Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

As Yoongi punches in the apartment code, his fingers instinctively tap a rhythm against the keypad—an old habit from his trainee days, when he’d compose beats on any surface. He catches himself and scowls, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The electronic beep-beep-beep of the keypad announced Yoongi’s return to their Seoul apartment, each tone a mocking reminder that his plans for a quiet evening were already hanging by a thread. 

He punched in the code with more force than necessary, his shoulders tense from a day that had drained him dry. Shoes off. Pajamas on. Maybe instant noodles if I can stay awake long enough to boil water. That was the plan. Simple. Uncomplicated.

The universe, as usual, had other ideas.

The second the door swung open, Yoongi’s nose twitched. Something was off. Beneath the usual scents of stale coffee, Jungkook’s protein powder, and the faint musk of neglected laundry, there was something new. Something alive.

His stomach dropped.

A beat of silence. Then—

Shuffling. A whispered, "Shh, Bam-ah, it's okay."

A high-pitched whine.

Yoongi’s eye twitched.

"Jeon Jungkook," he called, voice dangerously calm. "What did you do?"

More shuffling. A thump. A poorly stifled giggle. Then, Jungkook emerged from his bedroom like a man who knew exactly how much trouble he was in—but was banking on cuteness to save him. In his arms, a tiny, brown Doberman puppy blinked up at Yoongi with wide, innocent eyes.

"Hyung," Jungkook said, grinning like he hadn’t just shattered Yoongi’s last shred of peace. "Meet your nephew."

Yoongi stared. The puppy stared back, ears flopping as it tilted its head.

"No," Yoongi said flatly.

Jungkook gasped, clutching the puppy—Bam, apparently—to his chest. "Hyung! You can’t just ‘no’ your own nephew!"

Yoongi steeled himself. Don’t look at the puppy. Don’t acknowledge the puppy. If you don’t make eye contact, you can’t fold.

"We’ve had this discussion," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Multiple times. No dogs. We live in an apartment like this. A Doberman is going to grow into a horse."

Jungkook pouted, scratching behind Bam’s ears. "But hyung, my followers voted—"

"Followers?" A muscle feathered along Yoongi’s jaw

Jungkook grinned, pulling out his phone. "My livestream chat! I asked if I should get a cat or dog, and 82% said—"

Yoongi snatched the phone. The screen showed a paused stream titled "JK’s Late-Night Rambles", with 1.2K viewers and a chat log flooded with:

[BunnyArmy92]: DOG DOG DOG
[TattooFanatic]: bet hyung says no lol

Yoongi tossed the phone back. "We’re not running a zoo for your internet friends."

Jungkook pouted, eyes widening into the lethal, glassy please-don’t-murder-me look he’d weaponized since childhood. "He’s a baby," he insisted, thrusting Bam toward Yoongi. "Look at him! He was the runt. His siblings bullied him. He needs us."

Yoongi refused to look.

A tiny whimper.

Damn it.

His resolve cracked for half a second—just long enough for his traitorous eyes to flicker downward.

Big, liquid-brown puppy eyes stared back at him.

"Put those Disney eyes away," Yoongi growled. "They stopped working on me when you turned twenty."

"Liar," Jungkook sing-songed, bouncing Bam gently. "Uncle Yoongi loves you, Bam-ah. He’s just grumpy because he’s tired and hasn’t eaten dinner."

The puppy let out a tiny yip, as if in agreement.

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. 

Bam let out a tiny, shuddering sigh, his entire little body going limp with trust. Yoongi felt something in his chest splinter.

He turned on his heel and marched toward his bedroom.

"Hyung?" Jungkook called after him, voice dripping with faux innocence. "You okay?"

Yoongi didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

The bedroom door slammed shut behind him.

Alone, he flopped onto his bed, dragging a hand down his face. 

He pulled out his phone and dialed.

Two rings. Then—

"Oh? It’s not my birthday. This is unexpected." Jin’s voice, smooth and amused, filtered through the speaker.

Yoongi groaned. "Jungkook happened."

A pause. "...Again?"

"There’s a dog in our apartment."

Another pause. Then, Jin’s laughter—bright, loud, and entirely unsympathetic. "I’ll bring wine. And soju. And possibly a dog trainer."

Yoongi sighed. "...Hurry."

Outside the door, Jungkook’s coos and Bam’s happy yips continued, the soundtrack to Yoongi’s inevitable defeat.

Yoongi had barely slumped against his bedroom door when the telltale beep-beep-beep of the keypad sounded again. Followed by—

"Delivery for one emotionally constipated Min Yoongi!" Jin’s voice rang through the apartment, accompanied by the rustle of bags and the clink of glass.

Yoongi groaned into his hands. 

"Hyung!" Jungkook’s delighted squeal carried down the hall. "You brought food!"

"Obviously," Jin scoffed. "Your brother sounded like he hadn’t eaten this decade. Where is he? Hiding like a dramatic—”

Yoongi glared from the open door,  "I’m right here."

Jin took one look at him—tie loosened, hair mussed, exhaustion carved into every line of his face—and thrust a takeout container into his hands. "Eat. Before you wither away and haunt us as a particularly surly ghost."

Yoongi didn’t protest. The moment the savory scent of galbi-jjim hit his nose, his stomach growled traitorously.

Jin uncorks the wine with a flourish. "Remember that cheap soju we drank after your first rap battle? This is marginally better." Yoongi’s jaw tightens at the memory, but he takes the glass without comment.

Jungkook, now perched on the couch with Bam cradled in his lap, grinned. "Told you he was hangry."

"Quiet, you," Yoongi muttered around a mouthful of beef.

The door chimed again, and this time, chaos spilled in—literally.

"Sorry we’re late!" Hoseok announced, stumbling inside with an armful of snacks. "Namjoon got distracted by a tree."

Behind him, Namjoon adjusted his glasses, sheepish. "It was a rare maple. The leaves had this unique—”

"No one cares, Joon-ah," Jin interrupted, snatching the wine from Hoseok’s hands. "Help me open this before Yoongi implodes."

Namjoon obliged, but not before catching sight of Bam. His entire face softened. "Oh. Oh no."

Hoseok whirled around. "IS THAT A BABY?"

Jungkook beamed, holding Bam up like Simba in The Lion King. "Meet Bam! My son."

"Our son now," Hoseok corrected, already cooing. "Look at his paws—Yoongi, how could you say no to this face?"

Yoongi pointed his chopsticks at them. "Don’t start. I’m outnumbered as it is."

Jin, ever the enabler, plucked Bam from Jungkook’s arms. "Aigoo, who’s the handsomest boy? Is it you? Is it you?" Bam responded by licking Jin’s chin, and that was it—the great Kim Seokjin, reduced to a puddle of baby talk.

Namjoon squeezed onto the couch beside Jungkook, ruffling his hair. "Only our Koo could adopt a Doberman in an apartment like this."

"Bun," Hoseok chimed in, pinching Jungkook’s cheek, "you’re lucky your hyungs are soft for you."

Jungkook preened under the attention, kicking his feet like the baby he’d always be to them. "I knew you’d all cave faster than Yoongi-hyung."

Yoongi rolled his eyes—but the warmth in his chest betrayed him. This was his life: a cramped apartment, a rogue puppy, and the people he loved most crammed into it, treating his little brother like theirs.

Jin thrust a glass of soju into his hand. "Drink. Mourn your peace. Tomorrow, we’ll buy a dog bed."

"We?"

"You think I’m letting Hoseokie pick it out?" Jin shuddered. "It’ll be neon pink."

“Hyung could afford a custom gold-plated crate with his savings,” Hoseok sing-songed, dodging Yoongi’s glare. 'But nooo, martyrdom tastes better than compound interest.'"

The moment Jin set Bam down on the floor, the apartment erupted into chaos.

Hoseok immediately dropped to all fours, making cooing noises as he wiggled his fingers. "Bam-ah! Come to Hobi-hyung! Yes! Yes! Look at you, tiny king!"

Bam, overwhelmed by the sudden attention, skittered sideways—straight into Namjoon’s waiting hands.

"Ah, careful," Namjoon murmured, cradling the puppy like a fragile artifact. "He’s so little—"

"Obviously, Joon-ah," Jin called from the kitchen, where he was forcibly plating the rest of the food for Yoongi. "He’s a baby. Unlike some people who adopt babies without warning." He shot Jungkook a pointed look.

Jungkook, sprawled across the couch like a pleased cat, just grinned. "Worth it."

Bam, now thoroughly overstimulated, wriggled out of Namjoon’s grip and made a break for freedom—only to trip over his own paws and faceplant into the carpet.

A collective gasp.

"BAM-AH!" Jungkook lunged forward, but Hoseok was faster, scooping the puppy up and pressing him to his chest. "You’re okay! You’re brave! You’re strong!"

Bam responded by sneezing directly into Hoseok’s mouth.

"AISH—"

Jin cackled, nearly dropping the kimchi. "That’s what you get for yelling in his face, you gremlin."

Yoongi, who had been silently inhaling his food at the coffee table, finally spoke. "This is why I said no dogs."

"Liar," Jungkook sing-songed. "You love him."

Hoseok, still wiping his face with a tissue from Jin, laughed. "Yeah, hyung, he's already got you wrapped around his little paw." He pulled out his phone as it buzzed, his smile faltering for a half-second as he read the screen. He typed a quick reply—Can’t. Covering the late shift. Sorry.—and shoved the phone back into his pocket, his bright grin snapping back into place almost too quickly. "Anyway, who's hungry? I'm starving."

Bam, exhausted from his whirlwind introduction to chaos, suddenly abandoned Hoseok’s overenthusiastic belly rubs and Namjoon’s gentle ear-scratches. With a tiny, determined wiggle, he hops down and trots straight to where Yoongi sits at the coffee table, half-heartedly picking at his food.

Yoongi sees him coming.

Oh no.

He stiffens, chopsticks hovering mid-air. Don’t. Don’t you dare—

Bam doesn’t care.

With one clumsy leap, the puppy launches himself into Yoongi’s lap, circling twice before plopping down with a satisfied hmph, his tiny body molding perfectly against Yoongi’s thighs.

Yoongi freezes.

…Damn it.

A warm weight settles against him, small and trusting. Bam’s little head tilts back, big brown eyes blinking up at him, as if to say, You’re stuck with me now.

And Yoongi—

Yoongi is ruined.

His chest does something dangerous, something soft. He can feel it—the exact moment his resolve cracks, splinters, then dissolves entirely. He should push him off. He should. But his traitorous hand is already moving, fingers brushing gently over Bam’s velvety ears.

The room has gone suspiciously quiet.

Yoongi glances up.

Four pairs of eyes stare back at him.

Jin, mid-sip of soju, eyebrows raised.

Namjoon, lips pressed together like he’s fighting a smile.

Hoseok, phone already subtly angled for blackmail.

Jungkook—the little shit—grinning like he’s just won the lottery.

No one says a word.

No one has to.

Yoongi scowls. "What."

Hoseok opens his mouth—

"Not a word, Jung Hoseok."

Jin snorts into his drink.

Bam, oblivious, lets out a tiny sigh and nuzzles deeper into Yoongi’s lap.

And Yoongi—

Yoongi gives in.

His fingers sink into soft fur, scratching lightly.

Jungkook’s grin widens.

But for the first time in a long time, his apartment doesn’t just feel like a place to sleep. It feels like home.

Chapter Text

Rain lashed against the apartment windows as Jungkook hunched over his sketch tablet at the kitchen table, his stylus scratching frantically against the screen. The glow of his dying laptop cast eerie shadows across his face—15% battery, and his client’s tattoo design wasn’t halfway done.

Across the room, Yoongi sat on the couch with Bam sprawled across his lap, absently scratching behind the Doberman’s ears with one hand while scrolling through work emails on his phone with the other. The blue light reflected in his tired eyes, highlighting the dark circles that never seemed to fade these days.

Jungkook’s screen flickered.

"Shit—" He stabbed at the save button as his laptop gave one final, pitiful beep before the screen went black. "No, no, come on—" He frantically pressed the power button, but the machine remained stubbornly dead. The charger cord lay coiled on his bedroom floor where he’d forgotten it this morning.

Yoongi didn’t look up. "Told you to stop working at 3%."

"I was at 15!" Jungkook groaned, dragging his hands through his hair. "This client needs the sketch by midnight. If I miss another deadline—"

The unspoken truth hung between them. Missed deadlines meant lost deposits. Lost deposits meant less work coming in, because no one wanted a flakey artist.

Bam lifted his head at Jungkook’s distress, ears pricking forward. Yoongi finally glanced up, taking in Jungkook’s panicked expression, the dead laptop, the way his knee bounced uncontrollably under the table.

A beat of silence. Then—

"Use mine." Yoongi nodded toward his bedroom. "Left side of the desk."

Jungkook blinked. Yoongi never offered his laptop. That machine was a fortress—password protected, encrypted, containing a decade’s worth of corporate spreadsheets and God knew what else.

"You sure?"

Yoongi’s lips quirked. "Unless you’d rather explain to Mr. ‘I Want A Tribal Sleeve’ why his design is late."

Bam chose that moment to sneeze directly onto Yoongi’s phone screen, as if punctuating the offer.

Jungkook snorted and pushed back from the table. "Okay, okay. I’ll be fast."

As he crossed the apartment, he caught the tail end of Yoongi’s muttered "—twenty-eight-year-old menace".

Jungkook paused in the bedroom doorway. The space was meticulously neat as always—bed made with military precision, shoes lined up by the closet, the faint citrusy scent of Yoongi’s cologne lingering in the air. The only signs of chaos were the half-open cardboard box peeking out from under the bed and the single framed photo on the desk: a younger Jungkook, grinning wildly as he held up his first-ever tattoo license, Yoongi’s arm slung awkwardly around his shoulders.

The laptop sat exactly where Yoongi said it would be, its surface worn smooth from years of use. Jungkook flipped it open, the screen blinking to life with a soft chime—

—and froze.

Because there, nestled between a folder labeled Q3 Tax Prep and another marked House Contract, was a single, unassuming folder:

[AGUST D]

The name sent a jolt through him. He’d heard that whispered exactly once before, years ago, when a drunk Hoseok had slipped and mentioned "Yoongi’s old rap stuff" before Namjoon elbowed him into silence.

Jungkook glanced over his shoulder. Through the doorway, he could just see the top of Yoongi’s head as he leaned back on the couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, Bam now curled against his chest. 

His stylus slipped in his sweaty grip. The client’s deadline loomed, but—

One quick look.

He clicked the folder.

The laptop screen cast a pale blue glow across Jungkook’s face as he stared at the open folder. His fingers hovered over the trackpad, caught between curiosity and the gnawing sense he was trespassing on something sacred.

A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed Yoongi was still distracted by Bam, though the rigid line of his back betrayed his awareness. The puppy squirmed in his lap, whining softly as Yoongi’s absentminded scratches grew rougher, his blunt nails catching in the Doberman’s velvet fur.

Jungkook clicked the [TRAINEE ARCHIVE] folder.

Beneath it, a scan of a typed document caught his eye:

MONTHLY EVALUATION - MIN YOONGI
Vocal Delivery: 92%
Lyricism: 94%
Stage Presence: 88%
Instructor Notes: "Most promising lyricist in your cohort. Seoul Arts High School has expressed interest in your composition work. Recommend pursuing—"

The rest was cut off by the edge of the scan.

His heart was already pounding, a sick feeling mixing with awe in his gut. He scrolled further, his traitorous finger clicking on another image file.

It was a flyer, poorly photocopied and faded with age. The headline was scrawled in an aggressive, angular font: UNDERGROUND HYBRID - VOL. 4. Beneath it, in thick black marker, were the matchups.

Jungkook’s breath caught.

Right in the center of the card:

MAIN EVENT: AGUST D vs. Runch Randa - 11PM

Runch Randa? The name tickled something in the back of his mind. He’d definitely seen it before, buried in the credits of some of the oldest, most revered mixtapes he’d scoured the internet for.

But it was the line directly below it that made his blood run cold.

SPECIAL GUEST BATTLE: j-hope (Illusion Crew) vs. DJ Krust

The date was two weeks before Jungkook's fifteenth birthday. Two weeks before the accident.

Stapled to the corner of the flyer was a small, blurry photo. Yoongi, again with that bleached hair under a snapback, had his arm slung around a beaming Hoseok. Hoseok’s face was younger, rounder, but his smile—that same sunbeam-bright grin—was unmistakable. He was holding up two fingers in a peace sign, a jacket with "Illusion Crew" stitched on the sleeve hanging from his other hand. In the background of the photo, leaning against a wall with a notebook in hand, was a lanky, serious-faced Kim Namjoon.

j-hope. Runch Randa.

The names echoed in Jungkook’s skull. He’d heard those names before, whispered in the same reverent tones as Agust D in online forums dedicated to old-school Seoul hip-hop.

Hobi-hyung was j-hope. Namjoon-hyung was Runch Randa.

They were all there. Together. A crew.

The same week this flyer was made, Yoongi had abruptly stopped mentioning his music.

A cold realization dripped down Jungkook’s spine. He’d always known they were all close, but this… this was a partnership. A shared dream. And he’d been the one to end it for all of them.

He clicked the demo file before he could stop himself.

The track exploded through his earbuds with a violence that made him flinch—a snarling bassline punctuated by the sharp crack of a snare. Then Yoongi’s voice, raw and seething:

"Seven years in a cubicle grave / Dreams deferred but I’m still a slave / To the won, to the clock, to the fucking suits / While my mic collects dust like I’m some washed-up—"

The bedroom door creaked.

Jungkook wrenched the earbuds out, but it was too late. Yoongi stood frozen in the doorway, Bam clutched tight against his chest. The puppy whined at the sudden tension in Yoongi’s arms, squirming to lick at his clenched jaw.

On screen, the evaluation sheet still glowed—undeniable proof of everything Yoongi had walked away from.

"Hyung," Jungkook blurted, voice cracking, "this is—you were amazing—"

“Because life happened.” Yoongi crossed the room in three strides and snapped the laptop shut. The faded SNU Music Production sticker—the one Jungkook had always assumed was just some college club—peeled further at the corner, the edges brittle with age. “Leave it.”

Bam whined again, pawing at Yoongi’s sleeve, but Yoongi didn’t loosen his grip. His knuckles whitened around the laptop’s edge.

Jungkook’s chest ached. He’d seen that look before—the same expression Yoongi wore when Jungkook’s middle school teacher had gently suggested he might need to repeat a grade, when the landlord had handed them the first eviction notice. The look of a man steeling himself to swallow another disappointment.

“You could still—” Jungkook started, then bit his tongue. The words tasted like ash. You could still make music was a luxury Yoongi hadn’t had in a decade. Not when Jungkook’s art school applications, his gym memberships—

Yoongi exhaled sharply through his nose. “The sketch. Printer. Now.”

As Jungkook turned away, his foot caught the edge of a cardboard box half-shoved under the bed. The flap gaped open, revealing a stack of notebooks. The one on top had AGUST D scrawled across the cover in Yoongi’s cramped handwriting, the ink smudged as if written in a hurry. Beneath it, a binder labeled MONTHLY EVALUATIONS peeked out, its plastic sleeve cracked with age.

Jungkook’s breath hitched. He’d seen that binder before—dug it out once when he was younger, thinking it was a comic book. Yoongi had snatched it away so fast he’d papercut Jungkook’s finger. The scar still marked his thumb.

“Close the tabs,” Yoongi said, too quietly.

The last line of the demo echoed in Jungkook’s skull: One day I’ll burn this place to the ground / And dance on the ashes with my crown.

His hands shook as he pulled up the printer queue. The weight of what he’d just seen—what Yoongi had given up, what Jungkook had unknowingly taken—settled heavy behind his ribs.

Yoongi lingered in the doorway, Bam now limp in his arms, both of them watching Jungkook with identical wary expressions. The silence stretched, thick with everything they couldn’t say.

Then, softer: “You’re just like him, you know.” Yoongi scratched behind Bam’s ears, avoiding Jungkook’s eyes. “Waltzed into my life uninvited and refused to leave.”

Jungkook forced a grin, though it sat wrong on his face. “Hey, I was fifteen. You chose to keep me.”

“I was nineteen and stupid,” Yoongi muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Didn’t know a stray kid would turn into a twenty-eight-year-old menace.”

Jungkook’s laughter rang too loud in the small room, the sound brittle at the edges. Thirteen years. Almost half their lives. A decade of Yoongi’s music collecting dust while Jungkook’s dreams took up all the oxygen in the room.

Bam yawned, his tail thumping against Yoongi’s thigh, blissfully unaware of the tectonic shift in the air. Jungkook stared at the closed laptop, at the peeling sticker, at the box of ghosts under the bed.

Somewhere beneath the spreadsheets and budget reports, Agust D was still breathing.

Chapter Text

The glow of Jungkook’s dual monitors cast shifting blue shadows across his tired face as he adjusted his headset, the game’s cheerful soundtrack clashing with the dark circles under his eyes. On screen, his avatar—a tiny, round-cheeked farmer—bounced through a pixelated meadow, swinging a comically oversized net at butterflies.

"Okay, bunnies," Jungkook mumbled around a half-chewed protein bar, "this is ‘Stardrop Valley’ or whatever. Some indie dev sent me a code, said it’s ‘cozy’—which, great, because I’ve got approximately three brain cells left after today."

[FitnessBunny]: KOOOK UR EYES ARE GLOWING RED PLS SLEEP
[KoalaNoises]: stardrop valley my beloved… but also sir when did you last blink

A crash came from off-camera. Jungkook’s head snapped toward the noise just as Bam—a brown blur of chaos—barreled into frame, skidding across the hardwood with a mangled hamburger toy clamped in his jaws. The squeaker wheezed its last breath as Bam shook it violently, stuffing exploding like tiny clouds of betrayal.

"Bam-ah!" Jungkook groaned, reaching to grab him, but the puppy dodged with a playful yip, darting behind the chair. "Yah! That’s your third victim this week!"

[ArmyBunny]: BAM IS THE REAL STAR OF THIS STREAM
[TattooFanatic]: the way he side-eyes the camera… king behavior

Jungkook sighed, rubbing his temple as he turned back to the game. "Anyway. Uh. Farming. Right." His cursor hovered over a patch of virtual soil. "You just… click? And stuff grows? Cool. Coolcoolcool—"

A notification popped up in the corner of his screen:

Reminder: Client Consult – 8 AM (TODAY)

Jungkook’s smile faltered for half a second before he forced a laugh. "Oops. Forgot to turn those off." He minimized the alert with a hasty click, but not before chat caught it.

[LatGoals]: …Kook that’s in 6 hours???
[BunnyArmy92]: BRO WHEN DO YOU SLEEP

"I sleep!" Jungkook protested, even as his avatar face-planted into a pixelated pond. "Sometimes. Like… between sets at the gym. Or when Bam uses me as a mattress." He scratched absentmindedly at his wrist, where a fresh tattoo peeked beneath his sleeve—a tiny Doberman silhouette, still healing. "Besides, I’ve got this new client tomorrow—well, today—and then a collab stream with Hobi-hyung–if I can convince him, and then—"

Another crash. Bam had somehow scaled the bookshelf and was now nose-deep in Jungkook’s gym bag, triumphantly dragging out a sweat-stained sock.

"BAM-AH! NOT THE AIRPODS AGAIN—"

[KoalaNoises]: the way this man is being outshone by his own dog… iconic
[FitnessBunny]: Bam’s gonna have his own merch before Kook at this rate

Jungkook lunged out of frame, the stream capturing only the sounds of a scuffle and a dramatic, high-pitched whine (Bam, the Oscar-worthy victim). When he reappeared, his hair was mussed, his hoodie askew, and Bam dangled from his arms like a smug, furry torpedo.

"You," Jungkook grumbled, "are a menace. And also my entire personality now, apparently." He plopped Bam onto his lap, where the puppy immediately curled up, tail thumping against Jungkook’s thigh.

[ArmyBunny]: BAM CAM WHEN
[TattooFanatic]: i would die for him

"Yeah, yeah, he’s cute, whatever," Jungkook muttered, but his fingers were already gentle as they scratched behind Bam’s ears. "Anyway. Back to… farming? I guess?" His gaze flicked to the time in the corner of the screen—3:47 AM—and his jaw tightened. "Just one more in-game day. Then I’ll log off."

The chat exploded in protest, but Jungkook ignored it, clicking blindly through dialogue boxes. His laugh was a little too loud, his reactions a little too forced, and if his hands shook slightly when he reached for his energy drink, well.

No one needed to notice that.

Except maybe Bam, who whined softly and licked his wrist—once, twice—before settling back down with a sigh, as if to say, We both know you’re lying.

[KoalaNoises]: …Kook?
[LatGoals]: dude. go to bed.

But Jungkook was already queuing up another day in the game, his smile brittle at the edges. "What? I’m fine. Totally fine. Just gotta… finish this quest. And then the client stuff. And then—"

Off-camera, his phone buzzed with another reminder. Bam’s ears twitched.

Jungkook didn’t look.

The pixelated sun rose over Stardrop Valley, bathing Jungkook’s tired avatar in golden light as he mindlessly clicked through dialogue boxes. His real-life surroundings were less serene—Bam had somehow commandeered his discarded hoodie as a nest, gnawed on the drawstrings while he stared directly into the camera like a tiny, judgmental director.

"Okay, so if I give this turnip to the grumpy baker…" Jungkook mumbled, squinting at the screen. "Do I get, like, friendship points? Or is this a scam?"

[FitnessBunny]: Kook that’s LITERALLY the tutorial NPC you skipped
[KoalaNoises]: mans is running on 2% battery and it SHOWS

A crash off-screen. Bam had abandoned the hoodie to launch himself at a half-empty water bottle, sending it rolling across the floor with a sound like a miniature avalanche. Jungkook didn’t even flinch.

"Yep. That’s my son. The destroyer of worlds." He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms with a wince. "Hyung says he’s just ‘enthusiastic.’ Which is rich coming from—" He cut himself off, grinning.

[TattooFanatic]: ??? COMING FROM WHO
[BunnyArmy92]: HYUNG LORE???

Jungkook’s smirk widened as he deliberately ignored chat, scrolling through his inventory. "Anyway. Uh. Farming. Super riveting."

Another notification popped up—Reminder: Draft tattoo designs due TOMORROW—but he swiped it away too fast, forcing a laugh. "Oops. Work stuff. Anyway, did you guys know this game has, like, a whole mining system? Which is weird because I thought this was about turnips—"

[LatGoals]: STOP DEFLECTING. WHICH HYUNG

Jungkook sighed dramatically, but his eyes lit up. "Fine, fine. So. My hyung—the one who pretends he’s all serious and corporate now? Yeah. Turns out he was a trainee back in the day. Like, full-on underground rapper. Freaking scouted and everything."

Bam chose that moment to flop onto Jungkook’s feet, tail thumping as if in agreement.

[KoalaNoises]: NO WAY. LIKE IDOL TRAINEE???
[ArmyBunny]: NAME DROP HIM YOU COWARD

"Nope," Jungkook sing-songed, wagging a finger at the camera. "Not telling. He’d actually murder me. But like—" He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I found some old recordings. Dude had bars. Like, ‘why are you wasting your life in a cubicle’ levels of fire."

A beat. Then, quieter: "Kinda pisses me off, actually."

The chat erupted, but Jungkook just shook his head, steering his avatar toward a pixelated chicken coop. "Nah, nah, we’re not going there tonight. This is a cozy stream. No existential crises allowed. Only turnips and… whatever this is." He gestured at the screen, where his character was now accidentally hurling eggs at a startled NPC.

[FitnessBunny]: hyung could’ve been famous and instead he’s stuck raising you… tragic

"Excuse you," Jungkook scoffed, but his laugh was a little too sharp. "He chose this. And now he just, like… glares at spreadsheets and drinks black coffee like it’s punishment. Meanwhile, I have to live with the knowledge that my boring, tie-wearing hyung was cooler at nineteen than I’ll ever be."

Bam sneezed directly onto the keyboard.

"Case in point," Jungkook deadpanned, wiping the screen with his sleeve. "My life is a joke."

[TattooFanatic]: bam is the only sane one here
[KoalaNoises]: kook pls go to bed. hyung would want u to sleep

Jungkook’s fingers stilled on the mouse. For a second, he looked like he might actually listen—then his phone buzzed again (another reminder, another ignored deadline), and he squared his shoulders.

"One more in-game day," he announced, too brightly. "Then I’ll—"

Bam yanked the charging cable out of the laptop with his teeth. The stream died instantly.

[FitnessBunny]: …Bam MVP???
[ArmyBunny]: even the dog knows this man needs to log OFF

Offline. Finally.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The envelope was always the same.

The first one had arrived when he was sixteen. He’d seen Yoongi’s exhausted silhouette at the kitchen table, bills spread like a losing hand, and had pushed the envelope toward him with a hopeful, desperate heart. ‘For groceries, hyung.’

Yoongi’s face had gone bone-white. He didn’t shout. His voice was low, shattered glass. ‘We don’t need their blood money, Jungkook-ah.’ He’d folded Jungkook’s fingers back around the envelope, his own hands trembling. ‘We survive on our own.’

The words had seared themselves into Jungkook’s soul. Blood money. It wasn’t savings; it was a memorial. A grotesque scoreboard of loss. And you didn’t spend a memorial. You let it gather dust, a testament to your own survival, a punishment for it.

Cream linen paper, crisp under Jungkook's fingers. The embossed logo in the corner—sharp edges, no warmth. A distant rumble of thunder made him glance toward the gym's floor-to-ceiling windows where rain streaked the glass in jagged patterns.

Yoongi had thrown his own envelopes—identical but for the account number—straight into the shredder for years. ‘Blood money,’ he’d called it once, when Jungkook was too young to understand why his hyung’s hands shook holding them.

Bam.

His fingers twitched toward his phone before he stopped himself. The puppy would be fine—curled in his crate with the thunder shirt Jungkook had bought after last month's storm, the one with the little Doberman print that made Yoongi snort ("He's already anxious and you dressed him like himself?").

The thought of his puppy huddled at home tightened his chest. He should be there. But he'd booked three clients back-to-back today because—

Because.

He tore the envelope's edge with more force than necessary. The numbers glared up at him—black ink on sterile white, the balance climbing higher every quarter like some grotesque scoreboard of loss. Compound interest. Stock dividends. The cold mathematics of grief multiplying itself.

Blood money.

The drawer screeched as he shoved the statement inside, joining dozens of identical envelopes. Same logo. Same impersonal typeface. Same suffocating weight. The only thing that changed was the number, growing like a living memorial to the accident that had taken his parents, Yoongi's parents, everything.

Across the gym, the clank of weights and the grunt of clients filled the air. Real sounds. Earned sounds.

That's all Jungkook had ever wanted.

He wiped his palms on his sweatpants, suddenly hyperaware of the custom grips on his lifting belt—the ones he'd paid for outright last month after saving from six straight weeks of premium tattoo clients. No installments. No compromises.

Not like the money in that drawer.

Not like the trust fund that could buy this gym ten times over—enough to ensure Yoongi never had to look at another spreadsheet, never had to skip lunch to pay bills in those early years, never had to give up his music.

"Hyung's got you."

Yoongi's voice echoed in his memory, warm and steady as it had been that first day in the lawyer's office. Nineteen and hollow-eyed, Jungkook had clutched the paperwork like a death sentence while Yoongi smoothed a hand over his shaking shoulders.

"We don't need it," Yoongi had murmured, pressing the documents back into the lawyer's hands. Not harsh. Not judgmental. Just certain, the way he sounded when he promised the utilities would be paid or that Bam would grow out of chewing shoes.

Jungkook's teeth ground together.

He'd tried, over the years. Sneaking extra toward groceries. "Forgetting" cash in Yoongi's coat pockets. Once, hiding Yoongi’s wallet so he could pay the electric bill before the due date. 

Yoongi had transferred the exact amount back within hours.

"Use it for you," he'd said, as if Jungkook's tattoo waitlist wasn't booked three months out. As if his personal training rates weren't the highest at this gym.

Another roll of thunder. Jungkook's phone buzzed—a notification from the puppy cam. Bam had wedged himself into the tight space between the couch and wall, his thunder shirt askew.

Damn it.

Across the room, his 7:30 client—some finance bro with a Rolex and a tribal tattoo request—waved impatiently. Jungkook forced a smile, shoving the thoughts away.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

Here he was, tattooing trust fund kids and training hedge fund managers, all while his own untouched fortune gathered dust. Enough to ensure Yoongi never had to work another day. Enough to fund every dream they'd both deferred.

But every time he thought about using it, his skin crawled.

It wasn't his. Not really.

He hadn't earned it.

He'd just survived.

So he worked.

Double shifts at the gym. Midnight tattoo sessions. Endless streams where he played games until his eyes burned—every won saved, scrimped, earned. For Bam's premium kibble. For Yoongi's birthday dinners and the small gifts from Jungkook the older man was willing to accept. For the stupidly expensive protein powder he no longer cut with rice flour because—

Because he could afford it now. On his own terms.

His phone buzzed again: Bam just knocked over his water bowl.

Jungkook exhaled, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair.

Somewhere in Seoul, Yoongi was probably hunched over his laptop right now, fighting through another soul-crushing budget report.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Jungkook’s phone buzzed against his gym bag mid-session. He ignored it—until it buzzed again. And again.

One of Jungkook’s long-time clients watched on. He’d hired Jungkook when he was just starting out and had flourished and grown with his support. He couldn’t help but worry for the man who’d been eighteen and eager when they’d first met. 

“You good, man?”

Jungkook wiped his forehead, grinning. “Yeah, just my dog’s babysitter spamming me.” He flipped open his phone—and froze.

Puppy Cam Alert: Movement detected: Bam’s crate.

The video showed Bam cowering from thunder—just like last week, when Jungkook had stayed late tattooing.

Not again. He dropped his weights.

Jungkook’s stomach dropped.

’“Whoa. You okay?”

Jungkook was already typing one-handed, shrugging off his gloves. “Gotta go. Family emergency.”

Jungkook refreshed the cam obsessively. Bam hadn’t moved.

Jungkook (texting Yoongi): Hyung. Bam’s freaking out. You close?
Yoongi (3 min later): Stuck in a meeting. Jin’s on his way.

Jungkook exhaled. Jin would handle it. Jin always handled it.

But then—Bam let out a high-pitched yelp as lightning flashed, scrambling against the crate door.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Jungkook fumbled with the keypad, nearly tripping over his shoes in the entryway. “Bam-ah? Appa’s home—”

The crate was empty.

A crash came from the bathroom. Jungkook sprinted down the hall—

And found Bam wedged behind the toilet, trembling, Jin crouched beside him with a bag of fried chicken.

“Took you long enough.”

Jungkook dropped to his knees. “Hey, baby.” His voice was softer than he’d ever heard it.

Bam’s tail thumped once. Weak. Scared.

Jungkook reached out slowly, letting Bam sniff his fingers. “Yeah, I know. Stupid sky’s being loud, huh?” He scooped Bam up, tucking him against his chest. “Uncle Jin’s got snacks. I’ve got you. We’re good.”

Bam buried his face in Jungkook’s hoodie.

Jin raised his brow, “Since when are you the calm one?”

Jungkook pressed a kiss to Bam’s head. “Since he needs me to be.”

A beat. Then—

“Also, hyung, why’s your ‘emergency kit’ just fried chicken?”

“Works on everyone.”

Bam yipped.

Jungkook laughed, loud enough to drown out the thunder.

Chapter Text

Jin flipped a strip of marinated beef with a flick of his wrist, sending a droplet of sauce splattering onto Jungkook’s socks.

“Hyung! These are my favourite!”

Jin looked down at the Iron Man socks and blinked before looking up at Jungkook, “They’ll survive.” He jabbed the tongs toward Bam, who was drooling onto Jungkook’s thigh. “And stop spoiling him. He’s going to think he’s a lapdog.”

Yoongi, without looking up “He does think he’s a lapdog.”

Bam wagged his tail, knocking Jungkook’s water bottle off the table.

Jungkook sighed, wiping his soaked jeans. “I can’t keep cancelling clients every time there’s a storm. But I also can’t just—leave him.”

Yoongi finally lowered his phone. “We need a system. One that doesn’t involve me getting emergency calls during meetings.”

“Which is why I called in the expert.”

The rooftop door swung open.

Taehyung stepped through like he owned the place.

Sunglasses perched atop his head, silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a silver pendant, and—were those loafers with no socks? Jungkook’s brain stuttered to a halt.

And then there was the dog. A tiny, judgmental Pomeranian trotted at Taehyung’s heels, its fluffy tail held high like a royal banner. It had a beret.

“Hyung, you texted ‘emergency.’” Taehyung sniffed the air. “This smells suspiciously like a dinner party.”

Jin smiled as he pinched Taehyung’s cheek,  “It’s a strategy session with snacks.”

Taehyung batted his hand away but stole a piece of beef straight off the grill, popping it into his mouth with a grin.

Jungkook’s chopsticks hovered mid-air.

Taehyung, glanced at him, “You okay?”

“Uh.” Brain. Work. Jungkook thought, “Yeah. Just. Your dog. Has a hat.”

“It’s a beret.” Taehyung scooped Yeontan up, nuzzling his nose against the puff of fur. “Tan-ah, say hello to the nice, confused man.”

Yeontan sneezed directly into Jungkook’s face.

Yoongi, dry as sandpaper, “Charming.”

Jungkook wiped his cheek, still staring. Taehyung’s smile was illegal.

“Taehyung-ah, this is Jungkook. And Yoongi. And Bam.” Finally introduced, vibrating with glee.

Bam, recognizing a fellow chaos agent, immediately tried to lunge off Jungkook’s lap.

Jungkook, grappling with 45 pounds of wriggling Doberman: “Bam-ah—no—!”

Taehyung laughed, low and warm. “Wow. You’re both a mess.”

Jungkook’s ears burned.

Yoongi, cut to the chase, “Jin-hyung says you have a solution for the storm thing.”

Taehyung set Yeontan down, who immediately pranced over to sniff Bam’s paws. “Jimin.”

“Who’s Jimin?”

Taehyung, pulled out his phone, tapping around quickly before turning the screen toward the brothers,“Only the reason Tan hasn’t been disowned for chewing my Prada loafers.” He swiped open Instagram—@yeontan_the_pom—a meticulously curated feed of the Pomeranian in outfits ranging from a tiny suit to a Star Wars rebel pilot helmet.

Jungkook, squinted.“Your dog has a brand?”

Taehyung shrugged, “Jimin runs it. He’s been walking Tan every day since he was a puppy—rain, shine, or that one time I accidentally locked myself out naked.”

Jin, nodded solemnly. “We don’t talk about the Naked Incident.”

Yoongi, ignored them. “So this Jimin. He’s a professional?”

Taehyung’s expression shifted—sharp, protective. “He’s the best. Dogs love him. I trust him. And he’s got a sixth sense for panic—he’ll know what Bam needs before Bam does. It’s his passion project.”

Yoongi, unmoved, “I’ll meet him first. Alone.”

Jungkook finally snapped out of his daze, “Wait, what?”

“No offense, but your judgment is currently compromised.” He gestured pointedly at Jungkook’s death grip on the tablecloth.

Taehyung, smirked, “By what, exactly?”

Jungkook opened his mouth. Closed it.

Jin, faux-whispered “He thinks you’re pretty.”

“Hyung.” It was caught somewhere between a choke and a whine as he covered his face with his hands.

Taehyung smiled, “Oh, this is fun.”

Yeontan chose that moment to mount Bam’s head.

Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m leaving.”

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The café hummed softly around them, the scent of espresso and warm pastries thick in the air. Yoongi nursed his black coffee, fingers tapping against the folded edge of his BAM: GROUND RULES list, when the door chimed.

Sunlight caught the honey-blond strands of Jimin’s hair as he stepped inside, tousled like he’d been running his hands through it on the walk over. He wore a cream sweater that draped effortlessly over his frame, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing wrists delicate enough to make Yoongi think of piano keys.

Pretty.

The thought came unbidden, and Yoongi scowled into his coffee.

Jimin spotted him immediately—of course he did—and crossed the room with an easy confidence, a canvas tote swinging at his side. Something inside it squeaked.

Yoongi blinked. "Is that a dog toy?"

Jimin slid into the chair across from him, grinning. "Two, actually." He set the bag on the table with a soft thump. "Yeontan destroyed the first one I bought him in ten minutes flat. Turns out Pomeranians have opinions about plushie durability."

Yoongi’s fingers tightened around his pen. "Taehyung talks too much."

Jimin laughed, bright and unguarded. "Only about the things he loves." He flagged down a waiter, ordered tea, then leaned forward. "So. Storms."

Yoongi eyed the platinum watch peeking from Jimin’s sleeve. "That’s a dressy piece for dog walks."

Jimin’s smile didn’t falter as he adjusted his cuff. "Old habit. Boardrooms care about details."

"You worked in one?"

"Yeah–another life time" Jimin stirred his tea, the spoon clinking like a ticking clock. "Turns out I’d rather scrub paw prints off silk than argue about profit margins."

Yoongi’s brow arched. "You quit a C-suite job to walk dogs?"

"Why not? Best decision I ever made." Jimin slid the sugar toward him. "Your turn. Why corporate finance?"

Yoongi stiffened. Jimin backed off quickly, changing the subject.

"Yeontan used to lose his mind during thunderstorms," Jimin continued, tracing the rim of his teacup. "First time it happened, he wedged himself behind Tae’s toilet and refused to come out for an hour. I finally lured him with roast chicken, but..." He shrugged. "Turns out what he really needed was somewhere to hide that didn’t feel like a trap."

Yoongi’s grip on his pen loosened, just slightly.

Jimin reached into his bag and pulled out a crumpled leaf. "Now, when it rains, Tan drags this exact leaf into his bed. No idea why. Maybe it smells like safety to him." He set it on the table between them. "Point is, Bam just needs his version of that leaf."

Yoongi stared at the leaf. "You carry around a Pomeranian’s security leaf."

Jimin’s grin was unrepentant. "It’s a conversation starter." He took a sip of his tea, then added casually, "Dog sitting started as me helping Tae out when he traveled, but it sort of… grew. Turns out a lot of people need someone reliable who actually likes their pets."

Yoongi arched his brow. "You make a living off it?"

"Enough to fund Tan’s sweater addiction," Jimin said dryly. "But no, it’s just a side gig. Dance is my main gig, but my hours are flexible, it keeps me freer during the day." He tilted his head. "It works. Lets me be flexible, and the dogs don’t care if I show up in sweatpants."

Yoongi exhaled through his nose. Annoyingly perceptive. And annoyingly practical. "You’ll send updates. No surprises."

Jimin mimed zipping his lips. "Photos, videos, and—" He produced a realistic squeaky taco toy from the depths of his bag. "A peace offering."

Yoongi grimaced. "That’s hideous."

Jimin’s eyes crinkled. "Tae said you’d say that." He pulled out a second, even louder toy. "Which is why I brought backup."

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Jungkook's fifth lap around the coffee table ended with his socked foot catching on Bam's favorite chew toy - a neon green rubber hamburger now wedged precariously under the bookshelf. The 5-month-old Doberman puppy let out an indignant yip from his sprawled position on the floor, tail thumping in protest.

"Yah! That's your own fault," Jungkook scolded, scooping up the gangly pup with one arm while attempting to dislodge the toy with his free hand. Bam took this as an invitation to lick his owner's entire face, paws scrabbling against Jungkook's chest.

From his throne on the couch, Jin didn't even glance up from his phone. "If you wear a hole in the floorboards, Yoongi's going to make you pay the deposit."

Jungkook knew better than to mention the trust fund—not after Yoongi had snapped a pen in half last time he’d joked about it. But sometimes, when his hyung sighed over bills, he wondered why they both insisted on living like broke college students.

“Hyung,” Jungkook muttered, depositing Bam back onto his dog bed, only for the puppy to immediately trot after him, tripping over his own oversized paws. “You say that every time.”

Jin just shook his head, but Jungkook wasn’t done.

"I can't help it!" Jungkook deposited Bam back onto his dog bed, only for the puppy to immediately trot after him, tripping over his own oversized paws. "Jimin could be telling Taehyung right now that we're complete weirdos who don't deserve to be in the same room as Yeontan's custom-made Italian leather harness!"

Namjoon looked up from where he was reorganizing the shoe cabinet by the entryway (because someone had to maintain order in this chaos). "Kook-ah, breathe. Jimin walked in on Taehyung trying to teach Yeontan to use the toilet last month. I think your normalcy is safe."

Jungkook paused mid-pace, nearly colliding with Bam who'd been following his every step. "Wait, really?"

Jin finally put his phone down, grinning. "Oh yeah. There's video evidence. Taehyung even made little flush sound effects."

This did nothing to calm Jungkook's nerves. He scooped up Bam again, holding the wriggling puppy like a furry security blanket. "But what if Jimin thinks Bam's too much? He's just a baby! Look at him!" He held up the puppy, whose tongue lolled out goofily, one ear flopped inside-out. "He's perfect and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise!"

Bam, sensing the attention, chose that moment to launch forward and lick a long, slobbery stripe directly into Jungkook's mouth.

"GAH! Bam-ah!" Jungkook sputtered, wiping his face on his sleeve as Jin howled with laughter.

Namjoon at least had the decency to hand him a tissue before saying, "You realize you're more high-strung than the actual puppy, right?"

Jungkook whimpered, collapsing onto the floor next to Bam's bed. The puppy immediately climbed into his lap, stepping on several sensitive areas in the process. "...Do you think Taehyung likes guys who can't form sentences?"

Jin tossed a grape at his head. "God, I hope so."

The front door clicked open, revealing Yoongi in the entryway, carefully toeing off his shoes and lining them up neatly.

Jungkook scrambled up so fast he nearly sent Bam flying. "WELL?!"

Yoongi sighed, hanging up his jacket with deliberate slowness. "He's... adequate."

"'Adequate'? That's all I get?"

"He brought Bam a toy shaped like a taco."

Jungkook's entire face lit up. "What kind of taco?"

Yoongi stared. "You're hopeless."

Bam, sensing an opportunity, launched himself at Yoongi's legs, nearly knocking him into the shoe cabinet. Jin cackled as Namjoon quickly steadied the wobbling furniture.

"See?" Jungkook beamed, scooping up the wriggling puppy. "He already loves Jimin's taste in toys! This is perfect! Taehyung will have to—" He caught himself, cheeks flushing. "I mean. For Bam. This is good. For Bam."

Jin smirked, popping another grape. "Uh-huh. For Bam."

Bam's tail thumped against the floor twice, a definitive period to the sentence.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Jimin was early when he arrived, letting himself in after double checking the passcode he’d been texted.  A brand new harness in hand he’d gotten an embroidered name badge the day prior. 

An excitable puppy was waiting, whole body shaking, not just his tail. He was quick to crouch and slip the harness over his head.

Jimin's fingers paused on Bam's harness clasp, deft finger adjusting the fit as his sleeve slipped back, revealing the platinum moonphase watch - its pearlescent dial catching the morning light in quiet ripples. The kind of piece that declared itself only to those who understood the language.

A soft exhale came from the doorway. "Another fancy watch?"

Yoongi leaned against the frame, tie already loosened at 7 AM, coffee steaming in his grip. His eyes flicked to the watch—1921 Patrimony, manual wind—before he looked away. 

Jimin caught the recognition, the quiet judgment. Of course Yoongi knew. The man could probably recite the market value of every asset in this apartment, even as he pretended not to care.

Bam whined, straining toward Yoongi with sudden urgency, as if sensing something Jimin couldn't see.

For a moment, Yoongi's mask slipped. His shoulders sagged under some invisible weight, fingers tightening around the mug like it was the only anchor keeping him upright. The morning light carved hollows under his eyes that no amount of caffeine could fill.

Then his phone buzzed. Shoulders squared. Mask restored.

"Enjoy the walk," he murmured, already turning away. The apartment swallowed him whole, the door clicking shut with terrible finality.

Jimin stared at the empty doorway. The expensive watch suddenly felt heavy on his wrist.

"Come on, Bam-ah," he whispered, clicking the leash into place. "Let's go chase some leaves."

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Bam, as it turned out, had opinions about sidewalks.

Every crack, every leaf, every vaguely interesting speck of dirt required thorough investigation—which, in Bam-terms, meant skidding to a halt, sniffing intensely for two seconds, then lunging toward the next fascinating thing with all the grace of a baby giraffe on roller skates.

Jimin let him explore, keeping the leash loose but ready to rein him in when he got too bold.

“Your Uncle Yoongi would hate this,” Jimin told him as Bam attempted to climb a fire hydrant like it was Mount Everest. “He’d be all,” —he dropped his voice into a gravelly impression— “‘Bam-ah. We walk in straight lines. No detours.’”

Bam paused mid-climb to sneeze directly onto the hydrant.

Jimin snorted. “Yeah, that’s what I think of his rules too.”

They resumed their stroll, Bam zigzagging happily while Jimin kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation.

“Your dad, though?” Jimin shook his head fondly. “Taehyung says he’s obsessed with you. Like, ‘canceled a client because Bam looked sad in a puppy cam screenshot’ obsessed.”

Bam, predictably, took this as a compliment and pranced a little harder.

Jimin laughed. “Oh, you know, don’t you? You’ve got him wrapped around your little paw.” He crouched down to scratch behind Bam’s ears. “And between you and me? Taehyung’s into it. Like, really into it.”

Bam tilted his head, ears flopping.

“Yeah, I don’t get it either,” Jimin admitted. “But hey, if it means more treats for you, who’s complaining?”

Bam, deciding this was the best conversation he’d ever heard, rewarded Jimin by promptly sitting—almost perfectly—on his own foot.

Jimin cooed. “Good boy! Look at you, genius baby.” He fished a treat from his pocket, holding it out. “Now, let’s work on not tripping your own dad, huh?”

Bam took the snack delicately, then immediately tried to eat a nearby stick.

Jimin sighed. “...We’ll work on it.”

As they walked, Jimin continued usual one-sided conversation with Bam, though today his thoughts drifted to his old life.

"You know, Bam-ah," he mused, scratching behind the puppy’s velvety ears, "back when I was stuck in boardrooms, I used to daydream about days like this. No quarterly reports, no shareholders breathing down my neck—just fresh air and a dog who doesn’t judge me for eating street food."

Bam tilted his head, ears flopping.

"Yeah, I know," Jimin laughed. "Hard to picture me in a suit, right? But trust me—I could negotiate a merger before lunch and still make it to ballet class by six. Not that it mattered. At the end of the day, all those zeros on the spreadsheets just felt… empty."

He glanced down at Bam’s goofy, panting face and smiled. "Turns out, I’d rather be covered in your slobber than wear another tie."

Chapter Text

The front door clicked open, and Jimin stepped inside, shaking rainwater from his jacket as Bam barreled past him, leash still attached. The Doberman puppy—noticeably larger and more muscular than when Jimin had first started walking him—skidded to a stop on the hardwood, nose immediately twitching toward the pile of laundry near the couch.

"Don't even think about it," Jimin warned, but Bam was already lunging, his entire body wriggling with excitement as he unearthed Jungkook's prized Iron Man sock from beneath a sweatshirt.

Jungkook didn't look up from his tablet, stylus flying across the screen as he adjusted the linework of a half-finished tattoo design. "That's my last clean pair," he muttered, though there was no real heat in his voice.

Jimin rolled his eyes, toeing off his shoes. "You say that every time." He crossed the room, expertly plucking the sock from Bam's mouth before the pup could shred it. The arc reactor design was already stretched thin from previous thefts, the fabric worn soft from repeated wash cycles.

Bam let out a betrayed whine, flopping onto his back dramatically.

"Nice try," Jungkook said, finally glancing up. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, and his hair stuck up in every direction like he'd been running his hands through it for hours.

Jimin frowned, tossing the sock into the laundry basket—this time on top of the dresser, well out of Bam's reach. "You look like hell."

"Client moved up the deadline," Jungkook groaned, stretching his arms over his head with a wince. "Had to bail on my last gym session to finish these designs before my shift at the studio." He rubbed at his wrist, where a fresh tattoo peeked out from under his sleeve—a tiny, stylized Doberman silhouette that matched Bam's profile.

Jimin arched a brow. "You're working the late shift and taking last-minute clients?" He nudged Jungkook's ankle with his foot. "When do you sleep?"

"When I'm dead," Jungkook deadpanned, then grinned at Jimin's unimpressed look. "Relax, hyung. It's just this week. Besides—" He nodded toward Bam, who was now sulking by the sock-less laundry pile. "Someone's gotta keep this troublemaker in premium kibble."

Jimin snorted, crouching to scratch behind Bam's ears. The pup leaned into his touch immediately, all earlier betrayal forgotten. "Speaking of troublemakers—he did better today. Only one minor panic when a motorcycle backfired near the park."

Jungkook's expression softened. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Jimin pulled a small notebook from his pocket, flipping it open to show Jungkook the neatly logged training sessions. "We're up to seventeen minutes on the storm recordings before he gets antsy. Used the lavender spray and the weighted blanket combo today—worked like a charm."

Jungkook blinked. "You're keeping data on this?"

"Of course." Jimin smirked. "What, you think I'm just winging it with your emotional support gremlin?"

Bam, sensing he was being discussed, shoved his nose into Jimin's hand, demanding attention.

Jungkook watched them, something warm flickering in his gaze. "You're really good with him," he said quietly.

Jimin shrugged, but his cheeks pinked slightly. "He's a quick learner. Once we figured out the sock thing—"

"—which you insisted was just a weird chewing phase," Jungkook interjected, grinning.

"—which you insisted was emotional support theft," Jimin shot back, tossing a crumpled sketch page at him. "Anyway. The sock helps, but the real progress is from consistency. Which reminds me—" He dug into his bag and pulled out a small, crinkly plastic bag. "New tool."

Jungkook squinted at the contents. "...Is that a leaf?"

"Yeontan's second security leaf," Jimin confirmed solemnly. "The first one got sacrificed to the washing machine gods. Figured we'd try it with Bam—see if he likes the texture."

Jungkook burst out laughing as Jimin carefully tucked the leaf into Bam's favorite chew toy. "You're ridiculous."

"And yet," Jimin said, watching as Bam immediately sniffed the toy, then settled down with it, "it works."

The quiet that followed was comfortable, the kind that only came with time and trust. Jungkook returned to his design, stylus moving more smoothly now, while Jimin rummaged in the fridge for a snack.

After a moment, Jungkook spoke again, voice softer. "Hey. For real—thanks. For all the Bam stuff. And...you know. Putting up with my shit schedule."

Jimin paused, a yogurt cup in hand. "That's what friends are for, right?"

Jungkook's answering smile was bright enough to rival the arc reactor on his stolen socks. "Yeah. Guess it is."

Bam, sensing the moment, chose that exact second to let out an enormous, contented sigh, flopping onto his side with the leaf-stuffed toy clutched between his paws.

Jimin shook his head, tossing Jungkook a yogurt. "Eat something. Before you and your dog turn into dramatic little gremlins."

Jungkook caught it one-handed, grinning. "No promises."

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Jimin set his phone down with deliberate precision, the screen displaying Yeontan's latest analytics dashboard. "Seventeen percent engagement rate this week," he mused, tapping the screen. "Though I had to decline three more CBD treat sponsorships. Those companies never have proper veterinary certifications."

Jungkook glanced up from his design tablet, watching as Bam flopped dramatically across Jimin's lap, the ever-present Iron Man sock dangling from his mouth. "You really vet all of Tan's brand deals?"

"Of course," Jimin said, scratching behind Bam's ears. "He's a living creature first, an influencer second." He flicked to another tab showing rejected collaboration requests. "This one wanted him to promote some 'all-natural' flea shampoo that turned out to contain tea tree oil—toxic to dogs. And this 'luxury' leash company? Their products snapped during stress tests."

Bam whined, nudging Jimin's hand for more attention.

Jungkook smiled, setting aside his stylus. "No wonder Tan's account feels different. Most pet influencers just promote whatever."

"That's because most are managed by agencies, not someone who actually loves the animal." Jimin's fingers stilled on Bam's head as an idea visibly formed. "Speaking of...have your stream followers seen Bam's thunder training progress?"

Jungkook blinked. "I mentioned it last week when—wait." He narrowed his eyes. "How do you know about my streams?"

Jimin smirked. "Please. Your 'Bunny Army' spams Tan's comments every time you coo at Bam on camera–I don’t even know how they found you." He leaned forward. "What do they say when you show Bam content?"

"Uh." Jungkook's ears turned pink. "They, um. Lose their minds? Last time I showed him stealing my socks, the chat exploded with 'BAM CONTENT FINALLY' and 'WHERES HIS INSTAGRAM' for like twenty minutes straight."

Jimin's eyes lit up. He pulled up a side-by-side comparison on his tablet—Yeontan's engagement metrics versus typical pet influencer accounts. "See this spike? That's whenever Bam appears in Tan's posts. Your viewers aren't the only ones obsessed."

Bam chose that moment to drool profusely directly onto Jimin's designer jeans.

"Case in point," Jimin deadpanned, wiping his pants with a tissue. "This disaster dog is a goldmine of organic content." He swiped to a hidden folder labeled BAM ARCHIVE—dozens of perfectly framed shots:

• Bam mid-yawn, all teeth and floppy ears
• His dramatic sprawl across Yoongi's work documents
• That time he "helped" unpack groceries by sitting in the produce bag

Jungkook gaped. "You've been stockpiling Bam memes?"

"Content strategy requires preparation," Jimin said primly, though his grin betrayed him. He pulled up a mock-up Instagram profile—@BamTheDoberman, complete with a bio: "Sock thief. Personal space invader. Occasionally brave during storms (thanks to @Jimin's training)."

Jungkook's protest died in his throat as Jimin played a clip from last week's storm session—Bam curled around his security sock, only mildly perturbed by thunder sounds that would've sent him hiding a month ago.

"You've done incredible work with him," Jimin said softly. "People should see that." He zoomed in on Bam's calm, steady breathing in the video. "Not just the chaos—the progress too."

Jungkook swallowed hard, fingers finding Bam's fur. "You'd really manage his account? Like you do with Tan?"

"Better." Jimin's expression turned serious. "No shady sponsors. No overposting. Just...Bam being Bam. The good, the bad, the accidentally-eating-his-own-tail moments."

A notification popped up—another brand inquiry for Yeontan. Jimin rejected it with a single tap. "See? 'Pawfectly Natural Dog Treats'...ingredients list includes xylitol. Instant no."

Bam, sensing the attention, rolled onto his back with an exaggerated sigh, the Iron Man sock now draped over his face like a mask.

Jimin snorted, capturing the moment. "First post writes itself."

Jungkook watched them—the way Bam instinctively leaned into Jimin's touch, how Jimin's professional demeanor softened whenever the pup was near. "...Okay. But we run every brand deal by Yoongi-hyung first. And Bam never does anything that stresses him out."

Jimin was already typing. "Obviously." He showed Jungkook the draft caption:

"Unbothered. Moisturized. Happy. In my lane. Focused. Flourishing."
[Video: Bam snoring loudly with sock over face]
#DobermanLife #ProgressNotPerfection

Jungkook burst out laughing. "You're ridiculous."

"And yet," Jimin said, hitting post, "you're saying yes."

The notification came instantly:
@taetae started following @BamTheDoberman

Jimin's phone lit up with incoming messages:
[Taehyung]: I WILL DESTROY YOU
[Taehyung]: ...Tan says hi btw

Jungkook grinned, pulling Bam into a hug. "Welcome to the internet, kid."

After agreeing to manage @BamTheDoberman, Jimin sits at his pristine kitchen island, his tablet and laptop glowing. He methodically works through Jungkook's online footprint: his Twitch streams, his old YouTube videos, his public Instagram likes. It's not stalkerish, but professional—he's gauging audience demographics and content potential. He sips his wine, scrolling through a compiled list of Jungkook's old streams, noting trends. He pauses on a VOD titled "Gym Stream with Hobi-hyung!" from over a year ago. He clicks play.

On screen, a younger, sweat-drenched Jungkook laughs between deadlifts. "—no, seriously, you guys wouldn't believe it. My hyung, Hobi, he was a trainee. Like, a real one. For a big company and everything. He was the best dancer there." Jungkook's voice is full of pride. "He could've been an idol, easy. But life, you know? Stuff happened. Now he just teaches, but he's still the best."

Jimin stops the video. He replays the clip. A trainee. For a big company. The pieces don't connect yet, but the fact is filed away in his meticulous mind.

Chapter Text

Golden afternoon light filtered through the trees as Jimin adjusted Yeontan’s miniature cashmere sweater—a ridiculous gift from Taehyung that the Pomeranian adored—while Bam, now nearly full-grown with a sleek, muscular frame, strained against his harness. The Doberman’s paws dug into the dirt path, his entire body vibrating with barely-contained energy.

"Easy," Jimin murmured, applying gentle pressure to the leash. A subtle flick of his wrist had Bam falling into step beside him, though the dog’s tail still lashed back and forth like a metronome set to chaos.

Yeontan trotted primly ahead, nose in the air, as if personally offended by the concept of enthusiasm.

Jimin checked his phone with his free hand—three new emails. One from his Seoul studio director confirming next month’s contemporary showcase, another from Busan about their outreach program’s enrollment numbers, and—

He sighed. "Do either of you know a qualified hip-hop instructor who won’t flake after two weeks?"

Bam barked, lunging at a drifting leaf.

"Yeah, yeah. I’ll add it to the list." Jimin pocketed his phone, tightening his grip just enough to redirect Bam’s momentum without breaking stride. The Doberman huffed but obeyed, falling back into place.

"Look at you," Jimin said, scratching behind Bam’s ears. "7 months old and finally learning basic manners. Your dad would cry if he saw this."

Not that Jungkook would see it anytime soon. The idiot had rescheduled his last three clients to midnight slots instead of canceling, like a normal, sleep-deprived human being. Jimin had seen the dark circles under his eyes yesterday when he’d dropped by—the way Jungkook’s hands had trembled slightly around his stylus as he adjusted a client’s design.

"And Yoongi-hyung," Jimin continued, shaking his head as they rounded the bend toward the park’s central fountain, "is just as bad. I wouldn’t be surprised if he goes to bed in an attempt to literally work in his sleep.”

Bam huffed, shaking his head violently as if agreeing the whole situation was ridiculous.

"—exactly," Jimin agreed. "It’s disgusting. And don’t even get me started on the pining."

Yeontan glanced back, one tiny eyebrow raised.

"Oh, please," Jimin said. "You live with Taehyung. You’ve seen the way he ‘casually’ drops by the gym whenever Jungkook’s training. I think he has a problem–lucky he manages his own schedule," He rolled his eyes. "It’s been months. At this point, I should lock them in a closet together."

Bam, ever the opportunist, seized the momentary distraction to lunge for a discarded snack wrapper.

Jimin didn’t even blink. "Leave it."

The command was quiet but firm. Bam froze, ears twitching, before reluctantly backing away.

"Good boy," Jimin said, rewarding him with a treat from his pocket.

Yeontan sniffed, clearly unimpressed by such basic obedience.

Jimin exhaled, tilting his face toward the sun. "You know, I used to be like them," he mused. "Back when I was trying to be Park Jinyoung’s perfect grandson and the youngest COO in company history." A dry laugh escaped him. "Spoiler: it nearly killed me."

Bam nudged his hand, as if sensing the shift in tone.

Jimin scratched under the Doberman’s chin. "Expectations suck," he informed the dogs solemnly. "They’ll choke you alive if you let them."

His phone buzzed again—another email, this time from his Daegu studio. Jimin skimmed it while Bam and Yeontan investigated a particularly fascinating bush.

"Another instructor quit," he muttered. "Fantastic."

Yeontan yipped, as if offering to take over the class himself.

Jimin snorted. "Tempting, but I don’t think your interpretive dance skills are quite up to par yet."

Bam, ever the overachiever, chose that moment to attempt a leap over a park bench. He made it mostly—if you ignored the way his back legs scrambled wildly at the last second.

Jimin didn’t bother hiding his grin. "And that’s why you’re my favorite."

Yeontan glared.

"Don’t give me that look. You know you’re the fanciest. Different category."

The Pomeranian preened, satisfied.

Jimin checked his watch. "Alright, gremlins. One more lap, then we’re kidnapping your idiot humans for dinner. And by ‘kidnapping,’ I mean forcing them to eat something that didn’t come in a takeout container."

Bam wagged his entire body in agreement.

Progress, Jimin decided as they turned toward home, came in small steps. For dogs. For humans. For everyone.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The clang of weights and grunts of exertion filled the air as Jungkook spotted a client mid-benchpress. His muscles burned from back-to-back sessions, but he'd promised Jihoon he'd cover the evening shift.

"Two more," he encouraged, hovering his hands near the bar. "You've got this."

As the client finished, Jungkook caught movement in the mirror - a new trainee, phone subtly angled his way. He'd seen that look before. The slight hesitation. The too-casual grip.

He wiped his face with his shirt and approached. "Need help with something?"

The kid - late teens, gym-branded tank top - startled. "N-no! I was just..." He turned the screen: a paused video of Jungkook's deadlift form, captioned "ASMR Gym Guy (sound ON for breathing)" with a heart-eyes emoji.

Jungkook blinked. "...What."

Hoseok appeared like a specter, sipping pre-workout that looked remarkably similar to Jungkooks. Jungkook had noticed him around more frequently–constantly using his guestpass. "Oh, this?" He plucked the phone away, scrolling. "Two hundred thousand views. Hashtag..." A snort. "'LatGoals.'"

"Delete that," Jungkook hissed, ears burning.

"And waste perfect engagement?" Hoseok tossed the phone back. "Don’t you check your emails? Don’t tell me you haven’t been ignoring sponsorship offers for weeks." He leaned in, stage-whispering to the trainee: "He cries during dog videos. The internet loves him."

The kid backed away. "I'll just...use the squat rack."

As he fled, Hoseok's laughter followed. "Relax, Kook-ah. At least they're not filming your 'Bam-ah, no!' compilations anymore."

Jungkook hurled a resistance band at Hoseok, who caught it with a grin—but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Up close, the shadows under them were darker than Jungkook remembered.

"You’re one to talk about overworking," Jungkook muttered, nodding at Hoseok’s trembling hands. "When’s the last time you took a day off?"

Hoseok’s laugh was too sharp. "What’s a ‘day off’? Sounds mythical." He flexed his fingers, the knuckles cracking. "Besides, someone’s gotta cover the 6 AM conditioning class since Minjee quit. And the noon latin slot. And—"

Jungkook’s stomach dropped. Rise Studio had been Hoseok’s pride—the place he’d built his reputation. Now he was just... filling gaps.

"They’re cutting paid hours next month," Hoseok added casually, like he was discussing the weather. "'Budget restructuring.' So… maybe having some classes here while I work on TikTok choreo couldn’t hurt."

The joke landed like a lead weight. Jungkook opened his mouth only to notice an email notification come through— [Rise Studio} RE: Revised Schedule & Hourly Adjustments. Hoseok swiped it away quickly before his phone chimed. He opened this notification, and a familiar TikTok video played—a supercut of Jungkook's lifts. 

"Hoseok-ssi!" the kid—late teens, gym-branded tank top—stammered, holding out his own phone. The screen showed a paused video of Jungkook's deadlift form, captioned "ASMR Gym Guy (sound ON for breathing)" with a heart-eyes emoji.

Jungkook blinked. "...What."

Hoseok appeared like a specter, sipping pre-workout. "Oh, this?" He plucked the kid's phone away, scrolling. "Two hundred thousand views. Hashtag..." A snort. "'LatGoals.' He handed the phone back to the trainee. "Your lumbar curve is perfect, but you're compromising your scapular retraction on the descent." He said it with an offhand, technical certainty. "You'd never get away with that in a professional audition."

The words hung in the air for a second. The trainee just looked confused.

Jungkook, however, froze mid-re-rack, his brow furrowed. "Professional audition for what, hyung? It's a deadlift."

"You’re teaching latin now?" Jungkook asked, the non-sequitur slipping out as he tried to reset the conversation.

"Apparently." Hoseok rubbed his temple. "They just threw me in after Joonho left. ‘You’ve got the energy, Hobi-ssi!’" His impression of their manager was spot-on, but his voice frayed at the edges. "Never mind that I’ve been a hip-hop instructor for five years–your boss here asked me if I wanted to teach dance fit, I’m thinking about it."

Jungkook’s stomach dropped. Rise Studio had been Hoseok’s pride—the place he’d built his reputation. Now he was just... filling gaps.

"They’re cutting paid hours next month," Hoseok added casually, like he was discussing the weather. "‘Budget restructuring.” So… maybe having some classes here while I work on TikTok choreo couldn’t hurt."

The joke landed like a lead weight. Jungkook opened his mouth—Hyung, that’s fucked up or You deserve better—but Hoseok was already walking away, humming off-key.

Jungkook watched him go, the words dying on his tongue. He grabbed his water bottle and headed toward the locker room, the path taking him past the group fitness studios.

The thumping bass of a pop song spilled from Studio B. Through the glass wall, he saw Hoseok—a grin plastered on his face, clapping his hands—leading a packed "Dance Fit" class. He was demonstrating a simple grapevine step, then a basic squat with a shoulder press. The class, mostly older women, followed along enthusiastically.

But Hoseok's eyes—they were somewhere else entirely. The smile didn't reach them. He moved with a robotic precision that was completely at odds with the fluid, powerful energy Jungkook was used to seeing from him in hip-hop sessions.

An hour later, showered and changed, Jungkook looped back to grab his forgotten headphones. The gym was quieter now. The music from Studio B had stopped. As he passed, he saw a single figure still inside.

Hoseok.

He had his back to the door, earbuds in, phone propped against the mirror. A complex, snarling beat Jungkook didn't recognize pulsed faintly through the glass. And Hoseok… Hoseok was moving.

This was all sharp angles and controlled explosions of energy. His body isolations were so precise they looked impossible, his footwork a blur of intricate patterns. He wasn't just dancing; he was performing for an invisible panel of judges, every hit and freeze perfectly timed to an internal beat only he could hear.

Then, Hoseok caught Jungkook's reflection in the mirror. The spell shattered. His shoulders slumped, and he yanked out his earbuds, the sudden silence loud. The bright, easy-going mask slid back into place, but it was a fraction too slow. Jungkook had seen the flicker of frustration underneath—the same look he saw in the mirror when a client delayed a payment, the gnawing anxiety of an uncertain paycheck.

"Hey, Kook-ah! Forget something?" Hoseok asked, grabbing his towel and wiping his face, his breathing still slightly labored from the intense solo session.

"Yeah. Headphones," Jungkook said, holding them up. He wanted to say something, to ask about the mesmerizing routine, but the closed-off set of Hoseok's shoulders stopped him. "See you tomorrow, hyung."

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The evening air was cool and carried the scent of rain on the pavement. Jimin let Bam lead the way, the Doberman’s nose working overtime on a thrilling trail of discarded snack wrappers and pigeon feathers. They’d taken a detour through the park, avoiding the busier streets now buzzing with Friday night traffic.

It was Bam who stopped first, ears pricking forward. A faint, complex rhythm pulsed from a secluded area near the public workout equipment, usually deserted at this hour. It wasn't the thumping bass of a pop song, but something grittier—a snarling beat punctuated by the sharp crack of a snare.

"Come on, curious boy," Jimin murmured, letting the leash go slack as Bam strained toward the sound.

He rounded a cluster of bushes and froze.

Hoseok.

But not the Hoseok he knew from the gym, all bright smiles and encouraging shouts. This Hoseok was a study in controlled fury.

He had his back to the path, earbuds in, phone propped on the beam of a pull-up bar. His movements were nothing short of breathtaking. It was all sharp angles and explosive power, his body isolations so precise they looked impossible. His footwork was a blur of intricate, grounded patterns—a style that spoke of years of formal training fused with raw, underground energy. He wasn't just dancing; he was exorcising something. Every hit, every freeze was perfectly timed, a performance for the empty benches and the darkening sky.

Jimin felt his professional dancer's mind kick in, analyzing the technique. The muscle control. The flawless execution of a style that was years, if not a decade, in the making. This wasn't a hobby. This was the kind of skill that got you scouted.

Bam let out a soft whuff, his tail thumping against Jimin's leg.

Hoseok didn't hear. He was lost in it, his expression in the faint reflection of the phone screen one of intense, focused passion. This was the real Jung Hoseok, stripped bare of all pretense.

A sudden, protective urge washed over Jimin. This was private. Sacred, even.

He gently tugged Bam's leash. "Leave it, buddy," he whispered, steering the confused puppy back toward the main path. "Let's give him his space."

As they walked away, the rhythm fading behind them, Jimin couldn't shake the image. The sheer disparity between the man leading the "Dance Fit" class and the artist he'd just witnessed was jarring.

What are you doing, Hoseok-ssi? he thought, a frown creasing his brow. And why are you hiding that?

The raw, powerful image of Hoseok dancing in the park doesn't leave Jimin. The skill was too refined, too professional for a standard dance-fit instructor. Sitting in his penthouse later, he remembers Jungkook's offhand comment from the stream. Curiosity gets the better of him.

He opens his laptop. He starts with a simple search: "Jung Hoseok" dance Seoul. The results are mundane: links to Rise Studio, a few tagged Instagram posts. He tries a different tactic, thinking of the old-school scene: "j-hope" illusion crew. He adds underground and battle.

The search yields a goldmine: a geocities-era forum thread buried deep in the results. The title: [RUMOR] Did j-hope (Illusion) really get picked up by BigHit? Jimin clicks it. The thread is full of speculation and awe from a decade ago. "Saw him at the Hongdae battle, he wiped the floor with everyone..." "Heard he was in the same cohort as Runch Randa and that new lyricist, Agust D..." "Yeah, but he disappeared before debut, sucks."

Jimin leans back, stunned. He looks at a poorly scanned flyer attached to the forum post: UNDERGROUND HYBRID - VOL. 4. His eyes scan the matchups. MAIN EVENT: AGUST D vs. Runch Randa. And right below it: SPECIAL GUEST BATTLE: j-hope (Illusion Crew) vs. DJ Krust.

It all clicks into place with the force of a thunderclap. Hoseok. Yoongi. Namjoon. They weren't just friends; they were a crew. They were all scouted. And they all fell apart. He closes the laptop. The offer he's about to make to Hoseok is no longer just about helping a friend of a friend. It's about justice.

Chapter Text

Jimin had a habit now—one he didn’t bother denying.

Every walk with Bam (and increasingly, Yeontan), he’d snap a photo or two that never made it to the public account. Just little moments: Bam flopped over in a sunbeam, tongue lolling; Yeontan perched on a park bench like a tiny, judgmental gargoyle; the two of them finally dozing side by side after an exhausting play session.

And then, with a smirk, he’d send them directly to Yoongi.

[Jimin]: [Photo of Bam mid-yawn, sprawled across Yoongi’s abandoned work shoes]
"Your nephew says hi. Also, he claims these as tax."

Yoongi read it during a soul-crushing budget meeting, the kind where his boss droned on about "synergistic paradigms" for the eighteenth time. He stared at the photo. The corner of his mouth twitched.

[Yoongi]: "Tell him he’s fired."

[Jimin]: "He says you don’t pay him enough for that."

[Yoongi]: "He’s right."

He kept up his one-sided conversations with the dogs too, partly out of habit, partly because—well, they were better listeners than most humans.

"Your Uncle Yoongi," he informed Bam as the puppy attempted to climb a tree (why?), "is terrible at texting back. But he always looks." He scooped Bam away from the bark. "Which means he’s either bored at work or can’t sleep. Both are bad."

Bam licked his chin in agreement.

Yeontan, from his perch in Jimin’s sling carrier, snorted.

Jimin booped his nose. "Don’t give me that. You like Jungkook, you little traitor."

Yeontan yawned, as if to say, I tolerate him. For now.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The dance studio is too quiet without the usual thump of bass vibrating through the floors. Jimin sits slumped against the mirrored wall, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat, his phone balanced on his knee. 

The AC unit wheezes pathetically from the corner—dead. Again. The repair guy had promised it would be fixed by tonight. It wasn’t. Of course it wasn’t.

He’d paid extra for the overnight rush job and still, he was the only one at the studio. No signs of a repair technician. 

Jimin exhales sharply through his nose and thumbs open his messages.

[Jimin]: Dance studio’s AC broke and ruined my midnight session. It’s taking longer to fix than planned. Why are you awake?

He hits send before he can second-guess himself.

He hates this.

Not just the broken AC—though the sticky heat clinging to his skin is its own special kind of torture—but the logistics. He'd told his managers he would wait for the repair, thinking he could use the time to practice. Now, he was just stuck. Alone in the sweltering silence.

It was his fault. He informed his managers he didn’t mind waiting because he planned on practicing anyway. 

He hadn’t been operationally involved in a while. He’d taken a part in hiring program managers, like the one he’d now had to replace in Seoul, after his now Busan Hiphop manager accepted a transfer from Seoul. All it had taken was a relocation bonus and a pay rise. A decision, only he could sign off on. 

But that was it. Day to day operations he stayed out of. He had the classes he taught, advanced contemporary sessions and their nursery class. 

Well, he’d likely have to help back fill the Hiphop classes, but he’d already floated the idea of having advanced students step up and assist under his mentorship, at least until the role filled.

It was an evolving plan, that he needed to make sure he scheduled well. Bam and Yeontan needed him, as much as he needed them. He’d made a promise when he’d started walking Bam that he’d be there, he hadn’t made that promise lightly.

Sure, he could’ve delegated the hiring process. Could’ve let his operations manager handle things and come up with a solution, but they would have come to him eventually. He just came up with fastest working solution.

Besides, Jimin knows what happens when he lowers his standards.

A boardroom at Park Holdings, his grandfather’s voice like a blade—"Good enough isn’t good enough for us."

So here he was. Teaching again. Filling gaps. Pretending this is temporary as he managed his schedule right down to the minute. 

His phone buzzes.

[Yoongi]: Corporate hell.

Jimin snorts. Of course.

[Yoongi]: You’re at the studio this late?

Jimin hesitates. He could lie. Could play this off like he’s just another instructor, grinding for rent money.

But—

But something about the darkness, the quiet, the way Yoongi’s replies have slowly lost their edge over the past few weeks—it makes him reckless.

[Jimin]: Someone’s gotta keep the place running.

Vague. True.

Not the whole truth.

Yoongi’s typing bubble appears. Disappears.

Jimin chews his lip.

He could help. Not just with Bam updates, not just with playful banter—really help. He’s run numbers before. He’s wrangled corporate disasters twice as messy as whatever’s eating Yoongi alive.

But Yoongi never asks.

So Jimin makes it a joke instead.

[Jimin]: If you’re still up, I could use a distraction. Tell me Bam did something ridiculous.

A pause. Then—

[Yoongi]: He’s asleep. Currently using my pillow as a drool sponge.

Jimin grins.

[Yoongi]: …AC still broken?

The question is casual. Almost careless. But it’s there—Yoongi, reaching back.

Jimin’s chest does something dangerous.

[Jimin]: Yeah. Repair guy swore it’d be fixed tonight. Guess what?

[Yoongi]: He lied.

[Jimin]: Shocking, right? Almost like people gasp don’t keep their word.

A beat. Then—

[Yoongi]: …You sound like Jungkook.

Jimin laughs, loud enough that the sound echoes off the empty studio walls.

[Jimin]: Wow. Rude.

[Yoongi]: It’s the dramatics.

[Jimin]: It’s the truth. Also, it’s after midnight and I’m sweating through my shirt. I’m allowed dramatics.

The typing bubble appears. Holds.

Then—

[Yoongi]: Go home, Jimin.

Simple. Direct.

Not "You should rest." Not "Take care of yourself."

But close enough.

Jimin stares at his phone.

He should tell him.

I own this studio. Three of them, actually. I could hire someone tomorrow to deal with this, but I won’t, because I’m just as stubborn as you are.

But he doesn’t.

Because Yoongi doesn’t ask.

And because—

Because one day, when this fragile thing between them is stronger, when Yoongi’s not balancing on the edge of burnout, when Jimin’s not pretending to be just another instructor—

One day, he’ll tell him.

But not tonight.

[Jimin]: Yeah, yeah. Going.

He doesn’t move.

His phone lights up again.

[Yoongi]: (Attached: Bam, mid-yawn, one ear inside-out, taking up 90% of Yoongi’s bed.)

[Yoongi]: He says goodnight.

Jimin smiles.

We’re getting there.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Rain lashed against the gym windows as Jungkook's phone buzzed violently against the weight bench. The notification lit up the screen like a warning flare—PUPPY CAM ALERT: Movement detected - Bam's crate. His stomach dropped.

The video feed loaded in stuttering fragments. There, in the dim glow of the night vision camera, was Bam—his usually playful Doberman frame curled into a quivering ball at the back of the crate, ears pinned flat as thunder shook the apartment. The whites of his eyes flashed with each lightning strike.

Jungkook didn't remember dropping the weights. One second he was mid-rep, the next he was shoving his water bottle into his client's hands with a hoarse, "Family emergency. Reschedule. Sorry."

The client barely had time to nod before Jungkook was sprinting for the exit, his keys already in hand.

His phone lit up with Jimin's caller ID.

"Hyung, I'm five minutes out—"

"I'm already here."

The feed updated. Jimin's familiar hand reached into the crate, and Bam practically launched himself into his arms. The camera caught the moment Jimin grabbed something from Jungkook's abandoned laundry pile—that damn Iron Man sock Bam had been stealing for weeks. He tucked it under the puppy's chin, and just like that, Bam's trembling slowed. His nose twitched, then buried into the fabric.

Jungkook burst through the apartment door to find Jimin cross-legged on the floor, Bam sprawled across his lap like a furry, exhausted blanket. Yeontan perched on the arm of the couch like a tiny, judgmental supervisor, watched the scene unfold.

The air smelled faintly of lavender—the expensive organic oil Jimin always used on Bam's collar—and the remnants of peanut butter from the half-eaten Kong abandoned near the coffee table.

"Hey, baby," Jungkook murmured, dropping to his knees.

Bam's tail gave a weak thump against Jimin's thigh.

Jimin didn't look up, his fingers still working gentle circles into Bam's paws. "You made it.”

Jungkook reached out, then froze. The hoodie swaddled around Bam was his—the one he'd left balled up on the couch that morning. The sock was still tucked under Bam's chin, now slightly damp from nervous chewing.

For months, he'd treated Bam's anxiety like another problem to fix—thunder shirts, training videos, frantic 3 AM Google searches. But Jimin just was. Present. Steady.

A warm hand covered his, stilling his shaking fingers.

"You're worse than he is," Jimin said, voice low.

Jungkook let out a shaky laugh. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted. "The... quiet part."

Jimin's thumb brushed over his knuckles. "Good thing you've got me, then."

Outside, the storm raged on. But here, in this moment, with Bam's weight warm across their laps and the scent of lavender clinging to the air, the world was still.

Jimin’s fingers carded through Bam’s fur. "We’ll keep training him."

Jungkook blinked. "Really?"

"Training’s not linear. He’ll have great days and then he’ll have bad days. It’s normal." Jimin pressed a kiss to Bam’s head. "He’ll learn storms don’t mean danger."

Yoongi hovered in the doorway, arms crossed. "How long?"

"Weeks. Maybe months." Jimin met his gaze. "But he’ll get there, he’s already come a long way. He could be stressed too. Compounds in dogs the way it does in people–like when his people aren’t home much, even with walks he’ll notice."

Jungkook lowered his head as he just hugged Bam to his chest.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The electronic beep of the keypad announced Jimin’s arrival, the sound muffled by the rustling of Bam’s leash as the Doberman barreled inside, paws skidding on the hardwood. Jimin followed, toeing off his shoes with practiced ease, his cheeks still flushed from the brisk night air.

“Sorry we’re late,” he called, unclipping Bam’s harness. The dog immediately shook himself, sending droplets flying—evidence of an impromptu detour through a puddle. Jimin grinned, ruffling Bam’s ears. “Someone decided the park wasn’t exciting enough without a swim.”

Yoongi stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, still in his work slacks and half-undone tie. The shadows under his eyes were darker than usual, his jaw set in a way that suggested he’d been waiting—and stewing—for a while.

“You’re three hours late.”

Jimin didn’t flinch. He tossed the harness onto the hook by the door and stretched, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, class ran over. One of my advanced students covered the hip-hop slot—first time teaching solo. Wanted to stick around for feedback.”

Yoongi’s brow twitched. “You didn’t text.”

“I did. At seven.” Jimin nudged Bam toward his water bowl before crossing to the fridge. “Besides, you were in a meeting–I think.” He pulled out a bottle of water, cracked it open, and took a long sip. “How’d that go, by the way? The Shim account revisions?”

Yoongi’s silence was answer enough.

He watched Jimin move around the kitchen—a whirlwind of effortless competence that made Yoongi’s own exhaustion feel like a failure. This is what it could be like, a treacherous voice whispered. Not silence and takeout containers. This. Light. Laughter. Someone who just... shows up.

The thought was so terrifyingly appealing that he immediately defaulted to deflection.

Jimin smirked. “That bad, huh?”

Bam, sensing tension, trotted over and flopped onto Yoongi’s feet, tail thumping. Yoongi exhaled, shoulders dropping just a fraction.

Jimin leaned against the counter, studying him. “You eaten?”

Yoongi’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You sound like Jin.”

“And you sound like a man who’s surviving on coffee and spite.” Jimin pushed off the counter and grabbed a takeout menu from the drawer—Jin’s favorite galbi place, the one Yoongi never admitted he liked. “I’ll order in.”

Yoongi opened his mouth—probably to argue—but Bam chose that moment to rest his damp chin heavily on Yoongi's sock-covered foot.

Jimin laughed, bright and unguarded. “See? Even Bam agrees.”

Yoongi stared at him. At the way Jimin’s sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing the faint sheen of sweat from his studio session. At the way his hair was mussed from running his hands through it, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled—like he wasn’t carrying the weight of three studios, a thriving dog-sitting side gig, and whatever this was between them.

Like he was happy.

Yoongi’s chest ached.

Jimin, oblivious, was already on the phone, rattling off their usual order with an easy confidence that suggested he’d done this a hundred times before. Because he had.

Because he kept showing up.

Even when Yoongi didn’t deserve it.

Bam licked Yoongi’s ankle, as if sensing the shift in his mood.

Jimin hung up and tossed his phone onto the couch. “Food’ll be here in twenty.” He tilted his head. “You gonna glare at me the whole time, or are we pretending you’re not secretly relieved I’m here?”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

Jimin left Yoongi to his silence as he found Bam’s brush mit and started brushing him down. Jungkook was a little obsessed with Bam’s coat, but in a good way. So Jimin tried to keep up his routines with Bam. 

The doberman was very used to his evening brush down and was quick to allow Jimin to manipulate him. 

As soon as Jimin was finished which he indicated with a pat to Bam’s but he dashed over to his crate. Not before giving Jimin’s face a lick.

The time worked out well, as Jimin heard the doorbell. Yoongi didn’t even look up from his screen. 

Food in hand, Jimin set the coffee table. Setting down containers around Yoongi as he handed him cutlery. "Jungkook looked rough today."

Yoongi finally looked away from his screen taking the offered chopsticks from Jimin. "Define 'rough.'"

"Forgot his water bottle. Twice." Jimin took a bite. "Asked me if I'd fed Bam breakfast when he was the one who did it."

Yoongi's jaw tightened. He picked up a fork.

Jimin watched him poke at the rice. "He liked another old post of Taehyung's yesterday. A travel photo from two years ago."

"Christ."

"Unliked it in twelve minutes this time. Progress."

Yoongi snorted. Bam huffed, as if agreeing.

The quiet stretched between them, comfortable in a way it hadn't been a month ago. Jimin studied Yoongi's profile in the dim light—the stubborn set of his shoulders, the way he pretended not to care when he cared too much.

"Taehyung's not doing it on purpose," Jimin said finally.

Yoongi's fork stilled. "I know."

"He just—"

"Finds it adorable. Yeah." Yoongi rubbed his temples. "Doesn't make it better."

Jimin smiled. "No. But it means he's not laughing at him."

Yoongi gave him a look.

"Okay, he's laughing a little." Jimin held up his thumb and forefinger. "But it's the fond kind."

The corner of Yoongi's mouth twitched. Bam chose that moment to sneeze directly onto his sock.

"Disgusting," Yoongi muttered, but his hand found Bam's ears anyway.

The fragile calm lasted precisely twenty-three minutes. As they eaten together in peace, exchanging quiet conversation. Nothing deep, but that was fine.

Yoongi’s phone, face-down on the coffee table, emitted a series of rapid, violent buzzes—the specific cadence he’d assigned to his boss. The sound was a ice-water splash on the warm, quiet room.

Yoongi flinched. The softness in his posture from moments before vanished, his shoulders snapping back into the rigid line he wore like a suit of armor. He snatched the phone, his jaw tightening as he read the screen.

Jimin watched the transformation with a familiar, sinking feeling. He’d seen that look on countless executives—the hunted, harried expression of a man perpetually five seconds from a crisis.

“Everything okay?” Jimin asked, keeping his voice neutral.

“It’s fine,” Yoongi muttered, his thumbs already flying across the screen. “Park’s freaking out about the Q3 projections. The numbers from the Busan branch aren’t syncing with the master sheet. He needs it for a call in an hour.” He spat the words like they were poison.

Jimin leaned over, glancing at the laptop screen Yoongi had yanked open. He saw a mess of overlapping Excel tabs and a chart being manually updated. It was an inefficient disaster. An old, professional instinct kicked in.

“Oh, the data linkage is broken,” Jimin said, pointing at the screen. “You can just rebuild that connection. Or,” he added, seeing the storm cloud on Yoongi’s face darken, “a quicker fix would be to just pivot the raw data from the Busan file. It’ll auto-generate the summary for you. Should take two minutes.”

He said it lightly, an offering. A simple solution to ease the obvious stress.

Yoongi’s hands stilled. He didn’t look at Jimin. “This is how we do it.”

“I know, but this way would be faster. You wouldn’t have to—”

“I said,” Yoongi interrupted, his voice low and final, “this is the system.”

The words weren’t just about the spreadsheet. They were a wall. A declaration. My suffering is my method. My chaos is my control. Do not interfere.

Jimin’s offered hand hung in the air, metaphysically slapped away. He drew back, the warmth from their earlier conversation leaching away, replaced by the sterile chill of rejection. He saw it now—the sheer, stubborn will it took for Yoongi to choose the harder, worse path every single time.

“Right,” Jimin said softly, the word flat. “Your system.”

He stood and walked to the kitchen, giving Yoongi the space he so clearly needed to drown alone. He busied himself with refilling his water glass, listening to the frantic, angry tapping of keys—the sound of a man desperately digging his own hole deeper, simply because it was the hole he knew.

Jimin watched them for a moment before standing. "I should go."

Yoongi glanced at the clock. "It's late."

"Exactly."

A beat. Then—

"You can take the couch. You know where the bathroom is if you wanna shower."

Jimin paused. "Yeah?"

Yoongi didn't look at him. "If you want."

Jimin smiled. "I'll stay."

Chapter Text

Golden morning light spilled across the marble countertops, glinting off the espresso machine that probably cost more than Jimin’s entire dance studio deposit. He slumped onto a barstool, rubbing his temple as the scent of freshly ground Ethiopian Yirgacheffe filled the air—of course Taehyung owned a coffee setup that belonged in a Milanese café.

Taehyung slid a handcrafted ceramic mug toward him, the steam curling in lazy spirals. "You look like you wrestled a bear."

Jimin wrapped his hands around the warmth. "Try babysitting a lovesick Doberman and a man who treats his own feelings like a hostage situation."

A smirk. "Which one kept you up?"

"Both." Jimin took a slow sip, letting the caffeine hit his bloodstream like a defibrillator. "Jungkook stumbled in at three AM looking like the walking dead. Didn’t even see me on the couch. Just grabbed Bam and—” He gestured vaguely. “—broke his own ‘no dogs on the bed’ rule.”

Taehyung’s smirk faded. He turned to fiddle with the espresso machine, his silk robe (probably cashmere-lined, because Taehyung) rustling. “He’s been working late.”

Jimin scoffed. “He’s been working, never stopping.” He set his mug down with a clink. “You should see his streams.”

That got Taehyung’s attention. “He streams?”

Jimin blinked. “You don’t—? Oh my god.” He fished out his phone, thumbing open Jungkook’s channel. “Here. Watch the last one.”

The video loaded: Jungkook, bathed in the blue glow of his gaming setup, dark circles stark under the studio lights. “—just one more round, bunnies, then I gotta—” A yawn cracked his jaw. “—gotta finish this client’s program.”

Taehyung’s fingers tightened around his own cup.

“He’s not like us,” Jimin said quietly, gesturing to the penthouse around them—the abstract art, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the stupidly expensive coffee. “He doesn’t have a trust fund to fall back on if he burns out.”

Taehyung flinched. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Jimin leaned forward. “Because you keep treating this like it’s cute. The stuttering, the Instagram lurking—"

“I don’t—”

“He liked a two-year-old post of yours last week and then apologized to me for being ‘stalker-coded.’”

Silence. Yeontan, curled on the sofa, but still managed to take up more space than made sense.

Taehyung exhaled sharply. “I didn’t realize it was…” He trailed off, staring at Jungkook’s frozen, exhausted face on the screen.

Jimin softened. “Talk to him. Properly. Before he actually collapses.”

A beat. Then Taehyung’s trademark smirk resurfaced. “Since when are you the responsible one?”

“Since someone left me alone with Yoongi’s emotional constipation all night.”

Taehyung’s eyebrows shot up. “Wait. Yoongi let you stay over?”

Jimin flushed. “He offered the couch.”

“Holy shit.” Taehyung abandoned his coffee to brace his hands on the counter. “Details. Now.”

“There are no details. We ate takeout and he glared at his laptop until 1 AM–I didn’t think it was my place to offer to help.”

“And?”

“And…” Jimin traced the rim of his mug. “It was… nice. Sleeping under the same roof as someone else.” He hesitated. “Even if I did get kneed in the ribs by a sleep-fighting Doberman at 1 AM.”

Taehyung’s grin turned wicked. “You like him.”

“I tolerate him.”

“Liar.” Taehyung flicked a sugar packet at him. “You’re blushing.”

Jimin kicked him under the counter. Yeontan yipped in protest.

“Focus,” Jimin hissed. “Jungkook. Your actual disaster.”

Taehyung sighed, but the mischief lingered. “Fine. I’ll take him to dinner.”

“No.”

“What?”

Jimin leveled him with a look. “He’ll panic and order the same thing as you. Take him somewhere he can’t overthink. The dog park. The gym. Movie night–I don’t know… Somewhere he already feels like himself.”

Taehyung studied him for a long moment before nodding. “You’re scary when you’re invested.”

Jimin smiled sweetly. “And you’re welcome.”

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The glow of Jin’s projector flickered across the living room, casting shadows of the kaiju from The Host onto the far wall. Jungkook hovered near the snack table, Bam sprawled at his feet, tail thumping as he eyed the abandoned plate of fried chicken.

Taehyung, lounging across the couch like he owned it, tilted his head. “You gonna stand there all night, or are you actually going to sit down?”

Jungkook blinked, then grabbed a handful of popcorn. “I’m strategizing.”

“Strategizing,” Taehyung repeated, slow and amused. “For a movie we’ve all seen before.”

“Exactly.” Jungkook pointed at the screen. “That first jump scare? Gets me every time. I’m mentally preparing.”

Taehyung snorted, kicking his legs up onto the coffee table. “Just admit you’re scared.”

“I’m respectful of cinematic tension.”

Jin, from his throne of throw pillows, rolled his eyes. “Children. Sit. This is a sacred tradition—no phones, no bickering, just quality film analysis.”

Namjoon, already scribbling notes in the margins of a script, muttered, “Says the man who called Parasite a comedy.”

Jungkook finally dropped onto the couch—not quite next to Taehyung, but close enough that Bam immediately abandoned him to flop across Taehyung’s feet instead. Traitor.

Taehyung grinned, scratching behind Bam’s ears. “See? Even your dog knows where the best seat is.”

Jungkook scowled, but it lacked heat. “He’s just buttering you up for snacks.”

“Smart dog.” Taehyung reached for his phone, then hesitated. “Wait, do you actually have my number?”

Jungkook’s fingers stilled around his soda can. “Uh.”

“That’s a no.” Taehyung held out his phone. “Here. Put yours in. So you can’t pretend you forgot next time.”

Jungkook took it, thumb hovering over the screen. “Next time?”

“Movie night,” Taehyung said, like it was obvious. “It’s a monthly thing now. Jin-hyung declared it.”

Jin nodded solemnly. “And if you skip, you’re on dish duty for life.”

Jungkook huffed a laugh, finally typing in his number. When he handed the phone back, Taehyung’s smirk was knowing.

“What?”

“You put a heart next to your name.”

Jungkook nearly choked. “I did not—”

Taehyung turned the screen toward him. Jungkook 💜 blinked back at him in bold letters.

“That was you,” Jungkook accused.

“Prove it.”

Jungkook opened his mouth, then snapped it shut when the first jump scare hit, the monster’s screech rattling the speakers. Bam yelped, scrambling into Taehyung’s lap, and Jungkook—despite his earlier bravado—jolted hard enough to spill popcorn everywhere.

Taehyung laughed, loud and bright, and Jungkook, despite himself, grinned back.

On the other side of the couch, Jimin leaned toward Yoongi, voice low. “They’re like puppies.”

Yoongi grunted. “Puppies are quieter.” But he didn’t move away when Jimin’s knee brushed his.

As the movie played on, Jungkook stole a glance at Taehyung—his easy slouch, the way Bam had already claimed him as a pillow—and thought, Maybe monthly movie nights wouldn’t be so bad.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Jimin stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring down at Seoul’s glittering skyline. The city pulsed with life—neon signs flickering, cars streaming like glowing ants—but up here, in his sleek, high-tech sanctuary, the silence pressed in like a weight.

Yeontan, freshly deposited by Taehyung (“You look sad. Take him. He’ll judge you less than I will”), was already curled on the couch, a tiny, unimpressed loaf of fluff. Jimin sighed, tossing his keys onto the marble counter. The keypad by the door beeped softly, the electronic chime echoing in the emptiness.

His phone buzzed.

Taehyung: Tan better not steal my bedroom.

Jimin snorted, typing back:

Jimin: He says your bed is lumpy and your taste in sheets is tragic.

Taehyung: Lies. He loves my silk ones.

Jimin didn’t answer. Instead, he scrolled to another contact, thumb hovering.

Yoongi.

They’d just spent the night together—well, sort of. Crammed on Yoongi’s couch, knees knocking, Bam snoring at their feet. It had been… nice. Warm. But now, back in his own space, the absence felt sharper.

Jimin chewed his lip. Then, before he could overthink it:

Jimin: Taehyung abandoned Yeontan here. I think he’s judging me for eating cereal for dinner.

A pause. Then—

Yoongi: Tan judges everyone. He once side-eyed me for breathing too loud.

Jimin grinned, the tension in his shoulders easing.

Jimin: He’s currently glaring at my cereal like it personally offended him.

Yoongi: Probably because it’s not organic kale or whatever Tae feeds him.

Jimin: I offered him a blueberry. He pretended not to see it.

Yoongi: Classic Tan. Brat.

Jimin laughed, the sound too loud in the empty penthouse. He wandered to the couch, sinking into the cushions. Yeontan deigned to crawl onto his lap, a tiny, warm weight.

Jimin: Your place feels more like home than this.

The second he sent it, he froze. 

But Yoongi’s reply came fast:

Yoongi: That’s because my couch doesn’t cost more than a car.

Jimin exhaled, relieved.

Jimin: It’s also got better company.

Yoongi: Bam says thanks.

Jimin: I wasn’t talking about Bam.

A beat. Then—

Yoongi: …I know.

Jimin’s chest tightened. He stared at the message, the simple admission, the unspoken you were missed too.

Yeontan sneezed.

Jimin: Tan says you need a new suit, something other than guarded and repressed.

Yoongi: Tell Tan to mind his business.

Jimin smiled, curling deeper into the couch. The penthouse still felt too big, too quiet—but the glow of his phone, the steady back-and-forth, made the loneliness a little softer.

And just like that, the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The gym was nearly empty, the fluorescent lights humming like tired insects. Jungkook’s muscles burned as he lowered the barbell, his breath ragged. His phone buzzed on the floor—another ignored notification. Probably another automated transfer from the trust fund he refused to touch.

A low whistle cut through his focus.

"Damn, Kook-ah. That’s 220kg now, yeah?"

Jungkook glanced up. Hoseok leaned against the squat rack, arms crossed, his usual neon workout gear swapped for a faded tank. A water bottle dangled from his fingers.

"Hyung." Jungkook wiped his face with his shirt. "Didn’t know you were here."

"Dance fit trial–made use of the sauna, might have had a nap," Hoseok tossed him the bottle. "You’re here late. Again."

Jungkook shrugged, gulping water. The clock read 11:47 PM.

Hoseok’s gaze lingered on the dark circles under Jungkook’s eyes. "You’re gonna burn out before thirty."

"Not all of us can survive on sunshine and group fitness energy," Jungkook muttered, re-racking the weights.

Hoseok snorted. Then his phone chimed. He glanced at it—and froze.

Jungkook frowned. "What?"

Hoseok turned the screen toward him. A TikTok video played: "ASMR Gym Compilation (sound ON for breathing)"—a supercut of Jungkook’s lifts, his quiet grunts layered with soft piano. The caption: "Who is this man??"

View count: 428K.

Jungkook’s stomach dropped. "What the fuck?"

Hoseok scrolled. Comment after comment:

[user4829]: bro looks like he’s fighting DEMONS in the gym
[taeisthebest]: omg that’s @officialbamdad!!!
[dobermanlover]: HOLD UP THIS IS BAM’S DAD?!

Jungkook’s hands clenched. "Who even posted this? Why is it still up!"

"Some gym regular. It’s everywhere." Hoseok swiped to another video—a clip of Jungkook laughing with Bam after a workout, now stitched with thirst edits. "Kook-ah… you’re kinda viral."

Jungkook grabbed his bag, shoving his gear inside. "Delete it."

"Can’t. Internet’s forever." Hoseok blocked his path. "But you could use it."

Jungkook glared.

Hoseok held up his hands. "Hear me out. Rise Studio's cutting instructor pay again." Just then, his phone buzzed violently on the bench. He glanced at the screen, and his easy-going expression tightened. "Shit, one sec," he muttered, turning away from Jungkook. 

"Yeah, hello?" He listened, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. "...I know, I know. Next month's payment might be a little late... No, it's not—look, the studio cut the advanced classes again. My hours got halved..." His voice was a low, stressed whisper, a stark contrast to his usual bright tone. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm doing what I can. I'll figure it out. Yeah. Bye."

He ended the call and took a deep breath, squaring his shoulders before turning back to Jungkook. When he spoke again, his voice was forcefully light, but the worry still lingered in his eyes. "Sorry. Where was I? Right. If you monetized even half this attention—"

"I don't want it." Jungkook's voice cracked, but now his protest felt smaller. He'd just gotten a glimpse of the pressure Hoseok was under.

A beat. Hoseok’s expression softened. He pulled up another notification—a DM from a pet brand:

@PawsAndPlay: We’ll pay ₩5M for one Bam collab. No joke.

Jungkook just rolled his eyes at the DM. Jimin had educated him a lot about good collabs for Bam. 

Hoseok pocketed his phone. "I get it. You hate the spotlight–you prefer weebing out on live stream. But that dog? The life you and Yoongi-hyung built?" He nudged Jungkook’s shoe with his own. "This could make it easier." Hoseok encouraged, ignoring his own problems. 

Jungkook exhaled, watching his reflection in the gym mirror—exhausted, frayed at the edges.

Somewhere in the city, Bam was probably asleep in his crate, dreaming of hamburger toys.

And Yoongi… Yoongi was still at the office.

Hoseok squeezed his shoulder. "Just think about it."

Jungkook didn’t answer. 

But when he checked his phone later, the Paws & Play message was still open. He deleted it. 

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The glow of Yoongi’s laptop screen cast harsh shadows across his face as Jungkook paced the length of the living room, Bam trotting at his heels like a furry, over-caffeinated shadow.

"So," Jungkook said, spinning on his heel, "I cut back my tattoo sessions to three a week. Three. And I only took on two new training clients this month. Two."

Yoongi didn’t look up from his spreadsheet. "Mm."

"And I stopped picking up extra shifts at the dance studio." Jungkook flopped onto the couch, narrowly avoiding crushing Bam’s tail. The dog yelped, shooting him a betrayed look before dramatically relocating to Yoongi’s feet. "Traitor."

Yoongi hummed again, fingers still tapping away. "Is it helping?"

Jungkook blinked. "What?"

"Cutting back." Yoongi finally glanced up, raising an eyebrow. "Is it helping? Or did you just give yourself more time to freak out over Taehyung?"

Jungkook’s mouth dropped open. "Excuse me—"

"You’ve liked seven of his posts today."

"It was six!" Jungkook hissed, then immediately flushed. "Wait—how do you even know that?"

Yoongi smirked. "Jin-hyung has a group chat."

"Of course he does." Jungkook groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "I just—I don’t know what I’m doing, hyung. Before, if I was freaking out, I could just work until I passed out. Now I’m just… awake with my thoughts. And they’re loud."

Yoongi snorted. "Welcome to being well-rested. It’s terrible."

Jungkook kicked at him half-heartedly. "Not helping."

Bam, sensing the tension, shoved his nose into Jungkook’s hand with a whine. Jungkook sighed, scratching behind his ears. "I just… I don’t know how to do this. The slow thing. Taehyung’s all… Taehyung. And I’m just me. What if he gets bored?"

Yoongi closed his laptop with a click. "Jungkook."

"Yeah?"

"You’re exhausting."

Jungkook gasped, clutching his chest. "Rude."

Yoongi leaned back, stretching. "Taehyung’s liked every single one of your Bam posts for the past six months. Including the one where he was mid-sneeze and looked like a gremlin. If he hasn’t gotten bored yet, he’s not going to."

Jungkook blinked. "...That’s weirdly sweet."

"It’s facts." Yoongi stood, grabbing his empty coffee mug. "Now go to bed before I call Jin-hyung and tell him you need another intervention."

Jungkook scrambled up. "You wouldn’t."

Yoongi’s grin was all teeth. "Try me."

[11:03 PM]
Jungkook (to Taehyung): hey so hypothetically if someone maybe kinda freaked out a little about liking your posts too much what would you do

Taehyung (3 seconds later): id tell them to stop being a coward and just text me instead

Jungkook: ...hypothetically

Taehyung: kook-ah

Taehyung: text me…. Not because you’re freaking out…

Taehyung: ...hypothetically

Chapter Text

Jimin paced the length of Jin’s living room, fingers twisting the hem of his sweater. The scent of Namjoon’s freshly brewed tea did little to calm his nerves.

"I don’t know if I should say anything," Jimin admitted, voice tight. "We’re not—I mean, we’re close, but not that close. Not like you two are with him."

Jin exchanged a glance with Namjoon over the rim of his coffee cup. "Jimin-ah," he said slowly. "What exactly are you worried about?"

Jimin stopped pacing, running a hand through his hair. "He’s miserable. I can see it. The way he looks at his laptop like it personally offended him. The way he never stops working. There’s something else he’d rather be doing, I know it, but—" He hesitated. "I don’t know what it is, or if it’s even my place to bring it up."

Namjoon set his tea down carefully. "You’re right," he said. "It’s not easy for everyone to just do what they want."

Jimin winced. "I know–trust me, I know. Well, I know you know who I am–that’s not that point though. But, that’s why I’m here. I don’t want to overstep, but I can’t just watch him like this."

Jin sighed, leaning back. "Yoongi’s… complicated."

"That’s an understatement," Namjoon muttered.

Jin ignored him. "He was scouted, you know. Back in the underground rap scene. He was good. Like, really good. That’s how Hobi and I met him."

Jimin’s eyes widened. "What?"

Namjoon nodded. "He was a trainee, too. For a hot minute. Joined after me–before Hobi. But then—" He hesitated.

"Then Jungkook happened," Jin finished softly.

Jimin’s breath caught.

Jin swirled his coffee, staring into the dark liquid. "Kid had no one left, and Yoongi–he didn’t either… still he stepped up. Walked away from everything else to make sure Jungkook had something stable. Nineteen years old and he was dealing with estate lawyers and insurance companies."

Jimin’s chest ached. "Jungkook doesn’t know?"

Namjoon shook his head. "Yoongi didn’t want him to feel responsible. Jungkook adores his music—he’s got every track memorized, calls himself the ‘number one fan’—but he has no idea that the Gloss he loves is Yoongi."

Jimin sank onto the couch, mind reeling. "God."

Jin studied him. "You care about him."

It wasn’t a question.

Jimin swallowed. "Yeah. I do."

"Then talk to him," Jin said, firm. "Not about the music, not about what he should be doing. Just… ask him what he wants. And listen."

Jimin exhaled shakily. "What if he shuts me out?"

Namjoon smiled, just a little. "Then you try again later. That’s what we do."

[11:37 PM]
Jimin (to Yoongi): Hey. Can I come over?

Yoongi (3 minutes later): Now?

Jimin: Yeah. If that's okay.

A pause. Then—

Yoongi: Bring coffee.

Jimin grinned.

It was a start.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The apartment was dark when Jimin arrived, the only light spilling from the crack under Yoongi’s bedroom door. He let himself in with the passcode he’d long since memorized—Jungkook’s birthday, because of course—toeing off his shoes quietly before padding down the hall.

Yoongi sat hunched over his laptop at the kitchen table, the blue glow of the screen casting shadows under his eyes. He didn’t look up, but Jimin knew he’d heard him—the slight tensing of his shoulders gave him away.

“You’re out of coffee,” Jimin said, setting a steaming cup in front of him. “Black, two sugars.”

Yoongi’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. He exhaled, slow and measured, before finally glancing up. “You got here fast.”

“I was already nearby,” Jimin said, sliding into the chair across from him. “Stopped by Jin-hyung and Namjoon’s place earlier.”

Yoongi’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. So Jin overshared.”

Jimin sipped his own drink—something sweet and vanilla-laced, a contrast to Yoongi’s bitterness. “He mentioned you make music. That’s all.”

A muscle twitched in Yoongi’s jaw. “Past tense.”

“Is it?” Jimin kept his voice light, tracing the rim of his cup. “Funny. I still have my old dance shoes. Even though I don’t perform anymore.”

Yoongi’s gaze flickered up, sharp. “You danced?”

“Yeah, I was good too,” Jimin shrugged. “I miss it–I’m glad I have the opportunity to teach. Help the next generation.”

Silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken things. Jimin didn’t push. He just let the words hang there, a quiet offering.

Yoongi stared into his coffee, his thumb tapping restlessly against the mug. “It’s not that simple.”

“I know.” Jimin leaned back, watching him. “But it doesn’t have to be complicated either.”

Yoongi didn’t answer. Just rubbed his temples, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face.

Jimin softened. “You look like hell.”

“Budget reviews,” Yoongi muttered.

“At midnight?”

“When else?” Yoongi’s voice was rough. “The corporate overlords don’t care about sleep.”

Jimin hummed, nudging the coffee closer. “Drink. Before it gets cold.”

Yoongi obeyed, his shoulders slumping slightly as the warmth seeped into his hands. For a moment, he just sat there, eyes closed, like he was savoring the one small comfort he’d allowed himself.

Jimin pretended not to notice. He reached for the remote, flipping on the TV to some mindless drama, and let the quiet settle around them.

“You didn’t have to check on me,” Yoongi said eventually, his voice quieter now.

Jimin smiled. “I wanted to.”

Yoongi glanced at him, something unreadable in his gaze. “Why?”

“Because someone has to remind you to breathe,” Jimin said simply.

Yoongi huffed, but there was no bite to it. Just weariness, and something else—something that might have been gratitude, if either of them dared to name it.

Another silence, softer this time.

Finally, Yoongi sighed, pushing his laptop away. “...You staying?”

Jimin tilted his head. “Do you want me to?”

Yoongi didn’t meet his eyes. “Couch is there.”

It wasn’t an invitation. Not quite. But it wasn’t a rejection either.

Jimin stretched, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

Yoongi didn't deny it. Just nodded, just once, and something in his posture eased—like he’d been holding his breath for days and only now remembered how to exhale.

Jimin pretended not to notice. Just turned up the volume on the TV, letting the meaningless chatter of a late-night drama fill the comfortable space between them.

The moment was broken by the sound of the keypad and the front door swinging open. Jungkook stumbled in, looking more like a zombie than a human being, his gym bag dragging on the floor behind him.

"Hey," he mumbled, toeing off his shoes and not even bothering to line them up. He beelined for the fridge and emerged with a water bottle, draining half of it in one go.

"You're home late," Yoongi observed, his voice losing its soft edge and shifting back into its default Hyung Tone. "I thought your last client was at eight."

"Was," Jungkook said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Then Kim Seonsaeng-nim rescheduled his sleeve consult to nine-thirty. Couldn't say no. You know how much he drops on ink."

Yoongi’s brow furrowed. "It's past eleven, Kook-ah. You can't keep taking clients this late. You look dead on your feet."

"I'm fine," Jungkook insisted, though the dark circles under his eyes begged to differ. "It's just one night."

"It's never just one night with you," Yoongi countered, his voice tightening with concern that sounded an awful lot like criticism. "You'll run yourself into the ground and then where will you be?"

From his spot on the couch, Jimin watched the exchange, his head tilted. His voice was gentle, probing, when he spoke. "He's one to talk, hyung. Weren't you just on a conference call at 11 PM last Tuesday?"

The air in the room went still.

Yoongi’s head snapped toward Jimin, the fragile peace from moments ago shattering in an instant. The comment wasn't malicious, but it was a challenge—a direct poke at the hypocrisy Jungkook was too tired to point out himself.

"That's different," Yoongi said, his voice low and sharp, all traces of their earlier warmth gone.

"How?" Jimin asked, genuinely curious, not confrontational. "It's still work. It's still late."

"Because it is different," Yoongi snapped, his defensiveness rising like a shield. He wasn't arguing the point; he was defending his territory. "That's my job. My responsibility. I don't have a choice."

The flawed logic hung in the air, stark and undeniable: My overwork is a noble, necessary sacrifice. Yours is a reckless choice.

Jungkook flinched, looking between them like he’d caused this. "Hey, it's—it's fine. I'm just gonna shower."

He fled down the hallway, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

Jimin held Yoongi's glare for a long moment, then simply nodded. He didn't apologize. He didn't push. He just turned his gaze back to the TV, the picture of calm, but the set of his shoulders was slightly stiffer than before.

The chill in the room was palpable. The couch suddenly felt a mile wide.

Yoongi stared at the blank screen of his laptop, Jimin's quiet words echoing in his head. You're one to talk. He knew, on some level, that Jimin was right. But the habit of martyrdom, of being the one who had to carry the weight, was a reflex too strong to override.

He didn't say another word. He just closed his laptop with a definitive click, stood up, and retreated to his bedroom, leaving Jimin alone on the couch with the blaring TV and the lingering frost of an argument that had ended before it ever really began.

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled like stale coffee grounds and exhaustion.

Jungkook hovered in the kitchen doorway, watching as Yoongi mechanically refilled his mug—his third in the last hour, if the abandoned cups were any indication. His hyung's hands trembled faintly as he stirred in sugar, the spoon scraping too loudly against ceramic.

Jungkook swallowed.

He should say something.

But Yoongi's shoulders were rigid, his jaw clenched tight enough that Jungkook could see the muscle twitching. The shadows under his eyes had deepened into bruises, his cheekbones too sharp beneath skin stretched thin. He was working again, like he didn’t even realise it was a Saturday.

The front door clicked open.

Jimin slipped inside, Bam trotting at his heels, a tray of iced coffees balanced in one hand and a paper bag of warm pastries in the other. His smile was soft, tentative—the kind that usually made Yoongi's frown ease, just a fraction.

"Brought reinforcements," Jimin murmured, setting the coffees down. He nudged one toward Yoongi. "Extra espresso. And almond croissants—fresh from that bakery you like."

Yoongi didn't look up.

Jimin hesitated, then reached out—slowly, giving Yoongi time to pull away—and brushed his fingers over the back of Yoongi's wrist. "You should eat something."

Yoongi's fingers tightened around his mug. "Not hungry."

Jungkook saw the way Jimin's throat moved as he swallowed. Saw the way his smile didn't quite reach his eyes anymore.

"Hyung," Jimin started, voice low.

Yoongi exhaled sharply through his nose and finally looked up. His gaze was flat, exhausted. "Jimin. Please."

Just that. Just please.

But Jungkook heard what it meant. Please stop hovering. Please stop looking at me like I'm breaking. Please—

Jimin's hand fell away.

For a moment, the only sound was Bam's tail thumping against the floor.

Then Jimin crouched down, scratching behind Bam's ears with practiced fingers. "Hey, troublemaker," he murmured, pulling a treat from his pocket. Bam took it gently, tail wagging harder. Jimin smiled—real, this time, just for the dog—and pressed a kiss to the top of Bam's head before straightening.

Jungkook couldn't stand it.

He stepped forward, grabbing one of the pastries from the bag. "I'll eat it," he blurted, too loud. "I'm starving. Thanks, Jimin-hyung."

The words hung awkwardly in the air.

Jimin's smile was brittle now. "Yeah. Sure, Kook-ah."

Yoongi turned back to his laptop, his shoulders hunched.

Jungkook couldn't breathe.

He shoved the rest of the pastry into his mouth, chewed mechanically, then grabbed his jacket. "I'm—gonna head out. Early training session."

Neither of them called him on the lie.

Jimin watched Jungkook go, the door clicking shut behind him. Then he turned back to Yoongi, who hadn't moved.

For a long moment, Jimin just stood there, taking in the way Yoongi's fingers hovered over the keyboard without typing, the way his breathing was too controlled, the way he refused to look up.

Jimin exhaled, slow and quiet.

"Okay," he said softly.

He didn't wait for a response. Just grabbed his jacket, gave Bam one last pat, and left.

The apartment was silent.

Yoongi didn't move.

Bam whined, pressing his nose against Yoongi's knee.

Yoongi's fingers finally stilled.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Taehyung’s apartment was warm, bathed in the golden glow of the city lights filtering through sheer curtains. The remnants of their takeout—honey-glazed chicken, kimchi pancakes, and half-finished sides of pickled radish—were scattered across the coffee table. Yeontan lay sprawled on the windowsill, his tiny chest rising and falling in sleep, while Bam—who had insisted on tagging along—snored softly on the rug, one paw twitching as he dreamed.

Jimin sat curled into the corner of the couch, fingers wrapped around a mug of jasmine tea that had long since gone cold. He stared into it like the leaves might spell out an answer.

Taehyung nudged his ankle with his socked foot. "You've been quiet."

Jimin exhaled, swirling the tea. "I don't know what I'm doing, Tae."

Taehyung stretched, rolling his shoulders before settling back against the cushions. "With Yoongi-hyung?"

Jimin's silence was answer enough.

Taehyung studied him for a long moment, then reached for the bottle of wine on the table, refilling both their glasses. "Talk."

Jimin chewed his lip. "I like him. A lot. But sometimes—" He hesitated, fingers tightening around the mug. "Sometimes he looks at me like I'm just... another problem to solve. Or worse, like I'm hovering when I'm just trying to help."

Taehyung nodded slowly. "And that sucks."

"It does," Jimin said, voice cracking just a little. "I know he's stressed. I know he's drowning in that job. But I can't—I won't—stand there and let him push me away forever. I've got some self-respect."

Taehyung tilted his head. "You're scared he won't change."

Jimin's throat tightened. "What if he doesn't? What if he just... keeps choosing that job over everything else? Over himself? Over—" He cut himself off, shaking his head.

Taehyung's smile was small, knowing. "Over you?"

Jimin didn't answer.

Yeontan let out a tiny snore from the windowsill.

Taehyung leaned back, swirling his soju. "You know what Jin-hyung told me once? About Yoongi?"

Jimin glanced up.

"He said Yoongi's the kind of guy who'll set himself on fire to keep other people warm," Taehyung said, voice uncharacteristically soft. "And that's great when you're the one freezing. Less great when you're the one watching him burn."

Jimin's chest ached.

Taehyung took a sip of soju, then set the glass down with a quiet clink. "But you know what's worse?"

Jimin raised an eyebrow.

"Watching someone choose to burn," Taehyung said, meeting his gaze. "Even when they don't have to."

Jimin stilled.

Taehyung sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I don't know Yoongi-hyung like you do. But I do know what it's like to watch someone drown in expectations they never asked for."

Jimin frowned. "What do you mean?"

Taehyung gestured vaguely. "You. Me. The whole chaebol mess."

Jimin's grip on the mug loosened slightly.

"You stepped up when your grandfather needed you," Taehyung continued, voice quieter now. "Twenty-four years old, MBA in hand, and suddenly you're COO of a business you never wanted. For a year. And it almost killed you–and I know you lost everything when you walked away. What he expected of you was a joke–especially what it would have done to your brother."

Jimin's breath hitched.

"But your parents saw that," Taehyung said. "They saw you crumbling under the weight of it, and they let you go. They secretly bought your apartment so your grandfather didn’t find out and they parted ways with you. Even if it killed them to do it. Even if it meant handing everything to Jihyun instead." He paused. "Because they knew you'd never be happy there. Because they knew you were gay, and that your passion was dance, and that none of that fit into the life that had been planned for you. They chose the option that let both of their sons live their lives sincerely and with the people they love."

Jimin's fingers trembled.

"And look at you now," Taehyung added, a hint of pride in his voice. "You own three dance studios across the country. You built that from nothing—well, there was some help, but still. You made it yours."

Jimin swallowed hard. "Yeah."

"And me?" Taehyung grinned, lightening the mood. "I was the youngest son's kid. The last born–the spare’s, spare’s, spare. No one expected shit from me. I got to study art, fail at the violin, and generally fuck around until I figured out what I wanted so long as I was at the events they told me to be at and didn’t embarras the family with my ways," He shrugged. "Different paths, same fucked-up family trees."

Jimin huffed a laugh, rubbing his face. "Yeah."

Taehyung leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "My point is—you know what it's like to walk away from something that's suffocating you. Yoongi-hyung doesn't. Or if he does, he's not ready to admit it yet."

Jimin's chest tightened. "So what do I do?"

Taehyung shrugged. "You wait. Or you don't. But you don't have to set yourself on fire just because he won't step out of the flames."

Jimin exhaled, long and slow.

Yeontan sneezed in his sleep.

Taehyung grinned, reaching over to steal Jimin's abandoned tea. "And hey—if you do stick it out, we'll basically be brothers-in-law. Think of the chaos."

Jimin groaned. "Tae—"

"Jungkook's already my future husband," Taehyung continued, waving a hand. "And you'd be married to his hyung. Family dinners would be legendary."

Jimin laughed, shoving him. "You're impossible."

Taehyung's grin widened. "But you feel better."

Jimin sighed, rubbing his face. "A little."

"Good." Taehyung clinked their glasses together. "Now stop overthinking. Either he'll figure his shit out, or he won't. But you don't have to wait forever to find out."

Jimin swallowed. "Yeah."

Yeontan let out a tiny snort, rolling onto his back.

Taehyung nodded solemnly. "The council of Yeontan has spoken. No more moping."

Jimin laughed, shoving him again.

He swirled the last of his tea in his mug, watching Taehyung’s face light up at the mention of Jungkook. The heaviness from their earlier conversation had eased, replaced by the warmth of shared laughter and the comfort of friendship.

"So," Jimin said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You really think Jungkook’s husband material?"

Taehyung’s grin was instantaneous, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Oh, absolutely." He leaned back against the couch, stretching his arms behind his head like he was settling in for a long, indulgent rant. "First of all, he’s adorable. Like, unfairly so. Did you know he still gets flustered when I compliment him? Full ear blush, every time. And he pouts when he loses at games—which, by the way, is rare—but then he just tries harder like it’s a personal mission to impress me."

Jimin snorted. "Sounds like you’ve got him wrapped around your finger."

"Please," Taehyung scoffed, but his cheeks were pink. "If anything, it’s the other way around. Do you know how distracting it is when he’s training and he gets all sweaty and focused? I went to watch him at the gym once, and I swear, I blacked out for a solid ten minutes. Don’t get me started on his channel either. Just—muscles. Everywhere. It’s rude."

Jimin burst out laughing. "Since when are you into muscles?"

"Since Jungkook," Taehyung declared, throwing his hands up. "I didn’t even know I had a type until him. And then—bam—suddenly I’m noticing biceps and back muscles and the way his shirt clings when he’s working out—"

"Okay, okay," Jimin wheezed, wiping his eyes. "I get it. You’re gone for him."

"Gone," Taehyung repeated emphatically. "And it’s not just the visuals, either. The man is scary talented. Like, have you seen him game? I’ve never needed to be carried before—ever—but Jungkook? He wipes entire teams like it’s nothing. I just sit there, useless, watching him annihilate people like it’s a hobby. And then he turns to me with this stupid, smug little grin like, ‘Hyung, did you see that?’ And—ugh."

Jimin grinned. "You’re so whipped."

Taehyung sighed dreamily. "I am." Then, after a beat, he added, "And the best part? He doesn’t even know how hot he is. Like, he’ll flex accidentally and then get all shy when I stare. It’s maddening."

Jimin shook his head, still laughing. "You two are disgusting."

Taehyung’s expression softened. "Yeah. We are."

For a moment, they just sat there, the quiet hum of the city outside filling the space between them.

Then Taehyung nudged Jimin’s shoulder. "You’ll find your version of that. Whether it’s with Yoongi-hyung or someone else."

Jimin’s smile faded slightly, but he nodded. "Yeah. Maybe."

Chapter Text

Jimin stood in the doorway, watching. It was the same scene he’d seen every evening he stopped by for the past month. Each evening Jungkook wasn’t home, like he’d been trying to fill time too, so as not to get underfoot.

He’d tried patience. He’d tried care. Now, he tried the one thing he’d avoided: interference.

“Let me help,” Jimin said, stepping forward.

Yoongi didn’t look up. “Not now, Jimin.”

“You’ve been staring at that same sheet for days.”

“And?” Yoongi’s fingers paused, hovering over the keys. “It’s my job.”

“It’s killing you.”

A beat. Then Yoongi scoffed. “What do you know about it?”

Jimin’s jaw tightened. He crossed the room in three strides, planting his hands on the table. “Enough. Let me help.”

Yoongi finally looked up, eyes bloodshot. “How? By teaching me the cha-cha between formulas?”

The words hung, sharp and ugly.

Jimin went very still.

Then, slowly, he straightened. “You’re right. What could I possibly know?” His voice was calm, too calm. “It’s not like I have an MBA. Or spent a year as COO of a Fortune 500 company before I walked away. Or own the dance studio I teach at—and two others.” He tilted his head. “Oh, wait.”

Yoongi’s fingers twitched against the keyboard.

Jimin’s finger hovered over the formula error. “You’d catch this faster if you weren’t running on three hours of sleep and spite.” 

Yoongi scowled. “I don’t need your—” 

“Help? Yeah, I know.” Jimin’s voice softened. “But you don’t need this job either.”

Silence.

Yoongi stared at him, something flickering in his gaze—shock, shame, the dawning realization that he’d miscalculated in more ways than one.

"Your actuals are wrong, by the way. The data is pulling from the wrong quarter."

Jimin didn’t wait for a response. He turned on his heel and walked out.

The front door clicked open just as Jimin reached it.

Jungkook froze, one foot still in the hallway, takeout bag dangling from his fingers. He took in Jimin’s expression—cold, composed, hurt—then the tension in the apartment, thick enough to choke on.

“Hyung?” Jungkook whispered.

Jimin didn’t stop. Just brushed past him with a quiet, “Not now, Kook-ah.”

The door shut behind him.

Jungkook turned to Yoongi, who sat rigid at the table, hands clenched into fists.

“Hyung,” Jungkook started, voice small.

Yoongi didn’t answer. Just stared at the spreadsheet, at the mistake Jimin had spotted in seconds—the one he’d missed for hours.

The silence was worse than shouting.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Taehyung’s phone buzzed against the marble countertop, the screen lighting up with Jungkook’s name. He snatched it up, expecting a sleep-deprived meme or a blurry photo of Bam mid-yawn. Instead:

Jungkook: Jimin -hyung just left our apartment. Like, stormed out. Yoongi-hyung looks like he got hit by a truck. What the hell happened?

Taehyung’s fingers tightened around his phone.

He didn’t hesitate.

Yeontan, curled on the couch like a tiny, judgmental cloud, barely had time to protest before Taehyung scooped him up, stuffed him into his designer sling, and grabbed his keys.

The city blurred past the car windows, neon lights streaking across Taehyung’s reflection as he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached.

"What do you know about it?"

Yoongi’s words—or at least, Jungkook’s paraphrased version of them—echoed in his head. The dismissiveness. The bite of it.

Taehyung exhaled sharply through his nose.

He knew Yoongi. Knew him through Jungkook’s endless, adoring stories—how Yoongi had worked three jobs to keep them afloat when Jungkook was still in school, how he’d stayed up all night editing Jungkook’s first tattoo portfolio, how he still quietly donated to the shelter that found Bam. Knew him through Jin’s exasperated fondness—"He’d rather chew glass than admit he needs help."

And Taehyung liked him. Respected him.

But this?

This was unacceptable.

Yeontan let out a tiny, disgruntled mrrp from the passenger seat, as if sensing his mood.

“Yeah, yeah,” Taehyung muttered, reaching over to scratch behind his ears. “We’re fixing it.”

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The penthouse was too quiet when Taehyung arrived, the electronic chime of the keypad the only sound as he let himself in. The lights were off, save for the dim glow of the city through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Jimin sat on the couch, still in his jacket, staring at his untouched tea like it held answers. His shoulders were rigid, his fingers curled too tight around the mug.

Yeontan wriggled free immediately, trotting over to Jimin and pawing at his knee. Jimin didn’t react.

Taehyung’s chest tightened.

He’d seen Jimin like this before—after his grandfather’s funeral, when the weight of expectation had nearly crushed him. After his first breakup, when he’d convinced himself he wasn’t enough.

Quiet. Still. Hurt.

Taehyung kicked off his shoes and dropped onto the couch beside him. “So.”

Jimin exhaled. “So.”

Taehyung studied him—the tightness in his jaw, the way his fingers flexed against his thighs like he was still holding back.

“You walked away,” Taehyung said, voice softer now.

Jimin’s throat worked. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

Jimin blinked. “Good?”

“Yeah.” Taehyung leaned back, stretching his arm along the couch behind Jimin. “You’re not a doormat. He doesn’t get to treat you like one.”

Jimin’s breath hitched, just slightly. “I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—”

“Fix him?” Taehyung arched a brow. “Yeah, you were.”

Yeontan, sensing the tension, climbed into Jimin’s lap and headbutted his hand until Jimin absently scratched behind his ears.

Taehyung softened. “Look. I love Yoongi-hyung.” He meant it. “But he’s a self-sacrificing idiot who thinks martyrdom is a personality trait.”

Jimin let out a weak laugh.

Taehyung nudged his shoulder. “You gave him chances. He threw them back in your face. That’s on him.”

Jimin swallowed. “It just—hurts.”

“I know.” Taehyung pulled him into a sideways hug, ignoring Yeontan’s indignant squeak. “But you’ll be okay.”

Jimin let his head drop onto Taehyung’s shoulder. “Yeah.”

A beat. Then—

“For the record,” Taehyung added, voice darkening, “Yoongi’s officially on my shit list.”

Jimin huffed a laugh. “Don’t start a war over me.”

“Too late.” Taehyung pulled out his phone, thumbs flying over the screen. “Jungkook’s already texting me updates. Yoongi’s pacing. Jungkook says he looks ‘constipated with feelings.’”

Jimin groaned. “God.”

“Mm.” Taehyung smirked. “Serves him right.”

Yeontan sneezed in agreement.

Jimin closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. The weight in his chest didn’t vanish—but it felt lighter, somehow. Shared.

And if Taehyung’s next text to Jungkook read, Tell your hyung he’s an idiot, well. That was between them.

Later, when Jimin had finally drifted off on the couch, Yeontan curled against his chest, Taehyung stood by the window, phone in hand.

He typed out a message to Yoongi. Deleted it. Tried again.

Finally, he settled on:

Taehyung: Fix this.

No threats. No dramatics. Just—

Fix it.

Because Taehyung knew Yoongi could. Knew he would, if he pulled his head out of his ass.

And if he didn’t?

Well.

Taehyung had a very long memory when it came to the people he loved.

Chapter Text

The penthouse was bathed in the blue glow of a muted infomercial, the only light in the cavernous space. Taehyung stretched his legs across the couch, toes brushing Jungkook's hip where he lay face-down in a nest of throw pillows. Bam sprawled atop Jungkook's back like a living weighted blanket, his tail thumping sleepily whenever Taehyung scratched behind his ears.

A sudden chime cut through the quiet.

Jungkook's phone lit up where it had slipped between the cushions, the notification glaring bright against the dim room:

YouTube Creator Studio: "Congratulations! Your channel 'officialbamdad' has reached 500,000 subscribers!"

Taehyung froze, his own phone forgotten in his lap. He leaned forward slowly, as if approaching a wild animal. The screen dimmed—then lit up again with another alert:

Sponsorship Inquiry: Paws & Play ($$$ tier) - "Bam would be perfect for our new chew toy campaign!"

"No way," Taehyung breathed. He snatched up the phone, thumb hovering over the lock screen. "Kook-ah," he stage-whispered, "what's your passcode?"

A grunt came from the pillow pile. Jungkook's hand flopped out blindly, swatting in Taehyung's general direction before landing palm-up on the floor. "M'not... ordering more... protein powder..." he slurred, voice thick with sleep.

Taehyung grinned. "Not what I asked, superstar." He tapped Jungkook's wrist with the phone. "Why does YouTube think you're famous?"

Jungkook pried one eye open, the effort monumental. His gaze drifted from Taehyung's face to the phone in his hand, then back again. A slow blink. "Oh. That." He nuzzled deeper into the pillows. "S'just Bam stuff."

"Just Bam—" Taehyung's voice cracked. He shook the phone like it might correct itself. "There's half a million people watching Bam stuff!"

"Mm." Jungkook's fingers twitched toward Bam's paw, his thumb automatically finding the spot between the toes that made the dog sigh contentedly. "Turn off... notifications. Too loud."

Taehyung gaped. On screen, another sponsorship offer popped up, this one from a high-end pet harness company. The dollar amount visible in the preview made his eyebrows climb toward his hairline.

Yeontan, sensing drama, leapt onto the coffee table with a judgmental yip. Taehyung absently scratched his head without looking away from Jungkook's phone. "Kook-ah. Look at me. Are you telling me you've been sitting on brand deals this whole time? While I was out here begging Yeontan's groomer for a collab?"

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, long-suffering. He rolled onto his side—Bam grumbling at the disturbance—and squinted at Taehyung. "You want... the chew toy people? They sent samples." He gestured vaguely toward his gym bag in the corner. "Bam hated them."

Taehyung scrambled for the bag, upending it. Three brightly packaged dog toys tumbled out, along with a crumpled contract covered in paw prints. "Holy shit. You're serious."

"Too tired... to joke..." Jungkook mumbled, already halfway back to sleep. His arm curled around Bam's middle, tucking the dog closer. "Tell them... Bam only likes the ugly hamburger one..."

Taehyung stared at the sleeping figure—the way Jungkook's brow smoothed out the second he stopped fighting consciousness, how Bam's tail kept wagging even in dreams. He looked back at the phone in his hands, the subscriber count now at 502,419 and climbing.

"Unbelievable," he whispered, but his smile gave him away. He snapped a photo of Jungkook's peaceful expression, the sponsorship offers still flooding in, and sent it to the group chat with a single line:

[Taetae]: we've been housing a viral sensation and his agent is a doberman

Somewhere across Seoul, Yoongi's phone buzzed on his nightstand. The notification glowed in the dark:

@officialbamdad is trending in Pets & Animals

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Jimin still walked Bam.

Yoongi knew because Bam would come home panting, leash dangling from his collar, smelling like fresh air and that stupidly expensive lavender shampoo Jimin insisted on using. But Jimin himself was a ghost in their apartment now—dropping Bam at the door with a quiet word, never stepping inside, never lingering.

Yoongi missed the sound of his voice.

Missed the way Jimin would hum under his breath as he rinsed Bam’s water bowl, or the way he’d scold Yoongi for leaving his shoes in the middle of the hallway.

"Hyung, if I trip and die, it’s on you".

Now, the shoe closet stayed messy.

Work was worse than ever.

Yoongi glared at his laptop screen, the numbers blurring together in an endless sea of corporate nonsense. He’d been staring at the same budget report for hours, his vision swimming, his coffee long gone cold.

Jimin would’ve fixed this in minutes.

The thought came unbidden, sharp and bitter. Jimin had tried to help. Had offered, more than once. And Yoongi had—

"What do you know about it?"

He winced.

Jungkook wasn’t around as much anymore.

Between his own work and whatever was going on with Taehyung (Yoongi didn’t ask, but the heart-eyes were obvious), he barely came home. And when he did, it was brief—grabbing clothes, checking on Bam, then disappearing again–sometimes with Bam.

The apartment felt hollow without him.

Without any of them.

Yoongi missed the chaos. Missed Jungkook’s loud laughter, missed Jimin’s quiet teasing, missed the way Bam would flop onto his feet like a living, breathing space heater.

Now, the silence was suffocating.

It was the little things that got to him.

The untouched box of tea in the pantry—the fancy kind Jimin liked, the one Yoongi had bought on a whim, just in case.

The dishwasher, still full of clean dishes he’d forgotten to put away.

The takeout containers piling up in the fridge–most, more than half full– because no one was there to remind him to eat.

Yoongi sat at the kitchen table, head in his hands.

He’d fucked up.

And he didn’t know how to fix it.

[11:37 PM]
Yoongi (to Jimin): The coffee’s gone bad.

A beat. Then—

Jimin (2 minutes later): And?

Yoongi stared at the screen. His fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Yoongi: I don’t know how to make it the way you do.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Jimin: It’s just coffee, hyung.

Yoongi exhaled.

Yoongi: No. It’s not.

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Jimin: …I’ll bring Bam home by tomorrow 7 AM.

Yoongi’s chest ached.

he wasn’t forgiven.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The restaurant was closed, the chairs upturned on tables as the staff finished cleaning. Jin leaned against the polished bar, swirling a glass of wine while Taehyung paced in front of him like a caged tiger, Yeontan tucked under one arm like a tiny, judgmental accessory.

"You’re going to wear a hole in my floor," Jin remarked, taking a sip.

Taehyung didn’t stop pacing. "Hyung. I need to talk to you about Jungkook."

Jin’s eyebrow arched. "Did he finally confess his undying love for my kimchi jjigae? Because I’ve been waiting for that compliment for years—"

"Hyung." Taehyung’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp. He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I’m serious."

Jin set his glass down. "Okay. Talk."

Taehyung exhaled, forcing himself to sit. Yeontan squirmed in his lap, settling with a disgruntled mrrt.

"I don’t see him as much anymore," Taehyung admitted. "Not like before. Not since…" He trailed off, but Jin understood. “When I do, it’s late and he just passes out on me.”

Since Yoongi and Jimin fell out.

Jin hummed. "He’s been busy."

"Yeah, but—" Taehyung’s fingers tapped restlessly against the bar. "It’s how he’s busy. He’s taking extra shifts at the gym. Streaming until 3 AM–from the Gym or random PC bangs. Canceling plans last minute because he ‘forgot’ he had a client." He hesitated. "It’s like he’s avoiding me."

Jin studied him. "Or avoiding something."

Taehyung’s jaw tightened.

"You know," Jin said slowly, "before you two started dating, there was a time when Jungkook was like this too."

Taehyung stilled. "When?"

"The first time he didn’t do as well as he’d wanted on one of his clients. When he thought he’d failed Yoongi  because he didn’t do his best–the client was pleased." Jin swirled his drink. "Anyway, he buried himself in work. Barely slept. Was always practicing on the creepy fake skin, or sketching new designs. I had to drag him home once because he passed out–I’m his secondary contact after Yoongi."

Taehyung’s stomach twisted.

That was the thing about Jungkook—when he felt like he wasn’t enough, he worked until he collapsed.

And now?

Now, with Jimin gone and Yoongi drowning in his own stubbornness, Jungkook was caught in the middle.

"Do you think—" Taehyung hesitated. "Do you think he blames himself?"

Jin sighed. "I think Jungkook has a hero complex the size of Seoul and zero self-preservation instincts." He leaned forward. "And I think you know that better than anyone."

Taehyung’s fingers curled into fists.

Because yes, he knew. Knew how Jungkook would rather burn himself out than admit he was struggling. Knew how he’d quietly take on the weight of the world if he thought it would keep the people he loved from hurting.

And right now?

Right now, his boyfriend was hurting.

Taehyung stood abruptly, Yeontan scrambling to balance in his arms. "I’m going to find him."

Jin smirked. "Finally."

Taehyung shot him a look. "This isn’t funny."

"I know." Jin’s expression softened. "But it’s fixable. Just don’t let him run this time."

Taehyung nodded, already pulling out his phone.

[10:17 PM]
Taehyung (to Jungkook): Where are you?

The reply came faster than expected.

Jungkook: Gym. Client canceled. Just finishing up.

Taehyung’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Liar.

He knew for a fact Jungkook’s last client ended at 8 PM.

[10:18 PM]
Taehyung: Stay there. I’m coming.

Jungkook’s typing bubble appeared. Disappeared.

Then—

Jungkook: …Okay.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The gym was empty when Taehyung arrived, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. Jungkook sat on a bench near the weights, towel draped over his shoulders, staring at his phone like it held the answers to the universe.

He looked up when the door opened—and froze.

"Tae?"

Taehyung didn’t say a word. Just crossed the room in three strides, cupped Jungkook’s face in his hands, and looked at him. Really looked.

The dark circles under his eyes. The way his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The faint tremor in his hands.

"You’re an idiot," Taehyung whispered.

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

And then—finally—he broke.

His forehead dropped against Taehyung’s shoulder, his fingers clutching at his shirt like a lifeline. "I don’t know what to do," he admitted, voice raw. "Hyung’s miserable. Jiminie-hyung’s gone. And I—I hate seeing them like this."

Taehyung held him tighter. "I know."

"It’s not your job to fix it," Taehyung murmured into his hair. "But it is your job to let me help you."

Jungkook shuddered.

And for the first time in weeks—he stopped running.

Later, when they were tangled together on Taehyung’s couch, Yeontan making himself at home on Jungkook’s chest, Taehyung traced idle patterns on his boyfriend’s arm.

"We’ll figure it out," he promised.

Jungkook hummed, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Taehyung pressed a kiss to his temple. "Starting with you getting some sleep."

Jungkook’s lips quirked. "Bossy."

"Damn right."

And for the first time in weeks—the weight didn’t feel quite so heavy.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The apartment smelled like coffee.

Yoongi paused in the doorway, keys still dangling from his fingers, and stared at the steaming pot on the counter. The rich, bitter scent filled the kitchen—his blend, the dark roast Jimin always made too strong because "Hyung, you drink battery acid and call it caffeine."

His chest tightened.

The shoe closet was tidy, too. No stray sneakers in the hallway, no jackets dumped over the back of the couch. Just neat rows of footwear, Jungkook’s battered trainers lined up beside his own dress shoes.

Yoongi exhaled.

It wasn’t forgiveness.

But it was something.

He poured himself a cup, the heat seeping through the ceramic into his palms. The first sip was perfect—just shy of scalding, the way he liked it.

No note, nothing. Just the quiet evidence that Jimin had been here, had moved through the apartment like a ghost, leaving behind traces of himself in the spaces he used to fill.

Yoongi’s fingers tightened around the mug.

He didn’t deserve this.

His phone buzzed.

[7:17 AM]
Jimin: Bam’s walked. Left his treats in the fridge.

Short. Clinical. Nothing like the flood of messages Jimin used to send—photos of Bam mid-sneeze, complaints about Yeontan’s latest diva moment, random "Hyung, eat something" reminders timed to his lunch breaks.

Yoongi stared at the screen.

[7:18 AM]
Yoongi: Thanks.

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared.

No reply came.

Yoongi stared at the message. Two words. No follow-up. No cute emoji or photo of Bam. It was polite. Distant. The digital equivalent of a door closing gently in his face.

He typed out How’s your night? and deleted it. Too needy.

He typed The apartment is too quiet and deleted it. Too vulnerable.

His thumb hovered over the call button. He could just… call. Hear his voice. But what would he 

say? 

I miss the noise you make? 

I can’t remember how to make the coffee taste right?

He threw his phone onto the couch. It landed next to Bam, who blinked up at him. "Don't look at me like that," Yoongi muttered. The dog just sighed, as if disappointed by his human's profound inability to communicate. The phone screen darkened.

Yoongi sat at the kitchen table, the coffee warming his hands, and let the silence press in around him.

He missed the chaos.

Missed Jimin’s laugh, the way he’d scold Bam for chewing shoes ("You’re a Doberman, not a goat"). Missed the way Jungkook’s voice would echo down the hall when he came home, loud and bright, dragging the apartment back to life.

Now, it was just him.

And the coffee.

And the shoes.

And the hollow space where his pride used to be.

Yoongi pulled out his phone.

[7:23 AM]
Yoongi (to Jin): I need help.

Three dots. Then—

Jin: Took you long enough.

Yoongi almost smiled.

Almost.

[7:25 AM]

Yoongi’s phone buzzed again.

Jin: Meet me at the restaurant. Bring your ego and a working apology.

Yoongi huffed, rubbing his face.

Across the apartment, Bam’s leash hung on its hook, still swaying slightly from this morning’s walk.

Yoongi reached out, stilled it with his fingers.

Then he grabbed his keys.

He had work to do.

Chapter Text

The restaurant was too quiet after hours, the silence a stark contrast to the usual chaos of their gatherings. Jin didn’t sit. He stood over the booth, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“I need you to explain it to me, Yoongi. I really do.”

Yoongi didn’t look up from his laptop. “Explain what?”

“This,” Jin said, gesturing at the spreadsheets, the half-empty coffee cup, the perpetual slump of Yoongi’s shoulders. “The act. We need to understand why you’re still doing this.”

Namjoon looked up from his own phone, his brow furrowed. “Hyung, he’s right. We went to Seoul Arts High. We know what neighborhood you grew up in. We knew your families. So why… why do you work like the electricity is about to be cut off?”

A memory, sharp and unwelcome: Nineteen-year-old Yoongi, bleached hair and ripped jeans, arguing with a bank manager in a hushed, furious tone while a fifteen-year-old Jungkook sat trembling in the lobby. They’d been there that day. They’d seen it.

Jin lined up the soju bottles with a quiet precision. "Drink," he said, his voice low and strained. "Or don't. But you will talk. We watched you work three jobs to keep a roof over Jungkook's head. We respected that. We admired it. But the roof has been paid for a hundred times over. So why are you still acting like you're one missed paycheck away from living on the street?"

Hoseok, looking on from the next booth, shrunk into himself. His own financial struggles were real, a raw nerve, and the sight of Yoongi’s performative struggle felt like a personal insult.

Namjoon had been quiet, his brow furrowed as he stared at Yoongi’s laptop screen from across the table. He wasn't a spreadsheet guy; his domain was words and concepts, not pivot tables. But he was brilliant, and he could follow the logic of a formula, tracing its intent like a poet deconstructing a verse.

"Hyung," Namjoon said, his voice cutting through Jin's building frustration. He pointed a tentative finger at the screen. "That column... L. It's wrong."

Yoongi’s head snapped up, irritation flashing in his tired eyes. "What are you talking about? You don't even use Excel."

"I don't," Namjoon agreed calmly. "But I can read. That formula is pulling from the Busan raw data file, but it's referencing last quarter's tab. See?" He leaned closer, squinting. "It's looking for 'Busan_Q3' but the tab is labeled 'Busan_Q4'. So it's defaulting to zero. That's why your projections are tanking. It's a basic reference error."

The air left the room.

Yoongi stared at the screen, at the glaringly simple mistake Namjoon—Namjoon, who still sometimes saved files to his desktop with names like 'draft_final_FINAL2_revised'—had spotted in five seconds. The same mistake Jimin had seen. The same one he’d been staring at for hours, his vision blurring, too proud and too exhausted to see it.

He felt like a complete and utter idiot.

Jin seized on the opening, his voice low and intense. "Do you see it now? This isn't about being a hard worker. This is about you choosing the most convoluted, self-flagellating path possible. You’re so committed to the struggle that you’re making basic errors a trainee wouldn't make. For what?"

Hoseok, watching from the next booth, let out a soft, humorless laugh. "Unbelievable." It was all he could muster. The gap between Yoongi's self-imposed chaos and his own genuine, desperate scrambling felt like a chasm.

"I'm fine," Yoongi muttered, the lie sounding more pathetic than ever.

"You're not!" Jin’s voice cracked. "You're exhausted and you're making stupid mistakes for a company you hate, and Jungkook is watching all of it! He thinks this is what you do for family. He sees you killing yourself and he's following your lead, working himself into the ground because he thinks that's how he shows he loves you!"

Namjoon didn't need to show a photo. The truth was right there on the laptop screen. "He's not just mirroring your work ethic, hyung. He's mirroring this... this chaos. And we have to sit here and watch you both, unable to help, because you won't admit you don't need to live like this anymore–you never needed to live like this."

The AC kicked on, a cold breeze that felt like a judgment.

Hoseok spoke again, his tone flat. "Jimin told me something. He said Bam’s started a new habit. The second he’s brought inside from his evening walk, he beelines for your room, claws at the blanket until it's on the floor, and sleeps right there in a pile of your dirty laundry."

The image was so vivid it was a physical blow.

"He doesn't do that in Jungkook's room. Only yours," Hoseok continued, his gaze unwavering. "And it hit me. That's exactly what Jungkook used to do. He'd fall asleep waiting up for you on the couch, but he'd always be wrapped in that one hoodie you left behind. Like if he surrounded himself with your scent, you'd somehow come home faster."

Yoongi’s throat closed. The memory was visceral: coming home at 2 AM to a dark apartment, the only light from the streetlights outside, illuminating the shape of a teenage boy curled into a ball on the sofa, drowned in fabric that smelled of Min Yoongi, clinging to the ghost of his presence.

Jin stood abruptly, the legs of his chair screeching against the floor. He tossed his spare restaurant key onto the table. A silent, furious lock up when you’re done drowning.

"You gave that kid a home," Jin said, his voice frayed. "Now give him a brother who is actually in it. Fix this."

Yoongi’s phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a notification that was no longer a warning but a verdict.

HR - FINAL WARNING: UNAUTHORIZED ABSENCE.

Failure to report for 24 hours with no contact.

This constitutes job abandonment.

He hadn't just been struggling. He had simply stopped going. He’d become so unreachable, so lost in his own performance, that the outside world had finally given up on him.

Outside, a bus roared past. But all Yoongi could see was the simple, stupid error on his screen, and the devastating image of two creatures he loved most, separated by years, both finding solace in the cold scent of his absence.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The assistant’s voice crackled through the intercom, frayed with panic. “Mr. Kim Taehyung to see you, sir.”

Yoongi didn’t look up from the spreadsheet, the numbers a blur of red and black. “Schedule a meeting.”

A strained pause. Then—“He did, he’s, ah… already in the lobby, sir. With a Pomeranian.”

Yoongi’s cursor froze mid-cell.

The door swung open before he could form a response.

Taehyung strolled in as if he were the one signing the paychecks. His silk shirt was impeccably unbuttoned, his sunglasses perched atop his head, but the usual playful glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by a cold, polished steel. Yeontan trotted at his heels, a tiny Burberry-clad menace, mirroring his owner’s unimpressed aura.

“Hyung.” Taehyung’s voice was flat, his gaze sweeping over the sterile office before landing on Yoongi. “The plant’s looking as lifeless as you do.”

Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache brewing behind his eyes. “Taehyung-ah. I’m working.”

“So am I.” Taehyung plucked the stress ball from Yoongi’s desk, his movements deliberate. “Your assistant thinks I’m here to discuss investment portfolios.” His eyes flickered to the framed photo on the desk—a younger, smiling Jungkook with his arm slung around a stoic Yoongi. “And I am. Just not the kind she thinks.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?”

Taehyung leaned against the desk, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register that carried a surprising threat. “I just spent the last night peeling your brother off the gym floor. He was supposed to be with me, but he took a last-minute client. When I found him, he was practically a zombie, and his hands were shaking so badly he could sip his protein shake. Sound familiar?”

The air left Yoongi’s lungs. He said nothing.

“He’s sleeping now,” Taehyung continued, his tone dangerously soft. “At my place. With Bamie, Tanie and a weighted blanket. And he’s going to stay there until I’m sure he remembers what a full night’s rest feels like.” He straightened up, his posture rigid. “So here is my investment proposal, Min Yoongi. Jungkook’s wellbeing. His mental, physical, and emotional health. That is the only asset I’m interested in protecting.”

He let the words hang, sharp and absolute.

“And I am very good at protecting my investments,” Taehyung said, his eyes locking with Yoongi’s. “I will cancel his clients, I will hide his shoes, I will disable his streaming setup. And if the person causing him the most stress—the person he’s literally killing himself to try and please—is you?” He didn’t blink. “Then yes, I will keep him from you. Gladly. I’ll be the villain he needs me to be if it means he gets to live a full, happy life. Even if that life is one where he’s not constantly worrying about his hyung’s slow-motion suicide-by-spreadsheet.”

The silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the hum of the computer and Yoongi’s own thudding heart.

Taehyung didn’t wait for a reply. He pulled a sleek, cream-colored envelope from his inner pocket and slid it across the polished wood. Inside was a brochure for a recording studio in Gangnam, its tagline screaming “Reclaim Your Sound.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched.

“Jimin’s finalizing the purchase for the building next door,” Taehyung stated, his voice all business once more. “The unit beside his new studio has perfect acoustics. It’s just sitting there. Waiting.”

Yoongi’s head snapped up, a question in his eyes.

Taehyung arched a brow. “Coincidence? Or divine intervention?” He scooped up Yeontan, who had been sniffing at Yoongi’s Ethernet cable with destructive intent. “The point is, you have a choice. You have the money. You have a brother who worships you, and a man who, against all logic, still cares about you enough to plan a future with your passion in mind. What are you waiting for?”

The intercom buzzed. “Sir, your 3PM conference call—”

Yoongi’s hand slammed down on the mute button, the violent crack echoing in the quiet room.

Taehyung adjusted Yeontan’s sweater, a final, deliberate gesture. “Let me tell you about Park Jimin,” he said, his voice deceptively light. “He walked away from everything—family, fortune, his very name—to build something real with his own two hands. He chose himself.” His gaze was a physical weight on Yoongi. “Jungkook is breaking himself apart because he thinks that’s what love is. Sacrifice. Suffering in silence. Because you taught him that. You’re his blueprint.”

Yoongi flinched as if struck.

“So, you can sit here in this glass coffin,” Taehyung said, nodding at the brochure. “Or you can choose to live. But know this: I’m not waiting for you to make up your mind. My priority is Jungkook. And I’m done watching him fade away in your shadow.”

He turned and walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “I’ll tell him you’re working late,” he said, without looking back. “It’s what he expects.”

The door clicked shut, leaving Yoongi alone in the suffocating silence. Outside, the city glittered, indifferent.

He looked from the family photo to the studio brochure, then finally to his computer screen.

A new email window popped up and he began typing.

The email he'd received at Jin's restaurant had been all bluster. When he'd returned to work the next day no one said a word.

Still, he thought it best to give them some notice not to expect him. 

Subject: Emergency Leave Notification

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The city glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sprawling tapestry of neon and shadow, but Jimin didn’t see it.

He sat cross-legged on his couch, thick-framed glasses perched low on his nose, a half-empty cup of tea gone cold beside him. Spread across the coffee table were financial reports, market analyses, and real estate listings—all meticulously annotated in his neat, precise handwriting.

This wasn’t the Jimin most people knew.

The Jimin who laughed easily, who danced like gravity was optional, who could charm a room with just a smile—that Jimin was nowhere to be found tonight.

Tonight, he was all business.

And the silence was loud.

His laptop screen cast a pale blue glow over his face as he scrolled through yet another spreadsheet.

Projected ROI: 18-24 months.
Break-even point: 14 months with 60% enrollment.
Competitor saturation: Moderate in Gangnam, low in Mapo.

Jimin chewed the end of his pen, tapping his foot absently against the couch cushion.

On paper, it made sense. His flagship studio in Hongdae was at 92% capacity, and the waitlist for his contemporary classes had spilled into a second spreadsheet. Expanding was the logical next step.

But logic didn’t account for the gnawing uncertainty in his chest.

What if—

He shut the thought down before it could fully form.

His phone buzzed.

[11:39 PM]
Yoongi: Thank you.

Jimin froze.

Two words. Simple. Polite.

Too polite.

The Yoongi he knew would’ve grumbled something about "unnecessary gratitude" or deflected with dry humor. This Yoongi—this careful, distant version—was unfamiliar.

Jimin’s thumb hovered over the screen.

Part of him wanted to ignore it. To let the silence stretch, to match Yoongi’s distance with his own.

But the other part—the part that still remembered how Yoongi’s shoulders relaxed when Jimin teased him, how his eyes softened when Bam did something stupid—that part won.

[11:41 PM]
Jimin: …You’re welcome.

A year ago, this apartment had been full of noise.

Music blasting at all hours, Taehyung’s dramatic retellings of his latest art gallery escapades, Yeontan’s indignant yips when Jimin dared to prioritize work over cuddles.

Now?

Now the only sound was the hum of the AC and the occasional rustle of paper as Jimin flipped through another report.

He hated it.

Jimin closed his laptop with a quiet click.

The numbers didn’t lie. The new studio was a sound investment.

But as he stared at the documents strewn across his table, he realized something else:

He wasn’t just expanding his business.

He was building an escape.

Jimin didn’t need additional distractions. He was still  teaching and mentoring new teachers for the Hip Hop program. He’d had a few trials, but he encountered one issue or another that didn’t align with his vision. 

He knew he was picky, but hiring for the role was proving more and more difficult. He was grateful Seojun had agreed to relocate. It would have been significantly harder for him to be actively involved in hiring a replacement for another site. 

Especially when he didn’t like to visit Busan. That place carried bad memories of the old Jimin and he wasn’t in any hurry to revisit.

Chapter Text

The keypad's electronic chime sliced through the apartment's silence. Yoongi didn't need to check the clock - the hollow ache behind his ribs told him exactly how late it was.

He sat motionless at the kitchen table, Bam's head heavy on his feet, watching as Jungkook shuffled inside. The boy moved like a ghost - shoulders hunched, eyes downcast, the vibrant energy that usually radiated from him snuffed out.

Jungkook froze when he saw him. "Hyung. You're still up."

Yoongi said nothing. Just looked.

Really looked.

The dark circles bruising Jungkook's under-eyes. The way his hoodie hung looser where it used to cling to muscle. The tremor in his fingers as he fumbled with his shoes.

Oh.

The realization hit like a punch to the gut.

This wasn't just tiredness. This was exhaustion so deep it had carved hollows into Jungkook's cheeks. This was the frantic, desperate overwork of someone trying to outrun their thoughts.

This was him.

Jungkook avoided his gaze. "Had a last-minute client. Then Hobi-hyung needed—"

"Stop." Yoongi's voice cracked like dry earth.

The apartment held its breath.

Yoongi stood slowly, Bam whining at the movement. He crossed the space between them in three strides, and before Jungkook could react, Yoongi pulled him into a crushing hug.

Jungkook stiffened. "Hyung?"

"You're killing yourself," Yoongi whispered into his hair.

The dam broke.

Jungkook's knees buckled. Yoongi caught him, sinking to the floor with him as the boy shook apart in his arms.

"I don't know how to fix it," Jungkook gasped into his shoulder. "You and Jimin—everything's—and I just—"

Yoongi tightened his grip. "I know."

Because he did.

He knew the desperate clawing of guilt, the way work could be both punishment and escape. Knew how easily the cycle fed itself until you forgot there was another way to live.

On the floor of their too-quiet apartment, Yoongi finally saw the reflection he'd been avoiding.

And it broke him.

An hour later, Jin's phone buzzed on his nightstand. He'd been awake, staring at the ceiling, waiting for it. It was Yoongi, just two words: He's asleep.

The relief was so physical it felt like a punch. Jin dropped his phone and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, his breath shuddering out. Namjoon stirred beside him.

"Hyung?"

"They're okay," Jin whispered, his voice thick. "They're both okay."

Namjoon didn't reply, just pulled him into a tight hug. Jin let himself be held, just for a moment, the unshakable facade crumbling under the weight of a fear he'd never let the others see: the terror of failing the two boys he'd helped raise.

[3:02 AM]
Yoongi (to Jimin): I'm sorry.
Yoongi: Not for me. For him.
Yoongi: I didn't see what I was doing to him.

The reply came instantly.

Jimin: Now you do.

Yoongi looked at Jungkook, finally asleep on the couch, Bam curled protectively against his chest.

Yes.

Now he did.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The office air conditioning rattled like a dying animal. Yoongi blinked at his screen, the projected numbers all wrong, throwing off the whole report. The third miscalculation this week. The client's voice still clawed at his temples: "An amateur could've caught this, Min. What are we paying you for?"

His fingers hovered over the keyboard. The formula was simple—basic fucking arithmetic—but his brain kept short-circuiting. Like trying to wring water from stone.

A knock. His intern, Lee Ji-eun, stood frozen in the doorway, a stack of reports clutched to her chest like armor. "Sir, the Shim account revisions—"

"Leave it." The words came out sandpaper-rough.

She didn't move. "But the deadline—"

"I said leave it." He didn't recognize his own voice.

The girl flinched. Yoongi immediately tasted bile. He'd never snapped at staff before. That was Manager Kim's move—the petty tyrant two floors up who got off on making assistants cry.

Christ. When did I become Kim?

Ji-eun backed toward the door. "Should I...reschedule your catch-up with Finance?"

"You’re scared."

Taehyung had said it so simply, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. And maybe it was. The office around him felt too quiet now, the hum of the air conditioning and the faint tick of the clock on the wall only amplifying the weight pressing against his chest.

Yoongi's gaze caught on his reflection in the darkened monitor—pale, hollow-eyed, the collar of his dress shirt fraying at the edges. He looked like one of those haunted salarymen in Jungkook's horror games.

"Cancel it." He yanked his tie loose. "Cancel all of them."

Her eyes went saucer-wide. Yoongi hadn't taken a sick day in three years. Not when he'd powered through the Kang account with 103-degree fever. Not when the bike accident left him typing one-handed for a month.

"Tell them I'm..." His throat clicked. "Contagious."

The word hung in the air, rancid with irony.

As Ji-eun fled, Yoongi's phone buzzed. A calendar alert: Bam's Vet - Annual Shots (Jimin handling).

His thumb hovered over the notification. Jimin had been handling everything lately. The walks. The vet visits. Even that time Bam ate Yoongi's AirPods and Jimin had the foresight to order electrolyte gel before the inevitable diarrhea tsunami.

"Your actuals are wrong, by the way. You're pulling last quarter's data."

Jimin had spotted that error in five seconds flat. He saw the problem, he knew how to fix and he told him where it was broken. While Yoongi had sneered at him—what do you know about it?—like some jumped-up middle manager who couldn't admit his golden boy status was built on fumes and luck.

The memory curdled in his gut. Jimin—who ran three dance studios and still made time to soothe Bam during storms. Who carried Yeontan's security leaf around like a talisman. Who'd tried to help, over and over, until Yoongi's pride left him no choice but to walk away.

His laptop screen flickered. The spreadsheet glared back, cells bloated with wrong numbers. Useless. Just like—

Yoongi slammed the lid shut so hard the intern yelped from her cubicle.

His mind flickered back to Jungkook’s face when he had stumbled through the door late last night, exhaustion carved into every line of his body. His usually bright eyes had been dull, his smile weak, forced. He had tried to hide it, of course—always so careful not to be a burden—but the slump of his shoulders, the way his fingers had trembled slightly as he untied his shoes… it had all been so wrong.

Taehyung was right. He was scared. Scared of what it meant to admit how much Jungkook’s pain affected him. Scared of the way his chest tightened when he thought about those tired eyes, the way his hands itched to reach out and—

No.

This wasn’t just about him. This wasn’t about his pride, his fears, his goddamn inability to say what he really felt.

This was about Jungkook.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Outside, rain sheeted against the windows. The exact shade of Jimin's stupid fucking expensive umbrella—the one he'd "forgotten" in Yoongi's apartment last month.

The umbrella still leaned against his shoe cabinet, gathering dust next to Bam's half-chewed hamburger toy.

He grabbed his bag. His hands shook—not from caffeine this time, but something far more dangerous. The truth, slithering up his spine:

You pushed away the one person who actually tried to know you. And for what? This?

The elevator doors closed on Ji-eun's startled face. Yoongi leaned against the mirrored wall, watching his reflection fracture across the panels.

Somewhere beneath the exhaustion, beneath the shame, a single thought crystallized:

Enough.

He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair, the movement decisive. The door to his office swung open with more force than necessary as he strode out, ignoring the startled glance from his assistant.

He wasn’t running anymore.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing the sleek, soulless expanse of Hannam Corp’s executive floor. Yoongi stepped out, his polished dress shoes clicking against the marble tiles, his tie already loosened at the neck. The air smelled like stale coffee and printer toner, a scent that had clung to his clothes for years.

His boss, Director Park, stood near the glass-walled conference room, barking orders at a cowering intern. When he spotted Yoongi, his lip curled into a sneer. "Ah, Min-ssi. Finally decided to grace us with your presence? HR’s been in a panic since your little emergency leave stunt."

Yoongi didn’t slow his stride. "I quit."

The words hung in the air, sharp and final.

Director Park blinked, then let out a disbelieving laugh. "Excuse me?"

Yoongi reached into his briefcase and pulled out a single sheet of paper—his resignation, already signed. He slapped it onto the nearest desk. "Effective immediately."

The intern gasped. The office fell silent.

Director Park’s face darkened. "You can’t just—"

"I can." Yoongi’s voice was calm, but his fingers flexed at his sides, itching to be free of the weight of his briefcase. "I’ve already forwarded all pending files to Ji-eun. She’s more competent than half your managers anyway."

Director Park’s nostrils flared. "After everything this company has done for you? The promotions? The bonuses?" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. "You walk out now, and you’ll never work in this industry again. I’ll make sure of it."

Yoongi tilted his head, studying the man like a mildly interesting spreadsheet error. "Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you."

Director Park stiffened. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Yoongi reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. With a few taps, he pulled up a file—one he’d archived a year ago and never deleted. He turned the screen toward his boss.

The color drained from Director Park’s face.

"Remember this?" Yoongi’s voice was dangerously soft. "The Shim account adjustments you ordered me to make last year? The ones that just so happened to violate about three different financial regulations?" He pocketed the phone. "I kept records. Every edit. Every email. Even the one where you told me to ‘make the numbers work, no matter what.’"

Director Park’s jaw worked silently.

Yoongi leaned in, just enough to make the man flinch. "So here’s how this is going to go. You accept my resignation. You don’t badmouth me to anyone. And in return, I won’t forward this file to Compliance." He straightened, adjusting his cuffs. "Fair trade, don’t you think?"

For a long moment, Director Park just stared at him, his face a mask of impotent rage. Then, through gritted teeth: "Get out."

Yoongi smiled—small, sharp, and utterly devoid of warmth. "Gladly."

He turned on his heel and walked away, the whispers of his former colleagues trailing behind him. The elevator doors slid shut, cutting off the stunned silence of the office.

As the car descended, Yoongi exhaled, rolling his shoulders for the first time in years.

He was done.

And it felt good.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Yoongi stepped into the apartment, the weight of his resignation still humming in his veins like a live wire. The silence was deafening—no emails, no spreadsheets, no one pinging him about "urgent revisions." Just the quiet creak of the floorboards and Bam’s tail thumping against his crate in greeting.  

He crouched to unlatch the door, scratching behind Bam’s ears. "Missed me, huh?" The Doberman licked his wrist, then bolted to sniff at Yoongi’s abandoned work bag, as if checking for traces of the office he’d never return to.  

The front door swung open. Jungkook stood in the threshold, gym duffel slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from a post-training shower. He froze when he saw Yoongi. "Hyung? You’re home early."  

"Permanently," Yoongi said, tossing his keycard onto the counter. The Hannam Corp logo glared up at them.  

Jungkook’s eyes widened. "You—?"  

"Quit. Yeah." Yoongi rubbed his neck. "Got a client after this?"  

"Just one. Should be back by seven." Jungkook hesitated. "You okay?"  

Yoongi almost laughed. No. "We’ll talk when you’re done."

Chapter Text

Alone, Yoongi paced. The apartment felt too small, the walls pressing in with fifteen years of suppressed what-ifs. He yanked open the closet under the TV—the one crammed with old boxes he’d labeled Tax Docs and Jungkook’s School Shit in Sharpie.

Beneath them, gathering dust: a beat-up hard drive and a MIDI keyboard still in its case.

His hands shook as he plugged the drive into his laptop. Folders loaded—AGUST D, SNU DEMOS, LYRIC IDEAS. He hovered over a file named REBIRTH (unfinished).

The track erupted through his headphones: a snarling bassline, his own voice (younger, angrier) spitting bars about cubicle graves and deferred dreams. Bam whined, pressing his snout into Yoongi’s thigh.

"Sorry, kid," Yoongi muttered, pausing the track. His reflection in the black screen looked hollow. This is what you walked away from.

Jungkook returned to find Yoongi cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by cables and notebooks. Bam was sprawled across his lap, chewing the corner of a lyric sheet titled Burn It Down.

"You… dug out your music stuff," Jungkook said softly.

Yoongi didn’t look up. "Had time to kill."

Jungkook knelt beside him, picking up a faded photo—nineteen-year-old Yoongi, bleached hair under a snapback, mid-performance at Hongdae Station. "You ever think about doing it again?"

"Every damn day." Yoongi snapped the laptop shut. "That’s not why I wanted to talk."

He took a breath. "We need to get out of here. Just for a few days. Somewhere quiet."

Jungkook’s thumb brushed the edge of the photo. "Busan," he said, so quiet Yoongi almost missed it.

"Busan?"

"Yeah. There’s—" Jungkook swallowed. "There’s a memorial. For my parents. And yours." His voice cracked. "I should’ve visited sooner."

Yoongi studied him—the guilt in his clenched jaw, the way his fingers twisted the hem of his shirt. Ah. This wasn’t just a trip. It was a pilgrimage. An apology.

"Busan it is," Yoongi said, squeezing his shoulder. "Pack light. Bam’s coming."

Jungkook’s exhale was shaky with relief. "Okay."

Bam licked the lyric sheet.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The phone buzzed like an angry hornet against the coffee table, sending Bam’s ears shooting straight up. The Doberman abandoned his demolition of a plush hamburger toy—now missing both sesame seed eyes—and lunged for the offending device, paws skidding on hardwood.

Yoongi caught it a half-second before Bam’s slobber could short-circuit the screen.

Kim Seokjin

Bam whined, tail thumping in recognition. Jin-hyung meant treats and belly rubs and, on very good days, smuggled galbi scraps.

Yoongi sighed and swiped answer just as Bam planted both front paws on his chest, nearly knocking him backward into the couch cushions.

"Are you dead in a ditch?" Jin’s voice crackled through the speaker, loud enough that Bam’s head tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. "Because your intern just called us sobbing, thinking you might be."

Yoongi wrestled Bam’s snout away from the microphone, his own body going still. "Ji-eun? What are you talking about?"

A clatter of pans echoed through the line. Jin’s kitchen, then—which meant Namjoon was definitely nearby, no longer pretending not to eavesdrop.

"You walked out of the office and left your wallet and keys on your desk, you idiot," Jin said, the bravado unable to mask the sharp edge of worry underneath. "She said you looked like a ghost and just… vanished. She was terrified. Called Namjoon because she didn't know what else to do."

Bam, sensing the shift in his human's mood, flopped dramatically across Yoongi’s lap, rolling onto his back with a concerned whine. Look at me. I'm here.

Yoongi scratched the dog’s belly absently, the motion mechanical. "I resigned. I just… needed air. It’s not a crisis."

"The hell it isn't!" Jin shot back, but the anger was thin, a cover for the fear. "You don't just—"

"It's Jungkook," Yoongi interrupted, his voice low and final.

The line went silent, save for the faint sizzle of oil in the background. Even the rhythmic chop of Namjoon's knife had stopped.

Yoongi closed his eyes, the image of Jungkook's exhausted, guilty face from the night before burning behind his lids. "He's... he's mirroring me, hyung. The all-nighters. The canceled plans. He's working himself into the ground because he thinks that's what you do when the people you love are falling apart. He thinks it's his job to fix it. To fix me."

He could hear Jin’s sharp intake of breath.

"I can't let him burn out trying to keep me warm," Yoongi continued, the words rough but clear. "I'm taking him to Busan. To the memorials. All of them. He needs to see them. He needs to... I don't know, talk to them. Or just stand there. So do I."

A pause. Then, quieter, all the fight gone from Jin's voice: "Busan?"

"Yeah," Yoongi admitted, the plan solidifying into something necessary and right as he said it out loud.

Another clatter—this time, the unmistakable sound of Namjoon "accidentally" knocking over a spice jar. Jin sighed, but it was a sound of profound understanding, not annoyance. "Joon-ah, if you’re going to listen, at least dice the scallions properly."

A muffled protest "I am—", followed by the rhythmic, slightly-too-forceful tap-tap-tap of a knife.

Jin’s voice was soft now, stripped bare. "Good. That’s… that's exactly what you both need." A beat. "Tell Taehyung, though. You know how he gets when Jungkook vanishes without a meme-warning."

Bam, ever the savior, seized the moment to lick Yoongi's chin with a wet, decisive schlorp.

"And text Jimin," Jin added, his tone shifting back to practical, gentle command. "So he doesn’t show up to walk Bam and think you’ve been murdered."

Yoongi’s throat tightened. The USB drive in his pocket suddenly felt heavier. Jin wasn't just talking about a dog walk. He was talking about the man who had seen him at his worst and hadn't looked away.

"Aish—fine," Yoongi grumbled, swiping at his face. "I’ll text him."

Jin hummed, the sound of a battle won without a fight. "And send photos. Bam in a seaside hanok? That’s premium content."

Bam’s tail wagged so hard it knocked over an empty water bottle.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The line was dead. Jin stood frozen in the silence of his kitchen, the phone a cold, hard weight in his hand. He slowly lowered it, the cheerful, booming facade he'd maintained for Yoongi evaporating like mist, leaving behind the stark, granite reality of his fear. The lines of his shoulders, usually held with such theatrical pride, were slumped.

Namjoon entered, not with a question, but with a quiet statement. He'd been wiping a towel over a water glass, but his hands stilled as he took in Jin's posture. He set the glass and towel down with a soft, deliberate click. “He’s cracking.”

Jin’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and momentarily unguarded. “What?” The word was a sharp exhale, stripped of all its usual flair.

“Ji-eun,” Namjoon said, his voice a low, displeased rumble. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms, not in defiance, but as if to steady himself. “His intern. She called me an hour ago. She was crying.”

Jin’s breath hitched. “Why?”

“She said Yoongi-hyung just… shut down in a meeting. Staring at a chart he’d made himself like he’d never seen it before. When the Director pressed him, he didn’t even argue. He just… closed his laptop and walked out. Left his briefcase, his keys, everything on his desk.” Namjoon met Jin’s gaze, his own filled with a shared, grim understanding. “She wasn’t reporting him. She was terrified for him. She said, ‘He looked like a ghost, Namjoon-ssi. Please, is he okay?’”

The revelation didn’t just land; it seeped into the room, cold and suffocating. It wasn't a corporate flag; it was a human crisis, witnessed and reported by a scared kid who saw her mentor disintegrate before her eyes. The situation was no longer a private worry; it was a witnessed collapse.

Jin’s hand trembled slightly as he placed his phone on the counter. The sound was too loud. “They’re going to Busan,” he said, the words tasting like ash. “To the memorials.”

Namjoon’s expression softened with a profound, weary understanding. He didn’t offer empty platitudes. Instead, he pushed off the counter, the wooden legs of a chair whispering against the floor as he pulled it out. He sat, folding his large frame into it, and gave Jin his full, quiet attention. It was an act of profound focus, creating a sanctuary in the space between them.

A long silence stretched, thick and heavy. Jin’s gaze was fixed on a faint water ring on the wooden table, his finger tracing its outline. “I’d like to see them too,” he finally murmured, his voice rough. “Before we come back to Seoul.” He looked up, and his gaze was haunted, stripped bare. “I need to see them, Joon-ah. I need to… I need to stand there.”

Namjoon simply nodded, a deep, slow acknowledgement. He didn’t need to ask who. “They’d want that.”

“Would they?” Jin’s voice cracked, barely a whisper. He sank into the chair opposite Namjoon, the weight of a decade pressing him down. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, leaving it disheveled. “First the intern, and now this…” He let out a shaky breath. “I keep thinking about all of it. The things we couldn’t stop. The years Yoongi spent in that cubicle, slowly letting the music in him die because he thought it was the only way.” He closed his eyes, as if pained by the memory. “The way Jungkook’s whole body goes still for a second when an envelope from the lawyers arrives, like he’s a kid waiting to be scolded…”

He finally looked at Namjoon, and the raw honesty there was a rare, unvarnished thing. “We did our best. We fed them, we gave them a place to crash, we annoyed Yoongi into taking a day off now and then.” A weak, watery attempt at a smile flickered and died. “But we couldn’t… we couldn’t get inside his head and tear down that wall of guilt he built for himself, brick by brick. We couldn’t stop him from… from vanishing from his own life in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon.”

“We couldn’t,” Namjoon agreed, his voice a low, steady anchor in the quiet kitchen. He didn’t look away from Jin’s pain. “Some wounds, people have to acknowledge for themselves before anyone else can help them clean it. We couldn’t fight a battle he was determined to lose alone.”

“I know.” Jin’s shoulders slumped further. He let out a slow, shaky breath, the sound of a man who had been holding it in for years. “But there… I just want to stand there and tell their parents that I see it now. The full picture of what they carried. And I want to apologise.” His voice broke. “For every missed sign, for every time we were too late… for not seeing how close he was to the edge until his intern had to call us in tears.”

“Hyung.” Namjoon’s tone was gentle but firm, a rock against the tide of Jin’s guilt. He didn’t move from his chair, but his presence seemed to fill the room, solid and unwavering. “We didn’t fail them. We were the net. They fell, and sometimes they fell hard, but they never hit the ground. Not completely.” He leaned forward, just slightly, his gaze intense. “Because of you. Even now, at his breaking point, he called you.”

Jin’s eyes shimmered, and he looked away, blinking rapidly. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “It wasn’t enough,” he whispered, the words meant for the table, for himself.

“It was everything,” Namjoon countered, his certainty a solid, immovable force. He waited until Jin reluctantly met his eyes again. “It was the constant. It’s what kept them alive long enough to finally start living.” He paused, choosing his words with the care of a poet arranging his soul on a page. “You can’t force a sapling to grow straight, but you can make sure it has sun and water and isn’t choked by weeds.” He offered a small, sad smile. “That’s what we did. We were the gardeners.”

A real, genuine smile, small and weary but true, finally touched Jin’s lips. “Aigoo, Kim Namjoon,” he breathed, a trace of fondness returning to his voice. “Always with the metaphors.”

“They’re accurate,” Namjoon said, a quiet smile in his own voice.

The refrigerator hummed to life, the only sound for a long moment. The initial storm of Jin's guilt had passed, leaving a calmer, more profound sorrow in its wake. He looked down at his own hands, clasped tightly on the table.

Namjoon watched him, not with pity, but with a deep, abiding partnership. He saw the weight settle, and he knew his role was to help carry it.

“So,” Namjoon said, his voice softer now, a gentle invitation. “What’s the promise?”

Jin straightened up, his spine rediscovering its strength. He drew a deep, cleansing breath, and his expression settled into one of fierce, quiet determination. “The promise is that it’s different now. The siege is over. Yoongi’s free. Jungkook’s learning he’s allowed to be happy.” He looked directly at Namjoon, his eyes clear and resolved. “My promise is that we won’t just be the net that catches them when they fall anymore. We’ll be the foundation they build on. From now on, we help them soar.”

Namjoon didn't hesitate. He reached across the table, his large, warm hand covering both of Jin's, stilling their slight tremor. His grip was firm, a physical seal.

“Of course,” he said, his voice leaving no room for doubt. The two words were a vow. “I'm going with you. To the memorial. Any promise you make to them…” He squeezed Jin's hands, his gaze unwavering. “…is a promise I’m making, too. We'll keep it together.”

The last of the tension bled from Jin's shoulders. The weight was not gone, but it was shared, distributed evenly across the foundation of them. He turned his hands under Namjoon's, lacing their fingers together in a silent grip of solidarity. He took a deep breath, and this time, it was steady.

He was ready.

Chapter Text

Yoongi stared at his phone, thumb hovering over Taehyung’s contact. Bam, sensing hesitation, shoved his snout under Yoongi’s elbow—accidentally-on-purpose knocking the call button.

The line rang twice before Taehyung’s voice cut through, sharp as a freshly unwrapped tattoo needle.

"Tell me you didn’t drag my boyfriend into another one of your self-flagellation spirals."

Bam’s ears flattened. Yoongi exhaled through his nose.

"Busan," he said. "Three days. Seaside hanok, dog-friendly. Jungkook picked it."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Bullshit." The word was ice-cold. "Kookie hasn’t been back to Busan since—" Taehyung cut himself off. A rustle of fabric, like he’d just stood up too fast. "What the hell are you doing, hyung?"

Bam whined, pressing his full weight against Yoongi’s thigh. Ground him.

Yoongi obliged, sinking his fingers into the dog’s scruff. "He needs this. So do I."

Another pause. When Taehyung spoke again, his voice had lost its edge—but the steel underneath remained. "You better not be using him as your emotional support human."

Yoongi’s jaw clenched. "Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me."

A muffled sound—Taehyung raking a hand through his hair, probably. Yeontan’s indignant yip in the background.

"...Is he okay?" The question was quieter now, almost reluctant.

Bam chose that moment to sneeze directly into the phone’s microphone.

Taehyung snorted. "Never mind. I can hear your guard dog judging me through the line."

Yoongi glanced at Bam, who was now proudly presenting his "I’m innocent" face—the same one he used after stealing socks. "He’s fine. We leave tomorrow."

A sigh. "Text me the address. And hyung?" Taehyung’s tone shifted, just enough to make Yoongi’s spine straighten. "If he comes back looking more exhausted than when he left, I’m setting Yeontan loose on your wardrobe."

The call ended before Yoongi could reply.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

[Yoongi → Jimin] 9:13 PM
Taking Bam to Busan for a few days. Won’t need walks.

The message sat there, glaringly impersonal. Yoongi stared at it, thumb hovering over the send button. Bam, sprawled across his lap, let out a heavy sigh—as if personally burdened by his owner’s inability to form a complete sentence.

Yoongi hit send.

The reply came faster than expected.

[Jimin → Yoongi] 9:14 PM
Don’t skip his morning routine. Walk first, then breakfast—or he’ll beg for scraps all day.

Yoongi frowned at the screen. He knew Bam’s routine. He’d been there when it was established.

But then again—Jimin had been the one to refine it.

Bam nudged Yoongi’s hand with his snout, as if sensing the tension radiating through his fingers.

[Yoongi → Jimin] 9:15 PM
I know how to feed my dog.

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

[Jimin → Yoongi] 9:16 PM
And his post-breakfast chew toy. The blue one. Not the hamburger—he’ll destroy it in five minutes and then sulk.

Yoongi glanced at the mangled remains of said hamburger toy, currently half-buried under the couch.

Bam wagged his tail.

[Yoongi → Jimin] 9:17 PM
Noted.

A pause. Then—

[Jimin → Yoongi] 9:18 PM
Have a safe trip.

Simple. Neutral. Nothing more.

Yoongi exhaled, setting his phone down. Bam whined, pawing at his knee.

"Yeah, yeah," Yoongi muttered, scratching behind the dog’s ears. "We’ll stick to the damn routine."

Bam licked his wrist once—approval or pity, it was hard to tell—then flopped onto his side, content.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Jimin’s penthouse smelled of expensive wine and poor decisions. The Gangnam studio blueprints—the ones with the perfect acoustics and, totally coincidentally, that vacant unit next door suitable for a recording studio—lay spread across the table like a confession.

Taehyung swirled his wine, watching Jimin’s fingers trace the same line on the floor plan for the third time.

"You know," Taehyung mused, "when I told Yoongi-hyung to take emergency leave, I didn’t think he’d actually listen."

Jimin’s hand stilled. "Emergency leave?"

"Yeah. When I went to his office." Taehyung smirked, remembering the way Yoongi’s grip had tightened around his pen. "‘HR’s favorite buzzword these days is mental health leave.’ Classic, right?" He took a sip. "Guess he finally cracked."

Jimin stared at him. Then—slowly, deliberately—flipped open his laptop. A few clicks, and he turned the screen toward Taehyung.

Breaking: Hannam Corp VP Min Yoongi Resigns Suddenly – Industry Shocked

Taehyung’s wineglass hit the table with a clink.

"...Well," he said after a beat. "That’s one way to take a mental health day."

Jimin snapped the laptop shut. "You didn’t know."

"Obviously." Taehyung leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Do you think Jungkook knows?"

The unspoken question hung between them: Does it matter?

Jimin exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Busan. A resigned Yoongi-hyung. Jungkook visiting his parents’ memorials." He met Taehyung’s gaze. "This isn’t just a holiday. It’s a reset."

Taehyung’s grin was all teeth. "And you’re building him a studio next door."

"I’m expanding my business," Jimin corrected, too quickly. “It was more cost effective to purchase the building than to rent–plus, there’s nothing wrong with a diversified revenue stream.”

"With soundproof walls."

"Industry standard."

"And a window." Taehyung wiggled his eyebrows. "For networking."

Jimin threw a stress ball at him. Taehyung caught it one-handed, laughing.

Yeontan, sensing weakness, seized the moment to drag the Mapo proposal off the table and onto his dog bed—a clear veto.

Taehyung nodded sagely. "The council has spoken. Gangnam it is."

Jimin groaned, but his lips twitched. "You’re insufferable."

"And you’re predictable." Taehyung stood, stretching. "But hey—at least one of us is getting laid after this emotional constipation clears up."

Jimin’s second stress ball missed by a mile.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The hanok stood perched on weathered stilts above the shoreline, its wide wooden deck strewn with sand that glittered like crushed diamonds in the afternoon sun. Jungkook leaned against the railing, watching the tide chase Bam down the beach as the puppy barked at seagulls with the single-minded focus of a creature who'd never known defeat.

His phone burned in his palm.

Three times he'd unlocked it. Three times he'd chickened out.

Bam chose that moment to faceplant into a wave, emerging with his entire muzzle coated in wet sand. Jungkook snorted, snapping a photo automatically before he could stop himself.

[3:31 PM]
Jungkook (to Taehyung): [Photo of sand-monster Bam]
Jungkook: Emergency. My son is part seal.

The reply came instantly.

Taehyung: SCREAMING
Taehyung: THE LITTLE MONSTER

Jungkook's thumb hovered. The hanok's wind chimes tinkled overhead, their melody blending with the shriek of gulls. Somewhere below, Yoongi was unpacking groceries in the little kitchenette, having splurged on the pet-friendly suite with the private beach access.

He took a shuddering breath and hit call.

"Hyung," Jungkook started, kicking at a loose deck board, "remember when you asked why I never talk about my family?"

Silence. Then a soft, "Yeah."

The words came easier with the sea stretching endlessly before him. "They're buried here. In Dongnae." A pause. "All four of them."

Taehyung's sharp inhale carried through the line.

"Yoongi-hyung's parents were my godparents," Jungkook continued, watching Bam roll in something questionable. "They were visiting us that weekend and were going out for dinner–-I didn’t want to go." His throat clicked. "Hyung was at university in Seoul–guess he was doing other stuff too, being a trainee."

The hanok door creaked open behind him. Yoongi stepped onto the deck, two sweating bottles of cider in hand. He took one look at Jungkook's face and immediately retreated, leaving the drink on the railing.

Jungkook caught the faintest murmur of "Take your time, kid" before the door clicked shut.

Taehyung's voice was impossibly gentle. "Is that why Yoongi-hyung took that corporate job?"

Jungkook twisted the bottle cap off with a hiss. "Yeah–other jobs too, before he got that one. He used the life insurance money for the funeral and our apartment, but..." He swallowed. "I didn't know he dropped out of SNU's music program until recently."

A beat. Then—

"Do you want me to come down?"

Jungkook nearly dropped his cider. "What?"

"Say the word," Taehyung said, and Jungkook could hear him grabbing car keys, "and I'll be there by sunrise. Yeontan can pee on all the fancy hanok furniture."

A wet laugh punched out of Jungkook's chest. "You'd really—"

"Jungkook-ah." Taehyung's voice softened. "I've been waiting months for you to let me in. Let me see where you come from."

Bam chose that moment to barrel up the stairs, flinging himself against Jungkook's legs with all the grace of a drunk squirrel. Sand flew everywhere.

"...Hyung might kill you if you bring Yeontan," Jungkook managed, swiping at his eyes. "He already paid extra for Bam."

Taehyung's gasp was theatrical. "Min Yoongi paid extra? This I have to see."

Yoongi found him later curled in the window seat, watching the sunset paint the waves gold.

"Taehyungie-hyung's coming," Jungkook announced without turning.

Yoongi hummed, settling beside him. "Figured he might."

"You're not mad?"

"About what? The man who's kept you from working yourself into an early grave?" Yoongi nudged their shoulders together. "I should be thanking him."

The words hung between them, salt-stung and sincere.

Jungkook leaned into his side. "Hyung... about SNU–your music—"

"Don't." Yoongi ruffled his hair. "That was my choice. Just like this trip is yours." He nodded toward the horizon. "Tomorrow, we'll visit them. All of them. Together."

Bam flopped across their feet with a contented sigh.

Somewhere down the coast, headlights cut through the gathering dark.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The restaurant hadn’t changed in fifteen years.

Same cracked vinyl stools. Same handwritten menu taped to the wall. Same bubbling cauldrons of milky-white broth sending curls of steam into the air.

Jungkook inhaled deeply as they stepped inside, the scent of simmering pork bones and roasted seaweed wrapping around him like a childhood blanket. "God, I missed this place."

Yoongi nudged him toward their usual corner booth—the one with the wobbly leg Jungkook had accidentally kicked loose when he was nine. It still wobbled.

The ajumma behind the counter did a double take. "Ya! Jeon Jungkook?" She squinted. "Is that really you?"

Jungkook grinned, bowing slightly. "Yeah, halmeoni. It's me."

She clapped her hands together. "Look at you! All grown up!" Her gaze flicked to Yoongi, and her expression softened. "Ah, Yoongi-yah. Still keeping this one out of trouble?"

Yoongi’s lips quirked. "Trying."

She waved them off. "Sit, sit! I’ll bring your usual."

The steam from their bowls curled between them, carrying the scent of roasted sesame and pork bone broth. Jungkook watched as Yoongi’s fingers tightened around his chopsticks, knuckles whitening before he finally set them down.

"I didn’t just fail you once," Yoongi said, voice low. "I failed you over and over again."

Jungkook stilled.

Yoongi didn’t look up. "After the first couple of  years—when we were stable, when you were in school and I thought I’d figured it out—I eased up. Started coming home before midnight. Actually used my vacation days." A bitter twist of his mouth. "Then I got promoted. And it was like I forgot everything I’d learned."

Outside, the cry of gulls mingled with the distant shouts of fishermen unloading their catch.

"It wasn’t just the hours," Yoongi continued, tracing a watermark on the table. "It was—how I was working. Like every spreadsheet–every meeting was life or death. Like if I stopped, everything would collapse." His thumb dug into the wood. "And then I’d come home and see you doing the same damn thing, and I knew—"

His voice cracked.

Jungkook held his breath.

"I knew I was fucking up," Yoongi whispered. "But I didn’t stop. Because what was I supposed to say? ‘Don’t be like me’? When I was the one who taught you how to survive?" He finally looked up, eyes raw. "So I stayed at work longer. Because at least there, I knew what I was doing. At home?" A hollow laugh. "I didn’t even know where to start."

Jungkook’s chest ached.

Yoongi exhaled sharply. "And then Jimin—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Doesn’t matter. Point is, I let you down. Not just as a guardian. As a hyung."

The silence that followed was thick with the weight of fifteen years—of packed lunches and missed recitals, of burned-out lightbulbs left unchanged, of all the things they’d never said aloud.

Jungkook reached across the table and flicked Yoongi’s forehead.

"Yah!"

"You’re an idiot," Jungkook announced, ignoring Yoongi’s glare. "You didn’t let me down. You raised me." He shoved a spoonful of kimchi into his mouth. "And yeah, you suck at work-life balance. But so does literally everyone in our friend group except maybe Jin-hyung, and that’s only because he’s a control freak."

Yoongi opened his mouth—

"And," Jungkook bulldozed on, "if you really wanna make it up to me? Stop acting like you’re the only one allowed to make mistakes." He pointed his chopsticks at Yoongi. "You were nineteen, hyung. Cut yourself some slack. You gave up your dreams for me."

"It wasn't just about giving up dreams," Yoongi said, his voice dropping so low Jungkook had to lean in. "It was about… punishing myself for having them in the first place."

He finally met Jungkook’s gaze, his eyes raw. "I didn't just teach you to work hard. I taught you that wanting more than the bare minimum was wrong. I made you think that money—that our money—was something to be ashamed of. I called it 'blood money' and poisoned you with my own guilt. You were a kid, and I made you carry a coffin with me. Every shift you picked up, every client you took at midnight… that’s my voice in your head. And I’m so sorry for that."

The ajumma chose that moment to slam down two steaming bowls of spicy braised mackerel. "Eat! Before it gets cold!"

Yoongi stared at the fish. Then, slowly, he picked up his chopsticks.

“I forgive you if that’s what you need to hear,” Jungkook stated,  “but I don’t blame you for taking me in and some of the choices I made. I was a kid. My world exploded and you gave me a soft place to land. Even if the AC sucked and the heating had its moments. You still let me live, Hyung.”

"...When did you get so wise?"

Jungkook grinned. "Had a good teacher."

The words hung between them, heavy as the humid sea air.

But when Jungkook glanced up later, he caught Yoongi studying the recording studio flyer again—and this time, he was smiling.

Jungkook stirred his soup absently. "You could take your own advice, you know."

Yoongi arched a brow.

"Consider doing something you love again," Jungkook said, meeting his gaze. "Like music."

Yoongi stiffened.

"Agust D made it to my gym playlist," Jungkook added, grinning when Yoongi groaned. "Seriously, hyung. When’s the last time you even opened your DAW?"

Yoongi’s fingers twitched against the table—the same way they did when he was mentally composing. "That’s not—"

"You were so good," Jungkook interrupted. "Really good. And I know you think it’s too late, but—" He shrugged. "You’ve got fuck-you money, right? Might as well use some of it to fuck around with beats, right?"

The ajumma chose that moment to slam two frosty bottles of beer onto their table. "On the house! For my favorite boys."

Yoongi stared at the condensation dripping down the glass. Then, slowly, he reached for it.

"...I’ll think about it."

Jungkook’s smile could’ve powered the entire harbor.

The hanok's wooden floor creaked as Yoongi knelt beside his unpacked bag. Beneath folded shirts, something glinted—a USB drive shaped like a microphone, the one Hoseok had given him years ago as a joke. "For when you stop being a corporate zombie."

Jungkook's voice echoed from the shower, miraculously on-key singing some female idol group's latest hit.

A ghost of a smile tugged at Yoongi's lips. He plugged the drive into his laptop.

Files loaded—dozens of them. Half-finished beats. Lyrics scrawled in haste. The last track he'd ever recorded, dated two weeks before the accident:

"REBIRTH (feat. J-Hope)"

His finger hovered over play.

Outside, waves crashed against the shore in time with Jungkook's terrible singing.

Yoongi closed his eyes. Hit play.

The track exploded through his headphones—a snarling bassline, Hoseok's razor-sharp flow, and then his own voice, young and hungry:

"I carve my name in every brick of this city / So when they erase me, the scars stay pretty—"

The bathroom door slammed open. Yoongi yanked out the earbuds.

"Hyung!" Jungkook bounded in, towel slung around his hips, hair dripping. "There's a night market by the pier! Let's—" He froze. Saw the screen. "Oh."

Yoongi snapped the laptop shut. The faded SNU Music Production sticker—the one Jungkook had always assumed was just some college club—peeled further at the corner.

They walked back along the docks, Bam trotting ahead with a stolen fish cake clutched triumphantly in his jaws.

Yoongi suddenly stopped, staring at a weathered bulletin board plastered with flyers. One in particular stood out—a peeling notice for a local recording studio. Hourly Rates Available.

Jungkook bit back a grin. "Coincidence?"

Yoongi snorted. "Shut up."

But he took a photo of the flyer anyway.

Chapter Text

Jimin’s fingers traced the edge of the Gangnam studio blueprints for the fifth time that evening, his brow furrowed as he double-checked the acoustics paneling for the third-floor rehearsal space. The adjacent unit—purely coincidental, of course—was marked with a faint pencil sketch of soundproofing adjustments. Just in case.

His phone buzzed.

[Taehyung → Jimin] 10:07 PM
Pack a bag. We’re going to Busan.

Jimin blinked. The pencil in his hand stilled.

Before he could reply, the penthouse door chimed, followed by the unmistakable sound of Taehyung’s loafers clicking against marble and Yeontan’s tiny claws skittering across the floor.

“I already vetoed Mapo,” Taehyung announced, flopping onto the couch beside Jimin’s carefully organized blueprints. Yeontan immediately launched himself onto the coffee table, sniffing at the corner of the Gangnam plans with the gravitas of a tiny, furry city planner. “So. Busan.”

Jimin didn’t look up. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.” Jimin tapped his pencil against the blueprint. “I have studio renovations to finalize. Contracts to review. A life.”

Taehyung rolled his eyes. “You’ve been staring at the same page for an hour. You’re not reviewing shit—you’re brooding.” He plucked the pencil from Jimin’s fingers. “And guess what? Brooding is banned in Busan. City ordinance.”

Jimin scowled. “Why are you so set on this?”

“Because Jungkook picked it.” Taehyung’s voice softened, just a fraction. “For the memorials. His and Yoongi-hyung’s parents'.”

Jimin’s chest tightened. He’d known, of course—about the accident, about the shared grief neither of them had ever fully unpacked. But Busan? That was…

“It’s a family trip,” Taehyung added, as if reading his mind. He pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. “See? Jin-hyung just declared it mandatory.”

[Jin → Group Chat] 10:12 PM
Busan. This weekend. Attendance is non-negotiable (yes, Hoseok, that means you. I’m dragging you myself if I have to).

Jimin exhaled sharply. “I don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Taehyung leaned forward. “Don’t want to face Yoongi-hyung? Don’t want to admit you’ve already picked the studio next to his? Don’t want to remember that you also have family in Busan you haven’t visited in years?”

Jimin’s jaw clenched.

Taehyung wasn’t wrong. His grandparents’ old house was still there, empty save for the caretaker who sent monthly updates. His own parents were there, but he’d been keeping his promise. He hadn’t seen his brother in years either and he doubted his niece knew who he was. 

But, Yoongi and Jungkook were going back to theirs. To visit memorials, while his parents were still flesh and blood.

“It’s not just about them,” Taehyung said quietly. “It’s about you. And me. And the fact that none of us are as good at moving on as we pretend.” He nudged the Gangnam blueprint. “You can stare at these walls all you want, Jimin-ah. But they won’t tell you what you actually need to hear.”

Jimin swallowed. “Which is?”

“That you’re allowed to want things.” Taehyung grinned, sharp and knowing. “Like free accommodation in a seaside hanok. And a certain master of the repressed sigh and the carefully neutral expression ex-corporate worker, soon to be studio neighbor. And maybe—”

Yeontan sneezed directly onto the Mapo proposal.

“—a family trip where no one is allowed to work.”

Jimin stared at the blueprints. At the penciled-in notes for the recording studio next door. At the life he was still too afraid to step into.

Then he reached for his phone.

[Jimin → Jin] 10:18 PM
Fine. But I’m bringing Yeontan’s thunder shirt. And someone else is explaining to Hoseok why he’s being kidnapped.

Taehyung’s laughter echoed through the penthouse.

As Taehyung left, he tossed over his shoulder: “And pack sunscreen. For someone’s inevitable gay panic. I’ll be back in an hour so we can get the last train.”

Jimin didn’t throw anything this time. But he did text Yoongi.

[Jimin → Yoongi] 10:25 PM
Tell Bam I’m bringing his favorite treats. And don’t forget his damn routine.

No reply. But for once, Jimin didn’t mind the silence.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The station lights flickered overhead as Jimin and Taehyung sprinted through the turnstiles, the last call for the 11:45 PM KTX echoing through the nearly empty platform. Yeontan, tucked securely in his carrier against Taehyung’s chest, let out a disgruntled mrrp as they skidded to a stop just as the doors began to close.

Jimin slumped into his seat, gasping for breath. "We could have taken the morning train."

Taehyung, still grinning from the adrenaline, adjusted Yeontan’s carrier. "And miss the drama of a last-minute escape? Please. Jungkook would never forgive me."

Jimin shot him a look. "This isn’t one of your heist movies, Tae."

"It could be." Taehyung wiggled his eyebrows. "We’ve got the getaway vehicle—" He patted the train seat. "—the emotional baggage—" He gestured between them. "—and the tiny, furry accomplice." Yeontan yawned, as if to emphasize his role.

Jimin exhaled, leaning back as the train pulled away from the station, Seoul’s skyline shrinking behind them. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks filled the silence.

After a moment, Taehyung’s voice softened. "Are you going to see them? Your family?"

Jimin’s fingers tightened around the armrest. He didn’t need to ask who Taehyung meant. The weight of Busan—of his mother’s urn in the family columbarium, of his grandparents’ empty house—settled over him like a second skin.

"I don’t know," he admitted.

Taehyung nodded, as if he’d expected that answer. "Fair. But if you do…" He nudged Jimin’s shoulder. "I’ll be your emotional support chaebol. Or your alibi. Whichever you need."

Jimin huffed a laugh. "Noted."

The train hummed beneath them, the city lights giving way to the inky blur of countryside. Taehyung’s expression turned uncharacteristically serious.

"Jungkook…" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I don’t think he’s ever really talked about them. His parents. Not like this." He glanced at Jimin. "I promised him I’d be there, no matter what. Even if it’s messy. Even if he breaks down. Especially then."

Jimin studied him—the rare vulnerability in Taehyung’s usually playful gaze. "You love him," he said quietly.

Taehyung grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Yeah. And I’m excellent at it."

Jimin didn’t push. Some truths didn’t need words.

Yeontan, sensing the shift, pawed at Taehyung’s sleeve until he relented and unzipped the carrier. The Pomeranian promptly climbed onto Jimin’s lap, circled twice, and flopped down with a sigh.

Taehyung snorted. "Traitor."

Jimin scratched behind Yeontan’s ears, the motion automatic. "You’re really doing this, huh? No backup plan?"

"Plans are for people who sleep," Taehyung said breezily, pulling out his phone. "I’m on vibes and vows tonight." He tapped out a quick text—to Jungkook, probably—before adding, "Besides, Jin-hyung’s already packed and ready. And Hoseokie-hyung’s being forcibly extracted from his dance studio as we speak. We’ve got reinforcements."

Jimin shook his head. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re here," Taehyung countered. "Which means you’re just as ridiculous as the rest of us."

Outside the window, the dark landscape rushed by. Somewhere ahead, Busan waited—with its salt-stained memories and its quiet graves and its second chances.

Jimin leaned his head against the glass and closed his eyes.

As the train sped south, Taehyung’s phone buzzed with Jungkook’s reply:

[Jungkook → Taehyung] 12:03 AM
Hyung. Why is Jin-hyung texting me about sunscreen quotas?

Taehyung’s laughter was the last thing Jimin heard before sleep took him.

Chapter Text

The sliding door to Jimin’s room burst open before he could even set down his bag.

"Up, Park," Taehyung announced, already tossing Jimin’s jacket at him. "No unpacking. No settling in. You’ve got a brooding Min Yoongi to hunt down."

Jimin barely caught the jacket, blinking. "What—"

Jungkook appeared behind Taehyung, Bam’s leash in hand. "Hyung’s been gone since sunrise," he said, uncharacteristically serious. "He quit his job yesterday. Actually quit. Like, walked-out-mid-meeting, sent-HR-into-panic quit." His fingers tightened around the leash. "And now he’s sitting alone on some cliff, probably convincing himself he’s ruined his life."

Taehyung nodded, crossing his arms. "So. You’re going to fix it."

Jimin’s spine straightened. "Why me?"

Jungkook and Taehyung exchanged a look.

"Because," Taehyung said slowly, like he was explaining something painfully obvious, "you’re the only one he listens to when he’s like this."

Jungkook stepped forward, uncharacteristically earnest. "And because—" He hesitated, then blurted, "He looks at you, Jimin-hyung. Like you’re the only person in the room. Even when he’s pissed. Even when he’s pretending not to."

Jimin’s pulse stuttered.

Taehyung smirked and shoved a thermos into his hands. "Coffee. Black, two sugars. His favorite, not yours. Now go."

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Yoongi sat at the precipice, his back to the world, shoulders hunched against the wind. The dawn painted the sea in liquid gold, but his face remained shadowed. A half-empty bottle of cheonha soju—the kind Jimin had once mentioned liking—sat beside him, condensation pooling on the wood.

Jimin didn’t speak. Just folded onto the deck beside him, close enough to feel the heat of him through the morning chill.

Yoongi didn’t flinch. Just exhaled. "They sent you."

Jimin nudged the soju bottle. "You remembered my favorite."

Yoongi’s fingers twitched. "Not hard to remember."

The silence stretched, filled only by the crash of waves below.

Jimin studied Yoongi’s profile—the tension in his jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes. "Jungkook’s worried."

Yoongi’s throat bobbed. "I know."

"He thinks it’s his fault you quit."

Yoongi’s hands clenched. "It’s not."

Jimin waited.

The wind whipped between them, salt-sharp and relentless.

Yoongi dragged a hand down his face. "I owe you an apology," he said, voice rough. "Not the bullshit kind. Not I’m sorry you felt that way." He turned fully to Jimin, eyes dark. "I’m sorry for what I said. How I acted. No excuses."

Jimin stilled.

Yoongi’s fingers trembled where they gripped the deck’s edge. "I treated you like you weren’t—" He swallowed hard. "Like you didn’t matter. And that’s on me." His voice dropped to a whisper. "You deserved better."

The words hung between them, raw and aching.

Jimin’s chest tightened. "Yeah," he said softly. "I did."

Yoongi flinched, but didn’t look away.

Jimin turned the bottle in his hands. "I didn’t keep score, you know."

Yoongi’s breath hitched.

"But I remember what it felt like," Jimin continued, voice low. "Getting spoon-fed pieces of someone I was—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening. "Someone I wanted to know. Someone I let myself want."

Yoongi made a wounded noise.

Jimin met his gaze. "You think I didn’t notice? The way you’d let me in just far enough to hurt when you pulled back?"

Yoongi’s hands shook. "Jimin—"

"And for the record," Jimin added, voice hardening, "I know about the trust fund. Taehyung’s a menace when he wants information."

Yoongi groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "Christ."

Jimin’s smirk was razor-thin. "Yeah. So don’t sit there and pretend you had to stay in that job. You chose to."

The accusation hung in the air, sharp as the salt wind.

Yoongi’s shoulders slumped. "I was scared," he admitted, voice breaking. "Of what it would mean if I stopped. If I let myself want something—someone—for me."

Jimin’s pulse roared in his ears.

Yoongi’s fingers brushed his wrist, tentative. "I’m asking now," he whispered. "Not because I need you. Because I want you."

The words settled between them, fragile as sea foam.

Jimin exhaled sharply. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a keycard, sliding it across the wood between them.

Yoongi stared at it.

"There’s a music studio," Jimin said quietly. "In my new building. Soundproof. Good acoustics." A pause. "If that’s something you still want."

Yoongi’s breath caught. His fingers hovered over the key, trembling. "Jimin—"

Jimin stood, brushing off his pants. "Think about it."

He turned to leave—

A hand caught his wrist.

Yoongi’s grip was firm, his fingers warm.

Jimin looked back.

Yoongi’s eyes were dark, intense. "I don’t need to think," he said roughly.

Jimin arched a brow. "No?"

Yoongi stood, stepping into his space. "No." His thumb brushed Jimin’s pulse point. "I want this. You. The studio. The music. "

Jimin searched his face—the vulnerability in his eyes, the set of his jaw. Then, slowly, he smirked. "Took you long enough."

And then—

Yoongi kissed him.

Salt and soju and the faintest hint of coffee. The sea roared below, the sun warm on their backs.

Somewhere in the distance, Taehyung whooped.

Yoongi pulled back just enough to glare over Jimin’s shoulder. "Christ—"

Jimin laughed, tangling his fingers in Yoongi’s hoodie. "Ignore them."

Yoongi huffed, but his hands settled on Jimin’s waist, anchoring him. "You’re a menace."

Jimin grinned. "Your menace."

And as the waves crashed and the gulls cried overhead, Yoongi realized—

He was finally free.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The first golden light of dawn was spilling over the sea, painting the water in hues of rose and gold. Jimin sat beside Yoongi on the deck, their knees touching, the ghost of their kiss still a warm, settled thing between them. The air still held the salt-kissed chill of night.

Yoongi sipped his coffee, his gaze on the horizon. "Last night," he began, his voice a low rumble. "You said you walked away from everything. But what you've built... the studios, the penthouse... it doesn't add up to a disinherited dance teacher."

Jimin hummed, wrapping his hands around his warm mug. "You're the only one who would look at my life and call the finances 'not adding up'." He took a deep breath. "Taehyung was right about my grandfather. He froze the trust fund tied to the company—the shares, the holdings, the 'Park Holdings' legacy. That was his weapon."

He turned to face Yoongi fully. "But my parents... they were smarter. Or maybe just more loving. My father's personal inheritance from his own parents was always separate. And my mother... she came from old money too, but as a daughter, she was given a massive portfolio, meant to be managed for her by a husband. She never let him touch it. She managed it herself."

He met Yoongi's gaze, his own steady and clear. "When I walked away, they didn't stop me. They couldn't publicly defy my grandfather, but they secretly transferred everything to me. Their entire personal fortunes, in my name alone. The penthouse was a graduation gift from them, years before the fallout. It was never the company's asset."

Yoongi listened, the pieces clicking into place. This wasn't a story of a spoiled heir slumming it; it was a story of a strategic, quiet transfer of power and protection. Jimin hadn't been cut off; he'd been set up to succeed on his own terms.

"So you didn't build it from nothing," Yoongi summarized, his voice soft with understanding.

"No," Jimin agreed. "I built it from everything they could quietly give me. The initial capital for the first studio an investment from Taehyungie, the safety net... it was all them. I didn't have to start from zero. I had to start from a place of proving I could be more than the COO they'd tried to mold me into." He looked out at the sea, his expression thoughtful. "It means the choices I make now—with the new studio, with my life—aren't born from desperation. They're born from... possibility. I have the freedom to build what I want, not just what I need to survive."

Yoongi reached out, his fingers lacing with Jimin's. "You used their foundation to build your own fortress."

"Exactly," Jimin whispered, squeezing his hand.

The sun broke fully over the horizon, bathing them in warm light. The question that had lingered in the back of Yoongi's mind was finally, peacefully, laid to rest. The man beside him was not a paradox, but a whole story he was only just beginning to fully read.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The sliding door clicked shut behind them, muffling the distant sound of waves and wind chimes. The bedroom was bathed in soft golden light, the futon already laid out with extra blankets—courtesy of Jungkook’s nervous energy, no doubt.

Yoongi hovered near the doorway, suddenly awkward. "You don’t have to—"

Jimin kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the futon with a groan, arms spread wide. "Hyung. I’ve been awake all night because someone decided to have a dramatic cliffside crisis at dawn." He cracked one eye open. "Get over here."

Yoongi huffed a laugh, but the tension in his shoulders eased. He toed off his own shoes and sank onto the futon beside Jimin, the worn cotton sheets cool against his skin.

For a moment, they just breathed—the quiet settling around them like a second skin.

Then Jimin turned onto his side, propping his head on one hand. "You good?"

Yoongi met his gaze. The morning light caught the gold in Jimin’s hair, the faint freckles across his nose. "Yeah," he murmured. "Just... thinking."

Jimin arched a brow. "Dangerous pastime."

Yoongi swatted at him half-heartedly, but Jimin caught his wrist, lacing their fingers together.

"Sleep," Jimin said, softer now. "Jin-hyung’s train doesn’t get in until noon. We’ve got time."

Yoongi exhaled, long and slow, and let himself sink into the futon. Jimin’s warmth was a solid line against his side, their joined hands resting between them.

Somewhere outside, a gull cried. The wind chimes sang.

And for the first time in years—Min Yoongi slept.

Chapter Text

The crunch of gravel under tires announced the arrival of Jin, Namjoon, and Hoseok just as Taehyung and Jungkook were mid-debate over whether to draw mustaches on the once again sleeping pair.

Jin strode up the path like a man on a mission, designer sunglasses perched on his nose and a woven market bag swinging from his arm—already stuffed with enough seafood to feed a small army. "Status report," he demanded, kicking off his loafers.

Taehyung saluted. "Mission failed successfully. They’re alive, unharmed, and disgustingly cuddled."

Jungkook nodded solemnly, phone still in hand. "We have photo evidence."

Jin’s eyebrows shot up. He snatched the phone, swiping through the images with the gravitas of a general reviewing battle plans. "Aigoo," he cooed, zooming in on Yoongi’s arm locked around Jimin’s waist. "Finally."

Namjoon peeked over his shoulder and immediately flushed. "Hyung, maybe we should let them—"

"Nonsense," Jin declared, shoving the phone back at Jungkook. "This is a historic moment! We must document it properly." He rummaged in his bag and produced an instant camera with a flourish.

Hoseok, who had been quietly losing it against the doorframe, wheezed. "You planned for this?"

Jin adjusted his sunglasses. "I manifested it."

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The world’s worst stealth mission unfolded as all five of them (plus Bam and Yeontan) crowded into the bedroom doorway. Jin tiptoed forward with the grace of a tipsy flamingo, camera raised.

📸 Flash.

Yoongi jerked awake with a snort, squinting against the light. "The fuck—?"

Jimin groaned, burying his face in Yoongi’s chest. "Go away."

Jin gasped, clutching his heart. "Rude! We were worried!"

Taehyung nodded sagely. "We searched everywhere. Even the scary pier with the seagull mafia."

Jungkook held up Bam’s paw. "He sniffed out clues."

Yoongi, now fully awake and glaring, tightened his grip on Jimin. "You woke us up for a photoshoot?"

Jin beamed. "Correction—I woke you up for brunch." He waved the Polaroid as it developed. "This was just a bonus."

Jimin peeked one eye open. "...Are there seafood pancakes?"

"And fresh crab," Jin confirmed.

Yoongi and Jimin exchanged a look. A silent negotiation. Then, in unison:

"Fine."

As the chaos of their friends spilled out into the hallway, Jimin let himself smile against Yoongi’s shoulder.

Maybe family vacations weren’t so bad after all.

Later, as Jungkook and Taehyung bickered over the last seafood pancake and Hoseok demonstrated the correct way to flip it, Jin caught Namjoon's eye and tilted his head toward the hanok's small kitchen. They slipped away, the practiced movement of two partners in crime.

"Status report," Jin murmured, leaning against the counter. "Yoongi?"

"Functional. Jimin's stabilising him. I'd call it a 70% improvement." Namjoon scrubbed a hand over his face. "Hoseok's still a red alert."

"I know. Jimin's offer... it has to work." Jin sighed, looking older than his years. "We can't keep patching him with side gigs and guest passes."

"We will," Namjoon said, with a quiet certainty that had seen them through a decade of crises. "We always do."

It was their silent pact: to be the foundation so the others could fly, or in Yoongi's case, remember how to.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The walk to the memorial was quieter than usual.

Jungkook carried a bundle of white chrysanthemums in one arm, their petals trembling slightly in the sea breeze. Yoongi walked beside him, a bottle of soju and a small box of yakgwa tucked under his arm—his father’s favorite. Behind them, Jimin and Taehyung followed, their usual banter muted, each holding their own offerings.

The path wound uphill, lined with old pine trees that whispered in the wind. The closer they got, the heavier the air felt.

Jungkook cleared his throat. "I, uh. I brought the photos." He patted his jacket pocket, where the edges of a small envelope peeked out. "The ones from the beach. When we were kids."

Yoongi nodded, his jaw tight. "They’d like that."

Taehyung, uncharacteristically solemn, adjusted the strap of the woven bag he carried—filled with incense and fresh fruit. "Do you… come here often?"

Jungkook shook his head. "Not enough."

Jimin’s fingers brushed against Yoongi’s elbow, a silent question. Yoongi didn’t pull away.

The four of them stood in front of the paired granite markers—Jeon Hyun-woo & Kim Soojin beside Min Jisung & Lee Yewon. The names were etched deep, the stone worn smooth by time and weather.

Jungkook knelt first, arranging the flowers with careful hands. "Hi, Appa. Eomma." His voice wavered, just slightly. "Brought… brought some people with me."

Yoongi crouched beside him, setting down the soju and sweets. The weight of fifteen years pressed down on his shoulders. "Abeoji," he murmured. "Eomeoni. We… we brought your favorites."

Jimin and Taehyung hung back, giving them space, but Jungkook turned and gestured them forward. "They’d want to meet you," he said softly.

Jimin stepped up, placing a single white lily beside the chrysanthemums. "It’s an honor," he whispered.

Taehyung, ever the artist, laid down a small sketch he’d done from Jungkook’s stories—a family at the beach, laughing. "For the memories you didn’t get to finish," he said, uncharacteristically quiet.

The wind picked up, rustling the flowers.

Yoongi exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists. "I’m sorry," he said, voice rough. "I should’ve—"

Jungkook bumped his shoulder. "We’re here now."

And that, somehow, was enough.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The salt air felt different here. It wasn't the free, wild breeze of the hanok's shore; it was heavy, thick with memory. The path from the cemetery wound up a quieter, residential hill overlooking the bay, lined with modern homes and a few stubbornly traditional ones.

Jungkook was walking ahead, his head resting on Yoongi's shoulder, Taehyung's arm a steadying presence around his waist. They were a unit, bound by a shared grief that Jimin, for all his love for them, could only witness.

His own feet slowed, then stopped. His heart was a drum in his chest, a rhythm entirely separate from the retreating footsteps of his friends.

He knew this street.

He turned his head.

And there it was.

The house wasn't grand, not by the standards he'd been raised in later. It was a comfortable, two-story hanok-style home with a neatly maintained garden, the kind he'd visited as a young child. His mother's family's house. Before the money, before the corporate expectations, before the rift. A place of simple summers and his grandmother's cooking.

The current of the group pulled at him. He could keep walking. He could return to the present, to the future they were all building together. No one would blame him. It was the easier choice, the one he'd made for years.

But today wasn't about easy choices. Today was about honoring ghosts.

He took a single step off the path, then another, until he was standing before the low garden wall. The windows were dark. Empty. Or perhaps the occupants were simply elsewhere.

He didn't need to go in. He didn't need a dramatic reunion or a tearful apology. That was a different story for a different time.

He just needed to stand there.

He let the memories wash over him—not the painful ones of boardrooms and disinheritance, but the older, purer ones. The scent of pine needles and sea salt. The taste of fresh hoddeok from the street vendor down the hill. The feeling of being a boy who loved to dance simply for the joy of it, before it became a rebellion or a career.

He wasn't that boy anymore. The man he was now—the one who built studios and wrestled Dobermans and loved a stubborn, brilliant producer—had been forged in the fire of leaving this world behind.

But standing here, he could finally acknowledge the foundation. He could, for the first time, look at the past without the sharp sting of anger or the hollow ache of rejection. There was a quiet sadness, a sense of loss for what could never be, but also a profound gratitude for the path he'd chosen.

It hadn't been the wrong one.

A hand slipped into his. He didn't need to look to know it was Taehyung, who had hung back without a word.

"Okay?" Taehyung asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Jimin took a deep, shuddering breath, then released it, feeling a weight he hadn't known he was carrying dissolve into the Busan air. He gave Taehyung's hand a squeeze.

"Yeah," he said, and for the first time, he truly meant it. "I'm okay."

He took one last look at the house, not as a symbol of what was taken, but as a landmark on the map of his life. A point of origin.

Then he turned his back on it, and walked toward his family.

Chapter Text

The bonfire crackled, casting dancing shadows across their circle as the last of the sunset bled into indigo waves. Empty soju bottles littered the sand between them, and the scent of salt and caramelized ssiat hotteok clung to the warm breeze. A deep, contented quiet had settled over the group.

Jimin, loose-limbed and rosy-cheeked, had his head pillowed on Taehyung’s lap while Taehyung braided tiny seashells into his hair with drunken precision. Yoongi, who’d spent the first hour grumbling about sand in his socks, now had Jungkook tucked under one arm, the younger half-asleep against his shoulder.

Jin clinked his bottle against Namjoon's. "Truth circle," he announced, his voice warm and slightly slurred. "No lies. No deflecting. I'll start. I... still have the hideous vase Namjoon-ah made me in that pottery class five years ago. It's in the back of the cupboard because it's objectively terrible, but I can't get rid of it."

Namjoon flushed, shoving him gently. "Yah! My truth is that I still can't fold a fitted sheet. It's a conspiracy."

"I sleep with Yeontan's old puppy toy when Tae's away," Jungkook mumbled into Yoongi's shoulder, eliciting a coo from Taehyung.

"It's true–I’ve seen it on the puppy cam," Taehyung sing-songed. "My truth? I pretended to hate Jungkook's Iron Man socks for three weeks just so he'd wear them more to annoy me."

The circle dissolved into laughter, the truths light and fond, weaving a tighter net of camaraderie around them.

The laughter finally died down, and in the comfortable lull, Hoseok’s voice, quieter than they’d ever heard it, cut through the night. "I think... I can't do it anymore."

The shift was immediate. The air grew still. Even Bam, gnawing on a stolen corn cob, paused.

Hoseok’s fingers dug into the sand, his gaze fixed on the flames. "The studio’s cutting my hours. I haven’t gotten a full paycheck in months. I've been... I've been taking every side gig, every TikTok choreo, every last-minute class at Kook's gym... and it's not enough." His voice cracked, the cheerful facade they all relied on shattering completely. "I love teaching, I do, but... passion doesn't pay rent. I'm just... so tired."

The silence that followed was heavy, but not with judgment. It was filled with a shared, aching understanding.

Jin was the first to move, scooting across the sand to sling a solid arm around Hoseok's trembling shoulders. "Yah, Jung Hoseok. You idiot." His voice was thick with emotion. "You don't ever have to carry that alone. You hear me? Move in with me and Joon. Tomorrow. We've got the space. It's not a question."

"It's really not," Namjoon said, his voice firm and gentle. "Our home is your home. That's the truth."

Hoseok shook his head, a tear finally escaping. "I can't just—"

"Yes, you can," Jungkook said, suddenly awake and leaning forward, his own eyes glistening. "Please, Hobi-hyung. Let us help. You're always taking care of everyone else. Let us do this."

Taehyung, uncharacteristically solemn, nodded. "We're a package deal. You're stuck with us."

It was then that Jimin spoke, his voice calm and clear, cutting through the emotional haze. He sat up, the seashells in his hair forgotten. "Hoseok-ssi," he began softly. "What if you didn't have to choose? What if you could teach and thrive?"

Hoseok looked up, confused.

"I own the dance studios," Jimin said, the truth he'd held back now offered as a gift, not a boast. "And my new Gangnam location... it needs a co-director. Not just an instructor. A partner. Someone who understands dance isn't just steps, it's soul. Someone the students would follow anywhere." He leaned forward, the firelight reflecting in his earnest eyes. "The offer isn't pity. It's a recognition. I've seen you move. I know what you're capable of. Come to Gangnam. Let's build something where no one has to choose between art and survival."

The group erupted, not into cheers, but into a wave of supportive murmurs. Jin squeezed Hoseok tighter, nodding vigorously at Jimin. Namjoon looked profoundly relieved. It was the solution none of them could have offered, landing at the perfect moment.

Hoseok stared at Jimin, then at the circle of faces he called family—all filled with love and unwavering support. The weight on his shoulders didn't vanish, but it was suddenly shared by seven other people, making it infinitely lighter. A sob escaped him, followed by a wet, genuine laugh.

"Aigoo, look what you did," Jin said, wiping his own eyes. "You made Hobi cry. Group hug! Now!"

The circle collapsed into a messy, sandy, laughing pile of limbs around Hoseok, who finally, finally let himself be held up by the people who loved him. The truth circle had ended with the most important truth of all: he wasn't alone.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The first slivers of dawn painted the hanok's wooden deck in pale gold. A deep, post-soju quiet had settled over the house, broken only by the distant cry of gulls and the soft, rhythmic sound of the sea.

Hoseok was already outside. He sat on the top step, a steaming mug cradled in his hands, watching the light bleed into the horizon. He looked younger like this, stripped of the relentless, performative energy he wore like armor. The shadows under his eyes were still there, but they seemed softer in the morning light, less like bruises and more like a part of him.

The sliding door whispered open and shut. Jimin padded out, barefoot, two fresh mugs in hand. He didn't speak, simply handed one to Hoseok and sat beside him, their shoulders brushing.

They sat in silence for a long moment. Jimin finally spoke, his voice low and even.

"Last night wasn't pity," he began, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "It was the culmination of a weeks-long due diligence process. And you passed."

Hoseok let out a soft, weary huff. "Due diligence on a sinking ship?"

"On a flagship trapped in ice," Jimin corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. He turned, his gaze sharp and focused. "I saw you in the park that night, Hoseok-ssi. Weeks ago. You thought you were alone."

Hoseok went very still, his knuckles whitening around his mug.

"I wasn't spying," Jimin continued. "I was walking Bam. We stopped because the music was... compelling. And then I saw you. And I watched." He took a slow sip of his coffee. "What you were doing wasn't dance fitness. It was a masterclass in controlled fury. The isolations were so precise they looked impossible. The footwork was a language I haven't heard spoken fluently since I left the competition circuit. It was the kind of artistry that gets you scouted. The kind that gets you cut for being too good, too unique to fit a mold."

He let that hang in the salt-tinged air. Hoseok’s throat worked as he swallowed, hard. He looked exposed, as if Jimin had just read his diary aloud.

"So, I looked into it," Jimin admitted. "A dancer of that caliber doesn't just appear from nowhere. And the name 'Jung Hoseok'... it had an echo to it. It took some digging through digital graveyards—Geocities forums, old Naver blog posts. But I found the whispers. 'j-hope of the Illusion Crew.' 'The Gwangju Phenom.' They said you wiped the floor with everyone at the Hongdae battles. That you were in a cohort with legends like Runch Randa and Agust D. That BigHit itself scooped you up. And then... radio silence."

"I wasn't... I wasn't cut because I was too good," Hoseok whispered, the words torn from somewhere deep and bruised. "I was cut because I was... expendable. My face didn't fit. My style was too... much. Not an idol. Just a dancer." The title sounded like an epitaph on his tongue.

Jimin’s expression didn’t change. "A common corporate failure. Misidentifying a cornerstone asset as interchangeable inventory." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "But that's not the most interesting thing I learned about you, Hoseok-ssi."

Hoseok finally looked at him, confusion cutting through his shame.

"The most interesting thing," Jimin said, "is what you did after. You didn't quit. You didn't go home to Gwangju. You built a life. You took that world-class talent and you poured it into a community gym and a failing local studio. You've been teaching 'Dance Fit' to grandmothers with the same focus you'd use for a national audition. Why?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"Because it's not just about the dance for you. It's about the dancer. It's about the person in the room. I've watched you at the gym with Jungkook. You don't just correct form; you see the person inside the body. You see the anxiety, the drive, the need to be seen. You have an empathy that can't be taught. That, combined with your technical genius, is what makes you irreplaceable."

Jimin’s voice softened, but lost none of its intensity. "You think I'm offering you this because I feel sorry for you? I'm offering it because you have a PhD in survival without losing your passion. You know the reality of the grind better than any Ivy League business major I could hire. You understand the kid who has to choose between bus fare and a class fee. And you have the respect of the veterans because your body is a living testament to the art."

He finally paused, letting the full weight of his assessment settle. Hoseok looked utterly overwhelmed, as if Jimin had just described a stranger, a phantom version of himself he'd locked away years ago.

"I'm not building just a studio in Gangnam," Jimin said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "I'm building a sanctuary. A place that operates on a simple principle: that the best art comes from artists who are valued, not exploited. I need a co-director who embodies that principle. Not a figurehead. A partner. Someone who knows the price of a dream because he's paid it, and still believes it's worth the cost."

Jimin looked him directly in the eye, his offer no longer a business proposition, but a vow. "Come help me build the place we both needed when we were twenty and hungry and thought we were alone. The world has enough dance studios. It doesn't have a place like the one you and I could make together."

He leaned back, leaving the invitation hanging in the dawn air, not as a lifeline for a drowning man, but as a challenge to a king who had forgotten his own crown.

Hoseok stared at him, his eyes shimmering. The practiced, bright smile was nowhere to be found. In its place was something raw, vulnerable, and terrifyingly hopeful. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He simply gave one, slow, disbelieving nod.

It was enough. For now, it was enough.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The air was still cool with dawn when Jin and Namjoon slipped away from the hanok, a woven basket of offerings in hand. The others were still asleep, tangled in blankets—all except Yoongi, who had cracked one eye open as Jin tiptoed past.

"Don’t wait for us," Jin had whispered, pressing a thermos into Yoongi’s hand. "We’ll meet you at the station."

Yoongi had just nodded, understanding without words.

Jin knelt first, his fingers gently smoothing the grass before the stone. He arranged the gifts with uncharacteristic solemnity—fresh songpyeon, a bottle of aged makgeolli, and a single white lily. Namjoon stood behind him, a smooth, grey stone from the previous day's beach walk turning over in his palm.

"Jeon-ssi, Kim-ssi," Jin began, voice steady. "I brought breakfast. Thought you might be tired of hospital food by now."

A breeze ruffled the grass.

Jin’s smile softened. "Your boys… god, they’re something. Stubborn as hell, both of them." He poured the makgeolli carefully. "But I thought you should know—they’re trying. Yoongi quit his job. Jungkook’s setting boundaries. Small things, but…" His throat tightened. "They’re learning to breathe again."

Namjoon stepped forward. He placed the sea-smoothed stone beside the lily, then the dog-eared copy of The Prophet, its margins filled with Yoongi’s teenage annotations. "We'll keep building the family you started," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "It's our turn to hold the world together for them."

Jin pressed his palms to the stone, cool against his skin. "I’ll make sure they live, not just survive. I'll feed them, even when they say they're not hungry. I'll annoy them into laughing. I'll drag them to karaoke every damn week if that's what it takes to remind them they're allowed to be loud."

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of salt and pine. Somewhere, a seagull cried.

Jin took that as a thank you.

By the time they reached the station, Jin had seamlessly shifted back into his usual chaos—arms laden with pretzel bags and iced coffees, already mid-argument with a vending machine.

"Hyung, it’s 8 AM," Jungkook groaned, slumped against Yoongi’s shoulder. "Why are you like this?"

Jin shoved a pretzel into his mouth. "Eat your feelings, kid."

Taehyung, spotting the lily petals still clinging to Jin’s sleeve, didn’t comment. Just hip-checked him gently, passing him a coffee. "Extra sugar. For your emotional labor."

Jin gasped. "Rude! I’m a delicate flower—"

"Flowers don’t threaten vending machines," Yoongi deadpanned, but he accepted the coffee Jin thrust at him without complaint.

Jimin, watching from the sidelines, caught Namjoon’s eye. A silent thank you passed between them.

As the train pulled out, Jin "accidentally" spilled kimchi on Hoseok’s lap (distraction tactic), Taehyung started an impromptu game of "guess the baby picture" (Jungkook’s chubby cheeks broke the internet), and Yoongi—against all odds—fell asleep on Jimin’s shoulder.

Jin snapped a photo.

Namjoon sighed. "Blackmail?"

"Memories," Jin corrected, grinning.

And if his eyes were suspiciously bright—well. That was just the sunrise.

Chapter Text

The invitation, when it came a few short weeks after Busan, had been simple—Come see the space. Bring your opinions and coffee.

Yoongi stood in the doorway, the two cups of coffee in his hand feeling like anchors. The space was vast, all raw concrete and echoing potential, sunlight cutting dramatic shafts through the dust motes. It was everything he’d ever sketched in the margins of his financial reports. For a terrifying second, the ghost of his old office—the sterile hum of fluorescent lights, the phantom pressure of a headset against his ear—passed over him. His hand twitched with the muscle memory of reaching for a tie that wasn't there.

He stepped inside, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the emptiness. Jimin was a silhouette against the bright window, blueprints spread like a map to a new world on a makeshift table of plywood and sawhorses.

"I want you to design it with me," Jimin said without preamble, turning. His gaze was steady, offering everything and demanding nothing.

Yoongi set the coffees down with a quiet click. He didn't speak. Instead, he unzipped his backpack, his movements deliberate. He pulled out not a battered corporate folder, but a new, sleek portfolio. He opened it, his fingers, usually so sure, fumbling slightly on the metal clasp.

He laid the contents on the plywood between them, one by one, like placing cards in a game where the stakes were his entire life.

First, the bank statements from his salaried years. The dizzying numbers, each digit an hour of his life traded away in a cubicle grave.

Next, the investment summaries. The cold, smart mathematics of his silence, the fruit of his swallowed pride.

Finally, a separate, heavier document. The trust fund summary. The numbers here were older, colder, stained with a different kind of grief. He hadn't touched it, but he'd had his bank manager consolidate it, make it visible. Make it real.

He finally met Jimin’s eyes. "I'm buying in," he said, his voice rough. It wasn't an announcement; it was a confession.

Jimin’s eyes flickered down to the spread of papers, a lifetime's worth of Min Yoongi's compromises and capitulations laid bare. He understood instantly. This wasn't just about money. This was an exorcism.

"Hyung," Jimin started, his voice soft. "You don't have to—"

"I know." The two words cut through the air, sharp and final. "I know I don't have to. You've already given me the key. You've already done enough." He took a breath, steadying himself. "This isn't about what I have to do. It's about what I want to do."

He gestured to the papers, a messy mosaic of his past. "I want to buy my way out of that. Every last won of it. I want to melt it all down and pour it into this." His gaze swept the raw space, his voice gaining strength. "I want this place to be built with that money. So when I walk in here, the only ghost is the reverb off the walls."

The silence that followed was thick, filled with the weight of his offering. Jimin didn't look at the papers again. He looked only at Yoongi, his eyes shining with a fierce, proud understanding. He didn't need the explanation; he could read it in the set of Yoongi's jaw, in the defiant way he stood over the evidence of his own history.

Slowly, Jimin reached out. But he didn't touch the financial statements. He placed his hand over Yoongi's, where it rested on the plywood, his fingers cool and sure.

"Okay," he said, simple and direct. Then, a smirk tugged at his lips. "But as my equity partner, you don't get to just agree with my design choices. You have to argue with them."

A breath Yoongi didn't know he was holding escaped him. The tension broke. He felt the ghost in his chest finally, truly, vanish.

"Obviously," Yoongi grunted, the familiar scowl returning, but now it was light, playful. "Your sightlines are a mess."

Jimin laughed, bright and unguarded in the empty space, and pulled out his phone. "Attorney Kang? Yeah, we need a contract drafted. Min Yoongi-ssi is buying his way into the chaos."

🐰🐶🐱🐥

They fell into it naturally, the blueprints becoming their common language. It wasn't a fight; it was a duet. Around them, the vast space smelled of concrete dust and drywall, and a shaft of afternoon sun lit the dust motes dancing between them.

Jimin tapped a long, elegant finger on the plan. "The vocal booth here. Central, so it feels like the heart of the room."

Yoongi leaned over, his shoulder brushing Jimin's. He could still feel the ghost of Jimin's hand on his. "No. Here," he countered, pointing to a corner. "Structural support on two walls. Better bass response. The heart doesn't have to be in the center to be felt."

Jimin’s eyes lit up, not at the idea, but at the metaphor. "Unless we rotate it," he argued, his pencil flying across the margin, sketching a new angle. The lead snapped. With a frustrated sigh, he fished in his pocket and pulled out a tube of lip balm, aiming to smooth the smudged line.

Yoongi’s hand shot out, closing gently around his wrist. "Don't. The oil will repel the graphite. It'll fade."

Jimin stilled, looking from their hands to Yoongi's face. "And you know this how?"

A ghost of a smile touched Yoongi's lips. "I used to draw my first beats on the back of my economics homework. Ruined a few finals."

Jimin’s grin was slow and devastating. He recapped the lip balm. "Fine. Acoustics win." He grabbed a blue pencil instead, overlaying Yoongi's red circle with a solution—a cleverly angled diffuser panel. "But we can have both. Better. We can have the sound and the sightline. We can have the support and the space to breathe."

They were no longer just talking about a studio.

Yoongi looked from the blueprint to Jimin's face, alight with passion and intelligence, and felt a dizzying sense of rightness. It wasn’t until he found himself sketching signal flow diagrams on the back of a takeout menu, his personal financial history sitting peacefully beside him like a settled matter, that he realized—

He was all in. Not just emotionally or financially. Creatively. Completely. The past was just pencil on paper. The future was the space they were designing together, full of light and sound.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The raw concrete space was no longer just an empty shell; it was a living diagram. The financial statements were tucked away, their symbolic weight replaced by the tangible energy of creation. Sunlight, now higher in the sky, streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the chalk lines Jimin had snapped directly onto the floor, marking out walls that existed only in their shared vision.

Yoongi wasn't hovering anymore. He was mapping. He paced the perimeter of the main room, his footsteps silent on the concrete, one hand trailing along the exposed brick while the other tapped a complex rhythm against his thigh—a subconscious beat testing the room's natural reverb.

Jimin watched him for a moment, a soft smile playing on his lips before he schooled his features into professional focus. He knelt by the blueprints, now weighted down with a coffee cup and Yoongi's forgotten keys. "Okay. Soundproofing here," he said, his voice clear and sure in the open space, tapping a specific point on the plan. "And the control room here—unless you think we should flip it?" He looked up, his question genuine, not a test.

Before Yoongi could answer, a voice came from the center of the space. Hoseok was there, standing exactly where the dance floor would be, his eyes closed. He’d been silently tracing movement patterns for the last ten minutes.

"Flip it," Hoseok said, his eyes snapping open. He walked over to them, his movements still carrying the fluid grace of a dancer even in jeans and a sweatshirt. He pointed to the blueprint. "If you flip it, the sightlines from the control room are direct to the performer. No obstructions."

Yoongi blinked, pulled from his acoustic calculations. "You want people watching you work? Through glass?" The idea of being observed in his creative process felt like a violation of a sacred rule.

Hoseok’s grin was sharp and bright. "I don't want them watching me work, hyung. I want them seeing it. I want them to see the sweat, the false starts, the moment a move clicks. I want them to see what real choreography looks like before it's polished and packaged for cameras." His passion was a physical force in the room. "The process is the performance."

Jimin’s eyes lit up with a fierce, brilliant light. "Yes. Exactly. Raw process as performance. No filters." His fingers flew across the blueprint, his pencil making swift, decisive adjustments. "It's not just a studio; it's a statement."

Yoongi watched, utterly captivated. This was the synergy he’d never known was possible. Jimin’s architectural vision, Hoseok’s artistic philosophy, and his own technical needs weren't competing; they were weaving together into something stronger. He saw the logic instantly. "The isolation between the live room and control room has to be perfect then," Yoongi stated, his mind already racing ahead. "We can't have sound bleed ruining the rawness."

"Of course," Jimin said without looking up, already sketching a note about enhanced gaskets for the door. "We'll make it pristine. So the rawness is a choice, not a flaw."

The contractors arrived then, a group of men in boots with clipboards. Yoongi instinctively braced for the pushback, the condescending explanations of why their ideas weren't "practical."

Jimin didn't even look up from the blueprint. "The structural beam stays," he said, his voice calm but leaving no room for argument. He pointed without glancing. "It's load-bearing, and the industrial look is non-negotiable."

The foreman, a man with a weary face, frowned. "But the acoustic panels you spec'd—we can't mount them flush if—"

"They'll be floating," Jimin countered smoothly. He finally looked up, grabbing his tablet. With a few taps, he brought up a 3D model that seamlessly integrated the raw beam with state-of-the-art, freestanding acoustic baffles. "See? No compromise on sound. No compromise on aesthetics." He handed the tablet to the foreman. "The engineering specs for the custom mounts are in the folder I emailed you this morning."

Yoongi's mouth went dry. This wasn't the Jimin who giggled when Bam stole his socks. This was Park Jimin, CEO, a maestro conducting an orchestra of steel, concrete, and soundwaves. He spoke the language of load-bearing walls and profit margins with the same effortless fluency as he discussed Doberman treats.

Hoseok let out a low, impressed whistle. "Damn, Jimin-ah. Save some brains for the rest of us."

Jimin finally broke character, shooting Hoseok a quick wink. "Sorry, hyung. All out." He turned back to the foreman, his expression all business again. "The schedule is tight. Let's make it happen."

The chaos then arrived in its purest form: Kim Taehyung. He burst through the door like a hurricane in paint-splattered overalls, a silk scarf tied around his neck, and a beret perched precariously on his head. Yeontan was tucked under his arm like a furry, judgmental accessory.

"I brought inspiration!" he announced to the room at large, dumping a heavy stack of art books onto the makeshift plywood table with a thud that made the foreman jump.

Yoongi groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Taehyung-ah, we’re designing a functional recording studio, not a Louvre exhibit—"

"And?" Taehyung retorted, flipping open a massive monograph to a vibrant Kandinsky painting. He pointed at the chaotic, beautiful lines. "See this? This is flow. This is energy. Your lobby shouldn't feel like a dentist's office. It should feel like this. It should tell people what happens here before they even hear a note."

Jimin sucked in a sharp breath. He leaned over the painting, his eyes wide. "Holy shit."

Hoseok peered over his shoulder, his dancer's mind seeing the movement in the static image. "That’s… actually genius."

Taehyung beamed, preening. "I know."

Yoongi could only stare, stunned into silence, as Jimin immediately grabbed a fresh sheet of tracing paper and began sketching a reception desk with bold, Kandinsky-esque curves and angles. "How did you even—"

"Art major," Taehyung said smugly, as if it explained everything. He rummaged in a large tote bag and produced a cardboard carrier with three more coffees. "Also, Jungkook says hi." He tossed a cup to Yoongi. "He's got a client but says he's very invested in your 'emotional growth through creative collaboration.' He also said to tell you that Bam ate your left AirPod."

Yoongi choked on his sip of coffee.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

Yoongi’s phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from the group chat. He pulled it out, expecting more chaos from Taehyung.

[Jin → Group Chat] (3:14 PM) Sent a care package to the site. Contains actual food (not just sugar) and industrial-strength earplugs for the contractor. You’re welcome. 

[Attachment: 1 Image of a basket filled with kimbap, fruit, and a pair of giant, comical ear muffs]

Beneath it, a follow-up from Namjoon:

[Namjoon → Group Chat] (3:16 PM) The foundational symbolism of repurposing a space for artistic creation is a powerful metaphor for personal growth. Proud of you all.

Yoongi shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. Even from miles away, they were still holding the world together.

Later, as the low afternoon sun painted the empty space in long bars of gold, Yoongi found Jimin leaning against the windowsill, his sleeves rolled up to reveal ink-stained fingers. The contractors were gone, leaving behind the scent of sawdust and quiet promise.

"You're terrifying," Yoongi said, the words leaving him without premeditation.

Jimin arched a brow, a smile playing on his lips.

"In here," Yoongi clarified, gesturing to the studio taking shape around them. "You're… relentless."

Jimin’s grin was all sharp, proud teeth. "You haven't seen anything yet. Wait till you see me negotiate the equipment lease. I'm thinking of wearing my scariest suit."

Yoongi should have been intimidated. Instead, a laugh bubbled up from his chest, light and effortless. He felt alive.

Hoseok popped his head in from the hallway. "Food's here! Also, Taehyung's in the electrical closet trying to convince the guy to install color-changing disco lighting that syncs to the BPM of the track you're playing."

Jimin sighed, the picture of long-suffering fondness. "Of course he is." He pushed off the windowsill. "Come on. We need to save that poor electrician from our friend."

Yoongi watched them go, Jimin slinging an arm around Hoseok's shoulders, already pulling him into a debate about speaker placement over dinner. The empty space hummed around him, no longer just with potential, but with the palpable, vibrant energy of the future they were building together, line by line, note by note.

For the first time in years, the future didn’t feel like a spreadsheet to be managed.

It felt like a song they were composing together.

Chapter Text

The pristine silence of the finished studio was a living thing, holding its breath. The only sound was the soft hum of the HVAC system and the faint, satisfying click of a high-end fader as Yoongi tested the main mixing console for the tenth time. The space was no longer a concept; it was a stunning, intimidating reality.

Jimin stood by the vast glass wall that separated the lobby from the main studio, observing Hoseok, who was running through a complex series of isolations in the center of the sprung floor, his body a study of controlled power even in a simple sweatshirt and sweatpants.

"It feels too quiet," Yoongi murmured, breaking the silence. He leaned back in the expensive engineer's chair, looking uneasy in the plush comfort. "After all the sawing and hammering... this calm feels wrong."

"It's the calm before the storm," Jimin said, turning. A small, anticipatory smile played on his lips. "Our storm."

Hoseok pushed through the heavy studio door, a towel around his neck. "The acoustics in there are stupidly good. I can hear my own heartbeat if I stand still enough." He collapsed onto one of the low-slung lobby sofas. "So. We built it. Now what?"

"Now we fill it," Jimin said, joining him. He pulled out his tablet, but instead of pulling up financials or marketing plans, he opened a blank notes page. "Not just with bodies. With the right people. People who get it."

Yoongi finally swiveled away from the console and rolled his chair over to join them, creating a loose triangle. "That's the part that feels wrong," he admitted, his voice low. "Me. Interviewing people. Judging their... competence. I was the one being judged for the last decade. I don't know how to be on the other side of that table without feeling like a fraud." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident. "And the idea of a parade of strangers in here already, before we've even... it feels like letting them see the engine before the car's even started."

Hoseok nudged Yoongi's knee with his foot. "You're not judging their spreadsheets, hyung. You're listening to their mixes. It's different."

"It's not," Yoongi argued, but without heat. "It's still deciding someone's future. And letting them into our space."

"Then we don't do it here," Jimin said, the solution arriving fully formed. He turned to Hoseok. "Your auditions. You need space, mirrors, a proper floor. Use my Hongdae studio. I'll clear the schedule for a day. It's built for this. It has the waiting area, the changing rooms. It’s… impersonal in the right way. A blank slate for them to perform on." He then looked at Yoongi, his gaze steady and understanding. "And for the technical interviews, we can rent a neutral meeting room downtown. Somewhere quiet with a good monitor system we can plug into. This place..." Jimin's eyes swept over the beautiful, custom-designed lobby, "...this stays ours until we're ready to unveil it. No one gets in until they've already been vetted."

The relief on Yoongi's face was immediate and palpable. The tension in his shoulders eased. "A neutral location. Yes. That... that works."

Hoseok's eyes lit up. "Using your studio would be perfect, Jimin-ah. Less pressure for them, honestly. And yeah, I can really see the flow of a full-day audition there." His expression shifted, becoming more focused, more serious. It was the look he got right before a challenging routine. "I'm not just hiring teachers. I'm hiring artists. I need to see them move. I need to see how they communicate, how they respond to a room's energy. A resume can't tell me if their flow will inspire or intimidate a beginner."

Jimin nodded, captivated. "How does that work?"

"I'll set a combination," Hoseok explained, his hands moving as he spoke. "I'll watch how they pick it up, how they make it their own. Then I'll see how they teach it to someone else. The best dancers aren't always the best teachers. I need both." He grinned. "It's gonna be a full-day thing. Lots of sweat. You two are welcome to watch from the office, but you have to stay quiet. No intimidating the talent with your scowling, hyung."

Yoongi almost smiled. "Noted."

Jimin looked between them, his CEO facade completely gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated pride. "This is it," he said, his voice soft but fierce. "This is the vision. It wasn't just about building a space with good sightlines and perfect acoustics. It was about building this." He gestured between the three of them. "A place where the technical master is wary of being a fraud because he cares so much. Where the choreographer auditions for soul, not just skill. Where we bring in our brilliant friend because his brain is a national treasure."

He leaned forward, his eyes alight. "We're not hiring staff. We're curating a community. We're finding the others like us. The ones who care about the process as much as the product."

The silence that followed was different from before. It wasn't empty or anxious. It was full. It was the quiet of a shared understanding, a unified purpose that went far deeper than profit margins or business plans. The practical hurdles of how to hire had been seamlessly folded into their shared vision, respecting each other's boundaries and instincts.

Yoongi looked around the studio, and for the first time, the pristine perfection of it didn't feel intimidating. It felt like a sanctuary, a protected space they would only open to those who had already proven themselves worthy. The first line of defense was a rented meeting room and a dance studio across town.

"Okay," Yoongi said, his voice firm now, a plan taking shape that felt right. "Let's find our people."

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The air in the studio hummed with a different energy than the construction chaos of six months prior. Now, it was the low thrum of state-of-the-art equipment on standby and the palpable buzz of anticipation. It had been half a year since Yoongi had laid his financial history bare on a plywood table. Six months of watching Jimin command contractors, of arguing over acoustic panels with Hoseok, of late nights with Namjoon mapping out workshop curricula. Six months of building something tangible, together.

And in that time, the sharp edges of Yoongi and Jimin’s relationship had softened into a comfortable, worn-in groove. They’d learned each other’s languages: Jimin knew when Yoongi’s silence was contemplation and when it was overwhelm; Yoongi could read the subtle difference between Jimin’s CEO focus and his genuine excitement. They’d built a life alongside a business.

The grand opening was two days away. The air in the studio was no longer one of quiet anticipation, but of charged, meticulous preparation. Brochures, sleek and heavy with quality paper, were stacked neatly at the reception desk, courtesy of the high-end marketing firm Jimin trusted for print. But the digital buzz—the Instagram teases, the TikTok snippets of Hoseok moving through the flawless studio space, the cryptic close-ups of Yoongi’s hands on the mixing console—that was all Jimin. And it was working. Hoseok’s introductory workshop series had sold out within hours, thanks to his dedicated students and the tantalizing glimpses of the new space.

Their small, carefully curated team was prepped. The front desk admin, a sharp-eyed woman named Soojin who had aced both Jimin’s culture-fit interrogation and Yoongi’s practical problem-solving test, was already running through the booking software. The assistant engineer, a young, brilliantly talented and refreshingly quiet man named Minsoo, was quietly labeling cables under Yoongi’s exacting supervision. And Namjoon, who had indeed been unable to say no–Yoongi’s plea had been less a beg and more a gruff, "Your brain is needed here, don't make me get sentimental–was already penciled in to lead a monthly "Lyrics as Literature" workshop.

It was the calm before the storm. Which was why, when the electronic lock beeped and the front door swung open to reveal the entire pack of their friends, it felt both like an invasion and the most natural thing in the world.

Jin entered first, holding a massive, ribbon-bedecked basket that appeared to be entirely full of homemade kimchi and soju. "Housewarming!" he announced, as if he were presenting a royal decree. Taehyung followed, Yeontan tucked in the crook of his arm, the Pomeranian already surveying the space with a critical, fluffy frown. Jungkook trailed behind, looking awestruck all over again, a wide-eyed Bam straining at the end of a new, fancy harness.

Yoongi emerged from the control room, a pair of headphones around his neck. His eyes immediately went to the dogs. "Whoa, whoa. This is a dog-free zone. Fur in the vocal booth? Slobber on the mixing console? Absolutely not."

He was immediately vetoed.

"Veto," Jimin said, not even looking up from where he was adjusting a frame on the wall. He was in soft, dark jeans and a cashmere sweater—a version of his CEO look that was meant for friends.

"Hard veto," Hoseok chimed in, swooping in to scratch behind Bam's ears. "They're our mascots. They have to bless the space. It's feng shui."

"These are thousand-dollar monitors," Yoongi protested, though the fight was already leaving him. He was outnumbered by the sheer force of his friends' affection.

"They're our thousand-dollar monitors," Jimin corrected gently, finally turning. He walked over and took Bam's leash from Jungkook. "And Bam has more artistic integrity in one paw than most of the clients we'll get this year. Right, buddy?" Bam responded by attempting to lick Jimin's face, his entire body wriggling with joy.

Taehyung had already set Yeontan down on the luxurious lobby sofa. The Pomeranian immediately began circling as he tested the fabric, his tiny nose working overtime to process all the new smells. "He approves of the upholstery," Taehyung declared. "High praise."

What followed was anything but a formal tour. It was a chaotic, joyful christening. Jin insisted on testing the acoustics of the main studio by belting a high note from an old trot song, then nodding in approval. Namjoon was immediately drawn to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf in the lounge area that Jimin had insisted on, already pulling out a volume of Rilke with a soft, "Oh, this edition."

Jungkook simply stood in the middle of the control room, slowly spinning in a circle, taking in the array of screens, knobs, and gleaming audio gear. "Wow, hyung," he breathed, his voice full of pride.

At one point, Hoseok put on a track—something deep and percussive—and dragged a laughing Jimin into the studio for an impromptu dance session, their movements reflected infinitely in the mirrors. Yoongi watched from the other side of the glass, a faint, undeniable smile on his face as he subtly adjusted a fader, making the music swell perfectly in the lobby.

It was loud. It was messy. There was probably kimchi juice perilously close to a master keyboard.

And it was perfect.

Later, as the friends lounged on the various sofas and chairs, sharing food and drinks, the two dogs finally conked out—Bam sprawled across Yoongi's feet, Yeontan curled on Taehyung's lap.

Jimin leaned against the reception desk, sipping a beer, watching his found family fill the space he’d built with Yoongi and Hoseok. This was the real opening. Not the ribbon-cutting or the client sessions to come, but this moment right here: the laughter echoing off the soundproofed walls, the easy comfort, the undeniable sense of rightness.

He caught Yoongi's eye across the room. Yoongi, who had been so worried about fur and slobber, was now absently scratching behind Bam's ear with one hand, listening to Namjoon gesture wildly about some philosophical concept.

Yoongi gave him a look—a slight raise of his eyebrows, a tiny, almost imperceptible shrug that said, Okay, you were right.

Jimin’s smile widened. He took a sip of his beer, the hum of conversation and joy, the best sound system he could ever have designed. They were ready.

The party was a warm, buzzing hum in the heart of the studio. Laughter echoed off the soundproofed walls, a testament to their success in creating a space that contained joy rather than repelling it. Jin was holding court by the food, telling a wildly exaggerated story that had Jungkook wheezing. Taehyung was trying to teach a bewildered Namjoon a TikTok dance. Hoseok was showing off the sprung floor's give to an impressed-looking assistant engineer.

It was perfect. It was everything.

And Jimin had quietly disappeared.

Yoongi noticed his absence like a missing note in a familiar chord. He did a slow scan of the room, his gaze sharp. He wasn't worried, not exactly. But he was attuned. Excusing himself from a conversation with Namjoon about speaker calibration, he slipped away.

He found Jimin not in the control room or the office, but out on the small, secluded fire escape that overlooked the back alley, a space Jimin had insisted on for "emergency fresh air breaks." The distant sounds of the city were a soft rumble compared to the celebratory noise inside.

Jimin was leaning against the railing, his back to the door, looking out at the blinking lights of Seoul. He held a half-finished glass of champagne, his posture not slumped, but still. Contemplative.

Yoongi didn't say anything. He just stepped out, letting the heavy door sigh shut behind him, and came to lean against the railing beside him, their shoulders not quite touching.

After a long moment, Jimin spoke, his voice quieter than Yoongi was used to hearing it.

"It's stupid," Jimin began, a faint, self-deprecating smile on his lips. "I've done this before. Opened a business. Three times."

Yoongi stayed silent, just listening.

"But it was never like this," Jimin continued, swirling the bubbles in his glass. "It was just me. And Taehyung, cheering from the sidelines, which was everything, but... it was still my name on the deed. My risk. My success or my failure." He finally turned his head to look at Yoongi, his eyes reflecting the city lights. "This... this is ours. The risk, the fear, the work... I shared all of it with you. With Hobi. And now we're sharing the... the pride of it."

He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the unfamiliar feeling. "I'm so used to carrying it all myself. The weight of it. And now that it's done, that it's real... the weight is gone, but I feel... untethered. In a good way. It's a new kind of quiet in my head. I don't know what to do with it."

He wasn't sad. He was overwhelmed by the profound novelty of shared triumph.

Yoongi understood. He understood the solitary weight of responsibility. He’d carried his own version for fifteen years.

He shifted, turning to fully face Jimin. He reached out, not for the champagne glass, but to cover Jimin's hand where it rested on the cold metal railing. His touch was firm, grounding.

"You don't have to do anything with it," Yoongi said, his voice low and steady. "Just feel it."

Jimin's breath hitched almost imperceptibly. He turned his hand under Yoongi's, lacing their fingers together.

"I am," he whispered.

"Good," Yoongi said. He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to Jimin's knuckles, his eyes never leaving Jimin's. "Get used to it. Because the next win, and the one after that... we're sharing those, too."

The simple promise, spoken in the quiet dark away from the party, was more intimate than any grand declaration. It was a vow for the future, built on the foundation of everything they'd already done.

Jimin’s smile then was small, real, and utterly breathtaking. It wasn't the brilliant CEO smile or the charming dog-walker grin. It was something softer, more vulnerable, meant only for Yoongi.

"Yeah," Jimin said, squeezing his hand. "Okay."

They stood there for a few more minutes, hands linked, listening to the muffled joy of their friends inside and the steady beat of the city around them. The new quiet in Jimin's head wasn't so strange anymore. It was just peace. And for the first time, he didn't have to find it alone.

The simple promise, spoken in the quiet dark away from the party, was more intimate than any grand declaration. It was a vow for the future, built on the foundation of everything they'd already done.

Jimin’s smile then was small, real, and utterly breathtaking. It wasn't the brilliant CEO smile or the charming dog-walker grin. It was something softer, more vulnerable, meant only for Yoongi.

"Yeah," Jimin said, squeezing his hand. "Okay."

They stood there for a few more minutes, hands linked, listening to the muffled joy of their friends inside and the steady beat of the city around them. The new quiet in Jimin's head wasn't so strange anymore. It was just peace. And for the first time, he didn't have to find it alone.

Chapter Text

A year on, the low, resonant hum of the studio was a sound Yoongi never tired of. It was the sound of a machine in perfect working order, of a dream not just realized, but thriving. A year on, and they were booked solid for months. The demand was a pressure he welcomed.

He was in the control room, tweaking a mix, when he saw Jungkook hovering outside the glass. He wasn’t bouncing like he used to. He was still, hands shoved in his pockets, watching. Waiting.

Yoongi slid his headphones down and waved him in.

“Hyung,” Jungkook said, closing the heavy door softly behind him. “You got a sec?”

“For you? I’ve got five.” He nodded toward his engineer. “What’s up?”

Jungkook didn’t speak until they were out in the hallway. He leaned against the soundproof wall, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “It’s about Tae.”

Yoongi leaned opposite him, crossing his arms. “Did he finally try to dye Bam pink?”

A weak smile. “No. Not yet.” He took a breath. “His place… it’s stupid, just him and Yeontan in all that space. He hasn’t asked. Not outright. But he leaves real estate magazines on the coffee table. I know he wants me to move in. And I… I want to. I really do.”

Yoongi just nodded.

“But I don’t want to leave you,” Jungkook blurted out, his voice cracking. “Our apartment… you own it. You bought it for us. Leaving it feels like… abandoning ship.” He looked down. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” Yoongi said, his voice quiet but firm.

There was a long silence.

“You know,” Yoongi began, his gaze distant. “Jimin had a dedicated parking spot installed in his building’s garage. Six months ago. My name’s on the placard. Permanent.”

Jungkook’s head snapped up. “What? Why didn’t you—?”

“Why do you think?” Yoongi met his eyes, and the unspoken truth finally settled into words. “I used our parents’ insurance money to buy that apartment. It was our anchor. I wasn’t going to pull up that anchor and leave you drifting in it alone. Not until I knew you were ready to drop your own somewhere else.”

The revelation hit Jungkook with visible force. His eyes widened. “Hyung…”

“You’re settled, Kook-ah,” Yoongi said, a softness in his voice he reserved for very few. “You’re not that scared kid anymore. You’re a man with a business, a boyfriend who adores you, and a dog who’s a menace.” He put a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “That apartment was a fortress. It kept us safe. The siege is over. We don’t need to hide behind its walls anymore.”

Tears welled in Jungkook’s eyes. “So… you’re saying it’s okay?”

“I’m saying it’s more than okay,” Yoongi said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “I’m saying it’s time. For both of us. Tell Taehyung yes. Go live in his stupidly big terrace penthouse. Let him spoil you rotten.”

A wet laugh escaped Jungkook. “You’ll really be okay? The apartment—”

“—is an asset,” Yoongi finished for him, a practical edge returning to his tone. “I’ll rent it out–or sell. Some other kid who needs a break can get a start there. Our home isn’t a deed, Jungkook-ah. It’s this.” He gestured around them. “It’s us. That doesn’t change, no matter whose penthouse you’re sleeping in.”

The relief that washed over Jungkook was profound. The tension drained from his shoulders. He launched himself forward, wrapping Yoongi in a crushing hug.

“Thank you, hyung,” he mumbled into Yoongi’s shoulder.

Yoongi patted his back. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get sentimental. I have a mix to finish.”

As Jungkook pulled back, grinning and pulling out his phone, Yoongi turned back to the control room. He watched his brother’s reflection—no longer a boy he needed to protect, but a man he’d had the privilege to anchor.

He felt a familiar presence beside him. Jimin didn’t say a word. He just slipped his hand into Yoongi’s and leaned his head against his shoulder. He’d heard every word.

“Took you long enough,” Jimin murmured, a smile in his voice.

Yoongi brought their joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to Jimin’s knuckles. “Some foundations take time to pour.”

Outside, Jungkook was on the phone, his entire face alight with joy, and Yoongi knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that every sacrifice had been worth it. The fortress could finally become just a house. They were all home.

🐰🐶🐱🐥

The late afternoon sun was warm on Yoongi's back as he walked. He’d ridden to the studio with Jimin that morning, but Jimin had gotten an urgent call from his Hongdae location and opted to taxi over, leaving his car and a lingering kiss in the studio’s dedicated parking spot.

“Take a cab,” Jimin had insisted, already typing furiously on his phone.

“I will,” Yoongi had lied.

Some habits died hard. Why spend 15,000 won on a cab when the weather was fine and the walk would clear his head? The city felt different now, quieter. The constant, low-grade hum of needless financial anxiety that had been his background noise for fifteen years had been replaced by the pleasant, manageable stress of creative work. He could hear the birds again.

His route took him through the park. It was quieter now, the energy of the day winding down. That’s when he saw it: the remnants of an adoption event being packed away. A banner with a happy cartoon dog was being rolled up. Volunteers were collapsing empty pens and stacking crates into a van.

It had been a success, by the looks of it. So many empty cages. So many homes found.

His steps slowed. He was about to walk on, a small smile on his face for the anonymous good fortune of so many dogs, when a tiny movement caught his eye.

In one of the last remaining pens, tucked away near the packing van, was a single, small crate. And inside, curled in the very back, was the smallest dog Yoongi had ever seen. A toy poodle, its fur a soft, reddish-apricot, watching the world with huge, dark eyes that seemed far too old for its tiny body. It wasn't shaking or whining. It was just… waiting. A single, hand-written note was clipped to the crate: ‘Last one. Very shy.’

Yoongi’s feet stopped moving entirely.

He and Jimin had never really talked about getting a dog together. Bam was Jungkook’s, a whirlwind of Doberman chaos they both adored. Yeontan was Taehyung’s tiny, judgmental shadow. They were uncles. It was a role Yoongi had come to cherish.

But this… this was different.

He thought of the penthouse. Jimin’s pristine, minimalist sanctuary. The dedicated parking spot with Yoongi’s name on it. The drawer Jimin had cleared for him months ago. The quiet, unspoken question that hung between them every time Yoongi left for his apartment, the one he now owned outright but that felt less and less like home with every passing night he spent in Jimin’s bed.

He hadn’t known how to say it. The words felt too big, too momentous. I’m ready to give up the last piece of my old, safe life and build a new one entirely with you.

He looked at the tiny, red poodle. It blinked slowly at him.

And an idea, ridiculous and perfect, bloomed in his mind.

Maybe he didn’t need words.

Twenty minutes later, Min Yoongi was walking home with a pet carrier in one hand and a bag of supplies from a frantic trip to the nearest pet store in the other. His heart was doing a strange, rhythmic thump against his ribs that had nothing to do with the weight of the bag.

He used his key card—the one Jimin had given him with a casual “for emergencies” that they both knew meant “for always”—and stepped into the quiet, cool air of the penthouse.

He set the carrier down gently in the middle of the vast living room floor and unlatched the door. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, a tiny, damp nose emerged, followed by two nervous eyes. The little poodle crept out, its steps hesitant on the polished concrete. It sat down, looked around the enormous, unfamiliar space, and then looked directly up at Yoongi as if to say, ‘Now what?’

The front door clicked open. Jimin, looking tired but satisfied from his trip, stepped inside, toeing off his designer loafers. “Hyung? You here? I told you to take a cab, you stubborn—”

He stopped. His eyes landed on Yoongi, then dropped to the small, red, fluffy creature sitting at Yoongi’s feet.

Jimin’s mouth fell open.

Yoongi shoved his hands in his pockets. “I, uh. I walked through the park.”