Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

[Club WINK | some late evening]

“Hey, do you come here often?”

Jimin pauses mid-sip, letting the rim of the cocktail glass hover near his mouth for just a moment before setting it down, slow and deliberate, on the high table. His brow furrows slightly. Not because the line was bad — honestly, it's almost nostalgic — but because it pulled him out of a very satisfying little daydream involving Jeongguk, a bathroom wall, and no clothes.

He turns his head just a fraction toward the voice.

There’s a hand resting on the table beside his elbow — long fingers, neat nails, a faint sheen of lotion that smells faintly like citrus and vetiver. He follows it up to a dark blue dress shirt that fits extremely well, hugging the man’s slim waist and well-defined shoulders like it was tailored for exactly this kind of pickup attempt.

He looks expensive. Crisp black slacks, shiny dress shoes, hair styled to perfection. Jimin’s first thought is: Why does he look like he came from a chaebol wedding reception and landed in the middle of a neon rave?

The stranger’s smile is wide, a little awkward, but kind of magnetic. Not sleazy. Not overconfident. Jimin has to admit — it’s refreshing.

“Once in a while,” Jimin says, letting his voice curl just enough to be coy. He shifts slightly to face him more directly, elbow staying on the table, fingers gently cradling the stem of his glass.

The stranger lights up like Jimin’s interest just paid off his mortgage.

“What’s your name?” Jimin asks, blinking lazily at him and tipping his chin into his palm.

“Seokjin,” the man replies immediately. “And you… have been lighting up the room with your smile all night. I mean that sincerely. I just— I had to come over. Say hi. Before I lost my nerve.”

The line is so earnest, so awkwardly gallant, that it takes Jimin a second to realize it worked . For a split second, he considers it — Seokjin’s exactly the type he’d go for if he weren’t already infatuated with a doe-eyed menace who could bench press him while moaning his name.

And that’s the problem.

Jimin smiles sweetly. Apologetically. “Nice to meet you, Seokjin.” He leans in just a little, his voice soft and warm, like he’s letting Seokjin down from a high ledge.

“I’m Jimin. And I’m genuinely flattered you noticed me — seriously, that was a good line — but I’m afraid that smile you saw tonight? That was all for my boyfriend.”

It takes exactly two seconds for Seokjin’s bright grin to flicker and fall into something more… resigned. Still polite, still proud — but a little crushed around the edges. His fingers twitch on the table, like he’s resisting the urge to fidget.

“I’m sorry for imposing,” he says quickly, the corners of his mouth pulling upward into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I just thought… well. Doesn’t matter.”

Jimin’s heart does a dumb little thump in his chest. He’s a softie. Always has been.

“You weren’t imposing,” he says honestly, tilting his head with a crooked grin. “If things were different, I might’ve said yes.”

That surprises Seokjin. His eyebrows jump, and the forced smile softens — just a little. A quiet kind of relief flickers there, even if it’s tinged with disappointment.

Jimin reaches for his drink and lifts it in a little toast. “But the boyfriend in question is dangerously hot, kind of feral, and will probably throw a jealous fit if he catches anyone else trying to get in my pants.”

Seokjin huffs a laugh — short, surprised. “Sounds like a keeper.”

“Oh, he is,” Jimin says, eyes sparkling. “And possibly a cryptid.”

They share a smile. Not flirtatious now — just... mutual understanding.

And then Seokjin’s gaze flicks toward the restroom sign across the room.

“Well. I’ll go hide in there and reevaluate my entire approach to life,” he says, bowing slightly, deadpan. “Have a good night, Jimin.”

Jimin giggles despite himself. “You too, Seokjin.”

He watches him go, the tailored back of that blue shirt vanishing into the crowd. Something about him sticks in Jimin’s head.

He sips his cocktail again, slower this time, letting the warmth settle. And somewhere in the mass of bodies on the dancefloor, Jeongguk is probably grinding up on someone for fun — or making his way back with that little smirk that says I missed you for five seconds and it nearly killed me.

Jimin’s lucky. So damn lucky.

Still… he kind of hopes Seokjin finds someone tonight. He deserves it.

Seokjin washes his hands slowly. Methodically. Like if he scrubs long enough, the memory of getting gently, beautifully rejected by the world’s most radiant man will evaporate down the drain.

“Smiled at his boyfriend,” he mutters to himself. “Of course he did. Of course that smile wasn’t for you. It was glowing with monogamy.”

The bathroom mirror is lit by flickering overhead fluorescents that make him look a little ghostly, a little too flushed. He sighs at his reflection, adjusts his collar, tries to look like a man not currently reeling from both thirst and humiliation.

Then the door creaks open.

Heavy boots. The squeak of rubber on tile. He doesn’t look up immediately — not until the newcomer steps into view at the sink next to him.

And then… oh. Oh, no .

The man is stupidly hot. Jet-black hair pushed back and slightly damp, cheekbones for days, tattoos trailing down his arms like a roadmap to sin. He’s wearing a simple black tee and jeans, but somehow it looks like a Calvin Klein ad. He's not trying to be sexy — he just is .

Seokjin’s mouth operates without permission.

“Apart from being sexy,” he blurts, “what do you do for a living?”

The guy pauses mid-adjusting his earring. Turns his head slowly, like he wants to double-check that yes, this stranger is indeed flirting with him beside a urinal.

“Excuse me?” he says, an incredulous smile blooming. “Are you hitting on me in a toilet?”

Seokjin clears his throat. “It’s a surprisingly good place for existential reflection and bad decisions.”

The guy’s laugh is low and genuine. He leans slightly toward the sink, eyeing Seokjin with open curiosity. “You use that line often?”

“Only when I’m overwhelmed by raw sexual magnetism,” Seokjin deadpans. “It’s rare. Like solar eclipses. Or a working hand dryer in this club.”

Another laugh. It echoes warmly off the tiles, and something about it makes Seokjin’s stomach flutter in a way he really doesn’t have time to unpack.

The man steps closer to the mirror, checking his lip ring in the reflection. “Well… thanks, I guess.”

“I’m Seokjin,” he says before his brain can tell him no . “I usually have better game than this.”

The man glances sideways. “Jeongguk.”

Jeongguk. Huh. The name’s hot. It fits.

There’s a short beat where they just stand there, the music vibrating faintly through the walls, both of them pretending this isn’t weirdly charged for a fluorescent-lit bathroom break.

“You live around here?” Jeongguk asks, casual, like they’re anywhere but surrounded by toilets.

“Mm. Sort of. I was lured out by friends and the vague hope of meeting someone hotter than my standards allow.” Seokjin side-eyes him. “You’re making it difficult to pretend I wasn’t hoping to get laid tonight.”

Jeongguk smirks. “Glad to ruin your plans.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Seokjin says, though he’s fighting a smile. “I flirt in strange places when I’m emotionally vulnerable. You just got lucky.”

“Lucky,” Jeongguk repeats, stepping back. “Noted.”

And then he starts to leave. But not before glancing back, eyes dragging down Seokjin's frame like a secret.

“You clean up nice,” Jeongguk says, smirking. “Try that line again somewhere less… piss-adjacent.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

Seokjin stares at the door after it swings shut.

Then stares at himself in the mirror.

“...Was I just hit on back ?” he whispers, absolutely floored.

Jeongguk pushes the bathroom door open and steps back into the chaos of the club, lights flashing, bass vibrating straight through his ribs.

Cool air hits his face — or maybe he just feels cooler now, after that bathroom encounter . Jeongguk runs a hand through his hair and huffs a soft laugh, disbelieving.

That guy.

Seokjin.

He came in smooth as silk and awkward as hell, all wide shoulders and accidental charm, throwing out a pickup line like it was his first day on Earth and he’d just learned what flirting was.

And Jeongguk had liked it. Too much, honestly. He’s still grinning, lips tingling from the way Seokjin’s eyes had flicked over him, equal parts judgmental and impressed.

"Apart from being sexy, what do you do for a living?"
Seriously — who says that? In a bathroom?

And worse — who responds positively to it ?

Jeongguk, apparently.

He weaves through the crowd, glancing around until he spots Jimin leaning at the bar, sipping from a fresh drink with that soft-lipped pout that always looks both innocent and devastating.

Jeongguk slides in behind him and nuzzles his cheek briefly, voice low. “Miss me?”

“Always,” Jimin says without looking, but there’s a playful smile tugging at his lips. “Took you long enough.”

Jeongguk leans in, about to say something flirty — but then pauses. He eyes Jimin’s drink, the way his eyes keep flicking toward the crowd like he’s looking for someone.

Jeongguk narrows his eyes. “Someone hit on you while I was gone, didn’t they.”

Jimin sips. “Maybe.”

Jeongguk squints. “Who?”

Jimin turns to face him fully now, eyes wide and mock-innocent. “Tall. Blue shirt. Pretty smile. Spoke like a man raised on pickup lines and soft disappointment.”

Jeongguk’s jaw drops a little. “Wait — dark hair, kinda formal-looking, charming in a weird ‘I rehearse conversations in the shower’ way?”

Jimin stares.

Jeongguk stares back.

“Oh my god ,” Jimin gasps.

Jeongguk bursts out laughing. “We got hit on by the same guy.”

“I turned him down,” Jimin says quickly, raising both hands. “Very gently. And maybe flirted a little before I knew.”

“I may have…” Jeongguk glances down, sheepish, “...flirted back. A little . I didn’t know either, okay?! I thought he was just some hot, weirdly polite rando.”

They both break into giggles, half horrified, half delighted.

“Poor guy,” Jimin says, wiping a tear from his eye. “He really shot his shot. Twice.”

Jeongguk snorts. “We must’ve looked like single bait tonight.”

Jimin spins toward the dance floor and slides his arms around Jeongguk’s waist. “Well. Let’s give them a real reason to look.”

Jeongguk smirks. “You’re gonna cause a scene, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” Jimin says. “We’re sexy. It’s a public service.”

Jeongguk lets himself be dragged into the pulsing crowd, bodies swaying, sweat-slick skin brushing past. But his focus is only on Jimin — the way his hips move to the beat, the way his hands roam like they’re staking a claim.

They dance like they’re the only ones there. Like they’re performing for gods. Like they know they’re being watched — and want to be worshipped for it.

Jeongguk’s hand finds the small of Jimin’s back, slides lower. Jimin rolls his hips back into him and tilts his head with a grin that should be illegal.

Somewhere in the haze, someone whistles.

And maybe, just maybe, one shy guy in a blue shirt watches from the bar — heart sinking and eyes wide — and wonders what the hell he just got himself into.

But Jeongguk doesn’t notice.

Right now, he’s got Jimin.

And the world can burn around them.

Seokjin finds a spot at the bar again, nursing a watered-down gin tonic and pretending he doesn’t feel like a loser.

The encounter in the bathroom is still playing on loop in his brain like a humiliating highlight reel. Jeongguk — God , Jeongguk — was everything he shouldn’t want in a stranger. Ridiculously hot. Smug. A little bit chaotic. And worst of all, unbothered by his awkward attempt at toilet-flirting.

And he flirted back. That’s the problem.

He could have said nothing. Could have laughed and walked away.

But instead he flirted back. Smiled. Teased. Enjoyed it.

And as if that weren’t enough, there’s Jimin — radiant, ethereal Jimin — glowing faintly on the dance floor like he belongs under a spotlight at all times, all curves and grace and trouble, laughing with his head tipped back, the line of his throat doing something unspeakable to Seokjin’s nervous system. He moves like music lives in his bones, like every beat is meant to worship him — and people do , watching like he’s the main event.

But, of course they have boyfriends.

He takes another sip, glare half-hearted. “This is how I die,” he mutters into his glass.

Now, the music’s a little too loud and the drink tastes like regret, and Seokjin’s starting to think he should just—

And then he sees him.

No — them .

Jeongguk, on the dance floor now, bathed in blue light. Hands possessive on the waist of someone moving against him like they were born joined at the hip.

And the other guy — Jimin.

That’s Jimin.

His perfect smile. That mouth Seokjin definitely wanted to kiss earlier. That flirty little pout. That boyfriend.

Jeongguk’s boyfriend.

It hits like a slap.

The way their bodies fit together is obscene. Jimin rolls his hips and Jeongguk follows like gravity’s pulling him there. One hand on Jimin’s lower back, the other slipping dangerously low. Their mouths close — not kissing, but so near the tension might snap into sparks.

They look like sex and danger and trust. Like they know every inch of each other. Like they enjoy showing off how deep it runs.

Seokjin stares.

He should look away.

He doesn't.

Jeongguk murmurs something against Jimin’s ear, and Jimin laughs — head tossed back, shameless, glowing. Their bodies stay locked, fluid and precise, like they’ve danced like this a thousand times and still can’t get enough.

Seokjin swallows hard.

And now he gets it. The way Jimin smiled when he turned him down — not annoyed, but fond . Like he already had everything he wanted. Like flirting was cute, but ultimately irrelevant.

Because he had this .

Seokjin downs the last of his drink and sets the glass down a little too hard.

Time to go.

The air outside is cool and sharp, like the world is trying to sober him up.

He walks with his hands in his pockets, dress shirt rumpled now, collar loosened. His shoes click on the pavement, the city still alive around him but distant — like it’s all happening to someone else.

The club is behind him. The music is fading.

But his chest feels heavier with every step.

His apartment is clean and quiet. Too quiet.

He toes off his shoes and shrugs out of his shirt, dropping it on the back of the couch as he moves through the dimness in just his slacks. He grabs a water bottle from the fridge and stands there for a second, letting the cold light spill over his bare arms.

He stares blankly at the wall.

Then sighs.

Then laughs — low and bitter. “Great work, Seokjin. Tried to seduce someone’s boyfriend twice in one night. New personal record.”

He sets the water down and flops onto the couch. Rubs at his face. His cheeks are still warm, but it’s not the alcohol anymore.

It’s the way Jeongguk looked at him. That stupid smirk. That voice. That heat .

And the way he’d looked at Jimin — like he’d crawl inside his skin if he could. Like worship and hunger wrapped up in one unholy, perfect gaze.

And Jimin — Jimin is no less dangerous.

Soft where Jeongguk is sharp, all plush lips and velvet eyes, moving like he’s somehow always dancing even when he’s still. Delicate and smug, smiling over the rim of his glass like he knew things Seokjin didn’t. And the way he’d looked at Jeongguk in return — mischievous, soft, sparkling . 

Seokjin has never had that.

He’s had flings . Awkward first dates. Nights that start warm and end cold. People who like him — sure — but no one who looks at him like that.

No one who dances with him like they belong to him.

And that’s the part that really stings. Not the rejection. Not the awkwardness.

The loneliness.

He sinks further into the couch and closes his eyes.

He’s not ugly. He’s not boring. He’s not even that old, no matter what Yoongi jokes about.

But somehow… he always ends up like this.

Alone.

He presses his palms to his eyes, willing himself not to cry like he’s in a drama special. He doesn’t. He just sits there, quiet, empty, exhausted.

His phone buzzes once on the coffee table.

He doesn’t check it.

Not tonight.

Jimin and Jeongguk’s apartment smells faintly like laundry detergent, expensive skincare, and exhaustion.

Jimin drops his keys into the dish by the door and toe-kicks off his boots like they offended him. Jeongguk’s already halfway into pulling his shirt off as he walks toward the bedroom, tattoos catching the warm lamplight.

“God,” Jimin groans, flopping face-first onto the bed. “Why does dancing make my back hurt now? Am I twenty-five or seventy-five?”

“You’re dramatic,” Jeongguk says, chuckling, stripping off the rest of his clothes down to boxers and grabbing a water bottle from the nightstand. “And you’re the one who was grinding on me like we were in a music video.”

Jimin flips over, grinning. “You loved it.”

“I survived it,” Jeongguk counters, sipping water, then tossing the bottle aside and crawling onto the bed beside him. “Barely. I think my dick has whiplash.”

Jimin laughs, eyes crinkling. He reaches up to brush a damp curl off Jeongguk’s forehead. They’re both still flushed, skin sticky with leftover sweat, muscles humming from the adrenaline of it all.

There’s a quiet pause as they breathe together, the club now just a muffled memory behind closed windows.

Then Jimin says, “So.”

Jeongguk raises a brow. “So?”

“That guy,” Jimin drawls, drawing slow circles on Jeongguk’s bare chest. “Pretty eyes. Weirdly formal. Blue shirt.”

Jeongguk smirks. “Seokjin.”

Jimin hums. “He flirted with both of us.”

Jeongguk lets his eyes drift closed. “He was kind of a mess.”

“A hot mess.”

“I mean… accurate.” Jeongguk opens one eye. “I thought I was hallucinating when he said, ‘Apart from being sexy, what do you do for a living?’ Like, who does that?”

“You liked it,” Jimin teases.

“I didn’t dislike it,” Jeongguk says, grinning now.

They both giggle like teenagers, arms tangled lazily, warmth radiating between them.

Then Jimin’s fingers trail a little lower, to the sharp cut of Jeongguk’s waist. His voice softens, drops into something quiet. Testing.

“You liked him too, didn’t you?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer immediately. He shifts, settling between Jimin’s legs, their bodies sliding together under the sheets.

“Did you?” he asks back, voice low.

Jimin lifts his hips slightly, slow and deliberate. “Maybe.”

They’re kissing now — soft at first, lips brushing, breath catching. The kind of kiss that knows them, that says, we’ve done this a hundred times and we’re about to do it again, but better.

Jeongguk’s hands wander — over Jimin’s ribs, his thighs, up under the oversized tee he’s still wearing. Jimin’s fingers dig into Jeongguk’s shoulders, and his breath hitches when Jeongguk kisses down the side of his neck.

“I think he was lonely,” Jimin murmurs.

Jeongguk pulls back just enough to look at him. “You’re soft.”

“You love that I’m soft.”

“I do ,” Jeongguk admits, before kissing him again, deeper now, hungrier.

Their bodies roll together, grinding slow, hips syncing like they always do — like instinct. Jeongguk groans into Jimin’s mouth when Jimin rocks up just right.

And somewhere between a gasp and a moan, Jimin breathes, “Would you—ever…?”

Jeongguk stills, just a fraction. The question hangs between them, suspended in heat and heartbeats. He feels it in the way Jimin’s hand falters on his back, fingers curling slightly, like he's unsure whether to pull him closer or hold him at a distance.

This isn’t a joke. It isn’t dirty talk.

This is Jimin asking something vulnerable. Careful. Maybe even a little scared of the answer.

And Jeongguk… he doesn’t answer right away.

Not because he’s unsure of what he wants, but because suddenly he feels the weight of it — the unspoken tension that had been quietly threading its way through the night.

They’ve been together for years. Laughed through anniversaries, cried into each other’s arms, learned each other’s rhythms like second skin. What they have is deep. Solid.

But it’s not the same as when it began. The fire still burns — fiercely, god yes — but it’s shaped differently now. Softer. Familiar.

And yet…

Yet there was something about that man. That glance in the bathroom. That awkward joke that shouldn’t have worked. That flash of shyness behind his eyes, like someone who hasn’t been truly seen in too long.

Something about Seokjin didn’t just spark desire . It stirred curiosity . It cracked open a door neither of them had touched before.

“I don’t know,” Jeongguk admits, voice lower now. Honest. “We’ve never really talked about something like that.”

Jimin doesn’t reply — just nods slowly against his chest, lips grazing Jeongguk’s collarbone, like he’s thinking the same thing: We haven’t. But maybe we should’ve.

“Do you want that?” Jeongguk asks, brushing Jimin’s hair back, voice more tender than teasing now. “Is this about… sex? Or is it something else?”

Jimin is quiet for a long beat.

And then he murmurs, almost shy, “I just felt… something. When he looked at me. Not lust. Not exactly. I just—” He exhales slowly. “I think I miss someone I never even met.”

Jeongguk’s breath catches.

That’s it.

Not just hunger. Not a quick fix. Not even about opening up for fun.

This is the ache of something almost — something that feels like it could belong with them. Fit between them. Someone they didn’t know they wanted until they felt him brush past.

Jeongguk kisses the corner of Jimin’s mouth, slow and sure.

“I think…” he whispers, mouth ghosting over his skin, “...something real might be starting.”

Jimin’s eyes flutter open. “With him?”

“With you . And maybe… him too.”

Their hips roll again, heat building, the air thick with arousal and something else — something curious . New. Unspoken and maybe a little dangerous.

But not wrong.

Jimin cups Jeongguk’s face, drawing him close. “We’re such dorks,” he whispers.

“Devastating, sensual, feral dorks,” Jeongguk corrects, nudging Jimin’s thighs open wider, lips brushing lower. “Who may or may not want to adopt a tall, awkward, emotionally repressed third.”

Jimin laughs into his mouth. “You’re terrible.”

“I know.”

And then they’re kissing again — deeper this time, labored breathing, hands everywhere, skin to skin and want sparking hot in the shadows of their quiet room.

Outside, the city keeps buzzing.

But in here, something’s shifting.

Something’s beginning.

[The Next Morning – Café BIRCH, Itaewon]

The coffee tastes like heaven. Or at least like salvation after a night spent sweating out bad decisions under strobe lights and trying not to cry on his couch about sexy couples.

Seokjin nurses it slowly, sunglasses perched high on the bridge of his nose even though they’re sitting indoors. His head’s not hurting , exactly — more like sulking.

Across from him, Namjoon’s halfway through a protein bowl the size of a small planet, and Yoongi is sipping his iced Americano like he’s been awake since the womb.

“So,” Namjoon starts, pushing his glasses up with the side of his hand, “did you finally get laid or did you just flirt with the staff again and leave dramatically?”

Seokjin sighs.

Yoongi snorts. “That’s a no.”

“It’s a complicated no,” Seokjin mutters.

Namjoon raises an eyebrow. “Oho.”

Yoongi leans forward slightly. “Do tell. Did you fall in love with a bartender again? Is this gonna be a three-day pining arc like last time?”

Seokjin flicks a sugar packet at him. “No. And I said that guy had mysterious eyes.”

“He had conjunctivitis,” Yoongi replies.

“Romantic conjunctivitis,” Namjoon adds helpfully.

Seokjin groans and slumps forward over the table. “I hate both of you.”

Yoongi grins. “You sound like someone who flirted with a mistake.”

Seokjin drags himself upright and sips more coffee before he speaks. “I flirted with this guy at the bar. Very hot. Gorgeous smile. Said he had a boyfriend.”

“Yikes,” Namjoon says through a bite of egg.

“Wait for it,” Seokjin says grimly. “Went to the bathroom to shame-pee and forget the whole thing. Found another hot guy in there. Flirted with him .”

There’s a pause.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Okay. Risky.”

“Same vibe though,” Seokjin shrugs. “Tattooed, hot, definitely into me. Very smirky.”

“And…?” Namjoon says slowly, eyes narrowing like he already senses the disaster.

“And I found out on the dancefloor that they were together,” Seokjin finishes, staring off into the middle distance.

Another pause.

Yoongi is the first to react. “ Oh my God .”

Namjoon starts wheezing into his bowl. “You hit on both of them?!”

Seokjin covers his face. “Not on purpose ! It’s not like they were wearing matching jackets that said ‘TAKEN’ and ‘ALSO TAKEN.’”

“I can’t believe you hit on someone’s boyfriend in a bathroom, ” Yoongi says, delighted.

“I can’t believe they’re still alive,” Namjoon says. “The audacity .”

“They were… weirdly chill about it,” Seokjin mumbles, frowning into his cup. “Like, neither of them seemed mad. Just kind of… amused. And flirty.”

Namjoon squints. “Wait. Are we sure they weren’t, like… into it?”

Seokjin blinks. “What do you mean?”

Yoongi leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “You sure they didn’t want you to flirt with both of them?”

Seokjin stares.

Namjoon smirks. “I’m just saying. Some couples are like that. Sexy little murder-suicide duos who pick a guy and ruin his life together.”

“I wouldn’t complain,” Yoongi adds.

“You’re both disgusting,” Seokjin mutters.

“And you’re blushing,” Namjoon points out gleefully.

“I’m not!”

“You are,” Yoongi says, totally unfazed. “Which means you’re going back tonight.”

Seokjin sputters. “Excuse me?”

“Oh come on,” Namjoon says, grinning. “You’re on holiday. The bar is close. The drinks are good. The lighting is kind. And clearly, you have unfinished business with the horny power couple.”

“I do not —!”

Yoongi takes a calm sip of coffee. “You so do.”

Seokjin glares at both of them, then looks out the window.

There’s no reason to go back tonight. He knows that.

And yet…

“…Fine,” he mutters. “Maybe. For the drinks.”

Namjoon beams. “That’s our emotionally available king.”

Yoongi just clinks his cup against Seokjin’s in solidarity. “Wear something slutty.”

Seokjin groans and drops his forehead to the table.

Chapter Text

[Club WINK | evening]

The line is long, the night air is humid, and Seokjin is already regretting every life choice that’s led him to this exact patch of sidewalk.

He shuffles forward a few inches as the line creeps ahead, hands in the pockets of a too-tight black bomber jacket he borrowed from Namjoon. It smells like pine and regret. His hair’s doing the soft, fluffed thing it does when he over-conditions, and he’s worn lip tint.

Which feels both hopeful and delusional.

“I could still leave,” he mutters under his breath.

There’s a fried chicken place two blocks down. A movie theater showing old Korean melodramas. He could do literally anything else with his night. Something productive. Something good for the soul. Something that doesn’t involve potentially running into the dangerously attractive duo he accidentally flirted with simultaneously.

Or maybe… they won’t even be there.

Maybe they’re home, curled up watching anime and feeding each other spoonfuls of yogurt or something disgustingly domestic. Maybe they’ve already forgotten him. Maybe they never even cared.

Or maybe—

Seokjin exhales sharply and stares up at the neon sign above the entrance, heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it does when he knows he’s being stupid but can’t stop himself.

What if they’re there?

What if Jimin is swaying against the bar in those impossibly tight pants, smirking with his eyes half-lidded and biting his straw like it owes him money? What if Jeongguk is lounging against a column, dressed like a punk angel and watching the crowd like he’s selecting a victim?

What if they see him walk in?

What if they don’t?

He could play it cool. Look disinterested. Mysterious.

( Spoiler: He cannot.)

More likely: he’ll panic, trip over his own feet, or say something horrifically awkward like “Hey guys, wanna make a human sandwich?” and then implode into dust.

His palms are sweating. His heart is being dramatic. He absolutely should have stayed home.

“Hey. Idol.”

Seokjin snaps out of his spiral like someone threw a bucket of ice water on his brain. He looks up to see the bouncer — a thick-armed guy in a fitted vest who clearly recognizes him, eyebrow raised.

“You going in or just having a crisis in the line?”

Seokjin blinks. “…Yes.”

The bouncer snorts and waves him through.

As Seokjin steps past the velvet rope and into the haze of bass and flashing lights, he feels his stomach drop.

Too late now.

He’s in.

[Same day | Jimin and Jeongguk’s apartment | early evening]

“Which one?” Jimin holds up two shirts in front of the mirror — one mesh and glittery, the other a sleek, silky number that clings in all the right places. “This one says I’m mysterious and unattainable. The other says I’ve already imagined you naked. ”

Jeongguk, currently shirtless and still towel-drying his hair, grins. “Babe, your face says that anyway. ”

Jimin beams at his reflection. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Jeongguk walks past him and swats his ass on the way to the closet. “Wear the slutty one. The soft one makes you look like you’re going to a charity auction.”

Jimin snorts. “And that’s bad because…?”

“I want Seokjin to suffer, not bid on you.”

At that, Jimin laughs — really laughs, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut — and Jeongguk pauses for a second, just watching him. That laugh, that spark in his eyes, the glow that makes people fall in love too fast — he’ll never get tired of it.

“You think he’ll even be there?” Jimin asks more softly now, voice losing a bit of its bravado.

Jeongguk shrugs, but it’s casual, not defensive. “We’ll see. That’s half the fun, right?”

They had talked. This morning, over coffee and curled-up limbs in bed, and again this afternoon while cleaning the apartment, laughing at the absurdity of it all. But it wasn’t a joke. Not anymore.

There was something about Seokjin that neither of them could quite shake — and for once, they were on the same page from the start. The intrigue. The softness. The tension that had barely cracked open between them.

And tonight?

Tonight might be the night they push it just a little further.

“Okay,” Jimin says, smoothing down the sheer shirt, satisfied. “So how are we doing this?”

Jeongguk is already slipping into tight black jeans and a silver chain. “Fatal flirt-attack.”

Jimin raises a brow. “Define.”

“Make him sweat,” Jeongguk grins. “Be so hot and charming he forgets his name. And if he remembers it, make him beg us to say it for him.”

“God,” Jimin groans, adjusting his necklace in the mirror. “You’re a menace.”

“ Our menace,” Jeongguk replies, leaning in to kiss the corner of his boyfriend’s mouth. “And you are dangerous in mesh. If he survives both of us at once, he deserves a prize.”

“Maybe we are the prize.”

Jeongguk hums. “Or maybe he is.”

That earns him a blink. Then a slow smile from Jimin. “We’ll see if he shows.”

Jeongguk grabs his phone and wallet, slinging on his jacket. “And if he does?”

Jimin’s eyes sparkle with something wicked.

“Then we make him forget who said no first.”

[Back at the Club]

Seokjin tells himself he’s just walking. Just cruising past the bar to find a seat.

He’s not looking for them. He’s not scouting the dance floor like a lovesick puppy. He’s not checking every body in tight pants to see if it might be Jimin. He’s not watching every head tilt and tattooed arm for a glimpse of Jeongguk.

No. He’s just vibing.

In skinny jeans. And lip tint. And a shirt so low-cut he nearly gave himself an identity crisis while getting dressed.

He passes the DJ booth. Circles the bar. Loiters near the edge of the dance floor with a drink he hasn’t touched because his stomach is too full of static. Just one lap, he tells himself. Then he can leave. Pretend he came for the music, or the drinks, or the ambience .

And then—

He sees them.

A dozen feet away, leaning against the bar like they own the place. Like a fantasy that got bored of living in his head and decided to get physical.

Jimin’s sipping a glowing pink cocktail through a straw, all glossy lips and lazy mischief. He’s wearing a sheer shirt and glittering highlighter like he’s on stage — like he is the stage. Seokjin can see the tattoos on Jimin’s body clearly. Jeongguk’s beside him, more smolder than smile, with a black shirt unbuttoned too low and silver jewelry glinting against his throat. His hair is slicked back, tattoos peeking out like secrets.

They look like a sin sandwich and I’m about to be the unwilling lettuce, Seokjin thinks, brain stalling.

He turns too quickly and slams shoulder-first into someone carrying a tray of shots. A few spill. He mumbles an apology, heart doing parkour in his chest.

When he looks back—

They’re looking at him.

Jeongguk murmurs something in Jimin’s ear, and they both smirk. At him .

Seokjin’s first instinct is to flee. His second is to combust. His third, unfortunately, is to stand there frozen like a deer in very attractive headlights.

And then they're walking toward him.

Fuck.

The world slows down. His hands are doing something weird. His face feels hot. He wants to crawl into a glitter-covered floorboard and die.

“Hey, Stranger,” Jimin greets, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.

“Back for another round?” Jeongguk’s voice is warm and low, with a sharp little edge. “Or were you hoping we’d be here?” he adds, gaze dragging over Seokjin with enough heat to boil water.

Seokjin clears his throat, desperate to act like he has a single neuron firing. “I, uh. Good drinks here.”

“That why you’re flushed?” Jimin’s eyes dance. “Or are you just happy to see us?”

“I’m not—” Seokjin chokes. “I mean—I am happy, I guess—wait, no, not like—”

He watches, helpless, as Jimin leans in with a tiny smirk. “You’re cute when you panic.”

“He was cute last night, too,” Jeongguk adds. “But I think I like this version better.”

“Raw. Vulnerable. A little sweaty.”

“I am not sweaty,” Seokjin hisses.

“You’re very sweaty,” Jimin murmurs, licking his straw.

Seokjin almost dies.

The thing is — he could leave. He should leave. But somehow, his feet are planted, his pulse is racing, and every neuron in his brain is screaming don’t look at their mouths, don’t look at their mouths —and then he does, and it’s over.

“I didn’t know you were a tag-team act,” Seokjin blurts, and immediately wants to chew through the wall behind him.

“Only when we really like someone,” Jeongguk says, eyes sharp and soft all at once.

“Only when they flirt with us first,” Jimin adds sweetly.

Seokjin gasps. “That wasn’t—! I didn’t—!”

“You hit on both of us,” Jimin continues, unbothered. “Separately. Without realizing.”

“It was adorable,” Jeongguk grins. “Like watching a cat try to seduce a mirror.”

“I was drunk!” Seokjin blurts. “And confused! And okay maybe a little enchanted, but I didn’t mean to—”

“So, what if you meant it this time?” Jimin cuts in gently.

Seokjin falters.

The bass thumps around them. Lights flash. Bodies sway on all sides. But this — this moment — feels too still. Like the air itself is holding its breath.

They’re close now. Too close. He can smell Jimin’s cologne — sweet citrus with something floral. Jeongguk smells like heat and musk and maybe the end of the world.

He doesn’t answer.

“Relax,” Jimin whispers with a smile that’s anything but innocent. “We don’t bite.”

“Unless you ask nicely,” Jeongguk adds.

“This is how I die,” Seokjin mutters under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

“You’re gonna have fun,” Jimin corrects.

And just when Seokjin thinks he might actually melt into a sweaty puddle of anxious attraction right there on the club floor—

That's when Jeongguk steps a little closer, voice low. “Hey. We’re not trying to freak you out.”

“Just trying to see,” Jimin adds, “if you wanna hang.”

Seokjin blinks. “Hang?”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk shrugs. “Grab a drink. Sit down somewhere. Talk. Flirt a little. Or a lot.”

“Whatever you want,” Jimin finishes. “No pressure.”

There’s something in the way they look at him — warm, open, curious. He doesn’t know if he can survive their flirting, but loneliness is far worse.

And Seokjin’s been lonely for longer than he’s willing to admit.

“…Okay,” he says, too quickly. Then clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah. I could hang.”

Jimin grins and loops his arm through Seokjin’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Good. You owe us a story, anyway.”

“What story?”

“Something embarrassing,” Jeongguk says, stepping to Seokjin’s other side. “We’ll trade.”

They start walking toward the quieter lounge in the back, warm bodies brushing against his on either side. Not too much, not too fast — but enough to make his skin buzz.

As they disappear into the neon haze together, Seokjin thinks:

This might be the dumbest, bravest thing I’ve ever done.

And for once…

He doesn’t regret it.

Seokjin finds himself tucked into a curved velvet booth, boxed in by two living sins with perfect skin and the audacity to act like they’re just normal, friendly boys hanging out.

They are not normal.
They are not friendly.
They are… dangerous.

“Are you always this shy around strangers?” Jimin asks sweetly, swirling his drink with a tiny cocktail sword. His thigh presses against Seokjin’s, light but deliberate.

“Depends,” Seokjin says, trying to keep his voice steady. “Are the strangers always this… insufferably hot?”

Jeongguk huffs a laugh and leans forward, tattooed fingers dancing on the rim of his glass. “Aw, hyung,” he says, teasing and low, “don’t flirt with us unless you mean it.”

“I—” Seokjin pauses. Traps his lip between his teeth. He’s not drunk enough for this. Or maybe he’s exactly drunk enough.

“You’re turning red again,” Jimin says in a singsong voice, propping his chin on one hand. “Do we make you nervous?”

“No,” Seokjin lies.

“Yes,” Jimin beams.

“Maybe,” Seokjin amends, glaring at his drink like it personally betrayed him. “I came here for a quiet evening.”

“And ended up sandwiched between two ex-soldiers with questionable morals,” Jeongguk grins.

Seokjin glances at him. Slowly. Full-body scan slowly.

Now that they’re seated, and Jeongguk’s jacket is off, it’s hard not to notice the stretch of cotton over bulked arms. The way his pecs fight his shirt like it’s a competition. His hair’s a little damp at the nape, his jawline sculpted by God, and his legs— fuck , his legs.

“...Did military turn you into a superhero?” Seokjin blurts before his brain can intervene.

Jeongguk chokes on his drink, and Jimin lets out a delighted gasp.

“Hyung,” Jimin laughs, placing a hand on Seokjin’s thigh like this is a celebration. “You noticed.”

“Of course I noticed. His biceps are the size of my face. ”

“That’s not even the best part,” Jeongguk says under his breath, lips quirking.

“Oh?” Seokjin arches a brow, fingers tightening around his glass. “What is?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. He just smirks, tongue running over his lip ring slowly. Purposefully.

Seokjin short-circuits.

“You’re not playing fair,” he mumbles.

“Neither are you,” Jimin says with a hum, running a thumb absentmindedly along Seokjin’s inner thigh. “You’re out here in that shirt and those pants, looking like you walked off a fantasy drama set , and you expect us to behave?”

“It’s called fashion,” Seokjin mutters, squirming in place. “You two wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh, we understand,” Jimin says. “We’re just choosing violence.”

Jeongguk leans closer. “You like violence, hyung?”

“Depends what kind,” Seokjin says, too fast, too honest.

The silence that follows is charged.

Seokjin drains half his drink to avoid eye contact.

“So what do you do?” Jimin asks, shifting gears with deceptive ease. “Since getting discharged, I mean.”

“I’m...trying to figure that out,” Seokjin replies, a little grateful for the pivot. “Some ambassador work, some modelling. Thinking about a travel vlog on YouTube.”

“You’d be great at that,” Jeongguk says. “People love watching pretty men eat food and smile into cameras.”

“Exactly what I bring to the table,” Seokjin deadpans. “Add in my crippling social anxiety and you’ve got a ratings hit.”

They laugh — soft and easy — and something in Seokjin unwinds a little.

Jimin’s fingers are still on his thigh. Jeongguk’s knee now rests gently against his own. It feels like he’s being held in place. Like gravity shifted, and they’re the only ones keeping him from floating away.

“What about you?” Seokjin asks. “Now that you’re back.”

Jimin shrugs. “Recovering. Relearning normal.”

“Feels weird being out,” Jeongguk adds. “Even weirder being out together. ”

“Together, huh?” Seokjin teases.

Jeongguk’s grin returns. “Jealous?”

Seokjin opens his mouth — probably to say something snarky. Instead, what comes out is: “A little.”

It hangs there for a beat. Too soft. Too real.

Then Jimin leans in, voice low and warm: “What would you do if you weren’t?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you weren’t jealous,” Jeongguk clarifies, “and you were just with us.”

Seokjin swallows. His skin is buzzing. His heart is loud.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I think I’d… probably kiss someone.”

“Oh?” Jimin grins. “Who?”

Seokjin considers. Turns to Jimin. Then Jeongguk. Then back to Jimin.

“You first,” he says.

Jimin chuckles. “You’re deflecting.”

“I’m surviving.”

“Hyung,” Jeongguk murmurs, all lazy confidence and honey-slicked challenge, “you don’t have to survive us.”

Seokjin exhales, shaky. “I don’t think I’d survive you in any context.”

There’s a beat. Then—

“Try us,” Jimin says.

The invitation is there — thick in the air, heady and wild. But they don’t pounce. They don’t press.

They wait.

Seokjin reaches for his drink again and sets it down untouched. His hands feel warm. The world is spinning slightly to the left.

He wants to do something. Say something. Be something.

“You two...” he begins, struggling to find a sentence that won’t make him sound like a drama protagonist in the third act of heartbreak. “Do this often?”

“Flirt? Yeah,” Jimin says cheerfully.

“Fall into someone like this? No,” Jeongguk answers.

That catches Seokjin off guard. He glances at him — at the serious glint under the mischief.

Jeongguk’s not teasing now. And neither is Jimin.

“We like you,” Jimin says softly.

Seokjin's throat tightens. “You don’t know me.”

“We’re trying to,” Jeongguk says. “That’s why we asked you to hang, not—” he gestures vaguely, “—whatever else this could’ve been.”

Seokjin doesn’t have an answer for that. He just sits there, breath caught between something laughable and something dangerous.

He could fall. So easily. He already is.

And maybe... maybe that’s okay.

He lets out a long breath, his lips curling into something sheepish.

“You know,” he says slowly, “you’re both even more annoying than I imagined.”

“Aw, hyung,” Jimin coos, nudging closer, “you imagined us?”

Seokjin groans and hides his face in his hands.

“Do you want us to stop?” Jeongguk asks, voice low.

There’s a moment. Quiet. Still.

“No,” Seokjin admits.

They smile. They beam.

And Seokjin feels the axis of his life shift just a little further toward something brave.

[After the Club | Jimin and Jeongguk’s apartment]

Jimin presses a cool towel to the side of his flushed cheek and grins at the reflection of Jeongguk in the mirror, who's crouched beside him, shirtless and toweling his hair dry after a long, hot shower.

“You look smug,” Jeongguk says, tossing the towel onto the hamper and reaching for the moisturizer. “That’s dangerous.”

“I’m not smug,” Jimin says, voice airy. “Just satisfied.”

“That’s worse.”

Jimin hums, leaning against the sink with a sigh. “It was a good night.”

Jeongguk meets his eyes in the mirror and smiles — soft, dimpled, the kind he doesn’t wear around strangers.

“Yeah,” he says. “It really was.”

They’d left the club just after midnight, claiming hunger as an excuse when the reality was simpler: none of them wanted to spoil the mood with more noise or chaos. Seokjin had followed them without question, jacket half-draped over one arm, cheeks still pink from laughter and alcohol. He looked like trouble. He looked like spring..

[FLASHBACK]

The riverside walk was mostly empty, except for some late-night cyclists and two people who had clearly failed a first date and were arguing under a streetlamp.

“Do you think they’re going to break up or make out?” Jimin asked, pointing with his chin.

“Make out first, break up after,” Seokjin said solemnly. “It’s the most dramatic choice.”

“Respect,” Jeongguk grinned.

They stopped by a set of concrete steps facing the river. Seokjin had insisted on showing off — “I used to be flexible,” he claimed — and tried to do some kind of interpretive dance kick that ended with him landing on his ass in a fit of giggles.

“You’re so annoying,” Jeongguk said, but he’d doubled over laughing too.

“Shut up!” Seokjin wheezed from the ground. “You didn’t even try.”

So Jeongguk shrugged off his jacket, lined up like it was an Olympic event, and promptly executed a clean spinning jump with enough force to startle a group of pigeons and earn a delighted, almost scandalized gasp from Jimin.

Seokjin squinted up at him, brows furrowed. “You’re the worst.”

“You’re just mad because I landed it,” Jeongguk smirked, helping him up.

“I’m mad because you did it and didn’t break your hip.”

“Would you have kissed it better if I did?”

Seokjin had flushed so hard he nearly tripped again. Jimin snorted and looped his arms through both of theirs, the three of them walking crooked along the river like old friends. Or something better.

[Now…]

Jeongguk flops back onto their bed, towel-damp and loose-limbed, watching Jimin tug on one of his oversized shirts — the lavender one he always steals when he’s in a good mood.

“You think he had fun?” Jeongguk asks, voice muffled in the pillows.

“With us? Yeah.” Jimin crawls in beside him, curling up on his side and propping his head on his hand. “You?”

“Yeah,” Jeongguk says softly, turning to meet his eyes. “A lot.”

They stay like that a moment. Breathing each other in. Letting it settle.

“Is it weird that it felt…normal?” Jimin asks eventually. “Like we weren’t even trying.”

“It felt easy,” Jeongguk agrees. “Like we’ve known him longer than we have.”

Jimin nods, then tilts his head. “Do you still want to try?”

Jeongguk doesn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” he says. “You?”

“God, yes.” Jimin rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “He makes me laugh so hard it hurts. And he’s so fucking cute when he panics.”

Jeongguk chuckles. “And he thinks I’m sexy.”

“ Everyone thinks you’re sexy.”

“Yeah, but it’s fun when he thinks it.”

Jimin turns his head, watching Jeongguk with a smile that softens everything inside him.

“It’s not just about sex,” Jimin says.

“I know,” Jeongguk replies. “You feel that too?”

Jimin nods. “I think I like how he looks at us. Like we’re already important.”

Jeongguk reaches out, tangling their fingers. “Do you think he knows we’re serious?”

Jimin laughs. “We flirted like demons and fed him street food. He probably thinks we’re auditioning for a reality show.”

“We should probably—talk to him, properly. If he wants this. Whatever this even is.”

“Mm.” Jimin’s smile turns thoughtful. “But not yet. Let’s flirt a bit more first. I want to see him melt.”

Jeongguk grins, wicked and fond. “You’re evil.”

“Oops.”

They lie in silence a little longer. The air hums with possibilities.

“I hope he comes out with us again,” Jeongguk says.

“He will,” Jimin replies, confident. “He’ll try to resist. He’ll fail. And then we’ll make him feel like the prettiest boy on Earth.”

Jeongguk sighs happily. “That’s our specialty.”

[A few days later… | 1 p.m.]

Seokjin stares at his phone like it just proposed marriage.

[Jimin]
Be there tomorrow at 5 p.m.
if you're interested and want to have a fun evening
[📍Lake Sunyeo]
PS: bring snacks. not optional.

He’s read it six times already. Okay, maybe seventeen times since yesterday.

He refreshes the thread. Again. As if the message will change. Or clarify. Or sprout instructions like “this is not a date, relax, hyung.”

It does not.

Instead, it sits there — breezy, flirtatious, maddeningly vague — like a glitter bomb of possibilities.

“Fun evening,” Seokjin mutters, pacing a slow circle around his kitchen island. “That could mean anything. Picnic. Swimming. Nude spiritual cleansing.”

He winces at himself.

Okay, not that.

Still. The lake? At sunset? That’s basically couple-coded. And sure, maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe Jimin and Jeongguk just want to hang out. Like friends. Like friendly friends who happen to have devastating jawlines and matching tattoos and the shared power to short-circuit his entire nervous system.

But also—Jeongguk’s forearms. The biceps. The military did a number on that boy and Seokjin is not okay. And Jimin? Lush, plumb in all the right places, but also feral as a panther.

Worse, he suspects they know it.

“I’m not falling for this,” he says aloud. “This is a trap.”

He opens his closet. Stares into the void.

“This is how I die.”

And picks the silk shirt.

It’s dark blue, nearly black in low light, with buttons he can leave half-undone. He debates pairing it with simple jeans — something chill, something understated — but who is he kidding?

If he's going to implode, he might as well look stunning while doing it.

He throws the shirt onto the bed and reaches for his cologne. Subtle, he reminds himself. Not I'm trying to seduce two men who could bench-press me.

But also not dad at brunch.

He lands on warm vanilla and cedarwood , because it’s elegant and a little flirty — like him, on a good day, when he’s not full of internal screaming.

Speaking of screaming—

He opens the group chat with Namjoon and Yoongi and types:

[Seokjin]
HELP
What does it mean when two younger men ask you to come to a lake alone at sunset and "bring snacks"
Is this a murder? A date? A nature cult?

Yoongi responds instantly.

[Yoongi]
Both. You’re going to die of thirst.

[Namjoon]
Just say you’re in love already.

[Seokjin]
I AM NOT
I’m just curious. And flattered. And terrified.
I haven’t been on a casual hangout since before my discharge!!

[Yoongi]
You’re wearing the silky shirt, aren’t you.

[Seokjin]
...Maybe.

[Namjoon]
You’re doomed.
Have fun 💀

He throws his phone on the bed and groans into a pillow.

By 4:03 p.m., Seokjin has changed shirts three times, rejected every snack option in his cabinet (“nothing sexy about banana chips”), and Googled the drive time to Lake Sunyeo twice despite knowing damn well it’s under 30 minutes.

At 4:20, he puts on sunglasses. Takes them off. Puts them on again. Rehearses a cool, casual hello in the mirror:

“Oh hey, you’re here too? What a coincidence.”
Too fake.

“Hey, I brought honey rice cakes and terrible judgement, how about you?”
Too honest.

He groans.

He’s thirty-something. A national treasure. A viral sensation for singing while cooking squid.

He should not be this nervous.

But something about those two — that chaos and warmth, the way they made him feel like he belonged in the center of their orbit, even just for a night — it’s addictive. And dangerous. And maybe something else, if he lets it be.

He grabs the honey rice cakes after all.

By 4:30, he’s in the car, playlist queued, sunglasses on, and anxiety bubbling like soda in his throat.

And beneath that?

Hope.

He hates how much he’s hoping.

But also—

He kind of can’t wait to see what happens.

Chapter Text

[Lake Sunyeo]

Seokjin stares out his windshield, eyes fixed on the glistening lake ahead. The lake is gorgeous. Glistening water stretches out into the distance, dotted with the occasional ripple and a pair of swans that are either majestic or plotting murder — hard to tell. The golden hour is kissing the treetops. It’s postcard-perfect.

He’s having what one might call a wardrobe-based identity crisis.

Because, parked twenty feet away, are Jimin and Jeongguk — dressed in sweatpants, and tank tops, as if they’re about to jog three kilometers and maybe bench press a kayak.

“Oh, what the actual fuck,” Seokjin whispers, flattening himself against the steering wheel as if it will shield him from the raw, unforgiving view of them both.

Jeongguk, in a loose black tank top.

And damp-looking, wavy hair that has no right being that freshly tousled in public.

Beside him, Jimin is in cutoff sweatpants and an oversized white tank top (clearly Jeongguk’s) knotted at the waist, showing just enough skin to be criminal and yet somehow still looking sweet enough to sell you cookies for a church fundraiser.

They’re both laughing over something — Jeongguk’s dragging a bright red kayak to the water’s edge while Jimin pretends to help (read: is absolutely not helping), and the easy, effortless intimacy between them nearly knocks the wind out of Seokjin.

Meanwhile, Seokjin looks like he’s heading to an exclusive gallery opening in Gangnam.

His shirt is silky, his slacks crisp, and his sneakers so white they reflect the sunlight like a holy relic. The tote bag beside him contains a perfectly wrapped box of rice cakes, sunscreen, and a rapidly spiraling gay panic.

This is fine, he tells himself. It’s not like this is a date.

And Seokjin is actively debating if turning around and driving directly into the sea is a socially acceptable option.

Too late. Jimin spots him. He’s waving and smiling like sunshine incarnate, and Jeongguk’s beside him, arms crossed over his chest, shirt clinging in ways that make Seokjin’s pulse do Olympic-level acrobatics.

Well, Seokjin thinks as he climbs out of the car, death by embarrassment it is.

He walks over with all the casual grace of someone internally screaming. Jimin meets him halfway and immediately does a double take — his eyes roving up and down with shameless delight.

“Hyung,” Jimin gasps. “You look amazing, but…are you seriously dressed like this? For kayaking?”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Seokjin replies, voice brittle. “You said fun evening, not aquatic humiliation ritual.”

Jimin snickers. “You look like you brought a violin quartet in your trunk.”

“Good,” Seokjin says. “They’ll play at my funeral.”

Jeongguk appears beside them, dragging a bright blue kayak. His tank top is borderline illegal. His hair is slightly damp, and Seokjin has the brief, vivid thought that he could drown right now and it’d be worth it.

Jeongguk gives him a once-over, grin widening. “You look… incredible. Fancy. Fragrant.”

“Fragrant?”

“You smell like wealth.”

“I smell like stress, Jeon.”

They walk down toward the shore, where three kayaks — blue, red, and neon orange (the clown boat, Seokjin assumes is his) — are lined up. Life jackets lie in a heap, waiting to ruin his aesthetic.

“Three boats?” Seokjin asks, hesitating. “Not one big one?”

Jimin winks. “Figured you’d appreciate some space while you panic quietly.”

Fair.

Jeongguk’s already shrugging into a vest. His biceps flex. Seokjin needs to reboot his entire brain.

Jimin hands him a life jacket. “Don’t worry. If you flip, we’ll fish you out.”

“How comforting.”

Ten minutes later, on the lake Seokjin is barely staying upright.

The kayak rocks every time he shifts, and the paddle keeps catching weird angles. Jimin’s zooming ahead like some kind of sea nymph, and Jeongguk’s… Jeongguk is showing off. Obviously.

He rows in strong, perfect strokes, kayak gliding effortlessly. His back flexes under the cling of his shirt. The water sparkles. He grins over his shoulder.

“You’re doing great, hyung!”

“I will murder you with this paddle.”

Jimin cackles from the distance.

“You’re not even that far behind!” Jeongguk laughs, slowing down. “Actually, your form is pretty solid—”

“Of course it is.” Seokjin lifts his chin. “I was built for performance.”

“Same,” Jeongguk mutters, smirking.

Seokjin’s eye twitches.

He adjusts his grip, tries again — this time, smoother. His strokes start finding rhythm. And honestly? Not bad. The burn in his shoulders is real but manageable. The water feels good. The air is fresh. Jimin’s laugh echoes across the lake like windchimes.

For the first time in a while, Seokjin feels good. Relaxed. Capable.

Then Jeongguk says, “Wanna see something cool?”

“No,” Seokjin says instantly.

Too late. Jeongguk shifts his paddle, does some kind of twist-and-sweep movement, and—

SPLASH.

The kayak flips. Jeongguk disappears. Water erupts.

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

Seokjin screams. Loudly. His paddle flies across his lap as he scrambles to keep balance.

He stays upright. Barely.

Jimin is howling, bent over in his own kayak from thirty feet away.

And then Jeongguk surfaces, grinning and soaked, hair plastered down, tank top drenched and stuck to his chest.

Seokjin forgets God exists.

“You’re not allowed to look this hot while fucking up” Seokjin blurts before his brain catches up.

Jeongguk blinks up at him from the water. Then grins.

“I’m a man of contrast and I regret nothing” Jeongguk says innocently, treading water like an Olympic gold medalist. “Just needed to cool off.”

“Cool off?! You look like a centerfold ad for tactical water kinks!”

“Thanks,” Jeongguk beams.

“Not a compliment!”

Jimin’s wiping tears. “You should’ve seen your face, hyung. I thought you were gonna ascend to another plane.”

“I nearly did! I almost cried!”

Jeongguk hauls himself back into the kayak with practiced ease, still dripping, still absurdly hot, and Seokjin — dignity clinging by a thread — averts his gaze. Not fast enough.

Jeongguk catches him staring and raises a brow.

Seokjin clears his throat. “You’re wet.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Like… visibly.”

Jeongguk smiles slowly. “You want a closer look?”

Seokjin makes a sound. A whole noise. “Absolutely not!”

“Okay.”

“But also maybe later.”

Jimin: “OH MY GOD.”

By the time they make it back to shore, Seokjin’s hair is damp from sweat, his shirt is rumpled, and he has no idea how to act normal around these two.

But he feels good. Invigorated. Like he’s been pulled out of a months-long fog and dropped into something exciting, ridiculous, and strangely safe.

They share his rice cakes on a picnic blanket. Jimin feeds Jeongguk one and pretends not to notice the crumbs on his lips. Jeongguk teases Seokjin about his paddle technique. Seokjin retaliates with a flawless impersonation of Jeongguk’s flailing water flip.

It’s not a date.

But it might be the beginning of something.

By the time they’ve dried off, changed into fresh clothes, and lit the firepit out behind the small lakeside cabin Jimin apparently “borrowed from a cousin who owes him money,” Seokjin is convinced of three things:

1. He is starving.
   
   
2. He might be in love.
   
   
3. This is a date, no matter how hard they pretend otherwise.
   
   

The sky is dipped in rich indigo now, the lake a soft mirror in the fading light. Crickets hum lazily. The fire crackles with warm, golden heat — and around it sit the three of them, huddled close, fingers greasy with grilled meat and laughter still catching in their throats.

Jeongguk had somehow whipped up samgyeopsal with a mini grill he “just had in the car,” and Jimin brought three types of soju “just in case.” Seokjin, ever the Boy Scout, had brought snacks and wet wipes and his totally-over-the-top “casual” button-up, which he’s now draped like a blanket across his legs because the night air is creeping in.

“Okay,” Jeongguk says, waving a chopstick. “Worst military story. Go.”

Jimin groans. “Are we really doing trauma bonding already?”

“Of course,” Seokjin says. “How else are we supposed to pretend we’re not flirting?”

Jeongguk chokes on his rice. Jimin wheezes.

“God, hyung,” Jimin says. “Warn me before you drop quotes like that.”

“I’m just saying.” Seokjin shrugs, smug. “We all know what this is.”

“What is this?” Jeongguk grins. “Because it feels like a date.”

Seokjin tries not to spontaneously combust.

Jimin clinks his soju glass to Jeongguk’s. “Then it is.”

Seokjin blinks. “You can’t just—call it a date.”

“Oops?” Jimin leans over the flames, eyes twinkling. “Are you gonna run?”

“Maybe,” Seokjin mutters. “I am wearing good shoes.”

“You’ll trip over Jeongguk’s thighs,” Jimin says with a wink.

“Oh, he saw those already,” Jeongguk adds, helpfully. “In the kayak.”

Seokjin picks up a leaf and tries to eat it out of spite.

They’re several shots in. Jimin’s cheeks are pink, Jeongguk’s laughing easier, and Seokjin’s brain is floating somewhere in the atmosphere — warm, soft, fuzzy.

They’ve roasted sweet potatoes over the fire, argued about which idol would survive a zombie apocalypse (“I’d just charm the zombies,” Jimin said), and discussed their favorite napping positions, somehow.

Seokjin is smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. He can’t remember the last time he felt this… alive.

“I almost got kicked out of basic,” Jimin says suddenly, flopping backward into the grass behind the fire.

Seokjin gasps. “You did not.”

“I did!” Jimin flails. “I slept through three morning drills in a row!”

“You’re a criminal,” Seokjin says.

“I was tired! My bunkmate snored like a garbage disposal.”

“What happened?”

Jimin snickers. “Jeongguk covered for me.”

Jeongguk shrugs. “Said he had food poisoning. Even made fake vomit noises.”

“You’re disgusting,” Seokjin says, deeply impressed.

“I’m loyal,” Jeongguk replies, grinning. “And dramatic.”

Seokjin tips his soju glass in salute. “To loyalty and fake puke.”

“Cheers,” Jimin mumbles from the grass.

A beat of quiet settles — warm and golden. The fire pops. A soft breeze ruffles Seokjin’s hair. He glances at the two boys across from him and feels something shift — small, unspoken.

This isn’t just fun anymore.

It’s something.

A few minutes later, Jeongguk says, “I can juggle fire.”

Jimin says, “Don’t.”

Seokjin says, “I dare you.”

Two minutes later, Jeongguk is twirling a flaming marshmallow skewer like he’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

“He’s gonna die,” Jimin says calmly.

“Or we’re about to go viral,” Seokjin whispers, recording on his phone.

Jeongguk shouts, “Watch this!” right before the marshmallow flies off into the darkness and hits a nearby tree with a wet splut.

There’s a silence.

Then:

“Bullseye!” Jeongguk cheers.

“WE’RE IN A FOREST,” Seokjin screams. “NO FIRES.”

They all scramble up with the speed of adrenaline and stupidity, patting the smoking tree limb with a wet towel Jimin produced from somewhere. The tree is fine. The marshmallow is not.

Jeongguk pouts. “That was my last one.”

“Justice,” Seokjin declares.

They're breathless with laughter now, collapsed on the ground near each other like warm animals in a pile.

“You’re ridiculous,” Seokjin mumbles into his arm.

“You like it,” Jimin says, poking his side.

“I like that you both haven’t died in incredibly stupid ways yet.”

“I like that you came tonight,” Jeongguk says, quieter.

Seokjin turns his head.

Jeongguk’s looking at him — honest, gentle. Jimin’s watching too, a slow smile tugging at his lips.

Seokjin feels his chest pull tight.

“I almost didn’t,” he admits. “I thought maybe you just… texted out of politeness.”

Jimin sits up, brow creased. “Hyung.”

“We don’t do things out of politeness,” Jeongguk adds. “Especially not you.”

Jimin nods. “We wanted you here.”

Seokjin wants to believe them. Really, truly. And something about the way they’re both looking at him — soft but intense, real — makes it easier to try.

He swallows. “Then I’m glad I came.”

“Me too,” Jimin says. “We needed more chaos in our lives.”

“And more broad shoulders,” Jeongguk adds, nudging Seokjin’s arm.

“Damn right,” Seokjin mutters, trying not to blush.

The stars are coming out above them. The fire crackles low. And as the night deepens, Seokjin lets himself lean just a little closer. Not into a kiss. Not into anything big.

Just… closer.

And neither of them pull away.

[1 Week later]

Seokjin stares at the group chat message again as he zips up his thick, weatherproof jacket.

[Jimin]
[📍Elysian Gangchon Ski Resort]
get ready to fall in love with the mountains 😘
be there on Saturday at 11, we got passes!!

Followed by:

[Jeongguk]
Jimin’s gonna break his ass again lol
dress WARM, hyung. SNOWBOARDING 🏂🏂🏂

Seokjin snorts. “Dress warm,” they said. Like he’s some glittering porcelain doll with no concept of outdoor sports. (He might be. But not in the snow.)

He zips up his black snow jacket — fitted, tasteful, still with a dramatic collar because he’s not an animal — and makes sure his board is waxed and ready.

What they don’t know: Seokjin grew up boarding. Weekends in his teens spent on the slopes with cousins in Gangwon-do. He practically learned to turn before he could parallel park.

He cannot wait to ruin their day.

[Elysian Gangchon Ski Resort]

Jeongguk’s the first one he sees — tousled black beanie, goggles pushed to the top of his head, and a puffy jacket that somehow still shows off his waist. He’s strapping into his bindings beside a sulking Jimin, who is already lying on the snow.

“Hyung,” Jimin wails. “Save me.”

“You’re not even on the slope yet,” Seokjin deadpans.

“I’ve fallen emotionally.”

“From what? Optimism?”

Jeongguk snorts behind his glove.

Seokjin plants his board in the snow beside them, eyes gleaming. “So… who’s teaching me today?”

“Oh no,” Jeongguk grins. “We’re not teachers, hyung. We’re guides. You just follow us and try not to cry.”

Seokjin makes a show of gulping. “I’ll try.”

Jimin pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I fall for everyone on the first run.”

“Emotionally or physically?”

“Yes.”

Jeongguk takes the lead, carving confident S-curves down the bunny slope.

Jimin follows like a drunken ballerina — legs flailing, yelling the entire way.

Seokjin stays just behind them, coasting gracefully, hiding his form under clumsy turns and a few fake wobbles. He nearly faceplants once — on purpose — and Jeongguk shouts back, “Looking good, hyung!”

“You’re so supportive,” Seokjin says sweetly, flipping him off with a mittened hand.

At the bottom, Jimin is face-down in the snow, screaming into the earth.

Jeongguk lifts him by the armpits. “You good?”

“My soul is bruised,” Jimin moans. “And possibly my tailbone.”

“I can rub lotion on it later,” Jeongguk offers.

“I will hold you to that.”

Seokjin lets out an unimpressed hum. “Can I try the intermediate slope now?”

Jeongguk blinks. “Hyung… we haven’t even done the beginner full course yet.”

Seokjin smiles sweetly. “Oh. That’s fine. I just like going a bit faster.”

Jimin and Jeongguk exchange a look.

Seokjin is already halfway to the lift.

They follow him — mostly out of curiosity, partly out of ego.

It takes exactly five seconds into the descent for Seokjin to drop the act.

He pushes off the slope like he was born in snow — knees bent just right, board carving clean, sharp lines through the fresh powder. He leans into the turns with ridiculous confidence, spinning 180 once just for flair.

Jeongguk actually gasps.

Jimin straight up yells: “HE’S HOTTER WHEN HE’S FAST—”

Seokjin swerves backwards to face them mid-run and shouts, “Keep up, losers!”

Jeongguk shouts, “HYUNG, WHO ARE YOU??”

Seokjin just cackles and disappears down the slope like a hot anime protagonist in goggles.

They find him waiting smugly at the bottom of the hill, casually adjusting his gloves.

“You—” Jeongguk huffs. “You LIED.”

“Hyung, I trusted you,” Jimin gasps, limping dramatically. “And you betrayed me with athleticism!”

Seokjin beams. “Oops.”

“I’m never trusting a pretty face again,” Jeongguk mutters.

Jimin leans against Seokjin like a broken doll. “I think my bones are all pointing the wrong way.”

“Want to take a break?”

“No. I want revenge.”

Somehow, a lunch break turns into a snowball brawl.

It starts innocently — Jimin tries to make a tiny snow heart and Jeongguk smashes it.

Then someone (Seokjin) flings a snowball at Jeongguk’s back.

Then Jimin screams, “IT’S ON!” and full war is declared.

At one point, Jeongguk tackles Seokjin into a pile of snow with a “FOR HONOR!” and Seokjin ends up half-buried, howling with laughter while Jimin pelts them both from a five-foot distance yelling “FEAR ME!”

Jeongguk loses a glove. Seokjin eats snow. Jimin takes four hits to the thigh and declares himself dead.

It’s chaos. It’s freezing.

It’s the most fun Seokjin’s had in months.

They thaw out in the lodge café, cheeks flushed, hair tousled.

Jimin nurses a hot chocolate. Jeongguk sucks on a straw like it insulted him. Seokjin — graceful, smug, still slightly damp — enjoys a coffee and glares at their snow-covered boots melting on the floor.

“My ass hurts,” Jimin says to no one.

“I can help with that,” Jeongguk offers again, too quickly.

“You better.”

Seokjin groans and tosses a napkin at them. “You’re flirting like middle schoolers.”

Jeongguk points a finger. “Says the man who snowboarded like he was auditioning for a drama.”

Jimin sighs dreamily. “Hot Chaebol Son Who Returns Home For The Winter.”

Seokjin smirks. “Did it work?”

Both: “Yes.”

They’ve loaded the boards, changed into dry clothes, and argued for twenty minutes about where to eat next (Jimin wins: Korean BBQ). Seokjin’s cheeks hurt from smiling, his legs ache in that good post-sport way, and his heart is full.

Jimin leans in for a hug. “Thanks for coming, hyung.”

“Thanks for tricking me,” Jeongguk grumbles, but hugs him too. “You were cool. Annoying. But cool.”

Seokjin ruffles Jeongguk’s hair. “I like you better with snow down your pants.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

They all groan.

They part ways after dinner — for now.

But as Seokjin drives home, muscles warm, lips twitching with leftover laughter, he realizes something:

He’s not spiraling this time.

He’s looking forward.

And maybe — just maybe — they are too.

[Jimin and Jeongguk’s apartment | evening]

The ride back from the slopes was mostly quiet — the kind of quiet that settles in after a day full of adrenaline and too much laughter. By the time they get home, Jeongguk’s already kicked off his boots, pulled out his oversized hoodie, and is shuffling around the apartment like a sleepy domestic menace.

Jimin, however, is dramatically horizontal on the couch.

"Hyung," Jeongguk says, walking by with a bottle of water and a fresh tangerine. "You’ve been sighing for ten minutes straight. Did you sprain something besides your pride?"

Jimin cracks one eye open. "I’m in pain."

"Where?"

"My dignity."

Jeongguk lifts an eyebrow. "Be more specific."

Jimin flips over with a wince. "My butt, Jeongguk. My entire ass is out of alignment with the rest of my body. I fell so many times I think it filed a resignation letter."

Jeongguk tries not to laugh. Fails.

“I told you snowboarding wasn’t as easy as it looked.”

“I was trying to impress Seokjin, okay?”

“And you did,” Jeongguk assures, dropping to sit beside him, voice soft now. “He laughed so hard he almost fell over. You were… weirdly endearing.”

“Emphasis on ‘weirdly,’ huh?” Jimin mutters.

Jeongguk hums. Then, after a pause, “So… still think you wanna try this?”

Jimin tilts his head toward him. “You mean... Seokjin?”

Jeongguk nods, face open. “We’re not rushing anything. But I liked today. Not just because of the snow or the chaos or how stupidly good his shoulders looked in that jacket—”

“Oh my God, the shoulders,” Jimin groans.

“—but just... the vibe. Us three. I don’t know what it is yet. But I wanna keep finding out.”

Jimin smiles slowly. “Me too.”

There’s a pause. Then:

“…I have lotion,” Jeongguk says casually, too casually.

Jimin narrows his eyes. “You—what?”

“I brought it for after snowboarding. For sore muscles.”

Jimin smirks. “You’re such a Boy Scout.”

Jeongguk shrugs one shoulder, already standing and heading toward the bathroom. “Scout’s got hands. And lotion. And a patient heart.”

“…You forgot the sinful intentions,” Jimin calls after him.

Jeongguk pokes his head back in with a wink. “Those come standard.”

[That Same Night — at a Late Café]

“I swear to God,” Seokjin groans into his tea, “they planned the whole thing just to ruin me emotionally and spiritually.”

Yoongi leans across the tiny café table, sipping his americano like he has all the time in the world. “So... they seduced you with snow?”

“I thought you hated the cold,” Namjoon adds, eyebrow raised.

“I do! But they were persistent! They said snowboarding! So I thought: okay, I’ll come, I’ll do a cute tumble or two, maybe one of them will catch me in their muscular arms—but no!”

“What happened instead?” Yoongi asks, deadpan.

“I smoked them down the slope like a winter anime protagonist,” Seokjin declares, sitting straighter. “Turns out, they didn’t know I grew up on the board.”

“You grew up on a snowboard?” Namjoon repeats, eyes wide.

Yoongi makes a soft “hah” of delight. “That’s so unfair.”

“Right??” Seokjin beams. “Jimin fell on his ass like six times. Jeongguk tried to look cool but I saw the panic in his knees.”

“Did you look cool?” Namjoon asks seriously.

Seokjin gestures at himself. “Do I ever not?”

Yoongi nods sagely. “That explains why they haven’t stopped texting you since.”

“They haven’t?” Namjoon blinks.

Seokjin pauses. Then sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, not non-stop, but. They checked in after. Sent memes. Asked how I got so hot in a snow jacket.”

Namjoon grins. “Are you spiraling again?”

“Just a small spiral. A sexy spiral.”

Yoongi clinks his coffee cup against Seokjin’s. “To sexy spirals.”

“Cheers,” Seokjin mutters into his tea.

“You seeing them again?” Namjoon asks.

“I don’t know.”

Yoongi just raises an eyebrow. Seokjin deflates.

“Okay, yes.”

“Because you like them?”

“…Yes.”

Namjoon grins. “You know, for someone who claimed to be casual, you’re emotionally invested so fast.”

“I’m a passionate man.”

Yoongi sips his drink. “You’re a drama queen with excellent taste.”

Seokjin leans back, letting the warmth of the tea and his friends’ support settle into him. Outside, the city glows with late-night neon. His phone buzzes with another meme from Jimin, followed by a thumbs-up emoji from Jeongguk.

Seokjin doesn’t open it right away. But he smiles.

Maybe it’s okay not to know where this is going just yet.

Maybe it’s enough that it’s going somewhere.

Back at home, when Seokjin finally rests on the couch, his phone buzzes.

It starts harmlessly enough.

Jimin sends a picture of the lake from the other day — all soft watercolors, golden light, peaceful vibes.

[Jimin] 
thinking about last time. wanna do it again?

[Seokjin]
Of course. It was fun. Chill. Totally platonic and not soul-shakingly intimate at all. Just friends hanging out in nature.
Where are we going next?

Then it begins.

Ping.

A photo comes in. Not of nature. Unless you count the full stretch of Jeongguk’s V-line as a natural wonder.

He’s shirtless, loose sweatpants slung irresponsibly low, abs sharp enough to slice Seokjin’s willpower clean in half. There’s a sheen of sweat across his torso and a caption that reads: “I regret nothing”

[Jeongguk] 
working out. thinking of you as resistance weight 😉

Seokjin blinks. Misses a breath. Forgets language. Tries to pretend he’s fine.

He is not fine.

[Seokjin] 
Why are you like this.

Jimin sends a follow-up.

This time: a mirror selfie.

Back turned. Sweatpants obscenely snug on his butt. Shirt raised to show the moon tattoos dotting his spine like a constellation of destruction. His caption? “Oops. Did I hit ‘send’?”

[Jimin] 
Did you know the moon controls tides? 🌊 Thought I’d raise yours a bit.

Seokjin drops his phone face down on the couch and walks away. For air. For composure. For sanity.

He makes it as far as the kitchen before his phone pings again.

He knows he shouldn’t.

He looks anyway.

[Jeongguk] 
[photo of thigh shot, gray sweats, one leg raised on a bench] 
We stretch before we sin.

[Jimin] 
[photo from behind, both of them shirtless, low angle — it’s art, really. Museum-worthy.] 
Guess which one of us moans louder.

Seokjin throws himself across the couch in agony. Groans into a pillow.

Tries to respond:

[Seokjin] 
Are you trying to kill me? You can’t just drop THIS in the middle of my Saturday night!

Ping.

Another pic.

This one: a close-up of Jeongguk’s back tattoo. Muscles rippling. Lighting criminal.

Then Jimin again. Half-lidded, smirking, biting his lip.

[Seokjin] 
I’m reporting this thread to the authorities.
I’m serious. This is cyberbullying. Erotic terrorism.

He starts typing another message but never sends it — because right then, the final boss of unhinged chaos lands in his inbox:

Photo: Jeongguk and Jimin side by side, full body, wearing tank tops and sweats, both grinning like they know what they’ve done to him.

Jimin’s halfway to laughing. Jeongguk has his hand over his mouth in fake innocence. The caption reads:

[Jimin & Jeongguk] 
So... when are you free again? 😇

Seokjin screams into his pillow. Again.

Seokjin’s camera roll is shameful now. There are folders. Secret folders. One just labeled “Weapons of Mass Distraction.” He thinks about deleting them. He doesn’t.

Namjoon sends him a meme at 2:15.

[Namjoon] 
u up or still spiraling?

[Seokjin]
Define spiraling.
Is it when your entire concept of self crumbles under the weight of two aggressively hot men with no regard for human decency?

[Namjoon] 
So yes.
Yoongi chimes in one minute later.

[Yoongi] 
Remember to hydrate. You’re gonna need it.

Seokjin stares at the chat. Then back at his photos. Then at the mirror.

“…I’m so screwed.”

And maybe… maybe he kinda likes it.

[1 day later]

This time… he’s prepared.

They thought they could destroy Kim Seokjin, master of mirrors and angles? Ha.

He’s got mood lighting, natural glow filters, and a deep understanding of how to pose like a snack.

It’s time to serve.

Attempt #1: The Bed Pic

Seokjin lies down, shirt slightly lifted, lips parted.
He glances at the pic.
He looks like a man mid-yawn. Or like he passed out watching Netflix.

Delete.

Attempt #2: Bathroom Mirror Pic

Flexed arm. Rolled-up sleeve. Slight jawline pop.

He checks the preview.

He looks… like a dad sending proof to his group chat that he finally went to the gym.

Delete.

Attempt #3: Water Bottle Selfie (don’t ask)

He was trying to look sweaty and hot.
Instead, he looks like a hydration commercial.

Delete. Immediately.

“I am a disgrace,” he mutters, flopping across the bed.

He sighs, stares at his phone… and then…

It happens by accident.

He leans against the dresser to grab his hoodie. His phone’s timer had still been on from the previous photo attempts. The result?

A high-angled shot — his head slightly tilted, one hand resting on his hip, hoodie lifted just enough to show the subtle taper of his waist. Soft lighting. A natural pout.

He opens the photo. Blinks.

“…Wait.”

He looks… hot.

No — devastating. Lethal.
Cute, but hot. Like, dream boyfriend with a secret sinful side hot.

He bites his lip. Sends it without caption.

And waits.

Jimin and Jeongguk are lounging together on the couch, nursing sore muscles from a gym session. Jeongguk’s scrolling TikTok. Jimin’s halfway through applying lotion to his aching muscles.

Ping.

From: Seokjin

They open the photo.

Silence.

“...Oh,” Jimin breathes.

Jeongguk adjusts his position like the couch is suddenly too small for his entire soul.

Jimin swallows. “He—he wasn’t playing around.”

“He was cute the whole way, and then just—attacked.”

“I feel targeted.”

They stare another five seconds.

Then both groan in stereo and immediately send a response:

[Jimin & Jeongguk]
you win. we’re ruined. karaoke next weekend or we riot.

[1 week later | Karaoke Bar Key키 High]

He walks in like he’s not absolutely spiraling inside.

Jimin and Jeongguk are already there, grinning like cats who caught the very sexy canary.

“You came,” Jeongguk says, his eyes sparkling with knowledge. Jimin bites his straw and winks.

“You invited me,” Seokjin says casually, sitting down and dramatically adjusting his jacket to not look like he’s self-conscious about how hard they’re looking at him.

“We’re still recovering,” Jimin murmurs, handing him a drink.

“From what?”

Jeongguk leans in, voice a purr: “Waist pic, hyung. Waist. Pic.”

Seokjin short-circuits.

To cover it, he grabs the remote. “Enough flirting. Let’s sing.”

The chaos begins.

Jimin picks “WANNABE” by ITZY and performs every move with dangerous precision and a wink every time “I don’t wanna be somebody” hits.

Jeongguk does a soulful rendition of a ballad, complete with dramatic eye contact at Seokjin.

Seokjin, flustered but rising to the challenge, picks an old-school trot song… and absolutely slays it — doing finger hearts while Jimin scream-laughs in the background.

Then the tequila shots come.

Jimin accidentally picks a Japanese rock song and belts it with horrifying pronunciation.

Jeongguk, tipsy, attempts a sexy body roll during a slow song and knees the table.

Seokjin chokes laughing, nearly spills his drink, and Jeongguk declares it “the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.”

Later, Seokjin tries to leave the couch, and both Jimin and Jeongguk just cling to him dramatically like overgrown puppies.

“You can’t leave,” Jimin whispers, face pressed to Seokjin’s arm. “The room gets cold without you.”

Jeongguk: “The tequila gets lonely.”

Seokjin: “You guys are the worst.”

But he doesn’t stop smiling.

Not once.

A few hours later, their throats are sore. The tequila is gone. Jimin’s lying sideways across the couch, humming, while Jeongguk plays absently with his hair. Seokjin watches from the beanbag.

Everything is warm, drowsy, messy in the best way.

And then—

Jeongguk turns his head, presses a kiss to the corner of Jimin’s mouth.

Casual. Familiar. Gentle.

Jimin just hums and turns toward him, giving a second kiss — this one full on the lips. Slow. Soft. Their noses brush. Jeongguk’s hand cups Jimin’s jaw like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Seokjin makes an inhuman sound from his beanbag.

They part, grinning.

Jimin turns his head toward him — hair mussed, lips a little pink, eyes glinting.

“Hyung,” he purrs, “do you wanna see what it looks like when we really kiss?”

Seokjin can’t breathe. “Jimin—”

But Jeongguk’s already sliding forward. “Don’t scare him off,” he says — voice low, playful.

“Not scaring,” Jimin murmurs. “Inviting.”

He reaches out with a finger and crooks it at Seokjin.

“Come here.”

Something in Seokjin clicks. Maybe it’s the fireball tequila. Maybe it’s how their faces look in this low golden light. Maybe it’s just the hunger that’s been building under his skin for weeks.

He crawls forward.

They wait, open and warm and glowing.

And then — Jimin cups his cheek. Jeongguk’s hand brushes his wrist.

Jimin leans in first — not rushed. Not wild. Just… close.

Seokjin’s lips part the second they touch.

It’s a kiss. But not just.

It’s lips that part again, linger. Tongues that meet, slow and exploring. Jeongguk moves in behind Jimin and runs a hand along Seokjin’s jawline — not kissing him yet, just being there. Watching.

Seokjin makes a small sound — helpless — and kisses deeper. Jimin sighs into it, tilting his head, deepening the slide of tongue and warmth and hot breath. His hand grips Seokjin’s shirt.

By the time they part, Seokjin has to physically shift back on his knees because something below the belt is not playing games.

“Wow,” he croaks.

Jeongguk grins like the sun itself.

Jimin leans back on his elbows, looking entirely satisfied. “You alright, hyung?”

“No.”

“Want another one?”

Seokjin’s voice breaks. “Eventually.”

And that’s when they laugh — all three of them, heads tossed back, breathless, stupid, and overwhelmed in the most blissful way.

Seokjin thinks he’s not okay.

He thought he was. He wanted to be. He’d even worn his reliable pretty-boy sweater tonight, hair done in just the right degree of “effortless,” lips moisturized like a K-pop idol with a secret. He'd prepped. He'd planned.

But what he didn’t plan for…

…was them.

Jeongguk's hand is still curled around Jimin’s hip, thumb tucked just beneath the hem of his shirt. His palm splayed like he owns the entire fucking continent of Jimin's waist. And Jimin—Jimin’s head is tilted back, bare throat bared, lips parted and plush, eyes barely open like this kiss is the air he breathes.

And Jeongguk?

Jeongguk is devouring him.

Not messy. Not greedy. No — methodical. Deep. Filthy, slow mouth-kissing that’s full of confidence and command. He shifts Jimin’s body with barely-there pressure, moving him into angles that make him gasp and shiver. One palm cradles the back of his head. The other grips under Jimin’s thigh now, pulling him into his lap until Jimin straddles him like they’ve done this a hundred times.

And Seokjin — who is seated three feet away with a half-drunk peach soju in his hand — is now physically clutching his own knee for dear life.

“Oh my god,” he breathes.

Neither of them looks away.

Jeongguk dips his tongue into Jimin’s mouth again, teeth catching on his bottom lip. Jimin moans — moans — into the kiss like he’s being pulled under. His hands slide beneath Jeongguk’s shirt and the muscles there flex, the tattoos peeking out over his waistband like little sins being whispered against skin.

“Holy shit, this is how I die,” Seokjin mutters.

He fumbles for his phone.

He does not intend to record. Truly. He just wants to — save it. Freeze this fever dream moment and prove to his tomorrow-morning self that it actually happened. That Jeon Jeongguk kissed Park Jimin like he was starved, and Park Jimin melted like he was born for it.

Click.

He takes one photo.

Just one.

Then Jeongguk’s hand slides up the back of Jimin’s neck and grips his hair gently, tilting his head to the other side, tongue licking in deeper like a promise. And Jimin groans — from his soul — and grinds down on Jeongguk’s lap just once, so fluid it looks choreographed.

Seokjin hits record without thinking.

Because this — this is art.

His inner narrator goes wild. (Tipsy brain Seokjin, a dramatic poet from the Joseon dynasty):

This is a masterpiece.
This is marble and sweat and Renaissance sin.
This is what Da Vinci wanted.
No one man should look that powerful and that kissable at the same time.
*Jimin is a fallen god. A glimmering little devil. A sinful cherry blossom. And Jeongguk? Jeongguk is the storm. *

And right then, Jeongguk breaks the kiss. Just for air.

Jimin’s chest is heaving. His lips are swollen. And Jeongguk?

He looks over at Seokjin.

Right at him. Dead on.

And he smirks.

“Hyung,” he says, voice hoarse, low and wrecked, “you’re still filming.”

Seokjin makes a noise like a rubber chicken being stepped on.

He fumbles so violently with the phone that it flies into a couch cushion. “I—NO—I WAS—ARCHIVING—”

Jimin laughs, breathless. “Archiving?!”

Jeongguk raises a brow. “For what? Your memoirs?”

Seokjin’s ears are on fire. “For—science.”

Jimin crawls across the couch and snatches the phone, still giggling. “Oh, this angle’s not bad.”

“DELETE IT.”

“Nope,” Jimin says sweetly. “It’s mine now.”

“TREASON.”

But Jeongguk just watches Seokjin with dark eyes and flushed cheeks, sweat dampening the edge of his fringe. He lifts one hand — just a little — and crooks a finger. “Come here.”

Seokjin doesn’t move.

Jimin slides in next to him and tugs at his wrist. “You want to.”

Jeongguk tilts his head. “You’re allowed to.”

Seokjin swallows. “I—I’m not sure if I can survive it.”

Both of them grin.

And Seokjin knows, right then —
This might be a game.
It might be flirting.
But it’s not a joke.

He’s not being toyed with.
He’s being invited.
And he’s so, so close to accepting.

But for now—he sits back, lets his head fall onto Jimin’s shoulder, and breathes out hard.

“I need to hydrate,” he mutters.

And they cackle.

Chapter Text

[1 one week later | The Zoo]

This was supposed to be a wholesome day.

Casual. Fun. Enrichment for the soul. Zoo therapy, Jimin had called it in their group chat — complete with a sunshine emoji and Jeongguk replying with a single bear GIF doing finger hearts.

Seokjin, who'd been playing it cool despite the 400 flaming group selfies they’d sent him last night, replied with a “🙄” and then “🦁” because...he’s got a brand to maintain.

But then Jimin sent another message:

[Jimin] 
bring ur cuteness. i want to see you squeal at the meerkats.
and Gguk wants to see you hold a goat.
don’t ask why 🫦

And now here he is.

In a baby blue shirt with delicate stitching along the collar, hair brushed back neatly, sunglasses tucked into the front of his shirt like a gentleman. Holding an artisan ice cream cone from the zoo café because he is a classy man, and it’s strawberry hibiscus and costs 8,000 won, and he is living his best life—

Until the petting zoo happens.

Until that part.

Because Jimin — adorable menace in an oversized yellow hoodie and highlighter-pink beanie — is giggling on the side, absolutely delighted while cuddling a sleepy baby goat.

And Jeongguk — all in black, of course, hoodie sleeves pushed up, tattoos peeking, with a crossbody bag and way-too-much swagger — is crouched in the grass feeding a lamb, all muscles and kindness like a Studio Ghibli himbo.

And Seokjin?

He’s being stalked.

By three goat kids. Two lambs. And an aggressive bunny with a dream.

“Hyung,” Jimin chokes, nearly snorting as the first goat headbutts Seokjin’s thigh. “You look like you wandered out of a food commercial and they’ve decided to unionize.”

“It’s the ice cream,” Seokjin hisses, spinning in a circle as the bunny attempts a stealth attack on his heel. “They’re addicted.”

“Then just finish it!”

“I can’t,” he cries. “It’s good!”

Jeongguk stands up slowly, brushing off his pants. “Give it here.”

“What?!”

“I’ll save you,” he says smoothly. “But it comes with a tax.”

Seokjin’s eyes narrow. “What kind of tax.”

“A surprise tax.”

He hesitates.

Then a fourth goat joins the fray, and Seokjin shrieks like a k-drama heroine and surrenders his cone into Jeongguk’s waiting hand with a grumble.

The goats shift. The ice cream is passed.

And then—

In one fast step, Jeongguk grabs Seokjin by the wrist. Twists him around. Backs him into the large oak at the edge of the petting enclosure with one arm caging his side and the other lifting the melting ice cream just out of reach.

Seokjin’s back hits bark. His lungs hit oh no.

“Jeongguk—”

“You still owe me that tax,” Jeongguk murmurs.

The smirk is subtle. But the eyes are hungry.

The cone tilts. A dollop falls near Seokjin’s neckline and Jeongguk licks it.

Right off his collarbone.

Seokjin blacks out for 0.7 seconds.

“Was gonna take my kiss that night, at the karaoke bar” Jeongguk murmurs, voice low. “Didn’t. Figured you’d combust.”

“I am combusting!”

And Jeongguk grins — feral, gorgeous — and finally, finally, claims his mouth.

It’s not soft.

It’s not careful.

It’s heat and tongue and payback. A groan torn from Jeongguk’s throat as he mouths against Seokjin like the tree doesn’t exist. Like they’re alone. Like he’s been holding back for months, not days and now there’s nothing stopping him. His hand presses against Seokjin’s waist. His thigh slides between Seokjin’s legs. Their mouths move in sync — wild, filthy, greedy.

Seokjin whimpers.

Somewhere behind them, Jimin lets out a high-pitched “OOOOOOOH~” and applause. The goats scatter.

When Jeongguk finally pulls back, Seokjin’s lips are pink and kiss-bruised, and his brain has left the building.

“Y—you—”

“Better than your ice cream?” Jeongguk asks, licking his lips.

Seokjin nods, dazed. “...This is how I die.”

Jeongguk just smirks, offering what’s left of the cone. “Here. You’ve earned it.”

Jimin arrives with a goat in his arms and stars in his eyes.

“I knew this zoo trip would be enriching,” he beams.

[after the Zoo | Back at Seokjin’s apartment]

The ice cream cone is still in his sink, beside an empty water glass.

He should’ve thrown it out when he got home. But his keys hit the counter, and he hit the floor. Back pressed to the wall of his hallway, phone in hand, brain buzzing.

That kiss.

That kiss.

Seokjin sighs, lets his head thunk lightly against the wall. His neck aches from laughing too hard at the goats, and there’s a smudge of ice cream on his sleeve he didn’t bother to wash. Everything’s tight and soft and good in the strangest combination.

Or, it was.

Now… it’s quiet.

And in the quiet, his thoughts return. Of course they do. They always do.

He scrolls absently through their chat thread. There’s a photo from Jeongguk, upside-down and smudged, of Jimin petting a cow with stars in his eyes. There’s a blurry selfie of all three of them, cheeks pressed together, smiling like they belong in each other’s spaces — like it’s easy. Like they’re something.

But what are they?

Seokjin exhales, lips pursed tight.

This had started as flirting. A single night, two strangers with honey voices and devil grins turning him inside out with compliments and glances and dancing that nearly killed him. But then came the lake. The fire pit. The snowboarding. The karaoke. The petting zoo.

And him.

Them.

Together.

It wasn’t just sex — they hadn’t even had sex — but it wasn’t just friendship either. Not with the way Jeongguk had kissed him like a man possessed, or the way Jimin had curled his fingers around Seokjin’s wrist during that karaoke kiss like he needed to anchor him there, in that moment, like letting go might break something open too wide to ignore.

They flirt. They tease. They touch — often. Comfortably. Like he belongs to them.

But it’s all so blurred.

Seokjin rubs the space between his brows, lets his phone fall beside him.

He doesn’t know what they want. He knows they’re interested — that much is clear. But is it just fun? A spark? A game they’re all playing to see how far it goes before someone says stop?

Or worse — before someone doesn’t?

The idea hits like a cold wave. That he might be the one who goes deeper. That they might still be the real thing — and he’s just… the side dish.

Not an appetizer. Not a dessert.

Just a garnish.

He winces.

He doesn’t want to be jealous. They’ve been nothing but kind. Thoughtful. Attentive. But a part of him — the part still soft and raw from years of quiet loneliness — is whispering that it might not last. That maybe they’ll wake up one day and decide it was a phase. Or worse: realize it’s easier to stay in the comfort of their duo, where the rhythm is already built, where he doesn’t complicate anything.

And maybe he does.

Maybe he is a complication. An outsider trying to wedge himself into a duet already perfectly harmonized.

He stands and paces to the bedroom. The lights are off, only the city spilling in through the blinds, faint and faraway. He sits on the bed and opens his camera roll.

There they are.

All the selfies. The blurry videos. The photos they’ve sent, both chaotic and criminally attractive. His fingers linger on the one of Jeongguk half-wet at the lake, on Jimin grinning under a hoodie at the fire pit, on the stolen shot he took during their karaoke kiss — a little crooked, a little shaky, but full of something electric.

He doesn’t delete it.

But he doesn’t smile, either.

“Are we just… having fun?” he whispers, thumb hovering over the screen.

His heart pounds like he’s speaking to them directly. Like they might hear him and answer — no teasing, no heat, no games.

Just truth.

Because the truth is: he wants more.

He wants mornings. He wants shared routines. He wants bickering in the kitchen and shared beds and inside jokes and comfort. He wants to be held after the kiss. Wants to be asked if he got home safe. Wants to be theirs.

But the truth is also: he’s scared.

Because what if they don’t want that?

What if they’re just bored?

Or curious?

Or worse — kind?

He curls in on himself a little, resting his cheek on his knees. The bed smells faintly like fabric softener and his own body lotion. No one else. Not yet.

He doesn’t want to ruin it. Doesn’t want to demand clarity and push too hard and chase them away. He’s not good at this — not anymore. The military dulled his social instincts, turned everything into uniform and routine. And now that he’s back, now that the world is soft again — everything feels too much. Too close.

Too fragile.

And yet…

He picks up his phone again. Opens their chat. There’s a new meme from Jimin (a penguin falling into the snow), and a message from Jeongguk under it:

[Jeongguk] 
wanna hang out next weekend?
no ice cream tho. dangerous for u.

Seokjin snorts despite himself. Then stares at the blinking cursor in the reply box.

His thumbs hesitate. Then type:

Am I just fun to you guys?

Delete. Too intense.

What are we doing?

Delete.

He exhales shakily. Then tries again.

What do you two want from me?

And again, delete. God.

In the end, he sends nothing.

Just stares at the thread for a while longer. At the laughter and joy. At the steady heartbeat of conversation from two people who keep showing up for him, who’ve never made him feel like a joke.

Maybe… maybe they’re waiting for him to ask.

Or maybe they’re just as scared.

Seokjin sighs, flops backward onto the mattress.

“Just don’t fall in love with them,” he mutters to himself.

Then immediately groans into a pillow. “Too late.”

He hadn’t seen them in a week. One week, seven days, one-hundred-sixty-eight hours. He counted. Not actively, but like someone noticing the ticking of a clock while pretending not to look.

The kiss haunted him. The way Jeongguk's lips had pressed against his with a kind of quiet urgency, a certainty. And the way Jimin had leaned against the tree afterward, laughing gently, eyes soft and knowing, like he knew how Seokjin’s knees were still weak.

So when Jimin messaged two days ago with a casual, “There’s an exhibition Jeongguk’s been dying to see. Wanna come?”, Seokjin had stared at the screen for a full ten minutes before typing:
Sure. Just a hangout. No big deal.
Then deleting it.
Then writing:
Yeah, sounds nice. When?

It was Saturday now, and he stood outside the gallery in something artsy-but-effortless (read: he’d changed three times) — a soft charcoal coat, black trousers, rings. The air smelled like oncoming rain and city dust.

They were already inside.

He spots them near the entrance of the main hall: Jeongguk in black slacks and a ribbed turtleneck with that damn silver chain, and Jimin in something slouchy and cream-colored, layered and loose, as if wrapped in luxury without trying.

God, they looked like... a problem.

“Jin-hyung!” Jimin lights up, bouncing a little in his boots. “You made it!”

Seokjin’s smile catches like a breath. “Of course. I heard the art here was tolerable.”

Jeongguk gives a soft laugh, eyes crinkling. “Harsh. Let’s see if I can change your mind.”

They begin slowly — room by room, glass and light and shadow — moving through the collection of surrealist moderns and emotive abstracts. The gallery is quiet, the type of silence that makes you whisper even if there’s no sign telling you to.

Jeongguk has a sketchbook in one hand, though he’s barely opened it. He walks with them, pausing longer at certain works, arms crossed or hands behind his back, utterly focused.

Seokjin, however, is focused on them.

How Jimin's hand keeps brushing his coat sleeve. How Jeongguk leans closer to speak into his ear, low-voiced, sometimes not even about the art — “This one reminds me of the way your laugh echoes, loud and dramatic.” Or: “That one’s called ‘Feral Decay’ and I’m almost certain Jimin modeled for it.”

At one point, Jimin takes his phone out and shows Seokjin a blurry picture of Jeongguk scowling in front of a sculpture shaped like a broken heart. “He said it was ‘predictable.’ But then he stared at it for five full minutes. He’s an art-snob with feelings.”

“I regret nothing,” Jeongguk mutters from behind.

They turn into a private wing — more intimate, deeper tones, lower light.

Seokjin notices a curious shift in the air. Less commentary. More breathing.

And then—

“Hey, this one’s mine,” Jeongguk says, almost sheepishly, motioning to a painting at the far end. A placard with his name, low on the wall.

Seokjin stops.

It’s Jimin.

At least... it’s unmistakably inspired by him. Not literal. But his shape, the line of his throat, the slope of his hip where a bedsheet falls off it — bare skin, lazy sensuality, starlight curling over soft edges.

It’s not vulgar, not pornographic. It’s devastating.

Jimin raises a brow, smug. “He calls it ‘Luna Incarnata.’”

“Moon-born,” Jeongguk translates with a tiny smirk, arms crossed as he observes Seokjin’s expression. “He posed for me. Private project. It’s not for sale. Not even shown, usually.”

“And yet here it is,” Seokjin says, dry, unable to look away. “Was this... part of the plan? To obliterate me today?”

Jimin hums. “No. That’s just bonus.”

The three of them stand in silence. The brushwork is intimate. The lighting in the painting mirrors the warm blush crawling up Seokjin’s neck.

“You really are... good,” Seokjin says finally, voice lower than expected.

Jeongguk looks at him. Not proud. Just soft. “Thanks, hyung.”

They move again, quieter now.

Later, Jimin links his arm through Seokjin’s without a word. They walk close, too close — warmth brushing warmth, fingers brushing by accident again and again until it’s not an accident anymore.

Jeongguk leans in to murmur, “Didn’t think you’d be that moved.”

“I wasn’t moved,” Seokjin lies.

“Oh, right. You just looked like you were about to kiss the painting.”

“I’ll kiss you,” Seokjin threatens, before realizing what he’s said.

Jimin laughs so hard he nearly walks into a pillar.

In the sculpture hall, Jeongguk stands behind Seokjin, pointing out the marble work of a twisted torso. His breath brushes Jin’s ear. His hand settles on Seokjin’s shoulder.

Jimin’s fingers linger at Seokjin’s wrist, where his cuff has slipped, tracing a vein with the back of a knuckle. “You tense?”

“A little,” Seokjin admits.

“Want to sit down?”

“No. I’ll survive.”

Jimin smiles, clearly amused by his suffering.

The sun has lowered by the time they exit the gallery, golden light spilling down city sidewalks.

Jimin stretches like a cat. “You hungry?”

“Always,” Jeongguk says.

They end up in a small café next door — wood interiors, big windows, quiet music. Seokjin gets an espresso; Jeongguk, a matcha; Jimin, some absurdly colorful tea he says reminds him of galaxy gummies.

Jeongguk flicks a napkin at Jimin for stealing a bite of his croissant. Jimin flicks it back. Seokjin tries not to fall in love.

They don’t talk about the kisses.

They don’t need to.

Everything in their gestures says it: We remember. We want more. We’ll wait.

It’s the kind of tension that simmers instead of boiling. It cooks you slowly. Tender. Dangerous.

When Seokjin finally gets home, he flops backward onto his bed, coat half-off, heart somewhere in his throat.

He opens their group chat.

[Jimin]
[image of Jeongguk’s sketchbook page, a vague shape that looks suspiciously like Seokjin’s neck]
Gukkie got distracted again 🥺

[Jeongguk]
😑 shut up

[Seokjin]
Was the gallery today a trap? Be honest.

[Jeongguk]
yes

[Jimin]
💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋

[a few days later | 2 hours before movie night]

“I feel like I’m flirting with a statue,” Jimin says, flopping dramatically across their bed, his shirt riding up just enough to be distracting. “A gorgeous, emotionally-repressed statue, but still.”

Jeongguk doesn’t look up from where he’s stacking chips and candy into a tote bag. “You’re just mad he hasn’t jumped you.”

“I’m mad he hasn’t jumped you. Have you seen your jawline lately?”

Jeongguk shrugs. “He’s shy.”

“He’s terrified.”

“He kissed back.”

“…He did.”

They both go silent, thinking about those days. The karaoke bar. The tree. The stunned look on Seokjin’s face both times. The way he flushed all the way to his ears. The way he whimpered.

“He likes us,” Jimin says softly, propping his chin on his hand.

“I know,” Jeongguk agrees, pulling out a blanket for later. “But he’s… waiting for something. Or testing us.”

“Think he thinks we’ll stop?”

“Maybe,” Jeongguk says, then adds, “Maybe we’ve been too subtle.”

Jimin laughs. “You dry-humped me in front of a lake, Guk.”

Jeongguk grins. “Not with him.”

Silence again. A mutual glance.

“We go harder tonight?” Jimin asks, batting his lashes.

“Harder,” Jeongguk nods, already grabbing the softer couch pillows. “More cuddles. More touches. No pressure.”

“And if he panics?”

“We’ll hold him through it.”

Seokjin nearly cancels.

The whole ride over, he sits on the subway questioning everything from his choice of sweater (Is it too cozy? Too domestic?) to whether he should have bought that ridiculous “retro popcorn bucket” Jeongguk off-handedly said he liked.

He clutches it anyway.

When Jimin opens the door, barefoot and grinning, Seokjin forgets how to breathe.

“Hi, hyung,” Jimin purrs. He’s wearing tiny shorts and an oversized hoodie and that smile — it’s sinful. “Come in.”

Jeongguk’s already in the living room, dimming the lights and tuning the projector. He glances over his shoulder. “Hey. You brought the bucket?”

Seokjin mutely hands it over.

“You’re cute,” Jeongguk says, inspecting it with a smile that hits far too hard for 7:00 p.m. “We’ll fill it with the fake butter popcorn you hate.”

“Can’t wait,” Seokjin croaks.

The couch is a nest of pillows and throws. There’s hot cocoa on the table, a tray of snacks, and enough space for three — barely.

The movie starts (some historical fantasy action thing with swords and slow-mo rain fights), but Seokjin can’t concentrate because they’re everywhere.

Jimin flops sideways with his head in Seokjin’s lap.

Jeongguk wedges in beside him, thigh pressed tightly along Seokjin’s.

Seokjin sits stiff for exactly twelve minutes until Jeongguk reaches across him for the popcorn and murmurs, “Relax, hyung.”

Jimin adds, “Yeah, we’re just friends who snuggle.”

“You say that like it’s normal.”

“It’s our normal,” Jimin says, and nuzzles deeper into Seokjin’s thigh. “Now pet my hair or I’ll cry.”

Somewhere around the second act of the movie, Jeongguk’s fingers curl lightly around Seokjin’s wrist — not possessive, just there, tracing idle shapes. Jimin hums every now and then when Seokjin shifts, sighing like he’s never been more content.

Seokjin thinks he might melt. Or combust.

He runs fingers through Jimin’s hair. Jeongguk squeezes his wrist. There’s a moment where Jeongguk looks at him — really looks — and says nothing.

But Seokjin feels it. The weight of the kisses. The promise of more.

It’s the softest kind of intimacy. The kind you don’t know you’re starved for until you’re halfway drowning in it.

The credits roll. The lights stay low. No one moves.

“Well,” Jimin says eventually, stretching like a cat and blinking up at Seokjin. “Now what?”

Jeongguk’s hand slides down to Seokjin’s. “We could talk.”

Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “About the movie?”

“No.”

Jimin grins, flips onto his back, head still in Seokjin’s lap. “We could play a game.”

“Dangerous words from you.”

“Truth or dare,” Jimin says with a glint in his eyes.

“Oh no.”

“Truth,” Jeongguk cuts in, leaning on an elbow. “Jin-hyung, do you want us?”

Seokjin chokes on air.

“Jimin,” he gasps. “Make your man stop. That’s not how you play this.”

“He’s your man, too,” Jimin says sweetly.

“Jimin.”

Jeongguk watches him carefully. No teasing in his expression now. “We’re not pushing,” he says. “We’re just wondering if you’re waiting for us to stop.”

“I’m…” Seokjin swallows. “I’m not sure what I want.”

“That’s okay,” Jimin says, finally serious.

“But you’re sure you like us?” Jeongguk asks.

Seokjin looks between them. Jimin’s flushed cheeks. Jeongguk’s patient eyes.

“Yes,” he says quietly. “Too much.”

Jeongguk leans in. Just a press of lips against Seokjin’s temple. “Then let us show you. Just... let us be close.”

Seokjin exhales, shaky. “Okay.”

They move slowly.

Not into sex — not yet — but into space. Into each other.

Jeongguk pulls Seokjin down until they’re all laying together. Jimin curls against his side. Jeongguk tucks behind him. Their arms tangle like they were always meant to.

It’s quiet.

Comfortable.

Until Jeongguk whispers, “Your heart’s beating like crazy.”

“Is not.”

“Wanna bet?” Jimin murmurs, trailing fingers down Seokjin’s chest.

“This is how I die,” Seokjin mumbles, eyes fluttering shut.

“You love us,” they say in unison.

He doesn’t deny it.

Chapter Text

[3 days later]

The coffee shop is quiet — soft jazz in the background, warm light bleeding through the windows, Namjoon’s long legs folded awkwardly under a table that’s just a bit too low for him.

Seokjin is already halfway through a croffle, powdered sugar on his lips. Yoongi sits across from him, nursing a black coffee like it personally offended him. Namjoon has a matcha, unread poetry book open on the table but long since abandoned.

“So,” Namjoon says, glancing up. “You’ve been weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Like, extra weird.”

“Your face is weird.”

“Wow,” Namjoon sighs. “There it is. Full spiral deflection.”

Seokjin waves a hand in the air. “Nothing to spiral about. Everything’s great. Jimin and Jeongguk are… fun.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “That’s all they are?”

“They’re also hot,” Seokjin says too quickly, then tries to correct: “And smart. Funny. Thoughtful. Hot—did I say hot already?”

“You did,” Namjoon says.

Seokjin shoves another piece of croffle in his mouth and chews a little too aggressively.

Yoongi leans forward, tone low and knowing. “You like them.”

“Yeah, I said that.”

“No, I mean,” Yoongi pauses, eyes narrowing just slightly, “you like-like them.”

Namjoon adds, “And you’re doing that thing where you think if you ignore it, it’ll go away.”

Seokjin groans.

“No,” Namjoon presses gently. “Talk to us.”

“I am talking to you.”

“Eating like a squirrel while listing their physical traits doesn’t count as emotional vulnerability,” Yoongi deadpans.

Seokjin slumps back in his seat. “It was supposed to be casual.”

Yoongi and Namjoon exchange a look — the kind that says we knew this was coming weeks ago.

“I thought I could handle it,” Seokjin says, quieter now. “You know, have fun, be flirty, enjoy some affection and go home like nothing happened. But…”

“But?”

“They’re not like that. They look at me like I’m—” He falters. “Like I’m something…more.”

“You are,” Namjoon says simply.

“Stop that,” Seokjin mutters. “I’m being serious.”

“So are we,” Yoongi replies. “You deserve more.”

“Do I?” Seokjin asks, voice cracking on the edge of a laugh. “Do I really? Or am I just the pretty hyung who got dragged into this?”

Yoongi frowns. “Is that how you think they see you?”

“I don’t know,” Seokjin admits, eyes dropping to the coffee cup in his hands. “They’re younger, cooler, fresh out of the military with muscles and momentum and each other. They’ve always had each other. And I… I’m just here.”

Namjoon softens. “Hyung, you’re not a placeholder.”

“But it’s like—I finally get close, I finally let myself feel wanted, and then this little voice in my head starts saying ‘what if it’s temporary? What if they get bored? What if it’s all just a phase for them?’”

Yoongi reaches out and taps his knuckles against Seokjin’s. “Then ask them.”

“What if I ruin it?”

Namjoon exhales through his nose. “Then what’s the alternative? You just… let it eat you alive?”

“I already am,” Seokjin says, barely above a whisper. “I can’t even look at the group chat without analyzing every emoji. I’m losing my damn mind over whether they’re being too nice or not nice enough. I’m watching them touch me and wondering if I imagined it the next day.”

Silence.

Even the jazz seems to quiet down.

Yoongi breaks it first, sighing into his coffee. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

Namjoon huffs a laugh, even as he nudges Seokjin’s leg with his knee. “You always do this when you like someone.”

“I never do this,” Seokjin protests.

“Exactly,” Yoongi says. “Which is how we know this is serious.”

Namjoon leans forward, voice calm and steady. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now. But don’t lie to yourself just to make things easier.”

Seokjin blinks hard. “I’m scared.”

“Good,” Yoongi says. “Means it’s real.”

“Fucking hate how you’re always right.”

“I know.”

Seokjin stares at his coffee like it holds an answer. Then finally: “They sent me a picture of their thighs this morning. Just… thighs.”

Yoongi looks like he wants to evaporate. “Do not show me that.”

Namjoon grimaces. “I’m your friend, not your fantasy coach.”

Seokjin’s laugh is weak but real. “It helped. For like… twelve seconds.”

“Okay,” Yoongi mutters, sliding Seokjin’s phone across the table. “You’re sending that chaos energy back into the group chat right now. Tell them to plan something. Next date’s on them. You’ll go, you’ll show up, and maybe—maybe—you’ll stop overthinking for one whole hour.”

Seokjin stares.

“Do it,” Namjoon says.

He does.

[Seokjin] 
Alright, enough hiding—plan our next date. 
Pick the day, pick the place, and do not let me overthink this. 
I’ll show up and behave like a normal person for 60 minutes. 
Impress me.

Jimin replies in exactly 3.2 seconds with three heart emojis and a “😈” — Jeongguk sends a voice note that starts with a growl.

“…Fuck,” Seokjin mumbles, hand to his face.

Yoongi smirks. “You’re so done.”

“I am.”

Namjoon nudges his arm. “You’re allowed to want them.”

Seokjin looks down at his phone again. At the messages. At the warmth inside him that still feels dangerously too big.

“I just hope they want me the same way.”

[a few days later | Cooking Date]

He stands in front of their apartment door holding a bottle of wine he doesn’t even remember buying, too aware of the fact that his palms are sweating.

Jimin opens it before he can knock, already smiling, already glowing.

“You brought wine,” Jimin says with delight, stepping back to let him in.

“It’s red. I think.” Seokjin enters. “I panicked and picked a bottle with a bird on it.”

Jeongguk appears in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, apron tied snug at his waist. “You picked a good one. The bird’s a sign of taste.”

Jimin snorts. “A crow?”

“Crows are intelligent,” Jeongguk retorts, smirking. “Just like Jin-hyung.”

“Oh my god,” Seokjin mutters, eyes immediately flitting away.

They’re already too much. And this is supposed to be a casual night in. Just cooking.

Jimin guides him toward the kitchen. “We figured you’d like hands-on more than eating takeout.”

“I like when someone else cooks while I sit in an apron for aesthetic reasons.”

Jeongguk tosses him a navy apron. “Perfect. You’ll be hot and helpful.”

Seokjin catches it awkwardly. His hands brush Jimin’s when he ties it behind his back, too long lingering. Jeongguk’s eyes catch his as he leans past him to grab a bowl. Something in the pit of Seokjin’s stomach turns electric.

It’s just dinner, he tells himself. Just dinner.

The counter’s already prepped: vegetables, noodles, sauces, meats in bowls like they’re on a cooking show.

“We’re doing dumplings, japchae, and pork belly lettuce wraps,” Jimin explains, rolling up his own sleeves. “We thought: comfort food. You deserve that.”

Seokjin’s breath snags for half a second. You deserve that.

He wants to believe it.

Jimin throws a dumpling wrapper at him. “Focus. You’re on folding duty.”

“I’m a national treasure. My fingers are insured.”

Jeongguk leans in close, voice low. “Don’t worry. We’ll guide your hands.”

And just like that—he’s gone. Fully, catastrophically gone.

They fall into something easy. Jimin commands the space like a small domestic tyrant. Jeongguk multitasks like a machine, laughing when Seokjin attempts to steal a half-cooked piece of pork belly and gets gently slapped on the wrist.

But then the real trouble starts: dumpling folding.

They both hover around him.

“Too much filling,” Jimin says, peeking over his shoulder.

“You didn’t wet the edge,” Jeongguk adds from the side.

“I know how to wet things—oh my god.”

They laugh, of course they laugh, and Seokjin nearly drops his half-folded dumpling in mortification.

“You’re doing great,” Jimin says sweetly, reaching forward to guide his fingers. “Like this—press down gently.”

Jeongguk’s palm settles briefly on his lower back. “You’ve got pretty hands, hyung.”

The words go off like fireworks in Seokjin’s stomach.

He swallows, hard. “This feels like a very inefficient cooking method.”

“It’s team-building,” Jimin says, lips a little too close to his ear.

“It’s something,” Seokjin mutters.

The kitchen heats. From the stove, from the food, from them.

Jeongguk hands him a slice of raw carrot to test. “How’s the julienne?”

Seokjin bites. Chews. “Perfect.”

Jeongguk beams like he’s won a medal. “Thank you, chef.”

Jimin passes him a tiny glass of soju. “We toast to that.”

They clink. They sip. They burn.

By the time they sit down to eat, Seokjin is both relaxed and painfully on edge. The food is warm and delicious and familiar. The apartment smells like sesame oil and laughter. They pass plates. They tease. They talk about ridiculous dorm stories. Jimin wipes sauce from Seokjin’s chin with a thumb that lingers a little too long. Jeongguk refills his glass whenever it’s empty.

After dinner, Jimin drapes himself across the couch like a satisfied cat. Jeongguk lies sprawled on the floor, head resting on his arm. Seokjin perches between them on a cushion, shoulders still tense despite his full belly.

“This was nice,” he says, meaning it.

“It was,” Jimin replies softly. “It is.”

Seokjin can feel their gazes on him, subtle but burning.

He’s not sure what he expected—awkwardness, maybe. Tension. A forced attempt at replicating the kisses from the zoo and the karaoke bar. But instead, it’s just… this.

A shared space. A homey meal. A soft presence, together.

But it’s still charged.

Every time their knees brush, every time Jimin’s laughter rises into a breathless giggle, every time Jeongguk glances at his mouth—it builds.

And it lingers as they clean up, as Jeongguk hums softly under his breath at the sink, as Jimin tugs Seokjin’s sleeve when he tries to leave.

“You don’t have to go yet,” Jimin murmurs.

Jeongguk turns, drying his hands. “You really don’t.”

And Seokjin—

He stays.

[The next day]

Seokjin wakes slowly.

It takes him a moment to remember where he is — a soft unfamiliar pillow, the scent of clean cotton and black tea and the faintest trace of Jimin’s shampoo.

There’s a weight across his back.

Jeongguk’s arm.

He turns his head and sees Jimin curled into Jeongguk’s chest, both asleep, breathing slow and steady. And him — tucked beside them like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He wonders, briefly, how he got here. Then remembers: dishes, laughter, too much soju, Jimin’s fingers on his wrist saying, “Stay.”

He hadn’t meant to stay in their bed.

But now he’s here, warm and breathless and wrapped in the kind of quiet comfort he doesn’t quite trust to be real.

He slips out gently, careful not to wake them.

The apartment is quiet, morning light spilling across the hardwood in golden lines. He sits in the kitchen for a long moment with a glass of water, staring into nothing.

He feels… too much.

He should feel lucky. He does. But there’s something heavy under his ribs.

What are you doing here, Kim Seokjin?

The familiar question, biting.

He doesn’t hear Jeongguk until the younger pads in barefoot and shirtless, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“You okay?”

Seokjin startles slightly. “Yeah. Just… water.”

Jeongguk crosses the kitchen, opens a cupboard without looking, pulls down a mug. “Want coffee?”

He nods, grateful. He doesn’t want to talk.

But Jeongguk doesn’t let it drop.

“You seemed far away.” He flicks the espresso machine on. “Like. Not just now. Last night too. Are we—going too fast?”

Seokjin opens his mouth. Closes it. Then, honestly, “I don’t know.”

And Jeongguk... softens. “You don’t have to pretend, hyung. You always try to make us comfortable. But we want you comfortable too.”

That—

That hits something.

Jimin’s voice drifts in behind them, sleep-rough. “Is he being emo again?”

“Violently,” Jeongguk mutters.

Seokjin snorts despite himself. Jimin wraps his arms around him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Seokjin sighs.

“Wanna take a bath?”

A pause.

Then: “...Yes.”

[The Bath]

POV: Jeongguk

He didn’t expect the way Seokjin would melt.

He’s wedged between them in the oversized tub — one of those luxuries Jimin insisted on when they moved in — and the water is steaming and floral with eucalyptus bath salts. They all wear Jeongguk’s shirts and boxers — even Jimin who looks like a mischievous cherub playing dress-up in stolen clothes.

Jeongguk is in front, lightly tracing circles on his knees.

Jimin is behind him, slow fingers massaging shampoo into his hair.

Seokjin sinks lower, eyes fluttering shut.

“This is evil,” he mumbles. “You’re witchy.”

Jimin leans down. “That’s a compliment.”

Jeongguk says, quietly, “You don’t always have to be the strong one, hyung.”

And Seokjin — maybe because he’s half-asleep, maybe because he’s surrounded by warmth and touch and people who make it feel safe — says the truth.

“I thought I could do this and not catch feelings.”

Jimin’s hands still.

Jeongguk’s breath catches.

“And now?” Jeongguk asks.

Seokjin opens his eyes.

Soft. Wet from steam. Honest.

“Now I’m so far in, I’m terrified.”

Jimin presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “We’ll hold you.”

Jeongguk leans forward, forehead resting gently against Seokjin’s. “You’re not alone.”

The water ripples. The room goes quiet.

Their hands stay on him — not possessive, not hungry — just there.

And for once, Seokjin lets himself be held.

[Later that day | Seokjin’s apartment]

His apartment is too quiet.

It always is, but tonight the silence hums louder than usual, pressing into his ears like static.

He stands in the doorway with his coat still on, keys dangling from his fingers, and just exists for a minute. There’s no smell of soy and ginger in the air, no clatter of dishes in the sink, no warm laughter echoing off the walls.

Just him.

Just this.

He lets the keys drop into the bowl by the door, slips off his shoes, and walks into the emptiness.

His phone buzzes once — a text from Jimin, a sweet photo of the three of them from earlier: Jeongguk behind him, arms draped over his shoulders, Jimin mid-laugh, leaning into his side.

He doesn’t respond.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

Because he wants to too much.

Because his chest is tight with something he can’t name, something soft and sharp all at once, something that creeps through his ribcage and hisses, This isn’t real. You’ll ruin it if you believe it is.

He closes the message, opens another. Scrolls through their chat history. Past the jokes, the emojis, the flirty nonsense. Past the arrangements and heart emojis and late-night check-ins.

And then to the photos.

God.

His breath catches — he forgot Jimin had sent that video of Jeongguk flipping a pancake with one hand and yelling, “Wife me!” as Seokjin doubled over laughing.

He should be smiling.

But something burns.

Not jealousy. Not really.

Just... fear.

He pulls off his shirt and heads into the bathroom, flicks on the light. Catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stops.

There’s nothing wrong with him. He knows that.

He’s handsome. Kind. Successful. He knows his worth. Has known it his whole adult life.

And still—

Still, he stares at his reflection and thinks, Why now? Why me? Why would they stay?

The voices come soft but vicious:

“You’re the older one.”

“They’re still discovering who they are — what if this is just a phase?”

“You weren’t even sure you wanted this. Now you do? That’s dangerous.”

“You’ll be the one who wants more. And they won’t.”

He presses his hands to the sink, jaw clenched.

The problem isn’t them. It’s him.

Jeongguk looks at him like he means something.

Jimin touches him like he’s precious.

And it terrifies him.

Because for the first time in a long time, he wants to believe in something lasting — not flashy, not casual — real.

But he’s spent years mastering how to live alone. How to not need. How to keep his heart walled in silk and distance and charming distraction.

They tear through it without trying.

And now, he’s in it.

He cares. Too much. Already.

Which means if this doesn’t last, it won’t just bruise — it’ll gut him.

He drops into bed, pulls the covers over his head.

Maybe he should slow things down.

Or back off.

Or tell them—

No. He couldn’t tell them this.

Not the raw, pathetic ache of needing something good and fearing it so deeply he can’t breathe through it.

He curls in tighter.

Wonders what they’re doing.

If they’re thinking about him.

If they’d be hurt knowing how close he came tonight to texting I can’t do this.

And then deleting it.

Because he wants to do this.

He just doesn’t know how to believe it won’t end with him breaking open.

[Café Boksal]

It’s been four days since the cooking date.

Four days since the sleepover. Since Jeongguk traced bubbles along his wrist in the bath like it meant something. Since Jimin leaned against his shoulder while brushing sesame oil on roasted radish and told him, quiet and smiling, “You look good in Jeongguk’s clothes.”

And since then: silence.

Not from them. No—texts still came. Playful memes, casual check-ins, Jeongguk sending a photo of a messed-up egg captioned “Miss you, chef.” Jimin replying “Romantic fail” and adding a photo of his foot in mismatched socks.

It wasn’t them. It was him.

Seokjin answered later. Sparsely. Neutrally.

Not because he didn’t want them—but because he wanted too much and didn’t know where to put it.

So when the message came this morning — 

[Jimin] 
Café Boksal, 5pm? You’re overdue for cinnamon rolls and attention.

— he almost didn’t reply.

But he did.

And now he’s here.

Early. Of course.

Rain has begun to drizzle, shy and unsure, dotting the patio bricks in little gray kisses. The café is warm and soft-lit, the scent of brown sugar and cardamom curling out of the doorway like it knows him.

He picks the corner table inside. Faces the window.

Watches the sky bruise and build.

At 5:04, the bell above the door jingles.

He doesn’t have to look. He knows it’s them by the rush of warmth in his chest alone.

But he looks anyway.

Jeongguk, black windbreaker peeled halfway off his shoulders, hair slightly damp from the light rain. Jimin beside him, cheeks flushed and hoodie clinging to him like he sprinted the last block.

They see him—and smile like it’s instinct.

“Hyung,” Jimin beams, sliding into the booth without waiting for permission. “Told you he’d come.”

Jeongguk tosses his jacket over the chair and drops down beside Jimin, dimples flashing. “Wasn’t sure. Thought we’d have to drag you.”

Seokjin wants to joke. To laugh.

Instead, all he can do is say, “I’m here.”

Which is true.

But it feels like so much more than that.

Jimin’s eyes soften. “Yeah. You are.”

They order. Share bites. Fall into old rhythms, like nothing cracked between them.

Seokjin doesn’t say much. But they don’t push.

Jeongguk leans in sometimes, brushing crumbs from his lip. Jimin nudges his thigh beneath the table, winking when Seokjin glances over.

Their laughter is warm. Their banter sweet. It should make him feel safe again.

And maybe it does.

Just enough.

Until the rain comes.

It’s sudden.

Thunder in the gutter, a burst of downpour that rattles the café windows. A collective groan from the tables. The barista swears gently in the back.

Seokjin blinks at the window. “Guess we’re not leaving soon.”

Jeongguk grins and stands, stretching. “Come on. Let’s watch it from outside.”

He leads the way to the front, where a wide awning shields the doorway. The three of them squeeze under, elbows brushing, eyes turned to the street now glistening with silver rain.

It should feel like nothing.

But the air feels thick.

Like memory. Like maybe this is where something will shift.

When a gust of wind chills Seokjin’s arm, Jeongguk tugs off his windbreaker again and drapes it over his shoulders without a word.

The fabric is warm.

So is Jeongguk’s hand when it lingers a beat too long on his shoulder.

Jimin watches, smug and soft. “He gets romantic like that. Cute, right?”

Jeongguk doesn’t look away. “Only for people who deserve it.”

Seokjin wants to laugh.

Wants to cry.

His mouth is dry and his chest is full and what is he supposed to do with this?

So he does what he always does.

He pretends.

He shrugs one shoulder and says, “Guess I’m lucky, huh?”

Jimin leans close enough to make him dizzy. “Very.”

They wait out the worst of the rain, then walk to the subway.

Seokjin’s steps are slow. Measured. He doesn’t want to go home. Not yet.

Jeongguk shares the umbrella with Jimin, but they tug him between them anyway. Three people beneath one umbrella, shoulder-to-shoulder, laughter mixing with the drumbeat of water against the nylon canopy.

At one point, Jimin leans in.

Brushes rain-damp hair behind Seokjin’s ear.

And says, voice low and fond, “We missed you this week.”

Seokjin nearly trips.

He covers it with a fake cough. “I was—just busy.”

“Liar,” Jimin teases gently, but doesn’t push. “We’re still glad you’re here.”

Jeongguk adds, “Always.”

The umbrella dips slightly, blocking out the world. For a second, it’s just them. Three hearts pulsing quietly in shared space.

Seokjin thinks he might implode.

They split at the station.

Jeongguk and Jimin head to their train. Seokjin lingers.

When he finally gets home, there’s a message waiting.

[Jeongguk] 
Thanks for today. You felt... like sunshine. Even in the rain.

[Jimin]
 We’ll see you again soon, right? ☔💜

He doesn’t respond right away.

He stares at the screen.

Wishes his heart would stop trying to crawl up his throat.

And finally types:

[Seokjin] 
Yeah. I think I want that.

[2 days later | Restaurant]

“I don’t get it,” Seokjin mutters into his beer. “I’m not even the type to catch feelings like this.”

Namjoon hums. “That’s a bold-faced lie and you know it.”

Yoongi stabs a fishcake with surgical precision. “You caught feelings over a bartender who winked at you in Busan once.”

“He winked like he meant it!”

Namjoon chokes on his soju. “Hyung, he gave you napkins.”

Seokjin waves a dismissive hand, cheeks faintly pink. “That’s not the point.”

Yoongi leans back, slow and watchful. “Then what is?”

Seokjin doesn’t answer immediately. He lifts his glass but doesn’t drink. The neon light outside the window flashes over his face, cutting it into soft lines and sharp shadows.

“They kissed,” he says finally, voice too quiet.

Yoongi and Namjoon both blink at him.

“…Okay,” Namjoon says slowly. “We… assumed that was probably going to happen, yes.”

“No,” Seokjin says. “I mean—they kissed me. Weeks ago. Jimin did first. Then Jeongguk. Like real kisses. Not joking. Not tipsy. Not… casual.”

Namjoon’s brows furrow. “And you’re upset?”

“No!” Seokjin explodes. “I’m not upset. That’s the problem! I liked it. Too much. I—shit, I’m not supposed to like it this much. It was supposed to be fun, right? Some weird, spicy thing I did while I’m still kind of hot and semi-relevant.”

Yoongi snorts. “Please. You’re gorgeous and will be semi-relevant until the sun dies.”

Seokjin glares. “Let me have my spiral in peace.”

Yoongi holds up both hands. “Spiral away.”

Namjoon sips his drink. “So… let’s rewind. They kissed you. You liked it. They texted you. You saw them again—multiple times. You had a great time. What’s the actual issue?”

Seokjin’s jaw tightens. “What if this ends badly?”

Namjoon sighs. “That’s not an issue. That’s a fear.”

“Same thing.”

Yoongi cocks his head. “No, it’s not. One’s happening. One’s not.”

“They’re younger, okay?” Seokjin says, a little sharper. “And hot. And fun. And sexy. And somehow still emotionally balanced despite being little chaos goblins. And I’m—”

“A man they keep texting,” Namjoon cuts in.

“—a washed-up man with PTSD from group projects—”

Yoongi, deadpan: “Hyung, they literally said you felt like sunshine. I saw that message.”

Seokjin splutters. “You read my messages?!”

“They send you heart emojis, plural. You’re basically married.”

Namjoon adds, “You wore Jeongguk’s jacket like it was couture.”

“I panicked!”

Yoongi stares. “You wore it home.”

Seokjin opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Then drops his face into his hands. “I’m so stupid.”

“No,” Namjoon says, surprisingly firm. “You’re scared. That’s different.”

Seokjin peeks up at him, quiet now.

Namjoon softens. “Do you even know what you want out of this?”

“I… don’t know,” Seokjin admits. “Some days I think I just want to keep feeling good. Keep seeing them. Kissing. Laughing. Whatever. Other days, I think—no, it’s too much. Too serious. It’ll go wrong.”

Yoongi nods. “So you ghost them for four days until they drag you out for pastries.”

“They were cinnamon rolls,” Seokjin says, vaguely defensive.

Yoongi shrugs. “You are the cinnamon roll.”

Namjoon chuckles. “With a crunchy outer shell.”

Seokjin scowls into his drink. “You guys are no help.”

“You don’t want help,” Yoongi says. “You want reassurance that spiraling is sexy.”

“…Isn’t it?”

Namjoon reaches over and flicks his forehead.

Eventually, they sit in companionable silence. The rain has stopped, but puddles still glisten in the street. Distant laughter echoes down the alley.

Seokjin sips his drink again and tries to anchor himself.

He can still feel the moment under the café awning. Jeongguk’s jacket. Jimin’s fingers tucking his hair back. We missed you.

He almost cries again.

Instead, he whispers, “They make me feel like I could actually have something good.”

Namjoon looks at him, gentle. “Maybe that’s because you could.”

Yoongi, still chewing, just adds, “Let them show you.”

Seokjin doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t spiral harder either.

Maybe that’s the best he can do for tonight.

Chapter Text

[1 week later | Amusement Park Entrance]

Seokjin waits under the archway of NeonLand, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. The place looks like a city exploded in rainbow lights — rollercoasters looping against the sky, neon signs buzzing over food stalls, the air smelling like fried dough and cheap thrills. Families stream past him, kids already sticky with candy, teenagers taking dramatic selfies. He is thirty years old and holding himself like he’s here under duress.

Which… fine, maybe he is.

He’s checking the time when he hears them before he sees them — Jimin’s high, bright laugh and Jeongguk’s lower rumble, close together, weaving into each other like their own private language. Then they appear through the crowd: Jimin in a cropped hoodie and ripped jeans, hair perfectly mussed like he rolled out of bed this way; Jeongguk in a backwards cap, black t-shirt stretched just so across his shoulders. They’re holding hands. Of course they’re holding hands.

They look stupidly good.
They look stupidly happy.
Seokjin pretends that doesn’t make something tight coil in his chest.

“Hyung!” Jimin spots him first, grin blooming, and breaks into a jog. “We got you strawberry lemonade.” He presses a cold cup into Seokjin’s hand before Seokjin can object. “Jeongguk wanted to get you bubble tea but I told him you’d complain about chewing while walking.”

“I would,” Seokjin says, sniffing the cup suspiciously. “Also, hi.”

“Hi,” Jeongguk grins, and somehow it sounds like a compliment. “Ready to be absolutely destroyed on the ring toss?”

Seokjin arches a brow. “Destroyed? Sweetheart, I am the ring toss.”

“That’s not even a coherent sentence,” Jimin says, smirking.

“It doesn’t have to be coherent when it’s true.”

They fall into step — Jeongguk on his left, Jimin on his right — like flanking him is their default setting. The first game stand they pass is a ring toss, the prizes dangling overhead like bait.

“Babe, should we win him something?” Jeongguk asks.

“Obviously,” Jimin says. “But I’m winning the bigger one.”

“I can win my own prize—” Seokjin starts, but they’re already at the counter, handing over cash like it’s a duel.

The first round is… not promising. Jeongguk overshoots. Jimin undershoots. Seokjin sips his lemonade and says, “Wow. My heroes.”

Jeongguk glares, tosses another ring, nails it dead center, and grins smugly. “Who’s your hero now, hyung?” He accepts a massive white bunny from the attendant and deposits it into Seokjin’s arms.

Jimin mutters about “being distracted by your stupid muscles” and lands two in a row. He chooses a neon-pink heart pillow, presenting it with a bow.

Now Seokjin’s holding both. “This is how I die,” he says flatly, as they high-five over his head.

They hit the rollercoasters next.

The looming steel monster rises above the park skyline like some kind of twisted skyscraper, all screaming passengers and rattling chains.

“Nope,” Seokjin says immediately. “Absolutely not. I have a very reasonable and healthy fear of death.”

“You’ll love it,” Jeongguk says, already steering him toward the line like a sheepdog herding prey. “Middle seat. That way you can’t escape.”

“Middle seat is the safest,” Jimin adds, all faux innocence. “Also, moral support.”

“That’s not moral support, that’s entrapment,” Seokjin mutters, but he still gets into the car — mostly because Jeongguk climbs in behind him and Jimin blocks the other side.

The ride clanks upward, the chain lift dragging them higher and higher until the whole park sprawls beneath them. Seokjin grips the safety bar so hard his knuckles go white. “Why… does it take so long to go up? Why is it so slow? Is this part of the torture—”

The drop comes before he can finish.

It’s like the world just drops out from under him — stomach lurching, wind tearing past his ears, the tracks twisting them into a screaming dive. Jeongguk whoops loud enough to be heard in the next district. Jimin is laughing like he’s on a casual Sunday stroll. Seokjin screams the entire way down, every turn and loop pulling another, louder yell out of him.

By the time they roll back into the station, Seokjin’s hair is windblown, his eyes are watering, and he’s pretty sure his soul left his body somewhere around the third loop.

They pass the photo booth on the way out, and there it is: Seokjin, eyes wide in absolute horror, mouth a perfect O of despair. Jeongguk grinning like a maniac, hair wild, clearly living his best life. And Jimin, perfectly calm, throwing a V-sign at the camera like he’s in a photoshoot.

They don’t even hesitate. Jimin pulls out his wallet before Seokjin can protest. “We’re buying this.”

“No,” Seokjin says firmly.

“Yes,” Jeongguk says at the exact same time, already asking the cashier for a keychain version too.

By the time they’re walking away, Jimin is scrolling through his phone, clearly setting the picture as his new lock screen. Jeongguk leans over Seokjin’s shoulder and whispers, “You’ve got the best scream face, hyung. It’s… kind of adorable.”

“Delete it,” Seokjin says, heat creeping up his neck.

“Never,” Jeongguk replies, grinning.

They wander through game stalls and food carts, Jeongguk trying to win a second plush just to annoy Jimin, Jimin dragging them to a churro stand. At one point, Jimin reaches up to adjust Jeongguk’s cap, fingers brushing his temple. Jeongguk leans in without missing a step and kisses his cheek. Seokjin looks away so fast his neck twinges.

The Ferris wheel is their next stop. It’s one of the old-fashioned ones — creaky metal arms, paint chipped in places, with carts big enough for exactly three people if they don’t mind getting close.

Which, apparently, none of them do.

The three of them squeeze into a single cart, knees bumping, shoulders pressed close. Jeongguk’s thigh is warm against Seokjin’s, and Jimin’s hair brushes his arm every time the cart sways. Below, the park is a sea of lights and motion — candy-colored rides, stalls glowing like lanterns, the faint scent of popcorn drifting up on the breeze.

They sway gently as the wheel lifts them higher. The noise of the park softens into a distant hum.

“You look happy, hyung,” Jeongguk says after a minute, voice low enough that Seokjin almost misses it over the creak of the cart.

Seokjin shifts the plush bunny in his lap. “I’m holding a bunny the size of my torso and a heart pillow that smells like kettle corn,” he says. “How could I not be?”

Jimin chuckles and leans into his side, cheek warm against his shoulder. “We’ll have to top this next time.”

The words hit harder than Seokjin expects — not just this night, but next time. His heart stutters. He blames the height. And the lights. And the way they’re both looking at him like he’s not just part of the night — he’s the point of it.

The wheel pauses at the top. From here, the city stretches in every direction, glittering under the night sky. Jeongguk tilts his head to look past Seokjin and grins. “Bet the view’s even better from here, huh?”

Seokjin tries to answer, but his throat’s tight. “Yeah. It’s… something.”

Jimin’s lips curve in a knowing smile, his hand brushing against Seokjin’s on the heart pillow — just a light touch, but enough to make Seokjin’s pulse race.

“Hyung,” Jimin says suddenly, voice low. “Thanks.”

Seokjin blinks. “For what?”

“For… not running. For giving us a chance.”

Jeongguk looks up too, eyes serious in a way Seokjin isn’t used to. “We know it’s scary. That we’re… a lot.”

“A disaster,” Jimin mutters, grinning faintly.

“A disaster,” Jeongguk agrees. Then, softer: “But you still show up. You still try. That means everything.”

Seokjin swallows, his chest too tight, too full. He wants to joke—deflect, laugh it off, say something about how they tricked him with good food and bad influence. But he can’t. Not when they’re looking at him like that.

So he says the truth, even if it’s shaky. “You make it easier to try.”

There’s a pause. A breath. Then Jimin shifts, tucks himself closer, cheek against Seokjin’s shoulder. Jeongguk leans in from the other side, warm hand resting lightly at Seokjin’s waist.

For a long moment, they just sit like that—three bodies, one tangle of limbs and trust in a small cabin above everyone and everything else.

And Seokjin thinks, for the first time, that maybe this isn’t something fragile waiting to break.
Maybe it’s something that can last.

The cart sways again as they start descending, but the little bubble they’ve made doesn’t pop until they’re back on solid ground.

When the Ferris wheel lets them off, Jimin immediately points toward the bumper cars. “Let’s see if hyung’s driving is as bad as his cooking.”

“Excuse me,” Seokjin says, affronted. “My driving is impeccable.”

Jeongguk smirks. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

Ten minutes later, Seokjin has been rear-ended by both Jimin and Jeongguk at least four times each, his car spinning in useless circles while they chase him like predators. Jimin is laughing so hard he can barely steer, and Jeongguk keeps yelling “Coming for you, hyung!” before slamming into him again.

When the attendant finally waves them off the track, Seokjin stumbles out, hair mussed, muttering, “You’re both menaces. Dangerous menaces. I should call the police.”

But the haunted house is somehow worse.

The moment they step inside, the air changes — colder, damper, smelling faintly of fake blood and fog machine mist. The music outside is replaced by a low, throbbing bass and the occasional distant scream.

Jimin sticks close on his left, fingers hooked casually in Seokjin’s jacket pocket like a leash. Jeongguk’s on his right, flashlight beam cutting through the fog in jerky sweeps.

The first jump-scare is a guy in a tattered clown mask lunging out from behind a curtain. Seokjin yelps and stumbles into the wall, nearly flattening Jimin.

The second is worse — a ghoul crawling across the floor with a sound like broken bones snapping. Seokjin doesn’t even think; his hands shoot out, grabbing both Jimin and Jeongguk’s arms in a death grip.

“Aw, hyung,” Jeongguk says with a grin that’s just visible in the strobe light, “you’re using us as human shields.”

“I’m strategically positioning myself,” Seokjin insists, stepping just a little closer anyway.

They shuffle forward through another corridor, a series of creaks and whispers piped in from hidden speakers. At one point, something brushes Seokjin’s ankle — a fake rat, probably — and he nearly climbs Jeongguk like a tree.

“Hyung, if you wanted a piggyback ride, you could’ve just asked,” Jeongguk murmurs, clearly enjoying himself.

“Shut up and keep moving,” Seokjin hisses, trying to ignore how warm Jeongguk’s arm feels under his fingers.

A zombie bride drags herself out from behind a coffin and moans directly into Seokjin’s face. He lets out a noise that will haunt him for years — somewhere between a strangled gasp and a cartoon yelp — and Jimin immediately starts wheezing, doubled over with laughter.

“Not helping,” Seokjin snaps, though his voice comes out shaky.

When they finally stumble back out into the light, Seokjin’s hair is mussed, his pulse is doing triple time, and his dignity is in shambles. Jimin’s holding his side from laughing too hard, Jeongguk’s looking smug like he just won something, and Seokjin is trying very hard to pretend his heart rate is normal.

“Strategically positioned, huh?” Jimin says, still giggling.

“Exactly,” Seokjin says, straightening his jacket like that’ll fix anything. “You’re both very… positionable.”

Jeongguk snorts. “That’s not a word, hyung.”

“It is now,” Seokjin says, striding toward the next stall before they can see the smile tugging at his mouth.

By the time they’ve eaten tteokbokki, shared a funnel cake, and watched the fireworks over the park, Seokjin is stuffed, tired, and almost comfortable — dangerously so. He hasn’t thought about overthinking in at least two hours.

They leave NeonLand with the smell of kettle corn still clinging to their clothes. At the parking lot, the key handoff becomes an actual debate.

“I’m driving,” Jimin says, already sliding into the driver’s seat.

Jeongguk leans on the roof. “You always take the scenic route. And I want—”

“You want to race the highway trucks again, no thanks,” Jimin cuts in. “Get in.”

Seokjin’s halfway to opening the passenger door when Jimin glances at him. “Your choice, hyung. You want shotgun, or you want to hide in the back?”

Seokjin hesitates. “...Back.”

Jeongguk cackles in triumph. He swoops in, scooping both the giant white bunny and neon-pink heart pillow out of Seokjin’s arms and plopping them into the front seat like honored guests. Then he slides into the back beside Seokjin, sprawling a little more than necessary.

“That’s not what I—,” Seokjin mutters, buckling his seatbelt.

Jeongguk leans in conspiratorially. “Oh, I’m not here for you. I’m here to personally escort these two beauties to their destination.” He pats the bunny’s floppy ear for emphasis. “But, y’know, if you happen to benefit from my company… bonus.”

Jimin snorts from the front, already pulling out of the lot. “Unbelievable.”

The ride is warm and quiet, city lights flickering past. Jeongguk hums along to the radio now and then, his knee knocking gently against Seokjin’s. Every time they stop at a red light, Jimin reaches over to adjust the bunny’s seatbelt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When they finally park near Seokjin’s subway station, Jeongguk unbuckles and leans forward, scooping up both toys in one arm. “Alright, plushie security detail is on duty,” he announces, like he’s reporting for military service.

“Only the plushies,” Seokjin says, raising a brow.

“Mm.” Jeongguk tilts his head, eyes glinting. “That’s my cover story, hyung. You wouldn’t want me to blow my cover, would you?”

Before Seokjin can answer, Jeongguk steps out, holding the giant bunny like it’s priceless cargo. He waits at Seokjin’s door, smiling faintly. “C’mon. I’ll walk you. You know… to make sure they get on the train safely.”

Seokjin steps out, falling into pace beside him. “And if they didn’t exist?”

“Then I guess I’d have to settle for walking you,” Jeongguk says, voice low and warm. “But lucky for me, we’ve got options.”

Jimin leans over the passenger seat, arm draped casually on the window frame. “Text us when you get home, hyung. And don’t let Jeongguk feed those plushies street food.”

“Hey,” Jeongguk protests, grinning. “They like it.”

Jimin just rolls his eyes, his smile softening. “Goodnight, hyung. Jeongguk, I’ll wait for you around the corner.”

“Night,” Seokjin says, giving him a little wave — which Jimin returns with a wink before pulling away from the curb.

And then it’s just Seokjin, Jeongguk, and two overgrown stuffed animals heading toward the station under the quiet glow of the streetlights.

It’s not a long walk, really — maybe five minutes, if you’re slow. But they are slow. No one mentions it. They just keep pace like neither of them wants the night to end.

Their arms brush now and then. Seokjin doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even think about it. The silence between them isn’t awkward; it’s loaded, dense with things not said.

And Jeongguk’s smiling. Soft, open. His hair is a little messy from earlier.

Seokjin keeps thinking about the way Jeongguk had looked at him over popcorn. Like he was a puzzle and a reward all at once.

Now, on the quiet walk, that look’s still lingering. A little more intense.

A little dangerous.

“Did you have fun tonight?” Jeongguk’s voice is quiet.

Seokjin nods. “Yeah. It was good.”

They stop on the platform. Jeongguk places both plushies on a nearby bank.

Neither of them moves.

The night is cool and crisp now. The city hums in the background, but here on this platform, it’s just them. Their breaths hanging in the air.

Seokjin’s hand twitches.

Jeongguk’s fingers brush his.

Not grabbing. Just... touching.

A soft sweep. Enough to make every hair on Seokjin’s arm rise.

He should say something. “Thank you.” “Good night.” “See you soon.” Anything polite and distant and safe.

But he looks up instead.

Jeongguk is already looking at him.

It’s not just his eyes — it’s the way his body tilts in, the slight parting of his lips. The tension in his jaw like he’s trying so hard to be good, even when everything in him is pulling forward.

Seokjin swallows.

“You... always look at people like that?” he asks, voice barely there.

Jeongguk blinks. “Like what?”

“Like you want to eat them alive.”

Jeongguk tilts his head, smile curling. “Only the really pretty ones.”

And then — the kiss happens.

It’s not explosive. It’s quiet and sure, a pull like gravity closing the space between them. Jeongguk’s hands ghost Seokjin’s sides, not quite gripping, not quite letting go.

And Seokjin — melts.

The warmth, the pressure, the need. He doesn’t know where it comes from. Maybe it’s been building for weeks. Months. Maybe since the first stupid club night when Jeongguk and Jimin had looked at him like he was something rare and shiny and worth chasing.

Jeongguk kisses him like he knows every fragile thought in Seokjin’s head.

One hand rises, fingers threading through Seokjin’s hair.

The other dips — just under the hem of Seokjin’s shirt, brushing warm skin. Not demanding. Not pressing. Just there, making Seokjin’s breath catch.

He’s leaning against a pillar now. Jeongguk inches closer, fitting their bodies just enough to share heat.

The kiss deepens.

Seokjin’s fingers dig into Jeongguk’s jacket.

He could let it happen.

He wants to.

He wants the heat and weight and bare skin. He wants to know how Jeongguk kisses in bed and how Jimin sighs when touched. He wants to give in, let go, fall.

But—

He’s scared.

Still scared.

Jeongguk pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against Seokjin’s.

They breathe together. Hard. Close.

Then, Jeongguk whispers, voice hoarse and wrecked: “We’ll wait until you’re ready. But god, we want you.”

Seokjin squeezes his eyes shut.

He’s going to remember this moment for the rest of his life.

He’s going to remember Jeongguk’s voice and hands and that goddamn restraint.

And he’s going to remember how his heart beat so loud, it felt like it was trying to shatter his ribs from the inside.

His hand lifts, brushes over Jeongguk’s jaw. His thumb drags the barest touch over the edge of his mouth.

“…I know,” Seokjin says, barely audible.

Then, the train arrives. The doors glide open and Seokjin steps inside with his plushies. He turns, waving at Jeongguk through the window.

When the train speeds up, he leans back against the door like it’s the only thing holding him up.

Seokjin’s chest hammers so violently he’s sure the whole block can hear it. 

Every risk he’s ever taken—all the times he’s let someone close, only to be burned—flashes through his mind like a slideshow of bad decisions. 

If he leans in now, he’s admitting he wants all of this: morning cuddles, inside jokes, the way Jimin’s hand fits in his, and how Jeongguk looks at him like he’s the only thing that matters. 

He’s never let his guard down this far, never surrendered so willingly. 

What if he misreads the moment? 

What if he clings and Jeongguk and Jimin pull away, afraid of how much he wants them? 

But worse than a “no” would be a lifetime of “what if.” 

He tastes the air again—cool and electric, full of promise—and realizes with a shuddering breath, there’s nothing left to lose. 

Not really. 

[Another week later]

Seokjin knew.

He knew from the moment Jimin dropped the cabin photos into the group chat, captioned “cleared our schedules — we’re kidnapping you for the weekend 💅”, that something was going to happen.

He should’ve backed out. Claimed a cold. A schedule conflict. A sudden allergy to vacation and happiness.

But he didn't.

So now he's here — standing in the doorway of a home that looks like it was built to host beautiful disasters. Wide windows framing moonlight. An oversized bed that looks criminal. A sauna humming low in the distance.

And Jeongguk standing barefoot in sweatpants with his tattoos on full display, saying, “We brought wine and like... three kinds of lube. Just in case.”

Seokjin chokes.

Jimin strolls past with two glasses in hand and a glint in his eye that is neither innocent nor legal. “He’s exaggerating. One of them is edible.”

“Jimin.”

“Strawberry.”

Seokjin is going to combust.

They start slow.

Like it’s nothing. Like this isn’t the night everything changes.

Dinner is warm and loud. Seokjin laughs too hard when Jimin tries to flip shrimp and it smacks Jeongguk in the face. Jeongguk retaliates by tickling him against the fridge until Jimin screeches and throws a dishtowel at Seokjin for “just standing there like a uselessly hot statue!”

It’s easy. Familiar.

Until it's not.

The jacuzzi is hot. The wine is flowing. Jimin is in Jeongguk’s lap, arms draped lazily over his shoulders, and Seokjin is in his own little corner, knees pulled up, face too red.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Jeongguk says.

“He’s brooding,” Jimin offers, swirling the wine in his glass. “Or he's terrified.”

“I’m not terrified,” Seokjin says, voice cracking in five different places. “I’m just—warm.”

“You’re fully clothed.”

“It’s cold out here!”

Jeongguk raises a brow. “We’re literally in boiling water.”

“It’s psychological cold!”

“Uh huh.”

Jimin slides out of Jeongguk’s lap and wades over, slow and predatory. His thighs break the water in smooth arches. His skin glows.

“You’re nervous,” Jimin murmurs, crowding into Seokjin’s space. “We can stop. Nothing has to happen.”

Seokjin’s throat is dry.

Then Jeongguk joins. Moves in behind him. His voice near Seokjin’s ear, low and velvety: “But if something does happen… You want it to be us, right?”

Seokjin can’t speak. He just nods.

And that’s all it takes.

They move to the bedroom.

Jimin kisses him first. Slow. Intentional. A soft drag of lips until Seokjin is sighing into his mouth, hands gripping hips, heart threatening to tear itself apart.

Then Jeongguk's mouth is at his neck. Hot. Wet. Searing.

“You're so beautiful,” Jeongguk whispers. “You drive us crazy.”

Jimin giggles against his mouth. “You’ve been driving us insane for months, hyung. We think about you all the time.”

“I’m gonna die.”

“Probably,” Jeongguk says, licking up the shell of his ear. “But it’ll be fun.”

The bed swallows them.

Clothes get peeled off between laughter and gasps.

Jimin is silk and heat. Jeongguk is rough hands and greedy eyes.

Seokjin is overstimulated within minutes — they’re everywhere, lips on his chest, fingers sliding along his waist, tongues tasting down his thighs.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

At one point, he tries to grab the headboard for balance but knocks it with a loud THUNK and says, “God, this is illegal. This should be illegal. We need adult supervision—"

Jimin moans under him, eyes fluttering, hips rolling.

Jeongguk’s breath hitches from where he’s mouthing down Seokjin’s spine.

And Seokjin?

Seokjin screams into a pillow.

It’s a tangle of limbs.

Jimin laid out like a feast, cheeks flushed and chest rising.

Seokjin in the middle, dazed and swearing in three languages, mouth dragging open along collarbones, stomachs, backs of knees.

Jeongguk’s the last to lose his composure — but when he does, it’s lethal. His voice drops into something dark and need-soaked, and when he finally pushes into Jimin from behind, whispering filth into his neck — Jimin cries out and Seokjin forgets how breathing works.

“You're both mine,” Jeongguk growls. “So fucking perfect. Look at you — fuck — look at us.”

They’re a mess.

Sweat-slick. Hands slipping. Hair tousled. Moaning like it’s church.

Seokjin kisses them both like he’s starved.

..

[Later, when the world settles…]

They’re collapsed together, breathing hard.

Jeongguk’s hand is in Seokjin’s hair. Jimin’s cheek is on Seokjin’s chest. Someone’s legs are draped over someone else’s stomach.

No one speaks.

Not yet.

Just the steady rhythm of hearts hammering through skin.

Jimin kisses his shoulder and hums, “We should’ve done that months ago.”

“I think we broke Seokjin,” Jeongguk says, grinning.

Seokjin, very dead and full of serotonin: “Yeah. I’m haunted now. I’ve seen heaven. Don’t need the real one anymore.”

The next morning, there’s a faint buzz from the fridge. The leftover scent of lavender bath soap and expensive lube in the air. The blankets on the bed are still crumpled — slept in, tangled from limbs and moans and thighs and—

Seokjin is gone.

The sheets are still warm where he’d been, but he’s not in the cabin.

Jimin stares at the empty side of the bed and frowns. “...Hyung?”

Jeongguk runs a hand through his hair, sits up. “…He ran.”

Jimin, sitting upright with the sheet around his waist, blinks like a man slapped out of a wet dream. “No he didn’t.”

Jeongguk just points to the spot where Seokjin had been. “Bed. Empty. Seokjin? Gone.”

“…Okay,” Jimin says, rubbing his eyes. “Okay, maybe he needed some air.”

“His shoes are gone.”

“Maybe he’s a forest goblin now.”

“His car is gone.”

Jimin freezes.

Jeongguk: “He left us after a threesome.”

Jimin: “...Fuck.”

Jeongguk groans, dragging both hands down his face. “I knew licking his toes was too much.”

Jimin gapes. “You didn’t lick his toes, Jeongguk.”

“I thought about it… And I did. Only a little.”

“Everyone thinks about it. It’s Seokjin.”

Jeongguk collapses backward onto the bed. “He’s never going to speak to us again. That was it. That was our one shot.”

Jimin lies beside him, staring at the ceiling. “I should’ve used the whipped cream.”

“I told you to bring the whipped cream.”

“I did, Jeongguk. You put it on your cereal.”

They lay in silence.

Naked. Slightly sticky. Emotionally gut-punched.

Jeongguk turns his head, voice low. “Do you think he regrets it?”

That’s the worst part. The question neither of them wanted to ask.

Jimin exhales, rolling toward him. “No. I think he wants this. Us. But…”

“He’s scared?”

“Like—breaks-into-his-own-car scared.”

Jeongguk groans again and covers his face. “Should we call him?”

“He’ll ignore it.”

“Should we text?”

“He’ll leave us on read.”

Jeongguk mutters something into his palms that sounds like “god, his moans were so pretty” and Jimin thwacks his arm.

“Focus! He ran. We need a plan.”

They eventually get dressed in a half-frenzied blur — bumping into each other, arguing over who used the last of the deodorant, and narrowly avoiding Jeongguk trying to climb back into bed for "one more round of sadness cuddles.”

[45 minutes later, in the car]

“Okay,” Jeongguk says. “We check his place?”

“No way he’s home already. He’d want space.”

“Cafe he likes?”

“It’s too early. He doesn’t caffeinate before 11 unless he’s crying.”

“Lake?”

“That’s a bold move. He only goes there when he’s spiraling or horny.”

“…What if he’s both?”

They pause. Simultaneously: “Lake.”

They don’t find him there.

Or at the bakery he swears has the best cinnamon rolls.

Or at the gym, where Jeongguk checks and confirms, “His keycard didn’t scan this morning.”

Jimin sighs, forehead pressed against the window.

“He did vanish.”

Jeongguk taps the steering wheel, jaw tight. “He’s not just scared. He’s avoiding us.”

“Do you think…” Jimin swallows. “Do you think we ruined it?”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, softer than expected: “No,” Jeongguk says. “But I think he’s trying to convince himself we didn’t mean it.”

Jimin’s chest hurts at that.

“He doesn’t trust it.”

“He doesn’t trust himself,” Jeongguk corrects. “That he’s allowed to want this. Us. Something real.”

Jimin nods, quiet. “So we find him. And we tell him. Again.”

“And again. And again,” Jeongguk says. “Until he believes it.”

They’ve tried everything.

Texting Seokjin?
Read. No reply.

Calling him?
Straight to voicemail. (“Hi, this is Seokjin. Unless you’re Kim Seokjin from the future here to warn me about a kitchen fire, I’m probably ignoring you.”)

Tracking him like jealous lovers on FindMyPhone?
Jimin: “WHY did we let him disable location sharing?!”

Jeongguk is face-down in a hoodie, mumbling, “I’m gonna lose my mind. I’ll draw his face from memory and post it on milk cartons.”

Which is when Jimin has the genius idea: “Let’s call Taehyung.”

Jeongguk lifts his head slowly. “You think he knows where Seokjin is?”

“I think Taehyung has… connections.”

“He’s a jazz saxophonist and part-time dog therapist.”

“Yes, and last month he got invited to a mafia wedding and a NASA launch party in the same week. If anyone knows where Seokjin is, it’s Kim Taehyung.”

[Incoming Call: Kim Taehyung 💅👽🎷]

“Boys,” Taehyung says, deeply serious. “How naughty did you get?”

Jimin: “Taehyung—”

“Be honest. Was there licking?”

Jeongguk: “...There may have been—”

“TOE licking?”

“NO!...Yes. A little.”

Taehyung hums like a detective mulling over a critical clue.

“And now he’s missing?”

“Yes,” Jimin huffs. “He ghosted us.”

Jeongguk: “We woke up and he was gone.”

“Tragic,” Taehyung intones. “Okay. I’ll find him. But first, answer me three questions.”

Jimin: “What the—Tae, this isn’t a fairytale quest.”

Taehyung: “Three. Questions.”

Jeongguk sighs. “Hit us.”

Taehyung’s Ridiculous Yet Emotionally Accurate Questions:

1. “What’s his go-to sad snack?”
   Jimin: “Cheese ramen with egg. He always says it tastes like teenage heartbreak.”
   
   
2. “Does he like forehead kisses or neck kisses more?”
   Jeongguk: “Neck. He shivers. It’s adorable.”
   
   
3. “How long did it take before you actually listened to him speak?”
   (Silence.)
   Jeongguk, softer: “...Too long.”

Taehyung sighs dramatically. “You’re in love with him.”

Jimin: “WE KNOW.”

Taehyung: “Then relax. I’ve got this.”

Click.

Chapter Text

[At Yoongi’s Studio]

Yoongi is half-focused on a bass line while Namjoon mutters to himself, trying to rhyme “existential dread” with “lying in bed.” They’re in peak creative sync when Yoongi’s phone buzzes.

[Taehyung] 
Yoongi-hyung. 
Two horny boyfriends are missing their spiraling third (maybe because of some toe-licking).
Emergency levels = Seokjin’s playlist just hit track 24: Bonnie Tyler’s Total Eclipse of the Heart (Nightcore remix).

Yoongi blinks once.

Then sighs through his nose.

“Namjoon,” he says calmly. “It’s Defcon 2. Seokjin is emotionally compromised.”

Namjoon, without looking up: “Did he flee post-coitus again?”

“Yup.”

Namjoon: “God, I love that man. He’s such a dramatic little terror.”

Yoongi: “You want to flip for who talks him down?”

Namjoon: “You owe him. You made him cry over that DILF lyric last week.”

Yoongi, sighing: “Fair.”

Yoongi switches to contacts. Scrolls. Finds: “Seokjin 🐹💫 Do Not Call Unless Fire or Existential Breakdown.”

He smiles faintly, thumbs a short message: "Listen Boy."

It’s their codeword. From years ago. A pact made over too many soju bottles, one soul-crushing breakup and the song Gee by Girls Generation on endless loop.

The rule is simple: If one of them sends the phrase Listen Boy, the recipient has to pick up. No questions. No excuses.

The phone rings once. Twice.

Then—

“...Yoongi?”

Yoongi keeps his voice casual. “Hey, Hyung.”

A shaky breath. “Hi.”

“You okay?”

A pause.

Then, soft and miserable: “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Yoongi leans back in his chair, eyes gentle. “That’s alright. You’ve got two guys who do know what they’re doing. And they’re trying to find you.”

“I’m not— they’ll be mad.”

“They’re worried,” Yoongi corrects. “And horny, but mostly worried.”

“…Who told you that?”

“Taehyung, obviously. I also know about the toe thing.”

Jin groans. “I hate everyone.”

“You don’t. You’re just scared.” Yoongi lets the silence settle. “Where are you?”

“…Somewhere quiet.”

“Are you safe?”

“...Yeah.”

Yoongi nods once, even if Seokjin can’t see it. “Okay. Now do me a favor?”

“What?”

“Let us help.”

The wind’s been screaming for hours.

It’s the kind of cold that makes his knuckles pink and his coffee lukewarm within minutes, but Seokjin doesn’t care. The bench under his thighs is hard and uneven, wedged into the overlook near the mountains where Seoul flickers in the distance like a fever dream. It’s a secret spot — old, familiar. A place he’d once come to cry about a broken audition. A place he now returns to, apparently, to cry about… everything else.

The wind rustles through pine needles above, and Yoongi’s voice stays soft in his ear.

“Still there?”

Seokjin presses the phone closer, nodding even though Yoongi can’t see.

“Yeah.”

“You warm enough?”

“No.”

“Good. Suffer a little,” Yoongi says gently. “But just a little. Not enough to make a novel out of it.”

Seokjin almost smiles. He wipes his nose on his sleeve instead.

“I keep thinking I ruined it.”

Yoongi hums. “Define ‘it’.”

“…Them. Me. This whole thing.”

“They didn’t seem ruined to me. They seemed... in love. And kind of dramatic.”

“They cried?” he whispers, the word small.

“No,” Yoongi says dryly.

Seokjin swallows.

“Why would they even want me?”

There it is. Again.

The quiet truth sitting like a stone in his chest.

He’d thought he could take this—could give in to the pull of them, two burning stars orbiting around him. He’d thought he could handle the hunger and the joy and the hope—until it bloomed too large and terrifying in his chest.

“I’m older,” he mutters. “I’m not... I don’t look like they do. I’m not as bold. They always have each other. I’m—what if I’m just an addition to something already perfect?”

Yoongi is quiet for a moment.

Then: “I’ve been friends with you for a long time. And I’ve seen people fall in love with you in seconds. Not because you’re perfect, but because you’re real. Because you’re ridiculous and dramatic and gorgeous and your laugh makes people feel like they’ve earned something. So if you think for even a second that you’re some bonus round in this story…”

He breathes slowly.

“Then you’re an idiot.”

Seokjin laughs wetly, hand over his face.

“Thanks.”

Yoongi’s voice softens. “I sent them your location.”

“You traitor.”

“They were going to climb every hill in Seoul anyway. I just gave them a shortcut.”

“…You think they’ll forgive me?”

“I think they love you so much it’s going to hurt when they see you again.”

He hears them before he sees them.

One of them’s yelling something dramatic — something like “WE RIDE AT DAWN!” and the crunch of footsteps on gravel sends his heart skittering into his ribs.

Seokjin stays frozen on the bench.

Then—

“Hyung?” Jeongguk’s voice. Broken, desperate. “Hyung!”

“Over here,” he says hoarsely.

And suddenly—

Jimin crashes into him, arms around his shoulders, his breath warm against his neck. “You scared the shit out of us,” he whispers, holding tighter. “You idiot, you dumb, beautiful idiot.”

Then Jeongguk is there too, crouching in front of him, eyes wide and shimmering with tears. He looks up like a boy who’s been lost for hours and finally found home.

“Why’d you run?” he breathes.

Seokjin opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Then—

“I thought I could handle it,” he says, voice cracking. “But then I woke up and you were both still there and I—I realized I wanted everything. I wanted all of it. And it scared the hell out of me.”

Jeongguk reaches up, cupping his face. “You have all of it.”

“We’re not perfect without you,” Jimin whispers. “We’re just two dumbasses with good lighting. You make us more.”

And that’s what does it.

The stupid tears.

Seokjin squeezes his eyes shut as they pull him in, as he’s held between two sets of arms like a lifeline, like a prayer answered after too many lonely nights.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.”

Jimin kisses his cheek. “We forgive you.”

Jeongguk presses his forehead to Seokjin’s. “I… like you very much.”

“...I like you, too,” Seokjin whispers.

He means it like a confession. Like a promise. Like the kind of prayer you say only when you’re sure someone’s listening.

Jimin and Jeongguk lean in at the same time, brushing their mouths against his cheeks, his jaw, his temple. Kisses like balm. Kisses like, you’re ours and you’re not getting rid of us that easy.

Then—

“Wait,” Jimin murmurs suddenly, pulling back. “We have to check. Are your toes okay?”

Jeongguk chokes out a laugh. “God. I knew I shouldn’t have licked them.”

Seokjin’s laughter echoes into the wind.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Jimin grins.

And Seokjin doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t.

They return in a different kind of silence.

Not the heavy, aching one Seokjin dragged behind him when he left this house in a panic that morning.

This is… quieter. Calmer. Like after a thunderstorm, when the rain slows to a drip and the air smells like new things.

Jimin unlocks the door.

Jeongguk presses a kiss to the top of Seokjin’s head as they step inside.

No one takes off their shoes right away.

No one moves quickly.

Jimin’s fingers are still curled around Seokjin’s wrist like he doesn’t trust him not to vanish again. Jeongguk brushes his hand against Seokjin’s back so gently, it’s not a push — it’s a question.

And Seokjin finally breathes.

“I’m not running again,” he says quietly, breaking the silence.

Jeongguk exhales like a man being let off the hook. Jimin smiles at the floor. “Good.”

They sit on the floor in front of the low table after that.

There’s leftover jjigae, dumplings and rice from last night. Jeongguk heats it up. Jimin pours water. They eat slowly, like people who were scared they wouldn’t be here again.

Seokjin’s the first to speak.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, throat tight. “I just… I woke up and it all felt too much. And I thought if I left first, it would hurt less later.”

Jimin’s chopsticks pause. “Later?”

“If this doesn’t last. If one day you look at me and realize I was just a phase or a kink you grew out of. And I—”
He breaks off.

Jeongguk reaches over, covering his hand.

“We’re not looking to outgrow anything,” he says. “We’re trying to build.”

Jimin nods. “You’re not a placeholder. You’re part of us.”

“But I don’t do anything,” Seokjin blurts. “I never initiate. You text first, you make the plans, you kiss me and I just... float along like it’s a dream I don’t want to wake up from.”

“Hyung.”

Jimin’s voice is impossibly soft.

“Your laughter when we tease you? That’s ours. The way you light up when you talk about food? That’s ours. How you take care of us without realizing it? Yours.”

Jeongguk squeezes his hand again. “And we love doing the chasing, by the way. You’re worth the run.”

“But I want to give something back,” Seokjin whispers. “I want to be good for you.”

“You are. You always have been,” Jimin murmurs. “But… if you want to give more?”

He leans in, smiling like a secret.

“Let us teach you how to ask.”

Later, they sit on the bed together, leaning against the headboard.

Jeongguk’s arm is snug around Seokjin’s waist, fingers splayed warm over his hip like he’s making sure Seokjin doesn’t vanish again. Jimin is curled into his other side, nose pressed into Seokjin’s shoulder, hair tickling his jaw.

The lights are soft, just the warm glow from the lamp on the nightstand. The TV is playing something—maybe a drama rerun, maybe the news—but the volume is low and none of them are actually watching. It’s just background noise for the silence that isn’t empty.

“I’m sorry I ran,” Seokjin says again, his voice barely louder than the hum of the TV. The words feel heavier now that they’re not moving, not caught up in the rush of finding him.

Jeongguk turns his head, pressing a kiss to Seokjin’s temple. “I know,” he murmurs. “But you came back with us.”

Jimin shifts, lifting one hand to curl his fingers around Seokjin’s. His grip is gentle but firm, grounding. “Next time? You tell us you’re scared before you go.”

Seokjin’s throat works. “I’m still scared,” he admits, because pretending otherwise feels like a lie they’d see right through anyway.

Jeongguk hums, the sound low in his chest. “Me too.”

Jimin lifts his head, meeting Seokjin’s eyes. “But we’re gonna be scared together.”

Something in Seokjin loosens at that—like a knot he’s been carrying for weeks finally starts to ease.

They lean in at the same time, pressing a kiss to each of his cheeks. Jimin’s is feather-light and warm, Jeongguk’s lingers just a heartbeat longer.

Seokjin exhales, the kind that takes some of the weight with it.

And when he finally sleeps, it’s with Jeongguk’s arm still locked around his waist, Jimin’s hand tangled with his under the blanket, and both of them wrapped around him like warmth and forgiveness.

The last thing he feels before drifting under is Jeongguk’s thumb tracing idle patterns on his hip, and Jimin’s breath steady against his neck—quiet, patient reminders that this time, he’s not alone.

[3 days later]
POV: Jeongguk

The notification pings just after midnight.

[Seokjin]:
are you two free on Friday?

Jeongguk stares at the message like it’s a sunrise—slow, gold warmth crawling into his chest. It’s the first time Seokjin’s asked first. 

He doesn’t even hesitate. His thumbs are moving before he’s thought the words.

[Jeongguk]:
yes. always.

[Jimin]:
say less. i’m shaving my legs.

Jeongguk snorts into his pillow, thumbs tapping again.

[Jeongguk]:
what’s the plan hyung 

There’s a pause. He imagines Seokjin on the other end, wearing that tiny half-smile that could mean anything.

[Seokjin]:
you’ll see.

And just like that, Friday can’t come fast enough.

[Friday | Seokjin’s apartment]
POV: Jimin

It happens before they’ve even taken off their jackets.

Jeongguk is setting the drinks down in the kitchen, humming under his breath. Jimin’s halfway through a compliment—“That shirt’s dangerous, hyung, you’re gonna get—”—when Seokjin steps closer, eyes warm and a little uncertain.

Then he’s kissing him.

Soft. Tentative. Not demanding, not testing—just starting.

Jimin freezes for half a heartbeat, the shock like the first sip of champagne—bright, fizzy, impossible not to savor. Then his lips curl against Seokjin’s, smiling into it.

When they part, his voice is a whisper that still feels too loud in the quiet kitchen. “That was brave of you.”

Seokjin’s cheeks bloom pink. His fingers linger against Jimin’s jaw, then lift to cradle his face properly. “I want to be brave for you,” he says, and there’s no teasing in it. Just truth, simple and unadorned.

From the doorway, Jeongguk watches them with that half-smirk that means my turn’s coming next. But for now, Jimin just leans in again—because when Seokjin offers, Jimin’s never been one to say no.

[Sunday | Jeongguk’s studio]
POV: Seokjin

The studio smells faintly of turpentine and coffee. Afternoon light filters through the blinds in soft stripes, catching on jars of brushes and the edges of canvases propped against the wall.

Jeongguk steps aside so Seokjin can see the easel.

The sketch isn’t finished—charcoal lines still loose in places, shading waiting to be filled in—but Seokjin knows exactly what he’s looking at.

It’s him.

Laughing. Head tilted back, eyes closed, mouth open in a moment of unselfconscious joy. Caught in something he doesn’t even remember doing—but Jeongguk clearly did. The curve of his jaw, the crinkle at the corner of his eye, the line of his throat. All drawn like someone memorizing, not just observing.

“I started it the day we went kayaking,” Jeongguk says, rubbing the back of his neck. There’s a little color in his cheeks. “I didn’t know if I’d show you.”

Seokjin swallows. His throat feels too tight for the words, but he manages: “It’s beautiful.”

Jeongguk’s gaze flickers up to meet his, steady and sure. “You are.”

From the doorway, Jimin leans in, holding a coffee mug like it’s a prop in some domestic comedy. His grin is wicked but his voice is warm. “I’m stealing that one. For our future wall.”

“Future wall?” Seokjin repeats, half-laughing, half-shaken.

Jimin just sips his coffee, eyes sparkling. “You’ll see.”

[Saturday morning | Jimin and Jeongguk’s bed]

Seokjin wakes first.

The room is wrapped in that soft, early quiet—the kind that feels both infinite and impossibly fragile. Pale light seeps through the curtains, dusting the sheets in silver and tracing over the edges of the bodies beside him.

Jimin lies on his left, lashes fanned delicately against his cheeks, his mouth just barely parted. On his right, Jeongguk’s hair is a perfect mess, with one ridiculous dent from the pillow that makes Seokjin’s fingers itch to smooth it out.

He stays still. Breath shallow.

There was a time mornings like this would have felt dangerous—like waking on the edge of something that could crumble at the slightest movement. Back then, he’d catalogue all the ways it might end, fortifying himself for the moment it inevitably would.

Now? Now he catches himself hoping it won’t. Hoping the weight in the bed stays exactly as it is. Hoping this warmth, this absurd comfort, is something he’s allowed to keep.

Somewhere in that in-between space between sleep and waking, Jimin shifts. His cheek finds Jeongguk’s heartbeat, and his back presses instinctively into Seokjin’s side. One hand curls against Seokjin’s stomach, fingers splaying like an anchor, like even in dreams he’s holding him there.

A faint, unknowing smile tugs at his lips. The kind of smile you don’t choose—one born from safety and the simple pleasure of being where you want to be.

Jeongguk wakes to warmth. To the grounding weight of two people molded to him, their breaths syncing in that natural, unthinking way bodies do when they’ve been close long enough.

Seokjin’s inhale is slow, steady against his arm. Jimin’s hair tickles his chin.

He doesn’t say a word—words would break whatever spell is hanging here, suspended in morning light and soft heat. Instead, he leans forward, pressing the barest kiss to Seokjin’s shoulder. His lips linger there a second too long before he tilts down, finding Jimin’s forehead and brushing another kiss there.

No one says anything.

But everything is felt.

2 hours later, the morning smells like coffee and something sizzling in a pan.

Seokjin pads out in one of Jeongguk’s shirts and a pair of borrowed shorts that keep sliding down his hips. Jeongguk is at the stove, spatula in hand, while Jimin sits on the counter beside him, swinging his legs like a kid and sipping from a mug that looks too big for his hands.

“You didn’t have to—” Seokjin starts, but Jeongguk cuts him off without turning.

“Sit. Eat. You’re on guest status. No backtalk.”

Jimin grins over his mug. “Translation: he’s not letting you near the frying pan after the ‘garlic pancake incident.’”

“That was one time,” Seokjin protests, sliding into a chair anyway. “And it was an experiment.”

“Yeah,” Jimin says with mock solemnity, “and the garlic was the only survivor.”

Jeongguk plates something golden and perfect, setting it in front of him. “Breakfast diplomacy,” he says, sliding into the seat next to Seokjin. “It’s how we keep you from running off again.”

Seokjin rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrays him with a smile. “You know bribery is illegal, right?”

“Good thing we’re not bribing you,” Jeongguk says, nudging his shoulder. “We’re feeding you. Totally different crime.”

Jimin hops down from the counter, stealing a bite straight from Seokjin’s plate. “Mmm. Yeah. Crime of passion.”

Seokjin tries to glare, but ends up laughing instead. And the laughter lingers through the day, easy and light, tucked into every glance.

It’s late when they finally spill into Jeongguk’s car. The city has gone from rush to hush, and the roads stretch wide and empty. Music hums low through the speakers. Jimin dozes in the back seat, his head tipped against the window, while Seokjin watches the skyline slide past.

“Pull over,” he says suddenly.

Jeongguk blinks but obeys, coasting to a stop along the Han River. Outside, the water glitters under lamplight, the air still and cool.

Seokjin leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Just wanted to say thanks.”

“For what?”

“For not giving up on me.”

Jeongguk takes his hand, turning it over to kiss his knuckles. “Never even crossed my mind.”

They stay like that for a long moment—quiet, the river whispering beside them—before heading back into the city, the night feeling just a little more certain than the one before.

[3 weeks later]

Spring arrives like a breath held too long — and finally released.

The trees in Seoul explode in soft pinks and whites, a floral riot against cloudless skies. The petals drift down like confetti, stick in people’s hair, land like prayers on the backs of their hands.

Seokjin has always loved spring. Always hated it, too. Because it makes him long for something, for someone, for everything.

This year, he doesn’t need to long.

This year, he has Jimin and Jeongguk.

Or, he almost does.

It’s a warm afternoon when they spread the blanket beneath a tree near the Han River. Jimin’s in pastels, sunglasses too big and somehow perfect on his nose. Jeongguk’s in a loose shirt and biker shorts, tattoos out, arm flexing as he opens the drink cooler.

Seokjin sets down the last container of fruit and flops dramatically onto the blanket. “This is so domestic. Should we get a dog next?”

“We have one,” Jimin says, pointing at Jeongguk. “He’s house-trained. Mostly.”

Jeongguk throws a grape at him.

It lands in Jimin’s mouth.

Show-off.

Seokjin watches them laugh. Watches Jeongguk sneak in a kiss, slow and soft, on Jimin’s cheek while he pretends to fuss. Watches Jimin lean into it like muscle memory. It’s natural. Intimate. Unapologetically close.

And it should make Seokjin feel like an intruder.

Instead, it makes his heart lurch.

Because Jimin’s hand finds his next. Fingers interlaced.

And Jeongguk shifts, laying his head right in Seokjin’s lap.

“You okay?” Jeongguk mumbles, eyes blinking up at him.

Seokjin nods. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

Jimin smirks. “We should kiss it out of him.”

Jeongguk grins. “You kiss the thoughts, I’ll bite the insecurities.”

Seokjin wheezes. “Oh, good. Cannibal therapy.”

They’re ridiculous. And stunning. And everything he thought he didn’t deserve.

He wants to freeze this moment and live in it. Right here, with cherry blossoms on his shoulder and a soft boy in his lap and a flirt with a honey voice brushing petals from his hair like it's the most natural thing.

They nap in the sun, eventually. Limbs tangled. A soft breeze.

And then Seokjin wakes up with Jimin pressed against his chest, one leg thrown over his hip. Jeongguk’s behind him, nose buried in the back of his neck, breath warm against skin.

He thinks he’s dreaming. Until Jeongguk murmurs, sleepy and low:

“You smell like strawberries.”

Seokjin stiffens, and Jeongguk — still half-asleep — kisses the spot behind his ear.

A soft, lingering press.

Not sexual.

But intimate. Devotional.

Jimin stirs against him, groaning softly and stretching like a cat. He squints up at Seokjin. “You’re blushing.”

“I’m hot,” Seokjin mutters. “There are two of you on me.”

“Would you prefer none of us?”

“Don’t you dare move.”

As the sun’s setting, they pack up slowly. Shoes dragging, drinks finished, arms bumping. Seokjin’s mood is quiet — full, content, and a little overwhelmed.

When they reach his car, Jimin hugs him from behind. “Come home with us tonight?”

“Or we come with you,” Jeongguk says, slinging an arm across his shoulder.

Seokjin hesitates. “I—I should finish some things at home—”

He doesn’t get far because Jimin cups his face, turns it gently.

“You okay?”

Seokjin nods. But his eyes betray him. Just for a second.

Jimin doesn’t press. He just kisses Seokjin’s forehead, soft and grounding.

“We’ll see you soon,” he says.

And Jeongguk?

He pulls Seokjin into a long hug. Says nothing. Just holds him.

And something in Seokjin melts.

Back at their home, Jeongguk and Jimin still think about him. Lying together in bed, tangled and bare.

“I want to keep him,” Jimin whispers, head on Jeongguk’s chest.

“We are,” Jeongguk says. “Bit by bit.”

“He’s scared.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

Jimin hums. “I think I already was. That’s why I knew how to wait.”

A beat of silence.

And then:

“Jeongguk.”

“Yeah?”

“Next time… let’s tell him.”

“…Tell him what?”

Jimin smiles. “That we’re in love.”

Jeongguk blinks at the ceiling. Then grins. “Not next time, but…soon.”

“Okay.”

Three days later, Seokjin wakes up warm.

Not metaphorically — though, fine, maybe a little bit — but physically warm. Like someone wrapped him in sunshine and decided to add two living, breathing space heaters for good measure.

Jimin is curled up on his chest like a particularly elegant cat, hair tickling Seokjin’s jaw. One thigh is somehow draped over both Seokjin’s hip and Jeongguk’s stomach, and there’s the faintest glisten of drool soaking into Seokjin’s shirt.

Jeongguk, meanwhile, is stretched out behind him, half-spooned into his back, hand splayed over Seokjin’s waist like it was claimed in the night. He’s snoring. Loudly.

It’s chaos.

It’s heaven.

Seokjin stares up at the ceiling, every nerve aware of where he’s being touched. Not just touched — held. Like his presence here is assumed. Like waking up between them is the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe that’s the part that makes his heart beat uneven: he’s not used to being part of someone’s natural. This—these slow mornings, these casual intimacies—are the kind of things he’s spent years telling himself belonged to other people. People who didn’t have to try so hard to be worth the space they took up.

But here he is. Not performing. Not earning. Just being.

And they’re still here.

Jimin stirs first, letting out a sleepy groan and tightening his arm around Seokjin’s ribs. “You smell good,” he mumbles into the fabric of Seokjin’s shirt, voice muffled and warm.

The sound draws a low, rumbling hum from Jeongguk, followed by a soft kiss pressed to the nape of Seokjin’s neck. The heat of it radiates down his spine.

Seokjin goes still for a moment, not out of fear, but because something deep in his chest feels like it’s cracking open.

Jimin blinks one bleary eye open, his smile slow and soft. “You okay?”

Seokjin swallows. “Never better.”

And maybe—just maybe—it’s completely true.

[Later that day]

“You’re not serious,” Seokjin deadpans, staring into their cart. “This is six kinds of cheese.”

“I’m very serious,” Jimin says, pouting as he slides a wedge of brie onto the pile like it’s the crown jewel.

“We’re feeding three, not hosting a lactose festival.”

“We’re feeding Jeongguk,” Jimin counters, unbothered. “That boy eats like a fridge on legs.”

“I have a high metabolism,” Jeongguk’s voice chimes in from behind, smug and proud. He appears triumphantly, brandishing a box of chocolate cereal like a trophy. “Guess what’s on sale—”

“No,” Seokjin says instantly, turning on his heel.

“YES,” Jeongguk declares, dropping it into the cart with a one-handed basketball toss.

“Why do I feel like I’m the only adult here?” Seokjin mutters, pushing the cart forward.

“That’s because you read those boring ‘serious’ books before bed,” Jimin says, snagging a pack of grapes. “Meanwhile, I’m out here devouring dark romance novels where people stab each other but also make out about it.”

Seokjin blinks at him. “Do I want to know?”

“Of course you do,” Jimin grins, leaning in like he’s sharing state secrets. “There’s this one where the guy ties the love interest to—”

“Stop.” Seokjin holds up a hand, half laughing, half exasperated. “I’m trying to picture something I would read, and now all I’m imagining is you narrating smut to me while we grocery shop.”

Jeongguk’s eyes light up. “Should I start reading those too? You know—research?”

Seokjin narrows his eyes. “Research for what?”

“Oh, you know…” Jeongguk starts ticking things off on his fingers, dead serious. “Bondage, roleplay, exhibitionism, edging, sensory play—”

“OH MY GOD,” Seokjin hisses, looking around frantically to see if anyone’s listening.

Jimin’s doubled over the cart, wheezing. “Yes, Kookie, study up. Make flashcards.”

Jeongguk tilts his head innocently. “Should I highlight the important parts?”

Seokjin makes the mistake of imagining Jeongguk actually doing that—tattooed forearm flexing as he turns pages, brows furrowed in concentration—and feels his face heat. “I—no—just—put the cheese down.”

They’re still laughing when they hit the checkout line. The elderly cashier gives them a once-over, eyes twinkling, and says, “Ah, the handsome one with two boyfriends.”

Seokjin stammers so hard he nearly drops the grapes. Jimin smirks like Christmas came early. Jeongguk beams at the woman and says, without hesitation, “Right?”

Seokjin decides he’s never shopping with them again.

Except, of course, he will. Every time.

Chapter Text

They take turns cooking. Tonight, it’s Seokjin’s turn.

He’s gone all in — roasted chicken, perfectly seasoned vegetables, garlic bread, a bottle of wine breathing on the counter. It smells like heaven and a five-star restaurant had a baby.

He’s focused, precise, moving with the kind of confidence that says he knows exactly when the chicken will be done down to the minute—

—except Jimin keeps poking his sides like a gremlin.

“Stop it!” Seokjin swats him away without looking up.

“I’m just checking if the chef is tender,” Jimin grins.

“That’s not how tenderness works.”

Meanwhile, Jeongguk is leaning on the counter, shamelessly licking a smear of sauce off the tasting spoon. He closes his eyes and lets out the kind of slow, sinful moan that should be illegal in most countries.

Seokjin freezes mid-chop. “Are you—what is that noise?”

“Tasting,” Jeongguk says innocently, swirling the spoon in his fingers like a wine critic with a glass. “You know. For quality control.”

“Quality control my ass—out of my kitchen!” Seokjin snaps, face already heating.

“But chef,” Jimin purrs, sidling closer, “we’re just like those morally dubious love interests in my books—stealing kisses and snacks while the main character cooks.”

Seokjin spins around with the spatula in hand like a sword. “You want raw chicken?? I’ll give you raw chicken—”

Jeongguk laughs, easily dodging the mock threat, then takes advantage of the spin to slip behind Seokjin and wrap strong arms around his waist.

And Seokjin — like an idiot — freezes, blushes, melts.

“Smells good,” Jeongguk murmurs against his neck.

“You’re standing in the danger zone,” Seokjin mutters, brandishing the spatula halfheartedly.

Jimin slides in on his other side, resting his chin briefly on Seokjin’s shoulder before kissing it. “We like danger.”

“You read danger,” Seokjin corrects. “Which is different.”

“Not if we’re researching for the live-action adaptation,” Jimin says, dead serious.

“Please stop talking,” Seokjin says, but it’s weak—especially when Jeongguk chuckles low in his ear and says, “Want me to be the brooding antihero or the morally grey assassin in this scene?”

“Neither,” Seokjin says, shoving at his hip. “Be the guy who sets the table.”

When they finally eat later, Seokjin swears he can taste their laughter baked right into the food. And maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind the chaos.

After dinner, they end up on the couch, wine glasses in hand, Seokjin wedged comfortably between them like the world’s most well-fed diplomat.

Jimin’s got one of his dark romance paperbacks in his lap — the kind with an ominous title like Blood Vows and a cover that looks like someone just got seduced and murdered at the same time.

Halfway through a sip of wine, Seokjin hears:

“He pressed me against the marble wall, the dagger cold at my throat while his other hand—”

“Jimin.”

“What?” Jimin blinks innocently. “It’s plot-relevant.”

Jeongguk is already leaning over to peek at the page. “Plot-relevant to what? Murder or—” he squints— “oh. Definitely the other thing.”

Seokjin puts his glass down. “Why are you reading that out loud right now?”

“Because,” Jimin says, crossing his legs and looking entirely too smug, “it’s romantic. And you told me to pick a hobby we could share.”

“That’s not—” Seokjin starts, but Jeongguk interrupts with a grin that is far too wolfish for Seokjin’s comfort.

“So… when do we try that one?”

Seokjin sputters. “That one involves a dagger, Jeongguk.”

“Fine. I’ll swap it for a butter knife. Safety first.”

Jimin cackles so hard he nearly spills his wine. “See, this is why we keep him.”

“I’m confiscating this,” Seokjin says, leaning over to grab the book—only for Jeongguk to hold it out of reach like a schoolyard bully.

“Not until I’ve checked for other… research opportunities.”

Seokjin lunges for it, Jimin’s laughter ringing in his ear, Jeongguk holding the book up with one hand and pinning Seokjin down with the other. It’s a mess. It’s ridiculous. And somehow, Seokjin’s cheeks hurt from smiling before he even gets the damn book away.

They’re folding laundry in Jeongguk and Jimin’s apartment two days later.
It should be boring.
It is not.

Jimin has decided this is a competition. He’s draped a fitted sheet around his shoulders like a cape, declaring himself Laundry King, and insists the only way to dethrone him is to fold faster, neater, and—according to him—sexier.

“You literally licked the T-shirt,” Seokjin says, staring in disbelief as Jimin smooths the fabric over his thigh like a runway model. “That’s not sexy, it’s unhygienic.”

“I’m doing my best,” Jimin replies, voice dripping with fake sorrow.

“Your best is going to give me a rash,” Seokjin mutters, turning back to his pile.

From across the couch, Jeongguk snorts and throws a rolled-up pair of socks at both of them. “Penalty for slander. You’re both disqualified.”

“This is war,” Jimin says, unrolling the socks and wearing them on his hands like puppets. “You will rue the day you mocked the Laundry King—”

“Rue?” Seokjin raises an eyebrow. “What are you, eighty?”

“Rue,” Jimin repeats solemnly, then breaks into giggles when Jeongguk swats him in the side with a dish towel.

The room is warm with the smell of clean cotton and whatever citrus detergent they use. Somewhere between folding towels and matching underwear, Jimin drops his theatrics long enough to say, softly, “You know… we really like doing this with you.”

Seokjin looks up, blinking. “Laundry?”

Jimin just smiles, one of those small, knowing ones that says he’s talking about much more than socks and shirts.

Jeongguk, folding a hoodie with methodical precision, adds quieter, “All of it.”

For a moment, the air shifts. The easy chaos still hums in the background, but under it—something heavier. Softer.

Seokjin looks down at the towel in his lap, fingers smoothing over the edges like it’s suddenly the most important thing in the world.
“…Me too.”

Jimin’s smile widens, but he doesn’t push. Jeongguk just leans over, brushes their knees together, and goes back to folding.

And somehow, even with laundry still piled high, Seokjin feels like something’s already been put perfectly in its place.

[2 weeks later | some other Lake…again]

The lake is blue, the sun is criminal, and Jeongguk is shirtless.

Seokjin is already in danger.

Not because of the lake itself — which is calm and scenic and flanked by pine trees like a postcard — but because his brain short-circuits every time Jeongguk smirks while fastening his life jacket, or when Jimin stretches like a dancer mid-warm-up, slim torso twisting, shirt rising—

Seokjin turns away and adjusts his sunglasses like that’ll protect his gay soul.

They’d arrived early — Jeongguk had found the place online (“You like lakes,” he’d said innocently, devastatingly) and now here they are: three stand-up paddleboards, crystal water, and a day to waste.

Seokjin’s thrilled.

Also: doomed.

“I watched a video,” Jimin chirps, wobbling slightly as he steps onto his board.

“I am the video,” Jeongguk replies, already crouched in a squat, paddling out with ease.

“Great,” Seokjin says, adjusting his sunhat. “So we have confidence, chaos, and cowardice. I love this team.”

“Cowardice?” Jimin gasps.

Seokjin points to his own board still lying untouched on the sand. “Not even wet yet.”

Ten minutes in: Jimin is struggling. Not badly, just… gracefully, and with flair.

He’s upright. Technically. But he paddles in little circles like a confused duckling. Every time he tries to go straight, he overcorrects and ends up drifting backward like an apologetic Roomba.

And then?

Then the ducks arrive.

“Oh my god,” Seokjin calls across the lake. “He’s summoned his people.”

“It’s the gay aura,” Jeongguk says solemnly, paddling past like some kind of tattooed mermaid. “Birds can sense divas.”

Sure enough, a family of ducks — mama, papa, and four tiny ducklings — have taken a shining to Jimin’s paddleboard. They trail him like he’s Moses parting breadcrumbs.

Jimin, meanwhile, is delighted.

“Oh my god. Look at their feet. Look at the babies. They love me.”

“They think you’re made of breadsticks,” Seokjin calls.

“Even better!”

Fifteen minutes in: Jeongguk has ascended. He's doing tricks now.

He spins his board in tight, dizzying circles, then drops into a plank like it’s a gym mat. From there, he does push-ups. On water.

“Stop showing off,” Seokjin mutters, awed and annoyed.

Jeongguk grins. “Jealous?”

“Yes.”

Jeongguk paddles over, rises up to kneeling, and flicks a splash of water at him. “You’re doing great, hyung.”

“I haven’t even started.”

“Exactly. Can’t fall if you don’t stand.”

“Wow,” Seokjin says. “So inspiring. Go drown.”

But he’s smiling. He’s already paddling out.

Twenty minutes in: Seokjin… actually does okay.

He’s not as nimble as Jeongguk or as adorable as Jimin, but once he finds his rhythm, he finds something else, too: peace.

The sun is warm on his shoulders, his feet are steady, and the lake below is filled with darting fish that catch the light like coins.

He zones out watching them, paddle gliding through the water in slow strokes.

There’s a butterfly.

A dragonfly.

A small ripple of light—

And a hissing noise.

He blinks.

“What the—”

And turns.

Right.

Into.

A.

SWAN.

“OH HELL NO—!”

The swan, large and beautiful and murderous, is floating directly behind him. Beak open. Rage in its beady eyes.

“Why is it always me?!” Seokjin yells, flailing his paddle.

Jeongguk and Jimin immediately turn around at the commotion.

“Is that—?”

“A swan?!”

“It’s hissing at me!!”

“Don’t make eye contact!” Jimin calls helpfully from his duck brigade.

“It’s already IN MY SOUL!”

Jeongguk is laughing so hard he almost falls off his board.

“Help me!!” Seokjin screeches.

Jeongguk starts paddling toward him. “You need to assert dominance—”

“I’M WEARING A BUCKET HAT, JEONGGUK!”

Eventually, the swan decides it has better things to do (like terrorize honeymooners), and leaves Seokjin alone — wet, breathless, and betrayed by nature once again.

“You’re a magnet for unhinged wildlife,” Jimin says, beaming.

“Maybe the swan wanted a kiss too,” Jeongguk snorts, and Seokjin sputters.

“NOPE. We are not making this a thing.”

“Oh it’s already a thing,” Jimin says sweetly. “Your swan boyfriend.”

“I will drown myself.”

“Should we paddle out together?” Jeongguk offers. “Hold hands?”

“Jeongguk, I swear to god—”

They dry off near the shore on a blanket of pastel stripes and mismatched towels. Seokjin is toweling his hair. Jimin is lying on his back, eyes closed, arms open to the sun.

Jeongguk sits nearby, legs crossed, chewing a piece of melon.

“Thanks for coming,” he says softly, eyes on the horizon.

Seokjin hums. “Wasn’t gonna miss Swan Lake, the horror edition.”

Jimin giggles, eyes still closed.

Jeongguk grins. “We’ve been planning this one a while.”

That gets Seokjin’s attention.

“You planned this?”

Jimin turns his head, hair damp and sticking to his cheeks. “Yeah. We thought you’d like it.”

“We weren’t sure if you’d come,” Jeongguk adds, quieter. “After the… other weekend.”

Silence.

Seokjin looks down at his hands. Then at the little family of ducks now floating near the shore again, as if Jimin summoned them with his mind.

“I’m… trying,” he says finally. “I know I keep pulling back. It’s not because I don’t want this. It’s because I do. And that scares the hell out of me.”

Jimin reaches out and laces their fingers together. “We’re scared too.”

Seokjin glances at him.

Jimin’s smiling, soft and sure. “That’s how we know it’s real.”

Jeongguk reaches out too — no hesitation — and gently brushes a thumb over the back of Seokjin’s hand.

“We’re here,” he says. “No matter how long it takes.”

The ducks quack.

Seokjin exhales. His chest aches in the best way.

Maybe… just maybe… he won’t have to run again.

They don’t go home right away.

The afternoon stretches. Long and golden and slow.

The three of them curl back into Jeongguk’s car — windows cracked, damp hair sticking to sun-warmed skin — and no one says much. Jimin hums along to the music. Jeongguk taps his fingers on the steering wheel. Seokjin… watches them. Quiet. Soft around the edges.

It should be awkward.

It’s not.

It's everything else.

That night, they order too much food.

Jeongguk burns his tongue on tteokbokki.

Jimin pours everyone ginger beer like they’re kids playing house.

And Seokjin leans against the kitchen counter and thinks, This. I want this.

The thought nearly makes his knees give out.

They watch a movie next. Something terrible and loud.

Jeongguk yells at the plot. Jimin drapes himself dramatically across both of them. Seokjin doesn’t complain. He likes Jimin’s weight, his warmth, the way his lashes flutter when he giggles.

At some point, Seokjin ends up with Jeongguk’s head in his lap.

“That’s dangerous,” Jimin murmurs, eyes glittering.

“For who?” Jeongguk asks, grinning up at him.

Seokjin’s fingers card through his hair.

He’s not even sure when he started.

The movie ends.

The lights stay low.

No one moves.

“Can I ask something?” Seokjin says, after a long stretch of silence.

He’s staring at the TV, but he’s not seeing it.

“Mm?” Jimin shifts a little, brushing their knees together.

“Why me?” he asks. “Why this?”

Jeongguk lifts his head from his lap. Looks at him, eyes calm. Careful.

Jimin doesn’t hesitate.

“We’re loving you,” he says simply.

Seokjin stares.

Jeongguk nods, chin tilted up, voice steady. “You didn’t notice?”

“I—”

Of course he did.

The problem is he thought it would go away.

Not their affection — but the way it knotted into him. The way he burned with it. Wanted it too much. Needed it too badly.

“Why me?” he whispers.

Jimin shifts closer, a knee over his thigh. “Because you’re beautiful. Because you’re brilliant. Because you make Jeongguk laugh so hard he wheezes.”

“And you make Jimin stop performing,” Jeongguk says. “Like he can just be.”

“And you make the best ramyeon in the world,” Jimin grins, but his eyes are serious. “And you love with your whole chest, even when you’re scared to show it.”

“I’m…” Seokjin swallows. “I’m still scared.”

“Me too,” Jeongguk says.

“Terrified,” Jimin nods.

“But we’re here,” Jeongguk adds. “Right here. With you.”

Seokjin covers his face with both hands.

He laughs.

He cries.

They don’t rush him.

They just press in — one on each side — like the world could be small enough to hold in a single, trembling breath.

Jimin presses a kiss to his temple.

Jeongguk murmurs, “Breathe, hyung.”

And then, very quietly, Seokjin says it.

“I love you.”

He says it like a secret.

He says it like a sigh.

He says it like it’s everything he’s ever been afraid of and everything he’s ever wanted.

There’s a silence.

Then—

“Oh my god,” Jimin says, sniffling immediately. “Don’t look at me.”

“You—” Jeongguk chokes on a laugh. “You said it first, you absolute menace.”

“I had to,” Seokjin groans, wiping his face. “You were being all perfect and gentle and understanding. It was unbearable.”

“I told you we should’ve insulted him more,” Jimin mutters, nose pink.

“I love you both,” Seokjin says, louder now. Firmer. Freer. “So much it makes me insane.”

“Oh,” Jeongguk says.

“Oh,” Jimin echoes.

And then they pounce.

It’s not a scene. It’s a collision.

Jimin climbs into his lap with a thud.

Jeongguk grabs his face in both hands and kisses him stupid.

There’s laughter. There’s gasps. There’s breathless, tangled limbs and Seokjin falling backward onto the couch with two very attractive, very emotional boyfriends glued to either side of him.

“I can’t believe we made you say it first,” Jimin whispers against his neck.

“It was the swan,” Seokjin says faintly. “It changed me.”

“I told you it wanted a kiss.”

“I’ll kill you.”

Jeongguk kisses him again, soft and slow. “We love you, hyung.”

Seokjin melts.

He’s never been more doomed.

He’s never been happier.

Jimin is the first to kiss him again.

Not dramatic, not showy — just a kiss that seals the moment. Mouth warm and plush, the kind of kiss that murmurs you’re safe here, not we’re starting something. His hand cups Seokjin’s cheek, thumb swiping gently under one eye. Seokjin closes his eyes. Breathes.

Then Jeongguk kisses the corner of his mouth. Once. Twice. Soft.

"You smell like tears and fabric softener," Jeongguk whispers, forehead pressing to his.

"Shut up."

They’re all smiling, even as they hover. Seokjin lets his hands roam cautiously — the warm slope of Jimin’s waist, the sharp edge of Jeongguk’s hip bone where his shirt has ridden up. His touch makes them both shiver.

"Okay," Seokjin breathes. "Okay."

And then their mouths are on him in earnest.

Jimin kisses his throat, down the column of it, right where his pulse skips. Jeongguk is already pulling Seokjin's shirt up, hands bold but not rushed. He kisses the skin he uncovers: ribs, chest, the dip of his sternum. Worshipful.

They don't devour him — not yet. They savor. It's a slow unraveling, a peeling away of layers. Every touch lingers. Every kiss sinks deep.

"Tell us if anything's too much," Jimin whispers, fingers dancing under the waistband of Seokjin’s sweats.

"What if it's not enough?" Seokjin answers, breathless.

Jeongguk groans. "Oh, hyung."

Clothes are lost in pieces. Jimin ends up shirtless in Seokjin's lap, both of them in their boxers, bodies warm and flushed. Jeongguk settles behind Seokjin, arms curling around his middle, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder blades. They're not moving fast. They're feeling.

Jimin kisses him again — deeper now. His hips rock, almost by accident, and Seokjin gasps.

"Sorry," Jimin murmurs, but he does it again.

"Don’t be sorry," Seokjin exhales.

Jeongguk’s hand slips under the waistband of Seokjin’s boxers, palm cupping him.

"Still okay?"

"Yes," Seokjin hisses.

They shift together — a pile of limbs and breath and heat. Jimin's mouth finds a nipple and teases, just enough to make Seokjin's spine arch. Jeongguk strokes him, slow and steady, whispering things in his ear that make Seokjin moan out loud.

"So beautiful. So sweet. So good for us."

Seokjin's head tips back onto Jeongguk's shoulder, lips parted, eyes glazed. He’s never felt this — never been the center of this kind of attention. He’s unraveling.

And he’s never felt safer.

They finish together, slowly, messily, wrapped up in each other. Jimin clutches Seokjin's hand tight as he shudders, whispering his name. Jeongguk bites softly into Seokjin's neck as he follows.

When Seokjin finally comes, it feels like release in the truest sense. Like letting go of something he’d held inside for too long.

After, they clean up clumsily and curl up under a throw blanket. Seokjin's head rests on Jeongguk's chest; Jimin sprawls across both of them like a cat.

Someone turns off the lamp.

The glow lingers anyway.

Sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains, casting the room in a golden hush that feels too gentle to be real. Somewhere in the blankets, a foot kicks lightly. There’s a grunt. A groan. A soft exhale muffled against skin.

Seokjin wakes first — or rather, resurfaces. He blinks at the ceiling for a long moment, trying to place the heavy warmth at his side, and the heavier warmth draped across his chest. There’s a familiar scent on the pillow: something citrusy and clean, tinged with Jimin’s shampoo and Jeongguk’s favorite laundry detergent.

Oh.

Oh.

His cheeks go up in flames.

Jeongguk is half-sprawled on top of him, an arm thrown possessively across his waist, face pressed into the crook of Seokjin’s shoulder. Jimin is curled around Seokjin’s other side, one leg hooked over both of theirs, and he’s smiling in his sleep. Smiling.

Seokjin can feel the echo of everything from the night before in the dull ache of his thighs and the tingling buzz behind his ribs. There was kissing, panting, laughter, gasps into pillows, skin on skin and whispered praise and oh no no no—he’s remembering things in fragments. Dangerous ones.

He swears softly under his breath and tries to shift—

"Mm-mm," Jimin hums without opening his eyes. "You move, you die."

"I'm overheating," Seokjin whispers.

"Sexy way to go." Jimin nuzzles against his shoulder like a cat.

On the other side, Jeongguk stirs with a sleepy grunt. “It’s not even noon…”

“It’s exactly ten forty-seven,” Seokjin says. “And you weigh a thousand kilograms.”

Jeongguk lifts his head just enough to blink at him, pout already forming. His hair is a mess, his cheek creased from the pillow, lips swollen from… well. But somehow, even like this, he looks too pretty. Too unfair.

“I’m muscular,” Jeongguk mumbles. “There’s a difference.”

“You’re a furnace.”

Jimin lets out a delighted little sigh. “And I am cozy.”

Seokjin’s already flustered and they’re not even trying. The two of them sandwiching him like they were made for this. Like they want to stay just like this forever. And… maybe Seokjin doesn’t really mind.

Still.

“You guys are clingy,” he tries.

“You didn’t seem to mind last night,” Jeongguk says, voice low and sly.

Seokjin slaps his chest. Jeongguk laughs.

Jimin props himself up on an elbow, chin in hand. His eyes sparkle, soft and bright. “You always this grumpy in the mornings?”

“I’m not grumpy. I’m just—aware of boundaries. And body heat. And the fact that I need to pee.”

“Do not abandon the cuddle pile,” Jeongguk grumbles, tightening his arm.

“You have ten seconds,” Seokjin warns.

Jimin huffs. “You’re lucky we like you.”

“I am lucky,” Seokjin admits softly.

And for a moment, the teasing fades. Jeongguk’s hold eases just enough for Seokjin to slip out from under the sheets. He pads to the bathroom with a groan, bare legs and bedhead on full display, muttering about needy men and overheated beds.

The moment the door clicks shut, Jimin flops onto Jeongguk’s chest.

“He’s cute when he spirals.”

“Mm. Adorable.”

“Should we make breakfast?”

“I was thinking second round.”

Jimin snorts. “He’ll run for real.”

When Seokjin returns a few minutes later — clean-faced, hair fluffed up, and trying very hard not to feel self-conscious — he’s met with the sight of Jeongguk standing in the kitchen in nothing but sleep shorts, holding a spatula like a weapon. Jimin’s at the table already, sipping coffee and watching Jeongguk like he’s auditioning for MasterChef: Hot Boy Edition.

“What’s happening?” Seokjin asks warily.

“We’re making breakfast,” Jeongguk says.

“You’re burning the eggs,” Jimin adds.

“They’re crispy.”

“You’re shirtless,” Seokjin says.

“You like that,” Jeongguk says without looking up.

Jimin chokes on his coffee.

Seokjin mutters something that sounds like a curse and covers his face with both hands. He’s blushing again. And smiling. His stomach flutters in the worst and best way.

They eat together — still half tangled in laughter, legs brushing under the table, stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jimin feeds Seokjin a too-big piece of pancake and Seokjin glares through the syrup. Jeongguk brings Seokjin a fresh cup of coffee without being asked and Seokjin doesn’t stop smiling for five whole minutes.

When they’re cleaning up, Seokjin bumps Jimin’s hip with his own. Jeongguk brushes flour off Seokjin’s collarbone with one thumb and says, “You’ve got a little something…” before kissing the spot, just because he can.

They stay like that for a second too long — warm, close, quiet. No pressure. No need to rush.

Just something soft. Something real.

Something beginning.

[some days later]

They decide to visit a club again.

The music there is a sin in itself. Bassy, dark, like the beat has a mouth and it's biting. Lights flash in sultry colors across bodies that move like water, like fire, like sex.

Seokjin should’ve known better.

He should’ve known better than to let Jeongguk pick the club.

And he definitely should’ve known better than to follow Jimin into the dancer’s cage area.

But here he is: sweaty, flustered, a little drunk, a lot overstimulated — sandwiched between two absolute menaces who’ve made it their personal mission to kill him on the dancefloor.

Jimin’s behind him, all coy hands and devastating rolls of his hips, chin tucked over Seokjin’s shoulder as he sways. Jeongguk is in front, shirt halfway unbuttoned, all jaw and sweat-slick tattoos, gyrating with the kind of confidence that would’ve made Magic Mike sit down.

“Are you—” Seokjin pants, eyes darting from Jeongguk’s hips to Jimin’s palms crawling over his waist. “Is this even legal??”

Jimin hums, voice right in his ear. “You’re not objecting.”

“I—can’t. You’ve disabled me.”

Jeongguk bites his lip mid-grind. “God, look at you.”

Seokjin is pink to his ears. But he doesn’t stop them.

If anything, he leans in.

They dance like that for too long — bodies pressed close, eyes lingering, fingers brushing bare skin. Jimin teases up the hem of Seokjin’s shirt. Jeongguk mouths at Seokjin’s jaw once in a moment of pure danger.

By the time they leave, Seokjin’s shirt is half-untucked, his pupils blown wide, and his mouth… a little reckless.

They’re halfway down the hallway in Jimin and Jeongguk’s shared apartment when he says it.

“I want to watch.”

Jimin freezes mid-step, turning slowly. “You… want to what?”

“I mean—” Seokjin rubs the back of his neck, blush blooming down his throat. “You two were already… you had something before I came along, right? And I just…” His eyes flick between them. “You’re beautiful together.”

Jeongguk lifts a brow, stunned. “Are you saying—”

“I want to see you. What you looked like—before. Or now. Together.”

The air shifts like someone flipped a switch.

Silence.

And then Jimin steps forward, slowly, biting his lip. “And what would you do while watching, hmm?”

Seokjin’s voice is hoarse. “Appreciate.”

“You sure you don’t mean—narrate?”

Jeongguk’s grin is wicked. “Oh, I want to be narrated.”

“Jesus,” Seokjin mutters. “Can we just go inside before I combust?”

He lingers in the hallway, suddenly unsure if he’s just made the boldest or most dangerous decision of his life.

But Jeongguk and Jimin?

They are already shedding jackets, tossing keys, moving as one. Comfortable. Intimate.

Dangerous.

Jeongguk casts a look over his shoulder. His voice is lower now, all velvet and promise.

“Living room?”

Jimin hums. “Too much light.”

“Bedroom?”

A sly smile. “Exactly right.”

Jeongguk turns to Seokjin fully now. “Come with us.”

But Seokjin stays rooted where he is.

“No,” he says, voice cracking with restraint. “I said I want to watch.”

Jimin’s pupils blow wide. “Shit.”

Jeongguk whistles under his breath. “Okay. Okay.”

There’s a beat — a shift in atmosphere — and then they move. Efficient, elegant. Jimin leads the way into the bedroom, already lifting his shirt, and Seokjin doesn’t follow.

Instead, he stands just beyond the doorway, shoulder braced against the wall. Watching.

His heart is a war drum in his chest.

Inside, the room glows with warm lamplight. The sheets on the bed are mussed, cream-colored, soft. Jimin perches on the edge with feline grace and begins to undress like it’s a ritual.

Shirt first. Then pants. Every movement slow.

Jeongguk follows suit — tattoos on full display, muscles moving like liquid fire as he stretches his arms over his head and peels the shirt off in one fluid roll.

Seokjin can’t breathe.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, and the word is a blessing and a curse.

Jimin hears it. He turns, smug. “Still okay, hyung?”

“Don’t hyung me while doing that with your tongue.”

Jimin pouts dramatically — then immediately grins. “Doing what?”

“You’re teasing me,” Seokjin says, voice thick. “On purpose.”

Jeongguk laughs, deep and filthy. “Oh, Jin-hyung… we haven’t even started.”

By the time Jimin is spread across the bed, flushed and panting under Jeongguk’s mouth and hands, Seokjin has entirely forgotten that this wasn’t supposed to include him.

He's seated at the armchair near the wall, fully clothed — but not unaffected.

God, not even close.

Jimin’s eyes are closed, his lips parted, one arm above his head and the other gripping the sheets like he might float away. Jeongguk is between his thighs — hair messy, mouth working, fingers slow and deep.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Jeongguk growls, biting into the inside of Jimin’s thigh. “You always were.”

“Mhm,” Jimin keens, hips twitching. “You’re just saying that ‘cause Seokjin’s watching.”

“That makes it hotter.”

Jimin laughs breathlessly and turns his head toward Seokjin, who’s wide-eyed and slowly, very slowly, dragging a palm over his own thigh.

“You doing alright over there, princess?”

Seokjin swallows. “This is—yeah. Yeah.”

Jimin lifts one leg to Jeongguk’s shoulder and arches. “Still want to narrate?”

Seokjin’s voice drops half an octave. “Jeongguk’s hands look good on you.”

Jimin groans.

“He’s so greedy,” Seokjin continues, heat bleeding into every syllable. “Spreading you open like he owns you. You like it.”

“I love it,” Jimin gasps.

Jeongguk lifts his head, mouth slick, pupils jet-black. “I love when you talk like that.”

“I didn’t think I would,” Seokjin admits, hoarse. “But look at him.”

He shifts in his chair, one hand dangerously close to his waistband now. Watching the way Jeongguk pulls Jimin closer by the hips and rocks against him, breath hitching.

“You’re rough with him,” Seokjin breathes. “But it’s gentle, too. Like you know where he’ll bend. Where he’ll break.”

Jimin whimpers. Jeongguk bites his shoulder, groaning into skin.

“And you—” Seokjin’s gaze lingers on Jimin, all flushed cheekbones and messy hair and trembling limbs. “You’re so responsive. You make it look like heaven.”

Jimin lifts a lazy hand, gesturing toward him. “Come here.”

Seokjin blinks. “I—what?”

“You’re not watching anymore,” Jimin purrs. “You’re directing.”

Jeongguk grins. “And I, for one, take orders well.”

Seokjin stands, heart threatening to crack his ribs in half.

“Well then,” he murmurs, voice low. “Get him on all fours.”

Jimin gasps. Jeongguk moans like it’s a prayer. And the air turns electric.

Seokjin hadn’t expected this.

He’d come here thinking he could stay outside of it. Be the observer. The one who simply appreciated — from a distance — the wonder of Jimin’s pliant body and Jeongguk’s relentless, focused desire.

But now?

Jimin’s flushed and blissed out on his elbows, cheeks pink, lips bruised. Jeongguk is kneeling behind him, hands on those perfect hips, sweat glistening at his temples.

And Seokjin — dear, spiraling, stunned Seokjin — has given them every command. Every dirty word that made them twitch and moan and obey.

He’s standing at the foot of the bed, still fully dressed, breathing like he ran a marathon. And they’re looking at him like he’s holy.

“Hyung,” Jeongguk murmurs, voice wrecked. “Come here. Let us take care of you.”

Seokjin doesn’t move.

So Jimin crawls toward him first, boneless and glowing, dragging his lithe body over the sheets with all the elegance of a cat in heat.

Jeongguk follows — slower, eyes darker, smile feral.

Seokjin swallows hard. “You’re both still—still wrecked.”

“We’re not done,” Jimin hums, kneeling at Seokjin’s feet. “Not until you’re shaking like we were.”

Jeongguk grins, one hand sliding around Seokjin’s thigh. “Let us taste you.”

And Seokjin, finally, finally gives in.

He sinks into the edge of the mattress, hands trembling, and Jimin is already working at his pants. Nimble fingers, gentle mouth.

“You’re already hard,” Jimin murmurs, reverent. “Did we really do that?”

“Of course you did,” Seokjin rasps. “You were unreal.”

Then Jeongguk’s hand joins in — strong, deliberate, and so confident it makes Seokjin groan.

“You talked us through it,” Jeongguk says, thumb tracing over the waistband. “You gave us everything we needed.”

Jimin leans in, brushes his cheek against Seokjin’s thigh.

“Now let us worship you.”

Seokjin’s head falls back as they pull his briefs down. He’s already leaking — flushed and twitching — and it earns a simultaneous, hungry noise from both of them.

“Fuck,” Jeongguk mutters. “You’re beautiful.”

Jimin hums in agreement. “And he tastes better than you, Gguk.”

“Hey—”

“Prove me wrong.”

Jeongguk growls, then moves in — and suddenly Seokjin has two hot, perfect mouths on him. One at the base, kissing, licking. The other at the tip, swallowing him deep.

“Sh—shit,” Seokjin gasps. “That’s—fuck—”

His thighs tremble. His hands dig into the sheets.

Jimin works him with that gorgeous, plush mouth — all technique and tease, pulling off with a filthy pop just to smile.

“You’re not holding back, are you?” he teases, voice wrecked. “You don’t have to anymore.”

“I’m gonna—” Seokjin’s voice is strangled. “If you keep—God.”

Jeongguk trades places with Jimin, taking him in one smooth, deep motion that has Seokjin crying out and gripping his shoulder. That mouth is hot, wet, eager — tongue swirling, throat fluttering.

He looks up while he does it.

Seokjin forgets his own name.

“I can’t—fuck, I can’t—”

Jimin kisses his thigh, murmurs, “Let go, hyung. Let us see you come apart.”

And Seokjin does.

With a groan ripped from his chest, his whole body bows, hands fisting the sheets, breath leaving him in one long, hoarse moan. He’s never come like this — not from just a mouth, not from just being wanted.

It’s too much.
It’s perfect.

And when he finally blinks open his eyes, both of them are still kneeling before him, panting softly, cheeks flushed with satisfaction.

“Holy shit,” Seokjin mutters, dragging a shaky hand through his hair. “You two are gonna kill me.”

Jimin lays his head on Seokjin’s thigh like a pillow. “We’d never. We’d resurrect you for round two.”

“Or three,” Jeongguk adds, smirking. “You talk pretty when you’re bossy.”

Seokjin stares at the ceiling. “I’ve created monsters.”

Jimin sighs dreamily. “You love it.”

“Unfortunately,” Seokjin mutters. “I really do.”

The morning light filters through, soft gold spilling across bare skin. Seokjin is wearing an oversized hoodie — Jeongguk’s, he thinks, though it’s hard to remember because they’d undressed each other at least twice last night.

He’s trying to focus on coffee. Really, he is.

But Jimin appears like a silent specter of sin, arms slipping around his waist from behind, pressing his flushed chest to Seokjin’s back.

“You’re up early,” Jimin murmurs into his shoulder. “After last night, I didn’t expect you to be standing.”

Seokjin snorts. “I’m a national treasure. I recover fast.”

Jeongguk pads in barefoot a moment later, rubbing sleep from his eyes and stretching like a damn jungle cat. His abs peek beneath the hem of his lifted shirt and Seokjin stares. Shamelessly.

“Oh no,” Jimin whispers behind him. “He’s entering the ‘contemplating his options’ phase.”

“I am not—”

“You are.” Jeongguk grins, brushing past them to grab a glass. “We’ve got Top Seokjin, Bottom Seokjin, and Switch Seokjin. Big choice. Big stakes.”

“You two are unbearable,” Seokjin mutters, but his voice is warm and low, his eyes tracking.

Jimin glides around in front of him, hops up to sit on the kitchen counter in nothing but a loose pair of briefs. His thighs spread just slightly, enough to make Seokjin pause in the middle of pouring his coffee.

Jeongguk leans on the island beside him, sipping water like he isn’t trying to murder Seokjin with his dimples and bare arms.

“So,” Jimin says lightly, “what’s your choice, hyung?”

“I haven’t made one yet.”

“But you’re thinking about it,” Jeongguk says, stepping closer. “Aren’t you?”

“Maybe I’m just hungry.”

“Oh, we can feed you.”

And that’s it.
That’s the trigger.

It begins with a kiss.

Jimin pulls Seokjin in first — slow, lush, slightly sticky with sleep. Seokjin groans as he leans in, hands bracing the counter on either side of Jimin’s thighs, chest brushing against Jimin’s.

When Jeongguk’s hand slides up the back of his hoodie and palms his waist possessively, Seokjin shudders.

“You’re not getting out of this,” Jeongguk murmurs, kissing along his jaw. “You’re gonna have to pick eventually.”

Seokjin chuckles, a low, dangerous sound. “I have picked.”

Jimin blinks. “Oh?”

“I pick yes.” Seokjin smiles. “Yes to all of it. You want me bossy? I’ll boss you. You want me pliant? Try me. You want me undone? Just say the word.”

They stare at him.

Then Jeongguk groans, pressing his forehead to Seokjin’s shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“And me,” Jimin whispers.

“No,” Seokjin says, grabbing Jeongguk’s wrist and guiding it lower. “I’m going to ruin you.”

And he does.

The countertop is cold at first, but Jimin doesn’t mind. Not when Seokjin spreads him out like a meal and kisses down his thighs, slow and wet and savoring. Not when Jeongguk stands behind Seokjin, mouthing at his neck while he undoes his own sweatpants.

Seokjin’s mouth is full of filth and sweetness — he talks them through it again, but this time, it’s indulgent. Encouraging. Worshipful.

He licks Jimin open while Jimin whines into his own wrist, and Jeongguk kneels behind Seokjin, pressing kisses to his lower back.

“Want you to feel how good you made us feel,” Jeongguk murmurs, sliding two fingers inside him while Seokjin shivers.

“Fuck,” Seokjin gasps, arching, mouth still on Jimin. “Okay. Okay—yes—yes.”

They move like a machine, like a well-oiled sin factory. Seokjin’s mouth on Jimin, Jeongguk’s mouth on Seokjin’s spine, hips, thighs — and then everything shifts.

Jeongguk slides inside Seokjin slowly, deliberately, the stretch making Seokjin’s breath stutter and catch. He groans low in his throat, the sound so cracked and needy it makes Jimin curse under his breath.

Seokjin’s hands are already on Jimin’s thighs, spreading him open as he presses his forehead to the younger man’s stomach.

“You’re both gonna kill me,” he whimpers.

“Die for us, hyung,” Jimin moans, fingers threading into his hair with a mix of tenderness and impatience.

And Seokjin — beautiful, talented, emotional Seokjin — does.

He pushes forward, sliding into Jimin with a shudder that punches the air from his lungs. Jimin arches, a sound spilling from his lips that’s half-gasp, half-plea. The heat, the closeness — it makes Seokjin feel caged and worshipped all at once.

Jeongguk moves behind him in slow, dragging thrusts, hips steady, deliberate. Each push forward drives Seokjin deeper into Jimin, making Jimin’s legs tighten around his waist. Seokjin’s grip on his thighs is almost bruising now, a desperate anchor.

“Fuck—” Jimin gasps, back hitting the counter as Seokjin sets a rhythm between the two of them, caught in the pull of Jeongguk’s pace and Jimin’s writhing beneath him.

Jimin reaches down, stroking his own cock where it moves between them, and that’s all it takes for the rhythm to spiral out of control. Jeongguk’s thrusts get sharper, Seokjin’s hips snap forward harder, and Jimin’s cries pitch higher with every movement.

Seokjin’s moan rips out of him as his climax crashes — hot and sudden — through his spine. He buries his face on Jimin’s torso, teeth catching on skin as the pleasure shakes through him, voice raw and broken.

Jimin follows with a sharp cry, fingers digging into Seokjin’s hair as he pulses around him, undone by the heat and weight and the sheer intimacy of the moment.

Jeongguk is last, driving deep one final time before spilling inside Seokjin with a stuttering gasp, hands locked so tightly on Seokjin’s waist it’s almost possessive — like he’s afraid to let go, afraid Seokjin might slip away.

When it’s over, they collapse into a tangle of limbs and labored breaths. The air is thick with heat and the faint, dizzy scent of sweat and skin. Jeongguk’s forehead rests between Seokjin’s shoulder blades. Jimin’s chest rises and falls under Seokjin’s cheek, his fingers still in his hair.

“I think,” Seokjin gasps, “I just had a religious experience.”

“You were—” Jimin breathes, “—perfect.”

“Switch confirmed,” Jeongguk mumbles. “God tier.”

Seokjin smirks. “Told you I was versatile.”

“You,” Jimin sighs, stretching, “are whatever we need. Whatever you want to be.”

And Seokjin looks down at the two of them — warm and sleepy and glowing.

He presses a kiss to each of their foreheads.

“Right now?” he says. “I just want to be yours.”

The next morning, the apartment is wrapped in gold.

Sunlight spills through the curtains, pooling over wooden floors and brushing against the couch where a heap of blankets lies abandoned from the night before. The fire has burned down to pale ash. The only sound is the soft clink of a mug meeting the coffee table.

Seokjin sits cross-legged on the couch, wearing Jeongguk’s oversized hoodie and Jimin’s ridiculous fuzzy socks — an accidental collage of them both, wrapped around him like armor and affection. His hair is still damp from his shower, falling into his eyes. He tugs at the sleeves and stares down at the fabric, then across the room at the two people who have tangled themselves into his life.

Jeongguk is sprawled on the floor, sketchbook balanced on his knees, pencil tapping absently against his lip. Jimin is curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked under him, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. Both of them look warm. At ease.

It’s not awkward anymore. Not after last night. But it is quiet — the kind of quiet that feels almost fragile.

“Can we talk?” Seokjin says at last, and his voice sounds steadier than he feels.

Jimin sets his mug down without hesitation. “Of course.”

Jeongguk looks up immediately, like he’s been waiting for this. “Yeah. We were hoping you’d ask.”

Seokjin wets his lips, takes a breath. His heart is beating too fast, but underneath the nerves is a flicker of something else — hope. “I’ve been thinking about… this. You. Us.”

“Us,” Jeongguk echoes, soft but certain.

Seokjin nods. “Yeah. I think I’ve been scared to ask the question. Because if the answer wasn’t what I wanted… I didn’t know what I’d do.” His laugh is small, self-conscious. “I mean, who gets this lucky? Falling for two incredible people at once, and somehow getting to keep them?”

Jimin’s expression shifts, brows knitting together with something tender. Jeongguk quietly sets his sketchbook aside.

“We’re here,” Jimin says gently. “Still here. After all of it.”

“I know.” Seokjin’s voice drops. “But there’s been this voice in my head, waiting for the day you figure out you don’t need me. That it’s easier — cleaner — if it’s just the two of you. Or worse, that I was just… something exciting to try for a while.”

Jeongguk moves without thinking, sliding across the rug until he’s kneeling in front of Seokjin. “It’s not a game.”

“And it never was,” Jimin says, joining him on the floor.

Seokjin’s eyes stay fixed on his hands. “You two are—” he huffs out a shaky laugh “—fire and gravity. You orbit each other like it’s the way the universe is supposed to work. And I’m just… what? A guest star? A mid-season twist?”

“You’re the main event,” Jeongguk says, his voice warm and unwavering. “You’ve been our favorite episode. Our best scene.”

Jimin shakes his head, firm. “You’re not a guest star. You’re the plot. The twist. The reason the ending’s going to be worth watching.”

Something in Seokjin’s chest goes hot and tight.

“We want this,” Jeongguk says. “With you. Every ridiculous, glorious, complicated piece of it.”

“And we’ll figure the shape of it together,” Jimin adds. “No pressure. No rules we can’t change. But full honesty. And all in.”

“All in,” Jeongguk repeats.

Seokjin lifts his head at last. His eyes are glassy but steady, and when he smiles, it’s small and certain. “I guess this is where I say it back?”

They don’t rush him. They just wait, the morning holding them in its soft golden hands.

Seokjin lets out a breath that feels like opening a door and stepping into light. “All in,” he says. “Yeah. I want to be all in, too.”

Namjoon’s text comes mid-afternoon.

[Namjoon] 
heard a rumor you finally stopped being a coward

[Yoongi] 
we’re coming over tomorrow. bring snacks. and proof.

Seokjin laughs under his breath, thumb hovering over his phone before he writes back:

[Seokjin]
you’ll get snacks. proof you’ll have to earn.

He’s sitting on the couch, sun warm on his legs through the open balcony door. Somewhere in the kitchen, Jeongguk and Jimin are arguing about whose turn it is to do the dishes. The sound drifts over the clink of cutlery and running water — a mix of bickering and laughter that makes something deep in his chest feel settled, anchored.

It still startles him sometimes, this sense of having. Of not waiting for it to disappear. They’ve talked now, really talked, and instead of crumbling, the ground under his feet feels steadier than it ever has.

Tomorrow, Namjoon will raise an eyebrow and Yoongi will make some dry comment about “finally” and maybe he’ll blush, but right now, Seokjin just sits back and lets it be simple. He’s here. They’re here. And it’s enough.

“Hyung!” Jimin calls from the kitchen. “If you had to choose — who’s better at folding laundry, me or Jeongguk?”

Before Seokjin can answer, Jeongguk’s voice rings out, loud and scandalized: “You literally licked the T-shirt last time, that’s not folding, that’s contamination!”

Seokjin grins. “Guess I’ll just have to see another round before I judge.”

Two sets of footsteps come pounding toward the couch like a challenge has been issued.

And Seokjin — laughing, braced for the chaos — realizes this is the kind of ending he wants. Not the final page, but the part of the story where you know the characters will keep living, bickering, and loving long after you close the book.

Jimin and Jeongguk flop onto the couch on either side of him, eyes glittering with mischief, and Jeongguk says, “So… how do you feel about a haunted couples spa weekend?”

THE END