Chapter Text
The room was quiet, save for the faint scratching of Kim Namjoon’s pen against his notepad. The therapist sat in his chair, leaning forward slightly, his warm eyes scanning the room. His presence was steady, grounding even, but Jimin still felt the tension thrumming under his skin. Across from him was sitting stiffly on the couch his daughter Yuna, her arms crossed over her chest like a shield. Her expression was set in a pout, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere above the plush carpet. She looked so small, so vulnerable, and yet so impossibly distant.
“Yuna,” Namjoon began gently, his deep voice calm and soothing, “how have you been feeling since our last session?”
Yuna didn’t answer. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her little fingers curling tighter into the sleeves of her sweater.
Jimin bit the inside of his cheek, resisting the urge to speak. He knew Namjoon preferred to let Yuna answer in her own time, but the silence was unbearable.
“Take your time,” Namjoon encouraged, his tone patient. “There’s no rush. This is your space to share how you feel, in whatever way you’re comfortable.”
Still, Yuna said nothing.
Jimin exchanged a brief glance with Yoongi, who sat beside him. The alpha’s face was as unreadable as ever, his posture relaxed but his hands clasped tightly in his lap. To anyone else, he might have seemed indifferent, but Jimin knew him well enough to notice the subtle signs of tension - the slight furrow of his brow, the clench of his jaw.
“Yuna,” Jimin ventured softly, breaking the silence. “We’re here because we care about you. We want to understand what you’re feeling.”
Yuna’s shoulders stiffened, but she still didn’t look at him.
“Sweetheart,” Yoongi said, his deep voice quieter than usual. “Whatever it is, you can tell us. We’re not here to judge you. We’re here to listen.”
At that, Yuna finally looked up, her dark eyes flashing with anger. “You don’t listen,” she snapped, her voice high-pitched and trembling. “You never listened!”
The sharpness of her words felt like a slap. Jimin’s breath caught in his throat.
Namjoon leaned forward slightly, his expression calm but focused. “Yuna, can you tell us what makes you feel that way?”
Her glare shifted to Namjoon, but even his steady presence couldn’t soften her resistance. “It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, looking away again.
“It does matter,” Jimin said, his voice cracking slightly despite his best efforts to sound composed. “It matters to me. It matters to your appa.”
Yuna’s gaze darted to him for the briefest moment, but it was enough for Jimin to see the tears gathering in her eyes. “I hate this,” she whispered, her voice breaking.
“Yuna…” Yoongi began, but she cut him off.
“I hate coming here. I hate spending weekends with you. I hate everything!” She was yelling now, her small fists clenched at her sides. “I don’t want to be here! I don’t want to see you!”
Jimin felt his heart shatter into a thousand pieces. He looked to Namjoon, desperate for guidance, but the therapist didn’t intervene. Instead, Namjoon waited, giving Yuna the space to express herself fully.
“I hate you both,” she spat, her voice cracking with emotion. “You ruined everything!”
The room fell into a heavy silence. Jimin sat frozen, unable to breathe, as her words echoed in his mind. He wanted to say something, anything, to make it better, but no words came.
Yoongi exhaled slowly, his voice unusually gentle when he finally spoke. “We know you’re angry, Yuna. And you have every right to be. But please… don’t shut us out. We love you.”
Yuna’s lip trembled, and for a moment, it looked like she might say something more. But then she shook her head, her face crumpling as she buried it in her hands.
Namjoon leaned forward, his tone soft but steady. “Yuna, your feelings are valid, and it’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to be upset. But it’s also okay to let your parents in, little by little. They’re here because they care about you and want to make things better.”
Yuna didn’t respond.
When Namjoon finally dismissed the session, Yuna bolted from the room without another word, heading straight for Jimin’s mother, who was waiting outside.
Jimin stayed behind, his hands trembling in his lap. “She hates us,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
“She’s hurting,” Namjoon corrected gently, his gaze steady. “Anger is a way of protecting herself. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you. It just means she’s scared of being hurt again.”
Yoongi sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It doesn’t feel like love,” he muttered.
Namjoon gave them both a small, understanding smile. “Healing takes time. Keep showing up for her. That’s the most important thing you can do.”
As Jimin and Yoongi left the office together, walking in heavy silence, Jimin couldn’t shake the weight of Yuna’s words. He glanced at Yoongi, wondering if they’d ever find a way to mend the cracks in their fractured family - or if those cracks had grown too wide to bridge.
The omega hurried to his car. He slammed the door when he got inside. The soft hum of the car engine filled the silence as Jimin stared blankly out of the window, the world outside a blur of passing lights and muted colors. His hands rested in his lap, clenched tightly together as if trying to hold himself together. The therapy session had ended hours ago, but Yuna’s words - I hate you both - still rang in his ears.
It wasn’t the first time she’d said it, and he doubted it would be the last. But tonight, those words felt sharper, cutting deeper than ever before.
He exhaled shakily, his breath fogging up the window for a brief moment. His chest ached, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on him. It wasn’t just Yuna’s anger that hurt - it was the growing realization that he might have been the one to set all of this in motion.
Jimin’s mind drifted back to the past, to the time when he had been so sure that leaving Yoongi was the right decision. He remembered the endless nights spent waiting at the dinner table, the food growing cold as Yuna dozed off in her chair, and Yoongi’s chair sat empty.
He had been furious back then, convinced that Yoongi was neglecting them. Work always came first - always. There was always another meeting, another project, another emergency that couldn’t wait. Jimin had felt like an afterthought, and so had Yuna.
“I’m doing this for us,” Yoongi had said, his voice calm and resolute. “For our future.”
But Jimin hadn’t cared about the future. He cared about the present - the missed dinners, the forgotten anniversaries, the nights spent alone while their daughter asked why her appa wasn’t home. It had felt like too much to bear.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Jimin had said one night, his voice trembling with anger and exhaustion. “You’re not even here, Yoongi. You’re always at work. What’s the point of this marriage if you don’t care enough to show up?”
Yoongi’s expression had been unreadable, his silence stretching on for so long that Jimin had snapped. He had packed his things that same week, filing for divorce before he could second-guess himself.
At the time, he had thought it was the best decision for himself and Yuna. He couldn’t keep pretending everything was fine, couldn’t keep holding onto a marriage that felt so one-sided. He had convinced himself that they would both be better off – happier - without the constant tension and resentment hanging over their heads.
But now…
Jimin’s throat tightened as he thought about Yuna’s small, angry face, her tearful accusations. You ruined everything.
Had he really been doing the right thing for her? Or had he only been thinking about himself?
He hadn’t considered how the divorce would shatter her little world, hadn’t thought about how she would feel torn between two parents who couldn’t stand to be in the same room. He had been so focused on his own pain, his own anger, that he had overlooked the person who mattered most.
“I thought I was protecting her,” he whispered to himself, his voice breaking. “But maybe… maybe I was just running away.”
The realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He had been so sure back then, so certain that leaving Yoongi was the only way to move forward. But now, all he could see were the cracks he had left behind - the pieces of their family that no amount of therapy could fully put back together.
Tears blurred his vision, and Jimin quickly wiped them away, his fingers trembling. He didn’t want to cry - not now, not when everything already felt so fragile. But the doubts wouldn’t stop creeping in, whispering to him in the quiet moments: Did you think about Yuna at all?
He let out a shaky breath, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the window. For the first time in years, he wasn’t sure if he had done the right thing.
And that uncertainty terrified him.
+++
The familiar creak of the apartment door closing behind him did nothing to ease the ache in Jimin's chest. The silence inside felt louder than the chaos in his mind. He dropped his keys into the ceramic dish by the entrance with a soft clink, his body moving on autopilot as he kicked off his shoes and padded into the living room.
The place felt cold. Empty. He hated how big it felt without Yuna's laughter filling the space, without the soft sounds of her cartoons in the background. His gaze drifted toward the framed photo on the side table - Yuna, barely six years old, grinning with two missing front teeth, sitting between him and Yoongi on a park bench. It felt like a lifetime ago.
"Fuck," Jimin whispered, dragging his hand through his hair, the tension coiling tighter in his chest. The therapy session had drained him, but his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. Yuna’s angry voice echoed endlessly in his ears - You ruined everything.
Before he could drown in his thoughts, he reached for his phone. His thumb hovered over one contact before pressing the call button.
Taehyung answered on the second ring. “Minnie?” His voice, warm and familiar, was laced with concern. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
Jimin let out a shaky breath, his voice tight. “Therapy was… bad. Yuna…” His throat closed up, and he stopped himself, swallowing down the wave of emotion. “I just… I feel like I can’t breathe, Tae.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Taehyung’s voice, gentle but firm: “You need to get out of your head, Jiminie. You’ve been carrying this on your shoulders for so long. You should go out. Clear your mind. Maybe have a drink. Hell,” Jimin could almost hear his teasing grin through the phone, “find someone hot and get laid. That always helps.”
Jimin let out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Tae…”
“What?” Taehyung teased, though his tone stayed light. “It’s been three years, Jimin. You deserve to have some fun.”
Jimin’s thumb pressed against the mark on his neck instinctively. The raised skin tingled beneath his touch, and his smile faded.
He swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I can’t.”
Taehyung immediately softened, understanding seeping into his voice. “Jimin-ah…”
“I…” Jimin hesitated, his fingers still grazing the mating mark. “It’s still there. His mark. And it still…” His voice wavered. “It still burns.”
The line was quiet for a long moment, and then Taehyung spoke, his voice gentle but certain. “That’s because you never let yourself heal, Jimin. You’ve been carrying this pain, pretending you’re fine, but you’re not. And that’s okay. But you deserve to breathe. Just… let yourself breathe for one night. No pressure. Just you and the night.”
Jimin closed his eyes, letting the warmth of his best friend’s voice ease some of the knots inside him. “You’re right,” he admitted softly, his voice barely audible. “I don’t want to,” he hesitated, his fingers ghosting over the mark once more. “I can’t be with someone else. Not yet. But… I think I do need to get out of here before I drown in my own head.”
Taehyung’s smile was audible. “That’s the spirit. Go out. Have a drink. Dance. Live a little. And if anything happens, text me, and I’ll come rescue you from whatever disaster you cause.”
Jimin laughed softly, the first real laugh he had felt all day. “Thanks, Tae. I mean it.”
“You don’t have to. I’ll always be here.”
So… he did go out.
The music pulsed through the air, a steady, rhythmic thrum that Jimin felt in his bones the moment he stepped inside. The scent of alcohol, leather, and the faint trace of pheromones hung thick in the air, but he barely registered it.
He moved toward the bar, his fingers brushing against the smooth wood of the counter as he slid onto a stool. “Whiskey. Neat,” he ordered softly, his voice barely audible over the music.
The glass of whiskey in Jimin’s hand trembled slightly as he stared into its amber depths. The bar was loud, filled with the hum of chatter and the clinking of glasses, but it all felt distant—like he was underwater, everything muffled and distorted. His head was still spinning from the therapy session earlier. Why does she hate me? Why does she hate us? Yuna’s words echoed in his mind, sharp and unrelenting. He took another sip, the burn in his throat grounding him, if only for a moment.
He shouldn’t have come here. He knew that. But the silence of his apartment felt suffocating, and the walls seemed to close in on him with every passing second. He needed noise, distraction, anything to drown out the guilt gnawing at his chest. He was on his third drink now, and the edges of the world were starting to blur. Maybe that’s a good thing, he thought bitterly.
And then he saw him.
Yoongi.
Jimin froze, his glass halfway to his lips. The alpha was leaning against the bar, head tilted back as he laughed at something the bartender said. His hair was messy, his cheeks flushed - he’d been drinking too. Jimin’s chest tightened. That same crooked smile, that same sharp jawline, that same air of effortless confidence that had always driven Jimin crazy.
He shouldn’t have looked. He knew he shouldn’t have looked. But his eyes betrayed him, lingering a moment too long, and suddenly Yoongi’s gaze snapped to his. Their eyes met, and Jimin’s breath hitched.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The noise of the bar seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in a bubble of silence. Jimin’s heart pounded in his chest, his grip on the glass tightening. He felt like he’d been caught doing something wrong, even though he hadn’t done anything at all.
And then Yoongi was walking toward him.
Jimin’s stomach dropped. He wanted to run, to disappear, but his feet were rooted to the spot. Yoongi stopped just a few feet away, his expression unreadable. “Jimin,” he said, his voice low and rough.
“Yoongi,” Jimin replied, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to steady it.
There was a beat of silence, heavy and charged. They stared at each other, neither of them willing to look away. “What are you doing here?” Yoongi asked finally, his tone neutral, but there was an edge to it that made Jimin’s skin prickle.
“I could ask you the same thing,” the omega shot back, his voice sharper than he’d intended.
Yoongi’s lips twitched into a smirk, but there was no warmth in it. “I asked first.”
“I’m having a drink,” Jimin said, lifting his glass as if to prove his point. “What’s it to you?”
Yoongi’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step closer. “Don’t play dumb. You know what this is about.”
Jimin’s chest tightened. “Yuna,” he said quietly.
Yoongi’s jaw clenched, and he looked away for a moment before meeting Jimin’s gaze again. “Yeah. Yuna.”
The air between them crackled with tension. Jimin could feel it, thick and suffocating. He wanted to say something – anything - to break it, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he took a shaky sip of his drink, the whiskey doing little to calm his nerves.
“She hates us,” the alpha said after a moment, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jimin flinched. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth,” Yoongi snapped, his voice rising. “She hates us, and we did this to her. We did this.”
Jimin’s chest ached. He wanted to argue, to defend himself, but he couldn’t. Because Yoongi was right. “What do you want me to say, Yoongi?” he asked, his voice trembling. He was feeling slightly tipsy. His mind was getting into a fog and he wasn’t even sure why he wanted to be honest with Yoongi. The man, the alpha who had caused his big heartbreak. “That I’m sorry? Because I am. I’m so sorry. But it’s too late. It’s too fucking late.”
Yoongi’s eyes blazed, and he stepped even closer, so close that Jimin could feel the heat radiating off him. “It’s never too late,” he said, his voice low and fierce.
Jimin’s breath caught in his throat. “Yoongi—”
And then Yoongi’s lips were on his.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet. It was raw and desperate, a collision of pent-up anger and longing that had been simmering beneath the surface for years. Jimin’s mind went blank. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. All he could do was kiss back, his hands fisting in Yoongi’s shirt as if he might disappear if he let go.
Yoongi’s tongue slipped into his mouth, and Jimin moaned, the sound swallowed by the kiss. His body was on fire, every nerve alight with sensation. It had been so long—too long—since he’d felt like this. Since he’d felt wanted. Since he’d felt whole.
But then reality came crashing back, and Jimin pulled away, gasping for air. “Alpha, we can’t—we shouldn’t—”
“Why not?” Yoongi demanded, his voice rough. “Why the hell not, Jimin-ah? We’re both here. We’re both hurting. Why can’t we just—”
“Because it’s not going to fix anything,” Jimin interrupted, his voice breaking. “It’s just going to make it worse.”
Yoongi’s eyes searched his face, and for a moment, Jimin thought he might argue. But then Yoongi’s expression softened, and he reached up to brush a strand of hair out of Jimin’s face. “Maybe it won’t fix anything,” he said quietly. “But it might make us feel better. Even if it’s just for a little while.”
Jimin’s resolve wavered. He knew it was a bad idea. He knew he’d regret it in the morning. But right now, with Yoongi’s lips still tingling against his own, he didn’t care. All he wanted was to feel something other than the guilt and pain that had been consuming him for so long.
“Jimin-ah,” Yoongi murmured, his voice a low whisper. “Tell me you want this.”
Jimin’s heart raced. He wanted it. He wanted it more than anything. But admitting it out loud felt like opening a door he wasn’t ready to step through. “Yoongi—”
“Tell me,” Yoongi insisted, his eyes burning into Jimin’s.
Jimin swallowed hard. “I want it,” he whispered. “I want you.”
The words were barely out of his mouth before Yoongi was kissing him again, this time with even more urgency. Jimin melted into it, his body responding instinctively to the familiar touch. Yoongi’s hands were everywhere—in his hair, on his waist, sliding down to grip his hips—and Jimin couldn’t get enough.
Their lips didn’t part as Yoongi backed him toward the wall, pressing him against it with a force that made Jimin’s head spin. His hands scrambled to find purchase, fingers digging into Yoongi’s shoulders as he clung to him. “Fuck, Yoon,” he gasped, his voice trembling. “I—I missed this. I missed you.”
Yoongi’s breath hitched, and he pulled back just enough to look at Jimin, his eyes dark with desire. “I missed you too,” he murmured, his voice rough. “So fucking much.”
Their lips crashed together again, and this time there was no hesitation, no holding back. Every movement was charged with need, every touch electric. Jimin’s body was on fire, every nerve alight with sensation. He could feel Yoongi’s arousal pressing against him, and it only fueled his own desire. “Yoongi,” he moaned, his voice breaking. “Please.”
Yoongi didn’t need to be told twice. His hands were on Jimin’s belt, fumbling with the buckle before yanking it open. Jimin’s pants were around his ankles in seconds, followed by his boxers. The cool air hit his skin, and he shivered, but Yoongi’s body was warm against his, grounding him.
“Fuck, Jimin-ah,” Yoongi growled, his voice low and raspy. “You’re still so fucking perfect.”
Jimin’s breath hitched, and he reached for Yoongi’s belt, his hands trembling. “You too,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
They didn’t speak after that. Words weren’t necessary. Their bodies moved together as if no time had passed, as if they’d never been apart. Yoongi’s hands were everywhere - on his thighs, his hips, his ass - and Jimin couldn’t get enough. He wanted to feel everything, to remember every touch, every kiss, every thrust.
And then Yoongi was inside him, and the world fell away. There was nothing but the two of them, nothing but the heat and the friction and the overwhelming sensation of being connected again. Jimin moaned, his head falling back against the wall as Yoongi moved inside him, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure through his body.
“Fuck, alpha,” he gasped, his voice trembling. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
Yoongi’s grip on his hips tightened, and he leaned in, his lips brushing against Jimin’s ear. “I’m not going to stop,” he murmured, his voice rough. “Not until you’re begging for more.”
Jimin’s breath caught in his throat, and he clung to Yoongi, his body trembling with need. “Then make me beg,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The alpha’s lips curved into a smirk, and he pressed in deeper, hitting that spot that made Jimin’s vision go white. “Oh, I will,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “I fucking will.”
The room was still spinning, just a little, when Jimin’s eyes fluttered open. His body felt heavy, limbs tangled in sheets that smelled faintly of him. Yoongi. Memories of the night came crashing back—his lips, his hands, his voice growling promises into the curve of Jimin’s neck. The heat of it all still lingered on his skin, a phantom caress that made his breath hitch.
He shifted slightly, wincing at the soreness that radiated from his lower back, a reminder of how many times Yoongi had knotted him. Too many times, he thought, though his body almost seemed to hum with satisfaction at the thought. He turned his head slightly, and there he was—Yoongi, still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His hair was a mess, splayed across the pillow, and even in sleep, he looked impossibly calm, almost serene.
Jimin’s stomach twisted.
He shouldn’t have let it happen. He shouldn’t have. But Yoongi had been there, drunk and raw, his eyes dark with something Jimin hadn’t seen in years. And when he’d said, “I’ve never stopped wanting you, Jimin-ah. Not once,” it had felt like a wrecking ball to the walls Jimin had spent so long building.
And then Yoongi had kissed him, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to prove every one of those words.
Jimin sat up slowly, careful not to disturb Yoongi. The room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. The first rays of dawn filtered through the curtains, casting a pale gold light across the bed. He glanced down at himself, at the marks Yoongi had left—bruises on his hips, bite marks on his shoulders. Each one a reminder of how completely he’d given in.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet touching the cold floor. The chill grounded him, sharpened his thoughts. What the hell did I just do?
He stood, his legs trembling slightly as he reached for his clothes, scattered across the floor in a trail that marked their desperate rush to get to the bed. He pulled them on quickly, his movements hurried, as if staying any longer would mean admitting something he wasn’t ready to face.
His eyes flicked back to Yoongi, still asleep, still so achingly familiar. Jimin’s chest tightened, and he forced himself to look away. This was a mistake. A huge, fucking mistake.
He grabbed his phone from the nightstand, glancing at the screen. No missed calls. No messages. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.
The door creaked softly as he opened it, and he froze, half-expecting Yoongi to wake up, to call out for him. But the room remained silent, the only sound the rhythmic breathing of the man who had once been his everything.
Jimin stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The air felt colder out here, and he wrapped his arms around himself, as if that could ward off the chill—and the regret that was already gnawing at the edges of his mind.
He moved quickly, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, none of them coherent, none of them helpful. What does this mean? What happens now? Do we pretend it never happened? Do we talk about it?
He shook his head, as if he could physically dislodge the questions. It was just sex. That’s all. Just two people who used to be in love, drunk and lonely and stupid.
Jimin stepped out into the cool morning air, the sky still painted in soft hues of pink and orange. He took a deep breath, the crispness of it sharp in his lungs. Down the street, a car passed by, its headlights cutting through the dim light.
He started walking, his steps slow at first, then quicker, as if he could outpace the thoughts chasing him. What about Yuna? What about everything we’ve been through? What about the fact that we’re supposed to hate each other?
He stopped abruptly, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. This was a mistake. A huge, fucking mistake.
But even as he thought it, his body betrayed him, the memory of Yoongi’s hands on his skin, his lips against his neck, his voice growling in his ear—it was all still there, seared into him like a brand. Jimin closed his eyes, forcing himself to take another deep breath. It was just sex. That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.
But the lie felt hollow, even to himself. He started walking again, his pace quicker now. He needed to get out of here…