Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There wasn't a single soul in South Korea, maybe even the world, who hadn’t heard the name Min Yoongi. Or, as the music industry knew him: SUGA.

The genius. The legend.

A name that echoes in every studio, every streaming chart, every award show stage. The producer of the decade. The voice behind the most gut-wrenching lyrics and the beat that has launched a thousand careers.

His songs are inescapable, even if you aren’t a fan. His hooks get stuck in your head like a curse, his beats pound in your chest like a second heartbeat. 

They call him “The Hand of Midas” because if Min Yoongi touched your song, it was a hit before it even dropped.

People don’t just respect him. They study him. Emulate him. And most of all, they stay the hell out of his way.

He’s not just a producer. He’s the phenomenon.

He composes, produces, raps, writes, spits verses that sting like truth, every beat purposeful. A true one-man powerhouse.

His lyrics are fire and fury, love and war, wrapped in gritted teeth and carefully crafted pain. His songs aren't just songs, they're statements. Loud, raw, unapologetic.

He doesn’t hide behind metaphors. He doesn’t pretty things up. His music is laced with fury against the hypocrisy of the industry, nepotism, capitalism, discrimination, corruption. He calls out the system like he isn’t a part of it. That’s why they feared him. That’s why they respected him.

Min Yoongi didn’t do fake smiles. He didn’t sweet-talk reporters. He didn’t entertain ass-kissing rookies who wanted a piece of his fame.

He chews up scandals and spits them out into platinum records.

There’s a reason no one messes with Min Yoongi.

He’s sharp-tongued. Intimidating. He speaks only when he has something to say, and when he speaks, the room shuts up. No one can tell if he’s being respectful or seconds from telling you to fuck off, and honestly, no one wants to find out.

He’s a dominant alpha, and the kind who doesn’t use his scent or his presence to prove it. His aura alone does the work. 

He doesn’t do social dinners. He doesn't do polite fake laughs on variety shows. He doesn’t play the game the industry tries to trap people in.

Because Yoongi doesn’t need the industry. The industry needs him.

He keeps to himself. He’s got exactly two people in his circle: Jung Hoseok, his loud-mouthed golden retriever of a friend, and Kim Namjoon, the only other person alive who can go toe to toe with him intellectually.

Everyone else? Accessories. Background noise. He doesn’t have time for them. Hell, he barely had time to breathe between projects.

But when the pressure builds in his skull like a migraine that won't quit, when the music gets too loud even for him, when his headphones start feeling like a noose and deadlines scream through his skull, Yoongi gives himself one rule:

One night to forget. To relax. 

He throws on his mask and bucket hat, leaves the studio lights behind, and disappears into the dim, pulsing world of Seoul’s nightclubs. 

Always following the same pattern. He sits at the bar, nurses a drink he never finishes, lets the bass thud through his bones until someone bold enough comes up to him.

He never approached first.

He didn’t need to.

People came to him—drawn by the aura, the mystery, the quiet arrogance that said he doesn’t give a fuck who you are. 

If you are hot enough, bold enough, and don’t try to kiss him, maybe you’ll get lucky for the night.

Min Yoongi doesn’t kiss.

He doesn’t cuddle. He doesn’t stay. No names, no numbers.

If they ask for more, he walks away. If they want something emotional, something permanent, he shuts it down with a look colder than his words.

Because Yoongi has no time for feelings. He barely has time for himself.

He lived for his music only. There was no room in his life for anyone else.

And that’s how he likes it.

-

It took months of relentless performances, award shows, interviews, talk shows, radio segments, and overseas schedules to finally wrap up the promotion cycle for his latest album.

Exhausting? Yes.

Worth it? Absolutely.

Yoongi was drained to the bone, but there was a quiet, grim satisfaction in that exhaustion. He had poured his soul into the album—every verse, every beat—and sharing it with the world was what made the fatigue bearable.

He talked about his creative process in interviews with a sharp kind of pride, dissecting rhythms and metaphors like they were instruments on an operating table. But the second anyone tried to peel back the curtain of his personal life?

They were shut down with a glare cold enough to stop a broadcast mid-air.

Because Min Yoongi and soft didn’t belong in the same damn sentence.

The night of the final show ended like it always did: with a few quiet drinks shared with Namjoon and Hoseok—the only two people who could sit beside Yoongi and not require him to be anything other than himself.

No big parties. No champagne-fueled fake toasts. No fake smiles for the cameras. Just the three of them, heads bowed over half-empty glasses, still talking about music. Always music. Because Yoongi didn’t talk about anything else.

And even after weeks spent living in the studio, when he finally stumbled into his penthouse, he didn’t feel like he was back home.

Truth was, he hadn’t called this place home in a long time.

The studio was his home. The blinking lights, the hum of the soundboard, the echo of a freshly dropped beat—that’s where he belonged.

But Namjoon and Hoseok had insisted. Practically shoved him into a cab with a duffel bag and told him to sleep in a proper bed for one night before diving into his next project.

Because they knew him. Knew that if left to his own devices, Yoongi would start producing again the next morning. Not because anyone asked him to—but because he didn’t know how to stop.

He didn’t believe in peace.

Peace meant silence.

Silence meant stillness.

And stillness meant you were either dead or creatively bankrupt.

And Min Yoongi didn’t have time for either.

The moment he got home, he tossed his jacket over the arm of the couch, peeled off his shirt, and dragged himself to the bedroom. The sheets were cold. Of course they were. The room felt like a hotel more than a home, stale, impersonal and too clean.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

His fingers kept twitching for a pencil, for his phone, for something to sketch out the melody stuck in his head. He scribbled half a hook into his notebook, recorded a whisper of harmony on a voice memo, and stared at the ceiling like it owed him answers.

Eventually, exhaustion won. And his eyes slipped shut somewhere around 4AM.

But then the knock came early.

Maybe not early for others, but early for someone who had fallen asleep just a couple of hours ago.

He didn’t hear the first knock. Too deep in the kind of sleep that only comes when you haven’t had any in days.

But the second?

The third?

Knock. Knock. Knock.

He finally stirred with a groan, dragging a hand across his face. His head throbbed, not from drinking, but from the burnout and lack of sleep. 

Who the hell was knocking on Min Yoongi’s door this early?

Hoseok would’ve texted.

Namjoon would’ve called.

His manager? Too afraid of him to try something this stupid.

He sat up slowly, joints aching like a man twice his age, bare feet hit the cold floor as he shuffled toward the door. His brain was still fogged over with sleep and the residue of half-finished melodies. The only thing he was certain of was that whoever was behind that door was going to regret it.

He yanked the door open, half-ready to rip someone’s head off.

And froze.

Because standing there, in the hallway of his high-security penthouse, was a little boy.

Maybe five. Six at most.

Tiny. Serious. Ridiculously calm.

A hoodie far too big for his body, sleeves swallowing his hands. A little dinosaur backpack strapped tight over his shoulders. Another space theme suitcase beside him, one that looked nearly the same size as him. And in one hand? A star shaped plushie that he hugged dear to his chest. 

Yoongi blinked.

The kid blinked right back.

He was just standing there like he belonged. Like it wasn’t 8 in the morning and he hadn’t just knocked on a literal superstar’s front door.

“…You lost?” Yoongi asked, voice thick from sleep. He craned his neck, eyes scanning the hallway, expecting to see a frantic parent or even a hidden camera crew who're trying to film a prank on him. 

The kid shook his head, lips pressed into a line. “No.”

Yoongi ran a slow hand down his face. “Okay… so where are your parents?”

The child didn’t hesitate.

“I’m here to see you.”

“…What?” Yoongi deadpanned. The child was too young to be a sasaeng, surely.

The kid shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because you’re my Appa.”

Yoongi stared at the child. His first thought was to laugh.

But something made him pause. There was something unsettlingly familiar about the kid.

Pale skin. That sharp jaw. Thick dark lashes. The mischievous glint. The way his little lips curled in the same way Yoongi’s did when he was about to say something blunt to an interviewer. The little wrinkle in the brow that could slice through granite. 

And those eyes—those eyes were unmistakably HIS. 

The kid stared back without blinking, hugging his star plushie like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on Min Yoongi’s entire life.

“…What the fu—”

Chapter Text

“…What the fu—”

Yoongi cut himself off mid-curse.

The child gave him a judgmental side-eye, ‘his’ judgmental side-eye. That very same flat, disapproving stare Yoongi reserved for dumb reporters and corporate executives. It was unsettling to see it reflected so perfectly on a tiny face.

He just stood there, staring in disbelief. He tried shaking his head, pinching his arm, even slapping his cheek.

But nope. The boy was still there, wide-eyed and eerily calm, with unmistakably his dark eyes.

Either he was hallucinating from sleep deprivation, maybe the brutal schedule had finally fried the last working neuron in his genius brain. Or some divine force was playing a cruel joke on him. And Yoongi didn’t believe in either gods or coincidences.

But the kid didn’t disappear.

He stayed right there, steady as ever, looking up at him with the blank-faced confidence only toddlers or sociopaths had. And Yoongi was seriously starting to consider which one this boy was.

He hadn’t even drunk enough to blame it on alcohol.

“I must still be dreaming,” Yoongi muttered.

“You’re not,” the boy replied, ever-helpful.

Of course not.

Yoongi’s mouth opened, then closed again. Nothing came out. His brain stalled somewhere between this can’t be happening and I’m about to get sued for kidnapping if someone sees this kid standing here.

The kid raised a brow, unimpressed. “Appa, are you gonna let me in? Or do you always leave your child in the hallway?”

Yoongi's brain shut down completely. 

Appa.

Appa.

Appa?

That word did something strange to his chest. A flicker. A twitch. A pang. Something foreign, unwelcome and completely unwanted. Yoongi didn’t do feelings—especially not the messy kind. He did beats and bars—not fatherhood.

“I’m not your appa!” Yoongi sputtered.

But the boy had already brushed past him like he owned the damn place. His suitcase rolled behind him with a soft rattle, the wheels clicking on the floor.

“Hey—wait!” Yoongi reached out and grabbed the suitcase handle to stop him.

The boy turned around and gave him that look. The one that made people sweat in interviews. The one Yoongi had spent years perfecting.

Now he understood why people were scared of him.

“I need to check it first,” Yoongi muttered, pointing to the suitcase and backpack. “Could be a trap. Or maybe you’re a sasaeng spy. Maybe someone made you get surgery to look like me.”

Like a child this small can get plastic surgery. 

The boy didn't seem offended. He just shrugged and dropped both the suitcase and bag at the doorway before strolling into the apartment like he’d lived there his entire life.

He plopped down on the couch and hugged his star-shaped plushie to his chest, waiting for Yoongi like this was completely normal.

Yoongi hesitated at the door. Should he check the luggage or interrogate the kid first?

He chose the latter.

He followed into the living room, tension knotting in his shoulders.

“You’ll catch a cold,” the boy said, eyes flicking up and down Yoongi’s bare chest like he was the adult here.

Yoongi glanced down. Right. He was still shirtless.

“I’ve got a better immune system than you,” he muttered, scoffing.

“Debatable.”

“Smartass,” Yoongi muttered under his breath.

“I heard that.”

Yoongi rubbed his temple, already feeling a headache coming on. 

“Okay, enough. Now tell me—who are you, really? Who sent you? Was it Joon? Hobi? Is this some sick prank? Because if it is, I swear I’m going to end both of them.”

“I already told you,” the kid said with a sigh that was far too world-weary for someone under four feet tall. “You’re my appa.”

Yoongi groaned, dragging a hand through his hair like he was ready to rip it out. He hadn’t even had coffee yet. He hadn’t slept. He had no patience. And now he had a mini-human claiming to be his child sitting on his couch like this was a normal Tuesday.

“What’s your name?” Yoongi finally asked, deciding to approach this like a rational adult.

The boy smiled proudly, like he was announcing something world-shattering. “Byeol. ’Cause I’m a star.”

Yoongi blinked. Then blinked again, slower this time, like his brain was lagging.

“Byeol,” he repeated flatly, the syllables tasting like defeat in his mouth. “You’re named after a damn celestial object?”

The kid just beamed at him, clearly pleased with himself. Like he expected applause.

Byeol. Star.

Of course some tiny menace destined to wreck his life would have a name that dramatic.

Yoongi dragged a hand down his face, groaning into his palm. “Should’ve named you Trouble instead,” he muttered under his breath.

Byeol just kept smiling, like he heard him.

“Last name?” Yoongi pushed, desperate for something, 'anything' that made sense.

Byeol only offered that same mischievous, evil little smile.

“That’s not important.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes. “Then who’s your omega parent?”

Byeol tilted his head, amused. “That’s for you to figure out.”

Yoongi squinted. “Aren’t you too young to talk in riddles?”

“I learned from the best.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Byeol looked up at him again, eyes clear and steady. There was something in that gaze—something far too knowing for a five-year-old. Like he’d seen the world, judged it, and found it lacking.

Yoongi stared at him, genuinely unsettled now.

This wasn’t just some prank. No sasaeng would go this far. No child actor could pull off this level of deadpan sarcasm and stare him down like they were equals. And the way Byeol spoke—like he already knew everything, like Yoongi was the one catching up--? 

Yeah. This kid was dangerous.

“You’re way too comfortable for someone who just broke into a stranger’s home,” Yoongi muttered.

“I knocked,” Byeol said, stretching his little legs out over the couch. “You opened the door. That’s not breaking in.”

Smart-ass.

“What do you want me to do?” Yoongi tried to ask again, hoping for an answer that's not cryptic. “You say I’m your appa. Fine. Let’s say I believe you. What now? Where’s your other parent? Did they just dump you here?”

Byeol tilted his head, thinking. “They said you needed to know. That it was time.”

“Time for what?” Yoongi asked, more frustrated now.

The boy shrugged again. “To grow up, I guess.”

Yoongi let out a dry laugh. “I’m thirty-three. I’ve been grown.”

Byeol just gave him a look. Like he’d said something stupid. Again.

Yoongi was one minute away from a full-blown breakdown and he didn’t even break down when he lost an entire hard drive of unreleased tracks or when he was forced to perform live after pulling an all-nighter. But this? A pint-sized menace claiming to be his child?

This was different.

If it were an adult, he’d be yelling by now. He’d be throwing things. He’d be demanding answers until they cracked. But what do you even do when your opponent is a demon child with your face and zero fear? There were no rules for this.

And Yoongi, "genius, producer, rapper, legend", was completely and utterly clueless when it came to kids.

He couldn't be this boy’s father. Sure, Byeol looked like a carbon copy of his childhood photos. Sure, he glared the same. Talked the same. Scoffed the same. But that didn’t mean anything, right? Genetics couldn’t be that obvious. Right?

He needed help. Immediately.

Yoongi got up, already walking toward his bedroom.

“Where are you going, Appa?” Byeol asked innocently.

But there was nothing innocent about this child, except maybe his ridiculously round cheeks.

“Stop calling me Appa,” Yoongi snapped.

“Whatever you say, Appa,” Byeol chirped, stretching out on the couch like he owned it.

Yoongi groaned, snatching his shirt and then phone from the nightstand like it had personally offended him. He jabbed at Namjoon’s contact and waited.

The line picked up after a few rings.

“Hyung—” Namjoon’s voice came through, groggy. “What time is it…? Why are you calling so early? Who’s dead?”

“I don’t have time to explain,” Yoongi hissed. “Just get to my place. And bring Hobi.”

“What—why? Are you okay?”

“Namjoon.” Yoongi’s voice dropped into that dangerous, no-questions growl. “Just get here. Bring. Hobi. And don’t ask questions.”

There was a pause.

“…Okay. We’re on our way.”

Yoongi hung up without saying goodbye.

He walked back into the living room to find Byeol exactly where he left him, now lying down, plushie tucked under his chin, remote in hand. Somehow, the TV was on and blasting cartoons.

Yoongi glared. He thought this demon child watched serial killer documentaries for fun.

“You called backup?” Byeol asked without looking up.

Yoongi stared at him, exhausted. “You’re five. You’re not supposed to know what backup is.”

Byeol shrugged. “I’m advanced.”

Of course he was.

Yoongi collapsed into the armchair across from the couch, rubbing his temples. “This is a nightmare.”

“Nope,” Byeol said cheerfully, stretching. “This is your life now, appa.”

It took about thirty minutes for the doorbell to ring.

Yoongi had spent that time pacing the living room like a caged animal, throwing anxious glances at the demon child on his couch every thirty seconds to make sure he hadn’t suddenly shapeshifted into something even worse.

He was too afraid to even sit next to him on the couch. 

Meanwhile, Byeol had made himself perfectly at home, plushie tucked under one arm, one of Yoongi’s throw blankets draped around him, watching cartoons like he paid rent.

When the doorbell rang, Yoongi practically sprinted to answer it.

Namjoon and Hoseok stood outside, bleary-eyed, half-dressed for the cold. Namjoon had a beanie shoved low over his hair, and Hoseok still had a sleep line creasing one cheek.

“Yoongi, what the hell—” Namjoon started, but Yoongi didn’t let him finish.

“Get in,” Yoongi snapped, grabbing them both by the sleeves and yanking them inside before slamming the door shut.

Their eyes immediately caught on the small space-themed suitcase and dinosaur backpack sitting by the entrance. Both of them stiffened, glancing at each other, confusion blooming fast.

“What the—” Hoseok started.

Yoongi just pointed, face dead serious. “There.”

Namjoon and Hoseok turned to look—and froze.

From the couch, Byeol peeked up, his tiny head barely visible over the backrest, hair flopping into his eyes. Completely unfazed, he lifted a small hand and gave them a cheerful little wave.

“Hi,” he said sweetly.

“...Holy shit,” Hoseok whispered, staring like he’d seen a ghost.

“Yoongi—why do you have a child in your house?!”

He looked at Yoongi like he fully expected the police to bust down the door any second.

Namjoon blinked, then squinted, then blinked again harder.

“What the f—” he caught himself, darting a quick glance at the kid. “What… what is happening? And—”

He stepped closer, squinting harder.

“Why does he look exactly like you?”

“That's what I’m trying to figure out," Yoongi snapped, throwing his hands in the air.

"He knocked on my door at eight in the goddamn morning. With a suitcase. Called me Appa. Walked right in like he owns the place.”

Namjoon stepped even closer, crouching to get a better look at Byeol's face. Hoseok hovered nervously behind him, like the kid might bite.

Byeol stared back calmly, swinging his little legs against the couch like he hadn’t just turned Yoongi’s entire life upside down.

Namjoon turned his head slowly to Yoongi, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Yoongi. That’s literally your face. Just… smaller."

"I know," Yoongi hissed, scrubbing at his temples. "You think I don’t see it?!”

Hoseok edged a little closer too, peering at Byeol like he was inspecting a cursed object.

“He even has your scowl,” Hoseok said weakly. “And your resting ‘I hate everything’ face. How is this possible?”

Byeol gave them a mock glare—sharp, unimpressed, and devastatingly familiar. It was so perfectly Yoongi that Hoseok stumbled back a step like he’d been slapped.

“Oh my God,” Hoseok breathed. “It’s you. It’s literally you. Mini you.”

“Don’t encourage him,”Yoongi growled.

“What’s his name?” Namjoon asked slowly.

“Byeol,” Yoongi muttered, crossing his arms. “No last name. Won’t tell me who his omega parent is. Just keeps saying cryptic shit like ‘that’s for you to figure out.’”

Namjoon looked at Yoongi. Then at Byeol. Then back to Yoongi.

“Hyung… you seriously didn’t know you made a mini you?” he asked cautiously.

Yoongi threw his arms up.

“Do I look like I have a secret child?!”

Byeol, still comfy on the couch, raised his hand. “I'm right here.”

“You don’t count!” Yoongi barked before immediately realizing how insane he sounded.

“Appa yells a lot,” Byeol said from the couch. 

“Stop calling me Appa!”

“Appa’s in denial,” Byeol added helpfully.

Namjoon covered his mouth, clearly trying not to laugh. Hobi, unfortunately, failed. He burst out laughing so hard he had to sit down.

“Oh my god. Yoongi. You’re a dad.”

“I’m not.”

“Appa,” Hobi said dramatically, wiping tears from his eyes. “He’s got your resting bitch face and everything.”

“Kill me,” Yoongi muttered, collapsing onto the nearest chair.

Namjoon exhaled slowly. “Okay. Real talk. We need to figure out where he came from, who left him here, and if there’s any actual evidence that he’s yours.”

“Should we get a DNA test?” Hobi asked.

“Already ordered a home kit,” Yoongi grumbled. “No way I'm stepping outside with this little gremlin.”

Byeol gave him a deeply offended look that said I heard that.

“And if you did, you'd be headline news. ‘Rapper Min Yoongi: Secret Child Revealed’,”Hoseok added more to Yoongi's trauma. 

“That's enough,” Yoongi growled, shooting him a sharp glare.

Namjoon leaned in, more serious now.

“Hyung, you really don’t know who his omega parent could be? Like... no guesses?”

“Joon, I don’t keep a list of my one-night stands. And I always use protection.” Yoongi dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“How am I supposed to remember someone from six years ago? I barely remember what I did last month.”

“Maybe look closer at Byeol's face,” Namjoon suggested. “See if it resembles someone?”

Yoongi glared at him.

“He’s a carbon copy of me. Head to toe. No flicker of anyone else.”

Namjoon frowned thoughtfully.

“I’m wondering,” he said slowly, “how the hell they managed to keep him hidden for so long.”

Yoongi said nothing, he just slumped back in the chair, glaring at the ceiling like it had personally wronged him.

Meanwhile, Byeol happily hummed to himself, flipping through TV channels with Yoongi’s remote like he owned the place.

Namjoon, ever the peacekeeper, decided to try and get answers. He crouched in front of the couch carefully, like he was approaching either a stray animal or a live grenade.

“Byeol,” he said gently, “can we ask you a few questions?”

Byeol glanced up from where he was playing with his star plushie's ears. “You can try.”

Hoseok choked on a laugh. Yoongi slapped a hand over his face.

Namjoon, ignoring them both, pressed on. “Okay, sweetheart. So… when did you last see your omega parent?”

Byeol blinked. “This morning.”

“Where?” Namjoon asked, flipping open a notebook like he was about to open a case file.

Byeol shrugged. “On the way here.”

“Did they walk with you?”

“Nope.”

Namjoon paused, clearly baffled. “So... you walked here alone?”

“No.”

Namjoon blinked. “Then how did you get here?”

Byeol only smiled cryptically and went back to playing with his plushie.

Namjoon gave Yoongi a helpless look. Yoongi just pointed at Byeol like you see what I’m dealing with?

Trying again, Namjoon softened his voice even more. “Do you remember what your omega parent looked like?”

Byeol blinked slowly. “Yes.”

“And?” Hobi prompted, leaning forward.

“They look... soft,” Byeol said with a fond smile. 

“That's it?” Yoongi hissed. “Soft? What kind of description is that?!”

“I'm not a snitch,” Byeol said simply.

Yoongi groaned and dropped his head onto the table with a thud.

Namjoon rubbed his temples. “Alright, what about their name? Do you remember their name?”

Byeol leaned back against the couch dramatically, clearly savoring the attention. “Can't remember.”

Hoseok raised a brow. “You just said you saw them this morning.”

“Trauma,” Byeol said, holding his head like he had taken a critical injury. “Everything's fuzzy.”

Yoongi lifted his head just enough to glare at the kid. “You're five. What trauma?!”

Byeol gave a world-weary sigh far too big for his tiny body.

“You wouldn’t understand, Appa. It's comp-li-cated.”

Yoongi looked ready to throw himself out the window.

The test finally arrived after a few minutes before Yoongi could really throw himself out of the window. 

Now they were all crammed into Yoongi’s living room. The sleek black marble coffee table was cleared, test instructions spread out beside a sterile kit, a cotton swab clenched tightly in Yoongi’s hand.

Byeol sat cross-legged on the couch like he was about to be interviewed on a talk show.

“Open your mouth,” Yoongi ordered.

“No,” Byeol said sweetly.

“Byeol.”

“Say please.”

Yoongi glared at him. “I swear to—”

“Appa, swearing isn’t good for your blood pressure,” Byeol interrupted primly.

Yoongi nearly snapped the cotton swab in half.

Hoseok laughed into his sleeve. “God, you’re raising yourself.”

“I’m not raising him,” Yoongi hissed through gritted teeth.

Byeol heaved another dramatic sigh and opened his mouth like he was being deeply wronged. “Fine. Just don’t stab my gums, appa. I bruise easily.”

“You’re five.”

“And delicate.”

Yoongi muttered something unrepeatable under his breath as he swabbed the inside of Byeol’s cheek. Byeol, efficient as ever, grabbed the swab the second Yoongi was done and popped it into the sterile tube himself. 

Next was Yoongi’s turn.

“Can I do yours?” Byeol asked innocently, tilting his head.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll somehow manage to poke my brain through my nose.”

“You don’t use it anyway,” Byeol said without missing a beat.

Namjoon choked on his water.

Hoseok fell off the couch.

Yoongi very seriously considered throwing the cotton swab at the child, but restrained himself. Barely.

Ten minutes later, once the box was sealed, Yoongi stared at it like it might explode.

“I’m sending this out now. Results in two, maybe three days.”

“Perfect,” Namjoon said cheerfully. “That gives you plenty of time to panic.”

Yoongi side-eyed Byeol, who had fully claimed the couch as his own throne, now flipping through TV channels with the same casual entitlement as someone who lived here. 

“Where exactly is he going to stay until then?” Hoseok asked, voice tentative.

“Should I call the police?” Yoongi said flatly. “Or CPS?”

“No, hyung,” Namjoon said quickly. “He’s too young for that. And... what if he’s really yours?”

Yoongi scowled.

“Let's just wait for the results to come back,” Namjoon added calmly. “Then we’ll figure out what to do next.”

Yoongi looked at him like he wanted to die on the spot.

While Byeol beamed at him like he had just won some kind of prize. 

“Face it, Appa,” he chirped. “You’re stuck with me now.” Clearly enjoying every second of it.

And Yoongi looked like he was genuinely weighing the pros and cons of running away from his own apartment.

He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him divine intervention.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Yoongi realized he might actually need it.

Chapter Text

Once Namjoon and Hoseok finally left…. after an embarrassing amount of laughing, unsolicited advice, and Hoseok trying (and failing) to secretly snap pictures of Byeol (“for evidence,” he claimed); the apartment finally settled into a heavy silence.

The afternoon sun streamed in too brightly through the windows, casting long shadows across the floor.

Yoongi's head throbbed from lack of sleep, caffeine, and most importantly, from the tiny boy curled up on his couch, star plushie tucked under his chin, watching cartoons like he hadn’t just shattered Yoongi’s life into tiny, screaming pieces.

Yoongi’s gaze drifted to the small suitcase and backpack that were still kept by the door. Maybe he can find a clue about the person who had dropped him off here. 

He crouched down in front of the suitcase, snapping open the little plastic locks with a sharp click, and lifted the lid.

Inside, everything was tiny.

Tiny clothes, tiny socks, tiny pajamas. All folded with almost suspicious precision, maybe from years of experience. Even tiny pairs of shoes, and a tiny toothbrush and toothpaste was neatly packed.

But what made him pause was the labels.

Everything—everything—was branded.

Even the socks had tiny embroidered designer logos.

Yoongi frowned, lifting a miniature sweater between two fingers like it might bite him.

Footsteps pitter-pattered behind him.

Byeol skidded into the doorway, clutching his plushie like Yoongi had just committed a crime.

“Why is everything branded?” Yoongi asked, holding up the socks like evidence.

Byeol huffed and crossed his arms. “Because cheap stuff itches.”

Yoongi blinked at him.

The kid probably had more branded clothes than he did.

Byeol clutched his plushie tighter, nose in the air. “I have sensitive skin, Appa. And standards.”

Yoongi pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and groaned. “You’re five. You shouldn’t even know what standards are.”

“Tragedy builds character,” Byeol said wisely, plopping onto the floor beside him.

The boy talked like he had lived through many lives, and he was the one putting up with Yoongi and not the other way around. 

Yoongi genuinely considered lying down on the carpet and giving up on life right there. 

But now Yoongi was sure about one thing. Whoever this other parent was — they were rich. Rich rich.

At least he had a hint now.

Byeol, completely unbothered by the existential crisis he was causing, pulled out his drawing book and a set of colors from his suitcase and trotted back to the couch to paint.

He really came here all planned out, Yoongi thought grimly.

Sighing, Yoongi moved on to the small backpack. It mostly held snacks, enough to survive a minor apocalypse and Yoongi was about to pack it up again when something caught his eye.

An envelope.

Plain white, with his name printed across it in bold, sharp letters.

Frowning, he tore it open.

There was no dramatic opening. No heartfelt message. No explanation.

It was more like... instructions.

A neatly typed list--

“MIN BYEOL: HANDLING INSTRUCTIONS”

---

FOOD RULES:

• Loves peanut butter sandwiches — cut diagonally, not straight across.

• Likes his cereal dry (don’t add milk unless you want a tantrum).

• Will eat green vegetables only if you call them ‘dinosaur food’.

• Allergic to mangoes — emergency meds in the blue pouch.

• He hates sharing snacks but will force you to share yours. Hypocrisy is strong.

• Might try to "cook" you something. Politely pretend to eat it.

---

SLEEPING RULES:

• He gets cold easily so bundle him up at night (double blankets = safest bet).

• Bedtime is strictly 8 PM. No negotiations.

• Afraid of thunderstorms, he will become your human backpack.

• Hates sleeping alone, expect to wake up with an extra limb on your face.

• Needs a bedtime story or he’ll fight sleep like a gladiator.

• Absolutely hates nap time but needs it (cranky otherwise — just like you).

• Sleep masks and plushies are non-negotiable.

---

EMOTIONAL RULES:

• He’s sweet when he wants to be, stubborn and sassy all the time.

• If he cries, offer two options: a hug or a cookie. (Or both. Preferably both.)

• Compliment his dinosaur drawings, even if they look like squashed potatoes.

• He gives his plushies names and expects you to remember all of them.

• He won't tell you if he's scared — he'll just pretend to be angry instead.

---

SAFETY WARNINGS:

• If he says ‘I'm being careful’, expect disaster within 30 seconds.

• He thinks whispering makes him invisible. 

• Loves climbing — furniture, people, fences. Nothing is safe.

• He negotiates like a seasoned lawyer. Stay strong. Do not agree to ‘five more minutes’. 

---

MISC. CHAOS:

• He thinks band-aids can fix anything, including electronics and bad moods.

• He can fall asleep mid-sentence if tired enough. It’s alarming but normal.

• He will try to ‘help’ with everything, which usually means making a bigger mess.

• If he says he's ‘thinking hard’, it usually means he’s about to ask an impossible question.

• If he’s quiet for too long, he's either asleep... or committing crimes. Check immediately.

It just kept going. Line after line of neatly typed, bullet-pointed details about the little hurricane now living in his apartment.

And in the end–

“P.S.

He's small but he wins all arguments. Accept defeat early to save time. Good luck, you'll need it. ”

Yoongi sat back on his heels, heart thudding heavily in his chest. He just stared at the paper, feeling a little dizzy.

Expensive recording gear? He could handle that.

World tours? Easy.

Five-year-old chaos demon?

…He was going to die.

He looked up at the boy on his couch, drawing dinosaurs and coloring them neon green and wondered, not for the first time that day,

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

As if sensing Yoongi's eyes on him, Byeol suddenly turned around.

“Appa,” he called, the drawing abandoned halfway.

After reading that cursed handling manual, Yoongi looked at the boy with a new, wary fear.

He could practically see two tiny devil horns and a flicking red tail sprouting from Byeol’s head.

“I'm hungry,” Byeol said, eyes growing wide and watery, lips pulling into a tiny, devastating pout.

Yoongi’s heart stuttered painfully.

The horns and tail poofed away in his imagination, replaced by shimmering wings and a glowing halo.

What the hell.

How did he go from menace to angel in two seconds flat?

Unfair. Illegal.

Dragging a hand down his face, Yoongi gave a world-weary sigh and finally stuffed the rest of the chaos, the crayons, rogue toy dinosaurs and celestial plushies, a half-eaten candy bar, back into Byeol’s tiny backpack. 

The instruction sheet, though?

That he kept pinned to the fridge with a heavy-duty magnet, like a soldier pinning up a mission briefing.

The manual felt less like parenting advice and more like a survival checklist now.

One he was absolutely determined to conquer.

(Or at least survive without losing a limb.)

Because maybe, just maybe, if he followed the instructions perfectly, the universe would reward him.

Maybe the kid would vanish, and Yoongi could wake up in his old, predictable life again.

Yeah.

Sure.

And maybe pigs would fly too.

Yoongi then opened the fridge, praying for a miracle.

Half a bottle of water.

Expired kimchi.

A sad, hardened slice of cake from…when? he didn’t even remember anymore.

Not exactly toddler-approved cuisine.

He glanced over at Byeol, who was now dramatically sprawled across the couch like he was dying a slow, tragic death from starvation.

“Just when I thought it couldn't get worse,” Yoongi muttered, slamming the fridge shut.

Of course he knew there wouldn’t be anything inside.

The last time he’d been home was months ago. He’d only planned to crash for a night before heading straight back to the studio.

But now here he was. Stuck. With a tiny, dramatic dictator.

At least until the DNA test came back and proved this kid was a liar.

“Appa, my stomach is singing,” Byeol whined pitifully from the couch, his usual I'm-too-mature-for-this attitude crumbling the moment hunger hit.

Yoongi could already feel it…if he didn’t feed this kid in the next few minutes, he was going to face a wrath no adult could survive.

He snatched up his phone, accepting his fate. There was no time for grocery shopping. No time for cooking.

Survival mode: order takeout immediately.

“What do you want to eat?” he asked, scrolling through food apps like his life depended on it.

Byeol perked up instantly, like he hadn't just been two seconds from dramatic death.

“Sushi,” he said brightly, without hesitation.

Yoongi blinked. “Sushi?”

“Specifically salmon sashimi. With soy sauce. And the pickled ginger. Not the fake stuff. The real kind.”

Byeol paused, tapping his chin like he was consulting a Michelin guide.

“Oh, and miso soup. No seaweed. Seaweed is slimy.”

Yoongi stared at him, thumb frozen above his phone.

He was expecting maybe... dinosaur nuggets. A cheeseburger. Pizza with no toppings because ‘the green stuff is suspicious’.

Not a gourmet seafood order.

“You're five,” Yoongi said flatly.

“You’re supposed to eat dinosaur-shaped nuggets and cry if the ketchup touches the fries.”

Byeol looked genuinely offended. “I have taste, Appa.”

Yoongi considered the tiny human in front of him and briefly wondered if it was too late to just quietly... put him outside and pretend none of this ever happened.

Another realization hit him like a punch in the gut:

Whoever raised this kid had to be a menace too. 

And if Yoongi ever met them? He was going to lose his mind.

Being surrounded by this much chaos felt like an act of war.

He sighed like a man defeated and opened the sushi app, letting his dignity die a little more with every tap.

“Fine. But if you get food poisoning, I’m blaming you.”

Byeol beamed sweetly. “I'll just tell the police my Appa tried to poison me.”

Yoongi accidentally hit add to cart a little too hard.

When the food finally arrived, Byeol ripped into it like a king returning from war.

Meanwhile, Yoongi sat with a sad cup of coffee, staring at the tiny, smug child eating better than he ever had in his entire twenties.

“This feels illegal,” Yoongi muttered.

Byeol just dipped his salmon into the soy sauce with practiced elegance and said, “Get used to it, Appa. I'm ‘your’ headache now.”

Though the kid ate really well for his age, the soy sauce still managed to coat his clothes, his fingers sticky, with a few smears across his cheeks and mouth.

Seeing him like that, messy, and happy, made Yoongi crack a smile, which he immediately hid behind his usual scowl.

“Appa, I'm sticky,” Byeol whined once he was done eating, holding out his hands like he was about to wipe them directly on Yoongi’s face.

Yoongi immediately stepped back, hands up like he was facing an armed criminal.

“Don't touch me with dirty hands.”

Byeol shot him a look of deep betrayal.

“Come on,” Yoongi sighed, steering the kid toward the bathroom for a quick bath. “You’re covered in soy sauce. You smell like a sushi restaurant dumpster.”

Byeol whined the entire way there like Yoongi was dragging him to an execution.

By the time Yoongi finally got the bathwater to Byeol’s preferred temperature, he was already questioning all his life choices.

“Okay, get in,” he said, rolling up his sleeves.

Naturally, Byeol made a whole production out of it, slipping dramatically like he was skating across an ice rink, sending a tidal wave of water over the edge of the tub.

Yoongi was instantly soaked.

“This is hell,” Yoongi muttered, peeling off his wet socks with a damp squelch.

Grabbing his usual shampoo — which was definitely not designed for small, high-maintenance humans, because who knew there was a separate shampoo category for tiny humans? — Yoongi squeezed some into his palm and tried to wash Byeol’s hair, thinking, How hard could it be?

Big mistake.

The second the shampoo touched his head, Byeol screamed like Yoongi was setting him on fire, flailing wildly and slapping at Yoongi’s hands with slippery, soap-covered arms.

“IT'S IN MY EYES! I'M BLIND!” Byeol howled, even though Yoongi hadn’t even started rinsing yet.

“Stop moving!” Yoongi hissed, dodging a rogue punch aimed at his stomach.

“NOOO! YOU'RE TRYING TO KILL MEEEE!” Byeol shrieked, slipping under the water and resurfacing like a furious, soggy gremlin.

“I WANT MY STRAWBERRY SHAMPOO! THIS ONE BURNS!”

“Well, your other parent didn’t pack that for you, so this is what we’ve got!” Yoongi snapped, wrestling to keep the slippery child from escaping..

“I don't like this smell! My hair will stink forever!”

“I wash my hair with this and it's fine!”

“That's why it's so rough,” Byeol said without missing a beat.

“You little—” Yoongi growled, ready to throw the shampoo bottle into space.

Meanwhile, the bathroom was rapidly becoming a full-scale flood zone.

Byeol, seizing the chaos, started splashing like he was training for the Olympics.

“Stop it!” Yoongi barked, shielding himself as another tidal wave hit him.

But Byeol, eyes sparkling with pure mischief only laughed louder and splashed harder, sending huge, deliberate waves over the tub's edge, soaking the walls, the floor, and Yoongi’s entire left side.

Yoongi stood there dripping, clenching the shampoo bottle in one hand. 

Byeol just laughed harder, eyes sparkling with evil delight, and grabbed the detachable showerhead like it was a weapon of mass destruction. 

“NO—” Yoongi dove, but it was too late.

A full blast of water hit him square in the chest, soaking his shirt through.

Dripping, blinking water out of his eyes, Yoongi stood there in soaked jeans and a clinging t-shirt, questioning every decision that had led to this exact moment.

Byeol cackled maniacally, legs kicking at the water, sending another massive splash over the side of the tub.

“This is ABUSE,” Yoongi hissed, grabbing the nearest towel and using it as a shield.

“You needed a bath too, Appa!” Byeol chirped happily, like he was doing Yoongi a favor.

Yoongi seriously considered locking himself in the bathroom and letting the kid raise himself like a feral wolf cub.

Sopping wet, bubbles sticking to his shirt, hair dripping, Yoongi finally collapsed onto the floor, staring blankly at the ceiling as if hoping divine intervention would come save him.

Byeol peered down at him, solemn and wise.

“Appa,” he said seriously, “you’re not very good at this.”

Yoongi squeezed the edge of the towel, bubbles squelching between his fingers.

“Yeah, kid,” he muttered, wiping soap from his eyes. “I’m starting to notice that.”

After what felt like surviving a natural disaster, Yoongi finally managed to bundle Byeol up into a giant towel and march him out of the bathroom like a tiny, slippery prisoner of war.

He flopped face-first onto the couch, utterly defeated, feeling about eighty years older.

Meanwhile, Byeol, the little gremlin, rubbed his still-damp head against the couch cushions like a mischievous cat.

“Your rich omega parent is paying for that,” Yoongi mumbled, eyes narrow. 

Byeol just giggled, and somehow, somehow, that sound, pure and delighted, made Yoongi’s chest ache in the strangest way.

“Get up,” Yoongi groaned. “You have to get dressed or you'll catch a cold.”

Byeol blinked at him... and then broke into a huge, gummy smile.

“Now you're starting to sound like a real Appa.”

Yoongi ignored the dangerous warmth blooming in his chest.

He just grunted, shoved himself off the couch, and stomped toward the suitcase, grumbling under his breath.

Dragging the suitcase into the living room, he crouched down and picked out a pair of jeans and a sweater— a fucking FENDI sweater, no less. 

But when he turned around, Byeol was already staring at him with a critical look. Still wrapped like a stubborn little burrito, Byeol blinked at the clothes, unimpressed.

“Jeans?” Byeol said, voice full of betrayal. “At home?”

Yoongi frowned. “Yeah? What's wrong with jeans?”

Byeol gasped, clutching his towel tighter around himself like Yoongi had just suggested medieval torture.

“You don't wear jeans at home, Appa! You wear soft pants! Everyone knows that!”

Yoongi blinked at him. “Soft pants?”

“SOFT PANTS,” Byeol repeated loudly, like Yoongi was a particularly dumb student. “Like pajamas! Not hard pants!”

Yoongi just stared at him, the jeans dangling from his hand.

“This,” Byeol added gravely, pointing a tiny accusing finger, “is why you're not very good at this yet.”

Yoongi pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead and sighed, long and deep.

“I didn’t realize parenting came with a dress code.”

“It does,” Byeol said matter-of-factly, wriggling free from the towel and patting around until he found a pair of fuzzy pajama pants. They had tiny cartoon sharks all over them. He thrust them at Yoongi like an offering. “See? Soft pants.”

Yoongi stared at the pajama pants, then at Byeol’s hopeful, expectant face.

God help him.

“Fine,” he muttered, defeated. “Soft pants it is.”

He helped Byeol wrestle his squirmy legs into the shark pajama pants, which was no easy task when the kid kept wiggling like a damn fish himself, then tugged the FENDI sweater over Byeol’s damp hair, ignoring the tiny yelps of protest.

When he was finally dressed, Byeol beamed up at him. Hair sticking out in every direction, socks slipping dangerously on the hardwood floor, a living embodiment of chaos and pure, unfiltered mischief.

“Much better!” Byeol declared, spinning in a proud little circle before flopping dramatically back onto the couch like he’d just finished an award-winning Broadway performance.

Yoongi collapsed beside him with a heavy sigh, utterly drained, feeling approximately a hundred years old.

Byeol immediately wiggled closer, bumping into Yoongi’s side, and tugged insistently at his sleeve.

“Dry my hair, Appa. I catch colds easily,” he said solemnly, as if Yoongi hadn’t just fought a literal water demon ten minutes ago to get him bathed.

Yoongi groaned low in his throat but grabbed the towel anyway, roughly towel-drying Byeol’s hair until it stuck up in ridiculous, static tufts.

Byeol wriggled out of his grasp and inspected himself with a tragic little pout.

“My hair doesn’t smell like strawberries anymore.”

Yoongi tossed the damp towel over his own head and grumbled, “You smell clean. That’s good enough.”

Byeol wasn’t convinced, but after a moment’s consideration, decided to let it go in favor of a more important crisis.

“What’s for dinner?”

Yoongi gave him a look like he'd just been personally insulted.

“Dinner? You just ate sushi.”

Byeol kicked his legs lazily against the couch, completely unbothered.

“That was lunch. I’m growing. I need nutrients.”

Yoongi stared at the ceiling for a long moment, questioning how a five-year-old could be so exhausting without even trying, then pulled out his phone and started ordering groceries online, already accepting that he was going to have to cook.

While waiting for the delivery, he scrolled through his notifications and immediately spotted the group chat blowing up with texts from Namjoon and Hoseok.

Namjoon:

> hyung why does it sound like you're fighting for your life over there???

Hoseok:

> are you still alive? blink twice if yes

Yoongi huffed a tired laugh under his breath and sent them a rundown of the disaster: a blurry photo of Byeol curled on the couch proudly in a Fendi sweater and shark pajama pants, alongside a snap of the ‘Byeol instruction manual’. 

Two seconds later, they replied with memes of his own face — one photoshopped onto a sinking ship, and another edited onto a ‘Help Me’ poster.

Yoongi threw his head back against the couch with a groan, dramatically wallowing in his suffering.

Byeol, noticing the memes, leaned over to peek at the screen with wide eyes.

“Are they bullying you, Appa?”

Yoongi side-eyed him.

“They’re supporting me,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Byeol giggled and gave Yoongi's arm a few consoling pats, like he was offering comfort to a wounded comrade.

“Don't worry. You're doing better than before.”

“Wow, thanks,” Yoongi muttered, voice dry as sand.

Byeol just grinned at him, proud and unbothered, like he was personally handing out gold stars for effort.

Yoongi sighed again, low and long, resigned to his fate.

At least, he thought grimly, there couldn’t possibly be any more chaos left for today.

He really, really should have known better.

The groceries arrived about half an hour later, a pitifully small victory in Yoongi's long, losing battle against the day.

Byeol immediately scrambled off the couch like a puppy hearing the doorbell, eyes shining.

“I'll help!” he declared, practically vibrating with excitement.

Yoongi opened his mouth to protest, vivid visions of broken eggs, spilled rice, and absolute kitchen carnage flashing before his eyes, but it was already too late. Byeol was already dragging the bags toward the kitchen, grunting with effort.

“You're going to hurt yourself,” Yoongi said, following him, “Just— be careful.”

In the kitchen, Byeol started pulling things out of the bags recklessly.

A loaf of bread flew across the counter. A carton of eggs wobbled dangerously close to the edge.

Yoongi lunged forward, snatching it just in time, his heart skipped a beat.

“This is not helping,” he muttered under his breath.

Byeol, entirely unbothered, beamed up at him proudly.

“I'm the sous-chef!”

More like the demolition crew, Yoongi thought grimly, setting the eggs safely out of reach.

“What are we making?” Byeol asked, bouncing on his toes like a kid on a sugar high.

Yoongi rifled through the bags, mentally calculating what he could make quickly and without risking another disaster.

“Kimchi fried rice,” he said finally. “It’s quick. Hard to mess up.”

Byeol nodded solemnly, accepting the mission like they were about to compete on a Michelin-starred cooking show.

Yoongi chopped the vegetables quickly, keeping the sharp knives well out of curious little hands.

Meanwhile, he assigned Byeol the Very Important Job of stirring the rice with a spatula nearly longer than his own arm.

“Don't fling it out of the pan,” Yoongi warned, pointing a stern finger.

“Got it, Appa!” Byeol said enthusiastically… and immediately sent a small chunk of rice flying onto the stove.

Yoongi closed his eyes for a second, inhaling deeply through his nose.

Patience.

“Focus, Byeol,” Yoongi said, keeping his voice steady.

Byeol nodded seriously, sticking his tongue out in concentration as he stirred with both hands like it was heavy machinery.

Somehow, by sheer miracle or divine intervention, the food survived. Barely.

By the time Yoongi plated the food, Byeol was already proudly setting the table, placing the forks backward and crumpling the napkins into tiny balls.

Still, Yoongi couldn't help the small tug in his chest at the sight — the way Byeol's little brows furrowed in focus, how serious he looked about such a tiny task.

They sat down together, and Byeol immediately dug in, making an exaggerated "Mmmmmm!" sound like he was judging the finals of a cooking competition.

Yoongi watched him for a beat. The messy kitchen behind them, the faint smell of burnt rice in the air, his own clothes still damp and wrinkled.

And yet, somehow, sitting here like this, exhausted, disheveled, and not eating alone for the first time in his house, weirdly full felt kind of... good. 

Byeol shoveled another huge bite into his mouth, cheeks puffed out like a hamster, and then looked up at Yoongi brightly.

“You're way better than my fish appa.”

Yoongi choked on his rice.

“Your what?”

Byeol grinned mischievously, a twinkle in his eye.

“I used to pretend my goldfish was my appa before!”

Yoongi huffed a startled laugh, shoving another bite into his mouth to cover the stupid warmth blooming hot and fast in his chest.

Once dinner was over, Yoongi cleaned up the kitchen, tossing glances at the little menace sprawled dramatically on his couch.

When he checked the time, it was barely eight and according to the chaotic but weirdly detailed set of instructions he'd received from the mystery parent, it was officially Byeol’s bedtime.

He clapped his hands once, decisively.

“Alright, it's time for you to sleep.”

Byeol immediately pouted, flopping down onto the couch like a dying fish.

“But I'm not tired!”

Yoongi raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“I'm not asking. I'm telling.”

Byeol huffed, crossing his arms dramatically.

“You're no fun, Appa.”

Without waiting for a reply, Byeol stomped over to his suitcase like a tiny, offended prince.

Yoongi watched in wary silence as the kid began pulling out what could only be described as his ‘nighttime arsenal’.

First came a neon green dinosaur toothbrush. Then a cotton candy-flavored toothpaste — of course.

At least he brushes without complaint, Yoongi thought. 

But then Byeol dug deeper, pulling out a full silk pajama set — tiny, navy blue with little silver stars stitched all over, along with a matching eye mask and a ridiculously fluffy sun plushie along with the star one he was already holding. 

Yoongi blinked, absolutely gobsmacked.

“What is all this?”

Byeol held everything up proudly like he was showcasing priceless treasure.

“My sleep clothes.”

“You just changed after your bath,” Yoongi pointed out.

Byeol looked at him like he was the idiot here.

“I only sleep in silk, Appa.”

Yoongi stared at him, mouth slightly open.

This kid... was definitely spoiled rotten.

He crossed his arms, leveling Byeol with a deadpan look.

“You're a spoiled brat.”

Byeol simply shrugged, utterly unbothered.

“No. I'm a star.”

He said it so matter-of-factly that Yoongi had to fight down a laugh.

“Same thing,” Yoongi muttered under his breath.

Byeol, busy hugging his plushies to his chest, ignored him entirely.

“Appa,” he said seriously, “I can't sleep without Sunie and Starie.”

“I gathered,” Yoongi said dryly, watching as Byeol meticulously arranged his pajamas, toothbrush, and plushies like a general prepping for battle.

“Help me brush my teeth,” Byeol demanded, thrusting the tiny dinosaur toothbrush toward him.

“You have hands,” Yoongi pointed out, exasperated.

“I'm little. You're big. It’s your job,” Byeol said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Yoongi sighed deeply, already envisioning himself aged twenty years by the end of this week.

But he took the toothbrush anyway.

“Fine. But after this, you're going straight to bed. No tricks, no negotiations.”

“Deal,” Byeol chirped brightly.

After brushing, Yoongi tried to herd him toward the guest room, but Byeol just gave him a withering look and pointed at the set of instructions stuck to the fridge.

Yoongi groaned in defeat as Byeol, already victorious, made his way confidently into Yoongi’s own bedroom.

“Your room's so boring, Appa,” Byeol complained immediately, wrinkling his nose at the minimalist decor. “Where are the colors?”

“Black is a color,” Yoongi said without missing a beat.

Byeol flopped onto the bed with his plushies, waiting expectantly for Yoongi.

Yoongi remembered the instruction: Doesn’t sleep alone.

Reluctantly, Yoongi perched on the edge of the bed, thinking it would be easier to wait until the kid fell asleep and then sneak out.

He tucked Byeol under two thick blankets, following the instructions to the letter.

The boy clutched Sunie and Starie to his chest, looking utterly content.

Just when Yoongi thought he was safe, Byeol struck again.

“Where’s my bedtime story?”

Yoongi froze.

“Your what?”

“My story! I don't sleep without it!” Byeol insisted, glaring like Yoongi had personally betrayed him.

Yoongi stared at him helplessly, remembering the exact line from the instructions: Needs a bedtime story or he’ll fight sleep like a gladiator.

He still tried his luck.

“Can't you just... close your eyes and think about dinosaurs or something?”

Byeol looked at him like he had suggested committing a war crime.

Sighing in defeat, Yoongi pulled out his phone and hastily searched 'bedtime stories for kids'.

He picked the first one that didn’t sound like it needed a degree to explain and started narrating it in his most monotone, serious and absolutely devoid of any enthusiasm. Like he was reading a tax form.

Byeol pouted at the lack of funny voices but was too tired to complain much.

By the time Yoongi stumbled through the story (inventing half of it when he got bored), Byeol’s eyelids were drooping, his grip on the plushies loosening.

Thinking he was finally free, Yoongi tried to silently slide off the bed —

Only for a tiny hand to latch onto his t-shirt with surprising strength.

“Don't leave me, Appa,” Byeol mumbled sleepily, his voice thick with exhaustion.

Yoongi froze, heart squeezing in a way he wasn't ready for.

He settled back down wordlessly, letting Byeol tug him closer.

In the soft darkness, Byeol stirred once more, his voice barely a whisper:

“You're way better than the fish.”

Yoongi snorted quietly, reaching over to adjust the too-big eye mask slipping down over Byeol’s nose. 

He stayed there, staring at the tiny, silk-clad chaos monster now peacefully dozing beside him. He leaned back against the headboard, careful not to jostle Byeol too much.

Just for a minute, he told himself. Just until he’s fully asleep.

But minutes stretched into longer, the weight of the day pulling heavier and heavier on his eyelids.

Byeol’s tiny hand was still fisted in his shirt, his breathing soft and even. The room was warm, the bed was softer than he remembered, and despite himself, Yoongi’s body relaxed as if some invisible weight had been quietly lifted from his chest.

His breathing synced with Byeol’s, slow, steady and then, without realizing it, he was out too. His breathing naturally synced with Byeol’s, slow and steady, and before he even realized it, Yoongi was out too.

A tangle of black clothes, silk pajamas, and squishy plushies — the two of them curled up under the covers, fast asleep, as if they had been doing this forever. As if they had always been meant to fit into each other’s quiet spaces like this.

For the first time in what felt like years, Yoongi fell asleep early, without feeling alone, without melodies buzzing in his brain, without lyrics chasing each other in endless circles.

Just him and Byeol, a little chaos, a lot of warmth, tucked safely against the world.

Chapter Text

The next morning came gently, the first pale streaks of sunlight slipping through the blinds and casting quiet golden stripes across the bed.

It was the first time in months Yoongi had slept uninterrupted. No calls, no alarms, no urgent texts. Just quiet. Just sunlight warming the side of his face. And honestly, it was… relaxing.

Until he realized something was heavy on his chest.

Yoongi blinked groggily, brain still soft and unfocused, half-sure he was dreaming. Then—

A tiny snore whistled directly into his ear.

He cracked one bleary eye open.

Byeol was starfished across his torso like a small, clingy octopus. One leg was flung over Yoongi’s waist, both arms wrapped tightly around his middle in a death grip. His sun and star plushies were squashed between them like squishy little prisoners, and his silky pajamas had ridden up enough to reveal a soft, round belly rising and falling with each snore.

His tiny lips were open in a slack, content little o-shape. He looked like a very fancy, very tiny drunkard who had passed out mid-party.

Yoongi exhaled through his nose and let his head fall back against the pillow.

This was the first time he’d ever woken up with someone beside him. Not a partner, not a hookup — just a tiny, clingy, chaotic person who’d declared Yoongi his Appa and then clung to him like a barnacle all night.

He was trapped. Absolutely, one hundred percent held hostage.

Each time he tried to shift, Byeol’s arms clamped tighter like a tiny, silk-wrapped seatbelt. The kid made a soft whining sound in his sleep and nuzzled closer, squashing his face against Yoongi’s chest.

Yoongi froze, heart giving that traitorous squeeze it had done the night before.

“Great,” he muttered, glaring at the ceiling. “Taken hostage by a tiny dictator in luxury sleepwear.”

He could probably wriggle free, if he was willing to wake the beast. But... it was warm. And it was oddly comforting, in a way that made his chest ache if he thought about it too long. 

So instead, he let his eyes drift shut again, breathing in the faint scent of strawberries and bubblegum still lingering in Byeol’s hair.

Just ten more minutes, he thought. Ten, and I’ll move.

Naturally, disaster struck at minute eleven.

Byeol woke with a flail worthy of a martial arts film— a wild, flopping twist that ended with a solid knee to Yoongi’s stomach.

“Oof—!” Yoongi wheezed, curling around the impact.

Beside him, Byeol let out a dazed little hum. Still halfway between dreaming and waking, he blinked blearily at the unfamiliar ceiling.

His mouth opened instinctively, sleep still thick in his voice. “Pa—”

He caught himself, freezing mid-breath.

And then he remembered.

He wasn’t home.

His lips wobbled a little.

No familiar scent of home. No warm arms that smelled like vanilla and safety. Just the unfamiliar hum of Yoongi’s air purifier and the too-big bed that didn’t sag in the middle. 

Byeol curled his fingers into his Sun plushie, sitting up slowly, his hair fluffed up in every direction like a disgruntled dandelion.

Then his eyes flicked to Yoongi.

And just like that, the wobbly part of his mouth disappeared. Now replaced with a sunny, toothed grin so wide it punched the breath out of Yoongi all over again.

“Morning, Appa!” Byeol chirped.

Yoongi coughed, still reeling. “Morning, assassin.”

Byeol cackled a mischievous, delighted little sound and without warning, flopped back onto Yoongi’s poor, injured abdomen for the second time in five minutes, like a human bowling ball.

Yoongi grunted again. “Seriously?”

“This bed is fun,” Byeol declared, wiggling happily. “Can I bounce on it?”

“You bounce on it, and I’m dropping you off at NASA,” Yoongi muttered, eyes closing again.

Byeol gasped. “To be an astronaut?!”

“To be a test dummy.”

More giggles. Louder this time.

Yoongi cracked his eye open, lips twitching despite himself.

Eventually, Byeol started to squirm, little legs kicking rhythmically under the blanket, the universal signal of a five-year-old on the verge of chaos.

“I’m hungry,” Byeol chirped, crawling over him like a jungle gym. “Appa, I want strawberry milk.”

Yoongi squinted at him with the deep resentment of someone who had not had coffee yet. “We don’t have strawberry milk.”

Byeol froze mid-climb, eyes wide. Utterly horrified at the statement.

“No strawberry milk?” he echoed, like Yoongi had personally betrayed the foundation of his being.

“Nope. Just boring milk.”

“That’s not milk,” Byeol whispered, aghast. “That’s liquid sadness.”

Yoongi groaned, rubbing his face as he gently set Byeol aside and rolled out of bed, his stomach still aching from the ninja-knee ambush.

He stumbled into the kitchen, Byeol trailing behind him in full dramatic form, hugging his star plushie like a war buddy.

“But Appa,” Byeol whined, “strawberry milk is important. It’s es-sen-tial. I might die without it.”

Yoongi gave him a flat look. “You survived the night just fine.”

“I did not,” Byeol said, slumping into the chair dramatically, “My energy is drained.”

“Why didn’t your other parent pack some?”

“I drank it all,” Byeol sighed tragically. “I wasn’t thinking about my future.”

Yoongi opened the fridge and pulled out the plain milk, setting it on the counter with a thud.

“Here. Strength milk.”

Byeol glared at it like it had personally insulted his ancestors.

“I’ll give you a cookie if you drink it,” Yoongi muttered, remembering the omega’s instructions and already regretting being a functioning adult.

Byeol exhaled like it was the greatest sacrifice in the history of childhood and took the tiniest, most pitiful sip in existence.

“Bleh.” A pause. Contemplation. Swallow. Grimace.

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “Oscar-worthy.”

“I want my strawberry milk,” Byeol warned ominously. “Or I’ll cry so hard you’ll get kicked out of this house.”

“It’s my house,” Yoongi muttered.

Byeol squinted at him. “Not anymore.”

Yoongi stared at him. Then sighed, long and heavy, from somewhere in his soul.

He was going to need coffee.

Or maybe a drink. 

Or maybe both. 

By the time Byeol managed to finish half the milk, under the desperate promise of a cookie and the very real threat of “no cartoons!” Yoongi was already questioning every decision he’d made in his life that had led to this moment.

The kid looked at him like he’d committed a grave, unforgivable sin. Like if Yoongi dared to close his eyes for even one second, he’d wake up in heaven.

He sighed deeply.

The DNA results wouldn’t come for two more days. Two whole days of living with this strawberry-milk-deprived gremlin. Two days of constant noise, sticky fingers, tiny elbows to the ribs, and cartoon logic.

He couldn’t afford to lose his life to a five-year-old.

Which meant, Yoongi, ‘successful, respected, dangerously famous Min Yoongi’, was now a servant. Subject to the whims of a pint-sized dictator. His only option was either obedience or a tantrum of catastrophic proportions.

“Alright,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face after a long internal monologue. “Let’s get you dressed.”

“I want my star sweater!” Byeol chirped, abandoning his half finished milk, hopping off the chair and bolting toward the living room like a sugar-fueled gremlin.

Yoongi trudged after him with the enthusiasm of a man heading to his own execution. “I don’t know what a star sweater is.”

“It has stars,” Byeol yelled from the other room like that explained everything.

Yoongi leaned on the doorway, watching as Byeol threw open his suitcase or more accurately, the strategically packed survival kit his omega parent had assembled with terrifying precision. Inside were labeled pouches, folded outfits, travel-sized grooming kits, scented lotions, three different brushes, and—

A blindingly yellow sweater covered in glittering silver stars that looked like it could cause temporary blindness in direct sunlight.

“You’re gonna be visible from space,” Yoongi muttered, as Byeol attempted to force his head through a sleeve.

With a sigh, Yoongi crossed the room and helped him untangle from the fabric trap, carefully pulling the sweater on the right way.

“Okay. Now pants.”

But Byeol was already spinning like a top, chanting something about shooting stars, arms flung out like he was preparing for liftoff.

Eventually, they settled on DIOR jeans, mismatched socks (one with a bear, one with a star — Yoongi didn’t ask), and light-up sneakers that blinked neon red every time Byeol took a step.

Despite being wrapped in designer-level luxurious clothes, he still looked like what he was…. a walking, talking child-sized disaster.

An alien disco ball with too much energy and no off switch.

Yoongi went to change too, picking something inconspicuous. Neutral colors, a black hoodie, his standard black cap and mask combo. He hesitated at the door, then grabbed an extra mask and a bucket hat.

When he came back, Byeol was mid-air launching his plushie into the air and catching it like a one-boy circus act.

Yoongi scrubbed a hand down his face.

“We’re going out. I have no strawberry milk, no snacks, and no idea how to entertain you until lunch.”

Byeol lit up like a firework and dashed to the door. “The convenience store!”

“You’re not going out looking like that,” Yoongi said, stopping him with a grip at the back of his glittery sweater. He headed to the entryway, pulled out the spare mask and hat, and held them out. “Put these on.”

To Yoongi’s surprise, Byeol didn’t ask why — just took them like it was second nature. 

Like he’d done this before.

Like he was used to being in disguise. 

Yoongi paused, crouched to adjust the hat low over the boy’s head.

“You look too much like me,” he muttered as he tilted the brim just right. The hat practically swallowed Byeol whole, the kid blinked blindly until Yoongi angled it properly.

“Someone’s gonna take one look at your face and figure it out.”

Byeol perked up instantly. “I do?”

“Unfortunately.”

Yoongi tugged the mask up, only to realize it was way too big for this tiny gremlin. It kept sliding down over Byeol’s chin.

Before he could even groan, Byeol reached into his suitcase again and pulled out his own mask, neatly folded.

It was tiny.

And covered in tiny moons and stars.

Of course it was.

Like being disguised was second nature.

Yoongi narrowed his eyes. “You’ve done this before.”

Byeol just smiled.

And Yoongi… really didn’t like that smile.

Still, he grabbed his wallet and did one last hallway scan for any signs of toddler-induced catastrophe.

“Okay. Five minutes. We go in, get the milk, and come back. No wandering, no running, and absolutely no screaming about pink milk in the middle of the store.”

Byeol saluted. “Yes, boss!”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes. “And no calling me Appa outside.”

“Why?”

“Because people talk.”

“About what?”

“About short burglars who look like me.”

Byeol giggled, reached up, and tugged on Yoongi’s sleeve.

Then, soft and certain, “But you’re still my Appa.”

Yoongi looked down at the tiny hand wrapped around his own.

Yeah.

He was doomed.

And with that, they headed out — one grumpy adult, one overexcited glitter-sweatered child, and an impending existential crisis waiting on a DNA result.

The walk to the store was quiet, the air still holding the chill of early morning. Byeol insisted on holding Yoongi’s hand the whole time, his little fingers wrapped tightly around Yoongi’s, like letting go would cause the earth to spin off its axis.

Yoongi kept glancing down at him, just to make sure the mask was still in place, the hat still shading his face. But mostly, he kept looking because Byeol was... just. There.

Chubby cheeks peeking out from behind the mask. sharp Bright eyes darting from tree to bird to building like everything was new and worth remembering. He swung their linked hands as they walked, occasionally jumping over cracks on the sidewalk like it was a game.

“This one’s lava,” Byeol declared with all the seriousness of a war general, skipping over a faded patch of concrete.

Yoongi raised a brow. “All of them are lava?”

“I’m the lava champion,” Byeol said proudly, then tugged on Yoongi’s hand. “You’re supposed to jump too.”

Yoongi snorted. “I’m too old to jump.”

“You’re not old,” Byeol shot back instantly, matter-of-fact. “You’re strong.”

Yoongi’s lips twitched. “Thanks, that helps.”

Byeol hummed happily beside him, like that was the highest compliment he could give.

Yoongi, meanwhile, kept his hood low, sunglasses on despite the cloudy sky, and his mask pulled up high. He looked like a criminal trying to avoid being spotted on CCTV. He sighed and tugged his cap lower, eyes scanning the street, every nerve on edge.

The last thing he needed was someone snapping a candid with a sparkly child lookalike beside him and captioning it “Min Yoongi’s secret kid???”

Unfortunately, his tiny, glittering companion made subtlety impossible.

Byeol stomped confidently down the sidewalk in his light-up sneakers and blindingly bright sweater that looked like it had lost a fight with a rainbow. He might as well have been holding a sign that said ‘Look at me! I’m suspiciously cute!’

An elderly woman passed by and beamed at them. “You two are just adorable! Is that your son?”

Yoongi tensed. “Nephew,” he muttered quickly, nodding politely and tugging Byeol a little closer.

Byeol opened his mouth, clearly ready to object. Yoongi squeezed his shoulder gently, a silent warning.

The rest of the walk was silent, well as silent as it could be with Byeol plotting wordless revenge in the form of increasingly dramatic glares.

The store bell chimed as they entered, the cool wave of air-conditioning washing over them.

It was blissfully empty. Just a bored-looking cashier half-scrolling through their phone and humming to some soft indie track playing in the background.

Byeol immediately made a beeline for the fridge, dragging Yoongi with him. He crouched dramatically in front of the rows of drinks like he was performing some kind of sacred milk-selection ritual.

He gasped. “They have it!”

Yoongi leaned over. “You act like they banned it overnight.”

“Strawberry milk,” Byeol said reverently, pulling out two small cartons like they were gold bars. “One for now. One for emergencies.”

Yoongi silently grabbed a third one and added it to the basket. He didn’t say a word, but Byeol lit up like he’d just won a prize.

Then came the snack aisle.

Byeol wandered immediately. Yoongi tracked him like a hawk, eyes flicking between the drinks and the tiny menace currently squinting at a row of chips like he was choosing stocks.

“Fine,” Yoongi sighed. “But one snack.”

Ten minutes later, their basket contained:

– Three cartons of strawberry milk

– Two packs of shrimp chips

– Two packs of Marshmallow cereals

– A chocolate bar Byeol had tried to hide under the milk

– A fruit jelly pack (Yoongi made sure, it had no mangoes) 

– A bag of mini marshmallows

– And, somehow, a glow-in-the-dark keychain shaped like a moon

At the register, Byeol stood on his tiptoes, trying to peek over the counter. The cashier, a bored teen with pink-dyed hair and half a lollipop in her mouth, glanced between them.

“Cute kid,” she said, eyeing Yoongi’s glasses and mask. “He really looks like his dad.”

Yoongi froze.

His fingers tightened around his wallet, but he said nothing, just nodded, lips tight, and handed over his card.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

Even under the cap and mask, Byeol looked like him.

The shape of his eyes. The stubborn brows. The scrunched-up nose when he smiled too wide. The way he pouted when he didn’t get his way. The little sigh he gave when he settled down to wait.

It was there. All of it.

Yoongi didn’t answer.

Just took the bag, nodded again, and guided Byeol out of the store.

He still had two more days to pretend it didn’t matter.

They sat on a bench outside, a little ways down, where the street was quiet again. Byeol pulled down his mask and sipped his milk through the tiny straw with the focus of someone solving world peace.

Yoongi leaned back against the bench, eyes closed for a moment. Then, “Is that your favorite thing in the world?”

Byeol nodded, cheeks full. “One of them.”

Yoongi turned his head. “What’s the other?”

Byeol didn’t answer right away. He leaned in, pressed his side against Yoongi’s arm, and mumbled softly, “I dunno. Maybe this.”

Yoongi blinked.

The sun had warmed the side of his face. Byeol’s weight against his arm was small, but steady. The milk still smelled too sweet, and his fingers were sticky from holding the bag, and he was definitely too tired for this.

But then he looked down.

Byeol’s hand was still in his.

Still holding tight.

Like he belonged there.

Yoongi swallowed hard and looked away.

Two more days, he reminded himself.

Just two more days to pretend none of this mattered.

Right?

-

The next morning, Yoongi moved on autopilot. He fed Byeol his sacred strawberry milk and his preferred crunchy no-milk cereal, poured into a bowl that had more marshmallows than actual flakes. The cartoon channel buzzed in the background like a familiar lullaby, screen flashing pastel explosions that Byeol stared at with rapt devotion.

Yoongi made sure the kid had everything he needed, his snack, his drink, the remote, a blanket all within arm’s reach like he was a tiny emperor overseeing his plush kingdom.

It was the first sliver of peace Yoongi had managed since the boy crash-landed into his life.

He retreated to his home studio like a man clinging to a lifeline. Two full days had passed — two whole days — and he hadn’t written a single line. No lyrics, no melodies, no scribbled chorus in the margins of his notebooks. Not even one of those vague ideas he normally jotted down at three in the morning.

It was unsettling. Music was his default setting. The one thing that never left. His thoughts were usually filled with sound, layers, fragments, hooks, breaks constantly blooming into something raw and whole.

Now they were filled with—

“Appa, can Starie take a bath too?”

“Where does the moon go in the morning? Is it shy?”

“Can you make the pink milk warm? My tummy likes warm.”

“Appa, your fridge smells funny!”

“Appa, watch me do a cartwheel!”

His brain, once a finely-tuned machine built for music, had been hijacked. Entirely consumed by a strawberry-milk-powered dictator in silk pajamas who called him Appa like it wasn’t the most dangerous word in the world and had a death grip when he slept.

Yoongi groaned softly and dropped into his desk chair, dragging both hands down his face.

It felt like he’d been living in a parallel dimension ruled by a child who slept with his foot in Yoongi’s ribs and demanded bedtime stories even when he was already half-asleep.

But not for long.

Tomorrow, the paternity results would arrive. Then he’d know for sure.

Then he’d be free.

Yoongi sat up straighter, trying to shake the fog out of his head. Focus. He needed to finish the track he’d abandoned days ago. The beat was half-done. The lyrics were waiting. His old life — the one where he was just Min Yoongi, producer, rapper, man of solitude, it was waiting for him to come back.

Because the test would be negative. Obviously.

It had to be.

What if the result comes back positive?

He shoved the thought away, slammed the mental door on it before it could take root. He wouldn’t let himself imagine the what-ifs. That would be stupid. Dangerous. Permanent.

Still, he stared at the blank page for what felt like hours. The cursor blinked at him like it was judging his entire life.

Nothing came.

No beat in his head, no lyrics crawling out of his chest.Not a single lyric came to mind. Which was weird. Lyrics were his thing. Lyrics were always there. Haunting him, humming in the corners of his mind.

He tried. Really tried. Tried to write about heartbreak, about fame, about the weight of being known. But every single thought unraveled into the shape of Byeol’s tiny fingers clutching his sleeve in sleep. Or the sound of laughter echoing in his apartment, making it feel less like a museum and more like a home…..Or how he didn’t hate it.

Yoongi slammed the laptop shut with a curse.

It has been hours now.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

He froze.

It had been… a while since he’d heard anything.

No footsteps. No thumps. No overly dramatic gasps. No declarations of hunger or boredom or spontaneous philosophical questions about clouds.

Then he remembered the warning: “If he’s quiet for too long, he’s either asleep… or committing crimes. Check immediately.”

Yoongi launched himself out of his chair with the kind of dread that came from experience.

He prayed for sleep.

He got crime.

When he entered the living room, Yoongi froze.

The room looked like it had been hit by a pastel-themed tornado. Crayons were scattered like shrapnel across the floor, the walls had suspicious smudges near the corners, and the TV was blaring a theme song Yoongi now recognized against his will. 

In the middle of it all, seated like a tiny king in the chaos, was Byeol — tongue sticking out in concentration, holding a neon yellow paint marker with way too much purpose.

Yoongi’s favorite Fear of God shirt, his limited edition, can’t-buy-again favorite shirt, was spread flat across the coffee table like a canvas.

Byeol had painted tiny stars and moons all over it, bright yellow and glittery silver, with absolutely no remorse.

“....Byeol,” Yoongi said slowly, voice dangerously calm.

Byeol looked up and beamed. “Appa! Look! I made it better!”

Yoongi gawked. “That’s my—That’s not—Where did you even—”

“I made it magic!” Byeol announced proudly, pointing at the glittery yellow heart he’d drawn right in the middle and had drawn a moon and a big star. “This one’s you and this one’s me!”

Yoongi stared at the now-bedazzled fabric in pure horror.

“Magic?” he echoed.

“Yeah! So you won’t be sad when I’m not with you!” Byeol chirped, proud of himself. 

Yoongi’s chest tightened unexpectedly.

He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. His voice had been hijacked too, it seemed.

Instead, he sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, hands limp in his lap, watching Byeol scribble a final star near the hem.

The kid looked up at him after a moment, suddenly uncertain. “Do you like it?”

Yoongi stared at him.

At his hopeful eyes.

At the bright, messy love stamped across a shirt he thought he couldn’t live without. 

It sparkled. 

It was ruined. 

It was beautiful.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly, heart aching in ways he didn’t know how to stop. “It’s… something.”

Byeol grinned.

Yoongi closed his eyes, leaned back, and let out a slow, tired breath.

Tomorrow the results will come.

And if they came back positive… he wasn’t sure that shirt would be the only thing he couldn’t get rid of.

Eventually, he peeled himself off the couch and looked around at the wreckage of his once-pristine living room. It looked less like a home and more like a pastel crime scene from a fairy tale.

“I’m gonna clean this up,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “Then I’m gonna lock the studio door. And then I’m gonna scream into a pillow.”

Byeol blinked up at him, all wide eyes and weaponized cuteness. “Okay, Appa. Do you want me to draw on your pillow so it’s prettier when you scream?”

Yoongi made a sound, a half-laugh, half-soul leaving his body. He honestly couldn’t tell anymore. 

Later, he found Byeol on the floor with a set of his lyric markers, diligently decorating a pillowcase, just like he said. There were scribbly flowers, a lopsided rocket ship, and a large round creature with three eyes that suspiciously resembled Yoongi on a bad hair day.

“Why are you like this,” he asked the universe with genuine exhaustion.

Byeol looked up with a grin that could light up Seoul.

“I’m making your house look happy!”

“It was already happy,” Yoongi muttered. “Quiet happy. Clean happy.”

“But now it has art!”

Yoongi seriously considered curling up under the glitter-covered couch and staying there until the child turned eighteen.

Eventually, he gathered what little strength he had left, gently pried the markers from Byeol’s hands, and herded the child back to the couch like a glitter-covered tornado in pajamas.

“You,” he said, dropping him onto the cushions like a sack of giggles, “stay here. Don’t move. Don’t blink. Don’t breathe too artistically. I’m going to salvage what’s left of my sanity.”

Byeol blinked innocently. “Okay.”

Yoongi didn’t believe him for a second.

After the Great Shirt Disaster was (barely) contained, and after lunch and a chaotic cleanup, which mostly consisted of Byeol declaring war on the soap bubbles and soaking half the kitchen in the process; the apartment finally settled into something close to calm.

Yoongi retreated to his studio with the intention of salvaging the scraps of peace he had left. He left the door cracked open this time, just in case, and was tinkering with an old beat when he heard the soft patter of little footsteps behind him.

He didn’t turn right away.

Not until—

“Appa…” Byeol's voice was awed, breathless.

Yoongi glanced over his shoulder and saw him standing in the doorway, eyes wide as they slowly swept over the space—walls lined with soundproofing foam, glowing monitors, tangled cords, keyboards, shelves of notebooks, and years of his life tucked into corners and hard drives.

“Appa,” he gasped, clutching his little plush star to his chest like it could protect him from the sheer coolness of the moment, “is this where you make music?”

Yoongi glanced over from his seat at the desk, a little startled. “You know I make music?”

Byeol gave him a look. The look. Like Yoongi had just asked if he knew the sky was blue.

“Of course, Appa,” he said with full-body enthusiasm. “I’m your fan!”

Yoongi froze, then turned in his chair just enough to squint at him. “Really?”

He had fans. Millions, actually. He’d had screaming crowds, emotional DMs, people tattooing his lyrics on their bodies, expensive gifts mailed to the company. Fans who’d cried at concerts, gifted him handmade scrapbooks, and once mailed him an entire life-size sculpture of himself made of chocolate.

But this?

A five-year-old gremlin in star-print pajamas with strawberry milk breath who looked up at him like he invented sound and was the coolest person alive? 

That hit different.

Byeol eagerly climbed onto the couch with all the grace of a sleepy kitten. “I like ‘So Far Away’. My p—” He caught himself. Blinked. “—It helps me sleep when I have bad dreams.”

Yoongi froze.

That song. One of his oldest, rawest tracks. Not exactly a lullaby. It was personal. Rough. Bleak. He wrote it in a tiny studio apartment when ramen was a luxury and sleep was optional.

“You listen to that?” he asked, voice low.

Byeol nodded, legs swinging off the edge of the couch. “It feels like… like the sky is big, but I’m safe.”

Yoongi’s chest did something inconvenient.

He turned back to the screen, fingers moving almost automatically as he dug through folders until he found it — the original demo. Raw vocals. No polish. Just pure, aching twenty-three year old ambition.

The first chords filled the room. Imperfect. Honest. Dreaming.

A younger Yoongi’s voice drifted through the speakers….full of longing, full of dreams he hadn’t yet touched, a bit rough around the edges. It was fragile and real in a way the final version never was.

Yoongi didn’t look back fully. He pretended to check levels, clicking around like he was doing something relevant. But he kept glancing over his shoulder.

Byeol had gone completely still.

No wiggling.

No questions.

No chaos.

Just… listening.

Mouth parted, eyes wide. Like the song had opened a trapdoor inside him and let the stars pour in.

It was unnerving. And a little sweet. And unnerving again.

When the last chord faded, the silence was soft.

Then Byeol whispered, “That one’s better. It sounds like you’re dreaming, Appa.”

Yoongi said nothing.

Just turned away from the kid and stared at the waveform on screen like it had betrayed him. His chest felt too warm. His face felt suspicious.

He looped the track again, mostly to have an excuse not to talk. And by the third playthrough, the only sound from the couch was soft, even breathing.

Byeol had curled up like a cat. His star plushie tucked under his chin, one sock halfway off his foot, completely knocked out.

Yoongi sighed. Then got up. 

And despite being morally opposed to lifting anything over five kilograms or emotionally investing in sleep-gremlins with glitter in their hair, he walked over and picked him up.

Byeol sighed in his sleep, squirmed once, and then, like muscle memory, tucked his head against Yoongi’s shoulder with an unfair amount of trust like he’d been doing this all his life.

Yoongi took a careful step toward the hallway—and then he heard it.

“Papa...”

Yoongi froze.

Mid-step.

“What?” he whispered.

But Byeol had already slipped deeper, murmuring it again, softer this time. “Papa…”

Not Appa.

Not the name he’d called Yoongi from the moment they met.

Papa.

He said the name like he hadn’t gotten to say out loud in days.

Yoongi stood still for a full three seconds, holding this tiny human burrito and rethinking every decision he’d ever made.

This ‘papa’ was someone else.

Someone terrifyingly real.

Someone who packed a suitcase with color-coded dividers and military precision.

Someone who raised a tiny chaos gremlin who wore luxury cartoon clothes, and only drank strawberry milk. 

That was Byeol's other parent.

And that meant…

The omega parent is a man. 

Yoongi didn’t know why that detail made his stomach twist. But it did.

Maybe because now he could really picture him — some immaculately dressed omega in designer cashmere and judgment, sipping oat milk lattes and coordinating toddler outfits by seasonal color palette. A man with five-step skincare, monogrammed sleep masks, and matching silk pajamas with his toddler. 

Someone who packed toothbrushes in individual silk pouches. Who made a whole instruction manual for his son, complete with tabs. Who probably ends texts with sparkles and a passive-aggressive “have a lovely day!”

Someone who bought luxury cartoon outfits that somehow cost more than Yoongi’s keyboards and very gently explained to his son that, “Appa makes music and yes, that’s why he looks tired and stressed all the time.”

Yoongi stared at Byeol’s peacefully sleeping face. His little mouth had gone slack, drooling faintly onto Yoongi’s hoodie.

Tomorrow, the DNA results will arrive.

Tomorrow, he’ll know for sure whether this chaos goblin was really his. 

Tomorrow, he can go back to his music and solitude and expensive clothes not covered in marker.

Tomorrow, Byeol might go back to the man who raised him. 

And if the results said yes…

Yoongi was going to have to talk with this mystery omega who had his child then hid him for five straight years and then one day just dropped him at his doorstep. 

Then Yoongi would have to co-parent with this terrifying omega Pinterest board come to life.

Yoongi sighed like he’d just aged five years.

“Please don’t be mine,” he muttered, fleeing the room like it was on fire. “Please let me go back to being emotionally unavailable and alone.”

But even as he walked away, a quiet voice in his head whispered: too late.

Still, for now…

Yoongi carried Byeol to his bedroom like he wasn’t carrying the most dangerous creature on Earth.

He laid him down gently. Pulled the blanket up to his chin.

And, because he’d officially lost all sense of self-preservation, brushed the kid’s hair from his forehead like he was a real parent and not a man who once screamed at a blender for being “too loud.”

Byeol didn’t stir, he just hugged his plushie closer and continued to drift away. 

Yoongi stood there a moment, hands on his hips, watching him sleep.

“Don’t paint on any of my shirts tomorrow,” he whispered.

And left the room before he accidentally kissed the kid goodnight like a real parent and emotionally imploded.

Chapter Text

Yoongi didn’t sleep.

Not because of the DNA results (okay, maybe 70% because of that), but because a five-year-old had mumbled “Papa” in his sleep and detonated Yoongi’s emotional firewall like a landmine in a plushie war zone.

He’d sat on his studio couch all night, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun above him like the wheel of misfortune, while the words Papa… Appa… Papa… looped through his head like a cursed lullaby.

It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

Because it wasn’t just a cute nickname anymore. It was a clue.

The omega is a man.

Which, honestly, didn’t narrow much down. Yoongi had slept with plenty of male omegas. Too many, if he was being honest. But none of them had ever shown up afterward. None had ever said: Hey, this glitter gremlin is yours now. Enjoy!

Until now.

And “now” came in the form of a tiny fashion icon in a glitter sweater, addicted to strawberry milk, leaving star-shaped chaos on Yoongi’s expensive shirts, and curling up in his studio like he belonged there.

Yoongi groaned into his pillow.

He was in hell.

So the next morning, when the tiny menace waddled into the kitchen wearing silk pajamas, an eye mask around his neck like a sleep-deprived influencer, and asked for strawberry milk like he paid rent, Yoongi seized the moment. 

“Hey,” Yoongi said, trying to sound casual but looking like a curious raccoon. “Who’s Papa?”

Byeol blinked at him over his cereal, momentarily freezing at the mention of the word. “Huh?”

“You said it last night,” Yoongi pressed, narrowing his eyes. “In your sleep. Papa. Who’s that?”

Byeol stared at him, then slowly crunched on a mouthful of dry cereal like he was biting into national secrets.

“I’ve never heard that word in my life. I only know Appa,” he said solemnly.

Yoongi nearly choked on air. This child is a menace. “You literally said it. You were drooling on my hoodie and whispering it like a lovesick drama character. Don’t gaslight me, you tiny liar.”

Byeol shrugged, casually shoving more dry cereal into his mouth with his hands like a man who knew the law couldn’t touch him.

“Maybe you were dreaming,” he said sweetly. “Sometimes Appa has silly dreams. Like when he thought I painted on his shirt. But actually it was art.”

Yoongi was this close to flipping the cereal bowl and walking straight into the sun.

“Byeol.”

“Hmm?”

“Who. Is. Papa.”

Byeol chewed thoughtfully, tilted his head, then looked Yoongi dead in the eye and said:

“That’s what Peppa Pig calls her dad sometimes.”

Yoongi blinked. “No, it’s not. I’ve seen the show.”

Byeol just sipped his strawberry milk dramatically, like this was the last scene of a soap opera. 

Yoongi was going to combust. But he didn’t press further—because some desperate, naïve part of him still believed the DNA test would come back negative. That this chaos would disappear. That he’d never have to meet Papa.

Behind him, Byeol cheerfully turned the TV to cartoons, completely unbothered.

And as Yoongi paced the kitchen like a man clinging to the last thread of his peace, Byeol muttered under his breath:

“Snitches don’t get extra strawberry milk.”

The email came at 3:17 p.m.

Yoongi hadn’t touched his coffee since morning. He couldn’t. His stomach had been in knots. 

He tapped the notification with trembling fingers, hearing a dramatic revelation song somewhere in the background. 

He’d been refreshing his inbox like a desperate fan trying to score concert tickets—except the concert was his life imploding in real time.

He stared at the subject line.

Paternity Test Results: Min Yoongi

This was it.

The moment he’d been waiting for.

The moment he’d finally confirm that this small gremlin, this strawberry milk fueled hurricane, was not his responsibility.

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just opened the file.

Probability of paternity: 99.9999%

Yoongi didn’t move.

He blinked.

Stared.

Read it again.

And again.

Then shut the laptop.

Then opened it again—because maybe his eyes had glitched.

The numbers didn’t change.

The words didn’t change.

Still 99.9999%.

He closed it again.

Stared at nothing.

A low, broken sound cracked out of his throat—not quite a laugh, not quite a scream. Like his soul had tripped over a Lego.

The mug in his hand felt too heavy, so he set it down with a shaky thud.

Byeol was his.

His.

Not a prank. Not a scam. Not a cosmic joke.

The kid sitting three feet away, glitter on his cheek and plushie in hand, was his son.

His actual son.

Just like that, the world tilted dramatically, like a bad soap opera zoom-in. Somewhere in the distance, you can even hear a violin probably. 

And the axis of Yoongi’s life, long set in its solitary orbit, shifted in an instant. Everything — the silence he’d grown used to, the guarded walls he’d built, the chaos he thought was behind him cracked wide open.

Yoongi was still processing that when Byeol’s voice floated in from the hallway, soft and sleepy, and far too casual for someone who’d just detonated his entire life. 

“Appa?”

Yoongi closed his eyes, breath catching.

There it was again.

The word that changed everything.

He’d been called that for days now, since the very first morning this tiny tyrant showed up at his door and claimed his house. But this time the word meant something. This time it hit different.

Because now it was true.

He was a father.

Byeol appeared in the doorway, oversized dinosaur pajama top slipping off one shoulder, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Appa, I’m hungry,” he mumbled, hoarse with sleep.

He blinked up at him, messy-haired and unaware.

Unaware that everything had just changed.

Yoongi just stared. Because this wasn’t temporary. This wasn’t going away. The truth had snapped into place like a puzzle piece. 

Byeol wasn’t just a random lost kid.

He was his son.

And someone out there had known this all along.

Yoongi closed his eyes, chest tight, pulse loud in his ears.

Some part of him had known too.

His son.

The phrase rattled in his chest, clumsy and too big to fit.

He still didn’t know how. Still didn’t know who.

Byeol still refused to talk about his other parent. Every time the topic got close, he zipped his mouth shut like a little criminal with state secrets.

Yoongi didn’t push because he thought maybe he wouldn’t need to.

But now?

Now he had questions. Real ones. 

Who the hell leaves a kid without warning or a name? Who packs a tiny suitcase with cartoon socks, silk pajamas, a whole instruction manual, and then disappears?

Someone out there knew what happened. Someone had answers.

But that someone wasn’t here.

So for now, Yoongi did what any emotionally repressed adult in a minor identity crisis would do:

He walked into the kitchen like the floor wasn’t shaking beneath him and made lunch.

He buttered toast. Cut fruit. Poured milk. 

Across the table, Byeol hummed the theme song to a show about heroic vegetables, his legs swinging back and forth like he hadn’t detonated Yoongi’s entire life just minutes ago. 

The kid bit into his peanut butter sandwich which was diagonally cut, just like the instruction, and grinned wide, crumbs sticking to the corners of his mouth.

And Yoongi kept staring.

At the shape of his eyes. The tiny dimple that popped on one side when he smiled. The pout he made when the grapes were too cold.

He’d thought it before, but it hit different now:

This wasn’t just a look-alike kid.

This was his.

A tiny human who had inherited Yoongi’s nose, Yoongi’s ears, Yoongi’s terrible scowl when things didn’t go his way.

He’d never seen himself in anyone before. Never imagined what his genes might look like if they got mixed with… whoever the hell the omega was.

But now he couldn’t stop seeing it.

It was in every scrunched-nose laugh, every side-eye, every dramatic flop onto the couch.

He didn’t just have a kid.

He was Appa.

And the weight of it settled somewhere deep in his chest, right next to the panic. But weirdly, next to the panic was something… warm.

Something almost like wonder.

Yoongi waited until Byeol had crashed on the couch watching his bunny show again, drooling softly into a pillow, his star plushie tucked beneath one arm.

Then he slipped out to the balcony, phone cold in his hand.

The city stretched out below him, distant and humming. The evening air was sharp, crisp against his skin. It helped him breathe.

He scrolled past a dozen unread notifications and tapped Namjoon’s name.

The phone rang twice.

“Hyung?” Namjoon’s voice came through, groggy but alert. “Everything okay?”

“No,” Yoongi said flatly, staring out over the railing. “I’m a father.”

Silence.

Then Namjoon again, sharper this time. “...Wait, what?”

“The DNA test came back,” Yoongi said. “He’s mine. 99.9998%. No question.”

Namjoon exhaled, disbelieving. “You’re serious?”

“Do I sound like I'm joking?”

A long pause. Then, low: “Shit.”

“Yeah. My life is shit.”

Another beat of silence.

“Are you okay?”

Yoongi hesitated, glancing through the balcony door. Byeol was curled into the cushions, one sock halfway off, hair mussed from sleep. Frowning in his sleep, just like Yoongi do. So alike.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I thought I’d be relieved. That I could send him back to… wherever he came from. But now—”

“Now he’s not just some random kid.” Namjoon completed his thought process. 

“He’s mine,” Yoongi said softly. “And I still don’t know how. I don’t even remember anyone who could’ve…”

He trailed off.

Namjoon didn’t speak for a moment. Then, gently, “Could it be someone from back then? That tour year?”

Yoongi winced. “I barely remember what day it was that year.”

“Then start remembering.”

A new voice cut in—Hoseok, on speaker now. “Hyung. You hate kids.”

“I do,” Yoongi snapped. “Just… apparently not enough to avoid making one.”

Hoseok sighed. “Well. You know what this means.”

Yoongi squinted. “What?”

“You’re a dad now.”

Yoongi groaned.

Namjoon chuckled. “So… are you keeping him?”

“I don’t even know how to be around a kid.”

“You’ve been doing it for days,” Hoseok said. “He’s alive, he calls you Appa, he hasn’t tried to sell your equipment on eBay. That’s more than most could manage on instinct.”

Yoongi stayed quiet. Well, he kind of was natural at this whole thing. 

“Okay,” Hoseok said, clapping his hands like they were starting a strategy meeting. “Let’s work through this.”

“I really don’t—”

“Just humor us,” Namjoon cut in. “You need to know who the omega is. There are medical records, allergies, legal stuff. This isn’t just about emotion.”

Yoongi leaned against the wall and let his eyes fall shut. “I know.”

He exhaled slowly, then added, “It’s a man. Byeol said ‘Papa’ in his sleep last night. It wasn’t just some nickname—he meant it. That’s the only lead I’ve got.”

The line went quiet for a second.

“Alright,” Hoseok said finally. “Go back six—seven years. Who were you seeing?”

Yoongi groaned. “You want a list?”

Namjoon blinked. “...You have a list?”

“There would be a list,” Yoongi muttered. “If I remembered names or faces.”

“Fantastic,” Hoseok deadpanned. “You had one-night stands and now we’re playing mystery parent with a child.”

“I didn’t expect this to happen!”

Namjoon sighed. “Okay, fine. Let’s start simple. Did anyone seem like the type who might’ve wanted kids?”

Yoongi scoffed. “Most of them didn’t even want conversation.”

“What about someone who disappeared afterward? Ghosted you? Blocked you out of nowhere?”

That gave Yoongi pause.

“…I don’t even know their name. How would I know who blocked me?”

The silence that followed was heavy.

Through the glass door, Byeol shifted. A small hand reached out in his sleep, searching blindly for something. For someone.

For him.

Yoongi’s chest tightened.

“I have to go,” he said quietly. “He’s waking up.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Hoseok, soft with disbelief said, “God. You’re such a dad already.”

That night, after the chaos of dinner (Byeol tried to convince him ketchup was a vegetable), bath time (he somehow got shampoo in his ear and screamed like it was acid), and a failed bedtime story attempt (Yoongi’s dramatic reading of The Three Little Wolves was deemed “too serious and not enough funny voices”), Yoongi finally got the kid into bed. 

He sat on the edge of the mattress with the grim determination of a man about to conduct a top-secret interrogation.

Byeol was winding down, hugging Starie and Moonie to his chest, his hair still damp and sticking up at odd angles. His cheeks were flushed with sleep, and his eyelids were heavy. 

Cute. Dangerous. Unpredictable.

He was soft, sleepy, and defenseless. Prime questioning conditions.

“Hey,” he started, clearing his throat.

Byeol blinked up at him. “Am I in trouble?”

“No.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“…Arguably.”

Byeol nodded like that made perfect sense. “Okay. Proceed.”

Yoongi cleared his throat, ready to take it like a pro. “So. Hypothetically. If someone, like, say, a grown adult were to suddenly find out they were someone’s Appa—”

“You are someone’s Appa,” Byeol said seriously.

“I know. I’m talking about me. Hypothetically me. Okay?”

Byeol just blinked at him like, what the hell are you babbling Appa? 

Yoongi sighed and powered through. “If that person—me—suddenly found out he was your Appa, he might want to know some things.”

Byeol didn’t answer. He just started petting Starie’s ear like he was deciding how much information to leak.

Yoongi forged on, floundering. “Things like… the name of the person who gave birth to you?”

Silence.

“You said your other parent packed your bag, right?” Yoongi tried again. “Gave you your starie, your mask, your silk pajamas, your five-step skin routine…”

“It’s three steps, not five,” Byeol corrected. “Five steps is for when I’m older.”

“Right. My mistake. The important part is… maybe telling me their name?”

Byeol looked at him. Eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Yoongi shifted under the weight of toddler suspicion. “I just think it’s something I should know,” he said carefully.

“You’re… mine. So I should probably know who your omega is.”

“Your papa,” He said the word like bait, tossing it out casually, as if he wasn’t launching a covert info-extraction mission. “What’s his name?”

Byeol hummed thoughtfully, biting the bait. “It’s a pretty name.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

Byeol paused, stared at the ceiling like he was accessing top-secret files in his brain, then rolled over. “I forgot.”

Yoongi blinked. “You forgot your papa’s name?”

“I have a small brain, Appa,” Byeol said gravely, pulling the covers over his head. “I’m just a child.”

Yoongi sighed. “Okay. What does he look like?”

“Beautiful.”

“That’s not a description, that’s a concept.”

“He has hair.”

“Everyone has hair.”

Byeol squinted. “Not bald people.”

Yoongi closed his eyes and dragged his hands down his face, growling into his palms like a man one second away from a breakdown.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s try this another way.”

He dropped his hands and looked at the kid curled up in bed, eyes big and unbothered.

“Your papa,” Yoongi began carefully, “he must be worried about you, right? He must be… missing you?”

Byeol hummed thoughtfully, hugging Starie closer. “Papa knows I’m okay.”

“Right, right,” Yoongi nodded slowly, leaning in like a detective closing in on a lead.

“And… does he know you call me Appa?”

Byeol nodded without hesitation. “Yup.”

Yoongi squinted. “And… he’s okay with that?”

“Yup.”

There was a pause. Yoongi stared. Byeol blinked back.

“Do I know him?” Yoongi asked, voice cautious.

Byeol blinked again, then nodded. “Yup.”

Yoongi’s heart stuttered. “Wait, I do?! Who—”

“He said you’d ask that,” Byeol interrupted sweetly, tucking Starie under his chin.

Yoongi stared. “What.”

“He said not to tell you.”

“Why?!”

Byeol peeked out from under the blanket and grinned, smug. “You said I’m not allowed to lie, right?”

“…Yeah?”

Byeol yawned. “Then I’m not lying.”

There was a long pause. The blanket rustled as he shifted, already sinking back into sleep.

Then, a sleepy murmur:

“You’ll find out soon.”

Yoongi leaned closer. “What does that mean?”

Byeol didn’t respond.

“Byeol—”

“Papa said you would,” he mumbled into his plushie, voice soft and dreamy, “when the time is right.”

“That’s not how this works—”

“Goodnight, Appa.”

“Byeol—”

“Sleep tight!”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes. “Tell me who your papa is and then I’ll sleep tight.”

The blanket came up like a shield. No answer. Just the soft rhythm of breathing and the occasional sleep-mumble about cookies and rockets.

Yoongi glared at the blanket-lump. One vein in his forehead pulsed with betrayal.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m gonna figure it out, you know.”

The blanket said nothing.

But just as he turned to leave, he swore he heard a tiny, smug giggle.

Yoongi sighed. “This child is going to destroy me.”

But still, he stepped back to the bed and gently pulled the blanket up a little higher, tucking it around Byeol’s shoulders. Just in case he got cold.

Then Yoongi turned off the light—but didn’t close the door all the way. Just in case Byeol needed him.

He had no name, no lead, and no idea where to start.

Just a giggling, mischievous, beautiful little star curled up in his bed who called him Appa and refused to snitch on his very pretty, very mysterious papa.

But Yoongi was a producer. A man of precision and grit. A problem-solver.

And he was going to figure this out.

Even if it killed him.

After being verbally outmaneuvered by a child in silk pajamas, Yoongi did what any reasonable adult would do.

He sat in front of his laptop, the room dim and quiet except for the soft hum of traffic below. He FaceTimed Namjoon and Hoseok, opened his notes app, and braced for chaos.

“Okay,” he muttered, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s solve a mystery.”

“You mean let’s spiral in a Google Doc,” Namjoon said, squinting blearily into the camera like a man regretting his entire friendship history.

“It’s not spiraling,” Yoongi mumbled, opening a fresh notepad. “It’s a structured descent.”

Hoseok appeared onscreen wearing a glittery face mask and sipping a Sprite. “He called at midnight and said ‘emergency,’ and it’s just about his secret child again.”

“Not secret anymore,” Yoongi said grimly. “I’m trying to identify the omega.”

“You really don’t remember?” Hoseok asked. 

Yoongi shook his head. “I didn’t think I’d ever be in this position. I didn’t think any of those nights meant anything.”

He opened a blank notepad on his screen and sat back, fingers hovering over the keys.

PAPA ???

(bold, underlined, all caps—for emotional urgency)

Underneath, he began a list: 

•Male omega

Confirmed by Byeol. Referred to as ‘Papa.’ Still unrevealed, probably beautiful, allegedly ‘forgot his name’ like a tiny liar.

•Possibly wealthy

Designer cartoon pajamas. Silk toothbrush pouches. Toddler skincare routines. Unsure if this is luxury or low-level sorcery.

•Knows Yoongi makes music

Included one of his songs on a bedtime playlist. Suspicious behavior.

•Raised Byeol to be this level of chaos

So either a menace himself, or actively encourages menace. Possibly both.

•Gave Byeol strawberry milk in glass bottles

Unclear if this is a love language or witchcraft. Again.

•Emotionally manipulative tendencies

Byeol uses guilt and diversion tactics like a seasoned politician. Learned it somewhere.

•Bedtime playlist features ‘So Far Away’

That’s not lullaby material. That’s heartbreak with reverb. Who does that to a child?Psychopath behavior. Or heartbreak enthusiast. Maybe both.

•Sent Byeol to him on purpose

Glittery suitcase. Detailed instructions. No forwarding address. Just vibes. Classic mastermind move.

•Cares for Byeol deeply

The boy is healthy, confident, expressive and emotionally secure. He’s been loved, properly. That says everything.

•Likely one-night stand, around 6–7 years ago

Timeline hazy. Memory worse. May require hypnosis or a time machine.

Namjoon leaned in closer to the screen. “You sound like you’re building a psychological profile of a Bond villain.”

“Honestly, wouldn’t be surprised,” Yoongi said.

Hoseok took a long sip of Sprite. “You think it’s someone we know?”

Yoongi paused. “Byeol said I do.”

That made them both sit up straighter.

“Oh, shit,” Namjoon muttered. “That narrows it down. Sort of.”

“Anyone from the label?” Hoseok asked. “From back then?”

Yoongi scrubbed a hand down his face. “I don’t know. I had a lot of post-tour meltdowns. Some of them involved… people.”

“Vague,” Namjoon said. “And disgusting.”

“Shut up,” Yoongi snapped. “My point is… I didn’t exactly keep records.”

“Maybe you should’ve tracked hookups instead of Spotify moods,” Hoseok muttered.

Yoongi gave him a look through the screen.

“I’m starting to think I did know him,” he murmured. “And I fucked it up. Somehow.”

A beat of silence.

Yoongi stared at the list again, eyes narrowed.

Whoever the omega was, he’d stayed hidden on purpose. He'd raised Byeol well, maybe too well and for some reason, he’d decided Yoongi was ready to step in now.

And Yoongi was going to find him. 

Even if it meant facing whoever had quietly wrecked his life... and then handed him the most perfect part of it.

Yoongi didn’t know what time it was — sometime after midnight, probably closer to dawn. His eyes were dry, his brain fried, and both of his friends had passed out mid-call.

With a soft click, he closed the laptop.

The apartment was still now. No theories, no playlist links dropping into chat, no sarcastic commentary. Just silence.

Just him.

And the very small, very chaotic human who had crash-landed into his life like a glitter-coated meteor.

Yoongi padded quietly back into the bedroom.

The lights were off, but the faint glow of the city lit the room in soft blue. Byeol was curled up on one side of the bed, blanket half kicked off, hugging Starie like it was a flotation device. One sock on. One sock missing. Hair a mess. Little face smushed into the pillow like he'd fought off sleep and lost tragically.

Yoongi stood there for a moment, just… looking.

Then Byeol twitched in his sleep and mumbled, barely audible—

“...Papa?”

It was the tiniest sound. A whimper, almost. Not distressed, just reaching.

Like he was checking if someone was there.

Yoongi's heart squeezed.

He quietly slid under the covers, careful not to jostle the kid too much. Byeol, sensing warmth, scooted instinctively into his side like a magnet. His small hand landed on Yoongi’s shirt, curled there.

His face relaxed, like even in sleep he recognized him. Then, barely a whisper: “Appa.”

Yoongi stared at the ceiling.

A beat passed. Then another.

And then, softly, like saying it out loud made it more real, he whispered:

“…Appa.”

The word settled in his chest like it had been waiting there, tucked away behind old lyrics and louder regrets.

He glanced down at Byeol, whose tiny mouth was open now in the soft slack of deep sleep. The same kid who ate ketchup like soup, weaponized cuteness, and refused to identify his omega parent like it was a game of Clue.

His kid.

Half his DNA. All his heart.

Yoongi swallowed and smiled, the tired kind that pressed into his eyes and made something ache in his ribs.

“Appa,” he said again, just to hear it aloud. “That’s me.”

The sound felt unfamiliar in his mouth—too big, too soft.

But real.

And he liked the way it sounded.

Then Byeol ruined the moment by kicking him square in the balls in his sleep and mumbling something about marshmallow space cows.

Yoongi let out a strangled hiss, curling slightly. “Okay—ow. Wow. Okay.” He wheezed, eyes watering. “Now you’re just making sure you stay an only child.”

He glared weakly at the sleeping child. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Byeol exhaled softly in his sleep, completely unbothered, and leaned in closer, face pressing into Yoongi’s chest like a kitten seeking warmth, like nothing had happened.

And Yoongi… smiled.

Small. Crooked. A little scared.

But real.

He curled an arm around Byeol’s back, pulling him in. The blankets shifted, the weight of the day easing away with every breath.

There was still so much he didn’t know.

So much left to find.

But tonight, he had this.

A little boy whispering papa into the dark. A heart tangled with confusion and hope. And the quiet, steady warmth of something like belonging.

Yoongi’s eyes closed.

Sleep pulled him down, slow and warm, the word still echoing quietly in his chest:

Appa.

And for once, he didn’t mind where the descent led.

Chapter Text

Yoongi woke up to the distinct feeling of being watched.

He cracked one eye open, slowly adjusting to the soft morning light filtering through the curtains.

Byeol was lying inches from his face, staring at him like a tiny cryptid. His expression was serious. Intense. Judge Judy levels of scrutiny.

Then he poked Yoongi’s cheek with one small finger and whispered, very seriously:

“Appa. Are you dead?”

Yoongi opened both his eyes now, turning his head to get a good view of the menace. 

Byeol was crouched on the bed beside him like a gremlin in silk pajamas, face three inches from his own, eyes unblinking.

“…What are you doing,” Yoongi croaked.

“You didn’t wake up when I sang the shark song,” Byeol explained seriously. 

Yoongi groaned and dropped his head back against the pillow. “You sang Baby Shark at me as a wake-up call?”

“I even did the dance.”

Yoongi let out a pained wheeze. “What demon sent you to me.”

“You.”

Touché.

But then he remembered — where he was. Who he was with. What he was now.

And something clicked in his chest again, like a puzzle piece sliding into place.

“Appa,” Byeol had said.

Appa.

His kid.

Yoongi turned onto his side, blinking away sleep, and reached out. Byeol immediately flopped into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. His small body was warm and solid, he smelled faintly of strawberry and secrets, and he made a content little sigh that rattled Yoongi’s entire ribcage. 

“Good morning,” Yoongi murmured, still surprised at how soft his voice went when he spoke to this kid.

Byeol squinted. “You drooled too.”

Yoongi wiped his mouth automatically. “Do not.”

“Do too. It was on the pillow. I checked.”

“Why were you so close to my face?”

“Had to confirm you were alive,” Byeol said casually, like Yoongi hadn’t also gotten kicked in the ribs again around 4a.m after last night's brutal attack. 

Yoongi grunted a little, his body ached in all the places that meant he was too old for toddler co-sleeping, but somehow, he felt... weirdly okay. Rested, even.

Byeol wiggled closer and plopped his head onto Yoongi’s chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Appa,” he said again, quieter now.

Yoongi froze.

“Yeah?” he managed, heart already doing strange things.

Byeol poked his chin. “You said it last night.”

Yoongi flushed. “You were awake?”

“Half. But I heard it. You said it like it was a secret.”

“Well,” Yoongi muttered, “it kinda is.”

Byeol nodded seriously. “I like secrets. This one’s my favorite.”

Yoongi swallowed around the lump in his throat, hand hesitating before resting on Byeol’s back. It was a tentative touch, but Byeol didn’t move. He was small. Warm. Real.

He’d said Appa last night just to test it. Just to see how it tasted in his mouth, after a day of being emotionally hijacked by a tiny stranger.

But now, with Byeol sprawled on top of him, smug and sleepy and entirely real?

It wasn’t a whim.

It was truth.

He was a father.

“Appa,” Byeol repeated. 

Yoongi smiled, soft and tired. “Hm?”

“What’s your credit score?”

Yoongi cracked one eye open again, the soft moment gone again. “What—?”

“Papa says you can tell if someone’s trustworthy by their credit score.”

Yoongi groaned into the pillow. “This is why I need to meet your papa. I have questions.”

Byeol grinned like the devil in silk pajamas and wriggled under the blanket. “You’ll find out soon.” 

Yoongi stared at the ceiling, arm slung over the squirming body next to him.

First morning as a father.

Already outwitted.

But also… filled with something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

And maybe love. Or the beginning of it. Or the terrifying, glitter-coated path toward it.

“Appa,” Byeol whispered again, like he just liked saying it.

Yoongi closed his eyes.

Yeah. That’s him.

That’s them.

This was real now.

Tiny hands on his face. Bright eyes and too many questions. Morning breath and celestial plushies and a kid who could emotionally bulldoze grown men like a seasoned diplomat.

His son.

Yoongi’s arms instinctively tightened around him.

He wrapped his arms around Byeol without thinking, settling the kid against his chest.

Byeol stilled, just for a moment then melted against him like butter on warm toast.

Yoongi breathed in.

It didn’t just feel natural.

It felt right. 

Like something had finally tuned itself correctly after years of being just a bit off-key.

“I’m gonna mess this up,” he muttered into Byeol’s hair.

Byeol patted his cheek. “Yeah, but it’s okay.”

Yoongi laughed, quiet and wrecked. “You’re a little demon.”

“But you’re my demon now.”

“So can I have strawberry milk and cookies now?” Byeol asked with a wide grin. 

Yoongi sighed. “This is my life now, isn’t it.”

But when he finally stood, sleepy and soft and wrecked by love, Byeol took his hand and didn’t let go, even as they wandered into the kitchen.

And for the first time in a long time, the apartment didn’t feel too big.

It felt just right.

They ended up on the floor.

Not by choice. Byeol had decided the couch was “too soft which made him feel sleepy,” and the kitchen chairs were “too stiff,” so naturally, Yoongi ended up cross-legged on the rug, holding a half-empty glass of strawberry milk while Byeol ate a cookie like it was a power move.

“I want more cookies,” Byeol declared.

“You get one. That’s the deal. Don’t test me.”

Byeol narrowed his eyes. “Papa says you’re weak for pretty faces.”

Yoongi choked on his milk.

“Excuse me?”

Byeol just smiled — the same terrifying, cunning smile Yoongi had seen in the mirror after surviving trainee evaluations.

Then he leaned forward and patted Yoongi’s cheek gently. “I’ll wait ten minutes.”

Yoongi groaned. “I’m being emotionally extorted by a child.”

They cleaned up eventually or rather, Yoongi did, while Byeol narrated from the hallway like a tiny film director with no budget, no script, and way too much confidence.

“There’s a crumb under the table, Appa. Get it. No, with the other hand.”

By the time Yoongi was done, he was strongly reconsidering his life choices.

He made it exactly three steps toward his home studio before Byeol blocked his path with a dramatic gasp.

“You can’t go,” he said, arms stretched wide. “The bunny cartoon’s starting!”

Yoongi blinked. “You said you’d seen this one already.”

“This one’s a special. He learns how to fly a hot air balloon.”

“…What kind of bunny is this?”

“An ambitious one.”

Yoongi sighed. But he sat. Because apparently that was his job now.

He really did try. For the first episode. Even the second. He made it halfway through the third before something in his brain quietly snapped.

The bunny had gone from operating a submarine to skydiving out of a airplane, and Yoongi could feel his frontal lobe starting to leak out of his ears.

“I can’t do this,” he muttered, reaching for the remote with the desperation of a man on the brink. “I'm changing the channel before I lose the last functioning part of my mind.”

Byeol’s head whipped up immediately. “Nooo,” he whined, scrambling to block Yoongi’s hand. “It’s not over!”

“You’ve seen this one already—”

“But the next episode is new! And the bunny learns how to fly a rocket!”

Yoongi arched a brow. “Why does this bunny have more travel options than the president?”

“Because he’s adventurous,” Byeol said solemnly, wrapping both arms around the remote like a protective koala.

Yoongi sighed, pried one of Byeol’s tiny hands off, and aimed the remote toward the TV. “Just one other channel. For science. And for my sanity.”

Click.

The screen blinked and then settled on a glossy, high-production drama scene.

On screen, a soft-focus shot of a gorgeous man walking down a hallway filled the room — camera panning from glossy hair to expensive shoes, as string music swelled dramatically.

And there he was.

Park Jimin.

In a perfectly tailored suit, lips pursed like he owned the building, a soft smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. The drama logo sparkled across the corner of the screen in aggressive pink glitter.

Byeol gasped. “Whoa.”

Yoongi blinked.“Oh hell no.”

Byeol clutched Yoongi’s arm with both hands. “He’s soooo pretty.”

Yoongi looked personally offended and made a noise like a dying animal. “Ugh. Not this guy.”

Byeol tilted his head. “He looks fancy. Like a prince.”

“More like a snobby drama chaebol with too much hair spray.” he scoffed. 

Byeol narrowed his eyes. “Appa, do you know him?”

Yoongi stiffened. “Just an actor with a big ego. Park freakin’ Jimin. Model. Mr. ‘I’m better than you and I know it.’”

Byeol looked back at the screen. Jimin was mid-monologue now, eyes glistening with practiced pain.

Byeol whispered, “He’s sad.”

Yoongi scoffed. “He’s acting. The man can’t cry unless a camera’s on and someone yells ‘action.’”

Then the screen shifted to a dramatic close-up of Jimin’s narrowed eyes, as though even the fictional version of him knew Yoongi was watching.

Then — just like that — a memory punched him in the back of the brain.

A behind-the-scenes clip. Viral, barely ten seconds long.

Someone had played one of Yoongi’s tracks on a drama set. A good one. A hit that was climbing charts. 

And Jimin, in full costume, sipping iced coffee like royalty, had smiled oh so politely and said, “Can we change this? I only really listen to classical. Not… noise.”

The fans had eaten it up. “So classy!” they said. Commented on how “refined” Jimin’s taste was. How “bold” he was for brushing off a Top rapper like that.

While Yoongi had called him dead to me, rage-cleaned his studio and had eaten two stress donuts and silently sworn revenge.

He blinked back to reality. Byeol was still watching him curiously, munching on a half-crumbled marshmallow pie. 

“Appa, you look like you’re mad, but also like you have to poop.”

Yoongi made a strangled sound. “I am mad. But not… that kind of mad.”

He reached over and shoved the remote into Byeol’s hands. “Go. Watch your rocket bunny.”

Byeol cheered and immediately flipped the channel back. The bunny was now learning to weld.

Yoongi slumped against the couch with a sigh, eyes trailing once more to the empty screen that had just held Jimin’s face.

“Pretty, my ass,” he muttered. “Whole world’s gone crazy if that guy’s still getting roles.”

And somehow, his day felt ten percent more chaotic now.

It took less than five minutes. 

Byeol was sprawled upside down on the couch again, feet in the air, cartoons on, but his eyes kept sneaking glances at Yoongi.

Then he asked, way too casually, “So Appa… you know the pretty actor?”

Yoongi didn’t look up from his phone. “He’s not pretty. He just has good lighting.”

“Do you know him from TV or from real life?”

Yoongi tensed. “Why are you asking so many questions?”

Byeol blinked, then rolled over and sat up, all too serious for someone with crackers in his hair.

“Appa, do you not like him?”

Yoongi looked up. “Where are you going with this, Socrates?”

Byeol ignored him. “You called him snobby. And you made the face.”

“What face?”

“This one.” Byeol scrunched his nose and narrowed his eyes, an uncanny imitation. “You only make that face when you’re mad.”

Yoongi exhaled sharply through his nose, dropping his head back. “I’m not mad.”

“Then why are your ears red?”

Yoongi swore quietly in his head.

Byeol squinted. “Did he steal your toy when you were little?”

Yoongi blinked. “What?”

“Did you fight?” Byeol asked. “Was he mean to you at school?”

Yoongi finally sat up and fixed the kid with a flat look. “No. He just has a… face.”

Byeol gasped. “Did he punch you?”

“What?”

“Or—was he your best friend and then he turned evil?”

Yoongi sat up, glaring. “Are you writing a drama?”

Byeol tilted his head. “You talk like you hate him.”

Yoongi opened his mouth, then shut it again.

He couldn’t say I don’t hate him, because that sounded like he did. But saying I do hate him would be weird too.

He settled for a low grumble, “You ask too many questions.”

Byeol just shrugged and reached for his milk. “I still think he’s pretty.”

Yoongi muttered, “That makes one of us.”

“My friend said when you like someone and they don’t like you back, it makes you grumpy. You’re kinda like that. Grumpy-grumpy.”

Yoongi slammed his mug down. “I wasn’t grumpy. I am not grumpy. And he—he said my music was noise.”

Byeol blinked. “Did you say mean things to him too?”

“No!”

... 

Okay. Maybe. Technically.

He definitely didn’t post a very pointed picture of the movie Jimin had just starred in, captioned:

“The cinematography made me want to rinse my eyes with dish soap. But good lighting, I guess.”

And yeah, Yoongi absolutely didn't like ten different comments that shaded Jimin under the guise of "constructive criticism."

Or make a cryptic Instagram story saying,

“Some people mistake aesthetics for talent.”

He hadn’t even tagged Jimin. He was subtle.

Totally.

“Appa,” Byeol said again, cheeks puffed, “If you don’t hate him… then do you like him?”

Yoongi choked on his coffee.

“I’d rather die, kid.”

Hours later Yoongi was still on the couch, half-watching the bunny cartoon with zero interest. His mouth hung slightly open, phone in one hand as he half-scrolled through work emails, thumb moving on autopilot.

He was also thinking about dinner. Or rather, how much he didn’t want to make it. Takeout sounded tempting, but there was a problem — a tiny, opinionated child in his house who declared most outside food “suspicious.”

He never thought he’d be this domestic.

Answering emails during cartoons. Stressing over vegetables. Getting judged by a five-year-old for ordering fried chicken.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

Byeol perked up immediately, eyes going wide with excitement, as if he were expecting Santa or a dinosaur or both. 

Yoongi groaned and got off the couch. Byeol trailed behind, feet pattering as he tried to peek around Yoongi’s side, clearly eager to meet whoever it was.

Yoongi didn’t need to guess who it was. Only two people ever showed up unannounced at this hour.

Sure enough—

“Hey, hyung,” Hoseok grinned the moment the door opened.

Behind him, Namjoon gave a casual wave. “Evening.”

Both of them already toeing off their shoes like this was their apartment too.

Byeol peeked out from behind Yoongi’s legs, and the moment he did, both men gasped like they were witnessing the birth of a star.

“Oh my God,” Hoseok clutched his chest and dropped into a crouch, practically vibrating. “Did he get cuter?”

“You saw him three days ago,” Yoongi deadpanned, leaning against the doorframe with a sigh.

“Yeah, and somehow he’s evolved,” Hoseok said, eyes wide. “Like a Pokémon.”

“Hey, little guy,” Namjoon greeted with a warm smile.

“I’m not little,” Byeol declared, puffing out his chest.

Namjoon blinked. “Right. Of course not. My mistake.”

“Yeah, you’re a big boy,” Hoseok agreed, offering a hand. 

Byeol considered it for a moment, then nodded and wrapped his tiny fingers around it like he was sealing a business deal. Hoseok let out a delighted squeak, like he’d just been handed a baby rabbit. His whole face lighting up.

And this time—it felt different.

Not just because Byeol was charming (he always was), or because he looked like a tiny prince in his designer sweater and soft pants. 

It was because now they knew.

This wasn’t just some cute kid hanging around Yoongi’s apartment. This was Yoongi’s kid.

Their nephew. 

And somehow, that made everything feel real.

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Why are you two here?”

“We thought,” Hoseok said, standing again and brushing imaginary dust from his jeans, “it was time to officially introduce ourselves.”

Namjoon nodded. “Hi, Byeol. I’m Uncle Namjoon. Nice to meet you properly.”

“And I’m Uncle Hobi,” Hoseok added with a dramatic bow. “At your service.”

“I know,” Byeol said, cool as ever.

Hoseok blinked. “You do?”

“Yeah. I listen to your songs.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then both men gasped like they’d just been handed a Grammy.

“You do?!” Namjoon clutched his chest. “Which ones?”

Byeol turned to him with a shrug. “I love Moonchild.”

“And Ego,” he added, glancing at Hoseok.

“Oh my God, he has taste,” Hoseok made a noise somewhere between a squeal and a choke. “I told you he was the coolest kid alive.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and turned back toward the kitchen. “Great. Now they’re going to fight over which one of them is the favorite.”

Behind him, Byeol was swept off his feet seconds later—literally—as Hoseok hoisted him into the air like Simba.

“Say it again!” Hoseok laughed. “Say ‘Ego’ louder so Namjoon hears!”

Namjoon groaned. “Unbelievable. He’s clearly a deep thinker — Moonchild is a philosophical masterpiece.”

Byeol just giggled as the chaos escalated. Yoongi sighed.

Yoongi leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching them spiral into a chaotic competition for Best Uncle. Byeol was in heaven, basking in the attention like he’d been waiting for it his whole life.

Yoongi exhaled slowly. A little overwhelmed. A little grateful.

Then, casually, “You guys gonna stay for dinner?”

Namjoon turned, surprised. “You’re cooking?”

Yoongi grimaced. “No. But I can lie about it while I order something.”

The living room was soon transformed into a battlefield of plushies.

“Uncles,” Byeol said, cutting through the argument like a tiny general. “Let’s play.”

Hoseok blinked. “Play? Like… with toys?”

“Yeah!” Byeol ran off and came back hauling an armful of plushies. “This one’s name is Starie. He needs friends.”

Namjoon and Hoseok stared at him like he’d just handed them a calculus exam.

“Uh… we don’t really know how to play,” Namjoon admitted.

Byeol blinked at them, then slowly narrowed his eyes deep, disappointed eyes that could crush a grown man’s soul.

“You’re not like my other uncles,” he said solemnly.

Yoongi, halfway into the kitchen, paused.

“You have other uncles?” he asked, suspicious.

Byeol didn’t answer. He just handed Starie to Namjoon and Moonie to Hoseok, as if that settled it.

Yoongi raised an eyebrow.

Another clue.

A few minutes later, Namjoon sat stiffly on the rug, holding Starie like it was radioactive. Hoseok wasn’t doing much better — he cradled Moonie between two fingers like it might explode.

It was painfully obvious these two had spent the last decade in studios, not playrooms.

But Byeol? He was in his element. Finally, someone to boss around again. He’d created an entire plushie kingdom on the carpet. There were zones. There were alliances. There was a jail.

“We’re going to space,” Byeol declared with all the authority of a NASA commander.

Namjoon cleared his throat. “Uh-huh. Right. We’re… astronauts.”

“Hyung,” Hoseok whispered to Yoongi as Byeol launched into a dramatic monologue, “I really thought you were gonna be the mysterious, rich single uncle. You know… silk shirts, leather pants, dangerous music taste.”

Yoongi, half-lounging on the couch with his phone, looked up. “I was. Until this little gremlin knocked on my door.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon said, shaking his head. “Now look at you. Domestic. Responsible. First dad in the group.”

“Not even married,” Hoseok added, scandalized. “Just dropped the bomb and went full civilian mode.”

Yoongi snorted. “Don’t blame me. The kid showed up on my doorstep.”

“With your eyes,” Namjoon muttered.

Hoseok leaned over. “So you managed to get any more hint about who this papa is?”

Yoongi paused. “No. It's like talking to a sesoned lawyer. He won’t say anything.”

Namjoon squinted at Byeol. “He’s really good at deflecting.”

“Too good,” Yoongi muttered. “Like he was trained.”

“Maybe he was,” Hoseok whispered, narrowing his eyes like he was in a spy drama.

Namjoon leaned in conspiratorially. “We could ask him. Casually.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Good luck.” He said with a smirk. 

Namjoon turned back to Byeol, who was currently sentencing the Starie to fifteen years in the Space prison.

“Hey, Byeol,” he said gently, “Can Uncle ask you something?”

Byeol blinked at him. “Sure.”

“Do you know who your papa is?” Namjoon asked, trying to sound light.

Byeol narrowed his eyes. He looked like he was tired of this question.

Yoongi watched, mildly impressed. The kid smelled questions like a bloodhound.

“Why do you want to know?” Byeol asked flatly.

“Just curious,” Namjoon said quickly. “You know, for bonding. Family stuff.”

Byeol tilted his head, then said, “My papa’s pretty.”

“Okay, that narrows it down to… literally nothing,” Hoseok muttered. “Everyone Yoongi sleeps with is pretty.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, not even bothering to argue.

“Okay, sure,” Hoseok said. “But like… what’s his name?”

Byeol picked up Moonie again. “You’re asking too many questions. Moonie doesn’t like snitches.”

Namjoon burst out laughing, quickly covering his mouth. “So that’s a no?”

Then Byeol pointed to the plushie on the other side of the room. “The prisoner escaped.”

Namjoon blinked. “What?”

“Starie’s making a break for it! Get him!” Byeol shouted, tossing another plushie in the air like a missile.

Hoseok lunged. “I got him—I got—ow, I hit the table—”

Yoongi groaned and buried his face in his hands as Namjoon got tackled by both Byeol and Starie.

So much for a quiet evening. 

By the time Starie had declared independence and Moonie had retired to a quiet life as a peaceful star farmer, Namjoon was lying flat on the rug, utterly defeated. Hoseok sat nearby with one sock perched on his head and a plush turtle balanced on his shoulder like a pirate’s parrot.

They both looked like they were already rethinking their entire stance on parenthood.

Yoongi, still perched safely on the couch, sipped his coffee with all the smugness of a man not currently on the floor. At least Byeol didn’t make him play like this. Then again, he’d survived painted shirts and the nightmare that was bath time. He wasn’t exactly spared.

“Okay,” Namjoon gasped, staring at the ceiling. “I take it back. Being an uncle is hard.”

Hoseok groaned, leaning back. “Why does he have so much energy? What is he made of?”

“Sugar and secrets,” Yoongi muttered.

Byeol, unfazed by the battlefield of dying men, was busy tucking Starie into a dish towel blanket. Then he perked up and turned to Hoseok. 

“Okay, Starie wants to dance. Uncle Hobi, can you sing Just Dance?”

Hoseok blinked, drained of all energy but also a bit surprised by the request of his tiny fan. “You want me to—”

“Please?” Byeol clasped his hands together dramatically. 

So, Hoseok got to his feet and twirled like a sleep-deprived pop star while Byeol clapped, delighted.

“Hyung,” Namjoon wheezed, “he really knows our songs.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi said, watching as Byeol spun in a circle. “Kid told me he listens to So Far Away as a lullaby.”

Namjoon raised a brow. “Well, his papa’s definitely a fan, then.”

Yoongi hummed. “At least he has great taste in music. Unlike someone…” 

His eyes turned into glare and lips pulled into a thin line and both his friends already knew who he meant. 

Hoseok looked up, breathless from dancing. “You mean that actor?”

Namjoon groaned. “Hyung, are you still stuck on him?”

“I’m not stuck,” Yoongi snapped too quickly. “But how dare he call my music ‘noise’? Who even says that?”

“That was years ago,” Namjoon reminded, smirking. “You never take criticism seriously.”

“That wasn’t criticism,” Yoongi snapped. “That was a personal attack.”

Namjoon rolled over onto his side. “You sound real chill about it, for someone who’s not stuck.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes, but didn’t answer. Mostly because Byeol had grabbed Namjoon's hand too and was now demanding a dramatic encore from both of them. 

And because deep down, Yoongi knew they were a little right.

Takeout arrived somewhere between Starie’s fourth escape attempt and Moonie’s diplomatic mission to space. The living room looked like a war zone—plushies thrown everywhere, two grown men slumped over in defeat, and Byeol standing triumphantly atop a pillow fort like a general surveying his kingdom.

“Dinner,” Yoongi called, unfazed.

Byeol perked up immediately, abandoning them without a second thought. “I want dumplings!”

“Wash your hands first,” Yoongi said without looking up from unpacking the bags.

Byeol froze, then let out a tiny grumble. “Ugh. Okay, Appa.”

Namjoon and Hoseok both froze. The same kid who’d refused to listen to a single instruction from them all evening and gave them scary side eyes, had obeyed Yoongi without hesitation.

Byeol marched off to the bathroom, and they slowly turned to Yoongi, wide-eyed.

“He just… listened to you,” Namjoon muttered.

Yoongi shrugged. “Yeah. I’m terrifying.”

Dinner was jjajangmyeon, dumplings, tteokbokki, and enough sweet-and-sour pork to feed a very hungry army. Normally, there’d be beer and music talk, maybe a few arguments about lyrics—but tonight, it was different. There was no studio hum, no production notes. Just the sound of chopsticks clicking and a kid humming their songs while chewing.

Namjoon and Hoseok watched in fascination as Yoongi worked. He cut Byeol’s noodles just short enough, blowing on hot dumplings before handing them over, wiping sticky hands mid-bite like it was second nature.

Then Byeol climbed onto the couch beside Yoongi, plucking a dumpling from his plate without asking. 

Yoongi didn’t blink. Just wiped the sauce from his chin mid-bite.

“Eat your own, gremlin.”

Hoseok gave Namjoon a slow, bewildered look. Who is this man?

It only got worse when Byeol, chewing proudly, chirped, “But yours taste better, Appa.”

“You didn’t even flinch,” Namjoon whispered.

“He called you ‘Appa,’ and you didn’t even blink,” Hoseok added, mystified.

Yoongi sighed. “I’ve been through the five stages of denial. I’m in the ‘acceptance and nightly storytelling’ era now.”

Last time they’d visited, Yoongi had practically short-circuited at the word Appa. Now? He just leaned over and helped Byeol reach the tteokbokki without spilling the plate..

Dinner was chaos, as expected. Byeol narrated his plushies’ tragic romances and space adventures between bites. Hoseok nearly choked when Byeol solemnly explained that Moonie was now in a long-distance relationship with Sunie, who had duties in the Space Kingdom.

Eventually, Byeol yawned mid-sentence and rubbed his eyes.

“Alright,” Yoongi said, standing up and stretching, “bedtime.”

“Nooo,” Byeol whined, already drooping against Yoongi’s side. “I wanna stay with uncles.” 

Namjoon and Hoseok melted too. Maybe being an uncle wasn’t so bad.

“You can see them tomorrow. Come on, brush time.”

Namjoon and Hoseok watched in stunned silence as Yoongi calmly guided a half-sleepy Byeol through the whole routine. He handed him his tiny toothbrush, and helped him reach the sink.

“Appa,” they heard him call, muffled around toothpaste, “I missed a spot. You gotta do it again.”

Yoongi groaned. But still crouched and redid it. 

Later, Byeol padded into the living room in his silk pajamas and made Hoseok dramatically clutch his chest again. “He has silk pajamas, Namjoon. Silk. This kid’s living a better life than I am.”

“Can I get one more story?” Byeol asked, with Moonie tucked neatly under one arm.

Yoongi who had just finished a story was already pulling out another story on his phone.

“…Okay, but only one more,” he muttered.

Namjoon and Hoseok stood quietly in the doorway, watching the scene with something like awe. Yoongi's voice softened as he read, tone gentle and rhythmic. Byeol curled closer under the blanket, his little face relaxed, eyelids heavy.

When he finally nodded off, plushie pressed to his chest, Yoongi turned off the bedside lamp and shut the bedroom door gently behind him.

He then returned to the living room, flopping onto the couch between Namjoon and Hoseok with a sigh.

They both stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“…What,” Yoongi muttered, exhausted. 

“That was…” Namjoon blinked. “Weirdly impressive.”

“Yeah,” Hoseok nodded, dazed. “You’re like a full-on dad now. Like… you were made for it.”

“I wasn’t,” Yoongi said, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m just… adapting in real time.”

Namjoon grinned. “Well, it suits you.”

Yoongi groaned and chucked a cushion at his head.

Hoseok caught it with a smirk. “Don’t worry. We’ll never let you forget you became Appa before any of us.”

“You don’t have to. My entire Spotify algorithm is cocomelon now,” Yoongi muttered, eyes already drifting shut as he slumped further into the couch.

They fell into a comfortable silence.

Outside, the city hummed. Inside, the apartment was warm, quiet, full of plushies, dinner leftovers, and a tiny silk-pajama boy fast asleep in Yoongi's room.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel like the loner grumpy rapper or the closed-off hyung. Just a man who’d figured out how to cut noodles short enough for a kid who called him Appa like it was the only name he ever had.

Chapter Text

Yoongi woke up to silence.

Which, under normal circumstances, might’ve been a blessing. But after days of living with the tiny tyrant, Byeol, he’d learned the hard way that silence at this hour meant one of two things: either the kid was still asleep (unlikely), or he was awake and doing something that required immediate damage control.

And with Byeol?

It was never the first option.

He’d only slept a couple hours—Hoseok and Namjoon had left just after dawn, the three of them had stayed up way too late, rotating between music talk, Byeol talk, the mystery omega talk, then more Byeol, then back to music again. Like clockwork.

Eventually, his friends had slunk back to the studio at the break of dawn. Yoongi had wanted to go back with them. God, he missed the studio, missed the cold hum of his speakers, the dusty scent of years-old notebooks, that low vibration that lived in his bones when he was making something. 

But now he had a new addiction. Five years old. With messy hair and sticky fingers. And currently nowhere to be seen.

Still half-asleep, Yoongi’s hand reached across the bed, automatically searching for that tiny body that usually sprawled over him like a baby starfish. No warm limbs. No “Appa, are you dead?” No off-key “Baby Shark.” Just cold sheets and the ominous echo of calm.

His brain snapped into dad mode before his feet even hit the floor.

“Byeol?” he called, voice hoarse with sleep.

Silence.

Groaning, Yoongi dragged himself out of bed. His hair was a disaster, shirt twisted halfway up his side like it had tried to flee during the night. He padded barefoot down the hallway, each step heavy.

Then he heard it.

That voice.

That soft, melodic, achingly familiar voice that made his teeth clench and chest twist in ways he did not want to deal with before coffee.

He turned the corner and there he was.

Byeol, curled up like a sleepy cat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, clutching his Moonie to his chest while Starie served as his pillow. His big eyes were locked on the screen. The glow from the television lighting up his face.

And on the screen?

Park. Freaking. Jimin.

Again. 

Wet-haired. Shirtless. Crying in the rain with all the emotional gravity of a Shakespearean protagonist. The camera lingered lovingly on his face, the lighting making his skin glow like moonlight.

Yoongi stopped dead.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

Byeol looked up, utterly unfazed. “Morning, Appa.”

Yoongi pointed at the screen like it had insulted him personally. “Him again?”

“He’s crying in the rain,” Byeol said like it was a sacred event.

Yoongi groaned and flopped beside him on the couch. “He’s dramatic.”

“He’s beautiful,” Byeol said, voice dreamy.

“He’s manipulative,” Yoongi corrected. “Brainwashed you with that damn face.”

Right on cue, Jimin’s character, heartbroken and noble, delivered a monologue about loyalty and fate. A single tear traced his perfect cheek. His bottom lip trembled. The background music swelled.

Byeol let out a dreamy sigh. While Yoongi made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a dying animal.

“He’s acting,” Yoongi snapped. “It’s fake rain.”

“It’s emotion.”

“It’s a lighting trick and glycerin.”

“Appa,” Byeol said solemnly, turning to him, “you’re just mad because he’s prettier than you.”

Yoongi reeled. “I—what—excuse me?!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I need to ban your TV time. And his face.”

But Byeol turned, serious. “Appa. We don’t turn off art.”

Yoongi gawked. “He’s not art. He’s a—he’s a glitch in good taste.”

Byeol blinked at him. “Then why are you watching too?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re sitting here. Watching.”

“That’s not watching. That’s judging,” Yoongi insisted, then waved a hand. “This conversation is over.”

But he didn’t get up.

Because now Jimin was laughing on-screen. Really laughing.

And Yoongi—against his will—remembered that sound exactly.

He shot up from the couch like it burned him. “I’m making Breakfast,” he muttered, heading to the kitchen.

“Okay,” Byeol said cheerfully, already lost in the world of Jimin’s tear-streaked, rain-drenched glory.

Yoongi disappeared into the kitchen, muttering under his breath about eggs and regret.

While in the living room, Byeol didn’t move. He just slowly brought moonie closer, cradling the plush gently against his cheek. He sniffed it once, subtle and slow, like he could still breathe in the faint traces of his papa’s scent.

Then he tucked his chin over his knees and whispered, so softly that only moonie and the couch might’ve heard:

“Hi, Papa.”

And he smiled, the way someone does when they’re close to something precious and far away all at once.

Then, with a contented sigh, he added, “You’re still the prettiest.”

On screen, Jimin looked straight into the camera, eyes full of light.

Like he heard.

A few minutes later the scene on TV shifted. 

Jimin’s character was walking alone now. Shoulders hunched, drenched under a flickering street lamp, the weight of the world stitched into every step. Rain kept falling, piano music swelling softly in the background, tugging at the heart. 

Byeol didn’t blink.

He held Moonie tighter.

The couch was warm. Morning light had begun to seep through the curtains in soft gold streaks, but the world still felt hushed and slow.

He didn’t understand the full plot of the drama—too many grown-up words, too much kissing and betrayal and long, sad stares. 

But he understood his papa’s face. And he loved his voice. Loved the way it felt like a lullaby even when it wasn’t.

On screen, Jimin stopped under a tree, looking up at the sky like it had betrayed him.

Byeol whispered, “Don’t be sad, Papa.”

Jimin, of course, didn’t answer. Just kept acting, his eyes red rimmed.

Byeol leaned down and pressed a kiss to Moonie’s head, right between the ears.

“Appa doesn’t know yet,” he murmured to the plush.

As if in response, the show cut to a flashback—Jimin laughing in sunlight this time, his arms thrown wide, joy blooming across his face. A different side of him. Softer. More real.

Byeol mirrored the smile.

That was his favorite version of his papa.

Not the sad one. Not the one with the tears. But the one that danced. The one that sang lullabies before bed in a voice so sweet it made the dark feel smaller. The one who gave him moonie and starie and told him he’d always be loved, even if it had to be a secret for a while. 

He leaned his head back, still smiling.

And, just quiet enough that only Moonie could hear, he whispered, “I miss you, papa.”

The rain kept falling on the screen.

The screen faded to black, credits rolling with dramatic piano music.

Byeol yawned, rubbing his eyes on Moonie’s fuzzy ear before sitting up and shouting toward the kitchen, “Appa! He cried again! Twice!”

From the kitchen, a muffled, “Good for him,” floated back.

Byeol nodded to himself, ever the reporter. “He was holding a mug and staring at a wall this time. Very artistic.”

Yoongi poked his head around the corner, spatula in hand. “That’s not art. That’s called forgetting your lines.”

Byeol rolled his eyes. “Appa, You don’t know anything about cinema.”

“Cinema?” Yoongi scoffed, stepping into the room. “Yesterday you couldn't stop watching that cartoon about the bunny and his hundred transport options.”

Byeol lifted his tiny fist. “He’s a brave bunny.”

Yoongi wiped his hands on a dish towel. “You know what? I’m going to dig a hole. And bury the TV.”

Byeol gasped. “You wouldn’t!”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Try me, mini film critic.”

Byeol only grinned as the next episode started playing. “But Jiminie is so pretty.”

Yoongi gave up and turned back to the kitchen. “We’re having plain toast for breakfast.”

“What happened to pancakes with faces?” Byeol whined, scandalized.

“Artless breakfast by an artless father,” Yoongi muttered. “Ask your cinematic prince to make you pancakes.”

“He would,” Byeol replied dreamily. “And they’d sparkle. Just like him.”

Yoongi banged the pan down with theatrical flair. “That man probably can’t even pour water, and you’re talking about pancakes.”

Byeol grinned to himself. “He makes the best pancakes,” he whispered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Appa!”

By the time breakfast was ready, the TV was paused, and Byeol had climbed onto the stool at the counter, toast in hand, face thoughtful.

He turned toward Yoongi. “Appa, I’ve decided.”

“Oh no,” Yoongi said flatly. “That sentence never ends well.”

“I’m gonna be an actor when I grow up.”

Yoongi blinked. “You want to cry in fake rain and stare out fake windows?”

“I want to look pretty on TV like Jiminie.”

Yoongi choked on his toast.

Byeol beamed. “He said ‘loyalty’ and ‘fate’ in the same scene. That’s talent.”

“That’s lazy scriptwriting,” Yoongi muttered into his coffee.

“You’re grumpy ‘cause you can’t cry pretty.”

Yoongi turned slowly. “Excuse me?”

“You cry like a cartoon bear,” Byeol said helpfully, then mimed big dramatic sobs, complete with hiccups and flailing arms.

Yoongi looked personally attacked. “I hope you remember this betrayal when I deny you cookies later.”

Byeol instantly dropped into a wounded, betrayed expression—too perfect to be real. The beginnings of a tearful monologue in his eyes.

Yoongi sighed.

This kid needed a cartoon cleanse.

Or a blindfold.

Or a new hobby.

Preferably one that didn’t involve romanticizing his greatest nemesis on national TV.

-

Somewhere across the city, in a penthouse so beautiful it looked like a magazine spread, complete with chandeliers, glass sculptures, and too many framed photos to count; three figures were dramatically slumped across an expensive couch. The kind of couch that probably cost more than most people’s rent.

In the middle sat Park Jimin: the nation’s beloved actor, radiant, wrapped in silk pajamas that matched the set his son was wearing on the other side of the city. A silky headband kept his hair swept back, and a peach-pink sheet mask clung to his flawless skin. In one hand, he held a delicate glass of strawberry milk—not because he liked it, but because it had become part of his morning routine.

He was trying to focus. Trying to read the script for his next drama shoot, eyes scanning lines with forced concentration.

The two big figures flanking him, however, had other plans.

Every few minutes, one of them sighed. Then the other would sigh louder. It was less a conversation and more like a competition in misery.

“Can you guys stop sighing?” Jimin snapped finally, flipping a page without looking up. “Some of us are working.”

Taehyung, curled against his right like a housecat in mourning, pouted and clutched a framed photo of Byeol’s first birthday—his cheeks covered in frosting, eyes shining bright.

“I don’t feel alive, Jiminie. I miss my baby.”

“He’s not your baby,” Jimin muttered, barely glancing at his dramatic Best friend. 

On Jimin’s other side, Jungkook let out another long, soulful exhale, clutching one of Byeol’s plushies like it had personally betrayed him. “Do you think he misses us too?”

Jimin continued to ignore them and focused on the script in hand. 

Taehyung sat up like he’d been electrocuted. “Park Jimin. What kind of papa are you? Do you not miss your child?”

His tone was scandalized, as if Jimin had just confessed to a lack of skincare routine.

Jimin looked up, unimpressed, brow arched. “Excuse me? You’re the one who started this whole mess, if you’ve forgotten.”

Taehyung gasped. “That’s a distortion of events.”

“It’s exactly what happened,” Jungkook added helpfully, completely unbothered.

“It did not!” Taehyung yelped, rising like a court witness. “It’s not my fault your son is a genius with the instincts of a detective and the emotional manipulation skills of a villain with a tragic backstory!”

Jimin blinked slowly. “He asked you if Min Yoongi was his appa. And you said yes.”

Taehyung clutched his chest dramatically and started re-enacting the scene. 

“I was asleep! I thought I was dreaming! He climbed into my bed and whispered, ‘TaeTae, is Min Yoongi my appa?' and I— what was I supposed to do?! Lie to that tiny face? With his little bunny teeth and that suspicious little squint? I cracked like a cheap fortune cookie!”

Jimin sipped his strawberry milk. It was still too sweet. “You are the fortune cookie.”

“I feel attacked,” Taehyung muttered, flopping back dramatically and dragging a throw blanket over his face like a shroud.

Jungkook sniffled softly. “Byeol gave me a sticker the last time he saw me,” he said into the plushie’s ear. “A star. He said I was his ‘best bunny rocket pilot.’ That means something.”

Jimin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He’d been through this routine before—at least twice a day since Byeol had left for Yoongi’s. Honestly, it was getting ridiculous. Taehyung and Jungkook were taking the separation harder than he was. They didn’t even go back to their own apartments anymore, just lived in his penthouse like squatters who happened to steal his designer robes and cry into imported silk cushions.

Jungkook mumbled into the plushie's soft fur, “But in Tae’s defense, Byeol does have that spooky genius timing…”

“I told you both not to talk about Yoongi around him,” Jimin muttered, sinking deeper into the couch. “He was already suspicious.”

“You’re one to talk,” Taehyung said, emerging from his blanket cocoon. “You literally sang him Yoongi’s songs every night like they were lullabies.”

“Well,” Jimin muttered, “he couldn’t sleep without them. That’s how he’s been since the womb.”

Jungkook blinked at him. “You’re really out here acting shocked your son figured it out when you gave him a curated mixtape of his father’s discography.”

“And he’s your son,” Taehyung added. “You should’ve known he’d start connecting the dots. Especially with how much he looks like—well.”

“Like that smug, sleepy cat of an alpha?” Jimin sighed, tugging his hairband higher. “Yeah. So much for carrying him for nine months, only for him to come out with that face.”

The first time Jimin had held Byeol, he remembered thinking: Shit.

Not awe or wonder or this is my son.

Just: Shit.

Because the baby in his arms looked exactly like Min Yoongi. The same eyes, same mouth, same expression of quiet judgment.

At first, Jimin thought he could just say he was a single parent and the world wouldn’t care who the alpha was. But then Byeol grew. And instead of resembling Jimin, like he hoped—just a little, please—the resemblance only got stronger. 

Yoongi's face on that tiny body. Yoongi's glare. Even Yoongi’s early-morning grumpiness. He’d held out hope that maybe, just maybe, Byeol would start looking like him with time. But fate had other plans. Because every year, Byeol just turned more and more into Yoongi.

And Jimin knew instantly: he couldn’t show this baby to the world. Not if he wanted to keep his secret.

So Jimin did the only thing he could.

He hid him from the world. 

And for a while, it worked.

Until Byeol started watching music shows and variety clips and slowly, over time, pieced together the mystery himself.

And when Jimin wouldn’t answer his questions, Byeol did what any devious little genius would do: He targeted Taehyung. The weak link.

“TaeTae,” the baby had whispered one morning, voice sugar-sweet as he climbed into Taehyung’s bed, “Is Min Yoongi my appa?”

And that was all it took.

Byeol had asked Jimin so gently to meet him, so sweetly with his big eyes, fluttering them just like Jimin did in his dramas and that's all it took for Jimin’s resolve to crumble. 

He decided to send Byeol to Yoongi but without revealing the truth. Let them bond first. Let Yoongi get to know Byeol before knowing who he really was. Jimin was afraid that if Yoongi knew he was the other parent, he might reject the boy out of resentment.

So he packed carefully: Byeol’s favorite clothes, his plushie, his bedtime snacks. He wrote a set of instructions longer than a screenplay. And he tucked a discreet GPS tracker inside Starie’s plush belly, just in case Byeol wanted to come back. All he had to do was press the hidden button twice, and Jimin would get the alert. 

Because even if he was sending Byeol away, he had to know he could get him back.

He was sending his whole heart away for the first time.

The couch dipped suddenly as Taehyung and Jungkook flopped against him again, groaning in stereo.

Jimin rubbed his temples with a sigh. “You two are the worst co-parents I never asked for.”

“Byeol deserves three parents,” Jungkook sniffled.

“And two of them are mentally unstable,” Jimin said flatly.

“Hey!” Taehyung huffed, offended. “He’s our nephew! We’re emotionally invested. I carried him for nine months—emotionally.”

“I’ve been coordinating his wardrobe since he was three days old,” Jungkook chimed in, lifting a hand like he was in court. “Every hat matched his shoes. Every single day.”

Jimin flopped back into the couch with a long, dramatic sigh. “God. He’s not even been gone a week and you two are acting like he joined the military.”

Taehyung curled closer, arms crossed in a pout. “I miss his questions. I miss his threats. I miss when he tried to sell me fake moon rocks for ten bucks.”

Jimin didn’t answer. He just closed his eyes, and instantly Byeol’s face filled his mind that adorable little pout and those far-too-familiar eyes that he inherited from his Appa. 

Silence stretched between them, warm and thick. 

Then, Taehyung’s voice came quieter. “You do miss him, though. Right?”

Jimin stayed silent for a beat.

He missed the early morning cuddles, the way Byeol insisted on brushing his hair after Jimin had brushed his. He missed them both sitting on Jimin's dressing table and doing skincare. He missed his tiny voice narrating movies, declaring, “That man is lying,” or “She needs therapy, Papa.” He even missed the knock-knock jokes that made no sense, and the nightly debate over bedtime and sock selection. 

And he missed that Byeol wasn’t here.

That now Yoongi was the one hearing Byeol’s sleepy murmurs at bedtime. That he got to hold him and read the story with exaggerated voices. But it felt kinda warm too, knowing Yoongi was finally doing something he should have done from the start. 

“I just can’t believe you let him go,” Taehyung said softly, now upside down on the couch with his legs dangling over the backrest. 

“To live with Min Yoongi. Alone. In that house. With all those… masculine things.”

“Like guitars and black t-shirts,” Jungkook whispered, visibly horrified.

“I still don’t get how you slept with him,” Taehyung muttered, peeking over the couch cushion. 

“He’s so not your type. Didn’t your Pinterest board alpha fantasy look like a soft-spoken poet in a hand-knit sweater baking apple pie?”

Jungkook grinned. “With round glasses. And a rescue calico cat named Almond.”

“Shut up,” Jimin mumbled, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “That was just me romanticizing my future. Like a loser.”

“You’re still romanticizing it,” Taehyung said, rolling onto his side.

“It’s not a crime to want magic,” Jimin replied with a shrug, voice softer now.

“Yoongi’s more like… a storm in a recording studio,” Jungkook mused. “Lots of bass. No chill.”

“But with Byeol…” Jimin’s smile faltered, his gaze distant. “He’s trying. I can tell.”

Another hush fell.

“I hate when you’re mature,” Taehyung groaned. “It ruins the mood.”

“I’ll go back to being reckless and emotionally repressed tomorrow,” Jimin said, sipping his strawberry milk.

“You better.”

Jungkook looked down at the plushie in his lap. Then at Jimin. “Do you miss him?”

“Every second,” Jimin said without hesitation. “But I want him to have what I didn’t. I want him to know all the pieces of who he is. Even if it means being a little lonely for a while.”

They sat in silence again, the only sound the lo-fi cover playing softly in the background—a nostalgic hum wrapped in quiet rain tapping the windows.

And then, like clockwork—

Taehyung sighed again.

Jimin groaned. “I need new friends.”

“You love us,” Jungkook said, nuzzling into his side.

“Unfortunately.”Jimin muttered. Then added, almost fondly, “But only until Byeol comes back.”

Just then, the door opened with a beep, and a familiar voice cut through the cozy gloom.

“God, I knew you three would be like this,” Jin said, stepping into the penthouse with arms full of takeout bags and judgment in his eyes. 

“Like a tragic love triangle with no romantic tension and way too much codependency.”

“Jin hyung!” Taehyung whined, sitting up instantly like a kid caught skipping class.

Jimin just raised a lazy hand in greeting while holding the script. “Morning, manager-nim.”

“Is it morning? Feels like grief o’clock in here,” Jin muttered as he placed the food on the counter.

“The guy at the café spelled your name ‘Jimmin’ again. I didn’t correct him. I was too tired.”

The apartment was soon filled with the comforting smell of soy garlic chicken and fresh rice. 

One thing Jimin had been indulging in freely since Byeol left? Takeout. 

No tiny hands stealing half his meal. No arguments about why broccoli wasn't optional. No having to hide in the kitchen or justify with ‘papa needs energy, baby.’ Just peace and grease.

“Don’t tell me you’re still crying over the five-year-old you voluntarily sent away?”

“He’s not just a five-year-old,” Jungkook muttered into plushie. “He’s Byeol.”

“Byeol the menace,” Jin replied, unbothered. “Didn’t he pour glue into my shoes last month and tell me it was ‘science’?”

“It was science,” Taehyung defended. “Sticky physics!”

Jimin sat up properly, taking off his mask. “I missed takeout.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Jin said, unpacking boxes. “You’re back on schedule tomorrow. Fan meet. Drama shoot. Brand shoot. You won’t even have time to cry.”

“I don’t cry,” Jimin said, biting into a rice cake.

“He cries inside,” Jungkook added helpfully.

“Silently,” Taehyung confirmed.

Jin sighed. “I should be charging all three of you for therapy.”

“Bless your devotion to carbs,” Jimin mumbled, mouth full.

Jin sighed, fond and tired. “Let’s just hope you don’t end up with a food baby before filming.”

Taehyung perked up. “If Jimin has a food baby, can we name it Byeol 2.0 ?”

“Get out of my penthouse,” Jimin deadpanned and then started to think.  

Somewhere across the city, his son was waking up in a different bed. One without him.

He imagined Byeol’s hair sticking up in wild directions, stomping out of bed and asking, “What’s for breakfast?” followed by something absurd like “Do you know where stars go during the day, Appa?”

He hoped Yoongi had answers. Or at least coffee. Because Jimin was sure Byeol had already turned Yoongi’s minimalist home into a glitter-coated warzone.

The glitter prince living in a black-and-white den. Yeah, no way that place was surviving untouched.

Everyone ended up at the dining table, surrounded by too many takeout boxes and not enough chopsticks.

Jin was trying to feed Taehyung soup while arguing about portion sizes, Jungkook was mixing sauces like he was performing dark alchemy, and Jimin had three different side dishes on his silk pajama sleeve because he insisted on eating cross-legged on the chair.

Jin, wiping his hands on a napkin, glanced around at the domestic disaster zone. “You know, this is not what I imagined managing a top actor would be like.”

“You signed up for this,” Jimin said.

“I signed up for schedules and red carpets. Not three grown adults in matching pajamas crying over a five-year-old dictator.”

“This is chaos,” Jin muttered, wiping sauce off Jimin's sleeve. “Literal toddler chaos.”

“We are grieving,” Taehyung said solemnly, mouth full. “Grief requires dumplings.”

Jimin picked at his rice. “He’s not dead. He’s just staying with his other parent.”

“Same thing,” Jungkook said dramatically. “I haven’t been emotionally whole since Tuesday.”

Jin narrowed his eyes. “You’ve never been emotionally whole.”

“You’re mean, hyung,” Jungkook whispered.

They ate in chaotic peace for a while before Taehyung asked, “Hey, do you think Yoongi knows how to make triangle kimbap correctly?”

Jimin didn’t even look up. “No.”

“I hope Byeol is judging him,” Jungkook muttered.

Oh, he definitely is, Jimin thought with a smug little smirk, imagining Yoongi getting that look—the same one he gives to reporters who ask dumb questions.

Karma, in a 5-year-old form.

Jin picked up his tablet with a sigh. “You all need hobbies. Or therapy.”

“Byeol is our hobby,” Taehyung declared, raising his chopsticks like a sword.

“God help that child,” Jin muttered. “Surrounded by unhinged adults.”

Jimin smiled behind his chopsticks. “He’s going to be just fine. He’s got me.”

“And Yoongi,” Jungkook added, mouth full of rice.

Jimin didn’t respond. He just stared at the table for a second—until Taehyung reached over and stole a dumpling off his plate.

That snapped him right back. “Touch my food again and I’ll send you to live with Yoongi.”

Taehyung gasped. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Watch me.”

Jin stood, already pulling out his car keys. “If he does, I’m the one driving. Let me just queue the playlist.”

Jimin just grinned into his soup, warm and wry.

But for now, he had soup, he had strawberry milk, and these idiots.

It would do.

And somewhere out there, Yoongi had Byeol… and Byeol had Yoongi.

God help them both.

Chapter Text

Byeol Had a Plan.

It all started with the drama reruns.

Byeol had been glued to the television, watching his papa cry under fake rain, fall in love with some tall actor with an annoying smile, and collapse dramatically into someone’s arms in Episode 8.

He loved it. He hated it. He missed his papa so much he could smell his fabric softener in the couch cushions.

Papa had said he could come back home anytime if he felt lonely, but Byeol didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

Cause he didn’t feel lonely here. He liked it here. He liked annoying his Appa, watching him get flustered over burnt toast, or muttering “why are you like this?” whenever Byeol mixed hot sauce into his cereal (it was science). He liked how Yoongi would wait until Byeol was asleep before disappearing into his studio, and how he’d be lying right next with a tired smile when Byeol woke up.

But still... he missed his papa's warm hugs. The ones where his whole body got swallowed and he could hear his papa’s heartbeat like a lullaby.

So he made a plan.

Byeol stood in the middle of Yoongi’s pristine hallway, hands on his tiny hips, eyes narrowed like a general preparing for war.

“Appa,” he called sweetly. “I have a problem.”

Yoongi poked his head out from the studio, glasses slightly askew, hair a fluffy mess. He hadn’t slept all night—again. These days he didn’t get much done in the daytime, too busy making dinosaur-shaped sandwiches and rewatching cartoons or those dramas with Byeol. Nights were his only window to work. Unfortunately, that window was full of yawns and self-doubt.

He blinked blearily. “What kind of problem?”

“I have no clothes,” Byeol declared, all tragic seriousness.

Yoongi stared. “You brought a whole suitcase. Designer stuff.”

“They’re all dirty,” Byeol said gravely.

Yoongi squinted, wondering if this was another trick of the little trickster. “…How.”

“Science,” Byeol replied without flinching.

That part, technically, was true—if “science” included ketchup, yogurt, suspicious glitter glue, a crushed jelly cup, and a juice box catastrophe that still haunted Yoongi’s living room rug.

The jeans were sticky. The T-shirt had what Yoongi suspected was either paint or melted marshmallow. And the socks… those socks had suffered in silence.

Yoongi shuffled over, squinting down at the pile of chaos that used to be luxury toddler fashion and ran a hand over his face.

Even the outfit Byeol was wearing looked like it had gone through a food fight and a mild war.

Byeol stood among it all like a tiny survivor.

Yoongi exhaled slowly, a sound that came from the depths of his soul. 

This, he reminded himself, was exactly why he once told people he’d never have kids.

And yet, here he was. Standing knee-deep in toddler chaos. Sleep-deprived. Overwhelmed. And for some cursed reason… not even mad.

Somehow, with Byeol around, the mess didn’t make him angry... it just made him weirdly soft.

“Come on,” he said, already gathering the pile. “Help me take these to the laundry.”

Byeol, dutiful and dramatic, carefully picked up his sad, crumpled socks delicately between two fingers. “They have suffered.”

They dumped everything into the washer. Yoongi stared at it a moment, already mentally calculating how many fabric softener pods were too many.

Then he looked at Byeol.

“You have to take those off too.” He said, pointing at the boy’s currently worn (and visibly yogurt-streaked) T-shirt and pants.

Byeol blinked innocently. “Then what will I wear, Appa? I told you I get cold easily. I’m very delicate.”

Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose, then turned and disappeared into his closet.

Five minutes later, he returned with a black crop t-shirt (he didn’t want to talk about it) and a pair of drawstring shorts that might serve as pants for someone Byeol’s size.

“Here. Temporary outfit.”

Byeol held up the shirt, squinted at it then looked up slowly.

“Appa. This is… fashionably risky.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Do you want to wear it, or walk around in glittery underwear?”

Byeol took the clothes like he was accepting an Oscar. “I’ll make it work.”

Once changed, he couldn’t stop admiring himself in the mirror. As expected from Yoongi, the entire outfit was black and somehow, on Byeol, it just worked.

Sleek, tiny, dramatic. Yoongi caught his reflection and blinked. Even Byeol paused. 

Cause it made Byeol look even more like Yoongi. The crop top fell loosely over Byeol’s little frame, the shorts nearly reached his ankles, and his hair was slightly tousled from changing.

He looked ridiculous.

He looked like Yoongi.

And maybe…Byeol actually liked it. He didn't complain once about the color or the cut, just sniffed the shirt and whispered, “It smells like you.”

“Look, appa,” Byeol beamed, turning with a confident smirk—Yoongi’s own signature smirk. “I look like you.”

Yoongi stared for a second, then felt his heart skip a beat. He fumbled for his phone and snapped a picture before the moment passed.

His phone, which was once filled with lyrics, audio drafts, and messy voice memos was now slowly becoming filled with Byeol.

“Yeah, kid,” Yoongi said, voice softer than he meant it to be. “You look like your appa.”

A quiet pride bloomed in his chest.

“Now,” Byeol declared, dramatically striking another pose, “it’s time to go shopping.”

Yoongi pinched the bridge of his nose. As dramatic as Byeol was being, he wasn’t wrong. There was no way Yoongi was going to untie and retie those drawstrings every time the kid needed to pee. 

And he couldn’t exactly order online either—he had no idea what size Byeol wore. The numbers meant nothing to him. Children’s sizing might as well be an alien language. He’d already learned that the hard way (RIP to the tiny leather jacket that never fit over Byeol’s head).

Which left them with only one option.

The mall.

Which was a problem.

Min Yoongi, internationally recognized rapper, in a mall with a child who looked like his carbon copy?

Risky. Very risky.

But not as risky as disappointing the tiny gremlin now staring up at him with big, hopeful eyes and fists clenched like a war hero heading into battle.

He just knew this kid and his papa probably spent their weekends shopping, trying on sunglasses, and judging outfits with absolute ruthlessness.

“Fine,” Yoongi sighed. “But you don’t take off your mask or your hat. Not even once.”

Byeol snapped to attention. “Aye aye, Appa.”

Yoongi stared down at his miniature self.

Byeol saluted.

God help him. 

Yoongi stood in front of the closet, staring at his own clothes like they were the final boss of a video game.

He didn’t know how to dress for a mall trip with a kid. Was he supposed to look casual? Incognito? Approachable? Definitely not dad-chic—he drew the line there.

In the end, he went with a plain black hoodie, oversized and safe, paired with ripped jeans and a cap pulled low over his face. It screamed don’t talk to me, yet somehow still looked expensive. Dark sunglasses completed the ensemble, even if he felt slightly ridiculous.

“Okay, I’m ready,” he called out.

Byeol sprinted out of the bathroom, mask in place, cap slightly crooked, and Yoongi’s oversized slides flopping on his feet with every step.

“You look like a tiny burglar,” Yoongi said, crouching to adjust the cap so it covered Byeol’s ears.

“Yes, ‘cause I stole Appa’s heart,” Byeol chirped.

Yoongi froze. His heart skipped a full beat. This kid—

He really needed to stop letting Byeol watch Park Jimin’s dramas. He's a bad influence on him. 

Yoongi muttered something under his breath about limiting screen time as he grabbed his wallet, keys, and a cross body bag hastily packed with snacks, tissues, hand sanitizer, and a backup mask—because while he didn’t understand parenting, he understood survival.

He crouched again, double-checking Byeol’s mask and cap. “Don’t draw attention.”

“I’ll be good,” Byeol promised solemnly, before immediately doing finger guns at his reflection in the mirror.

Yoongi sighed, again. “You’re literally me. But chaotic.”

They headed down to the parking garage, where Yoongi carefully buckled Byeol into the passenger seat. Along with him, despite Yoongi’s best efforts, came Starie The Plushie, tucked protectively under one arm like a VIP guest.

“I told you the plushie stays home,” Yoongi muttered.

“He has separation anxiety,” Byeol replied gravely.

Yoongi didn’t have the energy to argue. He shut the door with a quiet sigh and climbed in, adjusting the mirror. Beside him, Byeol beamed barely able to sit still, excitement radiating off him like static.

His first car ride with Appa.

And just like that, he fully stepped into his passenger princess era.

“This one’s good,” Byeol said when one of Yoongi’s older tracks started playing. “But Papa says the bass in this one makes our neighbor cry.”

Yoongi choked.

Before he could respond, Byeol already had another demand. “Can we listen to the drama OST? The sad one, with the violins? It’s the part where Jiminie cries in the rain.”

Yoongi tried ignoring the request.

Then came the puppy eyes.

And of course, like every weak man before him, Yoongi caved, handing over the phone with a resigned grunt.

Byeol grinned like he’d just won the lottery.

As the OST filled the car, melancholic and dramatic, Yoongi suddenly wished he’d worn earplugs instead of sunglasses.

Byeol hummed along happily, staring out the window like he was in a music video.

Yoongi gripped the steering wheel tighter.

Mall first. Clothes later. Sanity… hopefully somewhere in between.

As they pulled into the mall parking lot, Yoongi put the car in park and turned to look at Byeol.

“Remember the rules?”

“Stay close to you, don’t take off my mask, don’t talk to strangers—unless it’s to ask where the cool clothes are.”

“…Close enough.”

They stepped out into the soft buzz of afternoon shoppers, two hooded figures dressed in all black. Yoongi kept his head down, one hand in his pocket, the other resting gently on Byeol’s shoulder. No one gave them a second glance.

So far, so good.

That was… until Byeol spotted the glass elevator.

“APP—uh—whisper voice,” he corrected himself quickly, eyes wide behind his mask. “Appa. Can we take the shiny up thing?”

Yoongi followed his gaze to the center atrium where the sleek glass elevator shimmered in the sunlight.

He sighed, but the excitement on Byeol’s face was too much to resist.

“Sure, kid. Let’s take the shiny up thing.”

They stepped inside the elevator. Byeol stood close to the railing, eyes sparkling under the brim of his cap. Then, casually, so casually, he double-clicked Starie's belly, just like his Papa and Uncles had taught him. 

A tiny ping. A signal sent.

Mission: Papa Retrieval was in motion.

“You okay?” Yoongi asked, catching the glint in Byeol’s eyes.

“Yes, Appa,” Byeol replied sweetly, pressing his cheek to the glass. But his heart thumped with anticipation. He couldn’t wait to see his papa.

A few miles away, in the back seat of a sleek black car, Park Jimin was doing what any exhausted, overworked actor would do after a 16-hour overnight shoot: scrolling through his secret photo folder.

Every picture was of Byeol—laughing, pouting, napping with his face buried in a plushie.

Jimin looked half-asleep, glitter still clinging to his lashes from filming, foundation barely masking the dark circles under his eyes. His head rested against the seat, and all he wanted was to collapse into bed.

But sleep wasn’t the same without his human heater. His baby.

His eyes began to sting from the exhaustion or maybe from the ache of missing Byeol. 

Then—ping.

A familiar notification lit up his screen.

Starie: City Mall

Jimin sat up so fast he nearly smacked his head on the car ceiling.

“What the—” He blinked at the GPS map. The plushie’s tracker showed Byeol was at the mall. With Yoongi.

Which meant his son had just activated The Signal.

It was Byeol’s silent code for: Come find me, Papa.

Jimin straightened up, wide awake now. Sleep could wait, but not his son. 

His lips curled slowly into a smile.

From beside him, Jin glanced up from reviewing tomorrow’s schedule. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“We’re going to the mall,” Jimin said simply, already pulling out his lip balm and grabbing his cap. 

Jin narrowed his eyes. “You have glitter in your eyebrows and no energy left in your soul.”

“Don’t care,” Jimin said, swiping on the balm. “My son is up to something sneaky. I have to meet him halfway.”

“Do I have to come?”

“You're already in the car, hyung.”

Jin groaned. “This is why I don’t want kids.”

Jimin grinned. “Too late. You already have one. His name is Byeol and he calls you ‘Uncle Worldwide Handsome.’”

“Ugh.”

But Jin still told the driver to take a detour.

The mall was busier than Yoongi expected.

Too crowded for Yoongi’s liking, especially with a child in tow. He kept one hand gently gripping the back of Byeol’s shirt, steering him through the aisles of trendy children's stores.

Byeol stayed close, like he was told, though he couldn’t resist wandering a few steps ahead to touch racks of clothes and judge everything like a tiny fashion critic.

Yoongi kept scanning the crowd, on high alert. He wasn’t paranoid—just cautious. A famous rapper with a mystery kid? Not the kind of headline he was ready for, yet. 

So far, no one had recognized them.

Byeol had tried on three outfits, all picked by Yoongi. He rejected every single one.

“This one’s itchy,” he whined from inside the changing room, tossing a fuzzy sweater over the door.

Yoongi leaned against the wall, exhaustion creeping in. “You're five. You shouldn't be this picky.”

“Fashion doesn’t rest, Appa.”

Yoongi snorted. He's definitely his omega parent’s child. He still didn’t know who that omega was, but the drama, the fashion sense, the precise taste, the expressive hands—it was all… familiar. Annoyingly so.

“Appa, I need your opinion!” Byeol shouted from behind a rack of sequined jackets.

Yoongi winced. “Indoor voice, remember?”

“Right, right—Appa, I need your opinion,” Byeol stage-whispered, dragging over a pair of neon yellow cargo pants.

Yoongi blinked. “Absolutely not.”

“But fashion is about taking risks.”

“Not those kinds of risks.”

Byeol sighed, dramatically tossing the pants back on the pile. “I miss shopping with my papa,” he mumbled under his breath, not realizing Yoongi heard.

Yoongi’s fingers twitched at his side, a strange tightness rising in his chest.

“Go try that hoodie on,” he said gruffly. “I’ll wait outside the changing room.”

Byeol saluted and vanished behind the curtain, Starie still in hand.

Across the mall, Jimin had already slipped in unnoticed—hood pulled low, mask up. Jin lagged behind him, sipping a coffee he didn't want.

They moved quickly, Starie’s tracker guiding them toward the boutique kidswear store. Jimin’s heart pounded with each step. He didn’t need to see Yoongi. He just wanted to see Byeol. Even for a moment.

“He’s really here,” Jimin whispered, standing near the display of tiny boots. “They’re right there.”

Jin raised an eyebrow. “You’re being weird. Weirder than usual.”

“I just want to see my son.”

Jimin ducked behind a rack of puffer jackets just as the dressing room curtain swished open and Yoongi stepped out, holding Byeol’s hand.

“Too tight?” Yoongi asked.

“Too pink.”

“You said you liked pink.”

“I do. Just not that pink.”

They headed toward the pants section. From his hiding spot, Jimin crouched low behind the puffers, a fond smile playing on his lips. Byeol looked so small next to Yoongi but he was glowing. Safe. Genuinely happy.

“my baby...”

Then Byeol wandered a few steps away, drawn toward a table stacked with tiny jackets.

And just as he turned the corner of the rack—

He bumped into someone.

“Oof!”

Byeol looked up, wide eyes widening further as a familiar scent washed over him.

“My little star,” came the soft, smiling voice.

“Papa!” Byeol whisper-yelled.

But he stopped himself from lunging forward. He glanced over his shoulder quickly, then reached out and grabbed Jimin’s hand with practiced ease, dragging him behind the coats in a flurry of movement like a tiny spy on a mission.

“Not here!” Byeol whispered. “Appa’s right there!”

Jimin let himself be tugged into hiding behind a display of overpriced jackets, crouching to meet Byeol’s eyes.

“You came.”

“Of course I came. You clicked Starie.”

Byeol’s face scrunched into a proud grin. “I missed you.”

Jimin’s features softened instantly. 

“I missed you more, baby.” He pulled Byeol in for a fierce hug, cradling the back of his head and burying his nose into his son's soft hair. For just a second, he allowed himself to breathe.

Then he pulled back and took a better look at Byeol’s clothes—a crop t-shirt that was oversized on him, and was definitely not the one Jimin had packed. It hung off his shoulders, sleeves almost reaching his wrists. The tiny shorts serving as his pants held up by the drawstrings. No soft scent of Jimin’s cologne. Just... laundry detergent and betrayal.

“You smell like fabric softener and criminal intent,” Jimin whispered, narrowing his eyes. “What did you do baby?”

“Ruined all my clothes,” Byeol said proudly. “Science.”

Jimin chuckled under his breath. “Yeah. That tracks.”

“Papa,” Byeol whispered urgently, tugging at his sleeve. “Can you help me pick something that isn't black like Appa keep choosing?”

Jimin smirked, already scanning the nearby racks. “Where is he?”

“Still stuck picking hard pants. I told him soft pants only. He doesn’t listen.”

“Okay,” Jimin said, rolling his sleeves up. “Operation: Style Upgrade. Two minutes. Let’s go.”

They moved like a trained team—quick, silent, surgical. Hangers flew past. Jimin squatted down and held up a soft navy sweater with delicate gold stars stitched around the collar.

“This one,” he whispered. “You’ll look like the night sky.”

Byeol’s eyes lit up. “I love it.”

But then—

A voice called from a few aisles away.

“Byeol?”

It was Yoongi.

Jimin froze.

Byeol whipped his head around in alarm. “Go, Papa! Quick!”

“Meet me by the bathrooms,” Jimin whispered as he disappeared behind a row of mannequins like a glittery ghost.

Byeol turned around just as Yoongi appeared, eyes narrowing at the sight of Byeol clutching the starry sweater.

“Where’d you find that?”

“On sale!” Byeol chirped.

Yoongi frowned. “That’s not a sale rack.”

“You’re rich, Appa.”

Yoongi stared, deadpan. “That’s not the point.”

Byeol tilted his head innocently. “You said good taste doesn’t need price tags.”

Touché.

Yoongi sighed, rubbing his temple. Something felt off. He couldn’t put his finger on it but Byeol had that telltale gleam in his eyes. Mischief. Secrets. Maybe sugar.

“Fine. Try it on. We’ll buy it, then head out before anyone notices me.”

Byeol nodded solemnly, sweater clutched to his chest. But his heart was racing.

Because in a few minutes, behind a bathroom door, he’d get what he really came for:

Another secret moment with his Papa.

Behind a bathroom door.

Like all great missions should end.

Yoongi tapped his card at the register, trying not to groan at the total. Byeol’s “sale” sweater was very much not on sale, but the kid looked so happy holding the bag that Yoongi just let it go.

“Appa, I’m gonna use the bathroom,” Byeol said, bouncing from foot to foot like he couldn't wait another second.

Yoongi, distracted by the cashier trying to pitch a loyalty program he definitely didn’t want, waved a hand vaguely. “Wait, let me pay, then I'll come with you.”

“No Appa, I’m a big boy now. I can go alone.”

Yoongi hesitated. He didn’t like the idea, not one bit. But the hallway was quiet and the bathroom was close. 

“Okay. Be quick. I’ll wait right here.”

Byeol nodded and bolted.

He ran past the men's restroom, down the hall of vending machines and emergency exit signs, until he reached the family bathroom. The one with a full-length mirror, plush changing table, and a lockable door.

He knocked twice.

The door opened instantly.

“Byeol!”

“Papa!”

Jimin dropped to his knees, arms flung wide, yanking him into the warmth of his chest once again, more freely this time, like he hadn’t seen him in months instead of days. 

“God, I missed you,” he whispered, voice breaking just slightly.

“I missed you more papa,” Byeol said fiercely, clinging to him just as tightly.

Jimin pressed his cheek against Byeol’s soft hair, breathing in the familiar scent of kid shampoo and sugar.

When he finally pulled back, he cupped Byeol’s face, eyes scanning every detail. Even under the dim lighting, Byeol’s eyes sparkled—just like his.

Jimin’s own glitter-streaked face was weary, his foundation fading from a full night of filming. But here, in this tiny locked bathroom, he wasn’t a star.

He was just Papa again.

“You’re getting taller,” Jimin murmured dramatically. “Why are you getting taller without me?”

“I did not,” Byeol huffed, giggling.“You just got smaller, Papa.”

“That’s even worse,” Jimin gasped. “I’m shrinking?”

“You need more kisses,” Byeol announced, then proceeded to pepper Jimin’s face with sweet, messy kisses.

Jimin giggled and smoothed down his hair. “You look good, baby.”

“You look tired, Papa,” Byeol said honestly, blinking up at him.

“I am tired,” Jimin admitted, soft and breathless. His son has always been good at reading him. “But seeing you made it go away.”

Byeol reached into the oversized shorts’ pocket and pulled out a tiny chocolate bar. “I brought you this.”

Jimin gasped like it was gold. “You’re spoiling me.”

Byeol grinned. “You deserve it. You’re working so hard, Papa. You cry in every episode.”

“That’s because the scriptwriters hate me.”

“No,” Byeol said loyally. “You’re just really talented at sadness.”

Jimin burst out laughing.

“Appa watches your drama with me sometimes,” Byeol added proudly.

Jimin blinked. “He what?”

“Yeah. But he makes comments. Like, when you cried in the rain scene he said why is he leaking again?”

Jimin’s mouth dropped open. “Leaking? I was emoting!”

“‘Why is he crying again?’” Byeol mimicked Yoongi’s deep voice, dramatically unimpressed. “‘He just cried last episode. Do they not sell tissues on this set?’”

Jimin wheezed with laughter, grabbing his son’s face. “It’s called range!”

“He said it looked like you forgot your lines and just stared at a wall.”

Jimin dramatically clutched his chest. “That’s called method acting.”

“He also asked if the mug was glued to your hand.”

“I will throw a mug at him.”

“Appa also said you were being dramatic. But then… he watched another episode when he thought I was asleep. I saw him.”

Jimin looked both triumphant and betrayed. “He’s a closet fan.”

“He calls you ‘Dramatique Park Jimin,’” Byeol said gravely.

Jimin clutched his stomach. “He would say that.”

Then Byeol’s smile faltered just slightly. His voice dropped. “I wanted to see you. I miss you at night.”

Jimin blinked, heart twisting. “I know, baby. I miss bedtime stories too. I miss cuddling you.”

He tugged his mask down to press a gentle kiss to Byeol’s temple. 

“You okay? Appa’s not making you scrub his studio or run laps or anything?”

Byeol shook his head fast. “No, Appa’s really nice.”

Jimin exhaled in quiet relief, smoothing a hand down his son’s back.

“He lets me pick what cartoons we watch. Even the boring ones I like.”

Jimin laughed. “That is love.”

“And he makes breakfast. He burns the toast sometimes but he always tries again. He made dinosaur pancakes last time. And he stays up late in the studio but he comes in between to check on me. I pretend I’m asleep but I know.”

Jimin’s heart thudded. “He checks on you?”

Byeol nods. “He tucks me in and fixes my plushie if I drop it.”

Jimin closed his eyes for a moment. So Yoongi really was trying. Not just surviving with a kid—parenting him. Actually, properly. Like he cared.

He hadn’t expected that. Maybe he should have.

Yoongi had always said he wasn’t the family type, always shrugged it off in interviews, laughed it away in lyrics. But here was the truth, quiet and simple: he stayed up late, and still found time to check on a sleeping kid and fix a fallen plushie.

He might’ve said he didn’t know how to be a parent.

But he was figuring it out anyway.

And not just anyone could win over Byeol. The boy had standards.

“He never yells. Even when I spilled juice on his computer bag. He just sighed and gave me a tissue.”

Jimin smiled, hand still in Byeol’s hair. “He’s better than i expected.”

“He also reads me stories. Not as good as you, but he tries. He does all the voices wrong though.”

Jimin’s voice cracked with quiet affection. “He really became Appa, huh?”

Byeol nodded again. “He never lets me feel alone.”

Jimin rested their foreheads together, whispering, “You’re really okay with him?”

“I am. Appa’s learning. But I think he’s already really good.”

Jimin ruffled his hair gently. “You trust him, right?”

“I do.”

That was all he needed to hear.

That was enough for him. He’d spent so long worrying—wondering if Yoongi could handle it, if he even wanted to handle it. But hearing Byeol speak so freely, so naturally, about how Yoongi made him feel safe?

Yeah. Jimin had made the right call.

There was a pause then—long, warm, and full of unspoken love.

“What about Taetae, Kookie, and Jinnie? I miss them too.”

“They miss you too, baby,” Jimin said. “Taetae cried so hard he had to put cucumbers on his eyes. Kookie sleeps with your plushie. And Jinnie is here with me, he saw you too.”

Byeol giggled so hard he hiccupped.

“You know,” Jimin whispered, “Papa’s proud of you. You’re sneaky, weird, dramatic, and so, so good. You’re everything I ever wanted in a little star.”

“I’m my papa’s son.”

“Damn right.”

They stayed like that for a few more precious seconds—two worlds folded into one, hidden in the hum of a public bathroom.

Then, 

“Byeol?” Yoongi’s voice was muffled, but close.

Byeol gasped. “That’s Appa!”

Jimin scrambled to pull up his hoodie, tugging his mask back on.

“Okay—secret agents mode,” he whispered, adjusting Byeol’s mask and smoothing his hair.

“Hug?”

They squeezed each other tight one last time.

“I love you, Papa.”

“I love you most. See you soon, little star.”

Byeol slipped out just in time.

Yoongi turned the corner and spotted him immediately, relief flickering across his face.

“Took you long enough. You okay?”

Byeol gave him wide, innocent eyes. “I pooped.”

“…Thanks for sharing.”

Behind the locked door, Jimin stood still, heart racing, smile blooming like he’d just seen the sun again.

They made their way toward the escalators, Yoongi adjusting the shopping bags in his hand while Byeol bounced along at his side, humming some ridiculous theme song he’d just made up.

As they passed the skincare section, Yoongi felt a prickling feel on the back of his neck. The unsettling sense of being watched.

He glanced around.

Nothing.

Just regular people. A few bored sales associates. Teenagers whispering behind their phones. No one out of place.

Still…

Then they rounded a corner near the food court and collided.

A brief, harmless bump, shoulder to shoulder with someone heading the opposite way.

“Oh—sorry,” Yoongi muttered, instinctively tugging Byeol closer.

The man he bumped into dipped his head, wearing a loose hoodie, a mask, and sunglasses far too dramatic for the mall lighting. He was clearly trying to keep a low profile, just like Yoongi. 

And then, just as Yoongi began to turn away the stranger spoke.

“you’re a good father.”

The words were low toned, soft. Smooth. Almost lost in the hum of the mall.

But they hit like a drop of ink in clear water.

Yoongi stilled.

He felt a strange flutter in his chest. The voice was familiar. Soft. Velvet and starlight. There was something in it that curled around his heart, something that felt like déjà vu.

He turned around quickly, heart thumping.

But the man was already gone. Slipped into the crowd like smoke, vanishing between racks of winter coats and polished marble columns.

Yoongi stood still for a beat too long, blinking.

“Appa?” Byeol tugged at his hand. “Did you see a ghost?”

Yoongi shook his head, clearing his throat. “No. Just—someone mistook me for someone else, I think.”

But his pulse was still racing.

The way that voice sat in his bones…

He’d heard it before. Somewhere deep in a memory.

Byeol just smiled under his mask.

He knew.

He saw his papa slip away right before that moment, disappear into the perfume section like a spy who’d left a rose behind.

Yoongi gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Come on. Let’s get food.”

“Can I have ice cream?”

“I just spent $300 on a sweater the size of a napkin. You’re getting broccoli.”

Byeol gasped in betrayal. “This is abuse!”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the smile tugging at his lips.

Behind them, hidden behind a makeup display, Jimin lingered.

His fingers pressed gently to his lips, like sealing away the words he’d just dared to say.

“You’re doing well, Yoongi,” he whispered.

Then he turned, slipped away again, headed for the exit, to the car where Jin was waiting.

Disappearing like he always had.

Before anyone could see too much.

That night, Yoongi was finally settling into some kind of fragile peace.

Byeol had been too hyper since they got back, happiness practically radiating off of him. He clutched the star-patterned sweater like it was a prized possession, even held it through dinner like it was a teddy bear.

Because his papa had picked it.

Because it still smelled like his warmth.

He passed out mid-rant about the tragedy of mismatched socks, snoring into his plate of rice like a tiny prince. The poor baby had burned all his energy on a successful mission to meet his beloved Papa.

Yoongi sighed, scooped him up, changed him into his newly bought silk pajamas and tucked him into bed. Even in sleep Byeol didn't let go of the sweater, he curled around it, face relaxed and arms stretched out as if trying to hold someone who wasn't there.

Yoongi stood for a long moment, watching him sleep.

Then, he escaped into his studio. He managed to get two beats down before exhaustion hit like a truck. Shopping with a five-year-old? New level of hell. Respect to parents everywhere.

He was just about to call it a night when his phone buzzed.

He blinked, expecting Namjoon, Hoseok, or maybe someone from the label. But it was an unknown number.

His brows furrowed as suspicion rose like a tide. He was already reaching to block it, assuming it was a sasaeng. 

But then he read the message:

Unknown Number:

[+82] You’re doing great, Appa. Also, you should NOT let him wear crocs with socks again. The fashion gods weep.

Yoongi stared.

Then blinked.

Then laughed. Just once. Loud and sharp.

He read the message again, the corners of his mouth twitching down into a frown.

Who the hell calls him Appa?

And in that kind of tone? Playful, warm, gently scolding.

And the Crocs-with-socks thing? He had let Byeol wear that today. They were running late and he was too tired to fight the tiny fashion rebellion.

His friends were too busy juggling deadlines and studio sessions to be pulling this off. And no one—no one—knew he had a child. No one except… 

His smile faded, replaced by something thoughtful.

This wasn’t a sasaeng.

This wasn’t a stranger.

This was someone who saw them. Today.

Someone who knew what Byeol wore. Who cared about what Byeol wore.

Yoongi clicked the number—no name. Just a country code.

Another buzz.

Unknown Number:

P.S. He’s totally your mini-me. Except more stylish. Sorry, Appa.

Yoongi’s eyes narrowed. He responded.

Yoongi:

Who is this?

No reply.

He waited a few minutes, biting the inside of his cheek, before the phone lit up again.

Unknown Number:

Someone who thinks you're doing a great job.

And also thinks those sunglasses today made you look like an overworked vampire.

Byeol deserves better. Bye.

He called the number—just once. It rang, then immediately disconnected.

Blocked.

Yoongi blinked.

There was only one person in this world dramatic, chaotic, and petty enough to send three texts, insult his outfit, compliment his parenting, and disappear like a glittery ghost.

He looked toward his bedroom, where Byeol slept soundly, still curled around that sweater. Tiny hands stretched out in sleep, like he was still reaching for someone.

Yoongi muttered under his breath.

“...Papa.”

It had to be.

That voice at the mall. The near-collision. The strange scent that hadn’t left him all day.

He locked his phone. Thoughts spinning. Jaw set.

"I'm gonna find you," he whispered.

He padded into the room and collapsed beside Byeol.

The tiny foot that kicked him in the ribs mid-sleep felt suspiciously intentional.

Yoongi smiled faintly.

"Yeah. Definitely your papa's child.”

The next morning, Yoongi stared at his phone like it owed him an answer.

Byeol sat at the kitchen counter, spooning dry cereal into Moonie's stitched mouth, humming.

Innocent. Too innocent.

Suspiciously happy since the mall yesterday.

But Yoongi had chalked it up to getting spoiled with a $300 sweater.

Yoongi took a deep breath, opened his laptop, and went full detective mode.

Step 1: Google the number.

Nothing. Just a few sketchy links, a maybe-scam warning, and a Reddit post about someone getting prank-called by a clown voice.

Step 2: Reverse lookup.

He copied the number into a Korean number tracing site.

It loaded… and loaded…

Result:

Registered to “Kim Namjoon Fan Club 2013 — Secretary of celestial Affairs”

Location: Unknown. Possibly space.

Yoongi stared.

“...You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He tried another lookup tool—an overseas one this time.

Result:

User: Jung Jambal. 

Last Known Location: Your Heart.

Phone Type: Untraceable Burner. Probably bought with glitter coupons.

Yoongi slowly closed the laptop.

He looked over at Byeol, who was now humming and spooning cereal into his own mouth.

"You okay, Appa?" Byeol asked sweetly.

Yoongi smiled thinly. "Never been better."

"You didn't sleep well. Your eyes look like panda."

"How can I sleep? Your papa's an international glitter criminal."

"What?"

"Nothing.”

Step 3: to run it through a contact-tracing app.

And finally—finally—something pinged.

A result.

Yoongi leaned forward, heart racing.

Name: Kim Hobi-min

Address: 69 Sparkle Crescent, Seoul

Occupation: Professional Handsome Fairy

Yoongi stared.

Then blinked.

Then refreshed the page.

It was still there.

He clicked further. The email attached was [email protected]

The profile photo was a pixelated drawing of a sparkly bunny with fangs.

He rubbed his temples.

“What the actual—”

The next tab popped open automatically. A GIF started playing.

It was a glittery animation of a baby in sunglasses dabbing with the caption:

“NICE TRY, APPA. STAY IN YOUR LANE. - Byeol’s Papa”

Yoongi slammed the laptop shut and buried his face in a cushion.

“Of course it’s a trap. Of course it’s rigged.”

He sat there for a full minute before groaning.

“This is war.”

In the hallway, Byeol peeked from behind the door, his Moonie plushie pressed to his lips. He whispered softly, 

“Don’t worry, Moonie. Papa is smart. He won’t get caught.”

Then giggled.

Meanwhile, somewhere else in Seoul... 

“You went without us?” Taehyung whined from the couch, draped in a silk robe like a Victorian widow in mourning.

“You went to see Byeol without telling us?!” Jungkook looked personally betrayed

“We taught him how to double-click Starie! We deserve visitation rights!”

“I wear disguises better than you!” Jungkook shouted. “I could’ve passed as a mannequin!”

“You are a mannequin,” Taehyung muttered. “An angry one.”

“I told you both it was risky,” Jimin groaned, nursing his coffee and the ghost of yesterday’s eyeliner. “If Yoongi saw even one of your faces—”

“You could’ve at least let us watch from the food court,” Jungkook said, dramatically clutching his chest. “I miss my baby.”

“I miss my baby,” Taehyung countered, wrapping a blanket tighter around himself. “He calls me Tiger Uncle. Do you know how much serotonin that gives me?”

Jimin, unbothered, smiled lazily over the rim of his cup. “He only had five minutes. You two would’ve turned it into a full-blown picnic in the bathroom.”

Taehyung gasped. “I would never—!”

“You brought a charcuterie board to the hospital.”

“That was one time and you were stressed!”

“I was in LABOR!”

Jungkook flopped onto the couch beside him with a pout. “Still not fair. Next time, we’re coming.”

“Yeah, we miss him too,” Taehyung added, curling up next to Jimin. “I haven’t heard a good conspiracy theory in days.”

“He thinks the Moon is a cookie, hyung,” Jungkook whispered solemnly. “A cookie.”

“You two are loud and dramatic. You’d get us caught in five seconds,” Jimin said, already scrolling through his secret stash of photos from the mall—Byeol twirling in Yoongi's black crop top and oversized shorts, face glowing. A few featured Yoongi too, caught candidly in soft smiles.

Taehyung leaned in. “Send that. I miss his pouty baby face.”

“You’re a traitor,” Jungkook said to the phone as Jimin tapped 'send.’ “Also, send it to the group chat.”

Jimin just hummed, his eyes fluttering shut, replaying yesterday’s hug in his mind—the way Byeol had whispered, “I missed you, Papa,” into his shoulder.

He still hadn’t eaten the chocolate Byeol gave him. He kept it tucked safely in his coat pocket. Close.

“Next time,” he murmured, as the two curled in closer, “I’ll bring disguises for all of us.”

“Dibs on being the mysterious rich uncle,” Taehyung whispered.

“I’m wearing the glitter trench coat,” Jungkook said with conviction.

Outside, the city moved on, unaware.

But inside, two camps were quietly preparing for war—

One alpha, suspicious but clueless. 

One omega, clever and disguised.

And between them, a tiny five-year-old general with a plushie full of secrets.

Chapter Text

Yoongi stared at the clock like it had personally betrayed him. 10:04 AM.

The day had started off normal, though normal had a new definition lately.

Normal wasn’t late nights in the studio, surrounded by beats, lyrics, and lukewarm takeout.

Normal was now waking up to soft fingers poking at his face, a sleepy voice whispering, “Appa, wake up.”

Normal was strawberry milk and dry cereal, was bathing a giggling prince with strawberry shampoo that he had to use just right to avoid stinging eyes and dodging splashes.

Normal was watching the same cartoons on loop, not because he enjoyed them, but because Byeol did and watching Byeol enjoy something was addictive.

Normal was talking to plushies like they were real because they were Byeol’s friends—Moonie, Sunie, and Starie, the sacred trio.

Normal was sneaking vegetables into cute-shaped omelets, negotiating bites with exaggerated praise.

Normal was a warm little body pressed into his side at night, a sleepy “Appa” whispered like it was sacred.

And Yoongi… kind of loved it. Not like he'll ever admit it out loud though. 

Today had started just like that.

Breakfast made, a light cartoon argument (Yoongi now knew every duck, bunny, bug, and rainbow-talking-creature by name), and the faint hope that maybe he’d get a few hours in his home studio.

Maybe even try again to trace the mystery number that sent him messages after the mall incident and blocked him. The number that he was almost sure belonged to Byeol’s mystery papa. 

But after so many failed attempts, he was starting to accept it: whoever Byeol’s omega parent was had a reason to stay hidden. Maybe they’d come forward when they were ready.

And then the message came.

Studio Manager:

Client from New York landed early. He’s on his way to HQ now.

Yoongi’s stomach dropped.

The client was the one circling a collab for months, and wasn't supposed to arrive until next week. Not today. Not during cartoon hour. Not during heart-rice lunch day.

The client was a big deal: American charts, Grammy nominations, the kind of artist who could open up more doors overseas. Yoongi had put the collab off during his own album making and promotions, but now he was here, eager and early. Fantastic.

He looked over at Byeol, who was sprawled on the couch in his little dinosaur hoodie, surrounded by three plushies like a royal court. He looked peaceful. Too peaceful. 

Yoongi already felt like a criminal.

Byeol had even requested a specific lunch today, heart-shaped rice with rolled omelets and ‘the sauce that makes things taste like happiness.’ Yoongi had promised. Out loud. Like a fool.

“Damn it,” Yoongi muttered under his breath.

There was no way around it. He didn’t trust easily, and no one knew he even had a child. Bringing Byeol to the company was risky, not with cameras, fans, and one single photo risking the quiet life they’d built. 

Namjoon and Hoseok were his usual backups, but they were both scheduled for the same meeting.

With a heavy sigh, Yoongi made the dreaded call. A babysitter. From the agency his manager had used once before for his own kids. Vetted, background-checked, five stars. Whatever.

Then came the real hard part.

Yoongi crouched in front of Byeol, gently placing a hand on the boy’s knee. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “Byeol…”

“Yes, Appa?” Byeol’s eyes stayed glued to the cartoon chaos flickering across the screen.

“I have to go to the studio. Very important meeting.”

A beat of silence.

Then Byeol finally looked at him.

“Okay,” he said quietly, adjusting his plushie’s bowtie with too much care. Too much focus.

“I’ll only be gone a few hours. I’ve arranged for a sitter to stay with you.”

This time, the pause was longer. He didn’t move. The air around them shifted just slightly, not with resistance, but something smaller. 

His papa had always left him with his uncles when work called. Never strangers. But Papa also said Appa’s work mattered too. So he didn’t complain.

“Okay,” he said again.

Yoongi frowned. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” Byeol smiled, small and crooked. “I’m big. I can stay.”

It was the way he said it that made Yoongi pause. Too quick. Too practiced. Like someone trying to be good even though they didn’t feel good. No dramatic flopping. No fake tears. No dramatic betrayal. Just... “okay.”

That’s how Yoongi knew he was upset.

“Hey,” Yoongi said more gently, brushing a curl from the boy’s forehead. “I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t absolutely have to.”

“I know,” Byeol whispered

“You’ll be safe. I picked someone with good reviews. Four and a half stars.”

Byeol gave a small nod, his voice even softer.

“It’s okay. Appa is busy. I’ll just… play with Moonie. And Starie. And Sunie.”

The guilt hit Yoongi like a migraine, a slow, dull throb that settled behind his eyes and refused to leave.

Without thinking, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Byeol’s forehead. It was something he’d never done before — not with anyone. But today, it felt necessary. A simple gesture, heavy with unspoken meaning. A silent promise. Reassurance. He just needed to show Byeol what he now meant to him.

Byeol froze, clearly stunned. Then his face lit up with that rare kind of joy only a child could feel— quiet, bright, and impossibly pure. Like someone had handed him the moon.

“I’ll be back before dinner. Promise.”

“Okay. Can I still have heart rice?”

Yoongi smiled. “I’ll make it for you tonight.”

Ten minutes later, Yoongi was a vision in a sharp black suit and a watch worth more than most people’s rent. Rings on his fingers. A chain at his neck. The full transformation from tired dad to high-profile rapper was complete.

Byeol, now perched on the armrest like a prince surveying his kingdom, stared at him with awestruck eyes. 

“Appa is cool,” he whispered, like Yoongi had just stepped out of a superhero movie.

Yoongi smirked, adjusting his cufflinks, but the compliment landed straight in his chest. “I think you’re rubbing off on me, little fashionista.”

Byeol giggled, clutching his plushies like they’d just won the lottery.

Then came the doorbell. A simple sound, but it cracked through the moment.

Byeol’s arms shot out, clinging to Yoongi’s jacket, holding on for just a few seconds too long. He didn’t speak, but Yoongi felt it in the tiny grip. The hesitation. The silent don’t go.

Still, he peeled him off gently, heart pinching.

Miss Hana stepped in. Tidy, mid-forties, polite but distant. She bowed like she was being paid per nod, lips stretched in a professional smile that never quite reached her eyes. She flashed her ID with crisp efficiency and spoke about her experience with celebrity children like she was reading off a brochure.

Byeol didn’t like her.

Not her too-white teeth or her voice that pitched just a little too sweet. His little eyes narrowed, and he gave her a glare that perfectly mirrored Yoongi’s: unimpressed and ice-cold.

“This is Byeol,” Yoongi said, keeping his tone clipped. “Don’t feed him mangoes. Don’t touch his plushies. No strangers in the house. Let him watch whatever cartoon show he wants. And don’t—don’t—cut his food weird. He’ll cry.”

Miss Hana’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course, sir. He’s… spirited, isn’t he?”

Her gaze lingered on Byeol’s socks, one with tiny stars, the other with an angry cartoon shrimp and his bright dinosaur hoodie covered in sparkly cat stickers. 

And the way the kid kept glaring at her.

She glanced around the house too, no framed family photos, no soft omega scent lingering in the air, no signs of a second parent at all. Her eyes flicked back to Yoongi. Sharp suit, expensive watch, stone-cold demeanor. Not the typical dad.

Her expression shifted, subtle but clear. Assumptions were being made.

Yoongi didn’t love the look in her eyes.

Still, he turned back to Byeol. “You’ll be okay, right?” He asked again, one last time. If Byeol even so much as shook his head, Yoongi would’ve stayed.

“Yes, Appa.”

His tiny hand came loose from Yoongi’s big ones and Yoongi felt the urge to cancel his career.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

He stood. Grabbed his bag. Made it halfway to the door.

And then he stopped.

Just for a second.

The silence behind him was too heavy, too final. This was the first time he was leaving Byeol alone since the boy had come into his life. It didn’t feel like freedom. It felt like betrayal.

Then he heard it.

Miss Hana’s voice, soft and casual, like she was talking to herself.

“Kids like him are handful. So spoiled. So dramatic. Maybe not having an omega parent is making him… sensitive.”

Yoongi stilled.

The handle was in his hand. His back was still to her. But inside, something snapped like a wire pulled too tight.

He turned around slowly, voice calm, but razor-edged.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice completely flat. “What did you just say?”

Miss Hana blinked, clearly not expecting him to still be here. “Oh, nothing bad Sir! Just—he clearly needs a little more structure. I’ve worked with many children like him before—creative types with no omega balance—”

“You don’t get to assume anything about him. Or his parents.” Yoongi’s voice sliced clean through the room.

“You don’t comment on how he was raised. You don’t diagnose him. You don’t judge him for being five and loving stickers.”

Miss Hana flushed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Get out.”

She straightened. “Excuse me?”

“You can excuse your ass out my front door.”

“Mr. Min, I think you’re overreacting—”

“I don’t care if you raised baby royalty and wiped their golden asses. You do not talk about my kid like that. You’re done.”

“I was hired—”

“I’ll pay the cancellation fee.” Yoongi already had his phone out. “You can leave. Now.”

Miss Hana sputtered out some stiff apology, but Yoongi was already holding the door open, posture radiating try me and I’ll ruin your career. She left quickly, muttering about “sensitive clients” as she went.

The moment the door shut, the silence settled again.

Byeol was still curled up on the couch, his plushies hugged to his chest like lifelines. He looked up at Yoongi with wide eyes, who had just single-handedly yeeted a grown woman out the door with the power of pure rage and protective dad energy.

Yoongi let out a long sigh and dropped down beside him, loosening his tie like it had personally offended him. “Well. That was a disaster.”

He then turned to Byeol, gently brushing his bangs from his forehead. “I'll never leave you with someone who makes you feel small, okay? Not even for a minute.”

Byeol scooted closer and leaned against his arm without a word. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around Yoongi’s waist and hugged him tight, tight enough that Yoongi felt it in his ribs. For a kid so small, he hugged like he was anchoring himself. 

He then pulled back just enough to look at his dad, eyes a little shiny but smiling. “Appa?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re cool. But like, scary-cool. Like a dragon in a suit.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “A dragon?”

“A rich one.”

Yoongi smirked. “That’s high praise from the star prince himself.”

Byeol giggled again, then tucked himself under Yoongi’s arm. “You really won't leave me?”

“Not with Miss Passive-Aggressive Babysitter in this house, no. I’d rather cancel the meeting and risk my international reputation than let someone insult you in your own living room.”

Byeol blinked up at him, lips wobbling just a little. “Even if it means Appa won’t get super famous all over the world?”

Yoongi looked at him for a long second, then leaned down and kissed the top of his head again. “I already have the most important fan in the world. Who cares about the rest?”

Byeol let out a little sound — half laugh, half sniffle — and hugged him even tighter. 

“I love you, Appa.”

Yoongi froze.

He heard that phrase from fans all the time but this was different. This meant something. This was earned. Real.

It felt like a medal. A lifetime achievement award for something he never knew he needed.

He exhaled, low and shaky, then rested his chin on Byeol’s head and muttered. “Thanks, kid.”

For a moment, the world blurred out. The meeting, the music, the schedule, none of it mattered.

Not when his son just told him I love you and meant it with his whole heart.

“I don’t want another babysitter,” Byeol mumbled. “Just you.”

Yoongi hesitated for half a second, then wrapped his arms around him, shielding him from the world.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Just me, then.”

He looked down at the tiny lump pressed against his side.

Work could wait.

Maybe a few minutes.

Maybe forever.

Yoongi was still curled on the couch with Byeol tucked under his arm when his phone buzzed against the coffee table.

Namjoon: hyung, where are you??

Yoongi groaned and picked up the call, trying not to sound too much like a man who had just committed babysitter homicide.

“Still home.”

Namjoon’s voice was urgent but not panicked. “The client is already here. He's early and asking for you specifically — said he cleared his entire schedule just to make this happen.”

Yoongi exhaled through his nose. “I can’t come. Something came up.”

A pause. “Is it about Byeol?”

Yoongi didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

Namjoon sighed. “Hyung, look. I get it. You know I do. But this guy isn’t just some rookie looking for a beat. He’s connected. Labels are watching him. If we pull this off, it could blow things.”

“I’m not leaving him with a stranger again,” Yoongi said firmly. “Especially not one who makes passive-aggressive omega comments and thinks it’s okay to judge him for being raised by a single alpha.”

Yoongi didn’t say it out loud, but the truth was… it wasn’t just about Byeol. It was about his Papa too. Whoever he was, he must’ve had to hear those kinds of comments for five years. Offhanded, quiet, always just polite enough to be deniable, but mean enough to stick. Yoongi didn’t know how he kept his cool.

Well, now that Byeol was with him, that nonsense was done.

And Yoongi wasn’t about to let anyone, ever, make his kid feel like his family wasn’t good enough.

“…Oh.” Another pause. “She said that?”

Yoongi’s jaw ticked. “Not in so many words. But yeah.”

“Okay, yeah, screw her,” Namjoon muttered. Then after a moment, “What if… you bring him?”

Yoongi blinked. “To HQ?”

“Bring Byeol,” Namjoon repeated. “We’ll make it work. He can take the executive room. It has tinted windows and full privacy. No one gets in unless you allow it. I’ll even clear out the staff. He can nap or watch cartoons. I’ll set everything up.”

Yoongi hesitated, glancing down at Byeol, who was tracing stars on his hoodie with one finger.

“I don’t want him exposed,” Yoongi said. “Even a single photo—”

“There won’t be. I’ll personally break the phone of anyone who even blinks in his direction.”

There was a long beat of silence. Then Namjoon added, quieter, “He’s your kid, hyung. You shouldn’t have to choose between being a dad and being an artist.”

That was what did it.

When he hung up, he looked down at the wide, waiting eyes beside him. “Wanna go to Appa’s studio?”

Byeol looked up, eyes hopeful. “With you?”

“With me. You’ll sit in a very cool room with snacks and cartoons. I’ll be nearby.”

“Will there be strawberry milk?”

Yoongi snorted, this kid only cared about strawberry milk. “There will absolutely be strawberry milk.”

Byeol grinned. “Okay! I’ll bring Moonie and Starie. Sunie’s mad at me for not brushing his hair, so he can stay home.”

Yoongi laughed despite himself. “Good. Let him learn consequences.”

Twenty-five minutes later, Yoongi arrived at the private entrance of his company’s HQ in a black suit, dark cap, and sunglasses low on his nose looking like he’d just walked off the cover of GQ: Grumpy Dad Edition. 

Beside him, strutting with unmatched confidence, was a tiny boy in sparkly sneakers and a $300 navy sweater — the very one his papa had picked for him — plus a dinosaur backpack stuffed to the seams with plushies.

Yoongi walked in like he owned the place.

Which, to be fair, he did.

But it wasn’t the boss-level swagger that made everyone stop dead in their tracks, they were used to it by now. 

It was the child, the pint-sized, sparkle-shoed tornado clinging to his hand with the confidence of someone who had never been told “no” in his life.

Byeol walked like he was walking a red carpet. Gummy smile wide, chin up, eyes sparkling, fully ready to debut as his father's chaos incarnate.

The front desk girl dropped her tablet.

An intern gasped so hard he choked on his energy drink and had to slap himself on the chest.

Even the head sound engineer, a man who once slept through an actual fire drill stood up and removed his noise-cancelling headphones in stunned silence.

“Is that…?”

“Wait, does Yoongi-hyung have a child?”

“No way. No way. Is he babysitting? Is that his nephew? He looks exactly like him??”

Yoongi didn’t answer.

He simply gave a subtle nod, sunglasses glinting like he had done this every day for the last five years. As if bringing a glitter-shoed gremlin to work was part of his brand.

Byeol, not one to waste an audience, winked at the receptionist.

“Top secret mission,” he whispered loudly, finger to lips.

She blinked. Possibly forgot how to breathe.

Namjoon was already waiting at the elevator door, arms crossed, two security guards flanking him like he was about to escort royalty.

“This way,” he said briskly.

“Hi Uncle Joon!” Byeol chirped.

Namjoon’s face instantly melted. He crouched down and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Hey, Byeol-ie. You look very pretty today.”

“I know,” Byeol beamed, always happy at receiving compliments. 

Yoongi rolled his eyes with a fond smile and muttered something about delusion being genetic.

They took the elevator up to the executive suite, which now looked less like a company space and more like a very luxurious daycare.

Soft couches, projector ready with cartoons, snacks lined up like a buffet, and in the corner a majestic beanbag throne that Byeol immediately claimed like a tiny dictator.

Yoongi’s manager, Daehyun, a father himself, stood by looking vaguely shell-shocked but said nothing, which was precisely why he’d lasted longer than any of Yoongi’s past five managers. He knew when to ask questions. And more importantly, when not to.

“Byeol, this is Uncle Daehyun,” Yoongi said, pointing. “He’s gonna take care of you while Appa works.”

“Hi Byeol,” Daehyun greeted, crouching down. “You’re cute.”

Byeol blinked. Then smiled. Vibe accepted.

Yoongi turned to Daehyun. “Hyung, give him anything he wants. If he asks for the moon, figure it out.”

Daehyun nodded with the solemnity of someone accepting a royal decree.

Just as Yoongi was about to escape, Byeol pouted and tapped his forehead with a very expectant look.

Yoongi blinked, confused for a beat then groaned internally.

Affection.

The child wanted another kiss.

He glanced at the adults in the room, already feeling heat crawl up his neck. He wasn’t good at public displays. He wasn’t even good at private displays.

But Byeol had figured out something dangerous, that his Appa was capable of giving affection.

And now, he would never stop asking.

Resigned to his fate, Yoongi crouched down and pressed a quick kiss to Byeol’s forehead.

SNAP.

Somewhere in the corner, Hoseok, who had magically appeared at the exact moment like a nosy fairy godmother had somehow materialized at exactly the wrong time, grinned wickedly, phone in hand.

“Got it,” he whispered.

Namjoon’s jaw had dropped.

Daehyun looked like he’d seen a unicorn knit a sweater.

Yoongi glared at all of them. “Eyes closed. Minds erased.”

Hoseok cackled. “Too late. That’s my new lockscreen.”

Byeol, absolutely glowing, grinned and chirped, “Go be a music dragon, Appa!”

Yoongi managed a real smile this time and ruffled his hair one last time before stepping out.

And as he walked towards the meeting room, Yoongi felt lighter.

Not because he left Byeol behind.

But because he didn’t.

He wasn’t choosing between being an artist or a dad anymore.

He was both. Grumpy, chaotic, and fully equipped with a sparkly-shoed sidekick.

And apparently, also a part-time forehead kisser.

And honestly?

He kind of liked it.

An hour into watching cartoons and ruling over his beanbag kingdom, Byeol’s ears perked up.

From the hallway outside the executive suite, he heard two staffers chatting as they walked past.

“Did you get your Park Jimin fanmeet ticket?”

“No! They sold out in, like, ten seconds! Even the reseller sites are scary right now. I’m so mad—”

“It’s tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, he’s doing full-day sessions. Lucky fans…”

Byeol’s juice box fell from his mouth with a soft, soggy plop. His eyes sparkled with divine purpose.

The heavens opened. Choirs sang. The stars aligned.

Another chance… to see his Papa? In person? With sparkles? And lights? And possible hugs?

This was ✨destiny✨

He had been to his Papa’s fanmeets before. Always hidden in the backroom with Uncle Tae and Kook, stuffing candy in his cheeks like a chipmunk in disguise.

But this time? This time he was going to stand in line. Like a real fan. A sparkly warrior of love and secrecy.

He scrambled off his throne like a dramatic prince. Dinosaur backpack bouncing, he marched over to Daehyun, who was peacefully sipping coffee while reviewing work emails, unaware of the chaos about to enter his life.

“Uncle Dae!” Byeol called with urgent energy.

Daehyun looked up slowly. “Yes, your highness?”

“I need a ticket to Park Jimin’s fanmeet tomorrow.”

Daehyun blinked. Once. Twice. “What?”

“Fan. Meet. Actor. Park. Jimin. Tomorrow.” Byeol punctuated each word like a seasoned negotiator. “It’s urgent.”

Daehyun chuckled, fully convinced this was a game. “Sorry, little man. That thing sold out in, like, two minutes.”

Byeol’s eyes widened slowly, ominously, like a slow zoom in a melodramatic K-drama right before the betrayal twist.

And then — boom.

Pout.

Head tilt.

Tiny sniffle.

The full power of the puppy eyes activated at maximum strength. Lower lip trembling like a betrayed princess, lashes fluttering with calculated innocence, and eyes — Yoongi’s eyes— sharp and dark and unsettlingly expressive, glistened like rain on an abandoned kitten.

Daehyun visibly winced.

“Don’t do that,” he muttered, lowering his coffee like it had betrayed him. “Don’t look at me like that. I have three kids. I’m immune to everything except that face.”

Byeol blinked slowly again. One deliberate tear didn’t fall, but hovered there, dramatic and threatening, as if he had practiced the art of weaponized sadness.

“I just wanna see Jiminie,” he whispered, heartbreak curling into every syllable. “He’s my favourite. I’m his fan. Just once. Please, Uncle?”

Daehyun froze.

It was like getting hit by a truck made of guilt, soft piano music, and mini Yoongi-level menace.

Because that was the kicker: the look in Byeol’s eyes. Not just the pout or the tremble, it was the full effect of those narrow, cat-like eyes, deep and dark like his appa’s. They didn’t just ask. They commanded with quiet, deadly precision.

And worse… he tilted his head exactly the way Yoongi did when he was about to verbally destroy someone with a single sentence.

“I—” Daehyun looked around like he expected someone to rescue him from this showdown. “Oh no. Not the eyes. Not the lip. Not—”

He groaned. It was terrifying to see Yoongi’s silent wrath combined with a child’s emotional blackmail. “Okay, okay, fine. You win.”

Byeol didn’t cheer. Didn’t grin.

He just gave a tiny, dignified nod. Yoongi-style. As if it had been inevitable.

Daehyun sighed like a man about to commit white-collar crime. “I’m going to get fired for this.”

He pulled out his phone and started making calls like a man in a hostage negotiation.

Byeol wandered back to his plushies, sat down cross-legged, and calmly picked at a sparkly cat sticker on his hoodie, all business concluded.

Yoongi’s clone, truly.

Daehyun watched him from the corner of his eye and muttered to himself, “That kid’s gonna run a company one day. Or a small country. Or a blackmail ring.”

And honestly?

He wouldn’t even be surprised.

Within five minutes, Daehyun was sweating and scrolling through shady reseller sites like he was trying to hire an international spy.

“Why are these tickets more expensive than my mortgage—?”

But he remembered Yoongi’s exact words: “Give him anything he wants. If he asks for the moon, figure it out.”

This was not the moon.

This was just Park Jimin.

The human moon.

The ethereal, glittering, heartbreakingly perfect actor that the world was obsessed and in love with… including Byeol and, embarrassingly, even Daehyun's husband.

Daehyun closed his eyes.

And clicked. 

“Okay, I got one. From a reseller.” he sighed. “VIP. I really hope your Appa doesn’t check his credit card statement this month.”

Byeol gasped and threw his arms around Daehyun. “You’re the BEST Uncle EVER!”

Daehyun groaned but melted anyway, patting the child on the back. “Just tell your Appa to give me a raise.”

Byeol pulled back and beamed, stars practically radiating from his face. “He’ll give you a dragon.”

Daehyun didn’t know what that meant. But somehow, he didn’t doubt it.

Somewhere in the building, Yoongi sneezed mid-meeting and rubbed his nose, frowning like he’d just felt a spiritual disturbance in his bank account.

Back in the executive suite, Byeol was already plotting. Sparkles were obviously non-negotiable. Should he bring Moonie? Starie? Sunie? All three?

He clutched his dinosaur bag dramatically.

Tomorrow, he'd get to see his Papa again.

And this time, his Appa was going to be right there too.

Even if he didn't know that Park Jimin was actually Byeol's Papa…

The meeting dragged on until late afternoon.

The American artist, passionate and particular, laid out his vision for the collaboration, sketching emotions he wanted Yoongi to capture in the music. They went back and forth with concepts, references, and rough melodies. Namjoon and Hoseok pitched in too, their banter and insights keeping things grounded. 

Despite the intensity, Yoongi felt a familiar spark lighting up inside him. This was what he missed: real music, creative tension, the challenge of shaping someone else’s story into sound.

But even as he scrawled notes across the notepad, his mind flickered every few minutes to the little boy just a few doors away.

Was Byeol okay? Was he bored? Did Daehyun remember to give him a snack? Did he nap? Did he sneak more cookies?

He shook it off, finishing strong, professional to the last second. They wrapped up with handshakes and promises to stay in touch via online meetings once the artist returned to the States. Contacts were exchanged, files uploaded, and promises made.

As soon as the door closed, Yoongi tugged his tie loose with a sigh. His eyes were tired, but a quiet satisfaction settled in his chest. It felt good to work again. Really work. He rolled his neck and stretched his shoulders as he made his way to the executive suite, already anticipating whatever chaos Byeol had left in his wake.

Yoongi opened the door, bracing himself for a scene straight out of a disaster film, markers on the walls, juice spilled on the rug, dramatic reenactments of intergalactic plushie wars.

Instead…

Quiet.

Byeol was curled up peacefully in the beanbag, Starie hugged tight to his chest like a battle-won trophy. His little feet twitched now and then, as if dreaming of sprinting. A half-empty juice box lay beside him like an offering. Soft cartoon sounds played low on the screen. The room was... calm.

Daehyun, on the other hand, was anything but.

He sat on the edge of the couch, scrolling his phone nervously, glancing up the second Yoongi stepped inside — like a man awaiting his sentencing.

Yoongi raised a brow. “Hyung, did he behave?”

Daehyun shot to his feet like he’d been caught embezzling. “Sir. Appa. Sunbae. Dragon.”

Yoongi blinked. “…What?”

“I may have… accidentally… spent 450,000 won of your money.”

Yoongi froze. “On what? Did he ask for another branded sweater? Because I just bought him—”

“It was for a good cause!” Daehyun blurted out, holding up his phone, like a guilty man presenting evidence in court.

“He asked for a Park Jimin fanmeet ticket. I tried to resist, but then the lip came out. The sniffle. The eyes— your eyes. Your son is a weapon of emotional destruction.”

Yoongi’s frown deepened. “A what now? He already watches those drama on loop like it’s oxygen—”

“He said it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience,” Daehyun muttered, defeated.

Yoongi snatched the phone and stared at the screen. Sure enough, it was there: a flashy confirmation email.

Park Jimin’s Exclusive Fanmeet: VIP Ticket.

Date: Tomorrow.

Admission: Priority entry, photo op, and signed gift set.

Yoongi stared. His eyes narrowed as if the name alone had personally offended him.

Park Jimin.

Again.

“Park Jimin!” he said flatly, voice like ice on concrete.

Daehyun winced, already sensing sacred territory had been trespassed. “He’s, uh… very popular.”

Yoongi’s gaze dropped back to the price. He squinted at the screen like his glare alone might melt off a zero. “Four hundred and fifty thousand won,” he repeated, dead inside.

“He used the puppy eyes,” Daehyun mumbled, then cleared his throat. “And you said to get him anything he wants.”

“That didn’t include tickets to see Park Dramatic Jimin in the flesh!”

“I didn’t know you had beef with the man!”

“I don’t have beef,” Yoongi snapped on reflex. Then paused. “…I have… light emotional resentment.”

Daehyun gave him a look. Yoongi looked away.

It wasn’t beef. Not technically.

Just a long, passive-aggressive saga written in red carpet glances and sharp interview jabs. Theatrical insults disguised as compliments. One suspiciously specific diss track.

Like that time at the Blue Dragon Awards, when Jimin glided past Yoongi on the red carpet and whispered, “Try not to look so bored. It’s an awards show, not a funeral.”

Or the time Yoongi, mid-interview, was asked if he watched any dramas lately and replied, deadpan, “I tried, but the male lead kept crying like someone stole his skincare. I turned it off.”

Or the now-infamous Q&A when Jimin had said, “I don’t understand Min Yoongi’s music. I feel it… like thunder. Loud. Unavoidable. Occasionally unnecessary.”

And Yoongi’s perfectly-timed revenge, on a radio show days later: “Park Jimin? Oh, his acting’s great. Very convincing. Especially when he’s pretending to be humble.”

No beef.

Just smoke.

Just shade.

And now his son wanted to attend this man’s fanmeet. VIP, no less. With photo ops and priority access. God.

“Besides,” Daehyun added more gently, “he didn’t ask for anything else. Just this. Said he really wanted to see Jimin once. I think… he meant it.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightened.

There it was again. That name, like an old chorus he couldn’t unhear. Park Jimin — circling back into his life like some stubborn melody. Like a song with a secret message hidden behind harmonies only he hadn’t decoded yet. A name that followed him like an aftertaste.

Glittering smile. Red teary eyes. Monologues that turned into memes.

The human embodiment of a drama OST. And somehow, always there. 

“Then should I… cancel the ticket?”

His jaw clenched. The urge to say “yes, cancel it” swelled in his throat—

Until he heard it.

A soft murmur from the beanbag by the window.

“Jiminie…”

Yoongi turned.

Byeol, half-asleep under his blanket, clutched his Srarie like a security pass to his dreams. His lashes fluttered. His mouth pouted. 

He looked like a smaller, more dangerous version of Yoongi himself. All pout, no mercy.

And Yoongi sighed.

“…Don’t cancel it,” he said at last.

Daehyun blinked. “Really?”

“I’ll take him.”

Yoongi crossed the room and gently pulled the blanket up over Byeol’s shoulder. The boy shifted slightly, brow furrowing before relaxing again. Something warm tugged at his chest. 

For him, Yoongi thought.

Yeah. For him, I’d sit through anything.

Even a Park Jimin fanmeet.

Even if it meant facing that man, with his emotional speeches and sparkly earrings, and his ability to live rent-free in Yoongi’s brain for years.

Even if it meant seeing Jimin up close again.

Even if it meant being reminded of things he didn’t want to remember. Things he’d buried.

Yoongi groaned.

Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

No beef.

Just… medium-rare resentment with a garnish of unresolved tension.

The next day arrived with disguised chaos.

Yoongi and Byeol looked like stylish fugitives—half idol, half undercover agent. Caps pulled low, black masks up, sunglasses oversized enough to shade their secrets. It made them look less like a father-son duo and more like they were dodging paparazzi. Which to be fair they were. 

Yoongi wore all black, as always: distressed jeans, combat boots, and a faded cotton tee under a leather jacket that creaked when he moved. Silver chains glinted at his throat, rings stacked on his fingers like silent warnings. And no, absolutely not, he wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

Certainly not a glitter-wearing, tear-acting, mesh-loving, smirk-slinging actor.

He just wanted Park Jimin to know—some people looked good without rhinestones and stage lighting.

Byeol, meanwhile, sparkled.

Literally.

His cheeks were dusted with face-safe glitter, and even his dark hair was neatly combed and pinned with two tiny silver star clips. He had fished them out of his suitcase at dawn, demanding Yoongi place them again and again until the parting was "perfect.”

He had insisted — begged — to wear the navy-blue sweater with embroidered stars again. The one from yesterday. The one his Papa had secretly picked out for him and said it'll make him look like “the night sky.”

Now, Byeol was radiant. Every five steps, he checked his reflection in mirrored walls, metal elevator doors, and the back of Yoongi’s phone screen.

“Do I look good, Appa?” he whispered, eyes big behind his child-sized sunglasses. “Jiminie’s gonna like it, right?”

Yoongi blinked. "...You look fine."

Byeol lit up like a constellation.

Then Yoongi narrowed his eyes. "You never repeat clothes."

Byeol adjusted his glasses like a mini celebrity evading paparazzi. "But Appa, you said this sweater was three hundred dollars. And if it's that pricey, I should wear it every day."

Yoongi squinted harder. That... did sound like something he muttered. But since when did Byeol actually listen?

And the kid was unusually smug today. Practically vibrating. Yoongi chalked it up to excitement over meeting his so-called favorite actor. Even though Yoongi would never understand why Byeol idolized that guy — all glitter, eye shimmer, and emotional sighs. 

The fanmeet venue buzzed, a glitter-drenched beehive of screams and perfume. Lightsticks waved like neon butterflies. Banners fluttered with slogans like “Park Jimin: You Heal My Soul” and “Cry On Stage, King!”

Fans lined the block in outfits that paid tribute to Jimin’s drama characters—capes, flower crowns, even someone dressed like the ghost prince from his last hit series.

Inside, in the VIP queue, Byeol bounced on his toes, clutching Starie, his beloved plushie. A ball of excitement in a sweater full of secrets.

Jin spotted him instantly.

His jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Then laughed under his breath. 

“That sneaky Star,” Jin muttered. “Park Byeol.”

He spun around and flagged down a staffer.

“Move that kid and his guardian to the end of the line,” he ordered.

“Manager-nim?”

“End. Of. Queue,” Jin repeated, sharp and serious. “Tell security it’s a VVIP slot. No one questions it.”

As the staffer scurried away, Jin ducked into a hallway, already tapping furiously at his phone.

To: Jeon Kookie

To: TaeTae Drama King

“Emergency. Star child is here.

With his other parent.

Come now or live with eternal regret.”

Inside the event hall, under soft stage lights, Park Jimin was glowing.

White knit sweater. Silver rings. Perfectly tousled hair. A face made for camera flashes and daydreams.

The fanmeet moved quickly. Squeals, photos, signed gifts. Jimin smiled through it all, practiced and perfect. His makeup flawless, his aura glowing.

His fans squealed. His staff moved with military precision.

But toward the final slots, Jimin’s shoulders dipped. His energy waned behind the camera-perfect poise. A soft yawn hiding behind his usual charming smile. His smile faded just slightly between waves. 

He kept glancing toward the curtain, half-hoping, half-dreading.

No sign of Byeol. No Jin pulling a dramatic reveal. No Taehyung or Jungkook smuggling in his secret world like they always did.

“Last one,” a staff member whispered, gesturing toward the curtain that separated the main room from the waiting area.

“Okay,” Jimin said, stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders. “Let’s make it a good one—”

And then the curtain lifted.

A flash of navy.

A blur of stars.

A boy ran forward, sweater sparkling under the lights.

Not just any boy.

His boy.

Byeol. 

Jimin’s breath hitched. His smile faltered—just a blink.

There he was.

His little star, standing like a miracle at the edge of the world. In the exact same sweater Jimin had chosen, with that exact same smile he’d fallen in love with since the first time he held him.

For a moment, everything stopped.

He hadn’t expected him here. Not in the middle of a fan event. Certainly not walking up to him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Byeol grinned up at him like sunshine breaking through clouds. Like he had been waiting all day for this exact moment.

Jimin’s hand twitched, halfway raised, instinctively reaching for the tiny sweater he’d picked, the cheeks he used to kiss goodnight.

And then he saw him.

Standing just behind Byeol, half-swallowed by shadows, dressed like a brooding rockstar dragged into daylight by force.

Leather jacket. Black jeans. Cap pulled low. Sunglasses reflecting stage lights. Hands in pockets, but tension so obvious it might as well have been holding up a neon sign that said: Emotional Crisis Imminent.

Even with half his face hidden, Jimin knew that stance. That stormy stillness.

Min Yoongi.

The last time he saw Yoongi in person as Actor Park Jimin, was at the Blue Dragon Awards. The night Yoongi had gone on stage and casually dismissed Jimin’s award-winning drama as “a mood board with tears.”

So Jimin clapped back in an interview, declaring Yoongi’s lyrics were “emotionally constipated noise poetry.” That clip was now permanently etched into internet history.

The internet had named it: Mutual Artistic Slander.

And now he was here. In the flesh. In the shadows. With his child sparkling between them like a peace treaty covered in glitter.

Yoongi hadn’t moved. Just stood there. Watching. Brooding. Like he was auditioning for the role of “Mysterious Ex #2” in Jimin’s next script.

And yet, his gaze burned hotter than any spotlight.

Byeol bounced between them, practically glowing. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. 

“…Min,” Jimin said at last, a smirk tugging at his lips. Of course his sneaky little star had pulled this off. He should’ve known. Still, a warning message would’ve been nice.

Yoongi’s head tilted, just slightly, enough to meet Jimin’s gaze through the dark lenses.

“…Park.”

Their eyes locked.

And the world went still.

Just two people. A five-year-old sparkle bomb.

And years of unresolved tension pressed into one extremely awkward VIP slot.

Chapter Text

Jimin was the first to blink.

Of course he was. He’d trained his whole life for the stage, the screen, the spotlight. He could play lovers and liars, heartbroken kings and righteous villains, could cry on cue, kiss co-stars with convincing chemistry, and die dramatically in slow motion. But Yoongi?

Yoongi had always been the role he couldn’t quite perform. The one that made him forget his lines.

Still, Jimin smiled—sweet and sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. The kind of smile that had won awards and shattered hearts. He tilted his head slightly, eyes skimming from Yoongi’s boots to his cap with the quiet judgment of a fashion editor.

“…Didn’t know you were into fanmeets, Min,” he said lightly. “I always assumed crowds and joy weren’t your thing.”

Yoongi didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, like if he kept them there, he wouldn’t do something reckless. Like tug Jimin closer by the collar. Or throw glitter in his face.

His jaw ticked once.

“I’m not.”

Jimin’s brows lifted. 

“Oh? Then what are you doing at my fanmeet?” He shot a brief glance toward Byeol, eyes softening for just a second before turning sly again for Yoongi. 

“Snatched the last ticket from a real fan, did you? That’s cold, even for you.”

“I’m here for him.” Yoongi jerked his chin toward the tiny boy now standing triumphantly on the edge of the table, like a small gremlin king surveying his kingdom.

While Yoongi was busy regretting every decision that had led him to this moment, including the 450,000 won he would never get back... So, here he was, standing in line at a fanmeet against his will.

Beside him, Byeol radiated the innocent pride of a child who had just completed a mission no adult had approved. He swayed side to side, beaming, clutching Starie to his chest like a glitter-coated trophy.

And then, as if possessed by joy and sugar and sheer chaos, he launched.

“Hi, Pa— Park Jiminie!” Byeol squeaked, just barely saving himself from the forbidden word. He flung himself forward like a missile of pure glitter and affection. 

Jimin winced. The switch in nickname hit harder than he expected—too formal, too distant, too not “Papa.” It landed like a punch to the gut. But his instincts kicked in fast. Cameras. Staff. Yoongi.

He dropped to one knee just in time to catch the incoming missile of love, letting Byeol crash into his chest and bury his face in the sweater Jimin had chosen for him just days ago. It smelled like Yoongi now, faintly smoky, musky, warmth and the scent hit Jimin like a second punch. One he hadn’t been braced for.

Behind them, Yoongi stiffened. Like he couldn’t decide whether to step in or bolt. His hands stayed fisted in his pockets, jaw tense. He opened his mouth—probably to tell Byeol to dial back the fanboy energy—but stopped short when he caught Jimin’s face.

He didn’t look annoyed.

If anything, his posture softened. Shoulders easing, lashes low. Not stiff, not guarded, just a slow, quiet exhale. The kind that only comes from being held after too long.

And for a second, just one, Jimin let it happen.

He let Byeol cling. Let himself feel the weight in his arms.

Then the moment snapped. Too dangerous.

He loosened his hold, expression settling back into something neutral. Safe. Public.

He ran a gentle, practiced hand through Byeol’s hair with just enough detachment. Like a celebrity humoring a fan’s overly affectionate child. Not a father with his son. Not their son.

“Well, aren’t you a sparkly prince,” Jimin cooed in his best PR voice, sweet and polished, the way he sounded on talk shows. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

As if he hadn’t named him. As if he hadn’t whispered that name into a quiet nursery night after night, with lullabies and soft hands.

Byeol beamed, stepping back just enough to lift Starie up like an offering.

“I’m Byeol! This is Starie! You look even prettier in real life, Jiminie!”

The boy was acting his little heart out, nailing the role of “adorable stranger meeting celebrity” as if it hadn’t been Jimin’s face he first saw through blurry newborn eyes. As if it hadn’t been Jimin holding him during his first cry, his first breath.

Jimin felt a flicker of pride. His little chaos goblin was nailing it. Future Oscar winner.

“Byeol,” Jimin repeated, his voice just a touch too soft. “Like a star?”

“Exactly like a star!” Byeol beamed, full wattage, like he was the star.

Behind his sunglasses, Yoongi muttered with all the enthusiasm of a sleep-deprived dad, “More like a black hole.”

Jimin didn’t miss a beat. “Oh? Sucks everyone in with his charm?”

“Sure,” Yoongi deadpanned. “Let’s go with that.”

But Jimin wasn’t looking at him anymore. His focus was entirely on Byeol—the tiny star who had somehow orchestrated a heist-level scheme to drag an emotionally constipated rapper to a fanmeet, no less. Who had gotten Yoongi to stand in line, pay nearly half a million won, and not spontaneously combust in public.

Jimin’s chest ached. With pride. With longing. With the urge to wrap Byeol in a blanket burrito and never let him go.

“I like your sweater. Very night sky.” Jimin said, voice trembling just slightly at the edges.

Of course he liked it. He’d picked it. Byeol looked beautiful in it, though he’d look beautiful in anything. Jimin’s pretty boy.

Then Byeol turned to Yoongi and tugged on his sleeve like a child summoning his reluctant handler.

Yoongi immediately crouched down like a trained dad, listening as Byeol whispered something into his ear with all the subtlety of a child with a megaphone.

It was so domestic. So familiar. Like they were a little family on a casual errand, not fractured halves held together by secrets.

Jimin watched, heart thudding. Min Yoongi, king of grunts and grimaces, was being—what was the word—domestic.

Not just tolerating it, but leaning into it.

It did something to him, seeing Yoongi like that with his son.

Then Yoongi stood and met Jimin’s eyes.

And Jimin, seasoned actor that he was, immediately panicked.

He dropped the soft gaze like it was on fire. Expression blanked out. Professional Mode: engaged. Do not look emotionally compromised. Do not look like you just imagined domestic bliss with a man in leather jacket. 

Then Yoongi pulled something out of his pocket, a carefully folded piece of paper and handed it to Byeol, who ran it over with triumphant hands.

“This is for you!” he said, shoving the drawing into Jimin’s hands like it was a sacred relic. “It’s us!”

Jimin blinked down.

It was them in wild crayon and chaotic glittery sticker bursts. A tall figure (with suspiciously sparkly hair) holding hands with a small boy beneath a shooting star. There were stars everywhere. And hearts. And one glittery sticker of a cat with wings that Byeol had probably stolen from Jungkook.

His vision blurred. He remembered how he and Byeol used to draw like this every day. Their mornings often began with crayons and ended with sticker stars stuck to their clothes.

He looked up slowly, smile softening like snow under sun.

“I… love it,” he whispered.

“You have to keep it forever,” Byeol said seriously. “And put it in a gold frame. Or maybe pink. Papa says pink frames make everything look more loved.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, as if he’d heard that name too often lately. “This ‘papa’ again…”

Jimin’s lips twitched. 

If only you knew, darling.

He clutched the drawing to his chest like it was worth more than any award he’d ever won.

“I’ll keep it safe,” he promised, eyes on Byeol. “Forever.”

Then, casually—too casually—he looked up at Yoongi.

“Your nephew’s cute,” he said, all smooth charm, tilting his head with a practiced smirk. “Didn’t peg you for the babysitting type, Min.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows lifted just above his sunglasses. “Not my nephew,” he said flatly.

Jimin blinked.

“Oh?” he said lightly, fighting the rising swell of his pulse.

Yoongi didn’t blink. Just stared.

Jimin cleared his throat. “Hmm, Cousin? Neighbor? Random child who follows you home for snacks?”

Yoongi raised his sunglasses just enough to make direct, soul-piercing eye contact.

“Mine,” he said. “He’s my son.”

Silence.

Jimin made a noise that may or may not have been a muffled gasp disguised as a laugh.

His smile flickered, just for a second, like static on a screen. A crack in the mask.Because Yoongi hadn’t said it like it was awkward. Or accidental. He’d said it like he meant it. Like a title he wore on purpose.

Yoongi could’ve lied. Could’ve said he was watching a friend’s kid.

But he hadn’t.

“Oh,” Jimin said, softer now. “You… have a son.”

Yoongi nodded once. “Yeah.”

“Wow.” Jimin crouched beside Byeol, brushing a speck of glitter from the boy’s cheek with far too much familiarity.

“You must’ve stolen him. There’s no way someone like you made something this adorable.”

Byeol beamed like a well-fed cat. Yoongi’s mouth twitched.

“I didn’t steal him,” Yoongi deadpanned. “I legally feed him.”

Jimin looked up at Yoongi through his lashes. “So you do know how to provide for something other than a soundcloud link. Impressive.”

Yoongi smiled thinly. “And you’re still out here over-acting real life. Is that exhausting or is it just… genetic?”

Byeol gasped. “You guys are so funny!”

Jimin let out a high, sparkling laugh. “He is funny, isn’t he? Must be all the sleep he’s getting now that he’s not locked in his studio howling into a mic at 3am.”

Yoongi crossed his arms tighter. “And you must be tired from crying dramatically into flower petals every night.”

“That’s called range, Min.”

“That’s called melodrama, Park.”

Jimin turned back to Byeol with a sparkle in his eye. 

“Min Byeol,” he repeated, tasting the name like an expensive wine. It felt weird. He was used to Park Byeol. But… it didn’t feel wrong. Just new. Like an outfit he hadn’t worn in a while.

Then his gaze slid back to Yoongi, amused again. “Didn’t see a birth announcement. Or a scandal. Or a cute dad-and-son dispatch in the tabloids.”

Yoongi crossed his arms. “Yeah. I don’t perform fatherhood for the press.”

Jimin’s mouth curved. “Right. You save your performances for awards shows and interviews where you call my work a ‘melodramatic puddle.’”

“I was being generous.”

From behind the curtains, Jin slammed his forehead onto his clipboard. 

He’d survived years of Jimin’s diva era. He’d survived Taehyung’s pink mullet and Jungkook’s 3am existential texts. 

But nothing prepared him for the chaotic disaster that was these two in the same room.

Why had he expected normalcy from the two chaotic life forms who somehow created Byeol?

“I’m just saying,” Jimin went on, flipping his hair like a weapon, “You’ve got that whole ‘I don’t do kids or relationships’ vibe. Black leather. Sunglasses indoors. Rings. Chains. Chronic Emotional constipation.”

Yoongi leaned forward, visibly weighing whether flicking Jimin’s forehead was worth the eventual PR nightmare. “And you moisturize your soul with attention and tears.”

“Better than repressing my feelings and calling it artistic vision,” Jimin snapped.

Between them, Byeol turned his head left, then right, like a sparkly little referee at a world-class sarcasm championship.

Then he tugged Yoongi’s sleeve and stage-whispered, “Appa… Jiminie’s really pretty when he’s mad, huh?”

Yoongi turned to him, scandalized. Not too harshly, he couldn’t ever be truly mad at that face but with just enough exasperation to communicate: Why would you say that while I’m roasting him?

God. Jimin’s ego was going to shoot through the roof and punch the moon.

Sure enough, Jimin gave Byeol a radiant, indulgent smile, his chaos son through and through and cleared his throat.

 “Aw, he calls you Appa. That’s adorable…”

“What else was he supposed to call me?” Yoongi deadpanned.

Jimin muttered, just loud enough to be heard, “Maybe... mid.”

Yoongi looked like he might physically combust. “You’re lucky I’m already legally responsible for this child, or I’d leave both of you here.”

Jimin opened his mouth to bite back, he had a perfect comeback locked and loaded but paused when he saw Byeol still holding Yoongi’s sleeve so tenderly, eyes wide and full of trust.

Something in Jimin softened. Just a little. Enough to derail the snark.

Instead, he smiled sweetly. “You’re not totally awful at it.”

Yoongi squinted at him, suspicious. Then gave him a look that could be sold as a limited edition glare. “Don’t swoon.”

“Oh, I’m swooning,” Jimin said dryly. “In pure, unfiltered shock.”

“Don’t worry, Park. You won’t have to babysit.”

“Great,” Jimin replied breezily, already kneeling back down to Byeol’s height, smoothing the boy’s hair like muscle memory. “Because I don’t even like kids.”

Byeol blinked up at him, eyes round. “But… you like me, right?”

Jimin paused. Heart stuttering. His voice, softer: “You’re… tolerable.”

Byeol gasped. One tiny hand clutched his chest like he’d been betrayed. Pure drama. Pure Jimin.

Yoongi watched them. Quiet. Too quiet.

There was something in his gaze — half-suspicion, half-softness, like watching a story he didn’t know he was part of. Like watching two people speak a secret language only they understood.

Jin, sensing the shift in the air, finally emerged from behind the curtain, a savior in a beige cardigan and weary patience.

The fanmeet had long overrun its schedule, but this… this wasn’t a fanmeet anymore.

This was a family reunion.

Even if only two-thirds of the family knew it.

Byeol brightened the moment he spotted Jin. His feet did a little hop before Jin subtly pressed a finger to his lips, the universal sign for “don’t blow the secret just yet, tiny chaos goblin.”

“Oh wow,” Jin said dramatically, stepping into the scene like he was announcing Act II of a play. “Is that Min Yoongi, or are my aging eyes deceiving me? What a surprise! I didn’t know you two knew each other!”

Jimin still hadn’t broken eye contact with Yoongi. His smile was sweet. Sharp. Slightly murderous.

“Oh, we go way back,” he said casually, like he wasn’t holding a grudge in a velvet box.

Yoongi smirked. “Not that far. One night, tops.”

Jimin blinked. Once. Slow. Precise.

That one hit home. Yoongi knew it. Maybe that was why he said it.

Byeol looked between them like a tiny spectator at a war disguised as banter.

Jin clapped his hands a little too brightly, trying to cut the tension like a steak knife through stone.

“Okay! Great catching up, everyone! That’s enough unresolved trauma for one room. Let’s take a picture to remember it by.”

He gestured to the nearby photo booth, faux cherry blossoms, sparkly paper stars, and a cardboard cutout of Jimin’s drama character still standing far too close to Yoongi for comfort.

Byeol didn’t hesitate. He grabbed both their hands like a tiny gravitational force in light-up sneakers. “Come on! Jiminie, you stand on this side of me! Appa, you stand on the other!”

Like a miniature god of chaos arranging two stubborn planets into his orbit.

Jimin glanced down at their joined hands. His fingers curled instinctively around Byeol’s. He didn’t let go.

Yoongi looked at their joined hands too. Then at Jimin. Their eyes met, just for a moment and something unspoken passed between them.

Loud. Complicated. Dangerous.

Jin pulled back the curtain like he was opening a door to Narnia. “Let the chaos commence.”

As the three of them stepped into the booth, squeezed between fake cherry blossoms, ring lights and one aggressively star-shaped plushie, Jin texted Taehyung and Jungkook:

Jin: Photo happening. Jimin’s cracking. Yoongi’s glaring. Byeol is thriving.

Inside, the booth was tragically small for two grown men, one excitable child, and a plushie with its own gravitational field. Byeol, however, was determined.

“Can you scoot?” Jimin hissed, trying to wedge himself between Yoongi and the wall without wrinkling his outfit.

Yoongi did not move. “I’m literally against the wall.”

“Then shrink.”

“Then buy a bigger booth.”

Byeol plopped into Jimin’s lap like a starry shield, clutching Starie.

“Okay, I press this, right?” he asked, finger hovering above the giant green button.

“Wait, wait,” Jimin said, fluffing his hair in the tiny mirror. “Let me—okay now I’m ready.”

Yoongi looked like he was reevaluating every decision that led him to this exact moment.

Byeol giggled and kicked his feet, clearly living for the drama. “This is so fun! Are we doing bunny ears?”

“I’m not doing bunny ears,” Yoongi said.

“I am,” Jimin said at the same time, already flashing peace signs behind Yoongi’s head.

Click.

First photo: Byeol beaming. Jimin looking smug. Yoongi blinking mid-glare like a vampire seeing daylight.

“Appa, you blinked!” Byeol gasped, scandalized, pointing at the preview screen. “You blinked in our forever memory!”

“It’s not my forever memory,” Yoongi muttered. “I was tricked into this.”

“Tricked?” Jimin said sweetly, already adjusting the lighting. “You mean by basic human connection?”

“This is a trap,” Yoongi muttered. “Your fanmeet is a trap.”

“Smile this time,” Jimin said with mock sympathy. “If your face cracks, I’ll cover repairs.”

Yoongi gave him a tight, deadpan smile. “Try emoting less. You’ll wrinkle.”

Click.

Second photo: Jimin baring his teeth like a feral cat. Yoongi staring at the camera like it owed him money. Byeol sneezing mid-peace sign.

“I think I blinked,” Byeol said cheerfully.

“You’re still the cutest one here,” Jimin said, smoothing Byeol’s hair again. “Honestly, it’s criminal how you got stuck with this guy.”

Yoongi raised a brow. “You saying I’m not cute?”

“I’m saying you look like a tax refund and smell like studio insomnia.”

Click.

Third photo: Jimin smirking. Yoongi side-eyeing him like he was seconds from violence. Byeol doing double finger-hearts, Starie raised like a tiny plush hostage.

“You two are so weird,” Byeol declared, absolutely delighted.

Jimin and Yoongi both turned to him — and to each other. Their knees bumped.

It was a moment.

Sharp. Brief. Charged. Their eyes met and for a split second, something flickered. Something soft and too familiar. Something dangerous.

Byeol, caught between them like a glitter-covered cupid. 

Click.

Fourth photo: Jimin and Yoongi frozen mid-eye contact, inches apart. Byeol grinning like he just solved world peace.

Outside, Jin watched the screen and let out a long, theatrical sigh.

“My god,” he muttered. “They’re accidentally soft.”

Jin: Yoongi just looked at Jimin like he invented sunlight. 

Back inside, the machine chirped: “You have 10 seconds left!”

Yoongi sighed just as Byeol climbed into his lap this time, like a determined koala. Jimin, now half-squashed, flung one arm awkwardly around Byeol’s back like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch him that much in front of Yoongi.

“Okay, next photo in—three—two—”

“Move your elbow, Min!” Jimin hissed, trying to shove Yoongi’s arm out of his ribs.

“It’s not my elbow, that’s the edge of my jacket,” Yoongi muttered.

“Why are your jackets so spiky?!”

“Why are your arms so bony?!”

Click. 

Fifth photo: Jimin mid-scowl. Yoongi smirking like the devil in designer boots. Byeol, picture-perfect, throwing finger hearts like a pro.

As they shuffled out of the booth, still bumping shoulders and elbows like unwilling allies in a war against confined spaces, the machine whirred loudly, spitting out glossy photo strips from the side slot.

Jimin grabbed one and held it up to the light, studying it. The three of them—pressed close, slightly chaotic, laughably mismatched. Jimin’s bunny ears. Yoongi’s deadpan glare. Byeol, pure joy.

Their first photo as a family. 

Messy. Unplanned. Glared-in, sneezed-on, squished-together chaos.

It knocked something loose in his chest. A quiet little ache. A wish he didn’t want to say out loud.

He didn’t say anything. Just slipped the print into his pant pocket like a secret he didn’t know what to do with yet.

Yoongi caught the motion. “Souvenir?” he asked, one brow raised like it was judging him.

“Evidence,” Jimin replied.

“Of what?”

Jimin hesitated—just for a beat too long.

“…That I looked better than you.”

Yoongi snorted. “Delusional.”

“You blinked in the first photo.”

“You sneezed in the second.”

“That was Byeol.”

Yoongi muttered something suspiciously close to “fragile drama queen.”

Jimin ignored him and held out the second strip to Byeol. “This one’s yours.”

Byeol took it like it was made of moonlight. “Can Jiminie sign this?” he whispered. “And can you also draw a star?”

“Of course,” Jimin said, already pulling a pen out of nowhere like a magician at a birthday party. He flipped the photo strip over and scribbled something quick and familiar on the back — a note, a star, a memory.

Yoongi leaned slightly closer to read it.

"To Byeol, the little star.

Shine bright! — Jiminie"

(A smiling, slightly lopsided star doodle)

The same doodle Jimin used to hang on the fridge. On post-its stuck to Byeol’s nightstand when he had to leave early for shoots.

Byeol clutched it to his chest like a treasure.

“Thank you,” he whispered, eyes gleaming like twin sparkles. 

Jimin smiled, soft around the edges. “You’re very special, Byeol.”

Yoongi was watching again — too quiet.

But not uninterested.

Not anymore.

Byeol turned and held out the second photo strip to Yoongi like a royal decree. “Appa, you keep this one safe. You’re bad at feelings, but good at pockets.”

Yoongi blinked. “…Thanks, I think.”

“Put it next to your wallet of doom,” Byeol added helpfully, as if he weren’t the cause of 70% of said doom.

Yoongi sighed and tucked it into his jacket like it wasn’t going to haunt him later.

Then he held out a hand. “Come on, kid. Time to go home.”

But Byeol didn’t move. He stared up at Jimin with that look. Wide-eyed. Polite. Weaponized adorableness.

Jimin knew that look. Knew it like his own reflection. That was the look. The “I wanna stay with you longer but I’m pretending I’m okay because Appa is right there” look. His baby was practically transmitting it via telepathy. 

His little star wanted more time. More hugs. More chaos. And who was Jimin to deny his son? Even if it meant willingly trapping himself in the same airspace as Min Yoongi.

He watched as Byeol finally took Yoongi’s hand but glanced back at him one more time — full of hope, and just the tiniest bit of pout.

And Jimin—sucker that he was for his like boy—caved.

He cleared his throat. “Actually, uh…” He glanced between Yoongi and Byeol, trying for casual but landing somewhere around nervous extra on a medical drama.

“If you two aren’t in a rush… maybe you could come backstage for a bit? Just for a few minutes. I think Byeol would like it.”

Yoongi stared like Jimin had invited him to a group therapy session.

“Backstage? With a kid? Isn’t that just screaming, ring lights, and someone crying over foundation?”

Jimin kept his tone neutral. “Just my team. There’s juice boxes. And air conditioning.”

That last part landed.

Byeol had already spun around. “Can we, Appa? Please? My feet are tired and it’s so hot and Starie wants to see behind the curtain…”

“I don’t—” Yoongi started, but he was already talking to Byeol’s dust trail.

Because Byeol was already gone, skimming around the table like he owned the venue, Starie tucked under one arm like a tiny celebrity.

Jimin lifted the partition and held it open, glancing back with a look that was half challenge, half smirk. “If you change your mind…”

Yoongi sighed like a man being emotionally blackmailed by a five-year-old and an actor with cheekbones sharp enough to cut tape, “Fine. Ten minutes.”

Backstage, they stepped into the lounge which was usually packed with staff and Jimin’s team but today, it was suspiciously empty.

Manager Jin had cleared it out in advance, claiming Jimin needed a quiet moment after the fanmeet, ushering everyone out like a bouncer at closing time. Just so Jimin could have a moment alone with Byeol and Yoongi.

But of course, that peace lasted a whole three seconds.

The opposite door slammed open.

Taehyung and Jungkook burst in like they’d just crossed a finish line. Both panting dramatically, sweating like they’d sprinted through several dimensions to get here.

Jimin turned, wide-eyed. “How—?”

He could’ve sworn they were both busy today.

Then he caught Jin’s smug little smirk, quietly shutting the door as he stepped inside behind them, like a man who had just delivered a gift. No words, just a wink that meant, You’re welcome.

Jimin, already regretting everything, exhaled slowly.

The two chaos incarnates skidded to a halt.

“Hyung, we—” Jungkook began, but then his eyes landed on Byeol.

Both men visibly melted.

You could see it in their eyes—an instinctive urge to throw themselves at the child. Smother him with kisses. Squish his cheeks. Cry over his existence. Maybe build him a throne. Squeal over his little sweater, and to possibly adopt him again for the 47th time.

Cute aggression was at a boiling point.

But, miraculously, they held back.

Taehyung caught Jungkook’s eye. In perfect sync, they snapped into full actor mode.

Taehyung audibly gasped like he was seeing a baby deer in the wild.

“Oh my GOD,” Jungkook made a strangled sound that might’ve once been a scream but died as a dramatic sob instead. “A child?? At your fanmeet?”

Taehyung dropped to his knees like he’d been shot. “Whose adorable creature is this?!” He gushed, clutching his heart with Oscar-worthy flair.

Like they totally didn't know Byeol. Like they totally hadn't spent the last five years wrapped around Byeol’s tiny fingers, doing tea parties and living room musicals in full costume. Like Jungkook didn't cry over a baby picture this morning. Like Taehyung didn't own a mug that said World's Best Uncle.

Jimin watched them with dead eyes.

Byeol, however, thrived. He lit up like a tiny director reclaiming his cast. He was used to this kind of chaos — he’d directed it. These were his stars. He’d made them wear wigs, glitter, and cardboard swords for his living room musicals. Of course his favorite uncles were here.

And now the set was complete.

Yoongi entered behind them, pulling off his mask and sunglasses just in time to witness the full soap opera-level meltdown. He froze mid-step, expression unreadable as his eyes swept over the scene.

He narrowed his eyes, gaze sliding toward Taehyung and Jungkook like they were food poisoning in human form.

Jimin turned just in time to see it — that unimpressed stare that said, these two? Really?

And honestly, they deserved it.

Taehyung knelt to Byeol’s level, eyes suspiciously sparkly. “Aw, you look like a star! What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Byeol,” the boy said solemnly, like this was a royal introduction.

Jungkook made a noise like he’d been stabbed with cuteness. “Byeol?! Oh no. Oh no, that’s too cute. I think I’m gonna cry.” Putting on his best acting like this was the first time he ever heard that name. 

They had cried over his baby photos this morning. Literally. Actual tears. over a baby photo where Byeol had a single tooth and a bib that said “Lil Comet.”

Jimin pinched the bridge of his nose. This was why he didn’t want to invite them. But he also knew if they’d found out later they missed the chance to see Byeol again, he’d be found dead in a ditch covered in glitter and guilt.

Yoongi looked at Jimin like he was being personally betrayed. “Are they… okay?”

Jimin didn’t answer. Just sighed like a man who regretted all his life choices.

“Totally fine,” Taehyung sniffled, dabbing at his eyes with dramatic flair. “We’re just… actors. We feel things tenfold.”

“Like, method actors,” Jungkook added solemnly, wiping under his eyes with his sleeve. “Real immersive feelings.”

Yoongi turned back to Jimin with the slow horror of someone realizing their Uber driver has taken a wrong turn into hell. “You’re friends with these people?”

Jimin flushed. “Unfortunately.”

Taehyung perked up suddenly, doing his best dramatic gasp. “Wait—hold on—is that—no way—Min Yoongi?!”

Here they go.

“Holy shit, MIN YOONGI!” Jungkook yelled, voice cracking with glee. “OH MY GOD! SUGA! Hyung, it’s SUGA! I had a poster of you in my dorm! Tae, it’s him!”

Taehyung grabbed Jungkook’s arm like they were witnessing the second coming. “I rapped Cypher Pt. 3 at a talent show. I lost. But I felt invincible.”

Yoongi blinked. Slowly. Like he was calculating how far he could run before they caught him. “Great.”

“You’re even more intimidating in person,” Taehyung breathed, eyes full of reverence. “So cool. Like a crime boss but with good skin.”

Yoongi stared at them like he was mentally drafting a restraining order. Possibly two.

Jimin groaned into his hand. This—this—was why he hadn’t wanted them here. These were the same men who once roasted Min Yoongi while sipping wine on his couch like they were hosting a reality show. The hypocrisy was criminal.

“Okay, you two need to dial it down before Byeol thinks this is a concert.”

But Byeol, bless his chaos-loving heart, was already living his best life.

“This is the best day ever,” he whispered to Starie. “We should all live together.”

Jimin pretended not to hear that. He was already wondering if it was too late to fake a power outage and evacuate the building.

Yoongi, muttering under his breath, turned to him. “You hang out with these people voluntarily?”

“Every weekend,” Jimin deadpanned. “Sometimes weekdays. Sometimes holidays.”

Yoongi nodded slowly, eyes still on the chaos unfolding in front of him. “You need better hobbies.”

Jimin didn't miss a beat. “Oh, I do. Unfortunately, one of them is dealing with you.”

Taehyung gasped like someone had slapped him with a plot twist. “Did he just roast SUGA? In front of his child??”

Jungkook clutched his heart. “This is better than any drama I've ever been in.”

Yoongi looked between the three of them and sighed. “I should’ve just gone home.”

Taehyung then gave Jungkook a covert nod which meant, Phase 2: Distraction Tactics.

 “So, Yoongi-ssi,” Taehyung said smoothly, sliding into step beside him like they were lifelong bros, “just wanted to say, your last mixtape? Incredible. That track about broken trust and boiling ramen? Artistic transcendence.”

Yoongi blinked. “That… wasn’t about ramen.”

“I felt the steam, man,” Taehyung said, tapping his chest with a serious face. “The boiling point metaphor? Raw. Vulnerable. Revolutionary. Let’s talk about your process.”

“Right now?”

“Absolutely. Emotions don’t wait.”

And with that, Taehyung steered a confused and increasingly alarmed Yoongi away from the group like a seasoned con artist.

Meanwhile, Jungkook grabbed Byeol’s tiny hand and whispered, “Secret meeting time,” leading him and Jimin into the adjacent room. Jin was already there with a chilled glass of strawberry milk,  that too in a glass tumbler. 

But the milk went ignored.

Byeol dropped Starie to the floor and launched himself at Jin with a squeal, hugging him tight around the waist. Then he turned and threw himself into Jungkook’s arms. And finally, he ran back into Jimin’s chest, wrapping his arms around him in that special kind of hug—face smushed in, like he was trying to merge with his Papa.

Jimin blinked, startled by the weight of that hug. “Aw, baby… you missed me that much?”

Byeol nodded fiercely, voice muffled against Jimin’s shirt. “Mmm-hmm. Papa, I was brave but I missed you a lot. I didn’t cry though. Not even when Appa made me eat broccoli.”

Jimin smiled softly, brushing his hand through Byeol’s hair before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“That’s my strong little star.”

Byeol sniffled, nodding as he held on tight. Then, as if a button had been pressed, he launched into a full-speed report:

“Yesterday Appa had to go to work, so Miss Hana came to our house. But Papa—she was not nice. She looked at me like this—”

He scrunched his face into a perfectly judgy glare.

Jimin’s heart sank.

He had never left Byeol with a sitter before. Not once. It was always Jin, Tae, or Jungkook, or else he’d bundle his son up and take him to set in disguise. When none of that worked, he canceled. Because Byeol came first. Always.

“But you said Appa’s work is important, so I didn’t cry,” Byeol said proudly. 

“Even when she used her mean voice. But then—Appa came back. And he was like—‘Get out.’ Like—RAH!”

He threw up his hands in a dramatic reenactment of Yoongi’s alleged fury, “Appa kicked her out like a scary but cool dragon.”

Jin blinked. “Did he actually—?”

Jimin’s eyes widened. “Wait, really?”

Byeol nodded solemnly.

“Yes! And then Appa gave me forehead kisses. Three Times!” Byeol beamed. 

“And he said he won’t leave me alone anymore, ‘cause I was his most important fan. And I told him I loved him.” 

He paused, then added with a sage nod, “He didn’t say it back, but that’s okay. I think he was shy.”

Jimin blinked rapidly, breath catching for just a moment as he processed the whole thing. 

Yoongi had stood up for their son. He had kicked someone out for Byeol. Defended him. Kissed him. Told him he was important.

And not out of obligation, but because he wanted to. Because he cared. 

Just… because Byeol mattered to him.

Because Byeol was loved.

He felt it in his chest, a warm, unfamiliar ache. It was dangerous, this softness Yoongi was showing. Dangerous because it made Jimin’s carefully built walls feel just a little less solid.

“And—and—he took me to his company! It had glass walls and a beanbag and so many snacks! I was the king!”

“And then, I heard someone talking about Papa's fanmeet, so I asked Appa’s manager, Uncle Dae, to get me a ticket. I man-i-fes-ted it.”

Jimin blinked. “You… what?”

Jin, who had been waiting patiently, finally handed him the glass of strawberry milk, seeing the child breathing heavily after this long non-stop news report. 

“Manifested,” he repeated. “And also emotionally blackmailed Yoongi’s manager into paying reseller prices.”

Jimin raised a brow. “Oh?”

Jin nodded. “Very expensive. Flawless execution. Honestly? You should be proud.”

Byeol shrugged, sipping his milk like a tiny mafia boss.

“It was for a good cause.”

But Jimin was still stuck on one thing.

Yoongi—Appa—had chosen Byeol. Fiercely. Loudly. Without hesitation.

And for the first time in five years, Jimin felt… less alone in this.

Jungkook held out his hand for a high-five. “Iconic behavior.”

Jimin slapped it weakly, still stunned, he looked down at his child and then at his so-called friends.

“I am surrounded by chaos.”

“Correction,” Jin said, smiling as he sipped his coffee,

“you created it.”

Back in the hallway, Yoongi finally wrestled his way out of Taehyung’s “ramen-as-metaphor” dissection.

“I need to—uh—check on the kid,” he muttered, slipping away before Taehyung could launch into another absurd theory

Yoongi pushed open the side door to the adjacent room and froze.

There, under warm lights and the low hum of backstage fans, was a scene straight out of a family drama.

There was Jimin, perched on a small couch like a picture-perfect parenting ad, legs crossed gracefully. Byeol was curled up in his lap like a content baby sloth, both arms wrapped around his neck. Jimin cradled the back of Byeol’s head with one hand, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles on his back as he murmured something softly into Byeol’s ear. 

Jimin's expressions were so soft it didn’t even look like the same man Yoongi knew.

Jungkook and Jin sat nearby, smiling like proud godparents watching the final scene of a K-drama finale. All that was missing was a golden retriever and a soft piano ballad.

Then Byeol murmured something, and Jimin laughed. The real kind. Soft. Unforced.

“Yeah? You think your Appa’s cooler than me?”

Byeol giggled. “Nooo. You’re both cool. But you smell nicer.”

Yoongi just stood there.

Stared.

Processed.

And promptly short-circuited.

What. The actual hell.

This was Jimin. Park Jimin. The same man who was sharp-tongued, dramatic, always had a flair for chaos and a gift for passive-aggressive soundbites that trended in minutes. This was the same man who once called Yoongi’s music “gritty white noise” in a viral interview and acted like they didn’t breathe the same air at award shows. 

That Jimin was now being so soft with Byeol it looked like a slow-motion ad for organic baby lotion.

Yoongi had expected… what? Mild disdain? Maybe polite distance? At best, a flat smile and a signed photo for the kid like any other fan, or maybe him treating Byeol colder, because of their mutual animosity. 

Instead, Jimin was holding his son like he belonged there. Laughing with him. Cuddling him like some Disney prince omega with built-in lullabies. 

Maybe it’s omega instinct, Yoongi thought wildly. Like how cats just know where the sunniest spot on the floor is.

Did omegas just auto-parent other people’s kids this intensely?

Still, it was unsettling.

No—alarming.

Jimin wasn’t supposed to be good with Byeol. He wasn’t supposed to be this affectionate or this natural or this… not mean.

Yoongi narrowed his eyes.

Something was off.

Was this a trap? Was Jimin trying to win Byeol’s favor just to turn him against Yoongi later? Was this long-term revenge?

“Smells nicer,” he muttered under his breath, mimicking Byeol's voice, offended on every level.

And then, in the back of his mind: ‘I use designer cologne, what the hell does that gremlin even mean?’

He looked again. Byeol was talking animatedly, kicking his socked feet while Jimin nodded like he was the only person in the world worth listening to.

Yoongi’s stomach did something weird. Not bad weird. Just... unfamiliar.

He cleared his throat loudly.

Four heads snapped up like they’d been caught stealing state secrets.

Byeol immediately perked up. “Appa!”

He wriggled out of Jimin’s lap and scampered over, grabbing Yoongi’s hand like this whole situation wasn’t wildly suspicious. Like cuddling with Park Jimin wasn’t something he should maybe run by Yoongi first.

Jimin stood slowly, smoothing down his shirt, trying his best to look casual, like he hadn’t just been bear-hugging the child of a man he regularly roasted on national television. A child that just so happened to be his.

“He was just tired,” he said smoothly. “Long day. You know how kids get.”

Yoongi’s gaze drifted from Jimin’s flushed ears to Byeol, who was still hugging his leg like it was bedtime.

“Mm.”

Jin, ever the diplomatic one, cleared his throat. “There’s still more strawberry milk in the fridge, Yoongi-ssi. Want some?”

“Hard pass,” Yoongi said flatly.

Jungkook, ever the helpful chaos sprite, whispered not-quietly to Jin, “They were cuddling so hard. I almost cried.”

Yoongi looked at him with a flat stare. “Is everyone here emotionally unstable?”

That’s when Taehyung came sauntering back in, completely unbothered. “Hey! I still wasn’t done with the album dissection. I had a whole thesis about the bassline symbolizing your inner rage.”

Yoongi didn’t even flinch. “That’s great. Write a blog.”

But before Taehyung could launch into his theory, Yoongi checked the time and clapped once. “Alright, ten minutes are up, Byeol. Time to go home.”

Byeol pouted like he’d just been told Christmas was canceled. But he nodded like the mature little chaos agent he was. 

Then, as if suddenly struck by divine inspiration, he tugged on Yoongi’s sleeve.

“Appa, ask for Jiminie’s number.”

Yoongi blinked. “Why?”

Before Byeol could open his mouth, Jimin chimed in smoothly.

“So I can text you in advance next time there’s a fanmeet. You know, avoid the whole scalper situation.”

Yoongi narrowed his eyes. “You just want to see me waste more money.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Jimin said with a perfect smile. “You’ll cover it with your next emo song. What’s it gonna be this time—‘Pain Pt. 3: The Resale Receipt’?”

Jungkook choked on air. Jimin was on fire today and clearly knew it.

Yoongi sighed and handed his phone to Byeol with minimal enthusiasm.

“Fine. Here.”

But Jimin waved a finger with mock scolding. “Ah-ah. Min, I don’t give my number away like that. You have to ask nicely.”

“I didn’t want it in the first place,” Yoongi muttered, reaching for his phone back.

But then, Byeol deployed the nuclear option.

Big eyes. Tilted head. The softest, deadliest pout on his tiny lips. 

“Appa… please?”

Yoongi stared at him. Then at Jimin. Then back at Byeol, who was now blinking dramatically, like a tragic anime orphan.

Yoongi stared down at him, deadpan. “Emotional blackmail from a five-year-old. Great.”

“Min, beg for it,”Jimin said, clearly enjoying himself. “Be a good boy and say please.”

Yoongi shot him a glare so sharp it could cut through ice. “You want me to beg for your number? Delusional.”

“Do it for the child,” Jin added, clearly enjoying the scenario. 

Jungkook nodded sagely. “On one knee. Make it romantic.”

“Sing him a verse,” Taehyung offered, because he lives for chaos.

“Appa,” Byeol whispered again, softly. Deadly.

Yoongi scowled at them all, especially Jimin. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, I’m thriving.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, with the emotionless enthusiasm of someone reading tax documents, Yoongi muttered, “Fine. What’s your number, Your HIGHness?”

Jimin, grinning like the devil in a Dior ad, plucked the phone from Byeol’s hands and finally typed it in. “See? Wasn’t that hard.”

“Harder than writing my last album.”

Jimin winked. “I’ll even add a cute emoji next to my name.”

“Please don’t.”

Jungkook leaned toward Jin. “This is my favorite slow-burn enemies-to-lovers arc.”

Jin nodded. “And we haven’t even reached the secret identity reveal yet.”

“You got your number. Can we go now?” Yoongi asked, already pulling his mask back on and slipping his glasses into place. He crouched to help Byeol with his little disguise too, adjusting the mask over the boy’s nose.

Byeol nodded, but his usual spark had dimmed. He rubbed at his eyes with one hand, the other clutching Starie like it was his last source of strength. The whirlwind energy he’d brought in had finally worn out. The tiny chaos agent was spent after completing his mission successfully. 

And without a second thought, Yoongi leaned down and scooped him up.

That’s when it happened.

A unified, over-the-top gasp echoed through the room.

All four men froze.

For a second, Jimin’s world blurred. All the noise in the room dimmed.

His heart did that stupid, annoying thing it always did when Yoongi wasn’t being an emotionally constipated menace. Something warm bloomed in his chest and it sucked. 

It sucked how easy it was to imagine Yoongi doing this every day. Carrying Byeol. Ruffling his hair. Being there.

He told himself it was just the lack of sleep making him soft.

But there was Yoongi, effortlessly carrying their son like he’d done it a thousand times. Like it was natural. Like it meant something.

Because Yoongi looked right like that. Not just capable. Not just comfortable. He looked meant for it.

Jimin’s heart gave a violent, traitorous lurch. His throat burned.

It was a glimpse of the life he never got to have. Of a family almost lost to time. Of the boy he’d kept safe finally finding his way back, one small moment at a time.

Yoongi shifted Byeol higher against his chest and glanced around, feeling embarrassed under the heavy gaze. “Stop looking at me like I just proposed.”

Jimin blinked back to reality. Smirked. “Too late. I’ve already picked out the wedding colors.”

Jin snorted. Jungkook wheezed.

Jimin then followed them toward the door, half to be polite, half to keep the moment going a little longer.

At the exit, Yoongi paused. Looked back. His voice was slow, almost suspicious.

“You’re good with kids.” He said like he was accusing Jimin of hiding a federal crime.

Jimin shrugged, lips twitching. “I’m a natural.”

“Appa,” Byeol mumbled, trying and failing to keep his eyes open, barely awake but still determined to be the most polite gremlin alive, mumbled, “Say thank you…”

Yoongi muttered something unintelligible that sounded suspiciously like “save me from this tiny menace,” but it came out close enough to “thanks” that Byeol accepted it with a satisfied little sigh.

They turned to leave.

But just before they vanished into the hallway, Jimin called softly, “It was nice meeting you, Byeol.”

Yoongi didn’t look back.

But Byeol did.

Just once. Behind oversized sunglasses, he turned in Yoongi’s arms and flashed Jimin a sleepy little smile, like he was keeping the biggest, sweetest secret in the world.

Jimin’s heart thudded. He raised a hand in a tiny wave and smiled.

And whispered, just for himself, “Sleep well, baby.”

As soon as they disappeared into the outside world, Jimin let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Then he turned around and walked back inside.

Big mistake.

Because the second he entered the room, pandemonium hit him like a truck.

Jin had his clipboard in one hand and what looked suspiciously like a carrot in the other, yelling, “He PICKED THE KID UP. In his ARMS. Like a rom-com dad! This is not a drill!”

Taehyung was draped across the couch like he’d fainted in a period drama, clutching his chest. “It was so casual. So natural. So alpha-coded. I almost ovulated.”

Jungkook had his phone out, scrolling through a Pinterest board titled “Co-Parenting Aesthetic: Grumpy Rapper x Sunshine Actor” like his life depended on it. 

“We need a vision board. There’s potential. There’s lore.”

Jimin blinked. “Are you three on drugs?”

“Not yet,” Jin snapped. “But I’m high on that slow-burn enemies-to-lovers tension.”

Then Taehyung shot up, panic-stricken.

“Wait. Wait—did he look suspicious?! Did he figure it out?! I told you he’s not dumb! He’s like—he’s like a suspicious cat in a leather jacket. He knows something!”

Jimin flopped onto the couch, covering his face.slowly. “No, Tae. He didn’t figure it out. If he had, I’d be in handcuffs by now.”

“Some people pay good money for that,” Jungkook muttered without looking up.

“Jungkook.”

“Sorry.”

“But still,” Jungkook said seriously, “the way he looked at you when you were hugging Byeol? That was not a man who thinks you're just some actor.”

“He thinks I’m annoying,” Jimin muttered.

“He thinks you’re hot and annoying,” Jin corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Jimin groaned. “I hate you all.”

“Aww,” Taehyung said sweetly, plopping into Jimin’s lap like a human golden retriever. with no concept of personal space.

“You’re just cranky because your baby daddy looked criminally good holding your actual baby.”

“I’m not cranky.”

“You’re glowing,” Jungkook pointed. “Your ears are red. That’s Jimin code for emotionally compromised.”

Taehyung gasped, grabbing Jimin’s face. “Wait. Did he smell good?”

Jimin blinked. “I—what—why is that relevant—”

“It’s crucial,” Jungkook chimed in. “This is about building atmosphere. Pheromones matter.”

“Oh my god.”

“He looked like he wanted to throw hands and throw you on a bed,” Jin said, calmly munching his carrot.

“And you’re welcome, by the way,” he added smugly. “I put them last in line so you’d get maximum flirt duration. That was me. Genius move.”

Jimin threw a cushion at him. Jin caught it with one hand like it was routine.

“Why do I talk to any of you?”

“Because we love you,” Taehyung said, still in his lap. “And because you were glowing like a freshly steamed bun.”

“I am not glowing.”

“You were positively radiant,” Jungkook nodded solemnly. “Your cheekbones were shimmering with parental yearning.”

“Parental yearning?” Jimin choked.

“Yoongi stared at you like he was trying to solve a math equation that ended in ‘feelings,’” Jin added.

Jimin groaned and sank deeper into the chair.

“You’re all insane,” he muttered, though his ears were a little pink.

“Oh please,” Taehyung said, stretching like a drama queen. “Don’t act like you weren’t this close to kissing him when he said you were good with kids.”

Jimin scoffed. “He said it like I’d committed a crime.”

Jungkook peered over. “You added a chick emoji next to your name in Yoongi’s phone. A. Chick.”

“Chicks are cute. It’s branding.”

Taehyung leapt up, clutching an imaginary mic. “Tell me you still love him without telling me you still love him.”

Jimin rolled his eyes so hard they nearly looped around. 

“I don’t love him,” he snapped. “I just… don’t hate him entirely anymore.”

“Growth,” Jin said, dabbing an invisible tear.

“Next stage: soft-launch couple Instagram posts,” Jungkook clapped.

“Next stage is me cutting all your phone lines,” Jimin warned.

“Oh,” Taehyung said slyly, leaning in close. “So you do want him to know you’re the Papa.”

Jimin froze mid-sip. The strawberry milk suddenly felt too sweet. Too heavy. He exhaled slowly, setting the bottle down.

“…Not yet.”

There was a beat of silence. A rare one. Then Jin reached out and gently patted his shoulder. “When you’re ready, then.”

“We’ll be here,” Taehyung added softly, “to make it as dramatic and unnecessarily complicated as possible.”

“Obviously,” Jungkook said. “With snacks.”

Jimin smiled quiet and grateful. “Remind me why I keep you three around?”

“Because without us, your life would be efficient and emotionally stable,” Jin said.

“Gross,” Taehyung muttered.

“Disgusting,” Jungkook agreed.

Then Jin clapped his hands. “Anyway. That wasn’t a fanmeet. That was a soft launch.”

“Soft launch with bonus baby content,” Jungkook agreed.

“We should’ve live streamed it,” Taehyung said dreamily. “With cinematic music.”

Jimin sank deeper into the chair, hands over his face. “I hate all of you.”

“Love you too, bestie,” they chorused.

He leaned back with a groan, eyes fluttering shut, the half-finished strawberry milk still warming in his hand. Behind his lids, the memory replayed—Byeol snuggled into Yoongi’s chest like it was the safest place on earth. The way Yoongi had held him without hesitation, murmuring something soft, adjusting his hair with practiced ease, as if he’d done it a hundred times before.

It made something ache deep in his chest. Not the sharp kind of ache he used to carry. A softer, warmer one. One that whispered what if.

Yoongi had looked tired, yes. But calm. Steady.

That same calm Jimin remembered in flashes—hands pressing into the small of his back in the dark, warm breath ghosting over his collarbone, a soft laugh tucked into the crook of his neck like it belonged there. The cool scrape of rings trailing down his thigh.

A mouth that hadn’t hesitated to ruin him—slowly, thoroughly.

God, that night.

Yoongi had tasted like whiskey and heat and bad decisions. His mouth had been greedy, his voice all gravel and want. There’d been laughter. Moaning. Sweat.

That one moment when Jimin was pinned to the wall, legs wrapped around Yoongi’s waist, thinking Well. Guess I die here. Happy. And full of sin.

Jimin shifted in his seat. Yep. His ears were definitely on fire now.

He popped one eye open. “Okay, gross. Why is my strawberry milk spicy.”

Taehyung, from across the room, didn’t even look up. “That’s your repressed feelings, bestie.”

“God,” Jimin muttered, dragging a hand over his face. “I’m doomed.”

“We know,” Jungkook said cheerfully.

Jimin sighed. “Remind me to block all three of you tomorrow.”

None of them reminded him.

They never did.

The apartment was quiet when they got home. 

Yoongi kicked off his shoes, shut the door with his hip, and looked down at the bundle in his arms. Byeol had fallen into a deep slumber somewhere during their ride, still clutching his tiny sunglasses like they were made of gold.

He smelled like strawberry milk and Jimin’s cologne.

Which—somehow—Yoongi could recognize now.

Weird. That was weird, right?

Weird that he knew Jimin’s scent.

Weird that it lingered in his memory like a song he hadn’t meant to memorize.

Weird that Jimin hadn’t been cold or distant or insufferable today—but warm. 

Yoongi blinked at the sleeping boy in his arms.

“…This kid’s dangerous,” he muttered.

Too small. Too clever. Too affectionate.

And way too good at emotionally hijacking fully grown adults into cuddles, chaos, and, somehow phone number exchanges with his sworn enemy.

Something wasn’t adding up.

Jimin wasn’t supposed to be that warm.

Byeol wasn’t supposed to be this… attached.

And Yoongi sure as hell wasn’t supposed to care this much.

He closed his eyes for a beat, shifting Byeol a little closer. The boy let out a content sigh in his sleep and mumbled, “Appa…”

Yeah.

This was definitely getting dangerous.

And Yoongi was already in too deep.

He sighed and carried the kid to his room, carefully peeling off his mask, and cap and tucking him in. The plushies were already in bed, positioned like they’d been waiting for their owner to return from war.

He paused, watching Byeol for a second.

The kid looked so peaceful when he wasn’t talking a mile a minute or staging dramatic meltdowns over cereal. Like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Byeol snorted and kicked him in the thigh.

Yoongi winced but didn’t move.

Just watched him.

Squishy cheek smushed against Yoongi’s arm, mouth slightly open, a small line of drool forming like it had a personal vendetta against the fabric.

A sigh escaped him, unprompted.

“Why are you so damn cute,” he muttered. “And why do you love that snobby actor so much?”

Byeol mumbled something in response, voice syrupy with sleep:

“Jiminie smells nice…”

Yoongi blinked.

Still, he reached out and brushed Byeol’s hair out of his eyes. Then, almost absently, adjusted the plushie’s crooked bowtie. It was stupidly satisfying.

He stood, dimmed the lamp, and pulled the door nearly shut behind him.

And then—uninvited, unprovoked—his brain flashed a memory:

Jimin’s smirk, the curve of his lip, the echo of that voice, low and cocky—

“Min, beg for it.”

Yoongi groaned and slapped a hand over his face.

Why was that stupid scene playing on repeat in his brain like a cursed TikTok?

He shuffled into the kitchen and pulled out a beer. Not because he needed one. Just because it felt like the only appropriate response to surviving that fanmeet.

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

And yet somehow, Yoongi’s mind was louder than ever.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it—

The way Byeol had curled into his chest like he belonged there.

Like Yoongi had been holding him his whole life instead of weeks. 

Worse, he couldn’t stop thinking about Jimin.

Not the red-carpet Jimin, or the snarky, sharp-tongued version he’d built up in his head.

The other one.

From years ago.

Warm skin.

Breathless gasps.

Jimin’s mouth on his neck.