

He shifted in bed, fingers curling weakly at the sheets, but the pressure didn’t lift. His lungs felt thick, like something heavy was pressing on his ribs from the inside out. He tried to take a breath—shallow, cautious—but the pain stabbed through his side so sharply he gasped. The machine beside him beeped in protest. Jimin blinked, vision already going gray around the edges. His body was betraying him again. It was too soon. He wasn’t ready—

A choking cough racked his frame, and suddenly everything blurred. Nurses flooded the room. Voices rose.

"BP dropping—oxygen at 68—he's going into respiratory distress!"

Jimin couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even nod when someone called his name. It felt like drowning, like his own body was swallowing him whole.

And then—

“Move.” The voice cut through the panic.

Dr. Min Yoongi entered like a storm—fast, focused, eyes blazing. He didn’t yell. He didn’t hesitate. He gave orders like he knew he would be obeyed. But when he reached Jimin’s side and saw the look in his eyes—glassy, distant, gone—something cracked.

“Get the epinephrine. Bag him.” Yoongi pressed his fingers to Jimin’s pulse, jaw clenched.

“He’s crashing—Dr. Min—” one of the nurses began.

“I know!” Yoongi’s voice shook. His hands didn’t.

“Park Jimin. Hey.” He leaned closer, voice low but urgent. “Look at me. Stay awake.”

Jimin barely blinked. The line on the monitor dipped. Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat. His world tunneled in. Nothing else mattered. Not the beeping, not the panicking interns, not the stats screaming red on the screen.

Just Jimin. And the unbearable stillness behind his eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” Yoongi whispered.

He grabbed Jimin’s hand—cold, trembling, too small in his own. “You don’t get to leave. You don’t get to give up now. You haven’t even tried yet.”

Jimin’s head lolled slightly, lashes fluttering.

“You don’t know me,” Yoongi said, voice breaking now, low and raw. “But I’ve seen this before. I’ve lost someone like you. And I can’t—” He swallowed thickly. “I won’t lose you.”

Yoongi pressed the oxygen mask down firmly. “Breathe, damn it.”

A long second passed. Then Jimin’s chest rose—shallow, but there. The monitor beeped again. Higher this time. Yoongi’s hand clenched around Jimin’s. His eyes closed. Just for a second. Then he turned and barked orders again, composed but shaking on the inside.

+++

Jeon Jungkook stood at the edge of the room, heart thudding like a drum in his chest.

He had rushed in with the crash cart, pushed the adrenaline into the nurse’s hand, helped hang the IV, done everything by the book—but it hadn’t felt like just another code.

It had felt personal.

And he wasn’t the one fighting for Jimin’s life the hardest.

It was Dr. Min.

Yoongi didn’t yell, but the air around him vibrated with something dangerous. Something desperate. Jungkook had never seen the man falter before. Never seen him break protocol by touching a patient’s hand, whispering something no one else could hear.

But tonight, he saw it.

Yoongi wasn’t acting like a doctor.

He was acting like a man who had just remembered what it meant to be terrified.

Jungkook swallowed the lump in his throat.

And when he looked at the still form in the bed—Jimin, pale and breathless—he understood something without needing it explained.

They weren’t in love.

Not yet.

But something bigger than both of them had already started to bloom.

Something slow, and terrifying, and far too fragile to name.

And Jungkook knew, with the clarity that only came from silence, that whatever this was…

It was going to change them both.

+++

The elevator doors opened with a reluctant ding. Taehyung stepped out onto the third floor, balancing a small tray of drinks and a paper bag tucked under his arm. Two smoothies—his usual stubborn ritual—and an extra banana muffin, just in case Jimin’s appetite flickered back for a second.

He was humming softly to himself. It was something he did when he was nervous. He hadn't heard from Jungkook in the last hour. He tried not to read into it. The boy was probably busy. Or maybe Jimin was sleeping. But when he turned the corner into the east hallway, the energy changed.

He could feel it.

The nurses’ station was tense. A few people stood huddled by the monitors, whispering. Someone rushed past him with a clipboard, nearly bumping his shoulder. Taehyung’s eyes immediately searched for Room 305.

The door was closed.

His stomach dropped.

He took off down the hall, nearly spilling the drinks.

“Hey—what happened?” he called out to one of the night nurses.

She flinched. “Mr. Kim—uh—it was a close call. Respiratory distress. Dr. Min handled it.”

Taehyung stared at her. “Jimin-ssi—he’s stable now,” she added quickly. “He’s breathing. He’s okay.”

Taehyung didn’t hear the rest. He was already pushing open the door. Inside, the room was dimly lit. The machines had quieted. Jimin lay motionless, his chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. An oxygen mask covered most of his face. His skin was still pale, too pale, but—

He was alive. Yoongi stood beside the bed, his back turned. His shoulders were stiff, hands gripping the side rail of the hospital bed so hard his knuckles had gone white. Taehyung froze. For a moment, he didn’t see a doctor. He saw a man barely holding it together. The tray in Taehyung’s hands trembled. He slowly set it down on the nearby table and stepped closer, voice low and raw.

“What happened?”

Yoongi didn’t look at him. “He gave up,” he said flatly. “His body tried to follow.”

Taehyung’s jaw clenched. “And you stopped it.”

“I almost didn’t.”

Taehyung swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

Yoongi finally turned his head slightly. His expression was unreadable—but his eyes… they were glassy. Too much emotion just beneath the surface. And Taehyung realized something then: Yoongi wasn’t distant because he didn’t care. He was distant because he cared too much.

“You shouldn’t be here yet,” Yoongi said roughly.

“And yet,” Taehyung murmured, stepping closer to Jimin’s side, “here I am.”

He took Jimin’s hand in his gently. It was cold. But it didn’t feel like goodbye.

Taehyung sat down beside the bed and whispered, “You're still here, Chim. I knew you’d stay. You always do.”

And this time, Jimin’s fingers twitched. Just enough to make Taehyung cry. Yoongi left quietly and the younger appreciated that. He sat beside his best friend’s bed and stared at him, waiting for him to wake up. But Jimin was sedated and Taehyung decided to go out again and stretch his legs.

The hospital cafeteria was almost empty at this hour.

Taehyung sat at the far end of the room, legs curled beneath him on the chair like a child hiding from the world. His hoodie was oversized, sleeves covering his hands as he pressed a paper cup of tea to his lips. It had gone cold. He didn’t care. He had been there since the emergency. Watching Jimin breathe. Watching Yoongi walk out of the room like something had been taken from him. The weight of it all was finally pressing down on Taehyung’s chest, and it wouldn’t lift.

So he called the only person he could think of.

Seokjin arrived fifteen minutes later. He wore a white coat over soft beige knitwear, hair tousled from working late, a plastic bento box in one hand and two hard-boiled eggs in the other.

“You look like someone ran you over with a stretcher,” Jin said as he sat down across from him.

“Someone did,” Taehyung muttered. “Emotionally.”

Jin slid the bento box toward him and set the eggs aside. “Eat. It’s got all your comfort food. Rice, kimchi, bulgogi, and that sweet potato thing you used to steal from my lunchbox in middle school.”

Taehyung didn’t argue. He picked up the chopsticks, silent. Seokjin didn’t push. He just watched him, eyes kind.

After a few bites, Taehyung finally asked, “Do you ever get used to it?”

“To what?” Jin asked.

“The feeling like your heart’s breaking every time someone you love walks into this place.”

Seokjin’s expression shifted—softened.

“No,” he said. “But you get better at stitching it back together.”

Taehyung looked down at his food, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to lose him.”

“You won’t,” Jin said gently. “Not while he still has people like you fighting for him.”

Taehyung blinked fast. “I’m so tired, hyung.”

Jin reached across the table, squeezing his hand once. “Then rest. I’ll watch over him tonight with Dr. Min.”

Taehyung looked up, surprised.

“I’ve seen the way that man looks at Jimin,” Jin added with a knowing smirk. “He won’t let anything happen to him. Trust me.”

Taehyung didn’t trust easily.

But he trusted Jin.

+++

Later that night, Seokjin found Namjoon in the staff lounge, sitting on the couch with his sleeves rolled up and a legal pad filled with messy notes resting on his knee. He was scribbling something, probably another set of observations for a therapy group. Or maybe just thoughts he couldn’t say aloud. Jin walked in silently and placed a hot tea beside him.

“Chamomile,” he said.

Namjoon looked up, smiled faintly. “You always remember.”

“I always notice,” Jin replied, settling into the chair beside him.

They sat in silence for a while.

Namjoon finally said, “Taehyung came to you?”

Jin nodded.

“He’s scared.”

“They all are.”

Namjoon’s pen paused. He looked at Jin, voice quieter now. “Even Yoongi?”

Jin leaned back and closed his eyes. “Especially Yoongi.”

The room hummed with stillness.

Namjoon took a sip of tea, fingers curling tighter around the cup. “Do you ever wonder if we’re doing enough?”

Jin looked at him then—really looked. “Every single day.”

“And?”

“And we do it anyway,” Jin said softly. “Because one day, one of them breathes a little easier. Smiles. Comes back. And that’s enough.”

Namjoon looked at Jin for a long moment.

Then he reached out, let their fingers touch—just barely.

And Seokjin didn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

The room still smelled like fear. Even though the machines had steadied, even though Jimin was sleeping now—his breath shallow but steady—Yoongi felt it in the walls. In his own skin. He hadn't moved in nearly twenty minutes. Just stood by the monitor, eyes fixed on the numbers. Not trusting them. Not trusting himself.

The door creaked open quietly behind him. “I brought tea,” came a soft voice, cheerful like it didn’t belong in this room at all.

Yoongi didn’t turn.

“I brought the good tea,” the voice added. “Not the tragic excuse for green they serve in the cafeteria. Jasmine with honey. You’re welcome.”

Yoongi exhaled through his nose. “You don’t even work this ward.”

“And yet,” Jung Hoseok said, stepping fully inside, “here I am.”

The physical therapist wore his usual soft tracksuit and a calm smile, though it faltered slightly when his eyes landed on Jimin.

“He crashed,” Yoongi said, unnecessarily.

“I heard,” Hoseok replied, setting the tea down on the tray beside the bed. “Taehyung called me.”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched at the mention of that name. Of the look on Taehyung’s face when he arrived—equal parts relief and devastation.

“I didn’t expect it to hit me this hard,” Yoongi muttered. “I didn’t even—”

He stopped himself.

Didn’t even know him well enough for it to matter this much.

But it did.

Hoseok didn’t ask for more. He just reached into his bag and pulled out a small, portable speaker. Without asking, he placed it on the side table, next to the untouched lunch tray and IV drip.

A soft piano melody filled the room, delicate and familiar.

Jimin’s eyelids fluttered.

“He used to play this during therapy,” Hoseok said quietly. “When he couldn’t move much without coughing. I asked him why, and he said music made him feel less trapped in his body.”

Yoongi looked at the speaker, the light flickering with each key change.

“Let him rest,” Hoseok said after a moment, glancing at Yoongi. “You need to breathe too, hyung.”

Yoongi scoffed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re full of shit,” Hoseok replied with a grin so kind it didn’t feel like an insult.

Yoongi finally turned and sat down on the edge of the spare chair. He didn’t argue further.

“Tell me something,” Hoseok said gently. “Why does this one feel different?”

Yoongi stared at Jimin.

Then whispered, “Because I saw someone give up right in front of me… and for some reason, I couldn’t let him.”

Hoseok didn’t reply. He just nodded once, squeezed Yoongi’s shoulder gently, and left the room—music still playing behind him.

+++

The first thing Jimin heard was music.

Soft, slow, like fingers trailing over ivory keys in a memory. He didn’t recognize the piece, but it settled into the space between his ribs like warmth seeping into cold bones. He opened his eyes slowly. The lights were dim. His vision blurred slightly, edges of the room melting into one another until the shapes began to take form again — the IV stand, the steady green line on the monitor, the faint hum of machines that told him he was still here.

Still alive.

His chest hurt.

But he was breathing.

His gaze shifted — and then stopped.

There, seated beside his bed, head bowed slightly and arms crossed over his chest, was Yoongi.

Asleep.

Jimin blinked. It didn’t seem possible. The doctor didn’t strike him as someone who slept. Certainly not in patient rooms. Certainly not like this—guard down, shoulders slack, mouth barely parted like he'd finally let himself exhale. Jimin stared at him for a long time. His hand twitched under the blanket. The oxygen mask itched against his face, but he didn’t dare move. He was afraid the moment would vanish.

The last thing he remembered was pain—crushing, drowning, unbearable. And Yoongi’s voice.

You don’t get to give up. You haven’t even tried yet.

It hadn’t made sense in the moment. But now, lying here, Jimin wondered—

Why had Yoongi said it like it mattered to him?

A doctor like him… didn’t make it personal.

And yet here he was.

Still here. Still breathing. And so was Yoongi.

The music continued to play — soft, rising like a heartbeat and falling like rain. Jimin shifted slightly, and it must have made a sound, because Yoongi stirred. His eyes opened slowly, bleary and blinking like he hadn’t slept in days. When he registered Jimin watching him, he straightened fast — too fast, like someone had caught him doing something forbidden.

“You’re awake,” Yoongi said, voice gravelly.

Jimin nodded weakly. They stared at each other in silence. Yoongi looked… tired. There were faint creases under his eyes, and his collar was slightly wrinkled, as though he hadn’t left the room at all.

“You scared the hell out of everyone,” Yoongi muttered, trying for neutral but failing.

Jimin swallowed. His throat was dry. Yoongi stood and reached for a cup of water, holding the straw toward his lips. Jimin hesitated—but drank.

“Better?”

Jimin nodded again. His voice was barely audible when he whispered, “Why are you still here?”

Yoongi looked away. “I don’t know,” he said honestly.

And that silence — thick, full, unspoken — was louder than anything they could’ve said.

Because maybe he did know. And maybe Jimin did too. But neither was ready to admit it yet.

+++

The sunlight stretched slowly across the floor.

Jimin blinked up at the ceiling, a quiet ache still nestled in his chest — not sharp this time, just there. A dull echo of what he’d felt the day before. The kind of pain that came after surviving something that almost took you. Yoongi had left without saying goodbye. There had been a folded blanket on the chair where he’d slept, and a cup of tea still warm enough to hint that he hadn’t been gone long.

Jimin didn’t know what to do with that.

He didn’t know what to do with anything anymore. So when the door opened again, Jimin kept his eyes on the ceiling, expecting a nurse. Maybe Taehyung.

“Delivery for the softest patient on the third floor,” came a voice — melodic, familiar, teasing.

Jimin turned his head slowly. There stood Kim Seokjin, dressed in his usual crisp whites, tray in hand, face bright enough to outshine the morning sun streaming behind him.

“You’re looking a little less ghostly,” Jin said as he made his way to the bed. “That’s either a medical miracle… or my timing is just that good.”

Jimin blinked at him, confused. “Jin-hyung?”

“Who else brings edible art into sterile places?” Jin grinned.

He placed the tray on the side table and pulled a chair closer. On it sat a carefully arranged bowl of white rice, domed like a hill, two strips of golden egg laid on top like sun rays. Tiny nori flakes formed sleepy eyes and a goofy smile. There was even a cherry tomato half in the corner like a rising sun.

Jimin stared.

Seokjin beamed. “Ta-da. Sunrise Rice. For patients recovering from near-death experiences and bad moods. Yours is still hot, unlike your doctor, who stormed out of here earlier looking like someone kicked his puppy.”

Jimin’s eyes widened slightly. “He stayed?” he whispered.

“All night,” Seokjin said, voice softer now. “Didn’t even pretend to sleep properly. Just watched you breathe like the world depended on it.”

Jimin didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing.

Jin handed him the spoon. “I’ll feed you if I have to. But I’m warning you — I make plane sounds.”

Jimin huffed — a tiny, fragile laugh. He took the spoon. The rice was warm, soft, lightly seasoned — nothing fancy, just comforting. And somehow, it was the best thing he’d tasted in weeks.

Jin leaned back, satisfied. “There it is.”

“What?”

“Your smile,” he said, voice quiet now. “I missed it.”

Jimin looked down at the bowl, blinked back the burn in his eyes, and took another bite. It didn’t fix everything. But it made breathing easier. And in this place — that was everything.

+++

The staff room was dim, lit only by the glow of a desk lamp. Papers were scattered across the table. Monitors flickered quietly. Min Yoongi was sitting in the middle of the chaos, unmoving — hunched over Jimin’s file like it might suddenly rewrite itself if he stared long enough. Vitals. Past hospitalizations. Bloodwork. A scan from six months ago. His fingers tightened over the page detailing Jimin’s second collapse — a line of red ink scribbled over the phrase "refusal to eat."

He read it again. And again.

“Yoongi,” came a voice from the door.

He didn’t look up. “Not now.”

“I brought coffee,” Hoseok said gently. “And a protein bar. The ones you pretend you don’t like.”

Yoongi sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t have time—”

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday,” Hoseok cut in, not unkindly. “And you’ve been staring at that file for two hours.”

“I’m trying to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why he’s giving up,” Yoongi muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “Why it feels like I can’t.”

Hoseok stepped inside, setting the coffee down beside the scattered pages. He didn’t speak right away.

Then: “Is it really about understanding? Or is it about feeling something you don’t want to admit?”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened. “He almost died,” he said.

“And it shook you more than you expected.”

Silence.

Hoseok sat across from him now, watching carefully. “You’ve seen patients fade before. You’ve lost them. But this one…”

Yoongi didn’t answer. Instead, he turned the page again. Blood tests. Platelet counts. Oxygen saturation levels. Hoseok reached forward, covered the paper with his hand. Forced Yoongi to stop.

“Just for a second,” he said softly. “Don’t read him. Remember him. He smiled today.”

Yoongi’s eyes lifted.

“He smiled because he’s still here,” Hoseok added. “Because you were there.”

Yoongi swallowed hard. And that was it. That was all they said.

Hoseok stood, gently squeezing Yoongi’s shoulder on his way out. “Let me know when you want to stop reading and start believing in him.”

Then he left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Yoongi stared at the page in front of him. At the notes in his own handwriting. At the number that showed how fragile Jimin’s hold on life had been just 24 hours ago. And slowly, his eyes dropped to the margin. There, scribbled from earlier, was the note he hadn’t even remembered writing:

"Patient smiled today. First time."

Chapter Text

The rooftop was colder than Taehyung expected. The sky stretched wide above him, gray-blue and soft, the way it got before rain but after light. The city buzzed faintly below, muffled by the height, by distance, by the weight in his chest that hadn’t lifted in two days. He pulled his coat tighter, fingers trembling slightly as he leaned against the railing. His eyes drifted over the hospital windows, scanning for Room 305 even though he couldn’t see it from up here.

Jimin almost didn’t make it.

That thought hadn’t left him since yesterday.

He closed his eyes. Breathed.

“Didn’t peg you as a rooftop brooder.”

Taehyung’s head snapped up.

Jungkook stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, curly hair windswept, a little breathless like he’d jogged up the stairs instead of taking the elevator.

Taehyung blinked. “Didn’t peg you as someone who sneaks off shift.”

Jungkook shrugged. “I’m off rotation. Technically.”

He stepped closer, leaning beside Taehyung but not too close. Just enough for his presence to settle like warmth between them. They stood in silence for a while.

“You saw it,” Taehyung said quietly. “When he... crashed.”

Jungkook nodded. “Yeah.”

“Was it bad?”

Jungkook was quiet for a moment. “Worse than most. Not because of what happened. But because of how everyone reacted.”

Taehyung turned to look at him.

Jungkook kept his gaze forward. “Min Yoongi lost his composure.”

Taehyung’s heart tightened.

“He fought like hell to keep Jimin here,” Jungkook added. “And afterward… he looked like he’d broken something inside himself to do it.”

Taehyung didn’t know what to say.

“He cares,” Jungkook murmured. “I don’t think he knows why. But he does.”

Taehyung lowered his head. “I want to be angry. That it took this for people to see Jimin. To really see him again. But I’m just… relieved.”

“Yeah.”

Wind moved between them, soft and cold.

Jungkook finally glanced at him. “You’re really strong, you know.”

Taehyung scoffed. “I don’t feel like it.”

“That’s usually how it works.”

Their eyes met for a second too long. And then Taehyung looked away, cheeks coloring faintly.

“You want some tea?” Jungkook asked, pulling a thermos from his pocket. “It’s probably cold. But it’s chamomile.”

Taehyung accepted the cup without a word, hands brushing as he did. He took a sip. It was still warm…

+++

A few days later…

The rehab room on the second floor smelled faintly of eucalyptus oil and worn mats. Jimin sat stiffly in the corner on a padded bench, legs tucked close, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands like armor. He didn’t want to be there. His ribs still ached, his limbs felt heavy, and the light buzz of hospital energy made everything hum too loud in his ears. But he had promised Taehyung he would try. And Hoseok had promised it wouldn’t be scary.

So here he was. And Hoseok was already kneeling in front of him, barefoot, bright-eyed, and dressed in soft charcoal sweats. “Okay,” he said, voice light but firm. “No pressure. We’re not going to run a marathon. We’re just going to breathe.”

Jimin gave him a look. “Isn’t that kind of the problem?”

Hoseok grinned. “Exactly. That’s why we practice.”

He gestured to the mat beside him. “Sit with me.”

Reluctantly, Jimin moved from the bench. Every step felt like a negotiation with his body. Like he had to convince it that movement was still worth the effort. He sat cross-legged on the mat, chest already tight.

Hoseok lowered himself with practiced ease, mirroring Jimin’s posture. “We’ll start with breathing.”

Jimin exhaled shakily. “I suck at breathing.”

“Well,” Hoseok said gently, “you’re still here. So I’d argue you’re doing better than you think.”

Jimin blinked.

“Close your eyes,” Hoseok said, “and follow my count.”

Jimin obeyed.

“One… two… in. One… two… three… out.”

They breathed together for a while. Slow. Careful. Trusting. And in that quiet rhythm, something began to ease.

Unseen by either of them, Yoongi was standing outside the door, half-shadowed by the hallway’s soft lighting. He had come to check on progress — that was the excuse. What he hadn’t expected was to stop in his tracks at the sight of Jimin, shoulders hunched slightly, head tilted down, eyes closed.

So vulnerable.

So alive.

Yoongi leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pretending not to care. But his gaze didn’t waver. He watched the way Hoseok encouraged Jimin gently, never once touching without asking. The way he guided him to stretch — slowly, carefully — fingers brushing knees, shoulders lowering. And the way Jimin winced once, but kept going anyway.

Yoongi’s fingers twitched at his sides. Something in his chest stirred — that same stubborn pulse that had started the night Jimin almost stopped breathing. He hated this feeling. But he couldn’t walk away from it.

Inside, Hoseok gave Jimin a break and passed him a small bottle of water. “Not bad,” he said. “For a beginner.”

“I used to dance for hours,” Jimin said, voice quiet.

Hoseok didn’t smile. “You still can. Eventually.”

Jimin didn’t answer, but his fingers curled tighter around the bottle. Then he glanced up — just once — toward the door. And saw Yoongi. They locked eyes. Yoongi didn’t move. Jimin didn’t look away. Not this time.

+++

Namjoon didn’t look up when Yoongi entered the staff lounge. He didn’t have to. He heard the sigh. The click of the pen cap. The way Yoongi always tapped his badge twice before sitting — a quiet habit he probably didn’t realize he had.

“You’re pacing again,” Namjoon said.

“I’m not,” Yoongi muttered, dropping into the chair across from him with a graceless thud.

“You are,” Namjoon said calmly, flipping to a new page in his notes. “I counted six laps outside the therapy wing. Same spot. Same corner. Three times slower than your usual.”

Yoongi glared at him. Namjoon didn’t flinch. “Want to tell me what you were looking at through the window?”

“No.”

Namjoon smiled softly. “Jimin?”

Yoongi’s jaw flexed. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re obvious.”

Yoongi didn’t reply. Namjoon let the silence stretch, quiet and comfortable. Then, gently, “It’s okay, you know. To care.”

Yoongi scoffed. “It’s not that.”

“It’s always that.”

“I’m just… trying to understand why I’m reacting like this,” Yoongi said finally, running a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t make sense. I’ve had patients like him before. Worse cases. People I’ve lost. But this—”

He stopped.

Namjoon leaned forward slightly. “He got under your skin.”

Yoongi didn’t look at him. “I don’t even know him.”

“But you see him.”

Yoongi was silent.

Namjoon closed his notebook. “You can lie to yourself, hyung. But not to me.”

Yoongi looked up, eyes shadowed. “I don’t know what this is.”

“It doesn’t matter yet,” Namjoon said softly. “Just… don’t shut it out. Don’t shut him out. He’s fighting now. Maybe because of you.”

Yoongi looked down at the table.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t deny it.

Later that night, the hallway was dim and mostly deserted, lit only by the soft glow of wall sconces and the far-off flicker of a vending machine. Jimin should have been asleep. But something had pulled him from bed — a sound. Low. Familiar. Distant but unmistakably real in a place where everything felt artificial.

Piano.

It echoed faintly down the corridor like a memory, like someone pressing keys gently enough to avoid waking ghosts. He followed it. He didn’t know why. He didn’t care how unsteady his legs were. His fingers curled around the edges of the hallway walls for balance. He just needed to know where it was coming from. And then he found it. A small rec room tucked at the end of the south wing — rarely used, lights off, but the door cracked open.

Inside, bathed in soft moonlight from the windows, sat Min Yoongi at an old upright piano. His back was to the door. Shoulders relaxed. Hands moving fluidly, like he wasn’t thinking at all — just feeling. The notes were slow, mournful, yet gentle. Not rehearsed. Not perfect. But deeply human.

Jimin stood frozen. He hadn’t imagined that he could see Yoongi like this— quiet, unguarded. Not a doctor, not a man with answers or clipped commands, but someone who hurt and healed in equal measure. The music stopped. Yoongi turned slightly, sensing he wasn’t alone. His fingers hovered over the keys. Their eyes met. Neither of them spoke.

Jimin stepped inside slowly, arms wrapped around himself. “I didn’t know you played,” he whispered.

Yoongi’s expression didn’t change. But he nodded once. “It’s late,” he said softly.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Yoongi looked down at the keys. “Neither could I.”

A beat passed. Then:

“Come here,” he said, shifting over on the bench.

Jimin’s breath caught in his throat. But he crossed the room anyway and sat beside him, close but not touching. Their knees brushed once. Neither moved away.

Yoongi reached for the keys again. “Do you want to try?”

“I haven’t played since I was a kid.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Jimin hesitated — then lifted his hands, fingers trembling as he pressed a tentative key. Yoongi played a harmony in response. Then another. Then another. Their hands moved slowly, never rushed. The music formed like fog — soft, imperfect, delicate. But they built it together, breath by breath.

No questions.

No judgment.

Just shared silence.

Jimin closed his eyes, listening to the way their notes met — sometimes clashing, sometimes blending. And for the first time in days, his body didn’t ache. He didn’t feel like he was falling apart. He just felt... there. With Yoongi.

That night, after returning to his room with help from a nurse, Jimin curled up beneath the sheets and closed his eyes to the faint scent of jasmine left on the sleeves of his hoodie. There were no nightmares. No pain clawing at his ribs.

Only warmth.

Only quiet.

Only sleep.

+++

The ward had gone quiet for the night. Lights dimmed. Footsteps softened. Monitors blinked in steady rhythms like distant stars. Yoongi stood just inside Room 305, leaning against the wall near the window. The blinds were open, letting in streaks of pale moonlight that painted soft shadows across Jimin’s sleeping form. For the first time since he was admitted, Jimin looked at peace. No pained furrow between his brows. No wheezing. His lips parted gently with each inhale, his hands resting loose on top of the blanket.

Yoongi didn’t know why he couldn’t look away. He told himself it was clinical.

You’re monitoring his vitals.

You’re tracking his stability.

But it wasn’t true.

Not really.

Because Yoongi had seen hundreds of patients sleep. And none of them had made something ache in his chest the way this did. His gaze fell to Jimin’s hand — fingers slack, nails neat, a small scar on the side of his thumb. So human. So fragile. So still here.

Yoongi closed his eyes. And just like that, he was somewhere else.

Flashback

The room had smelled like lavender and antiseptic. Hana had been twenty-three. Smart. Funny. Beautiful in that loud, messy way that made silence feel like a choice. She had leukemia. Stage IV. But she had painted her IV pole with stars. Yoongi had met her during her final remission attempt. He had promised himself it would be just like every other case — precise, professional, protected.

It wasn’t. They’d bonded over music. He’d brought her sketchbooks. She’d teased him about his tragic wardrobe. He’d started staying after his shift — just a few minutes longer each day.

And one night, she had looked at him, voice barely a breath, and said:

“You always act like you don’t feel things, Dr. Min. But I think you feel too much.”

He had kissed her hand that night. Two weeks later, she died in his arms. He had held it together until he reached the hallway. Then he broke. Quietly. Completely.

And after that, he promised himself:

No more.

No more attachment.

No more blurred lines.

No more patients that made him feel.

Back to Present

But here he was.

Watching Jimin sleep with a weight in his chest he couldn’t name. He didn’t love Jimin. Not yet. He barely knew him. But something was there.

Something dangerous.

Something real.

Yoongi exhaled through his nose, eyes fluttering open. He glanced at the monitor — steady.

Calm. Safe.

And without meaning to, he whispered into the stillness: “Don’t make me do this again.”

But deep down…

He knew it was already too late.

Chapter Text

The first thing Jimin felt when he woke was... nothing. No pain in his chest. No needles in his lungs. Just stillness. His lashes fluttered against the morning light leaking through the blinds, gold and quiet. He blinked slowly, adjusting to the room, to the silence. The oxygen mask was still there — but looser now. His breathing came easier. His body felt strange. Not perfect, not whole - but softer. Like someone had pressed pause on the hurt. Then he remembered.

The piano.

Yoongi’s hands.

The music between them.

That moment in the dark when neither of them had needed to say anything.

His gaze shifted to the chair beside his bed.

Empty.

The blanket was folded again. His tea cup — gone. Only the faintest trace of sandalwood lingered in the air, like a dream dissolving before he could grab it.

He left.

Jimin sat up slowly, careful not to jostle the IV in his arm. He didn’t know why he expected him to still be here. Maybe because Yoongi had stayed the last time. Maybe because that night at the piano had felt like something sacred. Maybe because it was the first time Jimin didn’t feel like a patient. Now, in the quiet aftermath, he didn’t know what he was to Yoongi anymore.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe everything.

Maybe something in between.

A soft knock broke the silence. Taehyung peeked in, face hopeful. “You’re awake.” Jimin nodded. “You slept almost nine hours,” Taehyung said, stepping inside. “Yoongi-ssi told them not to wake you unless something urgent happened.”

Jimin looked up. “He was here?”

Taehyung paused — then smiled, soft and knowing. “He was sitting right there when I passed by at five. You were out cold. He looked like he hadn’t blinked in hours.”

Jimin’s fingers curled over the blanket.

“He didn’t say anything when he left,” Taehyung added gently. “But he looked… different.”

Jimin swallowed. His voice was hoarse when he asked, “Different how?”

Taehyung tilted his head. “Like he’d been holding his breath. And finally exhaled,” he said. Then he cleaned his throat. “Do you… do you want to go outside?”

Jimin’s eyes widened. “Can I?”

“Yes,” the younger nodded with a small smile. “So… would you?”

They took the elevator down in silence. Taehyung stood close, one hand steady on the IV pole, the other on Jimin’s back — not pressing, not holding, just there. The kind of touch that said I’ve got you without needing to be loud about it.

Jimin didn’t speak. He was too focused on the way his legs trembled beneath him. His slippers felt too thin. The air too cold. His own heartbeat too loud in his ears. But still—he was moving. That was something.

Outside the rehab doors, a nurse held the garden exit open for them with a soft smile.

And then...

Sunlight.

It spilled across the stone path like a welcome, warm and shy. The sky overhead was pale blue, the kind that stretched far and quiet, interrupted only by wisps of white clouds. The scent of grass and clean air hit him like a wave. Jimin blinked hard. It felt too bright. Too alive. He wanted to run. He wanted to cry.

Taehyung didn’t rush him. Instead, he gestured toward a wooden bench beneath a tree already touched with new spring leaves. “Let’s sit.”

Jimin nodded. They reached the bench slowly — Jimin leaning heavier on Taehyung than he wanted to admit. But his friend said nothing. Just eased him down and sat beside him, their knees brushing gently. They were quiet for a long while.

Jimin stared at the garden. The wind. The small, delicate lives still blooming. “I didn’t think I’d see this again,” he whispered.

Taehyung’s gaze didn’t leave his face. “I did.”

Jimin turned, just slightly. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.” Taehyung smiled. “You’re still here, Chim. And the sun still rises for you.”

Jimin let the words settle like sunlight across his skin. He looked up. And for the first time in weeks — maybe longer —he breathed in without fear.

+++

The hallway was quiet, the afternoon sun casting golden slants across the tiled floor. Yoongi stood outside the main stairwell window, clipboard in hand, half-listening to a conversation between two residents about patient rotations. He nodded once, gave a clipped instruction, and sent them off with his usual distant tone.

But then...

Movement caught his eye. He turned slightly.

And saw him.

Jimin.

Outside.

He was moving slowly, cautiously, one hand curled around the IV pole like it was the only thing anchoring him. Beside him, Taehyung walked patiently, guiding without guiding — a gentle tether in case Jimin’s strength faltered. They stopped at the bench under the sycamore tree. And Jimin… Jimin lifted his face to the sunlight. Yoongi couldn’t hear anything through the glass. But he didn’t need to. There was a small moment — less than a second — where Jimin’s shoulders relaxed. Where he tilted his head back. Where his lips curved, barely, at the corners. Not a full smile.
But something close. And Yoongi felt it. That ache.

Not the pain of fear.

Not even guilt.

But something softer.

Deeper.

Unspoken.

He didn’t know when he’d started holding his breath. But he finally exhaled.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. He kept his eyes trained on the courtyard beyond the glass, where Jimin still sat on the garden bench beside Taehyung. The wind stirred strands of Jimin’s hair, lifting them gently before letting them fall. His face tilted toward the sky, pale but peaceful.

“You mean standing still?” Yoongi murmured.

“No,” Hoseok said, walking up beside him. “Staring like you’re watching something you lost a long time ago.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened. He said nothing.

Hoseok followed his gaze. “First time outside?”

Yoongi nodded once. “He didn’t look that steady.”

“He’s not,” Hoseok replied softly. “But he’s out there.”

Yoongi leaned forward slightly, forehead almost brushing the glass. “It’s stupid, but… I didn’t think he’d make it. I fought like hell in that room and still… I didn’t think he’d come back.”

“And yet,” Hoseok said, echoing his earlier words, “here he is.”

Yoongi didn’t move. “It feels the same.”

“What does?”

He paused. Then, quietly… “Hana.”

Hoseok turned to him fully.

Yoongi’s voice was low, steady, but it carried weight like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake. “She was the first person I let matter more than the medicine. I stayed late. I held her hand. I crossed the line.”

“You fell for her,” Hoseok said gently.

Yoongi nodded. “And she died anyway.” The words were so simple. So bare. So unforgiving. “I told myself I wouldn’t let that happen again,” Yoongi went on. “That I’d do my job. No more. No less.”

“And now Jimin’s changing that,” Hoseok finished for him.

Yoongi swallowed hard. “I don’t want him to.”

“But he is.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than usual.

Yoongi let his eyes fall closed for a moment. “It’s not about love. I’m not there. It’s not like that.”

“I didn’t say it was,” Hoseok replied. “But it’s something. And that something scares the hell out of you.”

Yoongi didn’t argue. Instead, he whispered: “He makes me remember what I swore to forget.”

Hoseok didn’t speak right away. He just stood there beside him, steady and quiet.

“You don’t have to fall,” he said eventually. “But maybe let yourself feel it this time. Just enough to be human again.”

Yoongi finally looked away from the window. And for once—he didn’t walk off. He just stood there.

Still.

Open.

Breaking.

Healing.

+++

The counseling room was small and warm — all soft colors and rounded edges, like a place that was built to hold people gently. Jimin sat curled into the corner of a worn leather armchair, legs tucked under him, sleeves tugged past his palms. The room was quiet except for the ticking of the small clock on the shelf. Across from him, Namjoon sat with a notebook in his lap and a warm, steady presence. He didn’t look like a therapist trying to crack something open — just a man waiting for someone to breathe.

Jimin shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t really… do this.”

“That’s okay,” Namjoon said. “We’re not here to ‘do’ anything. We’re just here to talk. Or not talk. Whatever feels real today.”

Jimin looked down at his lap. “I haven’t really been real in a long time.”

Namjoon gave a gentle nod. “That’s a good place to start.”

Silence settled between them again. Not awkward. Just still. Namjoon glanced at the closed notebook Jimin had brought with him — old, faded, the corner bent, but carried like something precious.

“You brought a journal?”

“I used to write,” Jimin murmured. “Before. It helped… make sense of things. I stopped when everything started hurting too much.”

“Would you want to try again?” Namjoon asked. “No pressure. Just a few lines. Even if it’s just, ‘Today, I remembered what light feels like.’”

Jimin looked up, startled.

Namjoon smiled. “Taehyung said you sat in the sun yesterday.”

“I didn’t think I’d feel anything when I did,” Jimin admitted. “But I did.”

“Write that down,” Namjoon said softly.

Jimin’s hands hovered over the notebook. Then he flipped it open to a blank page. The paper crackled. The pen felt heavy in his hand. He stared at it for a long moment. And then, slowly—he wrote:

“Today I breathed and it didn’t feel like a punishment.”

He stopped. Let the sentence linger in the air. And for the first time in months… He didn’t feel like he was fading.

After the session, Namjoon decided to stretch his legs. The staff lounge was nearly empty. Late-shift nurses passed through now and then, but no one lingered. The overhead lights were dim, the couch cushions softened by years of exhaustion and whispered conversations. Somewhere, someone’s phone buzzed and was quickly silenced. Seokjin poured hot water into two mismatched mugs and placed one in front of Namjoon without a word. He didn’t need to ask what kind — chamomile with a splash of honey had always been the default.

Namjoon offered a soft smile. “Thank you.”

Seokjin sat across from him, their knees nearly touching. His hair was a little tousled from a long shift, his white coat half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up like he was trying to shake off the day. Namjoon wrapped his hands around the mug. Let the heat ground him. They didn’t speak for a while.

“Jimin wrote something today,” Namjoon said eventually, eyes still on the steam curling from his tea. “Just a sentence. But it felt like a breath after drowning.”

Seokjin looked up.

Namjoon met his gaze. “You were right. He’s still in there.”

“I never doubted it,” Jin said softly.

Their hands brushed slightly on the table — reaching for the sugar bowl at the same time. Neither of them moved away. The touch was brief. Barely there. But something in it lingered — like the quiet possibility of a second verse in a song no one expected to hear again.

Namjoon cleared his throat. “You should rest.”

“You first,” Jin murmured, eyes still on him.

Namjoon smiled — the quiet kind. The kind you kept hidden for people who mattered. Neither of them said what this was. But something passed between them.
A look. A pause. A choice to stay.

The tea steeped between them. The silence said enough. Seokjin’s hand lingered a second too long where it had brushed against Namjoon’s. He didn’t pull away. Neither did Namjoon. The sugar bowl sat untouched between them, suddenly forgotten, because this — this moment — was sweeter than anything they could stir into their tea.

“I remember when you first started here,” Seokjin said softly, eyes not quite meeting his. “You didn’t talk to anyone unless they cried.”

Namjoon chuckled under his breath. “You were the only one who didn’t seem to mind.”

“I knew what you were doing,” Jin replied. “You were carrying everyone else’s pain like it was your own. Still do.”

Namjoon looked down at the rim of his cup. “It’s easier than letting anyone carry mine.”

There was a pause.

Then Seokjin reached out, not to touch this time, but to rest his hand just near Namjoon’s. Close enough that warmth traveled between them.

“I would,” he said quietly. “If you ever asked me to.”

Namjoon looked up.

Their eyes met — and something inside him softened. Something cracked, not in pain, but in permission. And there it was again — that invisible thread between them. The one that had stretched across years of late-night calls and early morning coffees. Through grief. Through joy. Through all the moments that never needed to be named.

“You always do,” Namjoon said quietly. “Even when I don’t.”

Seokjin’s smile didn’t reach his lips — it lived in his eyes. He reached over, fingers brushing Namjoon’s knuckles deliberately this time. Letting them rest there.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Namjoon didn’t speak. He just turned his hand over — and held on.

+++

The hallway outside Room 305 was quiet.

Jungkook had planned to just peek in on Jimin before clocking out for the night. He still did that sometimes—checked in, adjusted the IV line, made sure the oxygen levels were stable. Not because anyone asked him to. Just because he wanted to. But when he got there, Taehyung was already inside, sitting beside the bed with one leg curled beneath him and his chin resting in his palm, eyes sleepy but watchful. Jimin was fast asleep.

Taehyung turned at the sound of the door and smiled—soft, not forced. “You’re late,” he whispered.

“You’re early,” Jungkook whispered back.

Taehyung chuckled under his breath, standing slowly. “Come on. I need sugar or I’m going to pass out.”

Jungkook blinked. “Where are we going?”

“Vending machine. Or if you're lucky, café. Let’s see which one still has edible regrets left.”

And somehow, without thinking too much about it, Jungkook followed. The hospital café was mostly shut down, but the small side fridge still had a few sad sandwiches and half-melted chocolate bars. Taehyung grabbed a banana milk and two rice balls. Jungkook settled for iced coffee and something wrapped in plastic that might’ve once been a cookie. They sat in the far corner, where the lights were dim and the clock ticked a little louder than necessary. For a while, they just… ate. No small talk. No pretense. Just the occasional rustle of packaging and quiet sips.

Then…

“I thought you’d be more intimidating,” Taehyung said suddenly, glancing over his milk carton.

Jungkook looked up, surprised. “Me?”

“You stormed past me on our first day like the world was ending.”

“I had a code blue,” Jungkook muttered.

“I had a smoothie,” Taehyung deadpanned. “Equally urgent.”

Jungkook snorted into his cup.

Taehyung’s grin widened. “There it is.”

“What?”

“A real sound. From your face.”

Jungkook shook his head, but he was still smiling. They fell into silence again. This time, easier.

“I’m glad Jimin-hyung has you,” Jungkook said after a moment.

Taehyung looked down, tracing a fingertip along the edge of his cup. “I’m glad he’s still here to be had.”

They didn’t need to say more than that.

But before they parted ways—Jungkook paused, standing beside the trash bin with his empty bottle.

“You’re... different than I expected.”

Taehyung tilted his head. “That’s usually what people say before they ask for my number.”

Jungkook blinked. Then laughed—actually laughed—shaking his head.

“Not yet,” he said, eyes glinting as he walked away. “But maybe.”

Taehyung stood frozen for half a second, then smiled — slow, wide, heart-fluttering. It wasn’t much. But it was a start.

They were both slower to stand this time. Neither of them seemed in a rush to leave. Taehyung lingered by the drink fridge, turning his empty banana milk carton in his hands.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, eyes flicking toward Jungkook.

Jungkook glanced up, mid-toss of a sandwich wrapper. “Sure.”

“Why nursing?” Taehyung asked. “I mean… you’re good at it. But I’ve met a lot of people in scrubs who look like they’re trying to escape something. You don’t. You look like you belong.”

Jungkook blinked — surprised at the observation.

Then, quietly, “I wanted to matter.”

Taehyung stilled.

Jungkook shrugged one shoulder. “I grew up being told I was too quiet. Too blunt. Too intense. But when someone’s bleeding or crashing or in pain… those things don’t matter. You just do what has to be done. I like that.”

Taehyung’s voice was softer now. “And you do it well.”

Jungkook looked at him. It wasn’t flattery. It was genuine.

He gave a small nod in thanks, then asked, “What about you? You don’t seem like someone who lives in a hospital.”

Taehyung smiled faintly. “I don’t.”

“Then what do you do?”

“I’m a photographer,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Freelance mostly. Fashion, gallery stuff, the occasional magazine shoot. I’m not… famous or anything. But I’ve been published a few times.”

“That makes sense,” Jungkook said.

Taehyung raised a brow. “It does?”

Jungkook offered a small, rare smile. “You notice things. Angles. Light. People.”

Taehyung blinked. He hadn’t expected that answer. He laughed quietly, almost shy. “Well… you’re not what I expected either.”

“Good or bad?”

“I’ll let you know,” Taehyung said, brushing past him with a wink. “After the next banana milk.”

Jungkook turned to watch him go. And smiled — just for a second — before following.

+++

A few days later, the therapy room was quiet — just the low hum of the ceiling fan and the faint scent of eucalyptus balm left behind from the last session. Hoseok sat on one of the floor mats, tossing a neon stress ball between his hands like he was waiting for the next shift to begin. His shoes were off. His sleeves were pushed to his elbows. His posture was loose, almost catlike.

Taehyung stood in the doorway for a long moment before finally walking in.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

Hoseok glanced up, smile instant. “For you? I’ve got two.”

Taehyung didn’t laugh. He sat down instead — not beside him, but close enough. His shoulders were tense. His hands wouldn’t stay still.

Hoseok caught the ball, set it on his knee. “Okay. Who do I beat up?”

Taehyung snorted softly, rubbing his eyes. “It’s Jimin.”

Hoseok’s expression shifted — still open, but more focused. “What’s up?”

Taehyung exhaled slowly. “I don’t know. He’s up, technically. He’s walking. He’s eating again. He talks to Namjoon. He even did some light sketching the other night. But—he’s still not… himself.” Hoseok didn’t interrupt. Just started tossing the ball again, slow and rhythmic. “He smiles,” Taehyung went on, voice quieter now. “But it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s like he’s… not there. Like part of him stayed back in that room when he crashed, and the rest of him hasn’t noticed.”

He paused.

“And I don’t know how to talk to him anymore,” he confessed. “I don’t know if I should keep pushing or just give him space. Because I’m tired, Hobi-hyung. I really am.”

Hoseok caught the ball mid-air. Held it.

“Do you want the real answer,” he said gently, “or the one that’ll make you feel better for ten seconds?”

Taehyung looked at him.

“The real one,” he whispered.

“Okay.” Hoseok tossed the ball once and let it fall to the mat beside him. “Then here it is: Sometimes people who survive don’t know how to come back. And the people who love them?” He nudged the ball with his toe. “They end up carrying the silence they leave behind.”

Taehyung’s breath caught.

Hoseok continued, softer now. “Jimin’s healing. But healing isn’t always loud. Sometimes it looks like staring out a window for an hour. Sometimes it looks like drawing hands and then erasing the fingers. Sometimes it just means breathing without crying.”

Taehyung dropped his head into his hands.

“I know,” he mumbled. “But what about me?”

Hoseok scooted closer, shoulder to shoulder now. “You’re allowed to break a little too, Tae. You don’t always have to be the one holding the light.”

Taehyung blinked fast. Swallowed hard.

“And as for what to do?” Hoseok gave him a smile — small, sincere. “Just stay. Keep showing up. Even if he doesn’t notice right now. One day he’ll turn around, and you’ll be there. And that’ll matter more than you think.”

Taehyung leaned into his side, letting his eyes close for a moment. “You always know what to say.”

“Please. I’ve been professionally nosy for years,” Hoseok joked, draping an arm across Taehyung’s shoulders. “It’s my job to see the stuff people hide.”

They stayed like that — two silhouettes on a mat under soft light, the stress ball long forgotten beside them.

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun was slanting across the therapy garden when Yoongi found him. Jimin was sitting alone on the edge of the bench, knees drawn up slightly, sketchbook resting on his lap. He wasn’t sketching, though. Just staring at the blank page like it was a mirror he didn’t want to look into. Yoongi hesitated by the path, one hand curling around the strap of the patient files tucked under his arm.

Turn around, part of him said.

But another part — the louder, more reckless part — pushed him forward.

Soft steps. Careful.

Jimin didn’t look up until Yoongi was only a few feet away. Their eyes met. Neither smiled. Neither looked away.

“Hey,” Yoongi said, voice low.

Jimin closed his sketchbook slowly. "Hey."

Silence stretched between them — not heavy, but uncertain. Like stepping onto a bridge they weren’t sure would hold.

Yoongi stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. "Mind if I sit?"

Jimin shook his head. Yoongi lowered himself carefully onto the bench, leaving a polite distance between them. Close enough to hear each other breathe. Far enough to pretend it didn’t matter. Another pause.

Jimin spoke first. "I thought you were avoiding me."

Yoongi huffed a quiet breath — not quite a laugh. "I wasn’t."

"You disappeared after the piano."

Yoongi stared ahead at the garden. "I didn’t know what to say."

"You didn’t have to say anything," Jimin said softly. "It was... enough."

Yoongi finally looked at him then. And something inside him cracked open. Jimin’s eyes weren’t empty. They weren’t guarded. They were tired, yes. Worn down. But open. Waiting.

Yoongi wet his lips, throat dry. "I’m not good at this."

"This?"

"People."

Jimin tilted his head, a small crease forming between his brows. "You’re better at it than you think."

Yoongi let that sit there — heavy, frightening, true.

The breeze stirred Jimin’s hair. The pages of his sketchbook fluttered like wings. "I’m scared," the younger said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper.

Yoongi’s chest tightened.

"I know everyone’s fighting so hard for me," Jimin continued. "Tae. Hoseok. You." His fingers curled over the sketchbook. "But sometimes it feels like I’m not really... here anymore. Like part of me gave up and forgot how to come back."

Yoongi’s hand twitched in his pocket. And then, quietly, he said: "Then let’s find it together."

Jimin’s breath caught.

Yoongi stared at him — raw, unguarded — and added, "No pressure. No promises. Just... steps. However small they need to be."

Jimin blinked fast, swallowing against the burn behind his eyes, and he nodded. A small, trembling yes. Yoongi exhaled. And this time, it felt like both of them could finally breathe.

Later that evening, after dinner trays had been collected and the halls had gone soft with nighttime quiet, Jimin was sitting cross-legged on his hospital bed, notebook open across his knees. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, but the corner lamp cast a warmer glow — enough to make the page look less stark. Less intimidating.

He twirled his pen between his fingers. In the chair by the window, Yoongi sat with a paper cup of coffee, tapping his fingers absently against the lid. Neither spoke for a while. It wasn’t awkward. It was just… waiting. Waiting for Jimin to decide if he was ready.

Finally, Jimin let out a breath and closed the notebook halfway, holding it tight to his chest. "I wrote something," he said, voice soft.

Yoongi’s tapping stopped. "I mean, it’s not finished," Jimin added quickly, cheeks coloring. "It’s barely anything. It’s stupid."

"It’s not stupid," Yoongi said immediately.

Jimin’s fingers tightened over the notebook. "You don’t even know what it is yet."

"I don’t have to."

Jimin looked up, startled by the certainty in his voice.

Yoongi just gave a small, patient nod. "You want to share it?"

A long beat of silence. Then, cautiously, Jimin flipped the notebook open and turned it around, sliding it across the bed toward Yoongi. Their fingers brushed briefly on the cover — a touch that felt louder than any words. Yoongi reached out, taking the notebook gently, like it was something fragile. Something important.

His eyes scanned the page. The handwriting was neat, a little slanted, full of hesitation — like each letter had been wrestled into existence. But the words... The words burned.

Today I stood under the sky and remembered that I am small — but not invisible.

I am broken — but not beyond repair.

I am scared — but still breathing.

And maybe... maybe that's enough for today.

Yoongi’s throat tightened. He looked up, finding Jimin watching him with something between fear and hope etched across his face. "It’s stupid, isn’t it?" Jimin whispered.

Yoongi shook his head — once, hard. "No."

"Then why do I feel so scared?"

Yoongi leaned forward, resting the notebook carefully on the side table like something precious. "Because it matters," he said simply. "Because it’s yours."

Jimin blinked fast, fighting the emotion rising in his chest. Yoongi didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. "You’re here, Jimin," he said softly. "And you're fighting. Even if it’s just with words."

Jimin exhaled shakily and this time… he smiled. Small. Real. Cracked and beautiful. And Yoongi… Yoongi smiled back. Not the polite, professional curve of lips he gave the world.
But something quieter. More personal. Something just for Jimin.

Later that day, the hospital hallway had fallen into its midnight hush — the world slowing down to the hum of machines, distant footsteps, the soft hiss of the ventilation system. Yoongi was standing just outside Room 305, his hand curled loosely around the edge of the doorframe. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been there.

Ten minutes?

Twenty?

The coffee in his other hand had long gone cold.

Inside, the lights had been dimmed. Jimin was sleeping curled toward the window, his sketchbook tucked under one arm, the blanket pulled halfway up his shoulder. From here, Yoongi could just make out the slow rise and fall of his breathing.

Steady.

Alive.

Safe.

Yoongi should have left. Should have finished his rounds, signed off on reports, buried himself in paperwork like he usually did when things got too close. But he couldn't. Something rooted him to the spot — a tether woven from piano music, soft laughter, a notebook full of fragile words. Something that felt dangerously like hope.

Hope was a traitor.

Hope made you stay when you knew better.

Hope made you want when you had no right to want anything at all.

Yoongi closed his eyes, resting his forehead briefly against the cold metal of the doorframe. He hadn't realized how deeply the silence had sunk into him until now — how long he had been walking through the world without reaching out. Without letting anything reach him.

But this?

Jimin?

This was different.

This was terrifying. And real. And already too late to undo. Yoongi’s fingers twitched against the doorframe once — a silent struggle. Then, very quietly, he pulled back.
Turned away. But not without one last glance. Just long enough to see Jimin shift in his sleep, brow smoothing out like even his dreams were lighter tonight. Just long enough to know that for the first time in years, Yoongi didn’t feel like a ghost moving through a world that couldn’t touch him. He felt here. He felt alive. And he felt — deep down — that he was already his, whether either of them said it aloud or not.

+++

The therapy wing smelled like eucalyptus and hope.

Jimin stood just inside the entrance, gripping the handles of his walker so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His heart hammered against his ribs — not from exertion, but from the way the room seemed to stretch wide and endless in front of him.

He remembered the last time he was here. The first time he tried breathing again.
The last time he thought he might not survive. But this wasn’t that day. And Hoseok — bright, steady Hoseok — was right in front of him, holding a foam ball casually under one arm like they were about to play a harmless game instead of rebuild a life.

“No rush,” Hoseok said, his voice light, like a feather brushing over a wound. “One step is enough. You make the rules today.”

Jimin swallowed hard. His legs shook — barely — but enough that he noticed it.
Enough that fear whispered, You’ll fall again. But another voice, quieter and braver, said: Maybe you won't. Slowly — painfully slowly — he lifted his right foot and placed it forward. The walker trembled with the shift of weight. His arms tensed. But he didn’t fall.

"Good," Hoseok said warmly, as if Jimin had just run a marathon.

Another step.

Another breath.

Another heartbeat shouting, I’m still here.

Jimin’s forehead dampened with sweat. His arms ached. But when he made it halfway across the mat, Hoseok raised both arms like a coach at the finish line.

“That’s it! You’re doing it, Jimin-ah. You’re doing it.”

Jimin let out a shaky, broken laugh — the sound startling in the quiet. And across the room, unseen by anyone but the walls, Yoongi watched. He stood half-shadowed by the doorframe, arms crossed tight against his chest, heart hammering against his ribs with every unsteady step Jimin took.

He didn’t blink.

He didn’t breathe.

He barely existed except to witness this.

The walker, the mat, the trembling legs — none of it mattered. What mattered was the fire in Jimin’s eyes. Small. Flickering. But alive. When Jimin finally sank onto the low padded bench with a sigh of exhaustion, Hoseok tossed the foam ball into his lap.

“You win,” he grinned.

Jimin caught it clumsily — then smiled. A real smile. Weak, tired, but dazzling in a way that made something deep inside Yoongi break all over again. He turned away before anyone could see him. But not before the thought slipped past every defense he had left:

I want to stay.

I want to stay for him.

The days settled into a quiet rhythm. Morning rounds. Physical therapy. Short walks in the garden. Breath by breath, Jimin was rebuilding something invisible and precious inside himself. And Yoongi — Yoongi was rebuilding something too. But he didn’t let anyone see it.

He told himself it was professional — that it was clinical necessity that made him check Jimin’s oxygen stats personally instead of delegating it. That it was habit, not care, when he adjusted Jimin’s IV line even when the nurses already had. That it was efficiency, not feeling, when he reviewed Jimin’s chart every night before going home.

He told himself that because the truth was harder. He couldn’t not look after him. But he kept it strictly medical. Always a clipboard in hand. Always a question about dosage, breathing, vitals. Always standing just a little too far from the bed, arms crossed, eyes calm.

Never personal.

Never too close.

Except when it was.

Because every time Jimin smiled at him — soft, cautious, real — something cracked a little deeper inside Yoongi’s carefully built armor. Because every time he heard Jimin’s voice — stronger, steadier — it sounded less like a patient’s and more like a heartbeat he wanted to memorize. And because every time he left Room 305, he had to physically remind himself:

You don’t belong here.

You can’t afford to belong.

One afternoon, Yoongi lingered longer than he meant to. Jimin had been sketching again — small things this time. A hand. A tree. A crooked little bird perched on a windowsill. Nothing important. Everything important.

Yoongi watched him for a moment longer than he should have. Watched the way Jimin’s tongue poked out a little in concentration. The way his eyebrows furrowed in frustration when the pencil didn’t move fast enough. The way he smiled — small but bright — when he was satisfied.

Yoongi turned abruptly on his heel, pulse stuttering. Strictly medical, he reminded himself.
Strictly survival. But as he walked down the hall, clipboard pressed too tightly to his chest, the truth whispered louder than his excuses:

You’re already his, whether you admit it or not.

+++

The hospital’s small visitor lounge was nearly empty that night — just the low hum of vending machines and the flicker of a muted television playing an old movie no one was watching. Taehyung sat cross-legged on the floor by the low coffee table, a colorful stack of origami paper spread out in front of him like a spilled rainbow. His brow was furrowed, tongue poking out a little in concentration. Jungkook lounged beside him, back against the couch, sleeves pushed up, his own sheet of paper crumpled slightly in his hands.

"This is harder than it looks," Jungkook muttered, trying to follow the tutorial Taehyung had pulled up on his phone.

"You have to be gentle," Taehyung said, grinning as he smoothed out a bright blue square. "It’s paper, not a battle."

"I’m used to saving lives, not folding birds."

Taehyung laughed — a low, easy sound that made something flutter in Jungkook’s chest. "Well, lucky for you," Taehyung said, "paper cranes are for hope, not survival."

He demonstrated a slow, careful fold, fingers precise but graceful, like he was coaxing the shape out of the paper instead of forcing it. Jungkook watched — and not just the paper. He watched the way Taehyung’s hair fell into his eyes. The way his mouth curved when he was focused. The way his whole body seemed to breathe creativity.

"You’re good at this," Jungkook said without thinking.

Taehyung looked up, surprised. His smile softened. "Thanks."

They folded in silence for a while. The pile of cranes grew slowly — crooked and lopsided and beautiful in their imperfection. One red. One green. Two blue. One patterned with tiny stars.

"Jimin-ssi will love these," Jungkook said quietly, reaching for another sheet.

"Yeah," Taehyung murmured, smoothing a crease. "And maybe… he’ll feel less alone."

Jungkook glanced at him. "You're not alone either, you know," Jungkook said, voice low.

Taehyung's hands stilled. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Taehyung looked over — really looked — and something shifted between them. Something warm. Something waiting. Their knees brushed. Neither pulled away.

Taehyung smiled — soft, real. "Neither are you."

They folded another crane. And another. And somewhere between the folds and the laughter,
hope bloomed quietly between them too.

Later that evening, after the cranes were tucked carefully into a paper bag, Taehyung stayed behind in the visitor lounge with Jungkook, the atmosphere softening even further into something almost fragile. They sat side by side on the couch now, origami scraps scattered across the low table like fallen petals.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Taehyung sighed, tilting his head back against the cushions. "You know," he said, voice distant, "before all this... Jimin wasn’t just surviving. He was dancing."

Jungkook glanced at him, attentive.

"He lived for it," Taehyung went on, a wistful smile tugging at his mouth. "Contemporary, ballet, modern — you name it. There were nights when he’d come home so tired he could barely stand, but he'd still find the strength to spin across the living room floor, laughing like the world had no weight."

Taehyung rubbed the back of his neck, voice dropping lower.

"He was brilliant. He was..." He swallowed. "He was free."

Jungkook didn’t say anything at first.

He just listened.

Really listened — the kind of listening that didn’t need to be filled with words.

Taehyung glanced at him, startled by the depth he found in the younger man's gaze. Not pity.
Not sadness. Just understanding. After a long moment, Jungkook shifted, pulling a sketchpad from his messenger bag — something he'd been carrying around half-forgotten for days. Without a word, he flipped to a blank page and started drawing, pencil strokes light and fast, sure in a way that suggested he wasn’t second-guessing the image forming in his mind.

Taehyung watched curiously but didn’t interrupt. It took only a few minutes. Finally, Jungkook tore the page free and held it out, a little shyly. Taehyung took it carefully. And stared.

It was Jimin.

Not the fragile boy in a hospital gown. But Jimin as he might have been — mid-spin, hair flowing like silk, a slight smile tugging at his lips, eyes closed in pure, effortless joy.
There was motion in the lines. Freedom. Life.

Taehyung’s throat closed up.

"As if you knew him… as if you remembered him," he whispered.

Jungkook shrugged one shoulder, suddenly shy. "You described him. I just... connected the dots."

Taehyung’s fingers curled tightly around the edge of the paper, blinking fast. "Thank you," he said, voice thick.

Jungkook smiled — soft, boyish, a little crooked. "For him," Jungkook said simply. "And for you."

They sat there, quietly sharing the weight of memory, the hope of healing, the fragile, impossible belief that maybe there was still a future worth fighting for. Together.

+++

Morning light crept slowly across the floor of Room 305, painting gold onto the pale walls and glinting off the metal railings of the bed. Jimin stirred awake slowly, eyes fluttering open, mind foggy but calm.

For once, there was no panic waiting in his chest. No sharp claws of fear. Just the quiet hum of morning, the steady beep of the monitor, the faint smell of paper and warm sunlight. He blinked up at the ceiling, trying to orient himself.

And then—

He saw them.

A string of paper cranes — dozens of them, bright and soft and clumsy and beautiful — hung gently across the window, the sunlight catching in their creases and folds like stained glass. They danced in the morning breeze, shifting slightly, casting delicate shadows over the bed. Jimin's breath caught in his throat. Slowly, he sat up, wincing at the slight pull in his side.

Beside him on the small rolling table was a sheet of folded paper. Curious, he reached out and unfolded it carefully. Inside was a portrait. Of himself. Not the fragile, half-faded version he saw in the mirror lately — but a boy caught mid-dance, arms wide, head tilted back, a smile pulling at his lips like gravity had forgotten him.

Free.

Alive.

For a long, long moment, Jimin just stared. He traced the pencil lines with his fingertip, as if touching them might somehow make it real. Tears burned behind his eyes, but they didn’t fall.
They just shimmered there — a weight, a promise. There was a small, messy note at the bottom in two different handwriting styles:

“For when you forget: You’re still you.”— Tae & Kook

Jimin pressed the paper to his chest, breathing in slow and deep. For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel like a ghost trapped in a body he no longer recognized. He felt seen. He felt remembered. He felt... possible again.

Outside, the paper cranes fluttered against the window like a thousand tiny promises:

You are not broken.

You are not alone.

You are still here.

Chapter Text

The garden was still dewy with morning when Jimin stepped outside, arms wrapped loosely around himself, blanket tucked over his shoulders like a shawl. His steps were slow but steady, legs wobbling slightly beneath him, but he didn’t stop. Taehyung and Jungkook sat under the sycamore tree on a bench they’d unofficially claimed as their own. They were sharing a banana milk and a convenience-store pastry, taking turns breaking pieces off like it was some ancient ritual.

They looked up as Jimin approached. Neither of them said anything at first. Then Jungkook stood — quickly, instinctively, like he meant to help.

But Jimin lifted one hand, the smallest of smiles on his lips. “I’m okay.”

Taehyung watched him carefully, eyes scanning for tremors, shadows, signs of pain. But Jimin looked different today. Not whole — not yet — but lighter. Like something had been let go. Jimin reached them and stopped, standing just in front of the bench.

His voice was soft when he spoke. “The cranes…”

Taehyung smiled, eyes crinkling. “We weren’t sure if it’d be too much.”

“It was exactly enough,” Jimin said.

He turned to Jungkook next. “And the drawing… I haven’t seen myself like that in a long time.”

Jungkook looked slightly sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “You looked like someone who needed reminding.”

Jimin’s throat tightened.

“Thank you,” he said. And he meant it, deeper than words could reach. “For seeing me.”

Taehyung stood and pulled him into a loose, careful hug, mindful of the healing still underway beneath the skin. “You’ve always been here, Chim,” Taehyung whispered. “Even when you forgot.”

When they pulled back, Jungkook hesitated — then reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out something small. A folded crane. Smaller than the others. He offered it wordlessly. Jimin accepted it with both hands, heart thudding.

This one had a tiny phrase inked onto the wing: "You’re allowed to come back."

Jimin didn’t cry. But something in him opened wide, like a window letting in the spring air for the first time. He sat down between them — Taehyung to his left, Jungkook to his right — and for a while, they didn’t speak. They just watched the cranes shift gently in the breeze, like hope, fluttering softly, but not fading.

+++

Yoongi stood just inside the east wing corridor, tucked between the vending machine alcove and the fire door — far enough not to be noticed, but close enough to see. Jimin was sitting outside beneath the sycamore tree, flanked by Taehyung and Jungkook, his head tilted back in laughter. A real laugh.

Not polite. Not exhausted. Not the one he gave to make others feel better. This one was full, clear, a little breathless — and alive.

Yoongi froze. He hadn’t seen Jimin laugh like that since the day they met. Not even once. It hit him in the chest like a second heartbeat.

Unexpected.

Uninvited.

Unstoppable.

He clenched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, as if that could somehow dam the feelings pressing at the edges of his ribs. He had told himself it was admiration. Respect. The quiet pride a doctor felt when a patient beat the odds. But it wasn’t that. Not anymore. It was the way his eyes always found Jimin first. It was the way his body softened whenever Jimin entered a room. It was the ache in his throat right now — just from seeing him smile.

Yoongi turned from the window before he gave himself away.

+++

The rooftop was wrapped in the late afternoon haze — warm but breezy, the sky brushed with gold and fading lavender. Namjoon leaned against the railing, one hand curled around a paper coffee cup, the other tucked in his coat pocket. His tie was half-loosened. His brow furrowed in thought. Seokjin stood beside him, arms crossed, looking out over the city skyline.

“Yoongi’s changing,” Namjoon said softly.

Seokjin didn’t ask how he knew. He just murmured, “He always does when it matters.”

Namjoon smiled faintly into his coffee. “You sound like someone who knows him better than he lets on.”

“I know what it’s like,” Seokjin said, eyes still on the horizon. “To build walls so high you forget what they were for in the first place.”

Namjoon glanced sideways. “And what made you remember?”

Seokjin didn’t answer right away. But then, quietly, “Someone stopped knocking and just climbed over.”

Their eyes met — and held. Something in the air between them tightened, not tense, but aware. Namjoon’s voice lowered. “You’re not easy to climb.”

“You’re not easy to walk away from,” Seokjin replied.

The wind stirred. Their hands brushed — not by accident. Neither of them moved. Not yet. Not quite. But something shifted. Settled. Promised. Without saying another word, they stood there, shoulders barely touching, watching the last of the light paint gold across the buildings. Some love didn’t need a name to be real. It just needed a rooftop, a moment, and two people who stayed. The breeze on the rooftop shifted, brushing Namjoon’s coat collar gently against his throat. Beside him, Seokjin leaned forward slightly on the railing, watching the clouds drift over the hospital campus like they had nowhere to be. A long, comfortable silence stretched between them.

And then Namjoon spoke. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

Seokjin didn’t even need to think. “Second-floor break room. You looked like you hadn’t slept in four days. You spilled coffee on a patient chart and muttered an apology to the coffee.”

Namjoon huffed a laugh. “I was a mess.”

“You still are,” Seokjin teased, nudging him with his elbow. “Just better dressed now.”

They smiled at each other — quiet, familiar.

“I didn’t know how to ask for help back then,” Namjoon said after a pause. “Didn’t know how to slow down. I thought burning myself out meant I was doing something right.”

“You were trying to prove you were worth the space you took up,” Seokjin said gently.

Namjoon glanced sideways, surprised at the accuracy. “You were always good at reading people.”

“Just the ones who pretend they don’t need anyone.”

Their eyes met again — softer now. Bare.

Seokjin looked back at the skyline. “I didn’t stay because you were perfect. I stayed because you didn’t pretend to be.”

Namjoon swallowed, throat tight. “You never made me feel like I had to be more than I was,” Seokjin added, voice low. “Not smarter. Not stronger. Just... enough.”

The wind rustled. A cloud drifted past the sun.

“And you?” Seokjin asked quietly. “Why did you stay?”

Namjoon was silent for a long moment.

Then: “Because you’re the only person who could make silence feel like a conversation.”

Seokjin’s breath hitched. Barely. But it did.

Namjoon turned toward him fully. “And because when everything else in my life felt too loud, you never tried to fix the noise. You just sat next to me until it softened.”

Their hands brushed again. This time, Namjoon let his fingers shift — slow, deliberate — until they curled gently around Seokjin’s. And Seokjin let them.

+++

The physical therapy wing was dark and empty after hours, the lights on motion sensors, humming low overhead. Yoongi sat alone on the padded mat beside the mirrored wall, his coat still on, collar turned up, shoulders hunched like the silence had gotten too heavy. Across from him, Hoseok leaned against a balance bar, slowly bouncing a stress ball between his hands.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. Not until Hoseok finally tossed the ball into Yoongi’s lap and said, “You’re spiraling.”

Yoongi caught the ball, but didn’t look up. “Am I?”

Hoseok smiled faintly. “You only sit here in the dark when you’re either overwhelmed or halfway to falling in love.”

Yoongi scowled. “It’s not that.”

“No?” Hoseok said casually. “Could’ve fooled me. The way you hover by his room. The way you go quiet whenever someone mentions his name. The way you don’t smile, but your eyes change when he’s near…”

“Stop,” Yoongi cut in, voice sharper than intended.

Hoseok did. Yoongi sighed and leaned back against the wall, tilting his head toward the ceiling. After a long pause… “I’m scared.” It came out smaller than he meant. But real. “I thought I buried all of this after Hana,” Yoongi continued. “I made peace with never… opening that door again. But now…” He rubbed at his eyes. “Jimin’s different.”

“How so?” Hoseok asked, softer now.

“He’s… quiet,” Yoongi said slowly. “But not empty. He feels everything but never says it. He’s hurting but he still notices things. The way the sun hits the floor. The sound of the piano. People’s silences.”

He swallowed.

“He sees me. And he doesn’t even realize it.”

Hoseok nodded slowly. “That’s usually when it’s real.”

Yoongi’s hand clenched around the stress ball. “I can’t do it again, Hobi. I can’t care and then lose it. I won’t survive it a second time.”

“You’re not the same person you were then,” Hoseok said quietly. “And neither is he. This isn’t Hana’s story. It’s yours. It’s his. And it hasn’t even started yet.”

Yoongi looked over, eyes tired but searching. “What if I break him?”

Hoseok crossed the mat, crouched in front of him. “Then you catch him,” he said. “And if he breaks you - we’ll catch you. That’s what this is.”

Yoongi didn’t reply. But he didn’t argue either. And that was enough. They sat like that — in the hush of the empty room, the echoes of old pain curling around the edges of something quietly, frighteningly new.

The halls of the east wing were silent at night, after he left his friend. Only the quiet beeping of machines and the low, rhythmic murmur of ventilators remained. Yoongi stood outside Room 305, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the doorframe, thumb running over a crease in his coat pocket that hadn’t been there before.

He wasn’t on shift.

He didn’t have a reason to be here.

But he was here anyway.

He cracked the door open gently. A warm glow from the corner lamp spilled across the room in soft amber. Inside, Jimin lay still on his side, facing the window. His breathing was slow. Even.

Sleeping.

Yoongi exhaled — not relief, not tension — something in between. He stepped inside and let the door close behind him, the soft click too loud in the quiet. He moved slowly toward the side of the bed, where the chair had already been pulled close — as if he’d always meant to return.

He didn’t sit. He just stood there, eyes fixed on the curve of Jimin’s back beneath the blanket, on the soft edges of the cranes swaying in the night breeze.

“You complicate everything,” Yoongi whispered.

Jimin didn’t move.

“I didn’t want this. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything again.”

His voice cracked, but he didn’t let it break.

“Not after her. Not after what I let happen.”

Yoongi’s hands curled into fists.

“But I keep coming back. I tell myself it’s clinical, that it’s just routine—but it’s not. It stopped being that the moment I saw you smile in pain. The moment you called me back when I was walking away.”

He let the silence stretch.

“I care, Jimin,” he breathed. “More than I should. And I’m scared as hell.”

He took one final look — at the slope of Jimin’s shoulder, the paper crane on the table, the breath still rising and falling from the body he couldn’t stop orbiting. Then he turned and walked to the door, opening it slowly. The sound of it closing behind him was soft. Final. And he never saw Jimin’s eyes open, wide and filled with quiet tears. Never saw the way Jimin’s shoulders shook under the blanket, the silent sob that slipped out only after the door clicked shut. He had heard everything. Felt every word like a hand against his heart. But he said nothing. Because he was still learning what to do with love when it arrived dressed as fear.

+++

By late afternoon, the soft green band on Jimin’s wrist had been scanned more than a dozen times.

Blood drawn.

EKGs.

Echoes.

Pressure cuffs tightening, machines whirring, questions whispered over his head in quick clinical shorthand. He answered when he had to. Endured the rest in silence. It wasn’t pain that exhausted him — it was feeling too much, all the time.

Especially around Dr. Min. Yoongi hadn’t come by again since the night before. And Jimin didn’t know what would have been worse: if he had, or if he hadn’t. So when Hoseok dropped him off at the common room for a “no more labs” break, Jimin didn’t argue. He just sank onto a cushioned chair in the corner, blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, head heavy.

The hum of soft music played from an overhead speaker. The table in front of him was scattered with crayons, sketchpads, adult coloring books. Leftovers from some therapy group or art activity earlier in the day. And across from him, already settled and flipping through a sketchpad, was Jungkook.

He looked up, eyebrows raised in gentle surprise. “Want some company?”

Jimin gave a small nod and sat across from him. They didn’t speak at first. Jungkook pushed a coloring book toward him — one of those intricate mandala ones — along with a box of pencils.

Jimin blinked at it. “This is harder than it looks.”

“Then we’ll fail together,” Jungkook said, already shading in a corner of a geometric flower with a soft green.

Jimin gave a breathy laugh. They colored in silence for a while. At some point, Jimin looked up to find Jungkook sketching something in the margins of his page - a tiny crane, barely the size of a coin.

Jimin tilted his head. “You’re good at those.”

Jungkook glanced up with a small shrug. “I draw when I don’t know what to say.”

Jimin nodded. “I write. But lately it feels like… too much.”

“Then do something small,” Jungkook said simply. “Even coloring is enough when your brain won’t shut up.”

They fell into a rhythm — color, shift, breathe. At some point, Jimin picked up a soft peach pencil and started filling in the petals of a lotus bloom. At some other point, he stopped thinking. Not about needles. Not about diagnoses. Not about Yoongi’s voice in the dark or the way it had cracked around I care.

Just lines. Just color. Just stillness.

Jungkook slid a folded paper toward him.

Inside was a tiny drawing.

It was Jimin’s hand — sketchy, quick, imperfect — but cradling a pencil. Drawing. Alive.

“I didn’t ask you to draw me,” Jimin murmured.

“You didn’t have to,” Jungkook replied. “You looked peaceful. That’s rare.”

Jimin stared at it for a long moment. Then tucked it inside the coloring book like it was something precious. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

Jungkook didn’t answer. He just picked up another color and passed it to Jimin - something bright. Something soft. Something that didn’t hurt to hold.

From just outside the glass-paneled door of the common room, Taehyung stood still — hands tucked into the sleeves of his cardigan, heart a little heavier than it had been that morning. Inside, Jimin sat curled over a coloring book, shoulder relaxed, eyes soft. His fingers moved slowly, shading the edges of a lotus flower in pale peach. And next to him, hunched over his own sketchpad, was Jungkook.

Their heads were tilted close together. They weren’t speaking — but they didn’t need to. The room was filled with quiet warmth, and something about the way Jungkook handed Jimin a new color — without asking, without even glancing — made something twist gently in Taehyung’s chest. He didn’t recognize it as jealousy. Not at first.

Because it wasn’t sharp or bitter.

It was soft.

Unsettling.

New.

It wasn’t about losing Jimin. That part he understood — had made peace with. He wanted Jimin to smile. To breathe. To feel like the world was worth staying in. But when Taehyung looked at Jungkook, leaning in slightly, laughing at something Jimin had muttered under his breath…

That’s when it hit him.

It wasn’t about what Jungkook was doing.

It was about how he made people feel — safe, easy, seen. And for the first time since they’d met in that hallway — crashing into each other like fate missed a beat — Taehyung felt his chest tighten, but not from fear. From something warmer. Something he didn’t have a name for yet. He swallowed. Pressed his palm lightly against the frame of the glass. And still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just let the ache settle beside him like an old friend with a new face. He wasn’t ready to admit what it meant. But part of him — the part that always knew the truth first — already did.

But he wasn’t alone. Behind him, a few quiet steps back, Yoongi stood half in shadow, arms still, gaze fixed on the same scene. Jimin’s head tilted as he handed Jungkook a pencil.
Jungkook murmured something — something quiet and simple — and Jimin smiled. Not just polite. Not forced. Genuine.

Yoongi’s jaw tensed. He didn’t know if it was jealousy. Didn’t know if it was worry. Only that it unsettled him deeply to watch Jimin shine in someone else’s light — someone younger, steadier, undeniably kind. Someone who hadn’t already failed someone like him before. He swallowed, teeth clenched just slightly, hands curling into fists at his sides before he forced them to relax.

Taehyung didn’t notice. Didn’t hear the way Yoongi exhaled through his nose — sharp, controlled. Didn’t sense the heaviness behind him, or the way Yoongi’s eyes flicked — not to Jungkook, but to Jimin, always to Jimin. They both stood there, silently watching the boy neither of them knew how to protect without falling. And neither said a word.

Later that day, after the common room had emptied and the sun had slipped lower in the sky, Jungkook found Taehyung standing outside the therapy wing, half-hidden by a row of vending machines, sipping quietly from a banana milk. Taehyung looked up when he heard footsteps, expression unreadable for a split second — until it softened into something familiar.

“Hey,” Jungkook said.

“Hey,” Taehyung echoed, eyes flicking over him, tired but alert, fresh off his shift.

“You haven’t eaten,” Taehyung added, not quite a question.

Jungkook scratched the back of his neck. “Didn’t have time. I was—”

“Busy saving lives, I know,” Taehyung interrupted gently. “Which is exactly why you need to eat.” He pushed away from the wall. “Come on.”

Jungkook blinked. “Where are we going?”

“Hospital café. I’m buying.”

Jungkook arched a brow. “Is this a bribe?”

“No,” Taehyung said, already walking ahead. “It’s definitely not a bribe… or a date.”

Jungkook chuckled under his breath. “You always say that before doing something kinda sweet.”

Taehyung didn’t respond — just pushed open the glass door and nodded toward the counter like he hadn’t heard.

They sat in the corner of the nearly empty café, each with a tray of something warm and honestly mediocre. Taehyung had bulgogi rice and miso soup. Jungkook had curry with extra potatoes. They didn’t speak much while eating, but it wasn’t awkward.

It felt... easy.

When they were done, Taehyung paid without ceremony and walked with Jungkook to the staff entrance, where the night was cold and quiet and waiting. Jungkook shoved his hands into his pockets as they stepped into the street.

“I can walk myself,” he said casually.

“I know,” Taehyung replied, adjusting his scarf. “But I’m walking you anyway.”

They walked side by side in silence for a few minutes, shoes tapping softly against the pavement.

At the bus stop, Jungkook turned to him with a half-smile. “You didn’t have to—”

“It’s not a date,” Taehyung cut in quickly, but his voice was soft. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Jungkook stared at him for a moment.

Then he grinned.

Didn’t say a word.

Just stepped closer and said quietly, “Thanks, hyung.”

The bus headlights rounded the corner. Jungkook turned, lifted his hand in farewell, and stepped up onto the platform. Taehyung watched him go, a little too long. A little too quiet.

Definitely not a date. But maybe the beginning of something.

Chapter Text

Jimin’s Room – 10:47 p.m.

The lights were dim. The cranes on the window barely stirred. The pencil in Jimin’s hand moved slowly across the page.

“I think I smiled today without faking it.

I think I let someone draw me and didn’t feel like a stranger in my own body.

I think I heard the truth in someone’s voice last night.

And maybe I didn’t imagine it.”_

He paused. The page smelled faintly of graphite and hand lotion. He could still hear Jungkook’s laugh in his ears. Still feel the weight of Taehyung’s absence beside him. Still remember the sound of Yoongi’s voice in the dark. He hadn’t turned to face him that night.
Hadn’t moved. But he’d heard every word. And they hadn’t left him. Not even now.

“You said you care.

You said you didn’t want to.

So why do I keep hoping you’ll come back and say it again — this time while I’m looking at you?”_

He stared at the words for a long moment. Then closed the notebook slowly and pressed it to his chest, eyes drifting shut.

+++

Yoongi’s Apartment – 11:02 p.m.

The apartment was too quiet. Yoongi had poured himself a drink he hadn’t touched. A medical journal lay open on the table. He hadn’t read a single line. The piano in the corner of the room sat untouched — the same keys he hadn’t played since before her, now full of ghosts he wasn’t ready to wake again.

He paced once. Twice. Then sat on the edge of his sofa, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly. He had told Jimin the truth… Or at least, a part of it. He had said it when he thought Jimin was sleeping, when it was safe to bleed a little into the silence.

And now?

Now he didn’t know how to walk it back. Didn’t know how to move forward.

He reached for his phone. Unlocked it. Opened the hospital system.

Room 305. Stable.

Heart rate steady.

No alerts. No calls. No notes.

He exhaled. Set the phone down. Picked it up again two minutes later. What did he want? He didn’t even know. Just that the space Jimin left behind in him was no longer empty - it was loud. And the longer he stayed away, the louder it got.

The early morning sun filtered through the blinds in thin, golden stripes across the floor of Room 305. When Yoongi knocked gently and stepped inside, he expected the usual - a half-asleep Jimin, curled toward the window, blanket pulled high. Instead, he found Jimin already sitting up, sketchbook in his lap, eyes lifting the moment Yoongi crossed the threshold. For half a heartbeat, neither of them spoke.

Yoongi cleared his throat. “You’re up early.”

Jimin nodded once, fingers still resting on the open page. He looked tired, but not unreadable, like he’d spent the night holding a quiet conversation with himself. “I couldn’t sleep,” Jimin said softly.

Yoongi nodded, stepping further in. “Nightmares?”

“No. Just... thoughts.”

Yoongi didn’t press. Instead, he walked to the monitor, checked the vitals out of habit - more for something to do than anything else. “You were approved for a supervised walk,” he said without turning around. “Physical therapy cleared it this morning.”

Jimin blinked, surprised. “That soon?”

“You’re stable enough. And the sooner you start, the easier it gets.” Yoongi looked over his shoulder, meeting Jimin’s eyes. “If you want to.”

A pause. Jimin searched his face - the clinical tone, the guarded distance Yoongi always wore like armor - but something was different today. Not softer. But less... impenetrable.

“I want to,” Jimin said after a moment. “But I want it to be quiet.”

Yoongi nodded. “We’ll avoid the main corridors.”

“I don’t want the wheelchair,” Jimin added, more firm now.

Yoongi almost smiled. “Then we’ll go slow.”

Another beat.

“Can you walk with me?” Jimin asked, voice low.

That made Yoongi hesitate — not out of reluctance, but out of the fear he couldn’t name.

Still, he answered, “Yeah. Of course.”

Jimin nodded and began to slowly push back the blanket, revealing bare feet and trembling determination. Yoongi moved toward him instinctively, reaching out without thinking - then stopping short, letting Jimin shift and steady himself first. Only when Jimin wavered did Yoongi’s hand come to rest just behind his elbow.

Not guiding.

Just... there.

Their eyes met briefly. Something passed between them — a silent thread stretched across distance, across fear, across everything they weren’t ready to say out loud yet. Then, without another word, Jimin took his first step.

The hallway outside Room 305 was unusually quiet that morning — a few nurses at the far end, a clatter of a breakfast cart echoing from the north wing, but otherwise… still. Jimin stood just outside the doorway, one hand braced lightly against the wall, the other curled loosely at his side. His hospital socks slid slightly on the polished floor, but he found his footing. Yoongi stood to his right, a half step back — close enough to reach for him if needed, but not touching.

They didn’t speak.

The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt necessary — like noise would have broken something fragile still forming in the space between them. Jimin inhaled slowly, then took a step. His legs trembled with the shift in weight, but Yoongi didn’t move.

Another step.

Yoongi’s eyes tracked every shift, every tremor, his body taut with awareness - but he still didn’t reach. He was letting Jimin do this. On his terms. They moved together like a breath.

Step.

Pause.

Step.

Jimin’s hand brushed the wall again, fingers dragging for balance. He stopped, chest heaving a little harder now, cheeks flushed — not from exhaustion, but from how much this meant.

Yoongi finally spoke, voice quiet. “Want to turn back?”

Jimin looked at him, eyes tired but fierce. “No.”

So they kept going. They reached the sunlit alcove by the nurses’ station — the place where the floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto the garden, still dappled with dew. Jimin stopped. Yoongi did too. The light poured across Jimin’s face, turning the strands of his hair into gold and his breath into something visible in the chill of the corridor.

He looked out the window, then back at Yoongi. “I forgot what sunlight felt like this high up,” he murmured. “It’s different here.”

Yoongi didn’t answer. Not with words. But he was looking - really looking - like Jimin was something rare and delicate and whole. Jimin met his gaze. For the first time, he didn’t look away. And for the first time, Yoongi felt his heart skip for something living, not something lost.

They stood there until the nurse down the hall called Yoongi’s name. But neither moved. Not yet.

Not until Jimin whispered, without breaking eye contact: “Thank you. For not letting me fall.”

Yoongi’s reply was soft. “I never will.”

It happened after the late-afternoon treatment. The new medication had gone in fine — no obvious reaction, no unusual signs. Until it did. Yoongi was reviewing a chart outside when the monitor began to scream. Flatlines don’t always start with beeps — sometimes it’s just the absence of rhythm that makes your chest cave in. The team flooded the room in seconds.
Jimin was pale, lips tinged grey-blue, chest barely rising, eyes fluttering as though caught between sleep and surrender.

“V-fib,” one nurse shouted. “O₂ dropping. He’s not responding.”

Yoongi stepped in and froze for half a second. Not as a doctor. As a man who knew the sound of someone slipping away.

Then he barked, “Clear the room. Now.” They hesitated. “Now!”

Everyone scrambled out — except Jungkook, who moved to the side, eyes wide but steady. Yoongi let him stay. Across the bed, Taehyung had already dropped to his knees beside Jimin, clutching his hand tightly, whispering his name like a prayer falling apart.

“Chim… come on,” Taehyung begged, his voice cracking. “You’re okay, you’re safe. Don’t do this, please. Please, wake up. You promised me.”

Jimin’s head lulled slightly. A soft, barely audible breath. “…I’m tired.”

“Then rest with me,” Taehyung whispered, voice trembling. “But don’t leave me.”

Yoongi saw it — the moment Taehyung’s strength cracked. Saw his shoulders fold in, his hand falter. No. Not yet.

“Taehyung,” he snapped, “out.”

Taehyung blinked up, stunned. But Yoongi was already moving, gripping Jimin’s face gently but firmly, cupping his cheeks, bringing his own face inches away.

“Jimin,” he said, voice calm but razor-sharp. “You are not leaving this room.”

Jimin’s eyes fluttered open, unfocused, tears slipping out from the corners.

“I know you're tired,” Yoongi whispered, fierce now. “But you're not allowed to stop. Not like this. Not when I'm here.”

Jimin trembled under his touch. Yoongi grabbed both of his hands and placed them on his own chest. “Feel that?” he said. “That’s breath. Mine. Now copy me.” Yoongi inhaled — slow, deep. Exhaled. Again. “Breathe with me.”

Jimin gasped, shallow, broken.

“No. Again,” Yoongi demanded. “In.”

He took another breath. Loud. Measured.

Jimin tried. Failed.

Yoongi didn’t let go. “Do it again.”

Another breath.

And then — finally — Jimin’s chest hitched.

A real inhale. Ragged, desperate.

“That’s it,” Yoongi whispered, his forehead nearly touching Jimin’s now. “Again.”

Jimin sobbed — a broken, panicked sound — but he was breathing.

Yoongi squeezed his hands. “You don’t get to go yet. You hear me? You don’t get to go.”

Jimin took another breath. Then another. Until the monitor began to beep again, slow but steady. Across the room, Jungkook’s hands were clenched at his sides, his eyes glassy, his chest heaving like he’d held his own breath the entire time. And Taehyung, standing in the doorway now, pressed a hand to his mouth, stunned.

Yoongi didn’t let go. He just stayed there, forehead pressed lightly to Jimin’s, as the boy in the bed cried — not out of fear. But out of being held onto when he had no more strength to hold himself…

+++

The room was dark when Jimin woke — just the soft hum of machines and the faint tick of a clock on the wall. His chest ached. His throat was raw. But he was breathing. For a moment, that was the only thing that mattered. Then he turned his head — slowly, carefully — and saw Yoongi sitting in the chair by the window. His coat was still on. His hair was tousled from fingers run through it too many times. His eyes were closed — not asleep, but suspended, like he hadn’t moved in hours.

Jimin stared. He didn’t speak. Didn’t want to break the fragile spell that hung in the air between them. Yoongi’s hand rested on the edge of the bed, still curled as if it had only just been holding Jimin’s.

Jimin remembered everything.

The panic.

The voice.

The hands.

The way Yoongi had refused to let him go. His heart thudded once, softly. He opened his mouth. “Yoongi.”

The name… not the title, and the name was quiet. A breath more than a word. Yoongi’s eyes opened instantly — tired, but alert. He looked at Jimin like someone who hadn’t dared to hope.
And then he stood, slow and careful, moving toward the bed.

“You’re okay,” he said softly, voice hoarse. “You’re here.”

Jimin nodded, throat too tight to speak again. Yoongi sat at the edge of the bed, not touching him — just there, so close, so solid, like he was anchoring the whole room.

“Your breathing crashed. Your heart rate dropped. It was close.” He swallowed. “Too close.”

Jimin blinked slowly, gaze never leaving his. “Did I scare you?” he whispered.

Yoongi exhaled, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before locking with Jimin’s again. “Terrified me.”

And there it was — simple. Honest. No defenses. No clinical tone. Just truth.

Jimin’s lips trembled. “I heard you.”

Yoongi stiffened. “What?”

“That night,” Jimin said. “When you thought I was asleep.”

Yoongi looked away. But Jimin reached out, fingers brushing Yoongi’s sleeve. He didn’t grab.
He didn’t plead. Just a touch — soft, permission-seeking. And Yoongi turned back.

“I’m still scared,” Jimin admitted. “But I don’t want to go.”

Yoongi’s eyes softened. His hand came to rest gently over Jimin’s. “Then stay,” he said. “Just stay.”

+++

The fluorescent lights in the staff hallway buzzed faintly, the hum nearly drowned by the low murmur of nurses shuffling between wings. Yoongi leaned back against the cold tile, eyes closed, head tipped toward the ceiling. He looked drained — emotionally scraped raw, like he hadn’t exhaled since Jimin started breathing again. His coat hung open, and his ID badge was askew. From the far end of the hall, Hoseok approached quietly, hands in the pockets of his navy scrubs, hair slightly damp from a recent scrub-in. He stopped a few feet away and studied Yoongi’s face for a long moment.

No teasing today. No jokes. Just a kind voice that cut straight through the quiet. “Why him?”

Yoongi didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t flinch. But something in his posture shifted — just enough.

Hoseok stepped closer. “You’ve seen a hundred patients crash, and I’ve never seen you look like you were about to break in half over it.”

Still, Yoongi said nothing. So Hoseok leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed. “You’ve buried people, Yoongi. I know you carry them. But this one… this one’s different.”

A pause. Another silence Yoongi didn’t fill. So Hoseok tried again — softer now. “You stayed. You’re still staying.”

At last, Yoongi opened his eyes, staring straight ahead, jaw tight. “I didn’t mean to,” he muttered.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Yoongi inhaled through his nose, slow and strained. “Because he sees me,” he finally said. “And he doesn’t even know what he’s looking at, but he sees it anyway.”

Hoseok’s brows furrowed.

Yoongi swallowed. “He’s not trying to impress me. Not trying to be brave for me. He just… exists. And somehow, that’s what makes it worse.”

“Worse?” Hoseok asked.

“Yeah,” Yoongi said, voice rough. “Because now I can’t stop seeing him too.”

They stood there in silence, the weight of Yoongi’s words settling between them like dust in an abandoned room. Hoseok didn’t press further.

He just clapped a hand gently against Yoongi’s shoulder. “Then maybe you’re not supposed to stop.”

And with that, he left Yoongi alone with the only question that mattered anymore:

Now that you know what you feel… what are you going to do about it?

+++

The sun had shifted behind the clouds, leaving a soft gray haze over the waiting area outside the recovery wing. The chairs were mostly empty now, save for a few scattered visitors reading quietly or watching the muted news on the mounted screen. Jungkook walked in slowly, coffee in hand, eyes scanning the room instinctively.

And then he saw him.

Taehyung, curled up on one of the long wooden benches near the window, arms tucked under his head, legs pulled slightly toward his chest. His coat had slipped off his shoulders. One shoe dangled halfway off his foot. He looked peaceful. Exhausted. Defenseless in a way Taehyung rarely allowed himself to be.

Jungkook stood still for a moment. Then quietly walked over, careful not to wake him. He hesitated — then pulled off his hoodie and gently draped it over Taehyung’s shoulders, smoothing it down with the kind of care he hadn’t realized he was capable of. Taehyung stirred a minute later.

Blinking.

Eyes adjusting.

And then…

“What are you doing?” he mumbled, voice still gravelly with sleep.

Jungkook smiled faintly. “You were cold.”

Taehyung glanced down at the hoodie. Then at Jungkook. Then back at the hoodie. “Oh,” he said, awkward and a little too fast. “Thanks. I wasn’t sleeping, though.”

“You were snoring.”

“I don’t snore.”

Jungkook leaned against the edge of the bench, smirking. “Okay, then you were fake-sleeping with dramatic chest rising.”

Taehyung rubbed his face and groaned into his hands. His cheeks flushed, and Jungkook noticed — not in a teasing way, but in the kind of way that stuck with you.

“You looked tired,” Jungkook said more gently now. “I just wanted you to rest.”

Taehyung peeked at him through his fingers. “You always notice when I don’t.”

Jungkook shrugged, soft. “I don’t think I try. I just… do.”

The silence between them settled like a blanket — warm, quiet, easy. And when Taehyung finally sat up, Jungkook didn’t ask for the hoodie back. He just said, “Keep it for now. I’ll be around.”

Taehyung didn’t see Jungkook the whole day. But by the evening he decided to stretch his legs. The hospital courtyard was nearly empty in the early evening. The wind had picked up, fluttering the paper cranes that someone had tied to the garden fence. This was where he found Jungkook again.

He sat on the stone ledge surrounding the flower beds, sipping a juice box someone had pressed into his hand without asking. Beside him, Jungkook sat cross-legged on the ground, his hoodie sleeves pulled down past his wrists, his shoulders hunched slightly. For a long time, neither of them said anything.

“He stopped breathing,” Taehyung said, eyes on the horizon. “And I thought that was it.”

Jungkook didn’t interrupt.

“I’ve seen him tired before. I’ve seen him shut down. But not like that.” Taehyung’s voice cracked. “Not like he was done.”

Jungkook picked at the cuff of his sleeve. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You stayed.”

“I had to stay,” Jungkook said. “It’s my duty to help him... This is what I do.”

Taehyung nodded slowly.

“What scared me most,” he said, “was how fast I gave up. I told myself I’d never stop fighting for him. But when he looked at me and said he needed rest, I just… stopped trying.”

“You didn’t give up,” Jungkook said quietly. “You froze. You’re human.”

Taehyung looked down. “Yoongi didn’t freeze.”

Jungkook hesitated, then added, “He didn’t panic either.”

“No,” Taehyung whispered. “He just… held on to him.”

There was a silence between them then — heavy but not sharp.

“I think he’s in love with him,” Jungkook said after a while.

Taehyung blinked, startled. “Dr. Min?”

Jungkook nodded. Taehyung opened his mouth to protest, but the memory hit him all over again.

Yoongi’s hands on Jimin’s face.

His voice — low, desperate.

The way he whispered, "You don’t get to go."

Taehyung sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. “God, this is too much.”

Jungkook smiled faintly. “Tell me about it.”

They sat in the wind, watching the sky shift from blue to violet. Then, softly, Jungkook asked, “Do you ever get scared that if someone really sees you... they’ll leave anyway?”

Taehyung glanced at him — startled by the vulnerability in his voice. “Yes,” he said honestly. “All the time.”

Jungkook looked down. “Yeah. Me too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was shared. Two boys, two hearts, and the soft beginning of a truth neither had dared to speak yet.

Chapter Text

The first thing Jimin noticed was the light. Not the sterile brightness of hospital bulbs, but the soft gold of early morning, slipping between the blinds and pooling warm across his blanket. The second thing was his own breathing. Steady. Unlabored. No machines beeping urgently, no wires tugging harshly at his skin. Just… breathing.

For a long moment, he lay still, hand resting lightly on his chest, as if confirming the rhythm was real.

It was.

The faint scent of coffee drifted in from somewhere distant down the hall. The muted shuffle of nurses changing shifts. The city waking just beyond the window.

Alive.

Jimin exhaled softly and blinked at the bedside table. There, tucked just under the corner of his water glass, was a small, folded scrap of paper. His chest tightened slightly — he knew the handwriting immediately: precise, sharp, familiar.

“You fought.

I’m proud of you.

Rest today.

— Min Yoongi”

Jimin stared at the words until they blurred slightly. Not Dr. Min. Not Dr. Min Yoongi. Just… Min Yoongi. He wasn’t sure what felt warmer: the sunlight or the simple weight of knowing someone had been thinking of him before the sun even rose. He brushed his thumb lightly over the signature. So controlled. So Yoongi. And yet it read like the softest confession neither of them was brave enough to say aloud. A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.

“Morning,” Hoseok’s familiar voice chirped as the door opened a crack. “If you’re awake, I brought contraband. Well, technically, it’s hospital-approved oatmeal, but I added cinnamon, so it feels rebellious.”

Jimin smiled — small, but real. “Come in.”

The day had only just begun, and for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like a countdown. It felt like a beginning. The tray Hoseok carried in was far too elaborate for something as simple as hospital oatmeal. The bowl sat in the center, neatly flanked by a tiny container of raisins, a sprinkle of chopped apples, and a cinnamon stick resting dramatically across the rim like some high-class garnish. Jimin blinked.

Hoseok set the tray on the over-bed table with a flourish. “Voilà. Gourmet oatmeal à la Hoseok.”

Jimin laughed softly, shaking his head. “It’s oatmeal.”

“Not just oatmeal,” Hoseok corrected, pulling up the visitor chair. “It’s healing food. Chef’s orders.”

Jimin stirred the warm oats slowly, smiling as the sweet cinnamon smell drifted upward. His muscles still ached faintly, but it felt distant — like background noise rather than the weight of survival. Hoseok sat sideways in the chair, legs stretched out, fingers tapping a silent rhythm against his knee. He watched Jimin eat a few bites, satisfied.

“You scared the hell out of us yesterday,” he said next.

Jimin looked down at his spoon. “I know.”

Hoseok’s voice softened immediately. “Hey. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” Jimin gave a small, tired smile. “I’m still here.”

“Damn right you are.” Hoseok grinned, eyes crinkling. “And you’re going to be stuck with me for the foreseeable future. I plan on supervising all future walks, meals, and naps. I take my job very seriously.”

Jimin chuckled quietly. It felt good. Normal.

“Thank you, Hobi-hyung.”

Hoseok waved it off. “Don’t get sentimental. You’re going to ruin my reputation.”

They sat in comfortable silence as Jimin finished the oatmeal, warmth from the food and the company settling gently into his chest.

+++

Yoongi’s office felt cold. The blinds were half-closed. His computer screen glowed dully under the weight of patient charts, reports, dosage adjustments. But his eyes weren’t on them. His fingers tapped absently against his mug, long since gone cold. The same note replayed in his head:

You fought. I’m proud of you. Rest today.

Yoongi frowned at the words as if he regretted writing them, as if they gave too much away. His other hand hovered over Jimin’s digital file. Vital signs stable. Blood oxygen levels improving. Minor fluctuations. Routine. So why the hell couldn’t he stop checking?

He leaned back in his chair, fingers running through his hair in frustration. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not again. Not with him.

And yet…

The sound of Jimin’s quiet breath, the way his fingers had curled into Yoongi’s sleeve the night before, the soft tremor when he whispered, I heard you.

Yoongi clenched his jaw, shut the file, and stood up sharply. His reflection caught in the darkened window: tired eyes, creased lab coat, and something softer around the edges than he wanted to admit.

“Get it together,” he muttered under his breath. But even he didn’t believe it anymore.

The hallways were quieter after shift change. Yoongi walked with his usual stride, clipboard in hand, white coat trailing behind him. If anyone noticed he was headed toward Room 305, no one said a word. He told himself it was standard. Routine. Just checking vitals. But his hand lingered on the door handle for a beat longer than it should have.

Inside, Jimin looked up from his sketchpad. His cheeks still held a faint flush from the earlier walk, but his breathing was calm. The paper cranes by the window fluttered faintly in the breeze.

“You’re working late,” Jimin said softly.

Yoongi stepped in, closing the door gently behind him. “Didn’t like the numbers you pulled this afternoon. I came to check.”

Jimin tilted his head, a ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. “You could’ve sent anyone.”

Yoongi didn’t reply. Didn’t deny it. He pulled the monitor cart over and clipped the pulse oximeter onto Jimin’s finger, watching the numbers climb steadily into safe range.

Jimin studied him. “You don’t trust easily,” he said quietly.

Yoongi froze for half a second, then busied himself pretending to adjust the IV drip.
“You shouldn’t analyze your doctors.”

“I’m not,” Jimin murmured. “Just observing.”

Something tightened, then softened, in Yoongi’s chest. After a long pause, he set the chart down. “Do you feel up to walking?”

Jimin blinked, surprised. “Now?”

“It’s quiet,” Yoongi said, already helping Jimin swing his legs over the edge of the bed. “You’ll like where I’m taking you.”

They walked slowly down a back corridor Jimin hadn’t been allowed to explore yet, Yoongi’s hand occasionally hovering just behind him in case he stumbled. They stopped outside an unmarked door. Yoongi opened it. Inside, the room was small but warm. A soft yellow lamp glowed in the corner. The walls were completely covered in small, handwritten notes, overlapping like feathers. Hundreds of them.

Some were long letters. Some were just names and dates. Some were messy, childlike scribbles.

“What is this?” Jimin whispered.

Yoongi stood by the doorway, arms loosely crossed. “When patients leave… when they’re discharged or when… they know they won’t be coming back… they leave something behind. It started years ago. No one knows who first did it.”

Jimin stepped forward, brushing his fingers along the edge of a paper heart pinned near the window. It felt heavy. It felt beautiful.

Yoongi watched him carefully. “I thought maybe you’d want to see it,” he said quietly.

Jimin turned, searching Yoongi’s face.

“Do people leave notes even when they’re still sick?” Jimin asked.

“Sometimes.”

Jimin stood for a long moment, just breathing in the space. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No. Not yet.”

Yoongi nodded once.

Not questioning. Not urging. Just understanding. They stood side by side, neither needing to fill the quiet. For the first time since waking after the crash, Jimin didn’t feel like his story was ending. Not yet. Not here.

Chapter Text

It started with a sound he couldn’t place.

Jimin sat alone in his room, his sketchpad open on his lap, pencil unmoving between his fingers. Outside, the sun had risen. The world kept turning. People walked past his door with calm voices and warm coffee. The morning was quiet, the way healing mornings often were.

But inside, something had begun to shake. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was a tremble, at first. In his fingers. In his chest. Then came the tightness. The kind that wrapped around his ribs and climbed up his throat. He pressed a hand to his sternum as if that could stop it. He didn’t know what triggered it. Maybe the note Yoongi left still folded neatly on the table. Maybe the weight of all the days that nearly ended before they even began. Maybe the slow realization that he couldn’t remember the last time he looked in a mirror and recognized himself. The pencil slipped from his hand.
His head dropped.

And then he broke.

He cried.

At first quietly. Shaking. Silent sobs swallowed into the sheets. But then—

It broke open.

The kind of cry that rattles the lungs. That doesn’t ask permission. That sounds too much like the word please without saying it. He curled in on himself, knees pulled up, hands clutching at his shirt, breath hitching uncontrollably.

“I don’t…” he gasped, “I don’t want to…”

The door opened before he could finish. And in the doorway stood Yoongi. No clipboard. No coat. Just him. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t ask questions. He walked straight to the bed, crouched down, and gently placed both hands on either side of Jimin’s trembling shoulders.

“I’m here,” Yoongi said, voice quiet but steady. “I’m here.”

Jimin tried to speak - couldn’t. Yoongi didn’t let go. “I don’t want to die,” Jimin choked finally, voice cracking like glass. “Not anymore. I don’t... I’m not ready…”

“I know,” Yoongi whispered. “I know.”

“I’m scared.”

“So am I.”

Jimin sobbed again, forehead falling forward - and Yoongi caught him, arms steady, holding him upright, letting him cry against his chest. There were no solutions in that moment. No fixes.
No false hope. Only the quiet sound of breathing. Of being held. Of not being alone in the dark anymore.

Yoongi didn’t let go. He held Jimin through every tremor, every jagged breath, until the sobs slowed to shivers, then silence. The kind that only comes after a storm. Jimin’s forehead rested against Yoongi’s shoulder now, his lashes damp, lips parted slightly as he slowly drifted — not into fear, not into panic — but into sleep. Yoongi kept one arm around his back, the other resting lightly across Jimin’s wrist. His thumb moved in slow, steady strokes, soothing without asking for permission.

He felt the moment Jimin's breath evened out.

And still, he didn’t move.

The room was warm with morning light, but Yoongi barely noticed. His thoughts were still in the tremble of Jimin’s voice, in the broken way he’d said I’m not ready. It wasn’t the first time Yoongi had held someone through a panic. But it was the first time it felt like his own heart had shattered with them.

He didn’t want to admit what that meant yet. So instead, he whispered — barely a breath — “You’re safe.” Jimin stirred only slightly, curling closer. And for the first time in days, Yoongi allowed himself to rest his chin against soft hair and close his eyes too.

+++

The morning staff meeting was already underway when Seokjin stepped inside, balancing two cups of tea. He slid into the empty chair beside Namjoon, who was scribbling something onto his clipboard with his usual precision.

“No Yoongi?” Seokjin asked under his breath, offering one of the cups.

Namjoon glanced up. “Apparently not.”

Seokjin smirked behind the rim of his tea. “That’s… rare.”

Namjoon didn’t respond right away. His eyes lingered on the empty chair across the room — Yoongi’s usual seat - as if trying to decide what that absence meant.

“He’s with Jimin,” he said quietly.

Seokjin raised a brow. “You’re sure?”

“I know him,” Namjoon murmured, almost to himself. “He only vanishes like this when something breaks through.”

Seokjin sipped slowly. “And Jimin’s the one?”

“I don’t think he realizes it yet,” Namjoon said. “But yeah. He’s the one.”

They sat in the quiet hum of the meeting, surrounded by murmured updates and hospital buzz, but their corner felt like a world of its own.

After a moment, Seokjin spoke again — softer now. “Isn’t it strange?”

“What is?”

“How love changes even the most guarded people. How it makes someone like Yoongi — cold, distant, stubborn — show up without saying why. Stay without needing a reason. Hold someone like the world depends on it.”

Namjoon’s pen stilled.

He looked at Seokjin then — really looked — and his gaze lingered just a second too long. “Not that strange,” he said. “Not if you’ve felt it too.”

Seokjin’s lips curved, just slightly.

They said nothing more. But something passed between them — familiar, silent, warm. Something like love. Something like home.

+++

Jimin woke to the soft thrum of a heartbeat beneath his cheek. It wasn’t his. Warmth surrounded him — a solid arm curled protectively around his waist, another resting near his shoulder. The scent was familiar: something clean, faintly herbal, and deeply comforting. For a moment, he didn’t move. The room was quiet. The window blinds filtered in thin strands of mid-morning light. The machines around him hummed steadily, no longer screaming danger.

Just… alive.

He blinked slowly, lashes brushing the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt. His head was resting against the older man’s chest, his body curled instinctively in Yoongi’s hold. He should’ve pulled away. Should’ve felt awkward or self-conscious. But all he felt was safe.

Carefully, Jimin tilted his head, just enough to see Yoongi’s face. His eyes were closed. He hadn’t shaved. A soft crease between his brows suggested even in sleep, his mind refused to fully let go. Jimin studied him in silence — the calm rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers had unconsciously curled against Jimin’s wrist as they’d slept.

He stayed.

The thought bloomed quietly. And with it, something unsteady but warm rose in Jimin’s chest. He shifted slightly. Yoongi stirred, eyes blinking open slowly, groggy but immediately alert. They looked at each other. Neither spoke. Yoongi didn’t move his arms, didn’t sit up or pull away — just looked down, gaze steady, unreadable, but not cold.

Jimin’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“…You stayed.”

Yoongi’s brow furrowed slightly, like the question confused him. “I told you I would.”

There was no bravado. No charm. Just quiet truth. Jimin swallowed the lump in his throat. His lips trembled, but he smiled — not wide, not bright. Just enough.

“I think…” He hesitated. “I think I’m glad you did.”

Yoongi didn’t answer. But his grip didn’t loosen. And that was answer enough.

+++

The physical therapy room was empty, save for the gentle squeak of rubber soles and the faint thud of a stress ball bouncing against the wall. Taehyung sat on the edge of one of the therapy benches, hands clasped between his knees, his whole frame still. Hoseok, standing nearby, tossed the ball up and down absentmindedly — like the motion helped him think clearer.

“…He had a full breakdown,” Hoseok said softly, voice careful. “This morning. After breakfast.”

Taehyung’s head shot up. “What?”

“I wasn’t there,” Hoseok continued, quieter now. “Yoongi found him. He stayed until he fell asleep again.”

Taehyung’s heart twisted painfully. “Why didn’t anyone call me?”

“There wasn’t time,” Hoseok said gently. “And… sometimes it’s not about who’s closest. It’s about who gets there first.”

That only made it worse. Taehyung stood suddenly, pacing a few steps before stopping with his back turned. “I should’ve been there,” he murmured. “I should’ve—he’s been slipping for days. I saw it. I felt it. I thought I was giving him space, but maybe I was just… avoiding it.”

Hoseok caught the ball mid-air and stopped tossing. “Taehyung.”

He turned, jaw tight.

“What if I’m not enough anymore?” The words came out raw. Vulnerable in a way Taehyung rarely allowed himself to be.

Hoseok approached slowly, setting the ball down and placing a steady hand on Taehyung’s shoulder. “You were never supposed to be everything.”

Taehyung’s breath hitched. “You’re his best friend,” Hoseok said gently. “Not his cure. You never had to fix it all. Just love him.”

Taehyung dropped his gaze, blinking hard. “It feels like love isn’t enough.”

Hoseok smiled, sad but kind. “Sometimes it’s not. But it’s still the thing that keeps people from falling all the way.” Taehyung nodded, barely. “Go see him,” Hoseok added after a moment. “He’s not expecting you. But maybe that’s what he needs.”

Taehyung stood still, letting the words settle into the cracks of guilt he carried like armor. Then, slowly, he turned toward the door. Not to fix anything. Just to show up. Because sometimes, showing up is what love looks like when it’s all you can give. Taehyung didn’t make it more than five steps outside the therapy room before the air left his lungs. He leaned against the hallway wall, hands braced on his knees, eyes squeezed shut.

Breathe.

He tried. But the weight in his chest wouldn’t move. The image of Jimin — breaking, sobbing, alone — had lodged itself behind his ribs.

“Taehyung.”

The voice was soft. Familiar. He looked up, breath catching — Jungkook stood a few feet away, brows furrowed in quiet worry, hands at his sides like he didn’t know whether to reach out or not.

“I’m fine,” Taehyung said too quickly. “I just… needed air.”

Jungkook stepped closer anyway. “You’re not fine,” he said gently. “But it’s okay.”

Taehyung shook his head. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve known.”

“You’re not a machine,” Jungkook replied. “You’re a person. You love him. That’s not failure.”

Taehyung turned toward the wall, jaw tight, voice cracking as he said, “It just… hit me. I thought he was getting better. And then - he almost wasn’t here.”

There was a silence.

Then: “I remember the first time I watched someone die.”

Taehyung turned, startled. Jungkook didn’t meet his eyes. He was staring ahead, voice low and steady like he’d told the story a hundred times in his head but never out loud.

“It was during my first ER rotation,” he said. “A man came in after a stroke. Young. Strong. His wife was holding his hand. I stood at the back of the room and watched them try everything. And still… he went.”

Jungkook swallowed. “I’d never seen a body go still like that. Like it didn’t belong to the person anymore.”

Taehyung stared, stunned by the rawness in his voice. “I couldn’t sleep for three nights,” Jungkook added. “I kept thinking — what if I had done something differently? Said something? Anything?”

Taehyung’s shoulders sagged, the tension slowly unraveling. “But you stayed,” he murmured.

Jungkook finally looked at him. “Yeah. I stayed.”

Taehyung’s eyes glistened - not with tears exactly, but with something like quiet understanding. He didn’t say thank you. Didn’t need to. He reached out, brushing gently against Jungkook’s. Just once. A touch that lingered. And in that still hallway, with the morning light just beginning to stretch across the floor, they stood side by side.

Two boys who had seen too much.

Two hearts that, somehow, found space to be soft again.

+++

The room was silent except for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the faint hush of wind through the cracked-open window. Jimin sat up in bed, his knees drawn up slightly, the tray table pulled close. His notebook lay open in front of him — blank page, clean lines, untouched since before the crash.

A pen rested between his fingers. For the first time in days, the page didn’t scare him. He didn’t feel brave. He didn’t feel healed. But he felt… here. And somehow, that was enough.His hand trembled as he lowered the pen to paper. He hesitated.

Then, slowly, he wrote:

I still want to stay.

The words startled him. Not because they were dramatic — they weren’t. Not because they were perfect — they weren’t that either. But because they were true. He let the pen hover for a moment. Then he added:

I’m tired. But I think I still have something left. I want to know what comes after all of this. I want to feel sunlight again without flinching. I want to see Taehyung laugh and not pretend I’m okay. I want to hear Hoseok sing off-key. I want to sit at the piano and not cry. I want to look at him and not feel broken. I want to be allowed to want more.

His breath hitched at that last line, but he didn’t cross it out. He read it again. Then closed the notebook and placed it on the bedside table like a secret he was finally ready to keep. Outside, the wind picked up, rustling the paper cranes gently against the glass. And inside, Jimin laid back, tucked the blanket around his legs, and closed his eyes.

Still tired. Still healing. But here. Still here.

Chapter Text

The therapy wing was quiet that afternoon. Sunlight slanted through the windows, golden and warm, casting long beams across the floor. The usual buzz of machines and distant chatter was replaced by something far more rare - a soft melody drifting faintly down the corridor.

Yoongi had just ended a consultation when he heard it. It started low, tentative - a single note, then another. Like someone testing old bones, uncertain if they'd still hold. He followed the sound, not really meaning to. Just… pulled.

When he reached the small piano room off the physical therapy wing, he didn’t step inside. He didn’t even breathe. He just stood there - frozen in the doorway’s shadow - and watched.

Jimin sat at the upright piano, thin shoulders hunched ever so slightly, back to the door, fingers gliding across the keys with surprising steadiness. The piece was simple but haunting: familiar, classical, almost mournful. And then Yoongi heard it - the shift. The soft tempo picked up just slightly, blooming into something brighter, hopeful even. Jimin’s foot tapped. Just a little.
His body leaned, swayed with the rhythm.

It hit Yoongi like a blow - the way Jimin moved. Even sitting, even fragile, he moved like a dancer. Like he still remembered.

Inside the room, Jimin closed his eyes.

He didn’t know why this piece had called to him - only that when he saw the piano sitting in the corner, something inside him ached to try. To feel it again. To remember the stage beneath his feet. The way he used to close his eyes, lose himself, and just… move.

The music swelled.

In his mind, he saw it - the fluid turns, the ache of stretched limbs, the graceful arcs that once poured from his body like breath. But his hands kept playing. Not dancing anymore, but still… still something close. He didn’t notice the tear that slipped down his cheek.

And he didn’t hear the soft exhale from the hallway. Didn’t see the figure frozen just beyond the door, jaw tight, eyes soft - Min Yoongi, holding a memory that wasn’t even his and somehow feeling the loss like it was. Yoongi didn’t enter. He couldn’t. Because something in Jimin’s face - the peace, the ache, the music - it didn’t belong to anyone else just yet.

Yoongi didn’t linger after the music ended. He left before the silence could feel like a goodbye. He walked the corridor slowly, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat, expression blank - too blank, even for him. But his mind was loud. Every note of the piano replayed in his ears. Every line of tension he’d seen in Jimin’s back. The single tear. And the way his own chest had clenched in response.

He made his way up to the staff offices without a word. The door to Dr. Kim Namjoon’s office was slightly ajar. He knocked once — more of a tap than anything — and let himself in.

Namjoon looked up from his notes, brows lifting slightly. “You look like you haven’t blinked in a while.”

Yoongi sat down without being asked. His hands were still in his pockets.  “I saw him today,” he said after a pause.

Namjoon leaned back, folding his arms. “At piano therapy?”

Yoongi’s gaze flicked up. “You knew?”

“I may have gently suggested it,” Namjoon said, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It wasn’t on his schedule yet. But Seokjin mentioned the piano room being open today, and I figured if Jimin passed by…”

Yoongi exhaled slowly through his nose. “He played,” he said. “Really played. Like it still lived in him somewhere.”

Namjoon nodded. “It does. That’s the thing about the body - it remembers. Even when the mind forgets. Even when the spirit wants to give up.”

There was a long pause. Yoongi shifted in his seat. “What’s the plan, Namjoon?”

The psychiatrist gave him a knowing look. “You mean medically? Or emotionally?”

Yoongi didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

Namjoon pulled Jimin’s chart closer, flipping gently through the pages. “He’s progressing. Slowly. The last round of tests was promising, but the emotional weight…” He shook his head. “He still thinks the crash was the end of his story.”

Yoongi’s jaw tensed.

Namjoon studied him carefully, then said gently, “And you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Namjoon tilted his head. “Yoongi. You used to be the doctor who never followed up. Who didn’t sit with patients unless necessary. Who hated emotional attachment.”

Yoongi said nothing.

“But now,” Namjoon continued, “you’re checking charts past your shift. Sitting at bedsides. Walking the halls like you’re chasing something.”

Yoongi looked away. “I’m not—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I just don’t want him to disappear.”

Namjoon’s voice was quiet. “So make sure he doesn’t.”

Yoongi closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling. When he opened them again, his voice was low. “What if I’m the one who ruins it?”

Namjoon smiled softly. “Then don’t. Be careful. Be human. That’s all you can do.”

Yoongi didn’t speak again. But as he stood to leave, his hands finally slipped free from his pockets - fingers curled loosely at his sides, as if remembering how to feel.

+++

The sky was the softest kind of grey. Muted and heavy with spring air, it wrapped around the rooftop like a worn blanket - neither cold nor warm, just… still. Namjoon stepped out into it with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he closed the door behind him. The air tasted of rain that hadn’t fallen yet.

“Rough one?” Seokjin’s voice came from where he sat on the bench near the edge, coat draped over his shoulders, hands wrapped around a thermos he’d probably forgotten he was holding.

Namjoon smiled faintly. “You always know.”

“I’m observant,” Seokjin said lightly, patting the space beside him.

Namjoon joined him in silence, the kind that always existed easily between them. Down below, the hospital courtyard swayed with trees and nurses on break. The world moved, unaware that up here, time had taken a breath.

“He asked about Jimin again,” Namjoon said after a long pause.

Seokjin looked at him. “Yoongi?”

Namjoon nodded. “He’s unraveling.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

Namjoon huffed a quiet laugh. “It is. But you know how people like him fall. It’s never quiet. It’s all at once.”

Seokjin took a sip from his thermos - probably cold tea now - and said, “That’s what love does, doesn’t it? Dismantles the walls we thought we needed.”

Namjoon’s eyes softened. He turned to Seokjin, their knees brushing gently. “You’re always wiser than me when it comes to these things.”

Seokjin looked down at their hands. His pinky moved a fraction closer to Namjoon’s. “I’ve just had longer to figure out what matters,” he said. “And I know this much: Love shouldn’t be punishment. If Yoongi’s afraid to care, it means part of him still believes he doesn’t deserve the comfort that comes with it.”

Namjoon was quiet. His gaze didn’t leave Seokjin’s face. “You say that like you’ve lived it.”

Seokjin smiled softly. “Maybe I have.”

The silence that followed was filled with meaning. A breeze passed over the rooftop, rustling the edges of Seokjin’s coat and ruffling Namjoon’s hair.

And when Seokjin reached for Namjoon’s hand - fully, this time - the doctor didn’t hesitate. Fingers intertwined, not fragile. Anchored. Below them, life went on. Machines beeped. Phones rang. Time moved. But up here, two hearts stayed still, holding the quiet just a little longer.

+++

The hospital courtyard had just begun to warm under a pale, reluctant sun. Taehyung sat on the stone bench beneath the sycamore tree, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers curled tightly around a paper cup of lukewarm coffee. It wasn’t really about the coffee. He just needed something to hold onto.

Jungkook spotted him from across the path, rubbing a hand through his hair after finishing his shift. His badge dangled tiredly from his lanyard, scrubs wrinkled, but his face still lit up just a bit at the sight of the other man.

“Hey,” Jungkook said, approaching carefully. “You been out here long?”

Taehyung didn’t look up right away. He took a slow sip, then answered flatly, “I needed air.”

Jungkook nodded, his hands in his pockets. “It’s nice today. Still chilly, but... it feels like spring.”

Taehyung gave a short, breathy laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always sound like that.”

Jungkook blinked. “Like what?”

“Like there’s always something to look forward to.” Taehyung’s gaze finally lifted, sharp beneath his lashes. “Like you haven’t watched people suffer long enough to stop sugarcoating everything.”

Jungkook’s smile faltered. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“Yes,” Taehyung snapped, standing now, cup crushed slightly in his grip. “Because it’s not always spring. Sometimes it’s winter, and it stays winter. Sometimes people don't get better. You walk around with all this sunshine like it’ll fix everything, and it won’t.”

The silence that followed felt brittle. Jungkook’s lips parted as if to respond - but no words came. Taehyung realized too late that his voice had shaken. That his chest felt tight. That maybe he wasn’t talking about just Jungkook at all.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “Just—go. Please.”

Jungkook searched his face for a moment, hurt flickering behind his eyes. But he didn’t argue. He simply nodded. And then he walked away, quietly - the sound of his retreating steps soft on the stone path. Taehyung didn’t watch him go. But he felt every step in the pit of his chest like a bruise forming. And when he looked down, he realized the coffee had gone cold in his hand.

Jungkook didn’t go far - just around the corner of the courtyard and into the side hallway where the sun didn't reach. The vending machine hummed beside him, untouched. His shoulders were stiff beneath the fabric of his scrub top. He leaned against the wall and exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.

He wasn’t angry. That’s what surprised him most. He should have been. He’d just been lashed out at for being too hopeful - too bright. But instead, what he felt was something quieter. A cold that settled somewhere between his ribs.

“Like you haven’t watched people suffer long enough.”

The words clung to him. Echoed. He looked down at his fingers, still dusted with antiseptic. He thought of the patient he’d lost last winter, the child who hadn’t made it to her seventh birthday. He thought of his own mother, how she used to hum softly at his bedside when he was too scared to sleep.

Jungkook knew suffering. He just chose not to wear it like armor. He tried to see the world as something still worth saving. And maybe that’s what made it hurt. Taehyung didn’t see that yet. He didn’t see that Jungkook did understand. He just refused to let the darkness make a home inside him.

Jungkook took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He didn’t know where he stood now. Not with Taehyung. But he knew one thing. He wasn’t going to stop showing up - soft, hopeful, annoying as hell if he had to - because people like Taehyung didn’t need more distance. They needed someone who stayed. And Jungkook, despite it all, wanted to stay.

+++

The curtains were pulled halfway, letting in soft morning light when Hoseok entered the room, a clipboard in one hand, a warm grin on his face. "Good morning, sunshine," he chirped, nudging the chair closer to Jimin's bed.

Jimin looked up from his notebook. “You always this annoyingly cheerful at 8 a.m.?”

"Only when the patient used to call me that in another life," Hoseok teased, tapping lightly on the edge of the bed before gesturing. “Come on. Let’s work on that breathing. You up for it?”

Jimin nodded, shifting with a slight wince but sitting straighter. Hoseok watched him quietly for a moment, his teasing slipping into something gentler. “You’re doing better than you think.”

As Hoseok placed the small breathing trainer in front of him, Jimin’s fingers hesitated over it, his eyes flicking up. “You know… I remember how you used to be.”

Hoseok glanced up, brow lifting with curiosity. “From when?”

“The other hospital. Back when… things were different. You used to run between sessions like your shoes were on fire. Everyone said you were the only therapist who made people smile through pain.”

Hoseok chuckled, leaning back in his chair, visibly touched. “I did split my time between the two places back then. You were in rehab post-diagnosis.”

Jimin nodded, his gaze going distant. “You were one of the only ones who didn’t treat me like glass.”

A pause passed between them. “I remember,” Hoseok said softly. “You always walked into the room like you were about to perform on a stage - even on the bad days.”

Jimin’s lips quirked. “Seokjin-hyung was there too.”

“Yup. Jin hyung’s been bouncing between both hospitals as long as I have. He likes making sure the right meals reach the right people.” Hoseok gave a dramatic sigh. “And yelling at me when I skip mine.”

The memory warmed Jimin unexpectedly, a little flutter of comfort opening in his chest. “Feels like fate,” he murmured. “You all being here.”

“Feels like a second chance,” Hoseok replied, then grinned and gestured again to the trainer. “Now show me those lungs, Park Jimin. Let’s make them dance.”

Jimin laughed - a soft, almost shy sound - but he obeyed. Slowly, carefully, he took a breath. And for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel like a battle he had already lost.

Jimin focused on the rhythm - inhale, hold, release - just like Hoseok had shown him. It wasn’t easy. His chest still protested, his muscles weak from disuse, but he didn’t want to stop. Not yet. Then he felt it.

A flicker-like heat against the side of his face.

Eyes.

He looked up instinctively, pulse stuttering - and there he was. Dr. Min stood quietly by the doorway, arms crossed, the pristine white of his doctor’s coat almost glowing under the pale morning light. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes… they weren’t just observing. They were fixed.

On him.

Jimin’s breath caught, a sudden wave of warmth flushing through his chest. He fumbled slightly with the breathing tool, the air hiccupping from his lungs. Hoseok caught the moment like a reflex. His gaze darted over his shoulder, and the grin that slowly spread across his face was downright conspiratorial. But he said nothing.

Instead, he rose from the chair with the grace of a showman and clapped his hands once. “Well! That’s enough effort for one morning, superstar. We’ll pick it up tomorrow, yeah?”

Jimin barely nodded, heart still hammering in his ears.

Hoseok leaned down slightly as he packed the trainer away, his voice low and amused. “Don’t forget to breathe now, Jimin-ah. Not just during the exercises.”

Jimin flushed. By the time he looked back at the door, Yoongi was gone. But the ache in his chest hadn’t left - it had only deepened.

A few hours later, the afternoon sun filtered through the blinds in soft strips, casting golden lines over the bed where Jimin sat curled, his notebook resting on his lap. The pen between his fingers hovered in the air, ink paused mid-thought as he stared at the half-written sentence:

I still want to stay.

He wasn’t sure where the words had come from, but they lingered like a quiet truth that demanded more courage than he felt he had. A soft knock broke the silence.

Jimin blinked. “Come in,” he said, assuming it was Taehyung with his usual tea or maybe Jungkook after his shift.

But when the door creaked open, it wasn’t either of them. Yoongi stood there. Gone were the white coat and the stern air of clinical detachment. He was in simple clothes - a black sweater, loose slacks, hair slightly tousled like he’d run his fingers through it too many times.

His eyes softened when they met Jimin’s. “Hey,” Yoongi said, voice low. “Mind if I come in?”

Jimin’s throat tightened. He nodded. He tried to say yes, but no sound came out. Yoongi stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He didn’t head for the chair in the corner. Instead, he walked up and gently sat on the edge of Jimin’s bed, leaving enough space between them to be respectful - but still close enough to feel like he wasn’t just a visitor.

“How are you today?” Yoongi asked. And this time, it wasn’t clinical. It wasn’t protocol. His voice was careful, sincere - real.

Jimin blinked down at his notebook, then slowly looked up, meeting his gaze. That familiar heat spread through his chest again - unexpected, disarming. “I’m…” He hesitated, then gave a small shrug. “Tired. But... better than yesterday.”

Yoongi nodded, eyes not leaving his. “That’s good. That’s enough for today.”

There was something in his tone - a softness Jimin had only caught glimpses of before. For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t awkward. It felt... full, like something unspoken was growing in the space between them. Jimin’s pen slipped from his fingers, landing softly on the blanket. He reached down to pick it up, but when he straightened again, Yoongi was looking at the notebook.

“Writing?”

Jimin gave a shy nod. “Trying.”

Yoongi didn’t ask to read it. He didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back slightly and murmured, “I’m glad.”

That single sentence stayed with Jimin long after Yoongi left.

Chapter Text

Taehyung hadn’t heard from Jungkook all morning. He stared at the cracked screen of his phone as he sat in the waiting lounge outside Jimin’s ward, thumb hovering over their last chat. No “good morning.” No sticker spam. No update about shifts, coffee, or the hospital café's terrible muffins. Just… silence. And it was his fault. The words he’d snapped at Jungkook two days ago still rang bitter on his tongue.

“You don’t get it. You’re too young. You act like this place isn’t made of grief.”

He hadn’t even waited for a reply. He just left. Now, Taehyung sat there, elbows on knees, eyes on the pale gray linoleum as nurses passed by, carts wheeled, someone called for a code over the intercom. Still no message. Eventually, when his pulse refused to calm and the ache in his chest grew unbearable, he stood and made his way to Jimin’s room. His friend sat up in bed, back against the pillow mountain, gray blanket draped around his shoulders. A pen hovered over his notebook, but he wasn’t writing. He was staring through the page.

Taehyung softened. “Hey,” he said gently as he knocked on the open door. “Can I come in?”

Jimin looked up, blinking slowly like waking from a fog. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Please.”

Taehyung stepped in, hands shoved in his coat pockets and sat by the window. “You writing anything today?”

Jimin gave the smallest nod. “Trying to. The words come slower now.”

They sat in silence for a bit. The kind of silence that felt full of things unspoken.

“I think I ruined it,” Taehyung finally said.

Jimin turned his head. “With… Jungkook?”

Taehyung exhaled. “I told him he was too young to understand pain. That he was too hopeful. It was cruel. I was scared and it came out all wrong.”

Jimin was quiet.

“I don’t know why I said it. I just—” Taehyung swallowed. “Maybe I was jealous. Or maybe I’m scared of what I feel for him.”

Jimin opened his mouth to reply, but he hesitated. Taehyung noticed it then - the way his fingers trembled. The odd flush on his cheeks, too pink against too-pale skin.

“Jimin?” he asked, brows furrowing. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jimin whispered. But his breath hitched, and this time, he clutched at his chest.

Taehyung’s heart stopped. “Hey—no, no you’re not. Wait here—”

He stood so fast his chair nearly toppled over. He ran into the hallway, yelling for someone—anyone.

A nurse turned the corner instantly. “Room 305,” Taehyung gasped, pointing behind him. “He’s—he’s not breathing right.”

She moved fast. Others followed. Taehyung stood frozen outside the room as the flurry of white coats swarmed Jimin’s bedside. Panic pressed down on his chest, heavy and real. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t do anything but wait.

The moment they wheeled Jimin out, Taehyung couldn’t breathe. Nurses shouted down the hall for clearance. Someone radioed the ICU. Another called for Dr. Min, voice sharp with urgency. It was happening again. Too fast. Too much. And Taehyung… he could only stumble behind, feet tripping over each other, throat dry and useless.

He saw the way Jimin’s hand fell limp off the side of the stretcher. He saw the way they pushed paddles to the ready. He saw the cold blue light flicker in one of the monitors.

“BP’s crashing—get Dr. Min—now!”

Taehyung’s stomach dropped. His body wouldn’t move beyond the threshold of the ICU doors. He slammed into the invisible wall of “family only,” “authorized staff,” “not enough.”

Someone told him to wait outside.

He couldn’t.

He leaned against the glass window, palms splayed, fingers trembling as he stared at the nightmare unfolding inside. Yoongi arrived seconds later, half in scrubs, coat flung over one arm. His face was pale, jaw set with unspoken terror. And when Yoongi saw Jimin unconscious, barely breathing, his whole body changed. His calm cracked. Taehyung had never seen him run - until now. He ran to Jimin like he was the only patient in the world.

Machines beeped faster. Code tones echoed across the ICU floor. Taehyung watched Yoongi take control, barking instructions, pushing through the crowd like fire through dry grass. But the longer he watched… The colder he felt. He hugged himself tightly, forehead pressed to the glass. Not again. Not after everything. Not after he started writing again. Not after the cranes, and the drawings, and…

“Come on, Chim,” Taehyung whispered. “Don’t leave me. Don’t you dare leave me.”

He didn’t notice the tears rolling down his cheeks until a nurse gently touched his shoulder. “They’re doing everything they can,” she said softly.

But Taehyung shook his head. “That’s not enough,” he whispered. “Not for him.”

Inside, Yoongi placed both hands on Jimin’s chest, not for compressions - but something more. He leaned down, spoke something Taehyung couldn’t hear.

Taehyung watched it all - watched the man who always looked carved from stone fight to keep someone alive like his own soul depended on it. And all Taehyung could do was press a hand to the window and whisper again, “Please don’t take him. Not yet.”

+++

The second Yoongi stepped into the ICU, time fractured. He didn’t hear the alarms - not clearly. Didn’t process the voices - not fully. All he saw was Jimin. Pale. Limp. Lifeless.

“No pulse,” a nurse confirmed. “BP unresponsive. We’re losing him—”

“Move.” Yoongi’s voice cut like a blade through the panic. He was already at the side of the bed, tossing his coat to the ground. “Epinephrine. One milligram. Now.”

Someone placed it in his hand without question. Yoongi administered the dose and began compressions himself. His gloved hands pressed over Jimin’s fragile chest, counting under his breath.

“Come on, Park Jimin,” he muttered. “Not like this. Not now.”

He could feel sweat sliding down his back. Could feel the burn in his shoulders. Could feel something breaking inside his ribcage with every second that passed.

“Charging,” a nurse called. “Paddles ready.”

Yoongi stepped back just long enough. They shocked him once. Jimin’s body arched and dropped. Still flatline.

“Again,” Yoongi snapped, voice hoarse.

Another shock. A pause. Still nothing.

Yoongi leaned over, shaking, his face just inches from Jimin’s. “I don’t know what else to give you,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “You said you wanted to stay, remember?”

He pressed both hands on Jimin’s cheeks. His thumb brushed against damp skin - a tear. It shattered him.

“Breathe with me,” Yoongi pleaded. “Just once. Come on. In, out. In… out.”

No response. He closed his eyes, forehead pressing to Jimin’s temple. “I’m not asking you to fight for me. But fight for yourself. For Taehyung. For your words. For the life you deserve, dammit.”

And then…

The monitor beeped. Weak. Flickering. But it was there.

Yoongi’s head snapped up. “He’s stabilizing. BP’s rising—keep monitoring.”

Someone clapped him on the back, but he couldn’t move. Could barely breathe himself. He reached down and took Jimin’s hand gently, slowly, cradling it between his own. His fingers were cold. But not as cold as before.

“Don’t do that again,” Yoongi whispered. “Don’t scare me like that.” He hadn’t realized he meant it so much until he said it aloud.

Behind him, someone exhaled shakily. Yoongi turned slightly, catching Taehyung's reflection through the glass - hunched over, shaking with sobs.

Yoongi looked back at Jimin’s still face, thumb brushing over the knuckles of his hand. “You’re not allowed to leave,” he said quietly, barely above a whisper. “Not until you see what it’s like to live again.” And in that moment — nothing else mattered.

Yoongi didn’t remember sitting.

One moment, he was at Jimin’s side in the ICU recovery room, fingers still wrapped gently around the oxygen monitor on the younger’s wrist - and the next, the nurse was gently telling him they were relocating Jimin to a quieter room for the night. He stood. Legs stiff. Arms numb. Heart... no longer his. The walk outside the ICU felt endless. The corridor lights were too bright. The air was too sharp.

Taehyung stood there, pacing. When he saw Yoongi, his eyes widened. “H-He’s—?”

“Stable,” Yoongi said. “He’s stable, Tae.”

And before he could brace for it, Taehyung stumbled forward, wrapping his arms tightly around him. Sobbing. Yoongi didn’t hug back at first. Just stood there, breath held, trying not to shatter all over again. But then he did hold him. One hand on Taehyung’s back, the other curled in his hoodie. Just for a second. Just long enough to say - We’re alive. He’s alive.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Jungkook appeared, breathless, wide-eyed. Yoongi caught his gaze, and in a wordless exchange, they understood each other.

He gave Taehyung a final squeeze, then gently pulled away and turned him toward Jungkook. “He needs you now,” Yoongi murmured to the younger, voice fraying at the edges. “Stay with him.”

Jungkook nodded solemnly and wrapped his arms around Taehyung without hesitation. Yoongi turned and walked. Faster than his heart could keep up with. He didn’t know where his legs were taking him until the door slammed open and the cold rooftop air rushed his lungs.

His knees gave out beside the railing. His fists clenched. And then - he broke. The sob tore out of him before he could stop it. And another. And another. He pressed his palms to the ground, trembling, teeth grit against the rawness in his chest. He hadn’t let himself cry in years. Not since Hana. Not since losing someone he swore to save.

But now…

Jimin almost died.

And Yoongi was helpless. Again.

The rooftop door creaked open behind him. He didn’t have to look to know who it was. Namjoon stepped closer, quiet. He said nothing for a long while.

Then, gently, “You stayed with him, didn’t you?”

Yoongi closed his eyes. “I couldn’t leave.”

“I wouldn’t have either.”

Yoongi sucked in a breath, wiping angrily at his face. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“I know.”

“I told myself not to care,” Yoongi whispered. “Not again. Not this much. But…” He looked up at the sky, blinking fast. “…I think I’ve already fallen for him.”

Namjoon crouched beside him. He didn’t respond with shock. Only quiet acceptance. “I think you have too,” he said softly. “And I don’t think that’s a bad thing, hyung.”

Yoongi let out a broken, helpless laugh. “It feels like a bad thing.”

“It feels like you’re finally human again.”

Yoongi dropped his head to his knees. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to know yet,” Namjoon murmured, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Just… don’t walk away from it.”

Yoongi sat there in silence, the weight of it all in his chest. And somewhere behind it all, beneath the exhaustion and fear… Was the realization that Park Jimin had already taken root in his heart. And there was no turning back.

+++

He hadn’t meant to be away. But after Taehyung’s words the day before - harsh, cutting in that way that only someone close could manage - Jungkook had asked a colleague to cover his morning shift. Told himself it was for the best. That maybe space would help.

He hadn’t expected the guilt to chew through him like this. He hadn’t expected the worry, the ache, the way his hands kept twitching as if reaching for someone who no longer wanted to be held. He thought staying away would make things easier. He was wrong.

When Nurse Soomi caught him at the vending machine, pale-faced and breathless, her words dropped like ice into his chest.

“Park Jimin crashed.”

“ICU.”

“They called Dr. Min in urgently.”

Jungkook didn’t remember dropping the soda. Didn’t remember how he sprinted down the hallways, how he nearly slammed into a gurney on the way. All he remembered was the fear. And the image burned in his mind when he finally reached the ICU wing.

Taehyung.

Crushed and crumbling in Dr. Min Yoongi’s arms. The older doctor held him tightly, and for a moment, Jungkook felt like an outsider to a grief he couldn’t touch. But then Yoongi looked up. His face was pale, drawn - like he’d aged years in an hour. And without a word, he pressed a hand against Taehyung’s back… and turned him. Turned him right into Jungkook’s arms.

“Stay with him,” Yoongi murmured. Before Jungkook could even respond, Yoongi was already gone, his footsteps sharp and retreating as he disappeared down the hallway.

Taehyung was sobbing. Small, muffled sounds buried in Jungkook’s chest. Jungkook wrapped his arms around him instinctively, protectively, one hand cradling the back of his head. They sank to the bench outside the ICU.

“I’m here,” Jungkook whispered. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

He didn’t ask what happened. Didn’t push for answers. Just held Taehyung like he’d wanted to the day before but hadn’t been allowed. And when the sobs finally quieted to broken breaths, Jungkook rested his cheek against Taehyung’s soft hair and let his eyes close. He hadn’t realized until now just how tightly his heart had been tied to both of them. And in that moment, there was no bitterness about yesterday. No hurt about the way Taehyung had pushed him away.

There was only this:

He’s here now.

And so is Taehyung.

Tae had stopped trembling some time ago. The tears had slowed, then ceased, leaving only faint, damp patches on Jungkook’s shirt and a warm weight tucked into the curve of his arms. The hallway outside the ICU was hushed, punctuated only by the soft blip of monitors and the occasional hurried step of a nurse. Time felt suspended, like the world had taken a breath it hadn’t yet released.

Jungkook didn’t move. He hadn’t said a word since Yoongi walked away - just held Taehyung, steady and still, like an anchor. And eventually…

Taehyung stirred. A shaky breath. Then another. He shifted just enough to look up, dark lashes still damp against his skin, cheeks blotchy and red. His eyes locked with Jungkook’s - wide, raw, and full of something unspoken. Then his fingers curled into Jungkook’s shirt. Not tightly. Not desperately.

Just enough to say: I’m still here.

And then, in a voice so small Jungkook nearly missed it…

“I’m sorry.”

Jungkook blinked. “What?”

Taehyung’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. He looked away for a moment, ashamed. “For yesterday,” he murmured. “For what I said. For pushing you away when I didn’t mean to.”

Jungkook’s chest ached.

“I thought…” Taehyung exhaled shakily. “I thought if I distanced myself, it wouldn’t hurt so much when things fall apart. But now... now Jimin—” His voice cracked. “Now I just feel stupid.”

“Hey.” Jungkook’s hand moved instinctively to cup Taehyung’s cheek, gently guiding his gaze back to him. “You’re not stupid.”

“I didn’t want to lose you too, Koo.” His voice was barely a whisper, but it was the most honest thing he’d said in days. “I didn’t know how to… handle everything.”

Jungkook felt something shift inside him. Warmth. Ache. Relief. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly. “Not unless you ask me to.”

Taehyung let out a shaky breath, something like a sob mixed with a laugh. “Don’t make promises like that.”

“I don’t make promises I won’t keep,” Jungkook said, and the honesty in his voice made Taehyung’s fingers tighten on his shirt again.

They sat in silence for a while longer. This time, it wasn’t heavy. It was full of everything unspoken - grief, forgiveness, hope. And when Taehyung leaned his head against Jungkook’s shoulder again, the younger nurse didn’t say anything. He just held him there. Because some things didn’t need words.

+++

The world returned slowly. Blurred shapes. Distant sounds. A dull ache that lived in every bone. Then…

Panic.

He couldn’t breathe.

Or… No. He was breathing. Something was helping him breathe. There was something in his throat - plastic, foreign, invasive. His chest rose and fell with effort not his own. Machines hissed, beeped. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t call for anyone. Couldn’t even cry. His fingers clawed weakly at the sheets. His body felt heavy, sluggish, like it didn’t belong to him anymore.

What happened?

The last thing he remembered was Taehyung’s voice. Jungkook’s silhouette near the edge of the room. Pain pressing on his ribs like a weight. Then…

Nothing.

Until now.

He blinked against the burning light above, vision swimming. Everything felt wrong and distant. He wanted to scream.

And then…

A voice. Low. Familiar. Shaky, but calm enough to catch on to. “Easy… Jimin-ah, easy. You’re okay now.”

He turned his head, even though it felt like lifting a mountain. And there he was. Yoongi. Doctor Min. Not in his white coat now, but close, seated beside the bed. One of his hands was resting atop Jimin’s - gentle, warm, real. His eyes looked swollen, the corners tinged red. Like he hadn’t slept. Like he had cried.

Yoongi cried?

Their eyes met. And something in Jimin’s chest - what was left of it - gave a feeble flutter.

Yoongi leaned in a little closer, his voice softer than Jimin had ever heard it. “You’re safe. It’s over.”

Jimin blinked, moisture slipping from the corners of his eyes.

Yoongi noticed. “It was close,” he whispered, voice hitching ever so slightly. “But you stayed. You fought. You…” He swallowed, lowering his eyes for a second. “I thought I lost you.”

Jimin squeezed his fingers weakly. It was all he could do. And Yoongi’s gaze snapped back to his, breath catching. The smallest smile trembled on the doctor’s lips - raw and exhausted, but there. “You’re back,” he whispered.

And Jimin, unable to speak, unable to do anything but feel, stared at the man who looked like he’d shattered and stitched himself back together just to be there beside him. He was back. And somehow, Yoongi had waited.

Time passed in blinks. The pain dulled but never left. He drifted between foggy awareness and nothingness, but one thing stayed constant whenever he opened his eyes -
Yoongi.

Jimin wasn’t sure how long it had been. Minutes. Hours. A day? But when the nurses came to check the machines, when the specialist arrived to assess his status, it was Yoongi who stayed beside them. Watching. Listening. Protecting. And it was Yoongi who finally nodded when they said the tube could come out. Yoongi who leaned forward and took a breath before speaking in that calm, deep voice that always made Jimin’s chest ache in quiet ways.

“Hey,” he said softly, eyes searching Jimin’s. “We’re going to take the tube out, okay? I’ll be right here the whole time.”

Jimin blinked. He trusted him. That was all he could do. Yoongi spoke low, quiet but steady, guiding him. “I need you to stay calm. When I count to three, I want you to cough gently, alright? I’ll do the rest.”

Jimin gave a barely-there nod, the anxiety building in his chest, but the warmth in Yoongi’s eyes kept it at bay.

“One,” Yoongi began, fingers gentle at his throat. “Two…” Jimin’s eyes watered. “Three.”

A sharp pull. A moment of discomfort - burning, choking, gone. Jimin gasped, his chest expanding fully for the first time in what felt like forever. He coughed, eyes stinging, and Yoongi was already there with a hand on his shoulder and a cup of water ready.

“Easy - slow sips,” Yoongi murmured, holding the straw for him.

The water tasted like heaven and clarity. His throat burned, but it was worth it. Once he was done, Yoongi set the cup down and returned to his chair at Jimin’s side. Not a doctor now, just Yoongi. A constant. A calm.

“I’ll stay a bit,” he said quietly. “Just until you rest again.”

Jimin didn’t answer. He couldn’t. But he didn’t need to. He looked at Yoongi - really looked - and something in him settled. Because Yoongi was staying. Even when Jimin had nothing left to give.

Chapter Text

Sometimes hope feels like treason. Sometimes, it’s all you have left.

Yoongi’s fingers trembled only slightly as he signed the last page of the paperwork. He’d spoken with the senior board, argued with two consultants, and pleaded with one research team - all in pursuit of one thing: an experimental neuro-regenerative treatment. One with risks, yes. But also the smallest flicker of hope. He was doing this as a doctor. He was doing this as a man in love.

The hallway was quiet as he walked back toward Jimin’s room. Afternoon light poured through the frosted glass, dust motes dancing. The silence should’ve been calming. It wasn’t. Yoongi slowed near the door when he noticed something was off. Too quiet. Too still.

He pushed the door open with more force than necessary. “Jimin—?”

Jimin was on the bed, unmoving. No gentle scribble of pen on paper. No breathy sighs or soft humming like he sometimes did while daydreaming. The notebook was closed beside him. His hands limp at his sides.

The vitals monitor beeped in rhythm, not alarming - but wrong.

Yoongi rushed to his side. “Jimin? Hey… hey, no. Come on.” He checked his pulse. Still there, but shallow. His skin had lost its usual warmth.

A nurse entered moments later, alerted by the rushed movement. She checked the monitors. “He’s dipped into a non-responsive state. Happens sometimes. These patients drift.”

Yoongi barely heard her. His gaze remained locked on Jimin’s face - calm, too calm.

“He will wake up…” he said, voice low.

She hesitated. “They… usually do. It just takes time.”

Usually. Not always.

After she left, Yoongi sat beside the bed, gripping Jimin’s wrist loosely, grounding himself in that faint pulse. He leaned forward, forehead brushing against the edge of Jimin’s blanket. His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Don’t go quiet on me now, Jimin-ah. I still have things to tell you.”

His throat tightened. “I asked them for the treatment. I got it approved. I fought for it. For you.” He laughed bitterly, the sound cracked and soft. “I don’t even know if I’m allowed to want things for you anymore. But I do.” He pressed his hand over Jimin’s. “If you can hear me—if any part of you can—hold on. Just a little longer.”

Outside, night crept in slowly. The lights in the corridor dimmed. Inside the room, Yoongi sat in silence, his hand covering Jimin’s still fingers, heart holding onto a name he hadn’t dared to speak out loud yet.

Not I love you. Not yet.

But something close.

A whisper in the dark.

The sun hadn’t fully risen, but Yoongi’s eyes burned as if it were noon. The hallway lights buzzed softly overhead, and every step echoed more than it should have. He hadn't slept. He hadn't even tried. He just sat by Jimin’s bed, watching each slow rise and fall of his chest like it might stop any second.

Now, Yoongi stood in front of Namjoon's office, pale knuckles poised to knock. He didn’t need a meeting. He didn’t need advice. He just needed someone to look him in the eye and remind him he hadn’t completely lost himself.

“Come in,” Namjoon called softly, before Yoongi even knocked.

Yoongi stepped inside.

Namjoon was behind his desk, sipping coffee from a chipped ceramic mug Seokjin had given him years ago. His eyes flicked up and softened when he saw Yoongi - disheveled, dark circles beneath his eyes, still wearing yesterday’s shirt under his white coat.

“You didn’t go home,” Namjoon said. It wasn’t a question.

Yoongi didn’t respond at first. He just stood there, hand still curled like he was holding onto something invisible. “I stayed,” he finally said, voice rough from disuse. “He… he didn’t wake up.”

Namjoon set his mug down. “But he’s alive.”

Yoongi nodded.

“And you care.”

That made Yoongi flinch.

Namjoon stood, walked around the desk, and leaned against it casually, crossing his arms. “You’ve fought for patients before, Yoongi-hyung,” Namjoon said carefully. “You’ve bent the system, demanded impossible things. But you never stayed the night by their bedside.”

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. “This is different.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon said, softly. “It is.”

He waited, giving Yoongi space to say something – anything - but Yoongi remained silent, shoulders tight like steel cables straining under weight.

“Why him?” Namjoon finally asked. “Why now?”

Yoongi closed his eyes. His breath stuttered. “Because I didn’t expect him.”

Namjoon blinked. “What do you mean?”

Yoongi ran a hand down his face, trying to gather the mess of emotions into something he could name. “He came in… quiet. Reserved. Barely fighting. But then - he looked at me. And there was something there. Something that asked if I’d see him as more than a file number. And when I did… I couldn’t unsee it.”

Namjoon’s expression didn’t change, but his voice grew gentler. “You let him in.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Namjoon murmured. “None of us ever do. But you did. And now it’s real.”

Yoongi looked away, shoulders sagging. “What if I lose him?”

Namjoon stepped closer and placed a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder. “Then it’ll break you. But not forever. Because this—” he squeezed gently, “—this is what makes you human. Letting yourself care.”

For the first time in years, Yoongi didn’t argue. He didn’t retreat into logic or science. He just nodded, exhausted and raw.

Namjoon gave him a quiet moment, then stepped back toward the desk.

“Take the morning,” he said. “Sleep, shower, eat something. You won’t help him burnt out.”

Yoongi hesitated. “I’ll sit with him until you get back,” Namjoon added.

Yoongi finally nodded, a quiet thank-you in his eyes, then turned to leave - his footsteps slower, but slightly lighter.

Just a little.

+++

The hallway smelled of antiseptic and the faint remnants of lavender diffuser sticks - someone had tried to make this floor feel less like a place where hearts paused. But for Namjoon, that scent would always cling to memories of waiting rooms and silent prayers. He made his way toward Jimin’s room, just as he’d promised Yoongi. He wasn’t sure what he expected. He didn’t expect to find Taehyung.

The younger man sat in the corner chair, knees pulled up, arms around them like a fortress that barely held him together. His cap was low over his eyes, but Namjoon could still see the pink flush around them - evidence of crying.

He didn’t hear Namjoon come in, nor do the doctor use his phone to call someone. Only when the doctor placed a gentle hand on his shoulder did Taehyung flinch, eyes snapping up in a blur of emotion. His lips parted, but no words came out.

“I see you came as soon as you found out,” Namjoon said quietly.

Taehyung’s voice was hoarse. “Why didn’t anyone call me sooner?”

His voice wasn’t angry. Just broken. Namjoon sat beside him. “You needed rest,” he replied calmly. “And… Jimin wouldn’t want you to see him like this if it meant breaking you, too.”

Taehyung sniffled and wiped his cheek with the edge of his sleeve. “I—I should’ve been here.”

“You’re here now,” Namjoon said simply.

Taehyung looked up at Jimin, pale and still under the thin hospital blanket, a silent war raging in his eyes. “He looks so small. So… tired. He shouldn’t have to fight this hard just to breathe.”

Namjoon’s chest tightened.

He knew that ache too well.

“I called Seokjin,” Namjoon said after a long pause.

Taehyung blinked, surprised.

“Figured you wouldn’t eat,” Namjoon continued, trying to sound casual.

As if on cue, the door opened gently - and there was Seokjin, no white coat, no clipboard. Just a warm sweatshirt and a thermos bag in his hand. His expression was soft as he looked at the room’s occupants, his eyes pausing just a moment longer on Jimin.

“I brought soup,” he said, like that explained everything. It kind of did.

Taehyung stood slowly. “Jin-hyung…”

Seokjin didn’t say much- just walked over and held the younger man for a moment, quiet and solid like an anchor. When Taehyung pulled back, Jin set the thermos on the bedside table, then gently pressed a hand to Jimin’s leg beneath the blanket.

“I’ll leave it here,” he murmured. He didn’t stay long. He never did in moments like these. But he always showed up.

When the door closed behind him, Namjoon looked at Taehyung. “Eat something. Then rest, if you can. I’ll stay with him.”

Taehyung hesitated but nodded. As Namjoon settled beside Jimin’s bed and took in the beeping monitors, he felt the weight of too many lives pressing against his shoulders.

But still… he sat. Quiet, present.

Because even if Jimin didn’t know it yet, he wasn’t alone.

+++

Hoseok had seen miracles in his time. Small ones - like the way a trembling hand could regain strength after weeks of stubborn silence. Or how a smile could break across a face lined with pain when laughter finally found its way back in.

But Jimin was something else.

A quiet miracle still in progress.

He wasn’t surprised when the nurse at the desk told him what had happened - Jimin collapsing again, the ICU, the panic, the fight to keep him here. His throat tightened, but he smiled politely, nodded once, and made his way down the hall. He could already feel the mood on the floor. Everyone had felt it.

Jimin had become the favorite.

Not in the way that meant special treatment - though some argued that Dr. Min’s presence around him was far too consistent to be professional.

No, it was more than that.

He had become the light in a place built for grief. A softness people unconsciously leaned toward. The kind of patient who made you remember why you did this. And Hoseok knew - beyond the nurses, the volunteers, even Namjoon - that the most sacred space Jimin occupied was inside Min Yoongi's guarded, worn-out heart.

Even if Yoongi did everything he could to hide it. Though not very well anymore.

When Hoseok stepped into the room, the light was low. The machines whispered steadily. The boy in the bed was pale, still. And beside him, curled into the visitor chair like he was trying to take up as little space as possible, was Taehyung.

The younger man looked up. His eyes were red but calm. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Hoseok greeted softly, letting the door click shut behind him.

“Namjoon just left,” Taehyung said. “He asked Jin-hyung to bring some soup earlier...”

Hoseok nodded, crossing the room with quiet steps. “Of course he did.”

Taehyung didn’t move from his place, didn’t offer to stand or shift. Just watched Hoseok with the quiet exhaustion of someone who had finally stopped pretending they were okay. Hoseok didn’t ask him to do anything. He just reached into his bag and pulled out a small Bluetooth speaker, the one he kept in the rehab wing for sessions. He placed it gently on the bedside table, just close enough so the sound would reach Jimin but not startle him.

A few taps on his phone - and soft music began to play.

It was a slow instrumental - gentle piano, strings threading through like threads of memory. Something familiar. Something they had listened to once, months ago, when Jimin had still been learning how to breathe through pain. When his body was weak, but his spirit was stubborn. When they had shared a long, quiet session where Jimin never said a word… but had smiled at the end.

Now, Hoseok stood there again, and Jimin didn’t smile. Didn’t even stir. But the music played anyway.

“This one’s for you, sunshine,” he whispered, half to himself.

He stepped back, letting the notes fill the room. He didn’t need to speak for Jimin to hear him.

Come back.

Not just for Yoongi. Not just for Taehyung. Not even for Hoseok, or Namjoon, or Seokjin.

Come back for yourself.

Because you’re still loved. And still here. And we’re not done yet.

Chapter Text

When Yoongi returned to Jimin’s room, it was well past visiting hours, and the hallway outside had settled into its usual late-night hush - machines humming in rhythm, the distant murmur of tired staff, the occasional creak of a cart wheel down linoleum floors.

He didn’t expect the music.

It drifted through the half-open door, soft piano chords laced with something warmer than just sound - memory, care, the invisible tether between one heart and another. Yoongi paused with his hand on the doorframe, closed his eyes for a moment… and let it settle inside his chest.

He recognized the piece.

One of Hoseok’s old days.

Of course it was.

He stepped inside quietly, gaze sweeping to the chair where Taehyung now dozed, curled in a blanket someone had surely brought from the nurses’ station. The lights were dimmed. The monitor blinked steady. Jimin lay as still as he had all day.

Still, but not alone.

Yoongi didn’t turn the music down. He moved straight to the side of the bed and lowered himself into the chair beside it - not the stool doctors use when they check vitals or chart notes. Not this time. This time he sat like he meant to stay.

Like he couldn’t stay away.

Jimin’s hand lay limp on the bedrail. Yoongi reached for it.

Warm.

He let out a shaky breath at that. At the proof of it.

Then he threaded their fingers together gently.

“I, uh… I didn’t sleep,” he murmured, voice barely above the soft strains of music. “I couldn’t. Just sat here. Watched the monitor like it might tell me a story I didn’t already know.”

His thumb brushed along Jimin’s knuckles. He swallowed.

“I got approval,” he said. “For the experimental therapy. It wasn’t easy, but Namjoon… he helped. Everyone’s pulling for you, Jimin-ah. Hoseok, Jin-hyung, even Tae. You know that, don’t you?”

He hesitated.

Then bent his head.

“But that’s not why I’m here tonight. Not really.”

His grip on Jimin’s hand tightened just slightly.

“I’m here because… I care. Not as your doctor. Just… me. Just Yoongi.”

There was no answer. No flutter of lashes. But Yoongi kept going, voice cracking with every word. “When you’re ready, I want you to wake up, okay? Only when you feel like it. When it doesn’t hurt too much. When it feels safe.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away. “But if it’s too hard right now,” he whispered, “then sleep. I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

The music rose around them again, sweet and aching.

“I’ll do everything I can to help you. I promise.” His voice cracked. “I’ll make sure this new treatment works. I’ll fight for you - with you - until you’re ready to fight for yourself again.”

The monitor beeped softly. Jimin didn’t move.

But Yoongi stayed.

Because for the first time in his life, he couldn’t walk away.

Not from this. Not from him.

The room had fallen into that delicate hush that always seemed to settle right before sunrise. Only the soft sound of the instrumental melody Hoseok had played lingered in the air, drifting like a lullaby through the open space. Jimin's hand, fragile but warm, still rested in Yoongi's. He had cried more than he intended to - quietly, of course. Years of self-discipline didn’t disappear overnight. But something about sitting there, beside Jimin's still form, his chest slowly rising and falling under the soft blanket, made it impossible to keep the walls intact.

“Sleep a little longer, if you need to,” Yoongi had whispered hoarsely, brushing a strand of hair off Jimin’s forehead. “But don’t stay away forever.”

Eventually, the clock ticked toward the edge of morning. The hospital was starting to stir - the night nurses switching shifts, the elevators humming to life.

Yoongi stood slowly, carefully untangling his fingers from Jimin’s. He let his hand linger for a moment longer before stepping back. His voice, when he spoke, was quieter now - steady, but carrying the weight of all the things he didn’t say.

“I’m going to start your treatment today. I’ll take care of everything. Just… stay.”

He turned and left the room without looking back, knowing that if he did, he might never leave. After that, Yoongi changed into his white coat in silence, his hands steady now with purpose. He didn’t feel rested - not even close. But he felt clear. Clearer than he had in days.

Down in the records department, he retrieved Jimin’s files and input the new protocol into the system. The experimental therapy had been approved. Namjoon had pulled every string he could - and Yoongi, despite his hesitation, had asked for the help. That alone had cost him more than anyone would ever know.

Back upstairs, he prepped the team carefully. Not a single instruction was left vague. This wasn’t just any patient. This was his patient. Every dosage, every needle, every breath had to be accounted for.

“Dr. Min,” one of the interns asked gently, “will Mr. Park be awake for the initial phase?”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. “No. He’s still resting,” he replied. “But he’ll be back. You’ll see.”

The team didn’t argue. Something in his voice - something they weren’t used to hearing - told them not to. Back in Jimin’s room, nurses wheeled in the necessary equipment. Yoongi stayed beside them, watching everything with sharp eyes and a clenched jaw. Through it all, Jimin remained asleep - pale but calm, his breath even, his expression soft.

When the first IV was inserted and the new compound began to flow slowly through the line, Yoongi sat beside the bed again. “We’ve started,” he said quietly, mostly to himself. “I’ve got you.”

And though Jimin didn’t stir, Yoongi swore - or maybe just hoped - that his fingers curled ever so slightly beneath the blanket.

+++

There was something warm.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t even remember if he’d tried.

But he felt it - warmth, near his hand. A weight, steady and gentle, like someone had placed their palm over his. Familiar.

Everything else was distant. Blurred. Muffled voices drifted in and out, low and clinical, but he couldn’t make out the words. They sounded like they came from the bottom of a long tunnel - close, but unreachable. There was something mechanical too: the hum of machines, the rhythmic beep of a monitor nearby.

He wasn’t sure where he was, or how long he’d been there. Only that his body felt heavy. Like it wasn’t fully his.

But that hand…

It was grounding.

There was something in the touch. Not just care, but quiet desperation. A tremble, maybe. A soft rub of a thumb over his skin that his body recognized before his mind could name it.

Yoongi.

Even in this fog, Jimin knew. Not by logic or memory - but by the ache in his chest, the pull of something deep and silent between them. Yoongi’s presence always felt a little like coming home after a storm.

Then a voice. Quiet. Close.

“We’ve started. I’ve got you.”

Jimin wanted to speak. To open his eyes. To squeeze that hand in return. But he couldn’t. Not yet. His body still wasn’t ready. So he stayed. Suspended between sleep and waking. But this time, he didn’t feel alone.

There was warmth in the dark. And that was enough. The warmth stayed with him as the world faded again. Not like before - not cold and empty. This time, it pulled him deeper, but gently. Like being lowered into still water warmed by the sun. There was no fear. Just quiet.

And then…

A field.

He stood barefoot in tall grass, sunlight spilling over the hills like honey. The air smelled clean - of something soft and floral. The sky stretched endlessly above him, painted in delicate hues of blue and gold.

Jimin looked down. His body moved with ease, without pain. No wires. No bruises. Just breath. Just light. He turned when he heard laughter. There were children running across the field, their faces unfamiliar, yet strangely comforting. Among them was someone older, chasing playfully, calling after them - and for a moment, Jimin thought it was his younger self.

But no. It wasn’t a memory. It was something else.

A promise.

He walked toward the sound, the sun warming his face, and felt his lungs expand - fully. Like they hadn’t in years. He stretched out his arms, spinning once, and felt joy spark deep in his chest. Real, unfiltered joy.

And then, a shadow appeared beside him.

Tall. Still. Familiar.

He didn’t have to look to know who it was.

“I knew I’d find you here,” Yoongi’s voice said - not rushed, not heavy with worry. Just soft. Whole.

Jimin turned slowly, and there he was. Not in a lab coat. Not a doctor. Just a man, hands in his pockets, eyes calm and open like he had all the time in the world.

“You came?” Jimin asked, his voice smaller than he meant it to be.

“I always do,” Yoongi said. “You’re the one who disappears.”

That made Jimin smile. Not everything made sense, but it didn’t have to. In this space, there was only peace. And Yoongi.

“I want to stay here,” Jimin whispered.

Yoongi tilted his head. “Then stay. But not here,” he said gently, pressing a hand to Jimin’s chest. “Out there. With me. In the real world.”

Jimin’s eyes burned - not from pain this time, but from feeling too much at once.

“I’m scared,” he admitted.

“I know,” Yoongi said. “But I’ll be there when you open your eyes. Take your time. Just… don’t give up.”

Jimin nodded, the field flickering faintly around him. He wasn’t ready to wake yet. But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to. And maybe that was enough.

The field faded slowly, like a painting left in the rain.

The sun dimmed.

The laughter softened into echoes.

And then - warmth. Real, physical warmth. A blanket. A hand. His hand. He felt it first before he could open his eyes - a thumb brushing gently along the side of his palm. Back and forth. A rhythm he recognized. Safe. Familiar. The scent in the air shifted too - clean, clinical, but underneath it… sandalwood and something steadying.

Yoongi.

Jimin’s lashes fluttered. His lids were heavy, but no longer impossible to lift. The buzzing in his ears had dulled to a hum. The pressure in his chest was there - not unbearable, but present. Real.

Real.

His fingers twitched, and he felt Yoongi's hand tighten slightly around his. Then a whisper, hoarse and trembling - Yoongi’s voice.

“Jimin…?”

Jimin tried to answer. His lips parted with effort, breath catching on dry cords. Nothing came out - not yet - but he turned his head a fraction, and felt his body respond. Weakly, but it moved. Alive.

Another breath. He tried again.

“…Hyung…”

A broken sound. Barely there. But Yoongi heard it. The chair creaked as the man leaned forward. A sound escaped him - something between a laugh and a cry. His thumb brushed over Jimin’s knuckles again, grounding him.

“You’re back,” Yoongi whispered, breathless. “You’re really… back.”

Jimin wanted to say

I heard you.

You were there in the dream.

I wanted to stay.

But all he could do was look into Yoongi’s eyes - red-rimmed, tired, but shining in a way that made Jimin’s chest hurt.

Yoongi didn’t speak again. He didn’t need to.

He just leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against Jimin’s arm, holding his hand like a fragile thread that tied him to something beyond this sterile room.

And Jimin… for the first time in days, closed his eyes not from pain -  but to rest.

To stay.

+++

Taehyung spotted Jungkook just as the younger man was stepping out of a taxi, his hoodie pulled low over his eyes and his gait slower than usual — bone-tired, shoulders hunched with the weight of another long night shift. He looked up when he heard the sound of hurried footsteps.

“Tae?”

Taehyung nodded, nearly out of breath from jogging over. “Hey… You look like you barely slept.”

Jungkook gave a tired huff of a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Because I didn’t. But Yoongi-hyung and Hoseok practically threw me out of the ICU last night. Said I wasn’t helping anyone walking around like a zombie.”

“I’m glad they did,” Taehyung said quietly, walking beside him toward the hospital entrance. “You need rest, Koo.”

“I’m fine,” Jungkook insisted, but his voice was soft, yielding, almost grateful that someone still cared enough to say it.

They walked in silence for a beat, the cool morning air wrapping around them like a breath freshly drawn.

And then…

A nurse passed by in the hallway with a too-bright smile, murmuring to another staff member, “…can you believe it? Park Jimin woke up.”

Taehyung froze mid-step. “What—?” he turned around sharply, eyes wide. “What did you just say?”

The nurse blinked, startled. “Oh… Jimin-ssi? He woke up. This morning, I think. I’m not sure if he’s talking yet but… he’s awake.”

Taehyung didn’t hear the rest. His eyes blurred as he turned to Jungkook, who was standing still now, mouth slightly parted. “He’s… he’s awake,” Taehyung whispered, like it was a prayer being answered in real time.

Jungkook nodded slowly, as if trying to confirm it for himself, then reached out to gently squeeze Taehyung’s arm. “Tae…”

But Taehyung was already pulling away, heading toward the ICU, faster and faster until he was practically running. He didn’t even notice the tears until the cold air hit his cheeks. He didn’t stop to think. He just needed to see him.

Tae didn’t look back once as he pushed through the corridors - only forward, breath ragged, legs carrying him faster than his mind could keep up.

Until…

A hand curled gently around his own.

Warm. Steady. Familiar.

Taehyung startled, just a little, turning his head to find Jungkook right beside him now. The younger man didn’t say anything - didn’t need to. His grip was light but sure, grounding Taehyung without anchoring him.

Taehyung blinked, breath catching at the simple comfort of it.

And for a second - just a second - his heart tripped over itself.

He slowed, just a little. And then nodded. Together, they reached the ICU doors. Jungkook gave his hand one last squeeze before letting go, stepping aside to give him space. The moment Taehyung stepped into the room, all the air seemed to vanish from his lungs.

Because Jimin - his Jimin - was awake. Propped up slightly, tubes still curling around his arms, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused - but open. Alive. His skin was pale, lips dry, and the haze in his gaze told Taehyung that he hadn’t fully returned to the world just yet. But none of it mattered.

“Chim,” Taehyung choked out, voice cracking as he stumbled forward, barely catching himself on the bedrail.

Jimin’s gaze shifted slowly, clumsily, trying to track the sound. And then - softly, almost imperceptibly - his lips twitched.

“Tae…”

That was all it took.

Taehyung threw himself into the side of the bed, careful not to hurt him, but unable to keep from curling as close as the machines allowed. His hands trembled as he touched Jimin’s arm, fingers brushing feather-light over skin he’d feared he might never feel warm again.

“You-you scared the hell out of me,” Taehyung whispered, voice shaking with barely held-in tears. “You weren’t supposed to go. You weren’t supposed to go, Jiminie.”

Jimin didn’t respond, just blinked slowly, as if sleep still tugged at him from beneath the surface.

But Taehyung could feel it - feel him. Present. Alive. He leaned his forehead down against Jimin’s shoulder and finally let himself cry. Behind him, Jungkook stood quietly, watching with soft eyes and an unreadable expression - until Taehyung’s trembling hand reached back blindly, searching. And Jungkook stepped forward again, wordlessly offering his hand.

They left Jimin’s room once he had fallen asleep again.

It wasn’t dramatic - no whispered goodbyes, no need for lingering glances. Just the steady beep of monitors, the subtle rhythm of Jimin’s breath, and the way his fingers had curled loosely in Taehyung’s for a moment before slipping back into sleep. Taehyung had wiped his eyes quickly in the hallway, embarrassed by how wrecked he felt, but Jungkook didn’t comment. He just kept walking quietly beside him.

They stopped at the end of the hall, just before the corridor split into different wings. Jungkook checked his phone - he had a short window before his afternoon shift began. Taehyung didn’t expect him to stay.

But Jungkook turned, opened his arms, and said only, “Come here.”

And Taehyung did. The hug was soft, quiet, lasting longer than it should’ve. But he didn’t care. He didn’t want to move - not when Jungkook’s warmth felt like it was patching all the jagged cracks he’d been carrying since the day of the collapse. Since the day he almost lost Jimin. He pressed his face against the crook of Jungkook’s shoulder, inhaling deeply, grounding himself. Jungkook held him without expectation. Without pressure. Just presence.

“I needed this,” Taehyung murmured.

“I know,” Jungkook whispered back.

When they finally pulled apart, it was with a soft smile and a shared understanding.

Jungkook went to his shift.

Taehyung stayed.

He lingered outside the ICU for most of the day. Nurses came and went, Hoseok passed through once and gave him a nod, but no one disturbed him. Every couple of hours, he peeked inside Jimin’s room - just to see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Just to remind himself this wasn’t a dream. And in the quiet stretches between, Taehyung thought.

About fear. About hope. And – inevitably - about Jungkook.

He hadn’t liked someone like this in a long time.

He hadn’t let himself.

When evening settled in and the nurses dimmed the hallway lights, Jungkook found him sitting on the bench outside the ICU, curled up in his hoodie, phone forgotten in his lap.

“I thought you might still be here,” the nurse said softly.

“I couldn’t leave him.”

“I know.”

Jungkook extended a hand. “Come on. You need to eat.”

Taehyung didn’t argue. He let himself be led to the cafeteria - nearly empty now except for a few night staff and tired families. They sat in the far corner, two steaming bowls between them, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead.

They ate mostly in silence.

Until Taehyung broke it. “I haven’t liked someone like this in a long time.” The words slipped out before he could censor them.

Jungkook looked up, surprised but calm. He didn’t rush to respond. He let it sit between them, gentle and real. Then he said quietly, “I’m not asking for all of you.” His eyes softened. “Just the parts you’re willing to give.”

Taehyung’s throat tightened. He looked away, blinking fast.

And then - very softly - he nodded.

Chapter Text

It had been a few days since he woke up.

He still wasn’t used to it - the light. The sounds. The steady rhythm of life outside the ICU room. But every morning, when his eyes blinked open and he felt his chest rise with breath - not forced, not painful, just breath - he reminded himself:

You’re still here.

You chose to stay.

The new treatment was working. He could feel it - not dramatically, not all at once - but like sunlight gradually warming the frostbitten edges of his body. Movement still hurt. There were days when he felt like his lungs had forgotten how to stretch. But it was different now. The pain wasn’t hopeless.

There was something tethering him.

Maybe it was Yoongi’s voice still echoing in his memory. Maybe it was Taehyung’s tears or Jungkook’s quiet laughter. Maybe it was just his own stubborn heart refusing to give up.

His sessions with Hoseok were hard.

“Again,” Hoseok would say gently, even as Jimin winced. “You’ve done harder things than this. Just one more breath.”

They started simple - guided breathing, relearning the rhythm of inhale, exhale, hold. Some days, Jimin failed. He would freeze up, trapped in the fear of what came next. Other days, he surprised even himself. But Hoseok never rushed him. Never judged. Just quietly adjusted the speaker volume, found a soft instrumental track, and let the music lead the pace.

“It’s not about control,” Hoseok reminded him. “It’s about remembering that you have a body. And it’s still yours.”

Later in the afternoon, Namjoon would visit. Their sessions felt more like long conversations than therapy. But every question Namjoon asked made Jimin pause.

“What would you tell your past self?”

“What does ‘healing’ look like to you - not to anyone else?”

At first, Jimin didn’t know how to answer. But slowly, he started trying. And maybe that was the point. Sometimes, after the sessions, he’d sit in the recliner by the window and write. Not full stories. Just fragments. Thoughts. Echoes of the person he used to be, and the one he was becoming.

He didn’t write about dancing. Not yet. But he wrote about breath. And choice. And the way Yoongi’s voice always sounded calm, even when Jimin knew he was anything but.

He hadn’t seen Yoongi since the last session Hoseok made them share. It had been awkward, intimate in a way that made his skin buzz. The memory of Yoongi’s hand resting just behind his back while guiding his breathing - it made his heart trip a little too fast.

So Jimin focused on recovery. On himself.

Because for the first time in a long time, he believed he still had a future. Even if he hadn’t figured it all out yet. Even if there were still things left unsaid.

Sometimes, Jimin would catch him watching.

Not for long - never long enough to be obvious - but just enough that Jimin felt it. Like the weight of a gaze he’d grown familiar with. He would look up from his notebook or the stretching band Hoseok left behind, and there he’d be: Dr. Min, standing by the glass window of the rehab wing or halfway down the hallway.

There was always a clipboard in Yoongi’s hands. Always the same guarded face. But Jimin had started recognizing the softness behind it. Sometimes, Yoongi didn’t look away fast enough. Sometimes, Jimin caught the tiniest hint of a smile - not smug or polite or performative - but something real. Something small and unspoken, meant for no one else but him.

He never called him in. Never asked Yoongi to stay longer than the necessary vitals check or chart updates. But still, Yoongi stopped by.

“Your stats are improving,” he would say in that low, steady voice. “Your oxygen levels are strong today. Do you know that?”

“I know,” Jimin would reply, quietly, not meeting his eyes.

The words weren’t the important part anymore.

But Yoongi had been busier these days. Jimin could see it in the dark circles under his eyes, in the way he rubbed his temple when reading charts, in the way Hoseok mentioned an overload of new admissions without saying his name.

Still - Yoongi came.

Even when he didn’t have to.

And on the days when he couldn’t linger, Jimin didn’t mind. Taehyung was often curled in the visitor chair with a book or a camera slung across his chest. Jungkook would stop by too, usually before or after a shift, carrying warm drinks or bad hospital vending machine snacks with sheepish grins.

They kept him company. Made the days feel less hollow.

Sometimes, Taehyung would brush Jimin’s hair off his forehead and murmur, “You’re getting color back.”

Jimin would roll his eyes and whisper, “So dramatic.”

But he appreciated it.

He appreciated all of it.

And on the nights he couldn’t sleep, when the lights dimmed and the hallway quieted, Jimin would stare out the window and wonder if Yoongi still thought about him as much as Jimin thought about Yoongi.

Not as a patient.

Not as a duty.

Just… as someone who stayed.

The letter had been sitting in the drawer by his bed for days now. Folded neatly. Unsent. He’d written it when he thought he might never have the chance to say any of it out loud. Words scribbled in the quiet hours, between pain and hope, between trembling fingers and the gentle scrape of pen on paper.

When Yoongi entered his room that afternoon - shoulders slightly hunched from the cold, hair damp from melted snow - Jimin knew it was time. He didn’t speak right away. Just reached into the drawer with a trembling hand, pulled out the letter, and held it out to him.

“For you,” he whispered, his voice thin. “I never got to… give it.”

Yoongi’s brow furrowed as he took it with careful hands. He didn’t open it - not yet. He simply looked at Jimin, gaze soft and full of quiet understanding.

“Can I… read it later?” he asked gently.

Jimin nodded, already struggling for air. The lump in his throat was thick. His chest ached - not from illness this time, but from the fear that he’d given too much. He clutched at the blanket draped across his legs and tried to breathe through it.

Yoongi was beside him in a second, kneeling so they were eye-level. “Breathe with me,” he murmured, just like he had the night everything almost fell apart. “In… and out. That’s it.”

Jimin closed his eyes, followed his voice. The shaking eased. When he opened them again, Yoongi’s hand was over his. “I was going to wait,” the doctor said, standing up again, his tone lighter. “But maybe you could use something better than fluorescent lights and medical beeping today.”

Jimin blinked. “What?”

Yoongi walked toward the closet and returned with a thick hospital jacket. “You feel up to going outside? Just for a little?”

“…It’s snowing,” Jimin said softly.

Yoongi smiled. “Exactly.”

The hospital garden was quiet, blanketed in soft white. The snow had settled on every surface like a whisper - on benches, trees, rooftops. Everything looked gentler somehow. Slower. Yoongi pushed the wheelchair carefully. He’d brought gloves for Jimin, a scarf tucked around his neck, and a thermos of warm tea.

Jimin didn’t speak for the first few minutes. Just watched the flakes drift down from the sky like they’d never stopped dancing, even when he had.

Then he tilted his head back and whispered, “Thank you.”

Yoongi glanced down. “For what?”

“For… not treating me like I’m already gone.”

Yoongi’s grip tightened slightly on the handles behind him. “You’re not,” he said, firm but soft. “You’re still here.”

Jimin swallowed thickly. “I don’t know what that means most days.”

Yoongi stepped around and crouched in front of him again. His eyes were a little glassy now too. “It means we still get days like this. Even if they’re quiet. Even if they’re small. We still get them.”

Jimin reached for his hand.

Yoongi didn’t hesitate.

Together, they sat in silence while the snow continued to fall around them.

+++

The snow was falling again - thick, soft flakes like feathers, landing on the window’s ledge and melting slowly into silence. Taehyung leaned his forehead against the cold glass, breath fogging the pane as he stared out at the pale garden below. He had just stepped out of Jimin’s room, stomach tight with emotions and not much else. Dinner sounded like a suggestion from a different world.

Jimin was sleeping when he left - exhausted but warm, a faint flush on his cheeks. There was color returning to his skin now. That alone felt like a miracle. Taehyung didn’t know Dr. Min had come in after he left. Didn’t know Jimin had gone outside into the snow. All he knew was the sudden pull of familiarity behind him - the sound of sneakers scuffing the floor, followed by the quiet exhale of someone carrying the weight of too much.

He turned slowly.

Jungkook.

The younger man looked exhausted - dark circles under his eyes, uniform rumpled from a brutal shift, hair damp from the walk between wings. But his shoulders eased when he saw Taehyung, like he’d been holding himself together just to get here.

“You look like the sky,” Jungkook said softly.

Taehyung blinked, confused.

“All gray and tired,” Jungkook added, with the hint of a sheepish smile.

Taehyung scoffed, but it wasn’t harsh. “And you look like you haven’t slept in three days.”

“I haven’t.” Jungkook joined him by the window. “I clocked out early just now. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

The words dropped gently between them. Taehyung didn’t respond right away. He turned back to the glass, tracing an absent circle with his finger. Below, the snow kept falling. Somewhere in the distance, lights were blinking on in the garden. Shapes he couldn’t make out clearly.

“It’s hard,” he whispered. “Watching someone you love fight for their life, and knowing there’s nothing you can do except wait.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything - he just leaned in slightly, their arms brushing.

“I’ve been… trying so hard to stay strong for Jimin,” Taehyung continued. “But some days I feel like I’m the one unraveling.”

Jungkook reached up slowly and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Taehyung’s ear. His fingers lingered, warm against chilled skin. “You don’t have to be strong all the time.”

Taehyung looked at him. Really looked at him. There was no pity in Jungkook’s eyes. Just understanding. Just presence.

“I saw the way you held him,” Jungkook added. “You’re already doing more than enough.”

Taehyung’s chest tightened. “I just… I don’t want to lose him.”

“You won’t.”

The conviction in Jungkook’s voice made Taehyung’s throat ache. He wanted to believe it. Wanted to let the warmth seeping in from the other man’s nearness melt some of the cold fear that had taken root in his bones.

They stood there in silence, side by side, watching the snow drift like memories through the night air.

Eventually, Taehyung said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m always here,” Jungkook replied. “Even when I don’t say it.”

Taehyung nodded slowly, and without a word, reached out to intertwine their fingers. The lights in the garden glowed faintly below. Neither of them noticed the wheelchair sitting quietly in the far corner near the trees, or the two figures beneath the snow-dusted lanterns - Jimin wrapped in a coat, and Yoongi crouched beside him, both still, both watching the world like it had just begun again.

They stayed by the window for a long time. The snow kept falling, but the lights in the garden had dimmed. Somewhere down the hall, a nurse laughed too loudly, and a machine beeped in protest. But here - right here - time felt suspended.

Taehyung didn’t expect Jungkook to speak again. But he did. “I want to show you something,” the nurse said softly, breaking the silence.

Taehyung turned his head slightly. “Now?”

Jungkook nodded and slipped a small envelope from his jacket pocket - creased from being carried around all day. “I meant to give this to you earlier.”

He handed it over without explanation. Taehyung opened it carefully, fingers trembling just a little. Inside were a few photographs. Polaroids. His breath caught.

They were all of Jimin. But not sick, not frail, not fighting for air. In every shot, Jimin was smiling. One was from the rooftop garden - wind in his hair, cheeks flushed. Another: Jimin mid-laugh during a rehab session, Hoseok blurry in the corner.

The last one made Taehyung’s eyes sting. Jimin was looking out a window, face half-turned to the light. Peaceful. Whole. There was a softness in his gaze that Taehyung hadn’t seen in a long time.

“How…” His voice cracked. “When did you take these?”

Jungkook shrugged, voice quiet. “Whenever I could. I didn’t want you to forget how much he’s still here. How much he’s still Jimin.”

Taehyung pressed his lips together, eyes glued to the photo in his hands. “You… you didn’t have to do this.”

“I know.” Jungkook hesitated, then added, “But I wanted to.”

Taehyung looked up - and something inside him cracked open.

Jungkook looked nervous now, like he wasn’t sure if he’d crossed a line. He shifted his weight, glanced down at the floor.

Taehyung didn’t think. He stepped forward, slid the photos into his pocket, and kissed him. It was soft - like snow melting into skin. Hesitant. Almost unsure. But real. Jungkook froze in surprise, then melted. His hands hovered at Taehyung’s waist before resting there gently, holding on as if afraid to let go too fast.

Taehyung pulled back just slightly, their foreheads brushing. His voice was barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

Jungkook smiled. “I didn’t do it for thanks.”

“I know,” Taehyung said, eyes full. “That’s why it means more.”

They stayed like that - foreheads touching, hearts open - for a moment longer, before walking back toward Jimin’s room. Taehyung still held the photos in his hand. And somewhere outside the hospital walls, the snow kept falling. Quiet. Steady. Like the start of something.

Chapter Text

The hallway was dim and still when Yoongi stepped out of the elevator. His body ached - not from physical strain, but from holding everything together for too long. The urge to turn around and stay the night by Jimin’s side clawed at his chest like it had every night this week. But he didn’t. He needed space. To breathe. To process the letter still burning a hole in his coat pocket. Still, he found himself walking toward Jimin’s room anyway. Just for a moment, he told himself. Just to check.

The door was half-open, warm light spilling out into the corridor. Inside, Jimin was asleep - his chest rising steadily beneath the hospital blanket. His lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks. Peaceful. At least for now. Taehyung looked up from the small couch, phone in hand. His face softened the moment he saw Yoongi.

“He’s okay,” Taehyung whispered. “Still sleeping.”

Yoongi nodded. “Good.”

He stepped closer to the bed but didn’t touch. He just stood there for a second longer than necessary, memorizing the lines of Jimin’s face in the low light. His fingers twitched, aching to reach out.

“I’m heading out,” he murmured to Taehyung.

“Have a good night, Dr. Min,” Taehyung said gently, understanding more than he let on.

Yoongi walked away.

He made it home without really remembering the drive. The city lights blurred past his window like ghosts. The moment his door clicked shut behind him, he leaned against it, head tipped back. The apartment was cold, still. Too quiet.

He didn’t bother changing out of his clothes. He simply sat on the edge of the couch, pulled Jimin’s letter from his coat, and unfolded it slowly - hands trembling in a way they hadn’t even during surgery. The handwriting was unmistakable.

Delicate. Measured. But raw.

Dear Yoongi,

I don’t know if I’ll ever have the right words for you. Maybe that’s why I’m writing instead of speaking. My voice still falters too much when you’re around.

But thank you. For being there. For seeing me. For staying when you didn’t have to. I was scared I wouldn’t make it, and for the first time, I wasn’t afraid because of the pain. I was afraid because I hadn’t told you that I still want to stay.

For me.

And maybe… for you too.

You don’t have to say anything back. Just know… I’m still here.

— Jimin

Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat.

He set the paper down like it was made of glass. And for the first time in weeks, he let himself cry - not from fear, not from guilt, but from the overwhelming, quiet relief of hope. A soft knock on his ribcage, reminding him what it felt like to care this deeply again.

He didn’t sleep much that night, but it didn’t feel like restlessness. It felt like waiting.

For morning.

For something better.

For Jimin.

It wasn’t just a thank-you.

It wasn’t even just hope.

Jimin’s letter - quiet and trembling in its honesty - was the closest thing Yoongi had ever received to a love letter.

And it undid him.

He stared at the paper for a long time, the words blurring as his eyes stung, chest tight. He gripped it with both hands, knuckles white, because it was suddenly the most fragile and powerful thing in his world.

Jimin had written it with effort. Yoongi could feel it in the pauses between lines. In the vulnerability etched between every word. And beneath that gentleness, the truth hit him like a fist to the lungs.

He had fallen in love with Park Jimin.

Worse - he had let himself fall in love. Slowly, helplessly. It had happened in the quiet moments: in Jimin’s trembling laugh, in the way his eyes lit up when they talked about books, in the silence between their conversations when nothing was said but everything was felt.

He hadn’t meant to. Had sworn he never would again. Not after what the last time cost him. But here he was - sitting alone in his apartment at 2 a.m., crying so hard he couldn’t breathe. Not out of fear this time. But because the ache was real. The ache of being seen. The terror of being known. And the unbearable sweetness of knowing that someone - Park Jimin - cared enough to stay.

Not because Yoongi saved him.

Not because he had to.

But because he wanted to.

Yoongi wiped his face with his sleeve, but the tears wouldn’t stop. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and leaned forward, elbows on knees, trying to ground himself. His shoulders trembled. All this time, he’d been holding himself together like brittle glass.

Jimin hadn’t broken him.

He’d given Yoongi permission to shatter - and start over.

Somewhere in the quiet dark, Yoongi whispered into the silence, like Jimin might hear it in his dreams:

"You idiot… you weren’t supposed to make me love you."

But he did. And Yoongi had no idea how to protect himself from that kind of light. So he didn’t. He just let it wash over him - grief, love, hope, fear - all tangled together in the letter folded in his lap. And in that moment, Yoongi knew, he would do everything – anything - to make sure Jimin stayed.

The morning light was gray and soft, the kind of pale glow that made the hospital hallways feel less sterile. Yoongi walked them with ease. The letter was folded neatly in his pocket, its edges worn slightly from the way his fingers kept brushing against it. He hadn’t meant to reread it so many times - but somehow, each time he reached for reassurance, it was there. A pulse pressed to paper.

Jimin’s words. Still warm.

But this was the hospital. He was Dr. Min again.

He had three early rounds - a patient in recovery from surgery, a young boy with collapsed lungs, and a woman in her seventies who always asked Yoongi to sit for just one more minute. He did. He always did.

He was a good doctor. He had to be.

So he moved from room to room, reviewing charts, nodding, adjusting medication with calm efficiency. The nurses greeted him gently, sensing something in his silence today—but not asking.

And then…

Room 305.

His breath caught just for a second.

He didn’t pause. He couldn’t.

Yoongi knocked lightly and stepped in.

Jimin was sitting up a little more now, a pillow tucked behind his back, a thick knit blanket over his legs. His hair was still tousled from sleep. His skin pale, but no longer ghostly.

His eyes lifted.

And Yoongi’s heart did that thing again. That tiny, traitorous skip in his chest that only Jimin caused.

“Morning,” Yoongi said softly, letting the door fall closed behind him.

Jimin smiled - small, a little shy. “Morning.”

It was just one word. But it undid him all over again.

Still, Yoongi kept his voice neutral as he checked the monitor, scribbled a few notes. His stethoscope was cold when he touched it to Jimin’s chest. He apologized for it like he always did.

Jimin laughed a little. “Still freezing.”

“I’ll warm it next time,” Yoongi murmured, barely able to meet his eyes.

He was still his doctor.

This treatment - his idea - was why Jimin was improving. Why his oxygen levels had stabilized. Why his voice, although still soft, had started to return.

Yoongi adjusted the IV slightly and turned back toward him, his fingers tightening around the chart.

“You’re doing well,” he said. “Better than expected.”

Jimin tilted his head. “Because of you.”

Yoongi didn’t respond to that.

He couldn’t.

His feelings didn’t belong in this room. Not yet.

Instead, he cleared his throat and offered a clipped, professional nod. “We’ll keep monitoring the response to the dosage. Namjoon will check on you later for therapy.”

“Okay.”

Yoongi hesitated at the door, one hand on the handle. “Get some rest. Let your body keep healing.”

Jimin’s voice followed him, quieter now. “Thank you, Yoongi.”

It wasn’t Dr. Min.

It was Yoongi.

And though he didn’t turn around, Yoongi allowed himself a small, fleeting smile - one Jimin wouldn’t see. He pressed his palm to his pocket where the letter still sat, warm and close to his heart. His feelings had to wait. But not forever.

+++

Yoongi hadn’t said anything about the letter.

Not a word.

But Jimin could feel it - in the pauses between sentences, in the way Yoongi’s gaze sometimes lingered just a moment too long, in how his hands hovered like they didn’t want to leave him, even when the exam was over.

Maybe it was nothing.

Maybe it was everything.

Yoongi still acted like a doctor. Still wore that unreadable mask he was so good at. Still folded his hands behind his back and spoke with clinical calmness. Still said things like, “You’re responding well to treatment,” instead of, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

But Jimin saw through it now. Or maybe… felt through it.

And he didn’t push. He didn’t ask.

Instead, he healed.

He chose to heal.

The new treatment was working. His lungs didn’t burn like fire anymore when he laughed. The tremble in his hands had steadied. His appetite was improving, and the tremors that used to wake him at night were no longer constant companions.

He followed everything Yoongi asked. Everything.

He drank the vitamin shakes Seokjin dropped off every other day - homemade, with just enough sweetness to taste like care. He listened during his therapy sessions with Namjoon, letting the man guide him through the murky waters in his chest, breathing through the flashbacks and the ache that still sat in the corners of his mind.

Hoseok’s rehab sessions were still hard - his body complained, sweat gathered at his brow, and more than once he had to blink away frustrated tears.

But Hoseok never pushed past kindness. He always waited. Adjusted. Encouraged. Sometimes he’d hum quietly under his breath. And sometimes, when Jimin faltered, he’d gently say, “It’s okay. You’re doing enough just by being here.”

It was a strange thing, to feel alive again.

And stranger still… to feel watched over.

He wasn’t used to that. Not in this way. Not by someone like Min Yoongi, whose hands once felt too far to reach - until they held his. Now, they seemed to hover everywhere in the room, invisible threads wrapped around his healing limbs, tethering him gently to hope.

He hadn’t said it out loud. But he wanted to.

“I know you read it.”

“I’m not asking for anything. Just… stay.”

But Jimin wasn’t ready for those words yet. Instead, he let them linger on the edge of his tongue like a prayer, content - for now - to watch the way Yoongi’s eyes softened when he thought Jimin wasn’t looking.

And maybe that was enough.

At least, for today.

A month.

That’s how long it had been since the last time Jimin opened his eyes in the ICU, lungs screaming for air and heart unsure if it still belonged to his body. Now, he was walking out of the hospital.

Not forever, not yet. His discharge was temporary - a pause in the cycle of treatments, a space to breathe outside sterile walls. A week or two at home. Then back again. In and out like the tide, like the rhythm of his own breath he had to learn to trust again. The sun was too bright. The air too loud. He blinked, his feet hesitating just past the hospital doors.

His steps were shaky.

Not just from the lingering exhaustion in his bones - but from everything. From the quiet fear that this might be too soon. From the overwhelming gratitude that he got a “too soon.”

And then he saw him.

Yoongi stood there.

Not close. Not far.

In his simple black coat and dark pants, face unreadable but gaze anchored to Jimin like a constant. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move.

But he was there.

Silent. Present.

Jimin’s throat tightened, and for one dizzying moment, he almost stopped walking.

There were so many things he wanted to say.

Thank you. I see you. I don’t know how to do this without you.

But none of it left his lips.

Yoongi didn’t speak either. Didn’t offer empty words like “take care” or “you’re doing great.” He simply stood there in the sunlight, unmoving, as if his presence alone could cushion the transition from hospital to world.

And somehow - it did.

That silence was louder than any farewell.

Jimin’s chest ached from the weight of everything unspoken. The tension between them felt thick enough to touch, fragile as frost, like something that could melt or shatter with the wrong word. So they said nothing.

Not goodbye. Not see you soon.

But Jimin looked Yoongi in the eyes. Just once. Long enough for something to pass between them. Something like hope… or maybe promise.

Then Taehyung called softly from the open car door, “Jimin-ah?”

Jimin turned. Tae stood there waiting with the passenger door held open, soft smile faltering just slightly when he noticed the way Jimin lingered. Jimin nodded once - at Yoongi. A small gesture that meant, thank you for not saying goodbye.

And Yoongi… nodded back.

That was it.

Jimin slid into the seat beside Taehyung and closed the door.

As the car pulled away, he didn’t look back.

But he felt it - the pull of gravity he was leaving behind.

And somehow, he knew.

He’d come back.

Because some people aren’t meant to be left behind.

+++

The restaurant was small. Quiet. Tucked away behind the main road with too many cars and too little peace. It wasn’t fancy. No white tablecloths or polished silverware. But the soup was hot, and Namjoon was already there when Seokjin arrived, a soft warmth behind his eyes and an extra glass of barley tea waiting on the table.

Seokjin sat down without a word.

Namjoon smiled. “You’re late.”

“I had to find a parking spot. And fix my hair.”

“You look the same as always.”

Seokjin arched a brow. “Then I look good.”

Namjoon snorted - snorted, of all things - and Seokjin found himself smiling despite the ache in his ribs from the long week.

They talked. Not about hospitals. Not about charting or oxygen levels or diet plans. Just… about life. About how the leaves were starting to turn. About the new cat living under Namjoon’s porch that wouldn’t leave.

And then the silence came.

A good one. Gentle.

Until Namjoon spoke again, voice a little quieter than before. “He’s scared, you know.”

Seokjin didn’t need to ask who he was.

“Yoongi?” he said anyway.

Namjoon nodded slowly. “To love again. To let himself want something… or someone.”

Seokjin let his fingers trace the rim of his glass. He thought about Jimin - how small he looked in that hospital bed weeks ago, how slowly he’d begun to bloom again. He thought about Yoongi, always so composed, always hiding the way his hands trembled when he touched someone he cared for too much.

“You saw how he held Jimin’s hand,” Seokjin murmured. “I’ve never seen him do that before.”

“He didn’t even realize it.”

“He did.” Seokjin smiled faintly. “He just didn’t care who saw.”

Namjoon leaned back in his seat. “That’s the thing with Yoongi. He’ll fight for everyone but himself. But when he loves… he loves like it’s his last chance.”

They were both quiet after that.

Outside the window, a soft drizzle had started, the kind that didn’t chase anyone inside but softened the world for a while. It made everything seem slower, more meaningful.

“I’m happy for him,” Seokjin said, his voice a little tight.

Namjoon looked at him, and something unspoken passed between them. A quiet understanding born from years of carrying too much alone.

“I’m happy for you too,” Namjoon said.

And then…

Laughter.

Soft at first, from something stupid Seokjin said about their old med school professor and his obsession with bow ties.

Then louder. Real. Full-bellied and full of life.

Namjoon’s dimples appeared.

Seokjin laughed harder.

And for the first time in years, they both laughed like they had nothing to prove and no masks to wear.

Seokjin wiped his eyes with the edge of his sleeve, grinning like a fool. “You’re paying for dessert.”

“I always pay.”

“I let you.”

Namjoon just shook his head, smiling.

Outside, the rain kept falling.

And inside, two old flames started to stitch something back together again - slowly, steadily - while the world kept spinning on.

+++

Jimin had fallen asleep on the couch again.

Curled under the beige throw blanket, one hand tucked under his cheek, the other resting limply over his notebook. He’d been scribbling half-thoughts, poetry fragments, something about “breath” and “returning to the body.”

Taehyung carefully moved the pencil away and placed a hand on his friend’s forehead - warm but no fever. The air was still. Afternoon light filtered through the curtains like melted gold, quiet and slow. For the first time in months, the space around them didn’t feel like a battlefield.

From the kitchen, he heard the soft clink of a spoon against porcelain.

“Soup’s ready,” Jungkook called gently.

Taehyung turned. “He fell asleep again.”

Jungkook appeared in the doorway, apron tied around his waist, hair slightly damp from a quick shower. His expression softened when his eyes landed on Jimin. “He always falls asleep after writing,” he said. “Like he puts too much of himself into the words.”

Taehyung nodded and looked back at his friend. “I think he’s getting better,” he murmured, as if speaking it too loudly might break the spell.

“He is,” Jungkook replied. Then, after a pause: “Because he has people who don’t leave.”

Taehyung turned to him, something quiet and weighty sitting between them. Jungkook didn’t look away.

“You’re good with him,” Taehyung said, voice low. “He likes when you’re around.”

“I know,” Jungkook replied. “So do you.”

Taehyung blinked, flustered. “You just had to say that.”

Jungkook smiled, stepping closer. “I meant it.”

They stood there for a moment, Jimin’s quiet breathing filling the space behind them.

Then Jungkook added, “I think Yoongi-hyung misses him.”

Taehyung tilted his head. “Really?”

“He hasn’t said anything. But... he looked wrecked the last time I saw him.” Jungkook sat on the armrest beside Taehyung. “He checks in every morning. Not officially. Just… asking how Jimin’s doing. And he always says, ‘No need to tell him I asked.’”

Taehyung’s heart twisted. “He’s scared,” he said. “You can tell.”

“Yeah. But I think he’s waiting. For the right time.” Jungkook glanced toward Jimin. “Maybe he thinks he doesn’t deserve to be part of this healing.”

Taehyung looked down at his hands. “I think he already is.”

The air shifted slightly. Jungkook leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against Taehyung’s.

“You’ve been here through everything,” Jungkook murmured.

“So have you.”

Taehyung turned to him. Their eyes met.

The silence lingered - charged, but soft.

“Do you remember the first day we met again?” Taehyung asked quietly. “Outside Jimin’s room?”

Jungkook smiled. “You looked like you were about to kick someone.”

“I was.” Taehyung laughed. “I didn’t know I needed someone to hold me.”

“I did,” Jungkook said. “And I will. If you let me.”

Taehyung didn’t answer with words. Instead, he reached out and gently touched Jungkook’s hand where it rested near his own. Their fingers brushed.

Just enough.

Outside, the late spring air stirred the curtains. Jimin sighed in his sleep.

And something fragile, something hopeful, settled quietly in the space between them.

Chapter Text

The world was too loud.

Too bright.

Too fast.

The first time Jimin stepped out of the apartment alone, even just onto the small balcony, it hit him all at once - car horns in the distance, birdsong too sharp, wind too sudden against his skin. He stood there gripping the railing, lungs shaking in his chest, and reminded himself of one thing:

Breathe.

He had learned how to do that again. Not the kind of breath that just kept him alive - but the kind that reminded him why. It had been nearly three weeks since his discharge. The new treatment had changed something fundamental inside him. He could feel it every time he flexed his fingers or placed one foot carefully in front of the other. Still weak, but not helpless. Still healing, but not dying.

He wrote every morning. Three pages - stream-of-consciousness. Sometimes poetry, sometimes rage. Sometimes... confessions. In one of them, he wrote:

"The hardest part isn’t walking again.
It’s wanting to stay.
It’s looking at myself and saying:
You are not broken beyond repair."

Sometimes the days bled into each other. Sometimes, he forgot what day it even was. But Hoseok sent him reminders - breathing exercises and little videos with classical piano music. Namjoon texted simple affirmations. And Taehyung was always there, always watching him like a hawk disguised as a flower.

Yoongi didn’t text. Not often. But sometimes at night - just past midnight, when the air felt thin - his phone would buzz once.

[Yoongi, 12:14 AM]
"Did you remember to eat?"

[Yoongi, 12:42 AM]
"You're doing better. Keep going."

[Yoongi, 1:01 AM]
"Still keeping your letters safe."

Jimin never replied. But he read them more than once. And in the quiet spaces between therapy appointments and slow walks around the apartment with Taehyung’s steadying hand, Jimin let himself believe that maybe - just maybe - he was allowed to want again.

To stay.

To build a life not in spite of his pain - but alongside it.

The notebooks filled quickly. Pages curled under the weight of ink and tears. And that afternoon, when he managed to walk from the bedroom to the living room without help - only gripping the wall twice - Jimin looked up at the window, the world still spinning outside it, and whispered to himself:

“I’m still here.”

One day Jimin lay on the living room couch, legs curled beneath a light blanket, the late afternoon sunlight stretching long shadows across the wooden floor. Taehyung was flipping through a magazine, sprawled out on the carpet in front of him. A soft instrumental playlist Hoseok had recommended hummed quietly in the background. The scent of ginger tea lingered in the air - Jungkook had just made some and gone to the kitchen to fetch more honey.

Jimin’s gaze drifted to the window. Snow was melting outside. Winter losing its grip. He wondered if Yoongi liked spring.

He closed his eyes, only to hear Taehyung’s gentle voice cut through the stillness. “You’ve been thinking about him again.”

Jimin’s eyes fluttered open. “What?”

“Dr. Min,” Taehyung said casually, still flipping the page. “You have that face again.”

“What face?”

“That face you make when you’re trying not to think about someone you’re always thinking about,” Taehyung said, tilting his head dramatically toward Jimin. “It’s a very obvious face.”

Jimin groaned and covered his face with a throw pillow.

Taehyung snickered. “Don’t smother yourself. You just started breathing normally again.”

“I’m not thinking about him,” Jimin mumbled through the fabric.

“Oh, so you’re just daydreaming about lungs and white coats and deep voices that tell you to breathe slowly?”

Before Jimin could answer, Jungkook returned with the honey and caught the tail end of the conversation. “Still teasing him?” the nurse grinned, sitting at the edge of the couch.

“I’m being supportive,” Taehyung argued, poking Jimin’s thigh. “Tell him, Chim. Tell him the truth.”

Jimin sat up slowly, setting the pillow aside. He felt the weight in his chest - the kind that wasn’t about pain this time, but something heavier. “I think I…” His voice cracked. “I think I fell in love with him. With Yoongi.”

Taehyung stilled, the teasing fading from his expression. He reached up and held Jimin’s hand between his own. “You didn’t fall,” he said softly. “You grew into it. There’s a difference.”

Jimin’s eyes stung, but he blinked the tears away. “It’s stupid, though. He’s my doctor. He probably just… felt responsible for me.”

Jungkook made a soft scoffing sound. “You think that man held your hand every night because of responsibility?”

Jimin looked over at him.

Jungkook smiled, gentle and sure. “Jimin-hyung… I’ve seen Dr. Min with hundreds of patients. I’ve never seen him like that with anyone else...”

Jimin’s heart fluttered.

“I’m not saying anything will be easy,” Jungkook continued, “but… yes. I think he likes you. I think he’s trying not to. And failing.”

Taehyung squeezed his hand. “It’s okay to be afraid. But it’s okay to hope too.”

Jimin looked down at their intertwined hands. He didn’t know what the future held. He didn’t even know if he was strong enough to ask for more than what he had already been given.

But maybe…

Maybe the heart wasn’t just meant to survive.

Maybe it was meant to bloom again - even after everything.

A few days later, Jimin had to return to the hospital for his regular checkup. It smelled the same. That strange mix of antiseptic, linen, and something faintly floral - maybe from the soaps the nurses used. It was familiar, but not comforting. Not anymore.

Jimin stood at the edge of the lobby, his fingers curled tightly around the handle of his small rolling suitcase. His breathing was steady, but every part of his body felt as if it remembered everything. Every sleepless night. Every moment in limbo. Every second he’d waited to die - or to choose not to.

But he had chosen.

He was here again, not because he was broken, but because he was healing.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Jimin stepped in.

Up.

The same floor. The same corridor. The lights buzzed gently overhead.

Hoseok was the one waiting at the entrance of the rehab wing. His smile was warm and wide, his arms opening as if to say: you made it back.

Jimin exhaled.

“You came by yourself?” Hoseok asked as they hugged.

“Taehyung dropped me off,” Jimin replied. “He had a shoot later.”

Hoseok nodded. “Well. You’re back. And we’re picking up where we left off.”

“Can’t wait,” Jimin said, voice soft but teasing.

They walked together to his assigned room, and Hoseok helped him settle in. The view was slightly different this time - more sky, less parking lot. Jimin liked that.

Later that afternoon, Seokjin came by with a new diet plan. Jungkook stopped in briefly to check his vitals and left a small tangerine on his bedside table “for vitamin C and luck.”

But Yoongi didn’t come.

Not that day.

Not the next either.

And Jimin hated how much he noticed.

Still, the days moved forward. Hoseok’s rehab sessions were more intense this time. “Now that your lungs aren’t trying to kill you, you don’t get to slack,” he said with a grin as he guided Jimin through breath-synchronized movements, slow stretches, and posture retraining.

Namjoon resumed their therapy sessions with a gentler tone than before, though he still pushed Jimin to face the cracks and shadows inside him. The staff remembered him. Nurses greeted him with warmth. A few younger patients whispered and waved shyly when he passed by in the hallway.

But Yoongi was nowhere to be seen.

And it ached.

Still, Jimin focused on the progress. He walked from the gym back to his room without assistance for the first time. He wrote pages in his journal each night before bed. He smiled, laughed even, when Taehyung video-called him during breaks.

He was breathing again.

But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when the lights were off and the halls were quiet… Jimin would press a hand over his heart and whisper:

"I miss you."

He didn’t say the name.

He didn’t have to.

+++

Yoongi stared at the sea beyond the tall windows of the Busan Convention Center, the waves crashing softly in rhythmic intervals. The conference room buzzed behind him - white coats, screens glowing with scans and data charts, microphones being tested.  But his mind wasn’t there.

It was in Seoul. In a hospital room two floors above the rehab wing, probably by now filled with soft music and sunlight, with Hoseok tapping on a tablet and asking Jimin to breathe - slow and deep. Yoongi closed his eyes briefly. Inhaled.

He was here because of that. Because of Jimin. Because the experimental therapy protocol he had adapted - carefully, painfully, obsessively - for Jimin’s unique case had worked. It had saved a life. And it could save so many more. That’s what Namjoon had said when they’d met before Yoongi boarded the train to Busan.

"It’s okay to leave for a few days, hyung. Jimin’s stronger now. And you - what you’ve done? It deserves to be shared."

But Yoongi didn’t feel deserving. Not when the seat beside him on the train was empty. Not when his hand reached out in the night and he found no warm fingers to squeeze in silent fear or quiet gratitude. He pulled out his tablet, skimming over the slides one last time.

Pulmonary Function Restoration Through Combined Pharmaceutical + Rehabilitative Pathway: A Case Study.

Park Jimin’s name was not mentioned - not publicly. But he was in every line, every chart, every progress marker. His recovery written in numbers and graphs. In breathing patterns and blood gas levels. In hope.

When Yoongi stepped up to the podium, the applause was polite. He adjusted the mic with steady fingers and took a breath. He was calm. Direct. Scientific. But behind every word, behind every clinical explanation, was an ache he couldn’t admit: I should be with him right now.

He ended the presentation with a quote Hoseok had once scribbled on the edge of a chart during a difficult shift:

"Healing isn’t just physical. It’s remembering how to want to live again."

After the session, he answered questions, shook hands, even exchanged numbers with doctors from Japan and Germany. But none of it filled the hollow in his chest. That night, alone in his hotel room, Yoongi didn’t open his laptop. He didn’t check his notes.

He pulled out the folded letter Jimin had given him weeks ago. The edges were soft now from how many times he had read it. He read it again. And this time, he allowed himself to whisper the words back - quietly, softly - as if Jimin were there.

“I miss you too.”

He had returned to Seoul just that morning - the train ride from Busan still echoing in his bones, the weight of the conference heavier than expected. His body was tired, but his mind wouldn’t stop spinning, not from the medical presentations or the polite applause he received for his talk on the experimental method - but because he knew. He knew Jimin was being discharged today.

He should’ve been there.

He wasn’t.

The ache in his chest was dull but constant as he stood outside the hospital, debating.

Should he message him?

His fingers hovered above the screen, heart pounding like he was some fool with a crush, not a grown man, not a doctor who had saved lives and studied lungs for over a decade. But this - this wasn’t medical. This was Jimin.

Still, the silence from Jimin had grown familiar. Yoongi had texted a few times over the past couple weeks—small things. A “how are you feeling?” A “don’t forget to hydrate.” He never sent more than that.

Jimin never replied.

So Yoongi didn’t send this one either. He pocketed his phone with a heavy sigh just as his pager went off, summoning him to the pediatric wing.

A six-year-old boy. Trouble breathing. Preliminary scans showed early signs of the same rare degenerative pulmonary pattern Jimin had battled.

Yoongi’s feet moved before his brain caught up. He entered the room quietly, slipping on his coat, only to stop short at the sight before him.

Jungkook was already there, crouched beside the child, coaxing a smile out of him with a small plushie in hand. His voice was soft, warm, laced with the same gentleness Yoongi had once seen him use on Jimin in the ICU. The boy wheezed between his giggles, and Jungkook gently adjusted the oxygen mask on his face, never once letting the child feel afraid.

Yoongi stood by the doorway for a moment.

Watching.

It hit him harder than he expected.

That night - Jimin’s first night outside the hospital - Yoongi had been absent.

And yet, here Jungkook was. Present. Grounded. Soft where it mattered. He had shown up, even for this small child, even when no one asked him to.

Jungkook looked up and noticed him.

There was surprise at first, then a knowing in the doctor’s gaze that unsettled Yoongi more than it should have. Jungkook didn’t say anything, only gave a small nod and returned to the child.

Yoongi exhaled and finally stepped into the room.

He had work to do.

Even if a part of him - quiet and buried deep - wished he were somewhere else.

With someone else.

The room had fallen into a calm hush. The little boy finally dozed off, his tiny chest rising and falling in gentle rhythm, the oxygen flow steady. Yoongi stood back, observing the monitor for another few seconds before making a note on the chart. Jungkook adjusted the blanket, careful not to disturb the child’s rest, and then turned to clean the table where the nebulizer had been prepped.

They worked well together - fluid and wordless. Yoongi always appreciated that about Jungkook. Quiet competence. No ego. But then, as Jungkook reached to turn off the overhead light and let the dim lamp take over, Yoongi’s gaze lingered. And the words slipped out before he could catch them.

“You really like kids, hm?”

Jungkook blinked at him, a little startled by the break in silence. But then his lips tugged into something soft - bittersweet, even. “Yeah,” he said, almost like an afterthought. “It was my dream to have one.”

Yoongi stilled, eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the alpha. “Was?” he echoed.

Jungkook didn’t look at him right away. Instead, he leaned against the counter beside the sink, eyes dropping to the floor. His voice came quieter this time, almost as if it carried too much truth.

“Before I… before I realized I was different.”

Yoongi tilted his head, puzzled. “Different?” he asked, stepping closer.

Jungkook let out a breathy chuckle - no amusement in it, just tired honesty. “I like men, hyung. You know that.”

Yoongi stared at him for a moment, then scoffed - soft, disbelieving. “So?”

Jungkook looked up, surprised.

“There are still ways,” Yoongi continued, voice calm, almost matter-of-fact. “A surrogate mother with crossed insemination. Adoption. You could raise a pup on your own or with a partner. The world isn’t what it used to be.”

Jungkook gave him a look. “You make it sound simple.”

“It’s not simple,” Yoongi said gently. “But it’s not impossible either.”

Their eyes met - two men in different stages of their lives, both quietly carrying more than they ever said.

Jungkook shifted. “You sound like you’ve thought about it.”

Yoongi’s lips curled faintly. “Maybe I have.”

Silence lingered.

Then, Jungkook asked, voice barely a whisper, “Would you have done it alone? Raised a kid?”

Yoongi’s gaze softened. “I think… I would’ve. If it were ours.”

Jungkook didn’t ask who ours meant.

He didn’t need to.

Yoongi didn’t say it.

He didn’t have to.

The only name in both their minds was Jimin.

+++

The first time he clipped on the volunteer badge, Taehyung felt something stir in his chest - pride, maybe. Nervousness too. He adjusted the strap of his camera bag out of habit, even though he’d left it at home that day.

He had thought about this for a long time. Ever since Jimin started staying in hospitals more frequently - first for tests, then for recovery, then for the slow, aching journey back toward life. Taehyung had sat in enough waiting rooms, walked through enough sterile hallways, watched enough people cry and hope and grieve.

He used to think he couldn’t handle this kind of place for too long. The smell of antiseptic. The low whispers of bad news. The steady beep of machines.

But now… it felt different.

Now, he wanted to be here.

Not just for Jimin - though that was part of it, always. But because he’d seen firsthand what kindness could do. A warm blanket folded by Hoseok. A quiet smile from Seokjin. A gentle nudge from Namjoon when Jimin was too lost in his own fear.

And then there was Jungkook.

Taehyung let the thought linger as he stepped through the pediatric wing that morning, watching a child wobble past him, one IV line trailing behind like a kite string. He smiled. He crouched to tie a loose shoelace for a boy who was chasing his mother down the hallway.

He could help here. He wanted to help.

Jimin had asked him once - gently, quietly. “Promise me you’ll keep doing what makes your heart full?”

So he did.

He had three reasons for this new beginning.

One: He wanted to help, even in small ways.

Two: Jimin believed in him - believed he could do something meaningful.

And three...

Jungkook.

Taehyung didn’t know where that road would take them yet. But he knew the way Jungkook smiled when he talked about their shared moments. The way his fingers lingered just a little longer every time they brushed. The way his tired eyes still searched for Taehyung’s face at the end of a long shift.

Taehyung walked toward the nurse’s desk, shoulders back, heart steady.

Today, he was here.

And that was enough.

His first official shift as a volunteer had been in the pediatric wing—and if Taehyung was being honest with himself, he couldn’t have asked for a better start. He’d always loved children. Their honesty, their wild imaginations, the way they smiled with their whole faces. The way their laughter somehow softened even the most sterile corners of the hospital.

It reminded him of something good. Of beginnings. Of hope.

He had been assigned to a small playroom just off the main hallway. By the second hour, he was cross-legged on the floor helping a six-year-old girl decorate a cardboard crown with stickers and glitter, while another little boy in pajamas painted tiger stripes across his face.

The whole time, he kept catching glimpses of Jungkook through the open door—walking past with a chart in his hand, or crouched beside a young patient’s bed, listening attentively. Sometimes, their eyes met. And each time, it felt like the entire floor paused just a second.

When his shift ended, Taehyung found Jungkook waiting near the elevators.

“You looked good in there,” Jungkook said, handing him a can of juice from the vending machine.

Taehyung raised an eyebrow. “Sweaty and covered in glitter?”

Jungkook laughed softly. “Yeah. Like a galaxy. A very sparkly, chaotic galaxy.”

They were both exhausted. But not the kind of exhaustion that felt draining - more like the kind that came after doing something meaningful.

“Wanna go up to the roof?” Jungkook asked after a moment.

Taehyung nodded. “Only if you promise not to fall asleep on me again.”

“I make no promises.”

They climbed the stairs in comfortable silence. The hospital rooftop was empty, washed in the soft purples and golds of dusk. The city stretched below them, a quiet hum in the distance.

They sat on the bench—shoulders touching, legs stretched out.

“Today was…” Taehyung began.

“Nice,” Jungkook finished. “You were good with them. The kids.”

“Thanks,” Taehyung murmured, gazing at the soft orange clouds. “I think I needed this. Something that’s not… survival. Or fear. Just something kind.”

Jungkook tilted his head, watching him. “I’m glad you came here.”

Taehyung turned to look at him too, their faces close now. “You always say the right thing, don’t you?”

Jungkook smiled sheepishly. “No. I just mean it.”

They didn’t talk after that.

The world dimmed. The sky grew heavier with stars. Taehyung leaned his head on Jungkook’s shoulder, and Jungkook leaned back gently.

And then sleep took them - soft, slow, and quiet.

When Taehyung stirred later, the rooftop was dark and cool, but he was warm. Jungkook hadn’t moved. Their hands had found each other somewhere between dreams.

It felt like home.

Not the place. The person.

“Are you awake?” Taehyung whispered.

A pause. Then, “Yeah.”

They didn’t move.

“Stay a little longer?” Taehyung asked.

Jungkook squeezed his hand. “As long as you need.”

Chapter Text

Three months had passed since his discharge, and the rhythm of hospital life had shifted for him. When he was there now, he wasn’t just a patient waiting to be prodded and tested - he was working more closely with the medical team, discussing his progress, learning to recognize signs in his own body that once terrified him.

His rehab sessions with Hoseok had been put on hold for now. Not forever—just until he could handle the next stage of exercises. That knowledge was both a relief and a frustration. He wanted to keep pushing, but he also knew his body had limits, and ignoring them was what had nearly broken him before.

He still went to Namjoon regularly, their therapy sessions were doing good for his recovery. And Seokjin was also there in his role, adjusting and refining Jimin’s diet plans with a patience that made Jimin feel cared for without being coddled.

Jungkook often filled the spaces in between. The nurse had become a quiet, comforting presence - someone who could keep him company when Taehyung was busy with his volunteer shifts or caught up in a photoshoot. With Jungkook, there was no pressure to talk; they could sit in the same room, and it felt enough.

But Yoongi…

Somehow, Yoongi was never there when Jimin was. Not anymore.

Namjoon had explained it in that careful, neutral tone he used when he didn’t want to hurt anyone that Dr. Min was traveling more than ever now. The new treatment for Pulmonary thromboembolism - the very one that had saved Jimin’s life - was gaining attention across the country. Conferences, symposiums, case study presentations… Yoongi’s expertise was needed, his presence requested in places far from Seoul.

Jimin understood. He really did.

Still, there were moments - quiet ones, late at night - when he found himself wondering if Yoongi avoided crossing paths with him on purpose. If the distance wasn’t just miles, but something else entirely.

During one of his hospital stays, after his check-ups were done for the day, Jimin found himself wandering the quieter corridors. His steps led him to the small, sunlit room tucked away near the east wing - the one where patients left their goodbye notes. The walls were covered in them. Some scribbled in hurried handwriting, others carefully written in neat script. Messages of gratitude, hope, and promises to return stronger. Jimin stood there for a while, letting his eyes roam over the words of strangers, each one a story of survival or farewell.

He took a blank card from the stack on the small table, the pen feeling strangely heavy in his hand. For a moment, he stared at the empty space, unsure what to say. Then, slowly, he began to write:

“I chose to stay. For me. Maybe for you too.”

He placed the note on the wall, stepping back to look at it. A quiet part of him - one he tried not to acknowledge - hoped Yoongi would see it someday. Jimin knew that after he hadn’t responded to any of Yoongi’s messages, the doctor had stopped writing altogether. It had been his choice, but it didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

Later, sitting with Taehyung in the hospital’s garden, Jimin mentioned it.
“I wrote something in the goodbye room today,” he said softly.

Tae tilted his head. “What did you write?”

Jimin hesitated before repeating the words. Taehyung’s expression softened, but he didn’t tease him or push for more. He just nodded, as if to say I understand. And maybe he really did.

The garden was heavy with the scent of summer - warm earth, sun-drenched flowers, and the faint hum of bees drifting lazily between blossoms. The air felt thick, golden almost, the kind that made everything slow down.  Jimin’s fingers traced the folded scrap of paper in his lap - the copy of what he’d written in the goodbye room. I chose to stay. For me. Maybe for you too. He’d told Taehyung about it earlier, and his friend had listened in silence, eyes soft but unreadable.

Now, Tae leaned back against the bench, one ankle crossing over his knee. “I know you’re scared, Chim. Scared to… fall in love with him. But… you know,” he said at last, voice slow and deliberate, “I think it’s too late for you to be afraid.”

Jimin turned his head toward him, startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Taehyung said, looking at him with that quiet certainty that always unnerved him, “you already have. You’ve fallen for him. For Dr. Min.”

Jimin gave a shaky laugh, shaking his head as if to dismiss it. “That’s ridiculous. I barely know him outside of—”

“Outside of him saving your life?” Taehyung cut in, brows lifting slightly. “Outside of him sitting with you when you couldn’t sleep? Outside of him making sure you could breathe when you thought you’d never do it again?”

Jimin looked down at his hands, twisting them in his lap. “That’s not the same as love.”

“It’s not just gratitude either,” Taehyung said firmly, his voice losing none of its gentleness. “Like I’ve said… You’re scared, Chim. And I get that - it’s been a long time since you’ve let anyone get close. But maybe… maybe you’ve already made your choice without realizing it.”

Jimin’s chest felt tight, the heat of the June air pressing down on him. “I’m not scared of him,” he murmured, though the words felt fragile. “I’m scared of what happens if I let myself… and it doesn’t work.”

Tae leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “What if it does work? What if he’s been waiting for you to make the first move? You told me he stopped messaging after you didn’t reply. Maybe he thought you were the one who didn’t want more.”

Jimin hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. “…You think I should’ve texted him back?”

A faint smile curved Taehyung’s lips. “Maybe. Or maybe you don’t need to text him at all. Maybe you just need to be honest. If you’re already in love, what’s the point in pretending otherwise?”

Jimin’s gaze drifted toward the garden’s roses, their petals heavy and open in the summer heat. Thoughts of Yoongi - his steady presence, the way he spoke softly when it mattered, the warmth that slipped through when he let his guard down - settled deep in his chest, as heavy and inevitable as the season’s sun.

Taehyung didn’t push further. He just let the silence linger, the cicadas filling the space between them, until Jimin could breathe again.

+++

The flight back from Tokyo had been long, and the meetings even longer. His head was still heavy with exhaustion, a faint ache pressing at the base of his skull. All he wanted was to shower and collapse into bed. But a promise was a promise, and Jungkook had been counting on him.

So instead, Yoongi headed straight to the hospital. The pediatric wing was quieter than usual when he arrived. He found Jungkook already with the little patient, a boy whose breathing was steadily improving. They worked together in easy silence, checking vitals, adjusting the oxygen mask, and talking the boy through a few gentle exercises.

When the kid finally drifted off to sleep, Yoongi allowed himself a slow breath. At least one more patient on the mend.

He stepped out into the corridor, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension from travel. That was when he saw him - Taehyung, standing near the nurses’ station, the pale blue volunteer uniform crisp against his frame. He looked up, spotting Yoongi immediately, and broke into a warm smile.

“Dr. Min,” Taehyung greeted, bowing slightly before straightening. “Back from Tokyo?”

“Just landed a couple of hours ago,” Yoongi replied, his voice a little hoarse from fatigue. “You on shift?”

“Yeah,” Tae said, and then hesitated, his expression shifting into something more thoughtful. “Actually… I was hoping to catch you. There’s something you should know.”

Yoongi’s brow arched. “About?”

Taehyung’s smile softened, his voice lowering as if it were something private. “Jimin left you a note.”

Yoongi stilled. “…A note?”

“In the special room,” Tae explained - the one where patients left messages before they were discharged, the ones meant for whoever might read them later. “I thought… maybe you’d want to see it.”

For a second, Yoongi could only stand there, the words sinking in. That room was sacred in its own quiet way, filled with pieces of courage, gratitude, and sometimes love. His chest tightened, an ache blooming somewhere deep.

“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice quieter than intended.

Taehyung just nodded, eyes lingering on him for a beat before turning back to his duties. Yoongi remained where he was, pulse steady but heavier, already wondering what Jimin could have written—and why the thought of reading it suddenly made it hard to breathe.

The room was empty when he stepped inside, the air still carrying that faint scent of paper and ink. The soft lamplight pooled over the corkboard wall, rows of pinned messages overlapping one another - thank-yous, promises, confessions left behind by patients and their families.

Yoongi moved slowly, scanning the neat handwriting until his eyes caught on one particular note.

I chose to stay. For me. Maybe for you too.

The breath he drew felt too sharp, catching in his chest. His gaze lingered on the familiar curve of the letters, the small tilt of the words. Without meaning to, he lifted his hand and traced the sentence with his fingertips, feeling the faint texture of the pen marks through the paper.

He wasn’t a fool. He knew exactly who had written it. And deep down, he knew exactly who it was meant for.

But hope was dangerous. Hope could undo him.

Still… the words burned in his mind, wrapping around him like the memory of a voice he couldn’t forget. Before he could overthink it, he pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering over the screen for a long moment.

Finally, he typed: Are you at home?

He didn’t expect an answer. Not anymore.

But barely a minute later, his phone buzzed in his hand.

I am.

Then - another message.

An address…

Yoongi stared at it for a moment, pulse thudding in his ears, before slipping the phone back into his pocket. His heart had already made the decision for him. He cursed under his breath the moment he stepped out of the hospital - of all days, today had to be the one he decided not to drive. His car was parked at home, useless, and the bus schedule felt like it was mocking him.

He checked the time on his phone for the third time in as many minutes, his knee bouncing with restless energy as he sat on the worn bus seat. Every red light felt longer than the last, every stop an interruption he couldn’t afford.

Come on…

Outside, the city blurred past, his thoughts louder than the engine. He kept replaying the note in his mind, Jimin’s handwriting, the quiet weight of those words. By the time the bus drew closer to the right neighborhood, he was so deep in it that he almost missed his stop entirely.

Almost.

He shot up, muttering an apology to the passenger beside him, and slipped off the bus just before the doors closed. The cold air bit at his cheeks as he cut across the street, his pace quickening until it was just short of a run. When he reached the building, his hand went straight to the buzzer, pressing it once, then again before he could stop himself.

Now, all he could do was wait for the sound of Jimin’s voice on the intercom. But the intercom stayed silent, no voice, no greeting - just the sharp buzz that unlocked the main door. At that exact moment, a flash split the sky, the thunder so sudden it made the windows rattle. A heartbeat later, the rain came down in sheets, pounding the pavement in a deafening rhythm. He barely registered any of it.

Yoongi pushed inside, the heavy door swinging shut behind him, his shoes squeaking faintly against the tiles. He didn’t even glance toward the elevator. The thought of waiting, of wasting even a handful of seconds, felt unbearable. He took the stairs two at a time, his breathing quickening - not just from the climb, but from the way anticipation was coiling in his chest like a spring about to snap.

By the time he reached Jimin’s floor, his pulse was a drumbeat in his ears. He didn’t knock. He didn’t have to. The door was already open, just enough for him to see Jimin standing there.

The younger didn’t move, didn’t speak. His eyes searched Yoongi’s face, wide and unreadable, but shimmering with something - hope, fear, maybe both. Yoongi froze for a second, taking him in. The soft fall of Jimin’s hair, the faint flush on his cheeks, the way he seemed to be breathing just a little too fast.

And then he couldn’t hold himself back. He closed the distance in two strides, his hands coming up to frame Jimin’s face. His palms were warm against the younger’s damp skin, his thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes.

“Jimin-ah…” His voice was low, roughened by the run and the weight of everything he’d kept bottled up.

Before Jimin could answer, Yoongi’s lips were on his - urgent, unrestrained. The kiss wasn’t gentle, not at first. It was a rush of everything he’d been holding back: longing, frustration, the aching pull of weeks spent apart. Jimin gasped softly into his mouth, his fingers fisting in Yoongi’s shirt as if afraid he’d pull away. Instead, Yoongi stepped closer, pressing their bodies together until there was no space left. The rain roared outside, but all Yoongi could hear was the quiet hitch of Jimin’s breath, the faint, desperate sound he made when Yoongi tilted his head and deepened the kiss.

Yoongi’s heartbeat was a thunder of its own, drowning out thought. All that existed in this moment was the heat between them, the taste of Jimin’s lips, and the way his grip on Yoongi’s shirt tightened - pulling him in as if to say don’t you dare let go.

Yoongi didn’t intend to. Not now. Not ever.

+++

The rain outside was a steady hum now, a backdrop to the rapid pounding of Jimin’s own heart. He stood there, his shirt clinging to his skin, when Yoongi’s mouth met his again. It was softer this time, slower, like the world had narrowed down to just the two of them. Jimin didn’t remember how they’d made it to the bedroom, but here they were, Yoongi’s hands trembling on his waist, holding him like he might slip away.

“Stop me,” Yoongi whispered, his voice rough, almost pleading. His forehead rested against Jimin’s, and for a moment, the room felt impossibly still.

Jimin shook his head, his fingers gripping the damp fabric of Yoongi’s shirt. Damp from the elder’s sweat. “I don’t want to.”

Yoongi kissed him again, deeper this time, his lips parting to let their tongues meet. They moved together, step by step, until the edge of the bed brushed against Jimin’s calves.

“Tell me to stop,” Yoongi murmured again, his lips trailing along Jimin’s jawline, his breath hot against his skin.

Jimin caught his wrist, guiding him down onto the mattress. “Don’t,” he said, his voice soft but unwavering.

For a moment, Yoongi just looked at him, searching his face. Then he leaned in, kissing him like it was something sacred. Every movement was slow, deliberate, like he was asking permission with each touch. Their clothes fell away piece by piece, peeled off with care. Yoongi’s hands explored Jimin’s body like he was committing every curve to memory, his lips following, leaving trails of heat wherever they touched.

Jimin’s fingers found Yoongi’s face, holding him there as their lips met again. It wasn’t just about desire - though that burned through him like wildfire - it was about being seen, being wanted in a way he hadn’t felt in so long. Yoongi’s hands slid down Jimin’s sides, fingers tracing the lines of his hips before stopping just above the waistband of his boxers. He paused, looking up at Jimin, waiting.

“Keep going,” Jimin whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of the rain.

Yoongi nodded, slipping his fingers under the fabric and pulling them down slowly. Jimin’s cock sprang free, already hard, the tip glistening with pre-cum. Yoongi’s eyes darkened as he took it in, his hand wrapping around the base. He stroked once, twice, and Jimin’s breath caught in his throat.

“You’re beautiful,” Yoongi said, his voice low and husky. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the tip before taking it into his mouth.

Jimin’s hips jerked instinctively as Yoongi’s tongue swirled around him. His hand tangled in Yoongi’s hair, holding him there as he worked him with his lips and tongue. The sensation was overwhelming, every nerve in his body alight with pleasure.

Yoongi pulled back for a moment, looking up at Jimin. “You okay?”

Jimin nodded, biting his lower lip. “More.”

Yoongi smirked before sliding back down, taking him deeper this time. His hand cupped Jimin’s balls, massaging them gently as he sucked. Jimin could feel the heat building in his stomach, coiling tight as he edged closer to release.

“Yoon-gi… I’m close…”

Yoongi pulled off with a wet pop, looking up at Jimin with those dark eyes. “Not yet,” he said, his voice rough.

Jimin whimpered when Yoongi moved up his body, kissing him deeply. He could taste himself on Yoongi’s tongue, and it only made him want more. Yoongi’s hand slipped between them, fingers brushing against Jimin’s entrance.

“Please,” Jimin whispered, his voice shaking.

Yoongi nodded, reaching for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. He coated his fingers before pressing one against Jimin’s hole. He pushed in slowly, working him open slowly, painfully slowly... Jimin’s breath came in short gasps as Yoongi added a second finger, stretching him carefully.

“You feel so good,” Yoongi murmured, his lips against Jimin’s neck.

Jimin could only nod, his hands gripping the sheets as pleasure coursed through him. When Yoongi added a third finger, he couldn’t hold back a moan.

“Ready?” Yoongi asked, his voice low.

Jimin nodded again, his legs falling open wider. Yoongi positioned himself between them, the tip of his cock pressing against Jimin’s entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside him.

“Fuck…” Jimin breathed, his body shuddering as he adjusted to the feeling.

Yoongi leaned down, kissing him deeply when he began to move. Each thrust was slow and careful, driving Jimin wild with need. He wrapped his legs around Yoongi’s waist, pulling him closer.

“Harder,” Jimin whispered against his lips.

Yoongi obliged, picking up the pace until the room was filled with the sound of skin against skin and their mingled moans. Jimin could feel the pressure building inside him again, tighter this time, more intense.

“Yoongi… I’m gonna…”

Yoongi reached between them, wrapping his hand around Jimin’s cock. “Come for me,” he uttered.

That was all it took. Jimin came with a cry, his body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed over him. Yoongi’s hips stuttered, his rhythm faltering as warmth spilled deep inside Jimin just moments later. His breath came in ragged bursts, forehead pressed against Jimin’s shoulder as he rode out the final tremors of his climax. Jimin’s fingers dug into Yoongi’s back, clutching him closer, refusing to let him pull away.

“Wait,” Jimin whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t go yet.”

Yoongi stilled, his chest rising and falling heavily against Jimin’s. He lifted his head, meeting Jimin’s eyes. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly, brushing a strand of damp hair from Jimin’s forehead. “But I need to take care of you first.”

Jimin shook his head, tightening his hold. “I don’t want to lose this… this feeling.”

Yoongi sighed, pressing a gentle kiss to Jimin’s temple. “You won’t. I promise. Just let me clean you up. I’ll be right back.”

Reluctantly, Jimin loosened his grip, allowing Yoongi to slowly pull out. The sensation made him shiver, a faint ache settling in his lower body. Yoongi disappeared into the bathroom, returning moments later with a warm, damp cloth. He knelt beside the bed, carefully wiping away the evidence of their lovemaking.

His touch was tender, almost reverent, as he cleaned Jimin’s skin. Jimin watched him through half-lidded eyes, a soft smile playing on his lips. “You’re so careful with me,” he murmured.

Yoongi glanced up, his expression softening. “You deserve to be taken care of,” he replied simply.

When he was done, Yoongi tossed the cloth aside and slid back onto the bed, pulling Jimin into his arms. Jimin nestled against his chest, the steady beat of Yoongi’s heart lulling him into a sense of calm. He traced patterns on Yoongi’s skin, his fingers trailing over the defined muscles of his torso.

“Stay with me tonight,” Jimin whispered, his voice barely audible.

“I’m not leaving,” Yoongi reassured him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Go to sleep. I’ve got you, baby…”

Jimin closed his eyes, the warmth of Yoongi’s body surrounding him like a protective cocoon. For the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself relax completely, his breathing evening out as sleep began to claim him.

The room was silent except for the soft patter of rain outside, a soothing sound to the quiet intimacy between them. Yoongi held Jimin close, his fingers gently stroking through his hair. He watched the rise and fall of Jimin’s chest, the peaceful expression on his face, and felt something shift inside him.

He wasn’t sure what it was - this unfamiliar warmth spreading through his chest - but he knew it had everything to do with the man in his arms. For years, he had built walls around himself, keeping everyone at arm’s length. But Jimin… Jimin had a way of slipping through the cracks, of making him feel things he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.

Hours passed, and the rain continued to fall. Yoongi stayed awake, content to simply hold Jimin as he slept. It was strange, this sense of peace that settled over him. He wasn’t used to feeling so… grounded.

But as the first rays of dawn began to filter through the curtains, Jimin stirred in his arms. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at Yoongi with a sleepy smile. “You’re still here,” he said softly.

“I told you I wouldn’t leave,” Yoongi replied, brushing a thumb over Jimin’s cheek.

Jimin’s smile widened, and he shifted closer, his body pressing against Yoongi’s. “Good,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

The morning after, Yoongi found himself awake before Jimin. The rain had stopped sometime in the night, leaving the city washed clean, the light breaking through the curtains pale and soft. Jimin stirred again, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks as he blinked himself awake. There was a shyness in him, a faint pink dusting his cheeks as he rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket a little higher. But the corners of his lips curved, just slightly, and Yoongi thought he looked… good. Better than he’d seen him in a long time.

Yoongi, though, felt the weight in his chest. Maybe we rushed this… maybe I should’ve stopped. His mind turned over the night before, every gasp and whisper, every unspoken plea. What if Jimin regretted it? What if it had been too much? But then Jimin shifted, stretching slowly, and his soft eyes caught Yoongi’s. Not guilt. Not regret. Just quiet happiness. Relief, even.

Yoongi exhaled. The tension left his shoulders.

“Can I cook for you?” The words left his mouth before he even thought about them. A simple act - something normal. Something grounding.

Jimin blinked at him, surprised. “Cook? For me?”

“Yeah.” Yoongi scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling awkward. “If you let me. I’m not terrible, you know.”

A small laugh escaped Jimin, warm and disbelieving. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a kitchen, Dr. Min.”

“Then let me prove it,” Yoongi countered, his tone softer than his words. “Just sit back and let me do this.”

Jimin hesitated, the automatic protest rising to his lips. “But… you’re a guest. It’s my kitchen, I should—”

“No.” Yoongi cut in gently, reaching to brush his fingers over Jimin’s hand. “Just tell me where everything is. I’ll handle the rest.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Jimin gave in, shaking his head as if defeated by the stubbornness he’d clearly come to expect from him. “…Fine. But don’t blame me if you set the place on fire.”

Yoongi smirked, already pushing himself up. “Noted.”

The kitchen was small but cozy, lived-in in a way Yoongi liked. There were little details that made it feel undeniably Jimin - mismatched mugs lined neatly on a shelf, a tangerine-scented candle by the window, a recipe notebook with doodles in the margins. Yoongi felt himself smiling as he opened cabinets and drawers, Jimin’s voice guiding him from the table.

He liked this. More than he’d expected. The quiet morning, the domesticity of it, the way Jimin’s eyes followed him with a soft sort of curiosity.

Cooking wasn’t about the food, Yoongi realized. It was about showing Jimin that he was here, that he wanted to take care of him, in whatever small ways he could. And when Jimin finally laughed - really laughed - at the way Yoongi fumbled with the frying pan, Yoongi thought maybe this was what meaning felt like.

The smell of sizzling eggs and toasted bread soon filled the small apartment, softening the silence between them. Yoongi plated everything carefully, trying not to look too smug when nothing burned, then carried the two plates to the table. Jimin was waiting, chin propped on one hand, the blanket still draped around his shoulders. His hair was messy, his cheeks still pink from sleep, but Yoongi thought he had never looked more beautiful.

“Here,” Yoongi said, setting the plate down in front of him. “Chef Min’s special. Don’t expect a Michelin star, but it’s edible.”

Jimin’s lips curved. “You’re… full of surprises.” He picked up his fork and took a cautious bite. His brows lifted. “Not bad. Actually - really good.”

“See?” Yoongi leaned back in his chair, pretending to be nonchalant even though warmth bloomed in his chest at Jimin’s praise. “Told you.”

They ate quietly for a few moments, the only sounds the clink of cutlery and the rain’s faint after-drip against the windows. But the air between them was heavy with something unspoken, lingering from last night.

It was Jimin who broke the silence first. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “Yoongi… about yesterday…”

Yoongi stilled, fork halfway to his mouth. His pulse kicked up. “Yeah?”

Jimin lowered his gaze to his plate, pushing a piece of toast around as if gathering courage. “I don’t… I don’t want you to think it was just because I was lonely. Or because I felt… weak.” His voice trembled slightly, but he pressed on. “I wanted it. I wanted you. And I don’t regret it.”

The words sank into Yoongi’s chest like sunlight, both warm and aching. He set his fork down slowly. “You mean that?”

Jimin finally looked up, meeting his eyes. “I do.”

Yoongi swallowed, searching for the right words. “Last night—” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I kept telling myself to stop. To give you space. I was afraid I was… taking something from you that you weren’t ready to give.”

“You didn’t take anything.” Jimin’s voice was firmer now. “You gave me something. Something I thought I’d never have again.” His hand trembled as he set his fork aside. “I felt alive. And safe. And I don’t know if I’m ready for everything that comes with it, but… I don’t want to run from it either.”

Yoongi’s throat tightened. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing over Jimin’s before curling around them. “I don’t need promises. Or answers right now. Just… let me stay. Let me be here. However you’ll have me.”

Jimin’s lips parted, his eyes shimmering with something raw and fragile. Then he nodded, squeezing Yoongi’s hand back. “Okay. Stay.”

Yoongi’s hand was still resting over Jimin’s when the heaviness of their words began to soften. The quiet wasn’t suffocating anymore - it was steady, warm, like the air after a storm.

Jimin glanced down at their linked fingers, then back up at Yoongi, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You’re really bad at hiding your emotions, you know that?”

Yoongi huffed a quiet laugh. “Says the man who used to avoid eye contact with me like I was contagious.”

Color rushed to Jimin’s cheeks, and he swatted lightly at Yoongi’s hand without letting go. “That’s because you’re… intense.”

“Intense?” Yoongi raised a brow, leaning back just slightly in his chair, pretending to be offended. “I’ll have you know I’m very subtle.”

Jimin chuckled - an actual, soft laugh that loosened something in Yoongi’s chest. He leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm. “You’re not subtle, Dr. Min. Not with the way you look at me. Not last night. Not even right now.”

Yoongi tilted his head, the faintest smirk playing at his lips. “And how exactly am I looking at you right now?”

Jimin hesitated, then bit his lip as though embarrassed by his own answer. “…Like I’m something you want to keep.”

For a moment, Yoongi said nothing. He only reached across and brushed his thumb along the back of Jimin’s hand, gentle, grounding. “That’s because you are.”

Jimin’s breath caught, his eyes softening as his smile faltered into something more tender. He looked down, trying to hide it, but Yoongi caught the way his shoulders relaxed - the way the tension bled out of him, little by little.

“Finish your food,” Yoongi said finally, his voice lighter now. “I don’t want your neighbors thinking I starved you after a night together. Terrible reputation for a doctor.”

Jimin laughed again, softer this time, and picked up his fork. “Fine. But only because your cooking’s better than I expected.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Yoongi teased, but his eyes lingered on Jimin with a fondness he couldn’t mask anymore.

The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, and in the quiet of that small kitchen, Yoongi felt something he hadn’t in a long time - home.

+++

The hospital corridors felt heavier tonight. The fluorescent lights hummed above him as he walked out of pediatrics, his body tired in a way that wasn’t just physical. Volunteering wasn’t easy - seeing so much pain and hope twisted together in those little rooms - but it was worth it. Still, today had been long, and he found himself dragging his feet toward the exit.

“Hey.”

The voice made him pause. Jungkook was waiting just outside the staff lounge, leaning against the wall with that quiet, unreadable look he always carried after a hard shift. His hair was mussed, his scrubs wrinkled, and yet he still managed to look put together in a way that made Taehyung’s chest ache.

“You look like you need this,” Jungkook said softly. He held out a small, leather-bound photo album.

Taehyung blinked at it, confused. “What’s this?”

“Just… open it.”

He hesitated, but curiosity won out. He took the album and flipped it open. His breath caught immediately.

There was Jimin, smiling with crayons in hand, coloring like a child just to pass the time. Another photo of him scribbling in his notebook, his brows furrowed in concentration. One of him laughing, head thrown back, his cheeks brighter than Taehyung had seen in months. And another - his eyes soft as he looked out the hospital window, sunlight catching the edges of his hair.

Taehyung’s throat tightened. He ran his thumb gently over one of the glossy images, afraid to smudge it, as though it were fragile. “You… took these?”

Jungkook shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I started a while ago. Not for anyone else - just… I thought maybe one day he’d want to see how far he came. How strong he looked, even when he didn’t feel it.”

Taehyung closed the album slowly, holding it against his chest. His vision blurred, but he forced himself to smile. “He’s going to cry when he sees this.”

“Probably,” Jungkook said, a small grin tugging at his lips. “But maybe it’ll remind him that healing isn’t just about surviving - it’s about living too.”

Taehyung exhaled shakily, leaning his head back against the wall beside Jungkook. “You’re too good, you know that?”

Jungkook chuckled. “Don’t tell the kids, they’ll think I’m soft.”

“They’d be right,” Taehyung teased, nudging him with his shoulder. But then his voice softened. “Thank you, Jungkook. Not just for this. For… being there. For him. For me.”

Jungkook’s eyes lingered on him, something quiet and deep flickering in his gaze. “Always, Tae.”

And in that tired, fluorescent-lit corridor, Taehyung felt the weight of the day ease just a little, because maybe he wasn’t carrying all of this alone anymore.

He hadn’t meant to cry, but the tears came anyway. Silent at first, a sting at the corners of his eyes that quickly blurred his vision. He pressed the photo album tighter to his chest, as if it could hold him together.

Jungkook noticed instantly. “Tae…”

But Taehyung shook his head, laughing weakly through his tears. “You don’t get it, Jungkookie. You always do these things… for him, for me. And I…” His voice cracked, the words trembling out. “I don’t know how to carry all of it. I don’t know how to be okay when you keep showing me there’s still good in the world.”

The nurse didn’t argue, didn’t speak. He just reached up, brushing Taehyung’s cheeks with his thumbs, chasing the tears away with a gentleness that unraveled him completely.

Before Taehyung could stop himself, he leaned in. This time Jungkook didn’t hesitate, didn’t pull back like before. Their lips met - soft at first, then longer, deeper, as if both of them had finally run out of reasons to run.

The world shrank to that moment: the faint hum of the hospital lights, the warmth of Jungkook’s hands cupping his jaw, the steady beat of his heart pressed against Taehyung’s chest.

When they finally pulled apart, breath mingling, Jungkook’s forehead rested against his. “No running away this time?” he whispered.

Taehyung let out a shaky laugh, a tear slipping free even as he smiled. “No running away.”

The kiss still lingered on his lips long after it ended, leaving his chest tight, full, and unsteady in a way that felt both terrifying and necessary. Jungkook didn’t move far - he stayed close, eyes soft, almost as if afraid the moment would vanish if he blinked.

They didn’t talk much after that. Words felt too clumsy for what had just happened. Instead, Jungkook quietly took Taehyung’s hand, threading their fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on,” Jungkook said softly, tugging him toward the rooftop. “You look like you need air.”

The evening sky was painted in muted shades of indigo and silver, the city buzzing far below them. Taehyung sat on their usual bench, the photo album beside him, and Jungkook sat close - closer than before. Close enough that their knees brushed and neither pulled away.

For a while, they simply sat in silence, their joined hands resting between them. The air was cool, the kind that made Taehyung want to tuck himself further into Jungkook’s warmth.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Jungkook murmured, eyes turned toward the skyline.

Taehyung squeezed his hand lightly. “They weren’t bad tears.” His voice wavered, but he kept going. “It’s just… when I see those pictures, I remember how hard it was for Chim. And then I see how much you cared enough to capture the little things. You… you don’t even realize what that does to me.”

Jungkook finally turned, their eyes locking in the dim rooftop light. “I realize,” he whispered, thumb brushing against the back of Taehyung’s hand. “At least when it comes to you.”

Taehyung’s breath hitched, and before he could think, his head found Jungkook’s shoulder. The man who had become his quiet anchor in this storm didn’t move, didn’t question. He just tilted his head slightly until it rested against Taehyung’s hair. The city noise faded, the night wrapped around them, and for the first time in months, Taehyung felt like he was home.

Sleep came slowly, but when it did, it was gentle. Their hands stayed locked, fingers refusing to let go even as both drifted into dreams on that rooftop bench.

For once, neither of them ran.

+++

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm paper, the kind of hospital scent that clung to his skin no matter how many showers he took. The mats on the floor looked harmless, but Jimin knew the work waiting for him there would drain every ounce of his energy. Hoseok was already crouched down by the equipment, his kind smile ready, his gentle instructions clear. But what made Jimin’s breath hitch wasn’t Hoseok - it was Yoongi, standing just a step behind him.

Apparently, Hoseok thought it would help if Yoongi assisted today. “It’ll be good,” he’d said, “to have someone you trust with you through the movements. Especially someone who knows what your body has been through.”

Jimin wanted to protest, but the words never left his lips. Trust. Yes, he trusted Yoongi. Maybe too much.

“Okay, Jimin,” Hoseok’s voice cut through his nervous thoughts. “We’ll start small. Just stretches and breathing. Yoongi will support your balance while I guide your form.”

Yoongi crouched beside him, his hands hovering just above Jimin’s waist before finally settling there, light but steady. His touch was clinical, practiced - but Jimin still felt it everywhere. Heat crawled up his neck.

“Breathe in,” Hoseok instructed.

Jimin inhaled shakily, his chest rising against Yoongi’s palm.

“Good. Now step forward slowly. Yoongi, keep his alignment.”

“Got it,” Yoongi murmured, his voice low, steady.

Jimin’s knees trembled as he shifted weight, but Yoongi was there, hand braced against his lower back. He didn’t grip, didn’t hold him too tightly - just enough to remind Jimin he wasn’t falling alone.

Every correction, every brush of Yoongi’s fingers across his ribs or shoulder to guide him, made Jimin’s pulse skip. To anyone else, it was physical therapy. To Jimin, it was a confession written in the warmth of touch.

“Good work,” Hoseok praised after the first round, clapping his hands together. “That’s more than last week already.”

Jimin smiled faintly, but his eyes flickered to Yoongi. The doctor didn’t look triumphant. He looked quiet - soft even - watching Jimin as if the younger man was something fragile and strong all at once.

When Hoseok stepped away to grab notes, the silence between them swelled. Yoongi’s hand still lingered at Jimin’s back, steadying him though he didn’t need it anymore.

“You’re doing well,” Yoongi whispered, his breath brushing Jimin’s ear.

Jimin swallowed, heart pounding. “Only because you’re here.”

It wasn’t planned. It slipped out before he could stop it.

Yoongi’s fingers flexed ever so slightly at his waist - but he didn’t move away. He just stayed there, steady as ever, holding Jimin upright in more ways than one.

Chapter Text

Hoseok scribbled something on his clipboard, then glanced up. His eyes flicked between Jimin - standing awkwardly straight with Yoongi’s hand still at his back - and Yoongi, who seemed completely absorbed in making sure Jimin didn’t topple over. The silence stretched, thicker than the room’s four walls could hold.

Hoseok cleared his throat. “Well,” he said lightly, too lightly, “I think that’s enough for today. You’ve done great, Jimin-ah. Better than I expected, honestly.”

“I can do more,” Jimin protested weakly, though the truth was his legs already trembled.

“Nope.” Hoseok smiled, already backing toward the door. “Recovery isn’t a sprint. And besides…” His gaze lingered on them both, something knowing in his eyes. “I think Dr. Min can take it from here.”

Before Jimin could reply, Hoseok was gone, leaving only the faint click of the door closing behind him. The silence he left behind was deafening. Yoongi still hadn’t moved his hand. His palm pressed lightly against the small of Jimin’s back, steady and warm. Too steady. Too warm.

Jimin swallowed. “He… left us.”

Yoongi’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Seems that way.”

“You don’t think he…”

“He did.” Yoongi finally pulled his hand away, but the absence felt almost worse. He stepped back, tucking his hands into his pockets. “He’s not subtle.”

Jimin turned, clutching the edge of the mat beneath his bare feet. “Neither are you.”

That made Yoongi’s brows lift. “Me?”

“You,” Jimin repeated, his voice firmer than he expected. “The way you look at me. The way you stay even when you shouldn’t. You act like it’s only your job, but…” He trailed off, the words trembling on his tongue.

Yoongi’s gaze softened, but his jaw tightened. “And if it was only my job?”

Jimin’s chest squeezed. “Then you wouldn’t still be here after hours. You wouldn’t… you wouldn’t hold me the way you do. You wouldn’t…” He broke off, exhaling shakily. “You wouldn’t make me feel like I’m allowed to want more.”

Yoongi’s silence stretched, heavy and deliberate. He took a step closer, his shadow brushing against Jimin’s. “Do you?” Yoongi asked finally, voice low. “Want more?”

Jimin’s throat went dry. “I… don’t know how not to anymore.”

For a moment, Yoongi just stared at him, as if memorizing every line of his face. Then he reached up, fingers brushing lightly over Jimin’s wrist - barely a touch, but enough to make Jimin’s pulse race.

“Then don’t stop,” Yoongi said quietly. “Not with me.”

The words hung between them, fragile and dangerous, yet steady enough to stand on. And for the first time, Jimin thought maybe he really could.

The hospital room felt smaller at night, the hum of machines louder, shadows creeping longer across the walls. Jimin leaned back against his pillows, already knowing he’d have to stay overnight for observation. Yoongi had been there earlier, lingering longer than he needed to, eyes heavy with fatigue even though he tried to hide it. Jimin could see it - how his shoulders slumped just slightly, how his voice had gone quieter as the evening wore on.

“You should go home,” Jimin told him, breaking the silence.

Yoongi frowned. “I’ll stay. It’s just one night.”

“You’re exhausted,” Jimin pressed. “You’ve been traveling nonstop, and you haven’t had a full night’s sleep since Tokyo. I’ll be fine.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened. “That’s not the point.”

“It is,” Jimin said softly, managing a small smile. “I want you to rest, Yoon. Please.”

The word – please - seemed to undo him. He hesitated, visibly torn, before finally sighing. “Only if someone stays with you.”

As if on cue, the door opened and Taehyung peeked in, holding a bag of snacks and wearing that easy grin that had carried Jimin through darker days. “Already ahead of you, Dr. Min. I’m staying the night.”

Yoongi shot him a look, but Tae only shrugged. “Relax. He’s my best friend. I’ve got him.”

Yoongi turned back to Jimin, eyes searching. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Jimin whispered.

Yoongi lingered another few minutes, adjusting Jimin’s blanket, checking the monitor again even though the nurses already had. Finally, reluctantly, he nodded and left, promising to return in the morning.

As soon as the door closed, Taehyung plopped into the chair beside the bed. “He really does look tired,” Tae said softly.

Jimin nodded, a lump forming in his throat. “I just… didn’t want him to wear himself out because of me.”

“You mean because he cares about you.”

Jimin smiled faintly, eyes drifting toward the window where the city lights flickered. “That too.”

Taehyung leaned back, stretching his legs out. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll keep you company. We’ll get through the night just fine.”

+++

The room was dim, only the glow from the monitors and the faint city lights filtering through the curtains keeping the shadows at bay. Jimin shifted against his pillows, his breathing steady but soft, like he was trying not to take up space even here, even with just the two of them.

Taehyung leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. “You know,” he said, voice quiet so it wouldn’t echo, “you don’t have to pretend you’re okay with me.”

Jimin turned his head toward him, blinking slowly. “I’m not pretending.”

Tae gave him a look - one that had always cut through his defenses. “You’re not fooling me, Jiminie. You’re scared. I can see it.”

For a while, Jimin didn’t answer. His gaze shifted to the ceiling, to the sterile tiles that had been his view for months. “Yeah,” he admitted finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m scared. Every time I close my eyes, I wonder if I’ll wake up the same. If I’ll even wake up at all.”

Taehyung’s chest tightened. He wanted to say don’t think like that, but he knew better than to dismiss it. Instead, he reached out and let his hand cover Jimin’s on top of the blanket. “I know. And it’s okay to be scared. But look at you - you’re still here. You’re still fighting. That means something.”

Jimin’s lips curved faintly, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m fighting for myself… or for him.”

“Yoongi?” Tae asked gently.

The way Jimin’s silence answered for him made Tae’s heart twist.

“I think about him more than I should,” Jimin confessed, voice shaking. “And it terrifies me. Because what if this is temporary? What if he realizes I’m too much?”

Taehyung squeezed his hand, firm enough to pull him back. “Listen to me. Min Yoongi isn’t the type to stay out of obligation. At least… he doesn’t look like this. If he’s here, it’s because he wants to be. And from where I’m standing, he wants to be a lot more than he’s letting on.”

Jimin’s eyes flicked toward him, a little glassy now. “You really think so?”

“I don’t think.” Tae smiled softly, brushing his thumb over Jimin’s knuckles. “I know.”

For a moment, Jimin just breathed, his chest rising and falling under the blanket. Then he whispered, “Thank you, Tae.”

Taehyung leaned back in his chair, giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go. “Always. You don’t have to carry this alone, Chim. Not with me here. Not with him here, either.”

The silence that followed was gentler now, wrapping around them like a blanket. And as Jimin’s eyes finally drifted shut, Taehyung sat back and kept watch, a quiet promise echoing in his chest: You’re not alone. Not now. Not ever.

The hospital room had gone quiet. Jimin was finally asleep, his breathing soft and steady, the monitors humming in their patient rhythm. Taehyung stayed in the chair beside the bed, but his body was stiff, restless. He got up after a while, drifting toward the window couch tucked into the corner of the room. From there, he could see the city lights blinking like stars, blurring against the glass.

The door creaked softly, and Taehyung turned his head. Jungkook slipped inside, still in scrubs, hair damp from a quick shower, the faint scent of hospital soap clinging to him. His steps were careful, quiet, though his eyes found Taehyung immediately.

“You’re still awake,” Jungkook whispered.

Tae gave a tired half-smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Jungkook hesitated, then padded over to the couch. “Mind if I…”

Taehyung shifted, patting the space beside him. “You never have to ask.”

Jungkook lowered himself onto the narrow cushions, close enough that their shoulders brushed. For a few moments, they just sat in silence, watching the glow of headlights far below. The world outside felt so distant, like it belonged to someone else entirely.

“You’ve been here all night?” Jungkook asked softly.

“Yeah.” Tae leaned his head back, eyes half-closed. “Someone had to stay with him. Yoongi-hyung looked like he’d collapse if I didn’t force him to go home.”

Jungkook chuckled quietly, then turned, his gaze gentle. “And who stays with you?”

The words hit harder than Taehyung expected. He exhaled, a little shaky, and let his shoulder tip against Jungkook’s. “Maybe you,” he murmured.

Jungkook didn’t move away. Instead, he adjusted slightly, letting Taehyung rest more fully against him. Their bodies curved together naturally, as if they’d done this a thousand times before. Taehyung’s cheek found Jungkook’s shoulder, and he felt the soft rise and fall of the younger’s chest beneath his ear.

It was quiet. Warm. Safe.

Two people, one shared breath.

Taehyung closed his eyes, letting himself sink into it. For the first time that long night, he wasn’t just keeping watch - he was being held too. And he realized, with startling clarity, that maybe this was what home felt like.

+++

The hospital was just beginning to stir when Yoongi walked through the corridors, the morning shift taking over from the night. He should’ve gone straight to his office, checked his patient list, prepared himself for the day ahead.

But his feet carried him elsewhere.

Jimin’s room.

The door opened with a soft creak, and Yoongi stepped inside.

For a moment, he froze.

Jimin was still asleep, curled slightly toward the window, his face relaxed in a way Yoongi hadn’t seen in too long. But that wasn’t what stopped him.

On the small couch by the window, Taehyung and Jungkook were tangled together, both of them fast asleep. Jungkook’s head rested against the back of the couch, Taehyung curled into his side, their hands loosely clasped between them.

Yoongi blinked once, quietly absorbing the sight, then turned his gaze back to Jimin - only to find the younger stirring awake, his eyes fluttering open. Jimin’s lips parted, about to speak, but Yoongi lifted a finger to his mouth, silently pressing for quiet. His other hand gestured toward the sleeping pair. Jimin’s gaze followed, and when he saw them, his lips curved into a small, fond smile.

Yoongi crossed the room and leaned down beside Jimin’s bed, keeping his voice low. “Seems they didn’t leave you alone after all.”

Jimin whispered back, his voice rough from sleep, “They stayed with me.”

Yoongi nodded, his eyes softening despite himself. For a moment, he let himself take in the whole picture: Jimin safe in bed, Taehyung and Jungkook watching over him even in sleep. A strange, fragile kind of family taking root in this sterile hospital room.

It made something inside him ache. Something he couldn’t quite name.

And as Jimin’s hand brushed faintly against his own under the covers, Yoongi let himself stay there a little longer - silent, steady, watching the people he cared for breathe in unison.

The morning slipped into late afternoon, the steady rhythm of the hospital consuming him as it always did. Rounds, consultations, quick glances at charts that blurred together. But beneath it all, his mind kept circling back to one thing - one person.

Jimin.

When he returned to the younger’s room, Jimin was sitting up, a blanket draped loosely around his shoulders, Hoseok speaking to him quietly about the last round of light therapy exercises. There was more color in his cheeks now, though fatigue still lingered in the lines of his face.

“Dr. Min,” Hoseok greeted with a knowing smile. “Right on time. He’s been asking if you’d come back.”

Jimin flushed immediately, shooting Hoseok a look, but Yoongi only smirked faintly and crossed the room. “How are you feeling?”

Jimin shifted, meeting his gaze for only a moment before looking down at his lap. “Better. Just a few more hours of therapy, they said.”

Yoongi nodded, standing close enough for their shoulders to nearly brush. He lowered his voice, his words just for Jimin. “Then I’ll be here when you’re done. I’ll walk you out myself.”

Jimin’s eyes flicked up, wide and startled. “You don’t have to…”

“I want to,” Yoongi interrupted gently. Then, after a pause, he let the rest spill, the truth that had been burning at the edge of his tongue for too long. “And after that… I’m taking you out. On a date.”

The silence that followed was sharp, charged. Jimin blinked at him, lips parting but no sound coming out. The faintest flush bloomed across his cheeks, and for a second, Yoongi thought maybe he’d gone too far. Too fast.

But then Jimin exhaled, shaky but sure, and whispered, “Okay.”

The smallest word. The biggest shift.

Yoongi’s chest tightened, something between relief and exhilaration flooding through him. For the first time in too long, the future didn’t feel like something to dread - it felt like something waiting to be reached for.

He gave Jimin a small, rare smile. “Good. Then it’s settled.”

And for the rest of the day, as he went about his duties, Yoongi found himself glancing at the clock more than once, impatient for the moment when Jimin would walk out those hospital doors - and this time, not alone.

Chapter Text

Grief never announced itself. It never came with a warning, never gave him time to brace for impact. It just… arrived.

The elderly man had been stable the night before - frail, yes, but his vitals had held steady, his breathing even. Jungkook had checked on him just before shift change, even adjusted his blanket with that quiet hope that tomorrow would be another small victory. But when he stepped into the room at dawn, the monitors were flat.

The team moved quickly, efficiently - compressions, oxygen, the code called - but it was too late. The man’s chest never rose again. His family wasn’t there; it happened too fast for anyone to gather. The room filled with silence that felt heavier than the failed attempts to bring him back. Jungkook stood by the bed long after everyone else had gone, gloves hanging loose at his sides. He’d seen this before. He’d trained for this. He knew loss was part of the job. And yet - his throat tightened as he reached forward, smoothing the man’s gray hair back one final time.

“Sleep well,” he whispered, voice breaking even as he fought to steady it.

He left the room, but the weight followed him. His colleagues were murmuring at the desk, the rhythm of hospital life already moving forward, but Jungkook couldn’t. Not yet. His chest felt hollow, his hands too empty.

He walked down the corridor, eyes fixed on the floor tiles, and leaned against the wall where no one would see. His breath shook. He tried to swallow it down, to remind himself he was a professional, that this was the reality of his work. But it didn’t matter how many years he had worn these scrubs, how many patients he had seen recover, or how many he had lost. Death still hurt. Every time.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, forcing himself to breathe. The nurse. The caregiver. The strong one. That was who he had to be. And yet, deep inside, all Jungkook could feel was the echo of the truth: he never got used to saying goodbye.

People had always told him he was too emotional for this job. Too soft. Too empathic. The kind of heart that cracked too easily, that carried the weight of every patient as if they were family.

“Detach,” they’d said in school. “Protect yourself. Don’t get too close.”

But Jungkook never believed in detachment. His dream had never been about cold efficiency - it had always been about helping people live. About making them feel seen, cared for, human. And yet, nights like this always made him wonder if his heart was built for this weight.

He sat on the bench in the corridor, the sterile white walls pressing in, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. He thought about the man’s eyes, about the sound of his shallow breaths the night before. He thought about how he’d promised to check in again in the morning - and he had. Just too late.

His chest squeezed, heavy and tight.

“This is life,” he whispered to himself, a reminder and a curse. “This is life.”

The words didn’t ease the ache.

“Jeon.”

Jungkook looked up. His superior, a tall nurse with years etched into the lines around her eyes, stood before him. She wasn’t unkind, but her tone was firm. “Your shift’s over. Go home. Get some rest.”

Jungkook swallowed, nodding automatically. “Yes, sunbaenim.”

But when she walked away, her footsteps fading down the hall, he didn’t move. He stayed right there on the bench, shoulders hunched, staring at the floor tiles until they blurred. His body felt too heavy to carry home, his heart too full to leave behind.

Half-hearted agreement. Wholehearted ache.

The hospital moved on around him, voices and footsteps blending into a hum. Jungkook sat still, unmoving, as if rooted to the spot—waiting for something to ground him, to remind him why he’d chosen this path in the first place.

And somewhere deep inside, despite the hurt, he knew he would never give up.

Because his dream wasn’t just about life or death.

It was about being there. Even when grief didn’t knock - when it just walked in and stayed.

+++

The pediatric wing was quieter that afternoon, the children tired from morning play. Taehyung had spent most of his shift reading picture books aloud, helping a little girl paint stars across the pages, and building towers of blocks that crumbled as fast as he could stack them. His body was tired, but it was a good kind of tired - the kind that came with small smiles and tiny hands tugging at his sleeve.

He knew Jungkook had worked the night before. He’d wanted to stay late just to catch him, maybe walk him home again. But by the time Taehyung had arrived, Jungkook’s shift was already long over. He told himself he’d see him another day, though the thought left a strange emptiness in his chest.

Now, with his shift nearly over, Tae stepped into the corridor to fetch some clean sheets for the playroom couch. That’s when he overheard them - two nurses leaning by the desk, their voices low but carrying just enough.

“…poor kid, took it hard,” one of them was saying, shaking her head. “The patient was old, it wasn’t unexpected. But Jungkook - he sat there for so long after. Wouldn’t move.”

The other nurse sighed. “He’s too emotional for his own good. Always has been. He feels everything. That’s what makes him good, but also…” She trailed off, her expression pinched with worry.

Taehyung froze, the sheets forgotten in his hands. They were talking about him. About Jungkook. His chest tightened, a mix of protectiveness and something deeper he didn’t want to name yet. He could picture it too easily: Jungkook, sitting alone on one of those stiff benches, the world moving past him while he carried the weight no one else saw.

“…someone should have walked him home,” the first nurse added. “He agreed to leave, but you could see it in his face. He wasn’t really gone. Just… carrying it with him.”

Taehyung stepped back before they could notice him listening, the sheets pressed tightly to his chest. His throat ached.

Jungkook, who smiled for children. Jungkook, who stayed gentle even when he was exhausted. Jungkook, who carried grief like it belonged to him, who hurt for others even when no one else saw it. And nobody had been there for him.

Taehyung swallowed hard, blinking against the burn in his eyes. He told himself he’d finish his shift first, keep smiling for the kids until the last second. But the moment he was free, he knew where he’d go. Because if Jungkook wouldn’t let himself be held up, then Taehyung would do it for him.

Always.

He didn’t knock twice.

The moment Jungkook opened the door - his hair damp from a rushed shower, his eyes rimmed red though he tried to hide it - Taehyung stepped inside without a word. No explanations, no questions. He simply reached out and wrapped his arms around him.

For a moment, Jungkook stood stiff, as if unsure what to do with the sudden closeness. Then his body gave in, his forehead pressing into Taehyung’s shoulder, his arms sliding hesitantly around his waist.

They stood there in the small entryway, shoes half on, the hum of the fridge the only sound between them. Taehyung held him tighter. One heartbeat against another, syncing slowly in the silence.

It wasn’t until later, when Jungkook had let himself be guided into his bedroom, when they were lying tangled on the bed - Jungkook curled against him, head resting against his chest - that words began to come.

“You heard,” Jungkook murmured, his voice muffled in the fabric of Taehyung’s shirt.

“I heard,” Taehyung admitted softly, running his hand through Jungkook’s hair. “Two nurses were talking about last night. About how you stayed after… after he passed.”

Jungkook’s body stiffened slightly. “They shouldn’t talk about that.”

“They weren’t being cruel,” Taehyung said quickly. “They were worried. And so am I.”

Jungkook pulled back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were glassy, his jaw tight. “Everyone says the same thing. That I’m too emotional. That I let it get to me too much. That I’m not built for this kind of work. And maybe they’re right, Tae. Because every time I lose someone, it feels like-like I’ve failed them. Like I should have done more.”

Taehyung cupped his cheek, forcing him to hold his gaze. “Jungkook. Look at me.”

The younger’s breath shook, but he didn’t look away.

“You haven’t failed anyone,” Taehyung said firmly. “You gave that man care. Dignity. Comfort. You stayed when no one else did. That matters. It matters more than any monitor or machine. More than you think.”

Jungkook’s lips trembled, his voice breaking. “But I didn’t save him.”

Taehyung’s thumb brushed gently over his skin. “You can’t save everyone. No one can. But you made sure he wasn’t alone when he left. And if that’s not saving something… then I don’t know what is.”

Jungkook closed his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek. Taehyung wiped it away, pulling him close again until his face was buried against his chest.

“I don’t care if people think you’re too emotional,” Taehyung whispered into his hair. “It’s what makes you who you are. It’s why you’re the best at what you do. And it’s why…” He hesitated, but the words pushed their way out anyway. “It’s why I care about you so much.”

Jungkook’s arms tightened around him, clinging like he was afraid Taehyung might vanish. His voice cracked, low and raw. “Don’t let go tonight.”

Taehyung kissed the top of his head, holding him even closer. “I won’t. Not tonight. Not ever, if you don’t want me to.”

And in the quiet that followed, with the weight of grief still heavy but softened by their shared breath, Taehyung knew: he wasn’t just holding Jungkook together. He was choosing to stay.

+++

Namjoon had told him everything that morning - about the patient Jungkook had lost, how hard it had hit him, and how Taehyung had left his volunteer duties just to go to Jungkook’s apartment. Yoongi listened, quiet, guilt threading through his chest. Jungkook was steady in crisis, but afterward… he carried grief like lead in his bones.

Yoongi stepped out of the office and pulled out his phone. He hesitated only a second before pressing Jungkook’s number. The line rang twice before a different voice answered.

“Hello?”

It was Taehyung.

Yoongi’s brows furrowed. “Taehyung?”

On the other end, there was a soft exhale, almost a laugh. “Yeah. Jungkook finally fell asleep. He… needed it.”

Yoongi leaned against the wall, pressing his thumb to his brow. “Good. He needs to rest. Will you stay with him?”

“I was planning to,” Taehyung replied, his tone gentle but firm. “He shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“Thank you,” Yoongi said after a pause, the words gruff but sincere. “Take care of him.”

“I will,” Taehyung promised, before the line went quiet.

Yoongi tucked the phone away and made his way to the cafeteria. Namjoon was already there, a notebook open in front of him. Seokjin had joined him, his presence unmistakably grounding - soft laughter escaping between them over something trivial. It was strange, seeing the two of them like that, as if the years of distance between them had finally loosened.

Yoongi sat down heavily across from them. For a while, he just stirred his coffee, letting the silence grow. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“I… asked Jimin out,” he said, almost too low to hear.

Namjoon’s head shot up, eyes wide, while Seokjin’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.

“On a date,” Yoongi clarified, cheeks heating in spite of himself. “Properly.”

Namjoon blinked once, then again, his expression softening into something like relief. “That’s… good, hyung. Really good.”

Seokjin leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, his eyes glinting. “About time.”

Yoongi looked down at his coffee, trying to hide the flicker of a smile tugging at his lips. For the first time in a long while, the word hope didn’t feel like a threat. It felt like a promise.

Namjoon and Seokjin exchanged a look across the table, one of those wordless conversations they seemed to have mastered. There was something warm in it, something unspoken, and then both of them were looking back at Yoongi.

“You look nervous,” Seokjin said gently, breaking the silence.

“I am nervous,” Yoongi muttered, staring down into the swirl of his coffee. “It’s been… a long time since I even thought about this. About giving myself to someone.” He hesitated, his throat tightening. “I wasn’t sure I could anymore.”

Namjoon leaned forward, his voice low and steady, the way he always sounded when he wanted his words to anchor you. “Hyung, no one would blame you for that. After everything you’ve carried, after losing—” He stopped himself, as if afraid to press too hard. “It makes sense you closed yourself off. But… maybe this is different. Maybe he’s different.”

Yoongi exhaled through his nose, shoulders slumping. “He is different. That’s what scares me.” He shook his head, his fingers tightening around the mug. “Jimin looks at me like I’m more than I am. Like I’m someone who can give him everything he deserves. And I want to be that for him. I really do. But what if I can’t? What if I… what if I ruin it?”

Seokjin reached across the table, his hand covering Yoongi’s. His touch was firm, grounding, in a way that caught Yoongi off guard. “You won’t ruin it by caring. You’ll only ruin it by walking away when he needs you. And you’re not that man. Not anymore.”

Yoongi looked up at him then, startled by the certainty in his voice.

“You’ve already given him more than you realize,” Seokjin continued softly. “You gave him a chance to breathe again. To hope again. You didn’t just treat his lungs, Yoongi - you treated his spirit. And I think… he’s done the same for you.”

Namjoon nodded, his gaze steady. “You’re not asking yourself the right question, hyung. It’s not ‘What if I ruin it?’ It’s ‘Am I willing to try?’ And from the way you just admitted all this to us, I think you already know your answer.”

Yoongi’s chest tightened, but not painfully this time. It felt like release. Like the truth settling in a place he’d been avoiding for too long.

He glanced down, his voice almost a whisper. “I want to give him a chance. Give us a chance. No walls. No half-measures. Just… me. As I am.”

Seokjin’s smile softened, pride shining in his eyes. “Then do it, Yoongi. You deserve to be loved. And from what I’ve seen… Jimin already does.”

The words made Yoongi’s heart stumble, a strange, fragile hope sparking deep inside him. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to imagine a future that wasn’t only hospital corridors and silent grief. A future where Jimin’s laughter filled the spaces instead.

He held onto that thought, quietly, like a promise to himself.

This time, he wasn’t going to let fear decide for him.

Chapter Text

His reflection stared back at him for the tenth time that hour, unimpressed by the constant tugging and smoothing of his sweater. Jimin sighed, pressing his palms against the fabric as if that would make it sit better. His hair, too - he had run his fingers through it so many times it no longer knew what shape to take. It had been years since his last date. Before the diagnosis, before the endless cycle of hospitals, needles, and whispered worries about tomorrow. And now - now someone wanted to see him like this. Wanted him. The idea felt fragile, like if he thought about it too hard, it might slip away. The buzzer rang. Jimin’s heart leapt to his throat. When he opened the door, there was Yoongi. Not in his white coat, not in hospital blue. Just Yoongi - in a simple black coat, collar turned up against the night air, his hair falling soft around his face. He looked… the same, but different. Less guarded. Softer somehow.

“You look good,” Yoongi said simply, eyes flicking over him once before lingering on his face.

Jimin’s ears warmed. “You too.”

Yoongi noticed the scarf folded in Jimin’s hand. Without asking, he stepped closer, took it gently, and wrapped it around Jimin’s neck. His fingers brushed Jimin’s jaw as he adjusted it, lingering longer than necessary. “There. Wouldn’t want you catching a cold before the date even starts.”

The word date made Jimin’s chest flutter.

The restaurant Yoongi chose was tucked away on a quiet street. Candlelight flickered on each table, the low hum of soft jazz floating through the air. It wasn’t crowded, just a few couples scattered around. Intimate. Safe.

Jimin sat across from Yoongi, fingers tapping nervously on the table. “Do you… take all your patients out like this?” he asked, voice lighter than he felt.

Yoongi’s lips curved into a smirk, his gaze sharp and amused. “Only the ones I want to see outside the hospital.”

Jimin’s cheeks flushed. “So that’s… what this is?”

“A date?” Yoongi leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Yes. Unless you don’t want it to be.”

Jimin swallowed, gripping his napkin. “No… I mean, yes. I want it to be.”

“Good.” Yoongi’s tone softened, his eyes holding his. “Because I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t mean it.”

The waiter appeared, setting down menus. Jimin glanced at his but found it hard to focus with Yoongi watching him like that, gaze steady, unreadable yet full of something that made his stomach flutter.

“You can relax,” Yoongi said, noticing his nervous fidgeting.

“I am relaxed,” Jimin protested, failing miserably as he nearly knocked over his water glass.

Yoongi chuckled under his breath. “Right. Totally.”

“Stop looking at me like that,” Jimin muttered, ducking his head.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re… dissecting me.”

Yoongi tilted his head. “Not dissecting. Admiring.”

The word sank into Jimin’s chest, hot and heavy. He bit his lip, trying to hide the smile threatening to escape. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Yoongi said smoothly, “you’re still sitting here with me.”

Jimin finally laughed, the sound easing some of the tension knotted in his chest. For the first time in a long time, the idea of being wanted didn’t feel foreign. It felt real.

The food came and went slowly, each bite an anchor that steadied him against the whirl of nerves and anticipation. The candle between them burned low, its light softening Yoongi’s features, painting him warmer than Jimin had ever seen. Their conversation drifted from safe topics - music, places they’d both loved in Seoul, books Yoongi had been meaning to read - to places that were heavier, where honesty pressed at the edges of their words.

“I keep thinking…” Jimin toyed with his fork, eyes on the flickering flame. “What if I waste this? This second chance. What if I don’t do enough with it?” His voice cracked slightly, the fear spilling out despite himself. “I’m scared of… living too small. Of surviving, but not really living.”

When he dared to look up, Yoongi wasn’t smirking or deflecting. His gaze was steady, sharp in its focus but soft in its weight.

“I’m scared too,” Yoongi admitted after a pause, his voice quiet. “Not of wasting life. Of giving too much of mine away. I’ve done it before… and I lost everything when it ended. I promised myself I wouldn’t - couldn’t - do it again.”

The admission hung between them, raw and unpolished. The air felt thick, but not suffocating. It was heavy in a way that made Jimin’s heart ache, intimate in a way that made his breath catch. Neither of them pushed for more after that. They let the silence speak, filled only with the clink of cutlery and the steady rhythm of their shared presence.

When Yoongi walked him home, the city was hushed, streets glistening under the glow of the lamps. At Jimin’s door, the stillness wrapped around them. Yoongi lingered, his hand half-raised as if he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. His hesitation cut through Jimin like glass.

Before Yoongi could retreat, Jimin reached out, fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeve. His voice was barely a whisper. “Stay the night.”

Yoongi’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Jimin leaned up, closing the distance between them. The kiss was tentative at first - soft, almost fragile, as though both were afraid it would shatter. But when Yoongi’s lips pressed more firmly against his, when Jimin tugged him closer, it deepened. Slow, lingering, full of everything they hadn’t dared to say.

The air between them broke with the sound of their breathing, quick and uneven, when Jimin finally pulled back. He searched Yoongi’s face, finding the same conflict - the same hunger - in his eyes.

Without giving himself time to second-guess, Jimin tugged harder at his sleeve, pulling him inside the apartment. Because he couldn’t let him go. Not tonight. Not anymore.

+++

The street market was full of life - bright neon signs, sizzling grills, the chatter of couples and families weaving through the stalls. Taehyung grinned as he tugged Jungkook along by the wrist, ignoring the younger’s half-hearted grumbles about being dragged out after a night shift.

“You need this,” Taehyung said, eyes scanning the stalls. “You’re always working. Tonight, we eat until we can’t move.”

Jungkook raised a brow, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “That sounds dangerous.”

“That sounds perfect,” Taehyung shot back, already buying skewers dripping with sauce. He shoved one into Jungkook’s hand. “Eat.”

They wandered down the alley, eating slowly, when Jungkook suddenly crouched near a cluster of shadows. Taehyung tilted his head in confusion before realizing there were three stray cats lurking near an overturned crate. Jungkook tore pieces of meat from his skewer and held them out gently, waiting patiently until the cats inched closer.

Taehyung’s heart squeezed. He pulled out his phone before he could stop himself and snapped a photo.

Jungkook looked up, catching the flash of the screen. “Really?” he muttered, rolling his eyes. But he didn’t stop feeding the cats.

“You’re ridiculous,” Taehyung teased, grinning. “Mr. Big Tough Nurse, buying dinner for alley cats.”

Jungkook’s lips quirked, but he kept his focus on the animals. “They’re hungry. That’s all.”

“Mm-hm,” Taehyung hummed, biting into his bread, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the sight - the soft curve of Jungkook’s mouth as he coaxed the cats closer, the warmth in his eyes. He tucked the photo away in his phone, like a secret.

Later, they found themselves sitting by the river, the night air cool and smelling faintly of roasted chestnuts from a nearby vendor. The city lights glittered on the water, their reflections trembling with each ripple.

They ate in companionable silence until Taehyung broke it. “Does it ever get easier? Losing people?”

The question slipped out before he could stop it. He wasn’t even sure if he meant patients or friends - or both.

Jungkook stilled, chewing slowly before setting down his skewer. His gaze fixed on the water. “No,” he said quietly. “It never gets easier.”

Taehyung’s chest tightened, but Jungkook’s voice continued, steady despite its softness.

“But it makes me hold onto the living harder. The ones still here. The ones I can still… keep close.”

The honesty in his tone hit Taehyung harder than he expected. He turned his head, studying the younger’s profile - the slope of his nose, the way the neon glow from the market painted his skin faint pink.

“You’re…” Taehyung swallowed, the words catching in his throat. “You’re a better person than you give yourself credit for, you know that?”

Jungkook finally looked at him, and for a second, neither of them smiled. The moment was too raw, too full.

Then Jungkook exhaled and leaned back, a quiet grin tugging at his lips. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”

Taehyung laughed, the heaviness in his chest easing. He tossed the last piece of bread to the water, watching the ripples scatter, and thought quietly to himself - maybe this was what holding on looked like.

The night air was cool, the kind that nipped at his skin and made the river glow sharper under the streetlights. They had been walking in silence for a while, side by side, the leftover sweetness of roasted bread still on his tongue.

Something about the quiet felt heavier than it should.

Tae nudged Jungkook with his shoulder, trying to shake it loose. “Guess I’ll just have to let you hold onto me then.”

Jungkook blinked, startled, his dark eyes flashing to meet his.

Heat rushed up Taehyung’s neck, and he quickly added, “As a friend, of course.”

But his voice wavered. His face betrayed him. He could feel the flush creeping higher, and judging by the faint quirk of Jungkook’s lips, the younger noticed.

They walked the rest of the way without words, the silence between them no longer heavy but charged, humming with something unspoken. Jungkook’s arm brushed his more than once, and neither of them moved away.

When they reached Taehyung’s building, he turned to face him. “You didn’t have to walk me all the way here,” Tae said softly.

“I wanted to,” Jungkook replied, his tone simple, steady.

Taehyung’s chest tightened. He stared at him for a long moment, watching the way Jungkook’s shoulders slumped slightly with exhaustion, how his eyes lingered on the ground instead of his face. Impulsively, Taehyung reached out, his fingers wrapping around Jungkook’s hand. The contact was warm, grounding, and Jungkook looked up immediately, surprise flickering across his face.

“Are you sure you want to be alone right now?” Tae asked, his voice gentler than he intended, almost a plea.

Jungkook’s expression faltered - strong on the outside, but betraying him in his eyes. Those eyes said everything his mouth didn’t. No.

Before he could second-guess himself, Taehyung lifted his free hand and cupped Jungkook’s face. The nurse’s breath hitched, his lashes lowering as though caught off guard.

“You don’t have to be,” Tae whispered. “Not tonight.”

For a moment, they just stood there, the hum of the city around them, their breaths mingling in the narrow space between. Then, slowly, Jungkook nodded.

That was enough for Taehyung. He squeezed Jungkook’s hand once more, then tugged him gently toward the door. “Come on. You can rest here.”

Jungkook followed, still quiet, but his shoulders seemed to ease as he stepped inside with him. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Taehyung felt like he wasn’t just watching Jungkook unravel - he was helping him hold the pieces together.

+++

The hospital was winding down for the night. Most of the corridors had gone quiet, only the echo of shoes and the low murmur of late-shift nurses filling the space. Seokjin tugged his coat tighter as he stepped outside, the crisp air brushing against his face. He didn’t go home right away. Instead, he waited by the vending machines just outside the hospital doors, hands tucked into his pockets. He had timed it - Namjoon’s shift would be ending soon.

Sure enough, a familiar figure appeared a few minutes later, tall and a little hunched from the weight of the day. Namjoon spotted him immediately, his lips twitching into a smile that Seokjin pretended not to notice.

“Working late?” Namjoon asked, already moving toward the machine.

“Not as late as you,” Seokjin replied, sliding a coin into the slot before Namjoon could. “My treat.” He pressed the button for two coffees and handed one over.

They sat on the steps, the steam curling from the plastic cups. For a while, they just drank, the silence between them oddly comfortable.

Seokjin finally broke it, glancing sideways at him. “You know, your reports are still impossible to read. I think your handwriting gets worse every year.”

Namjoon let out a startled laugh, low and warm. “You still complain about that? Some things never change.”

“Of course I do,” Seokjin teased, his lips quirking. “If I didn’t, how would anyone know I actually read them?”

Namjoon laughed again, shaking his head. And before Seokjin realized it, he was laughing too - quiet at first, then fuller, his shoulders loosening as the sound slipped out. It surprised him. It had been years since laughter came this easily, without weight pressing it down.

When it faded, he looked up - and found Namjoon already watching him. The younger’s smile had softened, his eyes warm in a way that made Seokjin’s chest ache.

“What?” Seokjin asked, trying to cover the sudden flutter in his chest.

“Nothing,” Namjoon said, his voice low but sure. “I just… missed that.”

The warmth lingered between them, carried not by words but by the quiet comfort of two people rediscovering something they hadn’t realized they’d lost.

Chapter Text

The apartment was dimly lit, the only glow coming from the streetlight filtering through Taehyung’s curtains. Jungkook hesitated in the entryway, his bag still slung over his shoulder, his shoes half off. He wasn’t used to this - the sudden shift from the sterile, humming chaos of the hospital into the quiet warmth of someone else’s space.

“Sit,” Taehyung said gently, nudging him toward the couch.

Jungkook obeyed without argument. His body sank into the cushions, heavier than he’d realized. It was as if the exhaustion of weeks finally caught up the moment he stepped inside. He leaned back, pressing a hand to his eyes, willing the ache in his chest to quiet.

A rustle sounded, then the soft clink of a glass being set on the table. When Jungkook looked, Taehyung was standing there with a glass of water. His expression was steady but his eyes were soft.

“Drink,” he said simply.

Jungkook accepted it, their fingers brushing. The water was cool, grounding, but it wasn’t enough to wash away the tightness in his throat. He set the glass down and tried to steady his breathing.

“You don’t have to hold it in here,” Taehyung said after a long pause. He sank onto the couch beside him, close but not pressing. “Not with me.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. His chest felt like it might split open. “Everyone keeps saying I’m too emotional for this job,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe I shouldn’t…”

“Stop.” Taehyung’s voice was firm, cutting through the spiral. “Don’t do that to yourself. You care too much? Good. The world doesn’t need another doctor or nurse who just walks away when things get hard. You… you’re exactly what your patients need.”

Jungkook turned his head slowly, meeting Taehyung’s gaze. There was no teasing there, no playful spark like usual. Only truth, bare and raw. And Jungkook broke. His breath stuttered, shoulders shaking as the tears he had been holding back finally spilled over. He turned his face away, ashamed, but Taehyung reached out and touched his arm.

“Don’t,” Taehyung murmured. “Don’t hide from me.”

Something in the gentleness undid him further. Jungkook leaned forward, his forehead pressing against Taehyung’s shoulder. He felt the warmth seep into him, steadying the frantic rhythm of his heart. Taehyung didn’t flinch. He simply wrapped his arms around Jungkook, holding him like he’d been waiting for this moment all along.

Time blurred. Jungkook wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, breathing in Taehyung’s scent - soap, ink, and something uniquely him. His tears slowed, replaced by a deep, bone-heavy exhaustion.

“You’re safe here,” Taehyung whispered at some point, his lips brushing Jungkook’s hair. “Just breathe. That’s all you need to do.”

Jungkook’s grip on him tightened briefly before easing, his body finally surrendering. His breaths slowed, syncing to Taehyung’s. The last thing he remembered was the steady rise and fall of the man beside him, the heartbeat against his cheek, and the quiet certainty that he wasn’t alone anymore. When sleep claimed him, it wasn’t heavy with sorrow. It was lightened by the presence of someone who refused to let him fall apart alone.

A soft rustle pulled him from sleep. At first, he didn’t know where he was - the couch, the faint smell of Taehyung’s cologne, the quiet hush of a neighborhood asleep outside the window. Then he felt it: fingers brushing through his hair, slow and tender.

He blinked his eyes open to find Taehyung sitting close, knees drawn up, one hand resting lightly against Jungkook’s temple. The older man’s gaze was distant, caught somewhere between thought and emotion, his lips parted as if words had been hovering there but never spoken.

“You’re awake,” Taehyung whispered, his fingers stilling as though caught.

“Barely,” Jungkook’s voice was rough, low from sleep. “What are you doing?”

Taehyung hesitated, then said simply, “Making sure you stayed.”

Something inside Jungkook cracked at that. He pushed himself up slowly, the blanket sliding off his shoulders. Their faces were close now, close enough for Jungkook to see the shadows under Taehyung’s eyes, the flicker of fear and longing both battling in his gaze.

“Tae…” Jungkook whispered, his chest tightening.

But Taehyung leaned in first. Their lips touched like a question, tentative and trembling. Jungkook answered with a sigh, his hand finding the side of Taehyung’s face, pulling him closer until the question became an answer, until there was no space left between them. The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, tasting of everything they’d held back. Taehyung’s hands slid over his shoulders, trembling just slightly, as though he was afraid Jungkook would vanish.

They moved together toward the bedroom without words. The air was heavy with silence, but not empty - full of everything they had no way to say.

On the bed, under the dim light from the window, Taehyung’s fingers traced each scar that marred Jungkook’s skin. He didn’t skip over them, didn’t pretend they weren’t there. Instead, he lingered, brushing his lips against them, like a promise: I see you. All of you.

Jungkook’s breath caught. His body shook not from fear, but from the intensity of being known so deeply. “Tae…” he breathed, voice cracking.

Taehyung looked at him then, really looked at him, and Jungkook felt stripped bare - not just his body, but every wall he’d ever built.

“You’re beautiful,” Jungkook whispered, the words trembling out of him before he could stop them. His hand cupped Taehyung’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his lips. “Every piece of you.”

The way Taehyung’s eyes glistened at that - Jungkook knew he meant it too.

What followed wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about desperation. It was slow, tender, filled with murmured reassurances and unsteady laughter, with touches that lingered too long and kisses that felt like confessions. They held each other through every moment, letting the world narrow down to nothing but the warmth of skin, the rhythm of breath, the pounding of two hearts trying to match each other’s beat.

When it was over, they lay tangled together, chests heaving, foreheads pressed. Jungkook didn’t move, didn’t want to. Taehyung’s fingers brushed lazy patterns across his back, grounding him in ways he’d never known he needed.

Neither spoke for a long time. Then, in the quiet, Jungkook whispered, almost afraid, “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” Taehyung murmured back, his voice thick but steady. “Never.”

And in the hush of that night, with Taehyung’s arms holding him firm, Jungkook believed it.

The morning crept in gently - thin rays of pale light slipping through the curtains, brushing across the sheets, warm against Jungkook’s skin. He stirred, not because he wanted to move, but because something warm and steady rose and fell beneath his cheek. It took a moment for the memories to return. Taehyung’s hands. His lips. The way he’d whispered his name like it was both a plea and a promise. The way Jungkook had let himself go, completely, for the first time in years.

He blinked, and the first thing he saw was Taehyung’s face inches from his own. His lashes were long against his cheeks, his mouth slightly parted, hair an absolute mess across the pillow. He looked unfairly soft. Jungkook smiled before he could stop himself.

He tried to shift, but Taehyung’s arm tightened instantly around his waist, pulling him back in. “Don’t you dare move,” Taehyung mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

Jungkook huffed out a laugh. “Hyung, I just wanted to…”

“Don’t care,” Taehyung cut in, eyes still closed. “You’re warm.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, but his chest ached with something that didn’t feel like annoyance at all. “You’re ridiculous.”

Finally, Taehyung cracked an eye open, squinting at him with a lopsided grin. “And yet, here you are.”

Heat crept up Jungkook’s neck. He ducked his head, hiding his face against Taehyung’s chest. “Shut up.”

Taehyung chuckled, the sound rumbling beneath Jungkook’s ear. His fingers, lazy and unhurried, traced circles against the younger’s spine. “You’re cute when you’re shy.”

Jungkook groaned dramatically, but his smile betrayed him. He tilted his head back just enough to meet Taehyung’s gaze. “Last night wasn’t a dream, was it?”

The question slipped out before he could stop it. His voice was softer than he wanted it to be.

Taehyung’s expression shifted, his teasing fading into something deeper. He cupped Jungkook’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly across his skin. “No,” he said, steady, certain. “It was real. And so is this.”

The words sank into him like sunlight after rain. Jungkook’s throat tightened, but he nodded, letting himself believe it. Because sitting here, wrapped up in Taehyung’s arms, everything else - every scar, every ache, every doubt - felt far away.

Taehyung leaned down, kissing him slowly, morning-soft and unhurried. And in that kiss, Jungkook knew nothing between them could go back to how it was.

Not when his heart was already choosing him.

+++

The first thing he became aware of was warmth - steady, encompassing, unlike the cold emptiness that used to greet him in hospital mornings. It was Yoongi. Always Yoongi now.

Jimin blinked his eyes open slowly, his lashes brushing against bare skin. His cheek rested on Yoongi’s chest, rising and falling with each calm breath. Beneath his ear, the steady thrum of his boyfriend’s heartbeat echoed like a lullaby, grounding him in a way nothing else ever had.

He let his eyes flutter shut again, not quite ready to move, not quite ready to let go of the fragile peace that wrapped around them. His body ached pleasantly, but it wasn’t the painful ache of his illness - it was the memory of Yoongi’s hands, Yoongi’s lips, Yoongi’s whispered reassurances the night before.

The older man had been so gentle, so reverent in the way he touched him, like every kiss, every brush of fingers across his skin carried meaning. Jimin had almost cried, overwhelmed by the tenderness, by the way Yoongi held him as if he was something precious and unbreakable. Now, in the pale morning light, Jimin could still feel the phantom weight of Yoongi’s lips against his temple, still hear the murmur of words against his throat. You’re safe. You’re mine. You’re here.

His fingers shifted slightly, splaying over Yoongi’s chest. Broad. Steady. Solid. A body built to carry burdens and still, somehow, gentle enough to cradle him through the night.

“Awake?” Yoongi’s voice was rough with sleep, vibrating under his ear.

Jimin smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “Mm. Not really. Just… listening.”

“Listening?” Yoongi’s tone held curiosity.

“To you,” Jimin whispered, finally daring to tilt his head up. Their eyes met - Yoongi’s still heavy-lidded, but softened in a way Jimin only ever saw in these quiet mornings. “Your heart.”

Yoongi blinked at him, then let out a quiet chuckle, his hand moving up to card through Jimin’s messy hair. “You’re strange.”

“And you love it,” Jimin countered, his lips quirking.

Yoongi hummed, noncommittal, but his arm tightened around Jimin’s waist, pulling him closer until there was no space left. Jimin let himself be tucked further against him, soaking in the safety, the certainty.

“Stay like this a little longer?” Jimin asked softly, almost shyly.

Yoongi tilted his head, pressing a kiss against his hair. “As long as you want.”

The words made Jimin’s throat ache. He wanted to cry, but not from sadness. From the overwhelming realization that he had survived long enough to feel this - to be here, loved, held. So he didn’t move. He just rested against Yoongi’s chest, memorizing the rhythm of his heartbeat, knowing that this was what it felt like to finally be alive again.

The smell of something warm and savory pulled him from the haze of half-sleep. At first, Jimin thought it was a dream - the kind where the house feels lived-in, laughter lingers in the walls, and someone waits for you in the kitchen. But when he stretched across the empty side of the bed, the sheets were still warm, and muffled sounds carried from beyond the bedroom door.

Yoongi.

Jimin sat up slowly, slipping into the loose sweatshirt Yoongi must’ve draped over the chair last night. Padding barefoot into the small kitchen, he stopped in the doorway. There he was. Min Yoongi, famous for his sharp tongue and colder-than-ice composure in the hospital, now barefoot in a simple black T-shirt, sleeves rolled up, focused intently on stirring eggs in a pan. His hair was a little messy still, sticking up in soft tufts from sleep.

Jimin couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at his lips.

“You look like you’re performing surgery on those eggs,” Jimin teased, leaning against the doorframe.

Yoongi turned his head, one brow raised. “Someone has to make sure you eat properly. Namjoon and Hoseok will kill me if you start skipping meals now.”

Jimin padded closer, perching on a stool by the counter. “Or maybe they’ll just lecture you until you go gray.”

Yoongi shot him a look - half glare, half fond - but the corner of his mouth curved up. “Keep laughing. You’re still eating this.”

Jimin laughed quietly, resting his chin in his palm as he watched Yoongi plate the food. There was something achingly domestic about it - like they’d done this a hundred times, like it wasn’t their second morning together after months of dancing around feelings.

When the plates were set in front of them, Yoongi slid into the chair opposite Jimin, his expression softening as his eyes lingered a little too long. Jimin shifted, suddenly shy under the weight of it. They ate quietly for a while, the silence not heavy but comfortable. It wasn’t until halfway through that Jimin broke it, his voice hesitant.

“I still… feel it sometimes,” he admitted, tracing the edge of his fork against the plate. “Tightness in my chest. Not as bad as before, but it’s there.”

Yoongi set his fork down, his sharp eyes immediately softening with concern. He reached across the table, covering Jimin’s hand with his own. “That’s normal. Your lungs are still adjusting, healing. The treatment’s working, but it takes time. If you stick with rehab and meds, it’ll fade. You just have to be serious with it.”

Jimin nodded, swallowing hard. “I am serious. I just… I don’t want to disappoint you. Or Namjoon. Or Hoseok.” His voice faltered. “Sometimes it feels like everyone believes in me more than I do.”

Yoongi’s grip on his hand tightened, grounding. “Hey,” he said firmly, his tone that of the doctor Jimin had first known, but gentler, softened at the edges. “You’re not disappointing anyone. Least of all me. You’re doing better than you think.”

Jimin’s eyes burned, but he forced a smile. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Yoongi said without hesitation. “But you need to believe it too.”

Jimin let out a shaky laugh, brushing at his eyes with his free hand. “You’re too serious about everything, you know that?”

Yoongi smirked, finally letting go of his hand to pick up his fork again. “One of us has to be. If I leave it to you, you’ll live on instant ramen and late-night writing binges.”

“Hey,” Jimin pouted, “I make great ramen.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but smiled as he reached across and ruffled Jimin’s hair. “Eat your eggs.”

Jimin laughed again, the sound lighter this time. He picked up his fork obediently, heart swelling with something he didn’t dare put into words yet.

Because in this quiet kitchen, with Yoongi watching him like he mattered more than anything, Jimin realized that this - domestic softness, shared worries, whispered reassurances - was what healing truly felt like.

Chapter Text

It started small. The brushes of shoulders in hallways. Shared looks across the cafeteria. The kind of glances that spoke louder than words ever could. But now, Yoongi noticed it clearly - Taehyung and Jungkook no longer hid the way they leaned toward each other, orbiting like two planets caught in the same pull.

He saw it while he was writing Jimin’s notes in the nurses’ station, the two of them moving together down the corridor. Jungkook carried a tray of supplies, Taehyung walked beside him, laughing at something the younger whispered. They weren’t touching, but they might as well have been - the air between them charged, close, intentional.

Yoongi had seen this before. The small, invisible thread that tugged people together when they tried to resist. Gravity had its own way of claiming hearts.

Later, he mentioned it while sitting in Jimin’s apartment. The younger was curled up against his side on the couch, his notebook open across his lap, though the pen had been idle for the last ten minutes. Yoongi’s arm rested along the back of the couch, his fingers playing absently with the strands of Jimin’s hair.

“You’ve seen them, haven’t you?” Yoongi asked suddenly.

Jimin blinked, looking up. “Who?”

“Your best friend and that nurse of mine,” Yoongi said, voice steady, but a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “The way they circle each other. It’s obvious.”

Jimin’s cheeks colored instantly. “You mean Tae and Jungkook?”

Yoongi nodded. “Mm. They move around each other like they can’t help it. Like… gravity.” He paused, his gaze lowering to Jimin’s notebook. “You used to dance, right? You know what it’s like when two people find the same rhythm without trying.”

Jimin smiled faintly, his eyes softening with memory. “It’s the most natural thing in the world. You don’t even think about the steps - you just… move. Because it feels right.”

“Exactly.” Yoongi’s tone softened. “That’s what they look like.”

Jimin chuckled quietly, closing his notebook. “Tae tries to act like he doesn’t know what’s happening. But he’s always been like that - pretending not to notice his own heart until it’s too loud to ignore.”

“And Jungkook?” Yoongi asked, curious.

Jimin tilted his head, considering. “He’s young, but… steady. He feels everything deeply, even if he doesn’t say it. He won’t let Tae run forever.”

Yoongi leaned back, absorbing Jimin’s words. The parallels weren’t lost on him. He looked down at the younger pressed into his side, so warm, so alive. The same gravity that pulled Taehyung and Jungkook together tugged at him too - toward Jimin.

“You notice a lot,” Yoongi said quietly.

“So do you,” Jimin countered, smiling up at him.

Their eyes met, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence hummed with the same inevitability Yoongi had just described. Gravity. Pull. A rhythm that didn’t need steps, only trust.

Yoongi reached out, brushing a lock of hair from Jimin’s forehead. “Looks like we’re all orbiting someone these days.”

Jimin’s smile softened, his hand covering Yoongi’s where it rested against his cheek. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

Yoongi didn’t answer with words. He leaned down instead, pressing his lips to Jimin’s, slow and steady - like a promise he no longer wanted to fight.

The kiss ended slowly, lingering just long enough for him to feel the weight of it settle deep in his chest. Jimin pulled back first, just an inch, his lips brushing against Yoongi’s as he exhaled softly. His eyes were half-lidded, vulnerable, trusting in a way that made Yoongi’s throat ache.

Yoongi let his hand slide down from Jimin’s cheek to his shoulder, grounding himself in the warmth beneath his palm. He had been so careful all this time - keeping his distance, convincing himself that his heart couldn’t survive another loss. But sitting here, with Jimin leaning into him as if he belonged nowhere else, Yoongi knew there was no distance left to keep.

I love him.

The thought wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t shy or hesitant. It hit him with the force of a wave, overwhelming in its clarity.

He loved him. More than he’d ever allowed himself to love anyone. More than the fleeting crushes in his youth, more than the patient he had once cared for and lost, more than the quiet longing he had buried under years of work. Jimin wasn’t a fleeting possibility - he was everything.

Yoongi’s chest tightened, his heartbeat stuttering under the weight of realization.

He remembered the first time he’d seen him, frail in that hospital bed, skin pale and lips parted as though he had already said goodbye to the world. He remembered telling Namjoon that he looked like someone who had already let go. And now here he was - alive, smiling, teasing, leaning into him with the kind of trust Yoongi thought he’d never deserve again.

Jimin tilted his head slightly, watching him with quiet curiosity. “What is it?” he asked softly.

Yoongi shook his head at first, unwilling to let the words slip free. But Jimin didn’t look away. His eyes, always so open, so achingly sincere, waited for him - invited him.

Yoongi swallowed. “It’s nothing,” he murmured, then amended, “Everything.”

Jimin frowned, his lips parting to ask again, but Yoongi leaned forward, pressing another kiss to his mouth. This one wasn’t about hesitation - it was about certainty. A confession he wasn’t ready to speak aloud, but one he could no longer hide.

When they parted, Jimin’s cheeks were flushed, his smile soft. He rested his forehead against Yoongi’s. “You think too much,” he whispered.

Yoongi let out a small laugh, his hand sliding to Jimin’s nape, holding him there. “And you don’t think enough.”

But even as he teased, the truth pressed against him, insistent and undeniable. He loved Park Jimin. Loved him in a way that terrified him, in a way that rebuilt him, in a way that made every breath worth taking.

For the first time in years, Yoongi wasn’t just surviving. He was living.

And it was because of the boy curled against him, orbiting him as naturally as gravity.

+++

The rehab room smelled faintly of disinfectant and sun-warmed mats, a space that felt both sterile and full of possibility. Jimin sat on one of the low benches, arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching as Hoseok prepared the equipment.

“You’re stalling,” Hoseok said without looking up, his voice light but laced with mischief.

“I’m not,” Jimin replied, though the defensive edge in his tone betrayed him.

Hoseok turned then, raising a brow, his expression equal parts playful and serious. “Your legs are tapping against the bench like a drum kit. That’s stalling.”

Jimin laughed, the sound breaking the tension in his chest. “You’re too observant for your own good.”

“Part of the job,” Hoseok said with a shrug, tossing him a rolled-up resistance band. Jimin caught it clumsily, nearly fumbling it onto the floor. “And besides… if I don’t keep an eye on you, who will?”

The words landed heavier than Hoseok probably meant them to, and Jimin looked down at the band in his hands. His chest tightened—not with sickness this time, but with something else. Fear. Hope. A fragile mix.

“Hey.” Hoseok crouched in front of him, his voice softening. “I know it’s scary. But we’re not here to prove you’re broken. We’re here to remind your body it can do what you want it to do. Step by step. Breath by breath.”

Something in Hoseok’s sincerity cracked him open. Jimin nodded, biting his lip to keep it from trembling. “Okay,” he whispered.

The first exercises were simple. Breathing patterns - inhale for four counts, hold, exhale for six. Hoseok counted for him, steady, his voice a calm anchor. When Jimin’s breath hitched, Hoseok’s hand settled on his back, grounding him.

“It’s alright. Don’t fight it - just let it go.”

Jimin exhaled shakily, eyes burning.

Later, Hoseok reintroduced gentle movement - lifting arms with the band, slow rotations, controlled steps along the mat. Jimin’s legs trembled, his body unsure. At one point, he stumbled, catching himself awkwardly against Hoseok’s arm.

“Sorry,” Jimin muttered, ashamed.

“Don’t apologize.” Hoseok’s grip was firm, his eyes kind. “Do you know how many people wouldn’t even try to get up? You’re here. That’s what matters.”

The words broke something loose inside him. Suddenly Jimin was laughing and crying all at once, shaking his head. “You’re too much, you know that? Saying things like that.”

Hoseok chuckled, handing him a tissue. “Yeah, well… someone’s gotta remind you. You’re too stubborn to listen to yourself.”

They kept going. Step by step. Breath by breath. By the end of the session, Jimin’s body was exhausted, but his heart felt lighter than it had in months.

When he finally collapsed onto the mat, panting, Hoseok sat beside him, tossing a stress ball back and forth between his hands. “You’re stronger than you think,” he said casually, as if it were a fact, not praise.

Jimin wiped at his eyes again, smiling faintly through the tears. “You really believe that?”

Hoseok turned his head, his grin bright and unwavering. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

And for the first time in a long while, Jimin believed it too.

By the third week of Hoseok’s rehab plan, Jimin’s body had started to remember things it had forgotten - how to move, how to breathe without fear, how to trust the rhythm of his own lungs. But every step still cost him. Every session left his chest tight, his muscles shaky, sweat prickling at his temples.

“Again,” Hoseok said firmly, holding the resistance band steady as Jimin pulled.

Jimin groaned, his arms trembling with the effort. “You’re merciless.”

“You’re dramatic,” Hoseok countered, his grin sharp but encouraging. “One more set, Jimin. I know you’ve got it.”

And so he pushed. Breath in, pull. Breath out, release. His chest ached, but the sound of Hoseok’s steady counting guided him through. By the end, he was panting, hunched forward, sweat dripping down his jaw.

“Good,” Hoseok said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Rest. You earned it.”

Jimin collapsed onto the bench, dragging the towel across his face. His whole body hummed with exhaustion, but beneath it was something else - something almost like pride.

Then it happened.

A shift in the air.

He felt it before he saw it - the prickling awareness crawling across his skin, the strange tug in his chest. Slowly, he lifted his head and turned toward the doorway.

Yoongi.

He was standing there, half in shadow, still dressed in his coat from rounds. His arms were folded, but not in the usual defensive way. His gaze was steady, unreadable to anyone else—but Jimin felt it. Felt the weight of it like hands on his skin.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just that gaze.

Jimin’s heart stuttered. He wiped at his face again, suddenly self-conscious. He knew he looked a mess - sweaty, trembling, hair sticking to his forehead. But Yoongi didn’t look away. He didn’t even blink.

Hoseok followed his line of sight, then smirked knowingly. “Take five, Jimin,” he said, patting his knee. “I’ll get some water.”

And just like that, he slipped out, leaving them.

Silence filled the room. Jimin’s breathing was uneven, his hands clutching the towel like a lifeline. Yoongi still hadn’t moved.

“You… you don’t have to watch me struggle like this,” Jimin said finally, his voice quiet, shaky. “It’s embarrassing.”

Yoongi’s lips parted, his brow furrowing. “Don’t say that.”

Jimin blinked at him, startled by the force in his tone.

“You’re not struggling,” Yoongi said, his voice low, almost rough. He took a step forward, then another, until he was standing just a few feet away. “You’re fighting. And you’re winning.”

The words hit Jimin like a strike to the chest. His throat tightened, and he had to look away, clutching the towel harder.

Yoongi sighed, softer now. He crouched down in front of him, searching his face. “I can feel it, you know,” he admitted quietly. “Every time you push yourself. Every time you refuse to give up. It’s like… I’m breathing with you.”

Jimin’s breath caught, his eyes stinging.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The air between them thickened, heavy with all the things neither had said yet. Then Yoongi’s hand twitched, as though he wanted to reach out, but he pulled it back at the last second.

“Don’t hide from me, Jimin,” he said finally, his voice almost a plea.

Jimin’s chest ached, but not from sickness. From the sheer weight of wanting. He nodded faintly, unable to trust his voice.

Yoongi stood then, straightening his coat. His eyes lingered on Jimin for a beat longer before he finally stepped back toward the door.

But even as he left, the room still felt full of him.

Chapter Text

The moment he turned from the room, it felt like something inside him tore. Each step away from Jimin was deliberate, measured, as if he could trick his own body into believing it was the right thing to do. His shoes clicked softly against the polished floor, but all he could hear – still - was Jimin’s ragged breathing echoing in his ears.

He paused halfway down the hall, his hand braced against the wall. His pulse was erratic, sharp bursts against his ribs that refused to settle. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply, but the image replayed behind his lids: Jimin pulling against the resistance band, sweat dripping down his temples, chest straining - but still pushing, still fighting.

He’s winning, Yoongi thought, the words burning through him like a brand.

It should have been enough to comfort him, but it wasn’t. Because with every inhale Jimin forced out, Yoongi had felt it too - as though his own lungs were bound to Jimin’s, rising and collapsing with the younger’s effort. He hadn’t just been watching. He had been tethered.

And that terrified him.

He leaned back against the wall, head tipping up toward the fluorescent lights overhead. For years, he had kept himself locked away, building walls around the parts of him that once cared too much. Losing Hana had shattered him, leaving behind only a man too wary, too afraid to love someone who might vanish. But Jimin wasn’t Hana. Jimin was… everything different.

Fragile, yes, but not breakable. Tired, but refusing to surrender. Quiet, but filled with words that had yet to find the page. And against all of Yoongi’s vows, against every iron-clad wall he’d sworn to keep intact, Jimin had slipped through like sunlight under a closed door.

The truth hurt in its clarity. He moves me.

Yoongi thought of the note Jimin had left in the goodbye room: I chose to stay. For me. Maybe for you too. He hadn’t dared to hope then, afraid to pin meaning to words that could break him if he was wrong. But now… now he couldn’t deny it anymore.

When Jimin’s eyes had met his across that rehab room, flushed and trembling, too proud to admit how much effort it cost him - Yoongi had wanted to fall to his knees. To hold him. To tell him he was more than enough. To confess the love that had rooted itself so deeply in his chest it was already irreversible.

But he couldn’t. Not yet.

His role as Jimin’s doctor still loomed like a line in the sand, one he knew he was already stepping over in ways no textbook would condone. His professional mask was cracked beyond repair, and every time he looked at Jimin, the break widened.

It cost him everything to keep walking away. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. He had to. Because if he stayed, if he reached out when Jimin was still this vulnerable, this healing - he feared he would never let go. And yet, as he finally pushed away from the wall and forced himself toward his office, Yoongi carried Jimin with him. In every heartbeat. In every breath.

There was no pretending anymore.

Min Yoongi - the man who had sworn he could never love again - was already in love with Park Jimin. And it was the most terrifying, exhilarating truth of his life.

On the next morning, Yoongi decided to pay a visit to Namjoon. The office smelled faintly of coffee and ink, papers stacked neatly on Namjoon’s desk despite the chaos that usually came with his schedule. Yoongi sat slouched in the chair across from him, his coat draped over the back, his hand rubbing tiredly across his eyes. He hadn’t slept - not really - since that rehab session. The image of Jimin fighting through his pain replayed in his mind on a loop, too vivid, too consuming.

Namjoon leaned back in his chair, studying him with that same unreadable calm that always made Yoongi uneasy. “Alright,” Namjoon said finally, voice steady. “Do you want my professional opinion… or my opinion as your friend?”

Yoongi let out a short, humorless laugh, dragging his hand down his face. “Both,” he muttered. “Maybe then I’ll know which voice in my head to listen to.”

Namjoon tilted his head, considering. “Professionally? You know the rules. Boundaries exist for a reason. Patient and doctor - if you cross that line, you risk everything. Your license. His trust. And if things end badly, it could undo all the progress Jimin has made.”

Yoongi’s stomach twisted. He knew all of that already, of course. He had lectured himself on it every night, every time his hand lingered too long against Jimin’s wrist, every time he caught himself looking for excuses to check in.

“And as my friend?” Yoongi asked, his voice low.

Namjoon’s gaze softened, the edge in his posture easing. “As your friend,” he said gently, “I think you’ve already crossed that line in your heart. You care about him. Too much to pretend   anymore. And for what it’s worth, I don’t think that’s wrong. I think you’ve found someone who makes you want to breathe again, too.”

Yoongi swallowed hard, his chest aching at the truth of it.

Namjoon leaned forward then, resting his elbows on the desk. “But you need to decide what you’re willing to risk, Yoongi. Because Jimin deserves someone who won’t run the second it gets hard. And you…” His voice softened further. “You deserve to stop running from yourself.”

The words hit deeper than Yoongi expected. He sat there in silence for a moment, staring at the floor, the weight of it all pressing against his chest.

Finally, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You always know how to make things worse and better at the same time.”

Namjoon chuckled, leaning back again. “Comes with the territory.”

The silence lingered, thick but not uncomfortable. Then Yoongi caught the faintest twitch of Namjoon’s lips, a hesitation like he was holding something back.

“What?” Yoongi narrowed his eyes.

Namjoon shrugged, too casually. “It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit,” Yoongi shot back. “Spit it out.”

Namjoon hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I might’ve… started something. With Seokjin.”

Yoongi sat up straighter, blinking. “Wait - finally?”

Namjoon flushed, a rare sight that made Yoongi smirk despite himself. “It’s not—look, it’s not official or anything. We’ve just been… talking. More. Sharing coffee. Laughing.”

“Laughing,” Yoongi repeated, lips twitching. “With Kim Seokjin. The man who hasn’t laughed at your jokes in five years.”

Namjoon groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re insufferable.”

But Yoongi only leaned back, smirk widening. “About damn time. Took you long enough. You’ve been orbiting each other for years. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Namjoon’s expression softened despite his embarrassment, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “Yeah. Maybe it’s time to stop orbiting.”

Yoongi hummed, the weight on his chest easing slightly. “Seems to be a theme around here lately.”

For the first time in a long while, he felt less alone in the storm of his heart.

+++

His legs were still a little shaky from Hoseok’s brutal insistence on “just one more rep” when Jimin rounded the corner, towel looped around his neck. He was ready to collapse in Taehyung’s passenger seat and sleep for hours, but the sight in front of him pulled him to a halt. Hoseok was standing by the elevators, tossing his stress ball lightly between his hands - a nervous habit Jimin had come to recognize. Across from him stood a man Jimin hadn’t seen before, dressed sharply in a grey suit, a neat badge pinned to his chest: Dr. Han Jiwoo – Neurology. The two of them were deep in conversation. Jiwoo said something Jimin couldn’t catch, gesturing with his hands, and Hoseok laughed - really laughed, the kind that lit up his whole face. Jimin blinked. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Hoseok laugh like that outside of their sessions. It wasn’t just the laugh. It was the way Hoseok’s posture shifted. He wasn’t the teasing therapist commanding a room. He was leaning in slightly, listening, his smile smaller now but no less genuine, his eyes flickering down and away every so often like he wasn’t sure where to put them.

Jiwoo smiled back, softer this time, and said something that made Hoseok duck his head, rolling the stress ball quickly in his palm.

Oh, Jimin thought, realization dawning, this is interesting.

He lingered a few steps away, pretending to adjust the towel, but his eyes kept darting to the exchange. It was subtle - no grand gestures, no obvious flirting - but the undercurrent was clear. The pauses between words. The way their smiles lingered just a moment too long. The quiet warmth threading through the air.

When the elevator dinged, Jiwoo stepped inside but turned at the last second, catching Hoseok’s gaze once more. “We’ll finish that conversation later,” he said with a polite bow of his head, but his smile gave him away. Hoseok nodded quickly, almost too quickly, and the doors slid shut.

Silence fell in the corridor.

Jimin couldn’t help himself. He cleared his throat loudly.

Hoseok jolted, whipping his head toward him. “Oh… Jimin! You’re still here?”

Jimin arched a brow, biting back a grin. “Mm-hm. Long enough to see you dropping your stress ball every other second.”

“I wasn’t—” Hoseok sputtered, stuffing the ball into his pocket. “I was… it was just a professional chat.”

“Sure,” Jimin drawled, limping closer. “Professional chat with smiles and lingering eye contact. Very clinical.”

Hoseok groaned, dragging his hand over his face. “Don’t start.”

But Jimin only laughed, the sound bubbling up easily. “I’m just saying, it’s nice to see you look a little… flustered. Guess even Dr. Sunshine has his moments, huh?”

“Flustered?” Hoseok scoffed, but his ears were red. “Please. I’m perfectly composed.”

“Uh-huh,” Jimin said, leaning against the wall beside him. “So composed that you forgot to breathe for a solid ten seconds while he was talking to you.”

Hoseok shot him a look, half glare, half amusement. “You’re lucky you’re my patient. Otherwise, I’d—”

“You’d what?” Jimin teased, grinning now. “Do extra sets of breathing exercises? Because newsflash, I already suffer enough.”

That earned a laugh from Hoseok, one that lingered even as he shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” Jimin said, nudging him lightly with his elbow, “might have just met someone who makes you forget how to juggle that stress ball.”

Hoseok opened his mouth, then shut it again, clearly at a loss. His silence said more than words ever could.

Jimin smirked, turning toward the exit. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me… for now.”

As he walked away, he caught a glimpse of Hoseok standing frozen in place, staring at the elevator doors with a dazed little smile tugging at his lips. Jimin felt lighter - not just for himself, but for his friend too.

The next day, Hoseok had him working through breathing drills again. Jimin lay flat on the mat, one hand on his chest, the other on his stomach as Hoseok counted quietly beside him.

“Four counts in,” Hoseok instructed, his voice calm, steady. “Six out. That’s it. Don’t force it. Just let your body do what it’s supposed to.”

Jimin obeyed, though his lungs protested halfway through. His chest ached, but he pushed through the burn, focusing on the sound of Hoseok’s voice. When the set was finally done, he collapsed back against the mat, panting.

“You’re cruel,” Jimin said between breaths.

“I’m effective,” Hoseok countered with a grin, tossing him a water bottle.

Jimin drank, then propped himself up on his elbows, watching Hoseok idly squeeze his stress ball between rounds. There was something different about his expression today - lighter, distracted, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth even when he wasn’t talking.

Jimin smirked. “You’re still thinking about him, aren’t you?”

Hoseok froze mid-squeeze, then groaned, dropping the ball onto the mat. “You don’t let anything go, do you?”

“Nope,” Jimin said cheerfully, sipping his water. “You were glowing yesterday. And you’re glowing now. Might as well admit it.”

Hoseok sighed, leaning back on his hands. For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling, quiet. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than Jimin expected.

“It’s been a long time,” Hoseok admitted. “Since anyone made me feel that spark. I didn’t think I’d get it again, honestly.”

Jimin tilted his head. “Why not?”

Hoseok’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Because I’ve spent so much of my life giving pieces of myself away. To patients. To colleagues. To family. And I never… saved enough for me. I thought maybe that part of me was gone.”

Jimin’s chest tightened. He understood that feeling more than he wanted to. The fear of having nothing left to give.

“But then Jiwoo shows up,” Hoseok continued, his grin returning shyly. “And he’s just… easy to talk to. He listens. He doesn’t look at me like I’m some tireless machine who’s supposed to keep everyone else breathing. He just… looks at me.”

Jimin smiled softly, sitting up straighter. “That sounds like someone worth your time.”

“Yeah,” Hoseok said, exhaling, the smile lingering. “I think maybe he is.”

Jimin nudged his knee with his own. “Then don’t let it slip away. You tell me every day to keep fighting, to stay alive. Maybe it’s your turn to do the same.”

Hoseok chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re getting bold, Park Jimin.”

“I learned from the best,” Jimin teased.

They both laughed, the sound easy and unburdened. And as Hoseok handed him the stress ball again, Jimin thought that maybe they were both finding their way back to living - not just surviving.

Chapter Text

The evening air was crisp, tinted with the faint scent of rain. Taehyung adjusted the collar of his coat as he and Jungkook stood outside Jimin’s apartment building. From the window above, he could already see the faint golden glow spilling through sheer curtains, the flicker of candles. It looked… homey. Lived in.

Jungkook’s hands were shoved deep in his pockets, but his shoulders were tense. “You sure it’s okay that I came?” he asked quietly.

Taehyung smiled, bumping his shoulder lightly. “If Chim invited you, it means he wants you here. Besides,” he added, eyes twinkling, “Yoongi-hyung’s going to be there. He’ll need someone to balance out all of Jimin’s sass.”

That earned a small laugh from Jungkook, the kind Taehyung liked—the one that started shy but warmed by the end. “Guess I can do that.”

They climbed the stairs together, and before Taehyung could knock, the door opened. Jimin stood there, cheeks faintly pink, wearing a loose cream sweater that made him look softer than usual. His smile was immediate.

“There you are!” he said, ushering them in. “Come in, come in. Dinner’s almost ready.”

The apartment was filled with the comforting scent of food and soft instrumental music humming in the background. Warm lights glowed from small lamps scattered around the living room, casting golden halos on the walls.

“Yoongi-hyung’s in the kitchen,” Jimin said, leading them inside. “He insisted on helping even though I told him to sit down.”

“Of course he did,” Taehyung muttered under his breath, grinning.

Yoongi turned as they entered, apron strings tied haphazardly around his waist. “Don’t start, Kim Taehyung,” he said flatly, but there was the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Taehyung laughed and saluted. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Doctor Min.”

Dinner came together easily after that. Jimin finished arranging plates while Yoongi poured glasses of water and wine, his movements efficient but softer than Taehyung had ever seen. Jungkook offered to help set the table, and somehow, by the time they all sat down, the room felt… balanced.

Like it was meant to be.

Conversation flowed effortlessly at first. They talked about nothing and everything - Hoseok’s new flirtation with the neurologist, Namjoon’s embarrassing handwriting on prescriptions, Seokjin’s latest obsession with baking macarons. Every story sparked laughter, even from Yoongi, whose deep chuckles rumbled low in his chest.

At one point, Jimin leaned forward, chin propped on his hand, eyes bright as he told a story about Hoseok nearly slipping on a yoga mat during one of his sessions. Jungkook nearly spit his drink out laughing, while Taehyung reached over to pat his back. Yoongi just shook his head, trying to hide a smile.

Taehyung caught it though - that soft, unguarded look on Yoongi’s face as he watched Jimin talk. The kind of look people wore when they didn’t realize they were already in love.

Something inside him warmed at the sight.

Later, when the plates were cleared and Jimin returned from the kitchen with dessert - a simple fruit tart - Yoongi reached out instinctively to take the plate from his hands. Their fingers brushed, and the moment lingered just long enough for everyone to notice.

“Thank you,” Jimin murmured, cheeks coloring faintly.

Yoongi didn’t answer, but his thumb brushed over Jimin’s knuckles before he pulled away.

The music shifted to a slow piano melody, the kind that filled the silences without making them heavy. Jimin exhaled softly, leaning back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over all of them - Taehyung laughing at something Jungkook whispered, Yoongi quietly refilling glasses. For the first time since his illness, Jimin looked completely at peace.

Taehyung noticed it. He always noticed it.

After dessert, Jungkook helped Jimin clean up while Yoongi adjusted the playlist. Taehyung wandered toward the balcony, stepping out for a moment to breathe in the cool night air. Jungkook joined him a minute later, sliding the door shut behind them. Inside, laughter drifted through the glass - Yoongi saying something under his breath, Jimin laughing that bright, unrestrained laugh Taehyung loved so much.

Jungkook brushed their shoulders together. “They’re good for each other,” he said quietly.

Taehyung nodded, smiling softly. “Yeah. They really are.” He turned toward Jungkook, catching the way the younger’s eyes reflected the light spilling from inside. “You’re good for me, too.”

Jungkook’s lips parted, surprise flickering across his face before he smiled. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Taehyung said simply.

Back inside, Jimin looked up from the table, catching sight of them through the window - two silhouettes leaning close together, framed by the city lights. Yoongi followed his gaze, and for a long moment, the four of them existed in perfect symmetry - different stories, same gravity. A strange sense of warmth bloomed in Taehyung’s chest. This wasn’t just a dinner. It was something more. A promise of healing. A glimpse of family. A new kind of forever.

Dinner had melted into that easy kind of evening silence - comfortable, full, the kind that only happens when hearts are content and bellies are warm. The plates were stacked, the candles flickered low, and the air was heavy with the scent of citrus soap and faint laughter.

From the couch, Taehyung watched as Yoongi and Jimin stood shoulder to shoulder at the kitchen sink. It was a sight he didn’t know he needed until now. Yoongi - meticulous, methodical, sleeves rolled to his elbows - washed each plate like it was a delicate artifact. Jimin - barefoot, sweater sleeves falling over his hands - rinsed beside him, humming softly under his breath. They didn’t talk much, but they didn’t need to. The quiet clinking of dishes, the soft rush of water, the shared rhythm between them - it said everything.

“Look at them,” Jungkook murmured beside him, leaning forward slightly. “It’s like they’ve been doing this forever.”

Taehyung smiled, his eyes following the way Yoongi brushed a stray lock of hair behind Jimin’s ear when the younger bent too close to the sink. “Yeah,” he whispered. “It feels right.”

Yoongi said something Taehyung couldn’t hear, but it made Jimin laugh - really laugh, the sound bright and soft, like the wind outside had found a way to exist in his lungs again. Yoongi’s expression softened at the sound, that small smile tugging at his lips, the one that looked rare and precious on him.

“They’re like… sunlight and shadow,” Taehyung said absently. “Different, but they make sense together.”

Jungkook glanced at him, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “That’s poetic.”

“I have my moments,” Taehyung replied, feigning pride before his gaze flicked back to the kitchen. “But seriously, seeing Jimin like that - it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him glow like this. Hyung… he brought that back.”

Jungkook’s hand found his almost without thought, fingers intertwining naturally. Their palms fit together easily, warmth passing between them like a small current.

Taehyung turned to him, his voice softer now. “And you…  you brought that back for me.”

Jungkook looked at him, startled for a second, before his face broke into a quiet, tender smile. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Taehyung leaned in, resting his head on Jungkook’s shoulder. The fabric of the younger’s shirt was warm, smelling faintly of laundry detergent and something uniquely him. Jungkook shifted slightly to make room, letting Taehyung tuck closer against his side.

For a while, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, watching Yoongi and Jimin moving around the kitchen as if in their own little world - sharing soft smiles, brushing hands over the counter, whispering words meant only for each other. At one point, Jimin turned, catching their gaze across the room. He smiled, that sweet, glowing smile, and Yoongi followed his gaze, giving a small nod of acknowledgment before returning to the dishes.

Taehyung chuckled quietly, his breath tickling Jungkook’s neck. “He’s finally happy,” he whispered.

Jungkook nodded, pressing his cheek against Taehyung’s hair. “We all are, I think.”

The moment felt suspended in time - four people breathing the same peace for the first time in what felt like years.

Outside, the city lights shimmered like distant stars, and inside, laughter hummed faintly under the music still playing from Jimin’s speaker. Yoongi reached over to turn the water off, and Jimin dried his hands on a towel, their shoulders brushing again before they both looked toward the couch. For a brief moment, the world felt whole-mended and tender, like the cracks in their hearts had finally learned to let the light in.

Taehyung closed his eyes and let himself sink fully into Jungkook’s embrace, whispering against his chest, “This feels like home.”

Jungkook’s hand tightened gently around his. “That’s because it is.”

And under the soft hum of music and the faint clatter of dishes, that quiet truth settled deep between all of them - a new kind of family, found not by blood, but by healing, love, and the choice to stay.

+++

The apartment was quiet again.

Too quiet.

The echo of Taehyung’s laughter still lingered faintly in the walls, the smell of dinner and candle wax wrapped the air in warmth, and yet, the silence that followed their departure was almost too much. It wasn’t lonely, though - no, it was full. Full of everything Jimin had never imagined he’d feel again.

Yoongi sat beside him on the couch, his arm draped lazily over the backrest. He looked calm, his usual sharp edges softened by exhaustion and something gentler, something Jimin could finally name as love. The older man’s hair was a little messy, a single strand falling across his forehead, and his eyes followed the faint flicker of the city lights through the window. Jimin didn’t say anything at first. He just turned, slowly, until his shoulder brushed Yoongi’s. The contact was small, but enough to make Yoongi glance down at him.

“Cold?” Yoongi asked quietly.

Jimin shook his head. “No. Just… thinking.”

Yoongi hummed in response, that low sound vibrating softly through his chest. Jimin took it as invitation enough to lean in closer, resting his head against Yoongi’s shoulder. The older man didn’t move away. Instead, his arm shifted, curling around Jimin’s waist, drawing him closer until Jimin was half-curled against him, their bodies fitting together as if the space had always been waiting for this.

Outside, the rain that had started earlier tapped lightly against the glass. Inside, Jimin could hear the slow, steady rhythm of Yoongi’s breathing.

“I keep waiting for it to hurt,” Jimin said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Yoongi’s thumb began to trace slow circles against Jimin’s side. “What do you mean?”

Jimin swallowed. “To feel this much. To love like this. I thought it would break me again.” He tilted his head, pressing his cheek against Yoongi’s chest, where he could hear the man’s heart - slow, constant, strong. “But it doesn’t. Not anymore.”

Yoongi didn’t speak right away. His silence wasn’t heavy - it was listening, absorbing. Jimin could almost feel his heartbeat change under his ear, skipping once, then falling back into rhythm.

“It used to hurt me too,” Yoongi admitted, his voice low, almost rough. “To care this deeply. To let anyone this close.” He paused, glancing down at Jimin, eyes softer than moonlight. “But you make it feel… like breathing again. Not something I have to think about. Just something that happens.”

Jimin smiled faintly, a single tear slipping down his cheek before he even realized it. “You always say the right thing.”

Yoongi gave a quiet chuckle. “That’s not true. You just make even my mess sound like something worth listening to.”

The words undid something inside Jimin. He turned toward Yoongi, their foreheads almost touching now. “Do you ever wonder,” he murmured, “how we ended up here? After everything?”

Yoongi’s eyes searched his. “Every day.” He leaned forward, brushing his lips over Jimin’s temple. “And every day I thank whatever brought you back to me.”

Jimin’s breath caught. “You really mean that?”

Yoongi nodded. “I don’t say things I don’t mean, Jimin.”

Something warm spread through Jimin’s chest, something far beyond gratitude or affection. It was peace - the rare, trembling kind that only came when the ache of surviving finally turned into the quiet of living.

He nestled closer, pressing his nose against the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt. The faint scent of coffee and sandalwood filled his lungs, grounding him. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he whispered. “To love you.”

Yoongi’s hand tightened gently around his. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I don’t ever want it to.”

They sat there in silence again - two hearts that had almost stopped believing in tomorrow, now learning to beat together in the stillness of tonight. The apartment was small, but it felt vast with the sound of their shared breathing, the slow rise and fall of two lives finally finding rhythm in each other. Jimin’s eyes began to close, sleep tugging at him, but he kept looking at Yoongi, memorizing the faint smile on his lips, the way his chest rose under the steady warmth of their closeness.

The room was dim now, lit only by the soft amber glow of the floor lamp and the hush of rain outside the window. The world had gone quiet again, wrapped in the slow rhythm of their breathing. Yoongi’s hand was still resting over Jimin’s, fingers tangled loosely, the warmth of his skin a small comfort against the cool air.

Jimin tilted his head to look at him. There was something different in Yoongi’s eyes tonight - something quieter, heavier.

“Jimin-ah,” Yoongi said softly, breaking the silence. His voice sounded like a confession already, the kind that carried years of weight.

“Mm?”

Yoongi didn’t look at him right away. He was staring at the rain sliding down the windowpane, following the way each drop met another, merged, and disappeared. When he finally spoke again, his voice cracked slightly. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

Jimin sat up a little, still keeping their hands linked. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” Yoongi’s eyes finally met his, and Jimin stopped breathing for a moment. “You should know.”

He hesitated for a long second, as if searching for the right place to begin. “Her name was Hana.”

Jimin blinked. “Was?”

Yoongi nodded. “She was a patient of mine.” His tone was careful, precise - doctor-like at first - but then softened, breaking apart under the weight of memory. “It was years ago. She had a condition similar to yours. Pulmonary complications after a car accident. And then… then something even worse. I treated her for months. We talked every day.” He paused, exhaling shakily. “And somewhere along the line, I fell in love with her.”

Jimin’s chest tightened. “You loved her.”

Yoongi nodded again, eyes distant. “I did. More than I should have. More than I was allowed to.” His thumb rubbed absently over Jimin’s knuckles, as if grounding himself in the present. “She used to say she was scared to sleep because she didn’t know if she’d wake up again. I told her I’d make sure she did.”

Jimin could hear the quiet ache in every word.

“But I couldn’t keep that promise.”

The room stilled. Jimin didn’t dare move.

“She died one night,” Yoongi continued, voice breaking now. “She went into cardiac arrest. I was there - I did everything I could. But it wasn’t enough.” His breath hitched. “For a long time, I blamed myself. I thought if I’d been faster, smarter, if I hadn’t—”

“Yoongi,” Jimin whispered, reaching up to touch his face, but Yoongi’s words spilled out before he could stop them.

“I swore I’d never feel like that again. That I’d never let anyone close enough to hurt me that way.” He looked at Jimin then, eyes raw and shining. “I closed off everything. I just… existed. Worked. Breathed. But I wasn’t living.”

Jimin’s vision blurred. “And now?” he asked quietly.

Yoongi’s lip trembled faintly, a small, broken smile tugging at it. “Then you walked in,” he said, voice low but steady. “Looking like you’d already said goodbye to the world. And something in me - something I thought was dead - just… woke up.”

Jimin’s tears spilled over. “Yoongi…”

“I fought it,” Yoongi confessed, shaking his head. “I told myself it was just empathy, just wanting to save another life. But it wasn’t.” His hand came up, brushing a tear from Jimin’s cheek. “It’s you. You made me want to stay again. To fight. To feel. And for the first time in years, I’m not afraid.”

Jimin couldn’t hold back anymore. He reached for Yoongi, wrapping his arms around him tightly, as if to hold all the broken pieces together. Yoongi’s breath stuttered against his shoulder, and when Jimin pulled back, he saw tears tracing down his face too.

“You didn’t fail her,” Jimin whispered fiercely. “You gave her something no one else could - hope. And now you’ve given me the same thing.”

Yoongi’s breath caught, a quiet sound of disbelief and grief all at once. Jimin reached up, cupping his face, their foreheads pressing together.

“You deserve to live, Yoongi,” he said softly. “Not just for your patients. For yourself.”

Yoongi’s eyes closed, a tear slipping free. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not,” Jimin said, brushing his thumb under his eye. “But it’s worth it.”

They stayed like that for a long moment - breathing, crying, holding. The storm outside softened, the rain turning to a whisper. Then Jimin leaned forward, kissing Yoongi slowly, tenderly. It wasn’t passion this time - it was understanding. Forgiveness. Two hearts finally unburdened by the ghosts that haunted them.

Yoongi’s hand slid into Jimin’s hair, anchoring him, and Jimin melted into the touch, the taste of salt on both their lips.

When they finally pulled apart, Jimin rested his head on Yoongi’s shoulder again. “You don’t have to be alone anymore,” he murmured. “You know?”

Yoongi exhaled shakily, his fingers tracing gentle circles on Jimin’s back. “I know,” he whispered back. “Not anymore.”

And for the first time, the silence between them wasn’t full of things unsaid.
It was peace.

Chapter Text

The email sat open on the screen, glowing far too bright for how heavy it felt. A clean header. A neat logo. A polite, carefully worded paragraph that should have made him proud.

“We are pleased to offer you the position of Assistant Head Nurse at Busan Medical Center. The board was impressed by your credentials, your empathy, and your leadership experience.”

Jungkook reread the words for what felt like the hundredth time.

Assistant Head Nurse.

Busan.

It was everything he had ever wanted - a step forward, a chance to prove himself beyond the walls where he had grown. But the only thing he could think of was how far Busan was from here. From them.

From Taehyung.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The break room clock ticked quietly in the background, counting seconds that felt like hours. The hospital was noisy beyond the walls, the familiar low hum of monitors and distant voices. Normally, that sound soothed him. Today, it only made his chest ache.

A soft knock at the door startled him. When he turned, Yoongi stood there in his white coat, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a clipboard. His gaze was sharp as always, but when it landed on Jungkook, it softened slightly.

“You look like you’ve been staring at that screen for too long,” Yoongi said, stepping inside.

Jungkook blinked, half-smiling. “Is that your professional assessment, Dr. Min?”

Yoongi arched his eyebrow. “It’s my human one.”

That earned a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I guess I’ve been… overthinking.”

Yoongi leaned against the counter. “About the offer?”

Of course he knew. Yoongi always knew. Word traveled fast around the hospital, especially when one of his best nurses was being courted by another city.

Jungkook nodded, closing the laptop halfway. “Yeah. It’s a really good opportunity. Great hospital. Good pay. Leadership track. Everything I worked for.”

“But?” Yoongi prompted.

Jungkook hesitated. “But it’s in Busan.”

Yoongi’s brow furrowed slightly. “That’s not exactly the end of the world.”

“I know,” Jungkook said, exhaling. “It’s just… it’s far. I’d have to leave everything here.” He hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the laptop. “I’d have to leave him.”

Yoongi’s expression softened with understanding. “Taehyung.”

“Yeah.” Jungkook swallowed. “It’s stupid, right? I mean, people move for work all the time. It’s not like it’s forever. But… I don’t want to go. I just started feeling like I belong somewhere. With him. With all of you.”

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. He studied Jungkook for a long moment - not as a superior, but as someone who recognized that same conflict, that same ache.

“I know what it’s like,” Yoongi said finally. “To be offered something that looks perfect on paper but doesn’t feel right here.” He tapped lightly on his chest. “The world expects you to chase what’s bigger, what’s louder, what’s next. But sometimes the right thing is the quiet one. The one that makes you want to stay.”

Jungkook looked up, meeting Yoongi’s gaze. “Did you ever… stay for someone?”

Yoongi’s eyes softened, a faint smile touching his lips. “Yeah. I did. And it scared me more than leaving ever did.”

Jungkook smiled faintly. “Was it worth it?”

Yoongi nodded slowly. “Every second.”

Silence filled the room, comfortable this time. Jungkook’s mind felt a little clearer, though the ache hadn’t left.

“I’m scared,” Jungkook admitted quietly. “That if I stay, I’ll miss my chance to grow. But if I go, I’ll lose something I might never find again.”

Yoongi exhaled. “Then ask yourself which one you can live without.”

The words hit harder than Jungkook expected. He sat back, staring at the faint reflection of his face on the laptop screen. He looked tired - older, somehow. But there was something else there too. A quiet understanding.

“Thank you,” Jungkook said finally, voice low but sincere. “For… not treating me like a kid about this.”

Yoongi smirked. “You stopped being a kid the moment you started questioning what you want instead of what you’re supposed to do.”

Jungkook chuckled softly. “You always know how to say the exact thing I need to hear.”

“Occupational hazard,” Yoongi said dryly, pushing off the counter. “Just… whatever you decide, make sure it’s your choice. Not fear’s.”

Jungkook nodded, standing too. “Yeah. I will.”

As Yoongi left, Jungkook sank back into the chair, staring at the half-closed laptop. The email was still there - still polite, still perfect. But for the first time since reading it, he felt no rush to respond. He leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, and thought about Taehyung - his laughter, the way his hands felt when they brushed his hair away, the way his presence made everything make sense.

And deep down, Jungkook already knew the answer.

The sun was setting when Jungkook found Taehyung. The hospital courtyard was bathed in a warm amber glow, the kind that made the glass panels glimmer and the shadows stretch long. Taehyung sat on the low wall near the garden path, camera hanging loosely from his neck, scrolling through photos he’d taken for the volunteer wing’s new brochure.

Jungkook hesitated for a moment, watching him. The world always seemed to slow down around Taehyung - even here, in a place full of rushing footsteps and restless energy. Maybe that was what drew him in from the beginning: that quiet steadiness, that way Taehyung existed as though he belonged anywhere.

“Hey,” Jungkook called softly.

Taehyung looked up immediately, smiling in that soft, familiar way. “Hey, you. Long day?”

“Something like that.” Jungkook sat beside him, close enough for their knees to touch. He watched the light fade for a moment before speaking again. “I need to tell you something.”

The smile on Taehyung’s lips wavered. “That doesn’t sound good.”

Jungkook laughed quietly, though it came out nervous. “I got an offer.”

Taehyung blinked. “An offer?”

“From Busan Medical Center,” Jungkook said, his voice almost too steady for how hard his heart was pounding. “Assistant Head Nurse position. It’s… big. A step forward. Something I’ve wanted since before I even started working here.”

Taehyung nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “That’s… incredible, Jungkook.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You must be proud.”

“I should be,” Jungkook murmured. “Everyone keeps saying that. Yoongi-hyung even said it’s what most people dream about.”

Taehyung turned toward him. “But you don’t look happy.”

“I’m not.”

There it was - simple, heavy truth. Jungkook exhaled shakily, elbows resting on his knees. “I don’t want to go, Tae. I don’t want to pack up everything and move somewhere else, start all over again. I’ve done that before. I’m tired of running to the next thing.”

Taehyung stayed quiet for a moment, his eyes softening. “Then why are you even considering it?”

Jungkook looked at him, voice breaking slightly. “Because it’s what I’m supposed to do. Because if I stay, everyone will think I’m throwing away my career for… for feelings.”

“For me,” Taehyung finished, his tone gentle but trembling.

Jungkook swallowed. “Yeah. For you.”

Taehyung looked down at his hands, fingers fidgeting with his camera strap. The silence stretched between them, filled with the faint hum of traffic and the rustle of trees.

“You shouldn’t stay for me,” Taehyung said finally. “Not if it means giving up something that could change your life.”

Jungkook turned to him sharply. “You are my life, Tae.”

Taehyung’s breath caught.

Jungkook’s hands trembled slightly as he reached for him. “Don’t you get it? This—” he gestured between them, his voice cracking “—this changed everything for me. I don’t want to wake up in some city hours away, wondering if you’ve eaten or if you’re smiling at someone else or—”

“Jungkook-ah.” Taehyung’s voice was soft but firm. “You’d still call. You’d visit.”

Jungkook shook his head. “That’s not enough. I don’t want almost. I want… you. Every day. Even when you’re annoying and bossing me around at volunteer shifts.”

That made Taehyung laugh weakly, but the tears forming in his eyes betrayed him. “You’re making this hard, you know that?”

“I’m not trying to,” Jungkook said, voice low. He reached out, his fingers brushing Taehyung’s cheek. “But I can’t pretend it’s just a job offer. It’s a choice. Between what I thought I wanted, and what I actually need.”

Taehyung blinked fast, looking down. “You shouldn’t ask me to make that choice for you.”

Jungkook took a deep breath. “Then I’ll make it for myself.”

Taehyung looked up, startled, but before he could speak, Jungkook said it - quiet, almost pleading: “Ask me to stay.”

Taehyung froze.

Jungkook’s voice trembled now, all the walls he’d kept up finally breaking. “Please, Tae. Ask me to stay. Because I will. I just need to hear you say it.”

Taehyung’s eyes searched his face - all the fear, the exhaustion, the love laid bare. He saw the boy who used to run toward every opportunity now standing still for the first time, waiting.

“I don’t want to be selfish,” Taehyung whispered. “But if I don’t say it, you’ll go. And if I do—”

“Then I’ll stay,” Jungkook said simply. “Because you’re worth staying for.”

Tears spilled before Taehyung could stop them. He reached up, cupping Jungkook’s face with trembling hands. “Then stay,” he breathed. “Stay with me.”

Jungkook’s exhale was shaky, relieved. His hands covered Taehyung’s, grounding himself in the warmth. “Say it again.”

“Stay,” Taehyung repeated, voice breaking. “Please.”

Jungkook closed the distance, pressing his forehead to Taehyung’s. “Okay.”

The word was barely a whisper, but it carried everything - love, choice, belonging.

Taehyung’s tears brushed against his skin as Jungkook kissed him - slow, aching, filled with every unsaid thing between them. The city hummed around them, distant and alive, but for that moment, there was only this: the boy who ran, and the boy who made him stop.

When they finally broke apart, Taehyung smiled through his tears. “You know, you’re going to make the other nurses mad when they find out you turned down Busan for me.”

Jungkook grinned softly. “Let them. I’ve already found my home.”

Taehyung’s thumb brushed under his chin, affection in every touch. “You really are impossible.”

“Only for you,” Jungkook murmured.

And as the last light of sunset faded behind them, their joined hands felt like a promise - one that neither of them would ever want to break.

+++

It was a quiet morning in the hospital - rare, almost fragile. The corridors still hummed with life, but not with chaos; sunlight filtered through the tall windows and painted thin gold lines on the polished floors. Yoongi walked beside Jimin, their hands brushing now and then but not quite clasping - this was, after all, still a hospital. Jimin had come in for a follow-up test. He looked healthier now, his skin brighter, his movements more assured, but Yoongi still caught himself watching every breath he took - an old habit that came from fear, not practice.

They passed the nurse station where Hoseok was standing with a clipboard, animatedly discussing schedules with a young intern. He spotted them and waved. “Hey! You two got a minute?”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Is this about work or gossip?”

Hoseok grinned. “Little of both.”

Jimin chuckled. “That’s how you always start your favorite kind of conversations.”

“Exactly.” Hoseok leaned forward conspiratorially. “Word is, our Jungkookie turned down that Busan offer.”

Yoongi blinked. “He what?”

Jimin’s eyes widened too. “Really?”

Hoseok nodded, his grin softening into something gentler. “Yeah. Tae told me this morning. Apparently, he stayed because someone asked him to.”

Yoongi felt something shift in his chest - a quiet echo of a moment not so long ago, when he had stayed for someone who didn’t ask him to, but wanted him to all the same.

Jimin looked at him then, that soft, knowing look that still undid him. “That sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Yoongi exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he admitted. “It does.”

They continued down the hall, and once they were out of Hoseok’s earshot, Jimin tugged lightly at his sleeve. “You’re proud of him, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” Yoongi said. “The kid’s been chasing recognition for so long. I thought leaving might break him, but maybe staying was the harder choice.”

Jimin tilted his head, watching him. “Kind of like you.”

Yoongi glanced at him sideways. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You used to run too,” Jimin said softly. “From your past. From love. From yourself.”

Yoongi wanted to argue, but Jimin’s eyes left no room for denial. He looked up at him with quiet affection, his tone gentle. “But you didn’t run this time.”

They stopped near a window overlooking the garden - lush and green after the spring rains. The sight made Yoongi’s chest ache in that bittersweet way healing always did.

“I didn’t run,” Yoongi repeated, more to himself than to Jimin.

Jimin smiled, stepping closer until their shoulders touched. “You stayed.”

Yoongi turned to look at him, the morning light catching in Jimin’s hair, illuminating the faint scar above his collarbone - a reminder of everything they’d survived to get here.

“I guess I did,” Yoongi murmured. “And maybe for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a sacrifice.”

Jimin’s hand slipped into his then, fingers weaving through his with ease. “That’s because it isn’t.”

They stood there for a moment, just breathing together. It struck Yoongi that there was no drama in this peace, no grand declaration or desperate need to hold on - it was just two people choosing to stay.

Yoongi thought of Jungkook then, of the boy who had always carried too much heart for someone his age. He could imagine the look on his face when Taehyung asked him to stay - the same soft defiance, the same trembling joy Yoongi had once seen reflected in Jimin’s eyes.

“He’s braver than he knows,” Yoongi said quietly.

“So are you,” Jimin replied.

Yoongi chuckled under his breath, squeezing Jimin’s hand. “Maybe it’s contagious.”

“Love usually is.”

The words made Yoongi laugh quietly, the sound surprising even himself. “You sound like Namjoon,” he teased.

“Then you should probably tell him he’s rubbing off on me,” Jimin said, smiling. “Maybe Seokjin too.”

“God forbid,” Yoongi muttered, but there was no bite in it - just fondness.

They started walking again, side by side down the long corridor. Around them, life went on - machines beeped, nurses hurried, someone laughed behind a door - but Yoongi barely noticed. His whole world had narrowed to the quiet rhythm of their steps and the warmth of Jimin’s hand in his.

At the elevator, Jimin stopped him before he could press the button. “Hey,” he said softly.

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you too.”

Yoongi blinked, thrown off guard. “For what?”

“For staying,” Jimin said simply. “For choosing me.”

Yoongi looked at him, really looked at him, and for a second the rest of the world fell away. “It was never really a choice,” he said finally. “It was inevitable.”

The elevator chimed softly, the doors sliding open. They stepped in together, shoulders brushing. When the doors closed, Yoongi caught their reflection in the mirrored wall - two people who had once been strangers caught between life and loss, now standing side by side, quietly holding on.  And in that moment, he realized that Jungkook’s decision to stay wasn’t just his own.

It was a reflection. A continuation. Proof that healing wasn’t an ending -
it was a beginning that rippled outward. By the time they reached the ground floor, Yoongi was smiling - small but real. He glanced at Jimin, who met his gaze with the same warmth. Maybe they’d all finally learned the same truth: Love doesn’t demand that you move mountains. Sometimes, it just asks you to stay.

The sun had shifted lower by the time they left the hospital. The day had softened into that golden hour haze, when everything felt slower, quieter - like the world itself was catching its breath. Yoongi walked beside Jimin, one hand holding the strap of his bag while the other stayed loose at his side, brushing now and then against Jimin’s.

Jimin’s recovery had gone so far that Yoongi sometimes forgot – almost - that there’d been a time when every breath for him had been a struggle. Now, his color was warm again, his steps steady, his voice light. Yet there was still something different in his silence that afternoon, something thoughtful behind his eyes.

“You’re quiet,” Yoongi said after a few blocks, glancing over at him.

Jimin smiled faintly. “Thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” Yoongi teased, earning a small laugh. But then he added, softer, “About what?”

Jimin hesitated before answering. They were crossing through the park near the hospital, the one with the old willow tree that leaned just a little to the left. The air smelled faintly of wet earth and grass.

“I’ve been thinking about… dancing again,” Jimin said finally, his voice careful, testing the words out loud for the first time.

Yoongi stopped walking. “Dancing?”

Jimin nodded, his eyes flickering toward the ground. “Not the way I used to, not full performances or anything. Just… teaching again. Ballet. I used to love helping my students find balance, their center.” He smiled softly, lost in memory. “Before I got sick, that’s what I missed most. The sound of music echoing in the studio. The feeling of movement, even if I was just watching others do it.”

Yoongi’s heart twisted - not out of worry, but because of how alive Jimin sounded. “You really want to go back?”

Jimin looked up then, and the light hit his face just right - his eyes bright, his expression earnest. “Yeah. I do. I know it’s going to take time. My lungs still tire easily, and Hoseok says I have to be careful with overexertion. But…” He trailed off, taking a breath. “It’s part of me, Yoon. And I want it back.”

Yoongi said nothing at first. He just watched him, watched how the breeze lifted his hair, how hope had finally settled into his shoulders like something he could carry without pain. It was strange - how his instinct to protect him collided with his desire to see him free.

“Jimin-ah,” Yoongi said slowly, “you know it’s going to be a long road. You’ll need clearance, monitoring, gradual stamina training—”

“I know,” Jimin interrupted gently. “I’ve already spoken to Hoseok about designing a safe plan. He said he’ll supervise my breathing exercises once a week, and Seokjin said he’ll adjust my diet.”

Yoongi couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him. “You’ve already recruited half the hospital, haven’t you?”

Jimin’s smile turned playful. “Maybe. But the most important one hasn’t said if he supports the idea.”

Yoongi stopped, looking at him fully. “You really want to do this?”

Jimin nodded. “I want to live again, Yoon. Not just survive. I want to stand in a studio again and hear music that doesn’t remind me of pain, but of movement. Of air. Of joy.”

There was so much honesty in his words that Yoongi felt his throat tighten.

He stepped closer, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Jimin’s ear. “Then do it,” he said simply. “Teach again. Dance again. Whatever it is that makes you feel alive - do it.”

Jimin blinked, almost surprised. “You’re not going to stop me?”

“Stop you?” Yoongi gave a soft huff of laughter. “I spent months trying to keep you breathing, baby. I’m not about to stop you from living.”

Something in Jimin broke then - something gentle and good. His lips trembled into a smile as he whispered, “You really mean that?”

Yoongi nodded, brushing his thumb against his cheek. “As long as you’re careful. I’ll even come to the studio if you want someone to glare at anyone who pushes you too hard.”

Jimin laughed, the sound light and pure. “You’d scare all my students away.”

“Good,” Yoongi said with a smirk. “Less work for you.”

Jimin shook his head, laughing still, but there was a tear shining at the corner of his eye now. “You’re impossible.”

Yoongi’s voice softened. “You make me want to be.”

For a long moment, they stood under the willow tree - wind moving gently through its leaves, the sun slipping behind the hospital’s white walls in the distance. The city buzzed quietly around them, but in that small patch of green, time seemed to pause.

“Thank you,” Jimin said finally, his voice low, almost reverent. “For not treating me like I’m breakable.”

Yoongi smiled faintly. “You were never breakable, Jimin-ah. You were just rebuilding.”

Jimin reached for his hand then, fingers sliding through his with quiet certainty. “Then I guess it’s time to start building again.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi said, giving his hand a light squeeze. “One step at a time.”

They began walking again, their shadows stretching long behind them - one steady, one light, moving in perfect rhythm.