Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bass thrummed through the air like a living thing, pulsing under Jungkook’s skin as he lounged in the plush leather booth.

He hadn’t planned on being here tonight — his friends had dragged him out, swearing this was the club in the city. Usually, places like this were all the same to him: overpriced drinks, desperate attention, beautiful people who would do anything for a taste of his money.

Then the lights shifted.

Pink.

It spilled across the stage like cotton candy melting in the heat, and then he saw him.

The dancer stepped into the glow, hair the exact shade of spun sugar, skin gleaming under the spotlights. Every movement was deliberate, controlled — the kind that made the air feel heavier.

Jimin. That was the name whispered from the front tables.

He wrapped one long leg around the chrome pole, leaning back until his stomach muscles tightened and the glitter at his hipbone caught the light — and the room stilled. Even the drunkest men in the front row shut up.

Something twisted low in Jungkook’s stomach.

Want.

Simple. Immediate. And as far as he was concerned, already his.

When the set ended, applause crashed like waves. Jimin stepped down, a faint smile on his lips as he headed for the bar. Jungkook didn’t waste a second.

He caught Seokjin — one of the owners, apparently — as the man passed his booth.

“How much for a private dance with him?” Jungkook asked, already reaching for his wallet.

Seokjin didn’t blink. “He’s not available for private bookings.”

Jungkook smirked. “Everything’s available for the right price.”

A single eyebrow rose. “Not here.”

Unbothered, Jungkook stood and intercepted Jimin at the bar. Up close, the man was even more magnetic — eyeliner smudged just enough to look dangerous, a sheen of sweat at his temple, pink hair damp at the roots.

“You were incredible,” Jungkook said smoothly. “Name your price for an hour.”

Jimin’s gaze slid over him once — slow, assessing — before he smiled. Sweet. Almost kind.

“No.”

The word landed like a slap in the quiet pocket between them.

Jungkook blinked. “You don’t even want to hear the number?”

“I heard it,” Jimin said lightly, flagging down the bartender for water. “It’s still no.”

Around them, people were starting to notice. A few regulars exchanged knowing smirks. Jungkook’s pride burned under the attention.

He leaned in, voice dropping. “You don’t say no to me.”

Jimin turned fully, really looking at him now. That same almost-kind smile curved his lips — but this time, it was edged with steel.

“Maybe no one else does,” he murmured, “but I’m not for sale. Enjoy the show, rich boy.”

And just like that, he was gone, disappearing into the staff hallway in a sway of glitter and pink hair, leaving Jungkook standing alone — humiliated for the first time in years.

The quiet laughter from nearby tables was soft, but it might as well have been deafening.

Jungkook sat back down, jaw tight.

Fine.

If “no” was the game, he’d learn how to turn it into “yes.”

And he’d enjoy every second of breaking him down.

Dancer's Room

The Dancer’s Room was quiet except for the low hum of the vanity lights and the muffled bass bleeding through the walls.

Jimin sank into the chair in front of his mirror, tossing his glitter-speckled towel over one shoulder. The cold press of his water bottle against his palm was the best thing he’d felt all night.

From the corner, Hoseok — still in his sequined red jacket, chest rising and falling from his own set — raised an eyebrow.

"Well,” he drawled, “that was… ballsy, Jimin-ah.”

Jimin unscrewed his bottle cap. “What was?”

“Turning him down. In front of half the club.”

Jimin took a long drink, not bothering to answer.

Hoseok slid into the next chair, swiveling to face him. “Do you seriously not know who that is?”

Jimin shrugged, reaching for makeup wipes. “Some rich brat who thinks the world is a vending machine. Why?”

“That rich brat is Jeon Jungkook,” Hoseok said, leaning forward like he was about to spill state secrets. “His family owns… I don’t even know how many hotels, shipping companies, nightclubs. He’s the kind of guy who buys a car just because it matches his shoes.”

Jimin met his gaze in the mirror, unimpressed. “And?”

“And,” Hoseok went on, “he’s infamous. Never hears the word ‘no.’ Walked out of three different clubs in this city with their managers on his arm. I’ve seen him spend more in one night than we make in a year. People bend over backwards for him.”

“Good for them,” Jimin said dryly, swiping under his eye to remove the last smudge of eyeliner. “I’m not people.”

Hoseok laughed. “No, you’re definitely not. Which is exactly why he looked like you slapped him. I think you just became the first person to bruise his ego.”

“Not my problem.” Jimin capped the wipe packet and started packing his bag. “Namjoon hyung and Seokjin hyung have rules for a reason. No amount of money changes that.”

Hoseok grinned. “Oh, I’m not saying it’s a problem. I’m saying… you might have just made yourself someone’s next obsession.”

Jimin froze for just a fraction of a second before tossing his towel into the laundry bin. “If he wants to waste his time, that’s on him.”

As they headed for the door, Jimin cast him a sideways glance. “Speaking of obsessions… shouldn’t you be getting ready for your regular?”

Hoseok frowned. “My—?”

“You know,” Jimin sing-songed, “Suga-ssi.”

Color rushed into Hoseok’s cheeks. “It’s not—he’s just—Jimin, shut up.”

“Ohhh, he’s just the guy who books you every Friday, tips twice your rate, bans you from taking other clients, and keeps asking when you’ll take a night off with him,” Jimin teased, bumping his shoulder. “Totally nothing going on there.”

Hoseok stammered something incoherent, ducking his head as they walked into the hall, ears glowing red.

Jimin laughed all the way to the dressing room door.

But as they left the room together, Hoseok caught the tiniest crease between Jimin’s brows — like maybe, just maybe, Jimin already knew Jeon Jungkook wasn’t the kind of man who gave up easily.

The Owners’ Office

The office was quieter than the club floor, but the faint thump of bass still pulsed through the walls, a steady heartbeat from the world outside.

Namjoon sat behind the desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, pen moving in smooth strokes over a stack of paperwork. Seokjin perched on the edge beside him, one leg crossed over the other, flipping lazily through a ledger. His free hand rested lightly on Namjoon’s shoulder, an absent touch that spoke of habit rather than thought.

The door swung open without a knock.

Jungkook stepped in like he owned the place — black silk shirt half-buttoned, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a slim leather checkbook.

“I’ll make this quick,” he said, voice smooth, confident. “Name your number. I want Jimin for a private evening. Whatever his rate is, I’ll triple it.”

Namjoon didn’t look up. “He’s not available for private evenings.”

Jungkook’s lips curved faintly. “Everyone’s available for the right price.”

Seokjin closed the ledger with a soft thump and finally looked at him — expression polite, eyes sharp. “Not here.”

“You’re turning down—” Jungkook let out a humorless laugh, like the words tasted absurd, “—Jeon Jungkook’s money?”

“Easily,” Namjoon replied, still writing.

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. “Do you have any idea—”

“Yes,” Seokjin cut in smoothly. “We know exactly who you are. And how you operate. And we’re telling you plainly: it doesn’t work here.”

Namjoon finally set down his pen, leaning back in his chair to meet Jungkook’s gaze head-on. “Our dancers aren’t commodities. They choose their clients. They choose if they want clients. If Jimin says no, it’s no. End of conversation.”

The silence stretched. Jungkook was used to people backpedaling, scrambling to appease him. These two didn’t even blink.

Seokjin tilted his head, voice still pleasant. “You’re welcome to enjoy the club like everyone else. But if you harass one of our employees after they’ve declined you…” He let the sentence hang, smile widening a fraction. “…well. Let’s just say you won’t be welcome anywhere in the city we can reach. And we can reach far.”

Jungkook stared at them for a beat longer, the checkbook still in his hand.

Finally, he slid it back into his pocket. “Fine.” His tone was light, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable.

He turned, walking out with the same unhurried grace he’d walked in with — shoulders loose, expression unreadable. But the moment the office door shut behind him, his jaw flexed, and his fingers curled once at his side.

Pride intact on the surface, he was already thinking ahead. This wasn’t over.

They’d told him no. He would make sure Jimin was the one to take it back.

Inside, Namjoon picked up his pen again. “He’ll be back.”

Seokjin smirked, glancing toward the door. “Of course he will. They always come back when they’re told they can’t have something.” His hand gave Namjoon’s shoulder a light squeeze before he returned to his ledger.

Rooftop Bar

The rooftop bar glittered with gold light and city skyline — the kind of place where one cocktail cost more than an average person’s rent.

Jungkook sat in their usual corner booth, a drink sweating on the table, untouched. His mood was dark enough that even the easy breeze couldn’t cool it.

Across from him, Taehyung sprawled with his long legs kicked up on the seat, sipping something neon from a martini glass. Yugyeom was halfway through a plate of oysters. BamBam scrolled lazily through his phone, clearly only half-listening.

“So,” Taehyung drawled, like a cat playing with its prey, “I hear you got rejected.”

Jungkook’s jaw flexed. “It wasn’t—”

Yugyeom snorted. “Bro, it was all over that club. My cousin was there. Said you looked like someone told you Santa isn’t real.”

BamBam didn’t even look up. “I saw it on Instagram. Replayed it twice. Gorgeous.”

Jungkook glared at them in turn. “You think this is funny?”

“Yes,” all three said in perfect unison.

Taehyung grinned over the rim of his glass. “Jeon Jungkook, heir to half the damn city, walks into a club and gets told no . I’ve lived for a lot of things, but this…” He tapped his chest. “…this is special.”

“Shut up,” Jungkook muttered, leaning back. “He’s not like the others.”

Yugyeom tilted his head. “What, because he has a spine?”

BamBam finally looked up, smirking. “Or because he’s hot and immune to your face? Dangerous combo.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it.

Taehyung leaned in, mischief sparking. “If you can’t get to him through the owners, go straight to him. Not with cash — too obvious — but with presents.”

“Presents?” Jungkook frowned.

“Yeah,” Taehyung said, shrugging. “Expensive, hard-to-get stuff. Something that says, I notice you, and I can spoil you rotten. People love to claim they don’t care about gifts — until it’s the exact thing they’ve been wanting.”

Yugyeom slurped an oyster. “Or make it so over-the-top he can’t ignore you. Worst case? You just look like a lovesick idiot with too much money. Which you already do.”

BamBam chuckled. “Exactly. Either he keeps refusing — which will drive you insane — or he bites, and you win.” 

Jungkook’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. He reached for his drink, finished it in one swallow, and set the glass down with a soft click.

“Oh, he’ll bite,” Jungkook said, voice low, certain. “They all do. Eventually.”

He leaned back, eyes glinting under the rooftop lights, already running through the possibilities.

“If Jimin thinks a little word like ‘no’ is going to save him—” Jungkook’s smile widened, sharp and sure, “—he’s about to find out how wrong he is.”

Chapter Text

If Jimin thought he could keep saying “no” forever, Jungkook was determined to make each refusal harder than the last.

The game began the very next night.

---

Night One

A velvet box, deep green and embossed with gold. Inside — a diamond choker, thick-cut stones in a platinum chain, delicate but unmistakably expensive.

It was too much. Even for him.

The bartender delivered it to Jimin during his break. The entire bar leaned in as he opened it.

Jimin’s lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Pretty,” he said, snapping the box shut. Then, without hesitation, he slid it back across the counter. “Return it.”

From his booth, Jungkook’s jaw tightened when the box landed in front of him. 

---

Night Two

A bouquet — not just flowers, but orchids flown in from Singapore, petals still damp from their flight. The vase alone looked antique.

Jimin accepted them from a server, sniffed the blooms once, then handed them to the nearest cocktail waitress. “Put these in the VIP bathroom.”

Laughter rippled through the front tables. Jungkook didn’t smile.

---

Night Three

A pair of limited-edition sneakers in Jimin’s exact size — black and iridescent, the kind that resold for more than most people’s cars.

They arrived mid-set, placed at the edge of the stage with the card facing him.

Jimin finished his routine, walked over, picked up the shoes and passed them into Hoseok’s arms without breaking eye contact with Jungkook.

The crowd howled. Hoseok grinned like Christmas had come early. Jungkook downed his whiskey in one swallow.

---

Night Four

A crystal bottle of perfume — custom blend, rare vanilla base, the research behind it obvious.

Jimin uncapped it, took a single sniff, then handed it to Namjoon as he passed. “For Seokjin-hyung.”

From the bar, Seokjin lifted it in a toast toward Jungkook before setting it beside the till.

---

Night Five

No box this time. Just a folded note, handwritten in black ink: One night. One dance. No strings. Name your price.

Jimin didn’t even open it fully. He crumpled it in his palm, tossed it into the tip jar, and kept walking.

By the end of the week, the regulars were placing bets.

Would Jimin break first, accept one gift? Or would Jungkook lose interest and stop showing up?

Neither happened.

Every night, Jungkook was there — eyes locked on Jimin like nothing else in the club mattered.

And every night, Jimin returned his offering without a flicker of hesitation.

The tension between them was no longer gilded with diamonds or wrapped in silk.

It was raw, unspoken, electric.

And everyone knew — this wasn’t about money anymore.

---

It was just past midnight when Jimin stepped off stage, glitter still clinging to his collarbones. His pulse was still elevated from the set — but so was his irritation.

Jungkook was here again. Of course he was. Same booth. Same drink. Same unblinking stare that tracked Jimin’s every move like a predator shadowing prey.

Fine .

Jimin veered away from the bar, weaving through the crowd until he stood at the edge of Jungkook’s table. The bass pounded through the club, but in the space between them, it felt strangely muted.

“You’re wasting your time,” Jimin said flatly.

Jungkook leaned back, a ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I’ve got plenty to waste.”

“Not mine.” Jimin’s voice was even, but there was a spark behind it — irritation edged with challenge. “This isn’t a game you win by throwing money at it.”

Jungkook tilted his head, studying him like an unsolved puzzle. “Good thing I like long games.”

Jimin exhaled, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “You really don’t hear ‘no’ often, do you?”

“Not until you,” Jungkook said — the truth slipping out before he could coat it in arrogance.

Something flickered in Jimin’s eyes at that. Not enough to lower his guard, but enough to make the air between them shift.

He stepped closer, the heat of his skin reaching Jungkook across the table. One hand braced on the edge, leaning in until his voice sliced through the bass.

“Here’s the truth, rich boy,” Jimin murmured, every word deliberate. “If I ever say yes—it’ll be because I want to. Not because you bought your way in.”

For a split second, Jungkook’s smirk faltered — not from defeat, but from the dizzying hit of possibility.

Jimin straightened, brushing an imaginary wrinkle from his shorts, and turned without waiting for an answer.

Jungkook’s gaze followed him all the way back to the bar, something sharp and hungry sparking in his chest.

He’d just been handed the smallest sliver of hope.

And Jeon Jungkook never wasted an opening.

By the time Jimin picked up his water, Jungkook was already deciding what his next move would be — and exactly how to make it impossible to refuse.

The Owners’ Office

The office smelled faintly of coffee and Seokjin’s cologne — warm, grounding, a sharp contrast to the charged electricity of the main floor.

Jimin sat across from Namjoon, a bottle of water sweating in his hands. Seokjin leaned against the desk beside him, arms folded, eyes sharp.

Namjoon’s voice was steady, low. “We’ve let this go because you haven’t seemed uncomfortable. But I’ll ask plainly — do you want us to ban him?”

Seokjin tilted his head, softer but no less serious. “One word Jimin-ah, and Jungkook won’t make it past the front door. Ever. We’ll make sure every club in our network knows. You won’t even have to see his face.”

Jimin’s thumb traced a bead of condensation down the bottle. He hesitated just long enough for the silence to stretch. “No hyung.”

Namjoon’s brow furrowed. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Jimin said evenly. “If he crosses the line, I’ll tell you. But right now? I’m handling it.”

Seokjin’s eyebrow arched. “Handling it? From where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve become the lead in his own personal drama.”

Jimin’s mouth curved faintly. “Then I guess I’m giving the performance of my life.”

Namjoon’s chuckle was low, but the warning in his tone lingered. “Alright. But the offer stands. You don’t owe him — or anyone — your time.”

“I know,” Jimin replied. And he did.

“Thank you Joon-hyung, Jin-hyung.” 

But as he left the office, the thought stayed with him — Jungkook’s persistence was no longer just annoying.

It was… interesting.

And that was dangerous.

---

Later — Dressing Room

The dressing room was still humming with the muffled bass from the floor below, mirrors lit like halos and the faint scent of setting spray and sweat hanging in the air.

Hoseok was already at the mirror when Jimin came in, fluffing his hair and humming under his breath to the beat. He caught Jimin’s reflection in the glass and grinned without missing a stroke of the comb.

“Heard you turned down Namjoon’s offer to ban your little rich-boy admirer.”

Jimin’s towel slipped a little off his shoulder as he crossed to his locker. “Do you just lurk outside doors or something?”

“I have ears everywhere,” Hoseok said, spinning his chair to face him, sequins on his jacket catching the light. “So… you want him to keep coming back?”

Jimin shot him a flat look. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it,” Hoseok sing-songed, tapping his temple. “And honestly? I think you like the attention.”

Jimin scoffed, tossing his bag inside his locker and clicking the lock open with a sharp twist. “Please. He’s just… entertaining.”

“Entertaining,” Hoseok echoed, stretching the syllables until they almost became a purr. “Right. That’s why you scanned the crowd the second you walked out on stage tonight.”

Jimin froze for a fraction of a second, just enough for Hoseok’s grin to sharpen.

“You’re imagining things,” Jimin muttered, slamming the locker shut a little harder than necessary.

“Sure I am,” Hoseok said, leaning back in his chair like a cat with cream. “I’ll just be here, watching you not care about Jeon Jungkook.”

Jimin shook his head, but the faintest smile tugged at his lips as he turned away, towel slipping lower.

From the corner of the mirror, Hoseok caught that smile. And the glint in Jimin’s eyes told him what Jimin refused to say out loud—

the game was getting fun.

Jungkook hadn’t missed the way Jimin had leaned in at his booth that night — the faintest glimmer of intrigue in his eyes before walking away.

It wasn’t a yes.

But it wasn’t a no carved in stone, either.

So, the next evening, there was no diamond choker. No towering orchids. No note offering absurd sums of money.

Instead, when Jimin came off stage, a small paper bag sat on the bar, neatly folded over with a handwritten For Jimin scrawled across it in clean, sharp handwriting.

Inside — a pair of soft black wrist wraps, the kind dancers used to protect their joints. They were broken in just enough to be comfortable, but still pristine. On top sat a packet of honey-lemon tea — his favorite brand, the one that sold out often enough he had to hoard boxes when he found them.

Jimin’s brows drew together. The crowd noise blurred into background static as he glanced toward Jungkook’s booth.

This time, Jungkook wasn’t watching with a smirk. He was leaning back casually, talking to the bartender, as if he hadn’t just made the most disarming move yet.

Jimin returned the bag— but not before slipping the tea packet into his locker.

The Next Night

A travel-sized tin of rose salve appeared on the bar before his set.

Jimin frowned, twisting the cap to catch the faint scent — light, floral, perfect for soothing stage-dry lips and skin.

He slid it back toward the bartender to return… but his fingers lingered on the metal just a second too long before letting go.

---

Two Nights Later

Rain was coming down in sheets by the time Jimin arrived for his shift, shoes soaked through and jeans clinging damply to his calves.

Waiting at the front desk was a slim box containing a pair of black leather boots — sturdy, waterproof, and exactly his style. No flashy logo. No designer label screaming for attention. Just practical, quietly expensive quality.

He returned them, of course. But when Hoseok caught him later, peeling off his damp sneakers in the dressing room, his first words were, “Bet those boots would’ve felt amazing right now.”

---

End of the Week

When Jimin went to leave after closing, there was a thermos sitting on top of his locker.

Still warm.

Inside — perfectly brewed coffee, the exact sweetness and milk ratio he ordered from the café down the street every morning.

For the first time, Jimin didn’t send it back.

He drank it on the walk home, the warmth curling through him long after the cup was empty.

Dancer’s Room 

The dressing room was almost empty, the muffled bass of the club floor thrumming faintly through the walls.

Jimin was perched at the mirror, tying the soft black wrist wraps Jungkook had given him days ago, fingers moving automatically.

The door creaked open and Hoseok strolled in, mid-text on his phone. He looked up — and froze.

A slow, delighted smile spread across his face.

“Oh. My. God.”

Jimin glanced at him in the mirror. “What?”

Hoseok stepped closer, eyes locked on the wraps. “Are those…?”

“They’re wrist wraps,” Jimin said flatly.

Hoseok’s grin widened like a shark scenting blood. “They’re Jungkook’s wrist wraps.”

“They’re just wrist wraps,” Jimin repeated, tugging the tie a little too tight.

“Ohhh, no, no, no.” Hoseok dropped into the chair beside him, eyes glittering with mischief. “These are the same ones you oh-so-casually returned to the bar the other night. Except now they’re on your wrists. Which means—”

“It means I needed them,” Jimin cut in. “They’re good quality.”

“It means,” Hoseok continued loudly, ignoring him, “that the rich boy cracked the great, unbreakable Park Jimin in two weeks.”

Jimin shot him a warning look. “Hobi-hyung, you breathe a word of this to anyone—”

Hoseok raised both hands innocently. “Relax. I’m not gonna ruin your whole ‘I’m immune to your money’ act. This is between us.”

Jimin smirked faintly. “Good. Because I’d hate to tell Yoongi-hyung you get all flustered the second he walks in.”

Hoseok’s ears went scarlet. “I do not —”

“You do,” Jimin said, grinning now. “You practically sparkle when you see him.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re into it,” Jimin shot back, sing-song, as Hoseok stood up, muttering something under his breath and sauntering out.

Left alone, Jimin glanced down at the wraps, flexing his fingers.

As Hoseok left, still smirking, Jimin flexed his fingers, the wraps snug and warm against his skin.

They were practical. Useful.

But somewhere out there, Jungkook was probably watching, clocking every small shift like Jimin was clocking his — and the thought of them keeping score made something coil low and deliberate in his chest.

Chapter Text

It was a busy Friday night — perfume, money, and heat pressing in from every direction. The club pulsed with it, bodies stacked shoulder to shoulder, laughter rising sharp over the bass. Every table was full, every server darting between flashing bottles and impatient hands. Stage lights still burned in Jimin’s vision as he stepped down, their heat clinging to his skin like a second layer.

His breath came fast, chest lifting with the rhythm of the song still caught in his bones. The crowd’s roar dulled to background hum as he slipped behind the bar, searching for air, for quiet.

That’s when a server appeared, weaving through the noise with a practiced grace. She set a tall glass in front of him.

“From table six.”

The words made the glass heavier before he even touched it.

Iced Americano. Exactly how he liked it — almost all bitter, just a whisper of sweetness, extra ice. The kind of order you didn’t stumble into. The kind of detail someone had to notice .

His mouth parted automatically, ready to send it back, to reject whatever game this was before it even began. But his throat was dry, raw from the last note, and the thought of that first cold sip slid in before he could speak.

He lifted the glass.

The ice clinked softly against the rim. The coffee bit sharp and clean, flooding his tongue with bitter relief. He drank slow, dragging the moment out, letting the chill sink past his chest until it reached the heat wound tight inside him.

When he set the glass down, the air in the bar had shifted. Not loud, not obvious — but noticeable. A subtle ripple moving through the room. Conversations stuttered. Laughter broke, then reassembled in hushed tones. Regulars leaned toward each other, voices low as their eyes flicked toward table six.

Jimin followed them.

And there he was.

Jungkook sat sprawled in the booth like the whole night had been arranged for him, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, rings catching the light with every idle tap of his fingers. His gaze was steady, locked, the kind of look that pinned Jimin in place across a room too crowded for comfort.

No smirk this time. No cocky tilt of the mouth. Just a quiet satisfaction threaded with hunger — the kind of look that said I saw that. I planned for it. And you let it happen.

Jimin’s jaw tightened, the muscles flexing against words he didn’t dare speak here. He turned back to the bar, fingers drumming once against the counter like he could shake off the heat crawling up his neck. He pretended the club wasn’t alive with the buzz of it, the whispers carrying — Park Jimin accepted something from Jeon Jungkook.

Across the room, Jungkook didn’t lift his glass in a toast, didn’t nod, didn’t give anything away. But the weight of his stillness said enough.

In his mind, it was a win. A small one. The kind you could build an empire on.

And Jimin, with a stubborn twist low in his chest, already knew — Jungkook was planning the next move.

---

The moment Jimin pushed through the heavy velvet curtain into the dressing area, Hoseok was on him like a hawk.

“You drank it.”

Jimin didn’t even slow, the bass of the club still vibrating faintly through the walls as he made for his vanity. “It was just coffee.”

“It was his coffee,” Hoseok shot back, trailing after him like an overly dramatic shadow, hands flailing for emphasis. “Do you have any idea what you just did out there?”

Jimin dropped into his chair with deliberate calm, tugging a makeup wipe free from the packet. The mirror threw his flushed reflection back at him — stage lights still in his skin, a faint edge of adrenaline sharpening his features. “Yes. I drank a coffee. End of story.”

“End of story?” Hoseok planted himself directly in front of the vanity, arms braced against the counter like he was blocking Jimin’s escape. “Jimin, you might as well have dropped to one knee and asked him to be your sugar daddy. The entire club saw you take it. You basically just gave him the green light.”

“It was hot on stage,” Jimin muttered, rubbing at his eyeliner until it smeared. “I was thirsty.”

“You were publicly accepting a gift from Jeon Jungkook,” Hoseok pressed, voice climbing with every word. “That man will take this as a blood oath. He’s going to double down now — more drinks, more flowers, more… God knows what else he thinks you like. You’re done for.”

Jimin tossed the used wipe neatly into the bin, lips twitching in something too close to a smirk. He arched an eyebrow at Hoseok’s reflection. “I’m not ‘done for' Hobi-hyung! I’m still in control.”

Hoseok groaned and threw himself into the chair beside him, sprawling dramatically. “Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that, Jiminie. Just remember — guys like him? They don’t stop until they get what they want. And he wants you.”

Jimin leaned back, crossing his arms, letting the silence stretch until Hoseok glanced sideways. Only then did Jimin let the faintest smile ghost across his lips. “And you’d know all about that, right? How’s Yoongi-hyung these days?”

Hoseok froze for half a beat, the tips of his ears coloring before he turned slowly, narrowing his eyes into a glare. “Low blow.”

Jimin’s smile widened, a spark of mischief breaking through the stubborn weight on his chest. “Just returning the favor.”

A knock on the backstage door cut off Hoseok’s comeback. Sharp, quick, like whoever it was had no intention of waiting.

The two of them exchanged a look. Hoseok was the first to move, muttering under his breath as he went to answer it.

One of the junior staff stood there, arms straining around an enormous bouquet. Not roses — no, that would’ve been too obvious. This was sleek, calculated: deep red orchids laced with sprigs of eucalyptus, arranged in a tall black vase that looked expensive enough to pay rent.

“For Park Jimin-ssi,” the staffer said, breathless from the weight.

Hoseok’s jaw nearly hit the floor. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Jimin didn’t get up. Didn’t even blink. He just sat there, watching the flowers being lowered onto the table beside his vanity. The scent hit first — bold, intoxicating, impossible to ignore. Then the card, perched neatly at the top.

Two words, written in a hand he recognized instantly from the signature scrawl on fan checks and contracts alike.

Your move.

Hoseok let out a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “See?! What did I tell you? The man wastes zero time. You’re officially screwed.”

Jimin’s fingers hovered above the card, not touching, not daring — but his reflection in the mirror betrayed him. The faintest flush, the smallest catch in his breath, the way his lips pressed tight as if holding back something dangerous.

He finally looked up, meeting Hoseok’s wide-eyed stare in the mirror.

“I’m still in control,” he said again. But this time, even he wasn’t sure if he believed it.

The Next Day

When Jimin walked in for his shift, his eyes swept the club floor without thinking. A reflex.

Table six was empty.

By the end of his set, still no Jungkook.

No coffee waiting at the bar.

No flowers cluttering his vanity.

No unblinking stare burning a hole through him from the corner.

The Whole Week

Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday.

Nothing.

The booth stayed vacant, its leather cushions pristine under the glow of the chandeliers. Like Jungkook had never sat there at all.

By Friday night, even Hoseok had stopped teasing him and started watching him out of the corner of his eye, the sharp humor softening into something closer to concern.

“You don’t think he… gave up?” Hoseok asked quietly one evening, leaning against the doorframe while Jimin bent forward in a stretch.

Jimin straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders back, keeping his expression blank. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world,” he said, voice flat enough to sound convincing.

But when he stepped out on stage and let his gaze skim over the crowd — shimmering dresses, gold watches flashing under the lights, strangers cheering too loudly over drinks they’d forget by morning — he caught himself searching.

Not for anyone in particular.

Not really.

And yet—

The space where that sharp, focused gaze should have been felt like a missing note in the middle of a song. The kind of silence that didn’t just sit quiet but pressed against his ribs, insistent, undeniable.

An absence that weighed heavier than the presence ever had.

The private lounge was quiet, wrapped in the soft amber glow of wall sconces. The muffled bass of the club below didn’t reach this far; here, the air was still, expensive, and heavy with the quiet kind of power only a select few could breathe in comfortably.

Hoseok sat curled into the corner of a plush sofa, legs crossed neatly, a glass of red wine loose in his hand. Across from him, Min Yoongi — Suga to most who knew better than to use his given name — lounged like a man who owned the space and everyone in it.

He wasn’t in a suit tonight, but even his casual clothes carried that signature weight of wealth and influence that couldn’t be faked. The cuff of his sweater brushed against a wristwatch that cost more than Hoseok’s yearly rent.

And of course, no one else could book Hoseok, specially on a Friday. That privilege was permanently inked under Yoongi’s name alone.

Tonight, though, Hoseok was restless. He sipped but didn’t taste. His foot tapped against the carpet, restless as static.

Yoongi noticed. He always noticed.

“What’s on your mind?” Yoongi asked at last, voice low and even, the kind that never rushed — like he had all the time in the world to wait for Hoseok to give in.

Hoseok hesitated, swirling his wine, eyes flicking down into the glass. “It’s… not about me.”

Yoongi’s gaze sharpened, interest pricking. “Then it’s about Jimin.”

Hoseok blinked. “How—”

“You’ve only got two moods when you’re distracted,” Yoongi cut in dryly. “One is when you’re worried about yourself. The other is when you’re worried about him.”

Hoseok pressed his lips together before sighing, shoulders loosening with reluctant admission. “Fine. Yeah. It’s about him. He’s been caught up in this… thing with Jeon Jungkook. You know him?”

A faint smile ghosted across Yoongi’s face, subtle but unmistakable. “Everyone knows him.”

“Rich brat,” Hoseok muttered, heat in his voice. “Never been told no in his life. Saw Jimin on stage, got obsessed. Weeks of gifts — flowers, drinks, expensive crap. All trying to buy his way in. Jimin shut him down every time. Until…” He trailed off, grimacing. “Last week, he slipped. Took a coffee from him. In front of everyone. And after that? Nothing. Radio silence. Vanished.”

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. His silence stretched long enough that Hoseok finally glanced up — only to meet that unreadable calm gaze, steady as glass.

“Jungkook didn’t ghost your friend,” Yoongi said at last, tone clean, measured, and edged like a blade.

Hoseok’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Two nights after that coffee incident, he was in a bad accident. Car was totaled.” Yoongi’s voice didn’t waver. “He’s been in the hospital. Private wing.” His gaze didn’t flicker once. “That’s why you haven’t seen him.”

The words hit heavier than the wine in Hoseok’s stomach. He stared, processing. “You’re serious.”

“I don’t do rumors Hoseokie,” Yoongi said simply. “I only tell you what I know is true. And I know because the hospital he’s in?” He leaned back, almost casual. “I own part of it.”

The glass in Hoseok’s hand suddenly felt too heavy. He set it down with more force than he meant to, the liquid trembling against crystal. “Shit.”

Yoongi leaned forward then, not unkindly, taking the glass and sliding it aside as if it had never been there. “You worry too much about how other people might hurt you. But sometimes…” His eyes lingered, sharp but not cruel. “…things aren’t what they look like.”

Hoseok swallowed, gaze darting away. “Yeah. Maybe.”

But even as the conversation shifted to safer ground, Hoseok’s mind wasn’t there. It was already racing — back to Jimin, to the way his gaze had searched the crowd all week without admitting it, to the sharp edge in his voice whenever Jungkook’s name came up.

And to one uneasy thought he couldn’t shake.

When Jeon Jungkook came back —

— it wouldn’t be quietly.

The following night, Hoseok lingered backstage longer than usual. His shift had ended half an hour ago, but he hadn’t left. Not yet. Not while Jimin was still on stage.

He leaned against the dressing room doorframe, arms crossed, listening to the faint echo of cheers bleeding through the velvet curtains. Every note of Jimin’s voice hit sharper knowing what Hoseok now carried in his chest.

Jungkook hadn’t disappeared. He hadn’t “given up.” He was lying in a hospital bed, bones and blood and steel twisted around his name.

And Jimin didn’t know.

Hoseok rubbed at the bridge of his nose, restless. Should he tell him? Spare him the confusion, the hollow way his eyes kept searching the crowd night after night?

Or would telling him only plant something worse — guilt, worry, maybe even longing? Hoseok didn’t know which was worse: Jimin believing Jungkook had lost interest, or Jimin knowing Jungkook was hurt and out of reach.

The curtain rustled, and suddenly Jimin was there, sweat still glistening along his temple, stage smile fading into something softer now that the lights weren’t on him.

“Why’re you still here?” Jimin asked lightly, tossing a towel around his neck. “Don’t you usually run off the second you clock out?”

Hoseok forced a grin, casual, easy. “Maybe I’m just waiting to walk you home.”

Jimin laughed, short but real. “Since when are you that sweet?”

Since I found out something you don’t know, Hoseok thought, but the words never left his mouth.

Instead, he just shrugged. “Don’t get used to it.”

But as Jimin turned back to his vanity, humming softly under his breath, Hoseok’s smile faltered.

Because the truth pressed heavier by the hour, and Hoseok knew one thing for certain:

Sooner or later, Jimin would have to know.

And when he did — nothing between him and Jeon Jungkook would be the same.

It was late — the kind of late where the club had emptied, lights dimmed, and even the bartenders had finished stacking chairs. The dressing room was hushed, the air carrying only the faint buzz of the vent overhead.

Jimin sat at his vanity, methodically wiping off the last traces of eyeliner. Every movement was neat, controlled, like ritual. Beside him, Hoseok fidgeted — one leg bouncing, fingers twisting together, restless energy spilling into the quiet.

Finally, Jimin sighed without looking over. “You’ve been sitting there forever, staring at the floor like it insulted you. Just say it.”

Hoseok’s throat worked. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“Then make it fast.” Jimin dropped another wipe in the bin.

Hoseok inhaled, then forced it out. “It’s about Jungkook.”

That name froze everything. Jimin’s hand stilled in mid-reach, the only sound the faint crinkle of the wipe packet. He didn’t turn, not yet. “What about him?”

“He didn’t ghost you,” Hoseok said quietly. “Two nights after you took that coffee… he got in a bad accident. Car was totaled. He’s been in the hospital ever since.”

Silence.

Jimin finally lifted his gaze to the mirror. His reflection was composed — too composed. His eyes flat, his jaw set, his breathing steady.

But Hoseok saw it. The tiniest tremor in the hand resting on the counter. The split second where Jimin’s throat tightened, as if swallowing something that wanted to break free.

“You’re serious,” Jimin said at last, voice level, almost cold.

“I wouldn’t lie about this. Yoongi-hyung told me. The hospital he’s in… Yoongi-hyung owns part of it. He knows for sure.”

Jimin nodded once, slow, as if filing the information away in some locked drawer. His face didn’t shift, but his knuckles whitened against the vanity, fingertips pressing so hard they left pale crescents in his skin.

Hoseok leaned forward, gentler now. “I wasn’t gonna tell you at first. I thought maybe it was better if you didn’t know. But watching you—” He stopped, then sighed. “You needed the truth.”

Jimin exhaled through his nose, sharp and quiet. The only crack in his calm was the way his eyes flickered — quick, betraying, like guilt had cut through before he locked it down again.

He reached for his bag, movements measured. “Thanks for telling me,” he said evenly.

But his voice was a fraction softer than it should’ve been. And as he stood, Hoseok caught it — the shadow that lingered behind his mask.

Not relief. Not closure.

Guilt.

The apartment was dark when Jimin stepped inside, city lights spilling through the blinds in thin, fractured stripes. He didn’t bother turning on the lamp. The silence pressed closer that way, easier to sink into.

He dropped his bag by the door and moved automatically — shoes off, jacket over the chair — until he found himself standing in the middle of his living room, staring at nothing.

Jungkook hadn’t left.

He hadn’t gotten bored.

He’d been broken open on the side of a road while Jimin spent the week convincing himself he didn’t care.

His breath came slow, deliberate, but his chest ached like something sharp was lodged there. He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum, willing the ache to quiet, willing it not to mean anything.

But it did.

The memory of orchids on his vanity rose up uninvited. The way the coffee had tasted — bitter and clean, exactly how he liked it. The weight of that stare across the club.

And the hollow absence of it all week.

Jimin sank onto the edge of the couch, elbows braced on his knees, fingers steepled against his lips. His reflection wasn’t here to betray him now. The cracks showed freely in the dark.

He hadn’t asked for any of it. He didn’t want to feel the way the knowledge twisted through him — guilt, sharp and suffocating.

But knowing Jeon Jungkook was out there, hurt, silenced… it hollowed him in a way that felt worse than the suffocating presence ever had.

He let out a shaky breath, eyes fixed on the sliver of city skyline beyond the blinds.

And though he didn’t say it aloud, one thought anchored itself in his chest, heavy as stone.

When Jungkook came back —

—and he would—

Jimin wasn’t sure if he was ready.

Chapter Text

The first thing Jungkook remembered was the cold.

Not the crash — not the sound of metal screaming against asphalt, not the weightless second before impact — but the sterile chill of hospital air filling his lungs when he woke.

He hated it.

Hated the antiseptic sting, the sharp beep of machines, the way the world had narrowed to white walls and clipped voices.

They told him he was lucky.

Three broken ribs. A fractured wrist. A concussion. Bruises mapped across his skin like grotesque ink.

Jungkook didn’t feel lucky. He felt trapped.

Because for a week, he hadn’t seen him.

Jimin.

He could still taste the faint bite of coffee — not his own, but the echo of Jimin drinking it. Slow. Reluctant. And that look across the room, their gazes locking for a single charged heartbeat before Jimin turned away.

A victory. Small, but real.

And then — nothing. Darkness. Sirens. Pain.

Now, lying flat on a hospital bed, Jungkook replayed that moment like it was oxygen. Jimin had accepted something from him. Publicly. He hadn’t spat it out or sent it back — he’d taken it. That was enough. Enough to build on. Enough to return to.

Day One — doctors droned about surgery schedules, rehab timelines, things he was supposed to care about. He didn’t. The only thought cutting through the fog was Jimin’s lips on that glass, the slow movement of his throat as he swallowed. That mattered more than any broken bone.

Day Two — his mother cried when she saw him, his brother lectured about reckless driving. Jungkook let their voices blur to static. The only question he asked: was the club still open, was Jimin still performing? They didn’t know. They didn’t understand why it mattered. He stopped listening.

Day Three — the pain sharpened. Ribs aching with every breath, his wrist screaming when he moved wrong. Nurses told him to rest. He stared at the ceiling, replaying Jimin’s faint smile in the bar mirror, the twitch he’d tried to hide. Jungkook clung to it like medicine.

Day Four — flowers arrived. Dozens of arrangements, expensive and hollow. Friends, family acquaintances, strangers currying favor. He sent them all away. None mattered. Not when the only person he wanted hadn’t come. He thought about the orchids he’d sent, how they’d looked against Jimin’s vanity mirror. Did he keep them? Did he throw them out? The thought burned.

Day Five — he tried to leave. Demanded discharge papers, ignored every warning. His body betrayed him, searing pain driving him back down. Frustration gnawed at him, more savage than the injuries. Every hour he spent here was another hour Jimin might start to forget.

Day Six — silence. No whispers of him at the club. No mention of Jimin asking. He almost called. Almost. But stopped. No. Let Jimin wonder. Let him feel the absence like a weight. When Jungkook returned, he wanted it sharp. Unavoidable.

Day Seven — chest bound, wrist in a sling, he lay back against the pillows, lips curved faintly despite the pain.

The world thought he should be grateful to be alive. But survival wasn’t the victory. Survival was just the delay.

The victory was waiting for him in a dimly lit club, under hot stage lights, with a voice that could stop a room cold.

Park Jimin had taken his offering.

The rest was inevitable.

The week bled into another, the club floor the same blur of perfume, sweat, and glittering bills. The stage lights burned just as hot, the crowd screamed just as loud, but something was missing — something Jimin refused to name.

He slipped offstage after another set, his throat raw, sweat still clinging to his temples. The server waiting at the bar handed him water, and he forced a polite smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.

It wasn’t coffee.

Not bitter, not iced, not the exact thing he hadn’t realized he’d started expecting.

He drank it anyway. Swallowed around the lump in his throat. Pretended it was enough.

Backstage, Hoseok was chattering about something — a high-roller who’d gotten too handsy, a rumor about a new singer starting next month. Jimin nodded at the right moments, hummed when he should have, but his mind drifted.

He caught himself glancing at the vanity. No orchids. No sleek black vase. Just the clutter of makeup wipes and half-used eyeliner pencils. The emptiness was louder than Hoseok’s voice.

By Wednesday, even the regulars noticed.

“You look tired, Pinky,” one of them teased from the front row. Jimin smiled, smooth and practiced, but it didn’t touch the heaviness in his chest.

Thursday, he stretched backstage and found himself staring at the door, waiting for a knock that didn’t come. He told himself it was habit. Routine. Muscle memory. Nothing more.

Friday, Hoseok didn’t say it outright, but the sideways glances spoke enough. Concern edging into pity. Jimin hated it.

He wasn’t waiting. He wasn’t searching. He wasn’t—

And yet.

Every night when he stepped onto that stage, his gaze skimmed the crowd. Just a flicker, just a second too long, just enough to feel that sharp hollowness where table six stayed empty.

By the time he got home, the silence of his apartment pressed close, clinging like smoke. He dropped his bag, curled up on the couch, and told himself it was exhaustion, not loneliness.

He didn’t miss him.

He didn’t.

But when he closed his eyes, the memory came uninvited: the clink of ice against glass, the taste of bitter coffee, and the weight of a stare that had made the whole room shift.

Jimin exhaled, long and shaky. His fingers tightened in the couch cushions.

“I don’t,” he whispered into the dark, as if saying it out loud would make it true.

But the silence that followed didn’t believe him.

It was a Thursday night — the kind where the crowd was lively but not chaotic, a hum of wealth and perfume under the bassline. Jimin had just finished his second set, lungs still pulling at the remnants of the last note, sweat clinging faintly along his collar.

The stage lights dimmed, the music softened, and he made his way toward the bar, towel draped over his shoulder.

That’s when the air shifted.

It wasn’t loud — not at first. Just a ripple of awareness, a wave moving through the room like static, the way people instinctively turn when gravity itself changes. Conversations faltered. Laughter paused mid-breath. Heads tilted, eyes trailing to the entrance.

Jimin didn’t have to look to know. His chest tightened before his gaze even followed.

Jeon Jungkook was back.

He cut through the crowd like the club belonged to him — black suit tailored sharp, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, no tie, no need for one. The faint stiffness in his stride gave him away, the trace of recovery in his body. But it didn’t soften him. It honed him. Turned his presence into something sharper, more dangerous.

And he wasn’t alone.

Two men flanked him — shadows with muscle, their presence less company than a warning. They didn’t smile. They didn’t need to.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate, didn’t glance around to see who was watching. He simply took his old booth, the one with the perfect view of the stage, like it had been waiting for him all along.

A server rushed over, but he waved her away without lifting his gaze. His eyes were already fixed on Jimin.

It wasn’t a smirk this time.

It was heavier. Focused. The kind of look that stripped everything else from the room, leaving only him in its crosshairs. The look of a man who had been gone too long — and wasn’t planning to waste a second now that he was back.

Jimin’s pulse thudded against his throat. He forced himself to turn, to act casual, to order water. He pressed the towel to his collarbone, pretending the heat under his skin was only from the stage.

The bartender slid something toward him. A paper cup, faint steam curling from the lid.

Jimin froze.

He didn’t need to open it. He didn’t need to ask. The weight in his chest told him before the bartender leaned in and murmured:

“He said welcome back.”

Iced Americano. Bitter, almost no sugar. His order. Always his.

Jimin’s fingers hovered above the cup, every nerve taut, every inch of him hyper-aware of the gaze burning from across the room.

He picked it up.

One sip.

Slow.

The taste hit — sharp, cold, familiar — and the whispers hit harder. Low voices spiking across the room, spreading quick, wildfire fanned by curiosity and thrill. 

Park Jimin just accepted again. From Jeon Jungkook.

He didn’t want to look up. He told himself not to. But when his eyes finally flicked across the distance, Jungkook was already leaning back in the booth, shoulders relaxed, arm draped carelessly over the backrest like a king in his rightful seat.

And that mouth — curved, just barely. Not triumph. Not gloating. Something steadier. A promise.

The message was clear.

Accident or not, silence or not — nothing had changed.

If anything… he was coming for him harder now.

---

Jimin didn’t even think about it.

One second he was at the bar, the next he was moving — cutting through the crowd with the towel still draped over his shoulder, every step pulling a string of curious glances in his wake. The murmur followed him like a tide, whispers swelling as people realized where he was headed.

He stopped at Jungkook’s booth, close enough that the low light caught the sharp lines of his face.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Jungkook looked up at him, calm as ever, framed in a tailored black suit like the accident had never happened. His injured wrist rested lightly on the table, his good hand cradling a glass. He didn’t look weak. He looked untouchable.

“Enjoying the view,” he said simply.

“You were in a car accident,” Jimin snapped, the words louder than he meant them to be — loud enough for the nearby tables to hear, for conversations to stall. “You should be in bed, not—” he gestured sharply around them, to the velvet walls, the smoke curling through the lights, the neon heat of it all, “—not here.”

A couple of people chuckled, entertained by the sight: Park Jimin, sharp-tongued and flushed, scolding Jeon Jungkook like the club wasn’t watching.

Jungkook’s men shifted, subtle but ready, the faint ripple of muscle under dark suits. But Jungkook lifted two fingers, dismissing them without breaking eye contact. His gaze stayed locked on Jimin’s.

“You’re worried about me,” he said softly. Not for the crowd. Just for him.

Jimin’s stomach flipped, heat crawling under his skin. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Jungkook interrupted, voice warm and quiet, lips curving at the corner. “It’s cute.”

The word stung, too sweet and too pointed all at once. Jimin’s cheeks warmed, and he hated it. “Don’t twist this. I’m saying you’re reckless. You should be resting.”

“I’ll rest,” Jungkook replied smoothly, leaning back against the booth like a king settling into his throne, “when I get what I came for.”

The words hung heavy, deliberate. A claim disguised as casual.

Jimin glared, ready to bite back, ready to turn away — but Jungkook’s voice dipped lower, intimate enough that it slid under his skin.

“It’s nice, though,” Jungkook murmured, eyes never blinking. “Having you march over here just to yell at me. Makes me think you missed me.”

Jimin’s breath caught — sharp, unsteady — before he exhaled hard through his nose, forcing the crack shut. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re mad,” Jungkook countered easily, his faint smile carrying the weight of someone who knew he’d already shifted the balance. He tilted his chin toward the bar. “Now go drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

Jimin spun on his heel, muttering under his breath, towel slipping lower down his shoulder. He didn’t stop until the crowd swallowed him again, until the whispers rose around him like smoke.

Because the whole club had seen it.

The dancer who had turned Jungkook down again and again — standing at his table, flushed and sharp, telling him to take care of himself.

And Jungkook, lounging in his booth, looked like a man who’d just won something important.

It was early afternoon, the kind of quiet lull when the city hadn’t yet decided if it wanted to boil or sleep. The sidewalks shimmered with heat, but the corner café Jimin favored still held its calm — shaded awning, soft jazz drifting faintly from inside, the low hum of a place where no one cared who he was.

Here, he wasn’t Park Jimin the dancer. He was just Jimin, another man grabbing his coffee and slipping on sunglasses to shield himself from the sun and the world.

The paper cup was warm in his hand as he pushed through the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. He’d taken two steps when—

“Guess I was right about your order.”

The voice slid in from his left. Smooth. Familiar. Impossible to ignore.

Jimin turned sharply.

Jungkook was there, leaning against the hood of a sleek black car parked at the curb like he owned the block. Jeans. A white tee that managed to look expensive without trying. A faint scar near his temple — a souvenir from the accident — caught in the sunlight, sharp against the otherwise flawless picture.

Jimin’s pulse skipped, betraying him. “How—”

“You’re a creature of habit,” Jungkook cut in, pushing off the car with an easy grace. “I’ve seen you leave here before. Just never had the chance to say hi outside the club.”

Jimin shifted his weight, annoyance tightening his jaw. “So you’ve been… following me?”

“Keeping an eye out,” Jungkook corrected, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Relax. I’m not here to drag you anywhere. Just thought I’d see what you’re like in daylight.”

“And?” Jimin asked, voice dry as the summer air.

Jungkook’s gaze swept over him. Not the hungry, devouring stare he was used to. Softer. Warmer. A study rather than a claim. “Still magnetic,” he said finally. “Just quieter about it.”

Jimin’s grip on his cup tightened until the cardboard bent under his fingers. “You can’t keep showing up everywhere I am.”

“Funny,” Jungkook murmured, taking a slow, deliberate step closer. The kind of step that didn’t close the space so much as promise he could. “Because I can. And I will. You think the club is the only place I want to see you?”

Jimin exhaled hard through his nose, ignoring the twist low in his stomach, the traitorous flicker of heat. “This isn’t a game anymore, Jungkook.”

“I know,” Jungkook said. His voice dipped low, soft enough that it hooked under Jimin’s ribs and stayed there. “That’s why I’m not playing.”

Jungkook reached into his jacket and pulled out something small, fitting neatly into his palm. A lacquered black box, smooth and polished, faint silver detailing curling across the lid.

He set it on the table between them like it wasn’t heavy with meaning. “For you,” he said casually. “Thought you might use it.”

Jimin frowned, suspicion threading with curiosity. Slowly, he lifted the lid.

Inside was a sleek, modern music box — not the wind-up kind, but one with a tiny speaker and digital storage. A discreet switch glowed faintly at the side. He pressed it, and soft piano chords spilled out — clean, simple, beautiful. Not some hit single from the radio. Not flashy.

“Tracks I picked,” Jungkook said quietly. “Instrumentals. Rhythms. Things you could move to, if you wanted. Some are classics, some I… made myself.”

Jimin’s breath caught. “You—made these?”

Jungkook’s gaze stayed steady, softer than Jimin had ever seen it. “I don’t have the right words most of the time. But I thought maybe… this could be a way to say it. Music for your choreography. For your peace. For you.”

The chords shifted to something slower, aching, threaded with deliberate space between the notes — music begging for movement.

Jimin’s throat tightened. His pulse unsteady, his fingers hovered above the box like it might burn him.

“Why?” he asked, voice low.

Jungkook leaned in, not smiling this time. Just certain. “Because the world deserves to see the way you hear music. And if this makes it easier for you to create… then it’s worth more than anything else I could give you.”

The words hit harder than Jimin expected. His chest felt too small, his breath shallow, his pulse caught between protest and something dangerously close to surrender.

When he looked up, Jungkook was already stepping back, sliding toward the car door like he hadn’t just lobbed a weight straight into his chest.

“See you tonight,” Jungkook said, voice even, final, before disappearing into the driver’s seat.

The engine purred. The car pulled away. And just like that, he was gone.

Jimin stood on the sidewalk, sunglasses hiding wide eyes, coffee cooling in one hand and that damn box in the other.

A reminder that Jungkook was finding ways to get under his skin without flashing a single diamond. Without even touching him.

And that maybe… that was more dangerous.

Friday night was chaos wrapped in velvet. The crowd was loud, restless — the kind that tipped big but believed their bills bought permission to touch what they couldn’t afford. The bass thumped hot through the floor, lights scattering in shards of gold and violet.

Jimin moved with practiced ease, glitter catching every angle of the stage lights. Second set, body running on rhythm and sweat, when he saw him.

A man at the edge of the stage.

Drunk enough to sway.

Bold enough to mistake the performance for invitation.

The first brush was quick — fingers sliding against Jimin’s thigh as he spun past. Jimin’s smile didn’t falter, though it tightened at the edges. He shifted his weight, turned his body just enough to keep distance, kept the show going.

But the man grinned, emboldened, and leaned forward. His hand shot out, grabbing for Jimin’s ankle.

He never got the chance to touch.

Another hand closed around his wrist — not violent, but unyielding, the kind of grip that carried both restraint and threat. Enough to make the drunk’s grin vanish.

Jungkook.

He’d appeared out of nowhere, cutting through the strobe of light and smoke like gravity itself. The suit jacket was gone, his white shirt rolled at the sleeves, veins sharp against his forearm. The faint scar near his temple caught in the flashes, making him look sharper, harder, like something carved out of shadow and steel.

“He's mine,” Jungkook said quietly.

Quiet — but it carried. Cut through the bass, through the restless laughter, through the noise of a hundred conversations at once. The kind of voice that left no room for doubt.

The man sputtered, already paling. “I was just—”

“You were just leaving.” Jungkook didn’t raise his voice, didn’t need to. The words fell like a verdict, and everyone knew there was no other option.

As if summoned, one of the club’s bouncers appeared at his shoulder. Jungkook didn’t look at him, only gave a small nod. That was enough. The drunk was hauled back into the crowd, swallowed by it without further argument.

Jimin stood frozen, breath caught, heart pounding harder than any beat of the music. The crowd, sensing the tension, shifted like a flock of birds — attention swinging away, settling again as the DJ slammed the bass louder to drown what lingered.

But Jungkook didn’t move.

He stepped closer to the stage, tilting his head just enough to look up. His gaze hooked on Jimin, steady, unwavering.

“You okay?”

Jimin swallowed hard, forcing his voice even. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I know.” Jungkook’s tone softened, but it wasn’t pity. It was fact. “But why should you have to?”

For once, there was no smirk, no teasing bite. Just that steady, unshakable gaze — the kind that stripped Jimin bare without ever laying a hand on him.

Jimin turned sharply, forcing his body back into motion, moving toward the wings to finish the set. But as he danced off, instinct betrayed him.

He glanced over his shoulder.

Jungkook was still there, watching.

Not gloating. Not asking for thanks.

And that, Jimin realized with a thrum of unease beneath his ribs, was what rattled him the most.

The bass was still rattling the walls when Jimin slipped through the curtain, breath uneven, pulse still wired from the stage. He tossed the towel around his shoulders, determined to shake it off — but Hoseok was already there, arms crossed, waiting like he’d been tracking the whole thing from the wings.

“What the hell was that?”

Jimin blinked, playing dumb. “A set. I danced. Crowd cheered. You’ve seen it before Hobi-hyung.”

“Don’t.” Hoseok’s voice was sharper than usual, the edge of concern cutting through the sarcasm. “I’m talking about him.”

Jimin stilled, jaw tightening.

Hoseok pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Jungkook swoops in like some knight in Armani, grabs a drunk’s wrist, and suddenly the whole room is buzzing. Do you even realize what that looked like?”

Jimin pulled the towel tighter, keeping his eyes on the vanity mirror instead of Hoseok. “It looked like someone crossed a line, and it got handled. That’s all.”

“No Jimin-ah,” Hoseok snapped, voice dropping low so only Jimin could hear. “It looked like Jeon Jungkook staking his claim. In front of the entire club. You think people missed the way he said he's mine?”

Heat crept up Jimin’s neck — anger, embarrassment, something he didn’t want to name. “I didn’t ask him to step in.”

“You didn’t have to,” Hoseok shot back. “He’s already writing the script, and you’re letting him.”

Jimin spun, finally meeting Hoseok’s eyes, glare sharp enough to cut. “What was I supposed to do? Keep dancing while some drunk crawled up my leg?”

Hoseok didn’t flinch. “You were supposed to handle it yourself, like you always do. But now? No one’s going to remember the creep at the stage. They’re going to remember him — walking in, shutting it down, and making it look like you belong to him.”

Jimin’s hands curled into fists at his sides, breath catching before he forced it out. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

Hoseok’s gaze softened, but his voice stayed firm. “Then you’d better start proving it, because right now? He’s winning. And the worst part?” He leaned in, quiet but merciless. “I think a part of you doesn’t want him to stop.”

The words hit harder than the bass. Jimin looked away, throat tight, fingers twitching against the towel.

For once, he didn’t have a comeback.

Chapter Text

The club was winding down after last call, the bass a fading ghost replaced by the clink of glasses and muffled laughter from staff cleaning up outside. The dressing room was quieter still, heavy with the smell of powder, sweat, and the faint shimmer of glitter scattered across the counter.

Jimin sat in front of the mirror, wiping the last trace of makeup from his cheekbones, when a shadow stretched across the doorframe.

A knock. Light, almost hesitant.

His gaze snapped up. Jungkook stood there, one hand in his pocket, the other braced casually against the frame, like he had all the time in the world.

Jimin’s eyes narrowed. “Customers aren’t allowed back here. You want me to complain to Namjoon-hyung and Seokjin-hyung? Because I will.”

Jungkook didn’t so much as blink. “If that’s true…” His voice was calm, steady, almost gentle. “Why haven’t you complained already?”

The wipe in Jimin’s hand crumpled. His mouth opened, ready to argue, but nothing came out. Because he should have. He could have. But he hadn’t.

Jungkook’s lips curved faintly — not smug, not triumphant. Just a quiet acknowledgment that he’d hit something true. “Exactly.”

He stepped inside, slower this time, as though careful not to spook him. “Can we talk?”

Jimin hesitated, jaw tightening, then jerked his chin toward the small seating nook in the corner. “Five minutes.”

They sat opposite each other. Jimin folded his arms tight across his chest, posture bristling with resistance. Jungkook leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze steady but not pressing.

“You didn’t have to step in last night,” Jimin said sharply, before Jungkook could even open his mouth.

“I know,” Jungkook replied, tone even. “But I wanted to.”

“That’s the problem,” Jimin shot back. “You always want to. You don’t take no for an answer.”

Jungkook let the words hang there, unflinching. Then, carefully:

“Give me one date.”

Jimin blinked. “…What?”

“One date,” Jungkook repeated, voice low but certain. “No gifts. No strings. Just you and me. If you don’t like me after that, I’ll stop.”

Jimin laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “That’s your big solution? Some bargain? You think one dinner is going to fix this?”

“It’s not about dinner,” Jungkook said quietly, gaze never wavering. “It’s about seeing each other without the stage between us.”

Jimin shook his head, leaning back into the sofa. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re stalling,” Jungkook countered, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

Jimin scowled. “And if I say no?”

“Then I keep showing up.” Jungkook spread his hands, open, patient. “But this… this is me trying to make it easier for you.”

The silence stretched. Jimin’s arms stayed crossed, but his chest felt tight. He searched Jungkook’s face, hunting for the smugness he hated, the arrogance he expected — but all he found was steadiness. No rush. No angle. Just quiet persistence.

Jimin’s throat worked as he forced out a breath, pressing his palms to his knees. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“Not on things that matter,” Jungkook said softly.

Another long pause, thick enough to choke on. Finally, Jimin muttered, “One date. That’s it.”

And this time, Jungkook’s smile broke slow, warm — not victory, not conquest, but relief. “That’s all I’m asking.”

He rose to his feet, straightening his jacket, the faint scar at his temple catching in the light.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jimin frowned. “Tomorrow? That’s not enough notice.”

“You’ll be thinking about it all night anyway,” Jungkook said, and slipped out before Jimin could argue.

The door clicked shut, leaving Jimin in the quiet. Arms still crossed, posture still bristling — but his reflection in the mirror betrayed him. His lips, despite everything, had curved into the faintest, most reluctant smile.

---

The door had barely clicked shut behind Jungkook before Jimin dropped into the nearest chair like his legs had given out.

One date.

Tomorrow.

What the hell had he just agreed to?

He pressed his palms to his face, muffling a groan. His reflection in the vanity caught the edges of it — wide eyes, pink ears, the kind of expression Hoseok would never let him live down if he saw.

Which, of course, was exactly when Hoseok chose to barge in.

“Jiminie, why do you look like you just sold your soul?”

Jimin’s head snapped up. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” Hoseok cut in, already circling the room like a hawk sniffing prey. His gaze darted to the door, narrowing. “Where is he? Don’t tell me Jeon Jungkook was back here again—”

“He was,” came another voice, calm but firm.

Both of them turned. Namjoon filled the doorway, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the faintest look of dad-disapproval on his face. Beside him, Seokjin leaned against the frame with practiced ease, one brow arched, amusement glittering in his eyes.

Great. Just great.

“Hyung,” Jimin started weakly, “I can explain—”

“You don’t have to,” Seokjin interrupted, waving a hand. “We saw him leaving. Tall, scar, attitude like he bought the walls? Hard to miss.”

Namjoon crossed his arms, gaze sharp as it pinned Jimin in place. “Customers aren’t allowed backstage. You know that, Jimin-ah.”

“I told him that!” Jimin blurted out, words tumbling too fast. “I told him, and he—he just—” He groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Ugh.”

Hoseok perched on the vanity, smirk curling like smoke. “Let me guess. He asked you out.”

Jimin’s head snapped up. “How do you—”

“Because you look like you agreed,” Hoseok said sweetly, “and you hate yourself for it.”

Heat climbed up Jimin’s neck. He tried to rally, snapping, “Oh, please. Like you’d be any better if Yoongi-hyung cornered you with the same line.”

Hoseok blinked — just half a second too long. His smirk faltered.

Namjoon’s brows rose. Seokjin’s lips twitched into a grin.

Jimin pounced on the slip, desperate to deflect. “Exactly. At least I didn’t—”

“Low blow,” Hoseok cut in, cheeks coloring. “Don’t change the subject.”

Jimin scowled, caught. “Fine.”

Namjoon and Seokjin exchanged a glance — the kind of long-practiced, silent conversation only couples perfected. Seokjin chuckled first, leaning into Namjoon’s shoulder. “He’s spiraling. You remember when you asked me out?”

Namjoon rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth softened. “That was different.”

“Not really,” Seokjin teased, smug. “You bulldozed, I resisted, and now look at us. Worked out fine.”

Hoseok pointed dramatically between them. “See, Jiminie? History repeats itself. You and your sugar daddy are endgame.”

“He’s not my—” Jimin sputtered, ears blazing.

Namjoon raised a hand, voice gentle but firm. “Listen. If you don’t want this, you don’t owe him anything. Not one date, not one explanation. But if you do want to see what happens…” His gaze softened. “Then own that choice. Don’t let Hoseok or anyone else turn it into a circus.”

Seokjin smirked, squeezing Namjoon’s arm. “Except me. I live for a circus.”

Jimin groaned, slumping deeper into the chair, towel slipping off his shoulder. His heart was hammering, his mind buzzing, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“It’s just one date.”

“Mmhm,” Hoseok hummed, grin sharp as ever. “That’s how it always starts.”

The place wasn’t fancy.

Not like Jungkook’s usual haunts — no glittering chandeliers, no tables spaced like art installations, no waiters gliding around with bottles of wine that cost more than rent.

Just a small rooftop garden café above a used bookstore, fairy lights strung between beams, the faint scent of basil and mint drifting from potted herbs tucked into corners. Jimin had found it years ago, back when he still needed somewhere to disappear — a place where no one cared about dancers or reputations, only good tea and quiet.

By the time he pushed open the stairwell door, Jungkook was already there.

No suit tonight. Just a black sweater soft against his shoulders, dark jeans, hair falling loose around his face. He looked… normal. Almost. But the way his gaze snapped up and locked onto Jimin as he stepped onto the rooftop stripped the normalcy from the moment entirely.

“You’re early,” Jimin said, sliding into the chair opposite him, tugging lightly at his sleeves as if to ground himself.

Jungkook’s mouth curved faintly. “Didn’t want to miss anything.”

The waiter came and went with their orders — tea for Jimin, black coffee for Jungkook. For a while, silence stretched between them. Not tense. Not awkward. Just deliberate, like neither wanted to rush this.

Jungkook broke it first. “You picked this place because no one here cares who you are.”

Jimin arched a brow. “And you think you know me that well?”

“I’ve been watching you for weeks,” Jungkook said. Not boastful. Just steady, matter-of-fact. “You don’t like crowds unless you’re on stage. You hate when people touch you without asking. And you guard your peace like it’s worth more than anything I could buy.”

Jimin’s fingers tapped once, twice, against the side of his teacup. His voice was cool, though his chest tightened. “And what exactly do you want with someone like that?”

Jungkook leaned in, elbows resting on the table, gaze unwavering. “To give you more of it. To be the person who doesn’t take — but makes it easier for you to keep the parts of yourself you actually want.”

Jimin’s lips parted, caught off guard, before he snapped them shut, masking the slip with a scoff. “That sounds like a line.”

“Maybe,” Jungkook admitted with the faintest smile. “But it’s still true.”

Something about the way he said it — soft, unshaken — unsettled Jimin more than the most expensive bouquet ever had.

The conversation shifted, slow at first, then easier. They traded stories: about music, about nightmare customers, about the best noodles at 3 a.m. Jungkook didn’t steer it toward the club or himself. He didn’t boast. He asked questions. He listened. He laughed, low and quiet, when Jimin muttered about Hoseok’s dramatic flair.

And somewhere between the tea cooling in Jimin’s cup and Jungkook finishing his second coffee, the walls Jimin had been holding so tightly began to slip.

Time moved without them noticing. The rooftop lights flickered once — the café’s quiet signal for closing.

They stood, the city hum stretching below them. Jungkook walked him to the stairwell, hands tucked into his pockets, posture loose, relaxed. No reaching. No pressure.

“This is where you tell me you’ll never see me again,” Jungkook said, voice low, steady, almost careful.

Jimin looked at him for a long moment. The smart thing would be to end it here. Keep his distance. Protect himself.

But when he stepped past Jungkook, he paused at the stairs, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. His heart thudded once, hard, before the words slipped out.

“You can walk me home,” Jimin said softly. “If you want.”

The silence stretched half a beat — then Jungkook’s smile broke, slow and reverent, like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear it.

“Always.”

He fell into step beside Jimin as they descended the stairs and slipped into the night.

And for the first time since they’d met, there was no chase, no game. Just two men walking side by side through the city, the quiet between them carrying something new — something that didn’t need to be named to be understood.

---

They slipped out of the café and into the night.

The city had quieted, but not completely. Neon signs buzzed faintly over shuttered storefronts, the hum of traffic lingering from the main street a block away. The air smelled faintly of rain — not falling yet, but close.

Jimin adjusted the strap of his bag, glancing sideways without meaning to. Jungkook walked beside him, hands shoved in his pockets, stride loose and unhurried. He didn’t fill the space with chatter. He didn’t hover too close. He simply matched Jimin’s pace, like he’d been walking this way with him for years.

It was… disarming.

“You’re quiet,” Jimin said finally, breaking the silence.

Jungkook’s mouth curved. “I thought you liked quiet.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lip tugged upward despite himself. “Not when you’re being smug about it.”

“I’m not,” Jungkook replied, tone softer than the words. “I just don’t want to ruin this.”

Something in Jimin’s chest tightened. He looked away quickly, focusing on the cracked pavement, the flickering streetlight they passed under. “You talk like one walk is going to change everything.”

Jungkook tilted his head, gaze still steady on him. “Not everything. Just enough.”

The words lingered, warm and unsettling all at once.

They turned down Jimin’s street, narrower and quieter than the roads behind them. Laundry swayed faintly from balconies above, someone’s radio playing an old ballad through an open window. For once, it didn’t feel like a stage backdrop. It felt… normal.

When they stopped in front of his building, Jimin hesitated with his keys in hand. He should’ve just gone inside. Closed the night cleanly.

Instead, he glanced at Jungkook, standing there with his hands still shoved in his pockets, waiting without expectation. No smirk. No push. Just presence.

“Thanks,” Jimin muttered, voice rougher than he meant. “For the walk.”

Jungkook nodded once, slow. “Anytime.”

The quiet stretched again, full but not heavy.

And before Jimin turned the key in the lock, he realized his chest didn’t feel quite so tight anymore.

Epilogue — Weeks Later

The club looked the same.

Lights low, bass humming through the floor, the air warm with perfume and whiskey. But for those who’d been around long enough, it was obvious — something had shifted.

Jimin was mid-set, pink hair blazing under the spotlight, every movement sharp, magnetic. But this time, every so often, his gaze flickered toward one corner booth. Not searching. Not wary. Just… checking in.

And in that booth, Jungkook sat alone. No entourage. No mountain of gifts stacked on the table. Just a single glass of whiskey in front of him, his jacket draped casually over the back of the seat. Watching like the rest of the room didn’t exist.

He didn’t need to stake his claim anymore. Not after that night on the quiet walk home, when Jimin had let him stay at his side all the way to his door. Since then, Jungkook hadn’t chased. He’d simply shown up, steady and constant, until even the regulars noticed that his presence wasn’t spectacle anymore. It was routine.

When Jimin’s set ended, he didn’t vanish backstage the way he always had before. Instead, he cut through the room, towel slung around his neck, the hum of whispers chasing him as he walked straight past the bar — to Jungkook’s table.

He set a glass down in front of him. “Your usual,” Jimin said, voice casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jungkook’s lips curved, slow and warm. “Thanks.”

No one touched. No declarations. Just a smile shared, quiet but unmistakable, before Jimin turned and headed for the dressing rooms.

It was small. Subtle. But in a place where everyone knew how hard Jeon Jungkook had chased, and how many times Park Jimin had said no, the meaning rang louder than the bass.

By the time Jungkook lifted the glass for his first sip, whispers had already begun threading through the crowd.

No one knew the exact moment it shifted — maybe the rooftop café, maybe that walk home, maybe somewhere between.

But everyone knew now: the game was over.

And this time, it wasn’t about winning.

It was about staying.