Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The school bell had rung fifteen minutes ago, but Jimin stood in his usual quiet spot near the gate, arms tucked tightly around the straps of his red backpack. His polished shoes, already showing signs of wear, pressed into the dust as he waited with his head down. The late afternoon sun made his small frame glow faintly—like a porcelain figure placed in the wrong setting.

Namjoon’s car pulled up right on time. It always did. The sleek black vehicle came to a gentle stop, and Namjoon stepped out, composed as ever in his suit, his tie slightly loosened and his expression soft.

“There you are, young master,” Namjoon said, his voice low and warm.

Jimin barely looked up. He gave a faint nod—just enough to acknowledge him.

Namjoon didn’t comment. Instead, he quietly reached for the red backpack on Jimin’s shoulders and slipped it off with practiced care. He opened the car door and waited. Jimin climbed in without a word, settling into his seat as if the weight on his shoulders had followed him inside.

Namjoon started the engine, the quiet hum filling the silence between them. Classical music played faintly through the speakers—something gentle and smooth, chosen because it helped Jimin relax.

“Did something happen at school today?” Namjoon asked after a few minutes, glancing at the boy through the rearview mirror.

Jimin didn’t answer. He kept his gaze outside, where the scenery passed like it didn’t matter.

Namjoon didn’t push. “You know I’m here for you, young master. Always,” he said, voice soft. “If there’s something on your mind… you can tell me anything.”

Jimin hesitated, hands resting still on his lap. He opened his mouth slightly, then closed it again.

“Do you know if…” he started, but the words faded. He shook his head quickly. “Never mind.”

Namjoon glanced at him again. “If what?”

“It’s nothing.”

Namjoon let the silence stretch again, patient as always. Then he said quietly, “It didn’t sound like nothing.”

Jimin fidgeted with the hem of his uniform blazer. After a moment, he finally mumbled, “Do you… Do you know if Father will be home tonight?”

Namjoon didn’t answer right away. His hands remained steady on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. But Jimin already knew.

“I mean,” Jimin quickly added, “it’s not because I want to see him or anything. It’s not that. It’s just…”

He paused, chewing on his lower lip.

“The school,” he said finally. “The principal asked to meet him. She said it’s important. They only have your number, but she said this time it has to be Father.”

Namjoon’s brow furrowed slightly. “Did she say what it’s about?”

“No,” Jimin whispered. “But… I never skip class. I always do my homework. I don’t talk back or cause trouble.”

“I know you don’t,” Namjoon replied immediately, his voice firmer now. “You’ve done nothing wrong, young master. Of that I’m sure.”

Jimin’s eyes stayed on the window, voice smaller still. “I’m not asking because I miss him or anything,” he repeated. “It’s just school stuff.”

Namjoon exhaled quietly through his nose, then offered the same line he always did—because it was the one Jimin needed, even if they both knew it wasn’t quite true.

“Your father always asks about you. He cares, young master. He really does.”

Jimin shook his head. “That’s not why I asked.”

Namjoon reached back when the car stopped at a light, resting a hand gently on Jimin’s knee. His touch was warm, grounding.

“I’ll handle it,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Jimin gave a tiny nod, not quite convinced—but willing to let it be.

“…Thank you, Namjoonie hyung.”

The quiet returned for a while after that—heavy, but no longer suffocating. The kind that Jimin was used to. Still, it pressed against his shoulders like the straps of his too-heavy backpack had only shifted rather than vanished.

Namjoon didn’t speak right away. He never rushed him. Jimin liked that about him—how he always gave space like he understood, without needing to say it out loud.

Then, after a few more turns down familiar streets, Namjoon spoke again. This time his tone was lighter, carefully steering them back to something safe.

“So… what else happened at school today, young master?”

Jimin didn’t answer at first. He kept his gaze trained on the window, watching the blur of trees and cars, his reflection faint and tired in the glass. But then his lips tugged at the corner, just a little.

“There was something…” he admitted quietly.

Namjoon raised an eyebrow in the mirror, encouraging but not pushy.

Jimin turned away from the window to face forward now, hands folded neatly on his lap, as if preparing for a report. “We got our math tests back. The one from last week.”

A pause. Then he added, a little brighter, “I got full marks. Even the bonus question.”

That tug in the corner of his lips grew into a real smile—small but proud, the kind that only appeared when he forgot to be careful.

Namjoon smiled too, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “Full marks? And the bonus? That’s incredible, young master.”

Jimin nodded, and now his voice had a little more life to it. “The bonus question was hard. It was this long, multi-step problem about measurements and speed. Most of the students said they didn’t understand it, and Ms. Han said it was meant to challenge us. She told us it was okay if we couldn’t solve it.”

He paused, then almost sheepishly added, “But I didn’t think it was that hard.”

Of course he didn’t. Numbers had always made sense to him—like tiny puzzles he could untangle with enough patience. Not like people. Not like the silence at home, or the way his father’s voice used to sound before it disappeared completely.

Namjoon chuckled softly, the sound like warm tea on a cold day. “It’s because you’re brilliant.”

Jimin ducked his head a little, but he couldn’t stop smiling. “Ms. Han even wrote ‘Excellent work, Jimin!’ at the top with a little star. She only does that for special things.”

Namjoon’s heart swelled, even if he didn’t say it. “I’m proud of you. Truly.”

Jimin looked down at his hands, the shy flush creeping into his cheeks. He always believed Namjoon meant it when he said things like that—but hearing it still felt strange. Not bad. Just... new every time.

Then Namjoon added something else, almost casually. “I’ll make sure to tell your father, too. He’ll be proud of you.”

Jimin blinked once. The warmth in his chest fluttered, unsure what to do with that.

He wanted to believe it. Part of him still wanted to believe it, even though the larger, older part had already given up. He imagined what it would be like—his father pausing at his desk, looking over the math paper, nodding silently, maybe saying Good job, son in that deep voice he barely remembered anymore.

But he didn’t say any of that out loud. That would be too much. Instead, he nodded quietly and pressed his forehead against the window, letting the cool glass ground him again.

“Okay,” he said, voice soft.

Namjoon didn’t say anything more. He didn’t have to. Just kept driving, as steady as ever.

For a while, Jimin let himself sit in the silence again—but this time, it didn’t feel as heavy. He thought about his math paper, the neat red marks of approval, and Ms. Han’s little star drawn next to his name. He wondered if she knew how much that meant to him.

He didn’t have many things to be proud of—not the kind that mattered at home. Not like golf trophies or etiquette praise or perfect posture during dance lessons. But this… this was his.

By the time they turned into the long, winding driveway of the Park estate, the sky was starting to soften into late afternoon hues—gentle purples and pinks stretching across the horizon like a lullaby.

Jimin sat up a little straighter.

He knew the next few hours would pass like usual: home tutoring, stiff lessons in a room that felt too big, a quiet dinner Namjoon would make him eat even if he wasn’t hungry. His father wouldn’t be there. He never was.

But maybe, tonight, Namjoon would leave his math test on the corner of his father’s desk. Maybe it would stay there, even if no one looked at it. Maybe it would mean something. Or maybe it wouldn’t. But for now, Jimin allowed himself to feel proud. Even if it was just for himself.

When they arrived home, the estate stood as it always did—quiet, polished, and impossibly grand. The gates opened without a sound, the gravel under the tires barely crunching. It looked like a place where nothing could go wrong. Like a palace in a storybook.

But even the most beautiful castles could feel hollow inside.

Namjoon parked near the side entrance, the one used for family and staff. Jimin pushed the door open slowly, his small shoes clicking on the marble floors as he stepped inside. The cool air met his skin like it always did—neither welcoming nor cold. Just… indifferent.

Namjoon followed behind him, carrying Jimin’s red backpack without a word. It always struck Jimin, how carefully Namjoon handled it. Like it was something delicate. Like it mattered because it belonged to him.

They climbed the sweeping staircase together, Jimin a few steps ahead, Namjoon’s steady presence just behind. When they reached his room, Namjoon placed the backpack gently on the edge of the bed and went to open the wardrobe.

Jimin stood still for a moment before lifting his arms, wordlessly waiting. Namjoon returned with fresh clothes—a soft cream shirt with little golden buttons, and tailored shorts with suspenders. Afternoon attire. House rules.

Namjoon dressed him in practiced silence, hands gentle and efficient. Jimin didn’t mind being helped. He could dress himself, of course, but this routine made him feel… cared for. Like someone was paying attention, even if just for a little while.

As Namjoon fastened the last button, Jimin finally spoke.

“What’s today’s snack, hyung?” His voice was lighter now, trying.

Namjoon gave a small smile as he adjusted Jimin’s collar. “You’ll have to see. The chef prepared something special this afternoon.”

Jimin’s eyes lit up slightly, just a flicker. “Will Seokjin hyung be joining me today?”

Namjoon hesitated for a moment before answering, just long enough for Jimin to already know.

“He wanted to, but he’s caught up with work again,” Namjoon said gently. “A few urgent meetings. He sends his love.”

Of course. He always did.

Jimin’s face fell for a breath, then quickly pulled itself back together. He pressed his lips into a straight line and nodded like it didn’t matter.

“That’s okay,” he said, though it wasn’t. “He’s very busy.”

Namjoon didn’t correct him. He only offered a quiet pat on the shoulder and opened the door for him. Jimin walked through it without a sound, his small frame swallowed by the grandeur of the hallways.

The garden was glowing by the time they stepped outside, bathed in golden afternoon light. It was sprawling and manicured, with tall hedges and trimmed roses and soft green grass that didn’t dare grow out of line. Birds chirped faintly from the trees, and a soft breeze moved through the air, lifting the ends of Jimin’s hair as he stepped across the stone path.

At the center of the garden stood the white round table near the fountain, where he always had his afternoon snack. The table was already set—an ornate spread of pastries, cakes, scones, and sugared fruit arranged with perfect symmetry. A silver teapot steamed gently beside a delicate porcelain cup with honey on the side, just the way he liked it. But there will be only one chair taken. As always.

Jimin slid into the chair without a word, looking down at the mountain of sweets in front of him. It was all for him. Every tart, every macaron, every slice of sponge cake. So much attention to detail. So much sugar. So much effort. And still… it felt like too much.

“Hyung,” he said, turning slightly. “Why don’t you sit with me today?”

Namjoon, who had taken his usual position behind Jimin like a shadow, blinked. “That wouldn’t be proper, young master.”

“But… it’s just tea,” Jimin said, his voice quieter now. “And there’s so much food.”

Namjoon smiled softly. “I’m your attendant, young master. A servant. This is your table.”

“I know,” Jimin murmured, looking back at the untouched plate in front of him. “But… you’re also Namjoonie hyung.”

The words hung in the air like a leaf caught mid-fall. He didn’t mean to sound upset, and he wasn’t angry—he was just… tired. Tired of having everything but what he wanted.

He picked up a fork and poked at a raspberry tart, then set it back down without taking a bite.

“It’s not like anyone else will come sit with me.”

Namjoon didn’t answer. Jimin didn’t need him to. The silence said enough.

He tried not to pout, but his lips did it anyway. He poured the tea himself, hands careful, then added honey with a little silver spoon. The chair across from him stayed empty. It always did. Sometimes he pretended someone was there—his late mother, maybe, or Seokjin on a day when he wasn’t busy. But pretending didn’t work as well as it used to.

“I know the rules,” Jimin said after a while. “But sometimes I wonder who made them.”

Namjoon’s voice was quiet. “People who forgot what it means to be lonely.”

Jimin looked up at that. For a second, it almost sounded like Namjoon wasn’t speaking as his attendant—but just as himself.

He wanted to ask, Are you lonely too? but didn’t. Maybe he already knew the answer.

So instead, he lifted his teacup, took a small sip, and let the warmth settle in his chest. Then he took another bite of cake. It was his second éclair—sweet cream piped inside, a thin ribbon of dark chocolate glaze on top. It was perfect. He didn’t even like éclairs.

He chewed slowly, far too slowly, swinging his little legs under the chair in a rhythm that didn’t match any melody—certainly not the ones he was supposed to be practicing.

The fountain bubbled beside him, birds still chirped somewhere in the garden trees, and the wind whispered gently through the leaves like nature was trying its best to make this afternoon feel peaceful.

But Jimin had read the time on the antique clock in the hallway on his way outside.

His piano lesson was scheduled in ten minutes.

“Would you like more tea, young master?” Namjoon asked from behind, his tone as calm and polite as ever.

Jimin shook his head quickly. “Still drinking this one.”

Even though his cup was nearly empty.

Namjoon, of course, didn’t comment. He never pointed out things Jimin didn’t want to hear. But Jimin could feel the way time was inching forward. Could sense how the moment was slipping through his fingers, no matter how hard he tried to slow it down with sugar and tea.

He took a bite of a tart and declared far too enthusiastically, “This is so good. I might need another one.”

Namjoon didn’t answer immediately. Jimin knew he was hesitating. He could hear it in the pause, in the polite inhale. Finally, Namjoon spoke.

“I’ll let Madame Song know you’ll be slightly delayed.”

That meant he’d already called her. Of course he had. Namjoon was always ten steps ahead. Even when Jimin was pretending.

Jimin put down his fork, suddenly less hungry. He looked out at the garden instead of at the untouched sweets on the table.

He hated piano.

He hated how cold the keys felt under his fingers, how no matter how hard he tried, the sounds never came out the way he wanted them to. He hated how Madame Song sat behind him like a statue, never smiling, never helping, just watching with sharp eyes and cold hands that tapped his wrists whenever he made a mistake. He hated that she called him young sir with no warmth in it. He hated that she smelled like old lavender and something sour. He hated that she once told him, Some children simply don’t have the hands for music.

And most of all, he hated that he had to go.

Because his father said so. Because his life was already written out in carefully arranged schedules and folders. Because being a Park meant refinement, and refinement meant piano, and golf, and dancing, and sitting at a table with too many sweets and too few people.

“Hyung…” Jimin said softly, still looking out over the garden. “Do I really have to go today?”

Namjoon didn’t answer right away. He rarely did when Jimin asked him something like that. Jimin wondered if it was because he wanted to say no. Or if it was because he didn’t.

“You know we can’t cancel,” Namjoon finally said, gently. “Your father approved the schedule. He expects you to attend your lessons.”

Jimin already knew that. He wasn’t really asking to be excused—he never was. He just wanted someone to understand. To say, I know you hate it. I know it’s not fair.

Instead, he stood slowly, brushing crumbs from his lap, and nodded.

“Okay,” he said, voice quiet.

Namjoon took a step forward, reaching for the napkin to clean Jimin’s hands, as he always did. Jimin held them out obediently, and the warm cloth wiped away the sugar and stickiness with practiced care.

“Shall we go?” Namjoon asked once he was done.

Jimin glanced back at the table. So much food still untouched. So many cakes arranged like artwork, perfect and pointless.

He turned away from them.

“Yes,” he said, even though he meant no.

They walked back through the garden path, the sunlight soft and gold on the flowers, and Jimin wondered—if he ran into the hedge maze and didn’t come out, how long would it take for anyone to notice? Would Madame Song wait at the piano bench forever? Would his father remember the lesson was scheduled at all?

He didn’t run, of course.

He went inside.

The music room smelled faintly of varnish and leather and something older, something tired. The grand piano sat at the center like a silent beast, gleaming under the light from the tall windows. Madame Song stood beside it, already waiting in her usual gray dress, her expression unreadable.

Namjoon led him in and bowed politely.

“Good afternoon, Madame.”

“Good afternoon,” she said without looking at him.

Jimin stood by the bench, his shoes tapping lightly on the polished floor. He looked at the keys like they were sharp.

Namjoon placed a gentle hand on his back and whispered, “You’ll be alright, young master.”

Jimin didn’t nod. He just climbed onto the bench and placed his fingers on the keys.

They felt as cold as always.

Madame Song sat beside him, straight-backed and silent, and the lesson began.

Same drills. Same scales. Same tapping on the wrist when he was off by a beat. The same feeling that no matter how perfectly he memorized the notes, it would never sound quite beautiful enough.

Still, Jimin tried. He always did.

Even when it didn’t matter. Even when he hated it.

Because that’s what was expected of him.

And maybe, just maybe, if he tried hard enough, his father would hear the music through the halls one day and think to himself, That’s my son.

After the lesson ended, Jimin bowed politely to Madame Song, even though he didn’t want to, even though his hands ached and his pride ached more. She gave him a curt nod and said as expected, like that was a compliment, and Jimin forced a smile because it was what he was supposed to do.

Namjoon was waiting at the doorway, holding Jimin’s water bottle. Jimin walked past Madame Song without another word and took the bottle from him silently.

He didn’t say anything on the way to his room. He was too tired to pretend.

When they arrived, Namjoon opened the door for him and gently reminded, “Study hour, young master.”

Jimin nodded and walked in, dragging his feet slightly on the carpet. He heard the soft click of the door closing behind him, and then the soft murmur of Namjoon’s voice through the wood—he was on the phone with Secretary Jung. It was probably about something important. Maybe about the company. Or maybe—maybe about his father.

Jimin tried not to listen too hard.

He sat at his desk and pulled out his notebook. The light above cast a warm glow over his books and his pencil case, his carefully organized schedule, the math test he was proud of. The pink band he wore on his wrist caught the light—a reward from Namjoon for doing well. Jimin liked looking at it. It reminded him someone cared.

But even with the reward, even after the sweets, and the tea, and the music lesson endured—everything felt a little hollow tonight.

He tried to focus, resting his cheek on his palm as he flipped through the textbook. The words blurred a little, but he pushed himself. Jimin always pushed himself. No one else would, not really.

He reached for the next worksheet, fingers catching the edge of the paper just a little too sharply. A sharp sting bloomed on the side of his finger.

“Ah—ow.”

Jimin looked down and saw the tiniest line of red bloom across his skin. It was thin, almost invisible. But it stung, bad enough to make his eyes water a little. He held his finger up, lips quivering.

“Hyung!” he called, voice higher than he meant it to be. “Namjoonie hyung!”

The door flew open faster than he expected.

Namjoon rushed in, eyes wide. “Young master? What is it? Are you alright?”

“I cut my finger,” Jimin said, pouting, holding it up like it was something terrible.

Namjoon knelt beside him instantly, gently cupping Jimin’s small hand in his much larger one. He inspected it quickly, panic flickering in his eyes despite how small the injury really was.

“It's just a paper cut,” Jimin mumbled, cheeks flushing now that Namjoon looked worried.

But Namjoon didn’t seem convinced. He stood up quickly. “Wait here. I’ll call Ms. Harin.”

Jimin blinked. “Hyung—no, it’s not that—”

But Namjoon was already in the hall again, calling louder than usual. “Ms. Harin! Hurry! Master Jimin’s bleeding!”

Jimin could hear her startled response from down the corridor. He winced, suddenly embarrassed.

A minute later, the maid, Ms. Harin appeared, nearly running with the first-aid kit in hand. She looked from Jimin to Namjoon, breathless. “What happened?”

“Paper cut,” Jimin said quietly.

Harins's eyes narrowed slightly. “You screamed for me like he lost a limb.”

Namjoon scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “He sounded like he was hurt bad.”

Jimin held up his finger again, a single bead of blood still visible. “It hurts.”

Harin sighed but knelt beside him anyway, opening the kit. “It’s small, Master Jimin. Just a clean—”

“No,” Jimin cut in, pulling his hand back quickly. “It’ll sting.”

“You’re a brave boy,” she tried to coax.

“It stings,” Jimin insisted, crossing his arms. “I want Namjoonie hyung to do it.”

Harin paused. Namjoon’s eyebrows shot up.

“Me?” he asked, uncertain.

“Yes,” Jimin said, almost defiantly now. “You do it.”

Harin arched an eyebrow but said nothing, simply handed the alcohol wipe and bandages over before standing. “I’ll leave you two to it, then.”

Namjoon sat down beside him with the kit in his lap. Jimin watched him closely, eyes wide, lips still pouting.

“You sure about this?” Namjoon asked gently.

Jimin nodded. “You’re gentler.”

That made Namjoon smile, just a little. He took Jimin’s hand again and tore open the wipe. “It might sting.”

Jimin looked away. “I know.”

The wipe touched his skin and Jimin hissed dramatically. “Ah—it hurts!”

“It’s just a wipe,” Namjoon chuckled under his breath, though his hand was steady, careful. “You're very brave.”

“I am,” Jimin agreed, still turning his face away like that helped.

Once the cut was clean, Namjoon reached for the small box of bandages and picked the one with the soft pink kittens Jimin liked. He peeled the backing off and wrapped it gently around Jimin’s finger, smoothing the edges down with his thumb.

“There. All better.”

Jimin looked at his hand proudly, turning it this way and that. “Thank you, hyung.”

Namjoon gave him a small bow of his head. “Anytime, young master.”

He meant it. Jimin knew he did.

Jimin leaned his cheek against Namjoon’s arm for a second, just a second, before pulling back. “Do you think Father would have come if I’d gotten really hurt?”

Namjoon didn’t answer.

And Jimin didn’t ask again. He looked at his finger instead, admiring the tiny pink kitten that smiled up at him, and pretended it didn’t matter. But it did. It really, really did.

Once the crisis of the terrible paper cut had passed and the kitten bandage was properly admired, Jimin returned to his seat at the desk. Namjoon didn’t leave this time. He pulled a chair quietly beside him and sat with a soft thud, not too close to crowd him, but close enough that Jimin felt... safe again.

It was easier to concentrate like that.

He flipped through his math workbook, mumbling the formulas to himself under his breath as he scribbled answers with his pink pencil. It was the one with a tiny bunny eraser that Namjoon had bought for him from a bookstore downtown. Jimin liked using it during study time. It made the numbers less annoying.

Namjoon didn’t say anything while he studied. He just sat there like a quiet anchor, arms folded over his chest, watching with warm eyes. Every now and then, Jimin would glance sideways just to make sure he was still there—and he always was.

But after half an hour, a gentle knock came on the door. Namjoon stood immediately, opening it just enough to peek through.

“Master Jimin,” said one of the maids softly, Harin again, her voice more hesitant than usual. “Your brother is expecting you downstairs.”

Jimin didn’t move.

He held his pencil tighter, arms crossing slowly over the desk.

“No,” he said, voice sharp and pouty. “If Jin hyung wants to see me, he can come here.”

Harin blinked, clearly unsure what to do. “Ah... should I—”

Namjoon stepped in calmly, his voice patient. “Just tell Master Seokjin that the young master is studying, and asking for him instead. He’ll understand.”

She bowed quickly and left.

Jimin slumped back in his chair, chin resting on the edge of his desk, bottom lip stuck out in a full pout.

“Stubborn,” Namjoon murmured, though there was no scolding in his voice. Only something fond and a little tired.

Jimin stuck his tongue out at him.

It wasn’t long before another knock came—more cheerful this time—and before Namjoon could even open the door, it swung open wide.

“Why didn’t my sweet little brother come greet me?” Seokjin sang as he walked in, wearing one of his fancy suits, jacket slung over his shoulder, smile glowing as if he hadn’t been away for over a week.

Jimin turned away from him dramatically.

Namjoon stood and bowed politely, but Seokjin waved him off and walked straight over to the desk.

“Jiminie,” Seokjin said, crouching beside the chair now. “You’re not happy to see me?”

“I’m mad at you,” Jimin said plainly.

Seokjin blinked, hand pausing mid-reach. “You’re mad?”

Jimin nodded once, stubborn.

Seokjin tilted his head, softening his tone. “Can I ask why?”

“You’re always busy,” Jimin said, eyes filling slightly but refusing to look at him. “You say you miss me but you don’t visit. You don’t call. You don’t come to snack time in the garden. I wait and wait and Namjoon hyung always says you’re working.”

“I am working,” Seokjin replied gently.

“But I miss you,” Jimin blurted out, and now he looked at him, eyes round and glassy. “And I don’t want to miss you anymore.”

Seokjin’s expression shifted then. Something in his face cracked, just a little—his usual soft smile faltering at the edges. He reached out and gently smoothed Jimin’s hair back, pushing a stray strand behind his ear.

“Oh, Jiminie,” he said softly, “I miss you too. So, so much. You’re right. I’ve been too busy.”

“You always say that,” Jimin whispered.

“I know. And I always mean it.” Seokjin took both of Jimin’s hands into his, kissing the one with the little kitten bandage lightly. “But you’re more important than any business meeting. And if I forget that, you have every right to be mad.”

Jimin looked at him for a long time. Then slowly, he turned his chair toward Seokjin and climbed into his lap, curling like a small cat.

“Just stay,” Jimin muttered. “For today.”

“I will,” Seokjin promised, wrapping both arms around him. “I’m all yours for the rest of the night.”

Jimin didn’t answer. He just buried his face in Seokjin’s shirt and let himself be held.

Namjoon stepped quietly back to his post by the door. He didn’t say anything either.

But Jimin knew he was still there. And now, his Jin hyung was too. For tonight, at least, it was enough.

Dinner that night didn’t feel like dinner at all. It felt like a celebration.

Jimin couldn’t remember the last time he had someone sitting with him at the long, too-wide dining table. It was always just him and Namjoon standing off to the side, or sometimes one of the maids who left as soon as the plates were set. Quiet, quiet meals with nothing but the sound of silver scraping china. He was used to them now. He even knew where the dishes would be placed without looking. How long each course would take. The exact minute the servers would bow and retreat. He’d memorized the rhythm of loneliness.

But tonight, the seat next to him was filled. Really filled.

Seokjin sat beside him, close enough that their chairs touched slightly at the corners. He took off his blazer, rolled up his sleeves like he used to when they cooked ramen together late at night years ago, and insisted on serving Jimin’s soup himself.

Jimin beamed the whole time, so much his cheeks hurt.

And for once, he actually finished everything on his plate.

“I told you it tastes better when someone’s sitting with me!” Jimin said, spoon tapping the empty dish for emphasis. “Even the carrots weren’t gross today!”

Seokjin laughed, deep and warm, the kind of laugh Jimin didn’t realize he’d missed until he heard it again. “I’m shocked,” he said dramatically. “The infamous Park Jimin ate carrots willingly? The world might end tonight.”

“They were not willingly! I just didn’t notice them, because I was too busy talking to you!”

“Well then,” Seokjin said, raising his glass in a toast, “To sneaky carrots and chatty brothers.”

Jimin giggled and clinked his glass of juice against his hyung’s.

Namjoon stood by the door, like always, but even he looked... softer somehow. Less like a guard and more like a quiet presence watching over them. When Jimin caught his eye, he gave him a small smile. Jimin didn’t say anything, but he felt it in his chest—a little thrum of happiness.

He tried not to let it show too much. Tried to eat slowly, savor every bite, drag the time out as long as possible. If he finished too fast, would Seokjin leave again? Would he get up, say he had a meeting, ruffle Jimin’s hair and disappear for another five days?

No. Not tonight.

“Tell me more about school,” Seokjin said, scooping rice onto his plate with a practiced hand. “Namjoon says you’ve been working hard.”

“I got full marks on my math test!” Jimin announced, sitting up straighter. “Even the bonus question that everyone else said was impossible!”

“Of course you did,” Seokjin said, eyes gleaming with pride. “I knew you’d be top of your class in no time.”

Jimin wriggled in his seat, cheeks turning a bit pink. “The teacher even showed my paper to the other class!”

“I hope you told them it’s because your brain is made of diamonds.”

“I didn’t,” Jimin grinned, “but maybe I will next time.”

They kept talking like that through the second course, then dessert, then tea. Jimin didn’t usually drink tea at night—it was part of his snack time, not dinner—but tonight he sipped the honeyed chamomile just to keep his brother at the table longer.

He told Seokjin everything he could think of. About how the principal wanted to meet their father but hadn’t said why. About how the boy who sat behind him kept poking his shoulder with a pencil. About the girl who shared her eraser with him during science class and how she smelled like strawberries. About how he hated piano lessons and how the teacher’s eyebrows looked like fuzzy caterpillars.

Seokjin listened to every word.

He laughed when he was supposed to, nodded at the right moments, made faces when Jimin complained. He even made a note in his phone to ask their father—pretend to ask, Jimin corrected silently—to change the piano teacher. It wouldn’t happen, but it felt nice to pretend.

By the time they reached the bottom of their teacups, the sky had already turned navy and the garden lights outside were glowing softly through the windows. The chandelier overhead sparkled like stars.

Jimin leaned sideways against Seokjin’s arm, head gently resting there. He didn’t say anything, just sat in the warmth of his brother’s presence, heart feeling heavier and lighter all at once.

He knew this wouldn’t last. Seokjin had meetings. Business. Deadlines. He always did. But tonight, he stayed. He didn’t even check his watch. And Jimin didn’t let go.

After dinner, the warmth in Jimin’s chest still hadn’t faded. It lingered like the last traces of sunlight behind the clouds—soft and golden, even as the halls grew dimmer under the quiet hush of evening. He walked beside Namjoon down the corridor, small hand tucked loosely into his hyung’s larger one. Their steps were slow, unhurried, like neither of them wanted the night to end just yet.

When they reached his room, Namjoon opened the door first and gently ushered him inside. The lights flickered on low—just enough to cast a soft glow on the plush carpet and cream-colored walls. Everything smelled faintly like lavender and clean sheets. Familiar. Safe.

Namjoon set the evening clothes aside and helped Jimin into the bathroom. It was routine by now, the way Namjoon knelt to help him with the buttons, rolled up his sleeves, tested the water temperature with the back of his hand before filling the deep white tub. But still, Jimin loved it. He loved how careful Namjoon was, how he never poured water too fast, how he always remembered to use the citrus-scented soap instead of the floral one because Jimin hated smelling like roses. The water was warm, just right.

Namjoon sat by the tub while Jimin splashed his toes, washing behind his ears and humming a song that had no melody, just a soft little noise to fill the silence. Jimin talked in fragments—about the carrot rice, about how Seokjin laughed too loudly, about how maybe tomorrow he’d try to smile more at school, even if no one smiled back.

Namjoon only nodded, drying Jimin’s arms and legs with a thick white towel when the water cooled. Then came the softest nightwear, fresh from the drawers: pale blue cotton with little clouds stitched on the sleeves. Jimin liked this one best. He looked small in it. Clean. Warm and sleepy.

Namjoon tucked him in gently, drawing the comforter up to Jimin’s chin. The boy reached for his plush bear from the side of the bed, cradled it close to his chest, but his eyes didn’t close yet. He was waiting. And Namjoon seemed to know that.

Just as he turned to dim the bedside lamp, there was a soft knock at the door, and Seokjin stepped in.

Jimin didn’t say anything, just watched with wide eyes as his brother crossed the room, his face lit up in a smile.

“Are you already tucked in?” Seokjin asked softly, crouching beside the bed.

Jimin gave a little nod, too sleepy to speak but too awake to pretend he wasn’t excited.

Seokjin brushed the bangs away from Jimin’s forehead, cool fingers ghosting over his skin. “You were such a good boy today. I’m proud of you.”

Jimin’s lips curved into the faintest pout. “You said that at dinner.”

“I know,” Seokjin chuckled. “But you deserve to hear it again.”

He leaned down, kissed Jimin’s forehead—right between his brows, where his mother used to kiss him—and then, just as gently, kissed his cheek. Jimin’s heart ached in that quiet way it did when everything felt too nice, too rare, like it might vanish in a second.

“Will you be gone again tomorrow?” he whispered.

Seokjin didn’t answer right away. His hand stilled, resting lightly over Jimin’s tucked-in shoulder.

“I’ll try to stay,” he said. “At least until lunch. But I have to go to the office later.”

Jimin wanted to say don’t. He wanted to say stay here, just stay. But he didn’t. He only nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Okay,” he whispered, eyes fluttering.

“Sleep well, sweet boy,” Seokjin said, giving his hand a final squeeze.

When he left the room, Namjoon dimmed the lights the rest of the way and sat quietly in the armchair by the wall, just like he did every night.

And Jimin laid there, warm under the blankets, his brother’s kiss still tingling on his forehead, his bear clutched tightly in his arms.

He closed his eyes, listening to the soft rustle of Namjoon turning a page in a book, and for the first time in a while, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

Just for tonight, everything was okay.

Chapter Text

The next morning came with the soft gray of a cloudy sky, the kind that made the world feel a little quieter, like it, too, hadn’t slept well.
Jimin sat in the backseat, watching raindrops chase each other down the car window. He didn’t say much during the drive. Namjoon had greeted him like usual, smiling gently, asking if he slept well, but Jimin only nodded, not quite ready to speak. His thoughts were heavy with yesterday’s words, the ones that had been gnawing at the back of his mind ever since the principal had told him she needed to meet his father.
He hadn’t told Namjoon she said it was important. He didn’t want to make trouble.
Still, Namjoon had said he’d speak with her today, and that should be enough. Namjoon always fixed things.
When they reached the school gate, Namjoon got out first and opened the door for him, umbrella in hand. Jimin slipped out quietly, holding onto his red backpack like it was something to hide behind. The other students rushed past, laughing, playing, dragging each other through puddles. No one looked his way. They never did.
Inside the building, everything smelled like wet shoes and old chalk. Namjoon walked beside him, one hand gently pressed to his back, guiding him down the hall. Jimin’s shoes squeaked against the linoleum floor, and every step toward the principal’s office made his chest feel tighter.
What if I did something wrong?
What if Father really does come this time—and he’s mad?
What if they say I don’t belong here?
But he said nothing.
At the principal’s door, Namjoon paused. He crouched a little, lowering himself to Jimin’s eye level, his hand now on Jimin’s shoulder.
“I’ll take care of it, young master,” he said softly. “You don’t need to worry. Go to class, alright?”
Jimin nodded, blinking up at him. He wanted to say thank you, or please don’t let them say anything bad, but the words didn’t quite form. His throat was too tight, his heart thudding too fast. So instead, he just gave Namjoon a pleading look and Namjoon nodded again, as if he’d heard the words anyway.
Then Jimin turned and walked away down the hall. Past the second grade classrooms. Left at the water fountain. Into Room 3-A.
It was noisy when he stepped in. Desks scraping, children chattering, chairs toppling over. Someone threw a crumpled paper ball across the room. It bounced off a wall, and everyone laughed. Jimin walked in as quietly as he could. No one greeted him. They never did.
He headed straight for his seat, the first desk, front row, right in front of the teacher’s, and sat down. His bag was red and perfectly clean, unlike most of the other kids’ worn-out ones. His shoes were polished. His uniform crisp. His hair brushed back and held neatly with a tiny dab of styling cream Namjoon had helped him with that morning.
He opened his bag and took out his books: math first, then his pencil case, then a clean white notebook with a small cloud sticker on the corner. He liked clouds. He liked how they looked so soft even when the sky was dark.
Behind him, the other children laughed louder. Someone made a joke Jimin didn’t understand. A girl shrieked, pretending to be chased. A boy kicked his chair as he passed by. Not hard. Not like before. But enough.
Jimin didn’t look back. He placed his hands on the desk and waited. He liked being early. Liked having everything ready. Liked when the teacher walked in and gave him that little nod that meant she appreciated his effort, even if she never said so out loud.
His fingers tapped the corner of the desk, just once. He didn’t have anyone to talk to. That was okay. He was used to it now. No one liked him anyway. He was too rich, too quiet, too polite, too good at tests. He didn’t talk the way they did. He didn’t laugh at the same jokes. He didn’t know how to play soccer or trade stickers or make paper planes that flew straight.
He was just… Jimin. And Jimin didn’t fit. But he liked school. He liked numbers and stories and neat lines in his notebooks. He liked learning new things even if no one clapped for him. Even if no one sat beside him.
Today was math class first. He hoped the teacher brought a bonus question again. He liked when things made sense. Because most things didn’t. Not people. Not home. Not Father. Not why his mother never came back.
But math? Math always did.
So he sat up straight, took the cap off his pencil, and waited for the bell to ring. And maybe Namjoon would tell him later what the principal had wanted, and maybe it wasn’t bad at all. Maybe.
The day had started quietly. Jimin had hoped it would stay that way. After all, he had placed his books just right. He had answered all of the teacher’s questions when she asked—raised his hand with the smallest movement, spoke softly and clearly, never tried to sound smarter than the others even though the answers came to him faster than they came to anyone else. He thought he had done everything right.
But whispers started not long after second period. They started behind him first, little sharp-edged murmurs that hissed just loud enough to sting.
"That’s him. Park Jimin. The one who’s getting moved up."
"He’s skipping a whole grade? What, does he think he’s a genius or something?"
"Teacher’s pet."
"Bet he begged the principal."
He tried not to listen. Tried to look at his notebook instead, to trace the shape of his numbers with the tip of his pencil. Tried to focus on the lesson.
But then, someone said it louder. Loud enough for the whole row to hear.
"Hey, Jimin. Why don’t you go already? This class is too easy for you, right?"
Jimin blinked. His pencil froze over a half-written word.
He turned his head slowly. Two boys were staring at him. One with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he was trying to stare through Jimin. The other one was already half-smirking, as if he found the whole thing funny.
"I—I didn’t say that," Jimin said. His voice came out smaller than he wanted.
"You think you're better than us? Just ‘cause you got full marks? We all saw you running to the principal's office yesterday."
"I wasn’t running," Jimin muttered, but it didn’t matter. Nothing he said seemed to matter.
A girl nearby whispered something and giggled behind her hand.
He could feel heat crawling up his neck, his hands going clammy, his chest tightening. He didn’t ask to be moved up. He didn’t even want to be different. But it was like that didn't count. Like just being him was enough to make people mad.
He tried to keep his head down. Just wait for class to start again. But they kept going. Teasing him. Saying he thought he was so special. Saying the only reason he got good grades was because he probably had fancy private tutors at home. One of them even asked if he paid the teacher.
Then, someone shoved his chair from behind. It wasn’t hard. Not really. But it startled him enough that his pencil case tumbled off his desk and clattered onto the floor. His favorite eraser rolled under another desk. He scrambled to pick it up, heart pounding, face burning.
"Careful," one of the boys said mockingly. "Don’t want you getting hurt before you go show off in fifth grade."
Jimin stood up too fast. His chair scraped loud against the tile. "I said I didn’t ask for it!" he snapped.
The classroom went quiet for a second. And then one of the boys shoved him. It wasn’t much, a hand against his shoulder, maybe meant to knock him off balance. But Jimin stumbled back anyway, arms flying up to protect his face. It didn’t hurt. Not really. Still, it was enough.
A teacher must’ve heard the noise. Because the next thing he knew, they were being pulled apart. Voices were raised. Names were called.
And now he was sitting stiffly in the principal’s office. The chair felt too big for him. The plastic edge bit into the back of his knees. His hands were clenched together in his lap, and he could barely stop them from shaking. Across from him, the two boys sat with their arms crossed, looking bored. Like he was the problem.
The clock on the wall ticked so slowly, each sound like a hammer in his head. He stared at the floor. Namjoon would come. Namjoon had to come.
He hadn’t even gotten a chance to explain. The principal had said she wanted to wait for his guardian before they talked. Guardian. That was Namjoon. It had always been Namjoon. But still. The word felt cold and unfamiliar.
Jimin sniffed quietly and pressed the back of his hand to his nose. He wasn’t crying. He wouldn’t cry. He was too old for that. And besides, it was his fault for getting mad. He should’ve stayed quiet. Should’ve just ignored them. Why couldn’t he be more normal? Why couldn’t he just be less? He could still hear their voices in his head.
Show-off.
Know-it-all.
Teacher’s pet.
The worst part wasn’t that they said those things. The worst part was that he almost believed them. He should’ve just been quiet and boring like everyone else.
His breath hitched. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the tears before they came. Just then, the door opened. Jimin’s head shot up, eyes wide and wet.
Namjoon stepped in, his face calm but tight, like he already knew something wasn’t right. His eyes scanned the room once—Jimin saw the flash of worry behind them—then landed on him.
"Young master," he said gently, and just that voice, just hearing that, made Jimin’s chest loosen a little.
He was here. Namjoon was here. Everything would be okay now. Right?
Jimin shot up from his chair and crossed the office in two quick, wobbly steps before burying himself into Namjoon's front. His small hands gripped the fabric of Namjoon’s suit, clutching it like a lifeline.
Namjoon didn’t hesitate. His arms came around Jimin in that calm, firm way that always made things feel less terrible. Like everything, no matter how scary or confusing, would eventually make sense if Namjoon just held him long enough.
Jimin couldn’t help it. He cried. Not loudly. Not with sobs or gasps. But with quiet tears that slipped down his cheeks as his shoulders trembled against Namjoon’s chest.
“Take me home,” he whispered into the fabric of Namjoon’s shirt, voice cracked and barely audible. “Please… I want to go home…”
He didn’t want to stay another second in this place. He didn’t want to sit across from the principal who looked at him like a puzzle she couldn’t solve. He didn’t want to be in the same room as the boys who shoved him and made him feel like he was too much. He didn’t want to face anyone. He just wanted to disappear.
And his Namjoonie hyung didn’t ask questions. Didn’t pause. Didn’t even glance at the principal again. Instead, he bent down, one arm under Jimin’s knees, the other around his back, and lifted him like he was nothing. Like he wasn’t a boy with bruised pride and a heart that felt too heavy for his little chest. Like he was light and precious and worth carrying.
Namjoon didn’t speak, but Jimin felt the protectiveness in his arms. He felt the way Namjoon’s chest tightened just a little, the way his steps were faster than usual, hurried, urgent, full of silent fury on Jimin’s behalf.
No one stopped them as they left. The principal called Namjoon’s name timidly once but Namjoon didn’t turn around. Didn’t even slow down.
Jimin closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Namjoon’s collarbone. Safe. That’s what Namjoon felt like.
By the time they reached the car, Jimin’s tears had dried on his cheeks, leaving faint warm trails on his skin. His eyes ached, and his throat felt sore from holding in sobs.
Namjoon opened the back door and gently set him down inside, kneeling in front of him instead of getting behind the wheel. He reached up and wiped under Jimin’s eyes with the softest part of his thumb.
“What happened?” he asked softly.
Jimin shook his head, lips pressed tightly together. He didn’t want to tell him. He didn’t want to speak it out loud and make it real again. He felt too many things at once. Sad, scared, confused, angry, and a little ashamed. Ashamed for crying. Ashamed for causing trouble. Ashamed for being different.
Namjoon didn’t press him. Just waited.
“I…” Jimin started, then stopped. His hands fidgeted in his lap. “Please don’t tell Father.” His voice was fragile, barely a whisper.
Namjoon blinked, eyes softening even more, if that was possible.
“I mean it,” Jimin insisted, his small fists clenching. “He’ll be mad. Or—or disappointed. Or he’ll think I did something wrong. I tried not to. I really did…” His voice wavered again, and he bit the inside of his cheek hard to stop the tears from coming back.
Namjoon reached out and took one of Jimin’s hands in both of his. His grip was warm and steady. “I won’t tell him,” he said quietly. “Not unless you want me to. Today is just for you and me. That’s all.”
Jimin stared at him for a long moment, as if searching for a hint of a lie. But there was none. Namjoon never lied to him. Not like that.
He nodded slowly, then leaned forward and rested his forehead on Namjoon’s shoulder. Again. Namjoon didn’t move until Jimin pulled back. Didn’t start the engine until Jimin was buckled in and settled, curled slightly against the seat with his bag beside him and his arms around his knees.
The drive home was quiet. Jimin didn’t speak, and Namjoon didn’t force him to. He just let him sit in silence, his eyes half-closed, watching the world pass by outside the window, as if maybe if he stared long enough, all of it would just… fade away.
But it didn’t. It sat with him. The hurt. The fear. The questions. Why did being smart make people hate him? Why did kindness never seem enough? Why did he always feel so different, even when he was trying his best to blend in?
The silence in the car made the questions louder. But Namjoon’s presence beside him, the steady rhythm of the car, the way it never once jolted too hard or turned too fast, all kept him grounded.
The ride home felt longer than usual, even though Jimin knew it wasn’t. The familiar streets passed by like shadows, all blurred at the edges of the window, and even the sound of the car which was usually calming, felt loud today. It grated at him, humming too steady for a day that had gone so wrong.
When they arrived at the estate, Namjoon didn’t say anything as he parked the car and came around to open the door. Jimin didn’t move at first. He just sat there, arms crossed and eyes on his knees, a pout carved deep into his face. But Namjoon waited, as always. He didn’t rush Jimin. Didn’t sigh or scold. Just stood beside the open door with one hand outstretched patiently until Jimin finally reached up and let himself be guided out of the car.
The front door opened quietly. The house felt big again, too big, too cold. Namjoon closed the door behind them and crouched to help Jimin out of his shoes, but Jimin pulled away stubbornly and did it himself, roughly kicking off one shoe and tossing the other without care. Namjoon didn’t comment, only straightened up and rested a hand on the boy’s head, fingers brushing lightly through his hair.
Jimin jerked away. “I don’t want to talk,” he said before Namjoon could even ask again.
“Alright,” Namjoon answered softly.
They walked toward the stairs, Namjoon following closely behind with Jimin’s bag in hand. The silence between them was heavy, but it wasn’t the same as the quiet they usually shared. This one felt charged, prickly. Like something waiting to be said was pressing against the walls.
Jimin trudged up the stairs one step at a time, deliberately slow. When he reached his room, he didn’t wait for Namjoon to open the door, he did it himself, flinging it wide and walking in with his arms crossed like he had something to prove.
Namjoon placed the red backpack on Jimin’s desk and hovered for a moment before asking, gently, “Would you like a snack before you rest?”
“No.”
“Do you want to lie down for a bit? Maybe I can bring—”
“I said no!” Jimin snapped, spinning on his heel to glare at Namjoon. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Namjoon blinked, brows drawing in confusion. “Tell you what, young master?”
Jimin’s fists tightened at his sides. “About the principal. About the grades. About them moving me up,” he hissed. “Why didn’t you tell me? You knew, didn’t you? You talked to her!”
“I only found out today,” Namjoon said slowly, hands open at his sides. “She told me just this morning. I was going to tell you after school… I didn’t want to upset you during your lessons.”
“Well, I am upset!” Jimin shouted, voice breaking. “You should’ve told me!”
Namjoon took a breath, calm as ever. “I’m sorry.”
Jimin hated how calm he always was. It made his own emotions feel childish. But wasn’t he a child?
“I didn’t even know why they wanted to meet Father! I thought I was in trouble!” Jimin’s voice trembled. “I didn’t do anything wrong. My grades are perfect, I always follow the rules, and—and I don’t talk back to teachers even when they’re mean. So why—why does it feel like I’m being punished?”
“You’re not being punished, young master,” Namjoon said gently, stepping closer. “They think you’re brilliant. They want to move you ahead because you’re ahead. You’ve worked so hard. You’re exceptional.”
“I don’t want to be exceptional,” Jimin muttered, looking down. “I just want to be normal.”
There was a pause. Jimin could feel Namjoon’s eyes on him, kind and heavy with something that always made Jimin feel seen, even when he didn’t want to be.
“It’s lonely,” he whispered. “They don’t like me. They say I think I’m better than them. But I don’t! I just… I like studying. And I try. And it’s not fair.”
Namjoon kneeled down in front of him, eye-level now. “No,” he agreed. “It’s not fair. And I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
Jimin sniffled, cheeks flushed from the outburst. “Are they really moving me up?”
“Yes. The principal said you’ve already covered most of the material in third and fourth grade. She wants to move you to fifth. She thinks you’ll be happier there, with students who think like you.”
“But what if I’m not?” Jimin asked quietly, voice suddenly so small it made Namjoon’s heart ache. “What if I’m lonelier?”
Namjoon reached out and placed a steadying hand on Jimin’s shoulder. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together. No one’s going to make you do anything you’re not ready for. I promise.”
Jimin didn’t respond. He just blinked rapidly, tears threatening again but not falling this time.
He hated this. Hated how helpless he felt. Hated that everyone else got to decide things while he just tried to keep up. He wanted to be strong, like Namjoon. Unbothered. Unshakable. But he wasn’t. He was just a boy who cried too easily and felt too much.
“I’m still mad at you,” he muttered.
“I know,” Namjoon said with a small smile.
“...But I don’t want you to go,” Jimin added, voice barely audible.
Namjoon didn’t. He stayed right there, kneeling on the soft carpet floor of Jimin’s room, his hand warm and steady.
And Jimin, still mad, still sad, still scared, let himself lean forward and wrap his arms around Namjoon’s neck.
Namjoon held him close, like he always did. Like nothing had changed. Like he would always be here. And even though everything still hurt… Jimin believed him.
The silence in the room stretched, thick and still and warm, until Jimin’s breathing evened out again. He didn’t cry this time. He was done with that, for now. His little hands stayed clenched around Namjoon’s collar, and Namjoon let him, kneeling still as a statue, patient like always. Like a tree he could hold on to in a storm.
Eventually, Jimin pulled back just slightly, not letting go completely but loosening his hold enough to look at Namjoon’s face.
“Do I really have to go to fifth grade?” he whispered, eyes red-rimmed, voice uncertain.
Namjoon didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached up and wiped the corner of Jimin’s eye with his thumb. It was soft, careful, so careful it made Jimin want to cry again, but he didn’t. He swallowed it down.
“No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want,” Namjoon said gently. “But there might be another option.”
Jimin blinked, staring.
“It was Secretary Jung’s idea, actually,” Namjoon added, straightening a bit. “He suggested that… maybe you don’t stay at your current school. You’ve done well there, more than well, but it’s not the best place for someone like you.”
Jimin frowned. “Someone like me?”
Namjoon nodded. “Someone brilliant. Someone who loves to learn. Someone who deserves to be in a place where other students don’t push him for being good at things.”
Jimin looked away. He wasn’t sure he believed that place even existed.
“What kind of school?” he asked cautiously.
“A different one. A better one. One where they’ll put you in fifth grade from the start. You’d be new, just like the other students. No one would know you skipped grades. They wouldn’t know you’re nine unless you told them.”
Jimin’s lips parted slightly. “A new school…”
He hadn’t even thought of that. Not really. The idea of leaving the place he knew was both terrifying and… maybe a little exciting? He didn’t know. It twisted in his chest weirdly, like nervousness and curiosity all tangled together.
“You’d get to start fresh,” Namjoon continued, watching him closely. “No one would call you names. No one would shove you in the hallway. You could just be yourself.”
Jimin furrowed his brows. “But what if they don’t like me there either?”
Namjoon smiled. “Then we’ll try somewhere else. As many times as it takes. You don’t have to settle for a place that makes you feel small.”
It was a strange thing to hear. Jimin wasn’t used to choices. Things just happened to him. He was sent to places, told to study, to learn, to act a certain way, to be polite and obedient and composed. Even his sadness had to be quiet. But now… now Namjoon was offering something different. A way out. A chance to start over. Still, his stomach turned.
“What if I don’t make any friends?” he asked softly.
Namjoon looked at him like that was the easiest question in the world. “Then I’ll still be your friend. I already am.”
Jimin swallowed, hard. His throat hurt again. “But… what if they think I’m different?” he asked.
“They might,” Namjoon admitted. “But some of them might think you’re amazing. They’ll see what I see.”
That made Jimin pause. Because Namjoon always said things like that. Like Jimin was some kind of rare thing, brilliant, kind, brave. Jimin didn’t always believe it, but hearing it now… it helped. A little.
“Will I have to wear a new uniform?” he asked, voice still small.
Namjoon grinned. “Yes. A very nice one. And you’ll get to pick your own backpack this time.”
Jimin considered that for a moment, trying to pretend that part didn’t secretly make him a little excited.
“Will they have piano classes?” he asked warily.
Namjoon chuckled. “Probably just music classes. But we can say no to them.”
This time, Jimin smiled. A real one. Tired and shaky and barely there, but real. “You mean I get to choose?”
“You mean you didn’t know that already?” Namjoon teased gently, tapping the tip of Jimin’s nose.
Jimin scrunched it up and shook his head. “No one ever asked me before.”
“Well, I’m asking now,” Namjoon said. “Do you want to see the school? We can visit together. Just look around. No pressure.”
Jimin hesitated, then nodded once.
Namjoon ruffled his hair softly. “We’ll go tomorrow, then. Just to see.”
Jimin didn’t say anything. He leaned forward again instead, wrapping his arms around Namjoon in a much gentler hug than before, and rested his cheek on his shoulder. Namjoon’s arms came around him automatically, secure and warm.
A new school.
He wasn’t sure how he felt yet. But he was sure about one thing: as long as Namjoon was with him, he could try. Even if he was scared.
Once Jimin had stopped trembling, once the tears had dried and his hands weren't clutching Namjoon's shirt like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart, Namjoon coaxed him gently into changing out of his uniform. His movements were steady, careful, peeling off the jacket, unbuttoning his shirt like he was made of glass. Jimin let him. He always let him. Namjoon never rushed.
Once he was in his soft home clothes, one of his favorite sets, pastel blue with little white stars on the sleeves, Jimin sat down heavily on the bed and pulled his knees up to his chest. His eyes followed Namjoon as he folded the uniform neatly and placed it on the bench by the dresser, then turned to crouch in front of him again.
“You should have your snack, young master,” Namjoon said, brushing Jimin’s hair away from his eyes. “I asked the kitchen to set it up in the garden, just like always. Maybe some tea and sunshine will help you feel better.”
Jimin didn’t answer at first. His fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt, eyes fixed on them. He already knew what was coming next. Namjoon never said things without a reason.
“You’re leaving,” Jimin said quietly.
Namjoon hesitated. “Only for a bit.”
“No.”
Jimin’s lips wobbled, and he dropped his legs down to the floor, standing quickly as if that would stop it.
“Please don’t go,” he said, reaching for Namjoon’s wrist, holding it in both hands. “I don’t want you to.”
Namjoon sighed softly and pulled Jimin into a hug again, even if it was brief. He didn’t say anything right away. He just held him.
“I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t have to,” he murmured. “But I have to go back to the school, young master. I left without speaking to the principal. The boys who hurt you—I didn’t handle it yet.”
Jimin stiffened in his arms. “They’ll get in trouble?” he asked.
“They have to. What they did to you is not something I can ignore.”
“But… what if they say something else?” Jimin whispered. “What if they lie and say I started it?”
“Then I’ll remind them that you’re not alone,” Namjoon said firmly. “You have someone who believes you. Always.”
Jimin closed his eyes tightly, forehead pressed to Namjoon’s chest. He didn’t like it. Not even a little bit. Every time Namjoon left, even just for errands or short trips, Jimin’s chest ached. Like something was pulling him apart from the inside. It was silly. He knew that. He wasn’t a baby. He was almost in fifth grade, maybe. He should be braver than this. But he wasn’t.
He was just a boy who’d had too many quiet dinners, too many lonely afternoons in the garden, and too many nights waiting by the window for someone who never came. He didn’t want to be alone again. Not even for a minute.
“I’ll come back as fast as I can,” Namjoon promised, pulling away enough to meet Jimin’s eyes. “Before you even finish your snack.”
“You’re lying.”
Namjoon smiled. “Maybe a little. But not by much.”
Jimin wanted to argue more, but he could tell by Namjoon’s gentle, but unmovable tone that there was no changing his mind. He hated that.
Still, he nodded eventually, eyes on the floor. “You have to promise,” he said, voice small. “Promise you’ll come right back. No stops.”
“I promise,” Namjoon said immediately, holding up a pinky.
Jimin wrapped his own pinky around it, squeezing tightly like the old game would somehow keep Namjoon bound to him. Then he let go.
Namjoon straightened and fixed Jimin’s collar one last time, even if it was a bit wrinkled now, and kissed the top of his head like he always did before leaving.
“There’s your favorite strawberry tart on the table,” he said, backing toward the door. “And some peach tea with honey.”
Jimin didn’t respond. He just stood there, watching.
When Namjoon finally slipped out, closing the door gently behind him, the quiet pressed down like a heavy blanket.
Jimin didn’t move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned and walked out of his room, past the corridor, past the long line of windows that led to the garden.
The table was already set. It looked perfect, as usual, white cloth, polished porcelain, delicate plates with too many sweets stacked too high. The peach tea steamed in the pot, and the scent of it reached him as soon as he stepped outside. But it didn’t feel the same without Namjoon.
He sat down anyway. Because Namjoon told him to. He picked up his fork and poked at a slice of tart, letting the sugar stick to his fingertips. It tasted nice. But not as nice as when Namjoon stood beside him with his calming and warm presence. Jimin sighed and put the fork down.
Namjoon would fix everything. He always did. But Jimin wished he didn’t have to. He wished the world was kinder so Namjoon could just stay with him, so they could drink tea together without worry, without bruises or offices or hurtful whispers.
He swung his feet under the table, alone again. And waited. He didn’t eat much. He tried. He took two bites of the strawberry tart, a small sip of tea, but everything felt bland today. Like the sugar forgot how to be sweet. His fork kept tapping against the porcelain, scraping at crumbs just for something to do with his hands.
Namjoon said he wouldn’t take long. But the garden was too quiet. The breeze too light. The birds too loud. Everything felt wrong when Namjoon wasn’t near.
When maid Harin came out with a fresh plate of small buttery croissants Jimin didn’t even look up.
“Young master,” she said softly, placing the plate down with the practiced grace of someone used to silence. “Shall I bring you anything else? The kitchen made lemon tarts, too.”
“No,” Jimin mumbled, chin resting in one palm, elbow propped on the table. “I said I don’t want anything.”
Harin didn’t push. She never did. She bowed her head slightly and took a step back to stand at the edge of the garden, just far enough to give him space but close enough to hear if he called.
She was nice. Always had been. Since the beginning, when everything in the mansion felt too big and too strange and too cold. Harin was kind and gentle and never raised her voice. But she wasn’t Namjoon. And that made all the difference.
Jimin tapped his fork against his empty cup again. Then again. A slow, steady rhythm. Where was Namjoon? Was the principal giving him trouble? Were the boys lying? What if Namjoon couldn’t fix it this time? What if he had to go get his father? His stomach flipped at the thought.
He slid lower in his chair, legs swinging hard under the table now, fingers tightening around the handle of the fork. He hated this. He hated not knowing. He hated waiting. He hated that he’d been left behind, even if it was only for a little while.
Maybe he was being dramatic. Maybe he was too spoiled. But was it so wrong to want the only person he trusted to just stay?
A bee buzzed near his head and he swatted it away with a small yelp, nearly knocking over his tea in the process. Harin rushed forward immediately.
“It’s okay, young master,” she said, moving the teapot away and adjusting the cups. “Just a bee. You’re alright.”
“I don’t like bees,” Jimin muttered.
“I know.”
He wanted to tell her to go. To leave him alone. But he didn’t want to be mean. She didn’t do anything wrong.
Still, he wished it was Namjoon standing there, not her. Because if it were Namjoon, he’d chase the bee away with a napkin and joke about it wearing a tiny black jacket and carrying a briefcase.
If it were Namjoon, he’d sneak a croissant and make Jimin laugh with his stupid exaggerated chewing. If it were Namjoon, he wouldn’t feel this way.
Spoiled. Lonely. Small.
So he stayed quiet. Staring at the pastries, at the flowers, at the fountain bubbling in the background. He twisted the bandage on his finger around and around. It was still there. Pink with little stars on it. Namjoon picked it for him from the house medicine drawer even though Jimin saw the regular beige ones sitting right on top. That meant something. Didn’t it?
He didn’t know how long he waited. Minutes? An hour? He didn’t touch his tea again. He didn’t speak. Harin eventually disappeared inside, probably figuring he wanted to be alone. She was right. He did. Because if it couldn’t be Namjoon, then no one else really mattered.
Jimin leaned back in his chair with a sigh, letting his head tip toward the sky. The sun was too bright. The birds too loud. The pastries too sweet. And he was too tired of pretending he was okay.
Jimin watched the way the shadows moved across the white stone of the garden floor, tracing invisible patterns he couldn’t quite follow. His hands were sticky with melted icing now, though he hadn’t eaten much, just toyed with the edges of his dessert until the cream smeared on his fingers and the plate looked messy and sad.
Then he heard the door. Not just any door. The one near the kitchen, the one that opened with a distinct creak when someone wasn’t careful closing it. Footsteps followed. Heavy but quick, not in a rush, but purposeful.
Jimin straightened in his chair. He didn’t mean to. It just happened, like his body reacted before his mind could catch up. And then—
“Everything’s taken care of,” Namjoon said, voice steady and calm and so normal that it nearly made Jimin cry again. “You don’t have to worry anymore.”
He was back.
Jimin didn’t move at first, just looked at him. Like he needed to make sure he was real. Like maybe he was just a trick of the light or a daydream that smelled like clean soap and leather car seats.
Namjoon smiled gently as he approached, sleeves rolled up and tie loosened just a little. His hair was mussed from the wind, and there was a faint crease between his brows that hadn’t quite smoothed out.
“Did you eat something?” he asked, already reaching for a napkin to wipe Jimin’s hand.
Jimin shook his head.
Namjoon crouched beside him anyway, not sitting, never sitting, because that wasn’t proper, but close enough now that Jimin didn’t feel so far away from the world anymore.
“I didn’t like it,” Jimin muttered, watching Namjoon dab delicately at his sticky fingers.
“I’ll have the kitchen prepare something else.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
Namjoon didn’t argue. He just nodded like he understood. And maybe he did.
“What happened?” Jimin asked softly. His voice was small. So small. He hated how it sounded. Like a whisper that didn’t want to be heard.
Namjoon folded the used napkin neatly, placed it on the edge of the tray, and said, “The principal and I had a long talk. The boys involved will be disciplined. Their parents will be contacted. You won’t have to see them again.”
Jimin’s fingers twitched.
“And... they agreed it would be best to move forward with the grade acceleration. If that’s what you want.”
Jimin looked away. He didn’t know what he wanted. Not really. He only knew what he didn’t want. He didn’t want to be alone in that school anymore. He didn’t want to be called names. He didn’t want to feel like being smart was something to be ashamed of.
Namjoon waited patiently, eyes soft and kind, not pushing for an answer.
“Will I really go to a new school?” Jimin finally asked, still not looking at him.
“If you want to,” Namjoon said. “It’s your choice.”
Jimin picked at the edge of his bandage, the pink one with stars that was already curling at the corners. “Will they know I’m only nine?”
Namjoon smiled. “Only if you tell them.”
That made Jimin think. Not about lying, he didn’t like lying, but about the idea of starting over. A clean slate. No whispers, no stares, no fights. Just new faces who didn’t already decide they hated him.
“Will... you come with me?” he asked.
Namjoon looked a little startled by the question, but he recovered quickly. “Of course. I’ll drop you off and pick you up. Every day.”
“No, I mean... come inside. At first. Stay close. Just until I get used to it.”
Namjoon hesitated. Just for a second. Then he nodded. “Alright. If it helps, I’ll be there.”
Jimin didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he reached forward and grabbed one of the forgotten lemon tarts and took a big, messy bite.
Namjoon raised a brow. “I thought you weren’t hungry.”
“I changed my mind,” Jimin said, crumbs already sticking to his lips.
Namjoon chuckled and offered another napkin.
And just like that, everything felt a little more right. The sky looked less empty. The pastries tasted sweet again. The air didn’t press so hard against his chest. Jimin chewed quietly, thoughtfully, his mood lighter though he tried not to show it too much. Because Namjoon was back. And that meant everything was going to be okay.
Jimin was halfway through his second tart, a little more relaxed now that Namjoon had returned, when he noticed the way Namjoon’s posture shifted just slightly, like he was preparing to deliver news. Jimin paused mid-chew, eyes narrowing with quiet suspicion. Namjoon had that look again. The careful look. The one he used when he was about to say something he already knew Jimin wouldn’t like.
“What is it?” Jimin asked slowly, crumbs dusting his lower lip.
Namjoon cleared his throat and smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from his sleeve. “Secretary Jung arranged something for you this afternoon,” he said gently. “A playdate.”
Jimin blinked. “A... playdate?” he repeated, voice flat, uncertain.
“With Kim Taehyung,” Namjoon added. “He’s the son of your father’s chief operations officer. You’ll be attending the same school once the transfer is finalized.”
Jimin immediately lost interest in his tart. “Why?” he asked, already bristling, his voice a touch sharper than intended. “Why do I have to meet him? What if I don’t want to?”
Namjoon didn’t flinch. He never did, not with Jimin. He only folded his hands calmly in front of him and said, “Because it might be good for you. You’ll be starting over, young master, and having someone you already know at the new school could make things easier.”
“But what if he doesn’t like me?” Jimin asked, his voice smaller now, a whisper swallowed up by the wind. “What if he thinks I’m weird?”
He knew he was weird, or at least, that’s what everyone kept saying. At school. At parties. Even at the fancy dinners he gets forced to go to. Too polite, too smart, too quiet, too spoiled. Too much of something, never enough of whatever else.
“What if he calls me names too?” Jimin mumbled, lowering his gaze. “What if he laughs because I’m short or... or because I like reading more than soccer or because I don’t know how to talk to kids my age?”
Namjoon crouched beside him again, voice soft and unwavering. “I’ve met Taehyung before. He seemed like a kind boy. A little loud, maybe. Very curious. But not unkind.”
Jimin chewed on his lip. “Do you promise?” he asked.
Namjoon didn’t answer right away. He lifted a hand and gently brushed a crumb from Jimin’s cheek.
“I can’t promise he’ll be perfect,” he said honestly. “But I promise I’ll be close by the whole time. If you don’t like it, he’ll leave.”
Jimin exhaled. That helped, a little.
“Will he come here?” he asked.
Namjoon nodded. “In about an hour. You’ll have some time to rest and get changed. Maybe tidy up a little.” His tone was teasing now, gently nudging Jimin from his spiral. “And perhaps wash your hands before you greet your guest?”
Jimin looked at his sticky fingers that was smudged with jam and frowned. “I was going to,” he said, although he absolutely wasn’t.
Namjoon chuckled. “Of course, young master.”
Jimin leaned back in his chair, brows furrowed as he stared up at the sky. Playdate. The word sounded so... juvenile. Like something he’d liked before things got complicated, before his mom died, before his father forgot how to look at him. He didn’t want to need new friends. He didn’t want to be lonely either.
“I don’t know how to be good at this,” Jimin admitted under his breath, so quiet it barely reached past his own teeth.
Namjoon heard him anyway. “You don’t have to be good at anything,” he said. “Just be yourself. That’s more than enough.”
That was the problem though. What if being himself wasn’t enough? Still, Jimin nodded. Because Namjoon believed it. And for now, that would have to do.
He rose from his chair slowly, brushing down his trousers even though Harin would probably make him change again. His steps were reluctant, but steady.
“I guess I should go get ready,” he murmured.
Namjoon stood beside him and gave a warm nod. “I’ll help.”
“Will I have to talk a lot?” Jimin asked, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.
“Maybe,” Namjoon replied. “But you don’t have to say anything you don’t want to. Just smile. You have a very charming smile.”
Jimin huffed, cheeks pink. “That’s just because I have nice teeth.”
“It’s everything,” Namjoon said.
They walked inside together, side by side. Namjoon didn’t hover like a shadow this time, he walked like a companion, like someone who would catch him if the ground gave out again.
A new boy was coming. A new friend. Maybe. It still scared him. A lot. But maybe it would be okay. And if it wasn’t? Namjoon would still be there. And that meant everything.
Jimin was quiet as Namjoon helped him change again. This time into something more presentable: soft beige trousers with a matching vest over a crisp white shirt, and a little ribbon at the collar that Harin insisted made him look like a prince. He didn’t argue. Not like earlier. His mind was too full, spinning in every direction, all tangled up with thoughts of this boy who would soon be here.
He didn’t even know what to expect. Was Taehyung going to be like the kids at school? Loud, mean, nosy? Or would he be bored of Jimin quickly? Or worse... what if he just pretended to be nice because of their fathers and then talked behind Jimin’s back?
Namjoon had crouched down to comb through his hair carefully, fingers gentle as ever. “You look handsome, young master,” he said, even if Jimin had barely looked at himself in the mirror.
Jimin nodded a little, fidgeting with his sleeves.
And then the sound of the doorbell echoed through the quiet halls. Jimin’s heart skipped. No, it jumped. Up to his throat and stayed there. He looked at Namjoon, wide-eyed.
“Too late to run,” Namjoon teased gently, ruffling Jimin’s hair one last time. “You’ll be okay.”
Jimin wasn’t so sure. But he still nodded, because Namjoon sounded like he was sure, and that helped a little.
A few moments later, Harin opened the playroom door with a smile and stepped aside, and in walked the loudest boy Jimin had ever seen.
“Hi!!” Taehyung beamed, eyes huge and sparkling, wearing overalls and bright yellow socks. His hair was a mess, and his smile was somehow even messier. “You’re Jimin, right?!”
Jimin nodded, unsure if he should stand or wave or bow or hide.
“I’m Taehyung!” the boy announced proudly, as if that explained everything. “You have a huge house! And this playroom is awesome!”
Jimin blinked. “Um... thanks.”
Before he could say anything else, Taehyung had already made himself at home, dropping onto the rug in the middle of the playroom, surrounded by building blocks and plushies and more books than any kid ever needed. Jimin watched him spin in a circle on the floor and giggle, then flop backward with all the dramatic flair of someone who lived on a stage. And it was... kind of nice. It wasn’t overwhelming anymore. Somehow.
Jimin walked over slowly and sat down beside him. They started building a castle with wooden blocks. Taehyung talked the entire time, about how he’d gotten in trouble last week for putting peanut butter in his dad’s shoe (by accident, apparently), about how he once tried to ride a chicken at his grandfather’s farm, about how he loved cartoons with space aliens more than anything in the world. Jimin listened. And nodded. And sometimes, even smiled.
“You’re fun,” Taehyung said out of nowhere.
Jimin froze mid-reach. “I am?”
“Yeah!” Taehyung grinned. “I thought you’d be boring ‘cause of how my dad said you study a lot. But you’re not.”
Jimin looked at him for a long second, lips slightly parted. “Oh.”
That was... maybe the nicest thing anyone his age had said to him.
They kept playing. They made a tower so tall it fell over and hit Taehyung on the arm. Taehyung laughed like it was the best thing ever. Jimin giggled. He actually giggled. He hadn’t done that in a long time.
Somewhere in the middle of lining up little animal figures for their “royal court,” Taehyung suddenly sat up and said, “I heard you’re gonna come to my school!”
Jimin’s heart dropped, but he nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“Do you think we’ll be in the same class?” Taehyung asked, eyes bright. “That would be so cool! I can show you around, and we can sit together, and—”
“I’ll be in fifth grade,” Jimin blurted.
Taehyung paused. “Huh?”
Jimin swallowed hard. His palms were sweaty. “I’m being moved to fifth grade. That’s why I’m transferring.”
Taehyung stared at him. “But… aren’t you nine?”
Jimin’s stomach twisted into a hundred knots. He lowered his gaze. “Yes.”
There was silence.
This was the part where it always changed. Where someone said something like “that’s weird” or “that’s not normal” or “you think you’re better than everyone else.” Jimin felt his shoulders tense, ready for it. Bracing.
But instead, Taehyung gasped and launched forward, grabbing Jimin’s hands in both of his. “You’re a genius?!”
Jimin blinked, startled.
“I knew it!” Taehyung beamed like it was Christmas. “You’re, like, a real-life prodigy! That’s so cool! Can you do algebra? Wait—do you know how to multiply three-digit numbers in your head?!”
Jimin was too stunned to speak. He looked over at Namjoon, who stood a short distance away, arms crossed and face unreadable, but when their eyes met, Namjoon smiled. Soft. Proud. Assuring.
And Jimin... felt something strange. Warm. Strange and light. Like a blanket just out of the dryer wrapped around his chest.
“Oh,” Jimin whispered, the corner of his lips twitching upward. “So this is what friendship is.”
Taehyung didn’t hear him. But Namjoon did. And he smiled wider.

Chapter Text

Monday came faster than Jimin expected. Everything about him felt new, new uniform, freshly ironed with a little golden crest on the pocket; new leather bag that still smelled like the shop it came from; new socks that itched a little; and even new pens and notebooks, each page untouched, each line waiting for him. It should have felt like a fresh beginning, and maybe it did. But even as he stood tall outside the new school’s grand gate, chin up and back straight just like Namjoon taught him, his hand was still clinging a little too tightly to Namjoon’s sleeve.

Namjoon crouched to his level, adjusting the knot of his tie like he always did, and whispered gently, “You’re going to be brilliant, young master. You always are.”

Jimin nodded, biting his lip. He knew Namjoon believed that, but it was still scary. New places always were.

Inside, the principal greeted them warmly. She had soft eyes behind big glasses and wore a necklace shaped like a flower. Not scary at all. She smiled at Jimin like he was something special, not something strange.

“We’re so lucky to have you here, Jimin,” she said kindly, crouching to his eye level. “We’re aware of your grade advancement, and I’ve spoken personally with your homeroom teacher. You’ll receive all the support you need, I promise.”

Jimin gave a small nod. It helped that she didn’t speak in the same pitying tone some adults used with him.

Namjoon ruffled his hair lightly and stood. “I’ll come pick you up after school, okay?”

“Okay,” Jimin murmured. His voice cracked a little.

Namjoon turned to leave, and Jimin’s hand twitched forward, like he wanted to grab onto him again, but he didn’t. He just stood there, small but trying to be brave, until Namjoon disappeared down the hallway.

The principal smiled and extended her hand. “Shall we go to class, then?”

He followed her in silence, hugging his new bag tightly.

The classroom looked just like the pictures in the school brochure, neat rows of desks, tall windows that let the sun flood in, a board already filled with equations and neat handwriting. The teacher, a tall woman with a warm smile, paused her lesson as Jimin stepped in. The room quieted. Every eye turned to him.

He took a deep breath and moved to stand next to the teacher, his hands clasped in front of him. He remembered what Namjoon said: keep it simple, confident, polite.

“Hello, I’m Park Jimin.”

He said it clearly. No shaking. No stuttering. That counted as a win.

“Thank you, Jimin,” the teacher said with a smile. “You may sit in the back, there—next to Yoongi.”

Jimin blinked and turned his head. There, at the back of the class, near the window, was a boy slouched at his desk, head buried in his arms, clearly asleep.

Oh.

Jimin hesitated for just a second before walking over. He slid into the seat beside the boy, careful not to make too much noise. His heart was still thudding a little too fast. He could feel the stares still on him even as the teacher resumed the lesson.

Don’t mind them, he told himself, flipping open his notebook. Don’t give them the satisfaction.

He glanced sideways at the boy. The kid didn’t even move. His dark hair covered his forehead, and from this angle, Jimin couldn’t see much of his face. Was he really asleep? Or just pretending?

Jimin frowned. That wasn’t exactly a great first desk partner impression.

Still, he shifted his focus back to the board. Took out a pen. Opened his pencil case. He lined up his things neatly the way he liked, pen, eraser, ruler, highlighter. He copied the heading from the board, his handwriting small and neat.

But even as he worked, part of his attention stayed fixed on the boy beside him. Yoongi. He didn’t snore. He didn’t move. He just… slept. Or, again, maybe pretended. Jimin kept glancing at him every so often, curious despite himself.

The rest of the class seemed normal. No one whispered behind their hands. No one laughed at him or shoved his chair or threw anything in his direction. It was so quiet he almost didn’t believe it. Was this what it was like at good schools? Peace?

He still wasn’t sure if he fit in here. He was still younger than everyone else, still the odd one out. But for now, no one seemed to care. And Yoongi still hadn’t looked at him once.

Strange.

Jimin looked out the window for a moment, the sunlight warm on his face. He missed Namjoon already. But he also realized, just maybe, that this wouldn’t be so bad. Especially if the boy next to him stayed asleep and left him alone. Still… He scribbled down notes, glanced at the dozing figure beside him again, and wondered—

What kind of person was Yoongi? And was he going to be a problem... or something else entirely?

The lesson moved on steadily. The teacher’s voice was calm and clear, her handwriting on the board neat, almost pretty. Jimin focused, copying everything carefully, drawing small stars next to the important points the way Namjoon taught him. He was used to learning at a different pace, but still, he didn’t want to stand out—he just wanted to quietly do his best.

But then the teacher capped her marker and smiled at the class. “Alright, here’s a little challenge,” she said, writing a new problem on the board. A tricky one. The kind that twisted numbers into words and logic into knots.

Jimin’s eyes followed each curve and corner of the question. It was challenging, yes, but not unsolvable. Not to him. He had done harder ones during tutoring sessions, while Namjoon sat beside him with a mug of coffee and a smile of encouragement.

Still, he sat frozen.

“Who wants to try this one?” the teacher asked, looking around expectantly.

Silence. Not a single hand was raised. The quiet stretched longer than it should have, awkward and tense. A few kids shifted in their seats, looking down at their desks as if the math would disappear if they stared hard enough at the wood.

Jimin swallowed. His fingers clenched around his pencil. He could do it. He knew he could. The steps danced clearly in his mind, waiting to be lined up and solved. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

The teacher chuckled gently, like she didn’t mind the silence at all. “Come on, it’s okay if you don’t get it right. We’re all learning together.”

Jimin’s heart beat faster. It wasn’t that he was afraid of being wrong. He was afraid of being right. Afraid of the whispers. Of the rolled eyes. Of hearing “show-off” again. Of the way kids liked to turn something good into something ugly. He had been through that once already.

Still, no one moved. The classroom felt like it was holding its breath. And then, before he could overthink it more, he raised his hand. It was small. Just a lift of his arm. But it felt enormous. Like lifting a boulder off his chest.

The teacher looked surprised for a moment. Then she smiled warmly. “Thank you, Jimin. Come on up.”

Jimin stood on wobbly legs. His knees felt too loose, his palms too sweaty. Even his hand was trembling slightly as he reached for the marker.

The teacher must’ve noticed. She crouched slightly beside him and said quietly, “It’s okay. No one here is judging you.”

She thought he was scared of being wrong. But he wasn’t. He was scared of being right, again.

Still, he turned to the board. Took a breath. Began solving the problem. His numbers came out clear and confident, even if his heart pounded in his ears. Step by step, he wrote them down, checking them once in his head, then again just to be sure. And then… he capped the marker and looked back at the teacher.

She beamed. “Well done,” she said proudly. “That’s absolutely correct.”

Jimin turned and walked back to his seat, every step heavy with dread. He braced himself. For the whispers. For the sideways glances. For someone to call him names under their breath or bump into his chair when he sat down. He had lived this scene before, and the ending was never kind. He slid into his seat. And waited.

But this time… nothing happened. No one said anything. No one looked at him funny. The classroom simply moved on. The teacher continued her explanation, and pencils resumed their scribbling across paper.

Jimin sat there, blinking slowly. Nothing? His fingers curled around the edge of his desk, unsure what to do with the quiet. It was almost suspicious. But it was also… nice. For once, doing well didn’t make him the target.

He glanced to his side. Yoongi hadn’t reacted at all. Still slumped over like none of this mattered. Jimin didn’t know if that made him annoyed or relieved. But still… a small feeling bloomed in his chest. Tentative. Fragile. Was this what it was like to just be? Not a genius. Not a weirdo. Not a show-off. Just a student.

He glanced out the window, and the sunlight felt warmer this time. Maybe this was what Namjoon meant by a fresh start. And maybe, he had finally found a place where he could be smart, and not be punished for it. He pulled his notebook back toward him and began to write again. This time, with a little more confidence.

The bell rang, gentle but commanding, and the teacher stepped out with a parting smile and a reminder about the assigned homework. Jimin barely had time to breathe before the scraping of chairs and hurried footsteps filled the room, and suddenly, he was surrounded.

It was like someone had flipped a switch. One moment he was invisible, and the next, he was the center of attention. His classmates leaned over desks, stood too close, voices overlapping like a messy song.

“Where’d you transfer from?”

“Are you from the city?”

“Why’d you come here this late in the year?”

“Are you good at all subjects?”

“What’s your favorite game?”

It was dizzying. Jimin blinked, trying to focus on one face at a time, but they blurred together, eager eyes, excited tones, questions upon questions tumbling out without pauses.

His fingers curled tighter around his pencil case. He wasn't used to this kind of attention. It was… a lot. And more importantly, it was dangerous. Because none of them knew.

They didn’t know he wasn’t eleven like the rest of them. That he had jumped two grades. That he still sometimes played with stuffed animals at night or needed help tying his tie when it was too tight. They just thought he was like them.

And if they found out otherwise… would they still crowd around him like this? Or would they whisper behind his back like the old school? Would the taunts start all over again?

He didn’t want to risk it. So he stayed quiet, lips parted like he might answer, but the words got caught in his throat. If he said the wrong thing, anything too strange, anything that sounded a little too young, they might guess. And he couldn’t let that happen.

He opened his mouth, still trying to pick a safe response, when a voice cut through the noise.

“You’re all too loud,” Yoongi grumbled from his seat, his head still resting on folded arms. His voice was flat, half-asleep, and yet somehow it held weight. It was the kind of tone people listened to.

The crowd faltered. Someone laughed nervously. Another girl backed away with a mumbled, “Sorry.”

One by one, they retreated to their desks, the storm of questions vanishing as quickly as it had come.

Jimin blinked, stunned. He turned his head slowly toward the boy slouched beside him. Yoongi hadn’t moved. Still had his cheek smushed against his sleeve, eyes half-lidded, clearly uninterested in anything that had just happened.

Jimin hesitated before whispering, “Thank you.” It was small. Barely above a breath.

Yoongi didn’t respond. Not a twitch. Not a glance. Not even a grunt.

Jimin’s shoulders slumped the tiniest bit, unsure if Yoongi hadn’t heard him—or just didn’t care. Maybe both.

He turned back toward his own desk, slowly zipping up his pencil case and arranging his books just so. His heart was still a little fast from the sudden attention, and his hands hadn’t fully stopped shaking.

But somehow… it didn’t feel like before. Because no one had said anything mean. No one had laughed. No one had looked at him like he didn’t belong.

And Yoongi, who barely said a word, had scattered the crowd with one lazy sentence. Jimin stole another glance at the boy beside him. He wasn’t sure what to think of him yet. But for now… Yoongi didn’t seem like someone who talked much. Or cared much. And honestly? That was kind of nice.

Jimin didn’t want someone who asked a million questions. He just wanted someone who let him breathe. And even if Yoongi didn’t answer him, Jimin still meant it.

Thank you.

After a few more classes, the morning finally began to slip into afternoon. The minute the bell rang for lunch, Jimin's stomach let out a tiny growl, and he immediately pressed his hand against it, embarrassed. He had eaten breakfast earlier, but all the nerves from the day, the new school, the new class, Yoongi ignoring him, the crowd of curious classmates, had made his stomach feel like it was twisting itself in knots.

But now, it was lunchtime. And all Jimin could think about was Taehyung. He’d expected to see him earlier that day, maybe in the hallway before class or during morning break. But there had been no sign of his new friend, and Jimin didn’t even know which class he was in.

Maybe Taehyung had forgotten about him? Or changed his mind?

No… Taehyung wouldn’t do that. Right?

Still, Jimin sat frozen in his seat, clutching the edge of his desk, unsure of what to do. He could eat alone, he was used to that. He could even pretend he didn’t mind. But a small, stubborn part of him really wanted to eat with someone today. And that someone was Taehyung.

He hesitated, glancing sideways at the only other person he somewhat knew. Yoongi had his head down again, dozing lightly like the classroom wasn’t buzzing with students getting ready to head to lunch.

Jimin bit his lip before quietly asking, “Um… do you know where the third grade classes are?”

Yoongi didn’t react at first. Then, slowly, he lifted his head, blinking blearily like he’d just remembered where he was.

“Is it lunch already?” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes.

Jimin nodded, feeling awkward for even asking. Maybe it was a bad idea. Maybe he should’ve just tried to find it himself.

But Yoongi tilted his head, properly looking at him for the first time. “You’re the new kid, right?”

Jimin gave another small nod.

“No one showed you around?”

“…No,” Jimin murmured. His voice was soft, nearly swallowed by the chatter around them.

Yoongi stretched, arms rising above his head with a lazy groan, and then stood up. “I’ll show you.”

Jimin blinked. “You will?”

Yoongi shrugged like it was no big deal. “Yeah.”

It was a big deal, though. To Jimin, at least. No one had offered to do anything like that for him in… well, maybe ever.

His lips curled into a shy smile as he whispered, “Thank you.”

Yoongi just gave a small nod, shoving his hands in his pockets as they walked toward the classroom door.

But as soon as they stepped into the hallway, someone came bounding toward them with a wide grin and windswept hair.

“There you are!” Taehyung beamed, out of breath. “I asked around and came to find you!”

Jimin blinked, startled, then smiled, wide and genuine. Taehyung really hadn’t forgotten.

Before he could say anything, he turned slightly, intending to thank Yoongi again and let him know he didn’t need the help anymore.

But the hallway behind him was empty. Yoongi had already left. Just like that. Quiet and invisible as a breeze. Jimin stared for a second, caught off guard. He hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

But then Taehyung tugged lightly on his sleeve, drawing his attention back. “Wanna eat together? I was gonna go to the cafeteria, but we can sit wherever.”

Jimin nodded quickly, eyes bright. “We can eat in my classroom. I brought lunch.”

“Really? That’s cool!”

And so they went back inside, returning to Jimin’s table. The classroom was quieter now, some kids having wandered off to the cafeteria or the yard. It felt… safe. Calm.

Jimin opened his bag and carefully took out the lunchboxes. Not just one, but three small ones, stacked and secured with golden clips. Each box matched in design, sleek, minimalist, and far too elegant for school. He hesitated before placing them on the desk.

Taehyung peered at them with wide eyes. “Whoa… these are so fancy,” he breathed. “Are they made of metal?”

Jimin’s cheeks flushed. He looked down. Here it comes, he thought. Spoiled. Brat. Rich boy.

But Taehyung only grinned. “They look cool! Bet the food inside’s awesome too.”

Jimin peeked up at him. “You don’t think it’s… too much?”

Taehyung blinked, genuinely confused. “Why would it be?”

Jimin didn’t know how to answer that. Instead, he began opening the boxes, revealing neatly arranged food: bulgogi, japchae, pickled radish cut into stars, tiny rice balls decorated like cartoon animals, even a mini fruit tart nestled in a silver wrapper.

Taehyung’s jaw dropped. “You have enough here for two whole people!”

Jimin laughed softly, a little embarrassed but oddly proud. “I… kinda planned to share.”

“Perfect! I forgot to ask my mom for extra snacks, so this is the best surprise ever!”

The two of them dug in, chatting between bites. Taehyung talked with his mouth full sometimes, and his eyes lit up whenever he tried something new. He didn’t say anything rude, didn’t question why Jimin had such fancy food or act like it was weird. He just enjoyed it. And Jimin… liked that. Liked him.

As they laughed over the rice balls, Taehyung insisted the panda-shaped one looked too cute to eat, Jimin caught himself smiling again. Not the small, careful smile he usually gave strangers. But a real one. The kind that made his cheeks hurt. Maybe this was going to work out. Maybe friendship wasn’t some impossible dream after all.

Their laughter over the last of the fruit tart was interrupted by a soft, hesitant voice. “Um… excuse me.”

Jimin looked up, his smile still lingering but curious now. Standing just a few feet from their desk was a younger boy, he couldn’t have been older than seven or eight, fidgeting with the hem of his uniform blazer and looking like he was trying very hard not to bolt.

Jimin tilted his head. “Yes?”

The boy glanced between the two of them, then scratched at his cheek. “Do either of you know where… Yoongi hyung is?”

Yoongi hyung?

Jimin blinked. That was unexpected.

He straightened up in his seat. “He left when lunch break started,” he answered honestly, gesturing vaguely toward the hallway. “He didn’t say where he was going.”

The boy's small shoulders drooped, lips tugging into a disappointed pout. “Oh…”

Jimin’s chest twinged. He recognized that expression a little too well. That little slump that said I came all this way for nothing.

Taehyung, always quick with ideas and quicker with kindness, perked up. “He might be in the cafeteria! You should try there!”

The boy brightened a bit at that. “Really?”

Taehyung nodded with a grin. “Most kids go there first for lunch. He could’ve stopped by.”

Jimin offered a softer smile. “If I see him, I’ll tell him someone was looking for him.”

The boy's eyes lit up again. “Thanks!”

Jimin paused, then added gently, “What’s your name? So I can tell him who was looking.”

The boy blinked, like the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Then he stood a little straighter, his voice clear and proud this time. “I’m Jungkook!”

Jimin nodded. “Okay. I’ll let him know.”

With that, Jungkook gave a little bow, then turned and scampered off, no doubt in the direction of the cafeteria.

Jimin watched him go, still a little curious. What kind of relationship did Yoongi have with a younger student like that? It was hard to imagine sleepy, quiet Yoongi being someone’s… hyung.

Taehyung turned back to him, already diving into the last of the lunch with renewed vigor. “He was cute.”

“Mm,” Jimin murmured, poking at the now-empty tart wrapper with a thoughtful finger.

They went back to eating after that. Taehyung talked more about his class, how he didn’t like math but loved drawing in the margins of his notebook, and how one of his classmates tried to trade him a piece of bread for a pencil. Jimin giggled at that, enjoying the warmth of shared stories, of someone speaking just for the fun of it, not to pry or mock or measure.

But too soon, Taehyung glanced at the clock and gasped. “Oh no! I have to go or I’ll be late!”

He jumped up, brushing crumbs from his shirt and grabbing his bag in one hurried swoop. “I’ll see you after school, okay? Or maybe we can play again later!”

Jimin nodded quickly, standing up halfway as if reluctant to see him go. “Okay. Thanks for eating with me.”

Taehyung flashed him one last dazzling grin before darting out the door, leaving the room quieter, stiller.

And just like that, Jimin was alone again.

He sat back down slowly, hands folding neatly in his lap. The warmth from lunch still lingered in his chest, but now it mingled with that familiar emptiness, an old companion. He didn’t mind being alone. Not really. But it was always a little harder after getting a taste of something else.

The minutes stretched on. Most of the students hadn’t returned yet, still making use of the break. Jimin debated pulling out a book, or maybe checking his notes from earlier, but then the classroom door opened again. And Yoongi walked in. Back to his usual self, slow steps, eyes half-lidded, like he didn’t feel any urgency to be anywhere. He dropped back into his seat next to Jimin’s with a soft thud, exhaling like he’d just finished something mildly annoying.

Jimin turned to him, a little surprised. “You’re back.”

Yoongi gave a slow blink. “Yeah.”

Jimin hesitated, then remembered. “Oh. While you were gone, someone came looking for you. A younger student.”

Yoongi’s brow rose just slightly. “Yeah?”

“His name was Jungkook,” Jimin added. “He seemed… kind of shy.”

Yoongi made a small noise of recognition. “He already found me.”

Jimin tilted his head. “Oh.”

Yoongi leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes again, mumbling a quiet, “But thanks for telling me.”

It was quiet again after that. But it didn’t feel quite the same. This time, the silence wasn’t empty or cold. It just… was. And Jimin, somehow, didn’t mind it.

The rest of the school day moved like a blur, gentle waves of lessons washing over Jimin, none as nerve-wracking as the morning, none as warm as lunch. He listened, jotted notes with perfect penmanship, and kept mostly to himself. A few of his classmates tried to include him, flashing smiles his way, but he still didn’t quite know what to say. He liked smiling back, though. That was safe. Quiet. Easy.

But when the final bell rang, Jimin’s pencil was already back in its case, and his books stacked with neat precision. He stood the moment their teacher dismissed them, slipping out of the classroom with practiced swiftness.

He didn’t look back. His little legs moved quickly down the hallway, through the main building, past the garden path where older kids liked to loiter. The afternoon sun poured golden and soft across the school courtyard, and just beyond the gate was Namjoon. Waving with one hand, the other tucked into his coat pocket, looking like the gentlest mountain ever placed on Earth.

Jimin’s face lit up so fast it made his cheeks ache. He hurried forward, his shoes clicking against the pavement until he reached him. Namjoon smiled, eyes crinkling the way they always did when he was proud.

“Did you grow taller already?” he teased, crouching down just enough to reach for Jimin’s bag. “This looks heavier than you.”

Jimin giggled, not resisting when Namjoon took the weight from his shoulders. “I’m not that small.”

“Well, not that big either,” Namjoon said, patting his head gently, then guiding him toward the car.

Once they were settled inside and the quiet hum of the engine wrapped around them like a soft cocoon, Namjoon asked, “So. How was it?”

And Jimin beamed. Like a bottle someone had finally uncorked, he poured everything out. “It was good! My teacher is really nice, and she asked a hard question and no one answered it but I did, and no one said anything mean after, and then at lunch Taehyung came to find me because he asked around to see where I was! He said we’d eat in the cafeteria but I told him we didn’t have to because I had enough food, and he said my lunch was fancy but he wasn’t mean about it, and he actually liked it, and I shared my tart and he said it was the best he ever had!”

Namjoon chuckled as he merged into the afternoon traffic. “Sounds like someone had a good day.”

“I did,” Jimin nodded, eyes sparkling. “And—oh! There was a boy named Jungkook, younger than me I think, he was looking for Yoongi. I told him I’d pass the message but Yoongi already knew. He came back after lunch and I told him, and he said thank you.”

“Yoongi?”

“My seatmate,” Jimin explained, sitting up straighter in his booster seat. “He was kind of sleepy but helped earlier. Everyone asked me questions all at once and he told them they were too loud. I think he’s nice. In his own way.”

Namjoon glanced at him from the rearview mirror, smiling fondly. “That’s a lot of new faces for a first day. I’m really proud of you, young master.”

Jimin flushed, cheeks glowing pink at the praise.

Namjoon continued, “If you’ll be having lunch with Taehyung every day, I’ll let the chef know to prepare a little extra for both of you. Something you both enjoy.”

Jimin’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Of course,” Namjoon nodded. “Can’t have you running out of fruit tarts. What kind of personal attendant would I be?”

Jimin giggled, hiding his face in his hands for a second before peeking back up. “Namjoonie hyung?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you,” Jimin said softly. “For… today. And… for everything.”

Namjoon glanced at him again through the mirror, eyes softer now, gentler. “Always,” he said.

Jimin didn’t feel the tight knot in his chest that usually came with the end of a school day. There was no dread, no anxiety curling at the edges. Just a warm fullness, like the softest blanket, wrapped snug around him. Tomorrow might be different. Harder. Or better. But right now? Right now was perfect.

The ride home had settled into a warm quiet. Jimin leaned against the car door, fingers brushing lightly over the window, watching the buildings blur past as they drove. His tummy was full, his heart lighter, and his brain still replaying the moment Taehyung said “you’re like a genius or something!” like it was the best compliment in the world.

Everything felt good. Normal, almost. Safe.

So when Namjoon cleared his throat with that too-soft tone he always used before saying something Jimin wouldn’t like, Jimin’s stomach did a quiet little flop.

“young master,” Namjoon started, gentle, like someone setting down porcelain. “Your father asked me to tell you… that your private lessons will resume today.”

The words hit like a thud against Jimin’s perfect little bubble. He sat up straighter, brows scrunching. “What?”

Namjoon glanced at him in the rearview mirror, already looking apologetic. “He allowed you a short break because of everything that happened last week, but now that you’re settled in the new school, he expects you to return to your usual routine.”

Jimin’s mouth opened with an exaggerated ugh as he flopped backward dramatically against the seat, arms crossed tight across his chest. “That’s not fair.”

“I know, I know,” Namjoon said, lips curling with the hint of a smile at the dramatics. “I tried to reason with him, but he was… adamant.”

Jimin puffed his cheeks in protest. “So I have to do everything again? Piano? Golf? Dance?”

Namjoon nodded slowly. “They’ll be split across the week like before. Not all at once.”

Still. That didn’t help much. Jimin groaned again, quieter this time, like the betrayal was sinking in deeper by the second.

“I just started at a new school,” he argued, voice rising just a bit. “I deserve a whole week off! At least!”

“I don’t disagree,” Namjoon replied, ever diplomatic. “But you know how your father is.”

Jimin’s eyes rolled so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck. He sank deeper into the seat and muttered, “Sure. Because piano, golf, and dance are soooo important for my future.”

Namjoon chuckled under his breath. “I know they’re not your favorite, but they’re meant to help you grow well-rounded.”

Jimin looked at him with the flattest stare he could muster. “I’m already round enough, thank you.”

Namjoon laughed out loud at that, a real, deep laugh that made Jimin crack a reluctant smile, though he tried his best to keep sulking. The corner of his mouth twitched anyway. He hated that Namjoon could always make him smile, even when he didn’t want to.

“Maybe one day,” Namjoon added playfully, “you’ll thank me when you’re the world’s first golf-playing concert pianist who dances on the side.”

“Or maybe,” Jimin said, lifting his chin in mock defiance, “I’ll run away and become a magician instead. Poof!” He waved his hands dramatically, “No more lessons.”

“Mm,” Namjoon grinned. “Should I go ahead and cancel your snack too, Magician Park?”

Jimin gasped like he’d been shot. “You wouldn’t.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow, smug. “Try me.”

“Fine, fine, I’ll go to the lesson,” Jimin huffed, adjusting his imaginary crown like a dethroned prince. “But only because I love cheese tarts more than I hate golf.”

“Wise choice,” Namjoon said, pleased.

The car pulled up to the gates of the estate, the driveway winding gently toward the main house, where the afternoon sun spilled across the stone like gold.

Jimin peeked out the window with a long, suffering sigh. His freedom had been short-lived, his victory fleeting. Back to the routine of tutors and polished shoes and piano keys he didn’t ask for.

But… there was something different now. He had a friend. Two, maybe. A class that didn’t hate him. A boy who called him smart and meant it. And Namjoon, always Namjoon, waiting with open arms and backup tarts.

So maybe the lessons were a drag. But everything else? It was starting to feel like the beginning of something good.

By the time they got home, Jimin’s stomach was already grumbling, loudly and with flair, as if it, too, wanted to protest the return of his private lessons. Namjoon, ever the savior, guided him to the dining nook near the sunroom where his after-school snack waited on a porcelain tray, arranged with absurd elegance by the kitchen staff.

There were tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off, golden cheese tarts still warm from the oven, and fresh fruit carved into flowers. Jimin plopped down with a sigh, his head briefly dropping to the table before he lifted it just enough to eye the tart.

“I guess I’ll forgive you,” he said to Namjoon with a small, tragic sniff, “because of this tart.”

Namjoon ruffled his hair affectionately. “I’ll accept that great honor.”

After devouring his snack (two tarts, four cucumber sandwiches, and half a papaya shaped like a swan) Jimin reluctantly let Namjoon lead him upstairs to change. The day’s uniform came off and was replaced by the tailored outfit set aside for his evening lesson. A pale cream shirt with a bow at the collar and navy slacks he didn't like because they felt too stiff. He wrinkled his nose at his reflection as Namjoon straightened the bow tie.

“Do I have to wear this?” he mumbled.

“It’s etiquette, not a pajama party,” Namjoon answered, smoothing a crease on Jimin’s shoulder.

“Well, it should be,” Jimin muttered. “Bet rich people would behave better if they could just wear pajamas all the time.”

Namjoon only chuckled as he guided him down the hallway, Jimin dragging his feet for dramatic effect.

The etiquette tutor, Miss Eom, was already waiting in the drawing room. She stood tall with her ever-perfect posture, a clipboard in hand and a thin smile that never quite reached her eyes. Jimin had nothing against her personally, she was polite enough, but her class felt like the slowest torture known to mankind.

“Good evening, Master Jimin,” she said with a slight bow.

“Hello,” Jimin said, barely hiding his sigh as he perched on the tufted chair that was somehow always too upright.

Today’s lesson was on formal table manners, again. Forks and knives, which one to use for salad, how to sip soup silently, how to smile politely even if the person sitting across from you just said something incredibly dull.

“How is this useful?” Jimin whispered to Namjoon during a demonstration on folding napkins into swans. “If I’m rich, won’t I have someone else folding my napkins?”

Namjoon pressed his lips together to stifle a laugh. “It’s about presentation, young master.”

“It’s about wasting time,” Jimin whispered louder, pouting as he stared down at his own limp napkin, which looked more like a crumpled sock than a swan.

The hour dragged on. By the end of it, Jimin’s head was resting against the table again, one hand aimlessly twirling a butter knife. Miss Eom didn’t even scold him, he was still polite about it, after all, but she did sigh as she gathered her notes.

He dined alone afterward. The dining hall, grand and quiet, echoed with the soft clink of silverware and the occasional rustle of cloth. No Namjoon at the table, no Seokjin visiting tonight, no Harin hovering. Just Jimin, a plate of roasted duck, and a goblet of sparkling juice that made him feel more like a ghost in a palace than a prince in training. He didn’t linger long.

When dinner was done, he wandered back upstairs, the staff already fading into the background, as they always did. But Namjoon was there, standing by his door with a warm smile and fresh pajamas folded over one arm.

“Bath time,” Namjoon announced like it was the best news of the day.

The bath was warm and smelled faintly of lavender. Jimin sank into it with a content sigh, eyes fluttering shut as Namjoon gently scrubbed behind his ears, humming a soft tune under his breath. It reminded Jimin of when he was smaller, really small, and Namjoon used to bathe him like a sleepy kitten, always gentle, always kind.

“You did well today,” Namjoon said as he rinsed the soap from Jimin’s hair.

“Even in etiquette class?” Jimin asked with one eye open.

Namjoon grinned. “Even then.”

Once bathed and clean, he stepped into his nightclothes, a soft ivory set with little blue embroidered stars. Namjoon buttoned the front while Jimin leaned against him, suddenly tired, all the day’s energy leaking out like water down a drain.

“I missed you at dinner,” Jimin murmured as they walked slowly to his bed.

“I had some paperwork to do,” Namjoon said, tucking the comforter aside. “But I’ll sit with you tomorrow, I promise.”

Jimin nodded sleepily, crawling into bed and pulling the blanket up to his chin. Namjoon sat beside him, smoothing his hair down, fingers threading through the strands gently. Jimin’s eyelids were already drooping, his mind drifting somewhere between the math problem he solved earlier and the way Taehyung had called his lunchbox so cool.

Despite the return of his lessons and Miss Eom’s endless forks, today had been… kind of nice.

And as Namjoon leaned down to kiss his forehead, whispering a soft “Goodnight, young master,” the little boy allowed himself to believe that maybe, not definitely, but maybe, tomorrow could be nice too.

Chapter Text

Tuesday morning came quicker than Jimin liked, but Namjoon woke him up with his usual soft voice and gentler hands, helping him dress in his fresh uniform and walking him to the car with a lunchbox larger than yesterday’s. “In case Taehyung wants extra fruit,” Namjoon had said with a wink. Jimin tried not to grin too wide at that.

School was still unfamiliar, but a little less scary. His new classroom didn’t feel so big anymore, the seats didn’t feel so far apart, and even the long day ahead felt slightly manageable. That was, until science class started.

The teacher was a young man with a friendly face and quick words. He moved around the classroom, dropping small quiz papers onto desks with practiced rhythm. Tap, tap, tap. Until he passed right by Jimin’s desk and continued on.

Jimin blinked. “Excuse me, sir,” he said politely, raising a hand halfway. “I didn’t get a paper.”

The teacher turned, clearly not expecting that. “Ah, right, you’re the new student,” he said, offering an apologetic smile. “This is your first class with me, Park Jimin. I hadn’t planned for you today, so I’ll excuse you from the quiz. You can take it next week.”

Jimin’s brows furrowed. That didn’t sit right. Everyone else had a quiz paper. Everyone else would be graded today. He wasn’t about to be treated like a delicate flower just because he transferred late. His fingers curled slightly on top of his desk.

“But I want to take it now,” Jimin said.

The teacher blinked. “You sure?”

Jimin nodded, straightening his spine. “Yes.”

“Well…” The man hesitated, then sighed, amused. “Don’t blame me if you get a bad grade.”

Jimin’s chin lifted. “I won’t. I never get bad grades.”

That made a few heads turn. Someone even chuckled under their breath. Jimin ignored it, his heart thudding, not in fear, but with stubborn pride.

The teacher finally handed him a paper, and Jimin stared at it, scanning each question. He barely hid the smile that threatened to spread across his face. Easy. Too easy. He flipped his pencil between his fingers like he’d seen Seokjin do with pens and began to write, quick and neat.

He finished before most of the class and double-checked his answers for good measure. The boy sitting to his right leaned over once they were told to put their pencils down.

“How was it?” the boy asked in a whisper, curious eyes peeking out from behind too-long bangs. Jimin realized he didn’t even know the boy’s name.

Still, he gave a small smile and answered honestly, “It was okay. Wasn’t hard. Pretty easy.”

The boy looked impressed, but Jimin’s attention was already elsewhere.

Yoongi was awake this time. Instead of snoozing with his cheek on his arm like yesterday, the boy to Jimin’s left was sitting upright, half-lazily twirling his pencil between two fingers. Jimin hadn’t heard him speak all class. Not that it was strange, but still… he was curious.

He turned his head just slightly. Studying Yoongi from the corner of his eye. His hair was a little messy, his uniform a little wrinkled, and his expression was unreadable, like he was half-bored but still watching everything. His fingers tapped quietly on the edge of the desk, a beat only he seemed to hear.

Jimin didn’t realize how long he was looking until—

“What are you looking at?”

The words were so flat, so casual, and Yoongi didn’t even glance his way as he said them.

Jimin’s heart leapt into his throat. “I—I wasn’t—” he stammered, his cheeks instantly flushing red as he dropped his gaze to his lap.

He fidgeted with his fingers, wishing he could vanish under the desk like a shadow. So embarrassing. He didn’t know if Yoongi was annoyed or teasing or just being… Yoongi. Whatever that meant.

Jimin stared down at his knees, willing the redness in his ears to fade. He thought about saying something back, maybe a soft sorry or even a joke to brush it off, but nothing came. His mouth felt too dry. His hands too warm.

The class moved on. The teacher collected the papers and started a new topic, but Jimin stayed unusually quiet for the rest of the lesson. The embarrassed flutter in his chest hadn’t quite settled. Not from fear. But because Yoongi noticed him. Noticed him staring. And somehow, that was worse than if he’d said nothing at all.

Still, even as he focused on the board, trying to keep his mind on science and quizzes and anything else, part of him kept wondering about the boy beside him, the boy who slept through class one day, and caught him staring the next. The boy who grumbled at loud students but helped him yesterday without even being asked.

Yoongi was strange. But not in a bad way. And Jimin was… curious. Too curious for his own good.

The bell rang, ushering in the next class—English.

Jimin shifted in his seat, flipping open his English textbook to the right page, already glancing over the passage printed across it. He liked English. He enjoyed reading, especially when he got to do it quietly and not in front of anyone else. But of course, that wasn’t today’s plan.

The teacher was lively and expressive, her glasses always sliding to the tip of her nose. She held the textbook in one hand, calling on students at random to read lines aloud. One by one, voices filled the room, stumbling, rushing, pausing at commas that didn’t exist.

Jimin kept his head down, eyes on the page. He knew his turn would come eventually, but he hoped maybe the teacher would overlook him. She didn’t.

“Min Yoongi,” she called instead.

There was a pause. Then Yoongi’s lazy voice drifted from the seat beside him. “I forgot my book at home.”

Jimin blinked and looked over just as the teacher frowned. “Then share with Park Jimin. Jimin, dear, scoot closer so he can read with you.”

Jimin’s breath hitched slightly when he noticed her looking directly at him, hand gesturing for him to move his desk. Everyone was watching. Or at least, it felt like everyone was watching.

He gave a small nod, reached down to grip the metal legs of his desk, and carefully dragged it sideways until it was right beside Yoongi’s. Close enough that their arms could accidentally brush if they weren’t careful.

He placed the open book between them, nudging it a little toward Yoongi. Then, using the tip of his finger, he pointed to where the last student had stopped reading. “Start here,” he whispered, almost too soft to hear.

Yoongi glanced at the page, nodded slightly, and whispered back, “Thanks.”

Then, with a smooth and strangely calm tone, Yoongi began to read. His voice wasn’t overly loud or animated like some students who tried too hard. It was steady. Unbothered. Like he didn’t mind being called on at all, even if he hadn’t brought his book. Jimin watched the page more than he watched Yoongi, but it was hard not to listen closely, to catch the way Yoongi didn’t stumble once.

When he was done, Yoongi didn’t lean back or close his eyes like Jimin expected. Instead, he glanced at the book again. And then, to Jimin’s surprise, leaned in just a bit, pointing quietly to the margin notes scrawled beside the next paragraph.

His voice was low. “Why are there notes here? We didn’t get to this part yet.”

Jimin blinked. “I study at home,” he whispered back.

Yoongi gave a soft hum, not quite approval or surprise, just acknowledgment.

Then, before Jimin could shift away or look back at the front, Yoongi added under his breath, “Thought it was cool.”

Jimin tilted his head, unsure if he’d heard right. “Huh?”

“That you took the quiz earlier,” Yoongi clarified. “Everyone else would’ve just waited for next week. But you said it was easy and just… did it.” He smirked faintly. “Kind of cocky, but cool.”

Jimin stared at him, wide-eyed. Cool? Him? His cheeks flushed instantly. He looked down at the book, hoping the red in his ears wasn’t obvious. He didn’t know what to say. Was he supposed to say thank you? Was that what people said when someone called them cool?

Yoongi didn’t seem to be waiting for a reply though. He just leaned back slightly in his seat and focused on the next student who had started reading aloud. Jimin, on the other hand, was still processing.

No one ever called him cool. They called him a know-it-all. A show-off. A snob. Even when he tried not to be any of those things. But Yoongi didn’t sound like he was teasing. It didn’t feel like sarcasm. Maybe Yoongi really meant it.

The flush on Jimin’s face didn’t go away. He stayed quiet, listening to the reading, pretending to follow along, but his eyes weren’t really on the words anymore. They were stuck on that one sentence. Thought it was cool. He tried not to smile. Tried. But the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

When the English class ended, the teacher dismissed them with a cheerful reminder about homework, and the room filled with the familiar rustling of students standing, stretching, and preparing for the next subject. Jimin quietly stood as well, hands moving to the sides of his desk. He gripped the cool metal legs and began dragging it back to its original spot, careful not to make a screeching noise on the floor.

But before he could get far, a hand gently grabbed his wrist. Startled, Jimin looked down and then up to find Yoongi staring at him, still seated, one brow slightly raised.

“Can I share your math book next class too?” Yoongi asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jimin blinked at him. “Oh,” he said, a bit thrown off. “Uh… sure.”

Yoongi let go, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied hum. Jimin slowly returned the desk to its spot beside Yoongi’s with only a small sigh, he wasn't even sure if it was annoyance or not. Probably both.

The math teacher walked in just a few minutes later and began class without much delay. Jimin placed the book neatly between them again, opening it to the right page. As usual, his own notes were scribbled in the margins, answers already penciled in from the night before. Namjoon always said prepare ahead, Young Master, and Jimin always listened. Mostly because he liked being ready.

The lesson wasn’t difficult, but a few of the problems did require more steps than most students could follow easily. Jimin, of course, had already solved them all at home. His page was marked with tiny numbers and logic steps written in neat handwriting, all inked in by his favorite gel pen.

“Who knows the answer to question eight?” the teacher asked aloud, gaze sweeping the class.

Jimin didn’t raise his hand. But Yoongi did. Jimin turned toward him, confused.

“It’s thirty-four,” Yoongi answered calmly.

The teacher beamed. “Correct. Well done, Yoongi.”

Yoongi nodded, looking the slightest bit smug, and Jimin’s eyes narrowed at him.

He leaned in, voice sharp and low. “You stole my answer,” he whispered accusingly.

Yoongi tilted his head toward him, blinking slowly like he didn’t understand the issue. “We’re sharing the book,” he said under his breath, “so technically it’s mine too.”

“No, it’s not!” Jimin hissed. “I solved it all by myself. It’s mine.”

“But you didn’t raise your hand.”

“That doesn’t matter! It’s still my answer!”

Yoongi shrugged, entirely too relaxed. Jimin glared.

He was ready to snap back again when the teacher’s voice cut through the whispering. “Jimin. Yoongi. No talking during class, please.”

Jimin straightened up instantly. “Sorry,” he mumbled, cheeks pink with embarrassment.

He turned and narrowed his eyes at Yoongi. “I got scolded because of you,” he hissed.

Yoongi smirked, tapping his pencil lightly on the desk. “You’re the one who started talking.”

That was it. Jimin was done. He grabbed the book and slid it fully in front of him with a sharp motion, no longer interested in sharing. If Yoongi wanted to steal answers, he’d have to do it without Jimin’s help now.

Yoongi, of course, just calmly reached forward and slid the book right back to the middle again.

“What are you doing?” Jimin whispered, trying not to scream.

Yoongi leaned in, voice playful. “Why is the little duckling pouting?”

Jimin’s jaw dropped. “Don’t call me that!” He yanked the book back to his side, huffing like a kettle on the verge of boiling.

Yoongi chuckled softly and pulled it right back between them again. “What if I do? Hmm little duckling?”

That was the last straw. Jimin’s hand shot up into the air. “Miss,” he said loudly, before he could even think twice. “Yoongi is talking to me and distracting me from the lesson.”

There was a heavy pause in the room.

Yoongi’s head snapped toward him with an expression of utter betrayal. His mouth opened like he couldn’t believe what just happened. “You—”

The teacher’s tone was firm. “Yoongi, outside. You’ve been warned.”

Yoongi slowly stood, expression twisted somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

Jimin didn’t look at him. Not directly.

But as Yoongi walked toward the door, Jimin could still hear the quiet murmur that slipped out of the older boy’s mouth. “How can such a cute face be so evil...?”

Jimin’s ears burned. He clenched his pencil tightly, refusing to look toward the door. He was not smiling. He was definitely not smiling. Even if, maybe, he wanted to.

When class finally ended, the students stood up noisily, grabbing their bags and chattering as they filtered out. Jimin was packing up his things when the door creaked open, and in walked Yoongi, dragging his feet with a deep pout etched across his face like a kicked puppy.

The moment Jimin laid eyes on him, he burst into laughter. It wasn't a delicate giggle either, Jimin leaned slightly forward, one hand over his mouth, shoulders trembling from how hard he was laughing. Yoongi’s pout deepened at first, but his eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, betraying his amusement. And for just a second, a smile tugged at his lips.

But then he scowled again, brushing imaginary dust off his uniform pants with exaggerated annoyance. “All that punishment was your fault,” Yoongi grumbled, slouching dramatically as he made his way toward his desk.

Jimin grinned mischievously, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “You got what you deserved.”

Yoongi sat down with a groan and muttered, “My legs hurt from all that standing…”

The laughter caught in Jimin’s throat. His smile dropped instantly as concern overtook his features. “Oh—wait, really?” he asked quickly, eyes wide as he stood up. “You stood the whole class…”

Before Yoongi could answer, Jimin was already tugging at his sleeve, guiding him to sit more comfortably on the chair. “Sit properly. I’m sorry. I shouldn't have… I overreacted.”

Yoongi blinked as Jimin looked away, biting his lower lip, fiddling with his fingers. His brows furrowed and his pout deepened, not in anger this time, but guilt. His lashes dipped low as he stared at the floor, voice smaller than usual.

“I didn’t mean to get you in trouble,” Jimin said, words rushed and muffled. “I shouldn’t have tattled like that…”

Yoongi stared at him for a beat, then sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Don’t apologize,” he said, voice softer than usual. “I was just joking. I didn’t think you’d take it that seriously.”

Jimin peeked up at him, lower lip still slightly jutted out.

Yoongi gave him a crooked smile and rubbed the back of his neck. “Honestly, I was teasing you too much during class. I’m sorry for that.”

Jimin shook his head right away. “You didn’t… I wasn’t mad. I just—” He hesitated, voice trailing as he searched for the right words. Then he smiled faintly. “It was fun. Teasing back and forth like that. I’ve never… done that with anyone before,” he admitted, cheeks dusting pink again. “It was nice.”

Yoongi’s smile widened, more genuine now, soft at the edges. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It was fun for me too.”

Jimin shifted on his feet, chewing on his lower lip, and then, like he couldn’t hold it back anymore, he looked up at Yoongi with those wide, hopeful eyes and asked, almost breathlessly, “Then… can we be friends?”

There was a small pause. Jimin’s chest felt tight. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked. Maybe Yoongi would laugh at him. Maybe—

“Sure,” Yoongi said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “I’d be glad to be your friend.”

Jimin’s whole face lit up. He beamed so brightly it could’ve put the sun to shame. His smile was huge and unfiltered, cheeks flushed, eyes twinkling like he just got the best gift ever.

And Yoongi, ever the composed one, reached out and pinched his cheek. “Cute,” he said simply, voice a little fond.

Jimin made a squeaky noise, swatting lightly at Yoongi’s hand with no real force behind it. But he didn’t stop smiling. Not even when his cheek tingled from the pinch. Not even when the bell rang again. Because he had a friend now. And that friend was Yoongi.

-

As the final morning bell rang and signaled the beginning of lunch break, Jimin turned toward Yoongi with bright eyes and a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Do you… want to have lunch together today?” he asked, trying to sound casual, even though he was vibrating with excitement on the inside. “With me and Taehyung. Since we’re friends now.”

Yoongi blinked at him, then shrugged, the faintest hint of a smile curling at his mouth. “Why not.”

Jimin beamed. He was really doing this. He was going to have lunch with friends, plural. Like a normal kid. Like how it was supposed to be. Not with adults in polished suits or alone in a big, cold dining room.

“Oh! Your friend Jungkook can come too if he wants,” Jimin added, remembering the younger boy who had approached them yesterday. “He seemed nice.”

Yoongi let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “He’s not my friend. He’s my little brother.”

Jimin’s mouth made a small ‘o’. “Ohh… that makes sense now. He looked really young.”

“Yeah, he’s in first grade,” Yoongi said with a careless wave of his hand. “Just turned seven.”

That gave Jimin pause. First grade. Seven. Which meant… if Yoongi was eleven… and Jungkook was seven…

Jimin blinked, doing the math quickly in his head. “Oh,” he said slowly, “so that makes him two years younger than me—”

Yoongi cut in without even looking up from adjusting his seat. “Four years, you mean.”

Jimin’s heart jumped in his chest. His eyes snapped to Yoongi, who was frowning slightly, like he was working something out.

“You’re eleven. We’re in fifth grade. Jungkook’s seven. That’s four years.”

Jimin’s lips parted, then closed again. He smiled quickly, awkwardly, tightly, and laughed just a little, trying to brush it off. “Right… right. That’s what I meant.”

He could feel heat creeping up the back of his neck. That had been way too close. Thankfully, Yoongi didn’t seem to catch the slip, though Jimin couldn’t help but wonder what he’d say if he knew the truth. That Jimin wasn’t eleven. That he was only nine. That he had skipped two entire grades, and no one here was supposed to know. He tugged at his sleeve nervously, about to change the subject when—

“JIMINIE!”

Taehyung’s voice exploded through the hallway as he bounded into the classroom like a whirlwind. He rushed up behind Jimin and threw his arms around his shoulders, squeezing tightly. Jimin nearly fell over from the force of the hug, but he couldn’t help laughing.

“Taehyung!” he half-scolded, half-giggled, clutching the edge of his desk for balance.

“Oh,” Taehyung said dramatically, noticing Yoongi standing nearby. “You made a new friend already?”

Jimin smiled brightly and stepped slightly aside. “Taehyung, this is Yoongi. Yoongi, this is Taehyung.”

The two boys gave each other a nod, and Taehyung stuck out his hand with a grin. “Nice to meet you.”

Yoongi shook it with an amused smirk. “You too.”

With that done, the three of them settled into their little corner of the classroom, dragging desks slightly together to form a loose triangle. Jimin sat at his usual seat and opened his schoolbag, carefully pulling out his lunch.

One after the other, the small, luxurious lunchboxes came out, neatly stacked and wrapped in embroidered cloth. There were at least five of them, far more than one boy needed. Each one contained something different: perfectly rolled kimbap, delicate dumplings, juicy fruit slices arranged like flowers, bite-sized bulgogi and rice, and even tiny cookies shaped like stars.

Jimin hesitated as he opened the boxes. His fingers lingered on the lids, nerves catching up to him again. This is far more than his lunch yesterday. Namjoon clearly went overboard. What if they thought it was too much? What if they thought he was spoiled? What if they laughed or—

“Whoa,” Taehyung said, eyes sparkling. “You brought a feast.”

Jimin quickly looked down at his lap, twisting his fingers. “I—uh, told the chef to make extra to share. If… if you want.”

He peeked up, expression anxious. “I’m not showing off or being rude,” he rushed to say, “It’s really not a big deal, you don’t have to—”

Taehyung interrupted with a wide grin, waving his hand like he was brushing away Jimin’s worries.

“Jimin, this isn’t showing off,” he said with a mouth already full of dumpling. “It’s called being kind.”

Jimin blinked, startled.

Yoongi, who had already reached for a triangle of kimbap, nodded in agreement. “Not rude. Just generous.”

That quiet little affirmation did something to Jimin’s chest. The knots of worry there slowly started to loosen. He let out a soft breath and smiled, shy and relieved.

Taehyung clapped excitedly as he picked through the boxes. “Your chef must be amazing. This stuff tastes better than the cafeteria food for sure.”

“He is,” Jimin murmured, cheeks still warm. “I told Namjoonie hyung you shared with me yesterday so he told the chef to pack extra for today.”

Taehyung nodded approvingly. “Your Namjoonie hyung sounds like the best.”

“He is,” Jimin said without thinking, then bit his lip. He could still remember the way Namjoon helped him change his clothes after lessons yesterday, how gently he combed Jimin’s hair, how he always waited for him outside the school gates with a smile.

Namjoon always said, “Young Master deserves the best.”

The lunch continued in warm chatter and laughter, the food slowly disappearing between the three of them. Jimin didn’t talk much, but he smiled a lot. He watched them both, Yoongi’s dry, quiet sarcasm, Taehyung’s chaotic energy, and something fluttered softly in his chest.

He wasn’t used to this. Eating lunch not in silence, but in the presence of other boys who didn’t care about names or titles. He didn’t have to pretend to be older, or smarter, or more composed. He could just… be. And for now, that was enough.

After lunch, the rest of the school day drifted by in a quiet haze. Jimin was in an unusually good mood, he even found himself tapping his pen during History and smiling to himself during computer science. Yoongi had leaned over once to whisper that Taehyung talked too much, and Jimin had tried not to laugh out loud.

Eventually, the final bell rang, and students began to pack up their things with the kind of energy only freedom could summon. Jimin, being Jimin, neatly stacked his notebooks, placed his pencil case exactly in the center of his bag, and zipped it slowly, deliberately. His eyes flicked to Yoongi’s desk, where the other boy was lazily stuffing his belongings in with no care whatsoever.

Jimin rose to his feet, smoothed down his shirt, and paused beside Yoongi’s desk. “Bye, Yoongi,” he said quietly, rocking back slightly on his heels.

Yoongi glanced up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “See you tomorrow, Duckling.”

Jimin puffed his cheeks but didn’t argue. He only turned and walked off, his steps a little too light, a little too fast. He liked the sound of see you tomorrow.

Outside, the afternoon sun painted the courtyard in gold and honey. Jimin’s eyes scanned the crowd instinctively, he didn’t need to, of course, he already knew who he was looking for. And there he was, like always.

Namjoon stood beside the sleek black car, tall and composed in a dark suit, hands behind his back, sunglasses pushed up to keep his hair neat. Jimin’s face lit up at the sight of him, and he half-ran the last few steps.

“Namjoonie hyung!” he called, throwing his arms around Namjoon’s waist in a rare public display of affection.

Namjoon smiled softly, patting Jimin’s head. “Young master.”

Without missing a beat, Namjoon took Jimin’s schoolbag off his shoulder and opened the car door. Jimin hopped inside, settling into the soft seat with a pleased sigh.

Namjoon joined him a moment later in the driver’s seat and glanced at him through the mirror.

“How was school today?” he asked, starting the engine with a smooth hum.

Jimin practically bounced in his seat. “I made a new friend!”

Namjoon’s smile deepened. “Another one? You’re on a roll, young master.”

“He’s really cool, hyung. His name’s Yoongi. He’s in my class and he’s funny and kind of grumpy—but in a funny way! We had lunch together with Taehyungie. Oh, and he called me a duckling.” Jimin wrinkled his nose at the memory, “But I think he meant it in a cute way. I hope.”

Namjoon chuckled under his breath. “He sounds... interesting.”

“He is!” Jimin said, voice warm. “Can I… Can I invite him over this weekend? Taehyung too, of course. We could play and maybe have a picnic in the garden or something?”

“Of course, young master,” Namjoon said immediately. “You can invite whoever you like.”

Jimin's face brightened even more, if that was even possible. But the excitement only lasted a few seconds before a faint crease formed on his forehead. He looked out the window, silent for a beat.

“But I was wondering…” he said slowly, “Should I tell him…? That I’m nine years old?”

Namjoon blinked, glancing at him again in the mirror.

“I mean,” Jimin went on, twisting his fingers in his lap, “technically, I didn’t lie! I never said I was eleven like the others. But… I didn’t say I wasn’t either. So is that the same as lying? I feel like I’d be a bad friend if I didn’t tell him.”

Namjoon didn’t speak right away. Instead, he waited until they stopped at a red light. Then, he turned slightly in his seat, his voice calm and thoughtful. “Do you want to tell him, young master?”

Jimin shrugged, his small shoulders rising and falling like the motion itself could answer the question.

“I mean… I was scared,” he admitted quietly. “In my old school, people didn’t react nicely. They teased me and said I thought I was better than them. They said I was weird. But… Taehyungie didn’t care. In fact, he was happy for me. So… so I hope Yoongi will be the same. But I’m not sure.”

Namjoon nodded slowly, turning back toward the road as the car began to move again. “Would you like my opinion?”

Jimin glanced up, nodding with a small hum. “Mm-hmm.”

Namjoon’s voice was gentle, like a warm blanket pulled over cold shoulders. “If you want to tell him, then do it. And if he reacts badly… then he isn’t really your friend.”

Jimin’s eyes widened slightly.

“Because if he were truly your friend,” Namjoon continued, “he wouldn’t care—just like master Taehyung.”

The car was quiet for a long moment, the road passing in soft hums beneath the wheels.

Finally, Jimin gave a small nod. “You’re right,” he whispered.

And he meant it. If Yoongi was really his friend, the kind that mattered, then he would understand. And if he didn’t… then maybe he wasn’t the kind of friend Jimin wanted anyway.

He leaned back against the seat, eyes still distant, lips pressed into a thin line. Still, somewhere deep in his chest, he hoped, really hoped, that Yoongi wouldn’t mind. That he would laugh and shrug and call him a Duckling again. Because that name, even if it made him pout, sounded a lot like something a friend would say. And right now, more than anything, Jimin wanted to keep that friend.

After returning home, Jimin was quick to slip out of his uniform, letting Namjoon carefully fold the clothes away for laundry as he stepped into something far more comfortable, a soft cream knit sweater with little acorns embroidered on the sleeves and matching corduroy pants. It was one of his favorites, even if the acorns were admittedly childish. Namjoon helped button the back, steady and gentle, as always.

“Do you want to eat your snack in the sun today, young master?” Namjoon asked, smoothing down the hem of the sweater.

Jimin gave a nod, his hair bouncing slightly. “Mm, it’s nice outside.”

With the comfort of fresh clothes and Namjoon’s ever-present calm surrounding him, Jimin padded barefoot down the hallway, slippers in hand. The sunlight poured in through the tall windows, golden and inviting. By the time he reached the garden, the house staff had already prepared a table with his favorite snacks, cut strawberries, honey biscuits, and warm milk in a porcelain cup. But that wasn’t what caught his attention. Seokjin was already seated there.

“Hyung?” Jimin blinked in surprise, his hands still holding his slippers, “You’re home early?”

Seokjin smiled brightly, patting the seat next to him. “Surprise.”

And it really was. Jimin didn’t see his big brother during the week very often. Usually, Seokjin was buried in work, traveling with their father, or stuck in endless meetings. So, to see him now, looking relaxed with his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up, felt almost like a dream.

Jimin rushed over, leaving the slippers behind and launching into a tight hug around his brother's middle. Seokjin chuckled, hugging him back.

“I missed you,” Jimin mumbled into his hyung’s shirt.

“I missed you too,” Seokjin whispered against the top of his head.

They sat down at the table, and Jimin reached for a strawberry, dipping it into a little bowl of sugar before popping it into his mouth. For a moment, things felt light. But that moment didn’t last.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Seokjin began gently, the kind of tone he used when he was about to say something Jimin definitely wouldn’t like. “That’s why I came home early today.”

Jimin tilted his head, chewing slowly.

“There’s a charity banquet this weekend,” Seokjin continued, trying to sound casual, “And father expects you to attend.”

The words didn’t sink in at first.

Jimin blinked. “Banquet?”

Seokjin nodded. “It’s for the Children’s Medical Foundation. Same one as last year, remember?”

Oh, he remembered. He remembered the big ballroom filled with people who looked at him like he was glass, too fragile to talk to. The fake smiles. The long speeches. The piano he had to play even though his hands were trembling. He remembered the way their father stood beside him like a statue, not touching, not smiling. Just watching. Always watching. Jimin hated those banquets. He hated them.

He looked down at his lap, the strawberry in his fingers forgotten. “But I don’t want to go,” he said quietly.

“I know,” Seokjin replied, voice soft. “But father said—”

“If father said it, then I have to,” Jimin cut in, voice barely above a whisper.

His shoulders slowly curled inward. The sunlight didn’t feel so warm anymore.

Seokjin frowned, reaching for his hand, but Jimin pulled it back gently.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” Jimin said, pushing back his chair. “Sorry, hyung.”

Before Seokjin could stop him, Jimin got up and walked away. He didn’t run, not at first, but the closer he got to the house, the tighter his chest grew. By the time he reached the stairs, his feet were flying. He passed the hallway, ignored the call of a housemaid asking if he needed help, and shot into his bedroom.

Namjoon, who had just come out of the study, called after him, “Young master?”

But Jimin didn’t answer. He slammed the door shut behind him.

Inside, the silence pressed down like a heavy blanket. The curtains swayed gently from the breeze, but Jimin couldn’t feel it. All he could feel was that awful sinking weight in his stomach.

His legs gave out beneath him, and he sank to the floor beside the bed. Tears came before he could stop them. He hated crying. He hated it. It made him feel small and weak, and stupid, but he couldn’t hold it back this time. Not when he’d just started feeling happy at school. Not when he’d just made a friend. Not when the weekend was supposed to be fun, with games and laughter and Yoongi and Taehyung. And now, instead, he had to go to a cold ballroom full of strangers and pretend to be something he wasn’t.

He buried his face in his hands. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to be the perfect little heir his father expected him to be. He didn’t want to stand next to the man who hadn’t hugged him in years. He didn’t want to wear a tight suit and force a smile until his cheeks hurt. He just wanted to be Jimin. Just… Jimin.

The door opened slowly behind him, but he didn’t look up. He didn’t have to.

Namjoon’s footsteps were silent, but Jimin could feel his presence, the way the room filled with quiet understanding.

“Young Master...?”

A faint sniffle answered him.

Namjoon crouched beside the bed. “Are you alright?”

A dramatic whine burst from under the covers. “I don’t want to go!”

“Go?” Namjoon echoed, gently tugging one edge of the blanket down to reveal a red-eyed, pouty-faced Jimin glaring at him like he personally scheduled the event.

“Don’t act like you don’t know!” Jimin snapped. “You work for my father—you obviously know everything!”

Namjoon blinked. “Well, I do work for him, young master, but I’m afraid I’m still lost…”

Jimin flung the rest of the blanket off and sat up with a huff. “The charity banquet! I don’t want to go! I don’t want to! And it’s on the weekend! My weekend! I was going to play with Taehyungie and Yoongi! And now it’s ruined!”

His little fists clenched on top of his blanket, cheeks flushed, lips wobbling again like he was seconds away from another sob.

Namjoon pulled out a handkerchief and moved closer, wiping the fresh tears off Jimin’s cheeks. “Come now, young master. It’s just one evening.”

“One evening of torture,” Jimin muttered dramatically, pulling his knees up to his chest.

Namjoon gently brushed Jimin’s bangs out of his eyes. “Your brother and father will be there.”

Jimin snorted. “Hyung will be busy making sure father doesn’t yell at the waiters, and father won’t even talk to me unless it’s in front of someone rich and important.”

Namjoon exhaled. He couldn’t argue with that.

“What about you?” Jimin asked suddenly, eyes wide. “Can’t you come? You’re my bodyguard! You have to come!”

“I’m not sure I’m on the guest list, young master…” Namjoon began, already knowing what was coming next.

“No! You have to come! I’m not going if you don’t! Jin hyung and father will be busy with the guests—I’ll be all alone! What if someone tries to talk to me about politics again?! Or asks me to play the piano in front of everyone?! Or—or they make me stand next to that girl who always says I look like a doll?!”

Namjoon smiled gently, trying not to laugh at the sheer panic in the boy’s voice. “I’ll speak to your father. I’ll see what I can do.”

Jimin crossed his arms. “You mean demand,” Jimin corrected him, still frowning. “Say it like you mean it.”

Namjoon chuckled. “I’ll demand it.”

Jimin nodded, satisfied for the moment. But then Namjoon spoke again, more gently this time. “Wouldn’t your father be upset if you didn’t go?”

Jimin rolled his eyes. “He’s always upset. It’s his hobby.”

“But don’t you care if he’s disappointed?”

The question made Jimin pause.

He looked down at his lap, picking at the expensive embroidery of his bedspread. “…I guess I do. A little.”

Namjoon ruffled his hair. “Then you should go.”

Jimin groaned and flopped backward. “Fiiiine.” Then he added after a beat, like it was part of a sacred negotiation. “…I want cake before.”

Namjoon raised a brow. “You always have cake.”

“I want extra cake. Vanilla. And the frosting has to be imported. From Paris.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“And I want sparkly shoes.”

“Sparkly?”

“With bows.”

Namjoon bit back a laugh. “Anything else, young master?”

“…Cancel my lessons for today.”

Namjoon raised a brow. “Now you’re just being cheeky.”

Jimin clasped his hands together and widened his eyes. “Pleaaaase?”

“You know I can’t do that.”

Jimin sat up again, arms crossed. “Then skip etiquette. I already know how to sit and chew and curtsy and whatever.”

“You curtsy?”

“If I have to!”

“Still no.”

Jimin groaned and flopped dramatically back onto the bed. “I hate this life.”

Namjoon stood and opened the curtains to let the light in. “Come now, young master. You have etiquette and piano today.”

“Piano again?” Jimin whined. “I already played yesterday!”

“For the banquet, young master.”

“What’s the point? I can’t learn a whole new piece in three days! Not unless they want me to fake it!”

“Are you still bad at playing?” Namjoon asked, raising an amused brow.

Jimin hummed innocently. “Same with dancing.”

Namjoon gave him a look. “You’re good at dancing. You just pretend to be bad so you get shorter lessons.”

“Is it that obvious?” Jimin blinked, wide-eyed.

“Not to anyone else,” Namjoon said, walking over to grab Jimin’s slippers. “But I know you too well.”

Jimin rolled his eyes with a dramatic sigh. “I wish you didn’t. I could’ve been free.”

Namjoon placed the slippers down by the bed. “Nice try, young master. Now wash your face. And don’t forget—you still have to choose your suit for the banquet.”

Jimin groaned louder, throwing his arms over his face like the world had ended. “This is punishment, not privilege.”

Namjoon laughed softly and offered his hand to Jimin to stand up. “Come on, young master. You’ll be late for practice.”

Jimin let out a long, heavy sigh that sounded like a martyr heading to the gallows. “A child should not suffer like this.”

“You’re the most pampered child I’ve ever met.”

“And yet I suffer,” Jimin said dramatically, taking Namjoon’s hand and letting himself be pulled off the bed. “Do you see the injustice?”

Namjoon smiled down at him. “Every day, young master. Every day.”

Chapter Text

Namjoon stepped back after adjusting the final details of Jimin’s outfit, a tailored ivory blazer with gold embroidery, matching trousers, and shoes so polished Jimin could practically see his soul in them. His hair had been combed, styled, and sprayed within an inch of its life. He looked like a porcelain prince, perfect and pristine.

“You look handsome, Young Master.” Namjoon said with a too wide smile.

But Jimin only crossed his arms and pouted. “I still haven’t forgiven you.”

Namjoon gave him a patient, slightly guilty smile. “I did what I could. Your father only allowed me to stay outside the banquet hall—nothing more.”

Jimin's pout deepened. “Then what’s the point of you even being there?”

“I’ll be nearby if anything happens.”

“That’s not good enough.” Jimin’s voice took on a bratty edge, which he didn’t even try to hide. “You’re supposed to protect me, Namjoonie Hyung. From evil. And banquets. And evil banquets.”

Namjoon let out a long-suffering sigh. “Come now, young master. You don’t want to keep your father and brother waiting.”

“Maybe I do.” Jimin turned his head away dramatically. “Maybe I’ll just sit here on the floor until everyone gives up on me.”

“Please don’t, young master.”

Namjoon had been handling him the entire day, coaxing him out of his bed, bribing him with chocolate during fittings, standing guard while Jimin sulked in the bathtub for forty-five minutes, and now? Now he was practically herding a baby goat into a lion’s den.

Still, by some miracle (or just exhaustion), they made it. The grand ballroom of the hotel glittered like a jewel box, too bright, too cold. Jimin’s fingers clutched at the edge of his blazer as he stepped in, the murmurs of guests immediately washing over him like static. Namjoon, true to his word, stayed behind.

Inside, Jimin’s father wasted no time grabbing his hand and pulling him through the maze of adults. “This is my youngest. Skipped two grades, can you believe it?”

Jimin flashed his most fake smile. He’d practiced it in the mirror: wide enough to look polite, small enough to show he was too dignified to want to be there. He nodded through the business jargon, smiled at investors, bowed at politicians. It was endless. He was just about ready to fake a nosebleed when—

“Jiminie?”

His head snapped up at the voice.

No way.

“Taetae?!” he gasped, spinning around and running straight into his friend. “What are you doing here?!”

Taehyung looked just as miserable. “My dad found out you’d be here. He said if you can go, so can I.”

Jimin groaned. “I’m so sorry. If I had known, I would’ve— I don’t know, staged a protest or something.”

Taehyung laughed. “Don’t worry. I get dragged to these things all the time. I’ve built immunity.”

Jimin opened his mouth to reply, but—

“Jimin, come here.”

He froze. It’s his father’s voice again.

“I… I have to go, Tae.” He turned reluctantly and shuffled over, heart already sinking.

“…He plays the piano beautifully,” his father was saying, smiling at some important-looking man Jimin didn’t recognize. “He’ll perform for us at the end of the evening, during the dance.”

Jimin stopped in his tracks.

His smile twitched. No no no no no.

Perform? In front of everyone? With his skills? The last time he touched the piano, he’d spent twenty minutes faking confusion about middle C just to get out of practice.

His lungs tightened. He couldn't do it. He wouldn’t.

But he also couldn’t say no. Not with that look on Father’s face. Not with the way he spoke like Jimin was some prodigy, like he expected it.

So Jimin did what any smart, desperate, spoiled boy would do.

He groaned.

Softly at first, just enough to get Seokjin’s attention across the room. Then again, louder, as he clutched his stomach and squished his face into a picture-perfect expression of pain.

“Jiminie?” Jin was at his side in seconds.

Jimin whimpered. “Hyung… I think… I think my tummy really hurts.”

Seokjin knelt, worry creasing his face. “Did you eat something bad?”

“I don’t know… it just… started hurting…”

“Father,” Jin turned to speak, but before he could even finish, Jimin groaned again, louder. He even let his knees wobble for dramatic flair.

Father’s face twisted. “He’s making a scene. Get him out of here.”

That was the cue.

“Don’t worry, Jiminie, hyung’s got you,” Seokjin said gently as he scooped him up.

Jimin leaned dramatically into the embrace, face scrunched like he was moments away from fainting.

They barely made it to the hallway before Namjoon was at their side, eyes wide. “What happened? What’s wrong with the young master?”

“He’s sick,” Seokjin said hurriedly. “Can you take him home? Maybe the hospital?”

Namjoon stepped in immediately, lifting Jimin from Jin’s arms like a hero in a drama. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. Please go back inside.”

“But—”

“I’ll keep you updated!”

And with that, Namjoon turned and ran. They rounded the corner before Jimin burst out laughing, snuggling into Namjoon’s shoulder as they hurried to the car.

“Your acting is improving, young master.”

“You saw through it?” Jimin giggled, completely unbothered.

Namjoon grinned. “I know your real pain face. That wasn’t it.”

“Will you play along?” Jimin whispered conspiratorially.

“Of course, Young Master.”

Without missing a beat, Namjoon adjusted his grip and shouted, loud enough for the echo to bounce dramatically off the marble walls, “Hold on, young master! We’re almost at the hospital! Please stay with me—don’t close your eyes!”

Jimin had to bite his sleeve to keep from bursting into laughter again.

Once they reached the car and slid into the back seat, Jimin flopped dramatically across the cushions. “Phew. That was close.”

Namjoon turned the engine on. “So? What was it this time?”

“Father told everyone I’d play the piano,” Jimin huffed. “In public. With guests. Important ones! He doesn’t even know I’ve been faking bad scales since February!”

Namjoon winced. “Ah… that’s rough.”

“But I escaped!” Jimin cheered, proud of his flawless getaway. “No piano, no dancing, and I didn’t even have to meet the ambassador this time.”

“Two birds, one stomachache,” Namjoon said with a smile.

Jimin grinned. “Exactly!”

There was a moment of victorious silence before Namjoon asked, “So… ice cream?”

Jimin's eyes lit up instantly. “Yes! We have to keep the lie believable! I need medicine. And ice cream is medicine.”

“Well then,” Namjoon smirked as he turned the wheel, “Let’s make a quick stop before the hospital.”

Jimin leaned back, crossing his arms with a self-satisfied sigh. “I suppose I forgive you now, Namjoonie hyung.”

“Thank you, young master. Your mercy is legendary.”

“And I want two scoops. With sprinkles. And the little chocolate pearls.”

“Of course, young master.”

“And no piano for the rest of the week.”

Namjoon glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “We’ll see.”

Jimin scowled. “Fine. I’ll pretend to be sick again.”

Namjoon only laughed. “You already did, young master. Let’s not push our luck.”

As promised, Namjoon stopped by a cozy little café nestled at the edge of the district, one with a quiet terrace, warm lighting, and a display case full of pastries that sparkled like treasures. Jimin picked the window seat without asking, settling into it like a prince reclaiming his rightful throne. Namjoon trailed behind him with their order: a cup of strong, dark coffee for himself and a massive parfait glass filled with three scoops of vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate ice cream for Jimin, complete with whipped cream, chocolate drizzle, and rainbow sprinkles.

Jimin immediately grabbed his silver spoon and began swirling it dramatically through the whipped cream. “Taehyung was at the banquet,” he said, his voice casual but edged with a little huff.

Namjoon took a long sip of his coffee. “Oh? I didn’t know he’d be there.”

“Neither did I. His dad dragged him along too.” Jimin stabbed his spoon into the strawberry scoop with exaggerated force. “But we didn’t get much time together—father kept pulling me around, introducing me to a million old men who smelled like cigars and wore watches that cost more than my piano teacher’s house.”

Namjoon let out a soft chuckle. “Didn’t enjoy yourself?” he asked, but his tone was more rhetorical than curious.

Jimin gave him a glare that could’ve withered flowers. “Are you joking, hyung? Be serious.”

Namjoon raised one hand in surrender, though the corner of his mouth was twitching. “Alright, alright. I thought maybe it’d be different this time.”

Jimin scoffed and shoved a large spoonful of chocolate ice cream into his mouth. “It wasn’t, and it never will be. Just a bunch of fake smiles and people pretending to care. And they only talk about business, stocks, mergers, investments, whatever.” He paused to wipe a bit of whipped cream off the side of his lip, nose wrinkling. “I don’t care about any of that. I don’t even know what a merger is, Namjoonie hyung!”

Namjoon chuckled quietly into his coffee. “Sorry for asking, young master.”

Jimin exhaled dramatically and began stirring his ice cream, even though it was already melting from the heat of his frustration. “This is why I hate my lessons! Everything is for some dumb banquet or event where I’m supposed to act like a polite little puppet. If I mess up, everyone acts like I’ve brought shame to the family name.”

Namjoon nodded slowly. “Even so, piano can be beautiful on its own. And dancing—it’s fun if you let it be.”

“Oh really? And what about golf?” Jimin deadpanned. “You think chasing a tiny ball with a stick is fun?”

Namjoon winced. “…Well… you could think of it as a walk. With obstacles.”

Jimin rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t stay that way. “That doesn’t help!”

He went on grumbling, venting every last ounce of frustration that had built up through the night. Namjoon mostly listened, offering the occasional “mmhmm” or “that’s fair,” though Jimin could tell he was trying not to smile at how ridiculously pouty he looked.

When Jimin finally reached the bottom of his third bowl of ice cream, because of course one wasn’t enough, Namjoon glanced at the time and gently prompted, “Shall we head home now, young master?”

Jimin frowned. “Do we have to?”

“Yes, young master,” Namjoon replied patiently. “You’ve already had quite a bit of sugar.”

“But I haven’t had dinner yet!” Jimin whined, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. “Can we eat out today? With you? Please? Pretty please?”

Namjoon tilted his head. “We usually eat at home, young master…”

“But the chef probably already went home,” Jimin insisted, all innocent eyes and soft pleading. “And besides, I don’t want to eat alone.”

Namjoon sighed. “Alright, but only because you’re right—the kitchen is closed for the night.”

Jimin perked up immediately, his entire body radiating triumph. “Yay! Then… can we get fast food? Pizza? No—burgers! I want fries! Please, please, pleeease!”

Namjoon hesitated, clearly struggling with the nutritional disaster that idea posed. “Young master… it’s not the healthiest…”

“I never get to eat this stuff!” Jimin leaned across the table, putting both hands under his chin in the most over-the-top puppy-eyed expression he could muster. “Just this once won’t hurt. Please? Pleeeease?”

Namjoon looked like he was going to hold his ground, just for a second, but then he sighed and dropped his head into his hand. “Ugh, alright.”

Jimin let out a victorious squeal and launched himself out of his seat, flinging his arms around Namjoon from across the table. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! I love you, I love you, I love you! So, so, so much!”

Namjoon chuckled, ruffling the boy’s soft hair. “Yes, yes. I love you too, young master.”

After much pleading and two full minutes of Jimin holding onto Namjoon’s coat sleeve like a child about to be abandoned at summer camp, they finally found themselves seated across from each other at a fast-food restaurant.

It was a modest place, tucked between a laundromat and a neon-lit PC bang, with red plastic chairs and greasy laminate tables, and a sharp smell of salt and oil clinging to the air. Namjoon looked entirely at ease, but Jimin? Jimin was enthralled.

His eyes were huge, bouncing from the fluorescent menu boards overhead to the self-serve napkin dispensers, to the soda machine in the corner that hissed whenever someone filled a cup. His silk blazer looked wildly out of place here, designer buttons gleaming beneath the flickering lights, but he didn't seem to notice. He was too busy staring at the menu.

“So, young master, what would you like to eat?” Namjoon asked, his tone warm with amusement.

Jimin’s gaze flicked up to the screens again, mouth open slightly in awe. The menu had pictures. Full-color photographs of burgers and fries and thick milkshakes, like a glossy catalog of forbidden delights.

“I don’t knoooow,” Jimin moaned, practically clutching his head in mock agony. “Everything looks so delicious! I can’t choose!”

Turning to Namjoon with an expression of pure need, he asked, “What are you getting?”

Namjoon pointed at a double-patty meal with fries and a drink. “This one. And that over there,” he gestured to a bright box with a cartoon character on it, “is a kids' meal. It comes with a toy.”

Jimin gasped so hard, two nearby customers turned to look. “A toy? With food? That’s amazing! That’s revolutionary! Why don’t we do this?”

Namjoon chuckled, biting back a reply that would probably begin with because we live in a mansion. “It is pretty amazing.”

“I want that one!” Jimin said, clapping his hands like he’d just won a prize. “The toy one! I want the toy!”

Namjoon nodded and stood up, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat.

Jimin tilted his head in confusion. “Bathroom?”

“No, young master,” Namjoon replied with a soft laugh. “I’m going to place our order.”

“But… aren’t we waiting for the waiter?” Jimin asked, brows furrowed. “I don’t see any.”

Namjoon held back a snort. “There are no waiters here. You order at the counter. Then they give you a receipt with a number on it, and when your food is ready, they call the number.”

Jimin’s jaw dropped. “You’re joking. That’s so—so fun! It’s like a game! Do we have to win to get our food?”

“Not quite,” Namjoon smiled. “Just… listen for your number.”

Jimin leaned forward on the table, resting his chin on his hands with a dreamy expression. “This place is amazing. I feel like I’ve stepped into another world. Can I keep the receipt?”

Namjoon chuckled. “Sure. I’ll be right back. Don’t move, alright?”

“I’ll be fine!” Jimin said brightly, already kicking his feet under the table in excitement. “Go, go! I’ll guard the table!”

Namjoon gave him a small salute and walked off toward the counter.

Left alone, Jimin looked around like he was trying to memorize every detail. The crinkled ketchup packets, the teenage boy wiping tables with an old rag, the jingle of the bell above the door as more customers walked in, it was all so normal, so real. And oddly thrilling.

He swung his legs beneath the seat, his shiny dress shoes not quite touching the ground. “Do people eat like this every day?” he muttered to himself, eyes wide. “This is way better than those tiny steak slices I get at home…”

A child at a nearby table tore open a straw wrapper with her teeth and Jimin stared at her like she’d performed a magic trick. When she noticed and waved at him, he waved back shyly, then straightened his posture and tried to look sophisticated, like someone who absolutely belonged in a fast-food joint and not someone whose personal lunch usually came plated by a private chef.

When Namjoon returned, carrying the slightly crinkled receipt like it was a state document, Jimin immediately bounced in his seat, leaning so far over the table he nearly knocked over the salt shaker.

“What’s our number? What is it?!” he demanded, eyes sparkling like a child waiting to hear if he’d won the lottery.

Namjoon smiled and turned the slip around. “Two-zero-three.”

Jimin squinted at the little numbers printed in cheap ink. “Two-zero-three,” he repeated with intense seriousness, as if committing it to memory was a matter of life and death. His gaze darted toward the counter. “How will I know when they call it? Will they say it loud? Do they announce it like—like—like the principal does in school?”

Namjoon chuckled. “More or less. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an ear out.”

But Jimin wasn’t listening. His hands were flat on the table, his face tilted dramatically as he scanned the room. Then, as a staff member called out, “Order one-ninety-eight!” he gasped and turned toward Namjoon with wide eyes.

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “That’s not us.”

“I know, but we’re so close! It’s almost our turn!” Jimin whispered, clutching Namjoon’s sleeve. “Also, hyung…”

“Yes?”

“You have to stop calling me that.”

“Calling you what?”

“Young master.” Jimin glanced left and right, then leaned in conspiratorially. “What if someone hears? It’s embarrassing! Tonight, I’m just Jimin. And you’re Namjoonie hyung.”

Namjoon blinked, then smiled. “Alright…”

“Good.” Jimin folded his arms like he’d just passed a law. “This is our secret mission, okay? If anyone finds out I came here, I’m doomed. My life is over. Like, really over.”

“Understood,” Namjoon said solemnly, matching his dramatic tone. Then, in a whisper, “But, let’s keep this our little secret, alright? If anyone finds out, we’ll both be in big trouble. You don’t want that, do you?”

Jimin gasped softly. “You’re right… No one must know. Pinky promise?”

Namjoon offered his pinky and they sealed it with a tiny shake.

Then—salvation arrived.

“Order two-zero-three!”

Jimin nearly launched himself over the table. “That’s us! That’s us, hyung!! Go, go, go!”

Namjoon laughed, standing up. “Yes, yes, I’ll go get it.”

Jimin watched him like a proud general watching his most trusted soldier retrieve the holy grail. When Namjoon returned, balancing the tray, Jimin’s eyes grew impossibly round.

“The tray is bright red!” he breathed. “That’s so stylish.”

Namjoon set it down with a soft chuckle. “Yes, it is, young mas—”

Jimin scowled instantly. “Really? Really?! We just talked about this!”

Namjoon raised both hands. “I slipped! Habit!”

“You get one more chance. One!” Jimin waved a finger, then gasped mid-gesture. “Oh my gosh—is this the toy?!”

Namjoon handed over the small plastic package. “I think it’s a superhero.”

Jimin tore it open and gasped. “It’s Batman! BATMAN, Namjoonie hyung! He’s my favorite! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh—look at the little cape! It’s rubbery!”

Namjoon smiled, resting his chin on his hand as he watched Jimin hold the figurine like it was a rare artifact. “I’m glad you like it.”

“‘Like’ is an understatement. I love it. I’m going to treasure this forever. It’ll go on my shelf right next to the glass sculpture from Paris.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “That one cost ten thousand dollars.”

“And this one came with fries, so technically, it’s more valuable.”

They both laughed, and Jimin finally picked up his cheeseburger. He unwrapped it with reverent fingers, like unveiling a present. The moment he took his first bite, his eyes fluttered closed.

“Oh my god,” he mumbled. “This is so good I think I’m going to cry. I’m not joking. My mouth is celebrating.”

Namjoon bit into his own meal with a smile. “Better than the foie gras from last week?”

“Foie gras tastes like sadness. This tastes like joy.”

As they ate, Jimin chattered non-stop, dipping fries in ketchup and wiping his hands on the too-thin napkins. He tried the soda next and coughed immediately.

“It’s fizzy! It attacked me!”

Namjoon laughed. “That’s the carbonation.”

“It has bite! I like it.” He took another sip and giggled.

By the time they finished, Jimin looked thoroughly satisfied, cheeks a little pink, hair a bit messy, the toy still clutched tightly in one hand.

As they headed back to the car, Jimin sighed dramatically. “That was the best night. I’m never eating steak again. Unless it’s shaped like a burger.”

Namjoon opened the car door for him. “I’m sure the chef will be thrilled to hear that.”

“Don’t tell him! Or anyone! This was top secret. Just you and me, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You need to promise me!”

“I swear to you. I won’t tell anyone.”

Jimin looked pleased with this answer and slid into the seat.

When they arrived back home, the manor was quiet. The front hall was dimly lit, no sign of staff, no sound from his father’s study. It was rare.

Namjoon leaned down as they approached the stairs. “Alright. I’ll come up with an excuse. You just stay quiet. You always give yourself away.”

Jimin pouted. “I do not. I’m very sneaky.”

Namjoon gave him a look.

“…Okay, fine, but I’m trying to be better.”

Inside his bedroom, Namjoon helped him out of his jacket and into soft pajamas. The moment Jimin’s head hit the pillow, he sighed with contentment.

“Hyung?”

“Yes?”

“Today was perfect.”

Namjoon smiled, pulling the blanket over him. “I’m glad.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, young master.”

Jimin clutched his new toy close to his chest. “Do you think Batman would like me?”

“I think he’d be honored to have you as a sidekick.”

“Not a sidekick. Co-hero.”

“Of course.”

Namjoon tucked him in properly and turned to leave, only to be met by Seokjin just outside the room. Jimin could hear them faintly before Namjoon closed the door.

“Namjoon,” he said softly, “how is Jimin? Is he feeling better? Is he in pain?”

Namjoon blinked, caught off guard. “Oh—he’s fine. I just put him to bed.”

Seokjin exhaled, his shoulders relaxing. “That’s good. Thank you.”

Namjoon nodded, his eyes briefly drifting to the small gap in the door, where Jimin lay with Batman cradled in his arms like a prince guarding a treasure.

As he turned off the hall light, Namjoon smiled and whispered. “Our secret is safe, young master. Good night.”

“Good night.” Jimin replied just before he slipped into sleep.

Chapter Text

Jimin hadn't even finished unwrapping his rice ball when a lanky boy from another class came up to their lunch table.

“Hey, uh… the science teacher wants to see you.”

Jimin blinked. “Me?”

The boy nodded quickly before jogging off, clearly eager to escape further conversation.

Jimin turned to Taehyung and Yoongi with an exaggerated sigh. “Why do teachers always call you when you're eating? It's like they wait for it.”

Taehyung nodded in agreement, his mouth full of kimbap. “Unfair.”

Yoongi barely glanced up. “You probably forgot to write your name on the test.”

“I never forget my name!” Jimin huffed, standing and brushing imaginary dust from his pristine uniform pants. “Unlike some people, my memory is excellent.”

With that, he strutted off, though he made sure to glance over his shoulder dramatically, hoping at least one of them was watching his retreat. They weren’t. Yoongi had gone back to his food, and Taehyung was trying to see if he could fit an entire egg in his mouth.

Jimin scowled, pouting slightly. “Rude.”

Still, he made his way to the teachers’ lounge like a good little student. Though as he approached the door, his steps slowed. He didn’t feel like he was in trouble. But also… this school had a way of surprising him. It wasn’t like home, where if someone had an issue with him, they whispered to Namjoon and he never had to know. Here, teachers talked to him directly. It was awful.

He knocked, and a tired “Come in” followed.

Jimin opened the door and slipped inside. The room smelled like old coffee and printer ink. The science teacher, Mr. Hong, sat behind a cluttered desk, his shirt sleeves rolled up like he was ready to perform surgery on a stack of ungraded homework.

“Hello, sir,” Jimin said politely, his tone clipped. “You asked for me?”

Mr. Hong gestured for him to sit down. “Yes. Take a seat, Park Jimin.”

Jimin obeyed, lowering himself slowly into the chair, posture perfect, back straight. He always sat like this when adults were trying to assert dominance, it annoyed them that he didn’t slouch like other kids.

The teacher handed him two papers. One had his name on it. His test. The other didn’t ring any bells.

“I don’t understand,” Jimin said, brows furrowing. “Why are you showing me another student’s paper?”

Mr. Hong sighed like he was the one being inconvenienced. “The answers are identical. All of them.”

Jimin stared. “Okay… but what does that have to do with me?”

The teacher looked up, his eyes sharp. “You’re new here. You took the test on your very first day. When I said you could wait to take it the following week, you insisted on taking it immediately. Now your answers match exactly with a student who’s been in my class all year.”

Jimin’s mouth parted in disbelief. “So you think I cheated?”

“You had a perfect score,” the teacher said flatly. “And you never attended any of my classes before the test. That raises questions.”

Jimin felt heat crawl up his neck, not from guilt, but from offense. “With all due respect, sir,” he said, barely keeping the steel from his tone, “that’s not a valid reason to accuse me.”

Mr. Hong’s expression darkened. “Your answers match. That’s all the proof I need.”

Jimin narrowed his eyes. “No, sir. His answers match mine. I don’t cheat. I don’t need to cheat.”

“Oh, really?” The teacher leaned forward. “Just because you come from money doesn’t mean you can manipulate your way through school.”

There it was. The rich kid remark.

Jimin’s expression didn’t change, but inside he was seething. “What does my wealth have to do with anything?”

The teacher stood suddenly, voice rising. “You’re being insolent.”

“No, sir.” Jimin rose too, spine straight, voice cold and clear. “I’m defending myself. You’ve made a serious accusation based on nothing but assumption. I won’t accept that.”

“If you have nothing more to say, I’ll be contacting your parents.”

“Then call Kim Namjoon,” Jimin said calmly.

That made the teacher pause. “Excuse me?”

“My guardian,” Jimin clarified. “His contact info is in the file.”

Mr. Hong frowned and yanked open a drawer, flipping through the student files. When he reached Jimin’s, he scanned the page… and froze.

Guardian Name: Kim Namjoon.
Relationship: Personal Attendant.

Mr. Hong blinked. Once. Twice. A third time, as if the letters might rearrange into something respectable.

He looked back up. “Why isn’t your parents listed?”

Jimin didn’t flinch. “Because my mother passed away and my father is a busy man. The principal is aware of this. You can confirm with him.”

The teacher shut the file with a huff. “Fine. Come with me to the principal’s office.”

Jimin followed without hesitation, chin held high. If anything, he was annoyed it had taken this long. He hoped the principal wasn’t in a meeting; he hated waiting around awkwardly.

Luckily, the principal’s office door was open. Mr. Hong explained the situation, waving the tests like proof of a crime.

The principal’s brow furrowed deeper and deeper as she listened. When the teacher finally stopped talking, the silence was thick.

Then, the principal said, flatly, “Mr. Hong, Jimin skipped two grade levels because of his intelligence. He advanced directly from third grade to fifth. Did you not read his file?”

Mr. Hong paled. “I—I didn’t realize—”

The principal stood. “You owe him an apology. Now. Then you’ll bring in the other student and let me handle this properly.”

The teacher looked like he wanted to sink through the floor. He muttered a stiff apology and left the office.

The principal turned to Jimin, his expression softening. “I’m sorry about this, Jimin. I trust you.”

Jimin exhaled, finally letting himself relax a little. “Thank you, miss. I don’t mind retaking the test, if it helps.”

“That won’t be necessary. It’s clear who copied.”

Jimin hesitated. “But… there’s no real proof of that. Please don’t give me special treatment.”

The principal’s lips twitched. “You’re a good kid.”

“Some people think I’m spoiled,” Jimin said airily, folding his arms with a huff. “But I’m actually very fair. Namjoon hyung says fairness is a sign of a gentleman.”

The principal chuckled. “Well, then, I’m lucky to have a gentleman at this school.”

A few minutes later, Mr. Hong returned, dragging a nervous-looking boy behind him. Jimin recognized him at once, it was the boy who sat on his right during the test. The one who had leaned over afterward and asked how was the test.

He was so obvious, Jimin thought, mildly annoyed. Couldn’t even be sneaky about it. If you’re going to copy me, at least be subtle.

The principal laid out the situation, asked a few questions, and finally offered a solution: both boys would retake the test in silence, under supervision.

The other student was silent for a long time. Then, he sighed. “…I copied. I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d get caught. I just—he answered everything so fast.”

Jimin didn’t gloat. He just stared at the boy with a perfectly neutral expression and said, “Next time, ask me for help. Don’t steal my answers.”

The boy nodded quickly. “Okay. Sorry. Really.”

Whether the boy would be allowed to retake the test or get a zero was up to Mr. Hong. But Jimin had already tuned out. It doesn’t bother him anymore. He had other things to think about, like whether he should ask Namjoon to take him to a bookstore after school. He deserved a reward. Not for being right, obviously he was right, but for being patient. That was much harder. Besides… Batman was already lonely on his shelf. Maybe it was time he had a Robin.

By the time Jimin finally returned to class, the lunch bell had rung and gone, and the afternoon lesson had already started. He peeked through the door’s glass panel first, smoothing his perfectly ironed uniform even though not a single crease dared defy him. His hair was still neat, thanks to the mirror in the principal’s office, and to the tiny brush Namjoon had tucked into his pocket. Jimin had standards. Even if the world was accusing him of crimes he didn’t commit, he wouldn’t look like a criminal.

He stepped inside quietly, clutching his test paper like a badge of innocence.

The teacher paused mid-sentence, raising an eyebrow. “Park Jimin?”

“Sorry for the interruption, sir,” Jimin said politely, giving the faintest of bows. “I was in the principal’s office.”

That earned a few scattered gasps from students. Some turned to each other, whispering like chickens in a coop. Jimin was unbothered. Let them talk. The truth would shine soon enough. And he was too pretty to look guilty, anyway.

The teacher, less dramatic than the students, simply nodded toward his seat. “Go ahead.”

Jimin slid back into his chair beside Yoongi, adjusting it with a soft scrape so it was exactly aligned with the desk. He wasn’t in the mood to explain anything yet. The conversation would need atmosphere. Timing. And maybe a dramatic pause or two.

“What happened?” Yoongi leaned in to whisper.

Jimin shook his head and whispered back, “I’ll tell you later. Focus on class.”

Yoongi pouted, yes, he pouted, though he’d deny it, and sat back, crossing his arms with an annoyed grunt.

The class dragged on painfully slowly. Jimin didn’t even take notes. His hand was still slightly trembling from the earlier confrontation, and while his pride was intact, his nerves were rattled. He kept replaying the principal’s words in his mind, the teacher’s glare, the boy's confession. Every time he thought about being falsely accused, his stomach twisted. He never got in trouble. He was the good kid. Even if a little spoiled.

Finally, the bell rang. The moment the teacher stepped out, Yoongi turned toward him with fire in his eyes.

“You said you were going to the science teacher’s office. How did you end up in the principal’s office?” he hissed, eyes scanning Jimin’s face like he was checking for bruises. “What happened?!”

Jimin sighed, rubbing his temple delicately with two fingers. “I was accused of cheating. And got scolded like some common delinquent.”

Yoongi gasped. Loudly. “What?! Who accused you?!”

“Mr. Hong.”

Yoongi blinked. Then his whole face contorted in a look of outrage. “Is he fuc—”

Jimin smacked his arm lightly. “Yoongi! Don’t say bad words!”

“But seriously! I thought a student did it. What kind of grown man accuses someone like you? I don’t get him!”

Jimin shrugged, lips pursing into a practiced pout. “He seemed to have issues with rich people.”

There was a pause. Yoongi blinked confusedly. “Rich?”

Jimin looked at him, deadpan. “Seriously?”

Yoongi’s lips twitched upward as Jimin’s jaw fell open slightly.

“You didn’t know? I mean, I don’t flaunt it, but…” He glanced down at his perfectly tailored uniform, the imported leather pencil case, the custom stickers on his notebook that Taehyung had called ‘suspiciously fancy.’ “Okay, maybe I slightly flaunt it.”

Yoongi snorted. “A little. But it’s fine. It’s cute when you do it.”

Jimin frowned, even as his cheeks flushed pink. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m really not,” Yoongi said, laughing softly. “You’re just… a very specific kind of person, Jiminie.”

Jimin liked the way he said that. Like it was something good.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the classroom buzzing quietly with chatter as the next teacher took their time arriving. Then Jimin’s expression shifted, lips pressing together, lashes lowering slightly. He fidgeted with the corner of his desk.

“Yoongi…” he said softly.

“Hm?” Yoongi turned toward him again, tone gentler this time.

“There’s something I haven’t told you.” Jimin’s voice was quieter now, uncertain. “Something I’ve been keeping to myself. And I think… I think I should finally say it.”

Yoongi blinked, surprised. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Do you wanna talk now?”

Jimin hesitated. He hated this part. The vulnerable part. The part where he didn’t know how the other person would respond. He could tell a hundred truths with a dramatic flourish, but this one stuck in his throat.

Yoongi reached out without hesitation, placing his hand gently over Jimin’s.

“It’s okay,” he said, thumb brushing lightly across Jimin’s knuckles. “You don’t have to say anything you’re not ready to. I’ll still like you, even if you don’t tell me stuff right away.”

That warmth, soft, calm, steady. It melted Jimin’s anxiety just a little. His chest fluttered, and for a second, he forgot he was supposed to say something at all. Just as he opened his mouth, the door slid open and the next teacher entered.

“Ugh,” Jimin groaned under his breath. “Every time I try to be serious.”

Yoongi grinned, squeezing his hand once before pulling back. “Tell me later?”

Jimin nodded. “I will.”

Class after class, lesson after lesson, the endless drone of teachers’ voices finally gave way to the sweet ring of the final bell. It should’ve been a relief. It was the end of the school day. Most kids were already sprinting for the exits, hooting and yelling, dragging backpacks half their size behind them.

But Jimin didn’t move.

He just sat there, chin resting on one palm, pen dangling from his fingers, pretending to be finishing up some notes, though his notebook was already full of perfect handwriting and overly neat bullet points. What he was really doing was waiting. Waiting for Yoongi to finish packing. Waiting for a chance. He still hadn’t told him.

The classroom was quieter now. Fewer eyes, less noise. Jimin turned his head slowly to glance at Yoongi, who was shoving a crumpled math worksheet into his bag like it was a candy wrapper.

“Are you seriously putting your homework in like that?” Jimin asked, scandalized.

Yoongi blinked at him, then shrugged. “I’m gonna do it anyway.”

“That’s not the point,” Jimin muttered, slipping his pen into a delicate velvet case with practiced grace. “Presentation matters.”

Yoongi snorted. “You're so perfectionist.”

“And you’re so messy,” Jimin shot back, but it lacked venom. He was too anxious to be properly bratty right now.

As they walked out of the classroom together, Jimin spotted a familiar figure by the gate. Namjoon stood tall and patient, arms crossed, sunglasses on despite the lack of sun. He looked like a bodyguard in a drama, because he was one, basically. Jimin’s pace quickened a little at the sight of him, but he paused and turned back toward Yoongi.

“Has your ride arrived?” he asked casually, even though he already suspected the answer.

“Oh, no,” Yoongi replied. “I walk home.”

Jimin’s brows furrowed immediately. “By yourself?”

Yoongi shook his head. “Not really. Jungkook walks with me. You remember him? My little brother?”

“That doesn’t count,” Jimin snapped instantly, his voice going a little shrill. “You’re still walking without an adult. That’s dangerous!”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I’m not a child, Jimin.”

“No, you’re not,” Jimin agreed firmly. “You’re worse. You’re a boy who thinks he’s grown, but doesn’t understand the dangers of the world.”

Yoongi looked like he wanted to laugh, but wisely decided against it. “What do you think’s going to happen?” he asked. “It’s daylight. We’re not walking through a warzone.”

Jimin folded his arms, all puffed up indignantly. “You never know. What if some strange man offers you candy? What if you trip on the sidewalk and fall into traffic? What if Jungkook drops his backpack and runs into the street? What if—”

“Okay, okay,” Yoongi interrupted, holding his hands up. “That’s a lot of ‘what ifs.’ We’ve been fine so far.”

Jimin didn’t look convinced. In fact, he looked even more alarmed. “That just means your luck is due to run out!”

Then, without asking permission, because when did he ever? Jimin grabbed Yoongi’s hand tightly. “Come with me,” he said, tugging him toward the car. “Namjoon hyung can drive you home.”

Yoongi tried to pull his hand back. “It’s fine, Jimin. Really. I always walk with Jungkook.”

“I said it’s not fine!” Jimin insisted, dragging him a few more steps before realizing Yoongi had completely stopped moving. He turned around with wide, panicked eyes. “Please, just come with me.”

Yoongi stared at him, confused, and honestly a little overwhelmed. Jimin was obviously distressed. It wasn’t a show, well, not entirely. It was real worry, wrapped in layers of entitlement and dramatics.

Just then, a small voice broke through the moment. “Yoongi hyung!”

Jungkook came bounding up to them, backpack bouncing, smile bright. He stopped next to his brother and blinked up at Jimin.

“Your friend?” he asked curiously.

Yoongi nodded, still looking at Jimin like he was trying to read a language he’d never seen before. “Yeah.”

Jimin was about to open his mouth again when Namjoon walked up briskly, sensing the tension. “Young Master?”

Jimin turned to him with all the fury and drama of a prince who’d just discovered a tragedy. “Namjoon hyung, Yoongi says he walks home. Without any adult supervision!”

Namjoon blinked. Then blinked again. “Oh…”

He understood. Of course he did. Jimin’s kidnapping was still something neither of them liked to talk about. It made Jimin this way, paranoid, overprotective, fragile behind all the silk and sass.

“Well… technically, it’s not unsafe,” Namjoon started.

Jimin’s eyes widened in betrayal.

Namjoon cleared his throat. “But! But of course, it’s much safer to ride in the car.”

Yoongi, cornered by concern and spoiled insistence, sighed. “F-fine. I’ll come. Just this once.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “Huh?”

“We’re riding with my friend Jimin,” Yoongi explained quickly. “That okay?”

Jungkook shrugged. “Okay.”

Jimin gave Namjoon a triumphant look, then marched toward the car, still holding Yoongi’s hand like he didn’t trust him not to run. Once they were all settled in the back seat (Jimin in the middle, naturally) he turned to Yoongi again, gaze softening.

“So,” Yoongi said, shifting beside him, “what did you want to tell me earlier? Unless it’s, like, a secret you don’t want your driver to hear.”

Jimin scoffed. “He’s not my driver.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow.

Jimin leaned in, whispering behind his hand with a small giggle. “He’s my superhero.”

Yoongi stared at him for a second, before smiling despite himself.

But Jimin’s smile faded, and suddenly he was looking down at his lap, fingers nervously brushing invisible lint from his slacks. “I… actually… I’m not eleven.”

Yoongi blinked. “Huh?”

“I’m nine,” Jimin admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I skipped two grades. I was in third, but I tested out and got moved to fifth. That’s why I had to change schools.”

Yoongi didn’t respond at first. Jimin braced himself for the worst.

“I’m sorry for lying,” Jimin added quickly. “And for being informal with you and never calling you ‘hyung’ even though you’re two years older. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just… I didn’t want you to think I was some weirdo and stop being friends with me.”

There was a long pause. Jimin didn’t dare look up.

Then Yoongi said, “Wait. So you skipped two whole grades? That’s amazing, Jiminie.”

Jimin blinked, eyes darting up. “You’re not… mad?”

“Mad?” Yoongi laughed. “Why would I be mad? You’re a genius!”

Jimin’s lips trembled, but he tried to hide it with a pout. “But I didn’t tell you.”

“That’s not lying. That’s just… delaying the truth,” Yoongi said with a shrug. “And who cares how old you are? You’re still you. And I still like you.”

Jimin’s chest fluttered.

“But,” Yoongi added, voice lowering teasingly, “I am a little offended you thought I’d stop being your friend over something so small.”

“I didn’t mean to! It’s just…” Jimin looked away, cheeks pink. “You and Taehyungie are my first real friends. And my last school was awful. People were mean. I didn’t want to mess this up.”

Yoongi tilted his head. “Bad how?”

Jimin hesitated. “It just… wasn’t good.”

He didn’t say the kids used to mock him for having “butler lunchboxes” or whisper about his kidnapping. He didn’t say Namjoon had pulled him out mid-year because he got in a fight with kids after news went around about him moving grades.

Before Yoongi could ask again, Namjoon’s voice came from the front seat. “Is this your house, Yoongi?”

Yoongi peered out the window. “Yeah, it is.”

Just as he reached for the door handle, Jimin grabbed his arm. “Wait! I have a request.”

Yoongi turned, wary. “What is it?”

“Let me drive you and Jungkook to and from school every day. Please.”

Yoongi looked stunned. “Jimin…”

Jimin’s pout deepened, and his voice took on that tone. The one that made Namjoon sigh and comply and made Seokjin give up half his schedule.

“Please,” he said, eyes wide and worried. “Namjoon hyung won’t mind, right?”

Namjoon, poor thing, froze like a deer in headlights. “Uh… y-yes. Of course.”

Jimin turned back to Yoongi, full of stubborn hope. “Please? For your safety.”

Yoongi looked at Jungkook.

The younger boy shrugged. “I don’t mind. Your car is really cool.”

Yoongi sighed. “Fine… I’ll talk to my mom.”

And just like that, Jimin beamed. So brightly the whole car felt warmer.

“Thank you,” he whispered, then leaned in and gave Yoongi a quick, fierce hug.

Yoongi blinked, startled, but hugged him back just as quickly.

Then he and Jungkook slipped out of the car, waving goodbye.

As the door closed behind them, Jimin flopped dramatically against the seat, hand over his heart.

Namjoon glanced at him through the mirror. “Are you alright, moung Master?”

“I almost lost a friend today, Namjoonie hyung,” Jimin sighed. “I deserve cake. Something with strawberries.”

Namjoon chuckled softly. “I’ll inform the kitchen.”

Jimin closed his eyes and let the warmth of the moment settle over him like silk.

He hadn’t messed it up. Yoongi was still his friend. And tomorrow, he’d get to ride to school with him, his way. Safe, pampered, and spoiled properly. As it should be.

As Namjoon started the car again, his hand resting on the steering wheel, the soft hum of the engine filled the space. Jimin leaned back against the plush leather seats, allowing himself to relax. His stomach, still fluttering with the satisfaction of having solved the Yoongi situation, finally started to settle.

At least now, he wouldn’t have to worry about Yoongi walking home alone. Jimin couldn’t understand why anyone, especially Yoongi, would be so stubborn about something so simple. If only Yoongi listened to me, everything would be so much easier, Jimin thought, a slight pout forming on his lips. I’m just trying to keep him safe.

The thought of Yoongi trudging along the street without protection made his chest tighten. What if something happened? What if someone tried to hurt him? I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t make sure he was okay...

He sighed deeply, feeling a little better. Yoongi is safe now. That’s what matters.

Namjoon glanced at him from the rearview mirror, his voice breaking the silence. “Young master, forgive me for interfering, but I think you’re being too hard on your friend.”

Jimin frowned instantly, the satisfaction of victory starting to wane. What? He tilted his head, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his school jacket. “What do you mean? I’m just making sure Yoongi doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“I understand, young master,” Namjoon said gently, his tone softening. “But his house is close to the school, and many children his age walk home.”

Jimin crossed his arms, the frown on his face deepening. “That doesn’t matter,” he muttered under his breath. “What if something happens? You know this, hyung. You’re a bodyguard—you know better than anyone that it’s dangerous out there!”

Namjoon’s hands tightened on the wheel slightly, but he didn’t let it show on his face. “I do understand, young master. But not every situation is dangerous. Not everything requires intervention.”

Jimin huffed, turning to look out the window. The scenery blurred as they drove past rows of trees, but his mind kept going back to Yoongi. What if someone decides to bother him? What if he gets into trouble? Yoongi doesn’t know how to protect himself the way I do...

He squeezed his eyes shut. It’s still dangerous. He’s my friend. I have to protect him.

Feeling a small storm brewing in his chest, Jimin crossed his arms tightly, leaning back further into the seat. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he couldn’t help the frustration bubbling up again. Namjoon had been nothing but calm and reasonable, but it didn’t make Jimin feel any less worried. He’s wrong. He doesn’t understand.

Sensing the change in the atmosphere, Namjoon quickly pivoted the conversation, always quick to smooth over Jimin’s moods. “How was school today, young master?”

At the mention of school, Jimin’s thoughts shifted. A scowl formed on his face as he remembered his encounter with the science teacher. “The science teacher hates me.”

Namjoon’s eyes widened briefly in the rearview mirror. “What? Why??”

Jimin shrugged, clearly not impressed by the situation. “I don’t know. Maybe because I’m rich?” His voice held a tinge of irritation, but he tried not to dwell on it too long. “He’s always staring at me with that judgmental look.”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow, clearly concerned. “Did he say something to you?”

Jimin’s lips curled into a slight smirk as he remembered the confrontation. “He accused me of cheating and yelled at me. But…” His smirk grew, proud of how he’d handled it. “I handled it well.”

Namjoon froze for a moment, his grip on the steering wheel tightening in disbelief. “He accused you of what? And he yelled at you?” Namjoon’s voice rose, sharp and furious. “Tell me his name—I'll deal with him! No one dares to yell at my young master and gets away with it!”

Jimin, sensing Namjoon’s impending wrath, quickly raised a hand. “Hyung, please, don’t overreact. I said it’s fine. It’s not like I let him walk all over me.” He shifted slightly in his seat, trying to sound casual. “I told him off. I don’t need you to intervene.”

Namjoon let out a long, drawn-out sigh of exasperation. “It’s not fine! No one talks to you like that! He had the nerve to raise his voice? And you’re telling me to let it go? I’ll make sure that teacher knows who he’s dealing with.” His voice was heavy with the promise of action, and Jimin could see the anger boiling in Namjoon’s usually composed demeanor.

Jimin groaned, throwing himself dramatically against the plush seat. “Hyung! I said it’s fine! Please, don’t go making a big deal out of it. I already dealt with it.”

Namjoon was clearly still upset, but he knew better than to argue further. He bit back a retort, glancing briefly at Jimin before responding with a sigh. “Alright, young master, but that doesn’t mean I won’t have a word with the school about this. No one gets away with disrespecting you.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the small, grateful smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re impossible,” he muttered. But I know you’d never let anyone hurt me, even if you act like a caveman about it.

Namjoon smirked a little to himself. “You don’t get to tell me that after what I saw earlier. I’ll protect you, young master, no matter what.”

Jimin let the moment pass, feeling a little warmer inside. He hated when Namjoon got too protective, but deep down, he knew that he was the only one who would always have his back. That comforted him more than he wanted to admit.

Jimin turned his gaze to the window again, the weight of the day lifting off his shoulders. As the car rolled through the streets, heading toward his mansion, Jimin thought about how things were finally going the way he wanted. His friendship with Yoongi was solidifying, even if he had to go overboard sometimes to keep him safe. And even though school had been frustrating, it was manageable. After all, with Namjoon around, nothing could really go wrong.

As Jimin and Namjoon stepped into the grand, high-ceilinged foyer of the Park estate, the housekeeper greeted them with a slight bow, but something in her eyes flickered with surprise. That was the first sign that something was different. Then came the second.

“The Chairman is home today,” she said quietly, eyes flicking toward the double doors leading to the formal dining room.

Jimin stopped mid-step.

Namjoon looked down at him instantly. “Young Master?”

Jimin blinked. His father was home? At this hour? He’s never home this early… or at all, lately.

There was a beat of silence, and then Jimin adjusted the strap of his schoolbag with a tiny, practiced pout. “Did he ask for me?” he asked, voice soft but laced with pride, almost hopeful despite himself.

“He asked for lunch to be set for two,” the housekeeper replied gently.

That was all Jimin needed to hear.

“Namjoonie hyung, help me fix my collar,” he said in a sudden flurry, already turning toward the mirror beside the staircase. “And my hair—does it look flat? I don’t want to look like I’ve been outside for hours. Oh, and wipe my shoes a little. He hates dirty shoes on the dining room floor.”

Namjoon smiled faintly as he knelt and dusted Jimin’s loafers with a handkerchief. “You look perfect, young master.”

“I always look perfect,” Jimin replied without missing a beat, smoothing down the soft front of his school blazer with a tiny frown. “But father is picky.”

He took one more breath, straightened his posture, and made his way to the dining room with the deliberate grace of someone used to being watched.

Inside, the long mahogany table looked far too large for just two place settings. His father sat at the head, freshly pressed in a charcoal suit, his silver tie pin glinting faintly in the light that streamed from the tall windows. His plate was untouched.

“Good afternoon, father,” Jimin said sweetly as he approached, dipping his head just slightly, the way he’d been taught since he could walk.

His father glanced at him. “You’re late.”

“I had a longer day,” Jimin answered, sliding gracefully into the seat prepared for him. “But I skipped lunch today, so I’m starving.”

His father didn’t respond, but he gestured for the butler to begin serving. The room was quiet except for the soft clink of silverware. Jimin hated that silence, hated how small it made him feel. But today, he refused to let it win.

“I got one hundred percent on my math quiz,” he said after a moment, the pride in his voice only slightly masked by nonchalance.

His father nodded, not looking up from his plate. “How is school?”

Jimin brightened. Finally, a real question.

“Good!” he chirped. “I made some new friends, and my grades are still great. The curriculum isn’t as hard as I expected.”

His father hummed in that usual way of his, neither approving nor disapproving, just thinking. Then, without looking at him, he asked, “A friend other than Kim Wooshik’s son?”

Jimin blinked. “You mean Taehyung? He’s not in my class, so I met someone else. His name is Yoongi. He sits next to me.”

His father finally paused, knife hovering above his steak. “What’s his family name?”

Jimin frowned slightly, puzzled by the question. “Min. Min Yoongi.”

“Min?” His father lowered the knife. “I’ve never heard of that family name before. What does his father do?”

Jimin’s eyes narrowed just a little. He knew this tone, calm, but sharp. It always meant judgment was coming. “I don’t know,” he replied.

His father set down his utensils entirely. “Find out and tell me.”

Jimin stared at him, his appetite slowly vanishing. “Why?”

“Because my son shouldn’t befriend just anyone,” his father said plainly, as if that were the most obvious statement in the world.

The words landed heavily in Jimin’s chest. Just anyone?

“But Yoongi is nice,” he said slowly. “He’s a good friend.”

His father didn’t flinch. “And what use is ‘nice’ these days?”

Jimin looked down at his plate, shoulders stiff. He doesn’t understand. He never does.

He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to argue. He didn’t want to ruin this rare, almost mythic thing: a shared meal with his father. He’d dreamed of it more times than he could count, back when he used to wait up in his pajamas hoping to catch even a glimpse of him.

Still, it burned.

After a long pause, his father cut another piece of steak. “How is Namjoon with you? Does he take good care of you?”

That made Jimin glance up again, the heaviness in his chest easing just a bit. His lips curled into a smile, softer this time. “He’s very kind to me. He takes great care of me, worries about me, and looks after me. I love him. When I get lonely because you and Jin hyung are busy, he keeps me company.”

His father nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. He is my right-hand man, after all. I would have been disappointed if you two didn’t get along.”

Jimin twirled his fork between his fingers. “No, we get along really well,” he said. “He’s my Namjoonie hyung.”

Another silent nod from his father. That seemed to be the end of it.

They finished lunch quietly, but Jimin didn’t speak much after that. The food was delicious, as always, but it sat heavy in his stomach. As his father excused himself for a nap, Jimin watched him go with unreadable eyes.

Once the doors shut behind him, Jimin sat still at the table, his legs swinging slightly beneath the chair, too short to rest comfortably on the ground. A childish pout found its way to his lips before he could stop it.

“‘What use is nice?’” he mimicked under his breath. “As if everything has to be useful.” He stabbed a piece of strawberry from his dessert plate like it had personally offended him. “Yoongi is the only good thing about school, and he wants me to ask about his father?”

Namjoon approached from a respectful distance, sensing the storm clouds forming. “Finished, young master?”

Jimin nodded and stood. “Let’s go upstairs. I want to study. And I’m not in the mood for etiquette lessons today, so cancel them. I’m busy with homework so I don’t have time!”

“Yes, young master,” Namjoon said without hesitation, already pulling out his phone.

Once they were inside Jimin’s room, the boy threw himself dramatically onto his bed, limbs splayed out over the pillows like a painting of despair. “Why does father have to ruin everything?”

Namjoon set Jimin’s bag down and walked over to the bed, adjusting one of the decorative pillows that Jimin had crushed. “He doesn’t mean to, you know.”

“Yes, he does,” Jimin muttered. “He always does. Even when he’s home, it’s like he’s not. And when he is here, he says something awful and then leaves.”

Namjoon said nothing for a moment. He just sat down on the edge of the bed, his presence steady and warm. Jimin curled toward him, cheek pressed against his arm.

“He thinks being rich makes someone important,” Jimin mumbled. “But Yoongi is already important. To me. Isn’t that enough?”

“It’s more than enough,” Namjoon said gently.

There was a pause.

“…Also,” Jimin added, lifting his head with a small, smug smile, “I’m still going to be friends with him. No matter what father says.”

Namjoon chuckled. “I figured you would.”

“I always get my way,” Jimin said proudly. “Even if father doesn’t like it.”

And with that, he sat up and climbed off the bed, brushing invisible dust off his sleeves.

“I’m going to study now,” he declared, already walking toward his desk. “But only until five o’clock. Then I want macarons. And you’re going to sit next to me the whole time.”

“Yes, young master.”

“And you have to remind me how smart and wonderful I am every fifteen minutes.”

“Of course, young master.”

Jimin beamed. Maybe his father didn’t understand him. Maybe he never would. But that didn’t matter. Because Jimin had Namjoon. And now, he had Yoongi, too.

Chapter Text

Jimin was up unusually early. He sat on the edge of his canopied bed, legs kicking back and forth in little silk pajama shorts, chin resting in his hands as he stared at the door, waiting for Namjoon to finish fixing his school tie. His soft brown hair had already been styled into neat waves by one of the maids, and his cologne smelled faintly of roses and vanilla, because he’d specifically asked for that scent today. He didn’t know why.

Actually… he did. Because Yoongi likes it, he thought with a pleased little hum. He said I smelled good last time.

Namjoon walked in with his school uniform blazer in hand. “You’re all ready, young master.”

“Of course I am,” Jimin replied with a soft, smug smile, standing up and lifting his arms like a little prince expecting to be dressed, which, of course, he was.

Namjoon helped him into the blazer with practiced ease, then smoothed the shoulders, crouching to fix the cuffs. “Excited for school today?”

“No,” Jimin lied easily, adjusting his sleeve with a pout. “I’m never excited for school. I just want to get it over with.”

But as he turned toward the mirror and checked his reflection for the third time, he caught the way his cheeks were slightly pink and glowing.

“Are we picking up Yoongi and Jungkook again?” he asked casually.

Namjoon chuckled. “Yes. Just like yesterday.”

“Good,” Jimin said, walking ahead with a confident sway. “I want the seat by the window.”

The car ride to the Min household was brief, and Jimin kept glancing at the clock, chewing the edge of his thumbnail, not enough to damage it, of course, just enough to feel something.

What if he overslept again? What if he forgot we were coming? What if he doesn’t sit next to me today?

As if summoned by his thoughts, the front door of the modest Min home swung open, and Jungkook burst out like a firecracker.

“Good morning!” he beamed, his backpack bouncing wildly as he climbed into the car seat.

Jimin blinked at him with mild amusement. “Good morning,” he said, far more composed, hands folded neatly in his lap.

A moment later, Yoongi emerged, slow and sleepy, dragging his feet in oversized sneakers with his backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. He yawned so widely Jimin could practically see his tonsils.

He looked… absolutely adorable.

Jimin scooted over without needing to be asked, and Yoongi slumped down into the seat beside him, eyes half-closed.

“Morning…” he mumbled, letting his head drop onto Jimin’s shoulder like it belonged there.

Jimin blinked. His heart did something weird, like it skipped a beat and decided not to come back.

“…Good morning, Yoongi,” he whispered back, a shy little smile tugging at his lips.

Yoongi didn’t respond. He was already drifting.

Jimin swallowed, then slowly, very slowly, raised his hand and ran his fingers through Yoongi’s messy hair. It was warm and soft, like clouds, and smelled faintly of shampoo and sleep.

“You can rest until we get there,” Jimin murmured, ruffling a bit of the fringe playfully.

Yoongi hummed in agreement but didn’t lift his head.

Jimin sat frozen in place, pretending to be unfazed even as his cheeks warmed and his fingers trembled just slightly.

The car was mostly quiet after that. Jungkook tried to talk to Namjoon once or twice, but Jimin wasn’t listening. He was too busy committing every second of this to memory, the weight of Yoongi’s head on his shoulder, the way he trusted him enough to fall asleep like that.

By the time they reached the school gates, Jimin didn’t want to move.

“Yoongi,” he said softly, shaking him with gentle fingers, “we’re here.”

Yoongi stirred, blinking slowly as he sat up. His hair stuck up on one side, and Jimin couldn’t help the fond laugh that slipped out.

Yoongi rubbed his eyes. “Already?”

“You were out cold,” Jimin teased, grabbing his wrist and tugging him toward the door.

“Thank you, Namjoonie hyung! See you after school!” he called over his shoulder as they hopped out.

Yoongi stumbled after him. “Wait—Jimin, slow down.”

“No,” Jimin said with a wicked grin. “We’re washing your face first. You look like you just fought a bear in your sleep.”

As they headed toward the bathrooms, Jungkook shouted from behind, “Jimin hyung! Make sure he doesn’t sleep in class! Last time he did, he got detention, and Mom punished him too!”

Jimin rolled his eyes but smiled. “Alright, Jungkook, I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Bye, hyung! Bye, Yoongi hyung!”

Jungkook darted toward his building, and Yoongi groaned. “He’s so loud in the morning.”

“He’s sweet,” Jimin said, dragging him into the bathroom. “But I prefer quiet. Like you.”

As Yoongi splashed water on his face, Jimin leaned back against the sink, arms crossed, watching him.

“Did you stay up late studying last night?” he asked after a pause.

Yoongi blinked. “Huh?”

“I said—did you stay up late? Studying?”

Yoongi let out a quiet laugh, drying his face with paper towels. “Yeah. Studying.”

Jimin narrowed his eyes. “Really?”

Yoongi gave him a lopsided grin. “Studying the back of my eyelids.”

Jimin gasped, scandalized. “You lied!”

“I didn’t say what I was studying,” Yoongi shrugged.

Jimin huffed, turning away with an exaggerated pout. “Fine. Fail your exams. Be my guest.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t let you help,” Yoongi said, and his voice was quieter this time. “If you want to.”

Jimin paused. Then turned back around. “I do,” he said honestly. “I like helping you.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Then Yoongi smiled. That smile again. The one that made Jimin’s stomach flip like a badly tied ribbon.

As they left the bathroom, Yoongi casually bumped their shoulders together. “Since it’s the weekend... you wanna come over after school?”

Jimin nearly tripped. “Come over?”

Yoongi shoved his hands in his pockets. “To my place. To hang out.”

“Really?! Can I?!” Jimin’s voice rose higher than he meant it to, and his cheeks burned.

Yoongi smirked. “I don’t know. Can you? Aren’t you busy being fancy and rich on weekends?”

Jimin shook his head quickly, practically bouncing. “No, no, no! No private lessons on weekends! I’m completely free.”

“So…” Yoongi leaned closer. “Do you want to?”

Jimin beamed. “Yes. I really do.”

As they walked into school side by side, their shoulders brushing every few steps, Jimin could already feel the weekend stretching ahead of him like a golden promise. He didn’t know what they’d do or where they’d go or how it would feel to be inside Yoongi’s world. But he did know one thing. He couldn’t wait to find out.

The school day dragged on slowly, as most days did when Jimin had something to look forward to.

He sat at his desk with his chin propped on his hand, doodling absentmindedly in the margins of his notebook while his math teacher droned on about fractions. Numbers blurred together the same way his thoughts did, none of them really sticking, because all he could think about was Yoongi's house.

He was going to Yoongi's house.

It wasn’t something he’d ever done before. Visiting someone’s home. Spending time with a friend after school, like a normal kid. The idea was so foreign, it made him feel jittery and giddy and a little terrified all at once. What if Yoongi’s house was messy? What if his room was small? What if Yoongi changed his mind halfway there?

But mostly, what if he liked it too much?

When the final bell rang, Jimin practically sprang out of his seat, swinging his little backpack over one shoulder with dramatic flair and ignoring the curious glances of his classmates. He didn’t care what they thought, he had plans. Special plans.

Yoongi met him outside the classroom, his own bag dragging slightly along the ground.

“Ready?” Yoongi asked, yawning behind his hand.

“Mmhmm,” Jimin hummed, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder. “I’ve been ready since lunch.”

Yoongi smirked. “You looked bored out of your mind in math.”

“Only because I was busy mentally preparing for our post-school activities,” Jimin replied primly, nose in the air.

“You mean coming over to eat all my snacks and lie on my bed.”

Jimin gasped. “You have snacks?! What kind?!”

Yoongi chuckled and started walking. “Guess you’ll just have to find out.”

They waited at the school gate for Jungkook, who came hurtling toward them with all the force of a tiny hurricane, cheeks flushed and tie askew.

“I’m starving!” he announced dramatically. “Can we go home already?!”

Jimin turned his head, already spotting Namjoon’s sleek black car rolling to a stop beside the curb.

As the back door opened, Jimin turned to Yoongi with an eager little bounce. “Wait here.”

He trotted to the front passenger window, where Namjoon was already lowering the glass.

“Namjoonie hyung,” Jimin said in his sweetest voice, “Yoongi invited me over. Can I go? Please?”

Namjoon’s hand froze on the steering wheel. “Uh… I don’t think your father would approve, young master.”

Jimin’s lips puckered into a perfect pout. “Then don’t ask him. Ask Jin hyung instead. He won’t mind.”

“Young master…”

“Please? Pretty please? You always say I should socialize more. This is me socializing.”

Namjoon sighed heavily, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll text Hoseok to check with master Seokjin. If he agrees, you can go. But no more than two hours.”

“Two and a half,” Jimin bargained immediately.

“Two.”

“Two and a quarter.”

“Get in the car.”

Jimin skipped toward the back seat, already smiling as he slid in next to Yoongi again.

Yoongi leaned in close and whispered, “Why do you need permission from your driver?”

“He’s not my driver,” Jimin hissed, offended. “He’s Namjoonie hyung.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Okay… then what is he?”

“It’s complicated,” Jimin muttered, crossing his arms. “Technically, he’s my bodyguard slash personal attendant. He takes care of me because my father’s too busy and Jin hyung works a lot. But he is also my father’s lawyer and right hand man. And I wasn’t asking for his permission—I was just checking with him.”

Yoongi blinked. “You’re not allowed to go to other people’s houses?”

Jimin looked down. “I don’t know. I’ve never asked before.”

Yoongi didn’t say anything after that. He just looked at him for a long moment before turning back toward the window.

A few minutes into the ride, Namjoon’s phone rang.

Jimin gasped. “Is that Jin hyung?! Answer it!”

“I’m driving, young master.”

“Then let me answer it!”

Namjoon glanced at him through the rearview mirror. “Do you even know how to answer a phone?”

Jimin looked personally attacked. “I’m not a baby!”

“Debatable,” Yoongi muttered under his breath.

“I heard that,” Jimin snapped, snatching the phone from Namjoon’s center console before he could say no.

The screen read Hoseokie in bold letters.

“Hello!” Jimin chirped into the phone, holding it with both hands.

“Oh, young master Jimin?” Hoseok’s familiar voice laughed on the other end. “Didn’t expect you to answer.”

“Namjoonie hyung is driving,” Jimin said smartly. “He can’t use the phone.”

“Responsible of him.”

“Did you talk to Jin hyung?! Did he say yes?! Please say yes!”

Hoseok chuckled. “He said yes. But there’s a condition.”

Jimin’s face fell. “What is it…”

“Namjoon has to stay with you the whole time. No arguments.”

“Ughhh,” Jimin groaned dramatically, slumping back into his seat. “Fine…”

“He’s just worried about you. You know how your brother is.”

“Yeah… I know.”

“Tell Namjoon to call me later.”

“Okay. Bye.”

Jimin handed the phone back with a quiet grumble.

Namjoon glanced at him. “Rejected?”

“No,” Jimin mumbled. “But you have to stay.” He quickly turned to Yoongi. “That’s okay, right? Right?”

Instead of answering, Yoongi gave Namjoon a side-eyed look. “We’re literally just staying home. It’s not like we’re taking him skydiving. Is a bodyguard really needed?”

Namjoon’s mouth curled into a knowing smirk. “Maybe not, but his father would have my head if I left him alone. I’d rather not die today, thanks.”

He looked in the rearview mirror at Jimin. “I would’ve stayed either way, young master. You know that. School’s the only exception.”

Jimin puffed his cheeks out. “Yeah, yeah…”

That was when Jungkook, who had been half-asleep against the door, suddenly perked up. “WAIT! You’re a bodyguard?!” he cried. “Do you have a gun?! Can I see it?!”

Namjoon nearly choked. “W-What?! No! And even if I did, you can’t see it!”

Jungkook pouted dramatically. “What kind of bodyguard doesn’t have a gun?! That’s so boring!”

Jimin turned indignantly. “Namjoonie hyung doesn’t need a gun! He’s super strong! He once knocked a guy out in one punch!”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “When have you ever seen me fight? I always tell you to close your eyes.”

Jimin froze.

Uh-oh.

“I—I haven’t!” he stammered quickly. “I mean— I know I shouldn’t— I’m sorry…”

Namjoon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Yoongi looked amused. “Rebel.”

Jimin crossed his arms. “I’m not a rebel. I just… worry. About Namjoonie hyung.”

Yoongi’s gaze lingered on him longer than usual after that, quiet and unreadable.

Jimin peeked at him out of the corner of his eye. “You’re okay with Namjoonie hyung coming, right?”

Yoongi shrugged. “Yeah. It’s not like we’re doing anything illegal.”

That made Jimin smile again.

The rest of the ride passed with the boys chatting and laughing, mostly Jimin poking at Jungkook, Jungkook shouting back, and Yoongi making dry little comments that made Jimin snort with laughter.

As they neared the Min household, Jimin found himself glancing out the window a bit more often, heart thudding.

This wasn’t just any visit. It was his first time stepping into someone else’s world. And it was Yoongi’s world.

When they arrived at Yoongi’s house, Jimin clutched the strap of his tiny leather bag with clammy fingers and peered nervously through the tinted car window. The house was smaller than his own, of course it was, but something about it made his chest squeeze a little. There were potted plants by the front step and a plastic watering can lying crookedly on its side. It wasn’t perfect, but it was warm. Lived in. Like a place someone laughed in a lot.

Namjoon got out first, walking around the car to open the door for him like he always did. But instead of hopping out with his usual flair, Jimin hesitated.

“Hyung…” he mumbled, not meeting Namjoon’s eyes. “What if his mother doesn’t like me?”

Namjoon blinked down at him. He was used to Jimin whining, demanding, refusing to eat side dishes, this kind of insecurity was rare. “Why wouldn’t she like you?”

“I dunno…” Jimin fiddled with the hem of his cashmere sleeve. “Because I’m here with a bodyguard? And I didn’t bring anything. And what if she thinks I’m rude or weird or—”

Namjoon leaned closer. “You look like royalty, as usual. And Yoongi invited you, didn’t he?”

Still, Jimin didn’t move. “It’s not the same. I’ve never… been to someone’s house before.”

That got him a soft look.

Namjoon placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Just be yourself.”

Jimin sighed dramatically and slid out of the car. “Being myself is a full-time job.”

Inside, Yoongi pushed the front door open and shouted, “Mom! We’re home!” before bounding inside like a puppy off its leash. Jimin stayed stiffly by the entrance, not daring to step past the door until explicitly invited.

Yoongi turned back, frowning. “You’re just standing there?”

“Do I… take my shoes off? Or do you guys not do that here?”

Yoongi stared. “Take them off. Everyone does.”

“Oh. Okay.” Jimin carefully removed his loafers, placing them neatly beside the welcome mat as if they were made of glass. “I’m not being weird, by the way.”

“Totally normal,” Yoongi said, voice flat as he walked away.

Jimin stepped into the house, his socked feet sinking slightly into the carpet. The air smelled sweet and warm, like cinnamon sugar and butter. His stomach growled in betrayal.

When Yoongi’s mom came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a floral apron, Jimin’s instincts kicked in. He bowed low, folding his arms precisely. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Thank you for having me.”

She blinked in surprise and then smiled warmly. “Hello, sweetheart. You must be Jimin.”

He straightened, cheeks warm. “Yes, ma’am. I brought—um—myself.”

She chuckled. “That’s more than enough. Make yourself at home.”

Jimin beamed. So far, so good.

Namjoon apologized for the unexpected visit and offered to stay out of the way while the kids played. Jimin barely heard him, he was too busy looking around the living room, fascinated by how cozy everything felt. There were mismatched cushions on the couch. A half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. Picture frames that weren’t symmetrical or color-coordinated, but bursting with smiles.

Yoongi’s mom offered pie and Jimin nearly floated up from the couch. “Yes, please!” he said a bit too quickly. Then, remembering himself: “If it’s not too much trouble, of course.”

The pie was served warm with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and Jimin was genuinely offended by how good it was. “Oh my God,” he muttered after the first bite. “This is illegal.”

Yoongi grinned at him. “Told you.”

“I want to live here.”

“You’d last like, two hours. We don’t even have heated floors.”

“I’d suffer in luxury.”

After pie and cartoons, an unfortunate truth made itself known: Jimin needed to pee.

He tugged on Yoongi’s sleeve. “Yoongi, I need the bathroom.”

Yoongi pointed down the hall. “It’s that way. Want me to come with you?”

“I think I can find the toilet by myself,” Jimin replied dryly. “I’m not five.”

“You’re nine.”

Jimin scowled. “You’re annoying.”

He stomped off toward the bathroom but knew, just knew, Namjoon would follow like some overgrown, overprotective shadow. Sure enough, the second the door clicked shut behind him, he heard footsteps stop right outside.

“Hyung, please!” Jimin groaned from inside, pulling his pants down with exasperated flair. “Let me pee in peace! You’re embarrassing me!”

A pause.

“…Yes. My apologies.”

But Jimin could feel Namjoon standing right there, just beyond the door, like some human security alarm.

It wasn’t that Jimin didn’t appreciate it. He did. He really, really did. But couldn’t he have just five minutes where he wasn’t being hovered over like a fragile vase?

He washed his hands thoroughly, like his Jin hyung taught him, then stepped out.

Namjoon immediately scanned him head to toe. “Are you alright? Was the door lock functional?”

Jimin blinked. “What—yes? Hyung, I was gone for two minutes.”

“You could have slipped. Or gotten locked in. Or climbed out the window.”

“What would I even climb out for? The garden?”

Namjoon didn’t laugh.

“I’m fine. Seriously.” Jimin crossed his arms. “Can you not overreact? Especially in front of my friends? It’s embarrassing.”

Namjoon bowed slightly. “Understood.”

“Have you played enough?” he asked after a beat. “Should we go home now?”

“What?! No!” Jimin’s hands flew to his hips. “It’s only been like thirty minutes! Are you kidding me?!”

“Your friend can visit your house instead,” Namjoon offered. “Wouldn’t that be better? Familiar surroundings?”

“No,” Jimin snapped. “Young master says no.”

“Young mas—”

“I said no, no, no! I’m staying with Yoongi! Jin hyung said it was fine, so it’s fine!”

Namjoon opened his mouth to reply, but Jimin was already stomping off toward the living room, face red with frustration.

He found Yoongi leaning against the couch, sipping juice from a little paper box. Jimin plopped down next to him with a dramatic huff.

“Where’s Jungkook?”

“Nap time. The show ended,” Yoongi said, then glanced sideways. “Your face is all red. What happened?”

“My hyung is being annoying. He wants me to go home. Can you believe it?”

Yoongi wrinkled his nose. “But you just got here.”

“Exactly!” Jimin said, throwing his hands up. “He’s always like this. I can’t even pee without him standing guard like I’m royalty or something.”

Yoongi snorted. “You are royalty.”

“Not officially.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Jimin smiled smugly. “You like it.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “Yeah. You’re okay, I guess.”

“Only okay?”

“Fine. You’re fun. And cute. And weird.”

Jimin blinked, caught off guard by the casual compliment. His ears warmed. “You think I’m cute?”

“Obviously.”

Jimin tried to act like it didn’t affect him, but he found himself tucking his hair behind his ear and sitting up straighter. “Well. Good. You’re cute, too. But in a scruffy, ‘I don’t care about fashion’ way.”

Yoongi grinned. “I’ll take that.”

Jimin’s chest felt weird and fluttery, and he didn’t hate it. “…Wanna go to your room now?” he asked quietly.

Yoongi nodded. “Yeah. Come on.”

As they stood, Jimin glanced over his shoulder. Namjoon was still in the corner, trying not to hover but failing miserably.

Still, for the first time in a while, Jimin didn’t feel like he needed him as much. He had Yoongi now.

Yoongi’s room was nothing like what Jimin had imagined.

The moment he stepped inside, he blinked in surprise. It was... small. Not suffocatingly so, but definitely smaller than his own walk-in closet. The walls were a pale blue, peeling slightly near the ceiling, and there were glow-in-the-dark star stickers scattered across them like someone had tried to recreate a constellation map and given up halfway. His desk was cluttered with sketchpads, scattered pencils, and one very lopsided robot made out of LEGO bricks. A stack of comic books towered near the bed, and the shelves were full of mismatched toys and trinkets that had clearly been collected over years.

It was so… normal.

Jimin stared, blinking again. “This is your room?”

“Yeah?” Yoongi said, sounding confused. “Why?”

“I thought it’d be bigger.” Jimin wrinkled his nose, stepping gingerly onto the carpet. It felt a little rough against his socks. He glanced around again and then pointed to a crooked drawing taped to the closet door. “Is that… a cat?”

“It’s a dragon,” Yoongi said flatly.

“Oh.” Jimin tilted his head. “It’s cute.”

Yoongi looked away, ears turning red.

Honestly, it was so childish. The stickers, the toys, the cheap cartoon bedsheets. Jimin couldn’t relate to any of it. But at the same time… it made his chest feel warm. It felt lived in. Like someone was happy here. No maids tidying up after every breath. No pristine surfaces that looked like they belonged in a museum. No emptiness. Just warmth.

He hadn’t realized how lonely his room was until now.

“I like it,” Jimin declared, hopping onto the bed without asking. “It’s not as big as mine, but it feels… fun.”

Yoongi blinked. “Thanks… I think?”

Jimin lay back dramatically, spreading his arms like he was about to be crucified. “I give it… seven out of ten. Could use more plushies. And maybe silk sheets.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched into a smile. “Sorry I don’t have golden furniture for your royal highness.”

Jimin giggled, rolling over and kicking his legs behind him. “I’ll let it slide this time. So what are we playing?”

Yoongi walked to the corner and pulled out a console with two controllers. “You said you’ve never played fighting games before?”

“I don’t usually play video games,” Jimin said with a small shrug. “Namjoonie hyung says they’re not educational.”

Yoongi scoffed. “Well, you’re about to get the best education of your life. Prepare to lose.”

They played for a while, Jimin quickly discovering that button mashing was its own kind of strategy. Yoongi tried to teach him the controls, but Jimin was more focused on the way Yoongi leaned in too close sometimes, his arm brushing Jimin’s shoulder, or how his laughter made Jimin feel like his stomach was full of warm soda.

At some point, they started wrestling over the controller during a close match. Jimin had cheated, obviously, and Yoongi lunged for him in protest, knocking the both of them off the bed in a tangled heap.

“Yah! Get off! I won—”

“No, you didn’t! You unplugged my controller, you brat—!”

“Yoongi!”

But before Jimin could escape, Yoongi tackled him, their limbs flailing as they rolled onto the floor. Jimin let out a sharp squeal as Yoongi’s weight landed on top of him, his elbow accidentally jabbing into Jimin’s ribs.

“Ahh!” Jimin squeaked loudly, eyes wide.

Just as Yoongi’s knee slipped, pressing into Jimin’s stomach, the bedroom door exploded open with a loud crash.

Jimin barely had time to blink before Namjoon flew across the room like a missile.

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

“Wha—?!”

One second, Yoongi was on top of Jimin. The next, Namjoon had grabbed him and slammed him onto the carpet with terrifying force, twisting his arms behind his back and planting a knee between his shoulder blades.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Namjoon barked, his voice no longer calm or composed. “Are you a spy? Who do you work for?! Speak! I don’t care if you’re just a kid—if you don’t talk now, I won’t hesitate to end you right here and now!”

Jimin’s heart dropped to his stomach. “HYUNG! NO!”

He scrambled upright, eyes wide in horror. “Hyung, stop! We were just playing! He didn’t do anything wrong!”

Namjoon didn’t seem to hear him, his grip on Yoongi tightening as the boy struggled, his face contorted in pain.

“Hyung, you’re hurting him! He can’t breathe!” Jimin cried, his voice cracking with panic. “Let him go, please! He wasn’t attacking me! I screamed because he fell on me, that’s all!”

Namjoon hesitated, finally registering the tears now pouring down Jimin’s cheeks.

“Please…” Jimin sobbed, clutching at his sleeve. “Please, let him go…”

The silence that followed felt crushing.

Namjoon slowly released Yoongi, his hands trembling slightly. “I… I’m sorry. I thought—”

“Don’t talk to me!” Jimin shouted, yanking his arm away. “Get away from me!”

“Y-Young master—”

“No! You ruined everything!” Jimin pushed him hard, rage and embarrassment boiling over. “You always treat me like I’m a baby! I can take care of myself!”

Namjoon looked stricken, his mouth opening and closing helplessly.

“GET OUT!”

Jimin’s voice echoed down the hallway. A beat later, Namjoon stepped out, silent, his expression unreadable.

The moment he was gone, Jimin fell to his knees beside Yoongi.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” His hands trembled as he cupped Yoongi’s face, inspecting him for bruises. “Is your arm okay? Your face—he didn’t hit your face, right?!”

Yoongi winced but shook his head. “I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re not! I’m so, so sorry,” Jimin sniffled, wiping at his wet cheeks. “I didn’t mean for that to happen. I didn’t know he’d—he just worries too much, and I—”

“Hey,” Yoongi interrupted softly, catching Jimin’s hand. “It’s not your fault.”

“But it is!”

“No, it’s not. I told you—it’s okay.”

And Jimin believed him. Or at least, he wanted to. Without thinking, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Yoongi’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“Thank you,” Jimin whispered. “For not hating me.”

“I could never hate you,” Yoongi murmured back. “Even if your bodyguard’s insane.”

Jimin let out a watery giggle. “He kinda is…”

They stayed like that for a long moment, tangled up on the floor in a room that smelled faintly of lemon-scented detergent and cherry pie. And even though his eyes still stung and his cheeks were sticky with tears, Jimin felt safe again. And warm.

They played again—well, tried to.

Jimin sat beside Yoongi on the floor, a controller in his lap, but his focus was fractured. The bright flashes from the screen and the upbeat music from the game felt like background noise compared to the whirlwind in his chest. His eyes kept flicking sideways to Yoongi, just to make sure he was really okay, like he hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

Yoongi was quieter than usual too, but he was trying, clearly trying, nudging Jimin’s arm lightly whenever he got ahead in the game and teasing him softly like before. And Jimin—well, Jimin pouted more than he played, missing half his shots and getting defeated in the first round because he kept turning his head to glance at the faint pink mark on Yoongi’s cheek.

Yoongi didn’t seem mad, though. He didn’t even complain about it. He just kept playing like nothing had happened, occasionally side-eyeing Jimin in that amused, slightly fond way of his. It didn’t help Jimin’s heart at all.

Why was Yoongi like this? So calm? So... gentle?

Jimin wasn’t used to boys being gentle with him. Most boys either wanted something from him, or they just tolerated him because of who his father was. But Yoongi didn’t want anything. He didn’t even know what to do with Jimin half the time, and still, he let him stay. Still, he smiled at him like—

Knock knock.

Jimin startled. His head whipped toward the door, brows furrowed as Namjoon’s voice followed. “Young master? It’s time to leave.”

Immediately, Jimin scowled. Already? It hadn’t even been that long. He didn’t want to go. Not yet. Not when he had just started to feel okay again.

With a dramatic sigh and a loud huff, he got up and stomped to the door. He didn’t open it right away—no, he stood there, arms crossed, lips pursed in defiance.

Namjoon knocked again.

“I heard you,” Jimin snapped, swinging the door open hard enough for it to bump against the wall. Namjoon stood there, as stiff and formal as always, but he looked a little worn out. Good.

“Apologize,” Jimin said without preamble, voice sharp and face unrelenting.

Namjoon blinked. “Young master?”

“Apologize to him.” Jimin pointed dramatically behind him, toward Yoongi who was now standing halfway up from the floor, watching cautiously from inside the room. “Right now.”

Namjoon hesitated for half a second, then bowed his head, stepping into the room.

“My deepest apologies,” he said sincerely. “Master Yoongi, I overreacted. My behavior was unacceptable. I thought the young master was in danger, but I understand now that I made a grave mistake. I’m truly sorry.”

Yoongi blinked, then offered a small, sheepish smile. “It’s okay.”

Jimin frowned. “It’s not okay. He tackled you.”

“It really is okay,” Yoongi said again, but softer this time, only to Jimin. Like he could see how wound up Jimin still was. “You should forgive him too. He was just trying to protect you.”

Jimin pouted harder. His eyes dropped to the floor, and he mumbled, “Still. That doesn’t mean I have to be nice about it.”

Yoongi smiled, just a little. Jimin tried not to stare at it, but he failed miserably.

“Are you leaving?” Yoongi asked.

“Yeah…” Jimin sighed again, longer this time. “But I’ll see you on Monday at school, okay?”

Yoongi nodded. “Okay.”

He didn’t hug him, Jimin didn’t expect that, but there was a warm look in his eyes as they walked to the door together. And as Jimin slipped on his shoes with Namjoon hovering at his side like a guilty puppy, he couldn’t help glancing back one last time.

Yoongi was still there, standing in the hallway with his hands in his pockets, watching him go.

The car ride was completely silent. Well—except for Jimin’s pointed, exaggerated sighs every five minutes.

He sat with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his bottom lip jutting out so far it almost touched his collar. His forehead was wrinkled in a scowl, and he refused, absolutely refused, to look at Namjoon, who was driving tensely in the front seat.

Namjoon tried, though. Of course he did.

“Young master, I truly am sorry,” he said again, for maybe the eighth time.

No response.

“I didn’t mean to scare your friend. I thought—”

Jimin turned his head and looked out the window. Like the trees were suddenly more interesting than Namjoon’s entire existence.

Namjoon sighed heavily. “Young master, please…”

Jimin turned up his nose. “I said I’m not speaking to you.”

“Just tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”

“Nothing,” Jimin muttered. “You ruined everything. I’m mad forever.”

Namjoon groaned quietly. “Forever?”

“Yes.”

There was another stretch of silence.

Then, in a final act of betrayal, Namjoon dared to ask, “Would you at least like to pick what you want for dinner tonight?”

Jimin narrowed his eyes at the back of Namjoon’s head like he was offended the question had even been spoken. He still stayed silent earning another sigh from Namjoon.

When they arrived home, Jimin marched out of the car with all the fury of a tiny emperor who had been wronged, storming up the steps to the front door without waiting for Namjoon. His shiny loafers clacked dramatically on the marble floor, and even as two butlers came to take his bag and coat, he didn’t speak a word to Namjoon.

Not one.

Slowly, deliberately, he turned toward the maid standing and said with a regal little sniff, “Tell the chef I want beef bourguignon and truffle mashed potatoes for dinner. No onions. Extra butter.”

The maid blinked. “Yes, young master.”

Namjoon let out a slow breath. “I could have relayed the message, you know.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jimin snapped.

Later that evening, curled in bed beneath his silk covers, Jimin clutched his plush bear to his chest and stared at the ceiling.

He should’ve been over it by now. Namjoon had apologized, like, a lot. But Yoongi had looked scared. And Jimin had cried. He never cried in front of other kids. It was humiliating. And what if Yoongi never invited him over again? What if he thought Jimin was too much? Too spoiled, too dramatic, too—

A soft knock came at the door. Jimin didn't answer. A moment passed, and then the door creaked open.

Namjoon peeked in. “Young master… may I speak with you?”

Jimin turned his face toward the wall.

Another pause. Then Namjoon spoke again. “I truly regret what happened. I acted without thinking, and I know I scared both you and your friend. I want to make it up to you. Whatever it takes.”

Jimin didn’t move.

“I bought those special strawberry macarons you like… the ones from that Paris bakery.”

Jimin blinked.

“And the kitchen made chocolate fondue with fresh fruit. I thought maybe you’d want to have some in your room. With a movie.”

There was a long, stubborn silence. Then finally—

“…What movie?”

Namjoon almost smiled. “Any one you want.”

Jimin sniffed. “With extra whipped cream?”

“Yes, young master. Extra everything.”

A beat.

“…Fine,” Jimin mumbled. “But I’m still mad.”

“I understand,” Namjoon said solemnly, bowing his head. “Thank you for giving me another chance.”

Jimin huffed and patted the empty space beside him.

Namjoon stepped into the room.

And as the butler brought in the sweets and set up the projector screen, Jimin allowed himself one last pout before whispering to himself—

“…I hope Yoongi’s okay.”

He fell asleep halfway through the movie, his fingers curled around a strawberry macaron, his dreams soft and warm and full of black hair, gummy smiles, and quiet boys who let him win games just to make him feel better.

Chapter Text

Today was a special day. Jimin had decided it would be one the moment he found out Yoongi and Taehyung were coming over. He hadn’t even cared when he learned Jungkook would be tagging along too, if Yoongi agreed to bring him, then Jimin would tolerate the little brat. Just this once.

The sun was high, casting soft golden light across the garden, making the trimmed hedges glow. Jimin had demanded the garden be specially prepared this morning, fresh cushions laid out on the marble benches, imported flower-scented mist sprayed in the air, and even a decorative parasol held up just for him whenever he paused for water.

He was the host, after all.

Now, the four of them were in the middle of a volleyball game that had long since abandoned any rules. They were supposed to hit the ball with their hands, but somehow, feet, elbows, stomachs, and even heads were now fair game. Jimin couldn’t remember when it turned chaotic, only that Taehyung kept shrieking dramatically every time the ball came his way, and Jungkook insisted on performing dramatic dives that flung dirt into the air.

Jimin hated dirt.

Still, he was having fun. Especially with Yoongi standing across from him, his sleeves rolled up, laughing softly whenever Jimin missed the ball, laughing in that way that made Jimin's heart feel a little funny. Like it was doing something it shouldn't.

Then, in the middle of a particularly chaotic exchange, Jimin leapt forward to block the ball with his arms, but his foot caught a bump in the grass. With a squeak, he tumbled down onto the lawn.

Everything stopped.

“Young master!!!” That familiar voice, urgent, panicked, ripped through the air like a thunderclap.

Jimin barely had time to groan before Namjoon was thundering across the garden like a stampeding elephant. Within seconds, he was crouched at Jimin’s side, scanning him like he'd just fallen off a cliff instead of... mildly bruising his knee.

“I’m fine,” Jimin said quickly, brushing off his shorts. He glanced at Yoongi, hoping he didn’t look too ridiculous. “It’s just a tiny scratch.”

Namjoon gasped as if Jimin had been stabbed. “You’re bleeding!”

Oh no.

“Someone call an ambulance!” Namjoon shouted to the maids, who immediately froze in place.

Jimin’s face burned. “Hyung, please, stop—”

“An ambulance? It’s a scratch,” Yoongi said casually from behind them, raising an eyebrow.

Namjoon blinked, paused dramatically, and then shouted again—“Call the fire department instead!!!”

Jimin slapped his own forehead. “I really wish you hadn’t said anything,” he muttered to Yoongi.

Before he could get up, Namjoon scooped him into his arms as if he weighed nothing. “We’re going inside.”

Jimin pouted. “I said I’m fine. Put me down, hyung. My friends are watching!”

But Namjoon refused to listen, carrying him into the house like a fragile little prince. Not that Jimin hated being carried. He didn’t. It was just... embarrassing. Especially in front of Yoongi.

Inside, Miss Harin cleaned the nonexistent wound and placed a cartoon-themed bandage on his knee. Jimin peeked down. It had a smiling bunny on it. That was so childish. He wanted to rip it off, but Namjoon was already fussing.

“Just a little bandage? Wrap his whole knee!”

Harin just rolled her eyes and walked away, too used to Namjoon’s overreactions and dramatics.

Namjoon turned dramatically. “No walking for a week!”

“Are you talking to me?” Jimin narrowed his eyes. “A week? Are you serious?”

“Yes!”

“I haven’t even forgiven you yet, so I’m not listening to you.”

“But, Young masteeer—”

“No, no, no.” Jimin waved him off like a queen dismissing a jester and stood up. “I’m going back to play.”

Namjoon blocked his path. “No! You got hurt. That’s enough playing for today.”

Jimin scowled and grabbed Taehyung’s hand. “Let’s go back.”

Yoongi hesitated beside them. He leaned in, lowering his voice near Jimin’s ear. “Are you sure? I don’t want him threatening to kill me again. He’s terrifying.”

Jimin’s lips twitched. He tried not to smile, but he liked how Yoongi said that, so nonchalant but just teasing enough. “Don’t worry. He’s just dramatic.”

Yoongi chuckled. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jimin said, softer now, glancing up at him. “You were more worried about me than he was.”

Yoongi blinked. “What? He was literally ready to call a helicopter.”

“Still.” Jimin tilted his head. “You looked scared.”

Yoongi looked away, cheeks tinged a little pink. “Yeah, well. I didn’t want to see you get hurt.”

Jimin’s heart thumped stupidly in his chest. “Then… stay close?”

Yoongi nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Taehyung, who had clearly not been paying attention, suddenly pointed toward the house. “Let’s play inside! The sun’s too bright!”

Jungkook clapped his hands. “Yes! Let’s go inside! I wanna play the dancing game!”

Namjoon jumped at the suggestion. “Yes, yes, yes! Play inside!”

Jimin spun around and glared. “Stop interfering.”

Namjoon immediately bowed. “Understood…”

Yoongi tried to stifle a laugh, but Jimin caught the way he looked at him, like he was amused and also… kind of fond. That fluttery feeling returned, and Jimin looked away quickly.

The playroom was a lavish space, filled with plush cushions, colorful gaming consoles, and a karaoke machine Jimin never let anyone touch unless he personally said so. The moment they entered, Namjoon tried to hover near the wall like a stealthy guard dog.

Jimin turned slowly. “You’re not staying.”

Namjoon’s shoulders sagged. “But young master—”

“Out.”

“But what if something happens again?”

“Then you will be the one who caused it,” Jimin snapped. “Out.”

Namjoon, visibly wounded, stepped out of the room like a kicked puppy. He didn’t even close the door, just stood outside it, sulking in the hallway.

Jimin smirked a little to himself. Good. Let him stew.

Inside, they ended up playing a dancing rhythm game, and to Jimin’s absolute delight, Yoongi was embarrassingly bad at it. He kept missing steps, mumbling excuses, and Jimin couldn’t stop laughing every time he flailed.

“You’re terrible,” Jimin said between giggles, wiping tears from his eyes.

“I’m trying my best!” Yoongi defended. “I didn’t grow up with a room like this, you know.”

Jimin stepped closer, mischievous. “Do you want me to teach you?”

Yoongi glanced at him, lips quirking. “Would you?”

Jimin nodded. “Only if you admit I’m better.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “Fine. You’re better.”

“Say it properly.” Jimin tapped his foot.

Yoongi exhaled. “You’re the best dancer in the entire world, Park Jimin.”

Jimin beamed. “That’s better.”

He stepped behind Yoongi and placed his hands on his hips, guiding him through the steps. Their bodies moved slowly together, and even though it was just a game, Jimin felt Yoongi’s warmth through his clothes, and the way Yoongi leaned back slightly into his touch sent a strange flutter through his chest.

Yoongi was laughing again, but it was quieter now, more relaxed. Jimin found himself smiling too, his cheek resting for a moment against Yoongi’s shoulder.

He didn’t say anything. And neither did Yoongi. But in the soft hum of music, as the rhythm slowed, it felt like something between them shifted ever so slightly. Something that made Jimin’s stomach swirl and his heart race in that infuriating, warm way again.

He wasn’t sure what it was yet. But he knew he wanted to stay close. And maybe he wanted Yoongi to stay close too.

Soon enough, they got bored of the game and started playing video games. Jimin didn’t have any before, but after visiting Yoongi’s house and playing one with him, Jimin demanded Namjoon to provide video games in his playroom.

“Yoongi! You’re supposed to cover the left side!” he whined, voice hitting that high-pitched tone he only reserved for when things didn’t go his way.

Yoongi, lying lazily on his stomach beside him, didn’t even flinch. “You told me to protect the middle.”

Jimin huffed, dramatic as ever, and dropped his controller in his lap. “Well, now it’s your fault we lost the match.”

“It was one point,” Yoongi said with a soft chuckle, nudging Jimin’s knee with his elbow. “You still have like twenty.”

“That’s not the point,” Jimin sniffed, flipping his hair back like some tragic prince. “I don’t lose.”

Taehyung cackled from the other side of the room. “You lose all the time when you play against me!”

“Only because you cheat!” Jimin shouted without hesitation, his pout intensifying as Jungkook giggled beside Taehyung.

Yoongi glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “You’re really spoiled, huh?”

“Excuse you,” Jimin snapped, clearly not offended, “I’m just used to things being fair. And fair means I win.”

Yoongi laughed again, quiet, soft, but always enough to make Jimin’s stomach flutter just a little. He didn’t quite know why. Still, it made him smile.

As they returned to playing, Yoongi now actually protecting the left, Jimin found himself glancing at him more than the screen. He liked the way Yoongi’s hair flopped into his eyes when he concentrated, the way he leaned just a little too close like they were sharing some secret strategy. Even when Yoongi didn’t say anything, Jimin felt… warm. Not just in the flushed cheeks way, but in the safe, cozy, maybe I’ll let you win next round way. Which he wouldn't, of course. But he thought about it.

The playroom was filled with the sounds of laughter and clicks from the controllers, light streaming in from the tall windows that overlooked the courtyard. Everything was perfect—Jimin had his friends, Yoongi was next to him, and even Namjoon had been successfully banned from the room after Jimin told him to “go sit outside and think about what he’s done.”

“Why does it smell like pouting in the hallway?” Taehyung had muttered.

Jimin had simply smirked. “Justice.”

And then, as if summoned by fate itself, a soft knock sounded on the playroom door.

The four boys barely looked up, too deep in their game.

“Young master?” a voice called.

Jimin didn’t glance away from the screen. “What?”

There was a pause. Then the man spoke again, this time stepping inside. He was dressed in servant attire, pressed shirt, vest, hair neatly combed, but there was something unfamiliar about him. Jimin didn’t notice that at first.

“Your brother wishes to see you,” the man said politely.

Jimin finally looked up, brows furrowed. “Jin hyung? Wasn’t he in Singapore for that stupid boring business trip?”

“He just returned,” the man said smoothly. “That’s why he’s asking for you.”

“Huh…” Jimin blinked. “He didn’t tell me he was coming back today.” He set down his controller with a sigh. “Keep playing without me. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Yoongi’s eyes flicked toward him. “You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. It’s Jin hyung,” Jimin replied, though his voice had a tinge of confusion to it. “I’ve been waiting for him to come back forever.”

As he stepped out with the servant, he couldn’t help but mumble, “Still… Why didn’t Namjoon hyung tell me anything? Even if I’m still mad at him, he always tells me. It’s literally his job.”

The man didn’t respond.

Jimin shot him a sideways look. “You’re quiet. I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new?”

The servant gave him a rehearsed smile. “Yes, I am.”

Jimin stared at him a second longer, then gave a tiny nod. “Okay.”

They passed through the long corridor, the soft padding of Jimin’s expensive slippers echoing slightly against the marble floors. He frowned when they didn’t turn toward Jin’s study, or his room, or any of the normal places Jin would be.

“Where are we going?” Jimin asked, tilting his head suspiciously.

“The garden,” the man replied. “He’s waiting there.”

“The garden?” Jimin repeated, nose scrunching. “It’s almost evening. He hates the bugs.”

“Yes, well… it was a last-minute thing.”

Something tugged uncomfortably at the back of Jimin’s mind. A whisper of instinct, a flicker of unease. Maybe it was the man’s tone. Or the fact that Namjoon hadn’t appeared to interrupt them, yelling something overdramatic like “Young master! The mosquitos might bite!”

Where was Namjoon?

As they reached the side entrance, Jimin hesitated. The grand doors to the garden stood just ahead, open enough to let in the scent of roses and trimmed grass. But the familiar buzz of household staff was absent. No maids arranging flowerpots. No guards. No—

Jimin stopped walking.

The man turned to glance back. “Is something wrong?”

Jimin's voice was small. “Where’s Namjoon hyung?”

The servant didn’t answer.

And Jimin didn’t move.

Then, too fast to react, the man grabbed him, strong arms wrapping around his waist, lifting him off the ground.

“HEY!” Jimin shrieked, kicking wildly, panic shooting through him like ice water. “LET GO OF ME! HELP—!”

He thrashed with all his strength, fists beating against the man’s chest, but the grip only tightened. The door to the garden loomed, and Jimin’s screams echoed down the empty corridor.

-

The van door slammed shut with a loud clang, vibrating through Jimin’s bones as he lay crumpled in the corner. His wrists and ankles throbbed where the ropes bit into his skin, chafing with every bump the van hit. The scratchy fabric tied tightly around his eyes was already damp with tears he hadn’t meant to shed. He hated this. Hated being ignored. Hated not knowing. Hated the cold silence except for the hum of the road beneath them. But most of all, he hated being treated like he was normal.

He was Park Jimin, the youngest heir of the Park family. He had never taken cold water showers or sat on dusty floors or eaten anything that wasn’t served on porcelain with silver cutlery. And now he was being tossed around in the back of a van like he was nothing.

His cheeks burned, more from indignation than fear, even though the fear was starting to crawl under his skin like a thousand little insects. He whimpered softly, instinctively shifting his bound legs closer to his chest in a childish attempt to make himself smaller, safer.

“Just wait until Namjoon hyung finds you,” he muttered against the tape sealing his mouth, the words muffled and wet with frustration. “He’s going to—he’s going to break your bones... one by one.”

But even Namjoon’s name didn’t bring the comfort it usually did. Namjoon wasn’t here. Namjoon had let him get taken.

Jimin should’ve known something was wrong. That servant hadn’t even bowed. Everyone in the house bowed. He’d said Jin was back, and Jimin had believed him like an idiot. Jin always told him in advance when he was coming home.

“Stupid,” Jimin hissed under his breath, tears pricking again.

And Yoongi... His heart clenched. Yoongi had been there. Just a few doors away. And Jimin had left him. If he’d just stayed, if he hadn’t gotten up, hadn’t believed that lie, he’d still be playing video games right now. He’d still be safe. He’d still be near Yoongi.

The thought made his chest ache worse than the ropes did.

Yoongi would notice something was wrong, wouldn’t he? Of course he would. Jimin knew Yoongi wasn’t stupid. He was quiet, yes, and he liked to act all cool and unaffected, but Jimin had seen the way Yoongi looked at him when he thought no one was watching. Like Jimin was precious. Like he mattered.

A sharp turn tossed him against the wall of the van, and he gasped in pain. Something in his side throbbed, and his breath caught behind the tape. His skin prickled from the cold metal floor beneath him. No heat. No warmth. No one.

Would Yoongi be worried? Would he ask Namjoon where Jimin went? Would he look for him?

Jimin clenched his fists as best he could with his hands tied, nails digging into his palms.

‘He better be looking for me,’ he thought angrily, pouting even as tears slipped from beneath the blindfold. ‘Yoongi better be flipping the whole mansion upside down. Or else I’ll never speak to him again.’

The van finally jerked to a halt, slamming Jimin’s small body against the floor. His shoulder screamed in pain, but he didn’t cry out. He wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. He was Park Jimin. He may be pampered, spoiled, and tiny, but he was not weak.

The doors creaked open, letting in the first hint of fresh air, though it was cold and reeked of smoke. Footsteps approached, heavy, unhurried. Then hands gripped his arms roughly, hoisting him like a sack of flour.

He kicked weakly, twisting his bound legs, but they just laughed. Laughed like this was a game. Like he was a toy.

“Careful,” one muttered mockingly. “Don’t bruise the merchandise.”

Merchandise?!

He screamed into the tape, high-pitched and furious, wriggling with all his might. His designer sweater was bunched up under his arms, and he could feel the dirt clinging to his skin as they dragged him across a rough, uneven floor. His tears came faster, this time from pure humiliation. How dare they manhandle him like this?

Then he was shoved forward, into something cold, hard, and hollow. Concrete walls, maybe. A clang behind him, metal against metal. The door shut. Locked.

And just like that, they were gone.

He lay there on the floor for what felt like forever, his breath echoing in the small, suffocating space. It was damp. There was a faint scent of mold and something worse. His fingers were numb. His limbs were stiff. His pride was cracked in half.

He hiccuped, sniffling behind the tape, too tired now to be angry.

‘Someone will come,’ he told himself. ‘Namjoon hyung will come. He always shows up when I need him. He’ll find me. He better.’

-

Namjoon’s phone buzzed violently in his pocket. He hadn’t even realized how tightly he was gripping the wheel until he snatched it up and saw the caller ID flashing on the screen, one of the private investigators on Jimin’s case. His heart slammed into his ribs.

He answered without hesitation. “Hello?! Did you find him?!”

There was a pause. A pause that stretched far too long.

Namjoon’s breath caught. “Please tell me he’s okay. Did they send pictures? Have they made contact?!”

“No… and no,” the voice on the other end replied. “But we did find something. A message.”

Namjoon’s grip tightened until his knuckles ached. “A message?”

“They want to speak to you in person. At headquarters.”

“Why?” he snapped, though he was already throwing the car into gear. “Just tell me now—”

“They insisted. It’s... sensitive.”

Sensitive? Namjoon didn’t have time for vague language. Every second wasted was another moment Jimin could be hurting. But he grit his teeth and said, “Fine. I’m on my way.”

He hung up and stepped on the gas, eyes locked to the road but thoughts miles away, chained to a soft-voiced, pouty boy with cheeks too pink and eyes too wide for the world to ever be cruel to. A boy who once demanded that Namjoon peel his orange slices into hearts "because they taste better that way."

‘Please be safe, young master... Please don’t be scared.’

He didn’t even notice the red lights he flew past, the horns that blared in his wake. None of it mattered. He arrived in less than ten minutes, storming through the entrance of the agency like a man possessed.

When the door to the briefing room slammed open, the officer waiting inside barely had time to flinch before Namjoon was in front of him.

“The message?” Namjoon demanded. “What was it? Did they track the van? The plates? Anything?”

The officer didn’t move right away. Instead, he reached into a file and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper. “This was found inside the van that transported him. No fingerprints, no camera footage showing where they went. Just this.”

Namjoon snatched it from his hand and unfolded it, heart hammering in his chest.

[Contact us if you want him alive, Raven]

He blinked. Once. Twice. The letters didn’t change. His stomach dropped.

“‘Raven’?” he whispered.

The officer folded his arms. “Sound familiar?”

Namjoon’s jaw clenched. Of course it sounded familiar. Raven had been his codename back when he worked as a covert agent, before he traded black ops and bullet wounds for bedtime stories and spoiled pouts.

His head shot up. “Why would they call me out? This wasn’t supposed to be about me. Why the hell would they take Jimin?!”

“I think you already know the answer,” the officer said, blunt and cold. “They knew how close you were to him. Maybe even closer than you realize. You were watched. Tracked. Maybe for weeks.”

Namjoon’s mouth went dry. The last few months flashed before his eyes, unfamiliar cars lingering too long outside the estate, packages arriving without return addresses, that creeping feeling like someone was always watching.

He should have known. He did know. And he’d ignored it. Because Jimin had looked up at him one morning and whined, “Namjoonie hyung, stop worrying so much! You act like I’m going to vanish.” And now he had.

The officer leaned forward. “This is your fault.”

Namjoon’s heart clenched.

“This happened because of you. Because you let your guard down. You forgot who you were.”

Namjoon didn’t move. His fists shook at his sides.

“You used to be Raven. Now? You’re just a soft-hearted babysitter.”

That was it.

His fist collided with the officer’s jaw so fast the man didn’t even have time to gasp. The impact echoed through the room. The officer crashed to the floor with a grunt.

Namjoon stood over him, breathing hard. “I’m still Raven,” he said through gritted teeth. “And I swear to God, I will end whoever did this to him.”

He grabbed the note and stormed out.

As he shoved his way back outside, fury boiling in his chest, he pulled out his phone again. He had one person left he could call. The only one who’d understand.

“Hoseok,” he barked the moment the line connected. “They left a note.”

“What?! What did it say? Did they say he was okay?!”

Namjoon stared at the note, now crumpled in his hand. “Contact us if you want him alive, Raven. That’s it.”

“Raven?” Hoseok repeated slowly. Then it clicked. “Wait. Your codename?”

“Yes.”

“So this isn’t about the Parks. It’s about you.”

Namjoon leaned against the side of his car, shutting his eyes tight. “They’re using him to get to me.”

“Then you already know what you have to do,” Hoseok said gently. “You have to become that Namjoon again.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Namjoon whispered, throat dry. “I’ve spent years trying to be someone different—for him.”

“I know. But right now, you don’t have that luxury. Be Raven. Just long enough to bring him home.”

Namjoon’s hand clenched around the phone. “He must be terrified…”

“Then don’t waste time. Find him.”

Namjoon paused, breathing in deep. And then, something clicked. “The van.” he said as he opened his car door.

“Looks like you figured something out”

Namjoon hummed to him; mind racing too fast to explain. “I’ll update you soon. Just… be on standby.”

He hung up and pulled up the estate’s internal staff logs again on his tablet. One line glowed red: an unauthorized vehicle registered just ten minutes before the kidnapping. No return trip logged. The license plate was already flagged, and now Namjoon had a trail. A real one.

His fingers hovered over the steering wheel. ‘I’m coming for you, young master. Just hold on a little longer.’

Namjoon stormed back into the estate, shoving past bewildered staff without slowing his pace. His voice was rough with urgency.

“The car. The one you said looked out of place earlier. Where is it?!”

A junior butler startled, almost dropping a tray. “B-Behind the guest house, sir. It hasn’t moved all day—”

Namjoon didn’t hear the rest. He was already running. His legs burned as he tore across the lawn, mud splattering up the back of his pants as he crossed the gravel toward the smaller guest house near the tree line. The building loomed quiet, untouched. And behind it, nestled between a line of hedges and a service path, sat the car. A silver sedan. Dusty. Out of place.

It was parked as if it had been forgotten. But Namjoon knew better. His chest tightened as he approached. ‘Please… Please let there be something. Anything.’

The driver’s side door was unlocked. He yanked it open and began searching with the precision of someone who had done this too many times before. Glove compartment. Empty. Under the seats, just wrappers and dust. Behind the visors. Nothing.

‘Damn it.’

He crouched lower, ducking into the car, hands brushing along the floor mats. Then—

Crackle.

His heart froze. A tiny, staticky crackle buzzed from the passenger side floor. He whipped around. And there, half-buried under the seat, was a small, black handheld radio.

His name came through it, distorted, low, like a whisper through smoke. “Raven.”

Namjoon’s blood went cold. He snatched the device up, gripping it hard enough to crack the casing. His voice was a snarl. “Fuck you, whoever you are.”

The response was instant. Amused. Mocking. “Oh? The Raven’s angry?”

Namjoon’s grip tightened so hard his knuckles turned white. He could hear his own heartbeat now, a steady thud in his ears.

“I swear to god,” he hissed. “If you’ve touched one hair on my young master’s head—if you so much as looked at him wrong—I’ll make you beg for death.”

The bastard laughed. It was calm. Cruel. Confident.

“I think I already have,” the voice said sweetly. “In fact... I’ve done more than just lay a finger on him.”

And then—God. Then he heard it. A voice. Not the man’s. High, panicked. Soaked in fear.

“Namjoonie hyung! I—I’m sorry! I’m not mad at you! Please, come! Hyung—!”

Namjoon’s whole body went rigid. His vision swam. That voice. His voice.

“Young master?! Young master, are you okay? Tell me you’re okay! I’m coming—don’t hang up!” His voice cracked halfway through, desperation spilling through every word.

But Jimin’s voice didn’t return. Instead, the other man spoke again. Cold. Calm. Smug.

“Tsk, tsk. We didn’t agree on a conversation. I was being generous. Letting you hear his voice was a kindness. Don’t ruin it with whining.”

Namjoon nearly crushed the radio in his fist. “What do you want?” he forced out through gritted teeth. “Money? A fucking ransom? I’ll wire it. Name your amount.”

The man chuckled, like he was talking to a naïve child. “Money? You amuse me. No, no… I don’t want your cash. I want you.”

Namjoon’s heart sank.

“Call it an exchange,” the man continued. “You come to me. Alone. Unarmed. And I’ll give the brat back. He’s not very useful to me now anyway. Whiny little thing.”

Namjoon nearly screamed. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He had to stay cold. Controlled. Smart.

He swallowed hard. “Time and place.”

“I knew you’d be cooperative,” the voice crooned. “I always said you were the most reasonable one. I’m sending you the coordinates. Twenty minutes.”

Then the radio went dead.

Namjoon stood frozen for a long second. He stared down at the radio in his hand, chest heaving. Jimin’s voice still rang in his ears. ‘I’m not mad at you! Please, come!’

God. His baby boy. His little prince. The child who insisted on holding his pinky every time they crossed a hallway. Who asked him if pudding was “too sweet to be eaten before homework.” The child he had sworn to protect.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Not until—

A tiny sound escaped him. A low, dark chuckle. “Oh… you dumb bastards,” Namjoon muttered.

Because now? Now they’d fucked up. They’d taken Jimin. And then they invited him.

“Fucking idiots,” he said, already yanking the car door open and sliding into the driver’s seat. His voice was low, cold, vibrating with restrained rage. “You just signed your own death warrants.”

The engine roared to life, but Namjoon didn’t feel the vibration. He felt fire. And somewhere underneath that fire… guilt. This was his fault. His past. His name. His shadow that had come back to collect payment. And it had chosen Jimin.

His phone buzzed again as the GPS received a set of coordinates. Exactly twenty minutes out. A remote industrial site near the cliffs, if he remembered correctly.

Namjoon took a breath. Then another. ‘Calm. Calm now. Save the rage for later. Let it feed you when you get there.’

He tapped the comms in his car—connected directly to Hoseok’s line. “Hobi,” he said quietly, “they want me to go alone.”

“Namjoon—no. Wait. Let me call backup—”

“No. I don’t want them to panic. They might hurt him.” His voice softened. “But I’m not going in without leaving a trail.”

He glanced at the estate on his screen, then at the note, the van location, the radio frequency. “I’m sending you everything. Track me from the comm. I’m leaving the line open.”

“Namjoon—”

“If anything happens to me…” he paused. His voice cracked, just a little. “Make sure the young master gets home.”

Hoseok went quiet. Then, “I will. But it’s not going to come to that. Bring him back.”

Namjoon nodded once. Then floored the gas. The wheels screamed as he tore down the road, eyes locked to the horizon, jaw set in stone.

He was done running from who he used to be. Because the Raven was back. And someone was about to learn what that really meant.

-

Jimin sat slumped in the corner of the freezing, damp room, his small body curled in on itself. His wrists were bound behind his back with coarse rope, chafing his delicate skin, and a thick strip of tape pressed tightly over his mouth. The floor beneath him was concrete, grimy, cold, and unyielding, and every shift of his body only sent sharp aches through his limbs. His legs were tied too, ankles rubbed raw beneath the binding.

He couldn’t see a thing. The room was pitch black. Not even a crack of light under a door. Just dark, like his heart had sunk into a black ocean and couldn’t find its way to the surface.

His stomach groaned again, an ugly, loud sound that seemed to echo in the silence. He had no idea how long he’d been here. Maybe three hours. Maybe more. Maybe less. Time didn’t feel real anymore. The only thing that felt real was the growing dread in his chest, the tight burn in his wrists, and the regret he could barely choke back.

‘This is what I get. This is what I get for being stupid and bratty and yelling at Namjoon hyung.’

He pressed his forehead against his knees, squeezing his eyes shut. The scratchy rope dug into his skin again, but he didn’t care.

‘If I hadn’t told him to go away, he never would’ve left. If I hadn’t kicked him out of the room, I would be safe right now. Warm. With Yoongi and Taehyung and Jungkook. With Namjoonie hyung sitting outside the playroom like always. Everything would be normal.’

A single tear slipped out and rolled down his cheek. He tried to wipe it with his shoulder, but all he did was scrape the side of his face against his sleeve.

‘No. Crying’s stupid. You're not stupid, Park Jimin. You're strong. You’re not a baby.’

But he felt like a baby. A tiny, helpless, dumb baby who thought he could handle being without Namjoon for five minutes and ended up kidnapped and thrown in a dungeon.

He wanted his hyung. So badly. Even though he was mad. Even though he'd said mean things. He just wanted to hear his voice. He didn’t even need to be untied, just hearing Namjoon would’ve been enough. That deep, calm voice telling him everything would be alright. Because when Namjoon said things like that, they always were.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps outside the door. Slow. Heavy. Purposeful.

Jimin froze. He held his breath, curling up tighter, heart pounding against his ribs. His fingers clenched uselessly behind his back.

The door creaked open. Light spilled in. Too much all at once. He squinted instinctively, flinching from it.

A silhouette stepped into the room. Tall. Broad. The man crouched and tore the tape from his mouth in one harsh motion. Jimin gasped at the sting but didn’t make a sound. He didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.

“Up,” the man barked.

He didn’t move fast enough. A sharp shove sent him stumbling to his feet, his knees nearly giving out beneath him. His legs had gone numb. He struggled to stay upright, his whole body wobbling like jelly, but he didn’t cry out. He wouldn’t give them that either.

The hallway they walked down was equally dim, walls lined with peeling paint and flickering overhead lights. Everything reeked of dampness, rust, and old cigarettes. The man's hand on his shoulder was rough, his grip punishing.

Still, Jimin stayed quiet. Because he was waiting. Waiting for Namjoon. He was always waiting for Namjoon. And then—he heard it. A voice. That voice.

“Let him go.”

Jimin’s head snapped up so fast he nearly stumbled. His heart leapt to his throat. The relief was so sharp it almost hurt.

‘Namjoonie hyung.’

He stood there like something out of a dream. Dressed in all black, face serious, eyes steady. Jimin wanted to run to him. But before he could even move—

Cold metal pressed against his temple.

Jimin flinched. His entire body froze. Breath caught in his throat. He didn’t dare move a muscle.

"Don't be stupid," the captor snapped behind him. "Move again and I paint the wall with his brain."

Namjoon didn’t move. His gaze was fixed on Jimin like there was nothing else in the world. "It's okay, young master," he said gently. "You'll be fine. Be brave. Don't be afraid."

Jimin's throat tightened. “Hyung…” His voice cracked. “I'm sorry... I should’ve kept you with me…”

Namjoon’s expression softened, like it hurt him to hear that. "No, I'm the one who should be sorry for not protecting you properly."

Before the moment could breathe, the man behind him growled, "Enough! I said no emotional speeches."

Namjoon ignored him. His voice turned calm again. So calm it made Jimin stop shaking. “Close your eyes, young master. Be obedient. I'll be upset with you if you don’t.”

Jimin hesitated. But Namjoon had never used that voice unless something really serious was happening. That quiet, firm tone meant trust me. So he nodded. And shut his eyes.

The rest of the world disappeared. He heard sounds. Movement. Footsteps. Rough hands. Metal clinking. Namjoon being restrained.

Then silence.

He didn’t open his eyes. Not even when the man behind him pulled him backward again, tying him to a thick pole. Jimin gritted his teeth, enduring every scrape and tug. They weren’t careful. They didn’t care.

A voice sneered, “Your grudge isn’t with me, Raven. But don’t worry. You’ll get familiar with my boss.”

Jimin didn’t even listen. Because every second that passed, he could feel it. Namjoon wasn’t panicking. Namjoon had a plan.

The moment the captor walked away, everything changed. The grip around the room loosened.

Jimin opened his eyes. Just in time to see Namjoon’s head still bowed. Still pretending to be weak. But Jimin knew better.

And then it happened so fast it was a blur. Namjoon moved. Quiet and deadly. One arm free, then the other. A quick strike. A body dropped.

“Young master,” he said sharply, “Close your eyes. Cover your ears. Now.”

Jimin obeyed without question. He curled in on himself, fingers clamped tightly over his ears. A loud crack followed. A grunt. Then silence again.

Jimin peeked up through one eye.

Namjoon stood there, breathing hard. The gun in his hand was lowered, not fired—thank God—and one man lay unconscious on the ground. Jimin didn’t see the other.

And then Namjoon was in front of him, crouching. “I’ve got you,” he said softly.

Jimin didn’t even care if it was dramatic. He collapsed forward, face buried in Namjoon’s shoulder. He was shaking, barely able to keep upright, and Namjoon lifted him without hesitation.

He held him close as he carried him outside, muttering things under his breath that Jimin couldn’t catch. His voice was hoarse. Angry. Scared.

The moment the cold air hit Jimin’s skin, he felt his strength begin to fade. His head lulled against Namjoon’s chest. His heartbeat sounded so loud now, so fast.

“Hyung…” he whispered.

“Don’t talk. You’re safe now.”

And that was the last thing he heard before everything went black.

He didn’t see Namjoon make it to the car waiting at the alley’s end. He didn’t feel Hoseok climbing out of the passenger seat, eyes wide and panicked as he rushed to open the door.

He didn’t hear Namjoon’s voice, rough with emotion, ordering Hoseok to take Jimin straight to the hospital and not wait.

Didn’t see the way Namjoon laid him down in the back seat with aching gentleness, brushing sweat-damp hair from his face.

Didn’t see Hoseok’s hands trembling as he started the car.

Didn’t see Namjoon draw his gun again, eyes going flat, jaw set with ice as he turned back toward the building. Because Raven had unfinished business. And this time, he wasn’t leaving anyone alive.

-

The room was too white. That was the first thing Jimin noticed as his eyes fluttered open, dry and heavy like they hadn’t moved in years. It was a sterile kind of white, walls, ceiling, bedsheets. Everything clean and cold and... unfamiliar. Even the pillows smelled like nothing. Not lavender. Not home.

His head was spinning. His throat ached, raw and parched, and every inch of his body felt like it had been wrung out like an old towel. His wrists throbbed where the ropes had bitten in, and his ankles, too. Someone had bandaged them, soft gauze, gentle hands, he didn’t remember it happening. He remembered the cold floor. He remembered the tape over his mouth. The panic. The nothing.

He remembered Namjoon.

His vision blurred instantly.

He wanted to sit up, but even lifting his hand felt impossible. He settled for turning his head just slightly, squinting at the figure near the window, back turned, phone pressed to his ear.

Hoseok.

Jimin’s heart skipped. His mouth parted to call out, but then Hoseok spoke, and he froze.

“I’m serious. You need to stop whatever you’re doing and come to him now.” His voice was hushed, urgent. Furious.

There was a pause.

Then, Hoseok’s tone sharpened like a blade. “I don’t care if you’re covered in blood. I don’t fucking care, Namjoon. The only place you should be right now is at Jimin’s side. Do you even realize what you're doing to him?"

Jimin blinked. ‘Namjoon hyung? Where is he? Why isn’t he here?’

More silence. Hoseok turned away slightly, pacing near the wall. “I know you’re blaming yourself, but going full psycho vigilante mode and staying behind like some shadow soldier from hell isn’t helping. Do you know what Mister Seokjin said when I called him? He said—and I quote—‘Tell that moron he’s not some tragic anti-hero.’ And he’s right. Namjoon, there were bodies everywhere. You went raven. Like—real raven. I’m scared to even go back there. I’ve never seen you like that.”

Jimin's heart skipped again. ‘Namjoon... did that? For me?’

“You’re his everything, Namjoon,” Hoseok said, voice softening just slightly. “He’s going to wake up soon, and when he does, he’s going to want you. Not doctors. Not me. Not ten guards with guns. He’ll want his Namjoonie hyung. So what the hell are you doing still punishing yourself?”

The voice on the other end must’ve said something, but Jimin couldn’t hear it. Still, he could feel it. The weight in Hoseok’s sigh.

“No. No, you’re not resigning. I won’t let you. You didn’t put him in danger. This isn’t about you—this is about him. You were in the restroom for barely a minute. You didn’t leave him alone. You trusted trained staff. This happened because of them, not you.”

Hoseok’s voice broke for a second, but then firmed again. “You’re not a failure. You’re his protector. And yes—you’re right. They were after you. Because you’re smart. Because you’re dangerous. But that doesn’t make it your fault. It just means you have to stay alive to keep protecting him.”

Jimin’s chest was tight. His lips began to tremble, and he sniffled before he could stop it.

“He needs you, Namjoon,” Hoseok continued. “You know what he said to me once? He said, ‘Namjoonie hyung is my superhero. He’s the only one who listens. Who stays.’ That was the night he had a nightmare and woke up crying. You weren’t even there, and he still called for you first.”

Jimin’s eyes filled with tears.

“I’m not lying, Namjoon. He’s been through hell. His mother’s died in front of him. His father doesn’t even look at him. His brother is always away. You’re it. You’re all he has. If you abandon him now... you’ll break him.”

That was it. A sob ripped from Jimin’s throat, loud and ugly, and entirely outside of his control.

Hoseok whipped around instantly. “Young master?”

Jimin’s chest heaved. Tears fell like rivers down his cheeks, soaking the gauze on his face. He didn’t care. His voice cracked, but he forced it out through hiccups and wet gasps. “Where’s Namjoonie hyung?! I want him—I need him—”

“Young master, you’re awake,” Hoseok whispered, rushing to the bed. He cupped Jimin’s cheeks, wiping his tears with trembling fingers. “It’s okay, you’re okay, he’s—”

“Don’t lie to me!” Jimin wailed, shoving his hand at Hoseok’s chest. “You’re trying to hide it again—just like father—just like everything! You said he was here—you said he’d always be here! Why isn’t he?!”

“Jiminie—”

“Go get him!!” Jimin screamed. “Right now! I don’t care—go bring him!! I don’t want anyone else! Not doctors! Not guards! I want Namjoonie hyung now!!”

The room filled with alarms as his heart monitor spiked. Nurses poked their heads in, but Hoseok held up a hand.

“It's okay—he’s okay,” he said quickly. “He’s just—he’s—” Hoseok looked down at Jimin, expression torn. “Young master, I can’t leave you alone—”

“Then bring a thousand guards, I don’t care!” Jimin sobbed. “You said I was safe now! You said I’m okay! So go get him, or I’ll go myself—I’ll go!!”

“Young master, please—”

“I’ll scream until the whole building hears me! I’ll throw things! I’ll jump out of bed! Don’t test me!!”

Hoseok looked stricken, torn between duty and desperation. But then Jimin let out another heart-shattering cry, soft and broken and full of the kind of ache no medicine could fix.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

That did it.

Hoseok exhaled shakily, brushing Jimin’s hair back. “Okay. Okay. You win, you spoiled little prince.”

He kissed Jimin’s forehead and stood up.

“Ten guards. Outside this room. No one but the nurses come in, understood?” he instructed the staff, voice snapping back into authority. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes—with him. Don’t let Jimin move an inch.”

Jimin sniffled, hugging the blanket tighter as Hoseok strode out of the room, already barking orders into his phone. Guards filed in and positioned themselves like statues, their expressions unreadable.

But Jimin didn’t look at them. He stared at the door, eyes glassy and hopeful and raw. ‘Come back to me, Namjoonie hyung. Please.’

Chapter Text

Jimin didn’t remember falling asleep again. One moment he was blinking slowly at the sterile ceiling, the next—everything faded to black. Maybe it was the medication, maybe it was the sheer exhaustion. His body felt like it was floating, yet tied down at the same time.

But eventually, the light changed. It was softer now. Less artificial. The kind of light that slipped in through morning curtains, gentle, warm, and far too honest.

A faint hum buzzed from a nearby machine. The scent of disinfectant hung in the air. Jimin scrunched his nose, breathing in deeper just to confirm: yeah, definitely still the hospital.

Gross.

He let out a tiny groan and shifted, trying to bury his face back into the pillow, anything to hide from the world a little longer. His fingers curled into the thin hospital blanket, and he winced as a dull ache tugged at his side. Everything felt heavy and sore.

Before he could even process it, a familiar voice cut through the silence, sharp with relief. “Young master!”

The nickname hit him harder than expected. For a moment, Jimin didn’t move. He blinked, dazed, before slowly turning his head. And there he was, Namjoon, standing at his bedside, eyes wide, shoulders tense, his usually composed expression cracked and messy and raw.

Jimin stared. His breath hitched. And just like that, tears began to fall. No warning. No buildup. Just a sudden, embarrassing surge of emotion that spilled over like an overflowing cup. His lips trembled as his vision blurred. The room swam in front of him.

Why was he crying? No, really. Why was he crying like a baby? Was it the drugs? The pain? The trauma? No. It was him. It was Namjoon.

“Are you in pain?” Namjoon’s voice came again, softer now. Panicked. “Should I call the doctor?”

Jimin shook his head quickly, the motion making his head spin. “N-No,” he sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut as if that could stop the tears. “No, no, I’m okay—”

“Young master…” Namjoon sounded confused, like he didn’t know what to do with the sight of Jimin falling apart.

Still lying down, Jimin stretched his arms out toward him, desperate and small.

Namjoon didn’t hesitate. He leaned down, arms wrapping securely around Jimin’s trembling frame, pulling him close like something sacred. Jimin buried his face into Namjoon’s shoulder and cried harder.

“I’m sorry,” he hiccupped between gasps, clutching onto Namjoon’s jacket.

Namjoon leaned back slightly, just enough to look at him. “Why? Why are you apologizing? I should be the one saying sorry.”

“Because…!” Jimin grabbed Namjoon’s bruised face, his hands trembling. “Because you got hurt because of me!”

Namjoon stilled. For a second, there was silence. Jimin stared at him with wide, swollen eyes, cheeks wet with tears, and the pain in his chest threatened to break him all over again.

“You’re crying because I got hurt?” Namjoon whispered, his voice cracking.

Jimin nodded quickly, desperate to make him understand. “It was all my fault. I was stubborn! I pushed you away, I said I didn’t need you, but I do, Namjoon hyung, I really do! And because of me, you—”

“No.” Namjoon’s voice was firm. He wrapped his arms around Jimin tighter, pressing his forehead against the boy’s. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. You’re a child, young master. You didn’t do anything wrong. If anyone should apologize—it’s me.”

Jimin sniffled loudly. “But you got hurt.”

“And I’d get hurt a thousand more times if it meant keeping you safe,” Namjoon whispered.

They stayed like that for a while, clinging to each other, quietly crying into the other’s shoulder.

Eventually, Namjoon pulled back and insisted on calling the doctor for a checkup, even though Jimin protested dramatically, insisting that he was “totally fine” and “bored of this place” and “not a baby, you know.” Namjoon only smiled and ruffled his hair, which annoyed Jimin, but also made him feel warm.

Once the doctor had done a final check and confirmed Jimin could be discharged, Namjoon helped him dress and held his hand the entire way to the car, like he might disappear if he let go.

They sat in the backseat of the car on the way home, the tension slowly melting away with the rhythm of the road. Jimin leaned against Namjoon’s arm, bundled in a soft hoodie Namjoon had brought him.

“Has Jin hyung returned yet?” Jimin asked softly, fiddling with the zipper on his hoodie.

Namjoon glanced down at him. “Not yet. But he’s on his way. The moment he heard what happened, he dropped everything.”

Jimin nodded slowly. “He always comes.”

“And your father…” Namjoon hesitated for a beat, then said gently, “He stayed with you all night.”

Jimin blinked in surprise, eyes wide. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Namjoon said with a convincing smile. “He was very worried. He even yelled at me and said I should be fired.”

“Whoa…” Jimin’s expression softened, lips curving into a tiny smile. “He did that?”

Namjoon nodded, but guilt sat heavy in his throat. He didn’t like lying, not to Jimin. But… some lies were kinder than the truth. And the truth was far too cold.

“I’m glad,” Jimin whispered, and Namjoon didn’t have the heart to say otherwise.

“Oh—and I didn’t tell your friends what actually happened.”

Jimin sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

Then, after a beat: “Wait… does that mean no private lessons?”

“No school either,” Namjoon added.

“What?” Jimin sat up straighter. “No! Why?!”

Namjoon chuckled. “Just until things settle down. It’s not just about your health—it’s for your safety.”

Jimin frowned. “So I’m grounded.”

“I wouldn’t call it that…”

“You’re locking me up!”

“‘Supervised security’ sounds better.”

Jimin gave him a flat look, then huffed. “Have you at least caught the bad guys?”

Namjoon tilted his head. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Jimin pouted. “You’re supposed to be my superhero! What happened to the all-powerful Namjoonie hyung?”

Namjoon clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me. I am powerful! I just haven’t… located the final villain boss yet.”

Jimin giggled despite himself, his mood lightening.

The quiet hum of the car engine lulled Jimin into a drowsy daze as he leaned against Namjoon’s shoulder, his fingers curled tightly around the fabric of the older man’s sleeve. The blanket draped over his legs, the soft thrum of the road beneath them, and Namjoon’s steady breathing combined into something that felt almost safe. Almost.

He didn’t say anything the entire ride back from the hospital. He didn’t have to. His silence, for once, wasn’t prideful or stubborn, it was fear, raw and gnawing, even if his eyes stayed dry. He just didn’t want to let go. Not now. Not after everything.

When they reached the estate gates, Jimin only stirred when Namjoon gently shifted to unbuckle his seatbelt.

“We’re home,” Namjoon said, voice low and soothing.

Jimin blinked at him, then back at the window. The towering iron gates, the flower-lined driveway, the familiar garden hedges, all things that should’ve made him feel safe. They didn’t.

He nodded, wordlessly, and stepped out with Namjoon’s help. A few servants greeted him at the door with worried smiles, but he didn’t respond. He clung tighter to Namjoon’s arm instead, face half-hidden behind his oversized scarf even though it wasn’t cold.

Namjoon said nothing about it. He just placed a hand on the small of Jimin’s back and guided him inside.

They ended up on the living room couch, TV playing quietly, the volume just enough to be background noise. Jimin leaned heavily against Namjoon, feet curled under him, blanket tucked around his lap. He had insisted, no, demanded, that Namjoon stay with him.

“Young master,” Namjoon said softly after a while, shifting to stand. “Let me go check if lunch is ready—”

“No!” Jimin shot up, grabbing Namjoon’s sleeve with both hands. “Don’t go!”

Namjoon blinked down at him, surprised by the sudden panic in his voice. “I was just going to check on lunch. I’ll come right back.”

“If it’s ready, the maids will tell us,” Jimin argued, voice wobbling. “Just stay here.”

It was such a small, pathetic plea, but Jimin didn’t care how childish it sounded. He needed him there. Needed to feel the weight of his presence beside him.

Namjoon hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Okay.”

Just as Jimin predicted, one of the maids appeared not five minutes later to announce lunch. Jimin barely touched it. He picked at the rice and ate only a few bites of his favorite braised short ribs. Namjoon didn’t push him.

Back in his room, Jimin wandered over to his bookshelf, scanning the spines with an absent finger.

“Looking for something?” Namjoon asked from where he sat on the settee.

“My comic,” Jimin murmured. “Volume eight. The one with the ugly villain I like.”

Namjoon stood. “Maybe you left it in the playroom. Do you want me to check?”

“No!” Jimin spun around, eyes wide. “Don’t leave me alone.”

Namjoon stopped mid-step.

“It’s okay,” Jimin mumbled, staring down at his slippers. “I’ll just read something else…”

There was a long silence before Namjoon finally asked, “Young master… You’re home. You’re safe. Why won’t you let me leave your side?”

Jimin’s lower lip trembled before he even processed what he was about to say. “Because I’m scared.”

Namjoon’s entire expression softened. “You don’t need to be. There are guards at every exit. No one’s getting in. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“Even if you say that…” Jimin swallowed thickly. “I’m still scared. So stay with me.”

Namjoon crossed the room and gently ruffled his hair. “You’re safe now. The danger’s gone.”

“Stay with meeee,” Jimin whined, dragging the blanket over his head like a pouty ghost.

Namjoon laughed quietly. “Of course, young master. But can I at least ask a maid to look for your comic?”

Jimin peeked out from under the blanket like a suspicious turtle. “…Only if you do it from the doorway.”

Namjoon obliged, stepping just outside the room to pass along the message before returning immediately.

They sat side by side on the floor by the window, both pretending to read, Jimin with a random comic book he hadn’t touched in years, Namjoon with a novel he probably wasn’t paying attention to.

After a while, Jimin closed his book and fidgeted. “Namjoonie hyung…”

“Yes?”

“…I want to go to the bathroom.”

Namjoon looked up, puzzled. “You have one in your room.”

“I know,” Jimin said quickly, curling his fingers into the blanket. “But I’m scared.”

Namjoon blinked, then glanced toward the bathroom. “Young master, nothing’s going to happen in there.”

“But… what if the window…” Jimin trailed off.

Namjoon sighed, then gave him a reassuring smile. “Do you want me to check it first?”

“Can’t you just… stay?” Jimin asked, voice embarrassingly small.

“…Inside?”

Jimin’s face turned red. “Outside! Obviously outside! Just—nearby.”

Namjoon chuckled. “Alright. I’ll wait right at the door. And if anything even thinks about scaring you, I’ll break it with my bare hands.”

Jimin gave a reluctant nod and shuffled toward the bathroom with Namjoon. And to his demands, Namjoon checked the bathroom first, made sure the window is locked, and then stood outside right by the door.

Jimin barely resisted not asking Namjoon to leave the door open, but he was more embarrassed than scared, so he didn’t.

When he was done, and got out, Namjoon smiled at him and patted his head proudly, and everything was fine. Safe.

Until suddenly, the bedroom door flew open. Jimin startled so hard he tripped over, heart racing, until he saw who it was.

“Jin hyung!” he gasped, scrambling to his feet.

Seokjin rushed in, arms open, and Jimin launched himself into them. The older man caught him easily, squeezing him so tight it was hard to breathe.

“Oh, Jiminie,” Seokjin murmured into his hair, his voice tight with worry. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay,” Jimin said, muffled by his brother’s shoulder. “I’m really okay.”

Seokjin pulled back just enough to check his face, his arms, his hands, as if to confirm it for himself. “I was so scared when I heard…”

“I’m fine,” Jimin repeated, voice gentler this time. “Namjoonie hyung saved me.”

Seokjin glanced over at Namjoon with a nod of gratitude… and something a little more serious. Jimin felt his heart jump.

“I need to talk to you,” Seokjin said to Namjoon. “In private.”

“No!” Jimin stepped between them instantly, arms outstretched. “You’re gonna yell at him, aren’t you? You can’t! He didn’t do anything wrong—I’m the one who—”

“Jimin.” Seokjin’s tone was firm. “I’m not going to yell.”

“You’re lying!” Jimin snapped. “If you need to yell, yell at me!”

Namjoon sighed from behind him. “Young master…”

“Don’t 'young master' me!” Jimin turned to glare at him. “You got hurt because of me and now you’re going to get in trouble because of me, too?! I won’t allow it!”

Seokjin exchanged a glance with Namjoon, then bent down slightly, his voice softening. “Jimin… I just want to talk to him. That’s all. About precautions. Not about blame.”

“Then why can’t I hear it?”

“Because it’s boring adult stuff.”

“Then talk boring in front of me!”

Namjoon stepped forward and whispered something into Seokjin’s ear. Seokjin blinked, then nodded with a small smile.

“Alright. No talking to him.” He ruffled Jimin’s hair. “Happy now?”

“…I don’t trust you,” Jimin grumbled.

“You’re just like Mom when you get stubborn,” Seokjin teased.

That shut Jimin up. He looked away quickly, cheeks pink.

“Come spend time with me in the garden,” Seokjin said gently. “We haven’t seen each other in days.”

Jimin hesitated, glancing at Namjoon.

“It’s safe,” Namjoon reassured him. “I’ll be nearby.”

“…Okay,” Jimin said softly.

They walked outside together, the garden blooming with spring colors, the air fresh and calm. Jimin clung to his brother’s arm the whole time. Even when Seokjin had to leave again for work, Jimin didn’t feel so scared anymore. Because Namjoon was still there. Right behind him. And this time, Jimin didn’t let go.

-

Later that evening, Jimin was curled up like a little prince on his favorite velvety bean bag in the playroom, headset snug over his ears, feet tucked under a pastel blanket. The lights had been dimmed just the way he liked, soft and golden, casting cozy glows on the plush rugs and shelves full of his toys and books. The room still smelled faintly of lavender from the linen spray Namjoon used on his pillows earlier.

He was playing an online game with Yoongi, well, trying to, because Yoongi kept teasing him about his aim.

“Did you even look before you threw that grenade?” Yoongi’s dry voice came through his headphones.

Jimin scrunched up his nose, gripping his controller tightly. “Shut up. I was cornered, and it was a tactical decision!”

“A tactical disaster,” Yoongi muttered.

Jimin gasped. “You're so mean! I'm never playing with you again.”

But he didn’t log out. He didn’t even think about logging out. He just leaned back into the bean bag, lips in a pout that he didn’t bother hiding. Yoongi liked teasing him. That was obvious. And secretly, very secretly, Jimin liked it too. It was the only time anyone besides Namjoonie spoke to him like a normal kid. Not a fragile, precious heir. Not a walking glass doll. Just Jimin.

Jimin smiled faintly and glanced toward Namjoon, who had been standing by the doorway of the playroom for the past fifteen minutes with his phone in hand, hesitating. Suspicious.

Namjoon always looked suspicious when he was about to do something Jimin wouldn't like.

“Namjoon hyung,” Jimin said, slipping off his headset and turning toward him with a perfectly rehearsed pout. “What are you doing?”

Namjoon quickly lowered his phone, guilty. “Nothing, young master. Just checking the time.”

“Liar,” Jimin said immediately, narrowing his eyes. “You're trying to call someone.”

Namjoon let out a small sigh and walked closer, kneeling beside him. “I was going to call your brother, nothing bad.”

“I didn’t say it was bad,” Jimin sniffed, turning his face away slightly. “But you have to tell me first. You can’t just sneak around like that. Not today.”

Namjoon’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should’ve told you.”

“I know I’m right,” Jimin mumbled, curling back into his blanket and re-settling his headset. “But… call him later. I’m still playing.”

“Yes, young master,” Namjoon said gently.

And for a few minutes, Jimin returned to his game, until he started yawning. His concentration slipped. His hands began to ache from how tightly he was clutching the controller.

“Yoongi,” he said sleepily into the headset, “are you gonna log off soon?”

“Why?” Yoongi replied. “Getting sleepy, baby prince?”

Jimin made a whining noise. “Don’t call me that!” But he smiled anyway, and he knew Yoongi could hear it.

“Yeah, I’ll log off if you do. You always make me feel bad if I keep playing after you leave,” Yoongi muttered. “You guilt-trip me.”

“I do not.”

“Uh-huh. Like that time you fake-cried—”

“I wasn’t faking! I was very emotionally overwhelmed that day!”

Yoongi snorted. “Okay, okay. Go to bed, Jimin. I’ll see you online tomorrow.”

“Text me goodnight,” Jimin said automatically, and only after he said it did he realize how that might sound.

There was a pause.

“…Yeah. I will,” Yoongi said quietly.

And then the call ended.

Jimin pulled off his headset and stared at the black TV screen for a long moment, heart suddenly feeling too full in his little chest. He didn’t like that. It felt too much like missing someone before they were even gone.

He turned around and spotted Namjoon still by the door. “Namjoonie hyung,” he said again, voice a little softer now. “I’m hungry and sleepy. Is dinner ready?”

Namjoon looked at the time, then at Jimin’s face. “It’s a little early for your usual dinner, but I’ll check.”

“I’m hungry now,” Jimin said stubbornly, the same way he always did when he didn’t want to be left alone.

“I’ll be right back.”

“No,” Jimin said instantly, brows furrowed. “Just open the door and ask someone. Don’t leave.”

Namjoon paused, then nodded. “Alright.” He stepped to the door, opened it slightly, and flagged down a nearby maid.

Dinner was ready, luckily. Jimin ate a little more than usual but barely touched the vegetables, pushing them around with a sulky spoon and occasionally muttering about the kidnapping ruining his appetite. Namjoon didn’t push him. When Jimin declared he was finished, he was.

Later, after a long bath filled with too many bubbles and his favorite lemon-scented shampoo, Jimin sat in bed, toweling his hair with slow, exaggerated movements.

Namjoon stood by the dresser, laying out Jimin’s lotion and brushing kit like always, when a small voice spoke up.

“Namjoonie hyung…” Jimin’s voice was soft, a tiny quiver buried beneath the casual whine. “Can you sleep with me tonight?”

Namjoon turned, blinking. “I’ll be right outside your door, guarding like always.”

“No.” Jimin hugged the towel tighter around himself. “Stay with me. In the room.”

Namjoon hesitated. “I’ll just be—”

“I said stay with me,” Jimin snapped, a bit too sharply for how tired he looked. His voice trembled. “Please.”

That please didn’t sound bratty at all. It sounded like desperation wrapped in velvet, small and scared.

Namjoon gave in with a sigh, bringing the lotion over. “Alright, alright. Let’s dry your hair first.”

Jimin didn’t say anything else. He let Namjoon brush and dry his hair, then lotion his arms like he was five years old again instead of nearly ten. When he was finally tucked in, surrounded by his fleet of stuffed bears and fancy pillows, he clutched one of Namjoon’s arms like a lifeline.

Namjoon didn’t try to leave again. He sat beside the bed, still in his suit, and let Jimin fall asleep with one hand curled tightly into his sleeve.

Chapter Text

The television buzzed quietly in front of Jimin, though he wasn’t really watching it. His eyes were fixed on the screen, but his mind had drifted far past the cartoon’s bright colors. He was curled up on the couch, one silk-clad leg tucked under him and his arm hooked around his favorite plush pillow, the one embroidered with gold thread and his initials in soft cursive. It smelled like his room, and Namjoon’s cologne, and faintly of the almond shampoo Namjoon used on him last night.

Namjoon sat beside him stiff and alert, flipping through something on his tablet with all the enthusiasm of a bored nanny, a silent presence Jimin had insisted on having close. Not just nearby, but close. He wasn’t allowed to sit on the other couch. Not the armchair either. Just this one. Right here. Beside him. Jimin hadn’t said why, and Namjoon hadn’t asked, but he understood. At least a little.

A knock at the door made both of them look up. A servant stepped in quietly, bowing. “Mister Namjoon, may I speak with you for a moment?”

Namjoon glanced at Jimin before standing. “Of course.”

Jimin tugged the blanket up higher on instinct. He didn’t like when Namjoon left, even for a minute, but he pretended he wasn’t bothered. That was important. He was trying to act normal.

The servant leaned in closer to whisper something to Namjoon, and Jimin squinted curiously, trying to make out the words.

“Is the young master expecting any visitors today?”

Namjoon shook his head. “Not that I know of. Why?”

“There’s a car at the gate. Someone claiming to be a guest of the young master.”

Namjoon paused. “He’s been absent from school for two days. Maybe it’s a classmate checking in. Can you verify the identity? I’d check myself, but I can’t leave him alone.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll return shortly.”

Namjoon returned to his spot and looked over at Jimin. “Young master, are you expecting anyone?”

Jimin shook his head faintly. “No,” he said, eyes still on the TV. “Why?”

“There’s someone at the gate. Might be a friend from school.”

Jimin’s stomach tensed. “You didn’t tell anyone what happened, right? Not even Taehyung?”

“No. I swear. Not a word.”

“Good. I don’t want anyone to know. It’s embarrassing.”

Namjoon sighed quietly. “It’s not embarrassing, young master.”

“It is to me.”

Another knock at the door pulled them from the conversation. The same servant returned, bowing once again. “It’s Min Yoongi. Shall I let him in?”

Jimin blinked, startled. “Yoongi?”

Namjoon turned to him. “He’s here to visit you.”

“Why? It’s not the weekend…”

“Maybe he’s worried. You’ve missed school.”

“Ughh! Why now? I look like a mess!” He tugged at the hem of his sweatshirt, which was custom, obviously, pale pink with tiny white angel wings embroidered on the back, but still. He hadn’t done his hair. Or even put on any cologne today. And Yoongi was going to see him like this?

“You look perfect.”

“I look like a gremlin.”

“Then you’re the prettiest gremlin alive.”

Jimin looked at him with narrowed eyes. “He doesn’t know, right?”

“No. Not from me.”

Just then, another knock came, followed by a servant. “Young master, your guest is waiting in the reception room.”

Jimin huffed and flung the blanket off dramatically. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Namjoon followed closely behind him as they made their way to the reception hall. The moment Jimin stepped inside, Yoongi leapt up from the velvet sofa and rushed over, wrapping Jimin in a hug before he could even blink.

Jimin squeaked. “Y-Yoongi?!”

“I was so worried about you,” Yoongi breathed against his shoulder, squeezing him tighter.

Yoongi’s warmth soaked through Jimin’s clothes, and for a moment, Jimin didn’t move, his fingers fluttered awkwardly before resting on Yoongi’s arms. His heart was doing that weird fluttery thing again. Annoying. Embarrassing. Infuriating.

When Yoongi pulled back to hold his face in both hands, Jimin almost stepped away, but didn’t.

“You’re not hurt, right?” Yoongi’s eyes were wide, scanning every inch of his face. “Tell me you’re okay.”

“What are you talking about?! I’m—what—Yoongi, what—?”

“Don’t play dumb!” Yoongi scowled, his thumb brushing Jimin’s cheek. “Taehyung told me. The kidnapping. Why didn’t you say anything? Why did you lie to me and said you got the flu?”

Jimin’s face drained of color. His eyes shot to Namjoon with panic.

Namjoon raised his hands gently. “He probably heard from his father. Taehyung’s dad works closely with your father.”

“Yoongi…” Jimin whispered, shoulders shrinking. “I didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Why?! Am I not your friend?”

“You are! Of course you are!”

“Then why hide it from me? Why lie?”

Jimin bit his lip and looked away, embarrassment bubbling up like fizzy soda. He didn’t want Yoongi to see him as weak. Not him. Not when Yoongi always looked so unbothered and cool. Not when Jimin had spent the last two nights sleeping with a nightlight like a literal child.

“I just… I didn’t want people to talk. Everyone already thinks I’m some delicate flower.”

Yoongi’s voice softened. “You’re not delicate. You’re strong.”

Jimin snorted without humor. “I can’t even sleep without Namjoon hyung. He has to stay in my room. I panic when he leaves. I don’t feel strong.”

Yoongi took his hand, gently this time, and gave it a small squeeze. “You’re still here. That’s strong enough.”

Jimin’s heart gave the stupidest flutter. He hated how warm Yoongi’s hand was. Hated it because it made him want to squeeze back, and maybe stay there forever.

“I told my mom you were sick,” Yoongi said, voice lower. “So I could come. I figured you wouldn’t want the truth going around.”

Jimin’s eyes flicked up. “You did that for me?”

“Well… yeah. And she made you an apple pie. I carried it the whole way here like a delivery boy.”

“Aw…” Jimin's pout returned. “That’s so sweet. But—wait, where is it?”

Yoongi’s face soured. “The guards took it. Said it might be poisoned.”

Jimin gasped. “They didn’t!”

“They did. They said it might be poisoned! And they left me at the gate for an hour! An hour! Like I was some stalker! I had to argue just to get inside, and then they searched me. Searched me, Jimin. Like I’m a criminal!”

Jimin turned to Namjoon immediately. “Hyung! You can’t just steal his pie and search him like he’s dangerous! He’s Yoongi!”

Namjoon tried not to smile. “Young master, I didn’t know he’d be arriving today. Protocol is strict since the incident.”

“But it’s Yoongi!”

Yoongi leaned in with a mock whisper. “He still wants me dead. I know it.”

“Hyung!” Jimin snapped, voice pitchy. “Tell the staff to give back the pie right now!”

Namjoon chuckled. “Yes, young master. Right away.”

He pulled out his phone and stepped aside to make some calls.

Jimin turned back to Yoongi, who was now pouting more dramatically than Jimin did on his worst days. “Were you really waiting for a whole hour?”

“With pie in my arms,” Yoongi confirmed gravely. “Like some tragic fairytale prince.”

Jimin giggled. “That’s dramatic.”

“I am dramatic.”

“You are.”

Yoongi shifted closer and gently nudged his shoulder. “Are you really okay though?” he asked softly, his fingers brushing Jimin’s hand without quite holding it, as if afraid it might spook him.

Jimin nodded, but it wasn’t a full nod, it was small, like a bob of his head that said “maybe” more than “yes.”

“I really am,” he said, adding a little smile to sell it. “You don’t need to worry.”

But Yoongi frowned anyway, eyebrows scrunching like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “I just... I can’t believe you went through all of that. You’re really strong, Jiminie.”

Jimin’s smile faltered. He looked down at his lap where the blanket bunched around his fists. “I don’t know about that. I mean... I’m only okay because of Namjoonie hyung.”

“But you’re the one who went through it,” Yoongi argued gently. “And you’re still standing. That counts for something.”

He wanted to believe that. Really, he did. But every time Namjoon stepped away, even just to the bathroom, something in him tightened. His breathing would get shallow. His fingers would twitch like they missed something. And it made him feel ridiculous.

Jimin shook his head, staring at the wall. “Not really. I can’t even stay alone without Namjoon hyung. I can’t sleep by myself. I make him stay in my room.” He gestured vaguely toward the window. “Look at him, on the phone instead of going there himself because he can’t leave me or I’ll panic again... I get scared when he leaves. Even for a second.”

Yoongi didn’t laugh. He didn’t say anything teasing, either. Instead, he nodded slowly, like it made sense. “That’s completely natural,” he said softly. “You’ve been through so much. Of course you’d be scared for a while. If it were me, I’d probably be sleeping with my mom like a kid.”

That made Jimin freeze. He hesitated before whispering, “Oh... Well, my mom’s in heaven now. And Father and Jin hyung aren’t home much. So... I don’t think choosing Namjoon hyung was a choice. He was my only option.”

There was a pause. Then Yoongi murmured, “I... I’m sorry.”

Jimin looked at him and forced a small grin, bumping their shoulders lightly. “It’s okay! I love Namjoonie hyung~~”

Almost on cue, Namjoon turned from his call, catching the end of that declaration. His face softened into a warm smile.

“Oooh, I love you too, young master,” he said in a singsong voice, giving him a fond wink.

Yoongi jumped in quickly, his voice louder with a hint of urgency. “Did you manage to get my mom’s pie?!”

Namjoon’s grin widened. “Of course I did~” As he said it, a servant walked in holding a silver tray that carried the unmistakable scent of cinnamon and caramelized apples.

Jimin’s eyes widened in delight. “It smells amazing~”

Yoongi puffed out his chest with pride, trying not to look too pleased. “My mom’s apple pie is the best in the world.”

Jimin didn’t hesitate. He picked up his fork and took a bite, then moaned softly like it was the most divine thing he’d ever tasted. “It really is the best! It’s criminal that you didn’t bring me this sooner!”

Yoongi flushed slightly, scratching his cheek. “Well, maybe I’ll bring you another pie next time.”

“You better,” Jimin said through a mouthful, then swallowed and added dramatically, “Or I’ll die.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Yoongi muttered, but he was smiling.

Jimin grinned. “You love it.”

He didn't miss the way Yoongi hesitated at that, just a beat too long, before glancing down at his lap and mumbling, “Maybe.”

That made something flutter traitorously in Jimin’s chest. He shoved another bite of pie into his mouth to ignore it.

The two of them ended up sitting close on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, while Jimin devoured a slice and Yoongi talked about school and Taehyung’s ridiculous grounding. Every so often, Yoongi would brush crumbs off Jimin’s chin or hand him a napkin, and Jimin didn’t even pretend to be annoyed. In fact, he might have leaned a little closer each time.

They spent the next half-hour just like that, eating, teasing, talking about school in a way that made Jimin forget he hadn’t been there in days. Yoongi even pulled out his homework planner and complained about math, pretending not to know how to multiply decimals just to make Jimin explain it and then laugh when he got exasperated.

Namjoon, thankfully, stayed out of it, quietly messaging Hoseok on the couch, only chiming in now and then to say things like “Eat slower, young master” or “No, you cannot have a third slice before dinner.”

When the sun dipped low and shadows stretched long across the floor, Namjoon cleared his throat.

“It’s a school night,” he said to Yoongi with a raised eyebrow. “Your family will worry.”

Yoongi made a dramatic groaning noise and flopped over Jimin’s lap. “But Jiminie needs me~ I’m comforting him~ He’s been traumatized~”

Jimin giggled and poked his side. “You’re heavy, get off.”

“No,” Yoongi whined. “You’re so warm and soft. You’re like a human pillow.”

Jimin rolled his eyes but didn’t push him off. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous.”

“You’re always generous. Especially with affection.”

Namjoon stood with a knowing look. “Alright, five more minutes. Then you’re out.”

Yoongi sat up reluctantly. “Yes, sir bodyguard.”

As Namjoon walked away to give them a bit of privacy, Jimin shifted on the chaise and looked at Yoongi seriously.

“Hey... do you think I can go back to school soon?”

Yoongi tilted his head. “Already?”

Jimin nodded, more confident than he felt. “I miss it.”

“Miss the homework?”

“No. I miss sitting with you at lunch and ignoring the teacher with you in math class.”

Yoongi smiled. “You’re so honest. I like that.”

Jimin’s cheeks flushed. “I just… I want things to be normal again.”

Before Yoongi could reply, Namjoon reappeared, arms crossed. “Young master, may I speak?”

Jimin nodded regally. “You may.”

Namjoon sighed. “You won’t even let me leave your room yet. Would you be really okay at school? I can come with you, of course! But I know you don’t want that.”

Jimin blinked. “Ah… I hadn’t thought about that.”

“I think you just need a little more time. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“I feel like I’ve been such a burden lately,” Jimin mumbled. “I keep making you stay with me all the time...”

Namjoon knelt beside him immediately. “I really don’t mind, young master. But I am worried about you…”

“And I hate making you worry.” Jimin bit his lip. “But... I’m just so scared. I don’t want to keep being a burden lik—”

“You’re not a burden, Young Master!” Namjoon cut in.

“Let me finish!” Jimin snapped, voice rising with frustration. “You always interrupt me!”

“R-right, I’m sorry, young master.”

Jimin huffed, then continued with a quieter voice. “Like I said, I don’t want to keep going like this. So… maybe I’ll try to sleep alone tonight.”

Yoongi straightened suddenly. “You don’t have to push yourself so fast.”

“I know,” Jimin whispered. “But… one step at a time. I’ll face my fears slowly. Because I know Namjoon will always protect me, even when he’s not beside me.” He looked up at Namjoon. “You’ll protect me, right?”

Namjoon’s throat bobbed as he nodded. “Of course, young master. I’ll always do everything I can to keep you safe.”

“You’re my hero, Namjoonie hyung.”

“It’s an honor,” Namjoon whispered, hugging him tight.

From behind Namjoon, Yoongi stood awkwardly, watching.

Jimin peeked over Namjoon’s shoulder. “You too, Yoongi. You’re my… sidekick.”

Yoongi gasped. “Sidekick? I’m at least co-hero!”

Jimin giggled. “Okay, co-hero.”

Yoongi walked over and patted Jimin’s head. “You’ll be okay. But if it gets too scary… I’ll bring another pie tomorrow.”

“That’s the best kind of therapy,” Jimin sighed.

After Yoongi left, and after a long bath and many dramatic negotiations about how much dinner he needed to eat before earning more pie, Jimin sat in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Namjoon tucked him in, fingers gentle. “I’ll be right outside your door, young master. If you even whisper my name, I’ll hear you and come running.”

“I know.”

“You’ll be okay. And if it’s too much, that’s okay too.”

“I’ll be strong.”

“You already are.”

Jimin murmured, “Goodnight.”

Namjoon smiled. “Goodnight, young master.”

He turned off the lights and left.

Jimin stared at the door long after it clicked shut. Then he whispered, “Namjoonie hyung…?”

The door creaked open instantly. “Yes, young master?”

Jimin grinned sleepily. “Just checking if you can hear me.”

Namjoon rolled his eyes with a smile. “Sleep well, my little prince.”

Jimin turned onto his side, clutching his plush rabbit tightly, and whispered into the dark. “I’ll be brave.”

And somewhere in his mind, he pictured Yoongi saying, I’ll bring you more pie. And he smiled.

Chapter Text

The morning air smelled faintly of car exhaust, grass dew, and something syrupy, maybe a donut from one of the older kids’ lunchboxes. Jimin wrinkled his nose as he adjusted the strap of his designer backpack, the weight of it sitting slightly wrong on his shoulder. Namjoon had offered to carry it for him, of course. Twice. But Jimin had refused. He wasn’t a baby. He was nine. Almost ten. And he had endured an actual kidnapping, thank you very much.

Still, his heart pitter-pattered annoyingly in his chest, like it couldn’t decide if it was nervous or irritated. Maybe both. His fingers twitched slightly near the zipper, and he resisted the urge to yank it open and make sure everything was still inside for the third time.

"I'll be waiting outside the school, young master," Namjoon said, voice soft like a lullaby but laced with that anxious undertone he got whenever he was trying not to hover too much. He stood by the car, arms neatly folded behind his back, posture military-perfect.

"I know," Jimin replied without turning to him. His tone came out a little colder than he meant it to, but if he looked at Namjoon right now, he might crumble.

"All day—from the moment you enter until you leave," Namjoon added, gentle.

"I know," Jimin repeated, tighter this time, lips pursing slightly.

"And if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask one of the teachers to call me. I’ll run faster than lightning—"

"Okay," Jimin cut in, his voice dropping to a whisper.

There was a beat of silence, then the familiar warmth of Namjoon's arms pulled him into a snug embrace. Jimin didn’t fight it, though he kept his arms to his sides for a second longer than usual before slowly lifting them and holding onto Namjoon’s sleeves.

"I'm proud of how far you've come," Namjoon murmured against his hair.

That made Jimin's chest ache a little. He hated when Namjoon said stuff like that, it always made him feel like he’d just climbed a mountain even though all he’d done was show up for school like every other kid. Except he had climbed something. Something scary. His own fear.

Jimin pulled back and sniffed, annoyed that his eyes felt itchy. “You’re going to make me late.”

Namjoon smiled as he stepped back. “Have a good day, young master.”

Jimin waved over his shoulder, not really looking back. He knew Namjoon was watching him. He always did. Just like a superhero.

As he approached the school doors, someone leaned against the brick wall with arms crossed and a frown that could kill a man twice. Yoongi.

Jimin’s heartbeat instantly changed pace, not scared this time. Something else. Something fluttery.

Yoongi uncrossed his arms the moment Jimin drew close and fell into step beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jimin didn’t say anything at first, but just having him there smoothed out some of the anxious edges inside him.

"Jiminie," Yoongi said finally, his voice low, like it was only meant for Jimin to hear, "Did you finish all your homework?"

Jimin gave a slow nod. “Yes.”

Yoongi squinted suspiciously. “Really? There was a lot. You were gone for a whole week.”

"And you brought it all to me every day,” Jimin replied, lips curling into a small smile. “What else was I supposed to do at home besides my homework and sulk dramatically in bed?”

Yoongi let out a snort. “So... can I copy your English homework then?”

Jimin blinked at him, face blank. “You didn’t do it?”

Yoongi laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kinda. I meant to. But then there was a cat outside my window and I got distracted.”

Jimin sighed, adjusting the book under his arm like a little professor. “I’ll help you.”

Yoongi raised his brows. “Really?”

“If you ever need help,” Jimin said, his tone suddenly gentle, almost shy, “you should just ask. I don’t mind. Actually, I’d like it.”

Yoongi gave him a strange look then, not teasing like usual. “You’d like it?”

“I mean… yeah.” Jimin turned his face slightly away. “Helping you makes me feel useful.”

There was a pause, then Yoongi murmured, “You’re already useful, Jiminie. You’re the smartest one in the class.”

Jimin sniffed. “That’s not hard. Everyone else is dumb.”

Yoongi laughed, and Jimin felt a warm bubble of pride in his chest. He liked making Yoongi laugh. It was a rare thing.

“What about math? Did you do that one too?” Yoongi asked, eyes mischievous now.

Jimin narrowed his gaze. “You definitely didn’t even try to do that.”

“I did! I swear!” Yoongi insisted, raising a hand like he was making a vow. “Well. Most of it.”

Jimin stopped walking and put his hands on his hips. “You have one job, Yoongi.”

Yoongi grinned. “To be your sidekick?”

Jimin smirked. “No. That’s Namjoonie hyung. You’re… something else.”

Yoongi blinked. “Like what?”

Jimin shrugged quickly and kept walking. “I haven’t decided yet. Something better, maybe.”

He didn’t look back to see Yoongi’s expression, but he heard his quiet chuckle and felt it settle warm in his spine.

As they entered the school building, Yoongi stuck close to his side like a bodyguard. Not too close, not clingy, but just enough to make Jimin feel safer, like if any of the kids dared say something, Yoongi would chew them out without a second thought.

During recess, Yoongi dragged Jimin out to sit under the big shady tree near the fence, where they could watch the other kids without being dragged into games they didn’t want to play. Jimin had always liked reading during recess anyway, but he noticed he wasn’t even holding his book now. Just playing with the edges of the cover as Yoongi sat beside him, sketching something in a crumpled notebook.

“What’re you drawing?” Jimin asked, tilting his head.

Yoongi didn’t look up. “You.”

Jimin’s breath caught. “Me?!”

Yoongi turned the notebook around to show a tiny chibi-version of Jimin with sparkles around his head and an exaggerated pout. “See? Spoiled Young Master Jimin in his natural habitat.”

Jimin gasped. “You jerk! I do not pout like that!”

Yoongi laughed, the sound low and real. “You do. You just don’t know it.”

“Give me that!” Jimin lunged for the notebook, but Yoongi yanked it away, holding it high above his head.

“Too short!” Yoongi teased.

Jimin narrowed his eyes and climbed into his lap like a smug prince. “Now am I tall enough?”

Yoongi froze for a second, then burst out laughing, letting the notebook fall into Jimin’s hands. “Okay, okay! You win!”

Jimin sat there, straddling his lap with all the smugness in the world. “Told you.”

He didn’t move right away. And Yoongi didn’t push him off. The world felt… okay like this. Jimin could almost forget how scared he’d been to come back today. With Yoongi under him and Namjoon waiting outside and the sun slipping through the branches above—it felt like the safest he’d been in days.

Later, as the bell rang and the classroom began to empty, Jimin dawdled by his desk, packing slowly. Yoongi waited for him, even though his driver was probably already honking outside.

"Want to walk out together?" Yoongi asked.

Jimin’s lips curved up faintly. “I thought you'd never ask.”

They walked side by side, arms brushing once or twice. Outside, Namjoon was standing by the car exactly as promised, posture formal and eyes soft.

“Hi, hyung,” Jimin mumbled, suddenly sleepy.

Namjoon’s face broke into a grin. “How was your day, young master?”

Jimin glanced at Yoongi before answering. “It was… okay.”

Yoongi nudged him. “You mean it was awesome because you sat in my lap and stole my art.”

Jimin sniffed, cheeks pink. “Don’t say that in front of Namjoonie hyung!”

Namjoon raised an eyebrow, clearly curious but wisely saying nothing.

“Bye, Yoongi,” Jimin said, slipping into the car.

“Bye, Jiminie.” Yoongi gave him a little wave and leaned in to whisper, “Text me when you’re home. Or don’t. I’ll probably text you first.”

Jimin flushed and turned away quickly, pretending to buckle his seatbelt. As the car pulled away from the curb, he watched Yoongi shrink in the distance through the tinted window.

He didn’t realize he was smiling until Namjoon softly said, “You looked really happy today.”

Jimin turned, trying not to seem too pleased. “I was fine. Not happy. Just... normal.”

Namjoon chuckled. “Of course, young master.”

Unfortunately, home meant private lessons, which Jimin hated more than muddy shoes, early bedtimes, or soggy toast.

The moment they stepped into the grand marble foyer, Jimin let out a pained groan, clutching his stomach dramatically. "Namjoonie hyung, I think I have a fever."

Namjoon didn’t even blink. "You don’t, young master."

Jimin squinted one eye shut and swayed on his feet. "My head hurts. I think I’m dying."

"You’re not."

Jimin gasped, as if betrayed. "My stomach hurts too. I might throw up all over this shiny floor!"

"You won’t. And please don’t. These tiles are imported."

Jimin sighed, long and heavy, throwing his arms over his face as he dramatically collapsed onto the velvet bench by the stairs. "Hyuuuuung, work with me here. I really don’t want to take those stupid etiquette lessons. They're boring. And the teacher talks like she’s lecturing ghosts."

"But you have to," Namjoon said, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt with a maddening calmness.

"Pleeeaaase," Jimin whined, crawling over to him on the bench and tugging pitifully at his sleeve. "Just today. Let me be free."

Namjoon glanced down at him, sighing. "You know I can’t resist when you do that thing with your eyes—so stop it."

Immediately, Jimin widened his eyes into a glossy, helpless gaze, lips wobbling slightly. "This thing?"

Namjoon exhaled through his nose, already losing. "You’re a menace."

"But a pretty  menace," Jimin sang sweetly, hands clasped under his chin.

"...Fine," Namjoon muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You have a cold. A very mild one. But you’ll be miraculously better tomorrow."

Jimin lit up like a chandelier. "Thank you! Thank you! You’re the best! I love you the most in the whole wide world!"

As Namjoon stepped out onto the garden patio to make a few phone calls, Jimin skipped off to the kitchen, victorious, and ordered himself a plate of cakes, two slices of strawberry shortcake, a macaron tower, and a warm cup of lavender milk. He was halfway through the second slice when Namjoon returned, phone still in hand.

"News spreads fast," Namjoon muttered, sliding his phone into his pocket after another call. "Hoseok almost fainted when he heard you were 'sick.'"

Jimin giggled, fork in mouth. "Oops."

Namjoon wiped a bit of cream from Jimin’s cheek with a napkin and sighed. "You’re too good at being spoiled."

"I was born this way," Jimin mumbled proudly.

But his joy didn’t last long. Namjoon’s phone buzzed again. The tone in his voice shifted immediately when he picked up.

“What do you mean, lawsuit?” Namjoon’s posture stiffened. “Can you cover for me until I get there?... No, no. I can’t leave him alone. He’s—"

Jimin’s heart gave a soft thud. He knew that voice. That version of Namjoon meant something serious was happening.

Namjoon hung up and walked over slowly, crouching beside him. “Something urgent came up at the company. I need to go for a little while.”

Jimin's fork froze mid-air. “Do you really have to?”

“I’ll try to be fast,” Namjoon said gently. “Hoseok is on his way. He’ll stay with you.”

Jimin pressed his lips together, trying to swallow the irritation bubbling in his chest. It was always something. Always work. Always someone needing Namjoon more than he did.

“He’s not you,” Jimin whispered.

Namjoon’s heart cracked visibly in his eyes. “I know. But I promise I’ll be back before you even miss me.”

“I already miss you,” Jimin muttered.

Before Namjoon could respond, the sound of hurried steps echoed from the hall.

“Young master Jimin!” Hoseok’s cheerful voice called out as he appeared, looking breathless but beaming. “I’m here~!”

Namjoon gave Jimin a sad smile, smoothing his hair once more. “I’ll be quick. Be good, okay?”

Jimin didn’t reply. He just watched as Namjoon bowed politely and disappeared out the door, his steps sharp and brisk.

A heavy silence fell.

Jimin slumped forward in his chair and stabbed his cake with far less enthusiasm.

“Mind if I join you?” Hoseok asked, eyeing the dessert table with curiosity.

Jimin glanced up. “You want to?”

“Well, you did invite me last time,” Hoseok said with a grin.

Jimin pushed a plate toward him. “Namjoonie hyung never eats with me. It’s annoying.”

“He’s trying to be professional,” Hoseok said gently, sitting down and pouring tea into the delicate porcelain cups. “But... I get it. Being proper all the time can feel really lonely.”

Jimin nodded, lips pressed together in a perfect sulky curve as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed dramatically over his chest. “He always says things like, ‘That’s not appropriate,’ or ‘This isn’t proper.’” He mimicked Namjoon’s tone with a mockingly deep voice and an exaggerated eye roll.

Across the tea table, Hoseok laughed, nearly spilling his drink. “He’s like that with everyone.”

Jimin’s eyes widened. “Even with you?” The thought seemed outrageous, Namjoon was always so annoyingly strict with Jimin, but he had assumed he might be different with his adult friends.

“At first, yeah,” Hoseok said with a fond grin. “But not anymore.”

Jimin sat up straighter, curiosity flickering across his face. “How did that happen?”

“We got drun—” Hoseok caught himself, eyes flicking to Jimin's youthful expression. “I mean, we had dinner together after work. Talked. Then it happened again. Eventually, the formalities just disappeared on their own.”

Jimin let out a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a hundred etiquette lessons. “I’d like it if he dropped the formalities with me too…”

“You want him to call you just ‘Jimin’ instead of ‘young master’?” Hoseok asked, smiling.

“Yes,” Jimin said emphatically, gripping his teacup with small, delicate fingers. “I’ve been begging him for years! But he says it’s ‘unprofessional’ or whatever. Hmph.” He shot a glare toward the garden, as if Namjoon were out there judging him even now.

Hoseok nodded sympathetically. “I get that. It can make someone feel distant even when they’re sitting right beside you. But… it’s for your sake.”

Jimin tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“He’s your bodyguard,” Hoseok explained gently. “He has to stay alert, focused. If he lets his guard down, even for a second… it could be dangerous. So he builds this wall. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he does.”

Jimin blinked, his eyes going soft. That hadn’t occurred to him before. Maybe Namjoon really was doing it to protect him, not just to annoy him. “Oh…”

Hoseok smiled warmly. “But don’t ever think he doesn’t care. He watches over you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.”

A small, flickering warmth lit up in Jimin’s chest, but it didn’t last long before his spoiled instincts returned in full force.

“Young master,” Hoseok began gently.

“Jimin,” he interrupted with a little frown. “Just call me Jimin.”

After a brief pause, Hoseok’s face broke into a wide grin. “Oh wow. Okay… Jimin.”

“That easy?” Jimin huffed. “I’ve been begging Namjoonie hyung for years! You know what? I might start liking you more than him.”

Hoseok burst into laughter again. “Thanks, I guess?”

He poured more tea for both of them as Jimin lounged dramatically in his chair, already basking in the victory of being called by his name without a title.

“So, Jimin,” Hoseok said smoothly, “I heard from Namjoon that you’re skipping your private lessons today. Is there anything you’d like to do to pass the time?”

Jimin wrinkled his nose. “Aside from homework? Not really. Maybe watch TV later?”

“Don’t you want to go play outside?” Hoseok raised a brow.

“But Namjoonie hyung says I’m not allowed to on weekdays,” Jimin replied immediately, sitting a little straighter as if being scolded.

“Well,” Hoseok leaned in with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “he doesn’t have to know.”

Jimin gasped. “Are you trying to corrupt me?!”

“Not corrupt—just… liberate,” Hoseok grinned. “Actually, I have an idea. Other than playing outside, is there something you’ve always wanted to do, but Namjoon wouldn’t let you?”

Jimin paused. His heart fluttered. “…Anything?” he whispered, eyes wide.

“Anything,” Hoseok said, leaning back. “It’ll be our little secret.”

Jimin bit his lip. “You won’t take it back?”

“I promise.”

He hesitated only a second longer before the words spilled out: “Can I go into my mom’s old room?”

The air changed. Hoseok blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“The door’s been locked since she went to heaven,” Jimin said quickly, voice small. “Namjoonie hyung says it’s not good for me to go in there. But I want to. I’ve never… I barely remember it.” Then, more firmly, “You said anything. No backing out now.”

Hoseok’s gaze softened. He exhaled slowly. “I won’t back out. Alright—you can go.”

Jimin’s mouth fell open. “Really?!”

“Really. But it’s a secret, okay? Otherwise we’ll both be in serious trouble.”

Jimin nodded furiously. “Yes yes yes!” He jumped off his chair, nearly tripping over the leg in his excitement. “Let’s go!”

“You’re not gonna finish your cake?” Hoseok teased, nodding toward the abandoned dessert.

“That was my third plate,” Jimin giggled, eyes shining. “I’m full.”

They walked together through the halls, Hoseok’s hand finding Jimin’s naturally as they moved toward the main wing. Jimin didn’t pull away. He liked the warmth.

Halfway there, he stopped. “Wait! What about the key?”

Hoseok smirked. “Did you forget I’m the secretary? I can make up any excuse to get it.”

“Even from the butler?”

“Especially from the butler.”

While Hoseok went to smooth-talk the house staff, Jimin waited anxiously in the parlor, his fingers twisting in the hem of his sweater. He imagined the room behind the locked door, frozen in time. It made his chest tight, but he wanted—needed—to see it.

After a while, Hoseok returned, triumphant. “Jiminie,” he said softly, “I got the key.”

“You’re amazing!” Jimin practically bounced on his toes.

“You lead the way.”

He did. And when they reached the door, Jimin hesitated just a second before nodding. Hoseok unlocked it slowly. The door creaked open, revealing a space untouched by time. Soft floral wallpaper. A vanity table with a hairbrush still resting on it. A bed neatly made.

Jimin stepped inside.

The scent of her perfume still lingered faintly. He took a slow breath, chest rising and falling. His eyes burned.

He approached the bed and climbed up, sitting cross-legged in the same spot he used to curl beside her. He remembered laying here, holding her hand. The soft lull of her voice.

Tears slipped down his cheeks quietly. “Can I… stay here for a little?” he asked without turning around.

“Of course,” Hoseok whispered, retreating softly and closing the door.

Jimin lay down, curling into a familiar shape. The blanket smelled like her. He imagined her arms wrapping around him, her voice humming in his ear. He imagined her smile.

At some point, he fell asleep.

-

It was the sound of footsteps that woke him. The door opened gently, and a voice called softly, “Jimin… time to wake up.”

He stirred, eyes fluttering open. Hoseok stood there, a kind smile on his face.

Jimin sat up slowly. “She visited me on my sleep,” he murmured.

“Really?” Hoseok said gently.

Jimin nodded, his voice dreamy. “She was smiling. She said she watches over me from the sky.”

Hoseok nodded. “That’s wonderful.”

Jimin stood and walked over to him, wrapping his arms tightly around Hoseok’s waist. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For letting me remember her.”

“Of course,” Hoseok said, ruffling his hair softly. “Anytime.”

Later that afternoon, Jimin sat cross-legged on the living room floor, chin propped up in one hand as he scribbled down answers into his homework notebook. His handwriting was impeccable, as always. Small, neat loops and curls that made the letters look like they’d been printed by a machine. He was good at schoolwork. He liked the praise that came with perfect scores. But today, even getting every answer right didn’t feel satisfying.

Across from him on the sofa, Hoseok tapped away on his laptop, murmuring occasionally into a Bluetooth earpiece. Jimin would’ve normally interrupted just to be dramatic, maybe fake a faint or whine for hot chocolate, but his mood was too heavy for games.

The moment he scribbled the final answer and underlined the last word with a flourish, he tossed the pen aside with a huff. “Done,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling. Hoseok gave a quick thumbs-up without looking up.

Feeling ignored, Jimin frowned. “I’m bored.”

Hoseok chuckled. “You just finished your homework, genius. Take a break.”

Jimin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He got up slowly, the long sleeves of his cashmere sweater falling past his fingers as he dragged himself toward the hallway.

“I’ll be in the playroom,” he mumbled.

He padded down the corridor, bare feet silent on the polished floors, and entered his playroom. Plush carpet, cozy lighting, and his custom gaming setup waited for him like a loyal pet. He plopped into the oversized chair and picked up the headset.

“Yoongiiii,” he whined as soon as the call connected.

“You’re late,” Yoongi said dryly through the mic, though Jimin could hear the smile behind it. “You make me wait, then you whine at me? Tch.”

“You’re supposed to miss me when I’m late,” Jimin sniffed, loading into their favorite game.

“I did,” Yoongi said, voice casual, but softer now. “I waited in the lobby for like twenty minutes.”

Jimin smiled, even if Yoongi couldn’t see it. “Good.”

They played in silence for a little while, well, not silence exactly. Jimin squealed when he lost, cursed when he lagged, and pouted loudly when Yoongi beat him in a mini match.

“You’re cheating,” Jimin accused with all the self-assuredness of a spoiled prince whose crown had been knocked off.

Yoongi snorted. “You’re just mad ‘cause I’m better.”

“I let you win,” Jimin muttered, flipping his bangs with a dramatic sigh. “Out of kindness.”

Yoongi laughed at that, but it faded after a moment. “…You okay?” he asked suddenly.

Jimin froze for a second, then blinked rapidly at the screen. “Huh?”

“You’re weird today,” Yoongi said. “You keep zoning out. And you’re not bragging as much as usual.”

“I am bragging,” Jimin said defensively. “I told you I let you win.”

“Yeah, but it sounded sad,” Yoongi replied bluntly. “Like you wanted me to argue with you more.”

Jimin stared at the game for a long moment. He hadn’t realized he’d been hoping Yoongi would tease him harder, pull him back into their rhythm. It was strange. Normally, teasing made him feel powerful. But today… he just wanted to feel close to someone.

“My mom used to let me win too,” Jimin murmured.

There was silence on the line.

“…Oh.”

“Her room was always locked,” Jimin continued, his voice quieter now. “Namjoonie hyung never let me go in, even when I begged. But today Hoseok hyung said I could. He opened it for me.”

Yoongi didn’t say anything right away.

“She still had her hairbrush on the vanity,” Jimin whispered. “I remembered the way she used to brush my hair.”

His throat felt tight. He swallowed it down and tried to mask it with a joke. “Bet you didn’t expect a tragedy during our game night, huh?”

Yoongi’s voice was gentle. “You don’t have to pretend it’s funny.”

Jimin blinked at the screen, eyes stinging. “...I didn’t mean to cry in front of Hoseok hyung,” he confessed. “But I did.”

There was a beat of quiet.

“I wish I was there,” Yoongi said.

Jimin’s heart gave a little jump. “Huh?”

“I dunno. I just…” Yoongi hesitated. “I would’ve liked to go with you. To the room.”

Something warm fluttered in Jimin’s chest.

“…You would’ve brushed my hair too?” he asked softly, half-teasing.

“If you wanted me to,” Yoongi said, and his voice was so serious, so real, that Jimin had to clutch his sweater sleeve in both hands to keep from squeaking.

He stared at the screen, completely forgetting about the game now. “You’re the only person who really listens to me.”

Yoongi’s voice was quiet. “That’s ‘cause I care.”

Jimin didn’t say anything. He didn’t trust his voice not to crack.

They kept playing after that, but slower, quieter. Jimin stopped pretending he wasn’t sad, and Yoongi stopped pretending he didn’t notice.

Before they knew it, time had slipped past them, and a soft knock on the door pulled Jimin from his headset.

“Dinner,” Hoseok called.

Jimin sighed. “I have to go.”

Yoongi only said, “Okay. Text me later?”

Jimin smiled faintly. “I always do.”

Dinner was quiet. Hoseok sat across from him, chatting occasionally about boring adult things, and Jimin nodded politely but barely tasted his food. He missed Namjoon. He missed the sound of his spoon clinking against the bowl next to him. Even if Namjoon didn’t talk much, his presence was comforting.

After the meal, Jimin excused himself with a soft, “I’m tired,” and padded back to his room.

The air inside felt colder than usual. He stared at the empty chair beside his bed for a long moment, then climbed into the bed and pulled the covers to his chin.

“When will Namjoonie hyung be back?” he asked quietly as Hoseok entered to check on him.

“I’m not sure,” Hoseok admitted, gently adjusting the corner of the blanket. “He might still be busy.”

“He said he’d be back soon...” Jimin murmured, voice small.

“I’m sorry, little one,” Hoseok said, brushing a hand over his hair. “But I’ll stay with you until he returns.”

“It’s fine…” Jimin whispered, turning his head into the pillow.

Hoseok stood there for a moment longer, then walked around and tucked the blanket tighter around him. “Goodnight, Jimin.”

“Goodnight to you too,” Jimin replied softly. “And… thank you again. For today.”

Just as Hoseok turned off the lamp and headed for the door, Jimin’s phone vibrated under the pillow.

He fumbled for it, unlocking it with sleepy fingers.

Yoongi: Are you okay now?

Jimin stared at the message, then typed back:

Jimin: A little. I wish you were here.

There was a pause, then:

Yoongi: Me too.

Jimin: Can you call? Just for a minute? Stay with me until I sleep?

The screen lit up with an incoming call almost immediately.

Jimin answered and pulled the phone to his ear, snuggling deeper into the blankets.

“I’m here,” Yoongi said quietly.

And with that, Jimin finally closed his eyes and fell asleep, heart full, phone still clutched in his hand.

Chapter Text

Jimin blinked sleepily as the soft rustle of his blanket stirred him, a warm hand brushing his bangs aside.

"Good morning, little prince," Hoseok’s gentle voice murmured.

Jimin let out a soft groan, burrowing his face deeper into the pillow before turning slightly to peek through his lashes. His eyes were still hazy from sleep, lashes clumped and cheeks warm against the soft fabric.

“…Namjoonie hyung isn’t back yet?” he asked, voice rough and small.

Hoseok’s expression softened. He smoothed the blanket over Jimin’s chest. “No, sweetheart. He’s still working. He was up all night.”

Jimin pouted, lips pushing out automatically, even though he was too tired to keep it up for long. His whole body felt heavy, like it only knew how to be awake if Namjoon was standing beside the bed with his usual glass of warm water and soft-voiced reminders.

He sat up slowly, stretching his arms above his head and letting out a delicate yawn. His oversized pajama top slipped off one shoulder, and he didn’t bother fixing it.

“…Help me change my clothes,” he said, voice laced with drowsy demand. “Namjoonie hyung always does it for me.”

Hoseok chuckled quietly, already moving toward the wardrobe. “Of course, Young Master. How could I forget?”

Jimin slid off the bed and shuffled toward the bathroom, dragging his fuzzy slippers behind him like a kitten. When he returned with a freshly washed face and damp hair, Hoseok was waiting with his neatly pressed school uniform laid out just the way Jimin liked.

“Turn,” Hoseok said with a fond smile, helping him out of his pajamas and into the starchier uniform. Jimin didn’t help much, he stood with his arms slightly raised, yawning as Hoseok buttoned the shirt and adjusted the tie.

“Done,” Hoseok announced, smoothing down the blazer.

Jimin looked himself over in the mirror, turning his head left and right with a small pout. “It’s a little tight around the collar.”

“It’s not,” Hoseok replied, patient as ever. “You just don’t want to wear it.”

“…Fine,” Jimin huffed. “Let’s have breakfast.”

He reached out a hand without looking, and Hoseok took it like it was the most natural thing in the world. They walked together down the hall to the dining room, where breakfast was already being laid out, fancy but familiar, like always. Jimin sat with one leg tucked under him and rested his chin in his hand.

“You’re taking me to school today?” he asked softly as Hoseok poured orange juice into his glass.

“Mmhmm,” Hoseok said with a nod. “Of course.”

Jimin stirred his eggs absentmindedly with his spoon. “Namjoonie hyung used to pick up my friends on the way. Can you do that too?”

“Sure. Do you know their address?”

Jimin frowned. “No… but you can ask Namjoonie hyung.”

Hoseok took out his phone and dialed. Jimin tried not to lean in and listen, but curiosity got the better of him.

“All night? You didn’t sleep?” Hoseok’s voice was quiet but concerned.

Jimin’s brows furrowed.

“Please,” came Namjoon’s voice through the speaker, muffled but tired. “I couldn’t even close my eyes.”

“Any progress?”

“…Twenty percent, maybe.”

Jimin’s heart sank. Namjoon sounded awful.

“That’s it?” Hoseok asked.

“You think I can work properly without you? I can’t rely on anyone else here. You have to come after dropping off the young master.”

“I will,” Hoseok promised quickly before ending the call.

Jimin didn’t say anything. He just pushed his eggs around more aggressively and pouted deeper. Namjoon wasn’t just gone, he was tired and overworked. That wasn’t fair. Namjoon was his. He wasn’t supposed to be so far away and miserable.

“Hyung?” Jimin said quietly. “Do you think Namjoonie hyung misses me?”

Hoseok reached over and ruffled his hair. “He always misses you.”

It helped. A little.

-

The ride to school was smoother than Jimin expected. Hoseok opened the door for him like Namjoon always did, but it didn’t feel the same. Still, he adjusted himself in the back seat like a prince, back straight, arms crossed, lips slightly pursed.

They stopped at Yoongi and Jungkook’s house first. Yoongi came out in a hoodie and backpack, face still sleepy but less annoyed than usual. When he opened the door and saw Hoseok, he paused.

“Good morni—” he blinked, eyes flicking to the front seat. “Who’s this?”

“Hoseok hyung,” Jimin replied quickly. “Namjoonie hyung is busy.”

Yoongi gave a small hum and slid in beside him. “Ah. Makes sense.”

Jimin smiled faintly and leaned closer, inhaling the soft scent of Yoongi’s cologne. He liked it. It made him feel calm.

Jungkook followed shortly after, already sulking as he climbed in.

“Good morning,” Jungkook muttered.

Jimin looked over. “Why are you pouting?”

“Yoongi hyung ate my portion of eggs,” Jungkook grumbled.

“You don’t usually eat them,” Yoongi said, barely glancing up from his phone.

“But they were mine!”

“Were you going to eat them?”

“No! But that’s not the point—they were still mine.”

“Ugh, stop whining already,” Yoongi sighed. “I’ll give you my share tomorrow. That way, we’re even.”

“No! I don’t want your share. I want my own!”

Jimin groaned dramatically, flopping his head back against the seat. “Okay, okay! Can you two not argue, please?”

“Yeah, Jungkook, please just be quiet,” Yoongi muttered. “Complain all you want after school.”

Jungkook huffed and crossed his arms, turning away with the kind of dramatic flair only he could pull off. Jimin rolled his eyes, but he was already leaning closer to Yoongi again, letting their arms brush.

Yoongi didn’t move away.

“Did you sleep okay?” Yoongi asked under his breath.

Jimin hesitated. “A little.”

“You look tired.”

“I didn’t want to sleep without Namjoonie hyung…”

Yoongi was quiet for a beat. Then, he shifted closer and whispered, “I’ll sleep over next time, if you want. We can play games until we pass out.”

Jimin blinked. “You would?”

Yoongi nodded.

Jimin couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “Okay… but only if I get to use you as a pillow.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but smiled too. “Deal.”

It was quiet after, Jimin let his head rest on Yoongi’s shoulder and Yoongi didn’t comment on it. Jimin felt warm, and safe. Namjoon might be gone but Yoongi is here.

When they arrived at school, Hoseok parked by the gate and turned in his seat. “We’re here.”

Jimin lingered in his seat for a second, not quite ready to get out. He hated school mornings. They always felt too cold, too fast. But then Hoseok stepped out and opened the door, crouching slightly so they were face to face.

“Have a good day, young master,” he said, brushing Jimin’s bangs gently to the side. “I’ll see you after school, alright?”

Jimin nodded, his voice soft. “Okay. Bye, hyung.”

He stepped out of the car, and as he walked toward the gates beside Yoongi, he looked up at him.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Can I nap on you during lunch?”

Yoongi looked at him, expression unreadable for a moment. Then he smiled. “Only if you save me your favorite snack.”

Jimin giggled. “Deal.”

They walked side by side through the school doors, their hands brushing once, neither of them pulling away.

-

Class felt unusually long. The words on the board meant nothing. Jimin’s pencil sat untouched in his hand as he stared blankly down at the paper on his desk. It wasn’t homework, it was that stupid form the teacher handed out at the start of the day. A reminder in bold letters across the top:

Parent-Teacher Conference - Mandatory Attendance.

Jimin's fingers curled at the edges. His mom would be the first one to show up for things like this. She’d wear soft perfume and bright lipstick and take photos of his classroom like it was a museum. She would’ve circled the date in pink marker and told him to wear something “extra adorable.”

But she’s not with him anymore…

He glanced at the form again. His father probably wouldn’t even open it. His brother was too busy to reply to half his messages. And Namjoon—his Namjoonie hyung—hadn’t come home last night. And still wasn’t here now. That had never happened before.

He stared and stared at the paper until his eyes blurred, like the words might change if he just stared long enough.

A soft voice broke the silence. “Jimin.”

He didn’t look up.

Yoongi’s voice again, a little firmer this time. “Jimin.”

Still, Jimin didn’t move. His heart was caught in his throat, and he didn’t want anyone to see. He didn’t like being seen like this. It was ugly. It wasn’t how he liked people to look at him, not even Yoongi.

He heard the scrape of a chair. Footsteps. Then Yoongi’s face was right in front of him, crouched beside his desk, voice gentle. “Hey. Jimin.”

Jimin startled, blinking quickly. His hand flew over the paper and folded it in half, then again, tucking it into his desk drawer like a secret.

“W-What?” he asked, eyes wide.

“You spaced out,” Yoongi said. “I called your name like five times.”

“Oh,” Jimin muttered, brushing invisible dust from his desk like it was a reason not to meet Yoongi’s eyes. “I’m fine.”

Yoongi looked at him for a long moment. Too long.

Jimin hated that. It made him feel like crying.

“You sure?” Yoongi asked, quieter now, like he already knew the answer.

But before he could say more, Jimin sat up straighter and glanced at the front of the classroom. “The math teacher’s coming,” he said quickly.

Yoongi sighed and stood up, his eyes lingering just a second longer before he returned to his seat.

Jimin didn’t look back. But he felt that warm pull in his chest, that fragile thread between them. Yoongi noticed. Even when he tried to hide it. Even when everyone else was too busy or too distracted.

The rest of the day passed in fragments. Jimin barely spoke during lunch, even though Yoongi sat beside him and offered him the chocolate from his bento. Normally, Jimin would’ve teased him about being stingy with it, maybe even tried to trade snacks just to watch Yoongi pretend to be annoyed.

But today, he just smiled faintly and shook his head. “You eat it.”

Yoongi didn’t push, but his knee bumped into Jimin’s under the table and didn’t move away.

Jimin barely touched his food. The bento the chef packed for him was as perfect as always, full of neatly cut vegetables and a little rice bear with seaweed eyes. He’d taken a bite or two just to keep Yoongi from worrying. But everything tasted wrong today, like chewing through paper.

Yoongi had sat beside him the whole time, his shoulder warm and steady against Jimin’s. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t comment on Jimin’s silence. Just peeled the skin from a mandarin and placed a piece on Jimin’s tray like a quiet offering. Jimin ate it, if only because it came from Yoongi’s hand.

Afterward, when the cafeteria began to empty, Yoongi tilted his head and nodded toward the back corner where the sun always poured through the windows, and no one ever really sat.

Jimin followed without a word, like he was being led somewhere safe.

They settled onto the carpeted bench beneath the windows. Yoongi tugged his hoodie off and balled it into a makeshift pillow in his lap. He didn’t say anything, just patted the spot with an open palm.

And Jimin… melted. He curled up without thinking, small hands adjusting his uniform blazer so it wouldn’t wrinkle. His cheek found Yoongi’s thigh like it had always belonged there. Warm. Solid. Quiet.

Yoongi leaned back against the wall, exhaling slowly. His fingers came to rest in Jimin’s hair. They didn’t move at first. Just stayed. Light. Careful. There was a kind of stillness in it, the kind Jimin hadn’t felt since Namjoon left.

His lashes fluttered. He could hear the sound of Yoongi’s breathing, feel the faint rise and fall beneath his ear.

This was the kind of thing no one ever gave him other than Namjoon. Not really. Not like this. Not without conditions. Not without being asked.

And Yoongi hadn’t asked anything of him today, not even his favorite snack like he joked earlier. Just let him be tired. Let him be small.

Jimin’s throat ached for reasons he couldn’t name.

He curled his legs tighter and whispered into the fabric of Yoongi’s pants, “You’re really comfy, you know.”

Yoongi let out a soft laugh. Not teasing. Just warm. “That so?”

“Mhm,” Jimin mumbled sleepily. “You smell nice too.”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. His fingers brushed through Jimin’s bangs, tucking them gently back.

“Thanks,” he said finally, voice barely above a murmur. “You can nap here as long as you want.”

Jimin didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His heart was full of something he didn’t understand, something that glowed behind his ribs and made his fingertips curl tight into Yoongi’s sleeve like he never wanted to let go.

And even though the cafeteria buzzed with noise, even though they’d be called back to class soon, for a moment, it didn’t matter. Because Yoongi let him rest. Because Yoongi stayed. Because even when the world felt too heavy, this—this part—was soft. And Jimin, with his cheek pressed to the center of it, finally, finally let himself fall asleep.

For like ten minutes because the bell rang like a slap.

Jimin twitched, then blinked, then whined. He curled deeper into the warmth of Yoongi’s lap like the noise hadn’t just ended lunch, like time would stop if he refused to acknowledge it.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice syrup-thick and annoyed. “I’m still growing. Sleep is essential.”

Yoongi’s hand patted his shoulder, then gave it a gentle shake. “You’re going to be growing detention if we don’t move.”

“I hate school,” Jimin muttered dramatically into Yoongi’s hoodie. “I should be homeschooled again. Like a prince.”

“You are not a prince,” Yoongi sighed. “You just act like one.”

“Because I have standards,” Jimin sniffed without lifting his head. “And allergies. To public school.”

Yoongi snorted and shifted beneath him, fingers nudging insistently into his hair. “Come on. Up. You promised not to drool on me if I let you nap.”

“I don’t drool. I glisten.”

“You’re gonna glisten into a tardy slip.”

With a final grumble, Jimin sat up slowly, like a wilted flower that didn’t feel like blooming. His hair was sticking up on one side, his blazer was rumpled, and his cheek had a red line from the seam of Yoongi’s pants.

He looked undone, and not in the good way.

Yoongi held out a hand, like he knew what came next. “Let’s go wash your face, Your Highness.”

Jimin took it with a sigh, letting himself be pulled to his feet. “You better not walk too fast,” he warned. “I have short legs and delicate ankles.”

“I’ll try not to sprint,” Yoongi deadpanned.

The hallway was mostly empty as they shuffled toward the bathrooms, Yoongi holding Jimin’s hand like it was no big deal, like they weren’t in fifth grade where boys were weird about that sort of thing. Jimin didn’t say anything about it. He liked it too much. His hand was smaller. Softer. But Yoongi never let go.

Inside the bathroom, the lights were bright and cold. Jimin sighed dramatically at his reflection.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, turning his face from side to side. “I look exhausted. No one told me I had a line on my cheek. Yoongi, why didn’t you say anything?!”

“I thought it was cute.”

Jimin turned slowly. Narrowed his eyes.

“You thought a wrinkle on my face was cute?”

Yoongi shrugged like he wasn’t just personally responsible for the biggest betrayal of the day. “It made you look human for once.”

“I am human. I’m just… advanced.”

Yoongi laughed and leaned against the sink beside him. “Do your ten-step routine or whatever. We’ve got like two minutes.”

“That’s not enough,” Jimin huffed, already wetting a paper towel to dab at his face. “You know my skin needs time to replenish.”

“You were just sleeping on my knee. I think your skin can handle a speed rinse.”

Jimin glared at him in the mirror, then flicked water in his direction. “You’re very mouthy for someone who’s been blessed with my company all day.”

Yoongi grinned, dodging the droplets. “You love my mouth.”

“I do not.”

But his face felt hot when he said it, and his eyes flicked to Yoongi’s reflection like maybe he did, just a little, and that was a weird thought to have. So he immediately buried it in the sound of running water and picked up his mini comb from his bag.

“Stop looking at me,” he said as he fluffed his bangs. “I can feel your eyeballs on my hair.”

“You’ve been fixing your bangs for thirty-seven seconds, Jimin.”

“I’m trying to recover from the trauma of sleeping on a hoodie. My scalp has rights.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you.”

Yoongi laughed again, but this time he reached out and tugged Jimin’s sleeve gently. “We gotta go. C’mon. Unless you want to arrive late with your face half rinsed and your hair mid-swoop.”

Jimin groaned but let himself be pulled away from the mirror. “Fine. But if I get photographed today, I’m suing you.”

“Photographed by who?”

“Fate,” Jimin said dramatically. “Destiny. Vogue. Who knows.”

They made it to class just as the teacher was closing the door. Yoongi mumbled a breathless apology as they slipped into their seats. Jimin flopped into his chair and delicately adjusted his collar while everyone else dug out their notebooks. He turned his body sideways to face Yoongi slightly, like he wasn’t done complaining.

“You run like a criminal,” he whispered, still catching his breath.

“You walk like you’ve got a crown on,” Yoongi shot back.

“Because I do.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes and turned forward, tapping his pencil against his notebook. “It’s too early in the week for your full delusion package.”

Jimin would normally have giggled at that. Maybe flicked his pencil back at him or tried to copy his notes in revenge. But instead, he just sighed and rested his chin in his palm. The sunshine from the window didn’t feel warm anymore. Just loud.

Yoongi noticed. Of course he did.

“You’re really quiet today,” he whispered, not looking over.

Jimin shrugged one shoulder. “I’m fine.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that today.”

“It’s true.”

Yoongi didn’t push. He just tapped his foot lightly under the table until it bumped Jimin’s. A soft nudge. Then again. Then again. Like a rhythm.

Jimin didn’t respond at first. But then, finally, he pressed his foot forward and tapped back. One soft kick. Just one.

Their shoes touched. Stayed.

Jimin didn’t look at him. Didn’t speak. But that stupid, annoying, fluttery thing in his chest came back again, like a spark trapped in his ribs, like a whisper he didn’t know how to say out loud.

Yoongi stayed close the whole lesson. Their shoulders nearly touched. Their legs definitely did.

And even though Jimin didn’t speak much that day, even though the shadows under his eyes stayed put, and even though his blazer never sat quite right after that nap, he didn’t feel quite as awful as before.

Not when Yoongi was there. Not when his foot kept bumping his under the desk like a secret. Not when he could pretend, even just for a moment, that someone had saved a space beside him and wanted him to stay.

-

When the final bell rang, Jimin didn’t move. He stayed perfectly still, arms crossed over his notebook like a statue of someone pouting on purpose. His lashes were lowered, brushing the tops of his cheeks, and his bottom lip stuck out ever so slightly. A practiced, luxurious sulk that would’ve made Namjoon roll his eyes if he’d been there to see it.

But Namjoon wasn’t there. And Jimin felt the absence like a cold breeze under his collar.

The other kids were already packing up, loud and jostling, scraping chairs and shouting nonsense about cartoons and snacks. Jimin ignored them. The classroom was too bright, too messy, too full of people who didn’t look at him the way Namjoon did when he came to pick him up, like he was precious, important, the best thing that had ever stepped into sunlight.

“You’re gonna dent the floor with that scowl,” Yoongi said from beside him.

Jimin blinked. Then he turned his head slowly, as if Yoongi wasn’t worth the effort, but the flutter in his chest said otherwise.

“You’re still here?” he asked, voice cool and disinterested.

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “I sit next to you, genius. Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know. Herding Jungkook. Complaining about things. Getting ready to ditch me.”

Yoongi snorted and kicked Jimin’s bag lightly under the desk. “Not today.”

Jimin pretended to examine his cuticles. “Good. I didn’t feel like being alone.”

Yoongi didn’t say anything to that. But he didn’t need to. He just stood up, shouldered his backpack, and held his hand out like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Jimin hesitated only one second before taking it.

They walked down the hallway like that, hand in hand. Not too tight, not swinging like kids, but steady. Constant. Yoongi’s fingers were warm. A little sweaty, maybe. But Jimin didn’t mind. It felt like the only real thing in the whole building.

“Do you think he will pick us up?” Jimin asked as they stepped into the sunlight, squinting toward the school gates.

“Namjoon?”

Jimin nodded.

Yoongi shrugged. “I don’t know, probably not. You said he was super busy. Maybe that secretary guy again?”

Jimin’s nose wrinkled. “Ugh. Hoseok hyung’s too cheerful. I don’t want a pep talk. I want a chauffeur and silence.”

“Maybe he’ll bring candy to bribe you.”

“I’m not a child.”

Yoongi looked at him sidelong. “You are nine.”

“I’m an advanced nine.”

Yoongi laughed. “You’re a brat.”

“A beautiful brat,” Jimin corrected.

They reached the gate. Just outside, Hoseok stood by the glossy black town car, one hand in his pocket and the other raised in a sunny wave.

Jimin sighed like the world had disappointed him personally.

He let go of Yoongi’s hand without warning and walked a little faster, crossing the pavement in three precise steps. “Namjoon hyung’s still working?” he asked, already knowing the answer. His voice was sugar-wrapped steel.

“Yeah…” Hoseok scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “Sorry, little one. Got stuck in a meeting.”

Jimin didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. The flick of his expensive shoes against the curb said enough. He brushed past Hoseok and opened the door himself, sliding into the car with the grace of someone refusing to be helped.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t have to. Yoongi was already behind him.

The car doors clicked shut, one after another. Yoongi slid into the seat beside him, silent at first, while Jungkook threw himself into the backseat like someone had physically assaulted his feelings.

“I hate math,” Jungkook declared dramatically, flinging his arms across the seat. “And pencils! And numbers! I’m never going to be happy again!”

Jimin didn’t blink. “Then stop using your calculator like a lightsaber and maybe you’d pass the quiz.”

Yoongi laughed, low and tired. “He got four out of twenty.”

“I was under pressure!”

“You were humming the Power Rangers theme.”

“It helps me focus!”

Jimin tuned them out after that, turning toward the window, cheek pressed to the glass. The cold felt nice.

His reflection was faint in the tinted glass, lashes too long, mouth turned down, hair still slightly out of place from earlier.

Yoongi’s voice softened. “You okay?”

Jimin didn’t answer right away. He felt Yoongi’s elbow nudge his gently, not hard, just a tap, like a whisper with bones.

“I’m fine,” he said, too quietly.

Yoongi leaned a little closer, his breath warm near Jimin’s temple. “I’m not convinced.”

Jimin blinked at the window. He could see their knees touching again. Could see the way Yoongi’s reflection tilted toward his, as if waiting for something to be said.

“I’m just tired,” Jimin mumbled.

Yoongi sat back slowly, arms crossed, but his voice didn’t lose its bite. “Liar.”

That one word cracked something.

Jimin didn’t respond. But he didn’t turn away either. The air between them buzzed a little, thick with something soft and complicated and not quite nameable yet.

Their knees stayed pressed together. Yoongi didn’t move. And neither did he.

Hoseok dropped Jungkook and Yoongi off first. Jungkook exploded out of the car like a soda can shaken too hard, still moaning about stolen pencils and emotional damage. Hoseok leaned across the seat to remind him to do his homework.

Jimin didn’t hear any of it. He was watching Yoongi.

Yoongi had paused at the door, one foot already on the curb. The sun lit his hair just right. His shirt was wrinkled, his backpack too full, but he looked... steady. Like he meant something. Like Jimin’s day would peel apart without him in it.

Yoongi turned slightly and looked back, one hand braced on the door. “You’ll text me later?” he asked, voice careful, casual, but not really.

Jimin tilted his head. His voice was quieter than usual when he answered. “Only if you reply right away.”

Yoongi smirked. “I always do.”

He held Jimin’s gaze for one extra heartbeat. Then he shut the door.

Jimin watched him walk away, all long limbs and sleepy posture, and told himself he didn’t miss him already. That it wasn’t weird to want someone to stay longer, even when they hadn’t said anything particularly important.

The silence in the car felt louder without him. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, pretending it didn’t matter. But his phone buzzed thirty seconds later.

A single message from Yoongi: "You forgot to say goodbye, brat."

Jimin stared at it. Then smiled. Just a little. But then soon enough he went back to pouting lost on his thoughts.

Halfway through the drive home, Jimin finally spoke.

“…Do you think Namjoonie hyung will be done with work… by tomorrow?”

Hoseok glanced in the mirror, eyebrows raised. “I’m not sure. You miss him that much?”

Jimin nodded, still staring out the window. “Kinda…”

He didn’t say what he was really thinking. That tomorrow was the conference. That everyone else would have someone sitting beside them, someone taking notes and shaking hands with the teacher and smiling proudly when the teacher said “gifted” or “responsible.” And Jimin would be alone. Again.

“You want to call him?” Hoseok asked gently.

Jimin shook his head quickly. “No… If he’s not coming back tomorrow, then it doesn’t matter.”

Hoseok blinked, confused. “Why? Is tomorrow something special?”

Jimin hesitated. “Not really.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

Jimin stared down at his lap, fingers curling in the fabric of his blazer. “…Nothing. It doesn’t matter.” His voice was so soft it almost disappeared.

Hoseok turned his eyes back to the road, lips pressing into a thoughtful line. He didn’t say anything else, but Jimin knew he was thinking about it. Everyone always thought about it too late. After he said “nothing,” they’d realize it might be something.

He was so used to pretending things didn’t matter. But they always did.

When they got home, Jimin went straight to his room without a word. He dropped his bag on the floor, crawled onto the bed still in his uniform, and pulled his phone out of his pocket.

No texts from Namjoon.

But there was another one from Yoongi: “u good?”

Jimin stared at it. Then slowly, his thumbs moved: “not really. but i will be later.”

A pause. Then Yoongi’s reply came through: “u wanna play later? like after dinner? we can do that dumb boss battle again”

“only if you promise not to yell at me when i fall off the cliff again.”

“i don’t yell. i scold with love.”

“fine. you’re allowed to scold me. but only a little.”

He tossed the phone on the bed beside him, feeling a little lighter. Tomorrow was still going to be awful. But maybe not all of it.

-

Hoseok sat on the edge of Jimin’s plush white couch like he didn’t quite belong there. The boy’s room was ridiculously large for someone so small, with gold trim on the shelves and thick velvet curtains pulled halfway shut to block the late afternoon sun. A chandelier glinted overhead like a crown, and the faint hum of classical piano drifted from the hallway, an echo from his earlier tutoring session. The polished desk by the window was covered in monogrammed stationery, expensive gel pens, and perfectly sharpened pencils Jimin refused to use unless they matched the notebook aesthetic.

Jimin was sprawled dramatically across his reading chair, legs curled under him in that way that would’ve earned him a scolding from his etiquette tutor. He had just started pulling out his homework when a folded sheet fluttered to the floor.

Hoseok leaned forward quickly to grab it. “You dropped this.”

“No—!” Jimin gasped, snatching it back so fast their hands almost touched. His cheeks flushed pink, and he crumpled the paper slightly behind his back, eyes wide like a child caught stealing sweets.

Hoseok blinked, startled. “I—I didn’t see anything! I didn’t read it, promise!”

Jimin huffed, glaring down at the offending paper like it had betrayed him. “It’s nothing important,” he muttered, smoothing it out with trembling fingers. He didn’t want Hoseok to see it. No one was supposed to see it.

But Hoseok tilted his head. “Is that an exam paper? Did you do poorly?”

“It’s not a test,” Jimin said sharply, sounding insulted. He never did poorly. Even when he tried to slack off, his grades clung to excellence like stubborn glitter. “And if it was, it wouldn’t be your business.”

Hoseok gave a soft, patient sigh. “Then what is it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jimin said again, this time quieter. He tucked the paper under his math book like it could hide his feelings too.

“It does matter, Jimin,” Hoseok said, gentler now. “You’ve been quiet all day. And not your usual ‘I’m bored of commoners’ quiet. It’s the sad kind.”

Jimin frowned and looked away. His eyes settled on the corner of his desk, suddenly very interested in the grain of the wood.

“No one cares,” he said, voice barely audible.

“I care,” Hoseok replied instantly.

“You don’t count.” Jimin’s voice wavered, then rose with heat. “I meant Father. Jin hyung. Namjoon hyung. They’re always too busy with their ‘important adult things’—and I’m always the one who has to pretend it doesn’t bother me!” His bottom lip trembled, and he bit down on it hard, refusing to cry in front of Hoseok.

Hoseok’s heart clenched, but he kept his voice soft. “Does the paper need a guardian’s signature? I could still—”

“No!” Jimin snapped, nose wrinkling in distaste. “You’re not my guardian. You’re just the secretary.”

“Ouch,” Hoseok said with a half-smile. He knew Jimin didn’t mean it. Not really. The boy was just hurting. “Fair enough.”

There was a beat of silence. Jimin glared at the carpet like it had personally offended him.

“Would you tell Namjoon what is going on?” Hoseok asked gently. “If he weren’t busy?”

Jimin didn’t move for a long moment. Then finally, in the smallest voice, he whispered, “...Yes.”

Without another word, Hoseok pulled out his phone.

Jimin’s eyes widened. “Wait—what are you doing?!”

“Just… trust me.” He pressed the call button and held the phone out to Jimin when it connected. “Here. Talk to him.”

Jimin hesitated. His fingers hovered over the phone like it might burn him. Then he slowly took it and held it up to his ear.

“Hello, young master,” came Namjoon’s warm voice.

Jimin’s shoulders relaxed immediately. “Hyung…”

“Yes?” Namjoon’s voice was laced with concern. “Is something wrong?”

“Are you… busy tomorrow?”

There was a pause before Namjoon replied. “If you tell me why, I’ll make time.”

Jimin’s heart fluttered a little. “You’re not too busy?” he asked carefully, hope blooming in his chest like a fragile flower.

“Never too busy for you.”

Jimin’s voice trembled. “Will you come to school tomorrow?”

Namjoon chuckled softly. “Why? Did you get in trouble again?”

“No!” Jimin pouted, offended. “I don’t get into trouble!”

“That’s debatable,” Namjoon teased. “So what is it, then?”

“It’s… the parent-teacher conference,” Jimin admitted. “Father can’t come. And Jin hyung’s too busy. And I thought you were too.”

“Of course I’ll come,” Namjoon said, instantly. “It’s an honor. I’m really happy you asked me, young master.”

Jimin broke into the kind of smile that crinkled his eyes and made his nose scrunch. Soft and honest and entirely rare. “Thank you, hyung. You’re the best.”

“Pass the phone to Hoseok for a second?”

“Okay!”

Jimin handed it back and turned away, cheeks still warm from smiling. He didn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but he could hear Hoseok mumbling, “Sorry…” and something about “you know I can’t say no to him,” which made Jimin smirk a little.

When the call ended, Hoseok gave him a look. “You better be grateful.”

“I am,” Jimin said proudly, already back at his desk. “But I still don’t want you to sign anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Hoseok muttered, watching Jimin attack his math problems like they’d insulted his intelligence.

Once Jimin finished his homework with rare efficiency and exaggerated sighs about how gifted children were tragically overworked, he tossed his pencil down like a final dramatic act. The moment the last answer was scribbled in glittery pink mechanical pencil (because normal lead was too depressing), he launched himself out of his chair.

“Ugh,” he groaned, flopping for half a second on the carpet in exaggerated defeat, limbs starfish-wide. “Why am I a genius? It’s exhausting.”

Then, with a huff and a flick of his bangs, he sprang to his feet and bolted toward the playroom, nearly slipping on the rug in his fuzzy socks. Only his impeccable balance and flair for drama saved him from falling. He gripped the doorframe theatrically, declared “I live!” to no one in particular, and bee-lined for the drawer under the neon-lit desk.

His headset. His favorite headset. White and glossy, with bunny ears clipped to the band and tiny Swarovski crystals along the mic boom. A gift from Seokjin, custom-ordered and stunning, which meant Yoongi always called it “obnoxious” and “sparkly nonsense,” which meant it was perfect.

He plopped into his oversized gaming chair, adjusted the tilt to be exactly the right level of lounge-luxury, and flicked on his computer with a practiced flourish. His login screen greeted him with a customized wallpaper of his avatar looking smug under a cascade of golden coins.

“Obviously,” Jimin muttered with satisfaction. “As it should be.”

His fingers flew across the keyboard with practiced ease. The moment he entered the lobby, his headset crackled to life with a familiar voice, warm and dry as always.

“Finally,” Yoongi’s voice filled his ears. “Took you long enough.”

“I had math,” Jimin huffed, though he was already smiling. “And a meltdown. Be patient.”

“I am patient with you,” Yoongi replied, teasing but quiet. A little fond. Maybe too fond. “You’re the only person I wait for.”

Jimin didn’t answer for a second. He was too busy pretending his cheeks weren’t getting hot. He clicked into their party menu instead, where their avatars had already spawned side-by-side in the floating fortress they always used as their base. His character literally sparkled with the most expensive armor skins, gilded boots, a diamond cape, and a rare floating pet he’d made Namjoon buy him during an event last month. Yoongi’s avatar looked… practical. Powerful but plain.

“You still didn’t change your outfit,” Jimin sniffed. “Do you want to look poor?”

Yoongi made a noncommittal noise. “It’s a battle game. Not a fashion show.”

“Wrong. Everything is a fashion show.”

“You sound like Taehyung.”

“I taught Taehyung.”

Yoongi chuckled. “Anyway, I don’t need to look like a walking coin purse to win fights.”

“Excuse me,” Jimin gasped. “I am not a coin purse. I am a limited edition treasure chest, thank you very much.”

“You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know I’m lucky,” Jimin said, voice softening despite himself. His fingers hovered on the keyboard for a beat. Then: “But… you like me, really?”

Yoongi was quiet for a second. Then: “Yeah. Obviously. You’re kind of impossible not to like.”

Jimin’s throat did something weird. Like it squeezed around a little secret he didn’t know how to name. He blinked at his screen, then moved his character forward too fast and ran directly into a wall.

“Oops,” he said quickly.

Yoongi laughed again. “You okay, rich boy?”

“Shut up. Let’s kill something.”

“Gladly.”

They played for over an hour. Time slipped sideways when Jimin was with Yoongi. They bickered through raids, argued over loot, coordinated attacks with their usual ease. Yoongi was always calm, always in control of the battle, and Jimin liked rushing in just so Yoongi had to save him.

It had become a game between them. Jimin would draw aggro from three enemies at once, shrieking through his mic like he was being personally targeted by fate, and Yoongi would sigh and then mow down everything in their path like a sleepy, sword-wielding knight.

“You’re addicted to danger,” Yoongi muttered after the fifth time.

“No,” Jimin replied sweetly. “I’m addicted to you saving me.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to notice. Then Yoongi said, “You’re annoying.” But it sounded like affection.

When Hoseok’s voice floated down the hallway—“Dinner, Jiminie! You have exactly five seconds before I eat your dessert!”—Jimin groaned loudly, dropping his head against the back of his chair.

“Ugh. He’s so rude. I should be allowed to live on snacks and virtual victory.”

“Go eat,” Yoongi said, voice quieter now. “You always get cranky when you skip meals.”

“I’m cranky always.”

“True.”

“Hey!”

Yoongi just laughed.

Jimin didn’t want to hang up. He lingered, fingers resting over the shutdown key, headset still hugging his ears. The game screen had faded back to the main lobby, and their avatars stood side by side again, his shimmering with gold and Yoongi’s in plain, dark tones, but still so close they were practically touching.

“Hey…” Jimin mumbled, not sure why his voice had gone small. “Will you be on later?”

“I’ll try,” Yoongi said. “You want me to?”

“…Yeah.”

Yoongi didn’t tease him for it this time. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you later, brat.”

Jimin pulled off his headset slowly. The room felt too quiet now. Too big. He stared at the screen for a long moment before finally shutting it down. And even after it went dark, he sat there, arms curled around his knees, thinking about the way Yoongi had said obviously, and I like you, and the way his voice always sounded different when it was just the two of them.

Soft. Special.

Like Jimin was the only person who ever got to hear it that way. And maybe he was. Maybe that’s what made him feel warm in the chest and silly in the head and not quite lonely, even in a quiet room, even when the game was off.

Chapter Text

As soon as Hoseok’s car came to a stop outside the school gates, Jimin didn’t even wait for him to open the door. He pushed it open himself—he wasn’t supposed to, Namjoon always insisted on opening it for him—and dashed out without a goodbye, his backpack bouncing behind him.

The moment he spotted Namjoon near the entrance, standing tall in a sleek black suit that made him look more like a celebrity than a guardian, Jimin’s entire face lit up. His pace quickened until he broke into a full-on run, arms swinging, heart pounding with excitement. He threw himself against Namjoon’s chest, wrapping his arms tight around his waist.

"You came!" he blurted, voice slightly breathless, face buried in Namjoon’s chest. He felt a tiny rush of pride at the way Namjoon always smelled faintly like cologne and coffee, sharp but comforting. Familiar.

Namjoon chuckled softly, pressing a warm hand to the back of Jimin’s head. "I told you I would, didn’t I?"

"You always say that, but sometimes you’re too busy," Jimin mumbled, though the pout in his voice was half-hearted. He was too happy to be mad today.

"I missed you, young master," Namjoon murmured, holding him tighter.

"I missed you more~"

Namjoon finally leaned back and ruffled Jimin’s carefully combed hair. Jimin made a small sound of protest, but didn’t fix it, for once. Not yet.

“Let’s go in?” Namjoon asked.

Jimin nodded eagerly, slipping his hand into Namjoon’s without hesitation. He liked how big and steady it felt around his own. It made the crowded, noisy school entrance a little easier to ignore.

As they walked through the gate, Namjoon glanced around. “What about your friends? Yoongi and Jungkook?”

“They’re coming with their mom,” Jimin said casually. “She’s attending too.”

Namjoon gave a small nod, but Jimin could feel his gaze lingering, like he was trying to read more between the lines.

The moment they stepped inside the school building, Jimin tugged on Namjoon’s sleeve. “Hyung… you’re scaring people.”

Namjoon blinked, puzzled. “Huh?”

Jimin made a small circle with his finger, gesturing toward the clusters of parents and students sneaking glances at them. “You’re wearing those super dark sunglasses again. You look like a villain in a spy movie.”

“Oh.” Namjoon chuckled and slipped them into his inner pocket. “Better?”

“A little. But you still look too serious,” Jimin teased with a tiny grin. “You’re making everyone nervous.”

Namjoon tilted his head. “Maybe they’re nervous because I don’t look like your dad?”

Jimin giggled behind his hand. “Exactly. You’re way too young and handsome to be my dad~~~” He stretched the last syllable with a smug smirk, knowing full well how flustered Namjoon got when he called him handsome.

Namjoon rolled his eyes fondly. “Thanks for the compliment, I think.”

“You’re welcome,” Jimin said sweetly, squeezing Namjoon’s hand. “But seriously, relax your shoulders, hyung. You’re walking like you’re about to punch someone.”

“I’m just nervous,” Namjoon admitted with a sigh. “What if I mess this up?”

Jimin blinked. “It’s not a test. You’re just here to… observe. And say some things.”

“Exactly,” Namjoon groaned. “That’s terrifying.”

Jimin laughed and gave his hand another squeeze. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t say anything weird. And don’t brag.”

“I don’t brag!”

“You do! Last time you told the piano teacher you played piano better than her!”

Namjoon looked scandalized. “That was true though!”

Jimin shook his head, still grinning.

When they reached his classroom, Namjoon glanced at the desks. “Your seat is all the way at the back?”

Jimin nodded brightly. “Yup!”

“You can’t even see the board properly from there,” Namjoon frowned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I don’t want to move,” Jimin said quickly.

“Why not?”

“Because!” Jimin hesitated, then mumbled, “Because Yoongi sits next to me.”

Namjoon paused, then raised an eyebrow. “Ah.”

Jimin looked away, cheeks heating up for reasons he didn’t quite want to think about. “Just… don’t say anything, okay? It’s fine.”

Namjoon looked unconvinced, but nodded. “Alright. I won’t interfere.”

Jimin gave him a light push toward the back. “Go stand with the other parents. And please try not to look so scary.”

Namjoon went, though not without one last amused glance over his shoulder.

The class settled quickly, and the teacher began calling guardians to introduce themselves and their professions. Jimin tried to pay attention, he really did, but he kept glancing toward the door, hoping Yoongi would show up.

And finally, he did. Right in the middle of another parent’s speech, Yoongi slipped in, hand in his mother’s, looking sleepier than usual but still managing a nod toward Jimin.

Jimin perked up immediately, straightening in his chair. He waved, then quickly dropped his hand and pretended to be reading something. It wouldn’t do to look too eager.

Yoongi caught his eye, though, and offered a small smirk as he made his way to his seat beside Jimin. Their hands brushed when Yoongi pulled out his chair, and Jimin pretended not to notice how warm his face suddenly felt.

“Hey,” Yoongi whispered under his breath.

“Hi,” Jimin whispered back, trying to sound cool. He fiddled with the edge of his notebook.

“Your hyung came, huh?”

“Of course,” Jimin said, puffing out his chest slightly. “He promised. He always keeps his promises.”

Yoongi nodded, watching Namjoon for a second. “He really does look like a secret agent.”

“I know, right?” Jimin giggled. “He scares people on accident all the time.”

“Not me,” Yoongi said simply.

Jimin blinked. “No?”

Yoongi shrugged. “You talk about him so much, I kinda got used to the idea of him being around.”

Jimin stared at him. “Do I talk about him that much?”

Yoongi smirked. “A lot.”

Jimin flushed again and looked down. “Well… he’s important to me.”

“I can tell,” Yoongi said softly.

Before Jimin could reply, the teacher called, “Park Jimin’s guardian?”

Namjoon stepped up, looking like he was walking into a courtroom rather than a classroom full of eleven-year-olds.

Jimin watched closely, heart beating a little faster. What if Namjoon embarrassed him? What if he said something dumb?

Namjoon cleared his throat. “I’m Kim Namjoon. I’m Jimin’s guardian. I work as a lawyer… and also as his bodyguard.”

There were some surprised murmurs.

“He’s not scary,” Jimin whispered to Yoongi. “He’s just like that when he’s nervous.”

Yoongi leaned close and whispered back, “You’re defending him like he’s your boyfriend.”

Jimin choked on his breath, swatting at Yoongi’s arm. “Shut up!”

Yoongi laughed under his breath.

Namjoon answered a few questions, shifting from awkward to confident halfway through with his lawyer side kicking in, and by the time he stepped down, he even looked like he was enjoying himself.

The second half of the school day was quieter, but Jimin’s nerves buzzed like they always did during parent-teacher meetings. His classmates were distracted, whispering and fidgeting, but Jimin sat with perfect posture, his hands folded on his lap like Namjoon had taught him. His chin was tilted slightly upward, polished shoes crossed at the ankle. He looked like he was waiting for a press interview—not a meeting with elementary school teachers.

It was important to look composed. Especially when Namjoon was standing right behind him, hands in his coat pockets, towering and quiet and elegant as always.

The teachers had nothing but praise. Words like disciplined, precocious, insightful, and well-mannered floated in the air like confetti, and Jimin absorbed every single one with a satisfied little smile. He pretended to look modest, but his heart swelled with pride. It felt nice to be recognized. To be admired. Especially when Namjoon was there to hear it all.

He couldn’t stop glancing at him, just to make sure he was still listening. Still standing tall. Still proud of him.

But then—

“Jimin’s academic level is far beyond his current grade,” one teacher remarked with a casual smile. “Honestly, his placement could be reviewed again soon. His test scores—”

The words struck like a stone.

Jimin’s stomach clenched.

No, no, no, no.

His smile vanished. His fingers twitched in his lap, then reached up to tug at Namjoon’s coat sleeve, sharp and quick. Not gently. Not politely. A spoiled little pull.

Namjoon leaned down instantly, always attentive, always tuned into Jimin's moods.

Jimin didn’t look at him. He just stared at the floor and whispered under his breath, “That’s enough. Can we go home?”

There was a pause, he could feel Namjoon hesitate, but then he heard the quiet, nervous reply. “Y-Yes. Of course.”

Namjoon politely cut the conversation short, his voice composed, his hand resting on the small of Jimin’s back as he guided him away from the table.

But just as they were heading out, Jimin caught a glimpse of someone across the room and froze.

Yoongi.

He was standing near his mother, head lowered, arms crossed, while she spoke to him in that sharp, clipped tone Jimin recognized too well. Scolding. Her hand rested on her hip, the other one gesturing as she spoke. Yoongi looked unimpressed, as usual, but there was something tight about his shoulders that Jimin didn’t like.

Namjoon followed his gaze and leaned down again. “Is he doing poorly?” he murmured.

Jimin shook his head without thinking. “No. He’s doing great. But he sometimes… falls asleep in class.” His voice grew quiet. “Maybe that’s why.”

Namjoon didn’t press. He just nodded and straightened. “Let’s head home.”

He reached into his pocket for his phone. “Let me check if Hoseok’s arrived. He’s covering for me today.”

Jimin’s lower lip stuck out in a tiny pout. “You’re going back to work? Already?”

Namjoon sighed softly, like he’d been hoping that question wouldn’t come. “Yes, young master. I truly apologize. But there’s a lot waiting for me. Important documents.”

“You’ve been working forever.” Jimin’s tone was clipped. He didn’t care that other people were still in the room. “You were gone the last three nights.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Namjoon said again, quieter.

Jimin stared at him, then asked softly, “When will you be done?”

“I’m not sure. These kinds of meetings can take a while.”

Jimin’s fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Before he could say anything else, someone called out. “Jiminie!”

Yoongi was jogging over to him, his backpack bouncing awkwardly off one shoulder, his smile bright. Jimin felt some of the weight in his chest melt away.

“You’re heading home now?” Yoongi asked.

Jimin gave a noncommittal hum.

Yoongi spun toward his mother with a grin. “Mom! Jiminie’s going home. That means we can go too, right?”

Jimin watched the scene unfold with fascination. Yoongi was fearless, cheeky, even. He always said what he wanted, even when his mother looked like she was about to explode.

“You’re not getting out of punishment, Yoongi,” she snapped.

Yoongi groaned, dramatically throwing his head back. “Why not? My grades are good! Why am I getting punished? Jungkook’s grades are way worse and you never punish him! You love him more than me—!”

“Yoongi,” his mother warned, voice sharp.

“You do,” Yoongi muttered, arms crossed. “You don’t love me as much as Jungkook.”

Jimin bit his lip, watching with wide eyes. No one had ever spoken like that in front of their mom. Ever.

“That’s not true, sweetheart,” she sighed. “I love you both equally.”

Yoongi stayed silent, sulking, until she finally sighed again.

“Fine,” she muttered. “No punishment for you.”

Jimin blinked. It worked.

Yoongi gave a little hum, smug and satisfied. Then he leaned toward Jimin and whispered close to his ear, “And that’s how you dodge a punishment, Jiminie~”

The words sent a tiny shiver down his spine. Not just because of what he said, but because of how close he’d leaned in. Because of the way he smelled like apple candy and a little like the classroom chalk. Because no one else got to whisper to him like that.

Jimin giggled, covering his mouth with one hand.

Namjoon finished his phone call and came back over. “Young master, Hoseok is waiting outside.”

Jimin gave him a soft nod, eyes still lingering on Yoongi as they turned to leave.

“Bye, Jiminie,” Yoongi called, smiling, eyes crinkling. “Text me later, okay?”

Jimin nodded, trying not to smile too much. “Okay.”

He slipped into Hoseok’s car without another word, arms folded tightly across his chest. Namjoon didn’t follow, he was already walking toward the street, likely off to bury himself in work again.

The moment the car started moving, Jimin let his body collapse sideways, his cheek pressing against the window, cold and smooth. His breath fogged the glass.

“Rough day?” Hoseok asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Jimin didn’t answer right away.

“I thought you’d be happy,” Hoseok tried again, gentler this time. “You got to see Namjoon. The teachers praised you. Why the pout?”

Jimin turned his face toward the window again. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“…It’s not just about Namjoon going back to work,” Jimin mumbled. “That’s part of it, but…”

“But?”

Jimin let out a slow sigh. “The teachers said I’m too advanced again.”

Hoseok blinked. “That’s a good thing.”

“No, it’s not,” Jimin snapped, sitting up properly now. “That’s what they said last time. When I was in third grade. Then they skipped me to fifth. What if they do it again? What if they send me to middle school? I’m only nine, hyung. I don’t want to be in a class with big boys. I don’t want to start all over again. I just made friends. I just…”

He trailed off, hugging his arms around his stomach. “…I just want to stay.”

Hoseok didn’t say anything for a long time. Then, finally, he murmured, “I get it.”

Jimin didn’t reply.

The car grew quiet again, just the hum of tires on pavement and the soft click of the turn signal.

After a moment, Hoseok asked carefully, “Is it because of Yoongi?”

Jimin’s eyes snapped to the mirror.

Hoseok smiled gently. “You talk about him a lot. I figured you liked him.”

Jimin looked away again, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything~”

“Don’t tease me.”

“I didn’t tease you,” Hoseok said with a dramatic sigh. “You’re imagining things.”

Jimin crossed his arms tightly and glared out the window. But his reflection was smiling. Just a little.

The rest of the ride dragged in silence. Hoseok didn’t push the conversation anymore, thankfully. Jimin had already decided he wouldn’t talk even if he tried. He kept his arms folded tightly across his chest and stared out the window, chin propped in one hand, lips pursed in a pout that wasn’t going anywhere.

The soft hum of the engine was the only sound, but inside Jimin’s head, everything was loud.

Middle school. Giant lockers and older boys and teachers who wouldn’t think he was cute anymore. And no Yoongi.

His throat tightened. He hadn’t even thought about that part until now. He liked seeing Yoongi every day. A lot more than he wanted to admit. Yoongi made things bearable, the boredom, the weird looks from other kids, even the annoying teachers who talked too slow. Sometimes, Jimin liked to finish his work early just to glance at Yoongi’s desk and watch the way his cheek pressed into his palm while he daydreamed. It made Jimin giggle quietly every time.

He couldn’t explain it. He didn’t want to. He just knew he didn’t want to leave.

When the car finally pulled into the long, familiar driveway, Jimin didn’t budge at first. He just watched the mansion loom closer through the window, tall and still and cold like always.

Then Hoseok said gently, “We’re home, kiddo.”

Jimin huffed and slipped out of the car without a word.

But the moment he stepped into the front hall, he froze. There were voices. Two of them. His father. And Seokjin. He hadn’t heard his brother’s voice in the house in weeks.

Jimin blinked, startled. That… that was rare. They were both home? At the same time?

He rushed upstairs to change out of his uniform, tossing it dramatically across the chair in his room before pulling on a cashmere knit set in soft cream, one of the newest ones Namjoon had picked out for him. The collar was a little too tight, so he tugged at it fussily until it sat just right, then patted down his hair and headed downstairs.

“Good evening~” he chirped as he entered the living room, stretching the words with a trained kind of sweetness. His eyes were already searching eagerly for someone to look up, to smile.

Seokjin glanced up first, setting down his teacup with a quiet clink. “You’re back from school, Jimin? How was it?”

Jimin made his way over, the soft soles of his slippers barely making a sound against the marble floor. “It was good,” he replied breezily as he sat beside Seokjin on the couch, smoothing down the hem of his top.

“There was a parent-teacher meeting today,” he added, tilting his head with deliberate charm. “Namjoonie hyung came with me~”

He said it a little louder than necessary, hoping his father was listening. Hoped maybe he would say something.

The rustle of a newspaper shifted. His father lowered it slightly, brow raised. “Is that why he skipped work today?” The disapproval in his voice was immediate. Sharp.

Jimin’s smile tightened. “But you and Jin hyung were both busy…” He kept his tone light, almost sing-song. Maybe if he sounded sweet enough, he wouldn’t get scolded too.

His father didn’t look impressed. “What about Secretary Jung?”

Jimin looked down quickly, his fingers fumbling in his lap. “I asked Namjoon hyung if he could come. He said he could make time in his schedule. If he had said no, I wouldn’t have insisted…”

That wasn’t entirely true. He would have insisted. He had insisted. But that wasn’t the point.

Seokjin stepped in, voice smooth and steady. “It’s alright, Father. It was just for a few hours. He went back to work right after. Hoseok was covering for him, and Namjoon asked for my permission first.”

Their father gave a dismissive huff and raised the newspaper again. “He shouldn’t be slacking. The case he’s on is important, Seokjin.”

“I know. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Jimin sat there stiffly, his legs swinging just slightly off the couch. He wasn’t tall enough for them to touch the ground. He felt small again. Like a child in the corner of a room he didn’t belong in.

Seokjin turned back to him with a softer voice. “So? What did the teachers say about you? Are you still doing well? Especially with the school change and skipping two grades?”

Jimin perked up at the question and beamed, glad someone still cared to ask. “I’m doing more than well~” he declared proudly, tilting his chin a little higher.

Seokjin chuckled and reached out to ruffle his hair. “That’s amazing. I’m so proud of you, Jiminie.”

Jimin’s cheeks glowed.

“I’ll make sure to ask Namjoon about the details later,” Seokjin added, sipping from his cup again.

Jimin turned his head slightly toward his father. Just in case he had something to say too. A small compliment. A nod. Even a smile.

But all he saw was the back of the newspaper.

Jimin’s smile faltered. His eyes dropped to his lap again. He blinked quickly. Maybe his father didn’t hear. Maybe he was just busy reading something important.

One of the maids entered then, announcing quietly that lunch was ready.

They moved to the dining room, the three of them seated around a long, silent table that always felt too big.

Jimin pushed his food around his plate with a fork that was a little too heavy for his hand.

“Hyung, are you staying home for the rest of the day?” he asked after a while, voice quieter now.

“Yes. Father and I took a short break from work.”

His father gave a dry chuckle. “A break…”

Jimin’s stomach twisted. It was always like this. One wrong word, and everything soured. The air got heavier. Thicker.

Seokjin must have noticed too, because he quickly changed the subject. “Have you still been practicing your piano pieces, Jiminie?”

Jimin nodded. “Mm. A little.” He hated them.

“Are you still working on that Étude?”

“It’s boring.” Jimin scrunched his nose. “Namjoon hyung says I play it perfectly already.”

Seokjin laughed. “Well, if Namjoon says so…”

The rest of lunch passed like that. Little nothings. Soft smiles. Things that didn’t matter. Jimin didn’t feel like talking anymore. Even the sound of Seokjin’s voice wasn’t enough to shake the strange weight in his chest.

Afterward, Jimin returned to his usual afternoon schedule, homework, which took him all of five minutes, then private lessons. Piano, dance, etiquette. He didn’t try very hard in any of them.

He sat at the piano bench and tapped through the keys half-heartedly, letting the sound echo off the walls. His fingers moved automatically, the piece so memorized he didn’t have to think about it.

And that made it worse. Because without thinking, all he could do was feel. And all he could think about was how Namjoon left without saying goodbye properly. How his father didn’t say anything kind even when Jimin tried his best. How none of it mattered if Yoongi wasn't there to smile at him again.

He stopped playing. The last note hung in the air, lonely and unfinished. He slumped forward, resting his forehead against the cool ivory of the keys.

“…I don’t want to be a genius,” he muttered into the silence.

Not if it meant feeling like this. Not if it meant being alone.

-

As the sun dipped low over the estate, draping golden-orange light across the marble floors and manicured hedges, Jimin curled up on the oversized bean bag in the playroom, his headset snug over his ears.

“Yoongi~! Don’t go left, go right! Right!” he squeaked, frantically pressing buttons on his controller. “You're gonna get us both—ah! No, no, no, no—!”

The screen blinked red as their characters both collapsed. Game over.

Jimin stared at the "Defeat" screen with an exaggerated groan, letting the controller fall into his lap. “Yoongiiiii,” he whined through the mic, stretching out his name like it physically hurt. “You’re supposed to protect me! I’m the brains, you’re the brawn!”

There was a low chuckle from the other end. “You're the one who ran ahead like a maniac.”

Jimin huffed, cheeks puffing. “Because I trusted you to follow me! You said you had my back! You liar!”

Yoongi laughed again, soft and lazy and unbothered, the kind of laugh Jimin loved hearing way too much. “We’ll win next round.”

Jimin smiled to himself, the defeat already forgotten. It was easy to let things go when Yoongi was around. Even if it was just through a headset.

“Yoongi,” he said suddenly, voice dropping to a quieter pitch. “What if I have to change schools soon? Will you still talk to me every day?”

There was a pause. Then Yoongi’s voice came back, calm and certain. “Of course I will, dummy.”

Jimin swallowed hard and smiled again, smaller this time, a little wobbly. “I’m not a dummy,” he mumbled.

“You are when you run into battle with zero armor.”

“That was strategy.”

“Mmhmm.”

Jimin giggled and kicked his legs a little, the soft thud of his socked feet hitting the bean bag making him feel like a child again. But he didn’t care. Not with Yoongi.

Still, after they logged off for dinner, a small weight settled back in his chest. He left the console and headset on the floor and turned to where Hoseok sat scrolling on his phone, long legs crossed, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

“Hoseok hyung,” Jimin called, not even trying to hide the bratty edge in his tone.

“Yes, Jiminie?” Hoseok replied without looking up.

Jimin crossed the room, plopped dramatically on the couch beside him, and kicked one foot against the cushion. “Is something happening at the company?”

That got Hoseok’s attention. He blinked up at Jimin, phone dropping slightly. “Something like what?”

Jimin shrugged like it didn’t matter, even though it very much did. “I don’t know. But it’s weird. Jin hyung and Father are both on break? They never take breaks. And Namjoonie hyung hasn’t even tucked me in lately. He said he’s working on a case. So is it a lawsuit?”

Hoseok let out a low chuckle, smiling like he was impressed. “You really are sharp, huh? Nothing gets past you.”

Jimin frowned, his brows pulling together. He didn’t want compliments. He wanted answers. “So something is going on?”

“Mmm,” Hoseok murmured, sliding his phone into his pocket. “Don’t worry about it. Namjoon’s handling it. We all trust him. He’s brilliant at what he does.”

Jimin looked down, one finger tracing the embroidery on the edge of a pillow. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. He hated when people brushed him off like he was too young to understand. He did understand. Maybe not everything, but he noticed things. He felt them. He always knew when something was wrong. Even if no one said it out loud.

“Okay…” he muttered.

Dinner was quiet again. Too quiet. The dining room lights cast a soft golden glow on the table, the clink of silverware echoing too loudly in the space between them. Seokjin talked about light things, the weather, the garden renovations, some painting he saw in a gallery that made him think of their mother.

Jimin smiled politely, played with his food, said all the right things. But inside, he felt wrong. Off. Like the balance of the day had tilted and no one else noticed but him.

Two family meals in one day. His father actually home. Seokjin too. It should’ve felt warm. Special. But it didn’t. It felt staged. Like they were pretending. And Jimin hated pretending.

He excused himself early, not even finishing his dessert, which was a very rare occurrence, and headed upstairs with Hoseok quietly following behind.

Inside his room, Jimin turned suddenly at the door. “Hoseok hyung,” he said, softer this time.

Hoseok paused mid-step and looked back. “Yeah?”

Jimin bit his lip. “Tomorrow’s Friday. Can I invite my friends over to play?” There was a flicker of hope in his voice. Something almost shy.

“Of course,” Hoseok said without hesitation. “Whatever you want.”

Jimin’s eyes widened. “No, wait!” He gasped, arms flailing a little. “I changed my mind!”

Hoseok blinked. “Why?”

Jimin’s mouth twisted. He looked away.

“I forgot. Father’s home…”

“I don’t think he’ll mind,” Hoseok said gently, one brow raised.

“It’s not that,” Jimin muttered. “I just… I don’t think he likes Yoongi very much.” The words felt awful coming out. He wished they weren’t true.

Hoseok’s face shifted, softening with something Jimin didn’t want to name. Pity, maybe. He hated that look. “Then maybe you could all hang out outside? In the garden?”

Jimin shook his head fiercely. “No way! Namjoonie hyung isn’t around, so no.” He crossed his arms tightly. That was final.

Hoseok nodded, thinking. “What about Taehyung’s house then?”

Jimin hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other. “Isn’t it rude to invite myself over?”

“You’re friends. I don’t think he’d mind.”

Jimin looked down at the floor. “I don’t know…”

He turned toward his private bathroom with a quiet sigh. “It doesn’t matter. Never mind.”

Hoseok followed him inside, helping him out of his sweater and passing him a towel. “I think it’d be fine,” he said, voice calm. “Just tell them you can’t host this weekend and suggest Taehyung’s instead.”

Jimin frowned, his small hands balling into fists as he turned around to face him. “But what if Yoongi asks why not his house? I don’t want him to find out the truth.” His voice trembled. He hated how honest it sounded.

“I don’t think he’ll ask.”

“And if he does??” Jimin’s voice rose, panic curling at the edges.

Hoseok scratched the back of his neck. “Well… you’ve never been to Taehyung’s house before, right? That can be your reason.”

“But it’s not the real reason.” Jimin looked down. “That’s lying.”

“It’s not lying if it’s technically true.”

Jimin stared at him, eyes narrowing. “Twisting the truth to hide something is lying,” he said firmly. “I don’t want to lie to Yoongi. I’ve done it before, and it was awful. I don’t want to go through that again.”

Hoseok let out a slow sigh and placed a gentle hand on Jimin’s shoulder. “But this time it’s to protect his feelings, right? That’s not such a bad reason.”

Jimin didn’t answer. His expression was still tight, still knotted with quiet worry.

“You can decide tomorrow,” Hoseok said softly, giving his shoulder a light squeeze before helping him into the bathtub.

Later, when the lights were off and the room was wrapped in shadows, Jimin lay in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the soft canopy above him.

He pulled his phone from under his pillow and unlocked it quietly.

No new messages.

He scrolled up through his last conversation with Yoongi. His heart did that weird twisting thing again when he read the last thing Yoongi had sent before they logged off earlier:

“Don’t worry, I’ll always talk to you. No matter what school.”

Jimin curled up tighter under the blanket.

He wanted to believe it. So badly. But something in him still hurt.

Chapter Text

Lunchtime had always been Jimin’s favorite part of the school day, not because of the cafeteria food (which he didn’t eat unless he had no choice), but because of them. Taehyung, who always said whatever was on his mind like it was the most brilliant thought ever, and Yoongi, who sat beside him and acted like nothing mattered even when it clearly did. They always sat together in the far back corner, away from the noise, on their usual bench that creaked whenever all three of them leaned forward at once.

Jimin sat between them, carefully peeling the wrapper from his juice box as he half-listened to their conversation. His lunchbox sat in front of him, metal, lacquered, and embarrassingly neat, with little compartments filled by the chef that morning. Two kinds of rice. Three kinds of fruit. No cafeteria slop in sight.

Yoongi nudged him with his shoulder, casually. “It’s the weekend,” he said, voice low and hopeful. “No private lessons for you, right?”

Jimin’s hand paused mid-air. He hummed softly and chewed the inside of his cheek, staring down at his chopsticks. “Yeah, I don’t have any...” he murmured. Then he frowned and added quickly, “I was going to invite you both to hang out at my place... but I can’t.”

Even as he said it, he felt the shift in his chest. That drop. He didn’t want to admit how badly he wanted them to come over. Or how much it hurt that he couldn't ask them to.

Taehyung, oblivious, nearly choked on his food in excitement. “You can come over to my house!” he grinned, mouth half full of rice. “My dad bought me a new game ’cause I passed the math test!”

Jimin blinked at him. “You passed?”

“Yup!” Taehyung declared proudly, as if announcing a Nobel Prize. “Sixty out of a hundred! I’ve never scored that high before!”

“Oh...”

Jimin didn’t know what to say. He’d scored one hundred and one, the extra point came from correcting the teacher’s typo, and he hadn’t gotten anything. Except more tutoring. And maybe a compliment that didn’t sound like a compliment: Of course you did. That’s what we expect.

Taehyung beamed like sixty was enough to conquer the world. Jimin sort of envied that.

“So? Are you guys coming over to play it?” Taehyung turned to Yoongi with big eyes. “You have to bring Jungkookie too!”

Yoongi groaned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Do I have to? We had a fight yesterday.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, loud and dramatic. “You always fight.”

“No, we don’t!” Yoongi snapped defensively.

“Yes, you do,” Jimin insisted, lifting an eyebrow, his tone all-knowing and superior.

Yoongi opened his mouth, then paused. He closed it again, cheeks puffing.

Taehyung, trying to keep the peace, waved his chopsticks like a white flag. “So? Are you bringing him or not?”

Yoongi pouted and slumped back. “You guys like him more than me...”

Jimin huffed. “Don’t start with the victim act. You pull that with your mom, it’s not gonna work on us.”

Yoongi smirked. “You caught me, huh?”

Jimin gave him a smug little look. “You exposed yourself yesterday.”

“Ah! I shouldn’t have! You could’ve fallen into so many of my traps~”

“I wouldn’t fall for them,” Jimin sniffed.

Yoongi leaned closer, eyes glinting. “Wanna bet on it?”

Jimin recoiled slightly, scandalized. “I’m nine!”

Yoongi clutched his head dramatically as Jimin gave him a firm smack. “I said a bet, not gambling!”

“It’s the same thing, Yoongi!” Jimin cried, arms folding tightly over his chest.

“It’s not!”

“It is! And even if it weren’t, I’m not betting on anything!”

“Buzzkill,” Yoongi muttered, scrunching his nose.

Jimin narrowed his eyes. “Yoongi! Betting is illegal. Do you want to end up in jail? You’re only eleven!”

Yoongi opened his mouth to argue, again, but Taehyung, wide-eyed and blinking, cut in with sudden concern. “Betting is illegal?”

Jimin gasped. He smacked the table. “Yes! Article 246 of the Korean Criminal Act says that anyone who engages in gambling can be fined up to five million won!”

Silence. Even the distant hum of the cafeteria seemed to pause for a moment. Both Yoongi and Taehyung stared at him like he’d just recited the Constitution backwards.

Yoongi blinked slowly. “You know the article number... by heart?”

Jimin tilted his head. “You don’t?”

Yoongi stared at him blankly. “I don’t think anyone does. Except maybe the police. Or lawyers.”

With a shrug, Jimin said, “Doesn’t everyone know international law?”

“No,” Yoongi said flatly. “Literally no one does.”

Jimin shrank slightly, his voice dropping to a small murmur. “Oh…”

He didn’t know why that stung. Maybe it was because he thought everyone should know it. Or maybe because it reminded him that his world was different, built with silent bodyguards, private tutors, quiet dinners, and long, wordless car rides home. He didn’t know how not to know that stuff.

But Yoongi and Taehyung laughed at it. Not meanly. Not really. But in a way that made Jimin feel like he was weird.

He poked at a grain of rice in his lunchbox and didn’t say anything.

Luckily, Taehyung broke the silence with a bright grin, lifting a piece of kimbap with his chopsticks. “This is soooo good, Jiminie! Praise your chef for me~!”

Jimin looked up, startled. Then smiled. “You really liked it?”

Taehyung nodded furiously. “Yup! I can’t even spell the stuff that’s in here but it’s delicious!”

“I can ask the chef to make more next week if you want,” Jimin offered, straightening up a little.

“That’d be amazing! Thanks~~~”

Yoongi didn’t say anything, but he nudged Jimin’s lunchbox closer and took one of the strawberries without asking. Just popped it into his mouth and chewed.

Jimin glared. “That’s mine.”

“You don’t like the bruised ones,” Yoongi said around a mouthful.

Jimin blinked. “That’s not bruised—” He looked down, and it was. He didn’t even notice.

“You always pick the perfect ones for yourself and leave the squishy ones,” Yoongi mumbled, licking juice off his thumb. “I’m not picky.”

Jimin stared at him for a moment, something slow and warm tugging in his chest.

That strawberry hadn’t looked bruised to him. But Yoongi had known. Somehow. And he’d eaten it without complaint. Like it was nothing. Like it was something he was supposed to do.

Later, as the bell rang and the cafeteria buzzed with kids scrambling to return trays and toss wrappers, Jimin lingered behind, pretending to pack his bag slower than usual.

He watched Yoongi laughing at something Taehyung said, his eyes crinkled, his voice softer than it usually was when he wasn’t pretending to be cool. It made Jimin’s stomach twist in a way that was confusing. He didn’t understand it. But he liked it.

And as they left the cafeteria together, Yoongi bumping his shoulder again, not on purpose, not really, Jimin thought to himself that maybe it wasn’t so bad not being like everyone else. Not if Yoongi stayed close. Even if he did steal strawberries.

The rest of the school day crawled by slower than molasses in January. The teacher’s voice droned on like background noise, the ticking of the clock louder than anything else. Jimin sat at his desk, chin resting on his hand, doodling spirals in the corner of his math notebook as he peeked again at the clock. One more minute. Just sixty seconds. He could almost taste the freedom. He hoped. Desperately.

Because if Namjoon was waiting for him outside, if he’d finished working early and came just for him, it would be the best thing that had happened all week. Maybe the best thing in his whole life, actually.

Finally, the bell rang.

Jimin was on his feet before the sound even faded, his chair screeching back against the linoleum. He didn’t bother saying goodbye to anyone, didn’t wait for the teacher’s parting words, didn’t care that he left his eraser on the floor under his desk. All that mattered was getting outside fast enough. Fast enough to see—

“Jimin! Wait for me!”

Yoongi’s voice rang out from somewhere behind him. But Jimin didn’t slow down. His shoes thudded against the pavement as he pushed open the school doors and darted down the front steps, eyes scanning every car, every driver.

Come on, come on, come on—

His heart sank the moment he saw the familiar black sedan. Not because the car itself was disappointing. It was sleek and expensive and probably better than anyone else’s ride in the whole parking lot. But the man standing beside it—

Oh.

His footsteps slowed.

Hoseok was leaning casually against the side of the car, dressed in a crisp button-up and holding his phone in one hand. He wasn’t even looking up.

Jimin’s lips turned down in an instant. The joy, the anticipation, the flutter in his chest, all of it deflated like a popped balloon.

Yoongi finally caught up, huffing as he jogged up beside him. “You run like you're trying to escape the country,” he panted, wiping his forehead with the sleeve of his uniform. “What’s the rush—oh.”

Even Yoongi could tell what was wrong. He followed Jimin’s line of sight and saw Hoseok, then glanced at Jimin again.

“Not your Namjoon hyung,” Yoongi said quietly, his voice a little softer than usual.

Jimin didn’t answer. He only clenched his little fists tighter at his sides and tried to pretend his heart wasn’t sinking into the soles of his shiny shoes.

As if he could sense it, Hoseok finally looked up. His warm smile faltered just a bit when he caught sight of Jimin’s frown.

“Jimin… hey,” he greeted, stepping forward.

Jimin didn’t return the smile. He barely looked at him. “Hi…” he murmured, so soft it almost didn’t make it past his lips. He kept his eyes fixed on the pavement, suddenly fascinated by a crack near his toe.

There was a sigh. A quiet one. “I know I’m not Namjoon,” Hoseok said gently, crouching a little to get to his eye level, “but the way your face dropped just now? That kind of hurts, you know?”

Jimin felt a flicker of guilt, but it wasn’t enough to fix his face. Not when he was feeling this cheated. He gave a tiny nod and muttered, “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t mean it. And from the way Hoseok chuckled quietly, he knew it too.

“That was the most insincere apology I’ve ever heard,” Hoseok teased under his breath with a shake of his head.

Behind him, Yoongi walked up slowly. He didn’t say anything this time, just stood beside Jimin in silence. That quiet presence helped, somehow. Jimin was still fuming inside, but Yoongi didn’t try to make him feel better or scold him or say annoying adult things like “It’s okay, he’ll come next time.” Yoongi just stood there. And Jimin… kind of appreciated that.

“I’ll carry your bag,” Hoseok offered, holding out a hand. With the other, he reached for Jimin’s hand like he always did when Namjoon wasn’t around.

Jimin hesitated for one second too long. But eventually, he let go of the strap and let Hoseok take it. His small fingers curled into Hoseok’s palm automatically. It was comforting. Familiar. Just… not the same.

The ride home was unusually quiet.

Yoongi and Jimin sat beside each other, but the usual playful bickering or whispered complaints about school never came. Jimin was too busy staring out the window, watching houses and trees blur past. His cheek rested against the cool glass, and his breath left tiny fog patches behind.

He didn’t even notice when Yoongi leaned against him until he felt the weight on his shoulder.

“Huh?”

“I’m tired,” Yoongi mumbled, not even opening his eyes. “Just five minutes…”

Jimin’s brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t push him off. Yoongi’s hair was soft against his cheek, and the warmth of him was kind of… nice. Comforting. His breath slowed a little as he sat still, letting Yoongi rest.

If Namjoon couldn’t be here, at least Yoongi was.

Across from them, Jungkook sat stiffly, arms crossed tight across his chest. His eyes were red-rimmed and glossy, his bottom lip quivering like he was holding something back. He looked like he was about to explode or burst into tears, or both.

Jimin noticed, but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what was wrong, but he knew better than to ask Jungkook anything when he had that expression. He hated crying in front of people.

From the front seat, Hoseok muttered under his breath, “What’s with the kids today…”

He dropped Yoongi and Jungkook off at their house, giving both of them a concerned glance through the rearview mirror.

Yoongi, still half-asleep, muttered something like, “Bye, Jimin-ah,” before slumping out the door with his bag dragging behind him. Jungkook didn’t even say goodbye, just darted off, wiping his face with his sleeve.

And then it was just Jimin again. Alone.

The car was too quiet.

Hoseok glanced at him after a few minutes. “Jimin?”

He didn’t answer.

“You okay?”

A hum. Barely audible.

“You’ve been quiet today.”

“I’m always quiet,” Jimin said, turning his gaze out the window again. His voice was dull. Sulky.

Hoseok hummed in amusement. “That’s a lie and you know it.”

They drove a bit longer in silence before Hoseok spoke again. “You miss Namjoon, huh?”

Jimin’s lips trembled slightly before he bit them together. “No.”

“Mmm,” Hoseok said, clearly not believing him. “I was just at his place, you know. Helping him sort through some files.”

Jimin sat up straighter, suddenly alert. “You were??”

Hoseok smiled to himself. “Yup. He’s working super hard so he can finish everything today.”

Jimin’s heart thumped, hope bubbling in his chest like soda fizz. “Did he say anything about me?” he asked, trying to sound casual but failing completely.

“Hmm… he might’ve,” Hoseok teased, tapping his chin with exaggerated thought. “Said something about a certain spoiled prince who’s been pouting all week.”

“I have not been pouting!” Jimin huffed, crossing his arms.

Hoseok grinned. “He said he misses you. And he’ll come see you tonight. If he finishes.”

Jimin couldn’t hide his smile. It bloomed across his face like sunshine cutting through clouds. The whole car seemed lighter.

He pressed his palms to his cheeks to hide it, but it didn’t work. Hoseok laughed softly, like he was watching something precious.

“Is he really coming?” Jimin asked, peeking out from behind his fingers.

“If he finishes early. He’s trying his best.”

The rest of the ride passed faster after that. Jimin even hummed under his breath as they turned the corner toward his house. The sun was still bright overhead, and maybe if he changed into something extra cute, Namjoon would come straight to his room and scoop him up like always.

When they pulled up to the mansion’s front drive, Jimin barely waited for the car to come to a full stop before unbuckling his seatbelt and sliding out. He smoothed the front of his soft designer cardigan—he always changed into his comfiest school look for Fridays—and slung his little backpack over one shoulder with a huff, clutching one of the straps like he was storming into a battlefield.

He was going to see his father and Seokjin and tell them…well, he wasn’t sure what yet. But he deserved attention after a long day at school. Especially since he’d survived math class and the heartbreak of Namjoon not picking him up. His shoulders were tense, nose slightly upturned as he padded toward the living room in his house slippers.

But the second he reached the arched doorway leading into the room, he froze. His heart skipped.

His father’s voice thundered through the space like a storm crashing into stone. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing behind my back?!”

Seokjin’s voice responded, tight with restraint. “I’m not doing anything behind your back—I’m trying to help this family, whether you realize it or not.”

Jimin’s breath caught in his throat.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. The words felt too sharp. It wasn’t just yelling, it was worse. It sounded serious. Scarier than usual.

A warm hand suddenly closed around his arm. “Let’s change your clothes first, Jimin,” Hoseok said quietly, voice calm but urgent, the way one might whisper while pulling someone away from a sleeping tiger. His grip was gentle, but firm enough to make it clear Jimin wasn’t going to be allowed into that room.

“But—” Jimin started, blinking up at him.

“Just for a moment,” Hoseok coaxed, kneeling slightly so they were eye level. “Okay?”

Jimin hesitated, lips pressed into a pout, but nodded. “…Okay.”

He let Hoseok guide him upstairs. Every step made his stomach twist a little tighter.

Hoseok talked the whole way, soft, airy nothings that sounded like small talk but were clearly distraction tactics. “Did you ask Taehyung if you can hang out at his place today?”

Jimin allowed himself to be led into his room. “He suggested it, said his dad got a new game for him since he passed his math test this time. He said it’s multiplayer.”

“That’s great,” Hoseok said brightly, already pulling out a cozy cashmere sweater and soft shorts from the wardrobe. “Should I take you there later? Only if you want.”

Jimin gave a small nod, still quiet.

He changed slowly, letting Hoseok help him out of his uniform. The material felt scratchier than usual. His body was tense, like his skin had absorbed the stress from downstairs. He hated hearing his father shout. It made the whole house feel like it was breaking.

When he was dressed and moving toward the door, Hoseok suddenly stepped in front of him. “W-Wait a second, Jimin-ah.”

“Huh?” Jimin blinked at him, eyebrows furrowing. “Why?”

“I, uh…” Hoseok paused, then offered a half-hearted smile. “I’ll go check if your snack is ready.”

“I can wait in the living room with Father and Jin hyung,” Jimin replied, voice cautious.

“No—” Hoseok stepped back, quickly grabbing the door handle. “I’ll just be a minute, okay? Be good and wait here.”

Jimin stared at him, suspicious but too tired to argue. “…Fine.”

As Hoseok slipped out, Jimin moved toward his bed and sat down slowly. He hugged a plushie to his chest, one of the many Namjoon had given him over the years. His thoughts spun in little anxious circles. What were they even fighting about? Were they talking about him?

They always tried to hide it when they argued. He hated that.

Downstairs, Hoseok moved quietly. Jimin could only hear faint floor creaks above the muffled voices, no longer yelling but low and unreadable. Then silence.

A few minutes passed before Hoseok returned. “Your snack is ready,” he announced with a gentle smile.

Jimin looked up, unsure. “Can I come down now?”

Hoseok nodded. “It’s just your brother now. Your father went into his office.”

That made Jimin relax.

He padded down the stairs and into the dining room where Seokjin was already seated with tea and a small fruit platter waiting. Seokjin smiled the moment he saw him, even if it was a tired smile.

“There’s my baby brother,” he said, reaching out with open arms.

Jimin walked straight into the hug and let himself melt into it, the way he always did. It was safe here, his brother’s arms always felt safe.

They didn’t talk about their father. Not even once. Instead, they chatted about school, about how Jimin thought his math test was “rigged,” and about how he had to stand on tiptoe to reach the top shelf in the library again. Seokjin laughed and made him promise not to climb anything taller than a desk.

After the snack, Jimin returned to his room, where Hoseok helped him pack a small essentials bag for hanging out at Taehyung’s. By the time they were ready to leave, Jimin was smiling again, at least a little. That was until they ran into his father in the front hall.

Mr. Park stood tall, his arms crossed, his sharp eyes narrowing the moment he saw them. “Where are you going?” he asked stiffly.

Jimin flinched just slightly. He hated that tone.

“I told Master Seokjin earlier,” Hoseok said calmly. “I’m taking Jimin to Taehyung’s house—COO Kim’s son.”

Mr. Park’s eyes narrowed further. “Let one of the guards take him. And they’re to stay with him the entire time.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Hoseok replied, still polite, but firmer now. “I’ll stay with him.”

“I said,” Mr. Park barked, “one of the guards. Do not contradict me.” The air turned sharp. Even the silence afterward felt loud.

Jimin spoke quickly, stepping between them. “It’s okay. I can go with one of the guards.”

Hoseok turned to him immediately. “Are you sure?”

Jimin offered a practiced smile. “It’s Taehyung’s house. I’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t sure he believed that, but it worked. His father grunted and turned away without another word.

Soon, he was in the car with one of the guards, heading toward Taehyung’s house. He stared out the window, arms crossed, cheek against the glass.

If Namjoon had come home today, none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t have had to watch his father yell. He wouldn’t have had to beg for permission to play with friends. Namjoon would’ve handled everything. Like he always did.

Still, Jimin cheered up a little when they pulled into Taehyung’s driveway. It wasn’t as big as his own, but it was warm-looking and cozy. The housekeeper opened the door right away, smiling, and led him inside.

As soon as they stepped into the hallway, he heard pounding footsteps. “Jiminie!” Taehyung’s voice echoed before he appeared, running full speed toward him with outstretched arms.

The guard stepped in front of Jimin instantly. “Stop,” he said sharply.

Jimin frowned. “It’s okay,” he told the guard, stepping around him. “That’s Taehyung. He’s my friend.”

The guard hesitated, then stepped back.

Jimin launched into Taehyung’s arms with a dramatic huff. “Thanks for inviting me,” he mumbled into his shoulder.

Taehyung laughed. “Of course! Yoongi and Jungkook are already upstairs.”

Jimin pulled back just enough to raise an eyebrow. “You started without me?”

“Obviously,” Taehyung teased, grabbing his hand. “Come on!”

They raced up to his room, the guard trailing behind silently until they reached the door and took his post outside.

Inside, Yoongi was sprawled across the floor on his stomach, holding a controller. He glanced up the second they burst in.

His face lit up. “Hey,” he said simply, but his smile lingered.

Jimin’s heart did a funny little twist. He plopped down beside him, smoothing the folds of his shorts. “I was ambushed by a guard,” he declared. “Father wouldn’t let me come with Hoseok hyung. I almost didn’t come at all.”

Yoongi passed him a controller wordlessly. Their fingers brushed.

Jimin quickly looked away, cheeks warming. “You’re already on the third level?”

“You’re late,” Yoongi said, shoulder nudging his.

“I was delayed,” Jimin retorted, flipping his hair dramatically.

Taehyung collapsed beside them, laughing. “You two are like an old married couple.”

Jimin rolled his eyes but peeked sideways at Yoongi. Yoongi didn’t look away. And just for a second, Jimin felt a little flutter deep in his chest, like the tiniest echo of something that hadn’t bloomed yet.

Jimin, Yoongi, and Jungkook had spent the entire afternoon at Taehyung’s house, huddled on plush beanbags in front of a giant flat-screen TV that Taehyung’s father had apparently gifted him just for scoring well in science, how ridiculous. Jimin scoffed internally. If his father gave out expensive presents for grades, he’d probably own five televisions by now. Still, he smiled and clutched the controller a little tighter, pretending to lose to make Jungkook laugh.

Yoongi was sitting right next to him, close, too close, and Jimin wasn’t sure if the occasional bump of shoulders was an accident or not. He didn’t mind either way. His cheeks felt warm, and his stomach fluttered in a weird, fizzy way whenever Yoongi laughed at his jokes, even the not-so-funny ones.

“Yah,” Jimin said, his lips jutting into a pout when Yoongi stole the last life in the game, “you’re such a cheater.”

“I’m just better than you,” Yoongi replied with a little smirk, clearly pleased with himself.

“You’re not,” Jimin huffed, narrowing his eyes. “You just get lucky.”

Yoongi leaned a little closer, his shoulder pressing fully into Jimin’s now. “You’re really cute when you’re losing.”

Jimin’s entire brain fizzled. He looked away immediately, pretending to adjust his grip on the controller, heart pounding so hard he was afraid it might leap out of his chest and do a little embarrassing dance on the floor. Yoongi probably didn’t mean it like that. He probably said that to everyone. Still… it made something ache and spark in Jimin’s chest.

They played for another hour or two, occasionally switching to snacks and card games when Taehyung got bored. Jimin found himself drifting naturally beside Yoongi again, always seeking his warmth, his quiet but ever-present laugh, the way he never ignored Jimin even when Jungkook and Taehyung got hyper and loud. He liked that. He liked Yoongi.

When the sun began to dip, painting the sky in warm orange and pink hues, Jimin reluctantly announced he had to leave.

“Awww, already?” Taehyung whined, flopping over dramatically on the beanbag like a wilted flower.

“My guard’s waiting outside,” Jimin said, giving them all a small pout. “I don’t want Father to get upset if I get home late.”

Yoongi stood up with him, brushing crumbs off his lap. “We’ll see you Monday?”

“Two whole days,” Jimin sighed like the world was ending. He looked directly at Yoongi and smiled, shy, a little hesitant. “Text me later, okay?”

“I will,” Yoongi replied, and Jimin felt weirdly proud that Yoongi said it just to him.

As he left Taehyung’s house, the guard trailing a few feet behind, Jimin didn’t feel quite as excited about being rich and spoiled. Not if it meant weekends felt so long and empty.

-

When he arrived home, he fully expected to see Hoseok waiting with a glass of orange juice and a warm smile, like always. But the front hallway was quiet. Too quiet. He blinked, then turned to the nearest maid with a frown.

“Where’s Hoseok hyung?” he asked, voice soft but already colored with annoyance.

The maid bowed slightly. “He went to the company, young master.”

Jimin’s frown deepened. “What about Jin hyung? Is he here?”

“No, sir. I believe he went with Secretary Jung.”

“They both left me?” Jimin asked, voice cracking ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth trembling downward.

The maid lowered her eyes. “I deeply apologize.”

It wasn’t her fault, but Jimin’s throat still tightened with betrayal. He tried to keep the tears from spilling as he glanced around the grand hallway that suddenly felt so… cold. Big. Too big.

“Call Jin hyung for me,” Jimin ordered, voice high and sharp like glass about to crack. His little hands curled into fists at his sides. “Now.”

The maid blinked at him, startled by the tone, he rarely raised his voice unless it was over dessert choices or missing silk socks, but the panic in his eyes made her move. She bowed quickly and rushed to the house phone, dialing with shaking fingers.

She tried once. No answer.

Jimin’s heart thumped painfully against his ribs, fast and loud. His breath came quicker, and his whole body tensed like he might just explode if someone didn’t answer. The lights felt too bright, the silence too big, and suddenly the room felt ugly—too quiet, too beige, too cold without anyone important around.

“Try again,” he snapped.

The maid nodded, dialed again. Still nothing.

His stomach twisted. He hated this, hated waiting, hated the echo of the big, hollow house, hated that everyone had left him. It felt personal. How dare they?

“Try Namjoonie hyung,” Jimin said, voice cracking now, pleading even though he didn’t want to sound weak. “Try him. Right now.”

And the second he heard Namjoon’s familiar voice on the other end, warm and calm and a little sleepy, he snatched the phone right out of the maid’s hands like it belonged to him (because it did).

“Namjoonie hyung!” he cried.

“Young master,” came Namjoon’s steady voice. “Is something wrong?”

His voice, just hearing it, was too much. It broke something open. Jimin’s lip trembled. His throat squeezed.

“You said Hoseok hyung would stay with me,” Jimin sniffled, hot tears sliding down his cheeks before he could stop them. “But he didn’t. And you’re not here either, and I waited, and now everyone’s gone. The house is empty, and I hate it. I don’t like this. I don’t want to be alone. Please come home, hyung…”

There was silence on the line, but not the cold kind. Jimin could feel Namjoon already moving, probably standing up, already reaching for his coat, maybe barking instructions to someone else. He always did that when he got serious. Jimin liked imagining it.

“What?” Namjoon’s voice turned sharp. “He left you?”

Jimin nodded hard, even though Namjoon couldn’t see. “I went to Taehyung’s with the guard, like father said, but when I came back, they were all gone. The maid said they went to the company or something dumb like that!”

He sniffled again and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his cashmere cardigan. It was cream-colored and imported, and he didn't even care if he ruined it. That’s how upset he was.

There was a shuffle on Namjoon’s end. “I’ll be right there. I’m really sorry—I didn’t know. I promise I’ll be fast. Don’t cry, okay?”

Jimin didn’t answer. He would cry if he wanted to. He didn’t feel like making promises back.

Namjoon’s voice softened again. “Did you eat dinner?”

“No,” he whispered, curling into the tufted velvet armchair beside the phone like a wilted prince.

“You should try to eat something while you wait, okay?”

“I don’t want to,” Jimin muttered. “Just come fast.”

“I will. I promise.”

The line went dead. Jimin stared at the silent receiver like it had betrayed him. The whole house was too quiet now, even worse than before. Everything echoed. Even his sniffles.

He didn’t move from the chair. Didn’t bother asking the maid to bring him a blanket or snacks or music. He just sat there, wrapped in the sleeves of his cardigan like it was armor, chin tucked down and eyes watery.

But then—

The front door opened.

Jimin leapt from the chair like lightning, socks sliding dangerously on the marble, and tore down the hallway with all the grace of a spoiled little hurricane.

“Hyung!”

Namjoon had barely stepped into the foyer when Jimin crashed into him, arms thrown wide like he was a dramatic little prince returning from war. Namjoon staggered but caught him, arms folding around him instinctively.

“Y-Young master?” he said, shocked.

Jimin clung tighter, burying his face in Namjoon’s coat and inhaling the familiar smell, aftershave and expensive wool and something that always made him feel safe. “I hate being alone!” he sobbed. “You promised!”

Namjoon crouched to Jimin’s level, pulling out his handkerchief and gently blotting away the tears. His hands were warm and careful, like always. “I’m here now. I’m so sorry. But you’re okay, right? You’re not hurt?”

Jimin nodded, still sniffling, but his face scrunched into a pout. “I waited so long.”

“I promise I’ll never leave you alone again. Never.”

“Liar,” Jimin snapped, stepping back just enough to glare up at him through glossy lashes. “You always say that.”

Namjoon winced. “You’re right. I’m sorry, really.”

“Then prove it,” Jimin said, crossing his arms. “Eat dinner with me.”

Namjoon blinked. “Now?”

“Yes.” Jimin stomped his foot, because what was the point of having a marble floor if he couldn’t stomp dramatically on it?

“…Alright. I will.”

“And sleep with me too.”

Namjoon hesitated. “Young master…”

“If you don’t, I won’t forgive you,” Jimin declared, lifting his chin. “Never ever. Not even if you beg.”

Namjoon exhaled. “Okay. I agree.”

Satisfied, Jimin grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the dining room. “Let’s go! I’m starving~~!”

“You should’ve eaten earlier,” Namjoon said gently.

“I was waiting for you, so it doesn’t count,” Jimin snapped, nose in the air.

Dinner was too quiet. The table was long and ridiculous, Jimin hated how big it was, and Namjoon sat across from him instead of beside him, which made everything feel farther. He stabbed at his rice dramatically, spoon clinking against the porcelain like he was trying to get attention.

Namjoon said nothing. Just ate quietly, politely.

Jimin narrowed his eyes. “You’re not even looking at me,” he huffed.

Namjoon looked up. “I am now.”

“That doesn’t count,” Jimin muttered, crossing his arms. “You’re supposed to talk to me. That’s the rule.”

Namjoon blinked. “What rule?”

“The rule where you keep me company and make me feel important,” Jimin said plainly. “You’re being boring.”

That earned a quiet laugh. “I’m sorry, young master. I’ll be less boring.”

“You better,” Jimin grumbled, but secretly he felt better now.

He dragged dinner out as long as possible. Took forever to chew. Asked for seconds he didn’t touch. Insisted the table was too cold and made them move to the smaller dining room. Asked the staff to bring three desserts, tasted all, finished none.

He just didn’t want the night to end.

After dinner, which Jimin graciously allowed Namjoon to share, he strutted toward the bathroom like a little prince returning to his palace. The marble floors gleamed under his fluffy slippers, and his silk peach robe with gold trim and his initials embroidered on the chest, billowed slightly as he walked. He refused to let the maid draw the bath; that was Namjoon's job. Always.

“Don’t let it be lukewarm,” Jimin instructed sharply, flicking his hand like royalty dismissing a subject. “Last time it felt like peasant soup.”

Namjoon bit back a smile. “Yes, your majesty.”

The faucet was turned with practiced precision, steam beginning to curl upward. Jimin slipped behind the dressing screen with a dramatic sigh, peeling off his robe and inspecting himself in the tall mirror. His skin still looked dewy from the serum he'd used that morning. Good. Crisis averted. At least something in his day was going right.

“The bubbles aren’t pink enough,” he declared, tipping his chin. “I said I wanted the rose milk bomb, not the lavender one. Lavender is for naps, not grand emotional recoveries.”

Namjoon, already rolling up his sleeves, merely arched an eyebrow. “The rose bomb stained the tub last time, young master.”

“That’s why we pay people to scrub,” Jimin countered, casting a dramatic glance toward the door, where no one, tragically, was waiting with a scrub brush. He sighed as though burdened by the incompetence of the world. “Fine. I’ll survive. Barely.”

He slipped out of his slippers and stepped into the water, hissing until Namjoon adjusted the temperature exactly two degrees warmer. Only then did he sink back with a satisfied hum, silk bathrobe discarded on a heated towel rack like conquered territory.

“Did you bring the lavender drops?” he demanded, frowning when Namjoon hesitated.

“Of course,” Namjoon said, dropping a few fragrant beads into the water. “Only the best for our little emperor.”

“Exactly,” Jimin sniffed, pleased.

Namjoon poured a line of cashmere-scented shampoo into his palm and began working it gently through Jimin’s hair. The fingers in his scalp were firm, practiced, soothing, but tonight Jimin’s thoughts drifted elsewhere.

“I want Yoongi to shampoo my hair next time,” he said suddenly, eyes closed, voice as casual as requesting caviar at breakfast.

Namjoon’s hands paused mid-scrub. “Yoongi?”

“Yes.” Jimin shrugged, bubbles sliding off his shoulders. “He fixed Taehyung’s bike chain today. His fingers are nice, strong but careful.” His cheeks tingled, but he ignored it. “Besides, he owes me a favor. I lent him my limited-edition glitter pens.”

A low hum vibrated in Namjoon’s chest, half laugh, half question, but he resumed massaging. “I think Yoongi would do anything you ask,” he said, and Jimin felt the words bloom warm under his ribs.

He pictured Yoongi behind him, sleeves rolled, dark hair hanging into his eyes while gentle fingers worked through his shampoo. The thought made his pulse trip, fluttery and strange. He dunked himself to rinse, emerging in a splash of bubbles and diamond-bright droplets.

Once his bath was over and he was dried with his monogrammed towels (they were Egyptian cotton, obviously, and had to be the soft ones or he’d shriek), Jimin padded to his vanity. Three separate trays of skincare gleamed under pearl lights, serums in frosted glass, gold-leaf eye patches, a tiny refrigerator devoted solely to sheet masks. He selected his most expensive toner (because stress deserved luxury) and dabbed it delicately along his cheeks.

A notification pinged on his phone from Yoongi: “Finished dinner. You alive?”

Jimin smirked and angled the camera for a dramatic selfie, wet hair swept forward, towels draped artfully around his bare shoulders, pout dialed to maximum: “Barely surviving.”

Yoongi’s reply came almost instantly: “Stop being dramatic and show me the moisturizer you bragged about earlier.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, even through text Yoongi was bossy, but he propped the phone against his perfume tray, switched to video call, and held up two jars. “Which one makes me glow like royalty? Choose wisely.”

Yoongi’s face filled the screen, hovering in his softly lit bedroom. He squinted. “Left one. It has niacinamide—you get dull when you skip meals, brat.”

“I never get dull,” Jimin sniffed, but he chose the left jar anyway, patting it on with tiny upward strokes because appearance mattered, even in front of a screen. “Better?”

“Shinier than a magpie’s dream,” Yoongi said, deadpan, but his eyes softened. “You okay now? You were a little down all day.”

Jimin hesitated. The loneliness from earlier flickered at the edges, but instead of admitting it he lifted his chin. “I will be if a certain someone remembers to text me goodnight.”

Yoongi’s lips quirked. “Then prepare to be ecstatic.”

A knock at the door cut him off. Namjoon’s voice: “Bedtime, young master.”

Jimin muted himself. “Five minutes!”

“Three,” Namjoon countered from the hallway.

“Ugh.” Jimin rolled his eyes at Yoongi. “See? My life is a dictatorship.”

“Goodnight, pocket prince,” Yoongi said, softer now. “Dream something ridiculous.”

Jimin ended the call but kept the smile.

Silk pajamas tonight, deep navy sprinkled with tiny embroidered clouds edged in silver thread. They made him look important and dreamy. He insisted Namjoon run a steamer over them again (“Wrinkles are a sign of emotional neglect, hyung”), then slipped them on and inspected himself in the full-length mirror. Hair glossy, skin radiant, expression set to charmingly tragic. Acceptable.

“Do I look cute?” he asked Namjoon imperiously.

“You always do,” Namjoon replied, already tidying up the bath like a well-trained servant.

“I know. Just checking.”

He padded toward the bed, trailing his fingers along the carved wood frame like a bored prince. But the moment he climbed up and felt the too cold sheets, his expression darkened.

“No,” he groaned. “No, no, no. I told you to sleep with me!”

Namjoon turned, blinking. “You mean… with you? On the bed?”

“Yes.” Jimin crossed his arms dramatically. “Don’t say no. If you say no, I’ll cry. Loudly.”

Namjoon hesitated. “I said I wouldn’t leave the room. I’ll stay right here on the chaise—”

“NO!” Jimin’s voice shot up an octave. “I don’t care about the chaise! I don’t care if it's velvet and imported from Florence! I want you right here, or I’ll scream and make sure the neighbors hear!” He flopped facedown onto the bed like a collapsing opera singer, muffling his wail in the pillows.

Another long sigh. Then, the creak of shoelaces being undone. “Alright. You win.”

“Obviously,” Jimin mumbled smugly into the blanket, already scooting over to make space.

Namjoon looked softer tonight in joggers and a t-shirt, not his usual stiff suit. He looked like someone who belonged here. Jimin liked that. He waited impatiently for Namjoon to climb in, then immediately latched onto him like a barnacle.

“Hold me,” he whispered, because why waste time on subtlety?

Namjoon obeyed, arms wrapping tight around his small, warm body. He rubbed slow circles on Jimin’s back, and the tension began to melt.

“I forgive you,” Jimin said with a sniff, nose buried in Namjoon’s chest. “But only because you came fast.”

Namjoon chuckled. “I’ll never leave you alone again.”

“That would be preferable,” Jimin muttered, already plotting what bribes he could use to make sure. “But if you do, I’m telling Yoongi.”

“Oh no,” Namjoon said with mock horror. “Not Yoongi.”

“He’ll be mad at you,” Jimin said, lifting his chin. “He likes me, you know.”

“I know. He likes you very much.”

That made something flutter inside. Jimin thought about Yoongi's voice earlier, soft and teasing, right in his ear. He thought about how Yoongi always waited for him to log into their game first, how he peeled his oranges without being asked and gave him the biggest slices. How he leaned in when he talked, like Jimin was the only thing worth listening to. He liked that feeling. He liked it a lot.

“Hyung,” Jimin whispered suddenly. “Do you think… do you think Yoongi thinks about me when I’m not around?”

Namjoon’s fingers paused, then resumed. “I think… it’s very possible.”

“I think about him,” Jimin whispered. “Sometimes I wish he lived here instead.”

Namjoon’s breath hitched. “Instead of who?”

“Instead of Father.”

There was no hesitation.

“Yoongi would never forget me.”

Namjoon kissed his forehead. “You’re not forgettable, young master.”

“I am to Father.”

“Not to me. Not to Seokjin. Not to Hoseok. And definitely not to Yoongi.”

Jimin didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. His hand curled tighter into Namjoon’s shirt, and he let his eyes flutter closed.

But sleep didn’t come easily, not even with Namjoon’s hand in his hair.

Eventually, he whispered, “Hyung… are you still awake?”

“Mmhm.”

“Don’t leave me tonight, okay?”

“I won’t,” Namjoon murmured.

But Jimin knew he probably would. He always did. He always waited until Jimin was asleep, tiptoed out like Jimin wouldn't notice. But Jimin always noticed.

Still, for now, he let himself believe it. He nestled in deeper, inhaled Namjoon’s comforting scent, fabric softener, expensive cologne, something warm.

Namjoon’s fingers kept combing his hair, slow and rhythmic, until Jimin’s breathing slowed and his body softened into slumber.

Just before he drifted off entirely, he heard Namjoon whisper something into his hair. “You’re everything to me.”

Jimin wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. But if he dreamed it… he hoped he’d dream it again tomorrow.

Chapter Text

Jimin wasn’t sure what woke him, maybe the uncomfortable roiling in his stomach or the miserable way his skin felt like it was burning and freezing at once. His cheeks were damp with sweat, and his silk pajamas clung unpleasantly to his back. Ugh. Gross.

He tried to shift, but even that was too much. His limbs felt useless and heavy, like melted wax. Everything was wrong. His perfect bed felt like a trap, and even the air was too thick, like breathing through cloth. He didn’t want to open his eyes, he couldn’t, but he whimpered softly, a sound that escaped before he could catch it.

And then… footsteps. Quick ones. Heavy and familiar. “Young master?”

Namjoon.

Thank God.

Jimin wanted to cry with relief at the sound of that voice, deep and warm and steady like it could hold the whole world still. He couldn’t lift his head, but he felt the sudden, cool press of a hand on his forehead… and then it vanished just as fast.

Wait—no. Don’t go.

A soft rustling of sheets. Movement. Then nothing.

No, no, no—

His panic was silent but ferocious. He couldn’t speak, but his hands clutched at the blankets weakly, heart pounding beneath the fevered weight of his chest. He was going to be alone again. Again. Why did Namjoon always leave?

But then, more footsteps. Two pairs this time. Murmuring. One of them was a woman’s voice, calm but quick.

Miss Harin?

Something slid under his arm, something stiff and foreign, and then something else slipped under his tongue. Everything felt far away. Like it was happening to someone else. He didn’t care. He just wanted Namjoon.

And he was there again. The dip of the mattress was soft and familiar. The scent of him, clean cotton and warmth, curled around Jimin like a hug. A cool cloth pressed to his forehead. Cold. Soothing. Perfect.

A tiny sound slipped from his throat, something like a sigh of relief.

Namjoon murmured something in the background, orders, probably. His “lawyer” voice. But Jimin didn’t care about that either. Not now. Not when his body was shaking and his breath felt stuck.

Minutes, maybe hours, passed before he managed to force his eyes open just barely. The room was dim. Everything swam.

“Hyung…” he rasped. His throat was sandpaper.

Namjoon was beside him in a blink, leaning close. “I’m here,” he whispered like it was a secret. “I’m right here.”

“I think…” Jimin swallowed, winced. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Namjoon didn’t even flinch. He grabbed the wastebin like a pro and held it steady just in time. Jimin gagged, his whole body convulsing as the sickness came up. Hot tears blurred his eyes. It was awful. Everything tasted like acid and shame.

Namjoon rubbed his back the whole time, patient and silent.

When it was over, Jimin collapsed against the pillows with a miserable little moan. Namjoon handed him water and helped him sip it, his other hand still gently stroking along Jimin’s back.

“I feel disgusting,” Jimin mumbled. “Like a trash rat.”

“You’re not a trash rat,” Namjoon said with a small smile. “You’re a very fancy, very sick kitten.”

Jimin huffed. “I don’t like being sick. I’m not supposed to be sick. I have expensive genes.”

Namjoon chuckled, brushing sweaty hair off his forehead. “Even expensive kittens catch colds sometimes.”

“Ugh,” Jimin groaned, turning his face into the pillow. “Don’t leave again, okay?”

“I won’t,” Namjoon promised gently.

But Jimin didn’t believe him. Not really. Namjoon always said that, and then left once Jimin was asleep. He always thought Jimin didn’t notice. But Jimin noticed everything.

He drifted in and out after that, every few minutes waking up again to vomit, or because the cloth had grown warm. Each time, Namjoon was there. Not once did he complain.

And then… disaster.

Jimin sat up with a terrible groan, stomach lurching. “Hyung—!”

Namjoon lunged to help, but it was too late. This time it hit the floor with a wet splatter.

Jimin froze, tears instantly stinging his eyes. “I—I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry…” His voice broke. “I didn’t mean to mess up the floor…”

“Don’t apologize,” Namjoon said quickly, grabbing tissues and the cloth. “It’s okay. I’ve got it. Just breathe, alright?”

He cleaned it up without flinching, not even wrinkling his nose. Jimin watched him silently, eyes wide, throat tight.

“Young master, does your stomach still hurt?” Namjoon asked, crouched beside the bed now.

Jimin gave a tiny nod.

Namjoon’s mouth thinned. “That’s it. We’re going to the hospital.”

“Nooo,” Jimin whined, collapsing back against his pillows dramatically. “I don’t wanna go. It’s cold and fluorescent and ugly. I want to stay here with you in my beautiful room.”

“I’ll carry you,” Namjoon said, already reaching for his coat.

Jimin grumbled, but didn’t argue again. He was too tired to stage a proper protest. And fine, maybe it was a little nice to be carried like a prince in a fairy tale. A feverish, sticky, slightly pathetic prince, but still.

Wrapped in Namjoon’s coat with a scarf bundled around his neck, Jimin rested his head on Namjoon’s shoulder as they left. The hallway lights were too bright, and the floor felt cold even through his socks.

“I hate this,” he mumbled. “Why now? I never get sick. I’m elite.”

Namjoon smiled as he held him tighter. “Because you’ve been stressed. You try so hard to act okay, but I know when you’re not.”

“I’m not pretending,” Jimin muttered. “I just… I don’t want everyone to think I’m a baby.”

“You’re not a baby. You’re my young master,” Namjoon said. “That means you get to be taken care of.”

“I’m spoiled,” Jimin admitted, peeking up at him.

Namjoon didn’t hesitate. “You are. But I wouldn’t trade you for anything.”

That made Jimin smile a little. Okay, a lot.

The car ride felt both fast and endless. Namjoon held him the whole time, rubbing slow circles into his back. Jimin closed his eyes. At some point, he dozed off.

When they arrived at the hospital, everything blurred together. Lights, voices, nurses, questions. The brightness hurt his eyes, the floor tiles were ugly, and everything smelled like antiseptic and cheap soap. Jimin didn’t respond to any of them. He just curled tighter against Namjoon’s chest, burying his face in the soft collar of his hyung’s coat like the world didn’t deserve to see him looking this wretched.

He could feel how fast Namjoon’s heart was beating. That made two of them.

They placed him gently on the bed, like he was made of glass, and he didn’t even complain about the horrid blanket or the stupid plastic bracelet they snapped around his wrist. Jimin let them do it, just this once. He was far too tired to fight for his dignity.

He drifted in and out after that. When he opened his eyes again, the hospital lights had been dimmed. The room was quieter. Cold, thin air poked at his skin through the blanket, and his cheeks were sticky with dried sweat. His stomach had stopped trying to kill him for now but he didn’t trust it. He didn’t trust anything.

His tongue was dry. His throat felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper. His luxurious lips—his favorite feature—were definitely cracked and disgusting now. Horrifying. He didn’t even have a mirror, but he could feel how unpresentable he looked. And the blanket? Ugh. It wasn’t even Egyptian cotton.

He just wanted Namjoon.

As if summoned by the desperate plea in his heart, the door creaked open and Namjoon stepped in. Jimin barely turned his head, eyelids heavy, and eyes stung again, but he blinked fast, pretending he was just tired.

Namjoon came over, his face all pinched and worried. That part was nice. Jimin liked when people worried about him, properly worried, not in the vague, lazy way adults usually did. Namjoon knelt beside the bed and touched his hand gently.

“The doctor said it’s food poisoning,” he said, voice low and calm.

Jimin blinked up at him, dazed. “Food poisoning?” He wrinkled his nose. “That’s so… commoner.”

“I know,” Namjoon replied, smoothing the blanket, which didn’t even need smoothing. “It’s not serious. He said you’ll be okay in a day or two.”

Jimin frowned. His whole face drooped with exhaustion and royal disappointment. “But I don’t eat gross things.”

“I know,” Namjoon said, already prepared. “It might’ve been from when you visited Taehyung yesterday. Did you eat any weird snacks or something?”

“Maybe…” Jimin muttered, then paused dramatically. “He gave me gummy worms shaped like dinosaurs. I thought they were imported. He said they were from Japan. But maybe he lied.”

“Traitor,” Namjoon said solemnly.

“I should sue,” Jimin added, voice faint.

Namjoon nodded. “We’ll call Hoseok in the morning.”

“Good. I want a full investigation.”

He squirmed closer to the edge of the bed and reached out a clammy hand. Namjoon took it immediately, warm fingers curling around his like they always did.

“Hyung,” he mumbled, eyes closing for a second. “I feel disgusting.”

“You’re still the most handsome young master in the world,” Namjoon said with a perfectly serious face.

“You’re lying.”

“Always. But you’re too weak to argue, so let me have this one.”

Jimin tried to smile, he really did, but the movement tugged at something deep in his gut and it twisted sharply again. His breath caught.

“Hyung—!”

Namjoon reached for the bin, but Jimin was already gagging. His body convulsed again, violently, and he barely managed to turn his head before he threw up. He hated this. He hated being sick and helpless and gross. He hated the way his tears blurred everything. He hated this cold, white room and its stupid beeping machines and how he couldn’t even wipe his own mouth without help.

Namjoon held his hair back, rubbed circles on his back, and whispered, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

A nurse came in just as Namjoon tried to give him water. “Wait—don’t give him anything yet.”

Namjoon blinked. “What? Why not?”

“His stomach’s too unsettled. No water for at least fifteen minutes.”

Jimin groaned like the world was ending. He collapsed back onto the pillow, weak and pale and glistening with sweat. “But I’m thirsty,” he whimpered, lips trembling. “My mouth feels like the desert.”

“I know,” Namjoon said gently, crouching beside him again. “Just a little longer, baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” Jimin mumbled, clearly lying.

Namjoon didn’t argue. Just held his hand tighter.

“I want to go home,” Jimin whispered. “I hate this place. Everything’s ugly. The blanket smells weird.”

Namjoon brushed his hair back, his big hand cool and careful. “We’ll leave as soon as they say we can. I promise.”

Jimin sniffled and clung to his hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to earth. “Did you call Jin hyung?”

“I left a message. He’s probably asleep, it’s the middle of the night. But I’ll let him know you’re okay.”

“Don’t tell him I threw up,” Jimin said immediately. “He’ll make fun of me and say I’m dramatic.”

“He’d never.”

“He would. He did, last time.”

“Okay. Then I won’t,” Namjoon promised with a faint smile.

They were discharged in the early hours of morning, when the world still smelled like dreams. The sky was a pale bruised blue, not quite night and not quite day, and the streets were quiet and empty, like they’d all been tucked under a giant blanket to sleep.

Jimin didn’t even try to walk to the car. He let Namjoon carry him, swaddled in a blanket they’d totally borrowed from the hospital. It was itchy and ugly and had a weird stain near the edge, but it smelled like bleach and safety, and it was warm.

He curled against Namjoon’s chest, pretending to doze with his cheek pressed to the scratchy fabric of his hyung’s shirt. Every now and then, the car hit a bump and jostled him, but he didn’t complain. That would’ve taken energy. And he was still very obviously dying. Well, almost.

He still didn’t forgive his stomach. Traitor. His mouth tasted like salt and medicine, and his face felt all swollen and sticky. He was pretty sure his hair looked like a bird’s nest too. That was the worst part. He didn’t even want to look in a mirror.

He sighed dramatically. Maybe he’d never be beautiful again.

The moment they got home, he kept his arms wrapped tightly around Namjoon’s neck and refused to be put down. Just because his stomach had kind of stopped hurting didn’t mean he was ready to walk. Obviously.

Namjoon chuckled as he nudged open the front door. “You can walk, you know.”

Jimin buried his face into his hyung’s collarbone. “I’m too weak. I might collapse. And break my bones. Or faint. Or die.”

“Of course, young master. That would be terrible for the floors.”

Jimin made a face. “They’d miss me.”

“I would,” Namjoon said, quiet and honest, and that made Jimin puff up a little inside.

He sniffed dramatically, voice small and pitiful. “Hyung… I don’t want to go to my room. It’s too far.”

Namjoon gave him a look. “Young master…”

“I wanna sleep on the couch,” Jimin mumbled, pointing toward the living room with the dignity of royalty. “With you. Just for today.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Namjoon sighed and nodded. “Living room it is.”

Jimin smirked as he was lowered gently onto the plush cushions of the couch, still wrapped up like a sad little burrito. Namjoon tugged the quilt up to his chin, and Jimin immediately scooted closer, resting his head against Namjoon’s lap with a pleased hum.

Namjoon didn’t move. Didn’t complain. Of course he didn’t. He knew Jimin was delicate.

“Hyung,” Jimin said sleepily, voice barely a whisper, “You’re not allowed to leave.”

“I won’t,” Namjoon promised.

-

Jimin didn’t want to wake up. There were warm fingers brushing back his hair, slow and careful, and a sleepy warmth that clung to his bones. The air smelled like fresh laundry and wood polish. Namjoon’s lap, still there, still solid, and made a perfect pillow.

“Young master,” Namjoon murmured, soft as a lullaby. “It’s time to wake up.”

Jimin stirred and squinted blearily at the light filtering through the tall windows. He made a low whine and pressed his cheek harder against Namjoon’s thigh.

“Don’t wanna.”

Namjoon chuckled. “You still feeling sick?”

Jimin stretched like a pampered cat, arms flopping over his head. “Mm… a little. Maybe. I feel… fragile.”

Namjoon looked skeptical.

“You shouldn’t doubt the words of a sick person,” Jimin said with great importance. “That’s cruelty.”

“Forgive me, your majesty.”

“I do,” Jimin whispered, very regal.

He allowed Namjoon to help him sit up, one arm gently supporting his back. His body was stiff and his mouth felt dry, but the nausea had faded like a bad dream. He still felt like milking it, though. A good prince knew how to get the most out of his suffering.

“Did Jin hyung and Father come home?” he asked, yawning and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

“They did,” Namjoon said gently. “They didn’t want to wake you.”

Jimin pouted. “They didn’t even check on me?”

Namjoon hesitated. “They did. Your brother asked me to let you sleep.”

Jin hyung probably did. Father didn’t. But Jimin didn’t say that. If he did, Namjoon would get that sad look in his eyes again. And Jimin hated that look more than being ignored.

He shuffled off the couch and headed toward the bathroom with the slow, dragging steps of someone performing. When he caught sight of his reflection, he gasped.

His hair was sticking up like he’d fought a wind demon. His cheeks were pale, his lips chapped, and his eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.

“Horrifying,” he muttered. “Absolutely unpresentable.”

He splashed cold water on his face and brushed his teeth until he felt at least 10% more human. Maybe 12% if he squinted.

When he returned, Namjoon was waiting with fresh clothes laid out perfectly on the table like offerings. Jimin marched over and lifted his arms expectantly.

Namjoon smiled as he helped him into a soft shirt and a cozy pair of joggers. “Your hands are warm,” Jimin mumbled, voice soft.

“Sorry, young master.”

“I don’t mind,” he said quickly, then turned away, cheeks warming for no reason.

As they stepped into the dining room, the scent of warm toast, butter, and freshly cut fruit filled the air like a gentle promise. The table was set with polished silverware, pressed linens, and a crystal vase of lilies. Jimin was about to comment that the color of the flowers clashed with the table runner when his eyes caught something far more important.

“Hyuuuung!” he squealed, his whole face lighting up.

There, seated at the table and flipping through a tablet, was Seokjin, his ever-busy, always-away older brother. Jimin’s slippers padded quickly across the polished floor as he made a beeline for him, swaddled still in the soft loungewear Namjoon had dressed him in. The silk shirt was robin’s egg blue, his favourite, because it complimented the soft undertones of his skin. Obviously.

“Good morning, Jiminie,” Seokjin said warmly, setting the tablet aside and holding out an arm.

Jimin practically threw himself into the seat beside him, immediately leaning in for the all-important hair ruffle. Seokjin obliged, running his fingers through Jimin’s slightly messy locks. Jimin closed his eyes and soaked it in like a cat being praised. He didn’t care if it ruined the fluffy volume Namjoon had worked so hard to comb out earlier.

At the head of the table sat his father’s untouched seat, the silver-domed dish before it still steaming faintly. Jimin glanced at it, then back at Seokjin with a frown tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Is Father still asleep?”

Seokjin hesitated just long enough to make Jimin’s chest pinch. “He’s awake,” he said, folding his napkin. “Just… not joining us. He’s in his office.”

“Oh.” Jimin picked up his fork but didn’t start eating. He pushed a piece of pineapple around on his plate, trying not to let his thoughts spiral. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what it meant when his father skipped meals, even ones where Jimin had planned to be extra charming and sweet. Maybe he was still mad. Maybe he’d forgotten. Maybe he was just working. That’s what everyone always said.

Seokjin reached over again and gently brushed a strand of hair off Jimin’s forehead. His hand was warm. Comforting. Jimin leaned into it, but only slightly, he didn’t want to look like a baby. Not in front of Namjoon.

“I heard you were sick,” Seokjin said softly. “Are you alright now?”

“I’m fine!” Jimin chirped a little too quickly, lifting his chin. “I feel much better now~”

He flashed his best convincing smile, the one he practiced in the mirror. But Seokjin was a big brother, he saw through it easily.

“Did you eat something strange at Taehyung’s place?”

Jimin shrugged, jabbing his fork into a slice of melon like it had personally wronged him. “I dunno. Maybe. But I didn’t choose to eat anything bad.”

It wasn’t his fault his stomach was fragile and dramatic. He had the digestion of a princess and everyone knew that.

Namjoon, seated a little behind him, was already being pestered by Seokjin with something work-related. Jimin tuned it out instantly. Grown-up talk was dull and made his head feel heavy. He hated when they started talking over him like he wasn’t there.

“So we can return to work on Tuesday?” Seokjin asked.

Namjoon corrected politely, “Monday, actually.”

Of course. Namjoon always knew everything.

“That’s good,” Seokjin replied, then smirked in that annoying big-brother way. “But don’t overdo it. Did Jimin keep you up all night?”

Jimin gasped like he’d been accused of high treason. “I did not!”

Namjoon chuckled, voice low and soothing. “Not at all, sir. The young master was very good. Even if he had kept me up, I wouldn’t have minded.”

Jimin made a pleased little hum and resumed eating with the kind of elegance only a spoiled nine-year-old could manage. He dabbed the corners of his mouth with a napkin like he was in a period drama. Not that anyone here appreciated his sense of refinement.

After Seokjin finished his meal, he tousled Jimin’s hair one more time, earning a swat from Jimin that was more performative than real.

“Eat up, Jimin. You need your strength.”

“Yes, sirrr~” he sang, eyes twinkling as he returned to his food.

But before he could finish, Namjoon interrupted him again with that ever-gentle voice.

“Young master, finish your juice. You need plenty of fluids.”

Jimin made a face. “But it tastes weird.”

“It’s freshly squeezed orange. Just a little more.”

Jimin sighed, long and dramatic. He picked up the glass like it was poison. “There. Happy?” he said after a loud gulp.

“Very.”

Jimin rolled his eyes and set it down with flair.

After breakfast, Jimin wandered into the living room, arms crossed and bottom lip stuck out in a pout. His freshly brushed hair bounced with every dramatic step, the faint scent of his favorite strawberry detangler trailing behind him like a royal perfume. Seokjin was lounging on the couch with one leg crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone like he had nothing better to do in the whole world—like he didn’t have a lonely, neglected little brother five steps away.

Without warning, Jimin flopped down with full theatrical flair, landing his head directly in Seokjin’s lap with a groan worthy of an Oscar.

Seokjin chuckled softly, not missing a beat as his fingers drifted automatically through Jimin’s hair. “What’s wrong, Jiminie?”

“You’re going back to work in two days,” Jimin mumbled into his brother’s expensive slacks, voice muffled by the fabric.

“That’s right,” Seokjin said calmly.

“Soooo…” Jimin drew out the word like it physically hurt to say.

“So?” Seokjin peeked down, one brow raised with amusement.

Jimin huffed and lifted his head just enough to glare. “Spend time with me. You’re always so busy. I miss you.” His voice cracked ever so slightly on the last word, and he instantly hated himself for it. Ugh. Why did it sound like he was about to cry? He wasn't that weak. But still… it wasn’t fair.

Seokjin blinked, looking a little surprised, but then his expression melted. He placed his palm on Jimin’s forehead, testing. “Your temperature’s normal.”

“I told you I’m fine,” Jimin said with another huff, wriggling closer like a cat who had decided the lap was officially his.

Seokjin smiled down at him. “What do you want to do together?”

Jimin sat bolt upright, eyes wide and practically sparkling. “The zoo!”

Seokjin blinked. “The zoo?”

“Yes! I haven’t gone since forever and I want to feed the giraffes and ride the train and get ice cream and wear my big sunglasses and—”

“Alright, alright,” Seokjin laughed. “We’ll go. But bring your hat—it’s sunny.”

“Got it!!” Jimin chirped, bouncing up like a spring, his mood completely transformed. He spun on his heel and bolted from the room like the dramatic little whirlwind he was.

“Don’t run!” Namjoon’s voice echoed from somewhere down the hall as he took off after him.

-

Namjoon had just finished helping Jimin into his new striped Burberry shirt—the one with the tiny embroidered bee that he insisted made him look “more charming”—when the knock came at the door.

Jimin turned eagerly, smoothing down his shirt in the mirror. But then he saw Seokjin standing there, looking apologetic, and instantly he knew.

Jimin’s heart sank.

“You can’t go, right?” he said flatly, tugging the sun hat from his head before Seokjin could even open his mouth. “It’s okay. I understand.”

Seokjin sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’m really sorry. Father asked me to meet an investor. I can’t say no.”

Jimin looked down, twisting the hat between his fingers. “I said I understand,” he murmured. But he didn’t.

“What about going with your friends? Maybe Taehyung or Yoongi?”

“I wanted to go with you…” His voice wobbled again, and he hated it. It made him feel small. Stupid. Like some kid. Which… technically he was, but still.

“We’ll go tomorrow. I promise,” Seokjin said gently, bending down to kiss his forehead. “I love you,” he added.

“Love you too,” Jimin mumbled, but didn’t lift his gaze.

As the door clicked shut behind his brother, the silence swelled, loud and sharp.

Jimin flopped onto the cold marble floor with a loud groan, limbs sprawled out like a collapsed starfish. “I’m fine, Namjoonie hyung,” he muttered before Namjoon could even open his mouth. “Don’t even say it. I know what you’re gonna say.”

Namjoon knelt beside him with his usual calm. “I wasn’t going to say anything, young master.”

“You were,” Jimin accused, face smooshed dramatically against the tile. “You were gonna say I’m sulking. Which I’m not.”

“Of course not,” Namjoon said lightly. “Would you like to watch something?”

Jimin rolled over and flung an arm across his eyes. “Only if it’s One Piece. We’re two episodes behind. That’s, like, a crime. You’re a terrible assistant.”

“Yes, young master,” Namjoon said with a faint smile, already heading to the living room.

Jimin peeled himself off the floor with great effort and shuffled over to the couch like a tragic little prince whose kingdom had betrayed him. He curled into the corner with his favorite plush blanket, crossing his arms with a sniff. At least he still looked good. His shirt was perfectly pressed, and his cheeks had that soft morning glow. Small victories.

But just as Namjoon reached for the remote, the doorbell rang.

Jimin blinked, his head popping up like a meerkat. “Who is that? Did you order something?”

“No, young master,” Namjoon said, already moving toward the door. “I’ll get—”

“I’ll get it!” Jimin sprang off the couch, nearly tripping over his own socks as he hurried across the floor. “Maybe it’s Jin hyung~”

He flung the door open, breath catching slightly.

Yoongi stood there.

He had a bag slung over his shoulder, his hair tousled like he hadn’t bothered to brush it, and his shirt a little wrinkled, like he’d dressed himself in a rush. He looked like he always did—cool, a little sleepy—but his eyes were different. Softer. Focused.

“What are you doing here?” Jimin asked, blinking.

Yoongi shrugged. “You said you were sick. I brought snacks. For our show.”

Jimin’s stomach flipped. Not the I-ate-too-much-cake kind. The other kind. The kind that made his fingers feel twitchy and his cheeks feel too hot.

“You remembered?”

Yoongi gave him a look. That Yoongi look. The “duh” one. “You told me like five times.”

Jimin tried to act unimpressed. He really did. “Tch. Whatever.”

He stepped aside, and Yoongi walked in like he’d done it a thousand times—which, okay, maybe he had—but this time felt different.

Yoongi plopped onto the couch, unzipping his bag like it was no big deal. But to Jimin, everything in it was a Very Big Deal.

Two juice boxes. A pack of cookies. Gummy bears. And… a fuzzy white cat plushie with long droopy ears and a ridiculous blue ribbon.

Jimin pointed. “What’s that?”

Yoongi tossed it to him without even blinking. “You. You look like you need one.”

Jimin caught it with both hands, blinking in surprise. The plush was warm and soft and smelled like… laundry and Yoongi. It made his chest feel weird and full and floaty all at once.

“You’re so weird,” he muttered, hugging the plush close.

“Takes one to know one,” Yoongi replied with a lazy smirk.

Jimin didn’t even try to hide his smile this time.

They ended up under the blanket together, Yoongi close enough that their arms brushed sometimes, and Jimin pretended he didn’t notice. Namjoon sat in his usual armchair, pretending not to watch them.

When Yoongi made a sarcastic comment about the villain’s voice, Jimin cackled like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. When Luffy pulled off some crazy power move, Jimin bounced in place and Yoongi glanced at him—not the screen. Just him. And Jimin caught him.

Their eyes met for a second too long. Jimin’s heart thumped weirdly hard. He quickly looked away, burying his face in the plush cat. Whatever. It was just a show. Just a friend. Still… he kind of liked when Yoongi looked at him like that. Maybe even more than he was ready to admit.

After the second episode ended, Jimin let out a long, dramatic yawn and stretched his arms high above his head like a sleepy prince greeting the sun. His silk pajama top—a custom pale lavender with his initials stitched in gold thread over the pocket—slid up just enough to reveal the soft dip of his tummy. He caught Yoongi glancing and immediately dropped his arms with a huff.

“I’m thirsty,” he announced, like a royal decree.

Namjoon was already halfway up from the armchair when Yoongi, without looking up, reached into the tote bag beside him.

“I brought peach juice,” Yoongi said, tossing one of the little boxes through the air.

Jimin caught it effortlessly with both hands and blinked, impressed despite himself. “You brought the good kind,” he murmured, cheeks puffing as he sipped the sweet, cold juice through the straw.

Yoongi smirked like it was nothing. “Of course. Only the best for the spoiled prince.”

Jimin narrowed his eyes. “I’m not spoiled.”

Yoongi gave him that lazy, deadpan look that made Jimin want to kick something. “Okay.”

“I’m not!”

“Sure.”

Namjoon chuckled behind his hand, and Jimin immediately turned to glare at him too. “You’re both traitors,” he declared, grabbing the nearest throw pillow and slapping it straight into Yoongi’s lap.

Yoongi barely reacted, just hugged the pillow to his chest like some kind of smug alley cat who’d just claimed a new bed.

Jimin scowled but didn’t get to retaliate, because suddenly his stomach gave a tight, twisty churn. The pillow in his lap went forgotten. He sucked in a breath and curled forward slightly, arms folding over his middle.

Namjoon noticed first. “Young master?”

Jimin’s brows pinched. “My tummy… it’s hurting again.”

The teasing vanished instantly, like a curtain dropped.

Namjoon was beside him in seconds, one hand hovering near Jimin’s shoulder. “Where does it hurt? Is it sharp or dull?”

“It’s not really bad… just uncomfortable,” Jimin whispered, eyes shutting tight as he leaned into Namjoon’s side, trying to breathe through the cramp. “It just feels yucky…”

“I’ll be right back,” Namjoon said, already bolting out of the room. “Miss Haaaarinnn! Miss Harin!”

Jimin barely registered the echo of Namjoon’s voice through the house. All he could think about was how warm his cheeks suddenly felt and how heavy his body was, like even his bones were pouting.

Then Yoongi shifted beside him, and Jimin peeked through his lashes.

“Want me to rub it?” Yoongi asked, voice unusually quiet.

Jimin blinked. “You’d do that?”

Yoongi shrugged like it was nothing. “Yeah. You look miserable.”

That made Jimin’s face go hot again, for an entirely different reason. Miserable? Rude. But also… kind of nice?

“…Okay. But only if you’re good at it.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes like Jimin was the most impossible person on earth, then gently pulled Jimin closer. Without waiting for more permission, he placed his hand carefully over Jimin’s stomach and began rubbing slow, soft circles.

And Jimin melted.

He didn't even mean to, but it was like all the tension leaked right out of his body. His spine curved, his muscles relaxed, and he found himself letting out a small, involuntary sigh. The plush Yoongi gave him—still cradled in one arm—was pressed against his nose, and the scent of it made his chest go all floaty. It smelled like laundry, like clean cotton and something warm and faintly citrusy. It smelled like Yoongi.

When Miss Harin finally arrived with her medical bag, Jimin was fully curled into Yoongi’s lap, one arm draped around his waist like he lived there.

Miss Harin knelt beside him, gentle fingers brushing his bangs back. “Your temperature’s fine, sweetheart,” she murmured. “Still hurting?”

“A little…” Jimin mumbled, eyes half-lidded.

“Tea should help,” she said. “You’re still recovering. No more peach juice today.”

Jimin let out a pitiful little whine but didn’t argue, mostly because Yoongi’s hand was still moving in slow, steady motions that made him feel like maybe the world wasn’t that bad after all.

Namjoon returned and sat beside them, watching the scene with an expression so fond it made Jimin squirm.

“You’re letting Yoongi take my job now?” Namjoon teased softly.

“He’s doing a good job,” Jimin murmured sleepily, not bothering to move. “You can be my backup.”

Namjoon gave a low chuckle. “Understood, sir.”

A few minutes later, Miss Harin returned with a teacup in her hands, and Namjoon took over the task of coaxing Jimin upright enough to sip. The tea was warm and floral and kind of gross, but Jimin drank it anyway. Being sick wasn’t glamorous, but he still had his pride.

Once the cup was empty, Jimin flopped dramatically into Namjoon’s lap like a fainting princess.

“Hyung,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering. “Rub it again.”

“Yes, young master,” Namjoon said with a tiny smile, resuming the soothing circles.

Yoongi scooted off the couch and sat cross-legged on the floor beside him again, reaching up to tug the blanket higher over Jimin’s shoulders.

“Yoongi?” Jimin said sleepily.

“Yeah?”

“…Thanks for coming.”

Yoongi looked at him for a second, then gave a rare, crooked smile. “Yeah. Anytime.”

Jimin’s heart did a little skip thing in his chest. It was annoying.

He shut his eyes and hugged the plush tighter. Everything was warm and soft and familiar, and Yoongi was right there. He could feel Yoongi’s elbow against his leg and hear his steady breathing, and it made Jimin want to stay awake just a little longer. Just to be near it.

But his eyelids were so heavy.

“Next time…” Jimin murmured, barely above a whisper, “…bring a panda.”

There was a pause.

“What?”

“Not a cat. Panda. They’re cuter.”

Yoongi laughed—an actual laugh—and Jimin felt the sound flutter somewhere deep in his chest.

“Okay. Panda next time.”

And that was the last thing Jimin heard before he drifted off completely, surrounded by the quiet pulse of safety. Yoongi beside him. Namjoon rubbing slow circles on his stomach. The plushie squished against his face.

And something warm and fluttery—something small and secret—settling inside his spoiled, sleepy heart like a whisper of what it might feel like to be loved.

-

Jimin woke slowly, blinking up at the soft, late-afternoon light filtering through the tall windows. For a second, he forgot where he was. Then he shifted and felt the plush weight of the fuzzy cat still tucked against his chest, and the familiar warmth of Namjoon's arm curved protectively around his shoulders. A blanket was draped over his legs, silky and smooth against his skin—one of the expensive ones, of course, not the scratchy kind normal people probably used.

He let out a little yawn and stretched like a kitten, slow and dramatic. “Hnnnh…”

Namjoon moved instantly, his voice soft and alert. “You’re awake.”

Jimin gave a tiny nod, blinking away the haze in his eyes. “How long was I asleep?” His voice came out raspy and small, and that annoyed him.

“Maybe an hour,” Namjoon murmured, brushing back Jimin’s bangs with gentle fingers. “You looked peaceful. Is your stomach feeling any better?”

Jimin sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes with the backs of his wrists. “A little,” he mumbled. “I think the tea helped… even though it tasted like flowers and sadness.”

Namjoon laughed quietly. “Lunch is ready. The chef made your favorite rice porridge. And the vegetable pancakes with the crispy edges.”

Jimin perked up just a bit. “Mmm… okay. But only if Yoongi’s eating too.”

Before Namjoon could answer, a familiar voice came from across the room. “You really are spoiled.”

Jimin turned his head, instantly locating Yoongi, who was lounging on the carpet like a lazy cat, head propped on his hand and eyes narrowed at him in that annoyingly calm way. His hair looked like it had dried into soft waves after their earlier rain, and it made him look older somehow. Cooler. Jimin hated how nice it looked.

“I’m not spoiled,” he said, sitting up straighter on instinct.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m not!” Jimin snapped, clutching his plushie closer like it could defend his honor.

Yoongi stood with a slow stretch. “Let’s go eat, Your Highness.”

Jimin stuck his tongue out at him but didn’t argue. Namjoon helped him off the couch and straightened the blanket still around his shoulders like a cape, fussing over his sleeves as if Jimin was made of glass.

“Come on, little prince. You need food.”

The dining room was already neatly set up, of course—Miss Harin always made everything look like a hotel. Jimin’s favorite porcelain bowl with the pink rabbits was waiting for him. And naturally, Yoongi had already claimed the seat beside his. Rude.

Jimin slid into his chair with a practiced, elegant motion and smoothed the blanket over his lap like royalty. “You’re sitting next to me?”

“It’s where the chopsticks are,” Yoongi said plainly, already pouring water into their glasses.

Jimin rolled his eyes but secretly liked it.

Namjoon stood behind them, still watching like a hawk in bodyguard mode, but there was something soft in his expression too—something almost fond.

The first bite of porridge made Jimin close his eyes in bliss. It was buttery and warm and had that delicate sweetness he liked. The chef always knew just how to make it perfect. He took another spoonful, slower this time, savoring.

“Mmm,” he hummed. “This is the only good part of being sick.”

“You get this kind of treatment every day,” Yoongi said dryly between bites. “You just pretend you don’t.”

Jimin didn’t answer. Mostly because Yoongi wasn’t wrong. But also because he didn’t want to stop eating.

Still… it was kind of nice that Yoongi noticed. Even if he was a jerk about it.

He glanced at Yoongi from the corner of his eye, then poked at his pancakes with his chopsticks before nudging his plate slightly. “Want one of mine?” he asked as casually as he could.

Yoongi looked at him like he’d just offered him gold. “You never share.”

“I’m being generous,” Jimin said, nose in the air. “It’s good manners.”

“I must be dreaming.”

“Just take it before I change my mind!” Jimin shoved a pancake onto Yoongi’s plate with a small scowl, cheeks warming.

Yoongi took it with a quiet little smile that made Jimin feel weirdly… proud. Like he'd won something. He didn’t even know what, exactly. Just that Yoongi was smiling because of him.

When they finished eating, Namjoon rose to clean up, but Jimin clung to Yoongi’s sleeve before he could sneak off. “Wanna play Mario Kart?”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “In your playroom?”

“Duh. It’s way better than your whole house.”

Yoongi didn’t even argue. “You’re not wrong.”

Jimin smirked and tossed his blanket over one shoulder like a cape as he marched toward the stairs, bare feet soft against the polished floor. He didn’t look back, but he knew Yoongi was following.

The playroom was enormous—at least compared to other kids’. There were shelves full of plushies and limited-edition toys, his giant bean bag thrown in one corner like a throne, and a giant TV screen set up above the console cabinet.

Jimin flopped down onto the carpet and handed Yoongi a controller. “Pick your character.”

“You always pick Peach,” Yoongi said, not even looking.

“She’s pink. She’s royalty. She's clearly the best.”

“She screams when she gets hit.”

Jimin crossed his arms. “So do I.”

Yoongi snorted and chose Yoshi. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re boring.”

They played for over an hour, racing and yelling and bumping into each other both on-screen and in real life. Jimin screamed every time Yoongi knocked him off the road or hit him with a red shell, which was unfair and rude and probably illegal.

“STOP TARGETING ME!” Jimin shrieked, flinging his arms.

“You’re easy to beat,” Yoongi said, all smug and evil.

“I LET YOU WIN!”

“Sure you did.”

In a fit of mock fury, Jimin lunged at him. They ended up tangled in the bean bag, controllers discarded, Yoongi laughing breathlessly while Jimin pretended to strangle him with one arm.

But then… they stilled.

Jimin realized Yoongi’s arm was underneath his back. His head was close. Way too close. Jimin could see the little flecks in Yoongi’s eyes, the faint curve of his smile. His skin was warm. His breath even warmer.

And Jimin’s heart did that stupid flutter again.

He looked away fast, grabbing the fuzzy cat plush and hugging it against his face like a shield. “You smell like jelly.”

Yoongi raised a brow. “You’re the one clinging to me.”

“I’m not clinging.”

“You totally are.”

“I’m cold.”

“You’re weird.”

“You’re weirder.”

But Jimin didn’t pull away. In fact, when Yoongi leaned back into the bean bag with a stretch and a yawn, Jimin ended up scooting just a little closer without really meaning to. The side of his arm brushed Yoongi’s, and he didn’t move it.

They played another round like that, shoulders touching. Then another. Then a third, both of them quiet and focused, the screen flashing colorful lights across their faces.

And somewhere between Rainbow Road and Koopa Troopa Beach, Jimin realized something.

He liked this. He liked Yoongi being here. In his house. In his playroom. Beside him. He liked Yoongi’s dry voice and stupid smirks and the way he noticed things Jimin didn’t think anyone saw.

He didn’t know what it meant—only that it made his stomach feel weird in a not-sick kind of way. Not like the tea kind of weird. Or the plushie-scent kind of weird. This was different.

“Hey,” Jimin said suddenly, turning toward him.

“Hm?”

“Next time… Let’s watch Naruto.”

Yoongi gave a little laugh. “Okay. Naruto next time.”

Jimin smiled and leaned his head against Yoongi’s shoulder without asking. And Yoongi didn’t move away.

Outside, the sun was setting slow and gold through the windows, painting the playroom in warm light. The game hummed quietly on the screen. And Jimin, spoiled little prince that he was, let himself bask in it—all of it—the plush softness of his world, Yoongi’s steady presence beside him, and something unspoken fluttering between them that he didn’t understand yet.

Maybe he was a little spoiled. But maybe… he could share. Just this once. Just with Yoongi. And that was enough.

Namjoon knocked lightly on the playroom door, cracking it open just enough to peek in.

“Snack time,” he said with that patient, gentle voice he always used when Jimin was in one of his moods—which, honestly, was most of the time. “It’s all ready in the garden.”

Jimin didn’t even glance away from the screen. “What is it?”

“Strawberry tarts, madeleines, and peach tea. Chef added honey like you like it.”

Jimin perked up immediately. “Did you tell him to? Or did he remember?”

Namjoon smiled. “He remembered. You’re very unforgettable.”

Jimin beamed, paused the game mid-race, and tossed the controller dramatically into Yoongi’s lap. “You lose by default.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes. “That’s not how it works.”

“Too bad. I’m the host and the prince of this mansion. I make the rules.”

Namjoon waited with quiet amusement while Jimin flounced to the mirror by the playroom shelves and checked his reflection, smoothing down his hair with both palms. He straightened his shirt, brushed invisible crumbs off his collar, and then glanced at Yoongi. “Are you coming or not?”

Yoongi was still sprawled on the floor, arms behind his head like he hadn’t a care in the world. “You need me to feed you or something?”

Jimin scoffed. “Maybe I will make you.”

He turned on his heel with an exaggerated huff, the fuzzy cat plush tucked under one arm like it belonged there forever. Yoongi followed, quiet footsteps padding just behind him down the hallway, through the glass-paneled doors, and out into the garden.

The afternoon sun hung low, casting a golden glow over everything. The breeze was soft—just enough to ruffle Jimin’s hair and make the petals in the nearby flowerbeds tremble gently. The garden table was already set with delicate china, two seats under the wide white umbrella, cushions plumped and waiting. A teapot steamed in the center, surrounded by an assortment of pastel-colored pastries. It was all so... perfect. Like something out of one of those fancy children’s books he pretended not to read anymore.

Namjoon poured the tea for them, because of course Jimin would never pour it himself.

He lifted his cup, took a small sip, and let out a tiny pleased sigh. “He really did remember the honey. Namjoonie hyung, tell him I love him.”

Namjoon chuckled. “Will do, Your Highness.”

Jimin turned to Yoongi expectantly. “Aren’t you going to say something about how beautiful this all is?”

Yoongi leaned back in his chair, lazily picking up a tart. “You say it enough for both of us.”

Jimin narrowed his eyes. “You are so uncultured.”

“I just don’t need fancy tea and flower bushes to have a good time.”

Jimin popped a madeleine into his mouth and chewed, deliberately ignoring him. But he couldn’t help the soft smile creeping in again when Yoongi reached for a second tart without asking. Like he belonged there. Like this was normal.

He liked that.

After a few minutes of quiet, filled with nothing but the rustling breeze and the clink of porcelain, Jimin sighed and rested his cheek on one hand.

“I wish every day was like this,” he said softly. “No school. No stupid rules. Just… snacks. And One Piece. And someone to play games with.”

“Someone like me?” Yoongi asked, tone teasing but quieter than usual.

Jimin didn’t answer right away. His chest felt warm again in that same weird way, like something inside him was fluttering to get out. He looked at Yoongi sideways, then down at his tea.

“I guess,” he muttered. “If you’re nice enough to bring me juice and cookies and plushies again.”

Yoongi leaned his elbow on the table and stared at him, not saying anything.

Jimin shifted, uncomfortable under the attention but also... not really.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Yoongi said. “You’re just different when we’re not at school.”

Jimin blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You talk more. Laugh more. Get bossy.”

“I’m always bossy.”

Yoongi smirked. “You were quiet when we first met.”

“That was before I decided I liked you.”

Yoongi’s gaze caught on his for a second too long. Then he looked down and took another bite of tart.

Jimin stared at the top of his head, his heart doing that fluttery thing again. It was starting to annoy him. Why did it always happen around him?

“Don’t look so smug,” Jimin muttered, crossing his arms. “You should feel honored.”

“I do,” Yoongi said, soft.

The answer caught Jimin off guard. His lips parted slightly, but he didn’t know what to say. He ended up sipping his tea again just to have something to do.

They lingered long after the snacks were gone, the garden dipped in gold as the sun sank lower. Jimin rested his chin on the table, legs dangling off the side of his chair, staring lazily at the clouds while Yoongi leaned back and closed his eyes.

“Do you ever wish you were someone else?” Jimin asked suddenly, voice small.

Yoongi opened one eye. “Like who?”

“I don’t know. Just… someone normal. Someone with a normal dad. Someone who gets to ride the bus and eat convenience store ramen and have real friends and—and not feel like—like—” He frowned. “Like everyone’s lying to them all the time.”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “No. I wouldn’t want to be anyone else.”

Jimin’s throat felt tight. “Why not?”

Yoongi looked at him then, serious. “Because then I wouldn’t have met you.”

Jimin’s breath caught in his chest. For a few seconds, he didn’t know what to do. Or say. Or think. He just stared, wide-eyed and suddenly shy, the breeze brushing gently across his cheeks.

Then, before he could stop himself, he whispered, “I’m glad you came today.”

Yoongi looked down, a rare pink tint coloring the tips of his ears. “You said that already.”

“I’m saying it again.”

They sat there, the soft hush of the garden wrapping around them like a warm blanket. The world beyond the hedges felt far away. Just the two of them, the clink of cups, and the smell of peach tea clinging to the air.

Eventually, Namjoon came back to clear the dishes, but Jimin didn’t move. He leaned sideways until his shoulder bumped gently against Yoongi’s. Yoongi didn’t pull away.

Jimin stayed like that for a while—silent, still, heart quietly fluttering—thinking maybe he’d never get tired of this.

The garden had long since grown quieter. The warmth of the afternoon sun was now fading into a mellow gold, casting soft shadows across the manicured lawn. The scent of blooming jasmine and sun-warmed tea leaves lingered in the air, and the clink of porcelain from earlier had disappeared into memory. Jimin sat back in his seat, the edge of his sleeve brushing his cheek as he lazily cupped the side of his face. His tea had gone cold, but he hadn’t moved to finish it.

Yoongi was still beside him, their chairs angled slightly toward each other under the wide umbrella. A breeze passed, lifting the ends of Jimin’s hair, and he turned toward his friend, quietly watching as Yoongi plucked petals from a flower that had fallen on the table.

“I wonder if he forgot,” Jimin mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

Yoongi looked up. “Who?”

“Jin hyung.” He nudged his untouched teacup, the soft clink it made sounding louder than expected. “He said he had a meeting today, but I thought he’d be back by now.”

Yoongi didn’t say anything, just leaned back in his chair again, arms behind his head like always. Jimin thought it was annoying how calm he looked. Or maybe… maybe he liked it. It made everything feel less sharp. Less lonely.

Still, he couldn't help the sulky little frown creeping onto his face.

He turned slightly in his seat and called, “Namjoonie hyung.”

“Yes, young master?” Namjoon’s voice was always smooth, always close by, even when he wasn't in sight. A second later, he stepped closer from the garden path, his expression alert and gentle all at once.

“How long do meetings usually last?”

Namjoon blinked, clearly surprised. “Pardon?”

“Jin hyung said he had a meeting with an investor.”

“Ah,” Namjoon nodded slowly, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “Honestly, I don’t really know, young master. There’s no fixed time for meetings. Some are short, others can go on for hours.”

Jimin’s lips pressed into a pout as he looked down at his tea again. “He’s... late.”

Namjoon hummed in quiet sympathy, but Jimin wasn’t really waiting for him to say anything.

“I thought I’d see him more. You know... with his break.” Jimin’s voice softened, the edge of sulk giving way to something more fragile. “But it hasn’t been like that at all. Even when he’s home, I barely get to spend time with him.”

He didn’t say it angrily. Just quietly. Like he already knew the answer and didn’t like it.

Namjoon didn’t interrupt. He just stayed beside him like a tall, steady shadow.

Jimin’s next words came out slower, quieter. “Even Father… I never see him. Nothing’s changed. Soon, they’ll both go back to work. They’ll forget again.”

There was a silence so soft, even the breeze seemed careful not to break it.

Namjoon shifted slightly. “I… I think I can make some time. Maybe we could plan a family outing? All of you together. I’ll try.”

Jimin frowned, clearly unconvinced. “I don’t think that’ll happen. But I’d appreciate it if you tried.”

Namjoon smiled gently. “I’ll do my best to make it happen.”

Jimin looked up at him through his lashes, expression melting just a little. “I’ll trust you, hyung~”

“And I’ll make sure your trust is well placed,” Namjoon said, reaching to brush a stray wisp of hair from Jimin’s forehead with all the tenderness in the world.

Jimin watched Namjoon step aside to make a phone call, but he didn’t try to listen—he only caught Namjoon’s low voice saying something about schedules and “miracles” and Hoseok. He knew Namjoon was trying.

It made his chest feel warm and tight at the same time.

Yoongi leaned a little closer to him, quiet and careful. “Do you want to play something? We can go back to the playroom.”

Jimin didn’t answer right away. He stared at the tiny sugar spoon on the saucer, turning it slowly with one finger. “Can we just stay a bit longer?”

Yoongi nodded once, and that was enough.

They sat in silence again, the garden dipping into early evening light, shadows stretching across the grass. The sun caught in Yoongi’s hair like silver threads, and Jimin, without really thinking, reached out and gently flicked one strand away from his forehead.

“You had something on your face,” he lied.

Yoongi didn’t blink. “You’re acting weird.”

“I am not,” Jimin huffed, crossing his arms.

“Are too,” Yoongi murmured, but he was smiling.

Jimin turned away with a tiny noise of frustration, cheeks pink. But his arm brushed against Yoongi’s when he moved, and neither of them shifted away.

Later, Namjoon returned from his call. By then, the teacups were empty, and Jimin was fidgeting with the hem of his shirt again.

“Is something wrong, young master?” Namjoon asked gently, noticing the way Jimin’s shoulders curled in.

Jimin hesitated. “I… I did something I shouldn’t have.”

Namjoon tilted his head slightly. “Something bad?”

“I don’t think so.” Jimin mumbled.

Namjoon crouched slightly so they were at eye level, waiting.

Jimin bit his lip, then glanced toward Yoongi, who had the decency to pretend not to be listening. “If I tell you, you’ll get mad at me.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“Because…” Jimin’s voice dropped. “I don’t want to keep secrets from you. I feel bad.”

“Because of what you did?”

“No.” Jimin shook his head. “Because I’m hiding it from you.”

Namjoon smiled faintly. “So you’re not sorry for doing it? Even if it was something you weren’t supposed to do?”

“Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence, then Namjoon smiled at him. “I promise I won’t be angry,” he said softly. “Will you tell me?”

Jimin looked down at his hands, twisting his fingers together. “A few days ago… when you went to work and Hoseok hyung stayed with me…”

Namjoon nodded, listening.

“I asked him to take me to mom’s room.” Jimin’s voice wobbled a little. “I know I wasn’t supposed to. It’s forbidden. But… I miss her, hyung. I just wanted to feel close to her. Lying in her bed—it felt like she was there.”

Namjoon didn’t respond immediately. Jimin didn’t look up to see his face.

But then Namjoon said softly, “Young master…”

“I’m not sorry I did it!” Jimin insisted, voice trembling. “I’m just… I didn’t want to lie to you.”

Namjoon reached out, cupping the back of Jimin’s head so gently it made Jimin’s eyes sting. “I’m not angry. Not even a little. I understand. And I’m sorry you had to sneak around to find comfort. That shouldn’t have been necessary.”

“Don’t tell Father,” Jimin whispered.

“I won’t.”

“Or Jin hyung.”

Namjoon smiled. “Alright. Our secret.”

Jimin finally looked up, eyes glassy, a small smile trying to form. “Thank you.”

Namjoon squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you for trusting me. I know how much your mother meant to you. You were very brave to go back there.”

“I always trust you, hyung,” Jimin murmured. “That’s why I felt guilty hiding it.”

Namjoon brushed his thumb under Jimin’s eye. “So I can take that to mean you won’t keep secrets from me anymore?”

Jimin nodded slowly. “Yes~”

Just then, Yoongi stood up, brushing imaginary crumbs from his pants.

“I should head home before it gets dark,” he said casually, but his gaze lingered on Jimin.

Jimin stood too, slower. “You could stay a bit longer…”

Yoongi gave him a small grin. “Don’t miss me too much.”

“I’m not going to miss you,” Jimin replied with a dramatic toss of his head. “Why would I miss someone who’s bad at Mario Kart?”

But the second Yoongi turned to walk away, Jimin’s fingers twitched at his side, resisting the urge to reach out.

He watched Yoongi until he disappeared beyond the garden hedge, the soft ache in his chest unfamiliar—but not unwelcome.

Chapter Text

It had taken a lot of pouting, dramatic sighs, and passive-aggressive silence at dinner before Jimin got what he wanted—which, honestly, wasn’t even that much. Just one tiny little outing. With his father and Seokjin. That’s all. A normal family day, like they showed in movies.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t entirely his doing. Namjoon had definitely helped. Jimin had seen him whispering something to Seokjin by the stairs the night before. And then, somehow, by the next morning, Namjoon was driving them all toward the zoo.

Yes, the zoo. Not some private one, not the fancy one they had been invited to last month. The regular zoo. Like a normal kid outing.

Still, Jimin had made sure his outfit was perfect—white silk shorts, a puffed-sleeve collared shirt with gold buttons, and little designer loafers. His hair had been styled with Namjoon’s help (with minimal whining), and he wore his favorite lemon-scented lip balm. Just because it was a zoo didn’t mean he had to look like he belonged in it.

He sat stiffly in the back seat, next to Seokjin who was between him and their Father. Not that his father had said anything to him. Of course not. He’d been talking to Seokjin since they got in the car—about work stuff, boring and lowly things that had nothing to do with Jimin.

Jimin looked out the window, face pressed against the cool glass, though he made sure not to wrinkle his shirt. His reflection stared back at him, frowning a little. Was it already a mistake to come? Was his father going to ignore him the whole time?

Still, he refused to let it ruin his mood. Not today.

He straightened up, turned slightly toward Seokjin, and bounced in his seat. “Hyung, hyung, hyung! Will there be dolphins?!”

Seokjin blinked like he’d just been pulled out of a meeting. “Uh… I’m not sure, Jiminie. Maybe not?”

Jimin’s face dropped. “Whaaat?” His lower lip jutted out. “But I wanted to see dolphins. That’s the whole point.”

“They might not be here,” Seokjin said gently. “But there’ll be giraffes! And lions!”

“I don’t care about lions,” Jimin mumbled, arms crossed.

Just then, his father’s voice cut through the air. “There are dolphins. I’m not sure what time, but they do shows. I think you’ll like it.”

Jimin turned sharply toward him. “Really?” His eyes lit up like little stars. “Are you sure, Father?”

Father nodded once, not meeting his gaze. “They had them years ago. They still do.”

Jimin stared at him for a second too long, unsure whether to believe him. But his chest fluttered anyway. He forced a grin to cover it up. “Yay! Dolphins!”

Seokjin leaned forward slightly, a curious smile playing on his lips. “Wait… How do you know that, Father?”

His father gave him a flat look. “Don’t you remember? Your ninth birthday. Your mother and I took you here. You were obsessed with the dolphin show.”

“Oh,” Seokjin murmured, blinking like he was trying to recall a dream. “I… kind of remember now.”

Jimin sat up straighter. “You were my age? That must’ve been, like, a million years ago!”

Seokjin laughed in mock offense. “Excuse me?!”

“I mean—what, thirty years ago? Of course you don’t remember!”

Mr. Park let out a sharp, amused huff. Not quite a laugh. But close.

“How old do you think I am, brat?” Seokjin asked, nudging him lightly.

Jimin rolled his eyes. “Forty?”

Seokjin gasped. “I’m twenty-eight!”

“That’s basically forty.”

Seokjin pinched his cheek. “You little devil.”

“Ahh! My face! Namjoonie hyung fixed my hair, don’t ruin it!”

Namjoon, up front, peeked into the rearview mirror with a smile he tried to hide. Jimin caught it anyway and stuck out his tongue at him, then fixed his hair just in case. He had to look good for the dolphins.

When they finally pulled into the zoo, Jimin practically leapt out of the car. He spun in a tiny circle on the pavement and looked up at the wide arch of the entrance like it was the gates to a castle.

Namjoon helped the others out and then hurried to find proper parking, leaving Jimin to walk beside his brother and father toward the entrance.

“What do you want to see first, Jiminie?” Seokjin asked, pulling out a brochure.

Jimin tugged on his father’s sleeve without thinking. “Father! When’s the dolphin show?”

Mr. Park unfolded the map in his hands with that same blank-business-face he wore even on vacation. “In an hour and a half,” he replied. “We’ll have time to see the prairie animals first.”

Jimin beamed and immediately turned to Seokjin. “Then let’s see giraffes! I want to see their eyelashes.”

Seokjin scanned the brochure. “Hmm, they might be that way—”

“No,” Mr. Park interrupted. “It’s to the right.”

Jimin raised his eyebrows, turning to Seokjin. “See? You don’t even know. I’ll walk with Father.”

Without waiting, he moved to his father’s side and reached up instinctively to hold his hand. But his father’s hand… slipped right into his pocket. Smooth, like he hadn’t even noticed.

Jimin froze for just a second, hand hovering awkwardly in the air. He swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. It wasn’t a big deal. Maybe his hand was cold. Or sweaty. Or—

He dropped his arm back to his side. “It’s okay,” he muttered under his breath, brushing imaginary lint off his shirt.

He kept walking. Didn’t cry. Not in public. Not ever, actually, unless Namjoon was holding him. But still, something inside his chest squeezed in a not-so-fun way.

It’s fine. They were still going to see dolphins. And he was going to make this the best day, no matter what. Even if his father never once looked him in the eye.

He tossed his shoulders back with dramatic flair, lifting his chin just slightly—just enough to feel taller than all the other kids shuffling in with their plain clothes and stained sneakers. Ew. One boy even had a ketchup stain near his collar. Disgusting.

He looked down at his own crisp white shorts and polished shoes with quiet satisfaction, brushing off a speck of invisible lint from his sleeve just to be sure. He had to look perfect. Always. His mother used to say so.

Mr. Park didn’t say anything as they walked past the first few exhibits. He didn’t even look around. Just walked straight, hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff like he was late for a meeting. Seokjin kept trying to chat with him, but he only nodded or hummed in vague acknowledgment.

Jimin stayed silent for a bit, lips pursed. His gaze darted between the peacocks strutting behind the fences and the expressionless line of his father’s jaw.

What was the point of coming if Father wasn’t even going to see the animals?

But then—zebras.

Jimin gasped, eyes lighting up. “Zebras!”

Before anyone could react, he darted ahead, loafers clacking against the path as he sprinted toward the railing.

“Jiminie!” Seokjin called behind him.

But Jimin didn’t stop. He pressed both hands to the cool metal rail, peeking over the enclosure with wide eyes. “They’re so pretty! Look at their lashes, hyung—they look like they’re wearing mascara!”

Seokjin finally caught up, slightly out of breath. “You’ve barely seen them before and you're already judging their makeup?”

Jimin huffed. “It’s called fashion observation.”

He pointed again. “There! Giraffes too! Look! Look!”

“Alright, alright—stop tugging, you little gremlin,” Seokjin laughed, crouching down to lift him onto his shoulders.

Jimin squealed, arms outstretched for balance as he rose above the crowd. “Oh my gosh—I’m taller than Namjoonie hyung now!”

“I heard that,” Namjoon muttered, arriving at their side. He adjusted the strap on the camera bag slung over his shoulder, expression slightly tight. “Be careful. Don’t drop him, Master Seokjin.”

“He’s fine,” Seokjin said, though his stance widened a little.

Jimin grinned, leaning forward with a carrot he’d been saving from the zoo stand earlier. One of the giraffes stepped close, elegant and slow. Its long tongue curled around the carrot, pulling it from Jimin’s hand and leaving a wet, slimy trail across his fingers.

“It licked me!” Jimin shrieked, half-laughing, half-horrified. “It’s sticky! Ewwww!”

Namjoon was on him instantly. “Give me your hand.”

“It’s just a little saliva,” Jimin pouted as Namjoon yanked out a pack of disinfectant wipes like a soldier pulling a weapon.

“You don’t know what kind of germs animals carry,” Namjoon said firmly, dabbing at his hand with precise pressure.

“I’ll have to reapply hand cream now,” Jimin muttered. “This wipe smells like lemons. I already smell like lemons.”

“Better than giraffe tongue,” Seokjin quipped, lowering him back to the ground.

Jimin tossed his curls dramatically, smirking. “I smell expensive, thank you very much.”

They continued through the zoo, each enclosure giving Jimin a new chance to express opinions. Flamingos? “A bit too pink, honestly.” Monkeys? “Weirdly relatable.” Parrots? “I think I could train one. It would say ‘Jimin is fabulous’ every morning.”

By the time they reached the amphitheater, the sun was high overhead, and Jimin was fanning himself with the brochure. “It’s so hot. I’m going to melt into soup.”

“You’ll be fine,” Namjoon replied. “There’s shade.”

“Shade isn’t air-conditioning,” Jimin snapped, flopping onto the nearest bench like a wilted flower. “I’m not built for outdoor suffering.”

Seokjin sat beside him, ruffling his hair, to which Jimin responded with an indignant whine and immediate re-fluffing of his curls. He was halfway through reapplying his lip balm when the dolphin show began. And suddenly, he forgot everything else.

The dolphins leapt and twirled, cutting through the air like silver bullets before crashing back into the glittering water. Trainers clapped and whistled, and the crowd cheered.

Then sea lions joined in.

Jimin clutched Seokjin’s arm. “They’re bowing. Oh my God, that one waved!”

Seokjin laughed. “I think it’s your long-lost twin.”

Jimin ignored him, eyes wide and sparkling. He clapped wildly when a dolphin did a backflip. “It’d be even better if there was a whale show.”

Seokjin turned to him, amused. “Whales are huge, Jiminie. They wouldn’t fit in a pool like this.”

“There are different kinds,” Jimin replied immediately, sitting up straighter. “Dwarf sperm whales are only like—what?— less than three meters. And pygmy killer whales too. They could fit.”

Seokjin blinked. “How do you even know that?”

“I read it,” Jimin said proudly, crossing his legs. “In a real book.”

“Of course you did,” Namjoon muttered behind him, smirking.

When the show ended, the crowds spilled out of the theater in every direction. Jimin sighed dramatically. “I’m starvingggg.”

Mr. Park checked his watch. “It’s two o’clock. We’ll eat before we leave.”

Jimin looked up at him, blinking in surprise. “You… have time?” His voice came out a little too soft. Hopeful. Cautious.

Mr. Park glanced down at him. “It won’t take long. It’s alright.”

Jimin’s stomach fluttered, but he caught himself before smiling too wide. He just tilted his head, nodding. “Okay, then I want pasta. But not dry zoo pasta. Real pasta.”

Mr. Park looked like he might protest, but Seokjin stepped in with a grin. “I know a place nearby.”

They drove to a quiet little restaurant with white tablecloths and folded napkins like tiny paper boats. Jimin made sure to sit beside his father and ordered carbonara with truffle oil, even though he wasn’t quite sure what truffle oil was. It sounded luxurious.

The meal was strangely… calm. No one scolded him for talking too much or asking if he could have another lemonade. His father even listened as Jimin explained why flamingos weren’t actually born pink and how giraffes had the same number of neck vertebrae as humans.

But when they got home, everything snapped right back into place.

Mr. Park stepped out of the car, glanced once at Jimin, then said flatly, “Go change. Your clothes are dusty.”

And just like that, the warm buzz in Jimin’s chest fizzled out.

He watched his father stride into the house without another word, disappearing into his office. The door clicked shut behind him.

Jimin stood frozen in the hallway for a moment, his fingers curled tightly around the strap of his tiny shoulder bag. His chest felt weird again, tight and heavy and hollow at the same time.

He blinked. Then huffed. “Dusty,” he muttered, glaring down at his spotless white shorts. “As if.”

Jimin’s shiny shoes clicked against the stairs as he climbed up to his bedroom, Namjoon quietly trailing behind him like a shadow. He didn’t bother looking back, he knew Namjoon would always follow, always be there when he wanted something.

“I want to take a bath,” Jimin announced the moment they stepped inside. He stood in the center of the room with his arms crossed, as if declaring something grand. Then, softening his tone, he tilted his head up at Namjoon, flashing a faint smile. “Can you prepare it for me, please?”

“Of course, young master,” Namjoon said with a small bow before slipping into the bathroom.

As soon as the door shut behind him, the air in the room felt different, heavy and sharp, pressing against Jimin’s chest. His smile crumbled instantly. His jaw clenched, and his shoulders trembled before he could stop them. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, but the hot tears spilled out anyway, streaking down his cheeks in silence.

Stupid, he scolded himself. Why am I crying? I should be happy. Father came with me today. He stayed the whole time…

But it hadn’t been enough. Not really. Father’s smiles were rare, fleeting, like sunlight that disappeared the second Jimin tried to hold onto it.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. Gentle, familiar.

“Come in,” Jimin called, his voice shaky though he tried to make it steady.

The door creaked open, and Seokjin peeked his head inside with that warm smile that never seemed to fade. “Jiminie, want to spend some time in the garden with me?”

Jimin rubbed quickly at his cheeks with the back of his hands, forcing his lips into a small curve. “After I shower, hyung. I feel disgusting after being outside for so long.”

“Alright,” Seokjin said with a soft chuckle. “I’ll wait for you out there, then.”

The door clicked shut again, and Jimin exhaled shakily.

Moments later, Namjoon returned from the bathroom, drying his hands with a towel. “The bath is rea—” He stopped mid-sentence. His sharp eyes landed on Jimin’s damp cheeks. “Young master?”

Jimin flinched, caught. He turned his face away quickly, forcing a little laugh. “I-I’m fine.”

“You were crying,” Namjoon said quietly, stepping closer.

“I wasn’t,” Jimin muttered, lowering his gaze.

Namjoon’s sigh was gentle, patient. “Please don’t lie to me, young master. I can always tell.”

Jimin hesitated. His throat burned. Then, without thinking, he stepped forward and buried his face against Namjoon’s chest, his small arms curling around the older boy. The fabric smelled faintly of laundry soap and something warmer—something steady.

Namjoon froze only a second before his arms came around him, careful and protective.

“They’re happy tears, hyung,” Jimin mumbled into his shirt, muffled and trembling. “I’m just… really happy.”

Namjoon’s voice softened into something like a tease. “Because of the dolphins?”

Jimin giggled despite himself, giving Namjoon a light smack on the chest. “No. Because I got to spend time with Father and hyung today… for a long time. It’s been forever.”

Namjoon’s hand rubbed slow, soothing circles against his back. “I’m glad when you’re happy, young master. But please—don’t cry. It hurts to see you cry.”

Jimin pulled back, eyes still glistening but his lips curving faintly. “They’re good tears, though.”

Namjoon took out a soft tissue from his pocket and dabbed carefully at his cheeks. “Good or not, they’re still tears. And I don’t like seeing you in pain. Try not to cry, hmm?”

Jimin nodded slowly, almost obediently, and whispered, “I’ll take my bath now. Jin hyung is waiting.”

The bath water was warm and scented with the oils Namjoon had chosen for him, and Jimin lingered longer than he needed to, sinking into the bubbles until his fingers wrinkled. He wanted to wash away everything, the stickiness of giraffe saliva, the zoo’s dust, and the tight, heavy feeling in his chest.

When he finally joined Seokjin in the garden, the sun had softened into golden warmth. They sat under the trimmed hedges, chatting about the animals and the dolphin tricks, Seokjin laughing easily at every little thing Jimin said. It made Jimin’s chest feel lighter.

But eventually, Seokjin excused himself, apologizing softly. “I need to check on some work, Jiminie. I’ll see you at dinner, okay?”

Jimin stayed a little longer in the garden, plucking a single petal from the flowerbed and twirling it between his fingers. His eyes wandered toward the house, and when he finally went back inside, his steps quickened as soon as he spotted his father sitting in the living room.

His heart leapt. “Father~ I thought you were working. Are you done? Will you have dinner with us?”

For a brief moment, he thought he saw Father’s lips twitch, but then the man exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “I paused my work. I canceled meetings. I went out with you. I had lunch with you. And you’re still asking for more from me? Haven’t I done enough?”

Jimin froze. His smile wavered. “F-Father…”

“No,” Father snapped, his voice rising like a whip. “Stop talking. Just stop. Go away! I don’t want to see your face anymore. I’ve seen enough of you today. Leave!”

The words cut sharper than anything else. Jimin’s throat closed up, tears already stinging his eyes. “I… I’m s-sorry…”

Namjoon appeared at his side in an instant, his hand warm around Jimin’s trembling fingers. “Come on, young master,” he urged softly.

But Jimin’s legs refused to move. His sobs grew louder, spilling out no matter how hard he tried to hold them in.

Namjoon bit his lip, then bent down and scooped him up into his arms as if he weighed nothing. Jimin buried his face in Namjoon’s shoulder, tears soaking into the fabric.

“It’s okay, young master,” Namjoon whispered, voice rough with worry. “He’s just tired. He didn’t mean it.”

But Jimin didn’t believe that. He couldn’t. The words echoed too loudly in his head. I don’t want to see your face anymore.

Namjoon carried him upstairs and into his room, shutting the door quietly behind them.

“Please… leave me alone,” Jimin mumbled into his blanket as soon as Namjoon set him down. His voice was muffled, shaky. “I want to be alone.”

Namjoon sat carefully on the edge of the bed, hand resting lightly on Jimin’s back. “Young master, don’t think too much on it. The company is struggling. He’s exhausted. That’s why he snapped.”

Jimin shook his head, face hidden. “I said leave, hyung. Please.”

Namjoon was silent for a moment, then brushed Jimin’s hair gently back from his damp forehead. His voice was quiet. “I’ll be right outside the door. Call me if you need me.”

Jimin gave the faintest nod.

The door closed softly, leaving him alone in the dim room.

He lay curled on his bed, face buried deep in the pillow, but even the thick cotton couldn’t muffle the sound of his own sobs. His chest hurt from crying too much already, but it felt like the words were carved into him, branded so deep they wouldn’t ever leave.

He hated that Namjoon and Seokjin always tried to make excuses. They never let him sit with his feelings, never let him say what he really thought. It was always—“he’s tired, he’s stressed, he didn’t mean it.” Always protecting Father, as if Jimin were too little, too delicate to handle the truth. But he wasn’t stupid. He was nine, not a baby. He could feel when someone didn’t want him around.

And right now, more than anything, he hated the thought of telling Seokjin or Namjoon again. They would just defend Father, like they always did, like they couldn’t hear how much it hurt him.

He sniffled and rolled onto his side, staring at his phone on the nightstand. His eyes were swollen and sore, but his fingers reached anyway, shaky as he unlocked the screen. He scrolled down his contacts, biting his lip, and pressed on Yoongi’s name before he could change his mind.

The call rang once, twice. Then Yoongi’s voice came through, flat and lazy as always, but softer at the edges. “Jimin?”

The sound made his chest tighten. “Y-Yoonie…” His voice cracked, and he hated how pitiful he sounded, but the tears were already slipping again.

There was a pause on the line. “…Are you crying?”

Jimin’s breath hitched. He pressed his sleeve to his eyes, even though Yoongi couldn’t see him. “N-No. Well—yes. Maybe. I just…” The lump in his throat was unbearable. He curled his knees up tighter, whispering into the receiver. “I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

“Good thing you called me, then,” Yoongi said quietly. “What happened?”

That was all it took. The words spilled out of him, messy and broken between sniffles. How Father had been treating him so differently ever since his mother was gone. How he felt like Father didn’t even look at him without anger anymore. How today was supposed to be perfect—he got to be with Seokjin and Father, just for a little while, like a normal family. He had even cried happy tears, thinking maybe things were changing. But then Father snapped at him, screamed at him, told him he didn’t want to see his face anymore.

“I waited so long,” Jimin choked. “I thought—I thought if I was good enough, or quiet enough, or dressed nice enough, maybe he’d want to be with me again. Maybe he’d stop looking so… so annoyed at me. But it doesn’t matter what I do, Yoongi. He always finds a way to hate it. To hate me.”

Yoongi didn’t interrupt. He didn’t rush to say your father didn’t mean it, or he loves you deep down. He just stayed on the line, breathing softly, letting Jimin vent without pulling the pain away from him. And that, more than anything, made Jimin cry harder, because it felt like Yoongi actually heard him.

When his words slowed, Yoongi finally spoke. His voice was calm, steady, the way Jimin wished his own heartbeat could be. “That’s not your fault, Jimin. None of it. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Jimin pressed his forehead against his knees. “Then why doesn’t he want me?”

“Sometimes adults are… messed up,” Yoongi muttered, almost like he was thinking aloud. “Sometimes they don’t know how to handle things, so they push people away. That’s not about you. That’s about him.”

Jimin sniffled. He wanted to argue, wanted to say Yoongi didn’t understand, but the warmth in Yoongi’s voice stopped him. He stayed quiet, listening to the faint scratchy sound of Yoongi shifting on the other side of the line.

“You know what I think?” Yoongi asked after a beat.

“What?”

“I think you’re the most spoiled, sassy brat I’ve ever met,” Yoongi said, and though the words were blunt, there was something oddly gentle in them, like he meant them fondly. “And I think you’re still way too good for him.”

Jimin let out a small, wet laugh despite himself. “Y-Yoonie…”

“It’s true. You’re… you’re you. And that’s good enough. Always.”

For a moment, Jimin just breathed, the ache in his chest loosening little by little. He pictured Yoongi sitting somewhere with the phone pressed lazily to his ear, eyes drooping like he always looked half-asleep. But even so, Yoongi had listened to everything, every word, like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And something about that made Jimin’s heart thump in a way he didn’t quite understand. It wasn’t like the way he cried for Father’s attention, desperate and aching. With Yoongi, it felt… safe. Like maybe he could be selfish and bratty and spoiled and still be wanted.

“Jimin,” Yoongi said again, quieter now, slower. “Your father… he doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t know what he’s losing.”

Jimin’s breath hitched. Nobody ever said things like that to him. They all excused Father, defended him, told Jimin he was just busy or stressed. “He said he doesn’t want to see my face,” Jimin whispered, his voice trembling. “He meant it, Yoonie. He really meant it.”

“He’s wrong,” Yoongi said firmly, almost sharp. “So wrong. You’ve got the kind of face people should be lucky to see every day.”

Jimin’s cheeks burned, though the compliment didn’t sit the way they usually did. This one was different, it made his chest ache, because it was said in a tone that dared anyone to disagree.

“But he’s my father,” Jimin pressed, voice breaking. “Fathers aren’t supposed to say that. If my own father can’t love me then—” He cut himself off with a sob, curling up tighter beneath the blanket.

Yoongi didn’t rush to fill the silence. He waited until Jimin’s sobs softened, then spoke low and steady, like a rock in a storm. “Jimin, listen to me. Him not saying it doesn’t mean you’re not worth loving. That’s his failure, not yours. He’s blinded by his own pain, too stubborn or too selfish to see what’s right in front of him.”

Jimin clutched the blanket tighter. “But—what if he never wants me?” His voice wavered like a child’s, high and pleading. “What if he really doesn’t want me anymore?”

“You’re not something he can just… want or not want,” Yoongi said, the conviction in his tone startling Jimin into silence. “You’re his son. That should be enough. But if he’s too much of a coward to face that, then fine. That doesn’t mean you’re unwanted. Not to me. Not to your brother. Not to Namjoon hyung. You’re wanted. You’re loved. He doesn’t get to decide otherwise.”

Jimin’s lips trembled, his throat tight. The words pressed deep inside him, like balm on a wound he didn’t realize could ever be soothed. Nobody had ever dared say Father was wrong. Nobody but Yoongi.

“You don’t understand,” Jimin whispered. “He used to look at me and smile, he used to—” His voice cracked. “But now every time he looks at me it’s like he hates me. Like I did something wrong. Maybe I did, Yoonie. Maybe it’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” Yoongi said immediately, with a force that almost startled him. “It’s never been your fault.” His voice softened, almost breaking. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Jimin. Not a single thing.”

Jimin buried his face in his pillow, muffling a sob. It felt like something heavy was loosening in his chest, something he’d been carrying for so long it felt permanent.

Yoongi sighed softly through the line, then continued, his voice gentler now, coaxing. “I know it hurts. I know you want him to say sorry, to hold you, to tell you he loves you. And maybe one day he will. Maybe he’ll come to his senses. But even if he doesn’t… you’re not alone. You’ve got people who see you for exactly who you are. People who’d never dream of turning away from you.”

Jimin sniffled, his eyes stinging again. “Like who?”

“Like Namjoon hyung,” Yoongi answered without hesitation. “He treats you like you’re his whole world. Like your brother. He brags about you every chance he gets, you know. And… like me.”

Jimin blinked, holding his breath. “…You?”

“Yeah. Me.” Yoongi’s voice was steady, though quiet. “You drive me crazy sometimes, being all bossy and picky and acting like a little prince. But you’re… you’re important to me, Jimin. I don’t care what your father says. I’ll never not want to see your face.”

Jimin’s throat closed up. His whole body went warm under the blanket, heart thudding so hard it almost hurt.

“I’m not a prince,” he mumbled, his voice wobbly. “I just… I just like things nice.”

Yoongi chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through the phone, warm enough to seep into Jimin’s chest. “I know. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Silence stretched, but it was soft now, the kind Jimin could rest in. He listened to Yoongi breathe on the other end, steady and present, and let the weight of his words settle into him.

“…Do you promise you won’t leave me too?” Jimin whispered suddenly, the question slipping out without permission.

Yoongi’s reply came quick, quiet but unshakable. “I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

Jimin’s chest ached, but in a different way now. The blanket around him was warm, but Yoongi’s voice was warmer, filling up all the cracks inside him.

“Stay on the phone,” Jimin murmured, his voice small, sleepy from crying. “Even if I fall asleep.”

“I will,” Yoongi said. A pause, then softer: “Close your eyes, Jiminie. I’ve got you.”